The Juiz de Fora 2 of the village, a dabbler in history – for he told us he had read the Chronicles, and who stood courteously and obsequiously on the step of our carriage door, handing us the precious beverage – made some attempts to edge in a word about the battle, and particularly about a certain valiant English knight, whose name he did not even pretend to remember, but who might have been a relation of mine for aught he knew to the contrary. Well, this valiant knight, who had vanquished all the chivalry of France and England, had the honour of being vanquished in his turn by the flower of warriors, the renowned Magriço: a great honour too, for Magriço had excellent taste in the choice of his antagonists, and would only fight with the bravest of the brave. ‘Even so,’ continued the worthy magistrate, bowing to the earth, ‘as our great Camõens testifies.’ – No answer to all this flourish except ‘Ten thousand thanks for your excellent wine: drive on.’ And drive on we did with redoubled briskness.
The highest exhilaration prevailed throughout our whole caravan. All my English servants were in raptures, ready to turn Catholics. My famous French cook, in the glow of the moment, unpatriotically declared Clos de Vougeot, puddle compared to Aljubarota, – divine, perfumed ethereal Aljubarota! Dr Ehrhart protested no country under the sun equalled Portugal for curiosities in mineralogy, theology, and wineology – which ology he was convinced was the best of them all. Franchi mounted one of my swiftest coursers – he had never ventured to mount before – and galloped away like the King of Castile on his flight to Santarem. The Grand Prior and all his ecclesiastical cortege fell fast asleep; and it would have been most irreverend not to have followed so respectable an example. I can therefore describe nothing of the remainder of our route.
The sun had sunk and the moon risen, when a tremendous jolt and a loud scream awakened the whole party. Poor Franchi lay sprawling upon the ground; whilst my Arabian, his glossy sides streaming with blood, was darting along like one of the steeds in the Apocalypse; happily his cast-off rider escaped with a slight contusion.
My eyes being fairly open, I beheld a quiet solitary vale, bordered by shrubby hills; a few huts, and but a few, peeping out of the dense masses of foliage; and high above their almost level surface, the great church, with its rich cluster of abbatial buildings, buttresses, and pinnacles, and fretted spires, towering in all their pride, and marking the ground with deep shadows that appeared interminable, so far and so wide were they stretched along. Lights glimmered here and there in various parts of the edifice; but a strong glare of torches pointed out its principal entrance, where stood the whole community waiting to receive us.
Whilst our sumpter-mules were unlading, and ham and pies and sausages were rolling out of plethoric hampers, I thought these poor monks looked on rather enviously. My more fortunate companions – no wretched cadets of the mortification family, but the true elder sons of fat mother church – could hardly conceal their sneers of conscious superiority. A contrast so strongly marked amused me not a little.
The space before the entrance being narrow, there was some difficulty in threading our way through a labyrinth of panniers, and coffers, and baggage,–and mules, as obstinate as their drunken drivers, which is saying a great deal,– and all our grooms, lackeys, and attendants, half asleep, half muddled.
The Batalha Prior and his assistants looked quite astounded when they saw a gauze-curtained bed, and the Grand Prior’s fringed pillow, and the Prior of St Vincent’s superb coverlid, and basins, and ewers, and other utensils of glittering silver, being carried in. Poor souls! they hardly knew what to do, to say, or be at – one running to the right, another to the left – one tucking up his flowing garments to run faster, and another rebuking him for such a deviation from monastic decorum.
At length, order being somewhat re-established, and some fine painted wax tapers, which were just unpacked, lighted, we were ushered into a large plain chamber, and the heads of the order presented by the humble Prior of Batalha to their superior mightinesses of San Vicente and Aviz. Then followed a good deal of gossiping chat, endless compliments, still longer litanies, and an enormous supper.
