Mention has been made of Borrow's feeling for the picaresque elements in
life. Give him a rogue, a wastrel, any character with a touch of the
untamed about him, and no one delighted him more in exhibiting the
fascinating points of this character and his own power in attracting
these rough, unsocial fellows towards him and eliciting their
confidences. Failing the genuine article, however, Borrow had quite as
remarkable a knack of giving even for conventional people and highly
respectable thoroughfares a roguish and adventurous air. Indeed it was
this sympathy with the picaresque side of life, this thorough
understanding of the gypsy temperament, that gives Borrow's genius its
unique distinction. Other characteristics, though important, are
subsidiary to this. Writers such as Stevenson have given us discursive
books of travel; other Vagabonds have shown an equal zest for the life of
the open air--Thoreau and Whitman, for example. But contact with the
gypsies revealed Borrow to himself, made him aware of his powers. It is
not so much a case of like seeking like, as of like seeking unlike.
Affinities there were, no doubt, between the Romany and the "Gorgio"
Borrow, but they are strong temperamental differences. On the one side
an easy, unconscious nonchalance, a natural vivacity; on the other a
morbid self-consciousness and a pronounced strain of melancholy. And it
was doubtless the contrast that appealed to him so strongly and helped
him to throw off his habitual moody reserve.
For beneath that unpromising reserve, as a few chosen friends knew, and
as the gypsies knew, there was a frank camaraderie that won their hearts.
Was he, one naturally asks, when once this barrier of reserve had been
broken down, a lovable man? Certainly he seems to have won the affection
of the gypsies; and the warm admiration of men like Mr. Watts-Dunton
points to an affirmative answer. And yet one hesitates. He attracted
people, that cannot be gainsaid; he won many affections, that also is
uncontrovertible. But to call a man lovable it is not sufficient that he
should win affection, he must retain it. Was Borrow able to do this?
There is the famous case of Isopel to answer in the negative. She loved
him, but she found him out. Was it not so? How else explain the gradual
change of demeanour, and the sad, disillusioned departure. Perhaps at
first the independence of the man, his freedom from sentimentality,
piqued, interested, and attracted her. This is often the case with
women. They may fall in love with an unsentimental man, but they can
never be happy with him.
Isopel retained a regard for her fellow-comrade of the road, but she
would not be his wife.
Of his literary friends no one has written so warmly in defence of
Borrow, or shown a more discerning admiration of his qualities than Mr.
Watts-Dunton.
And yet in the warm tribute which Mr. Watts-Dunton has paid to Borrow I
cannot help feeling that some of the illustrations he gives in
justification of his eulogy are scarcely adequate. It may well be that
he has a wealth of personal reminiscences which he could quote if so
inclined, and make good his asseverations. As it is, one can judge only
by what he tells us. And what does he tell us?
To show that Borrow took an interest in children, Mr. Watts-Dunton quotes
a story about Borrow and the gipsy child which "Borrow was fond of
telling in support of his anti-tobacco bias." The point of the story
lies in the endeavours of Borrow to dissuade a gypsy woman from smoking
her pipe, whilst his friend pointed out to the woman how the smoke was
injuring the child whom she was suckling. Borrow used his friend's
argument, which obviously appealed to the maternal instinct in order to
persuade the woman to give up her pipe. There is no reason to think that
Borrow was especially concerned for the child's welfare. What concerned
him was a human being poisoning herself with nicotine, and his dislike
particularly to see a woman smoking. After the woman had gone he said to
his friend: "It ought to be a criminal offence for a woman to smoke at
all." And that it was frankly as an anti-tobacco crusader that he
considered the episode, is proved surely by Mr. Watts-Dunton himself,
when he adds: "Whenever he (Borrow) was told, as he sometimes was, that
what brought on the 'horrors' when he lived alone in the Dingle, was the
want of tobacco, this story was certain to come up."
One cannot accept this as a specially striking instance of Borrow's
interest in children, any more than the passing reference (already noted)
to the extraordinarily beautiful gypsy girl, as an instance of his
susceptibility to feminine charms.
Failing better illustrations at first hand, one turns toward his books,
where he reveals so many characteristics, and here one is struck by the
want of susceptibility, the obvious lack of interest in the other sex,
showed by his few references to women, and what is even more significant
the absence of any love story in his own life, apart from his books (his
marriage with the well-to-do widow, though a happy one, can scarcely be
called romantic). These things certainly outweigh the trivial incident
which Mr. Watts-Dunton recalls.
As for the pipe episode, it reminds me of Macaulay's well-known gibe at
the Puritans, who objected to bear-baiting, he says, less because it gave
pain to the bear than because it gave pleasure to the spectators.
Similarly his objection to the pipe seems not so much on account of the
child suffering, as because the woman took pleasure in this "pernicious
habit."
