Amélie Suard and her journalist husband, Jean-Baptiste, were friends of Condorcet, Baron d'Holbach, Helvétius, and Thomas Jefferson. She made a special journey to Geneva to meet Voltaire, who was now eighty-one, and sent her impressions of him in these letters to her husband. These firsthand, detailed impressions of Voltaire were later published in Lettres à son mari (Letters to Her Husband) in 1802, then inserted into her husband's works, Mélanges de littérature de J. B. A. Suard in 1803. Mme. Suard also wrote novels and essays.
PREFACE
You wish then, my friend, to publish these letters that were only written for you alone and that were never destined for the honors of the printing press? You know my enthusiasm for Voltaire. You know that I had been nourished, so to say, in admiration for this great man; that during a trip he had made to Flanders, he had gone to see my father who had a very fine physics laboratory. This visit left its traces. We often recalled it in my family, where his beautiful works were intensely appreciated and felt. Surrounded since my marriage by all the friends and admirers of M. de Voltaire, incessantly amused or enchanted by the charm of his writings, my enthusiasm for him could only increase. How can one not admire a man who employs his genius to defend the oppressed, who speaks of God as the father common to all men, and of tolerance as both the most sacred of rights and as the most cherished of duties? I have always been disposed to believe that virtue exists in proportion to the feelings of goodness and humanity that each man carries in his heart. Ah! In what man can one find this sentiment deeper or more active than in Voltaire? The generous interest he took in the oppressed accompanied him until his last breath; even in his death throes, his last thoughts were addressed to M. de Lally-Tolendal on the happy success of a cause that had to triumph, since it was defended by filial piety and the most noble, moving eloquence.
While adoring the genius and the passionate soul of Voltaire for the interests of his fellow creatures, I do not pretend to approve the excesses to which the violence of his passions often led him. I do not consider him a model of virtue in his life, though it was filled with noble and generous acts. I envision him even less as a model of wisdom in all his works. I reserve the worship we owe perfect virtue to the Antonines, the Marcus Aureliuses, and the Fénelons. But our gratitude and our admiration is still attached to those who, despite their errors and their faults, employed all the means of a beneficent and active genius to rid us of deadly and dangerous errors and who labored constantly to give birth to new virtues among their fellow men.
LETTER I
Geneva, June 1775
I have finally obtained the goal of my desires and of my voyage: I have seen M. de Voltaire. The transports of St. Theresa never surpassed those the sight of this great man gave me. I felt as though I were in the presence of a god, but of a god long worshipped and adored, to whom I had been finally given the power to show all my respect and recognition. If his genius had not brought this illusion, his face alone would have. It is impossible to describe the fire in his eyes, nor the graces of his features. What an enchanting smile! There is nary a wrinkle that isn't graceful. Ah! How surprised I was when in the place of this decrepit figure that I thought I saw, appeared this physiognomy full of fire and expression. When, instead of a stooped old man, I saw a man of upright bearing, lofty and noble though somewhat neglectful, with a gait firm and even nimble yet, and speaking in a tone with a courtesy that, like his genius, belongs to him alone! My heart beat with violence upon entering the courtyard of this castle consecrated by the presence of this great man for so many years. Having reached the moment so acutely desired, that I had come from so far to seek, and that I had obtained by so many sacrifices, I would have liked to delay the happiness that I had always expected from the sights dearest to my life; and I felt almost relieved when Madame Denis1 told us that he had gone for a walk. Madame Cramer, who had accompanied us, went ahead to announce me and my brother, and to bring him the letters from my friends. He soon appeared, crying out, “Where is this lady? Where is she? It's a soul I've come to seek.” And as I advanced, “The letter says, Madame, that you are pure soul.” “This soul, Monsieur, is filled with you and has been sighing for the happiness of approaching yours for ever so long.”
I spoke to him first of his health and of the concern it had given his friends. He told me what his fears make him say to everyone, that he was dying, and that I had reached a hospital because even Madame Denis herself was ill, and that he regretted not being able to offer me shelter.
