One of Friedrich's grand purposes at Reinsberg, to himself privately
the grandest there, which he follows with constant loyalty and ardor,
is that of scaling the heights of the Muses' Hill withal; of attaining
mastership, discipleship, in Art and Philosophy;--or in candor let us
call it, what it truly was, that of enlightening and fortifying himself
with clear knowledge, clear belief, on all sides; and acquiring some
spiritual panoply in which to front the coming practicalities of life.
This, he feels well, will be a noble use of his seclusion in those still
places; and it must be owned, he struggles and endeavors towards this,
with great perseverance, by all the methods in his power, here, or
wherever afterwards he might be.
Here at Reinsberg, one of his readiest methods, his pleasantest if not
his usefulest, is that of getting into correspondence with the chief
spirits of his time. Which accordingly he forthwith sets about, after
getting into Reinsberg, and continues, as we shall see, with much
assiduity. Rollin, Fontenelle, and other French lights of the then
firmament,--his Letters to them exist; and could be given in some
quantity: but it is better not. They are intrinsically the common
Letters on such occasions: "O sublime demi-god of literature, how small
are princely distinctions to such a glory as thine; thou who enterest
within the veil of the temple, and issuest with thy face shining!"--To
which the response is: "Hm, think you so, most happy, gracious,
illustrious Prince, with every convenience round you, and such prospects
ahead? Well, thank you, at any rate,--and, as the Irish say, more power
to your Honor's Glory!" This really is nearly all that said Sets of
Letters contain; and except perhaps the Voltaire Set, none of them give
symptoms of much capacity to contain more.
Certainly there was no want of Literary Men discernible from Reinsberg
at that time; and the young Prince corresponds with a good many of them;
temporal potentate saluting spiritual, from the distance,--in a way
highly interesting to the then parties, but now without interest, except
of the reflex kind, to any creature. A very cold and empty portion,
this, of the Friedrich Correspondence; standing there to testify what
his admiration was for literary talent, or the great reputation of such;
but in itself uninstructive utterly, and of freezing influence on the
now living mind. Most of those French lights of the then firmament are
gone out. Forgotten altogether; or recognized, like Rollin and others,
for polished dullards, university big-wigs, and long-winded commonplace
persons, deserving nothing but oblivion. To Montesquieu,--not yet called
"Baron de Montesquieu" with ESPRIT DES LOIS, but "M. de Secondat" with
(Anonymous) LETTRES PERSANES, and already known to the world for a
person of sharp audacious eyesight,--it does not appear that Friedrich
addressed any Letter, now or afterwards. No notice of Montesquieu; nor
of some others, the absence of whom is a little unexpected. Probably
it was want of knowledge mainly; for his appetite was not fastidious at
this time. And certainly he did hit the centre of the mark, and get
into the very kernel of French literature, when, in 1736, hardly yet
established in his new quarters, he addressed himself to the shining
figure known to us as "Arouet Junior" long since, and now called M. DE
VOLTAIRE; which latter is still a name notable in Friedrich's History
and that of Mankind. Friedrich's first Letter, challenging Voltaire
to correspondence, dates itself 8th August, 1736; and Voltaire's
Answer--the Reinsberg Household still only in its second month--was
probably the brightest event which had yet befallen there.
On various accounts it will behoove us to look a good deal more strictly
into this Voltaire; and, as his relations to Friedrich and to the world
are so multiplex, endeavor to disengage the real likeness of the
man from the circumambient noise and confusion which in his instance
continue very great. "Voltaire was the spiritual complement of
Friedrich," says Sauerteig once: "what little of lasting their poor
Century produced lies mainly in these Two. A very somnambulating
Century! But what little it DID, we must call Friedrich; what little it
THOUGHT, Voltaire. Other fruit we have not from it to speak of, at this
day. Voltaire, and what CAN be faithfully done on the Voltaire Creed;
'Realized Voltairism;'--admit it, reader, not in a too triumphant
humor,--is not that pretty much the net historical product of the
Eighteenth Century? The rest of its history either pure somnambulism; or
a mere Controversy, to the effect, 'Realized Voltairism? How soon
shall it be realized, then? Not at once, surely!' So that Friedrich and
Voltaire are related, not by accident only. They are, they for want of
better, the two Original Men of their Century; the chief and in a sense
the sole products of their Century. They alone remain to us as still
living results from it,--such as they are. And the rest, truly, OUGHT
to depart and vanish (as they are now doing); being mere ephemera;
contemporary eaters, scramblers for provender, talkers of acceptable
hearsay; and related merely to the butteries and wiggeries of their
time, and not related to the Perennialities at all, as these Two
were."--With more of the like sort from Sauerteig.
M. de Voltaire, who used to be M. Francois-Marie Arouet, was at this
time about forty, [Born 20th February, 1694; the younger of two sons:
Father, "Francois Arouet, a Notary of the Chatelet, ultimately Treasurer
of the Chamber of Accounts;" Mother, "Marguerite d'Aumart, of a noble
family of Poitou."] and had gone through various fortunes; a man, now
and henceforth, in a high degree conspicuous, and questionable to his
fellow-creatures. Clear knowledge of him ought, at this stage, to
be common; but unexpectedly it is not. What endless writing and
biographying there has been about this man; in which one still reads,
with a kind of lazy satisfaction, due to the subject, and to the French
genius in that department! But the man himself, and his environment and
practical aspects, what the actual physiognomy of his life and of him
can have been, is dark from beginning to ending; and much is left in an
ambiguous undecipherable condition to us. A proper History of Voltaire,
in which should be discoverable, luminous to human creatures, what he
was, what element he lived in, what work he did: this is still a problem
for the genius of France!--
His Father's name is known to us; the name of his Father's profession,
too, but not clearly the nature of it; still less his Father's
character, economic circumstances, physiognomy spiritual or social: not
the least possibility granted you of forming an image, however faint,
of that notable man and household, which distinguished itself to all the
earth by producing little Francois into the light of this sun. Of Madame
Arouet, who, or what, or how she was, nothing whatever is known. A human
reader, pestered continually with the Madame-Denises, Abbe-Mignots and
enigmatic nieces and nephews, would have wished to know, at least, what
children, besides Francois, Madame Arouet had: once for all, How many
children? Name them, with year of birth, year of death, according to the
church-registers: they all, at any rate, had that degree of history! No;
even that has not been done. Beneficent correspondents of my own make
answer, after some research, No register of the Arouets anywhere to
be had. The very name VOLTAIRE, if you ask whence came it? there is no
answer, or worse than none.--The fit "History" of this man, which might
be one of the shining Epics of his Century, and the lucid summary and
soul of any HISTORY France then had, but which would require almost a
French demi-god to do it, is still a great way off, if on the road at
all! For present purposes, we select what follows from a well-known
hand:--
"YOUTH OF VOLTAIRE (1694-1725).--French Biographers have left the Arouet
Household very dark for us; meanwhile we can perceive, or guess, that it
was moderately well in economic respects; that Francois was the second
of the Two Sons; and that old Arouet, a steady, practical and perhaps
rather sharp-tempered old gentleman, of official legal habits and
position, 'Notary of the Chatelet' and something else, had destined him
for the Law Profession; as was natural enough to a son of M. Arouet, who
had himself succeeded well in Law, and could there, best of all, open
roads for a clever second son. Francois accordingly sat 'in chambers,'
as we call it; and his fellow-clerks much loved him,--the most amusing
fellow in the world. Sat in chambers, even became an advocate; but did
not in the least take to advocateship;--took to poetry, and other airy
dangerous courses, speculative, practical; causing family explosions
and rebukes, which were without effect on him. A young fool, bent on
sportful pursuits instead of serious; more and more shuddering at Law.
To the surprise and indignation of M. Arouet Senior. Law, with its wigs
and sheepskins, pointing towards high honors and deep flesh-pots, had no
charms for the young fool; he could not be made to like Law.
