Chapter II

Can we analyse the charm that Borrow's books and Borrow's personality exercise over us, despite the presence of unpleasing traits which repel?

In the first place he had the faculty for seizing upon the picturesque and picaresque elements in the world about him. He had the ready instinct of the discursive writer for what was dramatically telling. Present his characters in dramatic form he could not; one and all pass through the crucible of his temperament before we see them. We feel that they are genuinely observed, but they are Borrovized. They speak the language of Borrow. While this is quite true, it is equally true that he knows exactly how to impress and interest the reader with the personages.

Take this effective little introduction to one of the characters in _The Bible in Spain_:--

"At length the moon shone out faintly, when suddenly by its beams I
beheld a figure moving before me at a slight distance. I quickened
the pace of the burra, and was soon close at its side. It went on,
neither altering its pace nor looking round for a moment. It was the
figure of a man, the tallest and bulkiest that I had hitherto seen in
Spain, dressed in a manner strange and singular for the country. On
his head was a hat with a low crown and broad brim, very much
resembling that of an English waggoner; about his body was a long
loose tunic or slop, seemingly of coarse ticken, open in front, so as
to allow the interior garments to be occasionally seen; these
appeared to consist of a jerkin and short velveteen pantaloons. I
have said that the brim of the hat was broad, but broad as it was, it
was insufficient to cover an immense bush of coal-black hair, which,
thick and curly, projected on either side; over the left shoulder was
flung a kind of satchel, and in the right hand was held a long staff
or pole.

"There was something peculiarly strange about the figure, but what
struck me the most was the tranquillity with which it moved along,
taking no heed of me, though, of course, aware of my proximity, but
looking straight forward along the road, save when it occasionally
raised a huge face and large eyes towards the moon, which was now
shining forth in the eastern quarter.

"'A cold night,' said I at last. 'Is this the way to Talavera?'

"'It is the way to Talavera, and the night is cold.'

"'I am going to Talavera,' said I, 'as I suppose you are yourself.'

"'I am going thither, so are you, _Bueno_.'

"The tones of the voice which delivered these words were in their way
quite as strange and singular as the figure to which the voice
belonged; they were not exactly the tones of a Spanish voice, and yet
there was something in them that could hardly be foreign; the
pronunciation also was correct, and the language, though singular,
faultless. But I was most struck with the manner in which the last
word, _bueno_, was spoken. I had heard something like it before, but
where or when I could by no means remember. A pause now ensued; the
figure stalking on as before with the most perfect indifference, and
seemingly with no disposition either to seek or avoid conversation.

"'Are you not afraid,' said I at last, 'to travel these roads in the
dark? It is said that there are robbers abroad.'

"'Are you not rather afraid,' replied the figure, 'to travel these
roads in the dark--you who are ignorant of the country, who are a
foreigner, an Englishman!'

"'How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?' demanded I, much
surprised.

"'That is no difficult matter,' replied the figure; 'the sound of
your voice was enough to tell me that.'

"'You speak of voices,' said I; 'suppose the tone of your own voice
were to tell me who you are?'

"'That it will not do,' replied my companion; 'you know nothing about
me--you can know nothing about me.'

"'Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted with many things of
which you have little idea.'

"'Por exemplo,' said the figure.

"'For example,' said I, 'you speak two languages.'

"The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment, and then said
slowly, '_Bueno_.'

"'You have two names,' I continued; 'one for the house and the other
for the street; both are good, but the one by which you are called at
home is the one which you like best.'

"The man walked on about ten paces, in the same manner as he had
previously done; all of a sudden he turned, and taking the bridle of
the burra gently in his hand, stopped her. I had now a full view of
his face and figure, and those huge features 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. At last
he said--

"'Are you then one of us?'"

An admirable sketch, adroitly conceived and executed beyond doubt, but as a fragment of dialogue remarkable for its literary skill rather than for its characterization.

His instinct for the picturesque never fails him. This is one of the reasons why, despite his astounding garrulousness, the readers of his books are never wearied.

Whether it be a ride in the forest, a tramp on foot, an interview with some individual who has interested him, the picturesque side is always presented, and never is he at better advantage than when depicting some scene of gypsy life.

Opening _The Bible in Spain_ at random I happen on this description of a gypsy supper. It is certainly not one of the best or most picturesque, but as an average sample of his scenic skill it will serve its purpose well.

"Hour succeeded hour, and still we sat crouching over the brasero,
from which, by this time, all warmth had departed; the glow had long
since disappeared, and only a few dying sparks were to be
distinguished. The room or hall was now involved in utter darkness;
the women were motionless and still; I shivered and began to feel
uneasy. 'Will Antonio be here to-night?' at length I demanded.

"'_No tenga usted cuidao_, my London Caloro,' said the gypsy mother,
in an unearthly tone; 'Pepindorio {70} has been here some time.'

"I was about to rise from my seat and attempt to escape from the
house, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and in a moment I
heard the voice of Antonio.

"'Be not afraid, 'tis I, brother; we will have a light anon, and then
supper.'

