When Casanova met Voltaire
Trying to get to meet Voltaire was a must for European travellers not just in his old age, but pretty much since his thirties. It was easier once he had settled down in exile near Geneva, though. If the would be visitor in question was a young unknown like James Boswell, you got encounters such as this one; if, on the other hand, the other party was an 18th century superstar himself, well, then you get volume 15th of Casanova's memoirs. Background the first: Casanova's encounter with Voltaire takes place in 1760 (though he gets Voltaire's age wrong); at this point, Casanova is moderately famous for having managed to escape the The Leads, the notorious Venetian state prison, but he's by no means as universally known as he is today, as his memoirs have not yet been written. Some might even know him as a con man of the Saint Germain and Cagliostro type from his adventures in France. He's decades younger than Voltaire, true, but hitting middle age himself, and about to feel it soon. Voltaire, on the other hand, has been the most famous (French) writer of the age for good while, despite competition; his claim to literary fame is unquestioned, nor is his ability to piss off governments and authorities all over Europe (which is why he has ended up in Switzerland). Background the second: Also worth keeping in mind: by the time old Casanova writes his memoirs, stuck in a dead-end job as a librarian in Bohemia, Voltaire has died decades ago (being controversial even in death, due to the church's unwillingness to bury him in Paris), and the French Revolution has happened, irrevocably changing the world they had both known. For which Voltaire got, depending from your pov, some credit/blame.
On to the first encounter, which has Voltaire doing that thing people still do today, which is meeting someone from a place and automatically assuming they must know someone else from the same place. In other words, Voltaire is playing Six Degrees of Algarotti. To understand Casanova's attitude, bear in mind that while Casanova is, uncontestedly, the most famous 18th Century Venetian now, back then he wasn't; it was none other than, you guessed it, Francesco Algarotti.
"M. de Voltaire," said I, "this is the happiest moment of my life. I have been your pupil for twenty years, and my heart is full of joy to see my master."
"Honour me with your attendance on my course for twenty years more, and promise me that you will bring me my fees at the end of that time."
"Certainly, if you promise to wait for me."
This Voltairean sally made all present laugh, as was to be expected, for those who laugh keep one party in countenance at the other's expense, and the side which has the laughter is sure to win; this is the rule of good society.
I was not taken by surprse, and waited to have my revenge.
Just then two Englishmen came in and were prsented to him.
"These gentlemen are English," said Voltaire; "I wish I were."
I thought the compliment false and out of place; for the gentlemen were obliged to reply out of politeness that they wished they had been French, or if they did not care to tell a lie they would be too confused to tell the truth. I believe every man of honour should put his own nation first.
A moment later, Voltaire turned to me again and said that as I was a Venetian I must know Count Algarotti.
"I know him, but not because I am a Venetian, as seven-eights of my dear countrymen are not even aware of his existence."
"I should have said, as a man of letters."
"I know him from having spent two months with him at Padua, seven years ago, and what particularly attracted my attention was the admiration he professed for M. de Voltaire."
"That is flattering to me, but he has no need of admiring anyone."
"If Algarotti had not begun by admiring others, he would never have made a name for himself. As an admirer of Newton he endeavoured to teach the ladies the theory of light."
"Has he succeeded?"
"Not as well as M. de Fontenelle in his 'Plurality of Worlds'; however, one may say he has suceeded."
(Sidenote by me: I would be very surprised if this dialogue happened in this way, seeing as Voltaire more than know about Algarotti's "Newton for Ladies" opus; his own "Newton for Beginners" book had been published about the same time, Algarotti had even lived with him and Émilie du Chatelet for a while at Cirey, and while he generally got along well with Algarotti, "Newton for Ladies" had caused a little bump in that relationship. Then again, Casanova is writing in the early 1790s when Algarotti's fame has faded and probably thinks a little exposition doesn't harm anyone)
"True. If you see him at Bologna, tell him I am expecting to hear from him about Russia. He can address my letters to my banker, Bianchi, at Milan, and they will sent on to me."
"I will not fail to do so if I see him."
"I have heard that the Italians do not care for his style."
"No; all that he writes is full of French idioms. His style is wretched."
"But do not these French turns increase the beauty of your language?"
"They make it insufferable, as French would be mixed with Italian or German even though it were written by M. de Voltaire."
"You are right; every language should preserve its purity. (...) May I ask you to what branch of literature you have devoted yourself?"
"To none; but that, perhaps, will come afterwards. In the meantime I read as much as I can, and try to study character on my travels."
"That is the way to become learned, but the book of humanity is too vast. Reading a history is the easier way."
"Yes, if history did not lie. One is not sure of the truth of the facts. It is tiring, while the study of the world is amusing. Horace, whom I know by heart, is my guide-book."
