"Je les reçus avec tendresse,Je les renvoie avec douleur,Comme un amant, dans sa jalouse ardeur,Rend le portrait de sa maitresse."
"Je les reçus avec tendresse,Je les renvoie avec douleur,Comme un amant, dans sa jalouse ardeur,Rend le portrait de sa maitresse."
Thus trying to soften the acquisition of his freedom to Frederic himself. He at the same time said that he was ill, and asked permission to drink the waters of Plombières. The king, desirous of keeping him on his own terms, replied by sending some bark, and, observing that there were as medicinal waters in Silesia as at Plombières, refused permission for his journey.
Voltaire had but one other resource: he asked permission to see the king. They met, and the pleasure they took in each other's society seemed at once to obliterate the recollection of offence and wrong. It is said that Voltaire appeared before the king with "Akakia" in hishand; on entering the room, he threw it into the fire, saying, "There, sire, is the only remaining copy of that unhappy hook which caused me to lose your friendship." The king, in his German simplicity, fancied that the poet spoke the simple truth; he rushed to the fire to save the pamphlet from among the burning fagots. Voltaire struggled to poke it in. Frederic at length drew out the half-burnt pages in triumph. He embraced his friend. They supped together. "A supper of Damocles," Voltaire calls it; but to the king it was one of triumph, since it appeared to be the sign that he had bent Voltaire's spirit to pass over the indignities heaped on him, and secured him as a submissive courtier for ever. As a token of his renewed servitude, he gave him back "the baubles." Maupertuis, himself, was not spared by the friends, who, as far as wit could go, sacrificed him at the shrine of their reconciliation. Voltaire, however, had but one end in view. He used his regained influence to obtain permission for a journey to Plombières, promising to be absent only a few months—a promise he did not mean to keep. But as Francis I. broke the treaty which Charles V. forced him to make in prison in Madrid, so might Voltaire consider any promise he made to Frederic void, while the frontiers of Prussia were guarded by an hundred and fifty thousand men, and independence had become necessary to his existence.
Voltaire exulted in escaping from the palace of Alcina—as he named the abode of Frederic; but he did not think it prudent to venture to Paris, where his enemies were in vigour, and strengthened by the displeasure with which Louis XV. regarded the poet's having exchanged his court for that of Frederic. Instead, therefore, of taking refuge in his own country (if the subject of an arbitrary monarch can be said to have a country), he remained some time at Leipsic. Here he received a ridiculous challenge from Maupertuis, which only tended to add zest to his pleasantries upon him; and he then proceeded to the court of theduchess of Saxe Gotha, a most excellent and enlightened princess, "who, thank God," says Voltaire, "did not write verses." He breathed again without fear, believing that he hail secured his freedom. He continued his journey to Frankfort, where he was met by madame Denis. The bad state of Voltaire's health rendered a woman's presence and attentions necessary; and he was proud also of the heroic sacrifice it seemed in those days when a lady, enjoying the pleasures of Parisian society, quitted them to attend on a sick old uncle, even though that uncle were Voltaire. Here a sort of tragi-comic adventure ensued, to the temporary annoyance of the poet, and the lasting disgrace of the king of Prussia.
Frederic's angry feelings were roused by several just causes of annoyance. He learned that "Akakia" was published in Holland, and he remembered the scene of its pretended destruction by its author with indignation. He was angry, also, that the poet had escaped, and was no longer liable to the effects of his displeasure, and fear of ridicule added poignancy to these feelings. Frederic at once wished to punish his former friend, and to shield himself from the shafts of his ridicule. Voltaire had taken with him a volume of Frederic's poems, privately circulated and given to him. The king feared that his corrector might strip his verses of their borrowed feathers, and deliver up the unfledged nurslings to the laughter of the world. He sent orders to his agent at Francfort to demand back this volume, as well as the baubles before returned and restored. His agent was a Jew of low character, and totally illiterate. He proceeded against Voltaire, as if he had been a servant suspected of running away with his master's plate. The precious volume which Freitag calledL'Œuvre de Poésie du Roi son Maître, had been left at Leipsic. Voltaire and madame Denis were kept under strict arrest till this unfortunate book arrived at Francfort; and as there are always ill-omened birds who scent ill fortune, and takeadvantage of it; so, now, a bookseller of the Hague, whom Voltaire had employed, many years ago, to print the "Anti-Machiavel" of Frederic, brought forward a balance of twenty crowns with interest and compound interest, which the poet was forced to pay. At last, after a disagreeable and strict imprisonment of nearly a month's duration, Voltaire and his niece were allowed to depart.
Thus ended the treaty of equal friendship between king and poet. The pettiness of the details is striking. We find neither the magnanimity of a hero in one, nor the calmness of a philosopher in the other. Voltaire had the excuse that he avenged his injured friend Kœnig in his satire on Maupertuis. He had dreamed of independence in a palace; and from the moment he discovered his mistake he was eager to be free. Frederic, meanwhile, was taught by his enemies to regard him as a restless, intriguing Frenchman. He had written to him, at the beginning of their quarrel: "I was glad to receive you. I esteemed your understanding, your talents, your acquirements; and I believed that a man of your age, weary of skirmishing with authors and exposing himself to the storm, would take refuge here as in a tranquil port. First, you exacted from me, in a singular manner, that I should not engage Freron to correspond with me, and I had the weakness to yield. You visited the Russian minister, and talked to him of affairs in which you had no right to interfere; and it was believed that I commissioned you. You had a dirty transaction with a Jew, and filled the city with clamour. I preserved peace in my house till you arrived; and I warn you, that if you have a passion for intrigue and cabal, you have addressed yourself very ill. I like quiet people; and if you can resolve to live like a philosopher, I shall be glad to see you; but if you give way to your passions, and quarrel with everybody, you had better remain at Berlin. * * * * I write this letter with unpolished German good sense, which says what it thinks, and without adopting equivocal terms and soft palliations to disfigure thetruth."[6]This letter shows that Frederic believed himself to be in the right, and had conceived a bad opinion of his friend. We all know the height to which misunderstandings can rise when fostered by malicious and interested persons. We cannot wonder that men of quick tempers like Frederic and Voltaire should disagree; but it was to be lamented that they made their pettish quarrels a spectacle for all Europe.
Voltaire had now a new life to fix upon. He was eager to secure his entire independence. The tranquillity he had at first enjoyed in Prussia made him feel the value of peace. This he could never find in his own country, and he henceforth looked upon expatriation as the only means of securing his tranquillity. Chance assisted him in forming the choice of an abode, which, from the independence it afforded, placed him in a high and dignified position in the eyes of all Europe. He had at first entertained the plan of establishing himself in Alsatia, in which province he spent two years, after leaving Prussia, occupied in writing the annals of the empire; but he was disturbed by the attacks of the Jesuits, who were angry because they had failed in an endeavour to convert him. He found that he could not visit Paris with safety; and he hesitated where to establish himself. Meanwhile, his health being, as ever, bad, he was advised to try the waters of Aix, in Savoy.
