 This is the story of a man who cast a gigantic shadow down the corridor of history. This democracy we live in, all democracies, are his true and eternal monuments. The time is 1762. A specter haunts Europe. It is 15 years before the first shot will be fired at Bunker Hill. It is 19 years before the walls of the Bastille will come thundering down under the wild onslaught of the French Revolution. Look across the teeming world. Somewhere amongst the multitudes, still obscured as yet, move the dim significant figures of Robespierre, Marat, Washington, Tom Payne. This is an entracture. A prologue before the curtain rises upon the immense cataclysm of revolution. NBC University of the Air presents We Came This Way, a new historical series for our listeners at home and overseas. With Krypton Utley as the narrator, we present Chapter 10, a story of Voltaire's fight for justice in We Came This Way. In France, Louis XV lounges upon the throne and walks in the gardens of Versailles with the fair bejeweled Madame de Pompadour. France, like the palace itself, faces the world in magnificent gilded splendor but inwardly suffers disease and corruption. Justice is a lackey to feudal king and princess. Cruel, narrow-minded superstition sits on the bench with the judges. Fanaticism delivers up victims daily to the public executioners. Men are tortured, broken on the wheel, put to the rack, burned in hang for crimes which are not crimes in the eyes of enlightened men. And not crimes in the eyes of that other king of France, that emperor of wit and tongue, Francois Marie Arouet de Voltaire, who feared nothing and washed everything. In France, the judges are barbarian in official robes. It is he who deserves to be hanged rather than his fellow citizens whom he condemns to the scaffold. They are not sufficiently acquainted with the numbers of wretches that have been delivered up to the executioner by ignorant judges, who quietly and without scruple condemn them to the flames upon an accusation of sorcery. France becomes hated everywhere. Everybody says that we are as barbaric as any feeble-minded nation that knows well how to break upon the wheel. We are arousing the terror and contempt of Europe. It is March, 1762. Voltaire is 68 years old. He is celebrated, worshipped as the most brilliant man of the age. Nevertheless, he is exiled from Paris. And upon this bright spring morning at his estate, at Pernay, on the borders of France, Voltaire begins another blow at the fanatics and persecutors in La Belle France. You make me journey all the way from Paris merely to hear the story of a 15-year-old boy. I did, Duke. I would have asked you to journey half the world to hear it. Then it must be an honest tale. It is, of Jean Calas. Calas? The Huguenot who was executed at Toulouse? Is that what you brought me here for? Jean Calas, my dear Duke, did not, as the court insisted, murder his eldest son. My dear Voltaire. Let me finish. Jean Calas was not the only victim of stupid French jurisprudence. But there is about his case such a blatant brutality, such evidence of sheer fanaticism. And Monsieur Voltaire intends to take up the cudges on his behalf. Yes. And Monsieur Voltaire also intends to request the sympathy and aid of the Duke de Richelieu. Your comprehension, my dear Duke, will only be equal by your generosity. And you trap me with a well-turned phrase also. In this matter, my dear Duke, I would trap you any way I could. Voltaire, Voltaire, why don't you rest content? Why beard the King's justice again? You may get your laurels clipped badly this time. For sixty years, my dear Duke, I have endured and seen so much injustice. I think I am entitled to the pleasure of correcting this one. What is to be done with you, Voltaire? Only hear the lad, my dear Duke. Hear Jean Calas' young son, Pierre. Pierre, glass your highness. Jean Calas' son. My father did not kill my brother. Mark committed suicide, Monsieur. And it was the crowd that cried he was murdered. Because he decided to change his faith. It was the crowd. The mad, hating crowd that accused him. We found Mark hanging in the shop. My father cut the body down. Weeping, Monsieur. Weeping all the time. A crowd gathered. They were Huguenots, your highness. They hated us. They killed him. The Huguenots killed him. Mark wanted to join our church. He told me. They stood there about poor Mark's body in terror, Monsieur. But the police came. They dragged my father off to prison. The crowd spat on him and struck at him. Courage, my dear dear. Courage. They brought him to trial. None of us knew the truth or allowed to testify, Monsieur. The witnesses came from the angry crowd outside the courtroom. And they lied. They lied. Mike, the last told me he wanted to change his faith. He was a handsome boy. He warned me against returning to the Huguenots. It is part of the teachings of the Huguenots that the father killed the son if he changes his religion. They would not permit us to visit our father, even to secure his name for a lawyer. We could not see the indictment or any documents. The mob wanted his death. Like beasts, hateful beasts. The court sent him to torture. And then to be broken on the wheel and strangled. I saw it, Monsieur. I saw it. All they crushed his bones. All they tied him to the wheel, breaking his back. And all they strangled him. Strangled him. And he did not cry out. He did not. Only