Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 76

"What are you doing?" cried the king, hastily; and, without regarding the flames, ho stretched out his hand to seize the ma.n.u.script.

Voltaire laughed heartily, seized the tongs, and pushed it farther into the flames. "Sire, sire, I am the devil, and I will not allow my victim to be torn from me. My 'Akakia' was only worthy of the lower regions; you condemned it, and therefore it must suffer. I, the devil, command it to burn."

"But I, the angel of mercy, will redeem the poor 'Akakia,'" cried the king, trying to obtain possession of the tongs. "Truly this 'Akakia' is too l.u.s.ty and witty a boy to be laid, like the Emperor Guatimozin, upon the gridiron. It was enough to deny him a public exhibition--it was not necessary to destroy him."

"Sire, I am a poor, weak man! If I kept the living 'Akakia' by my side, it would be a poisonous weapon, which I would hurl one day surely at the head of Maupertius. It is therefore better it should live only in my remembrance, and be only an imaginary dagger, with which I will sometimes tickle the haughty lord-president."

"And you have really no copy?" said the king, whose distrust was awakened by Voltaire's too ready compliance. "Was this the only ma.n.u.script of the 'Akakia?'"

"Sire, if you do not believe my word, send your servants and let them search my room. Here are my keys; they shall bring you every sc.r.a.p of written paper; your majesty will then be convinced. I entreat you to do this, as you will not believe my simple word."

The king fixed his eyes steadfastly upon Voltaire. "I believe you.

It would be unworthy of you to deceive me, and unworthy of me to mistrust you. I believe you; but I will make a.s.surance doubly sure.

The 'Akakia' is no longer upon paper, but it is in your head, and I fear your head more than I do all the paper in the world. Promise me, Voltaire, that as long as you live with me you will engage in no written strifes or controversies--that you will not employ your bitter irony against the government, or against the authors."

"I promise that cheerfully!"

"Will you do so in writing?"

Voltaire stepped to the table and took the pen. "Will your majesty dictate?"

The king dictated, and Voltaire wrote with a rapid but firm hand: "I promise your majesty that so long as you allow me to lodge in your castle, I will write against no one, neither against the French government nor any of the foreign amba.s.sadors, nor the celebrated authors. I will constantly manifest a proper respect and regard to them. I will make no improper use of the letters of the king. I will in all things bear myself as becomes an historian and a scholar, who has the honor to be gentleman in waiting to the King of Prussia, and to a.s.sociate with distinguished persons." [Footnote: Preus, "Friedrich der Grosse."]

"Will you sign this?" said the king.

"I will not only sign it," said Voltaire, "but I will add something to its force. Listen, your majesty.--I will strictly obey all your majesty's commands, and to do so gives me no trouble. I entreat your majesty to believe that I never have written any thing against any government--least of all against that under which I was born, and which I only left because I wished to close my life at the feet of your majesty. I am historian of France. In the discharge of this duty, I have written the history of Louis the Fourteenth, and the campaigns of Louis the Fifteenth. My voice and my pen were ever consecrated to my fatherland, as they are now subject to your command. I entreat you to look into my literary contest with Maupertius, and to believe that I give it up cheerfully to please you, sire; and because I will in all things submit to your will. I will also be obedient to your majesty in this. I will enter into no literary contest, and I beg you, sire, to believe that, in the hour of death, I will feel the same reverence and attachment for you which filled my heart the day I first appeared at your court.

VOLTAIRE."

The king took the paper, and read it over, then fixed his eyes steadily upon Voltaire's lowering face. "It is well! I thank you,"

said Frederick, nodding a friendly dismissal to Voltaire. He left the room, and the king looked after him long and thoughtfully.

"I do not trust him; he was too ready to burn the ma.n.u.script. And yet, he gave me his word of honor."

Voltaire returned to his room, and, now alone and un.o.bserved, a malicious, demoniac exultation was written on his face. "I judged rightly," said he, with a grimace; "the king wished to sacrifice me to Maupertius. I think this was a master-stroke. I have truly burned the original ma.n.u.script, but a copy of it was sent to Leyden eight days since. While the king thinks I am such a good-humored fool as to yield the contest to the proud beggar Maupertius, my 'Akakia'

will be published in Leyden. Soon it will resound through the world, and show how genius binds puffed-up folly, which calls itself geniality, to the pillory."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE LAST STRUGGLE.

It was Christmas eve! The streets were white with snow; crowds of people were rushing through the castle square, seeking for Christmas-trees, and little presents for their children. There were, however, fewer purchasers than usual. The small traders stood idle at the doors of the booths, and looked discontentedly at the swarms of laughing men, who pa.s.sed by them, and rushed onward to the Gens d'Armen Market.

A rare spectacle, exhibited for the first time during the reign of Frederick, was to be seen at the market to-day. A funeral pyre was erected, and the executioner stood near in his red livery. What!-- shall the holy evening be solemnized by an execution? Was it for this that thousands of curious men were rushing onward to the scaffold? that groups of elegant ladies and cavaliers were crowded to the open windows?

