The Commercy visit was rather spoilt for Émilie by Mme de Boufflers’s bad temper and Voltaire’s nerves. Resigned as he was to her liaison with Saint-Lambert he could not help making jealous scenes from time to time. Even more tiresome, he was for ever scolding Émilie because she no longer got on with Mme de Boufflers, as though it were her fault. She thought this was most unfair. She was happy, on the whole, with her lover, they went out riding together, and he supped every evening in her room; but the time she spent with the rest of the party was not particularly agreeable. The King, who was truly fond of her (he never wrote to Voltaire without a loving message for ‘la chère Mme du Châtelet’), seems to have felt sorry for her, and it was at Commercy that, quite suddenly, he announced the appointment of her husband to the coveted post of Grand Maréchal des Logis de la Cour. Émilie was in the seventh heaven; nothing, now, could prevent her from living in Lorraine for the rest of her days.
If Voltaire was in a crotchety mood it was partly because he was engaged on one of those great fusses about nothing which he half enjoyed but which always affected his nerves. The Comédie Italienne had announced a parody of Sémiramis, and once more Voltaire demonstrated the fact that much as he loved teasing he could not bear to be teased. He was, at this very time, writing the tragedy Catalina with the avowed intention of baiting Crébillon and of showing up his play on the same subject as old-fashioned and silly. Voltaire sincerely felt that, while he himself was at liberty to stamp on other people’s feelings, his own must be spared. He badgered all his friends to prevent the Italians from producing their parody, he even made Stanislas write to the Queen about it. Considering her feelings for Voltaire, she was not likely to do as he wished, and said as much. Not only had she been, for many years, whole-heartedly on the side of Monseigneur de Mirepoix in his disputes with Voltaire, not only did she have to put up with fulsome poems glorifying Mme de Pompadour, but now it seemed to her that the two philosophers were leading her old father down the road to hell. Under their influence, as the Queen supposed, Stanislas had written Le Philosophe chrétien, a book which was clearly the work of an atheist. She saw, too, that Voltaire had allied himself with Mme de Boufflers against those who were trying to bring Stanislas to a decent marriagebed. She could hardly contain her horror and loathing of him, while the Dauphin openly said that he ought to be tortured to death. So far from being inclined to forbid the parody, they were both keenly looking forward to applauding it. In the end the all-powerful Mme de Pompadour stopped it, though she read Voltaire a lesson about his exaggerated touchiness.
Voltaire to Sir Everard Fawkener:
Lunéville, at the Court of Lorraine 5 nobre [1748].
Dear Sir
Yr letter has afforded me the most sensible satisfaction. For when my friendship to you began, t’was a bargain for life. Time that alters all things, and chiefly my poor tattered body, has not altered my sentiments. You acquaint me you are a husband and father and I hope you are an happy one. It behoves a secretary to a great general to marry a great officer’s daughter, and really I am transported with joy to see the blood of Marlborough mixed with that of my dearest Fawkenear. I do present your lady with my most humble respects and I kiss your child. You are a lusty husband and I a weak batchelor as such unhealthy as you saw me, but some twenty years older. Yet I have a kind of conformity with you; for if you are attached to a hero so I am in the retinue of another; tho not so intimately as you are; my King has appoinnted me one of the ordinary gentlemen of his chamber. Yr post is more profitable. Yet I am satisfied with mine, because if it gives not a great income, it leaves me at my full liberty, which I prefer to Kings. The King of Prussia would once give me one thousand pounds sterl per annum to live at his court; and I did not accept of the bargain because the court of a King is not comparable to the house of friend. I live these twenty years with the same friends and you know what power friendship gets over a tender soul and over a philosophical one. I find a great delight in opening my heart to you and in giving thus you an account of my conduct. I’ll tell you that being appointed, too, historiographer of France I do write the history of the late fatal war which did much harm to all the parties and did good only to the King of Prussia. I wish I could show you what I have writ upon that subject. I hope I have done justice to the great Duke of Cumberland. My history shall not be the work of a courtier, not that of a partial man; but that of a lover of mankind.
