Vinaire's Blog

Reference: The Story of Philosophy

This paper presents Chapter VII Section 4.1 from the book THE STORY OF PHILOSOPHY by WILL DURANT. The  contents are from the 1933 reprint of this book by TIME INCORPORATED by arrangement with Simon and Schuster, Inc.

The paragraphs of the original material (in black) are accompanied by brief comments (in color) based on the present understanding.

.

IV. The World as Will

1. The Will to Live

Almost without exception, philosophers have placed the essence of mind in thought and consciousness; man was the knowing animal, the animal rationale. “This ancient and universal radical error, this enormous proton pseudos, [first lie, Initial mistake] … must before everything be set aside.”* “Consciousness is the mere surface of our minds, of which, as of the earth, we do not know the inside but only the crust.” Under the conscious intellect is the conscious or unconscious will, a striving, persistent vital force, a spontaneous activity, a will of imperious desire. The intellect may seem at times to lead the will, but only as a guide leads his master; the will “is the strong blind man who carries on his shoulders the lame man who can see.” We do not want a thing because we have found reasons for it, we find reasons for it because we want it; we even elaborate philosophies and theologies to cloak our desires. Hence Schopenhauer calls man the “metaphysical animal”: other animals desire without metaphysics. “Nothing is more provoking, when we are arguing against a man with reasons and explanations, and taking all pains to convince him, than to discover at last that he will not understand, that ‘We have to do with his will.” Hence the uselessness of logic: no one ever convinced anybody by logic; and even logicians use logic only as a source of income. To convince a man, you must appeal to his self-interest, his desires, his will. Observe how long we remember our victories, and how soon we forget our defeats; memory is the menial of will.” “In doing accounts we make mistakes much oftener in our own favor than to our disadvantage; and this without the slightest dishonest intention.” “On the other hand, the understanding of the stupidest man becomes keen when objects are in question that closely concern his wishes”; in general, the intellect is developed by danger, as in the fox, or by want, as in the criminal. But always it seems subordinate and instrumental to desire; when it attempts to displace the will, confusion follows. No one is more liable to mistakes than he who acts only on reflection. 

*Schopenhauer forgets (or does he take his lead from?) Spinoza’s emphatic statement: “Desire is the very essence of man.” Fichte had also emphasized the will. 

We do not want a thing because we have found reasons for it, we find reasons for it because we want it. Hence the uselessness of logic: no one ever convinced anybody by logic. To convince a man, you must appeal to his self-interest, his desires, his will. Schopenhauer’s will appears to be the same thing as the reactive mind of Hubbard. 

Consider the agitated strife of men for food, mates, or children; can this be the work of reflection? Certainly not; the cause is the half conscious will to live, and to live fully. “Men are only apparently drawn from in front; in reality they are pushed from behind”; they think they are led on by what they see, when in truth they are driven on by what they feel,—by instincts of whose operation they are half the time unconscious. Intellect is merely the minister of foreign affairs; “nature has ‘Produced it for the service of the individual will. Therefore it is only designed to know things so far as they afford motives for the will, but not to fathom them or to comprehend their true being.” “The will is the only permanent and unchangeable element in the mind; … it is the will which,” through continuity of purpose, “gives unity to consciousness and holds together all its ideas and thoughts, ac- companying them like a continuous harmony.” It is the organ-point of thought. 

The cause of the agitated strife of men for food, mates, or children is the half conscious will to live. They are driven on by instincts of whose operation they are half the time unconscious. “The will is the only permanent and unchangeable element in the mind.”

Character lies in the will, and not in the intellect; character too is continuity of purpose and attitude: and these are will. Popular language is correct when it prefers the ”heart” to the “head”; it knows (because it has not reasoned about it) that a “good will” is profounder and more reliable than a clear mind; and when it calls a man “shrewd,” “knowing,” or “cunning” it implies its suspicion and dislike. “Brilliant qualities of mind win admiration, but never affection”; and “all religions promise a reward … for excellences of the Will or heart, but none for excellences of the head or understanding.” 

Popular language correctly prefers the ”heart” (will) to the “head” (intellect). A “good will” is profounder and more reliable than a clear mind.

