Recollections of the late William Beckford of Fonthill, Wilts and Lansdown, Bath | Page 2

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 a 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'oeuvres 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 Counetable qui re sait pas ecrire, et un Chancelier qui ne sait pas le Latin, j'ai reussi dans toutes mes entreprises.' It is the very portrait for 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