she liked to do so because then she knew she would be left in peace.
Unfortunately, except for two or three little notes, the entire correspondence between Voltaire and Mme du Châtelet has disappeared. They were both enormous letter writers: even whenliving in the same house they wrote to each other. She was disconcertingly frank when she put pen to paper, saying all that came into her head. If we could see her letters to Voltaire at this time we should know more about her feeling for him. Those she wrote to Maupertuis make it hard for a twentieth-century reader to believe that she could have been engaged in an absorbing love affair with somebody else. But Ãmilieâs view of human relationships had not been muddled by the romantic movement. Voltaire had much to give, but he was ill, more than usually just then. Maupertuis gave something else. Ãmilie took what she wanted from both of them.
Voltaire had many another reason for being jealous of Maupertuis, who shadowed his footsteps. They had been in England at the same time and Maupertuis had been made a Fellow of the Royal Society. He, too, was an enthusiastic disciple of Newton and no doubt understood his scientific teaching better than Voltaire did. He, too, was trying to convert the French from Descartes to Newton; he had already written several papers on the subject. He, too, was a favourite in society, though of bourgeois origins. Later on, when Voltaire went to Germany, there was Maupertuis, President of the Berlin Academy with a high-born Prussian wife. In the end the accumulated bile of some twenty years turned Voltaire against him and he literally killed the poor man with ridicule. But, in 1733, they were on friendly terms.
Voltaire, surrounded by workmen in his new lodging, was finishing his Lettres philosophiques. He was also rehearsing Adélaïde du Guesclin; writing an opera for Rameau; writing a piece against Pascal, which he truly predicted would annoy everybody (even though he was good enough to pass over Pascalâs silly views on miracles); finding a lodging for Linant and sitting him down to write a tragedy on the subject of Rameses. He also showered poems on Ãmilie: âI write no verses now, except to her.â No wonder he said that the days were too short and that writers ought to be given a double ration of them.
His interest was centred in what he called his â Lettres philosophiques, politiques, critiques, hérétiques, diaboliques â; letters supposed to have been written to Thieriot while Voltaire was in England. Thieriothimself was now there with Voltaireâs authority to publish the Lettres in London and use the money which they earned. In August 1733 they appeared under the title of Letters Concerning the English Nation and were soon selling like hot cakes. Naturally enough, the English did not object to them. In Voltaireâs own words, they were heretics who did not care a fig for the Pope and who were quite ready to acclaim the works of the devil himself. Besides, the Lettres were nothing if not flattering to their race and nation. Voltaire knew that in France they would make a greater scandal than anything he had ever written. He half dreaded their appearance and half longed for it; he had unwisely given the manuscript to a publisher at Rouen called Jore, whom he then bombarded with letters, begging him in no circumstances to allow anybody to see it. In July he told Jore that a police spy had been sent to Rouen by the Garde des Sceaux * to find out what he could about the book. Jore must hide the manuscript and the copies already printed and above all not let a single copy out of his own hands. Public opinion must be prepared to receive the Lettres, the storm over Le Temple du Goût given time to subside, a suitable patron must be found, and above all a suitable moment chosen before they could appear in print. Voltaire repeated these arguments over and over again, to Jore himself and to Cideville,
Unfortunately, except for two or three little notes, the entire correspondence between Voltaire and Mme du Châtelet has disappeared. They were both enormous letter writers: even whenliving in the same house they wrote to each other. She was disconcertingly frank when she put pen to paper, saying all that came into her head. If we could see her letters to Voltaire at this time we should know more about her feeling for him. Those she wrote to Maupertuis make it hard for a twentieth-century reader to believe that she could have been engaged in an absorbing love affair with somebody else. But Ãmilieâs view of human relationships had not been muddled by the romantic movement. Voltaire had much to give, but he was ill, more than usually just then. Maupertuis gave something else. Ãmilie took what she wanted from both of them.
Voltaire had many another reason for being jealous of Maupertuis, who shadowed his footsteps. They had been in England at the same time and Maupertuis had been made a Fellow of the Royal Society. He, too, was an enthusiastic disciple of Newton and no doubt understood his scientific teaching better than Voltaire did. He, too, was trying to convert the French from Descartes to Newton; he had already written several papers on the subject. He, too, was a favourite in society, though of bourgeois origins. Later on, when Voltaire went to Germany, there was Maupertuis, President of the Berlin Academy with a high-born Prussian wife. In the end the accumulated bile of some twenty years turned Voltaire against him and he literally killed the poor man with ridicule. But, in 1733, they were on friendly terms.
Voltaire, surrounded by workmen in his new lodging, was finishing his Lettres philosophiques. He was also rehearsing Adélaïde du Guesclin; writing an opera for Rameau; writing a piece against Pascal, which he truly predicted would annoy everybody (even though he was good enough to pass over Pascalâs silly views on miracles); finding a lodging for Linant and sitting him down to write a tragedy on the subject of Rameses. He also showered poems on Ãmilie: âI write no verses now, except to her.â No wonder he said that the days were too short and that writers ought to be given a double ration of them.
His interest was centred in what he called his â Lettres philosophiques, politiques, critiques, hérétiques, diaboliques â; letters supposed to have been written to Thieriot while Voltaire was in England. Thieriothimself was now there with Voltaireâs authority to publish the Lettres in London and use the money which they earned. In August 1733 they appeared under the title of Letters Concerning the English Nation and were soon selling like hot cakes. Naturally enough, the English did not object to them. In Voltaireâs own words, they were heretics who did not care a fig for the Pope and who were quite ready to acclaim the works of the devil himself. Besides, the Lettres were nothing if not flattering to their race and nation. Voltaire knew that in France they would make a greater scandal than anything he had ever written. He half dreaded their appearance and half longed for it; he had unwisely given the manuscript to a publisher at Rouen called Jore, whom he then bombarded with letters, begging him in no circumstances to allow anybody to see it. In July he told Jore that a police spy had been sent to Rouen by the Garde des Sceaux * to find out what he could about the book. Jore must hide the manuscript and the copies already printed and above all not let a single copy out of his own hands. Public opinion must be prepared to receive the Lettres, the storm over Le Temple du Goût given time to subside, a suitable patron must be found, and above all a suitable moment chosen before they could appear in print. Voltaire repeated these arguments over and over again, to Jore himself and to Cideville,
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