To George Borrow, Esq., Oulton Hall, Lowestoft
123 Parliament Street,
Grosvenor Square, Feb. 17, 1845.Dear Borrow,—El hombre propose pero Dios es que dispose. I had hoped to have run down and seen you and yours in your quiet Patmos; but the Sangrados will it otherwise. I have never been quite free from a tickling pain since the bronchitis of last year, and it has recently assumed the form of extreme relaxation and irritation in the uvula, which is that pendulous appendage which hangs over the orifice of the throat. Mine has become so seriously elongated that, after submitting for four days last week to its being burnt with caustic every morning in the hopes that it might thus crimp and contract itself, I have been obliged to have it amputated. This has left a great soreness, which militates against talking and deglutition, and would render our charming chats after the Madeira over la cheminea del cueldo inadvisable. I therefore defer the visit: my Sangrado recommends me, when the summer advances, to fly away into change of air, change of scene; in short, must seek an hejira as you made. How strange the coincidence! but those who have wandered much about require periodical migration, as the encaged quail twice a year beats its breast against the wires.
I am not quite determined where to go, whether to Scotland and the sweet heath-aired hills, or to the wild rocks and clear trout streams of the Tyrol; it is a question between the gun and the rod. If I go north assuredly si Dios quiere I will take your friendly and peaceful abode in my way.
As to my immediate plans I can say nothing before Thursday, when the Sangrado is to report on some diagnosis which he expects.
Meanwhile Handbook is all but out, and Lockhart and Murray are eager to have you in the Q. R. I enclose you a note from the editor. How feel you inclined? I would send you down 30 sheets, and you might run your eye through them. There are plums in the pudding.
Richard Ford.
A proof in slip form of the rejected review, with Borrow’s corrections written upon it, is in my possession. Our author pictures Gibraltar as a human entity thus addressing Spain:
Accursed land! I hate thee, and far from being a defence, will invariably prove a thorn in thy side.
And so on through many sentences of excited rhetoric. Borrow forgot while he wrote that he had a book to review—a book, moreover, issued by the publishing house which issued the periodical in which his review was to appear. And this book was a book in ten thousand—a veritable mine of information and out of the way learning. Surely this slight reference amid many dissertations of his own upon Spain was to damn his friend’s book with faint praise:
A Handbook is a Handbook after all, a very useful thing, but still—the fact is that we live in an age of humbug, in which everything, to obtain note and reputation, must depend less upon its own intrinsic merit than on the name it bears. The present book is about one of the best books ever written upon Spain; but we are afraid that it will never be estimated at its proper value; for after all a Handbook is a Handbook.
Yet successful as was Ford’s Handbook, it is doubtful but that Borrow was right in saying that it had better have been called Wanderings in Spain or Wonders of the Peninsula. How much more gracious was the statement of another great authority on Spain—Sir William Stirling-Maxwell—who said that “so great a literary achievement had never before been performed under so humble a title.” The article, however, furnishes a trace of autobiography in the statement by Borrow that he had long been in the habit of reading Don Quixote once every nine years. Yet he tells us that he prefers Le Sage’s Gil Blas to Don Quixote, “the characters introduced being certainly more true to nature.” But altogether we do not wonder that Lockhart declined to publish the article. Here is the last letter in my possession; after this there is one in the Knapp collection dated 1851, acknowledging a copy of Lavengro, in which Fords adds: “Mind when you come to see the Exhibition you look in here, for I long to have a chat,” and so the friendship appears to have collapsed as so many friendships do. Ford died at Heavitree in 1858:
To George Borrow, Esq., Oulton Hall, Lowestoft
Heavitree, Jany. 28, 1846.
Querido Don Jorge,—How are you getting on in health and spirits? and how has this absence of winter suited you? Are you inclined for a run up to town next week? I propose to do so, and Murray, who has got Washington Irving, etc., to dine with him on Wednesday the 4th, writes to me to know if I thought you could be induced to join us. Let me whisper in your ear, yea: it will do you good and give change of air, scene and thought: we will go and beat up the renowned Billy Harper, and see how many more ribs are stoved in.
I have been doing a paper for the Q. R. on Spanish Architecture; how gets on the Lavengro? I see the “gypsies” are coming out in the Colonial, which will have a vast sale.
John Murray seems to be flourishing in spite of corn and railomania.
Remember me kindly and respectfully to your Ladies, and beg them to tell you what good it will do you to have a frisk up to town, and a little quiet chat with your pal and amigo,
Richard Ford.
In 1844 Borrow set out for the most distant holiday that he was ever to undertake. Passing through London in March, 1844, he came under the critical eye of Elizabeth Rigby, afterwards Lady Eastlake, that formidable critic who four years later—in 1848—wrote the cruel review of Jane Eyre in The Quarterly that gave so much pain to Charlotte Brontë. She was not a nice woman. These sharp, “clever” women-critics rarely are; and Borrow never made a pleasant impression when such women came across his path—instance Harriet Martineau, Frances Cobbe, and Agnes Strickland. We should sympathise with him, and not count it for a limitation, as some of his biographers have done. The future Lady Eastlake thus disposes of Borrow in her one reference to him:
March 20.—Borrow came in the evening; now a fine man, but a most disagreeable one; a kind of character that would be most dangerous in rebellious times—one that would suffer or persecute to the utmost. His face is expressive of strong-headed determination.
Quoting this description of Borrow, Dr. Knapp describes it as “shallow”—for “he was one of the kindest of men, as my documents show.” The description is shallow enough, because the writer had no kind of comprehension of Borrow; but then, perhaps, his champion had not. Borrow was neither one of the “kindest of men” nor the reverse. He was a good hater and a whole-hearted lover, and to be thus is to fill a certain uncomfortable but not discreditable place in the scheme of things. About a month later Borrow was on the way to the East, travelling by Paris and Vienna.
In May he is in Vienna, whence he writes to his wife:—
Vienna, May 16, 1844.
