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It was an utter tragedy, for lack of a better word. Voltaire wondered what kind of ill-conceived labor could have given birth to such a book. If such a thing as Discourse on the Arts and Sciences could be successfully published, he could only lament what it meant for the current state of philosophical discussion. The discourse was, if one must be charitable, an abject portrait of idealism. These are the words of a barbarian; he knows it.
So when he writes Rousseau a letter later in the month, he starts with, "I have received your new book against the human race, and thank you for it. Never was such a cleverness used in the design of making us all stupid. One longs, in reading your book, to walk on all fours."
He means every word he traces them into the paper, or at least he believes so. But then, he reads the discourse once again, and it reminds him of summer two years ago and the manner of speaking of a still undistinguished writer. He reads it, and he can almost imagine to perfection how Rousseau would pronounce each and every word. The indomitable arrogance of youth, Voltaire reasons, yet there was a tenderness in him. Oh, yes, he knows it all too well.
He remembers the first time. When he first saw him in the back seat of the table in a salon not very far away from here, he couldn't state why exactly, but he knew at first glance that there was nothing ordinary about that man. Oh God, this brings him back to the faint smell of bergamot and sweet music in the dark. To the warmth of someone else's lips and the soft caress of their hand.
At that time, he didn’t know that the said man was the one who composed that piece. It was 1745, and Voltaire had just written a new libretto to make use of music taken from his and a friend’s play. He was then occupied since he began writing a new opera, so the job of fitting the music to the new libretto and adjusting the verse was entrusted to a son of a watchmaker, an aspiring musician at the time.
He laughs at the memory. Les Fêtes de Ramire was a romance, wasn’t it?
Fatime, the princess of Granada, is taken captive by the Spanish King. She longs for death in prison, yet she is told by Cupid, who appears on a bed of roses and laurel, that a bright future is to come. Oh, and it is just as he said. Prince Ramire rescues her, celebrates her, and declares his love. It seemed such a silly story then, but now it can almost make him weep.
The Cupid, the Graces, and the Pleasures. Even then, everything brought back to this.
He sighs. The lamp is casting a pale circle of light over the letter. The ink is almost fully dried; he should simply close it and send it. But then, he picks up his pen by impulse, before his head can convince his heart of its foolishness, "M. Chappus tells me your health is very unsatisfactory: you must come and recover here in your native place, enjoy its freedom, drink the milk of its cows, and browse on its grass. I am yours, most philosophically and with sincere esteem." He folds the paper and seals it. Then it is done.
He never gets a reply.
Rousseau never writes back.
He waits for a month, two, which turns to six, and then a year.
It never comes.
Sleepless nights pile on top of each other. Voltaire never expected not to receive a letter from Rousseau. What happened? He agonizes over whether he ought to send another letter. Was his tone too severe? Should he have been lighter with his words? He had not meant them—God knows he had not. No one is more aware than he of Rousseau’s geniality; now he knows that. He should have said it from the beginning. He had always known Rousseau was braver. Braver in his writing... and braver in love.
It’s easier to criticize his work, to ridicule his words. It’s easier to reject him first, so he isn’t the one to be rejected. It’s easier... It’s all easier than admitting he still dreams of those nights two summers ago. Unseen, unheard of, living only in his memory was the mellow taste of his lips.
It’s maddening. He feels like tearing himself from wherever he is and running barefoot to the closest salon to Rousseaus' residence. Breathless and trembling, he would stand there, planted on the ground, waiting for him to eventually show up.
He imagines each second, each frame. Oh, when he closes his eyes, he can almost believe in his own little fantasy. Would he have the scruples to feign indifference? Would he be too drowned in his own helplessness to abandon his dignity? Kiss him the very moment his eyes fall upon him. Satiate the hunger in his heart and press his lips against his, a breath longer of wait, and he’d go insane.
He knows that when Rousseau’s heart stops beating, his own will as well. And he hopes, oh, he can only hope, that the opposite may also be true.
So he doesn’t run. Doesn’t wait for him. It is better unsaid. Hope won’t get him anywhere. Did it all not mean anything to him? He can’t know; he can only dream. Perhaps they are better left as just that, dreams. Reality demands its toll, and the look of rejection in Rousseau’s eyes would be irremediable. He wouldn’t be able to survive that; it is only true in the same way this love drove Dido to madness.
If he does nothing, the possibility remains, faintest but still there. He’d take Juliet’s poison over the certainty of rejection.
He is Fatime. He can feel the cold stone floor against his falling body, the prison bars encircling him. There is a faint curtain of sunlight spilling through, and silence. Too much silence. The prince’s shadow never shows up. He is Fatime, and Cupid never comes. He is Fatime, and Ramire abandons him.
"All is for the best", they say. And now he understands. He chooses to dream.
Five years later, he would walk into a salon where an aria from Rousseau’s newly composed opera was being performed.
An acquaintance, who happened to be accompanying him that evening, suddenly looks alarmed, with a mixture of shock and concern as he sees Voltaire's eyes are brimming with tears. "What’s the story of the opera?" He asks in quiet desperation.
Voltaire’s voice is silent, "I cannot say... This is the first time I have heard it."
"Then why do you weep, my friend?"
"Can’t you see? It’s a love song."