CHAPTER V.
A MEETING OF WITS.--CONVERSATION GONE OUT TO SUPPER IN HER DRESS OFVELVET AND JEWELS.
BOULAINVILLIERS! Comte de St. Saire! What will our great-grandchildrenthink of that name? Fame is indeed a riddle! At the time I refer to,wit, learning, grace--all things that charm and enlighten--were supposedto centre in one word,-_Boulainvilliers_! The good Count had manyrivals, it is true, but he had that exquisite tact peculiar to hiscountrymen, of making the very reputations of those rivals contributeto his own. And while he assembled them around him, the lustre of their_bons mots_, though it emanated from themselves, was reflected upon him.
It was a pleasant though not a costly apartment in which we foundour host. The room was sufficiently full of people to allow scope andvariety to one group of talkers, without being full enough to permitthose little knots and _coteries_ which are the destruction of literarysociety. An old man of about seventy, of a sharp, shrewd, yet polishedand courtly expression of countenance, of a great gayety of manner,which was now and then rather displeasingly contrasted by an abruptaffectation of dignity, that, however, rarely lasted above a minute,and never withstood the shock of a _bon mot_, was the first person whoaccosted us. This old man was the wreck of the once celebrated AnthonyCount Hamilton!
"Well, my Lord," said he to Bolingbroke, "how do you like the weatherat Paris? It is a little better than the merciless air of London; isit not? 'Slife!--even in June one could not go open breasted in thoseregions of cold and catarrh,--a very great misfortune, let me tellyou, my Lord, if one's cambric happened to be of a very delicate andbrilliant texture, and one wished to penetrate the inward folds of alady's heart, by developing to the best advantage the exterior foldsthat covered his own."
"It is the first time," answered Bolingbroke, "that I ever heard soaccomplished a courtier as Count Hamilton repine, with sincerity, thathe could not bare his bosom to inspection."
"Ah!" cried Boulainvilliers, "but vanity makes a man show much thatdiscretion would conceal."
"_Au diable_ with your discretion!" said Hamilton, "'tis a vulgarvirtue. Vanity is a truly aristocratic quality, and every way fitted toa gentleman. Should I ever have been renowned for my exquisite lace andweb-like cambric, if I had not been vain? Never, _mon cher_! I shouldhave gone into a convent and worn sackcloth, and from _Count Antoine_ Ishould have thickened into _Saint Anthony_."
"Nay," cried Lord Bolingbroke, "there is as much scope for vanity insackcloth as there is in cambric; for vanity is like the Irish oglingmaster in the 'Spectator,' and if it teaches the play-house to ogle bycandle-light, it also teaches the church to ogle by day! But, pardon me,Monsieur Chaulieu, how well you look! I see that the myrtle sheds itsverdure, not only over your poetry, but the poet. And it is right that,to the modern Anacreon, who has bequeathed to Time a treasure it willnever forego, Time itself should be gentle in return."
"Milord," answered Chaulieu, an old man who, though considerably pastseventy, was animated, in appearance and manner, with a vivacityand life that would have done honour to a youth,--"Milord, it wasbeautifully said by the Emperor Julian that Justice retained the Gracesin her vestibule. I see, now, that he should have substituted the word_Wisdom_ for that of Justice."
"Come," cried Anthony Hamilton, "this will never do: compliments are thedullest things imaginable. For Heaven's sake, let us leave panegyric toblockheads, and say something bitter to one another, or we shall die of_ennui_."
"Right," said Boulainvilliers; "let us pick out some poor devil to beginwith. Absent or present?--Decide which."
"Oh, absent," cried Chaulieu, "'tis a thousand times more piquant toslander than to rally! Let us commence with his Majesty: Count Devereux,have you seen Madame Maintenon and her devout infant since yourarrival?"
"No! the priest must be petitioned before the miracle is made public."
"What!" cried Chaulieu, "would you insinuate that his Majesty's piety isreally nothing less than a miracle?"
