Now, it's philosophy sharing time. Mind over matter: Do we have an immortal soul?
My dearest brother, My return here, along with my sister's stay in Erlangen, deprived me of the pleasure of writing to you. I found, my very dear brother, your dear letter upon my arrival. The good news you give me of your precious health fills me with joy. I am very much of your sentiment, my very dear brother, and am convinced that our soul is the servant of our body. I feel it every day; my soul (if I have one) is always attached to you, and my miserable body remains here without being able to follow its directions. I constantly curse it for being built of flesh and bone, and not being formed like that of sylphs, which are transported in an instant from one place to another. I have to walk this puny shell for a few hours every day, so that I can then think and reflect. But, despite all my thoughts, I still don't know what I am. I notice, however, that when I suffer the most, I do not feel any harm when I can fix my thoughts on some object which deserves application. It is true that this relief is only momentary, the springs of the machine, weakened by pain, cannot endure a long application; I also realize that often I do not see an object appearing before my sight, and I do not hear a sound striking my ear; I don't think about it or pay attention to it. I conjecture from there that there is only the reflection which prints to me the ideas which are brought back to me by the senses. This conjecture sometimes makes me believe that there is something more in me than my body; but I find, on the other hand, so many contradictions, that I return to the other system. Would you not say, my very dear brother, that I am as good a philosopher as a great captain, and that I had better be silent than talk to you about my hollow dreams? But it is new for you to hear unreason. The conversation between Voltaire, Argens and Algarotti will seem all the more pleasant to you; this letter will serve them as a shadow; you need it in a table. Lest it become Italian and too obscure, I finish by reiterating the tenderness and the deep respect with which I will be all my life, my very dear brother, etc.
My dearest sister, Your letters, far from boring me, are philosophical instructions from which even philosophers could benefit. If there is a created being worthy of having an immortal soul, it is you, without question; if there is an argument capable of making me lean towards this opinion, it is your genius. However, my dear sister, I prefer to believe that nature has made an exception in your favor than to flatter myself with the same benefit. It is of course that, when we represent to ourselves what we are, without the senses and without the memory nothing remains of what makes us, and this is of course what I count on, looking at the time that I live as the only one destined for me between the eternity of the times which preceded me and that which will succeed me. I know that I was not before I was born, and from the past I conclude for the future. Besides, what good would this part of us survive the other? what would she do? what sauce would we put it in? All these reasons strengthen me in my feeling, and I do not believe that we have anything to complain about to become again what we were. For me, I bless nature to have favored me, by being born with a sister who alone could make the consolation of my life, to have given me parents who are esteemed by their virtues, and not to have been given a worried spirit, difficult to satisfy. (If you say so, Fritz.) Here is my little confession of faith, which resembles neither that of Augsburg, nor the catechism of Calvin. It is not given to everyone to be orthodox, but it is up to each one to follow the laws of nature, and it is, I believe, to this practical philosophy that an honest man owes the most. But I don't know what I want to tell you about my daydreams. You, who can be maintained from cedar to hyssop, and pass from the most sublime philosophy to the history of pompoms, you will forgive me if I brighten up my letter with these trifles that I offer to your toilet ; although great philosopher and great captain, you cannot do without spending an hour a day there, and I flatter myself that, at that time, you will sometimes want to use the necklace that I present to you, making sure that it starts from the principle of friendship and the tenderest tenderness with which I am, my very dear sister, etc.
Necklace: As Lehndorff somewhat snarkily remarked, Wilhelmine liked jewelry. Fritz sent her some with the same letter.
