Voltaire in Love (8 page)

Soon the time came when Mme du Châtelet must leave Montjeu and go back to Paris. Here she began to agitate on Voltaire's behalf with such energy and disregard of appearances that even he cried caution. It was too much, he said, people would begin to talk in a disagreeable way about their friendship. The whole affair was worse for Mme du Châtelet than for Voltaire. He was so well hidden, probably in Lorraine, that to this day nobody knows for certain where he went. The innumerable letters he wrote were posted in towns as far apart as Dijon and Basle, no doubt by travellers to whom he gave them. He had no intention of going to prison: he felt sure that he would wriggle out of the mess and meanwhile had the satisfaction of knowing that everybody in Paris was reading his book. He pretended to be indignant at the thought of society women and loungers in cafés discussing the rival merits of Newton and Descartes: in fact that was the object of his work. He never, himself, had an original philosophical idea, but he had a genius for simplifying the ideas of others so that society women and loungers in cafés could grasp them. ‘If I had not cheered up the subject
[égayé la matière]
nobody would have been scandalized; but then nobody would have read me.'

It was not only Voltaire's philosophical ideas and the attack on Pascal that were provoking anger in Paris, anger which this time was by no means confined to the Church and State. The theme of the
Lettres,
repeated over and over again, was that everything English was true and orderly, everything French rotten with frivolity and reaction. The English are free men, the French are enslaved by superstition, tyranny, and unreasonable laws. They have forgotten how to think. The serious English give their Kings a fair trial and then execute them. The capricious French assassinate theirs. English clergymen are old and married; when they get drunk they do it earnestly without causing a scandal. There are no gay young
Abbés de Cour,
no boy bishops in England. Which is the more valuable citizen, a French nobleman who can tell you exactly what time the King gets up and goes to bed, or an English merchant who gives orders to Surat and Cairo from his office, contributes to the
happiness of the world and enriches his country? The English had a theatre long before the French. It was created by Shakespeare, a genius of force and fecundity though without a ray of taste or any knowledge of the rules of drama. No people in the world love a public hanging so much as the English and this partly accounts for the success of his plays, in which he loads the stage with corpses. Literature is more honoured in England than in France, and if there were an English Academy of Letters it would be vastly superior to that ridiculous institution the Académie Française. English doctors are stamping out the dreaded smallpox with the simple process of inoculation. The French medical profession, of course, is far too hidebound to allow its patients to benefit by this discovery. As for philosophy, a Frenchman arriving in London finds everything upside-down. In Paris the universe is composed of whirlwinds which do not exist in London. Voltaire then proceeds to demonstrate the superiority of Newton as a thinker over Descartes.

To say that the French were displeased would be putting it mildly. The whole reading public was in a rage. How dared Voltaire set the barbarous English, heretics and regicides, above the civilized French? How dared he compare their primitive literature with that which had produced Racine? Shakespeare indeed! And what of Grévin, who lived at the same time and wrote a splendid play about Julius Caesar? ‘The English are very welcome to this deserter from our land,' said Mathieu Marais.

As angry as anybody were the scientists. Nationalism had a strong influence on eighteenth-century thought. The French were prejudiced in favour of Descartes because he was French; it was years before Voltaire, Maupertuis, and other philosophers were able to get Newton accepted in academic circles. In the same way, the Germans, in spite of Frederick the Great's efforts to impose Newton on them, could never really be weaned from Leibnitz, because he was German.

On 10 June the
Lettres philosophiques
were torn to pieces and burnt outside the Palais de Justice. ‘Scandalous, against religion, decent behaviour, and the respect due to the powers that be.' When he received the news Voltaire merely remarked that another time he would say a great deal more.

