"That's true," said he; "but as for your Merlin, I will read him no more. I have put him beside Chapelain's 'Pucelle'."
"Which pleases all the critics, in spite of its bad versification, for it is a good poem, and Chapelain was a real poet though he wrote bad verses. I cannot overlook his genius."
My freedom must have shocked him, and I might have guessed it when he told me he had put the 'Macaronicon' beside the 'Pucelle'. I knew that there was a poem of the same title in circulation, which passed for Voltaire's; but I also knew that he disavowed it, and I thought that would make him conceal the vexation my explanation must have caused him. It was not so, however; he contradicted me sharply, and I closed with him.
"Chapelain," said I, "has the merit of having rendered his subject-matter pleasant, without pandering to the tastes of his readers by saying things shocking to modesty and piety. So thinks my master Crebillon."
"Crebillon! You cite a weighty authority. But how is my friend Crebillon your master, may I ask?"
"He taught me to speak French in less than two years, and as a mark of my gratitude I translated his Radamiste into Italian Alexandrines. I am the first Italian who has dared to use this metre in our language."
"The first? I beg your pardon, as that honour belongs to my friend Pierre Jacques Martelli."
"I am sorry to be obliged to tell you that you are making a mistake."
"Why, I have his works, printed at Bologna, in my room!"
"I don't deny that, I am only talking about the metre used by Martelli. What you are thinking of must be verses of fourteen syllables; without alternative masculine and feminine rhymes. However, I confess that he thinks he has imitated the French Alexandrines, and his preface made me explode with laughter. Did you read it?"
"Read it? I always read prefaces, and Martelli proves there that his verses have the same effect in Italian as our Alexandrine verses have in French."
"Exactly, that's what's so amusing. The worthy man is quite mistaken, and I only ask you to listen to what I have to say on the subject. Your masculine verse has only twelve poetic syllables, and the feminine thirteen. All Martelli's lines have fourteen syllables, except those that finish with a long vowel, which at the end of a line always counts as two syllables. You will observe that the first hemistitch in Martelli always consists of seven syllables, while in French it only has six. Your friend Pierre Jacques was either stone deaf or very hard of hearing."
"Then you have followed our theory of versification rigorously."
"Just so, in spite of the difficulty, as nearly all our words end with a short syllable."
"What reception has been accorded to your innovation?"
"It has not been found pleasing, because nobody knows how to recite my verses; but I hope to triumph when I deliver them myself before our literary clubs."
"Do you remember any of your version of the Radamiste?"
"I remember it all."
"You have a wonderful memory; I should be glad to hear it."
I began to recite the same scene that I had recited to Crebillon ten years before, and I thought M. de Voltaire listened with pleasure.
"It doesn't strike one as at all harsh," said he.
This was the highest praise he would give me. In his turn the great man recited a passage from Tancred which had not as yet been published, and which was afterwards considered, and rightly, as a masterpiece.
We should have got on very well if we had kept to that, but on my quoting a line of Horace to praise one of his pieces, he said that Horace was a great master who had given precepts which would never be out of date. Thereupon I answered that he himself had violated one of them, but that he had violated it grandly.
"Which is that?"
"You do not write, 'Contentus paucis lectoribus'."
"If Horace had had to combat the hydra-headed monster of superstition, he would have written as I have written—for all the world."
"It seems to me that you might spare yourself the trouble of combating what you will never destroy."
"That which I cannot finish others will, and I shall always have the glory of being the first in the field."
"Very good; but supposing you succeed in destroying superstition, what are you going to put in its place?"
"I like that. If I deliver the race of man from a wild beast which is devouring it, am I to be asked what I intend to put in its place?"
"It does not devour it; on the contrary, it is necessary to its existence."
"Necessary to its existence! That is a horrible blasphemy, the falsity of which will be seen in the future. I love the human race; I would fain see men like myself, free and happy, and superstition and freedom cannot go together. Where do you find an enslaved and yet a happy people?"
"You wish, then, to see the people sovereign?"
"God forbid! There must be a sovereign to govern the masses."
"In that case you must have superstition, for without it the masses will never obey a mere man decked with the name of monarch."
"I will have no monarch; the word expresses despotism, which I hate as I do slavery."
"What do you mean, then? If you wish to put the government in the hands of one man, such a man, I maintain, will be a monarch."
"I would have a sovereign ruler of a free people, of which he is the chief by an agreement which binds them both, which would prevent him from becoming a tyrant."
"Addison will tell you that such a sovereign is a sheer impossibility. I agree with Hobbes, of two evils choose the least. A nation without superstition would be a nation of philosophers, and philosophers would never obey. The people will only be happy when they are crushed and down-trodden, and bound in chains."
"This is horrible; and you are of the people yourself. If you have read my works you must have seen how I shew that superstition is the enemy of kings."
