



Produced by David Widger





MEMOIRS OF JACQUES CASANOVA de SEINGALT 1725-1798

THE ETERNAL QUEST, Volume 3e--WITH VOLTAIRE

THE RARE UNABRIDGED LONDON EDITION OF 1894 TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR MACHEN TO
WHICH HAS BEEN ADDED THE CHAPTERS DISCOVERED BY ARTHUR SYMONS.




THE ETERNAL QUEST




WITH VOLTAIRE




CHAPTER XIX

M. de Voltaire; My Discussions with That Great Man--Ariosto--The Duc de
Villars--The Syndic and the Three Girls--Dispute with
Voltaire--Aix-en-Savoie--The Marquis Desarmoises

"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 surprise, and waited to have my revenge.

Just then two Englishmen came in and were presented 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 after, 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 for 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 to discuss 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 succeeded."

"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 be 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. Livy has been
criticised on this account; his Latin is said to be tainted with
patavinity."

"When I began to learn Latin, the Abbe Lazzarini told me he preferred
Livy to Sallust."

"The Abbe Lazzarini, author of the tragedy, 'Ulisse il giovine'? You must
have been very young; I wish I had known him. But I knew the Abbe Conti
well; the same that was Newton's friend, and whose four tragedies contain
the whole of Roman history."

"I also knew and admired him. I was young, but I congratulated myself on
being admitted into the society of these great men. It seems as if it
were yesterday, though it is many years ago; and now in your presence my
inferiority does not humiliate me. I wish to be the younger son of all
humanity."

"Better so than to be the chief and eldest. 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 Italians 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 not one; but that is the fault of our language."

"And of the French genius, which considers that a thought when extended
loses all its force."

"And you do not think so?"

"Pardon me, it depends on the kind of thought. A witty saying, for
example, will not make a sonnet; in French or Italian it belongs to the
domain of epigram."

"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 works."

"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
unfortunate 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 conversation of Astolpho with St. John and he did it
without missing a single life 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. "And I, sir," said the
great man, "will let all Europe know of the amends I owe to the greatest
genius our continent has produced."

Greedy of the praise which he deserved so well, Voltaire gave me the next
day his translation which Ariosto begins thus:

"Quindi avvien the tra principi a signori."

At the end of the recitation which gained the applause of all who heard
it, although not one of them knew Italian, Madame Denis, his niece, asked
me if I thought the passage her uncle had just recited one of the finest
the poet had written.

"Yes, but not the finest."

"It ought to be; for without it Signor Lodovico would not have gained his
apotheosis."

"He has been canonised, then? I was not aware of that."

At these words the laugh, headed by Voltaire, went for Madame Denis.
Everybody laughed except myself, and I continued to look perfectly
serious.

Voltaire was vexed at not seeing me laugh like the rest, and asked me the
reason.

"Are you thinking," said he, "of some more than human passage?"

"Yes," I answered.

"What passage is that?"

"The last thirty-six stanzas of the twenty-third canto, where the poet
describes in detail how Roland became mad. Since the world has existed no
one has discovered the springs of madness, unless Ariosto himself, who
became mad in his old age. These stanzas are terrible, and I am sure they
must have made you tremble."

"Yes, I remember they render love dreadful. I long to read them again."

"Perhaps the gentleman will be good enough to recite them," said Madame
Denis, with a side-glance at her uncle.

"Willingly," said I, "if you will have the goodness to listen to me."

"You have learn them by heart, then, have you?" said Voltaire.

"Yes, it was a pleasure and no trouble. Since I was sixteen, I have read
over Ariosto two or three times every year; it is my passion, and the
lines naturally become linked in my memory without my having given myself
any pains to learn them. I know it all, except his long genealogies and
his historical tirades, which fatigue the mind and do not touch the
heart. It is only Horace that I know throughout, in spite of the often
prosaic style of his epistles, which are certainly far from equalling
Boileau's."

"Boileau is often too lengthy; I admire Horace, but as for Ariosto, with
his forty long cantos, there is too much of him."

"It is fifty-one cantos, M. de Voltaire."

The great man was silent, but Madame Denis was equal to the occasion.

