| By Author | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Title | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Language |
|
Download this book: [ ASCII ] Look for this book on Amazon Tweet |
Title: The romance of Isabel Lady Burton : The story of her life. Volume II
Author: Burton, Isabel, Lady, Wilkins, W. H. (William Henry)
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The romance of Isabel Lady Burton : The story of her life. Volume II" ***
THE ROMANCE OF ISABEL LADY BURTON
VOL. II
[Illustration:
_From a photograph by Gunn & Stuart_ _F. Jenkins Heliog, Paris_
_Isabel Burton_]
_Third Edition_
THE ROMANCE OF
ISABEL LADY BURTON
THE STORY OF HER LIFE
TOLD IN PART BY HERSELF
AND IN PART BY
W. H. WILKINS
WITH PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS
VOLUME TWO
LONDON
HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW
1897
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II
BOOK II
(_Continued_)
CHAPTER XI
PAGE
IN AND ABOUT DAMASCUS 375
CHAPTER XII
EARLY DAYS AT DAMASCUS 387
CHAPTER XIII
THROUGH THE DESERT TO PALMYRA 403
CHAPTER XIV
BLUDÁN IN THE ANTI-LEBANON 425
CHAPTER XV
GATHERING CLOUDS 448
CHAPTER XVI
JERUSALEM AND THE HOLY LAND 469
CHAPTER XVII
THE RECALL 493
CHAPTER XVIII
THE TRUE REASONS OF BURTON’S RECALL 510
CHAPTER XIX
THE PASSING OF THE CLOUD 524
CHAPTER XX
EARLY YEARS AT TRIESTE 535
CHAPTER XXI
THE JOURNEY TO BOMBAY 554
CHAPTER XXII
INDIA 574
CHAPTER XXIII
TRIESTE AGAIN 604
CHAPTER XXIV
THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN 625
CHAPTER XXV
GORDON AND THE BURTONS 645
CHAPTER XXVI
THE SWORD HANGS 677
CHAPTER XXVII
THE SWORD FALLS 698
BOOK III
_WIDOWED_
CHAPTER I
THE TRUTH ABOUT “THE SCENTED GARDEN” 719
CHAPTER II
THE RETURN TO ENGLAND 739
CHAPTER III
THE TINKLING OF THE CAMEL’S BELL 749
INDEX 773
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
VOL. II
LADY BURTON _Frontispiece_
_To face page_
THE BURTONS’ HOUSE AT SALAHÍYYEH, DAMASCUS 376
THE COURT OF THE GREAT MOSQUE, DAMASCUS 384
ARAB CAMEL-DRIVERS 422
BA’ALBAK 430
“THE MOON,” LADY BURTON’S SYRIAN MAID 442
MOSQUE OF OMAR, JERUSALEM 472
THE DEAD SEA 484
TRIESTE 540
SIR RICHARD BURTON 550
PORT SAID 562
ARAB CAMEL-DRIVERS 566
THE CAVES OF ELEPHANTA 574
PANORAMA POINT AND THE BHAO MALLIN HILLS, MÁTHERÁN 578
THE BORAH (NATIVE) BAZAR, BOMBAY 590
GOA 598
SUEZ 612
THE BURTONS’ HOUSE AT TRIESTE 638
CAIRO 662
AUTOGRAPH LETTER OF GENERAL GORDON 672
LADY BURTON IN 1887 686
A NATIVE LADY, TUNIS 694
FACSIMILE OF DECLARATION BY SIR RICHARD BURTON 711
THE ROOM IN WHICH LADY BURTON DIED 770
THE ARAB TENT AT MORTLAKE 770
BOOK II.--WEDDED
(CONTINUED)
CHAPTER XI
_IN AND ABOUT DAMASCUS_
(1870)
When I nighted and day’d in Damascus town,
Time aware such another he ne’er should view;
And careless we slept under wing of night,
Till dappled morn ’gan her smiles renew,
And dewdrops on branch in their beauty hung
Like pearls to be dropt when the zephyr blew,
And the lake was the page where birds read and wrote,
And the clouds set points to what breezes roll.
ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).
During the first weeks at Damascus my only work was to find a suitable
house and to settle down in it. Our predecessor in the Consulate had
lived in a large house in the city itself, and as soon as he retired
he let it to a wealthy Jew. In any case it would not have suited us,
nor would any house within the city walls; for though some of them
were quite beautiful--indeed, marble palaces gorgeously decorated and
furnished after the manner of oriental houses--yet there is always a
certain sense of imprisonment about Damascus, as the windows of the
houses are all barred and latticed, and the gates of the city are shut
at sunset. This would not have suited our wild-cat proclivities; we
should have felt as though we were confined in a cage. So after a
search of many days we took a house in the environs, about a quarter
of an hour’s ride from Damascus, high up the hill. Just beyond it was
the desert sand, and in the background a saffron-hued mountain known as
the Camomile Mountain; and camomile was the scent which pervaded our
village and all Damascus. Our house was in the suburb of Salahíyyeh,
and we had good air and light, beautiful views, fresh water, quiet,
and above all liberty. In five minutes we could gallop out over the
mountains, and there was no locking us up at sunset. Here then we
pitched our tent.
I should like to describe our house at Salahíyyeh once more, though I
have described it before, and Frederick Leighton once drew a sketch of
it, so that it is pretty well known. Our house faced the road and the
opposite gardens, and it was flanked on one side by the Mosque and on
the other by the Hammám (Turkish Bath), and there were gardens at the
back. On the other side of the road were apricot trees, whose varying
beauty of bud and leaf and flower and fruit can be better imagined
than described. Among these apricot orchards I had a capital stable
for twelve horses, and a good room attached to it for any number of
_saises_, or grooms; and beyond that again was a little garden,
through which the river wended its way. So much for the exterior. Now
to come indoors. As one entered, first of all came the courtyard,
boldly painted in broad stripes of red and white and blue, after
the manner of all the courtyards in Damascus. Here too splashed the
fountain, and all around were orange, lemon, and jessamine trees. Two
steps took one to the _líwán_, a raised room open one side to
the court, and spread with carpets, divans, and Eastern stuffs. It was
here, in the summer, I was wont to receive. On the right side of the
court was a dining-room, and on the left a cool sitting-room, when it
was too hot to live upstairs. All the rest of the space below was left
to the servants and offices. Upstairs the rooms ran around two sides
of the courtyard. A long terrace occupied the other two sides, joining
the rooms at either end. This terrace formed a pleasant housetop in the
cool evenings. We spread it with mats and divans, and used to sit among
the flowers and shrubs, and look over Damascus and sniff the desert air
beyond.
[Illustration:
[_From a sketch by the late Lord Leighton._
THE BURTONS’ HOUSE AT SALAHÍYYEH, DAMASCUS.]
Of course this house was not the Consulate, which was in the city,
close to the Serai, or Government House.
I think the charm of our house lay chiefly in the gardens around it. We
made a beautiful arbour in the garden opposite--a garden of roses and
jessamine; and we made it by lifting up overladen vines and citrons,
and the branches of lemon and orange trees, and supporting them on a
framework, so that no sun could penetrate their luxuriant leafage. We
put a divan in this arbour, which overlooked the rushing river; and
that and the housetop were our favourite places to smoke on cool summer
evenings.
By this time you will probably have discovered my love for animals, and
as soon as I had arranged our house at Damascus the first thing I did
was to indulge in my hobby of collecting a menagerie. First of all we
bought some horses, three-quarter-breds and half-breds. Thorough-bred
Arabs, especially mares, were too dear for our stable, and would have
made us an object of suspicion. In the East, where there are official
hands not clean of bribes, an Arab mare is a favourite bribe, and I
had many such offers before I had been at Damascus long; but I refused
them all. Richard always gave me entire command of the stable, and so
it was my domain. Living in solitude as I did very much, I discovered
how companionable horses could be. There was no speech between us,
but I knew everything they said and thought and felt, and they knew
everything I said to them. I did not confine my purchases entirely to
horses. I bought a camel and a snow-white donkey, which latter is the
most honourable mount for grand visiting. I also picked up a splendid
Persian cat in the bazars, and I had brought over with me a young pet
St. Bernard dog, two brindle bull-terriers and two of the Yarborough
breed, and I added later a Kurdish pup. I bought three milk goats
for the house, and I had presents of a pet lamb and a _nimr_
(leopard), which became the idol of the house. The domestic hen-yard
was duly stocked with all kinds of fowls, turkeys, geese, ducks, and
guinea-fowls, and in the garden and on the terrace and the housetop I
kept my pigeons. This collection was my delight. I cannot say that they
were a happy family. After a time I trained them into living together
in something like harmony, but it took a very long time. I added to my
family also from time to time half-famished dogs which I had rescued
from the streets, or ill-treated and broken-down donkeys, which I
purchased from some cruel master. In the course of time it became a
truly wonderful gathering.
The animals in the East seem to me to be almost more intelligent than
those at home. They certainly have a way of showing their likes and
dislikes very strongly. When I first came to Damascus, fond though I
was of animals, I found that most of them shied at me. I do not think
that they had been accustomed to an Englishwoman at close quarters.
For instance, I went for a walk one day, and met a small boy leading a
donkey laden with radishes, as high as a small tree. I suppose that I
was strange-looking, for at the sight of me the donkey kicked up his
heels and threw all the radishes about for a hundred yards around. The
poor little boy set up a howl. I ran to help him, but the more I tried
the more the donkey ran away, and at last I understood by signs that
the donkey was shying at me, so I threw the boy a coin and retreated,
and sent another boy to help him. We called to an old man riding a
shabby-looking horse, but the moment the horse saw me it did exactly
the same thing, and nearly flung the old man off. My sides ached with
laughing. Fancy being so queer that the animals take fright at one!
I think before I go further I ought to give some general idea of the
city of Damascus as it appeared to me. I have already said that my
first sight of the city was one of disappointment; but when I got to
know it better its charm grew upon me, and I shall never till I die
like any place so well. Damascus, as I suppose every one knows, is the
largest town in Syria. In shape it is rather like a boy’s kite, with a
very long tail. The tail of the kite is the Maydán, the poorest part
of Damascus, but rich in ruined mosques and hammáms, and houses which
at first sight look as though they are in decay. But when we got to
know these houses better, we found that marble courts, inlaid chambers,
arabesque ceilings, often lay behind the muddy exteriors. The city
itself is divided into three districts: the Jewish in the southern
part, the Moslem in the northern and western, and the Christian in the
eastern. The Moslem quarter is clean, the Christian quarter dirty, and
the Jewish simply filthy. I often had to gallop through the last-named
holding my handkerchief to my mouth, and the kawwasses running as
though they had been pursued by devils. Everywhere in Damascus, but
especially in this quarter, the labyrinthine streets are piled with
heaps of offal, wild dogs are gorged with carrion, and dead dogs are
lying about. One must never judge Damascus, however, by externals:
every house has a mean aspect in the way of entrance and approach.
This is done purposely to deceive the Government, and not to betray
what may be within in times of looting. You often approach through a
mean doorway into a dirty passage; you then enter a second court, and
you behold a marvellous transformation. You find the house thoroughly
cleaned and perfumed, paved courts with marble fountains and goldfish,
orange and jessamine trees, furniture inlaid with gold and ebony and
mother-o’-pearl, and stained-glass windows. In the interior of one
of the most beautiful houses I visited in Damascus the show-room was
very magnificent, upholstered in velvet and gold, and with divans
inlaid with marble, mother-o’-pearl, ebony, and walnut, and there were
tesselated marble floors and pavements and fountains; but, _en
revanche_, God knows where they sleep at all. One of the ladies
I went to call on first was a very young and pretty bride, only a
fortnight married. She was gaudily dressed, with about £2,000 worth of
diamonds on her head and neck, but the stones were so badly set they
looked like rubbish. She rolled from side to side in her walk, which is
a habit very _chic_.
Notwithstanding her internal grandeur, Damascus is but a wreck of
her former splendour, albeit a beautiful wreck. Ichabod! her glory
has departed; not even the innumerable domes and minarets of her
multitudinous mosques can reinstate her.
I think I ought to touch on the bazars, as they form such an integral
part of the life of Damascus. Many of them were very beautiful, all
huddled together in a labyrinth of streets, and containing almost
everything which one could want. I used to love to go with my Arab
maid and wander through them. There was the saddlery bazar, where one
could buy magnificent trappings for one’s Arab steeds, saddle-cloths
embossed with gold, bridles of scarlet silk, a single rein which
makes you look as if you were managing a horse by a single thread,
and bridles of silver and ivory. There was a shoemakers’ bazar. How
different from a shoe shop in England! The stalls were gorgeous with
lemon-coloured slippers, stiff red shoes, scarlet boots with tops and
tassels and hangings, which form part of the Bedawin dress. There
was a _marqueterie_ bazar, where one found many lovely things
inlaid with choice woods, mother-o’-pearl, and steel. And there was
the gold and silver bazar, where the smiths sat round in little pens,
hammering at their anvils. Here one could pick up some most beautiful
barbarous and antique ornaments, filigree coffee-cup holders, raki
cups of silver inlaid with gold, and many other beautiful things too
numerous to mention. There was another bazar where they sold attar
and sandle-wood oil; and yet another where one could buy rich Eastern
stuffs and silks, the most beautiful things, which would make a fine
smoking suit for one’s husband, or a _sortie de bal_ for oneself.
Here also you can buy izárs to walk about the bazars _incognita_.
They are mostly brilliantly hued and beautifully worked in gold. There
was also the divan, where one bought beautiful stuffs, gaudy Persian
rugs, and prayer-carpets for furnishing the house. There was the bazar
where one bought henna, wherewith to stain the hands, the feet, and
the finger-nails. And last, but by no means least, there was the pipe
or narghíleh bazar, which contained the most beautiful pipe-sticks I
ever saw, and the most lovely narghílehs, which were made in exquisite
shapes and of great length in the tube. The longer the _narbish_,
or tube, the higher your rank, and the greater compliment you pay to
your guest. I used to order mine to be all of dark chocolate and gold,
and to measure from four to six yards in length, and I never had less
than twelve narghílehs in the house at once, one of which I kept for
my own particular smoking, and a silver mouthpiece which I kept in my
pocket for use when visiting. I cannot hope in a short space to exhaust
the treasures of these gorgeous bazars. I can only say in conclusion
that there were also the bazars for sweetmeats, most delectable; for
coffee, of which one never tastes the like out of Damascus; and every
kind of _bric-à-brac_.
No account of Damascus, not even a bird’s-eye view, would be complete
without some mention of the great Mosque, whither I was wont now and
again to repair. When I went, I of course took off my boots at the
entrance, and put on my lemon-coloured slippers, and I was always
careful to be as respectful and as reverent as if I were in my own
church, and to never forget to leave a trifle for the poor, and to
give a substantial tip when I went out. The Mosque was a magnificent
building, with a ceiling of beautiful arabesques; the floor of
limestone like marble, covered with mats and prayer-carpets. One of
the most beautiful domes had windows of delicately carved wood, whose
interstices were filled with crystal. There was a large paved court
with a marble dome and fountain; and there were three minarets, which
it was possible to ascend and from them to look down upon Damascus. It
was up one of these minarets that the Duchesse de Persigny ascended,
and when prayer was called she refused to come down. The Shaykh sent
all kinds of emissaries and entreaties, to whom she replied: “Dites au
Shaykh que je suis la Duchesse de Persigny, que je me trouve fort bien
ici, et que je ne descendrai que quand cela me plaira.” She did not
please for three-quarters of an hour. She also visited _cafés_
which Moslem women do not visit, and shocked the kawwasses so much that
they begged the French Consul not to send them to guard her, as they
were losing their reputation! But to return to our muttons. This superb
Mosque has alternately served as a place of worship for many creeds:
for the Pagans as a temple, for the Christians as a cathedral, and for
the Moslems as a mosque. Like Damascus, it has had its vicissitudes,
and it has been taken captive by Babylonians, Greeks, Persians,
Assyrians, and Turks.
[Illustration: THE COURT OF THE GREAT MOSQUE, DAMASCUS.]
The Hammám, or Turkish Bath, is another feature of Damascus, and
was one of my favourite haunts. I first went to the Hammám out of
curiosity, and was warmly welcomed by the native women; but I was
rather shocked. They squat naked on the floor, and, despoiled of
their dress and hair and make-up, are, most of them, truly hideous.
Their skins are like parchment, and baggy; their heads as bald as
billiard-balls. What little hair they have is dyed an orange red with
henna. They look like the witches in _Macbeth_, or at least as
if they had been called up from out of the lower regions. They sit
chatting with little bundles of sweets and narghílehs before them. An
average Englishwoman would look like an _houri_ amongst them; and
their customs were beastly, to use the mildest term. The Hammám was
entered by a large hall, lit by a skylight, with a huge marble tank
in the centre and four little fountains, and all around raised divans
covered with cushions. Here one wraps oneself in silk and woollen
sheets, and after that proceeds to pass through the six marble rooms.
The first is the cold room, the next warmer, the third warmer still,
until you come to the _sudarium_, the hottest room of all. First
they lather you, then they wash you with a _lif_ and soap, then
they douche you with tubs of hot water, then they shampoo you with
fresh layers of soap, and then douche again. They give you iced
sherbet, and tie towels dipped in cold water round your head, which
prevent you fainting and make you perspire. They scrub your feet with
pumice-stone, and move you back through all the rooms gradually,
douche you with water, and shampoo you with towels. You now return to
the large hall where you first undressed, wrap in woollen shawls, and
recline on a divan. The place is all strewn with flowers, incense is
burned around, and a cup of hot coffee is handed and a narghíleh placed
in your mouth. A woman advances and kneads you as though you were
bread, until you fall asleep under the process, as though mesmerized.
When you wake up, you find music and dancing, the girls chasing one
another, eating sweetmeats, and enjoying all sorts of fun. Moslem women
go through a good deal more of the performance than I have described.
For instance, they have their hair hennaed and their eyebrows plucked.
You can also have your hands and feet hennaed, and, if you like it, be
tattooed. The whole operation takes about four hours. It is often said
by the ignorant that people can get as good a hammám in London or Paris
as in the East. I have tried all, and they bear about as much relation
to one another as a puddle of dirty water does to a pellucid lake. And
the pellucid lake is in the East.
Then the haríms. I often spent an evening in them, and I found them
very pleasant; only at first the women used to ask me such a lot of
inconvenient questions that I became quite confused. They were always
puzzled because I had no children. One cannot generalize on the subject
of haríms; they differ in degree just as much as families in London.
A first-class harím at Constantinople is one thing, at Damascus one of
the same rank is another, while those of the middle and lower classes
are different still. As a rule I met with nothing but courtesy in the
haríms, and much hospitality, cordiality, and refinement. I only twice
met with bad manners, and that was in a middle-class harím. Twice only
the conversation displeased me, and that was amongst the lower class.
One of the first haríms I visited in Damascus was that of the famous
Abd el Kadir (of whom more anon), which of course was one of the best
class. He had five wives: one of them was very pretty. I asked them how
they could bear to live together and pet each other’s children. I told
them that in England, if a woman thought her husband had another wife
or mistress, she would be ready to kill her and strangle the children
if they were not her own. They all laughed heartily at me, and seemed
to think it a great joke. I am afraid that Abd el Kadir was a bit of a
Tartar in his harím, for they were very prim and pious.
So much for the city of Damascus.
In the environs there were many beautiful little roads, leading through
gardens and orchards, by bubbling water, and under the shady fig and
vine, pomegranate and walnut. You emerged from these shady avenues on
to the soft yellow sand of the desert, where you could gallop as hard
as you pleased. There were no boundary-lines, no sign-posts, nothing
to check one’s spirits or one’s energy. The breath of the desert is
liberty.
CHAPTER XII
_EARLY DAYS AT DAMASCUS_
(1870)
Though old as history itself, thou art fresh as breath or
spring, blooming as thine own rosebud, as fragrant as thine own
orange flower, O Damascus, Pearl of the East!
As soon as we had settled in our house I had to accustom myself to
the honours of my position, which at first were rather irksome to me;
but as they were part of the business I had to put up with them. I
found my position as the wife of the British Consul in Damascus very
different from what it had been in Brazil. A consul in the East as
_envoyé_ of a Great Power is a big man, and he ranks almost as
high as a Minister would in Europe. Nearer home a consul is often
hardly considered to be a gentleman, while in many countries he is not
allowed to go to Court. In the East, however, the Consular service was,
at the time I write, an honoured profession, and the _envoyés_ of
the Great Powers were expected to keep up a little state, especially
the English and the French. They had a certain number of Consular
dragomans, or gentleman secretaries, in distinction to the travelling
dragoman, who bears the same relation as a courier in Europe. They
also had a certain number of kawwasses, who look like cavalry soldiers.
The Consulate at Damascus was then quite like a diplomatic post, and I
felt like a Minister’s wife, and was treated accordingly. For instance,
every time I went outside my door I was attended by four kawwasses,
with swords and uniforms much ornamented, also a dragoman interpreter.
The duty of these four attendants was to clear the way before and
behind me, and I assure you it was far more pain than pleasure to me
to see mules, horses, donkeys, camels, little children, and poor old
men thrust out of the way, as if I were sacred and they were all dirt.
How they must have cursed me! I told my kawwasses that I did not wish
them to show themselves officious by doing more than was absolutely
necessary for the dignity of the British Consulate and the custom
of the country. But their escort certainly was necessary to a great
extent. When the common people saw a kawwass, they knew one was of
importance, and made way for one; otherwise a woman could not walk the
streets of Damascus without being molested: even the famished herds of
dogs seemed to know the difference between kawwass and no kawwass. The
danger from dogs was that they collected and ran in packs, and you were
almost caught in the eddy of wild and half-starved dogs if you were not
guarded.
I hate pomp and ceremony of all kinds, except where it is absolutely
necessary; but in this case I could not dispense with it. The French
Minister’s wife was hissed in the streets of Constantinople because
she chose to dispense with her escort. A Protestant clergyman’s
wife was nearly struck by a Turkish soldier for brushing against him
with her petticoats, thus rendering him, according to his religion,
unclean. Besides, women in the East want a guard. A missionary young
lady who came up in the _coupé_ of the diligence from Beyrout to
Damascus had an unpleasant experience. A Persian, who called himself a
gentleman, was inside, and kissed her all the way up. She, poor little
idiot! saw no way out of the transaction, but came and threw herself on
Richard’s protection several days after, and there was an ugly row. She
had the Persian arrested, and tried him. If anybody had tried that sort
of game on with me, I should have made an example of him myself, and
taken the law in my own hands, whoever he was. An escort was therefore
necessary. I can understand how some consuls’ wives, sometimes vulgar,
ill-conditioned women, might get elated at this newly acquired
importance, and presume upon it until they became unbearable. I found
the lack of privacy very trying at first, but I was anxious to bear it
because I saw that English influence at Damascus required lifting a
great many pegs higher than our predecessor left it. The only member of
our English _noblesse_ the people had hitherto known in Damascus
was Lady Ellenborough, of whom more anon.
As soon as we were settled down I had to begin my receptions. I fixed
my reception day on Wednesday; and it was no trifle, for the visitors
came all day long. One native lady told me indignantly that she had
been to see me three times on my reception day, and had been refused.
I said, “When did you come? and how could it happen that I had never
heard of it?” She answered almost angrily, “I came at daylight, and
again at sunrise, and again at eight o’clock.” I said it was rather
early; and though I was an early riser, it was just possible that
I had not made a suitable toilet to receive her. On my reception
day the dragomans interpreted for me. The kawwasses, in full dress
of scarlet and gold, kept guard by turns, and the servants were
engaged incessantly in bringing up relays of narghílehs, chibouques,
cigarettes, sweetmeats, sherbet, Turkish coffee and tea. My visitors
sat on the divans, cross-legged or not, according to their nation, and
smoked and chatted. If there were Moslem women, I had two separate
reception-rooms, and went from one to the other, as the women will not
unveil before strange men. It was a most tiring day; for not only did
people come all through the day, but I was obliged to concentrate all
my thoughts not to make a mistake in etiquette. There were many grades
and ranks to be considered, and the etiquette in receiving each guest
was different according to the rank. The dragoman in attendance upon
me would whisper until I knew it, “One step,” or “Two steps,” or “Half
across the room,” or “The door.” I thus knew exactly the visitor’s
rank, and by what term to address him, from the lowest to the highest.
Of course, in receiving natives, the method of receiving men and women
was different. I advanced to meet the women; we mutually raised our
finger-tips to our hearts, lips, and foreheads. They then seized my
hand, which I snatched away to prevent their kissing it (it sounds
rude, but it isn’t; it is the essence of politeness), and I kissed them
on both cheeks. I personally removed their veils and their izárs. When
they took their leave, I reveiled them, and accompanied them to the
door. With the men I did not shake hands: we saluted at a distance. If
my visitor was a well-bred man, he would not expect me to rise, but
would come and kiss my hand, and had to be pressed two or three times
before he would consent to sit down. The only man I was in the habit
of rising for was the Wali, or Governor-General of Syria, because he
represented the Sultan, and he in his turn paid me a similar respect.
When he left, I accompanied him to the door of the room, but never
to the street door. Moreover, it was _de rigueur_ every time
a visitor came that coffee, tea, or sherbet should be offered him,
and that I should take it with him and drink first. It was a custom
with the natives, and I could not omit it; but when I first held my
receptions I found it a great tax upon me, and mixing so many drinks
gave me indigestion. Afterwards I grew more wary, and merely moistened
my lips. Another thing I used to do at my earlier receptions was to
make tea and coffee and carry them round myself, while the dragomans
would lazily sit and look on. I didn’t understand this at all, so I
told them to get up and help me, and they willingly handed tea and
coffee to any European, man or woman, but not to their native ladies,
who blushed, begged the dragomans’ pardon, and stood up, looking
appealingly at me, and praying not to be served. So I found it the
easiest thing to wait on the native women myself, though I felt very
indignant that any man should feel himself degraded by having to wait
on a woman.
I must now mention three of my principal visitors, each of whom
afterwards played a large part, though a very different part, in our
life at Damascus.
First of all was the Wali, or Governor-General of Syria. I received him
in state one day. He came in full uniform with a great many attendants.
I seated him in proper form on a divan with pipes and coffee. He was
very amiable and polite. He reminded me of an old tom-cat: he was
dressed in furs; he was indolent and fat, and walked on his toes and
purred. At first sight I thought him a kind-hearted old creature, not
very intelligent and easily led. The last quality was true enough; for
what disgusted me was that Syria was really governed by dragomans, and
the Wali or any other great man was a puppet. For instance, if the
Consul wanted to see the Wali, he had to send one of his dragomans to
the Wali’s dragomans, and they arranged between them just what they
liked. The two chief men met each other, attended by two dragomans,
who reported every word of the conversation round Damascus. These
men easily made people enemies; and the lies, mischief, and scandal
they originated were beyond imagination. I have said that my first
impression of the Wali was as of a well-fed cat; but I soon discovered
that the cat had claws, for he quickly became jealous of Richard’s
influence, and during our two years’ sojourn at Damascus he was one of
our worst enemies.
Another, and the most interesting of all the personages who attended my
receptions, was Lady Ellenborough, known at Damascus as the Honourable
Jane Digby El Mezráb.[1] She was the most romantic and picturesque
personality: one might say she was Lady Hester Stanhope’s successor.
She was of the family of Lord Digby, and had married Lord Ellenborough,
Governor-General of India, a man much older than herself, when she was
quite a girl. The marriage was against her wish. She was very unhappy
with him, and she ran away with Prince Schwartzenburg when she was only
nineteen, and Lord Ellenborough divorced her. She lived with Prince
Schwartzenburg for some years, and had two or three children by him,
and then he basely deserted her. I am afraid after that she led a life
for a year or two over which it is kinder to draw a veil. She then
tired of Europe, and conceived the idea of visiting the East, and of
imitating Lady Hester Stanhope and other European ladies, who became
more Eastern than the Easterns. She arrived at Beyrout, and went to
Damascus, where she arranged to go to Baghdad, across the desert. For
this journey a Bedawin escort was necessary; and as the Mezráb tribe
occupied the ground, the duty of commanding the escort devolved upon
Shaykh Mijwal, a younger brother of the chief of this tribe. On the
journey the young Shaykh fell in love with this beautiful woman, and
she fell in love with him. The romantic picture of becoming a queen of
the desert suited her wild and roving fancy. She married him, in spite
of all opposition, according to the Mohammedan law. At the time I came
to Damascus she was living half the year in a house just within the
city gates; the other half of the year she passed in the desert in the
tents of the Bedawin tribe, living absolutely as a Bedawin woman. When
I first saw her she was a most beautiful woman, though sixty-one years
of age. She wore one blue garment, and her beautiful hair was in two
long plaits down to the ground. When she was in the desert, she used to
milk the camels, serve her husband, prepare his food, wash his hands,
face, and feet, and stood and waited on him while he ate, like any Arab
woman, and gloried in so doing. But at Damascus she led a semi-European
life. She blackened her eyes with kohl, and lived in a curiously
untidy manner. But otherwise she was not in the least extraordinary
at Damascus. But what was incomprehensible to me was how she could
have given up all she had in England to live with that dirty little
black--or nearly so--husband. I went to see her one day, and when he
opened the door to me I thought at first he was a native servant. I
could understand her leaving a coarse, cruel husband, much older than
herself, whom she never loved (every woman has not the strength of
mind and the pride to stand by what she has done); I could understand
her running away with Schwartzenburg; but the contact with that black
skin I could not understand. Her Shaykh was very dark--darker than a
Persian, and much darker than an Arab generally is. All the same, he
was a very intelligent and charming man in any light but as a husband.
That made me shudder. It was curious how she had retained the charming
manner, the soft voice, and all the graces of her youth. You would
have known her at once to be an English lady, well born and bred, and
she was delighted to greet in me one of her own order. We became great
friends, and she dictated to me the whole of her biography, and most
romantic and interesting it is. I took a great interest in the poor
thing. She was devoted to her Shaykh, whereat I marvelled greatly.
Gossip said that he had other wives, but she assured me that he had
not, and that both her brother Lord Digby and the British Consul
required a legal and official statement to that effect before they
were married. She appeared to be quite foolishly in love with him (and
I fully comprehend any amount of sacrifice for the man one loves--the
greater the better), though the object of her devotion astonished me.
Her eyes often used to fill with tears when talking of England, her
people, and old times; and when we became more intimate, she spoke to
me of every detail of her erring but romantic career. It was easy to
see that Schwartzenburg had been the love of her life, for her eyes
would light up with a glory when she mentioned him, and she whispered
his name with bated breath. It was his desertion which wrecked her
life. Poor thing! she was far more sinned against than sinning.
[1] Our other friend at Damascus was the famous Abd el Kadir. Every one
knows his history: every one has heard of his hopeless struggles for
the independence of Algeria; his capture and imprisonment in France
from 1847 to 1852, when he was set free by Louis Napoleon on the
intercession of Lord Londonderry. More than that, Louis Napoleon was
magnanimous enough to pension him, and sent him to Damascus, where he
was living when we came, surrounded by five hundred faithful Algerians.
He loved the English, but he was very loyal to Louis Napoleon. He
was dark, and a splendid-looking man with a stately bearing, and
perfectly self-possessed. He always dressed in snow white, turban
and _burnous_, with not a single ornament except his jewelled
arms, which were superb. He was every inch a soldier and a sultan,
and his mind was as beautiful as his face. Both he and Richard were
Master-Sufi, and they greatly enjoyed a talk together, both speaking
purest Arabic.
When I look back on those dear days and friends in Damascus, my eyes
fill and my heart throbs at the memories which crowd upon me. When I
think of all those memories, none is dearer to me than the recollection
of the evenings which we four--Lady Ellenborough, Abd el Kadir,
Richard, and myself--used to spend together on the top of our house.
Often after my reception was over and the sun was setting, we used to
ask these two to stay behind the others and have a little supper with
us, and we would go up to the roof, where it was prepared, and where
mattresses and the cushions of the divans were spread about, and have
our evening meal; and after that we would smoke our narghílehs, and
talk and talk and talk far into the night, about things above, things
on the earth, and things under the earth. I shall never forget the
scene on the housetop, backed as it was by the sublime mountain, a
strip of sand between it and us, and on the other three sides was the
view over Damascus and beyond the desert. It was all wild, romantic,
and solemn; and sometimes we would pause in our conversation to listen
to the sounds around us: the last call to prayer on the minaret-top,
the soughing of the wind through the mountain-gorges, and the noise of
the water-wheel in the neighbouring orchard.
I have said _we_ smoked, and that included Lady Ellenborough
and myself. I must confess to the soft impeachment, despite insular
prejudices; and I would advise any woman who sojourns in the East
to learn to smoke, if she can. I am no admirer of a big cigar in a
woman’s mouth, or a short clay; but I know of nothing more graceful or
enjoyable than a cigarette, and even more so is the narghíleh, or even
the chibouque, which, however, is quite a man’s pipe.
I must add that when we were in the East Richard and I made a point of
leading two lives. We were always thoroughly English in our Consulate,
and endeavoured to set an example of the way in which England should
be represented abroad, and in our official life we strictly conformed
to English customs and conventions; but when we were off duty, so
to speak, we used to live a great deal as natives, and so obtained
experience of the inner Eastern life. Richard’s friendship with
the Mohammedans, and his perfect mastery of the Arabic and Persian
languages and literature, naturally put him into intimate relations
with the oriental authorities and the Arab tribes, and he was always
very popular among them, with one exception, and that was the Turkish
Wali, or Governor, aforesaid. Richard was my guide in all things; and
since he adapted himself to the native life, I endeavoured to adapt
myself to it also, not only because it was my duty, but because I loved
it. For instance, though we always wore European dress in Damascus and
Beyrout, we wore native dress in the desert. I always wore the men’s
dress on our expeditions in the desert and up the country. By that I
mean the dress of the Arab men. This is not so dreadful as Mrs. Grundy
may suppose, as it was all drapery, and does not show the figure. There
was nothing but the face to show the curious whether you were a man
or a woman, and I used to tuck my _kuffiyyah_ up to only show my
eyes. When we wore Eastern clothes, we always ate as the Easterns ate.
If I went to a bazar, I frequently used to dress like a Moslem woman
with my face covered, and sit in the shops and let my Arab maid do
the talking. They never suspected me, and so I heard all their gossip
and entered into something of their lives. The women frequently took
me into the mosque in this garb, but to the harím I always went in my
European clothes. Richard and I lived the Eastern life thoroughly, and
we loved it.
We went to every kind of ceremony, whether it was a circumcision, or
a wedding, or a funeral, or a dervish dance, or anything that was
going on; and we mixed with all classes, and religions, and races, and
tongues. I remember my first invitation was to a grand _fête_
to celebrate the circumcision of a youth about ten years of age. He
was very pretty, and was dressed in gorgeous garments covered with
jewellery. Singing, dancing, and feasting went on for about three days.
The ceremony took place quite publicly. There was a loud clang of music
and firing of guns to drown the boy’s cries, and with one stroke of a
circular knife the operation was finished in a second. The part cut off
was then handed round on a silver salver, as if to force all present to
attest that the rite had been performed. I felt quite sick, and English
modesty overpowered curiosity, and I could not look. Later on, when I
grew more used to Eastern ways, I was forced to accept the compliment
paid to the highest rank, and a great compliment to me as a Christian,
to hold the boy in my arms whilst the ceremony was being performed. It
was rather curious at first to be asked to a circumcision, as one might
be asked to a christening in England or a “small and early.”
For the first three months of my life at Damascus I only indulged in
short excursions, but Richard went away on longer expeditions, often
for days, sometimes on business and sometimes to visit the Druze
chiefs. I have said that our house was about a quarter of an hour from
Damascus, and whilst Richard was away on one of these expeditions I
broke through a stupid rule. It was agreed that I could never dine
out or go to a _soirée_ in Damascus, because after sunset the
roads between Damascus and our house on the hillside were infested
with Kurds. I was tired of being “gated” in this way, so I sent to the
Chief of the Police, and told him I intended to dine out when I chose
and where I chose, and to return at all hours--any hours I pleased. He
looked astonished, so I gave him a present. He looked cheerful, and I
then told him to make it his business that I was never to be attacked
or molested. I showed him my revolver, and said, “I will shoot the
first man who comes within five yards of me or my horse.” I went down
twice to Damascus while Richard was away the first time, and I found
all the gates of the city open and men posted with lanterns everywhere.
I took an escort of four of my servants, and I told them plainly that
the first man who ran away I would shoot from behind. I came back one
night at eleven o’clock, and another at two o’clock in the morning, and
nothing happened.
When I knew that Richard was coming back from the desert, I rode out
to meet him about eight miles. I did not meet him until sunset. He
said he knew a short cut to Damascus across the mountains, but we lost
our way. Night came on, and we were wandering about amongst the rocks
and precipices on the mountains. We could not see our hands before our
faces. Our horses would not move, and we had to dismount, and grope our
way, and lead them. Richard’s horse was dead-beat, and mine was too
fiery; and we had to wait till the moon rose, reaching home at last
half dead with fatigue and hunger.
Our daily life at Damascus, when we were not engaged in any expedition
or excursion, was much as follows: We rose at daybreak. Richard went
down every day to his Consulate in the city at twelve o’clock, and
remained there till four or five. We had two meals a day--breakfast at
11 a.m., and supper at dusk. At the breakfast any of our friends and
acquaintances who liked used to drop in and join us; and immediately
after our evening meal we received friends, if any came. If not,
Richard used to read himself to sleep, and I did the same. Of Richard’s
great and many activities at Damascus, of his difficult and dangerous
work, of his knowledge of Eastern character and Eastern languages, of
his political and diplomatic talents, all of which made him just the
man for the place, I have written elsewhere. Here I have to perform
the infinitely harder task of speaking of myself. But in writing of my
daily life at Damascus I must not forget that my first and best work
was to interest myself in all my husband’s pursuits, and to be, as far
as he would allow me to be, his companion, his private secretary, and
his _aide-de-camp_. Thus I saw and learnt much, not only of native
life, but also of high political matters. I would only say that my days
were all too short: I wish they had been six hours longer. When not
helping Richard, my work consisted of looking after my house, servants,
stables and horses, of doing a little gardening, of reading, writing,
and studying, of trying to pick up Arabic, of receiving visits and
returning them, of seeing and learning Damascus thoroughly, and looking
after the poor and sick who came in my way. I often also had a gallop
over the mountains and plains; or I went shooting, either on foot or
on horseback. The game was very wild round Damascus, but I got a shot
at red-legged partridges, wild duck, quail, snipe, and woodcock, and I
seldom came home with an empty bag. The only time I ever felt lonely
was during the long winter nights when Richard was away. In the summer
I did not feel lonely, because I could always go and smoke a narghíleh
with the women at the water-side in a neighbour’s garden. But in the
winter it was not possible to do this. So I used to occupy myself with
music or literature, or with writing these rough notes, which I or some
one else will put together some day. But more often than not I sat and
listened to the stillness, broken ever and anon by weird sounds
outside.
So passed our life at Damascus.
CHAPTER XIII
_THROUGH THE DESERT TO PALMYRA_
(1870)
Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, leaning upon her
beloved?
_The Song of Solomon._
The oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving.
MILTON.
Richard had wished ever since he came to Damascus to visit Palmyra,
or Tadmor, in the wilderness. It is about one hundred and fifty miles
distant in the open desert. His main reason for going there was his
private wish to explore, but it was also his official duty to open
up the country, now infested with hordes of wild Bedawin tribes, who
attacked, robbed, and killed right and left. Several Englishmen had
been to Palmyra, but always with a large escort of the tribe of El
Mezráb, and Richard wanted to break through the system which this
tribe had of practically levying blackmail upon travellers, which
often meant as much as six thousand francs, as each man in the escort
costs about £2 a head. We decided therefore to go without any Bedawin
escort, to show that it could be done, and thus to throw open this
most interesting part of Syria to travellers. At first a lot of people
wanted to join us in the expedition; but when it came to the point they
gradually sneaked away, and many of them wept and wished us good-bye,
and thought it madness. Indeed, so much was said that I set out with
more than a suspicion that we were marching to our deaths. But Richard
wished it, and that was enough for me. He never permitted any obstacle
to hinder his progress. He made up his mind to travel without the tribe
of El Mezráb, and he gave me the option of going with him, and I said,
as I always said, “I will follow you to the death.” It was rather funny
to find the excuses which people made for not going with us. One had
business in Beyrout, another was ill, the third had married, and so on.
So when the day of departure dawned (April 1; I had been in Damascus
three months) our faithful friends dwindled down to two--the Russian
Consul, and a French traveller, the Vicomte de Perrochel.
On the morning of our departure we had a very lively breakfast. As
I have said, it was our custom to let our friends drop in for this
meal, and on this occasion we found ourselves surrounded by every kind
of Eastern figure. They evidently thought us mad--especially me. My
dress was very picturesque, and I was vain enough to turn myself round
and round, at their request, that they might view it, which they did
with cries of admiration. It consisted of large yellow button boots
and gaiters, an English riding-habit with the long ends of the skirt
tucked in to look like their Eastern baggy trousers, an Eastern belt
with revolver, dagger, and cartridges. My hair was all tucked up under
the _tarbash_, and I wore one of the Bedawin veils to the waist,
only showing a bit of face. The veil was of all colours, chiefly gold
braid, bound by a chocolate and gold circlet near the forehead. Richard
slung over my back and round my neck a whistle and compass, in case of
my being lost. I had brought out two first-rate horses, both stallions,
one half-bred, the other three-quarters; they were called Salim and
Harpash. An Arab was to ride one, and lead the second when I was riding
something else. The first stallion would be good for travelling and
fighting, and the second for bolting, if needful. I knew I had to ride
erect half a day at a stretch, which meant about fifteen or twenty
miles.
We set forth with great pomp and ceremony; for the Mushir, or
Commander-in-chief, and a large cavalcade saw us out of the city, and
exchanged affectionate farewells outside the gates, evidently not
expecting to see us again. This being the first day, we made only a
three hours’ march; it cleared us of Damascus and its environs, and
we camped early on the edge of the desert. I cannot convey to you the
charm of a Syrian camp. I shall never forget my first night in the
desert. The horses were all picketed about; the men were lying here and
there in the silvery moonlight, which lit up our tripod and kettle;
and the jackals howled and capered as they sniffed the savoury bones.
People talk of danger when surrounded by jackals, but I have always
found them most cowardly; they would run away if a pocket-handkerchief
were shaken at them. It was the prettiest thing to see them gambolling
about in the moonlight; but after we had turned in a strange effect
was produced when a jackal, smelling the cookery, ran up round the
tent, for the shadow on the white canvas looked as large as a figure
exaggerated in a magic lantern. During my first night under canvas
I was awakened by hearing a pack coming--a wild, unearthly sound. I
thought it was a raid of the Bedawin rushing down upon us, and that
this was the war-cry; but the weird yell swept down upon us, passed,
and died away in the distance. I grew to love the sound.
The next morning the camp began stirring at dawn. It was bitterly
cold. We boiled water and made some tea. We hurried our dressing, saw
the animals fed and watered, tents struck, things packed up, and the
baggage animals loaded and sent on ahead with orders to await us at
Jayrúd. We always found it better to see our camp off ahead of us,
otherwise the men loitered and did not reach the night-halt in time.
We started a little later. The way to Jayrúd was across a sandy plain,
with patches of houses here and there, and a village at long intervals.
A village on the outskirts of the desert means twenty or thirty huts
of stones and mud, each shaped like a box, and exactly the same colour
as the ground. We breakfasted in a ruined mosque. After that we
started again, and came to a vast plain of white sand and rock, which
lasted until we reached Jayrúd. It was about fifteen hours’ ride from
Damascus. A little way outside Jayrúd we were caught in a sand-storm,
which I shall never forget. Richard and I were both well mounted.
When it came on, he made a sign in which direction I was to go. There
was no time to speak, and we both galloped into the storm as hard as
we could pelt. The sand and wind blinded me, and I had no idea where I
was going. Once I did not see that I was riding straight at a deep pit;
and though Arab horses seldom or never leap, mine cleared it with one
bound. After that I was wiser, and I threw the reins on Salim’s neck,
for his eyes were better than mine. This continued for three hours, and
at last we reached Jayrúd, where we had arranged to halt for the night.
Jayrúd is a large clean village in the middle of the salt and sandy
plain. We stopped for the night with Da’as Agha, who was a border
chieftain, and a somewhat wild and dangerous character, though Richard
knew how to tame him. His house was large and roomy, with spacious
walls and high-raftered ceilings. While we were at supper crowds of
villagers collected to see us, and the courtyard and the house were
filled with and surrounded by all sorts of guests from different
Bedawin tribes. Camels were lying about, baggage was piled here and
there, and horses were picketed in all directions; it was a thoroughly
oriental picture.
An unpleasant incident happened. I had engaged a confidential man as
a head servant and interpreter. He was an Arab, but he spoke French.
He was an exceedingly clever, skilful man, and Richard told him off
to wait on me during the journey, and to ride after me when needful.
When we got to Jayrúd, as soon as I dismounted, I took Richard’s horse
and my own and walked them up and down to cool. As soon as my man and
another came up I gave them the reins, saying, “After our hard ride
in the sand-storm take as much care of the horses as though they were
children.” He answered, “Be rested, Sitti”; but an unpleasant smile
came across his face, which might have warned me. I ought to have
mentioned that three times since we had set out from Damascus he had
ridden short across me when we were at full gallop. The first time I
begged him not to do so, as it was very dangerous, and the second time
I threatened him, and the third time I broke my hunting-whip across
his face. He merely said, “All is finished,” and hung back. However,
I did not think anything more of it, and I went in and had my supper.
While we were eating, and my back was turned, he threw the reins of my
horse to a bystander, and, drawing a sword, he cut the throat of the
good, useful, little horse which I had hired for him, and which he had
been riding all day. I saw people running, and heard a certain amount
of confusion while I was eating; but being very tired and hungry, I
did not look round. Presently somebody let it out. I rose in a rage,
determined to dismiss the man at once; but Richard checked me with
a word, and pointed out the unwisdom of making him an open enemy,
and desired me to put a good face on the matter till the end of the
journey. The explanation of the little beast’s conduct was this. He
had really wanted to ride a thorough-bred horse, but it was ridden
instead by my dragoman’s brother, and his rage had been uncontrollable
when he saw the coveted animal caracolling before him. Moreover, he
had a spite against me, and he thought that if he killed his own horse
I should give him a better one, by some process of oriental reasoning
which I do not pretend to understand. However, he was mistaken, for I
mounted him after that on the vilest old screw in the camp.
Next morning we woke early. Mules, donkeys, camels, horses, and mares
were screaming and kicking, and the men running about cursing and
swearing. In such a Babel it was impossible to feel drowsy. I felt very
faint as we set out from Jayrúd. The salt marshes in the distance were
white and glistening, and the heat spread over them in a white mist
which looked like a mirage bearing fantastic ships. We breakfasted at
the next village, Atneh, in a harím, the women having all gone out. It
was the house of a bride, and she had hung all her new garments round
the walls, as we display our wedding presents _pour encourager les
autres_. When the women came back, the men retired from the harím.
Atneh was the last settlement, the last water, the last human abode
between Jayrúd and Karyatayn--a long distance. After this we had a
lengthy desert ride in wind and rain, sleet and hail, and the ground
was full of holes; but it was a splendid ride all the same. The Arabs,
in their gaudy jackets, white trousers, and gold turbans, galloped
about furiously, brandishing and throwing their lances, and playing the
usual tricks of horsemanship--_jeríd_. We met a terrible storm of
thunder and lightning, and between-whiles the fiery sun sent down his
beams upon a parched plain. The desert ground was alternately flint,
limestone, and smooth gravel; not a tree or shrub, not a human being or
animal, was to be seen. The colours were yellow sand and blue sky, blue
sky and yellow sand, yellow and blue for ever.
We arrived at dusk at the spot where we had told our advance guard
to pitch the tents. We found everything ready, and after our horses
were cared for we dined. That night for the first time we slept in our
clothes, with revolvers and guns by our sides. The men took turns to
keep watch, so that we might not be surprised by a Ghazu, a tribe of
six or seven hundred Bedawin, who go out for marauding purposes. The
Ghazis charge furiously, with their lances couched. If you have the
pluck to stand still until they are within an inch of your nose, and
ask what they want, they drop their lances; for they respect courage,
but there is no mercy if you show the white feather. We meant to say to
them, “We are the English and Russian Consuls travelling on business.
If you touch us, there will be consequences; if you want a present, you
shall have it; but you are not to shame us by taking our horses and
arms, and if you insist we will fight.” There was a driving wind that
night, and I feared the exposure and hardship if the tents were blown
down and the fire blown out, as it threatened. We could scarcely keep a
lamp or candle alight. No Ghazis came.
We rose next morning in the cold, dark, misty, and freezing dawn. We
had some difficulty in starting our camp; the horses were shivering,
and the muleteers and camel-men objected. We had a long and lonely
ride through the same desolate valley plain as yesterday, banked on
either side in the distance by naked, barren mountains, and we were
very thankful when the sun came out. We breakfasted at a ruined khan,
and changed our horses. Then we rode on and on, seemingly for an age,
with no change; not a bird nor a tree nor a sound save the clattering
of our horses’ hoofs. At length, when within an hour of Karyatayn, we
got a little excitement. On slightly rising ground about five miles off
we espied, by the aid of field-glasses, something which we discovered
to be a large party of mounted Bedawin. We sounded our whistles,
and our stragglers came in till we all were collected. I ought to
mention here that from the time of our leaving Damascus stragglers
had joined us continually from every village. Naturally the number of
our camp-followers became great, until we assumed a most formidable
appearance, numbering nearly eighty in all. As soon as our stragglers
reached us we formed a line, and the opposite party did the same. They
then galloped to meet us, and we did likewise. When within a quarter
of a mile of each other we pulled up, and they pulled up. We fully
expected a charge and a skirmish, so we halted in a line and consulted;
they did the same. Three of us then rode out to meet them; three
horsemen of their line then did likewise. They hailed us, and asked
us who we were and what we wanted. We told them we were the English
and Russian Consuls passing to Palmyra, and asked in our turn who they
were. They replied that they were the representatives of the Shaykh
of Karyatayn, and his fighting men, and that they bore invitations to
us. They then jumped down from their horses and kissed my hand. We
were greeted on all sides, and escorted in triumph to the village; the
men riding _jeríd_--that is, firing from horseback at full speed,
hanging over by one stirrup with the bridle in their mouths, quivering
their long lances in the air, throwing and catching them again at
full gallop, yelling and shouting their war-cries. It was a wild and
picturesque scene. So we entered Karyatayn, went to the house of the
Shaykh, and dispatched a note to him.
His dwelling was a big mud house, with a large reception-room, where
we found a big fire. There was a separate house for the harím, which
appeared numerous, and I was to sleep there in a room to myself. Before
dinner, while we were enjoying the fire and sitting round the rug, a
fat young Turkish officer entered with an insolent look. Thinking he
had come with a message from Omar Beg, a Hungarian brigadier-general
in the Turkish service who was stationed here, we saluted in the usual
manner. Without returning it, he walked up, stepped across us, flung
himself on our rug, leaned on his elbow, and with an impertinent
leer stared in our faces all round until he met Richard’s eye, which
partook of something of the tiger kind, when he started and turned
pale. Richard called out, “Kawwasses!” The kawwasses and two wardis ran
into the room. “Remove that son of a dog.” They seized him, fat and
big as he was, as if he had been a rabbit; and although he kicked and
screamed lustily, carried him out of the house. I saw them give him
some vicious bumps against the walls as they went out of the door into
the village, where they dropped him into the first pool of mud, which
represented the village horse-pond. By-and-by Omar Beg came down to
dine with us. We all sat round on the ground and ate of several dishes,
chiefly a kid stuffed with rice and _pistachios_. After dinner we
reported to Omar Beg the conduct of his _sous-officier_, and he
said that we had done very well, and he was glad of the opportunity of
making an example of him, for he was a bad lot; and a Turkish soldier
when he is bad is bad indeed. He had committed a gross insult against
us, and it is always best in the East to resent an insult at once.
Our next day was a pleasant, lazy day, during which we inspected
Karyatayn at our leisure. We rested, read, and wrote, and made a few
extra preparations for the march. I went to call on the wife of Omar
Beg, who was the daughter of the well-known German _savant_ Herr
Mordtmann. She was living with her husband quite contentedly in this
desolate place, in a mud hut, and her only companions were a hyena and
a lynx, which slept on her bed. The hyena greeted me at the gate; and
though I was not prepared for it, I innocently did the right thing. It
came and sniffed at my hands, and then jumped up and put its paws on
my shoulder and smelt my face. “Oh,” I thought, “if it takes a bit out
of my cheek, what shall I do?” But I stood as still as a statue, and
tried not to breathe, looking steadily in its eyes all the while. At
last it made up its mind to be friendly, jumped down, and ran before
me into the house. Here I found the lynx on the divan, which sprang
at me, mewed, and lashed its tail till Madame Omar came. She was a
charming German lady; but her husband kept her secluded in the harím
like a Moslem woman. She told me I had done quite the right thing with
the hyena. If people began to scream, it took a pleasure in frightening
them. I found this out a little later, for it got into Richard’s room,
and I found him, the Russian Consul, and the Vicomte de Perrochel all
sitting on the divan with their legs well tucked under them, clutching
their sticks, and looking absurdly uncomfortable at the _affreuse
bête_, as the Vicomte called it.
I had had a tiring day, and was glad to go to the harím that night and
turn into my little room. But, alas! no sooner had I got in there than
about fifty women came to pay me a visit. By way of being gracious, I
had given a pair of earrings to the head wife of the Shaykh, and that
caused the most awful jealousy and quarrelling among them. I was dying
to go to bed, but they went on nagging at one another, until at last
a man, a husband or a brother, came of his own accord to tell them to
take leave, and upon their refusing he drove them all out of the room
like a flock of sheep. Fortunately I had a bolt to my door, so that I
was able to shut them out. My sleep, however, was very much disturbed,
for they kept on trying the doors and the shutters nearly all night.
They have an intense curiosity concerning European women, and during my
toilet next morning I could see fifty pairs of eyes at fifty chinks in
the windows and doors. It was really very embarrassing, because I could
not tell the sex of the eyes, though I imagined that they belonged to
my visitors of the night before. Dressing as I did _en Amazone_
seemed to afford them infinite glee; and when I arrived at the cloth
nether garments of my riding-habit, they went into shrieks of laughter.
However, I put a bold face on it, and sallied forth to the square of
the village, where I found the rest of our party. Our horses were being
led up and down by the soldiers; our camels with water in goats’ skins,
and our baggage beasts, our camp-followers, and our free-lances, were
drawn up on one side. Omar Beg accompanied us out of the village with a
troop of cavalry, and started us with forty dromedaries, each carrying
two soldiers. The cavalcade looked very fine, and when Omar Beg took
his leave of us we were about one hundred and sixty strong.
We had a long day’s march through the desert. It was very hot. We went
through a wild defile, rested, and climbed up a mountain. We then
returned to the plains, and in the afternoon we saw a mirage--castles
and green fields. We were late in finding our tents, and very tired.
Again we did not undress, but slept with our weapons by our sides.
