Several evenings later I heard your prima donna with patience (because you sent her), but not with enthusiasm.  She is like a hundred other would-be prima donnas who cannot sing now and never can.  These flock to Berlin, study with all their might for two or three years, and sing worse each year.  Then they give a concert, for which they give away the tickets.  They say they must have the Berlin criticism.  In the mean time their families are eating dry bread and their friends are squeezed like lemons.  They get their criticism in some paper, cut it out, stick it on a nice piece of paper, and send it to their countrymen, who are out of pocket for a thousand marks or so.  Then they go back to their homesteads, discouraged and unhappy, and sing for nothing in the village choir for the rest of their lives.

Our winters are very much alike—­always the same routine.  The season commences with the reception of the grande maitresse, then comes the Schleppenkur, the Ordensfest, and after that the Emperor’s birthday, with a gala opera in the evening; then the first, second, and third balls at court, and the gala performances at the Opera when any sovereign comes to Berlin on a visit.  In Lent there is always one entertainment at court.  After Easter every one disappears and all the blinds are pulled down.  Those who remain in Berlin pretend they are away.

The Emperor speaks French and English with equal ease, but he likes best to speak English.  He can be very lively at times, and then the next moment just as serious again.  While talking to you he never takes his eyes off your face.  He is seemingly all attention.  Sometimes when the diplomatic ladies stand side by side he glances to the next lady, evidently making up his mind about what he will talk with her.  His voice is singularly clear, and what he says is straight to the point.  He has the rare gift of making the person to whom he is talking appear at his very best.  The life in Potsdam is, I have been told, very home-like and cozy.  The Emperor often spends the evening reading aloud, while the Empress sits near with her knitting.  They love to be in the Neues Palais and stay there until after Christmas.  Their Christmas festivities must be worth seeing.  Each prince has a Christmas tree and a table of his own, makes his own choice of presents, and ties up his own packages—­as it were—­and lights the Christmas candles.  These festivals are held in the mussel-room, on the ground floor, original if not pretty—­a combination of shells, mother-of-pearl, and glass stone, which must be very effective in the brilliantly lighted room.

The Empress is very fond of riding, but often drives a little pony-carriage with two English “high-steppers.”  Once when the Shah of Persia was spending the day at Potsdam the Empress offered to take him out for a drive in the park.  Half-way to their destination the lively pace of the horses alarmed the Shah.  He put his hand over hers, which held the reins, and said in his pigeon-French, “Vous-mourir seule” and got out and walked back.