_HOME AGAIN_
(1867–1869)
Home! there is magic in that little word;
It is a mystic circle that surrounds
Pleasures and comforts never known beyond
Its hallowed limits.
Isabel did not remain long at Santos. At the end of October she went up
to Rio to gain news of her husband, of whom she had heard nothing since
they parted at Roça Grande nearly four months before, when he started in
his canoe down the Rio São Francisco. As he did not return, she was
naturally anxious. She wrote to her mother:
“I have come down to Rio to meet Richard. The English steamer from Bahia
came in on November 1. I was in a great state of joyful excitement; went
on board in a man-of-war’s boat. But, as once before when I went to
Liverpool, Richard was not there, nor was there any letter or anything.
I am very uneasy, and unless within two or three weeks some news comes I
shall start to Bahia by steamer, change for the small one to Penedo
Alagoas, and thence to a tiny one just put on from Penedo up the river
to the falls, which are scarcely known yet [Paulo Affonso Falls, the
Niagara of Brazil]. Here my difficulties would be great, as I should
have to buy mules and ride round an unnavigable port and then canoe up.
I fear Richard is ill, or taken prisoner, or has his money stolen. He
always would carry gigantic sums in his pockets, hanging half out; and
he only has four slaves with him, and has to sleep amongst them. I am
not afraid of anything except the wild Indians, fever, ague, and a
vicious fish which can be easily avoided; there are no other dangers.
However, I trust that news may soon come. I cannot remain here so long
by myself as another month. I had a narrow escape bathing the day before
yesterday. What I thought was a big piece of seaweed was a ground shark
a few yards from me; but it receded instead of coming at me. I shall
feel rather shy of the water in future.”
As the steamers came in from Bahia Isabel went on board them one after
another in the hope of greeting her husband; but still he did not come.
At last, when she had made herself quite ill with anxiety, and when she
had fully determined to start in search of him, he turned up
unexpectedly—of course by the one steamer which she did not meet—and he
was quite angry that she had not come on board to greet him. After
telling her all his adventures while canoeing down the river (which have
been fully described elsewhere[24]), they went down to Santos.
They moved about between Santos and São Paulo for the next four months,
until, in April, 1868, Burton broke down. The climate at last proved too
much even for his iron frame, and he had a very severe illness; how
severe it was may be gathered from the following letter:
“SÃO PAULO, _May 3, 1868_.
“MY DEAREST MOTHER,
“I have been in the greatest trouble since I last wrote. You may
remember Richard was very ill with a pain in the side. At last he took
to incessant paroxysms of screaming, and seemed to be dying, and I knew
not what to do. Fortunately a doctor came from Rio on the eighth day of
his illness. I sent at once to him, and he kindly took up his quarters
in our house. On hearing my account, and examining Richard, he said he
did not know if he could save him, but would do his best. He put twelve
leeches on, and cupped him on the right breast, lanced him in
thirty-eight places, and put on a powerful blister on the whole of that
side. He lost an immense deal of black clotted blood. It would be
impossible to detail all we have gone through. This is the tenth day the
doctor has had him in hand, and the seventeenth of his illness. Suffice
it to say that the remedies have been legion, and there has been
something to do every quarter of an hour day and night. For three days
the doctor was uncertain if he could live. The disease is one that grows
upon you unconsciously, and you only know it when it knocks you down. It
was congestion of the liver, combined with inflammation of the lung,
where they join. The agony was fearful, and poor Richard could not move
hand or foot, nor speak, swallow, or breathe without a paroxysm of pain
that made him scream for a quarter of an hour. When I thought he was
dying, I took the scapulars and some holy water, and I said, ‘The doctor
has tried all his remedies; now let me try one of mine.’ I put some holy
water on his head, and knelt down and said some prayers, and put on the
blessed scapulars. He had not been able to raise his head for days to
have the pillow turned, but he raised it of his own accord sufficiently
to let the string pass under his head, and had no pain. It was a silent
consent. He was quite still for about an hour, and then he said in a
whisper, ‘Zoo, I think I’m a little better.’ From then to now he slowly
and painfully got better, and has never had a _bad_ paroxysm since. Day
and night I have watched by his bed for seventeen days and nights, and I
begin to feel very nervous, as I am quite alone; he won’t let any one do
anything for him but me. Now, however, thank God! all the symptoms are
disappearing; he is out of danger; he can speak better, swallow, and
turn a little in bed with my help. To-day I got him up in a chair for
half an hour for the first time, and he has had chicken broth. For
fifteen days nothing passed his lips but medicine. He is awfully thin
and grey, and looks about sixty. He is quite gaunt, and it is sad to
look at him. The worst of it is that I’m afraid that his lungs will
never be quite right again. He can’t get the affected lung well at all.