The next morning we set out again at 6.30. We rode towards a mountain
in the distance, and defiled by a picturesque and dangerous ledge
amongst craggy peaks. We had heard that the Bedawin knew of a well
hereabouts, and we determined to find it. We discovered it, and so
abolished the worst difficulty which travellers had to undergo in
visiting Palmyra. We rested by the well, which was full of the purest
water. When sitting by it, we heard guns echoing like thunder in the
mountains. We thought it might mean a Bedawin attack; but probably it
was a signal, and they found us too strong. They were on our track the
whole time. After an hour we descended once more into the arid plain,
and rode on and on. At last we descried dimly the khan which was to
be our night halt. It seemed quite close, but the nearer we rode the
farther it seemed. We reached it at last, a fine old pile, deserted and
solitary, which looked splendid in the sunset. Our camp by moonlight
will ever live in my memory: the black tents, the animals picketed, the
camels resting, the Turkish soldiery seated around, and the wild men
and muleteers singing and dancing.
On this night, as on all nights, I had always plenty to do. It was
Richard’s business to take the notes and sketches, observations and
maps, and to gather all the information. I acted as his secretary
and _aide-de-camp_. My other business was to take care of the
stable, see that the horses were properly groomed, and look after any
sick or wounded men. My duties varied according to the place in which
we halted for the night. If it were near an inhabited place, Richard
sat in state on his divan, and received the chiefs with narghílehs
and sherbet. I saluted, and walked off with the horses, and saw that
they were properly groomed and fed. Sometimes I groomed my own horse
and Richard’s too, if I did not feel sure that they would be properly
attended to. I would then go back to my husband, sit on the divan at
a respectful distance and in a respectful attitude, speak if spoken
to, and accept, if invited, a little sherbet or a narghíleh. I then
saluted, went again to see that the horses were properly picketed for
the night, prepared my husband’s supper, and returned to his tent for
supper and bed; and the next day the same over again. So far as I could
I made myself useful, and adapted myself to my surroundings as an
Eastern woman would have done.
The next day, our eighth from leaving Damascus, we went out of camp at
6.30, and rode over the hot stony desert for five hours. Suddenly we
descried a small lake, but about one hundred and fifty Bedawin were
there before us. At first we thought it was a Ghazu; but we found
afterwards that it was only a party of one hundred and fifty watering
their animals; they could not attack us until they had time to collect
their men, and mustered some six hundred strong. However, they looked
“nasty”; and as our stragglers were all over the place, to attract
their attention, and bring us together, I asked Richard’s leave to make
a display of _tir_. We put an orange on a lance-point seventy
yards off. I had the first shot. By good luck I hit it, and by better
luck still they did not ask for a second, which I might have missed, so
that I came off with a great reputation. Everybody fired in turns, and
all our people came up by degrees, until we mustered enough to fight
any Ghazu, if necessary. We then formed into a single line, and rode
until the remainder of the day. We approached Palmyra thus, cheering
and singing war-songs; and I am sure that we must have looked very
imposing.
The first sight of Palmyra is like a regiment of cavalry drawn up in
single line; but as we got nearer gradually the ruins began to stand
out one by one in the sunlight, and a grander sight I have never looked
upon, so gigantic, so extensive, so desolate was this splendid city of
the dead rising out of, and half buried in, a sea of sand. One felt as
if one were wandering in some forgotten world.
The Shaykh of Palmyra and his people came out to greet us, and he
conducted us to his house. We approached it over the massive blocks
of stone that formed the pavement and by a flight of broad steps.
The interior of Palmyra resembles a group of wasps’ nests on a large
scale, clinging to the gigantic walls of a ruined temple. The people
were hideous, poor, ragged, dirty, and diseased, nearly every one of
them afflicted with ophthalmia. What have the descendants of the great
Zenobia done to come to this? We dined at the Shaykh’s house, and had
our coffee and pipes. Later we returned to our camp, which consisted of
our five tents and ten for the eighty soldiers. It was picturesquely
placed, close to the east of the grand colonnade of Palmyra, for the
sake of being near the wells, and the animals were picketed as much as
possible in the shelter, for during our sojourn there we suffered from
ice and snow, sirocco, burning heat, and furious sou’westers. We had
two sulphurous wells, one to bathe in, and the other to drink out of.
Everybody felt a little tired, and we went to bed early. It was the
first night for eight days that we had really undressed and bathed and
slept, and it was such a refreshment that I did not wake for twelve
hours. My journal of the following morning contains a very short
notice. We were considerably refreshed, and attended to our horses
and several camp wants. We lounged about till breakfast and wrote our
diaries. It was scorchingly hot weather. We were here for five days, so
we did not begin serious work until noon.
So many travellers have described Palmyra that it is not necessary for
me to describe it again, and I suppose that everybody knows that at one
time it was ruled over in the days of its splendour by Zenobia, a great
queen of the East. She was an extraordinary woman, full of wisdom and
heroic courage. She was conquered by the Romans after a splendid reign,
and the Emperor Aurelian caused her to be led through Rome bound in
fetters of gold. The city must once have been magnificent, but it was
now a ruin. The chief temple was that of the Sun. The whole city was
full of columns and ruined colonnades. One of the great colonnades is a
mile long.
I saw something of the inner life of Palmyra, the more so because I
wore a dress very much like that of a man. So attired I could go almost
where I liked, and enter all the places which women are not deemed
worthy to see. My chief difficulty was that my toilet always had to be
performed in the dead of night. The others never appeared to make any,
except in the stream, which was too public for me, and I did not wish
to appear singular.
In another way my masculine garment had its drawbacks, for I always
used to forget that they regarded me as a boy, and I never could
remember not to go into the haríms. Once or twice I went into them,
and the women ran away to hide themselves screaming and laughing at
my appearance; and I remember once or twice, on being remonstrated
with, pointing to my chin to plead my youth, and also my ignorance of
their customs. I passed at Palmyra as Richard’s son; and though it was
a little awkward at first, I soon fell into my part, and remembered
always to be very respectful to my father, and very silent before him
and the elders. Often in my character of boy I used to run and hold
Richard’s stirrup as he alighted from his horse, and sat on the edge of
the divan while he talked to the Shaykhs of Palmyra. I always tried to
adapt myself as far as possible to the customs of the country where I
found myself, and I think I may say without flattery that I had a good
many capabilities for being a traveller’s wife. I could ride, walk,
swim, shoot, and defend myself if attacked, so that I was not dependent
on my husband; and I could also make myself generally useful--that
is to say, I could make the bed, arrange the tent, cook the dinner,
if necessary wash the clothes by the river-side, and mend them and
spread them to dry, nurse the sick, bind and dress wounds, pick up a
smattering of the language, make the camp of natives respect and obey
me, groom my own horse, saddle him, learn to wade him through the
rivers, sleep on the ground with the saddle for a pillow, and generally
to rough it and do without comforts.
We spent five days at Palmyra. The first was devoted to a general
inspection of the place. The second, we visited the Temple of the Sun
and the Towers of the Tombs. These latter are tall square towers,
four storeys in height; and each tower contains apertures for bodies
like a honeycomb. I noticed that all the carving was of the rudest and
coarsest kind. There was no trace of civilization anywhere, no theatre,
no forum, nothing but a barbarous idea of splendour, worked out on a
colossal scale in columns and temples. The most interesting thing was
the Tombs. These were characteristic of Palmyra, and lined the wild
mountain-defile entrance to the city, and were dotted about on the
mountain-sides. It was a City of Tombs, a City of the Dead. I was much
struck too with the dirtiness of the people of Palmyra, which dirtiness
results in pestilence, ophthalmia, and plagues of flies.
The third day two officers, the Shaykh of Palmyra and another, dined
with us in our tents, and after dinner we strolled about the ruins
by moonlight, and when we were tired we sat down in a large ring on
the sand, and the soldiers and muleteers danced a sword-dance with
wild cries to musical accompaniments and weird songs. I shall never
forget the exceeding beauty of the ruins of Palmyra by moonlight.
The following day we explored the caves, and found human bones and
things, which I helped Richard to sort, much to the disgust of the
Vicomte de Perrochel, who was shocked at my want of sensibility, and
said that a Frenchwoman would certainly have had hysteria. We also
explored the ruins, and wrote descriptions of our journey to Palmyra.
We had all retired to rest, when I was aroused by hearing a roaring
like that of a camel. I ran out of my tent to see what was the matter;
and being guided by a noise to the servants’ quarters, I found the
kitchen assistant in convulsions, and the rest holding him down. It
was a Syrian disease, a sort of epilepsy. They all wanted to tread on
his back, but I would not let them do it. I got some hot brandy and
restoratives, and gave him a good dosing between his clenched teeth.
The result was he came to in an hour and a half, sensible, but very
tipsy; but he managed to kiss my hand and thank me. The last day was
Easter Sunday. We performed our Sunday service in one of the ruined
temples, we wrote our journals, and prepared for departure on the
morrow. The next day we left Palmyra. We should have done better to
have remained there fifteen days instead of five. I wish we had taken
ropes and ladders, planks to bridge over broken staircases, and a
crowbar. We might then have thoroughly examined three places which we
could not otherwise do: the Palace of the Pretty, the Palace of the
Maiden, and the Palace of the Bride, the three best Tower Tombs.
[Illustration: ARAB CAMEL-DRIVERS.]
We left camp at dawn, and a terribly hot day it was. We encamped at
8 p.m. in a mountain defile. We were all dead-beat, and so were the
horses. At night I had fever, and a hurricane of wind and rain nearly
carried our tents away. On the second day we rode from dawn to sunset,
with the driving wind and the sand in our faces, filling eyes, ears,
nose, and mouth. I felt so cold, tired, and disheartened, that as I sat
in my saddle and rode along I cried for about two hours, and Richard
and the others laughed at me. Whilst I was crying we saw a body of
mounted Bedawin dodging about in the mountains. So I dried my eyes,
and rode on as hard as I could pelt until we reached Karyatayn at
sunset; but I had to be lifted off my horse, and could not stand for
some minutes.
All clamoured to rest one day at Karyatayn. We had already been riding
for two days hard, and were simply done up. The muleteers mutinied, and
said that their backs were broken and their beasts dead-beat. There was
only one person in the camp not tired, and that was Richard, who seemed
made of cast iron. He said, “You may all remain here, but I shall ride
on to Damascus alone, for on Friday the English and Baghdad mails
come in, and I must be at my post.” All the responsibility then fell
upon me, for they all said if I would remain they would be glad. But
the idea of Richard riding on alone through the desert infested with
Bedawin was not to be entertained by me for one moment, so I said, “On
we go.”
The next morning we left early. I tried at first to ride in the
panniers of one of the camels; but it bumped me so unmercifully that
after half an hour I begged to be let down. Camel-riding is pleasant
if it is at a long trot; but a slow walk is very tedious, and I should
think that a gallop would be annihilation. When I got down from my
camel, I mounted my horse, and galloped after the rest, and in time
got to my place behind Richard. I always rode a yard or two behind
him. In the East it would not have been considered respectful for
either wife or son to ride beside a husband. We got to Jayrúd at dark,
and we saw hovering near us a party of Bedawin, armed and mounted;
they eventually retired into the mountains. But when we got back to
Damascus, we heard that all through our journey the bandits had been
watching us, and would have attacked us, only they were afraid that our
rifles would carry too far.
The next day was the last. We started at sunrise, and rode all day,
reaching home at 8 p.m. I had not realized the beauty of Damascus until
then. After all those days in the desert it seemed a veritable garden
of Paradise. First of all we saw a belt of something dark lining the
horizon; then we entered by degrees under the trees, the orchards,
and the gardens. We smelt the water from afar like a thirsty horse;
we heard its gurgling long before we came to it; we scented and saw
the limes, citrons, and watermelons. We felt a mad desire to jump into
the water, to eat our fill of fruit, to lie down and sleep under the
delicious shade. At last we reached our door. The house seemed to me
like a palace of comfort. A warm welcome greeted us on all sides; and
as every one (except Richard) and all the horses were dead-beat, they
all stayed with us for the night.
CHAPTER XIV
_BLUDÁN IN THE ANTI-LEBANON_
(1870)
Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge
in the villages.
Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine
flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates
bud forth: there will I give thee my loves.
The mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner of
pleasant fruits, new and old, which I have laid up for thee, O
my beloved.
_The Song of Solomon._
During the next few weeks at Damascus there was an outbreak of cholera,
which gave me a great deal of trouble at the time. Several people died
in great agony, and I did what I could to check the outbreak. I made
the peasants wash and fumigate their houses and burn the bedding, and
send to me for medicine the moment a person was taken ill. Fortunately
these precautions checked the spread of the disease; but along the
cottages at the river-side there was also an epidemic of scarlet fever
more difficult to keep within bounds. I secured the services of a
kind-hearted French surgeon, who attended the patients, and I myself
nursed them. I wore an outside woollen dress when attending cases, and
this I hung on a tree in the garden, and never let it enter my house.
I also took a bag of camphor with me to prevent infection. However,
after a time I was struck down by one of those virulent, nameless
illnesses peculiar to Damascus, which, if neglected, end in death,
and I could not move without fainting. An instinct warned me to have
a change of air, and I determined to go to Beyrout. Two hours out
of Damascus I was able to rise, and at the half-way house at Buká’a
I could eat, and when I arrived at Beyrout after fourteen hours’
journey I felt almost well. I had three weeks’ delicious sea-bathing
at Beyrout; and while there we kept Her Majesty’s birthday at the
Consulate-General with great pomp and ceremony. We also made several
little expeditions. Richard went farther afield than I did, to Tyre,
Sidon, Carmel, and Juneh. I was too weak to go with him, which I
regretted very much, as I would have given a great deal to have visited
the grave of Lady Hester Stanhope.
On June 14 we turned our faces homewards to Damascus, and as we
journeyed over the Lebanons and descended into the plain I could not
help feeling the oriental charm of the scene grow upon me. Beyrout
is demi-fashionable, semi-European; but Damascus is the heart of the
East, and there is no taint of Europeanism about it. As I was nearing
Damascus in the evening I fell in love with it. The first few weeks I
had disliked it, but gradually it had grown upon me, and now it took
a place in my heart from which it could never be thrust forth. I saw
how lovely it was, bathed in the evening sun, and it seemed to me
like home--the home that I had dreamed of in my childhood long ago. I
cannot tell what worked this charm in me; but henceforth my affections
and interests, my life and work, knitted and grew to that Damascus home
of ours, where I would willingly have remained all my days. I knew
that mine was to be the wanderer’s life, and that it is fatal for the
wanderer to make ties and get attached to places or things or people;
but in spite of this presentiment, I greedily drank in whilst I could
all the truths which the desert breathes, and learnt all I could of
oriental mysteries, and set my hands to do all the good work they could
find, until they were full to overflowing.
Ten days after our return to Salahíyyeh we had a severe shock of
earthquake. Richard and I were sitting in an inner room, when suddenly
the divan began to see-saw under us, and the wardrobe opposite to bow
down to us. Fortunately no harm was done; but it was an unpleasant
sensation, like being at sea in a gale of wind.
As Damascus began to be very hot about this time, we moved to our
summer quarters at Bludán, about twenty-seven miles across country
from Damascus in the Anti-Lebanon. It was a most beautiful spot, right
up in the mountains, and comparatively cool. We threaded the alleys
of Bludán, ascended steep places, and soon found ourselves beyond the
village, opposite a door which opened into a garden cultivated in
ridges up the mountain. In the middle stood a large barn-like limestone
hall, with a covered Dutch verandah, from which there was a splendid
view. This was our summer-house; it had been built by a former consul.
Everybody who came to see us said, “Well, it is glorious; but the thing
is to get here.” It was a veritable eagle’s nest.
We soon settled down and made ourselves comfortable. The large room was
in the middle of the house, looking on to the verandah, which overhung
the glorious view. We surrounded it with low divans, and the walls
became an armoury of weapons. The rooms on either side of this large
room were turned into a study for Richard, a sleeping-room, and a study
and dressing-room for me. We had stabling for eight horses. There were
no windows in the house, only wooden shutters to close at night. The
utter solitude and the wildness of the life made it very soothing and
restful.
One of my earliest experiences there was a deputation from the shaykhs
and chiefs of the villages round, who brought me a present of a sheep,
a most acceptable present. Often when alone at Bludán provisions ran
short. I remember once sending my servants to forage for food, and they
returned with an oath, saying there was nothing but “Arab’s head and
onions.” I don’t know about the Arab’s head, but there was no doubt
about the onions. I often used to dine off a big raw onion and an
oatmeal cake, nothing better being forthcoming.
In many ways our days at Bludán were the perfection of living. We used
to wake at dawn, make a cup of tea, and then sally forth accompanied
by the dogs, and take long walks over the mountains with our guns in
search of sport. The larger game were bears, gazelles, wolves, wild
boars, and a small leopard. The small game nearer home were partridges,
quail, and woodcock, with which we replenished our larder. I am fond of
sport; and, though I say it, I was not a bad shot in those days. The
hotter part of the day we spent indoors reading, writing, and studying
Arabic. At twelve we had our first meal, which served as breakfast and
luncheon, on the terrace. Sometimes in the afternoon native shaykhs or
people from Beyrout and Damascus would come and visit us. When the sun
became cooler, all the sick and poor within fifteen or sixteen miles
round would come to be doctored and tended. The hungry, the thirsty,
the ragged, the sick, and the sore filled our garden, and I used to
make it my duty and pleasure to be of some little use to them. I seldom
had fewer than fifteen patients a day, half of them with eye diseases,
and I acquired a considerable reputation as a doctor. We used to dine
at seven o’clock on the terrace. After dinner divans were spread on the
housetop, and we would watch the moon lighting up Hermon whilst the
after-dinner pipe was being smoked. A pianette from Damascus enabled
us to have a little music. Then I would assemble the servants, read
the night prayers to them, with a little bit of Scripture or of Thomas
à Kempis. The last thing was to go round the premises and see that
everything was right, and turn out the dogs on guard. And so to bed.
Richard used to ride down into Damascus every few days to see that all
was going well; so I was often left alone.
I must not linger too long over our life at Bludán. Mr. E. H.
Palmer, afterwards Professor of Arabic at Cambridge, and Mr. Charles
Tyrwhitt-Drake, who had done much good work in connexion with the
Palestine Exploration, came to us about this time on a visit, and we
made many excursions from Bludán with them, some short and some long.
We used to saunter or gypsy about the country round, pitching our tents
at night. I kept little reckoning of time during these excursions.
We generally counted by the sun. I only know that we used to start
at dawn, and with the exception of a short halt we would ride until
sunset, and often until dusk, and sleep in the desert.
One of our most interesting excursions was to Ba’albak, which is far
more beautiful, though smaller, than Palmyra; and it can be seen
without danger--Palmyra cannot. The ruins are very beautiful. The
village hangs on to the tail of the ruins--not a bad village either,
but by comparison it looks like a tatter clinging to an empress’s
diamond-bespangled train. The scenery around is wild, rocky, and barren.
[Illustration: BA’ALBAK.]
When we arrived at Ba’albak, the Governor and the chief people rode out
to receive us. Our horses’ hoofs soon rang under a ruined battlement,
and we entered in state through the dark tunnels. Horses were neighing,
sabres were clanking; it was a noisy, confusing, picturesque scene.
We tented for the night in the midst of the grand court of the ruins.
In the morning the ladies of the Governor’s harím paid me a visit
in my tent. With their blue satin and diamonds, they were the most
elaborately dressed women I had seen for a long time. We stayed at
Ba’albak several days, and explored the ruins thoroughly. It is the
ancient Heliopolis. One of the most striking things amid its rocky
tombs and sepulchral caves and its Doric columns and temples was the
grand old eagle, the emblem of Baal. On Sunday I heard Mass at the
Maronite chapel, and returned the call of the ladies aforesaid. In the
evening we dined with the Governor, who illuminated his house for us.
We passed a most enjoyable evening. I spent most of the time in the
harím with the ladies. They wished me to tell them a story; but as I
could not recite one fluently in Arabic, the Governor allowed me as a
special favour to blindfold our dragoman, and take him into the harím
as an interpreter, the Governor himself being present the whole time
to see that the bandage did not come off. One night Mr. Drake and I
lit up the ruins with magnesium. The effect was very beautiful. It was
like a gigantic transformation scene in a desert plain. Every night the
jackals played round our tents in the moonlight, and made the ruins
weird with strange sights and sounds.
We left Ba’albak at dawn one morning, and rode to the source of the
Lebweh. The water bursts out from the ground, and divides into a dozen
sparkling streams. Of all the fountains I have ever seen, there is not
one so like liquid diamonds as this. We picketed our horses under a
big tree, and slept for a while through the heat of the day. At 4.30
p.m., when it was cooler, we rode on again to Er Ras. When we arrived
we met with a furious, rising wind. We stopped there for the night,
and the next morning galloped across the plain to Buká’a. We had a
long, tiring ride, finally reaching a clump of trees on a height, where
we pitched our camp. The Maronite chiefs were _jeríding_ in the
hollow. They came to dinner with us, and I gave them a present of some
cartridges, which appeared to make them very happy.
The next day we continued to ride up a steep ascent. At last we stood
upon a mountain-range of crescent form, ourselves in the centre, and
the two cusps to the sea. Turning to the side which we had ascended and
looking below, the horizon was bounded by the Anti-Lebanon, with the
plain of Buká’a and the ruins of Ba’albak beneath and far away. From
this point we could see the principal heights of the Lebanon, for which
we were bound, to make excursions from the Cedars. We had a painful
descent for an hour and a half, when we reached the famous Cedars
of Lebanon, and camped beneath them. We pitched our tents among the
Cedars, under the largest trees. They are scattered over seven mounds
in the form of a cross. There are five hundred and fifty-five trees,
and they exude the sweetest odours. We spent a very pleasant time
camping under their grateful shade.
At last the day came for our party to break up, Mr. Palmer and Mr.
Tyrwhitt-Drake _en route_ for England, and Richard and I to return
to Bludán. So we parted.
It took Richard and myself many days to get back to our home. After
parting with our friends, we resolved to visit the Patriarch, Primate
of Antioch and of all the East; and escorted by a priest and the
shaykh we travelled by way of a short cut and terrible descent of
three hours. It was no better than a goat-path. We at last arrived
at Dimán, the summer residence of the Patriarch, a conventual yet
fortress-like building on an eminence, commanding a view of the
whole of his jurisdiction. We were charmed with the reception which
his Beatitude gave us. We were received by two bishops and endless
retainers. The Patriarch, dressed in purple, sat in a long, narrow room
like a covered terrace. We of the Faith knelt and kissed his hands, and
the others bowed low. His Beatitude seemed delighted with Richard, and
at dinner he sat at the head of the table, with me on his right and
Richard on his left. We then went to see the chapel and the monks, and
the view from the terrace, where we had coffee. His Beatitude gave me a
number of pious things, amongst others a bit of the true Cross, which I
still wear.
After we left the Patriarch’s we found a dreadful road. Our horses
had literally to jump from one bit of rock to another. It consisted
of nothing but _débris_ of rocks. The horses were dead-beat long
before we had done our day’s work, and we had to struggle forward
on foot. Night found us still scrambling in the dark, worn out with
fatigue and heat. I felt unable to go another step. At last, about
nine o’clock, we saw a light, and we hoped it was our camp. We had yet
some distance to go, and when we reached the light we found a wretched
village of a few huts. It was so dark that we could not find our way
into the shedlike dwellings. We had lost our camp altogether. At last,
by dint of shouting, some men came out with a torch, and welcomed
us. Tired as I was, I saw all the horses groomed, fed, watered, and
tethered in a sheltered spot for the night. We were then able to eat a
watermelon, and were soon sound asleep on our saddle-cloths in the open.
The next day’s ride was as bad. The scenery, however, was very wild and
beautiful. We breakfasted at the place we ought to have arrived at the
previous night, and then we resumed our second bad day in the Kasrawán,
the worst desert of Syria. The horses were tired of jumping from ledge
to ledge. We passed some Arab tents, and camped for the night.
The following morning we rode to the top of Jebel Sunnin, one of the
three highest points in Syria, and we had another six hours of the
Kasrawán, which is called by the Syrians “The road of Gehenna.” We were
terribly thirsty, and at last we found a little khan, which gave us
the best _leben_ I ever tasted. I was so thirsty that I seemed as
if I could never drink enough. I could not help laughing when, after
drinking off my third big bowl, the poor woman of the khan, in spite of
Arab courtesies, was obliged to utter a loud “Máshálláh!” We were still
surrounded by amphitheatre-shaped mountains, with the points to the Sea
of Sidon. The sunset was splendid, and the air was cool and pleasant.
We debated whether to camp or to go on; but the place was so tempting
that we ended by remaining, and were repaid by a charming evening.
The next day we rode quietly down the mountains. We enjoyed a grand
view and a pleasant ride but it was as steep as a railway-bank; and
we came at last to another little khan, where we breakfasted. The
Anti-Lebanon rose on the opposite side. Miss Ellen Wilson, who had a
Protestant mission at Zahleh in this district, asked us to her house,
and we accepted her hospitality for the night, instead of remaining in
our tents. We stayed at Miss Wilson’s for a few days; and we visited
and were visited by the Governor of Zahleh, the Bishop, and other
dignitaries. Richard was taken with fever. I nursed him all night, and
caught the complaint. We both suffered horribly, in spite of every
attention on the part of our friends. Richard soon shook off his
illness, but I did not; I fancied I could not get well unless I went
home to Bludán.
So at sunset on August 11, after we had been at Miss Wilson’s rather
more than a week, our horses were made ready. I was lifted out of
bed and put into a litter. We wound out of Zahleh, descended into
the plain, and began to cross it. I was so sorry for the men who had
to carry my litter that I begged to be allowed to ride. I told my
Arab stallion Salim to be very quiet. We went at foot’s pace till 1
o’clock a.m. in bright moonlight across the plain. Then we passed
regular defiles, where once or twice the horses missed their footing,
and struck fire out of the rocks in their struggles to hold up. At
two o’clock in the morning I felt that I was going to drop out of my
saddle, and cried for quarter. The tents were hastily half pitched, and
we lay down on the rugs till daylight. By that time I had to repair to
my litter again, but I felt so happy at coming near home that I thought
I was cured. As we neared Bludán I was carried along in the litter,
and I lay so still that everybody thought that my corpse was coming
home to be buried. The news spread far and wide, so I had the pleasure
of hearing my own praises and the people’s lamentations.
We had not long returned to Bludán before a great excitement arose.
When we had been home about a fortnight, on August 26, Richard received
at night by a mounted messenger two letters, one from Mr. Wright, chief
Protestant missionary at Damascus, and one from the chief dragoman at
the British Consulate, saying that the Christians at Damascus were
in great alarm; most of them had fled from the city, or were flying,
and everything pointed to a wholesale massacre. Only ten years before
(in 1860) there had been the most awful slaughter of Christians at
Damascus; and though it had been put down at last, the embers of hatred
were still smouldering, and might at any time burst into a flame. Now
it seemed there had been one of those eruptions of ill-feeling which
were periodical in Damascus, resulting from so many religions, tongues,
and races being mixed up together. The chief hatred was between the
Moslems and the Christians, and the Jews were fond of stirring up
strife between them, because they reaped the benefit of the riot and
anarchy. It appeared that the slaughter day was expected on August
27--on the morrow. It had been so timed. All the chief authorities
were absent from Damascus, as well as the Consuls, and therefore there
would be nobody to interfere and nobody to be made responsible. We
only got notice on the night before, the 26th. Richard and I made our
plans and arrangements in ten minutes, and then saddled the horses and
cleaned the weapons. Richard would not take me to Damascus, however,
because, as he said, he intended to protect Damascus, and he wanted me
to protect Bludán and Zebedani. The feeling that I had something to do
took away all that remained of my fever. In the night I accompanied
Richard down the mountain. He took half the men, and left me half. When
we got into the plain, we shook hands like two brothers, and parted,
though it might have been that we should never see one another again.
There were no tears, nor any display of affection, for emotion might
have cost us dear.
Richard rode into Damascus, put up his horse, and got to business.
When he stated what he had heard, the local authorities affected to be
surprised; but he said to them, “I must telegraph to Constantinople
unless measures are taken at once.” This had the desired effect, and
they said, “What will you have us do?” He said, “I would have you post
a guard of soldiers in every street, and order a patrol at night.
Issue an order that no Jew or Christian shall leave their houses until
all is quiet.” These measures were taken at once, and continued for
three days; not a drop of blood was shed, and the flock of frightened
Christians who had fled to the mountains began to come back. In this
way the massacre at Damascus was averted. But I may mention that some
of the Christians who had run away in panic to Beyrout, as soon as they
were safe, declared that there had been no danger whatever, and they
had not been at all frightened. I grieve to say it, but the Eastern
Christian is often a poor thing. But all this is to anticipate.
When I had parted from Richard in the plain, I climbed up to my eagle’s
nest at Bludán, the view from which commanded the country, and I felt
that as long as our ammunition lasted we could defend ourselves, unless
overpowered by numbers. Night was coming on, and of course I had not
the slightest idea of what would happen, but feared the worst. I knew
what had happened at the previous massacre of Christians at Damascus;
and flying, excited stragglers dropped in, and from what they said one
would have supposed that Damascus was already being deluged in blood,
and that eventually crowds of Moslems would surge up to Bludán and
exterminate us also. I fully expected an attack, so I collected every
available weapon and all the ammunition. I had five men in the house;
to each one I gave a gun, a revolver, and a bowie-knife. I put one on
the roof with a pair of elephant guns carrying four-ounce balls, and a
man to each of the four sides of the house, and I commanded the terrace
myself. I planted the Union Jack on the flagstaff at the top of the
house, and I turned my bull terriers into the garden to give notice of
any approach. I locked up a little Syrian girl whom I had taken into my
service, and who was terribly frightened, in the safest room; but my
English maid, who was as brave as any man, I told off to supply us with
provisions and make herself generally useful. I then rode down the hill
to the American Mission and begged them to come up and take shelter
with me, and then into the village of Bludán to tell the Christians to
come up to me on the slightest sign of danger. I gave the same message
to the handful of Christians at Zebedani. I rode on to the Shaykhs, and
asked them how it would be if the news proved true. They told me that
there would be a fight, but they also said, “They shall pass over our
dead bodies before they reach you.” It was a brave speech and kindly
meant; but if anything had happened I should have been to the fore.
I did not wish the Shaykhs to think I was afraid, or wanted their
protection against their co-religionists.
When all preparations were completed, I returned to the house, and we
waited and watched, and we watched and waited for three days. Nobody
came, except more flying stragglers with exaggerated news. After having
made all my preparations, I can hardly explain my sensations, whether
they were of joy or of disappointment. The suspense and inaction
were very trying. I was never destined to do anything worthy of my
ancestress, Blanche Lady Arundell, who defended Wardour Castle against
the Parliamentary forces.
During the three days we were in suspense a monster vulture kept
hovering over our house. The people said it was a bad omen, and so I
fetched my little gun, though I rather begrudged the cartridge just
then; and when it was out of what they call reach, I had the good luck
to bring it down. This gave them great comfort, and we hung the vulture
on the top of the tallest tree.
At last at midnight on the third day a mounted messenger rode up with a
letter from Richard, saying that all was well at Damascus, but that he
would not be back for a week.
After this excitement life fell back into its normal course at Bludán,
and the only variations were small excursions and my doctoring. _À
propos_ of the latter, I can tell some amusing anecdotes. Once
a girl sent to me saying she had broken her leg. I had a litter
constructed, hired men, and went down to see her. When I came near the
place where she was, I met her walking. “How can you be walking with a
broken leg?” I said. She lifted up her voice and wept; she also lifted
up her petticoat and showed me a scratch on her knee that an English
baby would not have cried for. Sometimes women would come and ask me
for medicine to make them young again, others wished me to improve
their complexions, and many wanted me to make them like Sarai of old.
I gently reminded them of their ages, and said that I thought that at
such a time of life no medicines or doctors could avail. “My age!”
screamed one: “why, what age do you take me for?” “Well,” I answered
politely, “perhaps you might be sixty” (she looked seventy-five). “I am
only twenty-five,” she said in a very hurt tone of voice. “Well then,”
I said, “I must congratulate you on your early marriage, for your
youngest daughter is seventeen, and she is working in my house. Anyway
it is really too late to work a miracle.”
On another occasion I received a very equivocal compliment. A woman
came to me and begged for medicines, and described her symptoms. The
doctor was with me, but she did not know him. He said in French, “Do
not give her anything but a little effervescing magnesia. I won’t have
anything to do with her; it is too late, and risks reputation.” I did
as he bade me, simply not to seem unkind. The next day she was dead.
Soon afterwards a young man of about twenty came to me and said, “Ya
Sitti, will you give me some of that nice white bubbling powder for my
grandmother that you gave to Umm Saba the day before yesterday? She is
so old, and has been in her bed these three months, and will neither
recover nor die.” “Oh thou wicked youth!” I answered; “begone from my
house! I did but give Umm Saba a powder to calm her sickness, for it
was too late to save her, and it was the will of Allah that she should
die.”
I will here mention again my little Syrian maid, to whom I had taken a
fancy at Miss Wilson’s Mission, where I first met her, and I took her
into my service. She was a thorough child of Nature, quite a little
wild thing, and it took me a long time to break her into domestic
habits. She was about seventeen years of age, just the time of life
when a girl requires careful guiding. When she first came to us, she
used to say and do the queerest things. Some of them I really do not
think are suited to ears polite; but here are a few.
One day, when we were sitting at work, she startled me by asking:
“Lady, why don’t you put your lip out so?” pouting a very long
under-lip.
“Why, O Moon?”
“Look, my lip so large. Why, all the men love her so because she pout.”
“But, O Moon, my lip is not made like yours; and, besides, I never
think of men.”
“But do think, Lady. Look, your pretty lip all sucked under.”
I know now how to place my lip, and I always remember her when I sit at
work.
On another occasion, seeing my boxes full of dresses and pretty
trinkets, and noticing that I wore no jewellery, and always dressed in
riding-habits and waterproofs for rough excursions, and looked after
the stables instead of lying on a divan and sucking a narghíleh, after
the manner of Eastern women, she exclaimed:
“O Lady, Ya Sitti, my happiness, why do you not wear this lovely
dress?”--a _décolletée_ blue ball-dress, trimmed with tulle and
roses. “I hate the black. When the Beg will come and see his wife so
darling, he will be so jealous and ashamed of himself. I beg of you
keep this black till you are an old woman, and instead be joyful in
your happy time.”
After she had been in the house a fortnight, her ideas grew a little
faster; and speaking of an old sedate lady, and hoping she would do
something she wished, she startled me by saying, “If she do, she do;
and if she don’t, go to hell!”
[Illustration: “THE MOON,” LADY BURTON’S SYRIAN MAID.]
The girl was remarkably pretty, with black plaits of hair confined by
a coloured handkerchief, a round baby face, large eyes, long lashes,
small nose, and pouting lips, with white teeth, of which she was very
proud: a temperament which was all sunshine or thunder and lightning
in ten minutes. She had a nice, plump little figure, encased in a
simple, tight-fitting cotton gown, which, however, showed a stomach of
size totally disproportionate to her figure. Seeing this, I said gently:
“O Moon, do wear stays! When you get older, you will lose your pretty
figure. You are only seventeen, and I am past thirty, and yet I have no
stomach. Do let me give you some stays.”
She burst into a storm of tears and indignation at being supposed to
have a fault of person, which brought on a rumbling of the stomach. She
pointed to it, and said:
“Hush! do you hear, Lady? She cry because she is so great.”
Our kawwass having picked up a little bad language on board ship from
the sailors, was in the habit of saying wicked words when angry, and
the Moon imitated him. The Moon, on being told to do something one
day by my English maid, rapped out a volley of fearful oaths, and my
maid fled to me in horror. I was obliged to speak very seriously to
the Moon, and told her that these were bad words used by the little
gutter-boys in England when they had bad parents and did not know God.
Our dragoman, I regret to say, once took liberties with her. She
complained to me.
“O Lady, all the men want my lip and my breast. Hanna he pulled me, and
I told him, ‘What you want? I am a girl of seventeen. I have to learn
how I shall walk. You know the Arab girl. Not even my brother kiss me
without leave. Wait till I run and tell Ya Sitti.’”
This frightened Hanna, a man like a little old walnut, with a wife and
children, and he begged her not to do so. But she came and told me, and
I replied:
“O Moon, the next time he does it, slap his face and scream, and I will
come down and ask him what he takes my house to be. He shall get more
than he reckons on.”
There was a great deal of ill-feeling simmering between the Moslems
and Christians all this summer, and there were many squabbles between
them. Sometimes the Christians were to blame, and needlessly offended
the susceptibilities of the Moslems. I was always very careful about
this, and would not eat pig for fear of offending the Moslems and Jews,
though we were often short of meat, and I hungered for a good rasher of
bacon. I used to ride down to Zebedani, the next village to Bludán, to
hear Mass, attended by only one servant, a boy of twenty. The people
loved me, and my chief difficulty was to pass through the crowd that
came to kiss my hand or my habit, so I might really have gone alone. I
would not mention this but that our enemies misreported the facts home,
and it went forth to the world that I behaved like a female tyrant, and
flogged and shot the people. How this rumour arose I know not, for I
never shot anybody, and the only time I flogged a man was as follows. I
do not repent of it, and under similar circumstances should do the same
over again.
One day I was riding alone through the village of Zebedani; as usual
every one rose up and saluted me, and I was joined by several native
Christians. Suddenly Hasan, a youth of about twenty-two, thrust himself
before my horse, and said, “What fellows you fellahin are to salute
this Christian woman! I will show you the way to treat her.” This was
an insult. I reined in my horse; the natives dropped on their knees,
praying me not to be angry, and kissed my hands, which meant, “For
Allah’s sake bear it patiently! We are not strong enough to fight for
you.” By this time quite a crowd had collected, and I was the centre
of all eyes. “What is the meaning of this?” I asked Hasan. “It means,”
he answered, “that I want to raise the devil to-day, and I will pull
you off your horse and duck you in the water. I am a Beg, and you are a
Beg. Salute me!” Salute him indeed! I did salute him, but hardly in the
way he bargained for. I had only an instant to think over what I could
do. I knew that to give him the slightest advantage over me would be
to bring on a Consular and European row, and a Christian row too, and
that if I evinced the smallest cowardice I should never be able to show
my face in the village again. I had a strong English hunting-whip, and
was wearing a short riding-habit. So I sprang nimbly from my saddle,
and seized him by the throat, twisting his necktie tightly, and at
the same time showering blows upon his head, face, and shoulders with
the butt-end of my whip till he howled for mercy. My servant, who was
a little way behind, heard the noise at this moment, and, seeing how
I was engaged, thought that I was attacked, and flew to the rescue.
Six men flung themselves upon him, and during the struggle his pistol
or blunderbuss went off, and the ball whizzed past our heads to lodge
in the plaster wall. It might have shot me as well as Hasan, though
afterwards this fact was used against me. The native Christians all
threw themselves on the ground, as they often do when there is any
shooting. The brother of Hasan then dragged him howling away from me.
I mounted my horse again, and rode on amid the curses of his brothers.
“We will follow you,” they shouted, “with sticks and stones and guns,
and at night we will come in a party and burn your house, and whenever
we meet an English son of a pig we will kill him.” “Thank you for your
warning,” I said; “you may be quite sure I shall be ready for you.”
I went home and waited to see if any apology would be offered, but none
came. The Shaykhs came up, and the Christians told me if I allowed this
insult to pass in silence they would be unable to stay in the village,
they were too few. I waited, however, some time, and then wrote an
account of the affair and sent it to Damascus to the Wali. The Wali,
who at that time was not ill-disposed towards Richard, behaved like a
gentleman. He expressed regret at the incident, and sent soldiers up to
burn and sack the home of Hasan and his family, but I interceded and
got them off with only a few weeks’ imprisonment. The father of the
youth Hasan, accompanied by about fifty of the principal people, came
up to beg my pardon the morning after the insult. I, however, received
them coldly, and merely said the affair had passed out of my hands. But
I begged them off all the same.
There was a sequel to this story, which I may as well mention here.
The following summer, when we were at Bludán, Hasan and I became great
friends. One day, after doctoring him for weak eyes, I said, “What
made you want to hurt me, O Hasan, last summer?” He replied, “I don’t
know; the devil entered my heart. I was jealous to see you always with
the Shaykhs and never noticing us. But since I have got to know you I
could kill myself for it.” He had an excellent heart, but was apt to
be carried off his head by the troubles of the times. I may mention
that I reported the matter to the Consul-General, who had also received
the story in another form; to wit, that I had seen a poor Arab beggar
sitting at my gate, and because he did not rise and salute me I had
drawn a revolver and shot him dead. This is a specimen of Turkish
falsehood.
CHAPTER XV
_GATHERING CLOUDS_
(1870–1871)
One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward;
Never doubted clouds would break;
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph
Held, we fall to rise again; are baffled, to fight better;
Sleep, to wake!
BROWNING.
In October Richard and I left Bludán to return to our winter quarters
at Salahíyyeh, Damascus. But as we were in a mood for excursions, we
went by a longer and roundabout route. We had a delightful ride across
the Anti-Lebanon, and then we went by way of Shtora across a mountain
called Jebel Báruk, and then a long scramble of six hours led us to the
village of Báruk, a Druze stronghold in a wild glen on the borders of
the Druze territory. We did not find our tents; but it did not signify,
as we were among friends and allies, who welcomed us. We went at once
to the Shaykh’s house. Richard was always friendly with the Druzes;
and as they played an important part in our life at Damascus, I think
that I had better give some description of them. They are a fine, brave
people, very athletic. The men are tall, broad, and stalwart, with
splendid black eyes, and limbs of iron. They have proud and dignified
manners, and their language is full of poetry. The women are faithful
wives and good mothers. They wear a long blue garment and a white veil.
The whole face is hidden except one eye. I remember once asking them
if it took a long time to decide which was the prettier eye, at which
small joke they were much amused.
We remained for the night with the Shaykh, and had breakfast with him
in the morning, and then went on to Mukhtára, which is the centre of
the Lebanon Druzes. It was a most interesting ride; and whilst we were
still in the barren plain a band of horsemen came out to meet us in
rich Druze dress, and escorted us through a deep defile, and then up a
rocky ascent to a Syrian palace, the house of the Sitt Jumblatt, which
is situated in olive groves on the heights. Arrived at the house, we
were cordially received by the Sitt Jumblatt--a woman who was the head
of the princely family of the Lebanon Druzes--with all the gracious
hospitality of the East, and with all the well-bred ease of a European
_grande dame_. She took us into the reception-room, when water and
scented soap were brought in carved brass ewers and basins, incense
was waved before us, and we were sprinkled with rose-water, whilst an
embroidered gold canopy was held over our heads to concentrate the
perfume. Coffee, sweets, and sherbet were served, and then I was shown
to a very luxurious room.
The following morning we spent in visiting the village schools and
stables, and in listening to the Sitt’s grievances, on which she waxed
eloquent. At night we had a great dinner, and after dinner there were
dancing and war-songs between the Druzes of the Lebanon and the Druzes
of the Haurán. They also performed pantomimes and sang and recited
tales of love and war until far into the night.
The next day we started early. I was sorry to leave, for the Sitt
Jumblatt and I had formed a great friendship. We rode to B’teddin, the
palace of the Governor of the Lebanon, where we were received with
open arms. Five hundred soldiers were drawn up in a line to salute
us, and the Governor, Franco Pasha, welcomed us with all his family
and suite. After our reception we were invited to the divan, where we
drank coffee. Whilst so engaged invisible bands struck up “God save
the Queen”; it was like an electric shock to hear our national hymn
in that remote place--we who had been so long in the silence of the
Anti-Lebanon. We sprang to our feet, and I was so overcome that I burst
into tears.
In the morning we rode back to Mukhtára, where we went to the house of
the principal Druze Shaykh, and were most graciously received. I love
the Druzes and their charming, courteous ways. Whilst staying here we
made several excursions, and among others we ascended Mount Hermon. The
Druze chiefs came from all parts to visit us.
After some days we left. Richard was to go home by a way of his own,
and I was to return escorted by a Druze Shaykh. Poor Jiryus, my
_sais_, walked by my side for a mile when I started, and after
kissing my hand with many blessings, he threw his arms round Salim’s
neck and kissed his muzzle. Then he sat down on a rock and burst into
tears. Richard had dismissed him for disobeying orders. My heart ached
for him, and I cried too.
Shaykh Ahmad and I descended the steep mountain-side, and then galloped
over the plain till we came to water and some Bedawin feeding their
flocks. The Shaykh gave one fine fellow a push, and roughly ordered him
to hold my horse and milk his goats for me. The man refused. “What,” I
said very gently, “do you, a Bedawin, refuse a little hospitality to
a tired and thirsty woman?” “O Lady,” he replied quickly, “I will do
anything for you--you speak so softly; but I won’t be ordered about by
this Druze fellow.” I was pleased with his manliness, and he attended
to my wants and waited on me hand and foot.
We camped out that night, and the night after. I was always fond
of sleeping in the tent, and would never go into the house unless
compelled to do so. This time, however, our tents were pitched on low
ground close to the river, with burning heat by day and cold dews by
night. So I got the fever, and I lay in a kind of stupor all day. The
next morning I heard a great row going on outside my tent. It turned
out to be the Druze Shaykh and our dragoman quarrelling. Shortly after
Shaykh Ahmad came into my tent, and in a very dignified way informed me
that he wished to be relieved of his duty and return home. I laughed,
and refused to allow him to depart. “What, O Shaykh,” said I, “will you
leave a poor, lone woman to return with no escort but a dragoman”; and
he immediately recanted.
Richard joined me here for a night, and then in the morning went off
by another route to explore some district round about. I also did some
exploring in another direction.
So we went on from day to day, camping about, or rather gypsying, in
the desert among the Bedawin. I got to love it very much. I often
think with regret of the strange scenes which became a second nature
to me: of those dark, fierce men, in their gaudy, flowing costumes,
lying about in various attitudes; of our encampments at night, the
fire or the moonlight lighting them up, the divans and the pipes,
the narghílehs and coffee; of their wild, mournful songs; of their
war-dances; of their story-telling of love and war, which are the only
themes. I got to know the Bedawin very well during that time, both men
and women; and the more I knew them the better I liked them.
I remember one night, when Richard and I were in our tent, we lay down
on our respective rugs, and I put out the light. Suddenly Richard
called to me, “Come quick! I am stung by a scorpion.” I struck a match
and ran over to his rug, and looked at the place he pointed to; but
there was a mere speck of blue, and I was convinced it was only a big
black ant. He did not mind that, so I lay down again. Hardly had I done
so when he called out, “Quick, quick, again! I know it is a scorpion.”
I again struck a light, ran over, plunged my hand inside his shirt near
the throat, and drew it out again quickly with a scorpion hanging by
its crablike claws to my finger. I shook it off and killed it; but it
did not sting me, being, I suppose, unable to manage a third time. I
rubbed some strong smelling salts into Richard’s wounds, and I found
some _raki_, which I made him drink, to keep the poison away from
his heart. He then slept, and in the morning was well.
While we were gypsying about in this way we received an invitation to a
Druze wedding at Arneh, near Mount Hermon. Richard went to it one way
and I another. Whenever we separated, the object was to get information
of both routes to our meeting-place, and thus save time and learn more.
On meeting, we used to join our notes together.
The wedding was a very pretty one. The bridegroom was a boy of fifteen;
and the bride, a Shaykh’s daughter, was about the same age. There was a
great deal of singing and dancing, and they were all dressed in their
best costumes and jewellery. I was invited to the harím of the bride’s
house, where we had a merry time of it. Whilst we were enjoying our fun
the girls blew out all our lights, and we were left in the darkness.
The bride ran and threw her arms round me, for protection perhaps, and
then commenced such a romping and screaming and pinching and pulling
that I hardly knew where I was. It was evidently considered a great
frolic. After a few minutes they lit the candles again. At last the
bride, robed in an izár and veiled, mounted a horse astraddle, and
went round to pay her last visit to her neighbours as a maiden. Coming
back, the bride and the bridegroom met in the street, and then we all
adjourned to her father’s house, where there were more ceremonies and
festivities. At midnight we formed a procession to take the bride to
her bridegroom’s house, with singing, dancing, snapping of fingers, and
loud cries of “Yallah! Yallah!” which lasted till 2 a.m. Then the harím
proceeded to undress the bride. We were up all night, watching and
joining in different branches of festivities.
The wedding over, we returned home to Salahíyyeh by slow stages. It
was a terribly hot road through the desert. I suffered with burning
eyeballs and mouth parched with a feverish thirst. I know nothing to
equal the delight with which one returns from the burning desert into
cool shades with bubbling water. Our house seemed like a palace; and
our welcome was warm. So we settled down again at Damascus.
We had a troublesome and unpleasant time during the next few months,
owing to a continuation of official rows. There were people at Damascus
always trying to damage us with the Government at home, and sending
lying reports to the Foreign Office. They were most unscrupulous. One
man, for instance, complained to the Foreign Office that I had been
heard to say that I had “finished my dispatches,” meaning that I had
finished the work of copying Richard’s. Imagine a man noting down this
against a woman, and twisting it the wrong way.
I think that the first shadow on our happy life came in July of
this year, 1870, when I was at Bludán. An amateur missionary came
to Damascus and attempted to proselytize. Damascus was in a very
bad temper just then, and it was necessary to put a stop to these
proceedings, because they endangered the safety of the Christian
population. Richard was obliged to give him a caution, with the result
that he made the missionary an enemy, and gave him a grievance, which
was reported home in due course.
Another way in which we made enemies was because Richard found it
necessary to inform the Jews that he would not aid and abet them in
their endeavours to extort unfair usury from the Syrians. Some of
the village Shaykhs and peasantry, ignorant people as they were,
were in the habit of making ruinous terms with the Jews, and the
extortion was something dreadful. Moreover, certain Jewish usurers
were suspected of exciting massacres between the Christians and the
Moslems, because, their lives being perfectly safe, they would profit
by the horrors to buy property at a nominal price. It was brought to
the notice of Richard about this time that two Jewish boys, servants
to Jewish masters who were British-protected subjects, had given the
well-understood signal by drawing crosses on the walls. It was the
signal of the massacre in 1860. He promptly investigated the matter,
and took away the British protection of the masters temporarily.
Certain Israelite money-lenders, who hated him because he would not
wink at their sweating and extortions, saw in this an opportunity to
overthrow him; so they reported to some leading Jews in England that
he had tortured the boys, whom he had not, in point of fact, punished
in any way beyond reproving them. The rich Jews at home, therefore,
were anxious to procure our recall, and spread it about that we were
influenced by hatred of the Jews. One of them had even the unfairness
to write to the Foreign Office as follows:
“I hear that the lady to whom Captain Burton is married is believed to
be a bigoted Roman Catholic, and to be likely to influence him against
the Jews.”
In spite of woman’s rights I was not allowed to answer him publicly.
When I heard of it, I could not forbear sending a true statement of the
facts of the case to Lord Granville, together with the following letter:
“H.B.M. CONSULATE, DAMASCUS,
“_November 29, 1870_.
“MY LORD,
“I have always understood that it is a rule amongst gentlemen
never to drag a lady’s name into public affairs, but I accept
with pleasure the compliment which Sir ---- ---- pays me in
treating me like a man, and the more so as it enables me to
assume the privilege of writing to you an official letter, a
copy of which perhaps you will cause to be transmitted to him.
“Sir ---- ---- has accepted the tissue of untruths forwarded by
three persons, the chief money-lenders of Damascus, because they
are his co-religionists. He asserts that I am a bigoted Roman
Catholic, and must have influenced my husband against them. I
am not so bigoted as Sir ---- ----; for if three Catholics were
to do one-half of what these three Jews have done, I would
never rest until I had brought them to justice. I have not a
prejudice in the world except against hypocrisy. Perhaps, as
Damascus is divided into thirty-two religions, my husband and I
are well suited to the place. We never ask anybody’s religion,
nor make religion our business. My husband would be quite
unfitted for public life if he were to allow me to influence
him in the manner described, and I should be unworthy to be any
good man’s wife if I were to attempt it. My religion is God’s
poor. There is no religious war between us and the Jews, but
there is a refusal to use the name of England to aid three rich
and influential Jews in acts of injustice to, and persecution
of, the poor; to imprison and let them die in gaol in order to
extort what they have not power to give; and to prevent foreign
and fraudulent money transactions being carried on in the name
of Her Majesty’s Government. Also it has been necessary once or
twice to prevent the Jews exciting the Moslems to slaughter,
by which they have never suffered, but by which they gratify
their hatred of the Christians, who are the victims. I think
nobody has more respect for the Jewish religion than my husband
and myself, or of the Jews, as the most ancient and once chosen
people of God; but in all races some must be faulty, and these
must be punished. There are three mouths from which issue all
these complaints and untruths; and what one Jew will say or sign
the whole body will follow without asking a question why or
wherefore, nor in Damascus would their consent be asked. It is
a common saying here that ‘everybody says yes to them because
they have money.’ These three men count on the influence of men
like Sir ---- ----, and one or two others, and impose upon their
credulity and religious zeal to get their misdeeds backed up and
hidden. But will such men as these protect a fraudulent usurer
because he is a Jew?
“I enclose a true statement of the case, and also some private
letters, one from our chief and best missionary, which will show
you something of the feeling here in our favour.
“I have the honour to be, my Lord,
“Your most obedient and humble servant,
“ISABEL BURTON.
“To the EARL GRANVILLE, etc., etc.,
“Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.”
To this I can only add: if the Shylocks of Damascus hated me, so much
the more to my credit.
There were many temptations to turn us from the path of right, if we
had a mind to go. Politics at Damascus were most corrupt, and bribes
were freely offered to us both from all sides. They did not seem to
understand our refusal of anything of the kind. It had evidently been
the custom. Richard had as much as £20,000 offered him at once, and
personally I had no end of temptations to accept money when I first
came to Damascus. If we had taken gold and ignored wrongs, we might
have feathered our nests for ever, and doubtless have retired with much
honour and glory. But we would not. In this way I refused several
Arab horses which I would have given worlds to accept, for I was
passionately fond of Arab horses, and could not afford to buy them;
but as we should have been expected to do unjust things in return, or
rather to allow unjust things to be done, I refused them. I had more
jewels offered me than I should have known what to do with, but refused
them all; and I take some credit to myself in this matter, because I
might have accepted them as gifts without any conditions, and I like
diamonds as much as most women, or rather I like their value.
In November we had quite an event in Damascus--the wedding of the
Wali’s daughter. It was the most splendid wedding I ever beheld. It
lasted five days and nights. The men celebrated it in one house, and
the women in another. We mustered several hundred in all. I was among
the _intimes_, and was treated _en famille_. By my side throughout was
Lady Ellenborough, looking like an oriental queen, and the charming
young wife of our Italian Consul, whose dress was fresh from Italy. The
dresses were wonderful in richness, diamonds blazing everywhere. But
one custom took my fancy: the best women wore simply a plain cashmere
robe, and no ornaments, but loaded all their jewels on one or two of
their slaves, who followed them, as much as to say, “If you want to see
all my fine things, look behind me; it is too great a bore to carry
them myself.”
On the eve of the wedding there was a long procession of female
relatives, and we all sat round in the large hall. Every woman in the
procession bore branches of lights; and the bride was in the middle,
a beautiful girl of fifteen or sixteen. Her magnificent chestnut hair
swept in great tresses below her waist, and was knotted and seeded
with pearls. She was dressed in red velvet, and blazed all over with
precious stones. Diamond stars were also glued to her cheeks, her chin,
and her forehead; and they were rather in the way of our kissing her,
for they scratched our faces. She was a determined-looking girl, but
she had been crying bitterly, because she did not want to be married.
