Chapter 26

As the atmosphere of the two autobiographical books is more intense and pure than that of "The Bible in Spain," so the characters in it are more elaborate. "The Bible in Spain" contained brilliant sketches and suggestions of men and women. In the autobiography even the sketches are intimate, like that of the "Anglo-Germanist," William Taylor; and they are not less surprising than the Spanish sketches, from the Rommany chal who "fought in the old Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Benygant; casting foam from his mouth, and fire from his eyes"--from this man upwards and downwards. Some are highly finished, and these are not always the best. For example, the portrait of his father, the stiff, kindly, uncomprehending soldier, strikes me as a little too much "done to a turn." It is a little too like a man in a book, and so perfectly consistent, except for that one picturesque weakness--the battle with Big Ben, whose skin was like a toad. Borrow probably saw and cared very little for his father, and therefore found it too easy to idealise and produce a mere type, chiefly out of his head. His mother is more certainly from life, and he could not detach himself from her sufficiently to make her clear; yet he makes her his own mother plainly enough. His brother has something of the same unreality and perfection as his father. These members of his family belong to one distinct class of studies which includes among others the publisher, Sir Richard Phillips. They are of persons not quite of his world whom he presents to us with admiration, or, on the other hand, with dislike, but in either case without sympathy. They do not contribute much to the special character of the autobiography, except in humour. The interviews with Sir Richard Phillips, in particular, give an example of Borrow's obviously personal satire, poisonous and yet without rancour. He is a type. He is the charlatan, holy and massive and not perfectly self-convincing. When Borrow's money was running low and he asked the publisher to pay for some contributions to a magazine, now deceased:

"'Sir,' said the publisher, 'what do you want the money for?'

"'Merely to live on,' I replied; 'it is very difficult to live in this town without money.'

"'How much money did you bring with you to town?' demanded the publisher.

"'Some twenty or thirty pounds,' I replied.

"'And you have spent it already?'

"'No,' said I, 'not entirely; but it is fast disappearing.'

"'Sir,' said the publisher, 'I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!'

"'On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?'

"'Sir,' said the publisher, 'you eat meat.'

"'Yes,' said I, 'I eat meat sometimes; what should I eat?'

"'Bread, sir,' said the publisher; 'bread and cheese.'

"'So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford it--it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinner cost me fourteen pence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir.'

"'Then, sir, eat bread--bread alone. As good men as yourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir.'

"However, I got paid at last for my writings in the review, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months after date."

The incident serves to diversify the narrative, and may be taken from his own London experiences, while the particular merriment of the rhyme is Borrow's; but it is not of the essence of the book, and fits only indifferently into the mysterious "Arabian Nights" London, the city of the gallant Ardry and the old apple-woman who called him "dear" and called Moll Flanders "blessed Mary Flanders." Sir Richard will not mysteriously re-appear, nor will Captain and Mrs. Borrow. I should say, in fact, that characters of this class have scarcely at all the power of motion. What is more, they take us not only a little way out of Borrow's world sometimes, but away from Borrow himself.

Apart from these characters, the men and women of "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye" are all in harmony with one another, with Borrow, and with Borrow's world. Jasper Petulengro and his wife, his sister Ursula, the gigantic Tawno Chikno, the witch Mrs. Herne, and the evil sprite Leonora, Thurtell, the fighting men, the Irish outlaw Jerry Grant, who was suspected of raising a storm by "something Irish and supernatural" to win a fight, Murtagh, that wicked innocent, the old apple-woman, Blazing Bosville, Isopel Berners, the jockey who drove one hundred and ten miles in eleven hours to see "the only friend he ever had in the world," John Thurtell, and say, "God Almighty bless you, Jack!" before the drop fell, the old gentleman who had learned "Sergeant Broughton's guard" and knocked out the bullying coachman, the Welsh preacher and his wife, the Arcadian old bee-keeper, the rat-catcher--all these and their companions are woven into one piece by the genius of their creator, Borrow. I can imagine them all greeting him together as the Gypsies did, and much as the jockey did afterwards:

"Here the Gipsy gemman see, With his Roman jib and his rome and dree-- Rome and dree, rum and dry Rally round the Rommany Rye."

He waves his wand and they disappear. He made them as Jerry Grant made the storm and beat Sergeant Bagg. In "Lavengro" he actually does raise such a storm, though Knapp affected to discover it in a newspaper of the period. Sampson and Martin are fighting at North Walsham, and a storm comes on:

"There's wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail; is it possible to fight amidst such a commotion? Yes! the fight goes on; again the boy strikes the man full on the brow, but it is no use striking that man, his frame is of adamant. 'Boy, thy strength is beginning to give way, thou art becoming confused'; the man now goes to work, amidst rain and hail. 'Boy, thou wilt not hold out ten minutes longer against rain, hail, and the blows of such an antagonist.'

