It was in the ten years from 1746 to 1756 that Frederic gained an importance and a self-confidence as an author, which up to the present day is not sufficiently appreciated in Germany. Of his French verses the Germans can only judge imperfectly. He had great facility as a poet, and could express without trouble every mood in rhyme and verse. But in his lyrics he has never, in the eyes of Frenchmen, entirely overcome the difficulties of a foreign language, however carefully they may have been revised by his intimates; indeed, he was wanting always, it appears to us, in that equal rhetorical harmony of style which in the time of Voltaire was the first characteristic of a renowned poet, for we find commonplace and trivial expressions in splendid diction, together with beautiful and pompous periods. His taste, too, was not assured and independent enough; he was in his æsthetic judgment rapid in admiring and short in deciding, but in reality far more dependent on the opinions of his French acquaintance than his pride would have admitted. The best off-shoot of French poetry at that time was the return to nature, and the struggle of truth against the fetters of old convenances, This was incomprehensible to the King. Rousseau long appeared to him an eccentric poor devil, and the conscientious and pure spirit of Diderot he considered as shallow. And yet it appears to us that in his own poems, and especially in the light improvisations with which he favoured his friends, there is frequently a richness of poetic detail and a heart-winning tone of true feeling which they, especially his pattern Voltaire, might envy him.
Like Cæsar's "Commentaries," Frederic's History of his Time forms one of the most important monuments of historical literature.[[15]] It is true that, like the Roman General and like every practical statesman, he wrote the facts as they were reflected from the mind of one who took part in them; all is not equally appreciated by him; he does not do justice to every party, but he knows incomparably more than those who were at a distance, and enters, not quite impartially, but at the same time with magnanimity to his opponents, into some of the innermost motives of great occurrences. He wrote sometimes without the great apparatus that a professional historian must collect around him; it therefore happens that his memory and judgment, however authentic they may be, sometimes leave him in the lurch; finally, he wrote an apology of his house, his policy, and his campaigns, and, like Cæsar, he is sometimes silent, and interprets facts as he wishes them to be brought before posterity. But the open-heartedness and love of truth with which he deals with his own house and his own doings, are not less worthy of admiration than the supreme calm and freedom with which he views events, in spite of the small rhetorical flourishes which belonged to the taste of the time.
Equally astonishing as his fertility is his versatility. One of the greatest of military writers, an important historian, a facile poet, a popular philosopher, and practical statesman, also even an anonymous and very copious pamphlet writer, and sometimes journalist, he is always ready for everything: to portray with his pen in the field whatever fills, warms, and inspires him, and to attack in prose and verse every one who irritates or vexes him, not only Pope and Empress, Jesuits and Dutch newspaper writers, but also old friends if they appear to him lukewarm, which he could never bear, or threaten to fall away from him. Never—since the time of Luther—has there been so contentious, reckless, and unwearied a writer. As soon as he puts pen to paper he is, like Proteus, everything, sage or intriguer, historian or poet, just as situation required, always an excitable, fiery, intellectual, and sometimes also an ill-behaved man; but of his kingly office he thinks little. All that is dear to him he celebrates by poems and eulogies: the exalted precepts of his philosophy, his friends, his army, his freedom of faith, independent inquiry, toleration and the education of the people.
Victoriously did the mind of Frederic extend itself in all directions. Nothing withheld him when ambition drove him on to conquer. Then came years of trial, seven years of fearful, heart-rending cares; the period when the rich soaring spirit undertook the most difficult task that was ever allotted to man; when almost everything seemed to fall from him which he possessed for himself, of joy and happiness, hopes and egotistical comfort; when everything charming and agreeable to him as man was destined to die to him, that he might become the self-denying Prince of his people, the great official of the State, the hero of a nation. It was not with the lust of conquest that he this time entered upon the combat; it had long been clear to him that he had now to struggle for his own and his kingdom's life. But so much the loftier grew his resolution. Like the storm-wind, he wished to break the clouds which gathered on all sides round his head. By the energy of his irresistible attacks he thought to dissipate the storm before it burst upon him. He had hitherto been unconquered; his enemies were beaten whenever he had fallen upon them with the irresistible instrument in his hand—his army. This was his hope, his only one. If this well-tested power did not fail him now, he might save his State.