She sat on the divan, and received our congratulations sullenly,
looking as though she would rather scream and scratch.
On the marriage morn we were up betimes. The harím had begged of me to
wear an English ball-dress, that they might see what it was like. I
said, “I will do what you ask, but I know that you will be shocked.”
“Oh no,” they replied; “we are quite sure we shall be delighted.” So
I wore a white glacé silk skirt, a turquoise blue tunic and corsage,
the whole affair looped up and trimmed with blush roses, and the same
flowers in my hair. Thus arrayed I appeared before the harím. They
turned me round and round, and often asked me if I were not very cold
about the shoulders; if it were really true that strange men danced
with us and put their arms round our waists, and if we didn’t feel
dreadfully ashamed, and if we really sat and ate and drank with them.
I could not answer all these questions over and over again, so I said
I would describe a European ball by interpreter. They hailed the idea
with delight. I stood up and delivered as graphic an account as I could
of my first ball at Almack’s, and they greeted me at intervals with
much applause.
The marriage was a simple but most touching ceremony. We were all
assembled in the great hall. The Wali entered, accompanied by the
women of the family; the bride advanced, weeping bitterly, and knelt
and kissed her father’s feet. The poor man, with emotion, raised her
and clasped a girdle of diamonds round her waist, which was before
ungirdled; it was part of her dower. No one could unclasp it but her
husband, and this concluded the ceremony. Shortly afterwards the bride
was borne in procession to the bridegroom’s house, where she received
the kisses and congratulations of all the women present. After about
half an hour she was conducted to a private room by a female relative,
and the bridegroom to the same room by a male relative. The door was
shut, and the band played a joyous strain. I asked what was going to
happen, and they told me that the bridegroom was allowed to raise her
veil, to unclasp her belt, and to speak a few words to her in the
presence of their relatives. This was the first time they had really
seen one another. What an anxious moment for a Moslem woman!
Shortly after this we went on an expedition to visit the Wuld Ali, a
chief who was much dreaded by those of other tribes. Richard and I rode
into the encampment alone. When first the tribe saw our two dusky
figures galloping across the sand in the evening, they rode out to meet
us with their lances couched; but as soon as they were close enough to
recognize Richard they lowered their weapons, jumped off their horses
and kissed our hands, galloped in with us, and held our stirrups to
alight. I need not say that we received all the hospitality of Bedawin
life. Richard wanted to patch up a peace between the Wuld Ali and the
Mezráb tribe, but in this he did not succeed.
We had a delightful ride when leaving one encampment for another, and
several of the Bedawin accompanied us. As we mounted Richard whispered
to me, “Let’s show those fellows that the English can ride. They think
that nobody can ride but themselves, and that nothing can beat their
mares.” I looked round, and saw their thorough-bred mares with their
lean flanks. I did not know how it would be with our half-breds; but
they were in first-rate condition, full of corn and mad with spirits.
So I gave Richard my usual answer to everything he said: “All right;
where you lead I will follow.” As soon as the “Yallah!” was uttered for
starting, we simply laid our reins on our horses’ necks, and neither
used spur nor whip nor spoke to them. They went as though we had long
odds on our ride. We reached the camp for which we were bound an hour
and a half before the Bedawin who were to have come with us. Neither we
nor our horses had turned a hair. Their mares were broken down, and the
men were not only blown and perspiring, but they complained bitterly
that their legs were skinned. “Ya Sitti,” said one, “El Shaitan
himself could not follow you.” “I am sorry,” I replied, “but our
_kaddishes_ would go; _we_ wanted to ride with _you_.”
When we returned from this expedition we went to Beyrout, where
we spent our Christmas. We ate our Christmas dinner with the
Consul-General, and his dragoman told me an astounding story about
myself which was news to me, as such stories generally are. He said
that, a certain Jewish usurer at Damascus had told him that, when I met
his wife at the wedding of the Wali’s daughter, I tore her diamonds
off her head, flung them on the ground, and stamped on them, saying
that they were made out of the blood of the poor. I was amused at
this monstrous fabrication, but I was also annoyed. In England there
may be much smoke but little fire, but in the East the smoke always
tells that the fire is fierce, and one must check a lie before it has
time to travel far. Knowing what certain Jews in England had reported
about me before, I lost no time in putting matters to rights with the
authorities, and dispatched the following letter to the Foreign Office:
“_January 27, 1871._
“MY LORD,
“I trust you will exempt me from any wish to thrust myself into
public affairs, but it is difficult for Captain Burton to notice
anything in an official letter concerning his wife, neither can
we expect the Damascus Jews to know the habits of gentlemen.
They respect their own haríms, yet this is the second time I
am mentioned discreditably in their public correspondence. In
one sense it may be beneficial, as I can give you a better idea
of the people Captain Burton has to deal with than official
language allows of, and from which my sex absolves me.
“My offences against the Jews are as follows:
“I once said ‘Not at home’ to ---- ---- because I heard that
he had written unjust complaints to the Government about my
husband. Later on the Wali gave a _fête_ to celebrate the
marriage of his daughter. I was invited to the harím during
the whole feast, which lasted five days and nights. The Wali’s
harím and the others invited made, I dare say, a party of three
hundred and fifty ladies. I need not say that men were not
admitted; their festivities were carried on in another house.
The ---- harím was amongst the invited. As I supposed that
they knew nothing of what was going on, I was not desirous of
mortifying them by any coldness in public, and accordingly I
was as cordial to them as I had always been. On the last day
the wife of ---- separated herself from her party, and intruded
herself into the Consulesses’ divan. We were all together;
but there was often a gathering of the Consulesses for the
sake of talking more freely in European languages, Turkish
being the language spoken generally, and Arabic being almost
excluded. I received her very warmly, begging her to be seated,
and conversed with her; but she would talk of nothing but her
husband’s business. I said to her, ‘Pray do not let us discuss
this now; it is not the time and place in public, where all can
hear us.’ She replied, ‘I want to talk of this and nothing
else. I came for that only.’ I said, ‘You are a good woman, and
I like you, and do not want to quarrel with you. Why speak of
it? We are two women. What do we know of business? Leave it for
our husbands.’ She replied, ‘I know business very well, and so
do you. I will speak of it.’ I then said, ‘If you do, I fear I
shall say something unpleasant.’ She replied, ‘I do not mind
that, and I will come and see you.’ I said, ‘Pray do; I shall be
delighted.’ And so we shook hands and parted.
“Six weeks after I came to Beyrout, and found that it was
popularly reported by the Jews that I had torn Madame ----’s
diamonds from her hair on this occasion, thrown them on the
ground, and stamped upon them. ---- ---- arrived soon after
me; and hearing from some mutual friends that this report had
reached me, he came to see me, and told me that it had been
invented by his enemies. I replied that I thought it very
likely, and that he need not mind. He then told me that his
family, and his wife in particular, were very fond of me, and
that she had recounted our interview at the wedding to him just
as above, and as a proof of their friendly feelings they were
coming to see me to invite me to a _soirée_.
“With many regrets for trespassing so long on your valuable time,
“I am, my Lord,
“Your faithful and obedient servant,
“ISABEL BURTON.
“The EARL GRANVILLE,
“Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.”
A gentleman, Mr. Kennedy, from the Foreign Office at home, was staying
at the Consul-General’s at Beyrout, so we thought it right to invite
him to Damascus, and he accepted our invitation a few weeks later.
As this was an official visit we made every preparation. I met him at
Shtora, the half-way house between Beyrout and Damascus, and travelled
with him in the diligence. At the last station we found the Wali’s
carriage and a troop of soldiers as a guard of honour, and we then
journeyed in it to our house. The next morning Mr. Kennedy visited
the Consulate, and apparently found everything straightforward and
satisfactory, and he paid official calls with Richard. During the next
few days I showed him most of the sights of Damascus, and one evening I
gave a large _soirée_ in his honour. Mr. Kennedy was fain to own
that in its way it was unique. He had never seen a party like the one
I was able to assemble. We had thirty-six different races and creeds
and tongues: grey-bearded Moslems, fierce-looking Druzes, a rough
Kurdish chief, a Bedawin shaykh, a few sleek Jewish usurers, every one
of the fourteen castes of Christians, the Protestant missionaries, and
all the Consuls and their staffs; in fact, everything appertaining to
public life and local authority, culminating in the various Church
dignitaries, bishops, and patriarchs. The triple-roomed hall, with
fountains in the middle, lighted with coloured lamps; the bubbling of
the water in the garden; the sad, weird music in the distance; the
striking costumes; the hum of the narghílehs; the guttural sound of the
conversation; the kawwasses in green, red, blue, and gold, gliding
about with trays of sherbet, sweets, and coffee,--all combined to make
the quaintest scene.
I should like to mention an anecdote here. In the garden next to ours
there was a large wooden door, which swung always on its hinges. It
made such a noise that it kept Mr. Kennedy awake at night. The garden
belonged to an old woman, and I asked her to have her gate fastened.
She sent back an answer that she could not, as it had been broken for
years, and she had not the money to spare to mend it. So I took the law
into my own hands. The next night Mr. Kennedy slept well. At breakfast
he remarked the circumstance, and asked how I had managed about the
door. “If you look out of the window,” I answered, “you will see it
in the courtyard. I sent two kawwasses yesterday to pull it down at
sunset.” He put on that long official face, with which all who are in
the service of Her Majesty’s Government are familiar, and said, “Oh,
but you must really not treat people like that. Supposing they knew
of these things at home?” “Suppose they did!” I said, laughing. I had
ordered that, after Mr. Kennedy’s departure that day, the gate was to
be replaced and mended at my expense. The next time the old woman saw
me she ran out exclaiming, “O thou light of my eyes, thou sunbeam,
come and sit a little by the brook in my garden, and honour me by
drinking coffee; and Allah grant that thou mayest break something else
of mine, and live for ever; and may Allah send back the great English
Pasha to thy house to bring me more good luck!” However, the “great
English Pasha” did not return, for that evening a mounted escort with
torches and the Wali’s carriage came to convey him and myself to the
_gare_ of the diligence, and we reached Beyrout that evening.
Nothing of importance happened at Damascus during the next few months.
It was a terribly cold winter. We were pleasantly surprised by the
arrival of Lord Stafford and Mr. Mitford, to whom we showed the sights.
We had a few other visitors; but on the whole it was a sad winter, for
there was famine in the land. The Jewish usurers had bought up wheat
and corn cheap, and they sold grain very dear; it was practically
locked up in the face of the starving, dying multitude. It was terrible
to see the crowds hanging round the bakers’ shops and yearning for
bread. I used to save all the money I could--alas that I could not save
more!--and telling a kawwass and man to accompany me with trays, I used
to order a couple of sovereigns’ worth of bread, and distribute it in
the most destitute part of our suburb. I never saw anything like the
ravenous, hungry people. They would tear the trays down, and drag the
bread from one another’s mouths. I have sat by crying because I felt
it mockery to bring so little; yet had I sold everything we possessed,
I could not have appeased the hunger of our village for a single day.
I wondered how those men who literally murdered the poor, who kept the
granaries full, and saw unmoved the vitals of the multitude quivering
for want, could have borne the sight! Surely it will be more tolerable
for the cities of the Plain in the day of judgment than for them.
CHAPTER XVI
_JERUSALEM AND THE HOLY LAND_
(1871)
Thy servants take pleasure in her stones, and favour the dust
thereof.
PSALM cii. 14.
It had long been our desire to visit Palestine and the Holy Land
thoroughly, and so in March, 1871, we determined to set out. Richard
wished me to go by sea and meet him at Jerusalem, as he was going by
land with Mr. Drake, who had now returned from England; so I travelled
across to Beyrout, with the intention of going from there by sea to
Jaffa at once. But when I reached the harbour of Beyrout there was such
a rough sea that I judged it better to wait for another steamer. So I
put up at the hotel at Beyrout, where I made my first acquaintance with
Cook’s tourists. They swarmed like locusts over the town, in number
about one hundred and eighty; and the natives said of them, “These are
not travellers; these are Cookii.” Certainly they were a menagerie of
curious human bipeds. I lunched and dined with them every day at the
_table d’hôte_, and mingled with them as freely as possible, for
they interested me greatly, and I used to try and classify them much as
an entomologist would classify his beetles and insects. One lady of
forbidding appearance was known as “the Sphinx.” When on an expedition,
it was the custom to call the “Cookii” at 5 a.m., and strike the
tents at six. It appears that her bower falling at the stroke of six
disclosed the poor thing in a light toilet, whence issued a serious
quarrel. She wore an enormous, brown, mushroom hat, like a little
table, decorated all over with bunches of brown ribbon. Then there was
a rich vulgarian, who had inveigled a poor gentleman into being his
travelling companion, in return for his expenses. And didn’t he let us
know it! This was his line of conversation at the dinner table: “You
want wine, indeed! I dare say. Who brought you out, I should like to
know? No end of expense. Who pays for the dinner? Who paid for the
ticket? What do I get in return? No end of expense.” And so on, and so
on. I longed to drop a little caustic into Dives, but I was afraid that
poor Lazarus would have had to pay for it afterwards.
I embarked on the next steamer bound for Jaffa. She was the smallest,
dirtiest, and most evil smelling I have ever boarded, and that is
saying a good deal. We had a horrid night, very rough, and the
first-class cabin became so abominable that I joined the deck
passengers, and I longed to be a drover and lie with the cattle. My
little Syrian maid was with me, and she was very ill. Jaffa was a rough
place for landing, but we accomplished it after some little difficulty.
It is a pretty, fez-shaped town on the hillside.
We remained twenty-four hours in Jaffa, and then rode on to Ramleh.
The gardens around this town were exceedingly beautiful, groves of
orange trees, citrons, and pomegranates. We soon entered the Plain
of Sharon. The whole road was green and pretty. The country was a
beautiful carpet of wild flowers. We reached Ramleh early, and I went
at once to the Franciscan Monastery. The monk who acted as porter
received me very stiffly at first, until he knew all about me, and then
he became very expansive. They put my Syrian girl and me into a clean
bedroom with embroidered muslin curtains and chintz tops. At night the
monastery was full, and we were served by the monks. When I saw the
company assembled in the refectory at supper, I did not wonder at the
porter receiving me with such caution. They snorted and grunted and
spat and used their forks for strange purposes. If I had not been so
hungry, I could not have eaten a bit, though I am pretty well seasoned
through living with all kinds of people.
We started early next morning in delightful weather, and I was highly
excited by our near approach to Jerusalem. There were several other
travellers along the road, all bound for the Holy City. We occupied
seven and a half hours on the journey. We passed two _cafés_ on
the road, impromptu donkey sheds, where we found good Turkish coffee
and narghílehs; and there were shady orange groves, and fields of
marigolds, poppies, and such-like. At last I reached the crest of
the hill, and beheld Jerusalem beneath me. I reined in my horse, and
with my face towards the Sepulchre gazed down upon the city of my
longing eyes with silent emotion and prayer. Every Christian bared
his head; every Moslem and Jew saluted. We rode towards the Jaffa
Gate, outside of which were stalls of horses and donkeys, and a motley
crowd, including lines of hideous-looking lepers. I went to the
Damascus Hotel, a comfortable and very quiet hostel, with no tourists
or trippers, of which I was glad, for I had come on a devotional
pilgrimage. In the evening I was able to sit on the terrace and realize
the dream of my life. The sun was setting on the Mount of Olives, where
our Saviour’s feet last touched the earth; the Mosque of Omar glittered
its rosy farewell; the Arch of Ecce Homo lay beneath; the Cross of the
Sepulchre caught the ruddy glow; out beyond were the Mountains of Moab,
purple and red in the dying day; and between me and them, deep down I
knew, lay the Dead Sea.
My reverie was awakened by the arrival of Richard with the horses and
the _sais_ and Habíb. Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake was with him.
[Illustration: MOSQUE OF OMAR, JERUSALEM.]
The next morning we were out early. First we rode to see the Stone
of Colloquy on the road to Bethany, so called because it is believed
that, when Martha came to tell Jesus that her brother Lazarus was dead,
the Saviour sat upon this stone whilst He conversed with her. It is
a little table of rock about a yard long. We then went over a jagged
country to Bethany, a short hour’s journey from Jerusalem. Bethany is
now nothing but a few huts and broken walls in a sheltered spot. We
went to see the tomb of Lazarus, which is a small empty rock chamber.
About forty yards to the south we were shown the supposed house of
Martha and Mary. We passed a little field where Christ withered the
tree, marked by an excavation in the rock, where there is always a fig.
The way we returned to Jerusalem was that by which Jesus rode upon the
ass in triumph upon Palm Sunday, down the Mount of Olives, and in at
the Golden Gate of the Temple.
On the south of the American cemetery there is a little spot of
desolate land, which is the site of a house where, when all was over,
our Blessed Lady lived with St. John. Here she passed her last fifteen
years; here she died at the age of sixty-three, and was buried near
the Garden of Gethsemane. All that remains of the site of this small
dwelling are some large stones, said to be the foundations. We then
visited the Cœnaculum, or the room of the Last Supper. An ancient
church, which is now converted into a mosque, is built on the site
of the Last Supper room. It is a long hall with a groined roof, and
some say that it is the actual site, built with other materials. We
then visited the house of Caiaphas, and in the afternoon we sat in the
English burial-ground on Mount Zion, talking and picking a flower here
and there.
Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake was our dear friend and travelling companion. He
was a young man full of promise for a brilliant Eastern and scientific
career. He was tall, powerful, fair, manly, distinguished for athletic
and field sports; his intellectual qualities, and his mastery of
languages, Arabic and others, were so great that he made me wonder how
at twenty-four years of age a young man could know so much. He was a
thorough Englishman, the very soul of honour.
I should weary and not edify if I were to describe all we saw at
Jerusalem. I have written of it more fully elsewhere,[2] and I can
never hope to convey the remarkably vivid way in which it brought home
to me the truth of the Gospel narrative. But I think there are two
spots which I ought to describe: one is the Calvary Church, and the
other is the Holy Sepulchre.
There are six holy spots on Mount Calvary. In the church itself, about
four or five yards on the right hand, at the head of the staircase
before you advance up the church, the black-and-white rose in the
marble shows where our Saviour was stripped. Three yards farther,
before an altar, a slab covers the spot where they nailed Him to the
Cross; and a little farther on, at the High Altar, the Sacrifice was
consummated. The High Altar is resplendent; but one wishes it were
not there, for all one’s interest is concentrated upon a large silver
star underneath it. On hands and knees I bowed down to kiss it, for
it covered the hole in the rock where the Cross, with our dying Lord
upon it, was planted. I put my arm into the hole, and touched it for a
blessing. On the right hand is the hole of the good thief’s cross, and
on the left the bad thief’s, each marked by a black marble cross. The
cleft in the solid rock which opened when “Jesus, crying with a loud
voice, gave up the ghost,” and “the earth quaked and the rocks were
rent,” is still visible. You can see it again below, in the deepest
part of the church, where lies Adam’s tomb. The surface looks as if it
were oxidized with blood, and tradition says that this colour has ever
remained upon it.
We will now proceed from Calvary to the Holy Sepulchre. Entering the
Basilica, the vast church where the Holy Sepulchre is, we find a little
chapel enclosing the grave. It stands under the centre of the great
dome, which covers the whole Basilica. The Holy Sepulchre itself, all
of it cut in one solid rock, consists of a little ante-chamber and
an inner chamber containing a place for interment. It is carved out
of the stone in the form of a trough, which had a stone slab for a
covering, and it is roofed by a small arch, also cut in the rock. When
St. Helena prepared for building the Basilica with the Holy Sepulchre
and Calvary, she separated the room containing the sacred tomb from the
mass of rock, and caused an entrance vestibule to be carved out of the
remainder. Would that St. Helena had contented herself with building
indestructible walls round the sacred spots and left them to Nature,
marking them only with a cross and an inscription! They would thus have
better satisfied the love and devotion of Christendom, than the little,
ornamented chapels which one shuts one’s eyes not to see, trying to
realize what had once been. In the ante-chamber are two columns, and
in the middle is the stone upon which the angel sat when it was rolled
back from the Sepulchre. Christians of every race, tongue, and creed
burn gold and silver lamps day and night before the grave, so that
the chapel inside is covered with them, and priests of each form of
Christian faith officiate here in turn. The exterior of the Sepulchre
is also covered with gold and silver lamps, burnt by different
Christians. Fifteen lamps of gold hang in a row about the grave itself.
The Turks hold the keys. In going in or coming out all kneel three
times and kiss the ground. After you cross the vestibule, which is
dark, you crouch to pass through the low, rock-cut archway by which you
enter the tomb. You kneel by the Sepulchre, which appears like a raised
bench of stone; you can put your hands upon it, lean your face upon it,
if you will, and think and pray.
I was in Jerusalem all through Holy Week, from Palm Sunday until
Easter Day, and I attended all the services that I could attend, and
so kept the week of our Lord’s Passion in the Holy City. On Good
Friday I went to the “Wailing-place of the Jews” by the west wall of
the enclosure around the Mosque of Omar, an old remain of the Temple
of Solomon, and listened to their lamentations, tears, prayers, and
chants. They bewailed their city, their Temple, their departed glory,
on the anniversary of the day when their crime was accomplished and
Christ was crucified. The scene and the hour made me think deeply. I
shall never forget either the scene in the Basilica on Holy Saturday,
when the Patriarch undressed to show that he had nothing with him to
produce the Greek fire, and bared his head and feet, and then, in a
plain surplice, entered the Sepulchre alone. Five minutes later the
“Sacred Fire” issued, and a really wonderful scene followed. All the
congregation struggled to catch the first fire. They jumped on each
other’s heads, shoulders, and backs; they hunted each other round the
church with screams of joy. They pass it to one another; they rub it
over their faces, they press it to their bosoms, they put it in their
hair, they pass it through their clothes, and not one of this mad crowd
feels himself burnt. The fire looked to me like spirits on tow; but it
never went out, and every part of the Basilica is in one minute alight
with the blaze. I once believed in this fire, but it is said now to be
produced in this manner: In one of the inner walls of the Sepulchre
there is a sliding panel, with a place to contain a lamp, which is
blessed, and for centuries the Greeks have never allowed this lamp to
go out, and from it they take their “Sacred Fire.” Richard was assured
by educated Greeks that a lucifer box did the whole business, and that
is probable; but be that so or not, there was a man-of-war waiting at
Jaffa to convey the “Sacred Fire” to St. Petersburg.
It was later on in the day, after we had made an excursion to see the
Convent of the Cross, that Richard, Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake, and I went
off to explore the Magharat el Kotn, also called the Royal Caverns.
They are enormous quarries, the entrance to which looks like a hole
in the wall outside Jerusalem, not far from the Gate of Damascus. We
crept in, and found ourselves lost in endless artificial caves and
galleries. Richard and Mr. Drake were delighted with them; but I soon
left the enthusiasts, for the caves did not interest me. I had kept
Lent fasting; I had attended all the long ceremonies of Holy Week; and
I was therefore very tired on this day, Holy Saturday, the more so
because I had not only attended my own Church’s ceremonies, but all
those of every sect in Jerusalem. So I gave up exploring the caves,
and sauntered away to the northernmost point of Mount Bezetha, and
saw the Cave of the Prophet Jeremias. It was here that he wrote his
Lamentations.
I then climbed up to a large cave somewhat to the left, above that of
Jeremias, where I could look down upon Jerusalem. Here, worn out with
fatigue, fasting, and over-excitement, I lay down with my head upon the
stone, and slept a long sleep of two hours, during which time I dreamed
a long, vivid dream. Its details in full would occupy a volume. Byron
says: “Dreams in their development have breath and tears and torture
and the touch of joy. They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts and
look like heralds of eternity. They pass like the spirits of the past;
they speak like sibyls of the future.” The spirit of Jeremias might
have touched the stone upon which I slept, or Baruch might have dwelt
there. I dreamed for hours, and then I awoke. A goat-herd had entered
the cave, and I half fancy he had shaken me, for he looked scared and
said, “Pardon, Ya Sitti; I thought you were dead.”
The bells of the Sepulchre were giving out their deep-tongued notes
and re-echoing over the hills. I looked at my watch; it was the Ave
Maria--sunset. I came back with a rush to reality; all my dream views
vanished, and the castles in the air tumbled down like a pack of cards.
Nothing remained of my wondrous dream, with its marvellous visions,
its stately procession of emperors, kings, queens, pontiffs, and
ministers--nothing remained of them all, but only my poor, humble self,
private and obscure, still to toil on and pray and suffer. I had to
rouse myself at once, and almost to run, so as to pass the gates before
I was locked out of the city for the night. No one would have thought
of looking for me in that cave. I should certainly have been reported
as murdered. When I arrived home it was long past sunset, but Richard
and Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake had not returned from their visit to the Caves
of Magharat el Kotn. The gates of Jerusalem were shut, and I felt
seriously alarmed, lest they should have met with some accident; so
before settling myself to write my dream, I ordered my horse and rode
back to the Damascus Gate to propitiate the guard and to post a kawwass
at the gate, that I might get into the city again. It was pitch dark;
so I went down myself to the caves, which were miles long and deep,
with lights and ropes. After a quarter of an hour’s exploration I met
them coming back, safe. As soon as we got home I locked myself in my
room and wrote down the incidents of my dream.
The next morning, Easter Sunday, I was up before dawn, and had the
happiness of hearing two Masses and receiving Holy Communion in the
Sepulchre. I was the only person present besides the celebrant and the
acolyte. During the day we walked round about Jerusalem, and visited
many sacred spots.
On Easter Monday in the afternoon we rode over bad country to the Cave
of St. John the Baptist, where he led the life of a hermit and prepared
for his preaching. It was a small cave, and there is a bench in it
cut in the stone, which served the Baptist as a bed. The priests now
celebrate Mass on it.
On Easter Tuesday one of Her Majesty’s men-of-war arrived at Jaffa,
and a number of sailors rode up to Jerusalem in the evening, and kept
high festival. It sounded strange in the solemn silence of the Holy
City to hear the refrains of “We won’t go home till morning” until past
midnight. But a truce to sentiment; it did me good to hear their jolly
English voices, so I ordered some drink for them, and sent a message to
them to sing “Rule Britannia” and “God save the Queen” for me, which
they did with a hearty goodwill. They made the old walls ring again.
On Wednesday we went to Bethlehem. There is a monastery over the holy
places where the Nativity took place. You descend a staircase into the
crypt, which must have formed part of the old khan, or inn, where Mary
brought forth our Lord. The centre of attraction is a large grotto,
with an altar and a silver star under it, and around the star is
written, “Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est.” The manger
where the animals fed is an excavation in the rock.
The next day, having exhausted the objects of interest in and about
Bethlehem, we continued our travels. We rode on to Hebron, an ancient
town lying in a valley surrounded by hills. The houses are old and
ruinous. One cannot go out upon one’s roof without all the other roofs
being crowded, and cries of “Bakshísh” arise like the cackle of fowls.
There is a mosque of some interest, which we explored; but it was
very disappointing that Richard, who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca,
and who was considered as having a right to enter where Moslems enter,
could not be admitted by the Hebronites to the cave below the mosque,
the only part which was not visited by travellers. The answer was,
“If we went, you should go too; but even we dare not go now. The two
doors have been closed, one for seventy years, and the other for one
hundred and fifty years.” Speaking generally, we found Hebron a dirty,
depressing place, full of lazy, idle people, and a shaykh told us that
there was not a Christian in the place, as though that were something
to be proud of.
On Low Sunday we left Hebron and rode back to Jerusalem, where I
enjoyed several days quietly among the holy sites. While we were there
we were invited by the Anglican Bishop Gobat to a _soirée_, which
we enjoyed very much indeed, and we met several very interesting
people, including Mr. Holman Hunt.
On April 24 we left Jerusalem. Quite a company went with us as far
as Bir Ayyúb--Joab’s Well. Then our friends rode back to Jerusalem;
Richard and Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake went in another direction; and I
remained alone with servants, horses, and baggage. I sent them on in
advance, and turned my horse’s head round to take a long, last look
at the sacred walls of Jerusalem. I recited the psalm “Super flumina
Babylonis illic sedimus,” and then after a silent meditation I galloped
after my belongings.
After half an hour’s riding through orchards and grass I came to a
wide defile two or three miles long, winding like a serpent, and the
sides full of caves. I climbed up to some to describe them to Richard.
The country was truly an abomination of desolation, nothing but naked
rockery for miles and miles, with the everlasting fire of the sun
raining upon it.
There was a monastery in the defile at the end, a Greek Orthodox
monastery. They say that whatever woman enters the monastery dies. I
had a great mind to enter it as a boy, for I was very curious to see
it. However, I thought better of it, and pulled the ends of my habit
out of my big boots and presented myself at the door of the monastery
in my own character. The monk who played janitor eyed me sternly,
and said, “We do not like women here, my daughter; we are afraid of
them.” “You do not look afraid, Father,” I said. “Well,” he answered,
laughing, “it is our rule, and any woman who passes this door dies.”
“Will you let me risk it, Father?” I asked. “No, my daughter, no.
Go in peace.” And he slammed the door in a hurry, for fear that I
should try. So I strolled off and perched myself on an airy crag,
from which I could look down upon the monastery, and I thought that
at any rate the monks liked to look at that forbidden article, woman,
for about sixty of them came out to stare at me. When Richard and
Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake arrived, they were admitted to the monastery,
and shown over everything, which I thought very hard, and I was not
greatly reconciled by being told that there was really nothing to
see. We camped here for the night. The sun was still tinting the
stone-coloured hills, the dark blue range of Moab, when a gong sounded
through the rocks, and I saw flocks of jackals clamber up to the
monastery to be fed, followed by flights of birds. The monks tame all
the wild animals.
Next day we went off to the Dead Sea. We had read in guide-books that
the way to it was very difficult, but we did not believe it. I wish we
had, for our ride to it across the desert was terrible. The earth was
reeking with heat, and was salt, sulphurous, and stony. We were nearly
all day crossing the Desert of Judah, and at last our descent became so
rugged and bad that our baggage mules stuck fast in the rocks and sand.
We had to cut away traps and cords, and sacrifice boxes to release
them. We could see the bright blue Dead Sea long before we reached it,
but we had to crawl and scramble down on foot as best we could under
the broiling sun. It reminded me more of a bleak and desolate Lake of
Geneva than anything else. While we were waiting for the mules and
baggage we tried to hide from the sun, and tied the horses to bits
of rocks. Then we plunged into the sea, and had a glorious swim. You
cannot sink. You make very little way in the water, and tire yourself
if you try to swim fast. If a drop of the water happens to get into
your eye, nose, or mouth, it is agonizing; it is so salt, hard, and
bitter. Next day I felt very ill from the effects of my bath. In the
first place, I was too hot to have plunged into the cold water at once;
and, in the second place, I stopped in too long, because, being the
only woman, and the place of disrobing being somewhat public, the
others kept out of sight until I was well in the water, and when the
bath was ended I had to stay in the water until Richard and Charles
Tyrwhitt-Drake had gone out and dressed, all the time keeping my head
of course discreetly turned in the other direction, so that by the time
they had finished I had been nearly an hour in the Dead Sea, and the
result was I suffered from it. After bathing we dined on the borders of
the sea. The colours of the water were beautiful, like the opal; and
the Mountains of Moab were gorgeous in the dying light.
The next day we rode over very desolate country to Neby Musa, the
so-called tomb of Moses, and we camped for the night on the banks
of the Jordan. I was very feverish, weak, and ill. All the others
bathed in the sacred river, but I only dipped my head in and filled
three bottles to bring home for baptisms. I was most anxious to bathe
in Jordan, and I cried with vexation at not being able to do so in
consequence of my fever. In the cool of the following afternoon we rode
to Jericho, which consists of a few huts and tents; a small part of it
is surrounded by pleasant orchards. It was hard to imagine this poor
patch of huts was ever a royal city of palaces, where cruel Herod ruled
and luxurious Cleopatra revelled.
[Illustration: THE DEAD SEA.]
Next morning we rode out of the valley of the Jordan, which, fringed
with verdure, winds like a green serpent through the burning plain of
the desert. We encamped for the night at Bethel, where Jacob dreamed
of his ladder. I felt so ill--all that Dead Sea again--that it was
proposed that we should ride on to Náblus next day, about ten hours
distant, and that we should encamp there for four or five days to let
me recover.
We rode over endless stony hills, relieved by fruitful valleys. I felt
very ill, and could scarcely go on; but at last we arrived at our
camping ground. It was by a stream amidst olive groves and gardens
outside Náblus. As this was the boundary between the Damascus and the
Jerusalem consular jurisdiction, we now considered ourselves once more
upon our own ground. We stayed at Náblus four days, and visited all the
places of interest in it and around it, which I have not time to dwell
upon now.
We left Náblus in the early morning, and after a delightful ride
through groves and streams we entered Samaria, where, however, we
did no more than halt for a space, but rode on to Jennin, where we
camped for the night. There were several other camps at Jennin besides
our own--two of Englishmen, and likewise an American and a German
camp--five camps in all. We had quite a foregathering in the evening;
and a glorious evening it was, with a May moon. The little white
village with its mosque peeped out of the foliage of palm trees and
mulberry groves.
We left early next morning, and rode to Scythopolis, where we camped.
The next morning Richard and Mr. Drake went on ahead to take some
observations; I jogged on more leisurely behind, and our camp was
sent on to Nazareth. Everywhere the earth was beautifully green, and
carpeted with wild flowers. The air was fresh and balmy, and laden
with the scents of spring. I passed the black tents of some Arabs,
who gave me milk to drink. We also passed one well, where we watered
the horses. It was a perfect day, but I was alone. We rode on until
we came to Nain, and thence to Endor. Here we reposed under some fig
trees for an hour, and were twice insulted for so doing. The district
around Nazareth was very turbulent. First came some “big-wig” with a
long name, who, thinking I was only an Englishwoman, told me to “get
up,” and said he “didn’t care for consuls, nor English, nor kawwasses.”
A poor woman standing by begged me to go out again into the sun, and
not shade myself under the figs, and thus displease this great man.
You see, when I was sitting down, he thought that by my voice and face
I was a woman, and as long as my servants only addressed me in coarse
Arabic he bounced accordingly. But when I arose in my outraged dignity,
and he saw my riding-habit tucked into my boots, he thought that I was
a boy, or rather a youth; and I flourished my whip and cried, “You
may not, O Shaykh, care for consuls, nor English, nor kawwasses, but
I am going to make you care for something.” Thereupon he jumped up as
nimble as a monkey, and ran for his life. Then the villagers, thinking
me the better man of the two, brought me milk for driving him away.
He was soon succeeded by a fellah with half a shirt, who came out of
his way to insult a stranger, and asked me by what right we sat under
the shady figs; but the _sais_ gave him a knock with his knobbed
stick, and after that we were left in peace. Endor consists of about
twenty wretched huts on the side of a hill, and the women look like
descendants of the original witch. I went to a big fountain where
crones were drawing water, dreadful old women, who accused me of having
the Evil Eye, which made my servant very nervous. Blue eyes are always
considered to be dangerous in the East. I said, “You are quite right,
O ye women of Endor; I was born with the Evil Eye”; whereupon they
became very civil, that I might not hurt them. We then descended into
the plain between Endor and Nazareth, and it was so hot and close that
I fell asleep on my horse for fully an hour. At last we reached the
Vale of Nazareth. I was glad to ride into the camp, where I found all
our former travellers. They were very hospitable, and gave me shelter
until our tents were pitched. The camps were all pitched in a small
plain without the town. Our camp was near the Greek Orthodox Church,
and hidden from the others by a slight eminence.
At sunrise next morning a Copt wanted to enter my tent, either for
stealing or some other purpose. I was still in bed, half awake, and I
heard the servants tell him to go. He refused, and was very insolent.
He took up stones, and threw them, and struck the men. The noise awoke
me thoroughly. I got up, and watched the proceedings through the top of
my tent wall. I called out to my servants to leave him alone; but by
this time they were angry, and began to beat the Copt. A little affair
of this sort among the people would hardly be noticed in the usual way;
but as ill-luck would have it, the Greeks, whom it didn’t concern,
were coming out of church, and seeing a quarrel they joined in it and
sided with the Copt. Our servants were only six, and the Greeks were
one hundred and fifty. Richard and Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake, hearing the
noise, ran out of their tents half-dressed to see what was the matter,
and said and did everything to calm the people. They were received with
a hailstorm of stones, each the size of a melon, which seemed to darken
the air for several minutes. A rich and respectable Greek called out,
“Kill them all; I’ll pay the blood money.” Our Druze muleteer called
out, “Shame! This is the English Consul of Damascus on his own ground.”
Another Greek shouted, “So much the worse for him.” I put on some
clothes while the fighting was going on, and watched Richard. As an old
soldier accustomed to fire, he stood perfectly calm, though the stones
hit him right and left. Most men under such pain and provocation would
have fired, but he contented himself with marking out the ringleaders,
to take them afterwards. I ran out to give him two six-shot revolvers,
but before I got within stone’s reach he waved me back; so I kept near
enough to carry him off if he were badly wounded, and put the revolvers
in my belt, meaning to have twelve lives for his if he were killed.
Seeing that he could not appease the Greeks, and three of the servants
were badly hurt, and one lay for dead on the ground, Richard pulled a
pistol out of Habíb’s belt and fired a shot into the air. I understood
the signal, and flew round to the other camps and called all the
English and Americans with their guns. When they saw a reinforcement
of ten armed English and Americans running down to them, the cowardly
crew of one hundred and fifty Greeks turned and fled. But for this
timely assistance, we none of us should have been left alive. The whole
affair did not last ten minutes.
We found out afterwards that the cause of the Greek ill-feeling
originated with the Greek Orthodox Bishop of Nazareth, who had snatched
away a synagogue and cemetery from British-protected Jews, against
which arbitrary proceeding Richard had strongly protested. Richard
went later in the day to report what had happened to the Turkish
official, the Káim-makám, and to ask for redress, but he was unable to
do anything. He had only twelve zaptíyeh (policemen), armed with canes!
So we had to wait at Nazareth five days, until Richard sent to St.
Jean d’Acre for soldiers. The Greeks were at first very insolent; but
when they found that Richard was in earnest about having the offenders
punished, they came in a body to beg pardon. The Bishop also sent to
say that he deeply regretted the part he had taken. But whilst the
Greeks were so occupied in our presence, they were manufacturing the
most untruthful and scandalous report of the affair, which they sent to
Damascus and Beyrout, to St. Jean d’Acre and to Constantinople, which
was signed and sealed by the Bishop and endorsed by the Wali of Syria,
who never waited or asked for one word of explanation from Richard.
The Greeks said, in their report, that we began the quarrel, and many
other things absolutely false. For instance, they stated that Richard
fired upon them several times when they were playing at games; that
he entered the church armed to profane it, tore down the pictures,
broke the lamps, and shot a priest; and that I also went forth in my
nightgown, and, sword in hand, tore everything down, and jumped and
shrieked upon the _débris_, and did many other unwomanly things.
This report was actually signed and sealed by the Bishop and by the
Wali, and forwarded, unknown to us, to Constantinople and London.
Naturally Richard’s few enemies at home tried to make capital out of
the accident.
The whole day after the brutal attack upon us we had to do all the work
of our tents and the cooking and attend to our horses ourselves. Even
if we had wished to move away from Nazareth we could not have done
so with four of our servants disabled and helpless. Dr. Varden and
myself were entirely occupied with the suffering men. Richard and Mr.
Tyrwhitt-Drake took charge of the tents and horses, and the doctor sent
me a woman to help to cook, as it was necessary to prepare soup and
invalid food for the wounded, who, in consequence of their injuries,
suffered from fever. Richard’s sword arm was injured by stones, and the
sprained muscles were not thoroughly cured for two years afterwards.
Besides this, we had to be prepared for a night attack of revenge. And
what with the whispering of the Turkish soldiers, who had come from St.
Jean d’Acre, the evident excitement prevailing in the town, and the
barking of dogs, the nights were not peaceful enough to admit of sleep.
On May 10 we left Nazareth, and every one came out to see our
departure. Our exit was over a steep country composed of slabs of
slippery rock, but we soon got into a better district, over flowery
plains, now and then varied by difficult passes and tracks. We camped
for the night by the Lake of Tiberias, the Sea of Galilee. Next day we
hired a boat and went round the lake. Towards night there was a glare
behind the mountains, as if some town in the neighbourhood was on fire.
We could not sleep in consequence of the stifling heat, and flies and
mosquitoes were numerous. The day after I went off to the hot baths of
Hamath, or Emmaus. They were salt and sulphuric. In the middle of the
bath-house was a large marble basin, through which the water passed,
with little rooms around. Here people bathed for bone-aches. The women
advised me to enter cautiously. I laughed; and by way of showing them
that Englishwomen were accustomed to water and were not afraid, I
plunged in for a swim. But I soon repented. I felt as if I had jumped
into boiling water. My skin was all burnt red, and I began to be faint.
However, on leaving the bath I felt much invigorated, and lost all the
fever and illness resulting from my swim in the Dead Sea.
The next morning we galloped round the northern end of the Sea of
Galilee. In the afternoon we rode to Safed, where we camped for
the night. Safed is a town of considerable size, and surrounded by
beautiful gardens. There is a large Jewish quarter, and from the hour
of our coming the Jews were all hospitality and flocked to our tents
to greet us. It was very hot at Safed in the daytime; and when we
left the next day we had a most trying ride across a country burnt
black with the recent prairie fire. We encamped for the night in a
lonely spot, which turned out to be a perfect paradise for mosquitoes,
spiders, scorpions, and other pests, but a perfect hell for us. We
could do nothing but wrap ourselves up completely in sheets, and walk
up and down all night long by the camp-fires, while the jackals howled
outside. When the morning light came, we were able to laugh at one
another’s faces, all swollen with bites and stings. Mine was like the
face one sees in a spoon.
I need not dwell upon the next three days, because they were all
exactly alike. We rode all day and camped at night until the morning
of May 19 dawned. In the cool light we entered the Plain of Damascus.
We halted for breakfast under a favourite fig tree, where were shade,
water, and grass. We then ambled for three and a half hours over the
barren plain, until at last we arrived on the borders of the green
groves around Damascus. We entered our own oasis. Oh how grateful were
the shade, the cool water, and the aromatic smells! One hour more
and we entered our own little paradise again, and met with a cordial
greeting from all. It was a happy day. I did not know it then, but our
happy days at Damascus were numbered.
CHAPTER XVII
_THE RECALL_
(1871)
I call to mind the parting day
That rent our lives in twain.
ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
(_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).
On returning to Damascus, Richard made the necessary explanations
concerning the riot at Nazareth to the authorities, and he concluded
that the “village row” was ended. I also wrote a full and accurate
account of the affair to Sir Henry Elliot, our Ambassador at
Constantinople (who had kindly expressed his willingness to hear from
me when I had anything special to communicate), to supplement Richard’s
report. Sir Henry had telegraphed to know what it all meant.
As Richard had still a fortnight’s leave on hand, he thought he would
use it by going to return the visit of the Druzes, who had paid us many
friendly visits during our two years’ sojourn at Damascus, and had
asked Richard to come and see them in the Haurán. He called upon the
Wali before his departure, and told him of his projected visit. The
Wali expressed his gladness, and said, “Go soon, or there will be no
water.” He also wrote to the Consul-General at Beyrout to acquaint him
of his intention, and started with Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake.
I was left behind. A few days after Richard had gone, the Wali, with
whom I had always been on friendly terms, wrote me an extraordinary
letter. He accused Richard of having made a political meeting with
the Druze chiefs in the Haurán, and of having done great harm to the
Turkish Government. I knew that he had done nothing of the kind, and
so I wrote to the Wali and told him that he had been deceived, and
asked him to wait until Richard came home. I pointed out to him how
fond people were of inventing and circulating falsehoods to make
mischief between him and the Consuls. He pretended to be satisfied.
But a Turkish plot had been laid on foot of which I knew nothing. A
disturbance had been purposely created between the Bedawin and the
Druzes, which enabled the Turkish Government to attack the Druzes in
the Haurán. The Wali let Richard go in order to accuse him of meddling.
The fact was, the Wali had intended a little campaign against the
Druzes, and was endeavouring, by means known only to the unspeakable
Turk, to stir up sedition among them, in order to have an excuse for
slaughtering them; but Richard had, unknowingly, spoiled the whole plan
by counselling the Druzes to submit. It was that which made the Wali so
angry, for it spoilt his plot; and he reported that Richard meddled
with Turkish affairs, and agitated for his recall. I wrote again to Sir
Henry Elliot, stating the true facts of the case. For, as I told our
Ambassador, I heard that the “Home Government is actually contemplating
pleasing a handful of bad people, headed by this Wali, by probably
removing my husband from the very place for which his natural gifts and
knowledge fit him,” and I asked him, who knew the East, to acquaint
Lord Granville how matters stood.
One day while Richard was still away, a European, who was a favourite
of the Wali, asked me what day Richard would return to Damascus, and by
what road. I asked why he wanted to know. “Because,” he said, “my child
is to be baptized, and I want him to be present.” I found out the next
day that the christening was fixed for the day before Richard’s return,
and I was asked; so that the man had not given me the true reason for
wanting to know when Richard was coming back. I scented danger, and by
a trusty messenger I instantly dispatched a warning to Richard to “look
out for tricks.” By God’s blessing it was in time. Richard changed his
road, and from a concealed shelter he watched the progress of a Ghazu,
or armed band, beating the country, looking for some one. By whom they
were sent, whom they were looking for, and for what fell purpose may be
imagined.
My heart was torn with anxiety. Nevertheless I went to the christening,
and kept a calm exterior. I felt a qualm when a certain Greek said to
me, with a meaning, unpleasant smile, “There is a telegram or something
important arrived for you.” “Oh, is there?” I said coolly; “well, I
dare say I shall get it when I go home.” Presently a kawwass came in,
and saluted and said, “The Consul is returned, Sitti, and wants you.”
Making my excuses, I retired from the festivities; and jumping on my
horse, I galloped home, where I found Richard safe and sound. The
telegram, which was quite unimportant, did not arrive until several
hours later. Had the Ghazu fallen in with Richard, the verdict would
have been, “Fallen a prey to his wild and wandering habits in the
desert.” But it was not God’s will that he should be removed in this
way.
About this time the trouble with the Shazlis also came to a head. The
Shazlis were Sufis, or mystics, esoterics of El Islam, who tried to
spiritualize its material portions. Richard was most interested in
them, and he used to study them and their history. The mystic side
of their faith especially appealed to him. He thought he saw in it a
connexion between Sufiism in its highest form and Catholicism; and
indeed it was so. He followed it up unofficially, disguised as a
Shazli, and unknown to any mortal except myself. He used to mix with
them, and passed much of his time in the Maydán at Damascus with them.
Many of the Shazlis were secretly converted to Christianity in the
spring of 1870. It was only natural that it should be so, for there
was a link between the highest form of Sufiism and the true Catholic
Church. Before long the news of these conversions leaked out, and the
Wali determined to crush conversion, because it would add to European
influence, of which he was already jealous, and he persecuted and
imprisoned the converts. Richard endeavoured to protect them, and thus
brought himself into conflict with the Wali.
Richard thought very seriously of this revival of Christianity in
Syria, and wrote to the Protestant missionaries about it. He also wrote
to Sir Henry Elliot and to Lord Granville on the subject, so impressed
was he with its vigour and vitality. And indeed there was a remarkable
revival going on below the surface. The persecutions to which the
Shazlis had been subjected had caused the movement to grow with
redoubled force, and the number of converts increased from day to day.
Many were secretly baptized, and many more were yearning for baptism.
Richard knew all this, and sympathized with the converted Shazlis heart
and soul. Indeed I think he was never nearer a public profession of
Catholicity than at that time. What he might have done for them, if he
had had the chance, I know not; but the chance was denied him.
The next week or two went by without anything important happening.
On June 25 we went by the Wali’s invitation to a grand review at El
Haneh, the first ever seen in Syria. Nothing could exceed the kindness
and courtesy of the Wali. Indeed every one was very kind to me, the
only woman present. We had fireworks and dinner, and then wild native
dances, and after a pleasant drive home to Damascus in Abd el Kadir’s
carriage.
About this time the heat was very great; not a breath of air was
stirring, night or day. We felt like the curled-up leaves of a book.
Food or sleep was impossible to us. Every one who could fled from
Damascus. I refused to go to summer quarters because Richard could
not go too, and I would not shirk anything he had to bear. At last,
however, I fell ill of fever, and Richard sent me away to Bludán.
One night, when I was sitting alone, I heard a great noise against
the door. I seized the only thing handy, a big stick, and ran out. A
large serpent had been attracted by a bowl of milk put on the terrace
for my large white Persian cat, who was valiantly defending her milk
against the snake. It raised up its long neck and hissed at me; but I
hit it with my stick a foot away from its tail, which is the proper
place to paralyze a snake. It tried to make away, but was unable, and
then I killed it. It was two yards and a half long, and as thick as a
child’s arm. It had a flat head, and was of a bluish silver colour.
Another night, when I went up to the housetop, a large wolf sprang over
my head. I ran in for my gun, but though I was not gone an instant the
wolf was out of my reach. After a few weeks Richard came up and joined
me at Bludán with Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake.
During this summer we made many excursions to pleasant spots around
Bludán, and we used to invite the Shaykhs and principal people to meet
us. We would choose a spot near water, or near Bedawin tents, or a
melon plantation; and arriving at the appointed place, we would eat and
drink, make a fire, roast and prepare our coffee, and have a siesta.
These impromptu picnics were very pleasant, and we always found the
Bedawin charming. Those days were very pleasant ones; our lives were
peaceful, useful, and happy. But suddenly there came a bolt from the
blue. On August 16, 1871, the blow fell.
That morning at Bludán the horses were saddled at the door, and we
were going for a ride, when a ragged messenger on foot stopped to
drink at the spring, and then came up to me with a note. I saw it was
for Richard, and took it into the house to him, never thinking what
it contained. It was a curt letter from the Vice-Consul of Beyrout,
informing Richard that, by the orders of his Consul-General, he had
arrived at Damascus the previous day, and had taken charge of the
Consulate.
Richard and Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake were in the saddle in five minutes,
and galloped into Damascus without drawing rein. Richard would not
let me go with him. A few hours later a mounted messenger came back
to Bludán with these few written words: “Do not be frightened. I am
recalled. Pay, pack, and follow at convenience.” I was not frightened;
but I shall never forget what my feelings were when I received that
note. Perhaps it is best not to try to remember them.
The rest of the day I went about trying to realize what it all meant.
When I went to bed that night, my mind was full of Richard, and I had
one of my dreams, a terribly vivid dream. I dreamed that Something
pulled me by the arm. I sat up in bed, and I could still see and feel
it, and it said in a loud whisper, “Why do you lie there? Your husband
wants you. Get up and go to him.”
I lay down again, and tried to sleep; but again it happened, and
yet again--three successive times; and big drops of sweat were on
my forehead. My English maid, who slept in the room, said, “Are you
walking about and talking, madam?” “No,” I said; “but somebody is. Are
you?” “No,” she answered, “I have not stirred; but you’ve been talking
in your sleep.”
I could bear it no longer, for I believed that the Presence was real. I
sprang out of bed, dressed, went to the stable, saddled my horse, and
though everybody said I was mad, and wanted to thrust me back to bed
again, I galloped out into the night.
I rode for five hours across country, as though it were a matter of
life and death, over rock and through swamps, making for Shtora, the
diligence station. I shall never forget that night’s ride. Those
who know the ground well will understand what it meant to tear over
slippery boulders and black swamps in the darkness of the night. My
little horse did it all, for I scarcely knew where I was going half the
time. But no one will ever persuade me that in that ride I was alone.
Another Presence was with me and beside me, and guarded my ways, lest I
dashed my foot against a stone.
Three or four of my servants were frightened, and followed me afar off,
but I did not know it then. At last I came in sight of Shtora, the
diligence station. The half-hour’s rest had expired, the travellers
had taken their places, and the diligence was just about to start. But
God was good to me. Just as the coachman was about to raise his whip,
he turned his head in the direction whence I was galloping. I was hot,
torn, and covered with mud and dust from head to foot; but he knew me.
I was too exhausted to shout, but I dropped the reins on my horse’s
neck, and held up both my arms as they do to stop a train. The coachman
saw the signal, he pulled in his horses and took me into the diligence,
and told the ostler to lead my dead-beat horse to the stable.
The diligence rumbled over the Lebanon, and reached Beyrout twenty-four
hours before the steamer sailed--the steamer by which Richard was
going back to England. For when once he had received his recall, he
never looked behind him, nor packed up anything, but went straight
away from Damascus, though it was the place where he had spent two of
the happiest years of his life. As the diligence turned into Beyrout
I caught sight of him, walking alone about the streets, and looking
sad and serious. Not even a kawwass was sent to attend him, though
this is always the usual courtesy paid a Consul in the East, nor was
there any show of honour or respect. The jackals are always ready to
slight the dead lion. But _I_ was there, thank God; and he was
so surprised and rejoiced when he greeted me that his whole face was
illuminated. But he only said, “Thank you. Bon sang ne peut mentir.” We
had twenty-four hours to take comfort and counsel together. It was well
that I was with him. Everybody called, and everybody regretted, except
our Consul-General, who cut us. The French Consul-General made us
take up our abode with him for those twenty-four hours. I do not know
whether Richard felt the neglect or not. I only know that I felt it
terribly. Any Consul with one atom of good feeling would at least have
paid his fallen colleague proper respect until he had quitted Eastern
ground; but the disgrace was to himself, not to Richard.
At four o’clock the following day I went on board the steamer with
Richard, and wished him good-bye, and saw the steamer off to England.
On returning to the quay, I found his faithful servant Habíb, who had
also followed Richard all the way, but had arrived just ten minutes too
late, only in time to see the steamer go out. He flung himself down on
the quay in a passion of tears.
I took the night diligence back to Damascus. In spite of the August
weather it was a cold, hard, seven hours’ drive over the Lebanon. I had
brought nothing with me; my clothes were dry and stiff, and I was dead
tired. On the road I passed our honorary dragoman. From sheer habit I
called out to him, but he quickly reminded me that I had no official
position now, for he turned his head the other way, and passed me by.
I sent a peasant after him, but he shook his head and rode on. It was
one of my reminders that “Le roi est mort.” I suppose the rule extends
everywhere, but perhaps the king’s widow feels it most. It was not
all like this though, for I shall never forget the kindness which was
showered upon me by many during my last days in Syria.
In due time I arrived at the khan, or diligence station, where I had
left my horse two days previously. I slept there for two hours. Early
next morning I rode to see a friend, who kindly insisted on my staying
a day with her. Here Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake, a kawwass, and servant
and horse met me, and escorted me back to Bludán. I arrived home ill,
tired, and harassed. I was thankful to find there a woman friend who
had come over to keep me company. She was as much grieved as I was
myself, and we wept together.
After the insults and neglect which had been meted out to us at
Beyrout, I expected in Damascus, where official position is everything,
and where women are of no account, that I should be, figuratively
speaking, trampled underfoot. I was mistaken. I can never describe the
gratitude, affection, and respect which were showered upon me during my
last days in Syria. The news of our recall spread like wildfire. All
the surrounding villagers poured in. The house and gardens at Bludán
were always full of people--my poor of course, but others too. Moslems
flung themselves on the ground, shedding bitter tears, and tearing
their beards with grief for the loss of the man whose life the Wali had
the audacity to report they wished to take. They kept asking, “What
have we done that your Government should take him away from us?” “Let
some of us go over to your land, and kneel at the feet of your Queen,
and pray that he may be sent back to us again.” This thing went on for
days and days, and I received from nearly all the country round little
deputations of Shaykhs, who bore letters of affection or condolence
or praise. I loved Syria so dearly it broke my heart to leave it,
and always with me was the gnawing thought: How shall I tear the East
out of my heart, and adapt myself again to the bustling, struggling,
everyday life of Europe?