"Impossible!" said Boulainvilliers, gravely,--"piety is as natural tokings as flattery to their courtiers: are we not told that they are madein God's own image?"
"If that were true," said Count Hamilton, somewhat profanely,--"if thatwere true, I should no longer deny the impossibility of Atheism!"
"Fie, Count Hamilton," said an old gentleman, in whom I recognized thegreat Huet, "fie: wit should beware how it uses wings; its province isearth, not Heaven."
"Nobody can better tell what wit is _not_ than the learned Abbe Huet!"answered Hamilton, with a mock air of respect.
"Pshaw!" cried Chaulieu, "I thought when we once gave the rein to satireit would carry us _pele-mele_ against one another. But, in order tosweeten that drop of lemon-juice for you, my dear Huet, let me turn toMilord Bolingbroke, and ask him whether England can produce a scholarequal to Peter Huet, who in twenty years wrote notes to sixty-twovolumes of Classics,* for the sake of a prince who never read a line inone of them?"
* The Delphin Classics.
"We have some scholars," answered Bolingbroke; "but we certainly have noHuet. It is strange enough, but learning seems to me like a circle:it grows weaker the more it spreads. We now see many people capable ofreading commentaries, but very few indeed capable of writing them."
"True," answered Huet; and in his reply he introduced the celebratedillustration which is at this day mentioned among his most felicitous_bons mots_. "Scholarship, formerly the most difficult and unaidedenterprise of Genius, has now been made, by the very toils of the firstmariners, but an easy and commonplace voyage of leisure. But who wouldcompare the great men, whose very difficulties not only proved theirardour, but brought them the patience and the courage which alone arethe parents of a genuine triumph, to the indolent loiterers of thepresent day, who, having little of difficulty to conquer, have nothingof glory to attain? For my part, there seems to me the same differencebetween a scholar of our days and one of the past as there is betweenChristopher Columbus and the master of a packet-boat from Calais toDover!"
"But," cried Anthony Hamilton, taking a pinch of snuff with the air ofa man about to utter a witty thing, "but what have we--we spirits ofthe world, not imps of the closet," and he glanced at Huet--"to do withscholarship? All the waters of Castaly, which we want to pour into ourbrain, are such as will flow the readiest to our tongue."
"In short, then," said I, "you would assert that all a friend cares forin one's head is the quantity of talk in it?"
"Precisely, my dear Count," said Hamilton, seriously; "and to that maximI will add another applicable to the opposite sex. All that a mistresscares for in one's heart is the quantity of love in it."
"What! are generosity, courage, honour, to go for nothing with ourmistress, then?" cried Chaulieu.
"No: for she will believe, if you are a passionate lover, that you haveall those virtues; and if not, she will never believe that you haveone."
"Ah! it was a pretty court of love in which the friend and biographer ofCount Grammont learned the art!" said Bolingbroke.
"We believed so at the time, my Lord; but there are as many changesin the fashion of making love as there are in that of making dresses.Honour me, Count Devereux, by using my snuff-box and then looking at thelid."
"It is the picture of Charles the Second which adorns it; is it not?"
"No, Count Devereux, it is the diamonds which adorn it. His Majesty'sface I thought very beautiful while he was living; but now, on myconscience, I consider it the ugliest phiz I ever beheld. But I directedyour notice to the picture because we were talking of love; and OldRowley believed that he could make it better than any one else. All hiscourtiers had the same opinion of themselves; and I dare say the _beauxgarcons_ of Queen Anne's reign would say that not one of King Charley'sgang knew what love was. Oh! 'tis a strange circle of revolutions, thatlove! Like the earth, it always changes, and yet always has the samematerials."
"_L'amour, l'amour, toujours l'amour_, with Count Anthony Hamilton!"said Boulainvilliers. "He is always on that subject; and, _sacre bl
eu_!when he was younger, I am told he was like Cacus, the son of Vulcan, andbreathed nothing but flames."
