Faint and exhausted, the king had withdrawn to his room; he was alone.
To-day was the twenty-fourth of January, Frederick’s birthday, and,
although he had forbidden all congratulations, he could not avoid
receiving the highest tribunals of Breslau, and also a few deputations
of the citizens of this reconquered city. These visits wearied the king;
he was grave and out of spirits. Once more alone, he could indulge in
the sad memories that came over him involuntarily and forcibly. For
here in Breslau he had lately experienced a bitter disappointment; every
thing in the castle reminded him of the treacherous friend whom he bad
loved so dearly, and who had so shamefully betrayed him.
The king was now thinking of the Bishop von Schaffgotsch. An expression
of painful gloom clouded his face, he felt solitary and deserted; the
cold, silent room chilled his heart, and the snow blown against the
window by the howling winds, oppressed him strangely. He was more
dejected and anxious than he had ever felt before a battle.
“The marquis cannot travel in such weather,” he said, sighing, “and my
musicians will be careful not to trust themselves upon the highway; they
will imagine the snow has blocked up the way, and that it is impossible
to come through. They will remain in Berlin, caring but little that I am
counting the weary hours until they arrive. Yes, yes, this is an example
of the almighty power of a king; a few snow-flakes are sufficient to set
his commands aside, and the king remains but an impotent child of the
dust. Of what avail is it that I have conquered the Austrians and the
French? I have sown dragons’ teeth from which new enemies will arise,
new battles, perhaps new defeats. What have I gained by consecrating my
heart to my friends? They are but serpents--I have nourished them in my
breast, and they will sting when I least suspect them. Even those whom I
still trust, forsake me now when I most need them!”
The wild storm increased, and blew a cloud of snow-flakes against the
window, and the wind whistled mournfully in the chimney.
“No,” murmured the king, “D’Argens will certainly not come; he will
remain quietly in his beloved bed, and from there write me a touching
epistle concerning the bonds of friendship. I know that when feeling
does not flow from the hearts of men, it flows eloquently from ink as
a pitiful compensation. But,” he continued after a pause, “this is all
folly! Solitude makes a dreamer of me--I am sighing for my friends as a
lover sighs for his sweetheart! Am I then so entirely alone? Have I not
my books? Come, Lucretius, thou friend in good and evil days; thou sage,
thou who hast never left me without counsel and consolation! Come and
cheer thy pupil--teach him how to laugh at this pitiful world as it
deserves!”
Taking Lucretius from the table, and stretching himself upon the sofa,
he commenced reading. Deep stillness surrounded him. Bells were ringing
in the distance in honor of the royal birthday. The Breslauers, who
had so shortly before joyfully welcomed the conquering Austrians, now
desired to convince the King of Prussia that they were his zealous
subjects. The evening of the kingly birthday they wished to show the joy
of their hearts by a brilliant illumination.
The king still read, and became so absorbed that he did not hear the
door gently opened. The tall, slender form of the Marquis d’Argens
appeared at the threshold. Overcome with joyful emotions, he remained
standing, and gazing with clouded eyes at the king. Composing himself,
he closed the door softly behind him and advanced.
“Sire, will you forgive me for entering unannounced?”
The king sprang from his seat and held out both his hands. “Welcome,
welcome! I thank you for coming.”
The marquis could not reply; he pressed his lips silently upon the
king’s hands. “My God,” he said, in a trembling voice, “how my heart has
longed for this happy moment--how many offerings I have vowed to Heaven
if allowed to see the king once more.”
“You did not win Heaven by promises alone, friend, but you have offered
up a victim. You have left that precious bed which you have occupied for
the past eight months--you have gained a victory over yourself which is
of more value than many victories.”
“Ah, your majesty,” cried the marquis, whose black eyes were again
sparkling with mirth, “I now feel that my poor heart spoke the truth
when it declared that you were ever by its side. We have really not been
separated, and your majesty begins with me to-day where you left off but
yesterday. You laugh now as then at me, and my poor bed, which has heard
for more than a year past only my sighs and prayers for your majesty’s
success. It was not difficult for me to leave it and to obey the summons
of my king. If you think this conquest over myself worth more than a
victory over our enemies, how lightly the hero of Rosbach and Leuthen
regards victories!”