His breathing is still impeded, and he has a twinge in it. He cannot go
to England because of the cold; but if he is well enough in three months
from this to spare me, I am to go and remain till Easter. He has given
up his expedition (I am afraid he will never make another), but will
take a quiet trip down to the River Plata and Paraguay (a civilized
trip). My servants have all been very kind and attentive, and our doctor
excellent, and the neighbours have all shown the greatest kindness and
sympathy. I have not been out of the house for ages, but I believe there
have been all sorts of religious _fêtes_ going on, and our poor old
bishop has died and was buried with great pomp. I tried to go out in the
garden yesterday, but I nearly fainted, and had to come back. Don’t
mention my fatigue or health in writing back.”
Burton recovered slowly. His illness, however, had the effect of
disgusting him with Brazil, and of making him decide to throw up his
consulate, a thing he had long been wishing to do, if a favourable
opportunity presented itself. The present was a decidedly unfavourable
opportunity, but nevertheless he came to the conclusion that he could
not stand Brazil any longer. “It had given him his illness; it was far
from the world; it was no advancement; it led to nothing.” He had been
there three years, and he wanted to be on the move again.
His slightest wish was his wife’s law. Though she was in a way sorry,
for São Paulo had been the only home she had ever enjoyed with her
husband so far, she at once set to work to carry out his desire. She
sold up everything at São Paulo. Burton applied to the Foreign Office
for leave; and that obtained, they went down to Santos together. Here it
was decided that they should part for a time. He was to go to the
Pacific coast for a trip, and return by way of the Straits of Magellan,
Buenos Ayres, and Rio to London. Isabel was to go direct to London, see
if she could not induce the Foreign Office to give him another post,
transact certain business concerning mines and company promoters,
arrange for the publication of certain books, and await the arrival of
her husband.
While they were at Santos Isabel wrote the following letter to her
mother:
“THE COAST NEAR SANTOS, _June 16, 1868_.
“In this country, if you are well, all right; but the moment you are
ailing, lie down and die, for it is no use trying to live. I kept
Richard alive by never taking my eyes off him for eight weeks, and
perpetually standing at the bedside with one thing or another. But who
in a general way will get any one to do that for them? I would now like
to pass to something more cheerful.
“The first regatta ever known took place at Santos last Sunday for all
nations—English, American, French, German, Portuguese, and Brazilian,
and native _caiques_: English and American in white flannel and black
belts; German, scarlet; French, blue; Portuguese, white with blue belts
and caps; Brazilians, like parrots, in national costume, all green, with
yellow fixings and scarlet caps. Our boat was of course expected to win.
It was manned by four railway clerks, who had ordered a big supper on
the strength of the winnings; but, poor things! they had such weak arms,
and they boasted and talked so much, that they were exhausted before
they started. The ‘English ladies’ (?) objected to their rowing in
jerseys, as improper! And they did not know how to feather their oars
(had perhaps never heard of it), so they came in _last_. The Portuguese,
who stepped quietly into their boat without a word, came in first,
Brazil second, German third, and the three big nations, French,
American, and English, last. We _last_ by half a boat’s length!
Tremendous fighting and quarrelling ensued, red and angry faces, and
‘bargee’ language. I am very glad; it will produce a good feeling on the
Brazilian side, a general emulation, and take our English snobs down a
peg, which they sadly want. The native _caiques_ were really
pretty—black men with paddles standing upright, and all moving together
like a machine.
“I leave São Paulo on the 31st, Santos on the 1st, Rio on the 9th, and
will reach home early in September. I could not stay here any longer
without a change. I think you had better leave town for your country
change now, as I _cannot_ leave London earlier than the middle of
October. All my wealth depends on my editing a book and a poem of
Richard’s and two things of my own for the October press; and, moreover,
I am grown so fat and coarse and vulgar I must brush myself up in town a
little before appearing, and I have no clothes, and I am sure you will
faint when you see my complexion and my hands. So try and start early
out of town, and return early. I can join in any fun in October. I got
your little note from Cossy. I dare say the woods are very nice; but I
think if you saw the virgin forests of South America in which I am now
sitting alone, far from any human creature, with gaudy butterflies and
birds fluttering around me, big vegetation, and a shark playing in the
boiling green sea, which washes up to my feet, and the bold mountain
background on a very blue sky, the thick foliage covered with wild
flowers and creepers such as no hothouse in England could grow, arum
leaves, one alone bigger than me, which shade me from the burning sun,
the distant clatter of monkeys, the aromatic smells and mysterious
whisperings of the forest, you would own that even the Cossy woods were
tame; for to be thoroughly alone thus with Nature is glorious. Chico is
cooking a mysterious mess in a gypsy kettle for me; my pony is browsing
near; and I, your affectionate child, am sitting in a short petticoat
and jacket, barelegged to the knees, writing to you and others to catch
the next mail.
