"The king of Prussia, before his father's death, had written a work against the principles of Machiavelli. If Machiavelli had had a prince for disciple, he would have recommended him, in the first place, to write against him; but the prince royal did not understand this sort of finesse. He had written in good faith at a time when he was not sovereign; and his father inspired him with no partiality for despotic power. He sincerely praised moderation and justice, and in his enthusiasm regarded every usurpation as a crime. He had sent me the manuscript to correct and publish. I now began to feel remorse at printing the "Anti-Machiavel," while the king of Prussia, with an hundred millions in his treasury, took one, by means of counsellor Rambonet, from the poor inhabitants of Liège. I suspected that my Solomon would not stop there. His father had left sixty-six thousand four hundred excellent soldiers. He augmented the number, and seemed eager to make use of them. I represented to him that it was not quiteright to print his book at a time when he might be reproached for violating its precepts. He permitted me to stop the edition. I went to Holland entirely to do him this little service; but the bookseller asked so much money in compensation, that the king, who in his heart was not sorry to see himself in print, preferred being so for nothing, rather than to pay not to be."
We have extracted this whole account as highly characteristic, and as explanatory of much that followed. Frederic loved and enjoyed talent, and was himself a man of genius; he was simple-minded as a German; unaccustomed to show and luxury; but he was a king and a soldier. He was young and ambitious. Voltaire laughed at his economy, ridiculed his plainness, saw through his pretensions to liberal opinions, and jested wittily on their friendship. Yet, withal, he was flattered by it. He saw a refuge and a support against the persecutions he feared in his own country; and though he would have preferred that a sovereign who called him friend had been more royal in outward show, he was forced to be satisfied that though badly dressed and meanly attended, yet he was really a king, with millions in his coffres, and thousands of soldiers at his command, and, above all, a man of genius. "He is the most delightful man in the world," he writes, "and would be sought by every one, even were he not a king: philosophical without austerity, full of gentleness, complaisance, and agreeable qualities; forgetting that he is a sovereign as soon as he is with his friends, and so forgetting, that it required an effort of memory to recollect that he was one." Such was the impression which the young king made on his older friend, who had been accustomed to courts and royalty. But still he felt that the friend of a king is not half as independent in the royal palace as in another kingdom. Probably madame du Châtelet's admirable understanding helped to keep him firm; at any rate, while she lived he declined all Frederic's invitations, and declared his tie of friendship with the"divine Emily" paramount to every other.
Voltaire and madame du Châtelet had agreed to vary their solitude at Cirey by visits to the metropolis. The leisure afforded by the seclusion of the country was congenial to labour. Far from the society and interruptions of Paris, they could both devote their whole minds to the subjects on which they were occupied; but they found difficulty in getting books. It was impossible at a distance from the capital for Voltaire to have access to the state papers necessary for the historical works he had in hand, or for the lady to keep up that communication with men of letters which, in matters of science particularly, is necessary to any one ambitious of extending and confirming discoveries. Yet the change was to be regretted. The vivacity of Voltaire's temper had caused him to be disturbed by the attacks of his enemies in his retirement. In the thick of society these attacks were more multifarious and stinging; and added to this, his reputation in the capital for a wit, could only be kept up by a sort of small money of authorship, so to speak, which frittered away the treasures of his mind.
The death of the emperor Charles VI. plunged Europe in war. France interfered to cause the elector of Bavaria to be chosen emperor, and attacked Maria Theresa of Austria, daughter of Charles VI. The king of Prussia, a potentate who had not yet figured in the wars of Europe, desirous of taking advantage of the distressed state of the empire, seized on Silesia. Twice Voltaire was employed by his court to sound the intentions of his royal correspondent, and to influence him to ally himself with France. The first mission of this sort that he undertook was at the request of cardinal Fleuri.
Cardinal Fleuri had been the author's friend in his early days. Voltaire took great pleasure in conversing with him, and collecting his anecdotes on the reign of Louis XIV. The cardinal was a timid man; the scope ofhis policy as minister, was to keep France at peace and Paris tranquil; to prevent all movement in the public mind, and to suppress literary influence, whether it tended to enlarge the boundaries of human knowledge, or to remark upon the events and personages of the day. He kept a tight hand over Voltaire. Severallettres de cachethad been issued against him, and he had declared imprisonment in the Bastille should punish any future literary imprudence. Voltaire could only keep up a semblance of kindness and toleration by giving every outward mark of submission. It was matter of pride to him when he was applied to by the minister to visit Frederic, and learn his real intentions with regard to his attack on Silesia. His mission was secret; so that it was supposed that he had taken refuge in Prussia from some new persecution; while Frederic himself, not well comprehending his sudden apparition, after his frequent refusals, guessed that it was connected with politics, and showed himself for a moment dubious of his integrity. But this cloud was soon dissipated. The king tried to tempt the poet to remain. He was firm in his refusal. "I have quitted a brilliant and advantageous establishment," he writes; "I received the most flattering offers, and great regret was expressed because I would not accept them; but how could courts and kings and emolument outweigh a ten years' friendship: they would scarcely console me, did this friendship fail me." Nor did friendship alone recal him; he was eager for the applause of a Parisian audience. Any one who reads his letters, will perceive how Voltaire was wrapt up in his writings; enthusiasm could alone sustain him through so much labour. He was desirous that the tragedy of f Mahomet' should be acted; he was allowed to choose his own censor: he selected Crebillon, but Crebillon refused the licence; and an intimacy of thirty years ended in a quarrel.
