Part 6

Epic poetry, in its essence, is the greatest achievement of the human intellect. It takes a subject of universal interest; it exalts it by solemn and sacred sentiments, and adorns it with sublime and beautiful imagery, thus lifting it above humanity into something divine. While the mind of man enjoys the attribute of being able to tincture its earthly ideas with the glory of something greater than itself in its every day guise, which it can only seize by snatches, and embody through the exertion of a power granted only to the favoured few, whom we name great poets,--and while it can exercise this power in giving grandeur to a narration of lofty and sublime incidents,--while this can be done by some, and appreciated by many, an epic must continue to rank as the crowning glory of literature. We find nothing of all this in the "Henriade." The very elevation of the sentiments is rendered commonplace by Voltaire's inability to mould language to his thoughts. During the whole poem he suffered language to be the shaper of his ideas--not the material which he forced to take a shape. In his letters, he quotes Fénélon's just opinion, that the French language might be adapted to lyrical poetry, but not to epic. He fancies that he disproves this assertion in the "Henriade;" while, in fact, he gives it entire support.[1] The second canto is the favourite of many French critics. They consider the account Henri IV. gives queen Elizabeth of the civil struggles of France a masterpiece. It consists of a rapid and forcible view of that disastrous period. But it contains no poetry. Voltaire's imagination was fertile, versatile, and gay; in some of his tragedies, he even rose to the passionate and energetic; but it wanted elevation--it wanted the fairy hue--the sublime transfusion of the material into the immaterial. It wanted, above all, a knowledge and love of nature. There is not a word in the "Henriade" descriptive of scenery, or storm, or calm, or night, or day, that is not commonplace, imitative, and without real imagery. Of imagery, indeed, he has no notion. Besides this, he always acted by his own verses as by those of others, and corrected them into tameness. In a word, the "Henriade" has no pretensions to success as an epic poem, and is, in whatever view we take of it, dull and tiresome. Even in his days it had not enjoyed the reputation it reached but for his admirable powers of reciting, by which he fascinated the circles of Paris, and the peculiar circumstances that rendered every other opinion in France an echo of those circles.[2] There is an amusing anecdote told, which shows, however, that the charm of his reading did not always suffice to gain unqualified approbation. One day so many petty criticisms were flung at him, that, irritated to the utmost, he exclaimed, "Then it is only fit to be burnt!" and threw the poem into the fire. The president Hainaut sprang forward, and saved it, saying, as he gave it back to the author, "You must not think that your poem is better than its hero. Yet, notwithstanding his faults, he was a great king, and the best of men." "Remember," the president afterwards wrote, "that it cost me a pair of lace ruffles to save it from the fire."

The chief interest of the poem lies in the era of its conception, and in the fact that its composition alienated the horrors of his dungeon. At last he was set free. The duke of Orléans being informed of his innocence, he was liberated. The regent compensated for the mistake by a present of money. Voltaire, on thanking the regent, said, "I thank your royal highness for continuing to support me, but I entreat you not to burden yourself again with finding me a lodging." The genius and wit, however, of Voltaire, continued to expose him to calumny and danger. He was suspected of having written the "Philippiques," a clever, but most atrocious libel against the regent and his family. His frequent visits at Sceaux, the palace of the duchess de Maine, and his intimacy with Goerts, caused his name to be mingled in the intrigues which cardinal Alberoni excited in France. The regent, however, refused to credit his enemies, and limited his displeasure to an intimation that he had better absent himself from Paris for a time. Voltaire spent several months in going from one friend's chateau to another, being sedulously occupied, meanwhile, by the "Henriade" and other literary projects. The most important in his eyes was his tragedy of "Œdipus." [Sidenote: 1718. Ætat. 24.] This piece, commenced at eighteen, altered and altered again, was at last brought out, and had the greatest success. This was not solely caused by its intrinsic merit. The reputation of the author, its being his first tragedy, and the discussions to which it gave rise with regard to the ancient and modern theatre, imparted a factitious interest; it was attacked and defended on all sides, and pamphlets were daily published and hawked about on the subject. To these legitimate sources of interest were added the unworthy one of the calumnies in vogue against the duke of Orléans, which made the odious subject of the tragedy peculiarly piquante.[3]

Voltaire wrote several letters on the treatment of his subject. His critique on the tragedies of Sophocles gives us, at once, the measure of his taste and learning: nothing can be more contemptible than either. The French _soi-disant_ poet was utterly incapable of entering into the solemn spirit of the Athenian tragedian, and still less could he comprehend his sublime poetry, being even ignorant of the language in which it was written. The "Œdipus Tyrannus" of Sophocles is admirable as a work of art, and more admirable from a certain majesty that sustains the subject and characters to the end, and from the solemn, magnificent beauty of the choruses. All this was a dead letter to the sprightly Parisian, who admits that had Sophocles lived in his days, he had written better, but had never approached the greatness of Racine.

