OLD FRITZ.
THE LONELY KING.
"Well, so let it be!" said the king, sighing, as he rose from his arm-chair; "I must go forth to the strife, and these old limbs must again submit to the fatigue of war. But what matters it? The life of princes is passed in the fulfilment of duties and responsibilities, and rarely is it gladdened with the sunny rays of joy and peace! Let us submit!
"Yes, let us submit!" repeated the king, thoughtfully, slowly pacing his cabinet back and forth, his hands folded upon his staff behind him, and his favorite dog, Alkmene, sleepily following him.
It was a melancholy picture to see this bowed-down old man; his thin, pale face shaded by a worn-out, three-cornered hat, his dirty uniform strewn with snuff; and his meagre legs encased in high-topped, unpolished boots; his only companion a greyhound, old and joyless as his master. Neither the bust of Voltaire, with its beaming, intelligent face, nor those of his friends, Lord-Marshal Keith and the Marquis d'Argens, could win an affectionate glance from the lonely old king. He whom Europe distinguished as the Great Frederick, whom his subjects called their "father and benefactor,"whose name was worthy to shine among the brightest stars of heaven, his pale, thin lips just murmured, "Resignation!"With downcast eyes he paced his cabinet, murmuring, "Let us submit!"He would not look up to those who were gazing down upon him from the walls--to those who were no more. The remembrance of them unnerved him, and filled his heart with grief. The experiences of life, and the ingratitude of men, had left many a scar upon this royal heart, but had never hardened it; it was still overflowing with tender sympathy and cherished memories. To Lord-Marshal Keith, Marquis d'Argens, and Voltaire, Frederick owed the happiest years of his life.
D'Argens, who passionately loved Frederick, had been dead five years; Lord-Marshal Keith one month; and Voltaire was dying! This intelligence the king had received that very morning, from his Paris correspondent, Grimm. It was this that filled his heart with mourning. The face, that smiled so full of intelligence, was perhaps distorted with agony, and those beaming eyes were now closing in death!
Voltaire was dying!
Frederick's thoughts were with the dead and dying--with the past! He recalled, when crown prince at Rheinsberg, how much he had admired, loved, and distinguished Voltaire; how he rejoiced, and how honored he felt, when, as a young king, Voltaire yielded to his request to live with him at Berlin. This intimacy, it is true, did not long continue; the king was forced to recognize, with bitter regret, that the MAN Voltaire was not worthy the love which he bestowed upon the POET. He renounced the MAN, but the poet was still his admiration;and all the perfidy, slander and malice of Voltaire, had never changed Frederick. The remembrance of it had long since faded from his noble heart--only the memory of the poet, of the author of so many hours of the purest enjoyment, remained.
Voltaire was dying!
This great and powerful spirit, who so long a time, in the natural body, had instructed, inspired, and refreshed mankind, would leave that body to rise--whither?
"Immortality, what art thou?" asked the king, aloud, and for the first time raising his eyes with an inquiring glance to the busts of his friends. "I have sought for thee, I have toiled for thee, my whole life long! Neither the researches of the learned, nor the subtleties of philosophy reveal thee to me. Is there any other immortality than fame? Any other eternal life than that which the memory of succeeding generations grants to the dead?" In this tone of thought Frederick recited, audibly, the conclusion of a poem, which he had addressed to D'Alembert:
"I have consecrated my days to philosophy, I admit all the innocent pleasures of life; And knowing that soon my course will finish, Ienjoy the present with fear of the future. What is there to fear after death? If the body and the mind suffer the same fate, I shall return and mingle with nature; If a remnant of my intellectual fire escapes death, I will flee to the arms of my God." [Footnote:
Posthumous works, vol. vii., p.88.]
"And may this soon be granted me!" continued the king; "then I shall be reunited to those loved ones--gone before. I must be content to tarry awhile in this earthly vale of sorrow, and finish the task assigned me by the Great Teacher; therefore, let us submit."He sighed; pacing to and fro, his steps were arrested at a side-table, where lay a long black velvet box; it contained the flute that his beloved teacher, Quantz, had made for him. Frederick had always kept it in his cabinet as a memento of his lost friend; as this room he had devoted to a temple of Memory--of the past!
"Another of the joys, another of the stars of my life vanished!"murmured the king. "My charming concerts are at an end! Quantz, Brenda, and my glorious Graun are no more. While they are listening to the heavenly choir, I must be content with the miserable, idle chatter of men; the thunder of battle deafening my ears, to which that mad, ambitious Emperor of Austria hopes to force me!"As the king thus soliloquized, he involuntarily drew from the box the beautiful ebony flute, exquisitely ornamented with silver. Asmile played around his delicate mouth. He raised the flute to his lips, and a melancholy strain floated through the stillness--the king's requiem to the dead, his farewell to the dying!
No sound of the outer world penetrated that lonely room. The guard of honor, on duty upon the Sans-Souci terrace, halted suddenly, as the sad music fell upon his ear. The fresh spring breeze swept through the trees, and drove the laden-blossomed elder-bushes tapping against the windowpanes, as if to offer a May-greeting to the lonely king. The servant in waiting stole on tiptoe to the door of the anteroom, listening breathlessly at the key-hole to the moving melody.