“The ideas of the moment were confused with opinions or meaning!” said a Provincial Government Councillor, who knew how to combine his reverence for Bismarck with his æsthetic aspirations; for in fact he only knew Bismarck and Goethe.
“I remember you in my boyish days very well,” said Bismarck, in 1864, to the Body-Physician of Prince Albrecht, the Privy-Councillor Dr. von Arnim; “you then enormously struck me with your energy.”
“This is completely altered now,” replied Arnim, quietly; “you now strike me enormously with yours.”
The negroes in America are very fond of assuming fine names of famous men, such as Cæsar, Scipio, Hannibal, Aurelius, Washington, King James, Abraham Lincoln, and so forth. One of these black gentlemen got very drunk, and shouted like a madman; he was seized and put into prison, but brought sober before the magistrate the next morning. “What is your name?” The negro answered, with great dignity, “Count Bismarck.” There was Homeric laughter. The magistrate said, “You are discharged; one must overlook a little from any one bearing so great a name; but for the future take care to do your illustrious god-cousin in Berlin more credit!”
There was no end to this. Anecdote succeeded anecdote, one joke the other; each departing story-teller leaving another in his place, until the circle round the altar of Gambrinus was broken up by the news that their Majesties and the Court, after having partaken of supper in the Countess’s salon, had taken their departure. This was the signal for supper for the rest of the guests.
A buffet supper is the saddest conclusion of a “rout”—it is almost somewhat humiliating to stand with one’s hat under one’s arm and the plate in one’s hand, after having had great difficulty to procure knife, fork, and all the other utensils employed in civilized nations for the business of eating! But humanity can even support this, and with a little care and patience it is possible gradually to get a complete supper, from a cup of soup to a fruit-ice. Modest minds content themselves certainly by absorbing a gigantic portion of ham-pie with a spoon—or whatever the fortune of war has favored their plates with—ask for nothing more—but “go in” for the wine, which is foaming in any quantity.
In the mean time the dance music is beginning again, and with it the actual period of enjoyment for dancers, and the terrible hour for chaperonizing mothers and aunts, who sit out the last cotillon with a heroism brave unto death.
The non-dancing guests now really begin to enjoy themselves—the crowd being no longer so thick, there is more room, as the saloons reserved for the Court are now open, and there are plenty of seats. Presently a smoking-room suddenly opens—a smoking-room with noble cigars, iced champagne, and hot coffee. Everywhere one sees the Minister-President busy among his guests, conversing in the most agreeable tone, seeing that there is nothing wanting, inviting every one to drink, and himself rejoicing in the gayety he disperses. And whoever departs at about five in the morning, with a hearty shake of the hand from Bismarck, will certainly carry away with him the impression that the First Minister of Prussia is also the most delightful host in Prussia.