Vathek and Other Stories

by William Beckford

  All through Kent did I dose as usual; now and then I opened my eyes to take in an idea or two of the green, woody country through which I was passing; then closed them again; transported myself back to my native hills; thought I led a choir of those I loved best through their shades; and was happy in the arms of illusion. The sun sat before I recovered my senses enough to discover plainly the variegated slopes near Canterbury, waving with slender birch-trees, and gilt with a profusion of broom. I thought myself still in my beloved solitude, but missed the companions of my slumbers. Where are they? – Behind you blue hills, perhaps, or t’other side of that thick forest. My fancy was travelling after these deserters, till we reached the town; vile enough o’conscience, and fit only to be past in one’s sleep. The moment after I got out of the carriage, brought me to the cathedral; an old haunt of mine. I had always venerated its lofty pillars, dim ailes, and mysterious arches. Last night they were more solemn than ever, and echoed no other sound than my steps. I strayed about the choir and chapels, till they grew so dark and dismal, that I was half inclined to be frightened; looked over my shoulder; thought of spectres that have an awkward trick of syllabling men’s names in dreary places; and fancied a sepulchral voice exclaiming: ‘Worship my toe at Ghent, my ribs at Florence; my skull at Bologna, Sienna, and Rome. Beware how you neglect this order; for my bones, as well as my spirit, have the miraculous property of being here, there, and every where’2 These injunctions, you may suppose, were received in a becoming manner, and noted all down in my pocket-book by inspiration (for I could not see) and hurrying into the open air, I was whirled away in the dark to Margate. Don’t ask what were my dreams thither: – nothing but horrors, deep-vaulted tombs, and pale, though lovely figures extended upon them; shrill blasts that sung in my ears, and filled me with sadness, and the recollection of happy hours, fleeted away, perhaps, for ever! I was not sorry, when the bustle of our coming-in dispelled these phantoms. The change, however, in point of scenery was not calculated to dissipate my gloom; for the first object in this world that presented itself, was a vast expanse of sea, just visible by the gleamings of the moon, bathed in watery clouds; a chill air ruffled the waves. I went to shiver a few melancholy moments on the shore. How often did I try to wish away the reality of my separation from those I love, and attempt to persuade myself it was but a dream!

  This morning I found myself more chearfully disposed, by the queer Dutch faces with short pipes and ginger-bread complexions, that came smirking and scraping to get us on board their respective vessels; but, as I had a ship engaged for me before, their invitations were all in vain. The wind blows fair; and, should it continue of the same mind a few hours longer, we shall have no cause to complain of our passage. Adieu! Think of me sometimes. If you write immediately, I shall receive your letter at the Hague.

  It is a bright sunny evening: the sea reflects a thousand glorious colours, and, in a minute or two, I shall be gliding on its surface.

  LETTER II

  Ostend, Junep 21.

  T’other minute I was in Greece, gathering the bloom of Hymettus;1 but now I am landed in Flanders, smoked with tobacco, and half poisoned with garlick. Were I to remain ten days at Ostend, I should scarcely have one delightful vision; ’tis so unclassic a place! Nothing but preposterous Flemish roofs disgust your eyes when you cast them upwards: swaggering Dutchmen and mungrel barbers are the first objects they meet with below. I should esteem myself in luck, were the woes of this sea-port confined only to two senses; but, alas; the apartment above my head proves a squalling brattery; and the sounds which proceed from it are so loud and frequent, that a person might think himself in limbo, without any extravagance. Am I not an object of pity, when I tell you, that I was tormented yesterday by a similar cause? But I know not how it is; your violent complainers are the least apt to excite compassion. I believe, notwithstanding, if another rising generation should lodge above me at the next inn, I shall grow as scurrilous as Dr Smollet,2 and be dignified with the appellation of the Younger Smelfungus. Well, let those make out my diploma that will, I am determined to vent my spleen; and, like Lucifer, unable to enjoy comfort myself, teaze others with the detail of my vexations. You must know then, since I am resolved to grumble, that, tired

