“Well, so be it,” said Gellert, smiling, “I will go to the king to-day,

but I must first eat something; if I went fasting to the king I might

faint, and that would disgrace you forever, Conrad.”

“I will run and bring the coffee,” said the delighted old servant.

CHAPTER XIII. THE POET AND THE KING.

Gelbert had scarcely finished his frugal meal, and arranged his toilet

a little, when Major Quintus arrived and asked the poet if he were still

too unwell to accompany him to the king.

“I am still indisposed,” said Gellert, with a sad smile, “but my

indisposition is of a kind that leaves me neither to day, to-morrow nor

any day; it is therefore better for me to gratify the king’s commands at

once. I am ready to accompany you, sir; let us depart.”

He took his three-cornered hat, which Conrad handed him with a

delightful smirk, and followed the major to the splendid house where the

king had taken his quarters for the winter.

“Allow me a favor, sir,” said Quintus, as they mounted the steps; “the

king is prejudiced against German poets and philosophers, and it would

be of the greatest advantage to the literary and political world of

Germany for these prejudices to disappear, and for the great Frederick

to give to Germany the sympathy and encouragement which until now he has

lavished upon the French and Italians. Think of this, sir, and endeavor

to win the king by your obliging and pleasing manner.”

“Oh, major!” sighed Gellert, “I do not understand the art of pleasing

the great ones of this world. I cannot utter words of praise and

flattery; my heart and manners are simple and not showy.”

“Exactly, this is beautiful and attractive,” said the major, smiling:

“the king cannot endure pretension or conceited wisdom. Be simply

yourself; imagine that you are in your own study, conversing frankly and

freely with a highly-honored friend, to whom politeness and attention

are due.”

The king, with his flute in hand, was walking up and down the room, when

the door opened, and Major Quintus entered with Gellert.

Frederick immediately laid his flute aside, and advanced to meet

the poet with a gracious smile. Gellert’s gentle and intellectual

countenance was composed, and his eyes were not cast down or confused by

the piercing glance of the king.

“Is this Professor Gellert?” said the king, with a slight salutation.

“Yes, your majesty,” said Gellert, bowing profoundly.

“The English ambassador has spoken well of you,” said the king; “he has

read many of your works.”

“That proves him to be a thoughtful and benevolent gentleman, who hopes

something from German writers,” said Gellert, significantly.

Frederick smiled, and perhaps to excite him still more, said quickly:

“Tell me, how does it happen, Gellert, that we have so few celebrated

writers?”

“Your majesty sees before you now a German poet whom even the French

have translated, and who call him the German La Fontaine.”

“That is great praise, great praise,” said the king, whose large eyes

fastened themselves more attentively upon Gellert’s modest, expressive

face. “You are then called the German La Fontaine? Have you ever read La

Fontaine?”

“Yes, sire, but I did not imitate him,” said Gellert, ingenuously, “I am

an original.”

The king nodded gayly; Gellert’s quick frankness pleased him.

“Good,” he said, “you are an excellent poet; but why do you stand

alone?”

Gellert shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“Your majesty is prejudiced against the Germans.”

“No, I cannot admit that,” said the king, quickly.

“At least against German writers,” replied Gellert.

“Yes, that is true; I cannot deny that. Why have we no good writers in

Germany?”

“We have them, sire,” said Gellert, with noble pride. “We boast a

Maskow, a Kramer--who has set Bossuet aside.”

“How!” cried the king, astonished; “Bossuet? Ah, sir, how is it possible

for a German to set Bossuet aside?”

“Kramer has done so, and with great success,” said Gellert, smiling.

“One of your majesty’s most learned professors has said that Kramer has

the eloquence of Bossuet, and more profound historical accuracy.”

The king appeared really astonished, and walked several times

thoughtfully up and down his room.

“Was my learned professor capable of deciding that question?”

“The world believes so, sire.”

“Why does no one translate Tacitus?”

“Tacitus is difficult,” said Gellert, smiling; “there are some bad

French translations of this author.”

“You are right,” said the king.

“Altogether,” continued Gellert, “there are a variety of reasons why the

Germans have not become distinguished in letters. When art and science

bloomed in Greece, the Romans were becoming renowned in war. Perhaps the

Germans have sought their fame on the battle-field; perhaps they had

no Augustus or Louis XIV. who favored and encouraged the historians and

poets of Germany.”

This was a daring and broad allusion, but Frederick received it

smilingly.

“You have had an Augustus, perhaps two, in Saxony,” he said.

“And we have made a good commencement in Saxony. We should have an

Augustus for all of Germany.”

“What!” cried the king, quickly, and with sparkling eyes, “you desire an

Augustus for Germany?”

“Not exactly,” said Gellert, “but I wish that every German sovereign

would encourage genius and letters in his country. Genius needs

encouragement; and when it does not find it in its own land, and from

its native princes, it cannot retain the great and joyous power of

creation.”

The king did not answer, but walked thoughtfully up and down; from time

to time he glanced quickly and searchingly at Gellert, who was standing

opposite to him.

“Have you ever been out of Saxony?” said the king, at last.

“Yes, sire, I was once in Berlin.”

“You should go again,” said the king--then added, as if he regretted

having shown the German poet so much sympathy, “at all events, you

should travel.”

“To do so, your majesty, I require health and money.”

“Are you sick?” asked the king, in a gentle, sympathizing voice. “What

is your malady? Perhaps too much learning.”

Gellert smiled. “As your majesty thinks so, it may bear that

interpretation. In my mouth it would have sounded too bold.”

“I have had this malady myself,” said the king, laughing; “I will cure

you. You must take exercise--ride out every day.”

“Ah, sire, this cure might easily produce a new disease for me,” said

Gellert, terrified; “if the horse should be healthier than I, I could

not ride it, and if it were as weak as myself, we would not be able to

stir from the spot.”

“Then you must drive,” said the king, laughing.

“I have not the money, sire.”

“That is true,” said the king. “All German writers need money, and we

have fallen upon evil times.”

“Yes, truly, sire, evil times; but it lies in your majesty’s hands to

change all this, if you would give peace to Germany.”

“How can I?” cried the king, violently. “Have you not heard that there

are three against me?”

“I care more for ancient than modern history,” said Gellert, who did not

desire to follow the king upon the slippery field of politics.

“You, then, are accurately acquainted with the ancients?” said the

king. “Which, then, do you think the greatest and most renowned of that

epoch--Homer or Virgil?”

“Homer, I think, merits the preference, because he is original.”

“But Virgil is more polished and refined.”

Gellert shook his head violently. Now that the old writers were being

discussed, the German sage overcame his timidity.

“We are entirely too widely separated from Virgil to be able to judge

of his language and style. I trust to Quintilian, who gives Homer the

preference.”

“But we must not be slaves to the judgment of the ancients,” said the

king, aroused.

“I am not, sire; I only adopt their views when distance prevents my

judging for myself.”

“You are certainly right in this,” said the king, kindly. “Altogether

you appear to be a wise and reasonable man. I understand that you have

greatly improved the German language.”

“Ah, yes, sire, but unfortunately it has been in vain.”

“Why is this?” said the king. “You all wish me to interest myself in

German, but it is such a barbarous language, that I often have quires

of writing sent me, of which I do not understand a word. Why is it not

otherwise?”

“If your majesty cannot reform this, I certainly cannot,” said Gellert,

smiling; “I can only advise, but you can command.”

“But your poems are not written in this stiff, pompous German. Do you

not know one of your fables by heart?”

“I doubt it, sire, my memory is very treacherous.”

“Well, try and think of one. In the mean while I will walk backward and

forward a little. Well, have you thought of one?”

“Yes, your majesty,” said Gellert, after a brief silence, “I believe I

remember one.”

“Let us hear it,” said the king; and, seating himself upon the fauteuil,

he gazed fixedly at Gellert, who, standing in the middle of the room,

his clear glance turned toward the king, now began his recitation.

“THE PAINTER.”

“A painter, Athens his abode,

Who painted less for love of gain

Than crowns of laurel to obtain,

Mars’ portrait to a connoisseur once showed,

And his opinion of it sought.

The judge spoke freely what he thought,

Twas wholly not unto his taste, he said,

And that, to please a practised eye,

Far less of art should be displayed.

The painter failed not to reply,

And though the critic blamed with skill,

Was of the same opinion still.”

“Then in the room a coxcomb came,

To scan the work with praise or blame.

He with a glance its worth descried;

‘Ye gods! A masterpiece’ he cried.

‘Ah, what a foot! what skilled details,

E’en to the painting of the nails!

A living Mars is here revealed,

What skill--what art in light and shade--

Both in the helmet and the shield,

And in the armor are displayed!’”

“The painter blushed with humbled pride,

Looked at the judge with woful mien,

‘Too well am I convinced’ he cried,

‘Unjust to me thou hast not been.’

The coxcomb scarce had disappeared,

when he his god of battle smeared.”

“And the moral,” cried the king, with vivacity, as Gellert ceased

for a moment.

“Here is the moral, sire:”

“If what you write offends the critic’s rules,

It is an evil sign, no doubt;

But when ‘tis lauded to the skies by fools,

‘Tis time, indeed, to blot it out.”

“That is beautiful--very beautiful; you have something gallant in your

person. I understand every thing you say. I received a translation of

‘Iphigenia’ by Gottsched, and Quintus read it to me. I had the French

with me, and I did not understand a word. He also brought me a poem by

Pietsh, but I threw it aside.”

“I threw it aside, also,” said Gellert, smiling.

The king smiled pleasantly. “Should I remain here, you must come often

and bring your fables to read to me.”

Gellert’s brow clouded slightly. “I do not know whether I am a good

reader,” he said, in some embarrassment. “I have such a sing-song,

monotonous voice.”

“Yes, like the Silesians,” said the king, “but it sounds pleasantly.

You must read your fables yourself. No one else can give the proper

emphasis. You must visit me soon again.”

“Do not forget the king’s request,” said Quintus Icilius, as he escorted

Gellert to the door. “Visit him soon, and be assured you shall never

come in vain. I will take care that the king receives you always.”

Gellert looked up smilingly at the major. “My dear sir, in many respects

I am quite an old-fashioned man; for example, I have read a great deal

in the Old Scriptures for instruction. I have read, ‘Put not your trust

in princes.’ These words seem wise to me, and you must allow me to

interpret them literally, and act accordingly.”

Gellert withdrew, and hastened home. The major returned to the king,

admiring, almost envying, Gellert’s modest, independent, and beautiful

character.

“Quintus,” said the king, “I thank you sincerely for my new German

acquaintance. The poet is better than the philosopher. Gellert is

the wisest and cleverest poet of his time--a much worthier man than

Gottsched, with all his pompous knowledge. Gellert’s fame will outlive

his. He is perhaps the only German who will not be forgotten. He

attempts but little, and succeeds well.”

CHAPTER XIV. THE KING AND THE VILLAGE MAGISTRATE.

In the little village of Voiseilvitz, near the Silesian frontier, there

was a great stir and excitement. The quartermaster of the army had just

arrived and announced the king’s approach. He then went on to the next

village to seek quarters for the army. After their many sufferings and

wants, the weary soldiers were much in need of rest and refreshment.

They had passed many, many miserable weeks, during which the most

patient had become disheartened. The king alone had retained his

courage, his presence of mind, his activity and energy. He had borne,

without complaint, every want and privation. Surrounded by powerful

enemies, his great and clear mind had contrived the intrenchments which

encompassed his camp, and which had filled his enemies with wonder.

