Jean Orieux: Voltaire ou la Royauté de l'Esprit (dt: Das Leben des Voltaire)

[selenak]

This biography was reccommended to me by shezan after she commented on my Voltaire tale, as "opinionated but never bettered" as far as French Voltaire biographies go. It has nearly a thousand pages, and does qualify as a magnum opus.



It's stylish by itself; Jean Orieux can tell a tale. It's also visibly a product of its time; Jean Orieux was born in 1907, lived through two world wars, and while providing narrative room for the women in this tale hardly qualifies as a feminist. (For example, he adores Émilie, and defends her against various often quoted malicious gossip - including one description of her which I had indeed encountered in the "Day to Day in the life of Fritz" by Rödenbeck Mildred recently added to the library which basically goes "thin, little green eyes, bad legs, way too many beauty spots and jewelry, bad hairstyle, and that was the woman Voltaire kept raving about!" and the accusation that Maupertuis and König wrote her articles and books for her. (Orieux: Émiliie was worth ten of these small-minded gossip mongers!) But it doesn't occur to him to do a bit more research to find out what was so particular about her take on Newton and on Leipzig, or why it was sensational that she could unite the two, so he describes her as a really smart amateur rather than a scientist. Granted, this is a Voltaire biography, not a "Voltaire and Émilie" biography, but I do think a more current biographer would take the trouble to find out more about what a two decades life partner of their subject was working so hard on.

A similar thing is noticable with Fritz. When I after finishing the book had a look at the - gigantic - biblography - I wasn't surprised that a) it' s all in French (including Boswell's diaries - Orieux does quote the hilarious Voltaire-Boswell - "he's a wise man" encounter, and thus I learned André Maurois has done a French translation of Boswell's diaries, go Maurois!), and b) the letters aside, the Fritzian titles are all "...and Fritz", i.e. "Voltaire and Fritz", or "Louis XV: political relationshiips with Fritz" and so forth. No individual biography. Which means you get glitches like "Marie Christine" instead of "Elisabeth Christine" (and yes, Voltaire did meet her, but he didn't see her often, unsurprisingly; basically, he was curious enough to ask to be presented, but that was that, one or two more occasions aside). Or, when quoting from a Fritz to Wilhelmine letter written early after Voltaire's arrival about Voltaire being brilliant and "my brothers doing histrionics/histrionisizing" (meaning the court performance of "La Rome Sauvée" where Heinrich played Catiline and Ferdinand the imaginary naiv young male ingenue to Amalie's young female ingenue), Orieux adds "as long as they were acting, at least they couldn't scheme". (Without making clear whether he thinks that's what Fritz thought or whether that's what he assumes; either way, I suspect it's most likely that Orieux, well familiar with French history where most of the royal brothers of the various Louises did indeed scheme day in and day out, made an automatic conclusion without bothering to look up what Fritz' brothers were doing in 1750. (Without looking it up and based on memory: AW, who didn't take part in the Voltairian play-acting, was busy trying to talk Ulrike out of organizing a coup d' etat, Heinrich dealt with the joyful prospect of getting married as per his submission to Fritz the previous year by a 50 tweets thread publishing anonymous pamphlets about all the mistakes he thought Fritz made in the Silesian wars, and Ferdinand did his drilling service and otherwise partied with Lehndorff. Heinrich's pamphlets aside, for which playing Catiline on stage left him ample time, there's not a single anti Fritz action detectable.

Similarly, when we get to Frankfurt, Orieux writes "Fredersdorf, the King's secretary, who hated Voltaire" sent word to Freytag the Prussian Resident in Frankfurt etc. At which point of course yours truly rolls her eyes, because not only is the job description wrong (and while the English word "secretary" can be used for "minister", the German word "Sekretär" can not, and I was reading a German translation of a French book, so I doubt the mistake was in the translation) but we simply have no idea how Fredersdorf felt about Voltaire. Maybe he hated him. Maybe he was indifferent. Maybe he had even liked him once upon a time, though I seriously doubt it, because people charmed by Voltaire usually needed to talk to him first. But since no personal letter of Fredersdorf's mentioning his feelings re: Voltaire exists, this is guess work, and in a non-fiction work I want my speculation indicated as such.

Then again, Orieux writes an old school biographee romancée, which reminds me of Stefan Zweig's masterpieces of the type fron the 1920s and 1930s, when Orieux was young,, i.e. biographies unabashedly using novelistic language "her beautiful eyes shed tender tears" etc. He also is indeed opinionated, and not in the sense of Bodanis' romantisizing. His take on Voltaire includes all the pettiness and shadiness and vengefulness and vanity and histrionics - good lord, all the histrionics. (By which I don't mean the occasional acting in private performances. Btw, Cahn: Émilie could and did indeed sing very well, including in operas privately performed, whereas Voltaire only acted in speaking roles on such occasions, so I suspect it's safe to assume he couldn't sing.) It also provides the heroics and kindnesses and amazingly modern cosmopolitism (indeed Orieux more than once feels a bit uneasy about that, though he's also admiring, but let's just say he is stretching things a bit when speculating that Voltaire's thing for Germans might be connected in a German grandmaman he never met, and keeps reassuring his French readers that Voltaire being impressed by French defeats such as Roßbach instead of being crushed in patriotic gloom is not comparable to 20th century type of situations). No, Orieux' being opinionated translates, for example, into his unabashedly declaring Voltaire's stage plays (a considerable part of his ouevre) as boring, the products of the dead end phase of French classical drama which deserved to die and be revolutionized not long after Voltaire's death. The only useful things these plays did, for Orieux, was making Voltaire famous, because no one would have read his essays, pamphlets, letters and of course Candide later if he hadn't already become famous via the plays. (Orieux is a big fan of Voltaire's prose, though. Candide being his favourite, but he also adores the letters and tremendously enjoyed the trashy tell all about Fritz.) He's equally opionated on the literary works of other writers. Saint-Lambert's poems, for example, are also deemed both drippy and boring (and the one reason Saint-Lambert made it into literary history, twice, is a) his affair with Émilie and b) his later relationship with the woman Rousseau was after, leaving Orieux to conclude that well, if you can't score via your literary talents...), Fritz' Maupertuis-defending, Voltaire-attacking pamphlets are mediocre. And Orieux is opinionated about characters - Madame Denis is a stupid, greedy cow (German translation uses "eine dumme Pute", but English doesn't go for the fowl to convey the same idea, I don't think - "a goose" is even affectionate and doesn't contain the contempt of the German phrase), Monsieur Arouet didn't deserve his son's hostility, he was doing his best with the enfant terrible he was given under the circumstances, Voltaire's older brother Armand otoh was nuts and a self flaggelating pious fanatic thoroughly deserving of being disliked and ignored by younger brother, etc.



And Fritz? As opposed to Bodanis, he doesn't present this as Machiavellian Fritz luring poor naive idealistic Voltaire to him and says if Voltaire wanted to have a clue that young Crown Prince Fritz was maybe not quite the ideal phiilosopher king in the making after all, he could have gotten it, that they both wanted to use each other while also both being highly receptive to each other's praise - and that they started to get addicted to each other which they couldn't break of. While describing the betrayals on both sides early on before they ever moved in with each other (Voltaire's repeated spy offers, Fritz not only writing that supposedly Voltairian poem but also making sure a letter by Voltaire congratulating Fritz to his separate peace with MT - which was regarded as a betrayal of his ally France in Paris - was copied and spread all over Paris by Fritz' agents there, all to get Voltaire into enough trouble with the French authories so he'd be forced to flee to Prussia - he still thinks Fritz was the more cruel of the two. Not least because Fritz had less to lose. Voltaire was, when it came down to it, a non-noble citizen with whom an absolute King could do whatever he wanted, with no legal protection in the modern sense whatsoever. All that getting Voltaire into trouble could have resulted not with Voltaire in Prussia but with Voltaire in prison (again), or worse. (The laws in France being terrible, of which this book has a lot of demonstrations, not least because of Voltaire's big justice for other people campaigns in his later life.) And of course Frankfurt demonstrated what Fritz could do even outside his own kingdom, if he wanted to. Overall, Orieux' take on Fritz is "cruel, brilliant and unique among the kings of his century" (der Einzige strikes again!), and indeed far too similar to Voltaire for them to ever be at peace with another.