"You flatter me," said Hamilton. "Solve me now a knotty riddle, my LordBolingbroke. Why does a young man think it the greatest compliment to bethought wise, while an old man thinks it the greatest compliment to betold he has been foolish?"
"Is love foolish then?" said Lord Bolingbroke.
"Can you doubt it?" answered Hamilton; "it makes a man think more ofanother than himself! I know not a greater proof of folly!"
"Ah! _mon aimable ami_," cried Chaulieu; "you are the wickedest wittyperson I know. I cannot help loving your language, while I hate yoursentiments."
"My language is my own; my sentiments are those of all men," answeredHamilton: "but are we not, by the by, to have young Arouet hereto-night? What a charming person he is!"
"Yes," said Boulainvilliers. "He said he should be late; and Iexpect Fontenelle, too, but _he_ will not come before supper. I foundFontenelle this morning conversing with my cook on the best manner ofdressing asparagus. I asked him the other day what writer, ancient ormodern, had ever given him the most sensible pleasure? After a littlepause, the excellent old man said, 'Daphnus.' 'Daphnus!' repeatedI, 'who the devil is he?' 'Why,' answered Fontenelle, with tears ofgratitude in his benevolent eyes, 'I had some hypochondriacal ideasthat suppers were unwholesome; and Daphnus is an ancient physician, whoasserts the contrary; and declares,--think, my friend, what a charmingtheory!--that the moon is a great assistant of the digestion!'"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Abbe de Chaulieu. "How like Fontenelle! whatan anomalous creature 'tis! He has the most kindness and the leastfeeling of any man I ever knew. Let Hamilton find a pithier descriptionfor him if he can!"
Whatever reply the friend of the _preux Grammont_ might have made wasprevented by the entrance of a young man of about twenty-one.
In person he was tall, slight, and very thin. There was a certainaffectation of polite address in his manner and mien which did notquite become him; and though he was received by the old wits with greatcordiality, and on a footing of perfect equality, yet the inexpressibleair which denotes birth was both pretended to and wanting. This,perhaps, was however owing to the ordinary inexperience of youth;which, if not awkwardly bashful, is generally awkward in its assurance.Whatever its cause, the impression vanished directly he entered intoconversation. I do not think I ever encountered a man so brilliantly,yet so easily, witty. He had but little of the studied allusion, theantithetical point, the classic metaphor, which chiefly characterizethe wits of my day. On the contrary, it was an exceeding and naivesimplicity, which gave such unrivalled charm and piquancy to hisconversation. And while I have not scrupled to stamp on my pages somefaint imitation of the peculiar dialogue of other eminent characters,I must confess myself utterly unable to convey the smallest idea of hismethod of making words irresistible. Contenting my efforts, therefore,with describing his personal appearance,--interesting, because thatof the most striking literary character it has been my lot to meet,--Ishall omit his share in the remainder of the conversation I amrehearsing, and beg the reader to recall that passage in Tacitus inwhich the great historian says that, in the funeral of Junia, "theimages of Brutus and Cassius outshone all the rest, from the verycircumstance of their being the sole ones excluded from the rite."
The countenance, then, of Marie Francois Arouet (since so celebratedunder the name of Voltaire) was plain in feature, but singularlystriking in effect; its vivacity was the very perfection of what Steeleonce happily called "physiognomical eloquence." His eyes were blue,fiery rather than bright, and so restless that they never dwelt in thesame place for a moment:* his mouth was at once the worst and the mostpeculiar feature of his face; it betokened humour, it is true; but italso betrayed malignancy, nor did it ever smile without sarcasm. Thoughflattering to those present, his words against the absent, uttered bythat bitter and curling lip, mingled with your pleasure at their wita little fear at their causticity. I believe no one, be he as bold, ascallous, or as faultless as human nature can be, could be one hour withthat man and not feel apprehension. Ridicule, so lavish, yet so trueto the mark; so wanton, yet so seemingly just; so bright, that while itwandered round its target, in apparent though terrible playfulness, itburned into the spot, and engraved there a brand, and a token indelibleand perpetual,--this no man could witness, when darted towards another,and feel safe for himself. The very caprice and levity of the jesterseemed more perilous, because less to be calculated upon, than asystematic principle of bitterness or satire. Bolingbroke compared him,not unaptly, to a child who has possessed himself of Jupiter's bolts,and who makes use of those bolts in sport which a god would only haveused in wrath.
