Denís Ivánovich Fon-Vízin. (1744-1792.)
Denís Fon-Vízin tells us in his Confession (given below) what his early education was. Even the Moscow University was filled with ignorant, corrupt teachers, and in the country the conditions were naturally much worse. Nor could it have been different in the early part of Catherine’s reign. The older generation was steeped in ignorance and superstition, and the upper classes, who carried Voltaire and liberalism on their lips, ranted of a culture of the heart, which was nothing else than an excuse for extreme superficiality, as something superior to culture of the mind. Such a period is naturally productive of characters for comedy and satire. Fon-Vízin, who had the talent for satirical observation, was himself a product of the superficiality of his time. In his letters from abroad he assumed a haughty air of Russian superiority over matters French, German and European in general, aiding in the evolution of a sickly Slavophilism which a Russian critic has characterised as “subacid patriotism.” Unfortunately for their originality, most of these attacks on the French and Germans are taken from French and German sources.
Fon-Vízin wrote two comedies, The Brigadier and The Minor, both of which are regarded as classical. Neither the subjects nor the plots are original. They follow French plays; but Fon-Vízin has so excellently adapted them to the conditions of his time, and has so well portrayed the negative characters of contemporary society, that the comedies serve as an historical document of the time of Catherine II. How true to nature his Ciphers, Beastlys, Uncouths and Brigadiers are may be seen from a perusal of contemporary memoirs and the satirical journals. These give an abundance of such material, and indeed Fon-Vízin has made ample use of them. As there were no positive characters in society, so the characters of his plays that stand for right and justice are nothing more than wordy shadows.
In The Minor, of which the first act is here translated, the author gives a picture of the lower nobility, who had not yet outgrown the barbarism of the days preceding Peter’s reforms, though anxious to comply, at least outwardly, with the imperative demands of the Government. Peter the Great had promulgated a law that all the children of the nobility must immediately appear to inscribe themselves for service. These “minors” had to present a proof or certificate that they had received instruction in certain prescribed subjects. Without that certificate they could not enter any service, or get married. Up to the time of Catherine II. there were issued laws dealing with such “minors.” Mitrofán, the “minor” of the play, has become the nickname for every grown-up illiterate son of the nobility.
THE MINOR
ACT I., SCENE 1. MRS. UNCOUTH, MITROFÁN, EREMYÉEVNA
Mrs. Uncouth (examining Mitrofán’s caftan). The caftan is all ruined. Eremyéevna, bring here that thief Tríshka! (Exit Eremyéevna.) That rascal has made it too tight all around. Mitrofán, my sweet darling, you must feel dreadfully uncomfortable in your caftan! Go call father. (Exit Mitrofán.)
SCENE 2. MRS. UNCOUTH, EREMYÉEVNA, TRÍSHKA
Mrs. Uncouth (to Tríshka). You beast, come here. Didn’t I tell you, you thief’s snout, to make the caftan wide enough? In the first place, the child is growing; in the second place, the child is delicate enough, without wearing a tight caftan. Tell me, you clod, what is your excuse?
Tríshka. You know, madam, I never learned tailoring. I begged you then to give it to a tailor.
Mrs. Uncouth. So you have got to be a tailor to be able to make a decent caftan! What beastly reasoning!
Tríshka. But a tailor has learned how to do it, madam, and I haven’t.
Mrs. Uncouth. How dare you contradict me! One tailor has learned it from another; that one from a third, and so on. But from whom did the first tailor learn? Talk, stupid!
Tríshka. I guess the first tailor made a worse caftan than I.
Mitrofán (running in). I called dad. He sent word he’ll be here in a minute.
Mrs. Uncouth. Go fetch him by force, if you can’t by kindness.
Mitrofán. Here is dad.
SCENE 3. THE SAME AND UNCOUTH
Mrs. Uncouth. You have been hiding from me! Now see yourself, sir, what I have come to through your indulgence! What do you think of our son’s new dress for his uncle’s betrothal? What do you think of the caftan that Tríshka has gotten up?
Uncouth (timidly stammering). A li-ittle baggy.
