bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs? Ricardo, my grandfather, was his chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’s crimes, but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will declared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him. Yet he lost no Conrad, no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all. A storm overtook him. Haunted by his guilt, he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted: the saint appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s posterity should reign in Otranto, until the rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue-male from Ricardo’s loins should remain to enjoy it. Alas! alas! nor male nor female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race!—I have done—the woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man can be Alfonso’s heir, I know not—yet I do not doubt it. His are these dominions: I resign them—yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir—I question not the will of Heaven—poverty and prayer must fill up the woeful space, until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo.”
“What remains is my part to declare,” said Jerome. “When Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land, he was driven by a storm to the coast of Sicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your lordship must have heard, was separated from him.”
“It is most true,” said Manfred; “and the title you give me is more than an outcast can claim—well! be it so—proceed.”
Jerome blushed, and continued.
“For three months Lord Alfonso was wind-bound in Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair virgin, named Victoria. He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleasures. They were married. Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow of arms by which he was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials, until his return from the crusado, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her for his lawful wife. He left her pregnant. During his absence she was delivered of a daughter; but scarce had she felt a mother’s pangs, ere she heard the fatal rumour of her lord’s death, and the succession of Ricardo. What could a friendless, helpless woman do? would her testimony avail?—yet, my lord, I have an authentic writing——”
“It needs not,” said Manfred; “the horrors of these days, the vision we have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond a thousand parchments. Matilda’s death and my expulsion——”
“Be composed, my lord,” said Hippolita; “this holy man did not mean to recall your griefs.”
Jerome proceeded.
“I shall not dwell on what is needless. The daughter of which Victoria was delivered was, at her maturity, bestowed in marriage on me. Victoria died; and the secret remained locked in my breast. Theodore’s narrative has told the rest.”
The friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part of the castle. In the morning, Manfred signed his abdication of the principality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of religion in the neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the new prince, which Hippolita’s tenderness for Isabella concurred to promote. But Theodore’s grief was too fresh to admit the thought of another love; and it was not until after frequent discourses with Isabella of his dear Matilda, that he was persuaded he could know no happiness, but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul.
William Thomas Beckford
Vathek
An Arabian Tale
Translator: Samuel Henley
William Beckford
William Beckford was born at Fonthill on 29 September, 1759. He was educated by a private tutor and grew up with many of the qualities of his own caliph Vathek. He received musical instruction under Mozart. Chatham pronounced him “all fire and air,” and warned him against reading The Arabian Nights. At seventeen he wrote an elaborate mystification, Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters, a satire on the biographies in the Vies des Peintres Flamands. His mother disliking English universities, he went to complete his education at Geneva, where he remained for a year and a half. From 1780-2 he travelled in the Low Countries and Italy. An account of these travels was published anonymously in 1783 as Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents, in a series of letters from various parts of Europe. The work was almost immediately destroyed with the exception of six copies. At one time a legend existed that he wrote Vathek in three days and two nights at a single sitting! This feat has since been disproved by the publication of the author’s own correspondence. At any rate, the book was written between 1781-2 in French, and the English version, made by the Rev. Henley, was published surreptitiously by that gentleman as a translation from the Arabic in 1784. In protest, Beckford published the original, long before he had intended, at Paris and Lausanne, in 1787. In 1783 he had married Lady Margaret Gordon, the daughter of the Earl of Aboyne, and lived with her in Switzerland until her death three years later. He had two daughters by her. In 1787 he visited Portugal, and his Portuguese letters are the most valuable he ever wrote. At Lausanne he bought Gibbon’s library and shut himself up to read it. He was elected M.P. for Wells (1784-90) and Hindon (1790-4), to which seat he was re-elected in 1806. But during this time he had become more and more absorbed in collecting. He wrote two burlesques on the sentimental novels of his time, The Elegant Enthusiast (1796) and Azemia (1797). But he had already settled down at Fonthill and was giving himself up to all kinds of artistic and architectural extravagances. With his enormous wealth he was able to rebuild the old family mansion on a grand scale, pull it down and rebuild it again yet more sumptuously on a different site. But unfortunately a tower, three hundred feet high, he had erected fell from the very haste of its construction. It was succeeded by another which, later, also fell down. Beckford now shut himself up in his palace with a physician, a majordomo, and a French abbé, and in this seclusion he spent twenty years, still collecting books and works of art. His expenditure for sixteen years is stated by himself to be upwards of a quarter of a million. In 1822 he was forced to dispose of Fonthill and the greater part of the contents, the sale of which lasted thirty-seven days. When the public were admitted, Hazlitt described Fonthill as “a desert of magnificence, a glittering waste of laborious idleness, a cathedral turned into a toyshop....” After the sale Beckford removed to Bath where he created a miniature Fonthill. He died there on 2 May, 1844, his face showing scarcely a trace of age.
Vathek
Vathek, ninth caliph1 of the race of the Abassides, was the son of Motassem, and the grandson of Haroun al Raschid. From an early accession to the throne, and the talents he possessed to adorn it, his subjects were induced to expect that his reign would be long and happy. His figure was pleasing and majestic: but when he was angry, one of his eyes became so terrible, that no person could bear to behold it; and the wretch upon whom it was fixed instantly fell backward, and sometimes expired. For fear, however, of depopulating his dominions and making his palace desolate, he but rarely gave way to his anger.
Being much addicted to women and the pleasures of the table, he sought by his affability to procure agreeable companions; and he succeeded the better as his generosity was unbounded and his indulgences unrestrained: for he did not think, with the Caliph Omar Ben Abdalaziz,2 that it was necessary to make a hell of this world to enjoy paradise in the next.
He surpassed in magnificence all his predecessors. The palace of Alkoremi, which his father, Motassem, had erected on the hill of Pied Horses,