Voltaire’s foolish vanity and hot temper seem to have obscured an
intellect shrewd enough to have known that such a life as he lived
in the Prussian capital was empty, profitless, and utterly vain. For
Frederick there was more excuse, because monarchs at all times have
claimed service and homage in return for a passing smile of friendship;
Court attendance they have considered a sufficiently rich reward for
any devotion; and thrones have ever been surrounded by the refuse of
orange-rinds out of which the juice has been sucked.
Voltaire, now over sixty, entered upon the last phase of his life,
which was the calmest and certainly the noblest. After wandering from
place to place, he settled down at last in a house just outside Geneva,
which he called _Les Délices_. Here he entertained many visitors
and had a private theater in which his own plays were performed,
he himself always taking a part and stage managing. He kept up a
voluminous correspondence and continued to exchange letters with
Frederick, quarreling as usual but finally making it up. He wrote at
this time one of his most famous works, “Candide,” which was inspired
by an earthquake at Lisbon, and in it he ridiculed the idea that
everything was for the best in the best possible of all worlds. The
book was burned by order of the Council of Geneva. But Voltaire was now
accustomed to his writings being treated in this way.
In appearance he must have been a very peculiar figure. He was very
thin, he had a long nose and protruding chin, and his face always wore
an amused but rather mischievous smile. His sparkling eyes, peering
from under his heavy wig, showed he was very much alive. His health
always troubled him, and nobody spoke about dying so much or thought so
little about death. From _Les Délices_ he would drive into Geneva in
an extraordinary old-fashioned carriage painted blue with gold stars
and drawn by four horses. On one occasion a crowd assembled to see him
alight. “What do you want to see, boobies?” he cried. “A skeleton?
Well, here is one!” And he threw off his cloak.
A few years later he bought another property near by, called Ferney,
and erected a château, where he spent the remainder of his days. Here
he developed into a complete country gentleman, and came to be known
all over Europe as the Squire of Ferney. He took great pride in all
the details of the arrangements in the house. He had a bath-room made,
which in those days was an almost unknown luxury, but he was very
particular in matters of cleanliness and was very neat and tidy. His
niece, Madame Denis, however, who kept house for him, was slovenly
and a bad manager. She was an ugly and tiresome woman, without humor
or even common sense. She actually wrote a comedy, which the players,
out of respect for Voltaire, declined to act. She was responsible for
a good deal of extravagance in the household, as well as neglect in
keeping the house clean. Her uncle, who could not bear the sight of a
cobweb, took advantage of her absence in Paris at one time to have the
whole house cleaned from top to bottom. There were a large number of
servants, and two of them once robbed their master. The police having
got wind of the matter, Voltaire sent a message to the culprits to
fly directly, or else he would not be able to save them from hanging.
He even sent them money for the journey. So touched were they by
his generosity that, having got away successfully, they settled
down to live honest lives. Gardens, park, farms, nurseries, bees and
silkworms, all received personal attention from this wonderful little
old philosopher. An immense number of visitors, many of them celebrated
people, were entertained, and after theatricals, sometimes as many as
eighty people sat down to supper. Indeed, he became a little weary of
being what he called “an hotel-keeper.” Some visitors stayed with him
for a considerable time, and the grand-niece of the poet Corneille he
adopted as a daughter.
Though now an old man, his life at Ferney, like his life at Cirey,
was one of ceaseless activity. Never can any one have written so many
letters. Seven thousand have been printed, but there are many more:
and his correspondents ranged from kings and empresses to the humblest
and most undistinguished people. With all his faults, and he had many,
Voltaire never fell a prey to two of the worst failings of which a
human being can be guilty—indifference and indolence.