Even the body is the product of the will. The blood, pushed on by that will which we vaguely call life, builds its own vessels by wearing grooves in the body of the embryo; the grooves deepen and close up, and become arteries and veins. The will to know builds the brain just as the will to grasp forms the hand, or as the will to eat develops the digestive. tract.* Indeed, these pairs—these forms of will and these forms of flesh—are but two sides of one process and reality. The relation is best seen in emotion, where the feeling and the internal bodily changes form one complex unit.** 

*This is the Lamarckian view of growth and evolution as due to desires and functions compelling structures and begetting organs. 
**A source for the James-Lange theory of emotion?

The act of will and the movement of the body are not two different things objectively known, which the bond of causality unites; they do not stand in the relation of cause and effect; they are one and the same, but they are given in entirely different ways,—immediately, and again in perception. … The action of the body is nothing but the act of the will objectified. This is true of every movement of the body; … the whole body is nothing but objectified will. … The parts of the body must therefore completely correspond to the principal desires through which the will manifests itself; they must be the visible expression of these desires. Teeth, throat and bowels are objectified hunger; the organs of generation are objectified sexual desire. … The whole nervous system constitutes the antennae of the will, which it stretches within and without. … As the human body generally corresponds to the human will generally, so the individual bodily structure corresponds to the individually modified will, the character of the individual.

Even the body is the product of the will. 

The intellect tires, the will never; the intellect needs sleep, but the will works even in sleep. Fatigue, like pain, has its seat in the brain; muscles not connected with the cerebrum (like the heart) never tire.* In sleep the brain feeds; but the will requires no food. Hence the need for sleep is greatest in brain-workers. (This fact, however, “must not mislead us into extending sleep unduly; for then it loses in intensity … and becomes mere loss of time.”) In sleep the life of man sinks to the vegetative level, and then “the will works according to its original and essential nature, undisturbed from without, with no diminution of its power through the activity of the brain and the exertion of knowing, which is the heaviest organic function; … therefore in sleep the whole power of the will is directed to the maintenance and improvement of the organism. Hence all healing, all favorable crises, take place in sleep.” Burdach was right when he declared sleep to be the original state. The embryo sleeps almost continuously, and the infant most of the time. Life is “a struggle against sleep: at first we win ground from it, which in the end it recovers. Sleep is a morsel of death borrowed to keep up and renew that part of life which has been exhausted by the day.” It is our eternal foe; even when we are awake it possesses us partly. After all, what is to be expected of heads even the wisest of which is every night the scene of the strangest and the most senseless dreams, and which has to take up its meditations again on awakening from them?”

*But is there no such thing as the satiation or exhaustion of desire? In profound fatigue or sickness even the wlll to live fades. 

The intellect tires, the will never; the intellect needs sleep, but the will works even in sleep.

Will, then, is the essence of man. Now what if it is also the essence of life in all its forms, and even of “inanimate” matter? What if will is the long-sought-for, the long-despaired-of, “thing-in-itself,”—the ultimate inner reality and secret essence of all things? 

Let us try, then, to interpret the external world in terms of will. And let us go at once to the bottom; where others have said that will is a form of force let us say that force is a form of will. To Hume’s question—What is causality?—we shall answer, Will. As will is the universal cause in ourselves, so is it in things; and unless we so understand cause as will, causality will remain only a magic and mystic formula, really meaningless. Without this secret we are driven to mere occult qualities like “force,” or “gravity,” or “affinity”; we do not know what these forces are, but we know—at least a little more clearly—what will is; let us say, then, that repulsion and attraction, combination and decomposition, magnetism and electricity, gravity and crystallization, are Will. Goethe expressed this idea in the title of one of his novels, when he called the irresistible attraction of lovers die Wahlverwandschaften—“elective affinities.” The force which draws the lover, and the force which draws the planet, are one. 

As will is the universal cause in ourselves, so is it in things. Repulsion and attraction, combination and decomposition, magnetism and electricity, gravity and crystallization, are Will. The force which draws the lover, and the force which draws the planet, are one. 

So in plant life. The lower we go among the forms of life the smaller we find the role of intellect; but not so with will. 