But enough of fault-finding. After all, Mr. Watts-Dunton has done a
signal service to literature by preferring the claims of Borrow, and has
upheld him loyally against attacks which were too frequently
mean-spirited and unfair.
Obviously, Borrow was a man of an ingratiating personality, which is a
very different thing from saying that he was a man with an ingratiating
manner. Of all manners, the ingratiating is the one most likely to
arouse suspicion in the minds of all but the most obtuse. An
ingratiating personality, however, is one that without effort and in the
simplest way attracts others, as a magnet attracts iron. Once get Borrow
interested in a man, it followed quite naturally that the man was
interested in Borrow. He might be a rough, unsociable fellow with whom
others found it hard to get on, but Borrow would win his confidence in a
few moments.
Borrow seemed to know exactly how to approach people, what to say, and
how to say it. Sometimes he may have preferred to stand aloof in moody
reserve; that is another matter. But given the inclination, he had a
genius for companionship, as some men have a genius for friendship. As a
rule it will be found that the Vagabond, the Wanderer, is far better as a
companion than as friend. What he cares for is to smile, chatter, and
pass on. Loyal he may be to those who have done him service, but he is
not ready to encroach upon his own comfort and convenience for any man.
Borrow remained steadfast to his friends, but a personal slight, even if
not intended, he regarded as unforgivable.
The late Dr. Martineau was at school with him at Norwich, and after a
youthful escapade on Borrow's part, Martineau was selected by the master
as the boy to "horse" Borrow while he was undergoing corporal punishment.
Probably the proceeding was quite as distasteful to the young Martineau
as to the scapegrace. But Borrow never forgot the incident nor forgave
the compulsory participator in his degradation. And years afterwards he
declined to attend a social function when he had ascertained that
Martineau would be there, making a point of deliberately avoiding him.
Another instance this of the morbid egotism of the man.
Where, however, no whim or caprice stood in the way, Borrow reminds one
of the man who knows as soon as he has tapped the earth with the
"divining rod" whether or no there is water there. Directly he saw a man
he could tell by instinct whether there was stuff of interest there; and
he knew how to elicit it. And never is he more successful than when
dealing with the "powerful, uneducated man." Consequently, no portion of
his writings are more fascinating than when he has to deal with such
figures. Who can forget his delightful pictures of the gypsy--"Mr.
Petulengro"? Especially the famous meeting in _Lavengro_, when he and
the narrator discourse on death.
"'Life is sweet, brother.'
"'Do you think so?'
"'Think so! There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun,
moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind
on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother. Who would wish to die?'
"'I would wish to die.'
"'You talk like a Gorgio--which is the same as talking like a
fool--were you a Romany chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die
indeed! A Romany chal would wish to live for ever.'
"'In sickness, Jasper?'
"'There's the sun and stars, brother.'
"'In blindness, Jasper?'
"'There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that,
I would gladly live for ever. Dosta, we'll now go to the tents and
put on the gloves; and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing
it is to be alive.'"
Then again there is the inimitable ostler in _The Romany Rye_, whose talk
exhales what Borrow would call "the wholesome smell of the stable." His
wonderful harangues (Borrovized to a less extent than usual) have all the
fine, breathless garrulity of this breed of man, and his unique discourse
on "how to manage a horse on a journey" occupies a delightful chapter.
Here are the opening sentences:--
"'When you are a gentleman,' said he, 'should you ever wish to take a
journey on a horse of your own, and you could not have a much better
than the one you have here eating its fill in the box yonder--I
wonder, by the by, how you ever came by it--you can't do better than
follow the advice I am about to give you, both with respect to your
animal and yourself. Before you start, merely give your horse a
couple of handfuls of corn and a little water, somewhat under a
quart, and if you drink a pint of water yourself out of the pail, you
will feel all the better during the whole day; then you may walk and
trot your animal for about ten miles, till you come to some nice inn,
where you may get down, and see your horse led into a nice stall,
telling him not to feed him till you come. If the ostler happens to
be a dog-fancier, and has an English terrier dog like that of mine
there, say what a nice dog it is, and praise its black and fawn; and
if he does not happen to be a dog-fancier, ask him how he's getting
on, and whether he ever knew worse times; that kind of thing will
please the ostler, and he will let you do just what you please with
your own horse, and when your back is turned he'll say to his
comrades what a nice gentleman you are, and how he thinks he has seen
you before; then go and sit down to breakfast, get up and go and give
your horse a feed of corn; chat with the ostler two or three minutes
till your horse has taken the shine out of his oats, which will
prevent the ostler taking any of it away when your back is turned,
for such things are sometimes done--not that I ever did such a thing
myself when I was at the inn at Hounslow; oh, dear me, no! Then go
and finish your breakfast.'"