"Algarotti, too, is very fond of Horace. Of course you are fond of poetry?"
"It is my passion."
"Have you made many sonnets?"
"Ten or twelve I like, and two or three thousand which in all probability I have not read twice."
"The Italian are mad after sonnets."
"Yes; if one can call it a madness to desire to put thought into measured harmony. The sonnet is difficult because the thought has to be fitted exactly into the fourteen lines."
"It is Procrustes' bed, and that's the reason you have so few good ones. As for us, we have none, but that is the fault of our language." (...)
"What Italian poet do you like best?"
"Ariosto; but I cannot say I love him better than the others, for he is my only love."
"You know the others, though?"
"I think I have read them all, but all their lights pale before Ariosto's. Fifteen years ago I read all you have written against him, and I said that you would retract when you had read his words."
"I am obliged to you for thinking that I had not read them. As a matter of fact I had done so, but I was young. I knew Italian very imperfectly, and being prejudiced by the learned Italians who adore Tasso I was unfortuante enough to publish a criticism of Ariosto which I thought my own, while it was only the echo of those who had prejudiced me. I adore your Ariosto."
"Ah! M. de Voltaire, I breathe again. But be good enough to have the work in which you turned this great man into ridicule excommunicated."
"What use would that be? All my books are excommunicated. But I will give you a good proof of my retractation."
I was astonished! The great man began to recite the two fine passages from the thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth cantos, in which the divine poet speaks of the conversations of Astolpho with St. John and he did it without missing a single line or committing the slightest fault against the laws of prosody. He then pointed out the beauties of the passages with his natural insight and with a great man's genius. I could not have had anything better from the lips of the most skilled commentators in Italy. I listened to him with the greatest attention, hardly daring to breath, and waiting for him to make a mistake, but I had my trouble for nothing. I turned to the company crying that I was more than astonished, and that all Italy should know what I had seen.
(Naturally, Casanova contrives to declaim Ariosto by heart as well, manipulating Madame Denis, Voltaire's niece, into asking him to.)
I then began, in an assured voice, but not in that monotonous tone adopted by the Italians, with which the French so justly reproach us. The French would be the best recitners if they were not contrained by the rhyme, for they say what they feel better than any other people. They have neither the passionate monotonous tone of my fellow countrymen nor the sentimentality of the Germans, nor the fatiguing mannerisms of the English; to every period they give its proper expression, but the recurrence of the same sounds partly spoinls their recitation. I recited the fine verses of Ariosto, as if it had been rhythmic prose, animating it by the sound of my voice and the movements of my eyes, and by modulating my intonation according to the sentiments with which I wished to inspire my audience. They saw haw hardly I could restrain my tears, and every eye ws wet, but when I came to the stanza,
'Poiche allargare il freno al dolor puote (...)', my tears coursed down my cheeks to such an extent that everyone began to sob. M. de Voltaire and Madame Denis threw their arms round my neck, but their embraces could not stop me, for Roland, to become mad, had to notice that he was in the same bed in which Angelica had lately been found in the arms of the too fortunate Medor, and I had to reach the next stanza. For my voice of sorrow and wailing I substituted the expression of that terror which arose naturally from the contemplation of his fury, which was in its effects like a tempest, a volcano, or an earthquake.
When I had finished I received with a sad air the congratulations of the audience. Voltaire cried: 'I always said so; the secret of drawing tears is to weep one's self, but they must be real tars, and to shed them the heart must be stirred to its depths. I am obliged to you, sir," he added, embracing me, 'and I promise to recite the same stanzas myself to-morrow, and to weep like you."
He kept his word.
(This gets Casanova an invitation to stay for three days chez Voltaire. Sidenote re: Ariosto: given Voltaire uses a simile from Orlando Furioso, from which they've just quoted, in his memoirs when talking about his hate/love relationship with Frederick the Great - who gets called "my Frederick-Alcina", casting Friedrich as the sorceress bewitching men into staying at her palace, I'm completely willing to believe he warmed up to Ariosto. As for everyone's tears, that was the custom of the day. 18th Century: when everyone, especially the men, cried a lot. Bless.)
I was silent during the repast, but at dessert, M. de Voltaire, knowing I had reasons for not liking the Venetian Government, introduced the subject; but I disappointed him, as I maintained that in no country could a man enjoy more perfect liberty than in Venice.
"Yes," said he, "provided he resigns himself to play the part of a dumb man."
And seeing that I did not care for the subvject, he took me by the arm to his garden, of which, he said, he was the creator. The principal walk led to a pretty running stream.
'Tis the Rhone," said he, "which I send to France."