On to excerpts and interesting (usually new-to-me) details.



As much as there was no love lost between Arouet père et fils, Voltaire was actually fond of most of his Jesuit teachers and, remarkably for a famous iconoclast and campaigner against religious bigotry, remained fond of them in his later life. Says Orieux:

Between him and his teachers, there was a silent understanding. They loved the same authors and for the same reasons. H was born as a great writer. If he'd been educated in a Janesenite or in a Calvinist school, he still would have become famous. But in order to become Voltaire, little Arouet had to be educated by Jesuits. He learned this highest form of intelligence and art from them, which is commonly referred to as taste. (...) The language in which he'd later write "Merope" and "Candide", he learned at the grammar school; not just the language, but a specific way of thinking, a technique of hints, a restraint which aims at making things all the more visible by remaining hidden. (...) School was a happy time for Francois. He didn't regard work as a burden, he enjoyed working and being liked even then - and he pleased by flattering his teachers through the brilliant successes he achieved. He loved them and was loved by them. His entire life he retained affection and gratitude for them: "I was educated for seven years by men who kept trying unceasingly to educate the mind of youth. Since when shouldn't one be grateful to one's teachers? NOthing will extinguish in my heart the memory of Father Porée, who is dear to all who have learned from him. No one has managed to make studies and virtue more charming. HIs lessons were marvellous hours for us, and I wish that he'd have had a position in Paris as he'd have had in ancient Athens, and that people of every age could have participated in his lessons: I'd have gone back often to listen." (...)

He wrote this in 1746, a beautiful homage to his teachers (...) They had no more devoted student, he sent them his books, he awaited their judgement full of impatience. To Father Tournenmine, he writes: "My very dear worthy Father, is it true that you like my 'Merope'?" (...)When he isn't in Paris, he sends his friend Thiériot with his latest tragedy to Father Brumoy: "In God's name, run to Father Brumoy, to the Patres who must never become my enemies. (...) Assure them of my unchanged affection, I do owe it to them, they have educated me, and one must be a monster if one isn't grateful to those who have nourished one's mind."
His father never had a right to such a proof of his gratitude - his true fathers were those who nourished his mind; the other - or others, since he declared three candidates for his biological father - not worth talking about! (...)
And how could his teachers have forgotten him? With twelve, he was already unforgettable. He didn't often play during breaks, he talked to the teachers. THey tell us that he was interested in contemporary events, or, as we would put it today, "in politics". "He enjoyed putting the great interests of Europe into his small scales," Father Porée says.

Said teachers were to be found at the school Louis-le-Grand, where young Arouet also met made two life long friends who show up often in the remaining biography among his fellow students - D'Argental and the future Duc de Richelieu, great-grandnephew of the Cardinal, temporary lover of Émilie, life long friend of them both, provider of opium in Voltaire's last painful week of life. Orieux, when describing Voltaire returning from his three years in Prussia where most of France actually was still sulking that he'd left in the first place, says Richelieu was an exception: "Voltaire, like Punch in the puppet show, showed up and cried "here I am again, who still loves me?" and Richelieu replied "I love you as ever".


Even after havng read through the entire correspondance as published, Orieux still had some new or partially new to me juicy quotes from Fritz, Voltaire and Émilie about the Franco-Prussian dangerous liasons.



Fritz as early as 1740 (!!!) writes to Jordan complaining that Voltaire wanted him to pay Voltaire's travel expenses and actually says "no court jester was ever so expensive"; this at the same time as writing other letters raving about Voltaire havingt the eloquence of Cicero, the sweetness of Pliny (when he means Ovid) etc." (See, this kind of son-of-FW thing is why I had Voltaire being determined he wouldn't end up as the French Gundling.) Conversely, Orieux also notes that as late as the 1770s, when Fritz was already a living legend and had been for decades, his fame assured in every way, he kept writing wistfull that if only Voltaire was still present in Sanssouci, "one could have become something". (Orieux wonders what else Fritz thinks he could have become with Voltaire at his side that he didn't become already, and finds this remark oddly touching.)

Orieux about Voltaire and Fritz taking leave of each other after their 1740 encounter: "They were cooing like pigeons. We will later see that they had beaks like eagles."

Jealous Fritz, still writing to Jordan in 1740: "The poet's mind is as smooth as the style of his works, and I flatter myself that Berlin seduces him enough to bring him back soon, especially since the Marquise's purse isn't as well equipped as mine."

(As Orieux points out, actually Voltaire invested more of his money - an entire fortune, in fact - into Cirey than Émilie did, not least because as a man he had money of his own. But still, one thing no one can accuse Voltaire of is profiting from Émilie financially.)

Jealous Émilie, writing to D'Argental, also in 1740, re: Fritz: "I think he's indignant about me, but he should only try whether he can hate me more than I have hated him these last two months. You will admit this is a pretty rivalry we have."

(In Ferney, Voltaire had a portrait of Émilie and one of Fritz. They're both still there, or were as of the writing of that biography, in the Voltaire museum there.) (No mention whether the Fritz one shows traces of darts.)

Orieux regrets that Émilie didn't come with Voltaire in 1743. True, Fritz still hadn't invited her, but Voltaire was visiting Bayreuth as well, and Orieux thinks Wilhelmine would have been glad to host Émilie as well. Re: Voltaire finding German aristos nicer than French ones at this point:

He found in these exquisit courts a charm he didn't know from France; they loved him there more. The aristocracy was less stiff, less intellectual than ours, but more sensitive and simpler, despite being just as well educated and hospitable. Voltaire had loved England, but he'd been bored there. He was never bored in Germany. This, Émilie knew and was afraid of. She was jealous of Friedrich, of Ulrike and the Margravine, and of all of Germany. Why didn't she come with her poet? She would have certainly been received. Her scientific studies would not have been ridiculed, au contraire; she would have been spared the Parisian mockery and the poisonous darts of du Deffand. (Madame du Deffand was the one who ridiculed Émilie's looks and claimed Maupertuis and König had written her scientitic writings.) But alas! Germany loved Voltaire too much for Émilie to love Germany - jealousy is relentless. Which is a pity, for Germany would have loved them both.

Sidenote by me: Germany might have, Orieux, but Fritz surely would not, and he really did not want to have her there. Otoh, I'm with you that Wilhelmine - who was always on the look out for interesting people and minds to draw to Bayreuth, and was a big supporter of the university at Erlangen, where she'd even given a speech - would have hosted Émilie.

Then there was that time Fritz leaked the letter Voltaire had written to him apropos his seperate truce with Maria Theresia (while leaving his ally France hin the lurch. According to Orieux:

All Paris was in uproar: the copy of a letter by Voltaire to the King of Prussia was in everyone's hands. The later had just made separate peace with Austria, without bothering to even notify his ally France about this. (...) The effect of this letter was terrible. The current maitresse en titre, Madame de Mailly - this was years before Reinette appeared on the scene - was outraged, she demanded that he should be made an example of. He of course swore that he had nothing to do with it, that the style of the letter wasn't worthy of him. In ain. Even Madame du Chatelet accepted the letter. Since he couldn't play the courtier in Versailles, he'd played one in Berlin. It was just a temporary measure, as Friedrich would have put it, but the timing couldn't have been worse to congratulate the King of Prussia for his betrayal of France.

(The immediate effect is that Voltaire's play Mahomet, the decorations of which had already been made, couldn't be staged in Paris since the theatre people got cold feet. This was a blow to Voltaire, but he naturally was afraid worse was to come:)

He wrote to the favourite, he cajoles, he flatters, he swears, he calms down! All who counted in Paris were against him. Madame du Deffand sums the problem with intelligent malice: the point wasn't to know whether or not the letter had been written by Voltaire, since the entire world, other than Voltaire, already accepted that it had been. The point was to learn how it had gotten from Friedrich's pockets to the salons, receptions and streets of Paris. "The only thing I can't comprehend is how it could have gotten into circulation," the Marquise said.

Suspicion fell on the police, on thieves, on possible jealous rivals Voltaire might have at the Prussian court. Voltaire suspected the old Cardinal. No one suspect the true guilty party, who laughed behind his cloak: Friedrich. Friedrich himself had ordered via his agent copies of the letter to be depsosed at every embassy in Paris, including, as a red herring, at the Prussian embassy. Why? For the reasons we already know: in order to create a permanent split between Voltaire and France, and to get him banished from his country for his entire life. Since he'd then not know where else to go, "du Chatelet's lover", as Friedrich put it, would then fall into the arms or rather paws of his crowned philosopher.