In his way thither he passed through Lyons. Cardinal Tencin refused to receive him, on account of his being out of favour at court. Voltairewas piqued; but the inhabitants of Lyons compensated for the insult. They entertained him with public honours; got up his tragedies, that he might be present at the representation, and receive the enthusiastic applause of an audience who gloried in the opportunity of thus rewarding the author of works which excited so much admiration. Proceeding from Lyons to Savoy, he passed through Geneva, and here he consulted Tronchin, a physician, whom every one looked on as holding life and death in his hands. Tronchin dissuaded him from trying the waters, but promised to restore his health if he would make some stay near him. Voltaire gave readier faith than could have been expected from a ridiculer of the medical art. He consented to remain in the neighbourhood of Geneva; and, finding that it was an established law that no Catholic might purchase land in Protestant Switzerland, it pleased his whimsical mind instantly to buy an estate in the territory of Geneva.1755.Ætat.61.Add to which motive, he fully appreciated the advantages he must derive from living out of France, yet in a country where French was spoken, and where liberty of speech and of the press had hitherto reigned undisturbed. His house, named Les Delices, was beautifully situated. He describes it as commanding a delightful view. The lake on one side, the town of Geneva on the other; the swift swelling Rhone formed a stream at the end of his garden, fed by the Arve and other mountain rivers. A hundred country houses with their gardens adorned the shores of the lake and of the rivers; and the Alps were seen afar off,—Mont Blanc and its range, whose picturesque snow-clad peaks for ever presented new aspects, as the clouds or the varying sunlight painted them. A philosopher, blest with affluence, might well be happy in such a seclusion. Soon after his arrival, Voltaire wrote the fragment of his autobiography, to explain his quarrel with the king of Prussia. These memoirs are one of his most entertaining works. The playful sarcasm, which characterises every pagehe ever wrote, in this production reaches home, yet can scarcely be said to sting. He laughs at Frederic and hisŒuvres des Poésies; he laughs at his own illusions; and then lingers with fondness on the retreat he had at last found from the tumult of society and the friendship or enmity of kings. He congratulates himself on having made his own fortune, and confesses that this was done by speculations in finance. "It is necessary to be attentive to the operations to which the ministry, always pressed and always changing, makes in the finances of the state," he observes. "Something often occurs of which a private individual can profit without being under obligations to any one; and it is vastly agreeable to fabricate one's own fortune. The first step is troublesome, the rest are easy. One must be economical in one's youth, and in old age one is surprised at one's wealth. Money is at that time more necessary, and that time I now enjoy. After having lived with kings, I am become a king in my home. I possess all the conveniences of life in furniture, equipages, and good living. The society of agreeable and clever people occupy all the time spared from study and the care I am forced to take of my health. While I enjoy the most pleasant style of life that can be imagined, I have the little philosophic pleasure of perceiving that the kings of Europe do not taste the same happy tranquillity; and I conclude that the position of a private person is often preferable to that of royalty."
These words were singularly verified in the renewal of his correspondence with the king of Prussia. Frederic had begun it by sending him an opera he had founded on "Mérope."1756.Ætat.62.Soon after the coalition was formed against Prussia, which, victorious at first, brought Frederic to the position of rebel against the empire. The loss of a battle reduced him to extremities; and, rather than submit to his enemies, he resolved to commit suicide. He wrote a long epistle in verse announcing his intention: Voltaire answered it in prose, andcombated his idea by every argument that seemed most likely to have weight. Frederic was in some sort convinced; he dismissed the idea of self-destruction; but he resolved to fall on the field of battle, unless the victory was decided in his favour.
This more heroic resolution was rewarded by the gain of two battles, in which scarcely a Prussian fell, and the defeat of the enemy was complete. Frederic wrote triumphantly to his friend to announce his victories.1758.Ætat.64.Soon after, Voltaire was applied to by cardinal Tencin, who had refused to receive him at Lyons, to forward letters which were to negotiate a peace. The wily philosopher consented: he was aware that the cardinal would fail, and he was malicious enough to wish to enjoy the sight of his mortification. The cardinal did fail, and more disgracefully than he expected; and the disappointment cost him his life. "I have never been able to understand," Voltaire observes, "how it is that people are killed by vexation, and how ministers and cardinals, whose hearts are so hard, retain sufficient sensibility to die from the effects of a disappointment. It was my design to mortify and laugh at, not to kill him."
Voltaire had secured his safety, and could give himself up to that ardent love of study, that restless aspiration for fame, that eager endeavour to overthrow the superstitions (and, unfortunately, more than the superstitions, the religion) of Europe, and that more noble resolution to oppose all abuses, and to be the refuge and support of the oppressed, which animated his soul through a long life chequered by physical suffering. In his retreat of Les Delices, he brought out his historical work on the "Manners and Spirit of Nations." He composed several of his best tragedies; he wrote "Candide," a book rendered illustrious by its wit and penetrating spirit of observation, in spite of its grossness and implied impiety, which are the reigning blemishes of Voltaire's writings. As usual, also, he erected a theatre in hishouse. Added to his habitual love for theatrical amusements, he hoped to impart a taste for them to the Genevese, and so to weaken that ascetic spirit of repulsion of intellectual pleasure to which, whether enjoined by monks or recommended by Calvin, he was hostile.
All, however, was not labour, peace, and amusement. The publication of the poem of the "Pucelle" threatened a renewal of the persecutions of which he had been the victim in his earlier days. Several forged verses in ridicule of Louis XV. and madame de Pompadour had been foisted into the surreptitious edition that appeared, and it was with difficulty that his friends proved that he was not the writer. Voltaire, indeed, was always in a state of inky war. A man who had provoked the priesthood of Europe, and whose talent for perceiving and pourtraying the ridiculous was unequalled and unsparing, could not fail in creating a host of enemies. Satires, epigrams, and libels rained on him. In his retirement of Les Delices, he might, if he had chosen, have been insensible to these attacks; but not one but found their way; he answered all, dealing about his shafts dipped in sarcasm and irony, and spreading abroad a sort of terror that served as a wholesome check to his enemies. A word or line from his pen marked a man for ever. Several among those thus attacked were forced to hide themselves till a new victim was immolated, and their own disgrace forgotten. In his "Life of Molière," speaking of the epigrams with which Boileau and Molière attacked, and, it is said, caused the death of Cotin, Voltaire called this the sad effect of a licence rather perilous than useful, which is more apt to flatter the malignity of men than to inspire good taste; and in his "Essay on Satire," he severely blames Boileau for naming the poets whom he censures. Yet, with blind inconsistency, Voltaire never spared an enemy. He conceived that, if attacked by, he had a fair right to annihilate, as he well could, the stinging gadflies of literature. The society of Paris was kept alive by his multitudinous epigrams. This engendered a baneful spirit of sarcasm, and spread abroad an appetite for injuring others byridicule, slander, and jests that wound. They rendered society more heartless and more cruel than ever.
Voltaire, himself, was visited by the effects of the disturbed state of feeling he helped to engender. He had hoped to find a safe asylum in the Genevese territories. But his attacks on their prejudices created a host of enemies. He began to feel that the dark shadows of persecution were gathering round.1762.Ætat.68.He found that, although his presence in Paris would not be permitted, he might, in safety, take up his abode in a remote part of France. He purchased, therefore, the estate of Ferney, on the French territory, within a short distance of Geneva; and thus with a foot, as it were, in two separate states, he hoped to find safety in one if threatened with hostility in the other.
He was more fortunate than he anticipated. The persecutions he afterwards endured were reduced to little more than threats, and were less than might be expected by a man who first raised the voice of hostility to, and resolved on, the destruction of a system of religion supported by a powerful hierarchy which was in possession of half the wealth of the nations who professed their faith, and which was regarded as the bulwark of their power by the monarchs of Europe. Voltaire's poem on the law of Nature, and his version of Ecclesiastes, were burnt in Paris as deistical and blasphemous, although the latter had no fault but that of turning the sublime into commonplace. A poem on the earthquake at Lisbon was also produced at this time; and "Candide" was written and published. To collect together the most dreadful misfortunes, to heap them on the head of a single individual, and in one canvass to group all of disastrous that a fertile imagination can paint, and present this as a picture of life, does not seem at first sight the most worthy occupation of a philosopher. Voltaire himself, though he had met reverses, was a living refutation of "Candide." But as, in truth, whether by sudden reverse or the slow undermining of years, all humanhope does fade and decay, as life proceeds to its close; so Voltaire, now nearly seventy years of age, might, on looking back, consider disappointment and sorrow as the mark of humanity; and, by showing these ills to be inevitable, inculcate a philosophical indifference. Still the tone of "Candide" is not moral, and, like all Voltaire's lighter productions, is stamped with a coarseness which renders it unfit for general perusal. In addition to these minor productions, Voltaire laboured at the correction and enlargement of his historical work on the "Manners and Spirit of Nations,"—one of the greatest monuments which his genius achieved.
