Chapter I: The Imaginative Group (2)

The second group referred to at the beginning of the preceding paragraph, also of little intrinsic value, is of even greater consequence as a touchstone of the times. The realistic oriental tales connect the orientalizing tendency, if one may so call it, with the more profound and widespread tendency of the age toward realism. Appropriately enough, the first great writer of realistic fiction in the century, was also the first to utilize—though very slightly—the oriental material in a realistic tale. In _The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe_ (1719),[41] the hero travels through China, where he meets mandarins, sees porcelain houses, and witnesses “incredible performances.” In Muscovy he destroys a village idol, escapes in safety, fights Cossacks, etc.—incidents in the manner of travelers’ accounts. In 1755 a feeble imitation of _Robinson Crusoe_ appeared, with some resemblance to an oriental tale. It is best described by the title: _The Life and surprizing Adventures of Friga Reveep, of Morlaix, France, who was Sixteen years in an uninhabited Part of Africa and how he met with a young Virgin who was bannish’d and in what manner they liv’d together and had two children, a Son and a Daughter, the latter dying when she was six years of Age; together with their surprizing Deliverance to their own Country again with a faithful Relation of all that past during the Time that he was there. Written in French by himself and translated into English by Mr. Transmarine_ (1755).[42] Four or five other members of this realistic group, though comparatively unimportant, are worth notice, because they are possibly founded on tales brought home from the East by English merchants, and thus bear witness to the growing interest of England in the Orient. In _The History of Rodomond and the Beautiful Indian_,[43] an English merchant, saved from treacherous natives by an East Indian girl, escapes with her to England and marries her. _The History of Henrietta de Bellgrave_[43] is the story of a girl, who, shipwrecked in the East Indies, escapes from pirates, leads a Robinson Crusoe life, and is finally married to a “Banyan.” _The Disinterested Nabob_ (1788)[44] is an anonymous “novel, interspersed with genuine descriptions of India, its Manners and Customs.” The scene is laid partly in India, and there is an unsuccessful attempt at local colour. The story is in reality a mediocre imitation of _Sir Charles Grandison_. _The Asiatic Princess_, by Mrs. Pilkington (1800),[45] is oriental only in so far as the heroine is the Princess Merjee of Siam and references are made to Eastern treatment of slaves and to the suttee. The princess is intrusted to an English lady and her husband to be educated by travel. Her instructors moralize on the differences between oriental and English ways, and endeavour to guide her by moral tales. Another realistic story, _The Female Captive_, has far more life. The entire title reads, _The Female Captive, a narrative of Facts which happened in Barbary in the Year 1756, written by herself_. London, 1769.[46] It has many evidences of being a true story. The heroine, engaged to an Englishman, sails for home from Minorca under the care of a Mr. Crisp. Captured by Moors, she passes for his sister, and later for his wife, to save herself. After imprisonments and other hardships, she is given an audience by the prince of the country and thoughtlessly repeats unknown words a French boy interpreter asks her to say. They prove to be, “There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet,” and she is told by the prince that her saying them has made her a Moor, subject to death by fire if she prove renegade.[47] Through Mr. Crisp’s aid she escapes to England. There she finds her fiancé unworthy, and is finally married to Mr. Crisp. The narrative is by far the best of the realistic group. There are frequent appeals to Virtue and Fortitude in true eighteenth-century style, but the story is well told. Little direct description of the narrator is given, yet from what she does and suffers and what others do for her, it is easy to picture her as a fair English girl, shy and brave—an attractive heroine.

_The Fair Syrian_, by Robert Bage (1787),[48] is a long and tedious novel in letter-form, diversified by the adventures of the English heroine among the Turks, and extolling her devotion to Virtue. _The Anaconda_, by “Monk” Lewis, in _Romantic Tales_ (1808),[49] belongs in certain respects to this group, being a realistic story of the adventures of various English people and natives in the East in their struggles with an anaconda. Before leaving these realistic tales, it may be well to mention _The Unfortunate Princess_, by Mrs. Eliza Haywood (1741),[50] a fantastic tale called by the author “a veracious history,” but bearing every mark of invention. Extravagant in describing magic storms and horrible monsters, coarse, didactic, and bombastic, the story is valuable only as exemplifying both the moralizing and the fantastic tendencies under the guise of realism.

