Chapter XII: Tolstoy (1828–1910) 269 (4)

His next halt was at Prague, where he was received by the Emperor Rudolph II, the patron of Tycho Brahe and Kepler, and a student of philosophy and astronomy as well as of magic and astrology. The Italian philosopher addressed a small work to His Majesty, in which he repeats that his mission is to free the souls of men and to triumph over ignorance: he laments the hateful quarreling of different creeds, and proclaims charity and love to be the only true religion. As he did not meet with sympathy or support in Prague, he passed on to Helmstedt, where the Duke of Brunswick charged him with the education of his son. But here again he got at cross-purposes with the authorities, and this brought down on him a sentence of excommunication. He justified himself, and wrote a scathing attack on the pastor and rector of the University, who were his chief enemies. But it was not possible for him to remain, so he turned his steps toward Frankfort. This town was the center of the German book trade: fairs were held at Easter and Michaelmas, and people came from other countries to try and exchange books, which were still very rare. Bruno published several books here, and one might think he would have been left to pursue his studies without interference. But the burgomaster, or mayor, sternly refused to allow him to lodge with his printer. A convent of Carmelites therefore gave him shelter, and there he is said to have been “busied with writing for the most part all day long, or in going to and fro indulging in subtle inquiries, wrapt in thought and filled with fantastic meditations upon new things.”

It is very curious that Giordano Bruno should ever have been persuaded to return to Italy. But he seems not to have thought it impossible that he could become reconciled to the Church while retaining for himself a certain freedom of thought. No doubt he was also tempted to return by his love of his native land. Yet he must have had a foreboding of the danger he was running when he wrote, on leaving Frankfort: “The wise man fears not death; nay, even there are times when he sets forth to meet it bravely.”

Bruno now made the acquaintance of the traitor by whose falseness he was eventually to be handed over to a cruel fate. Giovanni Mocenigo was a member of one of the foremost Venetian families. But the wisdom of his ancestors, seven of whom had been Doges—that is, chief magistrates—of Venice, had degenerated in him into cunning. He came across Bruno’s books, and out of curiosity, believing that there was something occult and supernatural about Bruno’s teaching, he invited him to come and stay with him in Venice. The philosopher innocently accepted the invitation. His reputation as a man of lively conversation preceded him, and he found himself cordially received in Venetian literary society. But very soon Mocenigo began to grow discontented with his master. He was quite unable to understand his teaching or to profit in the smallest degree by the Art of Memory, which was one of Bruno’s favorite principles of instruction. In fact, the two were completely out of sympathy, and the patron began to insist that he got no return for his generous hospitality. Bruno at first tried to reason with him, but finding him hopelessly dense and narrow-minded, became exasperated and begged he might be set at liberty to return to Frankfort. Mocenigo then determined to betray him because of his religious opinions. He consulted his confessor, and then denounced his unfortunate guest to the Father Inquisitor at Venice as a wicked and irreligious man. Accompanied by his servant and five or six gondoliers, he burst in upon Bruno while he was in bed and dragged him to a garret, where he locked him up. The trial took place in 1592. The charges brought against Giordano Bruno were that he had criticized the methods of the Church, desired and foretold its reform, disputed its doctrines, consorted with heretics, and taught principles which were repugnant to Catholics. The culprit gave a complete account of his life; he said he was sorry if he had done what was wrong or taught what was false, and was ready to atone for any scandal he had given in the past, but he did not retract a single one of his convictions.

It may be well here just to say a word about the Inquisition, which has been so often mentioned and figures so prominently in the history of these times.

The Holy Office, as it was first called, was instituted early in the thirteenth century. Its practical founder was a Spanish monk, Domenigo de Guzman, who afterwards was known as St. Dominic. The Popes at first regarded the institution with disapproval, as it was set up as a quite independent body, and bishops even were not allowed to interfere with its proceedings. Towards the end of the fifteenth century it was re-established on a far more active basis under the Grand Inquisitor Torquemada, who organized the most fiendish cruelties for which any human being has ever been responsible. The object of the Inquisition was to suppress heresy, that is to say, either force people into the Romish Church or, should they refuse, kill them or make their lives intolerable. The mildest form of punishment was called public penitence, which meant being made an outcast in society, closely watched by the ecclesiastical authorities, and heavily fined. Tortures of indescribable kinds were used; people were imprisoned for life or burned alive, though sometimes as a favor they might be strangled before they were burned. The burning of a heretic was a great public function which attracted crowds of spectators. In order to make the pageant more ghastly, grotesque dolls and corpses which had been dug up out of their graves were carried in the procession and made to dance round the flames.

