History of Friedrich II of Prussia V 11 [32]
crowding about him: he escaped deftly into the Marechal's own
Cabinet; sat there, an hour, talking to the Marechal [little
admiring the Marechal's talk, as we shall find], still insisting
on the incognito,"--to which Broglio, put out in his high paces by
this sudden thing, and apt to flounder, as I have heard, was not
polite enough to conform altogether. "What shall I do, in this
sudden case?" poor Broglio is thinking to himself: "must write to
Court; perhaps try to detain--?" Friedrioh's chief thought
naturally is, One cannot be away out of this too soon. "Sha'n't we
go to the Play, then, Monsieur le Marechal? Play-hour is come!"--
Own Correspondent of the Newspaper proceeds:--
"The Marechal then went to the Play, and all his Officers with
him; thinking their royal prize was close at their heels.
Marechal and Officers fairly ahead, coast once clear, their royal
prize hastened back to The Raven, paid his bill; hastily summoning
Schaffgotsch and the others within hearing; shot off like
lightning; and was seen in Strasburg no more. Algarotti, who was
in the box with Broglio, heard the news in the house; regretful
rumor among the Officers, 'He is gone!' In about a quarter of an
hour Algarotti too slipped out; and vanished by extra post"--
straight towards Wesel; but could not overtake the King (whose
road, in the latter part of it, went zigzag, on business as is
likely), nor see him again till they met in that Town.
[From
This is the Prose Truth of those fifty or eight-and-forty hours in
Strasburg, which were so mythic and romantic at that time.
Shall we now apply to the Royal Doggerel again, where we left off,
and see the other side of the picture? Once settled in The Raven,
within Strasburg's walls, the Doggerel continues:--
"You fancy well that there was now something to exercise my
curiosity; and what desire I had to know the French Nation in
France itself.
There I saw at length those French,
Of whom you have sung the glories;
A people despised by the English,
Whom their sad rationality fills with black bile;
Those French, whom our Germans
Reckon all to be destitute of sense;
Those French, whose History consists of Love-stories,
I mean the wandering kind of Love, not the constant;
Foolish this People, headlong, high-going,
Which sings beyond endurance;
Lofty in its good fortune, crawling in its bad;
Of an unpitying extent of babble,
To hide the vacancy of its ignorant mind.
Of the Trifling it is a tender lover;
The Trifling alone takes possession of its brain.
People flighty, indiscreet, imprudent,
Turning like the weathercock to every wind.
Of the ages of the Caesars those of the Louises are the shadow;
Paris is the ghost, of Rome, take it how you will.
No, of those vile French you are not one:
You think; they do not think at all.
La je vis enfin ces Francais
Dont vous avez chante la gloire;
Peuple meprise' des Anglais,
Que leur triste raison remplit de bile noire;
Ces Francais, que nos Allemands
Pensent tous prives de bon sens;
Ces Francais, do nt l'amour pourrait dicter l'histoire,
Je dis l'amour volage, et non l'amour constant;
Ce peuple fou, brusque et galant,
Chansonnier insupportable,
Superbe en sa fortune, en son malheur rampant,
D'un bavardage impitoyable,
Pour cacher le creux d'un esprit ignorant,
Tendre amant de la bagatelle,
Elle entre seule en sa cervelle;
Leger, indiscret, imprudent,
Comme ume girouette il revire a tout vent.
Des siecles des Cesars ceux des Louis sont l'ombre;
Rome efface Paris en tout sens, en tout point.
Non, des vils Francais vous n'etes pas du nombre;
Vous pensez, ils ne pensent point.
"Pardon, dear Voltaire, this definition of the French; at worst,
it is only of those in Strasburg I speak. To scrape acquaintance,
I had to invite some Officers on our arrival, whom of course I did
not know.
Three of them came at once,
Gayer, more content than Kings;
Singing with rusty voice.
In verse, their amorous exploits,
Set