My dearest Carreta,—I arrived here the day before yesterday, and so early as yesterday I had begun a letter for you, but I now commence another, as I have rather altered my intentions since that time. I thought at first I should not like this place, for the difficulty of finding accommodation in the inns is very great. I went to four, but found them all full, and though I at last got into one, it was in every respect inconvenient and uncomfortable; to-day, however, I have taken a lodging for a month, two handsome chambers at about 25 shillings per week. I do not like dark, gloomy places, as they affect my poor spirits terribly. You will find the address farther on, and I wish you to write to me, for I long so much to hear from my dearest. Since I last wrote I have traversed nearly the whole breadth of Germany. On leaving Strasbourg I passed through what is called the Black Forest, a range of mountains covered with pine forests; the scenery was grand and beautiful to a degree. I then came to wide plains, which crossing I reached Ulm and Augsburg, which last place, as you will see by the map, is in the heart of Germany. It is celebrated for what is called the Confession of Augsburg: that is, the declaration of faith which was published there by Luther and the other reformers. I then went to Munich, a beautiful city, the capital of the Kingdom of Bavaria, where there is a most noble gallery of pictures; the porter is a giant about seven feet high. I entered into discourse with him, and found him very good-natured and communicative. From Munich I went to Ratisbon, a fine old place, and there I embarked in a steamer which goes down the Danube, the noblest river in Europe—you cannot conceive anything equal to the grandeur of its banks. Almost all the way from Ratisbon to Vienna it runs amongst huge mountains covered with forests from the top to the bottom; the stream is wonderfully rapid, running like a mill flush; the waters are whitish, being continually fed by the snows of the Alps. Here and there upon the banks you see the ruins of old castles, which add considerably to the effect of the scene; before reaching Vienna, however, it leaves the mountains and spreads itself over a wide plain, in the midst of which Vienna stands. Since I last wrote to you I have had some strange adventures, but the strangest of all is the following.
We were two days in coming down the Danube, and the first night we stopped at Lenz, a frontier town of Austria, in the heart of the mountains. I was very tired and low-spirited, and, after looking about the town a little while, I went to the inn where I had put up and went to bed. The evening was dull, sultry and oppressive; the room, however, where I lay, overlooked the Danube, and a refreshing coolness came from the water through the window, which I had left open. I had composed myself and was just falling to sleep, when I was roused by a knock at the door. “Come in,” I cried, and a man in a pair of high Hessian boots, and dressed in black, walked into the room. I had seen him on board the steamer, and had held some conversation with him in French about Spain, concerning which he seemed very inquisitive. He held something in his hand which I could not distinguish, as it was dark, so much so that I should have hardly recognized the man himself but for his Hessian boots. He came straight to the bed and seized my hand. “So it is you,” said he; “I almost thought I recognized you on board the vessel by your manner of discourse, but now I am certain: I have just seen your name below inscribed by your own hand in the travellers’ book. How astonishing, that I should thus have met the very person whom I have long had the greatest desire to see!” “Who are you?” said I; “I have not the pleasure of knowing you.” “I am the Dean of Ratisbon,” said he; “and I come to beg, as the greatest of favours, that you would condescend to write your name in this book, which I always carry about with me when I travel.” He then put into my hand Murray’s cheap edition of “The Bible in Spain,” and, ringing the bell, called for a light. “I am a Roman Catholic,” said he, “but I know how to appreciate genius, especially such as yours. Whenever you set foot in Ratisbon again, pray, pray take up your abode in my house . . .”
Vienna is a very strange place; I do not much like it, but I think I can settle down here for a month tolerably well, especially now I have procured a nice lodging, and commence writing a little anew. God grant that I may be successful; perhaps if I am I may yet see better days, and get rid of the thoughts which have so long beset me. Though I have been here only two days, I have already seen a great deal, amongst other things the Emperor and the Empress; they go to the royal chapel every morning, which, though in the palace, is open to everybody. It is a small but beautiful chapel, very simple, with a Christ on the Cross over the altar, a picture on the right hand side, and Maria with her crown of rays on the left; four tall Heyduks, or Hungarian soldiers, stand in front of the altar, with their backs to the people and their faces to the officiating priests. The singing was admirable; the theatre band, which is perhaps the best in the world, being all there, it was so powerful that the voices of the priests could scarcely be heard. The Emperor sat in a kind of covered gallery, his head and the upper part of his body visible through a window; when the service was over, however, I had a full view of him. I stood in one of the ante-rooms, through which he passed to the interior of the palace; the Empress was at his right hand. He is a small, diminutive man, not much more than five feet high; his features, however, are pleasing and good-humoured. The Empress is a head and shoulders taller, and is about the finest woman I ever saw; she looked what she is—Empress of one of the most powerful nations of the world. What a beautiful country is Germany, in every point of view superior to France, which is anything but beautiful. Notwithstanding its inhabitants call it “the lovely country,” I have traversed it from south to north, and from west to east, and have scarcely seen anything pretty about it, save Versailles, and that is all art, whereas in this country you see not a trace of art, nothing but wild and beautiful nature. The people, moreover, are kind and good, and not continually boasting of themselves and country like the French. About nine days ago I wrote to my dear mother from Augsburg; I hope she received the letter, and that she informed you, my dearest, as I entreated her to do. I am now a great way from you; Vienna is one of the cities in Europe the most distant from England, double as far as Madrid, and more remote even than St. Petersburg; it is about one thousand miles from Paris. The Austrians are quite a distinct race, differing very much from the Prussians and the people of the North of Germany. You scarcely see any foreigners here—few English or French—it is too far for a common trip, and the means of conveyance much more slow than in other parts. From here (D.V.) I intend to go to Hungary, which is close by, being only a day’s journey down the Danube; and from thence, when I have spoken with the Gypsies, I shall make the best of my way to Constantinople, and then home by Russia. I want, if I possibly can, to compose my poor mind, for it is no use running about countries unless the mind is at rest. I knew that before I left home, but I had become so unsettled and wretched, as you know, that I could not rest or do anything; the last winter did me no good, and, indeed, we have all of us some reason to remember it. I go on taking those homœopathic globules, but whether they are of any use or effect I can scarcely say; there is one thing, however, which I am sure is of much greater use and comfort to me—it is the little book which my dearest gave me when I left her; I look into it every morning, and sometimes twice or thrice a day. I have done everything you bid me when I set out, and I hope to God that when I return I shall find you well. You are almost my only comfort here on earth, and without you I feel that I should be lost and wild, and my sensations, alas, never deceive me. I hope that in a week or two my dear mother will come over and see you, and that she will be a comfort to you, and you to her; poor, dear thing, she loves you, as well she has right, for a kind, dear, and true wife you have been to her son. Take care of those —, leurs oreilles sont toujours ouvertes. Don’t let us be blinded a third time. I hope all the animals are well. I saw to-day in the street two enormous parrots or mackaws to sell—one was quite white, and the other red. I thought of poor, dear Hen.; I am making a collection of coins for her, gold and silver, and I hope at my return to bring her some French, Turkish, and Russian money. I shall be glad to get home, for it is doleful to be alone, especially at night; I have, however, your little book, which I take in my hand, and which frequently puts me to sleep. And now, my Carreta, I must conclude, having said all I have to say for the present. This is my direction:—
Mr. Borrow,
Chez Mr. Guglielmi,
Rothenthurmstrasse No 642, 3. étage,
Vienna,
Austria.