In Spain the Inquisition directed its attention chiefly to Jews and Moors. But it became established in other parts of Europe, notably in the Netherlands and in Italy. Torquemada was Grand Inquisitor for eighteen years. During that time he had 10,220 people burned alive and 97,000 condemned to public penitence or perpetual imprisonment. The Inquisition was far more active and severe in Spain than in Italy, where it dealt chiefly with Protestants. But a resident at Rome in 1568, which is just about the time we are dealing with, wrote: “Some are daily burned, hanged, or beheaded; the prisons and places of confinement are filled, and they are obliged to build new ones.” The independence, the secrecy, and the far-extended power of the Inquisition made it formidable and terrifying while it lasted. The hideous cruelty and savage barbarity of its methods render the story of the Inquisition one of the blackest pages of the history of the world.

From such a body as this there was very little chance that a man with Bruno’s views would receive justice or mercy.

Venice was at this time an independent republic, and was a city of refuge for many who were expelled from other parts of Italy. Rome was jealous of the independent attitude of Venice, and the Pope demanded that all spiritual offenders should be delivered up to him. The Venetian authorities protested in this case, but were obliged to yield. A lawyer who was consulted during the dispute, while acknowledging that Bruno’s errors in heresy were very grave, declared that he possessed “a most excellent rare mind, with exquisite learning and wisdom.”

On his arrival in Rome he was at once cast into a dungeon, as the Pope hoped to break his spirit by prolonged imprisonment. For six whole years (1593 to 1599) nothing was heard of him. What his sufferings were in the dark dungeons of the Inquisition no one can tell. Whatever methods may have been used to overcome his obstinate determination, they were unsuccessful. For when at last he was visited in 1599 he said that “he ought not to recant and he would not recant; that he had nothing to recant, nor any reason to recant, nor knew he what he should recant.” Had he not written, too: “There are men in whom the working of the will of God is so powerful that neither threats nor contumely can cause them to waver. He who fears the body has never felt himself to be one with God. He alone is truly wise and virtuous who fears no pain, and he is happy who regards things with the eye of reason.”

At last sentence of death was passed on him. “Perhaps you pronounce your sentence with greater fear than that with which I receive it,” was his only reply to his inhuman judges. From the presence of the great assemblage of cardinals and theologians who sat in judgment over him, the man whom suffering could not move and for whom the condemnation of such a tribunal was no degradation was led from the judgment hall and handed over to the governor of the city. A day or two more in a solitary cell and the end came.

There was a multitude of pilgrims in Rome at the time. Some fifty cardinals were assembled to celebrate the jubilee of the Pope. The Church was mustered in all its glory. The last agony of the philosopher no doubt served to enhance these triumphant celebrations, although the burning of a heretic was such a common occurrence that it probably caused very little stir. The concluding scene has already been described.

Nearly three hundred years later, in 1889, a statue of Giordano Bruno, a picture of which is reproduced here, was erected on the very spot in the Campo dei Fiori at Rome where he was burned. The world is learning slowly to respect liberty of conscience, to admire sincerity, to detest intolerance, and to stamp out the spirit of persecution. We are beginning to understand that a really religious nature may exist apart from any profession of faith in any particular set of doctrines. And no sensible man now would condemn as wicked and irreligious a courageous thinker who fought throughout his career for freedom and independence of thought, and refused to alter his convictions to please others or even to save his own life.

A. P.

VI

GROTIUS

1583–1645

I shall never cease to use my utmost endeavors for establishing peace
among Christians; and if I should not succeed it will be honorable to
die in such an enterprise.

When we read history, what a lot we have to learn about wars! Invasions and conquests and sieges and battles seem to cover more pages than anything else. I think there is hardly a country in Europe that England has not fought against at one time or another, and not only in Europe, but in Asia, Africa, and America. And although nations are supposed to be getting more civilized, it does not seem to make any difference—they go on fighting one another just the same. If we took the wars from the Roman invasion of Britain down to 1914, it would be a very long list. We might be able to give the dates and name the chief battles, but I doubt if we could always say what was the cause of the war. The causes of war are generally most difficult to discover, and historians become rather confused and obscure when they deal with that part of the subject. The truth is that causes are very difficult to disentangle. Generally there is an occasion as well as a cause. The cause is the general state of feeling that exists between two countries, which again has to be traced back to a number of different incidents and accidents: the occasion may be some quite trifling event, which is just enough to set the fire blazing. Without the occasion the state of feeling might in time improve, and the same trifling event, or a more serious event which concerned two countries who were on friendly terms, might never lead to war at all.

In the more barbarous ages men fought one another because one race hated another race, or wanted to capture its goods and its property. Men walked about ready and eager to fight, and no one wanted to stop them. We pretend we are much more civilized now, and that we do not have these feelings, and yet without these excuses we have constant wars. It does not say much for what we are pleased to call our civilization. Because, after all, killing a large number of people, devastating countries, and destroying homes is not an occupation that any one approves.

Then a period came when kings and great conquerors wanted to win power and renown by leading their armies out to battle and subduing their neighbors. The motive was very much the same as that of the barbarous man, but it was less natural and spontaneous, because the people themselves were less inclined to fight. They were, however, prepared and drilled, and taught that their country’s greatness depended on its power of conquest and the size of its territory.

