Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 59

The king awaited Voltaire with impatience, and now he heard the rolling of carriage-wheels, then the opening of doors, then the sound of voices. In the first impulse of joy he sprang from his seat and advanced eagerly to meet Voltaire, but reaching the threshold of the door ho stood still and considered. "No," said he, "I will not go to meet him--he would mock at me, perhaps boast of it." He turned back to Iris chair, and took up the book he had been reading. And now some one tapped gently upon the door, a servant appeared and announced "Monsieur Voltaire," and now a figure stood upon the door- sill.

This man, with a small, contracted chest, with a back bowed down by old age or infirmities; this man, with the wonderous countenance, of which no one could decide if it was the face of a satyr or a demi- G.o.d; whose eyes flashed with heavenly inspiration at one moment, and in the next glowed with demoniac fire; whose lips were distorted by the most frightful grimaces or relaxed into the most enchanting smiles--this man is Voltaire.

As Frederick's glance met those burning eyes, he forgot all else, his royalty, his dignity, even Voltaire's baseness and vanity; he was to him the spirit of the age, the genius of the world, and he hastened to meet him, opened his arms wide, and pressed him tenderly to his heart. "Welcome, welcome, my lord and master," said the king; "I receive you, as becomes a pupil, in my school-room, surrounded by my books, whose mysterious lessons of wisdom, you, my teacher, will make clear."

"On the contrary, sire," said Voltaire, with a soft voice and a most enchanting smile--"on the contrary, you receive me with all the pomp of royalty seated upon a throne, which is not yours by inheritance, but which you have conquered; upon the throne of knowledge and learning, crowned with the laurels which the G.o.ds consecrate to heroes and poets. Alas! my eyes are dazzled by the l.u.s.tre which surrounds me. I bow in humility before this lordly head adorned by two royal crowns and reigning over two mighty kingdoms. Receive me, sire, as an amba.s.sador from the realm of poets, whose crown you wear with so much grace and dignity."

Frederick smiled kindly. "Let me be only a burgher and your comrade in arms in the republic of letters," said he. "I hold republics generally as impossibilities, but I believe in a republic of letters, and I have a right republican heart, striving after liberty, equality, and brotherly love. Remember this, friend, and let us forget at Sans-Souci that your comrade is sometimes the first servant of a kingdom. And now, tell me how you have borne the fatigues of the journey, and if you have been received at every station with the marked attention I had commanded."

"Yes, sire, everywhere in Prussia I have felt myself almost oppressed, humbled, by your greatness. How great, how mighty, how powerful, must your majesty be, when I am so distinguished, so honored, simply because I enjoy your favor! This honor and this pleasure alone have given me strength for my journey. My friends in Paris thought it absurd and ridiculous for me, in my miserable condition, to attempt so fatiguing a journey. But, sire, I was not willing to die before I had once more sat at the feet of this great and yet simple man, this exalted yet genial philosopher. I wished to revive and quicken my sick heart at this fountain of wit and wisdom.

I come, therefore, not as Voltaire, but as the tragic Scarron of your century, and throughout my whole journey I have called myself the 'Invalid of the King of Prussia.'" [Footnote: Oeuvres Completes de Voltaire. Oeuvres Posthumes.]

Frederick laughed heartily. "The Marshal of Saxony and yourself are in the same condition with your maladies; in the extremity of illness you have more energy and power than all other men in the most robust health. Voltaire, if you had not come now I should have considered you a bad penny: in place of the true metal of friends.h.i.+p I should have suspected you of palming off plated lead upon me. It is well for you that you are here. You are like the white elephant for whom the Shah of Persia and the Great Mogul are continually at war. The one who is so fortunate as to possess the white elephant makes it always the occasion of an added t.i.tle. I will follow their example, and from this time my t.i.tle shall run thus: 'Frederick, by the grace of G.o.d, King of Prussia, Prince-Elector of Brandenburg, Possessor of Voltaire, etc. etc.'"

"Your majesty may say, 'of inalienable Voltaire.' I am wiser than the white elephant; no war shall be necessary to conquer or to hold me. I declare myself your majesty's most willing subject joyfully.

Let me then be your white elephant, sire, and if the Great Mogul covets and demands me, I pray you to conceal me."