Neither Daun, Loudon, Butterlin, nor Ternitschow, dared attack the camp

that had suddenly become a strong fortress. They gazed in wild amazement

at their daring, invincible enemy, whom they had so often thought to

ruin, and who had continually with his lion strength broken the nets

they had laid for him. Not daring to attack him with their cannon

and their swords, the allies relied upon another much more fearful

weapon--hunger! It was impossible for the king, surrounded as he was by

enemies, to obtain food for his troops and fodder for the horses. But

Frederick did not cease to hope: he turned night into day and day into

night; thus he was prepared for any movement. During the day he could

observe all that passed in the enemy’s camp; a few slight guards were

placed in the intrenchments, while the rest of the army slept. But at

night they did not sleep; as soon as evening came, all the tents were

taken down, the cannon were planted, and behind them the regiments

were placed in line of battle. Thus they stood listening in breathless

silence for any sound or movement that would announce the enemy’s

approach. All were ready and waiting for them, determined to die rather

than surrender.

In spite of privations, want of rest and food, the army remained

hopeful, for their king shared their danger, wants, and sleepless

nights. He was always with them--he hungered and worked with them.

If the soldiers were deprived of their rations, they had at least

the consolation of knowing that the king suffered likewise. This

strengthened and encouraged them.

The Prussians had fortitude to bear their sufferings, but their enemy

had not the patience to wait. Butterlin, the Russian commander, tired of

watching Frederick, withdrew to Poland; and Loudon, not feeling secure

now in his isolated position, retired also.

After four weeks of agony and want, the Prussian army could leave their

encampment and seek both food and rest. They were to recruit themselves

in the villages in the vicinity of Strehlen; the king and his staff were

to rest at Voiseilvitz. The house of the magistrate had been chosen

as the only dwelling-place fit for these noble guests. The magistrate,

elated at the honor, was marching from room to room, scolding, imploring

his servants to have every thing clean and orderly.

“Remember,” said he, “a king is to inhabit this house; he will be

enraged if there is the least spot or stain upon the floors or windows,

for of course he wears beautiful garments, covered with pearls and

diamonds, and embroidered in gold and silver. How fearful, then, would

it be were he to ruin them at my house! He would be infuriated, for

money is scarce now, and I dare say as hard for him to get as for us.”

At last, thanks to threats and entreaties, the house was in readiness

for the king. The front room was beautifully clean, and white blinds

were at the windows. The deal table was covered with a snow-white damask

cloth. Beside a window in which were placed some bright plants, an old

leathern arm-chair was standing, which the magistrate intended for a

throne. The walls were covered with some portraits of the royal family

of Prussia. Around a wretched engraving of Frederick a wreath of

immortelles and forget-me-nots was woven. In a corner stood a large bed

with clean white curtains in readiness for the king. When every thing

was arranged, with a last proud look at his handsome dwelling, the

magistrate hurried to the front door, waiting anxiously for his

guest. His heart beat high with expectation--his whole being was in

commotion--he was to see a king for the first time, and he asked himself

how this king would look. “How glorious his eyes must be! I think he

must radiate like the sun. It must almost blind the eyes to dwell upon

his splendor.”

Lost in these thoughts, he did not observe a cavalcade consisting of

three riders passing through the street. The foremost one was enveloped

in an old faded blue mantle, his large three-cornered hat hung far over

his brow, shading his eyes and his thin, pale countenance. His heavy

army boots were in need both of brushing and mending. His two companions

formed an agreeable contrast to him. They wore the rich, glittering

uniforms of Prussian staff officers. All about them was neat and

elegant, and pleased the magistrate right well. The cavalcade now

stopped at his house, and, to the amazement of the villagers, the two

spruce young officers sprang to the ground--and hastened to assist

the man in the blue mantle to alight from his horse. But he waved them

aside, and springing lightly from the saddle, advanced to the house

door. The magistrate blocked up the way, and looking haughtily at the

stranger, said:

“You undoubtedly belong to the servants of the king, and think,

therefore, to enter my house. But that cannot be. The king alone will

dwell with me. If you are what I suppose you to be, you must go next

door. My neighbor may have quarters for you.”

The stranger smiled. Fixing his large, brilliant eyes sternly upon the

magistrate, he caused him to draw back almost in terror, feeling as if

the sun had really blinded him.

“I am not one of the king’s servants,” said the stranger, gayly, “but I

am invited to dine with him.”

“Then it is all right,” said the magistrate, “you can enter. But you

must first go into that little side-room and brush your shoes before

the king sees you, for he would surely be enraged to find you in dusty

boots.”

The king laughed gayly, and entered the house. “I will go to the king’s

chamber at once. I think he will forgive my shoes.” He beckoned to the

two officers and entered his room, the door of which he left open.

The magistrate took no more notice of him, but remained outside, looking

eagerly for the king.

Frederick still did not come to illuminate the street with his splendor.

In his stead came generals and officers, with gold epaulets and bright

stars sparkling on their coats, and entered the king’s chamber, without

a word to the magistrate.

“They are all waiting for the king,” murmured he, “but I shall see him

first. How splendid and magnificent are all these officers! How grand,

how glorious then must the king be, who is far nobler than they! He

does not come; I will enter and pass the time in looking at all these

splendidly-dressed soldiers.” He stepped lightly to the door, and peered

in. He started; a low cry of terror escaped him, as he looked at the

scene before him.

The generals--the officers dressed in the gold and silver embroidered

uniforms--stood around the room with bared heads; in their midst stood

the stranger with the dusty boots. He alone had his hat on. He alone

bore neither epaulets nor stars: he was clad in simple uniform, without

a single ornament, and still, wonderful to say, it now seemed to the

magistrate that he was more noble, more splendid-looking than all the

others. He was the smallest amongst them, but seemed much taller. They

stood with bowed heads before him; he alone was raised proudly to his

full height. There was something grand and glorious in his countenance;

and when his large, luminous eyes fell upon the magistrate, he

endeavored in vain to slip away--he was rooted to the spot as if by

magnetism.

“Will you not stay with us until the king comes?” said Frederick,

laughing.

The magistrate answered the smile with a broad grin. “I see, sir,” said

he, “that you are laughing at me. You know that you yourself are the

king.”

Frederick nodded an assent, and then turned to Prince Anhalt von Dessau.

“You see, sir, how precarious a thing is the glory and magnificence of

a king. This man took me for a servant; his dull eyes could not perceive

my innate glory.”

“Your majesty justly calls this man’s eyes dull,” said the prince,

laughing.

Frederick looked at him kindly, and then began a low, earnest

conversation with his generals, who listened attentively to his every

word.

The magistrate still stood at the door. It seemed to him that he had

never seen any thing so splendid-looking as this man with the muddy

boots, the simple coat, and torn, unwieldy hat, whose countenance beamed

with beauty, whose eyes glittered like stars.

“That, then, is really the king?” said he to one of the royal

servants--“the King of Prussia, who for five years has been fighting

with the empress for us?”

“Yes, it is him.”

“From to-day on I am a Prussian at heart,” continued the magistrate;

“yes, and a good and true one. The King of Prussia dresses badly, that

is true, but I suppose his object is to lighten the taxes.” Passing

his coat-sleeve across his misty eyes, he hastened to the kitchen to

investigate dinner.

CHAPTER XV. THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

Some days had passed since the king entered Voiseilvitz. He dwelt in the

house of the magistrate, and the generals were quartered in the huts

of the village. The regiments were in the neighboring hamlets. The king

lived quietly in his house, wholly given up to anxiety and discontent.

He ate alone in his room, spoke to no one, or if he did, said only a few

grave words. All jesting was vanished from his lips; he was never seen

to smile, never heard to play the flute. The grief which oppressed his

heart was too profound to be confided to the soft and melting tones

of his flute. Even that cherished companion could now give him no

consolation. Fearful, horrible intelligence had followed him from the

encampment at trehlen. It had poisoned these days of long-denied

and necessary rest, and shrouded the gloomy future with yet darker

presentiments of evil.

Schweidnitz, the strong fortress, the key of Silesia, which had been so

long and with such mighty effort defended, had fallen!--had yielded

to the Austrians--and Frederick had thus lost the most important

acquisition of the last year, and thus his possession of Silesia was

again made doubtful. He looked sadly back upon all the precious blood

which had been shed to no purpose--upon all the great and hardly-won

battles, won in vain. He looked forward with an aching heart to the

years of blood and battle which must follow. Frederick longed for rest

and peace--he was weary of bloodshed and of war. Like an alluring,

radiant picture of paradise, the image of his beloved Sans-Souci passed

from time to time before his soul. He dreamed of his quiet library and

his beautiful picture-gallery. And yet his courage was unconquered--and

he preferred the torture of these wretched days--he preferred death

itself to the unfavorable and humiliating peace which his proud enemies,

made presumptuous by their last successes, dared to offer him. They

stood opposed to him in monstrous superiority, but Frederick remained

unshaken. With a smaller army and fewer allies Alexander demolished

Persia. “But happily,” he said to himself, “there was no Alexander to

lead his enemies to victory.”

Frederick did not despair, and yet he did not believe in the possibility

of triumph. He preferred an honorable death to a dishonorable peace. He

would rather fail amidst the proud ruins of Prussia, made great by his

hand, than return with her to their former petty insignificance. They

offered him peace, but a peace which compelled him to return the lands

he had conquered, and to pay to his victorious enemies the costs of the

war.

The king did not regard these mortifying propositions as worthy of

consideration, and he commanded his ambassador, whom he had sent to

Augsburg to treat with the enemy, to return immediately. “It is true,”

he said to his confidant, Le Catt, “all Europe is combined against

me--all the great powers have resolved upon my destruction. And England,

the only friend I did possess in Europe, has now abandoned me.”

“But one has remained faithful.”

“‘Among the faithless, faithful only he’ Among the innumerable false,

unmoved, unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, that is my sword. If the

exalted empresses are not my friends, the greater honor to my good sword

which has never failed me, and which shall go down with me into the dark

grave. If in Europe I have neither friends nor allies, I may find both

in other parts of the world. Asia may send me the troops which Europe

denies. If Russia is my enemy, who knows but for this reason Turkey

may become my ally? And who knows but an alliance with the so-called

unbelievers would be of more value to Prussia than a league with the

so-called believing Russians? They call themselves Christians, but their

weapons are lies, intrigues, deceit, and treachery. The Moslem, however,

is an honorable man and a brave soldier. If he calls his God Allah, and

his Christ Mohammed, God may call him to account. I have nothing to do

with it. What has faith to do with the kings of this world? Besides, I

believe the Turks and Tartars are better Christians than the Russians.”

“Your majesty is really, then, thinking of an alliance with the Turks

and Tartars?” said Le Catt.

“I am thinking of it so earnestly,” said the king, eagerly, “that day

and night I think of nothing else. I have spared no cost, no gold, no

labor, to bring it about. Once I had almost succeeded, and the Sublime

Porte was inclined to this league; and my ambassador, Rexin, was, with

the consent of the Grand Vizier Mustapha, and indeed by his advice,

disguised and sent secretly to Constantinople. The negotiations were

almost completed, when the Russian and French ambassadors discovered my

plans, and by bribery, lies, and intrigues of every base sort, succeeded

in interfering. Mustapha broke his promise, and his only answer to me

was--‘that the Sublime Porte must wait for happier and more propitious

days to confirm her friendship and good understanding with the King of

Prussia.’ This was the will of God the Almighty. This propitious year

has been a long time coming, but I hope it is now at hand, and this

longed-for alliance will at length be concluded. The last dispatches

from my ambassador in Constantinople seem favorable. The wise and

energetic Grand Vizier Raghile, the first self-reliant and enterprising

Turkish statesman, has promised Rexin to bring this matter before the

sultan, and I am daily expecting a courier who will bring me a decisive

and perhaps favorable answer from Tartary.”

[Footnote: Kammer, “History of the Porte,” vol. viii., p. 190.]

