His life was now passed between Paris and Cirey—society and solitude. He and the du Châtelets shared the same house in the capital; their studies and their amusements were in common. We are told[4] that on one occasion, when madame du Châtelet went to court, and engaged in play, during which she lost a great deal of money, Voltaire told her in English that she was being cheated. The words were understood by others who were present, and the poet thought it prudent to absent himself for a time. He asked refuge from the duchess du Maine at Sceaux. Here he passed two months in the strictest retreat; and when danger was past, he repaid his hostess by remaining in her chateau, and contributing to her recreation by getting up plays, and writing for her. "Zadig" and others of his tales were composed on this occasion. Operas, plays, concerts, and balls varied the amusements. Madame du Châtelet and Voltaire took parts in these theatricals. The lady was an admirable actress, as well as musician: she shone in comedy, where her gaiety, grace, and vivacity had full play. Voltaire was also a good actor. The part of Cicero in his own tragedy of "Rome Sauvée" was his favourite part. At other times, leaving these pleasures, he and his friend retired to Cirey and to labour. We have an amusing account of several of their migrations, from the pen of Longchamp, who, from being the valet of madame du Châtelet, became elevated into the secretary of Voltaire. There is a great contrast between this man's account, and the letters before quoted of madame de Graffigny. In both descriptions, we find mentioned the vivacity and petulance both of the poet and his friend; but the darker shadows thrown by irritability and quarrelling, do not appear in the pages of Longchamp; and, above all, the fair disciple of Newton is delineated in far more agreeable colours. "Madame du Châtelet," he writes, "passed the greater part of the morning amidst her books and her writings, and she would never be interrupted. But when she left her study, she was no longer the same woman—her serious countenance changed into one expressive of gaiety, and she entered with ardour into all the pleasures of society. Although she was then forty, she was the first to set amusement on foot, and to enliven it by her wit and vivacity." Nor does he make any mention of the violence and ill-humour from which her guest suffered so piteously. "When not studying," he remarks, "she was always active, lively, and good-humoured." At Cirey, she was equally eager to afford amusement to her friends. "When the report of her arrival," writes Longchamp, "was spread through the neighbouring villages, the gentry of the country around came to pay their respects. They were all well received; those who came from a distance were kept for several weeks at the chateau. To amuse both herself and her guests, madame du Châtelet set on foot a theatre. She composed farces and proverbs; Voltaire did the same; and the parts were distributed among the guests. A sort of stage had been erected at the end of a gallery, formed by planks placed upon empty barrels, while the side scenes were hung with tapestry; a lustre and some branches lighted the gallery and the theatre; there were a few fiddles for an orchestra, and the evenings passed in a very gay and amusing manner. Often the actors, without knowing it, were made to turn their own characters into ridicule, for the greater gratification of the audience. Madame du Châtelet wrote parts for this purpose, nor did she spare herself, and often represented grotesque personages. She could lend herself to every division, and always succeeded."
From this scene of gaiety, at once rustic and refined, the pair proceeded to the court of king Stanislaus at Luneville. Here Voltaire employed himself in writing during the morning, and, as usual, the evening was given up to amusement. The theatricals were renewed; all was gaiety and good humour. The marquis du Châtelet, passing through Luneville, on his way to join the army, was enchanted to find his wife in such high favour at king Stanislaus' court.
1748.
Ætat.
54.