While Voltaire was speaking, he cast a sly glance upon the countenance of the king, his smile disappeared, and his face lost its kindly expression.

Frederick did not, or would not see it. "Not so," said he, gayly; "I will not conceal you, but boldly declare that you are mine."

"I am, nevertheless, the subject of the King of France," said Voltaire, shrugging his shoulders. "When I resolved to leave Paris, they did not deprive me of my t.i.tle of 'Historian of the King of France,' they only took from me my pension. They knew I must travel by post, and that a t.i.tle was less weighty for the horses than a pension of six thousand livres; so they lightened me of that, and I come unpensioned to your majesty."

This little comedy was too clear to escape the king, but he seemed not to understand it. A shadow fell upon his brow, and the expression of his face was troubled. He wished to wors.h.i.+p Voltaire as a n.o.ble, exalted genius, and he was pained to find him a pitiful, calculating, common man.

"You have, then, fallen under the displeasure of my brother Louis, of France?" said he.

"On the contrary, I am a.s.sured that I stand in the highest favor. I am, indeed, honored with a most agreeable and nattering commission; and if your majesty allows, I will immediately discharge it."

"Do so," said Frederick, smiling. "Lay aside every weight, that your wings may waft you into the heaven of heavens while at Sans-Souci.

You have been relieved of your pension, cast all your ballast into the scale also."

"Sire, the Marquise de Pompadour directed me to present your majesty with her most obedient and submissive greetings, and to a.s.sure you of her reverence and heart-felt devotion."

Frederick quietly drew his tabatiere from his vest-pocket, and slowly taking a pinch of snuff, he fixed his burning eyes upon Voltaire's smiling and expectant face; then said, with the most complete indifference, "The Marquise de Pompadour. Who is she? I do not know her!"

Voltaire looked at the king astonished and questioning.

Frederick did not remark this, but went on quietly: "Have you no other greetings for me? Have none of the great spirits, in which Paris is so rich, remembered me?"

"I shall be careful not to mention any other greetings. All the so- called great spirits appear so small in the presence of your exalted majesty, I fear you will not acknowledge them."

"Not so," said Frederick; "I gladly recognize all that is really great and worthy of renown. Voltaire will never find a more enthusiastic admirer than I am."

"Ah, sire, these words are a balsam which I will lay upon my breast, lacerated by the wild outcries of my critics."

"So the critics have been giving you trouble?" said Frederick.

"Yes, sire," said Voltaire, with the pa.s.sionate scorn so peculiar to him; "they have bored their insatiable and poisonous teeth into my flesh. They are so miserable and so pitiful, that I seem to myself miserable and pitiful as their victim, and in all humility I will ask your majesty, if such hounds are allowed to howl unpunished, would it not be better for Voltaire to creep into some den, and acknowledge the wild beasts of the forests as his brothers--perhaps they might regard his verses as melodious barkings and howlings?"

"Still the same boisterous hot-head, the Orlando Furioso," cried the king, laughing heartily. "Is your skin so tender still that the needles of the little critics disturb you, and to gratify their malice will you become a mule? If you are driven to abandon the Muses, friend, who will have the hardihood to stand by them? No, no!

do not follow in the footsteps of the G.o.d of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; do not 'visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation;' do not make the public of our day, and of the next century, suffer for the crimes of a few pitiful critics. The persecutions and slanders of the envious are the tribute great merit must always pay to the world at large. Let them rail on, but do not believe that the nations and the future will be duped by them. Utterly disregarding the criticisms of the so-called masters of art, we of this century admire and wonder at the chefs- d'oeuvre of Greece and Rome. The mad cry of Aeschines docs not obscure the fame of Demosthenes; and in spite of Lucian, Caesar is, and will ever remain, the greatest man the world has ever produced.

I guarantee that after your death you will be canonized, wors.h.i.+pped.

I humbly entreat you not to hasten the time, but be content to have the apotheosis in your pocket, and to be honored by all those who are too exalted to be envious or prejudiced. I, Frederick, stand foremost in the ranks." [Footnote: The king's own words.--Oeuvres Posthumes.]

