CLEVE COUNTRIES.
King Friedrich did not quite keep his day at Wesel; indeed this 24th was
not the first day, but the last of several, he had appointed to himself
for finis to that Journey in the Cleve Countries; Journey rather complex
to arrange. He has several businesses ahead in those parts; and, as
usual, will group them with good judgment, and thrift of time. Not
inspections merely, but amusements, meetings with friends, especially
French friends: the question is, how to group them with skill, so that
the necessary elements may converge at the right moment, and one shot
kill three or four birds. This is Friedrich's fine way, perceptible in
all these Journeys. The French friends, flying each on his own track,
with his own load of impediments, Voltaire with his Madame for instance,
are a difficult element in such problem; and there has been, and
is, much scheming and corresponding about it, within the last month
especially.
Voltaire is now at Brussels, with his Du Chatelet, prosecuting that
endless "lawsuit with the House of Honsbruck,"--which he, and we, are
both desirous to have done with. He is at the Hague, too, now and then;
printing, about to print, the ANTI-MACHIAVEL; corresponding, to right
and left, quarrelling with Van Duren the Printer; lives, while there, in
the VIEILLE COUR, in the vast dusky rooms with faded gilding, and grand
old Bookshelves "with the biggest spider-webs in Europe." Brussels is
his place for Law-Consultations, general family residence; the Hague and
that old spider-web Palace for correcting Proof-sheets; doing one's own
private studies, which we never quite neglect. Fain would Friedrich
see him, fain he Friedrich; but there is a divine Emilie, there is a
Maupertuis, there are--In short, never were such difficulties, in the
cooking of an egg with water boiling; and much vain correspondence
has already been on that subject, as on others equally extinct.
Correspondence which is not pleasant reading at this time; the rather
as no reader can, without endless searching, even understand it.
Correspondence left to us, not in the cosmic, elucidated or legible
state; left mainly as the Editorial rubbish-wagons chose to shoot it;
like a tumbled quarry, like the ruins of a sacked city;--avoidable by
readers who are not forced into it! [Herr Preuss's edition (_OEuvres
de Frederic,_ vols. xxi. xxii. xxiii.) has come out since the above
was written: it is agreeably exceptional; being, for the first time,
correctly printed, and the editor himself having mostly understood
it,--though the reader still cannot, on the terms there allowed.]
Take the following select bricks as sample, which are of some use; the
general Heading is,
KING FRIEDERIC TO M. DE VOLTAIRE (at the Hague, or at Brussels).
"CHARLOTTENBURG, 12th JUNE, 1740.--... My dear Voltaire, resist no
longer the eagerness I have to see you. Do in my favor whatever your
humanity allows. In the end of August, I go to Wesel, and perhaps
farther. Promise that you will come and join me; for I could not
live happy, nor die tranquil, without having embraced you! Thousand
compliments to the Marquise," divine Emilie. "I am busy with both hands
[Corn-Magazines, Free Press, Abolition of Torture, and much else];
working at the Army with the one hand, at the People and the Fine Arts
with the other."
"BERLIN, 5th AUGUST, 1740.--... I will write to Madame du Chatelet, in
compliance with your wish:" mark it, reader. "To speak to you frankly
concerning her journey, it is Voltaire, it is you, it is my Friend that
I desire to see; and the divine Emilie with all her divinity is only the
Accessory of the Apollo Newtonized.
"I cannot yet say whether I shall travel [incognito into foreign parts a
little] or not travel;" there have been rumors, perhaps private wishes;
but--... "Adieu, dear friend; sublime spirit, first-born of thinking
beings. Love me always sincerely, and be persuaded that none can love
and esteem you more than I. VALE. FEDERIC."
"BERLIN, 6th AUGUST [which is next day].--You will have received a
Letter from me dated yesterday; this is the second I write to you from
Berlin; I refer you to what was in the other. If it must be (FAUT) that
Emilie accompany Apollo, I consent; but if I could see you alone, that
is what I would prefer. I should be too much dazzled; I could not stand
so much splendor all at once; it would overpower me. I should need the
veil of Moses to temper the united radiance of your two divinities."...
In short, don't bring her, if you please.
"REMUSBERG [poetic for REINSBERG], 8th AUGUST, 1740.--... My dear
Voltaire, I do believe Van Duren costs you more trouble and pains than
you had with HENRI QUATRE. In versifying the Life of a Hero, you wrote
the history of your own thoughts; but in coercing a scoundrel you fence
with an enemy who is not worthy of you." To punish him, and cut
short his profits, "PRINT, then, as you wish [your own edition of the
ANTI-MACHIAVEL, to go along with his, and trip the feet from it]. FAITES
ROULER LA PRESSE; erase, change, correct; do as you see best; your
judgment about it shall be mine."--"In eight days I leave for [where
thinks the reader? "DANTZIG" deliberately print all the Editors, careful
Preuss among them; overturning the terrestrial azimuths for us, and
making day night!]--for Leipzig, and reckon on being at Frankfurt on the
22d. In case you could be there, I expect, on my passage, to give you
lodging! At Cleve or in Holland, I depend for certain on embracing you."
[Preuss, _OEuvres de Frederic,_ xx. pp. 5, 19-21; Voltaire, _OEuvres,_
lxxii. 226, &c. (not worth citing, in comparison).]
Intrinsically the Friedrich correspondence at this time, with Voltaire
especially, among many friends now on the wing towards Berlin and
sending letters, has,--if you are forced into struggling for some
understanding of it, and do get to read parts of it with the eyes of
Friedrich and Voltaire,--has a certain amiability; and is nothing like
so waste and dreary as it looks in the chaotic or sacked-city condition.
Friedrich writes with brevity, oftenest on practicalities (the
ANTI-MACHIAVEL, the coming Interview, and the like), evidently no time
to spare; writes always with considerable sincerity; with friendliness,
much admiration, and an ingenuous vivacity, to M. de Voltaire. Voltaire,
at his leisure in Brussels or the Old Palace and its spider-webs, writes
much more expansively; not with insincerity, he either;--with endless
airy graciosities, and ingenious twirls, and touches of flattering
unction, which latter, he is aware, must not be laid on too thick. As
thus:--
In regard to the ANTI-MACHIAVEL,--Sire, deign to give me your
permissions as to the scoundrel of a Van Duren; well worth while,
Sire,--"IT is a monument for the latest posterity; the only Book worthy
of a King for these fifteen hundred years."
