Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 69

repeated Frederick, nodding merrily to Voltaire. "Look you, friend, I am perhaps that mortal who incommodes the G.o.ds least with prayers and pet.i.tions. My first prayer to-day was for you; show, therefore, a little grat.i.tude, and prove to me that the G.o.ds hear the earnest prayers of the faithful. Be less of a flatterer, and speak the simple truth. I desire now to look over with you my compositions of the last few days. I wish you, however, always to remember that when you write, you do so to add to the fame of your nation and to the honor of your fatherland. For myself, I scribble for my amus.e.m.e.nt; and I could easily be pardoned, if I were wise enough to burn my work as soon as it was finished. [Footnote: The king's own words.-- Oeuvres Posthumes.] When a man approaches his fortieth year and makes bad verses as I do, one might say, with Moliere's 'Misanthrope'--

"'Si j'en faissis d'aussi mechants, Je me garderais bien de les montrer aux gens.'"

"Your majesty considers yourself already too old to make verses, and you are scarcely thirty-eight: am I not then a fool, worthy of condemnation, for daring to do homage to the Muses and striving to make verses--I, the gray-haired old man who already counts fifty- six?"

"You have the privilege of the G.o.ds! you will never grow old; and the Muses and Graces, though women, must ever remain faithful to you--you understand how to lay new chains upon them."

"No, no, sire! I am too old," sighed Voltaire; "an old poet, an old lover, an old singer, and an old horse are alike useless things-- good for nothing. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.--Oeuvres Posthumes, p. 364.] Well, your majesty can make me a little younger by reading me some of your verses."

Frederick stepped to his writing-desk, and, seating himself, nodded to Voltaire to be seated also.

"You must know," said the king, handing Voltaire a sheet of paper covered with verses--"you must know that I have come with six twin brothers, who desire in the name of Apollo to be baptized in the waters of Hippocrene, and the 'Henriade' is entreated to be G.o.dfather."

Voltaire took the paper and read the verses aloud. The king listened attentively, and nodded approvingly over Voltaire's glowing and pa.s.sionate declamation.

"This is grand! this is sublime!" cried Voltaire. "Your majesty is a French writer, who lives by accident in Germany. You have our language wholly in your power."

Frederick raised his finger threateningly. "Friend, friend, shall I weary the G.o.ds again with my prayer?"

"Your majesty, then, wishes to hear the whole truth?"

"The whole truth!"

"Then you must allow me, sire, to read the verses once more. I read them the first time as an amateur, now I will read them as a critic."

As Voltaire now repeated the verses, he laid a sharp accent upon every word and every imperfect rhyme; scanned every line with stern precision. Sometimes when he came to a false Alexandrine, he gave himself the appearance of being absolutely unable to force his lips to utter such barbarisms; and then his eyes glowed with malicious fire, and a contemptuous smile played about his mouth.

The king's brow clouded. "I understand," said he, "the poem is utterly unworthy--good for nothing. Let us destroy it."

"Not so, sire--the poem is excellent, and it requires but a few day's study to make it perfect. On the Venus di Medici no finger must be too long, no nail badly formed; and what are such statues, with which we deck our gardens, to the monuments of the library? We must, therefore, make your work perfect. There is infinite grace and intellect in this little poem. Where have you found such treasures, sire? How can your sandy soil yield such blossoms? How can such charming grace and profound learning be combined? [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.--Oeuvres Posthumes, p. 329.] But even the Graces must stand upon a sure footing, and here, sire, are a few feet which are too long. Truly, that is sometimes unimportant, but the work of a distinguished genius should be PERFECT. You work too rashly, sire--it is sometimes more easy to win a battle than to make a good poem. Your majesty loves the truth so well, that by speaking the truth in all sincerity I shall best prove to you my most profound reverence. All that you do must be perfectly done; you are fully endowed with the ability necessary. No one must say 'Caesar est supra grammatic.u.m.' Caesar wrote as he fought, and was in both victorious. Frederick the Great plays the flute like Blavet, why should he not also write like the greatest of poets? [Footnote: Ibid., p. 823.] But your majesty must not disdain to give to the beautiful sentiment, the great thought, a lovely and attractive form."