To compensate for this disappointment, Voltaire brought out this tragedy at Lille. He found La Noue there, who was well fitted for the part of Mahomet; and Clairon in her youth, who took the part of Palmyre. Duringan interval between the acts, a letter was brought to Voltaire, announcing the gain of the battle of Molwitz; he rose and read it aloud from his box. The applause redoubled; and he afterwards said, jestingly, that the victory of Molwitz had insured the success of "Mahomet." The tragedy was approved even by the clergy at Lille, and Fleuri, when he read it, saw no objection to its being acted. It was brought out in Paris under brilliant auspices; but the clergy formed a cabal; it was declared to be a covert attack on the Christian religion, and Fleuri weakly begged the author to withdraw it after the second representation.
1743.Ætat.49.
When cardinal Fleuri died, and Louis XV. declared he would have no other first minister, Voltaire hoped to establish his influence on surer foundations, through his long-established friendship with the duke de Richelieu. This libertine, but not unambitious, noble sought to lay the foundations of his power by any means, however disgraceful. By giving the king a mistress of his own choosing, he hoped to rule his sovereign; and while the duchess de Châteauroux lived, he possessed considerable power. One of the first advantages Voltaire wished to reap was, to succeed to the seat in the academy, vacant by the death of cardinal Fleuri.
To understand the importance Voltaire attached to success in this endeavour, we must consider his views and his position. The chief aim of his life was to diffuse in France that knowledge and freedom of discussion which was permitted in England, but which was barred out of his country with a rigorous and persecuting spirit. At the same time, desirous of living in his native land, and to reap there the fruits of his labours in the applause of his countrymen, he wished to insure his personal security. As a chief means to this end, he believed it necessary to gain the favour of influential persons about the sovereign, and to make himself one of a powerful society, such as formed the French academy. Voltaire understood his countrymen. He knew how a word cansway—how a jest could rule them. His own temper was vivacious and irritable. He never spared an enemy. While accusing Boileau and Molière for holding up the poetasters of their day to ridicule, did any of theliteratiattack him, he defended himself with acrimonious sarcasm and pertinacious abuse. He spared no epithet of contempt, no vehemence of condemnation, nor any artful manœuvre, so to obtain the advantage. While he thus sought to annihilate his foes, and to secure himself, the gates of the Bastille yawned in view, and by the tremour which the sight inspired, added that bitterness to his sensations which the fear of disaster inspires. These were the causes of the virulence of his diatribes—of the sting of his epigrams in which he devotes Piron and others to everlasting ridicule. It was on this account that he sought to be a member of the academy.
The moment he began to canvass for the vacant seat in the academy, a violent cabal was formed to oppose him. Maurepas, secretary of state, an excellent man, but narrow-minded, was the moving spring of the opposition. He pat forward a Theatin monk, named Boyer, as his agent. This man declared that the deceased cardinal's empty chair could only be filled properly by a bishop. He found some difficulty in finding a prelate who chose to undertake the invidious part; one was at last found, and Voltaire lost his election. The same scene was renewed when another vacancy recurred, during the following year. In some degree the poet was consoled by the success of the tragedy of "Mérope." The audience were transported by enthusiasm; they perceived the author in a box—they insisted on his coming forward. The young and beautiful duchess de Villars was with him. She was called upon to embrace the poet; at first she was embarrassed by the singular part she was called on to act, but, recovering herself, obeyed the call of the pit with the grace that distinguished a high-born Frenchwoman. Voltaire might well desire to achieve success with an audience of his countrymen, when suchwere the tokens he received of triumph.
The king of Prussia, meanwhile, having exhausted his finances by war, and gained two provinces, found it eligible to conclude a peace with Maria Theresa; a peace, detrimental to the interests of France, which was thus left to carry on the war single-handed. It became matter of policy to induce Frederic to infringe a treaty scarcely signed. The duke de Richelieu requested Voltaire to be the negotiator. Again his mission was secret. He pretended to renounce his country, disgusted by the cabal carried on by Boyer against him, and he had the appearance of applying to Frederic for refuge and defence against the injustice he met in his native country. Voltaire's own account of this negotiation is written in his usual jesting, sarcastic style; he made a joke of the bishop, his successful rival; and when Frederic answered by a deluge of pleasantries on the subject, he took care to make his letters public. The bishop of Mirepoix complained to the king that he was made to pass for a fool at foreign courts; but Louis XV. replied that it was a thing agreed upon, and that he must not mind it. Voltaire remarks that this reply was opposed to Louis's usual character, and that it appeared extraordinary. But the king probably spoke in the innocence of his heart, announcing a mere fact, that the bishop's reputation for talent was to be sacrificed for the good of the state. Indeed, there is a letter from Voltaire to his immediate employer, Amelot, secretary for foreign affairs, which shows that he by no means felt easy with regard to the light in which Louis might view his conduct, and excuses the style of his correspondence with Frederic. "There are in his notes and in mine," he writes, "some bold rhymes, which cannot hurt a king, though they may an individual. He hopes that I may be forced to accept his offers, which hitherto I have refused, and take up my abode at the court of Prussia. He hopes to gain me by losing me in France; but I swear to you I would rather live in a Swiss village than gain at this price the dangerousfavour of a king."
