Related to Borrow, and to a living Gypsy, by Borrow’s pen, how much better! It is a book that can be browsed on again and again, but hardly ever without this thought. It was the result of ambition, and might have been equal to its predecessors, but competition destroyed the impulse of ambition and spoilt the book.
“Romano Lavo-Lil” was his last book. For posthumous publication he left only “The Turkish Jester; or, The Pleasantries of Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi, translated from the Turkish by G. B.” (Ipswich, 1884). This was a string of the sayings and adventures of one Cogia, in this style: “One day Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi said: ‘O Mussulmen, give thanks to God Most High that He did not give the camel wings; for had He given them, they would have perched upon your houses and chimneys, and have caused them to tumble down upon your heads.’” This may have been the translation from the Turkish that Fitzgerald read in 1857 and could not admire. It is a diverting book and illustrates Borrow’s taste.
CHAPTER XXXIII—LAST YEARS
From 1860 to 1874 Borrow lived at Brompton, and perhaps because he wrote few letters these years seem to have been more cheerful, except at the time of his wife’s death. He is seen at “The Star and Garter” in 1861 entertaining Murray and two others at dinner, in a heavy and expensive style. He is still an uncomfortable, unattractive figure in a drawing-room, especially with accurate and intelligent ladies, like Miss Frances Power Cobbe, who would not humour his inaccurate dictatorship. Miss Cobbe was his neighbour in Hereford Square. She says that if he was not a Gypsy by blood he ought to have been one; she “never liked him, thinking him more or less of a hypocrite,” but nevertheless invited him to her house and tried to console him in his bereavement by a gentle tact which was not tact in Borrow’s case:
“Poor old Borrow is in a sad state. I hope he is starting in a day or two for Scotland. I sent C--- with a note begging him to come and eat the Welsh mutton you sent me to-day, and he sent back word, ‘Yes.’ Then, an hour afterwards, he arrived, and in a most agitated manner said he had come to say ‘he would rather not. He would not trouble anyone with his sorrows.’ I made him sit down, and talked to him as gently as possible, saying: ‘It won’t be a trouble, Mr. Borrow, it will be a pleasure to me.’ But it was all of no use. He was so cross, so rude, I had the greatest difficulty in talking to him. I asked him would he look at the photos of the Siamese, and he said: ‘Don’t show them to me!’ So, in despair, as he sat silent, I told him
I had been at a pleasant dinner-party the night before, and had met Mr. L---, who told me of certain curious books of mediæval history. ‘Did he know them?’ ‘No, and he dared say Mr. L--- did not, either! Who was Mr. L---?’ I described that obscure individual (one of the foremost writers of the day), and added that he was immensely liked by everybody. Whereupon Borrow repeated at least twelve times, ‘Immensely liked! As if a man could be immensely liked!’ quite insultingly. To make a diversion (I was very patient with him as he was in trouble) I said I had just come home from the Lyell’s and had heard . . . But there was no time to say what I had heard! Mr. Borrow asked: ‘Is that old Lyle I met here once, the man who stands at the door (of some den or other) and bets?’ I explained who Sir Charles was (of course he knew very well), but he went on and on, till I said gravely: ‘I don’t think you meet those sort of people here, Mr. Borrow—we don’t associate with Blacklegs, exactly.’”
A cantankerous man, and as little fitted for Miss Cobbe as Miss Cobbe for him.
There is not one pleasant story of Borrow in a drawing-room. His great and stately stature, his bright “very black” or “soft brown” eyes, thick white hair, and smooth oval face, his “loud rich voice” that could be menacing with nervousness when he was roused, his “bold heroic air,” [{313}] ever encased in black raiment to complete the likeness to a “colossal clergyman,” never seemed to go with any kind of furniture, wall-paper, or indoor company where there were strangers who might pester him. His physical vigour endured, though when nearing sixty he is said to have lamented that he was childless, saying mournfully: “I shall soon not be able to knock a man down, and I have no son
to do it for me.” [{314a}] No record remains of his knocking any man down. But, at seventy, he could have walked off with E. J. Trelawny, Shelley’s friend, under his arm, and was not averse to putting up his “dukes” to a tramp if necessary. [{314b}] At Ascot in 1872 he intervened when two or three hundred soldiers from Windsor were going to wreck a Gypsy camp for some affront. Amid the cursing and screaming and brandishing of belts and tent-rods appeared “an arbiter, a white-haired brown-eyed calm Colossus, speaking Romany fluently, and drinking deep draughts of ale—in a quarter of an hour Tommy Atkins and Anselo Stanley were sworn friends over a loving quart.” [{314c}] But this is told by Hindes Groome, who said in one place that he met Borrow once, and in another three times. At seventy, he would breakfast at eight in Hereford Square, walk to Roehampton and pick up Mr. Watts-Dunton or Mr. Hake, roam about Wimbledon Common and Richmond Park, bathe in the Pen Ponds even if it were March and there were ice on the water, then run about to dry, and after fasting for twelve hours would eat a dinner at Roehampton “that would have done Sir Walter Scott’s eyes good to see.” [{314d}] He loved Richmond Park, and “seemed to know every tree.” [{314e}] He loved also “The Bald-faced Stag,” in Roehampton Valley, and over his pot of ale would talk about Jerry Abershaw, the highwayman, and his deeds performed in the neighbourhood. [{314f}] If he liked old Burton and ’37 port he was willing to drink the worst swipes if necessary. [{314g}]