VOLTAIRE

1694-1778.

It is impossible to commence the biography of this extraordinary man

without feelings of apprehension as to our power of well executing the

task. To write the life of Voltaire in a full and satisfactory manner,

is to write not only the biography of an individual author, and the

history of French literature during the course of nearly a century, but

also of a revolution in the minds of men, in their opinions and rules of

action, which, if not brought about entirely by him, was fostered and

supported by his influence, in a manner the most singular and powerful.

We are apt, as we read his letters, to laugh at the petulance which he

evinced when attacked, and to reprove the vehemence with which he

attacked others in return. But when we consider that an absolute monarch

and a powerful hierarchy supported opinions which he and his friends

struggled to subvert, we feel that it required all his dogmatic spirit,

all his bitterness of sarcasm and vehemence of temper, to combat

opposition, and to support both his own courage and that of his

followers, in his attempt.

Voltaire has been called the Apostle of Infidelity. He denied the truths

of revealed religion--he desired to subvert Christianity. He disbelieved

its divine origin; he was blind to the excellence of its

morality--insensible to its sublime tenets. It is easy to make his life

one diatribe against the wickedness and folly of such principles and

intentions--to intersperse the pages that compose his history with

various epithets of condemnation of a man so lost to the knowledge of

truth. But we do not intend to do this. We consider that Voltaire had

many excuses, and he had also his uses. We do not mean, on the other

hand, to write an elaborate defence of a system that cannot be defended;

but we will mention the heads of those topics which we consider

available for his justification to a certain limited extent.

In the first place, Catholicism is not Christianity. Voltaire's great

war was against the church of Rome, and more particularly against the

Gallican church, which was one of great persecution, bigotry, and

misused power. We turn to the pages that record the history of his

country, during the years that immediately preceded him, and of his own

age, and we find them stained with brawls and cruelties, excited and

exercised by the priesthood. The quarrels of the violinists, the

Jansenists, the Quietists, and the disgraceful exhibitions of the

convulsionaries, absorbed so much of the talent, and perverted so much

the uprightness and charity, of men of first-rate genius, that we turn

with pity and loathing from the history of the misuse of one of the best

gifts of God. Voltaire had it deeply at heart to put an end to these

discussions--to prevent such men as Bossuet and Fénélon from expending

their vast talents on unworthy squabbles, and to prevent such men as

Pascal and Racine from sacrificing their talents at the altars of

superstition. He wished to redeem such of his countrymen as were slaves

to the priests, from the miseries of bigotry and ignorance; and he most

ardently desired to liberate those, whose piety was enlightened, from

persecution at the hands of bigots. The cruelties exercised on the

Huguenots raised a tumult of generous indignation in his benevolent

heart; the insolence and barbarity with which the French priesthood

endeavoured to quell all rebellion to their authority roused his anger

and pointed his sarcasms. Liberty for the soul was the aim of his

endeavours. It was a noble and a useful one.

He went too far. There are two classes of minds among men of education.

Those who live for the affections--for the elegances of literature--for

moral and intellectual purposes; who are virtuous and enlightened, but

devoid of enthusiasm for truth or the dissemination of opinion. There is

another class, to whom what they consider truth is the great all in all.

It is vain to talk to them of a falsehood or mistake that has its good

uses; they consider truth, that most glorious attribute of God, as the

best of all things--the reformer of abuses--the sustainer of the

unfortunate--the advancer of human excellence--the rock in which we

ought to put our trust. To them, truth, or what they consider truth, is

light; falsehood, darkness. Such a mind was Voltaire. He did not

distinguish the truths of the Gospel from the multifarious, sometimes

ridiculous, but always pernicious, impostures of papacy. He read of, and

his heart revolted from, the series of intolerable evils brought upon

the world by the Roman Catholic religion; he forgot the civilisation

produced by the Gospel, and even the uses of the system of the church of

Rome during days of feudal barbarism: he saw only the evil, and visited

the whole with his reprobation, his ridicule, his unflinching and

unwearied opposition. He fell into great and mischievous mistakes. As is

often the case, he destroyed, but he could not construct. France owed to

his mighty labours and powerful influence a great and swift advance in

civilisation, and enfranchisement from political and priestly thraldom.

But he went beyond the useful and right in his struggle; and, not

contented with warring against superstition, made inroads into the

blessed fields of rational piety. This must be admitted and censured.

Let some among us rise to drive him back and barricade him from his

invasion on revealed religion; but let us do this without, rancour or

scurrility, feeling grateful at the same time for the good he did

achieve, and acknowledging our esteem for his motives and abilities. Let

us, above all, in writing his life, show ourselves just and impartial.

From the limited nature of this work, we can only present the reader

with a sketch of his labours and their effects; it is our earnest desire

that this sketch should be one drawn from undoubted sources, and prove

itself to the minds of all, a fair, exact, and impartial account of so

great a man.

François-Marie Arouet was born at Chatenay, 20th of February, 1694. His

enemies, in after life, displayed their spite by promulgating that his

father was a peasant--an assertion without foundation. His father was a

notary by profession, and filled the situation of treasurer of the

chamber of accounts; a lucrative place, which he occupied with such

integrity as to save but a small fortune, where others amassed great

riches. His mother was named Marguerite d'Aumont, of a noble family of

Poitou. The child was so feeble at the time of his birth that he was not

expected to survive; he was hastily baptized in the house, nor

considered sufficiently strong to be carried to church until he was nine

months old, when he was baptized over again by the parish curate, from

whom his age was concealed. Condorcet, in his life, remarks the

singularity that two illustrious men of letters of that day, Voltaire

and Fontenelle, were both born so feeble as not to be expected to

survive, and yet lived to extreme age. He might have added the more

curious instance of their contemporary, the marshal de Richelieu, a six

months' child, fostered in cotton and reared artificially, who enjoyed

strong and robust health, and lived till a still more advanced age.

The child was quick and sprightly; he had an elder brother, who was dull

and sombre. The elder, in progress of time, became a Jansenist, a

convulsionary, and a bigot; the germ of his tendency to superstition

existed even in childhood; and the brothers disputed, in prose and

verse, to the amusement of the family. The abbé de Chateauneuf,

godfather to François-Marie, took pleasure in educating him, and taught

him some of La Fontaine's fables. The boy got hold also of a deistical

ode, attributed to J. B. Rousseau, called the "Mosaide," a poem, which

said--

"Les hommes vains et fanatiques

Reçoivent, sans difficulté,

Les fables les plus chimériques;

Un petit mot d'éternité

Les rend bénins et pacifiques;

Et l'on réduit ainsi le peuple hébété

A baiser les liens dont il est garrotté."

This was a singular production to put into a child's hand: it was more

singular that a child should enter into its meaning. François-Marie

quoted it against his brother in argument, and his father, frightened at

the premature wit and freedom of speech his son betrayed, hastened to

send him to school.

[Sidenote: 1704.

Ætat.

10.]

He entered the college of Louis-le-Grand, of which the Jesuits were the

preceptors. Here the boy learned, not to take part with the Jesuits, but

to despise the Jansenists, against whom, as an author, he showed himself

hostile. The talents of the child rendered him a favourite with the

greater number of his masters; father Porée, professor of rhetoric, saw

the germ of remarkable talents, which he took great pleasure in

developing; and, in after life, Voltaire always expressed gratitude for

his master's encouragement and kindness. Encouragement of a far

different and of a pernicious sort he received from another professor,

father le Jay, who entered into arguments with his pupil; was irritated

by his wit and sophistry; and on one occasion, angrily exclaimed that he

would become the "Choryphæus of Deism,"--a prophecy which this very

denunciation helped probably to fulfil. On all sides, the boy found

admiration for his premature genius. His godfather introduced him to

Ninon de L'Enclos, then advanced in years, but still full of that warmth

of intellect and feeling that distinguished her whole career. She

perceived and appreciated the child's genius, and no doubt her kindness

and conversation tended to open his mind and refine his wit at a very

early age. When she died, Ninon left him a legacy to buy books.

On leaving college the abbé de Chateauneuf introduced his godson into

Parisian society. There had been a time when Louis XIV. assembled the

most distinguished men of the kingdom at his court, and wit and

refinement were almost confined to the circles of Versailles. In his old

age, under the tutelage of madame de Maintenon and his confessors, Louis

disregarded every merit but that of piety which bore the Molinist stamp.

Catinat was disgraced, notwithstanding his virtues and military talents,

because he was suspected of freethinking; the duke de Vendôme was

reproached bitterly for not going daily to mass: bigotry, hypocrisy, and

dulness reigned at Versailles. But the king was old, and could no longer

make his will the fashion of the day. Unfortunately, bigotry and

hypocrisy are apt to beget their opposites. The society of Paris,

throwing off the yoke of royal intolerance, gave itself up to pleasure

and licence. The young Arouet was introduced to the circles whose

members enjoyed pre-eminence for birth and talent; he became a

favourite; he wrote verses; he meditated a tragedy: his whole heart was

devoted to becoming a poet and man of letters. When, on occasion of the

dispute between Jean Baptiste Rousseau and Saurin, the former was

banished, the young Arouet took the part of the victim, and exerted

himself to make a subscription in his favour. He was now known and

admired by all the first people of Paris, though he failed when he

wished to bring out a tragedy on the stage, and to be crowned by the

academy. The actors rejected his play; the academicians preferred

another poet. The disappointed youth revenged himself by writing a

satire against his rival.

M. Arouet was deeply pained by the course his son was taking; he

considered the career of a literary man that of disgrace and ruin. He

proposed to him to accept the office of counsellor to parliament; his

son replied, that he would not buy, but earn, distinction. His attempt

with the academy, and the literary quarrels that ensued, raised his

father's inquietudes to the greatest height; he threatened his son with

various marks of his severity, and the quarrel was becoming critical,

when the marquis de Chateauneuf, ambassador to Holland, offered to take

him with him to that country in the quality of page. His father readily

consented to a plan which removed him from a scene where his literary

ambition was excited by rivalship, and fostered by admiration.

[Sidenote: 1714.

Ætat.

20.]

It is, as it appears to us, a most interesting task to inquire into the

early days of such a man as Voltaire; to find the exterior circumstances

that influenced his mind, and the passions that were excited in his

unformed character. The atmosphere of wit and gaiety which Voltaire

carried with him wherever he went made him a favourite; and this favour

again imparted zest to his desire for literary advancement. His father's

opposition produced a thousand struggles in his mind, that tended, in

the end, to give force to his inclinations: he became eager to exonerate

himself, and to elevate the profession which he wished to adopt; and

this gave dignity to his endeavours. Now, torn from his partial friends,

and thrown on a new scene, his mind was yet further excited to gain

strength. His curiosity, as to the manners and peculiarities of a

strange country, was insatiable: he carried everywhere his keen

observing spirit; and his early travels out of France tended to enlarge

his understanding, and shake his prejudices.

