There were other quarrels and
complications, and Voltaire grew disgusted with the occupation of what
he slyly called "buck-washing" the king's French verses,--poor affairs
they were. Step by step he was making Berlin as hot as he had made
Paris. The new Adam was growing restless in his new Paradise. He wrote
to his niece,--
"So it is known by this time in Paris, my dear child, that we have
played the 'Mort de Caesar' at Potsdam, that Prince Henry is a good
actor, has no accent, and is very amiable, and that this is the place
for pleasure? All this is true, but--The king's supper parties are
delightful; at them people talk reason, wit, science; freedom prevails
thereat; he is the soul of it all; no ill-temper, no clouds, at any rate
no storms; my life is free and well occupied,--but--Opera, plays,
carousals, suppers at Sans Souci, military manoeuvres, concerts, studies,
readings,--but--The city of Berlin, grand, better laid out than Paris;
palaces, play-houses, affable queens, charming princesses, maids of
honor beautiful and well-made, the mansion of Madame de Tyrconnel always
full and sometimes too much so,--but--but--My dear child, the weather
is beginning to settle down into a fine frost.
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