“Not so, marquis; but you know what the renowned King of the Hebrews
said--that wise king who rejoiced in a thousand wives: ‘He who conquers
himself is greater than he who taketh a city.’ You, marquis, are this
rare self-conqueror, and you shall be rewarded right royally. I have
had rooms prepared as warm and comfortable as the marquise herself could
have arranged for you. The windows are stuffed with cotton, furs are
lying before the stove, cap and foot-muff, so your faithful La Pierre
may wrap and bundle you up to your heart’s content. Not a breath of air
shall annoy you, and all your necessities shall be provided for with as
much reverence as if you were the holy fire in the temple of Vesta, and
I the priestess that guards it.”
The marquis laughed heartily. “Should the fire ever burn low and the
flame pale, I beg my exalted priestess to cast her burning glance upon
me, and thus renew my heat. Sire, allow me, before all other things, to
offer my congratulations. May Heaven bless this day which rose like a
star of hope upon all who love the great, the beautiful, the exalted,
and the--”
“Enough, enough,” cried Frederick; “if you begin in this way, I shall
fly from you; I shall believe you are one of those stupid deputations
with which etiquette greets the king. In this room, friend, there is no
king, and when we are here alone we are two simple friends, taking each
other warmly by the hand and congratulating ourselves upon having lived
through another weary year, and having the courage bravely to meet
the years that remain. Should you still desire to add a wish to this,
marquis, pray that the war fever which has seized all Europe, may
disappear--that the triumvirate of France, Russia, and Austria, may be
vanquished--that the tyrants of this universe may not succeed in binding
the whole world in the chains they have prepared for it.”
“Your majesty will know how to obtain this result--to break this
chain--and if they will not yield willingly, the hero of Rossbach and
Leuthen will know how to crush them in his just rage.”
“God grant it!” sighed the king; “I long for peace, although my enemies
say I am the evil genius that brings discord and strife into the world.
They say that if Frederick of Prussia did not exist, the entire
world would be a paradise of peace and love. I could say to them, as
Demosthenes said to the Athenians: ‘If Philip were dead, what would it
signify? You would soon make another Philip.’ I say to the Austrians:
‘Your ambition, your desire for universal reign, would soon rouse other
enemies. The liberties of Germany, and indeed of all Europe, will always
find defenders.’ We will speak no more of these sad themes; they belong
to the past and the future. Let us try to forget, friend, that we are
in winter quarters at Breslau, and imagine ourselves to be at our dear
Sans-Souci.”
“In our beautiful convent,” said the marquis, “whose abbot has so long
been absent, and whose monks are scattered to the four winds.”
“It is true,” sighed the king, gloomily, “widely scattered; and when the
abbot returns to Sans-Souci, every thing will be changed and lonely. Oh,
marquis, how much I have lost since we parted!”
“How much you have gained, sire! how many new laurels crown your heroic
brow!”
“You speak of my victories,” said the king, shaking his head; “but
believe me, my heart has suffered defeats from which it will never
recover. I am not speaking of the death of my mother--although that is
a wound that will never heal; that came from the hand of Providence;
against its decrees no man dare murmur. I speak of more bitter, more
cruel defeats, occasioned by the ingratitude and baseness of men.”
“Your majesty still thinks of the unworthy Abbot of Prades,” said
D’Argens, sadly.