"And now the storm was at its height; the black thundercloud had broken into many, which assumed the wildest shapes and the strangest colours, some of them unspeakably glorious; the rain poured in a deluge, and more than one water-spout was seen at no great distance: an immense rabble is hurrying in one direction; a multitude of men of all ranks, peers and yokels, prize-fighters and Jews, and the last came to plunder, and are now plundering amidst that wild confusion of hail and rain, men and horses, carts and carriages. But all hurry in one direction, through mud and mire; there's a town only three miles distant which is soon reached, and soon filled, it will not contain one-third of that mighty rabble; but there's another town farther on--the good old city is farther on, only twelve miles; what's that! who'll stay here? onward to the old town.

"Hurry skurry, a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts and carriages, all in the direction of the old town; and, in the midst of all that mad throng, at a moment when the rain gushes were coming down with particular fury, and the artillery of the sky was pealing as I had never heard it peal before, I felt some one seize me by the arm--I turned round and beheld Mr. Petulengro.

"'I can't hear you, Mr. Petulengro,' said I; for the thunder drowned the words which he appeared to be uttering.

"'Dearginni,' I heard Mr. Petulengro say, 'it thundereth. I was asking, brother, whether you believe in dukkeripens?'

"'I do not, Mr. Petulengro; but this is strange weather to be asking me whether I believe in fortunes.'

"'Grondinni,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'it haileth. I believe in dukkeripens, brother.'

"'And who has more right,' said I, 'seeing that you live by them? But this tempest is truly horrible.'

"'Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni! It thundereth, it haileth, and also flameth,' said Mr. Petulengro. 'Look up there, brother!'

"I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one feature to which I have already alluded--the wonderful colours of the clouds. Some were of vivid green; others of the brightest orange; others as black as pitch. The Gypsy's finger was pointed to a particular part of the sky.

"'What do you see there, brother?'

"'A strange kind of cloud.'

"'What does it look like, brother?'

"'Something like a stream of blood.'

"'That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen.'

"'A bloody fortune!' said I. 'And whom may it betide?'

"'Who knows?' said the Gypsy.

"Down the way, dashing and splashing, and scattering man, horse, and cart to the left and right, came an open barouche, drawn by four smoking steeds, with postillions in scarlet jackets, and leather skull-caps. Two forms were conspicuous in it; that of the successful bruiser, and of his friend and backer, the sporting gentleman of my acquaintance.

"'His!' said the Gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern features wore a smile of triumph, as, probably recognizing me in the crowd, he nodded in the direction of where I stood, as the barouche hurried by.

"There went the barouche, dashing through the rain gushes', and in it one whose boast it was that he was equal to 'either fortune.' Many have heard of that man--many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him. I have nothing to do with that man's after life--he fulfilled his dukkeripen. 'A bad, violent man!' Softly, friend; when thou wouldst speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy own dukkeripen!"

As Borrow fits these pugilists into the texture of his autobiography, so he does men who appear not once but a dozen times. Take Jasper Petulengro out of the books and he does not amount to much. In them he is a figure of most masculine beauty, a king, a trickster, and thief, but simple, good with his fists, loving life, manly sport and fair play. He and Borrow meet and shake hands as "brothers" when they are little boys. They meet again, by chance, as big boys, and Jasper says: "Your blood beat when mine was near, as mine always does at the coming of a brother; and we became brothers in that lane." Jasper laughs at the Sapengro and Lavengro and horse-witch because he lacks two things, "mother sense and gentle Rommany," and he has something to do with teaching Borrow the Gypsy tongue and Gypsy ways, and the "mother sense" of shifting for himself. The Gypsies approve him also as "a pure fist master." In return he teaches Mrs. Chikno's child to say his prayers in Rommany. They were willing--all but Mrs. Herne--that he should marry Mr. Petulengro's sister, Ursula. It is always by chance that they meet, and chance is very favourable. They meet at significant times, as when Borrow has been troubled by the preacher and the state of his own soul, or when he is sick of London and hack-writing and poverty. In fact, the Gypsies, and his "brother" Jasper in particular, returning and returning, are the motive of the book. They connect Borrow with what is strange, with what is simple, and with what is free. The very last words of "The Romany Rye," spoken as he is walking eastward, are "I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno came originally from India. I think I'll go there." They are not a device. The re-appearances of these wandering men are for the most part only pleasantly unexpected. Their mystery is the mystery of nature and life. They keep their language and their tents against the mass of civilization and length of time. They are foreigners but as native as the birds. It is Borrow's triumph to make them as romantic as their reputation while yet satisfying Gypsy students as to his facts.

