PLEASURE AT CIREY
On December 4, 1738, there arrived at Cirey, having been almost upset
out of her post-chaise, and actually compelled to wade through the
midwinter mud of the worst roads in France, a visitor, Madame de
Graffigny.
Fat and forty was Madame: a vulgar, cheerful, gossiping old nurse,
already an ardent hero-worshipper of Voltaire, whom she had met at
Lunéville, and with something of literary taste on her own account. The
Graffigny had, in fact, caught that eighteenth-century epidemic which
showed itself in easy wit, easy writing, and easy morals. She had a
brute of a husband from whom she had just obtained a divorce. She had no
money. She had any number of friends. Voltaire seems to have liked her
because she was poor, good-natured, and adored him. He came to meet his
guest in her room when she arrived at two o’clock on that December
morning, with a flat candlestick in his hand, and looking for all the
world, said the effusive lady, like a monk. Émilie was there, too. Her
greetings were only a shade less warm than her lover’s. Madame de
Graffigny was left alone: so that she could then and there sit down to
her writing-table and for the benefit of a dear confidant, called
Panpan, ring up the curtain on one of the most intimate and minute of
domestic comedies ever given to the public.
Some years later Madame de Graffigny obtained some contemporary
celebrity by her “Letters of a Peruvian.” They are altogether forgotten.
But her “Vie Privée de Voltaire et de Madame du Châtelet” will live as
long as the fame of that strange pair and the popularity of gossiping
memoirs.
Since their arrival there in 1734, both Voltaire and Émilie had been
busy in improving, not only the outside, but the inside of their
thirteenth-century château. Voltaire had a little wing to himself which,
by the irony of fate or choice, adjoined the chapel. He could open his
bedroom door and sacrifice to the _convenances_ by seeing mass
performed, while he went on with his own occupations. Sometimes the
visitors fulfilled their religious duties in this way too. They were all
very particular not to miss the attendance on Sundays and _fête_ days.
Their religion was a concession to social laws, like powdering the hair.
When Voltaire was ill in bed, which was pretty often, he had his door
opened so that he could hear the penitential litanies being recited, and
had a screen drawn round him to exclude draughts. His rooms were very
simply furnished, for use not show, spotlessly clean, so that you could
kiss the floor, said Madame de Graffigny, in the enthusiastic hyperbole
of her early letters. There was very little tapestry and a good deal of
panelling which formed an admirable background to a few good pictures.
There was a small hall, where their guests took their morning coffee
sometimes, where a stove made the air like spring, and where there were
books and scientific apparatus, a single sofa, and no luxurious
armchairs at all. The dark room--still unfinished--led out of the hall,
and there was a door into the garden.
The Goddess’s apartments were far more gorgeous. The lady visitor went
into ecstasies over that bedroom and boudoir upholstered in pale blue
and yellow--even to the basket for the dog--the pictures by Watteau and
the fireplace by Martin, the window looking on the terrace, and the
amber writing-case, a present from the politic Prince Frederick.
The rest of the castle was ill-cared for enough, she said. The
thirty-six fires which blazed in it daily could not keep it warm. In her
own room, in spite of a fire “like the fire of Troy,” she sat and
shivered. On Christmas Eve the draught from the windows blew out the
candles--although the visitor had solemnly vowed those draughts should
be stopped with canvas bags, “if God gives me life.” It may not unfairly
be surmised that most of the guests suffered as she did. Voltaire was a
very good host--hospitable, kind, warm-hearted, very anxious they should
not be bored, and indefatigable in amusing them with entertainments in
the evenings and talking to them at meals. But their comfort in their
rooms was naturally not his province. He did not think of it, and Émilie
did not care. She did not object to visitors so long as they left her
plenty of time and solitude to work: and then was ready enough to be
charming in the evenings. Experimental science and good housekeeping are
not necessarily incompatible: but each must have its own hours. Science
had all Madame du Châtelet’s. She seems to have been the sort of
mistress who provided a liberal table for her friends because it is much
less trouble to be liberal than economical, and had occasional fits of
frugality which took the form of feeding her servants very meanly. She
was sublimely inconsiderate towards them, as she was, in a lesser
degree, inconsiderate towards her own friends. She was of her age! The
_noblesse_ of that time treated their dependents exactly as if they were
animals, and animals who were at once dumb, deaf, blind, and stupid.
