Rehearsal of Seguidillas.--Evening scene.--Crowds of
beggars.--Royal charity misplaced.--Mendicant flattery.--Frightful
countenances.--Performance at the Salitri theatre.--Countess of
Pombeiro and her dwarf negresses.--A strange ballet.--Return to the
Palace.--Supper at the Camareira Mor’s.--Filial affection.--Last
interview with the Archbishop.--Fatal tide of events.--Heart-felt
regret on leaving Portugal.
Sunday, November 25th, 1787.
What a morning for the 25th of November! The sun shining most
brilliantly, insects fluttering about, and flowers expanding--the late
rains having called forth a second spring, and tinted the hills round
Almada, on the opposite shore of the Tagus, with a lively green.
I breakfasted alone, Verdeil being gone to St. Roch’s, to see the
ceremony of publishing the bull of the Crusade, which allows good
Christians to eat eggs and butter during Lent, upon paying his holiness
a few shillings. I stayed at home, hearing a rehearsal of Seguidillas,
in preparation for a new intermez at the Salitri theatre, till the hour
of mass was over, then getting into the Portuguese chaise, drove
headlong to the palace in the Placa do Commercio, and hastened to the
Marquis of M----’s apartments. All his family were assembled to dine
with him.
Had it not been for the thoughts of my approaching departure, I should
have felt more comfort and happiness than has fallen to my lot for a
long interval. M----, whose attendance on the Queen may be too justly
termed a state of downright slavery, had hardly taken his place at
table, before he was called away. The Marchioness, Donna Henriquetta,
and her little sister, soon retreated to the Camareira-Mor’s apartments,
and I was left alone with Pedro and Duarte. They seized fast hold, each
of a hand, and running like greyhounds through long corridors, took me
to a balcony which commands one of the greatest thoroughfares in Lisbon.
The evening was delightful, and vast crowds of people moving about, of
all degrees and nations, old and young, active and crippled, monks and
officers. Shoals of beggars kept pouring in from every quarter to take
their stands at the gates of the palace and watch the Queen’s going out;
for her Majesty is a most indulgent mother to these sturdy sons of
idleness, and scarcely ever steps into her carriage without distributing
considerable alms amongst them. By this misplaced charity, hundreds of
stout fellows are taught the management of a crutch instead of a musket,
and the art of manufacturing sores, ulcers, and scabby pates, in the
most loathsome perfection. Duarte, who is all life and gaiety, vaulted
upon the railing of the balcony, and hung for a moment or two suspended
in a manner that would have frightened mothers and nurses into
convulsions. The beggars, who had nothing to do till her Majesty should
be forthcoming, seemed to be vastly entertained with these feats of
agility.
They soon spied me out, and two brawny lubbers, whom an unfortunate
combination of smallpox and king’s-evil had deprived of eye-sight,
informed, no doubt, by their comrades of what was going forward, began a
curious dialogue with voices still deeper and harsher than those of the
holy crows:--“Heaven prosper their noble excellencies, Don Duarte Manoel
and Don Pedro, and all the Marialvas--sweet dear youths, long may they
be blessed with the use of their eyes and of all their limbs! Is that
the charitable Englishman in their sweet company?”--“Yes, my comrade,”
answered the second blind.--“What!” said the first, “that generous
favourite of the most glorious Lord St. Anthony? (O gloriosissimo Senhor
Sant-Antonio!)”--“Yes, my comrade.”--“O that I had but my precious eyes,
that I might enjoy the sight of his countenance!” exclaimed both
together.
By the time the duet was thus far advanced, the halt, the maimed, and
the scabby, having tied some greasy nightcaps to the end of long poles,
poked them up through the very railing, bawling and roaring out charity,
“charity for the sake of the holy one of Lisbon.” Never was I looked up
to by a more distorted or frightful collection of countenances. I made
haste to throw down a plentiful shower of small copper money, or else
Duarte would have twitched away both poles and nightcaps, a frolic by no
means to be encouraged, as it might have marred our fame for the
readiest and most polite attention to every demand in the name of St.
Anthony.