I lost no time in settling our affairs at Bludán. I paid all the
bills, packed Richard’s boxes and sent them to England, broke up
our establishment at Bludán, and had all that was to accompany me
transferred to Damascus.
Two nights before I left Bludán I had another dream. Again Something
came to me in the night, and pulled me and whispered, “Go and look
after that Bedawi boy, whose grandmother took him away when you were
treating him for rheumatic fever.” I was tired and miserable, and tried
to sleep. I was pulled again. I remonstrated. A third time I was pulled
by the wrist. “Go, go, go!” said the voice. “I will go,” I answered. At
dawn I rode out in the direction where I knew his tribe was encamped.
After three hours I saw some black tents in the distance, but before
I got to them I met an old crone with a burden covered with sacking
on her back. “Is that the boy?” I asked. “Yes,” she said; “he is very
bad, and wanted to be taken to you, so I was bringing him.” I got down
from my horse, and assisted her to lay the boy on the sand. I saw that
death was near; he looked so wistfully at me with his big black eyes.
“Is it too late?” he whispered. “Yes, my boy, it is,” I said, taking
hold of his cold hand. “Would you like to see Allah?” “Yes,” he said,
“I should. Can I?” “Are you very sorry for the times you have been
naughty and said bad words?” “Yes,” he said; “if I get well, I will be
better and kinder to grandmother.” I parted his thick, matted hair,
and, kneeling, I baptized him from the flask of water I always carried
about at my side. “What is that?” asked the old woman, after a minute’s
silence. “It is a blessing,” I answered, “and may do him good.” I
remained with him until he seemed to become insensible. I could not
wait longer, as night was coming on; so I rode back, for I could do no
good. I felt sure he would not see the sun rise.
When all my sad preparations were finished at Bludán, I bade adieu to
the Anti-Lebanon with a heavy heart, and for the last time, choking
with emotion, I rode down the mountain and through the Plain of
Zebedani, with a very large train of followers. I had a sorrowful ride
into Damascus. Just outside the city gates I met the Wali, driving
in state with all his suite. He looked radiant, and saluted me with
much _empressement_. I did not return his salute. However, the
next time we met I had the laugh of him, for he looked very much less
radiant a few days later, when the news of his own recall reached him.
He fought hard to stay; and I do not wonder, for he had a splendid
position. But none of Richard’s enemies have ever flourished.
At Damascus I had to go through the same sad scenes, on a much larger
scale, that I had gone through at Bludán. Many kind friends, native and
European, came to stay about me till the last; in fact, my farewells
threatened to assume the character of a demonstration. This I was most
anxious to avoid. My one anxiety now was to get away as quietly as
possible. I made my preparations for departure from Damascus in the
same way as I had done at Bludán. I arranged to sell everything, pay
all debts, and pack and dispatch to England our personal effects. I
made innumerable adieux, and tried to make provision and find a happy
home for every single being, man or beast, that had been dependent upon
us.
Two Moslems came to me, and offered to shoot down certain official
enemies of mine from behind a rock as they passed in their carriage.
A Jew also came to me, and offered to put poison in their coffee.
I declined both offers, which they did not seem to understand; and
they said that I was threatened and in danger, but I slept in perfect
security, with all the windows and doors open. My last act was to go
into our little chapel, and dress it with all the pious things in my
possession. When the day of the sale of our goods arrived, I could not
bear to sit in the house; so I went up to the mountain behind, and
gazed down on my Salahíyyeh in its sea of green, and my pearl-like
Damascus and the desert sand, and watched the sunset on the mountains
for the last time.
My preparations for departure necessarily took some time. But Richard
having gone, I had no place, no business, at Damascus, and I felt that
it would be much better taste to leave. I began to perceive that the
demonstrations in our favour were growing, and threatened to become
embarrassing. The Moslems were assembling in cliques at night, and were
having prayers in the mosques for Richard’s return. They continually
thronged up to the house with tears and letters begging him to return,
and I saw that my presence and my distress excited them the more.
Unfortunately I did not complete everything until September 12, which
obliged me to brave the unlucky 13th. As half the town wanted to
accompany me part of the road, and I was afraid that a demonstration
might result, I determined to slip away quietly by night. Abd el Kadir
and Lady Ellenborough were in the secret, and they accompanied me as
far as the city gates, where I bade them an affectionate farewell.
The parting with Lady Ellenborough affected me greatly. I was the
poor thing’s only woman friend. As she wrung my hand these were her
last words: “Do not forget your promise if I die and we never meet
again.”[3] I replied, “Inshallah, I shall soon return.” She rode a
black thorough-bred Arab mare; and as far as I could see anything in
the moonlight, her large sorrowful blue eyes, glistening with tears,
haunted me.
It was thus, accompanied on my journey by Mr. Drake and two faithful
dragomans, who had never deserted me, and who put themselves and all
they possessed at my disposal, that I stole away from Damascus an hour
before dawn.
I shall never forget that last ride across the desert. I felt my heart
sink as I jogged along for weary miles, wishing mental good-byes to
every dearly loved object. I had felt fever coming on for some days,
but I had determined not to be ill at Damascus. Now that I had left
it, however, a reaction set in. When I reached that part of the Lebanon
looking down upon the sea far above Beyrout, my fever had increased to
such an extent that I became delirious, and I had to be set down on the
roadside. Half an hour farther on the road was the village of my little
Syrian girl, who was accompanying me back to England. I was carried to
her father’s house, and lay there for ten days very ill, and was nursed
by her and my English maid. It was a trying time; but the whole family
showed me every kindness and attention, and I had every comfort that
the place could afford. Many friends, both English and native, came to
visit me from Beyrout and from the villages round about. From here I
wrote a long letter to Lord Derby, who had appointed us to Damascus,
stating the true facts of the case, and exposing the falsehoods, so far
as I knew them, which had led Lord Granville to weakly consent to our
recall. I never rested till that cloud was lifted.
I went down to Beyrout as soon as I was well enough to move, and
embarked in the Russian ship _Ceres_; the same ship, strange to
say, that had brought me from Alexandria to Beyrout, when I first
turned my face towards Damascus. As we were about to steam out an
English vice-consul in the Levant gaily waved his hand to me, and cried
out, “Good-bye, Mrs. Burton; I have been sixteen years in the service,
and I have known twenty scoundrels go unpunished, but I never saw a
consul recalled except for something disgraceful--certainly never for
an Eastern pasha. You will find it is all right when you get home;
they would hardly do such a thing to a man like Burton.”
We arrived at Alexandria, and I went to a hotel. I dislike Alexandria
very much, and was glad to get away on board of a P. & O., the
_Candia_, to Southampton. It was all right as far as Malta, but
after that we had some very rough weather. At last our ship sighted
the lights of Portland Bill, and I knew that I was at home again.
These lights at night look like two great eyes, and there is always
excitement when they are first seen. All the English on board rushed on
deck and cheered Hurrah! It is odd how we exiles love our country, our
home, and our friends; it is curious how little they think about us.
On October 14, 1871, I landed again in Old England.
CHAPTER XVIII
_THE TRUE REASONS OF BURTON’S RECALL_
No might nor greatness in mortality
Can censure ’scape: back-wounding calumny
The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong,
Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?
SHAKSPEARE.
At this point of the narrative it is necessary to turn aside to deal
with Miss Stisted’s impeachment of Lady Burton, in the matter of her
husband’s recall from Damascus.
Miss Stisted asserts that the true cause of Burton’s recall was Isabel
his wife, who had espoused with more zeal than discretion the cause
of the Shazli converts to Christianity. She adds: “And while her
husband, continually absent exploring or attending to the duties of
his Consulate, knew nothing, or next to nothing, about her dangerous
proceedings, she impressed upon the people that she acted with his
full permission and approval.”[4] It was (according to Miss Stisted)
Isabel’s “imprudence and passion for proselytizing” which so enraged
the Moslems and the Turkish authorities against Burton that they
clamoured for his recall. Thus it is argued that “the true cause of the
terrible crash in 1871” was Isabel, and Isabel alone.
This, in brief, is the sum and substance of Miss Stisted’s indictment
of Lady Burton on this point. She makes her accusation without adducing
a scrap or shred of evidence in support of it, and she makes it in the
teeth of the most positive evidence on the other side. Let us examine
her charges in the light of facts.
Fortunately, in searching for the true reasons of Burton’s recall from
Damascus, I am not dependent, like Miss Stisted, on a mere opinion of
my own, nor am I dependent on the testimony of Lady Burton, which,
though correct in every detail, might be refused acceptance, on the
plea that it was biassed. The true reasons are to be found in an
official Blue Book,[5] which contains a review of the whole case. This
book publishes the complete correspondence, official and otherwise,
for and against Burton, and comprises a review of his Consulship at
Damascus from the time he was appointed, in November, 1868, to the day
of his recall, in August, 1871.
It is impossible to read this correspondence dispassionately without
wondering how it was that Burton was not removed from his post at
Damascus before. In the brief space of two years he seems to have
managed to set against himself almost every creed, nationality, and
interest in Damascus. From the time he went there to the day he
was recalled it was little but one long strife. Complaints to his
Consul-General at Beyrout, to his Ambassador at Constantinople, to his
Chief at the Foreign Office, were incessant; and as they came not from
one part of the community of Damascus only, but from several, it is a
marvel that the authorities at the Foreign Office, who love nothing
better than that things should run, or seem to run, smoothly at the
embassies and consulates, were so patient and long-suffering. That
they were so forbearing was, I think, largely due to his wife--this
same Isabel who, according to Miss Stisted, was responsible for her
husband’s recall and the consequent ruin of his official career. It was
Isabel who fought Burton’s battles on every charge against him, and she
defended him against every attack. Her letters to Lord Granville, to
Sir Henry Elliot, Ambassador at Constantinople, to the Consul-General
at Beyrout, to Lord Derby and other influential friends in England,
and to the permanent officials at the Foreign Office, explaining and
defending her husband’s action in every particular, are marvels of
special pleading. They are not published, because they would fill
volumes; but they can be produced, if necessary.
My contention is, that Isabel had nothing to do with her husband’s
recall from Damascus. On the contrary, had it not been for her, he
would have been recalled long before. I also submit that she had very
little to do in the matter of the Shazlis, and that little she did with
her husband’s full consent and approval. Burton alone was responsible
for his recall in that he managed to offend nearly every part of
the community at Damascus, and so gave the Turkish authorities, who
disliked him from the first, an excuse for demanding his recall. I do
not say that he was wrong in every instance--far from it; he was often
in the right; only it is possible to do the right thing in the wrong
way, and this Burton generally did.
And now for the proofs. It is necessary to begin at the beginning. From
the first Burton took up his work at Damascus with “pinioned arms,”
to use his own phrase. In other words, he started with a prejudice
against him. Lord Derby (then Lord Stanley), as we know, gave him the
appointment; but before it was confirmed Lord Clarnedon succeeded Lord
Stanley at the Foreign Office, and in the interval Burton’s enemies,
chiefly Protestant missionaries, who feared he was anti-missionary,
took steps to work upon Lord Clarendon to prevent his appointment
going forward. So strong and influential was this opposition that Lord
Clarendon sent for Burton specially, and had a long conversation with
him. He told him that “very serious objections” to his appointment at
Damascus had reached the Foreign Office, and, although he allowed the
appointment to go forward, on receiving from Burton assurances that the
objections were unfounded, he warned him that, if the feeling stated to
exist against him on the part of the authorities and people at Damascus
should prevent the proper performance of his Consular duties, it would
be the duty of the Government immediately to recall him.
In a subsequent letter Lord Clarendon directed his Secretary to repeat
to Burton what he had already told him verbally.[6]
To this letter Burton replied: “I once more undertake to act with
unusual prudence, and under all circumstances to hold myself, and
myself only, answerable for the consequences.”[7]
Whether or not he acted with “unusual prudence” the following will show:
1. _His difference with the English missionaries._--The first
unpleasantness occurred in June and July, 1870, with the Superintendent
of the British Syrian School at Beyrout. This gentleman, who was
a Protestant missionary, came to Damascus to proselytize, and to
distribute tracts among the Moslems, and doubtless acted with little
discretion. Burton reprimanded him, and reported him to the Foreign
Office. In this no doubt he was right; but his manner of doing it
apparently inflamed many against him, especially the wife of the
missionary aforesaid, who vigorously espoused her husband’s cause, and
in this was supported officially by the Consul-General at Beyrout. The
matter blew over for a time, but the attack was renewed again in 1871,
and there was constant friction going on the whole time of Burton’s
sojourn at Damascus between himself and the missionary and his wife and
their friends, who were very influential persons in Syria.
2. _His squabble with the Druzes._--This occurred in 1870. Here we
find Burton protecting the missionaries against certain Druzes, who had
plundered and maltreated two English missionaries travelling amongst
them. Burton’s method of punishing the Druzes was summary. He wished to
impose a fine upon them. This the Consul-General at Beyrout refused to
impose, and again Burton came into conflict with his Consul-General.
It was obvious that, whether the Druzes deserved to be fined or not,
the man to impose the fine was not the British Consul, but the Turkish
Governor-General, as they were Turkish subjects. In this matter
therefore, although Burton acted with the best intentions, he exceeded
his jurisdiction.
3. _His dispute with the Jews._--This was one of the most serious
affairs in which Burton was engaged; and here again, though there is
no doubt that he was perfectly right in what he did, his manner of
doing it gave dire offence. He curbed the rapacity of some Jewish
money-lenders, under British protection, who wished to “sweat” the
native peasantry for the payment of their unjust debts, and desired the
British Consul to help them in their extortions. This Burton rightly
refused to do. And a little later he arrested two Jewish boys, servants
of British-protected Jews, for drawing crosses on the walls--the usual
sign for an outbreak of Christian persecution at Damascus--and took
away temporarily the British protection from their masters. This gave
the usurers the opportunity they had been waiting for, and they wrote
to the Foreign Office an untrue and unjust report, saying that the
Consul was full of hatred against the Jews, and demanding his recall.
Lord Granville sent a special letter, requesting to know the truth of
these charges, which he described as “most serious.” Fortunately Burton
was able to satisfy him, and the storm blew over. But the Jews neither
forgot it nor forgave him.
4. _The Greeks stone him at Nazareth._--Lady Burton has already
given a long account of this incident, and there is no reason to doubt
the correctness of her description. Here we find that the Greek Bishop
and his people disliked Burton because he had exposed a fraudulent
transaction of theirs with the Jews. But whatever was the cause,
there was no doubt that they were opposed to him; and the riot, which
arose from an apparently accidental cause, was really an outbreak
of bitterly hostile feeling against the British Consul. The Greek
Bishop of Nazareth at once drew up a grossly exaggerated report of the
proceedings, which was endorsed by the Wali of Syria, and forwarded
to the authorities at home. Will it be believed that Burton never
sent home any report of the affair until some weeks afterwards, when
he returned to Damascus, and found a telegram awaiting him from the
British Ambassador at Constantinople, asking what it all meant? His
silence in this matter, though not intentional, created the very worst
impression among the authorities at home. Sir Henry Elliot wrote to
Isabel subsequently:
“I received versions of the affair from different quarters, without
having a word of explanation from Captain Burton, from whom I got
letters of a date much subsequent to the occurrence.”[8]
Considering how very fond Burton was of referring all sorts of
questions on the internal government of Syria, with which he had
nothing to do, to his Ambassador at Constantinople, his silence on this
occasion, in a matter with which he had all to do, was, to say the
least, somewhat unfortunate.
5. _His dispute with the Wali._--The Wali (the Turkish Governor-General
of Syria) was, from the first, exceedingly jealous of Burton, because
of his knowledge of Eastern affairs, and his habit of interfering with
the internal government of the country, with which he had no concern.
Corrupt though Turkish rule undoubtedly was, and is, it was no part
of the British Consul’s duty to be perpetually meddling in disputes
between the Wali and his subjects. Sir Henry Elliot wrote to Isabel, in
reply to a letter of hers excusing her husband:
“I should not be frank if I allowed you to suppose that your letters
had satisfied me that there were not grounds for the complaints which
have been made of Captain Burton going beyond the proper attributions
of a Consul, who ought to be very careful to avoid encroaching upon
the domain of the legitimate authorities, who are responsible for the
administration of their district, which he is not. He can be of great
service as long as there is a proper understanding with the Government,
but a very dangerous state of things is created if he makes himself a
rival authority to whom the disaffected think that they can look for
redress.”[9]
This (there is no doubt about it) Burton was always doing; and his
knowledge of oriental affairs and methods made him all the more
formidable to the Wali. Matters came to a head when Burton went to
visit the Druzes in the Haurán, a month or two before his recall. By
some means or other he spoiled the Wali’s game in that quarter; and
this incensed the Governor so much against him that he tried first to
have him assassinated in the desert, and that failing, demanded his
recall. Of this incident Burton himself says:
“I was not aware that the Wali (Governor-General) had a political move
in the Haurán which he did not wish me to see, or that, seeing, it was
the signal for him to try and obtain my recall.”[10]
If this matter had stood alone, perhaps it would not have been
sufficient ground for his recall; but coming as it did on the top of
all the others, it was, I think, the most potent factor.
There was another little annoyance too about this time--that is, just
before Burton’s recall. It had reference to the case of one Hasan, a
Moslem converted to Christianity, whom the Wali wanted to punish, but
whom Burton protected against him. Burton’s action in this matter was
chivalrous and generous no doubt, but it did not tend to make him any
better friends with the Wali at a time when the irritation between them
was already at its height. With regard to what followed, I think that
I had better give Burton’s own words, as they will show very distinctly
what were the culminating causes of his recall:
“He (the Wali) actually succeeded in causing the Foreign Office to
confine me to Damascus at a time when the climate was peculiarly
hot and unwholesome--mid-July. I was suffering from fever, and the
little English colony was all in summer quarters. He affected to
look upon a trip to the Haurán as an event pregnant with evil to
his administration, and actually composed a circular from me to the
Druzes. I was compelled, in return, to make known Rashid Pasha’s
maladministration of Syria, his prostitution of rank, his filling every
post with his own sycophants, who are removed only when they have
made money enough to pay for being restored; his fatuous elevation
of a Kurdish party; his perjuries against the Druzes; his persistent
persecution of Moslem converts to Christianity in the teeth of treaties
and firmans; his own sympathy with the Greeks, and through them with
Russia; and, finally, his preparations for an insurrection in Syria,
should Egypt find an opportunity of declaring her independence. I
meanwhile continued to push my demand for the six million piastres
claimed by British subjects in Syria. My list shows a grand total of
eleven, and of these five are important cases. On July 4, 1871, I wrote
to the Foreign Office and to the Ambassador, urging that a Commission
be directed to inquire into the subject and to settle the items found
valid. I expressed a hope that I might be permitted personally to
superintend the settlement of these debts, with whose every item the
study of twenty-one months had made me familiar, and another six months
would have seen Syria swept clean and set in order. On August 16, 1871,
I was recalled suddenly, on the ground that the Moslems were fanatical
enough to want my life. I have proved that to be like all the rest of
Rashid Pasha’s reports--utterly false.”[11]
With regard to the reasons given by Lord Granville for Burton’s recall,
I may say that, in a letter which he sent under Flying Seal, dated
July 22, 1871, and which reached Burton on the day of his recall, he
recapitulated the dispatch written to Burton by Lord Clarendon on his
appointment to Damascus, reminding him of the conditions under which he
was appointed to the post, and saying that the complaints which he had
received from the Turkish Government in regard to his recent conduct
and proceedings rendered it impossible that he should allow him to
continue to perform any Consular functions in Syria, and requesting him
to make his preparations for returning to England with as little delay
as possible.[12]
I think that the foregoing statements will fully explain the true
reasons which led to the recall of Burton from Damascus. It will be
seen that in the above charges against Burton the question of the
Shazlis does not enter; and in the face of all this evidence, how is
it possible to maintain that Isabel was the true cause of her husband’s
recall? The converted Shazlis, whose cause she is supposed to have
espoused with fanatical zeal, hardly entered into the matter at all.
Indeed, in the whole of the Blue Book from which I have quoted, there
is only one reference to the Shazlis, and that is in a letter which
Burton addressed to Sir Henry Elliot on the revival of Christianity
among them. Miss Stisted says that Burton was as likely to assist
in increasing the number of the Syrian Christians, “of whom he had
the lowest opinion,” “as to join in a Shakers’ dance.” Yet in this
letter to his official chief Burton dwells at length on the revival
of Christianity in Syria, and calls attention to the persecution and
increasing number of the converted Shazlis, and asks for instructions
as to what he is to do. “The revival,” he says, “is progressing,” and
“this persecution,” and he regards it in the “gravest light.”[13] Also
in a special letter to the Protestant missionaries Burton writes:
“Meanwhile I take the liberty of recommending to your prudent
consideration the present critical state of affairs in Syria. A
movement which cannot but be characterized as a revival of Christianity
in the land of its birth seems to have resulted from the measures
adopted by the authorities and from the spirit of inquiry which your
missions have awakened in the breasts of the people. The new converts
are now numbered by thousands: men of rank are enrolling themselves
on the lists, and proselytizing has extended even to the Turkish
soldiery.”[14]
All this bears out Isabel’s statement that her husband was interested
in the Shazlis; but, all the same, it does not enter into the question
of his recall. Even if it did, so far from acting without her husband’s
consent in this matter (and she really did very little), she did
nothing without his approval, for he actively sympathized in the case
of the Shazlis. His letters to the missionaries and to Sir Henry
Elliot form proof of this; and in face of this documentary evidence
the “Shakers’ dance” theory does not hold good. Miss Stisted, however,
makes her assertion without any evidence, and says that Lord Granville
evaded the main question when sounded on the subject of Burton’s
recall. How she became aware of the inner mind of Lord Granville is not
apparent, and under the circumstances dispassionate readers will prefer
the testimony of the Blue Book to her cool assumption of superior
knowledge. Something more than mere assertion is needed to support a
charge like this.
Equally baseless too is the insinuation against Isabel contained in the
following passage:
“Significant enough it is to any unprejudiced reader that the next
appointment [_i.e._ of Burton’s] was to a Roman Catholic
country.”[15]
The “unprejudiced reader” would probably see the significance in
another light--the significance of refusing to appoint Burton again
to a Mohammedan country, and of repeatedly refusing him the post he
coveted at Morocco.
None of these accusations or innuendoes against Isabel can be
entertained when confronted with sober facts; they are in short nothing
but the outcome of a jealous imagination. Isabel the cause of her
husband’s recall, the ruin of his career! She through whose interest
Burton had obtained the coveted post at Damascus; she who fought his
battles for him all round; she who shielded him from the official
displeasure; she who obeyed his lightest wish, and whose only thought
from morning to night was her husband’s welfare and advancement; she
who would have died for him,--this same woman, according to Miss
Stisted, deliberately behind her husband’s back ran counter to his
wishes, fanned the flame of fanaticism, and brought about the crash
which ruined his career! Was there ever a more improbable charge? But
the accusation has overshot the mark, and, like the boomerang, it
returns and injures no one but its author.
CHAPTER XIX
_THE PASSING OF THE CLOUD_
(1871–1872)
Tell whoso hath sorrow
Grief shall never last:
E’en as joy hath no morrow,
So woe shall go past.
ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
(_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).
The recall from Damascus was the hardest blow that ever befell the
Burtons. They felt it acutely; and when time had softened the shock,
a lasting sense of the injury that had been done to them remained.
Isabel felt it perhaps even more keenly than her husband. The East had
been the dream of her girlhood, the land of her longing from the day
when she and her lover first plighted their troth in the Botanical
Gardens, and the reality of her maturer years. But the reality had
been all too short. To the end of her life she never ceased to regret
Damascus; and even when in her widowed loneliness she returned to
England twenty years after the recall, with her life’s work well-nigh
done, and waiting, as she used to say, for the “tinkling of his
camel’s bell,” her eyes would glow and her voice take a deeper note
if she spoke of those two years at Damascus. It was easy to see that
they were the crowning years of her life--the years in which her nature
had full play, when in the truest sense of the term she may be said to
have lived. From the time they left Damascus, though there were many
years of happiness and usefulness in store for her husband and herself,
things were never quite the same again. The recall seems to mark a
turning-point in her life. Many of the dreams and enthusiasms of her
youth were gone, though her life’s unfinished work and stern reality
remained. To use her own words, “Our career was broken.”
Isabel felt the slur on her husband which the recall involved more
acutely than he. Burton, though stung to the quick at the treatment the
Foreign Office meted out to him for doing what he conceived to be his
duty (and certainly the manner of his recall was ungracious almost to
the point of brutality), was not a man given to show his feelings to
the world, and he possessed a philosophy which enabled him to present
a calm and unmoved front to the reverses of fortune. With his wife it
was different. She was not of a nature to suffer in silence, nor to sit
down quietly under a wrong. As she put it, “Since Richard would not
fight his own battles, I fought them for him,” and she never ceased
fighting till she had cleared away as much as possible of the cloud
that shadowed her husband’s official career.
On arriving in London, she set to work with characteristic energy. It
was a very different home-coming to the one she had anticipated. Two
years before she had set out in the best of health and spirits, with
every prospect of a long and prosperous career at Damascus for her
husband and herself. Now, almost without warning, they had come home
with their prospects shattered and their career broken. Nevertheless
these untoward circumstances served in no way to weaken her energies;
on the contrary, they seemed to lend her strength.
She found her husband occupying one room in an obscure hotel off
Manchester Square, engaged as usual with his writings, and apparently
absorbed in them. He seemed to have forgotten that such a place as
Damascus existed. She found that he had accepted his recall literally.
He had made no defence to the Foreign Office, nor sought for any
explanation. He had treated the affair _de haut en bas_, and had
left things to take their course. He in fact expressed himself to her
as “sick of the whole thing,” and he took the darkest view of the
future. “Are you not afraid?” he asked her, referring to their gloomy
prospects. “Afraid?” she echoed. “What, when I have you?” This was the
day she came back. He did not refer to the subject again, but returned
to his manuscripts, and apparently wanted nothing but to be left alone.
But his wife knew him better; she knew that deep down under his seeming
indifference there was a rankling sense of injustice. Her first step
was to arouse him to a sense of the position. To discuss verbally
matters of this kind with him, she had learnt by experience, was not
easy; so she wrote to him to the following effect, and put the note
between the leaves of a book he was reading:
“You tell me you have no wish to re-enter official life. Putting my
own interests quite out of the question, when there are so few able
men, and still fewer gentlemen, left in England, and one cannot help
foreseeing very bad times coming, it makes one anxious and nervous to
think that the one man whom I and others regard as a born leader of
men should retire into private life just when he is most wanted. Now
you are not going to be angry with me; you must be scolded. You have
fairly earned the right to five or six months of domestic happiness
and retirement, but not the right to be selfish. When the struggle
comes on, instead of remaining, as you think, you will come to the
fore and nobly take your right place. Remember I have prophesied three
times for you, and this is the fourth. You are smarting under a sense
of injustice now, and you talk accordingly. If I know anything of men
in general, and you in particular, you will grow dissatisfied with
yourself, if your present state of inaction lasts long.”
What the immediate result of this remonstrance was it is not possible
to say; but Isabel’s next move was to go down to the Foreign Office,
where she was already well known as one with whom the usual official
evasions were of no avail. She always called herself “a child of the
Foreign Office,” and she had many friends there among the permanent
officials. She brought every influence she could think of to bear. She
went to the Foreign Office day after day, refusing to take “No” for
an answer, until at last she simply forced Lord Granville to see her;
and when he saw her, she forced him to hear what she had to say. The
interview resulted in his saying “that he would be happy to consider
anything she might lay before him on the subject of Captain Burton’s
recall from Damascus.” He could hardly have said less, and he could not
well have said more. However, she took him very promptly at his word.
She occupied herself for three months in getting up her husband’s case,
and in inducing him to consent to its being put clearly before Lord
Granville. By way of going to the root of the matter she insisted on
knowing from the Foreign Office the true reasons of his recall. They
gave her a long list--the list set forth in the previous chapter. She
answered them point by point. Burton of course helped, and the thing
was done in his name. The whole matter was subsequently published in
the form of a Blue Book--the book before referred to.
The controversy between Isabel and the Foreign Office, if it can so
be called, ended in January, 1872, three months after her return to
England; and it terminated in a dialectical triumph for her, and the
offer of several small posts for her husband, which he indignantly
refused. Among others, Burton was offered Para, but would not take it.
“Too small a place for me after Damascus,” he said.
The Burtons went into inexpensive lodgings, and waited for the
brighter days which were slow in dawning. With characteristic pride
and independence they kept their difficulties to themselves, and none
knew how hard their struggle was at this time. The Burtons received a
good deal of kindness in the way of hospitality. There was a general
impression that they had been unfairly treated by the Government,
and their friends were anxious to make it up to them. They paid many
pleasant visits; among others, to one of their kindest friends, Lady
Marian Alford. At her house they met Lord Beaconsfield; and at one
of her parties, when the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh
were present, by request of the hostess Burton dressed as a Bedawin
shaykh, and Isabel as a Moslem woman of Damascus. She was supposed
to have brought the Shaykh over to introduce him to English society;
and though many of those present knew Burton quite well, none of them
recognized him in his Arab dress until he revealed himself. The Burtons
also attended a banquet at the Mansion House, which interested them
more than a little; and when they wanted to make remarks--and they
were in the habit of expressing themselves very freely--they spoke
Arabic, thinking no one would understand it. Suddenly a man next them
interrupted their criticisms by saying also in Arabic, “You are quite
right; I was just thinking the same thing”: the which shows how careful
one should be at public dinners.
Early in June, 1872, Burton sailed for Iceland at the request of a
certain capitalist, who wished to obtain reports of some sulphur mines
there, and who promised him a liberal remuneration, which eventually
he did not pay. He, however, paid for Burton’s passage and travelling
expenses; but as he did not pay for two Isabel was unable to accompany
her husband, and during his absence she took up her abode with her
father and mother. Afterwards she was very glad that she had done this.
For some time past the health of Mrs. Arundell had given cause for
anxiety. She had been a confirmed invalid since her stroke of paralysis
ten years before, but she had borne up marvellously until the last few
months, when it was visible to every one that she was failing. The end
came very suddenly. Her dearly loved daughter Isabel was with her at
the last. The loss of her mother, to whom she was devotedly attached,
was a severe blow to Isabel. Mrs. Arundell was a woman of strength of
character, ability, and piety, and possessed rare qualities of head and
heart. It is scarcely necessary to say that the little cloud which had
arisen between mother and daughter on the occasion of Isabel’s marriage
had long since passed away; indeed it was of the briefest duration, and
Mrs. Arundell came to love Burton as a son, and was very proud of him.
At the end of June, about ten months after the date of the recall from
Damascus, official favour smiled upon the Burtons again. Lord Granville
wrote and asked Isabel if her husband would accept the Consulate of
Trieste, just vacant by the death of Charles Lever, the novelist.
Isabel was praying by her mother’s coffin that their troubles might
pass away when the letter arrived, and it came to her like an answer to
prayer, for their prospects were just then at their gloomiest. She at
once wrote to her husband in Iceland, and was able soon after to send
his acceptance of the post to Lord Granville.
Trieste, a small commercial consulate, with £600 a year salary and
£100 office allowance, was a sad drop after Damascus, at £1,000 a year
and work of a diplomatic order. But the Burtons could not afford to
refuse the offer, for their needs were pressing, and they took it in
the hope of better things, which never came. Burton had a great desire
to become Consul at Morocco, and he thought Trieste might lead thither.
Alas! it did not; and the man who had great talents, a knowledge of
more than a score of languages, and an unrivalled experience in the
ways of Eastern life and oriental methods, was allowed to drag out
eighteen years in the obscurity of a second-rate seaport town, where
his unique qualifications were simply thrown away. He had had his
chance, and had lost it. He was not a “safe man”; and England, or
rather the Government, generally reserves--and wisely--the pick of the
places in the public service for “safe men.” Officialdom distrusts
genius--perhaps rightly; and Burton was a wayward genius indeed.
However, at Trieste he could hardly get into hot water. The post was a
purely commercial one; there was no work which called for any collision
with the local authorities. Austria, the land of red tape, was very
different to Syria. There was no Wali to quarrel with; there were no
missionaries to offend, no Druzes or Greeks to squabble with; and
though there were plenty of Jews, their money-lending proclivities did
not come within the purview of the British Consul, and the Austrian
authorities would have resented in a moment the slightest meddling
with their jurisdiction. But if Burton could do no harm, he could also
do little good; and his energies were cribbed, cabined, and confined.
On the other hand, he was following at Trieste a distinguished man
in Charles Lever, and one who, like himself, had literary tastes. It
is impossible to deny that Lord Granville showed discrimination in
appointing him there at the time. Trieste was virtually a sinecure; the
duties were light, and every liberty was given to Burton. He was absent
half his time, and he paid a vice-consul to do most of his work, thus
leaving himself ample leisure for travel and his literary labours. If
his lot had been thrown in a more active sphere, his great masterpiece,
_Alf Laylah wa Laylah_ (_The Arabian Nights_), might never
have seen the light.
Isabel and her husband lost no time in making preparations for their
departure. In the month of September Burton returned from Iceland, and
the third week in October he left England for Trieste by sea. His wife
was to adhere to her usual plan of “pay, pack, and follow”--to purchase
in London the usual stock of necessary things, and follow as soon as
might be by land.
In November Isabel crossed the Channel, and ran straight through to
Cologne. At Cologne she saw the sights, and then proceeded by easy
stages down the Rhine to Mayence, and thence to Frankfort. From
Frankfort she went to Wurzburg, where she called on the famous Dr.
Döllinger. Thence to Innsbruck, and so on to Venice. It was fourteen
years since she had visited Venice. The last occasion was during the
tour which she had taken with her sister and brother-in-law before her
marriage. She says: “It was like a dream to come back again. It was
all there as I left it, even to the artificial flowers at the _table
d’hôte_: it was just the same, only less gay and brilliant. It
had lost the Austrians and Henry V. Court. It was older, and all the
friends I knew were dispersed.” Her first act was to send a telegram
to Trieste announcing her arrival, and the next to gondola all over
Venice. Towards evening she thought it would be civil to call on the
British Consul, Sir William Perry. The old gentleman, who was very
deaf, and apparently short-sighted, greeted her kindly, and mumbled
something about “Captain Burton.” Isabel said, “Oh, he is at Trieste;
I am just going to join him.” “No,” said Sir William, “he has just
left me.” Thinking he was rather senile, she concluded that he did not
understand, and bawled into his ear for the third time, “I am Mrs.
Burton, not Captain Burton, just arrived from London, and am on my way
to join my husband at Trieste.” “I know all that,” he said impatiently.
“You had better come with me in my gondola; I am just going to the
_Morocco_ now, a ship that will sail for Trieste.” Isabel said,
“Certainly”; and much puzzled, got into the gondola, and went on board.
As soon as she got down to the ship’s saloon, lo! there was her husband
writing at a table. “Halloo!” he said; “what the devil are you doing
here?” “Halloo!” she said; “what are _you_ doing here?” And then
they began to explain. It turned out that neither of them had received
the other’s telegrams or letters.
A few days later they crossed over to Trieste. The Vice-Consul and
the Consular Chaplain came on board to greet them, but otherwise they
arrived at Trieste without any ceremony; in fact, so unconventional was
their method of arrival, that it was rumoured in the select circles of
the town that “Captain Burton, the new Consul, and Mrs. Burton took
up their quarters at the Hôtel de la Ville, he walking along with his
gamecock under his arm, and she with her bull-terrier under hers.” It
was felt that they must be a very odd couple, and they were looked at
rather askance. This distrust was probably reciprocated, for at first
both Isabel and her husband felt like fish out of water, and did not
like Trieste at all.
CHAPTER XX
_EARLY YEARS AT TRIESTE_
(1872–1875)
Turn thee from grief nor care a jot,
Commit thy needs to fate and lot,
Enjoy the present passing well,
And let the past be clean forgot.
For what so haply seemeth worse
Shall work thy weal as Allah wot;
Allah shall do whate’er he will,
And in his will oppose him not.
ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
(_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).
Isabel soon began to like Trieste; the place grew upon her, and later
she always spoke of it as “my beloved Trieste.” She has left on record
in her journal her early impressions:
* * * * *
“Trieste is a town of threes. It has three quarters: the oldest, Citta
Vecchia, is filthy and antiquated in the extreme. It has three winds:
the _bora_, the winter wind, cold, dry, highly electrical, very
exciting, and so violent that sometimes the quays are roped, and some
of the walls have iron rails let in, to prevent people being blown into
the sea; the _sirocco_, the summer wind, straight from Africa,
wet, warm, and debilitating; and the _contraste_, which means the
two blowing at once and against each other, with all the disadvantages
of both. It has three races: Italians, Austrians, and Slavs. They are
all ready to cut each other’s throats, especially the Italians and
the Austrians; and the result is that Trieste, wealthy though she is,
wants all modern improvements, simply because the two rival parties
act like the two bundles of hay in the fable, and between them the ass
starves. North of Ponte Rosso is Germania, or the Austrian colony,
composed of the authorities, the _employés_, and a few wealthy
merchants, who have a crazy idea of Germanizing their little world, an
impossible dream, for there are twelve thousand Italians in Trieste,
who speak a sort of corrupted Venetian. One thousand of these are
very rich, the others very poor. However, whether rich or poor, the
_Italianissimi_ hate their Austrian rulers like poison; and in
this hatred they are joined by the mass of the wealthy Israelites, who
divide the commerce with the Greeks. The wealthy _Italianissimi_
subscribe handsomely to every Italian charity and movement, and
periodically and anonymously memorialize the King of Italy. The
poor take a delight in throwing large squibs, called by courtesy
‘torpedoes,’ amongst the unpatriotic petticoats who dare to throng the
Austrian balls; for though Trieste is Austrian nominally, it is Italian
at heart. The feud between the Italians and the Austrians goes to spoil
society in Trieste; they will not intermingle. The Slavs also form a
distinct party.
“I found these discordant elements a little difficult to harmonize at
first. But Richard desired me to form a neutral house, as at Damascus,
where politics and religion should never be mentioned, and where all
might meet on a common ground. I did so, with the result that we had
friends in all camps. There was an abundance of society of all kinds:
Austrian, Italian, and what Ouida has called the _haute Juiverie_.
We were in touch with them all, and they were all good-natured and
amiable. Society in Trieste did not care whether you were rich or poor,
whether you received or did not receive; it only asked you to be nice,
and it opened its arms to you. I dare say my visiting list, private and
consular, comprised three hundred families; but we had our own little
_clique intime_, which was quite charming, and included some sixty
or seventy persons.
“We women had what Richard used to call ‘hen parties’ (_Kaffee
gesellschaft_), which is really five o’clock tea, where we would
dance together, play, sing, recite, and have refreshments; but a man,
except the master of the house, was never seen at these gatherings.
_En revanche_, we had plenty of evening entertainments for both
sexes.
“Some curious little local customs still lingered at Trieste. One of
them was, when two friends or relations met in society, after embracing
affectionately, they were wont to drop one another an elaborate
curtsey. The visiting hours were from twelve till two, an impossible
time; and men were expected to call in white cravats, kid gloves and
evening dress. When I first came to Trieste, I was often invited _en
intime_ to afternoon tea, and was told to come ‘just as you are, my
dear.’ I took the invitation literally of course; and when I arrived,
I used to find the other ladies _décolletées_, and blazing with
diamonds. I remember feeling very awkward at appearing in an ordinary
costume, but my hostess said to me, ‘You know, my dear, we are so fond
of our jewels; it gives us pleasure to dress even for one another; but
do not do it if it bores you.’ However, later I always took care to do
it, on the principle that when one is at Rome one should do as Rome
does. Apart from these little social peculiarities Trieste was the most
hospitable and open-hearted town, and people entertained there, if they
entertained at all, on a lavish scale and right royally.
“The population of Trieste was very interesting, though a strange
medley. To the east of the town the Wallachian _cici_, or
charcoal-dealers, wore the dress of the old Danubian homes whence
they came. Then there was the Friulano, with his velvet jacket and
green corduroys (the most estimable race in Trieste). He was often a
roaster of chestnuts at the corners of the street, and his wife was
the best _balie_ (wet nurse). She was often more bravely attired than
her mistress. The Slav market-women were also very interesting. I
loved to go down and talk with them in the market-place. They drove
in from neighbouring villages with their produce for sale in a kind
of drosky, the _carretella_ as it was called, with its single pony
harnessed to the near side of the pole. Some of the girls, especially
those of Servola, were quite beautiful, with a Greek profile, and a
general delicacy of form and colour which one would hardly expect to
find amongst the peasantry. But their eyes were colourless; and their
blonde hair was like tow--it lacked the golden ray. The dresses were
picturesque: a white triangular head-kerchief, with embroidered ends
hanging down the back; a bodice either of white flannel picked out with
splashes of colour, or of a black glazed and plaited stuff; a skirt of
lively hue, edged with a broad belt of even livelier green, blue, pink,
or yellow; white stockings; and short, stout shoes. The ornaments on
high days and holidays were gold necklaces and crosses, a profusion
of rings and pendants. This of course was the _contadina_, or peasant
girl. Opposed to her was the _sartorella_, or little tailoress, which
may be said to be synonymous with the French _grisette_. I always
called Trieste _Il Paradiso delle Sartorelle_, because the _sartorella_
was a prominent figure in Trieste, and Fortune’s favourite. She was
wont to fill the streets and promenades, especially on _festa_ days,
dressed _à quatre épingles_, powdered and rouged and _coiffée_ as for a
ball, and with or without a veil. She was often pretty, and generally
had a good figure; but she did not always look ‘nice’; and her manners,
to put it mildly, were very _dégagées_. There were four thousand of
these girls in Trieste, and they filled the lower-class balls and
theatres. There was a _sartorella_ in every house, off and on. For
example, a family in Trieste always had a dress to make or a petticoat,
and the _sartorella_ came for a florin a day and her food, and she
worked for twelve hours, leaving off work at six, when she began her
‘evening out.’ I am fain to add the _sartorella_ was often a sort of
whited sepulchre. She was gorgeously clad without, but as a rule had
not a rag, not even a chemise, underneath, unless she were ‘in luck.’
‘In luck,’ I grieve to say, meant that every boy, youth, and man in
Trieste, beginning at twelve and up to twenty-five and twenty-eight,
had an _affaire_ with a _sartorella_; and I may safely assert, without
being malicious, that she was not wont to give her heart--if we may
call it so--gratis. She was rather a nuisance in a house; though after
I had been in Trieste a little while I discovered that she was an
indispensable nuisance, because there was always some mending or sewing
to be done. She generally turned the servants’ heads by telling them
that she was going to be married to a real _graf_ (count) as soon as he
was independent of his parents--a sort of King Cophetua and the Beggar
Maid over again, I suppose.
“Trieste was a beautiful place, especially the view round our bay. The
hills were covered with woodland and verdure; the deep blue Adriatic
was in the foreground, dotted with lateen sails; and the town filled
the valley and straggled up the slopes. The sky was softly blue on a
balmy day; the bees and birds, the hum of insects, the flowers and
fresh air, and the pretty, animated peasants, combined to form a
picture which made one feel glad to live.
[Illustration: TRIESTE]
“The charm of Trieste is that one can live exactly as one pleases.
Richard and I drew out a line for ourselves when we first went to
Trieste, and we always kept to it as closely as we could. We rose
at 3 or 4 a.m. in summer, and at 5 a.m. in winter. He read, wrote, and
studied all day out of consular hours, and took occasional trips for
his health; and I learned Italian, German, and singing, and attended
to my other duties. We took our daily exercise in the shape of an
hour’s swimming in the sea, or fencing at the school, according to the
weather. What with reading, writing, looking after the poor, working
for the Church or for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals, my day was all too short.
“The prettiest thing in Trieste was the swimming school. It was
moored out at the entrance to the harbour. We used to reach it in a
boat, and get hold of Tonina, the old woman who provided us with the
_camerino_, or little stall to undress in, and who would grin
from ear to ear at our chaff and the thought of her _bakshísh_.
The women’s costumes were short trousers, with bodice or belt of blue
serge or white alpaca trimmed with red. We plunged into the great
_vasca_, or basin, an acre of sea, bottomless, but enclosed on
all sides with a loaded net, to keep out the sharks. There were twelve
soldiers to teach beginners. They used to begin with a pole and rope,
like a fishing-rod and line, and at the end of the rope was a broad
belt, which went round the waist of the beginner, and you heard the
incessant ‘Eins, zwei, drei’ of the drill. Next they would lead the
beginners round the edge of the basin with a rope, like pet dogs. But
we adepts in swimming plunged in head first from a sort of trapeze, or
from the roofs of the dressing-rooms, making a somersault on the way.
The swimmers did the prettiest tricks in the water. Young married women
met in the middle to shake hands and hold long conversations. Scores of
young girls used to romp about, ducking each other under and climbing
on each other’s backs for support, and children of three or four used
to swim about like white-bait, in and out, among us all. One stout old
lady used to sit lazily in the water, like a blubber fish, knitting,
occasionally moving her feet. We used to call her ‘the buoy,’ and hold
on to her when we were tired.”
* * * * *
It was the custom of Isabel and her husband, whenever they went to a
new place, to look out for a sort of sanatorium, to which they might
repair when they wanted a change or were seedy or out of sorts. Thus,
when Burton was sent to Santos, they chose São Paulo; when they were
at Damascus, they pitched on Bludán; and as soon as they arrived at
Trieste, they lighted upon Opçina. Opçina was a Slav village high above
Trieste, and about an hour’s drive from it. This height showed Trieste
and the Adriatic spread out like a map below, with hill and valley and
dale waning faintly blue in the distance, and far away the Carnian Alps
topped with snow. There was an old inn called Daneu’s, close to an
obelisk. They took partly furnished rooms, and brought up some of their
own furniture to make up deficiencies and give the place a homelike
air. It was their wont to come up to Opçina from Saturday to Monday,
and get away from Trieste and worries. They always kept some literary
work on hand there; and sometimes, if they were in the mood for it,
they would stay at Opçina for six weeks on end. The climate was very
bracing.
Isabel always looked back on these few first years at Trieste as
pleasant ones. After the storm and stress of Damascus, and the anxiety
and depression consequent upon their recall, she found Trieste a
veritable “restful harbour.” They varied their life by many journeys
and excursions. Their happy hunting-ground was Venice. Whenever they
could they would cross over there, order a gondola, and float lazily
about the canals. She says of this time: “We lived absolutely the jolly
life of two bachelors, as it might be an elder or a younger brother.
When we wanted to go away, we just turned the key and left.”
It was not until they had been at Trieste six months that they settled
down in a house, or rather in a flat at the top of a large building
close to the sea. They began their housekeeping with very modest ideas;
in fact, they had only six rooms. But Burton and his wife were fond of
enlarging their boundaries, and in course of time these six rooms grew
until they ran round the whole of the large block of the building. Here
they lived for ten years, and then they moved to the most beautiful
house in Trieste, a palazzo a little way out of the town.
One of their first expeditions was to Loretto. Thence they went to
Rome, where they made the acquaintance of the English Ambassador to
the Austrian Court and his wife, Sir Augustus and Lady Paget, with
whom they remained great friends all the time they were at Trieste.
Isabel also met Cardinal Howard, who was a cousin of hers. He was
one of her favourite partners in the palmy days of Almack’s, when he
was an officer in the Guards and she was a girl. Now the whirligig
of time had transformed him into a cardinal and her into the wife of
the British Consul at Trieste. As a devout Catholic Isabel delighted
in Rome and its churches, though the places which she most enjoyed
visiting were the Catacombs and the Baths of Caracalla. At Rome she
got blood-poisoning and fever, which she took on with her to Florence,
where they stayed for some little time. At Florence they saw a good
deal of Ouida, whom they had known for some years. From Florence they
went to Venice, crossed over to Trieste just to change their baggage,
and then proceeded to Vienna. There was a great Exhibition going on at
Vienna, and Burton went as the reporter to some newspaper. They were
at Vienna three weeks, and were delighted with everything Viennese
except the prices at the hotel, which were stupendous. They enjoyed
themselves greatly, and were well received in what is perhaps the
most exclusive society in Europe. Among other things they went to
Court. Isabel attended as an Austrian countess, and took place and
precedence accordingly, for the name Arundell of Wardour is inscribed
in the Austrian official lists of the Counts of the Empire. There was
a difficulty raised about Burton, because consuls are not admissible
at the Court of Vienna. Isabel was not a woman to go to places where
her husband was not admitted, and she insisted upon having the matter
brought before the notice of the Emperor, though the British Embassy
clearly told her the thing was impossible--Burton could not be
admitted. When the Emperor heard of the difficulty through the Court
officials, he at once solved it by saying that Burton might attend as
an officer of the English army. The incident is a trifling one, but
it is one more illustration of the untiring devotion of Isabel to her
husband, and her sleepless vigilance that nothing should be done which
would seem to cast a slur upon his position.[16]
When the Burtons returned to Trieste, Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake, who had
been with them much at Damascus, and had accompanied them on their tour
in the Holy Land and many other journeys in the Syrian Desert, arrived.
The visit of their friend and fellow-traveller seemed to revive their
old love of exploration as far as the limits of Trieste would admit,
and among other excursions they went to see a great _fête_ at
the Adelsberg Caves. These caves were stalactite caverns and grottoes
not far from Trieste, and on the day of the _fête_ they were
lighted by a million candles. One of the caverns was a large hall like
a domed ball-room, and Austrian bands and musicians repaired thither,
and the peasants flocked down from the surrounding villages in their
costumes, and made high revelry. Burton maintained that these caves
were the eighth wonder of the world, but the description of them
here would occupy too much space. Suffice it to say, in the words of
Isabel, “When God Almighty had finished making the earth, He threw all
the superfluous rocks together there.” From these caves they went to
Fiume, and explored the Colosseum there, which, though not so famous as
that of Rome, almost rivals it in its ruins and its interest. Another
excursion was to Lipizza, the Emperor of Austria’s stud farm. It was
about two hours from Trieste, and the stables and park were full of
herds of thorough-bred mares, chiefly Hungarians and Croats. Lipizza
was always a favourite drive of the Burtons.
“Charley’s” visit revived many memories of Damascus, and he was the
bearer of news from many friends there. He seemed to bring with him
“a breath from the desert,” and they were loath to let him go. They
accompanied him to Venice, where he took his leave of them; and they
never saw him again. He died the following year at Jerusalem, at the
age of twenty-eight. He was buried in the English burial-ground on
Mount Zion, the place where they had all three sat and talked together
and picked flowers one afternoon three years before. It was largely at
his suggestion that Isabel determined to write her _Inner Life of
Syria_, and she unearthed her note-books and began to write the book
soon after he left. He was a great friend, almost a son to them, and
they both felt his loss bitterly.
About this time Maria Theresa, Contessa de Montelin, ex-Queen of Spain,
when she was on her death-bed, sent for Isabel, and charged her to
keep up, maintain, and promote certain pious societies which she had
started in Trieste. One of these was “The Apostleship of Prayer,” whose
members, women, were to be active in doing good works, corporally
and spiritually, in Trieste. This guild was one of two good works to
which Isabel chiefly devoted herself during her life at Trieste. The
other was a branch of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals and the care of animals generally, a subject always very near
her heart. “The Apostleship of Prayer,” the legacy of the ex-Queen
of Spain, so grew under Isabel’s hand that the members increased to
fifteen thousand. They elected her president, and she soon got the
guild into thorough working order, dividing the members into bands in
various quarters of the city of Trieste.
There is not much to relate concerning Isabel’s life at Trieste for the
first few years. It was uneventful and fairly happy: it would have been
quite happy, were it not for the regret of Damascus, where they were
then hoping to return, and the desire for a wider sphere of action.
Both she and her husband managed to keep in touch with the world in
a wonderful way, and did not let themselves drop out of sight or out
of mind. One of the reliefs to the monotony of their existence was
that, whenever an English ship came into port with a captain whom they
knew, they would dine on board and have the delight of seeing English
people, and they generally invited the captain and officers and the
best passengers back again. The Burtons had a good many visitors from
England, most of them well-known personages, who, when they stopped at
Trieste, a favourite resting-place for birds of passage, always made a
point of calling upon them. Among others was Lord Llandaff, then Mr.
Henry Matthews, who had many things in common with Isabel. Owing to
their lives being cast on different lines, they only saw one another at
intervals, but they always entertained a feeling of mutual friendship.
From the many letters he wrote to her I am permitted to publish this
one:
“TEMPLE, _December 28, 1875_.
“DEAR MRS. BURTON,
“Of course I have not forgotten you. I never forget. Was it
last week, or sixteen years ago, that you were standing in this
room with the chequered sunlight shining through the Venetian
blind upon you, as you discoursed about Heaven and Grace and an
attorney in the City who was not one of the elect?
“I never knew you were in Venice this autumn, and, as it
happened, it was fortunate I did not go to Trieste to see
you, since you were away. I grieve very much to hear of your
bad health. It seems to me you do too much. The long list of
occupations which you call ‘repose’ is enough to wear out any
constitution, even one which is so admirably knit as yours.
Don’t be like the lady in Pope’s satire, and ‘die of nothing but
a rage to live.’ There is one part of your labours, however, for
which I, with all the rest of the world, shall be thankful; and
that is your new book. I shall look for it with impatience, and
feel sure of its success.
“I wish you were not going to Arabia; but I know how you
understand and fulfil the part of wife to a knight-errant of
discovery. Be as prudent and sparing of yourself as you can.
“Yours ever,
“HENRY MATTHEWS.”
After they had been at Trieste two years, at the end of 1874 Burton
proposed that his wife should go to England and transact some business
for him, and bring out certain books which he had written. He would
join her later on. Isabel was exceedingly unwilling to go; but
“whenever he put his foot down I had to do it, whether I would or no.”
So she went, and arrived in London in December, after an uneventful
journey.
Isabel found her work cut out for her in London. Her husband had given
her several pages of directions, and she tried to carry them out as
literally as possible. She had to see a number of publishers for one
thing, and to work up an interest in a sulphur mine for another. She
says: “I got so wrapped up in my work at this time that sometimes
I worked for thirteen hours a day, and would forget to eat. I can
remember once, after working for thirteen hours, feeling my head
whirling, and being quite alarmed. Then I suddenly remembered that I
had forgotten to eat all day.” She had also the proof-sheets to correct
of her own book, which was going through the press. She was in London
without her husband for four months, and during that time she had a
great shock. A paragraph appeared in _The Scotsman_ announcing
Burton’s death, and speaking of her as his widow. She telegraphed to
Trieste at once, and packed up. Just as she was starting she got a
telegram from him saying, “I am eating a very good dinner at _table
d’hôte_.”
Early in May Burton joined her on a lengthy leave of absence, and
they did a great deal of visiting, and enjoyed themselves generally.
Isabel’s _Inner Life of Syria_ was published at this time, and she
was very anxious about it. It had taken sixteen months to write. The
evening of the day on which it made its appearance she went to a party,
and the first person she saw whom she knew was a well-known editor, who
greeted her with warm congratulations on her book. She says, “It made
me as happy as if somebody had given me a fortune.”