Youthful passion intruded to disturb his residence in Holland. Madame du

Noyer was born a Protestant; she abjured her religion when she married;

and then, desirous of separating from her husband, she made religion the

pretext, and fled to Holland with her two daughters. She resided at the

Hague, where she subsisted on a sort of traffic of libels. Fear of the

Bastille, and the laws against the freedom of the press, restrained the

busy Parisians from publishing the vast quantity of libels, epigrams,

and satires, which were continually being manufactured in that

metropolis: these made their way to Holland; and the collecting of such,

and publishing them, became a sort of trade,--infamous indeed, but

lucrative. Madame du Noyer was at once notorious and enriched, by being

pre-eminent in the traffic. One of her daughters was married; with the

other--a gentle, amiable girl--Voltaire fell in love. He wished to save

her out of the hands of such a mother. Madame du Noyer discovered the

intercourse, and complained to the ambassador, who put his page under

arrest, and sent an account of his son's attachment to the father. Young

Arouet meanwhile carried on his intercourse with the young lady by

stealth, and was again denounced to the marquis by madame du Noyer; he,

seeing himself in danger of being compromised by the malice of a woman

whose great desire was to create scandal, and by the perseverance of his

page, sent him back to Paris. His father, knowing the vehement and

resolute disposition of his son, was prepared to prevent the continuance

of his love affair by the severest measures: he obtained an order that

permitted him either to imprison or to transport him to the isles. The

poor lawyer, whose career had been one of routine and respectability,

was rendered equally miserable by both his sons; the elder having

immersed himself in the Jansenist quarrels: and the old man declared

that he had two fools for children, one in prose, and the other in

verse.

On his return to Paris the young Arouet had two objects chiefly at his

heart;--to take his mistress out of the hands of her infamous mother,

and to reconcile himself to his father. For the sake of the first, he

did not scruple to apply to the Jesuits, and to employ religion as the

pretext. He applied also to M. du Noyer: he interested the court in the

conversion. It was agreed that mademoiselle du Noyer should be carried

off, and brought to the convent of New Converts in Paris; but the

marquis de Chateauneuf opposed himself to so violent a proceeding, and

the plan fell to the ground. In the sequel, the young lady married the

baron de Winterfeld, and always preserved a great esteem and friendship

for her early friend.

The young man was not less earnest to be reconciled to his father. He

was carried away by innate genius to cultivate literature; but his heart

was good, and he revolted from the idea of living at variance with his

parent. He wrote a pathetic letter to him, declaring that he was ready

to emigrate to America, and to live on bread and water, if only, before

he went, he were forgiven. M. Arouet was touched by this mark of

submission; and, on receiving the further one of his son's consent to

attend the office of a procureur, or attorney, he was reconciled to him.

The young poet became the pupil of M. Alain, an attorney, residing in a

dark, obscure quarter of Paris. Disagreeable as this change was, it had

its advantages; it strengthened his habits of industry, and it taught

him a knowledge of business. Voltaire became in after life a rich man,

through his excellent management of his affairs: a legal education was

the foundation of his prosperity. He lightened his labours, also, by

forming a friendship with another pupil. Thiriot had not his friend's

talents, but he shared in his youth his enthusiasm for literature: an

intimacy was formed which lasted Thiriot's life. In spite of various

acts of faithlessness on the part of the latter, Voltaire remained, to

the end, constant to his early friend: However, the business of

procureur became intolerable. He still frequented the society of Paris.

He had become deeply in love with madame de Villars: he afterwards

averred that this was the only passion he had ever felt that was

stronger than his love of study, and caused him to lose time. Its ill

success made him conquer it; but the society into which he was drawn

rendered him still more averse to his legal studies. He implored his

father to permit him to quit them; the old man asked him what other

profession he would adopt: to this the son could not reply.

He had a friend, M. de Caumartin, who was also acquainted with the

father, and asked permission that François-Marie should visit him at

his chateau of St. Ange, where he could deliberate at leisure on his

future course, and where he would be separated from the connections

deemed so dangerous. At St. Ange the young poet found a library; and,

plunging into study, became more than ever eager for the acquisition of

knowledge. The father of his host was a man of great age; he had been

familiar with the nobles of the days of Henri IV., and with the friends

of Sully: his enthusiasm for those times and men was warm and eloquent.

Voltaire listened to his anecdotes and eulogies with deep interest; and

began, without yet forming a plan, to write verses in their honour.

The last years of the reign of Louis XIV. had been disastrous, through

unfortunate wars and pernicious policy. Adversity in various forms

visited the old age of that illustrious monarch. The generation

immediately succeeding to him, brought up in his days of glory and

power, died off; of the young race that remained, its hope and flower,

the duke of Burgundy, died; he lost another of his grandsons also by

death, and the third was removed to the throne of Spain. The successor

to his crown was an infant only five years of age; the successor to his

power was a prince whose dissolute character inspired the devout with

hatred, and the thoughtful with sorrow and distrust.

[Sidenote: 1715.

Ætat.

21.]

It was a moment full of eager interest, when Louis died; the cord that

held the faggot snapped; and it became doubtful by whom, and in what

way, it would again be gathered together. The pupil of Dubois became

regent; the kingdom rang with his intrigues, his debaucheries, and the

misconduct of his children. But the duke of Orléans, perverted as he was

as a moral character, was a man of talent, and an enlightened ruler. He

maintained peace: and though the kingdom was convulsed during his

regency by the system of Law, yet its general prosperity was increased;

showing, however speculative and wild a people may be in their financial

schemes, yet, as long as they are preserved from war, no event can

materially injure their prosperity. The regent was, to a certain degree,

king Log, with this exception,--that his libertinism offered a

pernicious example, which plunged Parisian society in immorality, while

his toleration gave encouragement to those men of talent whose aim was

to disseminate knowledge and liberal opinions.

On the death of Louis XIV., young Arouet left St. Ange, and came up to

Paris to witness the effects of the change. He found the people in a

delirium of joy; they celebrated the death of their sovereign by getting

drunk with delight, and by manifesting their detestation of the Jesuits,

who had so long tyrannised over them. Paris became inundated with

satires and epigrams: the French, as in the days of the Fronde, were apt

to signalise their aversions in witty and libellous verses. Voltaire was

accused of writing a piece of this kind; it was entitled "Les J'ai vu,"

in which the author enumerates all the abuses and evils he had

witnessed, and concludes by saying,--

J'ai vu ces maux, et je n'ai pas vingt ans.

[Sidenote: 1716.

Ætat.

22.]

Voltaire was two and twenty, but the difference was slight, and the

verses were clever; he was accused of being their author, and thrown

into the Bastille. The solicitations of his powerful friends were of no

avail to liberate him. His father saw with grief the melancholy

accomplishment of all his prognostics, and failed in his efforts to

obtain his release. It was not till the true author of the verses,

touched by remorse, confessed to having written them, that Voltaire was

set free.

He passed a whole year in his prison without society or books, or ink

and paper. We find no mention in his works or letters of the extreme

sufferings which solitary and unemployed confinement must have inflicted

on a man as vivacious, sensitive, and restless--delicate in health, and

vehement in temper--as Voltaire, except in the deep terror with which he

regarded the possibility of a second imprisonment. Thrown back on the

stores of his own mind, his latest impressions were those of the

conversations at St. Ange with the elder Caumartin, and the enthusiasm

excited for Henri IV. and his contemporaries. The idea of an epic on

this subject suggested itself. It flattered his honest pride to raise a

monument of glory to the French nation in the form of a national poem,

while he was the victim of the government; his literary vanity was

enticed by the idea of sending his name down to posterity as the author

of a French epic, a work hitherto unattempted in verse. He composed the

first two cantos in his dungeon, in his mind, committing them memory;

and it was his boast that, in all his subsequent improvements, he never

changed a word in the second canto. He was prouder, in after life, of

being the author of the "Henriade" than of any other production. His

contemporaries regarded it with admiration; even our own countryman,

lord Chesterfield, declares it the best epic in any language, simply

because, according to the reasons he gives, it is the most devoid of

imagination.

Epic poetry, in its essence, is the greatest achievement of the human

intellect. It takes a subject of universal interest; it exalts it by

solemn and sacred sentiments, and adorns it with sublime and beautiful

imagery, thus lifting it above humanity into something divine. While the

mind of man enjoys the attribute of being able to tincture its earthly

ideas with the glory of something greater than itself in its every day

guise, which it can only seize by snatches, and embody through the

exertion of a power granted only to the favoured few, whom we name great

poets,--and while it can exercise this power in giving grandeur to a

narration of lofty and sublime incidents,--while this can be done by

some, and appreciated by many, an epic must continue to rank as the

crowning glory of literature. We find nothing of all this in the

"Henriade." The very elevation of the sentiments is rendered commonplace

by Voltaire's inability to mould language to his thoughts. During the

whole poem he suffered language to be the shaper of his ideas--not the

material which he forced to take a shape. In his letters, he quotes

Fénélon's just opinion, that the French language might be adapted to

lyrical poetry, but not to epic. He fancies that he disproves this

assertion in the "Henriade;" while, in fact, he gives it entire

support.[1] The second canto is the favourite of many French critics.

They consider the account Henri IV. gives queen Elizabeth of the civil

struggles of France a masterpiece. It consists of a rapid and forcible

view of that disastrous period. But it contains no poetry. Voltaire's

imagination was fertile, versatile, and gay; in some of his tragedies,

he even rose to the passionate and energetic; but it wanted

elevation--it wanted the fairy hue--the sublime transfusion of the

material into the immaterial. It wanted, above all, a knowledge and love

of nature. There is not a word in the "Henriade" descriptive of scenery,

or storm, or calm, or night, or day, that is not commonplace, imitative,

and without real imagery. Of imagery, indeed, he has no notion. Besides

this, he always acted by his own verses as by those of others, and

corrected them into tameness. In a word, the "Henriade" has no

pretensions to success as an epic poem, and is, in whatever view we take

of it, dull and tiresome. Even in his days it had not enjoyed the

reputation it reached but for his admirable powers of reciting, by which

he fascinated the circles of Paris, and the peculiar circumstances that

rendered every other opinion in France an echo of those circles.[2]

There is an amusing anecdote told, which shows, however, that the charm

of his reading did not always suffice to gain unqualified approbation.

One day so many petty criticisms were flung at him, that, irritated to

the utmost, he exclaimed, "Then it is only fit to be burnt!" and threw

the poem into the fire. The president Hainaut sprang forward, and saved

it, saying, as he gave it back to the author, "You must not think that

your poem is better than its hero. Yet, notwithstanding his faults, he

was a great king, and the best of men." "Remember," the president

afterwards wrote, "that it cost me a pair of lace ruffles to save it

from the fire."

The chief interest of the poem lies in the era of its conception, and in

the fact that its composition alienated the horrors of his dungeon. At

last he was set free. The duke of Orléans being informed of his

innocence, he was liberated. The regent compensated for the mistake by a

present of money. Voltaire, on thanking the regent, said, "I thank your

royal highness for continuing to support me, but I entreat you not to

burden yourself again with finding me a lodging." The genius and wit,

however, of Voltaire, continued to expose him to calumny and danger. He

was suspected of having written the "Philippiques," a clever, but most

atrocious libel against the regent and his family. His frequent visits

at Sceaux, the palace of the duchess de Maine, and his intimacy with

Goerts, caused his name to be mingled in the intrigues which cardinal

Alberoni excited in France. The regent, however, refused to credit his

enemies, and limited his displeasure to an intimation that he had better

absent himself from Paris for a time. Voltaire spent several months in

going from one friend's chateau to another, being sedulously occupied,

meanwhile, by the "Henriade" and other literary projects. The most

important in his eyes was his tragedy of "Œdipus."

[Sidenote: 1718.

Ætat.

24.]

This piece, commenced at eighteen, altered and altered again, was at

last brought out, and had the greatest success. This was not solely

caused by its intrinsic merit. The reputation of the author, its being

his first tragedy, and the discussions to which it gave rise with regard

to the ancient and modern theatre, imparted a factitious interest; it was

attacked and defended on all sides, and pamphlets were daily published

and hawked about on the subject. To these legitimate sources of interest

were added the unworthy one of the calumnies in vogue against the duke

of Orléans, which made the odious subject of the tragedy peculiarly

piquante.[3]

Voltaire wrote several letters on the treatment of his subject. His

critique on the tragedies of Sophocles gives us, at once, the measure of

his taste and learning: nothing can be more contemptible than either.