While Voltaire was at Berlin, d'Alembert and Diderot had set on foot the project of the "Encyclopédie." Their plan was, to write a book which would become indispensable to every library, from its containing the most recent discoveries in philosophy, and the best explanations and details on every topic, and this mingled with an anti-catholic spirit, that would serve to sap the foundations of the national religion. Voltaire contributed but few, and those merely literary, articles to this work—whose progress, however, he regarded with lively interest.
The outcry against the "Encyclopédie" was of course prodigious; every one who did not belong to the party formed by the lovers of innovation rose against it. Parliament and clergy pronounced its condemnation, and succeeded so far in suppressing it, that the editors were obliged to continue it clandestinely. They, however, did not submit without a struggle: a literary war was declared, which raged furiously. Voltaire was considered at the head of the liberal party, and he gave his mighty aid to turn the opposers of his opinions into ridicule. One after the other, they sank under the shafts of his wit, and were forced to take shelter in retirement from the ridicule with which his epigrams had covered them. Voltaire considered his thus abetting his friends a sacred duty. "I belong to a party," he wrote, "and a persecuted, party, which,persecuted as it is, has nevertheless gained the greatest possible advantage over its enemies, by rendering them at once odious and ludicrous."
It is pleasant to turn from these matters, which often display the self-love and intolerance of the philosophers of the day, to such acts as stamp Voltaire as a generous man, full of the warmest feelings of benevolence, and capable of exerting all his admirable faculties in the noblest cause,—that of assisting and saving the unfortunate. A great niece of Corneille lived in indigence in Paris. A friend of hers conceived the happy thought of applying to Voltaire for assistance; and that which he instantly afforded, at once rescued her from privation and care. His answer to the application deserves record. "It becomes an old follower of the great Corneille to endeavour to be useful to the descendant of his general. When one builds chateaux and churches, and has poor relations to support, one has but little left to assist one, who ought to be aided by the first people in the kingdom. I am old. I have a niece who loves the fine arts, and cultivates them with success. If the young lady of whom you speak will accept a good education under my niece's care, she will look on her as a daughter, and I will be to her as a father." This offer was of course gratefully accepted. The young lady was clever, lively, yet gentle. Voltaire himself assisted in her education. "I do not wish to make her learned," he writes, "but desire that she should learn how to conduct the affairs of life and to be happy." He was rewarded for his exertion by his protégée's docility and gratitude. As a means of obtaining a dowry for her, he wrote his elaborate commentary on Corneille's works, and published it, with an edition of the great tragedian's works, by subscription—inducing the monarchs and nobles of Europe, through his mighty influence, to send in their names, and thus fabricated a fortune for the orphan.
Soon after, another and more important occasion offered itself forserving his fellow creatures, and he acquitted himself of the task with resolution and success.
The frightful spirit of persecution of the Huguenots, engendered by the revocation of the edict of Nantes, by Louis XIV. and his dragoon-missionaries, still survived in the provinces; and not only embittered the minds of the ignorant, but influenced the legal authorities, and led them always to associate the ideas of crime and Protestantism together. Jean Calas had been a merchant of Thoulouse for forty years. He was a Protestant—an upright and good man, and by no means bigoted. One of his sons was a convert to Catholicism; but, far from showing displeasure. Calas made him an allowance for his maintenance. A female servant who had been in his family for thirty years was a Catholic. One of his sons, named Marc-Antoine, committed suicide. He was a young man of a restless, sombre, discontented disposition; he disliked trade, and found himself excluded by the laws against his religion from entering on any profession. He read various books on suicide—conversed on the subject with his friends—and one day, having lost all his money in play, resolved on the fatal act. The family supped together; they had a guest with them—a young man only nineteen, named Lavaisse, known for his amiable and gentle disposition. After supper, Marc-Antoine left them; and when, shortly after, Lavaisse took his leave, and the father went down stairs to let him out, they discovered his son hanging from a door: he had undressed himself, folded up his clothes, and committed the act with the utmost deliberation. The family were seized with terror. They summoned medical aid and officers of justice; their cries and terror gathered a crowd about the house. The only error they committed was, that, knowing the horror in which suicide was held, they at first declared that the unfortunate man had died a natural death. The falsehood of this assertion being at once detected, the most frightful suspicions were the consequence.
The people of Thoulouse were peculiarly fanatical—they regarded Protestants as monsters capable of any crime: a whisper was raised that Jean Calas had murdered his son. A story was quickly fabricated and believed. It was alleged that Marc-Antoine was on the point of abjuring Protestantism, and that his family and Lavaisse had murdered him, to prevent him from putting his design into execution. A thousand other details were swiftly invented for the purpose of adding terror to the scene. The chief magistrate of Thoulouse, named David, excited by these rumours, and paying no attention to possibility or proof, without even proceeding with legal forms, threw the whole family of Calas, their Catholic servant, and Lavaisse into prison. In the frenzy of the moment, they turned the supposed victim into a martyr, and buried him in the church of St. Etienne, as if he had already abjured his faith, and died in consequence. One of the religious confraternities of the town celebrated his funeral with pomp; a magnificent catafalque was raised to his honour, on which was placed a skeleton, who was supposed to represent Marc-Antoine, which was made to move; it held a pen, with which it was supposed to sign the act of abjuration. The people, excited by their priests, were transported with fanaticism: they invoked the son as a saint; they demanded the execution of the father as a murderer.
The details of the trial of the unfortunate man accused of murdering his own son were not less frightful and unjust: of twelve judges, six acquitted him—it required a plurality of voices for his condemnation. Two judges were terrified into retiring; others were gained over; a majority of two was obtained, and the unfortunate Calas broken on the wheel.
