short interval, believed that he should reach the goal he desired, and
become the dictator of the literary world, under the protection of his
sovereign. He was soon undeceived: Louis remembered too well cardinal de
Fleuri's lessons, not to regard him with distrust and dislike. Madame de
Pompadour watched the glances of the royal eye, and guided herself by
them. Crebillon was set up as Voltaire's successful rival: he felt his
immeasurable superiority, and was filled with scorn at the attempt made
to bring them on a level. He struggled at first; but still the court and
people called out for Crebillon; and, in a fit of disgust, he accepted
the reiterated invitation of the king of Prussia, hoping that a
temporary absence might calm the attacks of his enemies, and awaken the
partiality of the people.
Frederic received his friend with transports of joy. His undisguised
delight, his earnest request that he would exchange Paris for Berlin
permanently, the charm that his talents spread over the poet's life, and
the security he enjoyed, were all alluring. Frederic spared no
professions of friendship, no marks of real personal attachment; more
than once he kissed the poet's hand, in a transport of admiration. This
singular demonstration of affection from man to man, more singular from
king to author, helped, with many others in addition, to enchain
Voltaire. He, himself, assures us that they turned his head. "How could
I resist," he writes, "a victorious king, a poet, a musician, a
philosopher, who pretended to love me? I believed that I loved him. I
arrived in Potzdam in the month of June, 1750. Astolpho was not better
received in the palace of Alcina. To lodge in the apartment which the
maréchal de Saxe had occupied, to have the king's cooks at my orders
when I chose to eat in my own rooms, and his coachmen when I wished to
drive out, were the least favours shown me. The suppers were delightful.
Unless I deceive myself, the conversation was full of wit and genius.
The king displayed both; and what is strange, I never at any repast
enjoyed more freedom. I studied two hours a day with his majesty; I
corrected his works, taking care to praise greatly all that was good,
while I erased all that was bad. I gave him a reason in writing for all
my emendations, which composed a work on rhetoric and poetry for his
use. He profited by it, and his genius was of more service to him than
my lessons. I had no court to pay, no visits to make, no duties to
fulfil. I established myself on an independent footing, and I can
conceive nothing more agreeable than my situation."
With these feelings, it is not strange that he listened to his royal
friend's request, that he should resign his places in the court of
France, and accept that of chamberlain in Prussia, as well as a pension
for his life and that of his niece, and that he should permanently fix
himself in his royal friend's dominions; yet, while he accepted these
offers, he had many qualms. Madame Denis, his niece, to whom he
communicated his new plans, argued warmly against them. Her letter has
not come down to us; but she evidently took a keen and true view of the
annoyances and mortifications to which he might be exposed. She was
acquainted with her uncle's irritable temper,--his unguarded
conversation when carried away by the spirit of wit,--his vehemence when
struggling against control. She felt, and truly, that a king accustomed
to command was the last person to show indulgence for such foibles when
they clashed with himself. She prophesied that Frederic would, in the
end, be the death of his friend. Voltaire showed this letter to the
king, and he, in answer, wrote one to the poet, the expressions of which
won him entirely. "How," wrote Frederic, "could I cause the unhappiness
of a man whom I esteem, whom I love, and who sacrifices for me his
country, and all that is dear to man? I respect you as my master in
eloquence,--I love you as a virtuous friend. What slavery, what
misfortune, what change can you fear in a country where you are as much
esteemed as in your own, and with a friend who has a grateful heart? I
promise you that you shall be happy here as long as you live."
Voltaire sent this letter to count d'Argental, whom he always named his
guardian angel, as his apology for expatriating himself. "Judge," he
writes, "whether I am excusable? I send you his letter,--you will think
that you are reading one written by Trajan or Marcus Aurelius,--yet I am
not the less agitated while I deliver myself over to fate, and throw
myself, head foremost, into the whirlpool of destiny which absorbs all
things. But how can I resist? How can I forget the barbarous manner with
which I have been treated in my own country? You know what I have gone
through. I enter port after a storm that has lasted thirty years. I
enjoy the protection of a king; I find the conversation of a
philosopher--the society of a delightful man--united in one, who, for
the space of sixteen years, has exerted himself to comfort me in my
misfortunes, and to shelter me from my enemies. All is to be feared for
me in Paris; here I am sure of tranquillity: if I can answer for
anything, it is for the character of the king of Prussia." He wrote with
even more enthusiasm to his niece. "He is the most amiable of men; he is
a king; it is a passion of sixteen years' standing; he has turned my
head. I have the insolence to think that nature formed me for him. There
is a singular conformity in our tastes. I forget that he is master of
half Germany, and see in him only a good, a friendly man."
To establish the poet at his court, Frederic named him his chamberlain,
and gave him the brevet of a pension of twenty thousand francs for
himself, and four thousand for his niece, who was invited to come and
take up her abode with her uncle at Potzdam. Before he accepted these
bounties, it was necessary to obtain permission from his own sovereign,
of whom he was placeman and pensioner. Frederic himself wrote to solicit
the consent of the king of France. To Voltaire's surprise, Louis showed
displeasure. Monarchs are usually averse to any display of independence
on the part of their subjects and servants. He accepted the poet's
resignation of the place of historiographer, which Voltaire had hoped to
keep, but permitted him to retain his title of gentleman in ordinary and
his pension. Yet this was done in a manner that showed Voltaire that if
he were forced to leave Prussia, his position in his native country
would be more perilous and stormy than ever.
He felt, also, deeply disappointed in finding himself obliged to give up
the idea of having his niece, Madame Denis, with him in Prussia. "The
life we lead at Potzdam," he writes, "which pleases me, would drive a
woman to despair; so I leave her my house in Paris, my plate, and my
horses, and I add to her income." Still his niece and his friends were
not content at his throwing himself so entirely into the power of
Frederic, and their suggestions inspired a thousand doubts as to the
prudence of his choice, especially when the severity of the winter made
him feel that the climate was ill suited to his feeble constitution.
However, he manfully opposed himself to the objections raised against
his choice, and the sufferings which the long icy winter caused him to
endure. He devoted himself to authorship. His chief occupation was his
"Age of Louis XIV.," of which he was justly proud. He felt that he could
write with greater freedom while absent from France. "I shall here
finish," he writes, "the 'Age of Louis XIV.,' which, perhaps, I had
never written in Paris. The stones with which I erect this monument in
honour of my country had, there, served but to crush me; a bold word had
seemed a lawless licence, and the most innocent expressions had been
interpreted with that charity that spreads poison through all." Again he
writes: "I shall be historiographer of France in spite of my enemies,
and I was never so desirous of doing well the duties of my place as
since I lost it. This vast picture of so illustrious an age turns my
head. If Louis XIV. be not great, at least his age is. It is an immense
work: I shall revise it severely, and shall endeavour, above all, to
render the truth neither odious nor dangerous."
Besides this great undertaking, he corrected his tragedies. As usual, he
infected all round with his love of the drama. A theatre was established
at court; the brothers and sisters of the king took parts in his plays,
and submitted to his instructions. This was a species of flattery well
suited to turn a poet's head; yet soon, very soon, the dark cloud
appeared in the horizon, and his attention became roused to assure
himself whether indeed he heard the far off thunder of an approaching
storm. These dawnings of fear and distrust are ingenuously detailed in
his letters to his niece.
[Sidenote: Nov.
6.
1750.]
"It is known, then, at Paris," he writes, "that we have acted the death
of Cæsar at Potzdam; that prince Henri is a good actor, has no accent,
and is very amiable; and that pleasures may be found here. All this is
true--but--the suppers of the king are delicious--seasoned by reason,
wit, and science--liberty reigns over them--he is the soul of all--no
ill-humour, no clouds--at least, no storms; my life is independent and
occupied; but--but--operas, plays, carousals, suppers at
Sans-souci--warlike manœuvres, concerts, study, readings; but--but--the
weather, my dear child, begins to be very cold----"
Such were the first expressions of distrust inspired by observing a
certain degree of deceit in the king. He found that he could turn those
into ridicule whom he flattered most to their face; and he also found
that such blowing of hot and cold with the same breath, which is deemed
almost fair in some societies, was fertile of annoyance when practised
by a king whose word is law, whose smiles are the ruling influence of
the day, whose slightest remark is reported, magnified, and becomes the
rule of action to all around; and he began to feel that the chain that
bound him and the king, which he flattered would be worn equally by
both, fell heavily round him only. He became aware that the king was not
the less despotic and self-willed for being a philosopher. In truth,
Frederic and Voltaire had a mutual and sincere love for each other. They
agreed in their opinions, they sympathised in their views. Each enjoyed
the conversation, the wit, the gaiety, the genius of the other; but
Voltaire panted for entire independence: to think, to speak, to write
freely, was as necessary as the air he breathed. To gain these
privileges he had quitted France; and though he passionately loved
flattery and distinction, yet these were only pleasing when they waited
upon his every caprice; and became valueless when he was called upon to
sacrifice the humour of the moment to gain them. The king delighted in
Voltaire's talents; but, then, he wished them to be as much at his
command as a soldier's valour, which deserves reward, but which may only
be displayed at the word of command.
The moment a feeling of injustice on one side, and of assumption of
direction on the other, showed themselves, a thousand circumstances
arose to embitter the intercourse of the unequal friends. The king had a
favourite guest, la Metrie, a physician by profession, the worst,
Voltaire tells us, that ever practised, an unprincipled fellow, but
witty and vivacious; whose good spirits, and bold and infidel opinions,
pleased Frederic, who made him his reader. This sort of man is never
suited to a court. The same restless aspiration after independence that
renders a man an infidel in opinions makes him a bad courtier.
[Sidenote: Sept.
2.
1751.
Ætat.
57.]
"La Metrie," writes Voltaire to his niece, "boasts in his prefaces of
his extreme felicity in being near a great king, who sometimes reads his
poems to him; but, in secret, he weeps with me; he would leave this
place on foot: and I--why am I here? You will be astonished at what I
tell you. La Metrie swore to me the other day, that, when speaking to
the king of my pretended favour, and of the petty jealousy that it
excites, he replied, 'I shall not want him for more than a year longer:
one squeezes the orange, and throws away the peel.'"
These words sank deep in Voltaire's mind; and not less deeply did the
king feel an expression of the irritable poet, who called himself
Frederic's laundress, and said, when he corrected the royal poems, that
he was washing the king's dirty linen. Such heedless speeches, carried
from one to the other by the thoughtless or the malicious, destroyed
every feeling of attachment, and circumstances soon concurred to inspire
both with mistrust, to inspire the weaker with a desire of throwing off
his chains, and the stronger with a more unworthy determination of
adding to their weight.
The first circumstance of any importance that occurred was a pecuniary
transaction between Voltaire and a Jew. Voltaire says, that after the
speech of Frederic, reported to him by la Metrie, he wished to put his
orange peel in safety. Whether his transaction with the Jew concerned
the placing of his money cannot be told; it is enveloped in great
obscurity; however, what is certain is, that it was submitted to a legal
trial, the Jew condemned, and Voltaire entirely exonerated from blame.
The mere fact, however, of an accusation being made against him, and
fault found, was matter of triumph to his enemies. A thousand libels
were circulated in Paris and Berlin, and a thousand falsehoods told.
