Part 7

We have, from various sources, descriptions of the life he led at Cirey; not a little instructive from the light they throw on human nature, and on Voltaire's own character. Voltaire tells us, himself, in his "Fragment of Memoirs," that, weary of the idle, turbulent life led at Paris, of the pretensions of the silly, the cabals of the wicked, and persecutions of bigots, he resolved to pass some years in the country at the chateau of madame du Châtelet. This lady had received a careful education, was perfectly mistress of the Latin language, but her inclination led her to prefer the study of metaphysics and mathematics. Her ardour for the acquisition of knowledge was unspeakably great, and she longed for retirement, where she might dedicate her whole time to study. Voltaire taught her English: she read Leibnitz and Newton. Both she and her friend aspired to the prize given by the Academy of Science, for a treatise on fire; and their essays were mentioned with praise, though the prize was gained by the celebrated Euler. Voltaire was told, however, by an enlightened friend, that he would never be great in science. He was glad of this. The arguments and taste of madame du Châtelet, and his own love of all that was absolutely and demonstrably true, led him to cultivate abstruse science; but the bent of his genius and imagination, fertile of plot, situation, and development of passion, made him turn with delight to the composition of tragedies, the investigation of the philosophy of history, and the writing lighter productions, in which he gave full scope to his sarcastic spirit, his wit, and, we grieve to add, the impurity of his imagination: for this was the great defect of Voltaire, arising from his inability to appreciate the sublime, and his contempt of what he considered monkish virtues, that he loved to indulge in jests, the point of which lay in the grossest indecency. Having broken loose from the fetters of mathematics, he wrote "Alzire," "Mérope," "The Prodigal Child," and "Mahomet." He laboured at his "Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations;" he collected materials for the "History of the Age of Louis XIV.;" and he relaxed from these labours by writing the "Pucelle d'Orléans." One of his chief amusements, also, was bringing out his tragedies at his private theatre. He was a good actor, and an admirable teacher of the art.

Somewhat in contrast to the sort of fairy splendour and paradisaical happiness which, from his memoirs and letters, we might judge to have been the portion of the inhabitants of Cirey, we have another account, which does not indeed derogate from the character of Voltaire himself, but which casts gloomy and tempestuous shadows over the picture of his retirement. This account is worth quoting; though, as we shall afterwards mention, the fair writer, from private reasons, represented madame du Châtelet in darker colours than she merited.

When the marquis and marchioness du Châtelet resolved on inhabiting Cirey, the chateau was in a state of dilapidation. A portion of it was repaired, and furnished with princely magnificence; partly at the expense of the owners, chiefly, it would seem, at Voltaire's, who built a gallery and bath rooms, decorated his apartments with inlaid works of marble, and adorned them with a variety of precious works of art.

Usually the family party was nearly uninterrupted. Madame du Châtelet disliked receiving visitors who should intrude on her hours of study. How the marquis regarded the severe labours of his wife, and the permanent residence of his guest, we are not told; but he seems to have been easy and complaisant. When visitors arrived, Voltaire exerted himself to entertain them by acting plays, and by calling into requisition the stores of his own mind, which, various and prolific, never failed to enchant. There was a lady, madame de Graffigny, who had been very unfortunate through the ill conduct of her husband. [Sidenote: 1738. Ætat. 44.] She at last obtained a divorce; but she was poor, and nearly friendless. She was asked to spend a few weeks at Cirey, and joyfully accepted the flattering invitation. She had been residing at Lunéville, at the court of the ex-king of Poland: she left there a friend, who had beep brought up with her as a brother; and to him she poured out, in her letters, her enthusiasm, her joy, and her subsequent disappointment and misery.

From the beginning, Voltaire acquired all her kindness by the cordiality and friendliness of his reception, and the great and delicate attention he paid to her comfort; while madame du Châtelet lost it by her coldness and selfishness. Still the wit and talent of both made it at first enchanted ground. "Supper was announced to me," she writes, "and I was shown to an apartment which I recognised as Voltaire's. He came forward to receive me; we placed ourselves at table--I was indeed happy. We conversed on all subjects; poetry, the arts and sciences; and all in a light and witty tone. I wish I could give you an account of his charming, his enchanting conversation; but I cannot. The supper was not abundant, but it was recherché, delicate, and good, and served on a good deal of plate. Voltaire, placed next me, was as polite and attentive as he is amusing and learned. The marquis was on my other side--this is my place every evening; and thus my left ear is softly charmed, while the right is but very slightly ennuied, for the marquis speaks little, and retires as soon as we rise from table."