  with my passage, I went to the Capuchin church, a large solemn building, in search of silence and solitude; but here again was I disappointed: half a dozen squeaking fiddles fugued and flourished away in the galleries, as many paralytic monks gabbled before the altars, whilst a whole posse of devotees, wrapped in long white hoods and flannels, were sweltering on either side. Such piety in warm weather was no very fragrant circumstance; so I sought the open air again as fast as I was able. The serenity of the evening, joined to the desire I had of casting another glance over the ocean, tempted me to the ramparts. There, at least, thought I to myself, I may range undisturbed, and talk with my old friends the breezes, and address my discourse to the waves, and be as romantic and whimsical as I please; but it happened, that I had scarcely begun my apostrophe,1 before out flaunted a whole rank of officers, with ladies, and abbés, and puppy dogs, singing, and flirting, and making such a hubbub, that I had not one peaceful moment to observe the bright tints of the western horizon, or enjoy the series of antique ideas with which a calm sun-set never fails to inspire me. Finding therefore no quiet abroad, I returned to my inn, and should have gone immediately to bed, in hopes of relapsing again into the bosom of dreams and delusions, but the limbo, I mentioned before, grew so very outrageous, that I was obliged to postpone my rest till sugar-plumbs and nursery-eloquence had hushed it to repose. At length peace was restored, and about eleven o’clock I fell into a slumber, during which the most lovely Sicilian prospects filled the eye of my fancy. I anticipated all the classic scenes of that famous island, and forgot every sorrow in the meadows of Enna.2 Next morning, awakened by the sunbeams, I arose quite refreshed with the agreeable impressions of my dream,

  and filled with presages of future happiness in the climes which had inspired them. No other ideas but such as Trinacria and Naples suggested, haunted me whilst travelling to Ghent. I neither heard the vile Flemish dialect which was talking around me, nor noticed the formal avenues and marshy country which we passed. When we stopped to change horses, I closed my eyes upon the whole scene, and was transported immediately to some Grecian solitude, where Theocritus3 and his shepherds were filling the air with melody. To one so far gone in poetic antiquity, Ghent is not the most likely place to recall his attention; and, I know nothing more about it, than that it is a large, ill-paved, dismal-looking city, with a decent proportion of convents and chapels, stuffed with monuments, brazen gates, and glittering marbles. In the great church were two or three pictures by Rubens,4 mechanically, excellent; but these realities were not designed in so graceful a manner as to divert my attention from the mere descriptions Pausanias5 gives us of the works of Grecian artists, and I would at any time fall asleep in a Flemish cathedral, for a vision of a temple of Olympian Jupiter. But I think I hear, at this moment,

  some grave and respectable personage chiding me for such levities and saying – ‘Really, Sir, you had better stay at home, and dream in your great chair, than give yourself the trouble of going post through Europe, in search of inspiring places to fall asleep. If Flanders and Holland are to be dreamed over at this rate, you had better take ship at once, and dose all the way to Italy.’ – Upon my word, I should not have much objection to that scheme and, if some cabalist would but transport me in an instant to the summit of Ætna,1 any body might slop through the Low Countries that pleased. Being, however, so far advanced, there was no retracting; and, as it is now three or four years since I have almost abandoned the hopes of discovering a necromancer, I resolved to journey along with quiet and content for my companion; These two comfortable deities have, I believe, taken Flanders under their especial protection; every step one advances discovering some new proof of their influence. The neatness of the houses and the universal cleanliness of the villa
ges, shew plainly that their inhabitants live in ease and good-humour. All is still and peaceful in these fertile lowlands: the eye meets nothing but round unmeaning faces at every door, and harmless stupidity smiling at every window. The beasts, as placid as their masters graze on without any disturbance; and I don’t recollect to have heard one grunting swine, or snarling mastiff, during my whole progress. Before every town is a wealthy dunghill, not at all offensive, because but seldom disturbed; and there they bask in the sun, and wallow at their ease, till the hour of death and bacon arrives, when capacious paunches await them. If I may judge from the healthy looks and reposed complexions of the Flemings they have every reason to expect a peaceful tomb.