Mrs. Uncouth. You are baggy yourself, you wiseacre!
Uncouth. I thought, wifey, that you thought that way.
Mrs. Uncouth. Are you blind yourself?
Uncouth. My eyes see nothing by the side of yours.
Mrs. Uncouth. A fine husband the Lord has blessed me with! He can’t even make out what is loose and what tight.
Uncouth. I have always relied upon you in such matters, and rely even now.
Mrs. Uncouth. You may rely also upon this, that I will not let the churls do as they please. Go right away, sir, and tell them to flog——
SCENE 4. THE SAME AND BEASTLY
Beastly. Whom? For what? On the day of my betrothal! I beg you, sister, for the sake of the celebration, put off the flogging until to-morrow, and to-morrow, if you wish, I’ll gladly take a hand in it myself. My name is not Tarás Beastly, if I don’t make every offence a serious matter. In such things my custom is the same as yours, sister. But what has made you so angry?
Mrs. Uncouth. Here, brother, I’ll leave it to you. Mitrofán, just come here! Is this caftan baggy?
Beastly. No.
Uncouth. I see now myself, wifey, that it is too tight.
Beastly. But I don’t see that. My good fellow, the caftan is just right.
Mrs. Uncouth (to Tríshka). Get out, you beast! (To Eremyéevna.) Go, Eremyéevna, and give the child his breakfast. I am afraid the teachers will soon be here.
Eremyéevna. My lady, he has deigned to eat five rolls ere this.
Mrs. Uncouth. So you are too stingy to give him the sixth, you beast? What zeal! I declare!
Eremyéevna. I meant it for his health, my lady. I am looking out for Mitrofán Teréntevich: he has been ill all night.
Mrs. Uncouth. Oh, Holy Virgin! What was the matter with you, darling Mitrofán?
Mitrofán. I don’t know what, mamma. I was bent with pain ever since last night’s supper.
Beastly. My good fellow, I guess you have had too solid a supper.
Mitrofán. Why, uncle! I have eaten hardly anything.
Uncouth. If I remember rightly, my dear, you did have something.
Mitrofán. Not much of anything: some three slices of salt bacon, and five or six pies, I do not remember which.
Eremyéevna. He kept on begging for something to drink all night long. He deigned to empty a pitcher of kvas.
Mitrofán. And even now I am walking around distracted. All kinds of stuff passed before my eyes all night long.
Mrs. Uncouth. What kind of stuff, darling Mitrofán?
Mitrofán. At times you, mamma, at others—dad.
Mrs. Uncouth. How so?
Mitrofán. No sooner did I close my eyes, than I saw you, mamma, drubbing dad.
Uncouth (aside). It is my misfortune, the dream has come to pass!
Mitrofán (tenderly). And I felt so sorry.
Mrs. Uncouth (angrily). For whom, Mitrofán?
Mitrofán. For you, mamma: you got so tired drubbing dad.
Mrs. Uncouth. Embrace me, darling of my heart! Son, you are my comfort.
Beastly. I see, Mitrofán, you are mother’s son and not father’s.
Uncouth. I love him anyway as becomes a father: he is such a clever child, such a joker! I am often beside myself with joy when I look at him, and I can’t believe that he is my own son.
Beastly. Only now our joker looks a little gloomy.
Mrs. Uncouth. Had I not better send to town for the doctor?
Mitrofán. No, no, mamma. I’ll get well myself. I’ll run now to the dove-cot, maybe——
Mrs. Uncouth. Maybe God will be merciful. Go, have a good time, darling Mitrofán. (Exeunt Mitrofán and Eremyéevna.)
SCENE 5. MRS. UNCOUTH, UNCOUTH, BEASTLY
Beastly. Why do I not see my fiancée? Where is she? The betrothal is to be this evening, so it is about time to let her know that she is to be married soon.
Mrs. Uncouth. There is time for that, brother. If we were to tell her that ahead of time, she might get it into her head that we are reporting to her as to a superior person. Although I am related to her through my husband, yet I love even strangers to obey me.
