Early in May, Borrow, his wife and step-daughter left London to take up their residence at Oulton, in Suffolk. After years of wandering and vagabondage he was to settle down as a landed proprietor. His income, or rather his wife’s, amounted to £450 per annum, and he must have saved a considerable sum out of the £2300 he had drawn from the Bible Society, as his mother appears to have regarded the amounts he had sent to her as held in trust. He was therefore able to instal himself, Sidi Habismilk and the Jew of Fez upon his wife’s small estate, with every prospect of enjoying a period of comfort and rest after his many years of wandering and adventure.
Oulton Cottage. Photo. C. Wilson, Lowestroft
Oulton Cottage was ideally situated on the margin of the Broad. It was a one-storied building, with a dormer-attic above, hanging “over a lonely lake covered with wild fowl, and girt with dark firs, through which the wind sighs sadly. [330a] A regular Patmos, an ultima Thule; placed in an angle of the most unvisited, out-of-the-way portion of England.” [330b] A few yards from the water’s edge stood the famous octagonal Summer-house that Borrow made his study. Here he kept his books, a veritable “polyglot gentleman’s” library, consisting of such literary “tools” as a Lav-engro might be expected to possess. There were also books of travel and adventure, some chairs, a lounge and a table; whilst behind the door hung the sword and regimental coat of the sleeping warrior to whom his younger son had been an affliction of the spirit, because his mind pursued paths that appeared so strangely perilous.
Here in this Summer-house Borrow wrote his books. Here when “sickness was in the land, and the face of nature was overcast—heavy rain-clouds swam in the heavens—the blast howled amid the pines which nearly surround the lonely dwelling, and the waters of the lake which lies before it, so quiet in general and tranquil, were fearfully agitated,” Borrow shouted, “‘Bring lights hither, O Hayim Ben Attar, son of the miracle!’ And the Jew of Fez brought in the lights,” [331a] and his master commenced writing a book that was to make him famous. When tired of writing, he would sometimes sing “strange words in a stentorian voice, while passers-by on the lake would stop to listen with astonishment and curiosity to the singular sounds.” [331b]
Life at Oulton Cottage was delightfully simple. Borrow was a good host. “I am rather hospitable than otherwise,” [331c] he wrote, and thoroughly disliked anything in the nature of meanness. There was always a bottle of wine of a rare vintage for the honoured guest. Sometimes the host himself would hasten away to the little Summer-house by the side of the Broad to muse, his eyes fixed upon the military coat and sword, or to scribble upon scraps of paper that, later, were to be transcribed by Mrs Borrow. Borrow would spend his evenings with his wife and Henrietta, generally in reading until bedtime.
In the Norwich days Borrow had formed an acquaintance with another articled-clerk named Harvey (probably one of his colleagues at Tuck’s Court). They had kindred tastes, in particular a love of the open air and vigorous exercise. After settling at Oulton, the Borrows and the Harveys (then living at Bury St Edmunds) became very intimate, and frequently visited each other. Elizabeth Harvey, the daughter of Borrow’s contemporary, has given an extremely interesting account of the home life of the Borrows. She has described how sometimes Borrow would sing one of his Romany songs, “shake his fist at me and look quite wild. Then he would ask: ‘Aren’t you afraid of me?’ ‘No, not at all,’ I would say. Then he would look just as gentle and kind, and say, ‘God bless you, I would not hurt a hair of your head.’” [332a]
Miss Harvey has also given us many glimpses into Borrow’s character. “He was very fond of ghost stories,” she writes, “and believed in the supernatural.” [332b] He enjoyed music of a lively description, one of his favourite compositions being the well-known “Redowa” polka, which he would frequently ask to have played to him again.
As an eater Borrow was very moderate, he “took very little breakfast but ate a very great quantity of dinner, and then had only a draught of cold water before going to bed . . . He was very temperate and would eat what was set before him, often not thinking of what he was doing, and he never refused what was offered him.” [332c] On one occasion when he was dining with the Harveys, young Harvey, seeing Borrow engrossed in telling of his travels, handed him dish after dish in rapid succession, from all of which he helped himself, entirely unconscious of what he was doing. Finally his plate was full to overflowing, perceiving which he became very angry, and it was some time before he could be appeased. A practical joke made no appeal to him. [332d]
Elizabeth Harvey also tells how, when a cousin of hers was staying at Cromer, the landlady went to her one day and said, “O, Miss, there’s such a curious gentleman been. I don’t know what to think of him, I asked him what he would like for dinner, and he said, ‘Give me a piece of flesh.’” “What sort of gentleman was it?” enquired the cousin, and on hearing the description recognised George Borrow, and explained that the strange visitor merely wanted a rump-steak, a favourite dish with him.
As he did not shoot or hunt, he obtained exercise either by riding or walking. At times “he suffered from sleeplessness, when he would get up and walk to Norwich (25 miles) and return the next night recovered” [333a] yet Borrow has said that “he always had the health of an elephant.”
