History of Friedrich II of Prussia — Volume 10 — A Reader’s Guide
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Beginning was the Word; and the Word was with God, and the Word was--"_ Which somewhat took the Prince by surprise, as Formey reports; though he rallied straightway, and got good conversation out of the old gentleman. To whom, we perceive, he writes once or twice, [_OEuvres de Frederic,_ 121-126. Dates are all of 1737; the last of Beausobre's years.]--a copy of his own verses to correct, on one occasion,--and is very respectful and considerate.
Formey tells us of another French sage, personally known to the Prince since Boyhood; for he used to be about the Palace, doing something. This is one La Croze; Professor of, I think, "Philosophy" in the French College: sublime Monster of Erudition, at that time; forgotten now, I fear, by everybody. Swag-bellied, short of wind; liable to rages, to utterances of a coarse nature; a decidedly ugly, monstrous and rather stupid kind of man. Knew twenty languages, in a coarse inexact way. Attempted deep kinds of discourse, in the lecture-room and elsewhere; but usually broke off into endless welters of anecdote, not always of cleanly nature; and after every two or three words, a desperate sigh, not for sorrow, but on account of flabbiness and fat. Formey gives a portraiture of him; not worth copying farther. The same Formey, standing one day somewhere on the streets of Berlin, was himself, he cannot doubt, SEEN by the Crown-Prince in passing; "who asked M. Jordan, who that was," and got answer:--is not that a comfortable fact? Nothing farther came of it;--respectable Ex-Parson Formey, though ever ready with his pen, being indeed of very vapid nature, not wanted at Reinsberg, as we can guess.
There is M. Achard, too, another Preacher, supreme of his sort, in the then Berlin circles; to whom or from whom a Letter or two exist. Letters worthless, if it were not for one dim indication: That, on inquiry, the Crown-Prince had been consulting this supreme Achard on the difficulties of Orthodoxy; [_OEuvres de Frederic,_ xvi. pp. 112-117: date, March-June, 1736.] and had given him texts, or a text, to preach from. Supreme Achard did not abolish the difficulties for his inquiring Prince,--who complains respectfully that "his faith is weak," and leaves us dark as to particulars. This Achard passage is almost the only hint we have of what might have been an important chapter: Friedrich's Religious History at Reinsberg. The expression "weak faith" I take to be meant not in mockery, but in ingenuous regret and solicitude; much painful fermentation, probably, on the religious question in those Reinsberg years! But the old "GNADENWAHL" business, the Free-Grace controversy, had taught him to be cautious as to what he uttered on those points. The fermentation, therefore, had to go on under cover; what the result of it was, is notorious enough; though the steps of the process are not in any point known.
Enough now of such details. Outwardly or inwardly, there is no History, or almost none, to be had of this Reinsberg Period; the extensive records of it consisting, as usual, mainly of chaotic nugatory matter, opaque to the mind of readers. There is copious correspondence of the Crown-Prince, with at least dates to it for most part: but this, which should be the main resource, proves likewise a poor one; the Crown-Prince's Letters, now or afterwards, being almost never of a deep or intimate quality; and seldom turning on events or facts at all, and then not always on facts interesting, on facts clearly apprehensible to us in that extinct element.
The Thing, we know always, IS there; but vision of the Thing is only to be had faintly, intermittently. Dim inane twilight, with here and there a transient SPARK falling somewhither in it;--you do at last, by desperate persistence, get to discern outlines, features:--"The Thing cannot always have been No-thing," you reflect! Outlines, features:--and perhaps, after all, those are mostly what the reader wants on this occasion.
Chapter II. -- OF VOLTAIRE AND THE LITERARY CORRESPONDENCES.
One of Friedrich's grand purposes at Reinsberg, to himself privately the grandest there, which he follows with constant loyalty and ardor, is that of scaling the heights of the Muses' Hill withal; of attaining mastership, discipleship, in Art and Philosophy;--or in candor let us call it, what it truly was, that of enlightening and fortifying himself with clear knowledge, clear belief, on all sides; and acquiring some spiritual panoply in which to front the coming practicalities of life. This, he feels well, will be a noble use of his seclusion in those still places; and it must be owned, he struggles and endeavors towards this, with great perseverance, by all the methods in his power, here, or wherever afterwards he might be.
