Evelyn Beatrice Hall

Voltaire had a little distraction from his disappointment about the Academy in the April of this 1743 in the marriage of Pauline du ChÂtelet, the vivacious little amateur actress of Cirey. Pauline was fresh from a convent and aged exactly sixteen. The Italian Duc de Montenero-Caraff, the bridegroom, was distinctly elderly, and, as sketched in a few lively touches by Voltaire, very unprepossessing. The Marquise maintained she had not arranged the alliance. But mariages de convenance were the established custom of the day. Who knows? Voltaire had been for freedom of choice in the case of niece Denis, it is certain. Pauline was not his to dispose of. He would appear to have shrugged his shoulders and given her his blessing. With it, she disappears out of the history of his life.

In June he had another chagrin. The performance of his play, “The Death of CÆsar,” already acted in August, 1735, by the pupils of the Harcourt College, was stopped on the very evening before it was to have been produced in public. Not many days after, M. de Voltaire left Paris on his fourth visit to Frederick the Great. Frederick wanted him socially as the wittiest man in the world, the most daring genius of the age. If the French Academy would have none of him, the Prussian Court knew better. Besides—besides—could not this subtle Solomon of the North rely on himself to find out from his guest something of the temper and the disposition of France toward Prussia? The guest was not less astute. The rÔle of amateur diplomatist pleased his fancy and his vanity. What if he had not been successful in it before? A Voltaire could always try again. He left Paris then in June pretending that his journey was the outcome of his quarrel with Boyer, but really as the emissary of Richelieu on a secret mission to Frederick to warn him of the danger of allowing King George of Hanover and England to help Maria Theresa to her rights, and meaning to win over the cleverest monarch in Europe to an alliance with France. It was a beautiful scheme. It had first “come into the heads” of friend Richelieu and Madame de ChÂteauroux; then the King had adopted it, and Amelot, the Minister for Foreign Affairs. It was ambitious enough to particularly appeal to Voltaire’s audacity. The King of France was to pay all expenses: which was not unjust. The Bourbons seldom spent their money so wisely. Madame du ChÂtelet was the only person intrusted with the secret of the journey’s real object. She felt that it was due to herself to have a fit of hysterics since her Voltaire was leaving her for this Frederick, and she had it. But she kept the secret. If she was a little proud in her heart of the honour such a mission implied, yet her grief at the departure of her “ami” was so unrestrained as to make her and it the laughing-stocks of Paris. Frederick “is a very dangerous rival for me,” she wrote on June 28, 1743. “If I had been in Voltaire’s place I should not have gone!” “I am staying here in the hopes of getting ‘CÆsar’ played and so hastening his return.”

Voltaire set off in very excellent spirits. It would so annoy Boyer to see his enemy protected by the most powerful monarch in Europe—and by a monarch who was not at all above making mots on an “anc: de Mirepoix”! “I had at once the pleasure of revenging myself on the Bishop ... of taking a very pleasant little trip, and being in the way of rendering services to the King and the state.” In July he was writing to his friends, and to Amelot, from “a palace of the King of Prussia at The Hague”—a little humanly proud of being able to date his letters from such a place, keen for the fray, sick in body as usual, and vividly alert in mind.

On August 31st he arrived at Berlin. The first news he had to communicate to Amelot was the victory of George II. of England at Dettingen. What honours could be too great for a man who, at such a juncture, made Prussia the friend of France? Madame du ChÂtelet, keeping her counsel at home, must have had high hopes for her Voltaire. And her Voltaire, at Berlin, cherished them for himself.

To all appearances indeed the visit was but a fÊte, and a gorgeous fÊte. Berlin was gay with balls, operas, and parties. Sometimes there were ballets, and nightly almost those royal suppers where, said the guest, “God was respected, but those who had deceived men in His name were not spared.” Voltaire had a room adjoining Frederick’s, and the King came in and out of the visitor’s apartment familiarly. The old potent charm which these two men had for each other was at work again. But not the less, through the glamour, the wit, the wine, and the laughter, each pursued his secret object, adroit, thorough, and unsleeping.