  But it is high time to leave our swinish moralities behind us, and jog on towards Antwerp. More rich pastures, more ample fields of grain, more flourishing willows! – A boundless plain before this city, dotted with cows and flowers, from whence its spires and quaint roofs are seen to advantage! The pale colours of the sky, and a few gleams of watery sunshine, gave a true Flemish cast to the scenery, and every thing appeared so consistent, that I had not a shadow of pretense to think myself asleep. After crossing a broad, noble river, edged on one side by beds of oziers, beautifully green, and on the other by gates and turrets preposterously ugly, we came through several streets of lofty houses to our inn. Its situation in the Place de Mer, a vast open space, surrounded by buildings above buildings, and roof above roof, has something striking and singular. A tall gilt crucifix of bronze, sculptured by some famous artist, adds to its splendor; and the tops of some tufted trees, seen above a line of magnificent hotels,2 have no bad effect in the perspective. It was almost dusk when we arrived, and, as I am very partial to seeing new objects by this dubious, visionary light, I went immediately a rambling. Not a sound disturbed my meditations: there were no groups of squabbling children or talkative old women. The whole town seemed retired into their inmost chambers; and I kept winding and turning about, from street to street, and from alley to alley, without meeting a single inhabitant. Now and then, indeed, one or two women in long cloaks and mantles glided about at a distance; but their dress was so shroud-like, and their whole appearance so ghostly, I was more than half afraid to accost them. As the night approached, the ranges of buildings grew more and more dim, and the silence which reigned amongst them more aweful. The canals, which in some places intersect the streets, were likewise in perfect solitude, and there was just light sufficient for me to observe on the still waters the reflexion of the structures above them. Except two or three tapers glimmering through the casements, no one circumstance indicated human existence. I might, without being thought very romantic, have imagined myself in the city of petrified people, which Arabian fabulists are so fond of describing. Were any one to ask my advice upon the subject of retirement, I should tell him: By all means repair to Antwerp. No village amongst the Alps, or hermitage upon Mount Lebanon, is less disturbed: you may pass your days in this great city, without being the least conscious of its sixty thousand inhabitants, unless you visit the churches.

  There, indeed, are to be heard a few devout whispers, and sometimes, to be sure, the bells make a little chiming; but, walk about, as I do, in the twilights of midsummer, and, be assured, your ears will be free from all molestation. You can have no idea how many strange amusing fancies played around me, whilst I wandered along; nor, how delighted I was with the novelty of my situation. But a few days ago, thought I, within myself, I was in the midst of all the tumult and uproar of London:1 now, as if by some magic influence, I am transported to a city, equally remarkable for streets and edifices; but whose inhabitants seem cast into a profound repose. What a pity, that we cannot borrow some small share of this soporific disposition! It would temper that restless spirit, which throws us sometimes into such dreadful convulsions. However, let us not be too precipitate in desiring so dead a calm; the time may arrive, when, like Antwerp, we may sink into the arms of forgetfulness; when a fine verdure may carpet our exchange, and passengers traverse the Strand, without any danger of being smothered in crowds, or lost in the confusion of carriages. Reflecting, in this manner, upon the silence of the place, contrasted with the important bustle which formerly rendered it so famous, I insensibly drew near to the cathedral, and found myself, before I was aware, under its stupendous tower. It is difficult to conceive an object more solemn or imposing than this edifice, at the hour I first beheld it. Dark shades hindered my examining the lower galleries or windows; their elaborate carved work was invisible: nothing but huge masses of building met my sight, and the tower, shooting up four hundred and sixty-six feet into the air, received an additional importance from the gloom which prevailed below. The sky being perfectly clear, several stars twinkled through the mosaic of the spire, and added not a little to its enchanted effect. I longed to ascend it that instant, to stretch myself out upon its very summit, and calculate, from so sublime an elevation, the influence of the planets.1 Whilst I was indulging my astrological reveries, a ponderous bell struck ten, and such a peal of chimes succeeded, as shook the whole edifice, notwithstanding its bulk, and drove me away in a hurry. No mob obstructed my passage, and I ran through a succession of streets, free and unmolested, as if I had been skimming along over the downs of Wiltshire. My servants, conversing before the hotel, were the only voices which the great Place de Mer echoed. This universal stillness was the more pleasing, when I looked back upon those scenes of horror and outcry, which filled London but a week or two ago, when danger was not confined to night only, and the environs of the capital, but haunted our streets at midday. Here, I could wander over an entire city; stray by the port, and venture through the most obscure alleys, without a single apprehension; without beholding a sky red and portentous with the light of fires, or hearing the confused and terrifying murmur of shouts and groans, mingled with the reports of artillery. I can assure you, I think myself very fortunate to have escaped the possibilty of another such week of desolation, and to be peaceably roosted at Antwerp. Were I not still fatigued with my heavy progress through sands and quagmires, I should descant a little longer upon the blessings of so quiet a metropolis: but it is growing late, and I must retire to enjoy it.

