Wednesday August 29th
I trifled away the whole morning in my tent amusing myself with the different views reflected in the glasses. Aguilar dined with us. The Abbade came in at the dessert in full cry with a rare story of the miraculous conversion of an old consumptive Englishwoman, who finding herself on the eve of departure had called out for a priest to whom she might make confession and abjure her errors. Happening to lodge at the Sintra Inn 1 kept by a most flaming Irish Catholic, her pious desires were speedily complied with, and Acciaoli,2 Mascarenhas,3 and two or three priests and monsignors summoned to further the good work. To work they went, baptism was administered, all sins remitted, and the feeble old creature despatched to Paradise in the very nick of time, without having a moment to conceive a sinful thought or merit the least singeing from the flames of purgatory. ‘Great,’ said the Abbade, ‘are the rejoicing of the faithful upon this occasion. This evening the aged innocent is to be buried in triumph. Your friend, the Count of S. Lourenço1, the Viscount de Asseca and several more of the principal nobility are already assembled to grace the festival. Supposing you were to come with me and join the procession?’ ‘With all my heart,’ said I, ‘though I have no great taste for funerals, so gay a one as this you talk of may form an exception.’
Off we set, driving as fast as the mules would carry us, lest we should come too late for the entertainment. A great mob was assembled before the Inn door. At one of its windows stood the Grand Prior, looking as if he wished himself a thousand leagues away, and reciting his breviary. I went upstairs and was immediately caught in the embraces of my friend, and surrounded by the old Count of S Lourenço and other believers, overflowing with congratulations, turning up the whites of their eyes, and praising God for delivering this strayed sheep from the jaws of eternal perdition. Mascarenhas one of the soundest limbs of the Patriarchal, a most capital devotee and seraphic doctor, was introduced to me. Acciaoli skipped about the room, rubbing his hands for joy, with a cunning leer on his broad jovial countenance, and snapping his fingers at Satan as much as to say, ‘I don’t care a damn for you. We have got one at least safe out of your clutches and clear at this very moment of the smoke of your cauldron.’ There was such a bustle in the interior apartments, where the wretched corpse was laid, such chanting and praying, for not a tongue was idle, that my head swam round and I took refuge by the Grand Prior. He by no means relished the party and kept shrugging up his shoulders and saying that to be sure it was very wonderful indeed, and that Acciaoli had been very active, very alert, and deserved great commendation, but that so much fuss might have been spared.
By some hints that dropped, I won’t say from whom, I discovered the innocent, now on the high road to eternal felicity, by no means to have suffered the cup of joy to pass by her untasted in this existence, and to have long lived on a very easy footing with a stout English bachelor. However, she had taken a sudden tack upon finding herself driving apace down the steep of a galloping consumption, and had been fairly towed into port by the joint efforts of the Irish hostess and the Monsignors Acciaoli and Mascarenhas. All her peccadilloes, according to their firm persuasion, were remitted, and as she expired with the cross of baptism still wet on her forehead, the Devil and all his imps could not prevent her marching straight to the gates of Paradise and gaining immediate admittance. ‘Blessed soul!’ said the Marquis, ‘how much is thy fate to be envied! No ante-chambering in Purgatory; immediate access will be granted thee to the Supreme Presence, and in this world thy body will have the honour of being borne to its grave by persons of the first distinction, followed by men of the most exalted piety, the favourites of the most illustrious saints, by you my dear friend, by my uncle, Mascarenhas and Acciaoli.’
