[...] LIFE OF VOLTAIRE, BY THE MARQUIS DE CONDORCET. TO WHICH ARE ADDED MEMOIRS OF VOLTAIRE, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
PHILADELPHIA, PRINTED BY AND FOR W. SPOTSWOOD. M,DCC,XCII.
THE LIFE OF VOLTAIRE.
THE life of Voltaire should necessarily be the history of the progress of the arts as promoted by his genius, of the power which he exercised over the opinions of his age, and of the long war which in his youth he declared against prejudice, and which he maintained to the day of his death.
When the influence of a philosopher extends itself to the multitude, when it is sudden and felt at each instant of his life, he is indebted for this influence to his character, to his mode of observation, and to his conduct, as much as to his works. Every circumstance relating to such a man promotes the study of the human mind; with which we cannot hope to become acquainted, if we do not observe its properties as they exist [Page 4] in those to whom Nature has been prodigal of her riches and her power, and if we do not seek in such minds what they possess in common with others, and in what they are distinguished. Man is in general indebted for his opinions, and even for his passions, and his character, to those by whom he is surrounded; he derives them from the laws, the prejudices of his country, as the plant receives nutriment from the soil and the elements. When we contemplate the vulgar mind, we discover the power to which we are subject by nature, (or habit;) but not the secret of internal strength, nor the laws of the human understanding.
François Marie Arouet, who by assuming the name of Voltaire has rendered it so famous, was born at Chatenay, on the 20th of February, 1694, and was baptized at Paris, in the church of St. Andre-des-Ares, on the 22d of November in the same year. His excessive weakness was the cause of this delay, which, during life, occasioned doubts concerning the place and time of his birth. Fontenelle, in like manner, was obliged to be privately baptized, because his life was despaired of, from the feebleness of his infancy. It is somewhat singular that these two men, both so famous in this age, whose lives and understandings were each of such [Page 5] long duration, should mutually be born languid and feeble.
The father of M. de Voltaire exercised the office of treasurer to the chamber of accounts; his mother, Marguerite d'Aumart, was of a noble family of Poitou. Their son has been reproached for having taken the name of Voltaire: that is, for having followed a custom at that time generally practised by the rich citizens and younger sons, who, leaving the family name to the heir, assumed that of a fieif, or perhaps of a country house. His birth was questioned in numerous libels. His enemies, among men of literature, seemed to fear that the fashionable world would too readily sacrifice its prejudices to the pleasure found in his society, and the admiration his talents inspired, and that a man of letters should be treated with too much equality. Such reproaches did him honour; malignity does not attack the birth of a man of literature, but from a secret consciousness, which it cannot stifle, that it is wholly unable to diminish his personal fame.
The fortune which M. Arouet the father enjoyed was doubly advantageous to his son; it procured him the advantages of education, without which genius never attains those heights to which it might otherwise [Page 6] arive. If we examine modern history, we shall find that all men of the first order, all those whose works have approached perfection, had not to repair the defects of education.
Nor was the advantage of being born to an independent fortune less inestimable. M. de Voltaire never felt the misery of being obliged to abandon his liberty that he might procure subsistence; to subject his genius to labour, which the necessity of living enforced; nor to flatter the prejudices, or the passions, of a patron. His mind was not enslaved by such habitual fears, which not only impede invention, but impress the character of incertitude and feebleness on every effort of the imagination. His youth, undisturbed by the doubts and fears of poverty, did not expose him to the danger of contracting that servile timidity which inspires the weak mind with habitual dependence; or that acrid, restless, and suspicious irritability which is an infallible consequence to the man of genius, when contending between that dependence to which he is by necessity subjected, and that freedom which the sublime thoughts by which he is occupied demand.
The young Arouet was sent to the Jesuists' college, where the sons of the first [Page 7] nobility, except those of the Jansenists, receive their education. The Jansenists, who were hated at court, were seldom seen among men who, being at that time obliged by custom to choose a religion which they did not understand, naturally adopted that which best could promote their temporal interest. The professors of rhetoric, under whom he was placed, were Father Porée and Father Jay: the first, being a man of understanding, and of a good heart, discovered the seeds of a future greatness in his scholar; and the latter, struck with the boldness of his opinions and the independence of his mind, predicted that he would become the apostle of deism in France; both of which prophecies were verified by time.
When he left college, he again found the Abbé de Châteauneuf, his god-father and the friend of his mother, an intimate at home. The Abbé was one of those men who, having entered into the ecclesiastic estate from complaisance, or from momentary ambition not native to their mind, afterwards sacrifice fortune and sacerdotal dignities to the love of living at large, being unable continually to wear the musk of hypocrisy.
The Abbé de Châteauneuf was intimate [Page 8] with Ninon de l'Enclos, whom, for her probity, her understanding, and her freedom of thought, he long had pardoned in despight of the somewhat notorious adventures her youth. The fashionable world were pleased that she had refused the invitation of her former friend, Madame de Maintenon, who had offered to invite her to court, on condition that she would become a devotee. The Abbé de Châteauneuf had presented Voltaire to Ninon. Though but a boy, he already was a poet; already began to teize his Jansenist brother by his trifling epigrams, and to please himself with reciting the Moïsade of Rousseau.
Ninon had taken delight in the pupil of her friend, and had left him by will 2000 livres (about 80 guineas) to purchase books. Thus was he taught, by fortunate circumstances, even in infancy and before his understanding was formed, to regard study and labours of the mind as pleasing and honourable employments; thus did he learn, by the society of people superior to vulgar opinions, that the mind of man is born free, and that he has a right to judge whatever he can comprehend; while, by a cowardly condescension to prejudice, the common course of education presents nothing to childhood but the disgraceful marks of servitude.
[Page 9]Hypocrisy and intolerance were predominant at the court of Louis the XIVth. which was much more seriously occupied in affecting the ruin of Jansenism than in relieving the sufferings of the people. The report of his incredulity had occasioned Catinat to lose the confidence which was due to his virtues and his abilities for war. De Vendôme was reproached with occasionally neglecting mass; and the success of the heretic Marlborough, and the infidel Eugene, was attributed to his want of devotion. This hypocrisy had disgusted those whom it could not corrupt; and, in aversion to the austerities of Versailles, the most fashionable societies of Paris affected to carry their liberty and the love of pleasure even to licentiousness.
The Abbé de Châteauneuf introduced the young Voltaire to these societies, and particularly to the company of the Duke de Sully, the Marquis de la Fare, the Abbé Servien, the Abbé de Chaulieu, and the Abbé Courtin; who were often joined by the Prince de Conti, and the grand Prior de Vendôme.
M. Arouet imagined his son was ruined, when he was told that he wrote poetry and frequented the society of people of fashion. He wished to make him a judge, and saw him employed on a tragedy. This family [Page 10] quarrel ended by sending the young Voltaire to the Marquis de Châuteauneuf, the French ambassador in Holland.
His exile was not of long duration. Madame du Noyer, who had fled thither with her two daughters rather to avoid her husband than from zeal for the protestant religion, was then at the Hague, where she lived by intrigues and libels, and proved from her conduct that she did not go thither in search of liberty of conscience.
M. de Voltaire became enamoured of one of her daughters; and the mother, finding that the only advantage she could gain from his attachment was that of making it public, carried her complaints to the ambassador, who forbade his young dependent to continue his visits to Mademoiselle du Noyer; and sent him back to his family for having disobeyed his orders.
Madame du Noyer failed not to print this story with the Letters of the young Arouet to her daughter, hoping that this already well known name would promote the sale of her book; and vaunted of her maternal severity and delicacy in the very libel in which she proclaimed her daughter's dishonour.
The fine feelings of the author of Zaïre and Tancrede are not discoverable in these [Page 11] letters. The sensations of impassioned youth are strong, but their gradations it is unable to distinguish; it neither can select those strong and rapid traits which characterize passion, nor find terms which paint its feelings to the imagination, and infuse them into the soul of the reader; while devoured by love, the most sincere and the most ardent, it is apparently dull, cold, or extravagant. The talent of painting the passions for the theatre appears to be one of the last which discovers itself in poets. Racine had given no tokens of it either in Les Frère [...] Ennemis, or in Alexandre; and Brutus preceded Zaïre. Not only, must the passions have been felt before they can be described, but their emotions and effects must have been remarked when they have ceased to lord it over the mind, and when they exist only in the recollection. The heart is sufficient to make us sensible of their existence; but, to express them with energy and truth, the soul must hav [...] long been under their influence, and experience must have been improved by reflexion.
The youth, when returned to Paris, soon forgot his love; but he did not forget to use every effortt hat he might wrest a young and estimable woman, who was natively virtuous, from a corrupt and intriguing mother. [Page 12] He employed the zeal of Proselytism *. He was aided by several bishops, and even jesuits. The project failed, but Voltaire had afterward the good fortune to be of service to Mademoiselle du Noyer, when she had married the Baron de Vinterfeld.
His father, however, finding him persist in writing poetry, and living at large, forbade him his house. The most submissive letters made no impression on him; the son even asked permission to go to America, provided that before his departure he might but be permitted to kneel at his feet; but there was no choice, he must determine not to depart for America, but to bind himself to an attorney. He did not here remain long; M. de Caumartin, the friend of M. Arouet, pitied the fate of his son, and requested permission to take him to St. Ange; where, removed from those societies which alarmed paternal affection, he might reflect on, and make choice of a profession. Here he met with Caumartin, the elder, a respectable old man, who was passionately fond of Henry the IVth, and Sully, at that time too much forgotten by the nation. Caumartin [Page 13] had been intimate with the best informed men of the reign of Louis the XIVth, and was acquainted with the most secret anecdotes, such as they really happened. These he took a pleasure to recount, and Voltaire returned from St. Ange, occupied by the project of writing an epic poem, of which Henry the IVth, should be the hero, and ardently desirous of studying the History of France. To this journey are we indebted for the Henriade, and the age of Louis XIV.
The death of this monarch was recent; the people, of whom he long had been the idol, the very people who had pardoned his profusion, his wars, and his despotism, and had applauded his persecution of the protestants, insulted his memory by testifying indecent joy. A bull, obtained from Rome against a book of devotion, had occasioned the Parisians to forget that glory of which they so long had been enamoured. Satires on the memory of Louis the Great were as numerous as eulogies had been during his life. Voltaire being accused of having written one of these satires, was sent to the bastile. The poem ended with the following line: ‘J'ai vu c [...]s maux, et je n'ai pas vingt ans *.’ Voltaire was then upwards of two and twenty, [Page 14] and the police took his conformity of age to be proof sufficient to deprive him of his liberty.
It was in the bastile that the young poet sketched his poem of the League, corrected his tragedy of Oedipus, which he had begun long before, and wrote some merry verses on the misfortune of being there a prisoner. The regent Duke of Orleans, being informed of his innocence, restored him to freedom, and granted him a recompense.
"I thank your royal highness," said Voltaire, "for having provided me with food; but I hope you will not, hereafter, trouble yourself concerning my lodging."
The tragedy of Oedipus was performed in 1718. The author had hitherto been known only by his fugitive pieces, by some epistles which breathed the spirit of Chaulieu, but written more correctly, and by an ode which had vainly contended for the prize bestowed by the French academy; to this a ridiculous piece written by the Abbé du Jarri had been preferred. The theme proposed by the academy was the decoration of the altar of Notre Dame; for Louis the XIVth, after having reigned seventy years, recollected it was time to perform the promise of Louis the XIIIth. Thus was the subject of the first serious poem, written by Voltaire, [Page 15] devotion. Possessed of native and unerring taste, he would not mingle the passion of love with a tale so horrid as that of Oedipus; and had been daring enough to present his piece to the theatre without having paid this tribute to custom. But it was rejected. The assembled comedians took it amiss that the author should dare to dispute their judgment. "The young man well deserves," said Dufresne, "as a punishment for his pride, that his tragedy should be played with the long vile scene which he has translated from Sophocles."
Voltaire was obliged to cede, and to insert a whole episode of love. The piece was applauded, though in despight of the episode; and the long vile scene from Sophocles insured its success. La Motto, who was at that time the first among men of letters, said in his approbation that his tragedy gave promise of a worthy sucessor to Corneille and Racine; and the homage thus rendered by a rival, whose fame was established, and who had reason to fear he might see himself surpassed, must forever do honour to the character of La Motte.
But Voltaire, proclaimed a man of genius and a philosopher to a croud of inferior authors and fanatics of all sects, even then gained a combination of enemies, whom the [Page 16] rising generations of sixty years have continued to supply, and who often have molested his long and glorious career. The following celebrated lines—
were the first signal of a war, which not even the death of Voltaire could extinguish.
At one of the representations of Oedipus, Voltaire appeared on the stage, bearing up the train of the high priest. The Marchioness de Villars asked who was that young man who wished the piece might be condemned; she was told it was the author. This thoughtless act, which spoke a man so superior to the trifling anxieties of self-love, made the marchioness desirous of his acquaintance. Voltaire, being admitted her visitor, conceived a passion for her, the first, and the most serious he ever felt, He was unsuccessful; and was for a considerable time diverted from study, which had already become necessary to his existence. He never, afterwards, mentioned this subject but with a sensation of regret, and almost of remorse.
[Page 17]Having freed himself from his passion, he continued the Henriade; and wrote the tragedy of Artémire. An actress, whom he had formed, and who was at once his mistress and his pupil, played the principal character. The public, who had done justice to Oedipus, was (to say the least) severe to Artémire. This is a common consequence of success; nor is secret aversion for acknowledged superiority the only cause, tho' this aversion has the art to profit by a natural feeling which renders us more difficult to be pleased in proportion as we have more to hope.
This tragedy was of no other value to Voltaire than that of obtaining permission for him to return to Paris, whence he had been banished by his intimacy with the enemies of the regent, and among others with the Duke de Richelieu and the famous Baron de Gortz. Thus did this ambitious man, whose vast projects included all Europe, and threatened to overturn its governments, choose a young poet for his friend and almost for his confident. Men of genius seek for, and at once know each other; they have a common language, which they alone can speak and understand.
In 1722, Voltaire accompanied Madame de Rupelmonde into Holland. He was desirous, [Page 18] at Brussels, of being acquainted with Rousseau, whose misfortunes he pitied, and whose poetic talent he esteemed. The love of his art was too powerful for that just contempt which he ought to have conceived for the character of Rousseau. Voltaire consulted him on his Poem on the League; and read his Epistle to Urania to him, written for Madame de Rupelmonde. This poem was the first monument of his freedom of thinking, and of his talent of treating on moral and metaphysical subjects in verse, and of rendering them popular.
Rousseau, on his part, read an Ode addressed to Posterity, which Voltaire, as it is pretended, then told him would never arrive at the place to which it was addressed. He likewise read the Judgment of Pluto, which was as quickly forgotten as the ode. The two poets parted irreconcileable foes. Rousseau violently attacked Voltaire, who continued patiently to suffer during fifteen years. It is astonishing to think that the author of so many licentious epigrams, in which the clergy were continually made the subject of ridicule and opprobium, should seriously assign the thoughtless behaviour of Voltaire during mass and his Epistle to Urania as the cause of his hatred. But Rousseau had assumed the mask of devotion, which [Page 19] was then an honourable asylum for such as had suffered in the world's opinion: a safe and commodious asylum which philosophy, among the other evils of which it is accused, has unfortunately, for hypocrites, eternally closed.
In 1724, Voltaire presented the world with Mariamne, which was but Artémire under new names, but with a less complicated and less romantic fable. It was written in the very style of Racine, and was forty times performed. In his preface, the author opposed the opinion of La Motte, who, possessed of much understanding and reason, but little sensible of the charms of harmony, discovered no other merit in versification than that of difficulties overcome; nor any thing more than a formal custom, in poetry, invented to ease the memory, and to which habit alone had attributed charms. In his letters, printed at the end of Oedipus, he had before combated the opinions of the same poet, who regarded the observance of the three Unities as another prejudice.
We ought to think ourselves obliged to those who, like La Motte, dare to oppose common and received opinions. In order to defend ancient rules, they must necessarily be examined; and if received opinions, on examination, be found true, we enjoy [Page 20] the advantage of believing that from reason to which we had previously given our assent from habit; if false, the world is then freed from an error.
It is no uncommon thing, however, for men to be angry at those who oblige them to scrutinize what had been admitted upon trust. The minds, which like that of Montaigne, quietly slumber on the pillow of scepticism, are not common; and still less common are those who are tormented by the desire of discovering truth. The vulgar love to believe without proof; and to cherish their security in blind faith, as a thing necessary to their ease and safety.
About the same time, the Henriade appeared under the name of the League: an imperfect copy, stolen from the author, was clandestinely printed, in which there were not only parts omitted, but some vacancies were supplied.
Thus France was at last possessed of an Epic Poem. It must be regretted, no doubt, that Voltaire, the fables of whose tragedies are so full of action, who has made the passions speak a language so natural and so true, and who could paint them so effectually as well by analizing their sentiments as by their sudden ebullitions, should not have displayed in the Henriade those talents which never [Page 21] before were combined in the same man to so great a degree. Yet, a subject so well known and so recent gave but little room for the imagination of the poet. The gloomy and persecuting spirit of fanaticism, exercising itself on subaltern characters, could excite little more than horror. The chiefs of the league were animated by an ambition which hypocrisy debased. The hero of the poem, gallant, brave, and humane, but continually subject to misfortune which alighted on him alone, could interest only by his courage and his clemency. Nor was it possible that the unnatural conversion of Henry the IVth should form an heroic catastrophe.
But though the Henriade in pathos, variety, and action, be inferior to those epic poems which were then in possession of universal admiration, yet by how many new beauties was this inferiority compensated? Never was philosophy, so profound and so true, embellished by verses more sublime or more affecting. What other poem presents to us characters drawn with greater strength and dignity, and without offence to historical facts? What other contains morality more pure, humanity more enlightened, or is more free from the errors of prejudice and vulgar passion? Whether the [Page 22] poet causes his characters to act or speak, whether he paints the crimes of fanaticism, or the charms and the dangers of love, whether he transports his hearer to the field of battle, or into that heaven which he himself created, he is every where a philosopher, and is every where deeply intent on promoting the true interests of the human race. In the very palace of fiction, we behold truth sublimely rise, and always painted in the most splendid and purest colours.
Of all epic poems the Henriade alone has a moral purport; not that it can be said to be the devellopement of one single truth, which is a pedantic idea and to which a poet cannot subject himself, but because it breathes throughout a detestation of war and fanaticism, and a spirit of toleration and humanity. Each poem necessarily wears the complexion of the age in which it took birth; and the birth of the Henriade was in the age of reason. Hence, the greater the progress of reason among mankind the greater will be their admiration of this poem.
The Henriade may be compared to the Aeneid: both bear the stamp of genius in whatever depended on the poet, and the defects of both are in the choice of the subject, which was mutually dictated by a national spirit. Virgil, however, intended only [Page 23] to flatter Roman pride; but Voltaire had the more noble motive of preserving the French from fanaticism, by a recapitulation of the crimes into which their ancestors had been hurried.
The Henriade, Oedipus, and Mariamne had placed Voltaire much above his cotemporaries; and seemed to secure a life of fame, when his repose was troubled by a fatal accident. He had returned a satyrical answer to some contemptuous words which had been spoken by a courtier, who revenged himself by causing Voltaire to be insulted by his servants without endangering his personal safety. The outrage was committed at the gate of the Hotel de Sully, where he had dined; nor did the Duke de Sully deign to show any resentment; being, no doubt, persuaded that the descendants of the Franks had preserved the right of life and death over the Gauls. Justice remained mute; the parliament of Paris, which had caused far less misdemeanours to be punished when committed against one of its own subalterns, imagined nothing was due to an undignified citizen, although the greatest man of literature the nation possessed, and kept silence.
Voltaire was desirous of taking those means to revenge offended honour which [Page 24] the manners of modern nations have authorised, but which their laws have proscribed. The Bastile, and, at the end of six months, an order to quit Paris were the punishment of his first step. The Cardinal de Fleury had not so much policy as even to denote the slightest mark of dissatisfaction against the aggressor. Thus when men are unprotected by the laws they are punished by arbitrary power for seeking that revenge, which the want of protection renders legal, and which is prescribed as necessary to the principles of honour. We venture to believe that the rights of man will be more respected in our times, that the laws will not remain impotent from any ridiculous prejudice of birth, and that when any quarrel shall happen between two citizens no minister will deprive him who received the first offence of his freedom.
Voltaire made a secret journey to Paris, but to no effect. He there met with more than one adversary, who disposed at pleasure of judicial power and ministerial authority, and who could safely effect his ruin. He buried himself in retirement, and disdained longer to seek revenge; or, rather, revenged himself by overwhelming his enemy with the weight of his increasing fame, and forcing him to hear the name which he [Page 25] wished to degrade incessantly repeated with acclamation throughout all Europe.
England was his place of refuge. Newton was no more; but his spirit was infused into his countrymen, whom he had taught to trust to experiment, and calculation only in the study of nature. Locke, whose death was likewise recent, had been the first to give the theory of the human understanding founded on expeence, and to show the path which may safely be followed in metaphysical pursuits. The philosophy of Shaftesbury, commented on by Bolingbroke, and embellished by the versification of Pope, had given birth in England to that deism which announced morality, founded on motives such as might affect great minds without offence to reason.
In France, mean time, the men of most understanding were labouring to substitute in our schools the hypothesis of Des Cartes, for the absurdities of scholastic philosophy. Any thesis, in which either the system of Copernicus or that of the Vortices was maintained, was a victory over prejudice. Innate ideas, in the eyes of the devout, were become almost an article of faith; though they had at first been supposed heretical. Malebranche, whom men imagined they understood, was the philosopher in fashion. He was supposed a free-thinker, who allowed himself to regard the existence of the five propositions, in the unintelligible book of Jansenius, as a thing in which the happiness [Page 26] of the human race was not concerned, or who had the temerity to read Bayle without the permission of a doctor in divinity.
This contrast could not but excite the enthusiasm of a man, who, like Voltaire, had from his infancy shaken off prejudice. The example of England showed him that truth was not formed to remain in secret among a few philosophers, and men of the world, the pupils of these philosophers; who laughed with them at those errors of which the people are the victims, but became themselves the defenders of error, when their office or their rank made it their interest, supposed or real, and were ready to proscribe or even to persecute their preceptors, should they venture to speak what they themselves privately believed.
From this moment, Voltaire felt himself called to be the destroyer of prejudice of every kind, of which his country was the slave. He felt the possibility of succeeding by a happy mixture of boldness and pliabilty, by knowing when to recede and when to advance, by artfully and alternately employing reason, ridicule, the charms of poetry, and theatrical effect, and by simplifying truth so as to render it popular, amiable, and fashionable, without offence to frivolity. This good project, of rendering himself, by the force of his own genius, the benefactor of a whole nation, whence he meant to banish error, sired the mind of Voltaire, and inspired him with fortitude. He swore to this to consecrate his life; and he [Page 27] kept his vow. The tragedy of Brutus was the first fruits of his journey to England.
The French theatre had not, since Cinna, breathed the haughty accents of freedom; and they had, there, been smothered by those of revenge. In Brutus, the strength of Corneille was discovered with additional pomp and splendor, combined with that simplicity which Corneille wanted, and the uniform elegance of Racine. Never were the rights of an oppressed people displayed with greater power, eloquence and even precision, than in the second scene of Brutus. The fifth act is equally remarkable for its pathos. The poet has been reproached for having made love a part of a subject so awful and terrible, and particularly love, which is deficient in interest; but, had the motive of Titus been any other than love, he would have been debased, the severity of Brutus would not then have rent the hearts of the spectators; and, had love been rendered too pathetic, it would have been to be feared that love would have destroyed the cause of liberty. It was after this piece had been acted that Fontenelle told Voltaire "He did not think his genius proper for tragedy, and that his style was too bold, pompous, and splendid."—"If so," replied Voltaire, "I will go and read your pastorals."
He supposed, at this time, he might aspire to a place in the French academy; and he might well have been thought modest to have [Page 28] waited so long. But he had not so much as the honour of dividing the votes of the academicians. The fat De Bose pronounced in a dictatorial tone, that Voltaire should never be one of their dignified members.
This De Bose, whose name is now forgotten, was one of these men, who, with little mind, and not too much knowledge, obtain admission among men of rank and power, and succeed precisely because they have neither the wit to inspire fear, nor to humble the self-love of those who seek the reputation of patronising men of letters. De Bose was become a person of importance. He exercised the office of inspector of new publications; which is an usurpation on the part of the magistrate, over men of letters, to whom the avidity of the rich and the powerful have left no employments but those whose execution requires the exertion of knowledge and talents.
After Brutus, Voltaire wrote the Death of Caesar; a subject which had previously been chosen by Shakspere, some scenes of whom he imitated and embellished. The tragedy was not played till several years had elapsed, and then in a college; he durst not risk a piece on the stage, destitute of love and of women, and which was likewise a tragedy in three acts: for it is not the most trifling innovations which excite the least clamour among the enemies of novelty; little things necessarily impress themselves on little minds. Still, however, a bold, [Page 29] noble, and figurative, yet natural, style, sentiments worthy of the conqueror of the freest people on earth, and that force and grandeur of character, and deep thought which pervade the language of these last Romans, could not but be felt by spectators capable of discovering such merit, and men whose hearts and minds were related to these great personages, as well as by those who might love history, and such young minds as, in the course of education, had lately been occupied by similar objects.
Historical tragedies, such as Cinna, the death of Pompey, Brutus, Rome Preserved, and the Triumvirate, of Voltaire, cannot be equally interesting with the Cid, Iphigene, Zaïre, or Merope. The mild and tender passions cannot display themselves in conformity with historical fact; incidents cannot be so selected and disposed as to produce theatrical effect with equal success; the poet has not the same power over the characters; the general interest, which is that of a people, or of a state rather than of an individual, is rendered less forcible, because it is dependent on sentiments less energetic.
But, far from stigmatising this species of writing, as the coldest and most unfavourable to dramatic genius, it ought to be encouraged; because it opens a vast field for the poet, in which he may unfold all the sublime truths of politics; because it displays grand historical pictures; and because, by these means, the [Page 30] soul may most effectually be formed and elevated. We, doubtless, ought to place these among the first of poems, which, like Mahomet and Alzire, are at once extensive, and abounding with pathos and terror. But these are uncommon subjects, and require the exertion of talents, which no poet but Voltaire has hitherto possessed.
The Death of Caesar was not allowed to be printed: the republican sentiments it contained were attributed as crimes to the author. This was a ridiculous imputation; each character spoke its own language; and Brutus was not more the hero than Caesar; the poet, treating an historical subject, drew his portraits after history, with strict impartiality. But, under the government of the Cardinal de Fleury, which was at once tyrannical and pusillanimous, the language of slavery alone could appear to be innocent.
Who could, at present, suppose that the eulogy on the death of Mademoiselle le Couvreur could have been made a subject of serious persecution, and have obliged Voltaire to quit the metropolis, where he knew that absence would fortunately cause all things to be forgotten, and even the frenzy of persecution?
The theatre is truly a useful institution, at which even indolent and frivolous youth preserve something of the habit of feeling and of thinking, while moral ideas are not totally lost to their minds, and the pleasures of the imagination [Page 31] are still felt to exist. The sensations which the representation of a tragedy excite, purify the soul, and raise it from that apathy and egotism which are the maladies to which the dissipated are, in the nature of things, condemned. Such exhibitions form a kind of connexion between the two classes of men who do, and men who do not, think. They soften the austerity of the one; and, in the other, temper that want of feeling which is the child of thoughtlessness and pride. It is a singular fatality that in a country, in which the dramatic art has been carried to the highest degree of perfection, the actors, to whom the public are indebted for the noblest of their pleasures, should be condemned by religion, and shunned from the most ridiculous of prejudices.
These prejudices Voltaire hardily opposed. Indignant to behold an actress, who had long been the object of enthusiastic applause, after being carried off by a sudden and cruel death deprived of the rites of burial, because in a state of excommunication, he loudly reproached a frivolous nation which with cowardice bent the neck under so shameful a yoke, and the pusillanimity of those people in power who peaceably suffered the memory of her whom they had so much admired to be thus insulted. Though nations are slow to correct themselves, they still suffer themselves to be told of their faults with patience. But the priests, whom the parliaments would suffer to excommunicate [Page 32] none but wizards and players, were irritated to see a poet dare to dispute the half of their empire, and the people in power could not pardon him for having proclaimed their unworthy cowardice.
Voltaire felt that some great theatrical success could alone secure him the hearts of the public, and shield him from the attacks of fanatacism. I [...] a country, in which no popular power exists, each class has some point at which to rally and form itself into a species of power. A dramatic author is under the protection of those societies who resort to the theatre for amusement. The public, by applauding allusions, flatter or offend the vanity of men in office, discourage or re-animate their opponents, and cannot for this reason be openly defied. Voltaire, therefore, presented his Euriphile, which did not effect his purpose; but, far from being discouraged by want of success, and delighted with the subject of Zaïre, he finished that tragedy in eighteen days, and it made its appearance on the stage four months after Euriphile.
Its success surpassed his hopes. This was the first piece in which, forsaking the tract of Corneille and Racine, he discovered art, style, and talents entirely his own. Never did love more true or more impassioned draw tears more sweet; never did poet before so depict the fury of jealousy in a mind so simple, so affectionate, and so generous. We love Orosmanes [Page 33] at the very moment he makes us shudder. He sacrifices Zaïre, the affecting, the lovely, the virtuous Zaïre, yet we cannot hate him. And even, were it possible to forget Orosmanes and Zaïre, how awful is irreligion in the person of the aged Lusignan? How noble is the spirit of fanaticism, which the reproaches of Narestam breathe? With what art has the poet painted the Christians whose interference disturb so sweet an union, a feeling and pious woman who has sacrificed her life and her love to her God, while the man who believes not in Christianity weeps for Zaïre, whose mind is distracted by filial affection, and who is the willing victim of a superstitious prejudice, which forbids her to love a man of a different sect. This is a master-piece of art. Whoever does not believe in the Old Testament, discovers in Athalia nothing but the school of bigotry, falsehood, and murder; but to all sects, and in all countries, Zaïre is the tragedy of the feeling and the innocent heart.
This tragedy was followed by that of Adelaide de Guesclin, which had likewise love for its subject, and in which, as in Zaïre, French heroes and French history were recited in beautiful poetry: so as to increase the interest. But it was the patriotism of a citizen who delighted in the recollection of respected names and great events, and not the patriotism of the anti-chamber, which has since been so applauded on the French theatre.
[Page 34]Adelaide failed of success. A wit, when Mariamne was acting, prevented it being heard to the end, by calling from the pit, The queen drinks. Another occasioned Adelaide to be condemned by answering Coussi, coussi *, to the noble and affecting question of Vendôme, Es tu content Couci †?
This same piece was again acted under the title of the Duke de Foix, after having been corrected, not in conformity to the judgment of the author but of his critics, and was more successful. But when, long after, the philosopher's three blows of the hammer had unknowingly taught the audience not to hiss when the cannon was fired ‡ in Adelaide, at a time when the play was again acted in despight of Voltaire, who had less recollection of the beauties of his piece than of the wounds which criticism had inflicted, it met with the most unbounded applause. The character of Vendôme, as amorous as that of Orosmanes, was then felt in all its force. The one, jealous in consequence of an imperious temper, the other, from an excess of love; the first, tyrannical from native impetuosity and pride, and the second, [Page 35] from the unfortunate habits attending on despotic power. Tender and disinterested in his affection, Orosmanes renders himself guilty during that momentary frenzy into which he is hurried by excusable error, and punishes by sacrificing himself. Vendôme, more personal and rather the slave of his passion than of his mistress, protects his crime with a more tranquil fury, but expiates it by his remorse and the sacrifice of his love. The one exhibits those excesses and sufferings into which the violence of despair plunges the generous soul; and the other, the power of repentant virtue over the strong mind, which had previously abandoned itself to passion.
It is said that the success of Adelaide was injured by the Temple of Taste, in which charming work Voltaire had passed sentence on the writers of the past age, and even on some of his cotemporaries. Time has confirmed all his decisions, which each then appeared sacrilegious. In observing such literary intolerance, the necessity, under which every writer labours who wishes to live in peace, of respecting opinions already formed of the merit of an orator or a poet, and the fury with which the public pursues those who dare, even on the most indifferent subjects, to think differently from themselves, we should be tempted to imagine that man is intolerant by Nature. Wit, reason, and genius cannot always guard us against this misfortune. There are few men who have not some secret idols, the worship of which they cannot calmly see destroyed.
[Page 36]Pride and envy is frequently the origin of this sensation. The writer who, criticising those whom we admire, assumes an air of superiority over them and consequently over ourselves, we regard as one that affects an offensive pre-eminence. We fear, while pulling down the statue of the man who is no more, he means to substitute that of a living favourite, whose fame fails not to afflict mediocrity. But when strong minds yield to this kind of intolerance, this temporary and excusable weakness, the offspring of indolence and habit, they soon again cede to the force of truth, and are neither guilty of injustice nor persecution.
Voltaire had, in his retirement, conceived the happy plan of bringing his nation acquainted with the philosophy, the literature, the opinions, and the sects of England; to effect which, he wrote his Letters on the English Nation. Newton, whose philosophic opinions, whose system of the earth, and whose optical experiments were scarcely known in France; Locke whose Essay on the Human Understanding, translated into French, had only been read by a few philosophers; Bacon, the extent of whose fame was that he had been lord chancellor; Shakspere whose genius and gross errors form a phenomenon in the history of literature; Congreve, Wicherly, Addison, and Pope, whose names were almost unknown even by our men of letters; the bigoted Quakers, who, without being persecutors, were fanatics in their devotion, [Page 37] yet the most rational of Christians in their creed and in their morals, ridiculous in the eyes of the world, for having carried two virtues to excess, the love of peace and the love of equality; the other sects by which England was divided; the influence which a general spirit of freedom had there obtained over literature, philosophy, arts, opinions, and manners; and the practice of inoculation which had been examined without prejudice, and met with few impediments, notwithstanding the singularity and the innovation of the practice: such were the principal subjects of his work.
Fontenelle was the first who made reason and philosophy speak an agreeable and inviting language: he had the art to mingle reflexions, sage, delicate, and frequently profound, with the sciences. In the Letters of Voltaire we discover the merit of Fontenelle, with more taste, simplicity, boldness, and gaiety. No rooted attachment to the errors of Des Cartes interfered, to spread a shadow over, and to disfigure, truth. He possessed the logic and pleasantry of the Lettres Provinciales *, but exercised them on greater subjects; nor were they injured by a varnish of monkish devotion.
This work was the aera of a revolution in France; it gave rise to a taste for philosophy, and English literature; it interested us in the manners, policy, and commercial knowledge of [Page 38] that nation; and it brought us acquainted with the English language. A puerile partiality afterward took place of former indifference; and, by a remarkable singularity, Voltaire had the glory of combating it, and of diminishing its influence. He had taught us to feel the merit of Shakspere, and to regard his works as a mine, whence treasures might be dug by our poets; and, when a ridiculous enthusiasm presented this eloquent, but wild and capricious poet, as a model to a nation possessed of Racine and Voltaire, and wished us to consider his canvass, overcharged with absurdity and gross caricature, as the energetic and true pictures of nature, Voltaire defended the cause of taste and reason. He had first exclaimed against the too great timitidy of our theatre, and was afterward obliged to exclaim against our inclination to imitate the licentious barbarity of the English stage.
The publication of these letters excited persecution, the bitterness of which, to read them at present, could scarcely be conceived: but innate ideas were opposed in them, and our doctors of that day believed, if there were no innate ideas, there would be no sufficiently marked characters to distinguish between the souls of men and of brutes. Besides, it was there maintained, after Locke, that there was no strict proof that God had not the power, if he had the will, to impart to matter the faculty of thinking. This was to infringe on the [Page 39] privilege of the divines, who pretended to know accurately and exactly, they and they alone, all that God has thought, and all that he could do, or has done, since, and even before, the beginning of the world.
In fine, Voltaire criticised some passages of the thoughts of Pascal: a work which the Jesuits, in their own despite, were obliged to respect as much as the works of St. Augustin. It gave scandalous offence to see a poet, nay more, a layman, dare to sit in judgment on Pascal. It appeared to be an attack on the only defender of the Christian religion, who, among the fashionable world, had the reputation of being a great man. It was to attack religion itself: and how much would the proofs of religion be weakened, should the mathematician, Pascal, who had openly devoted himself to its defence, be convicted of having often reasoned ill.
The clergy demanded that the Letters on the English Nation should be suppressed; and they were so, by an arret of council. These arrets were given, without examination, as a kind of retribution, for the subsidy which government obtained from the assemblies of the clergy; and as a reward for the facility with which they were granted. Ministers forgot that the interest of the secular power was not to support, but to suffer the progress of reason to destroy, that empire of the priesthood which has been so long and so barbarously [Page 40] abused; and that it is not good policy to purchase peace of an enemy, by sacrificing our defenders.
The parliament burnt the book, according to a custom formerly invented by Tiberius, and rendered ridiculous since the invention of printing. But there are certain people for whom the experience of three ages are necessary, before they can begin to perceive absurdity.
So much persecution, exercised at the very time when the miracles of the Abbé Paris and those of Father Girard were acting, loaded the two persecuting parties with ridicule and opprobrium. It was natural that they should unite against a man who daringly preached reason; and they went so far as to order informations to be issued against the author of the Letters. The keeper of the seals banished Voltaire, who, being at that time absent, received early information, and avoided the people sent to conduct him to the place of his exile; rather choosing to combat at a distance, and where he could be in safety. His friends proved that he had not forfeited his promise, not to publish his Letters in France; and that they had made their appearance from the treachery of a book-binder. Fortunately, the keeper of the seals had more zeal for his authority than for religion, and was much more of a minister than of a devotee. The storm was hushed, and Voltaire had permission to r [...]turn to Paris.
This calm was but of momentary duration. [Page 41] The epistle to Urania, which, till then, had been kept in secret, was printed; and Voltaire, to escape a new persecution, was obliged to disavow and attribute it to the Abbé de Chaulieu, who had been dead several years. The imputation did the abbé honour as a poet, without injuring his fame as a Christian.
The necessity of falsehood, in disavowing a work, is an act of extremity, alike repugnant to conscience and to dignity of character; but the crime is in the injustice of those men who render such a disavowal necessary for the safety of the author. If that which is in itself innocent be made a crime, if absurd or arbitrary laws have infringed on the natural right, which all men possess, of not only having but publishing their opinions, we then deservedly lose the other right of always hearing the truth, which is solely founded on freedom. We are forbidden to deceive, because to deceive any man is to commit an injury on him, or to expose him to commit one himself. But injury supposes a right; and no one has the right to seek for and secure to himself the means of doing injustice.
We do not disculpate Voltaire, for having attributed his work to the Abbé de Chaulieu, but such an imputation is in itself indifferent, and a mere act of pleasantry; it is affording an excuse to people in power, who are disposed to be indulgent, without daring to confess themselves so, by the aid of which they may repel [Page 42] such persecutors as are over serious in their zeal.
The indiscretion, with which some of the friends of Voltaire, repeated fragments from his Maid of Orleans, was the cause of a new persecution. The keeper of the s [...] threatened to confine the poet in the worst and deepest of dungeons, if any part of the poem made its appearance. Remembering the long space of time during which such subaltern tyrants, included by momentary power, have dated to hold similar language to men who have been the glory of their country and their age [...] the sensations of contempt rise in us and smother those of indignation. The oppressor and the oppressed are now both in the grave; but the name of the oppressed will he borne, on the wings of fame, to future ages, and singly preserved from oblivion; while eternal shame will pursue the memory of his cowardly persecutors.
It was in these tempestuous times that the lieutenant, of the police, Hernalt, one day said to Voltaire:—"Write what you will, you never can overturn the Christian religion."— "We shall see that"—replied the poet *.
At a time when there was much conversation concerning a man who had been arrested by a supposed forged lettre de cachet, Voltaire [Page 43] asked the, same magistrate what punishment would be inflicted on those who should fabricate false lettres de cachet.—"They will be hanged."—"That will be but doing right: let us hope the time will come when those who sign the true, will be served in the same way."
Wearied by so much persecution, Voltaire thought it necessary to change his mode of life, to effect which, fortune secured him the means. Ancient philosophers have vaunted of poverty as the safe-guard of independence: Voltaire, that he might be independent, wished to become rich; and he was equally to be commended. The ancients were unacquainted with that secret wealth which may at once be dispersed and secured, in various countries, beyond the reach of power. Confiscation and its abuses, amongst them, rendered wealth as dangerous as fame, or popular favour. The extent of the Roman empire, and the smallness of the Grecian republics, alike prevented men from the concealment of their riches, or their persons. The difference of manners among neighbouring nations, the almost general ignorance of foreign languages, and a less degree of intercourse throughout the world, were then so many impediments to a change of country.
The ancients likewise knew less of the conveniencies of life, which among us are become necessary to all who are not born in poverty. Their climate subjected them to less numerous real wants; and the wealthy were more [Page 44] addicted to magnificence, refinement in debauchery, excess, and caprice, than to habitual and daily convenience. Thus, as it was more easy for them to be poor, and more difficult to be rich without danger, riches were not among them, as among us, the means of escaping from unjust oppression.
Let us not blame a philosopher for having, in order to secure his independence, preferred such resources as the manners of his age supplied to those which belong to other manners and to other times.
The fortune which descended to Voltaire from his father and his brother was ample, and had been increased by the London edition of the Henriade, and fortunate speculations in the public funds. Thus, to the advantage of possessing wealth, which ascertained independence, he added that of being indebted for it to himself. The use he made of riches might prevail on envy itself to pardon him their acquirement.
Much of his wealth was expended in aiding men of letters, and in encouraging such youth as he thought discovered the seeds of genius. This, in particular, was the application he made of the trifling profits he derived from his works and his theatrical productions, when he did not make a free gift of the latter to the comedians. Yet never was author more cruelly accused of injuries done to his booksellers; but the whole sw [...]rm of literary insects [Page 45] were at their command, and were themselves anxious to decry the conduct of a man whose works they were conscious they could not bring into disrepute. The pride of mediocrity, the vanity of men, even of merit, wounded by a too incontestible superiority, the busy world ever anxious to degrade knowledge and talents which are the objects of their secret envy, and fanatics who were interested to calumniate Voltaire, that they might have the less to fear, all conspired to increase the detraction of booksellers and hyper-critics. But proofs of the falsehood of these imputations, as well as the favours heaped by Voltaire on some of his detractors, still subsist; nor can we remember these proofs without a sigh, at the misfortune of genius thus condemned to suffer, and at that shameful facility men have to credit whatever can relieve them from the nenessity of admiring. Such sighs are the melancholy retribution of same.
Having no more need, for the security of his fortune, to court patronage, solicit places, or to traffic with booksellers, Voltaire renounced all residence at the capital. Previous to the administration of Cardinal de Fleury, and his journey to England, his intercourse had been among people of the first fashion. Princes and nobles, those who were at the head of affairs, people of fashion and women most in vogue, were courted by him and were equally desirous of his company. He was every where received [Page 46] with pleasure and welcome, but he every where inspired envy and fear. Superior, in genius, he was even more so, in the wit of conversation, into which he infused whatever can render frivolity amiable, and at the same time interspersed traits of a more elevated nature. Born with the talent of humour, his repartees were often repeated; nor was there any want of an application of the word malignant, to what was no more than the decision of the understanding, rendered acute by native wit.
On his return from England, he felt that in society, where men assemble from motives of vanity and self-love, he should meet but with few friends. He therefore, though he did not quarrel with such societies, frequented them less. The taste he had acquired for magnificence, grandeur, and whatever is uncommon and splendid, had become habitual, and he preserved it even in retirement. By this taste, his works were often embellished, and it occasionally influenced his judgment. On his return to his country, he confined himself to live familiarly with only a few friends. He had lost M. de Génonville and M. de Maisons, whose death he lamented in such affecting verse, which remains a monument of that true and deep sensibility which nature had bestowed, and genius disseminated through his works, and which was the fortunate origin of his ardent zeal for the happiness of mankind, which was [Page 47] the sublime and continued passion of his old age. He still possessed M. d'Argental, who, during his long life, preserved sensations of affection and admiration for Voltaire, and who was rewarded by his friendship and his confidence. Madame Forment and Madame Cideville were likewise his friends, and the considants of his works and his projects.
But about the time when he suffered such various persecution, friendship, still more tender, afforded him consolation and increased his love of retirement. The Marchioness du Chatelet was, like him, passionately enamoured of study and fame, as well as of philosophy; but it was of that kind of philosophy which springs up in the strong and free mind. She had studied metaphysics and geometry sufficiently to analize Leibnitz, and translate Newton. She cultivated the arts; but not undistinguishingly, nor so as to prefer them to the knowledge of nature and man. Superior to prejudice, as well from strength of character as from reason, she had not the weakness to conceal how much prejudice was despised by her. Indulging in the trifling amusements of her sex, rank, and age, she yet could contemn and abandon them without regret in favour of retirement, labour, and friendship. Her superiority excited the jealousy of women and even of most of the men, with whom she necessarily associated. Yet she could pardon their envy without an effort. Such was the friend that [Page 48] Voltaire selected with whom to pass his days; days which were ever consecrated to works of genius, and embellished by mutual friendship.
Weary of literary disputes, disgusted to see the league which inferior writers had formed against him, and who were secretly supported by men, whose merit should have preserved them from such unworthy associates; finding likewise, that since he had dared to speak truth, his accusers were as numerous as his critics, and perceiving that they incessantly armed religion and government against him, because he was a good poet, he sought employment more peaceful in the study of the sciences.
He determined to publish an elementary Treatise of the Discoveries of Newton, relative to the system of the earth and of light, that he might render them f [...]miliar to all who had the slightest knowledge of mathematics; and that he might make known, at the same time, the philosophic opinions of Newton, and his ideas of ancient chronology.
At the time that these Elements appeared, the Cartesian system prevailed even in the Academy of Sciences, at Paris. A few young geometricians only had the courage to forsake it; nor did any work exist in the French language from which an idea could be formed of the grand discoveries which had, for half a century, been rendered public in England.
The author, however, was refused a privilege for publication. The Chancellor d'Aguesseau [Page 49] was a Cartesian in his youth, because the system was then fashionable among such as pique themselves on rising superior to vulgar prejudice; and, to these his philosophical opinions, were added [...] his political and religious sentiments against Newton. He discovered that a chancellor of France ought not to suffer an English philosopher, who scarcely was a Christian, to rise victorious over a supposed orthodox Frenchman. D'Ageusseau had a prodigious memory, and continued study had rendered him deeply learned in various species of erudition; but his mind, wearied by being made the receptacle of the opinions of others, had neither strength sufficient to combine his own ideas, nor to form fixt and definite principles. His superstition, his timidity, his respect for ancient customs, and his want of resolution, narrowed his views relative to a reformation of the laws and impeded his activity. He died, after having been long a minister, and left France to regret that his great virtues had slumbered in inutility, and that his rare qualities had been lost to the world.
His severity respecting the Elements of the Newtonian Philosophy was not the only mark of littleness he showed during his censorship of the press. He would not give privileges for the printing of novels; nor would he suffer the novel of Cleveland to be published, but on condition that the hero should change his religion.
[Page 50]Voltaire, at the same time, pursued the study of experimental philosophy, sent queries of every kind to the learned, and repeated their experiments, or made new ones in their stead.
He was a candidate for the prize, given by the Academy of Sciences, on the nature and propagation of fire; and assumed the following motto, which, for precision and energy, is not unworthy of the author of the Henriade:
The prize was given to the illustrious Eular, by whom, in scientific contest, no man need blush at being vanquished. Madame du Chalelet, as well as her friend, was likewise a candidate, and both pieces were mentioned in very honourable terms.
The dispute on the measure of forces at that time occupied mathematicians. Voltaire, in a memorial presented to and approved by the Academy, took the part of Des Cartes and Newton against Leibnitz and the two Bernouilli's; nay even against Madame du Chatelet, who was become the partisan of Leibnitz.
We are far from pretending that these works are any addition to the same of Voltaire, or even that they deserve a place among the learned, but the merit of having made the French, who are not mathematicians, acquainted with Newton, the true system of the earth, and the principal phenomena of optics, deserves notice in the life of a philosopher.
[Page 51]It is good to disseminate truth relative to objects of science, whether it relate to the great laws of nature and the order of the world, or to those common facts which fall under every man's observation. Absolute ignorance is ever accompanied by error; and error in physics often is the support of prejudices of a more dangerous kind. The philosophic knowledge of Voltaire was further useful to him as a poet; we do not, here, entirely refer to those pieces in which he had the rare merit of expressing truth in verse with precision without disfiguring it, or ceasing to be a poet, or of addressing the imagination while he delighted the ear. The study of the sciences enlarges the sphere of poetic ideas, and enriches verse with new images. Without this resource, poetry, necessarily limitted by too confined a circle, would be no more than the art of re-producing, in harmonious language, common thoughts and exhausted pictures.
Be the subject what it may, he who possesses extensive and profound knowledge will ever possesses an immense advantage. The poetic genius of Voltaire would have been the same, but he would not have been so great a poet, had he not studied philosophy and history. Nor is it solely in augmenting the number of our ideas that such extraneous studies are useful; they add to the perfection of the mind, by exercising its various faculties in a more equal manner.
After having applied some years to experimental [Page 52] philosophy, Voltaire consulted Clairaut relative to his progress, who had the frankness to answer that after obstinate labour he would never arise above mediocrity in the sciences, and that he would vainly loose that time which same required he should dedicate to poetry and ethics. Voltaire listened patiently and yielded to that natural inclination which incessantly led him to the Belles Letrres and to the wishes of his friends, who were unable to accompany him in his new career.
He was not therefore entirely absorbed in the sciences during his residence at Cirey. He there wrote Alzire, Zulime, Mahomet, the History of Charles XII. finished his Discourses on Man, prepared the age of Louis XIV. and collected materials for his Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations, from Charlemagne to the present age.
Alzire and Mahomet are immortal monuments of the height to which the human genius, poetry and philosophy can raise the tragic art. This art is not in these pieces confined to the pourtraying the passions, awakening their power over the soul, and making the sweet tears of love and of pity flow; it becomes the tutor of mankind, whom it inclines to virtue; indolent citizens, who bring with them to the theatre the weariness of having spent an useless day, are there called on to discuss the first grand interest of the human race.
