Part 24

_Evadne_--I have done nothing good to win belief, My life hath been so faithless. All the creatures Made for Heaven's honors have their ends, and good ones, All but the cozening crocodiles, false women: They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores, Men pray against; and when they die, like tales Ill told and unbelieved, they pass away, And go to dust forgotten. But, my lord, Those short days I shall number to my rest (As many must not see me) shall, though too late, Though in my evening, yet perceive a will, Since I can do no good, because a woman, Reach constantly at something that is near it; I will redeem one minute of my age, Or, like another Niobe, I'll weep, Till I am water.

_Amintor_--I am now dissolved: My frozen soul melts. May each sin thou hast, Find a new mercy! Rise; I am at peace.

[_Evadne rises_.]

Hadst thou been thus, thus excellently good, Before that devil-king tempted thy frailty, Sure thou hadst made a star. Give me thy hand: From this time I will know thee; and as far As honor gives me leave, be thy Amintor. When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly, And pray the gods to give thee happy days: My charity shall go along with thee, Though my embraces must be far from thee. I should have killed thee, but this sweet repentance Locks up my vengeance: for which thus I kiss thee--

[_Kisses her_.]

The last kiss we must take; and would to Heaven The holy priest that gave our hands together Had given us equal virtues! Go, Evadne; The gods thus part our bodies. Have a care My honor falls no farther: I am well, then.

_Evadne_--All the dear joys here, and above hereafter, Crown thy fair soul! Thus I take leave, my lord; And never shall you see the foul Evadne, Till she have tried all honored means, that may Set her in rest and wash her stains away.

FROM 'BONDUCA'

THE DEATH OF THE BOY HENGO

[_Scene: A field between the British and the Roman camps._]

_Caratach_--How does my boy?

_Hengo_--I would do well; my heart's well; I do not fear.

_Caratach_--My good boy!

_Hengo_--I know, uncle, We must all die: my little brother died; I saw him die, and he died smiling; sure, There's no great pain in't, uncle. But pray tell me, Whither must we go when we are dead?

_Caratach [aside]_--Strange questions! Why, the blessed'st place, boy! ever sweetness And happiness dwell there.

_Hengo_--Will you come to me?

_Caratach_--Yes, my sweet boy.

_Hengo_--Mine aunt too, and my cousins?

_Caratach_--All, my good child.

_Hengo_--No Romans, uncle?

_Caratach_--No, boy.

_Hengo_--I should be loath to meet them there.

_Caratach_--No ill men, That live by violence and strong oppression, Come thither: 'tis for those the gods love, good men.

_Hengo_--Why, then, I care not when I go, for surely I am persuaded they love me: I never Blasphemed 'em, uncle, nor transgressed my parents; I always said my prayers.

_Caratach_--Thou shalt go, then; Indeed thou shalt.

_Hengo_--When they please.

_Caratach_--That's my good boy! Art thou not weary, Hengo?

_Hengo_--Weary, uncle! I have heard you say you have marched all day in armor.

_Caratach_--I have, boy.

_Hengo_--Am not I your kinsman?

_Caratach_--Yes.

_Hengo_--And am not I as fully allied unto you In those brave things as blood?

_Caratach_--Thou art too tender.

_Hengo_--To go upon my legs? they were made to bear me. I can play twenty miles a day; I see no reason But, to preserve my country and myself, I should march forty.

_Caratach_--What wouldst thou be, living To wear a man's strength!

_Hengo_--Why, a Caratach, A Roman-hater, a scourge sent from Heaven To whip these proud thieves from our kingdom. Hark!

[_Drum within._]

* * * * *

[_They are on a rock in the rear of a wood._]

_Caratach_--Courage, my boy! I have found meat: look, Hengo, Look where some blessèd Briton, to preserve thee, Has hung a little food and drink: cheer up, boy; Do not forsake me now.

_Hengo_--O uncle, uncle, I feel I cannot stay long! yet I'll fetch it, To keep your noble life. Uncle, I am heart-whole, And would live.

_Caratach_--Thou shalt, long, I hope.

_Hengo_--But my head, uncle! Methinks the rock goes round.

