Chapter Text
Finally, the war was over. Leaving aside Maria Theresia's obvious joy in welcoming the Silesians back into the Austrian fold, it was difficult for most of the participants to know whether to celebrate the outcome. But after several long years of bloodshed, everyone could agree on celebrating the peace. England had won and France lost an overseas empire, and Russia, under new leadership, pulled out of an increasingly costly war, leaving the Elector of Brandenburg still King of Prussia. "Of" Prussia in fact as well as name now, for while losing Silesia and restoring Saxony to independence, Heinrich had held onto East Prussia and added West Prussia to his nephew's territory, while luckless Poland was the loser on all fronts.
The return of peace meant other, more minor changes as well. One was having the funds to stage new operas. Friederike, Duchess of Württemberg, was back in Bayreuth, distracting herself from the recent loss of her father, and the less recent but still painful loss of her mother, with work on the one's palace and the other's opera. She'd finished commissioning the music to her mother's final composition and putting the finishing touches on the libretto years ago. But as the war raged on, prices rose, and troops demanded pay, she'd been forced to wait before staging it. Now at last she was free to fulfill her mother's last wishes.
Friederike's decision to assume responsibility for finishing the libretto had come as a surprise even to herself. It had started when she began writing up the draft and notes to send to a professional, and found herself filling in gaps in the libretto and smoothing out rough patches. With a little trepidation, she had thought, Why not? and kept going. She'd even come up with an ending. Her mother had not gotten any further than the scene in which Remus appeared to his sister to demand justice, and had not given her any instruction about what might come next. Friederike had added a scene in which the queen prayed to the gods, who themselves declared the murderer in a grand deus ex machina.
Despite all her fears that she didn't have any skill and should leave the matter to those who did, she found herself enjoying the challenge. No one had ever told her that pushing herself like this might feel as exhilarating as it did terrifying, but it was something she'd found to be true when she left her husband and started to build a life of her own. Now here she was, looking forward to seeing the fruits of her labor on stage, as the postbellum world slowly returned to normal.
Another benefit of peace was that travel was safe again. Friederike was especially glad of it when Voltaire found his way to Bayreuth.
"Uncle Voltaire! How good of you to make us one of the stops on your travels. No, I'm not a duchess or a 'Highness' to you, only a niece. Mother always said you were like a brother to her."
They embraced, and Friederike invited him for a private dinner as soon as he was settled in. She hadn't seen him since she was ten years old, but her mother had spoken of him so often and so affectionately that she felt she knew him well.
Voltaire was en route to Prussia, which he had assiduously avoided since his final falling out with Friedrich. She didn't think he quite regretted his decision, but she could see in his eyes the finality of knowing he could never, in a very real sense of the word, go back. Heinrich would welcome him, of course, but the king he loved to hate and hated to love was gone forever.
The old philosopher tried to hide the strength of his feelings, but the fact that he was returning to Prussia couldn't all be about Heinrich and Amalie, no matter how often he praised them or spoke of the pleasure he'd once had putting on private performances of his plays with them.
His obsession slipped out in little ways, as well. After her guest had politely praised Bayreuth, her building efforts, and her patronage, and that of her parents, Voltaire quickly turned the conversation to Prussia. He asked about Friedrich's building projects, which ones were being continued, and which abandoned. Friederike obligingly told him what she knew of Heinrich's plans, which included a large number of his own initiatives. Above all, he was constructing a tribute primarily to his late and disgraced brother Wilhelm and secondarily to the other war dead, especially those he saw as slighted by the late King. It was going to be a war of pamphlets and of monuments, and with Friedrich dead, Heinrich would have the last word. But Friedrich was still the Great, and he cast a long shadow.
Voltaire cocked an eyebrow. "Prince Heinrich's planning to remain in power, then, the man behind the throne."
Friederike shrugged. "He doesn't confide in me, but I haven't heard otherwise. He's so active, militarily, politically, and diplomatically, that it's hard to imagine him not at the center of everything. He's become an institution of Prussia."
She then turned the praise back on Voltaire, calling out especially the Calas affair. Jean Calas, a Frenchman, had been convicted of the murder of his son two years ago, and gone to a gruesome death protesting his innocence. When Voltaire had discovered that the only "crime" for which there had been evidence against Calas was that of being Protestant in Catholic France, he'd waged a crusade for justice. Though he'd never so much as heard of the man before his execution, he protested this travesty by pamphlet and by letter. Relentless as only Voltaire could be, he appealed for years to officials, powerful friends, and public opinion, until finally he triumphed.
"Even though it doesn't bring back the dead, to have the verdict overturned posthumously was a mighty coup for a mighty philosophe," Friederike gushed.
