No idea of Voltaire’s life there could be given without mention of that incessant stream of visitors of all nations and languages which flowed through it, almost without pause for twenty years. Half the genius—and but too many of the fools—of Europe came to worship at the shrine of the prophet of this literary Mecca.
As prim Geneva shut its gates at nightfall, every one who came to sup with M. de Voltaire had to stay all night in his house. Ferney had no inn. After fourteen years of his life there, Voltaire might well say that he had been the hotel-keeper of Europe. He told Madame du Deffand, as early as 1763, that he had entertained four hundred English people, of whom not one ever after gave him a thought.
Too many of his guests, indeed, were not merely self-invited: but remained at Ferney with such persistency that their unhappy host would sometimes retire to bed and say he was dying, to get rid of them. One caller, who had received a message to this effect, returned the next day. “Tell him I am dying again. And if he comes any more, say I am dead and buried.”
Another visitor, when told Voltaire was ill, shrewdly replied that he was a doctor and should like to feel his pulse. When Voltaire sent down a message to say he was dead, the visitor replied, “Then I will bury him. In my profession I am used to burying people.” His humour appealed to Voltaire’s. He was admitted. “You seem to take me for some curious animal,” said Voltaire.
“Yes, Monsieur, for the Phœnix.”
“Very well: the charge to see me is twelve sous.”
“Here are twenty-four,” said the visitor. “I will come again to-morrow.”
He did, and on many to-morrows: and was received as a friend.
But all the importunate were not so clever, and their fulsome flattery was odious to the man who loved it daintily dressed.
“Sir, when I see you, I see the great candle that lights the world.”