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ENVY. - 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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ENVY. - 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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ENVY.

If man is free, he o’er himself should reign,
Attacked by tyrants, should their rage restrain.
Vices are tyrants of the human mind,
And we no vice more fierce and cruel find;
None more capricious, furious, and more base;
None which all goodness does so much efface;
None which envenoms more the human breast,
Or with dire rankling does so much infest;
Whose fierce attacks ’tis harder to control,
Than envy, the tormentor of the soul.
Of pride and folly envy is the child,
Stubborn, perverse, intractable, and wild;
Though sprung from pride, he to appear declines,
At others’ shining merit he repines;
Like to the giant, whom great Jove, in ire,
O’erwhelmed with whirlwinds of tempestuous fire;
Who, while he panting lay, and raved below,
Strove to hurl back the flames against his foe.
At length he raved, imprisoned under ground,
And efforts made to shake earth’s pits profound;
Heaved against Ætna, which his bosom pressed,
Ætna fell back, he was again oppressed.
I oft have courtiers known, the dupes of fame,
Ready to burst at Villars’ glorious name.
The arm they hated, which in fight prevailed,
He fought for them, and they against him railed.
Justly a hero once to Louis said,
Taking the field, “Versailles alone I dread;
Defend me from my countrymen, I go
Fearless in distant realms to fight the foe.”
What anguish feels the mind from envy’s blast!
In public joy it is with grief o’ercast.
You tasteless guests, to you fine food seems vile,
To poison ’tis converted by the bile.
Oh, you who take the road that leads to fame,
Must none besides you travel in the same?
Must each competitor incur your hate?
Would you those Eastern monarchs emulate,
Who make the slavish Asiatics groan,
And cannot bear a brother near the throne?
When at the play-house some enticing bill
Makes love of novelty the play-house fill;
When in Alzire or Zenobia’s part,
Pathetic Gossin touches every heart;
Or when Dufrene* like thunder shakes the stage,
In acting Orasmanes’ jealous rage,
Tears at each stroke bedew the hearer’s eyes,
Tears which from truest satisfaction rise;
The jealous Rufus hangs his drooping head,
Their joy constrains him tears of rage to shed.
If this distinction frail, oh, wretch forlorn,
If others’ bliss thy envious heart has torn,
Of this vexation try thyself to avail,
And strive, by dint of merit, to prevail.
“The Haughty Man”† draws crowds on every night;
Does this afflict thee? Better strive to write.
But if to please the audience you intend,
Your “Sires Capricious”* don’t to Paris send;
Exotic characters suit not the age,
Think not to bring Rabelais upon the stage.
The burlesque writer few know how to bear,
Whose modern muse assumes a gothic air,
And in some verse, which antique guise displays,
Conceals his dulness by Marotic phrase.
This style I would not in a tale reject,
But truth requires a tone of more respect.
A sinner wouldst thou to repentance call,
Bigot, mix honey with thy sermon’s gall;
Assuming the instructor’s arduous task,
Thou ape of virtue, take a better mask;
If rival of some eminent divine,
Envy him not; endeavor to outshine;
Raise higher trophies to make his seem low,
Orpheus alone should dare to hiss Rameau;
Venus to criticise is Psyche’s right;
But why should we in censure thus delight?
No beauty she acquires who blames a face;
Was Bayle e’er hurt by the caballing race?
Though furious Jurieu aimed prophetic lies
At Bayle, he’s still respected by the wise;
Fanatic Jurieu, who ’gainst Bayle declaimed,
Is by the public with abhorrence named.
An author often prostitutes his art,
Descending to the slanderer’s low part.
He helps the levees of the great to fill,
Still ready his vile malice to distil;
Impiety’s reproach he casts on all,
Whoe’er maintains this planet is a ball;
Or says, that the ecliptic with the line
An angle makes, has some accursed design.
Malebranche is Spinozist and Locke’s “Essay,”
With Epicurus’ errors leads astray.
Pope is a reprobate, whose impious pen
Presumes to show God’s clemency to men;
An impious heathen who attempts to show
That God loves all, that all is good below.
He is a wretch indeed who still for pelf
Damns others, and would almost damn himself,
Who lets his venal, prostituted page,
And to the highest bidder sells his rage;
A satirist who resents satiric strains,
Whose dulness tires, who of the dull complains,
Who cries true taste is now from Paris flown,
Which no one’s works prove better than his own:
In Boileau we excuse satiric rage,
Some beauties please in the malignant page.
That bee had honey to assuage the grief
Of those he stung, and give some kind relief.
But the unprofitable, stupid drone,
Who lives by doing dirty work alone,
All will to crush the hated insect try
At once disgusting to the ear and eye.
How great your frenzy, rash and envious band,
Ye rival painters whose presumptuous hand
Dared the French Zeuxis’ picture to deface,
And impiously profaned a sacred place:
His pencil thus a new renown acquired.
The torn remains by all were more admired;
New lustre is reflected on his name,
You are consigned to infamy and shame.
Men should so low, so mean a vice detest.
A critic nobly once his sense expressed,
When mighty Richelieu strove in vain,
To vilify Corneille’s immortal strain;
Less bold than cardinal he the task declined
Defects in such a noble work to find,
With generous rage curst envy he opposed,
And said, “I wish I had the work composed.”
To France a journey when Bernini made,
He wondered at the skill Perrault displayed:
“If France,” said he, “has genius so sublime,
I never should have left the Latin clime.”
’Tis merit others’ merit thus to own,
To a true genius envy is unknown.
What pleasure from a generous temper flows!
How great, to say with truth, I have no foes!
In every brother’s welfare I take part,
We’re all united by one common art.
’Tis thus the earth with joy sees woods arise,
Whose oak or fir trees seem to threat the skies;
By the sap’s circulating juice they’re fed,
Each root is deep as hell, in heaven each head.
The force of winds their solid trunks assails,
They bend and the fierce tempest’s fury fails.
Secure they flourish by each other’s aid,
And over time itself triumphs the shade.
War at their feet the hissing serpents wage,
And the stained roots bear witness to their rage.

[* ] Dufrene, a celebrated actor at Paris; Mademoiselle Gossin, a very graceful actress, who played Zaïre the first time the tragedy of that name was represented.

[† ] A comedy of M. Destouches.

[* ] The “Capricious Sires” was a comedy of Rousseau’s, which so disgusted the audience, that they would not suffer it to be acted through.