Behind their masters’ chairs, the valets listened to theories on which
the masters talked and the servants acted. Longchamp, who was later half
secretary, half valet to Voltaire, and before that in Madame du
Châtelet’s service, has left on record how he assisted at her toilet as
if he had been her maid. For her, he was not a human creature but a
thing--not a man, but a machine.
When Madame de Graffigny arrived she found two fellow-visitors also at
Cirey--Madame de Champbonin, Voltaire’s near neighbour and distant
relative, and her son. Madame de Champbonin was variously and elegantly
known as the “fat lady” or the “great tomcat.” Voltaire made her in some
sort a confidante. Perhaps the stout placidity of her disposition was
restful after the tumultuous emotions of the “effervescent Émilie.” The
son was employed as Émilie’s amanuensis, and copied for hours and hours
manuscripts of which he did not understand a single word. The two lady
visitors seem to have walked about the castle a good deal and admired
its beauties, sympathised with each other concerning the draughts and
the hostess’s sublime indifference to such trifles, and hugged
themselves with delight at the thought that half France was dying to be
in their position as guests at Cirey. To be sure, there were drawbacks
even in this earthly Paradise: but half France did not know that, and
the daily journal addressed to Panpan was still rapturous.
Presently the Abbé de Breteuil, Madame du Châtelet’s brother, also came
to stay. He was _grand vicaire_ at Sens. He was in every sense a typical
abbé of the period--not much pretending to believe in the religion he
professed--with a pronounced taste for broad stories--and “assez bon
conteur” himself. The connection between his sister and Voltaire seemed
to him only a thing to be proud of. He had countenanced it by his
presence here before. The Marquis countenanced it too. Why should anyone
else be particular? The abbé had come to enjoy himself, and he did.
While he was there the day began with coffee in Voltaire’s hall between
10.30 and 11.30. Even Madame du Châtelet seems to have roused herself
dimly to the sense that she had visitors and that something might be
expected of her in the way of entertaining them. Both she and Voltaire
tore themselves away a little oftener and for a little longer time from
their beloved Newton, during Breteuil’s visit. Everybody stayed with
them in the hall till noon, when the Marquis and the two Champbonins
went off to their _déjeuner_. The Marquis was always threatening to go
to Brussels to see about an endless lawsuit he was concerned in there,
and putting off his departure; which was a pity, as no one wanted him.
After coffee, Voltaire, the abbé, Émilie, and Madame de Graffigny talked
on all things in heaven and on earth for a while, and then separated.
The Marquise drove her great horses in her _calèche_ sometimes in the
morning. Once she would have insisted on nervous Madame de Graffigny
going with her, but Voltaire interfered and said people must be happy in
their own way. So Émilie, who had herself no time for nerves, went out
alone.
Sometimes the party met again for _goûter_ at four--sometimes not till
the nine o’clock supper. That was the appointed hour for relaxation.
Who would not have been of those evenings? Voltaire was inimitably gay,
brilliant, and amusing. Madame de Graffigny had him on one side of her,
and that pitiless bore, the unfortunate Marquis, on the other. _He_ said
nothing, fell asleep, and “went out with the tray.”
The supper was elegant and sufficient, without being profuse. Voltaire
had his valet always behind his chair to look after him, besides two
other lackeys also in attendance. Émilie was geometrical no more. She
was a woman of the world, trained in the first Court in Europe, witty,
easy, charming, delightful. The stories had been broad at previous
suppers; but they were broader than ever now, for the especial benefit
of Breteuil. He told some of the same kind himself which entertained
everybody immensely and which Madame de Graffigny, who had laughed at
them fit “to split her spleen,” retailed for Panpan’s benefit the next
day. The company drank Rhine wine or champagne which loosened their
tongues and brightened their wits, though they were a temperate little
gathering, by nature as well as from prudence. Voltaire improvised
verses over the dessert, or read something aloud, or quoted from memory.