“Richard starts with me, and turns the opposite way from Rio. He goes
_viâ_ Rosario, Rio Grande do Sul, Buenos Ayres, Monte Video, the Plata
River, and Paraguay, to see the war. A _voyage de luxe_ for him, for
these places are all within writing latitudes and some little
civilization.”
On July 24 Isabel embarked for London, and arrived at Southampton on
September 1, after a rough voyage. Her mother and two of her sisters
came down to Southampton to meet her; and great was the joy of their
meeting.
As soon as Isabel had settled down at home she turned to her work, and
good luck attended her. She carried through all her husband’s mining
business, and arranged for the publication of his books, notably for the
one he had just written on _The Highlands of Brazil_. As it was to be
brought out at once, she was also commissioned to correct and pass the
proofs for press. She did so; but as the book contained certain things
of which she did not approve, she inserted the following preface in the
book by way of protest. It is quoted in full, because it illustrates a
much-vexed question—the attitude which she adopted towards her husband’s
writings. Her action in these matters has called down upon her the
fiercest criticism; but this brief preface shows that her views were
consistent throughout, and her husband was fully aware of them when he
left her his sole literary executor.
Before the reader dives into the interior of Brazil with my husband as
a medium, let me address two words to him.
I have returned home, on six months’ leave of absence, after three
years in Brazil. One of the many commissions I am to execute for
Captain Burton is to see the following pages through the press.
It has been my privilege, during those three years, to have been his
almost constant companion; and I consider that to travel, write, read,
and study under such a master is no small boon to any one desirous of
seeing and learning.
Although he frequently informs me, in a certain oriental way, that
“the Moslem can permit no equality with women,” yet he has chosen me,
his pupil, for this distinction, in preference to a more competent
stranger.
[Illustration: LADY BURTON IN 1869.]
As long as there is anything difficult to do, a risk to be incurred,
or any chance of improving the mind and of educating oneself, I am a
very faithful disciple; but I now begin to feel that, while he and his
readers are old friends, I am humbly standing unknown in the shadow of
his glory. It is therefore time for me respectfully but firmly to
assert that, although I proudly accept of the trust confided to me,
and pledge myself not to avail myself of my discretionary powers to
alter one word of the original text, I protest vehemently against his
religious and moral sentiments, which belie a good and chivalrous
life. I point the finger of indignation particularly at what
misrepresents our Holy Roman Catholic Church, and at what upholds that
unnatural and repulsive law, Polygamy, which the Author is careful not
to practise himself, but from a high moral pedestal he preaches to the
ignorant as a means of population in young countries.
I am compelled to differ with him on many other subjects; but, be it
understood, not in the common spirit of domestic jar, but with a
mutual agreement to differ and enjoy our differences, whence points of
interest never flag.
Having now justified myself, and given a friendly warning to a fair or
gentle reader—the rest must take care of themselves—I leave him or her
to steer through these anthropological sandbanks and hidden rocks as
best he or she may.
Isabel’s greatest achievement at this time was the obtaining for her
husband the long-coveted Consulship of Damascus from Lord Stanley, who
was an old friend and neighbour of her uncle, Lord Gerard. Lord Stanley
(afterwards Lord Derby) was then Foreign Secretary in Disraeli’s brief
first Administration. He was a friend of the Burtons, and had a high
opinion of them both. To him Isabel repaired, and brought the whole of
her eloquence and influence to bear: no light thing, as Burton’s
enemies—and he had many—guessing what she was after, endeavoured to
influence the Foreign Secretary by representing that his appointment
would be unpopular, both with the Moslems and the Christian missionaries
in Syria. In Lord Stanley’s opinion, however, Burton was the man for the
post, and he appointed him Consul of Damascus, with a salary of £1,000 a
year. Isabel telegraphed and wrote the glad news; but neither her letter
nor her telegram reached her husband, who was then roving about South
America. Burton heard the news of his appointment accidentally in a
_café_ at Lucca. He telegraphed at once accepting it, and started for
England.
