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.’