At that moment, there were a dozen people in the salon. Our dear Audibert was among the number. I had been sorry not to find him in Marseilles; I was enchanted to find him at Ferney. M. Poissonnier had also just arrived. He had not yet seen M. de Voltaire. He went to stand by his side, and it was to speak to him incessantly of himself. M. de Voltaire told him that he had rendered a great service to humanity by finding the means to desalinate sea water. “Oh, Monsieur!” he said, “I have rendered it an even greater one since. I was made for discoveries. I have found the means of conserving meat for years on end without salting it.” It would seem he had come to Ferney to get himself admired, and not to pay homage to M. de Voltaire. Oh! How petty he appeared to me! What a miserable thing is vain mediocrity beside a modest and indulgent genius! For M. de Voltaire seemed to listen with indulgence, while I was impatient to excess. I had pricked up my ears to miss not a word that came out of the mouth of this great man, who says a thousand witty and amiable things with that easy grace that charms in all his works; but whose rapidity is more striking yet in conversation. In no hurry to speak, he listens to everyone with more flattering attention than he has perhaps ever received himself. His niece said a few words. His eyes full of benevolence were fixed on her, with the most amiable smile on his lips. When M. Poissonnier had spoken enough of himself, he was willing to cede his place. Pressed by a lively desire, by some sort of passion which surmounted all my timidity, I seized the moment. I had been a bit encouraged by something kind he had said of me. His look, his glances, his civilities had banished all my agitations and left me wholly to my warm enthusiasm. I had never felt anything like it. It was a feeling that had been nourished, that had grown for fifteen years, which, for the first time, I could discuss with the man who was its object. I expressed it in all the disorder with which such great pleasure inspired me. M. de Voltaire seemed to enjoy it. He stopped the torrent from time to time with kind words: “You're spoiling me. You want to turn my head.” And when he was able to speak to me of all his friends, it was with the greatest interest. He spoke to me a lot of you, of his gratitude for your kindnesses. That was the word he used.2 And of Maréchal de Richelieu. “How his conduct surprised and grieved me!” he said. He spoke a lot of Monsieur Turgot. He has three terrible things against him, he said: the financiers, the scoundrels, and gout. I told him that his virtues, his courage, and the public's esteem could be used against them. “But Madame, I've had letters saying you are among our enemies.” “Well, Monsieur, you mustn't believe what's been written to you, but you may believe me perhaps. I am the enemy of no one. I pay homage to the virtues and knowledge of Monsieur Turgot. But I am familiar with the great virtues and knowledge of Monsieur Necker as well, which I honor as much. Besides, I like him personally, and I owe him my gratitude.” As I had pronounced these words in a serious, earnest tone, M. de Voltaire looked as though he feared he had caused me grief. “Come now, Madame,” he said gently, “calm yourself. God will bless you. You know how to love your friends. I am not at all Monsieur Necker's enemy, but you will forgive me for preferring Monsieur Turgot.3 Let's speak no more about it.”
Leaving the salon, he asked me to consider his house as my own. Already he had forgotten that he had just told me he was very sorry not to be able to offer me shelter…. “I beg you to, Madame, while regretting not being able to do you the honors.” I contented myself with asking his permission to come to Ferney for an hour or so at times, to enquire after his health and that of Madame Denis. I assured him (for I know he fears visits) that I would leave content if I only perceived him from afar, and, as he seemed fatigued, I entreated him, kissing his hands, to retire. He squeezed and kissed mine with feeling and went into his study. I think he finished reading the letters there in which my friends had spoken so well of me, for shortly after he came back to join me in his garden. I strolled alone with him for quite a while. You can imagine how happy I was to speak at liberty with this sublime genius, whose works had been the charm of my life, and in these splendid gardens, before these rich hillsides that he had sung of so well! I spoke to him only of what might console him for the injustice of men, whose bitterness I saw he still felt. Ah! I said to him, if you could only see the applause, the acclamations that rise in the public assemblies when your name is pronounced, how content you would be with our gratitude and love! How sweet it would be for me to see you witness your own glory! If only I had, alas! the power of a god to transport you there a moment! “I'm there! I'm there!” he cried. “I'm enjoying all of that with you. I no longer regret a thing.”4
Throughout the conversation, I was as surprised as delighted to see him walking by my side with steps both firm and agile, to the point where I could not have outstripped him without tiring myself (he was then eighty-four years old);5 me who, as you know, am quite a walker. My anxiety stopped me from time to time. “Monsieur, are you not tired? For mercy's sake, don't trouble yourself.” “No, Madame, I still walk very well, despite my sufferings.” The fear he has of Parlement makes him speak this way to all who come to Ferney. Ah! How could they even conceive of troubling the last days of this great man! No, his retreat, his genius, and our love will save my country from a crime so cowardly. Before leaving him, I thanked him for his reception, so full of kindness, that had paid me with usury for the two hundred leagues I had just traveled to come find him. He didn't want to believe that I had left you, as well as my friends, only to see him. I assured him that the letters of my friends had deceived him about everything, except that. In short, I left him so full of the happiness I had tasted, that this sharp impression deprived me of sleep for the entire night.
LETTER II
Geneva, June 1775
We went to dine today, my friend, at Monsieur and Madame Florian's, relatives of M. de Voltaire,6 who have a very lovely house near Ferney. They are two people whose greatest merit lies in belonging to his family. M. de Voltaire, who surely knows it better than anyone, nevertheless treats them with extreme kindness. I was boiling with impatience to leave them after dinner to go see the great man. M. Hennin, our resident in Geneva,7 took me by the hand.
