As Goethe turns nine, Voltaire pens Candide.
Some forty years later, the great German
has translated Francois’ plays. Then he meets
Napoleon at Erfurt, tells of bans
with Christiane, hears of Bonaparte’s care
for Maria over glasses of wine,
a Bordeaux the emperor longs to share
as the minister recites Voltaire’s lines.
Four years after, he sits with Beethoven,
describing Bonaparte’s ocean-deep eyes,
his penchant for belching, his beholding
to peppermints. Ludwig laughs in surprise.
Two years. St. Helena and no release.
Goethe reads of it. He smiles as if pleased.
Roger Armbrust
July 7, 2002