Uncouth (to Beastly). To tell the truth, we have treated Sophia like a real orphan. She was but a baby when her father died. It is now half a year since her mother, who is related to me by marriage, had an apoplectic fit——
Mrs. Uncouth (as if making the sign of the cross). The Lord be with us!
Uncouth.—which took her to the other world. Her uncle, Mr. Conservative, has gone to Siberia, and as there has been no news from him for some years we regard him as dead. Seeing that she was left alone, we took her to our village, and we watch her property like our own.
Mrs. Uncouth. What makes you talk so much to-day, husband? My brother might think that we took her to our house for our own interest.
Uncouth. How could he think so? We can’t move up Sophia’s property to ours.
Beastly. Even if her movable property has been removed, I won’t go to law for that. I don’t like the law courts, and I am afraid of them. No matter how much my neighbours have insulted me, no matter how much damage they have done me, I have never had any litigations with them. Rather than have trouble with them, I make my peasants suffer for the damages my neighbours do me, and that’s the end of it.
Uncouth. That is so, brother. The whole district says that you are a great hand at getting work out of your peasants.
Mrs. Uncouth. I wish, brother, you would teach us to do likewise, for since we have taken everything away from the peasants that they had, there is nothing left with them which we can carry off. It’s a real misfortune!
Beastly. I don’t mind, sister, giving you a lesson, only first marry me to Sophia.
Mrs. Uncouth. Have you really taken a liking to the girl?
Beastly. No, it is not the girl I like.
Uncouth. Then it is her adjoining villages?
Beastly. Not even her villages; but that which is to be found in her villages, and for which I have a great passion.
Mrs. Uncouth. What is it, brother?
Beastly. I like the pigs, sister. Down our way there are some very big pigs: why, there is not one among them that if it stood up on its hind legs would not be a head taller than any of us.
Uncouth. Now, brother, this is a wonderful family resemblance. Our dear Mitrofán is just like his uncle: he has had the same passion for pigs ever since babyhood. He was only three years old when he would tremble with joy every time he saw a pig.
Beastly. Truly wonderful! All right: Mitrofán loves pigs because he is my nephew. There is some resemblance there. But why have I such a passion for pigs?
Uncouth. There must be some resemblance there too, that’s what I think.
SCENE 6. THE SAME AND SOPHIA
(Sophia enters holding a letter in her hand and looking cheerful.)
Mrs. Uncouth (to Sophia). Why so merry, dear? What has made you so happy?
Sophia. I have just received some joyful news. My uncle, of whom we have not heard for a long time, whom I love and honour like my father, arrived in Moscow a few days ago. This is the letter I have just received from him.
Mrs. Uncouth (frightened, angrily). What, Conservative, your uncle, is alive? And you think it right to jest about his resurrection? A fine story you have invented!
Sophia. Why, he never was dead.
Mrs. Uncouth. He did not die! Why could he not have died? No, madam, that is your invention. You are trying to frighten us with your uncle, that we might give you your liberty. You judge like this: “My uncle is a clever man; he seeing me in other people’s hands, will find a way of rescuing me.” That’s what you are happy about, madam. But your joy is all in vain: of course, your uncle has never thought of rising from the dead.
Beastly. Sister, but if he never died?
Uncouth. God be merciful to us, if he did not die.
Mrs. Uncouth (to her husband). How not dead? You are talking nonsense. Don’t you know that I have had people remember him in their prayers for the rest of his soul? Is it possible my humble prayers have never reached heaven? (To Sophia.) You let me have that letter! (Almost tears it out of her hand.) I will wager anything that it is some love letter, and I can guess from whom. It’s from that officer that was trying to marry you, and whom you were ready to marry yourself. Who is that rascal that dares hand you letters without telling me first about them? I’ll get at him! That’s what we have come to: they write letters to girls! And girls know how to read!
Sophia. Read it yourself, madam: you will see that there can be nothing more harmless than that letter.
Mrs. Uncouth. “Read it yourself!” No, madam! Thank the Lord, I have not been educated that way! I may receive letters, but I order others to read them to me. (To her husband.) Read it!
Uncouth (looking at it for sometime). It’s more than I can read.