"It does not cost you much in carriage, at all events," said I.
He smiled pleasantly and shewed me the principal street of Geneva, and Mont Blanc which is the highest point of the Alps. Bringing back the conversation to Italian literature, he talked nonsense with much wit and learning, but always concluding with a false judgment. I let him talk on. (...) I accompanied M. de Voltaire to his bedroom, where he changed his wig and put on another cap, for he always wore one on account of the rheumatism to which he was subject. (...) Voltaire opened a door, and I saw a hundred great files full of papers.
"That's my correspondence," said he. "You see before you nearly fifty thousand letters, to which I have replied."
"Have you a copy of your answers?"
"Of a good many of them. That's the business of a servant of mine, who has nothing else to do."
"I know plenty of booksellers who would give a good deal to get hold of your answers."
"Yes; but look out for the booksellers when you publish anything, if you have not yet begun; they are greater robbers than Barrabas."
"I shall not have anything to do with these gentlemen till I am an old man."
"Then they will be the scourge of your old age." (...)
We had to leave his room and spend two hours in the company, talking over all sorts of things. Voltaire displayed all the resources of his brilliant and fertile wit, and charmed everyone in spite of his sarcastic observations which did not even spare those present, but he had an inimitable manner of lancing a sarcasm without wounding a person's feelings. When the great man accompanied his witticisms with a graceful smile he could always get alaugh.
He kept up a notable establishment an an excellent table, a rare circumstance with his poetic brothers, who are rarely favourites of Plutus as he was. He was then sixty years old, and had a hundred and twenty thousand francs a year. It has been said maliciously that this great man enriched himself by cheating his publishers wheras the fact was that he fared no better than any other author, and instead of duping them he was often their dupe. The Cramers must be excepted, whose fortune he made. Voltaire had other ways of making money than b his pen; and as he was greedy of fame, he often gave his works away on the sole condition that they were to be printed and published. During the short time I was with him, I was a witness of such a generous action; he made a present to his bookseller of the "Princess of Babylon", a charming story which he had written in three days.
(Sidenote:Voltaire was indeed one of the few writers with independent wealth. Which he had not inherited. As a young man, he'd decided that while money without talent was stupid, talent without money was a drag, and thus contrived by various deals, some of which shady, some legal, to make himself a fortune. More about where his income came from - indeed not from his writings - here.)
Casanova finds the time in between Voltaire audiences to have an adventure with three ladies, because of course he does. Then he tries his charm on Madame Denis, about whom he has a far more positive impression than your average 18th century memoir writer:
At noon I went to M. de Voltaire's. He was not to be seen, but Madame Denis consoled me for his absence. She had wit, learning without pretension, taste, and a great hatred for the King of Prussia, whom she called a villain. She asked about my beautiful housekeeper, and congratulated me on having married her to a respectable man. Although I feel n ow that she was quite right, I was far from thinking so then; the impression was too fresh on my mind. Madame Denis begged me to tell her how I had escaped from The Leads, but as the story was rather a long one I pomised to satisfy her another time.
(Sidenote: you bet she hated the King of Prussia. Frederick was directly responsible for the infamous Frankfurt episode in which she along with her uncle got arrested and locked up in an inn for weeks until Fritz got his incriminating poetry back.)
Voltaire shows up again, they discuss more literature.)
We spent a pleasant day, and he thanked me heartily for the copy of the Macaronicon, which he pomised to read. He introduced me to a Jesuit he had in his household, who was called Adam, and he added, after telling me his name, "not the first Adam'. I was told afterwards that Voltaire used to play backgammon with him , and when he lost he would throw the dice at his head. If Jesuiits were treated like that all the world over, perhaps we should have none but inoffensive Jesuits at last, but that happy time is still far off.
(Sidenote: Father Adam was indeed a Jesuit living with Voltaire. The irony here is that Voltaire - who'd gone to a Jesuit school and gotten along well with most of his teachers - had spent a lifetime attacking both the Catholic Church in general and the Jesuits in particular, right until they got banned by the Pope, at which point he started to offer shelter.)
Casanova then has more adventures with the three ladies, and proceeds to spend the last of his three days with Voltaire. Alas, though, first they disagree about a book Casanova lent Voltaire, and then they argue politics. Specifically, whether or not humanity is ready for liberty, and what liberty means anyway. Three guesses as to who takes which attitude....
After having enjoyed a calm and refreshing sleep ten hours, I felt myself able to enjoy the delightful society of M. de Voltaire. I went to his hoouse, but I was disappointed in my hopes, as it pleased the great man to be in a fault-finding and sarcastic mood the whole day. He knew I had to leave on the morrow.
He began by thanking me at table for my present of Merlin Cocccaeus.