Le Catt gazed with admiration upon the noble, excited countenance of the

king. “Oh, sire,” said he, deeply moved, “pardon, that in the fulness

of my heart, overcome with joy and rapture. I dare for once to give

expression in words to my love and my admiration. It is a glorious

spectacle to see the proud oak in the midst of the wild tempest firm and

unmoved, not even bowing its proud head to the raging elements, offering

a bold but calm defiance. But it is a still more exalted spectacle to

see a man with a brave heart and flashing eye defy disaster and death;

alone, in the consciousness of his own strength, meeting Fate as an

adversary and gazing upon it eye to eye unterrified. Misfortune is like

the lion of the desert. If a man with steady eye and firm step advances

to meet him, he ceases to roar and lies down humbly at his feet; he

recognizes and quails before man made in the likeness of God. You, my

king, now offer this spectacle to the astonished world. Can you wonder

that I, who am ever near you, are filled with devotion and adoration,

and must at last give utterance to my emotion? I have seen your majesty

on the bloody battle-field, and in the full consciousness of victory,

but never have I seen the laurels which crown your brow so radiant as in

these days of your misfortune and defeat. Never was the King of Prussia

so great a hero, so glorious a couqueror, as during these last weeks

of destitution and gloom. You have hungered with the hungry, you have

frozen with the freezing; you have passed the long, weary nights upon

your cannon or upon the hard, cold earth. You have divided your last

drop of wine with the poor soldiers. You did this, sire; I was in your

tent and witnessed it--I alone. You sat at your dinner--a piece of bread

and one glass of Hungarian wine, the last in your possession. An officer

entered with his report. You asked him if he had eaten. He said yes,

but his pale, thin face contradicted his words. You, sire, broke off the

half of your bread, you drank the half of your wine, then gave the rest

to the officer, saying in an almost apologetic tone, ‘It is all that I

have.’ Sire, on that day I did what since my youth I have not done--I

wept like a child, and my every glance upon your nobel face was a

prayer.”

“Enthusiast,” said the king, giving his hand to Le Catt with a kindly

smile, “is the world so corrupt that so natural an act should excite

surprise, and appear great and exalted? Are you astonished at that which

is simply human? But look! There is a courier! He stops before the door

of my peasant-palace. Quick, quick! Le Catt; let me know the news he

brings.”

Le Catt hastened off, and returned at once with the dispatches.

Frederick took them with impatient haste, and while he read, his grave

face lightened, and a happy, hopeful smile played once more upon his

lips. “Ah, Le Catt,” said he, “I was a good prophet, and my hopes are

about to be fulfilled. Europe is against me, but Asia is my ally. The

barbarous Russians are my enemies, but the honest Turks and Tartars are

my friends. This dispatch is from my ambassador Rexin. He is coming,

accompanied by an ambassador of Tartary, and may be here in a few

hours.”

“Where will your majesty receive him?” said Le Catt.

The king looked around smilingly at the little room, with the rude walls

and dirty floor.

“I will receive him here!” said he; “here, in my royal palace of

Voiseilvitz. I am forced to believe that a right royal king would, by

his presence, transform the lowliest hut into a palace, and the most

ordinary chair into a throne. The eyes of the ambassador may, however,

be as dull as those of the worthy possessor of my present palace. It

may be that he will not recognize me as the visible representative

of God--as king by the grace of God. We must therefore come to his

assistance, and show ourselves in all the dazzling glitter of royalty.

We must improvise a throne, and, it appears to me, that leathern

arm-chair, which certainly belonged to a grandfather, is well suited to

the occasion. It will be a worthy representation of my throne, which

was my grandfather’s throne; he erected it, and I inherited it from

him. Shove it, then, into the middle of the room, and fasten some of the

Russian flags, which we took at Zorndorf, on the wall behind it; spread

my tent-carpet on the floor, and my throne saloon is ready. Quick, Le

Catt, make your preparations; call the servants, and show them what they

have to do. In the mean time, I will make my toilet; I must not appear

before the worthy ambassador in such unworthy guise.” The king rang

hastily, and his valet, Deesen, entered. “Deesen,” said he, gayly, “we

will imagine ourselves to be again in Sans-Souci, and about to hold a

great court. I must do then, what I have not done for a long time--make

grande toilette. I will wear my general’s uniform, and adorn myself with

the order of the Black Eagle. I will have my hair frizzed, and screw up

an imposing cue. Well, Deesen, why do you gaze at me so wildly?”

“Sire, the general’s coat is here, but--”

“Well, but what?” cried the king, impatiently.

“But the breeches! the breeches!” stammered Deesen, turning pale; “they

are torn; and those your majesty now wears, are your last and only

ones.”

“Well, then,” said the king, laughing, “I will continue to wear my last

and only breeches; I will put on my general’s coat, voila tout.”

“That is wholly impossible,” cried Deesen, wringing his hands. “If your

majesty proposes to hold a great court, you cannot possibly wear these

breeches!”

“Why not? why not?” said the king, fiercely.

“Sire,” murmured Deesen, “sire, that has happened to them which happened

to your majesty at Torgau.”

“That is to say--“said the king, questioningly.

“That is to say, they are wounded.”

Frederick looked surprised, and following the glance of his valet, he

found his eyes fixed upon his knees.

“You are right, Deesen,” said he, laughing; “that disaster has befallen

my breeches which befell me at Torgau: they are wounded, and need a

surgeon.”

“Your majesty must therefore graciously postpone your great court

till to-morrow. Perhaps I may find a tailor in one of the neighboring

villages; he will work during the night, and early tomorrow every thing

will be in order.”

“It must be done to-day--done immediately,” cried the king. “In a

few hours the injury must be healed, and my apparel fully restored to

health.”

“But, sire,” whispered Deesen, “how can that be possible? Your majesty

has but one pair, and you must take them off, in order that they may be

mended.”

“Well, I will take them off,” said the king; “go and seek the tailor. I

will undress and go to bed till this important operation is performed.

Go at once!”

While the king was undressing, he heard Deesen’s stentorian voice,

calling out lustily through the streets--“A tailor! a tailor! is there a

tailor amongst the soldiers?”

The king was scarcely covered up in bed before Deesen entered, with a

joyous face.

“Sire, I have found a soldier who can do the work; he is not a tailor,

but he swears he can sew and patch, and he undertakes to dress the

wounds.”

“And yet, it is said that a higher power rules the world,” murmured

the king, when he was again alone; “accident--accident decides all

questions. If there had been no tailor amongst the soldiers, the King

of Prussia could not have received the ambassador of Tartary to-day, and

the negotiations might have been broken off.”

At this moment the door opened, and Le Catt entered, followed by a

servant with the Russian flags and the carpet. When he saw the king in

bed, he started back, and asked anxiously “if his majesty had been taken

suddenly unwell?”

“No,” said Frederick, “I am only making my toilet.”

“Your toilet, sire?”

“Yes, Le Catt, did you see a soldier at the door?”

“Yes, sire.”

“What was he doing?”

“He seemed to be sewing.”

“He is sewing, and he is to-day my first gentleman of the bedchamber; he

is dressing me. Ah! in the presence of this humble patcher, I remember

that a wise man said, ‘A king is but a man to his valet de chambre.’ But

do not allow my presence to prevent you from building my throne; I will

rest here comfortably, and look on.”

While the king lay in bed waiting, the soldier who had undertaken the

job, sat on a bench before the door. He bent his head zealously over

his work, and did not once look up to his comrade who stood near him,

leaning against a large oak, gazing rigidly and unweariedly at him. But

in this steady and indefatigable glance, there seemed to be a strange,

attractive power, which the soldier could not resist. He raised his

head involuntarily for a moment, and the sweet and noble face of Charles

Henry Buschman was seen.

“Fritz Kober,” said he, “why do you gaze at me so, and why do you follow

me?”

“Because I have been so accustomed to be where you are!” said Fritz

Kober, quietly. “When I heard Deesen call for a tailor, and you

answered, ‘Here! here!’ I stepped out of my tent and followed you;

nothing more! But you would also know why I look at you? Well, while it

pleases me to see you sewing, it brings strange and pleasant thoughts to

my mind.”

“What sort of strange and pleasant thoughts, Fritz?” said Charles Henry,

bowing down again earnestly over his work.

“I thought,” said Fritz Kober, in a trembling voice, “that if ever I

should take a wife, she must look exactly as you do, Charles Henry; she

must have the same neat little hands, and be expert with the needle as

you are. Then I thought further, that in the whole world there was

no man so good and brave, so gentle and intelligent as you. Then I

considered what would become of me when the war was at an end, and you

should desert me and go back to your village. Then I resolved to follow

you through the whole world, and not to cease my prayers and entreaties

till you promised to come into my hut, and take all that was mine--under

the condition that you would keep me always with you--at least as your

servant--and never spurn me or cast me off. Then, I thought further,

that if you said no--if you refused to come into my house, I would

wander far away in despair, and, in the anguish of my heart I would

become a bad and contemptible man. Without you, Charles Henry, there is

no joy or peace in this world for me; you fire my good angel! Charles

Henry Buschman, do you wish me to be a dissolute drunkard?”

“How can I wish that, Fritz Kober?” whispered Charles Henry. “But you

could never be a bad man; you have the best and noblest heart in the

world! No man dare injure or abuse you! You give to those who ask

of you, you help those who suffer, and you stand by those who are in

difficulty! Then you are a complete, true man, and know how to maintain

your own dignity on every occasion. All who approach you are compelled

to respect you, and no one will ever dare to cast a reproach on Fritz

Kober. You are, at the same time, a hero, a good man, and an innocent

child, and my heart rejoices in you.”

“What is good in me, I owe to you,” said Fritz Kober. “Before I knew

you, I was a simple blockhead, and lived on stupidly from day to day,

thinking of nothing. Since I knew you, I have learned to open my eyes,

and to reflect. But all this will be changed if you desert me, Charles

Henry, and I see that you will do so; yes, you will abandon me. For

three weeks past you have taken no notice of me. You would not go

into my tent with me at Bunzelwitz, but camped out alone. Here, in

the village, you would not come into my hut, but quartered with an old

peasant woman. So I followed you to-day, to ask you, once for all,

if you have the heart to leave me--to spurn me from you? Look at me,

Charles Henry! look at me and tell me if you will make a pitiful and

unhappy man of me?”

Charles Henry looked up from his work, and gazed at the pale, agitated

face of his comrade; and as he did so, tears gushed from his eyes.

“God forbid, Fritz Kober, that I should make you unhappy! I would rather

shed my heart’s blood to make you happy.”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried Fritz Kober. “If this is so, listen to me and

answer me, Charles Henry Buschman, will you be my wife?”

A glowing blush suffused Charles Henry’s face; he bowed down over his

work and sewed on in monstrous haste.

Fritz Kober came nearer and bowed so low that he was almost kneeling.

“Charles Henry Buschman, will you be my wife?”

Charles Henry did not answer; tears and bobs choked his voice, and

trembling with emotion he laid his head on Fritz Kober’s shoulder.

“Does that mean yes?” said Fritz, breathlessly.

“Yes,” whispered she, softly.

And now Fritz uttered a wild shout, and threw his arms around the

soldier’s neck and kissed him heartily.

“God be thanked that it is over,” said he; “God be thanked that I did

not deceive myself--that you are truly a girl. When you were last sick,

and the surgeon bled you, I was suspicious. I said to myself, ‘That is

not the arm of a man.’ I went out, but in the evening you were praying,

and you did not know that I was in the tent, and you said, ‘You dear

parents in heaven, pity your poor daughter.’ I could have shouted with

rapture and delight, but I held my peace. I wished to wait and see if

you would be good to me.”

“But the expression of your eyes was so changed,” whispered Charles

Henry; “I was obliged to turn away when their glance fell upon me. I

felt that my secret was discovered, and therefore I avoided being with

you.”

