"Burton and Speke.
"To the Editor of the Times.
"Sir,—In the Times of the 21st inst. there is a notice of the death of Sir Richard Burton, an extract from which I give here: 'To the unhappy dispute between Burton and Speke, which gave rise to such bitter feeling, it is not necessary to do more than allude.' I do not myself see why your readers should have any doubt as to which of the two travellers was to blame for this 'unhappy dispute,' neither why a slur should rest on the memory of Speke, one of the most upright men I ever knew—brave, noble, and true.
"Burton's instructions from the Royal Geographical Society were:—
"'The great object of the expedition is to penetrate from Kilwa, etc., and to make the best of your way to the Lake of Nyassa, etc. Having obtained all the information you require here, you are to proceed northwards, etc., towards the source of the Bahr-el-Abiad (White Nile), which it will be your next great object to discover. You will be at liberty to return to England by descending the Nile, or you may return by the route you advanced.'
"On his return from Unyanyembe after discovering Lake Tanganyika, his companion, Speke, wished him to follow up the above instructions, but Burton, using strong language, declared 'he was not going to see any more lakes.' Hence Speke went north alone and discovered the Victoria Nyanza, returning to Unyanyembe with his twenty followers. The discovery of this lake seems to have been galling to Burton; it created a 'bitter feeling,' and few words were exchanged by them during the remaining part of the journey to the East Coast. Things went from bad to worse. Speke was too generous to publish what occurred at this time, but he communicated grave charges against Burton to his relatives and to the Geographical Society, and the judgment of the Society was shown in the fact of their selecting Speke, and not Burton, to complete his discoveries.
"The two travellers had no sympathies, their natures entirely differed. Speke observed and mapped and collected the specimens of natural history. He was the geographer and sportsman of the expedition. Burton knew little of these matters. He excelled in his own line, made copious notes by day and by night of all he saw and heard; he had the gift of languages; while surrounded by natives he amused them, won their confidence, and so obtained those stores of information which have been since transferred to something like eighty volumes. He travelled with three heavy cases of books for consultation. These included a work on the Upper Nile, which would have been of important service to Speke—had he ever seen it!
"A sore subject of 'quarrel' was the non-payment of the Wanyamezi porters who had accompanied them to their own 'Land of the Moon.' These men did not receive their just wages, in consequence of which upwards of a hundred of the same race deserted the next expedition, which was in command of Captain Speke and me.
"Under the above circumstances, and many more I could name, no one will feel surprised that 'unhappy disputes' and 'bitter feeling' existed between the two travellers, and I cannot see how it can be said of Sir Richard Burton that 'no man ever succeeded better with the natives of Africa and Asia.' Neither do I agree with the writer of the article that he was 'a man of real humanity,' when I consider his treatment of his companion and his native followers.
"My long-dead friend's honour is too dear to me to allow a shade of doubt to rest on his honoured name; therefore, with all respect for those who mourn the more recently dead, I ask your insertion of this in your valued paper.
"I have the honour to be your obedient servant,
"J. A. Grant, Lieut-Col.
"Househill, Nairn, October 25th."
I answer directly to the "Graphic" in Two Parts.
I only saw it (as I refused to look at newspaper scraps in my grief) on the 4th of January, 1891, and I answered as follows:—
"In my earliest agony after my husband's death, Colonel Grant's letter to the Times was the first that caught my eyes, and the bitter cry arose to my lips—
'He had not dared to do it,
Except he surely knew my lord was dead;'and I read no more. I do regret that he had not written this letter any time within the last thirty-one years, that my husband might have heard and answered the 'grave charges' of which Colonel Grant speaks now, but of which Richard Burton never heard; but he is not dead so long as I live.
