Monday, September 3rd
Verdeil went to my friend’s in the morning and enlarged copiously on the innumerable difficulties which would attend my marriage and establishment in this kingdom. All his eloquence however could not convince the Marquis, who still flatters himself, by the assistance of Pinto’s negotiations, to surmount all obstacles in England, obtain my peerage, and give my hand to D. Henriqueta with the full approbation of all my relations. Whilst the Marquis was exhausting Verdeil’s attention by calling it continually to the contemplation of fairy castles, I remained indolently reclined on my sofas conversing with D. José1 and Bezerra.
Verdeil brought the Marquis to dine with us, and in the evening arrived Horne and his family, Acciaoli, Mrs Steets, her fat confidante, husband and lover. The last mentioned pair, in defiance of common prejudices, are upon the most peaceful amicable footing, and never give each other the least disturbance. Both are equally dull and equally insipid; both portion out their attentions to the lady in a sober phlegmatic manner, and I should almost imagine from the style of their appearance and conversation keep a balance of debit and credit with commercial regularity. Notwithstanding the wildness of the lady’s glances and the slenderness of her waist, she found little favour in my eyes this evening. If the belonging to such a husband excited my pity, the selection of so dull a lover roused my disgust. I felt out of humour, and kept parading up and down the long suite of apartments with the Marquis, paying my company little or no attention. Verdeil, who had invited them in the morning, contrived likewise they should stay supper. Just before it was brought in, I walked two or three minuets. The violins and French horns played so enchantingly that I was inspired with musical ideas, called for Lima and sung the Serene tornate pupille vezzose of Sacchini1 in its native key, with so clear a voice that I half believe Mrs Staits suspects me of bordering on a soprano, and blesses God for the deep tones of her spouse and his coadjutor.
Tuesday, Setember 4th
I am ashamed to say that I passed my whole morning without reading a sentence, writing a line, or entering into any conversation, lulled by the plaintive harmony of the wind instruments, softened by distance. These notes steal into my soul and swell my heart with tender and melancholy recollections. It was in vain I attempted several times to retire out of the sound and compose myself. I was as often drawn back as I attempted to snatch myself away. Did I consult the health of my mind, I ought to dismiss these musicians. The harmony they produce awakens a thousand enervating and voluptuous ideas in my bosom. Extended on my mat, I look wistfully round me in search of an object to share my affection. I find a silent melancholy void. I stretch out my arms in vain. I form confused and dangerous projects, and as they successively rise and wither in my imagination, am depressed or elated. The general result of these conflicts is a deep and chilling dejection which renders me incapable of any exertion, and forces me to consume my time and trifle away my precious youthful hours.
D. José took leave of me after dinner. He is going to his estate in the province of Tras-os-Montes,2 and has been pressing [me] in the kindest manner to make an excursion that way, offering to be my conductor. Verdeil wishes much I would accept this proposition, and promises me great amusement. Really t’ would be no bad scheme. I should take the Convents of Batalha and Alcobaca3 in my way, pass a few days at Coimbra, and after meeting D. José at Oporto, ramble into the interior of the green shady province of Minho under his auspices. M. Verdeil forced me out after D. José had left us. We went as usual to Horne’s and supped with the Marquis.
Wednesday September 5th
The Marquis, Grand Prior and D. Pedro dined with me. The Grand Prior every wit as indolent, as lounging and as fond of musick as myself. Not one of Boileau’s1 chanoines2 ever sunk into a sofa more voluptuously. It was with difficulty either of us could be persuaded to stir after dinner. D. Pedro made me dance a minuet with him, and after having been once set going I consented to walk in the alleys of the quinta. The Marquis is fallen a little lame and hobbles. D. Pedro and I, having the full use of our limbs, coursed each other like greyhounds.
Thursday, September 6th
Music has once more taken full possession of me. I bow under its influence, and imbibe thirstily those enervating sounds that impair the force of my understanding. My voice is returned with all its powers and I execute the most difficult passages with facility. Bezerra who dined with us today could scarce draw from me one reasonable idea. The Marquis and the Grand Prior came in the evening. Their presence roused me at intervals from my musical delirium. M. Verdeil began describing Fonthill, and I seconded him with an energy that alarmed my friend and convinced him it would be no easy matter to allure me from England.