In Alzire, we behold the noble but wild and [Page 53] impetuous virtues of the man of nature, combatting the vices of society corrupted by [...]anaticism and ambition, and, ceding to virtue, made perfect by reason in the soul of Alzares, or in the dying and disabused Gusman. Here, we at once are taught how society corrupts man by making prejudice the substitute of ignorance, and how it improves him when error is banished by truth.
But the most fatal of prejudices is that of fanaticism. Voltaire was determined the monster should become the victim of the stage; and that he might expel it from every heart, he employed these terrible effects which tragedy alone can afford. It, no doubt, was easy to render a fanatic odious, but that this fanatic should be a great man, and that while abhorring, we should of necessity admire him, that he should descend to mean artifice without degradation, that, while occupied in propagating a religion and raising an empire, he should be in love without being ridiculous, that while committing every crime he should not inspire that painful horror which accompanies the acts of villains, that in the tone of a prophet he should speak the language of genius, that he should be superior to the bigotry with which he intoxicated his ignorant and intrepid disciples yet be above the baseness of hypocrisy, that his crimes should be successful, that he should triumph, yet should appear sufficiently punished by remorse, all this could only be effected [Page 54] by the dramatic art, when employed by the true poet.
Mahomet was first acted at Lisle, in l741. During the representation, a letter from the king of Prussia was delivered to Voltaire, which informed him of the victory of Molwitz. He stopped the piece to read the letter to the auditors. You will see, said he, to his surrounding friends, this tragedy of Molwitz will make mine successful. They ventured to play it at Paris; but the bigots by their exclamations, availing themselves of the weakness of the Cardinal de Fleury, prevailed on him to sorbid the representation. Voltaire thought proper to send it to Benedict XIV. with two Latin verses for his portrait. The Pontiff Lambertini, a tolerant and easy prince, but a man of much understanding, sent him a kind answer, accompanied by some medals.
Crébillon was more scrupulous than the pope. He never would consent that a piece should be played, which, by proving that tragic terror may be increased to the utmost excess without sacrificing the pathos or revolting the mind, was a satire on that species of writing, of which he proudly believed himself to be the creator and the model. It was not till the year 1751 that M. D'Alembert, being appointed by M. D'Argenson to examine Mahomet, had the courage to approve it, and thus to expose himself to the mutual hatred of the men of letters leauged against Voltaire, and of the devotees. [Page 55] His fortitude was the more deserving of respect, because the approver of a work docs not participate in its fame, and because he could find no recompence for the danger to which he exposed himself, except the pleasure of having served his friend, and aided the triumph of reason.
Zulima failed of success; nor were the efforts of the author to correct and palliate its faults effectual. A tragedy is an experiment on the human heart, and an experiment which does not always succeed, even in the most able hands. Zulima, however, is the first woman presented on the stage, who, hurried by passion into criminal acts, still preserved all the generosity and disinterestedness of love. This character, so natural, so violent, and so tender, might perhaps have deserved indulgence from the audience, and the critics of the theatre, in favour of the new beauties of this part, might have pardoned the weakness of the 'others, which the author himself condemned with equal frankness and severity.
The Discourses on Man are one of the finest monuments of French poetry. The plan of them may not be so regular as that of the epistles of Pope, but they possess the advantage of philosophy more true, mild, and general. All the variety of harmony, a kind of carelessness, soothing sensibility, an enthusiasm ever noble and ever real, impart a charm to them, which alternately delights the mind, the imagination, [Page 56] and the heart; a charm, the use of which was known only to Voltaire, and which was that of pleasing, moving, and instructing, without ever fatiguing the reader, and of writing to all understandings and to all ages. Flashes of true philosophy frequently break forth, and are generally addressed so to the feelings or to the fancy as to appear natural, and to become popular. This talent is as beneficial and as rare as that of giving a profound appearance to false and trivial ideas is common and dangerous.
Quitting the company of Pope, we admire his genius, and the address with which he defends his system, but the soul is unmoved, and the mind presently finds that its objections have rather been eluded than answered. But we cannot leave Voltaire without encouragement or consolation; and, while we have a melancholy prospect of the evils to which nature has condemned man, we are likewise acquainted with their antidotes.
The life of Charles XII. was the first of the historical publications of Voltaire. The style, as rapid as the exploits of the hero, hurries on the reader to an uninterrupted train of splendid expeditions, singular anecdotes, and romantic events, which give curiosity and feeling no repose. The narrative is rarely interrupted by reflexions. The author forgot himself that he might give place to his characters. He seems to relate what he has just heard concerning his hero. The single subject is battles and [Page 57] military enterprize; yet, the spirit of a philosopher and the soul of a defender of the human race are present every where.
Voltaire wrote from original memorials, furnished by those who were witnesses of the events; and his historical truth is warranted by the respectable testimony of Stanislaus, the friend, the companion, and the victim of Charles XII.
The history was, notwithstanding, accused of being a novel, because it had all the interest of one. Though no man, perhaps, ever excited so much enthusiasm, neither was any man ever treated with less indulgence than Voltaire. As a reputation for wit is in France the thing most envied, and as it was impossible for his superiority in wit to remain unacknowledged, he was most vehemently denied every other merit; and, the pretended claims to wit being as restless in every class of mankind as in that of men of letters, the number of those who envied him was almost equal to that of his readers.
In vain had Voltaire imagined that the retreat of Cirey would hide him from hatred; he had concealed his person only, his fame still offended his enemies. A libel, which was a malignant attack on his whole life, appeared to the disturbance of his repose. He was treated like a prince, or a minister, because he excited equal envy. The Abbé Desfontaines, who was indebted to Voltaire for liberty and perhaps [Page 58] for life, was the author of this lible. Accused of a shameful vice, which superstition has classed among crimes, he had been imprisoned at a time when, from attrocious and ridiculous policy, it was thought proper to burn a few men, in order to make another man conceive disgust fur this vice, to which they falsely supposed him inclined.
Voltaire, being informed of the misfortune of the Abbé Desfontaines, who was personally unknown to him, and whose only recommendation was that he was a man of letters, hastened to Fontainbleau in search of Madame de Prie, then all puissant, from whom he obtained the prisoner's liberty, on condition that be should not appear at Paris. Voltaire further procured him a place of retirement at the seat of a lady of his acquaintance. Here Desfontaines wrote a libel against his benefactor; this he was obliged to throw into the fire, but he never could pardon Voltaire the act of saving his life. He eagerly took every opportunity the periodical publications afforded, of attacking him; and it was he who, by the mouth of a priest *, informed the world that Votaire was the author of Le Mondain, an ingenious poem, the intent of which was to show that luxury, by polishing man's manners and encouraging industry, obviates a part of those ills which take birth in the inequality of, and insensibility attendant on, riches.
[Page 59]He was thus exposed to the danger of new banishment, because, to the reproach of having preached up pleasure, a great one in the eyes of those who need the cloak of austerity to conceal vice more real, was added the additional crime of having ridiculed the amusements of our first parents.
In sine, the journalists published the Voltairomanie; and then it was that Voltaire, who so long had silently suffered under the slanders of Desfontaines and Rousseau, abandoned himself to emotions of anger, of which his enemies were little worthy.
Not satisfied with avenging himself by delivering up his adversaries to public contempt, and imprinting on them marks which no time can efface, he prosecuted Desfontaines who escaped by disavowing the libel, and who immediately wrote others to console himself for the misfortune. Thus, at the age of forty-four, after having been patient during twenty years, Voltaire, for the first time, forgot that moderation which it were highly to be wished men of letters never should forget. Though they have received from nature the formidable gift of devoting their foes to ridicule and shame, they ought to disdain the use of this dangerous weapon in avenging their own quarrels, and employ it only against the performers of truth, and the enemies of the rights of mankind.
The friendship, which, about the same time [Page 60] was formed between Voltaire and the prince royal of Prussia, was one of the first causes of the excessive anger of his enemies. The young Frederic had received from his father the education of a soldier only, but nature formed him for a man of an amiable, extensive, and elevated mind, as well as for a great generall. He was sent to Rhinesberg by his father, who, having conceived the project of beheading him as a deserter, because he had attempted to travel without permission, yielded to the remonstrances of the imperial ambassador, and satisfied himself with causing the prince to be present at the execution of one of his traveling companions.
In this state of retirement, Frederic, who was enamoured with the French language, poetry, and philosophy, chose Voltaire for his confident and guide. They mutually sent each other their works; the prince consulted the philosopher concerning his studies, and requested lessons and advice. They discussed the most curious as the most difficult metaphysical questions. The prince, at that time, studied the works of Wolf, whose systems and unintelligible language he soon abjured for philosophy more simple and more true. He also employed himself in a refutation of Machiavel: that is, in proving that the most certain policy of a sovereign is to make moral rules his guide, and that his personal interest does not necessarily render him the enemy of [Page 61] his subject and his neighbours, as Machiavel had supposed, either from a love of hypothesis or to disgust his countrymen with a monarchical government, toward which they seemed to be inclined by their weariness of a republican system ever tempestuous and often cruel.
In the preceding century, Tycho-Brahe, Des Cartes, and Leibnitz, had enjoyed the society of monarchs, by whom they had been loaded with marks of esteem? but confidence and freedom did not preside in this too unequal intercourse▪ Of these Frederic gave the first example, in which, unfortunately for his fame, he forgot to persist. He sent his friend, the Baron de Keyserling, to visit the Deities of Cirey, and to bear his protrait and manuscripts to Voltaire. The philosopher was moved, perhaps flattered, by this homage; but his greatest pleasure was the prospect of a prince destined to reign, who loved literature, and was the friend of philosophy and the foe of superstition. He hoped the author of the Anti-Machiavel would be a pacific monarch, and he took serious delight in secretly printing the book which he believed must bind the prince to virtue from the fear of betraying his own principles, and of reading his condemnation in the work he himself had written.
When Frederic ascended the throne, he testified no change, but remained the friend of Voltaire. The cares of government did not enfeeble his love of poetry, nor his avidity [Page 62] to possess the unpublished writings of Voltaire, which were read by scarcely any except himself and Madame du Chatelet. Yet, one of his first steps was to suspend the publication of the Anti-Machiavel. Voltaire obeyed, and the corrections which he had made with regret were rendered fruitless.
His desire that his disciple, now a king, should enter into a public engagement, which should secure his adherence to philosophic maxims, was increased. He went to meet him at Wezel, and was astonished to see a young monarch in a uniform, on a camp-bed, shivering with a fever. But his fever did not prevent him from profiting by his neighbourhood to the principality of Liege, and enforcing the payment of a forgotten debt, from the bishop. Voltaire wrote the memorial, which was supported by the bayonet, and he returned to Paris well satisfied to have found his hero an amiable man. But he refused the offers of the king, who wished to draw him to Prussia, and preferred the friendship of Madame du Chatelet to the favour of a monarch whom he admired.
The king of Prussia declared war against the daughter of Charles VI. and took advantage of her weakness to render some old pretensions on Silesia valid. Two battles secured him the possession of the province. Cardinal de Fleury, who had undertaken the war in his own despite, continued his secret negociations. [Page 63] The empress perceived her interest was not to treat with France, against whom she hoped for useful allies, who would themselves support the burden of the war; whereas, if she had none but the Prussian monarch to combat, she must be left to herself, and must behold the wishes and secret aid of those very powers on the side of her foe. She rather chose therefore to stifle her resentment, informed Frederic of the propositions of the cardinal, induced him to make peace by this confidence, and purchase by the sacrifice of Silesia, the neutrality of the enemy whom she had most to fear.
The war had not interrupted the correspondence between the king and Voltaire▪ Frederic sent poety from the field, while preparing for battle, or amid the tumult of victory; and Voltaire, continuing to praise his military fame, never ceased to preach humanity and peace.
The Cardinal de Fleury died. Voltaire had been intimate with him, because he was desirous of learning the anecdotes of the reign of Louis XIV; and Fleury, who loved to relate them, dwelt on those which regarded himself, not doubting that Voltaire would eagerly insert them in his history. But the hatred of Fleury, and of all feeble men, for one who rose superior to common powers, was greater than his love of taste, and eve [...] than his vanity.
Fleury endeavoured to in p [...]d [...] freedom of [Page 64] speech, and even of thought, in France, that he might govern with the greater ease. During his whole life, he had maintained a warfare of opinions in the kingdom, by his very endeavours to smother those opinions, and prevent them from troubling the public repose. He was terrified by the daringness of Voltaire; equally afraid of exposing himself, should he defend the poet, or his trifling claims to renown, should he abandon him with too much cowardice, Voltaire found him rather a clandestine persecutor than a patron; but one who was retained by his respect for public opinion and his own fame.
Voltaire was designed to be his successor in the French academy: he had lately acquired new claims which must have silenced envy, had she been capable of a blush. He had enriched the stage by another master-piece: by Merope, the only tragedy in which tears freely and sweetly flow, without the aid of the misfortunes of love. The author of Zaïre had before opposed the maxim of Boileau,
He had affirmed that nature was capable of producing more feeling and more heart-rending effects on the stage; and in Merope, he proved his assertion.
[Page 65]If however Boileau, by surest, understood the least difficult, facts are in his favour. Various poets have written affecting tragedies founded on love; Merope stands alone.
Hurried on by the interest of the situations, a rapidity of dialogue till then unknown to the stage, and by the talent of an actress who had caught the empassioned tones of nature, the pit was agitated with unexampled enthusiasm. Voltaire, who was concealed in a corner of the house, was obliged to appear before the spectators. He came into the box of the lady of Marshal de Villars. The house called on the young duchess of Villars to kiss the author of Merope; and she was under the necessity of obeying the imperious will of the public, intoxicated with admiration and pleasure.
This was the first time that the pit called for the author of a piece; but what was then no more than homage, rendered to genius, degenerated afterward into custom, and is now a ridiculous and humiliating ceremony, to which authors, who respect themselves, refuse to submit.
To this new claim, which even devotion was obliged to respect, was added the support of Madame de Châteauroux, then governed by the Duke de Richelieu; an extraordinary man, who at the age of twenty, had twice been in the Bastile, for the rashness of his gallantries; who, by the rumour and the number of his adventures, had made himself [Page 66] so fashionable, among women, as for it to be almost regarded as an honour to be dishonoured by him; and who, among his imitators, had formed a kind of gallantry in which love was no longer the inclination to pleasure, but the vanity of seduction. This same man afterward contributed to the fame of the victory of Fontenoy, supported the revolution of Genoa, took port Mahon, and obliged an English army to lay down its arms; and when that army had broken the treaty, when it threatened his dispersed and feeble quarters, he stopped its progress by his activity and boldness. After which he sunk into the intrigues of the court, and lost, in the maneuvres of a tyrannical and corrupt administration, that fame which might have obliterated his early errors.
The Duke de Richelieu had from his infancy been the friend of Voltaire; and, though Voltaire had often cause of complaint against him, yet he preserved that remembrance of youthful affection which time cannot eradicate, and a kind of confidence which was rather maintained by habit than by conviction. The duke continued faithful to his old friend, as much as the levity of his character, his caprice, his petty despotism at the theatres, his contempt for every man who was not a courtier, his weakness toward people in power, and his insensibility for all that was noble, or useful, would permit.
[Page 67]At this period he promoted the interest of Voltaire with Madame de Châteauroux. But M. de Maurepas did not love Voltaire. The Abbé de Chaulieu had written an epigram against Oedipus, because he was offended to see a young man, who had become his rival in sugitive poetry, into which philosophy and voluptuousness were infused, acquire the additional fame of succeeding at the theatre; and M. de Maurepas, whose vanity was to be the man of most wit at table, could not pardon Voltaire for so evidently robbing him of this advantage, with which it was not too ridiculous, at that time, for a minister of state to be flattered.
Voltaire attempted to disarm his anger by an epistle, in which he bestowed such praise as might appear most natural to the mind and character of M. de Maurepas. This epistle, which contained as much instruction as eulogium, effected no change in the sentiments of the minister; who, that he might prevent Voltaire from gaining a place in the academy, combined with the priest Boyer, whom Fleury had preferred, as the tutor of the dauphin, to Massillon, whose talents and virtue he scared; and which Boyer he, on his death-bead, recommended to the king to the charge of bestowing ecclesiastical benefices, apparently from the hope that his memory might be regretted by the Jansenists, M. de Maurepas was likewise glad to have an opportunity of secretly counteracting Madame de Châteauroux, with whose [Page 68] hatred for him he was well acquainted. Voltaire, being informed of his intention, went to to him and asked, if Madame de Châteauroux should support him in the election, whether he would oppose him. I will, answered the minister, and will crush you *.
He knew how easy this would be to a minister; and that, under a feeble government, the influence of a mistress must yield to that of intriguing fanatic priests, who were more despicable than a prostitute, in the eyes of reason, tho' more respected by the populace. Boyer was triumphant.
The minister soon after perceived how necessary [Page 69] the alliance of the king of Prussia was to France. But this monarch feared to engage anew with a power whose timid and wavering policy could not inspire confidence. Voltaire, it was supposed, might induce him to change his opinion, and was secretly charged with this negociation. It was agreed that the persecution of Boyer should be the pretext of his journey into Prussia. He thus obtained the liberty to ridicule the poor priest, who went to complain to the king that Voltaire made him appear a fool in foreign courts. The king answered—"It was a settled point."
Voltaire departed, and Piron, at the head of his enemies, wrote abundance of epigrams and songs on his pretended disgrace. Piron was in the habit of insulting all celebrated men who underwent persecution. His works abound with proofs of this mean malice; yet he had the character of a good natured man, because he was indolent; and, not having any native dignity of mind, he did not offend the vanity of others.
After having passed some time with the King of Prussia, who constantly refused all negociation with France, Voltaire had the address to divine the true motive of his refusal. It was the weakness that France had persisted in not to declare war against the English, and by this conduct to appear to entreat for peace, when she had a right to dictate its conditions.
He returned to Paris and gave an account [Page 70] of his journey. The following spring the King of Prussia again declared war against the Queen of Hungary, by which useful diversion he obliged her troops to evacuate Alsatia. This important service, with that of having penetrated, as he passed through the Hague, into the views of the Dutch who apparently were in a state of uncertainty, did not procure Voltaire any of those marks of respect from which he wished to raise a rampart against his literary enemies.
The Marquis D'Argenson was called to the ministry. He was a man who deserves to be ranked among those few people in power who have really loved philosophy, and the public good. His taste for literature had connected him with Voltaire, whom he more than once employed to write manifestos, declarations, and dispatches, the style of which was required to be correct, dignified, and well adapted.
Such was the manifesto which was to have been published by the Pretender, on his descent into Scotland with a sin all French army, which the Duke de Richelieu was to have commanded. Voltaire had then an opportunity of labouring in conjunction with Count Lally, a zealous Jacobite, and the determined enemy of the English; whose memory Voltaire afterwards defended with so much fortitude when an unjust sentence, executed with barbarity, sacrificed him to the resentment of some of the servants of the East India Company.
But he had, at the same time, a support [Page 71] more potent in the Marchioness de Pompadour, with whom he had been intimate while her name was d'Etiole. She committed the writing of a piece to him, for the first marriage of the Dauphin. The place of gentleman of the chamber, the title of historiographer of France, and in fine the protection of the court, which was necessary to oppose the faction of devotees who excluded him the French academy, were the recompense he received. It was on this occasion that he wrote the following verses:
This was passing rather too severe a judgment on the Princess of Navarre, which is a work full of noble and affecting gallantry.
The favour of the court however was insufficient to open the doors of the academy. He was obliged, in order to disarm the devotees, to write a letter to Father la Tour, in which he made protestation of his respect for religion, and, which was more necessary, of his attachment to the Jesuits. In despight of the address with which he manages his language in [Page 72] that letter, it were better he had renounced the academy than have had the weakness to write it. This weakness would have been inexcusable had it been the sacrifice of vanity, in order to obtain a title which had long been incapable of adding honour to the name of Voltaire. But he supposed it his shield; he imagined he should find support against persecution from the academy. He presumed too favourably of the fortitude and justice of his associates.
In his discourse to the academy, he first threw off the yoke of custom, by which these discourses seemed rather condemned to be a string of compliments than of true praise. Voltaire boldly spoke of literature and of taste, and his example is in some manner become a law, against which the academicians, who are man of letters, rarely venture to err. But he did not go so far as to suppress their reiterated praise of Richelieu, Séguier, and Louis XIV. which has hitherto been done only by two or three of the boldest academicians. He mentioned Crébillon, in his discourses, with the noble generosity of a man who fears not to honour the talents of a rival, or to afford arms to his own antagonists.
A new torrent of libels was poured upon him, which he had not the fortitude to despise. The police was, at that time, committed to a man who had passed some months in the country with Madame de Pompadour. A wretched musician, of the opera band, was arrested, [Page 73] wnose name was Travenol, and who, with the advocate Rigoley de Juvigny, privately sold these libels. The father of Travenol, an old man of eighty, went to Voltaire, and demanded pardon for his guilty son; and the anger of the poet was hushed by the first cry of humanity. He wept with, embraced, and consoled the old man; and hastened away with him, to obtain the liberty of his son.
Voltaire was not long in favour. Madame de Pompadour caused those honours to be conferred on Crébillon, which he had been refused. Voltaire had constantly done justice to the author of Rhadamistus, but he could not be so humble as to suppose him superior to the author of Alzire, Mahomet, and Merope. In such exaggerated enthusiasm for Crébillon, he discovered nothing but a secret desire that he himself should be humbled: nor was he deceived.
The wit and the poet might have preserved powerful friends; but these titles in Voltaire concealed a philosopher, a man more earnest for the progress of reason, the acquirement of personal fame.
His character, naturally proud and independent, yielded to ingenuous adulation; he was prodigal of praise, but he preserved his feelings and his opinions, and the freedom of discovering them. Strong or affecting lessons rose out of panegyric: that manner of praising, which might succeed at the court of [Page 74] Frederic, could not but offend at any other court.
He therefore returned to Cirey, and soon afterwards to the court of Stanislaus. This prince, twice elected king of Poland, once by the will of Charles XII. and once by the desire of the nation, never possessed more than the title of sovereign. Having retired into Lorraine with this title, he there repaired, by his beneficent acts, the ills which the French adminstration had committed: the paternal government of Leopold corrected an age of devastation and misfortune. His devotion had neither deprived him of the love of pleasure nor of an affection for men of wit. His house was that of a wealthy private person: his manners those of native candour; of a man who had never been unhappy, except because others had determined to make him a king; nor ever dazzled by a title, from which he had derived nothing but danger. He wished to see Madame du Chatelet and Voltaire at his court, or rather living as his inmates. The author of the Seasons *, the only French poet, who, like Voltaire, has united philosophy and wit, then lived at Luneville, where he was only known as an amiable young officer; but his first poetical productions, full of reason, wit, and taste, even then bespoke a man born to be an honour to his age.
[Page 75]At Luneville, where Voltaire lived a life of occupation and mild tranquillity, he had the misfortune to lose his friend. Madame du Charelet died, at the moment when she had finished her translation of Newton; the labour of which had shortened her days. King Stanislaus went to console and weep with Voltaire in his chamber.
Having returned to Paris, the poet betook himself to his labours, a means of dissipating grief, which nature has imparted but to few. Such a power over our thoughts, and such force of mind, which affliction cannot vanquish, are precious gifts, which must not be depreciated by confounding them with want of feeling. Sensibility is not weakness; it is a capability of grief, without being overwhelmed by it: the soul is not the less affectionate, nor has sorrow been less sincere, because opposed with fortitude; or because conquered by extraordinary powers.
Voltaire was weary of hearing the fashionable world, and most men of letters, prefer Crébillon to himself; which they did less from opinion than to punish him for the universality of his talents. Men are ever more indulgent to circumscribed genius, which exerted on one object appears to be a kind of instinct, because it offends not so many species of self-love, and humbles their pride less.
This opinion of the superiority of Crébillon was maintained with so much passion, that, in [Page 76] the preliminary discourse to the Encyclopedia, M. D'Alembert had need of fortitude to grant equality to the author of Alzire and Merope, and durst not extend justice further. Voltaire at length determined to avenge himself, and oblige the public to give him his true rank, by writing Semiramis, Orestes, and Rome Preserved; which three subjects had before been treated by Crébillon. Every cabal that had been formed against Voltaire had united, to obtain momentary success for the Cataline of his rival; a piece, the conduct of which is absurd and the style barbarous; in which Cicero proposes that his daughter should seduce Cataline, and a high priest appoints a rendezvous for the lovers in a temple, where he introduces a courtezan in men's clothes, and afterward treats the senate as impious, because it there discussed on state affairs.
On the contrary, Rome Preserved is the master-piece of style and of reason, in which Cicero appears with all his dignity and eloquence; in which Cesar speaks and acts like a man born to reduce Rome to subjection, to overwhelm his opponents by his glory, and obtain pardon for tyranny by the force of his talents and virtues; and in which Cataline is a villain, but one who endeavours to excuse his vices from example, and his crimes from necessity. Republican energy and Roman feelings entirely possess the poet.
[Page 77]Voltaire had a small theatre on which he acted his pieces, and where he often played the part of Cicero. Never, it is said, was illusion more complete: while he recited he appeared to create his character; and when, in the fifth act, Cicero again appeared before the senate, when he excused his love of fame by reciting the following beautiful lines.
the character and the poet were one, and the auditor imagined he heard Cicero, or Voltaire, avow and excuse this weakness of great minds.
There is only one good part in the Electra of Crébillon, and this is a subaltern character. Orestes, who knows not that he is Orestes, is in love with the daughter Aegysthus, who has the misfortune to be called Iphianassa. The implacable Electra is enamoured with the son of Aegysthus, and these insipid amours occupy the scene, while the furies are leading a bewildered son to the commission of parricide; being condemned by the gods to take this horrible revenge.
Voltaire felt that Clytemnestra should be rendered interesting by her remorse, by being [Page 78] characterised as rather feeble than guilty, and overawed by the cruel Aegysthus, but a shamed of having loved him, and sensible of the weight of her chains and of her crimes. If we compare this with the other tragedies of Voltaire, we shall, no doubt, find it much inferior to his best works; but if we contrast it with Sophocles, whom he meant to follow, that he might teach the French the character and tragic conceptions of that poet, we shall perceive he had the art to preserve his beauties, imitate his style, correct his defects, and render Clytemnestra more pathetic, and Electra less barbarous. For which reason, when, in despite of cabal, the permanent beauties of the Greek poet were transmitted to the French stage, by a man worthy of becoming the interpreter of the most eloquent of the ancient tragic writers, and there enforce applause, Voltaire, more ardent in the interest of good taste than in behalf of his own fame, could not forbear calling from the pit, in a momentary effusion of rapture, "Go on Athenians, it is Sophocles."
The Semiramis of Crébillon was no sooner produced than forgotten, That of Voltaire is the same subject which, fifteen years before, he had treated under the name of Eryphile, and which he withdrew from the stage, though the piece was highly applauded. During its representations, he more perfectly felt all the difficulties of the fable. He perceived that, [Page 79] to render a woman who had destroyed her husband, that she might reign herself, interesting, it was necessary that the splendour of her reign, her conquests, her virtues, and the extent of her empire should force respect, and seize on the mind of the spectators; that the criminal queen should be the mistress of the world, and possess the virtues of a great monarch. He felt that, while exhibiting the prodigies of a foreign religion on the stage, it would be necessary, by magnificence and an elevated and religious style, not to suffer the imagination to cool, to make the gods interfere on all occasions, and to conceal the absurdity of a miracle by incessantly presenting the consolatory idea of a Divine Power, exercising a slow but inevitable vengeance on the secret crimes of kings.
Love, offensive in Orestes, was necessary in Semiramis. Ninyas must have a mistress, that he might feel a tenderness for Semiramis, be sensible of her kindness, and that she might facinate him by her charms before he knew her to be his mother; otherwise the horror which incest inspires would have been injurious to that character which was to interest the audience. The style of Semiramis, the majesty of the subject, the pomp of the exhibition, and the peculiar pathos of some of the scenes, were triumphant over envy and faction. But it was long before equal justice, was rendered to Orestes, and Rome Preserved.
[Page 80]Complete justice, perhaps, has not yet been done; nor can we be surprised at this, when we recollect that all colleges and all the houses in which the teachers of youth are themselves educated are devoted to fanaticism, and that children in general are educated in prejudices against Voltaire.
These three pieces he wrote at Sceaux, the seat of the Duchess du Maine, who delighted in poetry, gallantry, and the arts; and who, in her palace, presented a picture of those ingenious and splendid pleasures which had embellished the court of Lewis the XIVth, and dignified his follies. She delighted in Cicero, and prevailed on Voltaire to write his Rome Preserved to avenge the outrage committed on the orator by Crébillon. Mahomet was sent to the pope, and Semiramis dedicated to a cardinal. He took a secret pleasure in convincing the French fanatics that the ecclesiastical princes knew how to combine the love of genius with religious zeal, and that they did not think they promoted Christianity by treating these men as its enemies who by their powers of mind were the formidable rulers of public opinion.
It was at this period that he, at length, yielded to the invitations of the king of Prussia, and accepted the title of Chamberlain, the the grand cross of the order of merit, and a pension of 20,000 livres. In his own country, he saw himself the object of envy and hatred [Page 81] to men of letters, although he never had been their opponent in soliciting for places and pensions, never had humbled them by his criticisms, nor ever had interfered in literary cabals, but had obliged all who needed his services, had endeavoured to gain their affection by praising them and taking every opportunity of winning the friendship of those whom self-love had rendered unjust.
The priests, who forgot not the Letters on the English Nation and Mahomet, while they were waiting occasion to persecute him, endeavoured to decry him and his works, and employed their whole ascendancy over youth against him, especially that which, as spíritual directors, they preserved over private families and the devotees of the court. Absolute silence only could preserve him from calumny. He could publish no work without being certain that malignity would endeavour thence to accuse him of being impious, or to render him suspected by government. Madame de Pompadour, elevated to a situation in which she wished to be surrounded by none but slaves, forgot their former intimacy. She could not pardon his not having suffered with sufficient patience the preference granted to Crébillon. Louis the XVth had a kind of dislike to Voltaire, although he had flattered that prince to the injury of his own fame: but kings are, by habit, rendered almost insensible to public adulation; the m [...]tfu [...] praise of the courtiers, [Page 82] who, seizing every trifling occasion, repeat their panegyric continually and at the luckiest moments, is alone seducing. This flattery consists less in direct praise, than in an adroit approbation of the passions, inclinations, acts, and sentiments of the monarch; half a word, a motion, a general maxim which excuses their follies or their faults, produce greater effects than poetry which is worthy of posterity. The eulogies of genius soothe only those kings who have an actual love of fame.
It is said that Voltaire, approaching Louis XV. after the representation of the Temple of Fame, in which Trajan after his victories accords peace to the world, and receives the crown which had been refused to conquerors and reserved for the man who was the friend of humanity, thus addressed the monarch— Trajan est-il content *? and that the king was less flattered by the comparison than offended by the familiarity.
M. d'Argenson refused to support Voltaire as a candidate for the title of Free Associate of the Academy of Sciences, and for obtaining a seat in the Academy of Belles Lettres, of which place he was at that time ambitious, as a refuge against the army of periodical critics who were obliged by the police to treat literary bodies with respect, except when other bodies or powerful individuals thought it their [Page 83] interest to humble them by abandoning them to the attacks of these contemptible enemies.
Voltaire, therefore, went to Berlin, and the very monarch, who had disdained him, and the court, in which he had been treated with disrespect, were offended at his departure. The loss of a man who honoured France, and the disgrace of having obliged him to seek an asylum in another country, were then only remembered. In the palace of the king of Prussia, he found peace and even the semblance of freedom; feeling at first no kind of subjection, except that of passing some hours with the king to correct his works, and to teach him the art of writing. He usually supped with his majesty; and these suppers, at which there was freedom in excess, where every question of metaphysics and morals was discussed without restraint, where the most unbounded pleasantry enlivened, or cut serious argument short, and where the king generally disappeared to give place to the man of wit, were moments of agreeable relaxation to Voltaire. The remainder of his time was consecrated to study.
Here he improved some of his tragedies, finished his Age of Louis the XIVth, corrected his poem of the Maid of Orleans, wrote part of his Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations, and composed a poem on Natural Law; while Frederic governed his states without a minister, inspected and improved his army, composed [Page 84] poetry and music, and wrote philosophy and history.
The royal family encouraged Voltaire in his pursuits; he addressed verses to the princesses, acted tragedy with the brothers and sisters of the king, and while he taught then to declaim, led them to feel the beauties of French poetry: for poetry ought to be spoken aloud; nor can it be understood, in a foreign tongue, by those who are not in the habit of hearing it recited by speakers, who can give it that accent and force which are its characteristics.
This Voltaire called the palace of Alcina; but the enchantment was of too short duration. The men of literature, who had been longer at Berlin than himself, were jealous of preference which was too conspicuous, especially of that kind of independence which he preserved, that familiarity which the charms and brilliancy of his wit gave him, and that art of mingling truth with panegyric and of imparting to flattery the tone of jocular ease.
La Métrie told Voltaire that the king, to whom he was one day mentioning those marks of kindness he discovered for his chamberlain, replied, "I want him at present to revise my works; but having sucked the orange, we throw away the rind." When Voltaire heard this, the encantation was over; and his mind felt that kind of suspicion which never suffered him to lose sight of his project for escaping.
In the mean time the king was informed [Page 85] that Voltaire, being pressed by general Manstein to revise his memoirs, had answered, "The king has sent me his dirty linen to wash, yours must wait;" and that, another time, he had said, in a fit of ill humour, pointing to some poetical papers of the king, lying on the table, "That man is Cesar and the Abbé Cottin."
Mutual inclination, however, acted on the monarch and the philosopher. Frederic said, long after their separation, that he had never met with so amiable a man as Voltaire; and Voltaire, notwithstanding his resentment, which never was entirely effaced, confessed, that when Frederic thought proper, he was the most pleasing of mankind. They likewise united in their open contempt for prejudice and superstition; the pleasure they look in making them the eternal objects of their jests, their common love for that philosophy which is cheerful and inviting, and their mutual disposition to search and to seize on the ridiculous in whatever pretended to superior gravity, wire the same. Hence it should have seemed that the storm must have ended in a calm, and that interest and pleasure must have continued them in friendship: but the jealousy of Maupertuis rendered them irreconcilable.
Maupertuis, a man of much wit, but not of too much learning, and of still less philosophy, was tormented by that desire of fame which makes us choose trifling means when the great are wanting, utter paradoxes when we are [Page 86] unable to discover truths, generalise formula when we cannot invent them, and accumulate incongruities when we are deficient in new ideas. In Paris, he had been seen to leave the company, or hide himself behind a screen, when he could not continue the principal speaker; and in like manner at Berlin, whether at the academy of sciences or the table of the king, he would be the first. He was indebted to Voltaire for a great part of his reputation, as well as for the honour of being perpetual president of the academy of Berlin, and of exercising authority there in his majesty's name.
Some jests which Voltaire had indulged in, when Maupertuis, following the king to the army, was taken prisoner at the battle of Molwitz, had angered him, and he vented his complaints with ill humour. Voltaire returned a friendly answer, and appeased him by writing four lines for his portrait. Maupertuis, some years afterward, took it much amiss that Voltaire had not mentioned him in his discourse, when elected to the French academy; and the arrival of Voltaire at Berlin compleated his disgust. He saw him the friend of the sovereign, in whose presence he himself was but a courtier; and beheld him giving lessons to the man from whom he received orders.
Surrounded by enemies, and diffident of the continuance of royal friendship, Voltaire secretly regretted, and endeavoured to recover, his lost independence. He thought proper to [Page 87] employ a Jew to transfer a part of his property out of Prussia. The Jew betrayed his trust; and, to revenge himself on Voltaire, who, having detected him, would not suffer himself to be robbed, he brought an absurd action, knowing that hatred is not difficult in admitting evidence. The king, to punish his friend for having attempted to preserve his liberty and property, pretended to believe him guilty, to deliver him up to justice, and even to exclude him his presence till the cause should be determined.
Voltaire addressed himself to Maupertuis, who had not yet openly testified his sentiments, and requested his interference with the chief judge. Maupertuis returned a haughty refusal, and Voltaire perceived he had another enemy. This ridiculous suit, at length, ended as it should do; the Jew was condemned, and pardoned by Voltaire. The king then admitted Voltaire once more, and added new marks of respect to former kindness, by bestowing on him a house near Potsdam.
The eyes of hatred, however, are always open and watchful of opportunity. La Beaumelle, a protestant, and native of Languedoc, first an apprentice to a gospel minister at Geneva, and afterwards acting the French wit in Denmark, being soon dismissed from Copenhagen, came to seek his fortune at Berlin; having no other title to fame than that of having lately published a libel. He went to Voltaire, [Page 88] and presented the book to him, in which Voltaire himself was ill treated, and in which the men of wit, who had been invited into Prussia, among whom he was come to solicit a place, was compared to apes or those dwarfs who had formerly been maintained at certain courts. Such a ridiculous oversight was the momentary object of pleasantry at the king's supper; but the jests were reported to La Beaumelle by Maupertuis, who, charging them all to the account of Voltaire, made La Beaumelle his irreconcilable foe, and secured to himself a tool, who aided his malice by shameful libels, without bringing the character of the president of the academy in question.
Maupertuis wanted assistance; he had lately advanced the least possible action, as a new mechanical principle, which was much controverted, though the illustrious Euler did it the honour of defending it, and at the same time instructed its author in its full extent and true use. Koënig not only opposed it, but asserted it was not new, and quoted the fragment of a letter from Leibnitz, in which it was contained. Maupertuis, having learnt from Koënig himself that he had only a copy of the letter from Leibnitz, thought proper formally to summons him before the academy of Berlin, to produce the original. Koënig answered that he obtained his copy from the unfortunate Hienzi, who had long since been beheaded, for having attempted to deliver the people of the [Page 89] Canton of Bern from the tyranny of the senate. The original was not to be found among the remaining papers of Hienzi, and the academy, from motives partly of fear and partly of meanness, declared Koënig unworthy of the title of academician, and struck him from their list. Maupertuis seemed not to have known that the general voice of the learned only could bestow, or take from him, the honour of making a discovery, that this opinion must be free and voluntary, and that any formal act, by rendering it suspicious, would but diminish its authority.
Voltaire had been acquainted with Koënig at Cirey, where he came to give lessons in the doctrines of Leibnitz to Madame du Chatelet. He had preserved a degree of friendship for him, though he had sometimes indulged himself in jests to his disadvantage, during his residence in France. He did not love Maupertuis, and hated persecution, whatever form it might assume to torment mankind; he therefore openly took the the part of Koënig, and published some writings, in which reason and justice were seasoned by delicate and poignant wit. Maupertuis engaged the vanity of the king in behalf of the honour of his academy, and prevailed on him to exact a promise from Voltaire to ridicule neither it nor its president. The promise was given, but unfortunately the king, who had commanded silence, imagined he himself might speak. He wrote several humourous pieces, which, but with some [Page 90] little inequality, were partly against Maupertuis, and partly against Voltaire. The latter imagined that the king, by this conduct, had released him from his promise, and that the privilege of being the only one who should laugh was not included in the royal prerogative. He, therefore, profited by a general permission which he had formerly obtained, and sent his Akakia to the press, in which Maupertuis was devoted to eternal ridicule.
The king laughed. He had little affection, and less esteem for Maupertuis; yet, jealous of his own authority, he caused this piece of humour to be burnt by the hangman. This is a mode of vengeance which it is rather singular that a philosophic king should borrow from the inquisition.
The insulted Voltaire sent the monarch his cross, his key, and the patent for his pension, with the four following lines—
He sighed for freedom, but he could not obtain this by sending back wh [...]t he at first had called splendid baubles, but which he ever afterward named marks of slavery. He wrote from Berlin, where he was ill, for permission to [Page 91] depart. The king, who wished to humble but not to lose him, sent him some bark, but no permission. He again wrote that it was necessary he should go and drink the waters of Plombiers; he was answered, those of Silesia were equally salutary.
Voltaire, at length, thought proper to ask to see his majesty, flattering himself that by his presence he could awaken sentiments which were rather wounded than extinct.
The baubles that he had formerly possessed were returned to him. He hastened to Potsdam, saw the king, and a few moments produced a total change. Familiarity revived, former cheerfulness was recovered even at the expence of Maupertuis, and Voltaire obtained permission to go to Plombiers, on giving his promise to return. This promise was not, perhaps, very sincere, but it was less obligatory than one given between equals; the hundred and fifty thousand men, who guarded the Prussian frontiers would not suffer it to be considered as given with entire freedom.
Voltaire hastened to Leipsic, where he made some stay, to recover his strength, which had been exhausted by this long persecution. Maupertuis sent him a ridiculous challenge, the only effect of which was, that it opened a new source to his inexhaustible pleasantry. From Leipsic he went to visit the Duchess of Saxe-Gotha, a princess, who cultivated letters, loved philosophy, and was superior to prejudice. At [Page 92] her request he there began his Annals of the Empire.
From Gotha, he departed for Plombiers; and took the road to Frankfort. Maupertuis was determined on revenge; his challenge had been unsuccessful, and the libels of La Beaumelle he thought insufficient. This his contemptible second had been obliged to quit Berlin, after a ridiculous adventure and some weeks imprisonment. He had fled to Gotha with a chamber-maid, who had robbed the mistress she had left; his libels had driven him from Frankfort; and he had scarcely arrived at Paris before he was thrown into the Bastile. The president of the academy at Berlin had therefore to seek another avenger. He embittered the ill humour of the king. The slowness with which Voltaire travel [...]ed, his stay at Gotha, and a considerable annuity for the lives of himself and his niece Madame Dennis purchased of the Duke of Wirtemberg, all spoke his determination of never returning to Prussia, and he had taken with him a copy of the poetical works of the king, which were then only known to the wits of the court.
A fear was excited in Frederic's mind that a species of vengeance, terrible even to a royal poet, would be taken. It was possible, at least, that Voltaire should imagine he had a right to reclaim the verses he had given, and to specify those he had corrected. The king gave a knave, whom he kept in his pay at F [...]nkfort [Page 93] to purchase or kidnap men for him, an order to arrest Voltaire, and not to release him till he should have yielded up his cross, his key, and the grant of his pension, together with the poems which Freitag called "the work of Poeshys of the king my master." These volumes had unfortunately been left at Leipsic, and Voltaire was kept in close confinement for three weeks. Madame Dennis his niece, who had come to meet him, was treated with like rigour. Guards were placed at the door, and soldier continued in each of their chambers who never suffered them to leave his sight, such fears were entertained lest the work of Poeshys should escape. This precious pledge was at length restored to Freitag, and Voltaire was released; but not however till he had been obliged to bestow money on certain adventurers who took that opportunity to commence litigious suits: having escaped from Frankfort he went to Colmar.
The king of Prussia, ashamed of his ridiculous anger, disavowed the proceedings of Freitag, but he had so much morality as not to punish him for having obeyed. It is strange that a city, calling itself free, should suffer a foreign power to commit such vexations within its walls; but freedom and independence are to the feeble mere words. During the period of his friendship for Voltaire, Frederic, in the transports of enthusiasm, has often kissed his hands▪ and Voltaire, after his imprisonment, comparing the [...] w [...] periods, said to his friends—"He [Page 94] has a hundred times kissed the hand he so lately manacled."
The only work he published at Berlin was the age of Louis XIV. which is the sole history of that reign, which can be read. On the authority of the the old courtiers of Louis XIV. or of those who had lived in intimacy with them, he there relates a small number of anecdotes selected with discernment, and such as serve to paint the spirit and character of the persons of the age. Political and military events are given in a rapid, interesting manner; the picture abounds with bold strokes. In some chapters, he recounts the attempts which Louis XIV. made for the improvement of the laws and finances, and for the encouragement of trade and industry; and we ought to pardon Voltaire for having, on this occasion, followed the opinions of the most enlighted men of his own times, instead of that knowledge which did not then exist.
His chapters on Calvinism, Jansenism, Qu [...]etism, and the dispute on the Chinese ceremonies, are models of the manner in which a prudent friend of truth ought to treat these maladies so disgraceful to man, when the number or the power of the diseased is such as to make it necessary gently to raise the veil which conceals their deformity. We have only to reproach him with too much severity against the Calvinists, whose enormities proceeded from self-defence, and whose crimes were but a kind of [Page 95] reprisal of juridical murders committed on them in certain provinces.
The discoveries made in the sciences, and the progress of the arts, Voltaire related with clearness, precision, and impartiality; and his decisions continually appeared dictated by a free and sound mind, and a mild indulgent philosophy.
The catalogue of the writers of the age of Louis XIV. was an original thought. It had never before entered the imagination, thus, by a trait or a few lines, to paint men of literature, philosophers and poets, without dryness or affectation, with taste seldom mistaken, and accuracy ever poignant.
The work brought foreign nations aquainted with Louis XIV. among whom he had been disfigured by a multitude of libels, and taught them to respect a people whom they had previously viewed through the false medium of prejudice, jealousy, and hatred. The countrymen of Voltaire were less indulgent. Such as were slaves from condition or character were highly offended that a Frenchman should dare to discover follies in Louis XIV. Prejudiced people were angry at the freedom with which he treated the mistakes of generals, and the defects of great writers; and others, who in some respects were more just, reproached him with too much indulgence or enthusiasm. But history is never impartially judged in the country to which it relates, the decisions of whose inhabitants [Page 96] are continually perverted by jarring interests and pre-conceived false ideas.
Voltaire passed near two years in Alsatia, during which he published his Annals of the Empire, the only chronologic abridgment which can be read without weariness, because it is written in a rapid style and abounds with philosophic deductions, expressed with energy. Thus Voltaire has given a model of that kind of writing, the merit and utility of which his friendship for the President Hénault induced him to exaggerate.
He thought, at first, of settling in Alsatia; but, unfortunately, the Jesuits attempted to convert him, and, not succeeding, began to disseminate calumniating rumours which bespoke persecution. Voltaire endeavoured to obtain not permission to return to Paris, for this he had never been forbidden, but an assurance that he should not be disagreeable to the court. He knew Fance too well not to be sensible that, odious as he was by his love of truth to all powerful bodies, he must soon become the object of their persecution, would the court suffer him to be oppressed.
The answer was not to his satisfaction. Voltaire found himself unprotected in his own country, though his name supported its honour, at that time degraded throughout Europe by ridiculous quarrels concerning Billets of Confession; and at the very moment when, by his publication of the Age of Louis XV. [Page 97] he had erected a monument to its glory. He determined to go and drink the waters of Aix, in Savoy. Passing through Lyons, Cardinal de Tencin, famous for the conversion of Lass and the council of Embrun, informed him he could not invite him to dinner, because Voltaire was out of favour at court. But the inhabitants of that opulent city, in which the spirit of trade has not effaced the love of letters, recompensed him for the politic incivility of their archbishop. He there received those honours which public enthusiasm pays to genius. His pieces were played before him, amid the loud acclamations of a people, inebriated with the joy▪ of possessing the man to whom they were indebted for such dignified pleasures. But he durst not fix his abode at Lyons; the conduct of the Cardinal informed him he was not far enough from his enemies.
Passing through Geneva, to consult with Tronchin, the beauty of the country, the equality which appeared to prevail there, the advantage of being out of France, and in a city where French was the language of the people, the freedom of thought which was greater than in a monarchical or catholic country, and the liberty of the press, founded indeed less on the laws than on the interests of trade, all determined him to fix his retreat in that place.
But he soon perceived that a city in which the pedantic and austere spirit of Calvin had [Page 98] taken deep root, where the vanity of imitating ancient republics, and the jealousy of the poor against the rich had established sumptuary laws, where theatrical exhibitions offended both Calvinistic fanaticism, and republican rigour, would to him neither be a safe nor an agreeable residence. He determined to procure a place of refuge in the territories of Geneva against Catholic persecution, and a retreat in France against puritanical gloom, and accordingly to live alternately at Tourney, since called Ferney, in France, and the Delices at the gates of Geneva.
Here he fixed his abode with Madame Dennis his niece; who, being a widow without children, was free to indulge her friendship for her uncle, and to acknowledge the kindness with which he had rendered her circumstances easy. She took on herself the charge of his domestic affairs; and, to increase his tranquillity, by relieving him from such fatiguing trifles. This was the only aid he received; labour was to him an inexhaustible source of enjoyment; and freedom was all he wanted to render his moments happy.
Hitherto, we have written the tempestuous life of a philosophic poet, whose lo [...]e for truth, and whose independence of character had occasioned him more enemies than friends, who gave no reply to their malice except by epigrams which were either witty or dreadfully severe, and whose conduct had more frequently [Page 99] been guided by the sensations of the moment than the result of any plan which reason had formed.
In his present retirement, removed from illusion and whatever could excite momentary or personal passion, we shall see him yield entirely to his prevailing and incessant love of fame, to the still more potent necessity his mind felt of being productive, and to his zeal for the destruction of prejudice, which was indeed the most powerful and active of all the sensations he felt. This peaceful life, seldom disturbed, and then by the threats of persecution, rather than persecution itself, we shall see adorned not only, like his youth, by the exercise of private benevolence, a quality common to all men whose hearts have hot been hardened and minds corrupted by misfortune or vanity, but by those acts of enlightened and bold benevolence, which, while they relieve the sufferings of certain individuals, are of service to the whole human race.
And hence it was that, indignant to behold a corrupt minister pursue the unfortunate Byng to dea [...]h that he might conceal his own errors and flatter the pride of the English populace, Voltaire, in order to rescue this innocent victim from the Machiavelian arts of Pitt, employed every means which genius and compassion could inspire, and singly raised his voice against injustice; while astonished Europe in silence saw such an example of atrocity wor [...] [Page 100] of the most barbarous times, which England dared to give in this age of humanity and knowledge.
The first work he sent from his retreat was the Orphan of China, a tragedy written during his residence in Alsatia, at a time when he hoped he might have been allowed to live at Paris, and was desirous of theatrical success to secure his friends and impose silence on his foes.
In the commencement of the tragic art, poets were certain of astonishing the mind by giving to the characters sentiments contrary to nature, and by sacrificing the true feelings of the heart to the more uncommon love of fame, exaggerated patriotism, and devotedness to princes.