The life of Voltaire was an alternation of pleasure and literary labour, which would have been infinitely delightful but for that system of caballing which existed in French society, more especially among authors. Voltaire had to struggle with the envious and the presumptuous. His method of warfare was bold; it was that of attack rather than of defence. He was unsparing towards his enemies, and this perpetuated hostilities that robbed him of peace and leisure. Add to this, his labours were often interrupted by bodily suffering; for, though his constitution was strong, he was afflicted by a painful disease. Still pleasure waited on his moments of ease and leisure. Sometimes he resided in Paris, but much of his time was spent in visiting, by turns, the chateaus of the chief nobility; private theatricals, in which his own plays were got up with care and splendour, were principal amusements at these country residences. While at Maisons, a chateau belonging to the president des Maisons, he was seized with the small-pox, on the very eve of a festival, during which a comedy was to be acted, and he, himself, was to read his tragedy of "Mariamne;" he was attended by Gervasi, who treated him in the, then, novel manner, of letting blood and lowering remedies, by means of which he recovered. His friend Thiriot came up from Normandy, and waited on him with anxious solicitude. When he recovered, "Mariamne" was brought out; it went through forty representations, though it nearly fell on the first, through the levity of a Parisian audience. When, in the fifth act, Mariamne put the cup of poison to her lips, a man in the pit called out, "La Reine boit!" On the succeeding night the mode of her death was changed. Restless, and on the alert for the ridiculous, the danger of saying anything that suggested a ludicrous or familiar idea continually hampered a French tragedian; yet, with all his vanity and eagerness for success, Voltaire's lively spirits made him sometimes jest with peril. When "Œdipus" was acted, he went on the stage himself, holding up the train of the high priest, and played such antics that the maréchal de Villars asked who the young man was who was desirous of getting the piece condemned. This very liveliness was, however, a great cause of his universal success. The Parisians, and especially the nobility, desired to be amused, and no man was ever born so fitted to afford excitement to the circles of the rich and gay, as the vain, witty, restless, eager poet, who made a jest of everything, yet rendered all instinct with the interest imparted by his good heart and versatile talents.

His quarrel with Jean Baptiste Rousseau is characteristic. He visited Holland in 1722 with madame Rupelmonde. When passing through Brussels, he sought out the poet whom he had befriended in his need, and whose talents he admired. They met with delight. Voltaire called him his master and judge; he placed his "Henriade" in his hand, and read him various of his epistles. All went smilingly for a short time. Rousseau read some of his poetry in return. Voltaire did not approve. Rousseau was piqued. Various sarcasms were interchanged. Rousseau had composed an "Ode to Posterity." Voltaire told him that it would never reach its address. A violent quarrel ensued, and Rousseau became his bitter enemy.

A more serious dissension interrupted the routine of his life. One day, dining at the table of the duke de Sully, one of his warmest friends, he was treated impertinently by the chevalier de Rohan, a man of high birth, but disreputable character. The chevalier asked. Who he was? Voltaire replied that he did not inherit a great name, but would never dishonour that which he bore. The chevalier angrily left the room, and took his revenge by causing him to be seized and struck with a cane by his servants. Such were the prejudices then existent in the minds of the French noblesse, that though the duke de Sully esteemed and even loved Voltaire, and held the chevalier de Rohan in contempt, yet the bourgeois birth of the former, and noble blood of the latter, caused him to show himself perfectly indifferent to the insult. Voltaire resolved to avenge himself. He secluded himself from all society, and practised fencing carefully. As soon as he considered himself a match for his enemy, he sought him out at the opera, and demanded satisfaction. The chevalier appointed time and place for a duel, and then acquainted his family. The consequence was, the instant arrest of his antagonist, and his imprisonment for six months in the Bastille; to which was added the further injustice of an order of exile after his liberation from prison.

[Sidenote: 1728. Ætat. 34.]

Voltaire took this opportunity to visit England. He had been acquainted with lord and lady Bolingbroke in France. He appreciated the talents of the illustrious Englishman, admired his various knowledge, and was fascinated by the charms of his conversation. Although he never appears to have at all understood the real foundations of English liberty, yet he appreciated its effects, especially at a moment when he was suffering so grievously from an act of despotism. Liberty of thought was in his eyes a blessing superior to every other. He read the works of Locke with enthusiasm; and while he lamented that such disquisitions were not tolerated in France, he became eager to impart to his countrymen the new range of ideas he acquired from the perusal. The discoveries of Newton also attracted his attention. He exchanged the frivolities of Paris for serious philosophy. He became aware that freedom from prejudice and the acquirement of knowledge were not mere luxuries intended for the few, but a blessing for the many; to confer and extend which was the duty of the enlightened. From that moment he resolved to turn his chief endeavours to liberate his country from priestly thraldom and antique prejudices. He felt his powers; his industry was equal to his wit, and enabled him to use a vast variety of literary weapons. What his countrymen deemed poetry, the drama, history, philosophy, and all slighter compositions, animated by wit and fancy, were to be put in use by turns for this great end. He published his "Henriade" while in England. It was better received than it deserved; and the profits he gained were the foundation of his future opulence. He wrote the tragedy of "Brutus," in which he imagined that he developed a truly republican spirit, and a love of liberty worthy of the Romans.

