“This is grand! this is sublime!” cried Voltaire.  “Your majesty is a French writer, who lives by accident in Germany.  You have our language wholly in your power.”

Frederick raised his finger threateningly.  “Friend, friend, shall I weary the gods again with my prayer?”

“Your majesty, then, wishes to hear the whole truth?”

“The whole truth!”

“Then you must allow me, sire, to read the verses once more.  I read them the first time as an amateur, now I will read them as a critic.”

As Voltaire now repeated the verses, he laid a sharp accent upon every word and every imperfect rhyme; scanned every line with stern precision.  Sometimes when he came to a false Alexandrine, he gave himself the appearance of being absolutely unable to force his lips to utter such barbarisms; and then his eyes glowed with malicious fire, and a contemptuous smile played about his mouth.

The king’s brow clouded.  “I understand,” said he, “the poem is utterly unworthy—­good for nothing.  Let us destroy it.”

“Not so, sire—­the poem is excellent, and it requires but a few day’s study to make it perfect.  On the Venus di Medici no finger must be too long, no nail badly formed; and what are such statues, with which we deck our gardens, to the monuments of the library?  We must, therefore, make your work perfect.  There is infinite grace and intellect in this little poem.  Where have you found such treasures, sire?  How can your sandy soil yield such blossoms?  How can such charming grace and profound learning be combined? [Footnote:  Voltaire’s own words.—­Oeuvres Posthumes, p. 329.] But even the Graces must stand upon a sure footing, and here, sire, are a few feet which are too long.  Truly, that is sometimes unimportant, but the work of a distinguished genius should be perfect.  You work too rashly, sire—­it is sometimes more easy to win a battle than to make a good poem.  Your majesty loves the truth so well, that by speaking the truth in all sincerity I shall best prove to you my most profound reverence.  All that you do must be perfectly done; you are fully endowed with the ability necessary.  No one must say ’Caesar est supra grammaticum.’  Caesar wrote as he fought, and was in both victorious.  Frederick the Great plays the flute like Blavet, why should he not also write like the greatest of poets? [Footnote:  Ibid., p. 823.] But your majesty must not disdain to give to the beautiful sentiment, the great thought, a lovely and attractive form.”

“Yes, you are right!” said Frederick; “I fail in that, but you must not think that it is from carelessness.  Those of my verses which you have least criticised are exactly those which have cost me the least effort.  When the sentiment and the rhyme come in competition, I make bad verses, and am not happy in my corrections.  You cannot comprehend the difficulties I have to overcome in making a few tolerable verses.  A happy combination by