Vathek and Other Stories

by William Beckford

  He then ran over the ground Pombal1 had so often trodden bare, both in his state papers and in various publications which had been promulgated during his administration, and I soon perceived of what school his royal highness was a disciple.

  ‘We deserve all this,’ continued he, ‘and worse, for our tame acquiescence in every measure your cabinet dictates; but no wonder, oppresses and debased as we are, by ponderous, useless institutions. When there are so many drones in a hive, it is in vain to look for honey. Were you not surprised, were you not shocked, at finding us so many centuries behind the rest of Europe?’

  I bowed, and smiled. This spark of approbation induced, I believe, his royal highness to blaze forth into a flaming encomium upon certain reforms and purifications which were carrying on in Brabant, under the auspices of his most sacred apostolic Majesty Joseph the Second. ‘I have the happiness,’ continued the Prince, ‘to correspond not unfrequently with this enlightened sovereign. The Duke d’Alafoens, who has likewise the advantage of communicating with him, never fails to give me the detail of these salutary proceedings. When shall we have sufficient manliness to imitate them!’

  Though I bowed and smiled again, I could not resist taking the liberty of observing that such very rapid and vigorous measures as those his imperial Majesty had resorted to, were more to be admired than imitated; that people who had been so long in darkness, if too suddenly broken in upon by stream of effulgence, were more likely to be blinded than enlightened; and that blows given at random by persons whose eyes were closed were dangerous, and might fall heaviest perhaps in directions very opposite to those for which they were intended. This was rather bold, and did not seem to please the novice in boldness.

  After a short pause, which allowed him, at least, an opportunity of taking breath, he looked steadily at me, and perceiving my countenance arrayed in the best expression of admiration I could throw into it, resumed the thread of his philosophical discourse, and even condescended to detail some very singular and, as they struck me, most perilous projects. Continuing to talk on with an increased impetus (like those whose steps are accelerated by running down hill) he dropped some vague hints of measures that filled me not only with surprise, but with a sensation approaching to horror. I bowed, but I could not smile. My imagination, which had caught the alarm at the extraordinary nature of the topics he was discoursing upon, conjured up a train of appalling images, and I asked myself more than once whether I was not under the influence of a distempered dream.

  Being too much engaged in listening to himself to notice my confusion, he worked as hard as a pioneer in clearing away the rubbish of ages, entered minutely and not unlearnedly into the ancient jurisprudence and maxims of his country, its relations with foreign powers, and the rank from whence it had fallen in modern times, to be attributed in a great measure, he observed, to a blind and mistaken reliance upon the selfish politics of our predominant island. Although he did not spare my country, he certainly appeared not over partial to his own. He painted its military defects and priest-ridden policy in vivid colours. In short, this part of our discourse was a ‘deploratio Lusita-nicæ Gentis,’1 full as vehement as that which the celebrated Damien a Goes, to show his fine Latin and fine humanity, poured forth some centuries ago over the poor wretched Laplanders.

  Not approving in any degree the tendency of all this display, I most heartily prayed it might end. Above an hour had passed since it began, and flattered as I was by the protraction of so condescending a conference, I could not help thinking that these fountains of honour are fountains of talk and not of mercy; they flow over, if once set a going, without pity or moderation. Persons in supreme stations, whom no one ventures to contradict, run on at a furious rate. You frequently flatter yourself they are exhausted; but you flatter yourself in vain. Sometimes indeed, by way of variety, they contradict themselves, and then the debate is carried on between self and self, to the desperation of their subject auditors, who, without being guilty of a word in reply, are involved in the same penalty as the most captious disputant. This was my case. I scarcely uttered a syllable after my first unsuccessful essay; but thousands of words were nevertheless lavished upon me, and innumerable questions proposed and answered by the questioner with equal rapidity.

  In return for the honour of being admitted to this monological dialogue, I kept bowing and nodding; and towards the close of the conference, contrived to smile again pretty decently. His royal highness, I learned afterwards, was satisfied with my looks and gestures, and even bestowed a brevet2 upon me of a great deal more erudition than I possessed or pretended to.

