Читать книгу Frederick the Great and His Family - L. Muhlbach - Страница 17

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Painful and bitter were the days for Henry that followed his first disappointment. He passed them in rigid seclusion, in his lonely chambers; he would see no one, no cheerful word or gay laughter was allowed in his presence. The servants looked at him sorrowfully; and when the prince appeared at the parade the day after his painful interview with Louise, even the king found him so pale and suffering, he begged him to take a week’s leave and strengthen and improve his health.

The prince smiled painfully at the king’s proposition, but he accepted his leave of absence, and withdrew to the solitude of his rooms. His heart was wounded unto death, his soul was agonized. Youth soon laid its healing balm upon his wounds and closed them; anger and contempt dried his tears, and soothed the anguish of his heart.

The king was right when he said of his brother, “He is a man, and will recover.” He did recover, and these days of suffering made a man of him; his brow, once so clear and youthful, had received its first mark of sorrow; the lines of his face were harsh and stern, his features sharper and more decided. He had experienced his first disappointment—it had nerved and strengthened him.

Before his eight days’ leave of absence had expired, his door was again open to his circle of friends and confidants.

His first invited guest was the grand chamberlain, Baron Pollnitz. The prince welcomed him with a bright and cheerful face.

“Do you know why I wished to see you?” he asked. “You must tell me the chronique scandaleuse of our most honorable and virtuous city. Commence immediately. What is the on dit of the day?”

“Ah,” sighed Pollnitz, “life is now stupid, dull, and monotonous. As you say, every one has become most honorable and virtuous. No scandals or piquant adventures occur; baptisms, marriages, and burials are the only events. This is really a miserable existence; for as I do not wish to be baptized or to marry, and as I am not yet ready for burial, I really do not know why I exist.”

“But those that are married and baptized, doubtless know why they exist,” said the prince, smiling. “Tell me something of this happy class. Whose, for example, is the latest marriage?”

“The latest marriage?” said Pollnitz, hesitating—“before answering, I must allow myself to ask after the condition of your heart. Does it still suffer?”

“No,” cried the prince, “it does not suffer; it received a heavy shower of cold water, and was cured instantly.”

“I rejoice to hear it, your highness, and congratulate you on your recovery, for truly there is no more painful disease than a suffering heart.”

“I told you that I had recovered fully; tell me, therefore, your news without hesitation. You spoke of a marriage. Who were the happy lovers?”

“Your highness, Madame von Kleist has married,” murmured Pollnitz.

The prince received this blow without betraying the slightest emotion.

“When did the marriage take place?” he asked, with perfect composure.

“Yesterday; and I assure your highness that I never saw a happier or more brilliant bride. Love has transformed her into a blushing, timid maiden.”

Prince Henry pressed his hand upon his heart with a quick, unconscious movement.

“I can well imagine that she was beautiful,” said he, controlling his voice with a great effort. “Madame von Kleist is happy, and happiness always beautifies. And the bridegroom, M. du Trouffle, was he also handsome and happy?”

“Your highness knows the name of the bride-groom,” said Pollnitz, appearing astonished.

“Yes, Madame von Kleist told me herself when she announced her approaching marriage. But I am not acquainted with Du Trouffle—is he handsome?”

“Handsome and amiable, your highness, and besides, a very good officer. The king gave him, as a wedding present, a major’s commission.”

“Then the beautiful Louise is now Mrs. Major du Trouffle,” said the prince, with a troubled smile. “Were you present at the wedding?”

“Yes, in the name of the king.”

“Did she speak the decisive Yes, the vow of faith and obedience, with earnestness and confidence? Did she not blush, or droop her eyelids in doing so?”

“Oh, no; she smiled as if entranced, and raised her eyes to heaven, as if praying for God’s blessing upon her vows.”

“One thing more,” said the prince, fixing his large, gray eyes with a searching expression upon Pollnitz—“what is said of me? Am I regarded as a rejected lover, or as a faithless one; for doubtless all Berlin knows of my love for this lady, you having been our confidant.”

“Oh, my prince, that is a hard insinuation,” said Pollnitz, sadly.

