VOLTAIRE AS DIPLOMATIST AND COURTIER
Voltaire had a little distraction from his disappointment about the
Academy in the April of this 1743 in the marriage of Pauline du
Châtelet, the vivacious little amateur actress of Cirey. Pauline was
fresh from a convent and aged exactly sixteen. The Italian Duc de
Montenero-Caraff, the bridegroom, was distinctly elderly, and, as
sketched in a few lively touches by Voltaire, very unprepossessing. The
Marquise maintained _she_ had not arranged the alliance. But _mariages
de convenance_ were the established custom of the day. Who knows?
Voltaire had been for freedom of choice in the case of niece Denis, it
is certain. Pauline was not his to dispose of. He would appear to have
shrugged his shoulders and given her his blessing. With it, she
disappears out of the history of his life.
In June he had another chagrin. The performance of his play, “The Death
of Cæsar,” already acted in August, 1735, by the pupils of the Harcourt
College, was stopped on the very evening before it was to have been
produced in public. Not many days after, M. de Voltaire left Paris on
his fourth visit to Frederick the Great. Frederick wanted him socially
as the wittiest man in the world, the most daring genius of the age. If
the French Academy would have none of him, the Prussian Court knew
better. Besides--besides--could not this subtle Solomon of the North
rely on himself to find out from his guest something of the temper and
the disposition of France toward Prussia? The guest was not less astute.
The _rôle_ of amateur diplomatist pleased his fancy and his vanity. What
if he had not been successful in it before? A Voltaire could always try
again. He left Paris then in June pretending that his journey was the
outcome of his quarrel with Boyer, but really as the emissary of
Richelieu on a secret mission to Frederick to warn him of the danger of
allowing King George of Hanover and England to help Maria Theresa to her
rights, and meaning to win over the cleverest monarch in Europe to an
alliance with France. It was a beautiful scheme. It had first “come into
the heads” of friend Richelieu and Madame de Châteauroux; then the King
had adopted it, and Amelot, the Minister for Foreign Affairs. It was
ambitious enough to particularly appeal to Voltaire’s audacity. The King
of France was to pay all expenses: which was not unjust. The Bourbons
seldom spent their money so wisely. Madame du Châtelet was the only
person intrusted with the secret of the journey’s real object. She felt
that it was due to herself to have a fit of hysterics since her Voltaire
was leaving her for this Frederick, and she had it. But she kept the
secret. If she was a little proud in her heart of the honour such a
mission implied, yet her grief at the departure of her “ami” was so
unrestrained as to make her and it the laughing-stocks of Paris.
Frederick “is a very dangerous rival for me,” she wrote on June 28,
1743. “If I had been in Voltaire’s place I should not have gone!” “I am
staying here in the hopes of getting ‘Cæsar’ played and so hastening his
return.”
Voltaire set off in very excellent spirits. It would so annoy Boyer to
see his enemy protected by the most powerful monarch in Europe--and by a
monarch who was not at all above making _mots_ on an “anc: de Mirepoix”!
“I had at once the pleasure of revenging myself on the Bishop ... of
taking a very pleasant little trip, and being in the way of rendering
services to the King and the state.” In July he was writing to his
friends, and to Amelot, from “a palace of the King of Prussia at The
Hague”--a little humanly proud of being able to date his letters from
such a place, keen for the fray, sick in body as usual, and vividly
alert in mind.
On August 31st he arrived at Berlin. The first news he had to
communicate to Amelot was the victory of George II. of England at
Dettingen. What honours could be too great for a man who, at such a
juncture, made Prussia the friend of France? Madame du Châtelet, keeping
her counsel at home, must have had high hopes for her Voltaire. And her
Voltaire, at Berlin, cherished them for himself.
To all appearances indeed the visit was but a _fête_, and a gorgeous
_fête_. Berlin was gay with balls, operas, and parties. Sometimes there
were ballets, and nightly almost those royal suppers where, said the
guest, “God was respected, but those who had deceived men in His name
were not spared.” Voltaire had a room adjoining Frederick’s, and the
King came in and out of the visitor’s apartment familiarly. The old
potent charm which these two men had for each other was at work again.
But not the less, through the glamour, the wit, the wine, and the
laughter, each pursued his secret object, adroit, thorough, and
unsleeping.