Mrs. Uncouth. I see, they have educated you like a fair maiden. Brother, be so kind as to read it.
Beastly. I? I have never read a line since I was born! God has saved me that annoyance.
Sophia. Let me read it to you.
Mrs. Uncouth. I know you will read it, but I don’t trust you. There! Mitrofán’s teacher will soon be here, so I’ll tell him——
Beastly. So you have begun to teach your son reading?
Mrs. Uncouth. Oh, my brother! He has been studying these four years. It shall not be laid to our door that we are not giving Mitrofán an education: we pay three teachers for it. The deacon from Pokróv, Carouse, comes to him for reading and writing. Arikmethick he studies with an ex-sergeant, Cipher. They both come from town, which is only two miles from us. French and all the sciences he takes from a German, Adam Adámych Bluster. He gets three hundred roubles a year. We let him eat at table with us; our peasant women wash his linen; if he has to travel anywhere, he gets our horses; at the table he always has a glass of wine, and at night a tallow candle, and Fomká fixes his wig for nothing. To tell the truth, we are satisfied with him, for he does not drive our child. I don’t see, anyway, why we should not fondle Mitrofán as long as he is a minor. He will have to suffer enough some ten years hence, when serving the Government. You know, brother, some people have luck from their birth. Take our family of Uncouths: they get all kinds of advancements while lying softly on their sides. With what is our Mitrofán worse than they? Ah, there is our dear guest.
SCENE 7. THE SAME AND TRUTHFUL
Mrs. Uncouth. Brother, I recommend to you our dear guest, Mr. Truthful; and to you, sir, I recommend my brother.
Truthful. Am glad to make your acquaintance.
Beastly. Very well, sir. What is your name? I did not quite hear it.
Truthful. My name is Truthful, so that you may hear it.
Beastly. Where born, sir? Where are your villages?
Truthful. I was born in Moscow, if you must know that, and my villages are in this province.
Beastly. And may I ask you,—I do not know your name and patronymic,—are there any pigs in your villages?
Mrs. Uncouth. Now, stop, brother, asking about your pigs. We had better talk about our trouble. (To Truthful.) Listen, sir! By God’s command we have taken this maiden upon our hands. She deigns to receive letters from her uncles: you see, her uncles write to her from heaven. Do us the kindness, sir, and read us this letter aloud.
Truthful. Excuse me, madam, I never read letters without the permission of those to whom they have been addressed.
Sophia. On the contrary, I beg you to do me the favour.
Truthful. If you so order. (He reads.)
“Dear niece! My affairs have compelled me to live for some years away from my relatives, and the great distance has deprived me of the pleasure of hearing any news from you. I am now living in Moscow after having been for some years in Siberia. I am a living example that it is possible by work and honesty to gain some wealth. By these means, fortune smiling upon me, I have saved up enough to have ten thousand roubles yearly income——”
Beastly and the Uncouths. Ten thousand!
Truthful (reads). “Of which I make you, dear niece, my sole heiress——”
(All together.)
Mrs. Uncouth. You an heiress!
Uncouth. Sophia an heiress!
Beastly. Her an heiress!
Mrs. Uncouth (hastening to embrace Sophia). I congratulate you, Sophia! I congratulate you, my darling! I am beside myself with joy! Now you need a husband. I, I could not wish a better bride for my Mitrofán. That’s what I call a fine uncle! A real father! I always thought that God was taking care of him, that he was still alive.
Beastly (stretching out his hand). Well, sister, let us settle it right away.
Mrs. Uncouth (whispering to Beastly). Wait, brother, first we have to ask her whether she wants you.
Beastly. What a question! Or do you really want to report to her as to a superior person?
Truthful. Do you want me to finish the letter?
Beastly. What for? Even if you were to keep on reading for five years you could not read out of it anything better than ten thousand.
Mrs. Uncouth (to Sophia). Sophia, my darling! Come with me to my sleeping-room. I have some important matter to talk to you about (leading Sophia out).
Beastly. Pshaw! I see there is not much chance for a betrothal to-day!
SCENE 8. TRUTHFUL, UNCOUTH, BEASTLY, A SERVANT
Servant (to Uncouth, out of breath). Sir, sir! Soldiers have come; they have stopped in our village.
