Berlin and Sans-Souci; Or, Frederick the Great and His Friends

ian, and this request was supposed to be acceded to. Besides this, the king, who was ever thoughtful of the happiness and comfort of his friends, had proposed to

uous feasts. My soul rests, dreams, and works. I am content to find myself with a king who has neither a court nor a ministry. Truly, Potsdam is infested by many whiskered grenadiers, but, thank Heaven, I see little of them. I work peacefully in my room, while the drums beat without. I have withdrawn from the dinners of the k

sing her fears that Voltaire would himself soon repent that he had left beautiful, glittering Paris, the capital of luxury an

to the king-perhaps to wound him, perhaps to

lips. When he had read it to the end, he returned it, and his eyes met the distrustful, lowering glance of

her-who have the same studies, the same tastes, the same mode of thinking-should grant themselves the satisfaction of living together? I honor you as my teacher of eloquence and poetry; I love you as a virtuous and sympathetic friend. What sort of bondage, what misfortunes, what changes have you to fear in a realm where you are as highly honored as in your fatherland-where you have a powerful friend who advances to meet you with a thankful heart? I am not so prejudiced and foolish as to consider Berlin as handsome as Paris. If good taste has found a home in the world, I confess it is in Paris. But you, Voltaire, will you not inaugurate good taste wherever you are? We have organs sufficiently devel

I feel it; I know it too well! Your majesty has already limited me to your consideration, your regard; but your love, your friendship, these are costly treasures from which I have been disinherited. But I know these hypoc

one to speak evil of them. I will never be partial, never unjust! My heart is capable of valuing and treasurin

by which you give just so much as y

t that so long that no time remained to make the heart perfect; just as she was about to pour a few drops of this wonderful love-essence into your heart, the cock crew three times for your birth, and betrayed you into the world. You h

artyrs me, the torture of being misunderstood by the most amiable, the most intellectual, the most ex

f nature and truth in your tone; you remind me a little of the stilted French tragedies, in which design and premeditation obscure al

h to make me feel how powerless, how pitiful I am. Where shall I find the strength to strive with you? I have won no

is true, a hundred thousand men, but I dare not say that they will not run when it comes to the first battle. You, Voltaire, have your four-and-twenty soldiers of the alphabet, and so well have you exercised them, that you must win every battle, even if all the kings of the earth were allied against you. Let us make peace, then, my 'inv

my four-and-twenty, of whom you speak, have gone over to you

if you will, a pilot, who does not dare to leave the rudder, or even to sleep, lest the fate of the unhappy Palinurus might overtake him. The Muses demand solitude and rest for the soul, and that I can never consecrate to them. Often, when I have written three verses, I am interrupted, my muse is chilled, and my spirit cannot rise again into the heights of inspiration. I k

like the wondrous southern tree which generously bears at the same time fruits and flowers; which inspires and sweetly intoxicates us with its fra

rms to heaven, he exclaimed, with t

qui douez

e sublime

vos grace

ent un peu mo

e spoken the truth," cried Voltaire, eagerly. "You wish to show me that the fruit of your muse ripens

os graces

ent un peu mo

hful. Be less of a flatterer, and speak the simple truth. I desire now to look over with you my compositions of the last few days. I wish you, however, always to remember that when you write, you do so to add to the fame of your nation and to the honor of your fatherland. For myself, I scr

aissis d'au

bien de les mo

rty-eight: am I not then a fool, worthy of condemnation, for daring to do homage to the M

and the Muses and Graces, though women, must ever remain fai

ld horse are alike useless things- good for nothing. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.-Oeuvres Post

-desk, and, seating himself, nod

u must know that I have come with six twin brothers, who desire in the name of Apollo to

he king listened attentively, and nodded approvingly

r majesty is a French writer, who lives by accident in

ningly. "Friend, friend, shall I we

en, wishes to hea

hole t

rses once more. I read them the first time as

ern precision. Sometimes when he came to a false Alexandrine, he gave himself the appearance of being absolutely unable to force

" said he, "the poem is utterly unworth

profound learning be combined? [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.-Oeuvres Posthumes, p. 329.] But even the Graces must stand upon a sure footing, and here, sire, are a few feet which are too long. Truly, that is sometimes unimportant, but the work of a distinguished genius should be PERFECT. You work too rashly, sire-it is sometimes more easy to win a battle than to make a good poem. Your majesty loves the truth so well, that by speaking the truth in all sincerity I shall best pro

my corrections. You cannot comprehend the difficulties I have to overcome in making a few tolerable verses. A happy combination by nature, an irrepressible and fruitful intellect, made you a great poet without any effort of your own. I feel and acknowledge the inferiority of my talent. I swim about in th

ondescend to adorn the Graces and sylphs, the sages and scholars, who stumble about in this sublime poem with somewhat rugged feet, with artistic lim

st lines. He criticised every word with bitter humor, with flashing wit, with mocking irony. Inexorable in his censure, i

jured by the fault-finding of a common man. He was the pupil, with his accomplished teacher; and as he

second edition was about to appear, and Voltaire had undertaken to correct it. He b

e and patience?- -a king who governs his whole kingdom alone? Yes, it is this thought which confounds me! I cannot recov

nd critical words, than from a lengthy speech full of praise and acknowledgment! But tell me

asks for consideratio

st; you have been hars

e king. "It shall not be said that I closed my eyes to his foolishness and absurdity because

love this king because of his royal pomp, and t

the interest he will take in solemnizing my funeral with pomp and regal splendor will dissipate his grief; and if nothing is wanting, nothing fails in the august and beautiful ceremony, he will be entirely comforted.' [Footnote: Thiebault.] He was only great in little things, and therefore

her husband all other things, because he was wise enough to make her his wife and your grand-mother! And if your majesty reproache

autiful, when given by a free people, or earned by a prince. Frederick

u think best, sire; I have nothing more to say, and will content myself with softening a few phrases." [Foot

ind myself of the Abbot von Milliers, who has written a book called 'Reflections on the Faults of Others.' On one occasion he went to hear a sermon of a Capuchin. The monk addressed his audience, in a nasal voice, in the following manner: 'My dear brothers in the Lord, I had intended to

nth," said the king, laughing; "only, I beseech you, when you are with me, not to be c