After some delay, occasioned by the journeys of the king of Prussia, during which time Voltaire did good service for his court at the Hague, he arrived at Berlin, and was warmly welcomed. Fêtes, operas, suppers—all the amusements that Frederic could command, were put in requisition to please the illustrious and favoured guest. In the midst of these, the secret negotiation advanced. Voltaire had infinite tact, and could, like many of his countrymen, mingle the most serious designs with frivolous amusements, and pursue undeviatingly his own interests, while apparently given up to philosophical disquisitions or witty discussions. In the midst, therefore, of easy and jocular conversation, Voltaire discovered the real state of things, which consisted in the king of Prussia's desire to embroil Louis XV. with England. "Let France declare war against England," said Frederic, "and I march." This sufficed for the subtle emissary. He returned to Paris, and negotiations ensued which terminated in a new treaty between France and Prussia, and the following spring Frederic invaded Bohemia with a hundred thousand men. Voltaire, however, reaped no benefit from his zeal. The king's mistress, the duchess de Châteauroux, was angry that she had not been consulted. She managed to obtain the dismission of M. Amelot, secretary for foreign affairs, under whose direction Voltaire had acted, and he was enveloped in the disgrace, that is to say, he gained no court smiles, nor any solid compensation, for his trouble.
His life was now passed between Paris and Cirey—society and solitude. He and the du Châtelets shared the same house in the capital; their studies and their amusements were in common. We are told[4]that on one occasion, when madame du Châtelet went to court, and engaged in play, during which she lost a great deal of money, Voltaire told her in English that she was being cheated. The words were understood by otherswho were present, and the poet thought it prudent to absent himself for a time. He asked refuge from the duchess du Maine at Sceaux. Here he passed two months in the strictest retreat; and when danger was past, he repaid his hostess by remaining in her chateau, and contributing to her recreation by getting up plays, and writing for her. "Zadig" and others of his tales were composed on this occasion. Operas, plays, concerts, and balls varied the amusements. Madame du Châtelet and Voltaire took parts in these theatricals. The lady was an admirable actress, as well as musician: she shone in comedy, where her gaiety, grace, and vivacity had full play. Voltaire was also a good actor. The part of Cicero in his own tragedy of "Rome Sauvée" was his favourite part. At other times, leaving these pleasures, he and his friend retired to Cirey and to labour. We have an amusing account of several of their migrations, from the pen of Longchamp, who, from being the valet of madame du Châtelet, became elevated into the secretary of Voltaire. There is a great contrast between this man's account, and the letters before quoted of madame de Graffigny. In both descriptions, we find mentioned the vivacity and petulance both of the poet and his friend; but the darker shadows thrown by irritability and quarrelling, do not appear in the pages of Longchamp; and, above all, the fair disciple of Newton is delineated in far more agreeable colours. "Madame du Châtelet," he writes, "passed the greater part of the morning amidst her books and her writings, and she would never be interrupted. But when she left her study, she was no longer the same woman—her serious countenance changed into one expressive of gaiety, and she entered with ardour into all the pleasures of society. Although she was then forty, she was the first to set amusement on foot, and to enliven it by her wit and vivacity." Nor does he make any mention of the violence and ill-humour from which her guest suffered so piteously. "When not studying," he remarks, "she wasalways active, lively, and good-humoured." At Cirey, she was equally eager to afford amusement to her friends. "When the report of her arrival," writes Longchamp, "was spread through the neighbouring villages, the gentry of the country around came to pay their respects. They were all well received; those who came from a distance were kept for several weeks at the chateau. To amuse both herself and her guests, madame du Châtelet set on foot a theatre. She composed farces and proverbs; Voltaire did the same; and the parts were distributed among the guests. A sort of stage had been erected at the end of a gallery, formed by planks placed upon empty barrels, while the side scenes were hung with tapestry; a lustre and some branches lighted the gallery and the theatre; there were a few fiddles for an orchestra, and the evenings passed in a very gay and amusing manner. Often the actors, without knowing it, were made to turn their own characters into ridicule, for the greater gratification of the audience. Madame du Châtelet wrote parts for this purpose, nor did she spare herself, and often represented grotesque personages. She could lend herself to every division, and always succeeded."
From this scene of gaiety, at once rustic and refined, the pair proceeded to the court of king Stanislaus at Luneville. Here Voltaire employed himself in writing during the morning, and, as usual, the evening was given up to amusement. The theatricals were renewed; all was gaiety and good humour. The marquis du Châtelet, passing through Luneville, on his way to join the army, was enchanted to find his wife in such high favour at king Stanislaus' court.
1748.Ætat.54.
Voltaire left the gay scene to overlook the bringing out of his tragedy of "Semiramis." In this play he endeavoured to accustom his countrymen to greater boldness of situation and stage effect. It was necessary to banish that portion of the audience, the dandies of the day, who, seated on the stage itself, at once destroyed all scenic illusion, and affordedtoo narrow a space for the actors. A formidable cabal opposed these innovations, headed by Piron and Crebillon; and Voltaire, himself, was obliged to have recourse to means which had been unworthy of him under other circumstances, and to place a number of resolute friends in the pit, to oppose the adverse party. The piece was successful, and the poet eager to return to Luneville. He was suffering greatly in his health. During his stay in Paris, he had been attacked by low fever; and his busy life in the capital, where his days were given up to society, and his nights to authorship, exhausted the vital powers. Notwithstanding his suffering, he resolved to set out, and proceeded as far as Chalons, where he was obliged to give in, and take to his bed. The bishop and intendant of Chalons visited him; they sent him a physician; but, without showing outward opposition, Voltaire followed none of his prescriptions, and endeavoured to get rid of the intruders. He felt his danger; he entreated his confidential servant, Longchamps not to abandon him, and, as he said, to remain to cover his body with earth when he should expire. His fever and delirium increased, and his resolution not to take the remedies prescribed was firm: every one expected to see him die; he, himself, anticipated death, and gave his secretary instructions how to act. On the sixth day, though apparently as ill as ever, he resolved to proceed on his journey, declaring that he would not die at Chalons. He was lifted into his carriage; his secretary took his place beside him; he did not speak, and was so wan and feeble, that Longchamp feared that he would never arrive alive: but as they went on, he grew better; sleep and appetite returned; he was much recovered when they reached Luneville; the presence of madame du Châtelet reanimated him; a few days with her caused all his gaiety to return, and he forgot his sufferings and danger.
