In such scenes, naturally, Borrow placed nothing common and nothing mean.
He must have a madman among the ruins, or by a pool a peasant woman
sitting, who has been mad ever since her child was drowned there, or a
mule and a stallion fighting with hoofs and teeth. The clergy, in their
ugly shovel hats and long cloaks, glared at him askance as he passed by
their whispering groups in Salamanca: at the English College in
Valladolid, he thought of "those pale, smiling, half-foreign priests who,
like stealthy grimalkins, traversed green England in all directions"
under the persecution of Elizabeth. If he painted an archbishop plainly
dressed in black cassock and silken cap, stooping, feeble, pale and
emaciated, he set upon his finger a superb amethyst of a dazzling
lustre--Borrow never saw a finer, except one belonging to an acquaintance
of his own, a Tartar Khan.
The day after his interview with the archbishop he had a visit from
Benedict Mol. This man is proved to have existed by a letter from Rey
Romero to Borrow mentioning "The German of the Treasure." {181} "True,
every word of it!" says Knapp: "Remember our artist never created; he
painted from models." Because he existed, therefore every word of
Borrow's concerning him is true. As Borrow made him, "He is a bulky old
man, somewhat above the middle height, and with white hair and ruddy
features; his eyes were large and blue, and, whenever he fixed them on
anyone's countenance, were full of an expression of great eagerness, as
if he were expecting the communication of some important tidings. He was
dressed commonly enough, in a jacket and trousers of coarse cloth of a
russet colour; on his head was an immense sombrero, the brim of which had
been much cut and mutilated, so as in some places to resemble the jags or
denticles of a saw."
And thus, at Madrid in 1836, he told his story on the first meeting, as
men had to do when they were interrogated by Borrow:
"Upon my asking him who he was, the following conversation ensued between
us:
"'I am a Swiss of Lucerne, Benedict Mol by name, once a soldier in the
Walloon Guard, and now a soap-boiler, _para servir usted_.'
"'You speak the language of Spain very imperfectly,' said I; 'how long
have you been in the country?'
"'Forty-five years,' replied Benedict. 'But when the guard was broken up
I went to Minorca, where I lost the Spanish language without acquiring
the Catalan.'
"'You have been a soldier of the King of Spain,' said I; 'how did you
like the service?'
"'Not so well but that I should have been glad to leave it forty years
ago; the pay was bad, and the treatment worse. I will now speak Swiss to
you; for, if I am not much mistaken, you are a German man, and understand
the speech of Lucerne. I should soon have deserted from the service of
Spain, as I did from that of the Pope, whose soldier I was in my early
youth before I came here; but I had married a woman of Minorca, by whom I
had two children: it was this that detained me in these parts so long.
Before, however, I left Minorca, my wife died; and as for my children,
one went east, the other west, and I know not what became of them. I
intend shortly to return to Lucerne, and live there like a duke.'
"'Have you then realized a large capital in Spain?' said I, glancing at
his hat and the rest of his apparel.
"'Not a cuart, not a cuart; these two wash-balls are all that I possess.'
"'Perhaps you are the son of good parents, and have lands and money in
your own country wherewith to support yourself.'
"'Not a heller, not a heller. My father was hangman of Lucerne, and when
he died, his body was seized to pay his debts.'
"'Then doubtless,' said I, 'you intend to ply your trade of soap-boiling
at Lucerne. You are quite right, my friend; I know of no occupation more
honourable or useful.'
"'I have no thoughts of plying my trade at Lucerne,' replied Benedict.
'And now, as I see you are a German man, Lieber Herr, and as I like your
countenance and your manner of speaking, I will tell you in confidence
that I know very little of my trade, and have already been turned out of
several fabriques as an evil workman; the two wash-balls that I carry in
my pocket are not of my own making. _In kurtzen_, I know little more of
soap-boiling than I do of tailoring, horse-farriery, or shoe-making, all
of which I have practised.'
"'Then I know not how you can hope to live like a hertzog in your native
canton, unless you expect that the men of Lucerne, in consideration of
your services to the Pope and to the King of Spain, will maintain you in
splendour at the public expense.'
"'Lieber Herr,' said Benedict, 'the men of Lucerne are by no means fond
of maintaining the soldiers of the Pope and the King of Spain at their
own expense; many of the guard who have returned thither beg their bread
in the streets: but when I go, it shall be in a coach drawn by six mules
with a treasure, a mighty schatz which lies in the church of St. James of
Compostella, in Galicia.'
