"Alas! your majesty says that you honor me, but you no longer say

that you love me," cried Voltaire, who had listened to this eloquent

and heart-felt speech of the king with eager impatience and lowering

frowns. "Yes, yes, I feel it; I know it too well! Your majesty has

already limited me to your consideration, your regard; but your

love, your friendship, these are costly treasures from which I have

been disinherited. But I know these hypocritical legacy-hunters, who

have robbed me of that most beautiful portion of my inheritance. I

know these poor, beggarly cousins, these D'Argens, these Algarottis,

these La Mettries, this vainglorious peacock Maupertius. I--"

"Voltaire," said the king, interrupting him, "you forget that you

speak of my friends, and I do not allow any one to speak evil of

them. I will never be partial, never unjust! My heart is capable of

valuing and treasuring all my friends, but my friends must aim to

deserve it; and if I give them my heart, I expect one in return."

"Friendship is a bill of exchange, by which you give just so much as

you are entitled to demand in return."

"Give me, then, your whole heart, Voltaire, and I will restore mine

to you! But I fear you have no longer a heart; Nature gave you but a

small dose of this fleeting essence called love. She had much to do

with your brain, and worked at that so long that no time remained to

make the heart perfect; just as she was about to pour a few drops of

this wonderful love-essence into your heart, the cock crew three

times for your birth, and betrayed you into the world. You have long

since used up the poor pair of drops which fell into your heart.

Your brain was armed for centuries, with power to work, to be

useful, to rejoice the souls of others. but I fear your heart was

exhausted in your youthful years."

"Ah, I wish your majesty were right!" cried Voltaire; "I should not

then feel the anguish which now martyrs me, the torture of being

misunderstood by the most amiable, the most intellectual, the most

exalted of monarchs. Oh, sire, sire! I have a heart, and it bleeds

because you doubt of its existence!"

"I would believe you if you were a little less pathetic," said the

king. "You not only assert, but you declaim. There is too little of

nature and truth in your tone; you remind me a little of the stilted

French tragedies, in which design and premeditation obscure all true

passion; in which love is only a phrase, that no one believes in,

dressed up with the tawdry gilding of sentiment and pathos."

"Your majesty will crush me with your scorn and mockery!" cried

Voltaire, whose eyes now flamed with anger. "You wish to make me

feel how powerless, how pitiful I am. Where shall I find the

strength to strive with you? I have won no battles. I have no

hundred thousand men to oppose to you and no courts-martial to

condemn those who sin against me!"

"It is true you have not a hundred thousand soldiers," said the

king, "but you have four-and-twenty, and with these four-and-twenty

soldiers you have conquered the whole realm of spirits; with this

little army you have brought the whole of educated Europe to your

feet. You are, therefore, a much more powerful king than I am. I

have, it is true, a hundred thousand men, but I dare not say that

they will not run when it comes to the first battle. You, Voltaire,

have your four-and-twenty soldiers of the alphabet, and so well have

you exercised them, that you must win every battle, even if all the

kings of the earth were allied against you. Let us make peace, then,

my 'invincible!' do not turn this terrible army of the four-and-

twenty, with their deadly weapons, against me, but graciously allow

me to seize upon the hem of your purple robe, to sun myself in your

dazzling rays, to be your humble scholar, and from you and your army

of heroes to learn the secret art of winning battles with invisible

troops!"

"Your majesty makes me feel more and more how poor I am; even my

four-and-twenty, of whom you speak, have gone over to you, and you

understand, as well as I do, how to exercise them."

"No, no!" said Frederick, changing suddenly his jesting tone for one

of grave earnestness. "No, I will learn of you. I am not satisfied

to be a poor-souled dilettante in poetry, though assured I can.

never be a Virgil or a Voltaire. I know that the study of poetry

demands the life, the undivided heart and mind. I am but a poor

galley-slave, chained to the ship of state; or, if you will, a

pilot, who does not dare to leave the rudder, or even to sleep, lest

the fate of the unhappy Palinurus might overtake him. The Muses

demand solitude and rest for the soul, and that I can never

consecrate to them. Often, when I have written three verses, I am

interrupted, my muse is chilled, and my spirit cannot rise again

into the heights of inspiration. I know there are privileged souls,

who can make verses everywhere--in the tumult of court life, in the

loneliness of Cirey, in the prisons of the Bastile, and in the

stage-coach. My poor soul does not enjoy this freedom. It resembles

an anana, which bears fruit only in the green-house, but fades and

withers in the fresh air." [Footnote: The king's own words.--Oeuvres

Posthumes.]

"Ah! this is the first time I have caught the Solomon of the North

in an untruth," cried Voltaire, eagerly. "Your soul is not like the

anana, but like the wondrous southern tree which generously bears at

the same time fruits and flowers; which inspires and sweetly

intoxicates us with its fragrance, and at the same time strengthens

and refreshes us by its celestial fruits. You, sire, are not the

pupil of Apollo, you are Apollo himself!"

The king smiled, and, raising his arms to heaven, he exclaimed, with

the mock pathos of a French tragedian:

"O Dieu! qui douez les poetes

De tant de sublime faveure;

Ah, rendez vos graces parfaites,

Et qu'ils soient un peu moins menteurs."

"In trying to punish me for what you are pleased to call my

falsehood, your majesty proves that I have spoken the truth," cried

Voltaire, eagerly. "You wish to show me that the fruit of your muse

ripens slowly, and you improvise a charming quatrain that Moliere

himself would be proud to have composed."

"Rendez vos graces parfaites,

Et qu'ils Boient un peu moins menteurs!"

repeated Frederick, nodding merrily to Voltaire. "Look you, friend,

I am perhaps that mortal who incommodes the gods least with prayers

and petitions. My first prayer to-day was for you; show, therefore,

a little gratitude, and prove to me that the gods hear the earnest

prayers of the faithful. Be less of a flatterer, and speak the

simple truth. I desire now to look over with you my compositions of

the last few days. I wish you, however, always to remember that when

you write, you do so to add to the fame of your nation and to the

honor of your fatherland. For myself, I scribble for my amusement;

and I could easily be pardoned, if I were wise enough to burn my

work as soon as it was finished. [Footnote: The king's own words.--

Oeuvres Posthumes.] When a man approaches his fortieth year and

makes bad verses as I do, one might say, with Moliere's

'Misanthrope'--

"'Si j'en faissis d'aussi mechants,

Je me garderais bien de les montrer aux gens.'"

"Your majesty considers yourself already too old to make verses, and

you are scarcely thirty-eight: am I not then a fool, worthy of

condemnation, for daring to do homage to the Muses and striving to

make verses--I, the gray-haired old man who already counts fifty-

six?"

"You have the privilege of the gods! you will never grow old; and

the Muses and Graces, though women, must ever remain faithful to

you--you understand how to lay new chains upon them."

"No, no, sire! I am too old," sighed Voltaire; "an old poet, an old

lover, an old singer, and an old horse are alike useless things--

good for nothing. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.--Oeuvres

Posthumes, p. 364.] Well, your majesty can make me a little younger

by reading me some of your verses."

Frederick stepped to his writing-desk, and, seating himself, nodded

to Voltaire to be seated also.

"You must know," said the king, handing Voltaire a sheet of paper

covered with verses--"you must know that I have come with six twin

brothers, who desire in the name of Apollo to be baptized in the

waters of Hippocrene, and the 'Henriade' is entreated to be

godfather."

Voltaire took the paper and read the verses aloud. The king listened

attentively, and nodded approvingly over Voltaire's glowing and

passionate declamation.

"This is grand! this is sublime!" cried Voltaire. "Your majesty is a

French writer, who lives by accident in Germany. You have our

language wholly in your power."

Frederick raised his finger threateningly. "Friend, friend, shall I

weary the gods again with my prayer?"

"Your majesty, then, wishes to hear the whole truth?"

"The whole truth!"

"Then you must allow me, sire, to read the verses once more. I read

them the first time as an amateur, now I will read them as a

critic."

As Voltaire now repeated the verses, he laid a sharp accent upon

every word and every imperfect rhyme; scanned every line with stern

precision. Sometimes when he came to a false Alexandrine, he gave

himself the appearance of being absolutely unable to force his lips

to utter such barbarisms; and then his eyes glowed with malicious

fire, and a contemptuous smile played about his mouth.

The king's brow clouded. "I understand," said he, "the poem is

utterly unworthy--good for nothing. Let us destroy it."

"Not so, sire--the poem is excellent, and it requires but a few

day's study to make it perfect. On the Venus di Medici no finger

must be too long, no nail badly formed; and what are such statues,

with which we deck our gardens, to the monuments of the library? We

must, therefore, make your work perfect. There is infinite grace and

intellect in this little poem. Where have you found such treasures,

sire? How can your sandy soil yield such blossoms? How can such

charming grace and profound learning be combined? [Footnote:

Voltaire's own words.--Oeuvres Posthumes, p. 329.] But even the

Graces must stand upon a sure footing, and here, sire, are a few

feet which are too long. Truly, that is sometimes unimportant, but

the work of a distinguished genius should be PERFECT. You work too

rashly, sire--it is sometimes more easy to win a battle than to make

a good poem. Your majesty loves the truth so well, that by speaking

the truth in all sincerity I shall best prove to you my most

profound reverence. All that you do must be perfectly done; you are

fully endowed with the ability necessary. No one must say 'Caesar

est supra grammaticum.' Caesar wrote as he fought, and was in both

victorious. Frederick the Great plays the flute like Blavet, why

should he not also write like the greatest of poets? [Footnote:

Ibid., p. 823.] But your majesty must not disdain to give to the

beautiful sentiment, the great thought, a lovely and attractive

form."

"Yes, you are right!" said Frederick; "I fail in that, but you must

not think that it is from carelessness. Those of my verses which you

have least criticised are exactly those which have cost me the least

effort. When the sentiment and the rhyme come in competition, I make

bad verses, and am not happy in my corrections. You cannot

comprehend the difficulties I have to overcome in making a few

tolerable verses. A happy combination by nature, an irrepressible

and fruitful intellect, made you a great poet without any effort of

your own. I feel and acknowledge the inferiority of my talent. I

swim about in the ocean of poetry with my life-preserver under my

arm. I do not write as well as I think. My ideas are stronger than

my expressions; and in this embarrassment, I am often content if my

verses are as little indifferent as possible, and do not expect them

to be good." [Footnote: The king's own words, p. 346.]

"It is entirely in your majesty's power to make them perfect. With

you, sire, it is as with the gods--'I will!' and it is done. If your

majesty will condescend to adorn the Graces and sylphs, the sages

and scholars, who stumble about in this sublime poem with somewhat

rugged feet, with artistic limbs, they will flutter about like

graceful genii, and step with majesty like the three kings of the

East. Now let us try--we will write this poem again."

He made a long mark with a pen over the manuscript of the king, took

a new sheet of paper, and commenced to write the first lines. He

criticised every word with bitter humor, with flashing wit, with

mocking irony. Inexorable in his censure, indifferent in his praise,

his tongue seemed to be armed with arrows, every one of which was

intended to strike and wound.

The face of Frederick remained calm and clear. He did not feel that

he was a mighty king and ruler, injured by the fault-finding of a

common man. He was the pupil, with his accomplished teacher; and as

he really wished to learn, he was indifferent as to the mode by

which his stern master would instruct him.

After this they read together a chapter from the king's "Higtoire de

Mon Temps." A second edition was about to appear, and Voltaire had

undertaken to correct it. He brought his copy with him, in order to

give Frederick an account of his corrections.

"This book will be a masterwork, if your majesty will only take the

pains to correct it properly? But has a king the time and patience?-

-a king who governs his whole kingdom alone? Yes, it is this thought

which confounds me! I cannot recover from my astonishment; it is

this which makes me so stern in my judgment of your writings. I

consider it a holy duty."

"And I am glad you are harsh and independent," said the king. "I

learn more from ten stern and critical words, than from a lengthy

speech full of praise and acknowledgment! But tell me, now, what

means this red mark, with which you have covered one whole side of

my manuscript?"

"Sire, this red mark asks for consideration for your grandfather,

King Frederick the First; you have been harsh and cruel with him!"

"I dared not be otherwise, unless I would earn for myself the charge

of partiality," said the king. "It shall not be said that I closed

my eyes to his foolishness and absurdity because he was my

grandfather. Frederick the First was a vain and pompous fool; this

is the truth!"