As reason, at such a period, is ev [...] inferior to taste, vulgar opinion seconds such as employ those means, or are seduced by them. Leontine necessarily inspires admiration; and the haughtiness of his character induces an audience, who idolize their king, to pardon him the sacrifice of his son. But when means like these, of producing effects by a departure from nature, begin to be exhausted, and when art improves, the poet is then obliged to write more conformably to reason, and seek resources in nature herself. Yet, such is the force of habit, the sacrifice of Zamti, founded indeed on more dignified and powerful motives [...]an that of Leontine, expiated by tears and [...] seduced the spectators.
[Page 101]Astonishment only was excited at the first representation of the Orphan, by the following truly philosophic lines:
The audience hesitated, and the voice of nature needed the aid of reflexion in order to be heard. Thus can a great poet sometimes decide the mind between ancient errors and truths, which to vanquish wavering yet still opposing prejudice, is obliged so wait for new support. Men often dare not confess to themselves that slow progress which reason makes in their minds; but they are ready to follow her when, appearing in a strong and effective manner, they are obliged to acknowledge her presence. Thus, these same verses have since been continually heard with transport, and Voltaire enjoyed the pleasure of having avenged nature.
This play is the triumph of virtue over power, and of the laws over arms. Till then, Mahomet excepted, no poet had successfully made one of these men, whose fame appears awful, and whose characters present the picture of extraordinary strength of soul, in love without degradation. Voltaire, a second time conquered this difficulty; the love of Gengis Khan is interesting in despite [Page 102] of the violence and ferocity of his character, because it is true and impassioned, because it wrests from him a confession of the vacancy his heart felt amid all his power, and because he at last sacrificed his love to fame, and his thirst of conquest to the charms, before unknown to him, of pacific virtues.
The repose of Voltaire was soon disturbed by the publication of the Maid of Orleans. This poem, in which licentiousness and philosophy are combined, and truth assumes the mask of satiric and voluptuous humour, was begun about the year 1730, but had never been finished. The author had intrusted what he had written of it only to a few of his friends, and to some princes. The rumour of its existence had brought down menace on him; and, by not finishing it, he took the surest means to avoid the dangerous temptation of making it public. Copies unfortunately got abroad, one of which fell into inimical and selfish hands, and the work appeared not only with such defects as the author had left; but with lines added by the editors full of grossness and ill taste, and with satiric traits which might endanger the safety of Voltaire. The desire of gain, the pleasure of attributing their own wretched verses to a great poet, and the more malignant pleasure of exposing him to persecution, were the motives of this act of infidelity, the honour of which was divided between la Beaumelle and the Ex Capuchin Maubert.
[Page 103]They succeeded only so far as to trouble that repose for a moment which they wished to destroy. His friends evaded the persecution, by proving the work to be spurious, and the hatred of the editors served him whom it meant to wound.
This, however, obliged Voltaire to finish the poem, and present a work to the world, at which the author of Mahomet and the age of Louis XIV. need not blush. The work excited lively feelings of enthusiasm in a numerous class of readers, while the foes of Voltaire affected to decry it as unworthy of a philosopher, and almost as a blemish on the writings and the life of a poet.
But, if it be useful to render superstition ridiculous in the eyes of men addicted to voluptuousness, and by the very weakness which hurries them into dissipation destined some time to become the unfortunate victims or the dangerous tools of this vile tyrant of men, if affectation of austerity in manners, if the excessive value attached to their purity, be serviceable only to hypocrites who, wearing the mask of chastity, may neglect every other virtue, and cast a sacred veil over the most pernicious vices of society, such as intolerance and persecution, if accustoming the world to regard those errors from which men of honour and conscience are not exempt as crimes, the power of that dangerous sect, who govern and disturb the world be extended over the purest [Page 104] minds by their having exclusively rendered themselves the interpreters of celestial justice, we shall then only behold in the author of the Maid of Orleans the foe of hypocrisy and superstition.
Voltaire himself, when speaking of la Fontaine, has well remarked that works, in which voluptuousness and humour are mingled, amuse without heating or seducing the imagination. And if such works be sources of pleasure to the fancy, which lighten the uneasy moments of life, diminish the misfortunes of privation, unbend a mind fatigued by labour, and fill up moments in which the weary and sunken soul can neither act nor meditate with effect, wherefore rob men of an aid which nature presents? What will be the effect of such reading? No other than that of disposing men to more mildness and indulgence. It was not such books that Gérard or Clement read; or that the scouts of Cromwell carried in the pommels of their saddles.
Two works very different in themselves appeared at the same epoch: the poem on Natural Law, and the poem of the Destruction of Lisbon. To display morals, the principles of which reason teaches all men which are sanctioned by their hearts, and which remorse informs them it is their duty to practice; to show that these are the principles which God, the common father of men, alone could impart, since they alone are uniform; to prove that the [Page 105] duty of individuals is mutually to pardon their mistakes, and that of sovereigns to prevent the pernicious tendency of those vain opinions which fanaticism and hypocrisy support, by wisely treating them all with indifference; such is the purport of the poem on Natural Law.
This work, the finest which man ever consecrated to the Deity, excited the anger of the devotees, who called it the poem of Natural Religion; though Religion is only mentioned in order to oppose intolerance, and though there is no such a thing as natural religion. It was burnt by the parliament of Paris, which began to be terrified as well at the progress of reason as at that of Molinism. Under the conduct, at this period, of men who were either blinded by pride or false policy, it imagined it would be more easy to impede the advancement of knowledge than to merit the applause of the enlightened. It felt not the want itself had of the good opinion of the public; it misconstrued those who were to be its guides, and declared itself the enemy of men of letters, at that precise moment when the suffrage of these men in France, and even over all Europe, began to acquire influence.
However the poem of Voltaire, which has since been commented on in various celebrated books, is still that in which the connexion between morality and the being of a God is most clearly demonstrated. Thirty years later and the [Page 106] book which was burnt as impious, would almost have appeared a work of religion.
In the poem on the Destruction of Lisbon, Voltaire indulged those sentiments of terror and melancholy which this dreadful accident inspired. He led the tranquil sect of Optimists amid these fearful ruins, combated their cold and puerile doctrine with the indignation of a philosopher deeply sensible of the sufferings of mankind, exposed the difficulties on the origin of evil in their full force, and avowed it is impossible for them to be solved by man.
This poem, in which at the age of more than sixty the mind of Voltaire, warmed by a love of humanity, displays all the strength and fire of youth, was not the only work in which he opposed Optimism. He published Candide, the first of philosophic romances; which species of writing he brought from England, and added to its perfection. It is a kind of composition which appears easy of execution, but it requires an uncommon talent; that of expressing by a jest, a flight of the fancy, or by the incidents of the romance, the result of profound philosophy, without ceasing to be natural, pleasing, and accurate. Hence it is necessary to select such effects as need neither developement nor proof, and at once to avoid common place unworthy of repetition, and abstraction which is too deep or too new, and which is not adapted to the multitude: that is, it is necessary to be, without appearing to be, a philosopher.
[Page 107]We may add, few books of philosophy are more useful. Such romances are read by frivolous men, whom the very name of philosopher disgusts or renders gloomy, and who, however, it is requisite should be freed from prejudice, and made the opponents of the herd who are interested in its defence. The human race would be condemned to eternal error if, to free them from it, it were necessary to study and understand the proofs of truth. Fortunately the native intelligence of the mind is sufficient for the comprehending of those simple truths which are the most essential. It is therefore sufficient to discover some means of fixing the attention of the indolent, and of engraving these truths in their memory; and this is the great use of philosophic romances, and the merit of those in which Voltaire has alike surpassed his imitators and his models.
Candide was soon followed by a free translation of the book of Ecclesiastes, and a part of the song of Solomon.
Madame de Pompadour had been persuaded that it would be profoundly politic for her to assume the mask of devotion, by which she might shield herself from the scruples and inconstancy of the king, and at the same time calm the hatred of the people. She wished to make Voltaire an actor in this farce. The duke de la Valiere proposed to him to translate the Psalms, the book of Proverbs, Solomon's song, and the Ecclesiastes. The edition was to have [Page 108] been printed at the Louvre, and the author to have returned to Paris under the protection of the religious favorite. But Voltaire could not act the hypocrite, not even to be made a cardinal, some hopes of which were given him about this time. Such proposals generally come too late; and were they made in time, the policy of them would not be very certain. He who must be a dangerous enemy might become a still more dangerous ally. Let us suppose Calvin or Luther called to the purple, when they might have accepted the dignity without disgrace, and let us imagine what would have been the consequence. The baubles of vanity do not satiate souls impelled by the ambition of reigning over the minds of men; they do but supply new arms.
Voltaire, however, was tempted to make essays in translation; not to recover his religious repute, but to exercise himself in another species of composition. When they appeared, the devout imagined he only had intended to parody that which he had translated, and exclaimed it was shameful. They did not imagine that Voltaire had softened and purified the text; that his Ecclesiastes had less of the doctrine of materialism than the original; and that his song of songs was less indecent than the sacred text. These works were therefore once more burnt, for which Voltaire avenged himself by a satiric and humuorous letter, in which he mocked at the hypocrisy of morals, the peculiar [Page 109] vice of the modern nations of Europe, which has contributed more than is imagined to destroy that energy of character by which the ancients were distinguished.
In 1757, the first edition of his works, actually made under his own inspection, was printed. He revised it with rigorous attention, selected some of his numerous fugitive pieces with severity, but with judgment, and added his immortal Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations.
Voltaire had long complained that among the moderns especially, the history of a country was that of its kings, or its chiefs; that it spoke only of wars, treaties, and civil commotions; and that the history of morals, arts, sciences, legislation, and political government, had been almost forgotten. Those very ancients in whose writings we find most of morals, and internal politics, have only in general added, to the history of wars, that of popular factions. We imagine, while we read such historians, that the human race was created only to exhibit the political or military talents of a few individuals; and that the object of society is not the happiness of the species, but the pleasure of having revolutions to read, or to relate.
Voltaire formed the plan of a history which should contain all that was most important for men to know: such as the effects produced on the peace and happiness of nations, their prejudices, knowledge, virtues, and vices, and the customs and the arts of different ages.
[Page 110]He chose the period from Charlemagne to the present century; but, not confining himself solely to European nations, he interested and instructed the reader by an abridged retrospect of the state of the other parts of the globe; the revolutions they had undergone, and the opinions by which they had been governed.
It was to reconcile Madame du Chatelet to the study of history, that he had undertaken this immense labour, which obliged him to read books of erudition, such as would have been supposed incompatible with the liveliness of his fancy, and the activity of his mind. The supposition that he should serve the human race supported him, and erudition was not dull to a man who, having the sagacity to detect and amuse himself with the ridiculous, found an inexhaustible source of this in the speculative or practical doctrines of our ancestors; and in the follies of those who have transmitted or commented on them, while admiring them either with sincerity or hypocrisy equally laughable.
Such a work could please none but philosophers. It was accused of being frivolous, because it was clear, and read without labour; and of being inaccurate, because there are some errors of names and dates discoverable in it, which in themselves are things absolutely indifferent. Yet it has been proved, by the very reproaches of his bitterest critics, that, in a history so extensive, no writer was ever more exact. [Page 111] He was often taxed with partiality, because he exclaimed against those prejudices which pusillanimity or meanness had too long respected; and it is easy to show that, far from exaggerating the crimes of sacerdotal despotism, he has rather diminished their number, and softened their atrocity. In fine, it was taken amiss that, in a picture of the wickedness and folly of man, he has sometimes indulged in strokes of pleasantry; and that he has not always spoken seriously of human extravagance; as if that which is often dangerous ceased therefore to be absurd.
These prejudices, which it was the interest of powerful bodies to disseminate, are not yet eradicated▪ The habit of generally seeing dulness and precision combined, and, by the side of critical dicision of finding the insipid scaffolding on which it was reared, has given birth to the other habit of thinking nothing accurate which is not pedantic. We are accustomed to see gloomy stupidity accompany historical precision; as we see men of certain professions always cloathed in black. But men of genius derive no satisfaction from a merit which fools can claim as easily as themselves; and this merit they are supposed not to possess, because they alone forbear to vaunt of it. The Travels of the young Anacharsis will perhaps efface this too commonly received opinion.
But the essay of Voltaire will ever remain, [Page 112] to men of reason, a work delightful by the choice of its materials, by the rapidity of its style, by that love of truth and humanity which is conspicuous in every page, and by the art of presenting contrasted pictures, and unexpected similarities, without ceasing to be easy and natural; as well as by deducing, in language ever simple, grand consequences, and making profound reflexions The author has not given the history of ages, but that which we wish to remember of history; that which the mind delights to recollect.
Few books would be more useful, in a rational plan of education. While we read the the facts, we here are taught the art of judging them truly, of exercising the native independence of the mind, without which man is but the servile instrument of prejudice, and of contemning superstition, fearing fanaticism, detesting intolerance, and hating tyranny, without ceasing to love peace, and that mildness of manners which is as necessary to the happiness of mankind as is the wisdom of legislation itself.
Hitherto, in private or public education, which alike are guided by prejudice, youth have studied history as disfigured by vile or superstitious compilers; and though, since the publication of the essay of Voltaire, two men, the Abbé de Condillac and the Abbé Millot, have merited not to be numbered in this class, yet, restrained by their situation, they have [Page 113] left the reader too much to divine: in order to understand them, we ought not to have any need of their instruction.
This work placed Voltaire in the class of original historians; and he has the honour of having effected a revolution in the manner of writing history, by which England indeed has hitherto only profited. Hume, Robertson, Gibbon, and Watson, may, in some respects, be considered as his scholars. The history of Voltaire has another advantage: which is, that it may be taught in England as well as in Russia, and in Virginia as consistently as at Bern or Venice. He has inserted none but such truths as every species of government may adopt. He only requires that human reason should have the right of improving itself; that the citizen should enjoy his natural freedom; and that the laws should be mild and the religion tolerant. He addresses himself to all mankind, and says nothing which nay not enlighten them all, without offence to any of those opinions which are so connected with the constitution and individual interest of a country as not to yield to reason, till such, time as the destruction of more general error shall have rendered the approach of truth less difficult.
In this edition, Voltaire had prefixed to his f [...]gitive pieces of poetry an epistle addressed to his house of the Delices; or, rather, it was an ode to liberty, and sufficed to answer those who, in the height of their aristocratic zeal, [Page 114] had accused him of being the enemy of liberty. In these pieces, in which refined gaiety, delicate feeling, and gallantry successively appear, Voltaire sought not to be a poet; yet every species of poetic beauty flowed from his pen when he thought not of them; he did not endeavour to display philosophy, yet throughout the whole is to be found whatever is suited to the subject, to the situation, and the characters. In such poetic effusions, as in romances, the philosophy of the work should appear less extensive than the philosophy of the author. It is with these writings as with elementary books which cannot be well written if the author's knowledge does not embrace more than that which they contain; and therefore, although these works are regarded as frivolous, those of them which stand in the first rank are produced only by men of superior minds.
This same year was the epoch of a reconciliation between Voltaire and his royal disciple; the Austrians, already in the heart of Silesia, were on the point of completing the conquest of it; a French army was on the frontiers of Brandenbourgh: the Russians, masters of Prussia, threatened to overrun Pomerania and the Marches. The Prussian monarchy seemed to be annihilated; and the prince, who had been the author of its splendour, appeared to have no other resource than to inter himself beneath its ruins, and to preserve his glory by perishing in the moment of a victory.
[Page 115]The Margravess of Bareith tenderly loved her brother, the destruction of her house afflicted her, she saw how greatly France opposed her own interests while she lavished her blood and treasures to secure the sovereignty of Germany to the house of Austria; but the French minister had suffered from a verse of the King of Prussia, nor could the Marchioness de Pompadour pardon his having feigned an ignorance of her political existence, and care had been taken to send to her also some verses which had fallen into the hand of the minister of the Elector of Saxony, through the treachery of a person employed to copy them. However there was a necessity of negociating with enemies, imbitt [...]red by personal insults, and at the very moment in which they thought themselves secure of an easy victory. The Margravess had recourse to Voltaire, who addressed himself to the Cardinal de Tençin, knowing that this minister, forgotten since the death of Fleury who employed while he despised him, had preserved a private correspondence with the king. Tençin wrote; but the only answer he receieved was the order of the minister for foreign affairs to reject the negociation by a letter, of which they had even sent him a copy. The aged politician, who would not formerly invite Voltaire to his table in deference to the court, could not banish his chagrin when he found that he had offended the court by his complaisance to Voltaire; and it shortened his [Page 116] days. In his youth, more perilous adventures had only served to animate his talent for intrigue, because then hope sustained him, and he was among the number of men who find in power and rank a consolation for shame; but, in this affair, he beheld the last thread destroyed which connected him with royal power.
Voltaire commenced another negociation, through the medium of the Marechal de Richelieu, but it was equally fruitless. A third, some years later, was so far successful as to obtain the consent of M. de Choiseul to receive a secret envoy from the King of Prussia. This envoy was discovered by the agents of the empress queen, and either through the inconstancy of the French minister, or that M. de Choiseul had acted without consulting Madame de Pompadour, he was arrested and his papers searched: a violation of the law of nations which is forgotten in the multitude of inferior crimes which politicians commit without remorse.
During this period, so dangerous and so glorious to the King of Prussia, Voltaire appeared at one time to reassume his former influence over the monarch, at another to preserve nothing but the remembrance of the affair of Frankfort; and it was then that he wrote those remarkable memoirs * in which neither good humour nor justice are lost in the lively recollection [Page 117] of a just resentment. Voltaire had nobly condemned them to oblivion: chance preserved them to avenge genius for the outrages of power.
The Margravess of Bareith died in the midst of the war. The King of Prussia wrote to Voltaire, and requested him to confer an immortality on the name of his sister, of which her mild and amiable virtues, her soul equally superior to prejudices, to grandeur, and misfortune, had rendered her worthy. The ode, which Voltaire consecrated to her memory, breathes a soft sensibility, and a simple interesting philosophy. This species of composition is one of those in which he was the least successful, because it requires a degree of perfection which he could never resolve to aim at in trifling works, and because his reason could not yield at pleasure to that enthusiasm which is said to be the characteristic of the ode. The odes of Voltaire are only fugitive pieces, in which we find the great and philosophic poet, but in which we perceive him embarassed and constrained by a form which ill agreed with the fire of his genius. However, it must be owned that his verses addressed to a p [...]ncess on gaming, and, still more, the charming stanzas on old age: ‘Si vous voulez que j'aime encore, &c *.’ are Anacreontic odes, much superior to those [Page 118] of Horace, who nevertheless has, at least in the opinion of people of a somewhat modern taste, surpassed his model.
France, so superior to other nations in tragedy and comedy, has not been equally happy in lyric poets. The odes of Rousseau scarcely present us with any thing more than a seductive and harmonious poetry, which is void of idea or filled with false thoughts. La Motte, more ingenious, was yet a stranger to the harmony and the graces of style; and we scarcely cite the verses of any other poet.
Voltaire was still at Berlin when Diderot an [...] d'Alembert formed the design of writing the Encyclopedia, and published the first volume of it. A work whose object it was to include the truths of all the sciences, and to trace th [...] lines of communication between them, under taken by two men who joined much wit and a free daring philosophy to extensive and profound knowledge, appeared to the penetrating eye of Voltaire the most formidable strok [...] that could be aimed at ignorance and prejudice. The En [...]yclopedia became the book o [...] all men who wished to instruct themselves, bu [...] particularly of those who, without being habitually employed in cultivating their minds yet are desirous of the power of acquiring a ready information on every object which excites in them either a transient or durable interest. It was a mass to which those, who ha [...] not time to form ideas for themselves, migh [...] [Page 119] have recourse for the ideas of the most enlightened and celebrated writers; in which, in short, the errors, that are respected by prejudice, would either be betrayed by the weakness of their proofs, or shaken by the near neighbourhood of truths which sap their foundations.
Voltaire, having retired to Ferney, gave a small number of literary articles to the Encyclopedia; he prepared some of those on philosophic subjects, but with less zeal, because he felt that the editors had less need of his assistance there, and because that, in general, though his great works in verse had been formed to constitute his glory, he had scarcely ever written in prose but with views of universal utility. Mean while, the same reasons which interested Voltaire for the progress of the Encyclopedia raised that work innumerable enemies. Composed or applauded by the greatest men of the nation, it became a species of line which separated the most distinguished literati, and those who had the honour of being their disciples or their friends, from that crowd of obscure and jealous writers, who, in the sorrowful incapacity of giving either new truths or new pleasures to the world, hate and calumniate men to whom nature has been more bountiful.
A work in which it was necessary to treat freely and boldly of divinity, of morality, of jurisprudence, of legislation, and of public [Page 120] economy, could not but terrify all religious or political parties, and all the subordinate powers which feared to see their pretensions and utility discussed. The insurrection was general, The journal of Trévoux, the ecclesiastic gazette, the satiric journals, the Jesuists and Jansenists, the clergy, the parliaments, all, without ceasing to hate or oppose each other, united against the Encyclopedia, and it fell. The editors were obliged to finish and to print, in secret this work, to whose perfection liberty and publicity were so essential; and one of the noblest undertakings which the human mind has ever conceived, would have remained unfinished but for the courage of Diderot, and the zeal of a great number of men of distinguished learning, whom persecution could not deter.
Happily, the honour of having given the Encyclopedia to Europe, compensated France for the shame of having opposed its progress. It was, with justice, regarded as the work of the nation, and its persecution as that of a policy and jealousy equally despicable.
But the contests which the Encyclopedia had occasioned did not cease with the proscription of that work. Its principal authors and their friends, marked by the name of philosophers and Encyclopedists, which was designed as an opprobrium by the enemies of reason, were compelled to unite even by this very persecution, and Voltaire naturally became their leader by his age, his celebrity, his zeal, and his [Page 121] genius. He had long before enjoyed some friends and a great number of admirers; at that period, he had a party. The persecution rallied, under his standard all the men of merit, whom, perhaps, his superiority would have kept at a distance from him, as it had banished their predecessors; and enthusiasm took the place of former injustice.
It was in the year 1760 that this literary war was most violent. Le Franc de Pompignan, an estimable man of letters but an indifferent poet, of whose works there remain a fine stanza, and a feeble tragedy in which the combined genius of Virgil and Metastasio could not yield him sufficient support, was elected one of the French academy. Cloathed with the honours of magistracy, he thought that his dignity, as well as his works, exempted him from all gratitude; in the discourse, which he delivered at his admission, he permitted himself to insult the men whose names did the greatest honour to the society that condescended to receive him; and, clearly pointing out Voltaire accused him of infidelity and falsehood. Soon after, Palissot, the venal instrument of the rancour of a woman, exhibited the philosophers on the stage. The laws, which prohibit the ridiculing individuals at the theatre, were silent. The magistrates betrayed their duty, and saw, with a malignant joy, men, whose knowledge and influence on public opinion they dreaded, immolated in the scene, [Page 122] without recollecting that while they opened the way to satire they exposed themselves to its shafts. Crébillon disgraced his old age, by approving the piece. The Duke de Choiseul, then the favourite minister, countenanced this indignity, through a weak complaisance to the same woman, of whose resentment Palissot was the instrument. The journals repeated the insults of the theatre. Still Voltaire combated all. The Poor Devil, the Russian at Paris, Vanity, a croud of humourous pieces in prose succeeded each other with astonishing rapidity.
Le Franc de Pompignan complained to the king, and to the academy, and beheld, with an impotent grief, that his own name was obscured by the splendour of that of Voltaire. Each step he took did but increase the satire, which every tongue repeated, and the verses in which he is consigned to eternal ridicule. He made a formal proposal to an august patron, to break a promise which he had made to this patron himself, by returning to the academy, to vote for a man. in whose behalf the prince was interested. He received, in return for this sacrifice, a polite refusal, and had the mortification to hear his patron himself repeat, as he withdrew, the lines so terrible to him: ‘Et I' ami Pompignan pense être quelque chose! *:’ [Page 123] and he retired to bury his humbled pride and deceived ambition in the country: a fearful, but salutary, example of the power of genius and the dangers of literary hypocrisy.
Fréron, an ex-jesuit as well as Desfontains, had succeeded the latter in the trade of flattering, by periodical satires, the jealousy of the enemies of virtue, of reason, and of talents. He distinguished himself in the war against the philosophers. Voltaire, who had long supported his outrages, at length did justice, and avenged his friends. In the comedy of l' Ecossaise (the Scotch-woman) he introduced a depraved journalist, whose character was formed of venality and rancour. The pit, in the character, recognized Fréron, who, delivered over to public disdain in a piece which could not fail to be preserved to the theatre by interesting scenes, and the original and forcible character of the worthy blunt Freeport, was condemned to bear, during the remainder of his life, a ridiculous and disgraced name. Fréron, in applauding the insult offered to the philosophers, had forfeited his right of complaining; and his protectors chose rather to abandon him than to avow a partiality which might have involved their own discredit.
Other enemies, less virulent, had been either corrected or punished; and Voltaire, triumphing in the midst of these victims sacrificed to reason and to his glory, sent to the theatre, [Page 124] at the age of sixty-six, the chef-d'oeuvre of Tancred. That tragedy was dedicated to the Marchioness de Pompadour. It was the fruit of the address with which Voltaire could, without wounding the Duke de Choiseul, support the cause of the philosophers, whose adversaries had obtained a flight protection from that minister. This dedication taught his enemies that their calumnies were not more injurious to his security than their criticisms to his fame: it completed his vengeance.
In this same year he learned that a young niece of Corneille languished in a condition unworthy of his name; "It is the duty of a soldier" he cried, "to succour the niece of his general." Mademoiselle Corneille was invited to Ferney; and she there received an education suitable to the rank that her birth had marked for her in society. Voltaire even carried his delicacy so far as not to suffer the establishment of Mademoiselle Corneille to appear as his benefaction. He wished that she should owe that to the works of her uncle, and he undertook to publish an edition of them with notes. The creator of the French Theatre commented on by the writer who had conducted that theatre to it's perfection, a man of genius, born at a time when taste was not yet formed, judged by a rival who joined to genius the gift, almost as rare, of a taste that was penetrating without severity, delicate without timidity, and enlightened by a long [Page 125] and happy experience of the art, these are the beauties presented in that work. Voltaire speaks in it of Corneille's defects with frankness, of his beauties with enthusiasm. Never has Corneille been examined with such rigour, never has he been praised with a feeling more profound and true. Resolved to instruct both the French youth and the youth of other countries who cultivate the French literature, he did not pardon the vices of language, the extravagance, nor the offences committed against delicacy and good taste, which are found in Corneille; but, at the same time, he taught them to know the progress which the art owes to that writer, the uncommon elevation of his mind, the almost inimitable beauty of his poetry in the morsels dictated by his genius, and those vast, sublime, words which spring suddenly from the necessity of the occasion, and paint great characters with a single stroke.
The herd of writers reproached him, nevertheless, with a design of degrading Corneille, from motives of mean jealousy; whereas, throughout the whole of his commentary, he seizes, he even seems to seek, occasion to proclaim his admiration of Racine; a more dangerous rival, whom he has surpassed only in some parts of the tragic art, and whose prodigious excellence he might well envy in the height of his glory.
Voltaire, tranquil in his retreat, employed in continuing the happy war which he had declared [Page 126] against prejudice, saw the arrival of an unfortunate family, the father of which had been conducted to the wheel by fanatic judges; the instruments of the ferocious passions of a superstitious people. He learnt that Calas, an infirm old man, had been accused of having hanged his young and vigorous son, in the midst of his family, and in the presence of a catholic servant; that he had been urged to commit this crime by the fear of seeing this son embrace the catholic religion, this son who spent his life in dissipation, and of whom no one in the midst of the universal effervescence could ever cite a single word, or point to a single action which announced such a design, while another son of Calas, already converted to the catholic faith, enjoyed a pension from the bounty this father, who was far from possessing affluence. Never, in an event of such a nature, had circumstances so concurred to banish the suspicion of a crime in the father, or to strengthen the reasons to ascribe suicide to the son. The young man's conduct, his character, the kind of reading in which he indulged, all confirmed this idea. Yet a magistrate, whose weak mind was intoxicated with superstition, and whose hatred to the protestants did not hesitate to impute crimes to them, caused the whole family to be imprisoned. The catholic populace became enflamed, and the young man was declared a martyr. The fraternity of the penitents, which, to the disgrace of the nation, [Page 127] still exists at Thoulouse, performed a solemn mass for him, during which they bore his effigies, holding the palm of martyrdom in one hand, and in the other the pen with which he was to have signed his abjuration.
It was soon reported that the protestant religion commanded fathers to assassinate their children, when they designed to abjure it; and that, for greater security, they elected, in their secret assemblies the butcher of the sect. The inferior tribunal, led by the furious M. David, pronounced the unfortunate Calas guilty; and the parliament confirmed the sentence by that very small majority which is unhappily regarded as sufficient by our absurd jurisprudence. Condemned to the torture and the wheel, this miserable father died protesting his innocence; and the judges absolved his family, the necessary accomplices of the guilt, or the innocence of its head.
This family, ruined and stained by prejudice, went to seek, among men of their own persuasion, a retreat, assistance, but, above all, consolation. They took up their residence near Geneva. Voltaire, whose compassion was moved, and whose indignation was roused, informed himself of the horrible particulars; and, assured of the innocence of the unfortunate Calas, he dared to conceive the hope of obtaining justice. The zeal of the advocates was excited, and their courage sustained by his letters. He interested, in the cause of humanity, the naturally [Page 128] susceptible mind of the Duke de Choiseul. The reputation of Tronchin had brought to Geneva the Duchess d' Enville, the great granddaughter of the author of the Maxims. Superior to superstition, both by her native feelings and by her acquired knowledge, informed how to produce the welfare of mankind by equal activity and courage, and embellishing by a genuine modesty the energy of her virtues, her hatred of fanaticism and oppression insured to Calas a protectress, whose zeal could not be abated by obstacles or delays. The process was commenced. To the memorials of the advocates, too profuse and declamatory, Voltaire added more nervous writings, the style of which was seductive, and calculated in some places to excite pity, and in others to awaken the public indignation, so prone to sleep among a people, at that time, too much a stranger to their own interests. Pleading for Calas, he supported the cause of toleration; which word it was then daring to pronounce, and which is even now rejected with contempt by men who recognize the right of enslaving thought and conscience. Letters, abounding with that subtle praise which he could distribute with such delicacy, animated the zeal of the defenders of the cause, of its protectors, and of the judges. It was, while he promised immortality, that he demanded justice.
The sentence of Thoulouse was annulled. The Duke de Choiseul had the wisdom and the [Page 129] courage to order a tribunal of Masters of Requests to revise this cause, in defending which the parliaments were all interested, whose prejudices and spirit of mutual defence left little hope of an equitable decision. In fine, Calas was declared innocent; dishonour was removed from his memory; and a generous minister caused the public treasury to repair the wrongs that the injustice of the judges had done to the fortune of this family, which was as respectable as it was unhappy. But he did not proceed so far as to compel the parliament of Languedoc to acknowledge the arret which overturned an act of its injustice. That tribunal preferred the miserable vanity of persevering in its error, to the honour of lamenting, and repairing, the injury.
Mean while, the applauses of France and of Europe were heard at Thoulouse, and the unhappy M. David, sinking beneath the weight of remorse and of shame, soon lost his reason and his life. This affair, so great in itself, so important in its consequences, since it turned the attention not only of France but of other nations to the crimes of intolerance and the necessity of preventing them, this affair occupied the soul of Voltaire, during more than three years.— "In all this time," said he, "a smile has not escaped me, for which I have not reproached myself, as for a crime." His name, which had long been dear to the enlightened friends of humanity as that of its most zealous, [Page 130] most indefatigable defender, this name was then blest by that multitude of citizens who, devoted to persecution during eighty years, at length heard a voice raised in their defence. Having returned to Paris in 1778, one day that the people surrounded him on the Pont Royal, a poor woman was asked who that man was who thus drew the crowd after him—"Know you not," said she, "that he is the saviour of Calas?" He was informed of this answer, and, surrounded as he was by the marks of admiration which were lavished on him, it was this by which he was most sensibly affected.
Shortly after the unfortunate death of Calas, a young woman of the same province, who, according to a barbarous custom, had been taken from her parents and shut up in a convent with a design of aiding saying grace by human means, wearied of the ill treatment that she endured, escaped, and her body was discovered in a well. The priest who had solicited the Lettre de Cachet, the sisterhood who had used with barbarity the power which it gave them over this unfortunate young woman, doubtless merited punishment; but it was on the family of this victim that fanaticism wished punishment to fall. The injurious reproach which had conducted Calas to the wheel was revived with a new fury. Sirven, fortunately, had time to fly; and, condemned to death for contumacy, he sought an assylum with the protector of Calas. But his wife, who accompanied [Page 131] him, fell a prey to her grief and to the fatigue of a journey, undertaken on foot, over tracts of snow.
Judicial forms required Sirven to present himself before the same parliament who had shed the blood of Calas. Voltaire endeavoured to obtain other judges. The Duke de Choiseul at that time thought it necessary to respect the opinion of the parliaments who, after the decay of his influence over the Marchioness de Pompadour, and again after her death, were become useful to him, at times to free him from an enemy, and at others to afford the means of rendering himself necessary by the art with which he could appease their commotions, which he himself frequently excited.
Sirven, then, was compelled to yield to necessity, and to appear before the tribunal of Thoulouse; but Voltaire knew how to provide for his security, and to prepare for his success. He had disciples in the parliament; some able advocates of Thoulouse wished to partake of the glory which those of Paris had acquired by defending Calas; the friends of toleration were become powerful even in this very city: within a few years Voltaire's works had changed the minds of men; they had only pitied Calas with a silent horror, Sirven found declared protectors, for which he was indebted to the eloquence of Voltaire, to the talent of opportunely infusing truth, mingled with approbation, into the feelings of those whom he designed to [Page 132] work his purposes. The friends of truth triumphed over the abettors of the penitents, and Sirven was saved.
The Jesuits had usurped the possessions of a well descended family, who, by their poverty, were prevented from recovering their rights. Voltaire gave them the means of accomplishing that; and oppressors of every kind, who, long had feared his writings, now learnt to dread his activity, his generosity, and his courage.
This last event almost immediately preceded the destruction of the Jesuits. Voltaire, educated among them, had maintained a correspondence with his former masters. While they were living they restrained the fury of the fraternity from any open attack, and Voltaire was respectful to the Jesuits, both in deference to the connexions of his youth, and also to preserve allies in the party which at that time governed the devotees, But, after the death of these friends, wearied by the clamours of the Journal de Trévoux, which, by unceasing accusations of impiety seemed to call down persecutions on his head, he no longer preserved the same respect for the Jesuits, nor did his zeal for the defence of the oppressed extend to them, when they, in their turn, became oppressed.
He exulted in the destruction of an order, the friend of letters but the enemy of reason, which was desirous of destroying all talents or [Page 133] of drawing them into its bosom, to corrupt them, by employing them to serve its designs, and to hold the human race in infancy, in order to govern them. Yet he pitied individuals treated with barbarity by the hatred of the Jansenists; and he gave an assylum, in his own house, to a Jesuit, to point out to the devotees that true humanity knows only misfortune and forgets opinions. Father Adam, to whom a sort of celebrity was given by his abode at Ferney, was not absolutely useless to his host. He played with him at chess, and he played the game with sufficient address sometimes to conceal his superiority. He also spared Voltaire labour in his learned researches; he even served him as an almoner, for Voltaire wished to oppose his fidelity in fulfilling the exterior duties of the Romish religion to the accusation, which were brought against him, of impiety.
At this period a great revolution was engendering in the human mind. Since the revival of philosophy, religion, exclusively established throughout Europe, had been attacked only in England. Leibnitz, Fontenelle, and other less celebrated philosophers, accused of free thinking, had respected religion in their writings. Bayle, himself, by a precaution that was necessary to his safety, while he indulged himself in all objections, assumed the air of wishing to prove that revelation alone could resolve them, and of having formed the project [Page 134] of exalting faith by humiliating reason. In England, these attacks had little success or effect. The most powerful party in that nation judged it useful to themselves to leave the people in darkness, probably because the habit of adoring the mysteries of the Bible strengthened their faith in those of the constitution; and they honoured the established religion as a species of social advantage. Besides, in a country where the House of Commons alone led to fortune, and where the members of that house were tumultuously elected by the people, an apparent respect for their opinions must necessarily be erected into a virtue by all the ambitious.
In France, there had appeared some bold writers, but the blows which they aimed were still indirect. Even the work of Helvetius de l' Esprit (on the understanding) was only an attack on religious principles in general; it questioned the foundations of all religions, and left the reader to draw consequences and make applications. Emilius appeared; the Savoyard vicar's Profession of Faith contained nothing relative to the utility, toward morals, of the belief of a God, and the inutility of revelation, which is not to be found in the poem of Natural Law; but the attack was open and the persons attacked were brought upon the stage under their proper name and character, and not under that of the priests of India or of Thibet. This boldness astonished Voltaire and excited his emulation. The success of Emilius [Page 135] encouraged him, nor was he terrified by the fear of persecution. Rousseau had not been persecuted at Paris had he not put his name to the work, nor at Geneva had he not maintained in another part of Emilius that the people possessed not the power of renouncing the right of reforming a depraved government. This doctrine authorised the citizens of that republic to overthrow the aristocracy which its magistrates had established, and which secured an hereditary authority to certain rich families.
Voltaire believed that he could securely shun persecution by concealing his name; and, by a deference to government while he directed all his force against religion, could interest even the civil power to weaken its empire. A multiplicity of works, in which he successively employed argument and humour, were dispersed throughout Europe, under the various forms which could be invented by the necessity of veiling truth, or of rendering it engaging. His zeal against religion, which he viewed as the cause of the fanatacism that had desolated Europe from the moment of its birth, the cause of the superstition that had degraded it, and as the source of the evils, which the enemies of men still continued to inflict on them, seemed to increase his activity and his powers. "I am wearied," said he one day, "of hearing it repeated that twelve men were sufficient to establish Christianity, and I wish to prove there needs but one to destroy it."
[Page 136]An examination of works, which Christians regarded as proceeding from inspiration, the analyzation of dogmas, which have been successively introduced since the origin of that religion, the history of the ridiculous or bloody quarrels which have been excited by those, the miracles, prophecies, tales scattered through legends and ecclesiastical histories, the religious wars, the massacres ordained in the name of God, the butchers and scaffolds which, at the voice of priests covered Europe, the blood of kings flowing from the steel of assassins, and the fanaticism which unpeopled America, all these were incessantly repeated in his works under a thousand varied forms. He excited indignation, he wrung tears from the heart, he exhausted the springs of ridicule. Men trembled at an attrocious action, they laughed at an absurdity. Voltaire did not fear frequently to place the same objects before his readers, to urge the same reasonings to them. "They tell me that I repeat the same things," he said in one of his writings, "true: I shall repeat them till I see men reformed."
These works, rigorously prohibited in France, in Italy, at Vienna, in Portugal, and in Spain, could not be speedily circulated; all of them could not reach every reader; but there was not an obscure corner in the provinces, there was not any nation in foreign countries, suffering under the yoke of intolerance, which [Page 137] did not feel the influence of some of these writings.
Men of liberal minds, who existed before only in some cities where science was cultivated, or among the learned and the great, were, by his voice, multiplied in all classes of society as well as in all countries. Soon perceiving their number and their strength they ventured to show themselves, and Europe was astonished to find itself a country of Deists.
The zeal of Voltaire created him enemies in all those who had obtained, and all who expected to obtain, affluence or even subsistence from religion. Yet that party no longer possessed such men as Bossuet, Arnaud, and Nicole; those who replaced them by their talents and their acquaintance with philosophy and letters had ranged themselves with the contrary party; and the members of the clergy who approached nearest to them in ability, yielding to the desire of not debasing themselves in the opinion of enlightened men, stood aloof, or contented themselves with maintaining the politcal use of a belief which they would have blushed to have partaken with the people, and substituted for the credulous superstition of their predecessors a species of religious Machiavelism.
Defamatory writings and attacks sprung up profusely; but Voltaire, by answering alone, preserved the name of these works, which were read by none but those to whom they were useless, [Page 138] and who were unwilling or unable to understand either the objections or the answers.
To the clamours of fanaticism, Voltaire opposed the protection of monarchs. The Empress of Russia, the Kings of Poland, Denmark, Sweden, and Prussia, interested themselves in his labours, perused his works, sought to deserve his approbation, and sometimes seconded his zeal for the welfare of mankind. In every country the powerful, and such ministers as sought reputation and were intent on spreading their fame through Europe, were ambitious to enjoy the suffrage of the philosopher of Ferney, confided to him their hopes and fears for the progress of reason, and their projects for the increase of knowledge and the ruin of fanaticism. He had formed a league which included all the great men of Europe, of which he was the soul, and whose cry was, "Reason and toleration." Did any striking injustice arise in a nation, did Voltaire hear of any act of bigotry, any insult offered to human nature, his pen exposed the guilty to Europe: and who knows how often the fear of this sure and terrible vengeance has withheld the oppressor's arm?
But it was in France, more especially, that he exercised this dominion of reason. Since the affair of Calas, every victim, unjustly sacrificed or pursued by the sword of the law, found in him a protector, or an avenger.
The execution of the Count de Lally excited [Page 139] his indignation. The lawyers of Paris, sitting in judgment on the conduct of a general in India, a sentence of death passed without proof of a single determinate crime, nay mere suspicion produced as the gra [...]est accusation, a judgment pronounced on the testimony of declared enemies, on the memorial of a Jesuit who had composed two of them contradictory to each other, uncertain whether he should accuse the general or his enemies, not knowing which he hated most, or which it would be most convenient to ruin; such proceedings and such a sentence could not but rouze the feelings of every friend of justice, although the calumnies heaped on the head of the unfortunate general, and the horrid barbarity of dragging him to death with a gag in his mouth, should not have shaken every fibre in every heart which the habit of disposing of the lives of men had not turned to stone.
Yet, Voltaire during a long time spoke singly against this enormity. The vast number of persons employed by the East-India company who were interested in throwing the fatal consequences of their conduct on a man who no longer existed, the powerful tribunal which had condemned the general, all those whom that body included in its suite whose voice was sold to it, the other corps, who, united with that by the same name, by common functions and like interests, regarded its cause as their own, in fine, the administration, ashamed of [Page 140] the weakness or the cruel policy which sacrificed the Count de Lally to the hope of concealing in his tomb the faults which had lost India, all seemed to oppose a tardy justice. But Voltaire, by reiterated attacks on the same object, triumphed over prejudice and the interests of such as are attentive to preserve and extend its empire. Just minds needed only to be informed of the circumstances; others, he hurried along with him; and when the son of the Count de Lally, since so celebrated by his eloquence and courage, had attained an age at which he could demand justice, the minds of men were prepared to applaud the attempt and to solicit its execution. Voltaire was dying, when, twelve years afterward, this unjust sentence was reversed; he heard the intelligence; his powers sprang back to life, and he wrote—"I die content; I see the king loves justice." The last words which were traced by that hand which had so long maintained the cause of humanity and justice.
In the same year, 1766, another arret astonished Europe; which, while it read the works of our philosophers, concluded that knowledge was disseminated throug [...] France, or at least through those classes of society whose particular duty it was to inform themselves; and thought that, after a period of near fifteen years, the brethren of Montesquieu might have had time to comprehend his principles.
The Crucifix of wood, placed on the Bridge [Page 141] of Abbeville, was insulted, during the night. The indignation of the people was heightened and kept in action by the ridiculous ceremony of doing penance. The bishop of Amiens, governed in his old age by fanatics, and no longer capable of foreseeing the consequences of this religions farce, added to its solemnity by his presence. Mean time, the malice of a townsman of Abbeville directed the suspicions of the people to the Chevalier de la Barré, a young officer whose relations were of the long robe and members of the chief magistracy, and who at that time lived with his kinswoman the Abbess de Villancourt, near the gates of Abbeville. A process was commenced, and the judges of Abbeville condemned to tortures, whose horror would dismay the imagination of a canibal, the Chevalier de la Barré and d' Etallonde his friend, who had taken the precaution to fly. The Chevalier de la Barré had awaited the issue of the trial; he had more to lose than the other by quitting France; and relied on the protection of his relations who filled the first employments in the parliaments and in the council. His hopes were deceived; the family feared to attract the police of the public toward his prosecution, instead of endeavouring to [...]e [...]k support from the general opinion; and, at the age of nearly seventeen, the Chevalier de la Barré was condemned, by a majority of two votes, to be beheaded, after having his tongue cut out, and having undergone the torture.
[Page 142]This horrible sentence was executed and yet the accusations were as ridiculous as the punishment was attrocious. He was only vehemently suspected to have taken a part in the adventure of the crucifix; but he was declared to be convicted of having sung, [...]n parties of conviviality, some of those songs which are half obscene, half religious, and which notwithstanding their grossness amuse the imagination in the first years of youth, by the contra [...] which they form, with the scrupulous respect which education inspires towards the same objects: of having recited an ode whose author was perfectly known and at that time enjoyed a pension from the king's privy purse: of having made some genuslexions to certain libertine works which were written to the taste of a time in which men, led astray by religious austerity, could not distinguish between pleasure and debauchery; and in sine, he was reproached with having spoken in a language worthy of those songs and those books.
These accusations were all supported by the testimony of low people who had served these young men in their parties of pleasure, and by the Tourrières * of convents, who easily find cause of offence.
This sentence revolted the minds of all men; no law existed which ordained sentence of death either for the breaking of imag [...]s or for that species of blasphemy of which the Chevalier [Page 143] de la Barré had been accused; thus the judges had exceeded even the penalties decreed by laws, which no enlightened man can still see sullying our criminal code without horror. There was no father of a family who had not reason to tremble, since there are few young men who escape such like indiscretions; and the judges had condemned the unfortunate victim to a cruel death for language, in which the greatest part of them had indulged, in their youth, in which, perhaps, they still indulged, and whose children were as culpable as he whom they had condemned.
While Voltaire's indignation was reused, his apprehensions were strongly excited. The Philosophical Dictionary had been artfully placed among the number of books before which it was said the Chevalier de la Barré had prostrated himself. His enemies wished it to be understood that the reading of Voltaire's works had been the cause of these indiscretions, which had been construed into acts of impiety. Still the danger did not prevent Voltaire from undertaking the defence of these victims of fanaticism. D'Ettallonde, then a refugee at Wezel, obtained, through his recommendation, a commission in a Prussian regiment. The circumstances of the affair of Abbeville were unfolded to Europe in several publications; and the judges trembled, on their very seats, at the terrible judgment which they had passed, and which dragged them from their obscurity to devote them to a disgraceful immortality.
[Page 144]The reporting judge of Count de Lally's trial, accused of having contributed to the death of the Chevalier de la Barré, compelled to acknowledge the influence of that power which is independent of rank or situation, and which nature has given to genius for the consolation and defence of the human race, wrote a letter in which, actuated alternately by shame and pride, he attempted to excuse himself and suffer menaces to escape him. Voltaire replied by the following historical trait:—"I forbid you," said an Emperor of China to the chief mandarin of the historians, "to mention me, henceforward, in your works." The mandarin, on this, took up his pen. "What do you now?" said the Emperor: "I write the order which your majesty has just given me."
During twelve years, that Voltaire survived this act of inju [...]tice, he never lost sight of the hope of obtaining reparation for it, but he had not the consolation of success. The fear of offending the parliament of Paris still bore down the love of justice; and, at a time when the leaders of administration had a contrary interest, t [...]ey were restrained by the fear of displeasing the clergy. Governments do not sufficiently know how much real importance they acquire, how with the people whom they govern and with foreign nations, by such illustrious acts of individual justice, and how much more sure the support of public opinion is than [Page 145] the deference paid them by certain bodies of men, rarely capable of gratitude, and part of whose authority over the vulgar mind it would be more politic to take away by these great examples than to augment, by proving, in the respect which they themselves pay to them, the fears which such bodies inspire.
Voltaire did not, meantime, neglect the means of avoiding the storm; he diminished his domestic establishment; and secured some property which he could dispose of at pleasure, with which he might procure a new place of refuge. Such had ever been his secret design, in all the arrangements which he had made of his fortune, and it would have required a league among the powers of Europe, to have deprived him of independence, and to have reduced him to want. Princes and nobles were among his debtors, who do not indeed pay with much punctuality, but he had calculated the degrees of human corruption, and he knew that these same men, though they act with little delicacy in such affairs, would find means to reimburse him during the moment of persecution, when their negligence would otherwise render them the objects of the horror and disdain of Europe, indignant to behold such a man oppressed.
This persecution appeared for a time ready to burst forth. Ferney is situated in the dioces of Geneva, the titular bishop of which resides in the small town of Annecy. François [Page 146] de Salles, who has been raised to the rank of Saints, having formerly been the bishop, in order that the heretics might not find cause of scandal in their own metropolis, it had been thought most proper to confide this see to none but a man who would not incur the reproach of pride, luxury, and effeminacy, of which the catholic prelates are accused by the protestants.
But it had long been difficult to discover saints, who, possessing understanding or birth, would condescend to accept so small a diocese. He who filled the see of Annecy, in 1767, was a man of low extraction, educated in a seminary at Paris, where he was no otherwise distinguished than by austere manners, trifling devotion, and ignorant fanaticism. He wrote to the Count de St. Florentine, to induce him to banish Voltaire out of his diocese, and consequently out of the kingdom, though the poet had then built a church at his own expence, and spread abundance through a country which the persecutions against the protestants had laid waste. But the bishop pretended that the Lord of Ferney had given a moral exhortation against theft in the church after mass, and that the workmen who were employed by him in erecting this church had not removed an old cross with sufficient veneration; these indeed were grave inducements to drive from his country an old man who was the glory of that country, and to rob him of an asylum to which the kingdoms of Europe hastened to [Page 147] bear him the tribute of admiration. The mister, had it been only from motives of policy, could not be tempted to gratify the bishop; he therefore advised Voltaire to guard against these accusations, which the union of the bishop of Annecy with the French prelates who possessed more influence might render dangerous.
It was at this time that he conceived the idea of solemnly receiving the sacrament, which was followed by a public declaration of his respect for the church, and his disdain of his detractors; a fruitless step, which spoke weakness rather than policy, and which the pleasure of compelling his pastor to administer the communion through fear of the secular judges, and of legally insulting the bishop of Annecy, could not excuse in the eyes of the free and intrepid man who appreciates coolly the rights of truth, and perceives that which prudence requires when laws contrary to natural justice render truth dangerous and prudence necessary.