[Illustration:
[_From the portrait by the late Lord Leighton._
_Richard F. Burton_]
The favourable reception which was accorded to _The Inner Life of
Syria_, which was largely devoted to a defence of her husband’s
action when Consul at Damascus, encouraged Isabel to proceed further
on his behalf. So she wrote to, or interviewed, every influential
friend she knew, with a view of inducing the Government to make
Burton K.C.B., and she prepared a paper setting forth his claims and
labours in the public service, which was signed by thirty or forty of
the most influential personages of the day. She also induced them to
ask that Burton should either return to Damascus, or be promoted to
Morocco, Cairo, Tunis, or Teheran. Unfortunately her efforts met with
no success, though she renewed them again through another source three
years later. In one sense, however, she succeeded; for though she could
not convert the Government to her view, the press unanimously took up
the cause of Burton, and complained that the Government did not give
him his proper place in official life, and called him the “neglected
Englishman.” As for Burton himself, he took no part in this agitation,
except to thank his friends and the press generally for their exertions
on his behalf.
They went down to Oxford at Commemoration to visit Professor Jowett
and others. At Oxford they met with an ovation. In London they passed
a very pleasant season, for private personages seemed anxious to make
up for official neglect. This year Frederick Leighton’s famous picture
of Burton was exhibited in the Royal Academy. Among other celebrated
people whom they met was Mr. Gladstone, at Lord Houghton’s. Of Burton’s
meeting with Mr. Gladstone Isabel relates the following: “Very late
in the evening Mrs. Gladstone said to me, ‘I don’t know what it is;
I cannot get Mr. Gladstone away this evening’; and I said to her, ‘I
think I know what it is; he has got hold of my husband, Richard Burton,
and they are both so interested in one another, and have so many points
of interest to talk over, that I hope you will not take him away.’”
The season over, Burton started on another trip to Iceland; and Isabel
was left alone, during which time she paid some visits to the Duke and
Duchess of Somerset at Bulstrode, always kind friends of hers, and
to Madame von Bülow at Reigate. Madame von Bülow was the wife of the
Danish Minister in London, and one of Isabel’s most intimate friends--a
friendship which lasted all her life.
When Burton returned from Iceland, he went off to Vichy for a cure, and
rejoined his wife in London in the autumn; and they went out a great
deal, chiefly in scientific, literary, and artistic circles. This year
was in some respects one of the pleasantest of Isabel’s life. Her book
had come out, and was a great success; she had been _fêted_ by all
her friends and relations; and though her efforts to obtain promotion
for her husband had not met with the success which they deserved, yet
the kind encouragement which she received from influential friends,
who, though not members of the Government, were yet near the rose, made
her hope that better days were soon to come.
In December Burton, finding that he had still six months’ leave, asked
his wife where she would like to go best. She answered, “India.” It
had long been her desire to go there with her husband, and get him to
show her all the familiar spots which he had described to her as having
visited or lived at during his nineteen years’ service in India. Burton
was delighted with the idea. So they got a map, cut India down the
middle lengthways from Cashmere to Cape Comorin, and planned out how
much they could manage to see on the western side, intending to leave
the eastern side for another time, as the season was already too far
advanced for them to be able to see the whole of India.
CHAPTER XXI[17]
_THE JOURNEY TO BOMBAY_
(1875–1876)
As we meet and touch each day
The many travellers on the way,
Let every such brief contact be
A glorious helpful ministry--
The contact of the soil and seed,
Each giving to the other’s need,
Each helping on the other’s best,
And blessing each, as well as blest.
On December 4, 1875, we left London for Trieste, _en route_ for
India. It was not a cheerful day for saying good-bye to Old England
and dear friends. There was a fog as black as midnight, thick snow
was lying about the streets, and a dull red gloom only rendered the
darkness visible and horrible. The great city was wrapped in the sullen
splendours of a London fog. “It looks,” said Richard, “as if the city
were in mourning for some great national crime.” “No,” I said, “rather
let us think that our fatherland wears mourning for our departure into
exile once more.” I felt as if I could never rise and face the day that
morning. However, we _had_ to go, so there was nothing to do but
put our shoulders to the wheel. We lunched with my father and family by
lamplight at one o’clock in the day. We prolonged the “festive” meal
as much as we could, and then set out, a large family party, by the
4.45 train to Folkestone. We all had supper together at Folkestone,
and enjoyed ourselves immensely. The next day my relations wished me
good-bye--always a hard word to say. One parting in particular wrung my
heart: I little thought then I should meet no more my brother Rudolph,
the last of my four dear brothers, all of whom died young by untoward
accidents. It was strange I was always bidding good-bye to them every
three or four years. One ought to have been steeled to parting by now.
Nevertheless every time the wrench was as keen as ever.
We stopped in Folkestone until Tuesday, and then Richard and I got
into a sleigh, which took us over the snow from the hotel to the boat.
We had a very cold crossing, but not a rough one; and as we neared
Boulogne we even saw a square inch or so of pale blue sky, a sight
which, after London, made us rejoice.
The old port at Boulogne stretched out its two long lean arms to our
cockle-shell of a steamer, as though anxious to embrace it. I thought,
as we came into the harbour, how much this quaint old town had been
bound up with my life. I could never see it without recalling the two
years which I had spent in Boulogne years ago, and going over again
in my mind the time when I first saw Richard--the day of my life
which will always be marked with a great white stone. He was a young
lieutenant then on furlough from India, just beginning to spring into
fame, and I a mere girl, who had seen nothing of life but one hurried
London season.
We stayed at Boulogne two days, and we wandered about all over the
place together, calling back to our memory the scenes of our bygone
youth. We walked on the old Ramparts where we first made acquaintance,
where Richard used to follow my sister Blanche and myself when we were
sent out to learn our lessons _al fresco_. We even saw the wall
where he chalked up, “May I speak to you?” and I chalked back, “No;
mother will be angry.” I hunted out my little brother’s grave too, and
planted it with fresh rose trees; and I visited my old friend Carolina,
the Queen of the Poissardes. She was still a beautiful creature,
magnificent in her costume. She reminded me of a promise I had made her
in the old days, that if ever I went to Jerusalem I would bring her a
rosary. I little dreamt then that I should marry Richard Burton, or
that he would be Consul at Damascus, or that I should go to Jerusalem.
Yet all these things had come to pass. And so I was able to fulfil my
promise, to her great delight.
From Boulogne we went to Paris, which I found terribly changed since
the Franco-German War. The marks of the terrible Siege were still burnt
upon its face; and this applied not only to the city itself, but to the
people. The radical changes of the last five years, and the war and
the Commune, had made a new world of Paris. The light, joyous character
of the French was no doubt still below the surface, but the upper crust
was then (at least so it struck me) one of sulkiness, silence, and
economy run mad, a rage for lucre, and a lust _pour la revanche_.
Even the women seemed to have given up their pretty dresses, though of
course there were some to be seen. Yet things were very different now
to what they had been under the splendours of the Second Empire, that
Empire which went “like a dream of the night.” The women seemed to have
become careless, an unusual thing in Parisiennes: they even painted
badly; and it is a sin to paint--badly. I am afraid that I am one of
the very few women who do not like Paris. I never liked it, even in its
palmy days; and now at this time I liked it less than ever. I was so
glad to leave at the end of the week, and to move out of the raw, white
fog sunwards. We had a most uncomfortable journey from Paris to Modane,
and the officials at the Customs seemed to delight in irritating and
insulting one. When I was passing into the custom-pen, I was gruffly
addressed, “On ne passe pas!” I said, “On ne passe pas? Comment on ne
passe pas?” The only thing wanting, it seemed, was a visiting-card;
but the opportunity of being safely insolent was too tempting to the
Jack-in-office for him to pass it over. I could not help feeling
glad these _braves_ had never reached Berlin; they would have
made Europe uninhabitable. France was charming as an empire or as a
monarchy, but as a brand-new republic it was simply detestable.
We went on to Turin, where we stayed for a day or two; and while here I
sent a copy of my _Inner Life of Syria_ to the Princess Margherita
of Savoy, now Queen of Italy, who was pleased to receive the same very
graciously. From Turin we went to Milan, where we lapsed into the
regular routine of Italian society, so remarkable for the exquisite
amenity of its old civilization (as far as manners are concerned), and
for the stiffness and mediæval semi-barbarism of its surroundings.
As an instance of this we had occasion to call on a personage to
whom we had letters of introduction. We sent in our letters with a
visiting-card by the porter, asking when we should call. The reply was,
“Va bene,” which was pleasant, but vague. We took heart of grace, and
asked at the door,“Is the Signor Conte visible?” The janitor replied,
“His Excellency receives at 8 o’clock p.m.” We replied, “At that time
we shall be on the railway.” The domestic, with leisurely movement,
left us in the hall, and dawdled upstairs to report the remarkable
case of the importunate English. By-and-by he returned, and showed us
into the saloon, a huge, bare, fireless room, with a few grotesque
photographs and French prints on the walls, and a stiff green sofa and
chairs. The Signor Conte kept us waiting twenty minutes, whilst he
shaved and exchanged his dressing-gown for the suit of sables which is
the correct raiment of the Latin race. Nothing could be more polished
than his manners. He received us with a cordiality which at once won
our hearts. But we were introduced to him by a bosom friend; our
pursuits and tastes were the same. Why then could not he ask us up
to his cosy study to give us coffee and a cigarette? “Sarebbe proprio
indecente” (“It would really be too rude”), was the reply, although
both he and we would have liked it extremely. So for want of time to
crack this hard nutshell we never got at the kernel.
From Milan we went to Venice, which we found enveloped in a white fog,
with a network of lagoons meandering through streets of the foulest
mud. Venice is pre-eminently a hot-weather city. In winter, with her
cold canals and wet alleys, deep rains and dense mists, her huge,
unwarmed palaces, and her bare, draughty hotels, she is a veritable
wet place of punishment. We stayed in Venice for some days, and made
several pleasant acquaintances. I had with me a German maid, who had
never seen Venice. She went in a gondola for the first time, and was
at the highest pitch of excitement at finding that all was water. She
marvelled at the absence of cabs and dust, and exclaimed perpetually,
“Nothing but water, water everywhere”; which we naturally capped with,
“But not a drop to drink,” until I believe she fancied that drink was
the only thing we English ever thought of.
On December 23 we went across to Trieste by the midnight boat, and next
morning I was at Trieste again, my much-loved home of four years and a
half. I found it all to a hair as I had left it just a year ago, for
I had been absent twelve months in England. Christmas Night, however,
was a little sad. We had accepted an invitation for a Christmas dinner,
and had given the servants leave to go out to see their friends; but
Richard was unfortunately taken ill, and could not dine out, and he
went to bed. Of course I stayed with him; but we had nobody to cook for
us, nor anything to eat in the house except bread and olives. I went
to the pantry and foraged, and with this simple fare ate my Christmas
dinner by his bedside.
We stopped in Trieste eight days, just to pack up and complete
arrangements for our tour; and on the last day of the old year we left
for Jeddah. We were aware that we were starting for India two or three
months too late, and would have to encounter the heat and fatal season
to accomplish it; but as Richard said, “Consuls, like beggars, can’t be
choosers,” and we were only too glad to be able to go at all. Everybody
was most kind to us, and a lot of friends came to a parting midday
dinner, and accompanied us to our ship to see us off. The Government
boat, containing the _Capitaine du Port_ and the sailors, in
uniform, took us to our ship, an honour seldom accorded to any but high
Austrian officials; and the Duke of Würtemberg, Commander-in-chief at
Trieste, and several others came to wish us “God-speed.” I shall never
forget their kindness, for I appreciated the honour which they did to
Richard. It is strange how much more willing those in authority abroad
were to do him justice than the Government at home.
The run from Trieste to Port Said occupied six days and six nights.
Our ship was the _Calypso_ (Austrian Lloyd’s), a good old tub,
originally built for a cattle-boat. We were the only passengers, and,
with the captain and his officers, we made a family party, and I was
never more comfortable on board ship in my life. The voyage to Port
Said has been so often described that I need not dwell upon it again.
We had fair weather for the first five days, and then there was a
decided storm, which, however, did not last long. One gets so knocked
about in a steamer that baths are impossible; one can only make a
hasty toilet at the most, being obliged to hold on to something, or be
knocked the while from one end of the cabin to the other; one dines, so
to speak, on the balance, with the food ever sliding into one’s lap.
Our boat danced about throughout the voyage in a most extraordinary
manner, which made me think that she had but little cargo. I spent most
of the time on deck, “between blue sea and azure air,” and I did a good
deal of reading. I read Moore’s _Veiled Prophet of Khorassán_
and other books, including _Lalla Rookh_ and _The Light of the
Harím_; also Smollett’s _Memoirs of a Lady of Quality_, which
I found coarse, but interesting. Some one told me that a course of
Smollett was more or less necessary to form one for novel-writing, so
I took that and _The Adventures of Roderick Random_ on board to
study, in case I should ever write a novel. I felt rather displeased
when Smollett’s Lady of Quality married her second husband, and quite
_bouleversée_ long before I arrived at her fifteenth lover.
Port Said shows itself upon the southern horizon in two dark lines,
like long piles or logs of wood lying upon the sea, one large and one
small. These are the white town and the black town, apparently broken
by an inlet of sea, and based upon a strip of yellow sand. The sea
is most unwholesome and stagnant. The houses of Port Said looked like
painted wooden toys. The streets were broad, but the shops were full
of nothing but rubbish, and were surrounded by dogs and half-naked,
dark-brown gutter-boys. There is a circular garden in the centre of the
European part, with faded flowers, and a kiosk for the band to play
in. The most picturesque and the dirtiest part is the Arab town, with
its tumble-down houses and bazar. The people wear gaudy prints and
dirty mantles bespangled with gold. There were a great many low-class
music-halls and gambling- and dancing-saloons. Port Said is in fact a
sort of Egyptian Wapping, and I am told the less one knows about its
morals the better.
While we were strolling about the Arab part, my German maid, who was
in an Eastern place for the first time, came upon a man filling a
goat-skin with water. She saw a pipe and the skin distending, and heard
the sound. She had often heard me say how cruel the Easterns were to
animals; and knowing my tenderness on that point, she ran after me in
a great state of excitement, and pulled my arm, crying out, “_O Euer
Gnaden!_ The black man is filling the poor sow with gas! Do come
back and stop him!”
[Illustration: PORT SAID.]
The next morning early we began to steam slowly up the long ditch
called the Canal, and at last to the far east we caught a gladdening
glimpse of the desert--the wild, waterless Wilderness of Sur, with its
waves and pyramids of sand catching the morning rays, with its shadows
of mauve, rose pink, and lightest blue, with its plains and rain-sinks,
bearing brown dots, which were tamarisks (manna trees). The sky was
heavenly blue, the water a deep band of the clearest green, the air
balmy and fresh. The golden sands stretched far away; an occasional
troop of Bedawin with their camels and goats passed, and reminded me
of those dear, dead days at Damascus. It all came back to me with a
rush. Once more I was in the East. I had not enjoyed myself so much
with Nature for four years and a half. With the smell of the desert air
in our nostrils, with Eastern pictures before our eyes, we were even
grateful for the slowness of the pace at which we travelled. They were
the pleasantest two days imaginable, like a river picnic. We reached
Suez, with its air of faded glory, at length; and there we shipped a
pious pilot, who said his prayers regularly, and carefully avoided
touching my dog. Of course he was from Mecca; but, unhappily for his
reputation, the first night spent at Jeddah gave him a broken nose, the
result of a scrimmage in some low coffee-house.
At last we neared Jeddah, the port of Mecca. The approach was
extraordinary. For twenty miles it is protected by Nature’s
breakwaters, lines of low, flat reefs, barely covered, and not visible
until you are close upon them. There was no mark or lighthouse save
two little white posts, which might easily be mistaken for a couple of
gulls. In and out of these reefs the ship went like a serpent. There
was barely passage for it between them; but of course no pilot would
attempt it save in broad daylight. At length we reached the inner reef.
We found the open roadstead full of ships, with hardly room to swing,
and a strong north-west wind, so that we could not get a place. We ran
right into the first at anchor, the _Standard_, a trading-ship of
Shields, built of iron. Richard and I were standing on the bridge, and
he touched my arm and said:
“By Jove! We’re going right into that ship.”
“Oh no,” I answered; “with the captain and the pilot on the bridge,
and all the crew in the forecastle, it can only be a beautiful bit of
steering. We shall just shave her.”
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when smash went our bulwarks
like brown paper, and our yardarms crumpled up like umbrellas. I had
jokingly threatened them with the “thirteenth” the day before, but they
had laughed at me.
“Il tredici!” shouted the second officer, as he flew by us.
The crews of both ships behaved splendidly, and the cry on board our
ship was, “Where is the English captain? I do not see him.”
“No,” we answered, “you do not see him, but we can hear him.” And sure
enough there he was all right, and swearing quite like himself. There
is nothing like an Englishman for a good decisive order; and who can
blame him if he adds at such times a little powder to drive the shot
home?
We were about three hours disentangling ourselves.
I was delighted with my first view of Jeddah. It is the most
_bizarre_ and fascinating town. It looks as if it were an ancient
model carved in old ivory, so white and fanciful are the houses, with
here and there a minaret. It was doubly interesting to me, because
Richard came here by land from his famous pilgrimage to Mecca. Mecca
lies in a valley between two distant ranges of mountains. My impression
of Jeddah will always be that of an ivory town embedded in golden sand.
We anchored at Jeddah for eight days, which time we spent at the
British Consulate on a visit. The Consulate was the best house in
all Jeddah, close to the sea, with a staircase so steep that it was
like ascending the Pyramids. I called it the Eagle’s Nest, because
of the good air and view. It was a sort of bachelors’ establishment;
for in addition to the Consul and Vice-Consul and others, there were
five bachelors who resided in the building, whom I used to call the
“Wreckers,” because they were always looking out for ships with
a telescope. They kept a pack of bull-terriers, donkeys, ponies,
gazelles, rabbits, pigeons; in fact a regular menagerie. They combined
Eastern and European comfort, and had the usual establishment of
dragomans, kawwasses, and servants of all sizes, shapes, and colour. I
was the only lady in the house, but we were nevertheless a very jolly
party.
Our first excursion was to Eve’s Tomb, as it is called, a large curious
building in a spacious enclosure. Two or three holy people are buried
here, and the place commands a lovely view of the distant mountains,
beyond which lies Mecca.
The inhabitants of Jeddah are very interesting in many ways. There
are some two hundred nautch-girls there; but they are forbidden to
dance before men, though I have heard that the law can be evaded on
occasions. In the plains there are two different types of Arabs: the
Bedawin, and the “settled men.” The latter are a fine, strong, healthy
race, though very wild and savage. We used frequently to ride out into
the desert and make excursions. I would have given anything to have
gone to Mecca. It was hard to be so near, and yet to have to turn round
and come back. There was a rumour that two Englishmen had gone up to
Mecca for a lark, and had been killed. This was not true. But all the
same Mecca was not safe for a European woman, and it was not the time
to show my blue eyes and broken Arabic on holy ground. I therefore
used to console myself by returning from our expeditions in the desert
through the Mecca Gate of Jeddah, and then riding through the bazars,
half dark and half lit, to see the pilgrims’ camels. The bazars
literally swarmed with a picturesque and variegated mob, hailing from
all lands, and of every race and tongue. We were not interfered with in
any way; though had it been 1853, the year when Richard went to Mecca,
to have taken these rides in the desert, and to have walked through the
Mecca Gate, would most certainly have cost us our lives. I also saw
the khan where Richard lived as one of these pilgrims in 1853, and the
minaret which he sketched in his book on Mecca. While we were at Jeddah
the Governor and all those who knew the story of his pilgrimage to
Mecca called on us, and were very civil.
[Illustration: ARAB CAMEL-DRIVERS.]
Our days at Jeddah were very pleasant ones. In the evening we used to
sit outside the Consulate, and have some sherry and a cigarette,
and play with the dogs. One evening Richard came in and discovered
me anxiously nursing what I thought was a dying negro. He was very
angry, for he found him to be only drunk, and there was a great shout
of merriment among all our colony in the Consulate--“my boys,” as
I used to call them--when the truth came out. These terrible boys
teased the negro by putting snuff up his nose. They were awful boys,
but such fun. They were always up to all sorts of tricks. When the
food was bad, they used to call the cook in, and make him eat it.
“What’s this?” they would say. “No! no! Massa; me lose caste.” “Hold
your tongue, you damned scoundrel! Eat it directly.” One day it was
seven big _smoked_ onions which the cook had to consume. I am
bound to say that it had a good effect upon him, for the table was
certainly excellent after this. I wish we could follow some such plan
in England with our cooks. Even more did I wish we could do so at
Trieste. I thought the dogs were worse than the boys. There were about
ten bull-dogs in the house. They used to worry everything they saw, and
sent every pariah flying out of the bazars. Since I left Jeddah I heard
that the natives had poisoned all these dogs, which I really think
served the boys right, but not the dogs. I remember too, on one or two
occasions, when we were riding out Meccawards, my horse was so thin and
the girths were so large that my saddle came round with me, and I had a
spill on the sand, which greatly delighted the boys, but did not hurt
me.
I was so sorry to part with them all; we were good friends together.
But after eight exceedingly pleasant days at Jeddah we received
notice to embark, and we had to say good-bye and go on board the
_Calypso_. The sea was very rough, and I sat on a chair lashed to
the deck. The _Calypso_ was bound for Bombay, and had taken on
board at Jeddah and stowed away some eight hundred pilgrims, who were
returning to India from Mecca. They were packed like cattle, and as
the weather was very rough the poor pilgrims suffered terribly. The
waves were higher than the ship. I crawled about as well as I could,
and tried to help the pilgrims a little. The second day one of them
died, and was buried at sunset. I shall never forget that funeral at
sea. They washed the body, and then put a strip of white stuff round
the loins, and a bit of money to show that he is not destitute when he
arrives in the next world. Then they tied him up in a sheet, and with
his head and feet tied he looked just like a big white cracker. He was
then laid upon a shutter with a five-pound bar of iron bound to his
feet, and after a short Arabic prayer they took him to the side and
hurled him over. There was no mourning or wailing among the pilgrims.
On the contrary, they all seemed most cheerful over this function; and
of course, according to their way of thinking, a man would be glad to
die, as he went straight to heaven. But I am bound to say that it had
a most depressing effect upon me, for we had twenty-three funerals in
twelve days. They seemed to take it very much as a matter of course;
but I kept saying to myself, “That poor Indian and I might both be
lying dead to-day. There would be a little more ceremony over me,
and (not of course including my husband) my death would cast a gloom
over the dinner-table possibly a couple of days. Once we were shunted
down the ship’s side, the sharks would eat us both, and perhaps like
me a little the better, as I am fat and well fed, and do not smell of
cocoa-nut oil; and then we would both stand before the throne of God to
be judged--he with his poverty, hardships, sufferings, pilgrimage, and
harmless life, and I with all my faults, my happy life, my luxuries,
and the little wee bit of good I have ever done or ever thought, to
obtain mercy with; only equal that our Saviour died for us both.”
I can hardly express what I suffered during that fortnight’s voyage
on board the pilgrim-ship. It was an experience which I would never
repeat again. Imagine eight hundred Moslems, ranging in point of colour
through every shade from lemon or _café au lait_ to black as
ebony; races from every part of the world, covering every square inch
of deck, and every part of the hold fore and aft, packed like sardines,
men, women, and babies, reeking of cocoa-nut oil. It was a voyage of
horror. I shall never forget their unwashed bodies, their sea-sickness,
their sores, the dead and the dying, their rags, and last, but not
least, their cookery. Except to cook or fetch water or kneel in prayer,
none of them moved out of the small space or position which they
assumed at the beginning of the voyage. Those who died did not die of
disease so much as of privation and fatigue, hunger, thirst, and opium.
They died of vermin and misery. I shall never forget the expression
of dumb, mute, patient pain which most of them wore. I cannot eat my
dinner if I see a dog looking wistfully at it. I therefore spent the
whole day staggering about our rolling ship with sherbet and food and
medicines, treating dysentery and fever. During my short snatches of
sleep I dreamt of these horrors too. But it was terribly disheartening
work, owing to their fanaticism. Many of them listened to me with more
faith about food and medicines because I knew something of the Korán,
and could recite their Bismíllah and their call to prayer.
At last we arrived at Aden, where a troop of Somali lads came on board,
with their bawling voices and their necklaces and their mop-heads
of mutton wool, now and then plastered with lime. They sell water,
firewood, fowls, eggs, and so forth. We landed at Aden for a few hours.
It is a wild, desolate spot; the dark basalt mountains give it a sombre
look. Richard and I spent some hours with the wife of the Governor, or
Station Commandant, at her house. It was terribly hot. I think it was
Aden where the sailors reappeared who had died and gone to a certain
fiery place; and on being asked why they came back, they replied
that they had caught cold, and had got leave to come and fetch their
blankets!
We returned at half-past four in the afternoon to our ship and the
pilgrims. The weather that night became very rough, and during the
night a Bengali fell overboard. His companion, who witnessed the
accident, said nothing; and on being asked later where he was, replied
casually, “I saw him fall overboard about three hours ago.” Such are
the ways of these peculiar pilgrims. They have no more sympathy for one
another than cattle. None would give a draught of water to the dying;
and as for praying over the corpses before throwing them overboard,
if they could help it they would scarcely take the trouble. It was
too rough all the next day for reading or writing; and to add to our
discomfort two Russian passengers got drunk, and fought at the table,
and called each other “liar and coward,” “snob and thief,” “spy and
menial,” and other choice epithets. However, their bark was worse than
their bite, for they cooled down after they had succeeded in upsetting
us all.
I staggered about on deck for the next few days as much as possible,
and again did what I could for the pilgrims; but it was weary work. I
doctored several of them; but our Russian passengers aforesaid brought
me word later that when those who must in any case have expired, died,
the others said it was I who poisoned them; and that was all the thanks
I got for my pains. If it were so, I wonder why did the whole ship run
after me for help? One old man said, “Come, O bountiful one, and sit
a little amongst us and examine my wife, who has the itch, and give
her something to cure it.” But I got wary, and I said, “If I were to
give her any medicine, she will presently die of weakness, and I shall
be blamed for her death.” However, I did what I could. In some of the
cases I asked my maid to come and help me; but she turned away in
disgust, and said, “No thank you; I have the nose of a princess, and
cannot do such work.” And really it was horrible, for many came to me
daily to wash, clean, anoint, and tie up their feet, which were covered
with sores and worms.
On January 30 a north-east wind set in with violence. Every one was
dreadfully sick. The ship danced like a cricket-ball, and the pilgrims
howled with fright, and six died. The next day the weather cleared
up, and it lasted fine until we reached Bombay. We had a delightful
evening, with balmy air, crescent moon, and stars, and the Dalmatian
sailors sang glees. That day another pilgrim died, and was robbed. His
body was rifled of his bit of money as he lay dying, and they fought
like cats before his eyes for the money he had been too avaricious to
buy food with and keep himself alive.
At last, betimes, on February 2, the thirty-third day after leaving
Trieste, a haze of hills arose from the eastward horizon, and we knew
it to be India. Then the blue water waxed green, greenish, and brown,
like to liquid mud. The gulls became tamer and more numerous, and
jetsam and flotsam drifted past us. We sighted land very early. As we
were running in the pilot came alongside, and called up to the captain,
“Have you any sickness on board?” The answer was, “Yes.” “Then,” said
the pilot, “run up the yellow flag. I will keep alongside in a boat,
and you make for Butcher’s Island” (a horrible quarantine station).
I was standing on the bridge, and, seeing the yellow flag hoisted,
and hearing the orders, felt convinced that there was a mistake. So
I made a trumpet with my hands, and holloaed down to the pilot, “Why
have you run up that flag? We have got no disease.” “Oh yes you have;
either cholera or small-pox or yellow jack.” “We have nothing of the
sort,” I answered. “Then why did the captain answer ‘Yes’?” he replied.
“Because it is the only English word he knows,” I cried. Then he asked
me for particulars, and said he would go off for the doctor, and we
were to stand at a reasonable distance from Bombay. This took place
in a spacious bay, surrounded by mountains, a poor imitation of the
Bay of Rio. Presently the doctor arrived. Richard explained, and we
were allowed to land. I shall never forget the thankfulness of the
pilgrims, or the rush they made for the shore. They swarmed like rats
down the ropes, hardly waiting for the boats. They gave Richard and me
a sort of cheer, as they attributed their escape from quarantine to our
intervention. Indeed, if we had been herded together a few more days,
some disease must have broken out.
And thus we set foot in India.
CHAPTER XXII
_INDIA_
(1876)
Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee.
GOLDSMITH.
On arriving at Bombay, we housed ourselves at Watson’s Esplanade Hotel,
a very large building. We went to see the sights of the town, and I was
very much interested in all that I saw, though the populace struck me
as being stupid and uninteresting, not like the Arabs at all. As I was
new to India I was much struck by the cows with humps; by brown men
with patches of mud on their foreheads, a stamp showing their Brahmin
caste; by children, and big children too, with no garments except a
string of silver bells; and by men lying in their palanquins, so like
our hospital litters that I said, “Dear me! The small-pox must be very
bad, for I see some one being carried to the hospital every minute.”
The picturesque trees, the coloured temples, and the Parsee palaces,
garnished for weddings, also impressed themselves upon my mind.
[Illustration: THE CAVES OF ELEPHANTA.]
The next day we made an excursion to see the Caves of Elephanta.
These caves are on an island about an hour’s steaming from Bombay. They
are very wonderful, and are natural temples, or chapels, to Shiva in
his triune form, Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, and other gods, and are
carved or hewn out of the solid rock. The entrance to the caves is
clothed with luxuriant verdure.
The day following a friend drove us with his own team out to Bandora,
about twelve miles from Bombay, where he had a charming bungalow in a
wild spot close to the sea. We drove through the Máhim Woods--a grand,
wild, straggling forest of palms of all kinds, acacias, and banyan
trees. The bungalow was rural, solitary, and refreshing, something
after the fashion of the Eagle’s Nest we had made for ourselves at
Bludán in the old days in Syria. Towards sunset the Duke of Sutherland
(who, when Lord Stafford, had visited us at Damascus) and other friends
arrived, and we had a very jolly dinner and evening. It was the eve of
a great feast, and young boys dressed like tigers came and performed
some native dancing, with gestures of fighting and clawing one another,
which was exceedingly graceful.
The feast was the _Tabút_, or Mūharram, a Moslem miracle play;
and on our return to Bombay I went to see it. I had to go alone,
because Richard had seen it before, and none of the other Europeans
apparently cared to see it at all. The crowd was so great I had to get
a policeman’s help. They let me into the play-house at last. The whole
place was a blaze of lamps and mirrors. A brazier filled with wood
was flaring up, and there was a large white tank of water. It was an
extraordinary sight. The fanaticism, frenzy, and the shrieks of the
crowd made a great impression on me. The play was a tragedy, a passion
play; and the religious emotion was so intense and so contagious that,
although I could not understand a word, I found myself weeping with the
rest.
Among other things, during our stay at Bombay, we went to the races at
Byculla, a very pretty sight, though not in the least like an English
racecourse. The Eastern swells were on the ground and in carriages,
and the Europeans in the club stand. There was only one good jockey,
and whatever horse he rode won, even when the others were more likely.
There was an Arab horse which ought to have beaten everything, but the
clumsy black rider sat like a sack and ruined his chances. I saw that
at once, and won nine bets one after another.
We went to a great many festivities during our stay at Bombay. Among
other things we breakfasted with a Persian Mirza, who knew Richard
when he was at Bombay in 1848. After breakfast--quite a Persian
feast--I visited his harím, where we women smoked a narghíleh and
discussed religious topics, and they tried to convert me to El Islam.
I also went to the wedding feast of the daughter of one of the most
charming Hindú gentlemen, whose name is so long that I do not quote
it, a most brilliant entertainment. I also went to some steeplechases
and a garden-party at Parell (Government House). There was a large
attendance, and much dressing; it was something like a mild Chiswick
party. I amused myself with talking to the Bishop. I also went to the
Byculla ball, which was very well done. While at Bombay I saw the mango
trick for the first time. It is apt to astonish one at first to see a
tree planted and grow before one’s eyes without any apparent means to
accomplish it. The Indian jugglers are clever, but I have seen better
at Cairo. We were tired of the child being killed in the basket, and
the mango trick soon became stale.
On February 21 we left Bombay for Mátherán, up in the mountains. We
went by train to Narel; but the last stage of the journey, after
Narel, had to be performed on horseback, or rather pony-back. We rode
through seven miles of splendid mountain scenery, an ascent of two
thousand seven hundred feet. Carriages could not come here unless they
were carried upon the head like the philanthropist’s wheelbarrows by
the Africans of Sierra Leone. Our road was very rough, and our ponies
stumbled and shied at the dogs. I was badly dressed for the occasion.
My small hired saddle cut me; it was loose, and had too long a stirrup;
and although we were only two hours ascending, and six hours out, I was
tired by the time we arrived at Mátherán.
The next day we were up betimes. I was delighted with the wooded lanes
and the wild flowers, the pure atmosphere, and the lights and shadows
playing on the big foliage. We looked down on magnificent ravines among
buttressed-shaped mountains. The fantastic Gháts rose up out of the
plain before us. On clear days there was a lovely view of Bombay and
the sea with the bright sun shining upon it. The scenery everywhere
was grand and bold. We made several excursions in the neighbourhood,
and I found the natives, or jungle people, very interesting.
On the 23rd we left Mátherán. We started early in the morning for
Narel, walked down the steep descent from Mátherán, then rode. We
arrived hot and a little tired at Narel station, and the train came in
at 10 a.m. We mounted the break, and much enjoyed the ascent of the
Highlands, arriving in about three hours at Lanauli on the Bhore Ghát.
At Lanauli we found a fairly comfortable hotel, though it was terribly
hot. What made the heat worse was that most of the houses at Lanauli
were covered with corrugated-iron roofs, which were bad for clothes, as
they sweated rusty drops all over the room, which left long stains on
one’s linen and dresses. I came away with everything ruined. The air
was delicious, like that of São Paulo or Damascus in the spring.
[Illustration: PANORAMA POINT AND THE BHAO MALLIN HILLS, MÁTHERÁN.]
The next morning we were up and off at dawn to the Karla Caves.
There was brought to the door at dawn for Richard a jibbing, backing
pony, with vicious eyes, and for me a mangy horse like a knifeboard,
spavined, with weak legs, and very aged, but nevertheless showing signs
of “blood.” On top of this poor beast was a saddle big enough for a
girl of ten, and I, being eleven stone, felt ashamed to mount. However,
there was nothing else to be done. We rode four miles along the road,
and then crossed a river valley of the mountains. Here we descended,
and had to climb a goatlike path until we came to what looked like a
gash or ridge in the mountain-side, with a belt of trees. When we
got to the top, we sat on the stones, facing one of the most wonderful
Buddhist temples in India. It was shaped just like our cathedrals,
with a horseshoe roof of teak-wood, which has defied the ravages of
time. The Brahmins keep this temple. On either side of the entrances
are splendid carved lions, larger than life. A little temple outside
is consecrated by the Brahmins to Devi. We were not allowed to go
nearer to this goddess than past a triangular ornament covered with big
bells; but they lit it for us and let us peep in, and it disclosed a
woman’s face and figure so horribly ugly as to give one a nightmare--a
large, round, red face, with squinting glass eyes, open mouth, hideous
teeth, and a gash on her cheek and forehead. She is the Goddess of
Destruction, and is purposely made frightful.
It was very hot returning. My poor horse suddenly faltered, giving a
wrench to my back, and bringing my heart into my mouth when it almost
sat down behind. We passed troops of Brinjari, whose procession lasted
for about two miles. This is a very strong, wild race, which only
marries among its own tribe. The women were very picturesquely dressed,
and glared at me defiantly when I laughed and spoke to them. They
carried their babies in baskets on their heads. We got home about 11
a.m., so that we had made our excursion betimes.
After breakfast and bath we went to the station. Soon our train came
up, and after a two and a half hours’ journey through the Indrauni
river valley we arrived at Poonah. The next day we drove all about
Poonah, and went to see the Palace of the Peshwas, in the Indian
bazar. It is now used as a library below and a native law courts above.
Then we went to Parbat, the Maharatta chief’s palace. There are three
pagodas in this building, and one small temple particularly struck me.
As it was sunset the wild yet mournful sound of tom-tom and kettle
and cymbal and reed suddenly struck up. I could have shut my eyes and
fancied myself in camp again in the desert, with the wild sword-dances
being performed by the Arabs.
The following day at evening we left Poonah for Hyderabad. We travelled
all night and next day, and arrived towards evening. Hyderabad lies
eighteen hundred feet above sea-level. As most people know, it is by
far the largest and most important native city in India, and is ruled
over by our faithful ally the Nizam. Richard and I were to be the
guests of Major and Mrs. Nevill; and our kind friends met us cordially
at the station. In those days Major Nevill was the English officer who
commanded the Nizam’s troops; and though he ranked as Major, he was
really Commander-in-chief, having no one over him except Sir Salar
Jung. Mrs. Nevill was the eldest daughter of our talented predecessor
in the Consulate at Trieste, Charles Lever, the novelist. She was most
charming, and a perfect horsewoman. We had delightful quarters in
Major Nevill’s “compound.” The rooms were divided into sleeping- and
bath-rooms, and tents were thrown out from either entrance. The front
opened into the garden. Two servants, a man and a woman, were placed at
our disposal. In short, nothing was wanting to our comfort. That night
we went to a dinner-party and ball at Government House--Sir Richard
and Lady Meade’s.
Next morning we were up betimes, and out on elephants to see the town.
It was my first mount on an elephant, and my sensations were decidedly
new. The beasts look very imposing with their gaudy trappings; and as
we rode through Hyderabad we were most cordially greeted by all. The
houses were flat, something like those of Damascus; and the streets
were broad and spanned by high arches, whose bold simplicity was very
striking. The Nizam’s palace, at least a mile long, was covered with
delicate tracery; and many a mosque, like lacework, rose here and
there. But the _cachet_ of all in Hyderabad was size, boldness,
and simplicity.
After inspecting the town we proceeded to the palace of Sir Salar Jung.
We found him a noble, chivalrous, large-hearted Arab gentleman, of
the very best stamp; and throughout our stay at Hyderabad he was most
kind to us. His palace contained about seven courts with fountains,
and was perfectly magnificent; but unfortunately, instead of being
furnished with oriental luxury, which is so grand and rich, it was
full of European things--glass, porcelain, and bad pictures. One room,
however, was quite unique: the ceiling and walls were thickly studded
with china--cups, saucers, plates, and so forth--which would have
aroused the envy of any china-maniac in London. Sir Salar entertained
us to a most luxurious breakfast, and when that was over showed us a
splendid collection of weapons, consisting of swords, sheaths, and
daggers, studded with gorgeous jewels. After that we inspected the
stables, which reminded me somewhat of the Burlington Arcade, for they
were open at both ends, and the loose boxes, where the shops would
be, opened into a passage running down the centre. There were about a
hundred thorough-bred Arab and Persian horses. When we left Sir Salar,
he presented me with four bottles of attar of roses.
The next few days formed a round of festivity. There were breakfasts,
dinner-parties at the Residency and elsewhere, with a little music to
follow, and many excursions. Sir Salar Jung lent me a beautiful grey
Arab, large, powerful, and showy. He had never before had a side-saddle
on, but he did not seem to mind it a bit. Among other places we visited
the palace of the Wikar Shums Ool Umárá, one of the three great
dignitaries of the Nizam’s country, where we were received with great
honour by a guard of soldiers and a band of music. The Wikar was a
thin, small, well-bred old gentleman, with a yellow silk robe and a
necklace of large emeralds. He was attended by a fat, jolly son in a
green velvet dressing-gown, and one tall, thin, sallow-faced youth,
who looked like a bird with the pip. We had a capital breakfast. The
hall was full of retainers and servants, who pressed me to eat as
they served the dishes, and “Take mutton cutlet, ’im very good” was
whispered in my ear with an excellent English accent. We then visited
the jewellery of the palace, a most beautiful collection; and the
sacred armour, which surpasses description. At last we saw something
very unique--an ostrich race. The man mounts, sits back, puts his legs
under the wings, and locks his feet under the breast. The birds go at a
tremendous pace, and kick like a horse.
The next day we witnessed an assault-of-arms. There were about two
hundred performers, and three hundred to look on. There were some very
good gymnastics, sword exercises, single-stick, and so on. They also
showed us some cock-fighting, and indeed all sorts of fighting. They
fight every kind of animal, goats, birds, even quails and larks, which
are very plucky, and want to fight; but they pull them off if they want
to ill-use one another too much. I did not care to see this, and went
away.
The next day we drove to the country palace of the Amir el Kebir. He
was the third of the three great men in Hyderabad, who jointly managed
the Nizam’s affairs. The other two were Sir Salar Jung, Regent and
Prime Minister, and the Wikar Shums Ool Umárá. They were all relations
of the Nizam. Here again was a beautiful palace in gardens, full of
storks, pigeons, and other birds. Besides birds, there were flowers;
and all the gardens and terraces were covered with their beautiful
purple Indian honeysuckle. We inspected the town also, each riding
on a separate elephant. And when that was over every one went back
to breakfast with the Amir; and a charming breakfast it was, with
delicious mangoes. Our host wore a lovely cashmere robe, like a
dressing-gown, and gorgeous jewels.
Our last recollections of Hyderabad were brilliant, for Sir Salar
Jung gave a magnificent evening _fête_. One of the large courts
of the palace was illuminated: the starlight was above us, the blaze
of wax lights and chandeliers lit up every hall around the court, and
coloured lamps and flowers were everywhere. There was a nautch, which
I thought very stupid, for the girls did nothing but eat sweetmeats,
and occasionally ran forward and twirled round for a moment with a
half-bold, semi-conscious look; and only one was barely good-looking.
Perhaps that is the nautch to dance before ladies; but in Syria, I
remember, they danced much better without being “shocking.” We had
a most delicious dinner afterwards, at which we were waited on by
retainers in wild, picturesque costumes. When that was over, the band
played. We walked about and conversed, were presented with attar of
roses, and went home.
The next morning we went to Secunderabad. It was a prosperous European
station, with three regiments, but nothing interesting. We proceeded
on elephants to Golconda, a most interesting place; but as no European
has ever been permitted to enter it, I can only describe what we were
allowed to see without. We viewed the town from outside, and saw a hill
covered with buildings. The throne-hall, with arched windows, they say
is a mere shell. The King’s palace and defences occupy the mound which
is in the midst of the town. The town proper is on the flat ground. It
is surrounded by walls, battlements, and towers, and reminded me of old
Damascus and Jerusalem. In it dwells many an old feudal chief. Past
these walls no European or Christian has ever been allowed. The Tombs
of the Kings are very ancient, and are situated outside the town. We
were admitted to these, and they reminded me of the Tower Tombs of
Palmyra. They were enormous domes, set on a square, broad base, the
upper section beautifully carved, or covered with Persian tiles, which
bore Arabic and Hindústani inscriptions. Abdullah’s tomb and that
of his mother are the best. The prevailing style in both is a dome
standing on an oblong or square, both of grey granite. The predominant
colour is white, and in some cases picked out with green. There was
also a beautiful garden of palm trees, and a labyrinth of arches. We
wandered about this romantic spot, of which we had heard so much, and
thought of all the mines and riches of Golconda. It was a balmy night
when we were there; fireflies spangled the domed tombs in the palm
gardens, lit by a crescent moon. I could not forget that I was in the
birthplace of the famed Koh-i-noor.
We returned to Hyderabad, and next morning we rose at four o’clock, and
took the train at seven to return to Bombay. Our kind host and hostess,
the Nevills, and Sir Richard Meade, the Governor, came to see us off.
We had a comfortable carriage, and the railway officials were all most
kind and civil; but the heat was so great that they were walking up and
down periodically to arouse the passengers, as they have occasionally
been found dead, owing to the heat; and two or three cases happened
about that time.
When we got down to Bombay, we found it all _en fête_ for the
departure of the Prince of Wales, who was then doing his celebrated
Indian tour. I shall never forget the enthusiasm on that occasion. The
Prince was looking strong and well, brown, handsome, and happy, and
every inch a Royal Imperial Prince and future Emperor. He went away
taking with him the hearts of all his subjects and the golden opinions
of all true men and women.
We stayed at Bombay some little time, and among other things we visited
the Towers of Silence, or Parsee charnel-house, the burying-place of
the “Fire Worshippers,” which are situated on a hill-summit outside
Bombay. We ascended by a giant staircase, half a mile long, overhung by
palms and tropical vegetation. We obtained a splendid view of Bombay
from this eminence, which we should have enjoyed had it not been that
the palms immediately around us were thick with myriads of large black
vultures, gorged with corpses of the small-pox and cholera epidemic,
which was then raging in Bombay. The air was so heavy with their breath
that (though people say it was impossible) I felt my head affected as
long as we remained there. These myriads of birds feed only on corpses,
and of necessity they must breathe and exhale what they feed upon. They
fattened upon what bare contact with would kill us; they clustered
in thousands. This burying-place, or garden, was full of public and
private family towers. The great public tower is divided into three
circles, with a well in the middle. It has an entrance and four outlets
for water. First, there is a place for clothes, and a tank, like a
huge metal barrel lying on its side. Here the priests, who are the
operators, leave their garments. A large procession of Parsees, having
accompanied the body as far as this spot, turn and wait outside the
tower. The priests then place the body, if a man, in the first circle;
if a woman, in the second circle; if a child, in the third: in the
centre there is the door, well covered with a grating. The priests then
stay and watch. The vultures descend; they fly round the moment they
see a procession coming, and have to be kept at bay until the right
moment. The body is picked clean in an hour by these vultures. It is
considered very lucky if they pick out the right eye first instead of
the left, and the fact is reported by the priests to the sorrowing
relatives. When the bones are perfectly clean, a Parsee priest pushes
them into the well. When the rain comes, it carries off the ashes and
bones; and the water runs through these four outlets, with charcoal at
the mouths to purify it, before entering and defiling the earth, which
would become putrid and cause fever. The Parsees will not defile the
earth by being buried in it, and consider it is an honour to have a
_living sepulchre_. The vultures have on an average, when there is
no epidemic, about three bodies a day, so that they can never be said
to starve. The whole thing struck me as being revolting and disgusting
in the extreme, and I was glad to descend from this melancholy height
to Bombay.
We had a good deal of gaiety during our stay in Bombay, and every one
was most kind. We saw many interesting people, and made many pleasant
excursions, which were too numerous to be mentioned in detail here.
I have given a description of the Parsee burial-ground, and I think
at the risk of being thought morbid that I must also describe our
visit to the Hindú Smáshán, or burning-ground, in the Sonápur quarter,
where we saw a funeral, or rather a cremation. The corpse was covered
with flowers, the forehead reddened with sandalwood, and the mouth
blackened. The bier was carried by several men, and one bore sacred
fire in an earthenware pot. The body was then laid upon the pyre; every
one walked up and put a little water in the mouth of the corpse, just
as we throw dust on the coffin; they then piled more layers of wood on
the body, leaving it in the middle of the pile. Then the relatives,
beginning with the nearest, took burning brands to apply to the wood,
and the corpse was burned. The ashes and bones are thrown into the sea.
It was unpleasant, but not nearly so revolting to me as the vultures
in the Parsee burying-ground. All the mourners were Hindú except
ourselves, and they stayed and watched the corpse burning. Shortly
the clothes caught fire, and then the feet. After that we saw no more
except a great blaze, and smelt a smell of roasted flesh, which mingles
with the sandalwood perfume of Bombay. The Smáshán, or burning-ground,
is dotted with these burning-places.
A very interesting visit for me was to the Pinjrapole, or hospital
for animals sick, maimed, and incurable. It was in the centre of the
native quarter of Bombay, and was founded forty years ago by Sir
Jamsetji Jijibhoy, who also left money for its support. I was told that
the animals here were neglected and starved; but we took them quite
unawares, and were delighted to find the contrary the case. There were
old bullocks here that had been tortured and had their tails wrung off,
which is the popular way in Bombay of making them go faster. There
were orphan goats and calves, starving kittens and dogs. The blind,
the maimed, the wounded of the animal creation, here found a home. I
confess that I admire the religion that believes in animals having a
kind of soul and a future, and permits their having a refuge where at
least no one can hurt them, and where they can get food and shelter.
God is too just to create things, without any fault of their own, only
for slow and constant torture, for death, and utter annihilation.
Turning now to society at Bombay, and indeed Indian society generally,
I must say that it is not to be outdone for hospitality. There is a
certain amount of formality about precedence in all English stations,
and if one could only dispense with it society would be twice as
charming and attractive. I do not mean of course the formality of
etiquette and good-breeding, but of all those silly little conventions
and rules which arise for the most part from unimportant people
trying to make themselves of importance. Of course they make a great
point about what is called “official rank” in India, and the women
squabble terribly over their warrants of precedence: the gradations
thereof would puzzle even the chamberlain of some petty German court.
The Anglo-Indian ladies of Bombay struck me for the most part as
spiritless. They had a faded, washed-out look; and I do not wonder at
it, considering the life they lead. They get up about nine, breakfast
and pay or receive visits, then tiffen, siesta, a drive to the Apollo
Bunder, to hear the band, or to meet their husbands at the Fort, dine
and bed--that is the programme of the day. The men are better because
they have cricket and polo. I found nobody stiff individually, but
society very much so in the mass. The order of precedence seemed to be
uppermost in every mind, and as an outsider I thought how tedious “ye
manners and customs of ye Anglo-Indians” would be all the year round.
[Illustration: THE BORAH (NATIVE) BAZAR, BOMBAY.]
I found the native populace much more interesting. The great mass
consists of Konkani Moslems, with dark features and scraggy beards.
They were clad in chintz turbans, resembling the Parsee headgear, and
in long cotton coats, with shoes turned up at the toes, and short
drawers or pyjamas. There were also Persians, with a totally different
type of face, and clothed in quite a different way, mainly in white
with white turbans. There were Arabs from the Persian Gulf, sitting and
lolling in the coffee-houses. There were athletic Afghans, and many
other strange tribes. There were conjurers and snake-charmers, vendors
of pipes and mangoes, and Hindú women in colours that pale those of
Egypt and Syria. There were two sorts of Parsees, one white-turbaned,
and the other whose headgear was black, spotted with red. I was
much struck with the immense variety of turban on the men, and the
_choli_ and headgear on the women. Some of the turbans were of the
size of a moderate round tea-table. Others fit the head tight. Some
are worn straight, and some are cocked sideways. Some are red and
horned. The _choli_ is a bodice which is put on the female child,
who never knows what stays are. It always supports the bosom, and she
is never without it day or night, unless after marriage, and whilst she
is growing it is of course changed to her size from time to time. They
are of all colours and shapes, according to the race. No Englishwoman
could wear one, unless it were made on purpose for her; but I cannot
explain why.
Bombay servants are dull and stupid. They always do the wrong thing
for preference. They break everything they touch, and then burst
into a “Yah, yah, yah!” like a monkey. If you leave half a bottle of
sherry, they will fill it up with hock, and say, “Are they not both
white wines, Sá’b?” If you call for your tea, the servant will bring
you a saucer, and stare at you. If you ask why your tea is not ready,
he will run downstairs and bring you a spoon, and so on. As he walks
about barefoot you never hear him approach. You think you are alone in
the room, when suddenly you are made to jump by seeing a black face
close to you, star-gazing. If you have a visitor, you will see the door
slowly open, and a black face protruded at least six times in a quarter
of an hour. They are intensely curious, but otherwise as stolid as owls.
On April 16 we started for Máhábáleshwar, the favourite of all the
sanatoria in India, save the Neilgherries, which are so far off as to
be a very expensive journey from Bombay. Máhábáleshwar, in the Western
Gháts, is therefore largely visited by Europeans from Bombay. We left
Bombay by the 1.15 express train, reaching Poonah in seven hours. The
air was like blasts out of a heated furnace. We dined at Poonah at a
very comfortable inn. The distance from Poonah to Máhábáleshwar was
seventy-five miles by road; so as we were going on the same evening we
ordered a trap, and after dinner we set forth.
I cannot say it was a comfortable journey, for the springs of the trap
were broken, and projections were sticking through the hard, narrow
cushions in all directions into our unhappy bodies. Nevertheless we
enjoyed the drive very much. It was a charming night, the moon late,
being in the last quarter. We saw a great Moslem _fête_ coming
out of Poonah at night. The hills were illuminated in patterns and
letters. We slept when it was dark, and I remember we drank a great
deal of water, for it was a most thirsty night. At 6 a.m. we passed a
wayside bungalow at Soorool, where we brought out our basket and tea,
and had milk from the cow belonging to the old soldier who kept the
bungalow. At the foot of the third steep mountain, Pasarni, we passed
through Wye (Wahi), one of the prettiest and most interesting places,
with the prettiest women in Western India, besides being a village
of temples and holy tanks. The general effect of the temples, which
were strewn about in all sizes and shapes, was that of a series of
_blancmange_ moulds.
At Wahi we alighted from the trap, and our ascent up the steep Pasarni
Ghát was performed for us by sixteen coolies. It occupied us about two
hours, and was very hot and dusty, and cruelly hard work; but the
coolies did it much better than horses could have done. Once we came to
a travelling bungalow, and stopped a few minutes to tie up some of our
broken springs. After this we were very tired, and the last thirteen
miles seemed almost insupportable. At last we entered the verdure
of Máhábáleshwar at the summit, 4,780 feet above sea-level; but the
inaccessibility of the place is compensated for by its interest when
you arrive there, just as Palmyra is more precious than Ba’albak.
When at last we arrived we were thoroughly tired out. We dined, and
went to bed. We had been out twenty-five hours, and had had no sleep
for forty-one hours. I did not even remember the end of my dinner, and
I have no recollection of how I got into bed for very sleepiness. We
lodged at the Máhábáleshwar Hotel, which was very cheap, clean, and
comfortable.
The next morning we were up at 5 a.m., and drove in a _tonga_,
a sort of tea-cart, with small _tattoo_ ponies, to Elphinstone
Point, and to see the temples. It was a most enjoyable excursion; but
it was quite spoiled for me by the brutal way in which the driver beat
the poor little “tats” with his thick cowhide whip. It was misery to
me. I got quite nervous; I bullied the driver, took his whip away,
promised him _bakshísh_ if he would not do it, and finally tried
to drive myself. Then the foolish ponies stood stock-still directly I
took the reins, and would not budge without the whip. At this point
Richard cut in, and swore at the driver for being so cruel, and scolded
me for spoiling an excursion by my ridiculous sensibilities. Then my
fox-terrier put in her oar, and tried to bite the coachman for beating
the ponies; and not being allowed, she laid her head on my shoulder
and went into hysterics--the tears actually ran down her cheeks. We
had a grand view from Elphinstone Point, and the temples also were
interesting. We were glad to get back again at 9 a.m., for the sun
was very trying. We made several pleasant excursions during our stay,
and people were very kind. All the same, I did not greatly care for
Máhábáleshwar. There was too much society; one could not ruralize
enough. “Sets” are the rule, and priggishness is rampant, even in the
primeval forest. Our visit was a brief one, and then we returned to
Bombay.
After two days at Bombay Richard and I set sail in the British Indian
Steamship Company’s _Rajpootna_ for distant and deserted Goa, a
thirty-six hours’ passage. It was a calm, fine evening when we started,
but intensely hot. The next day there was a heavy swell, and many were
ill. I went to bed thoroughly tired out, expecting to land the next
morning. About five o’clock, as the captain told me overnight not to
hurry myself, I got up leisurely. Presently a black steward came down,
and said:
“Please, ma’am, the agent’s here with your boat to convey you ashore.