"And yet I entreat your grace for him, sire. I love this king

because of his royal pomp, and the beautiful monument which he left

behind him."

"Well, that was vanity, that posterity might speak of him. From

vanity he protected the arts; from vanity and foolish pride he

placed the crown upon his head. His wife, the great Sophia

Charlotte, was right when she said of him on her death-bed: 'The

king will not have time to mourn for me; the interest he will take

in solemnizing my funeral with pomp and regal splendor will

dissipate his grief; and if nothing is wanting, nothing fails in the

august and beautiful ceremony, he will be entirely comforted.'

[Footnote: Thiebault.] He was only great in little things, and

therefore when Sophia Charlotte received from her friend Leibnitz

his memoir 'On the Power of Small Things,' she said, smiling:

'Leibnitz will teach me to know small things; has he forgotten that

I am the wife of Frederick the First, or does he think that I do not

know my husband?'" [Footnote: Ibid.]

"Well, I pray for grace for the husband on his wife's account.

Sophia Charlotte was an exalted and genial woman; you should forgive

her husband all other things, because he was wise enough to make her

his wife and your grand-mother! And if your majesty reproaches him

for the vanity of making himself king, that is a vanity from which

his descendants have obtained some right solid advantages."

"The title appears to me not in the least disagreeable! The title is

beautiful, when given by a free people, or earned by a prince.

Frederick the First had done nothing to stamp him a king, and that

condemns him."

"So let it be," said Voltaire, shrugging his shoulders, "he is your

grandfather, not mine. Do with him as you think best, sire; I have

nothing more to say, and will content myself with softening a few

phrases." [Footnote: This conversation of the king and Voltaire is

historic. Voltaire tells it in a letter to Madame Denis.]

When he saw that Frederick's brow clouded at these words, he said,

with a sly laugh: "Look you, how the office of a teacher, which your

majesty forced upon me, makes me insolent and haughty! I, who would

do well to correct my own works, undertake to improve the writings

of a king. I remind myself of the Abbot von Milliers, who has

written a book called 'Reflections on the Faults of Others.' On one

occasion he went to hear a sermon of a Capuchin. The monk addressed

his audience, in a nasal voice, in the following manner: 'My dear

brothers in the Lord, I had intended to-day to discourse upon hell,

but at the door of the church I have read a bill posted up,

"Reflections on the Faults of Others." "Ha! my friend," thought I,

"why have you not rather made reflections over your own faults?" I

will therefore speak to you of the pride and arrogance of men!'"

"Well, make such reflections always when occupied with the History

of Louis the Fifteenth," said the king, laughing; "only, I beseech

you, when you are with me, not to be converted by the pious

Capuchin, but make your reflections on the faults of others only."

CHAPTER IX.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF VOLTAIRE.

Voltaire enjoyed the rare privilege of speaking the truth to the

king, and he made a cruel and bitter use of his opportunities in

this respect. He was jealous and envious of the king's fame and

greatness, and sought to revenge him-self by continual fault-finding

and criticism. He sought to mortify the great Frederick, who was

admired and wondered at by all the world; to make him feel and

confess that he could never equal the renowned writer Voltaire.

Frederick felt and acknowledged this frankly and without shame, but

with that smiling composure and great self-consciousness which is

ever ready to do justice to others, and demands at the same time a

just recognition of its own claims. Voltaire might exalt himself to

the clouds, he could not depreciate the king. He often made him

angry, however, and this gratified the malice of the great French

author.

The other friends of Frederick looked upon this conduct of Voltaire

with regret; and the Marquis d'Argens, who was of a fine and gentle

nature, soon saw the daily discontent of the king, and the wicked

joy of Voltaire.

"My friend," said he, "the king wrote a poem yesterday, which he

read aloud to me this morning. He declares that there is one bad

rhyme in his poem, and that it tortures him. I tried in vain to

reassure him. I know that the rhyme is incorrect, but you will

provoke him beyond measure if you tell him so. He has tried in vain

to correct it, without impairing the sense of the passage. I have,

therefore, withheld all criticism, and read to him some verses from

La Fontaine, where the same fault is to be found. I have wished to

convince him that the poem is worthy of praise, although not exactly

conformed to rule. I beg of you, Voltaire, to follow my example."

"And why should I do that?" said Voltaire, in his most snarling

tone.

"Because, with your severe and continual criticisms you will disgust

the king, and turn him aside from his favorite pursuit. I think it

important to poetry and the fine arts that the great and powerful

sovereign of Prussia should love and cherish them; should exalt

those who cultivate them, and, indeed, rank himself amongst them.

What difference does it make, Voltaire, if a bad rhyme is to be

found in the poetry of the philosopher of Sans-Souci?" [Footnote:

Thiebault, vol. v., p. 337.]

"The king wishes to learn of me how to make good poetry, and my love

to him is not of that treasonable, womanly, and cowardly sort which

shrinks from blaming him because it fears to wound his self-love.

The king has read his poem to you, and it is your province to wonder

at and praise your friend. He will read it to me as 'Pedagogo de sua

Maesta.' I will be true and just, where you have dared to flatter

him."

Never was Voltaire more severe in his criticism, more cutting in his

satire, than to-day. His eyes sparkled with malicious joy, and a

wicked smile played still upon his lip as he left the king and

returned to his own apartment.

"Ah," said he, seating himself at his writing-table, with a loud

laugh, "I shall write well to-day, for I have had a lesson.

Frederick does not know how far he is my benefactor. In correcting

him, I correct myself; and in directing his studies, I gain strength

and judgment for my own works. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.--

Oeuvres, p. 363.] I will now write a chapter in my History of Louis

XIV. My style will be good. The chapter which I have read this

morning, in Frederick's 'Histoire de Mon Temps' has taught me what

faults to avoid. Yes, I will write of Louis XIV. Truly I owe him

some compensation. King Frederick has had the naivete to compare his

great grandfather, the so-called great Prince-Elector, to the great

Louis. I was amiable enough to pardon him for this little compliment

to his ancestors, and not to strike it from his 'Histoire.' And,

indeed, why should I have done that? The world will not be so

foolish as to charge this amusing weakness to me! After all, the

king writes but for himself, and a few false, flattering friends; he

can, therefore, say what he will. I, however, I write for France--

for the world! But I fear, alas, that fools will condemn me, because

I have sought to write as a wise man." [Footnote: CEuvres, p. 341.]

Voltaire commenced to write, but, he was soon interrupted by his

servant, Tripot, who announced that the Jew Hirsch, for whom

Voltaire had sent, was at the door. Voltaire rose hastily, and

called him to enter.

"I have business with you, my friend," said he to the Jew. "Close

the door, Tripot, and see that we are not disturbed."

Voltaire hastened with youthful agility through the saloon, and

beckoned to the Jew to follow him into his bedroom.

"First of all, friend, we will make a small mercantile operation."

So saying, he opened the door of a large commode. "See, here are

twelve pounds of the purest wax-lights. I am a poor man, with weak

eyes. I have no use for these lights; I can never hope to profit by

them. Here, also, are several pounds of sugar and coffee, the

savings of the last two months. You will buy all this of me; we will

agree upon a fixed price, and the last day of every month you will

come for the same purpose. Name your price, sir."

Hirsch named his price; but it seemed that the great poet understood

how to bargain better than the Jew. He knew exactly the worth of the

sugar and the coffee, he spoke so eloquently of the beauty and

purity of the thick white wax-lights, that the Hebrew increased his

offer,

"And now to more important business," said Voltaire. "You are going

to Dresden--you will there execute a commission for me. I wish to

invest eighteen thousand thalers in Saxon bonds. They can now be

purchased at thirty-five, and will be redeemed at a hundred."

"But your excellency knows that the king has forbidden his subjects

to buy these bonds. He demanded and obtained for his subjects a

pledge that they should be paid at par for the bonds they now hold,

while the subjects of the King of Saxony receive only their present

value. The king promised, however, that the Prussians should make no

further investments in these bonds. You see, then, that it is

impossible for me to fulfil this commission."

"I see that you are a fool!" cried Voltaire, angrily. "If you were

not a fool, you would know that Voltaire, the chamberlain of the

king, would not undertake a business transaction which would stain

his reputation or cast a shadow on his name. When Voltaire makes

this investment, you can understand that he is authorized to do so."

"That being the case," said Hirsch, humbly, "I am entirely

satisfied, and will gladly serve your excellency."

"If you fill this commission handsomely and promptly, you may feel

assured of a reward. Are you ambitious? Would you not like a title?"

"Certainly I am ambitious. I should be truly happy if I could obtain

the title of 'royal court agent.'"

"Well, buy these bonds for me in Dresden cheap, and you shall have

this coveted title," said the noble author of the "Henriade," and

other world-renowned works.

"I will buy them at thirty-five thalers."

"And you will invest eighteen thousand thalers at this rate. Our

contract is made; now we will count the gold. I have not the ready

money--I will give you drafts--come into my study.--There are three

drafts," said he, "one on Paris, one on your father, and one on the

Jew Ephraim. Get them cashed, good Hirsch, and bring me my Saxon

bonds."

"In eight days, your excellency, I will return with them, and you

will have a clear profit of eleven thousand thalers."

Voltaire's eyes sparkled with joy. "Eleven thousand thalers!" said

he; "for a poor poet, who lives by his wits and his pen, that is a

considerable sum."

"You will realize that sum," said Hirsch, with the solemn

earnestness of a Jew when he has made a good trade.

Hirsch was about to withdraw, but Voltaire hastened after him, and

seizing his arm, he cried out threateningly: "You are not going

without giving me your note? You do not think that I am such a fool

as to give you eighteen thousand thalers, and have nothing to prove

it?"

"You excellency has my word of honor," said the Jew, earnestly.

Voltaire laughed aloud. "Your word! the honorable word of a man for

eighteen thousand thalers! My dear friend, we do not live in

paradise, but in a so-called Christian city--your worthy forefathers

obtained for us this privilege. Do you believe that I will trust one

of their descendants? Who will go my security that you will not,

nail my innocence and my confiding heart upon the cross, and slay

them if I should be unsuspicious enough to trust my money with you

in this simple way?"

"I will give you ample security," said Hirsch, taking a morocco case

from his pocket. "I did not know why your excellency sent for me. I

thought perhaps you wished to buy diamonds, and brought some along

with me. Look, sir! here are diamonds worth twenty-two thousand

thalers! I will leave them with you--I, the poor Jew, do not fear

that the great poet Voltaire will deceive and betray me."

"These diamonds are beautiful," said Voltaire--"very beautiful, and

perhaps if my speculation succeeds, I may buy some from you. Until

then, I will take care of them."

Voltaire was about to lock them up, but he paused suddenly, and

fixed his eyes upon the calm countenance of the Jew.

"How do I know that these are real diamonds?" he cried; and as

Hirsch, exasperated by this base suspicion, frowned and turned pale,

he exclaimed fiercely: "The diamonds are false! I know it by your

terror. Oh, oh, you thought that a poet was a good, credulous

creature who could be easily deceived. Ah! you thought I had heard

nothing of those famous lapidaries in St. Germain, who cut diamonds

from glass, and cook up in their laboratories the rarest jewels!

Yes, yes, I know all these arts, and all the brewing of St. Germain

will not suffice to deceive me."

"These diamonds are pure!" cried Hirsch.

"We will have them tested by a Christian jeweller," said Voltaire.--

"Tripot! Tripot! run quickly to the jeweller Reclam--beg him to come

to me for a few moments."

Tripot soon returned with Reclam. The diamonds were pronounced pure

and of the first water; and the jeweller declared they were fully

worth twenty-two thousand thalers. Voltaire was now fully satisfied,

and, when once more alone, he looked long and rapturously upon these

glittering stones.

"What woman can boast of such dazzling fire in her eyes?" said he,

laughing; "what woman can say that their color is worth twenty-two

thousand thalers? It is true they glisten and shimmer in all lights

and shades--that is their weakness and their folly. With you,

beautiful gems! these changing hues are a virtue. Oh, to think that

with this handful of flashing stones I could buy a bag of ducats!

How dull and stupid are mankind--how wise is God! Sinking those

diamonds in the bowels of the earth was a good speculation. They are

truffles to tempt the snouts of men; and they root after them as

zealously as the swine in Perigord root after the true truffles.

