CHAPTER XI. THE KING AND THE GERMAN SCHOLAR.
It was the winter of 1760. Germany, unhappy Germany, bleeding from a thousand wounds, was for a few months freed from the scourge of war; she could breathe again, and gather new strength for new contests. Stern winter with its ice and snow had alone given peace to the people for a short time. The rulers thought of and willed nothing but war; and the winter's rest was only a time of preparation for new battles. The allies had never yet succeeded in vanquishing the little King of Prussia.
Notwithstanding the disappointments and adversities crowded upon him--though good fortune and success seemed forever to have abandoned him--Frederick stood firm and undaunted, and his courage and his confidence augmented with the dangers which surrounded him.
But his condition appeared so sad, so desperate, that even the heroic Prince Henry despaired. The king had in some degree repaired the disasters of Kunersdorf and Mayen by his great victories at Leignitz and Torgau; but so mournful, so menacing was his position on every side, that even the victories which had driven his enemies from Saxony, and at least assured him his winter quarters, brought him no other advantages, and did not lessen the dangers which threatened him. His enemies stood round about him--they burned with rage and thirst to destroy utterly that king who was always ready to tear from them their newly-won laurels. Only by his complete destruction could they hope to quench the glowing enthusiasm which the people of all Europe expressed by shouts and exultation.
The Russians had their winter quarters for the first time in Pomerania.
The Austrians lay in Silesia and Bohemia. The newly-supplied French army, and the army of the States, were on the Rhine. While the enemies of Frederick remained thus faithful to each other in their war against him, he had just lost his only ally.
King George II. of England was dead, and the weak George III. yielded wholly to the imperious will of his mother and to that of Lord Bute. He broke off his league with Prussia, and refused to pay the subsidy.
Thus Prussia stood alone--without money, without soldiers, without friends--surrounded by powerful and eager enemies--alone and seemingly hopeless, with so many vindictive adversaries.
All this made Prince Henry not only unhappy, but dispirited--palsied his courage, and made him wish to leave the army and take refuge in some vast solitude where he could mourn over the misfortunes of his distracted country. Accordingly he wrote to the king and asked for his discharge.
The king replied:
"It is not difficult, my brother, in bright and prosperous times, to find men willing to serve the state. Those only are good citizens who stand undaunted at the post of danger in times of great crises and disaster. The true calling of a man consists in this: that he should intrepidly carry out the most difficult and dangerous enterprises. The more difficulty, the more danger--the more bright honor and undying fame. I cannot, therefore, believe that you are in earnest in asking for your discharge. It is unquestionable that neither you nor I can feel certain of a happy issue to the circumstances which now surround us.
But when we have done all which lies in our power, our consciences and public opinion will do us justice. We contend for our fatherland and for honor. We must make the impossible possible, in order to succeed. The number of our enemies does not terrify me. The greater their number, the more glorious will be our fame when we have conquered them." [Footnote: Preuss, "History of Frederick the Great," vol. ii., p. 246.]
Prince Henry, ashamed of his despondency, gave to this letter of his brother the answer of a hero. He marched against the Russians, drove them from Silesia, and raised the siege of Breslau, around which the Austrians under Loudon were encamped. Tauentzein, with fearless energy and with but three thousand Prussians, had fortified himself in Breslau against this powerful enemy. So in the very beginning of the winter the capital of Silesia had been retaken By Torgau the king had fought and won his twelfth battle for the possession of Silesia--yes, fought and won from his powerful and irreconcilable enemies. And all this had been in vain, and almost without results. The prospect of peace seemed far distant, and the hope of happiness for Frederick even as remote.
But now winter was upon them. This stern angel of peace had sheathed the sword, and for the time ended the war.
While the pious Maria Theresa and her court ladies made it the mode to prepare lint in their splendid saloons during the winter for the wounded soldiers--while the Russian General Soltikow took up his winter quarters at Poseu, and gave sumptuous feasts and banquets--Frederick withdrew to Leipsic, in which city philosophy and learning were at that time most flourishing. The Leipsigers indeed boasted that they had given an asylum to poetry and art.