"Why cannot the whole world be present to hear the words of a king whom I am proud, from this day onward, to call MY king?" cried Voltaire, pa.s.sionately. "Sire, I love you ardently! I believe the G.o.ds made us for each other. I have long loved you tenderly! I have been angry with you, but I have forgiven you all, and I love you to madness! There was never a weaker, frailer body than mine, but my soul is strong! I dare to say I love you as much as I admire you!

[Footnote: Voltaire's own words.] Verily, I hold this to be as great a conquest as the five other victories your majesty has achieved, and for which the world wors.h.i.+ps you. From this day I will be like your faithful hound; I will lie at your feet, even though you should spurn me, and declare that you will not be my master and lord. I will still return. Your threshold shall be my home, and I will be content with the crumbs which fall from your table. My fortune and my happiness shall consist in loving you!"

"I will not put your love to so hard a proof," said the king, smiling. "I dare hope to provide you with a more durable dwelling. I promise you shall not be like Lazarus, feeding upon crumbs. You shall be the rich man dispensing them."

Here was a sort of promise and a.s.surance which banished in some degree the nervous anxiety and distrust of Voltaire, and his countenance once more beamed with joy. He suppressed his satisfaction, however, instantly. He did not wish to betray to the observant eye of Frederick his selfish and miserly nature, and a.s.sumed at once a melancholy look.

"Sire," said he, "I do not resemble Lazarus; and if your majesty does not possess the miraculous power of the young rabbi, Jesus Christus, I fear you will soon have to bury me. But I am as true a believer as any Jew. I trust fully to the magic power of your hand.

Was not your marvellous touch sufficient to place beautiful Silesia, a gem of the first water, in the crown of Prussia?--to awaken spirits, sleeping almost the sleep of death, and to call into life on these barbarous northern steppes the blossoms of education and refinement? I believe in the miracles of the Solomon of the North, and I am willing to give my testimony to the whole world."

"Nevertheless, if the French c.o.c.k crows, you will betray me three times," said the king. "I know you, Voltaire, and I know when you are enraged, nothing is sacred. I fear that here, as elsewhere, you will find provocations. But now, before all other things, what have you brought me? What gift has your muse produced for the poor philosopher of Sans-Souci? I will not believe that you come with empty hands, and that the Homer of France has broken his lyre."

"No, sire, I am not empty-handed! I have brought you a present. I believe it to be the best and most beautiful production of my muse.

For twenty years I have swelled with indignation at the tragedy which my good friend, Master Crebillon, made of the most exalted subject of antiquity. With the adroit hands of a tailor he st.i.tched up a monkey-jacket out of the purple toga, and adorned it with the miserable tawdry trifles of a pitiful lore and pompous Gothic verse!

Crebillon has written a French Catiline. I, sire, have written a Roman Catiline! You shall see, sire, and you shall admire! In one of my most wretched, sleepless nights, the devil overcame me, and said: 'Revenge Cicero and France! Crebillon has disgraced both. Wash out this stain from France.' This was a good devil; and even you, sire, could not have driven me to work more eagerly than he did. Day and night he chained me to my writing-desk! I feared I should die of excitement, but the devil held on to me, and the spirits of the great Romans stood by my table and tore off the absurd and ridiculous masks which Crebillon had laid upon them. They showed me their true, exalted, glowing faces, and commanded me to portray them, 'that the world at last might feel their majestic beauty, and be no longer deceived by the caricatures of Crebillon!' I was obliged to obey, sire! I worked unceasingly, and in eight days I had finished! Catiline was born, and I was as much exhausted as ever a woman was at the birth of her first-born!" [Footnote: This whole speech is from Voltaire.]

"You do not mean that in eight days you completed the tragedy?" said the king. "You mean only that you have arranged the plot, and will finish the work here."

"No, sire, I bring you the tragedy complete, and I wrote it in eight days. Ah, sire, this is a tragedy you will enjoy! You will see no lovelorn Tullia, no infirm and toothless Cicero; you will see a fearful picture of Rome, a picture at which I myself shuddered. But, sire, when you read it, you must swear to me to read it in the same spirit in which it is written. I have left to my collegian Crebillon all his dramatic plunder; his Catiline is a pure fiction. I have written mine, remembering my province as an historian. Rome is my heroine; she is the mistress for whom I would interest all Europe. I have no other intrigue than Rome's danger; no other material than the mad craft of Catiline, the vehemence and heroic virtue of Cicero, the jealousy of the Roman Senate, the development of the character of Caesar; no other women than that unfortunate who was seduced by Catiline because of her gentleness and amiability. I know not, sire, if you will shudder at the fourth act, but I, the writer, trembled and shuddered. My tragedy is not formed upon any model, it is new in nova fert animus. Truly I know the world will rail at me for this, and the small souls gnash their teeth and howl, but my work is written with a great soul, and kindred spirits will comprehend me. The envious and the pitiful I will at last trample under my feet. Jupiter strove with the t.i.tans and overcame them. I am no Jupiter, neither are my adversaries t.i.tans."