The priest suffered the small advantage to escape which they might have drawn from this singular scene, by falsifying the declaration which Voltaire had made.
He had no longer a retreat near Geneva. He had connected himself, on his arrival there, with the families whose education, opinions, inclinations, and fortune, were most congenial to his own; and these families had at that time [Page 148] formed the design of establishing a species of aristocracy. In a city which pos [...]ssed no territory, where the strength of the citizens could be united with as much facility and promptitude as that of the government, such a project would have been absurd had not the rich citizens entertained the hope of engaging a foreign influence in their favour.
The cabinets of Versailles and Turin were easily seduced. The senate of Berne, whose interest it was to banish the picture of republican equality from the eyes of their subjects, made it their constant policy to protect every enterprizing aristocracy around them: and, throughout the whole of Switzerland, such magistrates as became tyrants were sure of finding, at Bern, an ardent and faithful protector. Thus the wretched pride of obtaining an odious authority in a small city, and of being hated without being respected, deprived the citizens of Geneva of their liberty, and the republic of its independence. The chiefs of the popular party employed the weapons of fanaticism, for they had read enough to know the influence which religion had formerly obtained in political dissensions, but they did not sufficiently understand the spirit of their own age to feel how much reason, aided by ridicule, had weakened this formerly so dangerous weapon.
It was proposed, therefore, to put in force the laws which prohibited catholics from possessing [Page 149] property in the territory of Geneva. The magistrates were censured for their connections with Voltaire, who had dared to raise his voice against the barbarous assassination of Servet, which had been commanded by Calvin in the name of God to the cowardly and superstitious senators of Geneva. Voltaire was obliged to renounce his house of the Delices.
Soon after, Rousseau advanced, in his Emilius, principles which developed to the citizens of Geneva all the extent of their rights, and which founded these rights on simple truths that all men could feel and all must adopt. The aristocracy wished to punish him for the publication, but it was necessary they should have a pretext; they took that of religion, and united themselves with the priests, who, in every country, indifferent to the form of its constitution and the liberty of man, promise the assistance of Heaven to the party which most favours intolerance, and who become, as their interest directs, sometimes the support of the tyranny of a bigotted prince or of a superstitious senate, sometimes the defenders of the liberty of a fanatic people.
Alternately exposed to the attacks of the two parties, Voltaire observed a neutrality, but he remained faithful to his detestation of oppressors. He favoured the cause of the citizens against the magistrates, and that of the common people who possessed no privileges [Page 150] against the citizens; for these people, condemned [...]o be ever excluded from the rights of the citizens, found themselves more oppressed since the latter, better informed of the privileges which are granted by the present system of polity, but less enlightened respecting the natural rights of man, considering themselves as sovereigns, of whom the people were no more than subjects, and whom they thought they had authority to reduce to subjection, by the same arbitrary power, for assuming which they deemed their magistrates so culpable.
Voltaire, therefore, wrote a poem, every part of which was impregnated with satire, and on which was no reproach can be laid, except that of containing some verses against Rousseau, which were dictated by a degree of anger, whose excess and expressions could not be excused by the justice of the motives which inspired them. But when, in a tumult, the citizens had slain some of the people, he was eager to receive at Ferney the families which these troubles compelled to abandon Geneva; and, in the very instant in which the bankruptcy of the Abbé Terrai, which had not even the excuse of necessity, but was occasioned only by shameful expences, had deprived him of part of his fortune, he was seen to give assistance to those who had no property left; and to build houses which he sold to others at a low price to be paid him in annuities; while he solicited the good offices of the government in [Page 151] their behalf, and employed his influence with sovereigns, ministers, and the leading men of all nations, to procure a sale for the clocks and watches of this infant manufactory, which soon became famous throughout Europe.
In the mean time, the government was employed in opening an asylum for the Genevese at Versoy, on the borders of the lake. There it was designed to have established a city, in which industry and commerce would have been free, and in which a protestant temple would have risen by the side of a catholic church. Voltaire had caused this plan to be adopted, but the minister did not possess sufficient credit to obtain a law for the protection of religious liberty, a secret toleration, limited to the time of his own administration, was all that he could offer, and with that Versoy could not exist.
The year 1771 was one of the most embarrassing periods of Voltaire's life. The chancellor Maupeou and the Duke d'Aiguillon saw themselves obliged to attack the parliaments, to whom they both were objects of hatred; that they might not become their victims. The one could not obtain a part in the administration, nor the other preserve himself in the office which he held there, without procuring the disgrace of the Duke de Choiseul. Acting in concert with Madame du Barry, whom that minister had been imprudent enough to make his irreconcilable enemy, they persuaded the king that his contemned authority could never [Page 152] be restored to its vigour, that the state, incessantly agitated since the peace by parliamentary contentions, could not regain its tranquility, if he did not by an act of vigour place limits to the pretensions of the judicial bodies, which they would not venture to infringe, and if a term was not fixed beyond which they would not dare longer to oppose resistance to the royal will.
The Duke de Choiseul could not adopt this project without offending the public opinion, which had a long time been inimicable to him, but which was then his sole support; while his forced submission to the will of the people had removed him still further from the confidence of the monarch, whose affections were alienated from him. It was probable, then, that his connexions with the parliaments would complete his disgrace, and that it would be easy to persuade the monarch either that his remaining in power would be the greatest obstacle to the success of the new measures of the government, or that he would endeavour to involve the nation in war, to preserve his situation in despight of the kings pleasure.
The attack made on the parliaments was directed with equal address. Whatever could alarm the nation was carefully avoided. The king appeared only to vindicate the plenitude of the legislative power, a power which would be transferred not to the nation but to the parliaments, by admitting the doctrine that the [Page 153] parliaments had the right of registering edicts according to their pleasure. It was easily perceived that this power, united to the most extensive judicial authority, which was divided among the twelve perpetual tribunals, would tend to establish a tyranic aristocracy in France, more dangerous, than monarchy, to the security, the liberty, and the property of the citizens. The enemies of those tribunals might therefore rely on the suffrages of enlightened minds, and on that of men of letters, whom the parliament of Paris had wounded by its insolence and persecution, by its attachment to prejudices, and by its pertinacity in rejecting every improvement calculated for the happiness of men.
But is less difficult to form a political intrigue w [...]h address, than to execute with wisdom a plan of reform. The more alarming to liberty are the principles which the governing power would establish, the more necessary is it to display gentleness and indulgence to individuals. Yet, at that time, rigour was, in the minutest circumstances, carried to a puerile refinement. A monarch appears cruel, who, in the punishments which he inflicts, does not scrupulously respect, consistently with that punishment, whatever can be injurious to the health, the convenience, or even the natural feelings of those whom he punishes, or those who are connected with them; but, on this occasion, all these considerations were disregarded. [Page 154] They refused permission to a son to embrace his dying father; they confined a man in an unhealthful place, where his family could not approach him without being exposed to partake of his dangers, and a sick person could scarcely obtain leave to seek in the capital the assistance which that alone could give him. When an absolute government betrays fear, it proclaims either distrust of its strength, the indecision of the monarch, or the instability of the administration, and this gives encouragement to resistance; but this fear was displayed in making the recal of some exiles depend on a consent useless even in the opinion of those who demanded that consent.
A salutary operation does not change its nature though it be executed with wanton severity; but then the feeling and enlightened man who approves, does not defend it, should he think his duty calls on him to give the measure his support, without regret; his disgusted mind no longer acts with either zeal or affection for a cause which is dishonoured by its leaders.
Those whose minds are uninformed pass from a hatred of the minister to aversion to measures which he maintains by oppression; and the public voice condemns that which, left to itself, it had perhaps approved.
The great number of magistrates who were by this revolution deprived of their offices, the merit and virtues of some of them, the crowd [Page 155] of subordinate ministers of justice who were connected with their fate by honour and by interest, that natural propensity which leads men to join the cause of those who suffer, the hatred of power not less natural, all necessarily co-operated to render the measures of the minister odious, and to place obstacles in his way when, compelled to replace the tribunals which he wished to destroy, force became useless and confidence necessary.
However, the barbarity of the criminal law, the disgusting defects of the civil jurisprudence, presented to the authors of the revolution sure means to regain the public opinion, and to give those who should consent to replace the former parliaments an excuse which honour and patriotism might have been proud to avow. Ministers disdained these means. The parliament had rendered itself obnoxious to all enlightened men by the obstacles which it opposed to the liberty of the press, and by its fanaticism, of which the recent execution of the Chevalier de la Barré had give an example to all Europe. Yet, irritated by libels published against himself, alarmed by works in which his principles had been attacked, and, in short, desirous of gaining a support in the clergy, the chancellor thought proper to lay new restrictions on the press. The stain was not removed from the memory of the Chevalier de la Barré, nor could Voltaire obtain a revision of the sentence which would have covered [Page 156] those with disgrace whom it was so particularly the interest of the chancellor to deprive of the public favour. The criminal code existed in all its horror, although [...]ght days would have sufficed to have formed a [...]aw which would have suppressed the punishment of death so wantonly inflicted, would have abolished every species of torture, and would have prohibited excess in corporal punishment; which would have granted the accused the assistance of a counsel, would have permitted him to make a certain number of challenges without alledging his motives, would have given him the right to present evidence and to display facts in his favour, and would have made a very considerable majority of the judges necessary to his condemnation; which, in fine, would have insured him the power of knowing and examining all the proceedings. The nation, all Europe would have applauded the reform; the displaced magistrates would alone have been the enemies of these salutary innovations; and their fall the epoch, in which the sovereign had recovered the liberty of yielding to his just and humane purposes.
In truth the sale of judicial offices was suppressed; yet, the judges being still named by the court, nothing was seen in this change but the facility of placing on the seat of justice men without fortune and more easy to be seduced.
The bounds of the most extensive jurisdictions [Page 157] were circumscribed, but the new courts were not erected into parliaments; they were not permitted to register atrets, and this difference between those and the former tribunals was the sure presage of their destruction. In fine, the fees of the judges were abolished and replaced by stated salaries; and this regulation, among all that were adopted, was the only one which reason could entirely approve.
The authors of this revolution at length beheld its accomplishment, notwithstanding an almost universal discontent. The Duke de Choiseul, accused of secretly fomenting the resistance, unsteady as it was, of the parliament of Paris, and of having retarded the conclusion of peace between England and Spain, was exiled to his estates. The parliament, whose gratitude obliged them to assume firmness, was soon dispersed. The Duke d'Aiguillon became minister, and the parliament was succeeded by a new tribunal. In some of the provinces the parliaments experienced the fate of that of Paris, while others consented to remain and sacrifice several of their members. All was silent before authority; and nothing was wanting to the success of the ministers but the approbation of the public whom they scorned, and who, some years after, wrought their disgrace.
Voltaire despised the parliament of Paris, and loved the Duke de Choiseul; he beheld in one an ancient persecutor who had not been [Page 157] disarmed but further incensed by his fame, in the other a friend and a protector. He was constant in his gratitude and immoveable in his principles. All his letters expressed his regard for the Duke de Choiseul with freedom and energy, and he was not ignorant that his letters, in consequence of the infamous custom of violating public faith, were read by the enemies of the exiled minister. A pleasant tale, entitled Barmécide *, which he wrote, is the only durable monument of the concern which this disgrace had excited. The injustice with which the friends and partizans of the Duke de Choiseul accused Voltaire of ingratitude was, therefore, one of the severest afflictions which he had ever endured; and it was the more poignant as the Duke himself partook of the injustice. Ineffectually did Voltaire endeavour to undeceive him, ineffectually did he appeal to the proofs he had given of his attachment and his sorrow: ‘Je l'ai dit à la terre, au ciel, à Gusman même †:’ he wrote in his grief, but he was not understood.
The great and people in office have interests, but rarely opinions. To oppose those who agree with their present designs is, in [Page 159] their eyes, to declare themselves. That attachment of truth which is one of the strongest passions of exalted and independent minds, appears romantic to them. They suppose that a philosopher has, like themselves, no opinions but those of the moment, and consequently that he must change his professions according to the temporary interests of their friends or patrons. They consider him as a man made to defend the cause which they have embraced and not to support his own principles; to serve under them and not to examine the justice of the war. Thus the Duke de Choiseul appeared to imagine that Voltaire, in deference to him, ought either to have betrayed or concealed his opinions on questions of public right. An important anecdote, which proves how easily the pride of power and birth destroys the recollection of the natural independence of the human soul, and which displays the inequality of men's minds, which is much more real than that of their rank or situation.
Voltaire beheld, with pleasure, the practice of selling judicial offices abolished, the fees of the judges suppressed, and the immense jurisdiction of the parliament of Paris contracted within narrower limits: abuses which he had combated, for more than forty years, with the weapons of reason and ridicule. He preferred a single master to many; a sovereign whose prejudices are alone to be feared to a troop of despots whose prejudices are greater [Page 160] but whose partial interests and little passions are more fatal to mankind, and who, more formidable to the unprotected, are especially so to men whose knowledge alarms them and whose glory irritates them. He was wont to say: "I have a stubborn back; I can make a single how well enough, but a hundred bows in succession are too fatiguing."
He therefore applauded the regulations which had been adopted, and, among men of congenial minds, he expressed his approbation. Doubtless, he perceived with what contracted views this happy opportunity of reforming the legislation, of unshackling the mind and restoring to man the rights of men, of at once proscribing intolerance and barbarity, and, in fine, of dating from this moment, the epoch of a revolution propitious to the nation, glorious to the prince and his ministers, had been neglected and lost. But Voltaire had also too much penetration not to feel that though the laws were the same the magistrates were changed; that if even these should inherit the spirit of their predecessors neither their credit not their insolence could descend to them, that the innovation, by depriving them of the blind respect which the vulgar entertained for all that bears the rust of antiquity, had deprived them of much of their power, that the public voice could alone restore their influence, and to obtain its suffrage there remained no other means than that of listening to reason and of [Page 161] uniting themselves to the enemies of prejudice, and to the friends of the human race.
The approbation which Voltaire gave to the measures of the Chancellor Maupeou, was at least serviceable to the oppressed. Though he could not procure justice to be done to the memory of the unfortunate la Barré, though he could not restore the young d'Etallonde to his country, though the ministers pusillanimous respect for the clergy concealed from him the true interest of his glory, still Voltaire had the happiness to save the wife of Mountbailli. This unhappy man, accused of parricide, had perished on the wheel; his wife was also condemned to death; but she was supposed to be pregnant, and was fortunate enough to obtain a respite.
The tribunals had just rejected a provident law which, placing an interval between judgment and execution in which the truth might be discovered and innocence displayed, would have prevented almost all their unjust decisions; and they had refused it with an intemperance which sufficed to prove its necessity. * Women alone, by declaring themselves pregnant, could [Page 162] escape the danger of these precipitate executions. In the space of less than twenty years the lives of three innocent persons, who had attracted the public curiosity by some particular circumstances, had been saved by this privilege; another proof of the utility of that law which was opposed only by a barbarous pride, and which ought to exist till experience shall have proved that the new legislation (which doubtless will soon replace the old code) no longer exposes innocence to any danger.
The trial of the wife of Mountbailli was revised; the council of Artois, by which she had been condemned, declared her innocence; and, more noble or less presumptuous than the parliament of Thoulouse, they lamented the irreparable misfortune of having caused an innocent person to perish, and they imposed on themselves the duty of providing for the remaining days of the unfortunate woman whose happiness they had destroyed.
Had Voltaire expressed his zeal against such acts of injustice only as were connected with public events or the cause of toleration, he might have been accused of vanity; but this zeal was equally ardent in that obscure cause, to which his name alone has given celebrity.
We have since seen, in like manner, a magistrate *, too soon snatched away from his friends and the unfortunate, interest Europe [Page 163] in the cause of three peasants of Champagne; and obtained, by his eloquence and perseverance, a splendid and lasting fame, the reward of zeal which humanity and the love of justice alone had inspired. Men incapable of these actions never fail to attribute them to a desire of renown; they know not what anguish the spectacle of an unjust act inflicts on a noble and feeling mind, to what degree it torments memory and thought, and how greatly it causes the imperious desire of preventing or repairing a crime to be felt; they are ignorant of that emotion, that involuntary horror, which is excited in all the senses by the sight, even by the mere idea, of an oppressor escaping with triumph or impunity; and we must pity those who could think that the author of Alzier and Brutus needed the glory attendant on a good action, to incite him to defend innocence and to rise up against tyranny.
A new occasion of avenging insulted humanity was presented to Voltaire. Vassalage solemnity abolished in France by Louis Hutin (the boisterous,) again existed under Louis XV. in many provinces. In vain had a project of abolishing it been more than once formed. Avarice and pride had silenced justice, by a resistance which had fatigued the indolence of government; and the superior tribunals, composed of nobles, had favoured the pretensions of the proprietors of these seignories.
This enormity tyrannised over Franche [Page 164] Comté, and particularly over the territories of St. Claude, the secular monks of which, in 1742, owned the greatest part of their lands, held in Mort-Main, to nothing better than false titles; and exercised their rights with a rigour which reduced to misery an uninformed but good and industrious people. At the death of each possessor, if his children had not constantly inhabited the paternal house, the fruit of his labours appertained to the monks; the widow and her offspring, without furniture, without cloaths, and without dwelling, passed from the competence procured by labour, to all the horrors of want. Should a stranger die after having dwelt a year on this species of land, strucken with the feudal anathema, his property also became that of the monks; nor did a son succeed to the inheritance of his father, if it could be proved that he passed the night of his nuptials out of the paternal house.
These people suffer without daring to complain, and beheld, with mute grief, the fruits of their economy, which should have furnished useful capitals to industry and the culture of the land, become the prey of the monks. Happily, the construction of a great road opened a communication between them and the neighbouring cantons. They learnt that, at the foot of mount Jura, there existed a man whose intrepid voice had more than once caused the very palaces of kings to resound with the complaints [Page 165] of the oppressed, and at whose name sacerdotal tyranny turned pale. To him they related their griefs, and in him they found a protector.
These usurpations, this inexhorable cruelty of hypocritical priests, who dared to call themselves the disciples of an humble master yet wished to hold men in slavery, were proclaimed, not only to France but to all Europe. Yet, after soliciting relief for many years, nothing could be obtained from the timid successor of M. de Maupeau, except an arret of council, which forbade this base violation of the rights of mankind. His fear of disobliging the parliament of Besançon would not permit him to withdraw, from its jurisdiction, a cause which could not be regarded as an ordinary suit without shamefully acknowledging the legitimacy of the feudal slavery. The vassals of St. Claude were sent back to a tribunal, whose members, the lords of the lands subject to this tyranny, took a barbarous pleasure in riveting the chains of those poor people; who still continue enslaved.
All they have obtained was the liberty, granted them in 1778, of abandoning their home and their country to escape from the dominion of the monks; but another article of that same law more than [...]t balanced this benefaction, so ineffectual to unfortunate men, whom poverty rather than the law has confined to the spot of their birth. In this very edict the sovereign has, for the first time, given the name and sacred [Page 166] character of property to the detestable rights which, even in the midst of the ignorance and barbarity of the thirteenth century, were considered as usurpations which neither time nor titles can render legitimate; and an hypocritical minister has made the liberty of the peasant depend, not on the justice of laws, but on the will of his tyrants.
Who that reads these details would suppose that he reads the life of a great poet, of a prolisic and indefatigable writer? We forget his literary fame, as he himself lost sight of it. He seemed no longer to pursue any object of fame, but that of avenging the human race, and of snatching victims from oppression.
His genius, however, incapable of inactivity, cultivated every species of literature on which it had ev [...]r exercised its powers, and even dared to essay new subjects. He published some tragedies, which we may doubtless reproach with feebleness, and which could no longer force the applauses of an audience whom he himself had rendered difficult, but in which the man of letters may gratify his taste by beautiful verses, and his judgment by profound, enlightened ideas, while he who is ambitious to write for the theatre may in them study the secrets of his art; he wrote tales, in which that species of composition, till then employed only to reflect pleasing and voluptious images, which amuse the imagination or awaken gaiety, assumed a more philosophic character, and became, [Page 168] like the apologue, a school of morality and reason, he wrote epistles, which if compared with his first works, will be found less correct, less uniformly animated, and less poetical; but, in return, possessed of more simplicity and variety, a more general and free spirit of philosophy, and a greater number of those accute and deep remarks whi [...]h are the product of experience. To these he added satires, in which prejudice and its patrons are ridiculed under a thousand varying forms.
About the same time, in his Philosophy of History, he gave lessons to historians, while he provoked the enmity of pedants, by unvei [...]ing their dulness, credulity and invidious admiration of antiquity; he finished his Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations, his Age of Louis XIV. to which he added the Age of Louis XV. an incomplete but faithful history, the only one by which we can form an adequ [...]te idea of the events of that reign, and in which we find all the truth that can be expected in a cotemporary history, which is neither a libel nor an eulogium.
New romances, works sometimes serious and sometimes humorous, and dictated by circumstances, did not add to his reputation, but they continued to render it ever present with the public, to sustain the interest of his partisans, and to humiliate that herd of secret enemies, who assumed the mask of austerity, that the might withhold that admiration which the example of Europe commanded them to give.
[Page 168]In sine, he und [...]rtook to assemble, in the form of a dictionary, all the ideas which presented themselves to his mind on the various objects of his reflections; that is to say, on almost all that is comprised in the circle of human knowledge. In this collection, modestly entitled, Questions to the Lovers of Science respecting the Encyclopedia, he treats successively of theology, grammar, natural philosophy, and literature. At one time, he discusses the subjects of antiquity; at others, questions of policy, legislation, and public economy. His style ever animated and seductive, clothed these various objects with a charm hitherto known to himself only; and which chiefly springs from the licence with which, yielding to his successive emotions, adapting his style less to his subject than to the momentary disposition of his mind, sometimes he spreads ridicule on objects which seem capable of inspiring only horror, and, almost instantaneously hurried away by the energy and sensibility of his soul, he vehemently and eloquently exclaims against abuses which he has just before treated with mockery. His anger is excited by false taste; he quickly perceives that his indignation ought to be reserved for interests which are more important; and he finishes by laughing in his usual way. Sometimes, he abruptly leaves a moral or political discussion for a literary criticism; and, in the midst of a lesson on taste, he pronounces abstract maxims of the profoundest [Page 169] philosophy, or makes a sudden and terrible attack on fanaticism and tyranny.
The constant interest which Voltaire took in the success of Russia against the Turks deserves to be noticed. Highly distinguished by the favours of the empress, doubtless gratitude animated his zeal; but we should be deceived did we imagine his zeal had no other cause. Superior to those politics of the counting-house, which take the interest of merchants known to financiers for the interests of commerce, and the interests of commerce for that of the human race, not less superior to those vain ideas of the balance of Europe so valuable to political compilers, he beheld, in the destruction of the Ottoman empire, millions of men at least assured of shunning under the despotism of a sovereign the intolerable despotism of a whole people; he hoped to see the imperious manners of the East which condemned women to a disgraceful slavery banished into the unhappy climates that gave them birth. Immence countries situated under a propitious heaven, destined by nature to be clothed with all the productions most useful to mankind, would have been restored to the industry of their inhabitants; these countries, the first in which man discovered genius, would have beheld, again springing up in their bosom, the arts of which they gave the most perfect models, and the sciences, whose foundations were laid by them.
[Page 170]The usual speculations of some merchants would without doubt have been deranged, and their profits diminished; but the real welfare of all people would have been augmented, because it is not possible to extend the space on the globe in which agriculture flourishes, commerce is secure, and industry active, without increasing for the use of all men the mass of enjoyments and resourses. Can it be desirable that a philosopher should prefer the riches of some nations to the liberty of an entire people, and the commerce of a few cities to the progress of agriculture and of the arts in a great empire? Far from us be those despicable reasoners who would still hold Greece in in Turkish chains, in order that they may seize on the persons of men, sell them as herds of cattle, compel them, by the dread of punishment, to furnish food for their insatiable avarice; and who gravely calculate the pretended wealth which it produced, by these outrages on nature.
That men should every where be free, and that each country should enjoy the advantages given it by nature, would be the common interests of all people, as well of those who have reassumed their rights as of those in which certain individuals, and not the community, have been benefited by the distress of others. Opposed to objects so grand and to that eternal good which would arise out of a revolution so vast, of what importance would the ruin of a [Page 171] few avaricious men be; and of men too, whose wealth originated in the tears and the blood of their fellow citizens!
Thus thought M. Turgot; and thus Voltaire could not but think.
Men have declaimed against the injustice of a war against the Turks: can we be unjust toward a hoard of robbers, who hold a people in slavery, and whose avidious ferocity overwhelms these people with outrages? Let them return to those deserts which the imbecility of Europe permitted them to quit, since, in their brutal pride, they have continued to produce a race of tyrants! At length, let the country of those to whom we owe our knowledge, our arts, and even our virtues, cease to be dishonoured by the presence of a people who unite the despicable vices of effeminacy to the ferocity of savages!
Fears are entertained for the balance of Europe, as though such conquests would not diminish, instead of increasing the power of the conquerors; as though Asia must not long offer an easy prey to the ambitious, which would give them a distaste for the hazardous conquests which might be obtained in Europe. It is not the policy of princes, it is the wisdom of a civilised people, which must forever preserve the peace of Europe; and the more civilization shall extend over the earth, the more shall we behold war and conquests, as well as slavery and misery, disappear.
[Page 172]Louis the XVth died. This prince, who had long in his conduct contemned the precepts of the moral christian, was not, however, superior to superstitious terrors. The menaces of religion assumed new vigour to terrify him on the appearance of the least danger; but he imagined that a promise of continence so easily made on a death-bed, and certain words from the mouth of a priest, could expiate the errors of a reign of sixty years. Even more timid than superstitious, accustomed by the Cardinal de Fleury to consider liberty of thought as a cause of disorder in states, or at least of embarrassment to governments, it was nevertheless in despight of himself that under his reign human reason made a rapid progress in France. He who laboured for its advancement with most success and splendour was become the object of his hatred. Yet he respected in Voltaire the glory of France; and could not view, without pride, the admiration of Europe place one of his subjects in the first rank of illustrious characters.
His death made no change in Voltaire's situation. To the prejudices of Cardinal de Fleury, M. Maurepas joined a still more implacable hatred of all those who rose superior to the ordinary class of men.
Voltaire had been profuse of his exaggerated praise of Louis XV. till the time of his visit to the court of Prussia, but without being able to disarm the king's unjust dislike of him. He [Page 173] had observed an almost absolute silence from the period in which the errors and misfortunes of this reign would have rendered eulogy abject. But after the death of that monarch he dared to be just to his memory, at the instant in which nearly the whole nation seemed happy in wounding his name. It has been remarked that the philosophers, whom Louis XV. did not patronize, were at that time the only persons who observed some impartiality; while the priests, laden with his benefactions, insulted his weakness.
The new reign soon presented to Voltaire hopes which he had not dared to form. M. Turgot was called to the administration. Voltaire knew him to be a man of profound genius, who, in every species of science, had created sure and determinate principles on which he had founded all his opinions, and according to which he directed the whole of his conduct; a glory that no other statesman has been worthy of partaking with him. He knew that, to a soul zealous for the truth and for the happiness of man, M. Turgot united fortitude that was above all fear, and grandeur of character superior to all dissimulation; that in his eyes the most important situation was but the means of executing his salutary views; and appeared to him no more than a vile slavery when that hope should be lost. In fine, Voltaire knew that, free from all prejudices and detesting, in those prejudices, the [Page 174] most dangerous enemies of the human race, M. Turgot regarded the liberty of thought and of the press as the right of each citizen, and the right of entire nations, whose happiness the progress of reason alone can establish on an immoveable basis.
In the nomination of M. Turgot, Voltaire saw the dawn of the reign of reason; so long disavowed and much longer persecuted; he dared to look for the rapid fall of prejudices, and for the destruction of that cowardly and tyrannic policy which, to flatter the pride or indolence of men in place, had condemned the people to humiliation and misery.
Yet his attempts in favour of the vassals of Mount Jura were ineffectual; and in vain he endeavoured to obtain for d'Etallonde, and for the memory of the Chevalier de la Barré, that distinguished justice which humanity and the national honour equally required. These objects were foreign to the department of the finances; and that superiority of information, of character, and of virtue, which M. Turgot could not conceal, had created him, in the other ministers and in the intriguing subalterns of office, too many enemies; who, finding neither ambition nor personal projects to oppose in him, bent themselves against all that they believed consonant with his just and beneficent designs
Beside, liberty could not be restored to the vassals of mount Jura without offending the [Page 175] parliament of Befançon; the revision of the process of Abbeville had humiliated that of Paris; and an unwise policy had re-established the parliaments without taking advantage of their temporary overthrow, and the little credit of those who had replaced them, to introduce into the laws and tribunals an entire reform, the necessity of which was felt by all enlightened men. But an administration which was feeble, and the enemy of reformation, did not dare or did not wish to seize this occasion, in which the public good had found still less obstacles than in the instance which was so shamefully neglected by the Chancellor Maupeou.
Thus also, through complaisance to the prejudices of the parliaments, ministers suffered the advantages for the reform of education to be lost, which was offered to them by the destruction of the Jesuits. They did not even, in 1774, take any precaution to prevent the renewal of the contentions which, in 1770, had led to the ruin of the magistracy. They had pursued but a single object, the advantage of securing a personal gratitude, which gave to the authors of the change a means of employing a credit of the corps, whose re-establishment was their work, with success against the rivals of their power.
Hence the only advantage which Voltaire could obtain, from the administration of M. Turgot, was to withdraw the little country of [Page 176] Gex from the tyranny of the farms. Separated from France by mountains, having an easy communication with Geneva and Switzerland, this unfortunate country could not be subjected to the revenue laws without becoming the theatre of perpetual war between the servants of the revenue and the inhabitants, nor without paying expences for the collection still more burdensome than the imposts themselves. The little importance of this regulation should have rendered it easy; yet, it was long solicited, in vain, by M. de Voltaire.
Part of the provinces of France have, through various causes escaped the yoke of the Farm-general, or have only borne half of its weight; but the farmers-general have incessantly increased their limits, and envelloped in their chains detached cantons which had long been protected by feudal privileges. They believed that their God Terminus, like that of the Romans, ought never to recede; and that the first step he should retreat would be the presage of destruction to the empire. Their opposition, however, could not induce M. Turgot to abandon a just and beneficent operation, which without injury to the revenue, would lessen the burden of the inhabitants, diminish the burden of crimes and oppressions, and restore prosperity and peace to a district pillaged by despotism.
The country of Gex, then, was delivered from the yoke, on condition of raising thirty [Page 177] thousand livres; and Voltaire had the pleasure of writing to his friends, in a parody of a verse of Mithridates; ‘Et mes derniers regards ont vu fuir les commis *.’
Voltaire's respect for M. Turgot would have been augmented by the edicts of 1776 had not he already known that minister's genius, and comprehended his views. This great statesman had perceived that, placed at the head of the finances at a moment in which he was embarrassed by the mass of the public debt, and by obstacles which the courtiers and the first minister opposed to every great reform in administration and to all important economy, he could not diminish the imposts; but he wished, at least, to give some consolation to the people, and some indemnity to the proprietors of lands by restoring to them rights of which they had been deprived by oppressive regulations.
The remains of feudal slavery which spread desolation through the country, which compelled the poor to labour without hire, and deprived agriculture of the husbandmen's cattle, were changed into an impost, paid only by the proprietors of land. Through all the cities, ridiculous corporations obliged a part of the inhabitants to purchase the right of labouring; those who subsisted by commerce or their own industry were compelled to live under the vassalage [Page 178] of a certain number of privileged people, or to pay a tribute to these bodies; this absurd institution disappeared, and the right of freely employing their time and strength was restored to the citizens.
The proprietors of grain and of wine, the first harrassed by popular prejudices, the other by despotic privileges, which had been extorted by particular cities, were relieved from those oppressions; and these wise laws could not fall to accelerate the progress of agriculture, and multiply the national wealth, by insuring the subsistence of the people.
But these beneficent edicts were the signal of that minister's fall who had the boldness to conceive them. They excited the opposition of the parliaments who were interested in supporting the Jurandes * the fertile source of lucrative law suits, who were not less attached to the old regulations which furnished them with the means of acting on the minds of the people, who were irritated to see the burthen of making roads laid on the oppulent owners of land, and were without any hope that an unworthy condescension would continue to lighten the weight of their individual taxes, but who were more particularly alarmed at the influence which seemed to be acquired by a minister whose benevolent spirit menaced the overthrow of their power.
[Page 179]The intrigues of the enemies of M. Turgot were strengthened by this league of the parliaments; and it was then perceived how serviceable to their secret and pernicious designs was the manner in which the tribunals had been re-established; it was then seen how dangerous it is to a minister to design the welfare of the people; and, perhaps, were we to mount up to the cause of events, we should find that the fall even of vicious ministers has originated in the good which they wished to do, and not in the evil which they have produced.
In the calamities of France, Voltaire beheld the destruction of hopes which he had entertained for the advancement of the human mind. He had imagined that intolerance, superstition, and the monsterous prejudices which infected every branch of legislation, every department of power, and all conditions of society, would have fled before a minister who was the friend of justice, of liberty and reason. Such as have accused Voltaire of base adulation, such as have bitterly reproached him with the use which he made of praise, perhaps too fr [...]quently, to influence the minds of powered men and to compel them to be just and humane, may compare those praises to his eulogy of M. Turgot, and to his Epistle to a Man which he addressed to that minister at the moment of his disgrace. They will then distinguish the admiration which is the result of feeling, from a compliment; and the esteem which arises in [Page 180] the soul, from the play of imagination; and they will perceive that Voltaire committed no other crime than that of treating courtiers as women: nearly the same protestations are bestowed on the whole sex, and it is the tone alone that distinguishes the praise which is felt from that which is given to politeness.
Voltaire, offering incense to the kings and ministers to engage them on the side of truth, and Voltaire, celebrating genious and virtue, speaks not the same language. Did he wish only to flatter, he was prodigal of the charms of his brilliant imagination, he multiplied these ingenious ideas which were ever ready at his call; but did he wish to render an homage acknowledged by his heart, it was his soul which escaped him, it was his reason which spoke. During his visit to Paris his admiration of M. Turgot was infused through all his discourse. M. Turgot was the man whom he opposed to all who complained of the depravity of our age; and to him his mind gave his intire approbation. I have seen him take his hands, bathe them with his tears, kiss them in despight of M. Turgot's resistance, and cry with a voice interrupted by sobs: "Let me kiss the hand which would seal the happiness of the people."
Voltaire had long desired to revisit his country, and to enjoy his reputation in the midst of the same people who had been the witness of his first success and too often the accomplice of his enemies. M. de Villette had lately, at [Page 181] Ferne, espoused Mademoiselle de Varicour, a lady descended from a noble family in the country of Gex, whom her relations had confided to the care of Madame Denis. Voltaire accompanied them to Paris, partly led by the desire of seeing the representation of the tragedy of Irene, which he had shortly before finished. It had been kept a profound secret; and malice had not time to prepare her poison, nor would the public enthusiasm have permitted its operation. A croud of men and women of every rank and condition, from whom his verses had drawn the tears of humanity, who had so frequently admired his genius at the theatre and in reading his works, who were indebted to him for their improvement, whole prejudices he had destroyed, and to whom he had imparted a spark of that zeal against fanaticism by whose flame he was devoured, were eager to behold him. Jealousy was silent before a glory which it was impossible to extinguish, before the benefit which he had conferred on mankind. Ministers, and proud prelates, were obliged to respect the idol of the nation. This enthusiasm was even spread through the common ranks of the people; they crowded round his windows, and passed whole hours there with the hope of seeing him for one moment. His carriage, which could scarcely proceed along the streets, was surrounded by a numerous multitude, who blessed him and celebrated his works.
[Page 182]The French academy, which had not adopted him till the age of fifty-two, lavished honours on him, and received him rather as sovereign of the empire of letters than as an equal. The children of those haughty courtiers, whose pride had been wounded to see him live in their society without meanness, and who had wished to humiliate in his person the superiority of genius and talents, contended for the honour of being presented to him, and of an opportunity to boast that they had seen Voltaire.
But it was at the theatre, where he had so long reigned, that he had the greatest honours to expect. He went to the third representation of Irene; which was, indeed, but a feeble tragedy; which, however, possessed many beauties, and in which the wrinkles of age could not conceal the sacred impression of genius. He alone drew the attention of a people, eager to distinguish his features, to observe his gestures, to pursue the direction of his eyes. His bust was crowned on the stage in the midst of applause, cries of joy, and tears of enthusiasm. To quit the theatre he must pass through the multitude that crouded round him; feeble, scarce able to support himself, the guards, which were designed to protect him from the eagerness of zeal, became useless at his approach, each retired with a respectful attention, or disputed the honour of supporting him a moment on the stares; each step offered [Page 183] him new aid, nor was any one permitted to arrogate too long the right of giving him assistance.
The spectators followed him to his apartment, and the air was filled with the cries of "Long live Voltaire! Long live the Henriade! Long live Mahomet!" numbers fell at his feet, and numbers kissed his garment. Never has man been received with more interesting marks of admiration and of public affection, nor ever has genius been honoured by a more flattering homage; and this homage was addressed, not to his power, but to the happiness which he had conferred on man. An illustrious poet would have been received only with plaudits: tears flowed before the philosopher, who had destroyed the fetters of reason, and avenged the cause of humanity.
The sublime and impassioned soul of Voltaire was moved with these tributes of respect and zeal: "They wished me to die with pleasure," he said; but it was the voice of sensibility, and not the artifice of self-love. In the midst of the honours paid him by the French academy, he was particularly struck by the possibility of introducing into that place a more daring philosophy: "They treat me with more attention than I merit," he said to me, one day; "do you know that I do not despair of causing the eulogium of Coligny to be spoken there?"
During the run of Irene, he was employed [Page 184] in revising his essay on the Manners and the spirit of Nations; and to give, in that world some new wounds to fanaticism. He had with secret pleasure observed, at the theatre, that the lines which were received with the greatest acclamations were those in which he attacked superstition and the names the had long rendered sacred; and it was to this object to ascribed all the glory he had acquired. He beheld, in that general admiration, the empire which he had exercised over the mind, and the destruction of prejudices which he had accomplished.
At this same time, Paris boasted, also, the presence of the celebrated Franklin, who, in another hemisphere, had been the apostle of philosophy and toleration. Like Voltaire, he had often employed the weapon of humour which corrects the absurdities of men, and had displayed their perverseness as a folly more fatal, but also worthy of pity. He had joined to the science of metaphysics the genius of practical philosophy; as Voltaire, that of poetry. Franklin had delivered the vast countries of America from the yoke of Europe; and Voltaire had freed Europe from the yoke of the ancient theocracy of Asia. Franklin was eager to see a man whose reputation had long been spread over both worlds; Voltaire, although he had lost the habit of speaking English, endeavoured to support the conversation in that language; and, afterwards reassuming [Page 185] the French, he said: "Je n'ai pu résister au desit de parler un moment la langue de M. Franklin *."
The American philosopher presented his grandson to Voltaire, with a request that he would give him his benediction. "God and liberty!" said Voltaire: "it is the only benediction which can be given to the grandson of Franklin." They went together to a public assembly of the academy of sciences, and the public at the same time beheld with emotion these two men, born in different quarters of the globe, respectable by their years, their glory, the employment of their lives, and both enjoyed the influence which they had exercised over the age in which they lived. They embraced each other in the midst of public acclamations, and it was said to be Solon who embraced Sophocles. But the French Sophocles had trampled on error and advanced the reign of reason; and the Solon of Philadelphia, having placed the constitution of his country on the immoveable foundation of the rights of men, had no fear of seeing his uncertain laws, even during his own life, open the way to tyranny and prepare fetters for his country.
Age had not enfeebled the activity of Voltaire, and the transports with which he was received by his fellow citizens seemed to renew his vigour. He formed the design of [Page 186] refuting whatever the Duke de St. Simon, in his memoirs, then unpublished, had written under the influence of hatred and prejudice, lest these memoirs, which might derive some authority from the known probity of the author and from his rank and title of cotemporary, should appear at a time in which men would be too far removed from the events of which he speaks, to detect error and defend the truth.
He had also induced the French academy to adopt the design of forming its dictionary on a new plan. They were to have deduced the history of each word from the period in which it had appeared in the language, to give the various meanings which it assumed in different ages, and the various acceptations it had received, and to employ, in order to display these varied shades, not capricious phrases, but examples selected from authors of the greatest authority. Then would have been seen the true literary and grammatical dictionary of the language, and not only foreigners but even Frenchmen might, in that work, have acquired a knowledge of all its delicacy.
This dictionary would have presented instructive pages to men of letters, would have contributed to form the national taste, and arrested the progress of corruption. Each academician was to have explained a letter of the alphabet. Voltaire undertook the letter A; and, to excite the industry of his brethren, [Page 187] and to banish the difficulty of executing this plan, he was desirous to finish, within a few months, that part of the work which he had assumed.
His strength was wasted by such excessive application; and he had been much reduced by a spitting of blood, caused by his efforts during the representation of Irene. Yet, the activity of his mind subdued all; and concealed from him the real weakness of his constitution. At length, deprived of sleep by an irritation produced by too intense labour, he wished to procure some hours repose, that he might be in a condition to lead the academy irrevocably to engage in the new dictionary, against which some objections had arisen; and he resolved to take opium. His imagination possessed all its vivacity, his soul was equally restless and impetuous, his character abated not of its gaiety and vigour, when he took the opiate which he judged to be necessary. During the same evening, his friends had heard him express his detestation of prejudices with his usual eloquence; and soon after beheld him viewing them only on the ridiculous side, and deriding them with that peculiar grace and aptness which characterised his sallies of wit. But he took the opiate at several doses, and was deceived as to the quantity, probably in the species of intoxication which the first had produced. The same accident happened to him about thirty before, and then placed his [Page 188] life in danger. Unhappily, this time, his wasted powers were unable to contend with the poison. He had long been subject to a complaint in the bladder, and in the general decay of his organs, that soon contracted an incurable disease.
Scarcely could he, during the long interval between this fatal accident and his death, preserve his recollection for a few successive moments, or disengage himself from the lethargy in which he was plunged. To the young Count de Lalli, however, who was even then celebrated for his courage, and who has since deserved celebrity by his eloquence and patriotism, he wrote, in one of these intervals, those lines, the last which were traced by his hand, in which he applauds the royal authority whose justice had lately annulled one of the attrocious acts of parliamentary despotism. At length he expired on the 30th of May, 1778.
The arrival of Voltaire at Paris had re-kindled the fury of the fanatics, and wounded the pride of the chiefs of the hierarchy; but it had also inspired some priests with an idea of building their reputation and their fortune on the conversion of this illustrious enemy. Certainly, they could not flatter themselves with the hope of subduing him, but they did not despair of inducing him to dissemble. Voltaire, who wished to remain at Paris without being tormented by sacerdotal accusations, and who, from a habit acquired in his youth, thought it [Page 189] beneficial to the interests even of the friends of reason, that certain scenes of intolerance should not succeed his last moments, had sent in the beginning of his malady for an almoner of the incurables, and who had boasted of having restored to the bosom of the church the Abbé de L'Attaignant, known by offences of another kind.
The Abbé Gauthier confessed Voltaire, and received a profession of faith from him, by which he declared that he died in the catholic religion, in which he was born.
When this circumstance was known, which offended enlightened men rather more than it edified the devotees, the curate of Saint Sulpice ran to his parishoner, who received him with politeness, and gave him according to usage a handsome offering for his poor people. But, mortified that the Abbé Gauthier had anticipated him, he discovered that the almoner of the incurables had been too easily satisfied with his penitent, and that he ought to have required a more particular profession faith, and an express disavowal of all the doctrines, contrary to orthodoxy, which Voltaire tad been accused of maitaining. The Abbé Gauthiers pretended that, by requiring every thing, all would have been lost. During this dispute, Voltaire recovered, Irene was played, and the conversion was forgotten. But, in the moment of the relapse, the curate returned to Voltaire, absolutely resolved not to [Page 190] inter him, if he could not obtain the desired recantation of his errors.
This curate was among those men who are a mixture of hypocrisy and imbecility; he spoke with the obstinate persuasion of a maniac, and acted with the flexibility of a jesuit; he was humble in his manners even to baseness, arrogant in his sacerdotal pretensions, fawning with the great, and charitable to the populace who are governed by the priests that distribute alms to them, and, in fine, he harrassed the simple citizens, by his imperious fanaticism. He earnestly wished to compel Voltaire at least to acknowledge the divine nature of Jesus Christ; to which he was more attached than any other dogma. He, one day, drew Voltaire from his lethargy, by shouting in his ear: "Do you believe the Divinity of Jesus Christ?" "In the name of God, sir," replied Voltaire, "speak to me no more of that man; but let me die in peace."
The priest then declared he was compelled to refuse him burial; but he was not authorised in this refusal; for, according to the laws, it ought to have been preceded by a sentence of excommunication, or a secular judgment; and even an appeal might have been made against an excommunication, as a matter of abuse. Voltaire's family, by complaining to the parliament, would have obtained justice; but they feared the fanaticism of that body and the hatred of its members to Voltaire, who had so often [Page 191] combated its pretensions and exerted his powers against its injustice. They did not perceive that the parliament could not, without disgrace to itself, depart from the principles on which it had acted in favour of the Jansenist; they did not know that a great number of the young magistrates waited only for an occasion of effacing, by some splendid act, the reproach of fanaticism by which they were degraded, of dignifying themselves, by ordaining a mark of respect to the memory of a man of genius whom they had been unfortunate enough to number among their enemies, and of shewing that they chose rather to atone for their injustice, than to yield to any incitements of vengeance. The friends of Voltaire did not observe how much power they had acquired by that enthusiasm which his name had excited; an enthusiasm which had gained every class in the nation, and which no authority would venture openly to insult.
They chose rather to negociate with government. Daring neither to offend public opinion by gratifying the vengeance of the clergy, nor to displease the priests by compelling them to obey the laws, fearing to mortify sacerdotal pride, should they erect a public monument to a great man whose ashes were basely disturbed by priests, or should they indemnify his memory for the loss of ecclesiastic honours, to which he had so little claim, by civic honours due to his genius and the services [Page 192] be had done the nation, ministers approved a proposal which was made of removing Voltaire's body to the church of a monastery, of which his, nephew was abbé. It was accordingly conducted to Scellières, and the priests agreed not to interrupt the execution of this design. However, two ladies, of distinguished rank and very great devotees, wrote to the bishop of Troyes to engage him, in quality, of diocean bishop, to oppose the burial. But, fortunately for the honour of the bishop, these letters arrived too late, and Voltaire was interred.
The French academy had observed a custom of saying mass at the church of the Cordeliers for each of their deceased members. The archbishop of Paris, Beaumont, so well known by his ignorance and fanaticism, prohibited the performance of the ceremony. The Cordeliers obeyed with regret; but they knew that the confessors of the archbishop would pardon his spirit of revenge, and would forbear to recommend justice to him. The academy, therefore, resolved to suspend the practice of this ceremony till the insult offered to the most illustrious of its members should be repaired. Thus Beaumont became, [...]o despight of himself, the instrument of d [...]o [...]ing a ridiculous superstition.
Mean while the King of Prussia commanded a solemn mass to be said for Voltaire in the catholic church of Berlins and the academy of [Page 193] Prussia was invited to attend. But that which was more glorious to Voltaire, was, that the king in the field of battle, where, at the head of an hundred and fifty thousand men, he defended the rights of the princes of the empire, and imposed laws on the Austrian power, wrote the eulogium of that illustrious man, whose disciple and friend he had been, and who, perhaps, had never pardoned him the unworthy and disgraceful violence which he had endured at Franckfort, but towards whom the monarch was incessantly and involuntarily led by his natural taste and his admiration of genius. This eulogium nobly compensated for the mean vengeance of the priests.
Of all the enormities which, in the times of ignorance and superstition, the priests have obtained the power of committing against human nature with impunity, that which is exercised on the bodies of the deceased is unquestionably the least prejudicial; and, in the eyes of enlightened men, those outrages can appear no other than a title of renown. Yet, respect for the remains of men who have been dear to us is no prejudice; it is an affection inspired by nature herself, who has placed, in the recesses of our hearts, a veneration for every thing that can recal to our remembrance beings whom friendship or gratitude have rendered sacred to our feelings. The liberty of offering a sorrowful homage to their ashes is [Page 194] then a precious right to delicate minds, and the power of choosing that which their sensations shall dictate, cannot, without injustice, be taken away; still less may this consolation be forbidden at the will of an intolerant sect, who have usurped, with an audacity too long endured, the right of controuling the thoughts of men, or of inflicting punishment for them.
Beside, the empire of prejudice over the minds of the populace is not yet destroyed; a Christian deprived of burial, is still in the eyes of inferior people, the object of horror and disdain; and this injustice is extended even to his family. If, indeed, the hatred of priests would pursue none but men who are immortalized by their works and whose glory embraces all ages, we might pardon their despicable efforts; but their hatred may be attached to victims less illustrious; and all men have the same rights.
Government, in some degree ashamed of its feeble conduct, hoped to escape public contempt by prohibiting the name of Voltaire in any writings, or in those places where the police was accustomed to violate the freedom of speech, under the pretence of preserving order, which it too often confounded with a respect paid to established and protected follies.
The public papers were forbidden to speak of his death; and the comedians had orders to perform none of his pieces. Ministers did not discover that means like these, of preventing the anger of the nation against their weakness [Page 195] would only serve more fully to provoke it; and to demonstrate that they had neither courage to merit the approbation nor to support the blame of the public.
This simple recital of the incidents of the life of Voltaire has sufficiently developed his character and his mind; the principal features of which were benevolence, indulgence for human foibles, and a hatred of injustice and oppression. He may be numbered among the very few men in whom the love of humanity was a real passion; which the noblest of all passions, was known only to modern times, and took rise from the progess of knowledge. Its very existence is sufficient to confound the blind partisans of antiquity, and those who calumniate philosophy.