* The reader will remember that this is a description of Voltaire as avery young man. I do not know anywhere a more impressive, almost a moreghastly, contrast than that which the pictures of Voltaire, grown old,present to Largilliere's picture of him at the age of twenty-four; andhe was somewhat younger than twenty-four at the time of which the Countnow speaks.--ED.
Arouet's forehead was not remarkable for height, but it was nobly andgrandly formed, and, contradicting that of the mouth, wore a benevolentexpression. Though so young, there was already a wrinkle on the surfaceof the front, and a prominence on the eyebrow, which showed that thewit and the fancy of his conversation were, if not regulated, at leastcontrasted, by more thoughtful and lofty characteristics of mind. At thetime I write, this man has obtained a high throne among the powers ofthe lettered world. What he may yet be, it is in vain to guess: he maybe all that is great and good, or--the reverse; but I cannot but believethat his career is only begun. Such men are born monarchs of the mind;they may be benefactors or tyrants: in either case, they are greaterthan the kings of the physical empire, because they defy armies andlaugh at the intrigues of state. From themselves only come the balanceof their power, the laws of their government, and the boundariesof their realm. We sat down to supper. "Count Hamilton," saidBoulainvilliers, "are we not a merry set for such old fellows? Why,excepting Arouet, Milord Bolingbroke, and Count Devereux, there isscarcely one of us under seventy. Where but at Paris would you see _bonsvivans_ of our age? _Vivent la joie, la bagatelle, l'amour_!"
"_Et le vin de Champagne_!" cried Chaulieu, filling his glass; "but whatis there strange in our merriment? Philemon, the comic poet, laughed atninety-seven. May we all do the same!"
"You forget," cried Bolingbroke, "that Philemon died of the laughing."
"Yes," said Hamilton; "but if I remember right, it was at seeing an asseat figs. Let us vow, therefore, never to keep company with asses!"
"Bravo, Count," said Boulainvilliers, "you have put the true moral onthe story. Let us swear by the ghost of Philemon that we will neverlaugh at an ass's jokes,--practical or verbal."
"Then we must always be serious, except when we are with each other,"cried Chaulieu. "Oh, I would sooner take my chance of dying prematurelyat ninety-seven than consent to such a vow!"
"Fontenelle," cried our host, "you are melancholy. What is the matter?"
"I mourn for the weakness of human nature," answered Fontenelle, with anair of patriarchal philanthropy. "I told your cook three times about theasparagus; and now--taste it. I told him not to put too much sugar,and he has put none. Thus it is with mankind,--ever in extremes,and consequently ever in error. Thus it was that Luther said, sofelicitously and so truly, that the human mind was like a drunkenpeasant on horseback: prop it on one side, and it falls on the other."
"Ha! ha! ha!" cried Chaulieu. "Who would have thought one could havefound so much morality in a plate of asparagus! Taste this _salsifis_."
"Pray, Hamilton," said Huet, "what _jeu de mot_ was that you madeyesterday at Madame d'Epernonville's which gained you such applause?"
"Ah, repeat it, Count," cried Boulainvilliers; "'t was the mostclassical thing I have heard for a long time."
"Why," said Hamilton, laying down his knife and fork, and preparinghimself by a large draught of the cha
mpagne, "why, Madame d'Epernonvilleappeared without her _tour_; you know, Lord Bolingbroke, that _tour_is the polite name for false hair. 'Ah, sacre!' cried her brother,courteously, 'ma soeur, que vous etes laide aujourd'hui: vous n'avez pasvotre tour!' 'Voila pourquoi elle n'est pas si-belle (Cybele),' answeredI."
