A few hours later a courier rode into the camp. He came from Bautzen,
and had a letter from the Prince of Prussia to his royal brother. The
king was still in his tent, busily engaged in looking over the army
list. He took his brother’s letter, and, opening it with evident anger,
read:
“Your majesty’s commands, and the incidents of our last meeting, have
taught me that I have lost my honor and my reputation. As I have nothing
to reproach myself with, this causes me much sorrow, but no humiliation.
I am convinced that I was not actuated by obstinacy, and that I did not
follow the advice of incompetent men. All the generals in the third army
corps commanded by me, will testify to this. I consider it necessary to
request your majesty to have my conduct investigated. Your majesty would
thereby do me a kindness. I have, therefore, no right to count upon it.
My health is much impaired since the war. I have withdrawn to Bautzen
for its restoration, and have requested the Duke of Bevern to give you
all the information relative to the army. In spite of my unhappiness,
my daily prayer is, and shall be, that every undertaking of your majesty
shall be crowned with glory.”
“Your unhappy brother, AUGUSTUS WILLIAM.”
The king read this letter several times; then taking up his pen, he
wrote hastily: “MY DEAR BROTHER: Your improper conduct has greatly
disturbed my equanimity. Not my enemies, but your want of principle, has
caused all these disasters. My generals are not to be excused. They have
either given you bad advice, or have agreed too readily to your foolish
plans. The one is as bad as the other. Your ears are accustomed to
flattery, my brother. Daun did not flatter you, and you now see the
consequences. But little hope remains. I shall commence the attack--if
we do not conquer, we shall die together. I do not bewail the loss of
your heart, but rather your utter incapacity and want of judgment. I
tell you this plainly, for with one who has perhaps but a few days to
live, there is no use of deception. I wish you more happiness than has
fallen to my lot, and hope that your misfortunes and disappointments
may teach you to act with more wisdom and judgment where matters of
importance are concerned. Many of the painful events I now look forward
to, I ascribe to you. You and your children will suffer from their
results much more than myself. Be assured that I have always loved you,
and will continue to do so until my death. Your brother, FREDERICK.”
When the king had finished his letter, he read it over. “I cannot
take back one word I have said,” murmured he, softly. “Were he not my
brother, he should be court-martialled. But history shall not have to
relate more than one such occurrence of a Hohenzollern. Enough family
dramas and tragedies have occurred in my reign to furnish scandalous
material for future generations; I will not add to them. My brother can
withdraw quietly from these scenes--he can pray while we fight--he can
cultivate the peaceful arts while we are upon the battle-field, offering
up bloody sacrifices to Mars. Perhaps we will succeed in gaining an
honorable peace for Prussia, and then Augustus William may be a better
king than I have been. Prussia still clings to me--she needs me.”
He sealed the letter, then calling his valet, ordered him to send it off
immediately. As he disappeared, the king’s countenance became once more
clouded and disturbed. “Life makes a man very poor,” said he, softly;
“the longer he lives, the more solitary he becomes. How rich I was
when I began life--how rich when I mounted the throne! Possessing many
friends, sisters, brothers, and many charming illusions. The world
belonged to me then, with all its joy, all its glory. And now? Where are
these friends? Lost to me, either by death or inconstancy! Where are
my brothers, sisters? Their hearts have turned from me--their love has
grown cold! Where are my joyous illusions? Scattered to the winds! Alas,
I am now undeceived, and if the whole world seemed at one time to belong
to me, that little spot of earth, paid for with blood and anguish, is
no longer mine. Every illusion but one has been torn from my heart--the
thirst for glory still remains. I have bid adieu to love, to happiness,
but I still believe in fame, and must at least have one laurel-wreath
upon my coffin. May death then strike me at his will--the sooner the
better, before my heart has become perfectly hardened! And I feel that
time is not far distant.”
The curtain of his tent was at this moment drawn back, and his
secretary, Le Catt, whose acquaintance he had made during his visit to
Amsterdam, entered with several letters in his hand. The king advanced
eagerly to meet him.
“Well, Le Catt,” said he, “has the courier come from Berlin?”
“Yes, sire, he has come,” said Le Catt, sighing, “but I fear he brings
no good news.”
“No good news? Has the enemy forced his way so far?”
“An enemy has, sire; but not the one your majesty is thinking of!”
“How know you what enemy I mean?” said the king, impatiently. “Is it the
Russians, or the French?”
“None of your mortal enemies, sire; and the mourning which now reigns in
Berlin and will soon reign throughout Prussia, is caused by no enemy of
your majesty but by Providence.”
The king looked at him earnestly for a moment. “I understand,” said he.
“Some one of my family has died; is it not so?”