But the happy qualities of Voltaire were often perverted by his natural restlessness, which the writing of tragedy had but increased. In an instant he would change from anger to affection, from indignation to a jest. Born with violent passions, they often hurried him too far; and his restlessness deprived him of the advantages which usually accompany such minds; particularly of that fortitude to which fear is no obsticle, when action becomes a duty, and which is not shaken by the presence of danger foreseen. Often would Voltaire expose himself to the storm with rashness, but rarely did he brave it with constancy; and these intervals, of temerity and weakness, have frequently [Page 196] afflicted his friends, and afforded unworthy cause of triumph to his cowardly foes.
His affections were permanent, and his friendship for Génonville, the president de Maisons, Formont, Cideville, the Marchioness du Chalelet, d'Argental, and d'Alembert, seldom obscured by passing clouds, ended only with his life. From his works we discover that few men of feeling have so long preserved the remembrance of friends lost in early youth.
He has been reproached with his numerous disputes, but in none of these he was the aggressor. His enemies, those at least to whom he was irreconcileable, and whom he devoted to the world's contempt, did not confine themselves to personal attacks; they were his accusers to the fanatics, and wished to bring down the sword of persecution on his head. It is no doubt afflicting to be obliged to place in this list men of real merit; men like the poet Rosseau the two Pompignans *, Larcher, and even Rosseau [Page 197] of Geneva. But it is not more excusable to carry vengeance too far, in self-defence, and to be unjust in the indulgence of anger, the first motive of which is founded in rectitude, than to violate the rights of man, by endangering the freedom and safety of a citizen, to gratify pride, the aims of hypocrisy, or an obstinate attachment to opinion?
Voltaire has been censured, for his attacks on Maupertuis; but were not these attacks confined to the mere act of rendering a man eternally ridiculous, who, by base intrigues, had endeavoured to dishonour and ruin him; and who, to revenge so [...] l [...]sts, had called the power of a king, irritated by his insidious arts, to his aid?
Voltaire, it is said, was envious; which has been answered by the following line, from Tancred: ‘De qui dans l'univers peut-il etre jalouse *?’
Yes, he was envious of Buffon. What! could the man whose mighty arm had shaken the antique pillars of the temple of superstition, and who aspired to metamorphose the vile herd which so long had groaned under the sacerdotal rod into men, could be envious of the lucky and splendid description of the manners of a few animals or the more or less fortunate combination of some systems, the falsity of which is proved by facts?
[Page 198]He was envious of J. J. Rousseau. The boldness of Rousseau did indeed excite that of Voltaire: but was the philosopher who beheld the progress of knowledge, polishing, emancipating, and perfecting the human species, and who enjoyed the revolution as his proper work, was he jealous of the eloquent writer who wished to condemn the mind of man to eternal ignorance; Could the enemy of bigotry be jealous of him who, not finding sufficient fame in the destruction of its altars, vainly endeavoured to rebuild them?
Voltaire did not do justice to the genius of Rousseau, because his mind being equitable, and void of affectation, felt an involuntary repugnance, to exaggeration; because a tone of austerity presented to his fancy a tincture of hypocrisy, the smallest shade of which could not but disgust his frank and independent soul; and because, being accustomed himself to treat all subjects with humour, gravity in the little details of passion, or of human life, always appeared to him to partake of the ridiculous. He was unjust, because Rousseau had angered him, by returning injury to offers of service; had accused him of persecution, when he was employed in his defence, and had himself directed the hand of persecution toward Voltaire.
He was jealous of Montesquieu. He had cause to complain of the author of the spirit of laws, who affected to treat him with indifference, and almost with contempt; partly [Page 199] from foolish pride, and partly from timid policy. Yet the celebrated saying of Voltaire, that, "Humanity had lost its charms, and that Montesquieu found and restored them," is the best eulogium ever pronounced on the spirit of laws, and even exceeds the limits of justice. It is only true relatively to France; since, without mentioning the works of Althusius * and some others, the rights of man were reclaimed with more energy and candour in the works of Locke and Sidney, than in those of Montesquieu.
Voltaire often criticised the spirit of laws, but usually with justice. The proof that he was right, in attacking Montesquieu, is that we now perceive the most absurd and fatal prejudices finding support by quoting works of that celebrated man; which, had not the progress of knowledge at length broken the fetters forged by the dogmas of authority, concerning questions which ought only to be submitted to the test of reason, would in the present day have done more mischief to France, than they had done good to Europe. The enthusiastic partisans of Montesquieu have affirmed that Voltaire was incapable either of judging or of understanding his works. Irritated by such assertions, he well might mingle [Page 200] a little ill humour with just remark; in which he would be sanctioned by haughtiness so ridiculous.
The fashion of taxing Voltaire with envy was so prevalent, that to this passion have been attributed his sage observations on the work of Helvetius; which, from respect to a persecuted philosopher, he had the delicacy not to publish during the life of that writer. Nay, his very anger at the short lived success of some ill wri [...]ten tragedies was called envy; as if anger could not be felt, except relatively to self, at seeing fame usurped, which is so often fatal to the progress of philosophy and the arts. How much has the praise so prodigally bestowed on Richelieu, Colbert, and other ministers, impeded the advancement of reason, in the science of politics!
While we read the works of Voltaire, we perceive no man perhaps ever possessed accuracy of understanding in a Superior degree. This he preserved in the enthusiasm of poetry, as well as in the exuberance of humour; this was ever the guide of his taste and of his opinions, and is one of the principal reasons of the inexpressible charms which are discovered, in the perusal of his works. No mind perhaps ever combined more ideas at a time, decided with more rapid sagacity, or displayed more depth, in what ever required a laborious analysis or continued meditation. The strength of his eagle-eye often has astonished even those [Page 201] who were indebted to similar means for ideas the most profound, and combinations the most extensive and precise. In conversation he has often been known to select the best of a multitude of ideas, to arrange them in the most perspicacious and effectual manner, and to clothe them in the most happy and brilliant language.
Hence the inestimable advantage of being ever clear and unaffected without insipidity and of being read with equal pleasure by the most ignorant, as well as by the most enlightened. Reading his works with reflexion, we find in them a multitude of profoundly philosophic and true maxims; which escaped superficial readers, because they do not enforce attention, nor require any effort to be understood.
If we consider him as a poet, we shall find that, of the various species which he attempted, the ode and comedy were the only ones in which he did not deserve the highest rank. He failed in comedy because, as it has previously been remarked, he had the gift of seizing the ridiculous of opinion, but not of character, such as could be put in action, and which alone is proper for comedy. Not that, in a country where the mind of man should have freed itself from all its bonds, and in which philosophy should have become popular, absurd and dangerous opinions might not be successfully exhibited on the stage: but this kind of freedom is at present no where to be found.
[Page 202]To him poetry is indebted for the liberty of exercising itself in a field more vast. He has shewn how it may be united with philosophy; so that poetry, without being deprived of any of its charms, rises to new beauties; and philosophy, without being dry or inflated, preserves its accuracy and depth.
We cannot read his theatrical writings, without observing that to him the tragic art is indebted, for the whole progress which it has made since Racine: nor can ev [...]n those who refuse him superiority, or equality, of poetical talents, without stupidiy or injustice, deny this progress. His latter tragedies prove, that he was far from supposing he had carried this so difficult art to its utmost extent; he was sensible that tragedy might still approach more nearly to nature, without being deprived of its pomp and dignity; that it still addicted itself too much to local manners; that the love of women was a too frequent subject; that their passions ought to be represented on the stage as they exist in life, and their affection first discovered only by the efforts made to conceal it, and not publicly avowed, unless in those moments when excess of danger, or of misfortune, no longer admit of disguise. He thought too that characters void of affectation, great by nature, and strangers to interest and ambition, might afford a source of new beauties, and impart to tragedy more variety and truth. But he became too feeble to execute [Page 203] his own conception [...] ▪ and, if we except the father of Irene, we shall find his latter tragedies rather lessons than models.
If, therefore, especially in the arts, the man of genius be he who by enriching them has most extended their limits, who has merited this title more than Voltaire? yet has it been refused him by writers, most of whom were, indeed, too destitute of genius themselves to feel its true characteristics.
To Voltaire we are indebted for having taken a more extensive and useful view of history than the ancients. It has in his writings become, not a narrative of events, not the picture of the revolutions of a nation, but that of human nature, painted from the life, and the philosophic result of the experience of all people, and of all ages. He first introduced true criticism into history; first shewed that the natural probability of accidents ought to be admitted, as proofs for or against historical authenticity; and that the philosophic historian ought, not only to reject miracles, but scrupulously to examine the motives for crediting those facts which depart from the common order of nature.
Perhaps he may occasionally have forgotten the sage rule which he himself invented, and which, rigorously adhered to, may demonstate truth. Still to him we are indebted for having freed history from that croud of extraordinary incidents, adopted without proof, which, [Page 204] making the greatest impression on the mind, blinded men to the most natural and the best demonstrated facts. Before his time men knew little of history, except the fables by which it was disfigured. He shewed that the absurdities of politheism had never been the religion of any but the vulgar, among the greatest nations; and that the belief of one God, common to all people, had no need of being revealed by supernatural means. He proved that all nations have practised the grand principles of morality, and with encreasing purity in proportion as they were more civilized, and better informed. He taught us that the influence of religion has often corrupted, but never improved morality.
As a philosopher, he was the first to afford an example of a private citizen, who, by his wishes and endeavours, embraced the general history of man in every country and in every age, opposing error and oppression of every kind, and defending and promulgating every useful truth.
The history of whatever has been done in Europe, in favour of reason and humanity, is the history of his labours and beneficient acts. If the absurd and dangerous custom of interring the dead within the walls of cities, and even in churches, has been abolished in some countries: if, on the continent of Europe, men, by means of innoculation, have, in part, escaped a disease which threatened life, and [Page 205] often was destructive of happiness; if the catholic clergy have lost their dangerous power, and will soon be deprived of their scandalous wealth; if the liberty of the press be increased; if Sweden, Russia, Poland, Prussia, and the dominions of the house of Austria have beheld the tyranny of intolerance vanish; if even in France, and some of the provinces of Italy, it has suffered attacks; if the shameful remains of feudal vassalage has been shaken in Russia, Denmark, Bohemia, and France; if Poland now feels its injustice and danger; if absurd and barbarous laws have been generally abolished, or are threatened with approaching destruction; if the necessity of reforming the administration of public justice be every where felt; if the continent of Europe has been taught that men possess a right to the use of reason; if religious prejudices have been eradicated from the higher classes of society, and in part effaced from the hearts of the common people; if their defenders have been reduced to the shameful necessity of maintaining their political utility; if the love of humanity be now the common language of all governments; if wars should become less frequent, and if the pride of kings, or claims which the rust of time has concealed, be no longer alledged as the pretence for their commencement; if we have beheld the mask stripped from the face of religious sectaries, who were privileged in imposing on the world; and if [Page 206] reason for the first time has begun to shed its clear and uniform light over all Europe; we shall every where discover, in the history of the changes that have been effected, the name of Voltaire; and shall every where find him beginning the battle or deciding the victory.
But generally obliged to conceal his intentions, and mask his attacks, though his works are in every hand, the principles of his philosophy are but little known.
Ignorance and error are the sole cause of the misery of man; and the errors of superstition are the most fatal, because they corrupt every source of reason; and their destructive enthusiasm teaches their adherents to commit crimes without remorse. That mildness of manners which is compatible with every form of government diminishes evils, the cure of which reason must one day effect, and impedes their progress. Oppression itself, in a humane nation, assumes the character of the people; and is rarely guilty of great barbarity, in a country where arts, and especially literature, are beloved. Freedom of thinking is tolerated out of respect to them, though men want the fortitude to love it for its own sake.
Our endeavours, therefore, should be to inspire the mild and consolatory virtues, which lead to reason, which all men may practice, which agree with every polished age, and which may teach hypocrisy itself some good. They should particularly be preferred to these austere [Page 207] morals which seldom exist, in common minds, without a mixture of unfeeling severity; which are to hypocrisy at once so easy and so dangerous; which often terrify tyrants, but seldom console mankind; and the necessity of which proves the misfortune of those nations whose history they adorn.
By informing mankind, and by rendering them more humane, we best may hope to lead them the surest and easiest road to freedom. But we neither can hope to spread kn [...]wledge nor soften the manners of nations, if frequent wars accustom them to the shedding of blood without remorse, and to contemn the fame which awaits on the arts of peace; or if, occupied in oppression or in self-defence, men should continue to estimate their virtue by the ill they have been able to do, and imagine the art of killing to be the art of most utility.
The more men are enlightened the more they will be free, and the less difficult will be the attainment of freedom. But let us not teach oppressors to form a league against reason; let us conceal from them the necessary and firm union which exists between knowledge and liberty; and let us not too soon inform them that a nation without prejudice must instantly be free.
If we except theocracies, it is the immediate interest of all governments that the people should be humane and enlightened. Let us not teach them that their most distant interest [Page 208] is to leave men in a state of ignorance. Let us not oblige them to choose between the interest of pride and that of repose and fame. To induce them to love reason, she must always appear in a gentle and peaceful form; and, far from terrifying them by imprudent threats, while she asks their support must offer her own. If we attack oppressors before we have taught the oppressed, we shall risk the loss of liberty and the death of reason. History affords proofs of this truth. How often, in despite of the generous efforts of the friends of freedom, has a single battle reduced nations to the slavery of ages!
And what is the kind of liberty enjoyed by those nations which have recovered it by force of arms, and not by the force of reason? It has been temporary freedom, and so disturbed by storms that it remained doubtful whether it were or were not an advantage. Have not most of them confounded the forms of republicanism with the enjoyment of right, and the despotism of numbers with freedom. How many unjust laws, contrary to the rights of nature, have dishonoured the code of all nations which have recovered their liberty, during those ages in which reason was still in its childhood!
Why not profit by this fatal experience, and wisely wait the progress of knowledge, in order to obtain freedom more effectual more substantial, and more peaceful? Why purchase [Page 209] it by torrents of blood, and inevitable confusion, and give that to chance which time must certainly and without bloodshed bestow? In order to be more free and to be ever so, we should wait the time when men, released from their prejudices and guided by reason, will be worthy of freedom, because they will know what are its true claims.
What therefore is the duty of a philosopher? To attack superstition; to point out peace, wealth, and power to governments, as the infallible rewards of those laws which secure religious liberty; and to teach them how much they have to fear from priests, whose secret influence will ever m [...]ace the repose of nations in which the lib [...]ty of the press is under the least restraint, For, previous to the invention of the art of printing, it was impossible to shake off this shameful and fatal yoke: and till sacerdotal authority shall be entirely annihilated by reason, there will be no medium between absolute ignorance and dangerous commotion.
The philosopher will shew that, without freedom of thought, the spirit of the clergy must again produce assassination, tortures, proscriptions, and civil wars; and that, by enlightening the people only can nations, and kings, be secured from such sacred crimes. He will prove that men who wish for absolute power over the mind, will employ force instead of reason, will oblige conscience to cede to their [Page 210] dogmas, and far from affording morality a more solid basis by combining it with religious notions, will corrupt and destroy it; while they seek not to promulgate virtue, but, to make their adherents the blind instruments of their ambition and avarice. Should he be asked what is to be the sustitute of the prejudices thus destroyed, he would answer—"I have delivered you from a wild beast, which was devouring you, and you ask for a substitute."
Were he to be reproached with repeating the same theme too often, and with too obstinately attacking errors in themselves beneath contempt, he will reply—They are not contemptible while credited by the vulgar. And, though it be less glorious to combat vulgar error than to teach new truths to sages, it is necessary, in order to break the bonds of reason and to open a free road to truth, to prefer utility to fame.
Instead of proving that superstition is the support of despotism, if he write to people under an arbitrary government, he will prove that it is the enemy of kings; and of these two truths he will purposely dwell upon that which may aid the cause of humanity; and not on that by which it may be injured; because liable to be misunderstood.
Instead of declaring war against despotism, before reason should have assembled sufficient powers, and calling nations to the banners of freedom, who neither love it nor understand [Page 211] what freedom is, he will enumerate to them and their governors the various oppressions which are common to them all, and which it is as well the interest of those who command as those who obey to root out. To simplify and humanize the laws, to counteract the oppression of subordinate tyranny, to break off the shackles with which false policy may have encumbered the industry and liberty of trade, in order that freedom may be the only happiness wanting to mankind, and that nations worthy of freedom may be presented to her, such will be his efforts, such his theme.
Such is the result of the philosophy of Voltaire, and such the spirit which pervades his works.
Let men, who, if he had not written, would still have been the slaves of prejudice, or would have trembled to confess they had shaken off its yoke, accuse Voltaire of having betrayed the interests of freedom, because he defended it without fanaticism and imprudence; let them judge him by those enlightened principles which were ten years posterior to his death and half a century to his philosophy, and which, but for him, had ever remained the secret opinions of sages; let them condemn him for having distinguished between the good, which may exist without liberty, and the happiness to which liberty only gives birth; let them forbear to perceive that had Voltaire infused into his first writings the principles of freedom of [Page 212] the elder Brutus, or in other words of American independence, neither Montesquieu nor Rousseau would have written as they have done; that if, like the author of the Systême de la Nature, he had invited the kings of Europe to support the power of the priests *, Europe would still have been superstitious, and would long have remained in bondages; and let them forget that in books, as in behaviour, we ought to display the courage only which the occasion requires; their injustice will but little injure the glory of Voltaire. Men of genius must be his judges, men who can discover, in a succession of various works, as well from their form and style as from their principles, the secret plan of a philosopher, who in waging continual but bold and artful war on prejudice; rather intent on conquest than renown; too great to be vain of his opinions, and too much the friend of the human race not to make their utility the grand object of his pursuits.
Voltaire has been accused of partiality to monarchical government, but this accusation only can impose on such as have not read his [Page 213] works. It is true he hated, beyond even monarchical power, aristocratic despotism, which unites rigour to hypocrisy and tyranny more austere to morals more perverse; nor was he ever the dupe of the parliaments of France, or the nobles of Sweden and Poland, who give the name of freedom to the chains with which they would load their vassals. In this opinion, Voltaire has been joined by all philosophers who have sought the definition of a free state in the nature and mind of man, and not, like the pedant Mably, in examples, drawn from the tyrannical anarchies of Italy and Greece.
He has been blamed for having bestowed too much praise on the pomp of the court of Louis XIV. and accusation was in this instance well founded; it was the only prejudice of his youth which he never shook off, and there are few men who can hope they have vanquished all their errors. It has been asserted, that he supposed celebrated artists, orators, and poets, were all that were necessary to render a people happy, but never could he entertain such a thought. He supposed indeed, that arts and literature polished the manners of men, and made the road of reason smooth and safe, and that the love of them rendered those who governed beneficent of heart, often prevented them from committing acts of violence and injustice, and that, under equal circumstances, the most ingenious and polished people would always be the least wretched.
[Page 214]His pious enemies have taxed him with hating assaulted, by wilful misquotation, the religion of his country, and extending incredulity even to atheism; both of which charges are equally false. Among a multitude of objections, founded on proofs and on passages cited from books, supposed to have been inspired by God himself, a very small number of errors only can be discovered; and those cannot be imputed to him as wilful mistakes, because, comparing them to the numerous accurate quotations and facts related with precision, it is evident that nothing could have been of less use to his cause. When contending with his adversaries, his maxim continually was, nothing ought to be credited which is not proved, and every thing should be rejected which is offensive to reason and probability; and the answer he has continually received was, whatever cannot be demonstrated an impossibility ought to be adopted and adored.
He constantly appeared to be persuaded of the existance of a Supreme Being, but without remaining blind to the strength of the objections opposed to that opinion. While he thought he beheld the regular order of nature, he could not but perceive those striking irregularities which he was unable to explain.
This was his persuasion, though it was far from that absolute certainty in the presence of which all difficulties vanish: the work entitled, [Page 215] Il faut prendre un parti, ou le principe d'action *, perhaps contains the strongest proofs of the existance of a Supreme Being, which men have yet been able to collect.
He believed as much of free will as a rational man can believe; that is, he believed man has the power to resist inclination, and to weigh the motives of action.
His incertitude respecting spirit was almost absolute, and even concerning the existence of the soul after the decease of the body; but as he imagined this opinion, as well as that of the existance of a God, was beneficial, he rarely allowed himself to mention his doubts, and generally dwelt rather on the proofs than on the objections.
Such was the philosophy of Voltaire; and we, perhaps, shall find, while we read his life, that he has been more admired than known; that though gaul abounds in some few of his polemical writings, his predominant sensation was active benevolence; that his affection for the unfortunate exceeded his hatred of his enemies; and that the passion of fame in him was ever subordinate to the more noble love of humanity. Superior to the ostentation of virtue, or to the concealment of his foibles, which he would sometimes candidly confess, though not proudly proclaim, few men ever existed whose lives have been more honoured by acts [Page 216] of great worth or less sullied by hypocrisy. In fine, let it be remembered that when, on the pinnacle of fame, after having rendered the French stage illustrious by his genius, and while throughout Europe he exercised a degree of power over the minds of men hitherto unparalleled, the following pathetic line, ‘J'ai fait un peu de bien, c'est mon meilleur ouvrage *’ was the unaffected expression of that habitual benevolence, which had taken possession of his soul.
THE LIFE OF VOLTAIRE, BY THE MARQUIS DE CONDORCET. TO WHICH ARE ADDED MEMOIRS OF VOLTAIRE, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
PHILADELPHIA: PRINTED BY AND FOR W. SPOTSWOOD.
ADVERTISEMENT.
WE have here subjoined several Letters, which will better serve to display the character of M. de Voltaire, and that of hit enemies.
A tribute of admiration paid, by a prince of the blood, to a young man whose rank in life placed him at a distance from that personage, and whose same had not then lessened the distance between them, has appeared to us to merit preservation.
The Note sent by the celebrated Le Kain cannot fail to interest men of letters; in it, that great actor ingenuously paints Voltaire's enthusiasm for the dramatic art, and for the talent of acting; and, at the same time, the zeal with which he endeavoured, notwithstanding his love of the art, and his desire to find actors worthy of his pieces, to dissuade that young man from the pursuit of a profession too much degraded by prejudice, while he added to his advice the means of entering into some other situation. This anecdote is one of those which prove that benevolence was the ruling passion of Voltaire's soul.
Thus, with still greater interestedness, he prevailed on Mademoiselle Clairon, in 1765, to renounce the stage; although the powers of this sublime actress were in all their vigour, and became daily more necessary to the poet, whose dramatic genius began to decline by age and intense application.
His counsels to D'Alembert and Diderot, when they were persecuted for publishing the Encyclopedia, and many circumstances of the same nature, will further prove that the love of justice rose, in his mind, superior to every other consideration.
A SELECTION OF JUSTIFICATORY PIECES.
VERS * DE S. A. S. LE PRINCE DE CONTI, A M. DE VOLTAIRE. 1718.
LETTER FROM THE ABBE DESFONTAINES, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
I SHALL never forget, sir, the infinite obligations I owe to you. The goodness of your heart is superior even to your understanding; and you are the truest of friends. The zeal with which you have served me does me, indeed, more honour, than malice and baseness of my enemies does me injustice, by the unworthy treatment which they have brought upon me. It is necessary that I should not publicly appear for some time. Fallax infamia terret.
I have received a letter de cachet which exiles me to the distance of thirty leagues from Paris. I depart with pleasure in search of solitude; but I am much mortified that this retreat should be enjoined me. It is some degree of triumph for the wretched authors of my disgrace. I am exceedingly willing to go into the country; but endeavour, sir, to procure the king's order to be superceded by another letter de cachet, in this form:
The King, informed of the falsehood of the accusation brought against the Sieur Abbé Desfotaines, consents that he should remain at Paris.
Should you obtain this order from M. de Maurepas, it would be an essential point; [Page 224] and I promise M. de Maurepas, on my honour, to depart immediately, and not to return to Paris, till I shall have demanded secret permission of him.
This, my dear friend, is what, at present, I have to beg you to obtain for me. You will confer yet another infinite obligation on me, by this new service. It is, in my mind, the simplest means that can be taken to repair the scandal and injustice which I have endured, till I can do better, and can procure the necessary information to discover the hidden springs of the horrible intrigue of my enemies. Notwithstanding the atrocious nature of the accusation, and the readiness of the public to believe the accused guilty, I have the satisfaction of seeing those who are even unknown to me take my part. Such men as Nadal, Danchet, de Pons, and Fréret, are the only persons, I am told, who treat my name as, through my life, I shall treat their infamous work and their unworthy characters. Genus irritabile vatum.
I have formed a plan for my defence, which will be excellent and curious, and I shall finish it in the country. I am too publicly known to remain silent after such an execrable insult, and I shall compose my apology in such a manner that I shall have the honour of presenting it to M. de Maurepas, and shall beseech him to permit its publication. In this, will be seen all the misfortunes which have be fallen me, and these misfortunes ever caused by men of [Page 225] letters; but it will particularly contain the history of my quitting the Jesuits.
Adieu, my dear friend; let me beg of you to think of me.
LETTER FROM THE SIEUR DEMOULIN TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
WE thank you most humbly for all your goodness, and for the indulgence you have granted to enable us to repay you. We shall ever preserve a faithful remembrance of it, and, on every occasion, shall express our lively gratitude. Your security is perfectly good; and we beg you to be persuaded we shall discharge the debt as speedily as we possibly can. I am in advance for several good speculations; and our zeal to serve others has added to our embarrassment.
You do me justice, sir, in believing me incapable of any ill design; I venture even to declare to you that I never have entertained any, and that never had a lover a more tender attachment to his mistress than I to you, notwithstanding all that has happened. I have inconsiderate moments, it is true; you have [Page 226] often reproved me for them, with reason; but I will yield to no one in integrity of mind, purity of intentions, or zealous activity, when there arises an opportunity of doing good.
I know that I have been greatly calumniated; and I know also that those who exclaimed most against me, quitted you to come to me with a design of exasperating my mind against you. Since that time, I have rendered some considerable services to one of those persons; and should occasions present themselves of obliging the others, I shall willingly embrace them. It is the only vengeance which I profess to take.
If you think I can be useful to you in any way, and indeed in affairs that may require discretion, honour me with your commands; and I beseech you to be assured of an active and secret service.
My wife begs her most humble respects. I have the honour to be, with profound esteem,
I, the undersigned, acknowledge that M. de Voltaire, having lent my wife and me the sum of twenty-seven thousands livres, and in [Page 227] consequence of the deranged situation of our affairs, having consented to take the sum of three thousand livres secured by an obligatory writing, executed in the presence of the notary Ballot, on the 12th June, 1736, has now forgiven seven hundred and fifty livres which remained to be paid of the three thousand, and has given me an entire and full release for the same. Jan. 19, 1743.
LETTERS FROM THE BOOKSELLER JORE TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
LETTER I.
I ENTREAT you, in consideration of the embarrassed state of my affairs and the detention of my papers, to pardon my delaying till now to acknowledge the wicked proceedings of those who have availed themselves of my misfortunes to oblige me to commence an unjust suit against you, and to suffer an infamous factum (declaration) to be printed. I altogether retract them both. The malice of your enemies has served to no other purpose than to display the goodness of your character to [Page 228] me; for you have the generosity to pardon the fault I have committed in listening to bad counsel. I assure you I repented even in the moment in which I was so unhappy as to act against you. I, at length, perfectly perceive how I was led into the error. The jealousy of men of letters is not unknown to you, and, in this, you see to what excess it has been carried. They have inflamed my mind, and have made me the means of injuring you; which has so displeased me that I promise you never again to see those who induced me to forget my duty to you in this instance, and I will atone for the extreme injustice of it, by the constant attachment which I vow to preserve through life to your interests.
I beseech you, sir, to restore your friendship to me, and believe that my heart never took any part in the malice of your enemies, and that it is my heart alone which leads me to make this declaration.
LETTER II.
I HAD the honour of writing to you, on the 20th of this month, in the bitterness of my [Page 229] heart, to intreat your forgiveness, and to assure you of the sincere repentance under which I suffer for the unjust suit which I was induced by your enemy (you know to whom I allude) to commence against you. I told you of my remorse and the horror which I felt at my cruel attack of him who was my benefactor; I informed you that I had discovered the error into which I had been led; and I begged you, sir, to believe that my affliction is equal to my fault. Deign, sir, to extend your generosity to the granting me the pardon I venture to demand. I retract the unjust and calumnious factum which was made in my name, and which I had the unhappiness to sign. I was blind, and your enemies seduced me. Again, I repeat to you that I am in the deepest affliction, and my remorse has brought sickness upon me. There is nothing I would not do, during the remainder of my life, to atone for my fault. In short, sir, were you a witness to the distress I feel at being deceived by ill counsel, you would pity my condition. Be so good, at least, to give orders that I may be informed that you have the clemency to pardon me, if you do not deign to write to me yourself. I engage to pay all the expence of the process if I have money sufficient; nor is there any thing I should not be willing to do through the remaining days of my life to testify to you individually and to the public my repentance, my [Page 230] admiration of your character, and the very profound respect with which I am,
LETTER III.
I HAVE received, sir, the three hundred livres that you have after all had the goodness to give me. This new manner of avenging yourself of an unfortunate man, whose greatest unhappiness has been to forget what was due to you, and who has so long been gireved for his error, shall ever be present with my heart. Your generous actions to me, augment my sincere repentance; and inspire me with the tenderest respect and affection for you. Those who deceived me must indeed have been monsters; nor could they know your real character as I do. My life ought to be employed in proving my devotion to you. I cannot find terms to express the feelings you have excited in my heart. Permit me only to present myself before you, permit me to come and thank you; it is a favour I beseech you to add to all your other goodness.
I am, with respect and the most lively gratitude,
LETTER IV.
THE pension you have the goodness to allow me, and some scholars whom I assisted in perfecting themselves in the French language, but who, unfortunately for me, are quitting this city to travel, have enabled me to subsist at Milan. Great God! in what a situation shall I be placed, deprived of these succours! I have been formerly useful to you in being your amanuensis; can I no longer be of any service to you? If Milan were a place in which works were published in French, I could employ myself in correcting the press, and thus avoid the wretchedness which threatens me, and from which you, sir, can relieve me, by giving me an asylum in your house, where I am persuaded you must have some-one who is less useful to you than I might be.
I hope, sir, that when you consider my present condition, and how different it is from that in which you have formerly seen me, you will be induced to soften its severity; and so much the more readily as this change in my circumstances has not arisen either from my dissipation or imprudence.
When M. de Cideville procured me the honour of being known to you, he, as well as myself regarded that honour as the means of [Page 232] augmenting my fortune; how could he foresee the injustice that would be done me, and that my total ruin would be the result?
I flatter myself that, moved by my unhappy situation, you will honour me with an answer which will dissipate the frightful apprehension. which I have of the future and which I cannot shun without your kind assistance. With this hope, permit me to subscribe myself, respectfully,
LETTER V.
ON my return from the iles of Bormio, where his excellency Count Frederic was so good as to keep me three weeks for the benefit of the air, and to reinstate my health after the sickness I have had, Messieurs Origoni and Parraviccini remitted me from Florence, by your order, five and twenty sequins, for which I have given them a receipt in the name of Messieurs Francis and Louis Bontemps of Geneva.
[Page 233]I cannot sufficiently testify my gratitude to you, nor could you, sir, have sent me this assistance more opportunely; as I wanted both linen and clothes. Although your generosity extended the order to remit me what I should have occasion for without limiting the sum, I thought it my duty not to abuse your kindness; and without delay I employed the twenty five sequins in the purchase of some clothes which fortunately fitted me, and in four shirts which I have ordered to be made; and these will at least place me in a condition to appear decently in the houses of such people of rank as have the goodness to admit me. In these families I have spoken of your goodness, and I was commended for having requested no more than this sum, although your liberality had not restricted me.
With what tranquility shall I pass the remainder of my life, should I have the misfortune to survive you, were you to settle on me the means of supporting the distressing situation of my affairs, a situation which I have so little merited. I venture, sir, to hope this from your goodness. I shall then have nothing further to desire than an opportunity of expressing the greatness of my gratitude to you. I look for that happy day with impatience; and beg you to be persuaded of the respectful attachment with which I have the honour to be,
LETTER VI.
STRONGLY penetrated with gratitude and transported with joy, I thank you for your consoling promise of extricating me from my distress, and for the eight Louis d'ors which you sent me. They could not have arrived more fortunately to relieve me from the greatest embarrassment. Fearing I should offend you, I forbear to say all that passes in my mind. I flatter myself that your ideas of me are changed to my advantage, and I assure you that I deserve they should be so by the sentiments of gratitude with which I have the honour, respectfully, to be,
LETTER FROM M. DE SAINT-HYACINTH, TO M. DE BURIGNY.
I RETURN you, sir, the manuscript which you did me the honour to confide to me. You [Page 235] will probably imagine that I have read it with pleasure, and you are not mistaken; but should you conclude that I felt myself satisfied when I had finished, you will be deceived. Charmed with what I have already seen, I have but the more sensibly felt the absence of the remainder; and to the pleasure of perusing the work has succeeded considerable anger against the author.
Your indifference, sir, or to speak more frankly, your indolence, must make all those who know of what you are capable, as angry as myself. If you are so indifferent to same as to contemn the reputation which must result from the perfection of this work, the justice the public have done you with respect to what you have already imparted to them, calls on you to give them the remainder, which they expect with impatience. No one has ascended with more truth, or more penetration to the fountain head, nor has any one treated this subject with greater delicacy and precision. I shall excite all your friends to importune you have made the work complete. At the head of these I shall place the Countess, to whose lips the Graces have imparted a gift of persuasion; after which it will be seen whether we shall leave you indolent, and at your ease, for some time to come.
You did me justice, sir, when you asserted that I had no connexion with the author of the Voltairomanic, whoever he may be; and I [Page 236] further now declare to you that I have never read the piece entirely through. I merely glanced over it, because I was informed the author had cited are relative to M. de Voltaire; a circumstance which I could not hear without indignation. I would gladly know by what authority M. de Voltaire's name and mine are brought in question, since neither the one nor the other are to be found in the work of mine which is quoted by them. They go further: would you suppose it, sir? They have interpreted what I meant to say. The deification, of which they speak, is merely a work of imagination, a chain of fictions, the links of which are connexed to form a whole. The design in this was to point out in general the defects into which the learned fall, in various sciences and various nations. The author has, therefore, in this work, been obliged to imagine circumstances, which, although related as characteristically personal, should be regarded merely as general satire, applicable to all the learned who may be guilty of similar errors. It is not possible to write an allegory, or draw a character, which the imagination of the reader cannot apply to some one; whom perhaps the author has not even known. Thus, he who, in a work of invention, shall have had only a general object, shall be made to allude to an individual, by the malignity of false interpretation. If this be permitted, we must no longer think of writing; at least till the publick, becoming [Page 237] more reserved, judge of the intention of the author in conformity with the general design of his work; and till they forbear to cause the malignity of interpretation to recoil upon the writer whom they interpret.
When I saw in what manner the writer of the Voltairomaine had decided on my intention, I own to you, sir, that I was extremely surprised how he, who is said to be the author of it, can be thus totally unmindful of all decorum. My surprise equalled my indignation and his temerity, not to use a harsher term. It is true that from the nature of the work, there is nothing which we might not be led to expect.
I am informed that M. de Voltaire so much despised this book as not to aswer it. He did perfectly right. Abortion is the destiny of such writings; which can only exist by being the subject of conversation. M. de Voltaire has more valuable employment. Cultivating at present the Musas severiores, they have taught him to rise into those tranquil regions to which the vapours of the earth do not extend: Sapientum templa serena.
Here, sir, are the two madrigals of M. de Big [...]icourt, which I could not perfectly repeat to you the last time I had the honour of seeing you in Paris.
Pray inform me, sir, whether you are acquainted with the manuscript on Tournaments, purchased by M. de Reiux; and, when time and circumstances shall suit, do not forget that you have at Belleville a very humble and very obedient servant,
LETTER FROM M. D'ARGENSON, THE ELDER, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
THIS Abbé Desfontains is a vile man, sir; his ingratitude certainly surpasses the crimes by which he gave you an opportunity of obliging [Page 239] him. Fear not but that the people in power will be your partizans. I one day happened, at the table of the cardinal, to affirm that he was the rector of a good living in Normandy, by which I offended all present. His eminence made me repeat three times what I had said, and I should have lost the esteem of the world, and have ruined my fortune, had not the Prévôt des Marchands bore witness to the fact. The chancellor thinks as I do relative to this *** of the police; and M. Herault ought to be of the same opinion, or he will render himself accountable to those whom he may condemn. The chancellor thinks well of your works, which he has often mentioned to me during our walks at Fresne. But of all your knights, my brother is most angry with your enemy. I went to him after the receipt of your letter, and he told me that, in conformity to the chancellor's orders, the Abbé Desfontains would be summoned to declare, whether the libels in question were written by him; and, if not freely, would be obliged to sign the affirmative or the negative. Be assured the business will be properly conducted. I will shortly solicit the chancellor in person.
I embrace your cause with adour and satisfaction, which is but just. I have continually known you the enemy of scandal; you are angry with knaves, and laugh at fools. I mean to imitate your example to the best of my ability; and yet I think myself an honest man. [Page 240] This is no more than having an opinion; to impart such an opinion to our friends is detraction, which religion, good sense, and even instinct forbid. You have always appeared to me far from having any such evil propensity, and I am confirmed in this supposition by your acknowledged works, which are worthy of yourself. Continue to write without fear for five and twenty years longer; but write poetry, notwithstanding your oath in the preface to Newton. With whatever clearness, beauty, and dignity, you may have understood and explained the philosophic system of this Englishman, do not therefore despise poetical e [...]istles, poems, and tragedies. We shall always obtain scientific food, but we shall soon have a dearth of works of wit, and no longer will go to the theatre from the want of good authors in verse and prose.
Adieu, sir: why do you mention protection and respect to an old friend, and one who will ever remain such?
LETTER FROM THE SIEUR DE BONNEVAL *, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
I WAS at your house this morning, sir, with a [...] of having the honour of seeing you, [Page 241] and was informed that you were at court. You would, without doubt, have been surprised at my visit, but the motive by which it was occasioned would have surprised you still more. Nevertheless, I assumed courage from the reflections which naturally arise in a mind of the first order, and I said to myself: It is true that, since the year 1725, I have scarce ever had the honour of seeing M. de Voltaire, but he will recollect that he walks in a sphere which does not permit every one to approach him; and he cannot be ignorant of the admiration of him which I have ever avowed, nor can he doubt the avowal without doing injustice to my discernment. No one at present has it more in his power to render him justice than myself, from the opportunity which I had during a year of observing him in those societies in which the mind and the heart may discover their true feelings without danger; and thence I have formed an opinion of him, which persuades me that it is a pleasure to him to confer obligations.
These sentiments, sir, led me to your house to beg the favour of you to lend me ten pistoles, for which I have an immediate occasion; and to offer you, for payment, an authority to receive the sum from the a [...]rears of a rent which was left me by a lady of your acquaintance, and who has been dead some years past. If the dead had any influence I would implore her mediation in my behalf. You would not [Page 242] have resisted that while she was living, and perhaps she still lives in your memory; at least she merits the honour by the sentiments she entertained respecting you. I was acquainted with them to the hour of her death; and of that I was a sorrowful witness.
The request which I designed to have made personally to you▪ I now communicate in writing, and if you should please to comply with it, I will wait on any person you may think proper to name on your behalf, and place t [...]e authority in his hands. I fear to offend [...] delicacy, should I here employ tricks of eloquence to dispose you to do me this favour. To explain our necessity to a person who think [...] nobly, is to say every thing; and I will only add, that my gratitude shall be equally ardent and durable.
I have the honour to be most truly, sir, your very humble servant,
LETTER FROM M. PRAULT, JUNIOR, BOOKSELLER AT PARIS, TO MADAME DE CHAMPBONIN, AT VASSY.
YOU know that I am indebted, for the obligation of being introduced to M. de Voltaire, [Page 243] to a magistrate who is his friend, and who is distinguished by his virtue and his merit. I have long wished to bring my business into repute by the works of a man whom I then knew only by the powers of his mind, and who has since so strongly attached me to him by the qualities of his heart. My youth, my good disposition, and my sincerity, titles to his favour which are ever successful, completed that recommendation had commenced. Since that time, his confidence has rendered me the instrument of so many acts of generosity, that, [...] well in justice to him as in gratitude to [...]riends whom I particularly regret, I think it my duty to render an authentic testimony of all my transactions relative to M. de Voltaire, and to answer the unjust accusation of the lible entitled The Voltairomanie, which all worthy people behold with indignation.
The following is the history of M. de Voltaire's works since I knew him, and which I am enable [...]o prove by authentic documents.
I began by printing the Henriade with considerable corrections, the profits of which M. de Voltaire presented to a young man whose talents had made him his friend; and to whom he also gave his tragedy of the Death of Cesar. At the same time he gave the liberty of reprinting Za [...]re to another bookseller, whose copy-right in that work had expired. He gave to me his tragedies of Oedipus, Mariamne, and [...]rutus, for my own emolument. I also published [Page 244] the Prodigal Son; the person who was charged to treat with me for it demanded so reasonable a price, that, far from having any disagreement. I gave him a hundred fran [...]s more than the price he had demanded. Some days after M. de Voltaire informed me in a letter that he never required money for his productions *, but books only. In fine, he made a present of his Element of Newton to his Dutch booksellers. Shortly after an edition was printed which was called the London edition, and I knew that the bookseller, who began it unknown to Voltaire, thought, nevertheless, that it was an attention due to M. de Voltaire to communicate the design to him and to submit it to his corrections before it was published. The edition being ready to appear, M. de Voltaire bought a hundred and fifty copies to present to his friends at Paris, which cost him, including the binding, nearly a hundred pistoles.
This, madam, is the account of the profit which M. de Voltaire has drawn from his works; or rather it is the means of confounding his calumniator; and you will perceive what credit ought to be given to the impostures of which his works is an entire tissue.
I have the honour to be, with the most profound respect, &c.
Declaration of the Abbé Guyot Desfontaines to the Police.
I declare that I am not the author of a libel printed under the title of The Voltairomanie; and that I altogether disavow it, regarding as calumnious all the facts which are imputed to M. de Voltaire in that libel; and that I should think myself dishonoured had I taken the least part in that production, professing as I do all the sentiments of esteem for M. de Voltaire which are due to his talents, and which the public so justly express for him. Done at Paris, April 4, 1739.
N. B. The original is deposited in the hands of M. Hérault.
LETTER FROM M. DE CHAMPBONIN, TO HIS SON, AT THE FORTIFICATION OFFICE AT PARIS.
YOU must no longer write to M. de Voltaire at Cirey, my son; he is lately gone to Brussels with the Marquis and Marchioness du Chatelet. You will easily conceive how much we are afflicted at his absence; never was there [Page 246] a more tender or more respectable friend. We feelingly regret the four years which he passed in Champaign. Those happy days, during which we lived with him, cannot but recal to your memory the numerous marks of friendship he bestowed on us; which were so effectual that, had I the power, I could not do more even for you who are my son. How great then ought your gratitude toward him be? He was under no obligation of affording you such singular marks of attachment, and I hope you will never forget the excess of his kindness. It is not enough that you should partake of the favours he has done us; it is necessary that you should even surpass us in gratitude. Love him like your father; every feeling of affection is due from you to him; and will give me still greater satisfaction than the same affection felt for me.
The regret of your mother equals mine; you know our friendship for him, and we both lament the loss of those proofs of congenial tenderness, which he was so ready to return.
The Count and Countess de la Neuville, concerning whom you make enquiry, like us, infinitely regret the loss of M. de Voltaire. He departed beloved by the whole country, and we all bewail his absence. The Marquis and Marchioness du Chatelet give us to hope that they will return to Cirey as soon as they shall have completed their business.
[Page 247]Write regularly to Brussels, my son; and depend on the affection of myself and of your mother.
LETTER FROM THE ABBE PREVOST, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
I AM extremely desirous, sir, of becoming some way useful to you; this is an old sentiment which I have often expressed in my publications, which I have communicated to M. Thiriot on more than one occasion, and which I feel very forcibly renewed since the affair of Prault. I cannot endure that a multitude of insignificant people, embittering their minds against such a character, should, some of them from pure malignity, others from a false air of probity and justice, exert themselves to communicate the poison of their heart to more worthy people.
It has occurred to me that the public taste, which has been hitherto sufficiently uniform in its partiality to my writings, would render me more likely than any other man to do you some service. My admiration of your talents, and the particular attachment I profess to your person, [Page 248] would alone urge me to this object with much zeal: but my own interest is connected with my wishes, and if I may in some measure add to your reputation you may at the same time be serviceable to my fortune.
Here follow two points, sir, which demand a little explanation; but it shall be short; for I have only to lay the proposition before you.
1st I have thought that A defence of M. de Voltaire and his works, written with care, energy, and simplicity, &c. might be a valuable work, and might perhaps once for all silence malignity. I should divide it into two parts; one of which would respect his person, and the other his productions. Those advantages which the habit of writing may have added to such abilities as I possess I will employ. The work should be published before the end of winter.
2d. The derangement of my affairs is such that if Heaven or some one inspired by Heaven, does not enable me to settle them, I shall soon depart for England. I should not complain of my situation, had it originated in my ill conduct; but, though I have been five years in France, with as many friends as there are worthy people in Paris, and with the protection of a prince of the blood * who entertains me in his own house, I am yet without a benefice [Page 249] of five sons. I owe about a hundred and fifty louis d'ors; for which my creditors, uniting together, have made me give my personal security; and so urgent is my necessity, that, having agreed to discharge my debts at a time which expires on the first of the ensuing month, I am threatened with an arrest if I am not punctual. Of a thousand opulent persons with whom I pass my life, I know not one of whom I can venture to demand this sum, or who I think would advance it for me.
The question is, would M. de Voltaire, partly engaged by his generosity and by his zeal for men of letters, partly by my design to employ myself in his service, be willing to deliver me from the most cruel embarrassment which I have ever experienced? The undertaking is worthy [...] [...]im; beside that the novelty alone of settling the affairs of a man to whom the protection of a prince of the blood, and I may add the friendship of all Paris, is ineffectual, appears to me a singular inducement.
I have two ways of repaying the obligation. The first, by a grateful sense of the favour; and I shall be reduced to that if death surprises me, for I do not possess a revenue of a single son *; but I am not advanced in years, and I enjoy a state of health which promises me long life. The other mode is, to give security [Page 250] on my books; that would be sufficient for my creditors if they would listen to reason, but my upholsterers and taylors, who have waited some time for their debts, did not think the security sufficient. A man of letters will better understand the value of this fund.
I conclude, sir; for indeed here is a very extraordinary letter. I flatter myself that, as I shall find much pleasure in boasting of your kindness should you grant me the favour, you will also be careful to bury my request in oblivion if any reason, which I shall feel no wish to discover, should prevent you giving it the reception which I hope. But in either case, you will please to regard as one of your most devoted, servants and zealous admirers the
P. S. You will readily imagine that the two proposals I have made you sprang from M. Prault's recital of your various beneficent actions.
REPORT, Made to the Academy of Sciences by Messrs. Pitot and Clairaut, April 26, 1741, relative to the memorial of M. de Voltaire, concerning Living Force.
WE have examined by order of the academy, the memorial of M. de Voltaire, entitled, Doubts on the measure and the nature of [Page 251] moving Forces. The memorial contains two parts. The first part is an abridged recital of the principal reasons which have been adduced, to prove that the forces of bodies in motion are as the quantities of motion, that is, as the mass multiplied by the simple velocity, and not by the square of the velocity; as those pretend who adopt the theory of Vis viva, or living force. The reasons stated by M. de Voltaire are not given as demonstrations, but proposed as doubts: they, however, are the doubts of a well informed man, and greatly resemble decision.
We shall not enter into the examination of this first part, because the intention of the author seems only to have been to recite the strongest reasons which have been given against living forces, in a manner sufficiently brief and clear, so as to be recollected by the reader with facility.
In the second part, M de Voltaire considers the nature of force. As he has concluded that moving force is only the produce of the mass multiplied by the velocity, he admits of no distinction between the vis mortua, or dead force, and the vis viva, or living force. When it is said that the force of a body in motion differs infinitely from that of a body at rest, this, according to him, is equal to saying that liquid is infinitely more liquid when it runs than when it does not.
He next states that, if force be nothing [Page 252] more than the produce of the mass multiplied by the velocity, it is nothing more than the body itself acting, or ready to act. Thus he rejects the opinion of the philosphers, who have imagined that force was a distinct being, a substance animating and separate from bodies; that force ought to be sought for in the simple beings called monades, &c.
M. de Voltaire having remarked, as many other persons have previously done, that in various cases the quantity of motion augments, and remaining convinced that force is merely the quantity of motion, he asks whether those philosophers who have maintained the system of the preservation of an equal quantity of force, in nature, are not as far from the truth as those who should maintain the preservation of an equal quantity of species, individuals, forms, &c.
He next asks, by referring to the circumstance, that an elastic body striking on another more large, does then communicate a greater quantity of motion, and consequently according to him more force than it previously possessed, whether it be not evidently deducible that bodies do not communicate force; so that, the mass and the motion being insufficient for the communication of motion, the vis inertia would be likewise necessary, without which matter would make no resistance, and there would be no action.
M. de Voltaire further supposes, that the vis inertia, the mass, and the motion, are not [Page 253] sufficient. He thinks there must be a principle which keeps all bodies in motion, and incessantly communicates to them an acting force, or a force ready to act; which principle, according to him, should be gravity; whether gravity have [...]r have not a mechanical cause.
Neither ca [...] gravity, continues he, account for all the effects of nature. It is very far from explaining the force of organized bodies, which must have an internal principle, like that of elasticity.
M. de Voltaire concludes his memorial by saying, that since the active force of elasticity produces the same effects as force of any other kind, it may be concluded that nature, which often attains different ends by the same means; may also attain one end by various means; and that therefore true philosophy consists in recording the operations of nature, previous to subjecting the whole to any general law.
Of the various questions, difficult to resolve, which the two parts of this memorial contain, it appears that M. de Voltaire is well acquainted with what relates to experimental philosophy; and that he has himself well considered such subjects.
I certify that the above copy is conformable to the original.