The French _soi-disant_ poet was utterly incapable of entering into the

solemn spirit of the Athenian tragedian, and still less could he

comprehend his sublime poetry, being even ignorant of the language in

which it was written. The "Œdipus Tyrannus" of Sophocles is admirable

as a work of art, and more admirable from a certain majesty that

sustains the subject and characters to the end, and from the solemn,

magnificent beauty of the choruses. All this was a dead letter to the

sprightly Parisian, who admits that had Sophocles lived in his days, he

had written better, but had never approached the greatness of Racine.

The life of Voltaire was an alternation of pleasure and literary labour,

which would have been infinitely delightful but for that system of

caballing which existed in French society, more especially among

authors. Voltaire had to struggle with the envious and the presumptuous.

His method of warfare was bold; it was that of attack rather than of

defence. He was unsparing towards his enemies, and this perpetuated

hostilities that robbed him of peace and leisure. Add to this, his

labours were often interrupted by bodily suffering; for, though his

constitution was strong, he was afflicted by a painful disease. Still

pleasure waited on his moments of ease and leisure. Sometimes he resided

in Paris, but much of his time was spent in visiting, by turns, the

chateaus of the chief nobility; private theatricals, in which his own

plays were got up with care and splendour, were principal amusements at

these country residences. While at Maisons, a chateau belonging to the

president des Maisons, he was seized with the small-pox, on the very eve

of a festival, during which a comedy was to be acted, and he, himself,

was to read his tragedy of "Mariamne;" he was attended by Gervasi, who

treated him in the, then, novel manner, of letting blood and lowering

remedies, by means of which he recovered. His friend Thiriot came up

from Normandy, and waited on him with anxious solicitude. When he

recovered, "Mariamne" was brought out; it went through forty

representations, though it nearly fell on the first, through the levity

of a Parisian audience. When, in the fifth act, Mariamne put the cup of

poison to her lips, a man in the pit called out, "La Reine boit!" On the

succeeding night the mode of her death was changed. Restless, and on the

alert for the ridiculous, the danger of saying anything that suggested

a ludicrous or familiar idea continually hampered a French tragedian;

yet, with all his vanity and eagerness for success, Voltaire's lively

spirits made him sometimes jest with peril. When "Œdipus" was acted, he

went on the stage himself, holding up the train of the high priest, and

played such antics that the maréchal de Villars asked who the young

man was who was desirous of getting the piece condemned. This very

liveliness was, however, a great cause of his universal success. The

Parisians, and especially the nobility, desired to be amused, and no man

was ever born so fitted to afford excitement to the circles of the rich

and gay, as the vain, witty, restless, eager poet, who made a jest of

everything, yet rendered all instinct with the interest imparted by his

good heart and versatile talents.

His quarrel with Jean Baptiste Rousseau is characteristic. He visited

Holland in 1722 with madame Rupelmonde. When passing through Brussels,

he sought out the poet whom he had befriended in his need, and whose

talents he admired. They met with delight. Voltaire called him his

master and judge; he placed his "Henriade" in his hand, and read him

various of his epistles. All went smilingly for a short time. Rousseau

read some of his poetry in return. Voltaire did not approve. Rousseau

was piqued. Various sarcasms were interchanged. Rousseau had composed an

"Ode to Posterity." Voltaire told him that it would never reach its

address. A violent quarrel ensued, and Rousseau became his bitter enemy.

A more serious dissension interrupted the routine of his life. One day,

dining at the table of the duke de Sully, one of his warmest friends, he

was treated impertinently by the chevalier de Rohan, a man of high

birth, but disreputable character. The chevalier asked. Who he was?

Voltaire replied that he did not inherit a great name, but would never

dishonour that which he bore. The chevalier angrily left the room, and

took his revenge by causing him to be seized and struck with a cane by

his servants. Such were the prejudices then existent in the minds of the

French noblesse, that though the duke de Sully esteemed and even loved

Voltaire, and held the chevalier de Rohan in contempt, yet the bourgeois

birth of the former, and noble blood of the latter, caused him to show

himself perfectly indifferent to the insult. Voltaire resolved to avenge

himself. He secluded himself from all society, and practised fencing

carefully. As soon as he considered himself a match for his enemy, he

sought him out at the opera, and demanded satisfaction. The chevalier

appointed time and place for a duel, and then acquainted his family. The

consequence was, the instant arrest of his antagonist, and his

imprisonment for six months in the Bastille; to which was added the

further injustice of an order of exile after his liberation from prison.

[Sidenote: 1728.

Ætat.

34.]

Voltaire took this opportunity to visit England. He had been acquainted

with lord and lady Bolingbroke in France. He appreciated the talents of

the illustrious Englishman, admired his various knowledge, and was

fascinated by the charms of his conversation. Although he never appears

to have at all understood the real foundations of English liberty, yet

he appreciated its effects, especially at a moment when he was suffering

so grievously from an act of despotism. Liberty of thought was in his

eyes a blessing superior to every other. He read the works of Locke with

enthusiasm; and while he lamented that such disquisitions were not

tolerated in France, he became eager to impart to his countrymen the new

range of ideas he acquired from the perusal. The discoveries of Newton

also attracted his attention. He exchanged the frivolities of Paris for

serious philosophy. He became aware that freedom from prejudice and the

acquirement of knowledge were not mere luxuries intended for the few,

but a blessing for the many; to confer and extend which was the duty of

the enlightened. From that moment he resolved to turn his chief

endeavours to liberate his country from priestly thraldom and antique

prejudices. He felt his powers; his industry was equal to his wit, and

enabled him to use a vast variety of literary weapons. What his

countrymen deemed poetry, the drama, history, philosophy, and all

slighter compositions, animated by wit and fancy, were to be put in use

by turns for this great end. He published his "Henriade" while in

England. It was better received than it deserved; and the profits he

gained were the foundation of his future opulence. He wrote the tragedy

of "Brutus," in which he imagined that he developed a truly republican

spirit, and a love of liberty worthy of the Romans.

He spent three years in exile. He became eager to return to his country,

to his friends, and to a public which naturally understood him better,

and could sympathise more truly with him than the English. He ventured

over to Paris. For a time his return was known only to a few friends,

and he resided in an obscure quarter of the capital. By degrees he took

courage; and the success of various tragedies which he brought out

raised him high in public favour, and promised greater security for the

future. He was regarded as the pride of France by the majority of his

countrymen. The priesthood--accustomed to persecute on the most

frivolous pretexts of difference of opinion--who had excited Louis XIV.

to banish the Jansenists and suppress their convents--to exile the

virtuous Fénélon--to massacre the Huguenots, who had long wielded

religion as a weapon of offence and destruction, and had risen to a bad

height of power by its misuse--held him in the sincerest hatred; while

his attacks, excited by, and founded on, their crimes, unveiled to the

world a scene which, had it not been rife with human suffering, had been

worthy only of ridicule. A couplet in "Œdipus" first awakened their

suspicion and hatred:--

"Nos prêtres ne sont point ce qu'un vain peuple pense,

Notre crédulité fait tout leur science."

From that moment they lay in wait to crush him. It needed all his

prudence to evade the effects of their enmity. There was a party in

Paris, indeed, who went to the opposite extreme, by which he was

idolised--a party which saw no medium between the superstition upheld by

the clergy and direct disbelief, which it termed philosophy. This,

indeed, is one of the chief mischiefs of Catholicism--by demanding too

much of faith, it engenders entire infidelity; and by making men, sinful

as ourselves, the directors of the conduct and thoughts, it injures the

moral sense and deadens the conscience. The party in opposition had not

yet risen to the height of talent it afterwards displayed; but it

sufficed, through the rank, abilities, and number of the persons of whom

it was composed, to encourage Voltaire in his career. Another chief

support was derived from the liberal independence of means which he had

attained. He inherited a competent fortune from his father and brother;

the profits of "Œdipus" added to it; the duke of Orléans had made him

presents; the queen of Louis XV. bestowed a pension on him; the edition

of the "Henriade," brought out in London, augmented his means

considerably: he was economical and careful. A fortunate speculation in

a lottery instituted to pay the debts of the city of Paris, in which,

from certain happy calculations, he was the chief winner, raised him to

opulence. He was charitable and benevolent; and though, in his letters,

we find allusions to his donations, this is never done ostentatiously,

but with the plain speech of a man who, having fabricated his own

fortune, knows the value of money, and keeps strict account of his

expenditure. At this juncture we may also speak, of his change of name.

It was the custom, as is well known, for the younger branches of noble

families in France to assume the name of some estate, so to distinguish

themselves from their relations. In the middling ranks the same custom

was in a manner followed. Boileau took the name of Despréaux, and his

younger brother that of Puy Morin, to distinguish themselves from the

elder. People in this rank did not assume the _de_--distinctive of

territorial possession. François-Marie Arouet thought it worth while,

however, to purchase the estate of Voltaire (as Madame Searron, at Louis

XIV.'s instigation, had that of Maintenon), as a means of elevating

himself to a more respectable position in the eyes of his

contemporaries. He succeeded; and though, to our ears, Arouet had

sounded as well as Voltaire, did it stand in the title-page of his

works; in his own day, in spite of various petty attacks from his

enemies, the one he assumed was regarded by his countrymen with greater

complacency.

The heyday of youth was passing away with Voltaire; his vivacity was

still the same: but, from the period of his return from his exile in

England, he began to look differently on life; and while he still

regarded literary labour as his vocation, literary glory as the aim of

his existence, he grew indifferent to the pleasures of society. At one

time he meditated expatriating himself; thus to acquire liberty of

writing and publishing without fear of the Bastille. His attachment for

madame du Châtelet caused him to alter this plan. This lady was

distinguished for her learning, her love of philosophy, and talent for

the abstruse sciences. She was witty, and endowed with qualities

attractive in society; but she preferred study, and the acquisition of

literary renown, in seclusion. This friend induced Voltaire to remain in

France, but strengthened his purpose of retiring from Paris. Various

persecutions were, however, in wait for him before he gained a tranquil

retreat.

Voltaire wrote his tragedies as a means of gaining public favour. He

knew his countrymen. As a sovereign of the French must gather popularity

by leading them to victory and military glory, so must an author, who

would acquire their favour, achieve eminent success, at once to raise

their enthusiasm, and to gratify their vanity, by making them

participate in the greatness of his name. On his return from England,

Voltaire determined to acquire the popular favour, by his triumphs in

the drama. At first he was not as successful as he wished: his "Brutus"

fell coldly on the gay, excitement-hunting Parisians; "Eryphile," on

which he spent excessive pains,--remodelling and re-writing different

portions again and again,--had faults that the author's quick eye

discerned at once to be incurable, and he withdrew it after the first

representation. "Zaire" repaid him for these disappointments;--"Zaire,"

which, whatever its faults may be, is so fresh, so eloquent, so deeply

and naturally pathetic. This play was written in twenty-two days. It was

a happy thought.

[Sidenote: 1732.

Ætat.

38.]

