was projected and determined have been sufficiently described in the
Foreword (vol. i. pp. vi-ix). I may here add that during a longsome
obligatory halt of some two months at East African Zayla’ and throughout
a difficult and dangerous march across the murderous Somali country upon
Harar-Gay, then the Tinbukhtú of Eastern Africa, _The Nights_ rendered
me the best of service. The wildlings listened with the rapt attention
of little lads and lasses to the marvellous recitals of the charming
Queen and the monotonous interpellations of her lay-image sister and
looked forward to the evening lecture as the crown and guerdon of the
toilsome day. And assuredly never was there a more suitable setting, a
more admirable _mise-en-scène_ for The Nights than the landscape of
Somali-land, a prospect so adapted to their subject-matter that it lent
credibility even to details the least credible. Barren and grisly for
the most part, without any of the charms gladdening and beautifying the
normal prospects of earth, grassy hill and wooded dale, park-like plain
and placid lake, and the snaking of silvery stream, it displays ever and
anon beauties made all its own by borrowing from the heavens, in an
atmosphere of passing transparency, reflections of magical splendours
and of weird shadows proper to tropical skies. No rose-hue pinker than
the virginal blush and dewy flush of dawn in contrast with the shivering
reek of flaming noon-tide, when all brightness of colour seems burnt out
of the world by the white heat of sun-glow. No brilliancy more gorgeous
or more ravishing than the play of light and shade, the rainbow
shiftings and the fiery pinks and purples and ambers and carmines of the
sunset scenery—the gorgeous death-bed of the Day. No tint more tender,
more restful, than the uniform grey, pale and pearly, invading by
slowest progress that ocean of crimson that girds the orb of the
Sun-King, diminishing it to a lakelet of fire and finally quenching it
in iridescent haze. No gloom more ghostly than the murky hangings
drooping like curtains from the violet heavens during those traveller’s
trials the unmooned nights, when the world seems peopled by weird
phantoms and phantasms of man and monster, moving and at rest. No
verdure more exquisite than earth’s glazing of greenery, the blend of
etherial azure and yellow; no gold more sheeny than the foregrounds of
sand shimmering in the slant of the sun; no blue more profound and
transparent than the middle distances; no neutral tints more subtle,
pure, delicate and sight-soothing than the French gray which robes the
clear-cut horizon; no variety of landscape more pronounced than the
alternations of glowing sunlight and snowy moonlight and twinkling
starlight, all streaming through diaphanous air. No contrast more
admirable than the alternation of iron upland whereupon hardly a blade
of grass may grow and the Wady with its double avenue of leek-green
tamarisks, hedging now a furious rain-torrent then a ribbon of purest
sand; or the purple-grey shadow rising majestic in the Orient to face
the mysterious Zodiacal Light, a white pyramid whose base is
Amenti—region of resting Osiris—and whose apex pierces the zenith. And
not rarely this “after-glow” is followed by a blush of “celestial
rosy-red” mantling the whole circle of the horizon where the hue is
deepest and paling into the upper azure where the stars shine their
brightest. How often in Somali-land I repeated to myself
—Contentez-vous, mes yeux,
Jamais vous ne verrez chose plus belle;
and the picture still haunts me.
* * * * *
And now, turning away from these and similar pleasures of memory, and
passing over the once-told tale (Foreword, vol. i. pp. ix., x.) of how,
when and where work was begun, together with the disappointment caused
by the death of my friend and collaborator, Steinhaeuser; concerning the
copying process which commenced in 1879 and anent the precedence
willingly accorded to the “Villon Edition,” I proceed directly to what
may be termed
THE ENGINEERING OF THE WORK.