Then, too, a large number of wars were religious wars. Men feel very deeply about their own religion, and in the Middle Ages they were always ready to fight others who did not share their particular belief. The Crusades were by way of being religious wars, but they were more an opportunity for great fighters to go out and distinguish themselves on the battlefield. Civilized people do not fight about religion now, but there is no subject that makes them quarrel and dispute more violently.

When kings were no longer able to drive their people to fight just to satisfy their personal ambition, and when people became more tolerant about religious differences, other causes for wars arose. Governments became ambitious and wanted their countries to expand and acquire great colonial possessions, and acute rivalry grew up between nations. This was encouraged by the richer classes, who could profit by extended trade, and as the means of communication and of conveyance suddenly became much easier because of steamships, trains, and telegraphy, the desire as well as the possibility of building great Empires was very much increased. The governing classes and those who were rich and idle were not very much concerned about the pressing need for social reform which the vast mass of the people were longing for. They were interested in wars, and they could easily make them popular by means of the newspapers which they had at their command. Meanwhile, the people became gradually more peace-loving. But this made no difference, because they had no say in controlling the relations of their country with other nations; they were very easily misled because of their ignorance of foreign policy and foreign countries, and they could always be roused to fight by being told that their country was in danger.

A disbelief in force was, however, slowly growing up, and people were no longer impressed by the glory of war. In their relations with one another individual men left off fighting, because they found that quarrels were better settled by reason, and they knew that the man who happened to be the strongest physically or the most skillful with arms was not necessarily in the right, though he might kill or maim his opponent.

But while many nations within their own borders were able to establish peaceful relations between their citizens by means of law and order, the relationship between the nations themselves could not be regulated in the same way. In their infancy the nations recognized no law, no regulations for warfare, and no binding sense of obligation. There was no supreme authority who could insist on obedience, and the only way of settling differences was to fight it out. Agreements between one ruler and another were of little value; terrible barbarities and wholesale massacre were resorted to without protest; no sort of code of honor or humanity was recognized, and justification for hideous cruelty was often found by the Church in the pages of the Bible.

At a period when Europe was one broad battlefield, when wars were raging between races, between nations, and between religious sects, and hatred, misery, cruelty, and torture were filling the world with horror, and in a country that was suffering more than any other from these fearful evils, was born a man who, in spite of the darkness around him and in spite of the overwhelming forces which seemed to be subduing mankind, set to work to save civilization from ruin and to establish law and reason in the relations of nations. This man was Huig de Groot, known afterwards to the world as Hugo Grotius, who was born at Delft, in Holland, on Easter Day of 1583. He will be recognized for all time as the founder of international law, and as the first man who awakened the conscience of governments to a higher moral sense, to more humanitarian feelings, and to the recognition of the fact that there was such a thing as international duty. “I saw,” he said, “in the whole Christian world a license of fighting at which even barbarous nations might blush. Wars were begun on trifling pretexts or none at all, and carried on without any reverence of law, Divine or human. A declaration of war seemed to let loose every crime.”

The foundation of his idea was that the Law of Nations, that is to say, the agreements made between governments, should be brought into harmony with the principles of natural morality and the commands of justice written, as he said, by God on the hearts and minds of men. This he called the Law of Nature, which man could discover by right reason. He wanted, in fact, the same ideas of right and wrong which people were taught to adopt in their dealings with one another to be applied to the dealings of one nation with another. Instead of saying that justice, honor, generosity, and friendship meant one thing between man and man and quite another thing between nation and nation, he tried to combine the two and bring the lower one up to the level of the higher. Out of this union between the two sorts of law he hoped to create an international law which would put an end to the unreasonable, uncivilized, and perpetually dangerous relationship which existed between nations.

The great book he wrote was called “De Jure Belli ac Pacis” (Concerning the Law of War and Peace). He collected together in it quotations from a number of great men, and elaborated his argument with wonderful clearness and great learning. He condemned the atrocities of warfare, and more especially he pointed to a way in which war might be avoided. He examined various methods by which international questions might be settled without war, and proposed the idea of conferences and international arbitration. In fact, it may be said that the seed of arbitration was first sown when Grotius wrote the words: “But specially are Christian kings and States bound to try this way of avoiding war.” The book, indeed, in the hands of those who followed him, became a mighty weapon against the follies of rulers and the cruelties of war. It could not have been written by a mere scholar; it was not just a collection of quotations and clever theories; it was the work of a man whose nobility of heart and mind and whose earnestness and unselfishness made his voice echo through the nations and through the ages.