"Now that Burton and Speke are together above, there are only two below who may venture to give an opinion on the matter—Colonel Grant and I.[5] If I live, my future work will be to write my husband's life; but as that will take me some time, I cannot have the public misled until then. I know I am right in saying that, whatever the Royal Geographical Society may have thought then, they have since learned the truth, and know what a true and valuable member they possessed in Richard Burton, of which they have now given me most gratifying proofs. No one can speak so truly as I can, because I possess all Richard Burton's private journals; I know all the secrets of his life for the past thirty-five years. I have all Speke's letters, and the copies of my husband's to him. Men do not tell everything to their men-friends. I knew Speke, and I am less offended with Colonel Grant because I believe him honest and staunch, and that he says what he thinks he knows. I will give the résumé of my knowledge, trying to avoid detail.
"When Richard Burton was preparing for his lake journey into Africa (1856) I was just engaged to him, and John Hanning Speke, his friend, wanted to accompany him as second in command. Burton applied for him, and, after difficulties, leave was granted. Speke had been already with him to Somali-land, and knew perfectly well what travelling with Burton meant, and was glad to go again. Speke was not then, nor did he pretend to be, a geographer, a scientist, an explorer; he was a first-rate sportsman, and he meant to shoot, to get ivory and specimens for natural history, to collect the fauna and animals north of the Line in Africa, but he never gave the Nile a thought. That was Richard's hobby. Richard advised him to coach up all that would be most useful on the journey, in case one of them should fall sick; and he did, for all the world knows what a terrible journey they had pioneering and cutting their way, with no money, no comforts, no support, or protection. That was in days when exploring meant losing your life at a moment's notice, perishing of hunger, thirst, privation, fever, hostile natives, wild beasts, and reptiles. There was no picnicking on champagne and truffles then, no 'riding to Tanganyika in a bath-chair.' It was work for men. They were both fearfully ill on and off. They were great friends, and called each other Dick and Jack.
"All the spare time in tents Richard helped Speke with his scientific instruments, correcting up journals and maps, and learning the languages as spoken there. When Speke was ill Burton tended him like a woman, and when Burton was ill Speke did not repay him in kind. There were no quarrels, but Speke had a peculiarity which, when once Richard had become familiar with, he respected, but found a little trying—there being only two of them. Speke would be silent for days, when Richard would find out that he had unconsciously given some little offence which Speke had treasured up. Many people have that temperament. When they had been absent over two years, and Speke had got well, but Richard was down with fever, Speke was impatient to go on; Richard therefore sent him forward in the direction of Nyanza, which was Speke's great discovery, and he eventually came back triumphant, saying he had 'discovered the sources of the Nile.' Richard said, 'It seems almost too good to be true.' Speke, being well, wanted naturally to return, and push on, but Richard said to him, 'I am a much older man than you, Jack, and I am not getting better. You will be ill again, and I unable to nurse you, and we shall both be down at once, much further from home, our money and stores giving out, our followers discontented. Consent to our return, and we will go home, recruit our health, report what we have done, get some more money, return together and finish our whole journey.'
"Speke agreed, and they set out on the return journey to the coast, and when they reached Aden, Richard being too weak for the journey, and Speke impatient to get to England, Richard agreed to come on by the next steamer. There was no quarrel up to this. As regards the non-payment of the negroes, it was thus: The porters were to receive a certain pay for their services, and an extra reward if they behaved well. They behaved ill, and therefore Richard, being the Chief, decided that they should receive their pay only, but not their reward, because he said, 'If they are rewarded for their ill-doing, they will behave ill to us when we return, and to any future travellers, being certain of their money, no matter what their conduct. They will not respect us, but only think we act from fear.' Speke at first objected, but then said it was right; so did Consul Rigby. They both changed afterwards to suit circumstances. Any one who is used to negroes will know that if they behaved well to Speke and Grant afterwards, and others who followed, it was because of this mulct which Burton had the courage to stand by, and receive the blame at home for. My husband was lavish of his money, and when any one of his dependents had to be punished he used to say, 'I will do anything sooner than dock their pay.' To me it sounds supremely ridiculous to speak of such a thing in connection with his name. Now, when Richard and Speke parted, it was on the best of terms. Richard said, 'I shall hurry up, Jack, as soon as I can,' and Speke's parting words—the last he ever spoke to him—were, 'Good-bye, old fellow. You may be quite sure I shall not go up to the Royal Geographical Society until you come to the fore and we appear together; make your mind quite easy about that.' I need not say that the appearance of Speke alone in London gave us the keenest anxiety. Here comes in the quarrel.