Voltaire left the gay scene to overlook the bringing out of his tragedy of "Semiramis." In this play he endeavoured to accustom his countrymen to greater boldness of situation and stage effect. It was necessary to banish that portion of the audience, the dandies of the day, who, seated on the stage itself, at once destroyed all scenic illusion, and afforded too narrow a space for the actors. A formidable cabal opposed these innovations, headed by Piron and Crebillon; and Voltaire, himself, was obliged to have recourse to means which had been unworthy of him under other circumstances, and to place a number of resolute friends in the pit, to oppose the adverse party. The piece was successful, and the poet eager to return to Luneville. He was suffering greatly in his health. During his stay in Paris, he had been attacked by low fever; and his busy life in the capital, where his days were given up to society, and his nights to authorship, exhausted the vital powers. Notwithstanding his suffering, he resolved to set out, and proceeded as far as Chalons, where he was obliged to give in, and take to his bed. The bishop and intendant of Chalons visited him; they sent him a physician; but, without showing outward opposition, Voltaire followed none of his prescriptions, and endeavoured to get rid of the intruders. He felt his danger; he entreated his confidential servant, Longchamps not to abandon him, and, as he said, to remain to cover his body with earth when he should expire. His fever and delirium increased, and his resolution not to take the remedies prescribed was firm: every one expected to see him die; he, himself, anticipated death, and gave his secretary instructions how to act. On the sixth day, though apparently as ill as ever, he resolved to proceed on his journey, declaring that he would not die at Chalons. He was lifted into his carriage; his secretary took his place beside him; he did not speak, and was so wan and feeble, that Longchamp feared that he would never arrive alive: but as they went on, he grew better; sleep and appetite returned; he was much recovered when they reached Luneville; the presence of madame du Châtelet reanimated him; a few days with her caused all his gaiety to return, and he forgot his sufferings and danger.
This appears to have been a very happy portion of Voltaire's life. His friendship for madame du Châtelet was ardent and sincere. Her talents were the origin of their sympathy in tastes and pursuits; her gaiety animated his life with a succession of pleasures necessary to compose and amuse his mind after intense study; her good sense enabled her to be his adviser and support when calumny and scandal disturbed, as was easily done, his equanimity. Voltaire, when writing, was absorbed by his subject; this enthusiasm inspired and sustained him. It allowed him to labour hard, and made him put his whole soul into every word he penned. His friend participated in his eagerness; and by entering earnestly into all his literary plans, imparted to them a charm which he appreciated at its full value. This friend he was about to lose for ever; but he did not anticipate the misfortune.
1749.
Ætat.
9.
A portion of the following year was spent at Paris and Cirey, and they again visited Luneville; for king Stanislaus had invited them again to join his court. Pleasure was once more the order of the day. Every one in the palace was eager to contribute to the king's amusement; and he was desirous that all round him should be happy. In the midst of this routine of gaiety, the industry of Voltaire surprises us. He wrote several tragedies at this period, and his letters are full of expressions marking the eagerness of authorship, and the many hours he devoted to composition. Emulation, joined to great disdain for his rival, spurred him on. He was mortified and indignant at the praise bestowed on Crebillon by the Parisians; and he took the very subjects treated by this tragedian, believing that, thus brought into immediate contrast, his grander conceptions and more classic style would at once crush the pretender. "I have written 'Catiline,'" he writes, "in eight days; and the moment I finished, I began 'Electra.' For the last twenty years I have been rendered indignant by seeing the finest subject of antiquity debased by a miserable love affair,—by two pair of lovers, and barbarous poetry; nor was I less afflicted by the cruel injustice done to Cicero. In a word, I believed that I was called upon by my vocation to avenge Cicero and Sophocles—Rome and Greece—from the attacks of a barbarian."
This ardour for composition, and these pleasures, were suddenly arrested by the afflicting event of madame du Châtelet's death. She died soon after her confinement, unexpectedly, when all danger seemed past. Whatever might have been the disputes of the friends, these did not shake their friendship; and if they clouded, at intervals, the happiness they derived, they left no evil trace behind. Voltaire was plunged in the deepest affliction; the expressions he uses mark the truth of his regrets. "I do not fear my grief," he writes to his friend, the marquis d'Argental; "I do not fly from objects that speak to me of her. I love Cirey; and although I cannot bear Luneville, where I lost her in so frightful a manner, yet the places which she adorned are dear to me. I have not lost a mistress; I have lost the half of myself,—a soul for which mine was made,—a friend of twenty years. I feel as the most affectionate father would towards an only daughter. I love to find her image everywhere; to converse with her husband and her son."—"I have tried to return to 'Catiline;' but I have lost the ardour I felt when I could show her an act every two days. Ideas fly from me; I find myself, for hours together, unable to write; without a thought for my work: one idea occupies me day and night." To these laments he adds her eulogy, in another letter, with which we may conclude the subject. Her errors were the effect of the times in which she lived, and of an ardent temper. We would deprecate any return to a state of society that led the wisest into such grievous faults, but we will not defraud the victim of the system of the praise which, on other scores, she individually merited.[5] "A woman," writes Voltaire, "who translated and explained Newton, and translated Virgil, without betraying in her conversation that she had achieved these prodigies; a woman who never spoke ill of any one, and never uttered a falsehood; a friend, attentive and courageous in her friendship: in a word, a great woman, whom the common run of women only knew by her diamonds and dress. Such must I weep till the end of my life."
