A Visit From Voltaire

by Dinah Lee Küng

  Now here’s a landscape of Les Délices as it was during V.’s time. No Voltaire Video shops then. Not even a hedge. Just grass and trees and bucolic estates in the distance.

  There is a stale quiet inside this place, while the Geneva traffic pounds away through the storm outside the curtained windows.

  I move to the next room, painted pistachio and vanilla. My eyes fall on a portrait of Émilie. She’s a bit pudgy around the chin and her nose is a little too long. The whole effect comes embarrassingly close to a friendly weasel with highly colored complexion and sharp, intelligent brown eyes. Her dress of green velvet has a deep décolleté lined in fur. Around her throat is a necklace of feathers. I recognize the sensual spirit in her smiling portrait. Everything in the painting is touchable, from the abundant curls and white skin to the fluffy adornments.

  Voltaire is nowhere to be found, unless you count the smiling portrait hanging not far from Émilie’s, the oil painting by Largillière. Well, here he is, with all the good looks and bright hopes of his youth, a shadow of dark beard giving lie to the flamboyantly curled white wig, his thin lips still rosy with bon mots to come, his brown eyes shining with life.

  This is how I remember him looking that first night in Theo's room.

  ‘He had dashing looks in those days, didn't he?’ says a deep voice behind me.

  I turn to face a fantastic creature dressed in a gold vest covered with an ermine coat splashed with wine stains. Jewels twisted around his neck can't hide the stubble of a bad shave. A dramatic turban set with rubies can't distract me completely from his red-rimmed, watery eyes and pudgy complexion.

  ‘Lekain, at your service, Madame.’

  ‘Of course, the actor,’ I nod, a little nonplussed.

  ‘The world-renowned artiste.’

  ‘Yes, I beg your pardon. Is Monsieur Voltaire here?’

  ‘I haven't seen him since our little performance, Madame. As you can see, I haven't had time to change out of my costume as Orosmane, the good Muslim sultan.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Voltaire says you were fabulous in all the parts he wrote for you.’

  ‘I still am fabulous.’ Lekain cocks a displeased eyebrow at me. ‘Monsieur is devoted to my talent,’ he says, preening a bit. ‘But I must say, his own performances these last few weeks have left something to be desired.’

  ‘He's here then! Is he unwell?’

  ‘Is he ever well? That man will insist on getting up and playing parts which no longer suit him, no matter what we say,’ Lekain toys with his chain of paste jewels.

  ‘Where is he? I mean, is he receiving today?’

  ‘I haven't the slightest idea. You know how he hides himself away until he needs an audience. The last thing I heard, he was holding court upstairs, soaking up praise for his portrayal of Lusignan.’

  Lekain makes it clear he has better things to do. Making a final turn around the ground floor, I finally spot Voltaire sitting at his desk.

  ‘Monsieur Voltaire,’ I say. He doesn’t respond. Nor does the right hand clutching a pen even budge.

  ‘Monsieur Voltaire?’

  My friend doesn’t acknowledge my voice. Head bent over his beautiful escritoire, he doesn’t move at all. I’m addressing a museum dummy, dressed in V.’s own white brocade damask three-piece-suit with the flowered embroidery around the coat lapels, lace fluffing out around his craggy neck above the long waistcoat. A cheap wig sits on its head.

  I’ve thought often in the last few months that I’m losing my mind, but there’s something especially weird about this place. The dead actors talk to you and the liveliest of companions turns out to be wood.

  I emerge back into the foyer. The man behind the reception desk hasn’t shifted a muscle.

  ‘What’s upstairs?’ I ask politely.

  ‘The rest,’ he says, with that sly smile unchanging.

  ‘Thanks so very much.’

  I trudge upstairs. Here there is no eighteenth-century restoration. A huge plaster monument to V. occupies a whitewashed entry hall. A card identifies it as a copy of the famous statue by Houdon that sits in the Pantheon in Paris. There’s no sign of my friend.