Richelieu, back at the siege of Philippsburg, found himself in the same army group as his wife's cousins, the Prince de Lixin and the Prince de Pons. The Prince de Conti, who was commanding a regiment, gave a party to celebrate his own seventeenth birthday. Richelieu was an old friend of the Prince's father; he felt he could go to the party straight from a day in the trenches, without changing his clothes. When the Prince de Lixin saw him he remarked in a loud voice that M. de Richelieu, in spite of his marriage, still seemed to have a good deal of dirt clinging to him. The Duke called him out; they decided to fight at once, because fighting among officers was forbidden and they were afraid of being stopped. So they proceeded, with their friends, to a deserted place behind the trenches and told the servants to light flares. These attracted the enemy's fire, and the duel took place amid falling shells; the Germans soon found the range and one of the servants was killed. The opponents were evenly matched; Lixin almost immediately wounded Richelieu in the thigh. The Duke's seconds, who were liking the situation less and less, urged him to give up. He refused and the fight went on a good long time. In the end Richelieu ran Lixin through the heart. The officers present, thankful to be alive themselves, carried the two principals off the field, one to his grave and the other to the hospital.

News of the duel reached Voltaire, rather exaggerated as Richelieu was said to be dying. Voltaire did not hesitate; he ordered his carriage and set forth for Philippsburg. He truly loved the Duke and felt a certain responsibility since the marriage had been of his making. However, he found his friend already convalescent and very waggish about Voltaire's troubles. Of course, said Richelieu, the scoundrel, up to his tricks as usual, had himself arranged for the
Lettres philosophiques
to be published while he was safely out of Paris. The noblemen at the Duke of Berwick's headquarters were delighted to see Voltaire and he soon fell into the jolly life of the camp, all the jollier for his own arrival. Three gay young Princes of the Blood, the brothers Clermont and Charolais and the Prince de Conti, gave parties for him and made much of him. However, they very soon got stern messages from Paris telling them to desist; it was considered quite out of order that, while the King's
police were looking everywhere for M. de Voltaire, he should be making merry with the King's cousins at the front. Besides, a battle seemed imminent; Voltaire felt that the moment had come to be off. Once more he ordered his carriage.

This time Voltaire went to Cirey, a country house in Champagne belonging to the du Châtelets. Isolated in woodlands full of iron-foundries and forges that had been worked there since Roman times, it was a very suitable hiding place since its inhabitants could arrange to be warned if the police were about to descend upon them. The Lorraine frontier, too, was within easy reach. Cirey's foundations were tenth century; it had twice been razed to the ground, during the wars of the League and after the conspiracy of Gaston d'Orléans. Du Châtelet's great-grandfather had partly rebuilt it, but it had stood empty for many years and Voltaire found it unfurnished and derelict. Here Émilie and Voltaire had decided to pursue their
amours philosophiques,
far from the dangers and distractions of the capital. She told Richelieu that she could not imagine not wanting to live quietly in the country with her loved one. Also, she said, in Paris she would be sure to lose him sooner or later. As for Voltaire, he was tired of trying to keep house on his own; he had reached the age when a man likes to settle down and be looked after by some charming woman.

Émilie stayed on in Paris where she continued her lessons with Maupertuis, her social life, and her gambling. She may have been unable to go to Cirey at once owing to the illness of her baby, aged sixteen months. He died in September. The death of a child was seldom regarded then as a great misfortune. Parents saw very little of their children and one or two in a family were rather expected to die. To her own surprise, however, Mme du Châtelet minded. She sent a note the next day to Maupertuis, saying that
she must admit to being very sad indeed. If he cares to come and console her, he will find her alone. She has told the servants she does not wish to see anybody, but there is no occasion on which the sight of him would not give her extreme pleasure. She did not, even then, hurry off to Cirey but stayed on in Paris until Maupertuis left for Switzerland several weeks later. Voltaire was alone for nearly three months.

He had put in hand a large scheme of building and decorating at Cirey. He filled the house with masons and plasterers; outside he planned terraces, gateways, and alleys. As society was necessary to his happiness, he paid court to two neighbours, the young Comtesse de la Neuville and youngish Mme de Champbonin. When the builders made him too uncomfortable he would go and stay with Mme de la Neuville, and Mme de Champbonin would drive over and play backgammon with him. This jolly, fat creature became, and remained, his slave. (She already knew Mme du Châtelet with whom she had been at school.) When he was at Cirey, both women supplied him with constant gifts of game, poultry, and peaches which were acknowledged in prose and in verse, heavily larded with compliments. ‘Paris is where you are.' Delicious words, to a provincial lady.

