Frederick II of Prussia first wrote to Voltaire the day after he attained some autonomy in a place of his own in 1736, begging Voltaire to be “his master in everything.” Their ensuing friendship, despite its storms, lasted until Voltaire's death, and a more fascinating forty-three-year correspondence is hard to come by. As Frederick granted freedom of beliefs in 1740, immediately upon succeeding to the throne, he played no small role in demonstrating its feasibility to all of Europe as well as to the American colonies where references to English translations of this oration can be found. The vehemence of Frederick's approval of Voltaire's battle is made abundantly clear at the end of this speech, which also provides an account of Voltaire's life, as interesting in its minor errors and omissions as in other details.
Gentlemen,
In every age, particularly in the most ingenious, civilized nations, men of rare and high-minded genius have been honored in their lifetimes, and even more so after their deaths. They were considered a phenomenon which shed their radiance on their homeland. The first legislators who taught men how to live in society, the first heroes who defended their fellow citizens, the philosophers who explored the chasms of nature and uncovered a few truths, the poets who transmitted the glorious acts of their contemporaries to future generations; all these men were considered superior to the average run of humans. They were thought favored with special inspiration from the Divinity. It is for this reason that altars were raised to Socrates, that Hercules was thought a god, that Greece honored Orpheus, and that seven cities fought over the glory of having been the birthplace of Homer. The people of Athens, whose education was the most perfected, knew the Iliad by heart, and gave heartfelt celebration to the glories of its ancient heroes in the cantos of this poem. We also see that Sophocles, who won the trophy for theater, was held in great esteem for his talents and that, furthermore, the Republic of Athens adorned him with the highest offices. Everyone knows how much Aeschines, Pericles, Demosthenes were esteemed, and that Pericles twice saved the life of Diagoras; first from the fury of the Sophists, and the second time, while helping him in his good deeds. Whoever had talents in Greece was sure to find admirers and even enthusiasts. It is these powerful encouragements that develop genius, that help minds soar and that help them break through the limits of mediocrity. What spirit of competition must not have inspired the philosophers when they learned that Philip of Macedonia had chosen Aristotle as the sole tutor worthy of raising Alexander! In this glorious age, every merit had its reward, every talent its honors. Good authors were given distinctions; the works of Thucydides and Xenophon were in everyone's hands. Every citizen seemed to participate in the fame of these geniuses who raised the name of Greece above that of all the other peoples.
Soon afterward, Rome furnished a similar spectacle. We see Cicero who, by his philosophic spirit and his eloquence, was raised to the height of honors; Lucretius who didn't live long enough to enjoy his reputation. Virgil and Horace were honored by the approval of this sovereign people. They were admitted into the familiar circle of Augustus and received their share of the rewards that this clever tyrant showered on those who, by celebrating his virtues, veiled his vices.
During the renaissance of letters in our Occident, we recall with pleasure the eagerness with which the Medicis and several sovereign pontiffs welcomed writers. We know that Petrarch was crowned a poet, and that death stole from Tasso the honor of being crowned in this same Capitol where the conquerors of the universe had triumphed in the past. Louis XIV, avid for every sort of glory, did not neglect that of rewarding the extraordinary men that nature produced under his reign. He did not limit himself to showering benefits upon Bossuet, Fenelon, Racine, Despréaux; he spread his munificence over all the lettered people, whatever their country, whenever their reputation reached his ears.
Such is the veneration all eras have had for these privileged geniuses who seem to ennoble the human race, whose works entertain and console us over the miseries of life. It is thus more than just that we pay tribute to the great man whose loss Europe is deploring, to give him the praise and admiration he so well deserved.
We do not propose, gentlemen, to enter into the detail of the private life of Monsieur de Voltaire. The history of a king should consist in an enumeration of the benefits he bestowed upon his subjects; that of a warrior, on his campaigns; that of a man of letters, in the analysis of his works. But as it is impossible to examine in detail the multitude of works we owe to the fecundity of M. de Voltaire, I hope you will content yourselves, gentlemen, with the meager sketch I will present, confining myself besides to barely touching on the principle events of his life. It would be dishonoring M. de Voltaire to dwell on researches that concern only his family. Contrary to those who owe everything to their ancestors and nothing to themselves, he owed everything to nature. He was the sole instrument of his fortune and his glory. We should content ourselves with knowing that his parents, who held employment in the judiciary branches, gave him an honest education. He studied at the college of Louis le Grand under Fathers Porée and Tournemine,1 who were the first to discover the sparks of the brilliant flames that filled his writings.