The arrival of a band of priests and sacristans with tapers lighted and cross erected called us to the scene of action. The procession was marshalled in due form, the corpse dressed in virgin white, laying snug in a sort of rose-coloured bandbox with six handles, strewed with flowers, brought forth. My friend, who abhors the sight of a dead body, reddened up to his ears and would have given a good sum to have made an honourable retreat. But no retreat could now be made, consistent with piety. He was obliged to conquer his disgust and take a handle of the bier. Another was placed in the murderous grip of the Count de São Vicente;1 a third fell to the share of the poor old snuffling Count of S. Lourenço; a fourth to the Viscount de Asseca, a mighty simple looking young gentleman; the fifth and sixth were allotted to the Capitão-mor of Sintra and the village Judge, a gaunt fellow with a hang-dog countenance. No sooner did the Grand Prior catch a sight of the ghastly visage of the dead body as it was conveying downstairs in the manner I have recited, than he made an attempt to move on and precede instead of following the procession. But Acciaoli who acted as Master of the Ceremonies would not let him off so easily. He allotted him the post of honour immediately at the head of the corpse, and placed himself on his left hand, giving the right to Mascarenhas.2
All the bells of Sintra struck up a loud peal, and to their merry jinglings we hurried along up to the knees in dust, a rabble of children frolicking on each side, and their old grandmothers hobbling after, telling their beads, and grinning from ear to ear at this triumph over the Prince of Darkness.3 Thank heaven the way to the Church was not long, or the dust would have choked us. The Grand Prior kept his mouth close not to admit a particle of it, but Acciaoli and his colleague were too full of their notable exploit not to chatter incessantly. Poor old S Lourenço, who is fat, squat and pursy,4 gasping for breath, with eyes as red and as watery as those of a stewed carp, stopped several times to rest on his journey. My friend whom disgust rendered heartily fatigued with his burden, and whose piety had much ado to keep his stomach from turning, was very glad likewise to make a pause or two. Happily, as I said before, the distance from the inn to the church was short. We found all the altars blazing with lights, the grave gaping for its immaculate inhabitant, and a band of priests and friars waiting to receive us in procession. The moment it entered, the very same hymn which is chanted at the obsequies of babes and sucklings was bellowed, incense diffused in clouds, and joy and gladness shining in the eyes of the whole congregation. A murmur of applause and congratulation went round anew, Acciaoli and Mascarenhas receiving with much affability and meekness the compliments of the occasion. Old S. Lourenço waddling up to the Grand Prior, hugged him in his arms, and strewing him all over with snuff, set him violently a-sneezing.
São Vicente, as soon as the innocent was safely deposited, sneaked away, being never rightly at ease in the presence of his brother-in-law Marialva. As for Marialva, exaltation and triumph carried him beyond all bounds of decorum. He scoffed bitterly at Satan and heritics, represented in glowing colours the actual felicity of the convert, and just as we went out of church cried out loud enough for all those who were near, had they understood French, to have heard him: Elle se fou[t] de nous touts à présent.1 Our pious toil being ended, we walked to the heights of Penha Verde to breathe fresh air untainted by dust. Then returning soberly to Ramalhāo, drank tea and concluded the evening with much rapturous discourse on the happiness of the sheep now in the arms of the Shepherd.
Thursday, August 30th
The holy party who had so notably distinguished themselves yesterday honoured me with their company at dinner. Old S. Lourenço has a prodigious memory and a warm imagination, heightened by a slight touch of madness. He seems passingly well acquainted with the general politics of Europe, and this [n]ever beyond the limits of Portugal, giving so circumstantial and plausible detail of the part he acted at the Congress at Aix-la-Chapelle that I was complementing his dupe. Notwithstanding the high favour he enjoyed with the Infant D. Pedro,2 Pombal cast him into a dungeon with the other victims of the Averio conspiracy3 and for eighteen years was his active mind reduced to prey upon itself for sustenance. Upon the Queen’s accession, he was released, and found his intimate friend D. Pedro sharing the throne. But thinking himself coldly received and neglected,
he threw the key of Chamberlain which was sent him into a place of less dignity than convenience and retired to the Convent of the Necessidades4. No means, I have been assured, were left untried by the King to soothe and flatter him; but they all proved fruitless. Since this period, though he has quitted the convent after a short residence, he has never appeared at Court and has refused all employment. Devotion seems at present to gain ground upon him and take up his whole attentions. Except when the chord of imprisonment and Pombal is touched upon, he is calm and reasonable. I found him extremely so today, full of the most instructive and amusing anecdotes.