I did. Only I. Calm yourself, Pierre. We must sit down with weeping. We must act. Come, go to your room and dry your tears. Come. Well, my dear Duke. Barbaris. It was a legal murder, my dear Duke. The bigot had rendered judgment. On that day, divine justice was a howling, prejudiced mob. Poor fatherless and homeless boy. He need not be homeless, my dear Duke. If we fight to clear his family name, he can go back to France. I see. What would you have me do, Voltaire? You're a power in the court, my dear Duke. Bring the truth to the ears of the king's minister. And you? I shall rally all I can with pen and tongue. And thus began Voltaire's celebrated fight against the Coloss judgment. The target, bigotry. The weapons, words, words written and spoken. And Voltaire, deadly an expert in this kind of war, drew blood with each blow he struck. His pen, which earned him honor and fear throughout Europe, flashed with the devastating brilliance on behalf of Jean Coloss. A dead man. He poured letters upon the prominent people of the empire, rallying their sympathy and aid. To the Duke of Iass. Justice died upon the day Jean Coloss was broken on the wheel. Let not reason so often persecuted remain silent. I wish he'll again see the same Horadax repeated. The principle, the seed, the contagion of persecution still exists. And if it be not eradicated, it will spread over the entire Voltaire. The Madame de Pompadour. None is more keenly aware of your gentleness and goodness than I, Madame. The barbarity inflicted upon Poca-Las and his family must make your heart cry out in horror and pain. Oh, Madame, in the name of humanity, speak, speak to the king. To Elis de Beaumont. Elis, we have need of you now. What other lawyer can France boast of who can match your passionate eloquence on behalf of Wounded Truth and Justice? And he spoke. Voltaire faced a meeting in Geneva, hoping that his word spoken in Switzerland would ring across the mountains in France. Monsieur, please, Monsieur. And now, the champion of the rights of man, François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire. Monsieur, it is indeed a great honour to have you here. It is indeed a sad commentary upon our civilization that men must gather in one country to right a wrong in another. The infamous torture of Jean Colasse has brought us together. We cry out against the phoneticism that wrought this deed, but let us not make any false distinction between the guilt of the mob and the guilt of the judges, for both were ruled by the same phoneticism. Many hundreds of poor wretches had their lives torn from them by the gallows' rope and barbaric weed through such bestial passion. Our defence of Colasse must also be an attack upon such hysteria, upon such madness that turns human beings into a roaring bloodthirsty mob. He's right. It's monstrous. We are civilised. The devil's justice is not God's. Since the eve of Saint-Bartholomew, nothing has so disgraced the human species as the execution of Colasse. Brothers, I say cry out. Cry out and strike a blow for all the future Jean Colasse of the world. And they did cry out and loudest of all were the cries of Voltaire. His left the significant miles to Paris. And men of good will were stirred and questions were asked. If this is true, it is a blood upon our honour. Let the king's justices look into this. Why, we really barbed bans as Voltaire says. And there were some whose fury knew no bounds, not men of good will, but enemies of Voltaire. And some of these had much to lose, such as Saint-Florintin, the king's minister. The king's minister will see you now. Good day, Monsieur Frérot. Good day, Your Excellency. May be seated. No, Monsieur Frérot, you are curious no doubt as to why I sent for you. Not really, Your Excellency. Monsieur, I have watched your literary activities for some time and with considerable admiration. You are very loyal to France and Helu. I am right to, am I not? And please correct me, Monsieur, if I'm wrong. In thinking of you as the enemy of Monsieur de Voltaire, Monsieur de Voltaire? I have never denied it, Your Excellency. Good, good. Voltaire has stirred up an unpleasant affair for this ministry. France's name stands blackened before Europe. I am in need of a shaper of public opinion to counteract the writings and activities of Voltaire. Will it be you, Monsieur? Shall my reward be in heaven, Your Excellency? We are men of the world, Monsieur Frérot. It will be in gold, France, and perhaps a seat in the academy. I shall take up a sword on behalf of France at once. Your Excellency. Your Excellency, the Duke de Richelieu and Élie de Beaumont. Oh, Your Highness, I am overwhelmed by this honour. This is Élie de Beaumont. Oh, it is a privilege to meet France's foremost lawyer. Thank you, Your Excellency. We have little time, Saint Florentin. Monsieur Beaumont has a request. I shall be indebted to you if you will have him. Whatever is in my power, Monsieur de Beaumont. Your Excellency, I shall act as lawyer in the Colasse affair. Colasse? The case is long since done, Monsieur. There are some who believe Colasse to be innocent of the charges made against him. There are always cynics in France, Monsieur. But what can I do? Before I can present a petition for a retrial, Your Excellency, I will see the documents concerning the original trial. I have asked the court to lose for copies and have been refused. I