Part 63 (2/2)
”'Warmed up!' roared I; 'warm up this pie, whose delicious odor has already brought my nose into its magic circle! Can you believe I would outlive such a vandalism, that I would consent to such sacrilege? To warm a pie!--it is to rob the blossom of its fragrance, the b.u.t.terfly of the purple and azure of its wings, beauty of its innocence, the golden day of its glory. No, I will never be guilty of such deadly crime! This pie THIRSTS to be eaten!
I will, therefore, eat it!'
”I ate it, sire, and it overpowered me with heavenly rapture. I was like the opium-eater, wrapped in elysium, carried into the heaven of heavens. All the wonders of creation were combined in this heavenly food, which I thrust into my mouth devoutly, and trembling with gladness. It was not necessary for Mieritz to tell me that this pie was made of Indian birds'-nests, and truffles from Perigord. I knew it--I felt it! This wonder of India had unveiled my enraptured eyes!
A new world was opened before me! I ate, and I was blessed!
”What was it to me that messenger after messenger came to summon me, to inform me that the priest stood before the altar; that my young bride and her father and a crowd of relations awaited me with impatience? I cried back to them: 'Go! be off with you! Let them wait till the judgment-day! I will not rise from this seat till this dish is empty!' I ate on, and while eating my intellect was clearer, sharper, more profound than ever before! I rejoiced over this conviction. Was it not a conclusive proof that my theory was correct, that this 'homme machine' received its intellectual fluid, its power of thought through itself, and not through this fabulous, bodiless something which metaphysicians call soul? Was not this a proof that, to possess a n.o.ble soul, it was only necessary to give to the body n.o.ble nourishment? And where lies this boasted soul?
where else but in the stomach? The stomach is the soul; I allow it is the brain that thinks, but the brain dares only think as his exalted majesty the stomach allows; and if his royal highness feels unwell, farewell to thought.” [Footnote: La Mettrie's own words.]
The whole company burst out in loud and hearty laughter.
”Am I not right to call you a fou fieffe?” said the king. ”There is an old proverb, which says of a coward, that his heart lies in his stomach; never before have I heard the soul banished there. But your hymns of praise over the stomach and the pie have made you forget to finish your story; let us hear the conclusion! Did the marriage take place?”
”Sire, I had not quite finished my breakfast when the door was violently opened, and a servant rushed in and announced that the good Van Swiet had had a stroke of apoplexy in the cathedral. The foolish man declared that rage and indignation over my conduct had produced this fearful result; I am, myself, however, convinced that it was the consequence of a good rich breakfast and a bottle of Madeira wine; this disturbed the circulation of the blood, and he was chilled by standing upon the cold stone floor of the church. Be that as it may, poor Swiet was carried unconscious from the church to his dwelling, and in a few hours he was dead! Esther, his daughter and heir, was unfilial enough to leave the wish of her father unfulfilled. She would not acknowledge our contract to be binding, declared herself the bride of the little Mieritz, and married him in a few months. I had, indeed, a legal claim upon her, but Swiet was right when he a.s.sured me that so soon as he withdrew his protection from me, the whole pack of fanatical priests and weak-minded scholars would fall upon and tear me to pieces, unless I saved myself by flight. So I obeyed your majesty's summons, took my pilgrim-staff, and wandered on, like Ahasuerus.”
”What! without taking vengeance on the crafty Mieritz, who, it is evident, had carried out successfuly a well-considered strategy with his pie?” said the king. ”You must know that was all arranged: he caught you with his pie, as men catch mice with cheese.”
”Even if I knew that to be so, your majesty, I should not quarrel with him on that account. I should have only said to my pie, as Holofernes said to Judith: 'Thy sin was a great enjoyment, I forgive you for slaying me!' For such a pie I would again sacrifice another bride and another fortune!”
”And is there no possible means to obtain it?” said the king. ”Can you not obtain the receipt for this wonderful dish, which possesses the magic power to liberate young women from intolerable men, and change a miser into a spendthrift who thrusts his whole fortune down his throat?”
”There is a prospect, sire, of securing it, but you cannot be the first to profit by it. Lord Tyrconnel, who knows my history, opened a diplomatic correspondence with Holland, some weeks ago, on this subject, and the success of an important loan which France wishes to effect with the house of Mieritz and Swiet, through the mediation of Lord Tyrconnel, hangs upon the obtaining of this receipt. If Mieritz refuses it, France will not make the loan. In that case the war, which now seems probable with England, will not take place.”
”And yet it is said that great events can only arise from great causes,” cried the king. ”The peace of the world now hangs upon the receipt of a truffle-pie, which La Mettrie wishes to obtain.”