Though young, M. de Voltaire was not regarded as an ordinary child. His verve had already made itself known. This is what introduced him to the home of Madame de Rupelmonde. This lady, charmed by the vivacity and talents of the young poet, launched him in the best social circles of Paris.2 The upper classes became for him a school where his taste acquired that subtle tact, politeness and urbanity never achieved by those erudite scholars and solitary persons who misjudge what pleases refined society, too remote from their view to become familiar with it. It is mainly due to this tone of gracious banter and polish spread throughout the works of M. de Voltaire that they enjoy the vogue they do.
His tragedy Oedipus and a few poems appreciated in society had already appeared in public, when an indecent satire in verse on the Duke of Orleans, then the Regent of France, was sold in Paris. A certain La Grange, author of this dark work, to avoid suspicions, found a way to pass it off as M. de Voltaire's work. The government acted precipitously. The young poet, innocent though he was, was arrested and conducted to the Bastille, where he remained several months.3 But as the essence of truth is to shed its light sooner or later, the guilty was punished and M. de Voltaire vindicated and released. Would you believe it, gentlemen, that it was in this very Bastille that our young poet composed the first two cantos of his Henriade? It is true, nonetheless. His prison became a Parnassus for him, where the Muses inspired him. What is certain is that his first and second cantos remained as he first timed them. For want of paper and ink, he learned the verses by heart and retained them.
Soon after his release, revolted by the disgraceful treatment and opprobrium whose shame he had endured at home, he withdrew to England, where he experienced not only the most favorable welcome from the public, but where he soon found a number of enthusiasts. He put the last touches to his Henriade in England, which he then published under the title, Poem of the League. Our young poet, who knew how to make the most of everything, applied himself principally to the study of philosophy while in England. The wisest and the most profound philosophers were flourishing there at the time. He seized the thread with which the circumspect Locke led himself through the labyrinth of metaphysics and, holding in check his impetuous imagination, he subjected it to the laborious calculations of the immortal Newton. He appropriated so well the discoveries of this philosopher, and his progress was such, that he was able to expose the great man's system in an abridgement clear enough for everyone to understand.4 Before him, M. de Fontenelle had been the only philosopher who, by strewing flowers over the aridity of astronomy, rendered it capable of amusing the fair sex in their pastimes. The English were flattered to find a Frenchman who, not just content to admire their philosophers, translated them into his language. All the most illustrious of London hastened to meet him. No foreigner had ever been received more favorably by this nation. But however flattering this triumph was to self-esteem, the love of his country won out in the heart of our poet and he returned to France.
The Parisians, enlightened by the suffrages a nation as learned as profound had given our young author, began to suspect that a great man had been born among them. His Letters on the English then appeared, where the author paints in strong, rapid strokes the customs, arts, religions, and the government of this nation. The tragedy of Brutus, made to please this free-spirited people, soon followed, as did Mariamne, and a host of other plays.
At that time there was in France a lady celebrated for her taste for the arts and for the sciences. You guess well, gentlemen, that it is of the illustrious Marquise du Châtelet that we wish to speak. She had read the philosophic works of our young author. Soon, she made his acquaintance. The desire to instruct herself and eagerness to fathom the few truths that the human mind is able to, strengthened the ties of this friendship and made it indissoluble. Madame du Châtelet abandoned at once the Theodicy of Leibniz and the ingenious romances of this philosopher to adopt instead the circumspect, prudent methods of Locke, less apt to satisfy avid curiosity than strict reason. She learned enough geometry to follow Newton in his abstract calculations. Her application even persevered to the point of composing an abstract of this system for her son.5 Cirey soon became the philosophical retreat of these two friends, where each composed works of a different genre that they shared with each other, striving through each other's remarks to perfect their productions as far as they could. It was there that the plays Zaïre, Alzire, Mérope, Sémiramis, Catilina, Electra or Oreste were composed.
