RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE WILLIAM BECKFORD OF FONTHILL, WILTS and LANSDOWN, BATH

The Manuscript of the following Letters, written by my Father, has been in my possession fifty years. He intended to publish it at the time of Mr. Beckford’s death, in 1844, but delayed the execution of the work, and sixteen years afterwards was himself called to enter on the higher life of the spiritual world.

Mr. Beckford and my Father were kindred spirits, conversant with the same authors, had visited the same countries, and were both gifted with extraordinary memories. Mr. Beckford said that he had never met with a man possessed of such a memory as my Father; and many a time has my Father told me that he never met a man who possessed such a memory as Mr. Beckford.

If my Father had published the Reminiscences himself I think that much misconception in the public mind respecting the character of Mr. Beckford would have been prevented. For instance, I remember, when a child, being warned that this great man was an infidel. When he showed my Father the sarcophagus in which his body was to be placed, he remarked, “There shall I lie, Lansdown, until the trump of God shall rouse me on the Resurrection morn.”

CHARLOTTE LANSDOWN.

8 Lower East Hayes, Bath; July, 1893.

p. 5RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE WILLIAM BECKFORD.

Bath, August 21, 1838.

My Dear Charlotte,—I have this day seen such an astonishing assemblage of works of art, so numerous and of so surprisingly rare a description that I am literally what Lord Byron calls “Dazzled and drunk with beauty.” I feel so bewildered from beholding the rapid succession of some of the very finest productions of the great masters that the attempt to describe them seems an impossible task; however, I will make an effort.

The collection of which I speak is that of Mr. Beckford, at his house in Lansdown-crescent. Besides all this I have this day been introduced to that extraordinary man, the author of “Vathek” and “Italy,” the builder of Fonthill, the contemporary of the mighty and departed dead, the pupil of Mozart; in fact, to the formidable and inaccessible Vathek himself! I have many times passed the house, and longed to see its contents, and often have I wondered how a building with so plain and unostentatious an exterior could suit the reception of the works it contains, and the residence of so magnificent a personage.

I first called by appointment on his ingenious architect, Mr. Goodridge (to whom I am indebted for this distinguished favour), and he accompanied me to the house, which we reached at half-past twelve o’clock. We were shown upstairs, passing many fine family pictures, and were ushered into the neat library, where Mr. Beckford was waiting to receive us. I confess I did at first feel somewhat embarrassed, but a lovely spaniel ran playfully towards us, licking our hands in the most affectionate p. 6and hospitable manner; “You are welcome” was the silent language. I assure you I judge much, and often truly, of the character of individuals from the deportment of their favourite dogs. I often find them exactly indicative of their master’s disposition. When you are attacked by snarling, waspish curs is it at all wonderful if you find them an echo of the proprietor? But this beautiful animal reassured me, and gave me instantly a favourable idea of its master. My astonishment was great at the spaciousness of the room, which had

in length a magnificent and palatial effect, nor did I immediately discover the cause of its apparent grandeur. It opens into the gallery built over the arch connecting the two houses, at the end of which an immense mirror reflects the two apartments. The effect is most illusive, nor should I have guessed the truth had I not seen the reflection of my own figure in the glass.

The library, which is the whole length of the first house, cannot be much less than fifty feet long. It has on one side five lofty windows, the gallery having three on the same side. You have the light streaming through eight consecutive openings; these openings, with their crimson curtains, doubled by the reflection, produce a most charming perspective. From the ceiling hangs a splendid ormolu chandelier, the floor is covered with a Persian carpet (brought I believe from Portugal), so sumptuous that one is afraid to walk on it, and a noble mosaic table of Florentine marble, bought in at an immense price at Fonthill, is in the centre of the room. Several rows of the rarest books cover the lower part of the walls, and above them hang many fine portraits, which Mr. Beckford immediately, without losing any time in compliments, began to show us and describe.