The third group referred to above (p. 46) includes the oriental eclogues, of which the chief writers were William Collins, Thomas Chatterton, and John Scott.[51] The four brief poems by Collins published in 1742 as _Persian Eclogues_,[52] and afterward (1757) called _Oriental Eclogues_, include: I. _Selim, or the Shepherd’s Moral_, which represents the shepherd Selim in “a valley near Bagdat” calling the shepherdesses to practise various virtues; II. _Hassan, or the Camel Driver_, being Hassan’s lament over the dangers of the desert; III. _Abra, or the Georgian Sultana_, a poem praising the pastoral life of the beautiful shepherdess who married the Sultan and brought him back occasionally to the happy shepherd life for a vacation from the cares of state; and IV. _Agib and Secander, or the Fugitives_. These eclogues bear to the later and better work of Collins a relation similar to that borne by Tennyson’s youthful experiments in versification to the poems of his maturity. Collins’s eclogues are not remarkable as poetry, but they are superior to Chatterton’s or Scott’s, and they possess something of the delicate finish and the pensive note characteristic of the author of _The Ode to Evening_. Chatterton’s _African Eclogues_[53] are three in number: I. _Narva and Mored_ (May, 1770), recounting the love of the priest Narva for the beautiful Mored, and their tragic death; II. _The Death of Nicou_ (June, 1770), who avenged his sister and slew himself; and III. _Heccar and Gaira_ (printed 1784; written January, 1770), the vengeance wrought by Gaira for the enslaving of his family. These poems are characterized by crude imaginative force and incoherent, almost Ossianic, fervor. John Scott’s (1730–1783) _Oriental Eclogues_ (1782)[54] (I. _Zerad, or the Absent Lover, an Arabian Eclogue_; II. _Serim, or the Artificial Famine, an East-Indian Eclogue_; and III. _Li-po, or the Good Governor, a Chinese Eclogue_) are early examples of the influence of the movement we have called the new scholarly movement. The author refers to the “elegant and judicious essay” of the “learned and ingenious Mr. Jones” [_i.e._ Sir William Jones]; and, like Moore and Southey, though with less assimilative power, draws copiously from numerous orientalists. Hence Scott’s use of oriental material forms an interesting link between the simple Johnsonian manner of orientalizing by a few phrases—a manner exemplified in the eclogues of Collins—and the elaborate orientalization in the verse of Southey and of Moore.[55]

Two years after the death of Scott, in 1785, appeared one of the most interesting of all the imaginative oriental tales: _Charoba_, translated from the French, and published by Clara Reeve in _The Progress of Romance_.[56] In addition to considerable intrinsic value, _Charoba_ deserves especial notice as the direct source of Landor’s poem, _Gebir_ (1798). The story of _Charoba_ is briefly as follows: Gebirus, the fierce and gigantic king of the Gadites, determines to marry Charoba, queen of Egypt, and take possession of her kingdom. His naïve motive is the hope of being cured of an illness by the favourable climate of that country. A prelude concerning Charoba gives an account of her father Totis, a cruel despot, who, like Balak, seeks to propitiate God’s servant—in this case, Abraham. Totis dies; Charoba, handsome, “ingenious,” generous, and wise, is made queen, and receives from Abraham a blessing, which distinctly foreshadows her victory over Gebirus, and enhances the artistic effect: “Great God, give her subtilty to deceive her enemies and to vanquish all those who shall arise to do her harm and to strive with her for her land.” On the appearance of Gebirus, Charoba’s nurse, a great enchantress, persuades him by rich gifts and by Charoba’s promise to marry him when his task is done, to build a city with the stones he has brought to dam the Nile. He makes no progress, because the nurse employs demons of the sea to tear down the work each night. At last he learns from a melancholy shepherd that every evening a fair lady rises from the sea, overcomes the shepherd in wrestling, and takes away a sheep; the flock is diminishing, and he is pining for love of her. Gebirus in his stead overcomes the lady and wins as price of her freedom the secret of circumventing the destructive demons and of getting treasure from a magic cave. Thus he finishes his city. Charoba, desperate, by her nurse’s advice poisons his army, receives him with royal honours, and kills him with a poisoned robe.[57] Three years later she dies from a serpent’s sting, and is buried in Gebirus’s city.

