CASANOVA'S VISIT TO VOLTAIRE.

(Concluded from page 178.)

ACCORDING to my promise I went to dine with Voltaire on the following day, and met the Duke de Villars. He had just arrived at Geneva to consult the celebrated physician Tronchin, who had some years before saved his life. I said very little during dinner, but afterwards Voltaire entered into a conversation with me about the constitution of Venice; he knew that I was dissatisfied with the government; I nevertheless disappointed his expectations. I endeavoured to convince him that no country in the world enjoyed greater liberty than Venice. Perceiving the subject was not agreeable to me, he took me aside, and went with me into his garden, of which he styled himself the creator. When we came to the extremity of a long avenue, close to a running water, "This," said he, "is the Rhone, which I send to France." He at the same time directed my attention to the beautiful prospect he had of Geneva and Mont Blanc.

He afterwards began a conversation upon Italian literature, and evinced great ingenuity and much learning; but his conclusions were generally erroneous: I however allowed him to enjoy his opinion. He disagreed with me on Homer, Dante, and Petrarch. His judgment of the works of these great men is well known. He could not refrain from writing exactly as objects represented themselves to his own mind, and this has greatly injured him in the public opinion. I contented myself with merely replying, that if these great men had not really deserved the admiration of all who had studied them, they would not have acquired the high reputation which they still maintained.

The Duke de Villars, and the celebrated Tronchin, had in the mean time joined us again.

Tronchin was tall, well formed, obliging, eloquent without being talkative, a profound naturalist, a man of genius, and, as a physician, a favourite pupil of Boerhaave. He was entirely free from the talkativeness and quackery of the inferior class of his profession. He expected the cure of his patients chiefly from a proper regimen; but to determine this, a man must be an accurate and philosophical observer.

The exterior of the Duke de Villars, then governor of Provence, attracted my principal attention. When I contemplated his figure and demeanour, I fancied I saw a woman of sixty years of age in men's clothes, who, though now lean, shrunk, and feeble, might have been handsome in her youth. His copper-coloured cheeks were painted with rouge, his lips with carmine, his eye-brows black, and he had artificial teeth and hair. A well-scented pomatum kept the curls close to his head, and a large nosegay, fixed in the uppermost button-hole of his coat, reached to his chin. He affected the amiable man in every thing, and spoke so affectedly and lispingly, that it was difficult to understand him. He was, in other respects, polite and condescending, but all his manners were of the taste prevalent in the time of the Regency, I accompanied Voltaire into his sleeping-room, where he changed his wig, and the little cap he used to wear under it as a preservative against rheumatism. On his writing-table lay several Italian poets, and among others, the "La Secchia repita" of Tassoni. "This," said he, "is the only tragi-comic poem Italy possesses. Tassoni was a monk,

and united with learning a taste for the belles-lettres. As a poet he is not without genius."

C. "His talent as a poet, I will not dispute, but I will not allow that he was a learned man. He derided the system of Copernicus, and maintained that neither the theory of the moon's phases, nor that of the eclipses, could be established upon it."

V. "Where has he made so foolish an assertion?"

C. "In his Discorsi Academici.'

V. "I do not possess them, but I will procure them."

Voltaire then wrote down the title, and continued,

V. "Yet Tassoni severely censures your Petrarch, and I conceive justly.”

C. "This has done as little honour to his scientific mind and taste, as it has to that of Muratori."

V. "There he is!—you will surely acknowledge his profound erudition."
C. "Est ubi peccat."

Voltaire now took me into a room and showed me a number of parcels, amounting perhaps to a hundred. This," said he, "is my correspondence. You see here nearly fifty thousand letters, which I have

answered."

C. "Do you keep copies of your answers?”

V. "Of a great many of them. I keep an amanuensis for that purpose."

C. "I know booksellers who would give you a high price for these treasures." V. "Be on your guard with the booksellers, should you ever publish a work; but perhaps you have already published something?"

C. "I will begin when I am older."

I then quoted a macaronic strophe from Merlin Cocci.*

V. "What is that?"

C. "A strophe of a celebrated poem of twenty-four cantos."

V. "Celebrated?"

C." At least deserving to be so, which is still more. But to enjoy it, one must be master of the dialect of Mantua."

V. Oh! I shall understand it: pray procure it for me.'

C. To-morrow I shall have the honour of presenting it to you, and of begging your acceptance of it."

V. You will oblige me much."

We were now called to join the company, and two hours passed away in social conversation. The great poet shone and entertained the whole circle. He was constantly applauded, although his satires were sometimes very severe. He always laughed at them himself, and most of the company joined him. It was impossible to keep a better house than Voltaire did. In fact he was the only person who gave a good dinner. He was then sixty-six years of age, and had an annual income of 125,000 livres. Those who assert that he became rich by taking an unfair advantage over the booksellers are mistaken. The booksellers, on the contrary, acted unfairly towards him, except only the Cramers,† whose fortune he made. He gave them his works as a present, and thus promoted their circulation. During my stay with him, he sent them his "Princess of Babylon," a charming tale, which he wrote in three days.