Uncouth. There is a misfortune! They will ruin us completely.
Truthful. What frightens you so?
Uncouth. Oh, I have seen terrible things, and I am afraid to show up before them.
Truthful. Don’t be afraid. Of course, an officer is leading them, and he will not permit any insolence. Come, let us go to him. I am confident you are unnecessarily frightened. (Truthful, Uncouth and Servant exeunt.)
Beastly. They have all left me alone. I think I’ll take a walk in the cattle yard.
End of Act I.
AN OPEN-HEARTED CONFESSION OF MY ACTS AND THOUGHTS
My parents were pious people, but as in our childhood they did not wake us for the morning service, there was a night service held in our house every church holiday, as also in the first and last weeks of Lent. As soon as I learned to read, my father made me read at the divine services. To this I owe whatever knowledge of Russian I possess, for, reading the church books, I became acquainted with the Slavic language, without which it is impossible to know Russian. I am thankful to my father for having watched carefully my reading: whenever I began to read indistinctly, he would say to me: “Stop mumbling! or do you imagine God is pleased with your muttering?” But more than that: whenever my father noticed that I did not understand the passage that I had just read, he undertook the labour of explaining it to me,—in short, he showed endless care in my instruction. As he was not able to hire teachers of foreign languages for me, he did not delay, I may say, a day to place me and my brother in the University as soon as it was founded.
Now I shall say something of the manner of instruction at our University. Justice demands that I should state at the start that the University of to-day is quite a different thing from what it was in my days. Both the teachers and students are of a different calibre, and however much the school was then subject to severe criticism, it now deserves nothing but praise. I shall relate, as an example, how the examination was conducted in the lower Latin class. The day before the examination we were being prepared. Here is what was done: our teacher came in a caftan that had five buttons, while his vest had only four. This peculiarity surprised me much, and I asked the teacher for the cause of it. “My buttons seem to amuse you,” he said, “but they are the guardians of your honour and of mine: those on the caftan stand for the five declensions, and on the vest for the four conjugations. And now,” he proceeded, as he beat the table with his hand, “be all attentive to what I have to say! When they shall ask you for the declension of some noun, watch what button I am touching: if you see me holding the second button, answer boldly ‘The second declension.’ Do similarly in regard to the conjugations, being guided by the buttons on my vest, and you will never make a mistake.” That is the kind of an examination we had!
O you parents who take pleasure in the reading of gazettes, when you find the names of your children mentioned in them as having received prizes for diligence, listen what I got a medal for! Our inspector had a German friend who was made a professor of geography. He had only three students. As this teacher was more stupid than our Latin teacher, he arrived at the examination in a full complement of buttons, and we were consequently examined without preparation. My companion was asked: “Where does the Vólga flow to?” “Into the Black Sea,” was his answer. The same question was put to my other schoolmate. “Into the White Sea,” was his answer. Then they asked me the same question. “I don’t know,” I said with such an expression of simplicity, that the examiners unanimously voted to give me a medal. Now, I did not in the least earn this medal for any geographical knowledge, though I deserved it for an illustration of practical morals.
However it may be, I owe the University a grateful recognition: I learned there Latin, and thus laid the foundation for some of my sciences. I also learned there some German, and especially acquired a taste for literary studies. A love for writing was developed in me very early in my childhood, and I practised for many years translating into Russian.
At that time our director had taken it into his head to journey to St. Petersburg with a few of his students, in order to show the founder of the University the fruits of his school. I do not know how, but my brother and I were among the number of the chosen pupils. The director started for St. Petersburg in the winter with his wife and ten of us youngsters. This was the first, and consequently a difficult, journey for me and my companions, but I must make a grateful acknowledgment of the kind attention we received from our director and which alleviated our hardships. He and his wife looked after us as after their children. When we arrived in St. Petersburg, my brother and myself stopped at the house of an uncle of ours. A few days later, our director presented us to the curator. This esteemed gentleman, whose deserts Russia must not forget, received us very kindly. He took hold of my hand and led me to a man whose appearance had attracted my respectful attention. That was the immortal Lomonósov. He asked me what I had learned. “Latin,” said I. Then he began to speak with great eloquence of the importance of the Latin language.