The scene of the death of Gebirus is dramatic. The subtle nurse, throwing over his shoulders the poisoned robe, sprinkled him with magic water, and he fell at Charoba’s feet. The attendants raised him up and seated him on a throne. The nurse said to him: “‘Is the king well tonight?’—He replied—‘A mischief on your coming hither!—May you be treated by others as you have treated me!—this only grieves me, that a man of strength and valour should be overcome by the subtilty of a woman.’ ‘Is there anything you would ask of me before you taste of death?’ said the queen—‘I would only intreat,’ said he, ‘that the words I shall utter may be engraven on one of the pillars of this palace which I have built.’ Then said Charoba, ‘I give thee my promise that it shall be done; and I also will cause to be engraven on another pillar, “This is the fate of such men as would compel queens to marry them, and kingdoms to receive them for their kings.” Tell us now thy last words.’

“Then the king said—‘I, Gebirus the Metaphequian, the son of Gevirus, that have caused marbles to be polished,—both the red and the green stone to be wrought curiously; who was possessed of gold, and jewels, and various treasures; who have raised armies; built cities, erected palaces:—who have cut my way through mountains; have stopped rivers; and done many great and wonderful actions:—with all this my power and my strength, and my valour and my riches, I have been circumvented by the wiles of a woman; weak, impotent, and deceitful; who hath deprived me of my strength and understanding; and finally hath taken away my life:—wherefore, whoever is desirous to be great and to prosper; (though there is no certainty of long success in this world)—yet, let him put no trust in a woman, but let him, at all times, beware of the craft and subtilty of a woman.’ After saying these words, he fainted away and they supposed him dead; but after some time he revived again. Charoba comforted him and renewed her promise to him. Being at the point of death, he said: ‘Oh Charoba!—triumph not in my death!—for there shall come upon thee a day like unto this, and the time is not very far distant.—Then thou shalt reflect on the vicissitudes of fortune and the certainty of death.’”[58]

The other notable scene, the victory of Gebirus over the sea-nymph, recalls the Siegfried-Brunhilde story. The entire shepherd-episode, the nightly destruction of the day’s work, and the incident of the poisoned robe, are like classic legends. The strange demons of the sea, the spell-bound statues, the enchanted cave, remind one of many oriental tales. Magic in _Charoba_ is used with considerable skill, and is made subsidiary to, and symbolic of, human subtlety. It is the cunning of Charoba’s nurse, more than her witchcraft, that wins the final victory, and both kinds of skill typify the desperate resistance of Charoba’s will to the determination of Gebirus. But the characterization is faint, as in other oriental tales; the characters are suggested rather than wrought out. As a whole, _Charoba_ has a rude, tragic force far superior to that of the average oriental tale. No wonder it kindled the imagination of Landor.