He was proud of the Church and took great pleasure in showing to his friends the brasses it contained, including one bearing an effigy of Sir John Fastolf, whom he considered to be the original of Falstaff. He was also “very fond of his trees. He quite fretted if by some mischance he lost one.” [333b]
His methods with the country people round Oulton were calculated to earn for him a reputation for queerness. “Curiosity is the leading feature of my character” [333c] he confessed, and the East Anglian looks upon curiosity in others with marked suspicion. It was impossible for Borrow to walk far without getting into conversation with someone or other. He delighted in getting people to tell their histories and experiences; “when they used some word peculiar to Norfolk (or Suffolk) country men, he would say ‘Why, that’s a Danish word.’ By and bye the man would use another peculiar expression, ‘Why, that’s Saxon’; a little further on another, ‘Why, that’s French.’ And he would add, ‘Why, what a wonderful man you are to speak so many languages.’ One man got very angry, but Mr Borrow was quite unconscious that he had given any offence.” [334a]
He took pleasure in puzzling people about languages. Elizabeth Harvey tells [334b] how he once put a book before her telling her to read it, and on her saying she could not, he replied, “You ought; it’s your own language.” The volume was written in Saxon. Yet for all this he hated to hear foreign words introduced into conversation. When he heard such adulterations of the English language he would exclaim jocosely, “What’s that, trying to come over me with strange languages?” [334c]
Borrow’s first thoughts on settling down were of literature. He had material for several books, as he had informed Mr Brandram. Putting aside, at least for the present, the translations of the ballads and songs, he devoted himself to preparing for the press a book upon the Spanish Gypsies. During the five years spent in Spain he had gathered together much material. He had made notes in queer places under strange and curious conditions, “in moments snatched from more important pursuits—chiefly in ventas and posadás” [334d]—whilst engaged in distributing the Gospel. It was a book of facts that he meant to write, not theories, and if he sometimes fostered error, it was because at the moment it was his conception of truth. Very little remained to do to the manuscript. Mrs. Borrow had performed her share of the work in making a fair copy for the printer. Borrow’s subsequent remark that the manuscript “was written by a country amanuensis and probably contains many ridiculous errata,” was scarcely gracious to the wife, who seems to have comprehended so well the first principle of wifely duty to an illustrious and, it must be admitted, autocratic genius—viz., self-extinction.
“No man could endure a clever wife,” Borrow once confided to the unsympathetic ear of Frances Power Cobbe; but he had married one nevertheless. No woman whose cleverness had not reached the point of inspiration could have lived in intimate association with so capricious and masterful a man as George Borrow. John Hasfeldt, in sending his congratulations, had seemed to suggest that Borrow was one of those abstruse works of nature that require close and constant study. “When your wife thoroughly knows you,” he wrote, “she will smooth the wrinkles on your brow and you will be so cheerful and happy that your grey hair will turn black again.”
“In November 1840 a tall athletic gentleman in black called upon Mr Murray, offering a manuscript for perusal and publication.” [335a] Fifteen years before, the same “tall athletic gentleman” had called a dozen times at 50a Albemarle Street with translations of Northern and Welsh ballads, but “never could see Glorious John.” Borrow had determined to make another attempt to see John Murray, and this time he was successful. He submitted the manuscript of The Zincali, which Murray sent to Richard Ford [335b] that he might pronounce upon it and its possibilities. “I have made acquaintance,” Ford wrote to H. U. Addington, 14th Jan. 1841, “with an extraordinary fellow, George Borrow, who went out to Spain to convert the gypsies. He is about to publish his failure, and a curious book it will be. It was submitted to my perusal by the hesitating Murray.” [335c] On Ford’s advice the book was accepted for publication, it being arranged that author and publisher should share the profits equally between them.
On 17th April 1841 there appeared in two volumes The Zincali; [336a] or, An Account of the Gypsies in Spain. With an original Collection of their Songs and Poetry, and a copious Dictionary of their Language. By George Borrow, late Agent of the British and Foreign Bible Society in Spain. It was dedicated to the Earl of Clarendon, G.C.B. (Sir George Villiers), in “remembrance of the many obligations under which your Lordship has placed me, by your energetic and effectual interference in time of need.” The first edition of 750 copies sufficed to meet the demand of two years. Ford, however, wrote to Murray: “The book has created a great sensation far and wide. I was sure it would, and I hope you think that when I read the MS. my opinion and advice were sound.” [336b]
Richard Ford. From the painting by Antonio Chatelain
The Zincali had been begun at Badajos with the Romany songs or rhymes copied down as recited by his gypsy friends. To these he had subsequently added, being assisted by a French courier, Juan Antonio Bailly, who translated the songs into Spanish. These translations were originally intended to be published in a separate work, as was the Vocabulary, which forms part of The Zincali. Had Borrow sought to make two separate works of the “Songs” and “Vocabulary,” there is very considerable doubt if they would have fared any better than the everlasting Ab Gwilym; but either with inspiration, or acting on some one’s wise counsel, he determined to subordinate them to an account of the Spanish Gypsies.
As a piece of bookmaking The Zincali is by no means notable. Borrow himself refers to it (page 354) as “this strange wandering book of mine.” In construction it savours rather of the method by which it was originally inspired; but for all that it is fascinating reading, saturated with the atmosphere of vagabondage and the gypsy encampment. It was not necessarily a book for the scholar and the philologist, many of whom scorned it on account of its rather obvious carelessnesses and inaccuracies. Borrow was not a writer of academic books. He lacked the instinct for research which alone insures accuracy.
It was particularly appropriate that Borrow’s first book should be about the Gypsies, who had always exercised so strange an attraction for him that he could not remember the time “when the very name of Gypsy did not awaken within me feelings hard to be described.” [337a] His was not merely an interest in their strange language, their traditions, their folk-lore; it was something nearer and closer to the people themselves. They excited his curiosity, he envied their mode of life, admired their clannishness, delighted in their primitive customs. Their persistence in warring against the gentile appealed strongly to his instinctive hatred of “gentility nonsense”; and perhaps more than anything else, he envied them the stars and the sun and the wind on the heath.
“Romany matters have always had a peculiar interest for me,” [337b] he affirms over and over again in different words, and he never lost an opportunity of joining a party of gypsies round their camp-fire. His knowledge of the Romany people was not acquired from books. Apparently he had read very few of the many works dealing with the mysterious race he had singled out for his particular attention. With characteristic assurance he makes the sweeping assertion that “all the books which have been published concerning them [the Gypsies] have been written by those who have introduced themselves into their society for a few hours, and from what they have seen or heard consider themselves competent to give the world an idea of the manners and customs of the mysterious Romany.” [338a]
His attitude towards the race is curious. He recognised the Gypsies as liars, rogues, cheats, vagabonds, in short as the incarnation of all the vices; yet their fascination for him in no way diminished. He could mix with them, as with other vagabonds, and not become harmed by their broad views upon personal property, or their hundred and one tricks and dishonesties. He was a changed man when in their company, losing all that constraint that marked his intercourse with people of his own class.