Friday, September 7th
Whilst I was walking amongst the orange trees in the quinta after breakfast, the Grand Prior made his appearance on the veranda, and I hastened up to him. I plainly perceived that the fondness with which I had spoken of Fonthill last night had made a strong impression on him, and that he feared I should be soon persuaded to leave Portugal. I waived this topic of conversation, which I saw cast a gloom over his good-natured countenance, and summoning Lima to the pianoforte, sung one of his best compositions – Ah! non turbi quae fiero sembiante.3 The Marquis joined us at dinner and at six drove me out towards Colares in the carrinho. The weather proved misty and uncomfortable. We stopped in our way home at Horne’s and drank tea. The woody scene discovered from his veranda had assumed this evening a dingy hue and the cliffs were lost in clouds. It was pitch dark when we returned to Ramalháo. I threw myself on my sofa shuddering at the gloomy aspect of the night. A whistling wind inspired me with sadness; but after all I believe it was the absence of D. Pedro that rendered me so disconsolate.
Saturday, September 8th
I sent M. Verdeil to my friend’s and they had a long conversation upon the usual topics. The Marquis still continues indulging himself in the hopes of levelling all obstacles by the Archbishop’s assistance, who I have indeed every reason to believe is strongly prepossessed in my favour. But what talents have
I for Court intrigue? None. I am too indolent, too listless, to give myself any trouble. Bezerra passed the morning with me in expatiating upon the friendship with which I had inspired Marialva, and the effects which might, if I please, result from it. Whilst we were seated on the sofa, in earnest consultation, the Marquis entered and was soon followed by D. Pedro and the Grand Prior. D. Pedro looked confused, as if he had been too often thinking of me since we last parted. Lima sat down to the pianoforte and I sung till dinner. Never in my life did I sing with more expression. There is a scene in one of Lima’s operas in which the ghost of Polydorus calls upon Aeneas, just arrived on the Thracian shore, to revenge his death on Polynestor.1 The music is melancholy and pathetic to a striking degree, and I gave the bitter cry of Vendica i torti miei,2 which often recurs in the air, its full energy. I was so possessed by these affecting sounds that I could hardly eat. Lima was enchanted with the attention I paid his compositions. The evening turning out mild and pleasant, we rambled about the quinta till dark. The waters, flowing in rills round the roots of the lemon trees, formed a rippling murmur. Not a leaf rustled, the most profound calm reigned amongst the thickets. D. Pedro and I, who become every day more and more attached to each other, run hand in hand along the alleys, bounding like deer and leaping up to catch at the azareiro3 blossoms which dangled over our heads. No child of thirteen ever felt a stronger impulse to race and gambol than I do. My limbs are as supple and elastic as those of a stripling, and it gives me no pain to turn and twist them into the most playful attitudes.
Sunday, September 9th
The Prior of the Cork Convent is appointed by the Marialvas, so we all set forth this morning – the Marquis, Grand Prior, D. Pedro, and the old Abbade – to dine with him and be present at his installation. He is a sturdy, clownish-looking fellow, very jovial and open-hearted. After Mass, D. Pedro and M. Verdeil posted themselves on a mossy stone and began sketc
hing something which they imagined to be a view of the Convent with the rocks and thickets which surround it. Though the sun broiled them unmercifully and lighted up the verdure of the citron and laurel shrubberies with his liveliest rays, the vast plains of land and ocean which are discovered from these eminences were lost in clouds. The effect was singular and I sat on the shelving acclivity of the mountain to enjoy it. The hanging shrubberies of arbutus, bay and myrtle, and the bushy pines which bend over the crags reminded me of the scenery of Mount Edgecumbe. Between the crevices of the rude rocks which lie tumbled about in the wildest confusion, you find luxuriant tufts of herbage which on the least pressure exhale a fresh aromatic perfume. I delight in exploring these nooks and corners. The Marquis was too lame to accompany my rambles, and sat with the monks and Luis de Miranda,1 the Colonel of the Cascais regiment, at the entrace of the cells, so I remained, till dinner was announced, in total solitude. We had a greasy repast and abundance of high-flavoured cabbage stewed in the essence of ham and partridge, four sucking pigs, as many larded turkeys, and two pyramids of rice, as yellow as saffron could tinge them. Three of the principal monks were of our party. The Grand Prior made wry faces at the copper forks and spoons which were set before us. We could hardly persuade him to make use of them. For my part I am always glad of an excuse to eat in the oriental style with my fingers. for never mortal handled a knife so awkwardly. Our dessert both in point of fruit and sweetmeats was truly luxurious. Pomona2 herself need not have been ashamed of carrying in her lap such peaches and nectarines as rolled by dozens about the table.
