CHAPTER XI.

BETWEEN THE CRIMEA AND THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA.

"Aye free, aff-hand your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel' Ye scarcely tell to ony." ----BURNS.

As soon as Richard was well home from the Crimea, and had attended Beatson's trial, he began to turn his attention to the "Unveiling of Isis," in other words, "Discovering the sources of the Nile, the Lake Regions of Central Africa," on which his heart had long been set, and he passed most of his time in London working it up.

One summer day, in August, 1856, thirty-seven years ago, we had not gone out of town, and I was walking in the Botanical Gardens with my sister, Blanche Pigott, and a friend, and Richard was there, walking with the gorgeous creature of Boulogne--then married. We immediately stopped and shook hands, and asked each other a thousand questions of the four intervening years, and all the old Boulogne memories and feelings which had lain dormant, but not extinct, returned to me. He asked me before I left if I came very often to the Botanical Gardens, and I said, "Oh yes, we always come and read and study here from eleven to one, because it is so much nicer than staying in the hot rooms at this season."' "That is quite right," he said. "What are you studying?" I had that day with me an old friend, Disraeli's "Tancred," the book of my heart and tastes, which he explained to me. We were there about an hour, and when I had to leave, as I moved off, I heard him say to his companion, "Do you know that your cousin has grown charming? I would not have believed that the little schoolgirl of Boulogne would have become such a sweet girl;" and I heard her say, "Ugh!" with a tone of disgust.

Next day, when we got there, he was also there--alone--composing poetry to show to Monckton-Milnes on some pet subject, and he came forward, saying laughingly, "You won't chalk up 'Mother will be angry' now, will you, as you did when you were a little girl?" Again we walked and talked. This went on for a fortnight--I trod on air.

[Sidenote: _We become engaged._]

At the end of a fortnight he asked me "if I could dream of doing anything so sickly as to give up Civilization, and if he could obtain the Consulate at Damascus, to go and live there." He said, "Don't give me an answer _now_, because it will mean a very serious step for you--no less than giving up your people, and all that you are used to, and living the sort of life that Lady Hester Stanhope led. I see the capabilities in you, but you must think it over." I was so long silent from emotion--it was just as if the moon had tumbled down and said, "I thought you cried for me, so I came"--that he thought I was thinking worldly thoughts, and said, "Forgive me! I ought not to have asked so much." At last I found my voice, and said, "I don't _want_ to 'think it over'--I have been 'thinking it over' for six years, ever since I first saw you at Boulogne on the Ramparts. I have prayed for you every day, morning and night. I have followed all your career minutely. I have read every word you ever wrote, and I would rather have a crust and a tent with _you_ than be Queen of all the world. And so I say now, Yes! YES! YES!" I will pass over the next few minutes. Then he said, "Your people will not give you to me." I answered, "I know that, but I belong to myself--I give myself away." "That is all right," he answered; "be firm, and so shall I."

After that he came and visited a little at our house as an acquaintance, having been introduced at Boulogne, and he fascinated, amused, and pleasantly shocked my mother, but completely magnetized my father and all my brothers and sisters. My father used to say, "I don't know what it is about that man, but I can't get him out of my head, I dream about _him every night_."

Cardinal Wiseman and Richard had become friends in early days. Languages had brought them together, and the Cardinal now furnished him with a special passport, recommending him to all the Catholic Missions in wild places all over the World, with special letters describing him as a Catholic Officer.

[Sidenote: _The Story of Hagar Burton._]

I now think I must introduce to you two cuttings from the _Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society_. The first was an obituary after his death, January, 1891; the other was a small contribution from me, throwing a light on his Gypsy interests, and this will explain better than any other way why I was so impressed on hearing his name when we were introduced, and why I was so startled at his pursuit and mingling with the Jats, the aboriginal Gypsies in India, mentioned in my Boulogne recital.

OBITUARY IN THE "GYPSY LORE SOCIETY JOURNAL," JANUARY, 1891.

"Not only this Society, but the whole civilized world, has recently had to mourn the death of our distinguished fellow-member, Sir Richard Francis Burton. Of the many events of his eventful life it is needless to speak here. As soldier, explorer, linguist, and man of letters (the writer of about eighty more or less bulky volumes), he made himself separately famous. 'His most famed achievement--the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina in the character of an Afghan Muslim--was,' says one writer, 'an achievement of the first order. To consider it without a wondering admiration is impossible: so vast is the amount involved of hardihood and self-confidence, of linguistic skill and histrionic genius, of resourcefulness and vigilance and resolve.'

"But the aspect in which he may most suitably be regarded in these pages, is that of a student of the Gypsies, to whom he was affiliated by nature, if not actually by right of descent.