After this sorrowful event Voltaire established himself in Paris. The house which he and Madame du Châtelet rented conjointly, he now took entirely himself. He invited his widowed niece, madame Denis, to preside over his establishment. At first he continued plunged in grief; he saw no one but count D'Argental and the duke of Richelieu, who were among his oldest friends. One or the other, or both, passed the evenings with him, and tried to distract his mind from its regrets. They sought to awaken in him his theatrical tastes, which were strong, and which, if once roused, would effectually draw him from solitude. Voltaire at last showed sparks of the old fire; other friends were brought about him; he was implored to bring out his newly written tragedies; he objected, on the score of the quarrel that subsisted between him and the actors of the Comédie Français,—he having endeavoured to improve their manner of acting, and they haughtily rejecting his instructions. This difficulty was got over by erecting a private theatre in his own house, and gathering together a number of actors chosen from various private companies; for, as in the time of Molière, the sons of the shopkeepers in Paris often formed companies together, and got up theatricals. It was thus that Voltaire became acquainted with Le Kain, who has left us an interesting account of his intercourse with the illustrious poet.
Le Kain was the son of a goldsmith. Voltaire saw him act, and, perceiving his talent, begged him to call upon him. "The pleasure caused by this invitation," the actor writes, "was even greater than my surprise. I cannot describe what passed within me at the sight of this great man, whose eyes sparkled with fire, imagination, and genius. I felt penetrated with respect, enthusiasm, admiration, and fear; while M. de Voltaire, to put an end to my embarrassment, embraced me, thanking God for having created a being who could move him to tears by his declamation." He then asked the young man various questions; and when Le Kain mentioned his intention of giving himself entirely up to the stage, in spite of his enthusiasm for the theatre, Voltaire strongly dissuaded him from adopting a profession held disreputable in his native country. He asked him to recite, but would not hear any verses but those of Racine. Le Kain had once acted in "Athalie," and he declaimed the first scene, while Voltaire, in a transport of enthusiasm, exclaimed, "Oh! what exquisite verses! and it is surprising that the whole piece is written with the same fervour and purity, from first scene to last, and that, throughout, the poetry is inimitable." And then, turning to the actor, he said, "I predict that, with that touching voice, you will one day delight all Paris,—but never appear upon a public stage." At the second interview Voltaire engaged Le Kain and his whole company to act at his own theatre, Le Kain himself taking up his residence in the house of the generous poet. Le Kain owed his success to him, and felt the warmest gratitude. "He is a faithful friend," he writes; "his temper is vehement, but his heart is good, and his soul sensitive and compassionate. Modest, in spite of the praises lavished on him by kings, by literary men, and by the rest of the world. Profound and just in his judgment on the works of others; full of amenity, kindness, and grace, in the intercourse of daily life, he was inflexible in his aversion to those who had offended him. He was an admirable actor. I have seen him put new life into the part of Cicero, in the fourth act of 'Rome Sauvée,' when we brought out that piece at Sceaux, in the August of 1750. Nothing could be more true, more pathetic, more enthusiastic, than he was in this part." Voltaire instructed the actors when they performed his own tragedies; his criticisms were just, and given with that earnestness and vividness of illustration that marked the liveliness of his sensations. "Remember," he said to an actor who whined out the part of Brutus, "remember that you are Brutus, the firmest of Romans, and that you must not make him address the god Mars as if you were saying, "O holy Virgin! grant that I may gain a prize of a hundred francs in the lottery." He insisted with mademoiselle Dumesnil that she should put more energy into the part of Mérope. "One must be possessed by the devil," said the actress, to declaim with such vehemence."—"You are right," said Voltaire; "and one must be possessed to succeed in any art."