After having chatted a moment with Madame Denis, we were very promptly admitted. We found him sitting by the fire, a book in hand. He looked demoralized. His eyes, which flashed last we met, were clouded. He said to me, in that tone of courtesy that distinguishes him as much by his manners as by his genius, “Ah! Madame, how good you are! You don't abandon an old man. You deign to visit him.” Can you conceive of anything more adorable? So gracious to all those he consents to see, even to expressing gratitude! I spoke to him of his health. He had eaten strawberries, he said, that had given him indigestion. “In that case,” I said, taking his hand and kissing it, “you won't eat any more of them, will you? You will take care of yourself for your friends and for the public whose delight you are.” “I will do anything you like,” he said, and as I continued my caresses, “Isn't she sweet!” he cried, “You bring me back to life! How fortunate I am to be so miserable! She wouldn't treat me so well if I were only twenty.” I told him that I couldn't love him more than I do, and that I would be pitiable if I could not show him all the intensity of the feelings he inspires in me. Indeed, his eighty-four years put my passion at its ease without diminishing its strength. We spoke of Ferney, which he had filled with inhabitants, which owes its existence to him. He congratulated himself. I remembered this verse, which I recited to him: J'ai fait un peu de bien; c'est mon plus bel ouvrage. (I have done a little good; it's my finest work.)
Our resident told him that, if ever his works were lost, they could be recovered in their entirety in my head. “So they will be corrected,” he said, “with this inimitable grace?” And as he had abandoned his hand to me, which I kissed, “See how I let myself go,” he said, kissing mine; “It's just that it's so sweet!” I asked him what he thought of the Barmécides, that M. de la Harpe had encharged me with bringing him. He praised them with moderation, leaving me with the inkling that there were things to be desired about which he would write to M. de la Harpe. As to In Praise of Pascal by Monsieur de Condorcet, he told me he found it so beautiful that he was horrified. “How so, Monsieur?” “Yes, Madame. If that man was such a great man, then we are all great fools not to think like him. M. de Condorcet will do us all a great wrong, if he prints this work as he has sent it. That Racine was a good Christian,” he added, “is nothing extraordinary. He was a poet, a man of imagination. But Pascal was a reasoner. We mustn't set the reasoners against us. He was, besides, something of a sick fanatic, and perhaps as dishonest as some of his antagonists.” I did not choose to prove to him that a great man can still be a Christian. I preferred to let him speak. He spoke to us of his Jansenist brother who had, he said, such zeal for martyrdom that he once told a friend who thought like him, but who did not wish to do anything that might expose them to persecution, “Parbleu, if you don't wish to be hanged, at least don't discourage the others!”
After having spent a delicious hour with him, I feared to abuse his kindness. All the happiness I enjoy in seeing him, in hearing him will always give way to the fear of wearing him out. When the interest he inspires me with does not commit me to watching over his every movement to spare him the slightest constraint, my self-interest commits me to it even more; because I've been forewarned that he has a way of expressing his fatigue that I always take care to forestall. He conducted me to the door of his study, despite all my entreaties. Once there, I said to him, “Monsieur, I am about to undertake a long journey. I beg you to give me your blessing. I will consider it as good a protection against all dangers as that of our Holy Father.” He smiled with infinite grace, leaning against the door of his study, looking at me with a gentle refined air, apparently at a loss for what he should he do. Finally, he said, “But my fingers cannot bless you. I would rather put my arms around your neck,” and he kissed me. I went back to Madame Denis who heaped courtesies upon me. Tomorrow, I am to return for dinner and to spend the night there. I gave in to the insistence of Madame Denis with all the less scruple because they say that M. de Voltaire is never more amiable nor in better humor than when he has taken his café à la crème. He no longer dines nor appears at table. He remains abed nearly the entire day and works there until eight o'clock. Then he asks for supper, which has been scrambled eggs these past three months, even though there is always a good chicken on hand, in case the fancy strikes him. All the villagers who pass through Ferney also find a dinner ready and a coin of twenty-four sous, to continue their journey. Adieu, my friend, I speak to you only of the great man. He alone can interest me here.
