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ON CALUMNY. - The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

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ON CALUMNY. - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

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From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

Author: Voltaire
Translator: William F. Fleming
Notes: Tobias Smollett

Part of: The Works of Voltaire. A Contemporary Version, in 21 vols.

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ON CALUMNY.

Since beautiful ’twill be your fate
Emilia to incur much hate,
Almost one-half of human race
Will even curse you to your face;
Possessed of Genius’ noblest fire,
With fear you will each breast inspire;
As you too easily confide
You’ll often be betrayed, belied:
You ne’er of virtue made parade,
To hypocrites no court you’ve paid.
Therefore, of calumny beware,
Foe to the virtuous and the fair.
Expect from every fool at court
Those squibs thrown out in evil sport;
Those jests which each on others makes,
And suffers freedoms which he takes.
The cursed licentiousness of tongue
From indolence and self-love sprung.
The monster of each sex appears,
Her prate the crowd attentive hears.
The scourge of man and man’s delight
She o’er the world asserts her right.
Wit to the dullest she imparts,
The wise repel her from their hearts.
The fury, with malignant sneer,
Attacks mankind in every sphere.
But these three ranks she most devours,
And on them all her venom pours:
Wits, beauties, and the haughty great,
All are the objects of her hate:
When merit strikes the public eye,
Against it, she her darts lets fly.
Whoever genius has displayed
Is ever satire’s object made.
Adorned with trinkets, full of airs,
Young Ægle to the priest repairs:
She goes to be consigned for life
To one she never saw as wife;
The next day she’s in triumph seen
At court and ball, before the queen.
And next by Paris ever kind
A gallant’s to the bride assigned.
Roy in a ballad sings her fame.
And the town echoes with her name.
Ægle’s incensed, her cries are vain:
Ægle, excuse the poet’s strain.
Your case you’ll bitterly deplore
When men shall speak of you no more;
A beauty you can scarcely name
Who never suffered in her fame.
We find it in Bayle’s learned page,
Blessed Mary* could not escape its rage;
Lampooner’s rage was unrestrained,
And even her sacred name profaned.
Through all the nations of the world
Fierce satire has her vengeance hurled:
Has been to Jews and Christians known,
But she in Paris holds her throne.
A crowd of idlers every night,
Of idlers called the world polite,
Wandering about the town is seen,
Still followed by that fiend, the spleen.
There, jilted baggages abound,
And jades of quality are found;
Who nothings like mere parrots say;
Who ogle fools, and cheat at play.
Amongst them sparks we likewise find,
Who seem much more of womankind.
Their heads with trifles are well filled;
In trifles they are deeply skilled.
With forward air, and voices pert,
They sing and dance, behave alert;
And if some man with sense endued,
Should in their presence be so rude
To speak like one who books has read,
And show he wears a learned head,
With anger fired they on him fall,
He’s persecuted by them all.
Envy, each drone to combat brings,
Against the bee they point their stings;
Of ministers, and monarchs still,
Inferior mortals will speak ill;
From Cæsar to our Louis down,
Name we one king of high renown,
From famed Mæcenas’ days produce
A favorite who could escape abuse.
Colbert, who, vigilant and wise,
Enriched us still with new supplies;
Who found means to replace the stores
We lost by minions, priests, and whores:
That worthy, to whose cares we owe
A greatness we no longer know,
Against him saw the state conspire;
Saw Frenchmen rage with furious ire,
Disturb* his urn, insult his shade,
To whom they once such honors paid.
When Louis, who bravely could oppose
Death’s terrors, like his fiercest foes,
At length, by the decree of fate,
Was to St. Denis borne, in state.
I saw his people prone to changing,
Quite mad with wine and folly ranging,
Follow the mighty monarch’s horse,
And curse him after death in verse.
You’ve known a regent at the helm
Turn upside down the Gallic realm:
He for society was born
Arts to promote and to adorn.
Great without pride, replete with wit,
Though loose, he could no crime commit;
And yet, most curst, most black of crimes!
All France has seen atrocious rhymes
Outrageously that prince defame
And give him every odious name.
Philippics† wrote in unchaste strain
Scandalous chronicles remain;
And will no Frenchman’s generous rage
Refute the vile, detested page?
When any make a false report,
All will conspire in its support:
If truth’s discovered in the end,
All men are backward to defend.
But will you from the great at court
To objects turn of meaner sort?
Leaving the court, all grandeur’s centre,
Into wit’s temple let us enter;
That shrine, which always I admired,
To whose view Bardus self aspired,
Where Damis never could repair
Let’s enter, see curst envy there,
Daughter of verse, to verse a foe,
Who drawing emulation’s bow,
Can pride inflame and rage excite
Amongst fools who for glory write.
See how they’re bent to fight till death,
All to secure fame’s idle breath;
Upon their rivals they let fall
The blackest and the bitterest gall:
Jansenist eager to devour
Molinist could not blacker pour.
The casuist Doucin n’er so well
Bedaubed famed Pasquier Quesnel.
The old rhymer, whom all men despise,
Organe, impure, of many lies,
That wretch, who all the town offends,
Who punished often, never mends;
That Rufus* who your fire befriended,
And from the attacks of want defended,
Whose serpent sting soon after bored
The bosom that had life restored;
The wicked Rufus, who in court
Made against innocence report;
Who would have hid had he been wise,
His guilt and shame from mortal eyes,
We see at Brusseis Marshes strive
The flame of discord to revive:
He strives on me to throw the shame
Which must forever brand his name.
What will that satire then avail,
With which he dares the world assail,
Pieces in French and German wrote,
Wherein he apes the old Marot,
In which his vices all are seen,
So dull they almost give the spleen.
What great effect then do we see
From all those heaps of calumny?
Subjected to all mortals’ hate,
He to his poisons owes his fate.
Let us not fear the slanderer’s strain;
Boileau lashed famed Quinault in vain,
Quinault, whose beauties charmed his age,
Laughs at, whilst he forgives his rage.
I, whom a cursed cad would blast,
And foul aspersions on me cast,
In spite of bigots live at ease,
Both court and town my verses please.
From all this what shall we conclude?
Ye French, censorious, though not rude,
Severe, although polite and kind,
Amongst you must we ever find
Things which so very ill agree
As graces and severity?
You, who the sex, in charms excel,
You know this dangerous people well;
With them we live amidst our foes,
Boldly their malice sly oppose.
Amidst them all your charms display,
Discreetly follow your own way,
Follow your innate virtues lore,
And slanderers then shall prate no more.

[* ] This calumny, cited by Bayle and the Abbé Houteville, is taken from an old Hebrew book, entitled “Joldos Jeseut,” in which Jonathan is given to this sacred person as husband; and he who raises Jonathan’s suspicions is called Joseph Panther.

[* ] A mob would have taken Colbert out of his grave at St. Eustache’s Church.

[† ] A libel in verse, written against Philip duke of Orleans, regent of the kingdom.

[* ] Rousseau.