He had laboured hard to bring the light of the Gospel into their lives. He made them translate for him the Scriptures into their tongue; but it was the novelty of the situation, aided by the glass of Malaga wine he gave them, not the beauty of the Gospel of St Luke, that aroused their interest and enthusiasm. To this, Borrow’s own eyes were open. “They listened with admiration,” he says; “but, alas! not of the truths, the eternal truths, I was telling them, but to find that their broken jargon could be written and read.” [338b]
On one occasion, having refused to one of his congregation the loan of two barias (ounces of gold), he proceeded to read to the whole assembly instead the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostle’s Creed in Romany. Happening to glance up, he found not a gypsy in the room, but squinted, “the Gypsy fellow, the contriver of the jest, squinted worst of all. Such are Gypsies.” [338c]
It was indeed the novelty that appealed to them. They greeted with a shout of exultation the reading aloud a translation that they themselves had dictated; but they remained unmoved by the Christian teaching it contained. For all these discouragements Borrow persisted, and perhaps none of his efforts in Spain produced less result than this “attempt to enlighten the minds of the Gitanos on the subject of religion.” [339]
If the Gypsies were all that is evil, judged by conventional standards, they at least loyally stood by each other in the face of a common foe. Borrow knew Ambrose Petulengro to be a liar, a thief, in fact most things that it is desirable a man should not be; yet he was equally sure that under no circumstances would he forsake a friend to whom he stood pledged. There seems to be little doubt that Borrow’s fame with the Gypsies spread throughout England and the Continent. “Everybody as ever see’d the white-headed Romany Rye never forgot him.”
Borrow was by no means the first Romany Rye. From Andrew Boorde (15th-16th Century) down the centuries they are to be found, even to our day, in the persons of Mr Theodore Watts-Dunton and Mr John Sampson; but Borrow was the first to bring the cult of Gypsyism into popularity. Before he wrote, the general view of Gypsies was that they were uncomfortable people who robbed the clothes-lines and hen-roosts, told fortunes and incidentally intimidated the housewife if unprotected by man or dog. Borrow changed all this. The suspicion remained, so strongly in fact that he himself was looked at askance for consorting with such vagabonds; but with the suspicion was more than a spice of interest, and the Gypsies became epitomised and immortalised in the person of Jasper Petulengro. Borrow’s Gypsyism was as unscientific as his “philology.” Their language, their origin he commented on without first acquainting himself with the literature that had gathered round their name. Francis Hindes Groome, “that perfect scholar-gypsy and gypsy-scholar,” wrote:—
“The meagreness of his knowledge of the Anglo-Gypsy dialect came out in his Word Book of the Romany (1874); there must have been over a dozen Englishmen who have known it far better than he. For his Spanish-Gypsy vocabulary in The Zincali he certainly drew largely either on Richard Bright’s Travels through Lower Hungary or on Bright’s Spanish authority, whatever that may have been. His knowledge of the strange history of the Gypsies was very elementary, of their manners almost more so, and of their folk-lore practically nil. And yet I would put George Borrow above every other writer on the Gypsies. In Lavengro and, to a less degree, in its sequel, The Romany Rye, he communicates a subtle insight into Gypsydom that is totally wanting in the works—mainly philological—of Pott, Liebich, Paspati, Miklosich, and their confrères.” [340a]
Groome was by no means partial to Borrow, as a matter of fact he openly taxed him [340b] with drawing upon Bright’s Travels in Hungary (Edinburgh 1819) for the Spanish-Romany Vocabulary, and was strong in his denunciation of him as a poseur.
Borrow scorned book-learning. Writing to John Murray, Junr. (21st Jan. 1843), about The Bible in Spain, he says, “I was conscious that there was vitality in the book and knew that it must sell. I read nothing and drew entirely from my own well. I have long been tired of books; I have had enough of them,” [340c] he wrote later, and this, taken in conjunction with another sentence, viz., “My favourite, I might say my only study, is man,” [340d] explains not only Borrow’s Gypsyism, but also his casual philology. Languages he mostly learned that he might know men. In youth he read—he had to do something during the long office hours, and he read Danish and Welsh literature; but he did not trouble himself much with the literary wealth of other countries, beyond dipping into it. He had a brain of his own, and preferred to form theories from the knowledge he had acquired first hand, a most excellent thing for a man of the nature of George Borrow, but scarcely calculated to advance learning. He hated anything academic.
“I cannot help thinking,” he wrote, “that it was fortunate for myself, who am, to a certain extent, a philologist, that with me the pursuit of languages has been always modified by the love of horses . . . I might, otherwise, have become a mere philologist; one of those beings who toil night and day in culling useless words for some opus magnum which Murray will never publish and nobody ever read—beings without enthusiasm, who, having never mounted a generous steed, cannot detect a good point in Pegasus himself.” [341]
This quotation clearly explains Borrow’s attitude towards philology. As he told the émigré priest, he hoped to become something more than a philologist.
There was nothing in the sale of The Zincali to encourage Borrow to proceed with the other books he had partially prepared. Nearly seven weeks after publication, scarcely three hundred copies had been sold. In the spring of the following year (18th March) John Murray wrote: “The sale of the book has not amounted to much since the first publication; but in recompense for this the Yankees have printed two editions, one for twenty pence complete.” As Borrow did not benefit from the sale of American editions, the news was not quite so comforting as it would have been had it referred to the English issue.