But in his first encounter with the Austrians, his old enemies, he saw that they also had learnt of him and had become different. To the uttermost did he exert his power, and at Collin it failed him. The 18th of June, 1757, was the most fatal day in Frederic's life; he found there what twice in this war tore the victory from him: that he had too little estimated his enemies, and had expected what was beyond human powers of his valiant army. After being stunned for a short time, Frederic roused himself with fresh energy. From an offensive he was driven to a desperate defensive war: on all sides the enemy broke into his little country; he was in deadly struggle with every great Power of the Continent, the master of only four millions of men, and a conquered army. Now he proved his generalship by the way in which, after his losses, he retreated from the enemy, then pounced upon and beat them, when they least expected him, by throwing himself now against one, and now against another army, unsurpassed in his dispositions, inexhaustible in his expedients, and unequalled as leader of his troops. Thus he maintained himself, one against five, against Austria, Russia, and France, each one of which exceeded him in strength; and at the same time against Sweden and the German troops of the Empire. Five long years did he struggle against this enormous preponderance of power,—each spring in danger of being crushed by the masses alone, and each autumn again in safety. A loud cry of admiration and sympathy echoed through Europe; and among the first unwilling eulogisers were his most violent enemies. It was just in these years of changing fortune, when the King himself was experiencing the bitter chances of the fortunes of war, that his generalship became the astonishment of all the armies of Europe. The method in which he arrayed his lines against the enemy, always the quickest and most skilful; how he so often, by moving in echelon, pressed back the weakest wing of the enemy, outflanked and crushed it; how his newly created cavalry, which had become the first in the world, charged upon the enemy, broke their ranks and burst through their hosts,—all this was considered everywhere as a new step in the art of war, as an invention of the greatest genius. The tactics and strategy of the Prussian army were, for almost half a century, the pattern and model for all the armies of Europe. Unanimous was the judgment that Frederic was the greatest commander of his time, and that before him, throughout all history, there had been few Generals to compare with him. That smaller numbers should so frequently conquer the larger, that when beaten they should not dissolve away, but, when the enemy had scarcely recovered their wounds, should be able to re-encounter him as before, so threatening and so disciplined, appeared incredible. But we not only extol the generalship of the King, but also the clever discretion of his infantry tactics. He knew well how much he was restrained by the consideration of magazines and commissariat, by the thousands of waggons full of stores and daily necessaries for the soldiers which must accompany him, but he also knew that this was his safest course. Once only, when after the battle of Rossbach, he made that wonderful march into Silesia, forty-one German miles in fifteen days, being in the greatest danger, he advanced through the country, as other armies do now, supporting his men by the billeting system. But he immediately returned to his former wise custom.[[16]] For if his enemies should learn to imitate this independent movement, he would certainly be lost. When the country militia of his old province rose up to withstand and drive away the Swedes, and valiantly defended Colberg and Berlin, he was much pleased, but took care not to encourage popular warfare; and when his East Friesland people rose of their own accord against the French, and were severely handled by them, he roughly told them it was their own fault, as war ought to be carried on by soldiers, and that tranquil labour, taxes, and recruiting were for peasants and citizens. He knew well that he was lost, if a popular war were excited against him in Saxony and Bohemia. This very narrow-mindedness of the cautious General with respect to military forms, which alone made the struggle possible, may perhaps be reckoned as one of his greatest qualities.
Ever louder became the expression of sorrow and admiration with which Germans and foreigners watched the death struggle of the lion beset on all sides. As early as 1740, the young King had been extolled by the Protestants as the partisan of freedom of conscience and enlightenment, against Jesuits and intolerance. When, a few months after the battle of Collin, he so entirely beat the French at Rossbach, he became the hero of Germany, and there was a burst of exultation everywhere. For two centuries the French had inflicted the greatest injury on the much-divided country; now the German nature began to oppose itself to the influence of French culture, and now the King, who had so much admired Parisian verses, had as wonderfully scared away the Parisian General. It was such a brilliant victory, the old enemy was so disgracefully overthrown, that it rejoiced all hearts throughout the Empire; even where the soldiers of the Sovereigns were in the field against King Frederic, the citizens and peasants rejoiced secretly at his German blows. The longer the war lasted, the firmer became the belief in the King's invincibility, so much the more did the self-respect of the Germans rise. After long, long years, they had at last found a hero, of whose warlike fame they could be proud, who would accomplish what was almost more than human. Numberless anecdotes about him circulated through the country; every little trait of his composure, of his good humour and friendliness with the soldiers, or of the fidelity of his army, flew hundreds of miles; how, when in peril of death, he played his flute in his tent; how his wounded soldiers sang chorales after the battle; how, he had taken off his hat to a regiment—he has since been often imitated in this,—all these stories were carried to the Neckar and the Rhine, printed and listened to with glad smiles and tears of emotion. It was natural that the poets should sing his praises; three of them had been in the Prussian army, Gleim and Lessing as secretaries to the General in command, and Ewald von Kleist, the favourite of a young literary circle, as an officer, till at last he was struck by a ball at Kunnersdorf. But still more touching to us is the faithful devotion of the Prussian people; the old provinces, Prussia, Pomerania, the Marches, and Westphalia, had suffered indescribably from the war, but the proud pleasure of having a share in the hero of Europe made even the most inconsiderable man forget his own sufferings. The armed citizens and peasants for years marched to the field as militia-men. When a number of recruits from Cleves and the county of Ravensberg, after a lost action, fled from their banners and returned home, they were denounced by their country-people and relations as perjured, expelled from the villages, and driven back to the army.
