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CANTO OF AN EPIC POEM. * - 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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CANTO OF AN EPIC POEM. * - 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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CANTO OF AN EPIC POEM.*

COMPOSED BY JEROME CARRÉ.

Found among his papers after his decease.

King Charles was born to undergo,
Through every stage of life, much woe;
To education naught he owed;
Small care was on his youth bestowed;
Burgundy’s duke,† in broils and strife
Involved him in the prime of life;
A lawyer at Goness would fain
Have wrought his ruin by chicane;
Before a court a crier called him;
An English chief in battle mauled him:
He wandered much, and, like poor sinner,
Oft missed a mass, and oft a dinner;
Not long in the same place he stayed;
By mother,‡ uncle, friends betrayed,
And by his mistress; thus unfriended
Was the poor king, and unattended.
His Agnes’ heart an English page
Found means to share as to engage:
A sorcerer dire, named Conculix,
By hell inspired, with magic tricks
His head quite topsy-turvy turned;
By destiny he long was spurned;
Hardships to bear was his sad case;
To bear them well God gave him grace.
The troop of lovers, proud and gay,
Took from that distant tower its way,
Where Conculix disturbed the brain
Of Agnes, Bonneau, and their train.
They marched along that forest wild,
Which now of Orleans is styled.
The spouse of Titan, queen of night,
Rising scarce streaked the shades with light;
Soldiers they saw on distant ground,
With doublets short and bonnets round;
Upon their corselets bright combined
Leopards and fleurs-de-lis shined.
The monarch halted when he spied
The cohort through the forest ride;
Dunois and Joan some space before
Advance, the matter to explore.
Agnes, her arms as lilies white
Extending, urged the king to flight;
But virtuous Joan, who straight drew nigh,
On captives chained soon cast her eye;
With downcast eyes the earth they viewed,
Each face sad consternation showed:
“Alas,” said she, “it plain appears,
That these are captive cavaliers;
The voice of duty now commands
From fetters to unloose their hands:
Let’s fall on, Bastard, undismayed;
You’re Dunois, I am Orleans’ maid.”
This said, they fell with rested lance
On those who with the chiefs advance;
So fierce were Dunois and the maid,
Such fury, too, the ass displayed,
That all those warriors, filled with fright,
Nimbly betook themselves to flight.
Joan then, transported with delight,
Accosted thus each fettered knight:
“Knights, who the chains of England wore,
Thanks to the king, you’re slaves no more;
Now follow him where’er he goes,
And wreak just vengeance on his foes.”
Although this was proposed with grace,
Distrust still sat on each knight’s face;
My readers with impatience glow
Who were these doughty knights to know.
These knights were blades in Paris known
For deeds they would not choose to own,
Who were condemned to plough the seas,
Which might by all be seen with ease.
The king this seeing, deeply sighed;
“These stab me to the heart,” he cried.
“Do here the English empire claim,
Are then decrees made in their name?
The mass is only said for them;
They can my subjects now condemn.”
The king came, by compassion led,
To him who seemed the band to head.
No felon’s air could eyes shock more;
His beard a pointed chin curled o’er,
With strange distortion rolled his eyes
Replete, more than his mouth, with lies,
They squinted ever on the ground;
His eyebrows red most sternly frowned;
There sat imposture, leagued with fraud;
Boldness dwelt on his forehead broad,
Contempt of all remorse and laws,
His teeth still gnashed, and foamed his jaws.
Seeing his prince, the knave took care
To assume an humble, contrite air,
And framed into some show of grace
The features of his shocking face.
The mastiff impudent and sour,
Hoarse-throated, eager to devour,
Thus fawns when he his master spies,
Licks both his hands, and crouching lies;
Grows mild, although by nature rude,
And humbly cringes for his food.
Or Satan has been painted so,
When just ’scaped from the realms below;
He horns and tail hides from the eyes,
And in an anchorite’s disguise,
Like lecherous monk in secret goes,
Sister discreet to tempt, or Rose.
The king of France, by such grimace
Imposed on, pitied much his case,
And thinking him by fraud oppressed,
Words of encouragement addressed.
“What is your trade,” said he, “and name?
Say, for what deed deserving blame
Severe tribunals thus ordain
That you should plough the angry main?”
The man condemned, with mournful tone,
Replied: “Great Sir, my name’s Frélon;*
Nantes is the famous city, where
These lips first breathed the vital air;
No mortal e’er loved Jesus more,
Some time the dress of monks I wore;
My morals are as pure as theirs;
The prettiest boys had all my cares;
Urged by the love of honest praise,
To virtue I consigned my days;
Genius at Paris I displayed,
Famed in the author’s noble trade;
Dearly L— my writings bought,
Great I at Place-Maubert am thought;
There justice never was refused me,
Though authors often have abused me:
But impious malice oft would hit me,
And with the cloister’s vices twit me,
The world’s, and many cheats beside,
But I’m by conscience justified.”
The king, when this account he hears,
Cries: “Henceforth lay aside your fears;
And say, are all now bound like you
To Marseilles, valiant men and true?”
“Oh, royal Sir,” Frélon replied,
“In all these men you may confide;
All were alike by nature framed.
This abbé next me, Guignon* named,
Is, though he otherwise might seem
To some, most worthy of esteem;
Nor quarrelsome nor liar he,
Nor slanderer, but from malice free.
An humble mien cannot conceal
In Maucheix† true religious zeal;
His ardor, for the truth to show,
He discipline would undergo.
When Chaugat‡ talks on gloss and text,
Rabbins themselves would be perplexed.
That lawyer unemployed has taken
The road to heaven, the bar forsaken.
In Vaceras§ all virtues meet,
He’s honest, and his temper’s sweet,
He’s mild, to charity inclined,
The love of truth inspires his mind.
All these who laurels justly claim,
Who rival Cicero’s great name,
Oh, dire disgrace and sad to tell!
Victims like me to envy fell.
Unjustly to our charge ’tis laid,
That we from truth have often strayed:
From virtue persecution springs,
You know this truth, oh, best of kings.”
Whilst thus all faults he strove to hide,