"Whereupon arose explosions, as we hint; family explosions on the part
of M. Arouet Senior; such that friends had to interfere, and it was
uncertain what would come of it. One judicious friend, 'M. Caumartin,'
took the young fellow home to his house in the country for a time;--and
there, incidentally, brought him acquainted with old gentlemen deep
in the traditions of Henri Quatre and the cognate topics; which much
inflamed the young fellow, and produced big schemes in the head of him.
"M. Arouet Senior stood strong for Law; but it was becoming daily more
impossible. Madrigals, dramas (not without actresses), satirical wit,
airy verse, and all manner of adventurous speculation, were what
this young man went upon; and was getting more and more loved for;
introduced, even, to the superior circles, and recognized there as one
of the brightest young fellows ever seen. Which tended, of course, to
confirm him in his folly, and open other outlooks and harbors of refuge
than the paternal one.
"Such things, strange to M. Arouet Senior, were in vogue then; wicked
Regent d'Orleans having succeeded sublime Louis XIV., and set strange
fashions to the Quality. Not likely to profit this fool Francois,
thought M. Arouet Senior; and was much confirmed in his notion, when a
rhymed Lampoon against the Government having come out (LES J'AI VU, as
they call it ["I have seen (J'AI VU)" this ignominy occur, "I have seen"
that other,--to the amount of a dozen or two;--"and am not yet twenty."
Copy of it, and guess as to authorship, in _OEuvres de Voltaire_, i.
321.]), and become the rage, as a clever thing of the kind will, it was
imputed to the brightest young fellow in France, M. Arouet's Son. Who,
in fact, was not the Author; but was not believed on his denial; and
saw himself, in spite of his high connections, ruthlessly lodged in the
Bastille in consequence. 'Let him sit,' thought M. Arouet Senior, 'and
come to his senses there!' He sat for eighteen months (age still little
above twenty); but privately employed his time, not in repentance, or in
serious legal studies, but in writing a Poem on his Henri Quatre. 'Epic
Poem,' no less; LA LIGUE, as he then called it; which it was his hope
the whole world would one day fall in love with;--as it did. Nay, in two
years more, he had done a Play, OEDIPE the renowned name of it; which
ran for forty-eight nights' (18th November, 1718, the first of them);
and was enough to turn any head of such age. Law may be considered
hopeless, even by M. Arouet Senior.
"Try him in the Diplomatic line; break these bad habits and connections,
thought M. Arouet, at one time; and sent him to the French Ambassador
in Holland,--on good behavior, as it were, and by way of temporary
banishment. But neither did this answer. On the contrary, the young
fellow got into scrapes again; got into amatory intrigues,--young lady
visiting you in men's clothes, young lady's mother inveigling, and I
know not what;--so that the Ambassador was glad to send him home again
unmarried; marked, as it were, 'Glass, with care!' And the young lady's
mother printed his Letters, not the least worth reading:--and the old M.
Arouet seems now to have flung up his head; to have settled some small
allowance on him, with peremptory no hope of more, and said, 'Go your
own way, then, foolish junior: the elder shall be my son.' M. Arouet
disappears at this point, or nearly so, from the history of his son
Francois; and I think must have died in not many years. Poor old
M. Arouet closed his old eyes without the least conception what a
prodigious ever-memorable thing he had done unknowingly, in sending this
Francois into the world, to kindle such universal 'dry dung-heap of a
rotten world,' and set it blazing! Francois, his Father's synonym, came
to be representative of the family, after all; the elder Brother also
having died before long. Except certain confused niece-and-nephew
personages, progeny of the sisters, Francois has no more trouble or
solacement from the paternal household. Francois meanwhile is his
Father's synonym, and signs Arouet Junior, 'Francois Aroue l. j. (LE
JEUNE).'
"'All of us Princes, then, or Poets!' said he, one night at supper,
looking to right and left: the brightest fellow in the world, well fit
to be Phoebus Apollo of such circles; and great things now ahead of him.
Dissolute Regent d'Orleans, politest, most debauched of men, and very
witty, holds the helm; near him Dubois the Devil's Cardinal, and so many
bright spirits. All the Luciferous Spiritualism there is in France is
lifting anchor, under these auspices, joyfully towards new latitudes
and Isles of the Blest. What may not Francois hope to become? 'Hmph!'
answers M. Arouet Senior, steadily, so long as he lives. Here are one
or two subsequent phases, epochs or turning-points, of the young
gentleman's career.
"PHASIS FIRST (1725-1728).--The accomplished Duc de Sulli (Year 1725,
day not recorded), is giving in his hotel a dinner, such as usual; and a
bright witty company is assembled;--the brightest young fellow in
France sure to be there; and with his electric coruscations illuminating
everything, and keeping the table in a roar. To the delight of most; not
to that of a certain splenetic ill-given Duc de Rohan; grandee of high
rank, great haughtiness, and very ill-behavior in the world; who feels
impatient at the notice taken of a mere civic individual, Arouet Junior.
_ 'Quel est done ce jeune homme qui parle si haut,_ Who is this young
man that talks so loud, then?' exclaims the proud splenetic Duke.
'Monseigneur,' flashes the young man back upon him in an electric
manner, 'it is one who does not drag a big name about with him; but who
secures respect for the name he has!' Figure that, in the penetrating
grandly clangorous voice (VOIX SOMBRE ET MAJESTUEUSE), and the momentary
flash of eyes that attended it. Duc de Rohan rose, in a sulphurous
frame of mind; and went his ways. What date? You ask the idle French
Biographer in vain;--see only, after more and more inspection, that
the incident is true; and with labor date it, summer of the Year
1725. Treaty of Utrecht itself, though all the Newspapers and Own
Correspondents were so interested in it, was perhaps but a foolish
matter to date in comparison!
"About a week after, M. Arouet Junior was again dining with the Duc
de Sulli, and a fine company as before. A servant whispers him, That
somebody has called, and wants him below. 'Cannot come,' answers Arouet;
'how can I, so engaged?' Servant returns after a minute or two: 'Pardon,
Monsieur; I am to say, it is to do an act of beneficence that you are
wanted below!' Arouet lays down his knife and fork; descends instantly
to see what act it is. A carriage is in the court, and hackney-coach
near it: 'Would Monsieur have the extreme goodness to come to the door
of the carriage, in a case of necessity?' At the door of the carriage,
hands seize the collar of him, hold him as in a vice; diabolic visage
of Duc de Rohan is visible inside, who utters, looking to the
hackney-coach, some "VOILA, Now then!" Whereupon the hackney-coach
opens, gives out three porters, or hired bullies, with the due
implements: scandalous actuality of horsewhipping descends on the back
of poor Arouet, who shrieks and execrates to no purpose, nobody being
near. 'That will do,' says Rohan at last, and the gallant ducal party
drive off; young Arouet, with torn frills and deranged hair, rushing up
stairs again, in such a mood as is easy to fancy. Everybody is sorry,
inconsolable, everybody shocked; nobody volunteers to help in avenging.
'Monseigneur de Sulli, is not such atrocity done to one of your
guests, an insult to yourself?' asks Arouet. 'Well, yes perhaps,
but'--Monseigneur de Sulli shrugs his shoulders, and proposes nothing.
Arouet withdrew, of course in a most blazing condition, to consider what
he could, on his own strength, do in this conjuncture.
"His Biographer Duvernet says, he decided on doing two things: learning
English and the small-sword exercise. [_La Vie de Voltaire,_ par M--(a
Geneve, 1786), pp. 55-57; or pp. 60-63, in his SECOND form of the Book.
The "M--" is an Abbe Duvernet; of no great mark otherwise. He got
into Revolution trouble afterwards, but escaped with his head; and
republished his Book, swollen out somewhat by new "Anecdotes" and
republican bluster, in this second instance; signing himself T. J. D.
