Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 63

"Your majesty will thus be acting an epigram for George of England,"

said Voltaire, laughing. "Two of his n.o.blest rebels will be cementing the friendship of France and Prussia. Lord Tyrconnel, the Irishman, is amba.s.sador from France to Prussia, and my Lord Marshal Keith is to be amba.s.sador from Prussia to France. All, my lord! how will the n.o.ble marquise rejoice when her faithful knight shall introduce to her his most beautiful possession--the young and lovely Mohammedan Zuleima! How happy will Zuleima be when you point out to her the woman who loved you so fondly! She will then know, my lord, that you also once had a heart, and have been beloved by a woman."

"I will present my little Zuleima to the marquise," said Lord Marshal; "and, when I tell her that she was a bequest of my dear brother, who, at the storming of Oschakow, where he commanded as field-marshal, rescued her from the flames, she will find it just and kind that I gave the poor orphan a home and a father. I wish first, however, to give Zuleima a husband, if your majesty will allow it. The Tartar Ivan, my chamberlain, loves Zuleima, and she shall be his wife if your majesty consents."

"By all means," said Frederick; "but I fear it will be difficult to have this marriage solemnized in Berlin. Your Tartar, I believe, has the honor to be heathen."

"Sire, he is, in faith, a Persian."

"A fire-worshipper, then," said Frederick. "Well, I propose that Voltaire shall bless this marriage; where fire is worshipped as a G.o.d, Voltaire, the man of fire and flame, may well be priest."

"Ah, sire, I believe we are all Persians; surely we all worship the light, and turn aside from darkness. You are to us the G.o.d Ormuzd, from whom all light proceeds; and every priest is for us as Ahriman, the G.o.d of darkness. Be gracious to me, then, your majesty, and do not call upon me to play the role of priest even in jest. But why does this happy son of the heathen require a priest? Is not the sunG.o.d Ormuzd himself present? With your majesty's permission, we will place the loving pair upon the upper terrace of Sans-Souci, where they will be baptized in holy fire by the clear rays of the mid-day sun. Then the divine Marianna, Cochois, and Denys will perform some mystical dance, and so the marriage will be solemnized according to Persian rites and ceremonies."

"And then, I dare hope your majesty will give a splendid wedding- feast, where costly wines and rich and rare viands will not fail us," said La Mettrie.

"Look, now, how his eyes sparkle with antic.i.p.ated delights!" cried the king. "La Mettrie would consent to wed every woman in the world if he could thereby spend his whole life in one continuous wedding- feast; but listen, sir, before you eat again, you have a story to relate. Discharge this duty at once, and give us a piquant anecdote from your gay life."

CHAPTER IV.

THE CONFIDENTIAL DINNER.

"Your majesty desires a piquant anecdote out of my own life," said La Mettrie. "Is there any thing on earth more piquant than a truffle-pie? Can any thing deserve more ardent praise, and fonder, sweeter remembrance, than this beautiful revelation of man's genius?

Yes, sire, a successful truffle-pie is a sort of revealed religion, and I am its devout, consecrated priest! One day I relinquished, for the love of it, a considerable fortune, a handsome house, and a very pretty bride, and I confess that even now a truffle-pie has more irresistible charms for me than any bride, even though richly endowed."

"And was there ever a father mad enough to give his daughter to the 'homme machine?'" said the king

"Sire, I had just then written my 'Penelope.' Monsieur van Swiet, of Leyden, a poor invalid, who had been for weeks confined to his bed by a cold, read it, and laughed so heartily over the mockery and derision at the gentlemen doctors, that he fell into a profuse perspiration--a result which neither the art of the physicians nor the prayers of the priests had been able to accomplish. The stiffness in his limbs was healed; in fact, he was restored to health! His first excursion was to see me, and he implored me to suggest a mode by which he could manifest his grat.i.tude. 'Send me every day a truffle-pie and a bottle of Hungarian wine,' I replied.

Swiet was greatly amused. 'I have something better than a truffle- pie,' said he. 'I have a daughter who will inherit all my fortune.

You are not rich in ducats, but largely endowed with wit. I wish that my grandchildren, who will be immensely wealthy, may have a father who will endow them richly with intellect. Wed my daughter, and present me with a grandson exactly like yourself.' I accepted this proposition, and promised the good Van Swiet to become his son- in-law in eight days; to dwell with him in his house, and to cheer and enliven him daily for a few hours after dinner, with merry, witty conversation, that his liver might be kept in motion, and his digestion improved."

"Just think of this tender Hollander, this disinterested father, who selects a husband for his daughter in order to improve his digestion!"