Let us try and picture a day at Ferney. Voltaire did not appear till
eleven o’clock. He remained in his room, where he had five desks all
very carefully and neatly arranged with the notes and papers for the
various works on which he was engaged. The rest of the morning he spent
in garden or farm superintending and giving orders. He dined with the
house-party, eating very little himself, his only form of indulgence
being coffee. After some conversation with his guests in the early
afternoon, he retired to his study and refused to be interrupted by
anybody till supper-time. Then he came out in very lively spirits, led
the conversation, provoked discussion, and amused every one with his
jokes and repartees. In the evening there was probably a theatrical
entertainment in his little theater, or he would read out some of
his poems, or play chess, the only game he ever indulged in. When he
went to bed he started work afresh, and as he slept very little, this
would go on sometimes far into the night, especially if he had a play
on hand. Madame Denis looked after the guests, some of whom, to their
great annoyance, saw very little of their host.
It was in the last twenty years of his life that Voltaire played such a
noble part in championing the cause of men who were subjected to gross
and cruel persecution. The most famous case is that of Callas. He was a
Protestant shopkeeper in Toulouse, a kind and benevolent old man. The
monstrous accusation brought against him was that of murdering his son,
who, as a matter of fact, committed suicide in a fit of melancholy. The
motive of the murder was supposed to be that the son wanted to become
a Roman Catholic, and his father, rather than allow it, killed him.
Callas was tried and condemned without a shred of evidence against him.
He was tortured with hideous cruelty, broken on the wheel, and finally
strangled. This was in 1762. Some of the family fled to Switzerland,
and Voltaire heard of the case. He soon saw that behind it lay the
thing he hated most in the world, namely, religious intolerance. He set
to work with an energy and perseverance which were quite extraordinary.
He left off his usual literary work; he examined evidence, drew up
reports, wrote statements and narratives, collected a fund, composed
pamphlets, wrote to influential people, and devoted his whole time and
thoughts and much money to the cause he had undertaken. He succeeded in
getting a new trial, and at last, three years after the savage sentence
had been passed on Callas, a unanimous verdict of complete innocence
was recorded by a council of forty judges. The whole of Europe had
heard of the case, because it was Voltaire who had taken up the cause
of the poor and honest man who had been the victim of a vile plot.
Nothing in his life gave him more satisfaction than his success in this
affair. Thirteen years later an old woman in Paris, in reply to some
one who asked who the little old man was whom crowds surrounded, said,
“It is the saviour of Callas.” No honor that ever came to Voltaire gave
him so much pleasure as that simple answer.
Nor was the case of Callas the only one in which he took an active
interest. A man called Sirven was persecuted in much the same way, and
would have suffered a similar fate had he not escaped. It took nine
years for justice to be done this time, and Voltaire was seventy-seven
when the case was retried and the accused declared innocent. Further,
there was the case of Espinasse, who was sentenced to the galleys for
giving supper and a bed to a Protestant minister; of Montbailli, who
was falsely accused of murdering his mother; of La Barre; and several
others, who for one reason or another were victims of persecution.
Voltaire’s hatred of injustice had always been strong. He showed it
when he was a much younger man. One occasion was the death of Adrienne
Lecouvreur, the great actress, who had performed in several of his
plays. Because she was an actress she was refused Christian burial.
His fury knew no bounds, more especially as he had seen an actress
buried in London with every mark of respect and sympathy. He wrote
a poem which showed the depths of his indignation at this senseless
intolerance.
Voltaire’s finest qualities, in fact, came to the front in his
character of champion of the persecuted. The cynical satirist was
merged into the generous and courageous upholder of justice. The
oppressed and needy may get sympathy from others who are in like
condition, but it is much more rare for one who is neither poor nor
downtrodden to give them not only sympathy, but practical and useful
support.
