FREDERICK, THE PRINCE ROYAL.
Madame Brandt was not mistaken; the prince royal was awake, and was bringing a tribute to beautiful, sunny Nature in return for the sweetly-scented air that came through his window. There he stood, with the flute at his lips, and looked out at God's lovely, laughing world with a sparkling eye and joyful countenance. A cheerful quiet, a holy peace radiated from his beautiful face; his whole being seemed bathed in perfect harmony and contentment, and the soft, melting tones of his flute but echoed his thoughts. Suddenly he ceased playing, and slightly bowed his head to catch the sweet, dying notes that were still trembling in the air.
"That was good," said he, smiling, "and I believe I can note it down without exciting the anger of Quantz." He took his flute again, and softly repeated the air he had just finished. "I will write it immediately, and play it this evening before my critical musicians."
While speaking, Frederick left his bedroom, and passed into his library. On entering this room, a beautiful smile flitted over his face, and he bowed his head as if saluting some one. It would be impossible to imagine a more charming and tasteful room. It had been arranged according to the directions of the prince royal, and was in a great degree a true portrait of himself, a temple which he had erected to art, science, and friendship.
This room was in the new tower, and its circular form gave it a peculiar appearance. It was most appropriately compared to a temple. High glass cases around the walls contained the works of Voltaire, Racine, Moliere, and Corneille; those of Homer, Caesar, Cicero, and Ovid; also the Italian poets Dante, Petrarch, and Machiavel. All that had a good name in the literary world found its way into the library of the royal prince—all, excepting the works of German authors.
Between the book-cases, the shelves of which were ornamented here and there with busts of celebrated writers, were alcoves, in which stood small satin damask sofas, over which hung, in heavily-gilt frames, the portraits of Frederick's friends and contemporaries.
The largest and most beautiful was one of Voltaire. He had received the honored place; and when Frederick raised his eyes from his work, while sitting at his escritoire, they rested upon the smiling face of the talented French writer, whom the prince royal had selected as his favorite, and with whom he had for many years corresponded.
The prince went with hasty steps to his table, and, without noticing the sealed letters that were lying there, he took a piece of lined paper, and began to write, humming softly the melody he had just composed. He occasionally threw down his pen, and took the flute that was lying at his side, to try, before noting them, different accords and passages.
"It is finished at last," said the prince, laying aside his pen. "My adagio is finished, and I think Quanta will have no excuse for grumbling to-day; he must be contented with his pupil. This adagio is good; I feel it; I know it; and if the Bendas assume their usual artist airs, I will tell them—; no, I will tell them nothing," said the prince, smiling. "It is useless to show those gentlemen that I care for their approval, or court their applause. Ours is a pitiful race, and I see the time approaching when I shall despise and mistrust the whole world; and still my heart is soft, and gives a warm approval to all that is great and beautiful, and it would make me very happy to love and trust my fellow-men; but they do not desire it—they would not appreciate it. Am I not surrounded by spies, who watch all my movements, listen to every word I utter, and then pour their poison into the ear of the king? But enough of this," said the prince, after a pause. "This May air makes me dreamy. Away with these cobwebs! I have not time to sigh or dream."
He arose, and walked hastily up and down his room, then approached the escritoire, and took the letters. As his eye fell on the first, he smiled proudly.