"Read your works? I have read and re-read them, especially in places where I have differed from you. Your ruling passion is the love of humanity. 'Est ubi peccas'. This blinds you. Love humanity, but love it as it is. It is not fit to receive the blessings you would lavish on it, and which would only make it more wretched and perverse. Leave men their devouring monster, it is dear to them. I have never laughed so heartily as at Don Quixote assailed by the galley-slaves whom his generosity had set free."
"I am sorry that you have such a bad opinion of your fellow-creatures. And by the way, tell me whether there is freedom in Venice."
"As much as can be expected under an aristocracy. Our liberty is not so great as that which the English enjoy, but we are content."
"Even under The Leads?"
"My imprisonment was certainly despotic; but as I had knowingly abused my liberty I am satisfied that the Government was within its rights in shutting me up without the usual formalities."
"All the same, you made your escape."
"I used my rights as they had used theirs."
"Very good! But as far as I can see, no one in Venice is really free."
"That may be; but you must agree that the essence of freedom consists in thinking you have it."
"I shall not agree to that so easily. You and I see liberty from very different points of view. The aristocrats, the members of the Government even, are not free at Venice; for example, they cannot travel without permission."
"True, but that is a restriction of their own making to preserve their power. Would you say that a Bernese is not free, because he is subject to the sumptuary laws, which he himself had made."
"Well, well, I wish the people made the laws everywhere."
After this lively answer, he abruptly asked me what part I came from.
"From Roche," said I. "I should have been very sorry to leave Switzerland without seeing the famous Haller. In my travels I render homage to my learned contemporaries, and you come the last and best."
"You must have liked Haller."
"I spent three of the happiest days of my life with him."
"I congratulate you. He
is a great man and worthy of all honour."
"I think as you do, and I am glad to hear you doing him justice; I am sorry he was not so just towards you."
"Well, you see we may be both of us mistaken."
At this reply, the quickness of which constituted its chief merit, everybody present began to laugh and applaud.
No more was said of literature, and I became a silent actor till M. de Voltaire retired, when I approached Madame Denis, and asked her if she had any commands for me at Rome. I went home well pleased at having compelled the giant of intellect to listen to reason, as I then thought foolishly enough; but there was a rankling feeling left in my heart against him which made me, ten years later, criticise all he had written.
I am sorry now for having done so, though on reading my censures over again I find that in many places I was right. I should have done better, however, to have kept silence, to have respected his genius, and to have suspected my own opinions. I should have considered that if it had not been for those quips and cranks which made me hate him on the third day, I should have thought him wholly sublime. This thought alone should have silenced me, but an angry man always thinks himself right. Posterity on reading my attack will rank me among the Zoyluses, and the humble apology I now make to the great man's shades may not be read.
If we meet in the halls of Pluto, the more peccant parts of our mortal nature purged away, all will be made up; he will receive my heartfelt apologies, and he will be my friend, I his sincere admirer.
I spent part of the night and the whole of the following day in writing down my conversations with Voltaire, and they amounted nearly to a volume, of which I have only given a mere abridgment. Towards the evening my Epicurean syndic called on me, and we went to sup with the three nymphs, and for five hours we indulged in every species of wantonness, in which I had a somewhat fertile imagination. On leaving I promised to call on them again on my return from Rome, and I kept my word. I set out the next day, after dining with the syndic, who accompanied me as far as Anneci, where I spent the night. Next day I dined at Aix, with the intention of lying at Chamberi, but my destiny ordered otherwise.
Aix is a villainous hole where the mineral waters attract people of fashion towards the end of the summer—a circumstance of which I was then ignorant. I dined hastily, wishing to set out immediately for Chamberi, when in the middle of my repast a crowd of fashionable people burst into the room. I looked at them without stirring, replying with an inclination of the head to the bows which some of them made me. I soon discovered from their conversation that they had all come to take the waters. A gentleman of a fine presence came up to me and asked if I were going to Turin; I answered that my way was to Marseilles.
Their dinner was served, and everybody sat down. Among them I noticed several pleasant-looking ladies, with gentlemen who were either their husbands or their lovers. I concluded that I might find some amusement with them, as they all spoke French with that easy tone of good society which is so attractive, and I felt that I should be inclined to stay without much pressing, for that day at all events.
I finished my dinner before the company had come to the end of their first course, and as my coach could not go for another hour I went up to a pretty woman, and complimented her on the good the waters of Aix seemed to have done her, for her appetite made all who looked at her feel hungry.
"I challenge you to prove that you are speaking the truth," said she, with a smile. I sat down next to her, and she gave me a nice piece of the roast which I ate as if I had been fasting.
While I was talking with the lady, and eating the morsels she gave me, I heard a voice saying that I was in the abbe's place, and another voice replying that the abbe had been gone for half an hour.
"Why has he gone?" asked a third, "he said he was going to stay here for another week." At this there was some whispering, but the departure of an abbe had nothing interesting in it for me, and I continued eating and talking. I told Le Duc, who was standing behind my chair, to get me some champagne. I offered the lady some, she accepted, and everyone began to call for champagne. Seeing my neighbour's spirits rising, I proceeded to make love to her, and asked her if she were always as ready to defy those who paid their court to her.