Cothenius is Fritz' doctor, "my sister of Ansbach" is poor Friederike Luise (who in order of birth comes after Fritz), formerly spirited girl braving FW, now locked in a miserable marriage. My dearest sister, Your letter takes me from the cruelest uncertainty where mortal can be. I was apprehensive for your precious health. I had dispatched Cothenius to Baireuth, and received no news. Thanks to heaven, you give me yourself, and good ones. If my unhappy machine was not chained here on my galley, I would have flown to you to get me out of worry; but I am less in control of my actions than the smallest individual, and I have to row, since it is my destiny to row. However, I had the consolation of seeing my sister from Ansbach again. Judge the pleasure I felt when I kissed a friend from my childhood, a sister I love dearly, and whom I saw last nine years ago. There were only sad partings in all of this, and these are, I believe, moments to be avoided as much as possible. She will be in Braunschweig today, and I think that around the 7th or the 8th of the coming month, she will be in Baireuth. She will tell you, my dear sister, that we have often talked about you, and that you are loved and adored by the whole family. I find her health bad, and I urged her to consult Cothenius on the way to Baireuth. I dare to beg you to make her remember. She heard Dido's opera and my singers, which amused her. (...)
When singers hired by you dare to praise your arch nemesis, it can only have one reason:
La Astrua says a thousand goods from the Queen of Hungary, and I believe that an egret of diamonds that this princess has given her greatly influences the praise she lavishes on her.
It's noticable now that a lot of the fabled Sanssouci table round is no longer in Sanssouci:
I am reduced to the one of Argens, who, for the most part, stays in his bed; Algarotti made a hole in the moon, Maupertuis is sick, and Voltaire is in Switzerland with Mandrin; which reduces me to myself more than ever. I kiss you a thousand times; my heart accompanies you everywhere.
Just two tidbits from the travel correspondance on Fritz' part:
My dearest sister, You make fun of me and, with good reason, of the stupid moralizing that I subject you to; but, my dear sister, you find yourself among a gay and mad people who inspire you, perhaps in spite of you, with joyful ideas, and for me, I lead the life that a Carthusian spends in his cell. This, I believe, is what contributes to our different way of thinking.
My dearest sister, I was quite happy to receive two of your dear letters from Bologna and Venice. I believe that, after having seen Rome, the rest of Italy, although beautiful, is not comparable to it. I am delighted that, in the country of Pantaloni, Algarotti behaved in such a way as to please you. (...) I would have liked the Holy Father to have become your Cicisbeo, my dear sister, in place of Cataneo, who must be a rather annoying fat man. I hope that by the end of this month you will be back from your long journey, and that you will be able to rest on your laurels. This rapprochement will in some way lessen the length of the absence, and I would at least believe I see you half here. Goodbye, my dear sister; take good care of your health, and do me the justice to believe me with the most perfect tenderness, my very dear sister, etc.
Wilhelmine is back in Bayreuth, alright, but there are thunderclouds on the political horizon. We haven't touched on this yet, but of course "the 7 Years War" in English usually means the part where the French and the English duked it out in the colonies. Which was indeeed intimatedly connected to the European version, since Fritz allying himself with England at this very point would greatly contribute to France allying itself with Austria.
I remain slightly stunned every time I come across this utter lack of predicting anything accurately at the eve of the worst war of the century until Napoleon shows up.
Now, here's a stunner: Fritz mentioning the rape poem:
I will see what I can do this winter to oblige you; there is, among other things, an epic poem of which Valori and Darget are the subjects; but it is so licentious, and besides so badly hatched, that I do not have the courage to submit it to your examination.
Valori, btw, is the French ambassador, with whom the Divine Trio is very friendly. The philosophical letter by AW from Spandau about shooting at sparrows and war as evil which I quote in my review of the Ziebura AW biography is adressed to him. I had forgotten that he also features in this poem. Meaning: Not content with insulting heads of European states (and their mistresses) on a regular basis, Fritz also at a point when France is at war with England and he makes an alliance with England finds time to write satiric porn involving the French ambassador.
Fritz and Wilhelmine Correspondance, Trier Version IV - More Things Between Heaven and Earth...