Voltaire played the _rôle_ of diplomatist as he played all
_rôles_--brilliantly. He was delightfully gay and easy. He seemed so
volatile and so gullible. He threw himself into the pleasures of the
hour with all his French soul. An ulterior motive? The man was _bon
enfant_, _bon conteur_, _bon_ everything. He had come to enjoy himself
and was doing it to the full.
“Through all,” he wrote, “my secret mission went forward.” He despatched
immense diplomatic documents to his country _via_ Madame du Châtelet. He
drew up a famous series of questions, to which friend Frederick was to
append such answers as would bare the secrets of his Prussian soul to
France. The diplomatist had immense conversations with the monarch,
which he reported. Frederick wrote Voltaire a most beautiful open letter
to show in Paris, wherein he complimented France on her Louis XV., and
Louis XV. on his Voltaire. He renewed his pressing invitations to
Voltaire to come and live at Berlin--nay, did more. He worked behind his
back so as to further embroil him with Boyer, and make France too hot to
hold him. “That would be the way to have him in Berlin.”
Frederick was his guest’s friend, and his devoted friend. But he thought
it no breach of friendship to trick him where he could, and kept closed
the book of his intentions and his soul.
The fact was that where Voltaire was but a brilliant amateur, Frederick
was the sound professional; that what this daring Arouet took upon
himself for the nonce, was the business of the King’s life. Voltaire was
not above trickery: but Frederick tricked better. His answers to that
famous series of questions are evasive, or buffoonery. Voltaire counted
that he had not done badly in his mission. But Frederick had done
better.
The visit finished with a fortnight at Bayreuth in September, 1743,
where Voltaire and the King were the guests of the King’s sisters, where
were gaiety, laughter, and wit--“all the pleasures of a court without
its formality.” Voltaire distinguished himself by writing three charming
madrigals to the three royal ladies. They do not admit of translation.
It is only in their original tongue that their grace, ease, and delicacy
can be appreciated. But for that kind of versifying they are the model
for all time. If Voltaire had not far more splendid titles to fame, he
would have gone down the ages as the daintiest and wittiest writer who
ever made sonnets on his mistress’s eyebrow, trifled with graceful
jests, and flattered with daintiest comparisons.
In the early days of October he was back in Berlin for a few days _en
passant_. On October 12th he and his King parted there, not without much
show of sorrow, and some of the reality of it.
Voltaire had found out “that little treason” whose aim was to keep him
in Prussia; but at these parting moments “the King excused himself and
told me he would do what I liked to make reparation.” As for Frederick,
he, in Voltaire’s own words, had “scented the spy.” They could no longer
trust each other. To the misfortune of both, they loved each other
still.
On October 12th, then, Voltaire left for Brussels. On the 14th his
travelling carriage was upset and he was robbed by the people who came
to his assistance. The wretched village in which he hoped for shelter
that evening, he found in the process
[Illustration: MADAME DE POMPADOUR
_From the Painting by François Boucher in the Possession of Baron
Nathaniel de Rothschild_]
of a conflagration. At last he reached Brunswick, where for a few days
he was royally entertained by the Duke. Finally, he returned to
Brussels.
It is not to be supposed that the divine Émilie had been sitting
contented and smiling in Paris while her lover was addressing tender
rhymes to princesses in Bayreuth. Voltaire had been away four
months--four heart-burning, chafing, angry months. What unsatisfying
food for the heart were diplomatic despatches after all! Voltaire was
one whole fortnight without writing a single letter to his mistress. She
had to learn his movements “from ambassadors and gazettes.” “Such
conduct would alienate anyone but me,” she wrote to d’Argental, always
her confidant. Then, to add insult to injury, was that delay at the
court of the Duke of Brunswick. Courts and kings! Madame du Châtelet was
weary of them. She started up in a passion and left Paris: was ill with
a nervous fever at Lille, and feverishly reproachful still when she met
her Voltaire at last. That inevitable storm blew over as it had blown
over before. The sun came out again, though it was a sun in a clouded
sky. The pair went to Paris together about the middle of November, 1743:
Voltaire to report on his mission and to be, he hoped, substantially
rewarded.