Carlyle opens Volume X not with a battle or a treaty, but with the purchase and renovation of a country house. The description of Reinsberg's rebuilding—Kemeter the architect, the "solid, elegant, yet frugal" design—immediately establishes a tone of material particularity. This is a historian who lingers on brick and mortar, on the "sacred hearth" kindled by the Crown-Prince and his wife, before turning to the literary circle that gathered there. The voice is at once proprietary and ironic, as when he notes that the purchase was concluded "on fair terms, after some months' bargaining."
The Architect of Prose: Carlyle's Descriptive Economy
Carlyle builds his narrative through concrete, almost architectural details. The account of Reinsberg is not merely topographical; it is a moral and political stage. He notes that the mansion was "so far ready" for habitation, implying a process still incomplete, much like the Crown-Prince's own formation. The phrase "kindle the sacred hearth" carries a deliberate archaism, signaling Carlyle's preference for the resonant over the merely factual. This is a writer who trusts the weight of a single word—"sacred"—to carry the domestic and dynastic significance of the move.
Later, when describing the diplomat Luiscius, Carlyle lets Voltaire's anecdote do the work: the minister's one razor, his attempted suicide, his rescue by an old valet. Carlyle does not moralize; he simply juxtaposes the "fat King of Prussia's" avarice with the pathos of a man who "cut his throat with probably the one razor he had." The detail is both grotesque and precise, a miniature that reveals the larger pattern of Friedrich Wilhelm's penny-pinching governance.
Pace and Digression: The Rhythm of Geopolitics
Carlyle's pacing is deliberate, even languorous, in the domestic chapters, then accelerates sharply when he turns to the Julich-Berg succession crisis. The transition is marked by a shift in sentence length: short, declarative statements give way to complex, clause-laden constructions. "This, at last, proved too much for his Majesty," he writes, and suddenly the narrative tightens. The reader is pulled from the quiet of Reinsberg into the "abstruse dubitations" of the King, whose "fixed private purpose" of marching with eighty thousand men looms over the text.
Yet Carlyle resists a simple climax. He notes that old Kur-Pfalz "did not die in his Majesty's time," deflating the tension with a wry temporal irony. The digression on Herstal and the Bishop of Liege is similarly managed: Carlyle dismisses it as "a paltriness," then adds that the King "would not kindle the world for such a paltriness." The repetition of "paltriness" underscores the historian's judgment, while the verb "kindle" echoes the earlier "sacred hearth," linking domestic and political fire.
Voice and Irony: Carlyle's Authorial Presence
Carlyle's voice is never neutral. He intrudes with parenthetical asides—"if that were any matter now"—and with sardonic summaries: "and we know what are the NINE-POINTS in a Law-case!" The capitalization of "NINE-POINTS" is a typographical wink, a shared joke with the reader about the cynicism of legal delay. This is a historian who expects his audience to recognize the gap between official justice and realpolitik.
His treatment of Friedrich Wilhelm's hypochondria is similarly layered. The King's talk of abdicating, of going to live at Venice, is reported with a mixture of sympathy and distance. Carlyle does not diagnose; he records the "deep-stung clangorous growl" and lets the sound carry the meaning. The phrase "clangorous growl" is almost onomatopoeic, a verbal imitation of the King's mood. Throughout, Carlyle's language is tactile, auditory, and deliberately uneven—shifting from the polished periods of architectural description to the blunt rhythms of political frustration.
Readers attentive to Carlyle's craft will find in this volume a masterclass in historical voice. The shifts between domestic intimacy and geopolitical sweep are not arbitrary; they mirror the Crown-Prince's own divided life between Reinsberg and the court. Carlyle's irony is a tool of selection, not dismissal—he chooses what to amplify and what to undercut. To read this volume is to watch a historian at work, shaping his material with a novelist's eye for scene and a satirist's ear for the absurd.
There are books that feel like sitting beside someone who’s watched people long enough to love their contradictions. That’s how Carlyle’s guide lingered with me—the quiet ache of watching a king’s son prepare for a throne he never wanted. It reminded me of The Logbooks of the Lady Nelson With the journal of her first commander Lieutenant James Grant — Context and Discussion, where duty unfolds day by day, without fanfare, simply endured. Both left me feeling tender toward human stubbornness.
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