Voltaire, as already said, detested intolerance. He expressed this in
a well-known phrase, which he repeated both in his writings and in his
conversation, “_Écrasez l’infâme_” (Crush the infamous). His enemies
declared that he meant God, Christ, Christianity, and religion. But
this was very far from true. By _l’infâme_ he meant intolerance,
bigotry, superstition, persecution, and all the hideous evils that
blighted the true spirit of religion. It was _l’infâme_ that enforced
the doctrines of religion by fire, torture, and imprisonment, it was
_l’infâme_ that encouraged oppression and tyranny; it was _l’infâme_
that was the barrier to liberty, progress, and enlightenment; and
_l’infâme_ was Voltaire’s lifelong enemy. He did as much as any one to
combat this evil spirit. But it requires more than a man, it requires
a people, to succeed completely; and no people have even yet got the
power in any land. Voltaire was certainly not a sentimentalist, and it
is interesting to note that he was the first influential writer who was
struck more by the futility than the cruelty of war. He regarded both
war and the intrigues of diplomacy which create it as being absolutely
contrary to the best interests of nations.
It is a pity Voltaire ever left Ferney. However, he very naturally
wanted to revisit Paris, which he had not seen for twenty-eight years.
Also he wanted to superintend the production of a new tragedy he had
just written. Madame Denis, who was bored with Ferney, seems to have
encouraged him to go. Instead, therefore, of dying quietly in his
home, he passed the last few weeks of his life in a perfect orgy of
entertainment and excitement, and there is something pathetic in the
vain little old man, masquerading for the benefit of Paris crowds.
And yet his last visit to Paris, which amounted to an event of public
importance, was very characteristic of the man’s whole life. He
received all sorts of distinguished visitors; society flocked to see
him; the French Academy, by whom in old days he had been rejected, paid
him every compliment possible; actors welcomed him with enthusiasm; the
middle-class turned out in crowds to see him; the Protestants worshiped
the man who had fought against persecution; the mob filled the streets
in awe of a man who could stand up so boldly against the powers of
government; the Court and the Church avoided him because they feared
him, while the preachers denounced him from their pulpits.
One of his oldest friends was greeted by him on his arrival with the
words, “I have left off dying to come and see you.” The Academy’s
reception was a great function. A gorgeous coach was sent for him, and
as the crowd waited he appeared in the doorway, a very lean figure,
with his old-fashioned gray wig surmounted by a little square cap. He
wore a red coat lined with ermine, white silk stockings on his shrunken
legs, large silver buckles on his shoes, a little cane in his hand
with a crow’s beak for a handle, and over all this wonderful dress,
a sable cloak which had been given to him by Catherine, Empress of
Russia. At the Louvre two thousand people assembled, and greeted him
with shouts of “Long live Voltaire!” Afterwards, at the theater, he
appeared in a box, and the whole audience rose and received him with
frantic applause. An actor came forward and crowned him with a wreath
of laurels, while the people stormed and shouted. It certainly was
a triumph, a remarkable triumph, not only for the man, but for his
opinions. There was no discordant voice. As one who was present said,
“Envy, hatred, fanaticism, and intolerance dared not murmur.”
But all these entertainments were too much for the old man. He grew
more feeble and ill, and died at last on May 30, 1778, at the age of
eighty-three. Shortly before his death Voltaire signed a declaration
which summed up his belief: “I die worshiping God, loving my friends,
and not hating my enemies, but detesting superstition.” His body,
dressed up as though he were alive, was taken out of Paris in a
carriage and buried at Scellières, about a hundred miles away. The
bishops of the diocese sent an order to forbid the burial, but it was
too late. No newspaper was allowed to mention his death or anything
about him, and the Academy was forbidden to hold the service which was
customary on the death of a member. In the twentieth century just the
same orders were issued by the Russian Government when Tolstoy died.
Nothing is feared more by Church and State than the influence of a
great reformer.
Over Voltaire’s body controversy raged just as it had over the living
man.
