Historical Miniatures Part 54

After a while the old man called his friend back: "Come, Abbe, come! You must hear something!"

The Abbe, who, for the sake of his flock, kept on good terms with Voltaire, and humoured his whims, without, however, yielding to him in theological discussions, came at the summons.

"You must hear a letter from Frederick the Great, the Unique, the Incomparable. He has pardoned me, and I am ashamed. My last evening in Sans-Souci I was irritated, and in my cruelty I was mean enough to remind him of his father's stick. The moment that the word escaped, I felt his retort in the air, but he restrained it. He had only needed to return the thrust with a reference to the stick which had played a certain part in my youth, but he kept silent, whether out of regard for my years or for some other reason. (It is remarkable that the stick has also had an influence on the development of the great Shakespeare and others.) Excuse, Abbe, this _garrulitas senilis_--he has pardoned me, and writes, 'My old friend!'

"'The years have pa.s.sed; to the seven good years which you shared with me succeeded the seven lean ones--the Seven Years' War and all that it brought with it. Friends have departed, and a great loneliness enfolds the ageing man, who now, among other things, begins to be far-sighted, after being formerly short-sighted. He sees life in a perspective where the apparently shorter lines are the longest. He knows that from experience, and therefore lets himself no longer be deceived. Standing on the height which he has gained, he is glad to look back, but he can also now see in front of him.

"'What is now impending? Who can say? This century, which has seen all the sovereigns leading revolutionary movements, is the strangest of all.

We despots, who forced enlightenment and freedom on the peoples--we were the demagogues and they rewarded us with ingrat.i.tude. It was a perverse world! I have suffered for my doctrines and actions, but the fate of Joseph II is tragic. They are slowly but surely murdering him.

"'You do not love war: nor do I, but I was forced to it by Providence and solicitude for my country. What have I effected thereby? you ask.

I have made a "re-distribution," as land-surveyors call it, and out of scattered patches and sc.r.a.ps of territory I have woven together a Prussia, so that we can now walk on our own ground, without treading on our neighbour's. Do not fear Prussia; you need it as a bulwark against Russia, which now, since the time of the Czar Peter, has a voice and vote in the Council of Europe. You disapprove of my sharing in the part.i.tion of Poland, but I was obliged to do so; otherwise Russia would have taken all. Poland had lost its significance in the geographical economy of Europe; it was Russianised, and the role it had played was taken over by the Sarmatian.... Silesia was ours, and thank G.o.d that the Swedes did not obtain it, as they at first wished. Moreover, we have sent the Goths home to their own country, and look after our own affairs ourselves.'"

"And so on! Then he says something about Rousseau."

"'You call Rousseau a swindler; that is a somewhat severe expression.

Even if he did really steal a piece of ribbon, or a silver spoon, it is not worth talking about. I share his love for nature and his hatred of mankind. One evening lately, as the sun went down, I thought: "G.o.d!

how beautiful are Thy natural creations, and how hideous are Thy human creatures!" We men, I mean--for I except neither myself nor you, Monsieur. This cursed race truly belongs to the Iron Age as described by Hesiod. And we are asked to believe that they are created after G.o.d's image! After the image of the Devil, I would rather say! Rousseau is right when he believes in a past Golden Age.'

"What do you say to that, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"It is what the Church teaches regarding the lost Paradise and the Fall, and also agrees with the Greek legend of Prometheus, who ate of the tree of knowledge, and thereby brought misfortune on men."

"Good heavens! Have you too become a freethinker? Shoemaker, stick to your last! If you are a priest, then be a priest, but don't try to make a botch of my work. And don't think you need to flatter me for an increase of wages. But let us return to Frederick:"

"'History rolls on like an avalanche; the race improves, the conditions of life become easier, but men are still the same--faithless, unthankful, criminal; and he just as well as the unjust go to h.e.l.l. I do not dare to put down on paper the conclusions to be drawn from this observation, for that would be to acquit Lazarus, and to crucify Christ.... Great men have little weaknesses or rather great weaknesses.

We, Monsieur, have been no angels, but Providence has used us for great objects. Is it a matter of indifference to Providence whom it takes in hand, or how we live in the flesh, provided we keep the spirit uppermost? _Sursum corda!_'"

"What do you say to that, Abbe?"

"The Law cannot be fulfilled, says St. Paul, but the Law rouses the sense of guilt, and therefore it is only imposed in order to drive us to grace."

"That was not such a stupid remark of Paul's. But I should like to add,--in the prison of the flesh grows the longing for liberation: 'Who shall deliver me, wretched man, from this body of sin?' Yes, Abbe, _Vanitas vanitatum! Vanitas!_ You are young, but you must not despise the old man when he turns round and spits behind him all the unpleasantness of his past life. Might but a generation be born which knew at once the value of life, as long as a mud-bath is not part of the treatment!"

Just then a dark lean man came tortuously along the garden path.

