“Oui, finissons sans trouble et mourons sans regrets,En laissant l’univers comblé de nos bienfaits.Ainsi l’astre du jour au bout de sa carrière,Repand sur l’horizon une douce lumière,Et ses derniers rayons qu’il darde dans les airsSont ses derniers soupirs qu’il donne à l’univers.”
“Oui, finissons sans trouble et mourons sans regrets,En laissant l’univers comblé de nos bienfaits.Ainsi l’astre du jour au bout de sa carrière,Repand sur l’horizon une douce lumière,Et ses derniers rayons qu’il darde dans les airsSont ses derniers soupirs qu’il donne à l’univers.”
“Oui, finissons sans trouble et mourons sans regrets,En laissant l’univers comblé de nos bienfaits.Ainsi l’astre du jour au bout de sa carrière,Repand sur l’horizon une douce lumière,Et ses derniers rayons qu’il darde dans les airsSont ses derniers soupirs qu’il donne à l’univers.”
“Oui, finissons sans trouble et mourons sans regrets,
En laissant l’univers comblé de nos bienfaits.
Ainsi l’astre du jour au bout de sa carrière,
Repand sur l’horizon une douce lumière,
Et ses derniers rayons qu’il darde dans les airs
Sont ses derniers soupirs qu’il donne à l’univers.”
He extended his hand to the count with a smile, and, when the latter bowed down to kiss it, a tear fell from his eyes on Frederick’s cold, bony hand.
The king felt this warm tear, and shook his head gently. “You are a strange man, and a very extravagant one. The idea of throwing away brilliants on an old man’s hand! It would be far better to keep them for handsome young people. Now you may go, and I hope to find you well when I return from my ride.”
Having intimated to the count, by a gesture of the hand, that he might withdraw, he turned slowly to his greyhound, Alkmene, which lay on a chair near the sofa, regarding the king with sleepy eyes.
“You are also growing old and weak, Alkmene,” said the king, in a low voice; “and your days will not be much longer in the land. We must both be up and doing if we wish to enjoy another ray of sunshine. Come, Alkmene, let us go and take an airing! Come!”
The greyhound sprang down from the chair and followed the king, who walked slowly to his chamber to prepare himself for the ride.
A quarter of an hour later the king, assisted by his two valets, walked slowly through his apartments to the door which opened on the so-called Green Stairway, and at which his favorite horse, Condé, stood awaiting him. The equerry and the chamberlain of the day stood on either side of the door, and at a short distance two servants held the horses of these gentlemen.
The king’s quick glance took in this scene at once, andhe shook his head with displeasure. “No foolishness, no pomp!” said he, imperiously. “My servants alone will accompany me.”
The two gentlemen looked sadly at each other, but they dared make no opposition, and extended their hands to assist the king in mounting.
But it was a difficult and sorrowful task to seat the king on his horse. Deference prevented them from lifting him up, and the king’s feebleness prevented him from mounting unaided. At last chairs and cushions were brought and piled up, until they formed a gradual ascent to the saddle-back, up which the two servants led the king, and succeeded in placing him on his horse. Condé, as if conscious that perfect quiet was necessary to the successful carrying out of this experiment, remained immovable.
But now that he was seated on the back of his favorite horse, Condé threw his head high in the air and neighed loudly, as if to proclaim his joy at being once more together with the king.
Alkmene did not seem to relish being behind Condé in manifesting joy, for she barked loudly and sprang gayly around the horse and rider, who had now taken the reins in his hand and started the sagacious animal by a slight pressure of the thigh.
The king rode slowly down the green stairway, that is, a succession of green terraces forming a gentle declivity in the direction of Sans-Souci. As the grooms were on the point of following him the chamberlain stepped up to them.
“Take care to keep as near the king as possible, in order that you may be at hand if any thing should happen to his majesty.”
“His majesty’s carriage shall be held in readiness at the Obelisk,” said the equerry, in a low voice. “If any thing should happen to the king, bring him there, and one of you must ride in full gallop to the physician Sello!”
The two grooms now hurried on after the king, who had put spurs to his horse and was galloping down the avenue.
It was a beautiful day; a shower which had fallen thenight before had made the air pure and fragrant, and washed the grass till it looked as soft and smooth as velvet. The king slackened his speed. He looked sadly around at the natural beauties which surrounded him, at the foliage of the trees, and up at the blue sky, which seemed to smile down upon him in cloudless serenity. “I will soon soar up to thee, and view thy glories and wonders! But I will first take leave of the glories of earth!”
He slowly lowered his eyes and looked again at the earth, and inhaled its delicious atmosphere in deep draughts, feasted his eyes on nature, and listened to the music of the murmuring springs and plashing cascades, and of the birds singing in the dense foliage.
He rode on through the solitary park, a solitary king, no one near him; the two lackeys behind in the distance, the greyhound bounding before him; but above him his God and his renown, and within him the recollections of the long years which had been!
The friends who had wandered with him through these avenues, where were they? All dead and gone, and he would soon follow them!