This appears to have been a very happy portion of Voltaire's life. His friendship for madame du Châtelet was ardent and sincere. Her talentswere the origin of their sympathy in tastes and pursuits; her gaiety animated his life with a succession of pleasures necessary to compose and amuse his mind after intense study; her good sense enabled her to be his adviser and support when calumny and scandal disturbed, as was easily done, his equanimity. Voltaire, when writing, was absorbed by his subject; this enthusiasm inspired and sustained him. It allowed him to labour hard, and made him put his whole soul into every word he penned. His friend participated in his eagerness; and by entering earnestly into all his literary plans, imparted to them a charm which he appreciated at its full value. This friend he was about to lose for ever; but he did not anticipate the misfortune.
1749.Ætat.9.
A portion of the following year was spent at Paris and Cirey, and they again visited Luneville; for king Stanislaus had invited them again to join his court. Pleasure was once more the order of the day. Every one in the palace was eager to contribute to the king's amusement; and he was desirous that all round him should be happy. In the midst of this routine of gaiety, the industry of Voltaire surprises us. He wrote several tragedies at this period, and his letters are full of expressions marking the eagerness of authorship, and the many hours he devoted to composition. Emulation, joined to great disdain for his rival, spurred him on. He was mortified and indignant at the praise bestowed on Crebillon by the Parisians; and he took the very subjects treated by this tragedian, believing that, thus brought into immediate contrast, his grander conceptions and more classic style would at once crush the pretender. "I have written 'Catiline,'" he writes, "in eight days; and the moment I finished, I began 'Electra.' For the last twenty years I have been rendered indignant by seeing the finest subject of antiquity debased by a miserable love affair,—by two pair of lovers, and barbarous poetry; nor was I less afflicted by the cruel injustice done to Cicero. In a word, I believed that I was called upon by myvocation to avenge Cicero and Sophocles—Rome and Greece—from the attacks of a barbarian."
This ardour for composition, and these pleasures, were suddenly arrested by the afflicting event of madame du Châtelet's death. She died soon after her confinement, unexpectedly, when all danger seemed past. Whatever might have been the disputes of the friends, these did not shake their friendship; and if they clouded, at intervals, the happiness they derived, they left no evil trace behind. Voltaire was plunged in the deepest affliction; the expressions he uses mark the truth of his regrets. "I do not fear my grief," he writes to his friend, the marquis d'Argental; "I do not fly from objects that speak to me of her. I love Cirey; and although I cannot bear Luneville, where I lost her in so frightful a manner, yet the places which she adorned are dear to me. I have not lost a mistress; I have lost the half of myself,—a soul for which mine was made,—a friend of twenty years. I feel as the most affectionate father would towards an only daughter. I love to find her image everywhere; to converse with her husband and her son."—"I have tried to return to 'Catiline;' but I have lost the ardour I felt when I could show her an act every two days. Ideas fly from me; I find myself, for hours together, unable to write; without a thought for my work: one idea occupies me day and night." To these laments he adds her eulogy, in another letter, with which we may conclude the subject. Her errors were the effect of the times in which she lived, and of an ardent temper. We would deprecate any return to a state of society that led the wisest into such grievous faults, but we will not defraud the victim of the system of the praise which, on other scores, she individually merited.[5]"A woman," writes Voltaire, "who translated and explainedNewton, and translated Virgil, without betraying in her conversation that she had achieved these prodigies; a woman who never spoke ill of any one, and never uttered a falsehood; a friend, attentive and courageous in her friendship: in a word, a great woman, whom the common run of women only knew by her diamonds and dress. Such must I weep till the end of my life."
After this sorrowful event Voltaire established himself in Paris. The house which he and Madame du Châtelet rented conjointly, he now took entirely himself. He invited his widowed niece, madame Denis, to preside over his establishment. At first he continued plunged in grief; he saw no one but count D'Argental and the duke of Richelieu, who were among his oldest friends. One or the other, or both, passed the evenings with him, and tried to distract his mind from its regrets. They sought to awaken in him his theatrical tastes, which were strong, and which, if once roused, would effectually draw him from solitude. Voltaire at last showed sparks of the old fire; other friends were brought about him; he was implored to bring out his newly written tragedies; he objected, on the score of the quarrel that subsisted between him and the actors of the Comédie Français,—he having endeavoured to improve their manner of acting, and they haughtily rejecting his instructions. This difficulty was got over by erecting a private theatre in his own house, and gathering together a number of actors chosen from various privatecompanies; for, as in the time of Molière, the sons of the shopkeepers in Paris often formed companies together, and got up theatricals. It was thus that Voltaire became acquainted with Le Kain, who has left us an interesting account of his intercourse with the illustrious poet.