The whole circumstances were full of contradiction and absurdity. Calas was sixty-eight years of age,—a kind father and a good man. If he had committed the murder, the whole of his family must have been equally guilty, as it was proved that they spent the evening together, and thathe had never quitted them for a moment. The judges paused, however, before they condemned mother, brothers, sisters, the youth, their guest, and their Catholic servant; they deferred their trial till after the death of the old man, under the pretence that he might confess under execution. Calas died in torture, however, protesting his innocence; and the judges were perplexed what to do next. At first they pronounced a sentence of acquittal; but, feeling that this decision was in too glaring contradiction with that which condemned the father to the wheel, they practised on the weakness of Pierre Calas to induce him to become a Catholic: fear led him to show signs of yielding, at first; but the weakness was temporary, and he fled from the monastery in which he had been induced to take refuge. The unfortunate widow, Lavaisse, and the servant were liberated. Deprived of fortune, covered with infamy, reduced to destitution, the wretched family took refuge in Geneva. Their case was mentioned to Voltaire; he sent for the surviving victims to Ferney; he questioned them rigorously; the mere fact that the parliament of Thoulouse had condemned the father, and liberated those who, had a murder been committed, must have been accomplices, sufficed to show that the sentence was unjust, and the execution of the unfortunate old man a legal assassination. He obtained the documents of the proceeding from Thoulouse; he found the narration of the Calas faithful in all its parts, while their appearance and words bore the stamp of undeniable truth. He was struck with horror, and exerted that energy which formed his prominent characteristic to obtain justice for them,—an undertaking which must strike any one familiar with narratives of judicial proceedings in France, at that time, as full of nearly insuperable obstacles. He interested the duke de Choiseul, a man of known humanity, in their favour. The duchess d'Enville was then at Geneva, having come to consult the famous Tronchin. She was an amiable and generous woman,and superior to the prejudices and superstition of the age. She became the protectress of the Calas. The family were sent to Paris; the widow demanded a trial, and surrendered herself to prison. Voltaire was indefatigable in drawing up memoirs and papers in their justification. He did what no other man could have done: he roused all Europe to take interest in their cause, and kept alive the memory of their wrongs by writings that at once pourtrayed their sufferings and argued in favour of toleration,—a word which then appeared synonymous with blasphemy, and even to this day is not imprinted with sufficient depth in the minds of men. The legal proceedings were carried on at his expense. These extended to a great length. Two years passed before a definitive judgment was pronounced; "so easy is it," remarks Voltaire, "for fanaticism to condemn and destroy the innocent, so difficult for reason to exculpate them." The duke de Choiseul had named a tribunal which was not implicated with the tortuous and intolerant policy of the French parliaments, to try the cause. But endless formalities succeeded one to the other. The spirit which Voltaire had raised in their favour was fervent in Paris. Persons of the first distinction visited the accused in prison, and every one vied with the other in administering consolation and support. In England a large subscription was raised in their favour. At length the day of their acquittal arrived. The judges unanimously pronounced that the whole family was innocent, and the memory of the unfortunate father was redeemed from infamy. All Paris was alive with joy and triumph: the people assembled in various parts of the town; they were eager to see the persons to whom justice was at last done; they clapped their hands in triumph when they appeared; the judgesaddressed the king to supplicate him to repair the pecuniary losses of the family, and the sum of 36,000 livres was given for this purpose. Voltaire, in his seclusion among the Alps, heard of the success, and of the enthusiastic joy with which his countrymen hailed the triumph of innocence; he had a right to look on himself as the cause, not only of the justice at last done to the wronged, but of the virtuous sympathy felt by all Europe in their acquittal. He, whose sensations were all so keen, felt deeply the gladness of victory. He knew that many blessed his name; he felt himself to be the cause of good to his fellow-creatures, and the epithet of the saviour of the Calas was that in which, to the end of his life, he took most pride and joy. His letters at the moment of the final decision show the depth of his emotion.1765.Ætat.71."Philosophy, alone, has gained this victory," he writes; "my old eyes weep with joy." To conclude the history, David, the magistrate whose fanaticism and cruelty hurried on the death of the miserable old man, was deprived of his place; struck by remorse and shame, he lost his reason, and soon after died.
Voltaire, known as the protector of the innocent, was soon called upon to render a similar service for another family. A girl of the name of Sirven had been carried off from her Protestant family, and, according to the barbarous custom of the times, was shut up in a convent; where, not yielding to conversion as readily as was expected, she was treated with such severity that in a fit of desperation she threw herself into a well and was drowned. Instead of punishing the priests and nuns for the effects of their persecution, her family was accused of her death. They had time to escape, but were condemned to death for contumacy. The unfortunate father and mother resolved to apply to Voltaire. Reduced to destitution, they were forced to make the journey on foot, and presented themselves in a miserable state at Ferney. Voltaire was eager to raise his voice in their favour, though he was aware that the public, having lavished all their pity on the Calas would listen coldly to a new story. The spirit of toleration, which, nevertheless, he had spread abroad, served him in this case, as the enthusiasm of compassion had in the other; such delays, however, occurred, that the unfortunate mother diedwhile the cause was yet pending. He could not obtain that the case should be tried in Paris. The accused were obliged to surrender to the parliament of Thoulouse. The principal people of that town had become eager to exonerate themselves from the charges of persecution and injustice which their former conduct had raised. The trial was carried on impartially, and Sirven was acquitted. Seven years, however, had elapsed before this tardy act of justice was completed.
Another instance of religious intolerance, more frightful in some of its details than the preceding, roused Voltaire to combat the sanguinary clergy of his country with renewed zeal. But in this instance he could not save the victims already immolated by the malignancy of private enmity, and the cruel bigotry of public tribunals.
Some very young men resident at Abbeville had rendered themselves notorious for the freedom of their religious opinions. They read and praised with enthusiasm various infidel books then in vogue. They had been known to sing blasphemous songs at their supper table; and once, on returning home late at night after a drunken frolic, one struck with his cane a wooden crucifix placed by the road side. These acts, committed, as they were, by boys under twenty, deserved blame, and even it might be deemed punishment, but punishment suited to their few years and consequent thoughtlessness; but it was a frightful exaggeration to consider them criminals in the eye of the law, especially as none existed in France against misdemeanours of this nature, and they could only be punished by an act of arbitrary power. This was exerted to punish them with a barbarity which is supposed to characterise the Spanish inquisition alone; though if we read the history of the Gallican church, we find that the priests of its powerful hierarchy were behind those of no nation in the spirit of sanguinary and merciless persecution. Unfortunately, in the present instance, one of the principal actors in this foolish scene, a boy of seventeen, had a personal enemy. A rich and avaricious old man of Abbeville, namedBelleval, had an intrigue with madame de Brou, abbess of Villancour. This lady's nephew, the chevalier de la Barre, came to pay her a visit; he and his friends were in the habit of supping in the convent, and he was considered the successful rival of Belleval. This man resolved to be revenged. He spread abroad in Abbeville the history of their blasphemous conversations; he excited the spirit of fanaticism against them among the populace, and raised such clamour in the city that the bishop of Amiens thought it necessary to visit it for the purpose of taking informations with regard to the circumstances reported to him. Belleval busied himself in collecting witnesses, and in exaggerating every instance of folly committed by these youths. Unfortunately, not only the populace and priests of the city, but the tribunals by whom the cause was tried, seconded too frightfully his iniquitous designs; although the very fact of the misconduct of the abbess, by bringing the Catholic religion into disrespect among these boys, ought to have pleaded in their favour. The young men were condemned to a cruel death. Amongst them was numbered Belleval's own son; this was unexpected by the informer; and, in despair, he contrived that, he should escape, together with two of his young associates. The remainder were not so fortunate. La Barre, a youth, scarcely seventeen, condemned to undergo the torture and to have his tongue cut out, and then to be decapitated, underwent his sentence. When too late, the people of France awoke to a just sense of horror at the cruelty committed. Voltaire was transported by indignation. "You have heard," he wrote to d'Alembert, "the account from Abbeville. I do not understand how thinking beings can remain in a country where monkeys so often turn to tigers. I am ashamed to live even on the frontier. This, indeed, is the moment to break all ties and carry elsewhere the horror with which I am filled. What! at Abbeville, monsters in the guise of judges, sentence a child of sixteen to perishby the most frightful death—their judgment is confirmed—and the nation bears it! Is this the country of philosophy and luxury? It is that of St. Bartholomew. The inquisition had not dared to put in execution what these Jansenist judges have perpetrated."
Voltaire's horror could not save the victim, for the evil was committed before the news of the trial reached him. The populace, it is true, even before the execution of the victims, returned to their senses, and Belleval was held in such execration that he was forced to fly from Abbeville, to avoid being torn to pieces. But the king and parliament of Paris refused to repair their fault towards the survivors. Voltaire did what he could. He recommended one of the victims who had fled, the chevalier d'Etallonde, to the king of Prussia, whose service he entered; and he endeavoured to open the eyes of government to the justice and propriety of repairing its crime. But the duke de Choiseul feared to act, and the parliament of Paris was a bigoted and intolerant body.