In the meantime there had been a change of Government, and Lord
Clarendon succeeded Lord Stanley at the Foreign Office. Burton’s enemies
renewed their opposition to his appointment, and besought Lord Clarendon
to cancel it. Isabel, whose vigilance never slumbered for one moment,
got wind of this, and immediately dispatched copies of the following
letter to her husband at Rio, Buenos Ayres, and Valparaiso:
“LONDON, _January 7, 1869_.
“MY DARLING,
“If you get this, come home at once by shortest way. Telegraph from
Lisbon and Southampton, and I will meet you at latter and have all snug.
“_Strictly private._ The new Government have tried to upset some of the
appointments made by the last. There is no little jealousy about yours.
Others wanted it even at £700 a year, and were refused. Lord Stanley
thinks, and so do I, that you may as well be on the ground as soon as
possible.
“Your faithful and attached wife.”
Burton did not receive this letter, as he had already started for home
with all speed. His wife met him at Southampton. Burton went to the
Foreign Office, and had a long interview with Lord Clarendon, who told
him that the objections to his appointment at Damascus were “very
serious.” Burton assured Lord Clarendon that the objections raised were
unfounded. Lord Clarendon then let the appointment go forward, though he
plainly warned Burton that, if the feeling stated to exist against him
at Damascus should prevent the proper performance of his official
duties, he would immediately recall him. It is necessary to call
attention to this, as it has a direct bearing on the vexed question of
Burton’s recall two years later.
No shadow of that untoward event, however, dimmed the brightness of
Burton’s prospects just now. He gave an assurance that he would act with
“unusual prudence,” and it was hinted that if he succeeded at Damascus
he might eventually get Morocco or Teheran or Constantinople. Isabel
writes: “We were, in fact, at the zenith of our career.” She might well
think so, for they were basking in the unaccustomed light of the
official favour; they received a most enthusiastic welcome from their
friends, and were dined and _fêted_ everywhere. The new year (1869)
opened most auspiciously for them.
They spent the spring in London and in paying a round of visits to many
friends. Later they crossed over to Boulogne, and visited the old haunts
where they met for the first time eighteen years before.
Burton’s leave was now running short, and the time was drawing near when
he was due at Damascus. He decided to go to Vichy and take a month’s
course of the waters, and then proceed _viâ_ Brindisi to Damascus. His
wife was to come out to Damascus later. At Boulogne therefore they
parted; he went to Vichy, and she was to return to London and carry out
the usual plan of “pay, pack, and follow.”
Isabel went round by way of Paris, and then she began to feel unhappy at
being separated from her husband, and to want to join him at Vichy. “I
did not see why I could not have the month there with him, and make up
double-quick time after.” So instead of returning to London, she started
off for Vichy, and spent the month there with her husband. Algernon
Swinburne and Frederick Leighton (both great friends of the Burtons)
were there also, and they made many excursions together. When Burton’s
“cure” was at an end, his wife accompanied him as far as Turin. Here
they parted, he going to catch the P. & O. at Brindisi, _en route_ for
Damascus, and she returning to London to arrange and settle everything
for a long sojourn in the East.
She was in England for some weeks (the autumn of 1869), and up to her
eyes in work. She had to see a great many publishers for one thing, and
for another she was busy in every way preparing herself for Damascus.
She went down to Essex to see the tube-wells worked, and mastered the
detail of them, as Burton was anxious, if possible, to produce water in
the desert. She also took lessons in taking off wheels and axles, oiling
and putting them on again; and lessons in taking her own guns and
pistols to pieces, cleaning and putting them together again. Then she
had to buy a heap of useful and necessary things to stock the house at
Damascus with. One of her purchases almost rivalled her famous “jungle
suit.” She invested in a pony-carriage, a thing unheard of in Syria; and
her uncle, Lord Gerard, also made her a present of an old family
chariot. This tickled the late Lord Houghton immensely, and he made so
many jokes about “Isabel driving through the desert in a chariot drawn
by camels” that she left it. But she took out the pony-carriage; and as
there was only one road in the country, she found it useless, though she
was lucky enough to sell it to some one at Damascus, who bought it not
for use, but as a curio.