He had often longed for death; had often said to himself that it would be a great relief to lie down and sleep the eternal sleep of the grave. And yet he was now saddened to his inmost being. It seemed to him that the skies had never before been so bright, the trees so fresh and green, or the flowers so fragrant! Why long for the peace of the grave! How delicious and refreshing was the peace of Nature! With what rapture did the soul drink in the sunshine and the fragrance of flowers!
“From the afflictions of the world I fly to thee, thou holy virgin, pure, chaste Nature,” said he, softly to himself. “Men are but weak, miserable beings, and not worth living for; but, for thy sake, Nature, I would still desire to live. Thou hast been my only beloved on earth, and it is very painful to thy old lover to leave thee.”
Yes, it was very painful. Nature seemed to have put on festive garments to-day, in order to show herself to the departing king in all her magnificence and beauty.
The king rode on slowly through the avenues of Sans-Souci, bidding adieu to each familiar scene. At times, when an opening in the trees offered a particularly fine view, he halted, and feasted his eyes on the lovely landscape, and then he would lower his gaze quickly again, because something hot had darkened his vision—it was perhaps a grain of sand thrown up by the wind, but certainly not a tear! No, certainly not! How could he weep, he who was so weary and sick of life?
“Yes, weary and sick of life,” he said, in a loud voice. “Men are such miserable beings, and I am weary of ruling over slaves!—weary of playing the tyrant, when I would so gladly see freemen around me! No, no, I do not regret that I must die, I leave willingly, and my countenance will wear a smile when I am carried to the grave.”[16]
It may be easy to take leave of men, but Nature is so beautiful, it smiles so sweetly on us! It is very hard to have to say to the sky, the earth, and to the trees and flowers: “Farewell! I will never see you more! Farewell!”
The trees and bushes rustle in the wind and seem to sigh, “Farewell!” The falling waters seem to murmur, “Nevermore!” Ah, there is yet a little corner in the king’s and hero’s heart, which is merely human; a little nook to which wisdom and experience have not penetrated, where natural feeling reigns supreme.
Yes, man tears himself from beautiful Nature reluctantly and sadly. He would like to gaze longer on the flowers, and trees, and shrubbery; to continue to breathe the fragrant air. But this man is also a hero and philosopher; and the hero whispers in his ear: “Courage, be strong! You have often looked death in the face without flinching—do so now!”
The philosopher whispers, “Reconcile yourself to that whichis inevitable. A town-clock is made of steel and iron, and yet it will not run more than twenty years. Is it surprising that your body should be worn out after seventy years? Rather rejoice that you are soon to read the great mysteries of creation, to know whether there is life beyond the grave, and whether we are again to be united with those who have gone before.”
“These mysteries I will solve,” cried the king, in a loud voice. “I greet you, O dead with whom I have wandered in these shady groves. We shall soon meet again in the Elysian fields, and I will bring you intelligence of this miserable earth and its miserable inhabitants. My mother, my sister, I greet you, and you Cicero, Cæsar, Voltaire! I am coming to join the immortals.”
He raised his head and breathed freely, as if a heavy burden had fallen from his soul. His countenance was illumined with enthusiasm. He looked over toward Sans-Souci, which had just become visible through an opening in the trees; its windows shone lustrously in the bright sunshine, and the whole building glittered in the glorious light.
“It is my tomb,” he said, smiling, “and yet the cradle of my renown. If I knew that I could escape death by not returning to my house, I would still do so. I am willing to yield my body to death, and am now going home to die!”
As he said this he slowly raised his arm and lifted his old three-cornered hat slightly, and bowed in every direction, as a king does when taking leave of his court.
He then slowly replaced the hat on his thin white hair, and pressed Condé so firmly with his knees, and drew in the reins so closely, that the animal galloped off rapidly. Alkmene could only manage to keep up with great difficulty. The terrified lackeys urged their horses to a greater speed.
This rapid ride did the king good, the keen wind seemed to strengthen his breast and dispel the clouds of melancholy from his soul. He had bidden his last adieu to Nature. Death was now vanquished, and the last painful sacrifice made.
When the king, after a two hours’ ride through the park of Sans-Souci, galloped up the green stairway on his return, the chamberlain and equerry were astonished and delighted to find that he had met with no accident, and was positively looking better and stronger than he had done for a long time.
The king halted with a sudden jerk of the reins, and the lackeys rushed forward with chairs and cushions, to form a stairway for his easy descent, as before.
But with a quick movement Frederick waved them back. “Nothing of the kind,” said he. “I can dismount with the aid of your arm. I will, however, first rest a moment.”
He stroked Condé’s smooth, tapering neck, and the intelligent animal turned his head around, as if to look at his master and thank him for the caress.
“Yes, you know the hand that strokes you,” said the king, smiling. “We two have taken many a ride, and gone through rain and sunshine together. Farewell, my faithful Condé.”
He had bowed down over the animal’s neck to stroke its mane. When he raised his head, his quick, piercing eye observed a young officer coming over the terrace with an air of embarrassment; he hesitated and stood still, as if doubting whether he might be permitted to come nearer. “Who can that be?” asked the king, gayly. “What young officer have we here?—Come up, sir, and report.”
