in this scene at once, and he shook his head with displeasure. “No foolishness, no pomp!” said he, imperiously. “My servants alone will accompany me.”
The two gentlemen looked sadly at each other, but they dared make no opposition, and extended their hands to assist the king in mounting.
But it was a difficult and sorrowful task to seat the king on his horse. Deference prevented them from lifting him up, and the king’s feebleness prevented him from mounting unaided. At last chairs and cushions were brought and piled up, until they formed a gradual ascent to the saddle-back, up which the two servants led the king, and succeeded in placing him on his horse. Condé, as if conscious that perfect quiet was necessary to the successful carrying out of this experiment, remained immovable.
But now that he was seated on the back of his favorite horse, Condé threw his head high in the air and neighed loudly, as if to proclaim his joy at being once more together with the king.
Alkmene did not seem to relish being behind Condé in manifesting joy, for she barked loudly and sprang gayly around the horse and rider, who had now taken the reins in his hand and started the sagacious animal by a slight pressure of the thigh.
The king rode slowly down the green stairway, that is, a succession of green terraces forming a gentle declivity in the direction of Sans-Souci. As the grooms were on the point of following him the chamberlain stepped up to them.
“Take care to keep as near the king as possible, in order that you may be at hand if any thing should happen to his majesty.”
“His majesty’s carriage shall be held in readiness at the Obelisk,” said the equerry, in a low voice. “If any thing should happen to the king, bring him there, and one of you must ride in full gallop to the physician Sello!”
The two grooms now hurried on after the king, who had put spurs to his horse and was galloping down the avenue.
It was a beautiful day; a shower which had fallen the night before had made the air pure and fragrant, and washed the grass till it looked as soft and smooth as velvet. The king slackened his speed. He looked sadly around at the natural beauties which surrounded him, at the foliage of the trees, and up at the blue sky, which seemed to smile down upon him in cloudless serenity. “I will soon soar up to thee, and view thy glories and wonders! But I will first take leave of the glories of earth!”
He slowly lowered his eyes and looked again at the earth, and inhaled its delicious atmosphere in deep draughts, feasted his eyes on nature, and listened to the music of the murmuring springs and plashing cascades, and of the birds singing in the dense foliage.
He rode on through the solitary park, a solitary king, no one near him; the two lackeys behind in the distance, the greyhound bounding before him; but above him his God and his renown, and within him the recollections of the long years which had been!
The friends who had wandered with him through these avenues, where were they? All dead and gone, and he would soon follow them!
He had often longed for death; had often said to himself that it would be a great relief to lie down and sleep the eternal sleep of the grave. And yet he was now saddened to his inmost being. It seemed to him that the skies had never before been so bright, the trees so fresh and green, or the flowers so fragrant! Why long for the peace of the grave! How delicious and refreshing was the peace of Nature! With what rapture did the soul drink in the sunshine and the fragrance of flowers!
“From the afflictions of the world I fly to thee, thou holy virgin, pure, chaste Nature,” said he, softly to himself. “Men are but weak, miserable beings, and not worth living for; but, for thy sake, Nature, I would still desire to live. Thou hast been my only beloved on earth, and it is very painful to thy old lover to leave thee.”
Yes, it was very painful. Nature seemed to have put on festive garments to-day, in order to show herself to the departing king in all her magnificence and beauty.
The king rode on slowly through the avenues of Sans-Souci, bidding adieu to each familiar scene. At times, when an opening in the trees offered a particularly fine view, he halted, and feasted his eyes on the lovely landscape, and then he would lower his gaze quickly again, because something hot had darkened his vision—it was perhaps a grain of sand thrown up by the wind, but certainly not a tear! No, certainly not! How could he weep, he who was so weary and sick of life?
“Yes, weary and sick of life,” he said, in a loud voice. “Men are such miserable beings, and I am weary of ruling over slaves!—weary of playing the tyrant, when I would so gladly see freemen around me! No, no, I do not regret that I must die, I leave willingly, and my countenance will wear a smile when I am carried to the grave.”[16]
It may be easy to take leave of men, but Nature is so beautiful, it smiles so sweetly on us! It is very hard to have to say to the sky, the earth, and to the trees and flowers: “Farewell! I will never see you more! Farewell!”
The trees and bushes rustle in the wind and seem to sigh, “Farewell!” The falling waters seem to murmur, “Nevermore!” Ah, there is yet a little corner in the king’s and hero’s heart, which is merely human; a little nook to which wisdom and experience have not penetrated, where natural feeling reigns supreme.
Yes, man tears himself from beautiful Nature reluctantly and sadly. He would like to gaze longer on the flowers, and trees, and shrubbery; to continue to breathe the fragrant air. But this man is also a hero and philosopher; and the hero whispers in his ear: “Courage, be strong! You have often looked death in the face without flinching—do so now!”
The philosopher whispers, “Reconcile yourself to that which is inevitable. A town-clock is made of steel and iron, and yet it will not run more than twenty years. Is it surprising that your body should be worn out after seventy years? Rather rejoice that you are soon to read the great mysteries of creation, to know whether there is life beyond the grave, and whether we are again to be united with those who have gone before.”
“These mysteries I will solve,” cried the king, in a loud voice. “I greet you, O dead with whom I have wandered in these shady groves. We shall soon meet again in the Elysian fields, and I will bring you intelligence of this miserable earth and its miserable inhabitants. My mother, my sister, I greet you, and you Cicero, Cæsar, Voltaire! I am coming to join the immortals.”
He raised his head and breathed freely, as if a heavy burden had fallen from his soul. His countenance was illumined with enthusiasm. He looked over toward Sans-Souci, which had just become visible through an opening in the trees; its windows shone lustrously in the bright sunshine, and the whole building glittered in the glorious light.
“It is my tomb,” he said, smiling, “and yet the cradle of my renown. If I knew that I could escape death by not returning to my house, I would still do so. I am willing to yield my body to death, and am now going home to die!”
As he said this he slowly raised his arm and lifted his old three-cornered hat slightly, and bowed in every direction, as a king does when taking leave of his court.
He then slowly replaced the hat on his thin white hair, and pressed Condé so firmly with his knees, and drew in the reins so closely, that the animal galloped off rapidly. Alkmene could only manage to keep up with great difficulty. The terrified lackeys urged their horses to a greater speed.
This rapid ride did the king good, the keen wind seemed to strengthen his breast and dispel the clouds of melancholy from his soul. He had bidden his last adieu to Nature. Death was now vanquished, and the last painful sacrifice made.