One of the monks who partook of it, though almost bent double with age, played his part in excellent style. Animated by ample potations of the very best Aljubarota that ever grew, and which we had taken the provident care to bring with us, he exclaimed lustily. ‘Well, this is as it should be – rare doings! such as have not been witnessed at Batalha since a certain progress that great King, John the Fifth, made hither more than half a century ago. I remember every circumstance attending it as clearly as though it had only taken place last week. But only think of the atrocious impudence of the gout! His blessed Majesty had hardly set down to a banquet ten times finer than this, before that accursed malady, patronized by all the devils in hell, thrust its fangs into his toe. I was at that period in the commencement of my noviciate, a handsome lad enough, and had the much-envied honour of laying a cloth of gold cushion under the august feet of our glorious sovereign. No sooner had the extremities of his royal person come in contact with the stiff embroidery, than he roared out as a mere mortal would have done, and looked as black as a thunder-storm; but soon recovering his most happy benign temper, gave me a rouleau1 of fine, bright, golden coin, and a tap on the head, – ay, on this once comely, now poor old shrivelled head. Oh, he was a gracious, open-hearted, glorious monarch, – the very King of Diamonds and Lord of Hearts! Oh, he is in Heaven, in Heaven above! as sure – ay, as sure as I drink your health, most esteemed stranger.’
So saying, he drained a huge silver goblet to the last drop, and falling back in his chair, was carried out, chair and all, weeping, puling, and worse than drivelling, with such maudlin tenderness that he actually marked his track with a flow of liquid sorrows.
As soon as an act of oblivion had been passed over this little sentimental mishap by effacing every trace of it, we all rose up and retired to rest; but little rest, however, was in store for me; the heat of my mid-day ramble, and perhaps some baneful effect from our moon-lit journey, the rays of our cold satellite having fallen whilst I was asleep too directly on my head, had disordered me; I felt disturbed and feverish, a strange jumble of ideas and recollections fermented in my brain – springing in part from the indignant feelings which Donna Francisca’s fervour for her monk, and coldness for me, had inspired. I had no wish to sleep, and yet my pleasant retired chamber, with clean white walls, chequered with the reflection of waving boughs, and the sound of a rivulet softened by distance, invited it soothingly. Seating myself in the deep recess of a capacious window which was wide open, I suffered the balsamic air and serene moonlight to quiet my agitated spirits. One lonely nightingale had taken possession of a bay-tree just beneath me, and was pouring forth its ecstatic notes at distant intervals.
In one of those long pauses, when silence itself, enhanced by contrast, seemed to become still deeper, a far different sound than the last I had been listening to caught my ear, – the sound of a loud but melancholy voice echoing through the arched avenues of a vast garden, pronouncing distinctly these appalling words – ‘Judgment! judgment! tremble at the anger of an offended God! Woe to Portugal! woe! woe!’
My hair stood on end – I felt as if a spirit were about to pass before me; but instead of some fearful shape – some horrid shadow, such as appeared in vision to Eliphaz, there issued forth from a dark thicket, a tall, majestic, deadly-pale old man: he neither looked about nor above him; he moved slowly on, his eye fixed as stone, sighing profoundly; and at the distance of some fifty paces from the spot where I was stationed, renewed his doleful cry, his fatal proclamation: – ‘Woe! woe!’ resounded through the still atmosphere, repeated by the echoes of vaults and arches; and the sounds died away, and the spectre-like form that seemed to emit them retired, I know not how nor whither. Shall I confess that my blood ran cold – that all idle, all wanton thoughts left my bosom, and that I passed an hour or two at my window fixed and immovable?
Just as day dawned, I crept to b
ed and fell into a profound sleep, uninterrupted, I thank Heaven, by dreams.
SEVENTH DAY
9th Jun
A delightful morning sun was shining in all its splendour, when I awoke, and ran to the balcony, to look at the garden and wild hills, and to ask myself ten times over, whether the form I had seen, and the voice I had heard, were real or imaginary. I had scarcely dressed, and was preparing to sally forth, when a distinct tap at my door, gentle but imperative, startled me.