The young man hurried forward, stepped close up to the king’s horse, and saluted him by raising his right hand to his cap.
“I have the honor to report to your majesty,” said he, in clear, joyous tones. “I have been ordered here at this hour, and punctuality is the first duty of the soldier.”
“Well replied, sir,” said the king. “Give me your arm and assist me to dismount.”
The young officer hastened to obey the command, laid his hands on Condé’s neck, and stretched his arms out as firmly as if they had been made of iron and were capable of standingany pressure. The king grasped these living supports and slowly lowered himself from the horse’s back to the ground.
“Well done, my nephew, you have a strong arm, and, for your fifteen years, are quite powerful.”
“Sixteen years, your majesty,” cried the young man, eagerly; “in four weeks I shall be sixteen years old.”
“Ah, sixteen already!” replied Frederick, smiling. “Then you are almost a man, and must be treated with due consideration. Mon prince, voulez-vous avoir la bonté de me donner votre bras?”[17]
“Sire, et mon roi,” replied the prince, quickly, “vous me daignez d’un grand honneur, et je vous suis très reconnaissant!”[18]And after bowing deeply he offered his arm to the king.
“Just see how well he speaks French already!” said the king. “We will remain out here on the terrace for a few moments. The warm sunshine does an old man good! Lead me, my prince.”
He pointed with his crutch to the arm-chair which stood near the open door of the saloon, and walked slowly across the terrace, supported by Frederick William’s arm.
“Here,” said he, as he sank slowly into the chair, breathing heavily, “here I will repose once more in the warm, bright sunshine before I enter the dark house.”
He looked slowly around at the terraces and trees, and then his gaze fastened on the young prince, who stood near him with a stiff and formal military bearing.
“Lieutenant, forget for a few moments that you are before the king. You are at liberty to dispense with military etiquette. And now give me your hand, my son, and let your old uncle offer you a right hearty welcome.”
The prince pressed the hand which he extended respectfully to his lips.
“Seat yourself,” said the king, pointing to a stool whichstood near his chair. And, when the prince had done as he bade him, he looked long and earnestly into his fresh, open face.
“I sent for you, my child,” said Frederick, in a soft and tender tone, “because I wished to see you once more before I set out on my journey.”
“Your majesty is then about to travel,” said the prince naïvely.
“Yes, I am about to travel,” replied Frederick, bowing his head gently.
“But, your majesty, I thought the grand manœuvres were to be held at Potsdam this time.”
“Yes, the grand manœuvres will be held in Potsdam; and, at the grand review, I will have to report to Him who is the King of kings. Why do you look so awe-struck, my son? Perhaps it has never occurred to you that men are compelled to leave this paradise to die!”
“Your majesty, I had never thought seriously of death!”
“And you were perfectly right in not doing so, my child,” said Frederick, and his voice had now regained its firmness. “Your attention must be firmly and immovably directed to life, for a great deal will be required of you on earth, and with your whole mind and strength you must endeavor to respond to these demands. You must study very diligently and make yourself familiar with the sciences. Which is your favorite study?”
“History, sire.”
“That is well, Fritz. Impress upon your mind the great events of history, and learn, by studying the heroic deeds of kings, to be a hero yourself. Above all, your aims must be great, and you must struggle to attain them throughout your entire life. Who is your favorite hero in history?”
“Sire,” replied the prince, after a little reflection, “my favorite hero is Cosmo de Medici.”
The king looked at him in astonishment. “What do you know of him?” said he. “Who was this Cosmo de Medici?”
“He was a great general,” replied the prince, “and a great lawgiver, and his sole endeavor was to make the people happy.”
“Then you believe the chief aim of a great man, of a prince, should always be to make his people happy?”
“Yes, sire, his chief aim. Professor Behnisch once told me, in the history lesson of the great Cosmo de Medici, called by the people of Florence the ‘benefactor of the people.’ When he felt that his end was approaching, he commanded that he should be carried out in his chair to the largest square in Florence, ‘For,’ said he, ‘I desire to die like a tender and happy father in the midst of his children.’ But the children he spoke of were his subjects, who now poured into the square from all sides, and filled it so closely that it looked like a vast sea of humanity. When no more room could be found on the square, the people pressed into the houses, the doors of which had all been thrown open; and from the edifices which surrounded the square, thousands upon thousands looked down from the windows. Tens of thousands stood on the square, in the centre of which, and on an elevation, the chair, with the dying prince, had been placed. Yet, although so many inhabitants had assembled there, profound silence reigned. No one moved, and the eyes of all were fixed on the countenance of the dying prince. But he smiled, looked around at the vast concourse, and cried in a loud voice. ‘As my last hour has come, I wish to make peace with God and men. Therefore, if there be any one among you to whom I have done injustice, or any one who can complain of any injustice done him under my rule, I beg that he will now step forward and call me to account, in order that I may mete out justice to him before I die! Speak, therefore, in the name of God. I command you to speak.’ But no one came forward, and nothing was heard but the low sobs of the people. For the second time the prince asked: ‘If there be any one among you to whom I have done injustice, let him come forward quickly, for death approaches!’ And a loud voice from amongthe people cried: ‘You have done nothing but good, you have been our benefactor and our father. You will cause us a pang, for the first time, when you leave us; we therefore implore, O father, do not leave your children!’ And from the vast square and the windows of the circle of houses, resounded the imploring cry of thousands upon thousands: ‘O father, do not leave your children!’ The countenance of the prince was radiant with joy, as he listened to the imploring cry and the sobs of his people. ‘This is a prince’s sublimest requiem,’ said he. ‘Happy is that prince who can die in the midst of the tears and blessings of his people!’ And when he had said this, he arose and extended his arms, as if to give them his benediction. The whole multitude sank, sobbing, on their knees. And Cosmo fell back into his chair. He had died in the midst of the tears and blessings of his people.”