“Officer Buschman,” cried Deesen, in a commanding voice from the house,

“is your work finished?”

“Immediately; I have but a few stitches to do,” cried Charles Henry. “Be

silent,” said he to Fritz, “and let me sew.”

But Fritz was not silent; he crouched near officer Buschman, and

whispered many and strange things in his ear.

Charles Henry sewed on zealously, blushed often, and replied in low,

embarrassed words.

At last the work was completed, and the knees of the great Frederick’s

breeches were worthily mended with divers patches.

“I will carry them myself to the king, as I have a favor to ask him,”

said Fritz Kober. “Come with me, Charles Henry; you must hear what the

king says.”

He took Charles Henry’s hand and advanced to the door, but Deesen

stood there, and forbade him to enter; he ordered Fritz to give him the

breeches.

“No,” said Fritz Kober, resolutely, “we have a request to make of the

king, and he once gave us permission to come directly to him when we had

a favor to ask.”

He pushed Deesen aside and entered the room with Charles Henry.

The king sat in his bed reading, and was so absorbed that he did not see

them enter. But Fritz stepped up boldly to the bed and laid the breeches

upon the chair.

“Did you mend them, my son?” said the king.

“No, your majesty, Charles Buschman mended them, but I came along to say

something to your majesty. You remember, no doubt, what you said when we

returned from the enemy’s camp near Kunersdorf, after the battle, when

Charles Henry related so beautifully all that we had seen and heard.

You said, ‘You are both officers from this day, and if you ever need my

assistance call upon me freely.’”

“And you wish to do so now?” said the king.

“Yes, your majesty, I have something to ask.”

“Well, what is it?”

Fritz Kober drew up grandly and ceremoniously.

“I ask your majesty to allow me to marry officer Charles Henry

Buschman--to marry him to-day!”

“Marry him!” said the king, amazed; “is, then, officer Buschman--”

“A woman, your majesty!” interrupted Fritz Kober, with joyful

impatience. “He is a woman; his name is Anna Sophia Detzloff, from

Brunen.”

Frederick’s sharp, piercing eye rested for a moment questioningly upon

Charles Henry’s face; then nodding his head smilingly several times, he

said:

“Your bride is a spruce lad and a brave officer, and knows how to blush

in his soldier’s uniform. Officer Charles Henry Buschman, will you be

the wife of officer Fritz Kober?”

“I will, if your majesty consents,” whispered Charles Henry.

“Well, go to the field-preacher, and be married--I give my consent. And

now go, I must dress.”

“At last,” said the king to Le Catt, “fortune will be again favorable to

me. Signs and wonders are taking place, as they did with Charles VII.

of France. When he was in the most dire necessity, surrounded by his

enemies, the Lord sent the Maid of Orleans to save him. To me, also, has

the Lord now sent a Joan d’Arc, a maid of Brunen. With her help I will

overcome all my enemies.”

CHAPTER XVI. THE AMBASSADOR AND THE KHAN OF TARTARY.

The preparations were completed; the room of the king had become, by

means of his inventive genius, a magnificent throne saloon. The great

arm-chair, draped with rich hangings, looked almost imposing; the dirty

floor was concealed by a costly Turkish carpet. The door which led into

the entry had been removed, and the opening hung with banners. The entry

itself had been changed by means of carpets, banners, and standards into

a tasteful antechamber.

The king wore his general’s uniform, and the chain of the order of the

Black Eagle, and the generals and staff officers stood near him in their

glittering dresses. The room of the sheriff had indeed become a royal

apartment.

And now an imposing train approached this improvised palace. First

appeared two riders, whose gold-embroidered mantles fell below their

feet and concealed the well-shaped bodies of the small Arabian horses on

which they were mounted, only displaying their slender necks, with their

flowing manes and their graceful legs. It was evident from their dark

complexions and flashing eyes that these men were foreigners, the sons

of the South. On each appeared the diamond-headed hilt of a sword,

glittering amid the folds of the costly Turkish shawls which encircled

their slender waists; and at the side of each hung the jewelled sheath

of a Damascus blade, which was held in the right hand, and presented in

salutation. These Turkish warriors were followed by two others, scarcely

less richly dressed, and behind them rode four men, in long black robes,

with eyes closed, each bearing in his right hand a book bound in gold

and velvet, which he pressed prayerfully to his breast; a golden pen

was worn in their girdles in place of a weapon, and on the fez an

artistically arranged and jewelled peacock’s feather. Now followed two

other riders; but these were not alike, as the others had been, but bore

the most remarkable and striking contrast to one another. One of

them was dressed in the latest French style; he wore a blue,

silver-embroidered velvet coat, with small-clothes of the same material,

which met his white silk stockings at the knee, and were fastened by a

band with a diamond clasp. His shoes were also ornamented with diamond

buckles and red heels. He wore a three-cornered hat, with a

white feather, which was placed lightly and gracefully upon his

stiffly-curled, well-powdered peruke. Splendid lace covered his breast,

and broad lace cuffs fell over his white gloved hands. It was a perfect

ball dress, such as was worn at that time at court by all ambassadors

who were not military, in their ceremonious audiences with the

sovereign.

Near this man, dressed so gracefully and airily, was another cavalier

who presented a great contrast to him. As the one seemed dressed for a

summer day, so the other appeared prepared for the coldest weather;

the one was ready for the ball-room, and the other for the steppes of

Siberia. The long, thin figure of the latter was concealed by a fur

mantle, made of the skin of the white Lapland wolf, and lined and

trimmed with a darker fur; around his waist was bound a costly gold

embroidered shawl, from which hung a small golden cup, and a richly

ornamented razor. At his side, instead of the Turkish sabre, a bag,

richly worked with gold and pearls, was suspended by golden chains. He

wore a fez, on the front of which was embroidered a small golden cup.

Behind these two men came a troop of Turkish, Tartar, and European

servants, all in livery; and these were followed by a golden chariot,

with closely-drawn blinds, the interior being impenetrable to the most

curious gaze. Four Tartars in long white fur mantles rode on either side

of the chariot, with drawn swords.

The chariot was followed by a most remarkable crowd, consisting of

Prussian soldiers from every regiment, and in every variety of uniform,

of peasants and their wives, of old men and children, who were all

struck dumb with astonishment and admiration at the sight of this

strange cavalcade which now paused before the king’s house.

The guards saluted, and the generals and staff officers advanced

silently and bowed profoundly to the two cavaliers, who were such a

singular contrast to one another, and who were evidently the important

persons of the cavalcade. They swung themselves lightly from their

saddles, and returned the polite greetings of the generals; the one in

fluent German, the other in equally flowing words, but in a language

which no one understood, and to which the only answer was a few murmured

words, a smile, and hieroglyphic hand-pressures.

The first was the Baron von Rexin, the ambassador of the king to the

Grand Sultan and the Khan of Tartary, who had been so fortunate as to

become the minster plenipotentiary of the King of Prussia under the

title given him by the king of Baron von Rexin, after having been the

servant of a merchant in Breslau, called Hubsch. The second was the

great and noble Mustapha Aga, the ambassador of Krimgirai, the Khan of

Tartary. He was the favorite and confidant of his master, and was sent

by him to bear his greetings and good wishes to the King of Prussia.

As soon as they had dismounted, a page of the king approached and

invited them to enter the house, where the king was waiting to give

them audience. Baron von Rexin, who during his residence in Turkey had

learned the Turkish language, informed the ambassador. A smile appeared

upon Mustapha Aga’s thin, paleface, and he turned to the four men in

black robes, who wore the golden pens in their belts, and signed to them

to follow him, and then taking the arm of Baron von Rexin, they both

entered the house, followed by the four historians and interpreters;

the generals and staff officers of the king then arranging themselves on

either side of the throne, according to their rank.

The king received the embassy sitting upon his throne. His eye rested

smilingly upon Mustapha Aga, who had just bent to the earth before

his throne, and as he arose signed to one of the four interpreters to

approach. The interpreter opened the costly book, which he held in his

hand, and handed the ambassador a large document, covered with seals,

which Mustapha Aga pressed respectfully to his lips, and then kneeling,

presented it respectfully to the king.

“Mustapha Aga, the ambassador of the high and mighty Khan of Tartary,

Krimgirai, has the unutterable honor to present his credentials to the

King of Prussia,” said the interpreter, in the purest and most fluent

French.

The king broke the seal, and looked hurriedly over the document.

“Mustapha Aga,” he said, “you are most welcome; and I greet your master,

the hero Krimgirai, whom I am proud to call my friend, in you.”

After the interpreter repeated the words of the king, Mustapha Aga threw

himself upon his knees before the throne, and spoke rapidly for a few

moments.

“Mustapha Aga, the ambassador of the great Khan,” said the interpreter,

“entreats your majesty to allow him to show you the highest proof of

his respect, to greet you in the manner in which he alone, in great and

beautiful Tartary, is permitted to greet the Khan.”

“I grant his request,” said the king.

Mustapha immediately opened the pouch which hung at his side, and took

from it a crystal flask, from which he poured a fluid into the cup,

and a delightful perfume immediately pervaded the room. After putting

a small quantity of white powder into the cup, he proceeded to stir the

contents with a brush, of which the handle was ornamented with

three diamonds of immense size. The fluid now arose into a sparkling

milk-white foam.

The king looked curiously at him at first, and then turned to his

ambassador. “What does this mean?” he asked in German, probably because

he did not wish to be understood by the interpreter.

“Sire,” said Rexin, smiling, “that means that the noble Mustapha Aga

wishes to show you the greatest honor in his power, he wishes to shave

you.”

“To shave me!” exclaimed the king. “Who and what is the noble Mustapha

Aga?”

“Sire, he is one of the greatest dignitaries of Tartary; he is the

barber of the Khan!”

The king could scarcely restrain a smile at this explanation. “Well,”

he said, “it is not a bad idea to make a diplomat and ambassador of a

barber. The gentlemen of the diplomatic corps are given to shaving in

politics and frequently put soap in the eyes of the world.”

Mustapha Aga now approached the king with solemn steps, and bending

forward, he thrust his forefinger into the foam in the golden cup and

passed it lightly across the king’s chin. He then drew forth the

golden razor from his belt. But before opening it, he raised his eyes

prayerfully to heaven, and spoke a few solemn words. “Allah is the light

of heaven and earth! May He illuminate me in my great work!” said the

interpreter, translating Mustapha’s words.

Then the ambassador began his dignified work; drawing the blade of his

knife across the chin of the king with a rapid movement.

The king and his generals and attendants, were scarcely able to retain

their composure during this performance.

When Mustapha had finished, he signed to one of the interpreters to

approach, and as he kneeled before him he wiped the foam from his razor

on the back of his uplifted hand. Then thrusting it in his belt, he

bowed deeply and solemnly to the king.

“May Allah keep the heart of this king as pure as his chin now is!” he

said. “May the knife which Allah employs to prune away the faults of

this king, pass over him as gently and painlessly as the knife of your

unworthy servant has done! Mighty king and lord, the all-powerful Khan

Krimgirai, the lion of the desert, the dread of his enemies, sends me to

you and offers you his aid and friendship. The renown of your deeds has

reached his ears, and he is lost in astonishment that a prince, of whose

kingdom and existence he was in ignorance, should so long successfully

resist the great German sultan, whose power we know, without fearing.

The eagle eye of my master now sees clearly that he who was so

insignificant is now great enough to overshadow the land of the powerful

German sultan, and to make the proud and unbending czarina of the north

tremble. He sends me to report to you his profound admiration; but

first, will you allow me, O eagle king of the north! to present the

gifts which he offers you?”

“I shall be delighted to receive these gifts,” said the king, smiling,

“as they are a proof of the friendship of the great Khan.”