Frederic, when he heard of the dispute, referred it to the decision of
the law. In this he did well. But he affected to distrust Voltaire; he
forbade him to appear at court till the decision of the judges was
known. Voltaire was far above peculation and pecuniary meanness. The
king committed an irremissible crime in friendship, whether he really
distrusted Voltaire, or merely pretended so to do. But a king of Prussia
is an absolute monarch; all belonging to him are his creatures; and that
one of these should venture out of bounds, either to secure his property
or to augment it, was regarded as a deep offence. Voltaire must be
humbled. Treated like a servant, not a friend, what wonder that the
sensitive poet felt that the orange was squeezed a little too hardly,
and began to earnestly desire to save as much of it as he could. A sort
of reconciliation, however, ensued; again all appeared smiling on the
surface, though all was hollow beneath. Voltaire engaged in printing his
"Age of Louis XIV.," was desirous of finishing it before he quitted
Prussia; meanwhile he had a sum of money to the amount of 300,000
livres, about 15,000_l_., which he wished to place; he took care not to
put it in the Prussian funds, but secured it advantageously on certain
estates which the duke of Wirtemburg possessed in France. Through the
infidelity of the post Frederic discovered this transaction, and felt
that it was a preparation for escape. Accordingly, he made more use of
him than ever as a corrector of his literary works. In spite of all
these disturbances, there was something in the life of Potzdam
peculiarly agreeable to Voltaire. "I am lodged conveniently," he writes,
"in a fine palace. I have a few friends about me of my own way of
thinking, with whom I dine regularly and soberly. When I am well enough,
I sup with the king; and conversation does not turn either upon
individual gossip or general ineptities, but upon good taste, the arts,
and true philosophy; on the means to attain happiness, on the mode of
discerning the true from the false, upon liberty of thought: in short,
during the two years I have spent at this place, which is called a
court, but which is really a retreat for philosophers, not a day has
passed during which I have not learnt something instructive." Thus
Voltaire tried to blind himself, while he really enjoyed the
conversation and friendship of Frederic, and while the cloven foot of
despotism remained in shadow.
Among other modes of civilising Prussia and spreading the blessings of
knowledge, Frederic had established an academy. This was a favourite
creation, and it did him honour. The president was Maupertuis, a man of
some ability, but whose talents were vitiated by the taint of envy. He
had considered himself the first _bel esprit_ at court till Voltaire
appeared. He and the poet had corresponded heretofore, and Voltaire had
not spared flattery in his letters; but he neglected to mention
Maupertuis's name in his speech when he took his seat in the French
academy. This was not an injury to be forgiven; and though Voltaire paid
him every sort of attention, the other could ill brook his superior
favour, especially as Frederic, who had never relished his conversation,
frequently excluded him from the royal suppers, and joined with Voltaire
in making him the object of their endless pleasantries. At first
Voltaire only jested, because he was a wit and could not help it; but
Maupertuis contrived to rouse a more bitter spirit.
He had discovered a new principle in mechanics, that of the _least
power_: this principle met much opposition, and Kœnig, a Prussian
mathematician, not only argued against it, but quoted a fragment of a
letter of Leibnitz, in which this principle was mentioned and objected
to. Kœnig confessed that he possessed only a copy of the letter in
question, acknowledging that the original was lost. Maupertuis took
advantage of this circumstance; he induced the academy, of which he was
president, to summon Kœnig to produce the original; and when this was
allowed not to be found, he proceeded to accuse him of forgery. He got
up a meeting of such academicians as he could influence, by whom Kœnig
was declared unworthy to be any longer a member, and his name erased
from the list.
Kœnig had formerly instructed madame du Châtelet in the philosophy of
Leibnitz. Voltaire consequently knew and esteemed him, and was indignant
at the persecution he suffered; he took his part openly, and was only
restrained from crushing his adversary by Frederic's personal request
not to make a jest of his academy or its president. The seeds of
animosity, however, between him and Maupertuis, long sown, sprung up and
flourished with vigour. Maupertuis contrived to excite a disreputable
person of the name of La Beaumelle to attack the poet. His calumnies
ought to have met with contempt only; but Voltaire was irritated, and
his dislike to Maupertuis increased. The president published a book full
of philosophical follies, which Voltaire satirised unsparingly. He wrote
a diatribe called "Akakia," and read it to the king; Maupertuis was the
butt of a thousand witticisms, and the royal suppers rang with laughter
at his expense. But Voltaire was not content to make a jest of
Maupertuis only in the royal presence, and Frederic, beginning to think
that to attack his president was to attack his academy and also himself,
published two pamphlets against Kœnig, which also inculpated Voltaire.
The poet was indignant. "I see," he writes to his niece, "that the
orange is squeezed; I must now try to save the rind. I am going to write
a small dictionary for the use of kings, in which it will be shown that
_my friend, means my slave; my dear friend, you are becoming indifferent
to me; I will make you happy, I will endure while I need you; sup with
me this evening, you shall be my butt to-night._ Seriously, my heart is
wounded. Speak to a man with tenderness, and write pamphlets against
him--and what pamphlets! Tear a man from his country by the most solemn
promises, and treat him with the blackest malignity. What a contrast!"
Voltaire was not a man to suffer these attacks without punishing them
with a visitation of his unbridled wit. Fearful of attacking Frederic,
he revenged himself on Maupertuis, and published "Akakia."
He belonged to the republic of letters, and did not understand that it
should be ruled by the will of one man. And then, while he vehemently
reprehended those authors who had made their literary enemies the
objects of public satire, he, himself, indulged in the most bitter
attacks. Frederic considered "Akakia" as a satire, deserved by
Maupertuis, and thus a blameless source of merriment at his supper
table, where he had no objection to turn his president into ridicule;
but the publication was quite another affair; by this he considered his
academy, and consequently himself, attacked; and he retaliated by a
still more flagrant outrage. He caused the diatribe to be burnt by the
hands of the hangman in the public square of Berlin. Voltaire had a
right to be deeply incensed by this act. He did not attack the honour or
morality of Maupertuis in his diatribe, but simply ridiculed his
opinions; and though "Akakia" has only that slight merit, dependent on
associations of the day, now lost, which rendered it amusing to a
circle, and was not adapted for general reading nor posterity, still, as
it was not libellous, the act of the king of Prussia was an insolent
exertion of intolerable despotism. He meant, perhaps, to break
Voltaire's spirit by such an insult. Knowing that he could not return to
Paris, he fancied him at his mercy. Voltaire had, however, but one
wish--to escape, and to feel himself once more free. On this outrage he
instantly returned "the king's baubles," as he called them,--the key of
chamberlain, his cross, and the brevet of his pension,--with these
verses:--
"Je les reçus avec tendresse,
Je les renvoie avec douleur,
Comme un amant, dans sa jalouse ardeur,
Rend le portrait de sa maitresse."
Thus trying to soften the acquisition of his freedom to Frederic
himself. He at the same time said that he was ill, and asked permission
to drink the waters of Plombières. The king, desirous of keeping him on
his own terms, replied by sending some bark, and, observing that there
were as medicinal waters in Silesia as at Plombières, refused
permission for his journey.
Voltaire had but one other resource: he asked permission to see the
king. They met, and the pleasure they took in each other's society
seemed at once to obliterate the recollection of offence and wrong. It
is said that Voltaire appeared before the king with "Akakia" in his
hand; on entering the room, he threw it into the fire, saying, "There,
sire, is the only remaining copy of that unhappy hook which caused me to
lose your friendship." The king, in his German simplicity, fancied that
the poet spoke the simple truth; he rushed to the fire to save the
pamphlet from among the burning fagots. Voltaire struggled to poke it
in. Frederic at length drew out the half-burnt pages in triumph. He
embraced his friend. They supped together. "A supper of Damocles,"
Voltaire calls it; but to the king it was one of triumph, since it
appeared to be the sign that he had bent Voltaire's spirit to pass over
the indignities heaped on him, and secured him as a submissive courtier
for ever. As a token of his renewed servitude, he gave him back "the
baubles." Maupertuis, himself, was not spared by the friends, who, as
far as wit could go, sacrificed him at the shrine of their
reconciliation. Voltaire, however, had but one end in view. He used his
regained influence to obtain permission for a journey to Plombières,
promising to be absent only a few months--a promise he did not mean to
keep. But as Francis I. broke the treaty which Charles V. forced him to
make in prison in Madrid, so might Voltaire consider any promise he made
to Frederic void, while the frontiers of Prussia were guarded by an
hundred and fifty thousand men, and independence had become necessary to
his existence.
Voltaire exulted in escaping from the palace of Alcina--as he named the
abode of Frederic; but he did not think it prudent to venture to Paris,
where his enemies were in vigour, and strengthened by the displeasure
with which Louis XV. regarded the poet's having exchanged his court for
that of Frederic. Instead, therefore, of taking refuge in his own
country (if the subject of an arbitrary monarch can be said to have a
country), he remained some time at Leipsic. Here he received a
ridiculous challenge from Maupertuis, which only tended to add zest to
his pleasantries upon him; and he then proceeded to the court of the
duchess of Saxe Gotha, a most excellent and enlightened princess, "who,
thank God," says Voltaire, "did not write verses." He breathed again
without fear, believing that he hail secured his freedom. He continued
his journey to Frankfort, where he was met by madame Denis. The bad
state of Voltaire's health rendered a woman's presence and attentions
necessary; and he was proud also of the heroic sacrifice it seemed in
those days when a lady, enjoying the pleasures of Parisian society,
quitted them to attend on a sick old uncle, even though that uncle were
Voltaire. Here a sort of tragi-comic adventure ensued, to the temporary
annoyance of the poet, and the lasting disgrace of the king of Prussia.
Frederic's angry feelings were roused by several just causes of
annoyance. He learned that "Akakia" was published in Holland, and he
remembered the scene of its pretended destruction by its author with
indignation. He was angry, also, that the poet had escaped, and was no
longer liable to the effects of his displeasure, and fear of ridicule
added poignancy to these feelings. Frederic at once wished to punish his
former friend, and to shield himself from the shafts of his ridicule.
Voltaire had taken with him a volume of Frederic's poems, privately
circulated and given to him. The king feared that his corrector might
strip his verses of their borrowed feathers, and deliver up the
unfledged nurslings to the laughter of the world. He sent orders to his
agent at Francfort to demand back this volume, as well as the baubles
before returned and restored. His agent was a Jew of low character, and
totally illiterate. He proceeded against Voltaire, as if he had been a
servant suspected of running away with his master's plate. The precious
volume which Freitag called _L'Œuvre de Poésie du Roi son Maître_,
had been left at Leipsic. Voltaire and madame Denis were kept under
strict arrest till this unfortunate book arrived at Francfort; and as
there are always ill-omened birds who scent ill fortune, and take
advantage of it; so, now, a bookseller of the Hague, whom Voltaire had
employed, many years ago, to print the "Anti-Machiavel" of Frederic,
brought forward a balance of twenty crowns with interest and compound
interest, which the poet was forced to pay. At last, after a
disagreeable and strict imprisonment of nearly a month's duration,
Voltaire and his niece were allowed to depart.
Thus ended the treaty of equal friendship between king and poet. The
pettiness of the details is striking. We find neither the magnanimity of
a hero in one, nor the calmness of a philosopher in the other. Voltaire
had the excuse that he avenged his injured friend Kœnig in his satire
on Maupertuis. He had dreamed of independence in a palace; and from the
moment he discovered his mistake he was eager to be free. Frederic,
meanwhile, was taught by his enemies to regard him as a restless,
intriguing Frenchman. He had written to him, at the beginning of their
quarrel: "I was glad to receive you. I esteemed your understanding, your
talents, your acquirements; and I believed that a man of your age, weary
of skirmishing with authors and exposing himself to the storm, would
take refuge here as in a tranquil port. First, you exacted from me, in a
singular manner, that I should not engage Freron to correspond with me,
and I had the weakness to yield. You visited the Russian minister, and
talked to him of affairs in which you had no right to interfere; and it
was believed that I commissioned you. You had a dirty transaction with a
Jew, and filled the city with clamour. I preserved peace in my house
till you arrived; and I warn you, that if you have a passion for
intrigue and cabal, you have addressed yourself very ill. I like quiet
people; and if you can resolve to live like a philosopher, I shall be
glad to see you; but if you give way to your passions, and quarrel with
everybody, you had better remain at Berlin. * * * * I write this letter
with unpolished German good sense, which says what it thinks, and
without adopting equivocal terms and soft palliations to disfigure the
truth."[6] This letter shows that Frederic believed himself to be in the
right, and had conceived a bad opinion of his friend. We all know the
height to which misunderstandings can rise when fostered by malicious
and interested persons. We cannot wonder that men of quick tempers like
Frederic and Voltaire should disagree; but it was to be lamented that
they made their pettish quarrels a spectacle for all Europe.