"Yes, you are right!" said Frederick; "I fail in that, but you must not think that it is from carelessness. Those of my verses which you have least criticised are exactly those which have cost me the least effort. When the sentiment and the rhyme come in compet.i.tion, I make bad verses, and am not happy in my corrections. You cannot comprehend the difficulties I have to overcome in making a few tolerable verses. A happy combination by nature, an irrepressible and fruitful intellect, made you a great poet without any effort of your own. I feel and acknowledge the inferiority of my talent. I swim about in the ocean of poetry with my life-preserver under my arm. I do not write as well as I think. My ideas are stronger than my expressions; and in this embarra.s.sment, I am often content if my verses are as little indifferent as possible, and do not expect them to be good." [Footnote: The king's own words, p. 346.]

"It is entirely in your majesty's power to make them perfect. With you, sire, it is as with the G.o.ds--'I will!' and it is done. If your majesty will condescend to adorn the Graces and sylphs, the sages and scholars, who stumble about in this sublime poem with somewhat rugged feet, with artistic limbs, they will flutter about like graceful genii, and step with majesty like the three kings of the East. Now let us try--we will write this poem again."

He made a long mark with a pen over the ma.n.u.script of the king, took a new sheet of paper, and commenced to write the first lines. He criticised every word with bitter humor, with flas.h.i.+ng wit, with mocking irony. Inexorable in his censure, indifferent in his praise, his tongue seemed to be armed with arrows, every one of which was intended to strike and wound.

The face of Frederick remained calm and clear. He did not feel that he was a mighty king and ruler, injured by the fault-finding of a common man. He was the pupil, with his accomplished teacher; and as he really wished to learn, he was indifferent as to the mode by which his stern master would instruct him.

After this they read together a chapter from the king's "Higtoire de Mon Temps." A second edition was about to appear, and Voltaire had undertaken to correct it. He brought his copy with him, in order to give Frederick an account of his corrections.

"This book will be a masterwork, if your majesty will only take the pains to correct it properly? But has a king the time and patience?- -a king who governs his whole kingdom alone? Yes, it is this thought which confounds me! I cannot recover from my astonishment; it is this which makes me so stern in my judgment of your writings. I consider it a holy duty."

"And I am glad you are harsh and independent," said the king. "I learn more from ten stern and critical words, than from a lengthy speech full of praise and acknowledgment! But tell me, now, what means this red mark, with which you have covered one whole side of my ma.n.u.script?"

"Sire, this red mark asks for consideration for your grandfather, King Frederick the First; you have been harsh and cruel with him!"

"I dared not be otherwise, unless I would earn for myself the charge of partiality," said the king. "It shall not be said that I closed my eyes to his foolishness and absurdity because he was my grandfather. Frederick the First was a vain and pompous fool; this is the truth!"

"And yet I entreat your grace for him, sire. I love this king because of his royal pomp, and the beautiful monument which he left behind him."

"Well, that was vanity, that posterity might speak of him. From vanity he protected the arts; from vanity and foolish pride he placed the crown upon his head. His wife, the great Sophia Charlotte, was right when she said of him on her death-bed: 'The king will not have time to mourn for me; the interest he will take in solemnizing my funeral with pomp and regal splendor will dissipate his grief; and if nothing is wanting, nothing fails in the august and beautiful ceremony, he will be entirely comforted.'

[Footnote: Thiebault.] He was only great in little things, and therefore when Sophia Charlotte received from her friend Leibnitz his memoir 'On the Power of Small Things,' she said, smiling: 'Leibnitz will teach me to know small things; has he forgotten that I am the wife of Frederick the First, or does he think that I do not know my husband?'" [Footnote: Ibid.]

"Well, I pray for grace for the husband on his wife's account.

Sophia Charlotte was an exalted and genial woman; you should forgive her husband all other things, because he was wise enough to make her his wife and your grand-mother! And if your majesty reproaches him for the vanity of making himself king, that is a vanity from which his descendants have obtained some right solid advantages."

"The t.i.tle appears to me not in the least disagreeable! The t.i.tle is beautiful, when given by a free people, or earned by a prince.

Frederick the First had done nothing to stamp him a king, and that condemns him."

"So let it be," said Voltaire, shrugging his shoulders, "he is your grandfather, not mine. Do with him as you think best, sire; I have nothing more to say, and will content myself with softening a few phrases." [Footnote: This conversation of the king and Voltaire is historic. Voltaire tells it in a letter to Madame Denis.]

When he saw that Frederick's brow clouded at these words, he said, with a sly laugh: "Look you, how the office of a teacher, which your majesty forced upon me, makes me insolent and haughty! I, who would do well to correct my own works, undertake to improve the writings of a king. I remind myself of the Abbot von Milliers, who has written a book called 'Reflections on the Faults of Others.' On one occasion he went to hear a sermon of a Capuchin. The monk addressed his audience, in a nasal voice, in the following manner: 'My dear brothers in the Lord, I had intended to-day to discourse upon h.e.l.l, but at the door of the church I have read a bill posted up, "Reflections on the Faults of Others." "Ha! my friend," thought I, "why have you not rather made reflections over your own faults?" I will therefore speak to you of the pride and arrogance of men!'"