"'I hope you do not intend to rob the church,' said I. 'If you do,
however, I believe you will be disappointed. Mendizabal and the Liberals
have been beforehand with you. I am informed that at present no other
treasure is to be found in the cathedrals of Spain than a few paltry
ornaments and plated utensils.'
"'My good German Herr,' said Benedict, 'it is no church schatz; and no
person living, save myself, knows of its existence. Nearly thirty years
ago, amongst the sick soldiers who were brought to Madrid, was one of my
comrades of the Walloon Guard, who had accompanied the French to
Portugal; he was very sick, and shortly died. Before, however, he
breathed his last, he sent for me, and upon his death-bed told me that
himself and two other soldiers, both of whom had since been killed, had
buried in a certain church in Compostella a great booty which they had
made in Portugal; it consisted of gold moidores and of a packet of huge
diamonds from the Brazils: the whole was contained in a large copper
kettle. I listened with greedy ears, and from that moment, I may say, I
have known no rest, neither by day nor night, thinking of the schatz. It
is very easy to find, for the dying man was so exact in his description
of the place where it lies, that were I once at Compostella I should have
no difficulty in putting my hand upon it. Several times I have been on
the point of setting out on the journey, but something has always
happened to stop me. When my wife died, I left Minorca with a
determination to go to St. James; but on reaching Madrid, I fell into the
hands of a Basque woman, who persuaded me to live with her, which I have
done for several years. She is a great hax, {184} and says that if I
desert her she will breathe a spell which shall cling to me for ever.
_Dem Got sey dank_, she is now in the hospital, and daily expected to
die. This is my history, Lieber Herr.'"
Notice that Borrow continues:
"I have been the more careful in relating the above conversation, as I
shall have frequent occasion to mention the Swiss in the course of these
journals."
Benedict Mol had the faculty of re-appearance. In the next year at
Compostella the moonlight fell on his grey locks and weatherbeaten face
and Borrow recognised him. "_Och_," said the man, "_mein Gott_, _es ist
der Herr_!" (it is that gentleman). "Och, what good fortune, that the
_Herr_ is the first person I meet in Compostella." Even Borrow could
scarcely believe his eyes. Benedict had come to dig for the treasure,
and in the meantime proposed to live at the best hotel and pay his score
when the digging was done. Borrow gave him a dollar, which he paid to a
witch for telling him where exactly the treasure lay. A third time, to
his own satisfaction and Borrow's astonishment, he re-appeared at Oviedo.
He had, in fact, followed Borrow to Corunna, having been despitefully
used at Compostella, met highwaymen on the road, and suffered hunger so
that he slaughtered a stray kid and devoured it raw. From Oviedo he trod
in Borrow's footsteps, which was "a great comfort in his horrible
journeys." "A strange life has he led," said Borrow's Greek servant,
"and a strange death he will die--it is written on his countenance." He
re-appeared a fourth time at Madrid, in light green coat and pantaloons
that were almost new, and a glossy Andalusian hat "of immense altitude of
cone," and leaning not on a ragged staff but "a huge bamboo rattan,
surmounted by the grim head of either a bear or lion, curiously cut out
of pewter." He had been wandering after Borrow in misery that almost
sent him mad:
"Oh, the horror of wandering about the savage hills and wide plains of
Spain without money and without hope! Sometimes I became desperate, when
I found myself amongst rocks and barrancos, perhaps after having tasted
no food from sunrise to sunset, and then I would raise my staff towards
the sky and shake it, crying, Lieber herr Gott, ach lieber herr Gott, you
must help me now or never. If you tarry, I am lost. You must help me
now, now! And once when I was raving in this manner, methought I heard a
voice--nay, I am sure I heard it--sounding from the hollow of a rock,
clear and strong; and it cried, 'Der schatz, der schatz, it is not yet
dug up. To Madrid, to Madrid! The way to the schatz is through
Madrid.'"
But now he had met people who supported him with an eye to the treasure.