Voltaire writes concerning it: "I never worked so fast; subject carried

me on, and the piece wrote itself. I have tried to depict what has been

long in my head,--Turkish manners contrasted with Christian manners; and

to unite, in the same picture, all that our religion has of dignified,

and even tender, with an affecting and passionate love." Two months

afterwards, he writes: "I wish you had witnessed the success of 'Zaire;'

allow me to enjoy freely, with you, the pleasure of succeeding. Never

was piece played so well as 'Zaire' at the fourth representation. I wish

you had been there; you would have seen that the public does not hate

your friend. I appeared in a box, and the whole pit clapped. I blushed,

and hid myself; but I should be deceitful did I not confess that I was

deeply moved;--it is delightful not to be put to shame in one's own

country." But, after this triumph, he laboured to correct his piece. He

feared, he said, to have owed too much to the large dark eyes of

mademoiselle Gaussin, and to the picturesque effect produced by the

mingling of plumes and turbans on the stage. He felt, for the moment,

that he had arrived at the height of literary renown, and that his task

was nearly fulfilled. "What labour and pains I go through," he writes, "or

this smoke of vain glory! Yet what should we do without the chimæra?

it is as necessary to the soul as food to the body. I shall re-write

'Eryphile,' and the 'Death of Cæsar,'--all for this smoke. Meanwhile I

am correcting the 'History of Charles XII.' for an edition in Holland;

and when this is done, I shall finish the 'Letters on England,' which

you know of,--that will be a month's work; after which I must return to

my dramas, and finish, at lastly the 'History of the Age of Louis XIV.'

This, dear friend, is the plan of my life."

New persecutions were in store for him, to disturb his schemes.

Mademoiselle de Couvreur was the most eminent actress of the time; she

was his friend, and had shown her generosity by attending on him at the

dangerous moment of his attack of small pox. She was worthy of his good

opinion; there was a dignity in her character which imparted the chief

charm to her acting, and rendered her estimable in private life. When

she died, according to the insulting practice of the French clergy,

burial rites and holy ground were denied the corpse, and she was

interred on the banks of the Seine. Voltaire could not restrain his

indignation. Warmed by esteem for his friend, and contempt for the

priesthood, he wrote her apotheosis, which drew on him the outcry of

impiety, and forced him to conceal himself for some months in a village

of Normandy.

Scarcely had this storm passed off, than another broke over him. His

exile in England occurred during the reign of George II., at a time when

literature boasted of great and glorious names; and if the principles of

political liberty were less well understood than now, they appeared in a

highly flourishing condition to the Frenchman. He regarded with

admiration the blessings derived from toleration in religion, a

comparatively free government, a press unfettered by a censorship, and

the general diffusion of knowledge. He wished to describe these things

and their effects to his countrymen, and he wrote his "Lettres sur les

Anglais." There is nothing--save a passing Voltairian sarcasm here and

there--to shock our notions in this work. It begins with an account of

the Quakers,--to demonstrate that dissent in religion, joined to

independence of thought and action, could accord with a peaceable

fulfilment of the duties of a subject. He commences with a humorous

description of a Quaker, to whom he was introduced, who receives him

with his hat on, and without making a bow; speaks to him with the thee

and thou, and defends the peculiar tenets of his sect. He goes on to

give the history of Fox and Penn. Other letters concern the parliament,

the government, the encouragement given to literary men, and literature

itself, of the introduction of inoculation; and then comes his main

topic,--the discoveries of Newton, and the philosophy of Locke. It is a

work that would have excited no censure in England; but he was well

aware that both it and its author would be denounced in France. When he

thought of publishing it, he at the same time entertained the plan of

expatriation; when he relinquished this, he meant to suppress his book;

but it was published through the treachery of a bookseller. A _lettre de

cachet_ was granted against him, of which he received timely notice, and

left Paris to conceal himself at Cirey, while he gave out that he was in

England. The volume itself was publicly burnt. He obtained a cessation

of the persecution by causing the edition to be given up; but he did not

return to Paris, and continued to inhabit the chateau of Cirey, in

Champagne, a property of the marquis du Châtelet, where he and his

wife, and their illustrious friend, lived for the space of six years in

seclusion and laborious study.

We have, from various sources, descriptions of the life he led at Cirey;

not a little instructive from the light they throw on human nature, and

on Voltaire's own character. Voltaire tells us, himself, in his

"Fragment of Memoirs," that, weary of the idle, turbulent life led at

Paris, of the pretensions of the silly, the cabals of the wicked, and

persecutions of bigots, he resolved to pass some years in the country at

the chateau of madame du Châtelet. This lady had received a careful

education, was perfectly mistress of the Latin language, but her

inclination led her to prefer the study of metaphysics and mathematics.

Her ardour for the acquisition of knowledge was unspeakably great, and

she longed for retirement, where she might dedicate her whole time to

study. Voltaire taught her English: she read Leibnitz and Newton. Both

she and her friend aspired to the prize given by the Academy of Science,

for a treatise on fire; and their essays were mentioned with praise,

though the prize was gained by the celebrated Euler. Voltaire was told,

however, by an enlightened friend, that he would never be great in

science. He was glad of this. The arguments and taste of madame du

Châtelet, and his own love of all that was absolutely and demonstrably

true, led him to cultivate abstruse science; but the bent of his genius

and imagination, fertile of plot, situation, and development of passion,

made him turn with delight to the composition of tragedies, the

investigation of the philosophy of history, and the writing lighter

productions, in which he gave full scope to his sarcastic spirit, his

wit, and, we grieve to add, the impurity of his imagination: for this

was the great defect of Voltaire, arising from his inability to

appreciate the sublime, and his contempt of what he considered monkish

virtues, that he loved to indulge in jests, the point of which lay in

the grossest indecency. Having broken loose from the fetters of

mathematics, he wrote "Alzire," "Mérope," "The Prodigal Child," and

"Mahomet." He laboured at his "Essay on the Manners and Spirit of

Nations;" he collected materials for the "History of the Age of Louis

XIV.;" and he relaxed from these labours by writing the "Pucelle

d'Orléans." One of his chief amusements, also, was bringing out his

tragedies at his private theatre. He was a good actor, and an admirable

teacher of the art.

Somewhat in contrast to the sort of fairy splendour and paradisaical

happiness which, from his memoirs and letters, we might judge to have

been the portion of the inhabitants of Cirey, we have another account,

which does not indeed derogate from the character of Voltaire himself,

but which casts gloomy and tempestuous shadows over the picture of his

retirement. This account is worth quoting; though, as we shall

afterwards mention, the fair writer, from private reasons, represented

madame du Châtelet in darker colours than she merited.

When the marquis and marchioness du Châtelet resolved on inhabiting

Cirey, the chateau was in a state of dilapidation. A portion of it was

repaired, and furnished with princely magnificence; partly at the

expense of the owners, chiefly, it would seem, at Voltaire's, who built

a gallery and bath rooms, decorated his apartments with inlaid works of

marble, and adorned them with a variety of precious works of art.

Usually the family party was nearly uninterrupted. Madame du Châtelet

disliked receiving visitors who should intrude on her hours of study.

How the marquis regarded the severe labours of his wife, and the

permanent residence of his guest, we are not told; but he seems to have

been easy and complaisant. When visitors arrived, Voltaire exerted

himself to entertain them by acting plays, and by calling into

requisition the stores of his own mind, which, various and prolific,

never failed to enchant. There was a lady, madame de Graffigny, who had

been very unfortunate through the ill conduct of her husband.

[Sidenote: 1738.

Ætat.

44.]

She at last obtained a divorce; but she was poor, and nearly friendless.

She was asked to spend a few weeks at Cirey, and joyfully accepted the

flattering invitation. She had been residing at Lunéville, at the court

of the ex-king of Poland: she left there a friend, who had beep brought

up with her as a brother; and to him she poured out, in her letters, her

enthusiasm, her joy, and her subsequent disappointment and misery.

From the beginning, Voltaire acquired all her kindness by the cordiality

and friendliness of his reception, and the great and delicate attention

he paid to her comfort; while madame du Châtelet lost it by her

coldness and selfishness. Still the wit and talent of both made it at

first enchanted ground. "Supper was announced to me," she writes, "and I

was shown to an apartment which I recognised as Voltaire's. He came

forward to receive me; we placed ourselves at table--I was indeed happy.

We conversed on all subjects; poetry, the arts and sciences; and all in

a light and witty tone. I wish I could give you an account of his

charming, his enchanting conversation; but I cannot. The supper was not

abundant, but it was recherché, delicate, and good, and served on a

good deal of plate. Voltaire, placed next me, was as polite and

attentive as he is amusing and learned. The marquis was on my other

side--this is my place every evening; and thus my left ear is softly

charmed, while the right is but very slightly ennuied, for the marquis

speaks little, and retires as soon as we rise from table."

She describes the apartments of madame du Châtelet and Voltaire as

magnificent. His was hung with crimson velvet and gold fringe, the walls

were covered with pictures and looking-glasses, and the room crowded

with articles of luxury in worked silver. It opened into a small gallery

wainscotted with yellow wood, adorned by statues, furnished with books,

and filled with tables covered with curiosities and porcelain; opening

on a grotto that led to the garden. The rooms of madame du Châtelet

were far more elegant and rich; splendid with mirrors in silver frames,

and adorned with pictures of the first French artists. Her boudoir, of

which, in her vivacious style, the guest said, "you were ready to kneel

and worship for its elegant magnificence," opened on a terrace

commanding a beautiful prospect: the whole was a model of luxury, taste,

and elegance. Unfortunately, however, in repairing and furnishing, no

attention had been paid to any apartments but those occupied by madame

du Châtelet and Voltaire. Discomfort reigned everywhere else. Poor

madame de Graffigny was placed in an immense chamber, ill furnished--the

wind entering at a thousand crevices--which it was impossible to warm,

in spite of all the wood that was burnt. "In short," she says, "all that

does not belong to the lady or Voltaire is in a most disgusting state of

discomfort."

However, talent spread its charm over the place, although madame du

Châtelet, from the first, was no favourite with her guest, yet she

allows that she talked well, sang divinely; was witty, eloquent, and,

when she chose, pleasing; but, devoted to the study of abstruse

mathematics, she gave up nearly her whole time, night and day, to these

labours. Their way of life was regulated by their excessive industry. No

one appeared till twelve o'clock, when coffee was announced in

Voltaire's gallery for the chosen guests, while the marquis and others

dined. At the end of half an hour Voltaire bowed his friends out; each

retired to their room, and did not assemble again till nine for supper.

This was the chosen season for conversation and enjoyment. He read to

them passages from his works, he showed a magic lantern, and exerted all

his wit, his buffoonery, and knowledge in the explanations. Froward as a

child, amiable as a woman, always full of vivacity, his conversation was

an exhaustless source of laughter and delight. When any guests were

there whom they were peculiarly desirous of pleasing, everything was

done for their amusement: plays were acted--no moment of repose

allowed--all was gaiety and pleasure. "Voltaire," she writes, "is always

charming, always occupied with amusing me; he is never weary of paying

attention; he is uneasy if I seem the least ennuied. In short, I find,

from experience, that agreeable occupation is the charm of life. The

lady, at first a little cold, grows kinder, and we are become

familiar."--"Voltaire read us two cantos of his Joan, and we had a

delightful supper. Madame du Châtelet sang with her divine voice; we

laughed, we knew not why--we sang canons--it was a supper during which

gaiety made us say and do we knew not what; and we laughed at

nothing."--"The Marionettes have greatly diverted me; they are

delightful: the piece was played in which Punch's wife hopes to kill her

husband by singing _fagnana fagnana._ It was delicious to hear Voltaire

say, seriously, that the piece was excellent. It is silly, is it not, to

laugh at such follies? Yet I laughed. Voltaire is as delightful a child

as he is a wise philosopher."--"This morning we were to hear an epistle

read; but the fair lady was still in the same merry humour of yesterday;

and she began to joke Voltaire, who, holding his epistle in his hand,

parodied it against her in the most delightful manner: in short, there

was no reading. He laughed at first, but was a little annoyed at last.

