How Did Voltaire Manage to Write So Much?

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1870

Abstract

ash</a></figcaption></figure>How did one man manage to write so much?Simple. As well as patrons, the man had servants.Two hundred years later, on the eve of the Second World War, the author Cyril Connolly would bemoan that there was ‘no more somber enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.’ The comment resonated in an age when recession and upheavals in society had forced middle-class households to learn to cope without servants.In contrast, Voltaire enjoyed a cushioned life on the fringes of the aristocracy. A steward or land agent would look after his agricultural estates. An amanuensis, as secretaries were then called, would take dictation, sharpen quill pens, make clean copies of manuscripts, and deal with irksome practicalities such as delivering the manuscript to the publisher or paying the bill at a coaching inn.No eighteenth century gentleman would dress himself. Voltaire would have travelled with a valet (remember all those old plays where valets and ladies’ maids were complicit in trickery, or eased the path of young love?) A valet would brush out his wig, hand him freshly laundered shirts and neckcloths, and ease him into embroidered coats and polished boots. There would be a coachman in the stables, not to mention the dozens of stablehands, gardeners, cooks and laundrymaids who kept the grand houses running.Like any writer, I sometimes dream of having a flotilla of servants on call. Wouldn’t it be wonderful have efficient, invisible workers to run daily life for me and mine without hiccups? No more weekly trips to the supermarket, no more being the person who finds things at the last minute, helps with homework, takes the dog to the vet, waters the garden, or takes the car for its annual service. No more waiting on the phone fo

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r half an hour while my call is held in a queue.<figure id="a42a"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*70OfxRwsr4sDwHCeQRYCNQ.jpeg"><figcaption>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@icons8?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Icons8 Team</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/angry-man-on-phone?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure>Voltaire was a prolific wordsmith, who reveled in his notoriety. Yet would we lesser mortals really be up to the challenge if our path through life was smoothed? Let’s be honest. Writers love to complain that life gets in the way. If we were given a roof over our heads and food on the table, and if all the irksome tasks of modern life were taken off our shoulders, would we really set to and write that best-seller?Moreover, where would we find inspiration if cushioned from life’s turmoil? My parents’ generation used to joke that they were graduates of the School of Hard Knocks. Many writers lived skint before they were famous, and echoes of that struggle found its way into their work. On the other hand, petty triumphs like finding the right size spanner to repair a leaking tap can brighten our day as much as major achievements.And who would want to miss out on the heart-stopping milestones that reward the hours of attention our children demand, like the time we teach them to ride a bicycle and watch them pedal away upright and confident, without a backwards look.I’ll never be a celebrity philosopher, nor publish millions of words. However, the demands and antics of my own irrepressible family provided a wealth of material for newspaper columns. Servants? Only in my dreams.</article></body>

The answer is simple

Portrait of Voltaire, public domain via Wikipedia Commons

I have been polishing my French by reading Voltaire’s Lettres Philosophiques (Letters Concerning the English Nation), published in 1733, a collection of essays on the place of religion and science in England, and on English society in general. His extended visit there was caused by temporary exile from France for his political views.

Voltaire was a towering figure of the French Enlightenment. A celebrity in his time, a thorn in the government’s side, virulently anti-clerical, and fascinated by advances in science, he embodied the contradictions of the age. He sponged off wealthy patrons, including his mistress’s husband. He also relieved poverty locally, draining the marshes near his country estate to create farmland, and setting up a pottery and tannery to provide jobs.

Flipping through the bibliography at the end of the book, I was amazed just how many works Voltaire published in his lifetime, ranging from political pamphlets to essays on history, satirical novels, verse, and stage plays. The total must run into millions of words, long before the days of cut and paste.

How did one man manage to write so much?

Simple. As well as patrons, the man had servants.

Two hundred years later, on the eve of the Second World War, the author Cyril Connolly would bemoan that there was ‘no more somber enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.’ The comment resonated in an age when recession and upheavals in society had forced middle-class households to learn to cope without servants.

In contrast, Voltaire enjoyed a cushioned life on the fringes of the aristocracy. A steward or land agent would look after his agricultural estates. An amanuensis, as secretaries were then called, would take dictation, sharpen quill pens, make clean copies of manuscripts, and deal with irksome practicalities such as delivering the manuscript to the publisher or paying the bill at a coaching inn.

No eighteenth century gentleman would dress himself. Voltaire would have travelled with a valet (remember all those old plays where valets and ladies’ maids were complicit in trickery, or eased the path of young love?) A valet would brush out his wig, hand him freshly laundered shirts and neckcloths, and ease him into embroidered coats and polished boots. There would be a coachman in the stables, not to mention the dozens of stablehands, gardeners, cooks and laundrymaids who kept the grand houses running.

Like any writer, I sometimes dream of having a flotilla of servants on call. Wouldn’t it be wonderful have efficient, invisible workers to run daily life for me and mine without hiccups? No more weekly trips to the supermarket, no more being the person who finds things at the last minute, helps with homework, takes the dog to the vet, waters the garden, or takes the car for its annual service. No more waiting on the phone for half an hour while my call is held in a queue.

Voltaire was a prolific wordsmith, who reveled in his notoriety. Yet would we lesser mortals really be up to the challenge if our path through life was smoothed? Let’s be honest. Writers love to complain that life gets in the way. If we were given a roof over our heads and food on the table, and if all the irksome tasks of modern life were taken off our shoulders, would we really set to and write that best-seller?

Moreover, where would we find inspiration if cushioned from life’s turmoil? My parents’ generation used to joke that they were graduates of the School of Hard Knocks. Many writers lived skint before they were famous, and echoes of that struggle found its way into their work. On the other hand, petty triumphs like finding the right size spanner to repair a leaking tap can brighten our day as much as major achievements.

And who would want to miss out on the heart-stopping milestones that reward the hours of attention our children demand, like the time we teach them to ride a bicycle and watch them pedal away upright and confident, without a backwards look.

I’ll never be a celebrity philosopher, nor publish millions of words. However, the demands and antics of my own irrepressible family provided a wealth of material for newspaper columns. Servants? Only in my dreams.