First we were shown a portrait by de Vos of Grotius; next to it one of Rembrandt, painted by himself. “You see,” said Mr. Beckford, “that he is trying to assume an air of dignity not natural to him, by throwing back his head, but this attempt at the dignified is neutralized by the expression of the eyes, which have rather too much of sly humour for the character which he wishes to give himself.” To praise individual pictures seems useless when everyone you meet has excellencies peculiar to itself; in fact, whatever our ideas of the great masters may be, and we certainly do gain from prints and pictures p. 7a tolerable idea of their style and different beauties (and I have myself seen the Louvre and many celebrated pictures) there is in Mr. Beckford’s chef d’œuvres something still more lovely than our imagination, than our expectation. I speak not now of the St. Catherine, The Claud, The Titian, &c., but all the pictures, whether historical, landscape, or low life, have this unique character of excellence. You look at a picture. You are sure it is by Gaspar, but you never

saw one of Poussin’s that had such an exquisite tone of colour, so fresh and with such free and brilliant execution.

But I digress. I forgot that it was the library and its pictures I was attempting to describe. Well, at the other end hangs a portrait of Pope Gregory, by Passerotti; the expression of the face Italian, attitude like Raphael. Over the door a portrait of Cosmo de Medici by Bronzino Allori, fresh as if painted yesterday. “The works of that master,” I said, “are rare, but a friend of mine, Mr. Day, had a noble one at his rooms in Piccadilly, St. John in the Wilderness. The conception of the figure and poetical expression of the face always seemed to me astonishingly fine. Pray, Sir, do you know that picture?” “Perfectly, it partakes of the sublime and is amazingly fine.” “Your portrait of Cosmo has the expression of a resolute, determined man, and I think it conveys well the idea of the monstrous parent, who could with his own hand destroy his only surviving son after discovering he had murdered his brother. What a horrible piece of business! The father of two sons, one of whom murdered the other, and that father is himself

the executioner of the survivor.” “It was dreadful certainly,” said Mr. Beckford. “However, we have the consolation of knowing that two broods of vipers were destroyed.”

Mr. Beckford next showed us a Titian, a portrait of the Constable Montmorency, in armour richly chased with gold; a fine picture, but sadly deficient in intellectual expression. And no wonder, for as Mr. Beckford observed, “He could neither read nor write, but he was none the worse for that.” “There is, then, before us,” I rejoined, “the portrait of the man of whom his master, Henri Quatre, said: ‘Avec un Counétable qui re sait pas écrire, et un Chancelier qui ne sait pas le Latin, j’ai reussi dans toutes mes entreprises.’ It is the very portrait p. 8for which he sat.” “The face,” I said, “has no great pretensions to intellect, but then Titian knew nothing of the refined flattery so fashionable now-a-days that throws a halo of mind and expression over faces more stupid than Montmorency’s, and whose possessors never performed the chivalrous deeds of the Constable.”

“Witness Sir Thomas Lawrence’s fine picture of Sir Wm. Curtis, where the Court painter has thrown a poetical expression over a personage that never in his life betrayed any predilection for anything but turtle soup and gormandizing.” Mr. Beckford burst out laughing. “Well,” said he, “here is a picture that will perhaps please you. Holbein has certainly not been guilty of the refined flattery you complain of here; it is the portrait of Bishop Gardiner, painted at the time he was in Holland and in disgrace. What think you of it?” “It is admirably painted, and has scarcely anything of his dry and hard manner, the hands are done inimitably, but the eyes are small, and the expression cold-hearted and brutal. It conveys to my mind the exact idea of the cold-blooded wretch, who consigned so many of his innocent countrymen to the flames.” I did not express all I thought, but I certainly wondered how the effigy of such a monster should have found an asylum in this palace of taste. Smithfield and its horrors rose vividly before me, and I turned, not

without a shudder, from this too faithful portrait to copies by Phillips of some family pictures in the Royal Collection, painted by permission expressly for Mr. Beckford, and looking more like originals than mere copies.

But the picture of pictures in this room is a Velasquez, an unknown head, the expression beyond anything I have ever seen. Such light and shade, such expressive eyes; the very epitome of Spanish character. “Is it not amazingly like Lord Byron?” “It certainly is very like him, but much more handsome.” This room is devoted entirely to portraits.

