Precepteurs ignorans de ce faible univers.--Voltaire.
(Ignorant teachers of this weak world.)
Nous etions a table chez un de nos confreres a l’Academie,
Grand Seigneur et homme d’esprit.--La Harpe.
(We supped with one of our confreres of the Academy,--a great
nobleman and wit.)
One evening, at Paris, several months after the date of our last
chapter, there was a reunion of some of the most eminent wits of the
time, at the house of a personage distinguished alike by noble birth and
liberal accomplishments. Nearly all present were of the views that
were then the mode. For, as came afterwards a time when nothing was so
unpopular as the people, so that was the time when nothing was so vulgar
as aristocracy. The airiest fine gentleman and the haughtiest noble
prated of equality, and lisped enlightenment.
Among the more remarkable guests were Condorcet, then in the prime of
his reputation, the correspondent of the king of Prussia, the intimate
of Voltaire, the member of half the academies of Europe,--noble by
birth, polished in manners, republican in opinions. There, too, was the
venerable Malesherbes, “l’amour et les delices de la Nation.” (The idol
and delight of the nation (so-called by his historian, Gaillard).) There
Jean Silvain Bailly, the accomplished scholar,--the aspiring politician.
It was one of those petits soupers for which the capital of all social
pleasures was so renowned. The conversation, as might be expected, was
literary and intellectual, enlivened by graceful pleasantry. Many of the
ladies of that ancient and proud noblesse--for the noblesse yet existed,
though its hours were already numbered--added to the charm of the
society; and theirs were the boldest criticisms, and often the most
liberal sentiments.
Vain labour for me--vain labour almost for the grave English
language--to do justice to the sparkling paradoxes that flew from lip
to lip. The favourite theme was the superiority of the moderns to the
ancients. Condorcet on this head was eloquent, and to some, at least, of
his audience, most convincing. That Voltaire was greater than Homer few
there were disposed to deny. Keen was the ridicule lavished on the dull
pedantry which finds everything ancient necessarily sublime.
“Yet,” said the graceful Marquis de --, as the champagne danced to his
glass, “more ridiculous still is the superstition that finds everything
incomprehensible holy! But intelligence circulates, Condorcet; like
water, it finds its level. My hairdresser said to me this morning,
‘Though I am but a poor fellow, I believe as little as the finest
gentleman!’” “Unquestionably, the great Revolution draws near to its
final completion,--a pas de geant, as Montesquieu said of his own
immortal work.”
Then there rushed from all--wit and noble, courtier and republican--a
confused chorus, harmonious only in its anticipation of the brilliant
things to which “the great Revolution” was to give birth. Here Condrocet
is more eloquent than before.
“Il faut absolument que la Superstition et le Fanatisme fassent place
a la Philosophie. (It must necessarily happen that superstition and
fanaticism give place to philosophy.) Kings persecute persons, priests
opinion. Without kings, men must be safe; and without priests, minds
must be free.”
“Ah,” murmured the marquis, “and as ce cher Diderot has so well sung,--
‘Et des boyaux du dernier pretre Serrez le cou du dernier roi.’”
(And throttle the neck of the last king with the string from
the bowels of the last priest.)
“And then,” resumed Condorcet,--“then commences the Age of
Reason!--equality in instruction, equality in institutions, equality
in wealth! The great impediments to knowledge are, first, the want of
a common language; and next, the short duration of existence. But as to
the first, when all men are brothers, why not a universal language?
As to the second, the organic perfectibility of the vegetable world is
undisputed, is Nature less powerful in the nobler existence of thinking
man? The very destruction of the two most active causes of physical
deterioration--here, luxurious wealth; there, abject penury,--must
necessarily prolong the general term of life. (See Condorcet’s
posthumous work on the Progress of the Human Mind.--Ed.) The art of
medicine will then be honoured in the place of war, which is the art of
murder: the noblest study of the acutest minds will be devoted to the
discovery and arrest of the causes of disease. Life, I grant, cannot be
made eternal; but it may be prolonged almost indefinitely. And as
the meaner animal bequeaths its vigour to its offspring, so man shall
transmit his improved organisation, mental and physical, to his sons.
Oh, yes, to such a consummation does our age approach!”
The venerable Malesherbes sighed. Perhaps he feared the consummation
might not come in time for him. The handsome Marquis de -- and the
ladies, yet handsomer than he, looked conviction and delight.
But two men there were, seated next to each other, who joined not in
the general talk: the one a stranger newly arrived in Paris, where
his wealth, his person, and his accomplishments, had already made
him remarked and courted; the other, an old man, somewhere about
seventy,--the witty and virtuous, brave, and still light-hearted
Cazotte, the author of “Le Diable Amoureux.”
These two conversed familiarly, and apart from the rest, and only by an
occasional smile testified their attention to the general conversation.
“Yes,” said the stranger,--“yes, we have met before.”
“I thought I could not forget your countenance; yet I task in vain my
recollections of the past.”
“I will assist you. Recall the time when, led by curiosity, or
perhaps the nobler desire of knowledge, you sought initiation into the
mysterious order of Martines de Pasqualis.”