Just as the orators were receiving their portion of pence and farthings,
a cry of “There’s the Queen, there’s the Princess!” carried the whole
hideous crowd away to another scene of action, and left me at full
liberty to be amused in my turn with the squirrel-like gambols of my
lively companion; he is really a fine enterprising boy, bold, alert, and
sprightly; quite different from most of his illustrious young relations.
Don Pedro by no means approved my English partiality to such active
feats, and after scolding his cousin for skipping about in so hazardous
a style, entreated me to take them to the Salitri theatre, where a box
had been prepared for us by his father’s orders. Upon the whole, I was
better entertained than I expected, though the performance lasted above
four hours and a half, from seven to near twelve. It consisted of a
ranting prose tragedy, in three acts, called Sesostris, two ballets, a
pastoral, and a farce. The decorations were not amiss, and the dresses
showy. A shambling, blear-eyed boy, bundled out in weeds of the deepest
sable, squeaked and bellowed alternately the part of a widowed
princess. Another hob-e-di-hoy, tottering on high-heeled shoes,
represented her Egyptian majesty, and warbled two airs with all the
nauseous sweetness of a fluted falsetto. Though I could have boxed his
ears for surfeiting mine so filthily, the audience were of a very
different opinion, and were quite enthusiastic in their applause.
In the stage-box I observed the mincing Countess of Pombeiro, whose
light hair and waxen complexion was finely contrasted by the ebon hue of
two little negro attendants perched on each side of her. It is the high
tone at present in this court to be surrounded by African implings, the
more hideous, the more prized, and to bedizen them in the most expensive
manner. The Queen has set the example, and the royal family vie with
each other in spoiling and caressing Donna Rosa, her Majesty’s
black-skinned, blubber-lipped, flat-nosed favourite.
One of the ballets was admirably got up; upon the rising of the curtain,
a strange cabalistic apartment is discovered, where an astrologer
appears very busy at a table covered with spheres and astrolabes,
arranging certain mysterious images, and pinking their eyes with a
gigantic pair of black compasses. A sort of Pierrot announces some
inquisitive travellers, who enter with many bows and scrapings. One of
them, the chief of the party, an old dapper beau in pink and silver,
reminded me very much of the Duke d’Alafoens, and sidled along and
tossed his cane about, and seemed to ask questions without waiting for
answers, with as good a grace as that janty general. The astrologer,
after explaining the wonders of his apartment with many pantomimical
contortions, invites his company to follow him, and the scene changes to
a long gallery, illuminated with a profusion of lights in gilt branches.
The perspective ends in a flight of steps, upon each of which stands a
row of figures, pantaloons, harlequins, sultans, sultanas, Indian
chiefs, devils, and savages, to all appearance motionless. Pierrot
brings in a machine like a hand-organ, and his master begins to grind,
the music accompanying. At the first chord, down drop the arms of all
the figures; at the second, each rank descends a step, and so on, till
gaining the level of the stage, and the astrologer grinding faster and
faster, the supposed clock-work-assembly begin a general dance.
Their ballet ended, the same accords are repeated, and all hop up in the
same stiff manner they hopped down. The travellers, highly pleased with
the show, depart; Pierrot, who longs to be grinding, persuades his
master to take a walk, and leave him in possession of the gallery. He
consents; but enjoins the gaping oaf upon no account to meddle with the
machine, or set the figures in motion. Vain are his directions! no
sooner has he turned his back than Pierrot goes to work with all his
strength; the figures fall a shaking as if on the point of disjoining
themselves; creak, crack, grinds the machine with horrid harshness;
legs, arms, and noddles are thrown into convulsions, three steps are
jumped at once. Pierrot, frightened out of his senses at the goggle-eyed
crowd advancing upon him, clings close to the machine and gives the
handle no respite. The music, too, degenerates into the most jarring,
screaking sounds, and the figures knocking against each other, and
whirling round and round in utter confusion, fall flat upon the stage.
Pierrot runs from group to group in rueful despair, tries in vain to
reanimate them, and at length losing all patience, throws one over the
other, and heaps sultanas upon savages, and shepherds upon devilkins.