Gold! gold! that is the magic word with which the world is ruled. I

will have gold--I will rule the world. I will not give place to

dukes or princes. I will have my seigneuries and my castles; my

servants in rich livery, and my obedient subjects. I will be a grand

seigneur. Kings and princes shall visit me in my castle, and wait in

my antechamber, as I have been compelled to wait in theirs. I will

be rich that I may be every man's master, even master of the fools.

I will enslave the wise by my intellect--I will reduce the foolish

to bondage with gold. I must be rich! rich! rich! therefore am I

here; therefore do I correct the poor rhymes of the king; therefore

do I live now as a modest poet, and add copper to copper, and save

my pension of five thousand thalers, and sell my wax-lights and my

coffee to the Jew. Let the world call me a miser. When I become

rich, I will be a spendthrift: and men who are now envious and angry

at my fame shall burst with rage at my fortune. Ah, ah, it is not

worth the cost to be a celebrated writer! There are too many

humiliations connected with this doubtful social position. It gives

no rank--it is a pitiful thing in the eyes of those who have actual

standing, and is only envied by those who are unnoticed and unknown.

For my own part, I am so exhausted by the discomforts of my

position, I would gladly cast it from me, and make for myself what

the canaille call a good thing--an enormous fortune. I will scrape

together all the gold that is possible. I will give for gold all the

honor and freedom and fame which come to me. I am a rich gainer in

all these things by my residence with King Frederick. He has this

virtue: he is unprejudiced, and cares nothing even for his own royal

rank. I will therefore remain in this haven, whither the storms,

which have so long driven me from shore to shore, have now safely

moored me. My happiness will last just as long as God pleases."

[Footnote: Voltaire's own words.--Oeuvres, p. 110.]

He laughed heartily, and took his cash-book, in which he entered

receipts and expenditures. It was Voltaire's greatest pleasure to

add up his accounts from time to time, and gloat over the growth of

his fortune; to compare, day by day, his receipts and expenses, and

to find that a handsome sum was almost daily placed to his credit.

The smallest necessary expenditure angered him. With a dark frown he

said to himself: "It is unjust and mean to require of me to buy

provender for my horse, and to have my carriage repaired; if the

king furnishes me with an equipage, he should not allow it to be any

expense to me. The major-domo is an old miser, who cheats me every

month out of some pounds of sugar and coffee, and the wax-lights are

becoming thinner and poorer. I will complain to King Frederick of

all this; he must see that order prevails in his palace."

Voltaire closed his account-book, and murmured: "When I have an

income of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, I will cease to

economize. God be praised, I have almost reached the goal! But,"

said he, impatiently, "in order to effect this, I must remain here a

few years, and add my pension to my income. Nothing must prevent

this--I must overcome every obstacle. What! who can hinder me? my

so-called friends, who naturally are my most bitter enemies? Ha, ha!

what a romantic idea of this genial king to assemble six friends

around him at Sans-Souci, the most of them being authors--that is to

say, natural enemies! I believe if two authors, two women, or two

pietists, were placed alone upon a desert isle, they would forget

their dependence upon each other, and commence intriguing at once.

This, alas! is humanity, and being so, one must withdraw from the

poor affair advantageously and cunningly. [Footnote: Voltaire,

Oeuvres, p. 375.] No one can live peacefully in this world; least of

all, in the neighborhood of a king. It is with kings as with

coquettes, their glances kindle jealousy--and Frederick is a great

coquette. I must, therefore, drive my rivals from the field, and

enjoy in peace the favor of the king. Now which of my rivals are

dangerous to me? All! all! I must banish them all! I will sow such

discontent and rage and malice and strife amongst them, that they

will fly in hot haste, and thank God if I do not bite off their

noses before they escape. I will turn this, their laughing paradise,

into a hell, and I will be the devil to chase them with glowing

pitchforks. Yes, even to Siberia will I drive this long-legged

peacock, Maupertius--him, first of all; then D'Argens, then

Algarotti, then this over-wise and good Lord Marshal, and all others

like him! When Voltaire's sun is in the ascendant, not even stars

shall glitter; It shall not be! I will prove to them that Voltaire's

fiery rays have burned them to ashes!" [Footnote: Voltaire, OEuvres,

p. 378.]

He laughed aloud, and seated himself to write a poem. He was invited

that evening to a soiree by the queen-mother, where he wished to

shine as an improvisator. Above all other things, he wished to win

the heart of the Princess Amelia. Since she had played the part of

Aurelia, in "Rome Sauvee," he had felt a passion for the princess,

who had betrayed to the life the ardor and the pains of love, and

whose great flaming eyes seemed, from their mysterious depths, to

rouse the soul of the poet. Voltaire had promised the Princess

Amelia to improvise upon any subject she should select, and he

relied upon his cunning to incline her choice in such a direction as

to make the poem he was now writing appropriate and seem impromptu.

While thus occupied, his servant entered and announced a number of

distinguished gentlemen, who were in the parlor, and wished to make

the great author a morning visit. "Let them all wait!" said

Voltaire, angrily; declaring that this disturbance had cost him a

piquant rhyme.

"But, gracious sir," stammered the servant, "some of the most

distinguished men of the court and the oldest generals, are there!"

"What do I care for their epaulets or their excellencies? Let them

wait, or go to the devil--if they prefer it."

Well, the eminent gentlemen waited; indeed, they waited patiently,

until the great Voltaire, the favorite of the king, the universal

French author, in his pride and arrogance was graciously pleased to

show himself amongst the Dutch barbarians, and allow some rays of

his intellect to fall upon and inspire them!

The saloon was indeed crowded with princes, generals, and nobles.

Voltaire had just returned to Berlin from Potsdam, and all hastened

to pay their respects and commend themselves to his grace and favor.

[Footnote: Forney writes thus in his "Memoirs": "During the winter

months which Voltaire spent in the palace of Berlin, he was the

favorite of the court. Princes, ambassadors, ministers, generals,

nobles of the highest rank went to his morning receptions, and were

often received by him with contemptuous scorn. A great prince was

pleased to play chess with him, and allowed him every time to win

the stake of two louis d'or. It was declared, however, that

sometimes the gold disappeared before the end of the game, and could

not be found."--"Souvenirs d'un Citoyen."]

Voltaire was very gracious this morning. As he was to play the part

of improvisator that night, he thought it politic to make favor with

all those who would be present. He hoped that all the world would

thunder out their enraptured applause, and that Maupertius,

D'Argens, Algarotti, La Mettrie, and all other friends of the king,

would be filled with envy and rage. He smiled, therefore,

benignantly, and had kind and flattering words for all. His bon-mots

and piquant witticisms seemed inexhaustible.

Suddenly his servant drew near, and said it was necessary to speak

to him on a matter of great importance. Voltaire turned with a

winning smile to his guests, and, praying them to wait for his

return, entered his private room.

"Well, Tripot, what have you to say that is important?"

"Gracious sir, the court is in mourning."

Voltaire looked at him enraged. "Fool! what is that to me?"

"It is of the utmost importance to you, sir, if you are going this

evening to the soiree of the queen-mother."

"Will you run me mad, Tripot? What has the court mourning to do with

the queen's soiree?"

"Gracious sir, the explanation is very simple. When the court is in

mourning, no one can appear there in embroidered clothes; you must

wear a plain black coat."

"I have no plain black coat," said Voltaire, with a frowning brow.

"It is necessary, then, for you to order one, and I have sent

Monsieur Pilleneure to come and take your measure."

"Are you insane, Tripot?" cried Voltaire. "Do you regard me as so

vile a spendthrift, so brainless a fool, as to order a new coat for

the sake of one evening's amusement--a coat which will cost an

immense sum of money, and must then hang in the wardrobe to be

destroyed by moths? In eight days this mourning will be over, and I

would be several hundred francs poorer, and possess a black coat I

could never wear! I will not go this evening to the soiree of the

queen-mother; this is decided. I will announce myself sick. Go and

countermand the tailor."

He turned to leave the room, but paused suddenly. "I cannot decline

this invitation," murmured he. "It is widely known that I have

promised to improvise. The world is looking on eagerly. If I do not

go, or if I announce myself sick, they will say I shrink from this

ordeal. My enemies will triumph!--Tripot, I am obliged to go to the

soiree of the queen."

"Then the tailor must come to take your measure?"

"Fool!" cried Voltaire, stamping furiously. "I have told you I have

no gold for such follies. Gather up your small amount of

understanding, and think of some other expedient."

"Well, your excellency. I know a mode of escape from this

embarrassment, but I scarcely dare propose it."

"Speak out--any means are good which attain their object."

"Below, in the court, dwells the merchant Fromery. His servant is my

very good friend. I have learned from him that his master has just

purchased a beautiful black coat. I think he has about the figure of

your excellency."

"Ah, I understand," said Voltaire, whose countenance became clearer,

"You will borrow for me, from your friend, the coat of his master?"

"Yes, if your excellency is not offended at my proposal?"

"On the contrary, I find the idea capital. Go, Tripot, and borrow

the coat of Fromery."

Voltaire returned once more to his distinguished guests, and

enraptured them again by his witty slanders and brilliant

conversation. As the last visitor departed, he rang for his servant.

"Well, Tripot, have you the coat?"

"I have, your excellency."

Voltaire rubbed his hands with delight. "It seems this is a happy

day for me--I make the most advantageous business arrangements."

"But it will be necessary for your grace to try on this coat. I fear

it is too large; since I saw Fromery, he has grown fat."

"The ass!" cried Voltaire. "How does he dare to fatten, when all the

people of intellect and celebrity, like myself, grow thinner every

day?" So saying, he put on the coat of the merchant Fromery. "Yes,

truly, it is far too large for me. Oh, oh! to think that the coat of

a pitiful Dutch tradesman is too large for the great French poet!

Well, that is because these Dutch barbarians think of nothing but

gormandizing. They puff up their gross bodies with common food, and

they daily become fatter; but the spirit suffers. Miserable slaves

of their appetites, they are of no use themselves, and their coats

are also useless!"

"Does your excellency believe that it is impossible to wear the

coat?"

"Do I believe it is impossible? Look at me! Do I not look like a

hungry heir in the testamentary coat of his rich cousin the brewer?

Would it not be thought that I was a scarecrow, to drive the birds

from the cornfields?"

At this moment Monsieur Pilleneure was announced.

"Good Heaven! I forgot to countermand the tailor!" cried Tripot.

"That is fortunate!" said Voltaire, calming himself. "God sends this

tailor here to put an end to my vexations. This coat is good and

handsome, only a little too large--the tailor will alter it

immediately."

"That will be splendid!" said Tripot. "He will take in the seams,

and to-morrow enlarge it again."

"Not so!" cried Voltaire. "The coat could not possibly look well; he

must cut away the seams."

"But then," said Tripot, hesitatingly, "Fromery could never wear his

coat again."

"Fromery will learn that Voltaire has done him the honor to borrow

his coat, and I think that will be a sufficient compensation. Tell

the tailor to enter."

Thanks to the adroitness of Pilleneure, Voltaire appeared at the

soiree of the queen-mother in a handsome, well-fitting black coat.

No one guessed that the mourning dress of the celebrated French

writer belonged to the merchant Fromery, and that the glittering

diamond agraffes in his bosom, and the costly rings on his fingers,

were the property of the Jew Hirsch. Voltaire's eyes were more

sparkling than diamonds, and the glances which he fixed upon the

Princess Amelia more glowing; her pale and earnest beauty inspired

him to finer wit and richer hymns of praise.

No one dared to say that this passionate adoration offered to the

princess was unbecoming and offensive to etiquette. Voltaire was the

man of his age, and therefore justified in offering his worship even

to a princess. He was also the favorite of the king, who allowed him

privileges granted to no other man. There was one present, however,

who found these words of passion and of rapture too bold, and that

one was King Frederick. He had entered noiselessly and unannounced,

as was his custom, and he saw, with a derisive smile, how every one

surrounded Voltaire, and all were zealous in expressing their

rapture over his improvised poem, and entreating him to repeat it.

"How can I repeat what I no longer know?" said he. "An angel floated

by me in the air, and, by a glance alone, she whispered words which

my enraptured lips uttered as in a wild hallucination."

"The centuries to come are to be pitied if they are to be deprived

of this enchanting poem," said the Princess Amelia. She had remarked

the entrance of the king, knew that his eye was fixed upon her, and

wished to please him by flattering his beloved favorite.