Other work of a different nature also came to her hand, the work of
vindicating her husband and defending his position. At a meeting of the
Royal Geographical Society, at which she was present, Sir Roderick
Murchison, who was in the chair, spoke of “Central or Equatorial Africa,
in which lie those great water-basins which, thanks to the labours of
_Speke, Grant, and Baker_, are known to feed the Nile.” After the
meeting was over she went up to Sir Roderick and asked him why Burton
had not been mentioned with the others. He replied it was an oversight,
and he would see that it was rectified in the reports to the press. It
was not. So she wrote to _The Times_, protesting against the omission of
her husband’s name, and to _The Athenæum_. These letters have been
published in her Life of Sir Richard. But the following letter from Sir
Roderick Murchison, called forth by her letter to _The Times_, and her
reply thereto, have not been published:
“16, BELGRAVE SQUARE, _November 14, 1869_.
“MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,
“I regret that you did not call on me as you proposed, instead of making
your _complaint_ in _The Times_.
“No change in the wording of the address could have been made when you
appealed to me; for the printed article was in the hands of several
reporters.
“Nor can I, in looking at the address (as now before me), see why you
should be offended at my speaking of ‘the great Lake Tanganyika, first
visited by Burton and Speke.’
“My little opening address was not a history of all African discoveries;
and if you will only refer to the twenty-ninth volume of _The Journal of
the Royal Geographical Society_ (1859), you will see how, in presenting
the medal to your husband as the chief of the East African Expedition, I
strove to do him all justice for his successful and bold explorations.
But I was under the necessity of coupling Speke with Burton as _joint
discoverers of the Lake Tanganyika_, inasmuch as they both worked
together until prostrated by illness; and whilst your husband was blind
or almost so, Speke made all the astronomical observations which fixed
the real position of places near the lake.
“Thus your husband, in his reply to me after receiving the medal, says,
‘Whilst I undertook the history, ethnography, the languages and
peculiarities of the people, to Captain Speke fell the arduous task of
delineating the exact topography and of laying down our positions by
astronomical observations, a labour to which at times even the undaunted
Livingstone found himself unequal’ (_Journal R. G. S._, vol. xxix., p.
97).
“I beg you also to read your husband’s masterly and eloquent description
of the lake regions of Central Equatorial Africa in the same volume. No
memoir in our journal is more striking than this, and I think it will
gratify you to have Captain Burton’s most effective writing brought once
more to the notice of geographers. I will with great pleasure add a full
footnote to the paragraph in which I first allude to the Tanganyika, and
point out how admirably Captain Burton has illustrated that portion of
Lake Tanganyika which he and his companion visited; though, as you know,
he was then prostrated by illness and almost blind.
“With this explanation, which will appear in all the official and public
copies of my little, imperfect, opening address, I hope you will be
satisfied, and exonerate me from any thought of not doing full justice
to your meritorious husband, who, if he had been in health, would
doubtless have worked out the path which Livingstone is still engaged in
discovering: the settlement of whether the waters of Tanganyika flow
into the said discovered Albert Nyanza by Baker.
“Believe me to be ever, dear Mrs. Burton,
“Yours sincerely,
“RODERICK MURCHISON.”
“14, MONTAGU PLACE, MONTAGU SQUARE, W.,
“_November 15, 1869_.
“DEAR SIR RODERICK,
“I have every intention of calling upon you, and I think you know I have
always looked upon you as a very sincere and particular friend; nor had
I the slightest idea of being offended with _you_; and if you have read
my letter, you will have seen that I particularly laid a stress upon
_your_ kindness; but what you and I know on this subject, and perhaps
many connected with the Royal Geographical Society, is now, considering
the fast flow of events, almost ancient history, unless brought before
the public. I _did_ feel nettled the other night; but I might have kept
quiet, had I not had many visits and letters of condolence on my husband
having been passed over. I then felt myself _obliged_ to remind the
public what the Society the other night had forgotten. Had I visited
you, and had we talked it over, and had the reports been run over and
corrected, it would hardly have set the large number of people right who
were at the meeting of last Monday, who heard Captain Burton mentioned
only once, and the other four twenty times. Indeed, I was not offended
at the _only_ mention you did make of him, but at the mention of the
other three, excluding him. I shall be truly grateful for your proposed
notice of him. And do not think I grudge anything to any other
traveller. I am glad you mentioned Speke with him. Speke was a brave
man, and full of fine qualities. I grudge his memory no honour that can
be paid; I never wish to detract from any of the great merits of the
other four. I only ask to maintain my husband’s right place amongst
them, which is only second to Livingstone. I hope I shall see you in a
few days, and
“Believe me, most sincerely yours,
“ISABEL BURTON.”
A month later all her business was completed, and Isabel left London for
Damascus, to enter upon the most eventful epoch of her eventful life.