The captain desired me to say that he’s going to steam on directly.”
I was just at the stage of my toilet which rendered it impossible for
me to open the door or come out, so I called through the keyhole:
“Please go with my compliments to the captain, and beg him to give me
ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and tell my husband what is the
matter.”
“I will go, ma’am,” he answered; “but I am afraid the captain can’t
wait. It is his duty to go on.”
“Go!” I shouted; and he went.
In two minutes down came the negro again.
“Captain says it’s impossible; in fact the ship’s moving now.”
Well, as we were tied to time and many other things, and could not
afford to miss our landing, I threw on a shawl and a petticoat, as one
might in a shipwreck, and rushed out with my hair down, crying to the
steward:
“Bundle all my things into the boat as well as you can; and if anything
is left, take it back to the hotel at Bombay.”
I hurried on deck, and to my surprise found that the steamer was not
moving at all. Richard and the captain were quietly chatting together,
and when they saw me all excited and dishevelled they asked me the
cause of my undress and agitation. When I told them, the captain said:
“I never sent any message of the kind. I told you last night I should
steam on at seven, and it is now only five.”
I was intensely angry at the idea of a negro servant playing such a
practical joke. I was paying £10 for a thirty-six hours’ passage; and
as I always treated everybody courteously, it was quite uncalled for
and unprovoked. I thought it exceedingly impertinent, and told the
captain so. Nevertheless he did not trouble to inquire into the matter.
The Bishop of Ascalon, Vicar-Apostolic at Bombay, was on board, and
I told him about it, and he said that he had been treated just in the
same way a year before on the same spot. The idea that such things
should be allowed is a little too outrageous. Suppose that I had been a
delicate and nervous passenger with heart complaint, it might have done
me a great deal of harm.
A large boat arrived to take us and our baggage ashore. We were cast
adrift in the open sea on account of a doubtful shoal. We had eight
miles to row before we could reach Goa. Fortunately there was no
storm. We rowed a mile and a half of open sea, five miles of bay, and
one and a half of winding river, and at last landed on a little stone
pier jutting a few yards into the water. We found a total absence of
anything at Goa but the barest necessaries of life. There was no inn
and no tent. We had either to sleep in our filthy open boat, or take
our tents and everything with us. Goa is not healthy enough to sleep
out _al fresco_. Fortunately a kind-hearted man, who was the agent
of the steamers, and his wife, seeing the plight we were in, conceded
us a small room in their house with their only spare single bed.
Luckily we had one of those large straw Pondicherry reclining-chairs,
which I had just bought from the captain of the steamer, and a rug;
so Richard and I took the bed in turns night about, the other in the
chair. We did not mind much, for we had come to see Goa, and were
used to roughing it; but I confess that I like roughing it better out
of doors than inside. There was little to be bought in Goa; but all
that the residents had to give they offered with alacrity. It is the
worst climate I ever was in, and I have experienced many bad ones. The
thermometer was not nearly so high as I have known it in other places,
but the depression was fearful. There was not a breath of air in Goa
even at night, and the thirst was agonizing; even the water was hot,
and the more one drank the more one wanted: it was a sort of purgatory.
I cannot think how the people manage to live there: the place was
simply _dead_; there is no other word for it. Of all the places
I have ever been to, in sandy deserts and primeval forests, Goa was
the worst. However, Richard wanted to revisit it, and I wanted to see
it also with a particular object, which was to pay my respects to the
shrine of the Apostle of India, St. Francis Xavier, which is situated
in Old Goa.
We hired the only horse in the country, a poor old screw of a pony,
broken down by mange and starvation and sores; and we harnessed him
to the only vehicle we could find, a small open thing of wood made in
the year 1 B.C., with room for two persons only. The wheels
were nearly off, and the spring of one side was broken. The harness was
made of old rusty chains and bits of string tied together. Our coachman
and footman were two boys in little dirty shirts, with something round
the loins kept together with bits of twine, and bare legs peeping out
underneath like two sticks of chocolate.
Our first drive was to Cazalem, a place which reminded me of the Barra
at Santos, in Brazil. Here several Europeans lived, I mean native
Portuguese, mainly officials of the Government. As Richard wrote a book
about Goa when he was there some thirty years before, there is not
much that I can add to his description of the place.
Our next drive was to Old Goa, where is the tomb of St. Francis
Xavier. Nothing is left of Old Goa but churches and monasteries. In
the distance, with its glittering steeples and domes, it looks a
grand place; but when we entered it, I found it to be a city of the
dead--indeed it was the very abomination of desolation. The Bom Jesus
is the church dedicated to St. Francis Xavier, my favourite saint,
on account of his conversion of so many unbelievers. It is after the
same pattern as all other Portuguese churches, a long, whitewashed,
barn-shaped building. The object of my devotion, the tomb, is contained
in a recess on a side of the altar dedicated to Xavier, and consists
of a magnificently carved silver sarcophagus, enriched with _alto
relievi_, representing different acts of the Saint’s life. Inside is
a gold box containing the remains of the Saint, shown to people with a
great feast once in a century.
[Illustration: GOA.]
We made many excursions around and about Goa. In consequence of the
dreadful climate they had of course to be either very early or very
late. I shall never forget the moonlight scenery of the distant bay.
The dull grey piles of ruined, desolate habitations, the dark hills
clothed with a semi-transparent mist, the little streams glistening
like lines of silver over the plain, and the purple surface of the
creek--such was our night picture of Goa. We made two boat expeditions
together--one to see a coffee plantation, in which is a petrified
forest. Each expedition occupied two or three days. We embarked for the
first in a filthy boat, full of unmentionable vermin, and started
down the river in the evening, with storms of thunder and lightning and
wind preluding the monsoon. On arrival we toiled up two miles of steep,
rocky paths through cocoa groves. At the bottom of the hill was a
little rivulet, and pieces of petrified wood were sticking to the bank.
As we ascended the hill again we found the petrifications scattered all
over the ground; they were composed chiefly of palms and pines; and
most interesting they were. We returned from this expedition with our
skins in a state of eruption from the bites of the lice and the stings
of the mosquitoes.
Our last day at Goa was a very pleasant one. We had received a telegram
saying the steamer would pass outside Goa at midnight, and would pick
us up for the return journey to Bombay. These steamers are due once a
fortnight, and this one was long past her time. Everybody was sorry
that we were leaving, and we had great hospitality. In the morning we
were entertained at breakfast by a gentleman who owned the largest and
the best house in Goa. We had every variety of native food and fruit in
abundance, good cool air and water--the latter produced by hanging the
earthen water-bottles in the window, clothed with wet hay or grass. We
were, in all, ten at table, native and European. Then the heat came on,
and we had to retire. In the evening we were taken for an excursion in
a boat to Cazalem. We coasted along for an hour, and sang glees under
a fine moon, accompanied by a heavy swell. We were carried ashore on
the shoulders of the natives, and were heralded first by the watchdogs
and then by the European inmates, who did not expect us. They were
assembled in the verandah playing cards by the light of torches. We
passed a merry evening, and returned to Goa by carriage. The seat gave
way, and we had to sit on the edges.
On our return the night was dark, but we at once started in a large
open boat, with four men to row and one to steer, to reach our steamer
bound for Bombay, which, as I have already explained, did not pass
nearer Goa than eight miles. We rowed down the river, and then across
the bay for three hours, against wind and tide, bow on to heavy
rollers, and at last reached the mouth of the bay, where is the Fort.
We remained bobbing about in the open sea in the trough of the great
waves for a considerable time, and a violent storm of rain, thunder,
and lightning came on, so we put back to the Fort to find shelter under
some arches. Then we went to sleep, leaving the boat _wálá_ to
watch for the steamer.
At 1.30 I was awakened by the sound of a gun booming across the water.
I sprang up and aroused the others; but we could not see the lights
of the steamer, and turned to sleep. An officer passed out of the
Fort, and I fancied he said to another man that the ship was in; but
he only looked at us and passed on. Presently I felt more fidgety,
and making a trumpet of my hands I called out to the Secretary, who
answered back that the ship had been laying to three-quarters of an
hour, and that we should have gone off when the gun fired. People are
so lazy and indolent in this climate that he did not trouble to let us
know it before, though he was left there for that purpose. If we had
not happened to have the mails and the agent with us in the boat, the
ship would have gone on without us, which would have been an appalling
disaster. So I stirred them up, and we were soon under way again and
out to sea. By-and-by I saw the lights of the steamer, which looked
about three miles off. Knowing the independence of these captains and
the futility of complaints, I trembled lest the steamer should put
farther to sea, and determined that no effort of mine should be spared
to prevent it.
Richard slept or pretended to sleep, and so did some of the others; but
I managed adroitly to be awkward with the boat-hook, and occasionally
to prick their shins. I urged the boat _wálás_ on with perpetual
promises of _bakshísh_. Everybody except myself was behaving
with oriental calm, and leaving it to Kismet. It was of no use doing
anything to Richard, so I pitched into the Secretary, who really had
been most kind.
“Can’t you shout ‘Mails!’” I cried to him, as we got nearer. “They
might hear you. You can shout loud enough when nobody wants to hear
you.”
At last, after an hour of anxiety, we reached the ship; but heavy
seas kept washing us away from the ladder. No one had the energy to
hold on to the rope, or hold the boat-hook to keep us close to her,
so at last I did it myself, Richard laughing all the while at their
supineness, and at my making myself so officious and energetic. But
it was absolutely necessary. An English sailor threw me the rope.
“Thanks,” I cried, as I took advantage of an enormous wave to spring
on to the ladder; “I am the only man in the boat to-night.” All came on
board with us, and we had a parting stirrup-cup, in which they drank
my health as “the only man in the boat.” We then said farewell to our
friends and to Goa.
We stayed at Bombay no longer than was absolutely necessary, and we
embarked on our return journey to Trieste in the Austrian Lloyd’s
_Minerva_. It was an uneventful voyage, take it altogether. There
were a good many passengers on board, who grumbled greatly at the food,
as the manner is, and it was certainly a very hot and uncomfortable
voyage. We stopped at Aden again, and passed Jeddah. Thence we steamed
to Suez, where we anchored.
Here Richard and myself and six others left the ship to have a little
run through Egypt, and we were soon surrounded by a number of Richard’s
old friends of Mecca days. It was a lovely evening when we landed,
familiar to all who know Suez, with its blue sea, yellow sands, azure
sky, and pink-and-purple mountains. Our visit was to Moses’ Wells,
about three miles in the Arabian Desert--a most picturesque spot,
surrounded by tropical verdure, intermingled with fellah huts. The most
romantic spot was a single tiny spring under an isolated palm tree, all
alone on a little hillock of sand in the desert, far from all else. I
said to Richard, “That tree and that spring have been created for each
other, like you and I.” We took our _kayf_ for some hours with the
Arabs, and we had some delicious Arab coffee and narghíleh with them.
We remained a fortnight in Egypt, or rather more; and after then we
embarked in another Lloyd’s, the _Apollo_, for Trieste, where we
arrived very quickly. I was glad to get back to the beautiful little
city again, to receive the ever-warm greetings of our friends.
CHAPTER XXIII
_TRIESTE AGAIN_
(1876–1880)
The busy fingers fly; the eyes may see
Only the glancing needle that they hold;
But all my life is blossoming inwardly,
And every breath is like a litany;
While through each labour, like a thread of gold,
Is woven the sweet consciousness of thee.
On their return from India Isabel and her husband settled down at
Trieste, and pursued for the most part a quiet literary life. It was
summer, and they swam a good deal by way of recreation, and went
frequently to Opçina. They started a habit of not dining at home, and
of asking their intimates to meet them at one _café_ or another,
where they would sup in the open air, and drink the wine of the country
and smoke cigarettes. These pleasant evenings were quite a feature of
their life at this time. Their house too became the centre of many
a _réunion_, and a Mecca to which many a literary pilgrim and
social, scientific, and political celebrity turned his steps when
travelling by way of Trieste. There is no better description of the
Burtons’ life at Trieste at this time than that which appeared in
_The World_ in 1877, written by Burton’s old Oxford friend, Mr.
Alfred Bates Richards. Lady Burton has quoted it in full in her Life
of her husband; but I think that a small part of it which relates to
herself will bear repeating here:
“Captain and Mrs. Burton are well, if airily, lodged in a flat composed
of ten rooms, separated by a corridor, with a picture of our Saviour, a
statuette of St. Joseph with a lamp, and the Madonna with another lamp
burning before it. Thus far the belongings are all of the Cross; but
no sooner are we landed in the little drawing-rooms than signs of the
Crescent appear. Small, but artistically arranged, the rooms, opening
in to one another, are bright with oriental hangings, with trays and
dishes of gold and silver, brass trays and goblets, chibouques with
great amber mouthpieces, and all kinds of Eastern treasures mingled
with family souvenirs. There is no carpet; but a Bedawin rug occupies
the middle of the floor, and vies in brilliancy of colour with Persian
enamels and bits of good old china. There are no sofas, but plenty
of divans covered with Damascus stuffs. Thus far the interior is
as Mussulman as the exterior is Christian; but a curious effect is
produced among the oriental _mise en scène_ by the presence of a
pianoforte and a compact library of well-chosen books. There is too
another library here, greatly cherished by Mrs. Burton; to wit, a
collection of her husband’s works in about fifty volumes. On the walls
there are many interesting relics, medals, and diplomas of honour, one
of which is especially prized by Captain Burton. It is the _brevet
de pointe_ earned in France for swordsmanship. Near this hangs a
picture of the Damascus home of the Burtons, by Frederick Leighton.
“As the guest is inspecting this bright bit of colour, he will
be aroused by the full strident tones of a voice skilled in many
languages, but never so full and hearty as when bidding a friend
welcome. The speaker, Richard Burton, is a living proof that intense
work, mental and physical, sojourn in torrid and frozen climes,
danger from dagger and from pestilence, ‘age’ a person of good sound
constitution far less than may be supposed....
“Leading the way from the drawing-rooms, or divans, he takes us
through bedrooms and dressing-rooms furnished in Spartan simplicity,
with the little iron bedsteads covered with bear-skins, and supplied
with writing-tables and lamps, beside which repose the Bible, the
Shakspeare, the Euclid, and the Breviary, which go with Captain and
Mrs. Burton on all their wanderings. His gifted wife, one of the
Arundells of Wardour, is, as becomes a scion of an ancient Anglo-Saxon
and Norman Catholic house, strongly attached to the Church of Rome; but
religious opinion is never allowed to disturb the peace of the Burton
household, the head of which is laughingly accused of Mohammedanism
by his friends. The little rooms are completely lined with rough deal
shelves, containing perhaps eight thousand or more volumes in every
Western language, as well as in Arabic, Persian, and Hindústani. Every
odd corner is piled with weapons, guns, pistols, boarspears, swords of
every shape and make, foils and masks, chronometers, barometers, and
all kinds of scientific instruments. One cupboard is full of medicines
necessary for oriental expeditions or for Mrs. Burton’s Trieste poor,
and on it is written ‘The Pharmacy.’ Idols are not wanting, for
elephant-nosed Gumpati is there cheek by jowl with Vishnu.
“The most remarkable objects in the room just alluded to are the rough
deal tables, which occupy most of the floor space. They are almost
like kitchen or ironing tables. There may be eleven of them, each
covered with writing materials. At one of them sits Mrs. Burton, in
morning _négligé_, a grey _choga_--the long loose Indian
dressing-gown of camel’s hair--topped by a smoking-cap of the same
material. She rises and greets her husband’s old friend with the
cheeriest voice in the world. ‘I see you are looking at our tables;
every one does. Dick likes a separate table for every book, and when
he is tired of one he goes to another. There are no tables of any size
in Trieste, so I had these made as soon as I came. They are so nice.
We may upset the ink-bottles as often as we like without anybody being
put out of the way. These three little rooms are our “den,” where we
live, work, and receive our _intimes_; and we leave the doors
open, so that we may consult over our work. Look at our view!’ From the
windows, looking landward, one may see an expanse of country extending
over thirty or forty miles, the hills covered with foliage, through
which peep trim villas. Beyond the hills higher mountains dotted with
villages, a bit of the wild Karso peering from above. On the other
side lies spread the Adriatic, with Miramar, poor Maximilian’s home
and hobby, lying on a rock projecting into the blue water, and on
the opposite coast are the Carnian Alps, capped with snow. ‘Why we
live so high up,’ explained Captain Burton, ‘is easily explained. To
begin with, we are in good condition, and run up and down stairs like
squirrels. We live on the fourth storey because there is no fifth.
If I had a _campagna_, and gardens and servants, and horses and
carriages, I should feel tied, weighed down in fact. With a flat and
two or three maid-servants one has only to lock the door and go. It
feels like “light marching order,” as if we were always ready for an
expedition; and it is a comfortable place to come back to. Look at our
land-and-sea-scape: we have air, light, and tranquillity; no dust, no
noise, no street smells. Here my wife receives something like seventy
very intimate friends every Friday--an exercise of hospitality to which
I have no objection save one, and that is met by the height we live at.
There is in every town a lot of old women of both sexes, who sit for
hours talking about the weather and the scandal of the place, and this
contingent cannot face the stairs.’...
“The _ménage Burton_ is conducted on the early rising principle.
About four or five o’clock our hosts are astir, and already in their
‘den,’ drinking tea made over a spirit-lamp, and eating bread and
fruit, reading and studying languages. By noon the morning’s work is
got over, including the consumption of a cup of soup, the ablution
without which no true believer is happy, and the obligations of a
Frankish toilet. Then comes a stroll to the fencing-school, kept by an
excellent broadswordsman, an old German trooper. For an hour Captain
and Mrs. Burton fence in the school, if the weather be cold; if it be
warm, they make for the water, and often swim for a couple of hours.
“Then comes a spell of work at the Consulate. ‘I have my Consulate,’
the chief explains, ‘in the heart of the town. I do not want my Jack
Tar in my sanctum; and when he wants me he has generally been on
the spree, and got into trouble.’ While the husband is engaged in
his official duties, the wife is abroad promoting a Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, a necessary institution in southern
countries, where, on the purely gratuitous hypothesis that the
so-called lower animals have no souls, the utmost brutality is shown
in the treatment of them. ‘You see,’ remarks our host, ‘that my wife
and I are like an elder and younger brother living _en garçon_. We
divide the work. I take all the hard and the scientific part, and make
her do all the rest. When we have worked all day, and have said all
we have to say to each other, we want relaxation. To that end we have
formed a little “Mess” with fifteen friends at the _table d’hôte_
of the Hôtel de la Ville, where we get a good dinner and a pint of the
country wine made on the hillside for a florin and a half. By this plan
we escape the bore of housekeeping, and are relieved from the curse of
domesticity, which we both hate. At dinner we hear the news if any,
take our coffee, cigarettes, and _kirsch_ outside the hotel, then
go home and read ourselves to sleep, and to-morrow _da capo_.’”
* * * * *
This summer, while at Gorizia, Isabel saw again the Comte de Chambord
(Henri V. of France) and the Comtesse. She had been received by them at
Venice before her marriage, and they remembered her and sent for her.
They were staying at Gorizia with a small Court. Isabel had an audience
of them twice, and they desired that she should dine with them. She had
to explain that she had nothing but a travelling-dress; but they waived
that objection, and allowed her to “come as she was.” This incident
will seem a small thing to many; but it was a great thing to Isabel,
for like many members of old English Catholic families, she was a
strong Legitimist, and she appreciated the kindness which was shown to
her by this king and queen _de jure_ with their shadowy Court and
handful of faithful followers, more than if they had come into their
own and received her royally at the Tuileries.
A little later Burton took it into his head to make an expedition to
Midian in Arabia. Many years before, in his Arab days, Burton had come
upon this golden land (though at that time he thought little of gold
and much of reputation); and a quarter of a century later, seeing Egypt
suffering from lack of the precious metal, and knowing that Midian
belonged to Egypt, he asked leave of the Foreign Office to go to Cairo,
where he imparted his views on the subject of the wealth of the Mines
of Midian to Khedive Ismail. His Highness was so much impressed that
he equipped an expedition in a few days, and sent Burton to explore
the land. His report of the possibilities of the Mines of Midian was
so promising that the Khedive engaged him to come back the following
winter, and himself applied to the English Foreign Office for the
loan of Burton’s services. Burton accordingly went again to Midian,
and discovered the region of gold and silver and precious stones.
He sketched the whole country, planned an expedition, and brought
back various metals for analysis. The Khedive was delighted with the
prospect of wealth untold, and he made contracts with Burton which, had
they been carried out, would have placed him and his wife in luxury
for their lives. It used to be a joke with the Burtons at this time
that they would die “Duke and Duchess of Midian.” Unfortunately Ismail
Khedive abdicated just when the third expedition was about to come
off, and the new Khedive, Tewfik, did not consider himself bound by
any act of his father. The English Government would not stir in the
matter, and so Burton not only lost his chance of realizing a large
fortune, but also the money which he and his wife had got together
for paying expenses in connexion with the expedition, and which they
thought would surely have been refunded. The only gain was that Burton
wrote some interesting books on the Land of Midian, its history, and
its inhabitants. Until the day of her death Lady Burton never ceased
to believe in the vast wealth which was lying waste in the Mines of
Midian, and used to wax quite enthusiastic about it.
Isabel was anxious to accompany her husband on his first expedition to
Midian; but as there was not enough money for both of them, she had to
make the usual sacrifice and stay at home. During her husband’s absence
she spent most of her time at Opçina and up in the mountains, as she
was busily engaged in correcting the proofs of one of his books.
[Illustration: SUEZ.]
When Burton started on his second expedition to Midian, it was arranged
between him and his wife that, as Ismail Khedive was in such a very
good humour, Isabel should make her way out to Cairo, and induce the
Khedive to send her after her husband to Midian. She was eager and
impatient to start, and as soon as she could possibly complete her
arrangements she went on board an Austrian Lloyd’s and made the voyage
from Trieste to Alexandria. When she arrived at the latter place, she
found a letter from her husband saying, “You are not to attempt to join
me unless you can do so in proper order.” This rather upset her plans,
as she did not know what “proper order” meant. She therefore went on
at once to Cairo, made her representations in the proper quarter, and
then returned to Suez. After remaining there some time in a state of
great impatience, she was informed that a ship was going to be sent
out, and that she was to have the offer of going in her, though it was
intimated to her privately that the Khedive and the Governor, Said
Bey, very much hoped that she would refuse. She had no intention of
refusing, and the next morning she went down to the ship, which was
an Egyptian man-of-war, the _Senaar_. It was to anchor off the
coast until the expedition returned from the desert, and then bring
them back. The captain, who was astonished at her turning up, received
her with honour. All hands were piped on deck, and a guard and
everything provided for her. Notwithstanding their courtesy, Isabel’s
woman’s instinct told her that she was a most unwelcome guest--far
more unwelcome than she had anticipated. She saw at once that the
situation was impossible, and prepared to beat a graceful retreat. So,
after looking round the quarters prepared for her, she thanked the
captain and officers exceedingly for their courtesy, and explained,
to their evident relief, that she would not trouble them after all.
She returned to the town, took some small rooms at the Suez Hotel, and
applied herself to literary work. The reason she gave as an excuse for
her change of mind was that her expedition would be too dangerous,
as she would have to cross the Red Sea in an open _sambuk_ with
head-winds blowing, and then to find her way alone across the desert
upon a camel to Midian. The danger, however, would hardly have weighed
with her, for she was always careless of her own safety. The real
reason was that she was afraid of injuring her husband’s prospects with
the Khedive.
She was at Suez some time. At last, after many weeks, the Governor sent
her a slip of paper saying, “The _Senaar_ is in sight.” It was the
ship by which Burton returned. She went on board to welcome him, and
found him looking very ill and tired. The Khedive sent a special train
to meet him on his return from Midian, and the Burtons went at once to
Cairo, where they were received with great _éclat_.
From Cairo the Burtons went back to Trieste, or rather to Opçina,
for a brief rest, and then proceeded to London. From London they
went to Dublin, where they joined the annual meeting of the British
Association. Burton delivered several lectures, and Isabel was busy
writing her _A. E. I._ (_Arabia, Egypt, and India_). From
Dublin they returned to London, which they made their headquarters for
some time, breaking their stay in town by many country visits. The most
memorable of these was a visit to Lord and Lady Salisbury at Hatfield,
where they again met Lord Beaconsfield, who, strange to say, though
he had much in common with the Burtons--notably a love of the East
and mysticism, and had a liking for them, and for Isabel especially,
with whom he was wont to discuss her favourite _Tancred_, his
book--never did anything for them, though he must have known better
than most men how Burton was thrown away at a place like Trieste.
Perhaps Burton’s strong anti-Semitic views had something to do with
this neglect.
It was during this stay in London that the Burtons attended a meeting
on spiritualism, at which Burton read a paper. On the subject of Lady
Burton’s attitude towards spiritualism we shall have something to say
later; but it is better to interpolate here a speech which she made at
this meeting, as it explains her views in her own words:
“It appears to me that spiritualism, as practised in England, is
quite a different matter to that practised in the East, as spoken of
by Captain Burton. Easterns are organized for such manifestations,
especially the Arabs. It causes them no surprise; they take it as a
natural thing, as a matter of course; in short, it is no religion to
them. Easterns of this organization exhale the force; it seems to be
an atmosphere surrounding the individual; and I have frequently in
common conversation had so strong a perception of it as to withdraw
to a distance on any pretext, allowing a current of air to pass from
door or window between them and myself. There is no doubt that some
strange force or power is at work, trying to thrust itself up in the
world, and is well worthy of attention. When I say ‘new,’ I mean in our
hemisphere. I believe it to be as old as time in Eastern countries. I
think we are receiving it wrongly. When handled by science, and when
it shall become stronger and clearer, it will rank very high. Hailed
in our matter-of-fact England as a new religion by people who are not
organized for it, by people who are wildly, earnestly seeking for the
truth, when they have it at home--some on their domestic hearth, and
others next door waiting for them--it can only act as a decoy to a
crowd of sensation-seekers, who yearn to see a ghost as they would go
to a pantomime; and this can only weaken and degrade it, and distract
attention from its possible true object--science. Used vulgarly, as we
have all sometimes seen it used, after misleading and crazing a small
portion of sensitive persons, it must fall to the ground.”[18]
Early in February, 1879, her book _A. E. I._ came out, and the
publisher was so pleased with it that he gave a large party in honour
of the authoress. There were seventeen guests, and there were seventeen
copies of the book piled in a pyramid in the middle of the table.
After supper one was given to each guest. They must have made a merry
night of it, for Isabel notes that the gaieties began at 11 p.m. and
did not end until 5 a.m. Notwithstanding this auspicious send-off, the
book did not reach anything like the success achieved by her first
work, _The Inner Life of Syria_.
The longest leave comes to an end, and it was now time to return to
Trieste. Burton started ahead as was his wont, leaving his wife to
“pay, pack, and follow.” She paid and she packed, and when she was
leaving the house to follow a beggar woman asked her for charity.
She gave her a shilling, and the woman said, “God bless you! May you
reach your home without an accident.” She must have had the Evil Eye;
for the day after, when Isabel arrived in Paris, _en route_ for
Trieste, she tumbled down the hotel stairs from top to bottom, arriving
at the bottom unconscious. She was picked up and put to bed. When
she came to herself she exclaimed, “Do not send the carriage away; I
must get my work done and go on.” But when she attempted to rise, she
fainted again. The visible injuries resolved themselves into a bad
sprain and twisted ankle. After the fourth day she had herself bound
up and conveyed to the train. She travelled straight through to Turin.
There she had to be carried to an inn, as she was too ill to go on.
The next day she insisted on being packed up again, and travelled to
Mestre. The heat was intense, and she had to wait four hours in the
wretched station at Mestre, during which she suffered great pain. Then
she travelled on by the _post-zug_, a slow train, and arrived
at Trieste at half-past eight in the morning, where her eyes were
gladdened by seeing her husband waiting to receive her on the platform.
She was carried home and promptly put to bed.
This illustrates the literal way in which she used to obey her
husband’s lightest directions. He told her to follow him “at once,”
and she followed him, not even resting on account of her accident. In
fact it is absolutely true to say that nothing short of death would
have prevented her from carrying out his slightest instructions to the
letter.
The accident which she met with in Paris turned out to be more serious
than she had at first supposed. It was a long time before she could
leave her bed. She had injured her back and her ankle very badly,
and she underwent a long course of massage and baths; but she never
permanently got quite well again. She said herself, “Strength, health,
and nerve I had hitherto looked upon as a sort of right of nature, and
supposed that everybody had them; I never felt grateful for them as
a blessing, but I began to learn what suffering was from this date.”
Henceforth we see her not as the woman who was ready to share any
dare-devil adventure or hair-breadth escape, and who revelled in a free
and roving life of travel, but rather as the wife, whose thoughts now
turned more than ever to the delights of home, and how to add to her
husband’s domestic comforts.
Expressions of sympathy and goodwill were called forth by her accident
from friends far and wide. Among others, Lady Salisbury wrote:
“CHALET CECIL, PUYS, DIEPPE, _September 22_.
“DEAR MRS. BURTON,
“We were all very sorry to hear of your misfortunes, and I hope
that the Viennese doctors and their baths have now cured you
and restored you to perfect health. It was indeed most trying
to have that accident at Paris just as you were recovering from
your illness in London. I suppose you are now thinking of the
preparations for your Egyptian trip, unless the new Khedive has
stopped it, which he is not at all likely to have done, as its
success would redound so much to his own advantage. We have been
here for the last two months, and are beginning to think our
holiday is over, and that we ought to go back to England again.
“Of course we have all been talking and thinking of nothing but
Cabul lately. The Afghans really seem like the Constantinople
dogs, quite untamable. I suppose we shall soon hear of the
English troops entering Cabul and all the horrors of the
punishment, which, as is usual in such cases, is almost sure to
fall on the innocent instead of the guilty.
“This country seems very prosperous. People are rich and
orderly, and every one seems as busy and happy as possible;
the harbour is full of ships, and new houses are being built
and new shops opened; and, according to M. Waddington, who
was here the other day, this is the same all over France.
What is the real truth about Count A----’s resignation? Is
it health or weariness, or what is it? We are all puzzled at
it here. I suppose Prince Bismarck’s visit will lead to some
_éclaircissement_.
“We hear occasionally from Lord Beaconsfield, who seems very
well. He is at Hughenden. We often think of the pleasant days
you spent with us at Hatfield when he was there.
“With kind regards to Captain Burton and yourself from us all,
“Believe me very sincerely yours,
“G. SALISBURY.”
In the autumn Isabel went to Venice on a brief visit; but had to return
shortly, as Burton had made up his mind to go once more to Egypt to try
his luck about the Midian Mines. There was nothing for her to do but to
see him off (there was no money for two) and remain behind to spend her
Christmas alone at Trieste.
Soon after the new year Isabel began to get ill again. She had not
really recovered from her fall in Paris nine months before. The
doctors advised her to see a bone-setter. She wrote and told her
husband, who was then in Egypt, and he replied by telegram ordering
her to go home to London at once. She reached London, and went through
a course of medical treatment. She notes during this dreary period
a visit from Martin Tupper, who came to see her on the subject of
cruelty to animals. (Burton always joked with his wife about “Tupper
and the animals.”) He presented her with a copy of his _Proverbial
Philosophy_, and also wrote her the letter which is reproduced here:
“WEST CROYDON, _January 17, 1880_.
“MY DEAR MADAM,
“I hope you will allow a personal stranger, though haply on
both sides a book friend, to thank you for your very graphic and
interesting _A. E. I._ travels; may the volume truly be to
you and yours an everlasting possession! But the special reason
I have at present for troubling you with my praise is because
in to-day’s reading of your eleventh chapter I cannot but feel
how one we are in pity and hope for the dear and innocent
lower animals so cruelly treated by their savage monarch, man,
everywhere during this evil æon of the earth. To prove my
sympathy as no new feeling, I may refer your kindly curiosity to
my Proverbial Chapters on ‘The Future of Animals,’ to many of
my occasional poems, and to the enclosed, which I hope it may
please you to accept. You may like to know also, as a kindred
spirit (and pray don’t think me boastful), that years ago,
through a personal communication with Louis Napoleon, I have a
happy reason to believe that the undersigned was instrumental in
stopping the horrors of Altorf, besides other similar efforts
for poor animals in America and elsewhere. I believe, with you,
that they have a good future in prospect (perhaps in what is
called the millennial era of our world), that they understand us
and our language, especially as to oaths, and that those humble
friends will be met and known by us in our happier state to come.
“But I must not weary you with what might be expanded into
a treatise; I am confident we agree; and I know in my own
experiences (as doubtless you do in yours) that the poor horses
and dogs we have pitied and helped, love and appreciate and may
hereafter be found capable of rewarding--in some small way--those
who are good to them in this our mutual stage of trial.
“With my best regards then, and due thanks, allow me to
subscribe myself
“Your very sincere servant,
“MARTIN F. TUPPER.”
Isabel was anxious about her husband, as things in Egypt were in a very
unsettled condition. Ismail Khedive had now abdicated, and Tewfik had
succeeded him. This, as we know, upset all Burton’s plans; he got no
farther than Egypt on his way to Midian, and remained at Alexandria
eating out his heart in despair at his bad luck. One night on coming
home from dinner he was attacked by a band of roughs, who hit him
over the head from behind with a sharp instrument. It was supposed
to be foul play with a motive, as the only thing they stole was his
divining-rod for gold, which he carried about with him, and they did
not take his money. He kept the loss a secret, in order that it should
be no hindrance to him if he had the chance to go back to work the
Mines of Midian. But that chance never came. He returned to Trieste,
and did not let his wife know of the assault until she joined him there
on her return from London.
In the meantime she had not been idle. Despite her ill-health when
in London she had been agitating for her husband’s promotion, and
had built high hopes on the kind interest of Lord Beaconsfield and
Lord Salisbury. Unfortunately for her Lord Beaconsfield’s last
Administration collapsed in April with a crash, and her hopes were
buried in the ruins. Lord Granville, who had recalled Burton from
Damascus, succeeded Lord Salisbury at the Foreign Office, and she knew
that she could not hope for much from Lord Granville. When she saw the
turn the General Election of 1880 had taken, she made a last despairing
effort to induce the out-going Government to do something for her
husband before the Ministers gave up their seals. She received the
following kind letter from Lady Salisbury:
“HATFIELD HOUSE, HATFIELD, HERTS, _April 18_.
“MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,
“I received your note here yesterday, and fear it is too late
to do anything, as the lists went in yesterday, and Lord
Beaconsfield is with the Queen to-day. So we must bear our
misfortunes as best we can, and hope for better days. I cannot
help feeling that this change is too violent to last long. But
who can say? It is altogether so astonishing. As regards Captain
Burton, I hope you will not lose anything. So valuable a public
servant will, I hope, be sure of recognition whatever Government
may be in office.
“With our united kind regards to him and to you,
“Yours very sincerely,
“G. SALISBURY.”
It was a sad home-coming for Isabel; for not only were her hopes, so
near fruition, dashed to the ground, but she found her husband very ill
from the effects of his accident and from gout. The first thing she did
was to send for a doctor, and take him off to Opçina. It is sad to
note that from this time we find in their letters and diaries frequent
complaints of sickness and suffering. They, who had rarely known what
illness meant, now had it with them as an almost constant companion.
From Opçina they went to Oberammergau to see the Passion Play, which
impressed them both very much, though in different ways. Isabel wrote a
long description of this play, which has never been published. Burton
also wrote an account, which has seen the light. When they returned
to Trieste, they had a good many visitors, among others the late Mr.
W. H. Smith and his family. He was always a kind friend to Isabel, as
indeed he was to every one he liked. And that (like Lord Beaconsfield,
Lord Salisbury, Lord Clarendon, Lord Derby, and many other leading
statesmen) he had a high opinion of her abilities is, I think, evident
from the following letter. Men do not write in this way to stupid women:
“3, GROSVENOR PLACE, S.W., _March 1, 1881_.
“DEAR MRS. BURTON,
“Your kind letters have reached us since our arrival here. We
were earlier in our return than we had at first intended, as
Parliament was called together so soon; but our house was not
ready, and my family had to stay in the country for some little
time. It is very good of you to send me the _Lusiads_. I am
keeping them for those delightful days of quiet and enjoyment
which are to be had sometimes in the country, but not in these
stormy days in London. Are we to have peace and quiet? Ireland
will be sullenly quiet now under coercion, after having been
stimulated by oratory almost to madness. South Africa is a very
serious matter indeed. I am told the Dutch colonists within the
Cape will remain loyal; but our reputation as an invincible
race suffers with all the natives. And then the European
East, nothing at present can look blacker, and all because of
passionate words and hatred. I am afraid too we are low in the
estimation of the people of the West, and likely to remain so.
“Your good Christmas wishes reached us long after the New Year;
but we had a very pleasant Christmas at Malta with many of our
old naval friends, and we spent our New Year’s Day at a little
port in Elba. What a charming island it is! Small, no doubt;
but not a bad prison for an Emperor if he had books and papers
and some powers of self-control. Coming up to Nice we had very
heavy weather; but the yacht behaved well, and it was certainly
pleasanter at sea with a strong easterly wind than on shore.
“There is to be a great Candahar debate in the Lords to-night.
Lord Lytton speaks remarkably well--as an old debater would--and
great interest is felt in the event. All the same Candahar will
be given up; and some time hence, if we have soldiers left, we
shall probably have to fight our way back again to it.
“Pray give our united kind regards to Captain Burton. I shall be
so glad to hear any news if anything transpires at Trieste.
“Yours very sincerely,
“W. H. SMITH.”
CHAPTER XXIV
_THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN_
(1881–1885)
O tired heart!
God knows,
Not you nor I.
The next four or five years were comparatively uneventful. There was
little hope of promotion from the new Government, so the Burtons
resigned themselves to Trieste with what grace they might; and though
they were constantly agitating for promotion and change, neither the
promotion nor the change came. Burton hated Trieste; he chafed at the
restricted field for his energies which it afforded him; and had it
not been for frequent expeditions of a more or less hazardous nature,
and his literary labours, life at the Austrian seaport would have
been intolerable to him. With Isabel it was different. As the years
went on she grew to love the place and the people, and to form many
ties and interests which it would have been hard for her to break.
Notwithstanding this she warmly seconded her husband’s efforts to
obtain from the Foreign Office some other post, and she was never
weary of bringing his claims before the notice of the Government,
the public, and any influential friends who might be likely to help.
Indeed the record of her diary during these years is one of continuous
struggle on her husband’s behalf, which is varied only by anxiety for
his health.
“I am like a swimmer battling against strong waves,” she writes to a
friend about this time, “and I think my life will always be thus. Were
I struggling only for myself, I should long before have tired; but
since it is for my dear one’s sake I shall fight on so long as life
lasts. Every now and then one seems to reach the crest of the wave, and
that gives one courage; but how long a time it is when one is in the
depths!”
To another friend she wrote:
“We have dropped into our old Triestine lives. We have made our Opçina
den very comfortable. We have taken the big room and Dick’s old one,
opened them, and shut the end one, which is too cold, and put in
lamps, stoves, and stores and comforts of all kinds; in fact partly
refurnished. I am much better, and can walk a little now; so I walk up
half-way from Trieste on Saturday, Dick all the way; Sunday Mass in
village, and walk; and Monday walk down. We keep all the week’s letters
for here (Opçina) and all the week’s newspapers to read, and do our
translations. I have begun _Ariosto_, but am rather disheartened.
We have set up a _tir au pistolet_ in the rooms, which are long
enough (opened) to give twenty-two paces, and we have brought up some
foils. The Triestines think us as mad as hatters to come up here, on
account of the weather, which is ‘seasonable’--_bora_, snow, and
frozen fingers. I am interesting myself in the two hundred and twenty
badly behaved Slav children in the village. Dick’s _Lusiads_ are
making a stir. My Indian sketches and our Oberammergau have gone to
the bad. My publisher, as I told you, took to evil ways, failed, and
eventually died December 10. However, I hope to rise like a phœnix out
of my ashes. The rest of our week is passed in fencing three times a
week, twice a week Italian, twice a week German. Friday I receive the
Trieste world from twelve noon to 6 p.m., with accompaniments of Arab
coffee, cigarettes, and liqueurs. Dick is always grinding at literature
as usual; so what with helping Dick (we are studying something
together), literature, looking after the little _ménage_, and
philanthropic business, Church work, the animals, and the poor, I am
very happy and busy, and I think stronger; albeit I have little rest
or _amusement_, according to the doctor’s ideas. In fact I have a
winter I love, a quiet Darby and Joan by our own fireside, which I so
seldom get.”[19]
The principal event at Trieste in 1881 appears to have been the arrival
of the British squadron in July. Burton and his wife were always of
a most hospitable nature; they would have spent their last penny in
entertaining their friends. The first thing they did on the arrival
of the squadron was to invite the captains and officers of every ship
to an evening _fête champêtre_ and ball at Opçina. In addition
to this they sent out about eight hundred invitations to the captains
and officers of the Austrian navy and other men-of-war anchored at
Trieste, the officers of the Austrian regiments stationed there, the
Governor and Staff, and the Austrian authorities, the Consular corps,
and all their private friends, to the number of about one hundred and
fifty of the principal people of Trieste. They turned the gardens of
the little inn at Opçina into a sort of Vauxhall or Rosherville for the
occasion. There were refreshment tents, and seats, and benches, and
barrels of wine and beer, and elaborate decorations of flowers, and
coloured lamps and flags, and no end of fireworks. When the eventful
evening arrived, and everything was in full swing, the weather, which
had been perfectly fine heretofore, broke up with the startling
suddenness which is peculiar to the Adriatic. The heavens opened, and
to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning the rain descended in
torrents, flooding the tents, quenching the illuminations, and reducing
the whole ground to a Slough of Despond. The guests naturally rushed
for shelter to the little inn, which was much too small to accommodate
them. The police made for the barrels of beer, and were soon incapable
of keeping order, and a mob of villagers, who had assembled to witness
the festivities from without, broke through the barricades, made a raid
on the refreshment tent, smashed the dishes, and carried off all the
best things to eat and drink. Burton took it very philosophically; but
Isabel, overcome with vexation and disappointment, burst into tears.
The sight, however, of the raiders soon turned her grief to anger.
She pulled herself together, got a party of young braves, sallied
forth into the grounds, and made a rush for the tent. With her little
band she rescued all that was left of the food and drink, and then
cleared away the furniture in the lower part of the inn, told the band
to play, and set her guests dancing, while she rigged up an impromptu
supper-room in the garret. This spirited conduct soon restored the
chaos to something like order. The guests--the majority of whom were
English--unconscious of the havoc which had been wrought, enjoyed
themselves right merrily, and the party did not break up until five
o’clock in the morning.
The British squadron, both officers and men, were well received at
Trieste, and became most popular during their stay there. Isabel made
great friends with the sailors, and she rescued one of them from what
might have been a serious squabble. One day she saw a sailor picking
the apples off a tree in the Austrian Admiral’s garden, which overhung
the road. The sentry came out, and a crowd of people assembled. Jack
Tar looked at them scornfully, and went on munching his apple until
they laid hands on him, when he gave a sweeping backhander, which
knocked one or two of them over. Everything was ripe for a row, when
Isabel stepped in between the combatants, and said to the sailor, “I
am your Consul’s wife, and they are trying to make you understand that
these are the Austrian Admiral’s apples, and you must not eat them.”
The sailor apologized, said he did not know he had done any wrong, and
did not understand what they were all jabbering about; and he saluted
and went. Then Isabel explained to the sentry, and generally poured
oil on the troubled waters. The sailor told the story to his comrades,
and thus she became very popular among them. The sailors liked Trieste
so much that, when the squadron was to leave, eighteen of them did not
join their ship; and when they were caught Isabel went and interceded
for them, and begged the captain not to punish them severely. He said,
“Oh no, the darlings; wait till I get them on board ship! I will have
them tucked up comfortably in bed with nice hot grog.” Whether her
intercession availed is not related.
In August, 1881, the Burtons started on a trip somewhat farther afield
than was their wont for short expeditions. They went up to Veldes, a
lovely spot, where there was a good inn and first-rate fishing. Burton
was absent without leave from the Foreign Office; and though he had
left the Consulate in charge of the Vice-Consul, his conduct was,
officially speaking, irregular, and both he and his wife were afraid
of meeting any one they knew. The first person they saw at the inn was
the Chaplain of the British Embassy at Vienna, who might have reported
the absentee Consul to his Ambassador. Burton bolted up to bed to avoid
him; but Isabel thought that the better plan would be to take the bull
by the horns. So she went to the Chaplain, and made a frank confession
that they were truants. He burst out laughing, and said, “My dear lady,
I am doing exactly the same thing myself.” She then went upstairs,
brought Burton down again, and the three had a convivial evening
together.
After this they went on by stages to Ischl, where they parted company,
Burton going to Vienna, and Isabel to Marienbad for a cure. Her stay
at Marienbad she notes as mainly interesting because she made the
acquaintance of Madame Olga Novikoff. Her cure over, with no good
result, she joined her husband at Trieste. They stopped there one night
to change baggage, and went across to Venice, where there was a great
meeting of the Geographical Congress. Burton was not asked to meet his
fellow-geographers, or to take any part in the Congress. The slight was
very marked, and both he and his wife felt it keenly. It was only one
more instance of the undying prejudice against him in certain quarters.
They met many friends, including Captain Verney Lovett Cameron. In
November Burton went with him to the west coast of Africa, to report on
certain mines which Burton had discovered when Consul at Fernando Po.
Isabel was anxious to accompany them; but it was the usual tale, “My
expenses were not paid, and we personally hadn’t enough money for two,
so I was left behind.”
The first part of 1882 Isabel spent without her husband, as he was
absent on the Guinea coast. She fretted very much at his long absence,
and made herself ill with disappointment because she was not able to
join him. The following letter shows _inter alia_ how much she
felt the separation[20]:
“I was so pleased you liked the scourging I gave the reviewers.[21]
No one has answered me, and it has well spread. I don’t know how they
could. All Dick’s friends were very glad. The Commentary is out, two
vols. (that makes four out and four to come). The ‘Reviewers Reviewed’
is a postscript to the Commentary, and the Glossary is in that too. I
wrote the ‘Reviewers’ at Duino in June last, and I enjoyed doing it
immensely. I put all the reviews in a row on a big table, and lashed
myself into a spiteful humour one by one, so that my usually suave
pen was dipped with gall and caustic. You will have had my last, I
think, from Marienbad. I then joined Dick at Vienna, where we spent
a few days; and then went to Venice for the _fêtes_, which were
marvellous, and the Queen was lovely. Then we came home, and had two
charming, quiet, delicious months together; and to my joy he gave up
dining out and dined at home _tête-à-tête_; but of course it was
overshadowed by the knowledge of the coming parting, which I feel
terribly this time, as I go on getting older. We left together in the
Cunarder _Demerara_. Her route was Trieste, Venice, Fiume, Patras,
Gibraltar, England. By dropping off at Fiume I got ten days on board
with him. He leaves her at Gibraltar about the 7th; goes to Cadiz,
Lisbon, Madeira, and Axim on the West Coast. He has to change ship four
times, and this is a great anxiety to me in this stormy weather. God
keep him safe! Once at Axim, the mines are all round the coast, and
then I dread fever for him. He wishes to make a little trip to the Kong
Mountains, and then I fear natives and beasts. Perhaps Cameron will be
with him; but _entre nous_ Cameron is not very solid, and requires
a leading hand. If all goes well (D.V., and may He be merciful), we are
to meet in London in March, and I hope we shall get a glimpse of you.
“I am, as you may think, fearfully sad. I have been nowhere; I neither
visit, nor receive, nor go out. Men drink when they are sad, women fly
into company; but I must fight the battle with my own heart, learn to
live alone and work, and when I have conquered I will allow myself to
see something of my friends. I dreaded my empty home without children
or relatives; but I have braved the worst now. I am cleaning and
tidying his room, putting each thing down in its own place; but I won’t
make it luxurious this time; I have learnt by experience.”
Isabel passed the next three months at Trieste busily studying,
writing, and carrying out the numerous directions contained in her
husband’s letters.
Early in April her doctor discovered that she had the germs of the
internal complaint of which she ultimately died. She had noticed
all the year that she had been getting weaker and weaker in the
fencing-school, until one day she turned faint, and the fencing-master
said to her, “Why, what’s the matter with you? Your arms are getting
quite limp in using the broad-sword.” She did not know what was the
matter with her at the time; but soon after she became so ill that she
had to take to her bed, and then her doctor discovered the nature of
the malady. She did not go to the fencing-school any more after that.
In the Life of her husband, speaking of this matter, Lady Burton says
that her internal complaint possibly resulted from her fall downstairs
in Paris in 1879; but in talking the matter over with her sister,
Mrs. Fitzgerald, a year or two before her death, she recalled another
accident which seems the more likely origin of her distressing malady.
Once when she was riding alone in the woods in Brazil she was pursued
by a brigand. As she was unarmed, she fled as fast as her horse would
carry her. The brigand gave chase, and in the course of an hour’s
exciting ride Isabel’s horse stumbled and threw her violently against
the pommel of her saddle. Fortunately the horse recovered its footing,
and she was able to get safely away from her pursuer; but the bruise
was a serious one (though she thought little of it at the time), and
many years later she came to the conclusion that this was the probable
origin of her illness.
The third week in April she left Trieste for England to meet her
husband, who was due at Liverpool in May. While she was in London she
consulted an eminent surgeon on the subject of her illness, which was
then at its beginning. He advised an operation, which he said would be
a trifling matter. There is every probability, if she had consented,
that she would have recovered, and been alive to this day. But she
had a horror of the knife and anæsthetics. Nevertheless she would
have braved them if it had not been for another consideration, which
weighed with her most of all. She knew that an operation of this kind
would lay her up for some time, and she would not be able to look after
her husband on his return from his long absence. She was afraid too
that the knowledge of her illness might worry him, so for his sake
she refused the operation, and she kept the knowledge of her malady
a secret from him. It is perhaps a little far-fetched to say that by
doing this she sacrificed her life for her husband’s sake, yet in a
sense she may be said to have done so. Her first thought, and her only
thought, was always of him, and it is literally true to say that she
would at any moment cheerfully have laid down her life that he might
gain.
Isabel went to Liverpool to meet Burton on his return from the west
coast of Africa. He came back with Captain Lovett Cameron. There was a
great dinner given at Liverpool to welcome the wanderers. The next day
the Burtons went to London, where they stayed for a couple of months
through the season, met many interesting people, and were entertained
largely. On the last day of July they returned to Trieste.
In September Isabel went again to Marienbad for the baths, which did
her no good. While there she wrote a letter to _Vanity Fair_ anent
a certain article which spoke of Burton and his “much-prized post.”
She took occasion to point out his public services, and to show that
the “much-prized post” was “the poor, hard-earned, little six hundred
a year, well earned by forty years’ hard toil in the public service.”
On returning to Trieste, she entertained many friends who arrived there
for the Exhibition, and after that settled down to the usual round
again.
In October Burton was suddenly ordered by the Foreign Office to go to
Ghazzeh in Syria in search of Professor Palmer, their old friend and
travelling companion, who was lost in the desert. There was then a
chance of his being still alive, though the bodies of his companions
had been found. Burton’s knowledge of the Bedawin and Sinai country was
of course specially valuable in such a quest. He started at once.
After he had left Isabel went into retreat at the Convent della Osolini
at Gorizia. The following were among her reflections at this period[22]:
“In retreat at last. I have so long felt the want of one. My life seems
to be like an express train, every day bringing fresh things which
_must_ be done. I am goaded on by time and circumstances, and
God, my first beginning and last end, is always put off, thrust out of
the way, to make place for the unimportant, and gets served last and
badly. This cannot continue. What friend would have such long-enduring
patience with me? None! Certainly less a king! far less a husband! How
then? Shall God be kept waiting until nobody else wants me? How ashamed
and miserable I feel! How my heart twinges at the thought of my
ingratitude, and the poor return I make for such favours and graces as
I have received! God has called me into retreat once more, perhaps for
the last time. He has created an unexpected opportunity for me, since
my husband has been sent to look for poor Palmer’s body. I thought I
heard Him cry, ‘Beware! Do not wait until I drive you by misfortune,
but go voluntarily into solitude, prepare for Me, and wait for Me, till
I come to abide with you.’
“I am here, my God, according to Thy command; Thou and I, I and Thou,
face to face in the silence. Oh, speak to my heart, and clear out from
it everything that is not of Thee, and let me abide with Thee awhile!
Not only speak, but make me understand, and turn my body and spirit and
soul into feelings and actions, not words and thoughts alone.
“My health and nerves for the past three years have rendered me less
practical and assiduous in religion than I was. Then I used to essay
fine, large, good works, travel, write, and lead a noble and virile
life. Now I am weaker, and feel a lassitude incidental to my time of
life, which I trust may pass away. I am left at home to town life, and
I seem to have declined to petty details, small works, dreaming, and
making lists and plans of noble things not carried out. It looks like
the beginning of the end.
“I ask for two worldly petitions, quite submitted to God’s will: (1)
That I may be cured, and that Dick and I may have good, strong health
to be able to work and do good--if we are destined to live. (2) That
if it be God’s will, and not bad for us, we may get a comfortable
independence, without working any more for our bread, and independent
of any master save God.”
Isabel returned to Trieste when her retreat was concluded; and soon
after--much sooner than she expected--her husband returned to her.
When he reached Ghazzeh, Burton found Sir Charles Warren already in the
field, and he did not want to be interfered with, so that Burton came
home again and spent Christmas with his wife at Trieste. Thus ended
1882. Isabel notes: “After this year misfortunes began to come upon us
all, and we have never had another like it.”
[Illustration: THE BURTONS’ HOUSE AT TRIESTE.]
Early next year the Burtons left their flat in Trieste, where they had
been for over ten years. Something went wrong with the drainage for one
thing, and Burton took an intense dislike to it for another; and when
he took a dislike to a house nothing would ever induce him to remain
in it. The only thing to do was to move. They looked all over Trieste
in search of something suitable, and only saw one house that would do
for them, and that was a palazzo, which then seemed quite beyond their
means; yet six months later they got into it. It was a large house in
a large garden on a wooded eminence looking out to the sea. It had
been built in the palmy days of Trieste by an English merchant prince,
and was one of the best houses in the place. It had a good entrance,
so wide that it would have been possible to drive a carriage into
the hall. A marble staircase led to the interior, which contained some
twenty large rooms, magnificent in size. The house was full of air and
light, and the views were charming. One looked over the Adriatic, one
over the wooded promontory, another towards the open country, and the
fourth into gardens and orchards.
The early part of 1883 was sad to Isabel by reason of her husband’s
failing health and her own illness. In May she went alone to Bologna,
at her husband’s request, for she then told him of the nature of her
illness, to consult Count Mattei, of whom they had heard much from
their friend Lady Paget, Ambassadress at Vienna. When she arrived
at Bologna, she found he had gone on to Riola, and she followed him
thither. Mattei’s castle was perched on a rock, and to it Isabel
repaired.