But you, who have known a war compared to which the wars of the past seem as little battles, may well ask whether the ideas of Grotius have really spread and become of any permanent good. Well, I will try to answer that question. The tremendous scale of the great European war of the twentieth century is not a measure of the wicked disposition of the nations concerned, but is due more especially to the easy methods of transport and communication, to the rapid manner in which munitions can be manufactured, and to the diabolical nature of modern inventions and engines of destruction. That war could not be prevented is not due to the frantic desire of the peoples to fight, but to the policy of governments and ministers, to the faulty methods of intercourse between nations, which is called diplomacy, and to the inability of the people to control their governments. So far from this catastrophe showing nations are more evilly disposed towards one another than formerly, it is undoubtedly true that mutual knowledge was beginning to produce a new sympathy and understanding, and though it has been checked, that movement will revive and continue, perhaps with greater vigor.

Although there may be much to alter and much to mend in ways that Grotius never dreamed of, the prospect of the cessation of war is decidedly nearer, in spite of this great failure. Such a prospect may still be very remote—we cannot say—but it is as inevitable as the rising of the sun, and we can either help or hinder its coming. Therefore, in considering the fact that the mind of man has been slowly preparing for the abolition of the rule of force and the establishment of the reign of reason, and that moral law has been slowly but surely gaining ground over belief in violence, we should ever turn with gratitude to the man who took the first and most difficult step, and who had sufficient foresight and courage, when things seemed most hopeless, to look into the future.

The publication of such a book naturally caused a great stir. It came out in 1625, and was immediately placed by the Pope upon the Index—that is, the list of books which Catholics were forbidden to read. It was not a popular book in the sense that it could be read by every one. The appeal was to thinking men. Its influence therefore was very gradual. But slowly the ideas set forth by Grotius found their way into laws and into treaties, and eminent lawyers in European universities took the great work as a starting-point of the further development of principles of international law. There are two interesting instances of how the influence of the book was immediately felt. Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, who was the greatest general of the time, made a careful study of “De Jure Belli ac Pacis”: he kept it by his bedside, and it was found in his tent after his death on the field of Lützen. Gustavus constantly stood for mercy, and began on a large scale the better conduct of modern war. He made speeches to his soldiers dissuading them from cruelty or rebuking them for it.

The other instance was in the case of the capture of La Rochelle by Cardinal Richelieu, who governed France in the name of Louis XIII. La Rochelle was the stronghold of French Protestantism. All Europe expected that the inhabitants would be massacred, in accordance with the spirit of cruel intolerance which was usual at that time, and which would certainly be expected from the merciless Cardinal. But to the amazement of the world there were no massacre, no destruction, and no plunder, and the Huguenots were treated with mercy and even respect. At a later period, indeed, Cardinal Richelieu freed the writings of Grotius from the French censorship, and declared him one of the three great scholars of his time.

The Treaty of Westphalia, which closed the Thirty Years War in 1648, may be added as another instance of how Grotius had brought in a new epoch in international affairs, for it contained principles which he had been the first to bring into the thought of the world. Nevertheless, the immediate influence of Grotius’ book was not so great as the lasting service he rendered in laying the foundation of a new science of International Law, on which succeeding generations slowly built up and strengthened the sense of morality between nations. There is still very much to be added; and new problems and new conditions require new plans and new designs. But the foundation was well laid and can never be shifted.

The book was criticized by some who declared that it was just a shapeless collection of quotations, and that the argument was lost under the mass of extracts from other authorities. It is true that its arrangement and style were rather heavy and clumsy, and there is much in the book that may appear to us, three hundred years afterwards, as rather crude, but attack has come for the most part from those who are quite unable to understand the high ideal toward which Grotius was reaching out. A prominent English international jurist, Sir James Mackintosh, has declared that this great work “is perhaps the most complete that the world has yet owed, at so early a stage in the progress of any science, to the genius and learning of one man.”

Now, I must give you some account of the life of the writer of this famous book. As you may imagine, a man of such decided character, who had the courage to express new and original views, was not allowed to live in peace and quiet.

His father, John de Groot, was four times burgomaster of Delft and one of the curators of the University of Leyden. He was a great scholar, and acted as tutor to his son Hugo. At a very early age the boy showed the most extraordinary powers. At ten, his Latin verses were praised by learned men; at eleven, poets declared that he would be a second Erasmus; at twelve, he was admitted to the University of Leyden. He was, in fact, very precocious. It very often happens with precocious children that they are made to show off, and are so spoilt by their parents that they become conceited, and when they grow up they disappoint the expectations formed about them when they were young. But his parents were sensible, and he himself was naturally humble and modest, and so he continued his studies and enriched his mind without any harm being done to his character. He produced immense learned books on many different subjects, and at the age of fifteen held public disputes in mathematics, philosophy, and law.