"If your royal highness thinks thus, I will now write out a poem

which I had designed only to recite," said Voltaire, seating himself

at the card-table; and, taking a card and pencil, he wrote with a

swift hand and handed the card, bowing profoundly.

The king, who was a silent spectator of this scene, looked at the

Princess Amelia, and saw that she blushed as she read, and her brow

was clouded.

"Allow me, also, to read the poem of the great Voltaire, my sister,"

said the king, drawing near.

The princess handed him the card, and while Frederick read, all

stood around him in respectful silence.

"This poem is sublime," said the king, smiling. He saw that the

princess was no longer grave, and that Voltaire breathed freely, as

if relieved from a great apprehension. "This little poem is so

enchanting, that you must allow me to copy it, my sister. Go on with

your conversation, messieurs, it does not disturb me."

A request from the lips of a king is a command; all exerted

themselves therefore to keep up a gay and animated conversation, and

to seem thoughtless and unoccupied. Frederick seated himself at the

table, and read once more the poem of Voltaire, which was as

follows:

"Souvent un pen de verite

Se mele au plus grossier mensonge.

Cette nuit dans l'erreur d'un songe,

Au rang des rois j'etais monte,

Je vous aimais alors, et j'osais vous le dire,

Les dieux a mon reveil ne m'ont pas tout ote,

Je n'ai perdu que mon empire."

"Insolent!" cried the king, and his scornful glance wandered away to

Voltaire, who was seated near the queen engaged in lively

conversation. "We will damp his ardor," said he, smiling; and,

taking a card, he commenced writing hastily.

Truly at this moment the stem master Voltaire might have been

content with his royal pupil; the rhymes were good and flowed

freely. When Frederick had finished his poem, he put Voltaire's card

in his bosom and drew near to the princess.

"The poem is piquant," said he; "read it yourself, and then ask

Voltaire to read it aloud."

Amelia looked strangely at the king, but as she read, a soft smile

lighted up her lovely, melancholy face. Bowing to her brother, she

said in low tones, "I thank your highness."

"Now give the card to Voltaire, and ask him to read it," said the

king.

Voltaire took the card, but as he read he did not smile as the

princess had done--he turned pale and pressed his lips tightly

together.

"Read it," said the king.

"I beg your pardon," said Voltaire, who had immediately recovered

his self-possession; "this little poem, so hastily composed, was not

worthy of the exalted princess to whom I dared address it. Your

majesty will be graciously pleased to remember that it was born in a

moment, and the next instant lost its value. As I now read it, I

find it dull and trivial. You will not be so cruel as to force me to

read aloud to your majesty that which I condemn utterly."

"Oh, le coquin!" murmured Frederick, while Voltaire, with a profound

bow, placed the card in his pocket.

When the soiree was over, and Voltaire returned to his rooms, the

gay and genial expression which he had so carefully maintained

during the evening disappeared; and his lips, which had smiled so

kindly, muttered words of cursing and bitterness. He ordered Tripot

to arrange his writing-table and leave the room. Being now alone, he

drew the card from his bosom, and, as if to convince himself that

what he saw was truth and no cruel dream, he read aloud, but with a

trembling voice:

"On remarque, pour l'ordinaire,

Qu'un songe eat analoque a notre caractere,

On heros peut rever, qu'il a passe le Rhin,

Un chien qu'il aboie a la lune;

Un joueur, qu'il a fait fortune,

Un voleur, qu'il a fait butin.

Mais que Voltaire, a l'aide d'un mensonge,

Ose se croire roi lui que n'est qu'un faquin,

Ma fois! c'est abuser du souge."

"So I am already a scoundrel?" said Voltaire, grinning. "My enemies

triumph, and he who a short time since was called the wise man of

the age, the Virgil of France, is nothing but a scoundrel! This

time, I confess, I merited my humiliation, and the consciousness of

this increases my rage. I am a good-humored, credulous fool. Why was

I so silly as to credit the solemn protestations of the king that I

should never feel his superior rank; that he would never show

himself the master? If I dare to claim an equality with him for an

instant, he swings his rod of correction, and I am bowed in the

dust! Voltaire is not the man to bow patiently. The day shall come

in which I will revenge with rich interest the degradation of this

evening. But enough of anger and excitement. I will sleep; perhaps

in happy dreams I shall wander from the chilly borders of the Spree

to my own beautiful Paris."

He called Tripot, and commanded him to announce to Fredersdorf that

he was ill, and could not accompany the king to Potsdam in the

morning.

He then retired, and the gods, perhaps, heard his prayer, and

allowed him in dreams to look upon Paris, where the Marquis de

Pompadour reigned supreme, and the pious priests preached against

the Atheist Voltaire, to whom the great-hearted King of Prussia had

given an asylum. Perhaps he saw in his dreams the seigneurie of his

glittering future, and his beautiful house at Ferney, where he built

a temple, with the proud inscription, "Voltaire Deo erexit!"

At all events, his dreams must have been pleasant and refreshing. He

laughed in his sleep; and his countenance, which was so often

clouded by base and wicked passions, was bright and clear; it was

the face of a poet, who, with closed eyes, looked up into the heaven

of heavens.

The morning came, and Voltaire still slept--even the rolling of the

carriages aroused him but for a moment; he wrapped himself up in his

warm bed. the soft eider down of his pillow closed over his head and

made him invisible. Tripot came lightly upon tiptoe and removed the

black coat of the merchant Fromery. Voltaire heard nothing; he slept

on. And now the door was noisily opened, and a young woman, with

fresh, rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, entered the room; she was

dressed as a chambermaid, a little white coquettish cap covered her

hair, and a white apron with a little bodice was laced over her

striped woollen robe. Upon her white, naked arm she carried linen

which she threw carelessly upon the floor, and drew with rash steps

near the bed. Voltaire still slept, and was still invisible.

The young chambermaid, believing that he had gone with the king to

Potsdam, had come to arrange the room; with a quick movement she

seized the bed with her sinewy hands and threw it off. A wild cry

was heard! a white skeleton figure rose from the bed, now lying in

the middle of the chamber, and danced about the floor with doubled

fists and wild curses. The girl uttered a shriek of terror and

rushed from the room; and if the form and the nightcap had not been

purely white, she would have sworn she had seen the devil in person,

and that she had cast him out from the bed of the great French poet.

[Footnote: Thiebault, v., 281.]

CHAPTER X.

THE LOVERS.

The day of grace was at an end. The four weeks which the king had

granted to his sister, in order that she might take counsel with

herself, were passed, and the heart of the princess was unmoved--

only her face was changed. Amelia hid her pallor with rouge, and the

convulsive trembling of her lips with forced smiles; but it was

evident that her cheeks became daily more hollow, and her eyes more

inflamed. Even the king remarked this, and sent his physician to

examine her eyes. The princess received this messenger of the king

with a bitter, icy smile.

"The king is very good; but I am not ill--I do not suffer."

"But, your royal highness, your eyes suffer. They are weak and

inflamed: allow me to examine them."

"Yes, as my brother has commanded it; but I warn you, you cannot

heal them."

Meckel, the physician, examined her eyes with the closest attention,

then shook his head thoughtfully.

"Princess," said he at last, in low, respectful tones, "if you grant

your eyes no rest; if, instead of sleeping quietly, you pass the

night pacing your room; if you continue to exhaust your eyes by

constant weeping, the most fatal consequences may result."

"Do you mean I will become blind?" said Amelia, quietly.

"I mean your eyes are suffering; that, however, is no acute disease;

but your whole nervous system is in a dangerous condition, and all

this must be rectified before your eyes can be healed."

"Prescribe something, then, as his majesty has commanded it," said

Amelia, coldly.

"I will give your royal highness a remedy; but it is of so strong

and dangerous a nature, that it must be used only with the utmost

caution. It is a liquid; it must be heated, and you must allow the

steam to pass into your eyes. Your highness must be very, very

careful. The substances in this mixture are so strong, so corrosive,

that if you approach too near the steam, it will not only endanger

your eyes, but your face and your voice. You must keep your mouth

firmly closed, and your eyes at least ten inches above the vessel

from which the steam is rising. Will your highness remember all

this, and act as I have directed?"

"I will remember it," said Amelia, replying only to the first part

of his question.

Meckel did not remark this. He wrote his prescription and withdrew,

once more reminding Amelia of the caution necessary.

As has been said, this was the last day of grace. The princess

seemed calm and resigned. Even to her confidential maid she uttered

no complaints. The steaming mixture was prepared, and, while Amelia

held herself some distance above it, as the physician had commanded,

she said laughingly to Ernestine: "I must strive to make my eyes

bright, that my brother may be pleased, or at least that he may not

be excited against me."

The prescription seemed to work wonders. The eyes of the princess

were clear and bright, and upon her cheeks burned that dark, glowing

carnation, which an energetic will and a strong and bold resolve

sometimes call into life.

"Now, Ernestine, come! make me a careful and tasteful toilet. It

seems to me that this is my wedding-day; that I am about to

consecrate myself forever to a beloved friend."

"Oh, princess, let it be thus!" cried Fraulein von Haak.

imploringly. "Constrain your noble heart to follow the wishes of the

king, and wed the King of Denmark."

Amelia looked at her, amazed and angry. "You know that Trenck has

received my warning, and has replied to me. He will listen to no

suggestions; under no pretext, will he be influenced to cross the

borders of Prussia, not even if full pardon and royal grace are

offered him. I need not, therefore, be anxious on his account."

"That being the case, your royal highness should now think a little

of your own happiness. You should seek to be reconciled to your

fate--to yield to that which is unalterable. The king, the royal

family, yes, the whole land will rejoice if this marriage with the

King of Denmark takes place. Oh, princess, be wise! do willingly,

peacefully, What you will otherwise be forced to do! Consent to be

Queen of Denmark."

"You have never loved, Ernestine, and you do not know that it is a

crime to break a holy oath sworn unto God. But let us be silent. I

know what is before me--I am prepared!"

With calm indifference, Amelia completed her toilet; then stepped to

the large Psyche, which stood in her boudoir, and examined herself

with a searching eye.

"I think there is nothing in my appearance to enrage the king. I

have laid rouge heavily upon my cheeks, and, thanks to Meckel's

prescription, my eyes are as brilliant as if they had shed no tears.

If I meet my brother with this friendly, happy smile, he will not

remark that my cheeks are sunken. He will be content with me, and

perhaps listen to my prayers."

Ernestine regarded her with a sad and troubled glance. "You look

pale, princess, in spite of your rouge, and your laugh lacerates the

heart. There is a tone, a ring in it, like a broken harp-string."

"Still," said Amelia, "still, Ernestine! my hour has come! I go to

the king. Look, the hand of the clock points to twelve, and I ask an

audience of the king at this hour. Farewell, Ernestine! Ernestine,

pray for me."

She wrapped herself in her mantle, and stepped slowly and proudly

through the corridors to the wing of the castle occupied by the

king. Frederick received her in his library. He advanced to the door

to meet her, and with a kindly smile extended both his hands.

"Welcome, Amelia, a thousand times welcome! Your coming proves to me

that your heart has found the strength which I expected; that my

sweet sister has recovered herself, her maidenly pride, fully.

"The proud daughter of the Hohenzollerns is here to say to the king-

-'The King of Denmark demands my hand. I will bestow it upon him. My

father's daughter dare not wed beneath her. She must look onward and

upward. There is no myrtle-wreath for me, but a crown is glittering,

and I accept it. God has made both heart and brain strong enough to

bear its weight. I shall be no happy shepherdess, but I shall be a

great and good queen; I will make others happy.'"

"You have come, Amelia, to say this to the king; but you have also

come to say to your brother--'I am ready to fulfil your wishes. I

know that no selfish views, no ambitious plans influence you. I know

that you think only of my prosperity and my happiness; that you

would save me from misfortune, humiliation, and shame; that you

would guard me from the mistakes and weaknesses of my own heart, I

accede to your wish, my brother--I will be queen of Denmark?' Now,

Amelia," said Frederick, with an agitated voice, "have I not rightly

divined? Have you not sought me for this purpose?"

"No, my brother, no, no!" cried Amelia, with wild, gushing tears.

"No; I have come to implore your pity, your mercy." Completely

beside herself, mad with passion and pain, she fell upon her knees

and raised her arms entreatingly to the king. "Mercy, my brother,

mercy! Oh, spare my poor, martyred heart! Leave me at least the

liberty to complain and to be wretched! Do not condemn me to marry

Denmark!"

