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.
CHAPTER XXIII
In Eastern Europe
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:—