Voltaire nodded, and anger tinged his voice. "That a man can be killed with no trial worthy of the name, and there be no outcry and no consequences--I couldn't stand for it."
"France is a better place because of your work, even if you have to live in exile to be free to pursue your causes. Truly, the pen is mightier than the sword."
A pleased smile crossed his face, but then his expression turned melancholy. "And yet my pen couldn't keep a philosopher king from falling on his already bloody sword."
The paradox of Voltaire was that his diatribes against Friedrich's wars were as sincere as his grief for the man who'd led them.
"The Margravine was buried with him at Sanssouci?" Voltaire asked.
"By his wish and hers," Friederike confirmed. Tears came to her eyes, because it meant her own tomb would never lie beside her mother's, but she couldn't deny that her mother and uncle had been separated for too long. "They found this poem among his papers. I wanted to show you."
Voltaire picked up the sheet of paper. His face crumpled into recognition as soon as he started reading. "Yes, he sent me a copy. He nearly got his wish."
"Yes." Friedrich hadn't outlived his sister, at least, and even if his death hadn't saved her from the reaper's scythe, they did now lie, as he'd closed his poem, 'with one grave enclosing our intermingling dust.'
She felt Voltaire's hand on her shoulder, and though she couldn't see through her swimming eyes, she could tell from his breathing that he was crying as hard as she was. She clung to his hand as they wept together.
When their shared grief had passed over like a storm, Friederike sought to console them both with art, which had always consoled her mother and uncle.
"I'd like you to come and see the new opera while you're here. My mother wrote the libretto, her last before she died. In fact, she wasn't able to quite finish it herself. It's a new take on the founding of Rome, of Romulus and Remus. She invokes the version told by the locals at Rheinsberg, in which--you know this story?"
Voltaire was nodding as she spoke. "That Remus wasn't killed, but fled to Germany and settled at Rheinsberg, giving his name to the village. Friedrich was the first person who told me of that story, back when he lived there, before he gave the palace to Prince Heinrich. He used to address his letters from 'Remusberg'." Voltaire's mouth twisted with mixed nostalgia and grief.
Friederike hadn't known that. She'd meant this conversation to be a distraction, not another reminder. But there was so much shared history between Voltaire and Friedrich that he must be faced by reminders everywhere. Awkwardly, she continued, "In my mother's version, Remus is indeed killed by Romulus, but Romulus claims he had only banished him. The narrative plays with the boundary between history and legend."
"Oh, that sounds extremely interesting. Was she saying that we're always dependent on conflicting stories, and what we believe is true might not be? That would make sense, if she was countering the rumors that Prince Wilhelm died of grief. And it was the case I was making when I wrote to the Crown Prince about the absurdities of Roman legend. Hmm." Voltaire's eyes were alive with interest in his lined face as he thought out loud. It warmed Friederike's heart to see her attempt at distracting him finally having an effect.
"It's a many-layered story. I think each person who watches it has to decide what it means to them." Though Friederike had been the one to turn the draft into its final form, she had never been able to settle on a single meaning. In the end, she'd decided it wasn't limited to one.
"Your mother was a woman of rare taste, and I very much look forward to developing my own interpretation of her last piece."
"I hoped you would," Friederike said, smiling at Voltaire. "Come, let me show you the margravial opera house." She reached out for his proffered arm, and they set off together.
How appropriate, Voltaire reflected, to be honoring the Margravine by attending her opera in her opera house. She'd commissioned it, composed for it, and performed in it. And now her final piece was being played in it.
The entrance to the building was unimposing, but the interior! It was justly ranked among the finest in Europe. Voltaire let his gaze rove admiringly over the spacious layout, the lavish sculptures and paintings, and tones of the gold and wood, which harmonized as beautifully as if they themselves were singing.
As he took his seat next to the Duchess, he mingled with the other guests in the box. Flattery was cheap, but he was pleased that word of the Calas affair had reached even this minor German principality. Oh, of course. He sighed internally. The Bayreuthers were primarily concerned with the Protestant/Catholic aspect of the conflict, and they were exulting that the Protestant cause had triumphed. Deeper concerns of justice and equality before the law were secondary considerations, if considerations to them at all.
Well, if skeptic extraordinaire Friedrich II had played the Protestant hero on the European stage for the sake of his wars, Voltaire could play one in a better cause. To one guest, then another, he said, "It's all in my book. The Treatise on Tolerance, all the arguments I made are in there. The Catholics have banned it, but you'll help an old man out by buying a copy, won't you? Thank you, you're very kind. I'm sure your virtue will be rewarded by Heaven."
Then the performance began, and Voltaire settled in to enjoy himself.