The bare mention of J. B. Rousseau or Jore or any other enemy drew from
him a quick torrent of vivacious indignation. One night, after dessert
and the perfume handed after the dessert, there was a magic-lantern.
Voltaire showed it with “_propos_ to make you die of laughing,” said
Madame de Graffigny. Another night there were charades. A third, there
was a reading of the “Mondain.” A fourth, the entire party migrated to
the bathroom--an exquisite room with porcelain tiles, marble pavement,
pictures, engravings, and _bric-à-brac_--where Voltaire read aloud a
canto of the “Pucelle.” Panpan’s correspondent avowedly enjoyed _that_
immensely. So did everyone else. To hear something really shocking and
dangerous read aloud in a bathroom with closed doors--how _piquant_!
Madame de Graffigny gave Panpan epitomes of the cantos she heard, and
lived to wish she had not. After the cantos they amused themselves by
making punch.
Another evening they rehearsed “The Prodigal Son” and a farce Voltaire
had written, “Boursouffle.” Private theatricals were one of the Cirey
manias. The little theatre was reopened for Breteuil’s benefit. Pauline
du Châtelet of twelve was interrupted in her education at Joinville to
play the part of “Marthe,” which she learnt in the post-chaise coming
home. One night they danced in the theatre. Another, Voltaire read one
of the “Discourses on Man.” Yet another they discussed Newtonianism.
Once, Voltaire showed them the scientific apparatus--which still stood
in the hall awaiting the completion of the dark room--and they looked at
globes and through telescopes. Twice he read his new play “Mérope” to
them, and on the second occasion the effusive Graffigny “wept to sobs.”
She had also told them her own melancholy family history, when it had
been Voltaire’s turn to weep, and Madame du Châtelet was unable to
pursue her geometrical studies for the evening.
Breteuil did not stay more than a week or so in all. The fun had been
fast and furious while it lasted. It may be surmised that Voltaire and
Émilie were not sorry to relax their efforts to keep the social ball
rolling. They plunged deeper than ever into hard work. Madame worked all
day as well as all night--and never left her room except for the morning
coffee and the evening supper. Voltaire often could not tear himself
from his desk until that supper was half over, and directly it was
finished could hardly be prevented from returning to his writing. He did
his best--he had the true French _politesse_ all his life long--to talk
and tell stories and amuse his guests; but his thoughts were far away.
He was shut up in his own room the whole day too, now, except for a few
minutes when he called on his two lady guests. He would not even sit
down. “The time people waste in talking is frightful,” he said on one of
these brief visits. “One should not lose a minute. The greatest waste
possible is waste of time.” Madame de Graffigny was thrown on the stout
lady for all companionship, and was in the melancholy position of the
person who has to pretend she likes quiet, solitude, and reflection, and
does not. After a very little while her graphic and garrulous pen goes
much less easily and gaily over the paper.
Voltaire and Madame du Châtelet had troubles of which their guest did
not know the cause, but of which she felt the effect. The Christmas Day
of 1738 was one of the darkest of both their lives. To be unhappy is
seldom to be very amiable. This Graffigny too was, on her own showing,
something of a fool. Voltaire and Madame lived in a Paradise about which
a serpent, called the French authorities, was for ever lurking, ready to
spoil. Voltaire was always writing something he should not have written.
And Madame de Graffigny was always writing those voluminous, gushing,
confidential, imprudent epistles to Panpan. What _did_ she say in them?