In 1598 he was appointed to accompany a special Embassy which was being sent by the Netherlands to the King of France, Henry IV. His reputation had gone before him. The men of the day crowded to see him, and the King received him and with his own hand hung his portrait round the youth’s neck. So much flattery might easily have turned his head, but he already showed a calm judgment and the wisdom of a man of long experience. He did not loiter in this pleasant atmosphere, but returned to his work in Holland. But there was another danger before him. He might have buried himself in his studies, and, like other learned men of his time, and, indeed, of all times, accumulated a lot of useless knowledge. So many great scholars have become experts in some particular subject, and have shut themselves off from contact with their fellow-men. Their mind becomes their idol, and they fail to see that mere brain-power is of little service if it is not used for some great purpose, and if it is not inspired by moral and humane sentiments. Grotius avoided this course; he was anxious for active life, and wanted to join in and help his country and humanity in some practical way. He had avoided becoming a prig, a prodigy, or a bookworm, and when he took up the career of a lawyer he also avoided using his rapid promotion for the purpose of money-making and personal success. His extraordinary talents were like the spreading sails of a ship. They might have capsized him if he had not had plenty of ballast.

How little he thought of fame and applause, and how he worked for true knowledge and in order to prepare himself for the future, is shown by the discovery at The Hague, two hundred years later, of a manuscript of a big book written by him when he was twenty-two, but never published. One of the chapters of this book he issued as a treatise under the title of “Mare Liberum.” It was an argument against the claim made by some nations, specially Portugal at this time, that the seas could be owned by a nation, and that no other nation could fish in them or navigate them without her permission. Grotius maintained the freedom of the seas was necessary to enable nations to communicate with one another, and it could not be taken away by any power whatever. James I very much disapproved of this book, as he thought it interfered with the rights of Great Britain. He ordered his Ambassador in Holland to take measures against the author. But as nothing could be done, the King instructed the great English lawyer, John Selden, to write a reply, which he did in a learned book called “Mare Clausum.” But Grotius really had the best of the argument, and his view was eventually adopted.

Grotius, who had now gained an international reputation, was given various high appointments, such as Public Historiographer, Attorney-General for the province of Holland, and councilor of Rotterdam. He went to England and was received by the King with the greatest cordiality, in spite of the recent dispute. He made many friends in England, notably with the celebrated scholar, Isaac Casaubon, who expressed the highest opinion of the great Dutchman in a letter written in April, 1613. He says:

I cannot say how happy I esteem myself in having seen so much of one
so truly great as Grotius. A wonderful man! This I knew him to be
before I had seen him; but the rare excellence of that divine genius
no one can sufficiently feel who does not see his face and hear him
speak. Probity is stamped on his features; his conversation savors of
true piety and profound learning. It is not only upon me that he has
made this impression; all the pious and learned to whom he has been
introduced here have felt the same towards him; the King especially
so.

Grotius returned to his country, where serious trouble awaited him. The cause of it all was, to begin with, a religious squabble between two sects, the one followers of Arminius, who believed in free-will, the other followers of Gomarus, who believed in predestination. This senseless dispute on a question which can never be settled—that is to say, whether man is free to shape his own destiny or whether his acts are all fated beforehand by God—was only an excuse for a quarrel between the more bigoted and intolerant religious sects who sided with Gomarus and the freer and more broadminded who followed Arminius. The whole country was convulsed by the controversy. The Arminians drew up a Remonstrance, which was answered by a Counter Remonstrance, and the Parliament issued an Edict of Pacification, urging tolerance and forbearance, which was largely due to the influence of Grotius.

Advantage was taken of this disturbance by Prince Maurice of Orange, the second son of William the Silent. He was an accomplished soldier, but a weak and untrustworthy statesman, and thought it a good opportunity to assert himself and satisfy his personal ambition to become a monarch. He undertook what he was pleased to call a pacific campaign, and seeing that the Gomarists were more popular than their opponents, many of whom favored a republic rather than a monarchy, he practically took their side.

Olden Barneveld, the Grand Pensionary, who now led the opposition to the Prince, is one of the notable figures in the history of the Netherlands. He was an old and experienced minister, a true patriot, a humane and broadminded man, who had rendered the most distinguished service to his country. The Gomarists sided with the Prince, the Arminians with the Grand Pensionary. Grotius unhesitatingly followed Olden Barneveld, and struggled with all his great powers for peace and toleration. He had conferences with Prince Maurice, headed a deputation, made eloquent appeals, but all in vain. The Prince continued his campaign, the civic guards were disarmed and disbanded wherever they resisted him. Barneveld and Grotius, and also Hoogerbertz of Leyden, who had joined them, were arrested and taken to the castle at The Hague. Barneveld, now an old man of over seventy, was subjected to twenty-three examinations, during which he was neither allowed to take down questions in writing, to make memoranda of his answers, nor to refer to notes. In spite of his reputation, his services, and his advanced age, he was condemned to death and executed. From the scaffold he cried to the spectators: “My friends, believe not that I am a traitor. I have lived a good patriot, and such I die.” Grotius was condemned to imprisonment for life and his property was confiscated. Their followers were seized, imprisoned, or banished to neighboring countries, just as the Puritans were driven from England and the Huguenots from France.

