A Book of Voyages. Patrick O’Brian

the traveller, is your business, I have told you my name;—It is impossible, I think, to answer gravely to questions so perfectly absurd.

      VIENNA, DECEMBER 15, 1785

      I went with Madame Granieri, the Sardinian Minister’s wife, to court. Nothing is more striking, than the variety of the officers’ dresses in the Emperor’s antichamber—The Hungarian and Polish I think beautiful, and I now am strengthened in the opinion I always had, that every nation ought to preserve the fashion of their country—and there is no necessity for mankind to ape one another in dress—

      The Emperor gives a private audience for ladies that are presented to him. There was only myself and the lady who accompanied me that went into his room together. The Emperor was close to the door, and after bowing very civilly, he made us sit upon a sofa, and stood the whole time himself; I stayed three quarters of an hour; there is no occasion to fear staying too long; for when he cannot spare any more time for the audience, or for any other reason chooses to end it; he very civilly says, he will detain you no longer; you then get up, and go to the door, which he opens himself—and thus ends the presentation—The Emperor is like the Queen of France, and the only thing that genéd me at all was his not being seated—He converses politely and agreeably—

      The first minister here, Prince Kaunitz—is a very extraordinary personage; he is reckoned an able minister and a good patriot; I see in him all that sincerity and frankness which are the constant attendants on a mind truly great—and I believe the welfare of the people at large is his delight; for he asked me what I thought of Vienna; I told him that I had not time to make many observations, but that there was an air of plenty and comfort among the lower sort of people very striking; même les vendeuses de pommes ont l’air aisé mon Prince; on my saying this, there was a smile upon his countenance, which I am sure came from his heart; and he condescendingly told me several particulars relative to the markets and provisions, one of which I cannot help thinking very necessary in all large cities—which is, that there is an inspector of the garden-stuff—another for meat—and so on, for all provisions exposed to sale; and if they are not found perfectly good they are flung away—And now we are upon the subject of provisions, I must say, that I never saw such a profusion of things, and those so excellent in their kind, as are served up at the tables here—Green peas, artichokes, and asparagus, I eat every day—The crawfish are as large as the Chichester lobsters; and the pheasants from Bohemia have a flavour you can form no idea of—Yet I do not think the people are gourmands; but they pique themselves on having the greatest abundance and the best sort of eatables of every kind. The forests and rivers of this country do not in a small degree contribute to the possibility of these things—for with us, our cooks cannot produce wild boar and venison, gelinottes, and coqs de bruyères; or crawfish as big as lobsters—

      There is one thing here that shocks me, and that is, that every lower class of women paint white—and that even girls of ten years old going of errands in the street are painted—What their reason for so doing is I cannot guess; for the Germans are generally fair.

      There are great assemblies here as in London; and I repeat it, there are women here with whom I could pass my life—They have not the cold silent reserve of English women, nor the impertinent interêt for me, of the French ladies—

      The public works (such as sweeping the streets, etc., etc.) are done by malefactors, who, chained two and two, perform their task attended by a guard—

      P.S. You cannot buy a drug at the apothecaries here, without an order from a physician—A very prudent caution against the madness of those who choose to finish their existence with a dose of laudanum, or their neighbours with one of arsenic—

      WARSAW, JANUARY 7, 1786

      I got away as fast as I possibly could from Vienna; for if I had staid a week longer, I am convinced I should have staid the whole winter—

      WARSAW, JANUARY, 1786

      The entrance into the town of Cracow exhibits a melancholy proof that confusion ever ends in ruin—The system of government in Poland is of all others the surest source of confusion that ever yet was imagined by mankind—an elected King from the noble families, most of which think they have a right to royalty, and several really are entitled to it—

      Dirty suburbs filled with Jews—and the Emperor’s eagle, are the only objects that precede the gates of Cracow—these gates are pierced by many a ball …

      I had letters for several Polish ladies at Cracow—but I staid only to rest myself, and get a traineau made; for I was told I might go thus—but a couple of miles from the town I was obliged to take my coach off the sledge; and here I must observe, Sir, that the Prince Galitzin at Vienna, was very much mistaken, when he told me, he should advise me to have just such a coach as mine made, if I were not already mistress of such a one—

      I hung more than once upon fir-trees; the track of the road being too narrow for my wide carriage—and when travellers come into Germany—I think they ought to part with their French and English carriages—as the carriages of our northern countries are liable to inconveniences and accidents—

      I staid two hours one night, so fastened with the hind-wheel upon a fir-tree, that six men could not stir it—and peasants were called to cut down the tree—before I could proceed—

      When I arrived at Warsaw, I found my apartments had been warmed and ready two days before my arrival; the Comte de Stackelberg having bespoke them, by the desire of Prince Galitzin—and the Russian Minister C— de S— waited on me—He is sensible, and even witty—he presented me to the King, the day after my arrival, in the evening—The King received us in his study; I was accompanied by the Grand Marechal’s wife, who is one of the King’s nieces—You, Sir, do not speak better French and English than that amiable Sovereign—he told me he had been in England thirty years past, and asked me if Mr. W— [alpole] was still living—not only living I replied, Sir; but in good spirits; for I have a charming letter in my pocket from him—He said, if there was nothing imprudent in his request, he would ask to see it. He imagined Mr. W.’s stile must be uncommon; I gave him the letter—he put it in his pocket after reading it, and told me, as his sister, the Princess of Cracovia did not understand English, he should translate it into French for her; and if I would dine with him two days after, he would read me his translation, which indeed surprized me—He must be a very elegant writer in every language he chooses to profess—I wish I had dared to have asked him for a copy—

      I make visits in a new stile here—in the Comte de Stackelberg’s coach and six—and a couple of equerries at the two coach windows on horseback—The Polish ladies seem to have much taste—magnificence—spirit and gaiety—they are polite and lively—excessively accomplished—partial to the English.

      I have seen several dwarfs here—who with equerries stand in drawing-rooms of the great houses, and hear all the conversation that passes—an uncomfortable custom I think; and which in any other country would be dangerous; but here servants and dependants are the absolute property of the master—and their fidelity in general is equal to their subjection; to the credit of the Polish nobles, I believe there are few servants that, having proved for eight or ten years their attachment, are not dismissed with a pension for life. I found the French maid, the Princess C—had from me, in this situation; nine years service had obtained a hundred pounds a year, and a farm of sixty acres of land for the rest of her life—she seems the happiest creature in the world—

      I am sorry to quit this place so soon; not that there is anything in this flat country that would tempt me to see the beauties of it in the spring—but the King’s acquaintance, with that of some of the ladies—and Monsieur de Stackelberg’s conversation, I am sorry to quit.

      PETERSBURGH, FEBRUARY 8, 1786

      The road between Warsaw and this place is one insipid flat—except just in and about the town of Nerva, where I took a sledge and flew hither.

      I am something like a country Miss, gaping at the window all day here—every creature that goes about the streets, seem as if they were in a violent hurry—they drive full gallop—traineaus with