During his wanderings in Portugal and Spain Borrow had carried out his intention of keeping a journal, from which on several occasions he sent transcriptions to Earl Street instead of recapitulating in his letters the adventures that befell him. Many of his letters went astray, which is not strange considering the state of the country. The letters and reports that Borrow wrote to the Bible Society, which still exist, may be roughly divided as follows:—
From his introduction until the end of the Russian expedition |
17.50 |
Used for The Bible in Spain |
30.00 |
Others written during the Spanish and Portuguese periods and not used for The Bible in Spain |
52.50 |
|
100.00 |
Thirty per cent, of the whole number of the letters was all that Borrow used for The Bible in Spain. In addition he had his Journal, and from these two sources he obtained all the material he required for the book that was to electrify the religious reading-public and make famous its writer.
Between Borrow and Ford a warm friendship had sprung up, and many letters passed between them. Ford, who was busily engaged upon his Hand-Book, sought Borrow’s advice upon a number of points, in particular about Gypsy matters. There was something of the same atmosphere in his letters as in those of John Hasfeldt: a frank, affectionate interest in Borrow and what affected him that it was impossible to resent. “How I wish you had given us more about yourself,” he wrote to Borrow apropos of The Zincali, “instead of the extracts from those blunder-headed old Spaniards, who knew nothing about Gypsies! I shall give you . . . a hint to publish your whole adventures for the last twenty years.” But Hayim Ben-Attar, son of the miracle, had already brought lights, and The Bible in Spain had been begun.
Ford’s counsel was invariably sound and sane. He advised El Gitano, as he sometimes called Borrow, “to avoid Spanish historians and poetry like Prussic acid; to stick to himself, his biography and queer adventures,” [343] to all of which Borrow promised obedience. Ford wrote to Borrow (Feb. 1841) suggesting that The Bible in Spain should be what it actually was. “I am delighted to hear,” he wrote, “that you meditate giving us your travels in Spain. The more odd personal adventures the better, and still more so if dramatic; that is, giving the exact conversations.”
In June 1841 Borrow received from Earl Street the originals of his letters to the Bible Society, and when he was eventually called upon to return them he retained a number, either through carelessness or by design. It was evidently understood that there should be no reference to any contentious matters. Borrow set to work with the aid of his “Country Amanuensis” to transcribe such portions of the correspondence as he required. The work proceeded slowly.
“I still scribble occasionally for want of something better to do,” he informs John Murray, Junr. (23rd Aug. 1841), and continues: “ . . . A queer book will be this same Bible in Spain, containing all my queer adventures in that queer country whilst engaged in distributing the Gospel, but neither learning, nor disquisitions, fine writing, or poetry. A book with such a title and of this description can scarcely fail of success.”
Through a dreary summer and autumn he wrote on complaining that there was “scarcely a gleam of sunshine.” Remote from the world “with not the least idea of what is going on save in my immediate neighbourhood,” he wrote merely to kill time. Such an existence was, to the last degree, uncongenial to a man who for years had been accustomed to sunshine and a life full of incident and adventure.
He grew restless and ill-content. He had been as free as the wind, with occupation for brain and body. He was now, like Achilles, brooding in his tent, and over his mind there fell a shadow of unrest. As early as July 1841 he had thought of settling in Berlin and devoting himself to study. Hasfeldt suggested Denmark, the land of the Sagas. Later in the same year Africa had presented itself to Borrow as a possible retreat, but Ford advised him against it as “the land from which few travellers return,” and told him that he had much better go to Seville. Still later Constantinople was considered and then the coast of Barbary. Into his letters there crept a note of querulous complaint. John Hasfeldt besought him to remember how much he had travelled and he would find that he had wandered enough, and then he would accustom himself to rest.
The manuscript of The Bible in Spain was completed early in January (1842) and despatched to John Murray, who sent it to Richard Ford. From the “reader’s report” it is to be gathered that in addition to the manuscript Borrow sent also the letters that he had borrowed from the Bible Society. Ford refers to the story of the man stung to death by vipers [344] “in the letter of the 16th August 1837,” and advises that “Mr Borrow should introduce it into his narrative.” He further recommends him “to go carefully over the whole of his Letters, as it is very probable that other points of interest which they contain may have been omitted in the narrative. Some of the most interesting letters relate to journies not given in the MS.”
The work when it reached Ford was apparently in a very rough state. In addition to many mistakes in spelling and grammar, a number of words were left blank. In a vast number of instances short sentences were run together. Mrs Borrow does not appear to have been a very successful amanuensis at this period. Perhaps the most interesting indication of how much the manuscript, as first submitted, differed from the published work is shown by one of Ford’s criticisms:—
“In the narrative there are at present two breaks—one from about March 1836 to June 1837 [Chapters XIII.–XX.],—and the other from November 1837 to July 1839 [Chapters XXXVI.–XLIX.]”
This represents a third of the book as finally printed. Ford objected to the sudden ending; but Borrow made no alteration in this respect. There were a number of other suggestions of lesser importance in this admirable piece of technical criticism. Ford disliked Borrow’s striving to create an air of mystery as “taking an unwarrantable liberty with the reader”; he suggested a map and a short biographical sketch of the author, and especially the nature of his connection with the Bible Society. Finally he gives it as his opinion that it is neither necessary nor advisable to insert any of his letters to the Bible Society, either in the body of the book or as an Appendix.
“The Dialogues are amongst the best parts of the book,” Ford wrote; “but in several of them the tone of the speakers, of those especially who are in humble life, is too correct and elevated, and therefore out of character. This takes away from their effect. I think it would be very advisable that Mr Borrow should go over them with reference to this point, simplifying a few of the turns of expression and introducing a few contractions—don’ts, can’ts, etc. This would improve them greatly.”
This criticism applies to all Borrow’s books, in particular to the passages dealing with the Gypsies, who, in spite of their love of high-sounding words, which they frequently misuse, do not speak with the academic precision of Borrow’s works any more than do peers or princes or even pedagogues. Borrow met Ford’s criticism with the assurance that “the lower classes in Spain are generally elevated in their style and scarcely ever descend to vulgarity.”