The warrior-hero was now changed for a few happy months into the philosopher, the poet, and the scholar. Frederick's brow, contracted by anxiety and care, was now smooth; his eye took again its wonted fire--a smile was on his lip, and the hand which had so long brandished the sword, gladly resumed the pen. He who had so long uttered only words of command and calls to battle, now bowed over his flute and drew from it the tenderest and most melting melodies. The evening concerts were resumed. The musical friends and comrades of the king had been summoned from Berlin; and that nothing might be wanting to make his happiness complete, he had called his best-beloved friend, the Marquis d'Argens, to his side.
D'Argens had much to tell of the siege of Berlin and the Russians--of the firm defence of the burghers-of their patriotism and their courage.
Frederick's eyes glistened with emotion, and in the fulness of his thankful heart he promised to stand by his faithful Berliners to the end. But when D'Argens told of the desolation which the Russians had wrought amongst the treasures of art in Charlottenburg, the brow of the king grew dark, and with profound indignation he said:
"Ah, the Russians are barbarians, who labor only for the downfall of humanity. [Footnote: The king's own words,--Archenholtz, vol. i., p.
282] If we do not succeed in conquering them, and destroying their rude, despotic sovereignty, they will again and ever disquiet the whole of Europe. In the mean time, however," said Frederick, "the vandalism of the Russians shall not destroy our beautiful winter rest. If they have torn my paintings and crushed my statues, we must collect new art-treasures. Gotzkowsky has told me that in Italy, that inexhaustible mine of art, there are still many glorious pictures of the great old masters; he shall procure them for me, and I will make haste to finish this war in order to enjoy my new paintings, and to rest in my beautiful Sans-Souci. Ah, marquis, let us speak no longer of it, in this room at least, let us forget the war. It has whitened my hair, and made an old man of me before my time. My back is bent, and my face is wrinkled as the flounce on a woman's dress. All this has the war brought upon me.
But my heart and my inclinations are unchanged, and I think I dare now allow them a little satisfaction and indulgence. Come, marquis, I have a new poem from Voltaire, sent to me a few days since. We will see if he can find grace before your stern tribunal. I have also some new sins to confess. That is to say, I have some poems composed in the hours of rest during my campaigns. You are my literary father confessor, and we will see if you can give me absolution."
But the king did not dedicate the entire winter to music, and French poems, and gay, cheerful conversation with his friends. A part of this happy time was consecrated to the earnest study of the ancients. For the first time he turned his attention to German literature, and felt an interest in the efforts of German philosophers and poets.
Quintus Icilius, the learned companion of Frederick, had often assured him that the scholarship, the wit, the poetry of Germany, found at this time their best representatives in Leipsic, that he at length became curious to see these great men, of whom Quintus Icilius asserted that they far surpassed the French in scholarship, and in wit and intellect might take their places unchallenged side by side with the French.
The king listened to this assurance with rather a contemptuous smile.
He directed Icilius, however, to present to him some of the Leipsic scholars and authors.
"I will present to your majesty the most renowned scholar and philologist of Leipsic, Professor Gottsched, and the celebrated author, Gellert," said Icilius, with great animation. "Which of the two will your majesty receive first?"
"Bring me first the scholar and philologist," said the king, laughing.
"Perhaps the man has already discovered in this barbarous Dutch tongue a few soft notes and turns, and if so, I am curious to hear them. Go, then, and bring me Professor Gottsched. I have often heard of him, and I know that Voltaire dedicated an ode to him. In the mean time I will read a little in my Lucretius and prepare my soul for the interview with this great Dutchman."
Icilius hastened off to summon the renowned professor to the king.
Gottsched, to whom, at that time, all Germany rendered homage, and who possessed all the pride and arrogance of a German scholar, thought it most natural that the king should wish to know him, and accepted the invitation with a gracious smile. In the complete, heart-felt conviction of his own glory, in the rigid, pedantic array of a magnificent, long-tailed wig, the German professor appeared before the king. His majesty received him in his short, simple, unostentatious manner, and smiled significantly at the pompous manner of the renowned man. They spoke at first of the progress of German philosophy, and the king listened with grave attention to the learned deductions of the professor, but he thought to himself that Gottsched understood but little how to make his knowledge palatable; he was probably a learned, but most certainly a very uninteresting man.
The conversation was carried on with more vivacity when they spoke of poetry and history, and the king entered upon this theme with warm interest.
