Dec. 4.—A ball at Albertleben the Minister’s. No supper, but cakes, ices, lemonade, orgeat, and punch, very warm and strong, of which the ladies drank plentifully. It was very like a Lord Mayor’s ball in London, but the dress and dancing not so good. Lady C. says half the misses were in coarse muslin over pink stuff; a little exaggeration in this, but there was not the elegance displayed which I expected. On the whole, Berlin reminds me of a provincial town with a large garrison, and its manners seem pretty much on a par with its morals. The women are borné to a degree, and do not even possess ornamental accomplishments. I forgive this as a consequence of their bad education; but I cannot excuse their failure in dress and dancing, which are the study of their lives.
Dec. 5.—Met M. Gentz,[32] a Berlinois, at Lord Carysfort’s. He strikes me as possessing more energy than any man I had ever seen. His head seems to be organized in a very superior manner, and his conversation bears the stamp of real genius. He is one of those who seem to impart a portion of their own endowment; for you feel your mind elevated while in his society. In argument he is irresistible; but it seems to be from fair and honest force, unassisted by trick or artifice. His voice rises, and his eye kindles, yet his warmth never becomes displeasing, nor degenerates into either violence or sharpness. In his writings he proposes Burke for his model, and walks boldly beside him, for we cannot say he is a copyist, though a successful imitator.
Dec. 6.—I have met M. Rivarol,[33] a much-applauded French writer; he also proposes to be the wit and demigod of the Berlin society, and I think may succeed; though his powers would not in my opinion assure him that rank elsewhere.
Dec. 13.—This morning I went to Lady Carysfort’s. Mr. Proby, Lord Carysfort’s nephew and chaplain, gave us the whole church service. It is interesting in this corrupted town to see a family circle join in prayer, and an inestimable wife and mother surrounded by her lovely innocent daughters, untainted, and as yet unconscious of the infection which surrounds them.
Dec. 14.—A little dance at my hotel, composed chiefly of English. Gentz was of the party, and his conversation, as usual, delighted me. Rivarol and he are the two men of greatest talent I have seen in Berlin. I perceive this difference in their conversation, that Rivarol is perpetually on the watch to display himself, and catch the approbation of the circle, while Gentz is only anxious to do justice to his topic, and to lead their opinion. Rivarol labours, and sometimes successfully, to produce wit; Gentz lets fall from the plenitude of his ideas such superfluities as he cannot even miss.
Dec. 18.—Prince George, Righini, and Lord Carysfort passed the morning with me. The former said, upon my observing that Prince Augustus could be amiable, ‘Oui, mais ses accès d’amabilité deviennent tous les jours plus rares, comme les apparitions du soleil à la fin de l’automne.’—Prince Radziwill has been engaged in a plot to recover the independence of Poland. A letter of his was intercepted at Vienna, expressive of the wish, and arranging some of the means, adding, ‘il faut mettre en avant un Prince du sang,’ words which were supposed to allude to his wife’s brother, Prince Louis, the ‘Duc d’Orléans of Germany.’
Dec. 25.—Dined at Lord Carysfort’s to celebrate Christmas Day; received the Sacrament there in the morning. The party consisted of all the English in Berlin. In the evening we danced country dances.
Dec. 27.—Presented to Mad. de Voss, grande maîtresse. It is impossible to receive with more dignity and politeness than she displays. Supped at Princess Wyzimska’s, and sung Giuro che ad altro mai with Righini.
Dec. 28.—Went to Court, which is here an evening assembly. I was presented to the King and Queen. He is a fine tall military man, plain and reserved in his manners and address. She reminded me of Burke’s ‘star, glittering with life, splendour, and joy,’ and realized all the fanciful ideas one forms in one’s infancy, of the young, gay, beautiful, and magnificent queens in the Arabian Nights. She is an angel of loveliness, mildness, and grace; tall and svelte, yet sufficiently embonpoint; her hair is light, her complexion fair and faultless; an inexpressible air of sweetness reigns in her countenance, and forms its predominant character. As perfect beauty in nature is a chimæra, like the philosopher’s stone, and as it is rarely to be found but in the higher works of art, I take nothing from her charms in saying she is not faultless. An ill-shaped mouth, indifferent teeth, a broad forehead and large limbs are the only defects the severest criticism can discover; while her hair, her height, her movements, her shoulders, her waist, are all unexceptionable. These slight faults only prove she is a woman and not a statue, and altogether she is one of the loveliest creatures I have ever seen. Her dress was in the best taste. Her hair was dressed in the fullest and most varied of the Grecian forms, going very far back, and ornamented with a very tall heron’s feather, and a number of immense diamond stars, so placed as to form a bandeau quite round, which came close to her temples. She wore a chemise of crape, richly embroidered in emerald-green foil, and a moldave (simply a body, train, and short sleeves) of pale pink silk, slightly sparkling with gold, and trimmed all round with sable. Her neck was richly ornamented with jewels. She speaks very graciously and politely to every one. I was also presented to the Princess of Orange, a beautiful young woman.
Dec. 31.—Went to a ball at Mad. Angeström’s, the Swedish Minister’s wife. Every one seemed to partake in the design of finishing the century with festivity and cheerfulness. The company was the élite of the Berlin society, and the ball was unusually animated and brilliant. I had just danced one dance with Mr. Caulfield, and was resting myself during the second in an outer room, when I heard that M. d’Orville, a young officer just one-and-twenty, had fallen down in a fainting fit in the dance. After some moments he was removed from the ball-room into Mad. Angeström’s boudoir, where all the common remedies of salts, essences, cold water, and fresh air were tried without effect. Still no one was much alarmed. However, a physician and surgeon were called in. They exhausted in vain all the resources of their art; he was irrecoverably gone, and afforded an awful example of the uncertainty of human life. Mad. Angeström, whose nerves had been lately shaken by the death of a favourite son, was affected in a dreadful way. She fainted, and on her recovery knew nothing of what had passed, but was impressed with the idea that something had happened to her children. Her husband went to their apartment, and brought them to her from their beds, wrapped in large cloaks. He reminded me of Lewis’s verses—