This is a strongish trowelful, thrown on direct, with adroitness; and
even this has a kind of sincerity. Safer, however, to do it in the
oblique or reflex way,--by Ambassador Cumas, for example:--
"I will tell you boldly, Sir [you M. de Camas], I put more value on this
Book (ANTI-MACHIAVEL) than on the Emperor Julian's CAESAR, or on the
MAXIMS of Marcus Aurelius,"--I do indeed, having a kind of property in
it withal! [Voltaire, _OEuvres,_ lxxii. 280 (to Camas, 18th October,
1740).]
In fact, Voltaire too is beautiful, in this part of the Correspondence;
but much in a twitter,--the Queen of Sheba, not the sedate Solomon, in
prospect of what is coming. He plumes himself a little, we perceive, to
his d'Argentals and French Correspondents, on this sublime intercourse
he has got into with a Crowned Head, the cynosure of mankind:---Perhaps
even you, my best friend, did not quite know me, and what merits I had!
Plumes himself a little; but studies to be modest withal; has not much
of the peacock, and of the turkey has nothing, to his old friends. All
which is very naive and transparent; natural and even pretty, on the
part of M. de Voltaire as the weaker vessel.--For the rest, it is
certain Maupertuis is getting under way at Paris towards the Cleve
rendezvous. Brussels, too, is so near these Cleve Countries; within
two days' good driving:--if only the times and routes would rightly
intersect?
Friedrich's intention is by no means for a straight journey towards
Cleve: he intends for Baireuth first, then back from Baireuth to
Cleve,--making a huge southward elbow on the map, with Baireuth for apex
or turning-point:--in this manner he will make the times suit, and have
a convergence at Cleve. To Baireuth;--who knows if not farther? All
summer there has gone fitfully a rumor, that he wished to see France;
perhaps Paris itself incognito? The rumor, which was heard even at
Petersburg, [Raumer's _Beitrage_ (English Translation, London, 1837),
p. 15 (Finch's Despatch, 24th June, 1740).] is now sunk dead again; but
privately, there is no doubt, a glimpse of the sublime French Nation
would be welcome to Friedrich. He could never get to Travelling in his
young time; missed his Grand Tour altogether, much as he wished it; and
he is capable of pranks!--Enough, on Monday morning, 15th August, 1740,
[Rodenbeck, p. 15, slightly in error: see Dickens's Interview, supra, p.
187.] Friedrich and Suite leave Potsdam; early enough; go, by Leipzig,
by the route already known to readers, through Coburg and the Voigtland
regions; Wilhelmina has got warning, sits eagerly expecting her Brother
in the Hermitage at Baireuth, gladdest of shrill sisters; and full of
anxieties how her Brother would now be. The travelling party consisted,
besides the King, of seven persons: Prince August Wilhelm, King's next
Brother, Heir-apparent if there come no children, now a brisk youth of
eighteen; Leopold Prince of Anhalt-Dessau, Old Dessauer's eldest, what
we may call the "Young Dessauer;" Colonel von Borck, whom we shall hear
of again; Colonel von Stille, already heard of (grave men of fifty,
these two); milk-beard Munchow, an Adjutant, youngest of the promoted
Munchows; Algarotti, indispensable for talk; and Fredersdorf, the
House-Steward and domestic Factotum, once Private in Schwerin's
Regiment, whom Bielfeld so admired at Reinsberg, foreseeing what
he would come to. One of Friedrich's late acts was to give Factotum
Fredersdorf an Estate of Land (small enough, I fancy, but with
country-house on it) for solace to the leisure of so useful a
man,--studious of chemistry too, as I have heard. Seven in all, besides
the King. [Rodenbeck, p. 19 (and for Chamberlain Fredersdorf's estate,
p. 15).] Direct towards Baireuth, incognito, and at the top of their
speed. Wednesday, 17th, they actually arrive. Poor Wilhelmina, she finds
her Brother changed; become a King in fact, and sternly solitary; alone
in soul, even as a King must be! [Wilhelmina, ii. 322, 323.]--
"Algarotti, one of the first BEAUX-ESPRITS of this age," as Wilhelmina
defines him,--Friend Algarotti, the young Venetian gentleman of
elegance, in dusky skin, in very white linen and frills, with his fervid
black eyes, "does the expenses of the conversation." He is full of
elegant logic, has speculations on the great world and the little,
on Nature, Art, Papistry, Anti-Papistry, and takes up the Opera in an
earnest manner, as capable of being a school of virtue and the moral
sublime. His respectable Books on the Opera and other topics are now
all forgotten, and crave not to be mentioned. To me he is not supremely
beautiful, though much the gentleman in manners as in ruffles, and
ingeniously logical:--rather yellow to me, in mind as in skin, and
with a taint of obsolete Venetian Macassar. But to Friedrich he is
thrice-dear; who loves the Sharp faceted cut of the man, and does not
object to his yellow or Extinct-Macassar qualities of mind. Thanks to
that wandering Baltimore for picking up such a jewel and carrying
him Northward! Algarotti himself likes the North: here in our hardy
climates,--especially at Berlin, and were his loved Friedrich NOT a
King,--Algarotti could be very happy in the liberty allowed. At
London, where there is no King, or none to speak of, and plenty of free
Intelligences, Carterets, Lytteltons, young Pitts and the like, he is
also well, were it not for the horrid smoke upon one's linen, and the
little or no French of those proud Islanders.
Wilhelmina seems to like him here; is glad, at any rate, that he does
the costs of conversation, better or worse. In the rest is no hope.
Stille, Borck are accomplished military gentlemen; but of tacit
nature, reflective, practical, rather than discursive, and do not
waste themselves by incontinence of tongue. Stille, by his military
Commentaries, which are still known to soldiers that read, maintains
some lasting remembrance of himself: Borck we shall see engaged in a
small bit of business before long. As to Munchow, the JEUNE MORVEUX
of an Adjutant, he, though his manners are well enough, and he wears
military plumes in his hat, is still an unfledged young creature, "bill
still yellow," so to speak;--and marks himself chiefly by a visible
hankering after that troublesome creature Marwitz, who is always
coquetting. Friedrich's conversation, especially to me Wilhelmina, seems
"GUINDE, set on stilts," likewise there are frequent cuts of banter in
him; and it is painfully evident he distinguishes my Sister of Anspach
and her foolish Husband, whom he has invited over hither in a most eager
manner, beyond what a poor Wilhelmina with her old love can pretend to.