"In the history of Germany, I believe there is still much concealed,"
said Frederick; "I am convinced that many important documents are yet hidden away in the cloisters."
Gottsched looked up at him proudly. "Pardon, sire," said he, in his formal, pedantic way. "I believe those can be only unimportant documents. To my view, at least, there is no moment of German history concealed--all is clear, and I can give information on every point!"
The king bowed his head with a mocking smile. "You are a great scholar, sir; I dare not boast of any preeminence. I only know the history of the German States written by Pere Barre."
"He has written a German history as well as a foreigner could write it,"
said Gottsched. "For this purpose he made use of a Latin work, written by Struve, in Jena. He translated this book--nothing more. Had Barre understood German, his history would have been better; he would have had surer sources of information at his command."
"But Barre was of Alsace, and understood German," said Frederick, eagerly. "But you, who are a scholar, an author, and a grammarian, tell me, if any thing can be made of the German language?"
"Well, I think we have already made many beautiful things of it," said Gottsched, in the full consciousness of his own fame. "But you have not been able to give it any melody, or any grace," said Frederick. "The German language is a succession of barbarous sounds; there is no music in it. Every tone is rough and harsh, and its many discords make it useless for poetry or eloquence. For instance, in German you call a rival 'Nebenbuhler,' what a fatal, disgusting sound--'Buhler!'"
[Footnote: The king's own words.--Archenholtz, vol. ii., p. 272.]
"Ah, your majesty," said Gottsched, impatiently, "that is also a sound in the French tongue. You should know this, for no one understands better, more energetically than yourself, how to circumvent the 'boules!'"
Frederick laughed; and this gay rejoinder of the learned professor reconciled him somewhat to his puffed-up and haughty self-conceit. "It is true," said he, "this time you are right; but you must admit that, in general, the French language is softer and more melodious!"
"I cannot admit it," said Gottsched, fiercely. "I assert that German is more musical. How harsh, how detestable sounds, for instance, the French 'amour;' how soft and tender--yes, I may say, how characteristic--sounds the word 'liebe!'"
"Aha!" said the king, "you are certainly most happily married, or you would not be so enthusiastic about German 'liebe,' which I admit is a very different thing from French 'amour.' I am, however, convinced that the French language has many advantages over the German. For instance, in the French one word may often suffice to convey many different meanings, while for this purpose several German words must be combined."
"That is true. There your majesty is right," said Gottsched, thoughtfully. "The French language has this advantage. But this shall be no longer so--we will change it! Yes, yes--we will reform it altogether!"
Frederick looked astonished and highly diverted. This assumption of the learned scholar, "to change all that," impressed him through its immensity. [Footnote: Many years afterward the king repeated this declaration of Gottsched to the Duchess of Gotha, "We will change all that," and was highly amused.] "Bring that about sir," said the king, gayly. "Wave your field-marshal's staff and give to the German language that which it has never possessed, grace, significance, and facility; then breathe upon it the capability to express soft passion and tender feeling, and you will do for the language what Julius Caesar did for the people. You will be a conqueror, and will cultivate and polish barbarians!"
Gottsched did not perceive the mockery which lay in these words of the king, but received them smilingly as agreeable flattery. "The German language is well fitted to express tender emotions. I pledge myself to translate any French poem faithfully, and at the same time melodiously,"
said he.
"I will put you to the proof, at once," said the king, opening a book which lay upon the table. "Look! These are the Odes of Rousseau, and we will take the first one which accident presents Listen to this:"
"'Sous un plus heureux auspice, La Deesse des amours, Veut qu'un nouveau sacrifice, Lui consacre vos beaux jours; Deja le bucher s'allume.
L'autel brille, l'encens fume, La victime s'embellit, L'amour meme la consume, Le mystere s'accomplit.'
[Footnote: "Under a most happy omen, The goddess of love Wished that a new sacrifice Should consecrate to her our bright days.
Already the fagots are lighted, The altar glows, the incense fumes, The victim is adorned-- By love itself it is consumed, The mystery accomplished."]
"Do you believe it is possible to translate this beautiful stanza into German?" said the king.
"If your majesty allows me, I will translate it at once," said he. "Give me a piece of paper and a pencil."