We laughed heartily and our laughter soldered together once more firmly the band that united us.
I was walking along the River Main in Frankfort, meditating on the words of Spinoza and the meaning of life when someone tapped me gently on the arm. I turned around. A little man with a sharp nose, sharp eyes, sharp pointed beard and a sharp protruding belly, bowed deeply.
“Ich bitte um Verzeihung,” he said in a sharp voice.
‘Porcupine,’ I thought. ‘One must not touch this man.’
“By whom have I the honor of being addressed?” I asked.
“I am Mayer-Anselm Rothschild, the banker.”
“I am Prince Daniel Petrovich.”
“I know.”
He reminded me of Abraham with whom I had done business in the matter of the jewels of Queen Isabella. But gone was the old humility. He was, unwittingly perhaps, the first of the new dynasty—the dynasty of money.
There was something so poignant, so dynamic in this little man, that I withdrew a little.
He smiled. “People are generally afraid of me. My friends call me the Living Sword. But Prince Daniel Petrovich certainly does not fear Mayer-Anselm Rothschild.”
“On the contrary, sir, he is pleased to make your acquaintance.”
I gave him my hand which he kissed. His chapped lip, or his beard, pricked me like a needle.
“Prince, I have a proposition which may interest you.”
“What is it?”
“We cannot speak freely here. Would His Highness care to take the trouble of visiting me at my office?”
I hesitated a moment.
“Really, Prince, it is worth while.”
His voice had become soft and oily, as if he had withdrawn his needles.
“Very well. I shall come.”
He rubbed his hands vigorously, standing on tiptoe. He hailed a carriage and we drove to a shop over which a red sign with the word banker swung lightly.
“I am not more than twenty-five, Prince, although I look much older,” Rothschild said, as soon as we were seated at a table. “But this is because I have thought and worked so hard. I know you are not against youth. Indeed, I understand that most of the men you engage are young.”
“It is true.”
“The older generation does not understand the new world which is growing in front of their noses.” He lowered his voice. “You are not prejudiced against Jews. Many of your best men are Jews.”
“I find the Jews cleverer, readier to accept new conditions, and contrary to current opinion, honest.”
Rothschild nodded and sighed. “How we Jews have been maligned, Your Highness! There are, of course, dishonest men among us as there are among all nations, but is it conceivable that a people persecuted and hated as the Jews could have long continued to do business with the Gentiles, if they had not been at least as honest as the latter?”
“The Jew was not originally as clever as he is now, Rothschild. The persecution that you bemoan sharpened his wits.”
“Perhaps. But it really is unbearable at times,” he answered sadly.
“No matter. The Jew will conquer and dominate!” I exclaimed.
“Is that a jest, Prince?”
“It is the truth and a fine piece of irony besides. The Jew will control the money of the world. He who controls a man’s money, controls his life. While the Jew will be persecuted and hounded, he will rule the destiny of mankind.”
He remained silent, looking at me furtively. He was endeavoring to understand why I was interested in the Jews and whether I was sincere. Unable to reach a conclusion, he sighed.
“Do not fear, Rothschild. I conceal no trap.”
“I do not fear, Your Highness. A Jew must have courage to live.”
We spent several days discussing plans and measures for gigantic investments. This young man’s mind was as sharp as his physique.
I entrusted him with a large sum of money. “Rothschild, I have confidence in you.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“You will succeed. Your descendants, if they are as intelligent as you– —”
“I am married to a woman of character and intelligence, Prince.”
“Good! Your descendants will be wealthier than kings.”
He bowed.
“Rothschild, we may or may not meet again. You will feel my influence. I shall work in silence, invisible. Let it seem always that you are the sole master. Never let my name cross your lips.”
“Never, Prince.”
“Extend our business to the end of the earth, Rothschild. Consider the world an angry steed which we must ride. Underneath our yoke, he may foam and fret but will obey nevertheless.”
Rothschild grinned, his teeth set.
“They say that King Frederick of Prussia is amenable to humor and wisdom.”
“So they say.”
“I must visit him then.”
Rothschild sighed.
I smiled. “You cannot overcome your Jewish instinct. You would like to mingle with the great of the earth while your wife struts about, smothered in jewels.”
Rothschild closed his eyes. “Prince, I cannot deceive you. It was this I sighed for.”