Patience, my shrill Princess, Beauty of Baireuth and the world; let us
hope all will come right again! My shrill Princess--who has a melodious
strength like that of war-fifes, too--knows how to be patient; and veils
many things, though of a highly unhypocritical nature.
These were Three great Days at Baireuth; Wilhelmina is to come soon,
and return the visit at Berlin. To wait upon the King, known
though incognito, "the Bishop of Bamberg" came driving over:
[_Helden-Geschichte,_ i. 419.] Schonborn, Austrian Kanzler, or who? His
old City we once saw (and plenty of hanged malefactors swinging round
it, during that JOURNEY TO THE REICH);--but the Bishop himself never to
our knowledge, Bishop being absent then, I hope it is the same Bishop
of Bamberg, whom a Friend of Busching's, touring there about that
same time, saw dining in a very extraordinary manner, with medieval
trumpeters, "with waiters in spurs and buff-belts;" [Busching's
_Beitrage;_--Schlosser (_History of the Eighteenth Century_) also
quotes the scene.] if it is not, I have not the slightest shadow of
acquaintance with him,--there have been so many Bishops of Bamberg with
whom one wishes to have none! On the third day Friedrich and his company
went away, towards Wurzburg; and Wilhelmina was left alone with her
reflections. "I had had so much to say to him; I had got nothing said
at all:" alas, it is ever so. "The King was so changed, grown so much
bigger (GRANDI), you could not have known him again;" stands finely
erect and at full breadth, every inch a King; his very stature, you
would say, increased.--Adieu, my Princess, pearl of Princesses; all
readers will expect your return-visit at Berlin, which is to be soon.
FRIEDRICH STRIKES OFF TO THE LEFT, AND HAS A VIEW OF STRASBURG FOR TWO
DAYS.
Through Wurzburg, Frankfurt-on-Mayn, speeds Friedrich;--Wilhelmina and
mankind understand that it is homewards and to Cleve; but at Frankfurt,
in deepest privacy, there occurs a sudden whirl southward,--up the
Rhine-Valley; direct towards Strasburg, for a sight of France in that
quarter! So has Friedrich decided,--not quite suddenly, on new Letters
here, or new computations about Cleve; but by forethought taken at
Baireuth, as rather appears. From Frankfurt to Strasburg, say 150 miles;
from Strasburg home, is not much farther than from Frankfurt home: it
can be done, then; husht!
The incognito is to be rigorous: Friedrich becomes COMTE DUFOUR,
a Prussian-French gentleman; Prince August Wilhelm is Graf von
Schaffgotsch, Algarotti is Graf von Pfuhl, Germans these two; what
Leopold, the Young Dessauer, called himself,--still less what the
others, or whether the others were there at all, and not shoved on,
direct towards Wesel, out of the way as is likelier,--can remain
uncertain to readers and me. From Frankfurt, then, on Monday morning,
22d August, 1740, as I compute, through old known Philipsburg Campaign
country, and the lines of Ettlingen and Stollhofen; there the Royal
Party speeds eagerly (weather very bad, as appears): and it is certain
they are at Kehl on Tuesday evening; looking across the long Rhine
Bridge, Strasburg and its steeples now close at hand.
This looks to be a romantic fine passage in the History of the young
King;--though in truth it is not, and proves but a feeble story either
to him or us. Concerning which, however, the reader, especially if
he should hear that there exists precise Account of it, Two Accounts
indeed, one from the King's own hand, will not fail of a certain craving
to become acquainted with details. This craving, foolish rather than
wise, we consider it thriftiest to satisfy at once; and shall give the
King's NARRATIVE entire, though it is a jingling lean scraggy Piece,
partly rhyme, "in the manner of Bachaumont and La Chapelle;" written at
the gallop, a few days hence, and despatched to Voltaire:--"You," dear
Voltaire, "wish to know what I have been about, since leaving
Berlin; annexed you will find a description of it," writes Friedrich.
[_OEuvres,_ xxii. 25 (Wesel, 2d Septemher, 1740).] Out of Voltaire's and
other people's waste-baskets, it has at length been fished up, patch by
patch, and pasted together by victorious modern Editors; and here it is
again entire. The other Narrative, which got into the Newspapers soon
after, is likewise of authentic nature,--Fassmann, our poor old friend,
confirming it, if that were needful,--and is happily in prose. [Given
in _Helden-Geschichte,_ i. 420-423;--see likewise Fassmann's
_Merkwurdigster Regierungs-Antritt_ (poor old Book on FRIEDRICH'S
ACCESSION); Preuss (_Thronbesteigung,_ pp. 395-400); &c. &c.] Holding
these two Pieces well together, and giving the King's faithfully
translated, in a complete state, it will be possible to satisfy foolish
cravings, and make this Strasburg Adventure luminous enough.
KING FRIEDRICH TO VOLTAIRE (from Wesel, 2d September, 1740), CHIEFLY IN
DOGGEREL, CONCERNING THE RUN TO STRASBURG.
Part of it, incorrect, in Voltaire, _OEuvres_ (scandalous Piece now
called _Memoires,_ once _Vie Privee du Roi de Prusse_), ii. 24-26;
finally, in Preuss, _OEuvres de Frederic,_ xiv. 156-161, the real and
complete affair, as fished up by victorious Preuss and others.
"I have just finished a Journey, intermingled with singular adventures,
sometimes pleasant, sometimes the reverse. You know I had set out for
Baireuth,"--BRUXELLES the beautiful French Editor wrote, which makes
Egyptian darkness of the Piece!--"to see a Sister whom I love no less
than esteem. On the road [thither or thence; or likeliest, THERE],
Algarotti and I consulted the map, to settle our route for returning by
Wesel. Frankfurt-on-Mayn comes always as a principal stage;--Strasburg
was no great roundabout: we chose that route in preference. The
INCOGNITO was decided, names pitched upon [Comte Dufour, and the
others]; story we were to tell: in fine, all was arranged and concerted
to a nicety as well as possible. We fancied we should get to Strasburg
in three days [from Baireuth].
But Heaven, which disposes of all things,
Differently regulated this thing.