  I thread my way through two more rooms of display tables, full of his letters and documents, even a housekeeping list sent to Wagnière:

  ‘Bring the papers from the desk drawers of my bedroom. Keep all the contracts which are in the drawer and all the outstanding bills and send me a memorandum. Take ten rolls of fifty gold louis each out of the bag in the lower left drawer in the library and send them to Monsieur S. for paying my debts . . . ’

  Here are his silver pots for ink and powder engraved with his coat-of-arms, the three golden flames held by two greyhounds . . .

  ‘Those are very valuable, of course,’ says a haughty English voice behind me. A tall, thin man brushes at his nose with a delicate handkerchief. He has squeezed himself into stiff satin breeches and a matching tailcoat. He’s sitting, knees crossed rather daintily, on a tiny antique chair.

  ‘Have you seen Monsieur Voltaire?’ I ask, forgetting to introduce myself or ask his name.

  ‘Oh! You just missed his matinee? His appearance and costume were the most preposterous performance to conceive! That gaunt figure with its sword constantly getting in between his legs, that coat left over from Louis XIV’s day, that ridiculous little matching tie-wig, the whole surmounted by a huge pasteboard helmet. Oh! I think it was all in the most absurd and ridiculous taste! I could hardly keep from tittering!’

  He leans back, arms folded across his chest and scrutinizes me. ‘Tell me, what do you think of him?’

  ‘Well, I—I didn’t catch the show, but I’m sure he acquitted himself well. Monsieur Voltaire can be a wonderful actor—’

  The Englishman brushes away my praise.

  ‘He’s past it. You must’ve seen him in the old days, not now. I can’t believe I traveled all this way to see that. It was quite an exertion to smother the urge to have a good laugh.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell everybody?’

  ‘Well, I already did right here, you see? Here’s my letter back to England.’ He joins me in the middle of the room and points through the glass of a display table at a faded letter.

  The signature reads, ‘James Callander of Craigforth, July 1765.’

  ‘Do you think I could see him, Mr Callander?’

  ‘Humpf . . . The question is, can you get away from him? It seems to be a point of indispensable etiquette for everyone to administer a quantum sufficit of adulation on the histrionic talents of the man; in fact, he’s much more sensitive on his acting of Lusignan than on the poetical merits of the play itself. I’ll be slipping out while I can.’

  ‘Mr Callander?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What was the name of the play?’

  ‘Why, Zaïre, of course.’

  What else? The first thing V. would do when he got home would be to stage his favorite play. I return to the reception desk.

  ‘Do you have a copy of Monsieur Voltaire’s play, Zaïre?’ The bearded Cerberus smiles again, and points me towards a small door on the side of the first gallery. ‘Wait there,’ he dictates. I hear the small clicks of hidden locks and at a nod from Cerberus, I turn the knob.

  Like Alice in Wonderland, I’ve fallen into another world. The skies outside have cleared and the sun streams into a library lined with tall windows, illuminating walls lined with hundreds! thousands! of books by Voltaire or about Voltaire. Leather bindings with gold lettering gleam in the fresh light. The center of the room is flanked by two rows of reading tables.

  A tiny woman emerges from a glass office at the back, and scurries towards me. As far as I can tell, she is as real as the furniture and the books. She has bright eyes and brown hair but manners so timid! She leans around from behind chairs and tables as we talk, like a pretty mouse thrusting its nose forward to sniff the air.

  ‘I am Madame Walser. May I help you?’ she whispers.

  I dare not accuse this k
ind stranger of hiding Voltaire, so I ad-lib, ‘Um, I’ve come to see a copy of Zaïre.’

  ‘In French? English?’

  Within seconds, I have editions of Zaïre and collections of Voltaire’s plays neatly arranged in front of me, piled according to various originals, translations, editions and typeface. Before I’ve turned over the first few, Madame Walser has slipped away to the safety of her office.

  I flip through the volumes, skipping from verse to verse, play to play. I read exquisitely turned phrases, poetic flights of ecstasy and violent passion. There isn’t a blunt word or abrupt breath in sight. Good grief, I think to myself, reading the archaic rhythms of eighteenth-century rhetorical neo-classical style with embarrassment. V.’s characters are incapable of something so simple as a declarative sentence.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ reads, ‘Whither do you carry your steps?’

