CHAPTER IX.

A day in the life of Voltaire.

Voltaire enjoyed the rare privilege of speaking the truth to the king, and he made a cruel and bitter use of his opportunities in this respect.  He was jealous and envious of the king’s fame and greatness, and sought to revenge him-self by continual fault-finding and criticism.  He sought to mortify the great Frederick, who was admired and wondered at by all the world; to make him feel and confess that he could never equal the renowned writer Voltaire.

Frederick felt and acknowledged this frankly and without shame, but with that smiling composure and great self-consciousness which is ever ready to do justice to others, and demands at the same time a just recognition of its own claims.  Voltaire might exalt himself to the clouds, he could not depreciate the king.  He often made him angry, however, and this gratified the malice of the great French author.

The other friends of Frederick looked upon this conduct of Voltaire with regret; and the Marquis d’Argens, who was of a fine and gentle nature, soon saw the daily discontent of the king, and the wicked joy of Voltaire.

“My friend,” said he, “the king wrote a poem yesterday, which he read aloud to me this morning.  He declares that there is one bad rhyme in his poem, and that it tortures him.  I tried in vain to reassure him.  I know that the rhyme is incorrect, but you will provoke him beyond measure if you tell him so.  He has tried in vain to correct it, without impairing the sense of the passage.  I have, therefore, withheld all criticism, and read to him some verses from La Fontaine, where the same fault is to be found.  I have wished to convince him that the poem is worthy of praise, although not exactly conformed to rule.  I beg of you, Voltaire, to follow my example.”

“And why should I do that?” said Voltaire, in his most snarling tone.

“Because, with your severe and continual criticisms you will disgust the king, and turn him aside from his favorite pursuit.  I think it important to poetry and the fine arts that the great and powerful sovereign of Prussia should love and cherish them; should exalt those who cultivate them, and, indeed, rank himself amongst them.  What difference does it make, Voltaire, if a bad rhyme is to be found in the poetry of the philosopher of Sans-Souci?” [Footnote:  Thiebault, vol. v., p. 337.]

“The king wishes to learn of me how to make good poetry, and my love to him is not of that treasonable, womanly, and cowardly sort which shrinks from blaming him because it fears to wound his self-love.  The king has read his poem to you, and it is your province to wonder at and praise your friend.  He will read it to me as ’Pedagogo de sua Maesta.’  I will be true and just, where you have dared to flatter him.”

Never was Voltaire more severe in his criticism, more cutting in his satire, than to-day.  His eyes sparkled with malicious joy, and a wicked smile played still upon his lip as he left the king and returned to his own apartment.