"So many of them," she answered, "are not worthy the trouble."
She was pretty and quick-witted, and I took a fancy to her, and wished for some pretext on which I could put off my departure, and chance came to my aid.
"The place next to you was conveniently empty," said a lady to my neighbour who was drinking with me.
"Very conveniently, for my neighbour wearied me."
"Had he no appetite?" said I.
"Gamesters only have an appetite for money."
"Usually, but your power is extraordinary; for I have never made two dinners on one day before now."
"Only out of pride; as I am sure you will eat no supper."
"Let us make a bet on it."
"We will; we will bet the supper."
"All right."
All the guests began to clap, and my fair neighbour blushed with pleasure. I ordered Le Duc to tell my coachman that I should not be going till the next day.
"It is my business," said the lady, "to order the supper."
"Yes, you are right; for he who pays, orders. My part will be to oppose you to the knife, and if I eat as much as you I shall be the winner."
"Very good."
At the end of dinner, the individual who had addressed me before called for cards, and made a small bank of faro. He put down twenty-five Piedmontese pistoles, and some silver money to amuse the ladies—altogether it amounted nearly to forty louis. I remained a spectator during the first deal, and convinced myself that the banker played very well.
Whilst he was getting ready for the second deal, the lady asked me why I did not play. I whispered to her that she had made me lose my appetite for money. She repaid this compliment with a charming smile.
After this declaration, feeling myself entitled to play, I put down forty louis, and lost them in two deals. I got up, and on the banker saying very politely that he was sorry for my loss, I replied that it was a mere nothing, but that I always made it a rule never to risk a sum of money larger than the bank. Somebody then asked me if I knew a certain Abbe Gilbert.
"I knew a man of that name," said I, "at Paris; he came from Lyons, and owes me a pair of ears, which I mean to cut off his head when I meet him."
My questioner made no reply to this, and everybody remained silent, as if nothing had been said. From this I concluded that the abbe aforesaid must be the same whose place I had occupied at dinner. He had doubtless seen me on my arrival and had taken himself off. This abbe was a rascal who had visited me at Little Poland, to whom I had entrusted a ring which had cost me five thousand florins in Holland; next day the scoundrel had disappeared.
When everybody had left the table, I asked Le Duc if I were well lodged.
"No," said he; "would you like to see your room?"
He took me to a large room, a hundred paces from the inn, whose sole furniture consisted of its four walls, all the other rooms being occupied. I complained vainly to the inn-keeper, who said,
"It's all I can offer you, but I will have a good bed, a table, and chairs taken there."
I had to content myself with it, as there was no choice.
"You will sleep in my room," said I to Le Duc, "take care to provide yourself with a bed, and bring my baggage in."
"What do you think of Gilbert, sir?" said my Spaniard; "I only recognized him just as he was going, and I had a lively desire to take him by the back of his neck."
"You would have done well to have satisfied that desire."
"I will, when I see him again."
As I was leaving my big room, I was accosted politely by a man who said he was glad to be my neighbour, and offered to take me to the fountain if I were going there. I accepted his offer. He was a tall fair man, about fifty years old; he must once have been handsome, bu
t his excessive politeness should have made me suspect him; however, I wanted somebody to talk to, and to give me the various pieces of information I required. On the way he informed me of the condition of the people I had seen, and I learnt that none of them had come to Aix for the sake of the waters.
"I am the only one," said he, "who takes them out of necessity. I am consumptive; I get thinner every day, and if the waters don't do me any good I shall not last much longer."
So all the others have only come here for amusement's sake?"
"And to game, sir, for they are all professional gamesters."
"Are they French?"
"They are all from Piedmont or Savoy; I am the only Frenchman here."
"What part of France do you come from?"
"From Lorraine; my father, who is eighty years old, is the Marquis Desarmoises. He only keeps on living to spite me, for as I married against his wishes he has disinherited me. However, as I am his only son, I shall inherit his property after his death, in spite of him. My house is at Lyons, but I never go there, as I have the misfortune to be in love with my eldest daughter, and my wife watches us so closely as to make my courtship hopeless."
"That is very fine; otherwise, I suppose, your daughter would take pity on her amorous papa?"
"I daresay, for she is very fond of me, and has an excellent heart."
Chapter XX
Table of Contents
My Adventures at Aix—My Second M. M.—Madame Zeroli
This man, who, though he did not know me, put the utmost confidence in me, so far from thinking he was horrifying me by the confession of such wickedness, probably considered he was doing me a great honour. While I listened to him I reflected that though depraved he might have his good points, and that his weakness might have a pitiable if not a pardonable side. However, wishing to know more of him, I said,—
"In spite of your father's sternness, you live very well."
"On the contrary, I live very ill. I enjoy a pension from the Government, which I surrender to my wife, and as for me I make a livelihood on my travels. I play black gammon and most other games perfectly. I win more often than I lose, and I live on my winnings."
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