He had in equal degree
the need to idealize life for himself, and the impulse to destroy
ideal moods without mercy in himself and in others. This first
peculiarity of his was perhaps the most beautiful, perhaps the
saddest, with which a human being was ever equipped in the struggles
of earth. His was indeed a poetic nature. He possessed to a high
degree that peculiar power which endeavors to reconstruct vulgar
reality according to the ideal needs of its own nature, and covers
everything near with the grace and light of a new life. It was a
necessity for him to make over with the grace of his imagination the
image of those dear to him, and to adorn the relation to them into
which he had voluntarily entered. In this there was always a certain
kind of posing. Even where he had the most ardent feelings, he was
more in love with the glorified picture of the individual in his mind
than with the real personality. It was in such a mood that he kissed
Voltaire's hand. As soon as the difference between the ideal and the
real person became unpleasantly perceptible, he let go the person and
clung to the image. One to whom nature has given this temperament,
letting him see love and friendship chiefly through the colored glass
of a poetical mood, will always, according to the judgment of others,
show caprice in the choice of his friends. The uniform warmth which
treats with consideration all alike seems to be denied to such
natures. To any one to whom the King had become a friend in his own
fashion, he always showed the greatest attention and assiduity,
however much his moods changed at particular moments.
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