”What is the peace of the world in comparison with the peace of our souls?” cried Voltaire. ”La Mettrie may say what he will, and the worthy Abbe Bastiani may be wholly silent, but I believe I have a soul, which does not lie in my stomach, and this soul of mine will never be satisfied till your majesty keeps your promise, and relates one of those intellectual, piquant histories, glowing with wisdom and poesy, which so often flows from the lips of our Solomon!”
”It is true it is now my turn to speak,” said Frederick, smiling. ”I will be brief. Not only the lights, but also the eyes of Algarotti, are burning dimly; and look how the good marquis is, in thought, making love-winks toward his night-cap, which lies waiting for him upon his bed! But be comforted, gentlemen, my story is short. Like La Mettrie, I will relate a miracle, in which, however the eyes were profited, the stomach had no interest. This miracle took place in Breslau, in the year 1747.
”Cardinal Zinzendorf was just dead, and the Duke Schafgotch, who some years before I had appointed his coadjutor, was to be his successor. But the Silesians were not content. They declared that Duke Schafgotch was too fond of the joys and pleasures of the world to be a good priest; that he thought too much of the beautiful women of this world to be able to offer to the holy Madonna, the mother of G.o.d, the sanctified, ardent, but pure and modest love of a true son of the church. The pious Silesians refused to believe that the duke was sufficiently holy to be their bishop. The sage fathers of the city of Breslau a.s.sured me that nothing less than a miracle could secure for him the love and consideration of the Silesiaus. I had myself gone to Silesia to see if the statement of the authorities was well-founded, and if the people were really so discontented with the new bishop. I found their statement fully confirmed. Only a great miracle could incline the pious hearts of the Silesians to the duke.
”And now remark, messieurs, how Providence is always with the pious and the just--this desired miracle took place! On a lovely morning a rumor was spread abroad, in the city of Breslau, that in the chapel of the Holy Mother of G.o.d a miracle might be seen. All Breslau--the loveliest ladies of the haute volee, and the poorest beggars of the street--rushed to the church to look upon this miracle. Yes, it was undeniable! The hair of the Madonna, which stood in enticing but wooden beauty upon the altar, whose clothing was furnished by the first modistes, and whose hair by the first perruquier--this hair, wonderful to relate, had grown! It was natural that she should exercise supernatural power. The blind, the lame, the crippled were cured by her touch. I myself--for you may well think that I hastened to see the miracle--saw a lame man throw away his crutch and dance a minuet in honor of the Madonna. There was a blind man who approached with a broad band bound over his eyes. He was led forward to this wonderful hair. Scarcely had the lovely locks touched his face, than he tore the band from his eyes, and shouted with ecstasy--his sight was restored! Thousands, who were upon their knees praying in wrapt devotion, shouted in concert with him, and here and there inspired voices called out: 'The holy Madonna is content with her new servant the bishop! if she were not, she would not perform these miracles.'
These voices fell like a match in this magazine of excitement. Men wept and embraced each other, and thanked G.o.d for the new bishop, whom yesterday they had refused.
”In the meantime, however, there were still some suspicious, distrustful souls who would not admit that the growth of the Madonna's hair was a testimony in favor of the bishop. But these stiff-necked unbelievers, these heartless skeptics, were at last convinced. Two days later this lovely hair had grown perceptibly; and still two days later, it hung in luxurious length and fulness over her shoulders. No one could longer doubt that the Holy Virgin was pleased with her priest. It had often happened that hair had turned gray, or been torn out by the roots in rage and scorn. No one, however, can maintain that the hair grows unless we are in a happy and contented mood. The Madonna, therefore, was pleased. The wondrous growth of her hair enraptured the faithful, and all mankind declared that this holy image cut from a pear-tree, was the Virgin Mary, who with open eyes watched over Breslau, and whose hair grew in honor of the new Bishop Schafgotch--he was now almost adored.
Thousands of the believers surrounded his palace and besought his blessing. It was a beautiful picture of a shepherd and his flock.
The Madonna no longer found it necessary to make her hair grow; one miracle had sufficed, and with the full growth of her hair the archbishop had also grown into importance.”
”But your majesty has not yet named the holy saint at whose intercession this miracle was performed,” said the Marquis D'Argens.
”Graciously disclose the name, that we may pray for pardon and blessing.”
”This holy saint was my friseur” said the king, laughing. ”I made him swear that he would never betray my secret. Every third day, in the twilight, he stole secretly to the church, and placed a new wig upon the Madonna, and withdrew the old one. [Footnote: Authentic addition to the ”History of Frederick the Second.”] You see, messieurs, that not only happiness but piety may hang on a hair, and those holy saints to whom the faithful pray were, without doubt, adroit perruquiers who understand their cue.”
”And who use it as a scourge upon the backs of the pious penitents,”
said Voltaire. ”Ah, sire! your story is as wise as it is piquant--it is another proof that you are a warrior. You have won a spiritual battle with your miraculous wig, a battle against Holy Mother Church.”
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