"You certainly gave it to me with good intentions," said he, "but I owe you no thanks for praising it so highly, as you made me lose four hours in reading nonsense."
I felt my hair stand on end, but I mastered my emotions, and told him quietly that one day, perhaps, he would find himself obliged to praise the poem more highly than I had done. I quoted several instances of the insuffiiency of a first perusal.
"That's true," said he, "but as for your Merlin, I will read him no more. I have put him beside Chapelain's 'Pucelle'."
"which pleases all the critics, in spite of his bad versification, for it is a good poem, and Chapelain was a real poet though he wrote bad verses. I cannot overlook his genius."
(Bad mistake, Casanova. Chapelain is one of Voltaire's arch enemies, and Voltaire's "Pucelle" was written as a riposte/satire to Chapelain, among other things. Next, Casanova praises another Voltaire arch enemy, Crebillon. They then try to be diplomatic by going back to old authors they agree on, to wit, Horace. Alas, this leads to politics. Specifically, Voltaire's politics. Bear in mind that Casanova writes his memoirs not only many years later, but specifically after the French Revolution, which claimed Voltaire as well as Rousseau as forerunners, has destroyed the world as Casanova knew it. Oh, and when Voltaire says "and you are of the people yourself" later, he is referring to the fact that Casanova, "Chevalier de Saint-Galt" alias not withstanding, is in fact the son of two actors.)
(O)n my quoting a line of Horace to raise one of his pieces, he said that Horace was a great master who had given precepts which would never be out of date. Therupon I answered that he himself had violated one of them, but that he violated it grandly."
"Which is that?"
"You no not write, 'Contentus paucis lectoribus'."
"If Horace had had to combat the hydra-headed monster of superstition, he would have written as I have written - for all the world."
"It seems to me you might spare yourself the trouble of combating what you will never destroy."
"That which I cannot finish others will, and I shall always have the glory of being the first in the field."
"Very good; but supposing you succeed in destroying superstition, what are you going to put in its place?"
"I like that. If I deliver the race of man from a wild beast which is devouring it, am I to be asked what I intend to put in its place?"
"It does not devour it; on the contrary, it is necessary to its existence."
"Necessary to its existence! That is a horrible blasphemy, the falsity of which will be seen in the future. I love the human race; I would fain see men like myself, free and happy, and superstition and freedom cannot go together. Where do you find an enslaved and yet a happy people?"
"You wish, then, to see the people sovereign?"
"God forbid! There must be a sovereign to govern the masses."
"In that case you must have superstition, for without it the masses will never obey a mere man decked with the name of monarch."
"I will have no monarch; the word expresses despotism, which I hate as I do slavery."
"What do you mean, then? If you wish to put the government in the hands of am an, such a man, I maintain, will be a monarch."
"I would have a sovereign ruler of a free people, of which he is the chief by an agreement which binds them both, which would prevent him from becoming a tyrant."
"Addison will tell you that such a sovereign is a sheer impossibility. I agree with Hobbes, of two evils choose the least. A nation without superstition would be a nation of philosophers, and philosophers would never obey. The people will only be happy when they are crushed and downtrodden, and bound in chains."
"This is horrible; and you are of the people yourself. If you have read my works you must have seen how I shew that superstition is the enemy of kings."
"Read your works? I have read and re-read them, especially in places where I have differed from you. Your ruling passion is the love of humanity. 'Est ubi peccas.' This blinds you. Love humanity, but love it as it is. It is not fit to receive the blessings you would lavish on it, and which would only make it more wretched and perverse. Leave men their devouring monster, it is dear to them. I have never laughed to heartily as at Don Quixote assailed by the galley slaves whom his generosity had set free."
"I am sorry that you have such a bad opinion of your fellow-creatures. And by the way, tell me whether there is freedom in Venice."
"As much as can be expected under an aristocracy. Our liberty is not so great as that which the English enjoy, but we are content."
"Even under The Leads?"
"My imprisonment was certainly despotic, but as I had knowingly abused my liberty I am satisfied that the Government was within its rights in shutting me up without the usual formalities."
"All the same, you made your escape."
"I used my rights as they had used theirs."
"Very good! But as far as I can see no one in Venice is really free."
"That may be; but you must agree that the essence of freedom consists in thinking that you have it."
"I shall not agree to that so easily. You and I see liberty from very different points of view. The aristocrats, the members of the Government even, are not free in Venice; for example, they cannot travel without permission."
"True, but that is a restriction of their own making to preserve their power. Would you say that a Bernese is not free, because he is subject to the sumptuary laws, which he himself had made."
"Well, well, I wish the people made the laws everywhere." (...)
