‘Vathek’ abides to-day accredited to Beckford in both French and English; a thing to keep his memory green as nothing else of his work or personality will.  The familiar legend that in its present form it was composed at a single sitting, with such ardor as to entail a severe illness, and “without the author’s taking off his clothes,” cannot be reconciled with the known facts.  But the intensely vivid movement of it certainly suggests swift production; and it could easily be thought that any author had sketched such a story in the heat of some undisturbed sitting, and filled, finished, and polished it at leisure.  It is an extraordinary performance; even in Henley’s unsatisfactory version it is irresistible.  We know that Beckford expected to add liberally to it by inserting sundry subordinate tales, put into the mouths of some of the personages appearing in the last scene.  It is quite as well that he did not.  Its distinctive Orientalism, perhaps less remarkable than the unfettered imagination of its episodes, the vividness of its characters, the easy brilliancy of its literary manner—­these things, with French diction and French wit, alternate with startling descriptive impressiveness.  It is a French combination of Cervantes and Dante, in an Oriental and bizarre narrative.  It is not always delicate, but it is never vulgar, and the sprightly pages are as admirable as the weird ones.  Its pictures, taken out of their connection, seem irrelevant, and are certainly unlike enough; but they are a succession of surprises and fascinations.  Such are the famous description of the chase of Vathek’s court after the Giaour; the moonlit departure of the Caliph for the Terrace of Istakhar; the episodes of his stay under the roof of the Emir Fakreddin; the pursuit by Carathis on “her great camel Alboufaki,” attended by “the hideous Nerkes and the unrelenting Cafour”; Nouronihar drawn to the magic flame in the dell at night; the warning of the good Jinn; and the tremendous final tableau of the Hall of Eblis.

The man curious in letters regards with affection the evidences of vitality in a brief production little more than a century old; unique in English and French literature, and occupying to-day a high rank among the small group of quasi-Oriental narratives that represent the direct workings of Galland on the Occidental literary temperament.  Today ‘Vathek’ surprises and delights persons whose mental constitution puts them in touch with it, just as potently as ever it did.  And simply as a wild story, one fancies that it will appeal quite as effectually, no matter how many editions may be its future, to a public perhaps unsympathetic toward its elliptical satire, its caustic wit, its fantastic course of narrative, and its incongruous wavering between the flippant, the grotesque, and the terrific.

THE INCANTATION AND THE SACRIFICE

From ‘The History of the Caliph Vathek’