God bless you, my dearest; I should like to hear from you. You will probably receive this in about ten days, so that I could have an answer from you before I leave. Kiss Hen. remember me to dear Lucy and Mr. and Mrs. Utting; and God bless you.
G. B.
In June he is in Buda Pesth, whence he wrote to his wife:
To Mrs. George Borrow, Oulton, Lowestoft
Pesth, Hungary, 14th June 1844.
My dearest Carreta,—I was so glad to get your letter which reached me about nine days ago; on receiving it, I instantly made preparations for quitting Vienna, but owing to two or three things which delayed me, I did not get away till the 20th; I hope that you received the last letter which I sent, as I doubt not that you are all anxious to hear from me. You cannot think how anxious I am to get back to you, but since I am already come so far, it will not do to return before my object is accomplished. Heaven knows that I do not travel for travelling’s sake, having a widely different object in view. I came from Vienna here down the Danube, but I daresay I shall not go farther by the river, but shall travel through the country to Bucharest in Wallachia, which is the next place I intend to visit; but Hungary is a widely different country to Austria, not at all civilised, no coaches, etc., but only carts and wagons; however, it is all the same thing to me as I am quite used to rough it; Bucharest is about three hundred miles from here; the country, as I have said before, is wild, but the people are quite harmless—it is only in Spain that any danger is to be feared from your fellow creatures. In Bucharest I shall probably stay a fortnight. I have a letter to a French gentleman there from Baron Taylor. Pesth is very much like Edinburgh—there is an old and a new town, and it is only the latter which is called Pesth, the name of the old is Buda, which stands on the side of an enormous mountain overlooking the new town, the Danube running between. The two towns together contain about 120,000 inhabitants; I delivered the letter which dear Woodfall was kind enough to send; it was to a person, a Scotchman, who is superintending in the building of the chain bridge over the Danube; he is a very nice person, and has shown me every kind of civility; indeed, every person here is very civil; yesterday I dined at the house of a rich Greek; the dinner was magnificent, the only drawback was that they pressed me too much to eat and drink; there was a deal of champagne, and they would make me drink it till I was almost sick, for it is a wine that I do not like, being far too sweet. Since I have been here I have bathed twice in the Danube, and find myself much the better for it; I both sleep and eat better than I did. I have also been about another chapter, and get on tolerably well; were I not so particular I should get on faster, but I wish that everything that I write in this next be first rate. Tell Mama that this chapter begins with a dialogue between her and my father; I have likewise contrived to bring in the poor old dog in a manner which I think will be interesting. I began this letter some days ago, but have been so pleasantly occupied that I have made little progress till now. Clarke, poor fellow, does not know how to make enough of me. He says he could scarcely believe his eyes when he first received the letter, as he has just got The Bible in Spain from England, and was reading it. This is the 17th, and in a few days I start for a place called Debreczen, from whence I shall proceed gradually on my journey. The next letter which you receive will probably be from Transylvania, the one after that from Bucharest, and the third D.V. from Constantinople. If you like you may write to Constantinople, directing it to the care of the English Ambassador, but be sure to pay the postage.
Before I left Vienna Baron Hammer, the great Orientalist, called upon me; his wife was just dead, poor thing, which prevented him showing me all the civility which he would otherwise have done. He took me to the Imperial Library. Both my books were there, Gypsies and Bible. He likewise procured me a ticket to see the Imperial treasure. (Tell Henrietta that I saw there the diamond of Charles the Bold; it is as large as a walnut.) I likewise saw the finest opal, as I suppose, in the world; it was the size of a middling pear; there was likewise a hyacinth as big as a swan’s egg; I likewise saw a pearl so large that they had wrought the figure of a cock out of it, and the cock was somewhat more than an inch high, but the thing which struck me most was the sword of Tamerlane, generally called Timour the Tartar; both the hilt and scabbard were richly adorned with diamonds and emeralds, but I thought more of the man than I did of them, for he was the greatest conqueror the world ever saw (I have spoken of him in Lavengro in the chapter about David Haggart). Nevertheless, although I have seen all these fine things, I shall be glad to get back to my Carreta and my darling mother and to dear Hen. From Debreczen I hope to write to kind dear Woodfall, and to Lord from Constantinople. I must likewise write to Hasfeld. The mulct of thirty pounds upon Russian passports is only intended for the subjects of Russia. I see by the journals that the Emperor has been in England; I wonder what he is come about; however, the less I say about that the better, as I shall soon be in his country. Tell Hen that I have got her a large piece of Austrian gold money, worth about forty-two shillings; it is quite new and very handsome; considerably wider than the Spanish ounce, only not near so thick, as might be expected, being of considerably less value; when I get to Constantinople I will endeavour to get a Turkish gold coin. I have also got a new Austrian silver dollar and a half one; these are rather cumbersome, and I don’t care much about them—as for the large gold coin, I carry it in my pocket-book, which has been of great use to me hitherto. I have not yet lost anything, only a pocket handkerchief or two as usual; but I was obliged to buy two other shirts at Vienna; the weather is so hot, that it is quite necessary to change them every other day; they were beautiful linen ones, and I think you will like them when you see. I shall be so glad to get home and continue, if possible, my old occupation. I hope my next book will sell; one comfort is that nothing like it has ever been published before. I hope you all get on comfortably, and that you catch some fish. I hope my dear mother is well, and that she will continue with you till the end of July at least; ah! that is my month, I was born in it, it is the pleasantest month in the year; would to God that my fate had worn as pleasant an aspect as the month in which I was born. God bless you all. Write to me, to the care of the British Embassy, Constantinople. Kind remembrances to Pilgrim.