During the autumn of ’82, after my return from the Gold Coast (with less
than no share of the noble metal which my companion Cameron and I went
forth to find and found a failure), my task began in all possible
earnest with ordering the old scraps of translation and collating a vast
heterogeneous collection of notes. I was fortunate enough to discover,
at unlettered Trieste, an excellent copyist able and willing to decypher
a crabbed hand and deft at reproducing facetious and drolatic words
without thoroughly comprehending their significance. At first my
exertions were but fitful and the scene was mostly a sick bed to which I
was bound between October ’83 and June ’84. Marienbad, however, and
Styrian Sauerbrunn (bei Rohitsch) set me right and on return to Trieste
(Sept. 4, ’84), we applied ourselves to the task of advertising, the
first two volumes being almost ready for print. And here we were
confronted by a serious question, What number of copies would suffice my
public? A distinguished Professor who had published some 160,000 texts
with prices ranging from 6d. to 50 guineas, wrote to me in all kindness
advising an issue of 150 to 250: an eminent printer-publisher would have
ventured upon some 500: others rose to 750 with a warning-note anent
“wreckage,” great risk and ruinous expenditure, while only one
friend—and he not in business—urged an edition of 2,000 to 3,000 with
encouraging words as to its probable reception. After long forethought I
choose 1,000 as a just middle.
We then drew up a long list, names of friends, acquaintances and
strangers likely to patronise the novelty and caused the following three
papers to be lithographed and printed at Trieste.
No. I.
_Captain Burton, having neither agent nor publisher for his
forthcoming_ ARABIAN NIGHTS, _requests that all subscribers will
kindly send their names and addresses to him personally (Captain
Burton, Trieste, Austria), when they will be entered into a book
kept for the purpose_.
_There will be 10 volumes at a guinea a piece, each to be paid for
on delivery. Subscribers may count on the first three volumes being
printed in March next. Captain Burton pledges himself to furnish
copies to all subscribers who address themselves to him; and he also
undertakes not to issue, nor to allow the issue of a cheaper
Edition. One thousand copies will be printed; the whole Manuscript
will be ready before going to press in February, and the ten volumes
will be issued within Eighteen Months._
This was presently followed by
No. II.
_The Student of Arabic who reads_ “THE NIGHTS” _with this version,
will not only be competent to join in any conversation, to peruse
the popular books and newspapers, and to write letters to his
friends, he will also find in the notes a repertoire of those
Arabian Manners and Customs, Beliefs and Practices, which are not
discussed in popular works_.
_The 10 volumes will be handsomely bound in black and gold._
_No subscriptions will be received until the work is done, and then
at Coutts’ Bank, Strand, London._
_Subscribers who apply directly are preferred._
_The author will pay carriage of volumes all over the United
Kingdom. A London address is requested._
And, lastly, after some delay, came the subjoined cutting from the
_Daily Tribune_, New York.
No. III.
“It has already been announced that the first instalment of Captain
Burton’s new translation of the Arabian Nights may be expected this
autumn. I am indebted to a friend of his for some details which have
not yet, I think, been made public. There is still room for a
translation of the Arabian Nights. All or nearly all the popular
editions, of which there are hundreds, are but renderings, more or
less imperfect, from Professor Galland’s French version, which is
itself an abridgment from the original, and turns a most valuable
ethnographical work into a mere collection of fairy tales. Moreover,
these English translations abound in Gallicisms, and their style
offers but a painful contrast to the French of the seventeenth
century. Some years since a Mr. Torrens undertook a complete
translation from the original, but his work did not go beyond a
single volume, or fifty tales out of the 1,001. Then came Mr. Lane
in 1839, whose success was but moderate. In his three large and (in
the 1839 edition) beautifully illustrated volumes, he has given not
more than half the tales. He used the Cairo Arabic edition, which is
itself an abridgment, and took all kinds of liberties with the text,
translating verse into prose, and excising everything that was not
‘strictly proper.’
“Lastly, there is Mr. John Payne’s excellent translation, which has
occupied him during seven years and is just brought to a conclusion.
Mr. Payne bound himself to print not more than 500 copies, and his
nine volumes, not published but printed, nominally for the Villon
Society, are unprocurable except at a price which to the general
public is prohibitive.
