Ambassador in Paris. Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden had died, and his
only child Christina became Queen. During her childhood the Chancellor
Oxenstiern acted as Regent. Grotius received his appointment from
him in 1635. His mission was important and somewhat delicate. He had
to keep up an active alliance between France and Sweden. Cardinal
Richelieu was not easy to deal with, but the Ambassador showed his
usual qualities of moderation and firmness, and succeeded towards the
close of his embassy in renewing the treaty between Sweden and France
on terms which were considered to do great honor to his diplomatic
talents. He was troubled a good deal by the etiquette and ceremonial
of diplomacy, and became involved in foolish disputes about rank and
ceremonial questions, to which diplomatists have always attributed an
exaggerated amount of importance. We can imagine that Grotius, with
his clear mind and disregard of trivialities, may have offended his
colleagues. It must have irritated them to associate with a man who,
instead of chattering nonsense while waiting in the ante-rooms at
court, would sit apart studying his Greek Testament.
He remained in the Swedish service for about ten years, but the life
became irksome to him; the Swedish Government were inclined to think
that a man who devoted so much of his time to writing could not give
sufficient attention to diplomatic work, and at last Grotius applied
for his recall. This was granted by Queen Christina, who had a very
high opinion of the Ambassador, and received him in Stockholm on his
return with every mark of favor. On quitting France, he passed on
his way to Sweden through Amsterdam and Rotterdam, where he was more
kindly received. The Queen of Sweden did her best to persuade Grotius
to remain in her service as a Councilor of State, but he was bent on
returning to Holland. Accordingly, on August 12, 1645, having received
presents of money and plate from the Queen, he embarked for Lübeck. A
violent storm drove the vessel on to the Pomeranian coast. Grotius,
after a journey in an open wagon through wind and rain, arrived very
ill at Rostock. Here he died in the presence of a Lutheran pastor, John
Quistorp, who has left an account of his last moments. Quistorp, at
his bedside, read him the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican,
ending with the words, “God be merciful to me, a sinner,” and the dying
scholar and statesman answered, “I am that Publican.” After repeating a
prayer with the pastor, Grotius sank exhausted and breathed his last.
He was buried first of all at Rostock, but as his wish was to rest in
his native soil, his body was taken after a time to the Netherlands.
It is difficult to believe, were it not historically true, that as the
coffin was borne through the city of Rotterdam stones were thrown at it
by the bigoted mob. It was laid finally in a crypt beneath the great
church of Delft, his birthplace. The remains of two great champions of
liberty and justice lie beneath the same roof, for close by the grave
of Grotius is the sculptured tomb of William the Silent. His wife died
shortly afterwards at The Hague. She had stood by him in the hour of
need, encouraged him, consoled him, and helped him, and the story of
his life will never be read without praise being given to the noble
part she played in it.
I have said very little about the writings of Grotius, because it is
impossible to describe fully all the learned books he brought out.
Just as in the field of politics he worked for pacification, so in
the world of religion he endeavored to the utmost of his ability to
produce universal peace. He tried to find a simple statement of belief
to which all contending parties would agree, and published a book
called “The Road to Religious Peace.” “Perhaps,” he said, “by writing
to reconcile such as entertain very opposite sentiments, I shall
offend both parties: but if that should so happen I shall comfort
myself with the example of him who said, ‘If I please men I am not the
servant of Christ.’” He did offend both parties. No mere form of words
can reconcile deep-seated differences in religious sentiment. Others
before Grotius, and many too since, have made the same attempt to bring
the different sections of religious thought together, but none have
succeeded. The only advance that has been made has been an increase
in the spirit of tolerance, which tends to prevent any outrageous
persecution of one sect by another.
It seems curious that Christians, who people the nations which are by
way of being the most civilized, should be more torn with religious
discord, and should be more responsible for the world’s wars, than
the peoples of other religions who inhabit the globe. They pretend to
be followers of the Prince of Peace and to believe in the brotherhood
of mankind, while the Church of Christ has become split into an
ever-increasing number of warring sects, and the jealousy and enmity of
nations are allowed to break into ever more ferocious armed conflict
and mutual massacre.