While these words, in an irrepressible and powerful stream of eloquence, burst from his lips, Voltaire became another man. His countenance was imposing in its beauty, his eyes glowed with the fire of inspiration, an enchanting smile played upon his lips, and his bowed and contracted form was proudly erect and commanding. The king gazed upon him with admiration. At length, Voltaire, panting for breath, was silent. Frederick laid his two hands upon his shoulders, and looked into the glowing face with an indescribable expression of love and tenderness.

"Now," said he, "I have again and at last found my Voltaire, my proud, inspired king of poets, my Homer, crowned with immortality!

The might of genius has torn away the mantle of the courtier, and in place of pitiful, pliant, humble words, I hear again the melodious, flas.h.i.+ng, eloquent speech of my royal poet! Welcome, Voltaire, welcome to Sans-Souci, whose poor philosopher is but king of men, while the spirits are subject unto you! Ah, my all-powerful king and master, be gracious! You possess a wondrous realm, give me at least a small province in your kingdom."

"Sire, you mock at me," cried Voltaire. "I have written Caesar and Cicero for the theatre. You, however, exhibit on the stage of the world the two greatest men of the greatest century, combined in your own person. I have come to gaze upon this wonder; it is a far loftier drama than mine, and will be surely more n.o.bly represented.

[Footnote: Voltaire's own words.] Your majesty represents what you truly are, but where shall I find actors to fill the role of Caesar, Cicero, and Catiline; how shall I change the pitiful souls of the coulisse into great men; make n.o.ble Romans out of these small pasteboard heroes of the mode? I could find no actors for my tragedy in Paris, and it shall never be unworthily represented!"

"We will bring it upon the stage here," said Frederick. "Yes, truly, this new and great work shall announce, like a flaming comet, Voltaire's arrival in Berlin. At the same moment in which the Berlinese see that you are at last amongst them, shall they acknowledge that you are worthy to be honored and wors.h.i.+pped. In four weeks, Voltaire, shall your new tragedy be given in my palace."

"Has your majesty, then, a French company, and such a one as may dare to represent my Catiline?"

"For the love of Voltaire will all my courtiers, and even my sister, become actors; and though a Cicero failed you in Paris, in Berlin we will surely find you one. Have we not Voltaire who can take that role. If no reliable director could be found in Paris, I give you permission to select from my court circle those you consider most talented and most capable as actors, and you can study their parts with them--I myself alone excepted. Ten years ago I wished to have your 'Death of Caesar' given at Rheinsberg, and I had selected a role; just then the Emperor of Germany died, and fate called me out upon the great theatre of the world, where I have since then tried to play my part worthily, and I must consecrate to this all my strength and ability. I can play no other part! The two roles might make a rare confusion, and strange results might follow should the King of Prussia of this morning be changed to the Cicero of the evening, utter a fulminating speech against tyrants, and call upon the n.o.ble Romans to defend their rights; while this same King of Prussia is a small tyrant, and his subjects are more like pitiful slaves than heroic Romans. I must, therefore, confine myself to the narrow boundaries of a spectator, and applaud you as heartily in your character of Cicero as I applaud you in that of the great Voltaire."

"And is this indeed your intention, sire? My poor tragedy lies in my writing-desk, seemingly dead; will you awaken it to life and light?"

"It shall be given in two months, and you shall conduct it."

Voltaire's countenance darkened; his gay smile disappeared, and lines of selfishness and covetousness clouded the brow of the great poet.

"In two months, sire!" said he, shaking his head. "I fear I shall not be here. I have only come to sun myself for a few happy days in your presence."

"And then?" said Frederick, interrupting him.