My dearest brother,
My return here, along with my sister's stay in Erlangen, deprived me of the pleasure of writing to you. I found, my very dear brother, your dear letter upon my arrival. The good news you give me of your precious health fills me with joy. I am very much of your sentiment, my very dear brother, and am convinced that our soul is the servant of our body. I feel it every day; my soul (if I have one) is always attached to you, and my miserable body remains here without being able to follow its directions. I constantly curse it for being built of flesh and bone, and not being formed like that of sylphs, which are transported in an instant from one place to another. I have to walk this puny shell for a few hours every day, so that I can then think and reflect. But, despite all my thoughts, I still don't know what I am. I notice, however, that when I suffer the most, I do not feel any harm when I can fix my thoughts on some object which deserves application. It is true that this relief is only momentary, the springs of the machine, weakened by pain, cannot endure a long application; I also realize that often I do not see an object appearing before my sight, and I do not hear a sound striking my ear; I don't think about it or pay attention to it. I conjecture from there that there is only the reflection which prints to me the ideas which are brought back to me by the senses. This conjecture sometimes makes me believe that there is something more in me than my body; but I find, on the other hand, so many contradictions, that I return to the other system. Would you not say, my very dear brother, that I am as good a philosopher as a great captain, and that I had better be silent than talk to you about my hollow dreams? But it is new for you to hear unreason. The conversation between Voltaire, Argens and Algarotti will seem all the more pleasant to you; this letter will serve them as a shadow; you need it in a table. Lest it become Italian and too obscure, I finish by reiterating the tenderness and the deep respect with which I will be all my life, my very dear brother, etc.
My dearest sister,
Your letters, far from boring me, are philosophical instructions from which even philosophers could benefit. If there is a created being worthy of having an immortal soul, it is you, without question; if there is an argument capable of making me lean towards this opinion, it is your genius. However, my dear sister, I prefer to believe that nature has made an exception in your favor than to flatter myself with the same benefit. It is of course that, when we represent to ourselves what we are, without the senses and without the memory nothing remains of what makes us, and this is of course what I count on, looking at the time that I live as the only one destined for me between the eternity of the times which preceded me and that which will succeed me. I know that I was not before I was born, and from the past I conclude for the future. Besides, what good would this part of us survive the other? what would she do? what sauce would we put it in? All these reasons strengthen me in my feeling, and I do not believe that we have anything to complain about to become again what we were. For me, I bless nature to have favored me, by being born with a sister who alone could make the consolation of my life, to have given me parents who are esteemed by their virtues, and not to have been given a worried spirit, difficult to satisfy. (If you say so, Fritz.) Here is my little confession of faith, which resembles neither that of Augsburg, nor the catechism of Calvin. It is not given to everyone to be orthodox, but it is up to each one to follow the laws of nature, and it is, I believe, to this practical philosophy that an honest man owes the most. But I don't know what I want to tell you about my daydreams. You, who can be maintained from cedar to hyssop, and pass from the most sublime philosophy to the history of pompoms, you will forgive me if I brighten up my letter with these trifles that I offer to your toilet ; although great philosopher and great captain, you cannot do without spending an hour a day there, and I flatter myself that, at that time, you will sometimes want to use the necklace that I present to you, making sure that it starts from the principle of friendship and the tenderest tenderness with which I am, my very dear sister, etc.
Necklace: As Lehndorff somewhat snarkily remarked, Wilhelmine liked jewelry. Fritz sent her some with the same letter.
Cothenius is Fritz' doctor, "my sister of Ansbach" is poor Friederike Luise (who in order of birth comes after Fritz), formerly spirited girl braving FW, now locked in a miserable marriage.
My dearest sister,
Your letter takes me from the cruelest uncertainty where mortal can be. I was apprehensive for your precious health. I had dispatched Cothenius to Baireuth, and received no news. Thanks to heaven, you give me yourself, and good ones. If my unhappy machine was not chained here on my galley, I would have flown to you to get me out of worry; but I am less in control of my actions than the smallest individual, and I have to row, since it is my destiny to row. However, I had the consolation of seeing my sister from Ansbach again. Judge the pleasure I felt when I kissed a friend from my childhood, a sister I love dearly, and whom I saw last nine years ago. There were only sad partings in all of this, and these are, I believe, moments to be avoided as much as possible. She will be in Braunschweig today, and I think that around the 7th or the 8th of the coming month, she will be in Baireuth. She will tell you, my dear sister, that we have often talked about you, and that you are loved and adored by the whole family. I find her health bad, and I urged her to consult Cothenius on the way to Baireuth. I dare to beg you to make her remember. She heard Dido's opera and my singers, which amused her. (...)