The prince’s voice had faltered, and his eyes filled with tears, while concluding his narrative, and he now looked timidly at his uncle, who had regarded him intently throughout. The eyes of the venerable old man and the youth met, and their hearts seemed to commune with each other also, for they both smiled.
“And you would like to die such a death, my son?” asked Frederick in a soft voice. “Die like Cosmo de Medici, in the midst of the tears and blessings of his people?”
“Yes, sire, may such a death be mine!” replied the prince, earnestly; “and I swear to your majesty that if I should ever become king, my sole aim shall be the happiness of my people. I will always think of you, and remember your deeds and your words. Yesterday my new instructor, Mr. Leuchsenring, also told me something very beautiful. He told me that your majesty worked day and night for the welfare of your people, and that you had said: ‘A king is only the first office-holder of his people!’ And that pleased me so well that I have determined to make it the motto of my life.”
“Very good,” said the king, shaking his head, “keep this motto in your heart, but do not speak of it while you are notyet king, or it might cause you some inconvenience. Be careful how you speak of me when I am gone, and impress this lesson on your memory. A prince royal must never criticise the actions of the ruling king. He must be modest and silent, and give the people an example of an obedient and loyal subject, even if the king should do many things that do not please him. I repeat it,—a prince royal must observe and learn in silence. Never forget this, my son, and adopt this as another rule for your entire life. A good king must never devote too much of his attention to women and favorites, or allow them to influence him, for when he does, it is always to the prejudice of his people’s interests, and to his own discredit. I desire to say nothing more on this subject, but remember my words.”
“I will do so, sire,” replied the prince, earnestly. “I will repeat these beautiful lessons daily, morning and evening, but noiselessly, that none may hear them.”
“Well said, my nephew; but let us see how you stand in other respects. Put your hand in my coat-pocket, and take out a little book. I brought it with me in order that you might read something out of it for my benefit. Have you found it?”
“Yes, sire, I have. It is the ‘Fables of La Fontaine.’”
“That is it! Now open the book at random. At what fable did you chance to open it?”
“Le Renard et le Corbeau.”[19]
“Now first read the fable in French, and then let me hear you translate it.”
The prince first read the fable with fluency and a correct pronunciation in the original language, and then rendered it with the same fluency and correctness in the German.
The king listened attentively, often inclining his head in commendation, and murmuring, at times, “Bravo, superb!”
He extended his hand to the prince when he had finished, and looked at him tenderly. “I am proud of you, Fritz,” he cried, “and you shall be rewarded for your diligence. Reportto my chamberlain before you go, and he will give you ten Fredericks d’or. That is your reward for your impromptu translation.”
“No, I thank you,” said the prince; “I do not deserve this reward, and consequently cannot accept it.”
“What! You do not deserve it? And why not?”
“Because it was not an impromptu translation; if it had been, it would not have been any thing like as good. By accident I opened the book at the same fable I had been translating yesterday and the day before with my instructor, and of course it was easily done the second time.”
The king gazed long and thoughtfully at Frederick William’s handsome and innocent young face, his countenance brightening and his eye glistening with pleasure.
He bowed down and stroked his cheek fondly with his trembling hand.
“Bravely said, my son; that pleases me. You have an honest and sincere heart. That is right. Never appear to be more than you are, but always be more than you seem to be.[20]The reward I promised you you shall have, nevertheless, for a king must always keep his promise. A king may never recall a favor once granted, however undeserving the recipient. But this is not the case with you, for you have really made great progress in your French. Continue to do so, and be very diligent, for you must speak the French language as readily as your own, and for this reason you should always speak French with your associates.”
“And I do,” cried the prince with alacrity. “My instructors always speak French with me, and are very angry when they hear my brother and myself speaking a word of German together. I often pass whole days without speaking a single word of German, and our valet speaks French only.”[21]
“I am glad to hear it, Fritz! The French language is the language of diplomacy throughout the world, and it is also best adapted to it on account of its flexibility. I love the French language, but not the French people. I think matters are taking a dangerous course in France, and that there will be trouble there before long. I will not live to see it, but the crater will open and cast its abominable streams of lava over all Europe. Prepare yourself for this time, my son. Arm and equip yourself! Be firm, and think of me. Guard our honor and renown! Perpetrate no wrongs, and tolerate none. Be just and mild with all your subjects, and severe with yourself only.”