have also been informed that it is forbidden to consult the original. A rather unusual procedure, my dear minister. The law, Your Highness, sometimes appears unusual when it is merely being settled. And what is the subtlety in this particular one? Oh, I am not a judge. But your request, Monsieur de Beaumont. In your name, as the king's minister, secure for us the copies of the documents involved. Are you serious, Monsieur? Very. Oh, then I am sorry for you. This is purely a problem of the court of use. I cannot interfere. Meanwhile, the king's henchman, Monsieur Ferrand. Ferrand Parraia and French literature at that time, slanderous enemy of Voltaire, attempted to shape public opinion with a pen dipped in fraud and gold. I have received a letter from a certain celebrated philosopher regarding the philosophy. No one feels more sorrow than I over this case. But the point is to evaluate the pretty conclusions of Monsieur de Voltaire. One cannot but suspect his motives. In all probability, Monsieur de Voltaire's poetic head grew hot. He was not so much carried away by a feeling of humanity, as by the urge to recall public attention to his existence, to do something to make people talk about him. I had a session of character. That is, Monsieur Ferrand. In short, my dear de Beaumont. A literary Judas. But Anna's session nonetheless, Voltaire. Who strikes from the safety of St. Florentine's pocket. But enough of him. I have been thinking. Over the problem of the documents? Well, I must have them. I cannot possibly draw up a petition without them. You shall have them, and quite simply too. How? France is perhaps one of the few nations in which justice can be bought. Yes. I have a friend or two and too loose. I will give them a sum of money, and with it they will purchase a few hours alone with the documents in question. I would consider it an extremely stupid oversight. Should they fail to bring paper and pen along? But that's bribery. I will fight fire with fire. And in a short while Voltaire had the documents. And he wrote another letter. To Monsieur Defarge, Referee of the State Council for Petitions. I submit to your excellency the petition requesting a re-examination of the Kailas evidence drawn up by Elie de Beaumont and accompanied with a transcription of the original documents relating to the first trial. A careful perusal of these documents will reveal flagrant violations of the criminal code of 1670. On the basis of these violations your excellency, I believe the court and the judges of Toulouse should be called to account. And then Voltaire and Elie de Beaumont waited. But there was silence. The Referee of the State Council did nothing and acknowledged nothing. They too were concerned with saving face. And again Voltaire's pen flashed out. Is there any more awful tyranny than to be able to shed blood without having to account for it? Such calling to account is not done in France? Well then it must be done now. They owe a debt for the blood they spilled. And then, like a gift from heaven, the court of Toulouse blundered. Over quite another matter they arrested the Royal Agent of the King. In Paris the State Council sees with fury. The court of Toulouse had put itself in the wrong. Here they attack a Royal Agent. Provincials are resting a member of the nobility. They shall pay for this insult. His fat bourgeois will pay tenfold. And they did. The State Council struck back at the court of Toulouse and answered Voltaire. The Royal Commission, I Referee of the State Council for Petitions to hereby find that the judgements rendered by the court of Toulouse in the Colasse case to be violations of the criminal code. And therefore null and void. The examination of all documents pertaining to the run-to by the justices of the King and the State Council. Upon penalty of the King's anger, the court of Toulouse will surrender all matter necessary to adjust inquiry. Ali, the pot boils over. A good fire was lit beneath it. Never did I calculate upon the stupidity of Toulouse. But what Provincent sends, we gratefully accept. Now, Ali. Yes, and now. Jean Colasse is in your hands, with your eloquence before the State Council. I shall do my best, my dear Voltaire. I am sure of that, Hilly. That you will not forget that besides defending the innocence of a murdered man, you will also be attacked. I will see if it will a military battle depend on it. God knows how long I will live. I am near 70 now. But before I die, I should like to know that all these years, these 70 have struck a successful blow for the rights of man. That I have made the only worthwhile use of them against brute ignorance and fanaticism. I should like to know that, else what was the good of my living? Let us be the judges of that, my friend. Before the Council and before the people, Ali, truth must give a good account of itself. It must appear as desirable as paradise itself. And if it does not, if we fail, what then? What then? Why then, my dear Ali? We fight on, of course. And on a February morning, the State Council convened. The King's justices in their velvet robes, the witnesses, and the royal spectators gathered in the Great Hall. And outside, throughout Europe, the multitude waited, even beyond the borders, in Switzerland and England, in the Imperial Russia of Catherine the Great, men and women waited. The Coloss case made the whole of Europe a single court. Thank