Томас Карлейль
History of Friedrich II of Prussia — Volume 11
The Officers found their host a most engaging gentleman: his supper was superb, plenty of wine, "and one red kind they had never tasted before, and liked extremely;"—of which he sent some bottles to their lodging next day. The conversation turned on military matters, and was enlivened with the due sallies. This foreign Count speaks French wonderfully; a brilliant man, whom the others rather fear: perhaps something more than a Count? The Officers, loath to go, remembered that their two battalions had to parade next morning, that it was time to be in bed: "I will go to your review," said the Stranger Count: the delighted Officers undertake to come and fetch him, they settle with him time and method; how happy!
On the morrow, accordingly, they call and fetch him; he looks at the review; review done, they ask him to supper for this evening: "With pleasure!" and "walks with them about the Esplanade, to see the guard march by." Before parting, he takes their names, writes them in his tablets; says, with a smile, "He is too much obliged ever to forget them." This is Wednesday, the 24th of August, 1740; Field-Marshal Broglio is Commandant in Strasburg, and these obliging Officers are "of the regiment Piedmont,"—their names on the King's tablets I never heard mentioned by anybody (or never till the King's Doggerel was fished up again). Field-Marshal Broglio my readers have transiently seen, afar off;—"galloping with only one boot," some say "almost in his shirt," at the Ford of Secchia, in those Italian campaigns, five years ago, the Austrians having stolen across upon him:—he had a furious gallop, with no end of ridicule, on that occasion; is now Commandant here; and we shall have a great deal more to do with him within the next year or two.
"This same day, 24th, while I [the Newspaper volunteer Reporter or Own Correspondent, seemingly a person of some standing, whose words carry credibility in the tone of them] was with Field-Marshal Broglio our Governor here, there came two gentlemen to be presented to him; 'German Cavaliers' they were called; who, I now find, must have been the Prince of Prussia and Algarotti. The Field-Marshal,"—a rather high-stalking white-headed old military gentleman, bordering on seventy, of Piedmontese air and breed, apt to be sudden and make flounderings, but the soul of honor, "was very polite to the two Cavaliers, and kept them to dinner. After dinner there came a so-styled 'Silesian Nobleman,' who likewise was presented to the Field-Marshal, and affected not to know the other two: him I now find to have been the Prince of Anhalt."
Of his Majesty's supper with the Officers that Wednesday, we are left to think how brilliant it was: his Majesty, we hear farther, went to the Opera that night,—the Polichinello or whatever the "Italian COMODIE" was;—"and a little girl came to his box with two lottery-tickets fifteen pence each, begging the foreign Gentleman for the love of Heaven to buy them of her; which he did, tearing them up at once, and giving the poor creature four ducats," equivalent to two guineas, or say in effect even five pounds of the present British currency. The fame of this foreign Count and his party at The Raven is becoming very loud over Strasburg, especially in military circles. Our volunteer Own Correspondent proceeds (whom we mean to contrast with the Royal Doggerel by and by):—
"Next morning," Thursday, 25th August, "as the Marshal with above two hundred Officers was out walking on the Esplanade, there came a soldier of the Regiment Luxemburg, who, after some stiff fugling motions, of the nature of salutation partly, and partly demand for privacy, intimated to the Marshal surprising news: That the Stranger in The Raven was the King of Prussia in person; he, the soldier, at present of the Regiment Luxemburg, had in other days, before he deserted, been of the Prussian Crown-Prince's regiment; had consequently seen him in Berlin, Potsdam and elsewhere a thousand times and more, and even stood sentry where he was: the fact is beyond dispute, your Excellency! said this soldier."—Whew!