Voltaire had now a new life to fix upon. He was eager to secure his
entire independence. The tranquillity he had at first enjoyed in Prussia
made him feel the value of peace. This he could never find in his own
country, and he henceforth looked upon expatriation as the only means of
securing his tranquillity. Chance assisted him in forming the choice of
an abode, which, from the independence it afforded, placed him in a high
and dignified position in the eyes of all Europe. He had at first
entertained the plan of establishing himself in Alsatia, in which
province he spent two years, after leaving Prussia, occupied in writing
the annals of the empire; but he was disturbed by the attacks of the
Jesuits, who were angry because they had failed in an endeavour to
convert him. He found that he could not visit Paris with safety; and he
hesitated where to establish himself. Meanwhile, his health being, as
ever, bad, he was advised to try the waters of Aix, in Savoy.
In his way thither he passed through Lyons. Cardinal Tencin refused to
receive him, on account of his being out of favour at court. Voltaire
was piqued; but the inhabitants of Lyons compensated for the insult.
They entertained him with public honours; got up his tragedies, that he
might be present at the representation, and receive the enthusiastic
applause of an audience who gloried in the opportunity of thus rewarding
the author of works which excited so much admiration. Proceeding from
Lyons to Savoy, he passed through Geneva, and here he consulted
Tronchin, a physician, whom every one looked on as holding life and
death in his hands. Tronchin dissuaded him from trying the waters, but
promised to restore his health if he would make some stay near him.
Voltaire gave readier faith than could have been expected from a
ridiculer of the medical art. He consented to remain in the
neighbourhood of Geneva; and, finding that it was an established law
that no Catholic might purchase land in Protestant Switzerland, it
pleased his whimsical mind instantly to buy an estate in the territory
of Geneva.
[Sidenote: 1755.
Ætat.
61.]
Add to which motive, he fully appreciated the advantages he must derive
from living out of France, yet in a country where French was spoken, and
where liberty of speech and of the press had hitherto reigned
undisturbed. His house, named Les Delices, was beautifully situated. He
describes it as commanding a delightful view. The lake on one side, the
town of Geneva on the other; the swift swelling Rhone formed a stream at
the end of his garden, fed by the Arve and other mountain rivers. A
hundred country houses with their gardens adorned the shores of the lake
and of the rivers; and the Alps were seen afar off,--Mont Blanc and its
range, whose picturesque snow-clad peaks for ever presented new aspects,
as the clouds or the varying sunlight painted them. A philosopher, blest
with affluence, might well be happy in such a seclusion. Soon after his
arrival, Voltaire wrote the fragment of his autobiography, to explain
his quarrel with the king of Prussia. These memoirs are one of his most
entertaining works. The playful sarcasm, which characterises every page
he ever wrote, in this production reaches home, yet can scarcely be said
to sting. He laughs at Frederic and his _Œuvres des Poésies_; he
laughs at his own illusions; and then lingers with fondness on the
retreat he had at last found from the tumult of society and the
friendship or enmity of kings. He congratulates himself on having made
his own fortune, and confesses that this was done by speculations in
finance. "It is necessary to be attentive to the operations to which the
ministry, always pressed and always changing, makes in the finances of
the state," he observes. "Something often occurs of which a private
individual can profit without being under obligations to any one; and it
is vastly agreeable to fabricate one's own fortune. The first step is
troublesome, the rest are easy. One must be economical in one's youth,
and in old age one is surprised at one's wealth. Money is at that time
more necessary, and that time I now enjoy. After having lived with
kings, I am become a king in my home. I possess all the conveniences of
life in furniture, equipages, and good living. The society of agreeable
and clever people occupy all the time spared from study and the care I
am forced to take of my health. While I enjoy the most pleasant style of
life that can be imagined, I have the little philosophic pleasure of
perceiving that the kings of Europe do not taste the same happy
tranquillity; and I conclude that the position of a private person is
often preferable to that of royalty."
These words were singularly verified in the renewal of his
correspondence with the king of Prussia. Frederic had begun it by
sending him an opera he had founded on "Mérope."
[Sidenote: 1756.
Ætat.
62.]
Soon after the coalition was formed against Prussia, which, victorious
at first, brought Frederic to the position of rebel against the empire.
The loss of a battle reduced him to extremities; and, rather than submit
to his enemies, he resolved to commit suicide. He wrote a long epistle
in verse announcing his intention: Voltaire answered it in prose, and
combated his idea by every argument that seemed most likely to have
weight. Frederic was in some sort convinced; he dismissed the idea of
self-destruction; but he resolved to fall on the field of battle, unless
the victory was decided in his favour.
This more heroic resolution was rewarded by the gain of two battles, in
which scarcely a Prussian fell, and the defeat of the enemy was
complete. Frederic wrote triumphantly to his friend to announce his
victories.
[Sidenote: 1758.
Ætat.
64.]
Soon after, Voltaire was applied to by cardinal Tencin, who had refused
to receive him at Lyons, to forward letters which were to negotiate a
peace. The wily philosopher consented: he was aware that the cardinal
would fail, and he was malicious enough to wish to enjoy the sight of
his mortification. The cardinal did fail, and more disgracefully than he
expected; and the disappointment cost him his life. "I have never been
able to understand," Voltaire observes, "how it is that people are
killed by vexation, and how ministers and cardinals, whose hearts are so
hard, retain sufficient sensibility to die from the effects of a
disappointment. It was my design to mortify and laugh at, not to kill
him."
Voltaire had secured his safety, and could give himself up to that
ardent love of study, that restless aspiration for fame, that eager
endeavour to overthrow the superstitions (and, unfortunately, more than
the superstitions, the religion) of Europe, and that more noble
resolution to oppose all abuses, and to be the refuge and support of the
oppressed, which animated his soul through a long life chequered by
physical suffering. In his retreat of Les Delices, he brought out his
historical work on the "Manners and Spirit of Nations." He composed
several of his best tragedies; he wrote "Candide," a book rendered
illustrious by its wit and penetrating spirit of observation, in spite
of its grossness and implied impiety, which are the reigning blemishes
of Voltaire's writings. As usual, also, he erected a theatre in his
house. Added to his habitual love for theatrical amusements, he hoped to
impart a taste for them to the Genevese, and so to weaken that ascetic
spirit of repulsion of intellectual pleasure to which, whether enjoined
by monks or recommended by Calvin, he was hostile.
All, however, was not labour, peace, and amusement. The publication of
the poem of the "Pucelle" threatened a renewal of the persecutions of
which he had been the victim in his earlier days. Several forged verses
in ridicule of Louis XV. and madame de Pompadour had been foisted into
the surreptitious edition that appeared, and it was with difficulty that
his friends proved that he was not the writer. Voltaire, indeed, was
always in a state of inky war. A man who had provoked the priesthood of
Europe, and whose talent for perceiving and pourtraying the ridiculous
was unequalled and unsparing, could not fail in creating a host of
enemies. Satires, epigrams, and libels rained on him. In his retirement
of Les Delices, he might, if he had chosen, have been insensible to
these attacks; but not one but found their way; he answered all, dealing
about his shafts dipped in sarcasm and irony, and spreading abroad a
sort of terror that served as a wholesome check to his enemies. A word
or line from his pen marked a man for ever. Several among those thus
attacked were forced to hide themselves till a new victim was immolated,
and their own disgrace forgotten. In his "Life of Molière," speaking of
the epigrams with which Boileau and Molière attacked, and, it is said,
caused the death of Cotin, Voltaire called this the sad effect of a
licence rather perilous than useful, which is more apt to flatter the
malignity of men than to inspire good taste; and in his "Essay on
Satire," he severely blames Boileau for naming the poets whom he
censures. Yet, with blind inconsistency, Voltaire never spared an enemy.
He conceived that, if attacked by, he had a fair right to annihilate, as
he well could, the stinging gadflies of literature. The society of Paris
was kept alive by his multitudinous epigrams. This engendered a baneful
spirit of sarcasm, and spread abroad an appetite for injuring others by
ridicule, slander, and jests that wound. They rendered society more
heartless and more cruel than ever.
Voltaire, himself, was visited by the effects of the disturbed state of
feeling he helped to engender. He had hoped to find a safe asylum in the
Genevese territories. But his attacks on their prejudices created a host
of enemies. He began to feel that the dark shadows of persecution were
gathering round.
[Sidenote: 1762.
Ætat.
68.]
He found that, although his presence in Paris would not be permitted, he
might, in safety, take up his abode in a remote part of France. He
purchased, therefore, the estate of Ferney, on the French territory,
within a short distance of Geneva; and thus with a foot, as it were, in
two separate states, he hoped to find safety in one if threatened with
hostility in the other.
He was more fortunate than he anticipated. The persecutions he
afterwards endured were reduced to little more than threats, and were
less than might be expected by a man who first raised the voice of
hostility to, and resolved on, the destruction of a system of religion
supported by a powerful hierarchy which was in possession of half the
wealth of the nations who professed their faith, and which was regarded
as the bulwark of their power by the monarchs of Europe. Voltaire's poem
on the law of Nature, and his version of Ecclesiastes, were burnt in
Paris as deistical and blasphemous, although the latter had no fault but
that of turning the sublime into commonplace. A poem on the earthquake
at Lisbon was also produced at this time; and "Candide" was written and
published. To collect together the most dreadful misfortunes, to heap
them on the head of a single individual, and in one canvass to group all
of disastrous that a fertile imagination can paint, and present this as
a picture of life, does not seem at first sight the most worthy
occupation of a philosopher. Voltaire himself, though he had met
reverses, was a living refutation of "Candide." But as, in truth,
whether by sudden reverse or the slow undermining of years, all human
hope does fade and decay, as life proceeds to its close; so Voltaire,
now nearly seventy years of age, might, on looking back, consider
disappointment and sorrow as the mark of humanity; and, by showing these
ills to be inevitable, inculcate a philosophical indifference. Still the
tone of "Candide" is not moral, and, like all Voltaire's lighter
productions, is stamped with a coarseness which renders it unfit for
general perusal. In addition to these minor productions, Voltaire
laboured at the correction and enlargement of his historical work on the
"Manners and Spirit of Nations,"--one of the greatest monuments which
his genius achieved.
While Voltaire was at Berlin, d'Alembert and Diderot had set on foot the
project of the "Encyclopédie." Their plan was, to write a book which
would become indispensable to every library, from its containing the
most recent discoveries in philosophy, and the best explanations and
details on every topic, and this mingled with an anti-catholic spirit,
that would serve to sap the foundations of the national religion.
Voltaire contributed but few, and those merely literary, articles to
this work--whose progress, however, he regarded with lively interest.
The outcry against the "Encyclopédie" was of course prodigious; every
one who did not belong to the party formed by the lovers of innovation
rose against it. Parliament and clergy pronounced its condemnation, and
succeeded so far in suppressing it, that the editors were obliged to
continue it clandestinely. They, however, did not submit without a
struggle: a literary war was declared, which raged furiously. Voltaire
was considered at the head of the liberal party, and he gave his mighty
aid to turn the opposers of his opinions into ridicule. One after the
other, they sank under the shafts of his wit, and were forced to take
shelter in retirement from the ridicule with which his epigrams had
covered them. Voltaire considered his thus abetting his friends a sacred
duty. "I belong to a party," he wrote, "and a persecuted, party, which,
persecuted as it is, has nevertheless gained the greatest possible
advantage over its enemies, by rendering them at once odious and
ludicrous."