Mustapha Aga made a signal in the direction of the door, and spoke a few

words aloud. Immediately there appeared the two men who were so richly

dressed in Turkish costumes, and had been at the head of the cavalcade.

They stationed themselves on either side of the entrance, and were

followed by the lower officers and servants attached to the embassy, who

entered, bearing baskets delicately woven and lined with rich stuffs.

Mustapha signed to the first two to approach him, and then, before

opening the basket, he turned once more to the king.

“Sire,” said he, “before a Tartar gives a promise of love and friendship

to any one, he invites him to his house, and begs him to eat of his

bread and drink of his wine. Sire, my great and respected master makes

use of his unworthy servant to entreat your majesty to descend from your

throne and to enter his house, where he is present in spirit, and bids

the eagle king of the north welcome.”

“I should be delighted to grant this request,” returned the king,

smiling, “were the distance not so great between my house and that of

the Khan.”

“Sire, the house of my great master is before your door,” said Mustapha

Aga, bowing deeply. “On the day of our departure, the Khan walked

through it and kissed its walls, and exclaimed: ‘Be greeted, my great

and royal brother, you eagle of the north! Be welcome, you hero-king,

the hated enemy of the czarina, Krimgirai offers you his heart, and

would be your friend for all time.’ Sire, thus spoke my lord the Khan;

the air in his house is still vibrating with the words he uttered. Will

your majesty condescend to leave your throne and visit my great master,

the Khan Krimgirai?”

The king arose instantly and said, “I am well pleased to do so. Lead me

to the palace of your Khan.”

Mustapha Aga signed to the basket-carriers and to the other attendants

to leave the room, and then spoke a few rapid and emphatic words to the

interpreters, who followed them. Then bowing to the ground before the

king, he turned and passed out of the house.

Before the door a wonderful spectacle presented itself to the astonished

view of the king. Immediately opposite the house, on the open square,

a high tent, of considerable size, appeared, around which was a wall of

fur, well calculated to protect it from the cold air and rough winds.

A carpet covered the way from the door of the tent to the king’s house,

and from within the tent could be heard the gentle notes of a peculiar

music.

“Really,” said the king to his ambassador, Von Rexin, “I seem to

be living in the ‘Arabian Nights.’ There is nothing wanting but the

beautiful Scheherezade.”

“Sire, perhaps she also is here,” said Von Rexin; “we were accompanied

by a close chariot, guarded by four of the khan’s eunuchs.”

The king laughed, and said, “We will see,” and he rapidly approached the

hut. As he reached it, the door flew open, and Mustapha Aga received him

kneeling, while his attendants threw themselves to the ground, touching

it with their foreheads.

The king entered and examined with great curiosity the house of the

Khan. The interior of this immense tent was hung with crimson draperies,

amongst which arose twenty golden pillars which supported the tent.

At the top of these was an immense golden ring from which the crimson

draperies hung, and above this ring were twenty golden pillars which,

uniting in the centre at the top, formed the dome of the tent. From the

centre hung a golden vase, in which burned the rarest incense. The

floor was covered by a great Turkish carpet, and against the walls

stood several divans, such as are generally used in the dwellings of the

wealthy Turks. In the centre of the tent, just under the suspended vase,

stood a low, gilt table, decked with a service of glittering porphyry.

One side of the tent was separated from the rest by heavy curtains of a

costly material, and from hence came the sound of music, which now arose

in loud, triumphant tones, as if greeting the king.

His majesty moved rapidly to the middle of the tent, while his

attendants stood against the walls, and Mustapha Aga and his interpreter

stood near the king.

Mustapha then took a sword which was on the table, and, after kissing

it, handed it to the king. “Sire,” he said, “the great Krimgirai first

offers you his sword, as a sign of his love and goodwill. He begs that

on the day of the great victory which you and he will undoubtedly gain

over the hated czarina of the north, you will wear this sword at your

side. A sword like this--tempered in the same fire and ornamented with

the same design--is worn by the Khan. When these two swords cut the air,

Russia will tremble as if shaken by an earthquake.”

The king received the sword from Mustapha Aga, and looked at it

attentively. Then pointing to the golden letters which ornamented the

blade, he asked the significance of the motto.

“Sire,” replied Mustapha, solemnly, “it is the battle-cry of the Tartar:

‘Death is preferable to defeat.’”

“I accept the sword with great pleasure,” said the king. “This motto

embodies in a few words the history of a war, and discloses more of its

barbarity, than many learned and pious expositions could do. I thank the

Khan for his beautiful gift.”

“The Khan hears your words, sire, for his spirit is among us.”

Mustapha, after begging the king to seat himself upon the large divan,

drew aside the opening of the tent, when the servants with the covered

baskets immediately appeared, and placed themselves in a double row

around the tent. Mustapha then took the basket from the first couple,

and throwing back the cover, said: “Sire, will you condescend to eat of

the bread and drink of the favorite beverage of the Khan, that the ties

of your friendship may be strengthened? The Khan sends you a costly

ham--a proof of his unselfish friendship. He had his favorite horse

killed, the one that he has ridden for years, that he might offer you a

ham from this noble animal.”

As the interpreter translated these words, the Prussian generals and

officers glanced smiling and mockingly at one another.

The king alone remained grave, and turning to the generals, he said in

German:

“Ah, gentlemen! how happy we would have been, had any one brought us

this meat at the siege of Bunzelwitz, and how ravenously we would have

eaten it!”

He then turned again to the ambassador, who, taking from the other

baskets Carian dates and almonds, and other Eastern dainties in silver

dishes, placed them before the king. Mustapha then uttered a loud,

commanding cry, and the door of the tent was again opened, and there

appeared a Tartar, dressed in white wolf-skin, bearing a golden dish,

which contained a steaming, white liquid. He took it, and kneeled with

it before Frederick.

“Sire,” said he, “my master begs you to drink with him of his favorite

beverage. He pressed his lips to the rim of this dish before sending it

to you, and if you will now do the same, the eagle and hero of the north

will receive the brotherly kiss of the eagle and hero of the south.”

“What is it?” asked the king, in a low voice, of Baron von Rexin, who

stood near the divan.

“Sire, it is mare’s milk!” whispered Rexin.

The king shuddered, and almost overturned the contents of the dish

which he had just received from the hands of Mustapha Aga; but quickly

overcoming this feeling, he raised the bowl smilingly to his mouth.

After placing his lips upon the rim, he returned the bowl to the

ambassador.

“I have received the kiss of my friend. May our friendship be eternal!”

“Allah grant this prayer!” cried Mustapha. “Sire, Krimgirai dares, as

this beverage is such a favorite with all Turks, to hope that it

may please you; he therefore offers you the animal from which it

was procured.” He then pointed to the opening in the tent, where now

appeared a noble Arabian horse, wearing a costly saddle and bridle, and

a crimson saddle-cloth richly worked with pearls and precious stones.

The eyes of the king beamed with pleasure, and as he hurried through the

tent and approached the horse, the animal seemed to wish to greet

his new master, for it neighed loudly, and pawed the sand with its

well-shaped feet. The king gently stroked its slender, shining neck and

its full, fluttering mane, and looked in the great, flashing eyes.

“You are welcome, my battle-horse!” he said; “may you bear me in the

next engagement either to victory or death!”

He then returned to his seat, in order to receive the remaining presents

of the Khan, consisting of costly weapons and furs.

“And now, sire, the Khan begs that you will repose in his tent, and

listen to the music that he loves, and look at the dances which give him

pleasure. My master knows that the great King of Prussia loves music

as he does, and that it gladdens your heart as it does his own. When

he goes to battle--which is but going to victory--he takes with him his

musicians and dancers, who must perform the dance of triumph before him.

The Khan hopes that you will permit them to dance before you, and I pray

that your majesty will grant this request.”

“I am ready to behold and hear all,” said the king.

Immediately, at a sign from Mustapha, the curtain which concealed part

of the tent was withdrawn, and four lovely girls, clothed in light,

fluttering apparel, appeared and commenced a graceful, beautiful dance,

to the music of the mandoline. When they had finished, they retired

to the curtain, and looked with great, wondering eyes at the Prussian

warrior. Then appeared from behind the curtain four young men, who

seated themselves opposite the girls. The musicians began a new strain,

in which the girls and young men joined. Then two of the girls arose,

and drawing their veils over their faces so that only their eyes were

visible, they danced lightly and swayingly to the end of the tent, and

then returned to the young men, who now commenced the love-songs, with

downcast eyes, not daring to call the name of the objects of their

tenderness, but addressing them in poetical terms; and then they sang to

the same air the battle-song of the Tartars. In this song, the battles

are not only pictured forth, but you hear the shrieks of the warriors,

the battle-cry of the Tartars, and, at length, when the battle is won,

the loud shouts of rejoicing from the women. When the song was ended,

the singers bowed themselves to the earth, and then disappeared behind

the curtain.

The music ceased, and the king, rising from the divan, and turning to

Mustapha, said:

“I owe to the Khan a most delightful morning, and I will take a pleasant

remembrance of his house with me.”

“Sire,” said Mustapha, “the Khan begs you to accept this tent as a proof

of his friendship.”

The king bowed smilingly, and as he left the tent, told Rexin to ask the

Tartar ambassador to come to him now for a grave conference. The king

then dismissed his generals, and attendants, and entered his house,

followed by Baron von Rexin and the Turkish ambassador and his

interpreters.

“Now we will speak of business!” said the king. “What news do you bring

me from the Khan? What answer does he make to my proposition?”

“Sire, he is willing to grant all that your majesty desires, and to give

you every assistance in his power, provided you will not make peace with

our hated enemy--with Russia--but will continue the war unweariedly and

unceasingly, until Russia is humbled at our feet.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the king, “the Khan of Tartary cannot hate the Empress

of Russia more vindictively than she hates me; he need not fear,

therefore, an alliance between me and Russia. I have myself no desire to

form a friendship with those rough barbarians.”

“If the Empress of Russia hates you, she hates Krimgirai equally. Russia

hates every thing that is noble and true; she hates enlightenment

and cultivation. Russia hates Krimgirai, because he has civilized his

people; because he has changed his rough hordes of men into a mighty

army of brave warriors; because he governs his kingdom with humanity,

and is, at the same time, a father to his people and a scourge to his

enemies. Krimgirai hates Russia as he hates every thing that is wicked,

and vicious, and cruel; therefore he is willing to stand by your side

against Russia, with an army of six thousand men, and, if you wish it,

to invade Russia.”

“And what are the conditions which the Khan demands for this

assistance?”

“He wishes you to pay his soldiers as you pay your own.”

“And for himself?”

“For himself, he begs that you will send him a physician who can cure

him of a painful but not dangerous disease. Further, he begs for your

confidence and friendship.”

“Which I gladly give him!” said the king, gayly. “But tell me one other

thing. Has the Khan not yet become reconciled to the Grand Sultan?”

“Sire, the sultan feels that he cannot spare his brave Khan; he made an

overture, which Krimgirai gladly accepted. One week before we started

on our journey, the Khan was received by the sultan in his seraglio. The

heads of forty rebels were displayed as a special honor in front of

the seraglio, and, in the presence of the sultan himself, my master was

again presented with belt and sword, and again reinstalled as Khan. The

sultan also presented him with a purse containing forty thousand ducats.

You see, sire, that the sultan prizes and acknowledges the virtues of

your ally.”

“And how do we stand with the Porte?” asked the king, turning to Baron

von Rexin.

“I have succeeded, sire, in establishing a treaty between your majesty

and the Porte! I shall have the honor to lay it before your majesty for

your signature.”

The king’s eyes beamed with delight, as he exclaimed:

“At length I have attained the desired goal, and in spite of the whole

of Europe. I have my allies!”

Then turning once more to Mustapha Aga, he dismissed him for the day,

and gave him permission to occupy the magnificent tent which had been

presented to him by the Khan, during the remainder of his visit.