  LETTER III

  Antwerp, June 23.

  My windows look full upon the Place de Mer, and the sun, beaming through their white curtains, awoke me from a dream of Arabian happiness. Imagination had procured herself a tent on the mountains of Sanaa, covered with coffee-trees in bloom. She was presenting me the essence of their flowers, and was just telling me, that you possessed a pavilion on a neighbouring hill, when the sunshine dispelled the vision; and, opening my eyes, I found myself pent in by Flemish spires and buildings; no hills, no verdure, no aromatic breezes, no hopes of being in your vicinity: all were vanished with the shadows of fancy, and I was left alone to deplore your absence. But I think it rather selfish to wish you were here; for what pleasure could pacing from one dull church to another, afford a person of your turn? I don’t believe you would catch a taste for blubbering Magdalens and coarse Madonnas, by lolling in Rubens’ chair; nor do I believe a view of the Ostades2 and Snyders,3 so liberally scattered in every collection, would greatly improve your pencil.4 After breakfast this morning, I began my pilgrimage to all those illustrious cabinets. First, I went to Monsieur Van Lencren’s, who possesses a suite of apartments, lined, from the base to the cornice, with the rarest productions of the Flemish School.

  Heavens forbid I should enter into a detail if their niceties! I might as well count the dew-drops upon any of Van Huysem’s1 flower-pieces, or the pimples on their possessor’s countenance; a very good sort of man, indeed; but, from whom I was not at all sorry to be delivered. My joy was, however, of short duration as a few minutes bought me into the court-yard of the Chanoin Knyfe’s habitation; a snug abode, well furnished with easy chairs and orthodox couches. After viewing the rooms on the first floor, we mounted a gentle staircase, and entered an anti-chamber, which those who delight in the imita
tions of art, rather than of nature; in the likenesses of joint stools, and the portraits of tankards; would esteem most capitally adorned: but, it must be confessed, that, amongst these uninteresting performances, are dispersed a few striking Berghems,2 and agreeable Polemburgs.3 In the gallery adjoining, two or three Rosa de Tivolis4 merit observation; and a large Teniers,5 representing a St Anthony surrounded by a malicious fry of imps and leering devilesses, is well calculated to display the whimsical buffoonery of a Dutch imagination. I was observing this strange medley, when the Canon made his appearance; and a most repossessing figure he has, according to Flemish ideas. In my humble opinion, his Reverence looked a little muddled, or so; and to be sure the description I afterwards heard of his style of living, favours not a little my surmises. This worthy dignitary, what with his private fortune, and the good things of the church, enjoys a revenue of about five thousand pounds sterling, which he contrives to get rid of, in the joys of the table, and the encouragement of the pencil. His servants, perhaps, assist not a little in the expenditure of so comfortable an income; the Canon being upon a very social footing with them all. At four o’clock in the afternoon, a select party attend him in his coach to an ale-house, about a league from the city; where a table, well spread with jugs of beer and handsome cheeses, waits their arrival. After enjoying this rural fare, the same equipage conducts them back again, by all accounts, much faster than they came; which may be well conceived, as the coachman is one of the brightest wits of the entertainment. My compliments, alas! were not much relished, you may suppose, by this jovial personage. I said few favourable words of Polemburg, and offered up a small tribute of praise to the memory of Berghem; but, as I could not prevail upon Mynheer Knyfe to expand, I made one of my best bows, and left him to the enjoyment of his domestic felicity. In my way home, I looked into another cabinet, the greatest ornament of which was a most sublime thistle by Snyders, of the heroic size, and so faithfully imitated, that I dare say no ass could see it unmoved. At length, it was lawful to return home; and, as I positively refused visiting any more cabinets in the afternoon, I sent for a harpsichord of Rucker,1 and played myself quite out of the