The king nodded. “Au revoir, in Berlin! When I return after the campaign I will send for you. You will then have learned to forget your so-called misfortune, and smile at your pilgrimage!”
“I cannot think so, sire.”
“I am convinced of it. Farewell.”
Moritz answered the royal salutation with a mute bow, and withdrew with drooping head and sorrowful heart. The king continued to regard him with an expression of deep sadness. “Ah!” he sighed, “how enviable are those who can still believe in love’s illusion, and who have not awakened from their dream of bliss by sad experience or age! How long since I have banished these dreams—how long I—”
The king ceased, his head sank back upon his chair, his large, fiery eyes, peering into the distance, as if he would re-people it with the memories of youth, with the delusions from which he had so long awakened. Those lovely, charming forms flitted before him one by one which had then captivated him: the beautiful Frau von Wrechem, his first love, and to whom he had vowed eternal constancy; another sweet, innocent face that suffered shame and degradation for him—“oh! Doris, Doris, dream of my youth, fly past!”—and now the face with the large eyes and energetic features, which turned so tenderly to him, that of his sister Frederika, who from affection to the crown prince had sacrificed herself to an unloved husband in order to reconcile the son with the father, and preserve for him the inheritance to the throne; still another calm and gentle face, with the expression of sorrowful resignation in the deep-blue eyes, that of his wife, who had so passionately loved him, and had faded away at his side unloved! All past—past. A new face arose, the pretty Leontine von Morien, the tourbillon of the princely court at Rheinsberg, who pined away in sighs. Now passed the sweetest and loveliest of all. The king’s eyes, which stared into empty space, now beamed with glad recognition. The heart which had grown old and sobered beat with feverish rapidity, and the compressed lips whispered, sighing, “Barbarina!” She stood before him in her bewitching beauty, with the charming smile upon her ruby lips, and passionate love beaming from her flashing eyes. “Oh, Barbarina!” The king rose, a cold chill crept over him. He looked around so strangely in the desolate, darkened room, as if he could still see this form which greeted him with the sad smile and tearful glance. No one was there. He was quite alone. Only the feeble echo of far-distant days repeated the device of his youth—of his life: “Soffri e taci! Resignation alone has remained true to me. But no—there is still another friend, my flute. Come, you faithful companion of my life! You have witnessed my sorrows, and from you I have nothing to conceal!” He tenderly regarded it, for it was long since he had taken it from its case. The sorrows and cares of life, the suffering from the gout which raged in his teeth, and sad, sobering old age, had caused him to lay it aside, but with the habit of affection he carried it everywhere. Frederick felt himself grow young again with the souvenirs of former days, and essayed to recall the echo of tenderer feelings upon his flute. The music of his heart was hushed, the melodious tones of former days would not return. The king laid it aside with an impatient movement. “Nothing is lasting in life,” he murmured. A flourish of trumpets, a peal of drums announced that the regiment was passing which would parade before the king. What are they playing, which rouses the lonely king with bright memories and shouts of victory? It is the march which his majesty composed after the brilliant victory of Hohenfriedberg. The king raised his eyes gratefully to heaven, repeating aloud: “There is something lasting in life. Love ceases and music dies away, but the good we have accomplished remains. The most glorious of earthly rewards is granted to those who have achieved great deeds—the mortal becomes immortal—the gods ceding to him that which is more elevating than love or happiness—fame. Ye trumpets of Hohenfriedberg, ye will still quiver when I am gone, and relate to succeeding generations about ‘Old Fritz.’ Such tales are well worthy to live and suffer for! I am coming, ye trumpets of fame.” With youthful activity and beaming face the king went out to receive his generals, who saluted him with silent reverence, and his soldiers, who greeted their beloved commander and king with an exultant shout.
CHAPTER XXI. IN WEIMAR.
“There lies dear Weimar, encircled in its wreath of green. Do you not see it, Wolf? I will refresh my heart with its view; so halt, postilion, halt,” cried the duke. “It is more beautiful to me than stately, proud Berlin. Though a poor, gray nest, I could press it to my heart, with all its untidy little houses, and tedious old pedants. Let us walk down the hill, Wolf.”
“Most willingly,” cried Goethe, stretching forth his arms to the little town, nestled in the peaceful valley, “be welcome, you lovely paradise, with your angels and serpents; we press on toward you with all our heart and soul, as to the seven-sealed book, filled with mysteries, and we would draw glorious revelations from your hidden contents.”
“And grant, ye gods, that the inspired one may at last break the seal which a cruel friend has placed upon her lips, that he may not drink the kiss of love glowing beneath,” said the duke, smiling. “Do you not see the gray roof yonder, with its background of tall trees, that—”