This morning when I was finishing breakfast M. Bresson came to tell us that the King was in extremis. In the afternoon I stopped before his palace; he was still alive, and had even recovered sufficient consciousness to demand the reading of the newspapers. There is a crowd about the palace; many people are in tears, and the behaviour of the population is perfect.
Berlin, June 4, 1840.—Yesterday I dined at the house of M. Bresson with Princess Pückler, who is starting for Muskau to meet her husband. He is returning from Vienna after an absence of six years; she speaks of him with admiration. She is a little old woman of wit, intelligence, and tact, and has gained considerable reputation in different circles.
Only yesterday was the publication begun of bulletins upon the King's health; he might be dead at the present moment. Hitherto he had forbidden any announcements; I do not think he knew anything of it yesterday. He has preserved his consciousness, and is quite calm, simple, and dignified.
Since last night the King has been in a kind of agony, from which he sometimes gains relief by a few drops of coffee. He can still speak a little, and says not a word about his condition, though he realises its gravity to the full. The whole family, even the grandchildren, are at the palace, and the Ministers also. The crowd still throngs the square and shows the same interest.
Berlin, June 5, 1840.—The King was still alive yesterday at eight o'clock in the evening. He had said farewell to his children and solemnly handed his will to his Ministers; he then declared that he had done with this world and wished to see no one except the Princess of Liegnitz and the pastor for whom he sent, intending to devote his remaining time to securing his peace of mind and in considering the life to come.
Berlin, June 6, 1840.—Herr von Humboldt has just left me. The King was very feverish last night; he can hardly speak, and seems to have lost all interest. What a long struggle for a man of seventy! All the Mecklenburg family has arrived. The appearance of the Duke of Cumberland has caused some consternation, and the Emperor Nicholas will be here to-morrow in spite of every attempt to prevent his arrival. There is an obvious intention to surround the new Sovereign from the moment of his accession, and this may damage his public reputation, for the people are apprehensive, and do not hide their fears. It is an interesting time for spectators, and I am perhaps watching the sowing of seed which will produce great consequences.
At the same time I wished to fulfil my promise of going to see Frau von Bülow at Tegel, which is three leagues from Berlin. At first I found the wind very unpleasant, but when we entered a forest which began half-way I was pleasantly sheltered, and the scent of the pine-trees was delightful. On leaving the pine-trees we reached a superb lake, the shores of which were wooded with trees in leaf—an unusual sight here.
At one end of the lake is the fortress of Spandau, at the other the park, the castle of Tegel, and the monument raised by the late Herr Wilhelm von Humboldt to his wife. It is very pretty. The castle is by no means extraordinary, but contains some fine artistic works brought from Italy, and a good portrait of Alexander von Humboldt by Gérard. The monument is a column of porphyry upon a granite base, and the capital is in white marble. The column supports a white marble statue of Hope by Thorwaldsen, and is surrounded half by an iron railing and half by a great stone bench. All is in excellent taste, and the only point which displeased me was that Frau von Humboldt, her husband, her eldest son, and one of the children of Frau von Bülow are really buried at the foot of this column. I cannot bear graves in gardens; my belief requires a common cemetery or vault in a church or chapel—in short, a spot consecrated to prayer and reflection, and undisturbed by worldly tumult.
I drove round the lake, and then took the road back to Berlin. At the gates of the town I met Lord William Russell, who told me that the King was at his last gasp, and that orders had been given to close the theatres. My son, whom I found at our hotel on the point of coming in, gave me the same news. He had just been watching the operation for curing squinting, and was full of admiration for Dieffenbach, his dexterity, and the result of the operation. Of the two patients, both young girls, one did not say a word, and the other cried a great deal. The mere demonstration would have made me want to scream. The whole operation lasts from seventy to eighty seconds. The operator is helped by three pupils; one raises the upper eyelid, the second depresses the lower lid, and the third wipes away the blood between the two incisions. The first incision divides the lower part of the white of the eye; then with a little hook Dieffenbach draws forward the muscle covered by that part, cuts it through, and the operation is over. This muscle, in the case of people who squint, is too short, and brings the eye too close to the nose. As soon as it is cut through the pupil goes to its proper place.