With lank-sided coursers,
Lineal descendants from Rosinante,
With ploughmen in the dress of postilions,
Blockheads of impertinent nature;
Our carriages sticking fast a hundred times in the road,
We went along with gravity at a leisurely pace,
Knocking against the crags.
The atmosphere in uproar with loud thunder,
The rain-torrents streaming over the Earth
Threatened mankind with the Day of Judgment [VERY BAD WEATHER],
And in spite of our impatience,
Four good days are, in penance,
Lost forever in these jumblings.
Mais le ciel, qui de tout dispose,
Regla differemment la chose.
Avec de coursiers efflanques,
En ligne droites issus de Rosinante,
Et des paysans en postillons masques,
Dutors de race impertinente,
Notre carrosse en cent lieux accroche,
Nous allions gravement, d'une allure indolente,
Gravitant contre les rochers.
Les airs emus par le bruyant tonnerre,
Les torrents d'eau repandus sur la terre,
Du dernier jour menacaient les humains;
Et malgre notre impatience,
Quatre bons jours en penitence
Sont pour jamais perdus dans les charrains.
"Had all our fatalities been limited to stoppages of speed on the
journey, we should have taken patience; but, after frightful roads, we
found lodgings still frightfuler.
For greedy landlords
Seeing us pressed by hunger
Did, in a more than frugal manner,
In their infernal hovels,
Poisoning instead of feeding,
Steal from us our crowns.
O age different [in good cheer] from that of Lucullus!
Car des hotes interesses,
De la faim nous voyant presses,
D'une facon plus que frugale,
Dans une chaumiere infernale,
En nous empoisonnant,
Nous volaient nos ecus.
O siecle different des temps de Lucullus!
"Frightful roads; short of victual, short of drink: nor was that all. We
had to undergo a variety of accidents; and certainly our equipage must
have had a singular air, for in every new place we came to, they took us
for something different.
Some took us for Kings,
Some for pickpockets well disguised;
Others for old acquaintances.
At times the people crowded out,
Looked us in the eyes,
Like clowns impertinently curious.
Our lively Italian [Algarotti] swore;
For myself I took patience;
The young Count [my gay younger Brother, eighteen at present]
quizzed and frolicked;
The big Count [Heir-apparent of Dessau] silently swung his head,
Wishing this fine Journey to France,
In the bottom of his heart, most christianly at the Devil.
Les uns nous prenaient pour des rois,
D'autres pour des filous courtois,
D'autrespour gens de connaissance;
Parfois le peuple s'attroupait,
Entre les yeux nous regardait
En badauds curieux, remplis d'impertinence.
Notre vif Italien jurait,
Pour moi je prenais patience,
Le jeune Comte folatrait,
Le grand Comte se dandinait,
Et ce beau vogage de France
Dans le fond de son coeur chretiennement damnait.
"We failed not, however, to struggle gradually along; at last we arrived
in that Stronghold, where [as preface to the War of 1734, known to some
of us]--
Where the garrison, too supple,
Surrendered so piteously
After the first blurt of explosion
From the cannon of the French.
Ou a garrison, troupe flasque,
Se rendit si piteusement
Apres la premiere bourasque
Du canon francais foudroyant.
You recognize Kehl in this description. It was in that fine
Fortress,--where, by the way, the breaches are still lying unrepaired
[Reich being a slow corpus in regard to such things],--that the
Postmaster, a man of more foresight than we, asked If we had got
passports?
No, said I to him; of passports
We never had the whim.
Strong ones I believe it would need
To recall, to our side of the limit,
Subjects of Pluto King of the Dead:
But, from the Germanic Empire
Into the gallant and cynical abode
Of Messieurs your pretty Frenchmen,--A jolly and beaming air,
Rubicund faces, not ignorant of wine,
These are the passports which, legible if you look on us,
Our troop produces to you for that end.
Non, lui dis-je, des passe-ports
Nous n'eumes jamais la folie.
Il en faudrait, je crois, de forts
Pour ressusciter a la vie
De chez Pluton le roi des morts;
Mais de l'empire germanique
Au sejour galant et cynique
De Messieurs vos jolis Francais,
Un air rebondissant et frais,
Une face rouge et bachique,
Sont les passe-ports qu'en nos traits
Vous produit ici notre clique.
"No, Messieurs, said the provident Master of Passports; no salvation
without passport. Seeing then that Necessity had got us in the dilemma
of either manufacturing passports ourselves or not entering Strasburg,
we took the former branch of the alternative and manufactured one;--in
which feat, the Prussian arms, which I had on my seal, were marvellously
furthersome."
This is a fact, as the old Newspapers and confirmatory Fassmann more
directly apprise us. "The Landlord [or Postmaster] at Kehl, having
signified that there was no crossing without Passport," Friedrich, at
first, somewhat taken aback, bethought him of his watch-seal with the
Royal Arms on it; and soon manufactured the necessary Passport, signeted
in due form;--which, however, gave a suspicion to the Innkeeper as to
the quality of his Guest. After which, Tuesday evening, 23d August,
"they at once got across to Strasburg," says my Newspaper Friend, "and
put up at the SIGN OF THE RAVEN, there." Or in Friedrich's own jingle:--
"We arrived at Strasburg; and the Custom-house corsair, with his
inspectors, seemed content with our evidences.
These scoundrels spied us,
With one eye reading our passport,
With the other ogling our purse.
Gold, which was always a resource,
Which brought, Jove to the enjoyment
Of Danae whom he caressed;
Gold, by which Caesar governed
The world happy under his sway;
Gold, more a divinity than Mars or Love;
Wonder-working Gold introduced us
That evening, within the walls of Strasburg."
[Given thus far, with several slight errors, in Voltaire, ii.
24-26;--the remainder, long unknown, had to be fished up, patch by patch
(Preuss, _OEuvres de Frederic,_ xiv. 159-161).]
Ces scelerats nous epiaient,
D'un oeil le passe-port lisaient,
De l'autre lorgnaient notre bourse.
L'or, qui toujours fut de ressource,
Par lequel Jupin jouissait
De Danae, qu'il caressait;
L'or, par qui Cesar gouvernait
Le monde heureux sous son empire;
L'or, plus dieu que Mars et l'Amour,
Le soir, dans les murs de Strasbourg.
