Theoretically, Lord Wellington had no right to figure in that production, inasmuch as he only arrived in Vienna in February 1815, and then it was to replace Lord Castlereagh. His arrival necessitated an important change in the picture—the introduction of a new personage. That was the motive which made Isabey choose that particular moment, inasmuch as it enabled him to leave all the other figures in their original places. Isabey explained to us very charmingly the discontent of the new arrival at finding himself relegated to a corner of the composition, where he can only be seen sideways. The clever artist had ingeniously explained the situation to the English general, apparently with great satisfaction to both. Another particular incident had marked the preliminaries. Among the number of European celebrities Baron Humboldt was necessarily a figure. They had told Isabey that he would meet with great resistance on the part of this statesman, who had a thorough aversion to having his portrait taken. He had even refused that favour to Princesse Louisa Radziwill, the sister of Prince Ferdinand of Prussia. Warned of this singularity, and even somewhat intimidated by it, Isabey presented himself at the diplomatist’s. His real or simulated embarrassment increased the partial good humour of the baron, who, fixing his large, blue-goggled eyes on him, replied, ‘Have a good look at me, and then you’ll be bound to admit that nature has given me too ugly a face ever to spend a penny on it for its reproduction. Nature would in reality have the laugh of me if she could convict me of such foolish vanity. She ought to be aware that I fully recognise the trick she has played me.’ Struck by the reply, the painter looked with stupefaction at the extraordinary face of the minister, but immediately resuming his gaiety and quickness of wit, he retorted, ‘But I am not going to ask your excellency the slightest recompense for the pleasant trouble I am going to take. I am only going to ask the favour of a few sittings.’
‘Oh, is that all? You can have as many sittings as you like. You need not stint yourself in that respect, but I cannot abandon my principle of not spending a penny on my ugly face.’
In fact, the witty diplomatist sat as many times to the painter as he wished. When the engraving appeared, his was found the most striking likeness of all, and he often said, ‘I have not paid a penny for my portrait by Isabey. No doubt he wanted to avenge himself, and he has made an excellent likeness of me.’
Leaving the painter’s study, we went citywards, and on the bridge over the Danube we fell in with Princesse Hélène Souvaroff, General Tettenborn, and Alexander Ypsilanti. They were going in the same direction, and told us that they were making for the church of the Capuchins to see the tombs of the imperial family. They proposed that we should accompany them, and we accepted.
When we got to the chapel, a monk, after having lighted a large torch, preceded us to the crypts. There were nine tombs of emperors, thirteen of empresses, and in all about eighty of the members of the imperial race. ‘It was in this subterranean chapel,’ said our guide, ‘that every day during thirty years Maria-Theresa heard Mass before the sepulchre she had erected for herself by the side of that of her husband.’
‘This trait of Maria-Theresa,’ said Tettenborn, ‘reminds me of one of the clever answers of Joseph II. When he had granted the public admission to the Augarten, a lady complained that she could no longer stroll about there among her equals. “If everybody were restricted to the society of his equals,” replied the emperor, “I should be reduced for a bit of air to the crypt of the Capuchins, inasmuch as it is only there that I should find mine.”’
After contemplating for a few moments those magnificent monuments of marble and brass, we slowly ascended the steps of the crypt, when the light of several torches told us of the arrival of a numerous company; and it would appear that these excursions had all been postponed to the end of February on account of the weather, for soon Messrs. Nesselrode and Pozzo di Borgo, the Duc de Richelieu, and M. Amstedt passed us on their way. Then we went to the ramparts. The conversation had taken a serious turn, in accordance with the objects we had just left. The Princesse Hélène compared these crypts with those of the monastery of Petchersky at Kion, where most of the saints of the convent are placed in open coffins. Those precious relics draw to the ancient capital of Moscow a number of pilgrims, who proceed on foot from Casan and other towns close to Italy.
‘There is no greater proof of the strength of religious feeling than that,’ said Princesse Hélène. ‘It is at the bottom of all those distant pilgrimages, which, without it, would seem impossible. But,’ she added, ‘the hope of future recompense assuages present evils.’
‘When I was at Cracow,’ I said, ‘I also paid a visit to the subterranean vaults of the cathedral, where the Kings of Poland rest. The coffins are similarly open, and the bodies are embalmed. Time seems to have respected their forms, and they are still vested with all the attributes of royalty. The ermine cloak, the sceptre, the diadem sparkling with precious stones, all those baubles of a vanished power present a striking contrast to the relentless aspect of death. Nevertheless, such images of the past are less terrible when brass or marble disguises, as it does here, the visible effects of death, or when the monuments are inscribed with a line recalling a glorious reminiscence, like that of the Narischkine family in the Church of the Annunciation at St. Petersburg.’
It was a holiday, and the streets were filled with a great crowd, mainly of artisans, apparently very happy and prosperous.