you, Your Excellency. I repeat, the trial of Jean Carras was a persecution, the loosening of a superstitious hate upon the head of one man. I shall produce witnesses who were not permitted to testify at the original trial. They shall speak the truth, Monsieur. They shall tell you what sort of man this Jean Carras was. I call my first witness, Dominique Cordy-Barre, merchant of Marseille, friend and business partner of the murdered man. Dominique Cordy-Barre. Dominique Cordy-Barre. Are you Dominique Cordy-Barre? Yes, Your Excellency. Tell the justices of the King what you know of Jean Carras. Your Excellency's Jean Carras was a just and mild man. Love breathed fully and freely within the bosom of his family. In all the years I knew him, he said not one unkind word to any in his home. Sister-in-law Julie Frey's Catholic nun in whose hands was placed the daughter-nannette of the murdered man to teach in the way of the mother-child. Sister-in-law, sister-in-law. I have held many conversations with the poor girl, Your Excellency. The goodness and truth of God is in her. I am convinced of the innocence of her father. The father of such a child could not have done such a deed. Monsieur de la Salle, member of the consulate to lose during the time of the trial, who resigned rather than be a party to that judgment. Monsieur de la Salle. Monsieur de la Salle. It was apparent to any reasonable man Your Excellencies that the man was innocent. It was inconceivable that such an old man as Jean Carras could strangle his son who was only 27 and strong and healthy. Also, Monsieur, no inquest was held. A veil of secrecy was overall. I say that prejudice ruled the court, Your Excellencies. He was a Huguenot. This was the cause of his death. France has suffered a terrible shame for this deed. Monsieur. I dream of the day when justice in France shall be praised throughout the world. When each citizen shall be given a trial by jury, when barbaric torture shall be banished, when religious difference shall cease to be a cause for persecution. I've worked and longed for the day when we shall think that the prevention of crime is more important than its punishment. When the source of such fanaticism that destroyed an innocent man into loose be wiped out forevermore. Monsieur. It is not only I who cry for justice, but all the future victims are bigotry and superstition. Let us wipe this stain of the Kallas murder from the records of prejudice prudence. Let Kallas tragedy be the last of its kind in France. I am finished, Your Excellencies. Jean Kallas is in your hands. And the king's justices rose. Their velvet robes rustled as they left the hall. And all the European world waited. What was the judgment to be? In Farnay, Voltaire pasted a study like a caged animal. You'll see a horseman, Pierre. Leave the boy be, Voltaire. The road's bare as a friar's pit. In France, they condemn innocence in a hurry and free it at their leisure. My dear Voltaire, be calm. Only the dead are calm. Then do me the favor of sitting down. Look through the window again, Pierre. But you just asked me to. And I will ask you again. Voltaire, Voltaire. It's exciting. Are you in doubt of the trial's outcome? My dear Duke, the history of the courts in France have taught me not to be sure of anything. And then... What is it? Listen, a horseman. A horseman on the road. Look, boy, do you see him? Please, darling, bring good news. Let it be proclaimed in the streets and marketplaces of the land. We, the king's justices, do hereby find the charge of murder brought against Jean Kallas, who have been without foundation. A complete restitution by the Council of Toulouse, of all property confiscated to the Kallas family. We guarantee the safety and freedom of said heirs of Jean Kallas. Finally, we do command the instant removal from their official duties of all leaders responsible for the barbarous execution of Jean Kallas. And Voltaire wrote once more upon the Kallas trial. I turn therefore to you, oh God, who did not give us hearts in order that we might hate one another nor hands that we might slay one another. Let your children know that the trifling differences in the clothing with which we envelop our puny bodies, in our poor language, in our customs, our opinions and our stations in society, let them know that these petty differences are not signals for hatred and execution among the puny atoms called mankind. May all men remember that they are brothers. For the democratic way of life, Voltaire led. Amongst those who fought for it, he stands a colossal figure. He helped to shape the conscience of modern man. Look back, Americans, where Voltaire stands, we came that way. NBC University of the Air of the New Historical Series, We Came This Way. Next week, We Came This Way will present Ballet Forge by Morton Wishengrad. Tonight's script was written by Raphael Hayes and directed by Arthur Jacobson. The original music is composed by Dr. Roy Shield and the orchestras under the direction of Joseph Galicchio. The members of the cast were Mr. Clifton Utley as narrator, Mr. Wilms Herbert as Voltaire, Mr. Hayes as Elie Debama, and Mr. Paul Hughes as Duke de Richelieu. Others in the cast included Mr. Geraldine Kay, Mr. Leonard Smith, Mr. Charles Eggleston, Mr. William Everett Clark, Mr. Haskell Coffin, Mr. Ralph Camargo, and Mr. Arnold Robertson. This is the National Broadcasting Company.