After dinner I sat down to the pianoforte and played almost without interruption. Mascarenhas, who is passionately fond of music, never quitted his chair by the side of my instrument. I cannot help flattering myself that my compositions resembled those of my dear Lady Hamilton, those pastoral movements full of childish bewitching melody I have heard her so frequently compose during the autumn I passed at Caserta.1 The reflection of her being for ever lost to me, and the thought too that my lovely Margaret2 was fled to the same dark cold regions from whence there is no return, and had left me desolate and abandoned, steeped my mind in profound melancholy. I yielded up my soul to its influence, and scarce moving my fingers over the keys, drew forth modulations so plaintive and pathetic that every person in the apartment was affected. My friend sighed bitterly, the Grand Prior hung his head, Mascarenhas seemed beside himself, Acciaoli had no spirits for joking, and D. Pedro, leaning over my chair, breathed short with frequent sobbings. He begins to be conscious of existence since he has laid aside his reserve in my company. When first I knew him, no boy I ever beheld was so dull or inanimate. The full moon, rising like a globe of fire from behind the wild hillocks which skirt the garden, cast a yellow gleam on the verandas level with the saloon. I hastened out to inhale the perfumed evening air and view the wide extended landscape by this serene and mellow light. D. Pedro followed me, and as we sat fondly leaning on each other, admiring the beauty of the scene, gave me alesson of Portuguese. I shall soon acquire the genuine accent.
Friday, August 31st
We are no longer vexed with howling winds. The flowers on the edge of the verandas blow in peace without having their seed scattered prematurely. I take great delight in the saloon I have so comfortably curtained, and lay listlessly on the smooth mat reading Tibullus3 and composing tales. This is the first time since my arrival in this land that I begin to enjoy myself. An agreeable variety prevails in the apartment I am so fond of: half its curtains admit no light and display the richest folds, the other half are transparent and cast a mild glow on the mat and sofas, where I lay and read. The glasses multiply this profusion of drapery, and like a child I am not yet tired of running from corner to corner to view the different groups of objects reflected in them, and fancying myself admitted by enchantment into a series of magic saloons.
Nobody interrupted my day-dreams this morning. M. Verdeil and I dined alone. In the evening he drew me reluctantly from my mat to take some exercise, and rumble over rough pavement to Mr Horne’s, where we drank tea. There is a sad bustle of preparation in Sintra for Her Majesty’s arrival. Houses are taken by force from their proprietors to accommodate her train, and a row of sheds intended for kitchens and stables starting up on the flat space before the Dutch Consul’s new building.4 I am in high luck to have got roosted at Ramalháo out of the way of racket and defended from the dust and stir of a constant thoroughfare by lofty walls and woody quintas. I went from Horne’s to Mrs Gildemeester’s1 in hopes of unkenneling and giving chase to Goody Fussock, but she was not there. The party was more than usually dull. I gaped and ennuied myself sadly and could not get away so soon as I wished, Verdeil having been allured into a party of volterete with [the] Miss Sills2 and a scrubby female companion of Mrs Staits.3 We supped at my friend’s. D. Pedro and I took a run in the garden by our beloved moonlight. One of the little ones, D. Joaquina,4 in attempting to follow us, fell down on the flat stones before the pavilion and set up a rueful squall, not without reason, for she had given herself a severe thump. The Marchioness and José Antonio, an ingenious young surgeon in great favour with the Marialvas, came forth to her assistance, and administered poultices with due solemnity.
Saturday, September 1st
Miss Cotter, one of the toads in waiting on the Consuless Mme Gildemeester, plucked up resolution to dine with me today, though her patroness declare I shall spoil her by civilities, and to be sure I never was more attentive in my life than I have been to this neglected nymph, and she repays my attentions with the warmest encomiums. She came with Horne and his family. Bezerra and Aguilar escorted them on horseback. The Marquis, Grand Prior and Abbade were likewise at dinner. I was in a very musical humour and felt loath to quit my pianoforte upon the Marquis calling me out on the veranda to consult with him on a fête he is persuading me to give the Queen. I have no great wish to have this honour. It will cost me a great sum and a vast deal of trouble into the bargain. Besides, I am at a loss how to decorate the garden and terraces. We are too much at the mercy of the wind here to trust to external illuminations. One moment he proposed a masked ball, and another a French play. He knows not what he would be at, nor I neither.