Sad doggerel; permissible perhaps as a sample of the Friedrich
manufacture, surely not otherwise! There remains yet more than half
of it; readers see what their foolish craving has brought upon them!
Doggerel out of which no clear story, such story as there is, can be
had; though, except the exaggeration and contortion, there is nothing
of fiction in it. We fly to the Newspaper, happily at least a prose
composition, which begins at this point; and shall use the
Doggerel henceforth as illustration only or as repetition in the
Friedrich-mirror, of a thing OTHERWISE made clear to us:--
Having got into Strasburg and the RAVEN HOTEL; Friedrich now on French
ground at last, or at least on Half-French, German-French, is intent to
make the most of circumstances. The Landlord, with one of Friedrich's
servants, is straightway despatched into the proper coffee-houses to
raise a supper-party of Officers; politely asks any likely Officer,
"If he will not do a foreign Gentleman [seemingly of some distinction,
signifies Boniface] the honor to sup with him at the Raven?"--"No, by
Jupiter!" answer the most, in their various dialects: "who is he that
we should sup with him?" Three, struck by the singularity of the thing,
undertake; and with these we must be content. Friedrich--or call him
M. le Comte Dufour, with Pfuhl, Schaffgotsch and such escort as we
see--politely apologizes on the entrance of these officers: "Many
pardons, gentlemen, and many thanks. Knowing nobody; desirous
of acquaintance:--since you are so good, how happy, by a little
informality, to have brought brave Officers to keep me company, whom I
value beyond other kinds of men!"
The Officers found their host a most engaging gentleman: his supper was
superb, plenty of wine, "and one red kind they had never tasted before,
and liked extremely;"--of which he sent some bottles to their lodging
next day. The conversation turned on military matters, and was enlivened
with the due sallies. This foreign Count speaks French wonderfully; a
brilliant man, whom the others rather fear: perhaps something more than
a Count? The Officers, loath to go, remembered that their two battalions
had to parade next morning, that it was time to be in bed: "I will go to
your review," said the Stranger Count: the delighted Officers undertake
to come and fetch him, they settle with him time and method; how happy!
On the morrow, accordingly, they call and fetch him; he looks at the
review; review done, they ask him to supper for this evening: "With
pleasure!" and "walks with them about the Esplanade, to see the guard
march by." Before parting, he takes their names, writes them in his
tablets; says, with a smile, "He is too much obliged ever to forget
them." This is Wednesday, the 24th of August, 1740; Field-Marshal
Broglio is Commandant in Strasburg, and these obliging Officers are "of
the regiment Piedmont,"--their names on the King's tablets I never heard
mentioned by anybody (or never till the King's Doggerel was fished up
again). Field-Marshal Broglio my readers have transiently seen, afar
off;--"galloping with only one boot," some say "almost in his shirt,"
at the Ford of Secchia, in those Italian campaigns, five years ago, the
Austrians having stolen across upon him:--he had a furious gallop, with
no end of ridicule, on that occasion; is now Commandant here; and we
shall have a great deal more to do with him within the next year or two.
"This same day, 24th, while I [the Newspaper volunteer Reporter or Own
Correspondent, seemingly a person of some standing, whose words carry
credibility in the tone of them] was with Field-Marshal Broglio our
Governor here, there came two gentlemen to be presented to him; 'German
Cavaliers' they were called; who, I now find, must have been the Prince
of Prussia and Algarotti. The Field-Marshal,"--a rather high-stalking
white-headed old military gentleman, bordering on seventy, of
Piedmontese air and breed, apt to be sudden and make flounderings, but
the soul of honor, "was very polite to the two Cavaliers, and kept them
to dinner. After dinner there came a so-styled 'Silesian Nobleman,' who
likewise was presented to the Field-Marshal, and affected not to know
the other two: him I now find to have been the Prince of Anhalt."
Of his Majesty's supper with the Officers that Wednesday, we are left
to think how brilliant it was: his Majesty, we hear farther, went to the
Opera that night,--the Polichinello or whatever the "Italian COMODIE"
was;--"and a little girl came to his box with two lottery-tickets
fifteen pence each, begging the foreign Gentleman for the love of Heaven
to buy them of her; which he did, tearing them up at once, and giving
the poor creature four ducats," equivalent to two guineas, or say in
effect even five pounds of the present British currency. The fame of
this foreign Count and his party at The Raven is becoming very loud
over Strasburg, especially in military circles. Our volunteer Own
Correspondent proceeds (whom we mean to contrast with the Royal Doggerel
by and by):--
"Next morning," Thursday, 25th August, "as the Marshal with above two
hundred Officers was out walking on the Esplanade, there came a soldier
of the Regiment Luxemburg, who, after some stiff fugling motions, of the
nature of salutation partly, and partly demand for privacy, intimated to
the Marshal surprising news: That the Stranger in The Raven was the
King of Prussia in person; he, the soldier, at present of the Regiment
Luxemburg, had in other days, before he deserted, been of the Prussian
Crown-Prince's regiment; had consequently seen him in Berlin, Potsdam
and elsewhere a thousand times and more, and even stood sentry where
he was: the fact is beyond dispute, your Excellency! said this
soldier."--Whew!
Whereupon a certain Colonel, Marquis de Loigle, with or without a hint
from Broglio, makes off for The Raven; introduces himself, as was easy;
contrives to get invited to stay dinner, which also was easy. During
dinner the foreign Gentleman expressed some wish to see their fortress.
Colonel Loigle sends word to Broglio; Broglio despatches straightway an
Officer and fine carriage: "Will the foreign Gentleman do me the honor?"
The foreign Gentleman, still struggling for incognito, declines the
uppermost seat of honor in the carriage; the two Officers, Loigle and
this new one, insist on taking the inferior place. Alas, the incognito
is pretty much out. Calling at some coffee-house or the like on the
road, a certain female, "Madame de Fienne," named the foreign Gentleman
"Sire,"--which so startled him that, though he utterly declined such
title, the two Officers saw well how it was.
"After survey of the works, the two attendant Officers had returned to
the Field-Marshal; and about 4 P.M. the high Stranger made appearance
there. But the thing had now got wind, 'King of Prussia here incognito!'