Frederick stepped backward, and his brow darkened; but he controlled

his impatience, and drew near his sister with a kindly smile, and

gently raising her from her knees, he led her to the divan.

"Come, Amelia, it does not become you to kneel to a man--to God only

should a princess kneel. Let us be seated, and speak to each other

as brother and sister should speak who love and wish to understand

each other."

"I am ready for all else, I will accommodate myself to all else--

only be merciful! Do not compel me to wed Denmark!"

"Ah, see, my sister, although you are struggling against me, how

justly you comprehend your position!" said the king, mildly. "You

speak of wedding Denmark. Your exalted and great destiny sleeps in

these words. A princess when she marries does not wed a man, but a

whole people; she does not only make a man but a nation happy. There

are the weeping, whose tears she will dry; the poor, whose hunger

she will assuage; the unhappy, to whom she will bring consolation;

the sick and dying, with whom she will pray. There is a whole people

advancing to meet her with shouts of gladness, stretching out their

hands, and asking for love. God has blessed the hearts of queens

with the power to love their subjects, because they are women. Oh,

my sister, this is a great, a noble destiny which Providence offers

you--to be the beneficent, mediating, smiling angel, standing ever

by the side of a king--a bond of love between a king and his

subjects! Truly one might well offer up their poor, pitiful wishes,

their own personal happiness, for such a noble destiny."

"I have no more happiness to offer up," sighed Amelia. "I have no

happiness; I do not ask so much. I plead for the poor right of

living for my great sorrow--of being faithful to myself."

"He only is faithful to himself who lives to discharge his duties,"

said the king. "He only is true to himself who governs himself, and

if he cannot be happy, at least endeavors to make others so, and

this vocation of making others happy is the noblest calling for a

woman; by this shall she overcome her selfishness and find comfort,

strength, and peace. And who, my sister, can say that he is happy?

Our life consists in unfulfilled wishes, vain hopes destroyed,

ideals, and lost illusions. Look at me, Amelia. Have I ever been

happy? Do you believe that there is a day of my life I would live

over? Have I not, from my earliest youth, been acquainted with

grief, self-denial, and pain? Are not all the blossoms of my life

broken? Am I not, have I not ever been, the slave of my rank?--a

man, 'cabined, cribbed, confined,' though I appear to be a great

king? Oh, I will not relate what I have suffered--how my heart has

been lacerated and trampled upon! I will only say to you, that,

notwithstanding this, I have never wished to be other than I am,

that I have been always thankful for my fate; glad to be born to a

throne, and not in a miserable hut. Believe me, Amelia, a sublime

misfortune is better, more glorious, than a petty happiness. To have

the brow wounded, because the crown presses too heavily upon the

temples, is more desirable than to breathe out your sorrows in the

midst of poverty and vulgarity, then sink into a dark and unknown

grave. God, who has, perhaps, denied us the blessing of love, gives

fame as a compensation. If we are not happy, we are powerful!"

"Ah, my brother, these are the views of a man and a king," said

Amelia. "I am a poor, weak woman. For me there is no fame, no

power!"

"Isabella of Spain and Elizabeth of England were also women, and

their fame has extended through centuries."

"They, however, were independent queens. I can be nothing more than

the wife of a king. Oh, my brother, let me remain only the sister of

a king! Let there be no change in my fate--let all remain as it is!

This is my only hope--my only prayer! My heart is dead, and every

wish is buried--let it suffice, my brother! Do not ask the

impossible!"

The king sprang from his seat, and his eyes glowed with scorn. "It

is, then, all in vain!" said he, fiercely. "You will listen neither

to reason nor entreaty!"

"Oh, sire, have mercy--I cannot wed the King of Denmark!"

"You cannot!" cried the king: "what does that mean?"

"That means that I have sworn never to become the wife of another

than of him whom I love; that means that I have sworn to die

unmarried, unless I go to the altar with my beloved!"

"This wild, mad wish can never be fulfilled!" said the king,

threateningly. "You will marry--I, the king, command it!"

"Command me not, my brother!" cried Amelia, proudly, "command me

not! You stand now upon the extremest boundary of your power; it

will be easy now to teach you that a king is powerless against a

firm, bold will!"

"Ah! you threaten me!"

"No, I pray to you--I pray wildly to your hard heart for pity! I

clasp your knees--I pray to you, as the wretched, the hopeless pray

to God--have mercy upon my torment, pity my unspeakable anguish! I

am a poor, weak woman--oh, have mercy! My heart bleeds from a

thousand wounds--comfort, heal it! I am alone, and oh, how lonely!--

be with me, my brother, and protect and shield me! Oh, my brother!

my brother! it is my life, my youth, my future which cries out to

you! Mercy! grace! Drive me not to extremity! Be merciful, as God is

merciful! Force me not into rebellion against God, against Nature,

against myself! Make me not an unnatural daughter, an unthankful

sister, a disobedient subject! My God! My God! Oh, let your heart be

touched! I cannot wed the King of Denmark--say not that I shall!"

"And if I still say it? If, by the power of my authority, as your

brother and your king, I command you to obey?"

"I may perhaps die, but your command will have no other result,"

said she, rising slowly, and meeting the enraged glance of the king

with a proud and calm aspect. "You have not listened to my prayers;

well, then, I pray no more. But I swear to you, and God in heaven

hears my oath, I will never marry! Now, my king, try how far your

power reaches; what you may do and dare; how far you may prevail

with a woman who struggles against the tyranny of her destiny. You

can lead an army into desperate battle; you can conquer provinces,

and make thrones totter to their base, but you cannot force a woman

to do what she is resolved against! You cannot break my will! I

repeat my oath--I swear I will never marry!"

A cry of rage burst from the lips of the king; with a hasty movement

he advanced and seized the arm of the princess; then, however, as if

ashamed of his impetuosity, he released her and stepped backward.

"Madame," said he, "you will wed the King of Denmark. This is my

unchangeable purpose, my inexorable command! The time of mourning

for his dead wife is passed; and he has, through a special

ambassador, renewed his suit for your hand. I will receive the

ambassador to-morrow morning in solemn audience. I will say to him

that I am ready to bestow the hand of my sister upon the King of

Denmark. To-morrow you will be the bride and in four weeks you will

be the wife of the King of Denmark!"

"And if I repeat to you, that I will never be his wife?"

"Madame, when the king commands, no one in his realm dare say 'I

will not!' Farewell--to-morrow morning, then!" He bowed, left the

room, and closed the door behind him.

Amelia sighed heavily, then slowly and quietly, even as she had

come, she walked through the corridors, and as she passed by her

maids she greeted them with a soft smile. Ernestine wished to follow

her to her boudoir, but she nodded to her to remain outside; she

entered and closed the door. She was alone; a wild shriek burst from

her lips; with a despairing movement she raised her arms to heaven,

then sank powerless, motionless to the floor.

How long she lay there; what martyrdom, what tortures her heart

endured in those hours of solitude, who can know? It was twilight

when Princess Amelia opened the door and bade her friend, Fraulein

von Haak, enter.

"Oh, princess, dearly-beloved princess," she said, weeping bitterly,

pressing Amelia's hand to her lips, "God be thanked that I see you

again!"

"Poor child!" said Amelia, gently, "poor child! You thought I would

destroy myself! is it not so, Ernestine? No, no, I must live! A dark

and sad foreboding tells me that a day will come when Trenck will

need me; when my life, my strength, my assistance will be necessary

to him. I will be strong! I will live, and await that day!"

With calm indifference she now began to speak of trifling things,

and listened kindly to all Ernestine related. There was, however, a

certain solemnity in her movements, in her smile, in every word she

uttered; her eyes turned from time to time with an indescribable

expression to heaven, and anxious, alarmed sighs fell trembling from

her lips.

At last the long and dreary hours of the evening were over. It was

night. Amelia could dismiss her maids and be once more alone. They

brought the spirit-lamp, upon which stood the vessel containing the

steaming mixture for her eyes; she directed them to place it near,

and go quietly to sleep. She would undress herself and read a while

before she went to bed. She embraced Fraulein von Haak, and charged

her to sleep peacefully.

"You have promised," whispered Ernestine, lightly, "you will live!"

"I will live, for Trenck will one day need me. Goodnight!"

She kissed Ernestine upon the brow and smiled upon her till the door

closed--then pressed the bolt forward hastily, and rushed forward to

the large mirror, which reflected her image clearly and distinctly.

With a curious expression she contemplated her still lovely,

youthful, and charming image, and her lips lightly whispered,

"Farewell, thou whom Trenck loved! Farewell, farewell!" she greeted

her image with a weary smile, then stepped firmly to the table,

where the mixture hissed and bubbled, and the dangerous steam

ascended.

The next morning loud shrieks and groans were heard in the bedroom

of the princess. Amelia's maids had come to arrange her toilet, and

found her stretched upon her couch, with disfigured face, with

bloody eyes, which, swollen and rigid, appeared almost torn from

their sockets! They ran for the physician, for the queen, for the

king; all was confusion, excitement, anguish.

Ernestine knelt weeping by the bed of the princess, and implored her

to say what frightful accident had so disfigured her. Princess

Amelia was incapable of reply! Her lips were convulsively pressed

together; she could only stammer out a few inarticulate sounds.

At last Heckel arrived, and when he saw the inflamed, swollen face,

the eyeballs starting from their sockets, and then the vessel

containing the powerful mixture upon the table, he was filled with

horror.

"Ah, the unhappy!" murmured he; "she did not regard my warning. She

drew too near the noxious vapor, and it has entered not only her

eyes but her windpipe; she will suffer much, and never be wholly

restored!"

Amelia understood these words, which were addressed to Fraulein von

Haak, and a horrible wild laugh burst from her bloody, skinless

lips.

"Will she recover?" asked Fraulein von Haak.

"She will recover, but her eyes will be always deformed and her

voice is destroyed. I will hasten to the apothecary's and prepare

soothing ointments."

He withdrew, and now another door opened, and the king entered. With

hasty steps, and greatly excited, he drew near the bed of the

princess. As he looked upon her deformed countenance, her bleeding,

rigid eyes, he uttered a cry of horror, and bowed down over his

sister.

She gazed up at him steadily; tried to open her lips; tried to

speak, but only a dull, hollow sound was heard. Now she slightly

raised herself up with a powerful effort of strength, and moved her

hand slowly over the white wall near her bed.

"She wishes to write," said the king; "perhaps she will tell the

cause of her sufferings. Give her something quickly! there--a coal

from the chimney!"

Fraulein von Haak brought the coal, and Amelia wrote, with trembling

hand, in great, irregular letters, these words upon the wall:

"Now I will not wed the King of Denmark!--now I shall never marry!"

then fell back on her pillow with a hollow laugh, which deformed her

swollen and convulsed features in a frightful manner.

The king sank on a chair near the bed, and, clasping his hands over

his face, he abandoned himself to despair. He saw, he comprehended

all! He knew that she had intentionally disfigured herself; that she

had offered up her beauty to her love! For this reason she had so

piteously pleaded with him!--for this reason had she clamored for

pity!--pity for her youth, her future, her life's happiness! Love

and faith she had offered up! Greater, braver than Juliet, she had

not given herself up to death, but to deformity! She had destroyed

her body, in order to treasure love and constancy in her heart for

her beloved! All this the king knew, and a profound and boundless

sorrow for this young woman, so strong in her love, came over him.

He bowed his head and wept bitterly. [Footnote: La partie de

l'histoire de la Princesse Amelie qui a ete la moins connue. et sur

laquelle le public a flotte entre des opinions plus diverses et

moins admissibles, c'est la cause de sea infirmites. Heureusement

constituee sans etre grande, elle n'aurait pas du savoir a les

craindre, meme dans un age tres-avance; et elle en a ete atteinte

bien avant lage, qui pout les faire craindre. Encore, ne les a-t-

elle pas eucs partiellement, elle en a ete spoutanement accablee. Il

n'est pas douteux qu'elle ne les ait cherchees. J'en donnerai pour

preuve un fait qui est certain. A une epoque ou elle avait les yeux

inflammes en tenant ce liquide aux moins a sept ou huit pouces de

distance; et lui recommenda bien de ne pas l'approeher davantage;

et, cependant des qu'elle eut cette composition, elle s'empressa de

s'en frotter les yeux, ce qui produisit un si funeste effet, qu'elle

courut le plus grand danger de devenir aveugle; et que depuis elle a

toujours do les yeux a moitic sortis de leurs orbites, et aussi

hideux qu'ils avaient ete beaux jusque la. Frederic, a qui on n'osa

pas dire combien la princesse avait de part a cette accident, n'a

jamais eu depuis qu'une aversion tres-marquee et un vrai mepris pour

M. Meckel, que la princesse fut obligee de quitter, et qui n'en

etait pas moins un des meilleurs medecina de Berlin, et un des plus

celebres anatomistes de l'Europe.

