Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 61

CHAPTER III.

THE CONFIDENCE-TABLE.

"And now, friends, let us be joyful, and forget all the cares and sorrows of the world," cried the king, with a ringing laugh; "raise your gla.s.ses and strike them merrily. Long life to mirth, to jest, to joy!"

The gla.s.ses were raised, and as they met they rang out cheerily; they were pressed to the lips and emptied at a draught; the guests then seated themselves silently at the table. Frederick glanced at the circle of his friends who sat with him at the round table; his eyes dwelt searchingly upon every laughing face, then turned to the garden of Sans-Souci, which sent its perfumed breath, its song of birds, its evening breeze, through the open doors and windows, while the moon, rising in cloudless majesty, shone down upon them and rivalled with her silver rays the myriads of wax-lights which glittered in the crystal chandeliers.

"This is a glorious evening," said the king, "and we will enjoy it gloriously."

He ordered the servants to close the doors, place the dessert and champagne upon the table, and leave the room. Noiselessly and silently this command was fulfilled. Frederick then greeted each one of his guests with a kindly nod.

"Welcome, thrice welcome are you all!" said he. "I have longed to have you all together, and now, at last, you are here. There sits Voltaire, whose divine Emile was delivered first of a book, then of a child, and then released from life before he was free to come to Berlin. There is Algarotti, the swan of Italy, who spreads his wings and would gladly fly to the land of oranges and myrtles. There is La Mettrie, who only remains here because he is convinced that my Cape wine is pure, and my pates de foie gras truly from Strasbourg. There is D'Argens, who sought safety in Prussia because in every other land in Europe there are sweethearts waiting and sighing for him, to whom he has sworn a thousand oaths of constancy. There is Bastiani, who only remains with us while the Silesian dames, who have frankly confessed their sins to him and been absolved, find time and opportunity to commit other peccadilloes, which they will do zealously, in order to confess them once more to the handsome Abbe Bastiani. And lastly, there is my Lord Marshal, the n.o.blest and best of all, whose presence we owe to the firmness of his political principles and the misfortunes of the house of Stuart."

"And there is the Solomon of the North," cried Voltaire--"there is Frederick, the youngest of us all, and the wisest--the philosopher of Sans-Souci. There sits Apollo, son of the G.o.ds, who has descended from Olympus to be our king."

"Let us not speak of kings," said Frederick. "When the sun goes down there is no king at Sans-Souci; he leaves the house and retires into another castle, G.o.d only knows where. We are all equal and wholly sans gene. At this table, there are no distinctions; we are seven friends, who laugh and chat freely with each other; or, if you prefer it, seven wise men."

"This is then the Confidence-Table," said Voltaire, "of which D'Argens has so often spoken to me, and which has seemed to me like the Round-Table of King Arthur. Long live the Confidence-Table!"

"It shall live," cried the king, "and we will each one honor this, our first sitting, by showing our confidence in each other. Every one shall relate something piquant and strange of his past life, some lively anecdote, or some sweet little mystery which we dare trust to our friends, but not to our wives. The oldest begins first."

"I am afraid I am that," said Voltaire, "but your majesty must confess that my heart has neither white hair nor wrinkles. Old age is a terrible old woman who slides quietly, grinning and threatening, behind every man, and watches the moment when she dares lay upon him the mask of weary years through which he has lived and suffered. She has, alas! fastened her wrinkled mask upon my face, but my heart is young and green, and if the women were not so short- sighted as to look only upon my outward visage, if they would condescend to look within, they would no longer call me the old Voltaire, but would love and adore me, even as they did in my youth."

"Listen well, friends, he will no doubt tell us of some d.u.c.h.ess who placed him upon an altar and bowed down and wors.h.i.+pped him."

"No, sire, I will tell you of an injury, the bitterest I ever experienced, and which I can never forget."

"As if he had ever forgotten an injury, unless he had revenged it threefold!" cried D'Argens.

"And chopped up his enemy for pastry and eaten him," said La Mettrie.

"Truly, if I should eat all my enemies, I should suffer from an everlasting indigestion, and, in my despair, I might fly to La Mettrie for help. It is well known that when you suffer from incurable diseases, you seek, at last, counsel of the quack."

"You forget that La Mettrie is a regular physician," said the king, with seeming earnestness.

"On the contrary, he remembered it well," said La Mettrie, smiling.

