Vienna—Palaces and Gardens—Mosaic Copy of Da Vinci’s “Last
Supper”—Collection of Warlike Antiquities; Scanderburg’s Sword,
Montezuma’s Tomahawk, Relics of the Crusaders, Warriors in
Armour, the Farmer of Augsburg—Room of Portraits of Celebrated
Individuals—Gold Busts of Jupiter and Juno—The Glacis, full of
Gardens, the General Resort of the People—Universal Spirit of
Enjoyment—Simplicity and Confidence in the Manners of the
Viennese—Baden.
At the foot of a hill in one of the beautiful suburbs of Vienna, stands
a noble palace, called the Lower Belvidere. On the summit of the hill
stands another, equally magnificent, called the Upper Belvidere, and
between the two extend broad and princely gardens, open to the public.
On the lower floor of the entrance-hall in the former palace, lies the
copy, in mosaic, of Leonardo da Vinci’s “Last Supper,” done at
Napoleon’s order. Though supposed to be the finest piece of mosaic in
the world, it is so large that they have never found a place for it. A
temporary balcony has been erected on one side of the room, and the
spectator mounts nearly to the ceiling to get a fair position for
looking down upon it. That unrivalled picture, now going to decay in the
convent at Milan, will probably depend upon this copy for its name with
posterity. The expression in the faces of the apostles is as accurately
preserved as in the admirable engraving of Morghen.
The remaining halls in the palace are occupied by a grand collection of
antiquities, principally of a warlike character. When I read in my old
worm-eaten Burton, of “Scanderburg’s strength,” I never thought to see
his sword. It stands here against the wall, along straight weapon with a
cross hilt, which few men could heave to their shoulders. The tomahawk
of poor Montezuma hangs near it. It was presented to the emperor by the
king of Spain. It is of a dark granite, and polished very beautifully.
What a singular curiosity to find in Austria!
The windows are draped with flags dropping in pieces with age. This, so
in tatters, was renowned in the crusades. It was carried to the Holy
Land and brought back by the archduke Ferdinand.
A hundred warriors in bright armour stand around the hall. Their visors
are down, their swords in their hands, their feet planted for a spring.
One can scarce believe there are no men in them. The name of some
renowned soldier is attached to each. This was the armour of the cruel
Visconti of Milan—that of Duke Alba of Florence—both costly suits,
beautifully inlaid with gold. In the centre of the room stands a
gigantic fellow in full armour, with a sword on his thigh and a beam in
his right hand. It is the shell of the famous farmer of Augsburg, who
was in the service of one of the emperors. He was over eight feet in
height, and limbed in proportion. How near such relics bring history!
With what increased facility one pictures the warrior to his fancy,
seeing his sword, and hearing the very rattle of his armour. Yet it puts
one into Hamlet’s vein to see a contemptible valet lay his hand with
impunity on the armed shoulder, shaking the joints that once belted the
soul of a Visconti! I turned, in leaving the room, to take a second look
at the flag of the crusade. It had floated, perhaps, over the helmet of
Cœur de Lion. Saladin may have had it in his eye, assaulting the
Christian camp with his pagans.
In the next room hung fifty or sixty portraits of celebrated
individuals, presented in their time to the emperors of Austria. There
was one of Mary of Scotland. It is a face of superlative loveliness,
taken with a careless and most bewitching half smile, and yet not
without the look of royalty, which one traces in all the pictures of the
unfortunate queen. One of the emperors of Germany married Philippina, a
farmer’s daughter, and here is her portrait. It is done in the prim old
style of the middle ages, but the face is full of character. Her
husband’s portrait hangs beside it, and she looks more born for an
emperor than he.
Hall after hall followed, of costly curiosities. A volume would not
describe them. Two gold busts of Jupiter and Juno, by Benvenuto Cellini,
attracted my attention particularly. They were very beautiful, but I
would copy them in bronze, and coin “the thunderer and his queen,” were
they mine.
Admiration is the most exhausting thing in the world. The servitor
opened a gate leading into the gardens of the palace, that we might
mount to the Upper Belvidere, which contains the imperial gallery of
paintings. But I had no more strength. I could have dug in the field
till dinner-time—but to be astonished more than three hours without
respite is beyond me. I took a stroll in the garden. How delightfully
the unmeaning beauty of a fountain refreshes one after this inward
fatigue. I walked on, up one alley and down another, happy in finding
nothing that surprised me, or worked upon my imagination, or bothered my
historical recollections, or called upon my worn-out superlatives for
expression. I fervently hoped not to have another new sensation till
after dinner.