That which in us pursues its ends by the light of knowledge, but here … only strives blindly and dumbly in a one-sided and unchangeable manner, must yet in both cases come under the name of Will. … Unconsciousness is the original and natural condition of all things, and therefore also the basis from which, in particular species of beings, consciousness results as their highest efflorescence; wherefore even then unconsciousness always continues to predominate. Accordingly, most existences are without consciousness; but yet they act according to the laws of their nature,—i. e., of their will. Plants have at most a very weak analogue of consciousness; the lowest species of animals only the dawn of it. But even after it has ascended through the whole series of animals to man and his reason; the unconsciousness of plants, from which it started, still remains the foundation, and may be traced in the necessity, for sleep.

The lower we go among the forms of life the smaller we find the role of intellect; but not so with will. Consciousness appears only in the highest forms of life.

Aristotle was right: there is a power within that moulds every form, in plants and planets, in animals and men. “The instinct of animals in general gives us the best illustration of what remains of teleology in nature. For as instinct is an action similar to that which is guided by the conception of an end, and yet is entirely without this; so all construction in nature resembles that which is guided by the conception of an end, and yet is entirely without it.” The marvelous mechanical skill of animals shows how prior the will is to the intellect. An elephant which had been led through Europe, and had crossed hundreds of bridges, refused to advance upon a weak bridge, though it had seen many horses and men crossing it. A young dog fears to jump down from the table; it foresees the effect of the fall not by reasoning (for it has no experience of such a fall) but by instinct. Orangoutangs warm themselves by a fire which they find, but they do not feed the fire; obviously, then, such actions are instinctive, and not the result of reasoning; they are the expression not of intellect but of will.

Instincts are the expression not of intellect but of will. The marvelous mechanical skill of animals shows how prior the will is to the intellect. 

The will, of course, is a will to live, and a will to maximum life. How dear life is to all living things!—and with what silent patience it will bide its time! “For thousands of years galvanism slumbered in copper and zinc, and they lay quietly beside silver, which must be consumed in flame as soon as all three are brought together under the required conditions. Even in the organic kingdom we see a dry seed preserve the slumbering force of life through three thousand years, and, when at last the favorable circumstances occur, grow up as a plant.” Living toads found in limestone lead to the conclusion that even animal life is capable of suspension for thousands of years. The will is a will to live; and its eternal enemy is death. 

To Schopenhauer any force exists because of will. The will is a will to live; and its eternal enemy is death. 

But perhaps it can defeat even death?

.

Reference: The Story of Philosophy

This paper presents Chapter VII Section 2 from the book THE STORY OF PHILOSOPHY by WILL DURANT. The  contents are from the 1933 reprint of this book by TIME INCORPORATED by arrangement with Simon and Schuster, Inc.

The paragraphs of the original material (in black) are accompanied by brief comments (in color) based on the present understanding.

.

II. The Man

Schopenhauer was born at Dantzig on February 22, 1788. His father was a merchant noted for ability, hot temper, independence of character, and love of liberty. He moved from Dantzig to Hamburg when Arthur was five years old, because Dantzig lost its freedom in the annexation of Poland in 1798. Young Schopenhauer, therefore, grew up in the midst of business and finance; and though he soon abandoned the mercantile career into which his father had pushed him, it left its mark upon him in a certain bluntness of manner, a realistic turn of mind, a knowledge of the world and of men; it made him the antipodes of that closet or academic type of philosopher whom he so despised. The father died, apparently by his own hand, in 1805. The paternal grandmother had died insane. 

Young Schopenhauer grew up in the midst of business and finance; and it left its mark upon him in a certain bluntness of manner, a realistic turn of mind, a knowledge of the world and of men.