The door opened, and the Prior of Batalha stood before me. ‘You were disturbed, I fear,’ said he, ‘in the dead of the night, by a wailful voice, loudly proclaiming severe impending judgments. I heard it also, and I shuddered, as I always do when I hear it. Do not, however, imagine that it proceeds from another world. The being who uttered these dire sounds is still upon the earth, a member of our convent – an exemplary, a most holy man – a scion of one of our greatest families, and a near relative of the Duke of Aveiro, of whose dreadful, agonizing fate you must have heard.1 He was then in the pride of youth and comeliness, gay as sunshine, volatile as you now appear to be. He had accompanied the devoted duke to a sumptuous ball given by your nation to our high nobility: – at the very moment when splendour, triumph, and merriment were at their highest pitch, the executioners of Pombal’s2 decrees, soldiers and ruffians, pounced down upon their prey; he too was of the number arrested – he too was thrown in to a deep, cold dungeon: his life was spared, and, in the course of years and events, the slender, lovely youth, now become a wasted, care-worn man, emerged to sorrow and loneliness.
‘The blood of his dearest relatives seemed sprinkled upon every object that met his eyes; he never passed Belém3 without fancying he beheld, as in a sort of frightful dream, the scaffold, the wheels on which those he best loved had expired in torture. The current of his young, hot blood was frozen; he felt benumbed and paralysed; the world, the court, had no charms for him; there was for him no longer warmth in the sun, or smiles on the human countenance: a stranger to love or fear, or any interest on this side the grave, he gave up his entire soul to prayer; and, to follow that sacred occupation with greater intenseness, renounced every prospect of worldly comfort or greatness, and embraced our order.
‘Full eight-and-twenty years has he remained within these walls, so deeply impressed with the conviction of the Duke of Averio’s innocence, the atrocious falsehood of that pretended conspiracy, and the consequent unjust tyrannical expulsion of the order of St Ignatius,1 that he believes – and the belief of so pure and so devout a man is always venerable – that the horrors now perpetrating in France are the direct consequence of that event, and certain of being brought home to Portugal; which kingdom he declares is foredoomed to desolation, and its royal house to punishments worse than death.
‘He seldom speaks; he loathes conversation, he spurns news of any kind, he shrinks from strangers; he is constant at his duty in the choir – most severe in his fasts, vigils, and devout observances; he pays me canonical obedience – nothing more: he is a living grave, a walking sepulchre. I dread to see or hear him; for every time he crosses my path, beyond the immediate precincts of our basilica, he makes a dead pause, and repeats the same terrible words you heard last night, with an astounding earnestness, as if commissioned by God himself to deliver them. And, do you know, my lord stranger, there are moments of my existence, when I firmly believe he speaks the words of prophetic truth: and who, indeed, can reflect upon the unheard-of crimes committing in France – the massacres, the desecrations, the frantic blasphemies, and not believe them? Yes, the arm of an avenging God is stretched out – and the weight of impending judgment is most terrible.
‘But what am I saying? – why should I fill your youthful bosom with such apprehensions? I came here to pray your forgiveness for last night’s annoyance; which would not have taken place, had not the bustle of our preparations to receive your illustrious and revered companions, the Lord Priors, in the best manner our humble means afford, impeded such precautions as might have induced our reverend brother to forego, for once, his dreary nocturnal walk. I have tried by persuasion to prevent it several times before. To have absolutely forbidden it, would have been harsh – nay, cruel – he gasps so piteously for air: besides, it might have been impious to do so. I have taken opinions in chapter upon this matter, which unanimously strengthen my conviction that the spirit of the Most High moves within him; nor dare we impede its utterance.’
I listened with profound seriousness to this remarkable communication; – the Prior read in my countenance that I did so, and was well pleased. Leading the way, he conducted me to a large shady apartment, in which the splash of a neighbouring fountain was distinctly heard. In the centre of this lofty and curiously-groined vaulted hall, resting on a smooth Indian mat, an ample table was spread out with viands and fruits, and liquors cooled in snow. The two Prelates, with the monks deputed from Alcobaça to attend them, were sitting round it. They received me with looks that bespoke the utmost kindness, and at the same time suppressed curiosity; but not a word was breathed of the occurrence of last night, – with which, however, I have not the smallest doubt they were perfectly well acquainted.
I cannot say our repast was lively or convivial; a mysterious gloom seemed brooding over us, and to penetrate the very atmosphere – and yet that atmosphere was all loveliness. A sky of intense azure, tempered by fleecy clouds, discovered itself between the tracery of innumerable arches; the summer airs (aure estive) fanned us as we sat; the fountain bubbled on; the perfume of orange and citron flowers was wafted to us from an orchard not far off: but, in spite of all these soft appliances, we remained silent and abstracted.