M. de Voltaire, who brought everything into the sphere of his activity, did not limit himself uniquely to the pleasure of enriching the theater with his tragedies. It was particularly for the use of the Marquise du Châtelet that he composed his Essay on World History. His History of Louis XIV and his History of Charles XII had already appeared.
An author of so much genius, as varied as correct, did not escape the Académie Française. She claimed him as a property that belonged to her. He became a member of this illustrious body, and one of its finest ornaments. Louis XV, to distinguish him, also honored him with the post of Gentleman of the Royal Bedchamber and Royal Historian of France, a role he had, so to speak, already fulfilled by writing the history of Louis XIV.
Although M. de Voltaire was grateful for such dazzling marks of approval, he was nevertheless more grateful for his friendships. Inseparably bound to Madame du Châtelet, the glitter of a brilliant court did not dim his vision to the point of making him prefer the splendor of Versailles to a stay in Lunéville, and even less to his country retreat in Cirey. The two friends peaceably enjoyed what portion of happiness humanity is susceptible to, until the death of the Marquise du Châtelet put an end to this beautiful union. It was a severe blow to the emotions of M. de Voltaire, who needed all of his philosophy to withstand it.
Precisely during the time he was using all his strength to quell his grief, he was called to the Court of Prussia. The king, who had seen him in the year 1740, wished to possess this genius as rare as he was eminent. It was in the year 1752 that he came to Berlin. His knowledge knew no bounds. His conversation was as instructive as it was agreeable, his imagination as brilliant as it was varied, his spirit as prompt as it was present. He compensated for the sterility of certain subjects by the graces of fiction. In a word, he was the delight of all societies. An unfortunate quarrel that arose between him and M. de Maupertuis caused a falling out between these two learned men who were made to like and not to hate each other, and the war that occurred in 1756 gave M. de Voltaire the desire to settle in Switzerland.6 He went to Geneva, to Lausanne, then purchased Les Délices, and finally chose to live in Ferney. His free time was shared between study and building. He read and wrote and, by the fertility of his genius, kept all the publishers of the cantons busy.
The presence of M. de Voltaire, the effervescence of his genius, and the ease of his productions persuaded the whole vicinity that to become a bel esprit, it was enough to only want to. It became a sort of epidemic illness from which the Swiss, not said to be among the glibbest, all seemed to suffer. They no longer expressed even the most ordinary things except by antithesis or epigrams. The town of Geneva was the most sorely affected by this contagion. The bourgeois, who believed themselves Lycurguses at least, were all inclined to give new laws to their country; but nary a one wished to obey those that were extant. These movements, caused by a zeal for misunderstood liberties, led to a sort of revolt or war that was merely ridiculous. M. de Voltaire did not fail to immortalize the event by singing of this so-called war in the tone Homer used on that of the rats and frogs. At times his fertile pen brought forth works for the theater, at others, mixtures of philosophy and history, at others, moral and allegorical novels. But at the same time that he was thus enriching literature with his new productions, he was applying himself to rural economy. We see to what point a fine mind is open to all sorts of forms. Ferney was nearly a wasteland when our philosopher acquired it. He brought it under cultivation. Not only did he repopulate it, but he helped numerous manufacturers and artisans set up there.
