I
JOURNEY FROM VIENNA TO WARSAW—THE FRONTIER—CUSTOM-HOUSE INSPECTION
At 11 o'clock in the forenoon on the 3rd of February the train left the city of Hans Makart and Johann Strauss, and thoughts and memories of Vienna long continued to revolve in my brain; cheerful thoughts and bright memories of captivating friendliness, of cordiality, of warmth of feeling, of the ardour of the moment; of the well-turned speeches of journalists and ex-ministers, the improvisations of young poets, the smiles of elegant women, the jokes and laughter of beautiful soubrettes, the importunities of ladies athirst for literature and autographs; of the pompous marble halls of Theophilus Hansen, the slovenly splendour of the Makart Exhibition, and the cosy room where the King of the Waltz gives his recitals of works, which it is true are only very small works of art, but still genuine art; and for a time I still inhaled the atmosphere of peaceful extravagance, of reckless but kindly joy of life, of amiable second-rate happiness, which fills one's lungs in the great witches' cauldron called Vienna.
Vienna is a city of freedom from restraint. How bright are words, hues, and music there!
If the inhabitants of Berlin have appropriated to themselves the dignity of Schiller's Anmuth und Würde,[1] grace has become the inheritance of the Viennese. For this is a city by itself, which everything becomes, for it has sound sense enough not to do anything but what is becoming. How rich in recollections and picturesque is it, how rich in strong traditions in comparison with modern regular Berlin! And
- ↑ Grace and Dignity.
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