  ‘Let’s go!’ is rendered fussily, ‘Let us take ourselves hence from these places!’

  No wonder nobody revives Voltaire anymore. I think of Mr Callander’s scathing critique of V.’s clanking performance with less indignation. It’s beautiful to read, but I’m not sure I could sit through more than a few scenes myself.

  ‘You snigger, Madame, but a little revision and it might hold up.’ says a familiar voice.

  ‘There you are!’

  I blush with delight to see my friend at last. He’s wearing a new embroidered dressing gown buttoned tight across his scrawny frame, but underneath the splendor, he looks exhausted. A trace of flesh-toned greasepaint sits in deep wrinkles collecting around his neck. His wig and face are covered in a light film of dust.

  ‘I’ve been unearthing all my versions of that play. You know, I rewrote it so many times that the actors got fed up and refused to learn new lines. Finally, I sent the lead actor a pie with live pigeons hidden inside, each bird holding a roll of correct verse in its bill. The final version was an enormous success. There were even two parodies of it—’

  ‘I can well believe that—’

  ‘But they were both failures—’

  ‘I can believe that, too,’ I say, relieved to shut the edition, even if it leaves me coughing. ‘Oh, I’m glad to see you! Well, what I can see of you under all that library dust!’

  ‘Ah, you know what they say. From dust we come and to dust we shall return . . . So . . . you missed me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He grins that self-satisfied, simian smile of sheepish vanity. He trips over his dressing gown as he seats himself at the long table. I notice a slight palsy in his hands as they rest on a pile of books with cracked bindings.

  ‘’Does Monsieur miss me?’

  ‘Don’t press your luck.’

  ‘Having a good time here?’

  ‘‘Of course,’ he nods. ‘We produced Zaïre. Heard anything about my performance?’ He glances sideways at me, hope dancing in his eyes.

  I skirt this dangerous territory. ‘The reviews aren’t in yet. Any plans for more performances?’

  He shifts in his seat. ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Many visitors? I mean, to the museum?’

  ‘‘Oh, yes, yes. We had a school visit a few weeks ago . . . ’ His voice fades off.

  ‘And I bet things’ll really pick up when the summer begins. American tourists, Japanese groups . . . Remember Christine from the New Year’s Eve Party? She’ll bring her students. Who could resist those gardens outside?’

  ‘Hmm.’ He picks absentmindedly at a first edition’s priceless binding.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got a lot of mail up at the farmhouse, Frank. I suppose I should bring it down here and leave it with Madame Walser?’

  His eyebrows lift at the idea. I can see he’s biting his tongue. I drift the lure a little longer across the shifting waters of his pride.

  ‘And you got a call from a Mr Mustapha. He wants you to write a letter to the Mullahs of Islamabad, or was it something Nagal, or Nagar? Oh, I can’t remember. Anyway, it’s probably too late—’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Besides, I can see you’re too busy to bother with all that now that you’re, um, home.’ There is a pregnant silence. I glance briefly to see how V. reacts. Our sideways glances meet and we chuckle, a little embarrassed.

  ‘When did he call?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. I took a message.’

  ‘They might miss me here if I left,’ he sighs. ‘And the museum curator, Monsieur Wirtz, is testifying right now in an important copyright case.’

  ‘Needs your advice?’

  ‘Well, I keep an eye on things. It’s a hearing over my reprint rights in a Parisian tribunal next Friday. The Musée Voltaire versus the Voltaire Foundation in England.’

  I laugh at the irony of it. ‘Still battling with the printers and rights people! Remember your school pal Thieriot pocketing your royalties? Well, that should make you feel wanted, just like old times, eh?’

  I look around at shelf after shelf of what must be at least a thousand volumes of his writings and centuries of Voltairean research.

  ‘Still . . . ’

  ‘You said something, Madame?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘Well . . . ’

  ‘They’ve got more than enough of you here, I must say. Not to mention that mummy at your desk downstairs.’

  ‘Very unflattering likeness,’ V. sniffs. ‘Children are well, I hope? Eva-Marie doing her leg exercises? Theo using his scarf without fail?’