To his honour, we find that he was unwearied in his endeavours. When Louis XVI. succeeded to the crown, and a milder reign commenced, he renewed his exertions. D'Etallonde had, from good conduct, been promoted in the Prussian army. He invited him to Ferney, and endeavoured to interest the ministers of Louis in his favour, and to prevail on them to revoke his sentence: in vain; the government had not sufficient justice to avoid a fault, nor humanity to desire to repair it.
Such were the crimes committed in the outraged name of religion, that animated Voltaire with the desire of wresting the power of doing ill from the hands of the priesthood of his country, and which made him the unwearied and active enemy of a system which sanctioned such atrocities. In the present instance, something of fear added a sting to his feelings. The "Philosophical Dictionary," a work he denied having written, but of which, in reality, he was the author, was mentioned among the books, a respect for which formed one of La Barre's crimes,and it was burned in Paris, while exertions were made to denounce and punish him as the author. These failed; but they embittered Voltaire's enmity. He spread abroad the history of the enormities, which the perpetrators, ashamed too late, were desirous of hushing up. Lalli, a barrister, who was accused of having a principal part in the nefarious proceeding, wrote to Voltaire at once to excuse himself, and threaten the author. Voltaire replied, by an anecdote in Chinese history. "I forbid you," said the emperor of China, to the chief of the historical tribunal, "to mention me." The mandarin took out his note book and pen—"What are you doing?" said the emperor. "I am writing down the order which your majesty has just pronounced."
As some sort of compensation for these acts of horror and cruelty, Voltaire heard of the banishment of the Jesuits from France. This community had long reigned paramount in that kingdom; one of the society was, by custom, always selected as confessor of the king. It had signalised itself by every possible act of intolerance and persecution. The Jansenists, the Huguenots, and the Quietists were exiled, imprisoned, and ruined, through their influence. France was depopulated. In bitterness of spirit, the truly pious and wise of the kingdom, Boileau, Racine, Pascal, Fénélon, Arnaud, and a long list more, knew that their zeal for a pure religion exposed them to persecution. Voltaire disliked the Jansenists, and ridiculed the Quietists; but he was too just not to revolt from persecution; and though, from the prejudices of early education, he was inclined to look favourably on the Jesuits, he rejoiced in their fall from the power which they misused, and their expulsion from a country, so many of whose most virtuous inhabitants they had visited with exile and ruin.
In writing Voltaire's life, we have too often to turn from acts denoting a benevolent and generous spirit, to others which were inspired by self-love, and a restless spirit that could not repose. Among these, hisconduct to Rousseau has disgraceful prominence. It is true that the citizen of Geneva had provoked him first; but Rousseau was the victim of the system of tyranny which Voltaire so fervently deprecated. Even if his intellects were not impaired, he had, from the unfortunate susceptibility of his disposition, and the misfortunes that pursued him, become an object of commiseration, at least to one who sympathised in his opinions and views. But once attacked, Voltaire never forgave. He could not be injured, yet he avenged the intended injury. Had he confined his ridicule and blame of Rousseau to conversation and letters, it had, considering his influence in society, been sufficient revenge; but when, to a great degree excited by Rousseau, those troubles and tumults occurred in Geneva, from which Voltaire was so far the sufferer, that he thought himself obliged to sell his property of Les Delices, he made the tumults the subject of a licentious and burlesque poem, in which Rousseau was held up to ridicule. The disgrace, however, recoiled on himself. His most enthusiastic friends blamed his conduct, and disliked his poem.
Voltaire ran a more fortunate career than befalls most men. He was rich, and he had been wise enough to adopt a system that insured his independence. At a distance from the capital, he was in reality removed from the cabals of literature, the turmoils of society, and from the excitement, so often attended by disappointment, that belongs to the life of a literary man of high reputation. He led what he himself terms a patriarchal life; his niece was at the head of his household. The niece of Corneille, adopted by him, had married M. Dupuis, a gentleman of some fortune in the neighbourhood of Geneva, and resided in his house. No foreigner ever passed from France to Italy without paying a visit to Ferney. All those of any note or merit were received with cordial hospitality, and the chateau was never free from guests: above fifty persons of different grades—masters, guests, and servants—inhabited it. In the midst of this turmoil, Voltaire led alaborious life. His health was feeble. During the winters, which the neighbourhood of the eternal snows render peculiarly severe, he was nearly always confined to his bed. But physical suffering never tamed his spirit. From the bed of sickness, he sent abroad various writings, some in support of the best interests of humanity (as in the cases of Calas, &c.), others historical and poetic, and not a few replete with that malicious pleasantry that caused him to be universally feared.
1766.Ætat.72.
Few things occurred to interrupt the tenour of his life. At one time, his niece, madame Denis, and his protégés, monsieur and madame Dupuis, left him to visit Paris, and he was left for nearly two years alone in his retreat. A thousand reports were current as to the cause of this separation; but, in time, it became acknowledged that Voltaire's own account of it was true. "I have been," he wrote to madame du Deffand, "the innkeeper of Europe for fourteen years, and I am tired of the trade. I have received three or four hundred English, who are so fond of their country, that not one has recollected me since their departure, except a Scotchman, of the name of Brown, who has written against me. I have had French colonels, with their officers, who have remained a month, but who serve their king so well, that they have never written to me. I have built a chateau and a church. I have spent five hundred thousand francs in these pious and profane works; and my illustrious debtors in Paris and Germany, conceiving that these acts of magnificence did not become me, have thought proper to curtail my means to teach me wisdom. I found myself suddenly almost reduced to philosophy. I have sent madame Denis to urge the generous French; I have taken the generous Germans on myself. My seventy-four years and continual illnesses condemn me to seclusion and moderation. This life cannot suit madame Denis, who acted against the grain in coming to live with me in the country. She needs perpetual company and pleasures to make her endure this desert,which, according to the Russians themselves, is for five months of the year worse than Siberia. Madame Denis had need of Paris; the niece of Corneille had greater need, as she only saw it at an age and in a situation which did not permit her to become acquainted with it. I made an effort to separate myself from them, that they might enjoy the pleasures of the capital."
After a visit to Paris of nearly two years, they returned to him again.
A visit to Ferney was an event in a traveller's life. In personal intercourse, Voltaire was, according to the testimony of the king of Prussia, and of every other contemporary, and singularly delightful and entertaining. "You are agreeable in conversation, and instruct and amuse at the same time. You are the most fascinating creature in the world; and, when you choose, no one could resist loving you: your wit and genius are so graceful, that, even while you offend, every one is ready to forgive you." This is the description that Frederic gives of him. Nor did age diminish the lustre of his wit, the vivacity of his spirit, or the alternate gaiety and impressive charm of his conversation. It was only at a distance that his tendency to what the French calltracasserie—an inherent love of disturbance—and the vehement, uncourteous, and unfair manner with which he carried on a dispute, made his contemporaries, while they viewed him with wonder and delight, yet alternately fear and censure him. He appeared particularly amiable to those who sought his protection, for he was ever generous in pecuniary points, and lavish of his praises to literary men, as long as they paid worship at his shrine. His intercourse with Marmontel illustrates this subject, and we shall extract his account of his visit to Ferney, as giving a vivid picture of the vivacity, and whimsical and capricious disposition, of this singular man; who in age and suffering was as energetic, active, and enthusiastic as a youth just entering warm and undeceived on the scene of life.