"The best physician is the greatest quack, or the most active grave- digger, if you prefer it."

"Silence!" said the king. "Voltaire has the floor; he will tell us of the greatest offence he ever received. Give attention."

"Alas! my heart is sad, sire; of all other pain, the pain of looking back into the past is the most bitter. I see myself again a young man, the Arouet to whom Ninon de l'Enclos gave her library and a pension, and who was confined for twenty years to the Bastile because he loved G.o.d and the king too little, and the charming Marquise de Villiers and some other ladies of the court too much.

Besides these exalted ladies, there was a beautiful young maiden whom I loved--perhaps because she had one quality which I had never remarked in the possession of my more n.o.ble mistresses--she was innocent! Ah, friends, you should have seen Phillis, and you would have confessed that no rose-bud was lovelier, no lily purer, than she. Phillis was the daughter of a gypsy and a mouse-catcher, and danced on the tight-rope in the city-gardens."

"Ah, it appears to me the G.o.ddess of innocence dances always upon the tight-rope in this world," said the king. "I should not be surprised to hear that even your little Phillis had a fall."

"Sire, she fell, but in my arms; and we swore eternal love and constancy. You all know from experience the quality and fate of such oaths; they are the kindling-wood upon which the fire of love is sustained; but, alas, kindling and fire soon burnt out! Who is responsible? Our fire burned long; but, think you my Phillis, whom I had removed from the tight-rope, and exalted to a dancer upon the stage, was so innocent and naive, as to believe that our love must at last be crowned with marriage! I, however, was a republican, and feared all crowns. I declared that Ninon de l'Enclos had made me swear never to marry, lest my grandchildren should fall in love with me, as hers had done with her."

"Precaution is praiseworthy," said La Mettrie. "The devil's grandmother had also a husband, and her grandsons might have fallen in love with her."

"Phillis did not take me for the devil's grandfather, but for the devil himself. She cried, and shrieked, and cast my oaths of constancy in my teeth. I did not die of remorse, nor she of love, and to prove her constancy, she married a rich Duke de Ventadour."

"And you, no doubt, gave away the bride, and swore you had never known a purer woman!"

"No, sire, I was at that time again in the Bastile, and left it only as an exile from France. When at last I was allowed to return to Paris, I sought out my d.u.c.h.ess de Ventadour, my Phillis of former times. I found her a distinguished lady; she had forgotten the follies of her youth; had forgotten her father, the rope-dancer; her mother, the mouse-catcher. She had no remembrance of the young Arouet, to whom she had sworn to say only 'tu' and 'toi.' Now she was grave and dignified, and 'Vous, monsieur,' was on her fair lip.

Thanks to the heraldry office, she had become the daughter of a distinguished Spaniard, blessed with at least seven ancestors.

Phillis gave good dinners, had good wine, and the world overlooked her somewhat obscure lineage. She was the acknowledged and respected d.u.c.h.ess Ventadour. She was still beautiful, but quite deaf; consequently her voice was loud and coa.r.s.e, when she believed herself to be whispering. She invited me to read some selections from my new work in her saloon, and I was weak enough to accept the invitation. I had just completed my 'Brutus,' and burned with ambition to receive the applause of the Parisiennes. I commenced to read aloud my tragedy of 'Brutus' in the saloon of the d.u.c.h.ess, surrounded by a circle of distinguished n.o.bles, eminent in knowledge and art. I was listened to in breathless attention. In the deep silence which surrounded me, in the glowing eyes of my audience, in the murmurs of applause which greeted me, I saw that I was still Voltaire, and that the hangman's hands, which had burned my 'Lettres Philosophiques,' had not destroyed my fame or extinguished my genius. While I read, a servant entered upon tiptoe, to rekindle the fire. The d.u.c.h.ess Ventadour sat near the chimney. She whispered, or thought she whispered, to her servant. I read a little louder to drown her words. I was in the midst of one of the grandest scenes of my tragedy. My own heart trembled with emotion. Here and there I saw eyes, which were not wont to weep, filled with tears, and heard sighs from trembling lips, accustomed only to laughter and smiles.

And now I came to the soliloquy of Brutus. He was resolving whether he would sacrifice his son's life to his fatherland. There was a solemn pause, and now, in the midst of the profound silence, the d.u.c.h.ess Ventadour in a shrill voice, which she believed to be inaudible, said to her servant: 'Do not fail to serve mustard with the pig's head!'"