“I will be as severe with myself as Professor Behnisch is with me now,” said the prince, earnestly. “I will give myself no immunity; but when I have done something wrong, I will prescribe a punishment for the offence.”
“Is your professor so severe?” asked the king, smiling.
“Ah, yes, your majesty, very severe. A punishment follows in the train of every offence, and if I have only been the least bit rude or angry I must suffer for it at once.”
“That is as it should be,” said the king. “Your professor is entirely right. Above all things, a prince must be polite, and have control over himself. But in what do the punishments he inflicts consist?”
“Always in just such things as are most disagreeable: either, instead of taking a walk, I must stay at home and work, or my brother is left at home, and I am compelled to walk with the professor alone, and then we have nothing but learned conversations. Or, when I have not been diligent during the week, I am not permitted to visit my mother on Sunday and dine with her in the palace. Your majesty knows that we, my brother and myself, do not live in the palace, but with Professor Behnisch and Mr. Leuchsenring in Broad Street. Our table is, however, very bad, and for that reason I always look forward to the coming Sunday with pleasure, for then I eat, as it were, for the whole week. Duringthe week, however, our fare is horrible; and when I dare to complain, the invariable rejoinder is, ‘We have no money to keep a better table.’”
“And that is the truth,” said Frederick, severely. “We should learn to stretch ourselves according to our cover at an early day, and to be economical with money. Moreover, that you do not suffer hunger is quite evident from your fresh, rosy cheeks, and vigorous body. You must eat your daily bread with a merry face, my son, and make no complaints. Young people should be entirely indifferent as to the quality of their food; the indulgences of the table are a solace of old age; youth should despise them; and a good apple ought to be as great a feast for a young man as a pineapple for an old fellow. In later years, when seated at a richly-laden table, you will certainly look back with pleasure to the time when you rejoiced in an approaching Sunday because you fared better on that day than on any other. My son, by suffering want, we first learn how to enjoy; and he only is wise who can find enjoyment in poverty. I hope that at some future day you will be a great, a wise, and an economical king, and for this reason I have instructed those who have charge of you to bring you up plainly, and to teach you, above all things, economy in money matters. For you must know that you have nothing of your own, and that the people are now supporting you; and, for the present, not on account of your services, but solely because you are a scion of your house.”
“Sire,” cried the prince, with vivacity, “sire, I am very young, and, of course, have not been able to do any service as yet; but I promise your majesty that I will become a useful man, and, above all, a fine soldier, and will make myself worthy of being the nephew of Frederick the Great.”
“Do that, my son, make yourself worthy to be the king of your people; and bear in mind the beautiful history of the death of Cosmo de Medici, which you have just narrated. And now, my son, we must part. The sun is setting, and I feel a little tired, and will go to my apartments.”
“Ah, every thing is so beautiful and magnificent here, and your majesty has made me so happy by permitting me to see you!”
“Yes,” murmured the king, “the world is very beautiful.”
He looked longingly around over the terraces and trees, and his gaze was arrested by the peak of the obelisk, which stood at the entrance of the garden, and towered high above the trees. He raised his hand, and pointed to the peak.
“See, my son, how this peak overtops every thing else. Although high and slender, it stands firm in storm and tempest. This pyramid says to you, ‘Ma force est ma droiture.’ The culminating point of the pyramid overlooks and crowns the whole. It does not support, but is supported by all that lies under it, and chiefly by the invisible foundation, built far beneath. My son, thus it is also with the state. The supporting foundation is the people, and the peak of the obelisk is the king. Acquire the love and confidence of the people, this only will enable you to become powerful and happy. And now, my son, come to my heart and receive a parting kiss from your old king. Be good, and do only what is right! Make your people happy, in order that you may be happy yourself.”
He drew the prince, who had knelt down before him, to his heart, pressed a kiss on his lips, and laid his cold, trembling hand on Frederick William’s head for a moment, as if to bless him.
“And now arise, my child,” said he lovingly. “Do not forget this hour.”
“Sire it shall never be forgotten,” whispered the prince, sobbing loudly, and covering the king’s hand with tears and kisses.
“Call the lackeys,” murmured the king, as he fell back in his chair, exhausted. “Let them carry me in.”
The prince hurriedly summoned the servants; and they raised the chair in which Frederick lay with closed eyes.
For a moment only he opened his eyes to look at the prince,and to wave him a last greeting with his hand. His eyelids closed again, and the king was carried into his “dark house” and into the library. After setting the chair down, the lackeys stepped noiselessly out of the room, believing the king to be asleep. Frederick opened his eyes, and looking around at the busts of his great ancestors, saluted them with a motion of the hand.
“All is finished,” he said, loudly. “I have seen my garden for the last time, and have taken leave of Nature. When my body leaves this house again, it will be borne to eternal rest, but my spirit will fly to you, my friends, and roam with you in endless light and knowledge. I am coming soon. But,” he continued, elevating his voice, and speaking in firmer tones, “my sun has not yet set, and as long as it is still day I must and will work!”
He rang the bell, and told the servant to send Minister von Herzberg (who, at the king’s request, had been sojourning at Sans-Souci for the last few weeks,) to his presence at once.
