The life of Voltaire

by Evelyn Beatrice Hall

As in the old days at Cirey, he was often too busy to join his friends at dinner, and ate “no matter what, no matter when,” instead.

In January, 1758, he migrated to Chêne, his newly acquired house in Lausanne; and, in the formal phrase of one of his guests there, by “his wit and his philosophy, his table and his theatre, refined in a visible degree the manners” of that town. That guest was an English youth called Gibbon, who, having been led into Roman Catholicism at college, had been sent to a minister at Lausanne to be led out of it again—by Calvinism. In the intervals of falling in love with the beaux yeux of Mademoiselle Curchod (afterwards Madame Necker), the self-satisfied young gentleman found time during two winters to pompously approve of M. de Voltaire in various rôles—in “Zaire,” “Alzire,” “Fanine,” and the “Enfant Prodigue,” played in that theatre in the granary of Mon Repos. Gibbon wrote hereafter, in that solemn, polished, rewritten, immortal Autobiography, that M. de Voltaire’s “declamation was fashioned to the pomp and cadence of the old stage, and he expressed the enthusiasm of poetry rather than the feelings of Nature”; while Voltaire, in the gay impromptu of his style, declared of himself he was “the best old fool in any troupe. I had rage and tears—attitudes and a cap.” He added that Madame Denis was splendid in the rôle of mothers; and a little later quite seriously announced that though she had not all the talents of Mademoiselle Clairon (!) she was much more pathetic and human! The observing English youth in the audience considered, on the contrary, that the “fat and ugly niece” quite ruined the parts of “the young and fair,” and was not nearly clever enough to make the spectators forget the defects of her age and person. When she was playing the heroine in “Zaire” she did herself say, hoping for a compliment, “To take such a part one ought to be young and beautiful!” and a well-meaning gauche person replied “Ah! Madame, you are a living proof to the contrary!” Uncle Voltaire would have been very vif, no doubt, if he had known of Gibbon’s unflattering criticism on his niece. As it was, he was not too pleased on his own account when this heavy young genius must needs, after having heard them only twice, remember and repeat certain lines which Voltaire had written in the first enthusiasm of settling at Délices, and which (of course) contained an allusion which would offend somebody. M. de Voltaire may be forgiven if he wished this blundering Mr. Gibbon and his prodigious memory—in England.

In May, after the ménage Voltaire had moved back to Délices, another visitor came to it. She was Madame du Boccage, famous for her learning, as modest as she was accomplished, and a woman quite after her host’s heart. He put off a visit to the Elector Palatine to receive her. He gave up his bed to her as being the most comfortable in the house; and got up plays for her benefit. As for Madame, she found him everything that was kind and agreeable, surrounded by the best company—that is, the intellectually best company—and always singing the praises of his rural life. In fact, the only thing she had to complain of was that he was so very hospitable that, like the nieces, she was always having indigestion. She left after a visit of five days, and long corresponded with her host.

Between work and play, the Délices, Monrion, and Chêne, Voltaire had spent more than three years in Switzerland. That they had been happy enough to have made him altogether forget that a Paris, a Louis, and a Pompadour existed—and neglected him—is true enough. But he never forgot. If on one side of his character he was splendidly a philosopher, on the other he was always an “old baby” crying for the moon.

CHAPTER XXXI
“THE LITERARY WAR,” AND THE PURCHASE OF FERNEY AND TOURNEY

On June 21, 1758, Voltaire was writing delightedly to his Angel to tell him that through the offices of the pink-cheeked Bernis, Louis XV. had been good enough to give a formal permit for the greatest Frenchman of the age to retain his title of Gentleman-in-Ordinary.

Frederick said, obviously enough, “That will not be the patent that will immortalise you.” But the Gentleman himself was quite naïvely delighted. He had always been miserable at Court and in Paris, but he so much wished to feel he could go back there, if he liked! He seems to have regarded this formal permission to keep his title as the thin end of the wedge. But it was not.

“Let him stay where he is,” was the Bien-Aimé’s sole comment on Voltaire’s exile. Marmontel suggested to Madame de Pompadour that it was for her to recall him; but Madame could only reply, perhaps not untruthfully, “Ah, no! it does not rest with me.”

In July, Voltaire visited another Court, which had never looked askance at him. He spent a fortnight with his old friend the Elector Palatine, at Schwetzingen. The Elector had arranged some money matters for Voltaire greatly to his advantage, so the visit was one of gratitude. It has no importance, except that the story runs that here the guest was so engrossed by a mysterious Something he was writing that he shut himself up in his room for three days, only opening his door to have food and coffee passed in. On the fourth day Madame Denis forced an entry. Voltaire threw a manuscript at her, saying, “There, curious, that is for you.” It was the manuscript of “Candide.”

The only drawback to the little anecdote is that Madame Denis was not at Schwetzingen at all—having been left behind at home with her sister, learning parts. “Candide” may have been written at the Elector’s; but the time for its appearance was not yet ripe.