The ending is confusing: Louis XV. showed no interest in the poet. Be it from lethargy or indifference, he did not take any measures against the writer, whom he neither admired, nor loved, no esteemed, nor hated. Thus he did Friedrich a bad turn without even meaning to: Voltaire remained peacefully in Paris.

That both Louis XV and Louis XVI basically had no interest in Voltaire beyond a general mild dislike (which never got fervent enough to be called hate) is a source of frustration to Orieux; he admits that his own inner Frenchman would have prefered it if Voltaire had the type of relationship he had with either Fritz or Catherine with a French King. But neither King ever had the actual interest in the arts Louis XIV had had (who was a despot but one with the great taste to support Moliere, Racine and on the musical side Lully). Meanwhile, both Fritz and Catherine of course had propaganda purposes in mind (among other things) when starting their relationships with Voltaire, but there's no doubt that they were real readers (and we have letters from Catherine in her Grand Duchess era to various friends proving she was a Voltaire reader before needing someone to tell Europe she was an enlightened monarch), did engage with his works (and ideas), and chose him to read not because someone told them he was fashionable but because they cared for the books.

While Orieux at some point just throws up his hands and admits the whole Fritz/Voltaire thing going on and on and on despite all the awful things they keep saying about each other is not explainable by anything but love, he is chiding Voltaire for his other royal correspondant, to wit, Catherine. Not so much because Catherine was an absolute monarch and Voltaire should have been over trying to flatter monarchs in his old age, no, because Catherine had killed her husband, and Voltaire was willing to praise her as an enlightened ruler to all of Europe despite this. (There's even a quote to the effect that nothing he's heard about the late Peter made him sound anywhere as interesting and efficient as "my Catherine" and hence he finds it hard to regret his demise.) Orieux then quotes several contemporaries being indignant about this as well - i.e. Catherine the husband killer - and registers his own dissapproval. Which made me go, huh. I must admit I'm somewhat with Voltaire there. I mean, yes, Peter didn't deserve two centuries of relentless bad press ensuing, but - I haven't heard anything that didn't make Catherine sound as both more interesting and a more efficient monarch. And frankly, in an age where royal wives, if they don't die in childbirth, are sometimes locked up for life, ignored at best, mistreated in body and mind at worst, and no one does anything to protest, I find it hard to qualify Catherine having Peter killed as the crime of the century.

But back to the Fritz-Voltaire-Émilie triangle. As Émilie got pregnant by Saint-Lambert, Fritz sees his chance, but:


Friedrich is convinced that Émilie is the only obstacle (to Voltaire joining him) and so he suggests a bargain to her. She should send him the poet, and he will send her a survevyor (einen Geometer, which is what Fritz called Maupertuis) from his new Academy in Berlin. Will she accept? Voltaire replies that she needs to give birth to her child before she can make a decision, and Friedrich easily replies: "Mme du Chatelet will give birth in September. You are not a midwife, she will be perfectly fine doing that without you." And since he is tired of always begging without getting something, he adds: "Moreover, be assured that the joys someone causes voluntarily without having to be prodded all the time are received with more gratitude and are more pleasant than those for which one has to beg for so long." Whereupon Voltaire returns not without firmness: "Neither M. Bartenstin nor M. Bastuchef, as powerful as they are, nor Frederick the Great, who makes them tremble, can stop me right now from fulfilling a duty which I regard as binding. No, I'm not the childmaker, or a doctor, or a midwife, but I am her friend, and even for your majesty's sake I will not leave a woman who can die this September. The birth seems to be very dangerous."


Also new to me: Voltaire actually kept in contact with Saint-Lambert over the years after Émilie's death. The two of them teamed up against Rousseau on one occasion involving a Rousseau protegé named Clement (like the big implosion of 1753, this started out as two middleweights, Clement vs Saint-Lambert, and escalated to two heavy weights, Rousseau vs Voltaire by the two heavy weights getting involved rushing to their respective mate's aide.)

So much for the first two decades. On to the next two, i.e. the fallout of the acrimonious divorce between King and writer.



Orieux is good at describing the turnaround from Voltaire being gleeful at Fritz getting humbled in the 7-Years-War to Voltaire getting into a "save Fritz" kind of mood.

After Fritz losing the battle of Kolin: Richelieu, who was in Germany and contributed as much as he could to Friedrich's defeat, received the following letter from Voltaire: "If you come through Frankfurt, Madame Denis asks you urgently to send her the four ears of two villains; they are a man named Freytag, envoy of the King of Prussia in Frankfurt, who never got any money but the one he stole from me, and of another, named Schmidt, a thieving scoundrel and advisor of the King of Prussia. Both have committed the foolishness to lock up the widow of a royal officer who had a passport issued by the King. THe two villains had bayonets directed against her body and searched her luggage. Four ears aren't too much for such services." (...)
Nothing appeared to be able to save Friedrich from the coalition against him. Voltaire celebrated when he noticed the moment of revenge was close. And then, suddenly, his attitude changed. When he believed Friedrich lost, he thought only of the friend, of the marvelous Salomon, his fervent admirer, of the kissed hand, of the incomperable praise fallen from the royal lips into the bewitched soul of the "French Virgil". He cried, he wished for someone to help, he exchanged desperate letters with the Margravine who wrote to him: "One recognizes his true friends only in misfortune. And she sent him a billet in which Friedrich wrote to him: "I have heard you feel for my successeses and my misfortunes. It only remains to me to sell my life as dearly as possible." (...) Voltaire suggested to the Margravine - Soeur Guillemette - to approach Richelieu. "I don't dare name this thought as a suggestion nor as an advice, but simply as a wish springing from my eagerness."
What strange eagerness! After complaining to all of Europe about this barbarian who had bayonets directed against the body of his dear Denis, he wants to save him? How to understand this change of heart? Perhaps in the simplest manner possible: he still loved Friedrich.

You may have noticed it in the above quote from Orieux:"Sister Wilhelmine" was indeed a mode of adress employed by Voltaire in the 1750s used occasionally, just as she uses "Brother Voltaire". #CanonVindication! (I was speculating in my story, based on her using the "Brother" address. I had read some of her letters to Voltaire, but from him to her only some sentences quoted in the Oster biography, not a direct mode of address. But yes indeed. Orieux is also with me in finding the ode just formulaic, not the immortal poetry Fritz demanded. As I said: Orieux makes no bones of his opinions on Voltaire's gigantic literary oeuvre, and has a clear preference of his prose over anything that's rhymed. )

Just for further irony, there's this story from the last decade of Voltaire's life, dealing with the (famously nude) statue of him made by Pigalle, the first to be made of a living writer in France, which is today in the Louvre. According to Orieux, Fritz was asked to contribute by Madame Necker whose idea it had been and asked back how much. He was told "Your name and an Ecu". But upon hearing what Richelieu gave, he did feel competitive. (Good old Richelieu was willing to contribute 50 Louisdor for a nude Voltaire statue. When he was told he made everyone else look bad that way, he diplomatically went down to 20 Louisdor.)

And Fritz also wrote, re: Voltaire: The Greece of the ancients would have made him a God, one would have built him a temple: we only erect a statue to him as a pale recompense for all the persecutions he has suffered.

(Fritz, as the same time, back in Berlin: nephew Gustav, did I tell you how Voltaire is THE WORST yet? Damn, where's my copy of the Henriade, I want to read some verses to you!"

Voltaire did feel awkward about those whole modelling thing, though, writing to Madame Necker: Monsieur Pigalle is supposed to come to model my face, but, Madame, for this I would need to have a face. One hardly guesses where it lies hidden. My eyes lie three inches deep, my cheeks are old paper, which is badly put on bones that can't hold anything together anymore. What few teeths I had left are gone.

D'Alembert the encyclopedist wrote to soothe him: Genius has, as long as it breathes, a face that can be rendered by the genius of his brother, and Monsieur Pigalle will take the fire from the two diamonds nature has made your eyes and use it to awaken his statue to life. I can't tell you, dear honored comrade, how flattered Monsieur Pigalle is to have been chosen to create this monument for his and the glory of the French nation.

