Among those most bitter and most constant in their attacks upon him was Voltaire, some of whose remarks have come down to us. "C'est un homme," says Voltaire, "qui passe sa vie à peser des riens dans des balances de toile d'araignée" … or again: "C'est un homme qui sait tous les sentiers du coeur humain, mais qui n'en connaît pas la grande route." On June 8, 1732, writing to M. de Fourmont, Voltaire declares: "Nous allons avoir cet été une comédie en prose du sieur Marivaux, sous le titre les Serments indiscrets. Vous comptez bien qu'il y aura beaucoup de métaphysique et peu de naturel."
The strong antipathy felt by Marivaux for Voltaire forced him at times, in the presence of friends, to give vent to his feelings in words quite as spiteful as those of his enemy: "M. de Voltaire est le premier homme du monde pour écrire ce que les autres ont pensé…. M. de Voltaire est la perfection des idées communes…. Ce coquin-là a un vice de plus que les autres; il a quelquefois des vertus." But his retorts never went so far as publication, and when, in 1735, the Lettres philosophiques of Voltaire were condemned to be burned by Parliament, and Marivaux was urged by a publishing house, offering a good round sum, to make the most of Voltaire's discomfiture and write a refutation of the same, he refused, with his characteristic nobility of soul, to advance his own interests at the expense of those of his enemy. As much cannot be said of the latter, who, in letters written at this time, shows a cowardly fear of Marivaux's acceptance of the offer.
Voltaire was not the only rival to show hostility. Destouches, in the Envieux, ou la Critique du Philosophe marié (XII), Le Sage, in Gil Blas (Book VII, chapter XIII), as well as Crébillon fils, in the work already mentioned, were among the number.
Marivaux's admission to the French Academy had long been a matter of grave doubt to his friends, for he was too honest for intrigue and too proud to sue for favours, and there was much opposition on the part of many members, who declared that their purposes were at war, as they had assumed the task of composing the language, while he seemed to aim at its decomposition; but Mme. de Tencin had set her mind upon making of him an academician, and spared no pains to accomplish her purpose. The influence of this brilliant, scheming, unprincipled, and headstrong woman, aided by Bouhier, president of the parliament of Dijon, and likewise a warm supporter of Marivaux, gained the day, and she had the pleasure of seeing her old friend, upon his fifty-fifth birthday, February 4, 1743, received within the ranks of the forty Immortals. Voltaire, although a dangerous competitor, was not received until three years later; Piron, Le Sage, and Crébillon fils, never.
Strangely enough, this painter of gay and brilliant society succeeded to the fauteuil of an ecclesiastic, l'abbé d'Houtteville, and was welcomed by another, Languet de Gergy, archbishop of Sens. At his death his place was filled by still another, a certain abbé de Radonvilliers. The task of the archbishop was not one of the easiest, for it devolved upon him to eulogize an author, many of whose works, by reason of his ecclesiastical position, he was not supposed to have read. The acquaintance that he shows with them, however, is rather too intimate to credit his assertion that his judgment is drawn from hearsay: but with due deference to public opinion and his supposed position, the archbishop lauds rather the character of the man than the excellence of the author, declaring that it is not so much for the multitude of his books, though welcomed by the public with avidity, that Marivaux owes his election, as it is to "l'estime que nous avons faite de vos moeurs, de votre bon coeur, de la douceur de votre société, et, si j'ose le dire, de l'amabilité de votre caractère."[159]
Along with much praise of the author's ability, with flattering comparisons such as these: "Théophraste moderne, rien n'a échappé à vos portraits critiques…. Le célèbre La Bruyère paraît, dit-on, ressusciter en vous…" are criticisms upon the immoral influence of certain of his works, particularly the Paysan parvenu, which claim to have a moral aim. The archbishop suggests that his descriptions of licentious love are painted in such "naïve and tender colors" that they must create upon the reader an impression other than that intended by the author, and that the young may be led to follow the example of the "paysan, parvenu à la fortune par des intrigues galantes," in spite of his recommendations of sobriety.[160]
Nothing, perhaps, could have so wounded Marivaux as this imputation, for few writers have been actuated by purer and more noble motives, and it was with difficulty that he restrained his impulse to call upon the assembled company for justification.[161] This is but another instance of his extreme sensibility, for, despite the criticism more or less just, the spirit of the discourse was both kindly and complimentary, as may be seen from these closing words: "J'ai rendu justice, monsieur, à la beauté de votre génie, à sa fécondité, à ses agréments: rendez-la, je vous prie, de votre part, au ministère saint dont je suis chargé; et en sa faveur, pardonnez-moi une critique qui ne déroge point, ni à ce qui est dû d'estime à votre aimable caractère, ni à ce qui est dû d'éloge à la multitude, à la variété, à la gentillesse de vos ouvrages."[162]
No sooner was Marivaux a member of the French Academy than epigrams, such as this, began to be showered upon him: "Il eût été mieux placé à l'Académie des Sciences, comme inventeur d'un idiome nouveau, qu'à l'Académie Française, dont assurément il ne connaissait pas la langue."[163]
From the time of his admission to the French Academy until his death he wrote little of value. A Lettre à une dame sur la perte d'un perroquet, in verse, may serve to represent the decline of his genius. His popularity waned and was eclipsed by that of the vigorous writers and philosophical thinkers that followed him. His graceful sketches were soon to be forgotten in those terrible scenes that closed the century, which the most morbid and foreboding mind could scarcely have foreseen or pictured in the lurid colourings that history has painted them. His closing years were embittered by a knowledge of his failing powers and a growing suspiciousness of those about him, and his increasing poverty would have made his sufferings more keen, had it not been for the generous devotion of a friend, Mlle. de Saint-Jean, with whom he lived for the last few years of his life, in her apartments, rue de Richelieu, and whose modest fortune he shared. He died on February 12,[164] "after a rather long illness,"[165] which he bore with fortitude, and "with all the tranquillity of a Christian philosopher"[166] saw the inevitable end approach. His death passed almost unnoticed by his contemporaries.
Although at the time of his death he was seventy-five years of age, as Collé records in his journal, "he did not seem to be fifty-eight."[167] He had that gift, which none but his own light-hearted time has known, of warding off, if not old age itself, at least the appearance of it. And from that first half of the eighteenth century, that period of perennial youth, have come down to us those ever fresh and rose-hued creations, which are our charm to-day, recalling, as they do, a society long past, a brilliancy of wit, of conversation well-nigh forgotten, a gayety, a thoughtlessness, which we of the money-loving, practical, and scientific twentieth century may long for, but not know.