“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.”
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.
France was a wise and fortunate choice. The king and nobles were deeply in debt and ready to pay exorbitant interest for ready cash. The banks were in a dilapidated condition, requiring the hand of a genius for reconstruction.
Meanwhile, Mayer-Anselm proved as honest as he had promised to be. My money, nearly tripled, awaited me wherever I ordered, while my many names were never associated with that of Prince Daniel Petrovich, Member of Russian Royalty, scholar, linguist, traveler, and lover.
Kotikokura and I walked arm in arm along the shore of the Seine. The stars dipped their long fingernails into the cool waters of the river. One flat-bottomed barge emerged silently from under the bridge. A couple, their arms wound about each other’s waists, bent over the rail and laughed.
“Spinoza was right, Kotikokura. The sea is our Mother. From the sea we come. Into the sea we go. Everything changes. The water remains. Where is the Paris through which we rode triumphantly with that strange man whose beard was a frozen cataract of amethysts? There is hardly a pile of stones, a bit of iron which is still intact. The Seine, however, flows on unconcerned. The Seine is like us, Kotikokura. All things about us decay and turn to dust. We remain.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“And yet, is there so colossal a change? Are there not now as then houses, streets, men, women? Now as then, people live by illusion. Then it was the Philosopher’s Stone. Now it is Reason. Always the futile search for happiness.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Then as now, a handful of people ruled the rest of the nation. Then as now, a few managed to live in luxury, while the rest tried to squeeze out of the hard and stony earth the milk of existence. Then as now, the poor hoped to become rich and the rich fought to retain their wealth. Nothing really changes, Kotikokura. Nothing is ever born. Nothing dies.”
I looked at my watch.
“But we are late, Kotikokura. The Marquise is awaiting us. Her food will become unpalatable. A dinner is more important to a hostess than all the truths of life and death. She is right. We live by food and not by melancholy meditation, watching the stars dip their fingertips into rivers.”
Madame la Marquise du Deffand bade me sit next to her. She placed her small ivory fan upon her lap and felt my face with both hands. They were delicate and white, but the knuckles had begun to assert themselves. She touched every part of my face and throat, lingering over my lips and forehead.
“Since I am blind, Prince, I have
really begun to see faces. You are very handsome.”
“Madame forces me to acknowledge the truth which I prefer to hear rather than to express.”
She laughed a low guttural sound not unpleasant, but cheerless.
“You Russians learn the art of words so readily. You have much in common with us although it is not evident on the surface. But then, you have been in France before?”
“Long ago, Madame, in my youth.”
The Marquise laughed. “Long ago! How can you know the meaning of long ago, monsieur? But youth, of course, will draw voluptuous pleasure even out of such a thought, however distasteful it may be to those really afflicted with age.”
“How should Madame know the distastefulness of age?”
She struck me lightly with her fan. “Flattery is always delicious—at my age.”
“I insist, madame. You can have no conception of the meaning of age.”
“Let me feel your lips, Prince.”
She felt my lips with the tips of her fingers, perfumed with lavender.
“No,” she said, “you do not grin. You are sincere.”
Her face, half-hidden in her velvet bonnet trimmed with lace, had, if not beauty, at least a daintiness and charm peculiar to so many French women. A few, thinly-drawn, almost imperceptible wrinkles danced about her eyes, tightly shut, and about her lips.
“I do not know what you may have heard about me, Prince. A blind person suspects every whisper.”
“I have heard only praises– —”
“I have not always done what I should have done—that is true. But monsieur, I was bored. I strove to evade the great God Ennui.”
I sighed. “Who has not been smothered by his terrible shadow, madame?”
“Your voice seems different, Prince. I should almost have believed it another man’s. Strange! It sounded far, far off, thousands of miles—or perhaps, thousands of years. I was frightened.”
“I spoke of the god Ennui, madame. One should be realistic.”
She bade me give her my hand which she pressed. “Let me whisper something into your ear.”
I bent until her lips touched and pressed my ear.
“Je vous adore.”
I kissed her fingers. Meanwhile, the Salon became crowded with ladies and gentlemen.
The hearing of Madame la Marquise was very acute.
“The man who is laughing now,” she said, “is Monsieur d’Alembert, a fine genius but rather effeminate. Once,” she sighed, “I thought I loved him. Youth—you know. The lady who speaks now is Madame d’Epinay. Beware of her, Prince! She smiles always, I remember, but it is a false smile, I assure you. But then, it was a man’s fault, as usual. Her husband, Monsieur de la Live, has hardened her heart. Had he only been a little more careful in his faithlessness,—for it is not expected of a man to be a model of virtue. It is enough if one can betray with tact, and charm, and wit.”
“Madame, every country has its own customs. Virtue is a matter of time and space. It partakes neither of infinity nor eternity. Charm, however, seems to prefer France for her habitation.”
She whispered, “The lady who has just sneezed—she takes too much snuff at one time—is Madame Geoffrin, a splendid woman and as virtuous as it is compatible with politeness and humor.”
The Marquise laughed a little. “Mon ami, come nearer, and I shall tell you a comical story about Madame Geoffrin.”
I approached until our legs touched. I understood she desired more the proximity of my thigh than that of my ear. It amused me although the posture was slightly uncomfortable.
Mlle. de Lespinasse, tall, angular, with magnificent eyes and hair, bent and whispered into the ear of the Marquise. One or two other ladies approached. I took the opportunity to rise and walk away. Madame du Deffand motioned to me with her hand to remain, but I made believe I did not see. A little later, I saw her lips stretch into a painful grin. I, too, had disappointed her, I understood, and life was a bore.