Borrow tried to persuade him to circulate the Gospel instead of risking
failure and the anger of his clients. Luckily Benedict went on to
Compostella:
"He went, and I never saw him more. What I heard, however, was
extraordinary enough. It appeared that the government had listened to
his tale, and had been so struck with Benedict's exaggerated description
of the buried treasure, that they imagined that, by a little trouble and
outlay, gold and diamonds might be dug up at St. James sufficient to
enrich themselves and to pay off the national debt of Spain. The Swiss
returned to Compostella 'like a duke,' to use his own words. The affair,
which had at first been kept a profound secret, was speedily divulged. It
was, indeed, resolved that the investigation, which involved consequences
of so much importance, should take place in a manner the most public and
imposing. A solemn festival was drawing nigh, and it was deemed
expedient that the search should take place upon that day. The day
arrived. All the bells in Compostella pealed. The whole populace
thronged from their houses; a thousand troops were drawn up in a square;
the expectation of all was wound up to the highest pitch. A procession
directed its course to the church of San Roque. At its head were the
captain-general and the Swiss, brandishing in his hand the magic rattan;
close behind walked the _meiga_, the Gallegan witch-wife, by whom the
treasure-seeker had been originally guided in the search; numerous masons
brought up the rear, bearing implements to break up the ground. The
procession enters the church; they pass through it in solemn march; they
find themselves in a vaulted passage. The Swiss looks around. 'Dig
here,' said he suddenly. 'Yes, dig here,' said the meiga. The masons
labour; the floor is broken up--a horrible and fetid odour arises. . .
"Enough, no treasure was found, and my warning to the unfortunate Swiss
turned out but too prophetic. He was forthwith seized and flung into the
horrid prison of St. James, amidst the execrations of thousands, who
would have gladly torn him limb from limb.
"The affair did not terminate here. The political opponents of the
government did not allow so favourable an opportunity to escape for
launching the shafts of ridicule. The Moderados were taunted in the
cortes for their avarice and credulity, whilst the Liberal press wafted
on its wings through Spain the story of the treasure-hunt at St. James.
"'After all, it was a _trampa_ {187} of Don Jorge's,' said one of my
enemies. 'That fellow is at the bottom of half the picardias which
happen in Spain.'
"Eager to learn the fate of the Swiss, I wrote to my old friend Rey
Romero, at Compostella. In his answer he states: 'I saw the Swiss in
prison, to which place he sent for me, craving my assistance, for the
sake of the friendship which I bore to you. But how could I help him? He
was speedily after removed from St. James, I know not whither. It is
said that he disappeared on the road.'
"Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Where in the whole cycle of
romance shall we find anything more wild, grotesque, and sad than the
easily authenticated history of Benedict Mol, the treasure-digger of St.
James?"
Knapp, by the way, prints this very letter from Rey Romero. It was his
son who saw Benedict in prison, and he simply says that he does not know
what has become of him.
As Dr. Knapp says, Borrow painted from a model. That is to say, he did
like everybody else. Of course he did not invent. Why should a man with
such a life invent for the purpose of only five books? But there is no
such thing as invention (in the popular sense), except in the making of
_bad_ nonsense rhymes or novels. A writer composes out of his
experience, inward, outward and histrionic, or along the protracted lines
of his experience. Borrow felt that adventures and unusual scenes were
his due, and when they were not forthcoming he revived an old one or
revised the present in the weird light of the past. Is this invention?
Pictures like that of Benedict Mol are not made out of nothing by Borrow
or anybody else. Nor are they copies. The man who could merely copy
nature would never have the eyes to see such beauties as Benedict Mol. It
must be noticed how effective is the re-appearance, the intermingling of
such a man with "ordinary life," and then finally the suggestion of one
of Borrow's enemies that he was put up to it by _Don Jorge_--"That fellow
is at the bottom of half the _picardias_ which happen in Spain." What
glory for _Don Jorge_. The story would have been entertaining enough as
a mere isolated short story: thus scattered, it is twice as effective as
if it were a mere fiction, whether labelled "a true story" or introduced
by an ingenious variation of the same. It is one of Borrow's triumphs
never to let us escape from the spell of actuality into a languid
acquiescence in what is "only pretending." The form never becomes a
fiction, even to the same extent as that of Turgenev's "Sportsman's
Sketches"; for Borrow is always faithful to the form of a book of travel
in Spain during the 'thirties. In "Don Quixote" and "Gil Blas," the
lesser narratives are as a rule introduced without much attempt at
probability, but as mere diversions. They are never such in "The Bible
in Spain," though they are in "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye." The Gypsy
hag of Badajoz, who proposed to poison all the _Busne_ in Madrid, and
then away with the London Caloro to the land of the Moor--his Greek
servant Antonio, even though he begins with "Je vais vous raconter mon
histoire du commencement jusqu'ici."--the Italian whom he had met as a
boy and who now regretted leaving England, the toasted cheese and bread,
the Suffolk ale, the roaring song and merry jests of the labourers,--and
Antonio again, telling him "the history of the young man of the
inn,"--these story-tellers are not merely consummate variations upon
those of the "Decameron" and "Gil Blas." The book never ceases to be a
book of travel by an agent of the Bible Society. It is to its very great
advantage that it was not written all of a piece with one conscious aim.