"Excellent! famous!" cried we all, except Huet, who seemed to regardthe punster with a very disrespectful eye. Hamilton saw it. "You do notthink, Monsieur Huet, that there is wit in these _jeux de mots_: perhapsyou do not admire wit at all?"
"Yes, I admire wit as I do the wind. When it shakes the trees it isfine; when it cools the wave it is refreshing; when it steals overflowers it is enchanting: but when, Monsieur Hamilton, it whistlesthrough the key-hole it is unpleasant."
"The very worst illustration I ever heard," said Hamilton, coolly. "Keepto your classics, my dear Abbe. When Jupiter edited the work of PeterHuet, he did with wit as Peter Huet did with Lucan when he editedthe classics: he was afraid it might do mischief, and so left it outaltogether."
"Let us drink!" cried Chaulieu; "let us drink!" and the conversation wasturned again.
"What is that you say of Tacitus, Huet?" said Boulainvilliers.
"That his wisdom arose from his malignancy," answered Huet. "He isa perfect penetrator* into human vices, but knows nothing of humanvirtues. Do you think that a good man would dwell so constantly on whatis evil? Believe me--no. A man cannot write much and well upon virtuewithout being virtuous, nor enter minutely and profoundly into thecauses of vice without being vicious himself."
* A remark similar to this the reader will probably remember in the"Huetiana," and will, I hope, agree with me in thinking it showy anduntrue.--ED.
"It is true," said Hamilton; "and your remark, which affects to be sodeep, is but a natural corollary from the hackneyed maxim that fromexperience comes wisdom."
"But, for my part," said Boulainvilliers, "I think Tacitus is not soinvariably the analyzer of vice as you would make him. Look at the'Agricola' and the 'Germania.'"
"Ah! the 'Germany,' above all things!" cried Hamilton, dropping adelicious morsel of _sanglier_ in its way from hand to mouth, in hishurry to speak. "Of course, the historian, Boulainvilliers,advocates the 'Germany,' from its mention of the origin of the feudalsystem,--that incomparable bundle of excellences, which Le Comtede Boulainvilliers has declared to be _le chef d'oeuvre de l'esprithumain_; and which the same gentleman regrets, in the most patheticterms, no longer exists in order that the seigneur may feed upon _desgros morceaux de boeuf demi-cru_, may hang up half his peasants _pourencourager les autres_, and ravish the daughters of the defunct _pourleur donner quelque consolation._"
"Seriously though," said the old Abbe de Chaulieu, with a twinkling eye,"the last mentioned evil, my dear Hamilton, was not without a littlealloy of good."
"Yes," said Hamilton, "if it was only the daughters; but perhaps theseigneur was not too scrupulous with regard to the wives."
"Ah! shocking, shocking!" cried Chaulieu, solemnly. "Adultery is,indeed, an atrocious crime. I am sure I would most conscientiously cryout with the honest preacher, 'Adultery, my children, is the blackest ofsins. I do declare that I would rather have _ten_ virgins in love withme than _one_ married woman!'"
We all laughed at this enthusiastic burst of virtue from the chasteChaulieu. And Arouet turned our conversation towards the ecclesiasticaldissensions between Jesuits and Jansenists that then agitated thekingdom. "Those priests," said Bolingbroke, "remind me of the nurses ofJupiter: they make a great clamour in order to drown the voice of theirGod."
"Bravissimo!" cried Hamilton. "Is it not a pity, Messieurs, that my LordBolingbroke was not a Frenchman? He is almost clever enough to be one."
"If he would drink a little more, he would be," cried Chaulieu, who wasnow setting us all a glorious example.
"What say you, Morton?" exclaimed Bolingbroke; "must we not drink thesegentlemen under the table for the honour of our country?"
"A challenge! a challenge!" cried Chaulieu. "I march first to thefield!"
"Conquest or death!" shouted Bolingbroke. And the rites of Minerva wereforsaken for those of Bacchus.