“Captain Burton began his work on this extraordinary monument of
Oriental literature in 1852, at Aden, with some help from his friend
Dr. Steinhaeuser, of the Bombay Army. He has gone on with it as
opportunity offered, and as other literary and official labours and
his many journeys in savage lands permitted. The text and the
subject offer many difficulties, and it is to these difficulties
that he has devoted especial attention. His object is to reproduce
the book in a form as entirely Arabian as possible, preserving the
strict division of the nights, and keeping (a more questionable
matter) to the long unbroken sentences in which the composer
indulged, imitating also the rhythmic prose which is a
characteristic of the Arabic. The effect in English remains to be
seen, but of the value of Captain Burton’s method as an experiment
in literature there can be no doubt, or of its great interest to
everybody who cares for Oriental habits of thought and language. He
will not shirk any of the passages which do not suit the taste of
the day; but these Captain Burton thinks, will not commonly be found
more objectionable than some which are in Shakespeare and in
Shakespeare’s contemporaries. At the same time it will be understood
that the book is intended for men only and for the study;—not for
women or children, nor for the drawing-room table or dentist’s
waiting-room. It will be printed by subscription and not published.
“Few are the Oriental scholars in England who could do justice to
this picture of the mediæval Arab. Captain Burton is perhaps the
only one who joins to the necessary linguistic knowledge that varied
practical experience of Eastern life which alone in many cases can
supply the true meaning of a troublesome passage or an accurate
comment upon it. His aim is to make the book in its English dress
not only absolutely literal in text but Oriental in tone and colour.
He knows the tales almost by heart, and used to keep the Bedouin
tribes in roars of laughter in camp during the long summer nights by
reciting them. Sheiks to whom a preternatural solemnity of demeanour
is usual were to be seen rolling on the ground in paroxysms of
uncontrollable mirth. It was also Burckhardt’s custom to read the
stories aloud, but the Arabs would snatch the book from his hand
because his pronunciation was so bad. Captain Burton is said to have
an Arab accent not easily distinguishable from the native. When he
contents himself with the English tongue here in England, he is one
of the most picturesque talkers to be met with. I can remember a
certain dinner-party, now many years ago, where the great traveller
kept us all listening till long past day-break; narrating, as he
did, the most singular adventures with the most vivid fidelity to
facts. That, however, is a digression. I have only to add that
Captain Burton has the names of many subscribers and will doubtless
be glad to receive others, which may, I suppose, be sent to him at
Trieste. His present hope is to be ready to go to press next
February and to bring out the whole of the volumes in 1885.”
(Signed) G. W. S.
Concerning this “American” communication and its author I shall have
more to say in a future page.
Some 24,000 to 30,000 circulars were posted at an expense of £126 and
they produced about 800 favourable replies which, after my return to
England (May ’85), rose to 1,500 and to 2,000, as my unprofessional
friend, and he only, had anticipated. Meanwhile occurred an incident
characteristic of such appeals by the inexperienced to the public. A
case containing 1,100 circulars had been sent to my agent for mailing in
London, and my secretary had unfortunately gummed their envelopes.
Hereupon I should have been subjected by the Post Office to the pains
and penalties of the law, perhaps to a fine of £200. But when the affair
was reported, with due explanations, to the late lamented
Postmaster-General Henry Fawcett—a man in a million, and an official in
ten millions—he had the justice and generosity to look upon the offence
as the result of pure ignorance, and I received a caution “not to do it
again.”
Needless to say that I lost no time about advertising my mistake in the
dailies, giving the name of my agent and in offering to refund the
money. Some of the sealed and unpaid envelopes had, however, been
forwarded prematurely and the consequence was a comical display of wrath
in quarters where it was hardly to be expected. By way of stemming the
unpleasant tide of abuse I forwarded the following _communiqué_ to The
Academy.
“TUPPENCE AS A TOUCHSTONE.”
TRIESTE, _Nov. 2, ’85_.
“Can you kindly find space for a few lines on a purely personal
matter which is causing me abundant trouble? A box of circulars
giving details concerning my forthcoming version of the Arabian
Nights was sent to London with directions to stamp and post the
contents. The envelopes having been inadvertently gummed down, the
case was stopped by the Custom-house, and was transmitted to the
Post Office where it was found to contain circulars not letters; and
of these sundry were forwarded without pre-payment. The pleasant
result was that one outspoken gentleman writes upon the circular,
which he returns,—_When you send your trash again, put
postage-stamps on._ A second is peremptorily polite, _Please forward
four stamps to the Adjutant of the —th Regiment._ The ‘Chaplain of
the Forces at ——,’ at once ironical and severe, _ventures to suggest
to Captain Burton that it is advisable, if he thinks his book worth
selling, to put the postage on future advertisements_. A fourth who,
I regret to say, signs himself Lieutenant-Colonel, gives me advice
about pre-payment written in an orderly’s hand upon a torn envelope
(gratuitously insulting!); encloses the 2d. stamp and sends the
missive under official cover ‘On Her Majesty’s Service.’ The idea of
a French or an Austrian Colonel lowering himself so infinitely low!