On December 29, 1738, a tempest which had long been gathering in petty
mistrusts, small jealousies, opened or kept back letters, suspicions,
fears, hatreds--burst in a clap of thunder. There was a constrained and
silent supper. Then Voltaire came to Madame de Graffigny’s rooms and
accused her of having betrayed his trust and endangered his safety by
having copied cantos of the “Pucelle” and sent them to Panpan. She
denied the accusation _in toto_. Voltaire, beside himself with fury,
made her sit down and write and ask Panpan and Desmarets, her lover,
both for the original canto she had sent and the copies which had been
made of it. The unfortunate lady entirely lost her head. Then enter
Madame du Châtelet in a rage royal, besides which Voltaire’s was
calmness, temperance, and reason. She produced a certain letter from her
pocket as a proof of infamy and flung it, very nearly literally, in her
guest’s face. She accused her of having stolen a canto of the “Pucelle”
from her desk. She reminded her that she had never liked her, and had
only invited her to Cirey because she had nowhere else to go. The
Graffigny was a monster, the most _indigne_ of creatures--all the
opprobrious things in the du Châtelet dictionary, which was a very full
one. Voltaire put his arm round his furious mistress and dragged her
away at last. The quarrel was so loud that the Graffigny’s maid, two
rooms off, heard every word of it. Madame de Champbonin came in, in the
middle, but very prudently retired at once. When Madame de Graffigny was
calm enough to read the letter which Emilie had flung at her, she
discovered it was one of Panpan’s which Emilie had intercepted and read
and wherein was the remark “The canto of ‘Jeanne’ is charming.” Madame
de Graffigny was able to explain to Voltaire in a very few words that
this sentence referred to her description of the pleasure one of those
readings of the “Pucelle” had given to herself, and that there had been
no question of stealing, copying, and sending a canto to anybody in the
world.
Cannot one fancy how that little, sensitive, _vif_, angry Voltaire was
on his knees to his offended guest at once, begging her a thousand
pardons, kissing her hands, apologising, furious with Émilie and ashamed
of himself? It was already five o’clock in the morning. But Émilie was
recalled not the less (Megæra, poor Graffigny named her now). Voltaire
argued long with her, in English, to bring her to reason, and was so far
successful that the next day she coldly apologised to her guest. She was
too much in the wrong to forgive easily or thoroughly. As for Voltaire,
_he_ asked pardon again and again with tears in his eyes. He could not
do too much to make up for his suspicions and mistake. Émilie was
diabolically cold and haughty. The unfortunate visitor was “in hell,”
she said. But she had no money and nowhere to go to. There were silent
uncomfortable suppers. Voltaire’s “pathetic” excuses and nervous anxiety
for her comfort and well-being, when he came to see her in her rooms,
did not make her position much easier.
After waiting three weeks Madame de Graffigny obtained confirmation of
her story from Desmarets and Panpan.
Émilie at last relented so far as to give her guest the very doubtful
pleasure of driving her out in that _calèche_ of hers, and talking to
her more freely and amicably. But though such wounds as Madame de
Graffigny had received may heal, the scars remain for ever.
On January 12, 1739, the mathematical Maupertuis, Madame du Châtelet’s
tutor, came to stay a few days. The unlucky Graffigny suffered a good
deal from her eyes about this time, and stayed much in her room.
Voltaire himself was in wretched health; so there was no play-acting.
Madame de Champbonin left for Paris on a mission of whose nature the
Graffigny was ignorant. On January 18th the Marquis du Châtelet went to
Seineville bearing with him many letters and messages for dear Panpan.
Early in the next month, Desmarets, the lover of Madame de Graffigny,
came to stay and Cirey roused itself to another burst of gaiety. It
acted “Zaire” and “The Prodigal Son” and a play called “The Spirit of
Contradiction.” One rehearsal lasted till three o’clock in the morning.
Once the party spent the whole day in Émilie’s room where she was “in
bed without being ill.” The next, she was singing to the clavecin,
accompanying herself. Another, she sang through a whole opera after
supper. She and Desmarets went out riding. In one twenty-four hours the
company had rehearsed and played thirty-three acts of tragedies, operas,
and comedies. Desmarets read Panpan’s letters to the Graffigny while she
was at her toilette, as she had no time herself. Desmarets was
“transported, intoxicated”--enjoying himself immensely.
His mistress may be presumed to have been more unhappy than ever, since
the first thing he had done on his arrival at Cirey was to tell her he
no longer felt for her the feelings of a lover. He went away.
About the middle of February, 1739, Madame de Graffigny herself left
Cirey, having been there less than three months--not six, as the
title-page of her book declares. For the rest of her life Voltaire was
one of the most staunch and generous friends she had in the world.