He was pleased and not at all surprised that Wilhelmine, at least, had praised tolerance as a virtue wherever it was found, including among pagans. When her Remus took the stage and sang a resounding aria against tyranny and in favor of freedom of conscience, political and religious, Voltaire cheered. When Pythagoras, the most renowned philosopher of his day, came fleeing Ionia and seeking refuge in Italy, he beamed. How kind of the Margravine to think of him, and what a shame that she was no longer here for him to tell her how much he appreciated her work. And when Remus fell dead at the feet of Romulus, over a political squabble turned personal, Voltaire cried out loud at the injustice.
And then, as the foster sister sang her lament, he began to think. The ancient Romans had been noted for their tolerance. As long as their subjects obeyed the laws of the state, anyone could worship as he pleased. Even let a philosopher deny the existence of the state gods, and he could live in peace. All this despite the murder of Remus by Romulus.
In some ways, both fictional brothers in her libretto had done better than her flesh-and-blood brother: offering refuge to philosophers and religious freedom to his subjects, but burning pamphlets when it suited him. Voltaire's blood ran hot just remembering that chilly Christmas Eve, when Friedrich betrayed everything Voltaire had thought they both believed in. It had not been hard to leave Prussia after that.
And yet. And yet. Friedrich would have allowed the Treatise to be published, had he lived; Voltaire was sure of it. His cry for resistance against the tyranny of the mind would have found a home in Frederician Prussia, and at some level, Friedrich would have meant it.
Voltaire realized that he would be carrying on an argument with this man until the day he died, and simultaneously, that nothing was lonelier than a one-sided argument. My hero-poet-philosopher-warrior-mischievous-singular-brilliant-proud-modest king. Why aren't you here to infuriate and impress me?
Putting aside that eternal ache, he returned his full attention to the performance as the lament ended and the plot resumed. Rome, not Reme, was founded; tolerance continued; Pythagoras was still welcome. Was there then any meaningful difference between the twins? Wilhelmine seemed to be saying that there was not.
This could be taken to mean that great tides of history were self-sustaining enough to bear the death of a single man. Or it could mean that Romulus had had no cause to kill Remus, his twin, his other self. The Duchess had been right, her mother's opera was many-layered. What a loss that woman was.
Nevertheless, Voltaire found the second half of the opera slightly frustrating, in that he'd been hoping for one thing and been given another. Instead of political commentary, the singers sang of torn loyalties and a divided family. The justice that the young shepherdess cried out for was that of a slain brother, not of a cause.
But the Calas tragedy had been personal too, hadn't it? As an outsider, Voltaire had the luxury of thinking of it abstractly, as a failure of the judicial system, but Jean Calas had left behind a family that mourned him, just as this Remus had. And Wilhelmine grieved Friedrich terribly, just as Voltaire did, and he could hardly blame her for giving artistic vent to their feelings.
Then the ghost of Remus appeared. Voltaire, moved to tears, listened to the countertenor virtuoso filling the hall with sound, and something began to niggle in the back of his mind. It was too easy to make overly simplistic equations, when Wilhelmine had lost two brothers and mourned them both. As Friederike had said, there was necessarily more than one interpretation.
But to take the straightforward route for a moment, just for the sake of argument...if Pythagoras symbolized Voltaire, then had Wilhelmine made Remus the philosopher king cut down too early only so she could put words to her grief? Or did she have another motive?
The great denouement began. Watching as the gods declared that Remus' fate had been death at the hands of his brother, not voluntary exile, Voltaire could almost feel his pen in his hand; he could see the lines he'd written as if he had the page before him. In this strange affair of the Calas family, it was a question of religion, suicide, parricide; it was a question of knowing if a father and a mother had strangled their son to please God, if a brother had strangled his brother. At last, too late for Jean Calas, the court that had condemned the father had declared the truth. Suicide, after all, not filicide.
Now Voltaire considered the new panorama before his mind's eye. Two Hohenzollern brothers, dead. Wilhelmine, wholeheartedly devoted to Friedrich. Remus, giver of protection to exiled philosophers, crying out on stage that he had been murdered at the hands of his brother. Justice, unfulfilled.
That meant...
When the Duchess, in the seat beside him, nudged him, Voltaire realized the entire audience was applauding madly, and he was sitting like a statue. "Didn't you like it?"
"Like it…" he echoed faintly. "'Like' is too feeble a word. I have been living it for the last several hours."
That a man can be killed with no trial worthy of the name, and there be no outcry and no consequences--I couldn't stand for it.
Shaking himself out of the trance, Voltaire joined in the enthusiastic applause, then turned to his companion. Friederike looked tentatively excited. "Does that mean you might turn it into a play, Uncle Voltaire?"
Voltaire smiled enigmatically at her. "I rather think your mother's piece deserves to be brought to life on a much wider stage, don't you agree?"