“Well, my friend, it will happen—to you, or to your descendants. But whether this will help the Jews or not, I cannot tell.”
“The Jew is bound to be misunderstood, Your Highness. If he is humble, he is kicked about. If he is vain, he is despised. If he is poor, he is beaten; if he is rich, he is menaced. It is better to be rich and vain. Menace and hate do not hurt as much as the tip of a boot and a whip.”
LXXVIII: FREDERICK PLAYS CHESS—THE TABACKS COLLEGIUM—THE KING’S MONKEY—I QUARREL WITH VOLTAIRE—VOLTAIRE’S FAUX PAS
“KOTIKOKURA, this is Sans-Souci. Sans-Souci may be but a bit of irony for which His Majesty is famous. However, it is interesting that he refused to admit me on the strength of my Russian title, but invites me most cordially because I speak all the languages of Europe and because I studied philosophy at Oxford.”
Kotikokura scratched his nose.
Frederick the Second was playing chess. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at me, nodded vaguely, and continued his game. Suddenly, he struck the table and shouted. “General, you have forgotten your rules of war. This move is inadmissible.”
The general, an elderly man, bald to the neck but making up for his lack of hair by two long side beards which reached to his chest, replied in a bass voice, contrasting comically with the King’s falsetto: “As Your Majesty commands.”
“Not as I command, general, but as the ancient law of chess commands.”
Turning to the others who were sitting around, smoking long porcelain pipes, the new vogue, or snuffing, Frederick continued: “Gentlemen, was not the general’s move inadmissible?”
Several whispered, “Yes, certainly, Your Majesty.”
The King frowned. “Prince,” he said, addressing me, “do you play chess?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, and you were wrong.”
Frederick stood up full length and stared at me.
“How do you know I was wrong, Prince, since you entered after the general had made his move? Besides, you are too far away from the table to see the board…”
“Your Majesty, had you been right, there would have been a vociferous reply to that effect from all these gentlemen, not merely a hardly audible ‘yes, certainly, Your Majesty.’ ”
Frederick laughed. “Prince, you have a sense of humor and an independence of mind which I try to foster in all my friends.”
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 F
rance,—hog, nightingale, and peacock. There is no country like France, gentlemen. I would give half my wealth if we could produce a Voltaire.”
An officer entered and informed His Majesty that it was time for the council, also incidentally, that Monsieur Voltaire had left.
“The fool!” His Majesty shouted.
My stay at the Court of Frederick the Great was of a short duration. I had no intention to amuse His Majesty by my ability to speak many languages, tell anecdotes, or cure his rheumatism. My experience with Charlemagne was too painful to be forgotten.
Elections in Poland were more turbulent than ever. The nobles could not decide upon a ruler. Frederick wished to reduce the noise and the danger by cutting a slice of the Polish kingdom. He needed money. His experiments in alchemy had proved futile and costly. My banks, less gaudy, but more substantial, supplied his needs.
Thenceforth Europe was firmly in my grasp.
I was the secret monarch of the world.
“Kotikokura, we must leave Sans-Souci. Before long swords will rattle and cannons boom. Our ears are too sensitive for such noise.”
Kotikokura grinned.
“There are still a few countries which I must capture. Then, I shall retire and watch the comedy. Do not imagine, however, that I mean to bring war and devastation upon the world. On the contrary. Ca-ta-pha is a gentle and peace-loving god. He will endeavor, whenever allowed by the cupidity and cruelty of man, to spread art and joy and wealth. It is probable, my friend, that his desire will be frustrated. It is also probable that people will blame him for their wars, and deny his peaceful pursuits. But that is unavoidable. Every crown is a crown of thorns. However, I shall be as cautious as possible, and the thorns shall not pierce too deeply.”
Kotikokura grinned.
LXXIX: ROTHSCHILD MOVES TO PARIS—A FASHIONABLE SALON—THE GOD ENNUI—KOTIKOKURA’S NEW LANGUAGE—ROUSSEAU MAKES A FOOL OF HIMSELF—I RECEIVE A MYSTERIOUS INVITATION—THE GOLDEN BOY—HERMA—A GLIMPSE OF LILITH
ROTHSCHILD transferred his main office to Paris. Quietly, subtly, like a spider, he was weaving the intricate web to capture all Europe for me.
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 47