Mr. Beckford opened a door and we entered the Duchess Drawing Room; a truly Royal room, the colour of the curtains, carpet, and furniture being crimson, scarlet, and purple. Over the fireplace is a full length portrait of the Duchess of Hamilton by Phillips, painted in the rich and glowing style of that sweet colourist. It represents a beautiful and truly dignified lady. The p. 9sleeves of the dress are close and small, as worn in 1810 (Quel bonheur! d’etre jeune, jolie, et Duchesse), so truly becoming to a finely formed woman, and so much superior to the present horrid fashion of disfiguring the shape by gigot and bishop’s sleeves, which seem to have been invented expressly to conceal what is indeed most truly beautiful, a woman’s arm.

We were next shown a glorious Sir Joshua, a beautiful full length portrait of Mrs. Peter Beckford, afterwards Lady Rivers, and the “Nouronchar” of Vathek. She is represented approaching an altar partially obscured by clouds of incense that she may sacrifice to Hygeia, and turning round looking at the spectator. The background is quite Titianesque; it is composed of sky and the columns of the temple, the light breaking on the pillars in that forcible manner you see on the stems of trees in some of Titian’s backgrounds. The colouring of this picture is in fine preservation, a delicate lilac scarf floats over the dress, the figure is grace and elegance itself, and the drawing perfect; the general effect is brilliancy, richness, and astonishing softness. “Sir Joshua took the greatest pleasure and delight in painting that picture, as it was left entirely to his own refined taste. The lady was in ill-health at the time it was done, and Sir Joshua most charmingly conceived the idea of a sacrifice to the Goddess of Health. Vain hope! Her disorder was fatal.”

There is a portrait of Mr. Beckford’s mother painted by West, with a view of Fonthill in the background. Never was there a greater contrast in this and the last picture; West certainly knew nothing of portrait painting. The tout ensemble of the portrait in question is as dry and hard as if painted by a Chinese novice. There is also a portrait of the Countess, of Effingham, Mr. Beckford’s aunt. On one side is the original portrait by Reynolds of the author of Vathek engraved as the frontispiece of the “Excursions to the Monasteries.” The character of the original picture is much superior in expression to the print, less stout, eyes very intellectual; in fact, you are convinced it must be the portrait of a poet or of a poetical character. The face is very handsome, so is the print, but that has nothing in it but what you meet with in a good looking young man of fashion. This, on the contrary, has an expression of sensibility, p. 10deeply tinged with melancholy, which gives it great interest.

On the other side of Lady Rivers’s portrait is the Duke of Hamilton when a boy. A sweet child, with the hair cut straight along the forehead, as worn by children some fifty years ago, and hanging luxuriantly down his neck On the same side of the room, behind a bronze of the Laocoon, is a wonderful sketch by Paolo Veronese, the drawing and composition in the grand style, touched with great sweetness and juiciness. Two small upright Bassans, painted conjointly by both, bearing their names; the point of sight is immensely high.

We were then led down the north staircase. Fronting us was a portrait of Mr. Beckford’s father, the Alderman and celebrated Lord Mayor of London. Mr. Goodridge asked him if he knew a book, just published, denying the truth of his father’s famous speech to George III. He seemed astonished, and stood still on the staircase. “Not true! What in the world will they find out next? Garrick was present when my father uttered it, heard the whole speech, repeated it word for word to me, and what is more, acted it in my father’s manner.” “That is the portrait of my great grandfather, Colonel Peter Beckford. It was painted by a French artist, who went to Jamaica for the purpose, at the time he was Governor of the island.” It is a full length portrait, large as life, the Colonel dressed in a scarlet coat embroidered richly with gold. There is also a lovely portrait by Barker of the present Marquis of Douglas, Mr. Beckford’s grandson; it was painted when Lord Douglas was twelve or thirteen years old. There is also a charming picture

by Reynolds, two beautiful little girls, full length and large as life, they are the present Duchess of Hamilton and her sister, Mrs General Ord.

We now entered the lovely dining room, which in point of brilliancy and cheerfulness has more the character of a drawing than of a dining room. Opposite the window is an upright grand pianoforte. It is the largest ever made, with the exception of its companion made at the same time, and its richness and power of sound are very great. Over the fire is what is seldom seen in a dining room, a large looking glass. The paintings in this room have been valued at upwards of £20,000.