[_Enter Macer and Judas, and remain at the side of the stage._]

_Macer_--Mark 'em well, Judas.

_Judas_--Peace, as you love your life.

_Hengo_--Do not you hear The noise of bells?

_Caratach_--Of bells, boy! 'tis thy fancy; Alas, thy body's full of wind!

_Hengo_--Methinks, sir, They ring a strange sad knell, a preparation To some near funeral of state: nay, weep not, Mine own sweet uncle; you will kill me sooner.

_Caratach_--O my poor chicken!

_Hengo_--Fie, faint-hearted uncle! Come, tie me in your belt and let me down.

_Caratach_--I'll go myself, boy.

_Hengo_--No, as you love me, uncle: I will not eat it, if I do not fetch it; The danger only I desire: pray, tie me.

_Caratach_--I will, and all my care hang o'er thee! Come, child, My valiant child!

_Hengo_--Let me down apace, uncle, And you shall see how like a daw I'll whip it From all their policies; for 'tis most certain A Roman train: and you must hold me sure, too; You'll spoil all else. When I have brought it, uncle, We'll be as merry--

_Caratach_--Go, i' the name of Heaven, boy!

[_Lets Hengo down by his belt._]

_Hengo_--Quick, quick, uncle! I have it. [_Judas shoots Hengo with an arrow_.] Oh!

_Caratach_--What ail'st thou?

_Hengo_--Oh, my best uncle, I am slain!

_Caratach [to Judas]_--I see you, And Heaven direct my hand! destruction Go with thy coward soul!

[_Kills Judas with a stone, and then draws up Hengo. Exit Macer._]

How dost thou, boy?-- O villain, pocky villain!

_Hengo_--Oh, uncle, uncle, Oh, how it pricks me!--am I preserved for this?-- Extremely pricks me!

_Caratach_--Coward, rascal coward! Dogs eat thy flesh!

_Hengo_--Oh, I bleed hard! I faint too; out upon't, How sick I am!--The lean rogue, uncle!

_Caratach_--Look, boy; I have laid him sure enough.

_Hengo_--Have you knocked his brains out?

_Caratach_--I warrant thee, for stirring more: cheer up, child.

_Hengo_--Hold my sides hard; stop, stop; oh, wretched fortune, Must we part thus? Still I grow sicker, uncle.

_Caratach_--Heaven look upon this noble child!

_Hengo_--I once hoped I should have lived to have met these bloody Romans At my sword's point, to have revenged my father, To have beaten 'em,--oh, hold me hard!--but, uncle--

_Caratach_--Thou shalt live still, I hope, boy. Shall I draw it?

_Hengo_--You draw away my soul, then. I would live A little longer--spare me, Heavens!--but only To thank you for your tender love: good uncle, Good noble uncle, weep not.

_Caratach_--O my chicken, My dear boy, what shall I lose?

_Hengo_--Why, a child, That must have died however; had this 'scaped me, Fever or famine--I was born to die, sir.

_Caratach_--But thus unblown, my boy?

_Hengo_--I go the straighter My journey to the gods. Sure, I shall know you When you come, uncle.

_Caratach_--Yes, boy.

_Hengo_--And I hope We shall enjoy together that great blessedness You told me of.

_Caratach_--Most certain, child.

_Hengo_--I grow cold; Mine eyes are going.

_Caratach_--Lift 'em up.

_Hengo_--Pray for me; And, noble uncle, when my bones are ashes, Think of your little nephew!--Mercy!

_Caratach_--Mercy! You blessèd angels, take him!

_Hengo_--Kiss me: so. Farewell, farewell! [_Dies._]

_Caratach_--Farewell, the hopes of Britain! Thou royal graft, farewell for ever!--Time and Death, Ye have done your worst. Fortune, now see, now proudly Pluck off thy veil and view thy triumph; look, Look what thou hast brought this land to!--O fair flower, How lovely yet thy ruins show, how sweetly Even death embraces thee! the peace of Heaven, The fellowship of all great souls, be with thee!

