Frederick the Great and His Family [137]
becomes. How rich I was when I began life--how rich when I mounted the throne! Possessing many friends, sisters, brothers, and many charming illusions. The world belonged to me then, with all its joy, all its glory. And now? Where are these friends? Lost to me, either by death or inconstancy! Where are my brothers, sisters? Their hearts have turned from me--their love has grown cold! Where are my joyous illusions? Scattered to the winds! Alas, I am now undeceived, and if the whole world seemed at one time to belong to me, that little spot of earth, paid for with blood and anguish, is no longer mine. Every illusion but one has been torn from my heart--the thirst for glory still remains. I have bid adieu to love, to happiness, but I still believe in fame, and must at least have one laurel-wreath upon my coffin. May death then strike me at his will--the sooner the better, before my heart has become perfectly hardened! And I feel that time is not far distant."
The curtain of his tent was at this moment drawn back, and his secretary, Le Catt, whose acquaintance he had made during his visit to Amsterdam, entered with several letters in his hand. The king advanced eagerly to meet him.
"Well, Le Catt," said he, "has the courier come from Berlin?"
"Yes, sire, he has come," said Le Catt, sighing, "but I fear he brings no good news."
"No good news? Has the enemy forced his way so far?"
"An enemy has, sire; but not the one your majesty is thinking of!"
"How know you what enemy I mean?" said the king, impatiently. "Is it the Russians, or the French?"
"None of your mortal enemies, sire; and the mourning which now reigns in Berlin and will soon reign throughout Prussia, is caused by no enemy of your majesty but by Providence."
The king looked at him earnestly for a moment. "I understand," said he. "Some one of my family has died; is it not so?"
"Yes, sire; your--"
"Be still!" said the king, sternly. "I do not yet wish to know--I have not the strength to bear it--wait a while."
Folding his hands upon his breast, he paced up and down his tent several times, laboring hard for breath. He stood still, and leaning against the window, said: "Now, Le Catt, I can endure any thing; speak--who is it?"
"Sire, it is her majesty."
"My wife?" interrupted the king.
" No, sire; her majesty--"
"My mother!" cried the king, in a heart-broken voice. "My mother!"
He stood thus for a while, with his hands before his face, his form bowed down and trembling like an oak swayed by a storm. Tears escaped through his hands and fell slowly to the ground--groans of agony were wrung from him.
Le Catt could stand it no longer; he approached the king and ventured to say a few consoling words.
"Do not seek to comfort me," said the king; "you do not know what inexpressible pain this loss has caused me."
" Yes, sire, I well know," said Le Catt, "for the queen-mother was the noblest, most gracious princess that ever lived. I can therefore understand your sorrow."
"No, you cannot," said the king, raising his pale, tearful countenance. "You carry your sorrow upon your lips--I upon my heart. The queen was the best of women, and my whole land may well mourn for her. It will not be forced grief, for every one who had the happiness to approach loved and admired her for her many virtues-- for her great kindness. And I feel, I know, that sorrow for the ruin of Prussia has caused her death. She was too noble a princess, too tender a mother, to outlive Prussia's destruction and her son's misfortune."
"But your majesty knows that the queen was suffering from an incurable disease."
"It is true I know it," said the king, sinking slowly upon his camp- stool. "I feared that I might never see her again, and still this news comes totally unexpected."
"Your majesty will overcome this great grief as a philosopher, a hero."
"Ah, my friend," said the king, sadly, "philosophy is a solace in past and future sufferings, but is utterly powerless for present grief; I feel my heart and strength fail. For the last two years I have
The curtain of his tent was at this moment drawn back, and his secretary, Le Catt, whose acquaintance he had made during his visit to Amsterdam, entered with several letters in his hand. The king advanced eagerly to meet him.
"Well, Le Catt," said he, "has the courier come from Berlin?"
"Yes, sire, he has come," said Le Catt, sighing, "but I fear he brings no good news."
"No good news? Has the enemy forced his way so far?"
"An enemy has, sire; but not the one your majesty is thinking of!"
"How know you what enemy I mean?" said the king, impatiently. "Is it the Russians, or the French?"
"None of your mortal enemies, sire; and the mourning which now reigns in Berlin and will soon reign throughout Prussia, is caused by no enemy of your majesty but by Providence."
The king looked at him earnestly for a moment. "I understand," said he. "Some one of my family has died; is it not so?"
"Yes, sire; your--"
"Be still!" said the king, sternly. "I do not yet wish to know--I have not the strength to bear it--wait a while."
Folding his hands upon his breast, he paced up and down his tent several times, laboring hard for breath. He stood still, and leaning against the window, said: "Now, Le Catt, I can endure any thing; speak--who is it?"
"Sire, it is her majesty."
"My wife?" interrupted the king.
" No, sire; her majesty--"
"My mother!" cried the king, in a heart-broken voice. "My mother!"
He stood thus for a while, with his hands before his face, his form bowed down and trembling like an oak swayed by a storm. Tears escaped through his hands and fell slowly to the ground--groans of agony were wrung from him.
Le Catt could stand it no longer; he approached the king and ventured to say a few consoling words.
"Do not seek to comfort me," said the king; "you do not know what inexpressible pain this loss has caused me."
" Yes, sire, I well know," said Le Catt, "for the queen-mother was the noblest, most gracious princess that ever lived. I can therefore understand your sorrow."
"No, you cannot," said the king, raising his pale, tearful countenance. "You carry your sorrow upon your lips--I upon my heart. The queen was the best of women, and my whole land may well mourn for her. It will not be forced grief, for every one who had the happiness to approach loved and admired her for her many virtues-- for her great kindness. And I feel, I know, that sorrow for the ruin of Prussia has caused her death. She was too noble a princess, too tender a mother, to outlive Prussia's destruction and her son's misfortune."
"But your majesty knows that the queen was suffering from an incurable disease."
"It is true I know it," said the king, sinking slowly upon his camp- stool. "I feared that I might never see her again, and still this news comes totally unexpected."
"Your majesty will overcome this great grief as a philosopher, a hero."
"Ah, my friend," said the king, sadly, "philosophy is a solace in past and future sufferings, but is utterly powerless for present grief; I feel my heart and strength fail. For the last two years I have