The hope of improvement in these fundamental human relationships,
national and religious, depends to a large extent on the number of men
who are wise or farsighted enough to turn the mind of man away from
the differences that lead to division and to strengthen the forces that
lead to unity—in fact, to substitute harmony for discord. But the work
will always progress slowly, because there are still so many natures
which prefer fighting just from the love of quarreling, and they turn
their anger against a conciliator even more violently than against
those with whom they bitterly disagree.
Grotius himself saw no apparent result of his great work, and time
alone has proved in his case that the originator of great ideals and
the worker for truth leaves to the world a gift for which countless
generations that succeed him are grateful, though he may only receive
scoffs and rebuke from men of his own time.
Unlike Giordano Bruno and Voltaire, he did not turn his talents
into weapons of attack and destruction. He respected other people’s
opinions, and was able to judge with impartiality his worst enemies.
This is an extremely rare quality in one who is engaged in controversy.
For instance, in his history of the Netherlands, he commented without
a trace of ill-will on the policy and even praised the services as
commander and patriot of Maurice of Orange—the man who had unjustly
deprived him of his home, his property, and his freedom. No personal
petty spite could disturb his judgment. With deep penetration he
recognized that the spirit of the age was clouded by want of reason,
and nations and individuals were forced unnecessarily into strife from
want of proper guidance. His high-minded character, his well-balanced
judgment, and his disinterested motive gave Grotius a reserve of
strength and a noble resolution which few have possessed in the same
degree or used with equal effect.
A. P.
VII
VOLTAIRE
1694–1778
I have no scepter, but I have a pen.
Of the twelve men written of in this book, with the exception of
Tolstoy, who died recently, Voltaire will probably be the best known
by name. He is rather different from most of the others, because
he preferred to try and reach men’s minds by argument rather than
their hearts by religious appeal. He was a great disturber of smug,
self-satisfied opinion; he knew how utterly fatal were laziness of mind
and stagnation of ideas. He wanted to disturb, to annoy, to provoke,
and, more even than any of the others, he succeeded in his object.
In his long life he wrote an astonishing number of letters, poems,
plays, and pamphlets, and he wrote very beautifully. But his fame
does not rest on his literary genius. Had his works all been romances
and plays, and were he to be judged on his merits as a writer, genius
though he was, there are many greater geniuses than he. It was his
striking personality, his startling opinions, and his daring and
original arguments which gained for him his reputation and his
extraordinary influence. In fact, the middle of the eighteenth century
in France is known as “the age of Voltaire.” Of course, he made many
bitter enemies, and to this day his opinions are warmly disputed.
His method was often unnecessarily provocative. He was stingingly
satirical; he scoffed, he jeered, he ridiculed his opponents, and by
the brilliant thrusts of his pointed wit cut them to the quick. On the
whole, his object was more to destroy than to construct, and he left
no new scheme or systems of belief, of thought or policy for others
to follow when his personal influence had passed away. Although there
is a good deal that is far from admirable in his career, the force of
his personality was so great that he could not be ignored, and all he
wrote and all he said was eagerly read and listened to by every one.
He loathed shams and superstitions, and he fought most vehemently in
his later life against injustice and oppression. In fact, he was a
strange mixture. One can hardly believe that the sly, fawning courtier
can be the same man as the bold and courageous champion of liberty and
justice, or that the mischievous joker and the great dramatist are one
and the same person. In his long life he went through different phases,
but taking him as a whole, he stands out as the principal figure of the
eighteenth century in Europe.
[Illustration: VOLTAIRE]
Voltaire’s real name was François Marie Arouet. He was the youngest
of the five children of a well-to-do solicitor, and was born in Paris
on November 21, 1694. He had to be hurriedly baptized, as no one
expected that the puny little infant would live. His first teacher was
his godfather, a rather disreputable priest, called Châteauneuf, and
he was taught at an early age that religion, as it existed in France
at that time, was mere superstition and pretense. His mother died
when he was seven, and at the age of ten he was sent off to a large
Jesuit college, where, as he afterwards tells us, he learned “Latin
and nonsense.” His quick wits, however, made him absorb an immense
quantity of information; and instead of playing with the other boys,
he would walk and talk with the masters. One of them said at the time,
“That boy wants to weigh the great questions of Europe in his little
scales.” The verses he wrote brought him into prominence, and his
godfather introduced him to Ninon de l’Enclos, a famous old lady of
nearly eighty, who was still the center of the most brilliant society
in Paris. When she died, a few months later, she left him two thousand
francs with which to buy books.