A kind of burlesque poetry of the Italians, interspersed with popular expressions, to which Latin or other foreign terminations are given.

† At Amsterdam.

VOL. III. No. 15.-1822.

2 G

The next day I sent Voltaire an epistle in blank verse, which cost me more trouble than if I had written it in rhyme. I at the same time enclosed to him the poem of Theophilus Folingo, which was wrong. I ought to have foreseen that it would not please him. Voltaire did not make his appearance at dinner; but the presence of Madame Denis was a sufficient compensation. She had read much, and to a refined taste she joined a sound judgment, without being arrogant. She greatly admired Frederic II. Voltaire entered the room about five o'clock with a letter in his hand. Addressing me,

V. "Do you know the senator Marquis Albergati Capocelli, of Bologna, and the Count Paradisi ?"

C. "I know Paradisi: and by report and his reputation, I know Albergati: he however, is not a senator: he is only a member of the Forty' of Bologna, of which there are fifty!"

V.

"Bless me! You tell me a riddle!"

C. "Do you know him?"

V. "No! but he announces that he sends me the dramatic works of Goldoni, Bologna sausages, and a translation of my Tancred. He intends to pay me a visit." C." He will not come. He is too wise for that."

V. "Too wise! How so? But certainly it is a folly to visit me !"

C. "For Albergati, it certainly is. He well knows how much he must lose by it. At present he deceives himself, and he rejoices in the high opinion which he thinks you have of him. But if he visits you, he may be sure you will be able to judge of his abilities with accuracy, and then farewell illusion. He is otherwise a gallant cavalier, who spends his six thousand ducats a year; but he has the theatrical mania. He is a good actor, and has written some comedies in prose, but they make nobody laugh."

V. "Your recommendation of him is good. But as to his being one of the forty,' of which there are fifty! How is this to be understood?"

C. "Just in the same way as it is understood, that in Basil it is noon at eleven o'clock."

V. "I understand you: in the same way as your senate of ten consists of fifteen members."

C. "Yes; but with the damned forty in Bologna it has another meaning."
V. "Why do you call them damned?"

C. "They are not subject to the fiscus. They therefore commit all crimes for which they have an inclination, and then leave the country, that they may spend their income without being disturbed."

V. "That is not a damnation it is a redemption.-But to return to our former subject; Albergati is certainly a learned man.”

C. "He knows his native language and writes well; but he tires his readers, for he is too fond of hearing himself. Conciseness is entirely foreign to him, and he has but little genius."

V. "He is an actor, you say?"

C. "An excellent one, when he performs his own pieces, and when he plays the parts of lovers."

V. "Is he handsome ?"

C." On the stage he is, but not when seen near. He has an unmeaning face." V. "But his pieces please."

C. "By no means. If they were understood, they would be hissed."

V. "What do you think of Goldoni ?”

C. "He is our Moliere."

V.

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Why does he call himself the poet to the Duke of Parma ?"

C. "Because he delights in a title. The duke does not know any thing of it. For the same reason he calls himself an advocate; because it is in his power to become one. He is a good writer of comedy, and that is all that can be said of him. All Venice knows that I am his friend. He never shines in company: he is extremely tiresome, and as soft as a penny-roll."

V. "Exactly in the same sense they have written to me concerning him.

They say also that he is poor, and has left Venice. This will be injurious to the proprietor of the theatre, at which his pieces are performed.”

C. "It was proposed to give him a pension, but the proposition was overruled: they think, that if a pension is allowed him, he will cease to write."

V. "Homer was also denied a pension, from a fear lest all blind persons should demand a pension."

The day passed cheerfully away. Voltaire thanked me for my Macaronicon, and promised to read it. He then showed me a Jesuit, whom he had taken into his service. "His name," said he, " is Adam; but he is not the first man." I was informed he used to play at trictrac with him, and whenever Voltaire lost, he flung the dice-box and dice at the Jesuit's head.

The day before my departure had now arrived; I was once more to enjoy the company of this great man, but he seemed to take a pleasure in exhibiting himself to me also as overbearing, sarcastic, and severe.