Whereupon a certain Colonel, Marquis de Loigle, with or without a hint from Broglio, makes off for The Raven; introduces himself, as was easy; contrives to get invited to stay dinner, which also was easy. During dinner the foreign Gentleman expressed some wish to see their fortress. Colonel Loigle sends word to Broglio; Broglio despatches straightway an Officer and fine carriage: "Will the foreign Gentleman do me the honor?" The foreign Gentleman, still struggling for incognito, declines the uppermost seat of honor in the carriage; the two Officers, Loigle and this new one, insist on taking the inferior place. Alas, the incognito is pretty much out. Calling at some coffee-house or the like on the road, a certain female, "Madame de Fienne," named the foreign Gentleman "Sire,"—which so startled him that, though he utterly declined such title, the two Officers saw well how it was.
"After survey of the works, the two attendant Officers had returned to the Field-Marshal; and about 4 P.M. the high Stranger made appearance there. But the thing had now got wind, 'King of Prussia here incognito!' The place was full of Officers, who came crowding about him: he escaped deftly into the Marechal's own Cabinet; sat there, an hour, talking to the Marechal [little admiring the Marechal's talk, as we shall find], still insisting on the incognito,"—to which Broglio, put out in his high paces by this sudden thing, and apt to flounder, as I have heard, was not polite enough to conform altogether. "What shall I do, in this sudden case?" poor Broglio is thinking to himself: "must write to Court; perhaps try to detain—?" Friedrioh's chief thought naturally is, One cannot be away out of this too soon. "Sha'n't we go to the Play, then, Monsieur le Marechal? Play-hour is come!"—Own Correspondent of the Newspaper proceeds:—
"The Marechal then went to the Play, and all his Officers with him; thinking their royal prize was close at their heels. Marechal and Officers fairly ahead, coast once clear, their royal prize hastened back to The Raven, paid his bill; hastily summoning Schaffgotsch and the others within hearing; shot off like lightning; and was seen in Strasburg no more. Algarotti, who was in the box with Broglio, heard the news in the house; regretful rumor among the Officers, 'He is gone!' In about a quarter of an hour Algarotti too slipped out; and vanished by extra post"—straight towards Wesel; but could not overtake the King (whose road, in the latter part of it, went zigzag, on business as is likely), nor see him again till they met in that Town. [From Helden-Geschichte (i. 420-424), &c.]
This is the Prose Truth of those fifty or eight-and-forty hours in Strasburg, which were so mythic and romantic at that time. Shall we now apply to the Royal Doggerel again, where we left off, and see the other side of the picture? Once settled in The Raven, within Strasburg's walls, the Doggerel continues:—
"You fancy well that there was now something to exercise my curiosity; and what desire I had to know the French Nation in France itself.
There I saw at length those French,
Of whom you have sung the glories;
A people despised by the English,
Whom their sad rationality fills with black bile;
Those French, whom our Germans
Reckon all to be destitute of sense;
Those French, whose History consists of Love-stories,
I mean the wandering kind of Love, not the constant;
Foolish this People, headlong, high-going,
Which sings beyond endurance;
Lofty in its good fortune, crawling in its bad;
Of an unpitying extent of babble,
To hide the vacancy of its ignorant mind.
Of the Trifling it is a tender lover;
The Trifling alone takes possession of its brain.
People flighty, indiscreet, imprudent,
Turning like the weathercock to every wind.
Of the ages of the Caesars those of the Louises are the shadow;
Paris is the ghost, of Rome, take it how you will.
No, of those vile French you are not one:
You think; they do not think at all.
La je vis enfin ces Francais
Dont vous avez chante la gloire;
Peuple meprise' des Anglais,
Que leur triste raison remplit de bile noire;
Ces Francais, que nos Allemands
Pensent tous prives de bon sens;
Ces Francais, do nt l'amour pourrait dicter l'histoire,
Je dis l'amour volage, et non l'amour constant;
Ce peuple fou, brusque et galant,
Chansonnier insupportable,
Superbe en sa fortune, en son malheur rampant,
D'un bavardage impitoyable,
Pour cacher le creux d'un esprit ignorant,
Tendre amant de la bagatelle,
Elle entre seule en sa cervelle;
Leger, indiscret, imprudent,
Comme ume girouette il revire a tout vent.