"Did you not see your bride before the wedding? Perhaps she was a changeling, whom the father wished to get rid of in some respectable manner, and therefore gave her to you."

"I saw my bride, sire, and indeed Esther was a lovely girl, who had but one fault--she did not love me. She had the naivete to tell me so, and indeed to confess that she ardently loved another, a poor clerk of her father's, who, when their love was discovered, a short time before, had been turned out of the house. They loved each other none the less glowingly for all this. I shrugged my shoulders, and recalled the wish of her father, and my promise to him. But when the little Esther implored me to refuse her hand, and plead with her father for her beloved, I laughed and jested no longer, but began to look at the thing gravely. I did go to her father, and informed him of all that had pa.s.sed. He listened to me quietly, and then asked me, with a fearful grimace, if I preferred prison fare to truffle- pie, every day, at my own table. You can imagine that I did not hesitate in my choice.

"'Well, then,' said my good Swiet, 'if you do not wed my daughter, I will withdraw my protecting hand from you, and your enemies will find a means to cast you into prison. A new book, "L'Homme Machine,"

has just appeared, and every man swears it is your production, though your name is not affixed to the t.i.tle-page. The whole city, not only the priests, but the worldlings, are enraged over this book. They declare it is a monster of unbelief and materialism. If, in spite of all this, I accept you as my son-in-law, it is because I wish to show the world that I despise it, and am not in the slightest degree influenced by its prejudices and opinions, but am a bold, independent, freethinker. Decide, then! Will you marry my daughter and eat truffle-pie daily, or will you be cast into prison?'

"'I will marry your daughter! I swear that in eight days she shall be my wife!'

"Herr van Swiet embraced me warmly, and commenced his preparations for the wedding immediately. Esther, however, my bride, never spoke to me; never seemed to see me. Her eyes were swollen, and she was half-blind from weeping. Once we met alone in the saloon. She hastened to leave it; but, as she pa.s.sed by me, she raised her arms to heaven, then extended them threateningly toward me. 'You are a cruel and bad man. You will sacrifice a human soul to your greed and your irresistible and inordinate desires! If G.o.d is just, you will die of a truffle-pie! I say not that you will yield up your spirit, for you have none! You will, you must die like a beast--from beastly gluttony!'"

"The maiden possessed the wisdom of a sibyl," said the king, "and I fear she has prophesied correctly as to your sad future. HATE has sometimes the gift of prophecy, and sees the future clearly, while Love is blind. It appears to me your Esther did not suffer from the pa.s.sion of love."

"No, sire, she hated me. But her lover, the young Mieritz, did not share this dislike. He seemed warmly attached to me; was my inseparable companion; embraced me with tears, and forgave me for robbing him of his beloved, declaring that I was more worthy of her than himself. He went so far in his manifestations of friendship as to invite me to breakfast on the morning of my wedding-day, at which time he wished to present me with something sumptuous he had brought from Amsterdam. I accepted the invitation, and as the wedding- ceremony was to take place at twelve o'clock, in the cathedral, we were compelled to breakfast at eleven. I was content. I thought I could better support the wearisome ceremony if sustained by the fond remembrance of the luxurious meal I had just enjoyed. Our breakfast began punctually at eleven, and I a.s.sure your majesty it was a rare and costly feast. My young friend Mieritz declared, however, that the dish which crowned the feast was yet to come. At last he stepped to the kitchen himself to bring this jewel of his breakfast. With a mysterious smile he quickly returned, bringing upon a silver dish a smoking pie. A delicious fragrance immediately pervaded the whole room--a fragrance which then recalled the hour most rich in blessing of my whole life. Beside myself--filled with prophetic expectation-- I rushed forward and raised the top crust of the pie. Yes, it was there!--it met my ravished gaze!--the pie which I had only eaten once, at the table of the Duke de Grammont! Alas! I lost the good duke at the battle of Fontenoy, and the great mystery of this pasty went down with him into the hero's grave. And now that it was exhumed, it surrounded me with its costly aroma; it smiled upon me with glistening lips and voluptuous eyes. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the dish from the hands of my friend, and placed it before me on the table. At this moment the clock struck twelve.

"'Miserable wretch!' I cried, 'you bring me this pie, and this is the hour of my marriage!'

"'Well,' said Mieritz, with the cool phlegm of a Hollander, 'let us go first to the wedding, and then this pasty can be warmed up.'

"'Warmed up!' roared I; 'warm up this pie, whose delicious odor has already brought my nose into its magic circle! Can you believe I would outlive such a vandalism, that I would consent to such sacrilege? To warm a pie!--it is to rob the blossom of its fragrance, the b.u.t.terfly of the purple and azure of its wings, beauty of its innocence, the golden day of its glory. No, I will never be guilty of such deadly crime! This pie THIRSTS to be eaten!

