Stormy Weathers and Family Jewels
King Frederick II, by Anna Dorothea Therbusch, 1772
Setting: The quiet study of Sanssouci Palace. Evening light filters through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Books are stacked high on every surface. FREDERICK sits not at his grand desk, but in a simple chair by the window, staring out at the manicured gardens as a light drizzle begins to fall. He is not wearing his crown; it rests on a velvet cushion on a nearby table, catching the fading light.
A serene presence enters the room, so quietly she seems to have coalesced from the shadows and the scent of old paper. She is SOPHIA.
Sophia: A heavy silence for such a beautiful evening, Frederick. The earth is drinking gratefully.
Frederick: (Without turning) It is not the earth I am thinking of. It is my own head. I feel the dampness even in here.
Sophia: You are not near the window. The roof is sound. What rain is it that you feel?
A crown is merely a hat that lets the rain in.
— Frederick the Great (1712-1786)
Frederick: (He gestures with his chin toward the crown on the table) The kind that falls through gold. The kind that no ermine can repel. I look at that circlet and see a gilded sieve. It promises authority, a shield of majesty, but it offers no shelter from the deluge of worries that plague a king. Every petition, every border dispute, every harvest failure—they are drops of a cold, endless rain that find their way straight through to the skull.
Sophia: All hats are meant to provide some comfort, some protection from the elements. What did you expect yours to do?
Frederick: (He turns to face her, a flicker of his famous cynicism in his eyes) I suppose I expected it to hold some power over the clouds. To command a patch of clear sky. Instead, its weight seems to attract the storm. It marks me as the one who must stand in the downpour and pretend he is not soaked, not shivering like any other man. It is a lonely distinction.
Sophia: Perhaps you misunderstand its purpose. A common hat shields a man’s head, allowing him to forget the weather and go about his business. But a crown… a crown is different. It is not designed to keep the ruler dry.
Frederick: (A short, mirthless laugh) Then it is a singularly poor design. What is it for, then? To announce to the heavens, ‘Here is a man to drench with all the sorrows of a nation’?
Sophia: It is designed to ensure the wearer never forgets that it is raining on his people. The chill you feel is their fear. The steady drumming you hear is the beat of their anxious hearts. A lesser covering would grant you the blissful ignorance of warmth and dryness, leaving you isolated in your palace while your subjects drown. Your crown forces you to feel the storm with them. It is a conduit, not a shield.
Frederick falls silent, his gaze returning to the window, where the drizzle has now become a steady shower, tapping against the glass. He watches the water bead and run down the pane, each droplet a tiny world of distorted light.
Frederick: So, the discomfort is the point. The vulnerability is the function. I am to be the kingdom’s nerve ending, feeling every lash of the wind, every sting of the frost.
Sophia: Is it not better to feel and to understand, than to be comfortably numb? The rain you feel is not a curse. It is a reminder of the ground you stand on, of the fields that need water, and of the people who look to you for a harvest. Wisdom is not found in seeking shelter from this reality, but in learning what grows because of it.
Frederick looks from the rain-streaked window to the golden crown. The light catches its jewels, but for the first time, he sees not their fire, but the coolness of their facets, like crystallized drops of water. He rises and walks to the table. He does not put the crown on, but touches its rim gently, as if finally understanding its nature.
Frederick: Then I suppose I must learn to be a better farmer. And stop cursing the weather.
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