As to the tragedy of Sémiramis I’ll send it you within a month or two. I’ll remember alluvays with great pleasure I dedicated to you the tender tragedy of Zaire. This Sémiramis is quite of an other kind. I have try’d, tho it was a hard task, to change our french petits maîtres into Athenian hearers. The transformation is not quite performed; but the piece has met with great applause. It has the fate of moral books, that please many without mending anybody.
I am now my dear friend at the Court of King Stanislas, where I have passed some months with the ease and cheerfulness that I enjoyed once at Wandsworth; for you must know that King Stanislas is a kind of Fawkenear. He is indeed the best man living but for fear you should take me for a wanderer of courts and a vagabond courtier, I’ll tell you I am here with the very friend whom I never parted from for these twenty years past. The lady du Chastellet, who comments Newton and is now about printing a french translation of it, is the friend I mean.
I have at Paris some ennemies such as Pope had at London and I despise them as he did. In short I live as happy as my condition can permit.
Nisi quod simul esses caetera laetus.
I return you a thousand thanks my dearest and worthy friend. I wish you all the happiness you deserve and I’ll be yours for ever.
VOLTAIRE
Back at Lunéville, where there was a larger society and more to do than at Commercy, the various frictions in the company were not so noticeable. They all threw themselves into a wild pursuit of pleasure. Stanislas, enjoying himself like a child, kept advancing the time of dinner so that he could cram more and more amusement into the afternoon. La Galaizière said that if he went on like this he would be dining the day before. Mme du Châtelet led the revels; she organized theatrical performances, readings out loud, scientific experiments and excursions. Everybody wrote verses to everybody else; Voltaire, Pan-pan, and Saint-Lambert were kept busy extolling the Court beauties, Stanislas, and each other. Saint-Lambert wrote a play about two Iroquois who shared a wife, greatly to the advantage of all three. ‘Érimée (the wife) was sweeter to Mouza but more passionate with Tolho.’ Voltaire dedicated a poem to Saint-Lambert, ‘It is for you to pluck the roses but the thorns are for me.’ As usual, everything had settled down quite easily for Mme du Châtelet who was now the lucky possessor of two husbands and a lover. The only drawback to her happiness was that the lover did not really love.
Stanislas was having trouble again with Père Menou. The Jesuit realized what a fatal mistake he had made when he imported Voltaire. The courtiers had all taken to philosophy, the King hung upon Voltaire’s lips and his greatest treat was a reading of the Pucelle or of the even more dangerously insidious Contes philosophiques. Père Menou adjured Stanislas in and out of Church to bring the visit to an end, while the King, who had no intention whatever of losing the chief ornament of his Court, used delaying tactics. He stood up to his confessor and had an answer to every argument. ‘Voltaire is a revolting hypocrite,’ said the Father. ‘Hypocrisy is the tribute he pays to virtue,’ replied the King. ‘Is it not better to have him here in a hypocritical mood, than to see him making scandals somewhere else?’
However, at Advent Stanislas had a fit of piety. He stopped the acting and the parties. Mme du Châtelet and Voltaire took the hint and decided to absent themselves for a while. She found that she had business to do at Cirey, an ironmaster at one of the forges must be replaced, the forests visited, the rents collected and various other things regulated before the New Year. So they arranged to go there for Christmas and then on to Paris. Loving farewells were said at Lunéville and fer
vent promises exchanged. Saint-Lambert was never to write less than once a day, while Émilie would spend her whole life writing.
After supper, as always, the philosophers started on their journey. The following morning at eight they arrived at Châlons-sur-Marne, and went to pass the time of day with their friend the Bishop. The carriage was sent off for a change of horses and told to come back in an hour. There was an agreeable house-party at the Bishop’s and Émilie suggested a game of cards. By the time the carriage reappeared she was immovably fixed at the card table. It was raining and very cold and when the postilions had waited in the courtyard a good long while they threatened to go away altogether. Émilie sent word that she would not be wanting them before 2.30. But by 2.30 she had lost a large sum of money and was determined to win it back. The rain was still drenching down, men and horses were shivering with cold. The postilions cracked their whips under the Bishop’s windows and shouted threateningly. She pretended not to hear and began another game. The Bishop, taking pity on the men, told them to unharness and put up the horses in his own stables. Voltaire was frantic at this waste of a day. Not until eight in the evening did they resume their journey; Émilie had been playing cards for twelve solid hours.