For myself, I was ashamed to laugh so much; but there was so much wit;

each word came and shone like lightning, and all accompanied by such

vivacity and pleasantry that Heraclitus himself must have laughed."--"We

had the Marionettes again. Voltaire declared that he was jealous. Do you

know that I think that Voltaire shows genius in laughing at these

follies. I sat next him to-day; it was a delightful seat. Yesterday

evening he read an epistle which the fair lady criticised most wittily."

At other times, every hour was given to labour. Voltaire spent the

entire day writing: "Does he leave his work for a quarter of an hour

during the day," writes his guest, to pay me a visit, he does not sit

down, saying that the time lost in talking is frightful--that no moment

ought to be wasted, and loss of time is the greatest expense of all.

This has gone on for a month. "When we come in to sup he is at his desk;

we have half done before he joins us, and he is with difficulty

prevented from returning immediately after. He exerts himself to amuse

us during the meal; but evidently from sheer politeness: his thoughts

are far away." Madame du Châtelet was even more industrious. "She

spends her whole nights till five or six in the morning, writing; when

she finds herself overcome by sleep, she puts her hands in iced water,

and walks about the room to rouse herself. After this, instead of

sleeping till the middle of the day, she rises at nine or ten. In short,

she only gives two hours to sleep, and never leaves her desk except for

coffee and supper." This hard labour was productive of great ennui to

their guests, and considerable ill health to themselves; especially to

Voltaire, whose constitution was feeble: but the result with him was,

his voluminous works; and with her, a degree of scientific knowledge

surpassing that attained by almost every other adept of the day. Her

essays were full of most abstruse reasoning, and written in a clear and

elegant style. Madame de Graffigny had the highest opinion of her

understanding. "I have been reading her dissertation on fire; it is

written with admirable clearness, precision, and force of argument. I

beg Voltaire's pardon, but it is far superior to his. What a woman! How

little do I feel beside her! If my body grew as small, I could pass

through a key-hole. When women do write, they surpass men; but it

requires centuries to form a woman like this." Unfortunately, all this

talent was darkened by a vehement and irritable temper. By degrees the

truth became manifest, that these sages quarrelled violently. In madame

de Graffigny's account, some of these disputes are very whimsical. These

are trifles; but they display the inner nature of the man better than

more important events, and deserve record. Voltaire was writing the "Age

of Louis XIV.," in which he took great pride and pleasure, although from

the tyranny then existing in France, the publishing of it would have

doomed him to the Bastille. Madame du Châtelet locked up the

manuscript, and would not let him finish it. "He is dying to do so,"

madame de Graffigny writes; "it is the work, of all his, which he

prefers. She justifies herself by saying there is little pleasure in

writing a book that cannot be printed. I exhort him to go on, and to be

satisfied with the immortality he will gain. He said, yesterday, that

assuredly he would finish it, but not here. She turns his head with her

geometry; she likes nothing else."--"One day, being indisposed, the lady

could not write; so she went to bed, and sent for me, saying that

Voltaire would read his tragedy of 'Mérope.' When he came, she took it

into her head that he should change his coat. He objected, on the score

that he might catch cold, but at last had the complaisance to send for

his valet to get another coat. The servant could not be found. Voltaire

thought himself let off. Not at all: she recommenced her persecution

till Voltaire got angry. He said a few words in English, and left the

room. He was sent for; but replied he was taken ill. Adieu to

'Mérope!'--I was furious. Presently a visitor came, and I said I would

go to see Voltaire, and the lady told me to try to bring him back. I

found him in excellent humour, quite forgetful of his illness; but it

returned when we were sent for, and he was very sullen." Another time

she writes: "I pity poor Voltaire, since he and his friend cannot agree.

Ah, dear friend! where is there happiness on earth for mortals? We are

always deceived by appearances: at a distance, we thought them the

happiest people in the world; but, now that I am with them, I discern

the truth."

Nor was the lady always the peccant person. On one occasion madame de

Graffigny writes: "Voltaire is in a state resembling madness. He

torments his friend till I am forced to pity her. She has made me her

confidant. Voltaire is really mad. One day we were about to act a

comedy--every one was ready, when the post came in; he received

unpleasant letters: he burst forth into exclamations of anguish, and

fell into a species of convulsions. Madame du Châtelet came to me with

tears in her eyes, and begged me to put off the play. Yesterday he had

an interval of quiet, and we acted. How strange that, with all his

genius, he should be so absurd!"

Voltaire's disquiet arose from some defamatory attacks made on him by J.

B. Rousseau and the abbé Desfontaines. We have seen the history of his

intercourse with the former; it was unworthy the poet to revenge himself

by libels. Voltaire had exerted his influence to save Desfontaines when

accused of a capital offence: he was repaid by the publication of

calumnies. The attacks deserved contempt only; but Voltaire could not be

brought to this opinion: "I must have reparation," he writes to a

friend, "or I die dishonoured. Facts and the most shocking impostures

are in question. You know not to what a degree the abbé Desfontaines is

the oracle of the provinces. I am told that he is despised in Paris; yet

his 'Observations' sell better than any other work. My silence drives

him to despair, you say. Ah, how little do you know him! He will take my

silence as a mark of submission; and I shall be disgraced by the most

despicable man alive, without the smallest act of revenge--without

justifying myself."

With these feelings he thought it necessary to write a defence. He

proposed, at one time, entering on a lawsuit. And, to add to his

troubles, his friend Thiriot acted a weak, tergiversating part. Weak in

health, irritated in temper by excessive application, he was in a state

of too great excitement to judge calmly and act with dignity. For six

months every occupation was postponed to his desire of vengeance; a

serious attack of illness was the consequence. With this unfortunate

susceptibility when defamed, we must contrast his patience under every

other species of annoyance, and his constant benevolence. He suffered

various pecuniary losses at this time, but never complained, nor ceased

to benefit several literary men who had no resource except in his

generosity.

To return to Cirey and its letter-writing guest. Madame de Graffigny's

own turn for suffering came at last. The bigotry and severity of the

French government with regard to the press, while cardinal Fleuri was

minister, kept Voltaire and his friend in a continual state of

uneasiness. Twice since his retirement to Cirey he had been obliged to

fly to Holland to escape a _lettre de cachet_; and, meanwhile, he could

not resist writing satires on religion and government, which he read to

his friends; and, their existence becoming known, the cardinal was on

the alert. He had declared that if his burlesque of the "Pucelle"

appeared, the author should end his days in the Bastille. Madame du

Châtelet was more cautious and more fearful than Voltaire himself; and

the imprudence of the latter, and the frightful evils that impended, did

any treacherous friend either lay hands on any portion of the

manuscript, or have a memory retentive enough to write it after it was

read aloud, is in some degree an excuse for the otherwise unpardonable

liberty she took to waylay, open, and read the letters of her guests.

Madame de Graffigny had been delighted with a canto of "Joan," and sent

a sketch of its plan in a letter to her friend. M. Devaux, in answer,

simply replied, "The canto of 'Joan' is charming." The letter containing

these words was opened by madame du Châtelet. Her terror distorted the

meaning of the phrase, and represented in frightful colours the evil

that would ensue; for she fancied that madame de Graffigny had in some

manner possessed herself of, and sent to Lunéville, a canto of a poem

so forbidden and guarded, that she had prevented Voltaire from

communicating any portion of it to the prince royal of Prussia, lest any

accidental discovery should be made. The storm broke unexpectedly and

frightfully. Voltaire learnt and shared his friend's apprehensions. As

a means of discovering the extent of the mischief, he, unexpectedly, the

same evening, after madame de Graffigny had retired to her room, and was

occupied writing letters, visited her there, saying, that he was ruined,

and that his life was in her hands; and in reply to her expressions of

astonishment, informed her that a hundred copies of one of the cantos of

"Joan" were about in the world, and that he must fly to Holland,--to the

end of the world--for safety; that M. du Châtelet was to set out for

Lunéville; and that she must write to her friend Devaux to collect all

the copies. Madame de Graffigny, charmed that she had an opportunity of

obliging her kind host, assured him of her zeal, and expressed her

sorrow that such an accident should happen while she was his guest. On

this, Voltaire became furious: "No tergiversation, madam," he cried.

"You sent the canto!" Her counter-asseverations were of no avail--she

believed herself the most unlucky person in the world that the suspicion

should fall on her. In vain she protested. Voltaire at length asserted

that Devaux had read the canto sent by her to various persons, and that

madame du Châtelet had the proof in her pocket: her justification was

not attended to by the angry poet, who declared that he was

irretrievably ruined. In the midst of this frightful scene, which had

lasted an hour, madame du Châtelet burst into the room: her violence,

her abuse, and insulting expressions overwhelmed her poor guest.

Voltaire in vain endeavoured to calm her. At length madame de Graffigny

was informed of the cause of the tumult and accusation; she was shown

the phrase in her correspondent's letter,--"The canto of 'Joan' is

charming;"--she understood and explained its meaning. Voltaire believed

her on the instant, and made a thousand apologies. His friend was less

placable. Madame de Graffigny was obliged to promise to write for her

own letter containing the account of the canto of the poem, to prove her

innocence. She did this; and till it came all her letters were opened:

she was treated with haughtiness by the lady, and remained shut up in

her own room, solitary and sad; for, to crown her misfortunes, the poor

woman had not a sous in the world, and could not escape from a place

where she was exposed to so much insult. At length her letter was

returned. Madame du Châtelet took care to waylay it, and satisfied

herself by reading it; and then, a few days after, she apologised to her

unfortunate guest; and, fearful, indeed, of her ill report on the

subject, became remarkably civil and kind. Voltaire conducted himself

much better. "I believe," madame de Graffigny writes, "that he was

entirely ignorant of the practice of opening my letters; he appeared to

believe my simple word, and saw the illness I suffered, in consequence,

with regret. He often visited me in my room, shed tears, and said that

he was miserable at being the cause of my suffering. He has never once

entered my room without the humblest and most pathetic apologies; he

redoubled his care that I should be well attended; he even said that

madame du Châtelet was a terrible woman--that she had no flexibility of

heart, though it was good. In short, I have every reason to be content

with Voltaire."

Such was the paradise of Cirey. The arduous study and ill health of

Voltaire, the mental labours of his friend, their very accomplishments

and wit, tended, probably, to irritate tempers, irritable in themselves.

As to the poem, the cause of the storm, it had certainly better never

have been written than occasion so much fear, and pain, and misconduct.

We confess we have never read it. Its framework is indecency and

ridicule of sacred things; chiefly, indeed, of the legends of the

saints, which is more excusable; but still the whole is conceived in bad

taste. We cannot understand the state of manners when such a poem could

be read aloud to women; and we feel that we are scarcely fair judges of

persons living in a system and actuated by motives so contrary to our

own: so that, while we thank God we are not like them, we must be

indulgent to faults which we have not any temptation to commit.

Voltaire's residence at Cirey was marked by the commencement of his

correspondence with Frederic the Great, then prince royal of Prussia. It

is well known that this sovereign passed a youth of great

suffering--that he was imprisoned for an endeavour to escape from the

state of servitude to which his father reduced him. His dearest friend

was executed before his eyes, and measures taken that he himself should

be condemned to death. To avoid a recurrence of these misfortunes, he

lived in a most retired manner during the remainder of his father's

life; given up to the cultivation of poetry and the study of

philosophy. He shared the universal admiration entertained of Voltaire's

genius, and his noble daring in breaking down the obstacles which the

government and clergy of France threw in the way of the diffusion of

knowledge, and his resolution in devoting his life to authorship. He

addressed a letter to him at Cirey, requesting a correspondence.

Voltaire could not fail of being highly flattered by a prince, the heir

to a throne, who wrote to him that "Cirey should be his Delphos, and his

letters oracles." Voltaire was far from being behindhand in compliments.