The roughness, the merely accurate irrelevant detail here and there, the
mention of his journal, and the references to well-known and substantial
people, win from us an openness and simplicity of reception which ensure
a success for it beyond that of most fictions. I cannot refuse complete
belief in the gigantic Jew, Abarbanel, for example, when Borrow has said:
"I had now a full view of his face and figure, and those huge featured
and Herculean form still occasionally revisit me in my dreams. I see him
standing in the moonshine, staring me in the face with his deep calm
eyes." I do not feel bound to believe that he had met the Italian of
Corunna twenty years before at Norwich, though to a man with his memory
for faces such re-appearances are likely to happen many times as often as
to an ordinary man. But I feel no doubt about Judah Lib, who spoke to
him at Gibraltar: he was "about to exclaim, 'I know you not,' when one or
two lineaments struck him, and he cried, though somewhat hesitatingly,
'surely this is Judah Lib.'" He continues: "It was in a steamer in the
Baltic in the year '34, if I mistake not." That he had this strong
memory is certain; but that he knew it, and was proud of it, and likely
to exaggerate it, is almost equally certain.
It was natural that such a knight should have squires of high degree, as
Francisco the Basque and the two Antonios, Gypsy and Greek. Antonio the
Greek left Borrow to serve a count as cook, but the count attacked him
with a rapier, whereupon he gave notice in the following manner:
"Suddenly I took a large casserole from the fire in which various eggs
were frying; this I held out at arm's length, peering at it along my arm
as if I were curiously inspecting it--my right foot advanced, and the
other thrown back as far as possible. All stood still, imagining,
doubtless, that I was about to perform some grand operation; and so I
was: for suddenly the sinister leg advancing, with one rapid _coup de
pied_ I sent the casserole and its contents flying over my head, so that
they struck the wall far behind me. This was to let them know that I had
broken my staff and had shaken the dust off my feet. So casting upon the
count the peculiar glance of the Sceirote cooks when they feel themselves
insulted, and extending my mouth on either side nearly as far as the
ears, I took down my haversack and departed, singing as I went the song
of the ancient Demos, who, when dying, asked for his supper, and water
wherewith to lave his hands:
[Greek verse]
And in this manner, mon maitre, I left the house of the Count of ---."
The morning after Francisco died, when Borrow was lying in bed ruminating
on his loss, he heard someone cleaning boots and singing in an unknown
tongue, so he rang the bell. Antonio appeared. He had, he said, engaged
himself to the Prime Minister at a high salary, but on hearing of
Borrow's loss, he "told the Duke, though it was late at night, that he
would not suit me; and here I am." Again he left Borrow. When he
returned it was in obedience to a dream, in which he saw his master ride
on a black horse up to his inn--yet this was immediately after Borrow's
landing on his third visit to Spain, of which "only two individuals in
Madrid were aware." This Greek was acquainted with all the cutthroats in
Galicia; he could tell a story like Sterne, and in every way was a
servant who deserved no less a master than _Monsieur Georges_.
Francisco has already sufficiently adorned these pages. As for the other
Antonio, the Gypsy, he guided Borrow through the worst of Spain on his
way to Madrid. This he offered to do in such terms that Borrow's hint at
the possible danger of accepting it falls flat. He was as mysterious as
Borrow himself, and being asked why he was taking this particular road,
he answered: "It is an affair of Egypt, brother, and I shall not acquaint
you with it; peradventure it relates to a horse or an ass, or
peradventure it relates to a mule or a _macho_; it does not relate to
yourself, therefore I advise you not to inquire about it--_Dosta_. . . ."
He carried a loadstone in his bosom and swallowed some of the dust of it,
and it served both for passport and for prayers. When he had to leave
Borrow he sold him a savage and vicious she ass, recommending her for the
same reason as he bought her, because "a savage and vicious beast has
generally four excellent legs."