Vathek and Other Stories

by William Beckford

  Monday, June 26, we are again on the pavé, rattling and jumbling along, between clipped hedges and blighted avenues. The plagues of Egypt have been renewed, one might almost imagine, in this country, by the appearance of the oak-trees: not a leaf have the insects spared. After having had the displeasure of seeing no other objects, for several hours, but these blasted rows, the scene changed to vast tracts of level country, buried in sand, and smothered with heath; the particular character of which I had but too good an opportunity of intimately knowing, as a tortoise might have kept pace with us, without being once out of breath. Towards evening, we entered the dominions of the United Provinces, and had all the glory of canals, track-shuyts,2 and windmills, before us. The minute neatness of the villages, their red roofs, and the lively green of the willows which shade them, corresponded with the ideas I had formed of Chinese prospects; a resemblance, which was not diminshed, upon viewing, on every side, the level scenery of enamelled meadows, with stripes of clear water across them, and innumerable barges gliding busily along. Nothing could be finer than the weather; it improved each moment, as if propitious to my exotic fancies; and, at sun-set, not one single cloud obscured the horizon. Several storks were parading by the water-side amongst flags and osiers; and, as far as the eye could reach, large herds of beautifully spotted cattle were enjoying the plenty of their pastures. I was perfectly in the environs of Canton, or Ning-Po, till we reached Meerdyke. You know the fumigations are always the current recipe in romance to break an enchantment: as soon, therefore, as I left my carriage, and entered my inn, the clouds of tobacco, which filled every one of its apartments, dispersed my Chinese imaginations, and reduced me in an instant to Holland. Why should I enlarge upon my adventures at Meerdyke? ’tis but a very scurvy topic. To tell you, that its inhabitants are the most uncouth bipeds in the universe, would be nothing very new, or entertaining; so, let me at once pass over the village, leave Rotterdam, and even Delft, that great parent of pottery, and transport you with a wave of my pen to the Hague.

  As the evening was rather warm, I immediately walked out to enjoy the shade of the long avenue which leads to Scheveling.1 It was fresh and pleasant enough, but I breathed none of those genuine, woody perfumes, which exhale from the depths of forests, and which allure my imagination at once to the haunts of Pan2 and the good old Sylvanus.3 However, I was far from displeased with my ramble; and, consoling myself with the hopes of shortly reposing in the sylvan labyrinths of Nemi, I proceeded to the village on the sea-coast, which terminates the perspective. Almost every cottage-door being open to catch the air, I had an opportunity of looking into their neat apartments. Tables, shelves, earthen-ware, all glisten with cleanliness: the country people were drinking tea after the fatigues of the day, and talking over its bargains and contrivances. I left them, to walk on the beach; and was so charmed with the vast azure expense of ocean which opened suddenly upon me, that I remained there a full half hour. More than two hundred vessels of different sizes were in sight, – the last sun-beams purpling their sails, and casting a path of innumerable brilliants athwart the waves. What would I not have given to follow this shining track! It might have conducted me, straight to those fortunate western climates, those happy isles, which you are so fond of painting, and I of dreaming about. But, unluckily, this passage was the only one my neighbours the Dutch were ignorant of. To be sure, they have islands rich in spices,4 and blessed with the sun’s particular attention, but which their government, I am apt to imagine, renders by no means fortunate. Abandoning therefore all hopes, at present, of this adventurous voyage, I returned towards the Hague; and, in my way home, looked into a country-house of the late Count Bentinck,5 with parterres, and bosquets, by no means resembling (one should conjecture) the gardens of the Hesperides.6 But, considering that the whole group of trees, terraces, and verdure were in a manner created out of hills of sand, the place may claim some portion of merit. The walks and alleys have all that stiffness and formality our ancestors admired; but the intermediate spaces, being dotted with clumps, and sprinkled with flowers, are imagined in Holland to be in the English stile. An Englishman ought certainly to behold it with partial eyes; since every possible attempt has been made to twist it into the taste of his country. I need not say how liberally I bestowed my encomiums on Count B.’s tasteful intentions; nor, how happy I was, when I had duly serpentized over his garden, to find myself once more in the grand avenue. All the way home, I reflected upon the œconomical dispostition of the Dutch, who raise gardens from heaps of sand, and cities out of the bosom of the waters. I had still a further proof of this thrifty turn, since the first object I met, was an unwieldy fellow, (not able, or unwilling, perhaps, to afford hoses) airing his carcase in a one-dog chair! The poor animal puffed and panted; Mynheer smoked, and gaped around him with the most blessed indifference!