Borrow’s first impulse appears to have been to disregard the suggestion that the two breaks should be filled in. On 13th Jan. he wrote to John Murray, Junr.:
“I have received the MS. and likewise your kind letter . . . Pray thank the Gentleman who perused the MS. in my name for his suggestions, which I will attend to. [By this it is clear that Borrow was not told that Ford was ‘the Gentleman.’] I find that the MS. was full of trifling mistakes, the fault of my amanuensis; but I am going through it, and within three days shall have made all the necessary corrections.”
No man, of however sanguine a temperament, could seriously contemplate the mere transcription of some eighty thousand words, in addition to the correction of twice that amount of manuscript, within three days. Nine days later Borrow wrote again to John Murray, Junr. “We are losing time; I have corrected seven hundred consecutive pages of MS., and the remaining two hundred will be ready in a fortnight.” That he had taken so long was due to the fact that the greater part of the preceding week had been occupied with other and more exciting matters than correcting manuscript.
“During the last week,” he continues, “I have been chiefly engaged in horse-breaking. A most magnificent animal has found his way to this neighbourhood—a half-bred Arabian—he is at present in the hands of a low horse-dealer; he can be bought for eight pounds, but no person will have him; it is said that he kills everybody who mounts him. I have been charming him, and have so far succeeded that at present he does not fling me more than once in five minutes. What a contemptible trade is the Author’s compared to that of the jockey.”
It was not until towards the end of February that the corrected manuscript of the first volume of The Bible in Spain reached Albemarle Street. Later and better counsels had apparently prevailed, and Borrow had become reconciled to filling up the breaks.
Borrow had other occupations than preparing his manuscript for the printer’s hands. He was ill and overwrought, and small things became magnified out of all proportion to their actual importance. There had been a dispute between Borrow’s dog and that of the rector of Oulton, the Rev. E. P. Denniss, and as the place was small, the dogs met frequently and renewed their feud. Finally the masters of the animals became involved, and an interchange of frigid notes ensued. It appears that Borrow threatened to appeal to the Law and to the Bishop of the Diocese, and further seems to have suggested that in the interests of peace, the rector might do away with his own dog. The tone of the correspondence may be gathered from the following notes:—[347]
“Mr Denniss begs to acknowledge Mr Borrow’s note, and is sorry to hear that his dog and Mr Borrow’s have again fallen out. Mr Denniss learns from his servant that Mr D’s dog was no more in fault than Mr B’s, which latter is of a very quarrelsome and savage disposition, as Mr Denniss can himself testify, as well as many other people. Mr Denniss regrets that these two animals cannot agree when they meet, but he must decline acceding to Mr Borrow’s somewhat arbitrary demand, conceiving he has as much right to retain a favourite, and in reality very harmless, animal, as Mr Borrow has to keep a dog which has once bitten Mr Denniss himself, and oftentimes attacked him and his family. Mr Borrow is at perfect liberty to take any measure he may deem advisable, either before the magistrates or the Bishop of the Diocese, as Mr Denniss is quite prepared to meet them.”
“Oulton Rectory, 22nd April 1842.”
Borrow’s reply (in the rough draft found among his papers after his death) ran:
“Mr Borrow has received Mr Denniss’ answer to his note. With respect to Mr Denniss’ recrimination on the quarrelsome disposition of his harmless house-dog, Mr Borrow declines to say anything further. No one knows better than Mr Denniss the value of his own assertions . . . Circumstances over which Mr Borrow has at present no control will occasionally bring him and his family under the same roof with Mr Denniss; that roof, however, is the roof of the House of God, and the prayers of the Church of England are wholesome from whatever mouth they may proceed.”
Borrow’s most partisan admirer could not excuse the outrage to all decency contained in the last paragraph of his note, if indeed it were ever sent, in any other way than to plead the writer’s ill-health.
It had been arranged that The Bible in Spain should make its appearance in May. In July Borrow wrote showing some impatience and urging greater expedition.
“What are your intentions with respect to the Bible in Spain?” he enquires of John Murray. “I am a frank man, and frankness never offends me. Has anybody put you out of conceit with the book? . . . Tell me frankly and I will drink your health in Romany. Or would the appearance of the Bible on the first of October interfere with the avatar, first or second, of some very wonderful lion or Divinity, to whom George Borrow, who is neither, must of course give place? Be frank with me, my dear Sir, and I will drink your health in Romany and Madeira.”
He goes on to offer to release John Murray from his “share in the agreement” and complete the book himself remitting to the printer “the necessary money for the purchase of paper.”
To Ford, who had acted as a sort of godfather to The Bible in Spain, it was “a rum, very rum, mixture of gypsyism, Judaism, and missionary adventure,” as he informed John Murray. He read it “with great delight,” and its publisher may “depend upon it that the book will sell, which, after all, is the rub.” He liked the sincerity, the style, the effect of incident piling on incident. It reminded him of Gil Blas with a touch of Bunyan. Borrow is “such a trump . . . as full of meat as an egg, and a fresh-laid one.” All this he tells John Murray, and concludes with the assurance, “Borrow will lay you golden eggs, and hatch them after the ways of Egypt; put salt on his tail and secure him in your coop, and beware how any poacher coaxes him with ‘raisins’ or reasons out of the Albemarle preserve.” [349]
Ford was never tired of applying new adjectives to Borrow and his work. He was “an extraordinary fellow,” “this wild missionary,” “a queer chap.” Borrow, on the other hand, cherished a sincere regard for the man who had shown such enthusiasm for his work. To John Murray, Junr., he wrote (4th April 1843): “Pray remember me to Ford, who is no humbug and is one of the few beings that I care something about.”
Throughout his correspondence with Borrow, Richard Ford showed a judgment and an appreciation of what the public would be likely to welcome that stamped him as a publishers’ “reader” by instinct. Such advice as he gave to Borrow in the following letter set up a standard of what a book, such as Borrow had it in his power to write, actually should be. It unquestionably influenced Borrow:—
10th June 1842.