LETTER FROM THE ADVOCATE MANNORY *, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
IT is, sir, a long while since you heard from me; and it is very mortifying that I am compelled to call your attention to me by a history of my misfortunes. Yet I too well know the sentiments of your heart to yield to my fears. My father is still living; he is eighty years old, and is extremely feeble. At his death I shall possess more than a hundred thousand francs; but I have not received a crown. My profession abounds with difficulties; and, to pursue it, assistance is required, on which I have relied, and which has failed me. I have been afflicted with long and severe sickness, and though at length I regained my health, my practice had declined. I afterwards formed an acquaintance with a rich devotee; and, having incurred much expence in dress to enable me to appear suitably at her table, she barbarously forbade me the house. At last, sir, the poor M. de Fimarçon applied to me for assistance and counsel, and as I thought his affairs promising I dedicated my whole time and labour to the prosecution of his suit. My illness had deprived me of half my business, and I lost the [Page 255] remainder by giving my whole time to M. de Firmarçon.
I flatter myself that I should acquire honour by extricating him from that affair, and that his gratitude would sufficiently indemnify me. Every thing has been unsuccessful, sir. Mean while I was three months in search of a house; on the twenty-third of December I hired one, and since that time the workmen have been employed in preparing it for my reception; so that six months have passed in which I have been without a house, without chambers, and consequently without employment.
Judge, sir, of my situation. I could not procure a crown from my father. He who has been inflexible during his whole life, does not become feeling at the age of eighty. M. Dodun, the old receiver-general, of whom I have hired my house in the Isle *, has made me wait, but he has expended four thousand francs to make the house commodious for me, which will be to my advantage. I have some furniture which, were they on the spot, would serve my purpose. I have not therefore, sir, any present occasion for more money than will enable me to remove my furniture to the place which of course is an object of importance, to pay some trifling debts which I have contracted in the course of six months, and to leave me a small sum with which I may open my chambers, [Page 256] and subsist till I shall fall into practice, which I cannot fail to do.
I have frequently heard, sir, that the unfortunate are permitted to boast a little. Claiming this privilege, to which my situation has given me too clear a title, I may declare that I do not fear any advocate who is at present at the bar. If I find assistance I shall soon recover my losses, and my chambers will have their use; in the course of a year my practice will probably be considerable; and my father must, in the end, leave me the property which he cannot carry away with him. But should I not procure any aid, my house will become useless; I shall be no longer able to appear at the courts; and I shall be inevitably ruined; for I have no talents for any other employment. I will give you all the security in my power; my wife and I will engage jointly and separately for the debt; or I will even give bills of exchange for it, provided sufficient time is granted me for the payment.
Will you abandon me, sir, and forget your long friendship for me? I am one of your oldest partisans; and the defender of Oedipus ought not to perish for want in the midst of the fairest hopes; nor does he ask for more than a little assistance. You will have the honour of patronising an advocate; and, if he become celebrated, the work will not be unworthy of you! Though you have hitherto done so much and in various ways, this may [Page 257] perhaps be wanting to your fame. My whole reliance is on you, sir; for the times are frightful since nobody is interested in behalf of talents. You alone know all who possess them; and you are their protector; and, should you think that I am among the number you will not surely forsake me. My fortune then depends on the judgment which you shall entertain of my capacity, and I expect your decision with confidence. I lodge with M. Dubois, at the Palais Royal, Rue de la Comédie Française. Before you enable me to remove to my house, I shall look for the honour of your answer. I am, with the profoundest respect,
LETTER FROM THE SAME.
YOU gave me permission sir, again to remind you of my situation after your return from the country. I appear respectable enough in my counsellor's gown; but I am in total want of clothes; nor can I pay any visits, which deranges all my affairs. Be so good as to inform [Page 258] me, sir, if you have thought of M. Thiriot. I have had but four sons to subsist on for six days, and you have promised me some small assistance; do not withhold it at present, sir. Were I properly dressed I would be in a condition to pursue my practice, and my situation would change. I have the promise of many causes, but they are not yet ready for trial. We approach the vacations, and the time is therefore unfavourable. Will you sir, mean while, suffer me to die of hunger? I did not eat yesterday; and the day before bread was my only food; but it was a feast. I cannot decently go out in my gown, and my dress is in too bad a state to be seen. I dare not therefore visit any one; nor have I money to procure any thing at home. My situation is terrifying! For God's sake, sir, give the bearer of this letter what you may think proper for my present relief; he is a person on whom you may rely. Pray inform me what M. Thiriot does. Will you permit an old servant to perish; a man who I venture to say possesses talents, and who is actually in sight of the harbour? His vessel is somewhat impaired; but he needs only assistance to enter the port. I am with the most lively gratitude,
LETTER FROM J. J ROUSSEAU, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
I HAVE endeavoured during fifteen years to render myself worthy of your esteem and your zeal for the interest of youthful poets in whom you discover talents. But having composed the music of an opera, I find myself, I know not how, metamorphosed into a musician. In this quality the Duke de Richelieu committed to my care the alteration of the Divertissements which you have introduced into the Princess of Navarre, and he even required me to make such changes in the original plan as were necessary to adapt it to your new subject. I made respectful remonstrances, the duke insisted, and I obeyed; it is the only thing which can be done by a man in my situation. M. Ballot is charged to communicate the alterations to you; which I have endeavoured to execute in the fewest words possible, and that is the only merit I can give them. Do me the favour, sir, to examine them, or rather to substitute others more worthy of the place which they were designed to occupy.
I also hope, sir, that you will please to give [Page 260] your opinion of the recitative before it is performed, and point out to me the places in which I have departed from good taste, that is to say from your conception. Whatever may be my success in these trifling essays, they will ever make me proud should they procure me the opportunity of being known to you, and of expressing the admiration and profound respect with which I have the honour to be.
LETTER FROM THE SAME.
ONE Rousseau * formerly declared himself your enemy least he should be compelled to acknowledge himself your inferior. Another Rousseau, without the genius of the former, thought proper to imitate his malicious conduct. I am distinguished by the same name as [Page 261] those, but possess neither the talents of the one nor the presumption of the other, and am still less capable of their injustice to you. I am very willing to live unknown but not dishonoured; and such I should deem myself had I failed in the respect which all men of letters owe to you, and which all those entertain who merit respect themselves.
I will not dwell on this subject, nor violate, even when you are the object, the law I have resolved to observe never to address the praises of any one to himself, But, sir, I will take the liberty to say that you formed an unworthy judgment of an honest man when you believed him capable of returning ingratitude and arrogance for your kindness and politeness to him in the affair of the Fêtes de Ramire *. I have not forgotten the letter with which you honoured me on that occasion, and which convinced me that, notwithstanding base calumnies, you are the true patron of rising talents which need protection. You deigned to promise your friendship to the first efforts of my mind; they were unsuccessful, and that was what I ought to have expected. A solitary being who knew not how to speak, a timid, disconcerted man did not dare to present himself to you: and what would have been my title? [Page 262] But it was confidence and not zeal that I wanted; fearing to intrude on your observation, I expected from time a favourable occasion to testify to you my respect and gratitude.
From that day I renounced letters and the delusive hope of acquiring fame; despairing to obtain that object by the aid of genius, I have disdained to owe it, like ordinary men, to indirect means. But I never shall renounce my admiration of your works. You have painted friendship and every virtue as a man who understands and loves them. I have heard envy murmur but have rejected its clamours, and have said without fear of deceiving myself: "These writings which elevate the mind and excite fortitude are not the productions of a man indifferent to virtue."
Nor did you form juster notions of a republican, since I was known to you as such. I adore liberty, and equally detest despotism and servitude, and would not impose either on any man. Such principles illy sympathizs with insolence; which is often the sentiment of slaves, or of men still more vile than those, little authors who are jealous of great talents.
I declare to you then, sir, that not only Rousseau of Geneva never held the discourse you have attributed to him, but also that he is incapable of such language. I do not flatter myself that I shall deserve the honour of being known to you; but if ever I enjoy that happiness it will [Page 263] be, I hope, only by means worthy of your esteem.
I have the honour to be with profound respect.
LETTER FROM THE MARQUIS D'ADHEMAR, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE,
I WAS, sir, at the time informed of the ingratitude and insolence of the insignificant d'Arnaud toward you, and I expressed my indignation at his conduct. I even desired M. d'Argental to refer back to the letter of Fréron, and to take a copy of it. This letter was in the hands of every one, and was circulated in so disadvantageous a manner that I wished to see the preface, which was complained of, and which was accused of being mutilated. It appeared to me as simple as I could wish, and I found nothing to blame in it but the name of the author and his style. In short, sir, I do not doubt that the king, whom you serve, will do you speedy justice. He is fortunate who [Page 264] has occasion to defend the truth before a monarch, who himself patronizes and disseminates truth.
Yet, notwithstanding this assurance, sir, I must again exhort you to assume greater fortitude. A splendid fame, and perfect tranquillity are rarely found friends and companions.
But to return to this worthless man. I am this instant informed that he has just written a new letter to Fréron, in which he declares that the matter is entirely accommodated. In the name of God, sir, while you patronize true talents, beware of those drones, They preserve no remembrance of what they owe you, except it be to injure their benefactor. This subject recals to my mind that a person * told me one day, that, being placed at the theatre near the Abbé Desfontains and d'Arnaud, he heard the first reproach the other with entertaining some attachment to you. But, sir, answered d'Arnaud, you do not consider that he serves me, and that I owe him my gratitude. Oh! replied the abbé, we may receive obligations from him when we have occasion; but we must calumniate him.
You see that the man has not forgotten this lesson, nor has been slow to put it in practice.
Adieu, sir; disdain this vile race; and endeavour to arm yourself with philosophy respecting [Page 165] events. Truth is ever finally triumphant, and envy sinks under the weight of great reputations.
LETTER FROM THE SIEUR GUYOT DE MERVILLE *, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
I IMAGINE, sir, you must be informed that I have been settled at Geneva this two years. In the kind of necessity to which I was reduced by the unjust conduct of the French comedians of Paris of quitting that place, there was no retreat which better suited my natural inclination for repose and liberty; and I am so much the more satisfied with my choice as other reasons have led you to the same asylum. But it is not enough that our inclinations happen to be mutual, our sentiments also should be in unison. How painful would it be to each of us, if, inhabiting the same place and visiting the same families, we can neither see nor converse with each other without restraint and perhaps bitterness. I know that I have offended you, but it was not by indulging any of [Page 266] those passions which are at once a disgrace to literature, and human nature.
My attachment to Rousseau, and my complaisance to the Abbé Desfontains were the sole causes of the offence I have given you. Their death has avenged you of them; and the little good I did by my sacrifices to them does not permit me to lament their death.
A thousand men in my situation would tell you, sir, that they esteem you more than your most zealous partisans, because their esteem was more consistent and less blind. The proof, on my side, is incontestible. D'Auberval, the [...]omedian at Lyons, whose talents you have admired, and whose character you would adore did you know him as I do, can assure you that I charged him with the verses, which I now send you, three days before your sudden and unforeseen departure. I availed myself of your taking this city in your route; and through which I was also passing. These verses are yet more seasonable than ever, as I shall be at Geneva on the 22d of this month, and as we shall both be settled there. I have nothing to add but the following offers.
I have written a criticism on your works in four volumes, which are yet in manuscript; those I will send to you. Prefixed to my first comedy is a letter with which you were offended, as I have been formerly told, by Rousset; I will suppress that letter in the edition of my works which I am preparing. The Abbé Desfontaines [Page 267] published two poems which he excited me to write against you; I will suppress those also: and at this price will I merit your friendship.
I will do more; my fugitive pieces in two volumes are dedicated to a gentleman of the country of Vaud, who is anxious to be known to you, and whose acquaintance would give you pleasure; to convince the public of the sincerity of my regard for you, I am ready, with your permission, to dedicate my Theatre in four volumes to you. I do not think that you can require any thing further.
But speaking of editions, it is time, sir, that you resolve, as well as myself, to publish an edition of your works, avowed by yourself, and executed under your own inspection. The public expect this with impatience, and they will not believe any thing to be yours which you do not yourself give them. At Geneva, you are in a place which will permit you to execute the design; and I will undertake, if you think proper, a part of this work, in the same manner as thirty years since at the Hague you confided to my care the correction of the proofs for the Henriade.
I send a copy of this letter, and the verses which are enclosed, to M. de Montpéroux, who honours me with his esteem and friendship. I flatter myself that he will be very happy to give the whole plan his protection. But is it necessary that the resident should join his recommendation [Page 268] to the step which I take? Do you not know, sir, that it is greater to acknowledge our faults than never to have committed any, and more glorious to pardon than to avenge ourselves? Merville addresses himself to Voltaire! You see that I finish poetically; but it is not as a poet, it is as a friend, an admirer, and a man who thinks, that I assure you of the particular esteem and perfect attachment with which I am,
LETTER FROM J. J. ROUSSEAU *, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE
IN every respect, sir, it is my duty to express my gratitude to you; and, while I offered the rude outlines of my sorrowful reveries, I thought not of making a present worthy of you, but of acquitting myself of an obligation by rendering the homage which we all owe to you as our chief. Sensible, beside, of the honour [Page 269] which you do my country, I participate in the gratitude of my fellow citizens, and hope that it will augment in proportion to the profit they may derive from your precepts. Embellish the asylum you have chosen, enlighten a people worthy of your lessons, and do you, who so well know how to display liberty and virtue, teach us to cultivate them in our actions as we adore them in your writings. All who approach you ought to learn from you the road to glory and immortality.
You perceive, sir, I do not aspire to the reputation of once more leading men into the woods; not but that I regret my part of the loss of a state of nature. With respect to yourself, sir, to make you a savage would be a miracle so great that it can be wrought only by God, and so pernicious that it can be willed only by the devil. Do not, therefore, attempt to walk on all-fours; to do which no man on earth is less qualified. You teach men too effectually to stand firmly not to remain erect yourself. I own the disgrace which attends on celebrated men of letters is great indeed, nor do I deny that the evils are numerous which are attached to human nature, and which appear to be independent of our vain knowledge. Men have opened so many sources of misery to themselves that their happiness is but little increased when they chance to escape a single misfortune. There are secret connexions, however, in the progress of things which are [Page 270] unperceived by the vulgar, but which do not escape the thoughtful eye of the philosopher.
It was neither Terence, Cicero, Virgil, Seneca, nor Tacitus, who caused the crimes of the Romans and the misfortunes of Rome. But without the slow and secret poison which insensibly corrupted the most vigorous government of which history has preserved the remembrance, Cicero, Lucretius, Sallust, and such men had never existed or they had never written. The amiable age of Laelius and Terence insensibly introduced the brilliant period of Horace and Augustus; and, in fine, the horrid epoch of Seneca and Nero, that of Tacitus and Domitian. A taste for the arts and sciences has its birth in a secret vice which it soon augments in its turn; and if it be true that all human acquirements are pernicious to the species, those of the mind and of knowledge, which increase our pride and multiply our wanderings, will soonest accelerate men's misfortunes. Yet, there necessarily comes a time in which those acquirements are requisite to stay the progress of evil: it is the steel which must remain in the wound, least, in removing it, the wounded should expire.
As to myself, had I pursued my first vocation and neither read nor written, I should have been unquestionably more happy; yet if letters could now be entirely effaced, I should be deprived of the only pleasure which is left me. It is in letters that I find a consolation for all my misfortunes; it is among their illustrious [Page 271] children that I taste the delights of friendship, and learn to enjoy life and despise death. To them I owe the little merit I have, and to them am I also indebted for the honour of being known to you. But let us consult interest in our concerns, and truth in our writings. Although there need philosophers, historians, and truly learned men to enlighten the world and conduct its blind inhabitants, yet, if the wise Memnon has not misinformed me, I know nothing more ridiculous than a nation of sages. Confess, sir, if it be right that great minds should instruct men, the vulgar ought to receive their precepts. If each takes upon himself to give instruction, where will those [...]e who are to receive it? The lame, says Montaigne, are ill calculated for bodily exercise, or decripid souls for the exercises of the mind. Nevertheless, in this learned age, we see none but the lame willing to teach others to walk.
Ordinary men receive the writings of the learned to criticise them, and not to instruct themselves. Never was the world swarmed with such dwarfs in intellect; they crowd the theatre, the coffee-houses resound with their sentences, the booksellers stalls are covered with their writings, and I hear the Orphan criticised, because it is applauded, by a school boy so little capable of perceiving its defects that scarcely can he feel any of its beauties.
Let us look for the first source of all the diso [...] ders in society, and we shall find that the m [...] series [Page 272] of mankind proceed from error rather than ignorance; and that what we do not know is much less prejudicial to us than that which we think we understand. Now what surer means to run from error to error than the rage of knowing every thing? Had not men pretended to know that the earth does not turn on its axis, they had not punished Gallieo, for having affirmed that it did turn. If none but philosophers had claimed the title of philosopher, the Encyclopédia had experienced no persecution. If a hundred despicable beings had not aspired to fame, you would have been left to the peaceful enjoyment of yours, or at least you would have had to contend with none but adversaries worthy of you. Be not surprised then should you feel some thorns which are inseperable from the flowers that adorn superior talents. The calumnies of your enemies are the followers of your triumph; as formerly satyric acclamations were those of the Roman generals. It is the public eagerness for your writings which produces the thefts of which you complain; but the assimilating them with others is not easy, for neither iron nor lead unites with gold.
Permit me, in consideration of the interest which I take in your repose and our instruction, to advise you to disdain vain clamours, by which it is less the design to make you do ill than to divert you from producing good. The more you shall be criticised, the more must [Page 273] you be admired; and a work of genius is a terrifying answer to weak reproaches. Who will dare to attribute books to you, which you have not written, while you continue to produce inimitable works?
I am proud of your invitation, and if this winter leaves me so circumstanced that I can visit my native country in spring I will avail myself of your goodness. But I would rather drink the water of your fountain, than the milk of your cows; and with respect to the herbs of your orchard, I much fear to find nothing there but the lotos which is only pasture for beasts, or the moli which prevents men from becoming brutes. I am sincerely and respectfully, &c.
LETTER FROM THE ABBE AU [...]URT TO M. DE VOLTAIRE. (Accompanied by a Copy of his book of Fables.)
I have ever thought, sir, that the first duty of a man who wished to acquire fame in any species of poetry, would be to form his taste on your writings, and the second to offer his essays to your inspection. I acquit myself of this last, with much reliance on your indulgence and advice. Hitherto those whom I have consulted have given me such various counsels, that I know not which to pursue. I am reproached by one for having too closely imitated la Fontaine; and by another, for not having sufficiently imitated him. This friend complains that the morals of my fables are too long; this, that they are too short; and a third would compel me to suppress them all, [Page 275] alledging, notwithstanding the example of all the fabulists, that the object of a fable should be so inforced by the fable itself, as to pass for that species of commentary which is called the moral. I have critics who wish that my fables were all as simple as that of La Cigale et la Fourmi *; as if a writer of fables was condemned to be read by none but children.
This variety of opinions respecting my production has often led me to apply to myself the fable of the miller, his son, and the ass:
You see, sir, how necessary it is I should be determined by a sound judgment and from which my critics cannot appeal, and I shall act according to your advice, if I can deserve that the author of the Henriade should sacrifice some moments to the reading a few fables, and that he should deign to communicate his opinion to me. I expect this favour, sir, from your zeal to encourage rising talents, and I should at all times be proud to take lessons from the finest genius of France. I am, &c.
EPITRE DU MEME *.
OBSERVATIONS By the Ambassador M. de Chouvelin, on a Letter written by M. de Voltaire to the King of Prassia, made by Order of the Ministry, in 1759 *.
THE letter is good, and the reasoning and the manner are excellent. I have only two observations to make.
1st. I know not whether I would so positively present to him the idea of restitution. I imagine this must ever be a bitter draught, and I know not whether it will not injure his fame as much as his interest. Perhaps it will be necessary to soften this passage.
2d. I think it would be expedient further to explain to him the basis of a system of pacification which should originate in his own ideas, such as they are found in his last letter; consequently to me it appears that I should address him thus:
You will not make peace but in conjunction with the English, and you are right, for your honour is pledged; but why will you not make peace for the English and for yourself at the same time? Have you not sufficient claims to their esteem, or ascendency enough over them, to induce them to sacrifice some of their [Page 280] advantages to the honour of securing your own possessions? Would not the French, in compensation for such a benefit, be impelled and authorised to prevail on their allies to make concessions equivalent to those which the English should have made in your favour? Will you not then become the author and the mover of these reciprocal concessions which shall reduce the whole to an equilibrium that will be desirable and beneficial to all parties? In a word, should you induce the English not to engross the dominion of the seas, the proprietorship of all the colonies, and of trade in general, can you doubt but that the French would engage your enemies to renounce these claims which to you are most noxious.
Such a paragraph modelled by the genious of M. de Voltaire, embellished by the powerful charms of his style, and combined with the knowledge he has of managing the king of Prussia and of the objects most proper to excite his attention, would, in my opinion, fully display the grand outlines of a plan which it would be very fortunate should this monarch seize on, adopt, and bring to maturity.
LETTER FROM THE COUNT DE TRESSAN, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
HIS Polish majesty, sir, has commanded [Page 281] me to supply his loss of sight by answering the charming letter he has just received from you, and by assuring you of his friendship for your person, and of his high esteem for your works.
His majesty again confirms the attestation which he commanded me to send you relative to the exact truth of all the facts contained in your history of Charles XII. From you, sir, he is highly gratified to learn that the king his son-in-law, by renewing the ancient priviledges of your manor lands, has afforded you a distinguished mark of his good will and esteem.
I cannot but be sensible, sir, how great your loss is in not reading characters traced by the hand which you would kiss with so much pleasure; a single word from this adored prince, who is continually performing every thing which you must love to praise in great kings, would to you be a thousand times more estimable than all which the most faithful of your servants and friends can utter.
I answer from the heart, being in want of eyes; and assure you that I continually preserve sentiments of perfect esteem and friendship for you.
P. S. By Count de Trassan.Your heart will easily divine what my dear [Page 282] and amiable master has written.—I answer from the heart being in want of eyes, &c. Pity an active mind: (and how seldom are the minds of kings so!) pity one [...] who is deprived of the pleasure of revising his works, and who no longer can read, write, play on musical instruments, or see your old acquaintance *, at whose house his majesty has written this short postscript.
LETTERS FROM THE SIEUR CLEMENT, OF DIJON, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
LETTER I.
DID I not know you to be sufficiently wise to look with contempt on the baubles of grandeur so as not to be susceptible of them, I should feel no surprise that you had disdained to answer the letter I ventured to write to you, in which my heart described all its sensations. I was convinced when my hand was the faithful interpreter of my sentiments that the dignity of yours would not suffer you to remain insensible to the afflictions of an unfortunate man, and that you knew how to dry up the tears [Page 283] which grief had caused to flow. I was persuaded that your bounty would not be implored in vain, that your arms would readily open to afford innocence an asylum, and that your heart was superior even to your understanding; such were, such still are, my thoughts; and these emboldened me to explain my melancholy situation in my first letter. Imagine, sir, whether I am not afflicted by your silence at present. Alas, perhaps you have supposed I should repay your friendship and favours with the blackest ingratitude, and that I should be cowardly and criminal enough not to be grateful. Act, sir, as you please with respect to my other requests, but let me entreat you not to do me the injustice of thus suspecting my probity. This is the only wealth I now possess, it is a precious jewel which I wish to preserve from the general contagion. Your suspicions dim its lustre, but your generosity and greatness of mind may preserve and render it more resplendent. Affection, zeal, and respect, are all the wealth I have, and now are and ever will remain yours. Were you to refuse me what I have requested with so much ardour, but which it may be improper for you to grant, I should ever remain convinced your refusal was dictated by virtue, and that you were guided by reasons unknown to me; and I then should only be anxious of being informed of what they were. In fine, sir, whatever your kind intentions may be, let me desire you would inform a youth of them [Page 284] whom suspence keeps in a state the most painful, and whose love would still be the same though you were to remain ignorant of its reality.
Perhaps, sir, you have not received my first letter; if so, and you should desire to see it, you will be pleased to inform me.
LETTER II.
PERMIT one of those who are most enamoured with the Belles Lettres without the power of studying them, and with these men of genius who study them with success, to take the present opportunity of renewing that homage which is more flattering to himself than to you. The sentiments which I have ingenuously avowed appear to have affected you, and for these I am sufficiently repaid should your feelings have been in union with mine.
The kindness which you have shewn toward me, induces me to ask a favour. During these short intervals which employment more gloomy have allowed me to dedicate to my love of poetry, I have formed the rash design of writing a tragedy, the subject of which is perhaps the most singular and interesting of any to be found in modern story. It is the death of Charles I. and the usurpation of Cromwell. The difficulties attending such a fable were [Page 285] great, nor have I by the labour of a year been able to surmount them. I have written nothing more hitherto than the plan of my piece; after having changed it several times, and most mercilessly burnt one entire act, and more, which did not equal the high idea I had formed of my subject. I am not, however, discouraged, but have begun again; yet my ardour has slackened, because I have been informed that you have for some time been yourself at work on the same subject, and that soon or late you intend to present your piece to the public.
You may well imagine, sir, that my rashness is not quite great enough to contend with an antagonist like yourself. It belongs only to a few to enter the lists with and vanquish their masters. I should quickly abandon my plan, were I certain that you had formed the same; and especially as this perhaps will be the only work I shall ever write during a life of obscurity; and banished as I am to a town in which there are men of wit, but who make no use of that quality, and who hate or despise those who do. My days will be shortened by labour, which is the only wealth and the only pleasure of which fortune could not deprive me; and Cromwell only, to whom I should dedicate the remains of life, would preserve the memory of a youth who grew too early old because he began to think too soon.
Yes, sir, at the age of seven, I endeavoured [Page 286] to cultivate poetry, and you may easily imagine how much assiduous study injures the health of a child. Excuse me for having so long detained you on subjects of so little moment. Only let me intreat you to inform me whether I ought to continue my project, and whether you have not anticipated my design. Deign to afford me lessons, of which I am too much in want, and of which I am so desirous, that you will scarcely refuse them. By your aid, I may discover impediments which I have not foreseen, or beauties which I could never have invented. You will encourage me in executing a difficult task, and will teach me to avoid rocks and quick-sands, among which I should otherwise be wrecked, but which your genius will enable me to escape. Do not, I conjure you, deny the request of a youth who seeks for instruction, who respects his masters, who loves your person because he loves your works in which your soul shines forth, and who is indebted to you for every thing, because from you he has learned to think.
I am, sir, with all the esteem of heart, &c.
LETTER III.
I HAVE broken my bonds, sir, and have shaken of classic dust. Here am I at Paris, in [Page 287] freedom and almost happiness, and in the centre of the arts where I so long have desired to live and cultivate literature. But, ah, sir, how strangely have literature and good taste gone to decay! How little does all I see assimilate with the ideas I had formed from reading our best authors! I am fallen as it were from the clouds. I understand no man, and no man understands me. They tell me of comedies which make the audience weep, and I see tragedies which oblige me to laugh. I am desired to write in the same taste, and I do not know what taste they mean. It is necessary, however, that I should submit; and I begin to perceive the thing it not so very difficult.
I really, sir, do not know what will hereafter be thought of the present age; but I am convinced that it is intolerably like the age of Seneca and Silius Italicus. You, sir, are the man who beheld the meridian of the Belles Lettres, and for the decline of which you long have consoled us; but you have the affliction of not leaving any hope behind you of similar consolation.
Pardon this complaint sir, from a gloomy partisan of old taste, and an admirer of your works. I cannot prevail on myself ever to think that beautiful which never can be so, unless it be proved that Molière, Racine, Boileau, and yourself are wretched writers.
But I come to the main purport of my letter, which is to thank you for having procured [Page 288] me the acquaintance of M. de la Harpe. I cannot sufficiently praise his politeness, the goodness of the advice he has given me, and particularly the veneration which he expresses for you, He swears by your name as Philoctetes swore by Hercules; and I have no doubt but that he will nobly fill the part of Philoctetes. He will certainly be well able to oppose the torrent, and combat the monsters of literature. But the evil is too deeply rooted; his his example will come too late; and he will only be able to save himself from the general shipwreck.
I did not find the minds of men much prejudiced in favour of my Médée non-Magicienne (Medea no Enchantress.) They took it ill that I should rob the stage of a splendid spectacle which produced so fine an effect in the opinion of merchant's clerks, and of the vulgar. They further add that the magic invocations of Longe pierre have their charms; and that his versification will again become pleasant to our ears. In vain did I affirm with you that an enchantress cannot affect the passions which are totally destroyed by magic, and would be thought ridiculous in any other character except Medea, and that it is disgusting and monstrous for her to kill her children without any cause, since she might have carried them off in her carr. I added a thousand other things of the same nature, but to no effect; and I find the people of this philosophic age are more addicted to sorcery than they suppose.
[Page 289]In fine, sir, I have put my piece into the hands of M. le Kain, and am waiting for his opinion previous to the reading of it to the actors collectively. I do not augur much success, but I will console myself by writing better.
As my revenues are not sufficiently great to enable me to subsist entirely as a poet, I am in search of some proper employment either [...]as a secretary or a teacher in some good family. If, sir, you should be able to assist my project by the means of your acquaintance, I should add this to the many favours you have already done me, and my gratitude would end only with my life.
I have the honour sir, to be, with the most sincere admiration and attachment.
LETTER FROM THE EX-JESUIT PAULIAN, TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
IT is exceedingly flattering to me that the greatest genius of the age should think proper to cast a glance over my works. I am sorry that the third edition of the d [...]ctionary, after which you enquire, is not yet finished. When it shall appear, with an additional vo [...]ume, I will do myself the honour of presenting it to [Page 290] you; and hope it will be less defective than that which I now send. In the mean time, let me entreat you to accept a copy of my Traisé de paix entre Descartes et Newton *. Should it merit your approbation, I shall from this be certain that it will merit immortality.
I have the honour to be, with respect, &c.
LETTER FROM M. THIRIOT TO M. DE VOLTAIRE.
YOU, my old friend, my honour, and my support, are the only man in the world to [...]om I can write with my present freedom. ‘Frontis ad urbane descendo praemia.’ For these two years I have habitually paid the tribute which age owes to nature. An asthma was my prevailing and familiar malady; however, a severe regimen, and a plant which I do not know, but of which I have fortunately procured a good stock, though I have no occasion to use it at present, caused every symptom to disappear toward autumn. My health theretherefore [Page 291] is as good as I could wish, but my trifling fortune and my affairs are in the utmost confusion. I have for three years paid 600 livres annually, in consequence of the engagements into which I entered at the marriage of my daughter.
The following is the state of my income: 1200 livres from the king of Prussia, of which only a thousand are clear profit, 200 being set apart to pay for the journals and papers from which I make my extracts, and for copying those and other works which I find it necessary to add. These 1000 livres from the king of Prussia, with an annuity of 2600 livres, which is secured on the Hotel de Ville, and 400 livres per annum, paid me by the Count de Lauraguais, gave me hopes of extricating myself from my difficulties, and of even continuing to pay the 600 livres according to my engagement. But a new perpetual charge has accrued by the necessity of my taking a second wife to aid me in my infirmities.
You did me the favour to inform me, in the beginning of 1766, when I begged you to remember me in the distribution of your benefactions that I had deferred my application too long, and that as a punishment I must wait longer; that I ought to have reminded you of my granary in the time of the harvest, and that every body had gleaned except myself, seeing I did not present myself among the rest. You promised to repair the ill consequence of [Page 292] my negligence, and you added in the most obliging and gratifying manner that you had the same regard for me as formerly.
This recalls to my mind with what zeal you undertook and endeavoured, toward the latter end of the regency, to procure half of your pension to be settled on me and in what manner, through your solicitations, the Duke de Melun interested himself in the success of that design under the administration of the regent. But the sorrowful events which followed in rapid succession rendered ineffectual this uncommon instance of friendship and benevolence, and which was particularly noticed in the Hollard Gazette. Hence, I have ever found myself encouraged to say to you, when there sh [...]ld b [...] occasion, as Horace said to Mecaenas while he enumerated his benefactions: Nec si [...]l [...]ra velim, [...]u dare deneges.
And hence, also I was induced lately to say, at the table of the Lieutenant Civil▪ that I knew of no one but M. de Voltaire of whom I could ask a favour, or from whom I could receive one with pleasure.
I do not send you any literary intelligence, for I am too much engaged with little domestic vexations. *
MEMORANDUMS Respecting M. de Voltaire, and particular Facts relative to that great Man; collected by me * to serve as an Appendix to his History, written by the Abbé du Vernet.
MAY I not be permitted to boast of a title which while it created my fortune, constituted my happiness? I hope so, and that the facts I am about to state will justify the motto I have chosen, although otherwise it might appear too assuming.
The peace of 1748, having restored every [...]ecies of diversion to the city of Paris, become the memorable epoch of a new institution of some societies formed of tradesmen, [...]he met together for the pleasure of playing dramatic pieces.
The first was established at the Hotel de Soyecourt in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; the second, at the Hotel de Clermont Tonnerre [...] the Marshes; and the third, at the Hotel de Jabac in the Rue Saint-Méri; of which last theatre I was the founder.
Among the young people who at that time played with some reputation, and part of [Page 294] whom have since settled in the country, I am the only one who remained at Paris; and this circumstance, which I owed rather to my good fortune than any superiority of talents, happened in the following way.
The room in which we performed in the Hotel de Jabac being in such condition that the repairing of it could be no longer delayed, we were under the necessity of requesting permission of the comedians of the Hotel de Clermont. Tonnerre to play an their theatre, alternately with them. An agreement was accordingly entered into by both parties, in the month of July, 1749, by which we were bound to pay half the expences; and we opened with Sidney and George-Dandin.
It will be readily supposed that the emulation of the two companies would excite disputes in the public, the result of which could not be favourable to one without diminishing the reputation which the other till then had enjoyed. The audience were divided in their opinion of these gentlemen and of those, of the young ladies of this theatre and the young ladies of that. The first were more pleasing, but the other displayed more knowledge of the theatre, and more grace and art, &c. Thus were the public amused and combatted some for the company de Tonnerre, and others for the company de Jabac. But who could have imagined that a society of young people who united pleasure and decorum could provoke [Page 295] the jealousy and complaints of the high-priests of Melpomene? Yet, their influence interrupted our performances, and a Jansenist priest re-established them. The Abbé de Chauvelin, Conséiller-Clerc of the parliament of Paris, condescended to employ his power in behalf of pupils against their masters, and we played the Mauvais-riche, a new comedy in five acts and in verse, written by M. de Arnaud, to the most brilliant assembly then in Paris; but it was received with little applause. This was in the month of February, 1750.
M. de Voltaire was invited by the author to see the representation; and, whether induced by his compassion for M. d' Arnaud or his complaisance to the actors who to the utmost exerted themselves to give some value to that feeble uninteresting work, this great man appeared well pleased, and particularly inquired who it was that played the part of the lover. He was informed that the performer was the son of a goldsmith of Paris who played for his amusement, but who really wished to make it his serious employment. He expressed to M. Arnaud a desire of knowing me; and desired him to engage me to pay him a visit on the following day.
The pleasure this invitation gave me was even greater than my surprise; but it is impossible for me to describe the sensations of my mind when I beheld this man whose eyes burned with imagination and genius. As I [Page 296] spake to him I felt myself penetrated with enthusiasm, admiration, and fear; but while I experienced these sensations, M. de Voltaire had the goodness to put an end to my embarrassment by taking me in his arms and thanking God for having created a being who could excite his feelings by the repetition of such moderate verses.
He afterwards made several enquiries relative to my situation, and that of my father, the manner in which I have been educated, and the ideas I entertained of my future fortune. Having satisfied him on these subjects, and having partaken of a dozen cups of coffee mixed with chocolate, the only nourishment which M. de Voltaire took from five in the morning till three in the afternoon, I informed him with great earnestness that I knew no other happiness on earth than that of playing dramatic pieces; that a melancholy loss had left me master of my actions, and that enjoying a small patrimony of seven hundred and fifty livres income, I had reason to hope that should I abandon my father's occupation, I should lose nothing by the change, provided I could one day be admitted into the king's company of comedians.
"Ah my friend," cried M. de Voltaire, "never take that resolution; continue to perform for your pleasure, but think not of making this your profession. It is one of the greatest and most difficult talents, but it is degraded [Page 297] by unfeeling people and proscribed by hypocrites. France shall one day esteem your art, but it will then no longer possess Baron, le Couvreur, or Dangeville. If you will renounce your design I will lend you ten thousand francs to employ in commerce, and you shall return the sum as it shall be convenient to you. Come to me again at the end of the weak; reflect well on the subject, and acquaint me with your possitive determination."
Disconcerted, and moved almost to the shedding of tears, with the generous offer of this exalted being whom men have called avaricious, inflexible, and unfeeling, I wished to give way to my sentiments in expressing of gratitude, and four times began a speech without being once able to finish it. At length I resolved to take my leave, which I attempted with a stammering voice; but as I retired he called me back and desired me to recite some morsels of any part which I had been accustomed to play. Without considering the subject I foolishly enough proposed to speak the celebrated couplet in the second act of Gustavus. "No, not Piron," said M. de Voltaire, with a piercing and terrifying voice, "I wish not to hear bad verses. Repeat me any part you know from Racine."
Fortunately I recollected that while I was at the College de Mazarin I had learned the whole tragedy of Athalïe by having heard that play repeated numerous times by the scholars [Page 298] who performed it. I began therefore at the first scene and played Abner and Joad alternately. But I had not finished my task when M. de Voltaire suddenly cried with enthusiasm, "Ah, my God what poetry, and how astonishing that this tragedy should be written throughout with the same purity and passion!" He then dismissed me; and said, while he embraced me, "I foresee that you will possess a most pathetic voice; and that you will become the delight of Paris; but think no more of a public theatre."
This is an exact account of my first visit to M. de Voltaire. The second was more conclusive, as he consented, after the most earnest solicitations on my side, to receive me into his house, and to allow me a yearly income; he built, over his own apartment, a small theatre in which he had the goodness to see me and the whole company to which I belonged play with his nieces. He could not reflect without the strongest displeasure that till then we had been permitted to expend much money to afford amusement to our friends and to the public.
The expence which M. de Voltaire incurred by this temporary establishment, and his former disinterested offer to me, convinced me in the strongest manner that he was as noble and generous in his actions as his enemies were unjust while they ascribed to him the vice of sordid economy. These were facts of which I [Page 299] was myself a witness; but truth obliges me further to confess that M. de Voltaire did not only aid me with his advice for more than six months, but also that he defrayed my expences during the whole of that time, and that since my being established in the theatre I hate proofs of receiving from him more than two thousand crowns. At present he calls me "His great actor, His Carrick, His dear child!" These are titles which I owe solely to his partiality for me; but the title which my heart adopts is that of a respectful and grateful pupil.
And indeed I ought to be grateful since it was to M. de Voltaire alone that I owed the first notions of my art; and since it was solely through his interest that the Duke de Aumont thought proper to grant the order for my first appearance at the theatre in the month of September, 1750; the result of which was that, aided by a perseverance, proof against every obstacle, I, at the end of seventeen months, surmounted all opposition from the city and the court, and was entered on the list of the king's comedians in the mouth of February, 1752.
Whoever reads these details will observe that I am far from resembling those ungrateful hearts who blush to acknowledge a benefaction; and who, to complete their baseness, meanly calumniate their benefactors. I have known more than one of that kind connected [Page 300] with M. de Voltaire. I have been witness of the depredations which have been made on him by people of every rank. Some he has pitied, silently despised others, but never avenged himself of any. The booksellers, whom he has prodigiously enriched by the various editions of his works, have ever publicly aspersed his character; but there is not one of them who has dared to attack him in a court of justice, con [...]cious as they were of their guilt.
The friendship of M. de Voltaire is ever unshaken. His manner is impetuous, his heart good, his soul compassionate; he is modest in in an extreme degree, notwithstanding the praises which have been lavished on him by kings, by men of letters, and by a people assembled to hear and admire him; profound and just in his opinion of the works of other writers, abounding with affability and politeness in his commerce with men, and inflexible toward those who have offended him. In these features his character will be seen drawn with truth.
He could never be reproached with having been the first to attack his adversaries; but, after hostilities were commenced, he has appeared as a lion rushing from his retreat, and at such times some of his enemies have fallen before him, and others have taken their flight.
I have heard him frequently say, that his being unable to possess the friendship of Crébillon gave him great affliction; that he had [Page 301] ever esteemed his abilities, but could never pardon his having refused his approbation to Mahomet.
I will say nothing of the sublimity of his various talents; in whatever way he exercised them, he displayed erudition, wit, taste, and philosophy; and Europe will pronounce his eulogium. His works, distributed over the earth, are sufficient to form the materials of his praise; and happy is he who can appreciate them, and speak worthily of this celebrated and extraordinary man.
The facility with which he wrote is universally known; but few have been witness to such instances as the following, which I myself saw.
His amanuensis had lost or destroyed the fifth act of the tragedy of Zulima. M. de Voltaire produced another in a very short time, and which abounded with new ideas, that circumstances had suggested.
He altered the character of Cicero, in the fourth act of Rome Preserved, when we performed that tragedy in the month of August, 1750, at the theatre of the Duchess du Maine, at the Chateau de Sceaux. I think it is not possible that any one could be more true, more pathetic, or more enthusiastic than M. de Voltaire in this part. It was, indeed, Cicero himself, pouring forth his eloquence from the tribunal, against the destroyer of his country, of its laws, its manners, and its religion. I [Page 302] cannot forget that the Duchess du Maine, after having expressed her admiration of this new part, asked M. de Voltaire who was the performer of Lentulus; Sura, and that M. de Voltaire answered, "Madam, he is the best of us all." It was myself whom he treated with such distinguished goodness, nor was it very flattering to the knights, counts, and marquisses, whose companion I then was.
I will not conclude this article without naming some other anecdotes which were within my own knowledge, and which may perhaps serve to give still more correct ideas of the character of M. de Voltaire.
It is well known that, on the death of the celebrated Baron, and on the retreat of Bauberg from the stage, both the comic and the tragic parts of these great actors were given to Sarrasin, who at that time did not approach near the excellence of his masters, a circumstance which drew a severe sarcasm from Voltaire, who had committed to him the part of Brutus in the tragedy of the same name. The piece was rehearsed at the theatre, and the feebleness of Sarrasin in his invocation to Mars, his want of vigour, grandeur, and dignity throughout the first act, excited Voltaire's indignation to such a degree that he cried out, "Sir, do you recollect that you are Brutus, the most august of all the Roman Consuls, and that you must not address the god Mars as you would say, Ah good Virgin, let me gain a prize of a hundred francs in the lottery!"
[Page 303]The result of this new mode of instruction was that Sarrasin displayed no more strength of animation, for he did not possess those qualities, and was only a good actor when the scene required pathos. He knew not the art of painting the passions with energy, nor was the soul of Mithridates, nor the dignity of Augustus ever perceived in him.
The celebrity which Mademoiselle Dumesnil had acquired in the part of Merope, and which she has uniformly maintained during twenty years is well known. Yet even this reputation was no protection from the railleries of M. de Voltaire. When she rehearsed Merope for the first time he observed that this famous actress did not inveigh against Polifonte in the fourth act with sufficient vehemence and passion. "I must be possessed by the devil," said Madame Dumesnil, "to assume the tone you desire." "Yes, Madam," answered Voltaire, "we must be possessed by the devil to excel in any art!" I believe that M. de Voltaire then spoke a great truth,
He was one day asked his opinion respecting the propriety with which some preferred Mademoisselle Dumesnil to Mademoiselle Clairon, and the justness of that enthusiasm which this last excited in the public to the great mortification of the actress who had served her as a model. The partisans of the old taste pretended that to seize on the soul and to excite its feelings, it was necessary to possess, like Mademoiselle Dumesnil, [Page 304]the magic wand of Corncille, and that Mademoiselle Clarion had it not. "She has it in the throat," cried Voltaire; and the question was accurately decided.
A very young and beautiful girl, daughter of a Procureur * belonging to the parliament, played with me the part of Palmire in Mahomet, on M. de Voltaire's theatre. This amiable girl, who was but fifteen years old, was far from being able to speak with sufficient strength and grandeur the imprecations which it was her part to utter against her tyrant. She was young, handsome, and interesting, and M. de Voltaire assumed more gentleness while he shewed her how far distant she was from the spirit of her part. "Madam," said he to her, "imagine to yourself that Mahomet is an impostor, an attrocious villian, who caused your father to be assassinated, has just poisoned your brother, and who to crown his kindness would absolutely ravish yourself. If all this trifling treachery gives you a certain pleasure, your politeness to him is well judged. But if he excited the least disgust in you, this, Madam, it the tone that you should assume."
Then M. de Voltaire himself repeated the imprecation and gave this poor innocent girl, who was blushing with shame and trembling with fear, a lesson so much more precious as he joined precept to example; and she afterwards became a very pleasing actress.
[Page 305]In 1755, being at M. de Voltaire's house of the Delices near Geneva, which he had just obtained from the attorney-general Tronchin, he deposited in my hands the Orphan of China, which was at first in three acts, and which he named his hidden treasure. Speaking of a noble character in this tragedy which possessed great novelty, he said to me, "My friend, the inflexions of your voice are naturally soft and melodious, but beware of suffering any of those to escape you in the part of Gengis Khan. You must impress it strongly on your mind that I have painted him as a tyger who, while he caresses his female, strikes his talons into her sides. If the other performers find the piece languid in parts, I permit them to make curtailments. These are citizens that we must sometimes sacrifice to the safety of the republic. But take care that they use the licence with caution; for false critics are often more dangerous in dictating these sort of alterations, than men who are down-right ignorant."
After my departure from Ferney, in the month of April, 1762, M. de Voltaire formed a desire to have the Orphan of China played at his little theatre. The bookseller Cramer studied the part of Gengis Khan, under the instruction of the Duke de Villars. The pretentions of this nobleman to teach the art of performing on the stage are well known; he made his pupil Cramer a cold, insipid, declaimer. M. de Voltaire was not slow to perceive [Page 306] the defect; and, in the first rehearsal, he was more than ever convinced that a man may be at the same time a duke, a fine wit, and the son of a great man, without any of these titles giving him talents to exercise the fine arts, knowledge to comprehend their principles, or taste to decide on their execution.
M. de Voltaire hissed Cramer; and threatened to torment him this way till he should have changed his style of acting. The faithful Genevese applied with incredible application to forget the whole of his master's lessons, and returned to Ferney at the end of fifteen days, to repeat his part in a new manner before M. de Voltaire, who perceiving a very great change, cried with rapture to Madame Denis, "My Neice, God be praised! Cramer has disgorged his Duke!"
For more than thirty years Paris had never beheld a party as strong as that which was formed to oppose the first representation of the tragedy of Orestes, except indeed, that which was formed against Adelaide de Guesclan. Orestes was hissed from three to eight in the evening. Yet, the best informed part of the public, whose judgment alone survives temporary efforts because it is impartial, prevailed by degrees over Crébillon's zealots, and finally testified its satisfaction by the most unsuspected acclamations. It was in one of these inebriating moments that Voltaire sprang half out of his box, and cried with all his strength, "Go on Athenians! It is Sophocles!"
[Page 307]This frankness and admirable presence of mind every hour characterized the only man of whom we have collected any anecdotes. This which follows displays M. de Voltaire as nature formed him, that is, animated, eloquent, and ever philosophic.
In 1743, at the third or fourth representation of Merope, M. de Voltaire observed a defect in a part of the dialogue. On his return from the Marchioness du Chatelet's house, where he had supped, he corrected the faulty part, made a packet of his corrections, and ordered a servant to carry them to the Sieur Paulin, a very worthy man, but a very moderate actor, whom Voltaire had educated, as he used to say, with great care to play his tyrants. The servant observed to his master that it was past midnight, and that it would be impossible to awaken M. Paulin at that hour. "Away," replied the author of Merope, "tyrants never sleep."
DECLARATION OF M. DE VOLTAIRE TO THE KING OF PRUSSIA. [Remitted by him to his Majesty's Minister, at Frankfort, 1753.]
I AM dying; and I protest before God and man that, being no longer in the service of [Page 308] his majesty the king of Prussia, I am not the less attached to his interest, nor less ready to obey his pleasure for the short time I have to live.
He arrested me at Frankfort for a collection of his poetry, of which he made me a present, and I remained in prison till the book was brought from Hamburg. I have restored to the king's minister, at Frankfort, all the letters of his majesty which I had preserved as precious marks of the goodness with which he had honoured me. At Paris I will restore all the other letters which may be demanded by him.
His majesty wishes to recal a contract which he had deigned to make with me. I am certainly ready to return it with all the rest; and, as soon as it shall be found, I will restore it or cause it to be restored. This writing, which was not a contract but altogether the effect of the king's goodness, and which has been without any effect, was on a piece of paper one half less than that which d'Arget took from my chamber to the king's apartment at Potsdam. It contained nothing more than thanks on my part for the pension which his majesty had granted me with the permission of the king my master, for that which he had also granted to my neice after my death, and for the cross, and chamberlain's key.
The king of Prussia deigned to write at the bottom of this scrap of paper, as well as I [Page 309] remember: "I sign with great pleasure the grant which I have designed to make for more than fifteen years past." This paper, absolutely useless to his majesty, to myself, and the public, shall assuredly be returned as soon as it can be found among my other papers. I neither can nor will make the least use of it; and, to remove all suspicion, I declare myself guilty of treason toward the king of France, my master, and the king of Prussia if I do not deliver up this paper the instant it shall fall into my hands.
My neice, who attends me in my sickness, engages under the same oath to restore it if it shall come into her possession; and till I can examine my papers at Paris I entirely annul the said writing. I declare that I have no claim on his majesty the king of Prussia; and, in my present cruel situation, I look for nothing except the compassion which his greatness of mind owes to a dying man who has hazarded and lost all by his attachment to his majesty, who has served him with zeal, and has been useful to him but has never failed in respect to his person, and who relies on the goodness of his heart. I am obliged to dictate, being unable to write. I sign, with the profoundest respect, the purest innocence, and the most lively grief,
LES J' A VU At tibu [...]s faussement à M. de Voltaire, et qui le f [...]eut mettre a le Bastille, sous la régence, en 1716 *.
MEMOIRS OF VOLTAIRE. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
I WAS tired of the lazy and turbulent life led at Paris, of the multitude of Petit-Maitres, of bad books printed with the approbation of Censors and the privilege of the King, of the cabals and parties among the learned, and of the mean arts, plagiarism, and book-making which dishonour literature. In the year 1733, I met with a young lady who happened to think nearly as I did, and who took a resolution to go with me and spend several years in the country, there to cultivate her understanding, far from the hurry and tumult of the world.