Voltaire played the rÔle of diplomatist as he played all rÔles—brilliantly. He was delightfully gay and easy. He seemed so volatile and so gullible. He threw himself into the pleasures of the hour with all his French soul. An ulterior motive? The man was bon enfant, bon conteur, bon everything. He had come to enjoy himself and was doing it to the full.

“Through all,” he wrote, “my secret mission went forward.” He despatched immense diplomatic documents to his country via Madame du ChÂtelet. He drew up a famous series of questions, to which friend Frederick was to append such answers as would bare the secrets of his Prussian soul to France. The diplomatist had immense conversations with the monarch, which he reported. Frederick wrote Voltaire a most beautiful open letter to show in Paris, wherein he complimented France on her Louis XV., and Louis XV. on his Voltaire. He renewed his pressing invitations to Voltaire to come and live at Berlin—nay, did more. He worked behind his back so as to further embroil him with Boyer, and make France too hot to hold him. “That would be the way to have him in Berlin.”

Frederick was his guest’s friend, and his devoted friend. But he thought it no breach of friendship to trick him where he could, and kept closed the book of his intentions and his soul.

The fact was that where Voltaire was but a brilliant amateur, Frederick was the sound professional; that what this daring Arouet took upon himself for the nonce, was the business of the King’s life. Voltaire was not above trickery: but Frederick tricked better. His answers to that famous series of questions are evasive, or buffoonery. Voltaire counted that he had not done badly in his mission. But Frederick had done better.

The visit finished with a fortnight at Bayreuth in September, 1743, where Voltaire and the King were the guests of the King’s sisters, where were gaiety, laughter, and wit—“all the pleasures of a court without its formality.” Voltaire distinguished himself by writing three charming madrigals to the three royal ladies. They do not admit of translation. It is only in their original tongue that their grace, ease, and delicacy can be appreciated. But for that kind of versifying they are the model for all time. If Voltaire had not far more splendid titles to fame, he would have gone down the ages as the daintiest and wittiest writer who ever made sonnets on his mistress’s eyebrow, trifled with graceful jests, and flattered with daintiest comparisons.

In the early days of October he was back in Berlin for a few days en passant. On October 12th he and his King parted there, not without much show of sorrow, and some of the reality of it.

Voltaire had found out “that little treason” whose aim was to keep him in Prussia; but at these parting moments “the King excused himself and told me he would do what I liked to make reparation.” As for Frederick, he, in Voltaire’s own words, had “scented the spy.” They could no longer trust each other. To the misfortune of both, they loved each other still.

On October 12th, then, Voltaire left for Brussels. On the 14th his travelling carriage was upset and he was robbed by the people who came to his assistance. The wretched village in which he hoped for shelter that evening, he found in the process

MADAME DE POMPADOUR

From the Painting by FranÇois Boucher in the Possession of Baron Nathaniel de Rothschild

of a conflagration. At last he reached Brunswick, where for a few days he was royally entertained by the Duke. Finally, he returned to Brussels.

It is not to be supposed that the divine Émilie had been sitting contented and smiling in Paris while her lover was addressing tender rhymes to princesses in Bayreuth. Voltaire had been away four months—four heart-burning, chafing, angry months. What unsatisfying food for the heart were diplomatic despatches after all! Voltaire was one whole fortnight without writing a single letter to his mistress. She had to learn his movements “from ambassadors and gazettes.” “Such conduct would alienate anyone but me,” she wrote to d’Argental, always her confidant. Then, to add insult to injury, was that delay at the court of the Duke of Brunswick. Courts and kings! Madame du ChÂtelet was weary of them. She started up in a passion and left Paris: was ill with a nervous fever at Lille, and feverishly reproachful still when she met her Voltaire at last. That inevitable storm blew over as it had blown over before. The sun came out again, though it was a sun in a clouded sky. The pair went to Paris together about the middle of November, 1743: Voltaire to report on his mission and to be, he hoped, substantially rewarded.

But the ill-fortune which always dogged him beset him now. Amelot, the Foreign Minister, fell out of favour, and with him his protÉgÉ, Voltaire.