FROM 'THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN'

BY SHAKESPEARE AND FLETCHER

Roses, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden-pinks, of odor faint, Daisies smell-less yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry spring-time's harbinger, With her bells dim; Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Larks'-heels trim.

All, dear Nature's children sweet, Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense! Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chattering pie, May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly!

WILLIAM BECKFORD

(1759-1844)

The translation from a defective Arabic manuscript of the 'Book of the Thousand Nights and A Night,' first into the French by Galland, about 1705, and presently into various English versions, exerted an immediate influence on French, German, and English romance. The pseudo-Oriental or semi-Oriental tale of home-manufacture sprang into existence right and left with the publishers of London and Paris, and in German centres of letters. Hope's 'Anastasius, or Memoirs of a Modern Greek,' Lewis's 'The Monk,' the German Hauff's admirable 'Stories of the Caravan, the Inn, and the Palace,' Rückert's 'Tales of the Genii,' and William Beckford's 'History of the Caliph Vathek,' are among the finest performances of the sort: productions more or less Eastern in sentiment and in their details of local color, but independent of direct originals in the Persian or Arabic, so far as is conclusively known.

William Beckford, born at London in 1759 (of a strong line which included a governor of Jamaica), dying in 1844, is a figure of distinction merely as an Englishman of his time, aside from his one claim to literary remembrance. His father's death left him the richest untitled citizen of England. He was not sent to a university, but immense care was given to his education, in which Lord Chatham personally interested himself; and he traveled widely. The result of this, on a very receptive mind with varied natural gifts, was to make Beckford an ideal dilettante. His tastes in literature, painting, music (in which Mozart was his tutor), sculpture, architecture, and what not, were refined to the highest nicety. He was able to gratify each of them as such a man can rarely have the means to do. He built palaces and towers of splendor instead of merely a beautiful country seat. He tried to reproduce Vathek's halls in stone and stucco, employing relays of workmen by day and night, on two several occasions and estates, for many months. Where other men got together moderate collections of _bibelots_, Beckford amassed whole museums. If a builder's neglect or a fire destroyed his rarities and damaged his estates to the extent of forty or fifty thousand pounds, Beckford merely rebuilt and re-collected. These tastes and lavish expenditures gradually set themselves in a current toward things Eastern. His magnificent retreat at Cintra in Portugal, his vast Fonthill Abbey and Lansdowne Hill estates in England, were only appanages of his sumptuous state. England and Europe talked of him and of his properties. He was a typical egotist: but an agreeable and gracious man, esteemed by a circle of friends not called upon to be his sycophants; and he kept in close touch with the intellectual life of all Europe.

He wrote much, for an amateur, and in view of the tale which does him most honor, he wrote with success. At twenty he invited publicity with a satiric _jeu d'esprit,_ 'Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters'; and his 'Italy, with Sketches of Spain and Portugal,' and 'Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of Alcobaba and Baltalha,' were well received. But these books could not be expected to survive even three generations; whereas 'Vathek,' the brilliant, the unique, the inimitable 'Vathek,' took at once a place in literature which we may now almost dare to call permanent. This story, not a long one,--indeed, no more than a novelette in size,--was originally written in French, and still lives in that language; in which an edition, hardly the best, has lately been issued under the editorship of M. Mallarmé. But its history is complicated by one of the most notable acts of literary treachery and theft on record. During the author's slow and finicky composition of it at Lausanne, he was sending it piecemeal to his friend Robert Henley in England for Henley to make an English version, of course to be revised by himself. As soon as Henley had all the parts, he published a hasty and slipshod translation, before Beckford had seen it or was even ready to publish the French original; and not only did so, but published it as a tale translated by himself from a genuine Arabic original. This double violation of good faith of course enraged Beckford, and practically separated the two men for the rest of their lives; indeed, the wonder is that Beckford would ever recognize Henley's existence again. The piracy was exposed and set aside, and Beckford in self-defense issued the story himself in French as soon as he could; indeed, he issued it in two versions with curious and interesting differences, one published at Lausanne and the other at Paris. The Lausanne edition is preferable.