Acting at school encouraged in him a love of drama, and he soon began
to try his hand at writing plays. He was only twelve when he wrote a
petition in verse to the King, asking for a pension for an old soldier.
Louis XIV read it, and the old soldier got his pension. His father
wanted him to be a lawyer, and laughed at the idea of his becoming
an author; but although he was made to study law, the boy stood up to
the rough old man and refused to give in. He soon got into a very gay
but very frivolous society, which he amused by his audacity and wit.
Sometimes he would return home very late from his orgies, and father
Arouet would lock him out so that he had to walk the streets all
night. In fact, the peppery old father and the mad young scapegrace
were perpetually quarreling. The boy was irrepressible, and it was
useless his father trying to subject him to discipline. He was given
a post as attaché to the Ambassador to the Netherlands, but this did
not last. He occupied himself in a purely frivolous way, had a love
affair with a young lady at The Hague, and was sent home again. On his
return he was invited to a castle at Fontainebleau where there was a
magnificent library. Here this surprising young gentleman began working
very seriously at some of the greatest of the books he produced in
after-life.
In an age when any free expression of ideas was liable to be severely
punished it was fairly probable that such a young man as this would
get into trouble. Curiously enough, young Arouet’s first experience of
prison came about in consequence of the publication of a poem which he
had not written. The poem was a satire on the Regent Orleans who ruled
over France while Louis XV was still a child. Suspicion fell on him,
and he was locked up in the Bastille, the fortress into which many
innocent men were cast and often forgotten. He was not allowed pen and
ink for some time, but his active brain and wonderful memory allowed
him to conceive and invent many things which he afterwards produced in
writing. His imprisonment lasted a year, and he came out with his name
changed to Voltaire, supposed to be an anagram on Arouet, L. J. (le
jeune).
His father was enraged at his imprisonment. “I told you so! I knew his
idleness would lead to disgrace,” he said. But the boy did not feel at
all disgraced. When he came home he set to work, and before the end of
the year he brought out his first play, _Œdipe_, which was the real
beginning of his brilliant career.
It was an immediate success, and attracted a great deal of attention.
Even the Regent and his family came to one of the performances. In
consequence of this, Voltaire was asked to grand houses and was the
guest of great people, whom he amused and entertained in his original
way. He received a pension from the Court, and when his father died
more money came to him. He invested his capital very judiciously, and,
unlike most geniuses, he thoroughly understood his bank-book, so that
he never fell into need or poverty.
His next production was _The Henriade_, an epic poem on Henry of
Navarre. The chief event in it was the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and
this gave him an opportunity of expressing his hatred of fanaticism
and superstition. It was censored, but he managed secretly to get two
thousand copies into Paris, and the very fact of its being forbidden
fruit ensured its success. As time went on, he came into close contact
with the Court, and was patronized by Marie Leczinska, daughter of the
ex-King of Poland, who was to be married to Louis XV. She read his
poems and plays with pleasure and amusement, and for three months he
was the idol of the royal circle. Anxious, however, as he had been to
go to Court, he was more than glad to get away.
Voltaire never enjoyed good health. Hardly a week passed without
his suffering, and when he became a victim to smallpox his case was
serious. In this connection as much as in any other, Voltaire’s pluck
and indomitable will-power showed itself. He fought ill-health all his
life through, and triumphed. His great secret was work. Others might
make an excuse of illness to take a holiday. That was not his way.