No two people in the world were so used to chagrins and disappointments as the two who returned to Brussels in February, 1744, and in the spring to Cirey, and applied their old panacea for every evil in life—work. It succeeded. It was generally successful. Very few letters belong to the early months of this year. There was not time even for letter-writing. Monsieur Denis died in April, leaving behind him a bouncing widow of seven-and-thirty.

It was in April too that Voltaire received a very satisfactory little courtly consolation, to compensate him for many rebuffs. Richelieu engaged him to write a play for the wedding festivities of the Dauphin and the Infanta of Spain, which were to take place in the autumn, and which would presently demand the presence of M. de Voltaire at Versailles.

It is not necessary to say that Voltaire took immense trouble over this bagatelle, because he always took immense trouble over everything. All his works are as good as he could make them. He called his play “The Princess of Navarre.” He laid the scene there in delicate compliment to the Infanta—and for the practical reason that he could introduce into it both French and Spaniards, with their gorgeous medley of costume. Rameau was to write the music. There were to be the loveliest ballets, processions, and songs. The scenery was to be unique in splendour. “The Princess of Navarre” is what would now be called a comic opera, and as such was certainly unworthy of the genius of Voltaire. But it was not unworthy of his shrewdness. If it would but gain him some trifling post at Court, the favour instead of the fear of the King, why, then it would give him, too, the right to live where he liked in peace, would cripple the power of Boyer, of censors, of Desfontaines, might open to him the doors of the Academy and gain him liberty to think—aloud. It was worth while after all. He worked at it night and day. He wrote immense letters about it to Richelieu and to d’Argenson. Cirey was delightful, priceless—“Cirey-en-fÉlicitÉ” once more. “To be free and loved ... is what the kings of the earth are not.” Nevertheless, to be free and loved in Cirey alone was not enough. “I am engaged in writing a divertissement for a Dauphin and Dauphiness whom I shall not divert,” said he, and again to Cideville: “Me! writing for the Court! I am afraid I shall only write foolery. One only writes well what one writes from choice.”

But he wrote, rewrote, altered, improved, not the less. On July 7th, President HÉnault, the friend of Voltaire’s friend Madame du Deffand, came to spend the day at Cirey. He found it “a delightful retreat, a refuge of peace, harmony, calm, and of mutual esteem, philosophy, and poetry.” Voltaire was in bed when the guest arrived: working hard there, as usual. Summer was on the land. The house was a marvel. Madame, recalled from her exact sciences, was a charming hostess. If Voltaire was fifty years old and ailing, if he had to look back on many honours missed and favours given to meaner men, his “Princess of Navarre” was but the more delightful a compliment for being paid so late and so unexpectedly. He read it to the President, who wept (though the “Princess” is not at all pathetic), and was very nearly as interested in it, and as pleased with it, as the eager author himself.

In September, Voltaire and Madame came up from Cirey to Champs-sur-Marne, a village only five leagues from Paris, to take part in the rejoicings which celebrated Louis XV.’s recovery from an illness and return from a campaign, and to arrange about the production of the “Princess.”

One night Madame insists on her Voltaire driving up with her those five leagues to Paris, to witness the fireworks and festivities. Madame has her own carriage and her country coachman, unused to the city. She is in grande tenue and diamonds. The carriage gets into a crowd—that light-hearted, light-headed mob of Paris—and cannot move an inch until three o’clock in the morning. Out gets Madame followed by her lean Voltaire (not a little disgusted and amused and having the very greatest admiration for this extraordinary woman’s pluck and spirit), pushes her way through the crowd, marches straight into President Renault’s house in the Rue Saint-HonorÉ and takes possession of it. The President is away from home. Madame sends for a chicken from the restaurant, and she and her Voltaire sit down to supper with perfect philosophy and enjoyment, and drink to the President’s very good health.

Voltaire recounted the story to HÉnault a few days afterwards. The man who had undertaken to write a court divertissement had laid himself open to all kinds of social adventures, amusements, boredoms. In the beginning of the January of 1745 he took up his abode at Versailles to superintend rehearsals, arrange scenery, and accommodate his verses to Rameau’s music.