V--(Paris, 1797). A vague but not dark or mendacious little Book;
with traces of real EYESIGHT in it,--by one who had personally known
Voltaire, or at least seen and heard him.] He retired to the country for
six months, and perfected himself in these two branches. Being perfect,
he challenged Duc de Rohan in the proper manner; applying ingenious
compulsives withal, to secure acceptance of the challenge. Rohan
accepted, not without some difficulty, and compulsion at the Theatre or
otherwise:--accepted, but withal confessed to his wife. The result was,
no measuring of swords took place; and Rohan only blighted by public
opinion, or incapable of farther blight that way, went at large; a
convenient LETTRE DE CACHET having put Arouet again in the Bastille.
Where for six months Arouet lodged a second time, the innocent not the
guilty; making, we can well suppose, innumerable reflections on the
phenomena of human life. Imprisonment once over, he hastily quitted for
England; shaking the dust of ungrateful France off his feet,--resolved
to change his unhappy name, for one thing.
"Smelfungus, denouncing the torpid fatuity of Voltaire's Biographers,
says he never met with one Frenchman, even of the Literary classes, who
could tell him whence this name VOLTAIRE originated. 'A PETITE
TERRE, small family estate,' they said; and sent him hunting through
Topographies, far and wide, to no purpose. Others answered, 'Volterra
in Italy, some connection with Volterra,'--and seemed even to know that
this was but fatuity. 'In ever-talking, ever-printing Paris, is it as
in Timbuctoo, then, which neither prints nor has anything to print?'
exclaims poor Smelfungus! He tells us at last, the name VOLTAIRE is
a mere Anagram of AROUET L. J.--you try it;
A.R.O.U.E.T.L.J.=V.O.L.T.A.I.R.E and perceive at once, with obligations
to Smelfungus, that he has settled this small matter for you, and that
you can be silent upon it forever thenceforth.
"The anagram VOLTAIRE, gloomily settled in the Bastille in this manner,
can be reckoned a very famous wide-sounding outer result of the Rohan
impertinence and blackguardism; but it is not worth naming beside the
inner intrinsic result, of banishing Voltaire to England at this point
of his course. England was full of Constitutionality and Freethinking;
Tolands, Collinses, Wollastons, Bolingbrokes, still living; very free
indeed. England, one is astonished to see, has its royal-republican ways
of doing; something Roman in it, from Peerage down to Plebs; strange and
curious to the eye of M. de Voltaire. Sciences flourishing; Newton still
alive, white with fourscore years, the venerable hoary man; Locke's
Gospel of Common Sense in full vogue, or even done into verse, by
incomparable Mr. Pope, for the cultivated upper classes. In science,
in religion, in politics, what a surprising 'liberty' allowed or taken!
Never was a freer turn of thinking. And (what to M. de Voltaire is a
pleasant feature) it is Freethinking with ruffles to its shirt and rings
on its fingers;--never yet, the least, dreaming of the shirtless or
SANSCULOTTIC state that lies ahead for it! That is the palmy condition
of English Liberty, when M. de Voltaire arrives there.
"In a man just out of the Bastille on those terms, there is a mind
driven by hard suffering into seriousness, and provoked by indignant
comparisons and remembrances. As if you had elaborately ploughed and
pulverized the mind of this Voltaire to receive with its utmost avidity,
and strength of fertility, whatever seed England may have for it. That
was a notable conjuncture of a man with circumstances. The question,
Is this man to grow up a Court Poet; to do legitimate dramas, lampoons,
witty verses, and wild spiritual and practical magnificences, the like
never seen; Princes and Princesses recognizing him as plainly divine,
and keeping him tied by enchantments to that poor trade as his task in
life? is answered in the negative. No: and it is not quite to decorate
and comfort your 'dry dung-heap' of a world, or the fortunate cocks that
scratch on it, that the man Voltaire is here; but to shoot lightnings
into it, and set it ablaze one day! That was an important alternative;
truly of world-importance to the poor generations that now are; and
it was settled, in good part, by this voyage to England, as one may
surmise. Such is sometimes the use of a dissolute Rohan in this world;
for the gods make implements of all manner of things.
"M. de Voltaire (for we now drop the Arouet altogether, and never hear
of it more) came to England--when? Quitted England--when? Sorrow on
all fatuous Biographers, who spend their time not in laying permanent
foundation-stones, but in fencing with the wind!--I at last find
indisputably, it was in 1726 that he came to England: [Got out of
the Bastille, with orders to leave France, "29th April" of that year
(_OEuvres de Voltaire,_ i. 40 n.).] and he himself tells us that he
1728.' Spent, therefore, some two years there in all,--last year of
George I.'s reign, and first of George II.'s. But mere inanity and
darkness visible reign, in all his Biographies, over this period of his
life, which was above all others worth investigating: seek not to know
it; no man has inquired into it, probably no competent man now ever
will. By hints in certain Letters of the period, we learn that he
lodged, or at one time lodged, in 'Maiden Lane, Covent Garden;' one of
those old Houses that yet stand in Maiden Lane: for which small fact
let us be thankful. His own Letters of the period are dated now and
then from 'Wandsworth.' Allusions there are to Bolingbroke; but the
Wandsworth is not Bolingbroke's mansion, which stood in Battersea; the
Wandsworth was one Edward Fawkener's; a man somewhat admirable to young
Voltaire, but extinct now, or nearly so, in human memory. He had been a
Turkey Merchant, it would seem, and nevertheless was admitted to speak
his word in intellectual, even in political circles; which was wonderful
to young Voltaire. This Fawkener, I think, became Sir Edward Fawkener,
and some kind of 'Secretary to the Duke of Cumberland:'--I judge it to
be the same Fawkener; a man highly unmemorable now, were it not for the
young Frenchman he was hospitable to. Fawkener's and Bolingbroke's
are perhaps the only names that turn up in Voltaire's LETTERS of
this English Period: over which generally there reigns, in the French
Biographies, inane darkness, with an intimation, half involuntary, that
it SHOULD have been made luminous, and would if perfectly easy.
"We know, from other sources, that he had acquaintance with many men
in England, with all manner of important men: Notes to Pope in
Voltaire-English, visit of Voltaire to Congreve, Notes even to such as
Lady Sundon in the interior of the Palace, are known of. The brightest
young fellow in the world did not want for introductions to the highest
quarters, in that time of political alliance, and extensive private
acquaintance, between his Country and ours. And all this he was the
man to improve, both in the trivial and the deep sense. His bow to the
divine Princess Caroline and suite, could it fail in graceful reverence
or what else was needed? Dexterous right words in the right places,
winged with ESPRIT so called: that was the man's supreme talent,
in which he had no match, to the last. A most brilliant, swift,
far-glancing young man, disposed to make himself generally agreeable.
For the rest, his wonder, we can see, was kept awake; wonder readily
inclining, in his circumstances, towards admiration. The stereotype
figure of the Englishman, always the same, which turns up in Voltaire's
WORKS, is worth noting in this respect. A rugged surly kind of fellow,
much-enduring, not intrinsically bad; splenetic without complaint,
standing oddly inexpugnable in that natural stoicism of his; taciturn,
yet with strange flashes of speech in him now and then, something which
goes beyond laughter and articulate logic, and is the taciturn elixir of
these two, what they call 'humor' in their dialect: this is pretty much
the REVERSE of Voltaire's own self, and therefore all the welcomer to
him; delineated always with a kind of mockery, but with evident love.
What excellences are in England, thought Voltaire; no Bastille in it,
for one thing! Newton's Philosophy annihilated the vortexes of Descartes
for him; Locke's Toleration is very grand (especially if all is
uncertain, and YOU are in the minority); then Collins, Wollaston and
Company,--no vile Jesuits here, strong in their mendacious mal-odorous
stupidity, despicablest yet most dangerous of creatures, to check
freedom of thought! Illustrious Mr. Pope, of the _Essay on Man,_ surely
he is admirable; as are Pericles Bolingbroke, and many others. Even
Bolingbroke's high-lacquered brass is gold to this young French friend
of his.--Through all which admirations and exaggerations the progress of
the young man, toward certain very serious attainments and achievements,
is conceivable enough.