When Pigalle showed up in Ferney, Voltaire just could not sit still, either moved too much, dictated, came and went, or grimaced, and then finally Pigalle lucked out by drawing him into a discussion about the golden calf in the bible. Voltaire said no way the Israelites could have created a statue of gold within four hours, and Pigalle explained to him how such a statue was created and that it usually took six months at least. Voltaire listened, sitting quietly and attentively, and Pigalle was delighted, because at last he had the chance to model him.

But to get back to our antihero, let's just sum this up:

Fritz in 1740 (pre marriage): haggles with Voltaire about covering Voltaire's travel expenses.

Fritz in the 1770s (post divorce) : pays in parts for a nude Voltaire statue.


While a lot of the drama in Voltaire's life was about literature, feuding with people, and various campaigns for justice, a considerable part was also about money, Voltaire being one of the few writers of his or any other age with a solid buisiness sense. Unsurprisingly, one chapter is titled "Let's Talk About Money". Orieux gives an example of Voltaire the early modern Capitalist. "Gget wealthy" had been an early goal just as "become the greatest writer of the age" had been.



He didn't get much out of his first tragedy, Oedipe, money wise, though there was some income through the subscriptions to his verse epic about Henri IV, the Henriad. Nothing that would have enabled him to live in the same type of comfort as his noble friends did, though. Then there was some inheritance money (never the main thing, but some) from Dad and pious brother Armand later. Also, kid!Francois had managed to charm legendary courtesan Ninon de Lenclos - who'd hit the Paris salon scene in the reign of Louis XIII, lived through the entire reign of Louis XIV and died very old, very rich and still with boyfriends proving that age does not wither and a life in sin does pay. (In addition to being a high class courtesan, she was also famous for her witty letters.) Kid Francois got introduced to her via one of the guys he named as potentially his Dad (according to Orieux mostly to annoy his actual father, since Orieux does not believe Mme Arouet ever cheated on the notary), the Abbé Chateauneuf, and she was charmed enough to leave him a sum to buy books from when she died. Which he did, this being before he figured out about working capitalism.

So after his return from England, adult and having figured out early modern capitalilsm Voltaire invested his money int busying shares of a trade company in Cadiz which equipped ships sailing to and from the West Indies, and he used his connections to get in a position to arrange army supplies (food, mainly, but also clothing). This was hitting the jack pot, since despite the French army in the 20s and 30s being relatively unoccupied (War of Polish succession with the little action Fritz complained about aside), it existed, and wanted to be fed. And once he'd made money, he also lend it to other people, with interest. It was the interest that by the late 1740s provided most of his incone. (Interestingly, as Orieux says, all this money only existed on paper. I.e. you couldn't have broken into Cirey and robbed Voltaire of big boxes of money.) But it certainly by now amounted to a lot. Orieux gives a list from 1749, i.e. the year of Émilie's death, showing that most of Voltaire's income indeed derived from people who owed him money paying him interest. "Historiographer of France" was the one court position at Versailles Voltaire managed to get, along with "gentleman of the chamber", which came with it:

Contract with the town of Paris - 14 025 livres
Contract with M. Le Duc de Richelieu - 4 000 livres
Contract with M. le Duc du Buillon - 5 250 livres
Contract with M. le duc de Villars - 2 100 livres
Contract with m. le Marquis de Lezeau - 2 300 livres
Contract with M. le Comte d'Estaing - 2 000 livres
Contract with M. le Prince de Guise - 25 500 livres
Contract with M. le Président d'Aunueuil - 2 000 livres
Contract with M. Fontaine - 2600 livres
Contract with M. Marchand - 2 400 livres
Contract with the Compagnie des Indes - 605 livres
Income as Historiographer of France - 2 000 livres
Income as Gentleman of the Chamber - 1 620 livres
Contract with M. Le Comte de Guebriant 540 livres
Contract with M. de Bourdeille - 1 000 livres
Contract with the Royal Lottery - 2 000 livres
Contract with M. Marchand - 1 000 livres
Contract with 2S (no, I don't know what that means) - 9 900 livres
Food for the Royal Army in Flandres - 17 000 livres

Income in totem: 74 038 livres.

(Mildred: I haven't quite figured it out either, but, from googling, it's a right that appears to work like a cut or tax. It's "contrat sur les 2 s. pour livres," which I take to mean 2 sols/sous (smaller unit of currency) per livre (larger unit of currency). That means for every qualifying livre, Voltaire has the right to collect 2 sous. There are 20 sous per livre, so he's getting a 10% cut of something. Of what, I do not know.)

One of the first things he did when moving to Prussia was buying shares of a shipping company Fritz had founded in Emden for 200 000 livres. (The money resulting from this, he invested in buying estate in Horburg and Reichenweier in Alscace, which was a very smart move, since this was French territory but was administred by the Duchy of Würtemberg. Which meant that neither Fritz nor Louis could get their hands on it.) And then of course he invested in the Saxon government bonds via Hirschel, and shadiness exploded.

But of course, had Voltaire been just a good writer with a good (and at times shady) nose for business, the French wouldn't, to this day, refer to his era as "the age of Voltaire". Orieux covers the way Voltaire basically invented the idea of the modern French intellectual extensively. Two examples of this will do.

First, here's a great example of Voltaire's mixture of business sense, PR sense, artistic sensibility and generosity at their best (i.e. the light side counterpart to such stunts as those he pulled off in Prussia).



Background: Pierre Corneille the dramatist, author of "Le Cid",contemporary of Louis XIII and Richelieu, was in Voltaire's time already firmly acknowledged as the first of the great classic French dramatists (to be followed by the younger Racine in tragedy and of course by Moliere in comedy) from French literature's golden age.

Jean-Francois Corneille, post officer & carpenter: I'm a great nephew of the poet. Dad fell on hard times, now I have to suport my kids by wood carvings because my day job of post officer doesn't pay much, and I don't even have a dowry for my dear daughter. I did try to send her to school when the actors of the Comedie Francaise did a charity performance, but that money covered only a short time. Now my girl won't have an education or a marriage!

Voltaire (hears about it via Parisian friends, has them check out the tale only to find this is indeed so and the oldest daughter is smart and pretty): Well, we can't have that happening to a Mademoiselle Corneille! Send her to me! I'll provide the education and the dowry.

Mademoiselle Corneille: *arrives in Ferney, age 18, truly nice and of a cheerful temper, is embraced by Voltaire's household and integrated into same*

Fréron (one of those enemies Fritz listed in his "if you had an army, you so would make war against them" statement)*writes article*: Scandal! What kind of education will she get from Voltaire, that of an ATHEIST ACTRESS? Better for a descendant of Corneille to die than THIS!

Family of first potential husband, reading this article: Sorry, our boy won't propose to Mademoiselle Corneille (nicknamed Rodogune by Voltaire) after all.

Voltaire: Okay, now it's on! Firstly, Rodogune, in addition to your school lessons, you and I are going to mass every Sunday from now on. Secondly, Fréron, it's vicious pamphlet time, is it? I can write those in my sleep. *publishes "Anecdotes sur Fréron' Thirdly, Academéi Francaise, you know, that complete edition of Corneille's works you've been dragging out for years and years without an end in sight? How about I take over, write a critical commentary to every single work, I'm publishing this with my own money as a very special expensive edition, the profits of which will go to Rodogune for her dowry and then future life?

Academie Francaise: Well, "Voltaire/Corneille" sounds like a must have to all literati, and God knows we're glad to have found a witty workoholic to write all the footnotes but "expensive"? With gold cut? Privately printed? Who's going to buy that?

Voltaire: Glad you asked! Dear royal pen pals: you know what to do.

Fritz: buys 200 copies.
Catherine: 200 copies for me.
MT *not a pen pal, but informed*: Fine. For the girl. 200 copies.
Marquise de Pompadour: 50 copies for me. Sorry, but my fellow won't budge, so I'm paying this out of my own money.

French aristocracy: We suppose we can't stay behind? *plenty of orders arrive*

Voltaire: at age 67, for the first time since his schoolboy days, reads every single Corneille play. Now, remember, Corneille is an icon. The first of the great classics. He's a holy cow you do not, in any circumstances, critisize.