She describes the apartments of madame du Châtelet and Voltaire as magnificent. His was hung with crimson velvet and gold fringe, the walls were covered with pictures and looking-glasses, and the room crowded with articles of luxury in worked silver. It opened into a small gallery wainscotted with yellow wood, adorned by statues, furnished with books, and filled with tables covered with curiosities and porcelain; opening on a grotto that led to the garden. The rooms of madame du Châtelet were far more elegant and rich; splendid with mirrors in silver frames, and adorned with pictures of the first French artists. Her boudoir, of which, in her vivacious style, the guest said, "you were ready to kneel and worship for its elegant magnificence," opened on a terrace commanding a beautiful prospect: the whole was a model of luxury, taste, and elegance. Unfortunately, however, in repairing and furnishing, no attention had been paid to any apartments but those occupied by madame du Châtelet and Voltaire. Discomfort reigned everywhere else. Poor madame de Graffigny was placed in an immense chamber, ill furnished--the wind entering at a thousand crevices--which it was impossible to warm, in spite of all the wood that was burnt. "In short," she says, "all that does not belong to the lady or Voltaire is in a most disgusting state of discomfort."

However, talent spread its charm over the place, although madame du Châtelet, from the first, was no favourite with her guest, yet she allows that she talked well, sang divinely; was witty, eloquent, and, when she chose, pleasing; but, devoted to the study of abstruse mathematics, she gave up nearly her whole time, night and day, to these labours. Their way of life was regulated by their excessive industry. No one appeared till twelve o'clock, when coffee was announced in Voltaire's gallery for the chosen guests, while the marquis and others dined. At the end of half an hour Voltaire bowed his friends out; each retired to their room, and did not assemble again till nine for supper. This was the chosen season for conversation and enjoyment. He read to them passages from his works, he showed a magic lantern, and exerted all his wit, his buffoonery, and knowledge in the explanations. Froward as a child, amiable as a woman, always full of vivacity, his conversation was an exhaustless source of laughter and delight. When any guests were there whom they were peculiarly desirous of pleasing, everything was done for their amusement: plays were acted--no moment of repose allowed--all was gaiety and pleasure. "Voltaire," she writes, "is always charming, always occupied with amusing me; he is never weary of paying attention; he is uneasy if I seem the least ennuied. In short, I find, from experience, that agreeable occupation is the charm of life. The lady, at first a little cold, grows kinder, and we are become familiar."--"Voltaire read us two cantos of his Joan, and we had a delightful supper. Madame du Châtelet sang with her divine voice; we laughed, we knew not why--we sang canons--it was a supper during which gaiety made us say and do we knew not what; and we laughed at nothing."--"The Marionettes have greatly diverted me; they are delightful: the piece was played in which Punch's wife hopes to kill her husband by singing _fagnana fagnana._ It was delicious to hear Voltaire say, seriously, that the piece was excellent. It is silly, is it not, to laugh at such follies? Yet I laughed. Voltaire is as delightful a child as he is a wise philosopher."--"This morning we were to hear an epistle read; but the fair lady was still in the same merry humour of yesterday; and she began to joke Voltaire, who, holding his epistle in his hand, parodied it against her in the most delightful manner: in short, there was no reading. He laughed at first, but was a little annoyed at last. For myself, I was ashamed to laugh so much; but there was so much wit; each word came and shone like lightning, and all accompanied by such vivacity and pleasantry that Heraclitus himself must have laughed."--"We had the Marionettes again. Voltaire declared that he was jealous. Do you know that I think that Voltaire shows genius in laughing at these follies. I sat next him to-day; it was a delightful seat. Yesterday evening he read an epistle which the fair lady criticised most wittily."