“First,” she says, “I had to consult a very doubtful-looking mastiff;
then appeared a tall, robust, well-made, soldierlike-looking form in
English costume of blue serge, brigand felt hat, with a long pipe,
who looked about fifty, and not at all like a doctor. He received me
very kindly, and took me up flights of stairs, through courts, into
a wainscoted oak room, with fruits and sweets on the table, with
barred-iron gates and drawbridges and chains in different parts of the
room, that looked as if he could pull one up and put one down into a
hole. He talked French and Italian; but I soon perceived that he liked
Italian better, and stuck to it; and I also noticed that, by his mouth
and eyes, instead of fifty, he must be about seventy-five. A sumptuous
dinner-table was laid out in an adjoining room, with fruit and flowers.
I told him I could not be content, having come so far to see him, to
have only a passing quarter of an hour. He listened to all my long
complaints about my health most patiently, asked me every question;
but he did not ask to examine me, nor look at my tongue, nor feel my
pulse, as other doctors do. He said that I did not look like a person
with the complaint mentioned, but as if circulation and nerves were out
of order. He prescribed four internal and four external remedies and
baths. I wrote down all his suggestions, and rehearsed them that he
might correct any mistakes.”[23]
After the interview with Count Mattei Isabel did not remain at Riola,
but with all her medicines returned to Trieste. The remedies were not,
however, of any avail.
In June Isabel presided over a _fête_ of her Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and made a long speech, in which
she reviewed the work from the beginning, and the difficulties and
successes. She wound up as follows:
“May none of you ever know the fatigue, anxiety, disgust, heartaches,
nervousness, self-abnegation, and disappointments of this mission, and
the small good drawn out of years of it; for so it seems to me. Old
residents, and people living up the country, do say that you would not
know the town to be the same it was eleven years ago, when I first
came. They tell me there is quite a new stamp of horse, a new mode of
working and treatment and feeling. I, the workwoman, cannot see it or
feel it. I think I am always rolling a stone uphill. I know that you
all hear something of what I have to put up with to carry it out--the
opposition, and contentions, treachery, abuse, threats, and ridicule;
and therefore I all the more cherish the friendly hand such a large
assembly has gathered together to hold out to me to-day to give me
fresh courage. You all know how fond I am of Trieste; but it is the
very hardest place I ever worked in, and eleven years of it have pretty
nearly broken me up. Nevertheless I shall always, please God, wherever
I am, ‘open my mouth for the dumb,’ and adhere to my favourite motto:
‘Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra.’”
For the first time this summer Isabel and her husband found that
swimming in the sea, which had been one of their favourite recreations
at Trieste, no longer agreed with them, and they came reluctantly to
the conclusion that their swimming must go the way of the fencing,
and that the days of their more active physical exercises were over.
For the first time also in all the twenty-two years of their married
life they began to shirk the early rising, and now no longer got up at
3 or 4 a.m., but at the comparatively late hour of 6 or 6.30 a.m. In
November Burton had a serious attack of gout, which gave him agonies of
pain; and it was at last borne in upon him that he would have to make
up his mind henceforth to be more or less of an invalid. Simultaneously
Isabel was ill from peritonitis. There seemed to be a curious sympathy
between the two, which extended to all things, even to their physical
health. On December 6 Burton put the following in his diary in red ink:
“_This day eleven years I came here. What a shame!_”
Early in 1884 Isabel came in for a small legacy of £500, which was
useful to them at the time, as they were far from being well off,
and had incurred many expenses consequent on their change of house.
She expended the whole of it in additional comforts for her husband
during his illness, which unfortunately seemed to get more serious as
time went on. In February he quite lost the use of his legs for eight
months, which of necessity kept him much in the house. It was during
this period that he began his great work _Alf Laylah wa Laylah_,
or _The Arabian Nights_. When I say he began it, that is not
strictly speaking correct, for he had been gathering material for
years. He merely took in hand the matter which he had already collected
thirty years before. He worked at it _con amore_, and it was very
soon necessary to call in an amanuensis to copy his manuscript.
This year was uneventful. They were absent from Trieste a good deal on
“cures” and short excursions. Burton’s health gave him a great deal
of trouble; but whenever he was well enough, or could find time from
his official duties, he devoted himself to his translation of _The
Arabian Nights_. Isabel also worked hard in connexion with it in
another way. She had undertaken the financial part of the business, and
sent out no less than thirty-four thousand circulars to people with a
view to their buying copies of the book as it came out.
In January and February, 1885, Burton was so ill that his wife implored
him to throw up the Consular Service, and live in a place which suited
him, away from Trieste. Of course that meant that they would have to
live in a very small way; for if they gave up their appointment at that
time and forfeited the salary, they would have been very poor. Still,
so impressed was Isabel that the winter in Trieste did not agree with
her husband, that she said, “You must never winter here again”; but he
said, “I quite agree with you there--we will never winter here again;
but I won’t throw up the Service until I either get Morocco or they let
me retire on full pension.” She then said, “When we go home again, that
is what we will try for, that you may retire on full pension, which
will be only six years before your time.” Henceforth she tried for only
two things: one, that he might be promoted to Morocco, because it was
his pet ambition to be Consul there before he died; the other, failing
Morocco, he should be allowed to retire on full pension on account of
his health. Notwithstanding that she moved heaven and earth to obtain
this latter request, it was never granted.
In the meantime they were busy writing together the index to _The
Arabian Nights_. On Thursday, February 12, she said to him, “Now
mind, to-morrow is Friday the 13th. It is our unlucky day, and we have
got to be very careful.”
When the morning dawned, they heard of the death of one of their
greatest friends, General Gordon, which had taken place on January 26
at Kartoum; but the news had been kept from them. At this sad event
Isabel writes, “We both collapsed together, were ill all day, and
profoundly melancholy.”
CHAPTER XXV
_GORDON AND THE BURTONS_
Oh! bring us back once more
The vanished days of yore,
When the world with faith was filled;
Bring back the fervid zeal,
The hearts of fire and steel,
The hands that believe and build.
The mention of Gordon’s death suggests that this would be the fittest
place to bring to notice the relations which existed between him and
the Burtons. Their acquaintance, which ripened into a strong liking
and friendship, may be said to have existed over a period of ten years
(from 1875 to 1885), from the time when Gordon wrote to ask Burton for
information concerning Victoria Nyanza and the regions round about, to
the day when he went to his death at Kartoum. Long before they met in
the flesh, Gordon and Burton knew each other in the spirit, and Gordon
thought he saw in Burton a man after his own heart. In many respects
he was right. The two men were curiously alike in their independence
of thought and action, in their chivalrous devotion to honour and
duty, in their absolute contempt for the world’s opinion, in their
love of adventure, in their indifference to danger, in their curious
mysticism and fatalism, and in the neglect which each suffered from the
Government until it was too late. They were both born leaders of men,
and for that reason indifferent followers, incapable of running quietly
in the official harness. Least of all could they have worked together,
for they were too like one another in some things, and too unlike in
others. Burton saw this from the first, and later Gordon came to see
that his view was the right one. But it never prevented either of them
from appreciating the great qualities in the other.
The correspondence between Gordon and the Burtons was voluminous. Lady
Burton kept all Gordon’s letters, intending to publish them some day.
I am only carrying out her wishes in publishing them here. Both Gordon
and Burton were in the habit of writing quite freely on men and things,
and therefore it has been found necessary to suppress some of the
letters; but those given will, I think, be found of general interest.
The first letter Gordon wrote to Burton was about fifteen months after
he had taken up the Governorship of the Equatorial Provinces. It was as
follows:
“BEDDEN, SOUTH OF GONDOKORO[24] 23 MILES,
“_July 17, 1875_.
“MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,
“Though I have not had the honour of meeting you, I hope you
will not object to give me certain information which I imagine
you are most capable of doing. I will first relate to you my
proposed movements. At this moment I am just starting from this
station for the South. You are aware that hitherto the Nile
from about eighteen miles south of Gondokoro to the junction
of it with the Unyame Hor (Apuddo, Hiameye, Dufte, or Mahadé,
as different people call it) has been considered impassable
and a torrential stream. Being very much bothered with the
difficulties of the land route for this distance, I thought I
would establish ports along the river, hoping to find it in
steps with portions which might be navigable, instead of what
it was supposed to be--viz. a continuous rapid. Happily I came
on the river at the commencement of its rise at end of March,
and found it navigable as far as Kerri, which is forty-six miles
south of Gondokoro, and about forty miles north of the point
where the Nile is navigable to the lake. As far south as one
can see from Kerri the river looks good, for the highlands do
not approach one another. I have already a station at Mahadé,
and one at Kerri, and there remains for me to make another
midway between Kerri and Mahadé, to complete my communication
with the lake. I go very slowly, and make my stations as I
proceed. I cannot reconnoitre between Kerri and Mahadé, but
am obliged, when once I move, to move for a permanent object.
If I reconnoitred, it would cost me as much time as if I was
going to establish myself permanently, and also would alarm the
natives, who hitherto have been quiet enough. I do not think
that there are any properly so-called cataracts between Kerri
and the lake. There may be bad rapids; but as the bed of the
river is so narrow there will be enough water for my boats, and
if the banks are not precipices I count on being able to haul
my boats through. We have hauled them through a gap sixty-five
yards wide at Kerri, where the Nile has a tremendous current.
Now Kerri is below the junction of the Nile and the Asua; while
Mahadé, where all agree the other rapids are, is above the
junction; so that I may hope at Mahadé to have a less violent
current to contend with, and to have the Asua waters in some
degree cushioning up that current. I have little doubt of being
able to take my steamer (the one constructed by Baker’s[25]
engineers at Gondokoro) up to Kerri, for I have already there
boats of as great a draught or water. From Mahadé it is some one
hundred and thirty miles to Magungo. About seventy miles south
of Mahadé a split takes place in the river: one branch flows
from east, another from west. I imagine that to north of the
lake a large accumulation of aquatic vegetation has taken place,
and eventually has formed this isle. Through this vegetation
the Victoria Nile has cut a passage to the east, and the lake
waters have done this to the west. Baker passed through a narrow
passage from the lake to the Victoria Nile channel. From Magungo
the Victoria Nile is said to be a torrent to within eighteen
miles of Karuma Falls. Perhaps it is also in steps. Karuma Falls
may be passable or not. And then we have Isamba and Ripon Falls.
If they are downright cataracts, nothing remains but to make
stations at them, and to have an upper and a lower flotilla. If
they are rapids, there must be depth of water in such a river in
the rainy season to allow of the passage of boats, if you have
power to stem the current.
“I now come to Victoria Nyanza; and about this I want to ask you
some questions--viz. What is the north frontier of Zanzibar? And
have we any British interests which would be interfered with by
a debouch of the Egyptians on the sea? Another query is, If the
coast north of Equator does not belong to Zanzibar, in whose
hands is it? Are the Arabs there refugees from the Wahhabees
of Arabia?--for if so, they would be deadly hostile to Egypt.
To what limit inland are the people acquainted with partial
civilization, or in trade with the coast, and accordingly
supplied with firearms? Could I count on virgin native tribes
from Lake Baringo or Ngo to Mount Kenia--tribes not in close
communication with the coast Arabs?
“My idea is, that till the core of Africa is pierced from the
coast but little progress will take place among the hordes of
natives in the interior. Personally I would wish a route to
sea, for the present route is more or less hampered by other
governors of provinces. By the sea route I should be free. The
idea is entirely my own; and I would ask you not to mention it,
as (though you are a consul and I have also been one) you must
know that nothing would delight the Zanzibar Consul better than
to have the thwarting of such a scheme, inasmuch as it would
bring him into notice and give him opportunity to write to F. O.
I do not myself wish to go farther east than Lake Baringo or
Ngo. But whether Egypt is allowed a port or not on the coast,
at any rate I may be allowed to pass my caravans through to
Zanzibar and to get supplies thence.
“When I contrast the comparative comfort of my work with
the miseries you and other travellers have gone through, I
have reason to be thankful. Dr. Kraft talks of the River
Dana--debouching into sea under the name of river--as navigable
from Mount Kenia. If so--and rivers are considered highways and
free to all flags--I would far sooner have my frontier at Mount
Kenia than descend to the lower lands.
“Believe me, with many excuses for troubling you,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
Burton, who possessed a great and personal knowledge of the Nile Basin
and the tribes inhabiting it, cordially answered Gordon’s letter,
giving him full information and many valuable hints. Henceforward the
two men frequently corresponded, and got to know one another very well
on paper. The next letter of Gordon’s which I am permitted to give was
written the following year:
“LARDO, _October 12, 1876_.
“MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,
“Thank you for your letter July 13, which I received proceeding
from the Lake Albert to this place. I came down from Magungo
here in eight days, and could have done it in six days. This
is a great comfort to me, and I am proud of my road and of
the herds of cattle the natives pasture along either side of
it without fear. I have been up the Victoria Nile from Mrooli
to near Urmdogani, and seen Long’s lake--viz. Lake Mesanga. It
is a vast lake, but of still shallow water. The river seems to
lose itself entirely in it. A narrow passage, scarcely nine feet
wide, joins the north end of the Victoria Nile near Mrooli;
and judging from the Murchison Falls--which are rapids, not
falls--I should say Victoria Lake and Victoria Nile contribute
very little to the true Nile. The branch Piaggia saw is very
doubtful. I could not find it, and the boatmen seem very hazy
as to its existence. As for Gessi’s[26] branch north of Albert
Lake, I could not find that either. And, _entre nous_, I
believe in neither of the two branches. The R. G. S. will have
my maps of the whole Nile from Berber to Urmdogani on a large
scale, and they will show the nature of the river. I go home
on leave (D.V.) in January for six months, and then come out
again to finish off. You would learn my address from Cox & Co.,
Craig’s Court. I would be glad to meet you; for I believe you
are not one of those men who bother people, and who pump you in
order that they, by writing, might keep themselves before the
world. If it was not such a deadly climate, you would find much
to interest you in these parts; but it is _very deadly_. An
Arab at Mtesa’s[27] knows you very well. He gave the Doctor a
letter for you. His name is either Ahmed bin Hishim or Abdullah
bin Habíb. I have had, _entre nous_, a deal of trouble,
not yet over, with Mtesa, who, as they will find out, is a
regular native. I cannot write this, but will tell you. Stanley
knows it, I expect, by this time. The Mission will stay there
(Mtesa’s) about three months: that will settle them, I think.
“Believe me, with kind regards,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
Shortly after this, in December, Gordon determined to resign his
official position and return to England, as he had great difficulty
in adjusting matters, so far as finances were concerned, with the
Governor-General at Kartoum. He went to Cairo, and announced his
intention of going home to the Khedive (Ismail), who, however, induced
him to promise that he would return to Egypt. Burton wrote to ask
Gordon to come, on his journey back to England, round by way of
Trieste, and talk over matters. Gordon replied as follows:
“ON BOARD ‘SUMATRA,’ _December 17, 1876_.
“MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,
“I received your kind note as I was leaving for Brindisi. I am
sorry I cannot manage the Trieste route. I am not sure what will
be my fate. Personally, the whole of the future exploration,
or rather opening, of the Victoria Lake to Egypt has not a
promising future to me, and I do not a bit like the idea of
returning. I have been humbugged into saying I would do so, and
I suppose must keep my word. I, however, have an instinctive
feeling that something may turn up ere I go back, and so feel
pretty comfortable about it. I gave Gessi a letter to you. He
is a zealous and energetic, sharp fellow. I shall not, however,
take him back with me, even if I go. I do not like having a man
with a family hanging on one.
“Believe me,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
Burton then wrote to Gordon, urging him to write a book on his
experiences in Equatorial Africa, and asking what his intentions were
about returning. In his reply Gordon first broaches the idea which he
afterwards returned to again and again--namely, that Burton should take
up work in Egypt.
“7, CECIL STREET, STRAND, _January 12, 1877_.
“MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,
“Thank you for your kind note. Gessi wrote to me from Trieste,
dating his letter only ‘Trieste,’ and I replied to that address,
so I suppose the post-office know him. Yes; I am back, but I
have escaped persecution. Wilson[28] I have heard nothing of.
I have not the least intention of publishing anything.[29] My
life and work there was a very humdrum one; and, unlike you,
I have no store of knowledge to draw on. (I may tell you your
book was thought by us all out in Africa as by far the best ever
written.) I am not going back to H. H. It is a great pang to me,
I assure you; but it is _hopeless_, _hopeless_ work.
Why do not you take up the work? You may not be so sensitive as
I am.
“Good-bye, and believe me,
“Yours very truly,
“C. G. GORDON.”
Gordon duly returned to Egypt, for the Khedive held him to his promised
word. He was made Governor-General of the Soudan, Darfur, and the
Equatorial Provinces, which were now reunited into one great whole. It
was necessary for good administration that Gordon should have three
governors under him, one for the Soudan proper, one for the Equatorial
Provinces, and one for Darfur. As soon as Gordon had arranged matters
with the Khedive and entered upon his Governor-Generalship he wrote to
Burton, offering him the post of Governor-General of Darfur.
“OOMCHANGA, DARFUR, _June 21, 1877_.
“MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,
“You now, I see, have £600 a year, a good climate, quiet life,
good food, etc., and are engaged in literary inquiries, etc.,
etc. I have no doubt that you are very comfortable, but I cannot
think entirely satisfied with your present small sphere. I
have therefore written to the Khedive to ask him to give you
Darfur as Governor-General, with £1,600 a year, and a couple of
secretaries at £300 a year each. Darfur is _l’enfer_. The
country is a vast sand plain, with but little water; the heat
is very great; there is little shooting. The people consist of
huge Bedawin tribes, and of a settled population in the larger
villages. Their previous history under the Sultans would show
them fanatical. I have not found them the least so; in fact I
think them even less so than the Arabs of Cairo. If you got two
years’ leave from H.M.’s Government, you would lose nothing. You
know the position of Darfur; its frontier through Wadi is only
fifteen days from Lake Tchad. On the other side of Lake Tchad
you come on another sultanate, that of Bowmon, and you then near
the Gulf of Guinea. Darfur is healthy. You will (D.V.) soon
have the telegraph to your capital, El Tascher. If the Khedive
asks you, accept the post, and you will do a mint of good, and
benefit these poor people. You will also see working out curious
problems; you will see these huge tribes of Bedawins, to whom
the Bedawin tribes of Arabia are as naught; you will trace
their history, etc.; and you will open relations with Wadai,
Baginni, etc. I know that you have much important work at the
Consulate, with the ship captains, etc., and of course it would
not be easy to replace you; but it is not every day you use your
knowledge of Asiatics or of Arabia. Now is the time for you to
make your indelible mark in the world and in these countries.
You will be remembered in the literary world, but I would sooner
be remembered in Egypt as having made Darfur. I hope, if his
Highness writes to you, you will ask for two years’ leave and
take the post as Governor-General. You are Commandant of Civil
and Military and Finance, and have but very little to do with me
beyond demanding what you may want.
“Believe me,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
Burton’s reply was very characteristic:
“MY DEAR GORDON,
“You and I are too much alike. I could not serve under you, nor
you under me. I do not look upon the Soudan as a lasting thing.
I have nothing to depend upon but my salary; and I have a wife,
and you have not.”
Perhaps too Burton was a little annoyed at Gordon apparently taking it
for granted that he would jump at Darfur. Much as he loathed Trieste
and the life of forced inaction there, he felt this might be to
exchange the frying-pan for the fire. Pending Burton’s answer, Gordon
followed up his first letter by two more:
“OOMCHANGA, DARFUR, _June 27, 1877_.
“MY DEAR BURTON,
“Thanks for your letter May 9, received to-day. I have
answered.... _Would you be bothered with him?_ I feel
certain you would not. What is the use of such men in these
countries; they are, as Speke was to you, infinitely more bother
than use. Then why do you put him on me? I have had enough
trouble with them already.
“You will have my letter about Darfur. I must say your task
will not be pleasant; but you talk Arabic, which I do not; and
you will have much to interest you, for most of the old Darfur
families are of Mohammed’s family.
“I dare say you wonder how I can get on without an interpreter
and not knowing Arabic. I do not believe in man’s free-will,
and therefore believe all things are from God and preordained.
Such being the case, the judgments or decisions I give are fixed
to be thus or thus, whether I have exactly hit off all the
circumstances or not. This is my raft, and on it I manage to
float along, thanks to God, more or less successfully. I do not
pretend my belief could commend itself to any wisdom or science,
or in fact anything; but as I have said elsewhere, a bag of rice
jolting along these roads could, if it had the gift of speech,
and if it were God’s will, do as well as I do. You may not agree
with me. Keep your own belief. I get my elixir from mine--viz.
that with these views I am comfortable, whether I am a failure
or not, and can disregard the world’s summary of what I do, or
of what I do not do.
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
“DARA, _July 18, 1877_.
“MY DEAR BURTON,
“I have got round to Dara _viâ_ Toashia, and hope in four or
five days to get to Tascher. The _soidisant_ Sultan Haroun is
said to have left Tamée. The people are very good. They have
been driven into this revolt. Most of the tribes have given in
their subscription. The Fors, or original natives of the land,
are the only people partially in revolt. Dar For is the land of
Fors, as Dar Fertit is the land of the Fertits. You would find
much to interest you here, for the Ulemas are well-read people,
and know the old history. I found a lot of chain armour here,
just like the armour of Saladin’s people, time of the Crusades,
with old helmets, some embossed with gold. They were taken from
the Sultan Ibrahim’s bodyguard when he was killed. The sheep are
wonderful; some with a regular mane. The people would delight in
the interest you would take in them. When the Egyptians took the
country here, they seized an ancient mosque for a mug. I have
given it back and endowed it. There was a great ceremony, and
the people are delighted. It is curious how these Arab tribes
came up here. It appears those of Biernan and Bagerini came
from Tripoli; the others came up the Nile. The Dar Fertit lies
between these semi-Mussulman lands and the Negro lands proper.
On the border are the Niam-Niam, who circumcise. I suppose they
took it from these Arab tribes. I only hope you will come up.
You will (D.V.) find no great trouble here by that time, and
none of the misery I have had.
“Believe me,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
A few weeks later Burton’s laconic refusal of Darfur reached Gordon.
That Gordon was nettled a little is apparent from the opening paragraph
of the following letter. But he was far too just not to understand;
and so far from resenting Burton’s frankness, as a lesser man might
have done, this incident only served to make him appreciate his rare
qualities the more:
“EN ROUTE TO BERBER, _October 19, 1877_.
“MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,
“£1,600, or indeed £16,000, would never compensate a man for a
year spent actively in Darfur. But I considered you, from your
independence, one of Nature’s nobility, who did not serve for
money. Excuse the mistake--if such it is.
“I am now going to Dongola and Assouan, and thence to Massowah
to see Johannis,[30] and then to Berberah _vis-à-vis_ Aden,
near your old friends the Somalis. (Now there is a government
which might suit you, and which you might develop, paying off
old scores by the way for having thwarted you; it is too far
off for me to hope to do anything.) I then return to Kartoum,
and then go to Darfur and return to Kartoum, and then go to the
Lakes. Why do people die in these countries? Do not you, who are
a philosopher, think it is due to moral prostration more than
to the climate? I think so, and have done so for a long time.
My assistant, Prout,[31] has been lingering on the grave’s
brink for a long time, and I doubt if he will go up again. I
have no fear of dying in any climate. ‘Men now seek honours, not
honour.’ You put that in one of your books. Do you remember it?
How true it is! I have often pirated it, and not acknowledged
the author, though I believe _you_ stole it. I see Wilson
is now Sir Andrew. Is it on account of his father’s decease?
How is he? He wanted to come out, but he could not bear the
fatigue. All these experiments of the King of the Belgians will
come to grief, in spite of the money they have; the different
nationalities doom them. Kaba Rega,[32] now that we have two
steamers on Lake Albert (which, by the way, is, according to
Mason, one hundred and twenty miles longer than Gessi made
it), asks for peace, which I am delighted at; he never was to
blame, and you will see that, if you read how Baker treated
him and his ambassadors. Baker certainly gave me a nice job in
raising him against the Government so unnecessarily, even on his
own showing (_vide_ his book _Ismaïlia_). _Judge
justly._ Little by little we creep on to our goal--viz. the
two lakes; _and nothing can stop us, I think_. Mtesa is
very good friends, and agrees much more with us than with your
missionaries. You know the hopelessness of such a task, till you
find a St. Paul or St. John. Their representatives nowadays want
so much a year and a contract. It is all nonsense; no one will
stay four years out there. I would like to hear you hold forth
on the idol ‘Livingstone,’ etc., and on the slave-trade. Setting
aside the end to be gained, I think that Slave Convention is a
very just one in many ways towards the people; but we are not an
over-just nation towards the weak. I suppose you know that old
creature Grant, who for seventeen or eighteen years has traded
on his wonderful walk. I am grateful to say he does not trouble
me now. I would also like to discuss with you the wonderful
journey of Cameron, but we are too far apart; though when you
are at Akata or For, I shall be at Berenice or Suakin. It was
very kind of you offering me Faulkner. Do you remember his uncle
in R. N.? Stanley will give them some bother; they cannot bear
him, and in my belief rather wished he had not come through
safe. He will give them a dose for their hard speeches. He is
to blame for _writing_ what he did (as Baker was). These
things may be done, but not advertised. I shall now conclude
with kind regards,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
While Lady Burton was alone at Suez in the March of the following year
(1878), waiting to meet her husband on his return from the expedition
to Midian, Gordon arrived there. He of course hastened to make the
acquaintance of Burton’s wife. He stayed a week at Suez, and during
that time Isabel and he saw one another every day. She found him “very
eccentric, but very charming. I say eccentric, until you got to know
and understand him.” A warm friendship sprang up between the two,
for they had much to talk about and much in common. They were both
Christian mystics (I use the term in the highest sense); and though
they differed on many points of faith (for Isabel held that Catholicism
was the highest form of Christian mysticism, and in this Gordon did
not agree with her), they were at one in regarding religion as a vital
principle and a guiding rule of life and action. They were at one too
in their love of probing
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals know.
With regard to more mundane matters, Gordon did not scruple to pour
cold water on the Burtons’ golden dream of wealth from the Mines of
Midian, and frankly told Isabel that the “Midian Myth” was worth very
little, and that Burton would do much better to throw in his lot with
him. Isabel, however, did not see things in the same light, and she was
confident of the future of Midian, and had no desire to go to Darfur.
When Burton returned from Midian in April, and he and his wife went to
Cairo at the request of the Khedive, they saw a good deal of Gordon
again. He and Burton discussed affairs thoroughly--especially Egyptian
affairs--and Gordon again expressed his regret that Burton did not see
his way to joining him. When Burton was in London later in the year,
he received the following letter from Gordon, in which he renewed his
offer, increasing the salary from £1,600 to £5,000 a year.
[Illustration: CAIRO.]
“KARTOUM, _August 8, 1878_.
“MY DEAR BURTON,
“Please date, or rather put address on your letters. Thanks for
yours of July 4, received to-day. I am very sorry Mrs. Burton is
not well, but hope England has enabled her to regain her health.
My arrangement is _letter for letter_. If you write, I will
answer. I wish you could undertake the Government of Zeyla,
Harar, and Berberah, and free me of the bother. Why cannot you
get two years’ leave from F. O., then write (saying it is my
suggestion) to H.H., and offer it? I could give, say, £5,000 a
year from London to your Government. Do do something to help
me, and do it without further reference to me; you would lift a
burthen off my shoulders. I have now to stay at Kartoum for the
finances. I am in a deplorable state. I have a nasty revolt of
Slandralus at Bahr Gazelle, which will cost me some trouble; I
mean not to fight them, but to blockade them into submission. I
am now hard at work against the slave caravans; we have caught
fifteen in two months, and I hope by a few judicious hangings
to stop their work. I hanged a man the other day for making a
eunuch without asking H.H.’s leave. Emin Effendi, now Governor
of Equator Province, is Dr. Sneitzer; but he is furious if you
mention it, and denies that is his name to me; he declares he
is a Turk. There is something queer about him which I do not
understand; he is a queer fellow, very cringing in general, but
sometimes bursts out into his natural form. He came up here in a
friendless state. He is perhaps the only riddle I have met with
in life. He is the man Amspldt spoke to you about. Amspldt was a
useless fellow, and he has no reason to complain of Emin Effendi.
I have sent Gessi up to see after the slave-dealers’ outbreak. He
was humble enough. Good-bye! Kind regards to Mrs. Burton.
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
Burton again refused, giving the same reasons as before, and
reiterating his opinion that the existing state of affairs in the
Soudan could not last. Gordon, seeing his decision was not to be
shaken, acquiesced, and did not ask him again. Moreover he was losing
faith in the Soudan himself. A few months later we have him writing as
follows:
“KARTOUM, _November 20, 1878_.
“MY DEAR BURTON,
“Thanks for your letter of October 6, received to-day. I have
not forgotten the manuscript from Harar, nor the coins.
“I wish much I could get a European to go to Berberah, Zeyla,
and Harar, at £1,200 or £1,500, a really good man. They keep
howling for troops, and give me a deal of trouble. Our finances
take up all my time; I find it best to look after them myself,
and so I am kept close at work. We owe £300,000 floating debt,
but not to Europeans, and our _present_ expenditure exceeds
revenue by £97,000.
“Rossit, who took your place in Darfur, died the other day
there, after three and a half months’ residence; he is a serious
loss to me, for the son of Zebahr with his slave-dealers is
still in revolt. Cairo and Nubia never take any notice of me,
nor do they answer my questions.
“I have _scotched_ the slave-trade, and Wyld of Jeddah
says that scarcely any slaves pass over, and that the people
of Jeddah are disgusted. It is, however, only _scotched_.
I am blockading all roads to the slave districts, and I expect
to make the slave-dealers now in revolt give in, for they must
be nearly out of stores. I have indeed a very heavy task, for I
have to do everything myself. Kind regards to Mrs. Burton and
yourself.
“Believe me,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.
“P.S.--Personally I am very weary and tired of the inaction at
Kartoum, with its semi-state, a thing which bores me greatly.”
The following year Burton’s prescience proved true. The Soudan was
“not a lasting thing,” so far as Gordon was concerned. Ismail Khedive
had abdicated, and Tewfik his son ruled in his stead; and Gordon,
dissatisfied with many things, finally threw up his post on account of
the Slave Convention. Though he placed his resignation in the Khedive’s
hands, Tewfik begged him to undertake a mission to Abyssinia. While he
was on the journey he wrote the following to Burton:
“EN ROUTE TO MASSOWAH, RED SEA,
“_August 31, 1879_.
“MY DEAR BURTON,
“Thanks for several little notes from you, and one from Mrs.
Burton, and also for the papers you sent me. I have been on
my travels, and had not time to write. An Italian has egged
on Johannis to be hostile, and so I have to go to Massowah to
settle the affair if I can. I then hope to go home for good,
for the slave-hunters (thanks to Gessi) have collapsed, and it
will take a long time to rebuild again, even if fostered by my
successor. I like the new Khedive immensely; but I warn you
that all Midian guiles will be wasted on him, and Mrs. Burton
ought to have taken the £3,000 I offered her at Suez, and which
she scoffed at, saying, ‘You would want that for gloves.’ Do
you wear those skin coverings to your paws? I do not! No, the
days of Arabian Nights are over, and stern economy now rules.
Tewfik seeks ‘honour, not honours.’ I do not know what he will
do with the Soudan; he is glad, I think (indeed feel sure), I
am going. I was becoming a too powerful Satrap. The general
report at Cairo was that I meditated rebellion even under Ismail
the ‘incurable,’ and now they cannot imagine why I am so well
received by the new Khedive.
“Believe me,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
Gordon was not the only one who suffered by the change of Khedive.
Burton, as Gordon had foretold, came to grief over the Mines of Midian,
for Tewfik declined to be bound by any promise of his father; and
though Burton went to Egypt to interview the Khedive, to see if he
could do anything, his efforts were of no avail. Meanwhile Isabel, who
had come to London mainly for medical treatment, was moving heaven and
earth to see if she could induce the English Government to stir in
the matter; but they naturally declined. Isabel wrote to Gordon, who
had now come home from Egypt, on this and other matters. She received
from him the following letters in answer to her request and inquiries
concerning the state of affairs in Egypt:
“U.S. CLUB, PALL MALL,
“4.2.80.
“MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,
“You write to an orb which is setting, or rather is set. I have
no power to aid your husband in any way. I went to F. O. to-day,
and, as you know, Lord ---- is very ill. Well! the people there
were afraid of me, for I have written hard things to them; and
though they knew all, they would say naught. I said, ‘Who is
the personification of Foreign Office?’ They said, ‘X is.’ I
saw ‘X’; but he tried to evade my question--_i.e._ Would
F. O. do anything to prevent the Soudan falling into chaos? It
was no use. I cornered him, and he then said, ‘_I am merely a
clerk to register letters coming in and going out._’ So then
I gave it up, and marvelled. I must say I was surprised to see
such a thing; a great Government like ours governed by men who
dare not call their souls their own. Lord ---- rules them with
a rod of iron. If your husband would understand that F. O. at
present is Lord ---- (and he is _ill_), he would see that
I can do nothing. I have written letters to F. O. that would
raise a corpse; it is no good. I have threatened to go to the
French Government about the Soudan; it is no good. In fact, my
dear Mrs. Burton, I have done for myself with this Government,
and you may count me a feather, for I am worth no more. Will you
send this on to your husband? He is a first-rate fellow, and I
wish I had seen him long ago (scratch this out, for he will fear
I am going to borrow money); and believe me, my dear Mrs. Burton
(pardon me about Suez),
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
“HÔTEL TAUCAN, LAUSANNE,
“12.3.80.
“MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,
“Excuse my not answering your kind note of 5.3.80 before; but
to be quiet I have come abroad, and did not have a decided
address, so I only got your letter to-day. I will come and see
you when I (D.V.) come home; but that is undecided. Of course
your husband failed with Tewfik. I scent carrion a long way off,
and felt that the hour of my departure from Egypt had come, so
I left quietly. Instead of A (Ismail), who was a good man, you
have B (Tewfik), who may be good or bad, as events will allow
him. B is the true son of A; but has the inexperience of youth,
and may be smarter. The problem working out in the small brains
of Tewfik is this: ‘My father lost his throne because he scented
the creditors. The Government only cared for the creditors;
they did not care for good government. So if I look after the
creditors, I may govern the country as I like.’ No doubt Tewfik
is mistaken; but these are his views, backed up by a ring of
pashas. Now look at his Ministry. Are they not aliens to Egypt?
They are all slaves or of low origin. Put their price down:
Riaz Pasha, a dancing-boy of Abbas Pasha, value 350
A slave, Osman, Minister of War, turned out by me 350
Etc., etc., etc., each--five 350 = 1,750
-----
2,450
So that the value of the Ministry (which _we_ think an
enlightened one) is £490. What do they care for the country?
Not a jot. We ought to sweep all this lot out, and the
corresponding lot at Stamboul. It is hopeless and madness to
think that with such material you can do anything. Good-bye.
Kind regards to your husband.
“Believe me,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
“PARIS, 2.4.80.
“MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,
“Thanks for your telegram and your letter. Excuse half-sheet
(economy). No, I will not write to Cairo, and your letters are
all torn up. I am going to Brussels in a few days, and after
a stay there I come over to England. I do not like or believe
in Nubar. He is my horror; for he led the old ex-Khedive to
his fall, though Nubar owed him everything. When Ismail became
Khedive, Nubar had £3 a month; he now owns £1,000,000. Things
will not and cannot go straight in Egypt, and I would say,
‘Let them glide.’ Before long time elapses things will come to
a crisis. The best way is to let all minor affairs rest, and
to consider quietly how the ruin is to fall. It must fall ere
long. United Bulgaria, Syria France, and Egypt England. France
would then have as much interest in repelling Russia as we
have. Supposing you got out Riaz, why, you would have Riaz’s
brother; and if you got rid of the latter, you would have Riaz’s
nephew. Le plus on change, le plus c’est la même chose. We may,
by stimulants, keep the life in them; but as long as the body
of the people are unaffected, so long will it be corruption in
high places, varying in form, not in matter. Egypt is usurped
by the family of the Sandjeh of Salonique, and (by our folly)
_we_ have added a ring of Circassian pashas. The whole lot
should go; they are as much strangers as we would be. Before we
began muddling we had only to deal with the Salonique family;
now we have added the ring, who say, ‘_We are Egypt_.’
We have made Cairo a second Stamboul. So much the better. Let
these locusts fall together. As well expect any reform, any good
sentiment, from these people as water from a stone; the extract
you wish to get does not and cannot exist in them. Remember I do
not say this of the Turkish peasantry or of the Egyptian-born
poor families. It is written, Egypt shall be the prey of
nations, and so she has been; she is the servant; in fact Egypt
does not really exist. It is a nest of usurpers.
“Believe me,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.”
A day or two after the date of this last letter Gordon returned to
London, and went several times to see Isabel, who was ill in lodgings
in Upper Montagu Street, and very anxious about her husband and the
Midian Mines. Gordon’s prospects too were far from rosy at this time,
so that they were companions in misfortune. They discussed Egypt and
many things. Isabel writes: “I remember on April 15, 1880, he asked
me if I knew the origin of the Union Jack, and he sat down on my
hearth-rug before the fire, cross-legged, with a bit of paper and a
pair of scissors, and he made me three or four Union Jacks, of which I
pasted one in my journal of that day; and I never saw him again.”[33]
She also writes elsewhere: “I shall never forget how kind and
sympathetic he was; but he always said, ‘As God has willed it, so will
it be.’ That was the burden of his talk: ‘As God has willed it, so will
it be.’”
In May Burton wrote to Lord Granville, pointing out that Riaz Pasha
was undoing all Gordon’s anti-slavery work, and asking for a temporary
appointment as Slave Commissioner in the Soudan and Red Sea, to follow
up the policy of anti-slavery which Gordon had begun. This Lord
Granville refused.
Gordon went to many places--India, China, the Cape--and played many
parts during the next three years; but he still continued to correspond
with Isabel and her husband at intervals, though his correspondence
referred mainly to private matters, and was of no public interest. In
1883 he wrote the following to Burton from Jerusalem, anent certain
inquiries in which he was much interested:
“JERUSALEM, _June 3, 1883_.
“MY DEAR BURTON,
“I have a favour to ask, which I will begin with, and then go
on to other subjects. In 1878 (I think) I sent you a manuscript
in Arabic, copy of the manuscript you discovered in Harar. I
want you to lend it to me for a month or so, and will ask you
in sending it to register it. This is the favour I want from
you. I have time and means to get it fairly translated, and I
will do this for you. I will send you the translation and the
original back; and if it is worth it, you will publish it.
I hope you and Mrs. Burton are well. Sorry that £ _s._ _d._
keep you away from the East, for there is much to interest here
in every way, and you would be useful to me as an encyclopædia
of oriental lore; as it is, Greek is looked on by me as
hieroglyphics.
[Illustration: Hand written letter from C. G. Gordon]
“Here is result of my studies: The whole of the writers on
Jerusalem, with few exceptions, fight for Zion on the Western
Hill, and put the whole Jerusalem in tribe Benjamin! I have
worked this out, and to me it is thus: The whole question turns
on the position of En-shemesh, which is generally placed,
for no reason I know of, at Ain Hand. I find Kubbat el Sama,
which corresponds to Bæthsamys of the Septuagint, at the north
of Jerusalem, and I split Jerusalem by the Tyropœan Valley
(_alias_ the Gibeon of Eden, of which more another time).
“Anyway one can scarcely cut Judah out of Jerusalem altogether;
yet that is always done, except by a few. If the juncture is
as I have drawn it, it brings Gibeon, Nob, and Mizpah all down
too close to Jerusalem on the Western Hills. This is part of my
studies. Here is the Skull Hill north of the City (traced from
map, ordnance of 1864), which I think is the Golgotha; for the
victims were to be slain on north of altar, not west, as the
Latin Holy Sepulchre. This hill is close to the old church of
St. Stephen, and I believe that eventually near here will be
found the Constantine churches.
“I have been, and still am, much interested in these parts,
and as it is cheap I shall stop here. I live at Ain Karim,
five miles from Jerusalem. There are few there who care for
antiquities. Schink, an old German, is the only one who is not
a bigot. Have you ever written on Palestine? I wondered you
never followed up your visit to Harar; that is a place of great
interest. My idea is that the Pison is the Blue Nile, and that
the sons of Joktan were at Harar, Abyssinia, Godjam; but it is
not well supported.
“The Rock of Harar was the platform Adam was moulded on out of
clay from the Potter’s Field. He was then put in Seychelles
(Eden), and after Fall brought back to Mount Moriah to till the
ground in the place he was taken from. Noah built the Ark twelve
miles from Jaffa, at Ain Judeh; the Flood began; the Ark floated
up and rested on Mount Baris, afterwards Antonia; he sacrificed
on the Rock (Adam was buried on the Skull Hill, hence the skull
under the cross). It was only 776 A.D. that Mount
Ararat of Armenia became the site of the Ark’s descent. Korán
says Al Judi (Ararat) is holy land. After Flood the remnants
went east to Plain of Shimar. Had they gone east from the Al
Judi, near Mosul, or from Armenian Ararat, they could never have
reached Shimar. Shem was Melchizedek, etc., etc.
“With kind regards to Mrs. Burton and you, and the hope you will
send me the manuscript,
“Believe me,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. G. GORDON.
“P.S.--Did you ever get the £1,000 I offered you on part of
ex-Khedive for the Mines of Midian?”
Some six months after the date of this letter Gordon left England for
the Soudan, and later went to Kartoum, with what result all the world
knows. Burton said, when the Government sent Gordon to Kartoum, they
failed because they sent him alone. Had they sent him with five hundred
soldiers there would have been no war. It was just possible at the
time that Burton might have been sent instead of Gordon; and Isabel,
dreading this, wrote privately to the Foreign Office, unknown to her
husband, to let them know how ill he then was.
The Burtons were profoundly moved at the death of Gordon; they both
felt it with a keen sense of personal loss. Isabel relates that in
one of the illustrated papers there was a picture of Gordon lying in
the desert, his Bible in one hand, his revolver in the other, and the
vultures hovering around. Burton said, “Take it away! I can’t bear to
look at it. I have had to feel that myself; I know what it is.” But
upon reflection Burton grew to disbelieve in Gordon’s death, and he
died believing that he had escaped into the desert, but disgusted at
his betrayal and abandonment he would never let himself be discovered
or show himself in England again. In this conviction Burton was of
course mistaken; but he had formed it on his knowledge of Gordon’s
character.
I am aware that this chapter dealing with Gordon and his letters is
something of an interpolation, and has little to do with the main
thread of the story; but Lady Burton wished it to be so, and its
irrelevance may be pardoned for the sake of the light it throws upon
the friendship which existed between three very remarkable personages,
each curiously alike in some respects, and in others widely dissimilar.
CHAPTER XXVI
_THE SWORD HANGS_
(1885–1890)
Life is no holiday: therein
Are want and woe and sin,
Death with nameless fears; and over all
Our pitying tears must fall.
The hour draws near, howe’er delayed or late,
When, at the Eternal Gate,
We leave the words and works we call our own,
And lift void hands alone
For love to fill. Our nakedness of soul
Brings to that gate no toll:
Giftless we come to Him who all things gives;
And live because He lives.
WHITTIER.
In May, 1885, Isabel started with her husband for England. They
travelled together as far as Venice, and here, as often, they parted,
and went their separate ways. Burton was ordered to go by sea for his
health, and his wife arranged to proceed by land. She went round by
way of Bologna, and thence travelled _viâ_ Milan and Paris, and
arrived in London on June 2. Her husband joined her twelve days later.
They had two objects in coming to London at this time--one was to
consult physicians concerning Burton’s health, the other to make
arrangements concerning _The Arabian Nights_. The production of
this book may be described as a joint affair; for though the lion’s
share of the work of translating, writing, and correcting proofs
devolved upon Burton alone, the financial part of the work fell upon
his wife, and that it was a big thing no one who has had any experience
of writing or publishing would deny. There were several editions in the
field; but they were all abridged or “Bowdlerized” ones, adapted more
or less for “family and domestic reading.” Burton’s object in bringing
out this great work was not only to produce a literal translation,
but to reproduce it faithfully in the Arabian manner. He preserved
throughout the orientation of the verses and figures of speech instead
of Anglicising them. It is this, combined with his profound oriental
scholarship, his fine old-world style, and the richness, variety, and
quaintness of his vocabulary, which has given to his original edition
its unique value.
In Burton the immortal tales had at last found a translator who would
do them justice, and who was not afraid of prejudices of Anglo-Saxon
Puritanism. Burton’s view of this matter is sufficiently expressed in
the following speech: “I do not care a button about being prosecuted;
and if the matter comes to a fight, I will walk into court with my
Bible and my Shakspeare and my Rabelais under my arm, and prove to them
that before they condemn me they must cut half of _them_ out,
and not allow them to be circulated to the public.”[34] He expressed
his views in this matter to his wife; and though at his wish she did
not read the original edition of _The Arabian Nights_, she set to
work to help him in every way that she could. In fact it may be truly
said that it was she who did all the difficult work of evading the
“vigilance” of certain persons, and of arranging for the publication of
this important book. In order that her husband’s original text might
be copyrighted, she herself brought out an expurgated edition, which
was called the “Household Edition.” By this means she was enabled to
copyright three thousand pages of her husband’s original text, and only
excluded two hundred and fifteen. She says, “Richard forbade me to read
these pages until he blotted out with ink the worst words, and desired
me to substitute not English but Arab society words, which I did to his
complete satisfaction.” Of course to bring out a work of this kind, and
to bear the whole burden of the labour and initial expense of it, was
no ordinary task, and it is to Isabel’s efforts and to her marvellous
business capacity that the credit of publishing the book is due. From
a financial point of view the Burtons had no reason to regret their
venture. At the beginning a publisher had offered Burton £500 for the
book; but Isabel said, “No, let me do it.” It was seventeen months’
hard work, and during that time they had to find the means for printing
and binding and circulating the volumes as they came out. The Burtons
were their own printers and their own publishers, and they made
between September, 1885, and November, 1888, sixteen thousand guineas,
six thousand of which went towards the expenses of publishing and ten
thousand guineas into their own pockets. Isabel writes, “It came just
in time to give my husband the comforts and luxuries and freedom which
gilded the last five years of his life. When he died there were four
florins left, which I put into the poor-box.”
They had a very pleasant season in London. They were mainly occupied
in preparing _The Arabian Nights_; but their labours over for
the day, they went out in society a great deal. Perhaps the most
noteworthy event at this time was that Isabel made a long speech at
St. James’s Hall at a meeting for the purpose of appealing to the Pope
for a Circular Letter on the subject of the protection of animals. The
meeting was in vain.
The first volume of _The Arabian Nights_ came out on December
12, 1885, and the sixteenth volume, the last of the Supplementals,
on November 13, 1888. Thus in a period of three years they produced
twenty-two volumes--namely, ten Originals, six Supplementals, and Lady
Burton’s six volumes of the Household Edition.
In October, 1885, they went down to Hatfield on a visit to Lord and
Lady Salisbury. A week before this Burton, having heard that Sir John
Drummond Hay, Consul at Morocco, was about to retire, applied for
the post. It was the one thing that he had stayed on in the Consular
Service in the hope of obtaining. He wrote a letter to the Foreign
Secretary, which was backed up by about fifty of the best names in
England, whom his wife had canvassed; and indeed it seemed that the
post was as good as assured to him. In the third week in November
Burton started for Morocco in order to spy out the promised land, or
rather the land which he hoped would have been his. Isabel was left
behind to bring out some volumes of _The Arabian Nights_. She
brought them out up to the seventh volume, and then made ready to join
her husband at Gibraltar on his way to Tangiers in January. She says
_à propos_ of her labours in this respect: “I was dreadfully spied
upon by those who wished to get Richard into trouble about it, and once
an unaccountable person came and took rooms in some lodgings which I
took after Richard left, and I settled with the landlord that I should
leave or that person should not have the rooms, and of course he did
not have any hesitation between the two, and I took the whole of the
rooms during my stay.”
In January, 1886, just as she was leaving London, she received a
telegram from her husband saying that there was cholera at Gibraltar,
and she could get no quarantine there, and would not be allowed to
land. But she was not a woman to be stopped; so she at once telegraphed
to Sir John Ayde, who was then commanding Gibraltar, and asked if he
would allow a Government boat to take her off the P. & O. and put her
straight on the Morocco boat. He telegraphed back, “Yes,” whereat she
rejoiced greatly, as she wanted especially to reach her husband in time
for them to celebrate their Silver Wedding together. When she arrived
at Gibraltar, Burton, who was staying there, came off in a boat to meet
her, and they called together on Sir John Ayde to thank him for his
kindness. A few days later the news came to them that the Government
had at last recognized Burton’s public services. It came in the form of
a telegram addressed to “Sir Richard Burton.” Isabel says: “He tossed
it over to me, and said, ‘Some fellow is playing me a practical joke,
or else it is not for me. I shall not open it, so you may as well ring
the bell and give it back again.’” His wife said, “Oh no; I shall
open it if you don’t.” So it was opened. It was from Lord Salisbury,
conveying in the kindest terms that the Queen, at his recommendation,
had made him K.C.M.G. in reward for his services. He looked very
serious and quite uncomfortable, and said, “Oh, I shall not accept it.”
She said, “You had better accept it, Jemmy, because it is a certain
sign that they are going to give you the place--Tangiers, Morocco.”
There is only one thing to be said about this honour--it came too late.
Too late for him, because he had never at any time cared much for these
things. “Honour, not honours” was his motto; and now the recognition
of his services, which might have been a great encouragement ten or
fifteen years earlier, and have spurred him on to fresh efforts, found
him broken by sickness, and with life’s zest to a great extent gone.
Too late for her, because her only pleasure in these things was that
they reflected credit upon her husband; and if he did not appreciate
them, she did not care. Yet of course she was glad that at last there
had come some return for her unceasing efforts, and some admission,
though tardy, of the services which her husband had rendered. It was a
sign too that the prejudice against him in certain quarters was at last
lived down. She wrote to a friend[35]:
“You will have seen from the papers, and I know what pleasure it will
give you, that the Conservatives on going out made Dick Sir Richard
Burton, K.C.M.G.... The Queen’s recognition of Dick’s forty-four years
of service was sweetly done at last, sent for our Silver Wedding, and
she told a friend of mine that she was pleased to confer something that
would include both husband and wife.”
The Burtons crossed over to Morocco from Gibraltar in a flat-bottomed
cattle-tug, only fit for a river; and as the sea was exceedingly heavy,
and the machinery had stopped, the sailors said for want of oil, the
seas washed right over the boat, and the passage was prolonged from two
hours to five. They made many excursions round about Tangiers; but on
the whole they were disappointed with Morocco. They disliked Tangiers
itself, and the Consulate seemed to them a miserable little house after
their palazzo at Trieste. Lady Burton had expected to find Tangiers a
second Damascus; but in this she was sorely disappointed. She wrote to
a friend from there, “Trieste will seem like Paris after it. It has
none of the romance or barbaric splendour of Damascus. Nevertheless,”
she says, “I would willingly have lived there, and put out all my best
capabilities, if my husband could have got the place he wanted, and
for which I had employed every bit of interest on his side and mine to
obtain.” They received a great deal of hospitality in Tangiers, and
inspected the place and the natives thoroughly. Most of the people
looked forward to welcoming them.
On their departure they went to Genoa, which they reached after a rough
voyage, and thence they proceeded by easy stages to Trieste. Lady
Burton arrived home alone at ten o’clock in the evening; and as she
was accustomed to be met by a crowd of friends on her return, she was
surprised to find no one to meet her. When she got to the house, their
absence was explained. Three telegrams were handed to her. The first
was, “Father very ill; can you come?”; the second was, “Father died
to-day”; the third, “Father buried to-day at Mortlake.” As her friends
were unaware of her address the telegrams had not been forwarded, and
they had kept away, so as not to intrude on her grief. The blow was not
altogether unexpected, for Mr. Arundell had been ill for some time; but
it was none the less severe, for she had always been devotedly attached
to her father, and his house had been made a rallying-point for them
when they were wont to return home.
They remained at Trieste three months, during which time the English
colony presented them with a silver cup and congratulations on their
hardly earned honours. Then, as Burton had to consult a particular
manuscript which would supply two volumes of his “Supplemental”
_Arabian Nights_, they left again for England. On their return
to London they took up their work where they had left it a few
months before. In July they had the mortification of finding that
Lord Rosebery had given away the coveted post of Morocco, which had
been as good as promised to them by Lord Salisbury, to some one else.
It was during their few months’ absence from England that the change
of Government had taken place, and Lord Salisbury’s brief-lived
Administration of 1886 had yielded place to a Liberal Government. Such
are the vicissitudes of official life. Had Lord Salisbury been in
office, Sir Richard would probably have got Morocco. It was perhaps
all for the best that he did not get the post, although it was a sore
disappointment to them at the time. Even Lady Burton came to take
this view. She writes: “I sometimes now think that it was better so,
and that he would not have lived so long had he had it, for he was
decidedly breaking up. The climate did not appear to be the one that
suited him, and the anxiety and responsibilities of the post might have
hurried on the catastrophe.... It was for the honour of the thing, and
we saw for ourselves how uneasy a crown it would be.”
Perhaps there was another reason too, for when Lady Burton remonstrated
a Minister wrote to her in friendly chaff: “We don’t want to annex
Morocco, and we know that you two would be Emperor and Empress in about
six months.” This was an evident allusion to the part which they had
played during their brief reign at Damascus. At Trieste there was no
room for the eagles to soar; their wings were clipped.
Seeing that the last hope was over, and the one post which Sir Richard
Burton had coveted as the crown of his career was denied to him, his
wife set to work to induce the Government to allow him to retire on his
pension four years before his time. She had good grounds for making
this request, for his health was breaking, and this last disappointment
about Morocco seemed to have broken him even more. When he told her
that it was given to another man, he said, “There is no room for me
now, and I do not want anything; but I have worked forty-four years for
nothing. I am breaking up, and I want to go free.” So she at once set
to work to draw up what she called “The Last Appeal,” enumerating the
services which her husband had rendered to his country, and canvassing
her friends to obtain the pension. The petition was backed as usual
by forty-seven or fifty big names, who actively exerted themselves
in the matter. It was refused, notwithstanding that public feeling
and the press seemed unanimously in favour of its being granted. The
ground on which it was refused, apparently, was that it was contrary to
precedent, and that it was not usual; but then the case was altogether
an unusual one, and Sir Richard Burton was altogether an unusual man.
Even supposing that there had been a difficulty about giving him the
full Consular pension, it would have been easy for the Government,
if they had been so minded, to have made up to him the sum--only a
few hundred pounds a year--from the Civil List, on the ground of his
literary and linguistic labours and services. It should be added that
this petition was refused both by Liberal and Conservative Governments,
for Lord Salisbury’s second Administration came into office before
the Burtons left England. But there was this difference: whereas Lord
Rosebery reprimanded Burton for his frequent absence from his post,
Lord Salisbury was very indulgent in the matter of leave. He recognized
that Burton’s was an exceptional case, and gave him exceptional
privileges.
[Illustration: LADY BURTON IN 1887.]