The place was full of Officers, who came crowding about him: he escaped
deftly into the Marechal's own Cabinet; sat there, an hour, talking to
the Marechal [little admiring the Marechal's talk, as we shall find],
still insisting on the incognito,"--to which Broglio, put out in his
high paces by this sudden thing, and apt to flounder, as I have heard,
was not polite enough to conform altogether. "What shall I do, in this
sudden case?" poor Broglio is thinking to himself: "must write to Court;
perhaps try to detain--?" Friedrioh's chief thought naturally is, One
cannot be away out of this too soon. "Sha'n't we go to the Play, then,
Monsieur le Marechal? Play-hour is come!"--Own Correspondent of the
Newspaper proceeds:--
"The Marechal then went to the Play, and all his Officers with him;
thinking their royal prize was close at their heels. Marechal and
Officers fairly ahead, coast once clear, their royal prize hastened
back to The Raven, paid his bill; hastily summoning Schaffgotsch and
the others within hearing; shot off like lightning; and was seen in
Strasburg no more. Algarotti, who was in the box with Broglio, heard the
news in the house; regretful rumor among the Officers, 'He is gone!' In
about a quarter of an hour Algarotti too slipped out; and vanished by
extra post"--straight towards Wesel; but could not overtake the King
(whose road, in the latter part of it, went zigzag, on business as
is likely), nor see him again till they met in that Town. [From
_Helden-Geschichte_ (i. 420-424), &c.]
This is the Prose Truth of those fifty or eight-and-forty hours in
Strasburg, which were so mythic and romantic at that time. Shall we now
apply to the Royal Doggerel again, where we left off, and see the other
side of the picture? Once settled in The Raven, within Strasburg's
walls, the Doggerel continues:--
"You fancy well that there was now something to exercise my curiosity;
and what desire I had to know the French Nation in France itself.
There I saw at length those French,
Of whom you have sung the glories;
A people despised by the English,
Whom their sad rationality fills with black bile;
Those French, whom our Germans
Reckon all to be destitute of sense;
Those French, whose History consists of Love-stories,
I mean the wandering kind of Love, not the constant;
Foolish this People, headlong, high-going,
Which sings beyond endurance;
Lofty in its good fortune, crawling in its bad;
Of an unpitying extent of babble,
To hide the vacancy of its ignorant mind.
Of the Trifling it is a tender lover;
The Trifling alone takes possession of its brain.
People flighty, indiscreet, imprudent,
Turning like the weathercock to every wind.
Of the ages of the Caesars those of the Louises are the shadow;
Paris is the ghost, of Rome, take it how you will.
No, of those vile French you are not one:
You think; they do not think at all.
La je vis enfin ces Francais
Dont vous avez chante la gloire;
Peuple meprise' des Anglais,
Que leur triste raison remplit de bile noire;
Ces Francais, que nos Allemands
Pensent tous prives de bon sens;
Ces Francais, do nt l'amour pourrait dicter l'histoire,
Je dis l'amour volage, et non l'amour constant;
Ce peuple fou, brusque et galant,
Chansonnier insupportable,
Superbe en sa fortune, en son malheur rampant,
D'un bavardage impitoyable,
Pour cacher le creux d'un esprit ignorant,
Tendre amant de la bagatelle,
Elle entre seule en sa cervelle;
Leger, indiscret, imprudent,
Comme ume girouette il revire a tout vent.
Des siecles des Cesars ceux des Louis sont l'ombre;
Rome efface Paris en tout sens, en tout point.
Non, des vils Francais vous n'etes pas du nombre;
Vous pensez, ils ne pensent point.
"Pardon, dear Voltaire, this definition of the French; at worst, it is
only of those in Strasburg I speak. To scrape acquaintance, I had to
invite some Officers on our arrival, whom of course I did not know.
Three of them came at once,
Gayer, more content than Kings;
Singing with rusty voice.
In verse, their amorous exploits,
Set to a hornpipe.
Trois d'eux s'en vinrent a la fois,
Plus gais, plus contents que des rois,
Chantant d'une voix enrouee,
En vers, leurs amoureux exploits,
Ajustes sur une bourree.
"M. de la Crochardiere and M. Malosa [two names from the tablets, third
wanting] had just come from a dinner where the wine had not been spared.
Of their hot friendship I saw the flame grow,
The Universe would have taken us for perfect friends:
But the instant of good-night blew out the business;
Friendship disappeared without regrets,
With the games, the wine, the table and the viands.
De leur chaude amitie je vis croitre le flamme,
L'univers nous eut pris pour des amis parfaits;
Mais l'instant des adieux en detruisit la trame,
L'amitie disparut, ssns causer des regrets,
Avec le jeu, le vin, et la table, et les mets.
"Next day, Monsieur the Gouverneur of the Town and Province, Marechal of
France, Chevalier of the Orders of the King, &c. &c.,--Marechal Duc de
Broglio, in fact," who was surprised at Secchia in the late War,--
This General always surprised.
Whom with regret, young Louis [your King]
Saw without breeches in Italy
["With only one boot," was the milder rumor; which we adopted (supra,
vol. vi. p. 472), but this sadder one, too, was current; and "Broglio's
breeches," or the vain aspiration after them, like a vanished ghost of
breeches, often enough turn up in the old Pamphlets.]
Galloping to hide away his life
From the Germans, unpolite fighters;--
Ce general toujours surpris,
Qu'a regret le jeune Louis
Vit sans culottes en Italie,
Courir pour derober sa vie
Aux Germains, guerriers impolis.
this General wished to investigate your Comte Dufour,--foreign Count,
who the instant he arrives sets about inviting people to supper that are
perfect strangers. He took the poor Count for a sharper; and prudently
advised M. de la Crochardiere not to be duped by him. It was unluckily
the good Marechal that proved to be duped.
He was born for surprise.
His white hair, his gray beard,
Formed a reverend exterior.
Outsides are often deceptive:
He that, by the binding, judges
Of a Book and its Author
May, after a page of reading,
Chance to recognize his mistake.
Il etait ne pour la surprise.
Ses cheveux blancs, sa barbe grise,
Formaient un sage exterieur.
Le dehors est souvent trompeur;
Qui juge par la reliure
D'un ouvrage et de son auteur
Dans une page de lecture
Peut reconnaitre son erreur.
"That was my own experience; for of wisdom I could find nothing except
in his gray hair and decrepit appearance. His first opening betrayed
him; no great well of wit this Marechal,
Who, drunk with his own grandeur,
Informs you of his name and his titles,
And authority as good as unlimited.