Des siecles des Cesars ceux des Louis sont l'ombre;
Rome efface Paris en tout sens, en tout point.
Non, des vils Francais vous n'etes pas du nombre;
Vous pensez, ils ne pensent point.
"Pardon, dear Voltaire, this definition of the French; at worst, it is only of those in Strasburg I speak. To scrape acquaintance, I had to invite some Officers on our arrival, whom of course I did not know.
Three of them came at once,
Gayer, more content than Kings;
Singing with rusty voice.
In verse, their amorous exploits,
Set to a hornpipe.
Trois d'eux s'en vinrent a la fois,
Plus gais, plus contents que des rois,
Chantant d'une voix enrouee,
En vers, leurs amoureux exploits,
Ajustes sur une bourree.
"M. de la Crochardiere and M. Malosa [two names from the tablets, third wanting] had just come from a dinner where the wine had not been spared.
Of their hot friendship I saw the flame grow,
The Universe would have taken us for perfect friends:
But the instant of good-night blew out the business;
Friendship disappeared without regrets,
With the games, the wine, the table and the viands.
De leur chaude amitie je vis croitre le flamme,
L'univers nous eut pris pour des amis parfaits;
Mais l'instant des adieux en detruisit la trame,
L'amitie disparut, ssns causer des regrets,
Avec le jeu, le vin, et la table, et les mets.
"Next day, Monsieur the Gouverneur of the Town and Province, Marechal of France, Chevalier of the Orders of the King, &c. &c.,—Marechal Duc de Broglio, in fact," who was surprised at Secchia in the late War,—
This General always surprised.
Whom with regret, young Louis [your King]
Saw without breeches in Italy
["With only one boot," was the milder rumor; which we adopted (supra, vol. vi. p. 472), but this sadder one, too, was current; and "Broglio's breeches," or the vain aspiration after them, like a vanished ghost of breeches, often enough turn up in the old Pamphlets.]
Galloping to hide away his life
From the Germans, unpolite fighters;—
Ce general toujours surpris,
Qu'a regret le jeune Louis
Vit sans culottes en Italie,
Courir pour derober sa vie
Aux Germains, guerriers impolis.
this General wished to investigate your Comte Dufour,—foreign Count, who the instant he arrives sets about inviting people to supper that are perfect strangers. He took the poor Count for a sharper; and prudently advised M. de la Crochardiere not to be duped by him. It was unluckily the good Marechal that proved to be duped.
He was born for surprise.
His white hair, his gray beard,
Formed a reverend exterior.
Outsides are often deceptive:
He that, by the binding, judges
Of a Book and its Author
May, after a page of reading,
Chance to recognize his mistake.
Il etait ne pour la surprise.
Ses cheveux blancs, sa barbe grise,
Formaient un sage exterieur.
Le dehors est souvent trompeur;
Qui juge par la reliure
D'un ouvrage et de son auteur
Dans une page de lecture
Peut reconnaitre son erreur.
"That was my own experience; for of wisdom I could find nothing except in his gray hair and decrepit appearance. His first opening betrayed him; no great well of wit this Marechal,
Who, drunk with his own grandeur,
Informs you of his name and his titles,
And authority as good as unlimited.
He cited to me all the records
Where his name is registered,
Babbled about his immense power,
About his valor, his talents
So salutary to France;—He forgot that, three years ago
[Six to a nearness,—"15th September, 1734," if your Majesty will be exact.]
Men did not praise his prudence.
Qui, de sa grandeur enivre;
Decline son nom et ses titres,
Et son pouvoir a rien borne.
Il me cita tous les registres
Ou son nom est enregistre;
Bavard de son pouvoir immense,
De sa valeur, de ces talents
Si salutaires a la France:
Il oubliait, passe trois ans,
Qu'on ne louait pas sa prudence.