  The sun set, the dews fell, the Prince retired, Louis de Miranda followed him, and I remounted my horse with an indigestion of sounding phrases, and the most confirmed belief that ‘the church was in danger.’

  Tired and exhausted, I threw myself on the sofa the moment I reached Ramalháo; but the agitation of my spirits would not allow me any respose. I swallowed some tea with avidity, and driving to the palace, evocated the archbishop confessor, who had been locked up about half-an-hour in his interior cabinet.3 To him I related all that had passed at this unsought, unexpected interview. The consequences in time developed themselves.4

  LETTER XXXII

  Nov. 9th, 1787

  M– and his principal almoner, a renowned missionary, and one of the most eloquent preachers in her Majesty’s dominions, were at my door by ten, waiting to take me with them to the convent of Boa Morte.1 This is a true Golgotha, a place of many skulls, for its inhabitants, though they live, move, and have a sort of being, are little better than skeletons. The priest who officiated appeared so emaciated and cadaverous, that I could hardly have supposed he would have had strength sufficient to elevate the chalice. It did not, however, fall from his hands, and having finished his mass, a second phantom tottered forth and began another. From the pictures and images of more than ordinary ghastliness which cover the chapels and cloisters, and from the deep contrition apparent in the tears, gestures, and ejaculations of the faithful who resort to them, I fancy no convent in Lisbon can be compared with this austerity and devotion.

  M–shook all over with piety, and so did his companion, whose knees are become horny with frequent kneelings, and who, if one is to believe Verdeil. will end his days in a hermitage, or go mad, or perhaps both. He pretends, too, that it is this grey-beard that had added new fuel to the flame of M–’s devotion, and that by mutually encouraging each other, they will soon produce fruits worthy of Bedlam,2 if not of Paradise. To be sure, this father may boast a conspicuously devout turn, and a most resolute manner of thumping himself; but he must not be too vain. In Lisbon there are at least fifty or sixty thousand good souls, who, without having travelled so far, thump full as sonorously as he. This morning, at Boa Morte, one shrivelled sinner remained the whole time the masses lasted with outstretched arms, in the shape and with all the inflexible stiffness of an old-fashioned branched candlestick. Another contrite personage was so affected at the moment of consecration, that he flattened his nose on the pavement, and licked the dirt and dust with which it was thickly encrusted.

  I must confess that, notwithstanding this very superior display of sanctity, I was not sorry to escape from the dingy cloisters of the convent, and breathe the pure air, and look up at the blue exhilerating sky. The weather being delightful, we drove to several distant parts of the town, to which I was yet a stranger. Returning back by the Bairro Alto,3 we looked into a new house, just finished building at an enormous expense, by João Ferreira,4 who, from an humble retailer of leather, has risen, by the archbishop’s favour, to the possession of some of the most lucrative contracts in Portugal. Uglier-shaped apartments than those the poor shoe-man had contrived for himself I never beheld. The hangings are of satin of the deepest blue, and the fiercest and most sulphureous yellow. Every ceiling is daubed over with allegorical paintings, most indifferently executed, and loaded with gilt ornaments, in the style of those splendid sign-posts which some years past were th
e glory of High-Holborn and St Giles’s.

  We were soon tired of all this finery, and as it was growing late, made the best of our way to Belem. Whilst M–was writing letters, I walked out with Don Pedro on the verandas of the palace, which are washed by the Tagus, and flanked with turrets. The views are enchanting, and the day being warm and serene, I enjoyed them in all their beauty. Several large vessels passed by as we were leaning over the balustrades, and almost touched us with their streamers. Even frigates and ships of the first rate approach within a quarter of a mile of the palace.

  There was a greater crowd of attendants than usual round our table at dinner to-day, and the huge massy dishes were brought up by a long train of gentlemen and chaplains, several of them decorated with the orders of Avis1 and Christ. This attendance had quite a feudal air, and transported the imagination to the days of chivalry, when great chieftains were waited upon like kings, by noble vassals.