Voltaire: actually does do a critical edition, in that while there's ample applause for Corneille, he actually, for the first time since Corneille's life time, citisizes him as well where he thinks this is due*

Orieux: Look, I've made no secret of the fact Voltaire's own plays are in my opinion dead boring, but as a critic - and critical editor - he was brilliant. That edition contains some of the most insightful Corneille commentary ever, he blew off the dust and treated him as a writer, not an icon. I love that edition!

Academie Francaise: Glad the edition is now published but... hang on! OMG. YOU SAY CRITICAL THINGS ABOUT DIVINE CORNEILLE IN IT! WHAT HAVE YOU MADE US COMPLICIT IN?

Voltaire: I'm me. What did you expect? Also: did you notice this is the first complete edition of a writer a century dead which is a bestseller today? Marketing, people!

Colonel Henri-Camille de Colmont: Mademoiselle Corneille, I hear you've been granted the rights to the Voltaire-Corneille edition and 1400 Livres per year as a dowry, which makes you all in all a bride with 40 000 Livres per year. I'll even lower myself to marrying the daughter of a post officer who sells wood carvings. How about it?

Rodogune: Must I? You're greedy and gloomy. Aso too old for me.

Voltaire: *investigates prospective groom* Nope. You must not. We'll wait till someone better shows up.

Meanwhile, hardcore Corneille fans: THAT MAN IS OF THE DEVIL. HE CRITISIZES THE DIVINE. NOW HIS FANS ARE SWAMPING OUR FANDOM!

Monsieur Dupuits de la Chaux, age 23, officer, 8000 Livres per year income, owns estate near Ferney: Mademoiselle Corneille, I'd be honored.

Mademoiselle Corneille: I like him.

Voltaire: WEDDING TIME! Who says I can't write happy endings?

Wedding and happily ever after for Rodogune (with permanent rights to Corneille/Voltaire): Happens.

Lots and lots of people with last name of Corneille: Hey, Voltaire, how about you finance us as well? We're, like, totally related to THE Corneille, too!

Voltaire: Nope. Off with you, little crows! (Pun with the name "Corneille, which means crow.) I'm generous, if I want to be, but a sucker, I'm not.

And of course, the most famous of all campaigns-for-greater-justice Voltailre ever conducted:



I already briefly summed up the Calas affair in an earlier entry, but since Orieux offers a lot about it, and it really makes for a fascinating story - a fascinating detective story, too, which makes me wonder whether anyone has ever written a historical mystery series about Voltaire, who as it turns out has the intelligence and relentlessness for an investigation, the tenacity not to give up and the connections to hang out with all types of people who could murder each other, not to mention that his excentricities can easily compete with those of Sherlock Holmes and Poirot.

So, the cast:

Jean Calas- most unfortunate father of the age; Protestant merchant living in Toulouse. Their clothing shop is downstairs, their living space upstairs.

Marc-Antoine Calas - oldest son; tried to study law, for which you needed to be a Catholic in France; Protestants tried to get around this by getting a friendly priest to sign a paper saying they converted without actually converting, studied, and then went back to being Protestant. The priest in the parish of St. Etienne, where Marc-Antoine and his family lived, however, refused to sign that paper without Marc-Antoine going to confession (and thus proving his Catholic intentions) first. Marc Antoine didn't. End of legal hopes. He tried to enter his father's business, which he wasn't much good at, was unhappy, drank a lot, and also was into theatre and declaiming dramatic monologues, according to his friends.

Louis Calas - middle son, who actually converted to Catholicism for career reasons some years earlier. That he did, and even got his father's permission for it, is important for the evidence situationi.

Pierre Calas - younger son, Protestant, adolescent; there's also a youngest son, Donat, but he lives in Nimes and is not important to this tale

La Vaysse - a young man from Bordeaux, friends with the family; he's just returned, found his parents' house locked up and has thus been invited to dinner by the Calas clan.

Two daughters: spending the day in the countryside with a family they were friends with (they were lucky).

Madame Calas: Jean's wife. About to face terrors beyond belief.

Jeanne Viguière: Catholic servant of the Calas; has encouraged Louis to convert, goes to mass each morning.

David de Beaudrige: "Capitoule" (civil servant, technically not a policeman but in effect) of Bordeaux eager to make a name for himself


The date: October 15th 1761 (the 7 Years War is still going on). Everyone, including La Vaysse, is having dinner chez Calas. Marc-Antoine gets up, goes to the kitchen, tells the servant it's too hot for him, he wants to go outside in order to catch some air. The others still talk, but since young Pierre is about to fall asleep, La Vaysse gets up (he was the guest, as long as he was still sitting at the table, the family couldn't withdraw for the night). Dad Calas and Pierre pick a candle to escort him out. Suddenly Madame Calas, who is now alone in the dining room, hears cries and shouts. She doesn't dare to look and sends the servant, who doesn't return. Then she goes herself and encounters La Vaysse who tells her not to go any further and return. At first she does so, then she can't stand it and goes downstairs after all. Whre she sees her oldest son Marc-Antoine lying on the floor. She thinks he must have a fainted. A doctor, who's been sent for at once, says Marc-Antoine is dead and must have been either strangled or been hanged. According to their later statements, Dad Calas and Pierre, when they went downstairs, saw the door was open, which amazed them, so they checked and saw Marc-Antoine hanging from a beam on which usually rolls of fabric were put. They took him down, but it was too late already. In the presence of the doctor, Dad Calas, unfreezing from shock, tells Pierre "Don't tell anyone your brother has committed suicide. Save the honor of your unfortunate family."

(Remember suicides weren't given a Christian burial, and it was an incredible stigma.)

This, fatefully, was the worst idea ever. Meanwhile, as soon as Madame Calas saw her son's body, she started to cry so loudly that it got the neighbours alert, lots of people assembled in the streeets, and word got to the "Capitoules", and by the time La Vaysse, who' d gone to call the police, returned, he found the house surrounded by 40 soldiers. He wasn't allowed to get in and questioned what he wanted, and when he said he'd just had dinner there and was a friend, he sealed his fate. He was let inside.

By now, the people were mostly wondering out loud what the hell was going on, and who'd killed Marc Antoine. And that's when a voice, never identified, said, outshouting the others: "Marc Antoine was murdered by his Protestant parents because he converted to the Catholic religion!" This cry was adopted by more and more people. David de Beaudrige heard this and adopted the theory completely. He ordered the arrest of anyone who'd been inside the house that night. What he didn't order was an investigation (say, of whether Marc-Antoine had Catholic books lying around). Even the papers in Marc-Antoine's pockets, which contained according to a much later questioned soldier "obscene verses", were thrown away. The Calas family was naive enough to believe that they were just supposed to make a statement to the authorities, and so Jean ordered Pierre to let the candle at the house entrance burning so they'd have light upon their return. Beaudrige ordered it put out.

At this point, in retrospect, the Calas family was doomed. The priests in every church read for three Sundays in a row a letter from the Bishop demanding that the murderous Protestants were made an example of. The priest of St. Etienne, who could have testified that he refused to accept Marc-Antoine had indeed wanted to convert, didn't say anything (only much later). Marc-Antoine was buried as a martyr to the Catholic religion, in a big procession. Now the Calas family did take a lawyer, one M. Docoux, but he was bullied by the Capitoules so much that he exploded and ended up excluded from legal proceedings for three months and having to do a public declaration of repentance to boot.

Five people were accused: Jean Calas, Madame Calas, Pierre, La Vaysse and the servant Jeanne Viguère. Since none of them wanted to admit guilt, the Calas parents and Pierre were tortured. (La Vaysse and the servant were Catholics and thus had a right to the "Questioning", the half-torture. La Vaysee was another who'd converted to Catholicism in order to get a job, btw. His own (Protestant) father had had his sons raised by Jesuits already, and so the idea of La Vaysse helping a Protestant murder was really as bewildering as that of Jeanne the servant, pious Catholic which she was, helping. But she refused to turn against her employers, and thus she had to be an accomplice. Even after the "mild" torture, she kept to her statement (and btw, continued in prison to confess and take mass from the prison priest). (If her confessor would have believed that she'd sworn a false oath, he'd have had to refuse mass to her, which he didn't; Voltaire was the first one to discover this contradiction later and, Jesuiit raised as he was, understand the implication.)