LETTER III
Ferney, Sunday, 1775
I have just spent two days with M. de Voltaire, so I have a lot to tell you. He spent nearly the entire first afternoon in the salon. We talked first about the grain riots, on which I informed him of a few details he didn't know. A merchant who happened to be at Ferney seized the occasion to deplore the dismissal of M. L. who liked him, who had been very helpful to him on several occasions, and who had been on the point of helping him even more when he was sacked. In short, he kept deploring this loss to himself even though M. de Voltaire repeated three times, “You sound like that woman of the populace who cursed Colbert every time she made an omelet because he had laid a tax on eggs.” This merchant was also a friend of Linguet's, of whom he sang pompous praises, and M. de Voltaire, whether by complaisance or sensitivity to a suffrage he should have disdained, spoke of him as of a man full of taste and learning. As my ears were a bit offended by these words taste and learning, given by an oracle of taste to a man who had never shown the slightest trace of any, I took the liberty to oppose him. “It seems to me,” I said to M. de Voltaire, that the essential basis of learning, and even taste, should be a good disposition, which I have never seen in Linguet. His dishonesty,” I added, “is the final straw which makes him an intolerable writer for me.” M. de Voltaire did not offer a single word to defend his opinion. “Why, Monsieur, do I adore your genius? It is not only because it is fine, universal and luminous. It is because it is always based in reason. It is also that honesty that lends all its force and warmth to genius. That is the reason its success has been so universal. It is because you truly love humanity that you detest fanaticism, that you have torn the dagger from its hands. You were worthy of such a victory. You have devoted your entire life to obtaining it. It is only to those who love mankind that the glory of being our benefactors belongs. Linguet is a writer whose morals are corrupt, as are his principles in politics. He spreads only falsehoods, or dangerous errors. He should reap nothing but scorn, and I confess that you have grieved me in honoring him with your suffrage.” M. de Voltaire remained mute, but he never ceased watching me with those eyes whose finesse and kind attention it is impossible to paint. Nevertheless the merchant took up the defense of Linguet, praising him even further; which, adding to the scorn already animating me in recollection of his baseness, caused me to summarize them to M. de Voltaire. I described Linguet, in the midst of his colleagues, tearing his hair the day they were to decide his fate at the palace, screaming that he was surrounded by assassins. I showed him describing himself in his Theory of the Libel, comparing himself now to Curtius, now to Hector, and speaking of his conduct with the Duke d'Aiguillon as though of a model of generosity and magnificence, even though this impudence was given lie by his letters that the Duke held in his hands. To conclude, I spoke of the outrages he had heaped upon his most estimable colleagues, and M. de Voltaire raised his hands and eyes to heaven in the greatest astonishment.
He returned to the salon several times after dinner. My joy at these unexpected appearances carried me to him each time; and each time I took his hands and kissed them several times. “Give me your foot,” he cried, “Give me your foot that I may kiss it.” I presented my face. He reproached me with coming to Ferney only to spoil him, to corrupt him. “It is you,” I told him “that spoil us a great deal, Monsieur, in giving us your company so long and so often.” As I showed some concern over the fatigue it might cause him, he said with a gallant nod it is impossible to describe, “Madame, I have been listening to you. That is not possible.”
This man laden with so many years and so much glory, who, while enlightening Europe is also the protective divinity of Ferney, who would be pardoned for thinking himself the center of all the movements around him, which would be, I think, my first thought or need if I were so fortunate as to enjoy some small part of his fate, receives the slightest consideration or mark of attention like others receive a royal favor or a boon. That same day, he wanted to take a snuffbox that was on the mantelpiece. I saw him reach for it, for he is never out of my sight, came and gave it to him. He nearly dropped to his knee to thank me, and you would have to see with what grace he performed this courtesy. This grace is in his bearing, his gestures, his every movement; it also tempers the fire in his gaze, whose light is still so bright it would be almost unbearable if not softened by great compassion. His eyes, as bright and piercing as those of an eagle, have something superhuman about them,8 but seem only to express benevolence and indulgence when they alight on his niece, as they command the respect of all those who surround her! For it is almost always with this smile of approval that he listens to her. His goodness also accounts for the great heed paid to Monsieur and Madame de Florian, which they would not find anywhere else but in Ferney. Madame de Florian has a young girl with her who laughs at everything and all the time. M. de Voltaire calls her “Quinze ans” (Fifteen years old) and lends himself to her childish gaiety with charming kindness. Sometimes they go to kiss him goodnight in his bed. He complains gaily over the fact that they have left such a handsome young man to sleep alone. But farewell, my friend, I am going to find mine as well for I am tired and I need to get up early to not miss the opportunity of seeing our lovable patriarch at his best.
LETTER IV
Ferney, Monday
M. de Voltaire had the goodness to send for news of me as soon as he knew I was up, and the hope of seeing him had awakened me quite early. I had his permission requested, which he accorded immediately. As soon as I appeared, he said with his usual grace, “Ah, Madame, you are doing what I should do.” “Monsieur, I would pay a part of my life for the happiness you grant me,” and I was not exaggerating in the slightest. I sat beside his bed, which is of the greatest simplicity and cleanliness. He was sitting up, as straight and steady as a young man of twenty. He was wearing a vest of white satin and a nightcap attached with a tidy ribbon. He has no other writing table in this bed, where he always works, but a chessboard.