I went home well pleased at having compelled the giant of intellect to listen to reason, as I then thought foolishly enough; but there was a rankling feeling left in my heart against him which made me, ten years later, critisize all he had written.
I am sorry now for having done so, though on reading my censures over again, I find that in many places I was right. I should have done better, however, to have kept silence, to have respected his genius, and to have suspected my own opinions. I should have considered that if it had not been for those quips and cranks which made me hate him on the third day, I should have thought him wholly sublime. This thought alone should have silenced me, but an angry man always thinks himself right.
And thus ended the meeting between two of the most famous pre-French Revolution people of the 18th century. This entry was originally posted at https://selenak.dreamwidth.org/1434480.html. Comment there or here, as you wish.
On to the first encounter, which has Voltaire doing that thing people still do today, which is meeting someone from a place and automatically assuming they must know someone else from the same place. In other words, Voltaire is playing Six Degrees of Algarotti. To understand Casanova's attitude, bear in mind that while Casanova is, uncontestedly, the most famous 18th Century Venetian now, back then he wasn't; it was none other than, you guessed it, Francesco Algarotti.
"M. de Voltaire," said I, "this is the happiest moment of my life. I have been your pupil for twenty years, and my heart is full of joy to see my master."
"Honour me with your attendance on my course for twenty years more, and promise me that you will bring me my fees at the end of that time."
"Certainly, if you promise to wait for me."
This Voltairean sally made all present laugh, as was to be expected, for those who laugh keep one party in countenance at the other's expense, and the side which has the laughter is sure to win; this is the rule of good society.
I was not taken by surprse, and waited to have my revenge.
Just then two Englishmen came in and were prsented to him.
"These gentlemen are English," said Voltaire; "I wish I were."
I thought the compliment false and out of place; for the gentlemen were obliged to reply out of politeness that they wished they had been French, or if they did not care to tell a lie they would be too confused to tell the truth. I believe every man of honour should put his own nation first.
A moment later, Voltaire turned to me again and said that as I was a Venetian I must know Count Algarotti.
"I know him, but not because I am a Venetian, as seven-eights of my dear countrymen are not even aware of his existence."
"I should have said, as a man of letters."
"I know him from having spent two months with him at Padua, seven years ago, and what particularly attracted my attention was the admiration he professed for M. de Voltaire."
"That is flattering to me, but he has no need of admiring anyone."
"If Algarotti had not begun by admiring others, he would never have made a name for himself. As an admirer of Newton he endeavoured to teach the ladies the theory of light."
"Has he succeeded?"
"Not as well as M. de Fontenelle in his 'Plurality of Worlds'; however, one may say he has suceeded."
(Sidenote by me: I would be very surprised if this dialogue happened in this way, seeing as Voltaire more than know about Algarotti's "Newton for Ladies" opus; his own "Newton for Beginners" book had been published about the same time, Algarotti had even lived with him and Émilie du Chatelet for a while at Cirey, and while he generally got along well with Algarotti, "Newton for Ladies" had caused a little bump in that relationship. Then again, Casanova is writing in the early 1790s when Algarotti's fame has faded and probably thinks a little exposition doesn't harm anyone)
"True. If you see him at Bologna, tell him I am expecting to hear from him about Russia. He can address my letters to my banker, Bianchi, at Milan, and they will sent on to me."
"I will not fail to do so if I see him."
"I have heard that the Italians do not care for his style."
"No; all that he writes is full of French idioms. His style is wretched."
"But do not these French turns increase the beauty of your language?"
"They make it insufferable, as French would be mixed with Italian or German even though it were written by M. de Voltaire."
"You are right; every language should preserve its purity. (...) May I ask you to what branch of literature you have devoted yourself?"
"To none; but that, perhaps, will come afterwards. In the meantime I read as much as I can, and try to study character on my travels."
"That is the way to become learned, but the book of humanity is too vast. Reading a history is the easier way."
"Yes, if history did not lie. One is not sure of the truth of the facts. It is tiring, while the study of the world is amusing. Horace, whom I know by heart, is my guide-book."
"Algarotti, too, is very fond of Horace. Of course you are fond of poetry?"
"It is my passion."
"Have you made many sonnets?"
"Ten or twelve I like, and two or three thousand which in all probability I have not read twice."
"The Italian are mad after sonnets."
"Yes; if one can call it a madness to desire to put thought into measured harmony. The sonnet is difficult because the thought has to be fitted exactly into the fourteen lines."
"It is Procrustes' bed, and that's the reason you have so few good ones. As for us, we have none, but that is the fault of our language." (...)
"What Italian poet do you like best?"
"Ariosto; but I cannot say I love him better than the others, for he is my only love."
