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“And so on! Then he says something about Rousseau.”

“‘You call Rousseau a swindler; that is a somewhat severe expression. Even if he did really steal a piece of ribbon, or a silver spoon, it is not worth talking about. I share his love for nature and his hatred of mankind. One evening lately, as the sun went down, I thought: “God! how beautiful are Thy natural creations, and how hideous are Thy human creatures!” We men, I mean–for I except neither myself nor you, Monsieur. This cursed race truly belongs to the Iron Age as described by Hesiod. And we are asked to believe that they are created after God’s image! After the image of the Devil, I would rather say! Rousseau is right when he believes in a past Golden Age.’

“What do you say to that, Monsieur l’Abbe?”

“It is what the Church teaches regarding the lost Paradise and the Fall, and also agrees with the Greek legend of Prometheus, who ate of the tree of knowledge, and thereby brought misfortune on men.”

“Good heavens! Have you too become a freethinker? Shoemaker, stick to your last! If you are a priest, then be a priest, but don’t try to make a botch of my work. And don’t think you need to flatter me for an increase of wages. But let us return to Frederick:”

“‘History rolls on like an avalanche; the race improves, the conditions of life become easier, but men are still the same –faithless, unthankful, criminal; and he just as well as the unjust go to hell. I do not dare to put down on paper the conclusions to be drawn from this observation, for that would be to acquit Lazarus, and to crucify Christ…. Great men have little weaknesses or rather great weaknesses. We, Monsieur, have been no angels, but Providence has used us for great objects. Is it a matter of indifference to Providence whom it takes in hand, or how we live in the flesh, provided we keep the spirit uppermost? Sursum corda!‘”

“What do you say to that, Abbe?”

“The Law cannot be fulfilled, says St. Paul, but the Law rouses the sense of guilt, and therefore it is only imposed in order to drive us to grace.”

“That was not such a stupid remark of Paul’s. But I should like to add,–in the prison of the flesh grows the longing for liberation: ‘Who shall deliver me, wretched man, from this body of sin?’ Yes, Abbe, Vanitas vanitatum! Vanitas! You are young, but you must not despise the old man when he turns round and spits behind him all the unpleasantness of his past life. Might but a generation be born which knew at once the value of life, as long as a mud-bath is not part of the treatment!”

Just then a dark lean man came tortuously along the garden path.

“See! there is my Jesuit!” said Voltaire.

The old man kept on friendly terms with a Jesuit, partly because the Pope had expelled them, partly because Frederick the Great had patronised them; but his chief object was to have someone to dispute with. Perhaps also he wished to show his freedom from prejudice, for he did not like the uncongenial man.

“Now, you child of Satan!” was the old man’s greeting, “what mischief have you got in your mind? You look so maliciously pleased!”

“I come from Geneva,” answered the Jesuit with an evil smile.

“What are they doing there?”

“I saw the executioner burn Rousseau’s Emile.”

“They may do that, as far as I am concerned, and throw the fool himself into the fire.”

“Monsieur Voltaire!”

“Yes: one cannot tolerate lunatics: there are limits!”

“Where?”

“Imposed by a sound intelligence.”

“Yes, and saw them burn the new edition of Monsieur Voltaire’s Candide.”

“For shame! But it is merely a mob in Geneva.”

“A Protestant mob, with your permission.”

“Don’t trouble yourself; I hate Protestants equally with Catholics! This terrible Calvin burnt his friend Servetus in Geneva, because he did not believe in the Trinity. And had Jean Calas in Toulouse been a Catholic, and his son a Protestant, I would still have attacked the judges, although I am nothing. I am nothing; only, what I write is something.”

“Then some day we will raise a monument to Monsieur Voltaire’s writings–not to Voltaire.”

“You have no need; I have already raised my monument myself in the hundred volumes of my collected works. The world has nothing to do with how the old ass looked; there is nothing to see in that. We know my weaknesses; I have lied, I have stolen, I have been ungrateful; something of a scoundrel, something of a brute! That is the dirty part of me, and I bequeath it to Jesuits, pettifoggers, hair-splitters and collectors of anecdotes;–but my spirit to God who gave it, and to men an honest purpose to understand their Monsieur Voltaire.”

He rose, for the sun had descended.

“Good-night, Mont Blanc; you have a white head like myself, and stand with your feet in cold water, as I do! Now I go and lie down! Tomorrow I travel to Paris, where I will die.”