The king, pleased by these memories of happy days, rose and seized his flute, which, by his express orders, always lay on his writing-table.  He put it to his lips, and began an adagio, in the execution of which he was acknowledged to be one of the first virtuosos of his day, and the sounds, as they poured forth, rose plaintively, and floated around him in bewitching melody.  No one could listen to this beautifully-executed, deeply-felt music of the royal performer, without being impressed in his inmost soul, and feeling his heart swell with powerful emotions.  Outside, in the antechamber, were standing the stern generals, the heroic warriors, Zeithen, and the brave Schwerin, and General von Saldern, and their scarred, austere features assumed a soft, touching expression, as they leaned against the wall and listened in breathless silence to the performance of the king.  But suddenly the playing ceased.

To these brave warriors, unaccustomed to music, the execution had seemed superb; but the king was not satisfied with it.  He, who had in his memory the royal artiste of Sans-Souci, exacted of the king, driven about by the hardships and necessities of war, that he should have lost nothing of the fulness of tone or the power and energy of execution.  It worried him that the notes no longer flowed so clearly; it vexed him to hear a sharp, whistling sound, that seemed to accompany the melody as with a painful sigh.  He threw the flute aside, and stepped to a looking-glass, which he took up with evident unwillingness.

It was very seldom that the king held it worth his while to consult the mirror about his personal appearance, and when he did so, it was usually to inquire for some failing or evidence of frailty which restricted him in the freedom of his being.  And while he thus looked at himself, his features assumed a sad expression, and his eyebrows became contracted.

What was it, which thus put out of humor the brave hero, the victory-crowned king?

He became aware that his second front tooth had broken off.  The gap thus caused was the natural explanation of the want of clearness in his playing.  He threw the mirror angrily aside, and with a frown on his brow paced rapidly up and down the room two or three times.

But gradually another expression succeeded, and a sarcastic smile played around his mouth.  Again he stepped to the writing-table, on which lay several unfinished letters.  Looking for the one he had commenced to the Countess Camas, he said to himself:  “The good countess inquires after my personal appearance.  Well, now that I am in the humor, I will draw my portrait for her.”

Again he took up the hand-glass and regarded himself long and attentively; but this time not with vexation or ill-humor, but with the cheerful smile and dignified calm of a philosopher.  He then applied himself to his writing:  “You ask how I look, dear mother.  The disorder of war has made me so old, that you would hardly recognize me.  My hair is quite gray on the right side of my head; my teeth break off and fall out; my face is as full of wrinkles as the furbelow of a woman’s frock; my back as bent as that of a monk of La Trappe.  Only my heart is unchanged; and, as long as I have breath, will preserve feelings of esteem and the most tender friendship toward you, good mamma."[1]