He writes: "I shed tears of joy on reading your letter--I recognise a

prince who will assuredly be the delight of the human race. I am in

every way astonished: you speak like Trajan, you write like Pliny, and

you express yourself in French as well as our best writers. What a

difference between men! Louis XIV. was a great king--I respect his

memory; but he had not your humanity, nor spoke French as well. I have

seen his letters; he did not know the orthography of his own language.

Berlin will be, under your auspices, the Athens of Germany--perhaps of

Europe." The compliments on both sides were to a great degree sincere.

Frederic shared the enthusiastic, almost, worship in which Voltaire was

then generally held--and Voltaire regarding sovereigns and princes as

powerful enemies, or at best as mischievous animals, whom it was

necessary to stroke into innocuousness, was carried away by his delight

in finding one who adopted his own principles--looked up to him as a

master, and added to the value of his admiration, the fact of being

himself a man of genius. After Voltaire had quarrelled with him, he

spoke in a jocular tone of their mutual flattery; but still in a way

that shows how deeply it sank at the time. "The prince," he writes,

"employed his leisure in writing to the literary men of France, and the

principal burden of his correspondence fell on me. I received letters in

verse, metaphysical, historical, and political. He treated me as a

divine man; I called him Solomon; epithets which cost us nothing. Some

of these follies have been printed among my works; but, fortunately, not

the thirtieth part. I took the liberty to send him a very beautiful

writing desk; he was kind enough to present me with some trifles in

amber; and the coffee-house wits of Paris fancied, with horror, that my

fortune was made. He sent a young Courlander, named Keyserling,--no bad

writer of French verses himself,--from the confines of Pomerania, to us

at Cirey. We gave him a fête, and a splendid illumination in which the

cipher of the prince was hung with lamps, with the device, "The Hope of

the Human Race." In his pique, Voltaire speaks too slightingly. Had he

not been a prince, the correspondence of Frederic was worth having; it

is full of good sense and philosophical remark. It was a more

disagreeable task to correct his verses. Yet these are by no means had;

they are nearly as good as Voltaire's own. There is less pretension, but

often more spirit. The whole mass has no real claim to be called poetry;

and in these days nobody reads either: but when they were written, and

had the gloss of novelty, and the interest of passing events and living

men appended, they were at least respectable specimens of a talent,

which in its own sphere could attain much higher things.

The residence at Cirey was broken up by the necessity of attending to a

lawsuit of madame du Châtelet at Brussels, and she and her husband and

Voltaire proceeded thither.

[Sidenote: 1740.

Ætat.

46.]

At this period Frederic succeeded to the throne of Prussia. The

demonstrations of his friendship for Voltaire continued as fervent as

ever. "See in me only, I entreat you," he writes, "a zealous citizen, a

somewhat sceptical philosopher, but a truly faithful friend. For God's

sake write to me simply as a man; join with me in despising titles,

names, and all exterior splendour." Voltaire replied, "Your majesty

orders me, when I write, to think of him less as a king than as a man.

This is a command after my own heart. I know not how to treat a king;

but I am quite at my ease with a man whose head and heart are full of

love for the human race." Frederic, now that he was emancipated from his

father's control, was most eager to see Voltaire. He asked him to visit

him. Voltaire considered his friendship with madame du Châtelet as of

more worth than the protection of a king; for although, through vivacity

of temper and absence of self-control, they quarrelled, there was a deep

feeling of mutual kindness and sympathy on both sides. The king had been

ready to lavish compliments on the "divine Emily;" but his indifference

to women, and his many and important occupations, made him shrink from

receiving a French court lady, full of wit, caprice, and

self-importance. He wrote: "If Emily must accompany Apollo, I consent;

but if I can see you alone, I should prefer it." It ended in Frederic's

forming the plan of including Brussels in a tour he made, and visiting

his friend there. Voltaire's own account of their interview is full of

spirit and pleasantry; showing how, in reality, a Frenchman, accustomed

to the splendour and etiquette of his native court, could ill comprehend

the simplicity and poverty of Prussia. He writes: "The king's ambassador

extraordinary to France arrived at Brussels; as soon as he alighted at

an inn, he sent me a young man, whom he had made his page, to say that

he was too tired to pay me a visit, but begged me to come to him, and

that he had a rich and magnificent present for me from the king, his

master. 'Go quickly,' cried madame du Châtelet, 'I dare say he brings

you the crown jewels.' I hurried off, and found the ambassador, who,

instead of port-manteau, had behind his carriage a quarter of wine,

belonging to the late king, which the reigning sovereign ordered me to

drink. I exhausted myself in protestations of surprise and gratitude for

this liquid mark of his majesty's goodness, substituted for the solid

ones he had given me a right to expect, and I shared the wine with

Camas. My Solomon was then at Strasbourg. The fancy had taken him while

visiting his long and narrow dominions, which reached from Gueldres to

the Baltic sea, to visit, incognito, the frontiers and troops of France.

He took the name, at Strasbourg, of the count du Four, a rich Bohemian

nobleman. He sent me, at Brussels, an account of his travels, half

prose, half verse, in the style of Bachaumont and Chapelle; that is, as

near the style as, a king of Prussia could attain; telling of had roads

and the passport he was obliged to give himself, which, having with him

a seal with the arms of Prussia, he easily fabricated; and the surprise

his party excited--some taking them for sovereigns, others for

swindlers. From Strasbourg he visited his states in Lower Germany, and

sent word that he would visit me at Brussels incognito. We prepared a

good residence for him; but falling ill at the little castle of Meuse,

two leagues from Clèves, he wrote to beg that I would make the first

advances. I went, therefore, to present my most profound homage.

Maupertuis, who already had his own views, and was possessed by a mania

to be president of an academy, had presented himself, and lodged with

Algarotti and Keyserling in a loft of this palace. I found a single

soldier as guard at the gate. The privy counsellor Rambonet, minister of

state, was walking about the court, blowing his fingers; he had on large

dirty linen ruffles, a hat full of holes, and an old judge's wig, which

on one side reached to his pockets, and on the other scarcely touched

his shoulder. I was told, and truly, that this man was charged with

important state affairs. I was conducted to his majesty's apartment,

where I saw only four walls. At length, by the light of a candle, I

perceived, in a closet, a truckle bed, two feet and a half wide, on

which was a little man, wrapped in a dressing-gown of coarse blue cloth.

It was the king, trembling beneath an old counterpane, in a violent

access of fever. I bowed to him, and began my acquaintance by feeling

his pulse, as if I had been his first physician. When the access was

over, he dressed and went to supper with me, Algarotti, Keyserling,

Maupertuis, and his minister to the States General. We conversed on the

immortality of the soul, free will, and Plato's "Androgynes." Counsellor

Rambonet meanwhile mounted a hack, and, after riding all night, arrived

at the gates of Liège, where he made a requisition in the name of the

king, his master, which two thousand of his troops helped him to

enforce. Frederic even charged me with writing a manifesto, which I did

as well as I could, not doubting that a king with whom I supped, and who

called me his friend, must be in the right. The affair was soon

arranged, through the payment of a million, which he exacted in ducats,

which served to indemnify him for the expense of his journey to

Strasbourg, of which he had complained in his poetic letter. I grew

attached to him, for he had talent and grace; and besides, he was a

king, which, considering human weakness, is always a great fascination.

Generally we literary men flatter kings; but he flattered me, while

abbé Desfontaines and other rascals defamed me once a week at Paris.

"The king of Prussia, before his father's death, had written a work

against the principles of Machiavelli. If Machiavelli had had a prince

for disciple, he would have recommended him, in the first place, to

write against him; but the prince royal did not understand this sort of

finesse. He had written in good faith at a time when he was not

sovereign; and his father inspired him with no partiality for despotic

power. He sincerely praised moderation and justice, and in his

enthusiasm regarded every usurpation as a crime. He had sent me the

manuscript to correct and publish. I now began to feel remorse at

printing the "Anti-Machiavel," while the king of Prussia, with an

hundred millions in his treasury, took one, by means of counsellor

Rambonet, from the poor inhabitants of Liège. I suspected that my

Solomon would not stop there. His father had left sixty-six thousand

four hundred excellent soldiers. He augmented the number, and seemed

eager to make use of them. I represented to him that it was not quite

right to print his book at a time when he might be reproached for

violating its precepts. He permitted me to stop the edition. I went to

Holland entirely to do him this little service; but the bookseller asked

so much money in compensation, that the king, who in his heart was not

sorry to see himself in print, preferred being so for nothing, rather

than to pay not to be."

We have extracted this whole account as highly characteristic, and as

explanatory of much that followed. Frederic loved and enjoyed talent,

and was himself a man of genius; he was simple-minded as a German;

unaccustomed to show and luxury; but he was a king and a soldier. He was

young and ambitious. Voltaire laughed at his economy, ridiculed his

plainness, saw through his pretensions to liberal opinions, and jested

wittily on their friendship. Yet, withal, he was flattered by it. He saw

a refuge and a support against the persecutions he feared in his own

country; and though he would have preferred that a sovereign who called

him friend had been more royal in outward show, he was forced to be

satisfied that though badly dressed and meanly attended, yet he was

really a king, with millions in his coffres, and thousands of soldiers

at his command, and, above all, a man of genius. "He is the most

delightful man in the world," he writes, "and would be sought by every

one, even were he not a king: philosophical without austerity, full of

gentleness, complaisance, and agreeable qualities; forgetting that he is

a sovereign as soon as he is with his friends, and so forgetting, that

it required an effort of memory to recollect that he was one." Such was

the impression which the young king made on his older friend, who had

been accustomed to courts and royalty. But still he felt that the friend

of a king is not half as independent in the royal palace as in another

kingdom. Probably madame du Châtelet's admirable understanding helped

to keep him firm; at any rate, while she lived he declined all

Frederic's invitations, and declared his tie of friendship with the

"divine Emily" paramount to every other.

Voltaire and madame du Châtelet had agreed to vary their solitude at

Cirey by visits to the metropolis. The leisure afforded by the seclusion

of the country was congenial to labour. Far from the society and

interruptions of Paris, they could both devote their whole minds to the

subjects on which they were occupied; but they found difficulty in

getting books. It was impossible at a distance from the capital for

Voltaire to have access to the state papers necessary for the historical

works he had in hand, or for the lady to keep up that communication with

men of letters which, in matters of science particularly, is necessary

to any one ambitious of extending and confirming discoveries. Yet the

change was to be regretted. The vivacity of Voltaire's temper had caused

him to be disturbed by the attacks of his enemies in his retirement. In

the thick of society these attacks were more multifarious and stinging;

and added to this, his reputation in the capital for a wit, could only

be kept up by a sort of small money of authorship, so to speak, which

frittered away the treasures of his mind.

The death of the emperor Charles VI. plunged Europe in war. France

interfered to cause the elector of Bavaria to be chosen emperor, and

attacked Maria Theresa of Austria, daughter of Charles VI. The king of

Prussia, a potentate who had not yet figured in the wars of Europe,

desirous of taking advantage of the distressed state of the empire,

seized on Silesia. Twice Voltaire was employed by his court to sound the

intentions of his royal correspondent, and to influence him to ally

himself with France. The first mission of this sort that he undertook

was at the request of cardinal Fleuri.

