THE POPE, THE POMPADOUR, AND “THE TEMPLE OF GLORY”
The new favour Voltaire had obtained had to be paid for like any other
advantage of fortune. Then, as now, the finer the post, the more ennui
and exaction in filling it. The nearer he climbs to the sun, the more
scorched and weary the climber. Voltaire found out that simple fact of
nature very soon.
The truth is he was a great deal too clever to be wasted. Was it a
diplomatic letter that was required? The Historiographer had had
practice in such things, and would naturally do them better than anyone
else. A poem? He was a poet. An epigram? Once upon a time his epigrams
had been so dangerously clever that he had positively been bastilled for
them. Four days after the _fête_ the newly made courtier had written to
Theriot that he was so utterly weary he had neither hands, feet, nor
head. He spent the whole day hunting up anecdotes and the whole night
making rhymes. He had the reputation of a wit, and the Court felt
defrauded if he did not make a _bon mot_ every time he opened his lips.
Then came the French victory of Fontenoy over the English--and of course
the Historiographer must celebrate that historical event in an ode. It
is but just to Voltaire to say that if he was in some sort belying his
principles by being at Court at all, when there, he did, in so far as
might be, live up to them. He had pleaded for peace pretty openly in
those official documents, and pointed out better ways to glory than the
way of battle.
But, after all, though war is deplorable, if war there must be, let _Us_
win by all means if we can. Even a peace advocate might feel some such
sentiment. One peace advocate, with his facts drawn direct from a
letter of d’Argenson’s, written from the scene of action itself about
May 16, 1745, sat down in a fine glow of enthusiasm and produced his
heroic poem, of three hundred lines and entitled “Fontenoy,” on the
spot. Paris was delighted. The King was content. Five editions were sold
in ten days. The Historiographer, of course, corrected, embellished,
altered, indefatigably. “This battle has given me a great deal more
trouble to celebrate than it gave the King to win it,” he observed, very
truly. He was plagued out of his life by the Court ladies who really
_must_ insist on the poet flattering in his poem all their cousins and
lovers who had taken even the smallest part in the fight. “My head
swims,” he wrote. He grumbled. But he was not ill content. Presently,
“Fontenoy” received the compliment of being clumsily burlesqued, and a
gay Voltaire answered the burlesques in a “Critical Letter from a Fine
Lady to a Fine Gentleman of Paris”--dainty, light, rallying,
graceful--and as good-humoured as witty. If his “Princess” had won him
favour, “Fontenoy” had sealed it. He had gained the King. To keep him
there remained but to gain also the woman and the priest who ruled him.
Looking back long after on this period of his life--“It was not the time
of my glory if I ever had any,” said Voltaire. It was not. To fawn on
that sensual stupidity the King, to cajole the Pope, to flatter the
mistress--they were not occupations that commended themselves to a man
with such a passion for work and such a supreme consciousness of a
mission in life crying aloud to be fulfilled, as Voltaire. But the
end--the end was everything. How should he speak truth if he were
gagged? What hope of freedom to speak in these times without the royal
indulgence? The means were contemptible enough, be it granted. But they
were the only means. What matter how dirty the road if it led to the
goal? That was Voltaire’s idea--not high-minded, nor quite without
excuse, and perfectly characteristic. He plunged through that Court mire
alert, gay, and vigorous; flattered the women; amused the courtiers; was
eternally witty and gallant; and just sarcastic enough in his wit to
make himself respected.
And then he set to work to gain the Pope. Hardly any other transaction
of his life shows him as matchlessly clever and ingenious as this one.
He _was_ a sceptic--that is, if a sceptic be one who believes in a creed
of his own rather than the creed of other persons. He had the reputation
of an atheist. The Church had banned his books, and discovered some
subtle innuendo against herself in every line he wrote. Worse than all,
the man was a satirist, a jester, a mocker, who viewed the huge
pretensions and the gigantic claims of Rome with a cynic gleam in his
eyes and a laugh on his lips.
He started his bold campaign by reading the whole of the Pope’s works
and complimenting that very good-natured representative of St. Peter,
Benedict XIV., on their ability. Benedict thereupon sent his “dear son”
a couple of beautiful medals with his own portrait engraven thereon as a
return civility. “He looks like a _bon diable_,” wrote the graceless
Voltaire to d’Argenson, “who knows pretty well how much _all that_ is
worth.”
And then on August 17th Voltaire wrote to beg permission to dedicate
that “Mahomet,” which Lord Chesterfield had considered a covert attack
on Christianity, to his Holiness himself. The letter with which he sent
the play is a masterpiece of subtlety. The Voltairian daring and
adroitness, which are without their counterpart in history, succeeded of
course. If one can be at once supremely bold and supremely clever,
success is a foregone conclusion. Voltaire was lucky in his man--and
knew his man to perfection. Benedict XIV. was _bonhomme_ rather than an
ideal pope, and _did_ accept his own infallibility and the astounding
assumptions of his Church, with a great many comprehensive
qualifications.