Mustapha Aga then withdrew with his interpreter, leaving the king alone

with the Baron von Rexin, who now presented to him the papers which it

was necessary he should sign, to establish the long-desired alliance

with Turkey. This treaty assured to Prussia all the privileges which

Turkey accorded to the other European powers: free navigation, the

rights of ambassadors and consuls, and the personal liberty of any

Prussian subjects who might have been seized as slaves.

The king signed the treaty, and named Baron von Rexin his minister

plenipotentiary, and commanded him to return with the ambassador from

Tartary and present the signed treaty to the Grand Sultan.

“Now the struggle can begin anew,” said Frederick, when he was once more

alone. “I will recommence with the new year; I will battle as I have

already done; I will consider nothing but my honor and the glory of

Prussia. I will not live to see the moment when I will consent to a

disgraceful peace. No representations, no eloquence shall bring me to

acknowledge my own shame. I will be buried under the ruins of my native

land, or if this consolation be denied me by my unfortunate fate, I will

know how to end my misfortunes. Honor alone has led my footsteps, and

I will follow no other guide. I sacrificed my youth to my father, my

manhood to my country, and I have surely gained the right to dispose of

my old age. There are people who are docile and obedient toward fate.

I am not one of them. Having lived for others, I dare at least die

for myself, careless what the world may say. Nothing shall force me to

prefer a weak old age to death. I will dare all for the accomplishment

of my plans; they failing, I will die an honorable death. But no! no!”

said the king, smiling after a short pause. “I will not indulge in such

sad and despairing thoughts on the day which has shown me the first ray

of sunlight after so many storms. Perhaps the year sixty-two will be

more fortunate than the one just passed. I stand no longer alone; I have

my friends and my allies. Why should I carp, that the world calls them

unbelievers? I have seen Christians betray and murder one another.

Perhaps unbelievers are better Christians than believers. We will

try them, at least. When all deserted me, they offered me the hand of

friendship. This is the first sunbeam which has greeted me. Perhaps

bright days may now follow the storms. May God grant it!” [Footnote: The

king was not deceived. The Empress Elizabeth died in the commencement of

the year 1762. Her successor Peter the Third, was a passionate admirer

of Frederick the Great, and he now became the ally of Prussia. The

Empress Catharine approved this change, and remained the ally of

Prussia. France now withdrew from the contest; and in the year 1763,

Austria, finding her treasury completely exhausted, was compelled to

make peace with Prussia. Prussia had no use for her new ally of Tartary,

and Krimgirai, who was already on the march, returned home with his

army.--See “Memoires du Baron de Tott sur les Turcs et les Tartares.”]

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER I. THE KING’S RETURN.

Berlin was glittering in festal adornment! This was a great, a joyous

day; the first gleam of sunshine, after many long years of sorrow,

suffering, and absolute want. For the last seven years the king had been

absent from his capital-to-day he would return to Berlin.

After seven years of bloody strife, the powers at Hubertsburg had

declared peace. No nation had enlarged its boundaries by this war. Not

one of the cities or fortresses of the King of Prussia had been taken

from him, and he was forced to content himself with his former conquest.

There had been no successful results! Losses only were to be calculated.

During these seven years, Russia had lost one hundred and eighty

thousand men, the French two hundred thousand, the Prussians a hundred

and twenty thousand, the English and confederate Germans a hundred and

sixty thousand, and the Saxons ninety thousand--lastly, the Swedes and

the States sixty thousand. This seven years’ war cost Europe nearly a

million of men. Their blood fertilized the German soil, and their bones

lay mouldering beneath her green sods.

Throughout all Europe, weeping mothers, wives, and children turned their

sorrowful faces toward the land which had robbed them of their dear

loved ones; they were even deprived the painfully sweet consolation of

weeping over these lonely and neglected graves.

Losses were not only to be counted in myriads of men, whose blood had

been shed in vain, but uncounted millions had been lavished upon the

useless strife.

During this war, the debt of England had increased to seventy million

pounds sterling; the yearly interest on the debt was four and a half

million crowns. The Austrians calculated their debt at five hundred

million guldens; France at two thousand million livres; Sweden was

almost bankrupt, and unfortunate Saxony had to pay to Prussia during the

war over seven million crowns.

In the strict meaning of the term, Prussia had made no debt, but she

was, in fact, as much impoverished as her adversaries. The Prussian

money which was circulated during the war was worthless.

At the close of the war, all those who carried these promissory notes

shared the fate of the rich man in the fairy tale. The money collected

at night turned to ashes before morning. This was the fatal fruit of

the war which for seven years had scourged Europe. Prussia, however,

had reason to be satisfied and even grateful. Although bleeding from a

thousand wounds, exhausted and faint unto death, she promised a speedy

recovery; she was full of youthful power and energy--had grown, morally,

during this seven years’ struggle--had become great under the pressure

of hardship and self-denial, and now ranked with the most powerful

nations of Europe.

To-day, however, suffering and destitution were forgotten: only

smiling, joyous faces were seen in Berlin. The whole city seemed to be

invigorated by the golden rays of fortune; no one appeared to suffer,

no one to mourn for the lost--and yet amongst the ninety-eight thousand

inhabitants of Berlin, over thirty thousand received alms weekly--so

that a third of the population were objects of charity. To-day no one

thirsted, no one was hungry; all hearts were merry, all faces glad!

They had not seen their great King Frederick for seven years; they would

look upon him to-day. The royal family had arrived from Magdeburg.

Every one hastened to the streets to see Frederick, who on his departure

had been but the hero-king of Prussia, but who now, on his return, was

the hero of all Europe--whom all nations greeted--whose name was uttered

in Tartary, in Africa, with wonder and admiration--yes, in all parts of

the civilized and uncivilized world!

The streets were filled with laughing crowds; all pressed toward the

Frankfort gate, where the king was to enter. The largest arch of

triumph was erected over this gate, and all other streets were decorated

somewhat in the same manner. Every eye was turned toward this street;

all were awaiting with loudly-beating hearts the appearance of that hero

whose brow was decked with so many costly laurels. No heart was more

impatient, no one gazed so eagerly at the Frankfort gate as the good

Marquis d’Argens; he stood at the head of the burghers, near the arch of

triumph; he had organized the citizens for this festal reception; he had

left his cherished retirement for love of his royal friend; to welcome

him, he had ventured into the cutting wind of a cold March morning. For

Frederick’s sake he had mounted a horse, a deed of daring he had not

ventured upon for many a year; in his lively impatience, he even forgot

the danger of being run away with or dragged in the dust.

The marquis knew well that nothing could be more disagreeable to the

king than this public reception, but his heart was overflowing with hope

and happiness, and he felt the necessity of shouting his vivats in

the sunny air. In the egotism of his love, he forgot to respect the

preferences of the king.

Perhaps Frederick suspected this triumph which his good Berliners had

prepared for him. Perhaps it appeared to his acute sensibilities and

noble heart altogether inappropriate to welcome the returned soldiers

with wild shouts of joy, when so many thousand loved ones were lying

buried on the bloody battle-field. Perhaps he did not wish to see

Berlin, where his mother had so lately died, adorned in festal array.

Hour after hour passed. The sun was setting. The flowers which had been

taken from the greenhouses to decorate the arch of triumph, bowed their

lovely heads sadly in the rough March winds. The fresh, cool breeze

whistled through the light draperies and displaced their artistic folds.

Notwithstanding the enthusiasm of the citizens, they began to be hungry,

and to long greatly for the conclusion of these solemnities. Still the

king came not. The Berliners waited awhile longer, and then one after

another quietly withdrew. This bad example was speedily imitated, and

the gay cortege of riders grew small by degrees and beautifully less. At

sunset but a few hundred citizens remained at the gate, and even these

heroic Spartans showed but little of the enthusiasm of the morning.

Marquis d’Argens was in despair, and if Frederick had arrived at this

moment he would have heard a reproachful phillipic from his impatient

friend instead of a hearty welcome. But fortune did not favor him so

far as to give him the opportunity to relieve his temper. The king did

not appear. The marquis at last proposed to the citizens to get torches,

and thus in spite of the darkness give to their king a glittering

reception. They agreed cheerfully, and the most of them dashed off to

the city to make the necessary preparations.

The streets were soon brilliantly lighted, and now in the distance the

king’s carriage was seen approaching. Throughout the vast train shouts

and vivats were heard, and the proud voices of this happy people filled

the air as with the thunder of artillery.

“Long life to the king! Long life to Frederick the Great!”

The carriage came nearer and nearer, and now myriads of lights danced

around it. The citizens had returned with their torches, and the

carriage of Frederick rolled on as if in a sea of fire. It drew up

at the arch of triumph. The king rose and turned his face toward his

people, who were shouting their glad welcome. The light from the torches

fell upon his countenance, and their red lustre gave his cheek a fresh

and youthful appearance.

His subjects saw once more his sparkling, speaking eye, in which shone

the same energy, the same imperial power, as in days gone by. They saw

the soft, sympathetic smile which played around his eloquent lips--they

saw him, their king, their hero, and were glad. They laughed and shouted

with rapture. They stretched out their arms as if to clasp in one

universal embrace their dear-loved king, who was so great, so beautiful,

so far above them in his bright radiance. They threw him fond kisses,

and every utterance of his name seemed a prayer to God for his

happiness.

But one stood by the carriage who could not speak--whose silent,

trembling lips were more eloquent than words. No language could express

the delight of D’Argent--no words could paint the emotion which moved

his soul and filled his eyes with tears.

The king recognized him, and holding out his hand invited him to take

a seat in the carriage. Then giving one more greeting to his people, he

said, “Onward--onward to Charlottenburg.”

At a quick pace the carriage drove through Berlin. Those who had not had

the courage and strength to await the king at the Frankfort gate, were

now crowding the streets to welcome him.

Frederick did not raise himself again from the dark corner of the

carriage. He left it to the Duke of Brunswick to return the salutations

of the people. He remained motionless, and did not even appear to hear

the shouts of his subjects. Not once did he raise his hand to greet

them--not a word passed his lips.

When they crossed the king’s bridge and reached the castle grounds, the

people were assembled and closely crowded together. Frederick now raised

himself, but he did not see them--he did not regard the brilliantly

illuminated houses, or the grounds sparkling in a flood of light. He

turned slowly and sadly toward the castle--his eye rested upon that

dark, gloomy mass of stone, which arose to the right, and contrasted

mysteriously with the brilliant houses around it. It looked like a

monstrous coffin surrounded by death-lights. Frederick gazed long and

steadily at the castle. He raised his head once more, but not to greet

his subjects. He covered his face--he would not be looked at in his

grief. D’Argens heard him murmur, “My mother, oh my mother! Oh, my

sister!”

The Prussians welcomed joyously the return of their great king,

but Frederick thought only at this moment of those who could never

return--those whom death had torn from him forever. Onward, onward

through the lighted streets! All the inhabitants of Berlin seemed to be

abroad. This was a Roman triumph, well calculated to fill the heart of a

sovereign with just pride.

The Berliners did not see that Frederick had no glance for them. Gloom

and despair veiled his countenance, and no one dreamed that this king,

whom they delighted to honor, was at this proud moment a weeping son, a

mourning brother.

At last the joyous, careless city lay behind them, and they approached

Charlottenburg.

The noise and tumult gradually ceased, and a welcome quiet ensued.

Frederick did not utter one word, and no one dared to break the

oppressive silence. This triumphant procession seemed changed to a

burial-march. The victor in so many battles seemed now mastered by his

memories.

The carriage drew up at Charlottenburg. The wide court was filled

with the inhabitants of the little city, who welcomed the king as

enthusiastically as the Berliners had done. Frederick saluted them

abruptly, and stepped quickly into the hall.