He cited to me all the records
Where his name is registered,
Babbled about his immense power,
About his valor, his talents
So salutary to France;--He forgot that, three years ago
[Six to a nearness,--"15th September, 1734," if your Majesty will be
exact.]
Men did not praise his prudence.
Qui, de sa grandeur enivre;
Decline son nom et ses titres,
Et son pouvoir a rien borne.
Il me cita tous les registres
Ou son nom est enregistre;
Bavard de son pouvoir immense,
De sa valeur, de ces talents
Si salutaires a la France:
Il oubliait, passe trois ans,
Qu'on ne louait pas sa prudence.
"Not satisfied with seeing the Marechal, I saw the guard mounted
By these Frenchmen, burning with glory,
Who, on four sous a day,
Will make of Kings and of Heroes the memory flourish:
Slaves crowned by the hands of Victory,
Unlucky herds whom the Court
Tinkles hither and thither by the sound of fife and drum.
A ces Francais brulants de gloire,
Dotes de quatre sous par jour,
Qui des rois, des heros font fleurir la memoire,
Esclaves couronnes des mains de la victoire,
Troupeaux malheureux que la cour
Dirige au seul bruit du tambour.
"That was my fated term. A deserter from our troops got eye on me,
recognised me and denounced me.
This wretched gallows-bird got eye on me;
Such is the lot of all earthly things;
And so of our fine mystery
The whole secret came to light."
Ce malheureux pendard me vit,
C'est le sort de toutes les choses;
Ainsi de motre pot aux roses
Tout le secret se decouvrit.
Well; we must take this glimpse, such as it is, into the interior of the
young man,--fine buoyant, pungent German spirit, roadways for it very
bad, and universal rain-torrents falling, yet with coruscations from
a higher quarter;--and you can forget, if need be, the "Literature"
of this young Majesty, as you would a staccato on the flute by him! In
after months, on new occasion rising, "there was no end to his gibings
and bitter pleasantries on the ridiculous reception Broglio had given
him at Strasburg," says Valori, [_Memoires,_ i. 88.]--of which this
Doggerel itself offers specimen.
"Probably the weakest Piece I ever translated?" exclaims one, who has
translated several such. Nevertheless there is a straggle of pungent
sense in it,--like the outskirts of lightning, seen in that dismally wet
weather, which the Royal Party had. Its wit is very copious, but slashy,
bantery, and proceeds mainly by exaggeration and turning topsy-turvy;
a rather barren species of wit. Of humor, in the fine poetic sense, no
vestige. But there is surprising veracity,--truthfulness unimpeachable,
if you will read well. What promptitude, too;--what funds for
conversation, when needed! This scraggy Piece, which is better than the
things people often talk to one another, was evidently written as fast
as the pen could go.--"It is done, if such a Hand could have DONE it, in
the manner of Bachaumont and La Chapelle," says Voltaire scornfully, in
that scandalous VIE PRIVEE;--of which phrase this is the commentary, if
readers need one:--
"Some seventy or eighty years before that date, a M. Bachaumont and a
M. la Chapelle, his intimate, published, in Prose skipping off into
dancings of Verse every now and then, 'a charming RELATION of a certain
VOYAGE or Home Tour' (whence or whither, or correctly when, this Editor
forgets), ["First printed in 1665," say the Bibliographies; "but known
to La Fontaine some time before." Good!--Bachaumont, practically an
important and distinguished person, not literary by trade, or indeed
otherwise than by ennui, was he that had given (some fifteen years
before) the Nickname FRONDE (Bickering of Schoolboys) to the wretched
Historical Object which is still so designated in French annals.] which
they had made in partnership. 'RELATION' capable still of being read, if
one were tolerably idle;--it was found then to be charming, by all the
world; and gave rise to a new fashion in writing; which Voltaire often
adopts, and is supremely good at; and in which Friedrich, who is also
fond of it, by no means succeeds so well."
Enough, Friedrich got to Wesel, back to his business, in a day or two;
and had done, as we forever have, with the Strasburg Escapade and its
Doggerel.
FRIEDRICH FINDS M. DE MAUPERTUIS; NOT YET M. DE VOLTAIRE.
Friedrich got to Wesel on the 29th; found Maupertuis waiting there,
according to appointment: an elaborately polite, somewhat sublime
scientific gentleman; ready to "engraft on the Berlin crab-tree,"
and produce real apples and Academics there, so soon as the King, the
proprietor, may have leisure for such a thing. Algarotti has already
the honor of some acquaintance with Maupertuis. Maupertuis has been
at Brussels, on the road hither; saw Voltaire and even Madame,--which
latter was rather a ticklish operation, owing to grudges and tiffs of
quarrel that had risen, but it proved successful under the delicate
guidance of Voltaire. Voltaire is up to oiling the wheels: "There you
are, Monsieur, like the [don't name What, though profane Voltaire does,
writing to Maupertuis a month ago]--Three Kings running after you!" A
new Pension to you from France; Russia outbidding France to have you;
and then that LETTER of Friedrich's, which is in all the Newspapers:
"Three Kings,"--you plainly great man, Trismegistus of the Sciences
called Pure! Madame honors you, has always done: one word of apology
to the high female mind, it will work wonders;--come now! [Voltaire,
_OEuvres,_ lxxii. 217, 216, 230 (Hague, 21st July, 1740, and Brussels,
9th Aug. &c).]