“No, marquis; that hurt, I confess. I liked him, but I never loved
him--he was not my friend, his treachery grieved but did not surprise
me. I knew he was weak. He sold me! Finding himself in my camp, he made
use of his opportunity and betrayed to the enemy all that came to his
knowledge. He had a small soul, and upon such men you cannot count. But
from another source I received a great wrong--this lies like iron upon
my heart, and hardens it. I loved Bishop Schaffgotsch, marquis; I called
him friend; I gave him proof of my friendship. I had a right to depend
on his faithfulness, and believe in a friendship he had so often
confirmed by oaths. My love, at least was unselfish, and deserved not
to be betrayed. But he was false in the hour of danger, like Peter who
betrayed his Master. The Austrians had scarcely entered Breslau, when he
not only denied me, but went further--he trampled upon the orders of my
house, and held a Te Deum in the dome in honor of the Austrian victory
at Collin.” The king ceased and turned away, that the marquis might not
see the tears that clouded his eyes.
“Sire,” cried the marquis, deeply moved, “forget the ingratitude of
these weak souls, who were unworthy of a hero’s friendship.”
“I will; but enough of this. You are here, and I still believe in you,
marquis. You and the good Lord Marshal are the only friends left me to
lean upon when the baseness of men makes my heart fail.”
“These friends will never fail you, sire,” said the marquis, deeply
moved; “your virtues and your love made them strong.”
The king took his hand affectionately. “Let us forget the past,” said
he, gayly; “and as we both, in our weak hours, consider ourselves poets,
let us dream that we are in my library in our beloved Sans-Souci. We
will devote this holy time of peace to our studies, for that is, without
doubt, the best use we can make of it. You shall see a flood of verses
with which I amused myself in camp, and some epigrams written against my
enemies.”
“But if we were even now in Sans-Souci, sire, I do not think you would
give this hour to books. I dare assert you would be practising with
Quantz, and preparing for the evening concerts.”
“Yes, yes; but here we are denied that happiness,” said the king, sadly.
“I have written for a part of my band, and they will be here I hope in
eight days; but Graun and Quantz will certainly not--“The king paused
and listened attentively. It seemed to him as if he heard the sound of a
violin in the adjoining room, accompanied by the light tones of a flute.
Yes, it was indeed so; some one was tuning a violin and the soft sound
of the flute mingled with the violoncello. A flush of rosy joy lighted
the king’s face--he cast a questioning glance upon the marquis, who
nodded smilingly. With a joyful cry the king crossed the room--an
expression of glad surprise burst from his lips.
There they were, the loved companions of his evening concerts. There was
Graun, with his soft, dreamy, artistic face; there was Quantz, with his
silent, discontented look--whose grumbling, even Frederick was compelled
to respect; there was the young Fasch, whom the king had just engaged,
and who played the violoncello in the evening concerts.
As the king advanced to meet them, they greeted him loudly. “Long
live our king!--our great Frederick!” Even Quantz forgot himself for a
moment, and laughed good-humoredly.
“Listen, sire; it will be a mortal sin if you scold us for coming to you
without being summoned by your majesty. This is through--out all
Prussia a festal day, and no one should desecrate it by scolding or
fault-finding--not even the king.”
“Oh, I am not disposed to scold,” said Frederick, in low tones; he did
not wish them to hear how his voice trembled--“I do not scold--I thank
you heartily.”
“We had nothing better to send your majesty on your birthday than our
unworthy selves,” said Graun; “we come, therefore, to lay ourselves at
our king’s feet, and say to him: ‘Accept our hearts, and do not spurn
the gift.’ A warm, human heart is the richest gift one man can offer
another. Your majesty is a great king, and a good and great man, and we
dare approach you, therefore, as man to man.”
“And my Graun is so renowned a composer, that any man must count it an
honor to be beloved by him,” said Frederick, tenderly.
“For myself,” said Quantz, gravely, handing the king a small roll
carefully wrapped up, “I have brought something more than my naked
heart in honor of my king’s birthday. I pray your majesty to accept it
graciously.” [Footnote: Pocus, “Frederick the Great and his Friends.”]
The king opened it hastily. “A flute!” cried he, joyfully, “and a flute
made for me by the great master Quantz, I am sure.”