  The Portuguese had need have the stomachs of ostriches to digest the loads of savoury viands with which they cram themselves. Their vegetables, their rice, their poultry, are all stewed in the essence of ham, and so strongly seasoned with pepper and spices, that a spoonful of peas, or a quarter of an onion, is sufficient to set one’s mouth in a flame. With such a diet, and the continual swallowing of sweetmeats, I am not surprised at their complaining so often of head-aches and vapours.

  Several of the old Marquis of M–’s confidants and buffoons crept forth to have a peep at the stranger, and hear the famous missionary descant upon martyrdom and miracles. The scenery of Boa Morte being fresh in his thoughts, his descriptions were gloomy and appalling: Don Pedro, his sisters, and his cousin, the young Conde d’Atalaya,2 gathered round him with all the trembling eagerness of children who hunger and thirst after hobgoblin stories. You may be sure he sent them not empty away. A blacker dose of legendary superstition was never administered. The Marchionesss seemed to swallow these terrific narrations with nearly as much avidity as her children, and the old Abade, dropping his chin in a woful manner, produced an enormous rosary, and kept thumbing his beads and mumbling orisons.

  M–had luckily been summoned to the palace by a special mandate from his royal mistress. Had he been of the party, I fear Verdeil’s prophecy would have been accomplished, for never did mortal hold forth with so much scaring energy as this enthusiastic preacher. The most terrible denunciations of divine wrath which ever were thundered forth by ancient or modern writers of sermons and homilies recurred to his memory, and he dealt them about him with a vengeance. The last half hour of the discourse we were all in total darkness, – nobody had thought of calling for lights: the children were huddled together, scarce venturing to move or breathe. It was a most singular scene.

  Full of the ghastly images the good father had conjured up in my imagination, I returned home alone in my carriage, shivering and shuddering. My friends were out, and nothing could be more dreary than the appearance of my fireless apartments.

  TRAVEL DIARIES

  IV

  From Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of Alcobaça and Batalha, 1835. 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 only edition in Beckford’s lifetime, that of 1835. The extract is from Volume 2.

  ADVERTISEMENT

  The other day, in examining some papers, I met with very slight notes of this Excursion, Flattering myself that, perhaps, they might not be totally unworthy of expansion, I invoked the powers of memory – and behold, up rose the whole serie of recollections I am now submitting to that indulgent Public, which has shown more favour to my former sketches than they merited.

  Londen, June 1835

  ALCOBAÇA AND BATALHA

  FIRST DAY

  3rd June, 1794

  The Prince Regent of Portugal,1 for reasons with which I was never entirely acquainted, took it into his royal head, one fair morning, to desire I would pay a visit to the monasteries of Alcobaça and Batalha,2 and to name my intimate and particular friends, the Grand Prior of Aviz, and the Prior of St Vincent’s, as my conductors and companions.3 Nothing could be more gracious, and, in many respects, more agreeable, still, just at this moment, having what I thought much pleasanter engagements nearer home, I cannot pretend that I felt so much enchanted as I ought to have been.

  Upon communicating the supreme command to the two prelates, they discovered not the smallest token of surprise; it seemed they were fully prepared for it. The Grand Prior observed that the weather was dreadfully hot, and the roads execrable: the other prelate appeared more animated, and quite ready for the expedition. I thought I detected in one corner of his lively, intelligent eye, a sparkle of hope that, when returned from his little cruise of observation, the remarks it was likely enough to inspire might lead to more intimate conferences at Queluz,4 and bring him into more frequent collision with royalty.

  As my right reverend companions had arranged not to renounce one atom of their habitual comforts and conveniences, and to take with them their confidential acolytes and secretaries, as well as some of their favourite quadrupeds, we had in the train of the latter-mentioned animals a rare rabble of grooms, ferradors,5 and mule-drivers. To these, my usual followers being added, we formed altogether a caravan which, camels and dromedaries excepted, would have cut no despicable figure even on the route of Mecca or Mesched-Ali!