The castle had been changed into a temple of glory and beauty in honor

of the king’s return. The pillars which supported it were wound around

with wreaths of lovely, fragrant blossoms; costly draperies, gay flags,

and emblems adorned the walls; the floors were covered with rich Turkish

carpets; the gilded candelabras shed their variegated lights in every

direction, irradiating the faces of the court cavaliers glittering with

stars and orders, and the rich toilets of the ladies. The effect was

dazzling.

In the middle of the open space two ladies were standing, one in royal

attire, sparkling in diamonds and gold embroideries, the other in

mourning, with no ornament but pearls, the emblem of tears. The one with

a happy, hopeful face gazed at the king; the other with a sad, weary

countenance, in which sickness, sorrow, and disappointment had drawn

their heavy lines, turned slowly toward him; her large eyes, red with

weeping, were fixed upon him with an angry, reproachful expression.

Frederick drawing near, recognized the queen and the Princess Amelia. At

the sight of this dearly-beloved face, the queen, forgetting her usual

timidity and assumed coldness, stepped eagerly forward and offered both

her hands to her husband. Her whole heart, the long-suppressed fervor

of her soul, spoke in her moist and glowing eyes. Her lips, which had so

long been silent, so long guarded their sweet secret, expressed, though

silently, fond words of love. Elizabeth Christine was no longer young,

no longer beautiful; she had passed through many years of suffering and

inward struggle, but at this moment she was lovely. The eternal youth

of the soul lighted her fair brow--the flash of hope and happiness

glimmered in her eyes. But Frederick saw nothing of this. He had no

sympathy for this pale and gentle queen, now glowing with vitality. He

thought only of the dearly-loved queen and mother who had gone down into

the cold, dark grave. Frederick bowed coldly to Elizabeth Christine, and

took both her hands in his a short moment.

“Madame,” said he, “this is a sad moment. The queen my mother is missing

from your side.”

Elizabeth Christine started painfully, and the hands which the king had

released fell powerless to her side. Frederick’s harsh, cruel words had

pierced her heart and quenched the tears of joy and hope which stood in

her eyes.

Elizabeth was incapable of reply. Princess Amelia came to her relief.

“If my brother, the king, while greeting us after his long absence, is

unconscious of our presence and sees only the faces of the dead, he must

also be forced to look upon my unhappy brother, Prince Augustus William,

who died of a broken heart.”

The king’s piercing eyes rested a moment with a strangely melancholy

expression upon the sorrowful, sickly face of the Princess Amelia.

“Not so, my sister,” said he, softly and gently; “I not only see those

who have been torn from us by death. I look upon and welcome gladly

those who have been spared to me. I am happy to see you here to-day, my

sister.”

Frederick offered Amelia his hand, and bowing silently to those who

were present, he entered his apartment, followed only by the Marquis

d’Argens.

Frederick stepped rapidly through the first room, scarcely looking at

the new paintings which adorned the walls; he entered his study and

threw a long, thoughtful glance around this dear room. Every piece of

furniture, every book, recalled charming memories of the past--every

thing stood as he had left it seven years ago. He now for the first time

realized the joy of being again at home; his country had received him

and embraced him with loving arms.

With glowing cheeks he turned toward the marquis, who was leaning

against the door behind him.

“Oh, D’Argens! it is sweet to be again in one’s own native land--the

peace of home is sweet. The old furniture appears to welcome me; that

old chair stretches its arms wooingly toward me, as if to lure me to its

bosom, and give me soft sleep and sweet dreams in its embrace. Marquis,

I feel a longing to gratify my old friend; I yield to its gentle, silent

pleadings.”

Frederick stepped to the arm-chair and sank into it with an expression

of indescribable comfort.

“Ah, now I feel that I am indeed at home.”

“Allow me,” said D’Argens, “to say, your majesty, what the dear old

arm-chair, in spite of its eloquence, cannot express. I, also, am a

piece of the old furniture of this dear room, and in the name of all my

voiceless companions, I cry ‘Welcome to my king!’ We welcome you to your

country and your home. You return greater even than when you left us.

Your noble brow is adorned with imperishable laurels; your fame resounds

throughout the earth, and every nation sings to you a hymn of victory.”

“Well, well,” said Frederick, smilingly, “do not look too sharply at my

claims to such world-wide renown, or my fame will lose a portion of

its lustre. You will see that chance has done almost every thing for

me--more than my own valor and wisdom, and the bravery of my troops

combined. Chance has been my best ally during this entire war.

[Footnote: The king’s own words.] Chance enabled me to escape the famine

camp of Bunzelwitz--chance gave me the victory over my enemies. Speak

no more of my fame, marquis, at least not in this sacred room, where

Cicero, Caesar, Lucretius, and Thucydides look down upon us from the

walls; where the voiceless books with their gilded letters announce to

us that we are surrounded by great spirits. Speak not of fame to me,

D’Argens, when from yonder book-shelf I see the name of Athalie. I would

rather have written Athalie, than to have all the fame arising from this

seven years’ war.” [Footnote: Ibid.]

“Herein I recognize the peaceful, noble tastes of my king,” said

D’Argens, deeply moved; “years of hardship and victory have not changed

him--the conquering hero is the loving friend and the wise philosopher.

I knew this must be so--I knew the heart of my king; I knew he would

regard the day on which he gave peace to his people as far more glorious

than any day of bloody battle and triumphant victory. The day of peace

to Prussia is the most glorious, the happiest day of her great king’s

life.”

Frederick shook his head softly, and gazed with infinite sadness at his

friend’s agitated countenance.

“Ah, D’Argens, believe me, the most beautiful, the happiest day is that

on which we take leave of life.”

As Frederick turned his eyes away from his friend, they fell

accidentally upon a porcelain vase which stood upon a table near his

secretary; he sprang hastily from his chair.

“How came this vase here?” he said, in a trembling voice.

“Sire,” said the marquis, “the queen-mother, shortly before her death,

ordered this vase to be placed in this room; she prized it highly--it

was a present from her royal brother, George II. Her majesty wished

that, on your return from the war, it might serve as a remembrance of

your fond mother At her command, I placed that packet of letters at the

foot of the vase, after the queen mother had sealed and addressed it

with her dying hand.”

Frederick was silent, he bowed his head upon the vase, as if to cool his

burning brow upon its cold, glassy surface. He, perhaps, wished also to

conceal from his friend the tears which rolled slowly down his cheeks,

and fell upon the packet of letters lying before him.

The king kissed the packet reverentially, and examined with a deep sigh

the trembling characters traced by the hand of his beloved mother.

“For my son--the king.”

Frederick read the address softly. “Alas! my dear mother, how poor you

have made me. I am now no longer a son--only a king!”

He bowed his head over the packet, and pressed his mother’s writing to

his lips, then laid the letters at the foot of the vase and remained

standing thoughtfully before it.

A long pause ensued. Frederick stood with folded arms before the vase,

and the marquis leaned against the door behind him. Suddenly the king

turned to him.

“I beg a favor of you, marquis. Hasten to Berlin, and tell Benda he must

perform the Te Deum of my dear Graun here in the castle chapel to-morrow

morning at nine o’clock. I know the singers of the chapel can execute

it--they gave it once after the battle of Leignitz. Tell Benda to make

no difficulties, for it is my express wish to hear the music to-morrow

morning. I trust to you, marquis, to see my wish fulfilled, to make the

impossible possible, if you find it necessary. Call me capricious if

you will, for desiring to hear this music to-morrow. I have so long been

controlled by stern realities, that I will allow myself now to yield to

a caprice.”

He gave his hand to the marquis, who pressed it to his lips.

“Sire, to-morrow morning at nine o’clock the Te Deum shall be performed

in the chapel, should I even be compelled to pass the night in arousing

the musicians from their beds.”

The marquis kept his word; he surmounted all difficulties, removed all

objections. In vain Benda declared the organ in the chapel was out of

tune, the performance impossible; the marquis hastened to the organist

and obliged him to put it in order that night. In vain the singers

protested against singing this difficult music before the king without

preparation; D’Argens commanded them in the name of the king to have a

rehearsal during the night. Thanks to his nervous energy and zeal,

the singers assembled, and Benda stood before his desk to direct this

midnight concert.

When the clock struck nine the next morning every difficulty had been

set aside, and every preparation completed. The organist was in his

place, the organ in order; the musicians tuned their instruments, the

singers were prepared, and the chapel-master, Benda, was in their midst,

baton in hand.

All eyes were directed toward the door opposite the choir, through

which the court must enter; all hearts were beating with joyful

expectation--all were anxious to see the king once more in the midst of

his friends, in his family circle. Every one sympathized in the queen’s

happiness at being accompanied once more by her husband; laying aside

her loneliness and widowhood, and appearing in public by his side.

All eyes, as we have said, were impatiently directed toward the door,

waiting for the appearance of their majesties and the court.

Suddenly the door opened. Yes, there was the king. He stepped forward

very quietly, his head a little bowed down; in the midst of the solemn

stillness of the chapel his step resounded loudly.

Yes, it was Frederick the Great, he was alone, accompanied by no royal

state, surrounded by no glittering crowd--but it was the king; in the

glory of his majesty, his endurance, and his valor, radiant in the

splendor of his heroic deeds and his great victories.

Frederick seated himself slowly, gave one quick glance at the choir,

and waved his hand to them. Benda raised his baton and gave the sign to

commence. And now a stream of rich harmony floated through the chapel.

The organ, with its powerful, majestic tones; the trumpets, with their

joyous greeting; the drums, with their thunder, and the soft, melting

tones of the violin and flute, mingled together in sweet accord.

The king, with head erect and eager countenance, listened to the

beautiful and melodious introduction. He seemed to be all ear, to have

no other thought, no other passion than this music, which was wholly

unknown to him. And now, with a powerful accord, the sweetly attuned

human voices joined in, and the choir sang in melting unison the Te Deum

Laudamus, which resounded solemnly, grandly through the aisles. The king

turned pale, and as the hymn of praise became more full and rich, his

head sank back and his eyes were fixed upon the floor.

Louder and fuller rose the solemn tones; suddenly, from the midst of the

choir, a soft, melting tenor sang in a sweet, touching voice, Tuba mirum

spargeus sonum. Frederick’s head sank still lower upon his breast, and

at last, no longer able to restrain his tears, he covered his face with

his hands.

The lofty strains of this solemn hymn resounded through the empty

church, which until now had been wrapped in gray clouds, but in a

moment the sun burst from behind the clouds, darted its rays through

the windows, and lighted up the church with golden glory. The king

who, until now, had been in the shadow of the cloud, was as if by magic

bathed in a sea of light. All eyes were fixed upon his bowed head, his

face partially covered with his hands, and the tears gushing from his

eyes.

No one could withstand the silent power of this scene; the eyes of the

singers filled with tears, and they could only continue their chant in

soft, broken, sobbing tones, but Benda was not angry; he dared not look

at them, lest they might see that his own stern eyes were veiled in

tears.

Frederick seemed more and more absorbed in himself--lost in painful

memories. But the loud hosannas resounded and awakened him from his

slumber; he dared no longer give himself up to brooding. He arose slowly

from his seat, and silent and alone, even as he had entered, he left the

church.

CHAPTER II. PRINCE HENRY.

Seven years had passed since Prince Henry had left his wife, to fight

with his brother against his enemies. During these long years of strife

and contest, neither the king nor the prince had returned to Berlin.

Like the king, he also had won for himself fame and glory upon the

battle-field. Much more fortunate than his brother, he had won many

victories, and had not sustained a single defeat with his army corps.

