VIENNA in the early part of the last century was looked upon as the
gayest capital in Europe. Even the frightful convulsion it had passed
through only checked for a while its chronic pursuit of pleasure. The
cynical philosopher might be tempted to contrast this not infrequent
accessory of paternal rule with the purity and contentment so fondly
expected from a democracy—or shall we say a demagoguey? The cherished
hopes of the so-called patriots had been crushed; and many were the worse
for the struggle. But the majority naturally subsided into their
customary vocations—beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, music, dancing, and
play-going.
The Vienna of 1848 was the Vienna described by Madame de Staël in 1810:
‘Dans ce pays, l’on traite les plaisirs comme les devoirs. . . . Vous
verrez des hommes et des femmes exécuter gravement, l’un vis-à-vis de
l’autre, les pas d’un menuet dont ils sont imposé l’amusement, . . .
comme s’il [the couple] dansait pour l’acquit de sa conscience.’
Every theatre and place of amusement was soon re-opened. There was an
excellent opera; Strauss—the original—presided over weekly balls and
concerts. For my part, being extremely fond of music, I worked
industriously at the violin, also at German. My German master, Herr
Mauthner by name, was a little hump-backed Jew, who seemed to know every
man and woman (especially woman) worth knowing in Vienna. Through him I
made the acquaintance of several families of the middle class,—amongst
them that of a veteran musician who had been Beethoven’s favourite
flute-player. As my veneration for Beethoven was unbounded, I listened
with awe to every trifling incident relating to the great master. I fear
the conviction left on my mind was that my idol, though transcendent
amongst musicians, was a bear amongst men. Pride (according to his
ancient associate) was his strong point. This he vindicated by excessive
rudeness to everyone whose social position was above his own. Even those
that did him a good turn were suspected of patronising. Condescension
was a prerogative confined to himself. In this respect, to be sure,
there was nothing singular.
At the house of the old flutist we played family quartets,—he, the
father, taking the first violin part on his flute, I the second, the son
the ’cello, and his daughter the piano. It was an atmosphere of music
that we all inhaled; and my happiness on these occasions would have been
unalloyed, had not the young lady—a damsel of six-and-forty—insisted on
poisoning me (out of compliment to my English tastes) with a bitter
decoction she was pleased to call tea. This delicate attention, I must
say, proved an effectual souvenir till we met again—I dreaded it.
Now and then I dined at the Embassy. One night I met there Prince Paul
Esterhazy, so distinguished by his diamonds when Austrian Ambassador at
the coronation of Queen Victoria. He talked to me of the Holkham
sheep-shearing gatherings, at which from 200 to 300 guests sat down to
dinner every day, including crowned heads, and celebrities from both
sides of the Atlantic. He had twice assisted at these in my father’s
time. He also spoke of the shooting; and promised, if I would visit him
in Hungary, he would show me as good sport as had ever seen in Norfolk.
He invited Mr. Magenis—the Secretary of Legation—to accompany me.
The following week we two hired a _britzcka_, and posted to Eisenstadt.
The lordly grandeur of this last of the feudal princes manifested itself
soon after we crossed the Hungarian frontier. The first sign of it was
the livery and badge worn by the postillions. Posting houses, horses and
roads, were all the property of His Transparency.
Eisenstadt itself, though not his principal seat, is a large palace—three
sides of a triangle. One wing is the residence, that opposite the
barrack, (he had his own troops,) and the connecting base part museum and
part concert-hall. This last was sanctified by the spirit of Joseph
Haydn, for so many years Kapellmeister to the Esterhazy family. The
conductor’s stand and his spinet remained intact. Even the stools and
desks in the orchestra (so the Prince assured me) were ancient. The very
dust was sacred. Sitting alone in the dim space, one could fancy the
great little man still there, in his snuff-coloured coat and ruffles,
half buried (as on state occasions) in his ‘_allonge perücke_.’ A tap of
his magic wand starts into life his quaint old-fashioned band, and the
powder flies from their wigs. Soft, distant, ghostly harmonies of the
Surprise Symphony float among the rafters; and now, as in a dream, we are
listening to—nay, beholding—the glorious process of Creation; till
suddenly the mighty chord is struck, and we are startled from our trance
by the burst of myriad voices echoing the command and its fulfilment,
‘Let there be light: and there was light.’
