173. Death. 20th October 1890.
As we have seen, Burton had for some months shown signs of bodily
decay; and he now daily grew weaker. His eyes, though still fierce and
penetrating, were sunk into hollow cavities. His body was emaciated, his
hands were thin to transparency, his voice was sometimes inarticulate,
and he could hardly walk without support. Still, there seemed no
immediate cause for anxiety, and, as will be seen from the following
letter [628] (15th October 1890) to Mr. David MacRitchie, he was busy
evolving new plans, including a visit to Greece, to be made in the
company of Dr. Schliemann, [629] the archaeologist. "In the spring of
next year (Inshallah!) there will be a total disruption of my Lares and
Penates. I shall be 'retired for age,' and leave Trieste for ever with
my mental eye upon a flat in London which can be locked up at a moment's
notice when the renter wants to go abroad. Meanwhile we are off to
Athens about mid-November. All luck to the [Gypsy] Society." On the same
day he wrote to Mr. W. F. Kirby: "Excuse post-card. We have no secrets.
Please don't forget to keep me au courant of your movements in re Jan.,
&c. We shall not be in London before early September 1891, I imagine,
but then it will be for good." Elsewhere he says, almost in the words of
Ovid, "My earnest wish is somehow to depart from these regions." He was
to depart, very soon, but in a manner little expected.
Sir Richard as we have noticed, would never say "Good-bye." It was
always "Au revoir." One day in this October Miss Letchford went to see
him with her little sister. It was tea-time, but Lady Burton was
in another room with a visitor. Never had he appeared so bright or
affectionate. He laughed and joked and teased the child and would not
let them go for two hours. At last he shook hands and said, "Come and
see me again very soon. I like you and your sister.---Good-bye, Daisy."
"I was so startled," comments Miss Letchford, "by that 'Good-bye' that a
shiver passed over me. I felt at that moment that I should never see him
again." Two days later Mr. Albert Letchford called on Sir Richard, who
seemed fairly well, but he remarked "The good Switzerland did me ended
this evening."
Dr. Baker, though himself just then a great sufferer from neuralgic
headache, watched with anxious solicitude over his patient. On the
last day of his life Sir Richard seemed better than usual, and all the
household remarked his excellent spirits. It was Sunday October 29th.
After returning from mass and communion at eight in the morning Lady
Burton found him engaged upon the last page of the twentieth chapter of
The Scented Garden. [630] The work was therefore almost half done. She
kissed him, and he said, "To-morrow I shall have finished this, and then
I will begin our biography." She commented "What happiness that will
be!" Her mind, however, was not quite at ease that morning, for a bird
had pecked for the third time at a window that was never opened, and Sir
Richard remarked "This is a sign of death."
The day was fine, and after breakfast Burton took his usual two hours'
walk with Dr. Baker. On the way out through the garden he noticed a
robin drowning in the basin of a fountain. [631] At his request Dr.
Baker rescued it, and Burton, opening his coat and vest--for he never
wore a waistcoat--warmed the bird at his breast, and then carried it to
the house to be cared for by the porter. The incident carries us back
to those old days at Tours, when, as a boy, he often laid himself out
to revive unfortunate birds and small beasts. In the afternoon he wrote
some letters and discussed gaily the proposed visit to Greece. They
dined at half-past seven, and talked and laughed as usual, though
Burton seemed tired. As usual, too, he shocked his wife by jesting about
scapularies and other sacred things, but the conversation ran chiefly
on General Booth's scheme for relieving the Submerged Tenth; and Burton,
who entered into the subject with zest, observed: "When you and I get to
England and are quite free we will give our spare time to that." [632]
In the course of the day Mrs. Victoria Maylor came in with the
manuscript of The Scented Garden and the copy of it which she had made
for the printers, [633] and from this we may deduce that Sir Richard
intended to go to press at once with the first twenty chapters of the
work. He may have intended to publish the twenty-first chapter later
as a second volume. At half-past nine he retired to his bedroom. Lady
Burton then repeated "the night prayers to him," and while she was
speaking "a dog," to use her own words, "began that dreadful howl which
the superstitious regard as the harbinger of death."