"One other man, who ought to be mentioned in the Biographies, I find
Voltaire to have made acquaintance with, in England: a German
M. Fabrice, one of several Brothers called Fabrice or
Fabricius,--concerning whom, how he had been at Bender, and how Voltaire
picked CHARLES DOUSE from the memory of him, there was already mention.
The same Fabrice who held poor George I. in his arms while they drove,
galloping, to Osnabriick, that night, IN EXTREMIS:--not needing mention
again. The following is more to the point.
"Voltaire, among his multifarious studies while in England, did not
forget that of economics: his Poem LA LIGUE,--surreptitiously printed,
three years since, under that title (one Desfontaines, a hungry
Ex-Jesuit, the perpetrator), [1723, VIE, par T. J. D. V. (that is, "M--"
in the second form), p. 59.]--he now took in hand for his own benefit;
washed it clean of its blots; christened it HENRIADE, under which name
it is still known over all the world;--and printed it; published it
here, by subscription, in 1726; one of the first things he undertook.
Very splendid subscription; headed by Princess Caroline, and much
favored by the opulent of quality. Which yielded an unknown but very
considerable sum of thousands sterling, and grounded not only the
world-renown but the domestic finance of M. de Voltaire. For the fame of
the 'new epic,' as this HENRIADE was called, soon spread into all lands.
And such fame, and other agencies on his behalf, having opened the way
home for Voltaire, he took this sum of Thousands Sterling along with
him; laid it out judiciously in some city lottery, or profitable scrip
then going at Paris, which at once doubled the amount: after which he
invested it in Corn-trade, Army Clothing, Barbary-trade, Commissariat
Bacon-trade, all manner of well-chosen trades,--being one of the
shrewdest financiers on record;--and never from that day wanted
abundance of money, for one thing. Which he judged to be extremely
expedient for a literary man, especially in times of Jesuit and other
tribulation. 'You have only to watch,' he would say, 'what scrips,
public loans, investments in the field of agio, are offered; if you
exert any judgment, it is easy to gain there: do not the stupidest of
mortals gain there, by intensely attending to it?'
"Voltaire got almost nothing by his Books, which he generally had to
disavow, and denounce as surreptitious supposititious scandals, when
some sharp-set Book-seller, in whose way he had laid the savory
article as bait, chose to risk his ears for the profit of snatching
and publishing it. Next to nothing by his Books; but by his fine
finance-talent otherwise, he had become possessed of ample moneys. Which
were so cunningly disposed, too, that he had resources in every Country;
and no conceivable combination of confiscating Jesuits and dark fanatic
Official Persons could throw him out of a livelihood, whithersoever he
might be forced to run. A man that looks facts in the face; which is
creditable of him. The vulgar call it avarice and the like, as their way
is: but M. de Voltaire is convinced that effects will follow causes; and
that it well beseems a lonely Ishmaelite, hunting his way through the
howling wildernesses and confused ravenous populations of this world, to
have money in his pocket. He died with a revenue of some 7,000 pounds a
year, probably as good as 20,000 pounds at present; the richest literary
man ever heard of hitherto, as well as the remarkablest in some other
respects. But we have to mark the second phasis of his life [in which
Friedrich now sees him], and how it grew out of this first one.
"PHASIS SECOND (1728-1733).--Returning home as if quietly triumphant,
with such a talent in him, and such a sanction put upon it and him by a
neighboring Nation, and by all the world, Voltaire was warmly received,
in his old aristocratic circles, by cultivated France generally; and
now in 1728, in his thirty-second year, might begin to have definite
outlooks of a sufficiently royal kind, in Literature and otherwise. Nor
is he slow, far from it, to advance, to conquer and enjoy. He writes
successful literature, falls in love with women of quality; encourages
the indigent and humble; eclipses, and in case of need tramples down,
the too proud. He elegizes poor Adrienne Lecouvreur, the Actress,--our
poor friend the Comte de Saxe's female friend; who loyally emptied out
her whole purse for him, 30,000 pounds in one sum, that he might try
for Courland, and whether he could fall in love with her of the Swollen
Cheek there; which proved impossible. Elegizes Adrienne, slightly, and
even buries her under cloud of night: ready to protect unfortunate
females of merit. Especially theatrical females; having much to do in
the theatre, which we perceive to be the pulpit or real preaching-place
of cultivated France in those years. All manner of verse, all manner of
prose, he dashes off with surprising speed and grace: showers of light
spray for the moment; and always some current of graver enterprise,
_Siecle de Louis Quatorze_ or the like, going on beneath it. For he is a
most diligent, swift, unresting man; and studies and learns amazingly in
such a rackety existence. Victorious enough in some senses; defeat, in
Literature, never visited him. His Plays, coming thick on the heels of
one another, rapid brilliant pieces, are brilliantly received by the
unofficial world; and ought to dethrone dull Crebillon, and the sleepy
potentates of Poetry that now are. Which in fact is their result with
the public; but not yet in the highest courtly places;--a defect much to
be condemned and lamented.
"Numerous enemies arise, as is natural, of an envious venomous
description; this is another ever-widening shadow in the sunshine. In
fact we perceive he has, besides the inner obstacles and griefs, two
classes of outward ones: There are Lions on his path and also Dogs.
Lions are the Ex-Bishop of Mirepoix, and certain other dark Holy
Fathers, or potent orthodox Official Persons. These, though Voltaire
does not yet declare his heterodoxy (which, indeed, is but the orthodoxy
of the cultivated private circles), perceive well enough, even by the
HENRIADE, and its talk of 'tolerance,' horror of 'fanaticism' and the
like, what this one's 'DOXY is; and how dangerous he, not a mere mute
man of quality, but a talking spirit with winged words, may be;--and
they much annoy and terrify him, by their roaring in the distance. Which
roaring cannot, of course, convince; and since it is not permitted to
kill, can only provoke a talking spirit into still deeper strains of
heterodoxy for his own private behoof. These are the Lions on his path:
beasts conscious to themselves of good intentions; but manifesting from
Voltaire's point of view, it must be owned, a physiognomy unlovely to
a degree. 'Light is superior to darkness, I should think,' meditates
Voltaire; 'power of thought to the want of power! The ANE DE MIREPOIX
(Ass of Mirepoix), [Poor joke of Voltaire's, continually applied to this
Bishop, or Ex-Bishop,--who was thought, generally, a rather tenebrific
man for appointment to the FEUILLE DES BENEFICES (charge of nominating
Bishops, keeping King's conscience, &c.); and who, in that capacity,
signed himself ANC (by no means "ANE," but "ANCIEN, Whilom") DE
MIREPOIX,--to the enragement of Voltaire often enough.] pretending to
use me in this manner, is it other, in the court of Rhadamanthus,
than transcendent Stupidity, with transcendent Insolence superadded?'
Voltaire grows more and more heterodox; and is ripening towards
dangerous utterances, though he, strives to hold in.
"The Dogs upon his path, again, are all the disloyal envious persons of
the Writing Class, whom his success has offended; and, more generally,
all the dishonest hungry persons who can gain a morsel by biting him:
and their name is legion. It must be owned, about as ugly a Doggery
('INFAME CANAILLE' he might well reckon them) as has, before or since,
infested the path of a man. They are not hired and set on, as angry
suspicion might suggest; but they are covertly somewhat patronized
by the Mirepoix, or orthodox Official class. Scandalous Ex-Jesuit
Desfontaines, Thersites Freron,--these are but types of an endless
Doggery; whose names and works should be blotted out; whose one claim to
memory is, that the riding man so often angrily sprang down, and tried
horsewhipping them into silence. A vain attempt. The individual hound
flies howling, abjectly petitioning and promising; but the rest bark
all with new comfort, and even he starts again straightway. It is bad
travelling in those woods, with such Lions and such Dogs. And then the
sparsely scattered HUMAN Creatures (so we may call them in contrast,
persons of Quality for most part) are not always what they should be.