(It is so recorded of Cazotte. Of Martines de Pasqualis little is known;
even the country to which he belonged is matter of conjecture. Equally
so the rites, ceremonies, and nature of the cabalistic order he
established. St. Martin was a disciple of the school, and that, at
least, is in its favour; for in spite of his mysticism, no man more
beneficent, generous, pure, and virtuous than St. Martin adorned the
last century. Above all, no man more distinguished himself from the herd
of sceptical philosophers by the gallantry and fervour with which he
combated materialism, and vindicated the necessity of faith amidst a
chaos of unbelief. It may also be observed, that Cazotte, whatever
else he learned of the brotherhood of Martines, learned nothing that
diminished the excellence of his life and the sincerity of his religion.
At once gentle and brave, he never ceased to oppose the excesses of
the Revolution. To the last, unlike the Liberals of his time, he was a
devout and sincere Christian. Before his execution, he demanded a pen
and paper to write these words: “Ma femme, mes enfans, ne me pleurez
pas; ne m’oubliez pas, mais souvenez-vous surtout de ne jamais offenser
Dieu.” (“My wife, my children, weep not for me; forget me not, but
remember above everything never to offend God.)--Ed.)
“Ah, is it possible! You are one of that theurgic brotherhood?”
“Nay, I attended their ceremonies but to see how vainly they sought to
revive the ancient marvels of the cabala.”
“Such studies please you? I have shaken off the influence they once had
on my own imagination.”
“You have not shaken it off,” returned the stranger, bravely; “it is on
you still,--on you at this hour; it beats in your heart; it kindles in
your reason; it will speak in your tongue!”
And then, with a yet lower voice, the stranger continued to address
him, to remind him of certain ceremonies and doctrines,--to explain and
enforce them by references to the actual experience and history of his
listener, which Cazotte thrilled to find so familiar to a stranger.
Gradually the old man’s pleasing and benevolent countenance grew
overcast, and he turned, from time to time, searching, curious, uneasy
glances towards his companion.
The charming Duchesse de G-- archly pointed out to the lively guests the
abstracted air and clouded brow of the poet; and Condorcet, who liked no
one else to be remarked, when he himself was present, said to Cazotte,
“Well, and what do YOU predict of the Revolution,--how, at least, will
it affect us?”
At that question Cazotte started; his cheeks grew pale, large drops
stood on his forehead; his lips writhed; his gay companions gazed on him
in surprise.
“Speak!” whispered the stranger, laying his hand gently upon the arm of
the old wit.
At that word Cazotte’s face grew locked and rigid, his eyes dwelt
vacantly on space, and in a low, hollow voice, he thus answered
(The following prophecy (not unfamiliar, perhaps, to some of my
readers), with some slight variations, and at greater length, in the
text of the authority I am about to cite, is to be found in La
Harpe’s posthumous works. The MS. is said to exist still in La Harpe’s
handwriting, and the story is given on M. Petitot’s authority, volume
i. page 62. It is not for me to enquire if there be doubts of its
foundation on fact.--Ed.),--
“You ask how it will affect yourselves,--you, its most learned, and its
least selfish agents. I will answer: you, Marquis de Condorcet, will
die in prison, but not by the hand of the executioner. In the peaceful
happiness of that day, the philosopher will carry about with him not the
elixir but the poison.”
“My poor Cazotte,” said Condorcet, with his gentle smile, “what have
prisons, executioners, and poison to do with an age of liberty and
brotherhood?”
“It is in the names of Liberty and Brotherhood that the prisons will
reek, and the headsman be glutted.”
“You are thinking of priestcraft, not philosophy, Cazotte,” said
Champfort.
(Champfort, one of those men of letters who, though misled by the first
fair show of the Revolution, refused to follow the baser men of action
into its horrible excesses, lived to express the murderous philanthropy
of its agents by the best bon mot of the time. Seeing written on the
walls, “Fraternite ou la Mort,” he observed that the sentiment should be
translated thus, “Sois mon frere, ou je te tue.” (“Be my brother, or I
kill thee.”)) “And what of me?”
“You will open your own veins to escape the fraternity of Cain. Be
comforted; the last drops will not follow the razor. For you, venerable
Malesherbes; for you, Aimar Nicolai; for you, learned Bailly,--I see
them dress the scaffold! And all the while, O great philosophers, your
murderers will have no word but philosophy on their lips!”
The hush was complete and universal when the pupil of Voltaire--the
prince of the academic sceptics, hot La Harpe--cried with a sarcastic
laugh, “Do not flatter me, O prophet, by exemption from the fate of
my companions. Shall _I_ have no part to play in this drama of your
fantasies.”
At this question, Cazotte’s countenance lost its unnatural expression of
awe and sternness; the sardonic humour most common to it came back and
played in his brightening eyes.
“Yes, La Harpe, the most wonderful part of all! YOU will become--a
Christian!”
This was too much for the audience that a moment before seemed grave
and thoughtful, and they burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, while
Cazotte, as if exhausted by his predictions, sank back in his chair, and
breathed hard and heavily.
“Nay,” said Madame de G--, “you who have predicted such grave things
concerning us, must prophesy something also about yourself.”
A convulsive tremor shook the involuntary prophet,--it passed, and
left his countenance elevated by an expression of resignation and calm.
“Madame,” said he, after a long pause, “during the siege of Jerusalem,
we are told by its historian that a man, for seven successive days,
went round the ramparts, exclaiming, ‘Woe to thee, Jerusalem,--woe to
myself!’”
“Well, Cazotte, well?”
“And on the seventh day, while he thus spoke, a stone from the machines
of the Romans dashed him into atoms!”
With these words, Cazotte rose; and the guests, awed in spite of
themselves, shortly afterwards broke up and retired.