Cardinal Fleuri had been the author's friend in his early days. Voltaire

took great pleasure in conversing with him, and collecting his anecdotes

on the reign of Louis XIV. The cardinal was a timid man; the scope of

his policy as minister, was to keep France at peace and Paris tranquil;

to prevent all movement in the public mind, and to suppress literary

influence, whether it tended to enlarge the boundaries of human

knowledge, or to remark upon the events and personages of the day. He

kept a tight hand over Voltaire. Several _lettres de cachet_ had been

issued against him, and he had declared imprisonment in the Bastille

should punish any future literary imprudence. Voltaire could only keep

up a semblance of kindness and toleration by giving every outward mark

of submission. It was matter of pride to him when he was applied to by

the minister to visit Frederic, and learn his real intentions with

regard to his attack on Silesia. His mission was secret; so that it was

supposed that he had taken refuge in Prussia from some new persecution;

while Frederic himself, not well comprehending his sudden apparition,

after his frequent refusals, guessed that it was connected with

politics, and showed himself for a moment dubious of his integrity. But

this cloud was soon dissipated. The king tried to tempt the poet to

remain. He was firm in his refusal. "I have quitted a brilliant and

advantageous establishment," he writes; "I received the most flattering

offers, and great regret was expressed because I would not accept them;

but how could courts and kings and emolument outweigh a ten years'

friendship: they would scarcely console me, did this friendship fail

me." Nor did friendship alone recal him; he was eager for the applause

of a Parisian audience. Any one who reads his letters, will perceive how

Voltaire was wrapt up in his writings; enthusiasm could alone sustain

him through so much labour. He was desirous that the tragedy of f

Mahomet' should be acted; he was allowed to choose his own censor: he

selected Crebillon, but Crebillon refused the licence; and an intimacy

of thirty years ended in a quarrel.

To compensate for this disappointment, Voltaire brought out this tragedy

at Lille. He found La Noue there, who was well fitted for the part of

Mahomet; and Clairon in her youth, who took the part of Palmyre. During

an interval between the acts, a letter was brought to Voltaire,

announcing the gain of the battle of Molwitz; he rose and read it aloud

from his box. The applause redoubled; and he afterwards said, jestingly,

that the victory of Molwitz had insured the success of "Mahomet." The

tragedy was approved even by the clergy at Lille, and Fleuri, when he

read it, saw no objection to its being acted. It was brought out in

Paris under brilliant auspices; but the clergy formed a cabal; it was

declared to be a covert attack on the Christian religion, and Fleuri

weakly begged the author to withdraw it after the second representation.

[Sidenote: 1743.

Ætat.

49.]

When cardinal Fleuri died, and Louis XV. declared he would have no other

first minister, Voltaire hoped to establish his influence on surer

foundations, through his long-established friendship with the duke de

Richelieu. This libertine, but not unambitious, noble sought to lay the

foundations of his power by any means, however disgraceful. By giving

the king a mistress of his own choosing, he hoped to rule his sovereign;

and while the duchess de Châteauroux lived, he possessed considerable

power. One of the first advantages Voltaire wished to reap was, to

succeed to the seat in the academy, vacant by the death of cardinal

Fleuri.

To understand the importance Voltaire attached to success in this

endeavour, we must consider his views and his position. The chief aim of

his life was to diffuse in France that knowledge and freedom of

discussion which was permitted in England, but which was barred out of

his country with a rigorous and persecuting spirit. At the same time,

desirous of living in his native land, and to reap there the fruits of

his labours in the applause of his countrymen, he wished to insure his

personal security. As a chief means to this end, he believed it

necessary to gain the favour of influential persons about the sovereign,

and to make himself one of a powerful society, such as formed the French

academy. Voltaire understood his countrymen. He knew how a word can

sway--how a jest could rule them. His own temper was vivacious and

irritable. He never spared an enemy. While accusing Boileau and Molière

for holding up the poetasters of their day to ridicule, did any of the

_literati_ attack him, he defended himself with acrimonious sarcasm and

pertinacious abuse. He spared no epithet of contempt, no vehemence of

condemnation, nor any artful manœuvre, so to obtain the advantage.

While he thus sought to annihilate his foes, and to secure himself, the

gates of the Bastille yawned in view, and by the tremour which the sight

inspired, added that bitterness to his sensations which the fear of

disaster inspires. These were the causes of the virulence of his

diatribes--of the sting of his epigrams in which he devotes Piron and

others to everlasting ridicule. It was on this account that he sought to

be a member of the academy.

The moment he began to canvass for the vacant seat in the academy, a

violent cabal was formed to oppose him. Maurepas, secretary of state, an

excellent man, but narrow-minded, was the moving spring of the

opposition. He pat forward a Theatin monk, named Boyer, as his agent.

This man declared that the deceased cardinal's empty chair could only be

filled properly by a bishop. He found some difficulty in finding a

prelate who chose to undertake the invidious part; one was at last

found, and Voltaire lost his election. The same scene was renewed when

another vacancy recurred, during the following year. In some degree the

poet was consoled by the success of the tragedy of "Mérope." The

audience were transported by enthusiasm; they perceived the author in a

box--they insisted on his coming forward. The young and beautiful

duchess de Villars was with him. She was called upon to embrace the

poet; at first she was embarrassed by the singular part she was called

on to act, but, recovering herself, obeyed the call of the pit with the

grace that distinguished a high-born Frenchwoman. Voltaire might well

desire to achieve success with an audience of his countrymen, when such

were the tokens he received of triumph.

The king of Prussia, meanwhile, having exhausted his finances by war,

and gained two provinces, found it eligible to conclude a peace with

Maria Theresa; a peace, detrimental to the interests of France, which

was thus left to carry on the war single-handed. It became matter of

policy to induce Frederic to infringe a treaty scarcely signed. The duke

de Richelieu requested Voltaire to be the negotiator. Again his mission

was secret. He pretended to renounce his country, disgusted by the cabal

carried on by Boyer against him, and he had the appearance of applying

to Frederic for refuge and defence against the injustice he met in his

native country. Voltaire's own account of this negotiation is written in

his usual jesting, sarcastic style; he made a joke of the bishop, his

successful rival; and when Frederic answered by a deluge of pleasantries

on the subject, he took care to make his letters public. The bishop of

Mirepoix complained to the king that he was made to pass for a fool at

foreign courts; but Louis XV. replied that it was a thing agreed upon,

and that he must not mind it. Voltaire remarks that this reply was

opposed to Louis's usual character, and that it appeared extraordinary.

But the king probably spoke in the innocence of his heart, announcing a

mere fact, that the bishop's reputation for talent was to be sacrificed

for the good of the state. Indeed, there is a letter from Voltaire to

his immediate employer, Amelot, secretary for foreign affairs, which

shows that he by no means felt easy with regard to the light in which

Louis might view his conduct, and excuses the style of his

correspondence with Frederic. "There are in his notes and in mine," he

writes, "some bold rhymes, which cannot hurt a king, though they may an

individual. He hopes that I may be forced to accept his offers, which

hitherto I have refused, and take up my abode at the court of Prussia.

He hopes to gain me by losing me in France; but I swear to you I would

rather live in a Swiss village than gain at this price the dangerous

favour of a king."

After some delay, occasioned by the journeys of the king of Prussia,

during which time Voltaire did good service for his court at the Hague,

he arrived at Berlin, and was warmly welcomed. Fêtes, operas,

suppers--all the amusements that Frederic could command, were put in

requisition to please the illustrious and favoured guest. In the midst

of these, the secret negotiation advanced. Voltaire had infinite tact,

and could, like many of his countrymen, mingle the most serious designs

with frivolous amusements, and pursue undeviatingly his own interests,

while apparently given up to philosophical disquisitions or witty

discussions. In the midst, therefore, of easy and jocular conversation,

Voltaire discovered the real state of things, which consisted in the

king of Prussia's desire to embroil Louis XV. with England. "Let France

declare war against England," said Frederic, "and I march." This

sufficed for the subtle emissary. He returned to Paris, and negotiations

ensued which terminated in a new treaty between France and Prussia, and

the following spring Frederic invaded Bohemia with a hundred thousand

men. Voltaire, however, reaped no benefit from his zeal. The king's

mistress, the duchess de Châteauroux, was angry that she had not been

consulted. She managed to obtain the dismission of M. Amelot, secretary

for foreign affairs, under whose direction Voltaire had acted, and he

was enveloped in the disgrace, that is to say, he gained no court

smiles, nor any solid compensation, for his trouble.

His life was now passed between Paris and Cirey--society and solitude.

He and the du Châtelets shared the same house in the capital; their

studies and their amusements were in common. We are told[4] that on one

occasion, when madame du Châtelet went to court, and engaged in play,

during which she lost a great deal of money, Voltaire told her in

English that she was being cheated. The words were understood by others

who were present, and the poet thought it prudent to absent himself for

a time. He asked refuge from the duchess du Maine at Sceaux. Here he

passed two months in the strictest retreat; and when danger was past, he

repaid his hostess by remaining in her chateau, and contributing to her

recreation by getting up plays, and writing for her. "Zadig" and others

of his tales were composed on this occasion. Operas, plays, concerts,

and balls varied the amusements. Madame du Châtelet and Voltaire took

parts in these theatricals. The lady was an admirable actress, as well

as musician: she shone in comedy, where her gaiety, grace, and vivacity

had full play. Voltaire was also a good actor. The part of Cicero in his

own tragedy of "Rome Sauvée" was his favourite part. At other times,

leaving these pleasures, he and his friend retired to Cirey and to

labour. We have an amusing account of several of their migrations, from

the pen of Longchamp, who, from being the valet of madame du Châtelet,

became elevated into the secretary of Voltaire. There is a great

contrast between this man's account, and the letters before quoted of

madame de Graffigny. In both descriptions, we find mentioned the

vivacity and petulance both of the poet and his friend; but the darker

shadows thrown by irritability and quarrelling, do not appear in the

pages of Longchamp; and, above all, the fair disciple of Newton is

delineated in far more agreeable colours. "Madame du Châtelet," he

writes, "passed the greater part of the morning amidst her books and her

writings, and she would never be interrupted. But when she left her

study, she was no longer the same woman--her serious countenance changed

into one expressive of gaiety, and she entered with ardour into all the

pleasures of society. Although she was then forty, she was the first to

set amusement on foot, and to enliven it by her wit and vivacity." Nor

does he make any mention of the violence and ill-humour from which her

guest suffered so piteously. "When not studying," he remarks, "she was

always active, lively, and good-humoured." At Cirey, she was equally

eager to afford amusement to her friends. "When the report of her

arrival," writes Longchamp, "was spread through the neighbouring

villages, the gentry of the country around came to pay their respects.

They were all well received; those who came from a distance were kept

for several weeks at the chateau. To amuse both herself and her guests,

madame du Châtelet set on foot a theatre. She composed farces and

proverbs; Voltaire did the same; and the parts were distributed among

the guests. A sort of stage had been erected at the end of a gallery,

formed by planks placed upon empty barrels, while the side scenes were

hung with tapestry; a lustre and some branches lighted the gallery and

the theatre; there were a few fiddles for an orchestra, and the evenings

passed in a very gay and amusing manner. Often the actors, without

knowing it, were made to turn their own characters into ridicule, for

the greater gratification of the audience. Madame du Châtelet wrote

parts for this purpose, nor did she spare herself, and often represented

grotesque personages. She could lend herself to every division, and

always succeeded."

From this scene of gaiety, at once rustic and refined, the pair

proceeded to the court of king Stanislaus at Luneville. Here Voltaire

employed himself in writing during the morning, and, as usual, the

evening was given up to amusement. The theatricals were renewed; all was

gaiety and good humour. The marquis du Châtelet, passing through

Luneville, on his way to join the army, was enchanted to find his wife

in such high favour at king Stanislaus' court.

[Sidenote: 1748.

Ætat.

54.]