He spent three years in exile. He became eager to return to his country, to his friends, and to a public which naturally understood him better, and could sympathise more truly with him than the English. He ventured over to Paris. For a time his return was known only to a few friends, and he resided in an obscure quarter of the capital. By degrees he took courage; and the success of various tragedies which he brought out raised him high in public favour, and promised greater security for the future. He was regarded as the pride of France by the majority of his countrymen. The priesthood--accustomed to persecute on the most frivolous pretexts of difference of opinion--who had excited Louis XIV. to banish the Jansenists and suppress their convents--to exile the virtuous Fénélon--to massacre the Huguenots, who had long wielded religion as a weapon of offence and destruction, and had risen to a bad height of power by its misuse--held him in the sincerest hatred; while his attacks, excited by, and founded on, their crimes, unveiled to the world a scene which, had it not been rife with human suffering, had been worthy only of ridicule. A couplet in "Œdipus" first awakened their suspicion and hatred:--

"Nos prêtres ne sont point ce qu'un vain peuple pense, Notre crédulité fait tout leur science."

From that moment they lay in wait to crush him. It needed all his prudence to evade the effects of their enmity. There was a party in Paris, indeed, who went to the opposite extreme, by which he was idolised--a party which saw no medium between the superstition upheld by the clergy and direct disbelief, which it termed philosophy. This, indeed, is one of the chief mischiefs of Catholicism--by demanding too much of faith, it engenders entire infidelity; and by making men, sinful as ourselves, the directors of the conduct and thoughts, it injures the moral sense and deadens the conscience. The party in opposition had not yet risen to the height of talent it afterwards displayed; but it sufficed, through the rank, abilities, and number of the persons of whom it was composed, to encourage Voltaire in his career. Another chief support was derived from the liberal independence of means which he had attained. He inherited a competent fortune from his father and brother; the profits of "Œdipus" added to it; the duke of Orléans had made him presents; the queen of Louis XV. bestowed a pension on him; the edition of the "Henriade," brought out in London, augmented his means considerably: he was economical and careful. A fortunate speculation in a lottery instituted to pay the debts of the city of Paris, in which, from certain happy calculations, he was the chief winner, raised him to opulence. He was charitable and benevolent; and though, in his letters, we find allusions to his donations, this is never done ostentatiously, but with the plain speech of a man who, having fabricated his own fortune, knows the value of money, and keeps strict account of his expenditure. At this juncture we may also speak, of his change of name. It was the custom, as is well known, for the younger branches of noble families in France to assume the name of some estate, so to distinguish themselves from their relations. In the middling ranks the same custom was in a manner followed. Boileau took the name of Despréaux, and his younger brother that of Puy Morin, to distinguish themselves from the elder. People in this rank did not assume the _de_--distinctive of territorial possession. François-Marie Arouet thought it worth while, however, to purchase the estate of Voltaire (as Madame Searron, at Louis XIV.'s instigation, had that of Maintenon), as a means of elevating himself to a more respectable position in the eyes of his contemporaries. He succeeded; and though, to our ears, Arouet had sounded as well as Voltaire, did it stand in the title-page of his works; in his own day, in spite of various petty attacks from his enemies, the one he assumed was regarded by his countrymen with greater complacency.

The heyday of youth was passing away with Voltaire; his vivacity was still the same: but, from the period of his return from his exile in England, he began to look differently on life; and while he still regarded literary labour as his vocation, literary glory as the aim of his existence, he grew indifferent to the pleasures of society. At one time he meditated expatriating himself; thus to acquire liberty of writing and publishing without fear of the Bastille. His attachment for madame du Châtelet caused him to alter this plan. This lady was distinguished for her learning, her love of philosophy, and talent for the abstruse sciences. She was witty, and endowed with qualities attractive in society; but she preferred study, and the acquisition of literary renown, in seclusion. This friend induced Voltaire to remain in France, but strengthened his purpose of retiring from Paris. Various persecutions were, however, in wait for him before he gained a tranquil retreat.