He said during dinner, that he certainly felt obliged to me for the present I had made him of Merlin Cocci, doubtless with the best intention, but that he could not thank me for the encomiums that accompanied it, for he had thrown away four hours in reading its stupidities. was quite amazed; but I suppressed my feelings, and calmly replied, "If ever you should read it again, you will, perhaps, honour the author with a better eulogy than mine. You have had repeated instances of the insufficiency of a first perusal to enable a person to judge accurately of an author's abilities."

V. "That is true: but notwithstanding I give up your Merlin, I have placed it at the side of the Pucelle of Chapelain."

C. "That too has bad verses; and yet it pleases all connoisseurs."

V. "The Pucelle is a good poem: Chapelain was a poet. His talents have not escaped my observation."

My declaration, I imagine, irritated Voltaire, and indeed I might have expected it, after he told me that he had placed Merlin's Macaronicon at the side of the Pucelle. I had heard of an indecent poem of that name being in circulation, and that he was supposed to be the author. His denial, however, made me think he would suppress his displeasure at my remarks; but I was mistaken. He opposed me with much warmth and peevishness. I also became peevish. "Chapelain," said I, "has the merit of having made his subject agreeable, without courting the applause of his readers by indecencies and blasphemies. This is also the opinion of my preceptor, Monsieur de Crebillon."

V. "You have named an able judge; but may I ask, what my colleague Crebillon taught you?"

C. "He taught me to speak French in less than two years; and from motives of gratitude I translated his Radamist into Italian Alexandrines. I am the first Italian who has attempted this measure in our language."

V. "Pardon me: the first was my friend Peter Jacob Martelli."—

C. "Rather pardon yourself."

V. "But I have his works, that were printed at Bologna, in my house."

C. "Verses of fourteen syllables you may have, but without alternate male and female rhyme. The good man, nevertheless, really thought he had composed Alexandrines. I could not help smiling at his preface. Perhaps you did not read it."

V. "Sir, I have a rage for reading prefaces. Martelli proves that his verses must sound to an Italian ear exactly as the Alexandrines do to a French ear."

C. "He has been greatly mistaken, and you yourself shall judge. Your male verse has only twelve syllables, and the female thirteen. All the verses of Martelli have fourteen, except those which terminate with a long syllable, which, as you know, at the conclusion is always considered as equivalent to two. Now you will observe, that Martelli has always seven feet in the first line; while the Alexandrine of the French contains but six feet. Consequently your friend Martelli was either deaf, or had an incorrect ear."

V. "Do you then observe all our rules in your Alexandrine verse?"

C. "All: but it costs us great trouble, for most of our words terminate with a short syllable."

V." And what effect has your new measure produced?"

C. "It displeased; and for this reason, no one understood how to recite my verses. However, when I read them myself in private circles, I was always applauded."

V. "Do you remember some passages of your Radamist ?"

C. "As many as you would like to hear."

I then recited to him the same passage, which, ten years before, I had repeated to Crebillon in blank verse; and it seemed to make an impression on him. He declared that he did not observe any effort on my part, and this was certainly the best commendation he could give. He then recited to me a passage from his Tancred, which at that time had not been published: it has since been justly considered as a master-piece.

We should have parted good friends, but I unfortunately quoted a passage of Horace, to say something flattering to Voltaire.

V. "Horace was a great teacher of dramatic poetry. The rules which he has given us will never become obsolete."

C. "One of his rules you neglect, and only one, but you do it as becomes a great man."

V. "Which is it?"

C. "You do not write contentus paucis lectoribus."

V. "If Horace had had to contend with superstition, he would, like myself, have written for the whole world.”

C. "I believe you might spare yourself the trouble of this contest; for you will never succeed in extirpating superstition. And if you were to succeed, pray what would you substitute for it?"

V. "I admire that: when I deliver the world from a monster which devours it, I am asked, what I will put in its place!"

C. "But superstition does not devour it. On the contrary, the world wants it."

V. "I love mankind! I wish to see them as happy as myself, and free. But freedom and superstition can never agree. Where do you find that slavery renders a nation happy?"

C. "Would you then see the people possessed of sovereignty?"

V. "God forbid! Only one must rule."

C. "Then superstition is necessary; for without it the people will not obey the monarch."

V. "Let me hear nothing of monarchy. This word reminds me of despotism which I hate as much as slavery."

C. "But what do you then desire?—If only one is to rule, I cannot view him in any other character than that of a monarch."

V. "I would have him to rule over a free people, and then he will be their head, without our calling him monarch; for he could not then act arbitrarily."

C. "But Addison says, that such a monarch, such a chief, cannot in reality be found. I adhere to the opinion of Hobbes. Of two evils we must choose the least. A people without superstition will become philosophers, and philosophers will not obey. To be happy, a people must be kept in subjection, in restraint, in chains."