Marmontel had several years before been excited by him to venture on a literary career in Paris. On his arrival, Voltaire received him with a cordiality that warmed the young man's heart; his purse and house were open to him. Nor did he stop at mere offers; he encouraged him in his arduous endeavours, and he showed paternal joy in his success. These are real and absolute virtues in a great man. There is so little encouragement to literary ambition abroad in the world, especially in this country. Those who hold the place of judges in the literary world (including in this class those whose trade is criticism as well as amateurs) are so afraid of compromising their reputation; and the rest of society dare not pronounce an opinion for themselves; so that, except in those instances in which, by a happy hit or servile fosterage of prejudices, popular favour is gained, and a speedy sale of an edition gives undeniable proof of success, authors of promise do not meet with the tithe of the encouragement necessary to sustain them hopeful and glad in their laborious career. Voltaire's sensitive heart felt that praise and sympathy were the proper food of the young aspirant, and as necessary as food, in keeping up that buoyant and confiding spirit which alone enables him to develope all his powers; he displayed, therefore, in voice and manner, and in actions, such earnest sympathy as served as the dearest reward and encouragement to the author. His kindness to Marmontel was unalterable, but their intercourse was broken off by his expatriation. Marmontel, accompanied by a friend, visited him at Les Delices soon after his arrival in Switzerland. "Our welcome," he narrates, "was the most singular and original in the world. Voltaire was in bed when we arrived: he held out his arms, and wept with joy, as he embraced me. 'You find me dying,' he said, 'and you come to restore, or to receive my last sigh.' My companion was frightened at this commencement; but I, who had heard Voltaire declare himself dying ahundred times before, made him a sign not to be alarmed. In fact, a moment afterwards, the dying man made us sit by his bedside. 'My friend,' said he to me, 'I am delighted to see you—especially at a time when I have a man with me whom you will be glad to hear. It is M. de l'Ecluse, formerly surgeon-dentist to the late king of Prussia, now possessor of an estate near Montargis; he is a delightful man. Do you not know him?'—'The only M. de l'Ecluse I know,' I replied, 'was an actor at the comic opera.' 'That is he, my friend—the very man. If you know him, you have heard him sing the song of the Remouleur, which he acted and sang so well.' And then, with his bare arms and sepulchral voice, Voltaire began to imitate l'Ecluse. We laughed heartily; but he continued, seriously,—'I imitate him badly—you must hear M. de l'Ecluse—it is truth itself—how delighted you will be! Go and see madame Denis. Ill as I am, I shall rise to dine at table. The pleasure of seeing you has suspended my sufferings, and I feel quite alive again.'
"Madame Denis received us with that cordiality which is the charm of her character. She presented M. de l'Ecluse to us, and at dinner Voltaire encouraged him by the most flattering praises to give us the pleasure of hearing him. We appeared charmed—need was—for Voltaire would not have forgiven faint applause. Our subsequent ramble in his garden was employed in talking of Paris—the newspapers, the theatres, the 'Encyclopédie,' and the unhappy 'Le Franc de Pompignan,' the butt of all his jests. His physician, he said, having ordered him to hunt him every day for two hours, he charged me to assure our friends that they should receive a fresh epigram every day; and he was faithful to his promise. On our return from our walk, he played at chess with M. Gaulard, who respectfully allowed him to win; then we talked of the drama, and of the revolution in acting brought about by Mlle. Clairon. I exhausted all the little eloquence I possessed to inspire him with thesame enthusiasm that I felt myself for this actress; and I was enjoying the impression I appeared to make, when, interrupting me, he exclaimed with transport—'That is exactly like madame Denis—she has improved most astonishingly. I wish you could see her play Zaire, Alzire, Idamè—it is the perfection of talent.' Madame Denis compared to Clairon! My ardour was checked in a moment; so true it is that taste accommodates itself to the objects it possesses. In the evening, I drew Voltaire out about the king of Prussia. He spoke with a sort of lofty magnanimity; like a man who disdained an easy revenge, or as a lover pardons a mistress, whom he deserts, for the indignation and blame she expresses. The conversation at supper turned on the literary men he most esteemed; and it was easy to discern those whom he really loved—it was those who made the most public boast of his friendship. Before we went to rest, he read us two new cantos of the 'Pucelle,' and Madame Denis remarked to us that this was the only day since his arrival at Les Delices that he had passed without shutting himself up in his study during some portion of it. The next day we had the discretion to leave him during a part of the morning to himself. I told him that we would wait till he rang. He was visible at eleven o'clock, but was still in bed. 'Young man,' said he to me, 'I hope you have not renounced poetry: let me see what you have lately written.' * * * Before dinner he took me to pay some visits in Geneva; and, speaking of his intercourse with the Genevese, he said, 'It is agreeable to live in a country whose sovereigns send to ask you to lend them your carriage when they come to dine with you.' His house was open to them, they passed whole days there. * * *
"In the evening, at supper, our kings and their mistresses were the subjects of conversation; and Voltaire, while making a comparison of the gallantry of the old court and the present one, displayed that abundant memory from which nothing interesting escaped. From madame de laVallière to madame de Pompadour, the anecdotic history of the two reigns, with that of the regency between, passed in review with a rapidity and a brilliancy of design and colouring quite dazzling. However he reproached himself for having robbed M. de l'Ecluse of moments which he said he could have rendered far more diverting, and begged him to repair his fault by giving us some scenes of the 'Ecosseures,' at which he laughed like a child.
"The next was our last day. As we were to depart early on the following morning, we agreed with madame Denis and messieurs Hubert and Cramer to prolong the pleasure of being together, by sitting up and conversing till the hour of departure. Voltaire insisted on making one of us: in vain we pressed him to go to bed; more wakeful than ourselves, he read us several cantos of 'Joan.' I was delighted; for, if Voltaire, in reading serious poetry, affected, as it appeared to me, too monotonous a cadence, and too marked an emphasis, no one ever recited familiar and comic verses with so much native grace and tact: his eyes and smile had an expression I never saw in any other man. Our mutual adieu moved us to tears; more on my part, indeed, than his, as was fit; for, in addition to my gratitude, and the many causes I had for being attached to him, I left him in exile."
Marmontel's account relates to Voltaire's early residence in the neighbourhood of Geneva. Madame de Genlis visited him in 1776. Being at Geneva, she wrote to propose paying him a visit. The poet replied graciously. "When I received his answer," she continues, "I was seized with sudden fright. I remembered all I had heard related of those who paid Ferney a first visit. It is the custom, especially for young women, to tremble, grow pale, and even faint, on perceiving Voltaire: they throw themselves into his arms, they weep, and show an agitation which resembles the most passionate love. This is the etiquette of apresentation at Ferney; and M. de Voltaire is so used to it, that calm and politeness must appear either impertinent or stupid.