Let us not recall too soon, Gentlemen, the causes of our grief. Let us leave M. de Voltaire in tranquility in Ferney and cast a more attentive, thoughtful look meanwhile at the multitude of his various productions. History reports that Virgil, dying, and little satisfied with his Aeneid, which he hadn't been able to perfect as much as he would have liked, wanted to burn it. The long life M. de Voltaire enjoyed enabled him to hone and correct his poem, The League, and to bring it to the perfection it has now reached under the name of the Henriade. Those envious of our author reproached him with only writing an imitation of the Aeneid in this poem, and it must be admitted that there are cantos whose subjects resemble each other. But these are not servile copies. If Virgil depicts the destruction of Troy, Voltaire displays the horrors of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre. The love of Dido and Aeneas is compared to the love of Henri IV and the beautiful Gabrielle d'Estrées. To the descent of Aeneas into the underworld, where Anchises reveals the posterity to whom he will give birth, is countered Henri IV's dream and the future that St. Louis reveals to him by announcing the destiny of the Bourbons. If I dared to venture my opinion, I would give the prize to the Frenchman for two of these cantos; namely, the one on St. Bartholomew's Day and on the dream of Henri IV. Only in the love of Dido does Virgil seem to win out over Voltaire, because the Latin author interests and speaks to our heart, whereas the French author uses only allegories. But if one wished to examine these two poems with an open mind, without prejudices for either the ancients or the moderns, we would admit that a lot of details in the Aeneid would not be tolerated today in the works of our contemporaries, like, for example, the funeral honors Aeneas gives his father, Anchises; the fable of the harpies and the prophecy they give the Trojans, that they will be reduced to eating their plates, which then comes true; the sow with her nine piglets, who indicates the place where Aeneas’ labors must end; his ships turned into nymphs; a stag killed by Ascanius, which sparks the war between the Trojans and the Rutuli; the hatred the gods put into the hearts of Amate and Livinia for Aeneas, whom Lavinia marries in the end. These are perhaps the defects Virgil himself was unhappy with, that made him want to burn his work and that, according to judicious censors, should place the Aeneid above the Henriade. If vanquished difficulties prove the merit of an author, it is certain that Voltaire had more of them to surmount than Virgil. The subject of the Henriade is the surrender of Paris, thanks to the conversion of Henri IV.7 The poet did not thus have the liberty of manipulating marvels as he pleased. He was reduced to limiting himself to the mysteries of the Christians, far less fertile in pleasant and picturesque images than the mythology of the Gentiles. Nevertheless, it is impossible to read the tenth cantos of the Henriade without admitting that the charms of the poetry ennoble every subject it touches upon. M. de Voltaire was the only one discontent with his poem. He felt that his hero was not exposed to grave enough dangers and that, consequently, he must be less interesting than Aeneas, who never escapes one peril without falling into another….8 His universal genius embraced every genre. After having tested himself against Virgil, and having perhaps surpassed him, he wanted to measure himself against Ariosto. He composed La Pucelle in the taste of Orlando Furioso; but this poem is not an imitation of the other. The fable, the marvels, the episodes, everything is original in it and breathes the gaiety of a brilliant imagination.
His vers de société9 were the delight of every person of taste. Only the author himself took no account of it, though neither Anacreon, Horace, Ovid, Tibullus, nor any of the great authors of antiquity left us any models in these genres that he did not equal. His mind produced these works with no effort. This did not satisfy him. He felt that to obtain a well-deserved reputation, it was necessary to acquire it in overcoming the greatest obstacles.
After having given you a brief review of the talents of the poet, let us pass to those of the historian. The History of Charles XII was the first he wrote. He became the Quintus Curtius of this Alexander. The flowers he strews over the subject do not alter the basic truths in it. He paints the brilliant valor of the Northern hero in the brightest colors; his resolve on certain occasions, his obstinacy on others, his good fortune and his woes. After having tested his skills on Charles XII, he tried his hand at the history of the age of Louis XIV. It is no longer the Romanesque style of Quintus Curtius that he employs. He substitutes that of Cicero who, while pleading for the Law of Manilius, praises Pompey. It is a French author who relates with enthusiasm the famous events of this great century; who sheds the brightest daylight on the advantages that gave such preponderance to his nation over other peoples, on the arts and sciences protected by a polished court, the progress of industry of every sort, and the intrinsic power of France that made its king the arbiter of Europe. This unique work deserves to bestow the affection and gratitude of the entire French nation on M. de Voltaire, who elevated her more than she had ever been by any of her other writers. It is yet another style that he employs in his Essay on Universal History: a strong and simple style. The character of his spirit shows itself more in the way he wrote this history than in all his other writings. We see the fiery spirit of a superior genius who sees the grander view of everything, who heeds only what is important, and who disregards all the minor details. This work is not composed to teach history to those who haven't studied it, but to recall the essential facts to the mind of those familiar with it. He holds to the first law of history, which is to tell the truth; and the reflections he sows it with are not superfluous, they are born of the very matter at hand.