“Your highness cannot really believe that—”

“No protestations, I pray you,” interrupted the prince, “I believe I know you thoroughly, but I am not angry with you nor do I reproach you: you are a courtier, and one of the best and rarest type; you have intellect and knowledge, much experience and savoir vivre; I could desire no better company than yourself; but for one moment cast aside your character as a courtier, and tell me the truth: what does the world say of this marriage in regard to me?”

“Your highness desires me to tell you the truth?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Now the important moment has come,” thought Pollnitz. “Now, if I am adroit, I believe I can obtain the payment of my debts.”

“Well, then, your highness,” said Pollnitz, in answer to the prince, “I will tell you the truth, even should I incur your displeasure. I fear, my prince, you are regarded as a rejected lover, and Madame du Trouffle has succeeded in throwing a holy lustre around her beautiful brow. It is said that she refused your dishonorable proposals, and preferred being the virtuous wife of a major, to becoming the mistress of a prince.”

“Go on,” said the prince, hastily, as Pollnitz ceased, and looked searchingly at him. “What do they say of me?”

“That you are in despair, and that you have retired to your chambers to weep and mourn over your lost love.”

“Ah, they say that, do they?” cried the prince, with flashing eyes and darkened brow; “well, I will show this credulous world that they are mistaken. Is the king in Sans-Souci?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Well, go to him, and announce my visit; I will follow you on foot.”

“We have won the day,” cried Pollnitz, as he approached the king; “the prince desires to make you a visit. He will be here immediately.”

“Do you know what my brother wishes of me?” asked the king.

“I do not know, but I suspect, sire. I think he wishes to marry, in order to pique his faithless sweetheart.”

“Go and receive the prince, and conduct him to me; then remain in the antechamber, and await until I call.”

When Pollnitz left, the king seized his flute hastily aim began to play a soft, melting adagio. He was still playing, when the door opened, and the prince was announced. Henry stood in the doorway, and made the king a ceremonious bow. The king continued to play. The low, pleading notes of the flute floated softly through the room; they touched the heart of the prince, and quieted its wild, stormy beating.

Was that the king’s intention, or did he intend to harmonize his own spirit before speaking to his brother? Perhaps both, for Frederick’s glance softened, and his face assumed a kind and mild expression.

When the adagio was finished, the king laid his flute aside and approached the prince.

“Forgive me, brother,” he said, offering his hand—“forgive me for keeping you waiting, I always like to conclude what I commence. Now, I am entirely at your service, and as I am unfortunately not accustomed to receive such friendly visits from you, I must ask you what brings you to me, and how I can serve you?”

The fierce, violent nature of the prince slumbered but lightly. The king’s words aroused it, and made his pulse and heart beat stormily.

“How you can serve me, my brother?” he said, hastily. “I will tell you, and truthfully, sire.”

The king raised his head, and glanced angrily at the burning face of the prince.

“I am not accustomed to have my words repeated, and all find that out here to their cost,” he said, sternly.

“Have the goodness, then, to tell me why you have pursued me so long and unrelentingly? What have I done to deserve your displeasure and such bitter humiliations?”

“Rather ask me what you have done to deserve my love and confidence,” said the king, sternly. “I refer you to your own heart for an answer.”

“Ah, your majesty promised to answer my questions, and now you evade them, but I will reply frankly. I have done nothing to deserve your love, but also nothing to make me unworthy of it. Why are you, who are so good and kind to all others, so stern and harsh with me?”

“I will tell you the truth,” said the king, earnestly. “You have deserved my displeasure, you have desired to be a free man, to cast aside the yoke that Providence placed upon you, you had the grand presumption to dare to be the master of your own actions.”

“And does your majesty desire and expect me to resign this most natural of human rights?” said the prince, angrily.

“Yes, I desire and expect it. I can truthfully say that I have given my brothers a good example in this particular.”

“But you did not do this willingly. You were cruelly forced to submission, and you now wish to drive us to an extremity you have, doubtlessly, long since forgotten. Now, you suffered and struggled before declaring yourself conquered.”

“No,” said the king, softly, “I have not forgotten. I still feel the wound in my soul, and at times it burns.”

“And yet, my brother?”