This Lady was no other than the Marchioness de Châtelet, who, of all the women in France, had a mind the most capable of the different branches of science. Her father, the Baron de Breteuid, had taught her Latin, which [Page 314] she understood as perfectly as Madame Dacier. She knew by rote the most beautiful passages in Horace, Virgil, and Lucretius, and all the philosophical works of Cicero were familiar to her. Her inclinations were more strongly bent towards the mathematics and metaphysics than any other studies, and seldom have there been united in the same person so much justness of discernment, and elegance of taste, with so ardent a desire of information.
Yet, notwithstanding her love of literature, she was not the less fond of the world, and those amusements which were adapted to her sex and age: she, however, determined to quit them all, and go and bury herself in an old ruinous chateau, upon the borders of Champagne and Loraine, and situated in a barren and unhealthy soil. This old chateau she ornamented, and embellished with tolerably pretty gardens; I built a gallery, and formed a very good collection of natural history: add to which, we had a library not badly furnished.
We were visited by several of the learned, who came to philosophize in our retreat: among others we had the celebrated Köenig for two intire years, who has since died Professor at the Hague, and Librarian to her Highness the princess of Orange. Maupertuis came also, with John Bernouilli; and there it was that Maupetuis, who was born the most jealous of all human beings, made me the object of a passion which has ever been to him exceedingly dear.
[Page 315]I taught English to Madame du Châtelet, who in about three months, understood it as well as I did, and read Newton, Locke, and Pope, with equal ease. She learnt Italian likewise as soon. We read all the works of Tasso and Ariosto together, so that when Algarotti came to Cirey, where he finished his Neutonianismo per le Dame, [The Ladies Newton,] he found her sufficiently skilful in his own language to give him some very excellent information by which he profited. Algarotti was a Venetian, the son of a very rich tradesman, and very amiable; he travelled all over Europe, knew a little of every thing, and gave to every thing a grace.
In this our delightful retreat we sought only instruction, and troubled not ourselves concerning what passed in the rest of the world. We long employed all our attention and powers upon Leibnitz, and Newton: Madame du Châtelet attached herself first to Leibnitz, and explained one part of his system, in a book exceedingly well written, entitled Institutions de Physique. She did not seek to decorate philosophy with ornaments to which philosophy is a stranger; such affectation never was part of her character, which was masculine and just. The properties of her style were clearness, precision, and elegance. If it be ever possible to give the semblance of truth to the ideas of Leibnitz, it will be found in that book: but at present [Page 316] few people trouble themselves to know how or what Leibnitz thought.
Born with a love of truth, she soon abandoned system, and applied herself to the discoveries of the great Newton; she translated his whole book on the Principles of the Mathematics into French; and when she had afterwards enlarged her knowledge, she added to this book, which so few people understood, an Algebraical Commentary, which likewise is not to be understood by common readers. M. Clairaut, one of our best Geometricians, has carefully reviewed this Commentary, an edition of it was begun, and it is not to the honour of the age, that it never was finished.
At Cirey we cultivated all the arts; it was there I composed Alzire, Mérope, l'Enfant, Prodigue, and Mahomet. For her use I wrote an Essay on Universal History, from the age of Charlemagne to the present. I chose the epocha of Charlemagne, because it was the point of time which Boussuet stopped at, and because I durst not again treat a subject already handled by so great a master.
Madame du Chàtelet, however, was far from satisfied with the Universal History of this prelate; she thought it eloquent only, and was provoked to find that the labours of Bossuet were all wasted upon a nation so despicable as the Jewish.
After having spent six years in this retreat, in the midst of the arts and sciences, we were [Page 317] obliged to go to Brussels, where the family of du Châtelet had long been embroiled in a lawsuit with the family of Honsbrouk.
Here I had the good fortune to meet with a grandson of the illustrious and unfortunate Grand Pensioner De Wit, who was First President of the Chamber of Accounts, and had one of the finest libraries in Europe, which was of great use to me in writing my Universal History.
But I had a still superior happiness at Brussels, and which gave me infinite pleasure. I terminated the law-suit, by an accommodation, in which the two families had been ruining each other with expences for near sixty years, and gained two hundred and twenty thousand livres paid in ready money to the Marquis du Châtelet.
While I remained at Brussels, and in the year 1740, the unpolished King of Prussia, Frederic-William, the most intolerant of all Kings, and beyond contradiction the most frugal, and the richest in ready money, died at Berlin. His son, who has since gained so singular a kind of reputation, had then held a tolerable regular correspondence with me above four years. The world never perhaps beheld a father and son who less resembled each other than these two monarchs.
The father was an absolute Vandel, who thought of no other thing, during his whole reign, than a massing of money, and maintaining, at the least possible expence, the finest [Page 318] soldiers in Europe. Never were subjects poorer, or King more rich. He bought up at a despicable price the estates of a great part of the Nobility, who soon devoured the little money they got for them, above half of which returned to the Royal coffers by means of duties upon consumption. All the King's lands were farmed out to tax-gatherers, who held the double office of Exciseman and Judge; insomuch, that if a landed tenant did not pay this collector upon the very day appointed, he put on his Judge's robe, and condemned the delinquent in double the sum. It must be observed, that if this same Exciseman and Judge did not pay the King by the last day of the month, the day following he was himself obliged to pay double to the King.
Did a man kill a hare or lop a tree any where near the Royal domains, or commit any other peccadillo? he was instantly condemned to pay a fine. Was a poor girl found guilty of making a child? the father or the mother, or some other of the girl's relations, were obliged to pay his Majesty for the fashion.
The Baronness of Kniphaussen, who at that time was the richest widow in Berlin, that is to say, she had between three and four hundred a year, was accused of having brought one of the King's subjects clandestinely into the world in the second year of her widowhood. His Majesty thereupon wrote her a letter, with his own hand, wherein he informed her it was [Page 319] necessary, if she meant to save her honour, and preserve her character, she must immediately send him thirty thousand livres (1250 l.) This sum she was obliged to borrow, and was ruined.
He had an Ambassador at the Hague, whose name was Luisius; and certainly of all the Ambassadors that appertained to royalty, he was paid the worst. This poor man, that he might be able to keep a fire, had cut down some trees in the garden of Hous-lardick, which then appertained to the Royal-house of Prussia. His next dispatches brought him word that the King, his gracious Sovereign, had stopped on this account, a year's salary to defray his damages, and Luisius, in a fit of despair, cut his throat with the only razor he had. An old valet, happening to come in, called assistance, and unhappy for him saved his life. I afterwards met with his Excellency at the Hague, and gave him alms at the gate of the Palace, which is called the Old Court, and which belonged to the King of Prussia, where this poor Ambassador had lived twelve years.
Turkey, it must be confessed, is a Republic, when compared to the despotism exercised by this Frederick-William.
It was by such like means, only, that he could, in a reign of twenty-eight years, load the cellers of his Palace at Berlin with a hundred and twenty millions of crowns (fifteen [Page 320] millions sterling) all well casked up in barrels, hooped with iron.
He took great pleasure in furnishing the grand apartment of the Palace whith heavy articles of massy silver, in which the worth of the workman surpassed not the sterling of nature. He gave to the Queen his wife, in charge, that is, a cabinet, the contents of which, even to the coffee-pot, were all gold.
The Monarch used to walk from his Palace cloathed in an old blue coat, with copper buttons, half way down his thighs, and when he bought a new one, these buttons were made to serve again. It was in this dress that his Majesty, armed with a huge serjeant's cane, marched forth every day to review his regiment of giants. These giants were his greatest delight, and the things for which he went to the heaviest expence.
The men who stood in the first rank of this regiment were none of them less than seven feet high, and he sent to purchase them from the farther parts of Europe to the borders of Asia. I have seen some of them since his death.
The King, his son, who loved handsome, and not gigantic men, had given those I saw to the Queen, his wife, to serve in quality of Heiduques. I remember they accompanied the old state coach, which preceded the Marquis de Beauvan, who came to compliment the new King in the month of November, 1740. The late King Frederic-William, who [Page 321] had formerly fold all the magnificent furniture left by his father, never could find a purchaser for that enormous unguilt coach. The Heiduques, who walked on each side to support it, in case it should fall, shook hands with each other over the roof.
After Frederic-William had reviewed his giants, he used to walk through the town, and every body fled before him full speed. If he happened to meet a woman, he would demand why she staid idling her time in the streets, and exclaim, "Go—get home with you, you lazy hussy; an honest woman has no business over the threshold of her own door;" which remonstrance he would accompany with a hearty box on the ear, kick in the groin, or a few well applied strokes on thee shoulders with his cane.
The holy Ministers of the Gospel were treated also in exactly the same style, if they happened to take a fancy to come upon the parade.
We may easily imagine, what would be the astonishment and vexation of a Vandal, like this, to find he had a son endowed with wit, grace, and good breeding; who delighted to please, was eager in the acquisition of knowledge, and who made verses, and afterwards set them to music. If he caught him with a book in his hand, he threw it into the fire; or playing on the flute, he broke his instrument; and sometimes treated his Royal Highness, as [Page 322] he treated the ladies and the preachers when he met with them on the parade.
The Prince, weary of the attentions of so kind a father, determined one sine morning, in 1730, to elope, without well knowing whether he would fly to France or England. Paternal economy had deprived him of the power of travelling in the style of son and heir to a farmer-general, or even an English tradesman, and he was obliged to borrow a few hundred ducats.
Two young gentlemen, both very amiable, one named Kat, the other Keit, were to accompany him. Kat was the only son of a brave General Officer, and Keit had married the daughter of the said Baroness of Kniphaussen, who had paid the ten thousand crowns about the child-making business before mentioned. The day and hour were appointed; the father was informed of the whole affair, and the Prince and his two travelling companions were all three put under arrest.
The King believed at first, that the Princess Wilhelmina, his daughter, who was afterwards married to the Prince Margrave of Bareith, was concerned in the plot: and as he was remarkable for dispatch in the executive branch of justice, he proceeded to kick her out of a large window, which opened from the floor to the cieling. The Queen-Mother, who was present at this exploit, with great difficulty saved her, by catching hold of her petticoats at the [Page 323] moment she was making her leap. The Princess received a contusion on her left breast, which remained with her during life, as a mark of paternal affection, and which she did me the honour to shew me.
The Prince had a sort of mistress, the daughter of a school-master, of the town of Brandebourg, who had settled at Potzdam. This girl played tolerably well upon the harpsicord, and the Prince accompanied her with his flute. He really imagined himself in love, but in this he was deceived; his avocation was not with the fair sex. However, as he had pretended a kind of passion, the King, his father, thought proper that the damsel should make the tour of Potzdam, conducted by the hangman, and ordered her to be whipped in presence of his son.
After he had regaled him with this diverting spectacle, he made a transfer of him to the citadel of Custrin, which was situated in the midst of a marsh. Here he was shut up, without a single servant, for the space of six months, in a sort of dungeon, at the end of which time he was allowed a soldier as an attendant.
This soldier, who was young, well made, handsome, and played upon the flute, had more ways than one of amusing the royal prisoner. So many fine qualities have made his fortune; and I have since known him, at once Valet de Chambre and first Minister, with all the insolence which two such posts may be supposed to inspire.
[Page 324]The Prince had been some weeks in his palace at Custrin, when one day an old officer, followed by four grenadiers, entered his chamber, weeping. Frederic had no doubt he was going to be made a head shorter; but the officer still in tears, ordered the grenadiers to take him to the window, and hold his head out of it, that he might be obliged to look on the execution of his friend Kat, upon a scaffold expressly built there for that purpose. He saw, stretched out his hand, and fainted. The father was present at this exhibition, as he had been at that of the girl's whipping-bout.
Keit, the other confidant, had fled into Holland, whither the King dispatched his military messengers to seize him. He escaped merely by a minute, embarked for Portugal, and there remained till the death of the most clement Frederic-William.
It was not the King's intention to have stopped there; his design was to have beheaded the Prince. He considered that he had three other sons, not one of whom wrote verses, and that they were sufficient to sustain the Prussian grandeur. Measures had been already concerted to make him suffer, as the Czarovitz, eldest son to Peter the Great, had suffered before.
It is not exceedingly clear, from any known laws, human or divine, that a young man should have his head struck off, because he had a wish to travel. But his majesty had [Page 325] found judges in Prussia, equally as learned and equitable as the Russian expounders of law. Besides that his own paternal authority, in a case of need, would at any time suffice.
The Emperor Charles the Sixth, however, pretended that the Prince Royal, as a Prince of the Empire, could not suffer condemnation but in a full Diet; and sent the Count de Sekendorf to the father, in order to make very serious remonstrances on that subject.
The Count de Sekendorf, whom I have since known in Saxony, where he lives retired, has declared to me, it was with great difficulty indeed, that he could prevail with the King not to behead the Prince. This is the same Sekendorf who has commanded the armies of Bavaria, and of whom the Prince, when he came to the throne, drew a hideous portrait, in the history of his father, which he inserted in some thirty copies of his Memoires dc Brandebourg I gave the Elector Palatine the copy of this work, which the King of Prussia presented to me.. Who would not, after this, serve Princes, and prevent tyrants from cutting off their heads?
After eighteen months imprisonment, the solicitations of the Emperor, and the tears of the Queen, obtained the Prince his liberty; and he immediately began to make verses, and write music more than ever. He read [Page 326] Leibnitz, and even Wolf, whom he called a compiler of trash, and devoted himself to the whole circle of sciences at once.
As the King, his father, suffered him to have very little to do with the national affairs, or as there rather, indeed, were no such affairs in a government the whole business of which was reviews, he emyloyed his leisure in writing to those men of letters in France, who were something known in the world. These letters were some in verse, and others were treatises of metaphysics, history, and politics. He treated me as a something divine, and I him as a Solomon. Epithets cost us nothing. They have printed some of these ridiculous things in a collection of my works, and happily they have not printed the thirtieth part of them. I took the liberty to send him an exceedingly beautiful ink-stand; he had the bounty to present me with a few gew-gaws of amber, and all the wits of the Parisian coffee-houses imagined with horror my fortune was made.
A young Courlander, named Keizerling, who was likewise a rhymer, and of course a favourite with Frederic, was dispatched from the frontiers of Pomerania to us at Cirey. We prepared a feast for him, and I made a fine illumination, the lights of which composed the cypher, and name of the Prince Royal, with this device, l'Esperance du genre humain:— "The hope of all nations."
[Page 327]For my own part, had I been inclined to indulge personal hopes, I had great reason so to do; for my Prince always called me his dear friend, in his letters, and spoke frequently of the solid marks of friendship which he designed for me as soon as he should mount the throne.
The throne at last was mounted, while I was at Brussels, and he began his reign by sending an Ambassador Extraordinary to France; one Camas, who had lost an arm, formerly a French refugee, and then an officer in the Prussian army. He said that, as there was a minister from the French court at Berlin, who had but one hand, he, that he might acquit himself of all obligation towards the Most Christian King, had sent him an Ambassador with only one arm.
Camas, as soon as he arrived safe at his inn, dispatched a lad to me, whom he had created his page, to tell me that he was too much fatigued to come to my house, and therefore begged I would come to him instantly, he having the finest, greatest, and most magnificent present that ever was presented, to make me on the part of the King his master. Run—run as fast as you can, said Madame du Châtelet, he has assuredly sent you the diamonds of the crown.
Away I ran, and found my Ambassador, whose only baggage was a small keg of wine, tied behind his chaise, sent from the cellar of [Page 228] the late King by the reigning Monarch, with a royal command for me to drink. I emptied myself in protestations of astonishment and gratitude for these liquid marks of his Majesty's bounty, instead of the solid ones I had been taught to expect, and divided my keg with Camas.
My Solomon was then at Strasbourg; the whim had taken him while he was visiting his long and narrow land, which extends from Guelders to the Baltic ocean, that he would come incognito to view the frontiers and troops of France. This pleasure he enjoyed at Strasbourg, where he went by the name of Count du Four, a Lord of Bohemia. His brother, the Prince Royal, who was with him, had also his travelling title; and Algaroti, who already had attached himself to him, was the only one who went unmasked.
His Majesty sent me a history of his journey to Brussels, half verse, half prose, written in a taste something similar to that of Bachaumont and Chapelle; that is to say, as similar as a King of Prussia's could be supposed to be. The following are extracts from his letter.
"After these abominable roads, we were obliged to put up at still more abominable inns.
Roads frightful! food bad, drink worse. This was not all; we met with many accidents; and to be sure our equipage must have something very odd about it, for every place we passed through they took us for outlandish animals.
The master of the post-house at Kell having assured us there was no safety without passports, and seeing we were driven to an absolute necessity of making them for ourselves, or of not entering Strasbourg, we were e'en forced to this shift, in the execution of which, the Prussian arms, which I had upon my seal, were marvellously useful. We arrived at Strasbourg, and the Corsaire de la douane and the Visiteur seemed satisfied with our proofs.
we may see by this letter, that he was not yet, become the best of all possible poets, and that his philosophy did not look with total indifference on the metal of which his father had made such ample provision.
From Strasburg he went to visit his territories in the Lower Germany, and sent me word he would come incognito to see me at Brussels. We prepared elegant apartments for him in the little Chateau de Meause, two leagues from Cleves. He informed me, he expected I should make the first advances, and accordingly I went to pay him my most profound respects.
Maupertius, who had already formed his plan, having the mania of becoming President of an Academy upon him, had presented himself, and was lodged with Algaroti and Keizerling in one of the garrets of this palace. One soldier was the only guard I sound. The Privy-Counsellor and Minister of State, Rambonet, was walking in the court-yard, blowing his fingers. He had on a pair of large dirty coarse ruffles, a bat, all in holes, and an old judge's wig, one side of which hung into his pocket, and the [Page 331] other scarcely touched his shoulder. They informed me, this man was charged with a state affair of great importance, and so indeed he was.
I was conducted into his Majesty's apartment, in which I found nothing but four bare walls. By the light of a bougie, I perceived a small truckle bed, two feet and a half wide, in a closet, upon which lay a little man, wrapped up in a morning gown of blue cloth. It was his Majesty, who lay sweating and shaking, beneath a beggarly coverlet, in a violent ague fit. I made my bow, and began my acquaintance by feeling his pulse, as if I had been his first physician.
The fit left him, and he rose, dressed himself, and sat down to table with Algaroti, Kezerling, Maupertius, the Ambassador to the States General, and myself; where at supper, we treated most profoundly on the immortality of the soul, natural liberty, and the Androgynes of Plato.
While we were thus philosophizing upon freedom, the Prevy-Counsellor Rambonet, was mounted upon a post-horse, and riding all night towards Liege, at the gates of which he arrived the next day, where he proclaimed, with sound of trumpet, the name of the King his master, while two thousand soldiers from Vesel were laying the city of Liege under contribution. The pretext for this fine expedition was certain rights, which his Majesty pretended [Page 332] to have over a part of the suburbs. It was to me he committed the task of drawing up the manifesto, which I performed as well as the nature of the case would let me; never suspecting that a King, with whom I supped, and who called me his friend, could possibly be in the wrong. The affair was soon brought to a conclusion, by the payment of a million of livres, which he exacted in good hard ducats, and which served to defray the expences of his tour to Strasbourg, concerning which he complained so loudly in his poetic prose epistle.
I soon felt my attachment to him, for he had wit, an agreeable manner, and was moreover, a King; which is a circumstance of seduction hardly to be vanquished by human weakness. Generally speaking, it is the employment of men of letters to flatter Kings; but in this instance, I was praised by a King, from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot, at the same time that I was libelled, at least once a week, by the Abbé Des Fontaines, and other Grub street poets of Paris.
Some time before the death of his father, the King of Prussia thought proper to write against the principles of Machiavel. Had Machiavel had a Prince for a pupil, the very first thing he would have advised him to do, would have been so to write. The Prince Royal, however, was not master of so much finesse; he really meant what he wrote; but it was before [Page 333] he was a King, and while his father gave him no great reason to fall in love with despotic power. He praised moderation and justice with his whole soul; and in the ardour of his enthusiasm, looked upon all usurpation as an absolute crime.
This manuscript he had sent to me at Brussels, to have it corrected and printed; and I had already made a present of it to a Dutch bookseller, one Venduren, one of the greatest knaves of his profession. I could not help feeling some remorse, at being concerned in printing this Anti-Machiavelion book, at the very moment the King of Prussia, who had a hundred millions in his coffers, was robbing the poor people at Liege of another, by the hands of the Privy-Counsellor Rambonet.
I imagined my Solomon would not stop there. His father had left him sixty-six thousand four hundred men, all complete, and excellent troops. He was busily augmenting them, and appeared to have a vast inclination to give them employment the very first opportunity.
I represented to him, that perhaps it was not altogether prudent to print his book just at the time the world might reproach him with having violated the principles he taught; and he permitted me to stop the impression. I accordingly took a journey into Holland, purposely to do him this trifling service; but the bookseller demanded so much money, that his Majesty, who was not, in the bottom of his [Page 334] heart, vexed to see himself in print, was better pleased to be so for nothing, than to pay for not being so.
While I was in Holland, occupied in this business, Charles the Sixth died, in the month of October, 1740, of an indigestion, occasioned by eating champignons, which brought on an apoplexy, and this plate of champignons changed the destiny of Europe. It was presently evident, that Frederic the third, King of Prussia, was not so great an enemy to Machiavel as the Prince Royal appeared to have been.
Although he had then conceived the project of his invasion of Silesia, he did not the less neglect to invite me to his court; but I had before given him to understand I could not come to stay with him; that I deemed it a duty to prefer friendship to ambition; that I was attached to Madame du Châtelet; and that, between philosophers, I loved a lady better than a King. He approved of the liberty I took, though for his own part he did not love the Ladies. I went to pay him a visit in October; and the Cardinal de Fleury writ me a long letter, full of praises of the Anti-Machiavel, and of the author, which I did not forget to let him see.
He had already assembled his troops, yet not one of his Generals or Ministers could penetrate into his designs. The Marquis de Beauveau, who was sent to compliment him on his [Page 335] accession, believed he meant to declare against France, in favour of Maria-Theresa, Queen of Hungary and Bohemia, and daughter of Charles the Sixth; and to support the election of Francis of Lorraine, Grand Duke of Tuscany, and husband of that Queen, to the Empire, supposing he might thence derive great advantages.
I had more reason than any person to suppose, the new-crowned King of Prussia meant to espouse this party; for three months before, he had sent me a political dissertation, after his manner wherein he considered France as the natural enemy and depredator of Germany. But it was constitutional with him to do the direct contrary of what he said or wrote; not from dissimulation, but because he spoke and wrote with one kind of enthusiasm, and afterwards acted with another.
He departed on the 15th of December, with the quartan ague, for the conquest of Silesia, at the head of thirty thousand combatants, well disciplined, and well accoutred. As he mounted his horse, he said to the Marquis de Beauvau, Maria Theresa's Minister, "I am going to play your game; should the trumps fall into our hands, we will divide the winnings."
He has since that written the history of that conquest, and he shewed me the whole of it. Here follows one of the curious paragraphs, in the introduction to these annals, which I, in preference, carefully transcribed, as a thing unique in its kind.
[Page 336]"Add to the foregoing considerations, I had troops entirely prepared to act; this, the fulness of my treasury, and the vivacity of my character, were the reasons why I made war upon Maria-Theresa, Queen of Bohemia and Hungary."
And a few lines after, he has these very words.
"Ambition, interest, and a desire to make the world speak of me, vanquished all, and war was determined on."
From the time that conquerors, or fiery spirits that would be conquerors, first were, to the present hour, I believe he is the only one who has ever done himself thus much justice. Never man, perhaps, felt reason more forcibly, or listened more attentively to his passions; but this mixture of a philosophic mind, and a disorderly imagination, have ever composed his character.
It is much to be regretted that I prevailed on him to omit these passages, when I afterwards corrected his works; a confession so uncommon, should have passed down to posterity, and have served to shew upon what motives the generality of wars are founded.
We authors, poets, historians, and academician declaimers, celebrate these fine exploits; but here is a monarch who performs and condemns them.
His troops had already entered Silesia, when his Minister at Vienna, the Baron de Gotter, [Page 337] made the very impolite proposal to Maria-Theresa, of ceding, with a good grace, to the Elector and King his master, three-fourths of that province: for which his Prussian Majesty would lend her three millions of crowns, and make her husband Emperor.
Maria-Theresa, who at that time had neither troops, money, nor credit, was notwithstanding inflexible; she rather chose to risk the loss of all, than crouch to a Prince whom she looked upon as the vassal of her ancestors, and whose life the Emperor, her father, had saved. Her Generals could scarcely muster twenty thousand men. Marshal Neuperg, who commanded them, forced the King of Prussia to give battle under the walls of Neisse. The Prussian cavalry was at first put to the rout by the Austrian; and the King, who was not accustomed to stand fire, fled at the first shock as far as Opeleim, twelve long leagues from the field of battle.
Maupertuis, who hoped to make his fortune in a hurry, was in the suit of the Monarch this campaign, imagining that the King would at least find him a horse. But this was not the royal custom. Maupertuis bought an ass for two ducats, on the day of battle, and fled with all his might after his Majesty on ass-back. This steed, however, was presently distanced, and Maupertuis was taken and stripped by the Austrian hussars.
Frederic passed the night on a truckle-bed, [Page 338] in a village alehouse near Ratibor, on the confines of Poland, whence he was preparing to enter the northern part of his own dominions, when one of his horsemen arrived from the camp at Molwitz, and informed him he had gained the victory. This news was confirmed a quarter of an hour after by an Aid-de-Camp, and was true enough.
If the Prussian cavalry was bad, the infantry was the best in Europe; it had been under the discipline of the old Prince of Anhalt for thirty years. Marshal Schwerin, who commanded, was a pupil of Charles the Twelfth. He turned the fate of the day as soon as the King was fled. The next day his Majesty came back to his army, and the conquering General was very near being disgraced.
I returned to philosophize in my retreat at Cirey, and passed the winter at Paris, where I had a multitude of enemies; for, having long before written the History of Charles XII. presented several successful pieces to the theatre, and composed an epic poem, I had, of course, all those who write either in verse or prose as persecutors; and as I had the audacity to write likewise on philosophic subjects, I of necessity, according to ancient usage, was treated as an atheist by all those who are called devotees.
I was the first who dared develop to my countrymen, in an intelligible style, the discoveries of the great Newton. The Cartesian [Page 339] prejudices, which had taken place of the prejudice of the Peripatetics, were at that time so rooted in the minds of the French, that the Chancellor d' Aguesseau regarded any man whatever who should adopt discoveries made in England, as an enemy to reason and the state. He never would grant a privilege that I might have my Elements of the Newtonian Philosophy printed.
I was likewise a vast admirer of Locke; I considered him as the sole reasonable Metaphysician. Above all, I praised that moderation so new, so prudent, and at the same time so daring, where he says, we have not sufficient knowledge to determine or affirm, by the light of reason, that God could not grant the gifts of thought and sensation to a being which we call Material.
The obstinate malignity and intrepidity of ignorance, with which they set upon me on this article, cannot be conceived. The principles of Locke had never occasioned any disputes in France before, because the Doctors read St. Thomas Aquinas and Quênel, and the rest of the world read Romances. As soon as I had praised this Author, they began to cry out against both him and me. The poor creatures, who were hottest in this dispute, certainly knew very little of either matter or spirit. The fact is, we none of us know what or how we are, except that we are convinced we have motion, life, sensation, and thought, [Page 340] but without having the least conception of how we came by them. The very elements of matter are as much hidden from us as the rest. We are blind creatures, that walk on, groping and reasoning in the dark; and Locke was exceedingly right when he asserted, it was not for us to determine what the Almighty could or could not do.
All this, added to the success of my theatrical productions, drew a whole library of Pamphlets down upon me, in which they proved that I was a bad Poet, an Atheist, and the son of a Peasant.
A history of my life was printed, in which this genealogy was inserted— An industrious German took care to collect all the tales of that kind, which had been crammed into the libels they had published against me. They had imputed adventures to me with persons I never knew, and with others that never existed. I have found while writing this, a letter from Marshal de Richelieu, which informed me of an impudent Lampoon, in which it was proved his wife had given me an elegant coach, with something else, at a time when he had no wife.
At first I took some pleasure in making a collection of these calumnies, but they multiplied to such a degree I was obliged to leave off. Such were the fruits I gathered from my labours: I, however, easily consoled myself; sometimes in my retreat at Cirey, and at others [...]n mixing with the best company.
[Page 341]While the refuse of literature were thus making war upon me, France was doing the same upon the Queen of Hungary; and it must be owned, this war was equally unjust; for after having solemnly stipulated, guaranteed, and sworn to the Pragmatic Sanction of the Emperor Charles VI. and the succession of Maria-Theresa to the inheritance of her father, and after having received Lorraine as the purchase of these promises, it does not appear very consistent with the rights of nations to break an engagement so sacred. The Cardinal de Fleury was persuaded out of his pacific measures; he could not say, like the King of Prussia, it was the vivacity of his temper which occasioned him to take arms. This fortunate Prelate reigned when he was eighty-six years of age, but held the reins of Government with a very feeble hand.
France was in alliance with the King of Prussia when he seized upon Silesia. Two armies were sent into Germany at a time when Maria-Theresa had none. One of these armies had penetrated to within five leagues of Vienna, without meeting a single opponent. Bohemia was given to the Elector of Bavaria, who was elected Emperor also, after having been created Lieutenant-General of the armies of the King of France. They soon, however, committed all the faults necessary to lose the advantages they had [...]ined.
The King of Prussia in the mean time, having [Page 342] matured his courage, and gained several victories, concluded a peace with the Austrians. Maria, to her infinite regret, gave him up the county of Glatz with Silesia. Having, without ceremony, broke off his alliance with France on these conditions, in the month of June, 1342, he writ me word he had put himself under a proper regimen, and should advise the other invalids to do the like.
This Prince was then at the height of his power, having one hundred and thirty thousand men under his command accustomed to victory, and the cavalry of which he himsel [...] had formed. He drew twice as much from Silesia as it produced to the House of Austria, saw himself firmly seated in his new conquest, and was happy, while all the other contending powers were suffering the miseries of depredation. Princes in these times ruined themselves by war—be enriched himself.
He now turned his attention to the embellishment of the city of Berlin, where he built one of the finest opera-houses in Europe, and whither he invited artists of all denominations. He wished to acquire glory of every kind, and to acquire it in the cheapest manner possible.
His father had resided at Potzdam in a vile old house; he turned it into a palace. Potzdam became a pleasant town; Berlin grew daily more extensive; and the Prussians began to taste the comforts of life, which the late King and entirely neglected. Several people [Page 343] had furniture in their houses, and most even wore shirts, for in the former reign such things were little known. They then wore sleeves and fore bodies only, tied on with pack thread, and the reigning Monarch had been so educated.
The scene changed as it were by magic; Lacedaemon become Athens; deserts were peopled; and one hundred and three villages were formed from marshes cleared and drained. Nor did he neglect to make verses, and write music: I therefore was not so exceedingly wrong in calling him, The Solomon of the North. I gave him this nick name in my Letters, and he continued long to bear it.
MEMOIRS OF VOLTAIRE. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. PART THE SECOND.
CARDINAL de Fleury died the twenty-ninth of February, 1743, at the age of ninety. Never did man come to be Prime-Minister later in life, and never did Prime-Minister keep his place so long. He began his career of good fortune at the age of seventy-three, by being King of France; and so he continued, indisputably, to the day of his death, always affecting the greatest modesty, never amassing riches, and without pomp, forming himself only to reign. He left the reputation of an artful and amiable person, rather than that of a man of genius, and was said to have known the intrigues of a court, better than the affairs of Europe.
I have often seen him at the house of Madam de Villeroi, when he was only the ancient [Page 345] Bishop of the little paltry town of Frejus, of which he was always called Bishop by divine indignation, as may be seen in some of his letters. Madame de Villeroi was an exceedingly ugly woman, whom he repudiated as soon as ever it was convenient. The Marshal de Villeroi, her husband, who knew not the Bishop had long been the lover of his lady, prevailed on Louis XIV. to name him Prceptor to Louis XV. From Preceptor he became Prime-Minister, and was not backward in contributing to the exile of his benefactor. Ingratitude excepted, he was a tolerably good man; but, as he had no talents himself, he took care to drive away all those who had, be they of what kind they would.
Several of the Academicians were desirous I should supply his place in the French Academy. It was asked at the King's supper, who should pronounce the Cardinal's funeral oration at the Academy? His Majesty replied, it should be me; the Dutchess of Chateauroux, his Mistress would have it so; but the Count de Maurepas, Secretary of State, would not. He was bit with a foolish rage of quarrelling with all the Mistresses of his Master, and found the effects of his disease.
An old idiot, who was Preceptor to the Dauphin, formerly a Theatine Monk, and afterwards bishop of Mirepoix, named Boyer, undertook, for conscience-sake, to second the caprice of M. de Maurepas. This Boyer having [Page 346] the disposal of the church livings, the King left all the affairs of the Clergy to his management. This, in his opinion, came under the head of ecclesiastical matters; and he remonstrated that it would be an offence against God, should a prophane person, like me, succeed a Cardinal.
I knew that M. de Maurepas instigated him to act thus; I therefore went to this Minister, and told him, that though the honour of being an Academician was not a very important dignity, yet, after having been appointed, it was a disagreeable thing to be excluded. You are upon ill terms with the Dutchess de Chateauroux, with whom his Majesty is in love, and likewise with the Duke de Richelieu, by whom she is governed; but pray, my Lord, what connexion is there between these disputes of your's, and a poor seat in the French Academy? I conjure you to tell me sincerely, in case Madame de Chateauroux can vanguish the Bishop de Mirepoix in this contest, will you remain neuter? —He seemed to collect himself for a moment, and then replied, "No; I shall crush you."
The Priest at length conquered the Mistress, and I lost my seat in the Academy, which did not give me much vexation; but I love to recollect this adventure; it depicts so truly the little arts of those whom we call the Great, and shews how really trifles are often considered by them as very important matters.
[Page 347]Public affairs, however, went on no better since the death of the Cardinal, than they had, done during the two last years of his life. The House of Austria rose from its ashes into new life; France was pressed hard by her and by England; and we had no resource left but in the King of Prussia, who had led us into this war, and who abandoned us in our necessity. They conceived the design of sending secretly to sound the intentions of this Monarch, and try if he was not in a humour to prevent the storm, which, soon or late, must gather at Vienna, and fall upon him▪ after having visited us; to see therefore if he would not lend us a hundred thousand men on this occasion, and thus fix himself more firmly in the Silesian conquest.
The Duke de Richelieu, and the Dutchess de Chateauroux first imagined this scheme, the King adapted it, and M. Amelot, Minister for Foreign Affairs, but in a very subaltern situaation, was singly charged to hasten my departure. A pretext was wanted, and I seized that of my dispute with the old Bishop of Mirepoix, which met with his Majesty's approbation. I writ to the King of Prussia, that I could no longer endure the persecutions of this Theatine Monk; and that I must take refuge with a King, who was a philosopher, to escape the snare of a Bishop, who was a bigot. This Prelate always signed himself l'anc, instead of Pancien, [the ancient] Bishop of Mirepoix; [Page 348] and his writing being very bad, [...] used continually to read and call him the ass of Mirepoix. It was a subject of pleasantry, and never was negociation more gay.
The King of Prussia, who struck not with a palsied hand, when the blow was intended for the cheek of a Monk, or a Prelate become courtier, replied with a deluge of sarcasms upon the ass of Mirepoix, and pressed me to come.
I took great care, that both my letters and these answers should be read. It soon came to the Bishop's ears, and he went to complain to his Majesty, that he was laughed at for a fool in a foreign court.
The King's answer was, it was a matter agreed on, and he must let it pass without notice.
This answer has very little of the character of Louis XV. in it; and, as coming from him, always appeared to me extraordinary. Thus I had, at once, the pleasure of revenging myself upon a Bishop, who had excluded me from the Academy, of taking a very agreeable journey, and of having an opportunity to exert myself in the service of the King and State. Even the Count de Maurepas entered into this project with warmth, because at that time he governed M. Amelot, and considered himself, in fact, as the minister for foreign affairs.
The most singular part of this business was, that we were obliged to let Madame du Châtelet [Page 349] into the secret. There was not, in her opinion, any thing in the world so unmanly, so abominable, as for a man to leave a woman to go and live with a King; and she would have made a most dreadful tumult, had they not agreed, that to appease her, she should be informed of the reason, and that the letters should all pass through her hands.
Whatever money I wanted for my journey, was given, upon my mere receipt, by M. de Monmartle, which power I took care not to abuse. I stayed some time in Holland, while the King of Prussia was galloping, from one end of his territories to the other, to be present at reviews, and my stay at the Hague was not useless. I had apartments in the Palace de la Vicille Cour, which belonged at that time to the King of Prussia, in participation with the House of Orange. His envoy, the young Count de Padvitz, loved, and was beloved by the lady of one of the principal persons among their High Mightinesses; and he obtained from her, copies of all their secret resolutions, which at that time, were very prejudicial to the interests of France. These copies I sent to our court, and my service was found very acceptable.
When I came to Berlin, his Majesty would lodge me in the Palace, as he had done on my fo [...]mer visits. He led, at Potzdam, the life he had always led since his advancement to the throne: the manner of it deserves a description.
[Page 350]He rose at five in summer, and six in winter. If you wish to know the royal ceremonies, what they were on great, and what on common occasions, the functions of his high Almoner, his great Chamberlain, the first Gentleman of his Bed-chamber, and his Gentlemen ushers, I answer, a single lacquey came to light his sire, dress, and shave him, though he partly dressed himself alone. His chamber was rather beautiful; a rich balustrade of silver, ornamented with little loves, of exceedingly good sculpture, seemed to form the alcove of the state-bed, the curtains of which were seen; but behind these curtains, instead of a bed there was a library; and as to the royal bed, it was composed of a stump bed-stead without sacking, but cross corded, and a slight mattress, the whole concealed by a screen. Marcus Aurelius and Julian, the two greatest men among the Romans, and Apostles of the Stoics, lay not on a harder couch.
As soon as his Majesty was dressed and booted, Stoicism, for a few moments, gave place to Epi [...]urism. Two or three of his favourites ente [...]ed: these were either Lieutenants, Ensigns, Pages, Heiduques, or young Cadets. Coffee was brought in, and he to whom the handkerchief was thrown, remained ten minutes tête à tête with his Majesty. Things were not carried to the last extremity, because, while Prince, in his father's life time, he had been very illy treated for, and effectually cured [Page 351] of love, in his amours de passade *. He could not play principal, and was obliged to content himself with the second.
These school-boy sports being over, the state affairs next were considered, and his first Minister came with a large bundle of papers under his arm. This first Minister was a clerk, with lodged up two-pair-of-stairs in the house of Fridesdorff, and was the soldier, now valet de chambre and favourite, who had formerly served the King at Custrin. The Secretaries of State sent all the dispatches to the King's Clerk, who brought extracts to his Majesty, and the King writ his answer in the margin in two words. The whole affairs of the Kingdom were expedited in an hour, and seldom did the Secretaries of State, or the Ministers in office, come into his presence; nay, there were some to whom even he had never spoken. The King, his father, had put the finances under such exact regulations, all was executed in such a military manner, and obedience was so blind, that four hundred leagues were governed with as much ease as a manor.
About eleven o'clock, the King, booted, reviewed in his garden his regiment of guards; and at the same hour all the Colonels did the like throughout the provinces, in the interval of parade and dinner-time. The Princes his brothers, the General Officers, and one or two [Page 352] of his Chamberlains, eat at his table, which was as well furnished as could be expected in a country where they had neither game, tolerable butcher's meat, nor poultry, and where they got all their wheat from Magdebourg.
When dinner was over, he retired to his cabinet, and writ verses till five or six o'clock; a young man of the name of Darget, formerly Secretary to M. de Valory, the French Envoy, then came and read to him. At seven he had a little concert, at which he played the flute, [...]d as well as the best performers. His own c [...]positions were often among the pieces played, for there was no art he did not cultivate; and had he lived among the Greeks, he would not, like Epaminondas, have had the mortification to confess he did not understand music.
They supped in a little hall; the most singular ornament of which was a picture, the design of which he himself gave to Pene, his painter, and one of our best colourists. The subject was totally Priapian. Turtles billing, young men in the embraces of young women, nymphs beneath satyrs, cupids at lascivious sports, people fainting with desire at beholding them, and rams and goats at similar pastimes. The supper was frequently seasoned with the same kind of philosophy; and any person who had hêard the discourse, and looked at this picture, would have supposed they had caught the Seven Sages of Greece in a brothel.
[Page 353]Never was there a place in the world where liberty of speech was so fully indulged, or where the various superstitions of men, were treated with so great a degree of pleasantry and contempt. God was respected, bur those who in his name had imposed upon credulity, were not spared. Neither women nor priests ever entered the palace; and, in a word, Frederic lived without religion, without a council, and without a court.
Some of the provincial Judges were about to burn a poor devil of a Peasant, accused of an intrigue of a shocking nature. No person, however, is executed in the Prussian dominions till Frede [...] has confirmed the sentence; a most humane law, practised likewise in England, and other countries. The King wrote at the bottom of the sentence, that free liberty of opinion, and of ******* were allowed throughout his Territories.
A Minister, near Stettin, thought this indulgence exceedingly scandalous, and let fall some expressions in a sermon upon Herod, which glanced at the King; he was therefore summoned to appear before the Consistory at Potzdam, though, in fact, there was no more a Consistory at Court than there was a Mass. The poor man came. The King put on a band and surplice. M. d'Argens, Author of the Jewish Letters, and one Baron de Polnitz, who had changed his religion three or four times, dressed themselves up in the same manner. A [Page 354] folio volume of Bayle's Dictionary was placed upon the table by way of a Bible, and the culprit was introduced by two grenadiers, and set before these three Ministers of the Gospel.
My brother, said the King, I demand, in the name of the Most High God, who the Herod was, concerning whom you preached? He who slew the children, replied the simple Priest. But was this Herod the first? said the King; for you ought to know there have been several Herods. The Priest was silent; he could not answer this question. How! continued the King, have you dared to preach about Herod, and are ignorant both of him and his family? You are unworthy of the holy ministry. We shall pardon you for this time, but know we shall excommunicate you if ever you dare hereafter preach against any one whom you do not know.
They then delivered his sentence and pardon to him, signed by three ridiculous names invented on purpose. We shall go to morrow to Berlin, added the King, and we will demand forgiveness for you of our brotherhood. Do not fail to come and find us out. Accordingly the Priest went, and enquired for these three labourers in the gospel vineyard all over Berlin, where he was laughed at; but the King, who had more humour than liberality, forgot to reimburse him for the expences of his journey.
Frederic governed the church with as much [Page 355] despotism as the state. He pronounced the divorces himself when husband and wife wanted to pair themselves differently. A Minister one day cited the Old Testament on the subject of divorces, and the King told him, Moses managed the Jews just as he pleased; as for me, I must govern my Prussians to the best of my abilities.
This singularity of government, these manners still more singular, this contract of Stoicism and Epicurianism, of severity in military discipline, and effeminacy in the interior of the palace, of Pages with whom he amused himself in his closet, and of Soldiers who ran the gauntlet six and thirty times, while the monarch beheld them through his window, under which the punishment was inflicted, of reasoning on ethics, and of unbridled licentiousness, formed, altogether, a heterogeneous picture, which, till then, few had known, and which has since spread through Europe.
The greatest economy of every kind was observed at Potzdam; the King's table, and that of his officers and domestics, were regulated at thirty-three crowns (about four guineas) a day, exclusive of wine. Instead of the Officers of the Crown taking charge of this expence, as at other courts, it was his valet de chambre Fridesdorff, who was at once his High Steward, Great Cup-bearer, and First Pantler.
Whether it was from policy or economy, I [Page 356] know not, but he never granted the least kindness to any of his former favourites, especially to those who had risked their lives for him when he was Prince Royal. He did not even pay the money he borrowed at that time. Like as Louis XII. would not revenge the affronts of the Duke d'Orleans, neither would the King of Prussia remember the debts of the Prince Royal.
His poor mistress, who had suffered whipping for his sake by the hands of the common hangman, was married at Berlin to the Clerk of the Hackney-Coach office; for they had eighteen hackney-coaches at Berlin; and her royal lover, allowed her a pension of seventy crowns (eight pounds fifteen shillings) a year. She called herself Mademoiselle Saumers, and was a tall, meagre figure, very like one of the Sybils, without the least appearance of meriting to be publicly whipped for a Prince.
When, however, he was at Berlin, he made a great display of magnificence on public days. It was a superb spectacle for the vain, that is to say, for almost all mankind, to see him at table, surrounded with twenty Princes of the Empire, served in vessels of gold, the richest in Europe, by two and thirty Pages, and as many young Heiduques, all splendidly cloathed, and bearing dishes of massy gold. The State Officers were also employed on these occasions, though unknown at any other time.
After dinner they went to the Opera at the [Page 357] large Theatre, three hundred feet long, which had been built without an Architect by one of his Chamberlains, whose name was Knoberstoff. The finest voices and best dancers were engaged in his service. Barberini at that time danced at his Theatre, the same who has since been married to the son of his Chancellor. The King had her carried off by his soldiers from Venice, and brought even through Vienna as far as Berlin. He was a little in love with her, because she had legs like a man; but the thing in most of all incomprehensible, was, that he gave her a salary of thirty two thousand livres (above thirteen hundred pounds.) His Italian Poet, who was obliged to put the operas into verse, of which the King himself gave the plan, had little more than a thirtieth part of this sum; but it ought to be remembered, he was very ugly, and could not dance. In a word, Barb [...]rini touched for her share more than any three of his Ministers of State together.
As for the Italian Poet, he one day took care to pay himself with his own hands, for he stript off the gold from the ornaments in an old chapel of the first King of Prussia's; on which occasion Frederic remarked, that as he never went to the chapel, he had lost nothing. Besides, he had lately written a dissertation in favour of thieves, which is printed in the collections of his academy; and he did not think proper this time to contradict his writings by his actions.
[Page 358]This indulgence was not extended to any military being. There was on old gentleman of Franche Comté, confined in the prison of Spandau, who was six feet high, and whom the late King, for that reason, had inveigled into Prussia. They promised him the place of Chamberlain, and gave him that of foot soldier. This poor man soon after deserted with one of his comrades, bat was taken and brought before the late King. He had the simplicity to tell him, he repented of nothing but that he had not stabbed such a tyrant; and for this answer he had his nose and ears cut off, ran the gauntlet six and thirty times, and was afterwards sent to wheel the barrow at Spandau. He continued this employment to the very time that M. de Valory, our Envoy, pressed me to beg remission for him of the most clement son of the most iron-hearted Frederic-William.
His Majesty had been pleased to say, it was to oblige me that he had got up an Opera, full of poetical beauties, and written by the celebrated Metestasio, called La Clemenza di Tito. The King, with the assistance of his composer, had set it to music himself. I took this opportunity to recommend the poor old Frenchman, without nose and ears, to his bounty, which I did in the following admonitory verses.
The request was something daring, but one may say what one will poetically. His Majesty promised remission, and some months after even had the bounty to send the poor gentleman in question to the Hospital, at three pence a day, which favour he had refused to the Queen, his mother; but she, in all probability, had asked only in prose.
In the midst of all these feasts, operas, and suppers, my secret negociation went forward; the King was willing I should speak on every thing, and I frequently took occasion to intermix questions concerning France and Austria with the Eneid and Roman History. The conversation was sometimes animated; the King became warm, and would tell me, that while our Court was knocking at every door to procure peace, he should not think it adviseable to go to war in our defence. I sent my reflexions upon paper, left half blank, from my apartment to his; and he answered my daring remarks in the margin. I have this paper still, in which I have said,
Can it be doubted that the House of Austria will seize the very first opportunity to redemand Silesia? to which he answerd in the margin
This new kind of negociation finished by a discourse, in which, in one of his moments of vivacity, he made me against the King of England, his dear Uncle. These two Kings did not love one another. My Prussian Monarch told me, "George was the Uncle of Frederic, but not of the King of Prussia;" and he ended by saying, "Let France declare war against England, and I will march."
This was all I wanted. I returned instantly to France, and I gave an account of my journey; with such hop [...]s, to the French Ministry as had been given me at Berlin. Neither were they false, for the spring following the King of Prussia concluded a new treaty with France, and advanced into Bohemi [...] with a hundred thousand men, while the Austrians were in Alsatia.
Had I related my adventure to any good Parisian, with the service I had done the state, he would not have made the least doubt of my having been promised an excellent place. I will tell you what was recompense. The Dutchess de Chateauroux was vexed the negociation had not been brought about entirely by her means; she had likewise an inclination to have M. Amelot turned out because he stuttered [Page 361] which trifling defect she found offensive, and she farther hated him because he was governed by M. de Maurepas; he was accordingly dismissed eight days after, and I was included in his disgrace.
It happened some time after this, that Louis XV. fell extremely ill at the City of Metz. This was the time for M. de Maurepas and his cabal to ruin the Dutchess de Chateauroux. The Bishop of Soissons, Fitz-James, son of the bastard of James II. who was thought a saint, would, in quality of Grand Almoner, convert the King; and declare he would neither grant him absolution, nor suffer him to communicate, if he did not drive his Mistress, with her Sister the Dutchess of Laurigais, and their friends from court; and the two Sisters in consequence departed, with the execrations of the people of Metz.
This action of Louis XV. was the occasion that the Parisians, equally stupid with the good folks of Metz, gave him the surname of Bien-Aimé, Well beloved. A fellow named Vadé first invented this title, which all the Almanacs echoed. As soon as the Prince recovered, he desired only to be the well-beloved of his Mistress, for whom he found his affection increase; and she was again going to undertake her Ministry, when she died suddenly, in consequence of the passions into which she had been thrown by her dismission. She was presently forgot.
A Mistress was now wanted, and the choice [Page 362] fell upon the Demoiselle Poisson. She was the daughter of a kept woman and a countryman, who lived at La Fertésous-Jouare, and who had amassed some money by selling wheat to the corn factors. This poor man at that time had absconded, having been condemned for malversation, and they had married his daughter to the under Farmer general le Normand, Lord of Etiole, and Nephew of the Farmer-general le Normand, of Tourneham, who kept her mother. The daughter had been well educated, was prudent, amiable, very graceful, had great talents, a fine understanding, and a good heart.