"You know the others, though?"
"I think I have read them all, but all their lights pale before Ariosto's. Fifteen years ago I read all you have written against him, and I said that you would retract when you had read his words."
"I am obliged to you for thinking that I had not read them. As a matter of fact I had done so, but I was young. I knew Italian very imperfectly, and being prejudiced by the learned Italians who adore Tasso I was unfortuante enough to publish a criticism of Ariosto which I thought my own, while it was only the echo of those who had prejudiced me. I adore your Ariosto."
"Ah! M. de Voltaire, I breathe again. But be good enough to have the work in which you turned this great man into ridicule excommunicated."
"What use would that be? All my books are excommunicated. But I will give you a good proof of my retractation."
I was astonished! The great man began to recite the two fine passages from the thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth cantos, in which the divine poet speaks of the conversations of Astolpho with St. John and he did it without missing a single line or committing the slightest fault against the laws of prosody. He then pointed out the beauties of the passages with his natural insight and with a great man's genius. I could not have had anything better from the lips of the most skilled commentators in Italy. I listened to him with the greatest attention, hardly daring to breath, and waiting for him to make a mistake, but I had my trouble for nothing. I turned to the company crying that I was more than astonished, and that all Italy should know what I had seen.
(Naturally, Casanova contrives to declaim Ariosto by heart as well, manipulating Madame Denis, Voltaire's niece, into asking him to.)
I then began, in an assured voice, but not in that monotonous tone adopted by the Italians, with which the French so justly reproach us. The French would be the best recitners if they were not contrained by the rhyme, for they say what they feel better than any other people. They have neither the passionate monotonous tone of my fellow countrymen nor the sentimentality of the Germans, nor the fatiguing mannerisms of the English; to every period they give its proper expression, but the recurrence of the same sounds partly spoinls their recitation. I recited the fine verses of Ariosto, as if it had been rhythmic prose, animating it by the sound of my voice and the movements of my eyes, and by modulating my intonation according to the sentiments with which I wished to inspire my audience. They saw haw hardly I could restrain my tears, and every eye ws wet, but when I came to the stanza,
'Poiche allargare il freno al dolor puote (...)', my tears coursed down my cheeks to such an extent that everyone began to sob. M. de Voltaire and Madame Denis threw their arms round my neck, but their embraces could not stop me, for Roland, to become mad, had to notice that he was in the same bed in which Angelica had lately been found in the arms of the too fortunate Medor, and I had to reach the next stanza. For my voice of sorrow and wailing I substituted the expression of that terror which arose naturally from the contemplation of his fury, which was in its effects like a tempest, a volcano, or an earthquake.
When I had finished I received with a sad air the congratulations of the audience. Voltaire cried: 'I always said so; the secret of drawing tears is to weep one's self, but they must be real tars, and to shed them the heart must be stirred to its depths. I am obliged to you, sir," he added, embracing me, 'and I promise to recite the same stanzas myself to-morrow, and to weep like you."
He kept his word.
(This gets Casanova an invitation to stay for three days chez Voltaire. Sidenote re: Ariosto: given Voltaire uses a simile from Orlando Furioso, from which they've just quoted, in his memoirs when talking about his hate/love relationship with Frederick the Great - who gets called "my Frederick-Alcina", casting Friedrich as the sorceress bewitching men into staying at her palace, I'm completely willing to believe he warmed up to Ariosto. As for everyone's tears, that was the custom of the day. 18th Century: when everyone, especially the men, cried a lot. Bless.)
I was silent during the repast, but at dessert, M. de Voltaire, knowing I had reasons for not liking the Venetian Government, introduced the subject; but I disappointed him, as I maintained that in no country could a man enjoy more perfect liberty than in Venice.
"Yes," said he, "provided he resigns himself to play the part of a dumb man."
And seeing that I did not care for the subvject, he took me by the arm to his garden, of which, he said, he was the creator. The principal walk led to a pretty running stream.
'Tis the Rhone," said he, "which I send to France."
"It does not cost you much in carriage, at all events," said I.
He smiled pleasantly and shewed me the principal street of Geneva, and Mont Blanc which is the highest point of the Alps. Bringing back the conversation to Italian literature, he talked nonsense with much wit and learning, but always concluding with a false judgment. I let him talk on. (...) I accompanied M. de Voltaire to his bedroom, where he changed his wig and put on another cap, for he always wore one on account of the rheumatism to which he was subject. (...) Voltaire opened a door, and I saw a hundred great files full of papers.
"That's my correspondence," said he. "You see before you nearly fifty thousand letters, to which I have replied."
"Have you a copy of your answers?"
"Of a good many of them. That's the business of a servant of mine, who has nothing else to do."