There remain to us droves of other treatises by M. de Voltaire, which it is almost impossible to analyze. Some of them turn on subjects of literary critique, others on metaphysical matters he's clarifying, others yet on astronomy, history, physics, eloquence, poetics, or geometry. Even his novels carry original characteristics: Zadig, Micromegas, Candide are works that, while seeming to breathe frivolity, contain allegorical morals or critiques of certain modern systems, where the useful is inseparably tied to the agreeable.
So many talents, so much diverse knowledge united in a single person, throws readers into an astonishment mixed with surprise. Recapitulate, Gentlemen, the lives of the great men of antiquity whose names have come down to us and you will find that each of them was limited to a single talent. Aristotle and Plato were philosophers; Aeschines and Demosthenes, orators; Homer, epic poet; Sophocles, tragic poet; Anacreon, lyric poet; Thucydides and Xenophon, historians; just as, among the Romans, Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Lucretia were only poets; Titus Livius and Varro, historians; Crassus, Marcus Antonius, and Quintas Hortensius kept to their harangues. Cicero, this consul orator, defender and father of the nation, is the only one who united diverse types of talents and knowledge. He joined the great art of words, which made him superior to all his contemporaries, to a profound study of philosophy as it was known in his time. This is apparent in his Tuscalan Disputations, in his admirable treatise On the Nature of the Gods, in On Duties, which is perhaps the best work on morals that we have. Cicero was even a poet. He translated the verses of Aratus into Latin, and it is believed that his corrections perfected the poem of Lucretius.
We have therefore been obliged to travel seventeen centuries to find, in the multitude of men who make up the human race, only Cicero whose knowledge can be compared with that of our illustrious author. One might say, if I may be permitted to express it so, that M. de Voltaire was worth an entire academy by himself. There are writings in which we think we recognize Bayle, armed with all the arguments of his dialectic. Others where we imagine we're reading Thucydides. Here, we have a physicist, discovering the secrets of nature. There, a metaphysician, who, relying on analogy and experience, carefully follows in the footsteps of Locke. In other works, you will find the follower of Sophocles. Here, he strews some flowers on the path; there, he laces on his comic boots; but the elevation of his spirit does not seem content to simply equal Terence or Molière. Soon, you see him on Pegasus, who, spreading his wings, carries him to heights of Helicon where the god of the Muses awards him his place between Homer and Virgil.
So much variety in his works and so many great efforts from his genius produced a vivid sensation on all minds in the end, and all Europe applauded the superior talents of M. de Voltaire. Not that jealousy and envy spared him: they sharpened all their traits to overwhelm him. The spirit of independence innate in all men, which inspires aversion for the most legitimate authority, revolts them with even more bitterness against a superiority in talents their failings cannot attain. But the cries of envy were smothered by even louder applause. Men of letters prided themselves on their acquaintance with this great man. Whoever was philosophic enough to esteem only personal merit set Voltaire high above those whose ancestors, titles, pride, and riches constitute their only merit. M. de Voltaire was among the small number of philosophers who could say, Omnia mecum porto.10 Princes, sovereigns, kings, empresses, showered him with marks of their esteem and admiration. It is not that we mean to imply that the rulers of the earth are the best assessors of merit, but it proves at least that the repute of our author was so generally established that the heads of nations, far from contradicting the voice of the public, felt obliged to conform to it.
Nonetheless, as the bad is found mixed with the good everywhere in this world, it happened that M. de Voltaire, while not insensitive to the universal applause he enjoyed, was no less insensitive to the sting of all these insects who stagnate in the mire of the Hippocrene. Far from punishing them, he immortalized them by putting their obscure names in his works. But from them he received only slight splatterings in comparison with the more violent persecutions he had to suffer from ecclesiastics who, by their status, being only of ministers of peace, should have practiced only charity and benevolence. As blinded by a false zeal as they were besotted by fanaticism, they hounded him, hoping to condemn him through calumny. Their ignorance foiled the project. Lacking any discernment, they befuddled the clearest ideas to the point where the passages in which our author implies tolerance are interpreted by them as containing the dogmas of atheism. And this same Voltaire, who had deployed all the resources of his genius to forcefully prove the existence of God, heard himself accused, to his great astonishment, of having denied his existence.
