James Boswell, later to become Johnson’s biographer, was typical of a certain breed of intellectual Scot. As a young man, open to ideas and influences beyond his country, he travelled throughout Europe, and while doing so, invited himself into Voltaire’s house at Ferney.
I was in true spirits; the earth was covered with snow; I surveyed wild nature with a noble eye. I called up all the grand ideas which I have ever entertained of Voltaire. The first object that struck me was his church with the inscription: ‘Deo erexit Voltaire MDCCLXI.’ His château was handsome, I was received by two or three footmen, who showed me into a very elegant room. I sent by one of them a letter to Monsieur de Voltaire which I had from Colonel Constant at the Hague. He returned and told me, ‘Monsieur de Voltaire is very much annoyed at being disturbed. He is abed.’ I was afraid that I should not see him. Some ladies and gentlemen entered, and I was entertained for some time. At last Monsieur de Voltaire opened the door of his apartment, and stepped forth. I surveyed him with eager attention, and found him just as his print had made me conceive him. He received me with dignity, and that air of the world which a Frenchman acquires in such perfection. He had a slate-blue, fine frieze night-gown, and a three-knotted wig. He sat erect upon his chair, and simpered when he spoke. He was not in spirits, nor I neither. All I presented was the ‘foolish face of wondering praise’.
We talked of Scotland. He said the Glasgow editions were ‘très belles’. I said, ‘An Academy of Painting was also established there, but it did not succeed. Our Scotland is no country for that.’ He replied with a keen archness, ‘No; to paint well it is necessary to have warm feet. It’s hard to paint when your feet are cold.’ Another would have given a long dissertation on the coldness of our climate. Monsieur de Voltaire gave the very essence of raillery in half a dozen words …
I told him that Mr Johnson and I intended to make a tour through the Hebrides, the Northern Isles of Scotland. He smiled, and cried, ‘Very well; but I shall remain here. You will allow me to stay here?’ ‘Certainly.’ ‘Well then, go. I have no objections at all.’
I asked him if he still spoke English. He replied, ‘No. To speak English one must place the tongue between the teeth, and I have lost my teeth.’ …
I returned yesterday to this enchanted castle. The magician appeared a little before dinner. But in the evening he came into the drawing room in great spirits. I placed myself by him. I touched the keys in unison with his imagination. I wish you had heard the music. He was all brilliance. He gave me continued flashes of wit. I got him to speak English, which he does in a degree that made me now and then start up and cry, ‘Upon my soul this is astonishing!’ When he talked our language he was animated with the soul of a Briton. He had bold flights. He had humour. He had an extravagance; he had a forcible oddity of style that the most comical of our dramatis personae could not have exceeded. He swore bloodily, as was the fashion when he was in England. He hummed a ballad; he repeated nonsense. Then he talked of our Constitution with a noble enthusiasm. I was proud to hear this from the mouth of an illustrious Frenchman. At last we came upon religion. Then did he rage. The company went to supper. Monsieur de Voltaire and I remained in the drawing room with a great Bible before us; and if ever two mortal men disputed with vehemence, we did. Yes, upon that occasion he was one individual and I another … I demanded of him an honest confession of his real sentiment. He gave it me with candour and with a mild eloquence which touched my heart. I did not believe him capable of thinking in the manner that he declared to me was ‘from the bottom of his heart’. He expressed his veneration – his love – of the Supreme Being, and his entire resignation to the will of Him who is All-wise. He expressed his desire to resemble the Author of Goodness by being good himself. His sentiments go no further. He does not inflame his mind with grand hopes of the immortality of the soul. He says it may be, but he knows nothing of it. And his mind is in perfect tranquillity. I was moved; I was sorry. I doubted his sincerity. I called to him with emotion, ‘Are you sincere? are you really sincere?’ He answered, ‘Before God, I am.’ Then with the fire of him whose tragedies have so often shone on the theatre of Paris, he said, ‘I suffer much. But I suffer with patience and resignation; not as a Christian – but as a man.’