The Abbade seemed animated after dinner by the spirit of contradiction, and would not allow the Marquis or Luis de Miranda to know more of King John the Fifth3 and his Court than of that of Pharaoh King of Egypt. D. Pedro and I ran out of the sound of the dispute in which the monks began to join, and climbed up amongst the mossy rocks to a little platform overgrown with lavender. There we sat, lulled by the murmur of distant waves rushing over a broken shore. The clouds came slowly sailing over the hills. My companion pounded the cones of the pine and gave me the kernels which have an agreeable almond taste. The evening was far advanced before we abandoned our peaceful retired situation, and joined the Marquis who had not yet been able to appease the Abbade. The vociferous old man made so many appeals to the Father Guardian of the Convent in defence of his opinions that I thought we should never have got away. At length we departed, and after wandering about in clouds and darkness for two hours, reached Sintra exactly at ten. The Marchioness and the children had been much alarmed at our long absence, and rated the Abbade severely for having occasioned it.
TRAVEL DIARIES
III
From Italy, with Sketches of Spain and Portugal, 1834. This extract is from The Travel Diaries of William Beckford of Fonthill, by Guy Chapman, 2 Vols, London, 1928. Chapman’s edition was based on the second edition of 1834. The extract is from Volume 2.
ITALY WITH SKETCHES OF SPAIN
AND PORTUGAL
1787
LETTER XXVIII
Sept. 19th, 1787
Never did I behold so fine a day, or a sky of such lovely azure. The M–1 were with me by half-past six, and we rode over wild hills, which command a great extent of apparently desert country; for the villages, if there are any, are concealed in ravines and hollows.
Intending to explore the Cintra mountains from one extremity to the other of the range, we placed relays at different stations. Our first object was the Convent of Nossa Senhora da Penha,2 the little romantic pile of white buildings I had seen glittering from afar when I first sailed by the coast of Lisbon. From this pyramidical elevation the view is boundless: you look immediately down upon an immense expanse of sea, the vast, unlimited Atlantic. A long series of detached clouds of a dazzling whiteness, suspended low over the waves, had a magic effect, and in pagan times might have appeared, without any great stretch of fancy, the cars of marine divinities just risen from the bosom of their element.
There was nothing very interesting in the objects immediately around us. The Moorish remains in the neighbourhood of the convent are scarcely worth notice, and indeed seem never to have made part of any considerable edifice. They were probably built up with the dilapidations of a Roman temple, whose constructors had perhaps in their turn availed themselves of the fragments of a Punic or Tyrian fane raised on this high place, and blackened with the smoke of some horrible sacrifice.
Amidst the crevices of the mouldering walls, and particularly in the vault of a cistern, which seems to have served both as a resevoir and a bath, I noticed some capillaries and polypodiums of infinite delicacy; and on a little flat space before the convent a numerous tribe of pinks, gentians, and other alpine plants, fanned and invigorated by the pure mountain air. These refreshing breezes, impregnated with the perfume of innumerable aromatic herbs and flowers, seemed to infuse new life into my veins, and, with it, an almost irrestible impulse to fall down and worship in this vast temple of Nature the source and cause of existence.