  ‘They’re fine. I’ve had more time to help them with homework since you left.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good, of course. How is Alexander’s subjunctive coming?’

  ‘Better than mine. Everything’s fine. A little quiet, maybe . . .’

  ‘Quieter than here?’

  ‘Well, maybe not. Excuse me for saying so, but this place is pretty dead.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he sighs.

  ‘You can’t live in the past, you know.’

  ‘I thought that was what I was supposed to be teaching you,’ he shakes his head. ‘And all I’ve done is make you think of your past—California, London, Hong Kong, Peking. . .I can’t deny the irony of this. No words come to mind, so I shrug and stand up, reluctantly heading towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he cries, pushing himself clumsily up from the table.

  In an inspired second, I wheel around and strike my best Comédie-Française dramatic pose. I thunder out those ponderous lines, ‘Don’t you mean, Whither do I carry my steps? ‘Ou portez-vous vos pas’?’

  He recognizes my mockery and takes a deep swallow of his pride while I go on, in full Voltairean flow, Let us take ourselves hence from these places—ôtons nous de ces lieux!’

  Luckily, Madame Walser can’t see me from her office.

  Voltaire heaves a deep groan, grabs his walking stick, and races me to the door, muttering, ‘Oh, to hell with it, let’s hurry up. They lock us in here at five!’

  Chatper Twenty-four GRIEF

  The homework and music practices are done for the day.

  The house is tidy. The writing is picking up. The uneasiness I carry about with me is temporarily quieted. There’s a voice inside me that constantly nags that I should be somewhere else Hong Kong, New York, London—doing something different, something more—but it’s silent tonight, I confide to Voltaire.

  V. shakes his head, ‘Beware. Think of the man who is falling from a church steeple and, finding the air soft, sighs to himself, ‘Long may this last.’’

  ‘That’s a rather pessimistic image. Why shouldn’t I adjust to this tranquil Swiss life?’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ V. mutters. ‘You know, I’ve never seen anyone who didn’t have more desires than real needs, and more needs than possibilities of satisfaction.’

  ‘On an evening like this, you could almost pretend that everything is as it should be. There must be some sense to it all.’

  ‘I once believed that,’ V. corrects me sharply. ‘Madame du Châtelet was alrea
dy preaching her dear Leibniz’s theodicy at me, ‘the justice of God’.’

  I can’t account for the sudden mockery in V.’s voice as he sneers, ‘The justice of God! If everything is as it should be, how can you reconcile earthly evil with divine goodness?’

  I’m not interested in his philosophical barbs. ‘Everything seems so peaceful tonight . . .’ I sigh. The simple good of a kitchen floor swept clear of Corn Puffs floods me with a silly degree of satisfaction. V. seems intent on deeper musings.

  ‘‘How can we believe in God if he creates a world sullied by genocides, corruption, famines, poverty, human cruelty—’

  ‘Don’t forget earthquakes,’ I add, not perhaps as seriously as V. would like, ‘ . . . thousands buried alive in India, or Salvador, or Japan. I know about tectonic plates and all that, but mere’s a whimsical God for you.’

  ‘I thought you believed God was perfect,’ he says slyly.

  ‘Maybe good and evil are just human terms?’ I argue, ‘and life needs imperfections for the whole to be as perfect as God intended? Sin is an evil, but isn’t sin part of man’s having a free will?’

  ‘And the afflictions of men? Earthquakes, plagues, accidents?’

  ‘Well, if a better world were possible, then God would have created it!’ I protest petulantly. He’s drawing me into a serious discussion, when all I wanted to do was serve dinner. I know life isn’t just. How did he back me into this one?

  ‘‘No!’ he bursts out, so suddenly that I drop the butter dish on the floor.

  ‘What the—?’

  ‘Those who go about preaching the rightness of things as they are charlatans! Lord Shaftesbury, Leibniz, the whole lot of them! Imagine telling my poor friend Alexander Pope that God could not have made him without that painful hump on his back! What would you say to the thousands of faithful who went to church one Sunday morning in Lisbon and were crushed or burned alive—the entire city perished, Madame, in the earthquake on November 1st, 1755?’