"Whether there may not be also a tinge of Arab, or, perhaps, of Gypsy blood in Burton's race, is a point which is perhaps open to question. For the latter suspicion an excuse may be found in the incurable restlessness which has beset him since his infancy, a restlessness which has effectually prevented him from ever settling long in any one place, and in the singular idiosyncrasy which his friends have often remarked--the peculiarity of his eyes. 'When it (the eye) looks at you,' said one who knows him well, 'it looks through you, and then, glazing over, seems to see something behind you. Richard Burton is the only man (not a Gypsy) with that peculiarity, and he shares with them the same horror of a corpse, death-bed scenes, and graveyards, though caring little for his own life.' When to this remarkable fact he added the scarcely less interesting detail that 'Burton' is one of the half-dozen distinctively Romany names, it is evident that the suspicion of Sir Richard Burton having a drop of Gypsy blood in his descent--crossed and commingled though it be with an English, Scottish, French, and Irish strain--is not altogether unreasonable.

"Unreasonable or not, it can hardly be said that this constitutes a firm basis on which to rear a theory of Gypsy lineage. Yet Burton himself acknowledged a certain Gypsy connection, though, it will be noticed, he does not say the affinity was that of blood, in the following extract from a letter to Mr. J. Pincherle, accepting that gentleman's dedication of his Romany version of the 'Song of Songs' (_I Ghiléngheri Ghilia Salomuneskero_). 'Dear Mr. Pincherle,' writes Sir Richard, 'I accept the honour of your dedication with the same frankness with which you accompanied its offer. And indeed, I am not wholly dissociated from this theme; there is an important family of Gypsies in foggy England, who, in very remote times, adopted our family name. I am yet on very friendly terms with several of these strange people; nay, a certain Hagar Burton, an old fortune-teller (_divinatrice_), took part in a period of my life which in no small degree contributed to determine its course.'

"Whether such slight indications as these really point to a Gypsy line of descent or not, there can be no question as to the interest which Sir Richard Burton took in Gypsy lore. Apart from his various well-known published accounts of the Jats and other tribes of the Indus Valley, he had a work specially entitled 'The Gypsies,' which his biography of 1887 announces as then 'in course of preparation.' The materials of this work are now, we understand, in the possession of Lady Burton, and we trust that they will some day see the light. Sir Richard was himself one of the original members of the Gypsy Lore Society, in which he always took a deep interest; and a letter which he wrote to the secretary, only five days before his death, concludes with the good wish--'All luck to the Society; I will not fail to do what little I can.'

"His death, which was very sudden, took place on October 20th last, while he still held the office of British Consul at Trieste. The high esteem in which he was held by the citizens of Trieste, not only on account of his official position and the great name which he had made for himself in the world of science, but also for those personal qualities which had won their regard, is amply testified by the sincere expressions of regret which accompanied the last honours there paid to his memory. At the time of his death Sir Richard Burton was sixty-nine years of age, having been born at Barham House, Hertfordshire, on March 19th, 1821."

"AN EPISODE FROM THE LIFE OF SIR RICHARD BURTON, BY HIS WIFE.

"In our obituary notice of the late Sir Richard Burton, mention was made of a certain Gypsy named Hagar Burton, who, Sir Richard stated, had been instrumental, to some extent, in shaping his destiny. This reference has been fully explained by Lady Burton, who, in favouring us with some account of her illustrious husband, writes as follows:--

"'In the January number of the _Gypsy Lore Journal_ a passage is quoted from "a short sketch of the career" of my husband (a little black pamphlet) which half suspects a remote drop of Gypsy blood in him. There is no proof that this was ever the case, but there is no question that he showed many of their peculiarities in appearance, disposition, and speech--speaking Romany like themselves. Nor did we ever enter a Gypsy camp without their claiming him: "What are you doing with a black coat on?" they would say, "why don't you join us and be our King?"

"'He had the peculiar eye, which looked you through, glazed over and saw something behind, and is the only man, not a Gypsy, with that peculiarity. He had the restlessness which could stay nowhere long, nor own any spot on earth--the same horror of a corpse, death-bed scenes, and graveyards, or anything which was in the slightest degree ghoulish, though caring but little for his own life--the same aptitude for reading the hand at a glance. With many, he would drop it at once and turn away, nor would anything induce him to speak a word about it.

"'You quote a letter of his to Mr. James Pincherle, a dear old friend of ours, where he relates the influence that a Gypsy, named Hagar Burton, had upon his life. I will now tell you the story, which will reappear in his biography, if I live to finish it.