Two persons grave the monarch spied,
Whilst each to hide his visage tries,
“Who are these bashful slaves?” he cries.
Said Frélon: “There two worthies stand,
Honest as e’er took oar in hand.
One’s Fantin,* preacher of great name,
Whom neither rich nor poor can blame;
To spare the living he thought best,
The dying robbed whom he confessed.
T’other’s Brizet,† who nuns directed,
No favors from them he expected,
But still their properties would take,
And only did it for God’s sake:
Though money he loved not at all,
He’d not in bad hands have it fall.
A wretch there meets your royal eye,
With a long head placed quite awry,
On number three it often runs,
He looks like one of Tartuffe’s sons,
All his cursed tricks his village knows,
He’s pointed at where’er he goes,
Such stories of him go about,
That some are true, I make no doubt,
But wretches with such malice fraught,
Are quite below a monarch’s thought.
This noble band of worthies ends
With Meaulabelle,* my best of friends;
This the most mean but most devoted
Of six poor dogs who for me voted;
He oft quite rapt with thoughts high flown,
Takes others’ pockets for his own:
But in his works he is so wise,
To hide strong truths from feeble eyes;
Of truth he always had a dread,
He knows it fools has oft misled;
Therefore he always would conceal it,
And never liked much to reveal it.
The truth I to my prince declare;
That’s dealing openly and fair.
All as a hero you excel,
This to posterity I’ll tell.
The victims of black calumny
Protect, as you have made them free;
Save the good from the wicked’s snare,
To pay us, and revenge, take care,
And here Frélon his word does plight,
We all will in your favor write.”
Then at the English much he railed,
Who had so long in France prevailed;
Spoke loudly for the Salic law,
And swore that he his pen would draw;
Would save the state by it alone,
And prop his injured monarch’s throne.
The king admired his skill profound,
Looked kindly upon all around;
Telling them with most gracious air,
They all should his protection share.
Fair Agnes sympathy expressed,
Emotions tender filled her breast:
Her heart was good; the female mind,
By love, to mercy is inclined;
The heroine and the rigid prude
With virtue are not so endued.
“It needs,” said she, “must be confessed,
This day these wretches have been blessed;
Since they behold your royal face,
Freedom smiles on their happy race.
Too much the judges now presume,
Without their prince to fix men’s doom;
All law my lover should ordain,
Their sentence is both void and vain.”
But Joan, less tender, told the king,
They all deserved alike to swing;
That all who were of Frélon’s trade,
Public examples should be made.
Dunois, more prudent and more wise,
Like warrior deeply skilled, replies:
“Soldiers we lack to assert our right,
Limbs are most needful in a fight;
Limbs these men have, and as things stand,
Whilst we by arms would win the land,
Whilst combats are our only care,
Writing we may contrive to spare:
Then let us lift the fraudful band,
And with a musket arm each hand;
Who used the pen, should henceforth wield
The warrior’s arms in tented field.”
Dunois’ advice the king liked well;
The band before him prostrate fell,
They sighed, a flood of tears they shed,
Then to a yard they all were led,
Before the banquet-house, where all
The courtiers, in a gorgeous hall,
Waited on Charles, and on the fair,
And drank and feasted, void of care.
Agnes to Bonneau gave command,
With plenty to regale the band;
And not one soul of them complained,
For well they fared with what remained.
The time of supper gayly spent,
To bed the king and Agnes went.
Next day with great surprise they rose,
Finding they all had lost their clothes;
Her jewels Agnes sought with care,
And pearl necklace rich and rare;
But all in vain; yet what she most
Regretted, was Charles’ picture lost.
Bonneau, the purser, could not find
The treasure to his care consigned;
It cost him many a heavy groan,
To see plate, linen, wardrobe, flown.
The scribbling crew, to thieving bred,
Who by the gazetteer were led,
With eager haste, had in the night
Plundered the court, and taken flight.
They all with Plato were agreed,
That soldiers luxury don’t need;
Then through by-path their way they win,
And share the booty at an inn;
There they a tract composed profound,
For morals and for doctrine sound;
Pleasure and wealth it taught to scorn,
And showed that man for man was born;
That, born equals, they should share
God’s gifts, and all their burdens bear;
And that, to make their lot more blessed,
Goods should in common be possessed.
’Twas soon exposed to public view,
Enriched with notes and comments, too,
Wrote with religious, good intent,
With preface and advertisement.
The royal household, quite distressed,
Was, the meantime, deprived of rest;
Through every forest and each plain
They ran about, but all in vain.
Thus Phineus erst whom Thrace obeyed,
And thus Æneas were afraid,
When harpies, fluttering on the wing,
Seized on the dinner of each king.
Agnes and Dorothea now,
Their charms to cover knew not how:
Poor Bonneau grieved in such a strain,
From laughter they could scarce refrain:
“Ah,” cried he, “we such loss ne’er bore
By war’s sad fortune heretofore;
The rogues took all; our monarch’s mind
Too much to mercy is inclined;
Thus his indulgence is repaid;
We gain this by the scribbling trade.”
Agnes, compassionate and mild,
Who on each turn of fortune smiled,
In answer said: “My dear Bonneau,
Take not the thing in dudgeon so;
Do not from hence conceive a spite
To learning, and to those that write:
For I could many authors name,
Whom Envy’s self could scarce defame;
Who still prove faithful to the throne,
Do good, but never make it known;
Whose song to virtue gives the prize,
Who practise it before our eyes;
Who, on the public good intent,
To instruct as well as charm are bent;
These are beloved, though some are drones,
Industrious bees our country owns.”
Bonneau replies: “’Tis mighty fine;
But yet, methinks, the king should dine,
And I cannot, as I’m a sinner,
Without the money find a dinner.”
They comfort him, with courage rare
All strive their sufferings to repair;
Then to the town they make retreat,
And to the castle, noble seat
Of Charles, and of his gallant knights,
Whither good cheer with wine invites.
The knights were but half-clad at best,
The ladies were but simply dressed;
They entered harassed, sight most odd,
Bare one foot, t’other badly shod.