Le Kain was the son of a goldsmith. Voltaire saw him act, and, perceiving his talent, begged him to call upon him. "The pleasure caused by this invitation," the actor writes, "was even greater than my surprise. I cannot describe what passed within me at the sight of this great man, whose eyes sparkled with fire, imagination, and genius. I felt penetrated with respect, enthusiasm, admiration, and fear; while M. de Voltaire, to put an end to my embarrassment, embraced me, thanking God for having created a being who could move him to tears by his declamation." He then asked the young man various questions; and when Le Kain mentioned his intention of giving himself entirely up to the stage, in spite of his enthusiasm for the theatre, Voltaire strongly dissuaded him from adopting a profession held disreputable in his native country. He asked him to recite, but would not hear any verses but those of Racine. Le Kain had once acted in "Athalie," and he declaimed the first scene, while Voltaire, in a transport of enthusiasm, exclaimed, "Oh! what exquisite verses! and it is surprising that the whole piece is written with the same fervour and purity, from first scene to last, and that, throughout, the poetry is inimitable." And then, turning to the actor, he said, "I predict that, with that touching voice, you will one day delight all Paris,—but never appear upon a public stage." At the second interview Voltaire engaged Le Kain and his whole company to act at his own theatre, Le Kain himself taking up his residence in the house of the generous poet. Le Kain owed his success to him, and felt the warmest gratitude. "He is a faithful friend," he writes; "his temper is vehement, but his heart is good, and his soul sensitive and compassionate. Modest, in spite of the praises lavished on him by kings,by literary men, and by the rest of the world. Profound and just in his judgment on the works of others; full of amenity, kindness, and grace, in the intercourse of daily life, he was inflexible in his aversion to those who had offended him. He was an admirable actor. I have seen him put new life into the part of Cicero, in the fourth act of 'Rome Sauvée,' when we brought out that piece at Sceaux, in the August of 1750. Nothing could be more true, more pathetic, more enthusiastic, than he was in this part." Voltaire instructed the actors when they performed his own tragedies; his criticisms were just, and given with that earnestness and vividness of illustration that marked the liveliness of his sensations. "Remember," he said to an actor who whined out the part of Brutus, "remember that you are Brutus, the firmest of Romans, and that you must not make him address the god Mars as if you were saying, "O holy Virgin! grant that I may gain a prize of a hundred francs in the lottery." He insisted with mademoiselle Dumesnil that she should put more energy into the part of Mérope. "One must be possessed by the devil," said the actress, to declaim with such vehemence."—"You are right," said Voltaire; "and one must be possessed to succeed in any art."
Voltaire passionately loved theatrical representations. The tragedies of Corneille, and, above all, of Racine, inspired him with sensations of the warmest delight. He wrote his own plays in transports of enthusiasm, and corrected them with intense labour. But he had a further intention in erecting his theatre; he aimed at popularity and at court favour, as a safeguard from persecution, and as insuring his personal safety if he should excite ministerial displeasure by any philosophical works. It was for this cause that he endeavoured to propitiate the new mistress of Louis XV., madame de Pompadour. He had known her before she attracted the king's attention; and after she became the royal mistress, she continued for a time on a familiar footing with her old friend. Eager toform a party, and to insure her own popularity, madame de Pompadour patronised literature and the arts, and at first showed partiality for Voltaire; the courtiers followed her example with eager emulation, and the sovereign himself was induced to regard him with some show of favour. He named him gentleman in ordinary to his chamber, and historiographer of France,—places which Voltaire eagerly accepted, and regarded as so many bulwarks to resist the attacks of his enemies. The duties of the first-named place were, however, onerous, as they necessitated a frequent attendance at court; he was permitted to dispose of it, and he sold it for 30,000 francs; while, as a peculiar mark of favour, he was allowed to preserve the title and privileges.
He was, moreover, elected member of the academy; but he purchased this doubtful honour by the sacrifice of much honest pride. He was not elected till he addressed a letter full of professions of respect for the church and the Jesuits. No advancement would have induced him to this act; but he believed that it was necessary to secure his safety while he continued to inhabit the capital. At the same time, these concessions embittered his spirit, and added force to his sarcasms and hostility, when, by expatriation, he had secured his independence. When we consider, however, that his concessions were made in vain, we regret that any motive urged him to them; for if truth be the great aim of intellectual exertions, the more imperative that those who aspire to glory in the name of truth should rise far above subterfuge and disguise. While madame du Châtelet lived, he had occupied a more dignified position; and, in the retirement of Cirey, remained aloof from the intrigues necessary to curry favour with an uneducated, bigoted king, and his ignorant mistress. When his accomplished friend died, the versatile and ambitious poet sailed at first without pilot or rudder. What wonder that he was wrecked? and he deserves the more praise, whenhe retrieved himself after wreck, and attained independence and dignity in his seclusion in Switzerland.
A member of the academy, and enjoying places at court, Voltaire, for a short interval, believed that he should reach the goal he desired, and become the dictator of the literary world, under the protection of his sovereign. He was soon undeceived: Louis remembered too well cardinal de Fleuri's lessons, not to regard him with distrust and dislike. Madame de Pompadour watched the glances of the royal eye, and guided herself by them. Crebillon was set up as Voltaire's successful rival: he felt his immeasurable superiority, and was filled with scorn at the attempt made to bring them on a level. He struggled at first; but still the court and people called out for Crebillon; and, in a fit of disgust, he accepted the reiterated invitation of the king of Prussia, hoping that a temporary absence might calm the attacks of his enemies, and awaken the partiality of the people.