“The character or will,” says Schopenhauer, “is inherited from the father; the intellect from the mother.” The mother had intellect—she became one of the most popular novelists of her day—but she had temperament and temper too. She had been unhappy with her prosaic husband; and when he died she took to free love, and moved to Weimar as the fittest climate for that sort of life. Arthur Schopenhauer reacted to this as Hamlet to his mother’s re-marriage; and his quarrels with his mother taught him a large part of those half-truths about women with which he was to season his philosophy. One of her letters to him reveals the state of their affairs: “You are unbearable and burdensome, and very hard to live with; all your good qualities are over-shadowed by your conceit, and made useless to the world simply because you cannot restrain your propensity to pick holes in other people.” So they arranged to live apart; he was to come only to her “at homes,” and be one guest among others; they could then be as polite to each other as strangers, instead of hating each other like relatives. Goethe, who liked Mme. Schopenhauer because she let him bring his Christiane with him, made matters worse by telling the mother that her son would become a very famous man; the mother had never heard of two geniuses in the same family. Finally, in some culminating quarrel, the mother pushed her son and rival down the stairs; whereupon our philosopher bitterly informed her that she would be known to posterity only through him. Schopenhauer quitted Weimar soon afterward; and though the mother lived twenty-four years more, he never saw her again. Byron, also a child of 1788, seems to have had similar luck with his mother. These men were almost by this circumstance doomed to pessimism; a man who has not known a mother’s love—and worse, has known a mother’s hatred—has no cause to be infatuated with the world.

Schopenhauer had a difficult time with his mother who took to free love after his father died. He never knew a mother’s love and ended up breaking his relationship with her. This doomed him to pessimism.

Meanwhile Schopenhauer had gone through “gymnasium” and university, and had learned more than was on their schedules. He had his fling at love and the world, with results that affected his character and his philosophy. He became gloomy, cynical, and suspicious; he was obsessed with fears and evil fancies; he kept his pipes under lock and key, and never trusted his neck to a barber’s razor; and he slept with loaded pistols at his bedside—presumably for the convenience of the burglar. He could not bear noise: “I have long held the opinion,” he writes, ”that the amount of noise which anyone can bear undisturbed stands in inverse proportion to his mental capacity, and may therefore be regarded as a pretty fair measure of it. … Noise is a torture to all intellectual people. … The superabundant display of vitality which takes the form of knocking, hammering, and tumbling things about, has proved a daily torment to me all my life long.” He had an almost paranoiac sense of unrecognized greatness; missing success and fame, he turned within and gnawed at his own soul. 

His education, relations and experiences turned Schopenhauer into a  gloomy, cynical, and suspicious man. He became obsessed with fears and evil fancies. He could not bear noise. He had an almost paranoiac sense of unrecognized greatness.

He had no mother, no wife, no child, no family, no country. “He was absolutely alone, with not a single friend; and between one and none there lies an infinity.” Even more than Goethe he was immune to the nationalistic fevers of his age. In 1813 he so far fell under the sway of Fichte’s enthusiasm for a war of liberation against Napoleon, that he thought of volunteering, and actually bought a set of arms. But prudence seized him in time; he argued that “Napoleon gave after all only concentrated and untrammeled utterance to that self-assertion and lust for more life which weaker mortals feel but must perforce disguise.” Instead of going to war he went to the country and wrote a doctor’s thesis in philosophy. 

Schopenhauer was absolutely alone without family, friends and country. He wanted to volunteer in a war of liberation against Napoleon; instead he went to the country and wrote a doctor’s thesis in philosophy.

After this dissertation On the Fourfold Root of Sufficient Reason (1813),* Schopenhauer gave all his time, and devoted all his power, to the work which was to be his masterpiece—The World as Will and Idea. He sent the MS. to the publisher magna cum laude; here, he said, was no mere rehash of old ideas, but a highly coherent structure of original thought, “clearly intelligible, vigorous, and not without beauty”; a book ”which would hereafter be the source and occasion of a hundred other books.” All of which was outrageously egotistic, and absolutely true. Many years later Schopenhauer was so sure of having solved the chief problems of philosophy that he thought of having his signet ring carved with an image of the Sphinx throwing herself down the abyss, as she had promised to do on having her riddles answered.

*Schopenhauer insists, hardly with sufficient reason, and almost to the point of salesmanship, that this book must be read before the World all Will and idea can be understood. The reader may nevertheless rest content with knowing that the “principle of sufficient reason” is the “law of cause and effect,” in four forms: 1-Logical, as the determination of conclusion by premises; 2-Physical, as the determination of effect by cause; 3-Mathematical, as the determination of structure by the laws of mathematics and mechanics; and 4-Moral, as the determination of conduct by character. 

Schopenhauer was outrageously egotistic in promoting his work to the point of salesmanship. He was sure of having solved the chief problems of philosophy.