He was quite wise enough in his generation to perceive that it was
better to have a subtle Voltaire for a friend than an enemy. He
therefore sent him his Apostolic Benediction: and accepted the
dedication of “your admirable tragedy” in a charming letter dated
September 19th. Voltaire, on his part, said he laid a work against the
founder of a false religion at the feet of the chief of the true
religion: “kissed the Pope’s holy feet” and “sacred purple”
indefatigably in every letter he wrote; flattered the cardinals and
went into ecstasies over Benedict’s virtues. The correspondence between
the two was printed as a preface to a new edition of “Mahomet” in French
and Italian; and M. de Voltaire, with his tongue in his cheek and not a
little satisfaction in his soul, is proclaimed before all men the
_protégé_ of Rome!
Long before this desirable consummation, as far back as May 3d of this
1745, he had written with a gay confidence that the devout might now ask
_his_ protection for this world and the next. The subject never ceased
to afford his sense of irony the most delicious amusement. But better
than being amused he was henceforth “covered from his enemies by the
stole of Heaven’s vicegerent.” The Pope, it has been seen, did not
accept the dedication of “Mahomet” until September. Before that Voltaire
was hard at work to win another influence--the influence of Madame
d’Étioles, afterwards the Marquise de Pompadour.
The summer of 1745 was but a dull summer at Court. In May the King
joined his army. What were the courtiers and flatterers to do with no
one to flatter and toady? The firmament was dark without its Sun: and
would have been darker yet but for the steady rising of one brilliant
star. Clever head and cold heart, a cool and persistent ambition, a most
subtle intellect, and a morality which never interfered with an early
and plainly avowed intention to become the King’s mistress--such was the
woman who “with her harlot’s foot on its neck” ruled France for nineteen
years, lost it India and Canada, and spurred it, galloping, to the
Revolution. With every charm, every grace, every accomplishment that can
make a woman irresistible--all carefully learnt for that one noble end,
the King’s subjugation--five-and-twenty years old, the wife of a wealthy
_bourgeois_, M. d’Étioles, living in the country, and having already
begun, and coolly waiting to finish, her conquest of the royal
heart--such was the Pompadour when Voltaire first knew her. In May he
was her correspondent. In June he was her visitor--drinking her tokay,
and paying her the loveliest compliments, and discussing with her
gravely all subjects in heaven and earth, for she had not only natural
cleverness, but a fine cultivation, and, in her heart, said Voltaire,
was always “one of us.” She confided in him her design on--she called it
her passion for--the King.
In July Voltaire was addressing verses to his “dear and true Pompadour”
and saying he might well call her in advance by a name which rhymed with
“amour” and would soon be the loveliest name in France. She was formally
created Marquise and came up to Court. She was the mistress of Louis.
She was the mistress of France. And--she was the friend of Voltaire.
If he had thought it necessary to justify himself for that friendship,
only he did not think it necessary at all, he might have argued, as he
might have argued as to his alliance with the Pope, that it was a pity
kings should be governed by priests and women; but that since they were,
the best and wisest thing to do was to get the influence of the priests
and women on the right side. What might a Pompadour not do? “One of
us”--that meant a philosopher, mentally capable of seeing new points of
view, acquiring new truths, breaking from old superstitions. In the
hollow of her hand she held the happiness or the misery of thousands.
Not only the welfare of a proud kingdom but the well-being of those
silent suffering units who peopled the kingdom, hung, as too often
before, on a shameless woman’s smile or frown. And if she could make or
mar a country and a nation, how much more a Court poet?
Voltaire had begun writing to Rameau’s music an opera called “The Temple
of Glory,” to celebrate Louis XV.’s victories in his campaign. It was
just as well from Madame de Pompadour’s point of view to be on the right
side of such a very poignant wit as M. de Voltaire’s. She _was_ on the
right side of it. With all his usual audacity the poet inserted in his
opera the most unmistakable and complimentary allusions to her and her
King and to the relations between them. He was busy with other work too.
Only one disease--it was an internal complaint this time--and an opera
on hand at once would have been idleness indeed. All through the autumn
of this 1745 he was writing the authorised historical account of the
King’s campaigns, an honour which d’Argenson had procured for him, and
which afterwards swelled into his “History of Louis XV.” Now, it was
known as the “Campaigns of the King.” With a very rare love of justice,
at a time when national feeling ran high, he wrote to Sir Everard
Falkener, now secretary to the Duke of Cumberland, to ask him for
first-hand facts regarding the war so that the historian might do
justice to the “many great actions done by your nation”--our enemies,
the English. He had time to read the back numbers of three past years of
the “London Magazine” in English. Madame du Châtelet was always with
him. In June they had been at Châlons for a fortnight with Madame du
Deffand. In October they went to Fontainebleau--Madame creating not a
little talk and scandal by insisting, on the way there, on a right, or a
supposed right, of her family to ride in the best place in the first
coach after the Queen’s--to the exclusion of other noble and indignant
ladies, who had, or thought they had, similar rights.
