At last they all went to bed and goodness gracious how she slept! She only woke up at twelve, so stiff from yesterday’s climb that she could hardly move. The dame visited her in the morning, rather nicer to her than before. Mme du Grafigny has read Le Préservatif in order to be able to say so and Voltaire has sent up a copy of Newton to her room. Well, it seems they don’t dine in this house, so she read Newton all day in order to have something to talk about at supper. She didn’t do too badly, she understood quite a lot. While she was struggling away with it, she had a visitor in the shape of Mme du Champbonin, a country neighbour of the du Châtelets who spends most of her time at Cirey. She is exactly like the short fat woman in Marivaux’s Paysan parvenu, but really rather a dear; she positively worships Voltaire. Poor woman, they do lead her a dance, they shut her up in her room and make her read all the books in the house, and she is none the wiser for it. She didn’t stay long. Then Voltaire came but Mme de Grafigny chased him away as her room is chilly and he has a dreadful cold. Fancy chasing Voltaire! After that the host appeared and bored her for two hours until Voltaire rescued her by sending for her to go and see him. She didn’t have to be asked twice!
Voltaire’s wing of the house is at the bottom of the main staircase. You go through a tiny antechamber to his bedroom which is small and low and hung with crushed velvet in the winter. Not much tapestry but gilded panelling with pictures set in it; the furniture is chinoiserie. The looking-glasses, lacquer corner-cupboards, china, a clock supported by marabouts, and many, many other valuable things are all in that taste. There is a ring holder with twelve rings of engraved stones and two of diamonds. Everything so clean you could kiss the parquet. A gallery thirty or forty feet long leads out of this room. It has three windows and between them are two very exquisite little statues on lacquer bases; one is the Farnese Venus and the other Hercules. Two cupboards, for books and scientific instruments, have a stove between them which heats the gallery so that it feels like springtime – this will eventually be hidden by a statue of Cupid. The panelling is yellow lacquer, there is a quantity of furniture, clocks, etc., nothing missing unless it be a comfortable chair to sit on. Bodily comfort doesn’t seem necessary to Voltaire.
Supper was rather disappointing. There was a tedious fellow called Trichâteau, of whom M. du Châtelet has expectations (he is a cousin) and one had to talk to him. However, she had a little chat with Voltaire afterwards; he spoke of Pan-pan, and said he really ought to do something with his life. ‘His father should turn him out, as mine did.’ Saint-Lambert,* however, has talent. By the way, Saint-Lambert gave her a message for Voltaire which she has forgotten; can Pan-pan find out what it was?
That was her day, yesterday. This morning she came down at eleven for coffee which they drank in the gallery. Voltaire was in a dressing-gown, his cold is really awful. Then the dame took Mme de Grafigny to see her own rooms. Voltaire’s are simply nothing at all compared with these. Her bedroom is panelled in yellow and blue, the alcove for the bed lined with Indian paper, the bed covered with blue moiré – everything, even the dog’s basket, is to match. The looking glasses have silver frames, beautifully cleaned. A big glass door, decorated like a snuff-box, leads to the library which is not yet finished, it will have pictures by Paul Veronese. Beside the alcove there is a tiny boudoir; one could fall on one’s knees it is so pretty, panelled in blue with a ceiling by a pupil of Martin who has been working here for the last three years. Each panel has a picture by Watteau. There is a chimney-piece with brackets by Martin, which have pretty little things on them, and an amber ink-stand sent with some verses by the Prince of Prussia. A big armchair and two footstools to match are all upholstered in white taffeta. This divine boudoir has one window leading on to a terrace with an admirable view. The other side of the bed there is a dressing-room paved with marble, panelled in grey wood and hung with delightful prints. Everything is in perfect taste, including the curtains which are embroidered muslin. When they had seen it all, Mme du Châtelet kept her guest in her bedroom and expounded the details of a lawsuit in which her husband’s family had been involved for the last eighty years. Strange to say she was not boring about it, although she went on for an hour and a half; she spoke so well that it was impossible not to be fascinated. She also showed Mme de Grafigny her jewels which are more beautiful than Mme de Richelieu’s. Funny thing, when she was at Craon in the old days she didn’t possess so much as a tortoise-shell snuff-box. Now she has at least twenty, some of gold with precious stones and some in the new fashion of enamel on gold which is so expensive, as well as jasper and diamond watches, jewelled étuis, rings with rare stones, in fact no end of trinkets. Mme de Grafigny was amazed, for the du Châtelets had never been rich.