The poet’s use of the material he found in _Charoba_ is characteristic of his peculiar genius. He has kept the main features: the determined wooing of the princess by Gebir, the building and destruction of his city, the shepherd-episode, and the manner of Gebir’s death. He has omitted the prelude concerning Totis and Abraham, and the sequel concerning Charoba’s death. The poem closes with the death of Gebir, consistently with Landor’s theme, which is not _The History of Charoba_, but _Gebir_. For the same reason throughout the poem he has heightened the character of Gebir into an heroic figure of almost epic proportions. The Gebirus of the _History_, a fierce and rude giant, who covets Egypt for selfish reasons, gives place to a patriotic hero, who invades Egypt in revenge for ancestral wrongs, ambitious, brave, full of pity for his brother Tamar and of love for Charoba, devout and reverent to the gods, oppressed by impending fate, yet undaunted. It is the figure of the traditional epic hero. To throw it into bolder relief, Landor has changed Charoba from the proud queen to a love-sick girl, whose fear and pride keep her from avowing her passion for Gebir. Her silence causes Gebir’s death, for her nurse Dalica, inferring that she does not love him, proceeds, unknown to Charoba, to compass his death. Dalica’s use of magic gives Landor the opportunity of inserting one of his most striking passages, describing her visit to the ruined city and incantations over the poisoned robe. The magic in _Gebir_ is no longer the primitive enchantment of _The History of Charoba_. The latter recalls Biblical and oriental stories, such as the _Witch of Endor_ or the _Arabian Nights_; but the former is rather the magic of classical legend,—incantations like those in Theocritus and Homer. The descent into the subterranean treasure-cave in _Charoba_ is replaced by the journey of Gebir to Hades, where he is taught the futility of ambition and the certainty of punishment for evil-doers and of reward for the righteous after death. The shepherd-episode is developed into a story by itself after the manner of Ovid, with descriptions of the nymph, the woods, the seashore, the shepherd, and the wrestling-match. In such ways the poem assumes an entirely different aspect from that of the _History_. It has lost the crude and primitive simplicity of the conflict between the wills of Charoba and of Gebirus, but it has gained in the heroic proportions of the character of Gebir, in remarkable descriptive passages, and in blank verse of great, though uneven, beauty.

Of even greater significance than _Charoba_ is the _History of the Caliph Vathek_,[59] the bizarre masterpiece of William Beckford, which holds among all the oriental tales of the century a unique and deservedly high place. It is indeed almost the only modern oriental story “which might appear without disadvantage in the _Arabian Nights_, with Aladdin on its right hand and Ali Baba on its left.”[60] Although not a great book, it is entitled to live chiefly for the sake of one remarkable scene—the catastrophe in the Hall of Eblis—in which the author, having laid aside the mockery, the coarseness, and the flippancy that reduce the first part of the book to the level of a mere _jeu d’esprit_, shows himself capable of conceiving and depicting an impressive catastrophe. From the moment when Vathek and Nouronihar approach the dark mountains guarding the infernal regions until they meet their doom, the note of horror is sustained. “A deathlike stillness reigned over the mountain and through the air; the moon dilated on a vast platform the shade of the lofty columns which reached from the terrace almost to the clouds; the gloomy watch-towers were veiled by no roof, and their capitals, of an architecture unknown in the records of the earth, served as an asylum for the birds of darkness, which, alarmed at the approach of such visitants, fled away croaking.” They proceeded, and, “ascending the steps of a vast staircase, reached the terrace, which was flagged with squares of marble, and resembled a smooth expanse of water, upon whose surface not a leaf ever dared to vegetate; on the right rose the watch-towers, ranged before the ruins of an immense palace.” On the walls Vathek beheld an Arabic inscription permitting him to enter the subterranean abode of Eblis. “He had scarcely read these words before the mountain against which the terrace was reared, trembled, and the watch-towers were ready to topple headlong upon them; the rock yawned, and disclosed within it a staircase of polished marble that seemed to approach the abyss; upon each stair were planted two large torches, like those Nouronihar had seen in her vision, the camphorated vapour ascending from which gathered into a cloud under the hollow of the vault.” They descended to be welcomed by the malignant Giaour who had first tempted Vathek, and to be led into a magnificent hall radiant with light and fragrant with subtle odours, but containing “a vast multitude incessantly passing, who severally kept their right hands on their hearts,” as if in agony. Refusing to explain this ominous mystery, the guide conducted them into the presence of “the formidable Eblis,” the fallen archangel enthroned on a globe of fire.[61] He received them and promised them treasures and talismans. But when they eagerly followed the evil Giaour to an inner treasurechamber, they heard from “the great Soliman” himself an account of his ambitions, his evil deeds, and his terrible punishment. He “raised his hands toward Heaven ... and the Caliph discerned through his bosom, which was transparent as crystal, his heart enveloped in flames.” To Vathek’s cry of terror the malicious Giaour replied: “‘Know, miserable prince! thou art now in the abode of vengeance and despair: thy heart also will be kindled, like those of the other votaries of Eblis. A few days are allotted to thee previous to this fatal period; employ them as thou wilt; recline on these heaps of gold; command the Infernal Potentates, ... no barrier shall be shut against thee; as for me, I have fulfilled my mission: I now leave thee to thyself.’ At these words he vanished.” When the inevitable hour came, their hearts “immediately took fire, and they at once lost the most precious of the gifts of Heaven—Hope.” Their mutual passion turned into hate and they “plunged themselves into the accursed multitude, there to wander in an eternity of unabating anguish.”

