Frederick the Great and the Rise of Prussia

by William Fiddian Reddaway

The following chapter of this book is written in the belief that readers of the story of Frederick may well demand, above all else, whether he is justly termed “The Great,” and if so, in virtue of what achievements? Unless we are willing to answer that the title is his of right because he seized Silesia and held it against great odds, these questions compel us to enquire into his home administration. We know well that the ruler is strong only because he wields the collective strength of his nation, and that his chief task is to render the nation stronger and to improve the machinery by which its strength is collected and exerted. A great ruler is one who, when the difficulties which he had to contend with are taken into account, is perceived to have accomplished much more in the performance of this task than could be expected from an ordinary man. If we find that Frederick improved the lot of his subjects in a remarkable degree, or that he invented beneficial institutions, or devised a system by which the future of government in Prussia was assured and progress made easy, then we shall have to concede to him a right to the title of Great other than that which conquest may confer.

It is of high importance to ascertain at the outset of the enquiry how far Frederick was free to act as he pleased and to what extent he was fettered by constitutional or social ties. His whole manner of life, indeed, was such as to suggest the most complete freedom. From the moment of his father’s death he was master of his people and of his policy as few European potentates have ever been. Autocracy as well as diligence is stamped upon even the externals of his everyday existence. Though his stature was not quite five feet seven inches, his ablutions, when performed at all, slight and few, and his dress of the shabbiest, no one ever suggested that his presence lacked kingliness. He usually wore an old grey hat of soft felt, a faded blue uniform smeared with the snuff in which he indulged immoderately, and boots which through neglect were of a reddish colour. But his bearing, stern and caressing by turns, his clarion voice, and his glance which, as a contemporary owned, nothing could resist, made him the cynosure of whatever company he was in. The absence of the customary trappings of royalty rendered the King of Prussia less formidable to the poor, whom he patronised, while it marked his contempt for the official and middle classes, whom he sometimes allowed to kiss the skirts of his dirty coat.

Frederick, it need hardly be said, was fully conscious of his own superiority to his subjects in birth, address, and talent. During his incognito visit to Strasburg in 1740, Marshal Broglie remarked the contrast between Frederick and Algarotti on the one hand and the awkward Germans of the party on the other. The vivacity of the King’s circle was almost all imported from abroad. Many years later the French philosopher d’Alembert stated that Frederick himself was the only man in Prussia with whom it was possible to hold conversation as the word was understood in France. The man who by right of birth was absolute ruler of Prussia had some reason to believe that he was also the greatest poet, historian, philosopher, critic, administrator, legislator, statesman, captain, and general in his dominions.

SANS-SOUCI. CARYTID FRONT.

There is perhaps no more conclusive proof of his wisdom than that his consciousness of this unique endowment did not cause his home policy to become tyrannical and his foreign policy grandiose. From the second fault he was saved by his keen eye for realities, which taught him that, as he confessed, Prussia was playing a part among the Great Powers without being in fact the equal of the rest. That he never became a tyrant, was probably due in part to natural humanity and in part to the philosophy which was his pride. He was often harsh towards his subjects, but he proclaimed that his duty was to make them happy and he never shed their blood. His threats to execute his ministers were mere insults. But philosophy did not check one evil to which he was inclined by nature and impelled by situation. Nothing short of human sympathy could have mitigated his contempt for the populace, which gathered strength with years. “My dear Sulzer,” he replied to an educational theorist who urged that men were naturally inclined to good, “you do not know that curséd race as I do.” “It is more probable,” he held, “that we sprang from evil spirits, if such things could exist, than from a Being whose nature is good.” As he rode through the streets of his capital on one famous occasion, he came upon a group of the discontented staring at a seditious cartoon. “Hang it lower down,” was his scornful order, “so that they need not strain their necks to see it.”

