He stretched out his hand, large but too delicate for his frame. I kissed it.
“Prince Daniel Petrovich of Russia,” he called out to the rest who rose and bowed.
One thin man of uncertain age, yellow and wrinkled, with eyes that darted long rays, sitting apart from the others, chuckled.
His Majesty glanced at him. “Monsieur de Voltaire wants to be noticed, gentlemen. Well, monsieur, why do you laugh?”
Monsieur de Voltaire tightened his thin lips until they vanished and gave him the appearance of an old toothless woman.
“Who can help noticing—the monkey, Your Majesty?” he asked.
The others laughed. His Majesty smiled ironically.
“Monsieur de Voltaire thinks himself very handsome. His good fortune with the ladies tends to strengthen his opinion.”
Voltaire continued to grin.
“Why are you laughing?”
“His Majesty spoke of the independence of mind which he tries to foster in his friends, n’est-ce-pas?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is why I laughed, Sire.”
“Gentlemen,” Frederick addressed the rest, “are you not permitted independence of mind and speech in my company?”
The reply was a long acclamation.
“Voyez-vous, monsieur?”
“Non, Sire, j’entends.”
His Majesty’s nostrils shivered, his fists stiffened over his heavy cane.
“Prince, have you ever heard a citizen speak thus to a monarch?”
I smiled inconclusively.
“But do not forget, Prince, that the citizen is Monsieur de Voltaire whose pen is sharper than a monarch’s sword,” remarked the thin-lipped philosopher.
Several emotions crossed the face of the King.
“Shall we try it, monsieur?” Frederick made believe he was unsheathing his sword. There was general laughter. His Majesty clapped his hands. An officer entered.
“Beer!” he commanded.
We seated ourselves around the enormous fireplace in which crackled and glowed a heavy log whose resin perfumed the place. Two great greyhounds curled themselves around the King’s feet. From the painted bowls of the pipes resting comfortably upon the stomachs of the men, rose grayish smoke, curling into weird patterns.
We emptied many steins of beer and general gaiety prevailed.
Monsieur de Voltaire who abstained from drinking, grinned at intervals.
“Gentlemen, Prince Petrovich can speak every language of Europe.”
“And of Asia, Your Majesty,” I added.
“What! Is that possible?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Gentlemen,” Fredericus Rex addressed the rest,—three officers, two scholars, one cleric, and several noblemen, “you are all learned and masters of many tongues. Can any of you compete with the Prince?”
Turning to me, he said, “Not as a test, Your Highness, but merely de curiosité, vous comprenez.”
“Oui, Sire.”
I was addressed in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, the Western European languages. One spoke to me in Sanskrit, another in Chinese, a third one in Japanese.
I understood that these men were assembled for the purpose of examining me. I answered each one, and every now and then, I turned to the Monarch and related in German or in French, curious customs prevailing in those countries.
Frederick applauded. “You are a marvel, Prince. I do not understand how so young a man could acquire so much knowledge. It is incredible. Inouï, Monsieur de Voltaire, n’est-ce-pas?”
Voltaire grumbled. “Mere memory, Your Majesty.”
Frederick laughed. “Do not mind Monsieur de Voltaire, Prince. He scorns every art in which he is not proficient. He says ‘mere king’ with equal glibness.”
Voltaire grinned.
“The great Rousseau he calls—”
“A jackass,” Voltaire interposed.
“The incomparable Shakespeare—”
“A barbarian.”
“The perfect Boileau—”
“A grocer.”
“Virgil—”
“A burly peasant.”
“Homer—”
“A blind nurse woman putting her grandchildren to sleep with childish and monotonous stories.” “Corneille—”
“A pompous ass dragging a hearse.”
“Racine—”
“A nun.”
“Bossuet—”
“An empty drum.”
“Michael Angelo—”
“The wooden horse of Troy.—Your Majesty, has your monkey performed well today?”
There was much laughter and spilling of beer, the tall grenadiers never forgetting that this was “das Tabaks-Collegium” filled and refilled their pipes ceaselessly.
The conversation turned to religion. I described the ceremonies of the African tribe. My auditors laughed. Frederick chuckled, now and then stroking his graceful hounds or looking into their eyes as if to find there the affection and understanding that he did not find among men.
“The trinity of the Africans is more intelligible than that of the Christians,” Voltaire said, his face screwed to the size of a fist. “No Christian has the remotest conception of God. A poor Jewish lens grinder, Baruch Spinoza, excommunicated by Jews and Gentiles alike, discovered Him by mathematics.”
The cleric laughed.
“It is the truth!” Voltaire shouted, his voice cracking like a whip. “Spinoza whom people call an atheist was the only man who loved God,—Spinoza and Voltaire, also called an atheist by the ignorant, which means by all.”
“Monsieur de Voltaire,” the cleric admonished, “you are blaspheming the Lord. A newer Dante some day shall recount the tortures of one whose vain name upon Earth was Francois Marie Arouet de Voltaire.”
“The Lord, Reverend Father, will pardon me.”
“What makes you think that God will pardon you?”
“Because that is his business.”
The churchman rose incensed, waving his cup. “Monsieur, vous êtes impertinent!”
“Monsieur,” Voltaire answered calmly, “votre nez est couvert de tabac. Mouchez-vous!”
The ecclesiastic reseated himself, drew a red kerchief out of his pocket, and wiped his nose.
The King slapped his thighs, his lean frame shaking with laughter.
There was a long silence. Suddenly, Frederick grasped his knee. “Ouch!”
Voltaire laughed. The others glared at him.
“Monsieur, is it proper to laugh at a Monarch’s predicament?”
“I am laughing at rheumatism which does not seem to discriminate between a royal knee and an old washerwoman’s, Your Majesty.”
“Monsieur would spend his life in the Bastille rather than avoid a witticism.”
“The King allows freedom of mind and speech, n’est-ce-pas?” Voltaire rose and walked out, beating his leg with a short whip.
“If you are not careful, monsieur, the whip shall be in the hands of another, and the part struck shall be somewhat higher than your calf.”
Voltaire remained at the door for a moment. “Your Majesty, here is the whip and here the part higher than my calf.”
He turned his back to the King, bending forward.
“Cochon!” Frederick shouted, his voice a thin thread, “Ne te montre plus ici!”
Voltaire walked out.
Frederick reseated himself. No one dared to utter a sound or make a comment.
“Let us have another drink and forget that French buffoon. His work will not outlive him a day.”
All agreed.
“It lives now only because monarchs are too kindly disposed.”
Everybody chimed in. They had found him a monkey in truth. His philosophy was mere antics. His Majesty should command a good horsewhipping for the scoundrel.
“If I did it, all Europe would rise in arms against me. His influence is tremendous and his tongue stings like a lash. Besides, somehow I like him. I do not know what attracts me to him. And he likes me too. Tomorrow, I shall get a letter from him,—such a letter as no one but a witty Frenchman can write. He will tell me things that will split my sides with laughter. But this time, he must really go. He has been for nearly three years with me. Besides, that man has seduced half of the court women, including the servants and the coachmen’s wives. Cochon! He faints every day, and every evening he is resurrected. He will live to be a hundred. He is the personification of France,—hog, nightingale, and peacock. There is no country like France, gentlemen. I would give half my wealth if we could produce a Voltaire.”