"Come, come," said she, "let us hear the thirty-six stanzas which earned
the author the title of divine, and which are to make us tremble."

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 reciters if they were not constrained 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 spoils 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 how hardly I could restrain my tears,
and every eye was wet; but when I came to the stanza,

   "Poiche allargare il freno al dolor puote,
   Che resta solo senza altrui rispetto,
   Giu dagli occhi rigando per le gote
   Sparge un fiume de lacrime sul petto,"

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 tears, 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.

"It is astonishing," said Madame Denis, "that intolerant Rome should not
have condemned the song of Roland."

"Far from it," said Voltaire, "Leo X. excommunicated whoever should dare
to condemn it. The two great families of Este and Medici interested
themselves in the poet's favour. Without that protection it is probable
that the one line on the donation of Rome by Constantine to Silvester,
where the poet speaks 'puzza forte' would have sufficed to put the whole
poem under an interdict."

"I believe," said I, "that the line which has excited the most talk is
that in which Ariosto throws doubt on the general resurrection. Ariosto,"
I added, "in speaking of the hermit who would have hindered Rhodomonte
from getting possession of Isabella, widow of Zerbin, paints the African,
who wearied of the hermit's sermons, seizes him and throws him so far
that he dashes him against a rock, against which he remains in a dead
swoon, so that 'che al novissimo di forse fia desto'."

This 'forse' which may possibly have only been placed there as a flower
of rhetoric or as a word to complete the verse, raised a great uproar,
which would doubtless have greatly amused the poet if he had had time!

"It is a pity," said Madame Denis, "that Ariosto was not more careful in
these hyperbolical expressions."

"Be quiet, niece, they are full of wit. They are all golden grains, which
are dispersed throughout the work in the best taste."

The conversation was then directed towards various topics, and at last we
got to the 'Ecossaise' we had played at Soleure.

They knew all about it.

M. de Voltaire said that if I liked to play it at his house he would
write to M. de Chavigni to send the Lindane, and that he himself would
play Montrose. I excused myself by saying that Madame was at Bale and
that I should be obliged to go on my journey the next day. At this he
exclaimed loudly, aroused the whole company against me, and said at last
that he should consider my visit as an insult unless I spared him a week
at least of my society.

"Sir," said I, "I have only come to Geneva to have the honour of seeing
you, and now that I have obtained that favour I have nothing more to do."

"Have you come to speak to me, or for me to speak to you?"

"In a measure, of course, to speak to you, but much more for you to speak
to me."

"Then stay here three days at least; come to dinner every day, and we
will have some conversation."

The invitation was so flattering and pressing that I could not refuse it
with a good grace. I therefore accepted, and I then left to go and write.

I had not been back for a quarter of an hour when a syndic of the town,
an amiable man, whom I had seen at M. de Voltaire's, and whose name I
shall not mention, came and asked me to give him supper. "I was present,"
said he, "at your argument with the great man, and though I did not open
my mouth I should much like to have an hour's talk with you." By way of
reply, I embraced him, begging him to excuse my dressing-gown, and
telling him that I should be glad if he would spend the whole night with
me.

The worthy man spent two hours with me, without saying a word on the
subject of literature, but to please me he had no need to talk of books,
for he was a disciple of Epicurus and Socrates, and the evening was spent
in telling little stories, in bursts of laughter, and in accounts of the
various kinds of pleasure obtainable at Geneva. Before leaving me he
asked me to come and sup with him on the following evening, promising
that boredom should not be of the party.

"I shall wait for you," said I.

"Very good, but don't tell anyone of the party."

I promised to follow his instructions.

Next morning, young Fox came to see me with the two Englishmen I had seen
at M. de Voltaire's. They proposed a game of quinze, which I accepted,
and after losing fifty louis I left off, and we walked about the town
till dinner-time.

We found the Duc de Villars at Delices; he had come there to consult Dr.
Tronchin, who had kept him alive for the last ten years.

I was silent during the repast, but at dessert, M. de Voltaire, knowing
that 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 subject, 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 into 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 began to talk
nonsense with much wit and learning, but always concluding with a false
judgment. I let him talk on. He spoke of Homer, Dante, and Petrarch, and
everybody knows what he thought of these great geniuses