"_Baireuth, 15th September, 1757._
"MY DEAREST BROTHER,--Your letter and the one you wrote to
Voltaire, my dear brother, have almost killed me. What fatal
resolutions, great God! Ah, my dear brother, you say you love me;
and you drive a dagger into my heart. Your _epitre_, which I did
receive, made me shed rivers of tears. I am now ashamed of such
weakness. My misfortune would be so great that I should find
worthier resources than tears. Your lot shall be mine. I will not
survive either your misfortunes or those of the house I belong to.
You may calculate that such is my firm resolution. But, after this
avowal, allow me to entreat you to look back on what was the
pitiable state of your enemy when you lay before Prag! It is the
sudden whirl of Fortune for both parties. The like may occur
again, when one is least expecting it. Cæsar was the slave of
pirates, and he became the master of the world. A great genius
like yourself finds resources even when all is lost; and it is
impossible this phrenzy can continue. My heart bleeds to think of
the poor souls in Preussen. What horrid barbarity, the detail of
cruelties that go on there! I feel all that you feel on it, my
dear brother. I know your heart, and your sensibility for your
subjects.
"I suffer a thousand times more than I can tell you; nevertheless,
hope does not abandon me. I received your letter of the 14th by
W----. What kindness to think of me, who have nothing to give but
a useless affection, which is so richly repaid by yours! I am
obliged to finish; but I shall never cease to be, with the most
profound respect [_tres profond_ respect--that, and something
still better, if my poor pen were not embarrassed]--your
"WILHELMINA."
On other discomforting rumours coming to the ears of the Margravine
she writes:--
"_Baireuth, 15th October, 1757._
"MY DEAR BROTHER,--Death and a thousand torments could not equal
the frightful state I am in. There run reports that make me
shudder. Some say you are wounded; others, dangerously ill. In
vain have I tormented myself to have news of you; I can get none.
Oh, my dear brother, come what may, I will not survive you. If I
am to continue in this frightful uncertainty, I cannot stand it; I
shall sink under it, and then I shall be happy. I have been on the
point of sending you a courier; but (environed as we are) I durst
not. In the name of God bid somebody write me one word.
"I know not what I have written; my heart is torn in pieces; I
feel that by dint of disquietude and alarms I am losing my wits.
Oh, my dear adorable brother, have pity on me! Heaven grant I be
mistaken, and that you may scold me; but the least thing that
concerns you pierces me to the heart, and alarms my affection too
much. Might I die a thousand times, provided you lived and were
happy!
"I can say no more. Grief chokes me; and I can only repeat that
your fate shall be mine; being, my dear brother, your
"WILHELMINA."