"Well, make such reflections always when occupied with the History of Louis the Fifteenth," said the king, laughing; "only, I beseech you, when you are with me, not to be converted by the pious Capuchin, but make your reflections on the faults of others only."

CHAPTER IX.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF VOLTAIRE.

Voltaire enjoyed the rare privilege of speaking the truth to the king, and he made a cruel and bitter use of his opportunities in this respect. He was jealous and envious of the king's fame and greatness, and sought to revenge him-self by continual fault-finding and criticism. He sought to mortify the great Frederick, who was admired and wondered at by all the world; to make him feel and confess that he could never equal the renowned writer Voltaire.

Frederick felt and acknowledged this frankly and without shame, but with that smiling composure and great self-consciousness which is ever ready to do justice to others, and demands at the same time a just recognition of its own claims. Voltaire might exalt himself to the clouds, he could not depreciate the king. He often made him angry, however, and this gratified the malice of the great French author.

The other friends of Frederick looked upon this conduct of Voltaire with regret; and the Marquis d'Argens, who was of a fine and gentle nature, soon saw the daily discontent of the king, and the wicked joy of Voltaire.

"My friend," said he, "the king wrote a poem yesterday, which he read aloud to me this morning. He declares that there is one bad rhyme in his poem, and that it tortures him. I tried in vain to rea.s.sure him. I know that the rhyme is incorrect, but you will provoke him beyond measure if you tell him so. He has tried in vain to correct it, without impairing the sense of the pa.s.sage. I have, therefore, withheld all criticism, and read to him some verses from La Fontaine, where the same fault is to be found. I have wished to convince him that the poem is worthy of praise, although not exactly conformed to rule. I beg of you, Voltaire, to follow my example."

"And why should I do that?" said Voltaire, in his most snarling tone.

"Because, with your severe and continual criticisms you will disgust the king, and turn him aside from his favorite pursuit. I think it important to poetry and the fine arts that the great and powerful sovereign of Prussia should love and cherish them; should exalt those who cultivate them, and, indeed, rank himself amongst them.

What difference does it make, Voltaire, if a bad rhyme is to be found in the poetry of the philosopher of Sans-Souci?" [Footnote: Thiebault, vol. v., p. 337.]

"The king wishes to learn of me how to make good poetry, and my love to him is not of that treasonable, womanly, and cowardly sort which shrinks from blaming him because it fears to wound his self-love.

The king has read his poem to you, and it is your province to wonder at and praise your friend. He will read it to me as 'Pedagogo de sua Maesta.' I will be true and just, where you have dared to flatter him."

Never was Voltaire more severe in his criticism, more cutting in his satire, than to-day. His eyes sparkled with malicious joy, and a wicked smile played still upon his lip as he left the king and returned to his own apartment.

"Ah," said he, seating himself at his writing-table, with a loud laugh, "I shall write well to-day, for I have had a lesson.

Frederick does not know how far he is my benefactor. In correcting him, I correct myself; and in directing his studies, I gain strength and judgment for my own works. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.-- Oeuvres, p. 363.] I will now write a chapter in my History of Louis XIV. My style will be good. The chapter which I have read this morning, in Frederick's 'Histoire de Mon Temps' has taught me what faults to avoid. Yes, I will write of Louis XIV. Truly I owe him some compensation. King Frederick has had the naivete to compare his great grandfather, the so-called great Prince-Elector, to the great Louis. I was amiable enough to pardon him for this little compliment to his ancestors, and not to strike it from his 'Histoire.' And, indeed, why should I have done that? The world will not be so foolish as to charge this amusing weakness to me! After all, the king writes but for himself, and a few false, flattering friends; he can, therefore, say what he will. I, however, I write for France-- for the world! But I fear, alas, that fools will condemn me, because I have sought to write as a wise man." [Footnote: CEuvres, p. 341.]

Voltaire commenced to write, but, he was soon interrupted by his servant, Tripot, who announced that the Jew Hirsch, for whom Voltaire had sent, was at the door. Voltaire rose hastily, and called him to enter.

"I have business with you, my friend," said he to the Jew. "Close the door, Tripot, and see that we are not disturbed."