"I know plenty of booksellers who would give a good deal to get hold of your answers."
"Yes; but look out for the booksellers when you publish anything, if you have not yet begun; they are greater robbers than Barrabas."
"I shall not have anything to do with these gentlemen till I am an old man."
"Then they will be the scourge of your old age." (...)
We had to leave his room and spend two hours in the company, talking over all sorts of things. Voltaire displayed all the resources of his brilliant and fertile wit, and charmed everyone in spite of his sarcastic observations which did not even spare those present, but he had an inimitable manner of lancing a sarcasm without wounding a person's feelings. When the great man accompanied his witticisms with a graceful smile he could always get alaugh.
He kept up a notable establishment an an excellent table, a rare circumstance with his poetic brothers, who are rarely favourites of Plutus as he was. He was then sixty years old, and had a hundred and twenty thousand francs a year. It has been said maliciously that this great man enriched himself by cheating his publishers wheras the fact was that he fared no better than any other author, and instead of duping them he was often their dupe. The Cramers must be excepted, whose fortune he made. Voltaire had other ways of making money than b his pen; and as he was greedy of fame, he often gave his works away on the sole condition that they were to be printed and published. During the short time I was with him, I was a witness of such a generous action; he made a present to his bookseller of the "Princess of Babylon", a charming story which he had written in three days.
(Sidenote:Voltaire was indeed one of the few writers with independent wealth. Which he had not inherited. As a young man, he'd decided that while money without talent was stupid, talent without money was a drag, and thus contrived by various deals, some of which shady, some legal, to make himself a fortune. More about where his income came from - indeed not from his writings - here.)
Casanova finds the time in between Voltaire audiences to have an adventure with three ladies, because of course he does. Then he tries his charm on Madame Denis, about whom he has a far more positive impression than your average 18th century memoir writer:
At noon I went to M. de Voltaire's. He was not to be seen, but Madame Denis consoled me for his absence. She had wit, learning without pretension, taste, and a great hatred for the King of Prussia, whom she called a villain. She asked about my beautiful housekeeper, and congratulated me on having married her to a respectable man. Although I feel n ow that she was quite right, I was far from thinking so then; the impression was too fresh on my mind. Madame Denis begged me to tell her how I had escaped from The Leads, but as the story was rather a long one I pomised to satisfy her another time.
(Sidenote: you bet she hated the King of Prussia. Frederick was directly responsible for the infamous Frankfurt episode in which she along with her uncle got arrested and locked up in an inn for weeks until Fritz got his incriminating poetry back.)
Voltaire shows up again, they discuss more literature.)
We spent a pleasant day, and he thanked me heartily for the copy of the Macaronicon, which he pomised to read. He introduced me to a Jesuit he had in his household, who was called Adam, and he added, after telling me his name, "not the first Adam'. I was told afterwards that Voltaire used to play backgammon with him , and when he lost he would throw the dice at his head. If Jesuiits were treated like that all the world over, perhaps we should have none but inoffensive Jesuits at last, but that happy time is still far off.
(Sidenote: Father Adam was indeed a Jesuit living with Voltaire. The irony here is that Voltaire - who'd gone to a Jesuit school and gotten along well with most of his teachers - had spent a lifetime attacking both the Catholic Church in general and the Jesuits in particular, right until they got banned by the Pope, at which point he started to offer shelter.)
Casanova then has more adventures with the three ladies, and proceeds to spend the last of his three days with Voltaire. Alas, though, first they disagree about a book Casanova lent Voltaire, and then they argue politics. Specifically, whether or not humanity is ready for liberty, and what liberty means anyway. Three guesses as to who takes which attitude....
After having enjoyed a calm and refreshing sleep ten hours, I felt myself able to enjoy the delightful society of M. de Voltaire. I went to his hoouse, but I was disappointed in my hopes, as it pleased the great man to be in a fault-finding and sarcastic mood the whole day. He knew I had to leave on the morrow.
He began by thanking me at table for my present of Merlin Cocccaeus.
"You certainly gave it to me with good intentions," said he, "but I owe you no thanks for praising it so highly, as you made me lose four hours in reading nonsense."
I felt my hair stand on end, but I mastered my emotions, and told him quietly that one day, perhaps, he would find himself obliged to praise the poem more highly than I had done. I quoted several instances of the insuffiiency of a first perusal.
"That's true," said he, "but as for your Merlin, I will read him no more. I have put him beside Chapelain's 'Pucelle'."
"which pleases all the critics, in spite of his bad versification, for it is a good poem, and Chapelain was a real poet though he wrote bad verses. I cannot overlook his genius."