I was struck by the order that reigns in his study. It is not like yours, with books pell-mell and great piles of paper. Everything is in order and he knows so well where everything is that, at one point, when we were discussing the trial of Monsieur de Guines a moment, he wished to consult a memorandum. “Wagnières,” he said to his secretary, “My dear Wagnières, please take this memorandum from the third shelf on the right.” And that's exactly where it was. What most abounds on his writing desk is a great quantity of quills. I entreated him to let me take one to keep as the most precious of relics, and he helped me choose one himself that he had used the most. He has the portrait of Madame du Châtelet9 beside his bed, of whom he conserves the tenderest memories. But within his bedposts, he has two engravings of the Calas family. I had not yet seen the one that portrays the wife and children of this victim to fanaticism, embracing their father as he is about to be led to the torture chamber. It made the most painful impression on me, and I reproached M. de Voltaire for having placed it in a spot that kept it continually before his eyes. “Ah, Madame, I attended to this unhappy family and that of the Sirvens incessantly for eleven years, and during that time, I reproached myself with the slightest smile that escaped me, as though it were a crime.” He said that so movingly and with such a ring of truth that I was pierced. I took his hand, which I kissed, and full of veneration and tenderness I held his thoughts on all the good he had done to these two families and on all the great services he had done humanity; on the happiness he should feel at being the benefactor of so many men, the benefactor of the entire world, which would perhaps owe no longer being soiled by the horrors of fanaticism to him.
He told me that the triumph of enlightenment was far from being assured. He spoke of the arbiters of men's destinies and of the prejudice that enfolds their childhoods. The nannies, he told me, leave traces like that—he showed me the length of his arm—while reason, when it follows, leaves only traces the length of my finger. No, Madame, we have everything to fear from a man raised by a fanatic. This subject led him to make merry on the life of Jesus and on his miracles. I didn't dare take up his sarcasms seriously and wished even less to seem to approve of them. I defended Jesus Christ as a philosopher after my own heart, whose doctrine was divine and whose morals were indulgent. “I admire,” I told M. de Voltaire, “his love for the weak and oppressed, the words he addressed to women several times, of sublime philosophy, or of touching indulgence.” “Oh, yes,” he said with a look and a smile full of the most lovable mischief, “he treated you women so well that you owe it to him to always take his defense.” We also chatted quite a lot about all our friends; d'Alembert, La Harpe, Saint-Lambert, and our good Condorcet. He spoke of M. de La Harpe as the most promising for our theater, of M. Condorcet as the worthiest apostle of philosophy, and he greatly esteems M. de Saint-Lambert, both personally and his talents.10 I told him of the sweet days I had passed in the solitude of Eaubonne, of his garden so full of flowers and fruit, of his affability toward his guests, of the perfection and voluptuousness of the meals, under Sarah's direction, where reason, the heart and appetite were all satisfied. “That is where I would like to transport myself,” he said, “rather than to the entertainments or suppers of great lords. I would dine next to you and be surrounded only by friends and by your husband, whom I wish to meet, now that I have seen you, and whose kindness will always be dear to me.” The word kindness that he used, called to his mind Monsieur de Richelieu, who had wanted to keep two men so worthy of entering it out of the Academy; two good writers and two men free from prejudice. That is, I believe, the basis on which he forms his opinion of his fellows. I sensed just how flattering your association with Abbé Delille was for you. He spoke of the Maréchal (Richelieu) as of a man who, having made a long journey, had learned nothing from his travels and who had reached old age retaining all the frivolities of his youth. That gave me the occasion to cite these verses to him:
He who has not the spirit of his age
Has all the woes of aging.
“Alas! Madame, that is so true,” he said. The most one can manage is to cite one of his verses to him. I have not yet been able to speak to him of his works. Far from resembling these men whose conversation, as Montesquieu put it, is like a mirror constantly reflecting their impertinent selves, I have never seen him call attention to himself. Genius is, I believe, above this miserable need to constantly interest others; a need that makes mediocrity so unbearable. Satisfied with himself, he relies on the noble confidence of his might. He enjoys his own thoughts too much to feel the constant neediness of puerile vanity. It is by being useful to men that he attaches them to his memory.
When M. de Voltaire enters his salon, after a long day's work, he joins the subject of conversation without seeking to direct it. If the young ladies are chatting, he relaxes with them, and adds to their gaiety with lively and amiable quips. He lends himself to you and to whatever with the greatest simplicity, but if news arrives from Paris, if he learns of an interesting event, his soul is at once absorbed by it entirely. Like the evening of my arrival, when M. Audibert informed him that Abbé du B** had just been imprisoned in the Bastille with all his papers seized. He shed tears over his misfortune and spoke with the greatest indignation of this act of despotism. It is this sensitivity so earnest that makes me adore him; this sacred fire that warms and enlightens everything he touches upon. It is this imagination, so lively, so easy to move, that instantly transforms him into the person being oppressed, lending them the support of all his genius, and which creates perhaps his genius. For I believe, with Vauvenargues, that genius is born of a concordance and harmony between the soul and mind. Who has ever taken up the cause of the oppressed with more ardor and pursued it more steadily through all the obstacles? And don't tell me it was glory he was seeking by saving them. No, it was the joy! The love of glory is discouraged by all those things where genius cannot display itself. It is only the love of mankind that submits itself to this multitude of details success necessitates, and which is in itself its greatest reward.