Une autre infirmite plus ctonnante, encore, o'est que cette

princesse perdit presque totalementc la voix; aussi de sa fautc a ce

qui l'on a pretendu il lui etait difficile de parlor, et tres-

penible aux autres de l'entendre. Sa voix n'etait plus qu'un son

vague, sourd et sepulcral, semblable a celui que forme une personne

qui fait effort pour dire comme a voix basse qu'elle etrangle.

Je ne parlerai pas de sa tete chaneelante et se soutenant a peine de

ses jambes, pour lesquelles son corps appauvri etait un poids si

lourd de ses bras; et de ses mains plus d'a moitie paralyse; mais

quels puissants motifs out pu amener cette belle et aimable

princesse a se faire elle-meme un sort si triste? Quelle philosophie

a pu lui donner assez de force pour le supporter, et ne pas s'en

plaindre? quelle energie tous cea faits ne prouvent-ils pas?--

Thiebault, ii., 287-289.]

CHAPTER XI.

BARBARINA.

The visit which the proud wife of the High-Chancellor Cocceji had

made to the still prouder dancer, had brought the trembling and

irresolute heart of Barbarina to a conclusion. This heart, which had

not been influenced by her own wishes or the eloquent prayers of her

young lover, was wounded by the insane pride of Madame Cocceji, and

forced to a final resolve. The visit was unfortunate, and its

results exactly the opposite of her hopes.

She had come to prove to Barbarina that she should not even dare to

think of becoming the wife of her son. By her wild passion and

abusive words she had so exasperated her, that she determined to do

that for revenge which she had firmly refused to love. In flashing

scorn she had sworn this to the proud wife of the high chancellor;

and her honor and her pride demanded the fulfilment of her oath.

And now a fierce contest commenced between them--carried on by both

parties with bitterness and energy. The high chancellor threatened

his son with his curse. He solemnly declared he would disinherit

him. Cocceji only loved the Barbarina the more glowingly; and, as

his mother spoke to him of the dancer, and uttered passionate and

abusive words, he replied respectfully but decisively that he would

not listen to such accusations against the woman who was to be his

wife, and must forbid them positively. Madame Cocceji was beside

herself with rage; by her prayers and persuasions, she induced her

husband to take refuge in the last and most violent resource that

remained--in the power of arrest which the king had granted him. He

resolved to confine his son in the castle of Mt. Landsberg, and thus

break the magical bands of Ariadne.

One day, the Councillor Cocceji did not appear in the halls of

justice, and no one knew what had become of him. The servants stated

that a carriage stopped at his dwelling in the middle of the night;

that General Haak with two soldiers entered Cocceji's room, and

remained with him some time. They had then all entered the general's

carriage, and driven away.

Cocceji had, however, found a secret opportunity to slip a piece of

paper into the servant's hand, and to whisper, "Quick, to the

signora!"

The faithful servant obeyed this order. The paper contained only

these words: "I am arrested; make all necessary preparations; expect

me daily. As soon as I am free, our marriage will take place."

Barbarina made her preparations. She undertook frequently little

journeys, and sometimes remained away from Berlin several days. She

bought a costly and beautiful house, to prove to the wife of the

chancellor that she had no thought of leaving Berlin and returning

to Italy.

Some months went by. The king, who had yielded to the prayers of the

Coccejis, and allowed them to arrest their son, would not consent to

his longer confinement. He had no trial; had committed no offence

against the laws or the king; was guilty of no other crime than

wishing to marry the woman he loved.

So the young councillor was released from the castle of Landsberg.

He returned to Berlin; and his first visit was not to his parents,

but to Barbarina, who received him in her new house in Behren

Street.

A few hours later, a carriage stood before the door, which

Barbarina, accompanied by her sister and Cocceji, entered, and drove

rapidly away. No one knew where they went. Even the spies of the

Coccejis, who continually watched the house of the dancer, could

learn nothing from the servants who were left behind. A few days

after, they brought the intelligence that Barbarina had returned;

and the councillor dwelt with her in her new house; and the servants

were commanded to call the signora Madame Cocceji. as she was his

well-beloved and trusted wife.

The wife of the high chancellor laughed contemptuously at this

narrative, and declared it to be only a coup de theatre. Suddenly an

equipage drove to the door. Somewhat curious, Madame Cocceji stepped

to the window; she saw that the coachman and footmen were dressed in

liveries glittering with gold, and that the panels of the carriage

were ornamented with the Cocceji coat-of-arms.

The Signora Barbarina was to be seen at the window. Horrified, the

wife of the chancellor stepped back; a servant entered with a card,

which he handed her respectfully.

"I am not at home; I receive no visits!" cried she, after looking at

the card. The servant retired, and the carriage rolled away.

"Yes, it is true. She has triumphed!" groaned the countess, still

gazing at the card, which had these words: "Monsieur de Cocceji and

Madame de Cocceji, nee Barbarina."--"But she shall not succeed; the

Barbarina shall never be called my daughter; this marriage shall be

set aside, the ceremony was not lawful, it is contrary to the laws

of the land. Barbarina is a bourgeoise, and cannot wed a noble

without the express consent of the king. I will throw myself at the

feet of his majesty and implore him to annul this marriage!"

Frederick was much exasperated, and inclined to yield to the

entreaties of his high chancellor. A short time before, he had

commanded the Catholic clergy not to perform any marriage ceremony

without special permission and legitimation; and his anger was

aroused at their daring to disobey him, and in secrecy and silence

to marry Barbarina and Cocceji.

He commanded his cabinet minister Uhden to ascertain by what right

the dancer Barbarina dared to call herself Madame Cocceji, and, if

she could establish her claim, he wished to be informed what priest

had dared to bless the holy banns. He was resolved to punish him

severely.

The minister Uhden was a warm personal friend of the high

chancellor, and more than willing, therefore, to carry out sternly

the king's commands. The next day he ordered Barbarina to appear

before him, stating that he had the king's permission to pronounce

judgment upon her.

When Barbarina read this order, she was lost in painful silence, and

a profound melancholy was written upon her pale face.

"What will you do, sister?" said Marietta.

"I will go to the king!" replied Barbarina. rousing herself.

"But the king is at Potsdam."

"Well, then, I will go to Potsdam. Order my carriage; I must go in a

quarter of an hour."

"What shall I say to your husband when he returns home?"

Barbarina looked at her steadily. "Tell him that Madame Cocceji has

gone to Potsdam, to announce her marriage to the king, and ask him

to acknowledge it."

"Barbarina," whispered her sister, "hear me! Your husband is

troubled and sorrowful; he has confided in me. He says he fears you

did not marry him from love, but for revenge, and that you love him

not."

"I am resolved to love him! I will learn how," said she, sadly. "I

have a strong will, and my heart shall obey me!"

She smiled, but her lovely face was overcast with grief, and

Marietta's eyes were filled with tears.

Frederick was alone in his study in the castle of Potsdam; he was

busily engaged in writing. The door was lightly opened, and the

Marquis d'Argens looked in. When he saw that the king had heard

nothing, he beckoned to a lady who stood behind him to draw near.

She entered the room silently and noiselessly; the marquis bowed to

her, and, smiling kindly, he stepped back and closed the door.

The lady, who up to this time had closely concealed her features,

now threw back her veil, and exposed the pale but lovely countenance

and flashing eyes of Barbarina. She gazed at the king with a mingled

expression of happiness and pain.

The king still heard nothing. Suddenly he was aroused by a low sigh;

it seemed to him that a soft, sweet, long-silent voice whispered his

name. He rose hastily and turned; Barbarina was kneeling at the

door; it was that door before which, five years ago, she had kneeled

bathed in tears and wild with despair. She was now, as then, upon

her knees, weeping bitterly, and raising her hands importunately to

the king, pleading for grace and pity.

Frederick was at first pallid from surprise, and a frown was on his

brow; but, as he looked upon her, and saw once more those great,

dark, unfathomable eyes, a painful but sweet emotion overcame him;

the cloud was lifted up, his countenance was illuminated and his

eyes were soft and misty.

With a kindly smile he drew near to Barbarina. "Rise," said he, and

the tones of his voice made her heart beat wildly, and brought fresh

tears to her eyes. "You come strangely and unexpectedly, Barbarina,

but you come with a beautiful retinue, with a crowd of sweet, fond

remembrances--and I--of whom men say, 'He has no religion'--have at

least the religion of memory. I cannot be angry with you, Barbarina;

rise, and tell me why you are here."

He bowed, and took her by the hands and raised her; and now, as she

stood near him, lovely as ever, her great eyes glowing with warmth

and passion, intoxicating the senses with her odorous beauty, the

king felt anguish in his heart which he had no words to express.

They stood silently, side by side, their eyes fixed upon each other,

Frederick holding Barbarina's hand in his; they seemed to be

whispering mysterious fairy tales to each other's hearts.

"I see you, surrounded by smiling, sacred genii," at last, said

Frederick. "These are the genii of the rosy hours which have been.

Ah, Barbarina, thus attended, your face seems to me as the face of

an angel. Why were you not an angel, Barbarina? Why were you only a

woman--a passionate woman, who, not satisfied with loving and being

loved, wished also to govern; who was not content to be worshipped

by the man, but wished to subject the king, whom you thus forced to

forget his humanity, to trample upon and torture his own heart in

order to remain king? Oh, Barbarina, why were you this proud,

exacting woman, rather than the angel which you now truly are?"

She raised her hands, as if imploring him to be silent. "I

understand all that now, I have thought of it, night and day; I know

and I confess that you acted right, sire. And now I am no longer an

imperious woman, but a humiliated one! In my helplessness, with my

pride subdued, I come to you! I come to you, sire, as one goes to

God, weary and heavy laden. I come to you, as a poor sinner goes

into God's holy temple, to confess his sins; to have his burden

lightened; to pray for help that he may subdue his own heart! Oh,

sire, this is a sacred, consecrated hour for me, and what I now say

to you, only God and yourself may hear!"

"Speak, Barbarina, and may God hear and answer!"

"Sire, I come for help!"

"Ah, for help!" exclaimed the king, and a mocking expression played

upon his lips. "I had forgotten. You wish to be called Madame

Cocceji?"

"I am called thus, sire," said she, softly; "but they are about to

declare my marriage illegal, and by the power of the law to set it

aside."

"And for this reason you come to me?" said the king. "You fear for

your beautiful title?"

"Ah, sire, you do not, think so pitifully of me as to suppose I care

for a title?"

"You married the Councillor Cocceji, then, from love?" said the

king.

Barbarina looked at the king steadily. "No, sire, I did not marry

him for love."

"Why, then, did you marry him?"

"To save myself, sire--to save myself, and because I could not learn

to forget. Your majesty has just said that you have the religion of

memory. Sire, I am the anguish-stricken, tortured, fanatical

priestess of the same faith. I have lain daily before her altar, I

have scourged my heart with remembrances, and blinded my eyes with

weeping. At last a day came in which I roused myself. I resolved to

abandon my altar, to flee from the past, and teach my heart to

forget. I went to England, accepted Lord Stuart's proposals, and

resolved to be his wife. It was in vain, wholly in vain. Whatsoever

my trembling lips might say, my heart lay ever bleeding before the

altar of my memory. The past followed me over the wide seas, she

beckoned and greeted me with mysterious sighs and pleadings; she

called out to me, with two great, wondrous eyes, clear and blue as

the heavens, unfathomable as the sea! These eyes, sire, called me

back, and I could not resist them. I felt that I would rather die by

them than relinquish them forever. So, on my wedding-day, I fled

from England, and returned to Berlin. The old magic came over me;

also, alas! the old grief. I felt that I must do something to save

myself, if I would not go mad. I resolved to bind my wayward heart

in chains, to make my love a prisoner to duty, and silence the

outcries of my soul! But I still wavered. Then came Madame Cocceji.