Frederic received his friend with transports of joy. His undisguised delight, his earnest request that he would exchange Paris for Berlin permanently, the charm that his talents spread over the poet's life, and the security he enjoyed, were all alluring. Frederic spared no professions of friendship, no marks of real personal attachment; more than once he kissed the poet's hand, in a transport of admiration. This singular demonstration of affection from man to man, more singular from king to author, helped, with many others in addition, to enchain Voltaire. He, himself, assures us that they turned his head. "How could I resist," he writes, "a victorious king, a poet, a musician, a philosopher, who pretended to love me? I believed that I loved him. I arrived in Potzdam in the month of June, 1750. Astolpho was not better received in the palace of Alcina. To lodge in the apartment which the maréchal de Saxe had occupied, to have the king's cooks at my orders when I chose to eat in my own rooms, and his coachmen when I wished to drive out, were the least favours shown me. The suppers were delightful.Unless I deceive myself, the conversation was full of wit and genius. The king displayed both; and what is strange, I never at any repast enjoyed more freedom. I studied two hours a day with his majesty; I corrected his works, taking care to praise greatly all that was good, while I erased all that was bad. I gave him a reason in writing for all my emendations, which composed a work on rhetoric and poetry for his use. He profited by it, and his genius was of more service to him than my lessons. I had no court to pay, no visits to make, no duties to fulfil. I established myself on an independent footing, and I can conceive nothing more agreeable than my situation."
With these feelings, it is not strange that he listened to his royal friend's request, that he should resign his places in the court of France, and accept that of chamberlain in Prussia, as well as a pension for his life and that of his niece, and that he should permanently fix himself in his royal friend's dominions; yet, while he accepted these offers, he had many qualms. Madame Denis, his niece, to whom he communicated his new plans, argued warmly against them. Her letter has not come down to us; but she evidently took a keen and true view of the annoyances and mortifications to which he might be exposed. She was acquainted with her uncle's irritable temper,—his unguarded conversation when carried away by the spirit of wit,—his vehemence when struggling against control. She felt, and truly, that a king accustomed to command was the last person to show indulgence for such foibles when they clashed with himself. She prophesied that Frederic would, in the end, be the death of his friend. Voltaire showed this letter to the king, and he, in answer, wrote one to the poet, the expressions of which won him entirely. "How," wrote Frederic, "could I cause the unhappiness of a man whom I esteem, whom I love, and who sacrifices for me his country, and all that is dear to man? I respect you as my master in eloquence,—I love you as a virtuous friend. What slavery, whatmisfortune, what change can you fear in a country where you are as much esteemed as in your own, and with a friend who has a grateful heart? I promise you that you shall be happy here as long as you live."
Voltaire sent this letter to count d'Argental, whom he always named his guardian angel, as his apology for expatriating himself. "Judge," he writes, "whether I am excusable? I send you his letter,—you will think that you are reading one written by Trajan or Marcus Aurelius,—yet I am not the less agitated while I deliver myself over to fate, and throw myself, head foremost, into the whirlpool of destiny which absorbs all things. But how can I resist? How can I forget the barbarous manner with which I have been treated in my own country? You know what I have gone through. I enter port after a storm that has lasted thirty years. I enjoy the protection of a king; I find the conversation of a philosopher—the society of a delightful man—united in one, who, for the space of sixteen years, has exerted himself to comfort me in my misfortunes, and to shelter me from my enemies. All is to be feared for me in Paris; here I am sure of tranquillity: if I can answer for anything, it is for the character of the king of Prussia." He wrote with even more enthusiasm to his niece. "He is the most amiable of men; he is a king; it is a passion of sixteen years' standing; he has turned my head. I have the insolence to think that nature formed me for him. There is a singular conformity in our tastes. I forget that he is master of half Germany, and see in him only a good, a friendly man."
To establish the poet at his court, Frederic named him his chamberlain, and gave him the brevet of a pension of twenty thousand francs for himself, and four thousand for his niece, who was invited to come and take up her abode with her uncle at Potzdam. Before he accepted these bounties, it was necessary to obtain permission from his own sovereign, of whom he was placeman and pensioner. Frederic himself wrote to solicitthe consent of the king of France. To Voltaire's surprise, Louis showed displeasure. Monarchs are usually averse to any display of independence on the part of their subjects and servants. He accepted the poet's resignation of the place of historiographer, which Voltaire had hoped to keep, but permitted him to retain his title of gentleman in ordinary and his pension. Yet this was done in a manner that showed Voltaire that if he were forced to leave Prussia, his position in his native country would be more perilous and stormy than ever.
He felt, also, deeply disappointed in finding himself obliged to give up the idea of having his niece, Madame Denis, with him in Prussia. "The life we lead at Potzdam," he writes, "which pleases me, would drive a woman to despair; so I leave her my house in Paris, my plate, and my horses, and I add to her income." Still his niece and his friends were not content at his throwing himself so entirely into the power of Frederic, and their suggestions inspired a thousand doubts as to the prudence of his choice, especially when the severity of the winter made him feel that the climate was ill suited to his feeble constitution.
However, he manfully opposed himself to the objections raised against his choice, and the sufferings which the long icy winter caused him to endure. He devoted himself to authorship. His chief occupation was his "Age of Louis XIV.," of which he was justly proud. He felt that he could write with greater freedom while absent from France. "I shall here finish," he writes, "the 'Age of Louis XIV.,' which, perhaps, I had never written in Paris. The stones with which I erect this monument in honour of my country had, there, served but to crush me; a bold word had seemed a lawless licence, and the most innocent expressions had been interpreted with that charity that spreads poison through all." Again he writes: "I shall be historiographer of France in spite of my enemies,and I was never so desirous of doing well the duties of my place as since I lost it. This vast picture of so illustrious an age turns my head. If Louis XIV. be not great, at least his age is. It is an immense work: I shall revise it severely, and shall endeavour, above all, to render the truth neither odious nor dangerous."