'Vathek' abides to-day accredited to Beckford in both French and English; a thing to keep his memory green as nothing else of his work or personality will. The familiar legend that in its present form it was composed at a single sitting, with such ardor as to entail a severe illness, and "without the author's taking off his clothes," cannot be reconciled with the known facts. But the intensely vivid movement of it certainly suggests swift production; and it could easily be thought that any author had sketched such a story in the heat of some undisturbed sitting, and filled, finished, and polished it at leisure. It is an extraordinary performance; even in Henley's unsatisfactory version it is irresistible. We know that Beckford expected to add liberally to it by inserting sundry subordinate tales, put into the mouths of some of the personages appearing in the last scene. It is quite as well that he did not. Its distinctive Orientalism, perhaps less remarkable than the unfettered imagination of its episodes, the vividness of its characters, the easy brilliancy of its literary manner--these things, with French diction and French wit, alternate with startling descriptive impressiveness. It is a French combination of Cervantes and Dante, in an Oriental and bizarre narrative. It is not always delicate, but it is never vulgar, and the sprightly pages are as admirable as the weird ones. Its pictures, taken out of their connection, seem irrelevant, and are certainly unlike enough; but they are a succession of surprises and fascinations. Such are the famous description of the chase of Vathek's court after the Giaour; the moonlit departure of the Caliph for the Terrace of Istakhar; the episodes of his stay under the roof of the Emir Fakreddin; the pursuit by Carathis on "her great camel Alboufaki," attended by "the hideous Nerkes and the unrelenting Cafour"; Nouronihar drawn to the magic flame in the dell at night; the warning of the good Jinn; and the tremendous final tableau of the Hall of Eblis.

The man curious in letters regards with affection the evidences of vitality in a brief production little more than a century old; unique in English and French literature, and occupying to-day a high rank among the small group of _quasi_-Oriental narratives that represent the direct workings of Galland on the Occidental literary temperament. Today 'Vathek' surprises and delights persons whose mental constitution puts them in touch with it, just as potently as ever it did. And simply as a wild story, one fancies that it will appeal quite as effectually, no matter how many editions may be its future, to a public perhaps unsympathetic toward its elliptical satire, its caustic wit, its fantastic course of narrative, and its incongruous wavering between the flippant, the grotesque, and the terrific.

THE INCANTATION AND THE SACRIFICE

From 'The History of the Caliph Vathek'

By secret stairs, known only to herself and her son, she [Carathis] first repaired to the mysterious recesses in which were deposited the mummies that had been brought from the catacombs of the ancient Pharaohs. Of these she ordered several to be taken. From thence she resorted to a gallery, where, under the guard of fifty female negroes, mute, and blind of the right eye, were preserved the oil of the most venomous serpents, rhinoceros horns, and woods of a subtle and penetrating odor, procured from the interior of the Indies, together with a thousand other horrible rarities. This collection had been formed for a purpose like the present by Carathis herself, from a presentiment that she might one day enjoy some intercourse with the infernal powers, to whom she had ever been passionately attached, and to whose taste she was no stranger.

To familiarize herself the better with the horrors in view the Princess remained in the company of her negresses, who squinted in the most amiable manner from the only eye they had, and leered with exquisite delight at the skulls and skeletons which Carathis had drawn forth from her cabinets....

Whilst she was thus occupied, the Caliph, who, instead of the visions he expected, had acquired in these insubstantial regions a voracious appetite, was greatly provoked at the negresses: for, having totally forgotten their deafness, he had impatiently asked them for food; and seeing them regardless of his demand, he began to cuff, pinch, and push them, till Carathis arrived to terminate a scene so indecent....

"Son! what means all this?" said she, panting for breath. "I thought I heard as I came up, the shriek of a thousand bats, tearing from their crannies in the recesses of a cavern.... You but ill deserve the admirable provision I have brought you."

"Give it me instantly!" exclaimed the Caliph: "I am perishing for hunger!"

"As to that," answered she, "you must have an excellent stomach if it can digest what I have been preparing."

"Be quick," replied the Caliph. "But oh, heavens! what horrors! What do you intend?"