The post has arrived – no letter for Mme de Grafigny, how sad. Back in her own room, she will describe that. Well, it is absolutely vast and very dark with one draughty little illfitting window which looks on to an arid mountain you could touch by putting out your hand, it is so near. [Quite untrue, there is no such mountain at Cirey.] The tapestry is covered with large ugly people whom she cannot place at all. The bed is upholstered with bits of stuff quite nice in themselves but which don’t match so the effect is hideous. The fireplace is tiny and so deep that you could burn a forest there without raising the temperature of the room. The furniture consists of old-fashioned chairs and a chest of drawers; beside her bed is the only table. She hates this horrid room, really her maid’s is better, though that has no outside window at all. Except in the part of the house inhabited by Voltaire and Mme du Châtelet, everything is disgustingly squalid and that’s the truth.
Now that Pan-pan knows what the house is like they will talk about people. It seems the Prince of Prussia sent an embassy here to bring his portrait and to take away the Siècle de Louis XIV. He must be a handsome prince, not unlike M. de Richelieu. Voltaire spends his time looking out books for Mme de Grafigny to read – manuscripts, too. What a pity she can’t copy them and send them to her Panpichon. By the way, Pan-pan must be careful how he repeats the things she tells him as it would never do for her to get into a scrape with these people. Could he be a dear and go to La Tour for her, get some of that yellow mouth-wash which is so good for the horrid little things that come in her mouth and send it to Cirey ? But La Tour mustn’t know it’s for her, because she owes him money. Goodnight, goodnight – she is off to supper, to stoke up for the morrow.
The letters become more and more enthusiastic, quite incoherent in fact. Voltaire told funny stories, oh how she pities Pan-pan for not being here, really they burst their sides with laughing. Then he read out Algarotti’s book, Newtonianismo per le dame, which has just been translated. Only imagine, there was something about physics being like a town with fields round it; nobody could help shrieking, though Algarotti is a friend here. Mme de Grafigny is reading Louis XIV now – there’s an account of the Fronde which is simply divine. But the dame won’t let Voltaire finish it, she keeps it under lock and key and forces him to do geometry. She herself is strangely ignorant of history. They have their tiffs like everybody else. This evening she had gone to bed, they were sitting in her bedroom and she told Voltaire to go and change his coat. It’s not a pretty coat, certainly, but he had beautiful lace and was well powdered. He refused to change it, saying he would catch cold. She went on nagging until he spoke very sharply in English and left the room. She sent after him but no, he was sulking. Then a neighbour arrived and Mme de Grafigny went to find Voltaire who was chatting to the fat lady, as merry as could be. The dame presently sent word to say they were all to come back, but as soon as he saw her Voltaire turned sulky again. Finally they had it out in English and everything was all right after that. This was the first sign that they were lovers because as a rule they behaved with great circumspection together, though the dame leads him rather a dance. By the way, Panpichon can write as often as he likes because the incoming letters are all paid for, is that not gallant? She only wishes it were the same for the ones that go ou
t – oh well!
The dame wanted her to go for a drive, but the horses looked a bit frisky so she went for a walk with fat Mme de Champbonin who then took her to see the bathroom. That is an enchantment! It is entirely lined with tiles, with a marble floor and porcelain baths. The little cabinet de toilette has carved and gilded panels of celadon green – so gay, so divine – with a tiny sofa and chairs of the same wood, also carved and gilded. There are prints and pictures, china, a dressing-table, and the ceiling is painted. The other place is to match and here there are looking-glasses and books lying about on lacquer tables. The whole thing is Lilliputian, so pretty, delicious, and enchanting that, if it belonged to Mme de Grafigny, she would have herself woken up in the night to go and look at it. All this made a little change because usually she is in her bedroom from midday to supper-time (9 p.m.) without seeing a soul, though not bored for a minute because she has so much to read. Last night Voltaire gave a magic-lantern show, with stories about M. de Richelieu, the Abbé Desfontaines, and so on which killed them all with laughing. She is reading some of Voltaire’s Épîtres at the moment and she likes his notion that pleasure proves the existence of a Creator whom we must love while enjoying ourselves.