It was twenty years since Voltaire had stayed at the French Court. Did he remember how it had wearied and sickened him? He forgot nothing. The Court was but a means to an end then, and was but a means to an end now. He wrote to Theriot that he felt there like an atheist in a church. “Don’t you pity a poor devil who is a king’s fool at fifty?” he asked Cideville; “...worried to death with musicians and scene-painters, actors and actresses, singers and dancers.” He complained how he had to rush from Paris to Versailles, and write verses in the post-chaise; how he must take care to praise the King loudly, the Dauphine delicately, the royal family softly, and to conciliate the Court without displeasing the town. Since it must be done, Voltaire was the man to do it as it had never been done before.

On February 18, 1745, died Armand Arouet, aged nearly sixty. Voltaire received the news only seven days before the fÊte was to take place, and hastened from the Court to the funeral of his “Jansenist of a brother.” The two had met little of late. But they had always been separated by a gulf wider than that of any physical distance—a diversity of character and ideas. Voltaire could no more understand an Armand than an Armand a Voltaire. Long after, at Ferney, Voltaire told Madame Suard how his brother had had so great a zeal for martyrdom that he had once said to a friend, who did not seem to care about it, “Well, if you do not want to be hanged, at least do not put off other people!”

The fanatic left the sceptic as little of his fortune as he dared, having due regard to public opinion. Voltaire was enriched by his brother’s death only by six thousand francs per annum. He feigned no overwhelming sorrow at his loss. He was back at Versailles before the contents of the will were known to him, putting the last touches to his “Princess.”

The fÊtes began on February 23d. They were as gorgeous as that old rÉgime knew how to make them—with a prodigal gorgeousness which perished with that rÉgime itself and will be no more for ever.

A special theatre had been built in the horse-training ground near the palace. Time, labour, money—the lavish expenditure of each was incalculable. At six o’clock on the evening of February 25th there assembled one of the most brilliant and splendid audiences that ever gratified the heart of a playwright. The King, who was certainly nothing in the world if he was not an imposingly decked figurehead, was there with his royal family. The great ladies glittered in diamonds. The nobles were in the splendid robes of their order. It was a night to remember.

“The Princess of Navarre” was acted to an audience who talked gaily all through it and went into raptures of delight and applause when it was finished. M. de Voltaire compared the chatter to the hum of bees round their queen. But the King—that dullest of all gross mortals—condescended to express himself amused. He commanded a second performance. If that fashionable audience did make more noise than the parterre of the ComÉdie, Voltaire could afford to shrug his shoulders. “The King is grateful. The Mirepoix cannot harm me. What more do I want?” he wrote to d’Argental. His Majesty told Marshal Saxe that that “Princess” was above criticism, and Voltaire thereupon told Madame du ChÂtelet that he looked on Louis XV. as the very best critic in the kingdom. The moment was one of laughter and triumph. To be sure, it had not been gained without hard work. In addition to the “Princess,” Voltaire had written a poem on the “Events of the Year” (1744) in which he may be said to have fooled Louis to the top of his bent, and paid that monarch the most outrageous compliments upon his personal courage and his popularity.

But it was the means to an end—an end which, to Voltaire, justified any means. This brilliant M. de Voltaire was so very entertaining and fair-spoken that he must on the spot be made Historiographer of France at an annual income of two thousand francs, and on the very next vacancy Gentleman-in-Ordinary to Ourself! What nobler reward could wit and merit hope for? On April 1, 1745, the brevet of Historiographer was signed by Louis XV. On April 16th Voltaire and Madame du ChÂtelet hastened to the bedside of her son, sick of the smallpox at ChÂlons, to save him, if that might be, from the “ignorant tyranny of the physicians.” Voltaire, as has been said, did so save him, with much lemonade and a little common-sense. He became ambassador in England under the Ministry of Choiseul; and, at last, victim of the Revolution.

After forty days of quarantine the Historiographer of France rejoined the Court.