A few weeks after the Potsdam incident I was in the city of Vienna.  One morning, like thunder out of a clear sky, news came of the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war.  I read the paper, but, not feeling that the news need interfere with my sight-seeing, went to the Hofbourg, the old palace, in the heart of the city, of the Imperial family of Austria.  The building is extensive; the streets of the city at that time running under it here and there in tunnels.  I visited the Schatz Kammer, the treasure-room, and saw men go almost demented at the spectacle of the gold and jewels heaped up in the cases.  The sight of the splendour, the heaped-up jewels, the batons, the faded, and sometimes bloody, garments, the trinkets and decorations, associated with towering personalities of the past, attuned my spirit for some adventure above the commonplace.  As I came down into the street, narrow and overhung by the confining arch, a soldier passed me on the run into an open space just beyond, where instantly a battalion hurried out to stand at present.  Then in the distance I heard galloping of horses and an open carriage rapidly approached, in which were seated four figures, protected from the light rain by grey overcoats, wearing the chapeaux which have come down from Napoleonic times.  The carriage passed so near that I was obliged to press back against the wall to save my feet from the wheels, and a figure on the back seat, who, for the moment, was within arm’s reach, I recognised as Francis Joseph.

He was then a man in his best years, a strong, sensible if not impressive face, and a well-knit frame.  He had driven in from Schoenbrunn to attend a council meeting, and the day for him was no doubt a most critical one.  War had come.  It was only four years after Koeniggraetz.  His old enemy, Prussia, was about to hurl herself, with who could tell what allies, against France.  What stand should Austria take?  If the Kaiser was agitated, his face did not show it; it was significant of quiet, cool poise.  Excitement was repressed, while good sense weighed and determined.  Few sovereigns have been obliged to face so often situations of the utmost difficulty.  I can believe that with similar imperturbability Francis Joseph has confronted the series of perplexities which make up the tangled story of his long career, and I count it good fortune that I witnessed, in a moment of supreme embarrassment, the balance and resolution with which the good ruler went to his task.  Austria, as the world knows, decided that day to be neutral in the Franco-Prussian quarrel.

The disorder in the land made me feel that I must get nearer to my base, so I hurriedly left Vienna for Munich, which I found seething with agitation, for, like Austria, Bavaria had only a few years before been Prussia’s enemy, and so far as the populace was concerned all was in doubt as to what course would now be taken.  The rumour was that McMahon had crossed the Rhine at Strassburg with 150,000 men, and was marching to interpose between Northern and Southern Germany.