Élisabeth de Breteuil has arrived; he is an Abbé and the brother of Mme du Châtelet.† He seems most agreeable and has brought a lot of gossip from Paris. So they will give a performance of Voltaire’s comedy, Boursoufle, in his honour, they are all busily learning their parts. Mme de Grafigny is coaching the little girl in hers. Pan-pan really might write more often. No post now till Saturday, it does seem far off. And by the way he must look carefully at his letters to see if anybody has been at them – if he suspects anything he must let her know. Her hosts seem so frightened that she will be indiscreet, she can’t quite think why as she never stops saying how perfect everything is. It seems the presence of the brother is a secret however.
She’s waiting for the post, it really should have come by now. When it does come, the letters have been written such a long time ago, and then why is Pan-pan not receiving hers? These delays are very odd. The dame always makes up the parcels of letters for the post herself – at night.
Pan-pan says he hasn’t quite understood how the day at Cirey is arranged. From eleven until noon there is coffee in Voltaire’s gallery, and at noon a meal, which they call the coachmen’s dinner, for M. de Châtelet, Mme de Champbonin, and the little boy. Voltaire, the dame, and Mme de Grafigny look in at it for about half an hour, after which they all go back to their rooms. At four o’clock they sometimes assemble again for a goûter, but not every day. Supper at nine o’clock, and they are together until midnight. Oh how she pities her poor friends for not being here to share in this delightful existence! The dame would like to invite Desmarets,‡ if he cared to come and if he could learn two or three parts beforehand, but Mme de Grafigny thinks he is with his regiment. She suggests Saint-Lambert, but the dame says she can only have him if he knows how to stay in his own room and accommodate himself to their ways. The dame doesn’t really care for visitors, it seems, in fact she dreads them. Solitude is what she desires. In future Mme de Grafigny will refer to Voltaire as Nicodème and the dame as Dorothée, it will be safer. Then she can say what she thinks, quite comfortably.
Mme de Grafigny now hears that her furniture is going to be sold, to pay her debts. Pan-pan must try and stop that, or at any rate send her one of her dresses. One more or less won’t make any difference, it can’t be dishonourable, but if it is, so much the worse. She wants it. She has been very low, terrible vapours, she has taken opium but it did no good at all. Finally the vapours were cured by Voltaire reading out his Jeanne [La Pucelle] which he did in the bathroom. The servant who went to Lunéville has come back without the mouth-wash. It is really too bad. Of course Mme de Grafigny has the satisfaction of thinking how much nicer she is to her friends than they are to her, but that doesn’t cure her mouth.
To tell the truth she feels sorry for Nicodème because he and Dorothée don’t really get on. Alas! once again we see that there is no such thing as happiness under the sky. We think people are quite happy if we only see them from time to time, but if we insert ourselves into their lives it is like the Empire of the Moon. Happiness is not the lot of mankind, Hell is everywhere, since we carry it inside us.
Now there have been two more readings of Jeanne. Mme de Grafigny gives an account of the latest stanza which is about a certain Agnès. Agnès has an affair with a page on whose bottom Jeanne had painted a fleur-de-lys. The English appear, there is a battle and Agnès’s horse runs away with her to a convent. Since she is in a penitent mood she rings the bell and Sister Besogne opens the door. She takes Agnès to her cell and goes to bed with her – Sister Besogne, as it happens, is a young esquire whom the Abbess keeps there to minister to her. The Abbess, luckily, is away, so Agnès has an exceedingly diverting time. Mme de Grafigny reminds Pan-pan that he must be very careful whom he tells this to, as it is a terrific secret. Also he must be careful how he writes about Dorothée. If he were at Cirey he would realize that she is not often as Mme de Grafigny first described her, but generally cold and hard, it is not very easy to get on with her. As for Nicodème, he is really a little bit mad on the subject of Jean-Baptiste Rousseau and Desfontaines. Mme de Grafigny tries to persuade him that he ought to despise them but he cannot see reason where they are concerned. He has caricatures made of them and writes the captions, in verse, himself; he really longs for everybody to know this but doesn’t quite dare admit it. Pan-pan must be careful how he answers this letter.