At other times, every hour was given to labour. Voltaire spent the entire day writing: "Does he leave his work for a quarter of an hour during the day," writes his guest, to pay me a visit, he does not sit down, saying that the time lost in talking is frightful--that no moment ought to be wasted, and loss of time is the greatest expense of all. This has gone on for a month. "When we come in to sup he is at his desk; we have half done before he joins us, and he is with difficulty prevented from returning immediately after. He exerts himself to amuse us during the meal; but evidently from sheer politeness: his thoughts are far away." Madame du Châtelet was even more industrious. "She spends her whole nights till five or six in the morning, writing; when she finds herself overcome by sleep, she puts her hands in iced water, and walks about the room to rouse herself. After this, instead of sleeping till the middle of the day, she rises at nine or ten. In short, she only gives two hours to sleep, and never leaves her desk except for coffee and supper." This hard labour was productive of great ennui to their guests, and considerable ill health to themselves; especially to Voltaire, whose constitution was feeble: but the result with him was, his voluminous works; and with her, a degree of scientific knowledge surpassing that attained by almost every other adept of the day. Her essays were full of most abstruse reasoning, and written in a clear and elegant style. Madame de Graffigny had the highest opinion of her understanding. "I have been reading her dissertation on fire; it is written with admirable clearness, precision, and force of argument. I beg Voltaire's pardon, but it is far superior to his. What a woman! How little do I feel beside her! If my body grew as small, I could pass through a key-hole. When women do write, they surpass men; but it requires centuries to form a woman like this." Unfortunately, all this talent was darkened by a vehement and irritable temper. By degrees the truth became manifest, that these sages quarrelled violently. In madame de Graffigny's account, some of these disputes are very whimsical. These are trifles; but they display the inner nature of the man better than more important events, and deserve record. Voltaire was writing the "Age of Louis XIV.," in which he took great pride and pleasure, although from the tyranny then existing in France, the publishing of it would have doomed him to the Bastille. Madame du Châtelet locked up the manuscript, and would not let him finish it. "He is dying to do so," madame de Graffigny writes; "it is the work, of all his, which he prefers. She justifies herself by saying there is little pleasure in writing a book that cannot be printed. I exhort him to go on, and to be satisfied with the immortality he will gain. He said, yesterday, that assuredly he would finish it, but not here. She turns his head with her geometry; she likes nothing else."--"One day, being indisposed, the lady could not write; so she went to bed, and sent for me, saying that Voltaire would read his tragedy of 'Mérope.' When he came, she took it into her head that he should change his coat. He objected, on the score that he might catch cold, but at last had the complaisance to send for his valet to get another coat. The servant could not be found. Voltaire thought himself let off. Not at all: she recommenced her persecution till Voltaire got angry. He said a few words in English, and left the room. He was sent for; but replied he was taken ill. Adieu to 'Mérope!'--I was furious. Presently a visitor came, and I said I would go to see Voltaire, and the lady told me to try to bring him back. I found him in excellent humour, quite forgetful of his illness; but it returned when we were sent for, and he was very sullen." Another time she writes: "I pity poor Voltaire, since he and his friend cannot agree. Ah, dear friend! where is there happiness on earth for mortals? We are always deceived by appearances: at a distance, we thought them the happiest people in the world; but, now that I am with them, I discern the truth."

Nor was the lady always the peccant person. On one occasion madame de Graffigny writes: "Voltaire is in a state resembling madness. He torments his friend till I am forced to pity her. She has made me her confidant. Voltaire is really mad. One day we were about to act a comedy--every one was ready, when the post came in; he received unpleasant letters: he burst forth into exclamations of anguish, and fell into a species of convulsions. Madame du Châtelet came to me with tears in her eyes, and begged me to put off the play. Yesterday he had an interval of quiet, and we acted. How strange that, with all his genius, he should be so absurd!"

Voltaire's disquiet arose from some defamatory attacks made on him by J. B. Rousseau and the abbé Desfontaines. We have seen the history of his intercourse with the former; it was unworthy the poet to revenge himself by libels. Voltaire had exerted his influence to save Desfontaines when accused of a capital offence: he was repaid by the publication of calumnies. The attacks deserved contempt only; but Voltaire could not be brought to this opinion: "I must have reparation," he writes to a friend, "or I die dishonoured. Facts and the most shocking impostures are in question. You know not to what a degree the abbé Desfontaines is the oracle of the provinces. I am told that he is despised in Paris; yet his 'Observations' sell better than any other work. My silence drives him to despair, you say. Ah, how little do you know him! He will take my silence as a mark of submission; and I shall be disgraced by the most despicable man alive, without the smallest act of revenge--without justifying myself."

With these feelings he thought it necessary to write a defence. He proposed, at one time, entering on a lawsuit. And, to add to his troubles, his friend Thiriot acted a weak, tergiversating part. Weak in health, irritated in temper by excessive application, he was in a state of too great excitement to judge calmly and act with dignity. For six months every occupation was postponed to his desire of vengeance; a serious attack of illness was the consequence. With this unfortunate susceptibility when defamed, we must contrast his patience under every other species of annoyance, and his constant benevolence. He suffered various pecuniary losses at this time, but never complained, nor ceased to benefit several literary men who had no resource except in his generosity.