It is pleasant to turn from these matters, which often display the
self-love and intolerance of the philosophers of the day, to such acts
as stamp Voltaire as a generous man, full of the warmest feelings of
benevolence, and capable of exerting all his admirable faculties in the
noblest cause,--that of assisting and saving the unfortunate. A great
niece of Corneille lived in indigence in Paris. A friend of hers
conceived the happy thought of applying to Voltaire for assistance; and
that which he instantly afforded, at once rescued her from privation and
care. His answer to the application deserves record. "It becomes an old
follower of the great Corneille to endeavour to be useful to the
descendant of his general. When one builds chateaux and churches, and
has poor relations to support, one has but little left to assist one,
who ought to be aided by the first people in the kingdom. I am old. I
have a niece who loves the fine arts, and cultivates them with success.
If the young lady of whom you speak will accept a good education under
my niece's care, she will look on her as a daughter, and I will be to
her as a father." This offer was of course gratefully accepted. The
young lady was clever, lively, yet gentle. Voltaire himself assisted in
her education. "I do not wish to make her learned," he writes, "but
desire that she should learn how to conduct the affairs of life and to
be happy." He was rewarded for his exertion by his protégée's docility
and gratitude. As a means of obtaining a dowry for her, he wrote his
elaborate commentary on Corneille's works, and published it, with an
edition of the great tragedian's works, by subscription--inducing the
monarchs and nobles of Europe, through his mighty influence, to send in
their names, and thus fabricated a fortune for the orphan.
Soon after, another and more important occasion offered itself for
serving his fellow creatures, and he acquitted himself of the task with
resolution and success.
The frightful spirit of persecution of the Huguenots, engendered by the
revocation of the edict of Nantes, by Louis XIV. and his
dragoon-missionaries, still survived in the provinces; and not only
embittered the minds of the ignorant, but influenced the legal
authorities, and led them always to associate the ideas of crime and
Protestantism together. Jean Calas had been a merchant of Thoulouse for
forty years. He was a Protestant--an upright and good man, and by no
means bigoted. One of his sons was a convert to Catholicism; but, far
from showing displeasure. Calas made him an allowance for his
maintenance. A female servant who had been in his family for thirty
years was a Catholic. One of his sons, named Marc-Antoine, committed
suicide. He was a young man of a restless, sombre, discontented
disposition; he disliked trade, and found himself excluded by the laws
against his religion from entering on any profession. He read various
books on suicide--conversed on the subject with his friends--and one
day, having lost all his money in play, resolved on the fatal act. The
family supped together; they had a guest with them--a young man only
nineteen, named Lavaisse, known for his amiable and gentle disposition.
After supper, Marc-Antoine left them; and when, shortly after, Lavaisse
took his leave, and the father went down stairs to let him out, they
discovered his son hanging from a door: he had undressed himself, folded
up his clothes, and committed the act with the utmost deliberation. The
family were seized with terror. They summoned medical aid and officers
of justice; their cries and terror gathered a crowd about the house. The
only error they committed was, that, knowing the horror in which suicide
was held, they at first declared that the unfortunate man had died a
natural death. The falsehood of this assertion being at once detected,
the most frightful suspicions were the consequence.
The people of Thoulouse were peculiarly fanatical--they regarded
Protestants as monsters capable of any crime: a whisper was raised that
Jean Calas had murdered his son. A story was quickly fabricated and
believed. It was alleged that Marc-Antoine was on the point of abjuring
Protestantism, and that his family and Lavaisse had murdered him, to
prevent him from putting his design into execution. A thousand other
details were swiftly invented for the purpose of adding terror to the
scene. The chief magistrate of Thoulouse, named David, excited by these
rumours, and paying no attention to possibility or proof, without even
proceeding with legal forms, threw the whole family of Calas, their
Catholic servant, and Lavaisse into prison. In the frenzy of the moment,
they turned the supposed victim into a martyr, and buried him in the
church of St. Etienne, as if he had already abjured his faith, and died
in consequence. One of the religious confraternities of the town
celebrated his funeral with pomp; a magnificent catafalque was raised to
his honour, on which was placed a skeleton, who was supposed to
represent Marc-Antoine, which was made to move; it held a pen, with
which it was supposed to sign the act of abjuration. The people, excited
by their priests, were transported with fanaticism: they invoked the son
as a saint; they demanded the execution of the father as a murderer.
The details of the trial of the unfortunate man accused of murdering his
own son were not less frightful and unjust: of twelve judges, six
acquitted him--it required a plurality of voices for his condemnation.
Two judges were terrified into retiring; others were gained over; a
majority of two was obtained, and the unfortunate Calas broken on the
wheel.
The whole circumstances were full of contradiction and absurdity. Calas
was sixty-eight years of age,--a kind father and a good man. If he had
committed the murder, the whole of his family must have been equally
guilty, as it was proved that they spent the evening together, and that
he had never quitted them for a moment. The judges paused, however,
before they condemned mother, brothers, sisters, the youth, their guest,
and their Catholic servant; they deferred their trial till after the
death of the old man, under the pretence that he might confess under
execution. Calas died in torture, however, protesting his innocence; and
the judges were perplexed what to do next. At first they pronounced a
sentence of acquittal; but, feeling that this decision was in too
glaring contradiction with that which condemned the father to the wheel,
they practised on the weakness of Pierre Calas to induce him to become a
Catholic: fear led him to show signs of yielding, at first; but the
weakness was temporary, and he fled from the monastery in which he had
been induced to take refuge. The unfortunate widow, Lavaisse, and the
servant were liberated. Deprived of fortune, covered with infamy,
reduced to destitution, the wretched family took refuge in Geneva. Their
case was mentioned to Voltaire; he sent for the surviving victims to
Ferney; he questioned them rigorously; the mere fact that the parliament
of Thoulouse had condemned the father, and liberated those who, had a
murder been committed, must have been accomplices, sufficed to show that
the sentence was unjust, and the execution of the unfortunate old man a
legal assassination. He obtained the documents of the proceeding from
Thoulouse; he found the narration of the Calas faithful in all its
parts, while their appearance and words bore the stamp of undeniable
truth. He was struck with horror, and exerted that energy which formed
his prominent characteristic to obtain justice for them,--an undertaking
which must strike any one familiar with narratives of judicial
proceedings in France, at that time, as full of nearly insuperable
obstacles. He interested the duke de Choiseul, a man of known humanity,
in their favour. The duchess d'Enville was then at Geneva, having come
to consult the famous Tronchin. She was an amiable and generous woman,
and superior to the prejudices and superstition of the age. She became
the protectress of the Calas. The family were sent to Paris; the widow
demanded a trial, and surrendered herself to prison. Voltaire was
indefatigable in drawing up memoirs and papers in their justification.
He did what no other man could have done: he roused all Europe to take
interest in their cause, and kept alive the memory of their wrongs by
writings that at once pourtrayed their sufferings and argued in favour
of toleration,--a word which then appeared synonymous with blasphemy,
and even to this day is not imprinted with sufficient depth in the minds
of men. The legal proceedings were carried on at his expense. These
extended to a great length. Two years passed before a definitive
judgment was pronounced; "so easy is it," remarks Voltaire, "for
fanaticism to condemn and destroy the innocent, so difficult for reason
to exculpate them." The duke de Choiseul had named a tribunal which was
not implicated with the tortuous and intolerant policy of the French
parliaments, to try the cause. But endless formalities succeeded one to
the other. The spirit which Voltaire had raised in their favour was
fervent in Paris. Persons of the first distinction visited the accused
in prison, and every one vied with the other in administering
consolation and support. In England a large subscription was raised in
their favour. At length the day of their acquittal arrived. The judges
unanimously pronounced that the whole family was innocent, and the
memory of the unfortunate father was redeemed from infamy. All Paris was
alive with joy and triumph: the people assembled in various parts of the
town; they were eager to see the persons to whom justice was at last
done; they clapped their hands in triumph when they appeared; the judges
addressed the king to supplicate him to repair the pecuniary losses of
the family, and the sum of 36,000 livres was given for this purpose.
Voltaire, in his seclusion among the Alps, heard of the success, and of
the enthusiastic joy with which his countrymen hailed the triumph of
innocence; he had a right to look on himself as the cause, not only of
the justice at last done to the wronged, but of the virtuous sympathy
felt by all Europe in their acquittal. He, whose sensations were all so
keen, felt deeply the gladness of victory. He knew that many blessed his
name; he felt himself to be the cause of good to his fellow-creatures,
and the epithet of the saviour of the Calas was that in which, to the
end of his life, he took most pride and joy. His letters at the moment
of the final decision show the depth of his emotion.
[Sidenote: 1765.
Ætat.
71.]
"Philosophy, alone, has gained this victory," he writes; "my old eyes
weep with joy." To conclude the history, David, the magistrate whose
fanaticism and cruelty hurried on the death of the miserable old man,
was deprived of his place; struck by remorse and shame, he lost his
reason, and soon after died.
Voltaire, known as the protector of the innocent, was soon called upon
to render a similar service for another family. A girl of the name of
Sirven had been carried off from her Protestant family, and, according
to the barbarous custom of the times, was shut up in a convent; where,
not yielding to conversion as readily as was expected, she was treated
with such severity that in a fit of desperation she threw herself into a
well and was drowned. Instead of punishing the priests and nuns for the
effects of their persecution, her family was accused of her death. They
had time to escape, but were condemned to death for contumacy. The
unfortunate father and mother resolved to apply to Voltaire. Reduced to
destitution, they were forced to make the journey on foot, and presented
themselves in a miserable state at Ferney. Voltaire was eager to raise
his voice in their favour, though he was aware that the public, having
lavished all their pity on the Calas would listen coldly to a new story.
The spirit of toleration, which, nevertheless, he had spread abroad,
served him in this case, as the enthusiasm of compassion had in the
other; such delays, however, occurred, that the unfortunate mother died
while the cause was yet pending. He could not obtain that the case
should be tried in Paris. The accused were obliged to surrender to the
parliament of Thoulouse. The principal people of that town had become
eager to exonerate themselves from the charges of persecution and
injustice which their former conduct had raised. The trial was carried
on impartially, and Sirven was acquitted. Seven years, however, had
elapsed before this tardy act of justice was completed.
Another instance of religious intolerance, more frightful in some of its
details than the preceding, roused Voltaire to combat the sanguinary
clergy of his country with renewed zeal. But in this instance he could
not save the victims already immolated by the malignancy of private
enmity, and the cruel bigotry of public tribunals.
Some very young men resident at Abbeville had rendered themselves
notorious for the freedom of their religious opinions. They read and
praised with enthusiasm various infidel books then in vogue. They had
been known to sing blasphemous songs at their supper table; and once, on
returning home late at night after a drunken frolic, one struck with his
cane a wooden crucifix placed by the road side. These acts, committed,
as they were, by boys under twenty, deserved blame, and even it might be
deemed punishment, but punishment suited to their few years and
consequent thoughtlessness; but it was a frightful exaggeration to
consider them criminals in the eye of the law, especially as none
existed in France against misdemeanours of this nature, and they could
only be punished by an act of arbitrary power. This was exerted to
punish them with a barbarity which is supposed to characterise the
Spanish inquisition alone; though if we read the history of the Gallican
church, we find that the priests of its powerful hierarchy were behind
those of no nation in the spirit of sanguinary and merciless
persecution. Unfortunately, in the present instance, one of the
principal actors in this foolish scene, a boy of seventeen, had a
personal enemy. A rich and avaricious old man of Abbeville, named
Belleval, had an intrigue with madame de Brou, abbess of Villancour.