"I left Geneva in time, according to my calculation, to arrive at Ferney just before Voltaire's dinner hour; but my watch was wrong, and I did not discover my error till I arrived. There is no awkwardness more disagreeable than to be too early when going to dine with those who know how to occupy their mornings. Wishing really to please a celebrated man, who was kind enough to receive me, I dressed myself with elegance, and never before wore so many feathers and flowers. I took with me a German painter, M. Ott: he was very clever, but with very little literary knowledge, and, above all, had never read a line of Voltaire; but he felt the desirable enthusiasm only by hearing of him. He was in a state of ecstacy on approaching Ferney. I admired and envied his transport. We entered the drawing room; it was empty. The servants seemed surprised and hurried; the bells rang, and all gave signs of the truth, that we had arrived an hour too soon. We saw, at the end of the room, an oil painting magnificently framed; we hurried to examine it; and, to our great surprise, found it was a mere daub, representing Voltaire with a glory round his head, with the family of Calas kneeling before him, while he trod under foot his enemies Freron and Pompignan. The picture was the invention of a bad Genevese artist, who made a present of it to Voltaire. But it seemed the silliest thing in the world to hang it up in his drawing room. At length the door opened, and madame Denis and madame de Saint Julien entered; they announced that Voltaire would soon appear. Madame de Saint Julien was very amiable, and is passing the summer at Ferney. She calls Voltaire 'my philosopher,' and he calls her 'my butterfly.' She proposed a walk to me, and I was delighted; for I felt embarrassed at the idea of seeing the master of the house, and was gladto delay for a few minutes the formidable interview. We went on the terrace, from which the magnificent view of the lake and mountains might have been seen, had they not had the bad taste to raise a trellice, covered with a thick foliage that concealed all, so that the view was only to be perceived through little openings too small for my head; and, besides, the trellice was so low, that my feathers caught every moment. I was obliged to stoop, and this fatiguing attitude was ill suited to enable me to enjoy the conversation of madame de Saint Julien, who, short, and in a morning dress, walked at her ease, and conversed agreeably. At length we were told that Voltaire was in the drawing room. I felt so harassed and frightened that I would have given the world to have found myself in my inn at Geneva; but my companion, judging me by herself, drew me along quickly. We returned to the house. As soon as I had collected myself we entered, and I found myself in the presence of Voltaire. Madame de Saint Julien invited me to embrace him, saying that it would please him. I addressed him with the respect due to his genius and his age. He took my hand and kissed it, and I know not why, but I was touched by this act of common gallantry coming from him.
"During dinner, M. de Voltaire was by no means agreeable; he appeared to be continually angry with his servants, calling to them so loudly that I started. I had been told beforehand of this habit, so singular before strangers; but it was evident that it was merely a habit, for the servants neither appeared surprised nor troubled. After dinner, knowing that I was a musician, Voltaire asked madame Denis to play. She had a method which reminded one of the music of the days of Louis XIV. She had just finished a piece of Rameau, when a little girl of seven years old entered, and threw herself into Voltaire's arms, calling him papa. He received her caresses with sweetness; and, seeing that I looked on the picture with extreme pleasure, he told me that this was the daughter of the descendant of the great Corneille, whom he had adopted. Severalvisitors from Geneva dropped in, and afterwards he proposed a drive, and he and his niece, madame de Saint Julien, and myself entered the carriage, and he took us to the village to see the houses he is building, and the charitable establishments he has founded. He is greater here than in his books, for so ingenious a goodness appears in all, that one wonders that the same hand which wrote so much blasphemy, could form such noble, wise, and useful works. He shows this village to all strangers, but unpretendingly. He speaks of it with kindness and simplicity; he mentions all that he has done, but with no appearance of boasting. On returning to the chateau, the conversation was very animated: it was night before I took my leave.
"The portraits and busts of Voltaire are all very like; but no artist has painted his eyes well. I expected to find them brilliant and full of fire; and they are, indeed, the most expressive of intellect that I ever saw; but they are full, at the same time, of softness and inexpressible tenderness. The very soul of Zaire shone in those eyes. His smile and laugh, which is very malicious, changed at once this charming expression. He is very decrepit; and his old-fashioned dress makes him look older. He has a hollow voice, which produces a singular effect, especially as he is in the habit of speaking very loud, although he is not deaf. When neither religion nor his enemies are mentioned, his conversation is simple, unpretending, and delightful. It appeared as if he could not endure the expression of opinions differing from his own on any point. On the slightest contradiction his voice became shrill and his manner decided. He has lost much of the manners of the world: and this is natural; ever since he has lived on this estate no one visits him but to cover him with flattery. His opinions are oracles; all around is at his feet. The admiration he inspires is the continual subject ofconversation, and the most extravagant exaggerations now appear ordinary homage. No king has ever been the object of such excessive adulation."
Voltaire, however, though he liked flattery, often avoided it, by not receiving the guests that poured in. Madame Denis did the honours of the house; and many a traveller, who had gone far cut of his way to visit the Man of the Age, left the chateau without seeing him. It was thus he treated the comte de Guibert, esteemed in those days as a young man of promising talents, but who is best known to us as the object of mademoiselle de l'Espinasse's attachment. Guibert, after passing five days at Ferney, left it without seeing its master. Arriving at Geneva, he sent him four verses, which wittily, though somewhat blasphemously, expressed his regret. The wit pleased; the blasphemy, perhaps, pleased still more, as showing him to be of his own way of thinking; and Voltaire instantly sent after him, invited him back, and treated him with kindness and distinction. Many anecdotes are told of the bad reception he gave others. But as every one, and in particular every pretender to literature, thought it necessary to visit Ferney, no wonder that he was often pushed to extremities by their intrusion and pretensions, and, impatient and whimsical as he was, got rid of them, as the humour dictated, by open rudeness or covert ridicule.
The astonishing vivacity and energy of Voltaire's temperament led him to create, like Don Quixote, giants with whom to fight; but he was not always moved by the heroic benevolence that animated the Spanish knight, but by childish or more blameable whims. He had built a church at Ferney (the one belonging to the parish being mean and in disrepair), and went to mass, for the edification of his tenantry. After mass he delivered an exhortation against theft (some of the builders of his church having been guilty of carrying off old materials), which, being against all canonical rules, scandalised the congregation and incensed the priest. The bishop of the diocese, an ignorant, intolerant man, hearing of thedesecration, applied to the king of France for alettre de cachetagainst Voltaire. His request was not listened to; but the imagination of Voltaire was set on fire by the intelligence; nor can we wonder, considering that he had entered the Bastille, as a prisoner, three different times. He burnt a vast quantity of papers; he dismissed every guest; and remained alone with his secretary and father Adam, an ex-Jesuit, who resided with him. At first he thought it would be necessary to fly; but soon his restless fancy suggested another mode of defending himself. The bishop, carrying on the war, forbade any of his inferior clergy to confess, absolve, or administer the communion to the seigneur of Ferney. Considering his avowed and contemptuous disbelief in Christianity, it had been more dignified in Voltaire to abstain from participating in its mysteries; but he had not the most remote idea of the meaning and uses of dignity. His impetuosity, his love of the ridiculous, his determination to vanquish and crush his enemies, by whatever means, were paramount to any loftier sentiment of calm disdain. He said, "We shall see whether the bishop or I win the day." Accordingly, he feigned illness, took to his bed, and insisted on receiving religious consolations as a dying man. The priest of the parish refused to comply for a length of time; and Voltaire, to gain his point, signed a paper declaratory of his respect for the Catholic religion. The whole scene was indecorous,—insulting to the priest, and unworthy of the poet. He gained his point at last, and frightened the curate so much that he fell ill and died; while his conduct in the church, his angry expostulations with the clergy, and his confession of faith became the wonder and gossip of Paris.
It is more pleasing to contemplate the good deeds of this versatile and extraordinary man, whose activity astonished his contemporaries[7], and, considering his infirmities and age, seem almost superhuman. The civiltroubles of Geneva caused a number of exiles. The fugitives, destitute and suffering, were received at Ferney, and treated with hospitality and generosity. Voltaire's first idea was to found the little town of Versoi, on the banks of the lake of Geneva. He applied to the duke de Choiseul for protection and funds. These were at first granted; but the disgrace of the minister ruined the infant town, and its founder was obliged to restrict his exertions to his own colony at Ferney. He caused commodious houses to be built, and the place, which was before a miserable hamlet, inhabited by peasants in the last degree of penury, became a pleasant village, filled by industrious artisans, who carried on a considerable trade in watchmaking. It is to this village that Voltaire led madame du Genlis, and the sight of it filled her with respect for his enlarged views and benevolent heart.