  The rallying point, the general rendezvous for the whole of this heterogeneous assemblage, was my quinta of San José, commanding in full prospect the entrance of the Tagus, crowded with vessels arriving from every country under the heavens, messengers of joy to some, of sorrow to others, but all with expanded sails equally brightening in the beams of the cheerful sun, and scudding along over the blue sparkling waves with equal celerity.

  ‘Here I am, my dear friend,’ said the Grand Prior to me as I handed him out of his brother the old Marquis of Marialva’s1 most sleepifying dormeuse, which had been lent to him expressly for this trying occasion. ‘Behold me at last,’ (at last indeed, this being the third put-off I had experienced,) ‘ever delighted with your company, but not so much so with the expedition we are going to undertake.’

  ‘I hope it will not turn out so unpleasant after all,’ was my answer: ‘for my own part, I quite long to see Alcobaça.’

  ‘So do not I,’ rejoined the Grand Prior:, ‘but let that pass. Is Ehrhart2 come? is Franchi3 ready? Has the first secured the medicine-chest he was in such an agony about the other day, and the second the piano-forte he swore he would break to pieces unless it would get into better tune?’

  ‘All safe – all waiting – and dinner, too, my dear Lord Prior; and after that, let us get off. No easy matter, by the bye, even yet, some of the party being such adepts at dawdling.’

  Why the Grand Prior should have dreaded the journey so much I really could not imagine, every pains having been taken to make it so easy and smooth. It was settled he should loll in his dormeuse or in my chaise just as he best pleased, and look at nothing calculated to excite the fatigue of reflection; topographical inquiries were to be waived completely, and no questions asked about who endowed such a church or raised such a palace. We were to proceed, or rather creep along, by short and facile stages; stopping to dine, and sup, and repose, as delectably as in the most commodious of homes. Everything that could be thought of, or even dreamed of, for our convenience or relaxation, was to be carried in our train, and nothing left behind but Care and Sorrow; two spectres, who, had they dared to mount on our shoulders, would have been driven off with a high hand by the Prior of St Vincent’s, than whom a more delightful companion never existed since the days of those polished and gifted canons and cardinals who formed such a galaxy of talent and facetiousness round Leo the Tenth.4

  We were absolutely roused form our repast, over which the Prior of St Vincent’s gay animated conversation was throwing its usual brilliance, by a racket and hubbub on the sea-shore that was perfectly distracting.
The space between my villa and the sea was entirely blocked up, half the population of Belém having poured forth to witness our departure. The lubberly drivers of the baggage-carts were fighting and squabbling amongst themselves for precedence. One of the most lumbering of these ill-constructed vehicles, laden with a large heavy marquee, had its hind wheels already well buffeted by the waves. At length it moved off; and then burst forth such vociferation and such deafening shouts of ‘Long live the Prince!’ and ‘Long live the Marialvas, and all their friends into the bargain!’ – the Englishman of course included – as I expected, would have fixed a headache for life upon the unhappy Grand Prior.

  Amongst other noises which gave him no small annoyance, might be reckoned the outrageous snortings and neighings of both his favourite high-pampered chaise-horses, out of compliment to one of my delicate English mares, who was trying to get through the crowd with a most engaging air of sentimental retiring modesty.

  Half laughing and half angry lest some unfortunate kick or plunge might deprive me of her agreeable services, I refrained not from crying out to the Grand Prior, ‘For pity’s sake, let us dawdle and doodle no longer, but drive through this mob if it be possible. You see what a disturbance the glorious fuss which has been making about this journey has occasioned; you see the result of a surfeit of superfluities: really, if we had been setting forth to explore the kingdom of Prester John, or the identical spot where Don Sebastian1 left his bones, (if true it be that the shores of Africa, and not some pet dungeon of King Philip’s, received them,) we could scarcely have gotten together a grander array of incumbrances. At this rate, we shall have occasion to put our tent in requisition this very night, unless we defer our journey again, and sleep under my roof at San José.’