To the service of those whom he termed the rabble, none the less, Frederick devoted a great share of a life of incessant labour. Every day, Sunday and week-day alike, was parcelled out so as to contain the greatest possible amount of work. “It is not necessary that I should live,” wrote the King, “but it is necessary that I should act.” He toiled for the State and for himself, and, with the exception of regular visits to his mother and Madame de Camas, he admitted few social claims upon his time. His Queen never even saw his favourite home, Sans Souci, which he built in the park at Potsdam in 1747. She knew so little of his affairs that she gave a party at Schönhausen while he was lying in extremis. The consideration which he denied to her he did not give to others whose title to it was less strong. As he grew older, he curtailed even the short time that he had been wont to spend in his capital, and divided the bulk of the year between seclusion at Potsdam and the inspection of his provinces.

His habit was to rise at dawn or earlier. The first three or four hours of the morning were allotted to toilet, correspondence, a desultory breakfast of strong coffee and fruit, preceded by a deep draught of cold water flavoured with fennel leaves, and flute-playing as an accompaniment to meditation on business. Then came one or two hours of rapid work with his secretaries, followed by parade, audiences, and perhaps a little exercise. Punctually at noon Frederick sat down to dinner, which was always the chief social event of the day and in later life became his only solid meal. He supervised his kitchen like a department of State. He considered and often amended the bill of fare, which contained the names of the cooks responsible for every dish. After dinner he marked with a cross the courses which had merited his approval. He inspected his household accounts with minute care and proved himself a master of domestic economy. The result was a dinner that Voltaire considered fairly good for a country in which there was no game, no decent meat, and no spring chickens.

Two hours, sometimes even four, were spent at table. Occasionally the time was devoted to the discussion of important business with high officials, but in general Frederick used it to refresh himself after his six or seven hours of toil. He ate freely, preferring highly spiced dishes, drank claret mixed with water, and talked incessantly. He was a skilful and agreeable host, putting his guests instantly at their ease, and, by Voltaire’s account, calling forth wit in others. After dismissing the company he returned to his flute, and then put the final touches to the morning’s business. After this he drank coffee and passed some two hours in seclusion. During this period he nerved himself for fresh grappling with affairs by plunging into literature. In the year 1749 he produced no less than forty works. About six o’clock he was ready to receive his lector or to converse with artists and learned men. At seven began a small concert, in which Frederick himself used often to perform. Supper followed, but was brief, unless the conversation was of unusual interest. Otherwise the King went to bed at about nine o’clock and slept five or six hours. In later life he gave up suppers, but continued to invite a few friends for conversation. He then allowed himself rather more sleep. In his last years he lost the power to play his flute and with it, apparently, the desire to hear music.

The sketch which has been given of Frederick’s daily life suggests that whatever his power might be, it was not subjected to the interference of others. At Potsdam there was no place for the ordinary influences which were brought to bear upon Kings. Frederick would not endure the presence of any woman, and, strictly speaking, he had no courtiers. His intimates were not politicians, but wits and men of letters, for the most part of foreign birth. Even those who accused him of hideous vices admitted that he never suffered his accomplices to have the smallest influence over him. Eichel and the two other secretaries who worked with the King every day were slaves rather than counsellors. They lived in such seclusion that, according to the French ambassador, Eichel was never seen by any human being. During Frederick’s last illness, he forced their successors to attend him at four o’clock in the morning, so that the few weeks that might yet remain to him should be serviceable to the State. One of them fell to the ground in a fit, but the King merely summoned another, and went on with the business. Through their hands passed Frederick’s correspondence with his ministers, whom he rarely saw. “In his orders of two lines,” grumbled a subordinate, “he announced no reasons.” He was of course obliged to listen to the ambassadors of foreign Powers. As though to avenge himself for this, he tolerated no suggestions from his own. He desired spies rather than advisers, and often chose men of inferior intelligence to fill high diplomatic posts. On every hand we find tokens that Frederick looked to his own breast alone for inspiration in the exercise of his power.