At last, in October, Émilie appears, arriving just as Voltaire is reading a letter from her telling him not to expect her for a while. She has brought hundreds of parcels and more chaos than ever to the house. ‘We have now got beds without curtains, rooms without windows, lacquer cabinets and no chairs, charming phaetons and no horses to draw them.' Mme du Châtelet has had a terrible journey, shaken to pieces in an uncomfortable carriage, and has not slept, but she is in tearing spirits. She laughs and jokes and makes nothing of the difficulties of getting into a new house. Voltaire, under the charm, hardly even protests when she changes all his dispositions, puts doors where he had ordered windows and staircases where he had planned to have chimney-pieces. Luckily he has not planted a kitchen garden, for if he had she would certainly be turning it into a
parterre.
All this is told to Mme de Champbonin, Voltaire's
aimable Champenoise,
without whom he cannot live. Since there is no bed for her (why, oh why must three
people have three beds?) they will send a phaeton light as a feather and drawn by horses the size of elephants so that she can come and spend the day. It is really unthinkable that friends should be kept apart simply for the want of a bed or two. Mme de la Neuville is out of action as she is expecting a baby, but Voltaire will drive Mme du Châtelet over to see her as soon as he has finished being the odd man at Cirey. When the visitors' rooms are ready both these charming neighbours must come and share his happiness. Voltaire wrote as if he were lord of the manor and husband of its lady. Du Châtelet was bravely fighting the Germans, serene in the knowledge that his property was being improved and his wife getting on with her mathematics. Voltaire paid for everything at Cirey, but, practical as always, kept accounts and considered the money as having been lent to du Châtelet.

Émilie went back to Paris for Christmas. Her friends said she led such a dissipated life there that it was impossible to see her. She spent a great deal of time with the Richelieus and resumed her pursuit of Maupertuis. On Christmas Eve: ‘I'd sooner be at Cirey and you at Basle than see as little of you as I do. I wish to celebrate the birth of Elohim with you. Why don't you come and drink his health with Clairaut and me? I'll expect you between eight and nine. We'll go to Midnight Mass and hear the Christmas hymns on the organ, and I'll take you home afterwards. I count on this, unless Mlle Delagni opposes it.'

Voltaire once more stayed alone at Cirey. He had plenty to do. Work on the house was still in progress, he was writing
Alzire,
he had begun
La Pucelle,
his health was an occupation in itself and he conducted a correspondence that grew daily larger. To Thieriot, in English: ‘You tell me you are ready to leave England and come to me. Is it very true? Can you give me such a token of your heart? . . . Let not be your proposal a transient enthusiasm of a tender soul but the firm resolution of a strong and virtuous mind. Come, my dear, I conjure you to do it. It is most certain I have but few years to live, do not debar me from the pleasure of passing these moments with you . . . Literature is nothing without a friend, and a friend illiterate is but dry company; but a friend like you is a treasure.'

In his post-bag from Paris he received young Crébillon's
Contes japonais
(full of obscenities and sly digs at such various subjects as the Duchesse du Maine and the Bull
Unigenitus).
He said that if he, himself, had written them he would have been sent to the Bastille. Very soon he heard that young Crébillon had gone to the Bastille. Voltaire observed that the State never minds how much it spends on keeping authors in prison, but if the question arises of some tiny pension for an author, that can never be afforded. This was not quite fair. Voltaire himself was receiving a comfortable little pension from the Queen, who had even continued it while he was in England.

‘And how is
Rameses
getting on?' he asked Cideville, who had had Linant with him at Rouen. ‘I am sure it must be full of virile lines and brilliant reflections.' He added that the art of keeping up the interest of the public during five acts is a gift sent from God. In addition, each play has a curious destiny of its own, which never can be foretold until the curtain rises.

Voltaire had lent money to a certain Abbé MacCarthy who had gone to the East without repaying him. News now came that the Abbé had been circumcised and impaled, in Constantinople. Voltaire remarked that many people had owed him money but so far none of them had been impaled.