Voltaire left the gay scene to overlook the bringing out of his tragedy

of "Semiramis." In this play he endeavoured to accustom his countrymen

to greater boldness of situation and stage effect. It was necessary to

banish that portion of the audience, the dandies of the day, who, seated

on the stage itself, at once destroyed all scenic illusion, and afforded

too narrow a space for the actors. A formidable cabal opposed these

innovations, headed by Piron and Crebillon; and Voltaire, himself, was

obliged to have recourse to means which had been unworthy of him under

other circumstances, and to place a number of resolute friends in the

pit, to oppose the adverse party. The piece was successful, and the poet

eager to return to Luneville. He was suffering greatly in his health.

During his stay in Paris, he had been attacked by low fever; and his

busy life in the capital, where his days were given up to society, and

his nights to authorship, exhausted the vital powers. Notwithstanding

his suffering, he resolved to set out, and proceeded as far as Chalons,

where he was obliged to give in, and take to his bed. The bishop and

intendant of Chalons visited him; they sent him a physician; but,

without showing outward opposition, Voltaire followed none of his

prescriptions, and endeavoured to get rid of the intruders. He felt his

danger; he entreated his confidential servant, Longchamps not to abandon

him, and, as he said, to remain to cover his body with earth when he

should expire. His fever and delirium increased, and his resolution not

to take the remedies prescribed was firm: every one expected to see him

die; he, himself, anticipated death, and gave his secretary instructions

how to act. On the sixth day, though apparently as ill as ever, he

resolved to proceed on his journey, declaring that he would not die at

Chalons. He was lifted into his carriage; his secretary took his place

beside him; he did not speak, and was so wan and feeble, that Longchamp

feared that he would never arrive alive: but as they went on, he grew

better; sleep and appetite returned; he was much recovered when they

reached Luneville; the presence of madame du Châtelet reanimated him; a

few days with her caused all his gaiety to return, and he forgot his

sufferings and danger.

This appears to have been a very happy portion of Voltaire's life. His

friendship for madame du Châtelet was ardent and sincere. Her talents

were the origin of their sympathy in tastes and pursuits; her gaiety

animated his life with a succession of pleasures necessary to compose

and amuse his mind after intense study; her good sense enabled her to be

his adviser and support when calumny and scandal disturbed, as was

easily done, his equanimity. Voltaire, when writing, was absorbed by his

subject; this enthusiasm inspired and sustained him. It allowed him to

labour hard, and made him put his whole soul into every word he penned.

His friend participated in his eagerness; and by entering earnestly into

all his literary plans, imparted to them a charm which he appreciated at

its full value. This friend he was about to lose for ever; but he did

not anticipate the misfortune.

[Sidenote: 1749.

Ætat.

9.]

A portion of the following year was spent at Paris and Cirey, and they

again visited Luneville; for king Stanislaus had invited them again to

join his court. Pleasure was once more the order of the day. Every one

in the palace was eager to contribute to the king's amusement; and he

was desirous that all round him should be happy. In the midst of this

routine of gaiety, the industry of Voltaire surprises us. He wrote

several tragedies at this period, and his letters are full of

expressions marking the eagerness of authorship, and the many hours he

devoted to composition. Emulation, joined to great disdain for his

rival, spurred him on. He was mortified and indignant at the praise

bestowed on Crebillon by the Parisians; and he took the very subjects

treated by this tragedian, believing that, thus brought into immediate

contrast, his grander conceptions and more classic style would at once

crush the pretender. "I have written 'Catiline,'" he writes, "in eight

days; and the moment I finished, I began 'Electra.' For the last twenty

years I have been rendered indignant by seeing the finest subject of

antiquity debased by a miserable love affair,--by two pair of lovers,

and barbarous poetry; nor was I less afflicted by the cruel injustice

done to Cicero. In a word, I believed that I was called upon by my

vocation to avenge Cicero and Sophocles--Rome and Greece--from the

attacks of a barbarian."

This ardour for composition, and these pleasures, were suddenly arrested

by the afflicting event of madame du Châtelet's death. She died soon

after her confinement, unexpectedly, when all danger seemed past.

Whatever might have been the disputes of the friends, these did not

shake their friendship; and if they clouded, at intervals, the happiness

they derived, they left no evil trace behind. Voltaire was plunged in

the deepest affliction; the expressions he uses mark the truth of his

regrets. "I do not fear my grief," he writes to his friend, the marquis

d'Argental; "I do not fly from objects that speak to me of her. I love

Cirey; and although I cannot bear Luneville, where I lost her in so

frightful a manner, yet the places which she adorned are dear to me. I

have not lost a mistress; I have lost the half of myself,--a soul for

which mine was made,--a friend of twenty years. I feel as the most

affectionate father would towards an only daughter. I love to find her

image everywhere; to converse with her husband and her son."--"I have

tried to return to 'Catiline;' but I have lost the ardour I felt when I

could show her an act every two days. Ideas fly from me; I find myself,

for hours together, unable to write; without a thought for my work: one

idea occupies me day and night." To these laments he adds her eulogy, in

another letter, with which we may conclude the subject. Her errors were

the effect of the times in which she lived, and of an ardent temper. We

would deprecate any return to a state of society that led the wisest

into such grievous faults, but we will not defraud the victim of the

system of the praise which, on other scores, she individually

merited.[5] "A woman," writes Voltaire, "who translated and explained

Newton, and translated Virgil, without betraying in her conversation

that she had achieved these prodigies; a woman who never spoke ill of

any one, and never uttered a falsehood; a friend, attentive and

courageous in her friendship: in a word, a great woman, whom the common

run of women only knew by her diamonds and dress. Such must I weep till

the end of my life."

After this sorrowful event Voltaire established himself in Paris. The

house which he and Madame du Châtelet rented conjointly, he now took

entirely himself. He invited his widowed niece, madame Denis, to preside

over his establishment. At first he continued plunged in grief; he saw

no one but count D'Argental and the duke of Richelieu, who were among

his oldest friends. One or the other, or both, passed the evenings with

him, and tried to distract his mind from its regrets. They sought to

awaken in him his theatrical tastes, which were strong, and which, if

once roused, would effectually draw him from solitude. Voltaire at last

showed sparks of the old fire; other friends were brought about him; he

was implored to bring out his newly written tragedies; he objected, on

the score of the quarrel that subsisted between him and the actors of

the Comédie Français,--he having endeavoured to improve their manner

of acting, and they haughtily rejecting his instructions. This

difficulty was got over by erecting a private theatre in his own house,

and gathering together a number of actors chosen from various private

companies; for, as in the time of Molière, the sons of the shopkeepers

in Paris often formed companies together, and got up theatricals. It was

thus that Voltaire became acquainted with Le Kain, who has left us an

interesting account of his intercourse with the illustrious poet.

Le Kain was the son of a goldsmith. Voltaire saw him act, and,

perceiving his talent, begged him to call upon him. "The pleasure caused

by this invitation," the actor writes, "was even greater than my

surprise. I cannot describe what passed within me at the sight of this

great man, whose eyes sparkled with fire, imagination, and genius. I

felt penetrated with respect, enthusiasm, admiration, and fear; while M.

de Voltaire, to put an end to my embarrassment, embraced me, thanking

God for having created a being who could move him to tears by his

declamation." He then asked the young man various questions; and when Le

Kain mentioned his intention of giving himself entirely up to the stage,

in spite of his enthusiasm for the theatre, Voltaire strongly dissuaded

him from adopting a profession held disreputable in his native country.

He asked him to recite, but would not hear any verses but those of

Racine. Le Kain had once acted in "Athalie," and he declaimed the first

scene, while Voltaire, in a transport of enthusiasm, exclaimed, "Oh!

what exquisite verses! and it is surprising that the whole piece is

written with the same fervour and purity, from first scene to last, and

that, throughout, the poetry is inimitable." And then, turning to the

actor, he said, "I predict that, with that touching voice, you will one

day delight all Paris,--but never appear upon a public stage." At the

second interview Voltaire engaged Le Kain and his whole company to act

at his own theatre, Le Kain himself taking up his residence in the house

of the generous poet. Le Kain owed his success to him, and felt the

warmest gratitude. "He is a faithful friend," he writes; "his temper is

vehement, but his heart is good, and his soul sensitive and

compassionate. Modest, in spite of the praises lavished on him by kings,

by literary men, and by the rest of the world. Profound and just in his

judgment on the works of others; full of amenity, kindness, and grace,

in the intercourse of daily life, he was inflexible in his aversion to

those who had offended him. He was an admirable actor. I have seen him

put new life into the part of Cicero, in the fourth act of 'Rome

Sauvée,' when we brought out that piece at Sceaux, in the August of

1750. Nothing could be more true, more pathetic, more enthusiastic, than

he was in this part." Voltaire instructed the actors when they performed

his own tragedies; his criticisms were just, and given with that

earnestness and vividness of illustration that marked the liveliness of

his sensations. "Remember," he said to an actor who whined out the part

of Brutus, "remember that you are Brutus, the firmest of Romans, and

that you must not make him address the god Mars as if you were saying,

"O holy Virgin! grant that I may gain a prize of a hundred francs in the

lottery." He insisted with mademoiselle Dumesnil that she should put

more energy into the part of Mérope. "One must be possessed by the

devil," said the actress, to declaim with such vehemence."--"You are

right," said Voltaire; "and one must be possessed to succeed in any

art."

Voltaire passionately loved theatrical representations. The tragedies of

Corneille, and, above all, of Racine, inspired him with sensations of

the warmest delight. He wrote his own plays in transports of enthusiasm,

and corrected them with intense labour. But he had a further intention

in erecting his theatre; he aimed at popularity and at court favour, as

a safeguard from persecution, and as insuring his personal safety if he

should excite ministerial displeasure by any philosophical works. It was

for this cause that he endeavoured to propitiate the new mistress of

Louis XV., madame de Pompadour. He had known her before she attracted

the king's attention; and after she became the royal mistress, she

continued for a time on a familiar footing with her old friend. Eager to

form a party, and to insure her own popularity, madame de Pompadour

patronised literature and the arts, and at first showed partiality for

Voltaire; the courtiers followed her example with eager emulation, and

the sovereign himself was induced to regard him with some show of

favour. He named him gentleman in ordinary to his chamber, and

historiographer of France,--places which Voltaire eagerly accepted, and

regarded as so many bulwarks to resist the attacks of his enemies. The

duties of the first-named place were, however, onerous, as they

necessitated a frequent attendance at court; he was permitted to dispose

of it, and he sold it for 30,000 francs; while, as a peculiar mark of

favour, he was allowed to preserve the title and privileges.

He was, moreover, elected member of the academy; but he purchased this

doubtful honour by the sacrifice of much honest pride. He was not

elected till he addressed a letter full of professions of respect for

the church and the Jesuits. No advancement would have induced him to

this act; but he believed that it was necessary to secure his safety

while he continued to inhabit the capital. At the same time, these

concessions embittered his spirit, and added force to his sarcasms and

hostility, when, by expatriation, he had secured his independence. When

we consider, however, that his concessions were made in vain, we regret

that any motive urged him to them; for if truth be the great aim of

intellectual exertions, the more imperative that those who aspire to

glory in the name of truth should rise far above subterfuge and

disguise. While madame du Châtelet lived, he had occupied a more

dignified position; and, in the retirement of Cirey, remained aloof from

the intrigues necessary to curry favour with an uneducated, bigoted

king, and his ignorant mistress. When his accomplished friend died, the

versatile and ambitious poet sailed at first without pilot or rudder.

What wonder that he was wrecked? and he deserves the more praise, when

he retrieved himself after wreck, and attained independence and dignity

in his seclusion in Switzerland.