The grand mansions you arrive at, in this waste-howling solitude, prove
sometimes essentially Robber-towers;--and there may be Armida Palaces,
and divine-looking Armidas, where your ultimate fate is still worse.
_'Que le monde est rempli d'enchanteurs, je ne dis rien
d'enchanteresses!'_
To think of it, the solitary Ishmaelite journeying, never so well
mounted, through such a wilderness: with lions, dogs, human robbers and
Armidas all about him; himself lonely, friendless under the stars:--one
could pity him withal, though that is not the feeling he solicits; nor
gets hitherto, even at this impartial distance.
"One of the beautiful creatures of Quality,--we hope, not an
Armida,--who came athwart Voltaire, in these times, was a Madame du
Chatelet; distinguished from all the others by a love of mathematics
and the pure sciences, were it nothing else. She was still young, under
thirty; the literary man still under forty. With her Husband, to whom
she had brought a child, or couple of children, there was no formal
quarrel; but they were living apart, neither much heeding the other,
as was by no means a case without example at that time; Monsieur
soldiering, and philandering about, in garrison or elsewhere; Madame, in
a like humor, doing the best for herself in the high circles of society,
to which he and she belonged. Most wearisome barren circles to a person
of thought, as both she and M. de Voltaire emphatically admitted to one
another, on first making acquaintance. But is there no help?
"Madame had tried the pure sciences and philosophies, in Books: but
how much more charming, when they come to you as a Human Philosopher;
handsome, magnanimous, and the wittiest man in the world! Young
Madame was not regularly beautiful; but she was very piquant, radiant,
adventurous; understood other things than the pure sciences, and could
be abundantly coquettish and engaging. I have known her scuttle off, on
an evening, with a couple of adventurous young wives of Quality, to the
remote lodging of the witty M. de Voltaire, and make his dim evening
radiant to him. [One of Voltaire's Letters.] Then again, in public
crowds, I have seen them; obliged to dismount to the peril of Madame's
diamonds, there being a jam of carriages, and no getting forward for
half the day. In short, they are becoming more and more intimate, to the
extremest degree; and, scorning the world, thank Heaven that they are
mutually indispensable. Cannot we get away from this scurvy wasp's-nest
of a Paris, thought they, and live to ourselves and our books?
"Madame was of high quality, one of the Breteuils; but was poor in
comparison, and her Husband the like. An old Chateau of theirs, named
Cirey, stands in a pleasant enough little valley in Champagne; but so
dilapidated, gaunt and vacant, nobody can live in it. Voltaire, who is
by this time a man of ample moneys, furnishes the requisite cash; Madame
and he, in sweet symphony, concert the plans: Cirey is repaired,
at least parts of it are, into a boudoir of the gods, regardless of
expense; nothing ever seen so tasteful, so magnificent; and the two
withdraw thither to study, in peace, what sciences, pure and other, they
have a mind to. They are recognized as lovers, by the Parisian public,
with little audible censure from anybody there,--with none at all from
the easy Husband; who occasionally even visits Cirey, if he be passing
that way; and is content to take matters as he finds them, without
looking below the surface. [See (whosoever is curious) Madame de
Grafigny, _Vie Privee de Voltaire et de Madame du Chatelet_ (Paris,
1820). A six months of actual Letters written by poor Grafigny, while
sheltering at Cirey, Winter and Spring, 1738-1739; straitened there
in various respects,--extremely ill off for fuel, among other things.
Rugged practical Letters, shadowing out to us, unconsciously oftenest,
and like a very mirror, the splendid and the sordid, the seamy side
and the smooth, of Life at Cirey, in her experience of it. Published,
fourscore years after, under the above title.] For the Ten Commandments
are at a singular pass in cultivated France at this epoch. Such
illicit-idyllic form of life has been the form of Voltaire's since
1733,"--for some three years now, when Friedrich and we first make
acquaintance with him. "It lasted above a dozen years more: an illicit
marriage after its sort, and subject only to the liabilities of such.
Perhaps we may look in upon the Cirey Household, ourselves, at some
future time; and"--This Editor hopes not!
"Madame admits that for the first ten years it was, on the whole,
sublime; a perfect Eden on Earth, though stormy now and then. [_Lettres
Inedites de Madame la Marquise du Chastelet; auxquelles on a joint une
Dissertation_ (&c. of hers): Paris, 1806.] After ten years, it began to
grow decidedly dimmer; and in the course of few years more, it
became undeniably evident that M. de Voltaire 'did not love me as
formerly:'--in fact, if Madame could have seen it, M. de Voltaire
was growing old, losing his teeth, and the like; and did not care for
anything as formerly! Which was a dreadful discovery, and gave rise to
results by and by.
"In this retreat at Cirey, varied with flying visits to Paris, and kept
awake by multifarious Correspondences, the quantity of Literature done
by the two was great and miscellaneous. By Madame, chiefly in the region
of the pure sciences, in Newtonian Dissertations, competitions for
Prizes, and the like: really sound and ingenious Pieces, entirely
forgotten long since. By Voltaire, in serious Tragedies, Histories, in
light Sketches and deep Dissertations:--mockery getting ever wilder
with him; the satirical vein, in prose and verse, amazingly copious, and
growing more and more heterodox, as we can perceive. His troubles from
the ecclesiastical or Lion kind in the Literary forest, still more from
the rabid Doggery in it, are manifold, incessant. And it is pleasantly
notable,--during these first ten years,--with what desperate intensity,
vigilance and fierceness, Madame watches over all his interests and
liabilities and casualties great and small; leaping with her whole force
into M. de Voltaire's scale of the balance, careless of antecedences and
consequences alike; flying, with the spirit of an angry brood-hen,
at the face of mastiffs, in defence of any feather that is M. de
Voltaire's. To which Voltaire replies, as he well may, with eloquent
gratitude; with Verses to the divine Emilie, with Gifts to her, verses
and gifts the prettiest in the world;--and industriously celebrates the
divine Emilie to herself and all third parties.
"An ardent, aerial, gracefully predominant, and in the end somewhat
termagant female figure, this divine Emilie. Her temper, radiant rather
than bland, was none of the patientest on occasion; nor was M. de
Voltaire the least of a Job, if you came athwart him the wrong way. I
have heard, their domestic symphony was liable to furious flaws,--let
us hope at great distances apart:--that 'plates' in presence of the
lackeys, actual crockery or metal, have been known to fly from end to
end of the dinner-table; nay they mention 'knives' (though only in the
way of oratorical action); and Voltaire has been heard to exclaim, the
sombre and majestic voice of him risen to a very high pitch: _'Ne me
regardez tant de ces yeux hagards et louches,_ Don't fix those haggard
sidelong eyes on me in that way!'--mere shrillness of pale rage
presiding over the scene. But we hope it was only once in the quarter,
or seldomer: after which the element would be clearer for some time. A
lonesome literary man, who has got a Brood Phoenix to preside over him,
and fly at the face of gods and men for him in that manner, ought to be
grateful.
"Perhaps we shall one day glance, personally, as it were, into Cirey
with our readers;"--Not with this Editor or his!--"It will turn out beyond
the reader's expectation. Tolerable illicit resting-place, so far as the
illicit can be tolerable, for a lonesome Man of Letters, who goes into
the illicit. Helpfulness, affection, or the flattering image of such,
are by no means wanting: squalls of infirm temper are not more frequent
than in the most licit establishments of a similar sort. Madame, about
this time, has a swift Palfrey, 'ROSSIGNOL (Nightingale)' the name of
him; and gallops fairy-like through the winding valleys; being an
ardent rider, and well-looking on horseback. Voltaire's study is inlaid
with--the Grafigny knows all what:--mere china tiles, gilt sculptures,
marble slabs, and the supreme of taste and expense: study fit for the
Phoebus Apollo of France, so far as Madame could contrive it. Takes
coffee with Madame, in the Gallery, about noon. And his bedroom, I
expressly discern, [_Letters of Voltaire._] looks out upon a running
brook, the murmur of which is pleasant to one."