A peal of laughter interrupted Voltaire, in which he reluctantly joined, being completely carried away by the general mirth.

"That was indeed very piquant, and I think you must have been greatly encouraged."

"Did you eat of the pig's head, or were your teeth on edge?"

"No, they were sharp enough to bite, and I bit! In my first rage I closed my book, and cried out: 'Madame--! Well! as you have a pig's head, you do not require that Brutus should offer up the head of his son!' I was on the point of leaving the room, but the poor d.u.c.h.ess, who was just beginning to comprehend her unfortunate interruption, hastened after me, and entreated me so earnestly to remain and read further, that I consented. I remained and read, but not from 'Brutus.' My rage made me, for the moment, an improvisator. Seated near to the d.u.c.h.ess, surrounded by the proud and hypocritical n.o.bles, who acknowledged Phillis only because she had a fine house and gave good dinners, I improvised a poem which recalled to the grand d.u.c.h.ess and her satellites the early days of the fair Phillis, and brought the laugh on my side. My poem was called 'Le tu et le vous.' Now, gentlemen, this is the story of my 'Brutus' and the pig's head,"

"I acknowledge that it is a good story. It will be difficult for you, D'Argens, to relate so good a one," said the king.

"I dare not make the attempt, sire. Voltaire was ever the child of good fortune, and his life and adventures have been extraordinary, while I was near sharing the common fate of younger sons. I was destined for the priesthood."

"That's a droll idea, indeed!" said Frederick. "D'Argens, who believes in nothing, intended for a priest! How did you escape this danger?"

"Through the example of my dear brother, who was of a pa.s.sionate piety, and became in the school of the Jesuits so complete a fanatic and bigot that he thundered out his fierce tirades against all earthly joys and pastimes, no matter how innocent they were. To resemble the holy Xavier and the sanctified and childlike Alois Gonzago, was his highest ideal. In the extremity of his piety and prudery he slipped into the art-gallery of our eldest brother and destroyed t.i.tian's most splendid paintings and the glorious statues of the olden time. He gloried in this act, and called it a holy offering to virtue. He could not understand that it was vandalism.

Our family had serious fears for the intellect of this poor young saint, maddened by the fanaticism of the Jesuits. They sought counsel of the oldest and wisest of our house, the Bishop of Bannes.

After thinking awhile, the bishop said: 'I will soon cure the young man of this folly; I will make him a priest.'"

"Truly, your uncle, the bishop, was a wise man; he drove out folly with folly. He knew well that no one had less reverence for the churches than those who have built them, and are their priests."

"That was the opinion of my very worthy uncle. He said, with a sly laugh: 'When he has heard a few confessions, he will understand the ways of the world better!' The bishop was right. My brother was consecrated. In a short time he became very tolerant and considerate, as a man and as a father confessor."

"But you have not told us, marquis, how the fanaticism of your brother liberated you from the tonsure?" said the king.

"My father found I would commence my priestly life with as much intolerance as my brother had done. He therefore proposed to me to consecrate myself to the world, and, instead of praying in the church, to fight for the cross. The thought pleased me, and I became a Knight of Malta."

"Your first deed of arms was, without doubt, to seat yourself and write your 'Lettres Juives,'" said the king; "those inspiring letters in which the knight of the cross mocks at Christianity and casts his glove as a challenge to revealed religion."

"No, sire, I began my knightly course by entering the land of heathen and idolaters, to see if a man could be truly happy and contented in a land where there was neither Messiah nor crucifix--I went to Turkey."

"But you carried your talisman with you?" said the Abbe Bastiani-- "you wore the cross upon your mantle?"

"A remark worthy of our pious abbe," said Frederick; "no one knows better the protecting power of the cross than the priest who founded it. Tell us, marquis, did your talisman protect you? Did you become an apostate to the true faith?"

"Sire, I wished first to see their temples and their mode of wors.h.i.+p, before I decided whether I would be an unbelieving believer or a believing unbeliever."

"I think," said Voltaire, "you have never been a believer, or made a convert; you have made nothing but debts."

"That is, perhaps, because I am not a great writer, and do not understand usury and speculation," said D'Argens, quietly. "Besides, no courtesan made me her heir, and no mistress obtained me a pension!"