Most of these personages being represented by boys of twelve or thirteen
were easily wielded. After Pierrot has finished tossing and tumbling, he
drops down exhausted and lies as dead as his neighbours, hoping to
escape unnoticed amongst them. But this subterfuge avails him not; in
comes the astrologer armed with his compasses; back he starts at sight
of the confounded jumble. Pierrot pays for it all, is soon drawn forth
from his lurking-place, and the astrologer grinding in a moderate and
scientific manner, the figures lift themselves up, and returning all in
_status quo_, the ballet finishes.
Shall I confess that this nonsense amused me pretty nearly as much as it
did my companions, whose raptures were only exceeded by those of madame
de Pombeiro’s implings. They, sweet, sooty innocents, kept gibbering and
pointing at the man with the black compasses in a manner so completely
African and ludicrous, that I thought their contortions the best part
of the entertainment.
The play ended, we hastened back to the palace, and traversing a number
of dark vestibules and guard-chambers, (all of a snore with jaded
equerries,) were almost blinded with a blaze of light from the room in
which supper was served up. There we found in addition to all the
Marialvas, the old marquis only excepted, the Camareira-mor, and five or
six other hags of supreme quality, feeding like cormorants upon a
variety of high-coloured and high-seasoned dishes. I suppose the keen
air from the Tagus, which blows right into the palace-windows, operates
as a powerful whet, for I never beheld eaters or eateresses, no not even
our old acquaintance madame la Présidente at Paris, lay about them with
greater intrepidity. To be sure, it was a splendid repast, quite a
banquet. We had manjar branco and manjar real, and among other good
things a certain preparation of rice and chicken, which suited me
exactly, and no wonder, for this excellent mess had been just tossed up
by Donna Isabel de Castro with her own illustrious hands, in a nice
little kitchen adjoining the queen’s apartment, in which all the
utensils are of solid silver.
The number of lights upon the table, and of attendants and pages in rich
uniforms around it, was prodigious; but what interested me far more than
all this parade, was the sportive good-humour and frankness of the
company. How it happened that the presence of a stranger failed to
inspire any reserve, is one of those odd circumstances I can hardly
account for; especially as the higher orders of the Portuguese are the
farthest removed of all persons from admitting any but their nearest
relations to these family parties; but so it was, and I felt both
flattered and gratified at being permitted to witness the ease and
hilarity which prevailed.
The dutiful, affectionate attention of the younger part of the company
to their parents was truly amiable; nor do I believe that, at this day
in any other realm in Europe, the sacred precept of honouring your
father and your mother is so cordially observed as in Portugal. Happy
if, in our intercourse with that nation, we had profited in that respect
by their example; the peace of so many of our noblest families would
not have been disturbed by the lowest connexions, nor their best blood
contaminated by matches of the most immoral, degrading tendency. We
should not have seen one year a performer acting the part of lady this
or lady t’other upon the stage, and the next in the drawing-room; nor,
upon entering some of our principal houses, have been tempted to cry
out--“Bless me! that lovely countenance is the same I recollect adoring
by moonlight on the fine broad flagstones of Bond Street or Portland
Place!”[24]
It was now after two in the morning, and I must own, notwithstanding the
good cheer of which I had participated, and the kind entertainment I had
received, I began to feel a little tired. The children were in such
spirits, so full of frolic, and her sublimity, the Camareira-mor, so
unusually tolerant and condescending, that there was no knowing when
the party would break up. Taking, therefore, my leave in due form, I
made my retreat escorted by half-a-dozen torch-bearers.
Just as I had gotten about half-way on my journey through what appeared
to me interminable passages, I was arrested in my progress by a pair of
dominicans, father Rocha, and his scarecrow satellite frè Josè do
Rosario. A person less accustomed than I had lately been to such
apparitions would have been startled; especially, too, if he had found
himself like me between the most formidable living pillars of the holy
inquisition.
“What are you doing here so very late,” I could not help exclaiming, “my
reverend fathers? What’s the matter?”
“The matter is,” answered Rocha, with a voice of terrific hoarseness,
“that we have caught cold waiting for you in these confounded corridors.
The archbishop, above half-an-hour ago, commanded us to bring you to him
dead or alive; but a rascally jackanapes in waiting upon her excellency
the Camareira-mor would not let us in to deliver our message, so we
have been airing ourselves hitherto to no purpose.”
