Rebels and Reformers: Biographies for Young People

by Baron Arthur Ponsonby Ponsonby; Dorothea Ponsonby

Though now an old man, his life at Ferney, like his life at Cirey, was one of ceaseless activity. Never can any one have written so many letters. Seven thousand have been printed, but there are many more: and his correspondents ranged from kings and empresses to the humblest and most undistinguished people. With all his faults, and he had many, Voltaire never fell a prey to two of the worst failings of which a human being can be guilty—indifference and indolence.

Let us try and picture a day at Ferney. Voltaire did not appear till eleven o’clock. He remained in his room, where he had five desks all very carefully and neatly arranged with the notes and papers for the various works on which he was engaged. The rest of the morning he spent in garden or farm superintending and giving orders. He dined with the house-party, eating very little himself, his only form of indulgence being coffee. After some conversation with his guests in the early afternoon, he retired to his study and refused to be interrupted by anybody till supper-time. Then he came out in very lively spirits, led the conversation, provoked discussion, and amused every one with his jokes and repartees. In the evening there was probably a theatrical entertainment in his little theater, or he would read out some of his poems, or play chess, the only game he ever indulged in. When he went to bed he started work afresh, and as he slept very little, this would go on sometimes far into the night, especially if he had a play on hand. Madame Denis looked after the guests, some of whom, to their great annoyance, saw very little of their host.

It was in the last twenty years of his life that Voltaire played such a noble part in championing the cause of men who were subjected to gross and cruel persecution. The most famous case is that of Callas. He was a Protestant shopkeeper in Toulouse, a kind and benevolent old man. The monstrous accusation brought against him was that of murdering his son, who, as a matter of fact, committed suicide in a fit of melancholy. The motive of the murder was supposed to be that the son wanted to become a Roman Catholic, and his father, rather than allow it, killed him. Callas was tried and condemned without a shred of evidence against him. He was tortured with hideous cruelty, broken on the wheel, and finally strangled. This was in 1762. Some of the family fled to Switzerland, and Voltaire heard of the case. He soon saw that behind it lay the thing he hated most in the world, namely, religious intolerance. He set to work with an energy and perseverance which were quite extraordinary. He left off his usual literary work; he examined evidence, drew up reports, wrote statements and narratives, collected a fund, composed pamphlets, wrote to influential people, and devoted his whole time and thoughts and much money to the cause he had undertaken. He succeeded in getting a new trial, and at last, three years after the savage sentence had been passed on Callas, a unanimous verdict of complete innocence was recorded by a council of forty judges. The whole of Europe had heard of the case, because it was Voltaire who had taken up the cause of the poor and honest man who had been the victim of a vile plot. Nothing in his life gave him more satisfaction than his success in this affair. Thirteen years later an old woman in Paris, in reply to some one who asked who the little old man was whom crowds surrounded, said, “It is the saviour of Callas.” No honor that ever came to Voltaire gave him so much pleasure as that simple answer.

Nor was the case of Callas the only one in which he took an active interest. A man called Sirven was persecuted in much the same way, and would have suffered a similar fate had he not escaped. It took nine years for justice to be done this time, and Voltaire was seventy-seven when the case was retried and the accused declared innocent. Further, there was the case of Espinasse, who was sentenced to the galleys for giving supper and a bed to a Protestant minister; of Montbailli, who was falsely accused of murdering his mother; of La Barre; and several others, who for one reason or another were victims of persecution. Voltaire’s hatred of injustice had always been strong. He showed it when he was a much younger man. One occasion was the death of Adrienne Lecouvreur, the great actress, who had performed in several of his plays. Because she was an actress she was refused Christian burial. His fury knew no bounds, more especially as he had seen an actress buried in London with every mark of respect and sympathy. He wrote a poem which showed the depths of his indignation at this senseless intolerance.