Frederick received the minister with a cordial smile, and worked with him, in erect composure of mind and clearness of intellect, for several hours, listened to his report, gave his decisions, and dictated in a firm voice several dispatches to the ambassadors of France and Russia.
“Herzberg, have these papers drawn up at once,” said he, as he dismissed the minister. “The members of the cabinet must present them for my signature to-day, in order that they may be forwarded at the earliest moment. I must deal sparingly with my time, and employ each moment, for the next may not be mine.”
“Oh, sire, it is to be hoped that you will still have years to devote to the happiness of your people, and—”
“Do you suppose I desire it?” exclaimed Frederick, interrupting him. “No, I am weary, and long to rest from the troubles and cares of life. You think I do not feel them, because I do not complain. But you must know that some things are only endurable when not complained of. My accountwith life is balanced, and, although it gave me some laurels, yet the thorns predominated, and there was scarcely a single rose among them. Be still! No complaints! But listen! I believe my end is approaching—already perhaps Death lies in wait at my door—and I have something to say to you. Madness and misrule will be the order of the day when I am gone, mistresses and favorites will reign, and hypocrites and impostors will practise iniquity under guise of piety. Well, this you cannot prevent; and if the Lord should see fit to let it come to pass, you must bear it as you best can. But when the spendthrifts attack the treasury, when they begin to squander the money I have saved with so much trouble, for the amelioration of the country, on their mistresses and favorites, you must not tolerate it. You must speak to the king’s conscience in my name, and endeavor to persuade him, with good and bad words, to consult his people’s interests, and not lavish on his favorites what belongs to the state. Will you promise to do this?”
“Yes. I promise your majesty that I will do so,” replied Herzberg, solemnly. “I swear that I will faithfully and fearlessly obey the commands of my great and beloved king; that I will repeat to your successor the words your majesty has just spoken, if occasion should require; and that I will do all that lies in my power to prevent the expenditure of the state treasure for any other purpose than that of the welfare of the people and country.”
“I thank you,” said the king; “you have relieved my mind of a great burden. Give me your hand, Herzberg, and let me thank you once more. You have been a faithful servant to your king, and you will continue to serve him when he has long since passed away. And now, farewell for the present, Herzberg; I desire to sleep a little. A cabinet meeting will be held here at eight o’clock this evening.”
“But, sire, would it not be better if your majesty rested to-day, or else called the meeting at once, in order that you might retire to your repose earlier?”
The king shrugged his shoulders. “There is no repose, except in the grave; and sleep is for the healthy only.” And, even after they had left him, the king remained sitting at his writing-desk, and arranged his papers, and wrote a letter to his sister, the Duchess of Braunschweig.
The two lackeys stood in the antechamber, awaiting the summons of the king’s bell, and whispering to each other that his majesty was again sitting up, and working at a very late hour, although his physician had expressly forbidden him to do so. And yet neither of them dared to enter and disturb him in his labors; they stood hesitating and casting anxious glances at the door.
But, behind this door, in the king’s room, two eyes were regarding him intently; these were the eyes of his greyhound, Alkmene. Twice had the animal already jumped up from its bed, ran to the king, and nestled caressingly at his side, and had then, when Frederick took no notice of it, hung its head and gone mournfully back to its cushion. It now raised its tapering head, and looked intelligently at the king, who sat writing at the table, his back turned toward the little dog. Suddenly it bounded across the room, sprang upon the king’s chair, laid its slender forefeet on its master’s shoulder, bent its graceful neck downward, snatched the king’s pen from his hand, and jumped down to the floor with it.
“Be quiet, Alkmene,” cried the king, without looking up from his work, in which he was entirely absorbed. “No nonsense, mademoiselle!” And the king took another pen from the stand.
Alkmene let the pen fall, and looked up at the king intently. When she saw that he continued writing, she uttered a low, plaintive whine. With one bound she was again on the back of the king’s chair. Supporting her feet on his shoulder, she snatched the pen from his hand a second time, and jumped down with it. This time she did not let the pen fall, but held it in her mouth, and remained near the king’s chair, looking up to him with her sparkling eyes.
Frederick looked down from his work at the little animal, and a smile flitted over his features.
“Really,” said he, in a low voice, “I believe Alkmene wishes to remind me that it is time to go to bed. Well, come here, mademoiselle, I will grant your desire!”
As if understanding her master’s words, Alkmene barked joyously, and jumped into the king’s lap. The king pressed the little greyhound to his breast, and caressed it tenderly. “My friends have not all deserted me,” he murmured. “I shall probably have a smiling heir, but, when my body is carried to the grave, my dog at least will remain there to weep over me.”
He pressed the greyhound closer to his breast; deep silence reigned in the room. The wind howled dismally through the trees in the garden; a sudden blast dashed some fallen twigs against the low window, in front of which Frederick worked, and it sounded as if ghostly hands were knocking there. The wind whispered and murmured as if the voices of the night and the spirits of the flowers and the trees wished to bring the king a greeting.
Suddenly Alkmene uttered a long, distressful howl, and ran to the door, and scratched and whined until the servants took heart and entered the room.