It was in June, 1619, that Grotius was shut up in the fortress of Louvenstein; he was only thirty-six, and he had no prospect now before him but that of lifelong captivity. Eleven years before he had married Marie Reigersberg, a lady of great intelligence and high character. She now stepped in, showed wonderful ingenuity, and played a very courageous part in her husband’s fortunes.

Pressure had been brought to bear on her after the execution of Barneveld. The scaffold on which he had been executed was left standing for fifteen days, so as to frighten the other prisoners. Grotius’ wife was specially urged to get an acknowledgment of guilt from her husband and solicit a pardon for him, and promises were held out to her of a favorable hearing on the part of the Prince of Orange. But she stoutly refused to cast this dishonor on her husband, and with fierce resolution declared: “I will not do it—if he has deserved it, let them strike off his head.”

In the prison of Louvenstein Grotius found consolation in his studies. He never yielded to despair, but occupied his whole time reading, composing, and translating. His devoted wife, after several petitions, at last received permission to share his captivity, on the condition that if she came out she would not be allowed to return. She made friends with the jailer’s wife and others who might be of use, and after nearly two years she thought out a method of escape. The prisoner was allowed books. These were sent in a large chest, and those he had done with were sent back, together with his washing, to Gorcum. After a time Marie Grotius noticed that the warders let the chest pass without opening it. One day she persuaded her husband, after much entreaty, to get into the chest, in which she had had some holes bored. She locked it up and asked the soldiers to come in and carry it out as usual. It was a great risk, for she must have known that, had her plot been discovered, she and her husband would suffer heavy penalties. She must have exercised great self-control to prevent herself showing any sign of agitation or excitement. The soldiers complained that the chest was unusually heavy. “There must be an Arminian in it,” said one of them jestingly. Madame Grotius replied calmly, “There are indeed Arminian books in it.” There was a river to be crossed, and the chest was put in a boat. The soldiers declared it ought to be opened, but a maid and a valet who were in the plot managed to prevent this. The precious load was to be taken to the house of one of Grotius’ friends in Gorcum. But if it was to be heaved about like ordinary luggage, what would happen to the unfortunate captive inside, who was terribly cramped as it was? The maid had great presence of mind, and told the people on the shore that the chest was full of glass, and must be moved with particular care. So they got a horse-chair and shifted it very carefully to the appointed place. Grotius’ friend received the chest, and after he had sent all his servants out on various errands, opened it and greeted the escaped prisoner with open arms.

Grotius declared he was none the worse for the adventure, although he had naturally felt anxious lest he might be discovered. There was no time to be lost; he disguised himself as a mason, carrying a rule, hod, and trowel, and went out of the back door, accompanied by the maid, who did not leave him until he had reached safety. Then she returned to his wife and told her how successfully the plot had worked. Marie Grotius immediately informed the governor of the prison that her husband had escaped. She was placed in close confinement, but after a few days, by order of the States General, she was released and joined her husband, who had gone to Paris after spending a day or two at Antwerp.

On arriving in France, Louis XIII gave Grotius a cordial welcome, and a high pension was conferred on him. French pensions were easily granted, all the more so as they were rarely paid. It was in France, at the château of Balagni, which had been lent to him, that Grotius gave final shape to the great work of his life, the book on war and peace which I have already mentioned. A man treated as he had been might have been tempted to indulge in an attack on the authorities; he might have occupied his time satirizing his enemies and scoffing at the many signs of human folly he saw around him. But he did nothing of the sort. After writing an apology defending himself against the charges brought against him, he worked day and night to reconstruct, reform, and improve the foundations of human society. The book brought him in no profit whatever in the way of money, but it brought him reputation so widely spread and of such a lasting nature as no other legal work has ever enjoyed. He did not contemplate immediate success, but even so, he said, “ought we not to sow the seed which may be useful for posterity.”

But Grotius and his wife were very badly off, as the pension was paid irregularly. Cardinal Richelieu wanted to make use of his talents, but the terms he demanded, which would have deprived Grotius from having any freedom, prevented any such arrangement being possible. Accordingly, the Cardinal made things uncomfortable for him, and Grotius decided once more to attempt to live in his native land. But his reception in Holland was anything but cordial. His enemies were active, and the States General offered a high reward to any one who would deliver him up to them. So again he became an exile, and took refuge this time in Hamburg. He hoped his countrymen might return to reason, and so refused flattering offers made to him by the King of Denmark, by Spain, and even by Wallenstein, who was practically dictator of Germany.