Have these men lost all sense of honour, all respect for themselves
(and others) because they can no longer be called to account for
their insolence _more majorum_? I never imagined ‘Tuppence’ to be so
cunning a touchstone for detecting and determining the difference
between gold and dross; nor can I deeply regret that circumstance
and no default of mine has placed in hand Ithuriel’s spear in the
shape of the said ‘Tuppence’.”
I am, Sir, etc.
RICHARD F. BURTON.
The process of filling-up my list presented a fine and varied study of
character; and an extensive experience of subscribers, as well as of
nonsubscribers, presently enabled me to distribute the genus into the
following eight species. The friendly subscriber who takes ten copies
(more or less) forwarding their value. The gentleman subscriber who pays
down his money confidingly. The cautious-canny subscriber who ventures
£5. 5s., or half the price. The impudent and snobbish subscriber who
will address his victim as follows:—
SIR,
Send me the first volume of your Arabian Nights and if I like it I
will perhaps take more.
Yours obediently,
X. Y. Z.
And Cynophron will probably receive for all reply:—
SIR,
Send me ten guineas and take one or ten volumes as you please.
Yours obediently, etc.
No. vi. is the fussy and troublesome subscriber who gives more bother
than he is worth, and who takes a vicious pride in not paying till
pushed to the last point. The professional subscriber fights hard for
the most favourable terms, and holds it his vested right to “part” by
dribblets. And lastly comes the dishonest subscriber who does not pay at
all. I must, however, in justice own that species No. viii. is rare: of
one thousand the proportion was only about a score.
In mid-June, ’85, I returned to London and began at once to prepare for
issuing the book. Having found the publisher peculiarly
unsatisfactory—with one single and remarkable exception my venerable
friend, Mr. Van Voorst, whilome of Paternoster Row—I determined, like
Professor Arber, to do without him, although well aware how risky was
the proceeding, which would, in the case of a work for general reading,
have arrayed against me the majority of the trade and of their “hands,”
the critics. Then I sought hard, but sought in vain, for the agency of a
literary friend or friends, men of name and note, like those who
assisted in the Villon version: all feared the responsibility and the
expected storm of abuse which, however, failed to burst.
Under these circumstances “The Printing Times,” a professional
periodical produced by Messieurs Wymans, was pleased (August 25, ’85) to
be unpleasantly intrusive on the subject of my plan. “We always heard
associated with the publication of this important work, the name of Mr.
——, which is now conspicuous by its absence, nor is, apparently the name
of any other leading publishing house to be identified with its
production.” (The Printer’s Devil is, I presume, responsible for the
English!) The writer then warns me in all (un-)friendliness that if the
printers forget to add their imprint, they would become liable to a
legal penalty; that the work is unsafe for literal translation and,
lastly, that although printed by private subscription, “it is likely
enough to be pronounced an injury to public morals to the danger of the
author and his printers.” The unhappy article concludes, “We await the
issue of the first volume since much will depend upon the spirit (!) in
which the translation has been undertaken; certainly the original text
is not suitable for general circulation (_connu!_) unless edited with
the utmost care and discretion.”
To this production so manifestly inspired by our old friend £ s. d., I
replied in _The Academy_ (August 7, ’85), the gist of the few lines
being as follows:—
In answer to many inquiries from friends and others, will you allow
me to repeat, through your columns, that my translation of the
“Arabian Nights” will be strictly limited to 1,000 copies, each sent
to picked subscribers, and to renew the promise which I before made,
that no cheaper edition shall be printed? Correspondents have
complained that I have not stated the price; but I have mentioned
over and over again that there are ten volumes, at one guinea
each—my object in making it so expensive being to keep it from the
general public. I am also troubled with inquiries as to who is my
publisher. I am my own publisher, inaugurating (Inshallah!) a golden
age for authors. Jesting apart, the book has no publisher. It is
printed by myself for the benefit of Orientalists and
Anthropologists, and nothing could be more repugnant to me than the
idea of a book of the kind being published or being put into the
hands of any publisher.