Voltaire’s finest qualities, in fact, came to the front in his character of champion of the persecuted. The cynical satirist was merged into the generous and courageous upholder of justice. The oppressed and needy may get sympathy from others who are in like condition, but it is much more rare for one who is neither poor nor downtrodden to give them not only sympathy, but practical and useful support.

Voltaire, as already said, detested intolerance. He expressed this in a well-known phrase, which he repeated both in his writings and in his conversation, “Écrasez l’infâme” (Crush the infamous). His enemies declared that he meant God, Christ, Christianity, and religion. But this was very far from true. By l’infâme he meant intolerance, bigotry, superstition, persecution, and all the hideous evils that blighted the true spirit of religion. It was l’infâme that enforced the doctrines of religion by fire, torture, and imprisonment, it was l’infâme that encouraged oppression and tyranny; it was l’infâme that was the barrier to liberty, progress, and enlightenment; and l’infâme was Voltaire’s lifelong enemy. He did as much as any one to combat this evil spirit. But it requires more than a man, it requires a people, to succeed completely; and no people have even yet got the power in any land. Voltaire was certainly not a sentimentalist, and it is interesting to note that he was the first influential writer who was struck more by the futility than the cruelty of war. He regarded both war and the intrigues of diplomacy which create it as being absolutely contrary to the best interests of nations.

It is a pity Voltaire ever left Ferney. However, he very naturally wanted to revisit Paris, which he had not seen for twenty-eight years. Also he wanted to superintend the production of a new tragedy he had just written. Madame Denis, who was bored with Ferney, seems to have encouraged him to go. Instead, therefore, of dying quietly in his home, he passed the last few weeks of his life in a perfect orgy of entertainment and excitement, and there is something pathetic in the vain little old man, masquerading for the benefit of Paris crowds. And yet his last visit to Paris, which amounted to an event of public importance, was very characteristic of the man’s whole life. He received all sorts of distinguished visitors; society flocked to see him; the French Academy, by whom in old days he had been rejected, paid him every compliment possible; actors welcomed him with enthusiasm; the middle-class turned out in crowds to see him; the Protestants worshiped the man who had fought against persecution; the mob filled the streets in awe of a man who could stand up so boldly against the powers of government; the Court and the Church avoided him because they feared him, while the preachers denounced him from their pulpits.

One of his oldest friends was greeted by him on his arrival with the words, “I have left off dying to come and see you.” The Academy’s reception was a great function. A gorgeous coach was sent for him, and as the crowd waited he appeared in the doorway, a very lean figure, with his old-fashioned gray wig surmounted by a little square cap. He wore a red coat lined with ermine, white silk stockings on his shrunken legs, large silver buckles on his shoes, a little cane in his hand with a crow’s beak for a handle, and over all this wonderful dress, a sable cloak which had been given to him by Catherine, Empress of Russia. At the Louvre two thousand people assembled, and greeted him with shouts of “Long live Voltaire!” Afterwards, at the theater, he appeared in a box, and the whole audience rose and received him with frantic applause. An actor came forward and crowned him with a wreath of laurels, while the people stormed and shouted. It certainly was a triumph, a remarkable triumph, not only for the man, but for his opinions. There was no discordant voice. As one who was present said, “Envy, hatred, fanaticism, and intolerance dared not murmur.”

But all these entertainments were too much for the old man. He grew more feeble and ill, and died at last on May 30, 1778, at the age of eighty-three. Shortly before his death Voltaire signed a declaration which summed up his belief: “I die worshiping God, loving my friends, and not hating my enemies, but detesting superstition.” His body, dressed up as though he were alive, was taken out of Paris in a carriage and buried at Scellières, about a hundred miles away. The bishops of the diocese sent an order to forbid the burial, but it was too late. No newspaper was allowed to mention his death or anything about him, and the Academy was forbidden to hold the service which was customary on the death of a member. In the twentieth century just the same orders were issued by the Russian Government when Tolstoy died. Nothing is feared more by Church and State than the influence of a great reformer.

Over Voltaire’s body controversy raged just as it had over the living man.