“And yet I will have no pity with you. I say to you, as my father said to me: ‘You must submit; you are a prince, and I am your king!’ I have long since acknowledged that my father was right in his conduct to me. I was not only a disobedient son, but a rebellious subject. I richly deserved to mount the scaffold with Katte.”

“Ah, my brother, there was a time when you wept for this faithful and unfortunate friend,” cried the prince, reproachfully.

“The sons of kings have not the right to choose their own path, destiny has marked it out for them; they must follow it without wavering. I neither placed the crown upon my head, nor the yoke upon your neck. We must bear them patiently, as God and Providence have ordained, and wear them with grace and dignity. You, my brother, have acted like a wild horse of the desert—I have drawn the reins tight, that is all!”

“You have caught, bound, and tamed me,” said the prince, with a faint smile; “only I feel that the bit still pains, and that my limbs still tremble. But I am ready to submit, and I came to tell you so. You desire me to marry, I consent; but I hold you responsible for the happiness of this marriage. At God’s throne, I will call you to justify yourself, and there we will speak as equals, as man to man. What right had you to rob me of my most holy and beautiful possession? What right have you to lay a heavy chain on heart and hand, that love will not help me to bear? I hold you responsible for my miserable life, my shattered hopes. Will you accept these conditions? Do you still wish me to marry?”

“I accept the conditions,” said the king, solemnly. “I desire you to marry.”

“I presume your majesty has chosen a bride for me?”

“You are right, mon cher frere. I have selected the Princess Wilhelmina, daughter of Prince Max, of Hesse-Cassel. She not only brings you a fortune, but youth, beauty, and amiability.”

“I thank you, sire,” said the prince, coldly and formally. “I would marry her if she were ugly, old, and unamiable. But is it allowed me to add one condition?”

“Speak, my brother, I am listening.”

The prince did not answer immediately; he breathed quickly and heavily, and a glowing red suffused his pale, trembling face.

“Speak, my brother. Name your conditions,” said the king.

“Well, then, so be it. My first condition is that I may be allowed to have a brilliant wedding. I wish to invite not only the entire court, but a goodly number of Berliners; I desire all Berlin to take part in my happiness, and to convince every one, by my gay demeanor and my entertainment, that I joyfully accept my bride, the princess.”

The king’s eyes rested sorrowfully upon his brother’s countenance. He fully understood the emotions of his heart, and knew that his brother wished to wound and humiliate his faithless sweetheart by his marriage; that Henry only submitted to his wishes because his proud heart rebelled at the thought of being pitied as a rejected lover. But he was considerate, and would not let it appear that he understood him.

“I agree to this first proposition,” said the king, after a pause, “and I hope you will allow me to be present at this beautiful fete, and convince Berlin that we are in hearty unison. Have you no other conditions?”

“Yes, one more.”

“What is it?”

“That my marriage shall take place, at the latest, in a month.”

“You will thus fulfil my particular and personal wish,” said the king, smiling. “I am anxious to have this marriage over, for, after the gayeties, I wish to leave Berlin. All the arrangements and contracts are completed, and I think now there is no obstacle in the way of the marriage. Have you another wish, my brother?”

“No, sire.”

“Then allow me to beg you to grant me a favor. I wish to leave a kind remembrance of this eventful hour in your heart, and I therefore give you a small memento of the same. Will you accept my castle of Rheinsberg, with all its surroundings, as a present from me? Will you grant me this pleasure, my brother?”

The king offered his hand, with a loving smile, to Henry, and received with apparent pleasure his ardent thanks.

“I chose Rheinsberg,” he said, kindly, “not because it is my favorite palace, and I have passed many pleasant and happy days there, but because none of my other palaces are so appropriate for a prince who is discontented with his king. I have made that experience myself, and I give you Rheinsberg, as my father gave it to me. Go to Rheinsberg when you are angry with me and the world; there you can pass the first months of your marriage, and God grant it may be a happy one!”

The prince answered him with a cold smile, and begged leave to withdraw, that he might make the necessary preparations for his wedding. “We will both make our preparations,” said the king, as he bade the prince farewell—“you with your major-domo, and I with Baron Pollnitz, whom I shall send as ambassador to Cassel.”