On the right as you enter are five pictures that once p. 11adorned the Aldsbrandini Palace, namely, the St. Catherine by Raphael, a Claude, a Garofalo, two by Ferrara, and several smaller ones. But how shall I attempt to describe to you the St. Catherine? This lovely picture combines all the refined elegance of the Venus de Medici, in form, contour, and flowing lines, with an astonishing delicacy of colour, and masterly yet softened execution. The eyes are turned upwards with an expression of heavenly resignation, the neck, flesh and life itself, the hands, arms, and shoulders so sweetly rounded, while the figure melts into the background with the softness of Corregio.

And fills The air around with beauty, we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which beheld instils Part of its immortality; the veil Of heaven is half withdrawn, within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What mind can make, when Nature’s self would fail.

I can only convey to you a very slight idea of the impression produced by the contemplation of this admirable painting. Such grace and sweetness, such softness and roundness in the limbs. She seems the most beautiful creature that ever trod this earthly planet; in short it is no earthly beauty that we gaze upon, but the very beau ideal of Italian loveliness.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise.

Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire Raphael? “How different,” said Mr. Beckford, “is that lovely creature from Mr. Etty’s beauties. They are for the most part of a meretricious character, would do well enough for a mistress; but there,” pointing to the St. Catherine, “there are personified the modesty and purity a man would wish to have in a wife, and yet Frenchmen find fault with it. C’est un assez joli tableau, say they, mais la tete manque, de l’expression, si elle avait plus d’esprit, plus de vivacite! Mais Raphael, il n’avait jamais passe les Alpes.” We burst out laughing, and I added, “Le pauvre Raphael quel dommage, de ne savoir rien du grand. Monarque! ni de la grande nation.” “Yet,” I continued, “there is a painter, Stotherd, who has come nearer to the great Italian, in the grace and elegance of his women and children, than perhaps any other, and merits well the proud appellation of the English Raphael. p. 12What a shame that he never met with encouragement.” “But I understood that he was tolerably successful. He painted many

things for me at Fonthill. You are surely mistaken.” “By no means,” I replied. “Latterly he seldom sold a picture, and supported himself on the paltry income of £200 a year, raised by making little designs for booksellers. Yet what a noble painting is Chaucer’s pilgrimage to Canterbury.” “It is indeed,” said Mr. Beckford. “But, sir, there is another painter, Howard, whose conceptions are most poetical. Do you remember his painting at Somerset House in 1824, representing the solar system, from Milton’s noble lines—

Hither as to their fountain, other stars Repairing, in their golden urns draw light?”

“I remember it perfectly; ’twas a most beautiful picture.” “Milton’s original idea, that of the planets drawing light from their eternal source, as water from a fountain, is certainly a glorious, a golden one; but who beside Howard could have so tangibly, so poetically developed the poet’s idea in colour. The personifying the planets according to their names, as Venus, Mercury, and so forth, was charming, and the splendour of the nearer figures, overwhelmed as it were with excess of light, and the gloom and darkness of the distant, were admirably managed. What a wonderful picture!” “He never painted a finer.”

Mr. Beckford then pointed out his Claude. It is a cool picture, the colouring grey and greenish, the time of day, early morning just before sunrise: but words fail to express its beauties. There is a something in it, a je ne sais quoi. Such clearness in the colouring; the trees are all green, but so tenderly green; the sky and distance of such an exquisite tone that you are at once in imagination transported to those “southern climes and cloudless skies” that inspired Claude Lorraine. I can give no possible idea in writing of the tone of colour in this picture, except by comparing it to the semi-transparency of Mosaic, such are the clearness of the tints and pearliness of the sky and distance. As to chiaro-oscure, it is breadth and simplicity itself. Nothing but the purest ultramarine could ever produce such a green as that which colours the trees.

On the same side of the room are two small Vander Meulens, landscapes. They are very highly finished, p. 13and the colouring is delicious; the trees are grouped with all the grandeur of Claude or Poussin. Above are two of the finest Vernets; they are both sea pieces. The colouring has a depth and richness I never before saw in anything attributed to him. In the Louvre are his most famous pictures, and what I now say is the result of calm and mature reflection. I had the Louvre pictures constantly before my eyes for three months. They are very large, and certainly have great merit; but had I my choice I would prefer Mr. Beckford’s to any of the set.