Speaking to a man’s wife is nothing. He had no business to strike me; he could challenge me to fight, but strike me, never!”
“Well, anyhow, it seems he did, and if you were to insult my wife as you did his, I would knock you down too. We do that way in America, and when you insult an American woman you must be treated in American style. My friend shall not fight a duel, and if you go near him you will get knocked down again, or possibly get a revolver-shot through you. Good-day.”
The Russian would not let the matter rest there. He tried to bring it before the Russian Ambassador, and through him, before the United States Minister; and there was a prospect that the affair would cause some trouble. But the American’s friends refused to let him receive a challenge or take any part in the discussion, so that the Russian was forced to the alternative of having his adversary arrested for striking him, or of letting him alone. As arresting him would not heal his wounded honor, he did not do it, and the affair has now, I think, blown over. It is a dangerous business to strike a man in Vienna, and, had the authorities chosen, they could have made things lively for our pugilistic friend. Only physical assaults are held to be an excuse for a blow.
There is a good deal of nonsense afloat about the beauty of the Viennese women. I looked for it, but could not find it. I do not mean to say that there are no handsome women here, as I saw a goodly number of pretty faces, but they are not more numerous than in other cities. I have read about the great beauty of the women, and know several men who have raved about Vienna as the centre of the earth in this respect, but I cannot understand it. Among the women that are seen in public places, such as the music gardens, restaurants, and cafés, there are no more pretty faces than you would see in Berlin or Paris, and the chances are more than even that those you do see are not Viennese.
One evening I was sitting with a newly-arrived friend in the Volks-Garten listening to the music of Strauss’s band. Hundreds of people were walking up and down the gravel promenade, enjoying the cool and delicious air, the bright lights, and above all, the sparkling music of Vienna’s most celebrated composer. Two women passed near us; they were beautiful beyond question, and my friend, who had not yet learned that it is unsafe to say anything in a mixed assemblage, on the supposition that those around will not understand you, remarked audibly: “Those are the prettiest girls I have yet seen in Vienna.”
“Thank you, sir,” said one of them, as the twain passed on and sat down in another part of the garden.
Half an hour later, we were strolling about, and went unnoticed near their table. They were talking English in an accent that showed they were from London, or, at all events, from some part of the Queen’s dominions. Not far from them were two other handsome women, who were talking French with a pure Parisian accent; and near these, again, there were others talking Hungarian.
There is one part of the Volks-Garden where—on Tuesday and Friday evenings—you will find an assemblage of the fashionable men and women of Vienna, the members of the old and wealthy families, who are received at court, and sometimes belong to it, and without whose sanction nobody can be admitted into that charmed circle known as “Society.” I took particular pains to look at this assemblage in a search for beauty, and am obliged to say that I found very little of it. There were some pretty women, but not a conspicuous number; nearly all of them were richly dressed, but in a “louder” style than you expect to find among really fashionable people. New York or Washington society would present a better appearance than would that portion of Viennese society that I saw. And people who lived there told me that I had seen a very good sample of it.