“My advice again and again is to avoid all fine writing, all descriptions of mere scenery and trivial events. What the world wants are racy, real, genuine scenes, and the more out of the way the better. Poetry is utterly to be avoided. If Apollo were to come down from Heaven, John Murray would not take his best manuscript as a gift. Stick to yourself, to what you have seen, and the people you have mixed with. The more you give us of odd Jewish people the better . . . Avoid words, stick to deeds. Never think of how you express yourself; for good matter must tell, and no fine writing will make bad matter good. Don’t be afraid that what you may not think good will not be thought so by others. It often happens just the reverse . . . New facts seen in new and strange countries will please everybody; but old scenery, even Cintra, will not. We know all about that, and want something that we do not know . . . The grand thing is to be bold and to avoid the common track of the silver paper, silver fork, blue-stocking. Give us adventure, wild adventure, journals, thirty language book, sorcery, Jews, Gentiles, rambles, and the interior of Spanish prisons—the way you get in, the way you get out. No author has yet given us a Spanish prison. Enter into the iniquities, the fees, the slang, etc. It will be a little à la Thurtell, but you see the people like to have it so. Avoid rant and cant. Dialogues always tell; they are dramatic and give an air of reality.”
The Bible in Spain was published 10th December, and one of the first copies that reached him was inscribed by the author to “Ann Borrow. With her son’s best love, 13th Decr. 1842.”
From the critics there was praise and scarcely anything but praise. It was received as a work bearing the unmistakable stamp of genius. Lockhart himself reviewed it in The Quarterly Review, confessing the shame he felt at not having reviewed The Zincali. “Very good—very clever—very neatly done. Only one fault to find—too laudatory,” was Borrow’s comment upon this notice.
And through the clamour and din of it all, old Mrs Borrow wrote to her daughter-in-law telling her of the call of an old friend, whom she had not seen for twenty-eight years, and who had come to talk with her of the fame of her son, “the most remarkable man that Dereham ever produced. Capt. Girling is a man of few words, but when he do speak it is to some purpose.” Ford wrote also (he was always writing impulsive, boyish letters) telling how Borrow’s name would “fill the trump of fame,” and that “Murray is in high bone” about the book. Hasfeldt wrote, too, saying that he saw his “friend ‘tall George,’ wandering over the mountains until I ached in every joint with the vividness of his descriptions.”
In all this chorus of praise there was the complaint of the Dublin Review that “Borrow was a missionary sent out by a gang of conspirators against Christianity.” Borrow’s comment upon this notice was that “It is easier to call names and misquote passages in a dirty Review than to write The Bible in Spain.”
A second edition of The Bible in Spain was issued in January, to which the author contributed a preface, “very funny, but wild,” he assured John Murray, Junr., and he promised “yet another preface for the third edition, should one be called for.” The third edition appeared in March, the fourth in June, and the fifth in July. When the Fourth Edition was nearing completion Borrow wrote to Murray: “Would it be as well to write a preface to this fourth edition with a tirade or two against the Pope, and allusions to the Great North Road?” To which Murray replied, “With due submission to you as author, I would suggest that you should not abuse the Pope in the new preface.”
In the flush of his success Borrow could afford to laugh at the few cavilling critics.
“Let them call me a nonentity if they will,” he wrote to John Murray, Junr. (13th March). “I believe that some of those, who say I am a phantom, would alter their tone provided they were to ask me to a good dinner; bottles emptied and fowls devoured are not exactly the feats of a phantom. No! I partake more of the nature of a Brownie or Robin Goodfellow, goblins, ’tis true, but full of merriment and fun, and fond of good eating and drinking.”
America echoed back the praise and bought the book in thousands. Publishers issued editions in Philadelphia and New York; but Borrow did not participate in the profits, as there was then no copyright protection for English books in the United States of America. The Athenæum reported (27th May 1843) that 30,000 copies had been sold in America. “I really never heard of anything so infamous,” wrote Borrow to his wife. The only thing that America gave him was praise and (in common with other countries) a place in its biographical dictionaries and encyclopædias. The Bible in Spain was translated into French and German and subsequently (abridged) into Russian.
What appeared to please Borrow most was Sir Robert Peel’s reference to him in the House of Commons, although he regretted the scanty report of the speech given in the newspapers. Replying to Dr Bowring’s (at that time Borrow’s friend) motion “for copies of the correspondence of the British Government with the Porte on the subject of the Bishop of Jerusalem,” Sir Robert remarked: “If Mr Borrow had been deterred by trifling obstacles, the circulation of the Bible in Spain would never have been advanced to the extent which it had happily attained. If he had not persevered he would not have been the agent of so much enlightment.” [352]
There were many things that contributed to the instantaneous success of The Bible in Spain. Apart from the vivid picture that it gave of the indomitable courage and iron determination of a man commanding success, its literary qualities, and enthralling interest, its greatest commercial asset lay in its appeal to the Religious Public. Never, perhaps, had they been invited to read such a book, because never had the Bible been distributed by so amazing a missionary as George Borrow. Gil Blas with a touch of Bunyan, as Ford delightfully phrased it, and not too much Bunyan. Thieves, murderers, gypsies, bandits, prisons, wars—all knit together by the missionary work of a man who was persona grata with every lawless ruffian he encountered, and yet a sower of the seed. The Religious Public did not pause to ponder over the strangeness of the situation. They had fallen among thieves, and with breathless eagerness were prepared to enjoy to the full the novel experience.
Here was a religious book full of the most exquisite material thrills without a suggestion of a spiritual moral. Criminals were encountered, their deeds rehearsed and the customary sermon upon the evils arising from wickedness absent. It was a stimulating drink to unaccustomed palates. The Bible in Spain sold in its thousands.