"Not satisfied with seeing the Marechal, I saw the guard mounted
By these Frenchmen, burning with glory,
Who, on four sous a day,
Will make of Kings and of Heroes the memory flourish:
Slaves crowned by the hands of Victory,
Unlucky herds whom the Court
Tinkles hither and thither by the sound of fife and drum.
A ces Francais brulants de gloire,
Dotes de quatre sous par jour,
Qui des rois, des heros font fleurir la memoire,
Esclaves couronnes des mains de la victoire,
Troupeaux malheureux que la cour
Dirige au seul bruit du tambour.
"That was my fated term. A deserter from our troops got eye on me, recognised me and denounced me.
This wretched gallows-bird got eye on me;
Such is the lot of all earthly things;
And so of our fine mystery
The whole secret came to light."
Ce malheureux pendard me vit,
C'est le sort de toutes les choses;
Ainsi de motre pot aux roses
Tout le secret se decouvrit.
Well; we must take this glimpse, such as it is, into the interior of the young man,—fine buoyant, pungent German spirit, roadways for it very bad, and universal rain-torrents falling, yet with coruscations from a higher quarter;—and you can forget, if need be, the "Literature" of this young Majesty, as you would a staccato on the flute by him! In after months, on new occasion rising, "there was no end to his gibings and bitter pleasantries on the ridiculous reception Broglio had given him at Strasburg," says Valori, [Memoires, i. 88.]—of which this Doggerel itself offers specimen.
"Probably the weakest Piece I ever translated?" exclaims one, who has translated several such. Nevertheless there is a straggle of pungent sense in it,—like the outskirts of lightning, seen in that dismally wet weather, which the Royal Party had. Its wit is very copious, but slashy, bantery, and proceeds mainly by exaggeration and turning topsy-turvy; a rather barren species of wit. Of humor, in the fine poetic sense, no vestige. But there is surprising veracity,—truthfulness unimpeachable, if you will read well. What promptitude, too;—what funds for conversation, when needed! This scraggy Piece, which is better than the things people often talk to one another, was evidently written as fast as the pen could go.—"It is done, if such a Hand could have DONE it, in the manner of Bachaumont and La Chapelle," says Voltaire scornfully, in that scandalous VIE PRIVEE;—of which phrase this is the commentary, if readers need one:—
"Some seventy or eighty years before that date, a M. Bachaumont and a M. la Chapelle, his intimate, published, in Prose skipping off into dancings of Verse every now and then, 'a charming RELATION of a certain VOYAGE or Home Tour' (whence or whither, or correctly when, this Editor forgets), ["First printed in 1665," say the Bibliographies; "but known to La Fontaine some time before." Good!—Bachaumont, practically an important and distinguished person, not literary by trade, or indeed otherwise than by ennui, was he that had given (some fifteen years before) the Nickname FRONDE (Bickering of Schoolboys) to the wretched Historical Object which is still so designated in French annals.] which they had made in partnership. 'RELATION' capable still of being read, if one were tolerably idle;—it was found then to be charming, by all the world; and gave rise to a new fashion in writing; which Voltaire often adopts, and is supremely good at; and in which Friedrich, who is also fond of it, by no means succeeds so well."
Enough, Friedrich got to Wesel, back to his business, in a day or two; and had done, as we forever have, with the Strasburg Escapade and its Doggerel.