In the intervening journey between Pesth and Constantinople he must have talked long and wandered far and wide among the gypsies, for Charles L. Brace in his Hungary in 1851 gives us a glimpse of him at Grosswardein holding conversation with the gypsies:
They described his appearance—his tall, lank, muscular form—and mentioned that he had been much in Spain, and I saw that it must be that most ubiquitous of travellers, Mr. Borrow.
The four following letters require no comment:
To Mrs. George Borrow, Oulton, Lowestoft
Debreczen, Hungary, 8th July 1844.
My darling Carreta,—I write to you from Debreczen, a town in the heart of Hungary, where I have been for the last fortnight with the exception of three days during which I was making a journey to Tokay, which is about forty miles distant. My reason for staying here so long was my liking the place where I have experienced every kind of hospitality; almost all the people in these parts are Protestants, and they are so fond of the very name of Englishman that when one arrives they scarcely know how to make enough of him; it is well the place is so remote that very few are ever seen here, perhaps not oftener than once in ten years, for if some of our scamps and swell mob were once to find their way there the good people of Hungary would soon cease to have much respect for the English in general; as it is they think that they are all men of honour and accomplished gentlemen whom it becomes them to receive well in order that they may receive from them lessons in civilisation; I wonder what they would think if they were to meet such fellows as Squarem and others whom I could mention. I find my knowledge of languages here of great use, and the people are astonished to hear me speak French, Italian, German, Russian, and occasionally Gypsy. I have already met with several Gypsies; those who live abroad in the wildernesses are quite black; the more civilised wander about as musicians, playing on the fiddle, at which they are very expert, they speak the same languages as those in England, with slight variations, and upon the whole they understand me very well. Amongst other places I have been to Tokay, where I drank some of the wine. I am endeavouring to bring two or three bottles to England, for I thought of my mother and yourself and Hen., and I have got a little wooden case made; it is very sweet and of a pale straw colour; whether I shall be able to manage it I do not know; however, I shall make the attempt. At Tokay the wine is only two shillings the bottle, and I have a great desire that you should taste some of it. I sincerely hope that we shall soon all meet together in health and peace. I shall be glad enough to get home, but since I am come so far it is as well to see as much as possible. Would you think it, the Bishop of Debreczen came to see me the other day and escorted me about the town, followed by all the professors of the college; this was done merely because I was an Englishman and a Protestant, for here they are almost all of the reformed religion and full of love and enthusiasm for it. It is probable that you will hear from Woodfall in a day or two; the day before yesterday I wrote to him and begged him to write to you to let you know, as I am fearful of a letter miscarrying and your being uneasy. This is unfortunately post day and I must send away the letter in a very little time, so that I cannot say all to you that I could wish; I shall stay here about a week longer, and from here shall make the best of my way to Transylvania and Bucharest; I shall stay at Bucharest about a fortnight, and shall then dash off for Constantinople—I shan’t stay there long—but when once there it matters not as it is a civilised country from which start steamers to any part where you may want to go. I hope to receive a letter from you there. You cannot imagine what pleasure I felt when I got your last. Oh, it was such a comfort to me! I shall have much to tell you when I get back. Yesterday I went to see a poor wretch who is about to be hanged; he committed a murder here two years ago, and the day after tomorrow he is to be executed—they expose the people here who are to suffer three days previous to their execution—I found him in a small apartment guarded by soldiers, with hundreds of people staring at him through the door and the windows; I was admitted into the room as I went with two officers; he had an enormous chain about his waist and his feet were manacled; he sat smoking a pipe; he was, however, very penitent, and said that he deserved to die, as well he might; he had murdered four people, beating out their brains with a club; he was without work, and requested of an honest man here to receive him into his house one night until the morning. In the middle of the night he got up, and with his brother, who was with him, killed every person in the house and then plundered it; two days after, he was taken; his brother died in prison; I gave him a little money, and the gentleman who was with me gave him some good advice; he looked most like a wild beast, a huge mantle of skin covered his body; for nine months he had not seen the daylight; but now he is brought out into a nice clean apartment, and allowed to have everything he asks for, meat, wine, tobacco—nothing is refused him during these last three days. I cannot help thinking that it is a great cruelty to keep people so long in so horrid a situation; it is two years nearly since he has been condemned. Do not be anxious if you do not hear from me regularly for some time. There is no escort post in the countries to which I am going. God bless my mother, yourself, and Hen.
G. B.
To Mrs. George Borrow, Oulton, Lowestoft
Hermanstadt, July 30, 1844.
My dearest Carreta,—I write to you a line or two from this place; it is close upon the frontier of Wallachia. I hope to be in Bucharest in a few days—I have stopped here for a day owing to some difficulty in getting horses—I shall hasten onward as quick as possible. In Bucharest there is an English Consul, so that I shall feel more at home than I do here. I am only a few miles now from the termination of the Austrian dominions, their extent is enormous, the whole length of Hungary and Transylvania; I shall only stay a few days in Bucharest and shall then dash off straight for Constantinople; I have no time to lose as there is a high ridge of mountains to cross called the Balkans, where the winter commences at the beginning of September. I thought you would be glad to hear from me, on which account I write. I sent off a letter about a week ago from Klausenburg, which I hope you will receive. I have written various times from Hungary, though whether the letters have reached you is more than I can say. I wrote to Woodfall from Debreczen. I have often told you how glad I shall be to get home and see you again. If I have tarried, it has only been because I wished to see and learn as much as I could, for it was no use coming to such a distance for nothing. By the time I return I shall have made a most enormous journey, such as very few have made. The place from which I write is very romantic, being situated at the foot of a ridge of enormous mountains which extend to the clouds, they look higher than the Pyrenees. My health, thank God, is very good. I bathed to-day and feel all the better for it; I hope you are getting on well, and that all our dear family is comfortable. I hope my dear mother is well. Oh, it is so pleasant to hope that I am still not alone in the world, and that there are those who love and care for me and pray for me. I shall be very glad to get to Constantinople, as from there there is no difficulty; and a great part of the way to Russia is by sea, and when I am in Russia I am almost at home. I shall write to you again from Bucharest if it please God. It is not much more than eighty miles from here, but the way lies over mountains, so that the journey will take three or four days. We travel here in tilted carts drawn by ponies; the carts are without springs, so that one is terribly shaken. It is, however, very healthy, especially when one has a strong constitution. The carts are chiefly made of sticks and wickerwork; they are, of course, very slight, and indeed if they were not so they would soon go to pieces owing to the jolting. I read your little book every morning; it is true that I am sometimes wrong with respect to the date, but I soon get right again; oh, I shall be so glad to see you and my mother and old Hen. and Lucy and the whole dear circle. I hope Crups is well, and the horse. Oh, I shall be so glad to come back. God bless you, my heart’s darling, and dear Hen.; kiss her for me, and my mother.