The king lay groaning in his arm-chair, his eyes glazed, and blood flowing from his pale lips. His physician and a surgeon were summoned at once, and the king was bled and his forehead rubbed with strengthening salts. He awoke once more to life and its torments; and for a few weeks the heroic mind conquered death and bodily decrepitude. But the ride on Condé on the fourth of July was nevertheless his last. After that day Frederick never left his “dark house.”
When the king of the desert, when the lion feels that his end is approaching, he goes to the forest, seeks the densest jungle and profoundest solitude, and lies down to die. Nature has ordained that no one shall desecrate by his presence the last death-agony of the king of the desert.
His Sans-Souci was the great king’s holy and solitary retreat; and there it was that the hero and king breathed his last sigh on earth, without murmur or complaint.
He died on the morning of the 17th August, in the year 1786.
A great man had ceased to live. There lay the inanimate form of him who had been called King Frederick the Second. But a star arose in the heavens, and wise men gave it the name Frederick’s Honor. The same star still shines in the firmament, and seems to greet us and Prussia: Frederick’s Honor!
AFTER THE KING’S DEATH.
“The king is dead! Frederick the Second is no more! I come, your majesty, to bring you this sad intelligence!”
These were the words with which the minister Herzberg, accompanied by the valet Rietz, walked up to the bed of the prince royal, Frederick William, on the night of the seventeenth of August, and aroused him from his slumber.
“What is it? Who speaks to me?” asked the prince royal, rising in bed, and staring at the two men who stood before him—the one with a sad, the other with a joyful expression of countenance.
“I ventured to speak to your majesty,” answered Herzberg; “I, the former minister of King Frederick the Second. His majesty departed this life half an hour since, and I have come to bring the sad tidings in person. King Frederick the Second is dead!”
“Long live King Frederick William the Second!” cried the valet Rietz, as he busily assisted the king in dressing himself and finishing his toilet.
Frederick William remained silent. No words, either of sorrow or of joy, escaped his lips. Lost in thought, or perhaps painfully alive to the sublimity of the moment, or embarrassed as to what he should say, in order to satisfy two men so differently constituted, he silently submitted himself to his valet’s attentions, while Von Herzberg had withdrawn to the alcove of the farthest window, and stood sadly awaiting the commands of the new king.
“Your majesty is attired,” said Rietz, in low, submissive tones.
“Is the carriage in readiness?” demanded Frederick William, starting as if aroused from deep thought.
“Yes, your majesty, I ordered it to be ready at once.”
“Come, then, Herzberg, let us go; Rietz, you will accompany us.”
“But kings should not venture into the night air, without first breaking fast. The chocolate is already prepared. Will your majesty permit me to serve it up?”
“No, Rietz, every thing in its proper place,” said the king. “My knees tremble; give me the support of your arm, Herzberg, and lead me.”
He laid his hand heavily upon Herzberg’s proffered arm, and walked out, leaning upon him. Rietz, who followed them, fastened his small gray eyes on the minister, and shook his fist at him behind his back. “You will not be the support of my king much longer,” he muttered between his clinched teeth. “You and your whole pack shall soon be dismissed! We have stood in the background and looked on while you governed, long enough. Our time has at last come, and we will make the most of it.” His manner had been threatening and hostile while muttering these words; but, as he now hurried forward to open the carriage door, he quickly changed it, and he not only assisted the king in entering, but also extended a helping hand to the minister. He then jumped up and took his seat beside the coachman, and the carriage rolled down the broad avenue that led to the palace of Sans-Souci. The drive was of short duration, the horses pushing forward as if aware that they were carrying a new king to his future. Not a word was spoken in the carriage; its occupants, the valet included, were lost in meditation. He also was fully aware that he was entering upon a new future, and he swore that it should not only be a brilliant but also a profitable one. He smiled complacently when he considered the pleasures and happiness life had in store for him.Did not the king love him, and, still better, did not the king love his wife, the soi-disant Madame Rietz?
“A plain madame she will not remain much longer,” said he to himself. “She is ambitious; I will place her at the head of the department of titles and orders, but I will superintend the department of finance and material profits. When such a good-natured couple as we are harness ourselves to a wagon, it will be strange indeed if we do not manage to pull it through the mire of life, and if it does not ultimately become transformed into a right regal equipage.” At this moment the carriage turned the corner of the avenue, and there lay Sans-Souci, illumined by the first rays of the rising sun, bright and beautiful to look upon, although the corpse of a king lay within—the corpse of one, who but yesterday was the master and ruler of millions, to-day inanimate clay, a handful of dust from the dust of humanity.
The carriage halted, and, as no one came forward to open the door, Rietz reluctantly opened it himself. The king’s house was the scene of confusion and sorrow, and could no longer be called the house Sans-Souci, “the house without care,” since its royal occupant had closed his eyes.
The king entered the antechamber, and greeted with a kindly smile the two valets who stood near the door. Tears rushed to their eyes, and disregarding etiquette in their grief, they neglected to open the door that led to the inner apartments. Rietz hastened forward and opened it, and then followed the king and minister into the reception-room, which was still empty, as the princes and princesses, and the courtiers, had not yet been informed of the king’s death.