[Sidenote: _Hagar Burton the Gipsy._]

"'When I was a girl in the schoolroom in the country, I was enthusiastic about Gypsies, Bedouin Arabs, everything Eastern and mysterious, and especially wild, lawless life. Disraeli's "Tancred" was my second Bible. I was strictly forbidden to associate with the Gypsies in our lanes, which was my delight. When they were only travelling tinkers or basket-menders I was very obedient, but wild horses would not have kept me out of the camps of the Oriental, yet English-named, tribes of Burton, Cooper, Stanley, Osbaldiston, and one other whose name I forget. My particular friend was Hagar Burton, a tall, slender, handsome, distinguished, refined woman, of much weight in the tribe. Many an hour have I passed with her (she called me Daisy), and many a little service I did them when any of them were sick, or had got into a scrape with the squires, anent poultry or eggs and other things. At last a time came when we were to go to school in France, and my departure was regretted by them. The last day but one I ever saw Hagar, she cast my horoscope, and wrote it in Romany. The rest of the tribe presented me with a straw flycatcher of many colours, which I still have. The horoscope was translated to me by her, and I give you the most important part concerning my husband--

"'"You will cross the sea, and be in the same town with your Destiny, and know it not. Every obstacle will rise up against you, and such a combination of circumstances, that it will require all your courage and energy and intelligence to meet them. Your life will be like one always swimming against big waves, but God will always be with you, so you will always win. You will fix your eye on your polar star, and you will go for that without looking right or left. _You will bear the name of our Tribe, and be right proud of it. You will be as we are, but far greater than we._ Your life is all wandering, change, and adventure. One soul in two bodies, in life or death; never long apart. Show this to the man you take for your husband.--HAGAR BURTON."

"'In June, 1856, I went to Ascot. I met Hagar and shook hands with her. "Are you Daisy Burton yet?" was her first question. I shook my head--"Would to God I were!" Her face lit up. "Patience, it is just coming." She waved her hand, being rudely thrust from the carriage. I never saw her since, but I was engaged to Richard two months later.

[Sidenote: _Our Strange Parting._]

"'After we were engaged, I gave him the horoscope in Romany. It was before he set out in October, 1856, with Speke, for the discovery of Tanganyika. We had been engaged for some weeks. One day in October we had passed several hours together, and he appointed to come next day, at four o'clock in the afternoon. I went to bed quite happy, but I could not sleep at all. At two a.m. the door opened, and he came into my room. A current of warm air came towards my bed. He said, "Good-bye, my poor child. My time is up, and I have gone, but do not grieve. I shall be back in less than three years, and _I am your destiny_. Good-bye."

"'He held up a letter--looked long at me with those Gypsy eyes, and went slowly out, shutting the door. I sprang out of bed to the door, into the passage--there was nothing--and thence into the room of one of my brothers. I threw myself on the ground, and cried my heart out. He got up, asked me what ailed me, and tried to soothe and comfort me. "Richard is gone to Africa," I said, "and I shall not see him for three years." "Nonsense," he replied; "you have only got a nightmare. You told me he was coming at four in the afternoon." "So I did; but I have seen him, and he told me this; and if you wait till the post comes in, you will see I have told you truly." I sat all the night in my brother's armchair, and at eight o'clock, when the post came in, there was a letter to my sister, Blanche Pigott, enclosing one for me. "He had found it too painful to part, and had thought we should suffer less that way, begged her to break it gently to me, and to give me the letter" (which assured me we should be reunited in 1859--as we were, on the 22nd May of that year). He had left London at six o'clock the previous evening, eight hours before I saw him in the night.

"'This is the story of Hagar Burton. We have mixed a great deal since with Gypsies, in all parts of the world, and have sought her in vain. The other Gypsies have chiefly warned us of having to fight through our lives, and to be perpetually on guard against treacheries and calumnies "_chiefly through jealous men and nasty women_." Well, we have mostly left them to God, and they nearly always come to grief. I may add that all that Hagar Burton foretold came true, and I pray God it may be so to the end, _i.e._ "never long apart" in Life _or_ Death.

"'ISABEL BURTON.'"

Richard traced for me a little sketch of what he expected to find in the Lake Regions (see below).

That last afternoon I had placed round his neck a medal of the Blessed Virgin upon a steel chain, which we Catholics commonly call "the miraculous medal." He promised me he would wear it throughout his journey, and show it me on his return. I had offered it to him on a gold chain, but he had said, "Take away the gold chain; they will cut my throat for it out there." He did show it me round his neck when he came back; he wore it all his life, and it is buried with him.

What made my position more painful was, that he knew that I should not be allowed to receive any letters from him, and therefore it was not safe to write often, and then only to say what others might read. He left to me, at my request, the task of breaking the fact of my engagement to my people, when, where, and how I pleased, as it would be impossible to marry me until he came back. I would here insert a little poem he wrote on leaving--

"I wore thine image, Fame, Within a heart well fit to be thy shrine! Others a thousand boons may gain, One wish was mine--

"The hope to gain one smile, To dwell one moment cradled on thy breast, Then close my eyes, bid life farewell, And take my rest!

"And now I see a glorious hand Beckon me out of dark despair! Hear a glorious voice command, 'Up, bravely dare.

"'And if to leave a deeper trace 'On earth, to thee, Time, Fate, deny; 'Drown vain regret, and have the grace 'Silent to die.'

"She pointed to a grisly land, Where all breathes death--earth, sea, and air! Her glorious accents sound once more: 'Go, meet me there!'

"Mine ear will hear no other sound, No other thought my heart will know. Is this a sin? 'Oh, pardon, Lord! 'Thou mad'st me so.'

"R. F. B.

"_September_, 1856."