No reader guesses in our time what a shining celestial body the
Maupertuis, who is now fallen so dim again, then was to mankind. In
cultivated French society there is no such lion as M. Maupertuis since
he returned from flattening the Earth in the Arctic regions. "The Exact
Sciences, what else is there to depend on?" thinks French cultivated
society: "and has not Monsieur done a feat in that line?" Monsieur,
with fine ex-military manners, has a certain austere gravity, reticent
loftiness and polite dogmatism, which confirms that opinion. A studious
ex-military man,--was Captain of Dragoons once, but too fond of
study,--who is conscious to himself, or who would fain be conscious,
that he is, in all points, mathematical, moral and other, the man. A
difficult man to live with in society. Comes really near the limit of
what we call genius, of originality, poetic greatness in thinking;--but
never once can get fairly over said limit, though always struggling
dreadfully to do so. Think of it! A fatal kind of man; especially if
you have made a lion of him at any time. Of his envies, deep-hidden
splenetic discontents and rages, with Voltaire's return for them, there
will be enough to say in the ulterior stages. He wears--at least ten
years hence he openly wears, though I hope it is not yet so flagrant--"a
red wig with yellow bottom (CRINIERE JAUNE);" and as Flattener of the
Earth, is, with his own flattish red countenance and impregnable stony
eyes, a man formidable to look upon, though intent to be amiable if
you do the proper homage. As to the quarrel with Madame take this Note;
which may prove illustrative of some things by and by:--
Maupertuis is well known at Cirey; such a lion could not fail there. All
manner of Bernouillis, Clairauts, high mathematical people, are frequent
guests at Cirey: reverenced by Madame,--who indeed has had her
own private Professor of Mathematics; one Konig from Switzerland
(recommended by those Bernouillis), diligently teaching her the Pure
Sciences this good while back, not without effect; and has only just
parted with him, when she left on this Brussels expedition. A BON
GARCON, Voltaire says; though otherwise, I think, a little noisy on
occasion. There has been no end of Madame's kindness to him, nay to his
Brother and him,--sons of a Theological Professorial Syriac-Hebrew kind
of man at Berne, who has too many sons;--and I grieve to report that
this heedless Konig has produced an explosion in Madame's feelings,
such as little beseemed him. On the road to Paris, namely, as we drove
hitherward to the Honsbruck Lawsuit by way of Paris, in Autumn last,
there had fallen out some dispute, about the monads, the VIS VIVA,
the infinitely little, between Madame and Konig; dispute which rose
CRESCENDO in disharmonious duet, and "ended," testifies M. de Voltaire,
"in a scene TRESDESAGREABLE." Madame, with an effort, forgave the
thoughtless fellow, who is still rather young, and is without malice.
But thoughtless Konig, strong in his opinion about the infinitely
little, appealed to Maupertuis: "Am not I right, Monsieur?" "HE is right
beyond question!" wrote Maupertuis to Madame; "somewhat dryly," thinks
Voltaire: and the result is, there is considerable rage in one celestial
mind ever since against another male one in red wig and yellow bottom;
and they are not on speaking terms, for a good many months past.
Voltaire has his heart sore ("J'EN AI LE COEUR PERCE") about it, needs
to double-dose Maupertuis with flattery; and in fact has used the utmost
diplomacy to effect some varnish of a reconcilement as Maupertuis
passed on this occasion. As for Konig, who had studied in some Dutch
university, he went by and by to be Librarian to the Prince of Orange;
and we shall not fail to hear of him again,--once more upon the
infinitely little. [From _OEuvres de Voltaire,_ ii. 126, lxxii. (20,
216, 230), lxiii. (229-239), &c. &c.]
Voltaire too, in his way, is fond of these mathematical people; eager
enough to fish for knowledge, here as in all elements, when he has the
chance offered: this is much an interest of his at present. And he
does attain sound ideas, outlines of ideas, in this province,--though
privately defective in the due transcendency of admiration for it;--was
wont to discuss cheerily with Konig, about VIS VIVA, monads, gravitation
and the infinitely little; above all, bows to the ground before the
red-wigged Bashaw, Flattener of the Earth, whom for Madame's sake and
his own he is anxious to be well with. "Fall on your face nine times, ye
esoteric of only Impure Science!"--intimates Maupertuis to mankind. "By
all means!" answers M. de Voltaire, doing it with alacrity; with a kind
of loyalty, one can perceive, and also with a hypocrisy grounded on love
of peace. If that is the nature of the Bashaw, and one's sole mode of
fishing knowledge from him, why not? thinks M. de Voltaire. His patience
with M. de Maupertuis, first and last, was very great. But we shall find
it explode at length, a dozen years hence, in a conspicuous manner!--
"Maupertuis had come to us to Cirey, with Jean Bernouilli," says
Voltaire; "and thenceforth Maupertuis, who was born the most jealous of
men, took me for the object of this passion, which has always been very
dear to him." [VIE PRIVEE.] Husht, Monsieur!--Here is a poor rheumatic
kind of Letter, which illustrates the interim condition, after that
varnish of reconcilement at Brussels:--
VOLTAIRE TO M. DE MAUPERTUIS (at Wesel, waiting for the King, or with
him rather).
"BRUSSELS, 29th August (1740), _3d year since the world flattened._
"How the Devil, great Philosopher, would you have had me write to you at
Wesel? I fancied you gone from Wesel, to seek the King of Sages on his
Journey somewhere. I had understood, too, they were so delighted to have
you in that fortified lodge (BOUGE FORTIFIE) that you must be taking
pleasure there, for he that gives pleasure gets it.
"You have already seen the jolly Ambassador of the amiablest Monarch in
the world,"--Camas, a fattish man, on his road to Versailles (who called
at Brussels here, with fine compliments, and a keg of Hungary Wine, as
YOU may have heard whispered). "No doubt M. de Camas is with you. For my
own share, I think it is after you that he is running at present. But
in truth, at the hour while I say this, you are with the King;"--a lucky
guess; King did return to Wesel this very day. "The Philosopher and the
Prince perceive already that they are made for each other. You and M.
Algarotti will say, FACIAMUS HIC TRIA TABERNACULA: as to me, I can only
make DUO TABERNACULA,"--profane Voltaire!
"Without doubt I would be with you if I were not at Brussels; but my
heart is with you all the same; and is the subject, all the same, of a
King who is, formed to reign over every thinking and feeling being. I do
not despair that Madame du Chatelet will find herself somewhere on
your route: it will be a scene in a fairy tale;--she will arrive with a
SUFFICIENT REASON [as your Leibnitz says] and with MONADS. She does not
love you the less though she now believes the universe a PLENUM, and has
renounced the notion of VOID. Over her you have an ascendant which you
will never lose. In fine, my dear Monsieur, I wish as ardently as she to
embrace you the soonest possible. I recommend myself to your friendship
in the Court, worthy of you, where you now are."--TOUT A VOUS, somewhat
rheumatic! [Voltaire, lxxii. p. 243.]
Always an anxious almost tremulous desire to conciliate this big glaring
geometrical bully in red wig. Through the sensitive transparent being of
M. de Voltaire, you may see that feeling almost painfully busy in every
Letter he writes to the Flattener of the Earth.