Vienna is an immense city (two hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants),
but its heart only is walled in. You may walk from gate to gate in
twenty minutes. In leaving the walls you come upon a feature of the city
which distinguishes it from every other in Europe. Its rampart is
encircled by an open park (called the Glacis), a quarter of a mile in
width and perhaps three miles in circuit, which is, in fact, in the
centre of Vienna. The streets commence again on the other side of it,
and on going from one part of the city to another, you constantly cross
this lovely belt of verdure, which girds her heart like a cestus of
health. The top of the rampart itself is planted with trees, and,
commanding beautiful views in every direction, it is generally thronged
with people. (It was a favourite walk of the Duke of Reichstadt.)
Between this and the Glacis lies a deep trench, crossed by draw-bridges
at every gate, the bottom of which is cultivated prettily as a flower
garden. Altogether Vienna is a beautiful city. Paris may have single
views about the Tuileries that are finer than anything of the same kind
here, but this capital of western Europe, as a whole, is quite the most
imposing city I have seen.
The Glacis is full of gardens. I requested my disagreeable necessity of
a valet, this afternoon, to take me to two or three of the most general
resorts of the people. We passed out by one of the city gates, five
minutes’ walk from the hotel, and entered immediately into a crowd of
people, sauntering up and down under the alleys of the Glacis. A little
farther on we found a fanciful building, buried in trees, and occupied
as a summer café In a little circular temple in front was stationed a
band of music, and around it for a considerable distance were placed
small tables filled just now with elegantly dressed people, eating ices,
or drinking coffee. It was in every respect like a private fête
champètre. I wandered about for an hour, expecting involuntarily to meet
some acquaintance—there was such a look of kindness and unreserve
throughout. It is a desolate feeling to be alone in such a crowd.
We jumped into a carriage and drove round the Glacis for a mile, passing
everywhere crowds of people idling leisurely along and evidently out for
pleasure. We stopped before a superb façade, near one of the gates of
the city. It was the entrance to the Volksgarten. We entered in front of
a fountain, and turning up a path to the left, found our way almost
impeded by another crowd. A semi circular building, with a range of
columns in front encircling a stand for a band of music, was surrounded
by perhaps two or three thousand people. Small tables and seats under
trees, were spread in every direction within reach of the music. The
band played charmingly. Waiters in white jackets and aprons were running
to and fro, receiving and obeying orders for refreshments, and here
again all seemed abandoned to one spirit of enjoyment. I had thought we
must have left all Vienna at the other garden. I wondered how so many
people could be spared from their occupations and families. It was no
holiday. “It is always as gay in fair weather,” said Karl.
A little back into the garden stands a beautiful little structure, on
the model of the temple of Theseus in Greece. It was built for Canova’s
group of “Theseus and the Centaur,” bought by the emperor. I had seen
copies of it in Rome, but was of course much more struck with the
original. It is a noble piece of sculpture.
Still farther back, on the rise of a mount, stood another fanciful café,
with another band of music—and another crowd! After we had walked
around it, my man was hurrying me away. “You have not seen the
Augarten,” said he. It stands upon a little green island in the Danube,
and is more extensive than either of the others. But I was content where
I was; and dismissing my Asmodeus, I determined to spend the evening
wandering about in the crowds alone. The sun went down, the lamps were
lit, the alleys were illuminated, the crowd increased, and the emperor
himself could not have given a gayer evening’s entertainment.
Vienna has the reputation of being the most profligate capital in
Europe. Perhaps it is so. There is certainly, even to a stranger, no
lack of temptation to every species of pleasure. But there is, besides,
a degree of simplicity and confidence in the manners of the Viennese
which I had believed peculiar to America, and inconsistent with the
state of society in Europe. In the most public resorts, and at all hours
of the day and evening, modest and respectable young women of the middle
classes walk alone perfectly secure from molestation. They sit under the
trees in these public gardens, eat ices at the cafés, walk home
unattended, and no one seems to dream of impropriety. Whole families,
too, spend the afternoon upon a seat in a thronged place of resort,
their children playing about them, the father reading, and the mother
sewing or knitting, quite unconscious of observation. The lower and
middle classes live all summer, I am told, out of doors. It is never
oppressively warm in this latitude, and their houses are deserted after
three or four o’clock in the afternoon, and the whole population pours
out to the different gardens on the Glacis, where till midnight, they
seem perfectly happy in the enjoyment of the innocent and unexpensive
pleasures which a wise government has provided for them.
The nobles and richer class pass their summer in the circle of rural
villages near the city. They are nested about on the hills, and crowded
with small and lovely rural villas more like the neighbourhood of Boston
than anything I have seen in Europe.
Baden, where the Emperor passes much of his time, is called “the
miniature Switzerland.” Its baths are excellent, its hills are cut into
retired and charming walks, and from June till September it is one of
the gayest of watering-places. It is about a two hours’ drive from the
city, and omnibuses at a very low rate, run between at all times of the
day. The Austrians seldom travel, and the reason is evident. They have
everything for which others travel, at home.
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