The life of Voltaire

by Evelyn Beatrice Hall

Of course, Marmontel found Voltaire in bed, dying. And of course the moribund read aloud the “Pucelle” in the most lively and delightful manner in the world; took the visitors to see the view from Tourney, and discussed with them theatres, Frederick the Great, J. J. Rousseau—everything under heaven. He also played chess with Gaulard, and listened to Marmontel’s poetry. And after a three days’ visit, thereafter recorded in minutest detail by Marmontel, the visitors left.

Another burst of gaiety marked the autumn. “To get rid of public misfortunes and my own,” the arch-foe of Fréron conducted another theatrical season, and asked so many people as actors or audience that, one night at least, Délices, Tourney, and Ferney all together would not hold them, and they had to be drafted into neighbouring houses. Ferney was neither finished nor furnished, but there were attics ready which accommodated a few guests and their servants. Sometimes the plan was to dine at Délices, see a play at Tourney, and sleep at Ferney—“on the top of each other,” as the host said. The theatrical troupe would stroll about the gardens of Tourney in the moonlight in the intervals of their labours; and as they were young, and of both sexes, they no doubt took advantage of so excellent an opportunity for a little love-making. Corrupter of youth! cried Geneva, who was by no means best pleased just now with a Voltaire who a little earlier had fought Dr. Tronchin tooth and nail to establish a troupe of comedians of doubtful morals, only a quarter of a league from Geneva, though on French soil. Dr. Tronchin won—for the time; the comedians were ordered away, and Voltaire and his good doctor were excellent friends again; but it is not in the Calvinistic temperament in general to forget or to forgive easily.

And then this autumn season was marked by the presence of a most dissipated roué of a duke, the Duke of Villars, who was a patient of Tronchin’s, and considerably madder upon theatricals than his host himself. He had acted from his earliest youth at Vaux Villars, where a Voltaire of five-and-twenty had fallen in love with that gracious Maréchale, Villars’s mother. But her son, though he thought great things of himself and would coach the company in general, was a poor performer. He casually asked Voltaire one day how he thought he acted. “Why, Sir, like a duke and a peer,” answers Voltaire. Poor Cramer, the actor-publisher, was so misinstructed by his noble friend, that it took him a fortnight to unlearn the lesson of this bad master. When he had done so, Voltaire cried out to Madame Denis, “Niece, thank God! Cramer has disgorged his Duke!”

Also of the company was Mademoiselle de Bazincourt, Madame Denis’s pretty, poor companion, who was destined to a convent from which Voltaire could not save her, and who meantime played the parts of “Julia, her friend,” to perfection.

On September 29th, a house-warming took place at Ferney, in the shape of the marriage there of M. de Montpéroux, the envoy of France. Voltaire gave a great dinner in his new house to celebrate the event, and from henceforth lived there—at first generally, and at last entirely.

On October 20th, he and his theatrical company were sharply reminded by the Council of Geneva that “Sieur de Voltaire had yesterday a piece played at Saint Jean, the territory of the republic, in distinct violation of a promise he had made in August, 1755.” They went on acting as gaily and continuously as ever. It is to be feared that to this wicked Voltaire prohibitions were only sauce to the plat, and made it a hundred times the more irresistible.

In the December of this 1760, which was one of the most full, varied, and active years of one of the most energetic lives ever lived by man, Voltaire appeared in a new rôle. He adopted a daughter.

In estimating his character no trait in it has been more lost sight of than that which, for want of a better word, may be called his affectionateness. Yet the man who was the lifelong friend of false Theriot, as well as of faithful d’Argental, who kept a warm corner in his heart for ungrateful servants and ne’er-do-weel relatives, who supported tiresome nephews and at least one trying niece, to say nothing of that crippled profligate d’Aumard, had that quality in a very high degree. Satire and cynicism were in his every lively utterance. But in his acts were a tenderness, a generosity, and a charity, to which better men than he have not attained.

Mademoiselle Marie Corneille was the great-niece of the great Corneille. Poor and provincial, her father came up one fine day to Paris and claimed his cousinship with the great Fontenelle. But Fontenelle had so long lost sight of this branch of the Corneille family that he thought the man an impostor, and left his money elsewhere. Then who but Fréron must needs take compassion on this hapless little family of three persons—father, mother, and daughter—and have a play of their uncle’s performed for their benefit? But even five thousand five hundred francs do not go far, when out of the sum debts have to be paid, three persons to live, and one to be educated. Marie, of nearly eighteen, had to be removed from her convent. A friend took charge of her for a while. And then Le Brun, secretary to the Prince of Conti and a second-rate poet, conceived the happy idea of enlisting Voltaire’s sympathy for her in an ode.

It is not an exaggeration to say that Voltaire adopted her on the spot. His only feeling seems to have been one of complete delight at having the opportunity of doing good in such a charming way; and he considered it, he said, an honour for an old soldier to serve the granddaughter of his general.