"See! there is my Jesuit!" said Voltaire.

The old man kept on friendly terms with a Jesuit, partly because the Pope had expelled them, partly because Frederick the Great had patronised them; but his chief object was to have someone to dispute with. Perhaps also he wished to show his freedom from prejudice, for he did not like the uncongenial man.

"Now, you child of Satan!" was the old man's greeting, "what mischief have you got in your mind? You look so maliciously pleased!"

"I come from Geneva," answered the Jesuit with an evil smile.

"What are they doing there?"

"I saw the executioner burn Rousseau's _Emile_."

"They may do that, as far as I am concerned, and throw the fool himself into the fire."

"Monsieur Voltaire!"

"Yes: one cannot tolerate lunatics: there are limits!"

"Where?"

"Imposed by a sound intelligence."

"Yes, and saw them burn the new edition of Monsieur Voltaire's _Candide_."

"For shame! But it is merely a mob in Geneva."

"A Protestant mob, with your permission."

"Don't trouble yourself; I hate Protestants equally with Catholics! This terrible Calvin burnt his friend Servetus in Geneva, because he did not believe in the Trinity. And had Jean Calas in Toulouse been a Catholic, and his son a Protestant, I would still have attacked the judges, although I am nothing. I am nothing; only, what I write is something."

"Then some day we will raise a monument to Monsieur Voltaire's writings--not to Voltaire."

"You have no need; I have already raised my monument myself in the hundred volumes of my collected works. The world has nothing to do with how the old a.s.s looked; there is nothing to see in that. We know my weaknesses; I have lied, I have stolen, I have been ungrateful; something of a scoundrel, something of a brute! That is the dirty part of me, and I bequeath it to Jesuits, pettifoggers, hair-splitters and collectors of anecdotes;--but my spirit to G.o.d who gave it, and to men an honest purpose to understand their Monsieur Voltaire."

He rose, for the sun had descended.

"Good-night, Mont Blanc; you have a white head like myself, and stand with your feet in cold water, as I do! Now I go and lie down! Tomorrow I travel to Paris, where I will die."

DAYS OF JUDGMENT

In the northern tower of the Church of Notre Dame de Paris was the tower-watchman's chamber. But it had been arranged like a bookbinder's workshop, for the watchman's day-duty was not particularly heavy, and the hours of the night pa.s.sed with sleep or without sleep, no one troubling themselves to oversee this now superfluous church servant.

n.o.body entered the church, which had been damaged in various ways, and no one ascended the northern tower, for the bells hung in the southern one. There the watchman's duty was regarded more seriously, for on all extraordinary occasions the alarm-bell had to sound.

The watchman kept up a sort of telegraphic communication with the bellringer in the southern tower. In calm weather they could chat with each other, but when it was windy, they had to use speaking trumpets.

The workshop had, in the course of years, developed into a very comfortable room. Its southern side was occupied by a single large bookcase. There the first edition of the _Encyclopedie_ in five and thirty volumes, shone resplendent in red morocco with gilt letters.

There stood Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu, Locke, Hume--all the authors who ought to have been present. There were also periodicals, the _Moniteur_, Pere d.u.c.h.esne and Marat's _L'Ami du Peuple_. This last was bound in somewhat greasy leather, which resembled pig's-skin, and had curled up at the corners.

Another wall was covered with engravings, some coloured and some plain.

They hung in chronological order from left to right, from top to bottom, so that one could read the whole history of the Revolution pictorially.

The Oath in the ball-room on June 20, 1789, with Mirabeau's portrait; the burning of the Bastille, and the head of the commandant; the Jacobite Club, with Marat, Saint-Just, Couthon, Robespierre; the Feast of Brotherhood on the Champ du Mars; the King's Flight to Varennes; Lafayette; the Girondists; the execution of the King and Queen; the Committee of Public Welfare, with Danton and the newly hatched Robespierre; the Reign of Terror; Charlotte Corday stabbing Marat in the bath; Robespierre again; Feast of the Supreme Being; Voltaire's Funeral; Robespierre again, this time on the 9th Thermidor. Then came Buonaparte and the Directory, mixed with Pyramids and Alps.

In the middle of the room stood a very large table. At the one end were the bookbinder's tools; at the other, writing materials. The inkstand was a skull; the ruler was a fore-arm; the paper-weight was a guillotine, and the penholder a rib.

The bookbinder himself, a centenarian, with an apostolic beard, sat and wrote under a lantern which hung from the roof. He was the only person visible in the room. Outside it was stormy, and the roof-plates rattled from time to time; it was cool in the room, but not cold, for a stove was lit in a corner, where lay the watchman's belongings--a great wolfskin fur-coat, a speaking trumpet, some flags, and a lantern with variously coloured gla.s.s sides. The old man pushed his gla.s.ses up his forehead, looked up, and spoke, though the person with whom he talked could not be seen.

"Are you hungry?"