Nevertheless, the book attracted hardly any attention; the world was too poor and exhausted to read about its poverty and exhaustion. Sixteen years after publication Schopenhauer was informed that the greater part of the edition had been sold as waste paper. In his essay on Fame, in “The Wisdom of Life,” he quotes, with evident allusion to his masterpiece, two remarks of Lichtenberger’s: ”Works like this are as a mirror: if an ass looks in you cannot expect an angel to look out”; and “when a head and a book come into collision, and one sounds hollow, is it always the book?” Schopenhauer goes on, with the voice of wounded vanity: “The more a man belongs to posterity—in other words, to humanity in general—so much the more is he an alien to his contemporaries; for since his work is not meant for them as such, but only in so far as they form part of mankind at large, there is none of that familiar local color about his productions which would appeal to them.” And then he becomes as eloquent as the fox in the fable: ”Would a musician feel flattered by the loud applause of an audience if he knew that they were nearly all deaf, and that to conceal their infirmity he saw one or two persons applauding? And what would he say if he discovered that those one or two persons had often taken bribes to secure the loudest applause for the poorest player?”—In some men egotism is a compensation for the absence of fame; in others, egotism lends a generous cooperation to its presence. 

Schopenhauer’s book attracted hardly any attention. This wounded his vanity.

So completely did Schopenhauer put himself into this book that his later works are but commentaries on it; he became Talmudist to his own Torah, exegete to his own Jeremiads. In 1836 he published an essay On the Will in Nature, which was to some degree incorporated into the enlarged edition of The World as Will and Idea which appeared in 1844. In 1841 came The Two Ground-Problems of Ethics, and in 1851 two substantial volumes of Parerga et Paralipomena—literally, “By-products and Leavings”—which have been translated into English as the Essays. For this, the most readable of his works, and replete with wisdom and wit, Schopenhauer received, as his total remuneration, ten free copies. Optimism is difficult under such circumstances. 

Schopenhauer’s later works are but commentaries on his main book, “The World as Will and Idea.” Even though all his works were brilliant, he hardly got compensated for them.

Only one adventure disturbed the monotony of his studious seclusion after leaving Weimar. He had hoped for a chance to present his philosophy at one of the great universities of Germany; the chance came in 1822, when he was invited to Berlin as privat-docent. He deliberately chose for his lectures the very hours at which the then mighty Hegel was scheduled to teach; Schopenhauer trusted that the students would view him and Hegel with the eyes of posterity. But the students could not so far anticipate, and Schopenhauer found himself talking to empty seats. He resigned, and revenged himself by those bitter diatribes against Hegel which mar the later editions of his chef-d’oeuvre. In 1831 a cholera epidemic broke out in Berlin; both Hegel and Schopenhauer fled; but Hegel returned prematurely, caught the infection, and died in a few days. Schopenhauer never stopped until he reached Frankfort, where he spent the remainder of his seventy-two years. 

Schopenhauer invited to Berlin as privat-docent. He deliberately chose for his lectures the very hours at which the then mighty Hegel was scheduled to teach; and he found himself talking to empty seats.

Like a sensible pessimist, he had avoided that pitfall of optimists—the attempt to make a living with the pen. He had inherited an interest in his father’s firm, and lived in modest comfort on the revenue which this brought him. He invested his money with a wisdom unbecoming a philosopher. When a company in which he had taken shares failed, and the other creditors agreed to a 70% settlement, Schopenhauer fought for full payment, and won. He had enough to engage two rooms in a boarding-house; there he lived the last thirty years of his life, with no comrade but a dog. He called the little poodle Atma (the Brahmins’ term for the World-Soul), but the wags of the town called it “Young Schopenhauer.” He ate his dinners, usually, at the Englischer Hof. At the beginning of each meal he would put a gold coin upon the table before him; and at the end of each meal he would put the coin back into his pocket. It was, no doubt, an indignant waiter who at last asked him the meaning of this invariable ceremony. Schopenhauer answered that it was his silent wager to drop the coin into the poor-box on the first day that the English officers dining there should talk of anything else than horses, women, or dogs.

Schopenhauer did not attempt to make a living with the pen. He had inherited an interest in his father’s firm, and lived in modest comfort on the revenue which this brought him. 