Enough, enough. We can perceive what kind of Voltaire it was to whom the
Crown-Prince now addressed himself; and how luminous an object, shining
afar out of the solitudes of Champagne upon the ardent young man, still
so capable of admiration. Model Epic, HENRIADE; model History, CHARLES
DOUZE; sublime Tragedies, CISAR, ALZIRE and others, which readers still
know though with less enthusiasm, are blooming fresh in Friedrich's
memory and heart; such Literature as man never saw before; and in the
background Friedrich has inarticulately a feeling as if, in this man,
there were something grander than all Literatures: a Reform of human
Thought itself; a new "Gospel," good-tidings or God's-Message, by this
man;--which Friedrich does not suspect, as the world with horror does,
to be a new BA'SPEL, or Devil's-Message of bad-tidings! A sublime enough
Voltaire; radiant enough, over at Cirey yonder. To all lands, a visible
Phoebus Apollo, climbing the eastern steeps; with arrows of celestial
"new light" in his quiver; capable of stretching many a big foul Python,
belly uppermost, in its native mud, and ridding the poor world of her
Nightmares and Mud-Serpents in some measure, we may hope!--
And so there begins, from this point, a lively Correspondence between
Friedrich and Voltaire; which, with some interruptions of a notable
sort, continued during their mutual Life; and is a conspicuous feature
in the Biographies of both. The world talked much of it, and still
talks; and has now at last got it all collected, and elucidated into a
dimly legible form for studious readers. [Preuss, _OEuvres de Frederic,_
(xxi. xxii. xxiii., Berlin, 1853); who supersedes the lazy French
Editors in this matter.] It is by no means the diabolically wicked
Correspondence it was thought to be; the reverse, indeed, on both
sides;--but it has unfortunately become a very dull one, to the actual
generation of mankind. Not without intrinsic merit; on the contrary
(if you read intensely, and bring the extinct alive again), it sparkles
notably with epistolary grace and vivacity; and, on any terms, it has
still passages of biographical and other interest: but the substance
of it, then so new and shining, has fallen absolutely commonplace, the
property of all the world, since then; and is now very wearisome to the
reader. No doctrine or opinion in it that you have not heard, with clear
belief or clear disbelief, a hundred times, and could wish rather not
to hear again. The common fate of philosophical originalities in this
world. As a Biographical Document, it is worth a very strict perusal,
if you are interested that way in either Friedrich or Voltaire: finely
significant hints and traits, though often almost evanescent, so slight
are they, abound in this Correspondence; frankness, veracity under
graceful forms, being the rule of it, strange to say! As an illustration
of Two memorable Characters, and of their Century; showing on what
terms the sage Plato of the Eighteenth Century and his Tyrant Dionysius
correspond, and what their manners are to one another, it may long have
a kind of interest to mankind: otherwise it has not much left.
In Friedrich's History it was, no doubt, an important fact, that there
lived a Voltaire along with him, twenty years his senior. With another
Theory of the Universe than the Voltaire one, how much OTHER had
Friedrich too been! But the Theory called by Voltaire's name was
not properly of Voltaire's creating, but only of his uttering and
publishing; it lay ready for everybody's finding, and could not well
have been altogether missed by such a one as Friedrich. So that perhaps
we exaggerate the effects of Voltaire on him, though undoubtedly they
were considerable. Considerable; but not derived from this express
correspondence, which seldom turns on didactic points at all; derived
rather from Voltaire's Printed WORKS, where they lay derivable to
all the world. Certain enough it is, Voltaire was at this time,
and continued all his days, Friedrich's chief Thinker in the world;
unofficially, the chief Preacher, Prophet and Priest of this Working
King;--no better off for a spiritual Trismegistus was poor Friedrich in
the world! On the practical side, Friedrich soon outgrew him,--perhaps
had already outgrown, having far more veracity of character, and an
intellect far better built in the silent parts of it, and trained too
by hard experiences to know shadow from substance;--outgrew him,
and gradually learned to look down upon him, occasionally with much
contempt, in regard to the practical. But in all changes of humor
towards Voltaire, Friedrich, we observe, considers him as plainly
supreme in speculative intellect; and has no doubt but, for thinking
and speaking, Nature never made such another. Which may be taken as
a notable feature of Friedrich's History; and gives rise to passages
between Voltaire and him, which will make much noise in time coming.
Here, meanwhile, faithfully presented though in condensed form, is the
starting of the Correspondence; First Letter of it, and first Response.
Two Pieces which were once bright as the summer sunrise on both sides,
but are now fallen very dim; and have much needed condensation, and
abridgment by omission of the unessential,--so lengthy are they, so
extinct and almost dreary to us! Sublime "Wolf" and his "Philosophy,"
how he was hunted out of Halle with it, long since; and now shines from
Marburg, his "Philosophy" and he supreme among mankind: this, and other
extinct points, the reader's fancy will endeavor to rekindle in some
slight measure:--
TO M. DE VOLTAIRE, AT CIREY (from the Crown-Prince).
"BERLIN, 8th August, 1736.
"MONSIEUR,--Although I have not the satisfaction of knowing you
personally, you are not the less known to me through your Works. They
are treasures of the mind, if I may so express myself; and they reveal
to the reader new beauties at every fresh perusal. I think I have
recognized in them the character of their ingenious Author, who does
honor to our age and to human nature. If ever the dispute on the
comparative merits of the Moderns and the Ancients should be revived,
the modern great men will owe it to you, and to you only, that the scale
is turned in their favor. With the excellent quality of Poet you join
innumerable others more or less related to it. Never did Poet before
put Metaphysics into rhythmic cadence: to you the honor was reserved of
doing it first.
"This taste for Philosophy manifested in your writings, induces me to
send you a translated Copy of the _Accusation and defence of M. Wolf,_
the most celebrated Philosopher of our days; who, for having carried
light into the darkest places of Metaphysics, is cruelly accused of
irreligion and atheism. Such is the destiny of great men; their superior
genius exposes them to the poisoned arrows of calumny and envy. I am
about getting a Translation made of the _Treatise on God, the Soul,
and the World,"_--Translation done by an Excellency Suhm, as has been
hinted,--"from the pen of the same Author. I will send it you when it
is finished; and I am sure that the force of evidence in all his
propositions, and their close geometrical sequence, will strike you.
"The kindness and assistance you afford to all who devote themselves to
the Arts and Sciences, makes me hope that you will not exclude me from
the number of those whom you find worthy of your instructions:--it is so
I would call your intercourse by Correspondence of Letters; which cannot
be other than profitable to every thinking being....
... "beauties without number in your works. Your HENRIADE delights me.
The tragedy of CESAR shows us sustained characters; the sentiments in it
are magnificent and grand, and one feels that Brutus is either a Roman,
or else an Englishman _(ou un Romain ou un Anglais)._ Your ALZIRE, to
the graces of novelty adds...
"Monsieur, there is nothing I wish so much as to possess all your
Writings," even those not printed hitherto. "Pray, Monsieur, do
communicate them to me without reserve. If there be amongst your
Manuscripts any that you wish to conceal from the eyes of the public,
I engage to keep them in the profoundest secrecy. I am unluckily aware,
that the faith of Princes is an object of little respect in our days;
nevertheless I hope you will make an exception from the general rule in
my favor. I should think myself richer in the possession of your Works
than in that of all the transient goods of Fortune. These the same
chance grants and takes away: your Works one can make one's own by means
of memory, so that they last us whilst it lasts. Knowing how weak my own
memory is, I am in the highest degree select in what I trust to it.