"Come, come," returned Carathis, "be not so squeamish, but help me to arrange everything properly, and you shall see that what you reject with such symptoms of disgust will soon complete your felicity. Let us get ready the pile for the sacrifice of to-night, and think not of eating till that is performed. Know you not that all solemn rites are preceded by a rigorous abstinence?"

The Caliph, not daring to object, abandoned himself to grief, and the wind that ravaged his entrails, whilst his mother went forward with the requisite operations. Phials of serpents' oil, mummies, and bones were soon set in order on the balustrade of the tower. The pile began to rise; and in three hours was as many cubits high. At length darkness approached, and Carathis, having stripped herself to her inmost garment, clapped her hands in an impulse of ecstasy, and struck light with all her force. The mutes followed her example: but Vathek, extenuated with hunger and impatience, was unable to support himself, and fell down in a swoon. The sparks had already kindled the dry wood; the venomous oil burst into a thousand blue flames; the mummies, dissolving, emitted a thick dun vapor; and the rhinoceros' horns beginning to consume, all together diffused such a stench, that the Caliph, recovering, started from his trance and gazed wildly on the scene in full blaze around him. The oil gushed forth in a plenitude of streams; and the negresses, who supplied it without intermission, united their cries to those of the Princess. At last the fire became so violent, and the flames reflected from the polished marble so dazzling, that the Caliph, unable to withstand the heat and the blaze, effected his escape, and clambered up the imperial standard.

In the mean time, the inhabitants of Samarah, scared at the light which shone over the city, arose in haste, ascended their roofs, beheld the tower on fire, and hurried half-naked to the square. Their love to their sovereign immediately awoke; and apprehending him in danger of perishing in his tower, their whole thoughts were occupied with the means of his safety. Morakanabad flew from his retirement, wiped away his tears, and cried out for water like the rest. Bababalouk, whose olfactory nerves were more familiarized to magical odors, readily conjecturing that Carathis was engaged in her favorite amusements, strenuously exhorted them not to be alarmed. Him, however, they treated as an old poltroon; and forbore not to style him a rascally traitor. The camels and dromedaries were advancing with water, but no one knew by which way to enter the tower. Whilst the populace was obstinate in forcing the doors, a violent east wind drove such a volume of flame against them, as at first forced them off, but afterwards rekindled their zeal. At the same time, the stench of the horns and mummies increasing, most of the crowd fell backward in a state of suffocation. Those that kept their feet mutually wondered at the cause of the smell, and admonished each other to retire. Morakanabad, more sick than the rest, remained in a piteous condition. Holding his nose with one hand, he persisted in his efforts with the other to burst open the doors, and obtain admission. A hundred and forty of the strongest and most resolute at length accomplished their purpose....

Carathis, alarmed at the signs of her mutes, advanced to the staircase, went down a few steps, and heard several voices calling out from below:--

"You shall in a moment have water!"

Being rather alert, considering her age, she presently regained the top of the tower, and bade her son suspend the sacrifice for some minutes, adding:--

"We shall soon be enabled to render it more grateful. Certain dolts of your subjects, imagining, no doubt, that we were on fire, have been rash enough to break through those doors, which had hitherto remained inviolate, for the sake of bringing up water. They are very kind, you must allow, so soon to forget the wrongs you have done them: but that is of little moment. Let us offer them to the Giaour. Let them come up: our mutes, who neither want strength nor experience, will soon dispatch them, exhausted as they are with fatigue."

"Be it so," answered the Caliph, "provided we finish, and I dine."

In fact, these good people, out of breath from ascending eleven thousand stairs in such haste, and chagrined at having spilt, by the way, the water they had taken, were no sooner arrived at the top than the blaze of the flames and the fumes of the mummies at once overpowered their senses. It was a pity! for they beheld not the agreeable smile with which the mutes and the negresses adjusted the cord to their necks: these amiable personages rejoiced, however, no less at the scene. Never before had the ceremony of strangling been performed with so much facility. They all fell without the least resistance or struggle; so that Vathek, in the space of a few moments, found himself surrounded by the dead bodies of his most faithful subjects, all of which were thrown on the top of the pile.

VATHEK AND NOURONIHAR IN THE HALLS OF EBLIS

From 'The History of the Caliph Vathek'