The rest of the book does not begin to equal the catastrophe. Perhaps, indeed, one should not take it too seriously, but regard it rather as an intentionally absurd and brilliant extravaganza. Beckford seems to have begun merely with the idea of writing a clever oriental tale in the lighter manner of Voltaire and Count Hamilton; but, as he went on improvising one fantastic scene after another, the concept of the Hall of Eblis fired his imagination and roused his real genius. The plot follows the caprice of the narrator in turning aside for grotesque episodes, but is clear in its main course. It begins with Vathek’s impious building of a marvelously high tower from whence he studies astrology. Suddenly “a hidious Giaour” appears at court and intensifies the Caliph’s evil ambition for power and riches at any cost. Vathek abjures his Mahometan faith, murders, or at least attempts to murder, fifty innocent children after winning their confidence; with the aid of his mother, a horrible sorceress, kills many of his faithful subjects; insults holy dervishes; and finally violates the sacred hospitality of the Emir Fakreddin by seducing his daughter Nouronihar. Her ambition strengthens that of Vathek, and together they go on to their inevitable fate. Throughout the story premonitions, ominous hints of impending disaster, are skilfully used to prepare for the tragic outcome. Charming scenes of quiet beauty—serene sunsets, children playing with butterflies and flowers, nightingales singing among the roses—are almost invariably followed by some sudden horror: an eclipse, streaks of blood across the blue sky, a vast black chasm, and other terrifying portents. The whole book gives the impression of an extraordinary dream. On one occasion Nouronihar, led by a strange globe of fire, followed through the darkness. “She stopped a second time, the sound of waterfalls mingling their murmurs, the hollow rustlings amongst the palm-branches, and the funereal screams of the birds from their rifted trunks, all conspired to fill her with terror; she imagined every moment that she trod on some venomous reptile; all the stories of malignant Dives and dismal Goules thronged into her memory; but her curiosity was, notwithstanding, stronger than her fears.” Such passages reveal the kinship of _Vathek_ with _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ and other “tales of terror.” An interesting distinction is noticeable between the kind of horror present here and that in tales like the _Arabian Nights_. In the latter it is more objective and lacks the psychological, uncanny quality found in _Vathek_ and the others. _Vathek_ is, however, a thoroughly oriental tale of terror. The author handles his rich store of oriental allusions, names, phrases, and imagery, so easily that one would hardly realize how great the abundance is, if one were not confronted with the elaborate annotations by the first editor, Henley. The exotic brilliance of the various scenes is enhanced by references to the angels Munkir and Nekir, who guard the bridge of death; to incantations and prayers; to the blue butterflies of Cashmere; the loves of Megnoun and Leileh; cheeks the colour of the blossom of the pomegranate, etc. Another element of charm in _Vathek_ is the style, admirably clear and forcible, though occasionally grandiose. Written by Beckford originally in French, the book retains in the English version something of the French manner. Always lucid, sometimes oratorical, frequently crisp and witty, the style recalls that of Count Hamilton and of Voltaire. Beckford follows his French prototypes, also, in his spirit of mockery and sarcasm, his fitful humour, and intentional extravagance. When Vathek 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 domains and making his palace desolate, he but rarely gave way to his anger.” Vathek “wished to know everything, even sciences that did not exist.” In one of the most grotesque scenes the Caliph and all his court were bewitched into kicking the Giaour, who had rolled himself up into a ball, until he disappeared into a chasm.