In the comparative quiet of Fontainebleau Voltaire worked at his
“Campaigns”--“as I always work--with passion.”
He and Madame returned to Versailles in November in time to welcome the
King. On the 26th of that month the Sun was beaming graciously in his
firmament again--after a campaign in which he had done nothing but look
on from a very cautious distance. And on November 27, 1745, appeared
“The Temple of Glory.”
The two principal characters in it are Trajan, great in war but the
friend of peace, emperor, Roman--and lover; and Plotine, the beloved.
The dullest among the audience must have seen whom these characters
represented.
Ta plus belle gloire
Vient du tendre amour,
sang the chorus to Trajan. And did not _amour_ rhyme with Pompadour for
ever and ever? Among the spectators were the injured Queen, who had no
reason now to love this M. de Voltaire; and Madame du Châtelet, taking
advantage of another hereditary right and sitting in her royal
mistress’s presence. Rameau’s music was delightful and the dancing
perfection. Richelieu had superintended the _mise-en-scène_. The curtain
went down on a tumult of applause. And Voltaire, with that boyish French
capacity of his for being intoxicated by the very thin wine of a social
success, strolled up to the royal box and said to Richelieu, to be
overheard of the King, “Trajan est-il content?”
There are a dozen versions of the story. There are several vehement
denials that any such incident took place. But there is no smoke without
fire, and the episode is characteristic enough of a pleased and
audacious Voltaire. He does not ever allude to it himself: but that may
be accounted for by the fact that Trajan was _not_ very content with the
too daring question. He had reason to be a little sulky at his royal
name being so openly coupled--with Plotine’s. One authority has it that
he turned his back on Voltaire and addressed compliments to Rameau.
But “The Temple of Glory” was repeated; and the Sun came out from behind
the little cloud as bright as ever.
The next court _divertissement_, performed on December 22d, was not
indeed written by Voltaire, but by Jean Jacques Rousseau, citizen of
Geneva, with whom Voltaire was now brought into a polite correspondence,
and with whom he was hereafter to fight as he had never fought even with
Rousseau’s old exiled namesake at The Hague.
On January 16th of the new year, 1746, Longchamp entered as a kind of
confidential valet into the service of Madame du Châtelet, and from her
service was shortly drafted into that of M. de Voltaire. Half secretary,
half servant, and all observer, Longchamp lived to write memoirs of
unusual interest and fidelity, and to make Voltaire a proof of the
fallacy of the saying that no man is a hero to his valet. Longchamp,
Collini, Wagnière, who were in turns the servant-secretaries of
Voltaire, have all painted his picture as most generous, hasty, and
kind, with the sensitive temper of genius and the forethought and
consideration for others, even for dependents, which genius too often
lacks. To Voltaire’s generation the _canaille_ were as dirt beneath the
feet; but not to Voltaire. Irritable and impulsive in speech, he had at
times to his servants the manners of the old _régime_; but he had ever
the heart of a better age.
Abundantly generous--“a miser of nothing, but his time”--one servant
speaks in warm terms of his “solid and durable indulgence and goodness,”
and another of his kindness, sympathy, and forgiveness. The character
that masters give their servants is often unreliable through ignorance
or weak indulgence; but the character that servants give their masters
rarely falls into either of these errors.
From that fiery inquisition, the inquisition of the domestic eye,
Voltaire is one of the few great men in history whose character comes
out better than it went in.
All the early months of 1746 were taken up in keeping the vantage ground
he had gained and in gaining more. He wrote letters to Italian cardinals
in Italian. He reminded the Pope of the dutiful existence of his dutiful
son. He pleased Madame de Pompadour. He amused sulky Trajan. He began a
regular Voltairian battle against Charles Roy, an old scurrilous minor
poet, who stood not ill at Court, himself hoped for a chair in the
Academy, and had written an unsuccessful rival piece to Voltaire’s
“Princess.” These occupations were very fatiguing. But they were
essential. On March 17th a fresh vacancy fell in at the French Academy,
and who should have it if not Voltaire? The gods were more favourable
now. The candidate canvassed for himself feverishly. He wrote an artful
letter to the Lieutenant of Police and a beautiful one to Father La
Tour, one of his old schoolmasters, expressing a warm affection for
religion and the Jesuits. If the thing was to be done at all it must be
done thoroughly.
On April 25, 1746, the greatest literary man of the age, who was
fifty-two years old and a member of almost every other Academy in
Europe, was at last formally elected to the Literary Society of his own
country. On May 9th he read before it his preliminary discourse,
Voltairian in every line.