After prayers, Burton asked for "chou-chou;" she game him a
paper-covered copy in two volumes of the Martyrdom of Madeline [634] by
Robert Buchanan, and he lay in bed reading it. At midnight he complained
of pain in his foot, but said he believed it was only a return of the
gout--the "healthy gout," which troubled him about every three months.
"Let me call Dr. Baker," said Lady Burton.
"No," replied Sir Richard, "don't disturb him poor fellow, he has been
in frightful pain with his head; and has at last got a little sleep."
At four, however, Lady Burton paid no heed to her husband's
remonstrances, but called up Dr. Baker, who, however, saw no cause for
alarm, and after administering some medicine he returned to bed. Half
an hour later Burton complained that there was no air, and Lady Burton,
again thoroughly alarmed, rose to call in Dr. Baker once more.
Although Burton was then dying, he said, "Poor chap, don't disturb him."
But Lady Burton instantly summoned Dr. Baker, who on entering pronounced
the situation grave. Lady Burton at once roused the servants and sent in
all directions for a priest; while, assisted by Dr. Baker and Lisa, she
"tried every remedy and restorative," but in vain.
"Oh, Puss," cried Burton, "chloroform--ether--quick!"
"My darling," replied Lady Burton in anguish. "Dr. Baker says it would
kill you. He is doing everything possible."
His breathing then became laboured, and after a brief struggle for air
he cried, "I am dying, I am dead." Lady Burton held him in her arms,
but he got heavier, and presently became insensible. Dr Baker applied an
electric battery to the heart, and Lady Burton kneeling at the bedside,
and holding her husband's hand, prayed her "heart out to God to keep
his soul there (though he might be dead in appearance) till the priest
arrived." But it was in vain. The priest, a Slavonian, named Pietro
Martelani, came in about half-past six. We may regret what followed, but
no one would judge harshly the actions of an agonised woman. Pity for
human suffering must drown all other feelings. The priest looked at the
dead but warm body and asked whether there was still any life. That
the heart and pulsed had ceased to beat, Lady Burton herself afterwards
admitted to her relations, but deceiving herself with the belief that
life still continued in the brain, she cried: "He is alive, but I
beseech you, lose not a moment, for the soul is passing away."
"If," said the Priest, "he is a Protestant, he cannot receive the Holy
Sacrament in this way."
Lady Burton having declared that her husband "had abjured the heresy and
belonged to the Catholic Church," the priest at once administered "the
last comforts."
It was certainly a kind of consolation to the poor lady to feel that her
husband had not departed unhouselled; but it is equally evident that
her mind had given way, for the scenes that presently followed can be
explained only on this assumption. [635]
Dr. Baker at once sent a brief note to Mr. Letchford. Singularly
enough the night before--that is the terrible Sunday night--Miss Daisy
Letchford experienced "a strange instance of telepathy." "My brother,"
she says, "had gone out, and I waited alone for him. Suddenly I fancied
I heard footsteps in the passage and stopping at the door of the room
where I was reading. I felt drops of cold sweat on my forehead. I was
afraid, yet I knew that no one was about at that time of the night. The
door opened slowly, and I felt the impression of some one looking at me.
I dared not raise my eyes. The footsteps seemed to approach. In a fit
of fear I looked up and saw Sir Richard standing before me. He started,
waved his hand and disappeared. Early in the morning came a ring at the
bell. I jumped out of bed and burst into tears as I said, 'This is to
tell us that Sir Richard is dead.' At that moment the maid brought in
the letter for my brother from Dr. Baker. I ran with it into his room.
'Albert, Albert,' I cried, 'Sir Richard is dead.' He opened the letter.
It was only too true."
The same morning, Mr. P. P. Cautley, the Vice Consul, was called up to
the house.
The undertaker, who was already there, asked in Mr. Cautley's presence
to what religion Sir Richard belonged.
Turning to Mr. Cautley, Lady Burton asked: "What religion shall I say?"
"Tell him Sir Richard's true religion," replied Mr. Cautley. [636]
She then said, "Catholic."
"But!" interjected Mr. Cautley.
"YES," followed Lady Burton, "he was a Catholic."
Lady Burton still nursed the hope that Sir Richard was not quite dead.
There was life in the brain, she persisted in saying. Would he revive?
"For forty-eight hours," she tells us, "she knelt watching him." She
could not shed a tear. Then she "had the ulnar nerve opened and strong
electricity applied to make sure of his death."
