The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England, Volume 4 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe volume 4 — John Shaqi
The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England, Volume 4 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe volume 4Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de
History
The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England, Volume 4 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe volume 4
Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de
Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de, 1768-1848
Berlin has left me a lasting memory, because the nature of the
recreations which I found there carried me back to the days of my
childhood and my youth; only, very real princesses filled the part
of my Sylphide. Old rooks, my eternal friends, used to come to perch
on the lime-trees before my window; I threw food to them: when they
had caught too large a piece of bread, they threw it up again with
inconceivable dexterity to catch a smaller one, in such a way that they
were able to take another a little larger, and so on up to the chief
piece, which, held at the point of their beak, kept it open, without
permitting any of the increasing layers of bread to fall. His meal
over, the bird would sing after his fashion: _cantus cornicum ut secla
vetusta._ I wandered in the desert spaces of frozen Berlin, but I did
not hear beautiful voices of young girls issue from its walls, as from
the old walls of Rome. Instead of white-bearded Capuchins dragging
their sandals among flowers, I met soldiers making snow-balls.
One day, on turning the corner of the wall of circumvallation,
Hyacinthe[127] and I found ourselves face to face with so cutting an
east wind that we were obliged to run across country to regain town,
half-dead. We passed through enclosed grounds, and all the watch-dogs
flew at our legs, pursuing us. That day, the thermometer went down to
22 degrees below freezing-point. One or two sentries at Potsdam were
frozen to death.
On the further side of the park was an old abandoned pheasantry: the
Prussian princes do not go shooting. I crossed a little wooden bridge
over a canal leading out of the Spree and found myself among the
pine-wood columns which form the portico of the pheasantry. A fox,
which reminded one of those in the mall at Combourg, came out of a hole
contrived in the wall of the preserve, passed the time of day, and
retreated into his coppice.
What is known as the Park, in Berlin, is a wood of oaks, birches,
beeches, limes and alders. It lies outside the Charlottenburg Gate, and
is crossed by the high-road leading to that royal residence. To the
right of the Park is an exercise-ground; to the left are booths.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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