The life of Voltaire

by Evelyn Beatrice Hall

Voltaire had been going to the theatre to-morrow. Well, he could give that up. But rest? Madame Necker called to see him this very day—Sunday. And how, pray, could he decline to receive the wife of her husband, the woman who had done so much for him in the matter of the Pigalle statue, and who, distantly related to Belle-et-Bonne, had sternly disapproved of her innocence being used to reform a wickedness like Villette’s and had only brought herself with difficulty to enter that scoundrel’s house? Voltaire received her with the most delightful empressement.

And then, waiting to see him was the “wise and illustrious” Franklin, philosopher and politician, who until Voltaire’s arrival had himself been the lion of Paris. How to refuse him? He came into the presence chamber, bringing with him his grandson. Voltaire spoke in English until Madame Denis told him that Franklin perfectly understood French. There were twenty persons or so in the room. The two great men talked of the government and constitution of the United States. “If I were forty,” says Voltaire, “I should go and settle in your happy country.”

Then Dr. Franklin presented his grandson, a lad about seventeen. Voltaire raised his hands above the boy’s head and blessed him, “uttering only these words,” and in English—“God and Liberty.”

He told the story himself to several of his correspondents. It moved his old heart. And the persons who saw the scene—to be sure, they were French and ready to be affected at anything—shed tears.

The Franklins had not been gone an hour before Voltaire was receiving Lord Stormont, the English ambassador, and Belbâtre, a famous performer on the harpsichord. Rest? Dr. Tronchin already knew the temper and disposition of his invalid, and something, though not yet all, of the selfish and pleasure-loving character of his Denis and his Villette. Voltaire was sent to bed. And prudent Tronchin inserted a notice in the “Journal de Paris” stating that M. de Voltaire had lived since he came to Paris on the capital of his strength instead of only on the income, as all his friends must wish; that that capital would very soon be exhausted, “and we shall be the witnesses, if we are not the accomplices, of his death.”

The notice did not appear until February 20th, and by the 19th this marvellous old man was at least well enough to be assigning the parts in “Irène.” Richelieu, himself eighty-two, came to help him in this delicate task. The magnificent marshal, in spite of the care and splendour of his dress, did not look nearly so young and vigorous as the attenuated figure in bedgown and nightcap, with his sunken eyes afire and all his old keenness and spirit. Besides settling parts, he was now rewriting the play itself so enthusiastically, that wretched Wagnière did not even have time to dress himself.

The next day, February 20th, that poor, shameful, tawdry favourite, Madame Dubarry, came out of her social banishment to see this new king, Arouet. Le Brun, poet, and once benefactor of Marie Corneille, who had written an inflammatory ode in praise of the monarch and wanted to see if it had been appreciated, closely followed the Dubarry. He tells how Voltaire contrasted the fresh, fair innocence of Belle-et-Bonne with the stale and painted charms of the last avowed mistress of a King of France.

Le Brun himself was characteristically received with “You see, Sir, a poor old man of eighty-four, who has committed eighty-four follies.” The story runs that Voltaire had said the same to Sophie Arnould, and that that sprightly person had replied, “Why, that’s nothing! I am only forty and I have committed a thousand.”

It was on this same day, February 20th, that Voltaire received a letter from Abbé Gaultier, who had been a Jesuit for seventeen years and a curé for twenty, and now had a post at the Hospital of the Incurables. Gaultier was anxious for the salvation of Voltaire’s soul, and that he should have the saving of it. Voltaire responded favourably; and the next day, the 21st, received the priest. Gaultier and Wagnière both give accounts of the interview. Both may have lied. One must have. The truth seems to be that Gaultier was ushered into a salon full of people, whom Voltaire soon dismissed. He took the priest into his private room, where—to make a long matter short—Gaultier offered himself as Voltaire’s confessor. The Patriarch asked if anyone had suggested to him to make that offer—the Archbishop of Paris, for instance, or the Curé of Saint-Sulpice, in whose parish Villette’s house was situated. Gaultier replied, No; and Voltaire said he was glad of the assurance. A long conversation ensued. Voltaire declared that he loved God; and Gaultier answered that he must give proofs of it. They were three times interrupted—by the Marquis de Villevieille, nephew Mignot, and Wagnière. Madame Denis came in to beg that her uncle might not be tired and worried. When Gaultier was dismissed, it was with the promise that he should be received again.

When Wagnière asked Voltaire what he thought of Gaultier, Voltaire replied that he was “a good fool.” He appears to have thought that he would be more easily satisfied than shrewder men, and that if it came to the dreadful necessity of a confession as an insurance of decent and honourable burial, Gaultier would be the best confessor.