By the time the trial started, most of Toulouse was baying for blood. Only one of the judges ared to say he thought Jean Calas was innocent. Whereupon another judge saidL: "Monsieur, you are all Calas!" "Monsieur, you are all the people!" Jean Calas was tortured in the highest degree now. He still kept insisting on his innocence. He was condemned to be executed by the wheel. This meant being tied to a wheel, getting his arms and legs broken by iron, getting strangled by the executioner, with his body then flung on a burning pyre and his ash flung into the winds later. Father Bourges, the priest who'd gone with the accused, had kept urging him to confess to his guilt, but Jean Calas just replied: "How, father, even you believe that one can kill one's own son?" When he was urged to name his accomplices, he just said: "There are no accomplices, because there was no crime." And his last words were: "I have said the truth. I die innocent."

The rest of the arrested were condemned to exile, which Beaudrige called a "far too mild" judgment. The two daughters were put into a nunnery.

Now, when Voltaire first heard about it, he heard it in the version most people did: a hardcore fanatic Protestant father had killed his son. He didn't doubt it at this point and said: "We're not worth much, but the Huguenots are worse than us, and besides, they preach against the theatre." (That's our hero, comments Orieux: anyone able to hate the theatre has to be capable of killing their son as well.) Then, however, a Monsieur Audibert who'd been in Toulouse during the trial visited Ferney and told Voltaire more about it, which is when he started to think about it. Now, he did not start with the idea that Jean Calas had to be innocent. He just thought his guilt had by no means been proven. And clearly an actual investigation was asked for. And lo, Detective Voltaire was on the case. He met the surviving children Calas (minus Louis) who by now were living in Geneva. He wrote to all his friends and aquaintances in France in order to gather information. (Richelieu, btw, did check out events in Toulouse, but just told Voltaire to let sleeping dogs lie, and take care of his poetry in Ferney instead. Voltaire didn't. Instead, he questioned every Toulouse merchant and lawyer coming to Geneva on business. He confronted Pierre Calas with what they had said and took Pierre's and everyone else's statements. He did by no means immediately trust Pierre, who had, after all, been undoubtedly present when the body was taken down. Voltaire went as far as setting spies on Pierre for four months. By February 13th 1763, he'd come to the conclusion that Jean Calas as well as the other Calas were innocent, and bombarded every influential French person he knew with letters again, and of course, started with the pamphlet writing, pointing out all the illogical parts.

How could a man of 62 have hanged/strangled a young man of 27 without out help? And if he supposedly was helped by Pierre, why was Pierre instead condemned to exile? Why should Jeanne the very Catholic servant who'd already encouraged Louis to convert go along with the Calas going against Marc-Antoine for the same thing, down to covering up their murder? Why was Marc Antoine refused the document testifying his conversion he needed for his studies if he did actually convert? And so forth.

Now, one obstace was that Madame Calas, who'd lost a husband and a son, was by now so desperate and so terrified she just want it to be over, and Voltaire had to go to some effort to convince her to go public and go for a retrial. The former was important for the propaganda campaign to change the public mood; the sight of Madame Calas in Paris, petitioning the judges, crying, made her from sinister murder mother to martyr as far as the Parisians were concerned. (Voltaire, btw, paid for all her expenses. Since the judges in Toulouse had confiscated the Calas fortune, this was necessary.) The Toulouse judges first refused to hand over the files from the trial to her lawyer (also paid for by Voltaire). Things still looked back, and La Vaysse at first did not want to come to Paris to testify. (He was still scared by how close he'd come to death.) Voltaire, being the mixture of shady, practical and high minded he was, then lured La Vaysse by pointing out that in Paris he'd be safe from the Toulouse judges and would get to meet all kinds of famous princes and celebrities, many of whom had been willing to donate fo the Calas cause, and that money would be administred by Le Vaysse, and once all was over, he'd have made all kind of useful connections with these generous people. This helped with La Vaysse's courage a lot. Whenever Madame Calas lost courage, Voltaire pointed out to her the only way she'd get her daughters back and out of the nunnery was if she'd be declared innocent, and that worked.

The two pamphlets Voltaire wrote - "Histoire d'Elisabeth Canning et de Calas" and "Traite de la Tolerance" later became classics. By now, both Choisieul (the most important French minister) and Madame de Pompadour were on board. In the end, the counsil consisting of eighty judges declared the Toulouse judgment as invalid. (Among them were actually some Toulouse judges. One of them told the Duc d'Ayan: "Monsieur, even the best horse can shy that one time..." Quoth the Duke "Yes, but... an entire stable of horses?"

Madame Calas was received at Versailles. This, however, did not mean all was in the clear. Because with the original judgment declared invalid, there had to be a retrial. The Toulouse people (who saw this as a north vs south tyranny, "no one in the capital tells us what to do", etc, still refused to hand over the original files. When Madame de Pompadour made the King himself demand them, they said fine, they'd send copies, but Madame Calas would have to pay for the copies to be made. (Voltaire paid.) This, it turned out, was the least of it. Retrial also meant that Madame Calas, Pierre, Jeanne and La Vaysse had to be arrested again, go back to prison again. On March 9th, 1765, the final judgment was given, and all accused, including the late Jean, were declared innocent. (The Toulouse civil servants, told to strike out the names of the formerly accused from the list of offenders, refused; only La Vaysse's father, who was a lawyer, used a public holiday to be let into the city hall and strike out his son's name with his own hand.) They also refused to give the Calas family reparations. The King, to his and Madame de Pompadour's credit, did this instead, and immediately. And Madame Calas got her daughters back. (One of them, Nanette, had convinced one of the nuns of her father's innocence so that this nun wrote a letter to the chancellor. Voltaire was impressed by the clarity and compassion of the letter and wrote to say so, which in turn shocked the nun. "Can it there be good in a man who has turned against his creator?")

In February 1765, Voltaire had the satisfaction to learn that Beaudrige got dishonorably disimissed from his job. The Calas family (what was left of them) were back together, rehabilitated. And, also important, a new principle had been established. As Voltaire had put it in his pamphlet: "You (Judges in general) need to be held to humanity for the human blood you shed."

As Orieux put it: of course there had been numerous show trials and murders by law before Calas. But until this affair, whoever was declared guilty, remained guilty. (Except for Jeanne d'Arc, but that was a very special case.) A victim once condemned remained condemned. The concept of the judicative being held to account for abuse, of a normal citizen's name being cleared, this was new. As was the idea of a publicity campaign for this goal, and intellectuals weighing or even spearheading the campaign; this was more than a century before Emile Zola and the Dreyfus affair.

Finally, the conclusion Orieux arrived at about Voltaire, which he put right in the preface, where he explains why he devoted six years of his life to writing this biography:



This glittering creature managed his affairs in a continuity without weakness. With fifteen, young Arouet knew what he wanted to become, and he knew it with a deciveness and an ambition which are incredible. He had understood that he needed to become both a very rich man and a very great poet. He achieved both aims. HIs social success is achieved in tandem with his literary success. Even as a schoolboy he had concluded that talent without money meant only misery, and money without talent stupidity. He didn't feel himself meant for either variation.

Some say he wasn't "serious". Indeed. He did all not to appear so, but his importance is far greater. We tend to forget a bit that we all in the core of our being are marked by the encounter with Candide. Voltaire was the embodiment of a mentality which had doubtlessly existed in France before him, but which only by his pen has been given its definite form. When he gave to this mentality and this humanism, which had been already known to Molière and La Fontaine, Marot and Montaigne, the splendid form of "Micromegas" and the "Lettres", we became more French than we'd ever been before him. Even those of us who turn against this revelation, think, write and speak in a way that shows the Voltairian imprint. Mallarmé has said: The world was made in order to end up in a book. Can't one also say that a Frenchman ever since the farces of the middle ages has only been made to end up in a beautiful narration named "Candide"?
While Voltaire made his genius - and the French genius - sparkle in all of Europe, he didn't care about national propaganda. There isn't a trace of patriotic bragging in him. He's above such particularism. (...) For him and those who understood him, there has been a Europe: the Europe of the Enlightenment, the most civilised and most human of mother countries. HIs borders were those of the mind. In this society, which consisted of the elites of the various nations, he saw the triumph of civilisation: we can say it was a triumph of Voltaire.