I was tolerably intimate with her, and was even the confidant of her amours. She confessed to me, she had always had a secret forethought that the King would fall in love with her, and that she had always ardently wished he might, without making her wishes too apparent. This idea which seems so chimerical for a person in her station, originated from her having been often taken to the royal hunt in the forest of Senar. Tourneham, her mother's lover, had a country house near there, and used to take her out to air in a neat Calash. His Majesty had observed her, and had often sent her venison. Her mother never ceased telling her she was handsomer than Madame de Chateauroux, and the good man Tourneham confirmed it in raptures. It must be owned, the daughter of Madame Poisson was a morsel for [Page 363] Majesty. After she was certain of her Royal Lover, the told me she was firmly persuaded of the doctrine of predestination, and she had some cause so to be. I passed several months with her at Etiole, while the King made the campaign of 1746.
I hence obtained rewards which had never been granted to my works or my services. I was deemed worthy to be one of the forty useless Members of the Academy, was appointed Historiographer of France, and created by the King one of the Gentlemen in Ordinary of his Chamber. From this I concluded it was better, in order to make the most trifling fortune, to speak four words to a King's mistress than to write a hundred volumes.
As soon as I had the appearance of a fortunate man, the whole brotherhood of the Beaux-Esprits of Paris was let loose upon me, with all the inveterate animosity which might be expected from them, against a person who obtained those benefactions, which they imagined only due to their own merits.
My connexion with Madame du Châtelet was never interrupted; our friendship, and our love of literature, were unalterable; we lived together both in town and out of town. Cirey is situated upon the borders of Lorraine, and King Stanislaus at that time kept his little agreeable court at Luneville. Old and fanatic as he was, he yet had a friendship with a lady who was neither. His affections were divided between Madame da Marquise de Boufflers, [Page 364] and a Jesuit, whose name was Menou; a Priest, the most daring, the most intriguing I have ever known.
This man had drawn from King Stanislaus, by means of his Queen, whom he had governed, about a million of livres, (near forty-two thousand pounds) part of which were employed in building a magnificent house for himself and some Jesuits of Nancy. This house was endowed with twenty-four thousand livres, or a thousand pounds a year; half of which supplied his table, and the other half was to give away to whom he pleased. The King's mistress * was not by any means so well treat [...]d; she scarcely could get from his Polish Majesty wherewith to buy her petticoats; and yet the Jesuit envied what she had, and was violently jealous of her power. They were at open war †, and the poor King had enough to [Page 365] do every day when he came from mass to reconcile his mistress and his confessor. Our Jesuit at last having heard of Madame du Châtelet, who was exceedingly well shaped, and still tolerably handsome, conceived the project of substituting her to Madame de Boufflers.
Stanislaus amused himself sometimes in writing little works, which were bad enough, and Menou imagined an authoress would succeed with him as a mistress better than any other. With this fine trick in his head he came to Cirey, cajoled Madame du Châtelet, and told us how delighted King Stanislaus would be in our company. He then returned to the King, and informed him how ardently we desired to come and pay our court to his Majesty. Stanislaus asked Madame de Boufflers to bring us; and we went to pass the whole year, 1749, at Luneville. But the projects of the holy Jesuit did not succeed; the very reverse took place; we were devoted to Madame de Boufflers, and he had two women to combat instead of one.
The life led at the court of Lorraine was tolerably agreeable; though there, as in other courts, there were plenty of intrigues and artifice.
Towards the end of the year, Poncet, Bishop of Troyes, who was overwhelmed with debts, and whose reputation was lost, wished to come and augment our intrigues and artifice.
[Page 366]When I say he had lost his reputation, I mean also the reputation of his sermons and funeral orations. He obtained, through the interest of our two ladies, the place of Grand-Almoner to the King, who was flattered by having a Bishop in his pay, and at very small wages too. This Prelate did not come till 1750: he began his career by intriguing against Madame de Boufflers, his benefactress, and was dismissed. His anger alighted on Lewis XV. the son-in-law of Stanislaus: being returned to Troyes, he would needs play a part in the ridiculous farce of the confessional billets, invented by Beaumont, Arch bishop of Paris: he made head against the parliament, and braved the King. This was not the way to pay his debts, but to get himself imprisoned. Lewis sent him into Alsatia, and had him shut up in a convent of fat German Friars.
But I must return to what concerns myself. Madame du Châtelet died in the palace of Stanislaus, after two days illness; and we were so affected, that not one of us ever remembered to send for Priest, Jesuit, or any of the Seven Sacraments. It was we, and not Madame du Châtelet, who felt the horrors of death. The good King Stanislaus came to my chamber, and mixed his tears with mine: few of his brethren would have done so much on a like occasion. He wished me to stay at Luneville, but I could no longer support the place, and returned to Paris.
[Page 367]It was my destiny to run from King to King, although I loved liberty even to idolatry. The King of Prussia, whom I had frequently given to understand I would never quit Madame du Châtelet for him, would absolutely entrap me, now he was rid of his rival. He enjoyed at that time a peace, which he had purchased with victory; and his leisure hours were always devoted to making verses, or writing the history of his country campaigns. He was well convinced, that in reality his verse and prose too, were superior to my verse and prose, as to their essence; though as to the form, he thought there was a certain something, a turn, that I, in quality of Academician, might give to his writings; and there was no kind of flattery, no seduction, he did not employ to engage me to come.
Who might resist a Monarch, a Hero, a Poet, a Musician, a Philosopher, who pretended too to love me, and whom I thought I also loved. I sat out once more for Potzdam, in the month of June, 1750. Astolphus did not meet a kinder reception in the palace of Alcina. To be lodged in the same apartments that Marshal Saxe had occupied; to have the royal cooks at my command, when I chose to dine alone; and the royal coachmen, when I had an inclination to ride, were trifling favours.
Our suppers were very agreeable. I know not if I am deceived, but I think we had a deal of wit. The King was witty, and gave [Page 368] occasion to wit in others; and what is still more extraordinary, I never found myself so much at ease. I worked two hours a day with his Majesty, corrected his works, and never failed highly to praise whatever was worthy of praise, although I rejected the dross. I gave him details of all that was necessary in rhetoric and criticism, for his use; he profited by my advice, and his genius assisted him more effectually than my lessons.
I had no court to make, no visits to pay, no duty to fulfil; I led the life of liberty, and had no conception of any thing more happy than my then situation. My Frederic-Alcina, who saw my brain was already a little disordered, redoubled the potions that I might be totally inebriated. The last seduction was a letter he wrote, and sent from his apartments to mine. A Mistress could not have written more tenderly; he laboured in his epistle to dissipate the fear which his rank and character had inspired; it contained these remarkable words:
"How is it possible I should bring unhappiness on the man I esteem, who has sacrificed his country, and all that humanity holds dear, to me? I respect you as my Master, and love you as my friend. What slavery, what misfortune, what change can be feared, in a place where you are esteemed as much as in your own country, and with a friend who has a grateful heart? I respected the friendship that endeared you to Madame du Châtelet, but after [Page 369] her I am one of your oldest friends. I give you my promise you shall be happy here as long as I live."
Here is a letter, such as few of their Majesties write: it was the finishing glass to complete my drunkenness. His wordy protestations were still stronger than his written ones. He was accustomed to very singular demonstrations of tenderness to younger favourites than I, and forgetting for a moment I was not of their age, and had not a fine hand, he seized it and imprinted a kiss; I took his, returned his salute, and signed myself his slave.
It was necessary I should get permission from the King of France to belong to two Masters: the King of Prussia took charge of every thing, and wrote to ask me of Louis. I never imagined they were shocked at Versailles, that a Gentleman in Ordinary of the Chamber, one of the most useless Beings of a Court, should become a useless Chamberlain at Berlin. They granted me full permission, but were highly piqued, and did not pardon me. I greatly displeased the King of France without pleasing the King of Prussia, who laughed at me in the bottom of his heart.
Behold me then with a silver key gilt with gold hanging at my button-hole, a cross round my neck, and twenty thousand livres, or eight hundred guineas a year. Maupertuis fell sick, and yet I did not perceive the occasion.
At that time there was a Physician at Berlin, [Page 370] one La Metrie, who was the most frank and declared Atheist of all the medical people of Europe. He was a gay, pleasant, thoughtless fellow, who knew the theory of physic as well as the best of his brethren, but without contradiction the worst practitioner upon earth, for which reason he had left the profession. He ridiculed the whole faculty of Paris, and had even written many personalities against individuals, which they could not pardon; and they obtained a decree against him, by which a reward was offered for his apprehension.
La Metrie had, in consequence, fled to Berlin, where he amused himself sufficiently by his gaiety, and likewise by writing and printing all that can be imagined most impudent upon manners; his books pleased the King, who made him, not his Physician, but, his Reader.
One day after the lecture, La Metrie, who spoke whatever came uppermost, told his Majesty there were persons exceedingly jealous of my favour and fortune.—"Be quiet a while," said Frederic, "we squeeze the orange, and throw it away when we have swallowed the juice."—La Metrie, did not forget to repeat to me this fine apophthegm, worthy Dionysius of Syracuse. From that time I determined to take all possible care of the orange peel. I had about twelve thousand guineas to place out at interest, but was determined it should not be in the territories of my Alcina. I found an advantageous opportunity of lending them [Page 371] upon the estates which the Duke of Wurtemberg possessed in France.
The King, who opened all my letters, did not doubt of my intention to quit his court. The furor of rhyming, however, still possessin [...] him, as it did Dionysius, I was obliged continually to pore, and again revise his History of Brandenbourg, and all the rest of his works.
La Metrie died from having eaten a pasty stuffed with truffles, after a very hearty dinner at the table of Lord Tyrconnel, Envoy from France, It was pretended he had been confessed before his death. The King was exceedingly vexed at this, and took care to be exactly informed concerning the truth of the assertion; they assured him it was an atrocious calumny, for La Metrie had died as he lived, abjuring God and Physicians. His Majesty was convinced, and immediately composed his funeral oration, which was read, in his name, at a public sitting of the Academy, by Darget his Secretary. He settled five and twenty pounds a year likewise upon a girl of the town, whom La Metrie had brought from Paris, where he had left his wife and children.
Maupertuis, who knew the anecdote of the orange-peel, took an opportunity to spread a report, that I had said, the place of King's Atheist was vacant. This calumny did not succeed; but he afterwards added I had also said, the King's poetry was bad; and this answered his purpose.
[Page 372]From this time forward, I found the King's suppers were no longer so merry; I had fewer verses to correct, and my disgrace was complete.
Algaroti, Darget, and a Frenchman, whose name was Chasol, one of the King's best Officers, left him all at once. I was preparing to do the same, but I wished, before I went, to enjoy the pleasure of laughing at a book Maupertuis had just printed. It was the best of opportunities, for never had any thing appeared so ridiculous or absurd. The good man seriously proposed to travel directly to the two Poles; to dissect the heads of giants, and discover the nature of the soul by the texture of the brain; to build a city, and make the inhabitants all speak Latin; to sink a pit in the center of the earth; to cure the sick by plaistering them over with gum-resin; and, finally, to prophesy, by enthusiastically inflating the fancy.
The King laughed, I laughed, every body laughed at his book; but there was a scene acting at that time of a far more serious nature, concerning I know not what mathematical nonsence that Maupertuis wanted to establish as discoveries. A more learned Mathematician, Koënig, Librarian to the Princess of Orange at the Hague, shewed him his mistake, and that Leibnitz, who had before time examined that old idea, had demonstrated its falsity in several of his letters, copies of which he sent Maupertuis.
[Page 373]Maupertuis, President of the Academy at Berlin, enraged that an associate and a stranger should prove his blunders, took care first to persuade the King, that Koënig, being settled in Holland, was of course his enemy; and next, that he had said many disrespectful things of his Majesty's verse and prose to the Princess of Orange.
This precaution taken, he suborned some few poor pensioners of the Academy, his dependents, had Koënig condemned as a forger, and his name erased from the number of Academicians. Here however he was anticipated, for Koënig had sent back his Patent-Academician-Dignity to Berlin.
All the men of letters in Europe were as full of indignation at the manoeuvres of Maupertuis as they were weary of his book, and he obtained the contempt and hatred even of those who did not understand the dispute. They were obliged to content themselves at Berlin with a mere shrug of the shoulders; for the King had taken a part in this unfortunate affair, no person durst speak. I was the only one who spoke out. Koënig was my friend; and I had at once the satisfaction to defend the liberty of the learned, the cause of a friend, and of mortifying an enemy, who was as much the enemy of moderation as of me.
I had no intention to stay at Berlin; I had always preferred liberty to every thing; few men of letters have a proper sense of it; most [Page 374] of them are poor; poverty enervates, and even philosophers, at court, become as truly slaves as the first Officer of the Crown. I felt how displeasing my free spirit must be to a King more absolute than the Grand Turk. He was a pleasant Monarch, in the recesses of his palace, we must confess: he protected Maupertuis. and laughed at him more than any one. He writ against him, and sent his manuscript to my chamber by one Marvitz, a Minister of his secret pleasures; he turned to ridicule the Pit to the center of the earth, the method of cure with Plaister of gum-resin, the voyage to the South Pole, the Latin city, and the cowardice of the Academy, in having suffered the the tyranny exercised upon poor Koënig. But his motto was, "No clamour when I don't cry;" and he had every thing burnt that had been written upon the controversy, except his own work.
I sent him back his order, his Chamberlain's key, and his pension; he then did every thing in his power to make me stay, and I every thing in my power to depart. He again gave me his cross and his key, and would have me to sup with him; I therefore once more supped like Democles, after which I parted with a promise to return, but with a firm design never to see him more.
Thus there were four of us who had escaped in a short time, Chasol, Darget, Algaroti, and I; in fact, there was no such thing as [Page 375] staying. It is well known how much must be borne from Kings, but Frederic was too free in the abuse of his prerogative. All society has its laws, except the society of the Lion and the Lamb. Frederic continually failed in the first of these laws; which is, to say nothing disobliging to any of the company. He often used to ask his Chamberlain Polnitz, if he would not willingly change his religion a fourth time, and offered to pay a hundred crowns down for his conversion. "Good God, my dear Polnitz, he would say, I have forgot the name of that person at the Hague, whom you cheated by selling him base for pure silver; let me beg of you to assist my memory a little." He treated poor d'Argenes in much the same way; and yet these two victims remained. Polnitz having wasted his fortune, was obliged to swallow serpents for bread, and had no other food; and d'Argens had no property in the world, but his Jewish Letters, and his wife, called Cochois, a bad provincial actress, and so ugly she could get no employment at any trade, though she practised several. As for Maupertuis, who had been silly enough to place out his money at Berlin, and not thinking a hundred pistoles better in a free country than a thousand in a despotic one, he had no choice but to wear the setters which himself had forged.
MEMOIRS OF VOLTAIRE. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. PART THE THIRD.
LEAVING my palace of Alcina, I went to pass a month with the Dutchess of Saxe-Gotha, the best of Princesses, full of gentleness, discretion, and equanimity, and who, God be thanked, did not make verses. After that I spent a few days at the country-house of the Landgrave of Hesse, who was still a remove father from poetry than the Princess of Gotha. Thus I took breath, and thence continued, by short journies, my rout to Franckfort, where a very odd kind of destiny was in reserve for me.
I fell ill at Franckfort, and one of my nieces, the widow of a Captain who had belonged to the regiment of Champagne, a most amiable woman, with excellent talents, and who, moreover, was esteemed at Paris as belonging to [Page 377] the Order of Good Company, had the courage to quit that city, and come to me on the Maine, where she found me a prisoner of war.
This fine adventure happened thus: one Freïtag, who had been banished Dresden, after having been put in chains and condemned to the wheel-barrow, became afterwards an agent to the King of Prussia, who was glad to be served by such-like Ministers, because they asked no wages but what they could steal from travellers.
This Ambassador, and one Schmitt, a tradesman, formerly condemned and punished for coining, signified to me, on the part of his Majesty the King of Prussia, that I must not depart from Franckfort, till I had given back the precious effects I had carried off from his Majesty. "My very good Messieurs (said I) I have brought nothing out of that country, I can assure you, not even the least regret; what, then, are these famous jewels of the crown of Brandenbourg, that you thus re-demand?"— "Dat it be, Montseer (answered Freïtag) ouf dey vurks ouf poesy ouf de King mine master." —"Oh! (answered I) with all my heart; he shall have his works in verse and prose, though I have more titles to them than one, for he made me a present of a fine copy, printed at his own expence; but, unfortunately for me, this printed copy is at Leipsic, with my other effects."
Freïtag then proposed that I should stay at [Page 378] Franckfort till this treasure arrived from Leipsic, and signed the following curious quittance:
Montseer so soon as shawl dey great pack come ouf Leipsic, mit de vurks ouf poesy be given mit me, you shawl go ouf vere you do please. Given at Franckfort de vurst of June, 1753.—Freïtag, Resident ouf de King mine master.
At the bottom of which I signed,—Good, vor dey vurks ouf poesy ouf de King your master:—With which the Resident was well satisfied.
On the twelfth of June the great pack of poesy came, and I faithfully remitted the sacred deposit, imagining I might then depart, without offence to any crowned head; but at the very instant when we were setting off, I, my Secretary, my servants, and even my niece, were arrested. Four soldiers dragged us through the midst of the dirt, before M. Schmitt, who had I know not what right of Privy. Counsellor to the King of Prussia. This Franckfort trader thought himself at that moment a Prussian General; he commanded twelve of the town guards, with all the importance and grandeur an affair of such consequence required. My niece had a passport from the King of France, and, moreover, never had corrected the King of Prussia's verses. Women are usually respected amidst the horrors of war, but the Counsellor Schmitt, and the Resident Freïtag, endeavoured to pay their court to [Page 379] Frederic, by hauling one of the fair sex through the mud. They shut us up in a kind of inn, at the door of which the twelve soldiers were posted. Four others were placed in my chamber, four in the garret, where they had conducted my niece, and four in a still wore wretched garret, where my Secretary was laid upon straw. My niece, it is true, was allowed a small bed, but four soldiers, with fixed bayonets, served her instead of curtains and chamber-maids.
In vain we urged we had been invited to the court the Emperor had elected at Franckfort; that my Secretary was a Florentine, and a subject of his Imperial Majesty; that I and my niece were subject of the most Christian King; and that there was no difference between us and the Margrave of Brandenbourg. They informed us, that the Margrave had more power at Franckfort than the Emperor.
Twelve days were we held prisoners of war, for which we paid a hundred and forty crowns, or seventeen pounds ten shillings a day. The Merchant Schmitt had seized on all my effects, which were given back one half lighter: one need not wish to pay dearer for the [...]oesy of the King of Prussia. I lost about a much as it had cost him to send for me and to take lessons, and we were quits at parting.
To complete the adventure, one Venduren, a Bookseller at the Hague, knave by profession, and bankrupt by habit, was then retired to [Page 380] Franckfort. This was the man to whom I had made a present thirteen years before of Frederic's manuscript of the Anti-Machiavel. One finds friends where one least expects them. He pretended that his Majesty owed him some twenty ducats, for which I was responsible: he reckoned the interest, and the interest of the interest. The Sieur Friliard, a Burgo-master of Franckfort, in the then year of his reign, said, he, as a Burgo-master, found the account exceedingly right; he likewise found the means to make me disburse thirty ducats, six and twenty of which he took to himself, and gave the remaining four to the honest Bookseller.
These Ostrogothian and Vandalian affairs being all thus satisfactorily ended, I embraced my hosts, thanked them for their kind reception, and departed.
Some time after I want to drink the waters of Plombieres, and with them drank heartily of the waters of Lethe, from a thorough persuasion, that misfortunes of all kinds are good for nothing but to be forgotten. My niece, Madame Dennis, who was the consolation of my life, attached to me by her taste for letters, and the tenderest friendship, accompanied me from Plombieres to Lyons. Here I was received by the acclamations of the whole city, and tolerably ill too by the Cardinal de Tencin, Archbishop of Lyons, so well known by the manner in which he had made his fortune; [Page 381] that is, in making the famous Law, or Lass, Author of the system that ruined France, a Catholic. His Council of Embrin finished the fortune his conversion of Law had begun. This system made him rich enough to purchase a Cardinal's hat. He was a Minister of State, and told me in confidence, he durst not give me a public dinner because the King of France was vexed that I had quitted him for the King of Prussia. To this I answered I never dined, and as to Kings or Cardinals, I was the man who perhaps of any in the world was soonest determined how to act.
I had been advised to drink the waters of Aix, in Savoy, and though this place was under the dominion of a King, I proceeded to take the journey. I necessarily passed through Geneva, where the famous Physician Tronchin was just established, and who declared that the waters of Aix would kill, but that he would cure me, and I followed his advice. No Catholic is permitted to settle at Geneva, nor yet in the Swiss Protestant Cantons; and it was to me a subject of pleasantry, to aconite domains in the only country upon earth where it was forbidden I should have any.
I bought, by a very singular kind of contract, of which there was no example in that country, a small estate of about sixty acres, which they sold me for about twice as much as it would have cost me at Paris; but pleasure is never too dear. The house was pretty and [Page 382] commodious, and the prospect charming; it astonishes without tiring: on one side is the Lake of Geneva, and the city on the other. The Rhone runs from the former in vast gushes, forming a canal at the bottom of my garden, whence is seen the Arve descending from the Savoy Mountains, and precipitating itself into the Rhone, and farther still another river. A hundred country-seats, a hundred delightful gardens, ornament the borders of the lakes and rivers. The Alps at a vast distance rise and terminate the horizon, and among their prodigious precipices, twenty leagues extent of mountain are beheld covered with eternal snows.
I had another good house, with a more extensive view, at Lausanne; but a seat near Geneva is much more agreeable. In these two habitations I enjoyed what Kings do not give, or rather what they take away, Liberty and Ease. I likewise had what they sometimes do give, and what I had not of them. Here then I put my own precepts in practice.
How happy did I live in this iron age! Every convenience of life and good cheer were found in my two houses. An affable and intelligent society, filled up the moments which study and the care of my health left vacant. My prosperity was sufficient to make my dear fellow-labourers in literature burst with envy. I was not however born rich, and it may be asked by what art I could acquire [Page 383] wealth enough to live like a Farmer-general: to which I answer, and I would have others make me their example, I had seen so many men of letters poor and despised, that I had long determined not to augment the number.
In France, every man must be either the hammer or the anvil, and I was born the latter. A small patrimony daily becomes less, because the price of every thing gradually increases, and because government often has both rent and crop.
It is necessary to be attentive to every alteration which Ministry, ever in want and ever inconstant, makes in the finances. There always are occasional opportunities by which an individual may profit without obligation to any one, and nothing is so agreeable as to be one self the founder of one's fortune. The first efforts are a little painful, the following are pleasant; and he who is an economist in his youth, will be surprised in old age at his own wealth, which is the time when fortune is most necessary. It was then I enjoyed fortune: it was then that, after having lived with Kings, I became a King myself.
And now, while living in this peaceable opulence, and the most rigid independence, the King of Prussia thought proper to be appeased: in 1755 he sent me an Opera he had made from my Tragedy of Merope, which was, without dispute, the worst thing he ever wrote. From that time he continued to write to me: [Page 384] I always had held a correspondence with his sister, the Margravess of Bareith, whose goodwill towards me was unalterable.
Thus while I, in my retreat, enjoyed the most pleasant life imaginable, I had the philosophic satisfaction of seeing, that the Kings of Europe tasted not of my tranquillity; and of thence inferring, that the situation of an individual is often preferable to that of the greatest Kings, as will presently be seen.
In 1756, England made a piratical war upon France for some acres of snow; at the same time that the Empress Queen of Hungary appeared very desirous to recover her dear Selisia, of which she had been pillaged by his Majesty of Prussia. For this purpose she negociated with the Empress of Russia and the King of Poland, that is, in quality of Elector of Saxony, for nobody negociates with the Poles. On the other hand, the King of France wished to revenge himself upon Hanover, for the mischief which the Elector of Hanover, the King of England, did him at sea. Frederic, who at that time was in alliance with France, and who held our government in the most profound contempt, preferred an alliance with England; he therefore united himself with the house of Hanover, imagining he could keep the Russians out of Prussia with one hand, and the French out of Germany with the other. He was mistaken in both these imaginings; but their was a third in which he was not mistaken; which was to invade Saxony under [Page 385] pretext of friendship, and make war upon the Empress Queen of Hungary with the money he should rob the Saxons of. The Marquis of Brandenbourg, by this remarkable manoeuvre, singly changed the whole system of Europe. The King of France, desirous of retaining him in his alliance, sent the Duke de Nivernois, a man of wit, and who made very pretty verses, into Prussia. The embassage of a Duke, a Peer, and a Poet, seemed likely to flatter the vanity and taste of Frederic; but he laughed at the King of France, and signed his treaty with England, the very day the Embassador arrived. He played off the Duke and the Peer very happily, and made an epigram upon the Poet.
It happened at that time to be the privilege of poetry to govern kingdoms. There was another Poet at Paris also, a man of rank, very poor, but very amiable; in a word, the Abbé de Bernis, since Cardinal. He began by writing verses against me; he afterwards was my friend, though that was of little service to him; but he likewise became the friend of Madame de Pompadour, and she served him effectually. He had been sent from Parnassus on an embassy to Venice; and he was then returned to Paris, and in great credit.
The King of Prussi [...] had glided a verse in his poor book of poesy, which that Freïtag had re-demanded so earnestly at Franckfort, against the Abbé de Bernis.
I do not believe either the book or the verse ever reached the Abbé; but as God is just, God made him an instrument to avenge France of Frederic. The Abbé concluded an offensive and defensive treaty with M. de Staremberg, the Austrian Ambassador, in despight of Rouillé, then Minister for Foreign affairs. Madame de Pompadour presided at the negociation; and Rouillé was obliged to sign the treaty, in conjunction with the Abbé de Bernis, which was a precedent without example. Rouillé, it must be owned, was the most useless Secretary of State the King ever had; and moreover, the most ignorant the Long Robe ever knew. He asked one day if Weteravia was in Italy. While there was nothing difficult to transact, he was suffered; but as soon as great objects came on the tapis, his insufficiency was felt, and the Abbé de Bernis supplied his place.
Mademoiselle Poisson, the wife of Le Normand, and Marchioness de Pompadour, was in reality first Minister of State. Certain outrageous terms let slip against her by Frederic, who neither spared women nor poets, had wounded the Marchioness to the heart, and contributed not a little to that revolution in affairs, which, in a moment, re-united the French and Austrians, after more than two hundred years of a hatred supposed to be immortal. [Page 387] The court of France, that pretended to crush Austria, in 1741, supported her in 1756; and in conclusion, France, Sweden, Russia, Hungary, the half of Germany, and the Fiscal of the Empire, all declared against the single Marquis of Brandenbourg. This Prince, whose grandfather could scarcely maintain twenty thousand men, had an army of a hundred thousand foot, and forty thousand horse, well provided, well selected, and better disciplined; but there were four hundred thousand men in arms to oppose these. It happened in that war, that each party seized upon what was next at hand. Frederic took Saxony; France took the territories of Frederic, from the town of Guilders to Minden upon the Weser, and for a while possessed all the Electorate of Hanover and Hesse, the allies of Frederic; while the Empress of Russia took the whole of Prussia. The King of Prussia, beaten at first by the Russians, beat the Austrians, and was afterwards beaten by them in Bohemia, the eighteenth of June, 1757.
The loss of one battle ought apparently to have crushed this Monarch; pressed on all sides by the Russians, French and Austrians, he himself gave all for lost. Marshal de Richelieu had just concluded a treaty near Stadt, with the Hanoverians and Hessians, which greatly resembled that of the Caudian Forks. Their army was no longer allowed to serve, and the Marshal was ready to enter Saxony [Page 388] with sixty thousand men: the Prince de Soubise prepared to penetrate it on another side, with thirty thousand, and was to be seconded by the arms of the circles of the empire, whence they were to march to Berlin. The Austrians had gained a second victory, and were already in possession of Breslau; and one of their Generals had even pushed to Berlin, and laid it under contribution. The treasury of the King of Prussia was nearly exhausted, and in all appearance he would not long have a single village left. They were going to put him under the ban of the empire; his process was begun; he was declared a rebel, and had he been taken, in all probability would have been condemned to lose his head.
In this extremity he took a fancy to kill himself. He wrote to his sister, the Margravess of Bareith, that he was going to terminate his life; but he could not conclude the play without rhyming. His passion for poetry was still stronger than his hatred of life; he therefore wrote the Marquis d' Argens a long epistle in verse, wherein he informed him of his resolution, and bade him adieu.
However singular this epistle may be, from the subject, the person by whom it was written, and the person to whom it was addressed, it cannot be transcribed entirely, because of the many repetitions; but there are passages, which I will insert, tolerably well turned for a Northern King.
He sent me this epistle written with his own hand. Several lines are pillaged from the Abbé [...]e Chaulieu and me. The ideas are often incoherent, and the verses in general unmusical; but there are some good; and it was a great thing for a King to write two hundred bad verses in the state he then was. He was desirous [Page 391] it should be said he preserved all his presence of mind and liberty of thinking, at a moment when they are usually lost to others.
The letter he wrote me testified the same sentiments, but there were less of the eternal Night, Myrtels and Roses, Flambeax, Chimeras and shrieking Sorrows. I combated in prose the resolution he had taken to die, and had not much trouble in persuading him to live. I advised him to imitate the Duke of Cumberland, and set a negociation on foot with Marshal de Richelieu; in short, I took all the liberties one could take with a despairing Poet, and who was not likely much longer to be a King. He wrote to Marshal de Richelieu, but not receiving any answer he determined to beat us, and sent me word he was going to attack Marshal de Soubise. His letter finished with verses, worthy of his sitution, his dignity, his courage, and his wit.
As he marched towards the French and Imperialists, he wrote to the Margravess his sister, that he should kill himself, but he was happier than he said or hoped. He waited on the fifth of November, 1757, for the French and Imperial army, in a tolerably advantageous post at Rosbach, on the frontiers of Saxony; and as he had been continually talking of killing himself, he was willing his brother, Prince Henry, [Page 392] should perform this promise for him, at the head of five Prussian battalions, which were to sustain the first shock of the enemy, while his artillery thundered upon them, and his cavalry attacked theirs.
Prince Henry was, in fact, slightly wounded in the neck by a musket ball, and I believe was the only Prussian hurt on that day. The French and Austrians fled at the first discharge, and the rout was the most unheard of and complete that history can afford. The battle of Rosbach shall long be celebrated. Thirty thousand French, and twenty thousand Imperialists, were seen flying, shamefully and precipitately, before five battalions and some squadrons. The defeats of Agincourt, Cressy, and Poictiers, were not more humiliating. The discipline and military evolutions, which the father had begun, and the son made perfect, were the true cause of this strange victory. The Prussian exercise had been fifty years in bringing to perfection. They wished to imitate them in France as well as in other countries; but they could not effect that with the French, naturally averse to discipline, in [...]ur years, which the Prussians had been fifty about. They had even changed their manoeuv [...]s in France at each review, so that the officers and soldiers, not [...]alf perfect in each new one, and the evolutions being all different from one another, had in reality learnt nothing, but were actually without any kind of discipline. All was [Page 393] in disorder at the very sight of the Prussians; and Fortune, in one quarter of an hour, snatched Frederic from the depth of despair to seat him on the heights of happiness and glory.
He was, however, very fearful, that this good fortune was merely temporary; he dread [...]d to support the whole weight of the French, Russian, and Austrian powers, and was desi [...]ous of detaching Louis XV. from Mar [...] T [...] resa.
The fatal affair at Rosbach, occasioned all France to murmur at the treaty of the Abbé de Bernis, with the court of Vienna. The Cardinal de Tencin, Archbishop of Lyons, had always maintained his rank of Minister of State, and a private correspondence with the King of France and he was, more than any one, a verse to the Austrian alliance. He had given me a reception at Lyons, which he had a right to believe was not very satisfactory; the itch of intriguing, however, which followed him in his retreat, and which, it is said, never leaves men in place, made him desirous of leaguing with me to engage the Margravess of Bareith to treat with him, and put the interests of her brother in his hands. He would reconcile the King of Prussia to the King of France, and hoped to procure a peace. It was not difficult to persuade Madame de Barieth, and the King her brother, to this negociation; and I undertook it with the greater alacrity, because I foresaw it could not succeed. The Margravess [Page 394] wrote to Frederic, and the letters between her and the Cardinal passed through my hands. I had the secret satisfaction of being the intermediator in that grand affair; and perhaps a still farther pleasure, that of foreseeing the Cardinal was preparing for himself a subject of great disappointment. He wrote to the King of France, and inclosed the letter of the Margravess; but how utter was his astonishment at receiving a laconic answer from the King by which he learnt, the Secretary for Foreign Affairs would inform him what was his Majesty's pleasure. The Abbé de Bernis dictated the answer which the Cardinal was obliged to send to Frederic; which answer was an entire refusal to negociate. He was forced to sign a copy of this letter, by which every thing was ended, and died of chagrin in about a fortnight afterwards.
I never could thoroughly understand this kind of death, or how Ministers of State, and old Cardinals with hardended souls, should have a sufficient degree of sensibility to die through some trifling disgust. My design was only to laugh at him; to mortify, and not to kill.
There was a kind of greatness in the Ministry refusing thus to treat of peace with the King of Pruss [...]a, after having been beaten by him, and humbled; there was also great fidelity and good na [...]ure in sacrificing themselves for the House of Austria; but these virtues [Page 395] were long ill recompensed by Fortune. The Hanoverians, Hessians, and Brunswickians, were less observant of public faith, but more successful. They had stipulated with the Marshal de Richelieu not to bear arms against us, but to repass the Elbe, beyond which they had been sent; they, however, broke their bargain of the Caudian Forks, as soon as they knew we had been beaten at Rosbach. Desertion, the want of discipline, and disease, destroyed our armies; and the result of all our operations, in the spring of 1758, was, that we had lost twelve millions and a half sterling, and fifty thousand men in Germany, in support of Maria-Teresa, as we had done in 1741 with fighting against her.
The King of Prussia, who had beaten our army at Rosbach, in Thuringia, went next to fight the Austrian army at sixty leagues distance. The French then might still have entered Saxony; the victors were gone, there was nothing to oppose them; but they had thrown away their arms, lost their cannon, ammunition, provisions, and especially their understanding. They were dispersed, and their remains were with difficulty collected. A month afterwards, and on the same day, Frederic gained a still more signal and better fought victory over the Austrians [...]ear Breslau. He retook Breslau with fifteen thousand prisoners, and the rest of Silesia was soon subdued. Gustavus Adolphus never performed such [Page 396] acts; we must therefore pardon him his poetry, his pleasantries, his little malice, and even his feminine sins. The defects of the man vanish before the glory of the hero.
I left writing memoirs of myself on the 6th of November, 1759, thinking them as useless as Bayle's letters to his mother; the life of St. Evremont, written by Defmaiseaux, or of the Abbé Mongon, written by himself. But many things, either new or laughable, have again induced me to the ridicule of speaking of myself *. I behold from my windows the city where John Chauvin, the Picard, called Calvin, reigned; and the place where he burnt Servet for the good of his soul. Almost all the priests of this country think at present like Servet; nay they even go farther. They do not believe that Jesus Christ was God; and these Messieurs, who formerly gave no quarter to purgatory, are now so far humanised, as to find favour for souls in hell. They pretend their torments shall not be eternal; that Theseus shall not always sit upon his stony chair, nor Sysiphus continue everlastingly to roll his rock. Thus they have turned their hell, in [Page 397] which they no longer believe, into purgatory, in which also they do not believe. This is rather a pleasant revolution in the history of the human mind, and might furnish disputes enough for the cutting of throats, making of bonfires, and acting St. Bartholomew's day once more. And yet they do not even call names, and reproach one another, so much are manners changed. I must indeed except myself, whom [...]e of their Preachers attacked for having dared to assert that Calvin, the Picard, was of a cruel nature, and had burnt Servet without cause. Only observe the contradictions of this world; here are people almost avowedly sectaries of Servet, who, yet, abuse me because I found Calvin wrong for burning him at a flow fire of green faggots.
They would prove to me in form, that Calvin was a good Christian, and petitioned the Council of Geneva to communicate the papers used on the trial of Servet; but the Council was more prudent; the papers were refused, and they forbidden to write against me in Geneva. I look upon this little triumph, as one of the strongest proofs of the progress of reason in our age.
Philosophy enjoyed a still more signal victory over its enemies at Lausanne. Some Gospel Ministers of that country thought proper to compile, I know not what bad book against me, for the honour, as they called it, of christianity; and I, with little difficulty, was empowered [Page 398] to seize and suppress the impression by authority of the Magistrates. This was perhaps the first time Theologians have been obliged to be silent, and respect a Philosopher. Judge then if I ought not passionately to love this country. Yes, thinking beings, I assert it is exceedingly agreeable to live in a republic where you may say to its chiefs,—Come tomorrow and dine with me.
I did not, however, yet think myself perfectly free; and as I held this a subject worthy attention, that I might become so, I purchased some adjoining lands in France. There were two estates about a league from Geneva, which had formerly enjoyed all the privileges of that city; and I had the good fortune to obtain a Brevet from the King by which those privileges were continued to me. At last I so managed my destiny that I was independent in Switzerland, the territories of Geneva, and in France. I have heard much of liberty, but do not believe there is an individual in Europe who had wrought his own freedom like me. Let those who will, follow my example; or, rather, those who can.
I certainly could not have chosen a better time than this, to enjoy repose far from Paris. They were then as mad and inveterate about their private disputes as in the days of the Fronde, except having actually a civil war. But as they had neither a Monarch of the marketplace, like the Duke de Beaufort, nor a Co-adjutor, [Page 399] granting benedictions with a dagger, they proceeded only to wordy wars. They began by forging bank bills for the other world, invented as I have already said by Beaumont, Archbishop of Paris, an obstinate man, who did evil with all his heart, and from an excess of zeal. He was a serious fool, something in the style of St. Thomas à Becket. The quarrel grew more violent concerning an office in the hospital, the appointment to which the Parliament pretended was in them; and the Archbishop holding it to be a sacred place, said it depended totally on the church. Paris was all divided into parties, and the trifling factions of Jansenists and Molinists did not spare each other. The King thought proper to treat them as they some times serve fools who fight in the street, over whom they throw buckets of water to part them: he very rightly said they were both wrong; but they remained not the less enveno [...]d. He exiled the Archbishop and the Parliament; but a master should not turn off his servants, till he is certain of finding others to supply their places. The Court was obliged to recall the Parliament, because a Chamber, called royal, composed of Counsellors of State, and Masters of Requests, and erected to determine Law-suits, had lost its practice. The Parisians had taken a fancy not to plead before any Court of Justice, except that called the Parliament. All the members therefore were recalled, and imagined [Page 400] they had gained a signal victory over the King. They paternally advised him in their remonstrances no more to banish his Parliament, because, said they, that is giving a very bad example. They proceeded to such lengths at last, that the King resolved to abolish one of their Chambers, and diminish the others; and, soon after, these Messieurs all had their dismission, except those of the great Chamber. Loud murmurs now went abroad; they publicly declaimed against the King, and the fire which came out of their mouth unhappily caught the brain of a Lackey, named Damiens, who often frequented the great Hall. It is proved, by the process, this fanatic of the long robe never intended to kill the King, but only to inflict a gentle correction. There is nothing so absurd which may not enter the head of man. This poor wretch had been usher to the Jesuit's College, where I have sometimes seen the scholars give slight stabs with their penknives, and the ushers return them. Damiens, therefore, went to Versaills with this resolution, and there, in the midst of his cour [...]iers and guards, wounded the King with a small penknife.
They did not fail during the first horror of the accident, to impute the blow to the arm of the Jesuits, to whom, said they, it belonged according to ancient usage. I have red a letter from one father Griffet, in which he says, This time it was not us; it is at present the [Page 401] turn of Messieurs. It was of course the office of the Grand Prevot of the Court to judge the assassin, because the crime had been committed within the precincts of the palace. The culprit began by accusing seven members of the Court des Enquètes, and they wished nothing better than to leave this accusation upon record, and execute the criminal. Thus the King rendered the Parliament odious, and obtained an advantage which will endure as long as the monarchy.
MEMOIRS OF VOLTAIRE. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. PART THE FOURTH AND LAST.
IT was thought, that M. d'Argenson advised the King to grant the Parliament permission to judge the foregoing affair, and he was well rewarded; for eight days after he lost his place, and was exiled. The king had the weakness to grant large pensions to the Counsellors who conducted the trial of Damiens, as if they had rendered him some signal and difficult service; which conduct inspired them with new confidence. They again imagined themselves important personages, and their chimeras of representing the nation, and being tutors to Kings, were once more awakened.
This scene over, and having nothing else to do, they amused themselves with persecuting the philosophers. Omer Joli de Fleury, Advocate general of the Parliament of Paris, displayed a triumph the most complete, that ignorance, deceit, and hypocrisy ever obtained. [Page 403] Several men of letters, most estimable from their learning and deportment, formed an association to compose an immense dictionary of whatever could enlighten the human mind, and it became on object of commerce with the booksellers. The Chancellor, the Ministry, all encouraged an enterprise so noble; seven volumes had already appeared, and were translated into English, Italian, German, and Dutch. This treasure, opened by the French to all nations, might be considered as what did us at that time the most honour; so much were the excellent articles in the Encyclopedia superior to the bad, which were also tolerably numerous. They had little to complain of in the work, except too many puerile declamations unfortunately adopted by the authors of the collection, who seized whatever came to hand to swell the book; but all which those authors wrote themselves was good.
Omer Joli de Fleury, however, on the twenty-third of February, 1759, accused these poor philosophers of being Atheists, Deists, corrupters of youth, rebels to the King, &c. &c. &c. and to prove his accusation, cited St. Paul, and the trials of Theophilus and Abraham Chaumaix *. He wanted nothing but to have read [Page 404] the book against which he exclaimed; for if he had read it, he was a strange imbecile being. He demanded justice of the Court against the article soul, which, according to him, was pure materialism.
Pray remark that the article soul, one of the worst in the work, was written by a poor Doctor of the Sorbonne, who killed himself with declaiming, right or wrong, against materialism.
The whole discourse of this Omer Joli de Fleury was a string of similar blunders. He informed against a book he had either not read or not understood; and the entire Parliament, at the requisition of Omer, condemned the work, not only without examining, but even without reading a single page. This manner of doing justice, is very much beneath the custom of Bridoye, for there they may chance to be right.
The editors had procured the King's privilege, and the Parliament certainly had no right to revoke a privilege granted by his Majesty. It appertains not to them either to judge of an Arrêt du Conseil, or of any thing confirmed in Chancery: they however assumed the power to condemn what the Chancellor had approved, and appointed Lawyers to decide upon the subjects of geometry and metaphysics contained in the Encyclopedia. A Chancellor of the least fortitude would have annulled the Arret of Parliament as incompetent: the Chancellor [Page 405] L'Amoignon satisfied himself with revoking the privilege, that he might not undergo the shame of seeing what he had stamped with the seal of supreme authority judged and condemned.
One would imagine this adventure had happened in the days of Father Garasse, and that these were arrets against taking emetics; but on the contrary, it was in the most enlightened age France had ever seen. So true it is, that one fool is enough to dishonour a nation.
No one will scruple to confess, that under such circumstances, Paris was no resting-place for a Philosopher, and that Aristotle was very prudent in retiring to Chalcis when Fanatacism reigned at Athens. Besides, the condition of a man of letters, at Paris, is but one step above a Mountebank.
The place of Gentleman in ordinary to his Majesty, which the King had given me, was no great thing. Men are very silly; for my part, I think it much better to build a fine mansion, as I did, have a theatre, and keep a good table, than to be hunted at Paris like Helvetius, by people holding the court of Parliament, or by other people holding the stables of the Sorbonne. As I was certain I could never make men more reasonable, the Parliament less pedantic, nor the Theologians less ridiculous, I continued to be happy far from their follies.
And yet, while I contemplate the storm, I am [Page 406] almost ashamed of my own tranquillity. I behold Germany dyed in blood; France utterly ruined; our fleets and armies beaten; our ministers dismissed, one after another, without any prospect of better success; and the King of Portugal assassinated, not by a Lacky, but the Nobility of the kingdom. Neither can the Jesuits this time say, it was not us: they have carefully preserved their rights; it has been sufficiently proved these good Fathers had given the sanctified knife to the Parricides. They give for reason their sovereignty of Paraguay, and say they have treated with the King of Portugal as between crown and crown.
I shall now relate a trifling, but as singular an adventure as ever happened since Kings and Poets first were seen on earth. Frederic, having passed some time guarding the frontiers of Silesia, in an impenetrable camp, began to be tired of inactivity; and, therefore, to pass time away, composed an Ode, and signed it Frederic; this he put at the head of an enormous bundle of verse and prose, which he sent to me. I opened the package, and found I had not been the first who had performed that operation; it was evident the seals had been broken, and I was terrified at reading the following verses:
I trembled as I read the poem, some lines of which are excellent, or may pass for such. I had unfortunately acquired, and deserved, the reputation of having been the continual corrector of the King of Prussia's poetry. The packet had been opened, the verses read, might perhaps have been published, the King of France would attribute them to me, and I should become not only guilty of high treason against the King, but, which was still worse, against Madame de Pompadour.
In this perplexity, I desired the French Resident at Geneva to come to my house, and shewed him the packet. He agreed it had been opened before it arrived, and thought there was no other way of acting in a case where the safety of my head was concerned, but sending it as it was to the Duke de Choiseul, Minister of State. In any situation but this I should not have followed his advice; but it was necessary to prevent my own ruin, and I [Page 408] acquainted the court with the true character of its enemy. I knew the Duke de Choiseul would not betray me, but content himself with persuading his Majesty that Frederic was an enemy, whom, if they could, they ought to crush.
The Duke did not stop here; he was a man of wit, wrote verses, and had friends who wrote also: he paid the King of Prussia in his own coin, and sent me a satire against Frederic, as biting and unmerciful as his own. The following lines are extracted from this Poem *:
The Duke de Choiseul assured me when he sent this answer, that he would print the satire if the King of Prussia published his; and added, they would beat him as heartily with the pen, as they hoped to do with the sword. Had I been inclined so to amuse myself, it depended only on me to set the King of France and the King of Prussia to war in rhyme, which would have been a farce of novelty upon earth. But I enjoyed another pleasure; that of being more prudent than Frederic. I wrote him word his ode was beautiful, but that he ought not to publish it; he had glory enough without that, and should not shut every door of reconciliation with the King of France, aggravate him beyond bearing, and force him to some desperate effort to obtain a just revenge. I added, my niece had burnt his ode, in mortal fear of its being imputed to me. He believed me, and returned me thanks; but not without a few reproaches, for having burnt the best verses he had ever written. The Duke de Choiseul kept his word, and was discreet.
To make the pleasantry complete, I thought it possible to lay the foundation of the peace of Europe on these poetical pieces, which might have continued the war to the destruction of Frederic, My correspondence with [Page 410] the Duke de Choiseul gave birth to that idea; and it appeared so ridiculous, so worthy the transactions of the times, that I indulged it, and had myself the satisfaction of proving on what weak and invisible pivots the destinies of nations turn. The Duke wrote me several ostensible letter, conceived in such terms, as the King of Prussia might venture to make overtures of peace without danger of Austria taking umbrage at France; and Frederic returned answers in a similar way, with little risk of displeasing the English court. This ticklish treaty is still in agitation, and resembles the sports of cats, which give a pat with one paw and a scratch with the other. The King of Prussia, driven out of Dresden, and beaten by the Russians, is in want of peace; and France, beaten at sea by the English, and on shore by the Hanoverians, with an ill-timed loss of men and money, is obliged to finish this ruinous war.
And this, beautiful Emily, is the point at which, for the present, we stop.
I continue to write, and on singular events. The King of Prussia ended a letter to me on the 17th of November thus: "I shall write more fully from Dresden, where I shall be in three days;" and the third day he was beaten by Marshal Daun, with the loss of ten thousand men. It seems to me, every thing I behold is the fable of the girl and her milk. Our [Page 411] great sea-politician, Berrier, formerly Lieutenant de Police at Paris, and who, from that post, became Secretary of State a [...]d Minister of the Marine, without ever having seen a vessel larger than the ferry-boat of St. Cloude, or the barge Auxerre; this Berrier, I say, took a fancy to fit out a fine fleet, and make a descent on England; but scarcely had the fleet peeped out of Brest, before it was beaten by the English, wrecked upon the rocks, destroyed by the winds, or swallowed up by the seas.
We have seen one Silhouette, made Comptroller General of the Finances, of whom no man knew any thing, except that he translated some of Pope's poetry into prose. He was said to be an eagle, but in l [...]s [...] than a month the eagle was metamorphosed to an owl. He found the secret of annihilating public credit to that degree, that the State all at once wanted money to pay the troops. The King was obliged to send his plate to the Mint, and a great part of the kingdom followed his example.
Frederic must be perfidious; he has sent my confidential letters to London, and has endeavoured to sow dissension betwixt us and our allies. All kind of perfidies, permitted to a Grand King of Prussia, has he acted; even to the making of verses, for those he must ever make. I sent them to Versailles, doubting [Page 412] they would be accepted. He will cede nothing; and proposes, in order to indemnify the Elector of Saxony, that they shall give him Erford, which belongs to the Elector of Mentz. He always must rob somebody; it is his way. We shall see the result of all this, and of the campaign they are going to make.
As this great and horrid tragedy has ever [...] mixture of the comic, so they have lately printed at Paris, "Des Poesies ouf de King mine Master," as Freïtag says; in which there is an epistle to Marshal Keith, where he ridicules christianity, and mocks at the immortality of the soul. The devotees are displeased; the Calvinist clergy murmur. These pedants looked upon [...] as a support to the good cause. When he threw the Magistrates of Leipsic into dungeons, and sold their beds to get their money, he had the admiration of such Priests; but when he amuses himself by translating passages from Seneca, Lucretius, and Cicero, they look upon him as a monster.
Priests would canonize Cartouche or Jonathan Wild, were they devotees.