"On board the same ship with Speke, part of the way home, was Laurence Oliphant. I liked Laurence Oliphant, so did Richard, and so did and do hundreds in London, and I am ashamed to write anything against a dead man, but I must do it to defend my own. He got hold of and poisoned Speke's mind against Richard. He said 'that Burton was a jealous man, and being Chief of the expedition he would take all the glory of Nyanza, which, he said, was undoubtedly the true source of the Nile, for himself; that if he were in Speke's place he would go up to the Royal Geographical Society at once, and get the command of the second expedition; that he would back him, and get others to.' Speke resisted at first, but his vanity prevailed, and carried him along until one thing after another was piled up against the unconscious absentee.[6] I grieve to say that these were neither the first friends nor the last that Laurence Oliphant sundered with no apparent settled object. He worked upon Speke till he planted the seed of bitter enmity against Richard to the end. I mentioned this to Mr. Stanley in August, 1890, at Maloja, and he replied, 'How very odd; he did exactly the same to me!' When Richard arrived, this information was the first that greeted him—that his friend and companion had cast him off, and become his enemy. He had gone up to the Royal Geographical Society, and secured all the honour of the expedition, and had been appointed to command the second expedition with Colonel Grant.
"I shall never forget Richard Burton as he was then. He had had twenty-one attacks of fever, was partially paralyzed, and partially blind; he was a mere skeleton, with brown yellow skin hanging in bags, his eyes protruding, and his lips drawn away from his teeth. I used to support him about the Botanical Gardens for fresh air, and sometimes convey him away almost fainting in a cab. The Government and the Royal Geographical Society looked coldly on him. The Indian Army brought him under the reduction; he was almost penniless, and he had hardly a friend to greet him. 'Jack' was the hero of the hour, the Stanley of 1859-64. This was one of the martyrdoms of that uncrowned king's life, and I think that but for me he would have died. He never abused Speke as a mean man would have done; he used to say, 'Jack is one of the bravest fellows in the world. If he has a fault, it is overweening vanity and being so easily flattered. In good hands, he would be the best of men. Let him alone; he will be very sorry some day, though that won't mend my case.' It is interesting to mark in their letters how they descend from 'dear Jack' and 'dear Dick' to 'dear Burton' and 'dear Speke,' until they become 'sir.' Now I must tell you, in Speke's favour, that the injury once done to his friend and the glory won for himself, he was not happy with it.
"Speke and I had a mutual friend—a lady well known in society as Kitty Dormer (Countess Dormer). Through her auspices, Speke and I met, and also exchanged many messages, and we nearly succeeded in reconciling Burton and Speke, and would have done, but for the anti-influences around him. He said to me, 'I am so sorry, and I don't know how it all came about. Burton was so kind to me, nursed me like a woman, taught me such a lot, and I was so fond of him, but it would be too difficult for me to go back now.' And upon that last sentence he always remained.
"At last came the British Association Meeting (Bath, September, 1864). We had been married in 1861, and were back on leave from the West Coast of Africa. Laurence Oliphant conveyed to Burton that Speke had said that if Burton appeared on the platform at Bath (which was, as it were, Speke's native town) he would kick him. I remember Richard's answer: 'Well, that settles it. By God, he shall kick me;' and so to Bath we went. There was to be no speaking on Africa the first day, but the next day was fixed for the great discussion between Burton and Speke. The first day we went on to the platform close to Speke. He looked at Richard and at me, and we at him. I shall never forget his face. It was full of sorrow, of yearning, and perplexity. Then he seemed to turn to stone. After a while he began to fidget a great deal, and exclaimed half aloud, 'Oh, I cannot stand this any longer.' He got up to go out. The man nearest him said, 'Shall you want your chair again, sir? May I have it? Shall you come back?' And he answered, 'I hope not,' and left the hall. The next day a large crowd was assembled for this famous discussion. All the distinguished people were with the Council; Burton alone was excluded, and stood on the platform, we two alone, he with his notes in his hand. There was a delay of about twenty-five minutes, and then the Council and speakers filed in and announced the terrible accident out shooting that had befallen poor Speke shortly after his leaving the hall the day before. Burton sank into a chair, and I saw by the workings of his face the terrible emotion he was controlling and the shock he had received. When called upon to speak, in a voice that trembled he spoke of other things and as briefly as he could. When we got home, he wept long and bitterly, and I was for many a day trying to comfort him.