The venom these devout souls poured so clumsily over him found supporters among those of their kind, but not among those who had the slightest smattering of dialectic.11 His real crime consisted in not being cowardly enough to hide the vices of so many pontiffs who have dishonored the Church in his history; in having said, like Fra Paolo, Fleury, and so many others that passions often influence the conduct of priests more than the inspiration of the Holy Spirit does; that in his works, he inspires a horror of these abominable massacres that zealotry incited; and lastly, that he treated with contempt all the unintelligible, frivolous quarrels theologians of every sect attach such importance to. Add to this, to complete the canvas, that all of M. de Voltaire's writings sold swiftly as soon as they left the presses, while the bishops watched the worms gnaw at their mandates in holy vexation, or saw them rot in the shops of their booksellers. This is how imbecilic priests reason. Their foolishness would be pardoned if their bad syllogisms did not disturb the peace of so many individuals. All that the truth obliges us to say is that such bad reasoning is enough to characterize these vile, despicable beings who, while professing to submit their reason, openly divorce all good sense.
Since the point here is to justify M. de Voltaire, we should not conceal any of the accusations that have been made against him. The hypocrites further charge him, then, with having exposed the views of Epicurus, Hobbes, Woolston, Lord Bolingbroke, and other philosophers. But is it not clear that, far from strengthening these opinions by what any other man might have added, he contents himself with being the reporter of a trial whose verdict he leaves to his readers? Moreover, if religion has the truth as its foundation, what has it to fear from anything falsehood can invent against it? M. de Voltaire was so convinced of it, that he did not believe that the doubts of a few philosophers could prevail over divine inspiration. But let us go further. Let us compare the morals spread throughout his works to those of his persecutors. Men should love each other like brothers, says he. Their duty is to help each other bear the burden of life in which the sum total of pain and evil outweighs the good. Their opinions are as different as their appearances. Far from persecuting each other for thinking differently, they ought to limit themselves to rectifying the opinions of those who are in error, with reason, and without using the fire and sword in place of arguments. In a word, they should conduct themselves with others as they would wish to be treated themselves. Is this M. de Voltaire speaking, or is it the apostle, St. John, or is it the language of the Gospels? Oppose to this the moral practices of hypocrisy or zealotry. It expresses itself like this: Let us exterminate those who do not think what we want them to think, condemn those who reveal our ambition and our vices, let God be the shield for our iniquities, let men rip each other apart, let blood flow. What does it matter so long as our authority grows? Let us make God implacable and cruel, so that the earnings of the custom houses of purgatory and heaven increase our revenues. That is how religion often serves as a pretext for the passions of men and how, through their perversity, the purest source of good becomes one of evil.
M. de Voltaire's cause being as good as we have just shown it, won the approval of all the tribunes where reason is better heeded than mystical sophisms. Whichever persecution he was enduring from theological hatred, he always distinguished religion from those were dishonoring it. He did justice to the ecclesiastics whose virtues had been a veritable ornament for the Church. He never blamed any but those whose perverse morals had made them a public abomination.