  LETTER IV

  June 30.

  I dedicated the morning to the Prince of Orange’s cabinet of paintings, and curiosities both natural and artificial. Amongst the pictures which amused me the most, is a St Anthony by Hell-fire Brughel,1 who has shewn himself right worthy of the title; for a more diabolical variety of imps never entered the human imagination. Brughel has made his saint take refuge in a ditch filled with harpies, and creeping things innumerable, whose malice, one should think, would have lost Job himself the reputation of patience. Castles of steel and fiery turrets glare on every side, from whence issue a band of junior devils; these seem highly entertained with pinking poor St Anthony, and whispering, I warrant ye, filthy tales in his ear. Nothing can be more rueful than the patient’s countenance; more folorn than his beard; more pious than his eye, which forms a strong contrast to the pert winks and insidious glances of his persecutors; some of whom, I need not mention, are evidently of the female kind. But, really, I am quite ashamed of having detained you, in such bad company, so long; and, had I a moment to spare, you should be introduced to a better set in this gallery, where some of the most exquisite Berghems and Wouvermans2 I ever beheld, would delight you for hours. I don’t think you would look much at the Polemburgs; there are but two, and one of them is very far from capital: in short, I am in a great hurry, so pardon me. Carlo Cignani! if I don’t do justice to your merit; and excuse me, Potter!3 if I pass your herds without leaving a tribute of admiration. Mynheer Van Something is as eager to precipitate my motions, as I was to get out of the damps and perplexities of Soorflect, yesterday evening; so, mounting a very indifferent stair-case, he led me into a suite of garret-like apartments; which, considering the meaness of their exterior, I was rather surprized to find stored with some of the most valuable productions of the Indies. Gold cups enriched with gems, models of Chinese palaces in ivory, glittering armour of Hindostan, and japan caskets, filled every corner of this awkward treasury. What, of all its valuable baubles, pleased me the most, was a large coffer of some precious wood, containg enamelled flasks of oriental essences, enough to perfume a zennana;1 and so fragrant, that I thought the Mogul himself a Dutchman, for lavishing them upon this inelegant nation. If disagreeable fumes, as I mentioned before, dissolve enchantments, such aromatic oils have doubtless the power of raising them; for, whilst I scented their fragrance, scarcely could any thing have persuaded me that I was not in the wardrobe of Hecuba,2

  where treasur’d odours breath’d a costly scent.

  I saw, or seemed to see, the arched apartments, the procession of venerable matrons, the consecrated vestments, the very temple began to rise upon my sight; when a Dutch porpoise, approaching to make me a low bow, his complaisance was full as notorious as Satan’s, when, according to Catholic legends, he took leave of Calvin, or Dr Faustus. No spell can resist a fumigation of this nature; away fled palace, Hecuba, matrons, temple, &c. I looked up, and lo! I was in a garret. As poetry is but too often connected with this lofty situation, you won’t wonder much at my flight. Being a little recovered from it, I tottered down the stair-case, entered the cabinet of natural history, and was soon restored to my sober senses
. A grave hippopo-tamos contributed a good deal to their re-establishment. The butterflies, I must needs confess, were very near leading me another dance; I thought of their native hills, and beloved flowers of Haynang and Nan-Hoa;3 but the jargon which was prating all around me prevented the excursion, and I summoned a decent share of attention for that ample chamber, which has been appropriated to bottled snakes and pickled foetuses. After having enjoyed the same spectacle in the British Museum,4 no very new or singular objects can be selected in this. One of the rarest articles it contains, is the representation in wax of a human head, most dextrously flayed indeed! Rapturous encomiums have been bestowed by amateurs on this performance. A German professor could hardly believe it artificial; and prompted by the love of truth, set his teeth in this delicious morsel, to be convinced of its reality. My faith was less hazardously established, and I moved off, under the conviction, that art had never produced any thing more horridly natural. It was one o’clock before I got through the mineral kingdom, and another hour passed, before I could quit, with decorum, the regions of stuffed birds and marine productions. At length my departure was allowable, and I went to dine at Sir Joseph Yorke’s,1 with all nations and languages. The Hague is the place in the world for a motley assembly; and, in some humours, I think such the most agreeable. After coffee, I strayed to the great wood; which, considering that it almost touches the town with its boughs is wonderfully forest-like. Not a branch being ever permitted to be lopped, the oaks and beeches retain their natural luxuriances, and form some of the most picturesque groups conceivable. In some places, their straight boles rise sixty feet, with out a bough; in others, they are bent fantastically over the alleys; which turn and wind about, just as a painter could desire. I followed them with eagerness and curiosity; sometimes deviating from my path amongst tufts of fern and herbage. In these cool retreats, I could not believe myself near canals and wind-mills: the Dutch formalities were all forgotten, whilst contemplating the broad masses of foliage above, and the wild flowers and grasses below. Several hares and rabbits passed me as I sat; and the birds were chirping their evening song. Their preservation does credit to the police of the country, which is so exact and well regulated, as to suffer no outrage within the precincts of this extensive wood, the depth and thickness of which, seemed calculated to favour half the sins of a capital.