After supper the dame asked Mme de Grafigny if she had ever had any children. Her hosts knew nothing about her life so she told them the whole story. The recital had a tremendous effect. The dame was seized with a fit of giggles which she explained away by saying she must laugh in order not to cry. [Indeed, the vision of Mme de Grafigny being flung about in an excess of sadistic passion by her mad husband might well have been irresistibly funny.] But Voltaire, the human Voltaire, was quite overcome and he wept. He is never ashamed to show his feelings. ‘What, none of your friends came to the rescue?’ In the end they all cried and went on talking until two in the morning. Good Mme de Champbonin, who generally goes to bed at eleven, was in Mme de Grafigny’s bedroom when she went upstairs and stayed there consoling her until three. Pan-pan sees what charming people she is with.
They are going to give Bour soufle and Mme de Grafigny has the part of a wife who loves without return. Oh how well she will act that! Voltaire suggests, ‘Let’s make Pan-pan come here’; she replies, ‘But you know Pan-pan, he is dreadfully shy, he would never open his mouth in front of this beautiful lady.’ Says Voltaire: ‘The first day he can look at her through a keyhole, the second he can stay in the little room next door, and the third day he can sit behind a screen. We shall love him so much that he’ll become quite tame.’ ‘What nonsense,’ says the dame, ‘I shall be charmed to see him and I hope he won’t be frightened of me.’ Mme de Grafigny says if he comes they can give La Mort de César; Voltaire is enchanted at the idea as it is his favourite play.
On Christmas Day, it will be remembered, Voltaire and Mme du Châtelet both read La Voltairomanie. Mme de Grafigny, not knowing that they had had this terrible shock, rattled on to Pan-pan, saying that Voltaire seemed very unwell, in bed, with a temperature. They heard Midnight Mass from his room. He said he had been having a long talk with the Virgin – he would rather deal with her than with the others. Next day he was ill again and very low, though very polite. Mme du Châtelet began to read aloud a new novel by Moncrif, but it was too badly written and she had to give it up. Mme de Grafigny is still struggling with Newton but she would love to give that up too. Oh! it is dull! Pan-pan’s letters all about the jollities at Lunéville made her cry – how she loves her friends there. Alas, dear treasures, she hopes they talk about her sometimes. Desmarets’s letter putting off his visit has cast her down dreadfully.
From now on Mme de Grafigny’s outlook c
hanged entirely. She was no longer the happiest, luckiest person in the world, she no longer felt sorry for Panpichon and all who were not living in the same house as the Idol. Her letters are pathetic. The cold of a Continental winter has descended upon Cirey and the poor woman hates her horrid room more and more. The draughts are so terrible they nearly put out her candle, she sits with a screen round her but it does no good. She has no comfortable chair, her body is not at ease. Then the hours go so slowly, it is now 7 p.m. and she has seen nobody all day. When she went down for coffee at eleven, the door was bolted. None of this would matter if she were a little more comfortable. It’s not that they are mean with wood, there’s a fire like the burning of Troy in her fireplace but the room gets no warmer. There are thirty-two fires in the house altogether. Then her dog, Lise, is on heat and Mme de Grafigny is afraid she will be covered by one of those great mongrels in the farmyard. Another misfortune: Dubois has given notice. Well, she has been unbearable lately, so rude and bad-tempered. And now here is the post and not a single letter. What does it mean? She is too sad, her friends alone keep her going and she begs them to remember it.
It is New Year’s Day, she has been ill with colic. Pan-pan has written to say the stanza of Jeanne is charming. Mme de Grafigny tells him to send back whatever she wrote on the subject. This is terribly important, he must send it and make no more comments, he has been indiscreet enough as it is. He asks where she will be in March. Certainly not at Cirey. She hasn’t enough money to go to Paris so she has sent to Saint-Dizier to know if there’s not a convent where she could retire. He will ask why Saint-Dizier? Because it seems the posts there are regular and the only pleasure she has left in the world is the letters of her friends. Besides it is on the way to Paris. Once a year somebody might visit her for an hour. Admittedly she wouldn’t think of such a thing if there were a better prospect in view, but as there is not she must fulfil her destiny.
Voltaire in Love Page 12