On the eve of the French Revolution the National Assembly of France
made Louis XVI sign a decree ordering Voltaire’s remains to be
transferred to Paris. This was done with great pomp and ceremony. A
long procession with banners and music passed through the city. An
immense sarcophagus, forty feet high, surmounted by a full-length
figure of Voltaire and a winged figure of Immortality, was drawn along
by twelve white horses. On it was written, “He avenged Callas, La
Barre, Sirven, and Montbailli. Poet, philosopher, historian, he gave
a great impulse to the human mind; he prepared us to become free.” A
hundred thousand people walked in the procession through crowds of
hundreds of thousands more. The body was buried in the Panthéon. But
this was not its last resting-place. In 1814, on the restoration of the
Bourbon Kings, his bones were removed and thrown into a waste place
outside the city. This was discovered in 1864, when his heart, which
had been in the possession of the Villette family, was placed inside
the empty tomb.
It has been impossible to enumerate even Voltaire’s principal writings,
but mention must be made of one of the most remarkable of his works,
which was his “Philosophical Dictionary.” It contained brief articles
on an enormous variety of subjects, each one brimful of interest,
whether they were treated with serious thought and profound learning
or with sarcasm and biting irony. He kept on adding to it until it
reached eight volumes, and, needless to say, it shocked and infuriated
as well as delighted those who read it. He also assisted with many
contributions to the great encyclopædia which Diderot and d’Alembert
helped to compile, and which created a great stir and exercised a
considerable influence on the contemporary thought of France.
Madame du Deffand, one of the many brilliant women of
eighteenth-century France, who knew Voltaire well and corresponded
with him for many years, said of him that “he was good to read and
bad to know.” His faults were certainly very marked, and to some
extent spoilt his virtues. His vanity was almost ridiculous; he was
quite unscrupulous in making money, in attacking his enemies, and in
defending himself; he scoffed with cruel and bitter words, but he never
mocked at any men who lived good lives. Mischief prompted him more than
malice. He could not help laughing at people who pulled long faces and
were incapable of laughing at themselves.
He certainly disbelieved in the creeds of the Church; but by partaking,
on one occasion, of the Communion, building a church, and joining a
religious order, it looked as if he were insincere, though he is not
the only person who has conformed to religious observances in which he
did not really believe. But Voltaire scandalized people by doing it all
with his tongue in his cheek; in fact, he was altogether irreverent
by nature, and reverence is a quality which the strongest opponent
of any creed ought always to display. Granting all these defects,
however, Voltaire’s influence in opening men’s minds, showing up what
was false, sham, and hypocritical, was quite immeasurable. He had, too,
the great virtue of humanity. This is not just sentimental kindness
and empty sympathy, but, as John Morley expresses it, “Humanity armed,
aggressive, and alert; never slumbering and never wearying; moving
like an ancient hero, over the land to slay monsters, is the rarest of
virtues, and Voltaire is one of its master types.”
A great upheaval was not far off, and gradually the way was being
prepared for a better day in France and in Europe. Another man was at
work, Jean Jacques Rousseau, whom Voltaire knew, but did not like.
While Voltaire was appealing to the minds of the thoughtful, Rousseau
was reading the hearts of the people and stirring their imagination.
The age was one of extreme corruption, frivolity, and luxury on one
side, and poverty, degradation, and misery on the other: an age of bad
laws, stale traditions, and reckless cruelty. Voltaire and his friends
were sowing the seeds of revolt. The people, only half-conscious, were
being driven, as they so easily can be in any country where they are
kept ignorant, partly by circumstances, partly by weak men, and partly
by an atrocious social system, into the precipice of disaster.
The crash came in the great French Revolution, the greatest convulsion
through which any country has ever passed. With all its bloodshed
and violent excesses, and in spite of the reaction which quickly
followed it in the rise of Napoleon, the Revolution finally destroyed
a disastrous method of government, and freed the people from the worst
forms of oppression which had grown up in the long reigns of Louis XIV
and Louis XV. Voltaire did not live to see this tremendous change; he
would have deplored its violence, but his responsibility for the growth
of the ideas which made such a thing possible was by no means small.
A. P.
VIII
HANS ANDERSEN
1805–1875
It matters not to have been born in a duck-yard, if one has been
hatched from a swan’s egg.