George Borrow.
To Mrs. George Borrow, Oulton, Lowestoft
Bucharest, August 5, 1844.
My dearest Carreta,—I write you a few lines from the house of the Consul, Mr. Colquhoun, to inform you that I arrived at Bucharest quite safe: the post leaves to-day, and Mr. C. has kindly permitted me to send a note along with the official despatches. I am quite well, thank God, but I thought you would like to hear from me. Bucharest is in the province of Wallachia and close upon the Turkish frontier. I shall remain here a week or two as I find the place a very interesting one; then I shall proceed to Constantinople. I wrote to you from Hermanstadt last week and the week previous from Clausenburgh, and before I leave I shall write again, and not so briefly as now. I have experienced every possible attention from Mr. C., who is a very delightful person, and indeed everybody is very kind and attentive. I hope sincerely that you and Hen. are quite well and happy, and also my dear mother. God bless you, dearest.
George Borrow.
To Mrs. George Borrow, Oulton, Lowestoft
Bucharest, August 14, 1844.
My darling Carreta,—To-morrow or the next day I leave Bucharest for Constantinople. I wrote to you on my arrival a few days ago, and promise to write again before my departure. I shall not be sorry to get to Constantinople, as from thence I can go wherever I think proper without any difficulty. Since I have been here, Mr. Colquhoun, the British Consul-General, has shown me every civility, and upon the whole I have not passed the time disagreeably. I have been chiefly occupied of late in rubbing up my Turkish a little, which I had almost forgotten; there was a time when I wrote it better than any other language. It is coming again rapidly, and I make no doubt that in a little time I should speak it almost as well as Spanish, for I understand the groundwork. In Hungary and Germany I picked up some curious books, which will help to pass the time at home when I have nothing better to do. It is a long way from here to Constantinople, and it is probable that I shall be fifteen or sixteen days on the journey, as I do not intend to travel very fast. It is possible that I shall stay a day or two at Adrianople, which is half way. If you should not hear from me for some time don’t be alarmed, as it is possible that I shall have no opportunities of writing till I get to Constantinople. Bucharest, where I am now, is close on the Turkish frontier, being only half a day’s journey. Since I have been here, I have bought a Tartar dress and a couple of Turkish shirts. I have done so in order not to be stared at as I pass along. It is very beautiful and by no means dear. Yesterday I wrote to M. Since I have been here I have seen some English newspapers, and see that chap H. has got in with M. Perhaps his recommendation was that he had once insulted us. However, God only knows. I think I had never much confidence in M. I can read countenances as you know, and have always believed him to be selfish and insincere. I, however, care nothing about him, and will not allow, D.V., any conduct of his to disturb me. I shall be glad to get home, and if I can but settle down a little, I feel that I can accomplish something great. I hope that my dear mother is well, and that you are all well. God bless you. It is something to think that since I have been away I have to a certain extent accomplished what I went about. I am stronger and better and hardier, my cough has left me, there is only occasionally a little huskiness in the throat. I have also increased my stock of languages, and my imagination is brightened. Bucharest is a strange place with much grandeur and much filth. Since I have been here I have dined almost every day with Mr. C., who wants me to have an apartment in his house. I thought it, however, better to be at an inn, though filthy. I have also dined once at the Russian Consul-General’s, whom I knew in Russia. Now God bless you my heart’s darling; kiss also Hen., write to my mother, and remember me to all friends.
G. Borrow.
The best letter that I have of this journey, and indeed the best letter of Borrow’s that I have read, is one from Constantinople to his wife—the only letter by him from that city:
To Mrs. George Borrow, Oulton, Lowestoft
Constantinople, 16th September 1844.
My darling Carreta,—I am about to leave Constantinople and to return home. I have given up the idea of going to Russia; I find that if I go to Odessa I shall have to remain in quarantine for fourteen days, which I have no inclination to do; I am, moreover, anxious to get home, being quite tired of wandering, and desirous of being once more with my loved ones. This is a most interesting place, but unfortunately it is extremely dear. The Turks have no inns, and I am here at an English one, at which, though everything is comfortable, the prices are very high. To-day is Monday, and next Friday I purpose starting for Salonica in a steamboat—Salonica is in Albania. I shall then cross Albania, a journey of about three hundred miles, and get to Corfu, from which I can either get to England across Italy and down the Rhine, or by way of Marseilles and across France. I shall not make any stay in Italy if I go there, as I have nothing to see there. I shall be so glad to be at home with you once again, and to see my dear mother and Hen. Tell Hen. that I picked up for her in one of the bazaars a curious Armenian coin; it is silver, small, but thick, with a most curious inscription upon it. I gave fifteen piastres for it. I hope it and the rest will get safe to England. I have bought a chest, which I intend to send by sea, and I have picked up a great many books and other things, and I wish to travel light; I shall, therefore, only take a bag with a few clothes and shirts. It is possible that I shall be at home soon after your receiving this, or at most three weeks after. I hope to write to you again from Corfu, which is a British island with a British garrison in it, like Gibraltar; the English newspapers came last week. I see those wretched French cannot let us alone, they want to go to war; well, let them; they richly deserve a good drubbing. The people here are very kind in their way, but home is home, especially such a one as mine, with true hearts to welcome me. Oh, I was so glad to get your letters; they were rather of a distant date, it is true, but they quite revived me. I hope you are all well, and my dear mother. Since I have been here I have written to Mr. Lord. I was glad to hear that he has written to Hen. I hope Lucy is well; pray remember me most kindly to her, and tell her that I hope to see her soon. I count so of getting into my summer-house again, and sitting down to write; I have arranged my book in my mind, and though it will take me a great deal of trouble to write it, I feel that when it is written it will be first-rate. My journey, with God’s help, has done me a great deal of good. I am stronger than I was, and I can now sleep. I intend to draw on England for forty or fifty pounds; if I don’t want the whole of it, it will be all the same. I have still some money left, but I have no wish to be stopped on my journey for want of it. I am sorry about what you told me respecting the railway, sorry that the old coach is driven off the road. I shall patronise it as little as possible, but stick to the old route and Thurton George. What a number of poor people will these railroads deprive of their bread. I am grieved at what you say about poor M.; he can take her into custody, however, and oblige her to support the children; such is law, though the property may have been secured to her, she can be compelled to do that. Tell Hen. that there is a mosque here, called the mosque of Sultan Bajazet; it is full of sacred pigeons; there is a corner of the court to which the creatures flock to be fed, like bees, by hundreds and thousands; they are not at all afraid, as they are never killed. Every place where they can roost is covered with them, their impudence is great; they sprang originally from two pigeons brought from Asia by the Emperor of Constantinople. They are of a deep blue. God bless you, dearest.