M. de Voltaire thus spent his life between the persecutions of the envious and the admiration of his enthusiasts, without the sarcasms of the first humiliating him and without the applause of the second augmenting his opinion of himself. He contented himself with enlightening the world and with inspiring a love of literature and humanity through his works. Not content with giving moral precepts, he preached benevolence by his example. It was his courageous support that came to the assistance of the unfortunate Calas family. It was he who pleaded the cause of the Sirvens and who tore them from the hands of their barbarous judges; he who would have brought the Chevalier de La Barre back to life if he had had the gift of performing miracles. How noble for a philosopher to raise his voice from the depths of his refuge and for humanity, whose voice he is, to force judges to reform unjust rulings! If M. de Voltaire had only this one trait in his favor, he would deserve to be ranked among the very small number of humanity's true benefactors. Philosophy and religion then both teach in concert the path of virtue. Which is more Christian? The judge who cruelly forces a family to leave its country, or the philosopher who takes them in and defends them? The judge who serves as the sword of justice to kill a scatterbrain, or the wise man who wants to save the young man's life to mend his ways? The executioner of Calas or the protector of his afflicted family? That, Gentlemen, is what will make the memory of M. de Voltaire forever dear to those born with a heart and with feelings that can be moved. However precious the gifts of the mind, the imagination, the elevation of genius and vast knowledge, these gifts, which nature bestows only rarely, still never take precedence over acts of humanity and benevolence. We admire the first and we bless and venerate the second.
However painful it is for me, Gentlemen, to separate myself from M. de Voltaire forever, I nevertheless feel the moment approaching where I must renew the sorrow his loss causes you. We have left him in peace in Ferney. Affairs of private interest engaged him to travel to Paris where he hoped to still have time to save some vestiges of his fortune from a bankruptcy that had enfolded him. He did not want to reappear in his country empty-handed. His time, which he divided between philosophy and belles-lettres, furnished a number of works of which he always had a few in reserve. Having composed a new tragedy on the subject of Irene,12 he wanted to produce it on the stage of Paris. His habit was to subject his plays to the severest critiques before exposing them in public. In accordance with his principles, he consulted everyone of good taste in Paris that he knew, sacrificing vain pride to the desire of making his works more worthy of posterity. Docile to the informed opinions he was given, he corrected this tragedy with a singular zeal and ardor. He spent entire nights reworking his play, and either to dispel sleep or to reanimate his senses, he used an immoderate amount of coffee. Fifty cups per day barely sufficed him. This drink, which put his blood into the most violent agitation, caused him such prodigious overexcitement that, to calm the sort of hot fever it caused, he took recourse in opiates, and took such strong doses that, instead of relieving his suffering, it accelerated his end. Soon after the taking of this remedy with so little restraint, a sort of paralysis overtook him, followed by an apoplexy that ended his days.
Even though M. de Voltaire had rather poor health; even though his sorrows, worries, and great application to his work had weakened his constitution, he nevertheless pursued his career into his eighty-fourth year. His existence was such that, in his case, the mind won over matter in everything. His was a strong soul that communicated its vigor to a body almost diaphanous. His memory was astonishing, and he conserved all his faculties of thought and imagination until his last breath. With what joy I will recall to you, Gentlemen, the transports of admiration and recognition the Parisians showed this great man during his last stay in his homeland! It is rare but also moving when the public is equitable, when it does justice in its lifetime to these extraordinary beings that nature only revels in producing every now and then; to see them garner even from their contemporaries the approval they are sure to obtain from posterity. It should be expected that a man who had employed all the wisdom of his genius to celebrate the glory of his nation would see a few rays reflect on himself. The French sensed it and, by their enthusiasm, made themselves worthy of sharing the luster their compatriot had shone on them and on the century. But will it be believed that Voltaire, to whom pagan Greece would have raised altars, of whom statues would have been made in Rome, to whom a great empress, protectress of sciences, wanted to erect a monument in St. Petersburg, who would believe, I say, that such a being would not find a little earth to cover his remains in his fatherland? What! In the eighteenth century, where knowledge has spread more than ever, where the philosophic spirit has made so much progress, there are hierophants more barbaric than the Heruli,13 more worthy of living among the peoples of Taprobana than in the French nation, blinded by zealotry, intoxicated with fanaticism, who would prevent the final respects of humanity from being paid to one of the most celebrated men that France has ever brought to bear! Yet that is what Europe saw in grief mingled with indignation. But whatever the hatred of these frenzied lunatics or the cowardice of the vengeance they take out on cadavers, neither the shrieks of envy nor their savage howls will tarnish the memory of M. de Voltaire. The kindest destiny they can await is for them and their vile artifices to be buried forever in the darkness of oblivion; whereas the memory of M. de Voltaire will grow throughout the ages and transmit his name to immortality.