Nothing in Madame de Graffigny’s “Vie Privée de Voltaire et de Madame du
Châtelet” is so interesting as the light she throws on their
relationship to each other. The golden chains had begun to eat into the
flesh. Voltaire and Madame du Châtelet, like lesser persons, had to pay
the inexorable penalty of a breach of moral law. “Wrong
committed--suffering insured.” Their punishment was the severest of
all--it came, not from outward circumstances, but from themselves. The
very relationship which had been a sin and a delight, was now at once
sin and torment. The gods are just.
The visitor was not long in discovering clouds in the blue heavens of
Voltaire’s “Cirey-en-félicité.” There was the “eternal cackle” of
Émilie’s tongue, and her sublime indifference to trifles like the hours
of meals. Did not she love power too? Not only to have power but,
womanlike, to show she had it. One day her lover’s coat does not please
her. He shall change it! He agrees--for peace, one may suppose, since
the coat is good enough and he does not wish to catch cold by putting on
another--and his valet is sent for; but cannot be found. Let the matter
rest! Not Madame. She persists. They quarrel with a great deal of
vivacity, in English. They always quarrel in English. Voltaire goes out
of the room in a rage, and sends word to say he has the colic. They are
very like two children. Presently they are reconciled--also in English
and tenderly. “Mais elle lui rend la vie un peu dure.”
Another time the quarrel is about a glass of Rhine wine. Rhine wine
disagrees with this imprudent Voltaire! The imprudent Voltaire, is, not
to put too fine a point upon it, very much out of temper with Émilie’s
interference in the matter. And it takes the united and warmest
persuasions of Breteuil and Graffigny to make him read “Jeanne” after
supper as he has promised.
At one of the readings of “Mérope,” Madame du Châtelet, with her
abominably clever tongue, turns it into ridicule and laughs at it. She
knows her vain and sensitive Voltaire’s tender places, it seems, and for
the life of her cannot help putting her finger on them just to see if he
will wince. He always winces. He will not speak all supper time. After
supper it is the nymph’s turn to be cross, and Voltaire shows the
visitors his globes while she sits sulking in a chair, pretending to be
asleep.
What an old, old story it is! What a weary, dull, aggravating old story!
and what a happy world it might be still if all the miseries men
carefully manufacture for themselves were taken out of it!
Yet another day, and there is a very bitter quarrel about some verses.
Émilie says she has written them. Voltaire does not believe it. They
both lose their tempers, and it is even said Voltaire takes a knife from
the table and threatens her with it, crying, “Do not look at me with
your squinting, haggard eyes!” Perhaps the story is exaggerated. It is
to be hoped so. Madame de Graffigny speaks too of Voltaire’s wretched
health; of his system of doctoring and starving himself; of his
disposition at once kind, nervous, and petulant. He told her one day,
she says, that Émilie was a terrible woman who had no “flexibilité dans
le cœur” although that heart was good. The Graffigny adds on her own
account that it was not possible to be more “spied” than Voltaire was,
or to have less liberty. It must indeed be remembered that the Graffigny
was speaking of a woman of whose superior powers she was always jealous,
and whom she had learnt to hate. Émilie had at least one great good
quality: she never abused other women behind their backs.
It has been said that lovers’ quarrels are but the renewal of love.
There was never a falser word. Every quarrel is a blot on a fair page;
forgiveness may erase it, but, at the best, the mark of the erasure is
there for ever and the page wears thin. Perhaps Voltaire and Madame du
Châtelet acted on the dangerous assumption that, since they could be
reconciled to-morrow, it was no matter if they quarrelled to-day. Their
attachment had now lasted not quite five years. It lingered nearly
another ten. Every day Émilie drew the cords by which her lover was
bound to her tighter--and a little tighter still; until that dramatic
moment when she cut them for ever. As for Voltaire, he still warmly
admired her genius; wrote her verses; forgave her temper, and held
himself unalterably hers.
The life at Cirey--already the subject of a burlesque in Paris--was not
what he had dreamed it might be. He was himself hasty, capricious, not
easy to live with. But he was also most generous, most affectionate, and
most forgiving. And faithful to the end.