G. B.
He returned home by way of Venice and Rome as the following two letters indicate:
To Mrs. George Borrow, Oulton, Lowestoft
Venice, 22nd Octr. 1844.
My dearest Carreta,—I arrived this day at Venice, and though I am exceedingly tired I hasten to write a line to inform you of my well-being. I am now making for home as fast as possible, and I have now nothing to detain me. Since I wrote to you last I have been again in quarantine for two days and a half at Trieste, but I am glad to say that I shall no longer be detained on that account. I was obliged to go to Trieste, though it was much out of my way, otherwise I must have remained I know not how long in Corfu, waiting for a direct conveyance. After my liberation I only stopped a day at Corfu in order that I might lose no more time, though I really wished to tarry there a little longer, the people were so kind. On the day of my liberation, I had four invitations to dinner from the officers. I, however, made the most of my time, and escorted by one Captain Northcott, of the Rifles, went over the fortifications, which are most magnificent. I saw everything that I well could, and shall never forget the kindness with which I was treated. The next day I went to Trieste in a steamer, down the whole length of the Adriatic. I was horribly unwell, for the Adriatic is a bad sea, and very dangerous; the weather was also very rough; after stopping at Trieste a day, besides the quarantine, I left for Venice, and here I am, and hope to be on my route again the day after to-morrow. I shall now hurry through Italy by way of Ancona, Rome, and Civita Vecchia to Marseilles in France and from Marseilles to London, in not more than six days’ journey. Oh, I shall be so glad to get back to you and my mother (I hope she is alive and well) and Hen. I am glad to hear that we are not to have war with those silly people, the French. The idea made me very uneasy, for I thought how near Oulton lay to the coast. You cannot imagine what a magnificent old town Venice is; it is clearly the finest in Italy, although in decay; it stands upon islands in the sea, and in many places is intersected with canals. The Grand Canal is four miles long, lined with palaces on either side. I, however, shall be glad to leave it, for there is no place to me like Oulton, where live two of my dear ones. I have told you that I am very tired, so that I cannot write much more, and I am presently going to bed, but I am sure that you will be glad to hear from me, however little I may write. I think I told you in my last letter that I had been to the top of Mount Olympus in Thessaly. Tell Hen. that I saw a whole herd of wild deer bounding down the cliffs, the noise they made was like thunder; I also saw an enormous eagle—one of Jupiter’s birds, his real eagles, for, according to the Grecian mythology, Olympus was his favourite haunt. I don’t know what it was then, but at present the most wild savage place I ever saw; an immense way up I came to a forest of pines; half of them were broken by thunderbolts, snapped in the middle, and the ruins lying around in the most hideous confusion; some had been blasted from top to bottom and stood naked, black, and charred, in indescribable horridness; Jupiter was the god of thunder, and he still seems to haunt Olympus. The worst is there is little water, so that a person might almost perish there of thirst; the snow-water, however, when it runs into the hollows is the most delicious beverage ever tasted—the snow, however, is very high up. My next letter, I hope, will be from Marseilles, and I hope to be there in a very few days. Now, God bless you, my dearest; write to my mother, and kiss Hen., and remember me kindly to Lucy and the Atkinses.
G. B.
To Mrs. George Borrow, Oulton, Lowestoft
Rome, 1 Nov. 1844.
My dearest Carreta,—My last letter was from Ancona; the present is, as you see, from Rome. From Ancona I likewise wrote to Woodfall requesting he would send a letter of credit for twelve or fifteen pounds, directing to the care of the British Consul at Marseilles. I hope you received your letter and that he received his, as by the time I get to Marseilles I shall be in want of money by reason of the roundabout way I have been obliged to come. I am quite well, thank God, and hope to leave here in a day or two. It is close by the sea, and France is close by, but I am afraid I shall be obliged to wait some days at Marseilles before I shall get the letter, as the post goes direct from no part of Italy, though it is not more than six days’ journey, or seven at most, from Ancona to London. It was that wretched quarantine at Corfu that has been the cause of all this delay, as it caused me to lose the passage by the steamer [original torn here] Ancona, which forced me to go round by Trieste and Venice, five hundred miles out of my way, at a considerable expense. Oh, I shall be so glad to get home. As I told you before, I am quite well; indeed, in better health than I have been for years, but it is very vexatious to be stopped in the manner I have been. God bless you, my darling. Write to my mother and kiss her,
G. Borrow.
The Bible in Spain bears on its title-page the date 1843. In the intervening eight or nine years he had travelled much—suffered much. During all these years he had been thinking about, talking about, his next book, making no secret of the fact that it was to be an Autobiography. Even before The Bible in Spain was issued he had written to Mr. John Murray foreshadowing a book in which his father, William Taylor, and others were to put in an appearance. In the “Advertisement” to The Romany Rye he tells us that “the principal part of Lavengro was written in the year ’43, that the whole of it was completed before the termination of the year ’46, and that it was in the hands of the publisher in the year ’48.” As the idea grew in his mind, his friend, Richard Ford, gave him much sound advice:
Never mind nimminy-pimminy people thinking subjects low. Things are low in manner of handling. Draw Nature in rags and poverty, yet draw her truly, and how picturesque! I hate your silver fork, kid glove, curly-haired school.