[* ] This pseudonymous piece was used, slightly altered, in “La Pucelle.” The references are to certain calumniators of Voltaire.

[† ] The Duke of Burgundy, who assassinated the duke of Orleans; but the good King Charles paid him well for it at the bridge of Montereau.

[‡ ] His own mother, Isabella of Bavaria, was his greatest persecutor. She promoted the Treaty of Troyes, by which her son-in-law, Henry V., king of England, obtained the crown of France.

[* ] According to the chronicles of that age, there was a fellow of the name of Frélon, who wrote pamphlets and lampoons. He played some pranks, for which he was frequently confined in the Châtelet, at Bicêtre, and at Fort l’Éveque. He had been for some time a monk, and had been expelled from the convent. Many celebrated authors have done him justice. He was a native of Nantes; and at Paris carried on the trade of satirical gazetteer.

[* ] An author who lived in the reign of Charles VI. He wrote a Roman history, which, though execrably bad, was tolerable for the age in which he lived.

[† ] Another calumniator of that age.

[‡ ] Another calumniator.

[§ ] He wrote, in conjunction with Dr. John Petit, to justify assassination.

[* ] This canto of the abbé Triteme seems to be a prophecy; we have in fact seen one Fantin, a doctor of divinity and curate at Versailles, who was caught stealing a note of fifty louis-d’or from a sick person whom he confessed; he was turned out, but he was not hanged.

[† ] Another prophecy. All Paris has seen Abbé Brizet, a famous director of women of quality, squander in secret debaucheries the money he extorted from his penitents, and which he was intrusted with for the relief of the poor. It seems highly probable that somebody, acquainted with our manners, has inserted these lines in the divine poem of Jerome Carré; the same person should have made mention of Abbé Lacoste, condemned to be branded and sent to the galleys for life, in 1759, for various impositions.

[* ] Meaulabelle, another falsifier of manuscripts, well known in that age.