A dream! A dream! The other philosophers would not entertain the idea for a moment. Some of them, at least, felt “little suppers and the opéra-comique” to be among the necessities of existence. D’Alembert, chief of them all, who had refused the Presidency of the Berlin Academy and to be tutor to Catherine the Great’s son for a quiet life, and Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, was not going to be tempted from either—for Cleves!
“I see,” wrote Voltaire, “that M. Boursier” (which was one of his innumerable noms de guerre) “will have no workmen.” So he went back to Ferney.
“The suit and the sacrifice of the Chevalier de la Barre remain one of the indelible stains with which the magistracy of the eighteenth century tarnished and defiled its robes.”
That “Philosophical Dictionary”—of which the thin first volume had been burnt with La Barre; which in March, 1765, had been publicly destroyed in Paris by the hangman; which Rome anathematised, and of which liberal London had already demanded a fifth edition—is one of the greatest of Voltaire’s works, and one which should still be popular. It stands alone, without rival or counterpart. Brief articles on an enormous variety of subjects gave infinite scope for Voltaire’s versatility. Since he had written that first article, “Abraham,” which had made even sullen Frederick laugh, the thing had been its author’s commonplace book. If an article is too daring even for the “Encyclopædia”—put it in the “Dictionary.” If one feels gay, write buffoonery; or seriously, write with passion. The “Dictionary” had room for everything. Mockery, sarcasm, lightness, wit, gaiety, profundity, the most earnest thought, the most burning zeal, banter, irony, audacity—they are all here. “The Philosophical Dictionary” has well been said to be “the whole of citizen Voltaire.”
He had smuggled it into Geneva, and then gaily and without a pang of conscience denied that he had anything to do with its authorship. “If there is the least danger about it, please warn me, and then I can disown it in all the public papers with my usual candour and innocence.”
He kept it by his side, and wrote, now in this mood, now in that, first one article and then another, until it numbered eight volumes.
Even in this age of many books there is always room for another, if it be sufficiently piquant and out of the common. The astonishing variety of the subjects, and the not less marvellous versatility of the style, the ease, the life and the humour of those eight volumes are qualities which may well appeal to the most jaded of modern readers. Its frequent profanity, indeed, is a blot dyed too deeply into the texture of the book to be eradicable by any editor. But, apart from this, to the bored person—always in search of a new literary sensation, of something which has not been done a thousand times before, of something that will not be done a thousand times again—may be well recommended a volume of “The Philosophical Dictionary.”
CHAPTER XXXIX
VOLTAIRE AND GENEVA: VOLTAIRE AND LA HARPE
Now Voltaire was not only genius and philanthropist, he was also a country gentleman.
He played the part to the life. He amicably exchanged seeds and bulbs with his neighbours, and admired their gardens in return for their admiration of his; he invited them to dinner-parties and theatricals; and, like many another of his class, could not for the life of him help interfering in local politics.