"If Poetry were what it was before your appearance, a strumming of
wearisome idyls, insipid eclogues, tuneful nothings, I should renounce
it forever:" but in your hands it becomes ennobled; a melodious "course
of morals; worthy of the admiration and the study of cultivated minds
(DES HONNETES GENS). You"--in fine, "you inspire the ambition to follow
in your footsteps. But I, how often have I said to myself: 'MALHEUREUX,
throw down a burden which is above thy strength! One cannot imitate
Voltaire, without being Voltaire!'
"It is in such moments that I have felt how small are those advantages
of birth, those vapors of grandeur, with which vanity would solace us!
They amount to little, properly to nothing (POUR MIEUX DIRE, RIEN).
Nature, when she pleases, forms a great soul, endowed with faculties
that can advance the Arts and Sciences; and it is the part of Princes to
recompense his noble toils. Ah, would Glory but make use of me to crown
your successes! My only fear would be, lest this Country, little fertile
in laurels, proved unable to furnish enough of them.
"If my destiny refuse me the happiness of being able to possess you, may
I, at least, hope one day to see the man whom I have admired so long now
from afar; and to assure you, by word of mouth, that I am,--With all the
esteem and consideration due to those who, following the torch of
truth for guide, consecrate their labors to the Public,--Monsieur, your
affectionate friend,
"FREDERIC, P. R. of Prussia."
[_OEuvres de Frederic,_ xxi. 6.]
By what route or conveyance this Letter went, I cannot say. In general,
it is to be observed, these Friedrich-Voltaire Letters--liable perhaps
to be considered contraband at BOTH ends of their course--do not go by
the Post; but by French-Prussian Ministers, by Hamburg Merchants, and
other safe subterranean channels. Voltaire, with enthusiasm, and no
doubt promptly, answers within three weeks:--
TO THE CROWN-PRINCE, AT REINSBERG (from Voltaire).
"CIREY, 26th August, 1736.
"MONSEIGNEUR,--A man must be void of all feeling who were not infinitely
moved by the Letter which your Royal Highness has deigned to honor me
with. My self-love is only too much flattered by it: but my love of
Mankind, which I have always nourished in my heart, and which, I venture
to say, forms the basis of my character, has given me a very much purer
pleasure,--to see that there is, now in the world, a Prince who thinks
as a man; a PHILOSOPHER Prince, who will make men happy.
"Permit me to say, there is not a man on the earth but owes thanks for
the care you take to cultivate by sound philosophy a soul that is born
for command. Good kings there never were except those that had begun by
seeking to instruct themselves; by knowing-good men from bad; by loving
what was true, by detesting persecution and superstition. No Prince,
persisting in such thoughts, but might bring back the golden age into
his Countries! And why do so few Princes seek this glory? You feel it,
Monseigneur, it is because they all think more of their Royalty than of
Mankind. Precisely the reverse is your case:--and, unless, one day,
the tumult of business and the wickedness of men alter so divine a
character, you will be worshipped by your People, and loved by the whole
world. Philosophers, worthy of the name, will flock to your States;
thinkers will crowd round that throne, as the skilfulest artisans do to
the city where their art is in request. The illustrious Queen Christina
quitted her kingdom to go in search of the Arts; reign you, Monseigneur,
and the Arts will come to seek you.
"May you only never be disgusted with the Sciences by the quarrels of
their Cultivators! A race of men no better than Courtiers; often
enough as greedy, intriguing, false and cruel as these," and still more
ridiculous in the mischief they do. "And how sad for mankind that the
very Interpreters of Heaven's commandments, the Theologians, I mean,
are sometimes the most dangerous of all! Professed messengers of the
Divinity, yet men sometimes of obscure ideas and pernicious behavior;
their soul blown out with mere darkness; full of gall and pride, in
proportion as it is empty of truths. Every thinking being who is not of
their opinion is an Atheist; and every King who does not favor them
will be damned. Dangerous to the very throne; and yet intrinsically
insignificant:" best way is, leave their big talk and them alone; speedy
collapse will follow....
"I cannot sufficiently thank your Royal Highness for the gift of that
little Book about Monsieur Wolf. I respect Metaphysical ideas; rays of
lightning they are in the midst of deep night. More, I think, is not
to be hoped from Metaphysics. It does not seem likely that the
First-principles of things will ever be known. The mice that nestle
in some little holes of an immense Building, know not whether it is
eternal, or who the Architect, or why he built it. Such mice are we; and
the Divine Architect who built the Universe has never, that I know
of, told his secret to one of us. If anybody could pretend to guess
correctly, it is M. Wolf." Beautiful in your Royal Highness to protect
such a man. And how beautiful it will be, to send me his chief Book,
as you have the kindness to promise! "The Heir of a Monarchy, from his
palace, attending to the wants of a recluse far off! Condescend to
afford me the pleasure of that Book, Monseigneur....
"What your Royal Highness thinks of poetry is just: verses that do not
teach men new and touching truths, do not deserve to be read." As to
my own poor verses--But, after all, "that HENRIADE is the writing of an
Honest Man: fit, in that sense, that it find grace with a Philosopher
Prince.
"I will obey your commands as to sending those unpublished Pieces. You
shall be my public, Monseigneur; your criticisms will be my reward:
it is a price few Sovereigns can pay. I am sure of your secrecy:
your virtue and your intellect must be in proportion. I should indeed
consider it a precious happiness to come and pay my court to your Royal
Highness! One travels to Rome to see paintings and ruins: a Prince such
as you is a much more singular object; worthier of a long journey! But
the friendship [divine Emilie's] which keeps me in this retirement does
not permit my leaving it. No doubt you think with Julian, that great and
much calumniated man, who said, 'Friends should always be preferred to
Kings.'
"In whatever corner of the world I may end my life, be assured,
Monseigneur, my wishes will continually be for you,--that is to say,
for a whole People's happiness. My heart will rank itself among your
subjects; your glory will ever be dear to me. I shall wish, May you
always be like yourself, and may other Kings be like you!--I am, with
profound respect, your Royal Highness's most humble
"VOLTAIRE."
[_OEuvres de Frederic,_ xxi. 10.]
The Correspondence, once kindled, went on apace; and soon burst forth,
finding nourishment all round, into a shining little household fire,
pleasant to the hands and hearts of both parties. Consent of opinions on
important matters is not wanting; nor is emphasis in declaring the same.
The mutual admiration, which is high,--high and intrinsic on Friedrich's
side; and on Voltaire's, high if in part extrinsic,--by no means wants
for emphasis of statement: superlatives, tempered by the best art,
pass and repass. Friedrich, reading Voltaire's immortal Manuscripts,
confesses with a blush, before long, that he himself is a poor
Apprentice that way. Voltaire, at sight of the Princely Productions,
is full of admiration, of encouragement; does a little in correcting,
solecisms of grammar chiefly; a little, by no means much. But it is a
growing branch of employment; now and henceforth almost the one
reality of function Voltaire can find for himself in this beautiful
Correspondence. For, "Oh what a Crown-Prince, ripening forward to be the
delight of human nature, and realize the dream of sages, Philosophy upon
the Throne!" And on the other side, "Oh what a Phoebus Apollo, mounting
the eastern sky, chasing the Nightmares,--sowing the Earth with Orient
pearl, to begin with!"--In which fine duet, it must be said, the Prince
is perceptibly the truer singer; singing within compass, and from the
heart; while the Phoebus shows himself acquainted with art, and warbles
in seductive quavers, now and then beyond the pitch of his voice. We
must own also, Friedrich proves little seducible; shows himself laudably
indifferent to such siren-singing;--perhaps more used to flattery, and
knowing by experience how little meal is to be made of chaff. Voltaire,
in an ungrateful France, naturally plumes himself a good deal on such
recognition by a Foreign Rising Sun; and, of the two, though so many
years the elder, is much more like losing head a little.