Besides this great undertaking, he corrected his tragedies. As usual, he infected all round with his love of the drama. A theatre was established at court; the brothers and sisters of the king took parts in his plays, and submitted to his instructions. This was a species of flattery well suited to turn a poet's head; yet soon, very soon, the dark cloud appeared in the horizon, and his attention became roused to assure himself whether indeed he heard the far off thunder of an approaching storm. These dawnings of fear and distrust are ingenuously detailed in his letters to his niece.Nov.6.1750."It is known, then, at Paris," he writes, "that we have acted the death of Cæsar at Potzdam; that prince Henri is a good actor, has no accent, and is very amiable; and that pleasures may be found here. All this is true—but—the suppers of the king are delicious—seasoned by reason, wit, and science—liberty reigns over them—he is the soul of all—no ill-humour, no clouds—at least, no storms; my life is independent and occupied; but—but—operas, plays, carousals, suppers at Sans-souci—warlike manœuvres, concerts, study, readings; but—but—the weather, my dear child, begins to be very cold——"
Such were the first expressions of distrust inspired by observing a certain degree of deceit in the king. He found that he could turn those into ridicule whom he flattered most to their face; and he also found that such blowing of hot and cold with the same breath, which is deemed almost fair in some societies, was fertile of annoyance when practised by a king whose word is law, whose smiles are the ruling influence of the day, whose slightest remark is reported, magnified, and becomes therule of action to all around; and he began to feel that the chain that bound him and the king, which he flattered would be worn equally by both, fell heavily round him only. He became aware that the king was not the less despotic and self-willed for being a philosopher. In truth, Frederic and Voltaire had a mutual and sincere love for each other. They agreed in their opinions, they sympathised in their views. Each enjoyed the conversation, the wit, the gaiety, the genius of the other; but Voltaire panted for entire independence: to think, to speak, to write freely, was as necessary as the air he breathed. To gain these privileges he had quitted France; and though he passionately loved flattery and distinction, yet these were only pleasing when they waited upon his every caprice; and became valueless when he was called upon to sacrifice the humour of the moment to gain them. The king delighted in Voltaire's talents; but, then, he wished them to be as much at his command as a soldier's valour, which deserves reward, but which may only be displayed at the word of command.
The moment a feeling of injustice on one side, and of assumption of direction on the other, showed themselves, a thousand circumstances arose to embitter the intercourse of the unequal friends. The king had a favourite guest, la Metrie, a physician by profession, the worst, Voltaire tells us, that ever practised, an unprincipled fellow, but witty and vivacious; whose good spirits, and bold and infidel opinions, pleased Frederic, who made him his reader. This sort of man is never suited to a court. The same restless aspiration after independence that renders a man an infidel in opinions makes him a bad courtier.Sept.2.1751.Ætat.57."La Metrie," writes Voltaire to his niece, "boasts in his prefaces of his extreme felicity in being near a great king, who sometimes reads his poems to him; but, in secret, he weeps with me; he would leave this place on foot: and I—why am I here? You will be astonished at what I tell you. La Metrie swore to me the other day, that, when speaking to the king of my pretended favour, and of the petty jealousy that itexcites, he replied, 'I shall not want him for more than a year longer: one squeezes the orange, and throws away the peel.'"
These words sank deep in Voltaire's mind; and not less deeply did the king feel an expression of the irritable poet, who called himself Frederic's laundress, and said, when he corrected the royal poems, that he was washing the king's dirty linen. Such heedless speeches, carried from one to the other by the thoughtless or the malicious, destroyed every feeling of attachment, and circumstances soon concurred to inspire both with mistrust, to inspire the weaker with a desire of throwing off his chains, and the stronger with a more unworthy determination of adding to their weight.
The first circumstance of any importance that occurred was a pecuniary transaction between Voltaire and a Jew. Voltaire says, that after the speech of Frederic, reported to him by la Metrie, he wished to put his orange peel in safety. Whether his transaction with the Jew concerned the placing of his money cannot be told; it is enveloped in great obscurity; however, what is certain is, that it was submitted to a legal trial, the Jew condemned, and Voltaire entirely exonerated from blame. The mere fact, however, of an accusation being made against him, and fault found, was matter of triumph to his enemies. A thousand libels were circulated in Paris and Berlin, and a thousand falsehoods told. Frederic, when he heard of the dispute, referred it to the decision of the law. In this he did well. But he affected to distrust Voltaire; he forbade him to appear at court till the decision of the judges was known. Voltaire was far above peculation and pecuniary meanness. The king committed an irremissible crime in friendship, whether he really distrusted Voltaire, or merely pretended so to do. But a king of Prussia is an absolute monarch; all belonging to him are his creatures; and that one of these should venture out of bounds, either to secure his propertyor to augment it, was regarded as a deep offence. Voltaire must be humbled. Treated like a servant, not a friend, what wonder that the sensitive poet felt that the orange was squeezed a little too hardly, and began to earnestly desire to save as much of it as he could. A sort of reconciliation, however, ensued; again all appeared smiling on the surface, though all was hollow beneath. Voltaire engaged in printing his "Age of Louis XIV.," was desirous of finishing it before he quitted Prussia; meanwhile he had a sum of money to the amount of 300,000 livres, about 15,000l., which he wished to place; he took care not to put it in the Prussian funds, but secured it advantageously on certain estates which the duke of Wirtemburg possessed in France. Through the infidelity of the post Frederic discovered this transaction, and felt that it was a preparation for escape. Accordingly, he made more use of him than ever as a corrector of his literary works. In spite of all these disturbances, there was something in the life of Potzdam peculiarly agreeable to Voltaire. "I am lodged conveniently," he writes, "in a fine palace. I have a few friends about me of my own way of thinking, with whom I dine regularly and soberly. When I am well enough, I sup with the king; and conversation does not turn either upon individual gossip or general ineptities, but upon good taste, the arts, and true philosophy; on the means to attain happiness, on the mode of discerning the true from the false, upon liberty of thought: in short, during the two years I have spent at this place, which is called a court, but which is really a retreat for philosophers, not a day has passed during which I have not learnt something instructive." Thus Voltaire tried to blind himself, while he really enjoyed the conversation and friendship of Frederic, and while the cloven foot of despotism remained in shadow.