(...) Voltaire is a man for fighting, the daily struggle for happiness. Not a mythical but an earthly happiness reachable by all. The point is to free man of tyranny and misery. Humans can only be happy if they use all the possibilities of a human being, and that means if they live in freedom and wealth. Fanaticism, stupidity, poverty result in ignorance, slavery and war. (...) The greatness of Voltaire manifests itself in his sense of human solidarity. This man without a God believed in human beings - without too many illusions. To him, man was the masterpiece of creation. Any attack on freedom and justice he found therefore unbearable. When Calas was hanged, drawn and quartered in Toulouse, you could here in Geneva the cry of Voltaire who felt the torture as well. Not Calas alone was concerned, but all humanity has been violated in him: Voltaire, you and I. And thus you and I are the ones Voltaire then defended. (...)

Voltaire is always fascinating: in the good sense... and in the bad sense. He had countless flaws, and some true vices, dancing, whirling, fluttering vices, vices like lightnings and vices like reptiles: an odd assembly. These flaws, we've left a respectful place in the story of his life. As his friend Bolingbroke once said of Marlborough: "He was such a great man that I have forgotten his flaws." One can forget Voltaire's flaws, but only after knowing them first. We have uncovered them with the same dedication as his virtues, and will leave the reader the satisfaction to either forget them or, according to their taste, to enjoy them.



A second review
cahn: I finally finished Orieux! (Actually a couple of weeks ago at this point, but it has taken me this long to sit down and write about it.) It was SO GOOD and near the end I could feel myself drawing it out a little so I wouldn't have to finish reading it. Orieux really gets that what I want out of history is well-thought-out-and-well-analyzed-and-well-sourced gossipy sensationalism delivered in anecdotal bite-sized chunks (of which selenak is the master, of course) -- but still with overriding themes and a through-line. And boy was Voltaire's life basically tailor-made to deliver that -- but Orieux also leaned into it for all it was worth.

I really loved how Orieux makes Voltaire come alive as someone who had so SO many faults (SO MANY, lol, the innumerable places where Orieux was all "...and here's yet another example where ANY ACTUAL GROWNUP would have LET IT GO, but did Voltaire? I will give you one guess.") but also at the same time so many amazing virtues, many of which were in some sense part and parcel with his flaws -- I mean, I guess it is old news to salon at this point (at least dating back to selenak reading Orieux and reporting back to us! Which, btw, thank you SO much, because that review is the reason why I read it) that the Voltaire who Could Not Let Things Go is the same Voltaire of the Calas affair, but it is really cool to see Orieux make those connections implicitly and explicitly.

It does make me wish that we got more biographies these days that were written as literature and where the biographers weren't afraid to have overt opinions. Orieux has Decided Opinions about everything and is not shy about owning it (and usually has evidence, though okay, sometimes is sloppy as selenak noted in her writeup), and it is GREAT. As opposed to, say, the Zinsser Émilie bio (of which more below), which had a Whole Lot of implicit opinions that she presents as "research," which is much drier without (as far as I can tell) being any more factually correct (and in fact probably less so, see below).

Unfortunately I wasn't taking good notes while reading, so I can't deliver the extremely long writeup that I would had I been taking notes, because every couple of pages or so I was like "omg I need to talk about this with salon, this is SO GREAT." Oh! but I did take a couple of notes on Émilie which I have now found, so here you go :D

-I am coming to the same conclusion about Zinsser's Emilie bio that selenak has already come to: to wit, that Zinsser employs bad faith to make Voltaire (and also Sainte-Lambert in some ways) come off as The Worst. I mean, there's no need for this; Voltaire as he comes across in Orieux is certainly full enough of vices that one need not also erase all his virtues. And in Orieux their relationship is, umm, extremely drama-filled, so you could still think they were better apart without Voltaire having to have been The Worst. (It's not clear to me that Orieux is unfair to her factually, although as selenak noted, for example, he doesn't seem to have any context for why her Newton work was actually extremely intellectually nontrivial.)

One difference between the Emilie bios and Orieux is that Emilie is portrayed in Orieux as much more of an inveterate gambler who loses money hand over fist. This occurs most strikingly in the incident where she loses money all day at which point Voltaire says, "Don't you realize you're playing with knaves?" and they both have to flee because you don't call the French court knaves :P In Orieux's telling (in which admittedly he is editorializing/romanticizing):

One evening, playing at the Queen's tables, she started to lose badly. The four hundred louis she had on her disappeared in a few moments; and she had not accumulated them without difficulty. Voltaire watched with mounting vexation; he hated wasting time and money in that way. Nevertheless he handed over to Emilie the two hundred louis he had in his pocket. They were swallowed up as quickly as the rest. He ventured a few remarks, but they were curtly rejected. So he resigned himself to dispatching a footman to borrow another two hundred louis at an exorbitant rate from a business acquaintance. But Mademoiselle du Thil, who had been of such help in stagemanaging the appearance of his emissaries at the Pope's palace, happened to be present, and she gladly lent a hundred and eighty louis. The divine algebrist flung them all down, but instead of multiplying they all disappeared. Voltaire begged her to withdraw from the game, but she only jumped down his throat again and went on playing, giving her word in place of stakes. Then the real disaster began. She lost eighty-four thousand livres, which with the nine hundred louis she had lost earlier made a hundred and three thousand livres. Madame du Châtelet was not a rich woman. Voltaire had been following what happened with the silent fury and clairvoyance of one who has foreseen all and been powerless to prevent it. He had seen her rush headlong to her ruin. As she made her last unlucky throw of the dice he could not contain himself any longer and said, in English, “Do you not see that you are playing with knaves?"

[Totally unrelated to my point, but I love the soubriquet "the divine algebraist" and need to find more excuses to use it :D Perhaps I shall start calling various math/tech people of my acquaintance "the divine geometer" and "the divine engineer" and so on.]

Whereas in Zinsser -- I am too lazy to go look it up, but I am pretty sure she spins this in a way that doesn't reflect badly on Emilie and reflects badly on Voltaire for calling everyone knaves by eliding a lot of this in-between material. I'm willing to believe it's in-between what Orieux and what Zinsser say, buuuuut I'm betting Orieux was actually drawing from his source (whatever it was) and that Zinsser just kind of glossed over all of that.

Also, just because this is bugging me: The part where I was most irritated by Voltaire in Zinsser is the bit where, after Emilie has a baby, Voltaire says "I [having completed a play] am more fatigued than she!" Well, Orieux says that Voltaire wrote to d'Argental, "Last night Madame du Châtelet, scribbling away at Newton, felt a slight call of Nature. She called a chambermaid, who only just had time to hold out her apron and catch a little daughter, whom she then carried off to cradle. Her mother put away her papers, and as I write this they are both sleeping as soundly as dormice."

Which... if it's part of the same letter that he said he was more fatigued than she was, he's clearly talking about how the birth was very easy, not about how it's All About Him and how tired he is. (I mean, this is Voltaire, it's kind of always all about him... but this strikes me as principally adorably sweet and relieved about Emilie.) And I am grumpy mostly at Zinsser for the bad faith reading, but also at myself for taking it on faith and not demanding context :P So, here I am asking for context! :D Are these both quotes from the same D'Argental letter? Is this letter available to denizens of salon??

-It's definitely cut from the version selenak read, bah, both small and large cuts. There were a couple of bits from selenak's writeup that I could not find in my English copy. I guess maybe someday I will have to read this in French (I don't think I can handle it in German, sorry).

-Also, there is a very weird typo in the English edition I have that systematically calls Fredersdorf "Fredendorff" (both in my hard copy and in the one mildred sent, and including the index!) which confused me no end when I first read it ("Fritz has this secretary Fredendorff that I've never heard of before?") but fortunately selenak's writeup included talking about the Frankfurt affair (the only place where "Fredendorff" shows up) and that made it clear. But also kind of hilarious to me :)

-I must admit that though I was riveted almost the entire time, there were bits where Orieux goes on about various visitors Voltaire had (especially in his later years) where I was, okay, kinda bored :)

-Wow, Orieux reeeeeally does not like Madame Denis. I feel like I cannot at all analyze whether/how much this is justified. I can see that in the stories Orieux tells there is room for a Madame Denis (as selenak said somewhere else in salon) who is more interesting and nuanced than the greedy buffoon that he thinks she is, but it seems a bit harder for me to argue with, e.g., Madame Denis and Voltaire's last days -- ? Would love to get some insight on this from you rigorous critical thinker types <3

selenak: To start with the end, re: Voltaire's death - this account, which discusses the various versions and legends, seems to be the most reliable to me I've read so far. 
Orieux on Émilie: I didn't have the impression that he's factually incorrect, either; that he does not offer the context as to why her work is so important is a minus, but as he actually likes her a lot (this is also a Decided Opinion of his, see Orieux stating that Émilie was worth ten of Parisian gossips like Madame Deffand, or, during the 1743 crisis when Voltaire is holidaying with Fritz in Prussia, that between the two of them - Voltaire and Émilie, not Fritz and Émilie - she was the more committed lover), I didn't see it as an intended slight, and more of a male biographer of his time kind of thing.