Only a family party was assembled in the house. A Baron something, and a
Graf something—both relations,—and the son, afterwards Ambassador at St.
Petersburg during the Crimean War. The latter was married to Lady Sarah
Villiers, who was also there. It is amusing to think that the beautiful
daughter of the proud Lady Jersey should be looked upon by the Austrians
as somewhat of a _mésalliance_ for one of the chiefs of their nobility.
Certain it is that the young Princess was received by them, till they
knew her, with more condescension than enthusiasm.
An air of feudal magnificence pervaded the palace: spacious
reception-rooms hung with armour and trophies of the chase; numbers of
domestics in epauletted and belaced, but ill-fitting, liveries; the
prodigal supply and nationality of the comestibles—wild boar with
marmalade, venison and game of all sorts with excellent ‘Eingemachtes’
and ‘Mehlspeisen’ galore—a feast for a Gamache or a Gargantua. But then,
all save three, remember, were Germans—and Germans! Noteworthy was the
delicious Château Y’quem, of which the Prince declared he had a
monopoly—meaning the best, I presume. After dinner the son, his
brother-in-law, and I, smoked our meerschaums and played pools of
_écarté_ in the young Prince’s room. Magenis, who was much our senior,
had his rubber downstairs with the elders.
The life was pleasant enough, but there was one little medieval
peculiarity which almost made one look for retainers in goat-skins and
rushes on the floor,—there was not a bath (except the Princess’s) in the
palace! It was with difficulty that my English servant foraged a tub
from the kitchen or the laundry. As to other sanitary arrangements, they
were what they doubtless had been in the days of Almos and his son, the
mighty Arped. In keeping with these venerable customs, I had a sentry at
the door of my apartments; to protect me, belike, from the ghosts of
predatory barons and marauders.
During the week we had two days’ shooting; one in the coverts, quite
equal to anything of the kind in England, the other at wild boar. For
the latter, a tract of the Carpathian Mountains had been driven for some
days before into a wood of about a hundred acres. At certain points
there were sheltered stands, raised four or five feet from the ground, so
that the sportsmen had a commanding view of the broad alley or clearing
in front of him, across which the stags or boar were driven by an army of
beaters.
I had my own double-barrelled rifle; but besides this, a man with a rack
on his back bearing three rifles of the prince’s, a loader, and a
_Förster_, with a hunting knife or short sword to despatch the wounded
quarry. Out of the first rush of pigs that went by I knocked over two;
and, in my keenness, jumped out of the stand with the _Förster_ who ran
to finish them off. I was immediately collared and brought back; and as
far as I could make out, was taken for a lunatic, or at least for a
‘duffer,’ for my rash attempt to approach unarmed a wounded tusker. When
we all met at the end of the day, the bag of the five guns was forty-five
wild boars. The biggest—and he was a monster—fell to the rifle of the
Prince, as was of course intended.
The old man took me home in his carriage. It was a beautiful drive.
One’s idea of an English park—even such a park as Windsor’s—dwindled into
that of a pleasure ground, when compared with the boundless territory we
drove through. To be sure, it was no more a park than is the New Forest;
but it had all the character of the best English scenery—miles of fine
turf, dotted with clumps of splendid trees, and gigantic oaks standing
alone in their majesty. Now and then a herd of red deer were startled in
some sequestered glade; but no cattle, no sheep, no sign of domestic
care. Struck with the charm of this primeval wilderness, I made some
remark about the richness of the pasture, and wondered there were no
sheep to be seen. ‘There,’ said the old man, with a touch of pride, as
he pointed to the blue range of the Carpathians; ‘that is my farm. I
will tell you. All the celebrities of the day who were interested in
farming used to meet at Holkham for what was called the sheep-shearing.
I once told your father I had more shepherds on my farm than there were
sheep on his.’