Yes, there was to be an execution--a bloodless one, which would occasion no bodily suffering to the delinquent. The eyes of this great ma.s.s of people were not directed to the scaffold, but to the window of a large house on Tauben Street.

At this open window stood a pale old man, with hollow cheeks and bent, infirm form; but you saw by the proud bearing of his head, and his ironical, contemptuous smile, that his spirit was unconquered.

His whole face glowed with flaming scorn; and his great, fiery eyes flashed amongst the crowd, greeting here and there an acquaintance.

This man was Voltaire--Voltaire, who had come to witness the execution of his "Akakia," which had been published in Leyden, and scattered abroad throughout Berlin. Voltaire had broken his written and verbal promise, his word of honor; and the king, exasperated to the utmost by this dishonorable conduct, had determined to punish him openly. And now, amidst the breathless silence of the crowd, a functionary of the king read the sentence--that sentence which condemned the "Akakia," that malicious and slanderous publication holding up the n.o.ble, virtuous, and renowned scholar Maupertius to the general mockery of Paris.

Voltaire stood calm and smiling at the open window. He saw the executioner throw great piles of his "Akakia" into the fire. He saw the mad flames whirling up into the heavens, and his countenance was clear, and his eyes did not lose their l.u.s.tre. Higher and higher flashed the flames! broader and blacker the pillars of smoke! but Voltaire smiled peacefully. Conversation and laughter were silenced --the crowd looked on breathlessly.

Suddenly a loud and derisive laugh was heard, and a powerful voice cried out: "Look at the spirit of Maupertius, which is dissolving into smoke! Oh, the thick, black smoke! How much wood consumed in vain! The 'Akakia' is immortal--you burn him here, but he still lives, and the whole world will know and appreciate him. That which is born for immortality can never be burned." [Footnote: Thiebault, p. 265.]

So said Voltaire, as he dashed the window down, and stepped back in the room.

"Farewell, Herr von Francheville," said he, quietly. "I thank you for having allowed me to be present at my execution. You see I have borne it well; all do not die who are burnt. Farewell, I must go to the castle. I have important business there."

With youthful agility he entered his carriage. The people, who recognized him, shouted after him joyfully. He pa.s.sed through the crowd with an air of triumph, and they greeted him with kindly interest.

The smile disappeared from his face when he entered his room at the castle, and the scorn and tumult of his heart were plainly written on his countenance. He seized his portfolio, and drew from it the pension patent signed by the king; tore from his neck the blue ribbon, with the great badge surrounded with brilliants, and cut the little key from his court dress, which his valet had laid out ready for his toilet. Of these things he made a little packet, which he sealed up, and wrote upon it these lines:

"Je les requs avec tendresse, Je vous les rends avec douleur; C'est ainsi qu'un amant, dans sou extreme fureur, Rend le portrait de sa maitresse."

He called his servant, and commanded him to take this packet to the king.

Voltaire did not hesitate a moment. He felt not the least regret for the great pension which he was relinquishing. He felt that there was no other course open to him; that his honor and his pride demanded it. At this moment, his expression was n.o.ble. He was the proud, independent, free man. The might of genius reigned supreme, and subdued the calculating and the pitiful for a brief s.p.a.ce. This exalted moment soon pa.s.sed away, and the cunning, miserly, calculating old man again a.s.serted his rights. Voltaire remembered that he had not only given up orders and t.i.tles, but gold, and measureless anguish and raging pain took possession of him. He hastened to his writing-desk, and with a trembling hand he wrote a pleading letter to the king, in which he begged for pardon and grace--for pity in his unhappy circ.u.mstances and his great sorrow.

The king was merciful. He took pity on the old friendship which lay in ruins at his feet. He felt for it that sort of reverence which a man entertains for the grave of a lost friend. He returned the "bagatelles" with a few friendly lines to Voltaire, and invited him to accompany him to Potsdam. Voltaire accepted the invitation, and the journals announced that the celebrated French writer had again received his orders, t.i.tles, and pension, and gone to Potsdam with the king.

But this seeming peace was of short duration. Friendship was dead, and anger and bitterness had taken the place of consideration and love. Voltaire felt the impossibility of remaining longer. Impelled by the cold glance, the ironical and contemptuous laughter of the king, he begged at last for his dismissal, which the king did not refuse him.

One day, when Frederick was upon the parade-ground, surrounded by his generals, he was told that Voltaire asked permission to be allowed to take leave.

The king turned quietly towards him. "Ah, Monsieur Voltaire, you are resolved, then, to leave us?"

"Sire, indispensable business and my state of health compel me to do so," said Voltaire.

The king bowed slightly. "Monsieur, I wish you a happy journey."

[Footnote: Thiebault, p. 271.] Then turning to the old Field-Marshal Ziethen, he recommenced his conversation with him. Voltaire made a profound bow, and entered the post-chaise which was waiting for him.

So they parted, and their friendship was in ashes; and no after- protestations could bring it to life. The great king and the great poet parted, never to meet again.

THE END