Kotikokura, in a corner, wearing his Russian uniform and all his medals, was smothered by the attentions of three ladies, chattering incessantly. I approached and bowed. Kotikokura rose.
“Please do not disturb yourself, Duke, I beg you.”
“Monsieur le Duc is most fascinating,” one of the ladies observed.
“I have long ago discovered it, madame,” I said.
“It is strange. He knows so little French but makes himself understood splendidly.”
“He never uses a verb.”
“That is marvelous, Prince. I must speak to Monsieur Diderot about it. He says that the verbs are the life of a language.”
“Medals—Tsar—Russia,” Kotikokura whispered to one of the ladies who played with his decorations.
“Now isn’t that just charming? Le Duc means these medals have been given him by the Tsar of Russia.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Splendid!” another lady ejaculated.
“The Duke will reform our language, Monsieur le Prince. I think I shall stop using verbs myself. Duke charming—medals beautiful,” she addressed Kotikokura.
Kotikokura was flustered and uncomfortable. To avoid bursting out into laughter, I snuffed a large quantity of tobacco and sneezed several times.
Kotikokura started to rise again. The ladies pulled him back. “Monsieur le Duc—ici–with us.”
I walked away, leaving him to his delightful discomfort.
The conversation became very noisy, the remarks fragmentary.
A fellow, his face besmirched with tobacco and mud, wild-eyed, half toothless, shouted back, waving his fist, while his moth-eaten wig toppled to one side like an uncomfortable crown: “Back to Nature, all you wicked and godless creatures!”
“But Monsieur Rousseau, what does it mean?” the first man insisted.
“It means that you throw away all your false books, false habits, false words, false arts.” “Everything is false, naturally, save le Contrat Social by Jean Jacques Rousseau.”
There was general laughter.
“Jean Jacques is charming, n’est-ce-pas?’ one woman observed.
“I think he is the rudest man in the world,” another answered.
“Go back to God!” Rousseau shouted.
“It is too great a journey from Earth to Heaven, and I have a touch of the gout, monsieur,” someone said, and turning to a man who was sitting near the window, “What say you, Monsieur Saint-Lambert, to a visit to God?”
“I say that belief in God is the origin of all follies.”
Rousseau, exasperated, unable to speak, danced about waving his fists.
“Jean Jacques has the St. Vitus dance again,” Madame la Marquise du Deffand remarked, fanning herself.
“The idea of God is necessary to happiness,” Rousseau blurted out.
“Only beauty is necessary to happiness,” Saint-Lambert answered. A lady next to him kissed his cheek.
“Happiness,” Madame du Deffand said, “is the Philosopher’s Stone which ruins those who seek it.”
“There is a God!” Rousseau shouted, “There is a God! Messieurs, there is a God. If any one contradicts me, I go!”
“I contradict!” several voices answered.
“Cochons!” Rousseau blurted out, as if his mouth had been filled with pebbles, and dashed out of the room, his wig upon his neck.
“He is a fool!” Saint-Lambert remarked.
“Voltaire is right about him,” another added.
“He is disagreeable,” Madame du Deffand declared. “His ‘Emile’ is contrary to good sense, his ‘Héloise’ is contrary to good manners, and nothing in the world is quite so dull and obscure as his ‘Contrat Social.’ ”
There was general applause. “Monsieur le Duc, do you believe in God?” one of the three ladies asked.
“Ca-ta-pha god,” Kotikokura answered.
“Magnificent!” they shouted.
“Ca-ta-pha god! Ca-ta-pha god!”
The words became contagious. Everybody repeated and laughed
. “Ca-ta-pha god.”
Kotikokura, indignant at the general merriment, rose and exclaimed, making the sign of my godhead, “Ca-ta-pha god!”
The three women kissed his face at the same time. Bewildered, he reseated himself.
The conversation drifted to politics. “Liberty—canaille—the king—equality—la France—treason” bombarded the room like a cannonade.
Madame Geoffrin walked among the people. “I beg you, gentlemen, no politics! Please, I beg you.”
It was becoming very warm. The ladies nibbled at biscuits and fanned themselves, scattering about the scent of many perfumes and stale powder. The gentlemen consumed ices and wines.
“Your husband is a monster, madame, and you are an adorable creature,” one man whispered to a woman. She struck him very gently over the mouth with the tip of her finger and after consulting her calendar, she breathed a date.
Other gentlemen whispered into other ladies’ ears variations of the eternal formula. I was bored. I suddenly felt my age. What had I to do among these children?
Some one pulled gently at the lace of my sleeve. I turned around. A young woman whom I had not noticed until then, whispered to me, “Monsieur le Prince s’ennuie, n’est-ce-pas?”
I nodded.
“Moi aussi.”
I bowed politely.
“I am Herma,” she said. “How shall I call you?”
“Call me Lucifer.”
Her voice was deep and unsuited for her frail body. Her features were irregular but not unpleasant. Almost breastless and hipless in an age which insisted upon exposing its feminine charms, she appeared a pleasurable anomaly.
“Since monsieur is bored and since I am bored, would monsieur care to accompany me to my salon where he may find things and people to interest him?”
I looked at her, knitting my brow a little.
She smiled. “Monsieur need not fear. I do not mean to seduce him.”
I smiled in my turn. “Mademoiselle would have no difficulty.”
“The remark is a trifle banal.”
“It is. Pardon.” I gave her my arm. “I beg you to take me to your salon.”
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 47