(Bad mistake, Casanova. Chapelain is one of Voltaire's arch enemies, and Voltaire's "Pucelle" was written as a riposte/satire to Chapelain, among other things. Next, Casanova praises another Voltaire arch enemy, Crebillon. They then try to be diplomatic by going back to old authors they agree on, to wit, Horace. Alas, this leads to politics. Specifically, Voltaire's politics. Bear in mind that Casanova writes his memoirs not only many years later, but specifically after the French Revolution, which claimed Voltaire as well as Rousseau as forerunners, has destroyed the world as Casanova knew it. Oh, and when Voltaire says "and you are of the people yourself" later, he is referring to the fact that Casanova, "Chevalier de Saint-Galt" alias not withstanding, is in fact the son of two actors.)
(O)n my quoting a line of Horace to raise one of his pieces, he said that Horace was a great master who had given precepts which would never be out of date. Therupon I answered that he himself had violated one of them, but that he violated it grandly."
"Which is that?"
"You no not write, 'Contentus paucis lectoribus'."
"If Horace had had to combat the hydra-headed monster of superstition, he would have written as I have written - for all the world."
"It seems to me you might spare yourself the trouble of combating what you will never destroy."
"That which I cannot finish others will, and I shall always have the glory of being the first in the field."
"Very good; but supposing you succeed in destroying superstition, what are you going to put in its place?"
"I like that. If I deliver the race of man from a wild beast which is devouring it, am I to be asked what I intend to put in its place?"
"It does not devour it; on the contrary, it is necessary to its existence."
"Necessary to its existence! That is a horrible blasphemy, the falsity of which will be seen in the future. I love the human race; I would fain see men like myself, free and happy, and superstition and freedom cannot go together. Where do you find an enslaved and yet a happy people?"
"You wish, then, to see the people sovereign?"
"God forbid! There must be a sovereign to govern the masses."
"In that case you must have superstition, for without it the masses will never obey a mere man decked with the name of monarch."
"I will have no monarch; the word expresses despotism, which I hate as I do slavery."
"What do you mean, then? If you wish to put the government in the hands of am an, such a man, I maintain, will be a monarch."
"I would have a sovereign ruler of a free people, of which he is the chief by an agreement which binds them both, which would prevent him from becoming a tyrant."
"Addison will tell you that such a sovereign is a sheer impossibility. I agree with Hobbes, of two evils choose the least. A nation without superstition would be a nation of philosophers, and philosophers would never obey. The people will only be happy when they are crushed and downtrodden, and bound in chains."
"This is horrible; and you are of the people yourself. If you have read my works you must have seen how I shew that superstition is the enemy of kings."
"Read your works? I have read and re-read them, especially in places where I have differed from you. Your ruling passion is the love of humanity. 'Est ubi peccas.' This blinds you. Love humanity, but love it as it is. It is not fit to receive the blessings you would lavish on it, and which would only make it more wretched and perverse. Leave men their devouring monster, it is dear to them. I have never laughed to heartily as at Don Quixote assailed by the galley slaves whom his generosity had set free."
"I am sorry that you have such a bad opinion of your fellow-creatures. And by the way, tell me whether there is freedom in Venice."
"As much as can be expected under an aristocracy. Our liberty is not so great as that which the English enjoy, but we are content."
"Even under The Leads?"
"My imprisonment was certainly despotic, but as I had knowingly abused my liberty I am satisfied that the Government was within its rights in shutting me up without the usual formalities."
"All the same, you made your escape."
"I used my rights as they had used theirs."
"Very good! But as far as I can see no one in Venice is really free."
"That may be; but you must agree that the essence of freedom consists in thinking that you have it."
"I shall not agree to that so easily. You and I see liberty from very different points of view. The aristocrats, the members of the Government even, are not free in Venice; for example, they cannot travel without permission."
"True, but that is a restriction of their own making to preserve their power. Would you say that a Bernese is not free, because he is subject to the sumptuary laws, which he himself had made."
"Well, well, I wish the people made the laws everywhere." (...)
I went home well pleased at having compelled the giant of intellect to listen to reason, as I then thought foolishly enough; but there was a rankling feeling left in my heart against him which made me, ten years later, critisize all he had written.
I am sorry now for having done so, though on reading my censures over again, I find that in many places I was right. I should have done better, however, to have kept silence, to have respected his genius, and to have suspected my own opinions. I should have considered that if it had not been for those quips and cranks which made me hate him on the third day, I should have thought him wholly sublime. This thought alone should have silenced me, but an angry man always thinks himself right.
And thus ended the meeting between two of the most famous pre-French Revolution people of the 18th century. This entry was originally posted at https://selenak.dreamwidth.org/1434480.html. Comment there or here, as you wish.