‘No stage can dispute the palm with yours,’ said the prince, turning to me. ‘I have seen your pieces played everywhere. In Prussia before the great Frederick they only performed the masterpieces of the French stage; in Russia at the “Ermitage” theatre [the palace and museum of the Hermitage at St. Petersburg] I have seen _Le Philosophe Marié_ and _Annette et Lubin_ performed before Empress Catherine, whom nature had eminently fitted to appreciate grace and subtlety as well as grandeur and brilliancy. I well remember the select company of that most brilliant Court when Ségur’s _Crispin Duègne_ was produced, and Cobentzel gave his admirable interpretation. Then there was my own play, _L’Amant Ridicule_, whose author, I am afraid, was, perhaps, more ridiculous than the lover. The most amusing part of the entertainment, however, was enacted in the house itself with its throng of cranks, faddists, and eccentric characters, each of whom had supplied me with a kind of model, and who, as everywhere, applauded like mad without recognising themselves. Most vivid to my mind is the theatre at Ferney, where Voltaire himself played before us the most comic scenes from Molière, and was convulsed with laughter, which rather spoilt the effect he aimed at. Then came Trianon, “Trianon with an angelic queen playing royally badly before a crowd of courtiers intoxicated with her beauty.”’ After that, with his essentially eighteenth century grace, he recounted to us some of the conversations of Versailles, redolent of wit and cleverness. ‘These are admirable recollections, prince,’ said the Comte de Witt. ‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘I have opened my eyes and ears a great deal, and I have an excellent memory. My stories are only reproductions.’ That day was spent delightfully among friends. In the evening I went to admire the expressive pantomime of Bigottini in _Nina_, and I wound up by going to the Comtesse de Fuchs’s. Her drawing-room was crowded as usual; fortunately I managed to find a seat near the Baron Ompteda. With the serious face of an ancient augur, Ompteda was one of the most originally clever men I have ever met. No one could sketch a portrait in a few words better than he. People dreaded his tongue as much as his sketches. But a staunch friend withal, whose epigrams were due to a twist of the intellect rather than to a deficiency of heart. While the crowd was buzzing around us on every side, Ompteda took to reviewing some of our acquaintances that were there and also those who entered subsequently. ‘Since you were last in Vienna,’ he said, ‘the capital has suffered a siege and a foreign occupation; nevertheless, you’ll find few changes. Matters lending themselves to ridicule are as plentiful as ever; they are practically the image of the immobility of the Austrian government. Only, they are becoming more apparent, in consequence of the century’s progress.