And so in the following years, now to Ford, now to Murray, he traces his progress, while in 1844 he tells Dawson Turner that he is “at present engaged in a kind of Biography in the Robinson Crusoe style.” But in the same year he went to Buda-Pesth, Venice, and Constantinople. The first advertisement of the book appeared in The Quarterly Review in July, 1848, when Lavengro, An Autobiography, was announced. Later in the same year Mr. Murray advertised the book as Life, A Drama, and Dr. Knapp, who had in his collection the original proof-sheets of Lavengro, reproduced the title-page of the book which then stood as Life, A Drama, and bore the date 1849. Borrow’s procrastination in delivering the complete book worried John Murray exceedingly. Not unnaturally, for in 1848 he had offered the book at his annual sale dinner to the booksellers who had subscribed to it liberally. Eighteen months later Murray was still worrying Borrow for the return of the proof-sheets of the third and last volume. Not until January, 1850, do we hear of it as Lavengro, An Autobiography, and under this title it was advertised in The Quarterly Review for that month as “nearly ready for publication.” In April, 1850, we find Woodfall, John Murray’s printer, writing letter after letter urging celerity, to which Mrs. Borrow replies, excusing the delay on account of her husband’s indifferent health. They have been together in lodgings at Yarmouth. “He had many plunges into the briny Ocean, which seemed to do him good.” Murray continued to exhort, but the final chapter did not reach him. “My sale is fixed for December 12th,” he writes in November, “and if I cannot show the book then I must throw it up.” This threat had little effect, for on 13th December we find Murray still coaxing his dilatory author, telling him with justice that there were passages in his book “equal to Defoe.” The very printer, Mr. Woodfall, joined in the chase. “The public is quite prepared to devour your book,” he wrote, which was unhappily not the case. Nor was Ford a happier prophet, although a true friend when he wrote—“I am sure it will be the book of the year when it is brought forth.” The activity of Mrs. Borrow in this matter of the publication of Lavengro is interesting. “My husband . . . is, I assure you, doing all he can as regards the completion of the book,” she writes to Mr. Murray in December, 1849, and in November of the following year Murray writes to her to say that he is engraving Phillips’s portrait of Borrow for the book. “I think a cheering letter from you will do Mr. Borrow good,” she writes later. Throughout the whole correspondence between publisher and printer we are impressed by Mrs. Borrow’s keen interest in her husband’s book, her anxiety that he should be humoured. Sadly did Borrow need to be humoured, for if he had cherished the illusion that his book would really be the “Book of the Year” he was to suffer a cruel disillusion. Scarcely any one wanted it. All the critics abused it. In The Athenæum it was bluntly pronounced a failure. “The story of Lavengro will content no one,” said Sir William Stirling-Maxwell in Fraser’s Magazine. The book “will add but little to Mr. Borrow’s reputation,” said Blackwood. The only real insight into the book’s significance was provided by Thomas Gordon Hake in a letter to The New Monthly Review, in which journal the editor, Harrison Ainsworth, had already pronounced a not very favourable opinion. “Lavengro’s roots will strike deep into the soil of English letters,” wrote Dr. Hake, and he then pronounced a verdict now universally accepted. George Henry Lewes once happily remarked that he would make an appreciation of Boswell’s Life of Johnson a test of friendship. Many of us would be almost equally inclined to make such a test of Borrow’s Lavengro. Tennyson declared that an enthusiasm for Milton’s Lycidas was a touchstone of taste in poetry. May we not say that an enthusiasm for Borrow’s Lavengro is now a touchstone of taste in English prose literature?
But the reception of Lavengro by the critics, and also by the public, may be said to have destroyed Borrow’s moral fibre. Henceforth, it was a soured and disappointed man who went forth to meet the world. We hear much in the gossip of contemporaries of Borrow’s eccentricities, it may be of his rudeness and gruffness, in the last years of his life. Only those who can realise the personality of a self-contained man, conscious, as all genius has ever been, of its achievement, and conscious also of the failure of the world to recognise, will understand—and will sympathise.
Borrow, as we have seen, took many years to write Lavengro. “I am writing the work,” he told Dawson Turner, “in precisely the same manner as The Bible in Spain, viz., on blank sheets of old account-books, backs of letters, etc.,” and he recalls Mahomet writing the Koran on mutton bones as an analogy to his own “slovenliness of manuscript.” I have had plenty of opportunity of testing this slovenliness in the collection of manuscripts of portions of Lavengro that have come into my possession. These are written upon pieces of paper of all shapes and sizes, although at least a third of the book in Borrow’s very neat handwriting is contained in a leather notebook, of which I give examples of the title-page and opening leaf in facsimile. The title-page demonstrates the earliest form of Borrow’s conception. Not only did he then contemplate an undisguised autobiography, but even described himself, as he frequently did in his conversation, as “a Norfolk man.” Before the book was finished, however, he repudiated the autobiographical note, and by the time he sat down to write The Romany Rye we find him fiercely denouncing his critics for coming to such a conclusion. “The writer,” he declares, “never said it was an autobiography; never authorised any person to say it was one.” Which was doubtless true, in a measure. Yet I find among my Borrow Papers the following letter from Whitwell Elwin, who, writing from Booton Rectory on 21st October, 1853, and addressing him as “My dear Mr. Borrow,” said:
I hoped to have been able to call upon you at Yarmouth, but a heavy cold first, and now occupation, have interfered with my intentions. I daresay you have seen the mention made of your Lavengro in the article on Haydon in the current number of The Quarterly Review, and I thought you might like to know that every syllable, both comment and extract, was inserted by the writer (a man little given to praise) of his own accord. Murray sent him your book, and that was all. No addition or modification was made by myself, and it is therefore the unbiassed judgment of a very critical reviewer. Whenever you appear again before the public I shall endeavour to do ample justice to your past and present merits, and there is one point in which you could aid those who understand you and your books in bringing over general readers to your side. I was myself acquainted with many of the persons you have sketched in your Lavengro, and I can testify to the extraordinary vividness and accuracy of the portraits. What I have seen, again, of yourself tells me that romantic adventures are your natural element, and I should a priori expect that much of your history would be stranger than fiction. But you must remember that the bulk of readers have no personal acquaintance with you, or the characters you describe. The consequence is that they fancy there is an immensity of romance mixed up with the facts, and they are irritated by the inability to distinguish between them. I am confident, from all I have heard, that this was the source of the comparatively cold reception of Lavengro. I should have partaken the feeling myself if I had not had the means of testing the fidelity of many portions of the book, from which I inferred the equal fidelity of the rest. I think you have the remedy in your own hands, viz., by giving the utmost possible matter-of-fact air to your sequel. I do not mean that you are to tame down the truth, but some ways of narrating a story make it seem more credible than others, and if you were so far to defer to the ignorance of the public they would enter into the full spirit of your rich and racy narrative. You naturally look at your life from your own point of view, and this in itself is the best; but when you publish a book you invite the reader to participate in the events of your career, and it is necessary then to look a little at things from his point of view. As he has not your knowledge you must stoop to him. I throw this out for your consideration. My sole wish is that the public should have a right estimate of you, and surely you ought to do what is in your power to help them to it. I know you will excuse the liberty I take in offering this crude suggestion. Take it for what it is worth, but anyhow . . .