At last he gave up all hope and entered the service of Sweden as Ambassador in Paris. Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden had died, and his only child Christina became Queen. During her childhood the Chancellor Oxenstiern acted as Regent. Grotius received his appointment from him in 1635. His mission was important and somewhat delicate. He had to keep up an active alliance between France and Sweden. Cardinal Richelieu was not easy to deal with, but the Ambassador showed his usual qualities of moderation and firmness, and succeeded towards the close of his embassy in renewing the treaty between Sweden and France on terms which were considered to do great honor to his diplomatic talents. He was troubled a good deal by the etiquette and ceremonial of diplomacy, and became involved in foolish disputes about rank and ceremonial questions, to which diplomatists have always attributed an exaggerated amount of importance. We can imagine that Grotius, with his clear mind and disregard of trivialities, may have offended his colleagues. It must have irritated them to associate with a man who, instead of chattering nonsense while waiting in the ante-rooms at court, would sit apart studying his Greek Testament.

He remained in the Swedish service for about ten years, but the life became irksome to him; the Swedish Government were inclined to think that a man who devoted so much of his time to writing could not give sufficient attention to diplomatic work, and at last Grotius applied for his recall. This was granted by Queen Christina, who had a very high opinion of the Ambassador, and received him in Stockholm on his return with every mark of favor. On quitting France, he passed on his way to Sweden through Amsterdam and Rotterdam, where he was more kindly received. The Queen of Sweden did her best to persuade Grotius to remain in her service as a Councilor of State, but he was bent on returning to Holland. Accordingly, on August 12, 1645, having received presents of money and plate from the Queen, he embarked for Lübeck. A violent storm drove the vessel on to the Pomeranian coast. Grotius, after a journey in an open wagon through wind and rain, arrived very ill at Rostock. Here he died in the presence of a Lutheran pastor, John Quistorp, who has left an account of his last moments. Quistorp, at his bedside, read him the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican, ending with the words, “God be merciful to me, a sinner,” and the dying scholar and statesman answered, “I am that Publican.” After repeating a prayer with the pastor, Grotius sank exhausted and breathed his last. He was buried first of all at Rostock, but as his wish was to rest in his native soil, his body was taken after a time to the Netherlands. It is difficult to believe, were it not historically true, that as the coffin was borne through the city of Rotterdam stones were thrown at it by the bigoted mob. It was laid finally in a crypt beneath the great church of Delft, his birthplace. The remains of two great champions of liberty and justice lie beneath the same roof, for close by the grave of Grotius is the sculptured tomb of William the Silent. His wife died shortly afterwards at The Hague. She had stood by him in the hour of need, encouraged him, consoled him, and helped him, and the story of his life will never be read without praise being given to the noble part she played in it.

I have said very little about the writings of Grotius, because it is impossible to describe fully all the learned books he brought out. Just as in the field of politics he worked for pacification, so in the world of religion he endeavored to the utmost of his ability to produce universal peace. He tried to find a simple statement of belief to which all contending parties would agree, and published a book called “The Road to Religious Peace.” “Perhaps,” he said, “by writing to reconcile such as entertain very opposite sentiments, I shall offend both parties: but if that should so happen I shall comfort myself with the example of him who said, ‘If I please men I am not the servant of Christ.’” He did offend both parties. No mere form of words can reconcile deep-seated differences in religious sentiment. Others before Grotius, and many too since, have made the same attempt to bring the different sections of religious thought together, but none have succeeded. The only advance that has been made has been an increase in the spirit of tolerance, which tends to prevent any outrageous persecution of one sect by another.

It seems curious that Christians, who people the nations which are by way of being the most civilized, should be more torn with religious discord, and should be more responsible for the world’s wars, than the peoples of other religions who inhabit the globe. They pretend to be followers of the Prince of Peace and to believe in the brotherhood of mankind, while the Church of Christ has become split into an ever-increasing number of warring sects, and the jealousy and enmity of nations are allowed to break into ever more ferocious armed conflict and mutual massacre.

The hope of improvement in these fundamental human relationships, national and religious, depends to a large extent on the number of men who are wise or farsighted enough to turn the mind of man away from the differences that lead to division and to strengthen the forces that lead to unity—in fact, to substitute harmony for discord. But the work will always progress slowly, because there are still so many natures which prefer fighting just from the love of quarreling, and they turn their anger against a conciliator even more violently than against those with whom they bitterly disagree.

Grotius himself saw no apparent result of his great work, and time alone has proved in his case that the originator of great ideals and the worker for truth leaves to the world a gift for which countless generations that succeed him are grateful, though he may only receive scoffs and rebuke from men of his own time.

Unlike Giordano Bruno and Voltaire, he did not turn his talents into weapons of attack and destruction. He respected other people’s opinions, and was able to judge with impartiality his worst enemies. This is an extremely rare quality in one who is engaged in controversy. For instance, in his history of the Netherlands, he commented without a trace of ill-will on the policy and even praised the services as commander and patriot of Maurice of Orange—the man who had unjustly deprived him of his home, his property, and his freedom. No personal petty spite could disturb his judgment. With deep penetration he recognized that the spirit of the age was clouded by want of reason, and nations and individuals were forced unnecessarily into strife from want of proper guidance. His high-minded character, his well-balanced judgment, and his disinterested motive gave Grotius a reserve of strength and a noble resolution which few have possessed in the same degree or used with equal effect.