You tell me, my friend, to speak to him of M. d'Etallonde, for whom his zeal with the King of Prussia and our Parlement has worked without respite for the last year.11 I have already done so. I didn't know he was here. I asked for news of him. “Did you not notice the first day I saw you,” he said, “a young man with a gentle, honest face, of modest bearing?” “I beg your pardon, Monsieur, at that moment, I only had eyes for you.” “Well then! Pay attention. His face reflects his soul.” Indeed, I have since spoken a lot with M. d'Etallonde, who strikes me as worthy, both by his soul and by his woes, of all M. de Voltaire's interest. His admiration for this great man is, like his gratitude, boundless, and when he appears before his benefactor, the latter extends his hand. “Good day, my dear friend,” he says with touching tenderness. He is, I believe, the best of all men. Oh, how I admire him, and how much more I love him now that I have seen him. With what regret shall I leave him, doubtless, alas! to never see him again! “What shall I say to your friends,” I said to him, “who, upon my return, will all gather about me to speak of you?” “Tell them that you found me in my grave, and that you brought me back to life.”
LETTER V
Geneva, Friday evening
We are just back from Ferney, where we dined. My admiration and enthusiasm for M. de Voltaire are so well established that, when I arrive, nothing else is spoken of. I had his permission asked to see him a moment before the walk we were to take in his woods together, and I was soon admitted. I entered, and stroked him, and spoke about him, because I can scarcely speak of anything else, for a good quarter of an hour. It's like a passion that can only relieve itself by its effusions. He gave me the most affectionate names, called me his dear child, his beautiful queen. He seemed as touched as convinced of my tender veneration for him. We then talked about our friends in common, of M. d'Alembert, La Harpe, Saint-Lambert, and Condorcet. This latter is the one for whom he seems to me to have the most esteem and affection. He is of all men, he said, the one who resembles him the most. He has the same hatred of oppression and fanaticism, the same zeal for humanity, and the best gifts for protecting and defending it. I felt a real pleasure in hearing this great man speak like this to me of the friend who brings such sweet charm to my life. I was touched by a piece of advice he added to his praises. “Preserve this friend, Madame. He is the one most worthy of your soul and reason.” “Oh, Monsieur,” I said, “the friendship of my dear Condorcet is for me a prize beyond all treasures, and I wouldn't sacrifice it to the mastery of the universe.” He returned to your subject on his own, and repeated again that he wished to see you. I spoke to him from my soul of my heart's best friend. He asked me how long I had been married, and congratulated me on being united with the man I preferred, and that my reason would also have chosen. I showed him your portrait. He thought that you had a witty, gentle face. “There is only one other fate,” I told him, as he was looking at your portrait, “that could have tipped the scales in my heart from being the wife of Monsieur Suard: that of being your niece and of devoting my whole life to you.” “Ah, my dear child, I would have united you two. I would have given you my blessing!” He was superb today. When I arrived, Madame de Luchet said to me, “M. de Voltaire, Madame, who knows you find him handsome in his finery, put on his wig and his best dressing gown today. Do you see,” she said as he came out, “do you see how nice he looks? You are the object of this coquetry.” M. de Voltaire smiled good-naturedly with a bit of embarrassment. This graceful smile reminded me of Pigalle's statue, which caught some traces of it. I told him that I had rushed to see it, and that I had given it a kiss. “It gave you one back, I trust?” And as I only replied with a kiss of his hand, he insisted, “But tell me, it did kiss you back, didn't it?” “It seemed to want to.” We climbed into the carriage to ride through his woods. I sat beside him in rapture. I held one of his hands that I kissed a dozen times. He lets me, because he can see what a joy and need it is. We had a Russian with us that congratulated him on being still so loved by a young and, you'll pardon the epithet, pretty woman. “Ah, Monsieur, I owe all that to my eighty-four years.” He compared himself to old Titon,12 whom I had brought back to life and rejuvenated. “I wish I could,” I said, “for then you would never grow old.” He talked with Monsieur Soltikof of the Russians and of Catherine. He said of all the sovereigns of Europe, she was the one who had the most energy and brains. I don't know if he's right, but his head seemed to me the loveliest phenomenon in nature.
His forests, which he planted and loves deeply, are very vast. He has cut several very pleasant passages through it. It was a pleasure to watch him ride through his whole domain, unstooped and steady, almost agile. He tossed sharp glances left and right, and walking through his barn, which is very long, he pointed out a repair to be made in the roof with the cane in his hand. His barnyard is just as clean. He has lots of fine cows, and he wanted me to drink their milk. He went and fetched it himself, and presented it most charmingly. You can imagine how touched I was by all his attentions and in what tone I thanked him. This little trip was quite a binge for him, who almost never leaves Ferney these days. Moreover he soon said he didn't feel well and wished to return, which I found natural enough. His study is what he loves the best. That's where he lives, because that's where he thinks and where he finds the rest old age often needs. Therefore, far from urging him to remain another moment, I begged him to quickly climb into his carriage and offered my arm, which he accepted, to take him to it. But as he was about to board, he insisted on escorting me to mine, which we had had follow us. “Why don't you stay at Ferney?” he said. “When will you come and see me?” “I will have this pleasure Sunday next.” “Well, then I will live in that hope.” And he kissed me.