  Relying upon this comfortable security, I lingered unmolested amongst the beeches, till the ruddy gold of the setting sun ceased to glow on their foliage; then, taking the nearest path, I suffered myself, though not without regret, to be conducted out of this fresh sylvan scene, to the dusty, pompous parterres of the Greffier Fagel.2 Every flower, that wealth can purchase, diffuses its perfume on one side; whilst every stench, a canal can exhale, poisons the air on the other. These sluggish puddles defy all the power of the United Provinces, and retain the freedom of stinking in spite of their endeavours: but, perhaps, I am too bold in my assertion; for I have no authority to mention any attempts to purify these noxious pools. Who knows but their odour is congenial to a Dutch constitution? One should be inclined to this supposition, by the numerous banquetting-rooms, and pleasure-houses, which hang directly above their surface, and seem calculated on purpose to enjoy them. If frogs were not excluded from the magistrature of their country (and I cannot but think it a little hard that they are) one should not wonder at this choice. Such burgomasters might erect their pavilions in such situations. But, after all, I am not greatly surprized at the fishiness of their scite, since very slight authority would persuade me there was a period when Holland was all water, and the ancestors of the present inhabitants fish. A certain oysterishness of eye, and flabbiness of complexion, are almost proofs sufficient of this aquatic descent; and, pray tell me, for what purpose are such galligaskins,3 as the Dutch burthen themselves with, contrived, but to tuck up a flouncing tail, and cloak the deformity of their dolphin-like terminations? Having done penance, for some time, in the damp alleys which line the borders of these lazy waters, I was led through corkscrew handwalks, to a vast flat, sparingly scattered over with vegetation. To puzzle myself in such a labyrinth there was no temptation; so taking advantage of the latenesss of the hour, and muttering a few complimentary promises of returning at the first opportunity, I escaped the ennui of this extensive scrubbery, and got home, with the determination of being wiser and less curious, if ever my stars should bring me again to the Hague. To-morrow I bid it adieu; and, if the horses but second my endeavours, shall be delivered in a few days from the complicated plagues of the United Provinces.

  LETTER V

  Haerlem, July 1st.

  The sky was clear and blue when we left the Hague, and we travelled along a shady road for about an hour, then down sunk the carriage into a sand-bed; and I, availing myself of the peaceful rate we dragged at, fell into a profound repose. How long it lasted is not material; but when I awoke, we were rumbling through Leyden.1 There is no need to write a syllable in honour of this illustrious city; its praises have already been sung and said by fifty professors, who have declaimed in its university, and smoked in its gardens; so let us get out of it as fast as we can, and breathe the cool air of the wood near Haerlem; where we arrived just as day declined. Hay was making in the fields, and perfumed the country far and wide, with its reviving fragrance. I promised myself a pleasant walk in the groves, took up Gesner,2 and began to have pretty pastoral ideas; but when I approached the nymphs that were dispersed on the meads, and saw faces that would have dishonoured a flounder, and heard accents that would have confounded a hog, all my dislike to the walking fish of the Low Countries returned. I let fall the garlands I had wreathed for the shepherds; we jumped into the carriage, and were driven off to the town. Every avenue to it swarmed with people, whose bustle and agitation seemed to announce that something extraordinary was going forwards. Upon enquiry, I found it was the great fair-time at Haerlem; and, before we had advanced much further, our carriage was surrounded by idlers and gingerbread-eaters of all denominations. Passing the gate, we came to a cluster of little illuminated booths beneath a grove, glittering with toys and looking-glasses. It was not without difficulty that we reached our inn; and then, the plague was to procure chambers: at last we were accommodated, and the first moment I could call my own has been dedicated to you. You won’t be surprized at the nonsense I have written, since I tell you the scene of riot and uproar from whence it bears date.