To return to Cirey and its letter-writing guest. Madame de Graffigny's own turn for suffering came at last. The bigotry and severity of the French government with regard to the press, while cardinal Fleuri was minister, kept Voltaire and his friend in a continual state of uneasiness. Twice since his retirement to Cirey he had been obliged to fly to Holland to escape a _lettre de cachet_; and, meanwhile, he could not resist writing satires on religion and government, which he read to his friends; and, their existence becoming known, the cardinal was on the alert. He had declared that if his burlesque of the "Pucelle" appeared, the author should end his days in the Bastille. Madame du Châtelet was more cautious and more fearful than Voltaire himself; and the imprudence of the latter, and the frightful evils that impended, did any treacherous friend either lay hands on any portion of the manuscript, or have a memory retentive enough to write it after it was read aloud, is in some degree an excuse for the otherwise unpardonable liberty she took to waylay, open, and read the letters of her guests. Madame de Graffigny had been delighted with a canto of "Joan," and sent a sketch of its plan in a letter to her friend. M. Devaux, in answer, simply replied, "The canto of 'Joan' is charming." The letter containing these words was opened by madame du Châtelet. Her terror distorted the meaning of the phrase, and represented in frightful colours the evil that would ensue; for she fancied that madame de Graffigny had in some manner possessed herself of, and sent to Lunéville, a canto of a poem so forbidden and guarded, that she had prevented Voltaire from communicating any portion of it to the prince royal of Prussia, lest any accidental discovery should be made. The storm broke unexpectedly and frightfully. Voltaire learnt and shared his friend's apprehensions. As a means of discovering the extent of the mischief, he, unexpectedly, the same evening, after madame de Graffigny had retired to her room, and was occupied writing letters, visited her there, saying, that he was ruined, and that his life was in her hands; and in reply to her expressions of astonishment, informed her that a hundred copies of one of the cantos of "Joan" were about in the world, and that he must fly to Holland,--to the end of the world--for safety; that M. du Châtelet was to set out for Lunéville; and that she must write to her friend Devaux to collect all the copies. Madame de Graffigny, charmed that she had an opportunity of obliging her kind host, assured him of her zeal, and expressed her sorrow that such an accident should happen while she was his guest. On this, Voltaire became furious: "No tergiversation, madam," he cried. "You sent the canto!" Her counter-asseverations were of no avail--she believed herself the most unlucky person in the world that the suspicion should fall on her. In vain she protested. Voltaire at length asserted that Devaux had read the canto sent by her to various persons, and that madame du Châtelet had the proof in her pocket: her justification was not attended to by the angry poet, who declared that he was irretrievably ruined. In the midst of this frightful scene, which had lasted an hour, madame du Châtelet burst into the room: her violence, her abuse, and insulting expressions overwhelmed her poor guest. Voltaire in vain endeavoured to calm her. At length madame de Graffigny was informed of the cause of the tumult and accusation; she was shown the phrase in her correspondent's letter,--"The canto of 'Joan' is charming;"--she understood and explained its meaning. Voltaire believed her on the instant, and made a thousand apologies. His friend was less placable. Madame de Graffigny was obliged to promise to write for her own letter containing the account of the canto of the poem, to prove her innocence. She did this; and till it came all her letters were opened: she was treated with haughtiness by the lady, and remained shut up in her own room, solitary and sad; for, to crown her misfortunes, the poor woman had not a sous in the world, and could not escape from a place where she was exposed to so much insult. At length her letter was returned. Madame du Châtelet took care to waylay it, and satisfied herself by reading it; and then, a few days after, she apologised to her unfortunate guest; and, fearful, indeed, of her ill report on the subject, became remarkably civil and kind. Voltaire conducted himself much better. "I believe," madame de Graffigny writes, "that he was entirely ignorant of the practice of opening my letters; he appeared to believe my simple word, and saw the illness I suffered, in consequence, with regret. He often visited me in my room, shed tears, and said that he was miserable at being the cause of my suffering. He has never once entered my room without the humblest and most pathetic apologies; he redoubled his care that I should be well attended; he even said that madame du Châtelet was a terrible woman--that she had no flexibility of heart, though it was good. In short, I have every reason to be content with Voltaire."

Such was the paradise of Cirey. The arduous study and ill health of Voltaire, the mental labours of his friend, their very accomplishments and wit, tended, probably, to irritate tempers, irritable in themselves. As to the poem, the cause of the storm, it had certainly better never have been written than occasion so much fear, and pain, and misconduct. We confess we have never read it. Its framework is indecency and ridicule of sacred things; chiefly, indeed, of the legends of the saints, which is more excusable; but still the whole is conceived in bad taste. We cannot understand the state of manners when such a poem could be read aloud to women; and we feel that we are scarcely fair judges of persons living in a system and actuated by motives so contrary to our own: so that, while we thank God we are not like them, we must be indulgent to faults which we have not any temptation to commit.