Voltaire wrote his tragedies as a means of gaining public favour. He knew his countrymen. As a sovereign of the French must gather popularity by leading them to victory and military glory, so must an author, who would acquire their favour, achieve eminent success, at once to raise their enthusiasm, and to gratify their vanity, by making them participate in the greatness of his name. On his return from England, Voltaire determined to acquire the popular favour, by his triumphs in the drama. At first he was not as successful as he wished: his "Brutus" fell coldly on the gay, excitement-hunting Parisians; "Eryphile," on which he spent excessive pains,--remodelling and re-writing different portions again and again,--had faults that the author's quick eye discerned at once to be incurable, and he withdrew it after the first representation. "Zaire" repaid him for these disappointments;--"Zaire," which, whatever its faults may be, is so fresh, so eloquent, so deeply and naturally pathetic. This play was written in twenty-two days. It was a happy thought. [Sidenote: 1732. Ætat. 38.] Voltaire writes concerning it: "I never worked so fast; subject carried me on, and the piece wrote itself. I have tried to depict what has been long in my head,--Turkish manners contrasted with Christian manners; and to unite, in the same picture, all that our religion has of dignified, and even tender, with an affecting and passionate love." Two months afterwards, he writes: "I wish you had witnessed the success of 'Zaire;' allow me to enjoy freely, with you, the pleasure of succeeding. Never was piece played so well as 'Zaire' at the fourth representation. I wish you had been there; you would have seen that the public does not hate your friend. I appeared in a box, and the whole pit clapped. I blushed, and hid myself; but I should be deceitful did I not confess that I was deeply moved;--it is delightful not to be put to shame in one's own country." But, after this triumph, he laboured to correct his piece. He feared, he said, to have owed too much to the large dark eyes of mademoiselle Gaussin, and to the picturesque effect produced by the mingling of plumes and turbans on the stage. He felt, for the moment, that he had arrived at the height of literary renown, and that his task was nearly fulfilled. "What labour and pains I go through," he writes, "or this smoke of vain glory! Yet what should we do without the chimæra? it is as necessary to the soul as food to the body. I shall re-write 'Eryphile,' and the 'Death of Cæsar,'--all for this smoke. Meanwhile I am correcting the 'History of Charles XII.' for an edition in Holland; and when this is done, I shall finish the 'Letters on England,' which you know of,--that will be a month's work; after which I must return to my dramas, and finish, at lastly the 'History of the Age of Louis XIV.' This, dear friend, is the plan of my life."

New persecutions were in store for him, to disturb his schemes. Mademoiselle de Couvreur was the most eminent actress of the time; she was his friend, and had shown her generosity by attending on him at the dangerous moment of his attack of small pox. She was worthy of his good opinion; there was a dignity in her character which imparted the chief charm to her acting, and rendered her estimable in private life. When she died, according to the insulting practice of the French clergy, burial rites and holy ground were denied the corpse, and she was interred on the banks of the Seine. Voltaire could not restrain his indignation. Warmed by esteem for his friend, and contempt for the priesthood, he wrote her apotheosis, which drew on him the outcry of impiety, and forced him to conceal himself for some months in a village of Normandy.

Scarcely had this storm passed off, than another broke over him. His exile in England occurred during the reign of George II., at a time when literature boasted of great and glorious names; and if the principles of political liberty were less well understood than now, they appeared in a highly flourishing condition to the Frenchman. He regarded with admiration the blessings derived from toleration in religion, a comparatively free government, a press unfettered by a censorship, and the general diffusion of knowledge. He wished to describe these things and their effects to his countrymen, and he wrote his "Lettres sur les Anglais." There is nothing--save a passing Voltairian sarcasm here and there--to shock our notions in this work. It begins with an account of the Quakers,--to demonstrate that dissent in religion, joined to independence of thought and action, could accord with a peaceable fulfilment of the duties of a subject. He commences with a humorous description of a Quaker, to whom he was introduced, who receives him with his hat on, and without making a bow; speaks to him with the thee and thou, and defends the peculiar tenets of his sect. He goes on to give the history of Fox and Penn. Other letters concern the parliament, the government, the encouragement given to literary men, and literature itself, of the introduction of inoculation; and then comes his main topic,--the discoveries of Newton, and the philosophy of Locke. It is a work that would have excited no censure in England; but he was well aware that both it and its author would be denounced in France. When he thought of publishing it, he at the same time entertained the plan of expatriation; when he relinquished this, he meant to suppress his book; but it was published through the treachery of a bookseller. A _lettre de cachet_ was granted against him, of which he received timely notice, and left Paris to conceal himself at Cirey, while he gave out that he was in England. The volume itself was publicly burnt. He obtained a cessation of the persecution by causing the edition to be given up; but he did not return to Paris, and continued to inhabit the chateau of Cirey, in Champagne, a property of the marquis du Châtelet, where he and his wife, and their illustrious friend, lived for the space of six years in seclusion and laborious study.