as his physical condition might have affected the decisions he was called upon to make. In his paternal solicitude for the welfare of his people, Frederick gave this subject due consideration, and endeavored to render his bodily afflictions harmless. There were several hours in which he suffered but little from the gout and the asthma, and these were in the early morning, when he felt refreshed after having slept for one or two hours.
One or two hours’ sleep! This was all Nature accorded the royal invalid, who had watched over Prussia’s honor for half a century, and whose eyes were now weary, and longed for slumber and repose. But the king bore this affliction with the patience of a sage—he could even jest about it.
“My dear duke,” said he to the Duke of Courland, who paid him a visit in June, 1786, “if, on your return to Courland, you should hear of a vacancy among the night-watchmen, I beg of you to reserve the place for me, for, I assure you, I have learned the art of watching at night thoroughly.”
But he wished to employ his hours of wakefulness in the night for the good of his people, and ordered that the members of his cabinet, who had been in the habit of coming to his room with their reports at seven o’clock in the morning, should now assemble there at four.
“My condition,” said the king, when he acquainted the three members of his cabinet with his desire, “my condition necessitates my giving you this trouble, but it will be of short duration. My life is on the decline, and I must make the most of the time which is still allotted me. It does not belong to me, but to the state.”[14]
Yes, his life was on the decline; but for a long time his heroic mind found strength to overcome the weakness of the body. At times, when the physicians supposed his strength was entirely exhausted, and that the poor, worn-out figure sitting out on the terrace under the burning July sun, and yet trembling with cold, would soon be nothing more than the empty tenement of the departed soul, he would gather the energies of his strong and fiery mind together, and contend successfully with the weakness of the body. Thus it was in the month of April, when his physicians believed him to be at the point of death. He suddenly recovered one morning, after a refreshing slumber, arose from his bed, dressed himself, and walked with a firm step down the stairway to the carriage, which he had ordered to be held in readiness to drive him out; he entered the carriage, but not with the intention of returning to the palace of Potsdam, but to drive to his dear Sans-Souci, to take up his residence there for the summer.
And thus it was to-day, on the fourth of July, when the king, who had passed the day before in great pain and distress, felt wonderfully refreshed and restored on awaking. He sent for the members of his cabinet at four o’clock in the morning, and worked with them until eight, dictating dispatches and lengthy administrative documents, which bore witness to the vigor of his mind. At eight o’clock he desired that his friends should pay him a visit, and conversed with them as gayly and wittily as in the long-gone-by days of unbroken health. He laughed and jested about his own weakness and decrepitude so amiably, that Count Lucchesini could not refrain from giving utterance to his delight, and hailing the king as a convalescent. “My dear count,” said Frederick, shrugging his shoulders, “you are right; I will soon be well, but in another sense than the one you mean. You take the last flare of the lamp for a steady flame. My dear count, darkness will soon convince you that you are wrong. But I will profit by this transient light, and will persuade myself that I am well. Gentlemen, with your leave I will avail myself of the bright sunshine and take a ride. Order Condé to be saddled.”
“But, sire!” cried Lucchesini, in dismay.
A glance from Frederick silenced the count.
“Sir,” said he, severely, “while I still live, I must be addressed with no ‘buts.’ ”
The count bowed in silence, and followed the other two gentlemen who were leaving the room. Frederick followed his favorite with a look of lively sympathy, and, as Lucchesini was about to cross the threshold, called him back. The count turned quickly, and walked back to the king.
Frederick raised his hand and pointed to the window through which the sunshine and green foliage of the trees could be seen.
“Look how beautiful that is, Lucchesini! Do you not consider this a fine summer day?”
“Yes, sire, a very fine summer day; but it is to be hoped we shall have many more such; and if your majesty would be quiet for the next few days, you would, with increased strength, be better able to enjoy them.”
“And yet I will carry out my intention, you obstinate fellow,” exclaimed the king, smiling. “But I tell you I will never recover, and I have a question to ask. If you had lived together with intimate friends for long years, and were compelled to take your departure and leave them, would you not desire to bid them adieu, and say to them, ‘Farewell! I thank you!’ Or would you leave your friends like a thief in the night, without a word of greeting?”
“No, sire, that I would certainly not do,” replied Lucchesini. “I would throw my arms around my friend’s neck, and take leave of him with tears and kisses.”
“Now, you see,” said Frederick, gently, “the trees of my garden are also my friends, and I wish to take leave of them. Be still, not a word! I am old, and the young must yield to the old. I have no fear of death. In order to understand life rightly, one must see men entering and leaving the world. [15] It is all only a change, and the sun shines at the same time on many cradles and many graves. Do not look at me so sadly, but believe me when I say that I am perfectly willing to leave the stage of life.”
And, raising his head, the king declaimed in a loud, firm voice:
“Oui, finissons sans trouble et mourons sans regrets,
En laissant l’univers comblé de nos bienfaits.
Ainsi l’astre du jour au bout de sa carrière,
Repand sur l’horizon une douce lumière,
Et ses derniers rayons qu’il darde dans les airs
Sont ses derniers soupirs qu’il donne à l’univers.”
He extended his hand to the count with a smile, and, when the latter bowed down to kiss it, a tear fell from his eyes on Frederick’s cold, bony hand.
The king felt this warm tear, and shook his head gently. “You are a strange man, and a very extravagant one. The idea of throwing away brilliants on an old man’s hand! It would be far better to keep them for handsome young people. Now you may go, and I hope to find you well when I return from my ride.”
Having intimated to the count, by a gesture of the hand, that he might withdraw, he turned slowly to his greyhound, Alkmene, which lay on a chair near the sofa, regarding the king with sleepy eyes.
“You are also growing old and weak, Alkmene,” said the king, in a low voice; “and your days will not be much longer in the land. We must both be up and doing if we wish to enjoy another ray of sunshine. Come, Alkmene, let us go and take an airing! Come!”
The greyhound sprang down from the chair and followed the king, who walked slowly to his chamber to prepare himself for the ride.
A quarter of an hour later the king, assisted by his two valets, walked slowly through his apartments to the door which opened on the so-called Green Stairway, and at which his favorite horse, Condé, stood awaiting him. The equerry and the chamberlain of the day stood on either side of the door, and at a short distance two servants held the horses of these gentlemen.