This is the story of Hans Andersen, the son of a poor cobbler and his
wife a washerwoman. Nearly every child in the world has read his Fairy
Stories, and the romance of his own life is almost as marvelous as one
of these—more marvelous, perhaps, because it is really true. All the
things he dreamt of—all the things he longed to happen, came true, so
that when he was fifty he wrote it down and called it “The Story of My
Life.”
Hans Andersen was born rather more than a hundred years ago in the
ancient city of Odense, in Denmark. His parents were very poor, so poor
that they had only one room under a steep gabled roof. In this room,
which was kitchen, workshop, parlor, and bedroom, Hans Andersen opened
his eyes, to the sound of his father hammering shoes. He was born in
a great bed with curtains—which had been made by his father out of a
nobleman’s coffin; there were bits of ragged crape still hanging about
the woodwork of the bed. The little room which was Hans’ home was to
him exciting and delightful beyond measure. It was full of all sorts of
things—the walls were covered with pictures, and the tables and chests
had shiny cups and glasses and jugs upon them. The room was always
decorated with fresh birch and beech boughs, and bunches of sweet herbs
hung from the rafters. In the lattice window grew pots of mint. Close
to the window was the cobbler’s workshop and a shelf of books. The
door was painted with rough landscapes, and when the little boy was in
bed he would gaze at these and make up stories about them. His father
and mother, before they came to bed, would say to one another in low
voices how nice and quiet Hans was, believing him to be asleep—when he
was really wide awake enjoying his own thoughts and fancies about the
pictures. Between the Andersens’ cottage and their neighbor’s there
stood a box of earth, which Andersen’s mother planted with chives and
parsley. This was their garden, and you can read about it in the “Snow
Queen.” As Hans grew up he thought there was nothing so nice in the
world as his own little home, and he loved to beautify it with garlands
of flowers and wild plants, which he would put about in glasses. He
was very fond of his mother, who was not, it seems, a particularly
attractive woman. She was good-natured, but silly and thriftless, never
thinking of the morrow so long as they had a roof over their heads
that day. She was careless, too, about Hans as an infant, and was in
the truest sense of the word uneducated. Hans got his love of reading
and his imagination from his unsuccessful, unhappy father. The cobbler
was a far more educated person than his wife, and he was better born.
But owing to his family’s misfortunes—for they had come down in the
world—he was obliged, much against his will, to take up shoemaking;
this work he settled down to with a sad and bitter heart. All his spare
time he gave to reading. Books became his one comfort. He was never
seen to smile except when he was reading. Sometimes he would read aloud
in the evenings and his wife would gaze at him completely puzzled—not
understanding, but admiring him all the same.
[Illustration: HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN]
As Hans grew older, he and his father became great friends, and they
went long walks together; and while his father sat and thought or read,
Hans ran about picking wild strawberries and making pretty garlands of
flowers. The cobbler certainly rather neglected his shoemaking, and
as he was different from his neighbors, they shunned him and thought
all sorts of evil things about him. The cobbler’s one wish was to get
away from the city and to live in the country. On hearing one day
that the squire of a large village required a shoemaker about the
place, he offered himself as such. Then he would have a cottage and a
little garden and perhaps a cow. The squire’s wife sent him a piece of
silk to make a specimen of dancing shoes. For the next few days the
family could talk of nothing else but these shoes and of their hopes
for the future. Hans prayed to God to fulfil his father’s wishes. At
last the shoes were finished and were gazed upon with admiration by
Hans and his mother. Off went the cobbler with the shoes wrapped up in
his apron—while his little family waited in impatience and anxiety at
home. When the cobbler returned his face was quite pale and they saw
something dreadful had happened. He told them the squire’s wife had
not even tried on the shoes. She had just looked at them, and said the
silk was spoiled and that she would not require him as shoemaker. The
cobbler then and there took out his knife and cut the poor shoes in
pieces. So all their hopes were dashed to the ground; their rosy hopes
of a life in the country with a cow and a garden faded like a dream,
and they wept.