“Le roi est mort! Vive le roi!” They will soon come with one weeping and one laughing eye; with a reluctant tear for the departed, and a fascinating smile for the living king, who had awakened this morning to find a crown on his brow, and a kingdom at his feet!
“Le roi est mort! Vive le roi!”
How desolate is the antechamber of the departed king to-day!Not a sound is heard! The portrait of the Marquise de Pompadour, which she had given Frederick as a mark of her favor, hangs on the wall, and smiles down upon this scene with its coquettish beauty. The king and the minister do not observe it, but Rietz, who follows close behind, looks up at the picture with a complacent smile, and thinks to himself that his wife will certainly become quite as celebrated and honored as the French king’s flame. Why should not an empress also write to her some day—to her, the adored of the King of Prussia, and call her “ma cousine?” Why not?
It is only with the greatest difficulty that the valet can suppress his inclination to burst into laughter, when this thought occurs to him. As he follows his master into the king’s study, he covers his face with his hand, and assumes an air of deep dejection. There are people in this room, and there might be observant eyes there also.
But no, there are no observant eyes in the king’s study to-day. The men who are present are thinking only of their trouble and grief. There are no tears of etiquette and no sighs of assumed sorrow there. The king’s four cabinet counsellors alone are present. In accordance with his request of the day before, they had come to his study at four o’clock in the morning, the accustomed hour. On the preceding day they had been admitted to his presence, and he had given them his instructions in a weak voice, and had even steadied his trembling hand sufficiently to affix his signature to a state document. To-day they had come, as usual, with the rising sun, but they now saw that their sun had set—nothing remained for them but to weep. The king did not see them, or did not seem to see them, but walked rapidly toward the open door, and the mourning group who had assembled in the adjoining apartment. On a blood-stained pillow in an arm-chair lay the countenance which was yesterday that of a king. A day had transformed it into a marble bust; it lay there with closed eyes, in peaceful serenity—a smile on the lips that had yesterday cried out to the sun, “Soon I will be with you!”
The great king was with the sun; that which lay in the chair was only the worthless casket of the flown soul.
Beside the body stood the physician Sello, in deep dejection. Behind the chair were the two lackeys, who had faithfully watched at the king’s bedside during the preceding night; they were weeping bitterly, weeping because he had gone from them.
Deep silence reigned; and there was something in this silence which inspired even the valet Rietz with awe. He held his breath, and approached noiselessly to look at the corpse of King Frederick, whom he had never had an opportunity of viewing in such close proximity during his lifetime.
As the king approached the body, the servants sobbed audibly. The physician bowed his head deeper, to salute the rising star. The greyhound, which had remained quiet and motionless at the king’s feet until now, jumped up, raised its slender head, and howled piteously, and then returned to its former position.
Deeply moved, his eyes filled with tears, the king stooped over the dead body, raised the cold hand to his lips, and kissed it; and then he laid his warm hand on the brow that had worn a crown, and had so often been entwined with laurel-wreaths.
“Give me, O God, Thy blessing, that I may be a worthy successor of this great king,” said Frederick William, in a low voice, while tears trickled down his cheeks.—“You, my predecessor, made Prussia great; God grant that it may never be made weak through my instrumentality! Farewell, my king and uncle, and peace be with us all!”
“Amen!” said Herzberg, in a firm voice. “Last evening, when the shades of death were already gathering on his brow, his majesty King Frederick sent for me, and whispered these words, in faltering tones: ‘On the morrow you will present my salutations to my successor beside my body.’ Your majesty, King Frederick greets you through me!”
Frederick William inclined his head in response. “Youwere with the king when he died, were you not, my dear Sello?”
“Yes, sire, I was.”
“At what hour did the king die?”
Sello raised his hand, and pointed solemnly to the large clock which stood against the wall on a marble stand. “Your majesty, the hands of that clock stopped the moment the king breathed his last sigh. Sire, behold the first monument erected to the memory of our great king!”
Frederick William looked both astonished and pleased. “This is truly wonderful,” he observed, in an undertone. “They were then right! We are surrounded by wonders. The hand of a mysterious agency is visible in all things!”
He walked up to the clock, and a feeling of awe crept over him as he regarded the dial. To him the hands were ghostly fingers pointing to the moment at which the king had died.
“Twenty minutes past two,” said the king, softly. “Strange, passing strange!”
He turned and beckoned to his valet to approach.
“Rietz, at what time did I call you last night, when I was awakened by some fearful anxiety?”
“It was exactly twenty minutes past two, your majesty! I am certain of it, because you commanded me to consult your watch at the time.”
“Yes, that was the exact time,” murmured the king to himself. “The spirits woke me, that I might greet the new day that was dawning for me.”
“Le roi est mort! Vive le roi!” The king, who gave enlightenment and freedom of thought to his people, is dead! King Frederick is dead! A shadow darkens the sun of this first morning of the new era. This shadow will soon become a lowering cloud, and night and darkness will sink down over Prussia.
“Le roi est mort! Vive le roi!”