FRIEDRICH FINDS M. DE MAUPERTUIS; NOT YET M. DE VOLTAIRE
Friedrich got to Wesel on the 29th; found Maupertuis waiting there, according to appointment: an elaborately polite, somewhat sublime scientific gentleman; ready to "engraft on the Berlin crab-tree," and produce real apples and Academics there, so soon as the King, the proprietor, may have leisure for such a thing. Algarotti has already the honor of some acquaintance with Maupertuis. Maupertuis has been at Brussels, on the road hither; saw Voltaire and even Madame,—which latter was rather a ticklish operation, owing to grudges and tiffs of quarrel that had risen, but it proved successful under the delicate guidance of Voltaire. Voltaire is up to oiling the wheels: "There you are, Monsieur, like the [don't name What, though profane Voltaire does, writing to Maupertuis a month ago]—Three Kings running after you!" A new Pension to you from France; Russia outbidding France to have you; and then that LETTER of Friedrich's, which is in all the Newspapers: "Three Kings,"—you plainly great man, Trismegistus of the Sciences called Pure! Madame honors you, has always done: one word of apology to the high female mind, it will work wonders;—come now! [Voltaire, OEuvres, lxxii. 217, 216, 230 (Hague, 21st July, 1740, and Brussels, 9th Aug. &c).]
No reader guesses in our time what a shining celestial body the Maupertuis, who is now fallen so dim again, then was to mankind. In cultivated French society there is no such lion as M. Maupertuis since he returned from flattening the Earth in the Arctic regions. "The Exact Sciences, what else is there to depend on?" thinks French cultivated society: "and has not Monsieur done a feat in that line?" Monsieur, with fine ex-military manners, has a certain austere gravity, reticent loftiness and polite dogmatism, which confirms that opinion. A studious ex-military man,—was Captain of Dragoons once, but too fond of study,—who is conscious to himself, or who would fain be conscious, that he is, in all points, mathematical, moral and other, the man. A difficult man to live with in society. Comes really near the limit of what we call genius, of originality, poetic greatness in thinking;—but never once can get fairly over said limit, though always struggling dreadfully to do so. Think of it! A fatal kind of man; especially if you have made a lion of him at any time. Of his envies, deep-hidden splenetic discontents and rages, with Voltaire's return for them, there will be enough to say in the ulterior stages. He wears—at least ten years hence he openly wears, though I hope it is not yet so flagrant—"a red wig with yellow bottom (CRINIERE JAUNE);" and as Flattener of the Earth, is, with his own flattish red countenance and impregnable stony eyes, a man formidable to look upon, though intent to be amiable if you do the proper homage. As to the quarrel with Madame take this Note; which may prove illustrative of some things by and by:—
Maupertuis is well known at Cirey; such a lion could not fail there. All manner of Bernouillis, Clairauts, high mathematical people, are frequent guests at Cirey: reverenced by Madame,—who indeed has had her own private Professor of Mathematics; one Konig from Switzerland (recommended by those Bernouillis), diligently teaching her the Pure Sciences this good while back, not without effect; and has only just parted with him, when she left on this Brussels expedition. A BON GARCON, Voltaire says; though otherwise, I think, a little noisy on occasion. There has been no end of Madame's kindness to him, nay to his Brother and him,—sons of a Theological Professorial Syriac-Hebrew kind of man at Berne, who has too many sons;—and I grieve to report that this heedless Konig has produced an explosion in Madame's feelings, such as little beseemed him. On the road to Paris, namely, as we drove hitherward to the Honsbruck Lawsuit by way of Paris, in Autumn last, there had fallen out some dispute, about the monads, the VIS VIVA, the infinitely little, between Madame and Konig; dispute which rose CRESCENDO in disharmonious duet, and "ended," testifies M. de Voltaire, "in a scene TRESDESAGREABLE." Madame, with an effort, forgave the thoughtless fellow, who is still rather young, and is without malice. But thoughtless Konig, strong in his opinion about the infinitely little, appealed to Maupertuis: "Am not I right, Monsieur?" "HE is right beyond question!" wrote Maupertuis to Madame; "somewhat dryly," thinks Voltaire: and the result is, there is considerable rage in one celestial mind ever since against another male one in red wig and yellow bottom; and they are not on speaking terms, for a good many months past. Voltaire has his heart sore ("J'EN AI LE COEUR PERCE") about it, needs to double-dose Maupertuis with flattery; and in fact has used the utmost diplomacy to effect some varnish of a reconcilement as Maupertuis passed on this occasion. As for Konig, who had studied in some Dutch university, he went by and by to be Librarian to the Prince of Orange; and we shall not fail to hear of him again,—once more upon the infinitely little. [From OEuvres de Voltaire, ii. 126, lxxii. (20, 216, 230), lxiii. (229-239), &c. &c.]