A sacristan, who came to announce that high mass was on the point of celebration, interrupted our reveries. We all rose up – a solemn grace was said, and the Prior of Batalha taking me most benignantly by the hand, the prelates and their attendants followed. We advanced in procession through courts and cloisters and porches, all constructed with admirable skill, of a beautiful grey stone, approaching in fineness of texture and apparent durability to marble. Young boys of dusky complexions, in long white tunics and with shaven heads, were busily employed dispelling every particle of dust. A stork and a flamingo seemed to keep most amicable company with them, following them wherever they went, and reminding me strongly of Egypt and the rites of Isis.
We passed the refectory, a plain solid building, with a pierced parapet of the purest Gothic design and most precise execution, and traversing a garden-court divided into compartments, where grew the orange trees whose fragrance we had enjoyed, shading the fountain by whose murmurs we had been lulled, passed through a sculptured gateway into an irregular open space before the grand western façade of the great church – grand indeed – the portal full fifty feet in height, surmounted by a window of perforated marble of nearly the same lofty dimensions, deep as a cavern, and enriched with canopies and imagery in a style that would have done honour to William of Wykeham,1 some of whose disciples or co-disciples in the train of the founder’s consort, Philippa of Lancaster,2 had probably designed it.
As soon as we drew near, the valves of a huge oaken door were thrown open, and we entered the nave, which reminded me of Winchester in form of arches and mouldings, and of Amiens in loftiness. There is a greater plainness in the walls, less panelling, and fewer intersections in the vaulted roof; but the utmost richness of hue, at this time of day at least, was not wanting. No tapestry, however rich – no painting, however vivid, could equal the gorgeousness of tint, the splendour of the golden and ruby light which streamed forth from the long series of stained windows: it played flickering about in all directions, on pavement and on roof, casting over every object myriads of glowing mellow shadows ever in undulating motion, like the reflection of branches swayed to and fro by the breeze. We all partook of these gorgeous tints – the white monastic garments of my conductors seemed as it were embroidered with the brightest flowers of paradise, and our whole procession kept advancing in
vested with celestial colours.
Mass began as soon as the high prelatic powers had taken their stations. It was celebrated with no particular pomp, no glittering splendour; but the countenance and gestures of the officiating priests were characterised by a profound religious awe. The voices of the monks, clear but deep-toned, rose pealing through vast and echoing spaces. The chant was grave and simple – its austerity mitigated in some parts by the treble of very young choristers. These sweet and innocent sounds found their way to my heart – they recalled to my memory our own beautiful cathedral service, and – I wept! My companions, too, appeared unusually affected; their thoughts still dwelling, no doubt, on that prophetic voice which never failed to impress its hearers with a sensation of mysterious dread.
It was in this tone of mind, so well calculated to nourish solemn and melancholy impressions, that we visited the mausoleum where lie extended on their cold sepulchres the effigies of John the First, and the generous-hearted, noble-minded Philippa; linked hand in hand in death as fondly they were in life. – This tomb is placed in the centre of the chapel….
TWELFTH DAY1
14th June
The morning was the very essence of summer – and summer in Portugal, consequently tremendously hot. Such heat was oppressive enough, but the Grand Prior thought early rising still more abominable, and notwithstanding the Prior of St Vincent’s exhortations to set forth whilst any degree of coolness lingered in the atmosphere, there was no persuading him to move before half-past eight.
Being myself pretty well seasoned to meridian excursions, and bronzed all over like a native Portuguese, I set the sun at defiance, mounted my Arabian, and steering my course as directly as was possible without the aid of a compass, traversed the wide expanse of country between Cadafaiz and Queluz; – and a sad dreary expanse it was, exhibiting only now and then a straggling flock, looking pretty and pastoral – a neglected quinta of orange-trees with its decaying garden-house, the abode of crime or innocence, whichever you like best to fancy – or a half-ruined windmill, with its tattered vans, revolving lackadaisically in the languid and feeble breeze.
Vathek and Other Stories Page 44