More successful in all his undertakings than Frederick, perhaps also

more deliberate and careful, he had always chosen the right hour

to attack the enemy, and was always prepared for any movement. His

thoughtfulness and energy had more than once released the king from

some disagreeable or dangerous position. To the masterly manner in which

Prince Henry managed to unite his forces with those of his brother after

the battle of Kunersdorf, the king owed his escape from the enemies

which then surrounded him. And to the great and glorious victory

gained by Prince Henry over the troops of the empire and of Austria at

Freiberg, the present happy peace was to be attributed. This battle had

subdued the courage of the Austrians, and had filled the generals of the

troops of the empire with such terror, that they declared at once their

unwillingness to continue the war, and their determination to return

with their forces to their different countries.

The battle of Freiberg was the last battle of the Seven Years’ War. It

brought to Prince Henry such laurels as the king had gained at Leignitz

and Torgau; it placed him at his brother’s side as an equal. Frederick

saw it without envy or bitterness, and rejoiced in the fulness of his

great soul, in his brother’s fame. When he found himself, for the first

time after the Seven Years’ War, surrounded at Berlin by the princes and

generals, he advanced with a cordial smile to his brother, and laying

his hand gently on his shoulder, said aloud:

“You see here, sirs, the only one amongst us all who did not commit a

single mistake during the war!”

Seven years had passed since Prince Henry had seen his young wife,

Princess Wilhelmina. He could at last return to her--to his beloved

Rheinsberg, and find rest after his many years of wandering. He had

written to the princess, and requested her not to meet him in Berlin,

but to find some pretext for remaining at Rheinsberg. His proud soul

could not endure the thought that the woman he loved, who appeared to

him fit to grace the first throne of the world, would occupy an inferior

position at court--would have to stand behind the queen. He had never

envied the king his crown or his position, but his heart now craved the

crown of the queen, for the brow of his own beautiful wife, who

seemed much better fitted to wear it than the gentle, timid Elizabeth

Christine. Princess Wilhelmina had therefore remained at Rheinsberg,

feigning sickness.

It was night! The castle of Rheinsberg glittered with the light of the

torches by which the gates were adorned, to welcome the prince to his

home. The saloons and halls were brilliantly lighted, and in them a gay,

merry crowd was assembled. All the prince’s friends and acquaintances

had been invited by Princess Wilhelmina to greet his return.

Every thing in the castle bore the appearance of happiness--all seemed

gay and cheerful. But still, there was one whose heart was beating

anxiously at the thought of the approaching hour--it was the Princess

Wilhelmina. She was gorgeously dressed; diamonds glittered on her brow

and throat, bright roses gleamed upon her breast, and a smile was on her

full, red lips. No one knew the agony this smile cost her! No one knew

that the red which burned upon her cheek was caused, not by joy, but

terror!

Yes, terror! She was afraid of this meeting, in which she was to

receive the prince as her loved husband, while, during the long years of

absence, he had become a perfect stranger to her. Not even bound to him

by the daily occurrences of life, she had no sympathies with the husband

who had been forced upon her, and who had once contemptuously put aside

the timid heart that was then prepared to love him. This stranger she

was now to meet with every sign of love, because he had one day waked up

to the conviction that the heart he had once spurned was worthy of

him. It was her duty now to return this love--to consecrate the rich

treasures of her heart to him who had once scorned them. Her soul rose

in arms at this thought like an insulted lioness, and she felt some of

that burning hatred that the lioness feels for her master who wishes to

tame her with an iron rod. The prince was to her but her master, who had

bound and held her heart in irons, to keep it from escaping from him.

During these seven long years, she had experienced all the freedom and

happiness of girlhood; her heart had beat with a power, a fire condemned

by the princess herself, but which she was incapable of extinguishing.

Trembling and restless, she wandered through the rooms, smiling when she

would have given worlds to have shrieked out her pain, her agony; decked

in splendid garments, when she would gladly have been in her shroud.

Every sound every step, filled her with terror, for it might announce

the arrival of her husband, whom she must welcome with hypocritical love

and joy. Could she but show him her scorn, her hatred, her indifference!

But the laws of etiquette held her in their stern bonds and would not

release her. She was a princess, and could not escape from the painful

restraints of her position. She had not the courage to do so. At times

in her day-dreams, she longed to leave all the cold, deceitful glare, by

which she was surrounded--to go to some far distant valley, and there

to live alone and unknown, by the side of her lover, where no etiquette

would disturb their happiness--where she would be free as the birds of

the air, as careless as the flowers of the field. But these wild dreams

vanished when the cold, cruel reality appeared to her. By the side of

the once loving woman stood again the princess, who could not surrender

the splendor and magnificence by which she was surrounded. She had not

the courage nor the wish to descend from her height to the daily life of

common mortals. There was dissension in her soul between the high-born

princess and the loving, passionate woman. She was capable of making

any and every sacrifice for her love, but she had never openly confessed

this love, and even in her wildest dreams she had never thought of

changing her noble name and position for those of her lover. She could

have fled with him to some distant valley, but would she be happy? Would

she not regret her former life? Princess Wilhelmina felt the dissension

in her soul, and therefore she trembled at the thought of her husband’s

return. This meeting would decide her whole future. Perhaps she could

still be saved. The prince, returning covered with fame and crowned with

laurels, might now win her love, and drive from her heart every other

thought. But if he cannot win it--if his return is not sufficient to

loosen the chains which bind her--then she was lost--then she could not

resist the intoxicating whispers luring her to ruin.

These were Princess Wilhelmina’s thoughts as she leaned against a window

of the brilliant ball-room, the protection of whose heavy curtains she

had sought to drive for a moment from her face the gay smile and to

breathe out the sighs that were almost rending her heart. She was gazing

at the dark night without--at the bright, starry sky above. Her lips

moved in a low prayer--her timid soul turned to God with its fears.

“O God, my God!” murmured she, “stand by me. Take from me the sinful

thoughts that fill my heart. Make me to love my husband. Keep my soul

free from shame and sin.”

Hasty steps, loud, merry voices from the hall, disturbed her dreams. She

left her retreat, meeting everywhere gay smiles and joyous faces. At the

door stood the prince her husband. He advanced eagerly to her side, and

ignoring etiquette and the gay assemblage alike he pressed the princess

to his heart and kissed her on both cheeks.

Wilhelmina drew from him in deadly terror, and a burning anger filled

her heart. Had she loved the prince, this public demonstration of his

tenderness would perhaps have pleased and surely been forgiven by her.

As it was, she took his embrace and kisses as an insult, which was only

to be endured by compulsion--for which she would surely revenge herself.

Prince Henry was so joyous, so happy at meeting his wife once more, that

he did not notice her embarrassed silence, her stiff haughtiness, and

thought she shared his joy, his delight.

This confidence seemed to the princess presumptuous and humiliating.

She confessed to herself that the prince’s manners were not in the least

improved by his long campaign--that they were somewhat brusque. He took

her hand tenderly; leading her to a divan, and seated himself beside

her, but suddenly jumping up he left her, and returned in a few moments

with his friend Count Kalkreuth.

“Permit me, Wilhelmina,” said he, “to introduce to you again my dear

friend and companion in arms. Men say I have won some fame, but I assure

you that if it is true, Kalkreuth deserves the largest share, for he

was the gardener who tended my laurels with wise and prudent hands. I

commend him, therefore, to your kindness and friendship, Wilhelmina, and

beg you to evince for him a part of that affection you owe to me, and

which causes my happiness.”

There was something so noble, so open, and knightly in the prince’s

manner, that Count Kalkreuth, deeply touched, thought in his heart for

a moment that he would not deceive this noble friend with treachery and

faithlessness.

The prince’s words had a different effect upon the princess. Instead

of being touched by his great confidence in her, she was insulted. It

indicated great arrogance and self-conceit to be so sure of her love as

to see no danger, but to bring his friend to her and commend him to her

kindness. It humiliated her for the prince to speak with such confidence

of her affection as of a thing impossible to lose. She determined,

therefore, to punish him. With a bright smile, she held out her hand

to the count, and said to him a few kind words of welcome. How she had

trembled at the thought of this meeting--how she had blushed at the

thought of standing beside the count with the conviction that not one of

her words was forgotten--that the confession of love she had made to

the departing soldier belonged now to the returned nobleman! But her

husband’s confidence had shorn the meeting of all its terror, and made

the road she had to travel easy.

The count bowed deeply before her and pressed her hand to his lips. She

returned the pressure of his hand, and, as he raised his head and fixed

an almost imploring glance upon her, he encountered her eyes beaming

with unutterable love.

The court assembly stood in groups, looking with cold, inquisitive

eyes at the piquant scene the prince in the innocence of his heart had

prepared for them--which was to them an inimitable jest, an excellent

amusement. They all knew--what the prince did not for a moment

suspect--that Count Kalkreuth adored the princess. They now desired to

see if this love was returned by the princess, or suffered by her as a

coquette.

None had gazed at this scene with such breathless sympathy, such cruel

joy, as Madame du Trouffle. Being one of the usual circle at Rheinsberg,

she had been invited by the princess to the present fete, and it seemed

to her very amusing to receive her own husband, not at their home, but

at the castle of her former lover. Major du Trouffle was on the prince’s

staff, and had accompanied him to Rheinsberg.

Louise had not as yet found time to greet her husband. Her glance was

fixed eagerly upon the princess; she noticed her every movement, her

every look; she watched every smile, every quiver of her lip. Her

husband stood at her side--he had been there for some time, greeting her

in low, tender words--but Louise did not attend to him. She seemed not

to see him; her whole soul was in her eyes, and they were occupied with

the princess. Suddenly she turns her sparkling eyes upon her husband

and murmurs. “He is lost! His laurels will be insufficient to cover the

brand which from to-day on will glow upon his brow!” Her husband looked

at her in amazement.

“Is this your welcome, after seven long years of absence, Louise?” said

he, sadly.

She laid her hand hastily upon his arm, saying, “Hush, hush!” Once more

she gazed at the princess, who was talking and laughing gayly with

her husband and Count Kalkreuth. “How her cheeks glow, and what tender

glances she throws him!” murmured Louise. “Ah! the prince has fallen a

victim to his ingenuousness! Verily, he is again praising the merits of

his friend. He tells her how Kalkreuth saved his life--how he received

the blow meant for his own head. Poor prince! You will pay dearly for

the wound Kalkreuth received for you. I said, and I repeat it--he is

lost!”

Her husband looked at her as if he feared she had gone mad during his

absence. “Of whom do you speak, Louise?” whispered he. “What do you

mean? Will you not speak one word of welcome to me to convince me that

you know me--that I have not become a stranger to you?” The princess now

arose from her seat, and leaning on her husband’s arm she passed through

the room, talking merrily with Count Kalkreuth at her side. “They have

gone to the conservatory,” said Louise, grasping her husband’s arm.

“We will also go and find some quiet, deserted place where we can talk

undisturbed.”

CHAPTER III. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

Louise du Trouffle drew her husband onward, and they both followed

silently the great crowd which was now entering the splendidly

illuminated conservatories. The view offered to the eye was superb.

You seemed to be suddenly transplanted as if by magic from the stiff,

ceremonious court-saloons into the fresh, fragrant, blooming world of

nature. You breathed with rapture the odor of those rare and lovely

flowers which were arranged in picturesque order between the evergreen

myrtles and oranges. The windows, and indeed the ceiling were entirely

covered with vines, and seemed to give color to the illusion that you

were really walking in an open alley. Colored Chinese balloons attached

to fine chains, fell from the ceiling, and seemed to float like gay

butterflies between the trees and flowers. They threw their soft, faint,

many-colored lights through these enchanting halls, on each side of

which little grottoes had been formed by twining together myrtles,

palms, and fragrant bushes. Each one of these held a little grass-plot,

or green divan, and these were so arranged that the branches of the

palms were bent down over the seats, and concealed those who rested

there behind a leafy screen.