This lady's nephew, the chevalier de la Barre, came to pay her a visit;
he and his friends were in the habit of supping in the convent, and he
was considered the successful rival of Belleval. This man resolved to be
revenged. He spread abroad in Abbeville the history of their blasphemous
conversations; he excited the spirit of fanaticism against them among
the populace, and raised such clamour in the city that the bishop of
Amiens thought it necessary to visit it for the purpose of taking
informations with regard to the circumstances reported to him. Belleval
busied himself in collecting witnesses, and in exaggerating every
instance of folly committed by these youths. Unfortunately, not only the
populace and priests of the city, but the tribunals by whom the cause
was tried, seconded too frightfully his iniquitous designs; although the
very fact of the misconduct of the abbess, by bringing the Catholic
religion into disrespect among these boys, ought to have pleaded in
their favour. The young men were condemned to a cruel death. Amongst
them was numbered Belleval's own son; this was unexpected by the
informer; and, in despair, he contrived that, he should escape, together
with two of his young associates. The remainder were not so fortunate.
La Barre, a youth, scarcely seventeen, condemned to undergo the torture
and to have his tongue cut out, and then to be decapitated, underwent
his sentence. When too late, the people of France awoke to a just sense
of horror at the cruelty committed. Voltaire was transported by
indignation. "You have heard," he wrote to d'Alembert, "the account from
Abbeville. I do not understand how thinking beings can remain in a
country where monkeys so often turn to tigers. I am ashamed to live even
on the frontier. This, indeed, is the moment to break all ties and carry
elsewhere the horror with which I am filled. What! at Abbeville,
monsters in the guise of judges, sentence a child of sixteen to perish
by the most frightful death--their judgment is confirmed--and the nation
bears it! Is this the country of philosophy and luxury? It is that of
St. Bartholomew. The inquisition had not dared to put in execution what
these Jansenist judges have perpetrated."
Voltaire's horror could not save the victim, for the evil was committed
before the news of the trial reached him. The populace, it is true, even
before the execution of the victims, returned to their senses, and
Belleval was held in such execration that he was forced to fly from
Abbeville, to avoid being torn to pieces. But the king and parliament of
Paris refused to repair their fault towards the survivors. Voltaire did
what he could. He recommended one of the victims who had fled, the
chevalier d'Etallonde, to the king of Prussia, whose service he entered;
and he endeavoured to open the eyes of government to the justice and
propriety of repairing its crime. But the duke de Choiseul feared to
act, and the parliament of Paris was a bigoted and intolerant body.
To his honour, we find that he was unwearied in his endeavours. When
Louis XVI. succeeded to the crown, and a milder reign commenced, he
renewed his exertions. D'Etallonde had, from good conduct, been promoted
in the Prussian army. He invited him to Ferney, and endeavoured to
interest the ministers of Louis in his favour, and to prevail on them to
revoke his sentence: in vain; the government had not sufficient justice
to avoid a fault, nor humanity to desire to repair it.
Such were the crimes committed in the outraged name of religion, that
animated Voltaire with the desire of wresting the power of doing ill
from the hands of the priesthood of his country, and which made him the
unwearied and active enemy of a system which sanctioned such atrocities.
In the present instance, something of fear added a sting to his
feelings. The "Philosophical Dictionary," a work he denied having
written, but of which, in reality, he was the author, was mentioned
among the books, a respect for which formed one of La Barre's crimes,
and it was burned in Paris, while exertions were made to denounce and
punish him as the author. These failed; but they embittered Voltaire's
enmity. He spread abroad the history of the enormities, which the
perpetrators, ashamed too late, were desirous of hushing up. Lalli, a
barrister, who was accused of having a principal part in the nefarious
proceeding, wrote to Voltaire at once to excuse himself, and threaten
the author. Voltaire replied, by an anecdote in Chinese history. "I
forbid you," said the emperor of China, to the chief of the historical
tribunal, "to mention me." The mandarin took out his note book and
pen--"What are you doing?" said the emperor. "I am writing down the
order which your majesty has just pronounced."
As some sort of compensation for these acts of horror and cruelty,
Voltaire heard of the banishment of the Jesuits from France. This
community had long reigned paramount in that kingdom; one of the society
was, by custom, always selected as confessor of the king. It had
signalised itself by every possible act of intolerance and persecution.
The Jansenists, the Huguenots, and the Quietists were exiled,
imprisoned, and ruined, through their influence. France was depopulated.
In bitterness of spirit, the truly pious and wise of the kingdom,
Boileau, Racine, Pascal, Fénélon, Arnaud, and a long list more, knew
that their zeal for a pure religion exposed them to persecution.
Voltaire disliked the Jansenists, and ridiculed the Quietists; but he
was too just not to revolt from persecution; and though, from the
prejudices of early education, he was inclined to look favourably on the
Jesuits, he rejoiced in their fall from the power which they misused,
and their expulsion from a country, so many of whose most virtuous
inhabitants they had visited with exile and ruin.
In writing Voltaire's life, we have too often to turn from acts denoting
a benevolent and generous spirit, to others which were inspired by
self-love, and a restless spirit that could not repose. Among these, his
conduct to Rousseau has disgraceful prominence. It is true that the
citizen of Geneva had provoked him first; but Rousseau was the victim of
the system of tyranny which Voltaire so fervently deprecated. Even if
his intellects were not impaired, he had, from the unfortunate
susceptibility of his disposition, and the misfortunes that pursued him,
become an object of commiseration, at least to one who sympathised in
his opinions and views. But once attacked, Voltaire never forgave. He
could not be injured, yet he avenged the intended injury. Had he
confined his ridicule and blame of Rousseau to conversation and letters,
it had, considering his influence in society, been sufficient revenge;
but when, to a great degree excited by Rousseau, those troubles and
tumults occurred in Geneva, from which Voltaire was so far the sufferer,
that he thought himself obliged to sell his property of Les Delices, he
made the tumults the subject of a licentious and burlesque poem, in
which Rousseau was held up to ridicule. The disgrace, however, recoiled
on himself. His most enthusiastic friends blamed his conduct, and
disliked his poem.
Voltaire ran a more fortunate career than befalls most men. He was rich,
and he had been wise enough to adopt a system that insured his
independence. At a distance from the capital, he was in reality removed
from the cabals of literature, the turmoils of society, and from the
excitement, so often attended by disappointment, that belongs to the
life of a literary man of high reputation. He led what he himself terms
a patriarchal life; his niece was at the head of his household. The
niece of Corneille, adopted by him, had married M. Dupuis, a gentleman
of some fortune in the neighbourhood of Geneva, and resided in his
house. No foreigner ever passed from France to Italy without paying a
visit to Ferney. All those of any note or merit were received with
cordial hospitality, and the chateau was never free from guests: above
fifty persons of different grades--masters, guests, and
servants--inhabited it. In the midst of this turmoil, Voltaire led a
laborious life. His health was feeble. During the winters, which the
neighbourhood of the eternal snows render peculiarly severe, he was
nearly always confined to his bed. But physical suffering never tamed
his spirit. From the bed of sickness, he sent abroad various writings,
some in support of the best interests of humanity (as in the cases of
Calas, &c.), others historical and poetic, and not a few replete with
that malicious pleasantry that caused him to be universally feared.
[Sidenote: 1766.
Ætat.
72.]
Few things occurred to interrupt the tenour of his life. At one time,
his niece, madame Denis, and his protégés, monsieur and madame Dupuis,
left him to visit Paris, and he was left for nearly two years alone in
his retreat. A thousand reports were current as to the cause of this
separation; but, in time, it became acknowledged that Voltaire's own
account of it was true. "I have been," he wrote to madame du Deffand,
"the innkeeper of Europe for fourteen years, and I am tired of the
trade. I have received three or four hundred English, who are so fond of
their country, that not one has recollected me since their departure,
except a Scotchman, of the name of Brown, who has written against me. I
have had French colonels, with their officers, who have remained a
month, but who serve their king so well, that they have never written to
me. I have built a chateau and a church. I have spent five hundred
thousand francs in these pious and profane works; and my illustrious
debtors in Paris and Germany, conceiving that these acts of magnificence
did not become me, have thought proper to curtail my means to teach me
wisdom. I found myself suddenly almost reduced to philosophy. I have
sent madame Denis to urge the generous French; I have taken the generous
Germans on myself. My seventy-four years and continual illnesses condemn
me to seclusion and moderation. This life cannot suit madame Denis, who
acted against the grain in coming to live with me in the country. She
needs perpetual company and pleasures to make her endure this desert,
which, according to the Russians themselves, is for five months of the
year worse than Siberia. Madame Denis had need of Paris; the niece of
Corneille had greater need, as she only saw it at an age and in a
situation which did not permit her to become acquainted with it. I made
an effort to separate myself from them, that they might enjoy the
pleasures of the capital."
After a visit to Paris of nearly two years, they returned to him again.
A visit to Ferney was an event in a traveller's life. In personal
intercourse, Voltaire was, according to the testimony of the king of
Prussia, and of every other contemporary, and singularly delightful and
entertaining. "You are agreeable in conversation, and instruct and amuse
at the same time. You are the most fascinating creature in the world;
and, when you choose, no one could resist loving you: your wit and
genius are so graceful, that, even while you offend, every one is ready
to forgive you." This is the description that Frederic gives of him. Nor
did age diminish the lustre of his wit, the vivacity of his spirit, or
the alternate gaiety and impressive charm of his conversation. It was
only at a distance that his tendency to what the French call
_tracasserie_--an inherent love of disturbance--and the vehement,
uncourteous, and unfair manner with which he carried on a dispute, made
his contemporaries, while they viewed him with wonder and delight, yet
alternately fear and censure him. He appeared particularly amiable to
those who sought his protection, for he was ever generous in pecuniary
points, and lavish of his praises to literary men, as long as they paid
worship at his shrine. His intercourse with Marmontel illustrates this
subject, and we shall extract his account of his visit to Ferney, as
giving a vivid picture of the vivacity, and whimsical and capricious
disposition, of this singular man; who in age and suffering was as
energetic, active, and enthusiastic as a youth just entering warm and
undeceived on the scene of life.
Marmontel had several years before been excited by him to venture on a
literary career in Paris. On his arrival, Voltaire received him with a
cordiality that warmed the young man's heart; his purse and house were
open to him. Nor did he stop at mere offers; he encouraged him in his
arduous endeavours, and he showed paternal joy in his success. These are
real and absolute virtues in a great man. There is so little
encouragement to literary ambition abroad in the world, especially in
this country. Those who hold the place of judges in the literary world
(including in this class those whose trade is criticism as well as
amateurs) are so afraid of compromising their reputation; and the rest
of society dare not pronounce an opinion for themselves; so that, except
in those instances in which, by a happy hit or servile fosterage of
prejudices, popular favour is gained, and a speedy sale of an edition
gives undeniable proof of success, authors of promise do not meet with
the tithe of the encouragement necessary to sustain them hopeful and
glad in their laborious career. Voltaire's sensitive heart felt that
praise and sympathy were the proper food of the young aspirant, and as
necessary as food, in keeping up that buoyant and confiding spirit which
alone enables him to develope all his powers; he displayed, therefore,
in voice and manner, and in actions, such earnest sympathy as served as
the dearest reward and encouragement to the author. His kindness to
Marmontel was unalterable, but their intercourse was broken off by his
expatriation. Marmontel, accompanied by a friend, visited him at Les
Delices soon after his arrival in Switzerland. "Our welcome," he
narrates, "was the most singular and original in the world. Voltaire was
in bed when we arrived: he held out his arms, and wept with joy, as he
embraced me. 'You find me dying,' he said, 'and you come to restore, or
to receive my last sigh.' My companion was frightened at this
commencement; but I, who had heard Voltaire declare himself dying a
hundred times before, made him a sign not to be alarmed. In fact, a
moment afterwards, the dying man made us sit by his bedside. 'My
friend,' said he to me, 'I am delighted to see you--especially at a time
when I have a man with me whom you will be glad to hear. It is M. de
l'Ecluse, formerly surgeon-dentist to the late king of Prussia, now
possessor of an estate near Montargis; he is a delightful man. Do you
not know him?'--'The only M. de l'Ecluse I know,' I replied, 'was an
actor at the comic opera.' 'That is he, my friend--the very man. If you
know him, you have heard him sing the song of the Remouleur, which he
acted and sang so well.' And then, with his bare arms and sepulchral
voice, Voltaire began to imitate l'Ecluse. We laughed heartily; but he
continued, seriously,--'I imitate him badly--you must hear M. de
l'Ecluse--it is truth itself--how delighted you will be! Go and see
madame Denis. Ill as I am, I shall rise to dine at table. The pleasure
of seeing you has suspended my sufferings, and I feel quite alive
again.'