But the ill-fortune which always dogged him beset him now. Amelot, the
Foreign Minister, fell out of favour, and with him his _protégé_,
Voltaire.
No two people in the world were so used to chagrins and disappointments
as the two who returned to Brussels in February, 1744, and in the spring
to Cirey, and applied their old panacea for every evil in life--work. It
succeeded. It was generally successful. Very few letters belong to the
early months of this year. There was not time even for letter-writing.
Monsieur Denis died in April, leaving behind him a bouncing widow of
seven-and-thirty.
It was in April too that Voltaire received a very satisfactory little
courtly consolation, to compensate him for many rebuffs. Richelieu
engaged him to write a play for the wedding festivities of the Dauphin
and the Infanta of Spain, which were to take place in the autumn, and
which would presently demand the presence of M. de Voltaire at
Versailles.
It is not necessary to say that Voltaire took immense trouble over this
_bagatelle_, because he always took immense trouble over everything. All
his works are as good as he could make them. He called his play “The
Princess of Navarre.” He laid the scene there in delicate compliment to
the Infanta--and for the practical reason that he could introduce into
it both French and Spaniards, with their gorgeous medley of costume.
Rameau was to write the music. There were to be the loveliest ballets,
processions, and songs. The scenery was to be unique in splendour. “The
Princess of Navarre” is what would now be called a comic opera, and as
such was certainly unworthy of the genius of Voltaire. But it was not
unworthy of his shrewdness. If it would but gain him some trifling post
at Court, the favour instead of the fear of the King, why, then it would
give him, too, the right to live where he liked in peace, would cripple
the power of Boyer, of censors, of Desfontaines, might open to him the
doors of the Academy and gain him liberty to think--aloud. It _was_
worth while after all. He worked at it night and day. He wrote immense
letters about it to Richelieu and to d’Argenson. Cirey was delightful,
priceless--“Cirey-en-félicité” once more. “To be free and loved ... is
what the kings of the earth are not.” Nevertheless, to be free and loved
in Cirey alone was not enough. “I am engaged in writing a
_divertissement_ for a Dauphin and Dauphiness whom I shall not divert,”
said he, and again to Cideville: “Me! writing for the Court! I am afraid
I shall only write foolery. One only writes well what one writes from
choice.”
But he wrote, rewrote, altered, improved, not the less. On July 7th,
President Hénault, the friend of Voltaire’s friend Madame du Deffand,
came to spend the day at Cirey. He found it “a delightful retreat, a
refuge of peace, harmony, calm, and of mutual esteem, philosophy, and
poetry.” Voltaire was in bed when the guest arrived: working hard there,
as usual. Summer was on the land. The house was a marvel. Madame,
recalled from her exact sciences, was a charming hostess. If Voltaire
was fifty years old and ailing, if he had to look back on many honours
missed and favours given to meaner men, his “Princess of Navarre” was
but the more delightful a compliment for being paid so late and so
unexpectedly. He read it to the President, who wept (though the
“Princess” is not at all pathetic), and was very nearly as interested in
it, and as pleased with it, as the eager author himself.
In September, Voltaire and Madame came up from Cirey to
Champs-sur-Marne, a village only five leagues from Paris, to take part
in the rejoicings which celebrated Louis XV.’s recovery from an illness
and return from a campaign, and to arrange about the production of the
“Princess.”
One night Madame insists on her Voltaire driving up with her those five
leagues to Paris, to witness the fireworks and festivities. Madame has
her own carriage and her country coachman, unused to the city. She is in
_grande tenue_ and diamonds. The carriage gets into a crowd--that
light-hearted, light-headed mob of Paris--and cannot move an inch until
three o’clock in the morning. Out gets Madame followed by her lean
Voltaire (not a little disgusted and amused and having the very greatest
admiration for this extraordinary woman’s pluck and spirit), pushes her
way through the crowd, marches straight into President Renault’s house
in the Rue Saint-Honoré and takes possession of it. The President is
away from home. Madame sends for a chicken from the restaurant, and she
and her Voltaire sit down to supper with perfect philosophy and
enjoyment, and drink to the President’s very good health.
Voltaire recounted the story to Hénault a few days afterwards. The man
who had undertaken to write a court _divertissement_ had laid himself
open to all kinds of social adventures, amusements, boredoms. In the
beginning of the January of 1745 he took up his abode at Versailles to
superintend rehearsals, arrange scenery, and accommodate his verses to
Rameau’s music.