The accuracy of the book has never been questioned; if it had, Borrow’s letters to the Bible Society would immediately settle any doubt that might arise. If there be one incident in the work that appears invented, it is the story of Benedict Moll, the treasure-hunter; yet even that is authentic. In the following letter, dated 22nd June 1839, Rey Roméro, the bookseller of Santiago, refers to the unfortunate Benedict Moll:—
“The German of the Treasure,” he writes, “came here last year bearing letters from the Government for the purpose of discovering it. But, a few days after his arrival, they threw him into prison; from thence he wrote me, making himself known as the one you introduced to me; wherefore my son went to see him in prison. He told my son that you also had been arrested, but I could not credit it. A short time after, they took him off to Coruña; then they brought him back here again, and I do not know what has become of him since.” [353]
Borrow now became the lion of the hour. He was fêted and feasted in London, and everybody wanted to meet the wonderful white-haired author of The Bible in Spain. One day he is breakfasting with the Prussian Ambassador, “with princes and members of Parliament, I was the star of the morning,” he writes to his wife. “I thought to myself ‘what a difference!’” Later he was present at a grand soirée, “and the people came in throngs to be introduced to me. To-night,” he continues, “I am going to the Bishop of Norwich, to-morrow to another place, and so on.” [354]
Borrow had been much touched by the news of the death of Allan Cunningham (1785–1842).
“Only think, poor Allan Cunningham dead!” he wrote to John Murray, Junr. (25th Nov. 1842). “A young man—only fifty-eight—strong and tall as a giant; might have lived to a hundred and one, but he bothered himself about the affairs of this world far too much. That statue shop was his bane; took to book making likewise, in a word too fond of Mammon—awful death—no preparation—came literally upon him like a thief in the dark. Am thinking of writing a short life of him; old friend—twenty years’ standing, knew a good deal about him; Traditional Tales his best work . . .
“Pray send Dr Bowring a copy of Bible. Lives No. 1, Queen Square, Westminster, another old friend. Send one to Ford—capital fellow. Respects to Mr M. God bless you. Feel quite melancholy, Ever yours.”
In these Jinglelike periods Borrow pays tribute to the man who praised his Romantic Ballads and contributed a prefatory poem. He returned to the subject ten days later in another letter to John Murray, Junr. “I can’t get poor Allan out of my head,” he wrote. “When I come up I intend to go and see his wife. What a woman!”
Fame did not dispel from Borrow’s mind the old restlessness, the desire for action. He was still unwell, worried at the sight of “Popery . . . springing up in every direction . . . There’s no peace in this world.” [355a] A cold contracted by his wife distressed him to the point of complaining that “there is little but trouble in this world; I am nearly tired of it.” [355b] Exercise failed to benefit him. He was suffering from languor and nervousness. And through it all that Spartan woman who had committed the gravest of matrimonial errors, that of marrying a genius, soothed and comforted the sick lion, tired even of victory.
Small things troubled him and honours awakened in him no enthusiasm. The Times in reviewing The Bible in Spain had inferred that he was not a member of the Church of England, [355c] and the statement “must be contradicted.” The Royal Institution was prepared to confer an honour upon him, and he could not make up his mind whether or not to accept it.
“What would the Institute expect me to write?” he enquires of John Murray, Junr., 25th Feb. 1843. “(I have exhausted Spain and the Gypsies.) Would an essay on the Welsh language and literature suit, with an account of the Celtic tongues? Or would something about the ancient North and its literature be more acceptable? . . . Had it been the Royal Academy, I should have consented at once, and do hereby empower you to accept in my name any offer which may be made from that quarter. I should very much like to become an Academician, the thing would just suit me, more especially as ‘they do not want clever men, but safe men.’ Now I am safe enough, ask the Bible Society, whose secrets I have kept so much to their satisfaction, that they have just accepted at my hands an English Gypsy Gospel gratis.” [356]
He declined an invitation to join the Ethnological Society.
“Who are they?” he enquires in the same letter. “At present I am in great demand. A Bishop has just requested me to visit him. The worst of these Bishops is that they are all skinflints, saving for their families; their cuisine is bad and their Port-wine execrable, and as for their cigars—. . . ”
Borrow strove to quiet his spirit by touring about Norfolk, “putting up at dead of night in country towns and small villages.” He returned to Oulton at the end of a fortnight, having tired himself and knocked up his horse. Even the news that a new edition of The Bible in Spain was required could not awaken in him any enthusiasm. He was glad the book had sold, as he knew it would, and he would like a rough estimate of the profits. A few days later he writes to John Murray, Junr., with reference to a new edition of The Zincali, saying that he finds “that there is far more connection between the first and second volumes than he had imagined,” and begging that the reprint may be the same as the first. “It would take nearly a month to refashion the book,” he continues, “and I believe a month’s mental labour at the present time would do me up.” The weather in particular affected, him. For years he had been accustomed to sun-warmed Spain, and the gloom and greyness of England depressed him.
“Strange weather this,” he had written to John Murray (31st Dec. 1842)—“very unwholesome I believe both for man and beast. Several people dead and great mortality amongst the cattle. Am intolerably well myself, but get but little rest—disagreeable dreams—digestion not quite so good as I could wish—been on the water system—won’t do—have left it off, and am now taking lessons in singing.”
Many men have earned the reputation of madness for less eccentric actions than taking lessons in singing as a cure for indigestion, after the failure of the water cure.
Although he was receiving complimentary letters from all quarters and from people he had never even heard of, he seemed acutely unhappy.
“I did wrong,” he writes to his wife from London (29th May 1843), “not to bring you when I came, for without you I cannot get on at all. Left to myself, a gloom comes upon me which I cannot describe. I will endeavour to be home on Thursday, as I wish so much to be with you, without whom there is no joy for me nor rest. You tell me to ask for situations, etc. I am not at all suited for them. My place seems to be in our own dear cottage, where, with your help, I hope to prepare for a better world . . . I dare say I shall be home on Thursday, perhaps earlier, if I am unwell; for the poor bird when in trouble has no one to fly to but his mate.” And a few days later: “I wish I had not left home. Take care of yourself. Kiss poor Hen.”