As we had a very extensive ride in contemplation, I could not remain half so long as I wished on this aerial and secluded summit. Descending by a tolerably easy road, which wound amongst the rocks in many an irregular curve, we followed for several miles a narrow tract over the brow of savage and desolate eminences, to the Cork convent,1 which answered exactly, at the first glance we caught of it, the picture one represents to one’s self of the settlement of Robinson Crusoe.2 Before the entrance, formed of two ledges of ponderous rock, extends a smooth level of greensward, browsed by cattle, whose tinkling bells filled me with recollections of early days passed amongst wild and alpine scenery. The Hermitage, its cells, chapel, and refectory, are all scooped out of the native marble, and lined with the bark of the cork-tree. Several of the passages about it are not only roofed, but floored with the same material, extremely soft and pleasant to the feet. The shrubberies and garden plants, dispersed amongst the mossy rocks which lie about in the wildest confusion, are delightful, and 1 took great pleasure in exploring their nooks and corners, following the course of a transparent, gurgling rill, which is conducted through a rustic water-shoot, between bushes of lavender and rosemary of the tenderest green.
The Prior of this romantic retirement is appointed by the Marialvas, and this very day his installation takes place, so we were pressed to dine with him upon the occasion, and could not refuse; but as it was still very early, we galloped on, intending to visit a famous cliff, the Pedra d’Alvidrar, which composes one of the most striking features of that renowned promontory the Rock of Lisbon.
Our road led us through the skirts of the woods which surround the delightful village of Collares,3 to another range of barren eminences extending along the sea-shore. I advanced to the very margin of the cliff, which is of great height, and nearly perpendicular. A rabble of boys followed at the heels of our horses, and five stout lads, detached from this posse, descended with the most perfect unconcern the dreadful precipice. One in particular walked down with his arms expanded, like a being of a superior order. The coast is truly picturesque, and consists of bold projections, intermixed with pyramidical rocks suceeding each other in theatrical perspective, the most distant crowned by a lofty tower, which serves as a lighthouse.
No words can convey an adequate idea of the bloom of the atmosphere, and the silvery light reflected from the sea. From the edge of the abyss, where I had remained several minutes like one spell-bound, we descended a winding path, about half a mile, to the beach. Here we found ourselves nearly shut in by shattered cliffs and grottos, a fantastic amphitheatre, the best calculated that can possibly be imagined to invite the sports of sea nymphs. Such coves, such deep and broken recesses, such a play of outline I never beheld, nor did I ever hear so powerful a roar of rushing waters upon any other coast. No wonder the warm and susceptible imagination of the ancients, inflamed by the scenery of the place, led them to believe they distinguished the conchs of tritons sounding in these retired caverns; nay, so
me grave Lusitanians1 positively declared they had not only heard, but seen them, and despatched a messenger to the Emperor Tiberius2 to announce the event, and congratulate him upon so evident and auspicious a manifestation of divinity.
The tide was beginning to ebb, and allowed us, not without some risk however, to pass into a cavern of surprising loftiness, the sides of which were incrusted with beautiful limpets, and a variety of small shells grouped together. Against some rude and porous fragments, not far from the aperture through which we had crept, the waves swell with violence, rush into the air, form instantaneous canopies of foam, then fall down in a thousand trickling rills of silver, The flickering gleams of light thrown upon irregular arches admitting into darker and more retired grottos, the mysterious, watery gloom, the echoing murmurs and almost musical sounds, occasioned by the conflict of winds and waters, the strong odour of an atmosphere composed of saline particles, produced altogether such a bewildering effect upon the senses, that I can easily conceive a mind, poetically given, might be thrown into that kind of tone which inclines to the belief of supernatural appearances. I am not surprised, therefore, at the credulity of the ancients, and only wonder my own imagination did not deceive me in a similar manner.
If solitude could have induced the Nereids3 to have vouchsafed me an apparition, it was not wanting, for all my company had seperated upon different pursuits, and had left me entirely to myself. During the full half-hour I remained shut out from the breathing world, one solitary corvo marino4 was the only living creature I caught sight of, perched upon an insulated rock, about fifty paces from the opening of the cavern.
Vathek and Other Stories Page 39