Some months after, when her mind had regained its equilibrium, she
observed to Major St. George Burton. [637] "To a Protestant, Dick's
reception into the Holy Church must seem meaningless and void. He was
dead before extreme unction was administered; and my sole idea was to
satisfy myself that he and I would be buried according to the Catholic
rites and lie together above ground in the Catholic cemetery. He was not
strictly received, for he was dead, and the formula Si es capax, &c.,
saved the priest's face and satisfied the church." When mortification
began to set in, the body, which was found to be covered with scars, the
witnesses of a hundred fights, was embalmed, laid out in uniform, and
surrounded with candles and wreaths. "He looked so sweet," says Lady
Burton, "such an adorable dignity, like a sleep." [638] Behind the bed
still hung the great map of Africa. On his breast Lady Burton had placed
a crucifix, and he still wore the steel chain and the "Blessed Virgin
Medal," which she had given him just before the Tanganyika journey.
Priests, pious persons, and children from the orphanage of St. Joseph,
in which Lady Burton had taken so much interest, watched and prayed,
recited the office for the dead, and sang hymns.
There were three distinct funerals at Trieste, and there was to be
another nine months onward in England. All that can be said is that Lady
Burton seemed to draw comfort from pageantry and ceremonial that to most
mourners would have been only a long-drawn agony.
The procession was a royal one. The coffin was covered with the Union
Jack, and behind it were borne on a cushion Burton's order and medals.
Then followed a carriage with a pyramid of wreaths, and lastly, the
children of St. Joseph's orphanage, a regiment of infantry and the
governor and officials of Trieste.
Every flag in the town was half-mast high, multitudes thronged the
streets, and every window and balcony was crowded. Every head was
uncovered. The procession wound its way from the Palazzo Gosleth down
the declivity into the city under a bright sun pouring down its full
beams, and so onward through the serried masses of spectators to the
cemetery. Writing to Lady Stisted, [639] Lady Burton says, "I did not
have him buried, but had a private room in the cemetery [a "chapelle
ardente"] consecrated (with windows and doors on the ground floor) above
ground where I can go and sit with him every day. He had three church
services performed over him, and 1,100 masses said for the repose of
his soul." "For the man," commented the profane, "who, in his own words,
'protested against the whole business,' perhaps 1,100 masses would not
have been enough." In an oration delivered in the Diet of Trieste, Dr.
Cambon called him an intrepid explorer, a gallant soldier, an honour
to the town of Trieste." The whole press of the world rang with his
praises. The noble tribute paid to his memory by Algernon C. Swinburne
has often been quoted:
"While England sees not her old praise dim,
While still her stars through the world's night swim,
A fame outshining her Raleigh's fame,
A light that lightens her loud sea's rim:
Shall shine and sound as her sons proclaim
The pride that kindles at Burton's name,
And joy shall exalt their pride to be
The same in birth if in soul the same." [640]
"Our affairs," Lady Burton tells Lady Stisted, in a heartrending letter,
[641] "are so numerous and we belonged to so many things that I have not
strength enough to get them carried out before eight weeks, and I could
not bear to arrive in Xmas holidays, but immediately after they are
over, early January, I shall arrive, if I live, and pass through
Folkestone on my way to Mortlake with the dear remains to make a tomb
there for us two; and you must let me know whether you wish to see me or
not.
"I wish to go into a convent for a spiritual retreat for fifteen days,
and after that I should like to live very quietly in a retired way in
London till God show me what I am to do or, as I hope, will take me
also; and this my belief that I shall go in a few months is my only
consolation. As to me, I do not know how anyone can suffer so much
and live. While all around me had to go to bed ill, I have had a
supernatural strength of soul and body, and have never lost my head for
one moment, but I cannot cry a tear. My throat is closed, and I sometime
cannot swallow. My heart swelled to bursting. It must go snap soon, I
think. I have not forgotten you, and what it means to you who loved each
other so much. I shall save many little treasures for you. His and your
father's watch, &c. There are hundreds of telegrams and letters and
cards by every post from all parts of the world, and the newspapers
are full. The whole civilized world ringing with his praise, and
appreciative of his merits--every one deeming it an honour to have known
him. Now it will be felt what we have lost. I shall pass the remainder
of my short time in writing his life and you must help me. Best love
to dearest Georgy. I will write to her. Your affectionate and desolate
Isabel."