To this letter, as we learn from Elwin’s Life, “instead of roaring like a lion,” as Elwin had expected, he returned quite a “lamb-like note.”
Read by the light in which we all judge the book to-day, this estimate by Elwin was about as fatuous as most contemporary criticisms of a masterpiece. Which is only to say that it is rarely given to contemporary critics to judge accurately of the great work that comes to them amid a mass that is not great. That Elwin, although not a good editor of Pope, was a sound critic of the literature of a period anterior to his own is demonstrated by the admirable essays from his pen that have been reprinted with an excellent memoir of him by his son. In this memoir we have a capital glimpse of our hero:
Among the notables whom he had met was Borrow, whose Lavengro and Romany Rye he afterwards reviewed in 1857 under the title of “Roving Life in England.” Their interview was characteristic of both. Borrow was just then very sore with his snarling critics, and on some one mentioning that Elwin was a quartering reviewer, he said, “Sir, I wish you a better employment.” Then hastily changing the subject he called out, “What party are you in the Church—Tractarian, Moderate, or Evangelical? I am happy to say I am the old High.” “I am happy to say I am not,” was Elwin’s emphatic reply. Borrow boasted of his proficiency in the Norfolk dialect, which he endeavoured to speak as broadly as possible. “I told him,” said Elwin, “that he had not cultivated it with his usual success.” As the conversation proceeded it became less disputatious, and the two ended by becoming so cordial that they promised to visit each other. Borrow fulfilled his promise in the following October, when he went to Booton, and was “full of anecdote and reminiscence,” and delighted the rectory children by singing them songs in the gypsy tongue. Elwin during this visit urged him to try his hand at an article for the Review. “Never,” he said; “I have made a resolution never to have anything to do with such a blackguard trade.”
While writing of Whitwell Elwin and his association with Borrow, which was sometimes rather strained as we shall see when The Romany Rye comes to be published, it is interesting to turn to Elwin’s final impression of Borrow, as conveyed in a letter which the recipient has kindly placed at my disposal. It was written from Booton Rectory, and is dated 27th October, 1893:
I used occasionally to meet Borrow at the house of Mr. Murray, his publisher, and he once stayed with me here for two or three days about 1855. He always seemed to me quite at ease “among refined people,” and I should not have ascribed his dogmatic tone, when he adopted it, to his resentment at finding himself out of keeping with his society. A spirit of self-assertion was engrained in him, and it was supported by a combative temperament. As he was proud of his bodily prowess, and rather given to parade it, so he took the same view of an argument as of a battle with fists, and thought that manliness required him to be determined and unflinching. But this, in my experience of him, was not his ordinary manner, which was calm and companionable, without rudeness of any kind, unless some difference occurred to provoke his pugnacity. I have witnessed instances of his care to avoid wounding feelings needlessly. He never kept back his opinions which, on some points, were shallow and even absurd; and when his antagonist was as persistently positive as himself, he was apt to be over vehement in contradiction. I have heard Mr. Murray say that once in a dispute with Dr. Whewell at a dinner the language on both sides grew so fiery that Mrs. Whewell fainted.
He told me that his composition cost him a vast amount of labour, that his first draughts were diffuse and crude, and that he wrote his productions several times before he had condensed and polished them to his mind. There is nothing choicer in the English language than some of his narratives, descriptions, and sketches of character, but in his best books he did not always prune sufficiently, and in his last work, Wild Wales, he seemed to me to have lost the faculty altogether. Mr. Murray long refused to publish it unless it was curtailed, and Borrow, with his usual self-will and self-confidence, refused to retrench the trivialities. Either he got his own way in the end, or he revised his manuscript to little purpose.
Probably most of what there was to tell of Borrow has been related by himself. It is a disadvantage in Lavengro and Romany Rye that we cannot with certainty separate fact from fiction, for he avowed in talk that, like Goethe, he had assumed the right in the interests of his autobiographical narrative to embellish it in places; but the main outline, and larger part of the details, are the genuine record of what he had seen and done, and I can testify that some of his minor personages who were known to me in my boyhood are described with perfect accuracy.
Two letters by Mr. Elwin to Borrow, from my Borrow Papers, both dated 1853—two years after Lavengro was written—may well have place here:
To George Borrow, Esq.
Booton, Norwich, Oct. 26, 1853.
My dear Mr. Borrow,—I shall be rejoiced to see you here, and I hope you will fasten a little luggage to the bow of your saddle, and spend as much time under my roof as you can spare. I am always at home. Mrs. Elwin is sure to be in the house or garden, and I, at the worst, not further off than the extreme boundary of my parish. Pray come and that quickly. Your shortest road from Norwich is through Horsford, and from thence to the park wall of Haverland Hall, which you skirt. This will bring you out by a small wayside public house, well known in these parts, called “The Rat-catchers.” At this point you turn sharp to the left, and keep the straight road till you come to a church with a new red brick house adjoining, which is your journey’s end.
The conclusion of your note to me is so true in sentiment, and so admirable in expression, that I hope you will introduce it into your next work. I wish it had been said in the article on Haydon. Cannot you strew such criticisms through the sequel to Lavengro? They would give additional charm and value to the work. Believe me, very truly yours,
W. Elwin.
You are of course aware that if I had spoken of Lavengro in the Q. R. I should have said much more, but as I hoped for my turn hereafter, I preferred to let the passage go forth unadulterated.