At Cirey she settled down to her Newton. She had been working on it and talking about it for a long time, and had written a preface which Voltaire said was a masterpiece. Now she must finish the translation and write the commentary. She knew that this would test her powers to their utmost capacity. She had engaged a professor, as she always did, to help her when she arrived at Paris, and she was now hoping to have several months of perfect quiet.
22. Miscellaneous Works
After a few days at Cirey Voltaire saw that Émilie had something on her mind. Her usual tearing spirits had left her; she was low and obviously worried. She had reason to be. The assiduities of Saint-Lambert had had a most unexpected and unwelcome result. At nearly forty-four Mme du Châtelet was pregnant. As soon as she was sure of it, she told Voltaire. Though certainly not delighted by this news, he behaved angelically. His only thought was for Émilie, who was making herself ill with nerves and worry. He told her that everything would be all right, there was nothing supernatural about her condition; certainly no cause for despair. They would face the facts together and see what had better be done. Partly in order to cheer her up, he advised her to send for Saint-Lambert: he wrote himself, explained what had happened and asked him to come at once. Saint-Lambert got on a horse and was at Cirey a few hours after receiving Voltaire’s letter. The three of them then examined the situation.
Grave as it was, they could not help seeing the funny side. The servants at Cirey, as servants do, knew everything and had half expected a scene, a duel perhaps, between the two men; they were not a little astonished when shrieks of laughter rang through the house. Longchamp, who was eavesdropping for all he was worth, says the whole affair was treated as an enormous joke. The great question was how to break the news to M. du Châtelet. Émilie had lived on friendly but platonic terms with him for the last seventeen years. Had she better go and hide in some remote spot until all was over? But that would be so inconvenient and so dull. And if she did what would she call the child? Whom should she name as its father? Voltaire said it would have to appear among the miscellaneous works of Mme du Châtelet (æuvres mêlées). After hours of discussion, punctuated by hysterical laughter, they decided that pater est quem nuptiae demonstrant. So Mme du Châtelet wrote to her husband, who was at Dijon with his regiment and asked him to come and join them at Cirey. She baited the letter with the rents she had been collecting, she said she wanted to hand them over to him, and added that she was threatened with a lawsuit. She would be very glad to see him.
(When the wags at Versailles heard all this, which they did almost at once, they said: ‘Why does Mme du Châtelet suddenly want to see her husband?’ Answer: ‘It is one of those cravings of a pregnant woman.’)
The good Marquis came post haste. Never had he had such a reception, in his own house or anywhere else. His wife greeted him tenderly; all the most agreeable neighbours were gathered at Cirey; his tenants were waiting to give him a cheer; Voltaire and Saint-Lambert laid themselves out to please. The morning after he arrived he was sent off on a horse, to visit his farms and his forges. When he returned, with an excellent appetite, there was no question of the coachman’s dinner. The whole company was waiting for him and they sat down to a large meal, consisting of his favourite dishes. Afterwards they played games; the supper which followed was as brilliant as if it had been at Versailles. On the second day this programme was repeated and the festivities exceeded anything ever known at Cirey. At supper, Mme du Châtelet, in a very low gown and all her diamonds sat next her husband, plied him with food and drink, and made him tell stories of his various campaigns. Usually he was not allowed to speak of them at home, but this evening the whole table listened with bated breath. He was quite over-excited by the effect he was having on his guests and by the loving looks which Émilie flashed at him over her almost naked bosom. When he had come to the end of his repertoire, Voltaire took up the tale. Addressing himself entirely to du Châtelet he told curious stories as only he could tell them. More and more exhilarated, the Marquis became very gallant with his wife. Voltaire and Saint-Lambert, seeing that all was working out as they had hoped, exchanged satisfied nods and winks. At last, du Châtelet begged Émilie’s permission to pay his homage as a husband. She pretended to be very much surprised and rather shocked. She blushed, she bridled. He pressed the point, she refused, he insisted, and she said she would think about it.