Among other modes of civilising Prussia and spreading the blessings of knowledge, Frederic had established an academy. This was a favouritecreation, and it did him honour. The president was Maupertuis, a man of some ability, but whose talents were vitiated by the taint of envy. He had considered himself the firstbel espritat court till Voltaire appeared. He and the poet had corresponded heretofore, and Voltaire had not spared flattery in his letters; but he neglected to mention Maupertuis's name in his speech when he took his seat in the French academy. This was not an injury to be forgiven; and though Voltaire paid him every sort of attention, the other could ill brook his superior favour, especially as Frederic, who had never relished his conversation, frequently excluded him from the royal suppers, and joined with Voltaire in making him the object of their endless pleasantries. At first Voltaire only jested, because he was a wit and could not help it; but Maupertuis contrived to rouse a more bitter spirit.
He had discovered a new principle in mechanics, that of theleast power: this principle met much opposition, and Kœnig, a Prussian mathematician, not only argued against it, but quoted a fragment of a letter of Leibnitz, in which this principle was mentioned and objected to. Kœnig confessed that he possessed only a copy of the letter in question, acknowledging that the original was lost. Maupertuis took advantage of this circumstance; he induced the academy, of which he was president, to summon Kœnig to produce the original; and when this was allowed not to be found, he proceeded to accuse him of forgery. He got up a meeting of such academicians as he could influence, by whom Kœnig was declared unworthy to be any longer a member, and his name erased from the list.
Kœnig had formerly instructed madame du Châtelet in the philosophy of Leibnitz. Voltaire consequently knew and esteemed him, and was indignant at the persecution he suffered; he took his part openly, and was only restrained from crushing his adversary by Frederic's personal request not to make a jest of his academy or its president. The seeds of animosity, however, between him and Maupertuis, long sown, sprung up andflourished with vigour. Maupertuis contrived to excite a disreputable person of the name of La Beaumelle to attack the poet. His calumnies ought to have met with contempt only; but Voltaire was irritated, and his dislike to Maupertuis increased. The president published a book full of philosophical follies, which Voltaire satirised unsparingly. He wrote a diatribe called "Akakia," and read it to the king; Maupertuis was the butt of a thousand witticisms, and the royal suppers rang with laughter at his expense. But Voltaire was not content to make a jest of Maupertuis only in the royal presence, and Frederic, beginning to think that to attack his president was to attack his academy and also himself, published two pamphlets against Kœnig, which also inculpated Voltaire. The poet was indignant. "I see," he writes to his niece, "that the orange is squeezed; I must now try to save the rind. I am going to write a small dictionary for the use of kings, in which it will be shown thatmy friend, means my slave; my dear friend, you are becoming indifferent to me; I will make you happy, I will endure while I need you; sup with me this evening, you shall be my butt to-night.Seriously, my heart is wounded. Speak to a man with tenderness, and write pamphlets against him—and what pamphlets! Tear a man from his country by the most solemn promises, and treat him with the blackest malignity. What a contrast!"
Voltaire was not a man to suffer these attacks without punishing them with a visitation of his unbridled wit. Fearful of attacking Frederic, he revenged himself on Maupertuis, and published "Akakia."
He belonged to the republic of letters, and did not understand that it should be ruled by the will of one man. And then, while he vehemently reprehended those authors who had made their literary enemies the objects of public satire, he, himself, indulged in the most bitter attacks. Frederic considered "Akakia" as a satire, deserved by Maupertuis, and thus a blameless source of merriment at his suppertable, where he had no objection to turn his president into ridicule; but the publication was quite another affair; by this he considered his academy, and consequently himself, attacked; and he retaliated by a still more flagrant outrage. He caused the diatribe to be burnt by the hands of the hangman in the public square of Berlin. Voltaire had a right to be deeply incensed by this act. He did not attack the honour or morality of Maupertuis in his diatribe, but simply ridiculed his opinions; and though "Akakia" has only that slight merit, dependent on associations of the day, now lost, which rendered it amusing to a circle, and was not adapted for general reading nor posterity, still, as it was not libellous, the act of the king of Prussia was an insolent exertion of intolerable despotism. He meant, perhaps, to break Voltaire's spirit by such an insult. Knowing that he could not return to Paris, he fancied him at his mercy. Voltaire had, however, but one wish—to escape, and to feel himself once more free. On this outrage he instantly returned "the king's baubles," as he called them,—the key of chamberlain, his cross, and the brevet of his pension,—with these verses:—