I see with pain that the persons who surround him, even his niece, have no indulgence for his frailty and his age. They often consider him like a capricious child, as though at eighty-four, it is not permitted to feel a need for rest, after spending three hours in society. They almost never wish to believe that he is suffering; it's as though they wish to avoid feeling sorry for him. This air of unconcern, which struck me again today, shocked me and touched the bottom of my heart.
LETTER VI
Geneva
But let's return to the great man. I don't know how I found the strength to speak to you of other pleasures than those I owe him. I considered the days I spent without seeing him as lost, and never saw him without delight. I went to sup and spend the night at Ferney yesterday. He had been ill almost all day. He had taken medicine but still came into the salon when I was announced. I found him worn out, but he received all the proofs of my tender interest with much loveable sensitivity. His conversation showed the effects of his physical condition; it was melancholic. He spoke of the discomforts of his life, without bitterness but with sadness. I thought of all the sorrows his ungrateful country had given him, in the days that he was honoring it with so many masterpieces: the fierceness with which they contrasted him with Crébillon, who cannot be compared to him in all fairness, and who they affected to raise above him. I thought perhaps he was recalling our ingratitude, and I gently reproached him with not enjoying a unique destiny that filled all Europe. “I admit, Monsieur, that with a sensitivity as sharp as yours, you must have felt enormous chagrin. But admit as well that you have had tremendous joys.” “Ah, scarcely, Madame, scarcely!” “None of us have lived without tears,” I added. “Alas” he said, “that is quite true.” But as I was still trying to bring him back to pleasant, agreeable thoughts, “Our ruling passion has been satisfied, Monsieur. Few men, as you know, can boast of this advantage. You loved glory. I could say to you, as Father Canaye did to Maréchal d'Hocquincourt, she loved you too a lot. She has showered you with honors.” “Ah, Madame, I didn't know what I wanted. It was my plaything, my toy.” “We are very fortunate that your plaything did not serve for your pleasures alone, as it does for most, but that it has been the delight of all those who know how to think and feel.”
The next morning.
I was so afraid of not seeing M. de Voltaire after his breakfast that I got up at six o'clock. Everyone was still sleeping. I went into the salon his study opens onto. Everything was silent. I threw myself onto a couch where I fell asleep till eight, when M. de Voltaire sent for news of me. I asked permission to see him a moment, which was granted me at once. You can be jealous if you like, but it is certain that I have a veritable passion for him. My first need upon seeing him was to tell him of the happiness he had given me in allowing me to see him in all his natural goodness and kindness. He gave me a thousand caresses with his lovely hand while I was kissing it, and said the loveliest things. “Preserve your goodwill toward me.” And then, “But you'll forget me when you are in Paris!” “Oh, Monsieur! You don't believe that. I would be wretched if you thought it. You know how engrossed I was in you before having the joy of seeing you. Your presence and your kindness have made this memory a thousand times dearer yet.” He then spoke to me of you and of his desire to see you with all his friends. He was very well this morning. Sleep had restored him entirely. He was suffering less, he said. His eyes were full of fire and even gaiety. He was busy revising a new edition of his works; he didn't want them to include what he called his mumble-jumble. “You don't reach posterity,” he said, “with that much baggage.” Then he added gaily, “Yesterday I was a philosopher, today I'm Polichinelle.”13 I'll spare you my compliments on this change of roles. I did get a peek of the author a moment, however. He was holding in his hand from this new edition, a volume of his little encyclopedia. He said to my brother, who had just entered, this is a little work I think highly of. My brother spoke to him of La Pucelle (The Maid of Orleans), which he knew by heart. “It is of all my works,” he said, “the one I love the best. I'm crazy about this Agnes who always wants to be so wise and who is always so weak.” My brother recited a few passages to him. He listened to them with a gaiety born more of the subject than of an author's vanity. He interrupted my brother a few times to say, “But that's not how verses are recited,” and gave him a tone that conveyed more cadence and harmony. When he heard this verse on Madame de Pompadour:
Et sur son rang son esprit s'est monté (And on her rank her spirit mounted)
he disavowed the phrase, and asked what the devil is a spirit mounted on a rank? I only spoke to him of what I knew and liked of his Pucelle; the beginning of several cantos where I find much gaiety, philosophy, and verve. We left him to his corrections of the new edition and went into the salon, where he only appeared near evening, when he was tired of his work. His strength corresponds to the inspiration of his genius, I think. His head seems as full of ideas, and his soul as ardent as in his prime. There is no emptiness in his life; his thoughts and his profound love of humanity and of the progress of reason fill his every moment. But what always astonishes me, moves me, and enraptures me almost, is that he seems to strip away what is powerful in his genius, to keep only what is graceful and pleasant. Whenever he joins society a moment, I have never seen him distracted nor preoccupied. It's as though his courtesy, which has something noble and scrupulous, had imposed the law of forgetting himself completely when with others. If your eyes seek it, you are sure to find in his that look of goodwill and a sort of gratitude for the feelings he inspires. I think he trusts in mine, and I confess a veneration for him so tender that I would be wretched if I didn't think him convinced of it. I'm sleeping at Ferney tonight, and it will be for the last time.
