Voltaire had arrived in Mayence on July 7, 1753. On July 9th he was writing to Madame Denis that letter for the public eye in which he gave his account of the affair with Frederick; and went on to prove that he had never been a Prussian subject, or anything but a Frenchman to the bottom of his soul, which was true enough; and to assert, the truth of which he felt to be very doubtful, that Frederick would be the first to ask of the King my master (I am still Gentleman-in-Ordinary, you will be pleased to remember) that I may be allowed to end my days in my native land. Madame Denis was working hard to attain that same end in Paris: and thought herself likely to succeed. Her sufferings in Frankfort had been such that the emotional lady had to be bled four times in a week, she said. She still hoped, in italics, that her old prophecy that the King of Prussia would be the death of Uncle Voltaire would not be fulfilled after all; and recalled Frankfort in terms so agitating that there was no wonder her uncle—who greatly overestimated his niece’s goodness in coming to him there—harped on the treatment she had received, on Freytag, Fredersdorff, and the “Goat,” in every letter he wrote. In one at least, written at this period, he ominously signed himself Gentleman of the Chamber of the King of France. Voltaire was coming home.
He and Collini left Mayence on July 28th for Mannheim, where Charles Theodore, the Elector Palatine, had invited Voltaire to stay with him. They passed a night at Worms en route. Voltaire’s spirits were light enough for him to pretend to be an Italian for the benefit of the Worms innkeeper, and make the supper what his secretary called “very diverting.” At Mannheim, the Elector Palatine’s Court being in the country, Voltaire spent a short time putting money matters in order, and changing his German money into French. He was nearly in his “patrie”; no wonder he was lighthearted. In a few days the Elector fetched him to Schwetzingen, his country house, where was held the gayest and most charming of little Courts. Voltaire always dined with the Elector, and after dinner read aloud to him one of his works. There were fêtes and concerts. The court theatrical company came to visit the author of “Zaire” and “Alzire,” of “Mahomet” and “Mérope.” Four of his own plays were acted. He was only too delighted to show the actors how to render this passage, and give to that character its true weight and significance. He began here (“like an old fool,” he said) a new love drama called “The Orphan of China.” If liberty was the passion of his life, the drama was the pet child of his leisure. An agreeable fortnight passed away. The distinguished guest was taken to see the Elector’s library at Mannheim and presented to it the companion volume to that ill-omened “Poëshie” of the King my master—Frederick’s “Memoirs of the House of Brandenburg.”
While unconscious Voltaire was still at Schwetzingen, training actors, or reading the “Annals” to the Elector, d’Argenson, Voltaire’s old school friend and member of the French Cabinet, recorded in his diary “Permission to re-enter France is refused to M. de Voltaire ... to please the King of Prussia.”
On August 16th, Voltaire and Collini reached Strasburg and put up there at a poor little inn called the “White Bear,” because it was kept by the father of a waiter at the inn at Mayence; and good-natured Voltaire had promised to patronise it to oblige him. He moved shortly to a little house outside the city gate, and received there everyone of note in Strasburg.
He was still hard at work on the “Annals.” He spent the evening sometimes with the agreeable Countess de Lutzelburg, who lived near. He took counsel about his “Annals” with Schoepflin, the German historian. Altogether he would have passed a couple of months quite after his heart—if—if—Madame Denis had been able to tell him that it was safe for him to proceed further into France. Alsace was the borderline. On it was written, it seemed, “Thus far shalt thou come, but no further.” But still—patience, patience! Voltaire did not yet despair. He knew nothing of that entry in d’Argenson’s diary. But much bitter experience had taught him that discretion is the better part of valour. On October 2d he left Strasburg, and arrived the same evening at Colmar.
Colmar was a well-chosen spot for several reasons. One was that Schoepflin’s brother, who was a printer, was going to print Voltaire’s “Annals” for him there. Another was that Colmar had plenty of agreeable literary society. And a third—and most important—it was very conveniently situated for the receipt of Madame Denis’s communications. Within a drive of it was Lunéville. Two days’ journey from it was Cirey. Its upper classes all spoke French. And though the Jesuits were no small power in it, Voltaire seems to have forgotten that unpleasant little fact, when he came. He went into modest rooms; and was his own housekeeper, with a young peasant girl called Babet, whose gaiety, simplicity, and volubility much entertained him, as cook. He played chess after dinner with Collini. His way of life delighted tastes always modest; and his health improved rapidly. He drew plans for his “Orphan.” With a brilliant play he had successfully defied his enemies before. Why not again? But the dramatic muse required much wooing this time; and the most versatile writer in the world began compiling articles for the “Encyclopædia” instead.
In this October Voltaire buried himself in the village of Luttenbach, near Colmar, for a fortnight, where he was happy enough proof-correcting his “Annals” and still hoping for good news from France. On October 28th, he came back to Colmar, had a fit of the gout, and, as usual, gaily bemoaned his ill-health in all his letters.
He still liked Colmar. He still thought he was creeping home. Prussia was behind him; and, though he was nearly sixty years old and always talked of himself as dying, he knew there was still a world before.
And then, in this December of 1753, Fate struck him one of those stunning blows she had too often dealt him.
Just as he was hoping for the best, as his friends in Paris were straining every nerve to smooth the way for his return, as he was laboriously wooing the histrionic muse that he might captivate the capital with a comedy; just as he had renounced Frederick and Prussia and remembered that he was Gentleman-in-Ordinary to his French Majesty and a Frenchman body and soul, and no Prussian after all, there appeared at The Hague, in a shamefully incorrect pirated edition, the most ambitious, the most voluminous, the most characteristic, and the most daring of all Voltaire’s works, the “Essay on the Manners and Mind of Nations.”