But Beckford’s mockery has frequently a repulsive quality; it is brutal as well as cynical, and usually dwells with repellent emphasis on things that appeal to the senses. His brief and brilliant descriptions of sensuous beauty—colour, form, fragrance, melody—are also too frequently tinged with sensuality. This does not preclude, however, the moralizing tendency; in fact, the two propensities are often coexistent in the oriental tales, as they are in other forms of literature. Besides repulsive mockery and sensuality the most serious defect in _Vathek_ is one we have noticed as distinctive of the oriental fiction under discussion, _i.e._ lack of characterization. The hero himself is a mere bundle of attributes, self-indulgent, voluptuous, cruel, and ambitious, not a living individual. Hence even the impressive catastrophe lacks vitality and fails to rouse either the tragic terror or the tragic pity.

_Vathek_ has been called a sporadic and isolated phenomenon in eighteenth-century fiction. In one sense that is true; there was before _Vathek_ no book just like it, and there has been none since. Yet it is far more closely connected with its predecessors and successors than has been generally acknowledged. We have already pointed out the obligations of Beckford to the _Mogul Tales_ and the _Adventures of Abdalla_ and suggested his indebtedness to Hamilton and Voltaire. The _Arabian Nights_ was an obvious source of inspiration. The moralistic tales of Dr. Johnson and of Hawkesworth, in which the hero is punished for evil deeds, in all probability gave suggestions to Beckford. In the scene of the Hall of Eblis, _Vathek_ is unique, and in a certain brilliance of execution the book has few equals. Yet far from being sporadic or abnormal, it is rather an epitome of many characteristic features of the oriental tale: fantastic in plot and brilliant in colouring like the _Arabian Nights_; weak in characterization, marred by sensuality, and grotesque in incident like many oriental tales; witty and satirical like some of the fiction of Voltaire and Hamilton; and tinged with the moralizing spirit seen in Dr. Johnson’s tales. As a “tale of terror” it exemplifies another contemporary tendency of English fiction. The wealth of oriental allusion drawn from books reflects one more contemporaneous movement, the revival of interest in the East by scholars like Sir William Jones, and in so far foreshadows the similar use of similar material by Moore, Southey, and Byron. To Byron,[62] moreover, as to lesser writers like Barry Cornwall,[63] _Vathek_ was a direct source of inspiration.[64] For all these reasons the book is especially interesting to students of the literary history of the times.[65]

Half-way between the imaginative oriental tales and the moralistic is a small group including such stories as _Amorassan, or the Spirit of the Frozen Ocean_[66] and _The History of Abdalla and Zoraide, or Filial and Paternal Love_. The former is one of the _Romantic Tales_ of M. G. Lewis (1808), and is in part a close translation from _Der Faust der Morgenländer_ by F. M. Klinger and in part original with Lewis. It is a heavy and uninteresting story concerning a caliph, his brother, good and bad viziers, genii, and fishermen. The spirit of the frozen ocean comes to the good vizier Amorassan “to dispel illusions,” and shows him so much of the truth about mankind that he is handicapped in all his actions and exiled. He attains happiness only after dismissing the uncomfortable monitor. The moral is explicit: Do not endeavour to dispel illusions, “let benevolence and reason guide you: beyond that all is Destiny.” There is a slight attempt at oriental colouring and at fanciful descriptions, but the tale is of little value. _The History of Abdalla and Zoraide_[67] (1750?) is recommended on the title-page as “well worthy the perusal of every tender parent and dutiful child”; and, as might be inferred, is a highly moral effort. It is interesting chiefly in that it is the possible source of a tale used by Goldsmith to embellish _The Citizen of the World_, and that it may, with _Amorassan_, be taken as a type of the imaginative oriental tale so far removed from purely imaginative fiction like the _Arabian Nights_, the _Persian Tales_, or _Charoba_, as to be almost moralistic.