The universities ignored him and his books, as if to substantiate his claim that all advances in philosophy are made outside of academic walls. “Nothing,” says Nietzsche, “so offended the German savants as Schopenhauer’s unlikeness to them.” But he had learned some patience; he was confident that, however belated, recognition would come. And at last, slowly, it came. Men of the middle classes—lawyers, physicians, merchants—found in him a philosopher who offered them no mere pretentious jargon of metaphysical unrealities, but an intelligible survey of the phenomena of actual life. A Europe disillusioned with the ideals and efforts of 1848 turned almost with acclamation to this philosophy that had voiced the despair of 1815. The attack of science upon theology, the socialist indictment of poverty and war, the biological stress on the struggle for existence,—all these factors helped to lift Schopenhauer finally to fame. 

The universities ignored Schopenhauer and his books, but belated recognition did come from men of the middle classes. They found in him a philosopher who offered them no mere pretentious jargon of metaphysical unrealities, but an intelligible survey of the phenomena of actual life.

He was not too old to enjoy his popularity: he read with avidity all the articles that appeared about him; he asked his friends to send him every bit of printed comment they could find—he would pay the postage. In 1854 Wagner sent him a copy of Der Ring der Nibelugen, with a word in appreciation of Schopenhauer’s philosophy of music. So the great pessimist became almost an optimist in his old age; he played the flute assiduously after dinner, and thanked Time for ridding him of the fires of youth. People came from all over the world to see him; and on his seventieth birthday, in 1858, congratulations poured in upon him from all quarters and every continent.

Schopenhauer was not too old to enjoy his popularity. So the great pessimist became almost an optimist in his old age.

It was not too soon; he had but two more years to live. On September 21, 1860, he sat down alone to breakfast, apparently well. An hour later his landlady found him still seated at the table, dead. 

Schopenhauer passed away peacefully, seated at his breakfast table, at age 72.

.

Reference: The Story of Philosophy

This paper presents Chapter V Section 10 from the book THE STORY OF PHILOSOPHY by WILL DURANT. The  contents are from the 1933 reprint of this book by TIME INCORPORATED by arrangement with Simon and Schuster, Inc.

The paragraphs of the original material (in black) are accompanied by brief comments (in color) based on the present understanding.

.

X. Dénouement

Meanwhile the old “laughing philosopher” was cultivating his garden at Ferney; this “is the best thing we can do on earth.” He had asked for a long life: “my fear is that I shall die before I have rendered service”; but surely now he had done his share. The records of his generosity are endless. “Everyone, far or near, claimed his good offices; people consulted him, related the wrongs of which they were the victims, and solicited the help of his pen and his credit.” Poor people guilty of some misdemeanor were his especial care; he would secure a pardon for them and then set them up in some honest occupation, meanwhile watching and counseling them. When a young couple who had robbed him went down on their knees to beg his forgiveness, he knelt to raise them, telling them that his pardon was freely theirs, and that they should kneel only for God’s. One of his characteristic undertakings was to bring up, educate, and provide a dowry for the destitute niece of Corneille. “The little good I have done,” he said,·”is my best work. … When I am attacked I fight like a devil; I yield to no one; but at bottom I am a good devil, and I end by laughing.”

The records of Voltaire’s generosity are endless. Poor people guilty of some misdemeanor were his especial care; he would secure a pardon for them and then set them up in some honest occupation, meanwhile watching and counseling them.

In 1770 his friends arranged a subscription to have a bust made of him. The rich had to be forbidden to give more than a mite, for thousands asked the honor of contributing. Frederick inquired how much he should give; he was told, “A crown piece, sire, and your name.” Voltaire congratulated him on adding to his cultivation of the other sciences this encouragement of anatomy by subscribing for the statue of a skeleton. He demurred to the whole undertaking on the ground that he had no face left to be modeled. “You would hardly guess where it ought to be. My eyes have sunk in three inches; my cheeks are like old parchment; … the few teeth I had are gone.” To which d’Alembert replied: “Genius … has always a countenance which genius, its brother, will easily find.” When his pet, Bellet-Bonne, kissed him, he said it was “Life kissing Death.” 