Elegant gifts are despatched to Cirey; gold-amber trinkets for Madame,
perhaps an amber inkholder for Monsieur: priceless at Cirey as the gifts
of the very gods. By and by, a messenger goes express: the witty Colonel
Keyserling, witty but experienced, whom we once named at Reinsberg;
he is to go and see with his eyes, since his Master cannot. What a
messenger there; ambassador from star to star! Keyserling's report at
Reinsberg is not given; but we have Grafigny's, which is probably the
more impartial. Keyserling's embassy was in the end of next year; [3d
November, 1737 (as we gather from the Correspondence).] and there is
plenty of airy writing about it and him, in these Letters.
Friedrich has translated the name KEYSERLING (diminutive of KAISER) into
"Caesarion;"--and I should have said, he plays much upon names and also
upon things, at Reinsberg, in that style; and has a good deal of airy
symbolism, and cloud-work ingeniously painted round the solidities of
his life there. Especially a "Bayard Order," as he calls it: Twelve of
his selectest Friends made into a Chivalry Brotherhood, the names of
whom are all changed, "Caesarion" one of them; with dainty devices, and
mimetic procedures of the due sort. Which are not wholly mummery; but
have a spice of reality, to flavor them to a serious young heart.
For the selection was rigorous, superior merit and behavior a strict
condition; and indeed several of these Bayard Chevaliers proved notable
practical Champions in time coming;--for example Captain Fouquet,
of whom we have heard before, in the dark Custrin days. This is a
mentionable feature of the Reinsberg life, and of the young Prince's
character there: pleasant to know of, from this distance; but not now
worth knowing more in detail.
The Friedrich-Voltaire Correspondence contains much incense; due whiffs
of it, from Reinsberg side, to the "divine Emilie," Voltaire's quasi
better-half or worse-half; who responds always in her divinest manner
to Reinsberg, eager for more acquaintance there. The Du Chatelets had
a Lawsuit in Brabant; very inveterate, perhaps a hundred years old or
more; with the "House of Honsbrouck:" [_Lettres Inedites de Voltaire_
(Paris, 1826), p. 9.] this, not to speak of other causes, flights from
French peril and the like, often brought Voltaire and his Dame
into those parts; and gave rise to occasional hopes of meeting with
Friedrich; which could not take effect. In more practical style,
Voltaire solicits of him: "Could not your Royal Highness perhaps
graciously speak to some of those Judicial Big wigs in Brabant, and flap
them up a little!" Which Friedrich, I think, did, by some good means.
Happily, by one means or other, Voltaire got the Lawsuit ended,--1740,
we might guess, but the time is not specified;--and Friedrich had a
new claim, had there been need of new, to be regarded with worship by
Madame. [Record of all this, left, like innumerable other things there,
in an intrinsically dark condition, lies in Voltaire's LETTERS,--not
much worth hunting up into clear daylight, the process being so
difficult to a stranger.] But the proposed meeting with Madame could
never take effect; not even when Friedrich's hands were free. Nay
I notice at last, Friedrich had privately determined it never
should--Madame evidently an inconvenient element to him. A young man not
wanting in private power of eyesight; and able to distinguish chaff from
meal! Voltaire and he will meet; meet, and also part; and there will
be passages between them:--and the reader will again hear of this
Correspondence of theirs, where it has a biographical interest. We are
to conceive it, at present, as a principal light of life to the
young heart at Reinsberg; a cheerful new fire, almost an altar-fire,
irradiating the common dusk for him there.
Of another Correspondence, beautifully irradiative for the young heart,
we must say almost nothing: the Correspondence with Suhm. Suhm the Saxon
Minister, whom we have occasionally heard of, is an old Friend of the
Crown-Prince's, dear and helpful to him: it is he who is now doing those
_Translations of Wolf,_ of which Voltaire lately saw specimens; translate
at large, for the young man's behoof. The young man, restless to know
the best Philosophy going, had tried reading of Wolf's chief Book; found
it too abstruse, in Wolf's German: wherefore Suhm translates; sends it
to him in limpid French; fascicle by fascicle, with commentaries;
young man doing his best to understand and admire,--gratefully, not too
successfully, we can perceive. That is the staple of the famous SUHM
CORRESPONDENCE; staple which nobody could now bear to be concerned with.
Suhm is also helpful in finance difficulties, which are pretty frequent;
works out subventions, loans under a handsome form, from the Czarina's
and other Courts. Which is an operation of the utmost delicacy;
perilous, should it be heard of at Potsdam. Wherefore Suhm and the
Prince have a covert language for it: and affect still to be speaking
of "Publishers" and "new Volumes," when they mean Lenders and
Bank-Draughts. All these loans, I will hope, were accurately paid one
day, as that from George II. was, in "rouleaus of new gold." We need not
doubt the wholesome charm and blessing of so intimate a Correspondence
to the Crown-Prince: and indeed his real love of the amiable Suhm,
as Suhm's of him, comes beautifully to light in these Letters:
but otherwise they are not now to be read without weariness, even
dreariness, and have become a biographical reminiscence merely.
Concerning Graf von Manteufel, a third Literary Correspondent, and the
only other considerable one, here, from a German Commentator on this
matter, is a Clipping that will suffice:--
"Manteufel was Saxon by birth, long a Minister of August the Strong, but
quarrelled with August, owing to some frail female it is said, and
had withdrawn to Berlin a few years ago. He shines there among the
fashionable philosophical classes; underhand, perhaps does a little
in the volunteer political line withal; being a very busy pushing
gentleman. Tall of stature, 'perfectly handsome at the age of sixty;'
[Formey, _Souvenirs d'un Citoyen,_ i. 39-45.] great partisan of Wolf and
the Philosophies, awake to the Orthodoxies too. Writes flowing elegant
French, in a softly trenchant, somewhat too all-knowing style. High
manners traceable in him; but nothing of the noble loyalty, natural
politeness and pious lucency of Suhm. One of his Letters to Friedrich
has this slightly impertinent passage;--Friedrich, just getting settled
in Reinsberg, having transiently mentioned 'the quantity of fair sex'
that had come about him there:--
"'BERLIN, 26th AUGUST, 1736 (to the Crown-Prince).... I am well
persuaded your Royal Highness will regulate all that to perfection, and
so manage that your fair sex will be charmed to find themselves with you
at Reinsberg, and you charmed to have them there. But permit me, your
Royal Highness, to repeat in this place, what I one day took the liberty
of saying here at Berlin: Nothing in the world would better suit the
present interests of your Royal Highness and of us all, than some Heir
of your Royal Highness's making! Perhaps the tranquil convenience with
which your Royal Highness at Reinsberg can now attend to that object,
will be of better effect than all those hasty and transitory visits at
Berlin were. At least I wish it with the best of my heart. I beg pardon,
Monseigneur, for intruding thus into everything which concerns your
Royal Highness;'--In truth, I am a rather impudent busybodyish fellow,
with superabundant dashing manner, speculation, utterance; and shall get
myself ordered out of the Country, by my present correspondent, by and
by.--'Being ever,' with the due enthusiasm, 'MANTEUFEL.' [_OEuvres de
Frederic,_ xxv. 487;--Friedrich's Answer is, Reinsberg, 23d September
(Ib. 489).]
"To which Friedrich's Answer is of a kind to put a gag in the foul mouth
of certain extraordinary Pamphleteerings, that were once very copious in
the world; and, in particular, to set at rest the Herr Dr. Zimmermann,
and his poor puddle of calumnies and credulities, got together in that
weak pursuit of physiology under obscene circumstances;--
"Which is the one good result I have gathered from the Manteufel
Correspondence," continues our German friend; whom I vote with!--Or
if the English reader never saw those Zimmermann or other dog-like
Pamphleteerings and surmisings, let this Excerpt be mysterious and
superfluous to the thankful English reader.
On the whole, we conceive to ourselves the abundant nature of
Friedrich's Correspondence, literary and other; and what kind of event
the transit of that Post functionary "from Fehrbellin northwards," with
his leathern bags, "twice a week," may have been at Reinsberg, in those
years.