"Madame Denis received us with that cordiality which is the charm of her
character. She presented M. de l'Ecluse to us, and at dinner Voltaire
encouraged him by the most flattering praises to give us the pleasure of
hearing him. We appeared charmed--need was--for Voltaire would not have
forgiven faint applause. Our subsequent ramble in his garden was
employed in talking of Paris--the newspapers, the theatres, the
'Encyclopédie,' and the unhappy 'Le Franc de Pompignan,' the butt of
all his jests. His physician, he said, having ordered him to hunt him
every day for two hours, he charged me to assure our friends that they
should receive a fresh epigram every day; and he was faithful to his
promise. On our return from our walk, he played at chess with M.
Gaulard, who respectfully allowed him to win; then we talked of the
drama, and of the revolution in acting brought about by Mlle. Clairon. I
exhausted all the little eloquence I possessed to inspire him with the
same enthusiasm that I felt myself for this actress; and I was enjoying
the impression I appeared to make, when, interrupting me, he exclaimed
with transport--'That is exactly like madame Denis--she has improved
most astonishingly. I wish you could see her play Zaire, Alzire,
Idamè--it is the perfection of talent.' Madame Denis compared to
Clairon! My ardour was checked in a moment; so true it is that taste
accommodates itself to the objects it possesses. In the evening, I drew
Voltaire out about the king of Prussia. He spoke with a sort of lofty
magnanimity; like a man who disdained an easy revenge, or as a lover
pardons a mistress, whom he deserts, for the indignation and blame she
expresses. The conversation at supper turned on the literary men he most
esteemed; and it was easy to discern those whom he really loved--it was
those who made the most public boast of his friendship. Before we went
to rest, he read us two new cantos of the 'Pucelle,' and Madame Denis
remarked to us that this was the only day since his arrival at Les
Delices that he had passed without shutting himself up in his study
during some portion of it. The next day we had the discretion to leave
him during a part of the morning to himself. I told him that we would
wait till he rang. He was visible at eleven o'clock, but was still in
bed. 'Young man,' said he to me, 'I hope you have not renounced
poetry: let me see what you have lately written.' * * * Before dinner he
took me to pay some visits in Geneva; and, speaking of his intercourse
with the Genevese, he said, 'It is agreeable to live in a country whose
sovereigns send to ask you to lend them your carriage when they come to
dine with you.' His house was open to them, they passed whole days
there. * * *
"In the evening, at supper, our kings and their mistresses were the
subjects of conversation; and Voltaire, while making a comparison of the
gallantry of the old court and the present one, displayed that abundant
memory from which nothing interesting escaped. From madame de la
Vallière to madame de Pompadour, the anecdotic history of the two
reigns, with that of the regency between, passed in review with a
rapidity and a brilliancy of design and colouring quite dazzling.
However he reproached himself for having robbed M. de l'Ecluse of
moments which he said he could have rendered far more diverting, and
begged him to repair his fault by giving us some scenes of the
'Ecosseures,' at which he laughed like a child.
"The next was our last day. As we were to depart early on the following
morning, we agreed with madame Denis and messieurs Hubert and Cramer to
prolong the pleasure of being together, by sitting up and conversing
till the hour of departure. Voltaire insisted on making one of us: in
vain we pressed him to go to bed; more wakeful than ourselves, he read
us several cantos of 'Joan.' I was delighted; for, if Voltaire, in
reading serious poetry, affected, as it appeared to me, too monotonous a
cadence, and too marked an emphasis, no one ever recited familiar and
comic verses with so much native grace and tact: his eyes and smile had
an expression I never saw in any other man. Our mutual adieu moved us to
tears; more on my part, indeed, than his, as was fit; for, in addition
to my gratitude, and the many causes I had for being attached to him, I
left him in exile."
Marmontel's account relates to Voltaire's early residence in the
neighbourhood of Geneva. Madame de Genlis visited him in 1776. Being at
Geneva, she wrote to propose paying him a visit. The poet replied
graciously. "When I received his answer," she continues, "I was seized
with sudden fright. I remembered all I had heard related of those who
paid Ferney a first visit. It is the custom, especially for young women,
to tremble, grow pale, and even faint, on perceiving Voltaire: they
throw themselves into his arms, they weep, and show an agitation which
resembles the most passionate love. This is the etiquette of a
presentation at Ferney; and M. de Voltaire is so used to it, that calm
and politeness must appear either impertinent or stupid.
"I left Geneva in time, according to my calculation, to arrive at Ferney
just before Voltaire's dinner hour; but my watch was wrong, and I did
not discover my error till I arrived. There is no awkwardness more
disagreeable than to be too early when going to dine with those who know
how to occupy their mornings. Wishing really to please a celebrated man,
who was kind enough to receive me, I dressed myself with elegance, and
never before wore so many feathers and flowers. I took with me a German
painter, M. Ott: he was very clever, but with very little literary
knowledge, and, above all, had never read a line of Voltaire; but he
felt the desirable enthusiasm only by hearing of him. He was in a state
of ecstacy on approaching Ferney. I admired and envied his transport. We
entered the drawing room; it was empty. The servants seemed surprised
and hurried; the bells rang, and all gave signs of the truth, that we
had arrived an hour too soon. We saw, at the end of the room, an oil
painting magnificently framed; we hurried to examine it; and, to our
great surprise, found it was a mere daub, representing Voltaire with a
glory round his head, with the family of Calas kneeling before him,
while he trod under foot his enemies Freron and Pompignan. The picture
was the invention of a bad Genevese artist, who made a present of it to
Voltaire. But it seemed the silliest thing in the world to hang it up in
his drawing room. At length the door opened, and madame Denis and madame
de Saint Julien entered; they announced that Voltaire would soon appear.
Madame de Saint Julien was very amiable, and is passing the summer at
Ferney. She calls Voltaire 'my philosopher,' and he calls her 'my
butterfly.' She proposed a walk to me, and I was delighted; for I felt
embarrassed at the idea of seeing the master of the house, and was glad
to delay for a few minutes the formidable interview. We went on the
terrace, from which the magnificent view of the lake and mountains might
have been seen, had they not had the bad taste to raise a trellice,
covered with a thick foliage that concealed all, so that the view was
only to be perceived through little openings too small for my head; and,
besides, the trellice was so low, that my feathers caught every moment.
I was obliged to stoop, and this fatiguing attitude was ill suited to
enable me to enjoy the conversation of madame de Saint Julien, who,
short, and in a morning dress, walked at her ease, and conversed
agreeably. At length we were told that Voltaire was in the drawing room.
I felt so harassed and frightened that I would have given the world to
have found myself in my inn at Geneva; but my companion, judging me by
herself, drew me along quickly. We returned to the house. As soon as I
had collected myself we entered, and I found myself in the presence of
Voltaire. Madame de Saint Julien invited me to embrace him, saying that
it would please him. I addressed him with the respect due to his genius
and his age. He took my hand and kissed it, and I know not why, but I
was touched by this act of common gallantry coming from him.
"During dinner, M. de Voltaire was by no means agreeable; he appeared to
be continually angry with his servants, calling to them so loudly that I
started. I had been told beforehand of this habit, so singular before
strangers; but it was evident that it was merely a habit, for the
servants neither appeared surprised nor troubled. After dinner, knowing
that I was a musician, Voltaire asked madame Denis to play. She had a
method which reminded one of the music of the days of Louis XIV. She had
just finished a piece of Rameau, when a little girl of seven years old
entered, and threw herself into Voltaire's arms, calling him papa. He
received her caresses with sweetness; and, seeing that I looked on the
picture with extreme pleasure, he told me that this was the daughter of
the descendant of the great Corneille, whom he had adopted. Several
visitors from Geneva dropped in, and afterwards he proposed a drive, and
he and his niece, madame de Saint Julien, and myself entered the
carriage, and he took us to the village to see the houses he is
building, and the charitable establishments he has founded. He is
greater here than in his books, for so ingenious a goodness appears in
all, that one wonders that the same hand which wrote so much blasphemy,
could form such noble, wise, and useful works. He shows this village to
all strangers, but unpretendingly. He speaks of it with kindness and
simplicity; he mentions all that he has done, but with no appearance of
boasting. On returning to the chateau, the conversation was very
animated: it was night before I took my leave.
"The portraits and busts of Voltaire are all very like; but no artist
has painted his eyes well. I expected to find them brilliant and full of
fire; and they are, indeed, the most expressive of intellect that I ever
saw; but they are full, at the same time, of softness and inexpressible
tenderness. The very soul of Zaire shone in those eyes. His smile and
laugh, which is very malicious, changed at once this charming
expression. He is very decrepit; and his old-fashioned dress makes him
look older. He has a hollow voice, which produces a singular effect,
especially as he is in the habit of speaking very loud, although he is
not deaf. When neither religion nor his enemies are mentioned, his
conversation is simple, unpretending, and delightful. It appeared as if
he could not endure the expression of opinions differing from his own on
any point. On the slightest contradiction his voice became shrill and
his manner decided. He has lost much of the manners of the world: and
this is natural; ever since he has lived on this estate no one visits
him but to cover him with flattery. His opinions are oracles; all around
is at his feet. The admiration he inspires is the continual subject of
conversation, and the most extravagant exaggerations now appear ordinary
homage. No king has ever been the object of such excessive adulation."
Voltaire, however, though he liked flattery, often avoided it, by not
receiving the guests that poured in. Madame Denis did the honours of the
house; and many a traveller, who had gone far cut of his way to visit
the Man of the Age, left the chateau without seeing him. It was thus he
treated the comte de Guibert, esteemed in those days as a young man of
promising talents, but who is best known to us as the object of
mademoiselle de l'Espinasse's attachment. Guibert, after passing five
days at Ferney, left it without seeing its master. Arriving at Geneva,
he sent him four verses, which wittily, though somewhat blasphemously,
expressed his regret. The wit pleased; the blasphemy, perhaps, pleased
still more, as showing him to be of his own way of thinking; and
Voltaire instantly sent after him, invited him back, and treated him
with kindness and distinction. Many anecdotes are told of the bad
reception he gave others. But as every one, and in particular every
pretender to literature, thought it necessary to visit Ferney, no wonder
that he was often pushed to extremities by their intrusion and
pretensions, and, impatient and whimsical as he was, got rid of them, as
the humour dictated, by open rudeness or covert ridicule.
The astonishing vivacity and energy of Voltaire's temperament led him to
create, like Don Quixote, giants with whom to fight; but he was not
always moved by the heroic benevolence that animated the Spanish knight,
but by childish or more blameable whims. He had built a church at Ferney
(the one belonging to the parish being mean and in disrepair), and went
to mass, for the edification of his tenantry. After mass he delivered an
exhortation against theft (some of the builders of his church having
been guilty of carrying off old materials), which, being against all
canonical rules, scandalised the congregation and incensed the priest.