LETTER VII
Ferney
We have just bid our farewells to the great man, my friend. Alas! No doubt our farewells for eternity. I didn't wish to speak to him of my departure, but it was clear he knew of it by the things he said to me. He was kind enough to admit me to his study once again, and to display the most loveable, flattering sentiments for me, even though he's very busy correcting the faults of his new edition at the moment. There are things on Parlement in it that he wants to mitigate absolutely. I can see he's afraid of it, and it grieves me, for what could be more ghastly at his age than to live in alarm and terror? He told me that M. Séguier had come to see him in passing by Ferney, not long ago. “And there, Madame, in the seat you are sitting in (I was seated near his bed), this Séguier threatened to denounce me to his assembly that would have me burnt if they got a hold of me.” “Monsieur, they wouldn't dare.” “And who would stop them?” “Your genius, your age, the good you've done humanity, the cries of all of Europe. Believe that every honest thing that exists, everyone you've made tolerant and human would rise up in your favor.” “Ah, Madame, they would come to see me burn, and say in the evening perhaps, ‘Still, it's such a shame.’” “No, I should never suffer it,” I said, horrified at the very idea, “I would stab the executioner if they could find one capable of executing such an abominable decree.” He kissed my hand and said, “You're a loveable child. Yes, I'll count on you.” “Oh! You won't need my help. For mercy's sake, Monsieur, dismiss such horrid thoughts, which, I protest, have no foundation.”
The next day, my first need upon awakening was to see him. Alas! It was for the last time that I entered his study, that I saw him and received the marks of his friendship! I was terribly saddened. I had dressed early because we were going to dine in the neighborhood. I learned too late that he liked to see ladies dressed in their finery, for I confess I would have employed this means to please him. As soon as I appeared, “Who is this beautiful lady, so glittering at my door?” he cried. “It is I, Monsieur,” and I ran to kiss his hands. “My God, how sweet you are! I have written to Monsieur Suard that I was in love with you.” “Oh, Monsieur, of all the kind things you've said, this is the one that flatters me most, for it is the one that will most affect him!” “You slept above my study.” “Yes, Monsieur. It made me both proud and happy and will leave me with wonderful memories.”
As there were a lot of people in his study, he soon grew weary, and I saw his head turn on his pillow, eyes shut and breathing hard. I said at once that we had to let him get the rest he needs. These words seemed to bring him back to life. He gave me a glance full of tender gratitude. I hugged him against my breast. “You found me dying,” he said, “but my heart will always live for you.” My tears flowed in abundance on leaving his house where I will never see him again, although he urged me to return with you, dear Condorcet, and M. d'Alembert this fall.
LETTER VIII
Addressed to Voltaire on Leaving Ferney
Monsieur,
I did not want to bid you my farewells. It is horrid to part with a great man when one has little hope of seeing him again. Permit me to thank you for all the happiness I owe to your kindnesses. Ah! How the feelings I take with me add to the tender veneration I have had so long for you! How moved I was in approaching you, in finding you always as perfectly good as you are great; in seeing you do as much good around you as you would have liked to do for the whole of humanity! What delicious memories my heart will conserve of these hours in which you deigned to await me in your study and to chat with me with a kindness so gentle and informal! How tempted was I to run back again in leaving Ferney and after having received your embraces! I could hear the sound of your voice. I wanted to throw myself at your feet. No, I'm far from having seen you enough, from having told you enough how much I admire you and, allow me to say it, how much I love you. But you should have convinced me that I envy, Monsieur, the fate of those around you. How sweet it must be to devote oneself to the old age of a great man! But I would be no use for you, I would converse at least. The joy of having seen you will add new charms to those I tasted in reading your immortal works. I will speak often of you with all those we both love. Receive with your usual kindness the assurance of my most tender respect and veneration.
REPLY FROM M. DE VOLTAIRE
Madame,
I wrote to your husband that I was in love with you. My passion has greatly increased upon reading your letter. You will forget me in the world of Paris. And me in my desert, where we are about to put on the play of Orpheus, I will miss you like he longed for Eurydice, with this difference: that I will descend to Hades first, and you will never come there looking for me. Speak of me with your friends and preserve your goodwill toward me. This heart is too moved to tell you that it is your very humble servant.