Nor was this the only place that owed the blessings of prosperity to him. By most persevering and courageous representations he induced the chancellor Maupeou to enfranchise the peasants of a territory among the mountains of Jura, who were serfs to the monastery of St. Claude, and suffered the most unendurable grievances from the feudal laws still in force. Afterwards, when Louis XVI. came to the throne, he asked for various exemptions from taxes from the minister Turgot for the town of Gex, which flourished in consequence, till Turgot was exiled, his ordinances cancelled, and the town was ruined. His colony fell under the same ban, and he shared the general loss. He was grieved, but not disheartened. "It is true," he wrote to his valued and steady friend the comte d'Argental, "that I have had the folly, in my eighty-third year, to commence an undertaking above my strength. I must abandon it, and wait till I grow younger. My strange fate, which led me from Paris to the frontiers of Switzerland, and forced me to change a filthy hamlet into a pretty town, a quarter of a league long, follows me; she does not restore my youth, but crushes me with the stones of the houses I havebuilt. A change of ministry in France has deprived my colony of all the advantages I had obtained; and the good I have done my new country has turned to mischief. I put the last drop of my blood into this useful establishment, without any view except that of doing good—my blood is lost, and all I have to do is to die of a consumption." He wrote to another friend: "Ferney, which you saw a wretched village, has become a pretty town. I scarcely know how this has been brought about; but I know that it has ruined me. It was ridiculous in so insignificant a man as me to build a town."
The correspondence which this undertaking necessitated was immense. To this occupation he added a dispute on the merits of Shakspeare, in which an entire want of taste and of knowledge, and a superfluity of flippancy and insult, were the prominent features. It raised a laugh among a few, but did no honour either to his cause or himself.
What, at its outset, seemed a more tranquil and happy reign, had begun in France. The latter days of Louis XV. were utterly disgraceful. He had dispersed the parliament, it is true, which, by its prejudices and injustice, had become odious; but it was replaced by another, which reformed no abuse, while it was conspicuous only for servile submission to the royal authority. Enlightened and popular ministers—Choiseul and Turgot—were exiled to make room for men of the old leaven, who had no apprehension of the growing necessities of the times; while his thrusting upon the court a low-born and infamous mistress, completed the degradation of the king's position: and the society of Paris, opposed to that of the court, acquired influence and dignity. The first acts of Louis the Sixteenth's reign, being to recal the disgraced and popular ministers, and to exhibit every token of sympathy for the distresses of the subject, inspired hope. Voltaire ardently desired to revisit the capital, to feel himself among his friends, and to enjoy the sensationwhich his presence, after so long an absence, would not fail to create. The inhabitants of Ferney saw their benefactor depart with tears. He promised to return in six weeks; and so firmly intended to keep this resolution, that he put no order into his affairs or papers before his departure, thinking it not worth while, as his absence would be so short.
1788.Ætat.84.
On the 10th of February he arrived in the capital, accompanied by monsieur and madame de Villette and madame Denis. Madame de Villette was a protégée of Voltaire. She had been destined for a convent by her parents; and, in despair, wrote to the patriarch of Ferney to extricate her from such a fate. He offered her a home in his house. She was gentle, beautiful, and clever. M. de Villette, a gentleman of fortune, fell in love with and married her. She went by the name of Belle et Bonne among her friends. Voltaire had the peculiarity, which usually attends men of genius, of gathering about him a society composed principally of women, and she was a chief favourite.
Voltaire brought with him his newly written tragedy of "Irene." He had the notion indelibly impressed, that, to secure his position in Paris, he must acquire popularity; and that a successful tragedy was the sure means of acquiring it. In the present instance he did not need such support. No conqueror, returned from enslaving a province, was ever received with such enthusiastic marks of triumph. La Harpe well observes, that the generation who had witnessed Voltaire's earlier struggles and clouded fame, had nearly died away; all those born during the space of the last forty years found the world full of his fame. His persecutions, his mode of life, his attacks on religion and on persons, the mischief he had caused, and the good he had done, were the chief topics of interest: more than all, the brilliancy of his genius dazzled, its versatility delighted mankind. Even his pettishnesses, his whims, his follies, ever varying and upheld by him with earnestness and vigour, kept alive public attention. That this man, the subject of all tonguesand all pens, should emerge from his seclusion among the Alps, and, in his eighty-fifth year, come to take his part in society, and gather the applause of a theatrical audience, excited, nearly to frenzy, the curiosity, the admiration, and interest of every inhabitant of Paris.
Condorcet, who witnessed his arrival, in his "Life of Voltaire," madame du Deffand, in her "Letters to Horace Walpole," and Grimm, in his "Literary Correspondence," give a vivid picture of this last triumphant but fatal visit to Paris. He arrived in good health; though his first note to madame du Deffand said, "I arrive, dying; and only wish to revive to throw myself at your feet." He received all his friends with cordiality and gaiety, and delighted them with the charm that belonged to his manners. All Paris pressed to see him; his apartment was never empty: he received more than 300 persons, one after the other, and had something witty and agreeable to say to all. Meanwhile, as he was in reality afflicted by a weakening and very painful disease, his more familiar friends began to tremble for the result of this new and exciting scene. "I paid him my second visit yesterday," writes madame du Deffand, "on the 22d of February. It was not so agreeable as the first. We were received by his niece, who is certainly the best woman in the world, but the most tiresome; by M. de Villette, who is the dullest man, and his young wife, who, they say, is amiable, and goes by the name of Belle et Bonne with Voltaire and his friends. We did not find him in the drawing-room; he was shut up with his secretary, and begged me to wait. His friends told me that he was overwhelmed with fatigue; that he had read the whole of his tragedy that afternoon to the actors, and had made them rehearse, and was so exhausted that he could scarcely speak. I wished to go away; but they detained me, and Voltaire sent me four lines he had made on his statute by Pigal, to engage me to remain. After a good quarter of an hour he came in. He said that he was dead—that hecould not speak. I offered to leave him; but he would not let me. He spoke to me of his play. He has no other subject in his head: it has caused him to come to Paris, and it will kill him if it does not succeed."
Nor was his tragedy his only subject of anxiety. He was told that Louis XVI. had asked, on hearing of his arrival, if the interdiction to his residence in Paris had ever been taken off. A question which seemed to show his disapprobation; but the young queen and her friends, and the count d'Artois, were borne away by the stream of fashion and friendlily inclined. A few days after his arrival he fell ill. His mode of life in Paris was very different from that which he led at Ferney; there he was subject to none of the calls of society; he saw few visitors, and left madame Denis to do the honours of the house—enjoying in his own person the most entire liberty, passing the greater part of his day in bed, or in study; at other times walking in his grounds and over his estate, directing the improvements and enjoying the pleasure of creating his colony, and witnessing its prosperity. His new mode of life deranged his health, a vomiting of blood came on, and his life was in danger. The vivacity of the French disposition was shown at this moment. All Paris was in alarm. The priests gathered round—Voltaire thought it right to quiet them by making a profession of faith. How far the all-seeing and infinitely pure Being can be propitiated by a falsehood on the lips of a dying man, may be considered doubtful; but the clergy thought more of their own temporal victory than the higher questions of religion and morality. These might have been satisfied by a declaration given by Voltaire to a friend, which said, "I die worshipping God, loving my friends, not hating my enemies, and detesting superstition." Nor was this the only disquiet that attended his sick-bed: his friends quarrelled round it concerning the physicians who attended, and wrangling and dissension—the fruits of the vanity, not the affection,of his friends—disturbed the peace necessary for his convalescence.