The bishop of the diocese, an ignorant, intolerant man, hearing of the
desecration, applied to the king of France for a _lettre de cachet_
against Voltaire. His request was not listened to; but the imagination
of Voltaire was set on fire by the intelligence; nor can we wonder,
considering that he had entered the Bastille, as a prisoner, three
different times. He burnt a vast quantity of papers; he dismissed every
guest; and remained alone with his secretary and father Adam, an
ex-Jesuit, who resided with him. At first he thought it would be
necessary to fly; but soon his restless fancy suggested another mode of
defending himself. The bishop, carrying on the war, forbade any of his
inferior clergy to confess, absolve, or administer the communion to the
seigneur of Ferney. Considering his avowed and contemptuous disbelief in
Christianity, it had been more dignified in Voltaire to abstain from
participating in its mysteries; but he had not the most remote idea of
the meaning and uses of dignity. His impetuosity, his love of the
ridiculous, his determination to vanquish and crush his enemies, by
whatever means, were paramount to any loftier sentiment of calm disdain.
He said, "We shall see whether the bishop or I win the day."
Accordingly, he feigned illness, took to his bed, and insisted on
receiving religious consolations as a dying man. The priest of the
parish refused to comply for a length of time; and Voltaire, to gain his
point, signed a paper declaratory of his respect for the Catholic
religion. The whole scene was indecorous,--insulting to the priest, and
unworthy of the poet. He gained his point at last, and frightened the
curate so much that he fell ill and died; while his conduct in the
church, his angry expostulations with the clergy, and his confession of
faith became the wonder and gossip of Paris.
It is more pleasing to contemplate the good deeds of this versatile and
extraordinary man, whose activity astonished his contemporaries[7], and,
considering his infirmities and age, seem almost superhuman. The civil
troubles of Geneva caused a number of exiles. The fugitives, destitute
and suffering, were received at Ferney, and treated with hospitality and
generosity. Voltaire's first idea was to found the little town of
Versoi, on the banks of the lake of Geneva. He applied to the duke de
Choiseul for protection and funds. These were at first granted; but the
disgrace of the minister ruined the infant town, and its founder was
obliged to restrict his exertions to his own colony at Ferney. He caused
commodious houses to be built, and the place, which was before a
miserable hamlet, inhabited by peasants in the last degree of penury,
became a pleasant village, filled by industrious artisans, who carried
on a considerable trade in watchmaking. It is to this village that
Voltaire led madame du Genlis, and the sight of it filled her with
respect for his enlarged views and benevolent heart.
Nor was this the only place that owed the blessings of prosperity to
him. By most persevering and courageous representations he induced the
chancellor Maupeou to enfranchise the peasants of a territory among the
mountains of Jura, who were serfs to the monastery of St. Claude, and
suffered the most unendurable grievances from the feudal laws still in
force. Afterwards, when Louis XVI. came to the throne, he asked for
various exemptions from taxes from the minister Turgot for the town of
Gex, which flourished in consequence, till Turgot was exiled, his
ordinances cancelled, and the town was ruined. His colony fell under the
same ban, and he shared the general loss. He was grieved, but not
disheartened. "It is true," he wrote to his valued and steady friend the
comte d'Argental, "that I have had the folly, in my eighty-third year,
to commence an undertaking above my strength. I must abandon it, and
wait till I grow younger. My strange fate, which led me from Paris to
the frontiers of Switzerland, and forced me to change a filthy hamlet
into a pretty town, a quarter of a league long, follows me; she does not
restore my youth, but crushes me with the stones of the houses I have
built. A change of ministry in France has deprived my colony of all the
advantages I had obtained; and the good I have done my new country has
turned to mischief. I put the last drop of my blood into this useful
establishment, without any view except that of doing good--my blood is
lost, and all I have to do is to die of a consumption." He wrote to
another friend: "Ferney, which you saw a wretched village, has become a
pretty town. I scarcely know how this has been brought about; but I know
that it has ruined me. It was ridiculous in so insignificant a man as me
to build a town."
The correspondence which this undertaking necessitated was immense. To
this occupation he added a dispute on the merits of Shakspeare, in which
an entire want of taste and of knowledge, and a superfluity of flippancy
and insult, were the prominent features. It raised a laugh among a few,
but did no honour either to his cause or himself.
What, at its outset, seemed a more tranquil and happy reign, had begun
in France. The latter days of Louis XV. were utterly disgraceful. He had
dispersed the parliament, it is true, which, by its prejudices and
injustice, had become odious; but it was replaced by another, which
reformed no abuse, while it was conspicuous only for servile submission
to the royal authority. Enlightened and popular ministers--Choiseul and
Turgot--were exiled to make room for men of the old leaven, who had no
apprehension of the growing necessities of the times; while his
thrusting upon the court a low-born and infamous mistress, completed the
degradation of the king's position: and the society of Paris, opposed to
that of the court, acquired influence and dignity. The first acts of
Louis the Sixteenth's reign, being to recal the disgraced and popular
ministers, and to exhibit every token of sympathy for the distresses of
the subject, inspired hope. Voltaire ardently desired to revisit the
capital, to feel himself among his friends, and to enjoy the sensation
which his presence, after so long an absence, would not fail to create.
The inhabitants of Ferney saw their benefactor depart with tears. He
promised to return in six weeks; and so firmly intended to keep this
resolution, that he put no order into his affairs or papers before his
departure, thinking it not worth while, as his absence would be so
short.
[Sidenote: 1788.
Ætat.
84.]
On the 10th of February he arrived in the capital, accompanied by
monsieur and madame de Villette and madame Denis. Madame de Villette was
a protégée of Voltaire. She had been destined for a convent by her
parents; and, in despair, wrote to the patriarch of Ferney to extricate
her from such a fate. He offered her a home in his house. She was
gentle, beautiful, and clever. M. de Villette, a gentleman of fortune,
fell in love with and married her. She went by the name of Belle et
Bonne among her friends. Voltaire had the peculiarity, which usually
attends men of genius, of gathering about him a society composed
principally of women, and she was a chief favourite.
Voltaire brought with him his newly written tragedy of "Irene." He had
the notion indelibly impressed, that, to secure his position in Paris,
he must acquire popularity; and that a successful tragedy was the sure
means of acquiring it. In the present instance he did not need such
support. No conqueror, returned from enslaving a province, was ever
received with such enthusiastic marks of triumph. La Harpe well
observes, that the generation who had witnessed Voltaire's earlier
struggles and clouded fame, had nearly died away; all those born during
the space of the last forty years found the world full of his fame. His
persecutions, his mode of life, his attacks on religion and on persons,
the mischief he had caused, and the good he had done, were the chief
topics of interest: more than all, the brilliancy of his genius dazzled,
its versatility delighted mankind. Even his pettishnesses, his whims,
his follies, ever varying and upheld by him with earnestness and vigour,
kept alive public attention. That this man, the subject of all tongues
and all pens, should emerge from his seclusion among the Alps, and, in
his eighty-fifth year, come to take his part in society, and gather the
applause of a theatrical audience, excited, nearly to frenzy, the
curiosity, the admiration, and interest of every inhabitant of Paris.
Condorcet, who witnessed his arrival, in his "Life of Voltaire," madame
du Deffand, in her "Letters to Horace Walpole," and Grimm, in his
"Literary Correspondence," give a vivid picture of this last triumphant
but fatal visit to Paris. He arrived in good health; though his first
note to madame du Deffand said, "I arrive, dying; and only wish to
revive to throw myself at your feet." He received all his friends with
cordiality and gaiety, and delighted them with the charm that belonged
to his manners. All Paris pressed to see him; his apartment was never
empty: he received more than 300 persons, one after the other, and had
something witty and agreeable to say to all. Meanwhile, as he was in
reality afflicted by a weakening and very painful disease, his more
familiar friends began to tremble for the result of this new and
exciting scene. "I paid him my second visit yesterday," writes madame du
Deffand, "on the 22d of February. It was not so agreeable as the first.
We were received by his niece, who is certainly the best woman in the
world, but the most tiresome; by M. de Villette, who is the dullest man,
and his young wife, who, they say, is amiable, and goes by the name of
Belle et Bonne with Voltaire and his friends. We did not find him in the
drawing-room; he was shut up with his secretary, and begged me to wait.
His friends told me that he was overwhelmed with fatigue; that he had
read the whole of his tragedy that afternoon to the actors, and had made
them rehearse, and was so exhausted that he could scarcely speak. I
wished to go away; but they detained me, and Voltaire sent me four lines
he had made on his statute by Pigal, to engage me to remain. After a
good quarter of an hour he came in. He said that he was dead--that he
could not speak. I offered to leave him; but he would not let me. He
spoke to me of his play. He has no other subject in his head: it has
caused him to come to Paris, and it will kill him if it does not
succeed."
Nor was his tragedy his only subject of anxiety. He was told that Louis
XVI. had asked, on hearing of his arrival, if the interdiction to his
residence in Paris had ever been taken off. A question which seemed to
show his disapprobation; but the young queen and her friends, and the
count d'Artois, were borne away by the stream of fashion and friendlily
inclined. A few days after his arrival he fell ill. His mode of life in
Paris was very different from that which he led at Ferney; there he was
subject to none of the calls of society; he saw few visitors, and left
madame Denis to do the honours of the house--enjoying in his own person
the most entire liberty, passing the greater part of his day in bed, or
in study; at other times walking in his grounds and over his estate,
directing the improvements and enjoying the pleasure of creating his
colony, and witnessing its prosperity. His new mode of life deranged his
health, a vomiting of blood came on, and his life was in danger. The
vivacity of the French disposition was shown at this moment. All Paris
was in alarm. The priests gathered round--Voltaire thought it right to
quiet them by making a profession of faith. How far the all-seeing and
infinitely pure Being can be propitiated by a falsehood on the lips of a
dying man, may be considered doubtful; but the clergy thought more of
their own temporal victory than the higher questions of religion and
morality. These might have been satisfied by a declaration given by
Voltaire to a friend, which said, "I die worshipping God, loving my
friends, not hating my enemies, and detesting superstition." Nor was
this the only disquiet that attended his sick-bed: his friends
quarrelled round it concerning the physicians who attended, and
wrangling and dissension--the fruits of the vanity, not the affection,
of his friends--disturbed the peace necessary for his convalescence.
The vital principle was still strong, and he recovered. He made use of
his renewed strength to visit the academy, and to be present at the
representation of his tragedy. The enthusiasm was at its height. He was
almost crushed to death both at the Louvre and the theatre,
notwithstanding the exertions of the soldiers to keep a passage clear.
The academicians received him rather as the sovereign of literature than
as an equal. At the theatre his reception was still more flattering. His
bust was crowned on the stage, and the audience were in a transport of
delight; tears of enthusiasm and joy marked the feeling of the
spectators, who saw his attenuated figure with sorrow, and every one was
eager to offer him assistance when he left the theatre. His triumph
failed only in that the court still looked askance on him; and his very
presence in Paris was rather connived at than permitted. Still the
manifestations of public favour might satisfy a man even insatiable of
applause. He was deeply touched. "They wish to smother me with roses,"
he exclaimed, as he felt his feeble frame sink from exhaustion.