"The supper was rude enough, consisting of bread, cheese, and olive.
Antonio, however, produced a leathern bottle of excellent wine; we
dispatched these viands by the light of an earthern lamp which was
placed upon the floor.

"'Now,' said Antonio to the youngest female, 'bring me the pajandi,
and I will sing a gachapla.'

"The girl brought the guitar, which with some difficulty the gypsy
tuned, and then, strumming it vigorously, he sang--

"I stole a plump and bonny fowl,
But ere I well had dined,
The master came with scowl and growl,
And me would captive bind.

"My hat and mantle off I threw,
And scour'd across the lea,
Then cried the beng {71} with loud halloo,
Where does the Gypsy flee?"

"He continued playing and singing for a considerable time, the two
younger females dancing in the meanwhile with unwearied diligence,
whilst the aged mother occasionally snapped her fingers or beat time
on the ground with her stock. At last Antonio suddenly laid down the
instrument.

"'I see the London Caloro is weary. Enough, enough; to-morrow more
thereof--we will now to the _charipe_' (bed).

'"With all my heart,' said I; 'where are we to sleep?'

"'In the stable,' said he, 'in the manger; however cold the stable
may be, we shall be warm enough in the bufa.'"

Perhaps his power in this direction is more fully appreciated when he deals with material that promises no such wealth of colour as do gypsy scenes and wanderings in the romantic South.

Cheapside and London Bridge suit him fully as well as do Spanish forests or Welsh mountains. True romancer as he is, he is not dependent on conventionally picturesque externals for arresting attention; since he will discover the stuff of adventure wherever his steps may lead him. The streets of Bagdad in the "golden prime" of Haroun Alraschid are no more mysterious, more enthralling, than the well-known thoroughfares of modern London. No ancient sorceress of Eastern story can touch his imagination more deeply than can an old gypsy woman. A skirmish with a publisher is fully as exciting as a tilt in a medieval tourney; while the stories told him by a rural landlord promise as much relish as any of the tales recounted by Oriental barbers and one-eyed Calenders.

Thus it is that while the pervasive egotism of the man bewitches us, we yield readily to the spell of his splendid garrulity. It is of no great moment that he should take an occasional drink to quench his thirst when passing along the London streets. But he will continue to make even these little details interesting. Did he think fit to recount a sneeze, or to discourse upon the occasion on which he brushed his hair, he would none the less, I think, have held the reader's attention.

Here is the episode of a chance drink; it is a drink and nothing more; but it is not meant to be skipped, and does not deserve to be overlooked.

"Notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began,
about nine o'clock, to feel myself thoroughly tired; painfully and
slowly did I drag my feet along. I also felt very much in want of
some refreshment, and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken
nothing. I was in the Strand, and glancing about I perceived that I
was close by an hotel which bore over the door the somewhat
remarkable name of 'Holy Lands.' Without a moment's hesitation I
entered a well-lighted passage, and turning to the left I found
myself in a well-lighted coffee-room, with a well-dressed and
frizzled waiter before me. 'Bring me some claret,' said I, for I was
rather faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humble order
to so well-dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for a
moment, then making a low bow he bustled off, and I sat myself down
in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter returned,
bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the fingers
of his right hand two purple glasses; placing the latter on the
table, set the bottle down before me with a bang, and then standing
still appeared to watch my movements. You think I don't know how to
drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself. I'll soon show you how
we drink claret where I come from; and filling one of the glasses to
the brim, I flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the lustre,
and then held it to my nose; having given that organ full time to
test the bouquet of the wine, I applied the glass to my lips. Taking
a large mouthful of the wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees
that the palate might likewise have an opportunity of performing its
functions. A second mouthful I disposed of more summarily; then
placing the empty glass upon the table, I fixed my eyes upon the
bottle and said nothing; whereupon the waiter who had been observing
the whole process with considerable attention, made me a bow yet more
low than before, and turning on his heel retired with a smart chuck
of the head, as much as to say, 'It is all right; the young man is
used to claret.'"

A slight enough incident, but, like every line which Borrow wrote, intensely temperamental. How characteristic this of the man's attitude: "You think I don't know how to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself." Then with what deliberate pleasure does he record the theatrical posing for the benefit of the waiter. How he loves to impress! You are conscious of this in every scene which he describes, and it is quite useless to resent it. The only way to escape it is by leaving Borrow unread. And this no wise man can do willingly.

The insatiable thirst for adventure, the passion for the picturesque and dramatic, were so constant with him, that it need not surprise us when he seizes upon every opportunity for mystifying and exciting interest. It is possible that the "veiled period" in his life about which he hints is veiled because it was a time of privation and suffering, and he is consequently anxious to forget it. But I do not think it likely. Nor do the remarks of Mr. Watts-Dunton on this subject support this theory. Indeed, Mr. Watts-Dunton, who knew him so intimately, and had ample occasion to note his love of "making a mystery," hints pretty plainly that "the veiled period" may well be a pleasant myth invented by Borrow just for the excitement of it, not because there was anything special to conceal, or because he wished to regard certain chapters in his life as a closed book.