It was twenty years since Voltaire had stayed at the French Court. Did
he remember how it had wearied and sickened him? He forgot nothing. The
Court was but a means to an end then, and was but a means to an end now.
He wrote to Theriot that he felt there like an atheist in a church.
“Don’t you pity a poor devil who is a king’s fool at fifty?” he asked
Cideville; “...worried to death with musicians and scene-painters,
actors and actresses, singers and dancers.” He complained how he had to
rush from Paris to Versailles, and write verses in the post-chaise; how
he must take care to praise the King loudly, the Dauphine delicately,
the royal family softly, and to conciliate the Court without displeasing
the town. Since it must be done, Voltaire was the man to do it as it had
never been done before.
On February 18, 1745, died Armand Arouet, aged nearly sixty. Voltaire
received the news only seven days before the _fête_ was to take place,
and hastened from the Court to the funeral of his “Jansenist of a
brother.” The two had met little of late. But they had always been
separated by a gulf wider than that of any physical distance--a
diversity of character and ideas. Voltaire could no more understand an
Armand than an Armand a Voltaire. Long after, at Ferney, Voltaire told
Madame Suard how his brother had had so great a zeal for martyrdom that
he had once said to a friend, who did not seem to care about it, “Well,
if _you_ do not want to be hanged, at least do not put off other
people!”
The fanatic left the sceptic as little of his fortune as he dared,
having due regard to public opinion. Voltaire was enriched by his
brother’s death only by six thousand francs per annum. He feigned no
overwhelming sorrow at his loss. He was back at Versailles before the
contents of the will were known to him, putting the last touches to his
“Princess.”
The _fêtes_ began on February 23d. They were as gorgeous as that old
_régime_ knew how to make them--with a prodigal gorgeousness which
perished with that _régime_ itself and will be no more for ever.
A special theatre had been built in the horse-training ground near the
palace. Time, labour, money--the lavish expenditure of each was
incalculable. At six o’clock on the evening of February 25th there
assembled one of the most brilliant and splendid audiences that ever
gratified the heart of a playwright. The King, who was certainly nothing
in the world if he was not an imposingly decked figurehead, was there
with his royal family. The great ladies glittered in diamonds. The
nobles were in the splendid robes of their order. It was a night to
remember.
“The Princess of Navarre” was acted to an audience who talked gaily all
through it and went into raptures of delight and applause when it was
finished. M. de Voltaire compared the chatter to the hum of
bees round their queen. But the King--that dullest of all gross
mortals--condescended to express himself amused. He commanded a second
performance. If that fashionable audience _did_ make more noise than the
_parterre_ of the Comédie, Voltaire could afford to shrug his shoulders.
“The King is grateful. The Mirepoix cannot harm me. What more do I
want?” he wrote to d’Argental. His Majesty told Marshal Saxe that that
“Princess” was above criticism, and Voltaire thereupon told Madame du
Châtelet that he looked on Louis XV. as the very best critic in the
kingdom. The moment was one of laughter and triumph. To be sure, it had
not been gained without hard work. In addition to the “Princess,”
Voltaire had written a poem on the “Events of the Year” (1744) in which
he may be said to have fooled Louis to the top of his bent, and paid
that monarch the most outrageous compliments upon his personal courage
and his popularity.
But it was the means to an end--an end which, to Voltaire, justified any
means. This brilliant M. de Voltaire was so very entertaining and
fair-spoken that he must on the spot be made Historiographer of France
at an annual income of two thousand francs, and on the very next vacancy
Gentleman-in-Ordinary to Ourself! What nobler reward could wit and merit
hope for? On April 1, 1745, the brevet of Historiographer was signed by
Louis XV. On April 16th Voltaire and Madame du Châtelet hastened to the
bedside of her son, sick of the smallpox at Châlons, to save him, if
that might be, from the “ignorant tyranny of the physicians.” Voltaire,
as has been said, did so save him, with much lemonade and a little
common-sense. He became ambassador in England under the Ministry of
Choiseul; and, at last, victim of the Revolution.
After forty days of quarantine the Historiographer of France rejoined
the Court.