“Yes, your majesty; all the time you were in the field, I have worked
upon it. As the courier brought the news of the battle of Leuthen, all
Berlin shouted for joy, and the banners floated in every street and at
every window. Then this flute broke its silence for the first time--its
first music was a hosanna to our great king.”
“From this time forth,” said Frederick, “let no man dare to say that
battles are in vain. The bloody field of Leuthen produced a flute from
Quantz; and by Heaven, that is a greater rarity than the most complete
victory in these warlike days!”
“Sire,” said the marquis, drawing some letters from his pocket, “I have
also some gifts to offer. This is a letter from Algarotti, and a
small box of Italian snuff, which he begs to add as an evidence of his
rejoicing in your victories. [Footnote: Ibid.] Here is a letter from
Voltaire, and one from Lord Marshal.”
“From all my distant friends--they have all thought of me,” said
Frederick, as he took the letters.
“But I have no time to read letters now; we will have music, and if
agreeable to you, messieurs, we will practise a quartet which I composed
during my solitude these last few days.”
“Let us try it,” said Quantz, carelessly opening the piano.
Frederick went to his room to seek his note-book, and place his letters
upon the table, but, before he returned, he called the marquis to him.
“D’Argens,” said he, “may I not thank you for this agreeable surprise?”
“Yes, sire, I proposed it, and took the responsibility upon myself. If
your majesty is displeased, I am the only culprit!”
“And why have you made yourself the postilion, and brought me all these
letters, marquis?”
“Sire, because--”
“I will tell you, marquis,” said Frederick, with a loving glance, and
laying his hand upon D’Argens’ shoulder; “you did this, because you knew
my poor heart had received a deep wound, and you wished to heal it. You
wished to surround me with many friends, and make me forget the one
who fails, and who betrayed me. I thank you, marquis! Yours is a great
heart, and I believe your balsam has magic in it. I thank you for this
hour, it has done me good; and though the world may succeed in poisoning
my heart, I will never--never distrust you; I will never forget this
hour!”
“And now, messieurs,” said Frederick, as he returned to the musicians,
“we will take our parts, and you, Quantz, take your place at the piano.”
The concert began. Frederick stood behind the piano, at which Quantz
sat; Graun and Fasch had withdrawn to the window, in order to enjoy the
music, as Frederick was first to play a solo on his flute, with a simple
piano accompaniment.
The king played artistically, and with a rare enthusiasm. The marquis
was in ecstasy, and Graun uttered a few low bravos. Suddenly, all the
musicians shuddered, and Quantz was heard to mutter angrily. The king
had committed a great fault in his composition--a fault against the
severest rules of art. He played on, however, quietly, and said, when he
had completed the page--“Da capo!” and recommenced. Again came the false
notes, frightful to the ears of musicians. And now Graun and Fasch could
not keep time. The king held his breath.
“Go on, Quantz,” said he, zealously, placing the flute again to his
lips.
Quantz cast a sullen look at him.
“As your majesty pleases,” said he, and he played so fiercely that Graun
and Fasch shivered, and Quantz himself whistled to drown the discord.
The unlearned marquis looked in blessed ignorance upon his royal friend,
and the beautiful music brought tears to his eyes. When the piece was
ended, the king said to Quantz:
“Do you find this text false?”
“Yes, your majesty, it is false!”
“And you two also believe it false?”
“Yes, your majesty, it is false!” said Graun and Fasch.
“But, if the composer will have it so?”
“It is still false!” said Quantz, sullenly.
“But if it pleases me, and I think it melodious?”
“Your majesty can never find it so,” said Quantz, angrily. “The notes
are false, and what is false can never please your majesty.”
“Well, well!” said the king, good-humoredly; “don’t be quite so angry!
it is, after all, not a lost battle! [Footnote: The king’s own words.]
If this passage is impossible, we will strike it out.”
“If your majesty does that, it will be a beautiful composition, and I
would be proud myself to have composed it.”
The king smiled, well pleased. It was evident that this praise of his
proud and stern master was most acceptable to the hero of Leuthen and
Rossbach.