After dinner of the same day we were at Court, it being a reception day, but the Empress did not appear. I was wonder-struck by the magnificence of the Empress’s palace. All around us was sparkling gold, a gathering of men in blue and red ribbons, a mass of beautiful women, an enormous orchestra,—all that bewildered and blinded me, and the palace appeared to me to be the dwelling-place of a superhuman being. Indeed, it could not have been otherwise, for I was then only fourteen years old, had never seen anything, and everything appeared to me new and charming. Having returned to the house, I asked my uncle whether they had often receptions at Court, to which he answered: “Almost every Sunday.” I decided to stay in St. Petersburg as long as possible, in order to see more of the Court. This desire was the result of curiosity and impulse: I wanted to enjoy the magnificence of the Court and hear agreeable music. This desire soon subsided, and I began to pine for my parents, whom I became impatient to see. The day I received letters from them was for me the pleasantest of all, and I went often to the post to ask for them.
Nothing delighted me in St. Petersburg so much as the theatre, which I saw for the first time in my life. They were playing a Russian comedy, Henry and Pernilla, and I remember it as if it happened to-day. I saw there Shúmski, who so amused me with his jokes that I lost all sense of propriety and laughed as loud as I could. It is almost impossible to describe the feelings which the theatre aroused in me. The comedy which I saw was quite stupid, but I looked upon it as the production of the greatest mind, and upon the actors as great people, whose acquaintance I regarded as the greatest happiness. I almost went insane when I found out that these actors frequented the house of my uncle, where I was living. After a little while I there became acquainted with our famous actor, Iván Afanásevich Dmitrévski, an honourable, clever and cultured gentleman, whose friendship I am enjoying even now.
Standing once in the pit, I struck up an acquaintanceship with the son of a distinguished gentleman, who had taken a fancy to my face. As soon as he received a negative answer to his question whether I knew French, he suddenly changed and became cold to me. He looked upon me as an ignoramus and badly educated man, and began to make fun of me. When I noticed from his manner of speech that he did not know anything else but French, which he spoke badly, I made such a biting repartee, that he stopped his raillery, and invited me to his house; I answered politely, and we parted as friends. But I learned from this how necessary it was for a young man to know French; so I began to study the language in earnest, continuing at the same time the study of Latin, in which language I heard the lectures on logic by Professor Sháden, who was then rector. This learned man has the rare gift of lecturing and expounding so clearly that we all made palpable progress, and my brother and I were soon admitted as real students. All that time I did not stop practising translations from German into Russian; among other things I translated Seth, the Egyptian King, but not very successfully. My knowledge of Latin was exceedingly useful to me in my study of French. In two years I could understand Voltaire, and I began translating in verse his Alzire. That translation was nothing more than a youthful error, nevertheless there are some good verses in it.
LETTERS TO COUNT P. I. PÁNIN, DURING HIS FIRST JOURNEY ABROAD
Montpellier, November 22 (December 3), 1777.
... I found this city (Leipsic) full of learned men. Some of these regard it as their chief desert that they are able to talk in Latin, which, by the way, five-year-old children were able to do in the days of Cicero. Others soar in thoughts in the sky, and are ignorant of what goes on upon earth. Others again are strong in artificial logic, having an extreme absence of natural logic. In short, Leipsic proves beyond controversy that learning does not beget common sense. I left these pedants, and went to Frankfurt-on-the-Main. This city is celebrated for its antiquities, and is noteworthy from the fact that the Roman Emperor is chosen here. I was in the election room from which he issues to the people. But its antiquity consists merely in being old: all I saw there were four empty walls in an old building. They showed me also the famous so-called La Bulle d’Or of Emperor Charles IV., which was written in the year 1356, and I was also in the Imperial Archives. But it was hardly worth my while to climb up garrets and down cellars, in order to see the relics of a rude age. From Frankfurt I travelled through German principalities: every step a new principality. I saw Hanau, Mainz, Fulda, Sachsen-Gotha, Eisenach and a few other principalities of minor princes. I found the roads frequently not paved, but I had nevertheless to pay dearly for the pavement. When they pulled me out of a bog and asked pavement money of me, I had the courage to ask them: “Where is it?” To which they answered me that his Majesty, the reigning prince, had the intention of having the roads paved, but that at the present he was only collecting toll. Such justice in regard to strangers has led me to make my own conclusions in regard to their relations with their subjects, and I did not at all wonder when from every hut there came out a crowd of beggars and followed my carriage....