He dictated, he wrote, he read, to prevent physical weakness getting
the mastery over him. Another of his finer characteristics was his
undefeated persistence. He never would give in. For instance, when a
play of his was a failure, he was disappointed, but took it back and
rewrote it. Even at the age of eighty-three he did this with a play
that did not please him. All attempts to silence, suppress, insult, or
ignore such a man were bound to fail. There are two instances of his
being twice badly insulted. A spy named Beauregard, whom he offended,
waylaid him in the street and beat him. And again later, the Chevalier
de Rohan, an arrogant nobleman, fell out with him, and had him thrashed
by his servants. Voltaire took lessons in fencing, and after three
months challenged Rohan, who accepted the challenge. But on the morning
appointed for the duel Voltaire was arrested, and sent a second time to
the Bastille. He was kept in confinement for a fortnight, and then, at
his own request, packed off to England.
George II was King of England. He was no lover of “boetry,” but Queen
Caroline was, and was pleased to welcome him. Voltaire’s chief friend
in England was Bolingbroke, and he soon became acquainted with the
leading people of the day. There were Swift and Addison, whose writings
he greatly admired; Pope, Congreve, Gay, the Walpoles, and Sarah,
Duchess of Marlborough. Newton died during his visit; he attended the
funeral at Westminster Abbey, and was much impressed by the tribute
paid by the nation to a man of science. He diligently mastered the
English language, and wrote not only letters but plays and poems in
it. He expresses in his writings the greatest appreciation of British
liberty, freedom of speech, and absence of intolerance. The Quakers
specially interested him. He liked the simplicity of their religion,
and the absence of formulas, dogmas, creeds, and ritual. He quotes one
of them as saying in reply to his question, “You have no priests,
then?” “No, friend, and we get on very well without them.”
Moreover, as an inveterate hater of war, he revered a sect so far
removed from the brutality of military government as to hold peace for
a first principle of the Christian faith. His affection for England and
the English spirit can be summed up in the words he used with regard
to Swift’s writings, “How I love people who say what they think! We
only half live if we dare only half think.” Through him a more intimate
knowledge of England was spread, not only in France but in other parts
of the Continent.
In 1729, when he was thirty-five, he obtained a license to return
to France, which he had only been able to visit secretly, now and
then, during his stay in England. He devoted the next four years to
great literary activity. Whatever he wrote always produced a certain
sensation, and often brought him into trouble. Among the best of his
productions were _Zaïre_, the most successful of all his plays, and
_The Temple of Taste_, a brilliant burlesque, in which he satirized
the overrated celebrities of the day. Owing to the death of one of
his patrons with whom he had been staying, he was obliged to go into
uncomfortable lodgings in a poor quarter of Paris. But whether he was
in a castle or a garret, his genius for hard work never left him. The
censor kept his eye on this man, who seemed bent on startling and
shocking the authorities, so that Voltaire was often obliged to get
his writings privately printed and secretly distributed, and even on
some occasions to deny the authorship of the offending works. Things
came to a head when his _English Letters_ appeared. They were by way
of being criticism and praise of England, but at the same time they
were a vehement attack on everything established in Church and State
in France. The printer was thrown into the Bastille. The book was
denounced and publicly burnt by the hangman as “scandalous, contrary
to religion, to morals, and respect for authority.” His lodgings were
searched, but when the officer came to arrest him the author was found
to have escaped.
France, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, more than any
other country at any other time, produced a number of women who
occupied a very leading position, not only in the high society of
Paris, but in the intellectual and political life of the nation.
They collected in their houses all the eminent men of letters and
science and politics, who not only came to meet one another, but were
attracted by the charm, the beauty, the wit, and the intelligence of
their hostesses. Attempts have been made at other times and in other
countries to imitate these French _salons_, but without anything
like the same success. The names of some of these women have become
historical—Madame de Sévigné, Madame de Staël, Ninon de l’Enclos,
Madame du Châtelet, Madame du Deffand, Mademoiselle de l’Espinasse—to
mention only a few of them. Voltaire was a favorite with those of his
time, more especially with Madame du Châtelet, who went so far as to
place her castle at Cirey at his disposal. She was a very clever woman,
wrote books on philosophy, and at the same time she was extremely
frivolous—just the sort of combination Voltaire loved. At Cirey he
interested himself in refurnishing the house and in gardening. He set
up a laboratory and experimented in physics; he busied himself with
iron-founding; he studied astronomy and philosophy with his hostess,
made love to her, quarreled with her over trifles, for she had a very
hot temper; and all the while kept on producing an almost incredible
amount of writings. Cirey became his home and headquarters till Madame
du Châtelet died in 1749. During this period he came again into Court
favor, wrote a play which was performed before the King, and was made
Historiographer and Gentleman of the Chamber.
