“Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Where in the
whole cycle of romance shall we find anything more wild, grotesque, and sad than the easily authenticated history of Benedict Mol, the treasure-digger of St. James?”
Knapp, by the way, prints this very letter from Rey Romero. It was his son who saw Benedict in prison, and he simply says that he does not know what has become of him.
As Dr. Knapp says, Borrow painted from a model. That is to say, he did like everybody else. Of course he did not invent. Why should a man with such a life invent for the purpose of only five books? But there is no such thing as invention (in the popular sense), except in the making of bad nonsense rhymes or novels. A writer composes out of his experience, inward, outward and histrionic, or along the protracted lines of his experience. Borrow felt that adventures and unusual scenes were his due, and when they were not forthcoming he revived an old one or revised the present in the weird light of the past. Is this invention?
Pictures like that of Benedict Mol are not made out of nothing by Borrow or anybody else. Nor are they copies. The man who could merely copy nature would never have the eyes to see such beauties as Benedict Mol. It must be noticed how effective is the re-appearance, the intermingling of such a man with “ordinary life,” and then finally the suggestion of one of Borrow’s enemies that he was put up to it by Don Jorge—“That fellow is at the bottom of half the picardias which happen in Spain.” What glory for Don Jorge. The story would have been entertaining enough as a mere isolated short story: thus scattered, it is twice as effective as if it were a mere fiction, whether labelled “a true story” or introduced by an ingenious variation of the same. It is one of Borrow’s triumphs never to let us escape from the spell of actuality into a languid acquiescence in what is “only pretending.” The
form never becomes a fiction, even to the same extent as that of Turgenev’s “Sportsman’s Sketches”; for Borrow is always faithful to the form of a book of travel in Spain during the ’thirties. In “Don Quixote” and “Gil Blas,” the lesser narratives are as a rule introduced without much attempt at probability, but as mere diversions. They are never such in “The Bible in Spain,” though they are in “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye.” The Gypsy hag of Badajoz, who proposed to poison all the Busné in Madrid, and then away with the London Caloro to the land of the Moor—his Greek servant Antonio, even though he begins with “Je vais vous raconter mon histoire du commencement jusqu’içi.”—the Italian whom he had met as a boy and who now regretted leaving England, the toasted cheese and bread, the Suffolk ale, the roaring song and merry jests of the labourers,—and Antonio again, telling him “the history of the young man of the inn,”—these story-tellers are not merely consummate variations upon those of the “Decameron” and “Gil Blas.” The book never ceases to be a book of travel by an agent of the Bible Society. It is to its very great advantage that it was not written all of a piece with one conscious aim. The roughness, the merely accurate irrelevant detail here and there, the mention of his journal, and the references to well-known and substantial people, win from us an openness and simplicity of reception which ensure a success for it beyond that of most fictions. I cannot refuse complete belief in the gigantic Jew, Abarbanel, for example, when Borrow has said: “I had now a full view of his face and figure, and those huge featured and Herculean form still occasionally revisit me in my dreams. I see him standing in the moonshine, staring me in the face with his deep calm eyes.” I do not feel bound to believe that he had met the Italian of Corunna twenty years before at Norwich, though to a man with his memory for faces such re-appearances are
likely to happen many times as often as to an ordinary man. But I feel no doubt about Judah Lib, who spoke to him at Gibraltar: he was “about to exclaim, ‘I know you not,’ when one or two lineaments struck him, and he cried, though somewhat hesitatingly, ‘surely this is Judah Lib.’” He continues: “It was in a steamer in the Baltic in the year ’34, if I mistake not.” That he had this strong memory is certain; but that he knew it, and was proud of it, and likely to exaggerate it, is almost equally certain.
It was natural that such a knight should have squires of high degree, as Francisco the Basque and the two Antonios, Gypsy and Greek. Antonio the Greek left Borrow to serve a count as cook, but the count attacked him with a rapier, whereupon he gave notice in the following manner:
“Suddenly I took a large casserole from the fire in which various eggs were frying; this I held out at arm’s length, peering at it along my arm as if I were curiously inspecting it—my right foot advanced, and the other thrown back as far as possible. All stood still, imagining, doubtless, that I was about to perform some grand operation; and so I was: for suddenly the sinister leg advancing, with one rapid coup de pied I sent the casserole and its contents flying over my head, so that they struck the wall far behind me. This was to let them know that I had broken my staff and had shaken the dust off my feet. So casting upon the count the peculiar glance of the Sceirote cooks when they feel themselves insulted, and extending my mouth on either side nearly as far as the ears, I took down my haversack and departed, singing as I went the song of the ancient Demos, who, when dying, asked for his supper, and water wherewith to lave his hands:
‘Ο ηλιος εβασιλενε, κι ο Δημος διαταζει.
Συρτε, παιδια, μου, ’σ το νερον ψωμι να φατ' αποψε.