At this moment, at the very zenith of human glory,--when the whole
population of the then most civilised capital in the world seemed to
breathe his name only, to see him only in the world, to crowd round him
in admiration and triumph,--and while their cry, "There is the saviour
of the Calas," rewarded him for his benevolent exertions,--then, had he
retired to his tranquil seclusion at Ferney, he might have prolonged his
existence. But this he was not permitted to do. Madame Denis was
heartily tired of the mountain solitude, which, as Voltaire grew older
and more averse to show himself, became a complete seclusion. He
earnestly desired to return; but, day after day, the solicitations of
his friends induced him to prolong his stay. His secretary, Wagner,
gives a lively picture of the struggles between him and his niece. The
physician, Tronchin, had begged Voltaire to return to Ferney. "You must
feel," he said, "that a tree transplanted at eighty-four years of age
must perish." "Am I able to support the journey?" asked the old man.
"Yes, I answer for it on my head," said Tronchin; and Voltaire, charmed
with the prospect, gave instant orders for his departure. Madame Denis
argued against it. "I must return," he replied. "I adore the country; it
gives me new life. You, who detest it, can remain here, and amuse
yourself." "Who told you that I hated it?" asked his niece. "My
experience," he replied quickly and sternly.
The cabals which formed the spirit of French society in those days
multiplied to keep the old man in Paris. He was induced to buy a house;
but he made the purchase more for madame Denis than himself, and said
"that instead of a dwelling he had bought a tomb." He still persisted,
while he was in Paris, in attending the academy, where he wished to
introduce the plan of a new dictionary, and in interesting himself with
theatrical concerns. He drank coffee to support himself when he felt his
strength failing; and this producing fever and pain, he took opium to
procure calm. Soon his illness took a dangerous turn, and no remedies
could alleviate it; a mortification came on, which caused him
unspeakable agonies. At length, he fell into a state of exhaustion and
torpor, and died on the 30th of May, 1778.
According to the scandalous custom of the French clergy, impediments
were raised to his decent interment. To baffle these, his death was kept
secret for several days. A grave was denied him in the parish where he
died, and the body was transported to the Abbey de Scellieres, in the
diocese of Troyes, belonging to his nephew, and buried in the church. A
stone was placed above, bearing the words, only--"CI-GIT VOLTAIRE." At
the same time orders were issued by the government forbidding the
newspapers to comment on his death either for praise or blame; the
actors to represent his plays; and the masters of schools to allow their
pupils to learn his verses. Such arbitrary and puerile acts always
destroy themselves, and add to, instead of detract from, the reputation
of the man against whom they are levelled.
Other governments showed more liberality. Catherine of Russia, who had
corresponded with him, and whom he had held up to the admiration of the
world, openly mourned his death. His old friend Frederic of Prussia
caused his academy to hold a meeting in his honour, during which an
elaborate eulogium, written by himself, was pronounced.
The character of Voltaire is displayed in the preceding pages. He was a
zealous, a warm, and constant friend. When Thiriot acted weakly and
injuriously--sending to Frederic of Prussia the libels published against
his friend--madame du Châtelet and others implored him to renounce him;
but Voltaire, while he reproved, let no word of unkindness escape. In
later days, d'Alembert wrote to tell him that the duke de Richelieu was
acting a false part by him, and prevented his plays from being acted.
Voltaire could not be touched in a more sensitive place; but he replied,
"that such might be true, but that he could not quarrel with a friend
whom he had known for fifty years." He was, it is true, a rancorous
enemy--never pardoning, but visiting any injury done him with the
severest retaliation of sarcasm and ridicule. He was singularly
benevolent and generous. His letters are crowded with instances. His
exertions in favour of the oppressed have been partly recorded in the
preceding pages; it would require many more to commemorate every
instance of his active and enlightened benevolence. When, on the death
of Louis XV., he thought he could get annulled the sentence against the
chevalier d'Etallonde, he procured his leave of absence from the king of
Prussia, supplied him with money for his journey to Ferney, and kept him
there a year, while he vainly exerted his utmost influence in his
favour. He bitterly deplored his failure. The spectacle of injustice
filled him with anguish. His mind endured torture from the sense of
injury done others, and he felt it imperative to prevent or repair
crime. The sight, the idea only, of a triumphant or unpunished
oppressor, excited the liveliest emotions of compassion and indignation
in his sensitive and proud spirit. His private benevolence was not less
active. The bookseller Jore, whose imprudence and want of fidelity had
endangered his liberty, applied to him in distress, and was relieved,
with expressions of kindness. A friend died in Paris; his wife, who had
been living separate from him, seized on all he left, and an old and
faithful servant was left destitute. Voltaire instantly made her an
allowance. We might multiply such instances; and while this sad world is
filled with the needy, the afflicted, and the oppressed, it is
impossible not warmly to admire a man who sympathises in the necessities
of his fellow-creatures and alleviates their sufferings.
The great and lasting blame attached to him arises from the inveterate
and bitter hostility he expressed to Christianity. The texture of his
mind partly occasioned this. He was incapable of understanding or
feeling the sublime, the simple, and the pure. The poetry of the Bible
was a dead letter to him; and this may be the more readily accounted
for, as the living French poet, La Martine, whose nature is pious and
reverential, mentions that he never felt its sublimity till a few years
ago, when translated by his friend M. de Genoude. Impurity and grossness
was also a part of Voltaire's nature; and these led him to depreciate
the beauty of the Saviour's character, and the morality of the gospel.
The French clergy of those days must bear, however, much of the blame.
Voltaire ardently desired to crush a church which, in power, showed
itself utterly devoid of the principles of Christianity. Arnaud,
Fénélon, the recluses of Port Royal, and the Quietists, had been its
victims. Racine, Boileau, men of highly moral and pious characters, were
injured and calumniated; and this because they did not belong to the
reigning party in the church. What wonder, then, that Voltaire and his
friends were led to despise men who made their religion the pretence for
indulging their worst passions, and were even induced to think ill of
the system of which they proclaimed themselves the sole fitting
supports. Let Christians be real disciples of the Gospel, and men like
Voltaire will neither have the power nor the will to injure the religion
they profess.
We have no space for elaborate criticism of Voltaire's works. We have
alluded to many in the progress of this biography. His "Historical Essay
on the Manners and Spirit of Nations," in spite of its mistakes in facts
and errors of opinion, is a monument of vast genius. His "Age of Louis
XIV." is a beautiful work, though we are not sure that his mode of
dividing the subject is the best. Many long chapters, devoted to the
narration of wars, unmixed by the detail of individual passions or
public struggles, which are thrown into separate portions of the work,
break and weaken the interest.
His plays have not the loftiness of Corneille, nor the soft tenderness
of Racine; but many of them possess much passion and power. His poetic
faculties, such as they were, decayed soonest; his latter tragedies are
weak and poor compositions. As a didactic poet, he ranks low; as an
epic, he is not considered in these days to take any rank at all; as a
burlesque, grossness and indelicacy occasion his verses to be read only
by those whose praise is not worth having; as a critic, he was unfair
and uncourteous, always ready to make ridicule stand for argument, and
not unwilling to advance what was false, when the truth did not
sufficiently support him. Thus he could translate a speech of Falstaff,
declaring that it was meant to be tragic, because it occurred in a
tragedy. His lighter productions are among his best, and, though sullied
by his peculiar defects, are full of genius. The great characteristic of
Voltaire is, that he scarcely ever penned a line that is not instinct
with spirit and life and genius. If you open by chance any volume of his
works, you will be struck at once by the strength and felicity of his
expressions--the vivacity of the sentiment--the penetration with which
he detects the false--the wit which gives sparkle and point to all he
says. He was, it is true, of the second order of minds, but first among
the second; and such was his perfection in his art, as far as it went,
that he contrived, while living, to fill a first place, and will always
receive a larger share of attention and praise than his intrinsic merits
deserve.
[Footnote 1: His own high opinion of the "Henriade" is manifested in
certain verses he wrote on the subject, which may be mentioned as proof,
at once, of his vanity and his entire inability to understand and
appreciate poetry. These verses, indeed, only embody, in a few lines,
his "Essay on Epic Poetry," in which he proves that absence of
imagination is the chief merit of a poet.]
[Footnote 2: That we may be impartial, we quote the opinion expressed of
this poem by a modern French critic. Barante, in his "Essay on French
Literature of the Eighteenth Century," remarks, "Voltaire has most
fallen in his reputation as an epic poet. He flattered himself in vain
that he had bestowed an epic on France. Such a work could not be
produced in the times in which he lived, nor with a character like his.
For epic poetry we need the lively and free imagination of the first
ages: knowledge must not have weakened faith, enthusiasm of feeling, nor
the variety and vigour of character. . . . . By a serious and melancholy
character, and pure and true feelings, and the memory of adversity
brooded over in solitude, an epic might be rendered as touching as it
has been rendered sublime, and interest might stand in place of
imagination. But if Virgil secluded himself from the influence of the
court of Augustus, Voltaire was far from avoiding that of the court of
the regent. He composed an epic poem with the same degree of interest as
would have sufficed to enable him to write an epistle in verse. He
fancied that an epic consisted in certain forms agreed upon, in
prescribed supernatural agency. He fulfilled these rules, and believed
that he had achieved a great work. He was not aware that it is not a
dream, a recital, and the introduction of divinities, that constitutes
an epic poem; but an elevated and solemn imagination; and, above all,
simplicity and truth, under whatever form. The Iliad does not resemble
the Odyssey in the arrangement of its parts: these poems have nothing in
common, except the epic spirit." So far the enlightened critic speaks.
Then, to soothe ruffled French vanity, he adds, "Nevertheless, it cannot
by denied that the 'Henriade' contains great beauties; the poetry is not
epic, but is sometimes elevated and pathetic."]
[Footnote 3: The love of scandal, which belongs to humanity, always
busies itself in exaggerations. In a virtuous and primitive state of
society, slight peccadilloes serve the turn of the backbiter; the
inventions grow with the necessity of surpassing the fact. If the regent
had been a Quaker, he would have been accused of kissing any favoured
lady by stealth: being unfortunately a profligate, he was accused of
incest; the next step beyond the fact which it was necessary for slander
to make.]
[Footnote 4: Mémoires de Longchamp.]
[Footnote 5: It is difficult to decide on madame du Châtelet's
character. With regard to the immorality of her liaison with Voltaire,
we will merely refer to the clever preface of the English editor to
madame du Duffand's correspondence with Horace Walpole, in which the
stale of society in that age is so well described; and only remark, that
such was the system, that a devoted and enduring friendship for so great
a man was considered highly respectable, even though that friendship
militated against our stricter notions of social duties; it not being
considered the business of any one to inquire into, or concern
themselves with, a question that related only to the persons immediately
implicated. With regard to madame du Châtelet's general character, she
was unpopular through the vehemence of her temper, and even the ardour
with which she devoted herself to study. She had several of the faults
attributed to literary women, which arise from their not having the
physical strength to go through great intellectual labour without
suffering from nervous irritation In other respects she was evidently
generous and sincere. Her judgment was sound; her common sense clear and
steady. She was witty and vivacious, and had as much to bear from
Voltaire's petulance, whimsicalness, and vehemence, as he from her more
imperious temper.]
[Footnote 6: When the correspondence was renewed between Frederic and
Voltaire, they could not help alluding to the past, and their
expressions show that each thought himself in the right. Voltaire says,
"I am unutterably surprised when you write that I have spoken harshly to
you. For twenty years you were my idol, '_je l'ai dit à la terre, au
ciel, à Guzman même_;' but your trade of hero, and your situation of
king, do not render the disposition tender: it is a pity, for your heart
was made for kindness; and were it not for heroism and a throne, you
would have been the most amiable man in the world." Frederic replied,
with greater force, "I well know that I adored you as long as I thought
you neither mischievous nor malicious: but you have played me so many
tricks, of all kinds. Let us say no more; I have pardoned you. After
all, you have done me more good than ill. I am more amused by your
works, than hurt by your scratches."]
[Footnote 7: Lettres de Madame du Deffand à Horace Walpole, vol. II.]