During his stay in London, Borrow sat to Henry Wyndham Phillips, R.A., for his portrait. [357] On 21st June John Murray wrote: “I have seen your portrait. Phillips is going to saw off a bit of the panel, which will give you your proper and characteristic height. Next year you will doubtless cut a great figure in the Exhibition. It is the best thing young Phillips has done.” The painting was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1844 as “George Borrow, Esq., author of The Bible in Spain,” and is now in the possession of Mr John Murray.
There is a story told in connection with the painting of this portrait. Borrow was a bad sitter, and visibly chafed at remaining indoors doing nothing. To overcome this restlessness the painter had recourse to a clever stratagem. He enquired of his sitter if Persian were really a fine language, as he had heard; Borrow assured him that it was, and at Phillips’ request, started declaiming at the top of his voice, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. When he ceased, the wily painter mentioned other tongues, Turkish, Armenian, etc., in each instance with the same result, and the painting of the portrait became an easy matter.
On 23rd June John Murray (the Second) died, at the age of sixty-five, and was succeeded by his son. “Poor old Murray!” Ford wrote to Borrow, “We shall never see his like again. He . . . was a fine fellow in every respect.” In another letter he refers to him as “that Prince of Bibliophiles, poor, dear, old Murray.” Borrow’s own relations with John Murray had always been most cordial. On one occasion, when writing to his son, he says: “I shall be most happy to see you and still more your father, whose jokes do one good. I wish all the world were as gay as he.” Then without a break, he goes on to deplore the fact that “a gentleman drowned himself last week on my property. I wish he had gone somewhere else.” Such was George Borrow.
John Murray the Third. From a photograph by Maull and Fox
For some time past Borrow’s thoughts had been directed towards obtaining a Government post abroad. The sentence, “You tell me to ask for situations, etc.,” in a letter to his wife had reference to this ambition. He had previously (21st June 1841) written to Lord Clarendon suggesting for himself a consulship; but the reply had not been encouraging. It was “quite hopeless to expect a consulship from Lord Palmerston, the applicants were too many and the appointments too few.”
Borrow recognised the stagnation of his present life.
“I wish the Government would give me some command in Ireland which would call forth my energies,” he wrote to John Murray (25th Oct. 1843). “If there be an outbreak there I shall apply to them at once, for my heart is with them in the present matter: I hope they will be firm, and they have nothing to fear; I am sure that the English nation will back them, for the insolence and ingratitude of the Irish, and the cowardice of their humbug chief, have caused universal disgust.” Later he wrote, also to John Murray, with reference to that “trumpery fellow O’Connell . . . I wish I were acquainted with Sir Robert Peel. I could give him many a useful hint with respect to Ireland and the Irish. I know both tolerably well. Whenever there’s a row I intend to go over with Sidi Habismilk and put myself at the head of a body of volunteers.”
He had previously written “the old Duke [Wellington] will at last give salt eel to that cowardly, bawling vagabond O’Connell.” Borrow detested O’Connell as a “Dublin bully . . . a humbug, without courage or one particle of manly feeling.” Again (17th June) he had written: “Horrible news from Ireland. I wish sincerely the blackguards would break out at once; they will never be quiet until they have got a sound licking, and the sooner the better.”
The finer side of Borrow’s character was shown in his eagerness to obtain employment. There is a touch of pathos in the sight of this knight, armed and ready to fight anything for anybody, wasting his strength and his talents in feuds with his neighbours.
In the profits on the old and the preparation of new editions of The Bible in Spain, Borrow took a keen interest. The money he was making enabled him to assist his wife in disembarrassing her estate. “I begin to take considerable pleasure in making money,” he wrote to his publisher, “which I hope is a good sign; for what is life unless we take pleasure in something?” Again he enquires, “Why does not the public call for another edition of them [The Gypsies of Spain]. You see what an unconscionable rascal I am becoming.” During his lifetime Borrow received from the firm of Murray, £3437, 19s., most of which was on account of The Bible in Spain and, consequently, was paid to him during the first years of his association with Albemarle Street.
Caroline Fox gives an interesting picture of Borrow at this period as he appeared to her:—
“25th Oct. 1843.
“Catherine Gurney gave us a note to George Borrow, so on him we called,—a tall, ungainly, uncouth man, with great physical strength, a quick penetrating eye, a confident manner, and a disagreeable tone and pronunciation. He was sitting on one side of the fire, and his old mother on the other. His spirits always sink in wet weather, and to-day was very rainy, but he was courteous and not displeased to be a little lionised, for his delicacy is not of the most susceptible. He talked about Spain and the Spaniards; the lowest classes of whom, he says, are the only ones worth investigating, the upper and middle class being (with exceptions, of course) mean, selfish, and proud beyond description. They care little for Roman Catholicism, and bear faint allegiance to the Pope. They generally lead profligate lives, until they lose all energy and then become slavishly superstitious. He said a curious thing of the Esquimaux, namely, that their language is a most complex and highly artificial one, calculated to express the most delicate metaphysical subtleties, yet they have no literature, nor are there any traces of their ever having had one—a most curious anomaly; hence he simply argues that you can ill judge of a people by their language.” [360a]
One of the strangest things about Borrow’s personality was that it almost invariably struck women unfavourably. That he himself was not indifferent to women is shown by the impression made upon him by the black eyes of one of the Misses Mills of Saxham Hall, where he was taken to dinner by Dr Hake, who states that “long afterwards, his inquiries after the black eyes were unfailing.” [360b] He was also very kind and considerate to women. “He was very polite and gentlemanly in ladies’ society, and we all liked him,” wrote one woman friend [360c] who frequently accompanied him on his walks. She has described him as walking along “singing to himself or quite silent, quite forgetting me until he came to a high hill, when he would turn round, seize my hand, and drag me up. Then he would sit down and enjoy the prospect.” [360d]