By her insolent bearing she roused my pride, until it overshadowed

even my despair, and I heard no other voice. So, sire, I married

Cocceji! I have taken refuge in this marriage, as in a safe haven,

where I shall rest peacefully and fear no storm.

"But, my king, struggle as I may to begin a new life, the religion

of memory will not relinquish her priestess; she extends her

mystical hands over me, and my poor heart shouts back to her against

my will. Sire, save me! I have fled to this marriage as one flies to

a cloister-cell, to escape the sweet love of this world. Oh, sire,

do not allow them to drive me from this refuge; leave me in peace to

God and my duty! Alas! my soul has repented, she lies wearied and

ill at your feet. Help her, heal her, I implore you!"

She was silent. She extended her bands toward the king. He looked at

her sadly, kindly took her hands in his, and pressed his lips upon

them.

"Barbarina," said he, in a rich, mellow voice--"Barbarina, I thank

you. God and the king have heard you. You say that you are the

priestess of the religion of remembrance; well, then, I am her

priest, and I confess to you that I, also, have passed many nights

in anguish before her altar. Life demands heavy sacrifices, and more

from kings than from other men. Once in my life I made so rich an

offering to my, royalty that it seemed life could have no more of

bitterness in store. The thoughtless and fools consider life a

pleasure. But I, Barbarina, I say, that life is a duty. Let us

fulfil our duties."

"Yes, we will go and fulfil them," said she, with flashing eyes.

"Sire, I will go to fulfil mine; but I am weak, and have yet one

more favor to ask. There is no cup of Lethe from which men drink

forgetfulness, and yet I must forget. I must cast a veil over the

past. Help me, sire--I must leave Berlin! Banish my husband to

another city. It will be an open grave for me; but I will struggle

to plant that grave with flowers, whose beauty and perfume shall

rejoice and make glad the heart of my husband!"

"I grant your request," said the king, sadly.

"I thank you, sire; and now, farewell!"

"Farewell, Barbarina!"

He took again her hands in his, and looked long into her fair,

enchanting face, now glowing with enthusiasm. Neither spoke one

word; they took leave of each other with soft glances and melancholy

sighs.

"Farewell, sire!" said Barbarina, after a long pause, withdrawing

her hands from the king's and stepping toward the door. The king

followed her.

"Give me your hand," said he, "I will go with you!"

Frederick led her into the adjoining room, in which there were two

doors. One led to a small stairway, which opened upon a side-door of

the castle; the other to the great saloon, in which the cavaliers

and followers of the king were wont to assemble.

Barbarina had entered by the small stairway, and now turned her

steps in that direction. "No, not that way," said Frederick. "My

staff await me in the saloon. It is the hour for parade. I will show

you my court."

Barbarina thanked him, and followed silently to the other door. The

generals, in their glittering uniforms, and the cavaliers, with

their embroidered vests and brilliant orders, bowed profoundly, and

no one dared to manifest the surprise he felt as the king and

Barbarina entered.

Frederick led Barbarina into the middle of the saloon, and letting

go her hand, he said aloud: "Madame, I have the honor to commend

myself to you. Your wish shall be fulfilled. Your husband shall be

President of Glogau! it shall be arranged to-day." The king cast a

proud and searching glance around the circle of his cavaliers, until

they rested upon the master of ceremonies. "Baron Pollnitz, conduct

Madame Presidentess Coceeji to her carriage."

Pollnitz stumbled forward and placed himself with a profound

salutation at Barbarina's side.

Frederick bowed once more to Barbarina; she took the arm of Baron

Pollnitz. Silence reigned in the saloon as Barbarina withdrew.

The king gazed after her till she had entirely disappeared; then,

breathing heavily, he turned to his generals and said: "Messieurs,

it is time for parade."

CHAPTER XII.

INTRIGUES.

Voltaire was faithful to his purpose: he made use of his residence

in Prussia and the favor of the king to increase his fortune, and to

injure and degrade, as far as possible, all those for whom the king

manifested the slightest partiality. He not only added to his riches

by the most abject niggardliness in his mode of life, thereby adding

his pension to his capital, but by speculation in Saxon bonds, for

which, in the beginning, he employed the aid of the Jew Hirsch. We

have seen that he sent him to Dresden to purchase eighteen thousand

thalers' worth of bonds, and gave him three drafts for that purpose.

One of these was drawn upon the banker Ephraim. He thus learned of

Voltaire's speculation, and, as a cunning trafficker, he resolved to

turn this knowledge to his own advantage. He went to Voltaire, and

proposed to give him twenty thousand thalers' worth of Saxon bonds,

and demand no payment for them till Voltaire should receive their

full value from Dresden. The only profit he desired was Voltaire's

good word and influence for him with the king.

This was a most profitable investment, and the great French writer

could not resist it. He took the bonds; promised his protection and

favor, and immediately sent to Paris to protest the draft he had

given the Jew Hirsch.

Poor Hirsch had already bought the bonds in Dresden, and he was now

placed in the most extreme embarrassment, not only by the protested

draft, but by Voltaire's refusing to receive the bonds and to pay

for them.

Voltaire tried to appease him; promised to repair his loss, and yet

further to indemnify him. He declared he would purchase some of the

diamonds left in his care by Hirsch, and he really did this; he

bought three thousand thalers' worth of diamonds and returned the

rest to Hirsch. A few days after he sent to him for a diamond cross

and a few rings which he proposed to buy. Hirsch sent them, and not

hearing from either the diamonds or the money, he went to Voltaire

to get either the one or the other.

Voltaire received him furiously; declared that the diamonds which he

had purchased were false, and in order to reimburse himself he had

retained the others and would never return them! In wild rage he

continued to raise his doubled fist to heaven in condemnation, or

held it under the nose of the poor terrified Jew; and to crown all,

he tore from his finger another diamond ring, and pushed him from

the door.

And now the Jew indeed was to be pitied. He demanded of the courts

the restoration of his diamonds, and payment for the Saxon bonds.

A wearisome and vexatious process was the result. Voltaire's plots

and intrigues involved the case more and more, and he brought the

judges themselves almost to despair. Voltaire declared that the Jew

had sold him false diamonds. The Jew asserted that the false

diamonds exhibited by Voltaire were not those Voltaire had purchased

of him, and which the jeweller Reclam had valued. No one was present

at this trade, so there were no witnesses. The judges were,

therefore, obliged to confine themselves to administering the oath

to Voltaire, as he would not consent to any compromise. But he

resisted the taking of the oath also.

"What!" said he, "I must swear upon the Bible; upon this book

written in such wretched Latin! If it were Homer or Virgil, I would

have nothing against it."

When the judge assured him, that if he refused the oath, they would

administer it to the Jew, he exclaimed: "What! you will allow the

oath of this miserable creature, who crucified the Saviour, to

decide this question?"

He took the oath at last, and as the Jew Ephraim swore at the same

time that Voltaire had shown him the diamonds, and he had at once

declared them to be false, the Jew Hirsch lost his case, and

Voltaire triumphed. He wrote the following letter to Algarotti:

"If one had listened to my envious enemies, they would have heard

that I was about to lose a great process, and that I had defrauded

an honest Jewish banker. The king, who naturally takes the part of

the Old Testament, would have looked upon me with disfavor. I should

have been lost, and Freron would have derisively declared that I

sickened and died of rage. Instead of this, I still live; and during

my last illness the king manifested such warm and affectionate

interest in me, that I should be the most ungrateful of men if I do

not remain a few months longer with him! I am the only animal of my

race whom he has ever lodged in his castle in Berlin; and when he

left for Potsdam, and I could not follow him, his equipage, cooks,

etc., remained for my use. He had my furniture and other effects

removed to a beautiful country-seat near Sans-Souci, which was, for

the time being, mine. Besides this, a lodging was reserved for me at

Potsdam, where I slept a part of every week. In short, if I were not

three hundred leagues away from you, whom I love so tenderly, and if

I were in good health, I would be the happiest of men! I ask pardon,

therefore, of my enemies; these men of small wit; these sly foxes,

who cry out because I have a pension of twenty thousand francs, and

they have nothing! I wear a golden cross on my breast, while they

have not even a handkerchief in their pockets. I wear a great blue

cross, set round with diamonds, around my neck; for this they would

strangle me. These miserable creatures ought to know that I would

cheerfully give up the cross, the key, the pension; these things

would cost me no regret, but I am bound and attached to this great

man, who in all things strives to promote my welfare." [Footnote:

Voltaire, Oeuvres, p. 442.]

But this paradise of bliss, so extravagantly praised by Voltaire,

was not entirely without clouds, and some fierce storms had been

necessary to clear the atmosphere.

The king was very angry with Voltaire, and wrote the following

letter to him from Potsdam:

"I knew how to maintain peace in my house till your arrival; and I

must confess to you, that if you continue to intrigue and cabal, you

will be no longer welcome. I prefer kind and gentle people, who are

not passionate and tragic in their daily life. In case you should

resolve to live as a philosopher, I will rejoice to see you! But if

you give full sway to your passion and are hot-brained with

everybody, you will do better to remain in Berlin. Your arrival in

Potsdam will give me no pleasure." [Footnote: Oeuvres Posthumes, p.

338.]

Only after Voltaire had solemnly sworn to preserve the peace, was he

allowed to return to Potsdam. Keeping the peace was not, however, in

harmony with Voltaire's character; plotting was a necessity with

him; he could not resist it.

After he had succeeded in setting Arnaud aside and compelling him to

leave Berlin, he turned his rage and sarcasm against the other

friends of the king. One of them was removed by death. This was La

Mettrie; he partook immoderately of a truffle-pie at the house of

the French ambassador, Lord Tyrconnel, and died in consequence of a

blood-letting, which he ordered himself, in opposition to the

opinion of his physician. He laughingly said, "I will accustom my

indigestion to blood-letting." He died at the first experiment. His

death was in harmony with his life and his principles. He dismissed

the priest rudely who came to him uncalled, and entreated him to be

reconciled to God. Convulsed by his last agonies, he called out, "O

my God! O Jesus Maria!"

"He repents!" cried the delighted priest; "he calls upon God and His

blessed Son."

"No, no, no, father!" stammered La Mettrie, with dying lips; "that

was only a form of speech." [Footnote: Nicolai, p. 20.]

Voltaire's envy and jealousy were now turned against the Marquis

d'Argens, who was indeed the dearest friend of the king. At first he

tried to prejudice the king against him; he betrayed to him that the

marquis had privately married the actress Barbe Cochois.

The king was at the moment very angry, but the prayers of Algarotti,

and the regret of the poor marquis, reconciled him at last; he not

only forgave, but he allowed the marquise to dwell at Sans-Souci

with her husband.

When Voltaire found that he could not deprive the marquis of the

king's favor, he resolved to occasion him some trouble, and to wound

his vanity and sensibility. He knew that the marquis was an ardent

admirer of the French writer Jean Baptiste Rousseau. One day

Voltaire entered the room of the marquis, and said, in a sad,

sympathetic tone, that he felt it his duty to undeceive him as to

Jean Baptiste Rousseau, to prove to him that his love and respect

for the great writer were returned with the blackest ingratitude. He

had just received from his correspondent at Paris an epigram which

Rousseau had made upon the marquis. It was true the epigram was only

handed about in manuscript, and Rousseau swore every one who read it

not to betray him; he was showing it, however, and it was thought it

would be published. He, Voltaire, had commissioned his correspondent

to do every thing in his power to prevent the publication of this

epigram; or, if this took place, to use every means to excite the

public, as well as the friends of the marquis, against Rousseau,

because of his shameful treachery.

At all events, this epigram, which Voltaire now read aloud. to the

marquis, and which described him as the Wandering Jew, was as

malicious as it was mischievous and slanderous. The good marquis was

deeply wounded, and swore to take a great revenge on Rousseau.

Voltaire triumphed.

But, after a few days, he suspected that the whole was an artifice

of Voltaire. In accordance with his open, noble character, he wrote

immediately to Rousseau, made his complaint, and asked if he had

written the epigram.

Rousseau swore that he was not the author, but he was persuaded that

Voltaire had written it; he had sent some copies to Paris, and his

friends were seeking to spread it abroad. [Footnote: Thiebault.]

The marquis was on his guard, and did not communicate this news to

Voltaire. He resolved to escape from these assaults and intrigues

quietly; with his young wife he made a journey to Paris, and did not

return till Voltaire had left Berlin forever.