I will, therefore, eat it!'

"I ate it, sire, and it overpowered me with heavenly rapture. I was like the opium-eater, wrapped in elysium, carried into the heaven of heavens. All the wonders of creation were combined in this heavenly food, which I thrust into my mouth devoutly, and trembling with gladness. It was not necessary for Mieritz to tell me that this pie was made of Indian birds'-nests, and truffles from Perigord. I knew it--I felt it! This wonder of India had unveiled my enraptured eyes!

A new world was opened before me! I ate, and I was blessed!

"What was it to me that messenger after messenger came to summon me, to inform me that the priest stood before the altar; that my young bride and her father and a crowd of relations awaited me with impatience? I cried back to them: 'Go! be off with you! Let them wait till the judgment-day! I will not rise from this seat till this dish is empty!' I ate on, and while eating my intellect was clearer, sharper, more profound than ever before! I rejoiced over this conviction. Was it not a conclusive proof that my theory was correct, that this 'homme machine' received its intellectual fluid, its power of thought through itself, and not through this fabulous, bodiless something which metaphysicians call soul? Was not this a proof that, to possess a n.o.ble soul, it was only necessary to give to the body n.o.ble nourishment? And where lies this boasted soul?

where else but in the stomach? The stomach is the soul; I allow it is the brain that thinks, but the brain dares only think as his exalted majesty the stomach allows; and if his royal highness feels unwell, farewell to thought." [Footnote: La Mettrie's own words.]

The whole company burst out in loud and hearty laughter.

"Am I not right to call you a fou fieffe?" said the king. "There is an old proverb, which says of a coward, that his heart lies in his stomach; never before have I heard the soul banished there. But your hymns of praise over the stomach and the pie have made you forget to finish your story; let us hear the conclusion! Did the marriage take place?"

"Sire, I had not quite finished my breakfast when the door was violently opened, and a servant rushed in and announced that the good Van Swiet had had a stroke of apoplexy in the cathedral. The foolish man declared that rage and indignation over my conduct had produced this fearful result; I am, myself, however, convinced that it was the consequence of a good rich breakfast and a bottle of Madeira wine; this disturbed the circulation of the blood, and he was chilled by standing upon the cold stone floor of the church. Be that as it may, poor Swiet was carried unconscious from the church to his dwelling, and in a few hours he was dead! Esther, his daughter and heir, was unfilial enough to leave the wish of her father unfulfilled. She would not acknowledge our contract to be binding, declared herself the bride of the little Mieritz, and married him in a few months. I had, indeed, a legal claim upon her, but Swiet was right when he a.s.sured me that so soon as he withdrew his protection from me, the whole pack of fanatical priests and weak-minded scholars would fall upon and tear me to pieces, unless I saved myself by flight. So I obeyed your majesty's summons, took my pilgrim-staff, and wandered on, like Ahasuerus."

"What! without taking vengeance on the crafty Mieritz, who, it is evident, had carried out successfuly a well-considered strategy with his pie?" said the king. "You must know that was all arranged: he caught you with his pie, as men catch mice with cheese."

"Even if I knew that to be so, your majesty, I should not quarrel with him on that account. I should have only said to my pie, as Holofernes said to Judith: 'Thy sin was a great enjoyment, I forgive you for slaying me!' For such a pie I would again sacrifice another bride and another fortune!"

"And is there no possible means to obtain it?" said the king. "Can you not obtain the receipt for this wonderful dish, which possesses the magic power to liberate young women from intolerable men, and change a miser into a spendthrift who thrusts his whole fortune down his throat?"

"There is a prospect, sire, of securing it, but you cannot be the first to profit by it. Lord Tyrconnel, who knows my history, opened a diplomatic correspondence with Holland, some weeks ago, on this subject, and the success of an important loan which France wishes to effect with the house of Mieritz and Swiet, through the mediation of Lord Tyrconnel, hangs upon the obtaining of this receipt. If Mieritz refuses it, France will not make the loan. In that case the war, which now seems probable with England, will not take place."

"And yet it is said that great events can only arise from great causes," cried the king. "The peace of the world now hangs upon the receipt of a truffle-pie, which La Mettrie wishes to obtain."

"What is the peace of the world in comparison with the peace of our souls?" cried Voltaire. "La Mettrie may say what he will, and the worthy Abbe Bastiani may be wholly silent, but I believe I have a soul, which does not lie in my stomach, and this soul of mine will never be satisfied till your majesty keeps your promise, and relates one of those intellectual, piquant histories, glowing with wisdom and poesy, which so often flows from the lips of our Solomon!"