"Yours obediently,
"Isabel Burton."
There were old servants to be placed out, many people dependent on us, institutions of which I was President to be wound up, debts to be paid, old friends to say good-bye to. My husband's and my personal effects, his library and manuscripts, were packed in two hundred and four cases. Having been eighteen years at Trieste, I felt there would be a meanness in selling, so I furnished the orphanage, and a few rooms for Lisa, and gave away everything where I thought it would be most useful or most valued; and this, with constant visits to my beloved in the chapelle ardente, which was half an hour's drive away, occupied fourteen weeks, though I got up at six and worked till ten p.m. I never rested, and it was a life of torture. I used to wake at four, the hour he was taken ill, and go through all the horrors of his three hours' illness until seven. I prayed for supernatural strength of soul and body, and it was really given to me.
I became almost listless as to exterior things; I suppose that is always the way with a deep-sea grief. I had a little relief by the coming of my cousin Canon Waterton, of Carlisle, and he, by leave from the Vatican, said Mass in our chapel, gave me Communion every morning, stayed with us a month, and helped me wonderfully with the books and manuscripts. He is a highly educated man of good family, living in the best society, was educated in France, so he was a fitting person to consult on many points, to which no one else there could have helped me. I should like to say a word of parting with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, whose affairs I wound up before leaving, because the history is rather curious, and will interest a large body of people who subscribed to it. I had employed four active men; the rest of the Society was nominal. One of these men died of apoplexy one month after my husband; the second had a stroke of paralysis and died immediately after I left; the third fell into a well, and his body was not found till several days; the fourth was very ill of blood-poisoning, had to be sent away, but has since returned and is well—five of us put hors de combat, as I was stricken down with grief. I left a complete chart of directions as to how the remaining money, 1916 florins, should be employed, after which there would be no more funds, and the work closed. The remaining man is Inspector Mottek, of the police, and one new man, both of whom I can trust. The money is under control of the bank, the accounts are sent to me every three months. It has lasted two years and three months, and I believe there are a few florins still left. This will comfort my numerous donors.
The Beloved Remains are removed to England.
On the 20th of January, 1891, I had to go to the Sant' Anna Cemetery to see the beloved remains prepared, and conveyed on board the Cunard steamer Palmyra at the New Port. The remains had been placed in a leaden shell, with a glass over the face; this was again closed in a very handsome coffin of steel and gilt. On this day it was put into a plain white deal case, two inches thick, dovetailed, and secured with iron clamps and screws, and painted in black—"To the Rev. Canon Wenham, Catholic Church, Mortlake, S.W., Surrey, England." The case was filled with sawdust, in which, according to Austrian law, a bottle of carbolic acid was poured, which has rather stained the coffin. (I cannot think who could have started the irreverent report in the press that it was a piano-case.) Accompanied by the Vice-Consul, Mr. Cautley, I proceeded to the steamer, and saw the precious case lowered, and put into a dry and secured place. Poor good Louis Marcovich, the guardian of the cemetery, would not take one single penny of the present that I had prepared for him, for giving up his bedroom for three months. He only said, clasping my hand, "Don't send it me, because I shall only send it back again. I have got a nice consecrated room to die in;" which he did, poor fellow, about a year later. May God reward him for his good work!