In 1770 his friends arranged a subscription to have a bust made of him. The rich had to be forbidden to give more than a mite, for thousands asked the honor of contributing. 

He was now eighty-three; and a longing came over him to see Paris before he died. The doctors advised him not to undertake so arduous a trip; but “if I want to commit a folly,” he answered, “nothing will prevent me”; he had lived so long, and worked so hard, that perhaps he felt he had a right to die in his own way, and in that electric Paris from which he had been so long exiled. And so he went, weary mile after weary mile, across France; and when his coach entered the capital his bones hardly held together. He went at once to the friend of his youth, d’Argental: “I have left off dying to come and see you,” he said. The next day his room was stormed by three hundred visitors, who welcomed him as a king; Louis XVI fretted with jealousy. Benjamin Franklin was among the callers, arid brought his grandson for Voltaire’s blessing; the old man put his thin hands upon the youth’s head and bade him dedicate himself to “God and Liberty.” 

He was now eighty-three; and a longing came over him to see Paris before he died. And so he went, weary mile after weary mile, across France. After he arrived his room was stormed by three hundred visitors, who welcomed him as a king.

He was so ill now that a priest came to shrive him. “From whom do you come, M. l’Abbé?’, asked Voltaire. “From God Himself,” was the answer. “Well, well, sir,” said Voltaire; “your credentials?” The priest went away without his prey. Later Voltaire sent for another abbé, Gautier, to come and hear his confession; Gautier came, but refused Voltaire absolution until he should sign a profession of full faith in Catholic doctrine. Voltaire rebelled; instead, he drew up a statement which he gave to his secretary, Wagner: “I die adoring God, loving my friends, not hating my enemies, and detesting superstition. (Signed) Voltaire. February 28, 1778.”

Voltaire was so ill now that a priest came to shrive him. But when asked to sign a profession of full faith in Catholic doctrine, Voltaire refused. Instead, he drew up a statement, “I die adoring God, loving my friends, not hating my enemies, and detesting superstition.”

Though sick and tottering, he was driven to the Academy, through tumultuous crowds that clambered on his carriage and tore into souvenirs the precious pelisse which Catherine of Russia had given him. “It was one of the historic events of the century. No great captain returning from a prolonged campaign of difficulty and hazard crowned by the most glorious victory, ever received a more splendid and far-resounding greeting.” At the Academy he proposed a revision of the French dictionary; he spoke with youthful fire, and offered to undertake all such part of the work as would come under the letter A. At the close of the sitting he said, “Gentlemen, I thank you in the name of the alphabet.” To which the chairman, Chastellux, replied: “And we thank you in the name of letters.” 

Voltaire went to the Academy in Paris, where he proposed a revision of the French dictionary, and spoke with youthful fire.

Meanwhile his play, Irene, was being performed at the theatre; against the advice of the physicians again, he insisted on attending. The play was poor; but people marveled not so much that a man of eighty-three should write a poor play, but that he should write any play at all; and they drowned the speech of the players with repeated demonstrations in honor 

of the author. A stranger, entering, supposed himself to be in a madhouse, and rushed back frightened into the street.

Voltaire attended his play, Irene, which was being performed at the theatre; against the advice of the physicians again.

When the old patriarch of letters went home that evening he was almost reconciled to death. He knew that he was exhausted now; that he had used to the full that wild and marvelous energy which nature had given to him perhaps more than to any man before him. He struggled as he felt life being torn from him; but death could defeat even Voltaire. The end came on May 30, 1778. 

Voltaire’s end finally came on May 30, 1778. 

He was refused Christian burial in Paris; but his friends set him up grimly in a carriage, and got him out of the city by pretending that he was alive. At Scellières they found a priest who understood that rules were not made for geniuses; and the body was buried in holy ground. In 1791 the National Assembly of the triumphant Revolution forced Louis XVI to recall Voltaire’s remains to the Pantheon. The dead ashes of the great flame that had been were escorted through Paris by a procession of 100,000 men and women, while 600,000 flanked the streets. On the funeral car were the words: “He gave the human mind a great impetus; he prepared us for freedom.” On his tombstone only three words were necessary:

HERE LIES VOLTAIRE 

What a wonderful life and end Voltaire had!

.