One of the most curious and interesting incidents in Voltaire’s
life was his friendship with Frederick the Great of Prussia. After
the exchange of many enthusiastic and ridiculously complimentary
letters, they met first in 1740, and subsequently Voltaire went over
to Berlin on a diplomatic mission. But it was not till 1751 that he
went and stayed for any length of time with his royal friend. Half
the world watched the meetings of the two most prominent men of the
day. They were very different, and this made their intimacy all the
more surprising. The very slender link that united them was little
more than flattery. The worst qualities of both soon came to the
front, and led finally to their separation. Frederick was an arrogant
disciplinarian, combining with his genius as a soldier an artistic
sense and some literary talent. He welcomed Voltaire because he liked
to gather round him celebrated men of every description, and he hoped
to gain advantage from the advice and amusement from the company of
the greatest writer and wit of his age. Voltaire, on his side, loved
appreciation, especially from great people. The pomp and display of
Courts attracted him; he was taken in by the honors and praise that
were lavishly showered on him. He was content to correct Frederick’s
writings, and to be in close contact with the great man. But, like a
spoilt child, he became mischievous, and the harmony between the two
men, which was only on the surface, became a hideous discord.
Voltaire was given apartments in the palace; he was made a royal
chamberlain, decorated with an order, and granted a pension. Royal
servants attended on him; he supped with the King, and took part in an
endless round of feasts and entertainments. But foolishly delighted
as he was with all these honors, he noticed that the King was apt to
give a sly scratch with one hand while patting and stroking with the
other. Voltaire used to refer to him by the nickname “Luc,” after an
ape which had a knack of biting. “The supper parties are delicious,”
he wrote; “the King is the life of the company. I have operas and
comedies, reviews and concerts, my studies and books: Berlin is fine,
the princesses charming, the maids of honor handsome, BUT ... !”
The magnificence of his style of living gradually began to fall off,
and Frederick cut down his allowance of sugar, coffee and chocolate,
and the philosopher stooped to pocketing candle-ends from the royal
apartments. Voltaire began quarreling with others at the Court. Plots
and intrigues, petty jealousies and rivalries began to make his life
intolerable. He was mixed up in a discreditable affair connected with
money matters which came out in a sordid dispute between him and a Jew
named Hirsch. In fact, all the glamour was fading; the glitter was
proving to be very far from gold. He never took the trouble to learn
German, as French was the language of the Court and good German books
were rare. Lessing, the founder of modern German literature, was still
quite a young man. The two men met and made friends, but the inevitable
quarrel soon separated them.
At last Voltaire became bored to death with correcting Frederick’s
verses: “See,” he exclaimed when a batch was sent to him, “what a
quantity of dirty linen the King has sent me to wash.” The remark
reached the royal ear, while on the other hand Voltaire was told that
Frederick when speaking of him had said something about “sucking an
orange and throwing away the rind.” The finishing touch to the growing
estrangement was put by Voltaire’s wittiest and most pitiless personal
satire on Maupertuis, the president of the Berlin Academy, a vain but
worthy individual. Frederick could not help laughing at it, but he
forbade its publication. Voltaire pretended to agree, but in a few
days the _Diatribe of Doctor Akakia_ appeared. It was received with
great applause and merriment, but Frederick was furious. He ordered the
pamphlet to be burned by the hangman and insisted on an apology from
Voltaire, who in his turn sent back his order and chamberlain’s key.
This was the last straw, and Voltaire left Berlin. But he carried off
with him a volume of Frederick’s verses, probably as a curiosity. He
was arrested at Frankfurt and treated with uncalled-for brutality by
order of the King.