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.