The first volume dated “_Benares: MDCCCLXXXV: Printed by the Kamashastra
Society for Private Subscribers only_,” did not appear till September
12, ’85: it had been promised for March and had been delayed by another
unavoidable detention at Trieste. But my subscribers had no further
cause of complaint; ten tomes in sixteen months ought to satisfy even
the most exigent.
No. i. volume was accompanied by a circular earnestly requesting that
the book might not be exposed for sale in public places or permitted to
fall into the hands of any save curious students of Moslem manners. Yet
the birth of the first-born was accompanied (I am fain to confess) with
no small trouble and qualms to the parent and to all who assisted at the
parturition. Would the “little stranger” robed in black and gold, the
colours of the Abbaside Caliphs, with its brick-red night-cap after the
fashion of ecclesiastical bantlings, be kindly welcomed or would it be
regarded as an abortion, a monster? The reader will readily understand
how welcome to an author in such perplexity came the following article
from the _Standard_ (September 12), usually attributed to the popular
and trenchant pen of Mr. Alfred Austin. I must be permitted to quote it
entire, because it expresses so fully and so admirably all and
everything I could desire a reviewer to write. And the same paper has
never ceased to give me the kindest encouragement: its latest notice was
courteous and appreciative as its earliest.
The first volume of Captain Burton’s long-expected edition of the
“Arabian Nights” was issued yesterday to those who are in a position
to avail themselves of the wealth of learning contained in this
monumental labour of the famous Eastern traveller. The book is
printed for subscribers only, and is sold at a price which is not
likely to be paid by any save the scholars and students for whose
instruction it is intended. But though the Benares “Kamashastra
Society” are careful to let the world know that the “Thousand Nights
and a Night” is not “published” in the technical sense of the term,
the pages which will be read by a thousand purchases may be
fittingly regarded as the property of the world at large. In any
case, the day when the experience of a life was embodied into this
fresh translation of the “Alf Laylah wa Laylah” marks a distinct
stage in the history of Oriental research. The world has had
numerous versions of these stories. For at least a century and a
half they have delighted old and young, until Shahrazade and
Dunyazade, the Fisherman and the Jinn, and the tales told by the
Tailor, the Kalendar, the Nazarene broker, and the Hunchback ... to
say nothing of Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad the Sailor, and
Camaralzaman and Badoura—seem like the most familiar of friends. Yet
many of those who know the ordinary epitome prepared for the nursery
and the drawing-room have little idea of the nature of the original.
Galland’s abridgment was a mere shadow of the Arabic. Even the
editions of Lane and Habicht and Torrens and Von Hammer represented
but imperfectly the great corpus of Eastern folk-lore which Captain
Burton has undertaken to render into English, without regard to the
susceptibilities of those who, not having bought the book, are,
therefore, in no way concerned in what is the affair of him and his
subscribers. The best part of two centuries have passed away since
Antoine Galland first turned some of the tales into French, and got
stigmatised as a forger for his pains. Never was there such a
sensation as when he printed his translations. For weeks he had been
pestered by troops of roysterers rousing him out of bed, and
refusing to go until the shivering Professor recited one of the Arab
stories to the crowd under his window. Nor has the interest in them
in any way abated. Thousands of copies pass every year into
circulation; and any one who has ever stood in the circle around the
professional story-teller of the East must have noticed how often he
draws on this deathless collection. The camel-driver listens to them
as eagerly as did his predecessors ages ago. The Badawi laughs in
spite of himself, though next moment he ejaculates a startling
“Astaghfaru’llah” for listening to the light mention of the sex
whose name is never heard amongst the Nobility of the Desert. Or if
the traveller is a scholar and a gentleman, he will pull out his
book for the amusement of the company squatted round the camp fire,
as did Captain Burton many a time and oft in the course of his
Eastern wanderings.