“Do you know,” said Rocha, taking me into a little room where a lamp was
still burning, “that affairs do not go on so smoothly as they ought? The
archbishop seems to have lost both time and temper since he has been
pressed into the cabinet; and, as for the Prince of Brazil and his
consort, God forgive me for wishing their advisers and all their
intrigues in the lowest abyss of perdition. How can you be scheming a
journey to Madrid at this season? The floods are out, and the robbers
also, and I tell you what, as the archbishop says twenty times a day, if
you do go you deserve to be drowned and murdered.”
“The die is cast,” I replied, “and I must take my chance; but really I
wish you would have the goodness to bid the archbishop a very good night
in my name, and let me put off asking his benediction till to-morrow,
for I am quite jaded.”
“Jaded or not,” answered the monk, “you must come with me; the wind is
up in the archbishop’s brain just at this moment, and by the least
contradiction more would become a hurricane.”
Finding resistance vain, I suffered myself to be conducted through two
or three open courts, very refreshing at this hour you may suppose, and
up a little staircase into the archbishop’s interior cabinet. All was
still as death--no lay-brother bustling about--no sound audible but a
low breathing, which now and then swelled into a half suppressed groan,
from the agitated prelate, whom we found knee-deep in papers, immersed
in thought.
“So,” said he, “there you are at last. What have you been doing all this
while? Who but a brute of an Englishman would have kept me waiting. Ay,
ay, you told me how it would be, and you are right. They plague my soul
out. We have twenty rascals pulling as many ways. Your people too are
not what they used to be, though Mello would make us believe to the
contrary. One thing I know for certain, some infernal mischief is
afloat, and unless God’s grace is speedily manifested, I see no end to
confusion, and wish myself anywhere but where I am. These
smooth-tongued, Frenchified, Italian, Voltaireists and encyclopedians
have poisoned all sound doctrine. Ay,” continued he, rising up, with an
expression of indignation and anger I never saw before on his
countenance, “somebody’s ears[25] are poisoned whom I could name.... But
where is the use of talking to you? You are determined to leave us, be
it so. God’s providence is above all. He knows what is best for you, and
for me, and for these kingdoms. There is your passport, countersigned by
your friend Mello; and here is a letter for Lorenzana, and another for
his catholic majesty’s confessor, in which I tell him what an amazing
fool you are, and unless you continue one without any remission, we
shall soon have you back again. Tell Marialva,” he added, addressing
himself to Rocha (for the other father had not been admitted), “tell
Marialva and all his friends that I have dried up my tongue almost more
times than one, in attempting to argue a thousand silly whimsies and
crotchets out of his harum-scarum English brain; but come,” said he,
extending his arms, “I bear no malice, I pity, I do not condemn. Let me
give you an embrace, and pray God it may not be the last you will
receive from me.”
It was, alas! the last I ever received from him, poor, honest-hearted,
kind old man! A sort of melancholy foreboding which seemed to pervade
all he said in this interview was too soon realized. The fatal tide of
events flowing on as it were with redoubled, tremendous velocity, swept
away in the course of a few short months from this period the Prince of
Brazil, the lovely and amiable infanta his sister, her husband Don
Gabriel of Spain, and the good old King Charles the Third. Not long
after, the archbishop-confessor himself was called from the plenitude of
power and the enjoyment of unrivalled influence to the presence of that
Being in whose sight “no man living shall be justified;” but as in many
trying and peculiar instances he had shown the tenderest mercy, it may
tremblingly be hoped that mercy has been shown to him. Notwithstanding
the bluntness of his manner, the kindness of his heart, so apparent in
his good-humoured, benevolent eye, found its way, almost imperceptibly
to himself, to the hearts of others, and tempered the despotic roughness
he sometimes assumed both in voice and gesture.
I still seem to behold the last, earnest, solemn look he gave me when,
the door closing, he retired to the cares of state, and I with my escort
of torch-bearers and dominicans hastened forth to breathe the open air,
of which I stood greatly in need. Many things I had heard, and many
others I conjectured, above all, the reluctance I felt at the bottom of
my heart to leave a country in which I had received such uncommon marks
of friendship, bore heavily upon me. When I got home, scarcely two hours
before daybreak, and tried to compose myself to sleep, I was neither
refreshed nor recruited, but experienced the agitation of feverish and
broken slumbers.