Jasper is almost like a second self, a kind of more simple, atavistic self, to Borrow, as in that characteristic picture, where he is drawing near to Wales with his friends, the Welsh preacher and his wife. A brook is the border and they point it out. There is a horseman entering it: "he stops in the middle of it as if to water his steed." They ask Lavengro if he will come with them into Wales. They persuade him:

"'I will not go with you,' said I. 'Dost thou see that man in the ford?'

"'Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done drinking? Of course I see him.'

"'I shall turn back with him. God bless you!'

"'Go back with him not,' said Peter, 'he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes--turn not with that man.'

"'Go not back with him,' said Winifred. 'If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us.'

"'I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divous, Mr. Petulengro.'

"'Kosko Divvus, Pal,' said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water; 'are you turning back?'

"I turned back with Mr. Petulengro."

At another time Jasper twists about like a weasel bewitching a bird, and in so doing puts 50 pounds unnoticed into Lavengro's pocket. Lavengro is indignant at the pleasantry. But Jasper insists; the money is for him to buy a certain horse; if he will not take the money and buy the horse there will be a quarrel. He has made the money by fair fighting in the ring, has nowhere to put it, and seriously thinks that it were best invested in this fine horse, which accordingly Borrow purchases and takes across England, and sells at Horncastle Fair for 150 pounds. The next scene shows Tawno Chikno at his best. Borrow has been trotting the horse and racing it against a cob, amid a company that put him "wonderfully in mind of the ancient horse-races of the heathen north," so that he almost thought himself Gunnar of Lithend. But Tawno was the man to try the horse at a jump, said Jasper. Tawno weighed sixteen stone, and the owner thought him more likely to break the horse's back. Jasper became very much excited, and offered to forfeit a handful of guineas if harm was done.

"'Here's the man. Here's the horse-leaper of the world. . . .' Tawno, at a bound, leaped into the saddle, where he really looked like Gunnar of Hlitharend, save and except that the complexion of Gunnar was florid, whereas that of Tawno was of nearly Mulatto darkness; and that all Tawno's features were cast in the Grecian model, whereas Gunnar had a snub nose. 'There's a leaping-bar behind the house,' said the landlord. 'Leaping-bar!' said Mr. Petulengro, scornfully. 'Do you think my black pal ever rides at a leaping bar? No more than at a windle-straw. Leap over that meadow wall, Tawno.' Just past the house, in the direction in which I had been trotting, was a wall about four feet high, beyond which was a small meadow. Tawno rode the horse gently up to the wall, permitted him to look over, then backed him for about ten yards, and pressing his calves against the horse's sides, he loosed the rein, and the horse launching forward, took the leap in gallant style. 'Well done, man and horse!' said Mr. Petulengro; 'now come back, Tawno.' The leap from the side of the meadow was, however, somewhat higher; and the horse, when pushed at it, at first turned away; whereupon Tawno backed him to a greater distance, pushed the horse to a full gallop, giving a wild cry; whereupon the horse again took the wall, slightly grazing one of his legs against it. 'A near thing,' said the landlord, 'but a good leap. Now, no more leaping, so long as I have control over the animal.'"

A very different beautiful scene is where Mrs. Petulengro braids Isopel's fair hair in Gypsy fashion, half against her will, and Lavengro looks on, showing Isopel at a glance his disapproval of the fashion, while Petulengro admires it. If it is not too much to quote, I will do so, because it is the clearest and most detailed picture of more than one figure in the whole of the autobiography. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro have come to visit Isopel, and Lavengro has fetched her to his tent, where they are awaiting her:

"So Belle and I advanced towards our guests. As we drew nigh Mr. Petulengro took off his hat and made a profound obeisance to Belle, whilst Mrs. Petulengro rose from her stool and made a profound curtsey. Belle, who had flung her hair back over her shoulders, returned their salutations by bending her head, and after slightly glancing at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her large blue eyes full upon his wife. Both these females were very handsome--but how unlike! Belle fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro with olive complexion, eyes black, and hair dark--as dark could be. Belle, in demeanour calm and proud; the Gypsy graceful, but full of movement and agitation. And then how different were those two in stature! The head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast of Isopel Berners. I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle with unmixed admiration: so did her husband. 'Well,' said the latter, 'one thing I will say, which is, that there is only one on earth worthy to stand up in front of this she, and that is the beauty of the world, as far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno Chikno; what a pity he did not come down! . . .'

"Mrs. Petulengro says: 'You are very beautiful, madam, though you are not dressed as I could wish to see you, and your hair is hanging down in sad confusion; allow me to assist you in arranging your hair, madam; I will dress it for you in our fashion; I would fain see how your hair would look in our poor Gypsy fashion; pray allow me, madam?' and she took Belle by the hand.

"'I really can do no such thing,' said Belle, withdrawing her hand; 'I thank you for coming to see me, but . . .'