"It is true it is now my turn to speak," said Frederick, smiling. "I will be brief. Not only the lights, but also the eyes of Algarotti, are burning dimly; and look how the good marquis is, in thought, making love-winks toward his night-cap, which lies waiting for him upon his bed! But be comforted, gentlemen, my story is short. Like La Mettrie, I will relate a miracle, in which, however the eyes were profited, the stomach had no interest. This miracle took place in Breslau, in the year 1747.

"Cardinal Zinzendorf was just dead, and the Duke Schafgotch, who some years before I had appointed his coadjutor, was to be his successor. But the Silesians were not content. They declared that Duke Schafgotch was too fond of the joys and pleasures of the world to be a good priest; that he thought too much of the beautiful women of this world to be able to offer to the holy Madonna, the mother of G.o.d, the sanctified, ardent, but pure and modest love of a true son of the church. The pious Silesians refused to believe that the duke was sufficiently holy to be their bishop. The sage fathers of the city of Breslau a.s.sured me that nothing less than a miracle could secure for him the love and consideration of the Silesiaus. I had myself gone to Silesia to see if the statement of the authorities was well-founded, and if the people were really so discontented with the new bishop. I found their statement fully confirmed. Only a great miracle could incline the pious hearts of the Silesians to the duke.

"And now remark, messieurs, how Providence is always with the pious and the just--this desired miracle took place! On a lovely morning a rumor was spread abroad, in the city of Breslau, that in the chapel of the Holy Mother of G.o.d a miracle might be seen. All Breslau--the loveliest ladies of the haute volee, and the poorest beggars of the street--rushed to the church to look upon this miracle. Yes, it was undeniable! The hair of the Madonna, which stood in enticing but wooden beauty upon the altar, whose clothing was furnished by the first modistes, and whose hair by the first perruquier--this hair, wonderful to relate, had grown! It was natural that she should exercise supernatural power. The blind, the lame, the crippled were cured by her touch. I myself--for you may well think that I hastened to see the miracle--saw a lame man throw away his crutch and dance a minuet in honor of the Madonna. There was a blind man who approached with a broad band bound over his eyes. He was led forward to this wonderful hair. Scarcely had the lovely locks touched his face, than he tore the band from his eyes, and shouted with ecstasy--his sight was restored! Thousands, who were upon their knees praying in wrapt devotion, shouted in concert with him, and here and there inspired voices called out: 'The holy Madonna is content with her new servant the bishop! if she were not, she would not perform these miracles.'

These voices fell like a match in this magazine of excitement. Men wept and embraced each other, and thanked G.o.d for the new bishop, whom yesterday they had refused.

"In the meantime, however, there were still some suspicious, distrustful souls who would not admit that the growth of the Madonna's hair was a testimony in favor of the bishop. But these stiff-necked unbelievers, these heartless skeptics, were at last convinced. Two days later this lovely hair had grown perceptibly; and still two days later, it hung in luxurious length and fulness over her shoulders. No one could longer doubt that the Holy Virgin was pleased with her priest. It had often happened that hair had turned gray, or been torn out by the roots in rage and scorn. No one, however, can maintain that the hair grows unless we are in a happy and contented mood. The Madonna, therefore, was pleased. The wondrous growth of her hair enraptured the faithful, and all mankind declared that this holy image cut from a pear-tree, was the Virgin Mary, who with open eyes watched over Breslau, and whose hair grew in honor of the new Bishop Schafgotch--he was now almost adored.

Thousands of the believers surrounded his palace and besought his blessing. It was a beautiful picture of a shepherd and his flock.

The Madonna no longer found it necessary to make her hair grow; one miracle had sufficed, and with the full growth of her hair the archbishop had also grown into importance."

"But your majesty has not yet named the holy saint at whose intercession this miracle was performed," said the Marquis D'Argens.

"Graciously disclose the name, that we may pray for pardon and blessing."

"This holy saint was my friseur" said the king, laughing. "I made him swear that he would never betray my secret. Every third day, in the twilight, he stole secretly to the church, and placed a new wig upon the Madonna, and withdrew the old one. [Footnote: Authentic addition to the "History of Frederick the Second."] You see, messieurs, that not only happiness but piety may hang on a hair, and those holy saints to whom the faithful pray were, without doubt, adroit perruquiers who understand their cue."

"And who use it as a scourge upon the backs of the pious penitents,"

said Voltaire. "Ah, sire! your story is as wise as it is piquant--it is another proof that you are a warrior. You have won a spiritual battle with your miraculous wig, a battle against Holy Mother Church."