There was no difference in the opinion abroad. In the Protestant cantons of Switzerland as warm an interest was taken in the fate of the King as if the descendants of the Rütli men had never been separated from the German Empire. There were people there who became ill with vexation when the King's affairs were in a bad state.[[17]] It was the same in England. Every victory of the King excited in London loud expressions of joy; houses were lighted up; pictures and laudatory poems were sold in the streets; and Pitt announced, with admiration, in Parliament every new act of the Great Ally. Even in Paris, at the theatre and in society, the feeling was more Prussian than French. The French jeered at their own Generals, and the clique of Pompadour, which was for the war, could hardly, as we are informed by Duclos, appear in public. At Petersburg the Grand Duke Peter and his adherents were so Prussian that at every loss sustained by Frederic they secretly mourned. The enthusiasm reached even to Turkey and the Great Cham of Tartary; and this respectful interest outlasted the war in a great portion of the world. The painter Hackert, when travelling through a small city in the middle of Sicily, received fruit and wine from the magistrates as a gift of honour, because they had heard that he was a Prussian, a subject of the great King to whom they wished to show honour. Muley Ismail, Emperor of Morocco, caused the crew of a vessel belonging to a citizen of Emden, which had been carried off by the Moors to Magador, to be released without ransom; he sent them newly clothed to Lisbon, and assured them that their King was the greatest man in the world; that no Prussian should ever suffer imprisonment in his country, and that his cruisers should never attack the Prussian flag.
Poor oppressed spirit of the German people, how long it had been since the men betwixt the Rhine and the Oder had felt the pleasure of being esteemed above others among the nations of the earth! Now everything was transformed by the magic of the character of one man. The countryman, as if awaking from a fearful dream, looked out upon the world and into his own heart. Long had they lived lethargically without a past in which they could rejoice, or a noble future on which to place their hopes. Now they found at once that they had a portion in the honours and greatness of the world; that a King and his people, all of their blood, had given an aureola of glory to the German nation—a new purport to the history of civilised man. Now they had all experienced how a great man could struggle, venture, dare, and conquer. Now labour in your study, peaceful thinker, imaginative dreamer; you have learnt during the night to look abroad with smiles, and to hope great things from your own endowments. Try now what will gush from your heart.
Whilst the youthful strength of the people fluttered its wings with enthusiastic warmth, what, meanwhile, were the feelings of the great Prince, who was incessantly contending with enemies? The enthusiastic acclamations of the nation bore only feeble tones to his ear; the King received it almost with indifference. In him everything was calm and cold; though, undoubtedly, he had hours of passionate sorrow and heart-rending care. But he concealed them from his army; the calm countenance became harder, the furrows deeper, the expression more rigid. There were but few to whom he occasionally opened his heart; then, for some moments, the sorrows of the man, which had reached the limits of human endurance, broke forth.
Ten days after the battle of Collin, his mother died; a few weeks later, in anger, he drove his brother August Wilhelm away from the army, because he had not carried on the war with sufficient vigour. This Prince died in that same year, of grief, as the King was informed by the officer who reported it. Shortly afterwards he received the account of the death of his sister of Baireuth. One after another his Generals fell by his side, or lost the King's confidence; because they were not able to come up to the superhuman requirements of this war. His old soldiers, his pride, the iron warriors who had gone through the test of three severe wars—they who, dying, still stretched out their hands to him and called upon his name—were expiring in heaps around him; and those who filled up the wide gaps which death incessantly made in his army were young recruits, some of good material, but many bad ones. The King used them, as he had done the others, with strictness and severity; but even in the worst subjects his look and word inspired both bravery and devotion. But he knew that all this would not avail; short and cutting was his censure, and sparing was his praise. Thus he continued to live; five summers and winters came and went; the labour was gigantic; he was unwearied in planning and combining; his eagle eye scrutinisingly scanned what was most distant and most trivial, and yet there was no change and no hope. The King read and wrote in his hours of rest, just as before; he made his verses and kept up a correspondence with Voltaire and Algarotti; but he was resolved all this must soon come to an end, a short and quick one. He carried with him, day and night, what would free him from Daun and Laudon. The whole affair of life sometimes appeared to him contemptible.