"'Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam,' said Mrs. Petulengro; 'I should esteem your allowing me a great mark of condescension. You are very beautiful, madam, and I think you doubly so, because you are so fair; I have a great esteem for persons with fair complexions and hair; I have a less regard for people with dark hair and complexions, madam.'

"'Then why did you turn off the lord, and take up with me?' said Mr. Petulengro; 'that same lord was fair enough all about him.'

"'People do when they are young and silly what they sometimes repent of when they are of riper years and understandings. I sometimes think that had I not been something of a simpleton, I might at this time be a great court lady. Now, madam,' said she, again taking Belle by the hand, 'do oblige me by allowing me to plait your hair a little?'

"'I have really a good mind to be angry with you,' said Belle, giving Mrs. Petulengro a peculiar glance.

"'Do allow her to arrange your hair,' said I, 'she means no harm, and wishes to do you honour; do oblige her and me too, for I should like to see how your hair would look dressed in her fashion.'

"'You hear what the young rye says?' said Mrs. Petulengro. 'I am sure you will oblige the young rye, if not myself. Many people would be willing to oblige the young rye, if he would but ask them; but he is not in the habit of asking favours. He has a nose of his own, which he keeps tolerably exalted; he does not think small-beer of himself, madam; and all the time I have been with him, I never heard him ask a favour before; therefore, madam, I am sure you will oblige him.' . . ."

The men talk together, Jasper telling about the passing of the "old-fashioned good-tempered constables," the advent of railways, and the spoiling of road life.

". . . 'Now, madam,' said Mrs. Petulengro, 'I have braided your hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if possible, than before.' Belle now rose, and came forward with her tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro's hand. Nature never intended Belle to appear as a Gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious. A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine,--that of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised victory.

"Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. Petulengro, she said, 'You have had your will with me; are you satisfied?' 'Quite so, madam,' said Mrs. Petulengro, 'and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass.' 'I have looked in one already,' said Belle,' and the glass does not flatter.' . . ."

Here it is easy to notice how the uncolloquial and even ugly English does not destroy the illusion of the scene, but entirely subserves it and makes these two or three pages fine painter's work for richness and still drama.

I have not forgotten the Man in Black, though I gladly would. Not that I am any more in sympathy with his theology than Borrow's, if it is more interesting and venerable. But in this priest, Borrow's method, always instinctively intense if not exaggerated, falls to caricature. I have no objection to caricature; when it is of a logical or incidental kind I enjoy it, even in "The Romany Rye"; I enjoy, for example, the snoring Wordsworthian, without any prejudice against Wordsworth. "The Catholic Times" as late as 1900 was still angry with Borrow's "crass anti-Catholic bigotry." I should have expected them to laugh consumedly at a priest, a parson and a publican who deserve places in the same gallery with wicked earls and noble savages of popular fiction. It may be true that this "creation of Borrow's most studied hatred" is, as Mr. Seccombe says, {242} "a triumph of complex characterisation." He is "a joyous liver and an unscrupulous libertine, sceptical as Voltaire, as atheistic as a German professor, as practical as a Jew banker, as subtle as a Jesuit, he has as many ways of converting the folks among whom he is thrown as Panurge had of eating the corn in ear. For the simple and credulous--crosses and beads; for the hard-hearted and venal--material considerations; for the cultured and educated--a fine tissue of epigrams and anthropology; for the ladies--flattery and badinage. A spiritual ancestor of Anatole France's marvellous full-length figure of Jerome Coignard, Borrow's conception takes us back first to Rabelais and secondly to the seventeenth-century conviction of the profound Machiavellism of Jesuitry."

But in "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye" he is an intruder with a design of turning these books into tracts. He is treated far more elaborately than any other character except the author's, and with a massive man's striving after subtlety. Moreover, Borrow has made it impossible to ignore him or to cut him out, by interlacing him with every other character in these two books. With sad persistency and naive ingenuity he brings it about that every one shall see, or have seen in the past, this terrible priest. Borrow's natural way of dealing with such a man would be that of the converted pugilist who, on hearing of an atheist in the vicinity, wanted to go and "knock the beggar down for Jesus' sake"; and a variation upon this would have been delightful and in harmony with the rest of the book. But clever as the priest is, Borrow himself is stronger, honester and cleverer, too. Of course, the priest leads him to some good things. Above all, he leads to the incident of the half-converted publican, who is being ruined by sherry and Popery. Borrow pursuades him to take ale, which gives him the courage to give up thoughts of conversion, and to turn on his enemies and re-establish himself, to make a good business, become a churchwarden, and teach boxing to the brewer's sons, because it is "a fine manly English art and a great defence against Popery." It is at least a greater defence than Borrow's pen, or deserves to be.