Netherlands. It was late before I finished my musical excursion, and I took advantage of this dusky moment to revisit the cathedral. A flight of starlings was fluttering about the pinnacles of the tower; their faint chirpings were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the air. Not a human form appeared at any of the windows around; no footsteps were audible in the opening before the grand entrance; and, during the half hour I spent in walking to and fro beneath the spire, one solitary Franciscan was the only creature that accosted me. From him I learnt, that a grand service was to be performed next day, in honour of Saint John the Baptist, and the best music in Flanders would be called forth upon the occasion. As I had seen cabinets enough to form some slight judgment of Flemish painting, I determined to stay one day longer at Antwerp, to hear a little how its inhabitants were disposed to harmony. Having taken this resolution, I formed an acquaintance with Mynheer Vander Bosch, the first organist of the place, who very obligingly permitted me to sit next to him in his gallery, during the celebration of high mass. The service ended, I strayed about the aisles, and examined the innumerable chapels which decorate them, whilst Mynheer Vander Bosch thundered and lightened away upon a huge organ with fifty stops. When the first flashes of execution were a little subsided, I took an opportunity of surveying the celebrated descent from the cross, which has ever been esteemed one of Ruben’s chef d’oeuvres, and for which, they say, old Lewis Baboon offered no less a sum than forty thousand florins.2 The principal figure, has, doubtless, a very meritorious paleness, and looks as dead, as an artist could desire; the rest of the group have been so liberally praised, that there is no occasion to add another tittle of commendation. A swinging St Christopher,3 fording a brook with a child on his shoulders, cannot fail of attracting your attention. This colossal personage is painted on the folding doors, which defend the capital performance just mentioned, from vulgar eyes; and, here, Rubens, has selected a very proper subject to display the gigantic coarseness of his pencil. Had this powerful artist confined his strength to the representation of agonizing thieves, and sturdy Barabbasses, nobody would have been readier than your humble servant, to offer incense at his shrine; but, when I find him lost in the flounces of the Virgin’s drapery, or bewildered in the graces of St Catherine’s smile,4 pardon me, if I withhold my adoration. After I had most dutifully observed all the Rubenses in the church, I walked half over Antwerp in search of St John’s relics,5 which were moving about in procession; but an heretical wind having extinguished all their tapers, and discomposed the canopy over the Bon Dieu, I cannot say much for the grandeur of the spectacle. If my eyes were not greatly regaled by the Saint’s magnificence, my ears were greatly affected in the evening, by the music which sang forth his praises. The cathedral was crouded with devotees, and perfumed with incense. Several of its marble altars gleamed with the reflection of lamps, and, all together, the spectacle was new and imposing. I knelt very piously in one of the ailes, whilst a symphony, in the best style of Corelli,1 performed with taste and feeling, transported me to Italian climates; and I was quite vexed, when a cessation dissolved the charm, to think that I had still so many tramontane regions to pass, before I could in effect reach that classic country, where my spirit had so long taken up its abode. Finding it was in vain to wish, or expect any preternatural interposition, and perceiving no conscious angel, or Loretto-vehicle, waiting in some dark consecrated corner to bear me away, I humbly returned to my hotel in the Place de Mer, and soothed myself with some terrestrial harmony; till, my eyes growing heavy, I fell fast asleep, and entered the empire of dreams, according to custom, by its ivory portal. What passed in those shadowy realms is too ‘thin and unsubstantial’ to be committed to paper. The very breath of waking mortals would dissipate all the train, and drive them eternally away; give me leave, therefore, to omit the relation of my visionary travels, and have the patience to pursue a sketch of my real ones from Antwerp to the Hague.