To Mr. Arbuthnot, Lady Burton also wrote a very long and pitiful letter.
[642] As it records in other words much that has already been mentioned
we will quote only a few sentences.
"Dear Mr. Arbuthnot, "Your sympathy and that of Mrs. Arbuthnot is very
precious to me and I answer you both in one. I cannot answer general
letters, but you were his best friend. I should like to tell you all
if I saw you but I have no heart to write it.... I am arranging all his
affairs and when finished I bring him to England.... I shall be a little
slow coming because I have so much to do with his books and MSS., and
secondly because the rent is paid to the 24th February and I am too poor
to pay two places. Here I cannot separate from his body, and there it
will be in the earth. I am so thoroughly stunned that I feel nothing
outside, but my heart is crucified. I have lost all in him. You will
want to know my plans. When my work is done, say 1st of March, I will
go into a long retreat in a convent and will offer myself to a Sister of
Charity. I do not think I shall be accepted for my age and infirmities,
but will try.... The world is for me a dead letter, and can no more
touch me. No more joy--no further sorrow can affect me. Dr. Baker is
so good to me, and is undertaking my affairs himself as I really cannot
care about them now. Love to both. God bless you both for unvarying
friendship and kindness. Your affectionate and desolate friend, Isabel
Burton.
"I have saved his gold watch-chain as a memorial for you."
So passed from human ken the great, noble and learned Richard Francis
Burton, "wader of the seas of knowledge," "cistern of learning of our
globe," "exalted above his age," "opener by his books of night and day,"
"traveller by ship and foot and horse." [643] No man could have had a
fuller life. Of all travellers he was surely the most enthusiastic.
What had he not seen? The plains of the Indus, the slopes of the Blue
Mountains, the classic cities of Italy, the mephitic swamps of Eastern
Africa, the Nilotic cataracts, Brazil, Abeokuta, Iceland, El Dorado--all
knew well--him, his star-sapphire, and his congested church service:
lands fertile, barren, savage, civilized, utilitarian, dithyrambic. He
had worshipped at Mecca and at Salt Lake City. He had looked into the
face of Memnon, and upon the rocks of Midian, 'graven with an iron pen,'
upon the head waters of the Congo, and the foliate columns of Palmyra;
he had traversed the whole length of the Sao Francisco, crossed the
Mississippi and the Ganges. Then, too, had not the Power of the Hills
been upon him! With what eminence indeed was he not familiar, whether
Alp, Cameroon or Himalaya! Nor did he despise the features of his native
land. If he had climbed the easy Andes, he had also conquered, and
looked down from the giddy heights of Hampstead. Because he had grubbed
in the Italian Pompeii he did not, on that account, despise the British
Uriconium. [644] He ranks with the world's most intrepid explorers--with
Columbus, Cabot, Marco Polo, Da Gama and Stanley. Like another famous
traveller, he had been "in perils of waters, in perils of robbers,
in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in weariness and
painfullness." In the words of his beloved Camoens, he had done
"Deeds that deserve, like gods, a deathless name." [645]
He had lived almost his three score and ten, but, says one of his
friends, "in the vigour, the vehemence indeed with which he vented his
indignation over any meanness or wrong, or littleness, he was to the
last as youthful as when he visited Mecca and Harar. If, however,
the work he did, the hardships he endured, and the amazing amount of
learning which he acquired and gave forth to the world are to be taken
as any measure of his life, he lived double the term of most ordinary
men." Like Ovid, for the parallelism preserved itself to the end, he
died in the land of his exile.
"It has been said of him that he was the greatest Oriental scholar
England ever had and neglected." He was a mighty writer of books--some
fifty works, to say nothing of multitudinous articles in the journals of
the learned societies, having proceeded from his pen. If it be conceded
that he was wanting in the literary faculty and that no one of his
books is entirely satisfactory, it should be borne in mind that he added
enormously to the sum of human knowledge. We go to him, not for style,
but for facts. Again, if his books are not works of art, they contain,
nevertheless, many passages that cling to the memory. Take him as
linguist, traveller and anthropologist, he was certainly one of the
greatest men that modern England has produced.