Sunday September 2nd
Packet5 sailed with letters dated the 2nd. Soon after we had breakfast, Lima and six musicians arrived in one of the royal lumbering coaches with eight mules, which the Marquis lent me for the occasion. D. José de Sousa6 came also from Lisbon to pass a day or two with me. I was delighted to see him, and vexed to have engaged myself to dine at the Marquis’. Whilst I was there early in the evening a packet of English letters was brought me. I tore them open in haste and find my mother, sister and relations all scared out of their senses by accounts sent them from Portugal of my going to abjure the Protestant religion and accept titles and employments at the expense of my honour, future and liberty. Mr Wildman1 too appears by these furious epistles to be also the prey of bugbears. He thinks, as men would throw a cucumber, that I shall throw myself away.
The Marquis looked blank upon my explaining the cause of my agitation. The Marchioness2 and D. Henriqueta were dressed out to go to Sintra and sit dully in their carriage in the midst of the street, staring at the people assembled at a wretched fair. The Marquis and I followed them in my chaise. D. Pedro and his uncle brought up the rear. It was horribly dusty. The roads are bedevilled with loose sand strewn thick all over them.
Whilst the ladies stopped to look about them, my friend and I went to the Palace and took a survey of the preparations going on in the Royal Apartments. The Alhambra itself cannot well be more morisco3 in point of architecture than this confused pile which seems to grow out of the summit of a rocky eminence and is broken into a variety of picturesque recesses and projections. ’Tis a thousand pities that they have whitened its venerable walls, stopped up a range of bold arcades and sliced out the great hall into three or four mean apartments that look like the dressing rooms belonging to a theatre. From the windows, which are all of an oriental fantastic style, crinkled and crankled, and supported by twisted pillars of smooth marble, the more striking views of the cliffs of Sintra are commanded. Several irregular courts and loggias are formed by the angles of square towers enlivened by fountains of marble and gilt bronze. The flat summit of one of the loftiest terraces is laid out in a neat parterre, which, like an embroidered carpet, is spread before the entrance of a huge square tower, almost entirely occupied by a hall encrusted with bright tiles and crowned by a dome most singularly shaped and glittering with mosaic ornaments – red, blue and gold. Amidst the scrolls of arabesque foliage appear the arms of the chief Portuguese nobility gaudily emblazoned. The achievements of the unfortunate House of Tavora4 are blotted out and the panels which they occupied left bare. We had climbed up to this terrace and tower by one of those steep corkscrew staircases, of which there are numbers in the Palace. Almost every apartment has its vaulted passage and staircase winding up to it in a secret an
d suspicious manner. The Marquis made me observe a small chamber whose mosaic pavement was fretted and worn away in several places by the steps of Alfonso the Sixth,5 who was confined to its narrow space a longevity of twenty years. I followed the Marquis into the rooms preparing for the Queen and the Infantas. They are awkward and ill-proportioned, with low narrow doors and wooden ceilings which a swarm of signpost painters were employed in daubing. Instead of hanging these antique saloons with rich arras and tapestry, representing the battles and adventures of knights and worthies, Her Majesty’s upholsterers are hard at work covering the stout wall with light silks and satins of the softest colours. No furniture as yet has been put up in the palace, neither beds, glasses nor tables.
After my friend had given some orders with which the Queen had charged him, we rejoined the Marchioness, bought toys for the children, and drove out of the bustle and dust of the fair. The Marchioness, Acciaoli and Mascarenhas drank tea with me at Ramalháo, D. Henriqueta having been prudently dropped by the way. The old Abbade cried out ‘A miracle, a miracle!’ when he saw me handing the Marchioness into my apartments. She seldom consents to move anywhere, not even to the houses of her nearest relation [s], and according to Portuguese etiquette her visit to me might be looked upon as a prodigy. The night was serene and delightful, the folding doors which communicate with the veranda thrown wide open, and the harmonious notes of French horns and oboes issuing from thickets of citron and orange; not a breath of wind disturbed the clear flame of the lights in the lustres, and they cast a soft gleam on the shrubs shooting up above the terraces. In the course of the evening D. Pedro and I danced several minuets. We are growing much attached to each other. The scenery of my apartment, the musick I select, the prints and books which lie scattered about it, have led his imagination into a new world of ideas, and if I am not mistaken he will long remember the period of my stay in Portugal.
Vathek and Other Stories Page 38