Émilie's gambling and the "knaves" incident: I think Orieux' description is actually based on a Voltaire letter to a friend directly after the event itself (though I could be wrong). Incidentally, Émilie letting gambling get away with her on that occasion (and earlier) at a point when she was unhappy reminds me that Ada Lovelace also thought she could use her gift as a mathematician for gambling in order to make money so she and Babbage could continue to work on his machine (i.e. the computer), and instead ended up addicted to gambling and losing huge sums. In the case of the Versailles incident, though, I think an additional factor was that Voltaire calling Émilie's opponents "knaves" certainly carries the implication that he thinks they're cheating, and for a commoner to accuse noblemen (and -women) of cheating is certainly a potential case of HOW DARE YOU INTO THE BASTILLE WITH YOU! Still, as I recall (book's back in the library since half a year or more) Zinsser's biography definitely slants opinion by putting the emphasis on this and leaving out Émilie had lost huge, huge sums at this point.

here is a very weird typo in the English edition I have that systematically calls Fredersdorf "Fredendorff"

LOL. I have a spontaneous theory about this which of course I can't verify without counterchecking Orieux' original French edition. Because consider this:

- in his memoirs, pamphlets and letters, Voltaire keeps misspelling Fredersdorf's name (Mildred listed a couple of versions in her original Voltaire write up, I think)

- in his massive bibliography, Orieux doesn't list a Fritz biography that's not a "Fritz and...." type of book or essay, i.e. "Fritz and Louis XV", "Fritz and Voltaire", "Fritz and French Enlightenment" etc. There is no "Life and times of Fritz" biography in it.

- studies with these subjects aren't likely to mention Fredersdorf, except for the "Fritz and Voltaire" ones, and of those only ones specializing in the Frankfurt episode


=> Conclusion: Orieux might not have known himself how Frederdorf's name was spelled, and gave a wrong version in his book, which the English translator promptly used as well. Whereas the German translator either counterchecked or actually knew some stuff about Fritz beforehand, including the correct version of Fredersdorf's name.

(Backup for this theory: in the German version of Voltaire's memoirs, Fredersdorf's name is spelled correctly all the way through, very much as opposed to the original French or the English translation.)

felis: Yeah, I agree, very much reads like a relieved joke and like he admires Emilie for it. But also, a joke he reused, as there are three Voltaire letters from September 4th, which all contain a smiliar description of the birth: the one to d'Argental, with the quote from Cahn's write-up, which is followed by It will be more difficult for me to give birth to my Catilina; one to the Abbé de Voisenon, which tells the same story about the birth and expands a bit on his own work (During the last days of her pregnancy, I did not know what to do, so I began to have a child on my own; I gave birth in eight days to Catilina. [...] I am amazed/delighted [émerveillé] by Madame du Chatelet's childbed, and terrified by mine.); and finally, one to d'Argenson, which has the fatigued quote. It's written in the same vein and context, but it has a more noticeable "having kids = way easier than writing books" slant towards the end, so if you only read this one, you might get the wrong impression:

Mme du Châtelet vous mande, monsieur, que cette nuit, étant à son secrétaire, et griffonnant quelque pancarte newtonienne, elle a eu un petit besoin. Ce petit besoin était une fille qui a paru sur-le-champ. On l’a étendue sur un livre de géométrie in-4°. La mère est allée se coucher, parce qu’il faut bien se coucher ; et, si elle ne dormait pas, elle vous écrirait. Pour moi, qui ai accouché d’une tragédie de Catilina, je suis cent fois plus fatigué qu’elle. Elle n’a mis au monde qu’une petite fille qui ne dit mot, et moi il m’a fallu faire un Cicéron, un César ; et il est plus difficile de faire parler ces gens-là que de faire des enfants, surtout quand on ne veut pas faire un second affront à l’ancienne Rome et au théâtre français.

... and then his letters are all sadness only six days later. :((

Comments

[lokifan]

This is such a great post! Fascinating to read about.

[selenak]

Thank you! I've been expanding my own knowledge on so many aspects of this era in so many ways this recent year, and I love to share. :)

[pengwern]

Hello! I came here from a link on the Voltaire/Federic fic, and literally stayed up all last night reading this with increasing delight. The personalities involved are fascinating, and getting to see their real words has really been......more excellent than any historical novel than I could find. But above all, the work you've done in tracking down the sources, books, locations, and more is incredible! Thank you so much for sharing.

[selenak]

And thank you for reading and commenting with such enthusiasm! It gladdens my heart to find such readers (for both the story and the write-up).

[mildred_of_midgard]

Note: we found more data on the Corneille subscriptions.

Ian Daviddson: The king duly put his name down for 200 copies, the Tsarina Élisabeth Petrovna for 200, the Empress Maria Theresa for 100, but Frederick the Great for only six.

mildred_of_midgard: Hard to tell what the citation is, but it seems to be René Pomeau et al., Voltaire en son temps.

Since this was published in 1764, and the subscriptions seem to have taken out sometime between 1761 and 1763, I believe would actually believe Fritz only forked over for 6. (The Seven Years' War ended in 1763.) But I have no hard data.

selenak: Okay, got my Orieux copy again, and checked re: the Corneille subscriptions. He doesn't use footnotes (there's an extensive bibliograhy at the end, though), alas, but I reread the passage, I could figure out the divergence on Louis XV. and Fritz at least, which was a misunderstanding of mine. In a text about Voltaire in his old age, I automatically tend to assume that "the King" = Fritz if there's no further designation given. But to Orieux the Frenchman, "the King", no further designation given, is automatically "the King of France".

Here's the relevant text passage, literally: The King subscribes 200 copies, Catherine II. imitates him in this, the Empress does the same, Voltaire himself takes a hundred, the Marquise du Pompadour 50, Choiseul likewise. The noble lords don't abstain, their friends follow their example, headed by the English nobility. Voltaire offers to a free copy of one of his to the literati who can't afford to subscribe. He's Voltaire at his best.

While this explains Louis and Fritz (who does not get mentioned at all by Orieux if "the King" is Louis), we're still left with Catherine vs Elisaveta. Given the date, I assume the following: whoever Orieux' source was just said "the Czarina", and when doing his write up he assumed this would be Voltaire's declared fan Catherine without keeping in mind she wasn't on the throne yet. After all, events and people outside of France can be his weak spot, see also Fredersdorf as Fritz' secretary, "Marie-Christine" instead of Elisabeth Christine, Lessing (aka great German writer of the enlightenment, playwright and essay writer, who as a young man was Voltaire's translator in the Hirschel trial and got very disilluioned about him) as a subsequently famous for his poetry), staging and acting in Voltaire's plays keeping Fritz' brothers from scheming against him, and so forth.

mildred_of_midgard: Well...he started in 1761, but the work wasn't published until 1764, which means it could be either or both (Catherine ascended in 1762). If I were drumming up money, I would do it as often as I could, and if my fan ascended the throne during the process, I would make a special request just to her.

But without further evidence, we can't be sure.

[mildred_of_midgard]

Ian Davidson on the nude statue:

The statue was expected to cost between £12,000 and £15,000, including a fee of £10,000 for Pigalle...All the beau monde of Paris society were keen to subscribe, at the standard price of 2 louis each; Frederick subscribed 200 louis, or £ 4,800.

In 1776 Pigalle finished his statue of Voltaire, with a pen in one hand and his modesty preserved only by a sheet of parchment. It proved an unloved oddity: there was no agreement where it should be placed, and no one wanted to give it house room, so it stayed in Pigalle’s studio. Later it passed to Voltaire’s heirs, the family of Mme Denis. In 1806 they gave it to the Académie Française, where it was virtually hidden away, in despised obscurity, for 150 years. It was not finally exhibited in the Louvre until 1962.