Fréron was still a very cool, clever, opulent, successful Parisian journalist: still the bitterest and shrewdest foe of the philosophers, and the sharpest tool of the Court. Voltaire, it will be remembered, had no reason to love this “worm from the carcase of Desfontaines,” the defender of Crébillon, the supporter of d’Arnaud, the founder of “The Literary Year,” that review which, appearing every ten days, had been for twenty-three years “a long polemic against the Encyclopædia in general and Voltaire in particular.” But Voltaire seldom made the mistake of underrating his enemy’s powers. He spoke of Fréron as the only man of his party who had literary taste. He acknowledged him to be of an amazing energy and courage, of great self-command, and an excellent critic.
But when it came to sharply criticising “Candide” in that “Literary Year” and scornfully twitting “Candide’s” author with his dear title of Count of Tourney, the Count was foolish enough not only to lose his temper but to enumerate his grievances against Fréron in a letter to “The Encyclopædic Journal,” the rival organ of “The Literary Year.”
There was certainly a fine air of coolness and indifference in the letter. But the vif, warm genius of a Voltaire only assumed these qualities. Fréron really had them. Hence, Fréron was a powerful foe.
Athirst for revenge, then, alike on Palissot and on Fréron, Voltaire wrote “The Scotch Girl” in eight days. An English play, if you please, by Mr. Hume, brother of the historian; translated into French by Jérôme Carré; and before it appears, to be read, discussed, laughed over, and recognised in every boudoir in Paris as a satire on Fréron and on Palissot’s “Philosophers.” Everything fell out as the author had desired, and laboured that it should. If he was buried at Délices and hundreds of miles of vile roads from Paris, he had friends there only something less active and angry than himself. He had in himself the vigour and genius which can span space and move mountains.
On July 25th, the day before the play was to appear, he caused to be circulated in Paris a letter in which Carré, the translator, complained of the immense efforts Fréron had made to damn “The Scotch Girl” in advance. These advertisements were perfectly successful. On the first night—Saturday, July 26th—crowds besieged the door of the theatre before it opened; some, the friends of Fréron, some of Palissot, some of Voltaire; and all knowing enough of the piece to be quite sure they should be amused. In a prominent place in the auditorium shrewd Fréron had placed his pretty wife, to excite compassion for himself, and anger against his foes. He himself sat among the orchestra. Malesherbes, the minister, had a place hard by him. Palissot was in a box. Many neutral persons, piqued only by curiosity, found seats in the house. It was upon their pulse Fréron kept his finger. It was their displeasure or approval which would give the real verdict of the piece.
“The Scotch Girl” is not at all a good play. But it is witty, topical, and infinitely audacious. “It is not sufficient to write well: one must write to the taste of the public,” said Voltaire. He had not written well: but he had written for the psychological moment. His audience had expected him to take a bold spring from the footboard: and he jumped from the roof. His old experience of England enabled him to give one of the first sketches of a comic Englishman ever seen on the French stage. The character of Freeport is the best in the piece: and the saving of it. The scene is laid in a London coffee-house—the sub-title of the play being “Le Café.” Fréron appeared as Frelon: which, being translated, is wasp or hornet. Wasp is a Grub Street hack “always ready to manufacture infamy at a pistole the paragraph.” “When I discover a trifle, I add something to it: and something added to something makes much.” The tactics of scandalous journalism are unaltered to this day. “The Philosophers” was broadly burlesqued: and to philosophy were gravely ascribed all the evils under the sun.
The play was received with delight. Foe as well as friend laughed aloud. Pretty Madame Fréron nearly fainted when she saw her husband thus travestied; and did not make matters better by naïvely replying to a friend, who assured her that Wasp did not in the least resemble her husband who was neither slanderer nor informer, “Oh! Monsieur, it is too well done! He will always be recognised.”
The performance took place at five o’clock in the afternoon. The next day, July 27th, was a Sunday, and the day for the appearance of a number of “The Literary Year.” It contained an account of that first night under the title of “The Account of a Great Battle,” written in that cool and easy style, principally remarkable for its moderation and self-restraint, which was the finest weapon in Fréron’s armoury. It ended with a “Te Voltairium,” a sort of parody of the Te Deum, which was licensed by the censor, to the great indignation of the philosophers who had so often been profane—and unlicensed.
Meanwhile, at his Délices, Voltaire wrote his account of that first night—“An Advertisement to the Scotch Girl.” The little, pricking, red-hot needles of his style were much less effective for his purpose now than the judicial calm of M. Fréron. But, after all, Voltaire was the winner. “The Scotch Girl” had what d’Alembert called “a prodigious success.” The provinces received it with rapture. It was played three times a week in Paris. Its last performance there took place on September 2d.