From here I went into France, and reached the famous city of Lyons. In this country the roads are very good; but in the cities the streets are so narrow and are so badly kept that I cannot understand how people with their five senses manage to live in such dirt. It is evident that the police does not interfere with it. To prove this I shall take the liberty of telling your Highness an occurrence. I was walking in the finest and largest street in Lyons (which, however, cannot compare with our by-streets), and saw in bright daylight burning torches and a crowd of people in the middle of the street. Being near-sighted, I naturally thought it was some elegant funeral. Upon approaching nearer out of curiosity, I saw how great my mistake was: Messrs. Frenchmen had simply stuck a pig and were singeing it in the middle of the street! The stench, dirt and a crowd of leisure people who were watching the operation compelled me to take another street. I have not yet seen Paris, so I do not know whether my olfactories will suffer there less; in any case, all the French cities which I have so far seen are badly off as to their cleanliness.
Paris, March 20 (31), 1778.
... Voltaire’s arrival in Paris produced the same effect on the people here as if a divinity had come down upon earth. The respect shown to him in no way differs from worship. I am confident that if his deep old age and ailments did not oppress him, and he wished to preach now some new sect, the whole nation would at once turn to him. Your Excellency will form your own opinion from what follows whether one can come to any other conclusion from the reception the public gave him.
When he arrived here, the poets who are devoted to him began to write poems in his honour, while those who hate him sent him anonymous satires. The first are printed, but not the other, for the Government has by a special rescript forbidden to print anything that might be prejudicial to Voltaire. This consideration is shown him as much for his great talents as for his advanced age. This man of eighty-five years has composed a new tragedy, Irene and Alexis Comnenus, which has been performed. Although it can by no means be compared to his former plays, yet the public received it with rapture. The author being ill, he was not present at the first presentation. It is only the first time yesterday that he has driven out: he was in the Academy, then in the theatre, where they purposely gave his new tragedy.
As he drove out from his house, the carriage was accompanied as far as the Academy by an endless throng of people who kept up applauding. All the academicians came out to meet him. He was seated in the president’s chair and, waiving the customary voting, was elected by acclamation to be president for the April quarter. As he walked down the staircase and took his seat in the carriage, the populace demanded vociferously to take off hats. From the Academy to the theatre he was accompanied by the people’s cheering. When he entered his box, the audience applauded repeatedly with indescribable rapture, and a few minutes later the oldest actor, Brisard, stepped into his box with a wreath which he placed on Voltaire’s head. Voltaire immediately took the wreath off and with tears of joy spoke aloud to Brisard: “Ah, Dieu! vous voulez donc me faire mourir!” The tragedy was played with much greater perfection than at any previous performance. At its conclusion there was a new spectacle. All the actors and actresses surrounded Voltaire’s bust and adorned it with laurel wreaths. This homage was followed by the people’s applause, which lasted nearly fifteen minutes. Then Madame Vestrice, who had played Irene, turned towards Voltaire and read some laudatory verses. To show their appreciation, the public demanded that the verses be read again, and they applauded wildly. As soon as Voltaire seated himself in his carriage, the people stopped the coachman and cried: “Des flambeaux, des flambeaux!” When the torches were brought, they ordered the coachman to drive at a slow pace, and an endless crowd accompanied him to his very house with torches, crying all the time: “Vive Voltaire!” Voltaire has received many an ovation in his lifetime, but yesterday was, no doubt, the best day of his life, which, however, will soon come to an end. Your Excellency will see how he now looks from his portrait which I here enclose and which is a very good likeness of him.