# Voltaire/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX.
THE DEATH OF CÆSAR.
The spirit of liberty which animated Voltaire's poem soon excited attention. Copies of it had passed among his friends from hand to hand, and passages became known to some of his enemies, who denounced him to the Chancellor. It was a curious feature of authorship in those days that an eminent writer might have, and often had, "enemies"—that there were people anxious to injure or destroy him; still more curious was it that these enemies should have the power of blighting the most promising career. What could enemies have done in our day against Mr Dickens, or Mr Thackeray, or Mr Tennyson? The power they had then was owing to the fact that no book could be openly published without the permission of appointed officials, and that those, frequently quite incompetent as judges of literary work, were open to many kinds of influence. Thus a personal dislike to an author on the part of a seemingly contemptible person, might assume a very practical form when a whisper to somebody who could influence a minister or a censor of the press might have such important consequences. Voltaire's social qualities were such, at once ​brilliant and aggressive, that in proportion to the many who admired would be the many who disliked him; while his writings had already irritated the sensitive suspicion of the clergy. But, besides this kind of animosity, there was another that was full of mischief—the jealousy which genius and success inspire in the unsuccessful. An author of our day can safely despise the rancours thus excited, which, indeed, rarely take the form of injurious or combined attack; but they were very formidable when they could find free vent in systematic misrepresentation of, and libels upon, any eminent object of envy who lacked powerful protectors, or had powerful ill-wishers; and all his life, Voltaire was beset by bravoes of the press—the Grub Street of Paris—who, sometimes set on by others, sometimes stabbing on their own account, made it their occupation, without having any personal quarrel to avenge, to malign him.
With his recollection of the Bastille still fresh, he thought it expedient to withdraw quietly to Rouen, causing a report to spread that he was returning to England. He had an abundance of literary projects to occupy him. The tragedies of the "Death of Cæsar," "Eryphile," and "Zaire;" the 'History of Charles XII.;' a satirical poem, the "Temple of Taste;" another poem, the "Temple of Friendship;" and the opera of "Samson,"—were the product of about two years' work at this time, besides the preparation for the press of his "Letters on the English," originally written from England to his friend Thiriot.
He had been accustomed to translate passages from the best English poets into verse for the benefit of his friends. Among these pieces was the scene between ​Antony and the Roman people in "Julius Cæsar." "Voltaire," says a French editor of the "Death of Cæsar," "instead of translating the monstrous work of Shakespeare, composed, in the English taste, the present play." For the most part, its plot runs parallel to that of Shakespeare; only Voltaire, according to his principle of admitting nothing into tragedy which is not elevated above common life, gives us none of those scenes between citizens, and none of those sentiments of the mob, which lend so much of life and reality to the English play, and he omits, too, the softening elements supplied by Portia and Calphurnia. On the other hand, he introduces a new and strong point in making Brutus the son of Cæsar. The dictator, in an early scene, reveals to Antony how he had secretly married Servilia, the sister of Cato; that stern Republican, ignorant of the marriage, had caused her to wed another, and Brutus had passed for the son of this second husband. But, in dying, Servilia wrote to remind Cæsar that he was Brutus's true father. On this ground Cæsar accounts for the fondness with which, in spite of Brutus's unceasing opposition to himself, he regards that implacable patriot, and even finds excuses for that hostility; as thus:—
At this point Brutus enters with the Republican ​senators; they remonstrate with the Dictator, who retorts with scorn, and who, retaining Brutus for a moment, while dismissing his companions, tells him that it is Brutus alone who can disarm Cæsar—it is he alone whom Cæsar desires to love. Brutus replies:—
The conspirators meet; and Brutus, impelled to action by such appeals as Shakespeare, following history, tells of, is for killing Cæsar. Before Pompey's statue he vows the death of the Dictator; the others have left the scene, and he is following, when Cæsar's entrance stays him. The ambitious chief reproaches the Republican, reasons with him, draws him almost to confess his fell design, and then gives him Servilia's letter, in which the relationship between them is revealed. Brutus receives the intelligence with more horror than satisfaction; to Cæsar's appeals he at length replies, that if he be indeed his father, he will make one single prayer to him:—
"'Decree me present death—or cease to reign!'"
Cæsar, exasperated, bursts forth against him:—
Brutus imparts the secret of his birth to the other conspirators, and resolves that it shall not move him from his purpose. In another scene with Cæsar, he so far softens as to kneel to him in entreaty that he will forego the crown at which he aims; both are inflexible, and "the mightiest Julius" is slain. Antony addresses the people, but not with the artful eloquence which renders his speech, in the English play, unequalled as a popular appeal. Nevertheless the situations, the conduct, the language of Voltaire's play, are all of a stamp that will cause most of its readers (especially if they do not place it at the disadvantage of a comparison with the "monstrous work of Shakespeare") to think it worthy of its lofty theme.