“Yes, sire; your--”
“Be still!” said the king, sternly. “I do not yet wish to know--I have
not the strength to bear it--wait a while.”
Folding his hands upon his breast, he paced up and down his tent several
times, laboring hard for breath. He stood still, and leaning against the
window, said: “Now, Le Catt, I can endure any thing; speak--who is it?”
“Sire, it is her majesty.”
“My wife?” interrupted the king.
“No, sire; her majesty--”
“My mother!” cried the king, in a heart-broken voice. “My mother!”
He stood thus for a while, with his hands before his face, his form
bowed down and trembling like an oak swayed by a storm. Tears escaped
through his hands and fell slowly to the ground--groans of agony were
wrung from him.
Le Catt could stand it no longer; he approached the king and ventured to
say a few consoling words.
“Do not seek to comfort me,” said the king; “you do not know what
inexpressible pain this loss has caused me.”
“Yes, sire, I well know,” said Le Catt, “for the queen-mother was
the noblest, most gracious princess that ever lived. I can therefore
understand your sorrow.”
“No, you cannot,” said the king, raising his pale, tearful countenance.
“You carry your sorrow upon your lips--I upon my heart. The queen was
the best of women, and my whole land may well mourn for her. It will not
be forced grief, for every one who had the happiness to approach loved
and admired her for her many virtues--for her great kindness. And I
feel, I know, that sorrow for the ruin of Prussia has caused her death.
She was too noble a princess, too tender a mother, to outlive Prussia’s
destruction and her son’s misfortune.”
“But your majesty knows that the queen was suffering from an incurable
disease.”
“It is true I know it,” said the king, sinking slowly upon his
camp-stool. “I feared that I might never see her again, and still this
news comes totally unexpected.”
“Your majesty will overcome this great grief as a philosopher, a hero.”
“Ah, my friend,” said the king, sadly, “philosophy is a solace in past
and future sufferings, but is utterly powerless for present grief; I
feel my heart and strength fail. For the last two years I have resembled
a tottering wall. Family misfortune, secret pain, public sorrow,
continual disappointment, these have been my nourishment. What is
there wanting to make of me another Job? If I wish to survive these
distressing circumstances, I must become a stoic. For I cannot bring the
philosophy of Epicurus to bear upon my great sorrows. And still,” added
the king, the dejected look disappearing from his countenance, and
giving place to one of energy and determination, “still, I will not be
overcome. Were all the elements to combine against me, I will not fall
beneath them.”
“Ah!” cried Le Catt, “once more is my king the hero, who will not only
overcome his grief, but also his enemies.”
“God grant that you are a true prophet!” cried the king, earnestly.
“This is a great era; the next few months will be decisive for Prussia:
I will restore her or die beneath her ruins!”
“You will restore!” cried Le Catt, with enthusiasm.
“And when I have made Prussia great,” said the king, relapsing into his
former gloom, “my mother will not be here to rejoice with me. Each
one of my home--returning soldiers will have some one--a mother, a
sweetheart--to meet them with tears of joy, to greet them tenderly. I
shall be alone.”
“Your people will advance, gladly, to meet you; they will greet you with
tears of joy.”
“Ah, yes,” cried the king, with a bitter smile, “they will advance to
meet me joyfully; but, were I to die the same day, they would cry: ‘Le
roi est mort--vive le roi!’ and would greet my successor with equal
delight. There is nothing personal in the love of a people to its
sovereign; they love not in me the man, but the king. But my mother
loved not the king the warrior; she loved her son with her whole heart,
and God knows he had but that one heart to trust in. Leave me, Le Catt.
Seek not to console me. Soon the king will gain the mastery. Now I am
but the son, who wishes to be alone with the mother. Go.” Fearing he had
wounded Le Catt, he pressed his hand tenderly.
Le Catt raised it to his lips and covered it with kisses and tears. The
king withdrew it gently, and signed to him to leave the room.
Now he was alone--alone with his pain, with his grief--alone with his
mother. And, truly, during this hour he was but the loving son; his
every thought was of his mother; he conversed with her, he wept over
her; but, as his sorrow became more subdued, he took his flute from the
table, the one constant companion of his life. As the soft, sweet tones
were wafted through the tent, he seemed to hear his mother whispering
words of love to him, to feel her hallowed kiss upon his brow. And now
he was king once more. As he heard without the sound of trumpets, the
beating of drums, the loud shouts and hurrahs of his soldiers, a new
fire burned in his eyes, he laid his flute aside, and listened for
a time to the joyous shouts; then raising his right hand, he said:
“Farewell, mother; you died out of despair for my defeat at Collin, but
I swear to you I will revenge your death and my defeat tenfold upon my
enemies when I stand before them again in battle array. Hear me, spirit
of my mother, and give to your son your blessing!”