Voltaire too, in his way, is fond of these mathematical people; eager enough to fish for knowledge, here as in all elements, when he has the chance offered: this is much an interest of his at present. And he does attain sound ideas, outlines of ideas, in this province,—though privately defective in the due transcendency of admiration for it;—was wont to discuss cheerily with Konig, about VIS VIVA, monads, gravitation and the infinitely little; above all, bows to the ground before the red-wigged Bashaw, Flattener of the Earth, whom for Madame's sake and his own he is anxious to be well with. "Fall on your face nine times, ye esoteric of only Impure Science!"—intimates Maupertuis to mankind. "By all means!" answers M. de Voltaire, doing it with alacrity; with a kind of loyalty, one can perceive, and also with a hypocrisy grounded on love of peace. If that is the nature of the Bashaw, and one's sole mode of fishing knowledge from him, why not? thinks M. de Voltaire. His patience with M. de Maupertuis, first and last, was very great. But we shall find it explode at length, a dozen years hence, in a conspicuous manner!—
"Maupertuis had come to us to Cirey, with Jean Bernouilli," says Voltaire; "and thenceforth Maupertuis, who was born the most jealous of men, took me for the object of this passion, which has always been very dear to him." [VIE PRIVEE.] Husht, Monsieur!—Here is a poor rheumatic kind of Letter, which illustrates the interim condition, after that varnish of reconcilement at Brussels:—
VOLTAIRE TO M. DE MAUPERTUIS (at Wesel, waiting for the King, or with him rather).
"BRUSSELS, 29th August (1740), 3d year since the world flattened.
"How the Devil, great Philosopher, would you have had me write to you at Wesel? I fancied you gone from Wesel, to seek the King of Sages on his Journey somewhere. I had understood, too, they were so delighted to have you in that fortified lodge (BOUGE FORTIFIE) that you must be taking pleasure there, for he that gives pleasure gets it.
"You have already seen the jolly Ambassador of the amiablest Monarch in the world,"—Camas, a fattish man, on his road to Versailles (who called at Brussels here, with fine compliments, and a keg of Hungary Wine, as YOU may have heard whispered). "No doubt M. de Camas is with you. For my own share, I think it is after you that he is running at present. But in truth, at the hour while I say this, you are with the King;"—a lucky guess; King did return to Wesel this very day. "The Philosopher and the Prince perceive already that they are made for each other. You and M. Algarotti will say, FACIAMUS HIC TRIA TABERNACULA: as to me, I can only make DUO TABERNACULA,"—profane Voltaire!
"Without doubt I would be with you if I were not at Brussels; but my heart is with you all the same; and is the subject, all the same, of a King who is, formed to reign over every thinking and feeling being. I do not despair that Madame du Chatelet will find herself somewhere on your route: it will be a scene in a fairy tale;—she will arrive with a SUFFICIENT REASON [as your Leibnitz says] and with MONADS. She does not love you the less though she now believes the universe a PLENUM, and has renounced the notion of VOID. Over her you have an ascendant which you will never lose. In fine, my dear Monsieur, I wish as ardently as she to embrace you the soonest possible. I recommend myself to your friendship in the Court, worthy of you, where you now are."—TOUT A VOUS, somewhat rheumatic! [Voltaire, lxxii. p. 243.]
Always an anxious almost tremulous desire to conciliate this big glaring geometrical bully in red wig. Through the sensitive transparent being of M. de Voltaire, you may see that feeling almost painfully busy in every Letter he writes to the Flattener of the Earth.