A. P.

VII

VOLTAIRE

1694–1778

I have no scepter, but I have a pen.

Of the twelve men written of in this book, with the exception of Tolstoy, who died recently, Voltaire will probably be the best known by name. He is rather different from most of the others, because he preferred to try and reach men’s minds by argument rather than their hearts by religious appeal. He was a great disturber of smug, self-satisfied opinion; he knew how utterly fatal were laziness of mind and stagnation of ideas. He wanted to disturb, to annoy, to provoke, and, more even than any of the others, he succeeded in his object.

In his long life he wrote an astonishing number of letters, poems, plays, and pamphlets, and he wrote very beautifully. But his fame does not rest on his literary genius. Had his works all been romances and plays, and were he to be judged on his merits as a writer, genius though he was, there are many greater geniuses than he. It was his striking personality, his startling opinions, and his daring and original arguments which gained for him his reputation and his extraordinary influence. In fact, the middle of the eighteenth century in France is known as “the age of Voltaire.” Of course, he made many bitter enemies, and to this day his opinions are warmly disputed. His method was often unnecessarily provocative. He was stingingly satirical; he scoffed, he jeered, he ridiculed his opponents, and by the brilliant thrusts of his pointed wit cut them to the quick. On the whole, his object was more to destroy than to construct, and he left no new scheme or systems of belief, of thought or policy for others to follow when his personal influence had passed away. Although there is a good deal that is far from admirable in his career, the force of his personality was so great that he could not be ignored, and all he wrote and all he said was eagerly read and listened to by every one. He loathed shams and superstitions, and he fought most vehemently in his later life against injustice and oppression. In fact, he was a strange mixture. One can hardly believe that the sly, fawning courtier can be the same man as the bold and courageous champion of liberty and justice, or that the mischievous joker and the great dramatist are one and the same person. In his long life he went through different phases, but taking him as a whole, he stands out as the principal figure of the eighteenth century in Europe.

Voltaire’s real name was François Marie Arouet. He was the youngest of the five children of a well-to-do solicitor, and was born in Paris on November 21, 1694. He had to be hurriedly baptized, as no one expected that the puny little infant would live. His first teacher was his godfather, a rather disreputable priest, called Châteauneuf, and he was taught at an early age that religion, as it existed in France at that time, was mere superstition and pretense. His mother died when he was seven, and at the age of ten he was sent off to a large Jesuit college, where, as he afterwards tells us, he learned “Latin and nonsense.” His quick wits, however, made him absorb an immense quantity of information; and instead of playing with the other boys, he would walk and talk with the masters. One of them said at the time, “That boy wants to weigh the great questions of Europe in his little scales.” The verses he wrote brought him into prominence, and his godfather introduced him to Ninon de l’Enclos, a famous old lady of nearly eighty, who was still the center of the most brilliant society in Paris. When she died, a few months later, she left him two thousand francs with which to buy books.

Acting at school encouraged in him a love of drama, and he soon began to try his hand at writing plays. He was only twelve when he wrote a petition in verse to the King, asking for a pension for an old soldier. Louis XIV read it, and the old soldier got his pension. His father wanted him to be a lawyer, and laughed at the idea of his becoming an author; but although he was made to study law, the boy stood up to the rough old man and refused to give in. He soon got into a very gay but very frivolous society, which he amused by his audacity and wit. Sometimes he would return home very late from his orgies, and father Arouet would lock him out so that he had to walk the streets all night. In fact, the peppery old father and the mad young scapegrace were perpetually quarreling. The boy was irrepressible, and it was useless his father trying to subject him to discipline. He was given a post as attaché to the Ambassador to the Netherlands, but this did not last. He occupied himself in a purely frivolous way, had a love affair with a young lady at The Hague, and was sent home again. On his return he was invited to a castle at Fontainebleau where there was a magnificent library. Here this surprising young gentleman began working very seriously at some of the greatest of the books he produced in after-life.

In an age when any free expression of ideas was liable to be severely punished it was fairly probable that such a young man as this would get into trouble. Curiously enough, young Arouet’s first experience of prison came about in consequence of the publication of a poem which he had not written. The poem was a satire on the Regent Orleans who ruled over France while Louis XV was still a child. Suspicion fell on him, and he was locked up in the Bastille, the fortress into which many innocent men were cast and often forgotten. He was not allowed pen and ink for some time, but his active brain and wonderful memory allowed him to conceive and invent many things which he afterwards produced in writing. His imprisonment lasted a year, and he came out with his name changed to Voltaire, supposed to be an anagram on Arouet, L. J. (le jeune).

His father was enraged at his imprisonment. “I told you so! I knew his idleness would lead to disgrace,” he said. But the boy did not feel at all disgraced. When he came home he set to work, and before the end of the year he brought out his first play, _Œdipe_, which was the real beginning of his brilliant career.