by a Frenchman, he said: “Oh, my great uncle did more than me. Did you never read ‘Memories of the Duke of Grammont?’ Voltaire told me he was entirely indebted to my great uncle for whatever beauty of style he might possess. French is just the same as English to me. He showed me the Eps.”
October 31.—Went out and accidentally met Mr. Beckford speaking in praise of his West, who painted expressly for Mr. Beckford. I said, “How did you get him to paint it so soft? I suppose you particularly requested him to do so.” “Oh no. Mr. West was a man who would stand no dictation; had I uttered such a thought he would have kicked me out of the house! Oh no, that would never have done. The only way to get him to avoid his hard outline would be to entreat him to paint harder. West came one day laughing to me, and said, “All London is in ecstasy beholding the Lazarus in Sebo Deltz, painted they say by M. A. Ha! ha! they don’t know it is my painting. L., who brought the picture over, came to me in the greatest distress, ‘The set is ruined by the salt water; you must try and restore the Lazarus.’ I was shut up for two days, and painted the Lazarus.” On my asking if he believed it true, Mr. Beckford replied, “Perfectly true, for I saw it lying on the floor and the figure of Lazarus was quite gone.” “Then you don’t value that picture much?” “All the rest is perfect, and I offered £12,000 for that and four more. I saw in the Escurial the marriage of Isaac and Rebecca, now belonging to the Duke of Wellington. In fact, of all the pictures in the collection there is not more than one in ten that has escaped repainting. The picture given by H. Carr I cannot admire, the outline of the hill is so hard. It is just the picture Satan would show poor Claude, if he has him, which we charitably hope he has not.”
November 10th, 1838.
How poor dear Mozart would be frightened (moralised Mr. Beckford) could he hear some of our modern music! My father was very fond of music, and invited Mozart to Fonthill. He was eight years old and I was six. It was rather ludicrous one child being the pupil of another. He went to Vienna, where he obtained vast celebrity, and wrote to me, saying, “Do you remember that march you composed which I kept so long? Well, I have just composed
a new opera and I have introduced your air.” “In what opera?” asked I. “Why in the ‘Nozze di Figaro.’” “Is it possible, sir, and which then is your air?” “You shall hear it.” Mr. Beckford opened a piano, and immediately began what I thought a sort of march, but soon I recognized “Non piu andrai.” He struck the notes with energy and force, he sang a few words, and seemed to enter into the music with the greatest enthusiasm; his eye sparkled, and his countenance assumed an expression which I had never noticed before.
Mr. Beckford showed me some very fine original drawings by Gaspar Poussin, exceedingly delicate. On the back a profile most exquisitely finished, another just begun, and another by his brother in admirable style, sketch of a peacock by Houdekoeta. “When I was in Portugal,” said Mr. Beckford, “I had as much influence and power as if I had been the King. The Prince Regent acknowledged me in public as his relation (which indeed I was). I had the privilege of an entrance at all times, and could visit the Royal Family in ordinary dress. Of course, on grand occasions I wore Court costume.” He showed me a letter from a rich banker in Lisbon, a man in great esteem at the Palace; another letter from one of the first noblemen in Portugal, entreating him to use his influence with the Prince Regent for the reversion of the decree of confiscation of some nobleman’s estate; another from the Grand Prior of Aviz (in French). Mr. Beckford was treated as a grandee of the first rank in Germany; he showed me an autograph of the Emperor Joseph. Voltaire said to him, “Je dois tout à votre oncle, Count Anthony H. The Duchess was acknowledged in Paris by the Bourbon as Duchess de Chatelrault. On going to Court I saw her sitting next the Royal Family with the Duchess, whilst all the Court was standing. The Duchess has fine taste for the arts, quite as strong a feeling as I have. The Duke also is amazingly fond of the arts. The Marquis of D. has a spice of my character.”
The Claude looked more blooming and pearly than ever. I observed that I had never seen such a tone in any Claude in existence. I know many pictures which had that hue, but they have been so daubed and retouched that they are no longer the same. He showed me the Episodes. One begins, “Mes malheurs, O Caliphe sont encore plus grands que les votres, aussi bien que mes
crimes, tu a été trompé en ecoutant un navis malheureux; mais moi, pour me désobir d’une amitie la plus tendre, je suis precipité dans ce lieu d’horreur.”
The origin of Beckford’s “Lives of Extraordinary Painters” was very odd. When he was fifteen years old the housekeeper came to him, and said she wished he would tell her something about the artists who painted his fine pictures, as visitors were always questioning her, and she did not know what to answer. “Oh, very well; I’ll write down some particulars about them.” He instantly composed “Lives of Extraordinary Painters.” The housekeeper studied the manuscript attentively, and regaled her astonished visitors with the marvellous incidents it contained; however, finding many were sceptical, she came to her young master and told him people would not believe what she told them. “Not believe? Ah, that’s because it is only in manuscript. Then we’ll have it printed; they’ll believe when they see it in print.” He sent the manuscript to a London publisher, and inquired what the expense of printing it would be. The publisher read it with delight, and instantly offered the youthful author £50 for the manuscript. The housekeeper was now able to silence all cavilers by producing the book itself.
Having left an umbrella in Lansdown-crescent, I inquired of the gentleman to whom I am indebted for my introduction to Mr. Beckford if he thought it would be taking a liberty if I sent in my name when I called for it. “I really don’t know what to say” was the answer, “you must do as you think proper. I will only say that for my part I am always looking out for squalls, but I daresay he will be glad to see you.” I accordingly determined to make a bold stroke and call on him, remembering the old adage, “Quidlibet audendum picturis atque poetis.” The weather was most delightful. A wet and cold summer had been succeeded by warm autumnal days, on which the sun shone without a cloud; it was one of those seasons of settled fair so uncommon in our humid country, when after witnessing a golden sunset you might sleep