The most powerful and therefore the most abhorred of the enemies

against whom Voltaire now turned in his rage, was the president of

the Berlin Academy, Maupertius. Voltaire could never forgive him for

daring to shine in his presence; for being the president of an

academy of which he, Voltaire, was only a simple member. Above all

this, the king loved him, and praised his extraordinary talent and

scholarship. Voltaire only watched for an opportunity to clutch this

dangerous enemy, and the occasion soon presented itself.

Maupertius had just published his "Lettres Philosophiques," in which

it must be confessed there were passages which justified Voltaire's

assertion that Maupertius was at one time insane, and was confined

for some years in a madhouse at Montpellier. Maupertius proposed in

these letters that a Latin city should be built, and this majestic

and beautiful tongue brought to life again. He proposed, also, that

a hole should be dug to the centre of the earth, in order to

discover its condition and quality; also that the brain of

Pythagoras should be searched for and opened, in order to ascertain

the nature of the soul.

These ridiculous and fabulous propositions Voltaire replied to under

the name of Dr. Akakia; he asserted that he was only anxious to heal

the unhappy Maupertius. This publication was written in Voltaire's

sharpest wit and his most biting, glittering irony, and was

calculated to make Maupertius absurd in the eyes of the whole world.

The king, to whom Voltaire had shown his manuscript, felt this; and

although he had listened to the "Akakia" with the most lively

pleasure, and often interrupted the reading by loud laughter and

applause, he asked Voltaire to destroy the manuscript. He was not

willing that the man who stood at the head of his academy, and whom

he had once called "the light of science," should be held up to the

laughter and mockery of the world.

"I ask this sacrifice from you as a proof of your friendship for me,

and your self-control," said the king, earnestly. "I am tired of

this everlasting disputing and wrangling; I will have peace in my

house; I do not know how long we will have peace in the world. It

seems to me that on the horizon of politics heavy clouds are

beginning to tower up; let us therefore take care that our literary

horizon is clear and peaceable."

"Ah, sire!" cried Voltaire, "when you look at me with your great,

luminous eyes, I feel capable of plucking my heart from my breast

and casting it into the fire for you. How gladly, then, will I offer

up these stinging lines to a wish of my Solomon!"

"Will you indeed sacrifice 'Akakia?'" said the king, joyfully.

"Look here! this is my manuscript, you know my hand-writing, you see

that the ink is scarcely dry, the work just completed. Well, then,

see now, sire, what I make of the 'Akakia.'" He took the manuscript

and cast it into the fire before which they were both sitting.

"What are you doing?" cried the king, hastily; and, without

regarding the flames, ho stretched out his hand to seize the

manuscript.

Voltaire laughed heartily, seized the tongs, and pushed it farther

into the flames. "Sire, sire, I am the devil, and I will not allow

my victim to be torn from me. My 'Akakia' was only worthy of the

lower regions; you condemned it, and therefore it must suffer. I,

the devil, command it to burn."

"But I, the angel of mercy, will redeem the poor 'Akakia,'" cried

the king, trying to obtain possession of the tongs. "Truly this

'Akakia' is too lusty and witty a boy to be laid, like the Emperor

Guatimozin, upon the gridiron. It was enough to deny him a public

exhibition--it was not necessary to destroy him."

"Sire, I am a poor, weak man! If I kept the living 'Akakia' by my

side, it would be a poisonous weapon, which I would hurl one day

surely at the head of Maupertius. It is therefore better it should

live only in my remembrance, and be only an imaginary dagger, with

which I will sometimes tickle the haughty lord-president."

"And you have really no copy?" said the king, whose distrust was

awakened by Voltaire's too ready compliance. "Was this the only

manuscript of the 'Akakia?'"

"Sire, if you do not believe my word, send your servants and let

them search my room. Here are my keys; they shall bring you every

scrap of written paper; your majesty will then be convinced. I

entreat you to do this, as you will not believe my simple word."

The king fixed his eyes steadfastly upon Voltaire. "I believe you.

It would be unworthy of you to deceive me, and unworthy of me to

mistrust you. I believe you; but I will make assurance doubly sure.

The 'Akakia' is no longer upon paper, but it is in your head, and I

fear your head more than I do all the paper in the world. Promise

me, Voltaire, that as long as you live with me you will engage in no

written strifes or controversies--that you will not employ your

bitter irony against the government, or against the authors."

"I promise that cheerfully!"

"Will you do so in writing?"

Voltaire stepped to the table and took the pen. "Will your majesty

dictate?"

The king dictated, and Voltaire wrote with a rapid but firm hand: "I

promise your majesty that so long as you allow me to lodge in your

castle, I will write against no one, neither against the French

government nor any of the foreign ambassadors, nor the celebrated

authors. I will constantly manifest a proper respect and regard to

them. I will make no improper use of the letters of the king. I will

in all things bear myself as becomes an historian and a scholar, who

has the honor to be gentleman in waiting to the King of Prussia, and

to associate with distinguished persons." [Footnote: Preus,

"Friedrich der Grosse."]

"Will you sign this?" said the king.

"I will not only sign it," said Voltaire, "but I will add something

to its force. Listen, your majesty.--I will strictly obey all your

majesty's commands, and to do so gives me no trouble. I entreat your

majesty to believe that I never have written any thing against any

government--least of all against that under which I was born, and

which I only left because I wished to close my life at the feet of

your majesty. I am historian of France. In the discharge of this

duty, I have written the history of Louis the Fourteenth, and the

campaigns of Louis the Fifteenth. My voice and my pen were ever

consecrated to my fatherland, as they are now subject to your

command. I entreat you to look into my literary contest with

Maupertius, and to believe that I give it up cheerfully to please

you, sire; and because I will in all things submit to your will. I

will also be obedient to your majesty in this. I will enter into no

literary contest, and I beg you, sire, to believe that, in the hour

of death, I will feel the same reverence and attachment for you

which filled my heart the day I first appeared at your court.

VOLTAIRE."

The king took the paper, and read it over, then fixed his eyes

steadily upon Voltaire's lowering face. "It is well! I thank you,"

said Frederick, nodding a friendly dismissal to Voltaire. He left

the room, and the king looked after him long and thoughtfully.

"I do not trust him; he was too ready to burn the manuscript. And

yet, he gave me his word of honor."

Voltaire returned to his room, and, now alone and unobserved, a

malicious, demoniac exultation was written on his face. "I judged

rightly," said he, with a grimace; "the king wished to sacrifice me

to Maupertius. I think this was a master-stroke. I have truly burned

the original manuscript, but a copy of it was sent to Leyden eight

days since. While the king thinks I am such a good-humored fool as

to yield the contest to the proud beggar Maupertius, my 'Akakia'

will be published in Leyden. Soon it will resound through the world,

and show how genius binds puffed-up folly, which calls itself

geniality, to the pillory."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE LAST STRUGGLE.

It was Christmas eve! The streets were white with snow; crowds of

people were rushing through the castle square, seeking for

Christmas-trees, and little presents for their children. There were,

however, fewer purchasers than usual. The small traders stood idle

at the doors of the booths, and looked discontentedly at the swarms

of laughing men, who passed by them, and rushed onward to the Gens

d'Armen Market.

A rare spectacle, exhibited for the first time during the reign of

Frederick, was to be seen at the market to-day. A funeral pyre was

erected, and the executioner stood near in his red livery. What!--

shall the holy evening be solemnized by an execution? Was it for

this that thousands of curious men were rushing onward to the

scaffold? that groups of elegant ladies and cavaliers were crowded

to the open windows?

Yes, there was to be an execution--a bloodless one, which would

occasion no bodily suffering to the delinquent. The eyes of this

great mass of people were not directed to the scaffold, but to the

window of a large house on Tauben Street.

At this open window stood a pale old man, with hollow cheeks and

bent, infirm form; but you saw by the proud bearing of his head, and

his ironical, contemptuous smile, that his spirit was unconquered.

His whole face glowed with flaming scorn; and his great, fiery eyes

flashed amongst the crowd, greeting here and there an acquaintance.

This man was Voltaire--Voltaire, who had come to witness the

execution of his "Akakia," which had been published in Leyden, and

scattered abroad throughout Berlin. Voltaire had broken his written

and verbal promise, his word of honor; and the king, exasperated to

the utmost by this dishonorable conduct, had determined to punish

him openly. And now, amidst the breathless silence of the crowd, a

functionary of the king read the sentence--that sentence which

condemned the "Akakia," that malicious and slanderous publication

holding up the noble, virtuous, and renowned scholar Maupertius to

the general mockery of Paris.

Voltaire stood calm and smiling at the open window. He saw the

executioner throw great piles of his "Akakia" into the fire. He saw

the mad flames whirling up into the heavens, and his countenance was

clear, and his eyes did not lose their lustre. Higher and higher

flashed the flames! broader and blacker the pillars of smoke! but

Voltaire smiled peacefully. Conversation and laughter were silenced

--the crowd looked on breathlessly.

Suddenly a loud and derisive laugh was heard, and a powerful voice

cried out: "Look at the spirit of Maupertius, which is dissolving

into smoke! Oh, the thick, black smoke! How much wood consumed in

vain! The 'Akakia' is immortal--you burn him here, but he still

lives, and the whole world will know and appreciate him. That which

is born for immortality can never be burned." [Footnote: Thiebault,

p. 265.]

So said Voltaire, as he dashed the window down, and stepped back in

the room.

"Farewell, Herr von Francheville," said he, quietly. "I thank you

for having allowed me to be present at my execution. You see I have

borne it well; all do not die who are burnt. Farewell, I must go to

the castle. I have important business there."

With youthful agility he entered his carriage. The people, who

recognized him, shouted after him joyfully. He passed through the

crowd with an air of triumph, and they greeted him with kindly

interest.

The smile disappeared from his face when he entered his room at the

castle, and the scorn and tumult of his heart were plainly written

on his countenance. He seized his portfolio, and drew from it the

pension patent signed by the king; tore from his neck the blue

ribbon, with the great badge surrounded with brilliants, and cut the

little key from his court dress, which his valet had laid out ready

for his toilet. Of these things he made a little packet, which he

sealed up, and wrote upon it these lines:

"Je les requs avec tendresse,

Je vous les rends avec douleur;

C'est ainsi qu'un amant, dans sou extreme fureur,

Rend le portrait de sa maitresse."

He called his servant, and commanded him to take this packet to the

king.

Voltaire did not hesitate a moment. He felt not the least regret for

the great pension which he was relinquishing. He felt that there was

no other course open to him; that his honor and his pride demanded

it. At this moment, his expression was noble. He was the proud,

independent, free man. The might of genius reigned supreme, and

subdued the calculating and the pitiful for a brief space. This

exalted moment soon passed away, and the cunning, miserly,

calculating old man again asserted his rights. Voltaire remembered

that he had not only given up orders and titles, but gold, and

measureless anguish and raging pain took possession of him. He

hastened to his writing-desk, and with a trembling hand he wrote a

pleading letter to the king, in which he begged for pardon and

grace--for pity in his unhappy circumstances and his great sorrow.

The king was merciful. He took pity on the old friendship which lay

in ruins at his feet. He felt for it that sort of reverence which a

man entertains for the grave of a lost friend. He returned the

"bagatelles" with a few friendly lines to Voltaire, and invited him

to accompany him to Potsdam. Voltaire accepted the invitation, and

the journals announced that the celebrated French writer had again

received his orders, titles, and pension, and gone to Potsdam with

the king.

But this seeming peace was of short duration. Friendship was dead,

and anger and bitterness had taken the place of consideration and

love. Voltaire felt the impossibility of remaining longer. Impelled

by the cold glance, the ironical and contemptuous laughter of the

king, he begged at last for his dismissal, which the king did not

refuse him.

One day, when Frederick was upon the parade-ground, surrounded by

his generals, he was told that Voltaire asked permission to be

allowed to take leave.

The king turned quietly towards him. "Ah, Monsieur Voltaire, you are

resolved, then, to leave us?"

"Sire, indispensable business and my state of health compel me to do

so," said Voltaire.

The king bowed slightly. "Monsieur, I wish you a happy journey."

[Footnote: Thiebault, p. 271.] Then turning to the old Field-Marshal

Ziethen, he recommenced his conversation with him. Voltaire made a

profound bow, and entered the post-chaise which was waiting for him.

So they parted, and their friendship was in ashes; and no after-

protestations could bring it to life. The great king and the great

poet parted, never to meet again.

THE END