When singers hired by you dare to praise your arch nemesis, it can only have one reason:
La Astrua says a thousand goods from the Queen of Hungary, and I believe that an egret of diamonds that this princess has given her greatly influences the praise she lavishes on her.
It's noticable now that a lot of the fabled Sanssouci table round is no longer in Sanssouci:
I am reduced to the one of Argens, who, for the most part, stays in his bed; Algarotti made a hole in the moon, Maupertuis is sick, and Voltaire is in Switzerland with Mandrin; which reduces me to myself more than ever. I kiss you a thousand times; my heart accompanies you everywhere.
Just two tidbits from the travel correspondance on Fritz' part:
My dearest sister,
You make fun of me and, with good reason, of the stupid moralizing that I subject you to; but, my dear sister, you find yourself among a gay and mad people who inspire you, perhaps in spite of you, with joyful ideas, and for me, I lead the life that a Carthusian spends in his cell. This, I believe, is what contributes to our different way of thinking.
My dearest sister,
I was quite happy to receive two of your dear letters from Bologna and Venice. I believe that, after having seen Rome, the rest of Italy, although beautiful, is not comparable to it. I am delighted that, in the country of Pantaloni, Algarotti behaved in such a way as to please you. (...) I would have liked the Holy Father to have become your Cicisbeo, my dear sister, in place of Cataneo, who must be a rather annoying fat man. I hope that by the end of this month you will be back from your long journey, and that you will be able to rest on your laurels. This rapprochement will in some way lessen the length of the absence, and I would at least believe I see you half here. Goodbye, my dear sister; take good care of your health, and do me the justice to believe me with the most perfect tenderness, my very dear sister, etc.
Wilhelmine is back in Bayreuth, alright, but there are thunderclouds on the political horizon. We haven't touched on this yet, but of course "the 7 Years War" in English usually means the part where the French and the English duked it out in the colonies. Which was indeeed intimatedly connected to the European version, since Fritz allying himself with England at this very point would greatly contribute to France allying itself with Austria.
My dearest sister,
On my return from Silesia, I was delighted by two of your dear letters. I am delighted to know that you are in good health, and I flatter myself that this will continue despite the winter and the harsh seasons. You show me your fears for the war; but, my dear sister, it is very far from the Ohio river at the Sprée, and from the Beau-Sejour fort in Berlin. I would bet that the Austrians will not soon walk in Flanders. War travels like a great lady; it started in America; now it has arrived in the Ocean and in the English Channel; she has not yet landed, and if she takes to the ground in the coming spring, she could perhaps, for greater convenience, take a litter, so that she will be seen coming from afar; and, after all, one is exposed to so many hazards in the common course of life, that war only adds a little more. We can neither make nor destroy the conjunctures; we politicians are only made to profit if we are wise. Now everything is only thinking here of Ferdinand's wedding; it will be done at Charlottenburg, because the Dowager Queen wished it. I will give parties, and Ferdinand will grow stump; you will see a whole tribe come out of this bridal bed; this is only good, because we do not have too much. I kiss your hands, my dear sister, begging you to believe me with the most perfect tenderness
I remain slightly stunned every time I come across this utter lack of predicting anything accurately at the eve of the worst war of the century until Napoleon shows up.
Now, here's a stunner: Fritz mentioning the rape poem:
I will see what I can do this winter to oblige you; there is, among other things, an epic poem of which Valori and Darget are the subjects; but it is so licentious, and besides so badly hatched, that I do not have the courage to submit it to your examination.
Valori, btw, is the French ambassador, with whom the Divine Trio is very friendly. The philosophical letter by AW from Spandau about shooting at sparrows and war as evil which I quote in my review of the Ziebura AW biography is adressed to him. I had forgotten that he also features in this poem. Meaning: Not content with insulting heads of European states (and their mistresses) on a regular basis, Fritz also at a point when France is at war with England and he makes an alliance with England finds time to write satiric porn involving the French ambassador.