All this time the guests, led by Voltaire, kept up a convivial din, bursting occasionally into song. In due course, Émilie surrendered and, begging to be excused, host and hostess retired. The second honeymoon, thus begun, lasted for three weeks while the jollities continued in full swing. Then Émilie told her husband that their union was once more to be blessed. M. du Châtelet nearly fainted with joy. He announced the happy news to all assembled friends and went round his estate announcing it to the tenants. He was warmly congratulated, not to say applauded, and a party was given to celebrate his splendid achievement. After this, everybody went their separate ways —Voltaire and Mme du Châtelet to Paris, Saint-Lambert to Nancy, du Châtelet to Dijon, and the gentlefolk of Champagne to their anonymous country lives.
Émilie’s character in its extraordinary contrasts, her equal enthusiasm for serious and trivial matters, has never been so brilliantly illuminated as during the months of her pregnancy. Though she felt ill with sickness and headaches and also suffered from deep melancholia, she set herself the task of finishing Newton. At this time when a woman longs for the support of the man she loves, she even had the strength of mind to separate from Saint-Lambert in order to be able to work. She knew that she was going to die, as much as human beings ever know it, and she was determined to leave a monument to her fame. At the same time she flung herself into the wordly life of which she was so fond, and conducted her love-affair. Her letters to Saint-Lambert alone would have occupied the leisure and energy of an ordinary woman. Neither lover comes well out of them; Saint-Lambert is shown to have been cold, neglectful, not, in fact, loving; Mme du Châtelet possessive, self-pitying, and a terrible nag. Greatly to her despair he was moving heaven and earth to get an army command which would take him away from Nancy, and the theme of many of her letters was: ‘You want to be free to separate from me for ever if it suits you, and yet you keep the right to reproach me for this and that —’
She was very much occupied with where to have her baby. Her pregnancy, at her age, made her a figure of fun and she knew it. She also knew that, while M. du Châtelet had been pleased about it at first, the indiscretion of an acquaintance might soon spoil everything. Their son made no secret of his displeasure, he had no desire to share his fortune with this deplorable afterthought. Altogether, Émilie’s position was delicate, and she looked for a shelter from all the chill winds that might blow upon
herself and her baby. She decided that Stanislas had better provide it. She would give birth at Lunéville, in the Queen of Poland’s apartment; nothing could possibly be more respectable. There was also the advantage that she would be near her lover (if, indeed, he were still in Lorraine); and her two husbands could also be in attendance. It seemed a good deal to ask of the old King that he should turn his late wife’s bedroom into a ward for such a strange maternity, but Émilie was never shy of asking and generally got what she wanted. First of all she wrote to Mme de Boufflers, 3 April 1749.
‘I am pregnant and you may imagine my distress, my fears for my health – for my very life even – how ridiculous I feel it to have a baby at the age of forty [forty-four, really] and how much I mind on my son’s account. Nobody knows yet, it shows very little, I think it must be in the fourth [month]. I haven’t felt it move, but that won’t be until four and a half months. I am so thin that if I felt giddy or unwell, and if my breasts were not swollen, I should think it was simply an irregularity. You can imagine how much I count on your friendship now, and how much I need it to console and help me to bear my condition. It would be very hard for me to be so long away from you and not to have you at my lying-in, yet how can I go to Lunéville and put everybody to so much trouble? I really do not know if I can ask the King, good as he always is, to let me have the Queen’s small apartment which I used to occupy. The wing would not do because of the noise, the smell of the manure-heap and the fact that I would be too far from you and M. de Voltaire.’
Voltaire in Love Page 24