They remained in London until the end of the year, and on January 4,
1887, they left England for Cannes, where they spent a few pleasant
weeks, rejoicing in the sun and blue sea and sky. They enjoyed a good
deal of society at Cannes, where they met the Prince of Wales and many
friends. On Ash Wednesday occurred the earthquake which made such a
commotion on the Riviera at that time, and of which Sir Richard Burton
gave the following account:
“A little before 6 a.m., on the finest of mornings, with the smoothest
of seas, the still sleeping world was aroused by a rumbling and shaking
as of a thousand express trains hissing and rolling along, and in a
few minutes followed a shock, making the hotel reel and wave. The
duration was about one minute. My wife said to me, ‘Why, what sort of
express train have they got on to-day?’ It broke on to us, upheaving
and making the earth undulate, and as it came I said, ‘By Jove! that
is a good earthquake.’ She called out, ‘All the people are rushing
out into the garden undressed; shall we go too?’ I said, ‘No, my
girl; you and I have been in too many earthquakes to show the white
feather at our age.’ ‘All right,’ she answered; and I turned round and
went to sleep again.” The result of the earthquake was a great and
sudden exodus from Cannes, and indeed from all the Riviera. Visitors
fled in panic, but Sir Richard and Lady Burton went about their usual
business, and were amused at seeing the terrified people rush off to
the railway-station, and the queer garments in which they were clad.
Shortly after Lady Burton was terribly frightened from another cause.
Her husband had an epileptic fit, and it was some time before she and
the doctors could bring him round again. Henceforth it became necessary
for them to have always with them a resident doctor. They both of them
disliked the idea of having a stranger spying about them very much;
but it was inevitable, for the epilepsy was a new development, and
as Burton says, “My wife felt, though she had successfully nursed me
through seven long illnesses since our marriage, that this was a case
beyond her ken.” So Dr. Ralph Leslie was telegraphed for, and came out
from England to Cannes, where he joined them. Then commenced what they
called their _Via Crucis_ to Trieste. Lady Burton thus describes
her troubles at that time:
“On February 23 we were shaken to a jelly by the earthquakes--three
strong shocks and three weeks of palpitating earth in the Riviera.
On February 26 my poor darling Dick had an epileptic fit, or, more
properly speaking, an epileptiform convulsion, which lasted about half
an hour, and endangered his life. I had six doctors and two nurses, and
we watched and tended him for fifteen days; and I telegraphed for an
English doctor to England by express, who came, and lives and travels
with us, as Richard insisted on coming to Trieste, not to England, and
will return with us. It took us, _after his arrival_, twenty-eight
days to accomplish the twenty-eight hours of express between Cannes
and Trieste in toil, anguish, and anxiety. We arrived April 5 at home
in rest and comfort. He has been making daily progress to health. He
is now out walking with his doctor. We had a consultation a few days
ago. He will always require _great care and watching_ all his
life--diet and internal health; must not climb, as his heart is weak,
nor take Turkish baths, nor overwork; and he may so live fifteen years,
but he may die any moment of heart disease. And I need not say that I
shall never have a really happy, peaceful moment again. In the midst of
this my uncle,[36] who was like my father to me, was found dead in his
bed. Then I have had a bad lip and money losses, and altogether a bad
time of it.”[37]
At Trieste Burton led the life of a confirmed invalid, and his wife
attended him with unfailing devotion, which was in no way abated by
the presence of the resident doctor--“a disagreeable luxury,” as she
called him. They used to sit a good deal under their favourite linden
tree in the garden and receive visitors. Burton’s love for his wife,
always deep, though never demonstrative, seems to have shown itself
more at this time; and in the few remaining years he came to lean on
her more and more, making her his _confidante_ in all things. In
June they celebrated the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, and, owing to her
husband’s illness, nearly all the arrangements fell upon Lady Burton.
It was she who drew up the address which was sent to Her Majesty, and
she also prepared the speech to deliver in case her husband was too
unwell to attend the public dinner in celebration of the event. As Lady
Burton has been accused of being such a bigoted Roman Catholic, it is
only fair to mention that on this auspicious occasion she accompanied
her husband to the official service in the Anglican Church. Her loyalty
to her Queen was unswerving. She was not required to make the speech,
as Burton was well enough to be carried down to the dinner, where he
delivered the oration. It was the only occasion on which he ever wore
his Order of St. Michael and St. George. The effort was so great that
he had to be carried upstairs again the moment his speech was over.
The rest of 1887 was chiefly taken up by a dreary record of failing
health. The Burtons went away for a summer holiday as usual, and during
their absence from Trieste many English Royalties arrived there with
the squadron; but they were unable to receive them. On their return
Dr. Leslie had to leave them, and his place was supplied by another
doctor. It became more than ever necessary that a medical man should
be in attendance, for Lady Burton seemed to suffer in sympathy with
her husband, and as he got worse she became worse too. She writes
about this time: “I am unable to take anything which might be called
a walk. Driving was sometimes very painful to him, and it would not
have been safe to let him go alone.” It was one of her sorest trials
that she could not minister to her husband as formerly; but disease
had laid its hand on her too. Their life at Trieste at this time was
naturally uneventful. Instead of getting up, as they used to do,
and beginning their labours in the small hours of the morning, the
Burtons now rose at seven, and did as much literary work as they could
until nine, when the doctor would come in. At twelve o’clock they had
breakfast, and after that the time was devoted either to more literary
work or recreation. At four they would receive any friends who came
to see them. At half-past seven they dined, no longer at the hotel
as formerly, but at home; and at nine o’clock they retired to rest.
It was about this time that Sir Richard finished the last volume of
his “Supplemental” _Arabian Nights_. The weather was so bad at
Trieste, and his health so uncertain, that the Foreign Office again
gave him leave.
He and his wife came by a roundabout route to England, and saw many old
friends. On October 15 they went down to Folkestone, where they stayed
a few days with his relatives. They crossed on October 26 to Boulogne.
It was Sir Richard’s last visit to England; he never saw his country
again.
At Boulogne they visited once more the old haunts where they had met
for the first time years ago, and renewed acquaintance with the scenes
of their vanished youth. It is worthy of notice how often husband and
wife went to Boulogne together during their married life. It seemed as
though the place was endeared to them by the recollection that it was
here that they had first come together. From Boulogne they went to
Switzerland, where they passed Christmas. When they were at Montreux
they celebrated their wedding day (January 22), and the people in the
hotel overwhelmed them with presents and flowers and pretty speeches.
Lady Burton says, “I got quite choky, and Richard ran away and locked
himself up.” A rather ludicrous incident occurred here. They were
expecting a visit from the famous Elisée Reclus. Lady Burton prepared
herself to receive him with honour, and she had beforehand been warned
of his little peculiarities. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and
some one was announced whose name she did not catch. She greeted
the new-comer with effusion, saying, “Dear Monsieur Réclus, I am so
delighted to make your acquaintance; such a pleasure to know such a
distinguished man.” Her greeting was acknowledged with equal effusion
by her visitor, who then proceeded to pull a key out of his pocket,
and went up to the clock. Lady Burton was somewhat surprised, but she
put it down to a great man’s peculiarity; so she went on talking to
him, and explaining the pleasure which it would give Sir Richard to
make his acquaintance, when the door was opened again, and the servant
announced, “Monsieur Réclus.” The man she had been talking to was the
clock-winder.
From Montreux they toured about Switzerland for some few weeks, and in
March they returned again to Trieste, where they remained off and on
until November.
During the summer Burton’s health, fortified by continual change
of air and scene, improved a good deal. The Foreign Office was most
indulgent in the amount of liberty which it gave to him. Lord Salisbury
was now at the head of affairs; and though the Government did not see
their way to allowing Burton to retire on full pension, they granted
him what was almost the same thing--frequent and extended leaves; and
it must be remembered too the time of his Consular service was now fast
drawing to a close. Lady Burton always said that, next to Lord Derby,
Lord and Lady Salisbury were their best friends. About this time Lady
Salisbury wrote to her:
“HATFIELD HOUSE, HATFIELD, HERTS, _July 21, 1889_.
“MY DEAR LADY BURTON,
“I am very glad to hear so good an account of you and Sir
Richard. We are here as busy as usual at this time of year.
We have had great doings for the Shah, who is still in this
country. He dined and slept here one night about a fortnight
ago, and we had a garden-party for him next day. He behaved very
well, and gives me the idea of being an able man; though whether
he will think England a stronger friend than Russia remains to
be seen. I sometimes fear he will carry away a greater idea of
our riches and luxury than of our strength, but _qui vivra,
verra_.
“We are now up to our lips in a royal marriage. It is to take
place next Saturday, and will I dare say be a very pretty
sight. The young lady[38] is very happy by all accounts, and
looks quite radiant. Politics are pretty quiet, and there are
as few mistakes made as you can expect in the fourth year of
a Government. I think we are rather losing in London, but are
gaining in other places. On the whole all things are very quiet.
With kind regards to Sir Richard,
“Believe me,
“Yours very sincerely,
“G. SALISBURY.”
In November the Burtons started, _viâ_ Brindisi, for Malta, where they
passed a pleasant month, met many friends, and enjoyed themselves very
much. From Malta they went to Tunis, and renewed their acquaintance
with the Bedawin and the Arab tents. It was their last glimpse of the
desert life which they loved so well. Among other places they visited
the ruins of Carthage, and made as many excursions into the interior as
it was possible, considering the state of Sir Richard’s health. From
Tunis they went by train to Algiers, starting on the journey at 5.15 on
a cold January morning. When they reached Algiers, they were delighted
with it at first; but they soon tired. Even an expedition to the baths
of Hammám R’irha did not reconcile them to the place, and they left
it early in March, going by boat to Marseilles, and then travelling
homewards by way of the Riviera to Genoa, and thence to Venice. They
crossed to Trieste the following day, having been absent more than four
months.
[Illustration: A NATIVE LADY, TUNIS.]
They remained at Trieste until July 1, when they started for their
last summer trip. The heat in Trieste during July and August is almost
insupportable. They went to Innsbruck, Zurich, Davos Platz, Regatz,
and other places. They were counting the months to the day when Burton
would complete his term in the Consular Service, and would be permitted
to retire on his pension. From Zurich Lady Burton wrote to a friend[39]:
“We go back (D.V.) September 1 or thereabouts, stay three months, and
then winter in Greece and Constantinople. In March Dick’s service is
ended, and between that and August we pack up, settle our affairs,
and come home for good. In one sense I am glad, because he yearns for
a little flat in London; we shall be in the land of good advice and
nourishment; and, God willing, I shall have brought him home safe and
sound after thirty years’ perils and dangers by health and land and
sea. On the other hand, it is a wrench to give up my nice home. I
have the whole of the second and top floor now, and I have made it so
pretty, and I love Trieste and the life of my friends. I don’t know
how I shall concentrate myself and my belongings into a vulgar little
flat--on small means. If you see any flat likely to suit us, let me
know.”
It was during this time in Switzerland that Burton made his wife his
literary executrix. He called her into his room one day, and dictated
to her a list of private papers which he wished to be burned in the
event of his death, and gave her three signed documents, one of which
ran as follows:
“In the event of my death, I bequeath especially to my wife,
Isabel Burton, every book, paper, or manuscript, to be
overhauled and examined by her only, and to be dealt with
entirely at her own discretion, and in the manner she thinks
best, having been my sole helper for thirty years.
(Signed) “RICHARD F. BURTON.”
On September 7 they returned to Trieste together for the last time.
They were both very much better for the good air in Switzerland, and
settled down again to their quiet literary life, full of occupations
for the present and plans for the future. Lady Burton was especially
busy during these six weeks in helping her husband to sort and arrange
his manuscripts and papers, and he worked as usual at three or four
books at a time, especially his _Scented Garden_, which was now
nearing completion.
I should like to interpolate here a beautiful and characteristic
letter Lady Burton wrote, on October 10, to a friend, Madame de
Gutmansthal-Benvenuti, who had just lost her husband:
“You need no letter from me to tell you how my heart is grieving for
you, and with you, in this greatest trial woman can ever know--the
trial before which my own head is ever bowed down, and my heart
shrinking from in terror. And it has fallen on you, my best and dearest
friend. But you have such consolations. He was a religious man, and
died with the Sacraments, and you are sure of a happy meeting, just
as if he had gone on a journey to wait for you; but _more surely to
meet_ than if he had gone on an earthly journey. You have your dear
children to live for, and that must now be your _only_ thought,
and taking care of your health for that purpose. All of us, who love
you, are thinking of you and praying for you.”
Ten days later the trial she so much dreaded had come upon her. And
here for a space Lady Burton will speak in her own words.
CHAPTER XXVII
_THE SWORD FALLS_
1890
Life is a sheet of paper white,
Whereon each one of us may write
His word or two, and then comes night.
LOWELL.
“Let me recall the last happy day of my life. It was Sunday, October
19, 1890. I went out to Communion and Mass at eight o’clock, came
back, and kissed my husband at his writing. He was engaged on the last
page of _The Scented Garden_, which had occupied him seriously
only six actual months, not thirty years, as the press said. He said
to me, ‘To-morrow I shall have finished this, and I promise you that
I will never write another book on this subject. I will take to our
biography.’ And I said, ‘What a happiness that will be!’ He took his
usual walk of nearly two hours in the morning, breakfasting well.
“That afternoon we sat together writing an immense number of letters,
which, when we had finished, I put on the hall table to be posted on
Monday morning. Each letter breathed of life and hope and happiness;
for we were making our preparations for a delightful voyage to Greece
and Constantinople, which was to last from November 15 to March 15. We
were to return to Trieste from March 15 till July 1. He would be a free
man on March 19, and those three months and a half we were to pack up,
make our preparations, wind up all our affairs, send our heavy baggage
to England, and, bidding adieu to Trieste, we were to pass July and
August in Switzerland, arrive in England in September, 1891, look for a
little flat and a little cottage, unpack, and settle ourselves to live
in England.
“The only difference remarkable on this particular Sunday, October 19,
was, that whereas my husband was dreadfully punctual, and with military
precision as the clock struck we had to be in our places at the table
at half-past seven, he seemed to dawdle about the room putting things
away. He said to me, ‘You had better go in to table’; and I answered,
‘No, darling, I will wait for you’; and we went in together. He dined
well, but sparingly; he laughed, talked, and joked. We discussed our
future plans and preparations, and he desired me on the morrow to
write to Sir Edmund Monson, and several other letters, to forward the
preparations. We talked of our future life in London, and so on. About
half-past nine he got up and went to his bedroom, accompanied by the
doctor and myself, and we assisted him at his toilet. I then said
the night prayers to him, and whilst I was saying them a dog began
that dreadful howl which the superstitious say denotes a death. It
disturbed me so dreadfully that I got up from the prayers, went out of
the room, and called the porter to go out and see what was the matter
with the dog. I then returned, and finished the prayers, after which
he asked me for a novel. I gave him Robert Buchanan’s _Martyrdom of
Madeleine_. I kissed him and got into bed, and he was reading in bed.
“At twelve o’clock, midnight, he began to grow uneasy. I asked him
what ailed him, and he said, ‘I have a gouty pain in my foot. When did
I have my last attack?’ I referred to our journals, and found it was
three months previously that he had had a real gout, and I said, ‘You
know that the doctor considers it a safety-valve that you should have
a healthy gout in your feet every three months for your head and your
general health. Your last attack was three months ago at Zurich, and
your next will be due next January.’ He was then quite content; and
though he moaned and was restless, he tried to sleep, and I sat by him
magnetizing the foot locally, as I had the habit of doing, to soothe
the pain, and it gave him so much relief that he dozed a little, and
said, ‘I dreamt I saw our little flat in London, and it had quite a
nice large room in it.’ Between whiles he laughed and talked and spoke
of our future plans, and even joked.
“At four o’clock he got more uneasy, and I said I should go for the
doctor. He said, ‘Oh no, don’t disturb him; he cannot do anything.’ And
I answered, ‘What is the use of keeping a doctor if he is not to be
called when you are suffering?’ The doctor was there in a few moments,
felt his heart and pulse, found him in perfect order--that the gout
was healthy. He gave him some medicine, and went back to bed. About
half-past four he complained that there was no air. I flew back for
the doctor, who came and found him in danger. I went at once, called
up all the servants, sent in five directions for a priest, according
to the directions I had received, hoping to get one; and the doctor,
and I and Lisa[40] under the doctor’s orders, tried every remedy and
restorative, but in vain.
“What harasses my memory, what I cannot bear to think of, what wakes me
with horror every morning from four till seven, when I get up, is that
for a minute or two he kept on crying, ‘Oh, Puss, chloroform--ether--or
I am a dead man!’ My God! I would have given him the blood out of my
veins, if it would have saved him; but I had to answer, ‘My darling,
the doctor says it will kill you; he is doing all he knows.’ I was
holding him in my arms, when he got heavier and heavier, and more
insensible, and we laid him on the bed. The doctor said he was quite
insensible, and assured me he did not suffer. I trust not; I believe it
was a clot of blood to the heart.
“My one endeavour was to be useful to the doctor, and not impede his
actions by my own feelings. The doctor applied the electric battery
to the heart, and kept it there till seven o’clock; and I knelt down
at his left side, holding his hand and pulse, and prayed my heart out
to God to keep his soul there (though he might be dead in appearance)
till the priest arrived. I should say that he was insensible in thirty
minutes from the time he said there was no air.
“It was a country Slav priest, lately promoted to be our parish
priest, who came. He called me aside, and told me that he could not
give Extreme Unction to my husband, because he had not declared
himself; but I besought him not to lose a moment in giving the
Sacrament, for the soul was passing away, and that I had the means
of satisfying him. He looked at us all three, and asked if he was
dead, and we all said no. God was good, for had he had to go back for
the holy materials it would have been too late, but he had them in
his pocket, and he immediately administered Extreme Unction--‘_Si
vivis_,’ or ‘_Si es capax_,’ ‘If thou art alive’--and said the
prayers for the dying and the departing soul. The doctor still kept
the battery to the heart all the time, and I still held the left hand
with my finger on the pulse. By the clasp of the hand, and a little
trickle of blood running under the finger, I judged there was a little
life until seven, and then I knew that ... I was alone and desolate for
ever.”[41]
* * * * *
I have given the foregoing in Lady Burton’s own words, as unfortunately
a fierce controversy has raged round her husband’s death-bed, and
therefore it is desirable to repeat her testimony on the subject.
This testimony was given to the world in 1893, when all the witnesses
of Sir Richard Burton’s death were living, and it was never publicly
contradicted or called into question until December of last year
(1896), eight months after Lady Burton’s death, when Miss Stisted’s
book made its appearance. In consequence of the attack made upon Lady
Burton by her niece, which has been repeated and echoed elsewhere,
it is necessary to defend Lady Burton on this point, since she is no
longer able to defend herself. But I should like to reiterate that
the question of Sir Richard Burton’s religion did not enter into the
original scheme of this book. I only approach it now with reluctance,
and that not so much for the purpose of arguing as to what was Sir
Richard Burton’s religion (that was a matter for himself alone) as of
upholding the good faith of his wife. In view also of the peculiar
bitterness of the _odium theologicum_, perhaps it may be permitted
me to say at the outset that I have no prejudice on this subject. I am
not a Roman Catholic, and therefore cannot be accused of approaching
the controversy with what Paley was wont to call an “antecedent bias.”
In this I have the advantage of Miss Stisted, who appears to be
animated by a bitter hostility not only against her aunt but against
the Church of Rome. In her book she asserts that Sir Richard Burton
died before the priest arrived on the scene, and that the Sacrament of
Extreme Unction was administered to a corpse. She also goes on to say:
The terrible shock of so fatal a termination to what seemed an
attack of little consequence, would have daunted most Romanists
desirous of effecting a death-bed conversion. It did not daunt
Isabel. No sooner did she perceive that her husband’s life was
in danger, than she sent messengers in every direction for a
priest. Mercifully, even the first to arrive, a man of peasant
extraction, who had just been appointed to the parish, came too
late to molest one then far beyond the reach of human folly
and superstition. But Isabel had been too well trained by
the Society of Jesus not to see that a chance yet remained of
glorifying her Church--a heaven-sent chance which was not to
be lost. Her husband’s body was not yet cold, and who could
tell for certain whether some spark of life yet lingered in
that inanimate form? The doctor declared that no doubt existed
regarding the decease, but doctors are often mistaken. So,
hardly had the priest crossed the threshold than she flung
herself at his feet, and implored him to administer Extreme
Unction. The father, who seems to have belonged to the ordinary
type of country-bred ecclesiastic so common abroad, and who
probably in the whole course of his life had never before
availed himself of so startling a method of enrolling a new
convert, demurred. There had been no profession of faith, he
urged; there could be none now, for--and he hardly liked to
pronounce the cruel words--Burton was dead. But Isabel would
listen to no arguments, would take no refusal; she remained
weeping and wailing on the floor, until at last, to terminate
a disagreeable scene, which most likely would have ended in
hysterics, he consented to perform the rite. Rome took formal
possession of Richard Burton’s corpse, and pretended, moreover,
with insufferable insolence, to take under her protection his
soul. From that moment an inquisitive mob never ceased to
disturb the solemn chamber. Other priests went in and out at
will, children from a neighbouring orphanage sang hymns and
giggled alternately, pious old women recited their rosaries,
gloated over the dead, and splashed the bed with holy water; the
widow, who had regained her composure, directing the innumerable
ceremonies.... After the necessary interval had elapsed,
Burton’s funeral took place in the largest church in Trieste,
and was made the excuse for an ecclesiastical triumph of a faith
he had always loathed.[42]
These statements of Lady Burton and Miss Stisted have been placed one
after another, in order that the dispassionate reader may be able to
judge not only of their conflicting nature, but of the different spirit
which animates them. Lady Burton writes from her heart, reverently,
as a good woman would write of the most solemn moments of her life,
and of things which were to her eternal verities. Would she be likely
to perjure herself on such a subject? Miss Stisted writes with an
unconcealed animus, and is not so much concerned in defending the
purity of her uncle’s Protestantism as in vilifying her aunt and the
faith to which she belonged. It may be noted too that Miss Stisted has
no word of womanly sympathy for the wife who loved her husband with a
love passing the love of women, and who was bowed down by her awful
sorrow. On the contrary, with revolting heartlessness and irreverence,
she jeers at her aunt’s grief and the last offices of the dead. We may
agree with the doctrines of the Church of Rome, or we may not; the
solemn rites may be unavailing, or they may be otherwise; but at least
they can do no harm, and the death-chamber should surely be sacred from
such vulgar ribaldry! Good taste, if no higher consideration, might
have kept her from mocking the religious convictions of others.
Miss Stisted’s indictment of Lady Burton on this point falls under
three heads:
First, that Sir Richard was dead before the priest arrived.
Secondly, that he was never a Catholic at all, and so his wife acted in
bad faith.
Thirdly, that he “loathed” the Catholic religion.
It is better to deal with these charges _seriatim_.
With regard to the first, we have the positive and public testimony of
Lady Burton, which was never contradicted during her lifetime, to the
effect that her husband was alive when the Sacrament of Extreme Unction
was administered to him. As, however, this testimony has been publicly
called in question, though not until eight months after her death, we
obtained through the kindness of the Baroness Paul de Ralli, a friend
of Lady Burton at Trieste, the following written attestation from the
priest who attended Sir Richard Burton’s death-bed, and who is still
living:
=Declaration.=[43]
“On October 20, 1890, at six o’clock in the morning, I was
called in to assist at the last moments of Sir Richard Burton,
British Consul.
“Knowing that he had been brought up, or born in, the
Evangelical religion, before repairing to his house I went to
see Dr. Giovanni Sũst, the Provost of this Cathedral, in order
to find out from him what I was to do in the matter. He replied
that I should go, and act accordingly as the circumstances might
seem to require.
“So I went.
“Entering into the room of the sick man, I found him in bed with
the doctor and Lady Burton beside him.
“At first sight it seemed that I was looking, not at a sick man,
but rather at a corpse. My first question was, ‘Is he alive or
dead?’ Lady Burton replied that he was still living, and the
doctor nodded his head, to confirm what she had said.
“And in fact the doctor was seated on the bed holding in
his hands the hand of Sir Richard Burton to feel the beat
of his pulse, and from time to time he administered some
_corroborante_,[44] or gave an injection. Which of these
two things he did I cannot now recollect, but it was certainly
one or the other of them. These are things which one would
certainly not do to a corpse, but only to a person still living;
or if these acts were performed with the knowledge that the
person in question was already dead, they could not be done
without laying oneself open to an accusation of deception, all
the more reprehensible if put in operation at such a solemn
moment.
“In such a case all the responsibility would fall upon the
doctor in charge, who with a single word, or even a sign given
secretly to the priest, would have been able to prevent the
administration of the Holy Sacrament of Extreme Unction.
“The second observation which I made to Lady Burton was
one concerning religion--namely, ‘That whoever was of the
Evangelical persuasion could not receive the Holy Sacraments in
this manner.’
“To this observation of mine she answered that some years ago
he had received Extreme Unction, being, if I mistake not, at
Cannes, and that on this occasion he had abjured the heresy and
professed himself as belonging to the Catholic Church. On such a
declaration from Lady Burton, I did that which a minister of God
ought to do, and decided to administer to the dying man the last
comforts of our holy religion. As it seemed to me that there
was not much time to lose, I wished to administer the Extreme
Unction by means of one single anointing on the forehead, as
is done in urgent cases; but Lady Burton said that death was
not so imminent; therefore she begged me to carry out fully the
prescribed ceremony of Extreme Unction.
“This completed, together with the other customary prayers for
the dying, I took my departure. I returned to the house of the
Provost, Dr. Sũst, and laid everything before him, and he said I
had done quite right.
“In a certificate of death drawn up by the Visitatore dei
Morti,[45] Inspector Corani, in the register, under the head of
religion, is written ‘Catholic.’ The funeral also was conducted
according to the rites of the Catholic Church. I am convinced
that Sir Richard Burton really became a Catholic, but that
outwardly he did not wish this to be known, having regard to
his position as a Consul to a Government of the Evangelical
persuasion; and I have built up the hope that the innumerable
prayers for her husband’s conversion and good works of his pious
wife Lady Burton will have been heeded by that Lord who said
unto us, ‘Pray, and your prayers shall be answered,’ and that
his soul will now have been received by the good God, together
with that of the saintly lady his wife.
“One question I permit myself to ask of those who have now
published the Life of Sir Richard Burton, which is this, ‘Why
did they not publish it during the lifetime of Lady Burton? Who
better than she would have been able to enlighten the world on
this point of much importance? Why publish it now when she is no
longer here to speak?’
“Trieste, January 12, 1897,
“PIETRO MARTELANI,
“Formerly Parish Priest of the B.V. del Soccorso,
now Prebendary and Priest of the Cathedral of Trieste.”[46]
I am further able to state that the gross travesty of Lady Burton’s
grief--“her weeping and wailing on the floor,” etc., etc.--is the
outcome of a malevolent imagination, from which nothing is sacred, not
even a widow’s tears. Lady Burton bore herself through the most awful
trial of her life with quietude, fortitude, and resignation.
And now to turn to the second charge--to wit, that Sir Richard was
never a Catholic at all; from which, if true, it follows that he was in
fact “kidnapped” by his wife and the priest on his death-bed.
If this charge did not involve a suggestion of bad faith on the part of
Lady Burton, I should have ignored it; for I hold most strongly that a
man’s religion is a matter for himself alone, a matter between himself
and his God, one in which no outsider has any concern. Burton himself
took this view, for he once said: “My religious opinion is of no
importance to anybody but myself. No one knows what my religious views
are. I object to confession, and I will not confess. My standpoint is,
and I hope ever will be, the Truth, as far as it is in me, known only
to myself.”[47] This attitude he maintained to the world to the day of
his death; but to his wife he was different. Let me make my meaning
quite clear. I do not say Burton was a Catholic or that he was not; I
offer no opinion. But what I do assert with all emphasis is that _he
gave his wife reason to believe that he had become a Catholic_;
and in this matter she acted in all good faith, in accordance with
the highest dictates of her conscience and her duty. Burton knew
how strongly his wife felt on this subject, and how earnest were her
convictions. He knew that his conversion to Catholicism was her daily
and nightly prayer. These considerations probably weighed with him when
he signed the following paper (reproduced in facsimile on the opposite
page). He signed it on the understanding that she was to keep it secret
till he was a dying man:
[Illustration: Gorizia 15^{th}--February 1877
Should my husband Richard Burton be on his death-bed unable to
speak--I perhaps already dead and that he may wish and have
the Grace to retract & recant his former errors and to join
the Catholic Church and also receive the Sacraments of Penance
Extreme Unction & Holy Eucharist he might perhaps be able to sign
this paper or make the Sign of the Cross to show his need
Richard F. Burton]
“GORIZIA, _February 15, 1877_.
“Should my husband, Richard Burton, be on his death-bed unable
to speak--I perhaps already dead--and that he may wish to have
the grace to retract and recant his former errors, and to join
the Catholic Church, and also to receive the Sacraments of
Penance, Extreme Unction, and Holy Eucharist, he might perhaps
be able to sign this paper, or make the sign of the cross to
show his need.
(Signed) “RICHARD F. BURTON.”
I do not analyse the motives which led Burton to sign this paper. He
may have done it merely to satisfy his wife (for, from the Agnostic
point of view, the Sacraments would not have mattered much either
way), or he may have done it from honest conviction, or from a variety
of causes, for human motives are strangely commingled; _but that
he did sign it there is no doubt_. Lady Burton, at any rate,
took it all in good faith, and acted accordingly in sending for the
priest; the priest, on receiving her assurance, acted in good faith in
administering to Sir Richard Burton the last rites of the Church; and
the Bishop of Trieste also acted in good faith in conceding to him a
Catholic funeral. It is difficult to see how any of them could have
acted otherwise.
Lastly, it has been asserted that Sir Richard Burton “loathed” the
Roman Catholic Church; and though he was indifferent to most religions,
he entertained a “positive aversion” to this one, and therefore to
“kidnap” him on his death-bed was peculiarly cruel. I have read most
of Burton’s writings, and it is true, especially in his earlier books,
that he girds against what he conceives to be certain abuses in the
Roman Catholic Church and her priesthood in out-of-the-way countries;
but then he attacks other forms of Christianity and other religions
too. He had a great hatred of cant and humbug under the cloak of
religion, and denounced them accordingly. There is nothing remarkable
in this. We all denounce cant and humbug in the abstract, often most
loudly when we are humbugs ourselves. If Burton attacked Christianity
more than other religions, and Catholicism more than other forms of
Christianity, he probably did so because they came more in his way. His
religious acts generally appear to have been guided by the principle
of “When one is at Rome, do as Rome does.” He was a Mohammedan among
Mohammedans, a Mormon among Mormons, a Sufi among the Shazlis, and a
Catholic among the Catholics. One thing he certainly was not in his
later years--a member of the Church of England. He was baptized and
brought up in the Anglican Communion. He entered at Trinity College,
Oxford, and he joined the Indian army as a member of the Church of
England; but when he was at Goa in 1847 he left off “sitting under” the
garrison chaplain and betook himself to the Roman Catholic chapel, and
availed himself of the ministrations of the Goanese priest. From that
time, except officially, he never seems to have availed himself of the
services of the Church of England. I do not unduly press the point of
his attendance at the Roman Catholic chapel at Goa, for it may simply
have meant that Burton merely went to the chapel and worshipped as a
Catholic among Catholics, just as when he was at Mecca he worshipped as
a Mohammedan among Mohammedans; but it tells against the theory that he
“loathed” Catholicism, as the same necessity did not exist at Goa as at
Mecca. It was a purely voluntary act on his part. Henceforward it would
seem that, so far from being prejudiced against Catholicism, Burton
was always coquetting with it; and if he took any religion seriously
at all, he may be said to have taken this one seriously. The following
facts also go to prove this theory. He married a Catholic wife, of
whose strong religious views he was well aware. Before the marriage
he signed a paper to the effect that his children, if any, should
be brought up in the Roman Catholic faith. He obtained and used the
following letter from Cardinal Wiseman, with whom he was on friendly
terms:
“LONDON, _June 28, 1856_.
“DEAR SIR,
“Allow me to introduce to you Captain Burton, the bearer of this
note, who is employed by Government to make an expedition to
Africa, at the head of a little band of adventurers. Captain
Burton has been highly spoken of in the papers here; and I have
been asked to give him this introduction to you as a Catholic
officer.
“I am, dear Sir,
“Yours sincerely in Christ,
“N. CARD. WISEMAN.
“COLONEL HAMMERTON,” etc., etc., etc.
He habitually wore a crucifix, which his wife had given him, next
his skin; he championed the cause of the Catholic converts in Syria;
and when staying with his wife’s family, he would frequently attend
a service in a Roman Catholic church, and behave in all things as a
Catholic worshipper. I am not saying that these things prove that
Burton was a Catholic, but they afford strong presumptive evidence
that he had leanings in the direction of Catholicism; and undoubtedly
they go to prove that he did not “loathe” the Catholic religion. One
thing is certain, he was too much of a scholar to indulge in any
vulgar prejudice against the Roman Catholic Church, and too much of a
gentleman to insult her priests.
After all there is nothing inherently improbable in Burton’s conversion
to Catholicism. Most of his life had been spent in countries where
Catholicism is practically the only form of Christianity; and such a
mind as his, if on the rebound from Agnosticism, would be much more
likely to find a refuge in the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church than
in the half-way house of Evangelical Protestantism. To a temperament
like Burton’s, steeped in Eastern mysticism and Sufiism, Catholicism
would undoubtedly have offered strong attractions; for the links
between the highest form of Sufiism and the Gospel of St. John, the
_Ecstasis_ of St. Bernard, and other writings of the Fathers of
the Church who were of the Alexandrian school, are well known, and
could hardly have been ignored by Burton, who made a comparative study
of religions.
This, however, is by the way, and has only an indirect bearing on his
wife’s action. She, who knew him best, and from whom he had no secrets,
believed that, in his later years at least, her husband was at heart a
Catholic. He gave her ample grounds for this belief, and she acted upon
it in all good faith. That he may have deceived her is possible, though
not probable; but that she would have deceived a priest of her Church
at the most solemn moment of her life, and on one of the most sacred
things of her religion, is both impossible and improbable. The whole
nature of the woman, her transparent truthfulness, her fervent piety,
rise up in witness against this charge, and condemn it. And to what end
would she have done this thing? No one knew better than Lady Burton
that there is One whom she could not deceive; for with her the things
invisible were living realities, and the actualities of this life were
but passing things which come and fade away.
BOOK III
WIDOWED
(1890–1896)
“_El Maraa min ghayr Zaujuhá mislahá tayarán maksús el
Jenáhh._”
(“The woman without her husband is like a bird with one wing”)
CHAPTER I
_THE TRUTH ABOUT “THE SCENTED GARDEN”_
Now I indeed will hide desire and all repine,
And light up this my fire that neighbours see no sign:
Accept I what befalls by order of my Lord,
Haply he too accept this humble act of mine.
ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
(_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).
Sir Richard Burton’s funeral was attended by a great crowd of mourners
and representatives of every class in Trieste. The Austrian authorities
accorded him military honours, and the Bishop of Trieste conceded
all the rites of the Church. His remains were laid, with much pomp
and circumstance, in their temporary resting-place--a small chapel
in the burial-ground--until his widow could take them back with her
to England. The funeral over, Lady Burton returned to her desolate
house--a home no longer, for the loved presence which had made the
palazzo a home, as it would have made a home to her of the humblest
hut on earth, was gone for ever. The house was but an empty shell. Sir
Richard Burton’s death had been so sudden and unexpected that none
of Lady Burton’s near relatives, her sisters, were able to reach
her in time; and though they had telegraphed to her offering to come
at once, she had replied asking them not to undertake the journey.
And so it came about that, in this hour of sorest trial, she was
absolutely alone. She had no one to turn to in her grief; she had no
children’s love to solace her; she had no son to say, “Mother, lean
on me”; no daughter to share her sorrow. Friends she had in plenty,
and friends such as the world rarely gives, but they could not intrude
their sympathy overmuch at such a time as this. Moreover, she had
concentrated all her affections on her husband; she had lived so
entirely for him, and in him, that she had not formed any of those
intimate friendships in which some women delight. She had, in short,
put all her earthly happiness in one frail barque, and it had foundered.
Hitherto we have followed her through her wedded life, that beautiful
union which was more like a poem than an ordinary marriage. We have
seen how the love which she bore her husband had sanctified her life,
and his, lifting it above and beyond the ordinary love of men and
women, glorifying all things, even her meanest tasks, for they were
done in love’s holy name. We have seen how she knew no fear, spared
herself no pain, heeded no rebuff in the service of the man she loved.
We have followed her in journeyings often, in perils of sea, in perils
of robbers, in perils of the heathen, in perils of the wilderness,
in weariness and sorrow, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst,
and besides these things that were without, bearing those secret
sorrows--“my beloved secret cross,” she called them--which are known
only to the soul and its God. We have seen all this, the full, perfect,
glorious life which she lived by the side of the man she loved; in the
brief survey of the few broken years left to her on earth, we shall
henceforth see her alone--alone, yet not alone, for the Divine love
went with her, and with her also was ever present the memory of an
earthly love, a love purified and holy, growing nearer and nearer to
the love of the perfect day.
If we were to search the wide world over, ransack history, dive deep
into the annals of the past, I doubt if there would be found any more
perfect example of unselfish love than that which is exemplified in the
wedded life of this woman. With her it was always “Richard only.” It
is with this thought in our minds that we approach her crowning act of
self-sacrifice, her last supreme offering on the altar of her love. I
refer to the act whereby she deliberately sacrificed the provision her
husband had made for her, and faced poverty, and the contumely of her
enemies, for the sake of his fair memory.
Lady Burton’s first act after her husband’s death was to lock up
his manuscripts and papers to secure them against all curious and
prying eyes--a wise and necessary act under the circumstances, and
one which was sufficient to show that, great though her grief was,
it did not rob her for one moment of her faculties. As soon as her
husband’s funeral was over, she went back to his rooms, locked the door
securely, and examined carefully all his books and papers, burning
those which he had desired to be burnt, and sorting and classifying
the others. Among the manuscripts was Sir Richard’s translation of the
notorious _Scented Garden, Men’s Hearts to Gladden, of the Shaykh
el Nafzawih_, which he had been working at the day before his
death, completed all but one page, and the proceeds of which he had
told his wife were to form her jointure. As his original edition of
_The Arabian Nights_ had brought in £10,000 profit, the _Scented
Garden_, beside which _The Arabian Nights_ was a “baby tale,”
might reasonably have been expected to have produced as much, if not
more. Indeed, a few days after Sir Richard’s death, a man offered
Lady Burton six thousand guineas down for the manuscript as it stood,
and told her that he would relieve her of all risk and responsibility
in the matter. She might, therefore, easily have closed with this
offer without any one being the wiser, and if she had been inclined
to drive a bargain, she would doubtless have had no difficulty in
securing double the price. As her husband’s death had reduced her to
comparative poverty, the temptation to an ordinary woman, even a good
and conscientious woman, would have been irresistible; she could have
taken the money, and have quieted her conscience with some of those
sophistries which we can all call to our aid on occasion. But Lady
Burton was not an ordinary woman, and the money side of the question
never weighed with her for one moment. How she acted at this crisis in
her life is best told by herself.
“My husband had been collecting for fourteen years information
and materials on a certain subject. His last volume of _The
Supplemental Nights_ had been finished and out on November
13, 1888. He then gave himself up entirely to the writing
of this book, which was called _The Scented Garden_, a
translation from the Arabic. It treated of a certain passion.
Do not let any one suppose for a moment that Richard Burton
ever wrote a thing from the impure point of view. He dissected
a passion from every point of view, as a doctor may dissect a
body, showing its source, its origin, its evil, and its good,
and its proper uses, as designed by Providence and Nature, as
the great Academician Watts paints them. In private life he was
the most pure, the most refined and modest man that ever lived,
and he was so guileless himself that he could never be brought
to believe that other men said or used these things from any
other standpoint. I, as a woman, think differently. The day
before he died he called me into his room and showed me half
a page of Arabic manuscript upon which he was working, and he
said, ‘To-morrow I shall have finished this, and I promise you
after this I will never write another book upon this subject.
I will take to our biography.’ I told him it would be a happy
day when he left off that subject, and that the only thing that
reconciled me to it was, that the doctors had said that it was
so fortunate, with his partial loss of health, that he could
find something to interest and occupy his days. He said, ‘This
is to be your jointure, and the proceeds are to be set apart for
an annuity for you’; and I said, ‘I hope not; I hope you will
live to spend it like the other.’ He said, ‘I am afraid it will
make a great row in England, because _The Arabian Nights_
was a baby tale in comparison to this, and I am in communication
with several men in England about it.’ The next morning, at 7
a.m., he had ceased to exist. Some days later, when I locked
myself up in his rooms, and sorted and examined the manuscripts,
I read this one. No promise had been exacted from me, because
the end had been so unforeseen, and I remained for three days in
a state of perfect torture as to what I ought to do about it.
During that time I received an offer from a man whose name shall
be always kept private, of six thousand guineas for it. He said,
‘I know from fifteen hundred to two thousand men who will buy it
at four guineas, _i.e._ at two guineas the volume; and as I
shall not restrict myself to numbers, but supply all applicants
on payment, I shall probably make £20,000 out of it.’ I said
to myself, ‘Out of fifteen hundred men, fifteen will probably
read it in the spirit of science in which it was written; the
other fourteen hundred and eighty-five will read it for filth’s
sake, and pass it to their friends, and the harm done may be
incalculable.’ ‘Bury it,’ said one adviser; ‘don’t decide.’
‘That means digging it up again and reproducing at will.’ ‘Get
a man to do it for you,’ said No. 2; ‘don’t appear in it.’ ‘I
have got that,’ I said. ‘I can take in the world, but I cannot
deceive God Almighty, who holds my husband’s soul in His hands.’
I tested one man who was very earnest about it: ‘Let us go and
consult So-and-so’; but he, with a little shriek of horror,
said, ‘Oh, pray don’t let me have anything to do with it; don’t
let my name get mixed up in it, but it is a beautiful book I
know.’
“I sat down on the floor before the fire at dark, to consult my
own heart, my own head. How I wanted a brother! My head told
me that sin is the only rolling stone that gathers moss; that
what a gentleman, a scholar, a man of the world may write when
living, he would see very differently to what the poor soul
would see standing naked before its God, with its good or evil
deeds alone to answer for, and their consequences visible to it
for the first moment, rolling on to the end of time. Oh for a
friend on earth to stop and check them! What would he care for
the applause of fifteen hundred men now--for the whole world’s
praise, and God offended. My heart said, ‘You can have six
thousand guineas; your husband worked for you, kept you in a
happy home, with honour and respect for thirty years. How are
you going to reward him? That your wretched body may be fed and
clothed and warmed for a few miserable months or years, will you
let that soul, which is part of your soul, be left out in cold
and darkness till the end of time, till all those sins which may
have been committed on account of reading those writings have
been expiated, or passed away perhaps for ever? Why, it would
be just parallel with the original thirty pieces of silver!’
I fetched the manuscript and laid it on the ground before me,
two large volumes’ worth. Still my thoughts were, Was it a
sacrilege? It was his _magnum opus_, his last work that he
was so proud of, that was to have been finished on the awful
morrow--that never came. Will he rise up in his grave and curse
me or bless me? The thought will haunt me to death, but Sadi
and El Shaykh el Nafzawih, who were pagans, begged pardon of
God and prayed not to be cast into hell fire for having written
them, and implored their friends to pray for them to the Lord,
that He would have mercy on them. And then I said, ‘Not only not
for six thousand guineas, but not for six million guineas will
I risk it.’ Sorrowfully, reverently, and in fear and trembling,
I burnt sheet after sheet, until the whole of the volumes were
consumed.”[48]
As to the act itself I am not called upon to express any opinion.
But there can be no two opinions among fair-minded people as to the
heroism, the purity, and the sublime self-sacrifice of the motives
which prompted Lady Burton to this deed. Absolutely devoted to her
husband and his interests as she had been in his lifetime, she was
equally jealous of his honour now that he was dead. Nothing must
tarnish the brightness of his good name. It was this thought, above all
others, which led her to burn _The Scented Garden_. For this act
the vials of misrepresentation and abuse were poured on Lady Burton’s
head. She was accused of the “bigotry of a Torquemada, the vandalism
of a John Knox.” She has been called hysterical and illiterate. It has
been asserted that she did it from selfish motives, “for the sake of
her own salvation, through the promptings of a benighted religion,”
for fear of the legal consequences which might fall upon her if she
sold the book, for love of gain, for love of notoriety, for love of
“posing as a martyr,” and so on, and so on. She was publicly vilified
and privately abused, pursued with obscene, anonymous, and insulting
letters until the day of her death. In fact, every imputation was
hurled at her, and she who might have answered all her persecutors
with a word, held her peace, or broke it only to put them on another
track. It was not merely the act itself which caused her suffering; it
was the long persecution which followed her from the day her letter
appeared in _The Morning Post_ almost to the day she died. How
keenly she felt it none but those who knew her best will ever know. A
proud, high-spirited woman, she had never schooled herself to stay her
hand, but generally gave her adversaries back blow for blow; but these
cowardly attacks she bore in silence, nay more, she counted all the
suffering as gain, for she was bearing it for the sake of the man she
loved.
And this silence would never have been broken, and the true reasons
which led Lady Burton to act as she did would never have been told to
the world, had it not been that, after her death, a woman, whom she
had never injured by thought, word, or deed, has seen fit to rake up
this unpleasant subject again, for the purpose of throwing mud on her
memory, impugning her motives, and belittling the magnitude of her
sacrifice. It is solely in defence that the truth is now told.
I have never read Sir Richard’s translation of _The Scented
Garden_, for the simple reason that there is none in existence
(notwithstanding all that has been said to the contrary); the only two
copies were destroyed by his widow. But I have read another translation
of the book, mainly the work of a man who was also an Orientalist and
a distinguished soldier, which, though doubtless inferior to Burton’s,
is more than sufficient to give one full knowledge of the character of
the book. I have read also Burton’s original and unexpurgated edition
of _Alf Laylah wa Laylah_ and his Terminal Essay, including the
Section which is omitted in all later editions, and certain other
unpublished notes of his on the same subject. Lady Burton also talked
with me freely on the matter. I know therefore of what I speak, and am
not in the same position as Lady Burton’s latest accuser, who declares
with quite unnecessary emphasis that she has never read _The Arabian
Nights_, and of course never saw the burnt manuscript of _The
Scented Garden_. She is therefore obviously disqualified to express
any opinion on the subject.
So far as I can gather from all I have learned, the chief value of
Burton’s version of _The Scented Garden_ lay not so much in his
translation of the text, though that of course was admirably done, as
in the copious notes and explanations which he had gathered together
for the purpose of annotating the book. He had made this subject a
study of years. For the notes of the book alone he had been collecting
material for thirty years, though his actual translation of it only
took him eighteen months. The theme of _The Scented Garden_
is one which is familiar to every student of Oriental literature.
Burton, who was nothing if not thorough in all he undertook, did not
ignore this. In fact, one may say that from his early manhood he had
been working at it, as he commenced his inquiries soon after his
arrival in India. Lady Burton, it will be seen, says he “dissected
a passion from every point of view, as a doctor may dissect a body,
showing its source, its origin, its evil, and its good, and its proper
uses, as designed by Providence and Nature”; that is, Burton pursued
his inquiries on this subject in the same spirit as that which has
animated Kraft-Ebbing and Moll, and other men of science. But from
what I have read in _The Arabian Nights_ and elsewhere, it seems
to me that Burton’s researches in this direction were rather of an
ethnological and historical character than a medical or scientific one.
His researches had this peculiarity, that whereas most of the writers
on this subject speak from hearsay, Burton’s information was obtained
at first hand, by dint of personal inquiries. Thus it came about that
he was misunderstood. For a man, especially a young soldier whose
work is not generally supposed to lie in the direction of scientific
and ethnological investigation, to undertake such inquiries was to
lay himself open to unpleasant imputations. People are not apt to
distinguish between scientific motives and unworthy ones, and so Burton
found it. His contemporaries and comrades in India did not understand
him, and what people do not understand they often dislike. In his
regiment he soon incurred odium, and a cloud of prejudice enveloped
him. Unfortunately, too, he was not overwise; and he had a habit of
telling tales against himself, partly out of bravado, which of course
did not tend to improve matters. People are very apt to be taken at
their own valuation, especially if their valuation be a bad one. It
must not be supposed that I am giving countenance, colour, or belief to
these rumours against Burton for a moment: on the contrary, I believe
them to be false and unjust; but false and unjust though they were,
they were undoubtedly believed by many, and herein was the gathering of
the cloud which hung over Burton’s head through the earlier part of his
official career. To prove that I am not drawing on my own imagination
with regard to this theory, I quote the following, told in Burton’s own
words:--
“In 1845, when Sir Charles Napier had conquered and annexed Sind, ...
it was reported to me that Karachi, a townlet of some two thousand
souls, and distant not more than a mile from camp.... Being then the
only British officer who could speak Sindi, I was asked indirectly to
make inquiries, and to report upon the subject; and I undertook the
task on the express condition that my report should not be forwarded to
the Bombay Government, from whom supporters of the conqueror’s policy
could expect scant favour, mercy, or justice. Accompanied by a Munshi,
Mirza Mohammed Hosayn Shiraz, and habited as a merchant, Mirza Abdullah
the Bushiri passed many an evening in the townlet, visited all the
porneia, and obtained the fullest details, which were duly dispatched
to Government House. But the ‘Devil’s Brother’ presently quitted Sind,
leaving in his office my unfortunate official; this found its way with
sundry other reports to Bombay, and produced the expected result. A
friend in the secretariat informed me that my summary dismissal had
been formally proposed by one of Sir Charles Napier’s successors, whose
decease compels me _parcere sepulto_, but this excess of outraged
modesty was not allowed.”[49]
Burton was not dismissed from the Service, it is true, but the
unfavourable impression created by the incident remained. He was
refused the post he coveted--namely, to accompany the second expedition
to Mooltan as interpreter; and seeing all prospect of promotion at an
end for the present, he obtained a long furlough, and came home from
India under a cloud. Evil rumour travels fast; and when he went to
Boulogne (the time and place where he first met Isabel), there were
plenty of people ready to whisper ill things concerning him. When he
returned to India two years after, notwithstanding his Mecca exploit,
he found prejudice still strong against him, and nothing he could do
seemed to remove it. His enemies in India and at home were not slow to
use it against him. One can trace its baleful influence throughout his
subsequent career. Lady Burton, whose vigilance on her husband’s behalf
never slept, and who would never rest until she confronted his enemies,
got to know of it. When I know not, in what way I know not, but the
fact that sooner or later she did get to know of it is indisputable.
How she fought to dispel this cloud none but herself will ever know.
Official displeasure she could brave, definite charges she could
combat; but this baseless rumour, shadowy, indefinite, intangible,
ever eluded her, but eluded her only to reappear. She could not grasp
it. She was conscious that the thing was in the air, so to speak, but
she could not even assume its existence. She could only take her stand
by her husband, and point to his blameless life and say, “You are all
the world to me; I trust you and believe in you with all my heart and
soul.” And in this her wisdom was justified, for at last the calumny
died down, as all calumnies must die, for lack of sustenance.
When _The Arabian Nights_ came out, at which she had worked so
hard to manage the business arrangements, Lady Burton did not read
the book throughout; she had promised her husband not to do so. She
had perhaps a vague idea of some of its contents, for she raised
objections. He explained them away, and she then worked heart and soul
to ensure its success. The success which the book achieved, and the
praise with which it was greeted, were naturally gratifying to her, and
did much to dispel any objections which she might have had, especially
when it is remembered that this book yielded profits which enabled her
to procure for her husband every comfort and luxury for his declining
years. It has been urged against her that she was extravagant because,
when Burton died, only four florins remained of the £10,000 which they
had netted by _The Arabian Nights_; but when it is borne in mind
that she spent every penny upon her husband and not a penny upon
herself, it is not possible that the charge of extravagance can be
maintained against her--certainly not in a selfish sense.
When Burton took to translating _The Scented Garden_, he
acquainted his wife to some extent with its contents, and she objected.
But he overcame her objections, as he had done before, and the thought
that the money would be needed to maintain her husband in the same
comfort as he had enjoyed during the last few years weighed down her
scruples; besides which, though she had a general idea that the book
was not _virginibus purisque_, she had no knowledge of its real
character. When therefore she read it for the first time, in the lonely
days of her early widowhood, with the full shock of her sudden loss
upon her, and a vivid sense of the worthlessness of all earthly gain
brought home to her, she naturally did not look at things from the
worldly point of view. She has told with graphic power how she sat
down with locked doors to read this book, and how she read it through
carefully, page by page; and it must be remembered that it was not
Burton’s translation alone which she read, but also the notes and
evidence which he had collected on the subject. Then it was that the
real nature of its contents was brought home to her, and she determined
to act. It has been said that she only “half understood” what she read.
Alas! she understood but too well, for here was the nameless horror
which she had tried to track to earth leaping up again and staring her
in the face. She knew well enough what interpretations her husband’s
enemies--those enemies whom even the grave does not silence--would
place upon this book; how they would turn and twist it about, and put
the worst construction upon his motives, and so blur the fair mirror
of his memory. Burton wrote as a scholar and an ethnologist writing to
scholars and ethnologists. But take what precautions he would, sooner
or later, and sooner rather than later, the character of his book would
ooze out to the world, and the ignorant world judges harshly. So she
burnt the manuscript leaf by leaf; and by the act she consummated her
life sacrifice of love.
I repeat that her regard for her husband’s memory was her supreme
reason for this act. That there were minor reasons is not denied: she
herself has stated them. There was the thought of the harm a book
of this kind might do; there was the thought of her responsibility
to God and man; there was the thought of the eternal welfare of her
husband’s soul. She has stated, “It is my belief that by this act, if
my husband’s soul were weighed down, the cords were cut, and it was
left free to soar to its native heaven.” It is easy to sneer at such a
sentiment as this, but the spiritual was very real with Lady Burton.
All these minor considerations, therefore, weighed with her in addition
to the greatest of them all. On the other hand, there came to her
the thought that it was the first time she had ever gone against her
husband’s wishes, and now that he was dead they were doubly sacred to
her. The mental struggle which she underwent was a terrible one: it
was a conflict which is not given to certain lower natures to know,
and not knowing it, they can neither understand nor sympathize. I make
bold to say that the sacrifice which she made, and the motives which
prompted her to make it, will stand to her honour as long as her name
is remembered.
There remain two other considerations: the first is--Why did she make
this act known to the world at all? Surely it would have been better
from every point of view to have veiled it in absolute secrecy. She
has given the answer in her own words: “I was obliged to confess this
because there were fifteen hundred men expecting the book, and I did
not quite know how to get at them; also I wanted to avoid unpleasant
hints by telling the truth.” In other words, there was a large
number of Burton’s supporters, persons who had subscribed to _The
Arabian Nights_, and all his literary friends, with whom he was in
constant communication, who knew that he was working at _The Scented
Garden_, and were eagerly expecting it. Lady Burton burned the
manuscript in October, 1890; she did not make her public confession of
the act in _The Morning Post_ until June, 1891, nearly nine months
after the event. During all this time she was continually receiving
letters asking what had become of the book which she knew that she had
destroyed. What course was open to her? One answer suggests itself:
send a circular or write privately to all these people, saying that
the book would not come out at all. But this was impossible because
she did not know all of “the little army of her husband’s admiring
subscribers”; she neither knew their names nor their addresses; and
apart from the endless worry and difficulty of answering letters which
such a course would have entailed, a garbled version of the facts would
be sure to have leaked out, and then she would have had to contradict
the misstatements publicly. Or perhaps spurious copies of _The
Scented Garden_ professing to be Sir Richard’s translation might
have been foisted upon the public, and she would have been under the
necessity of denouncing them. So she argued that it was best to have
the thing over and done with once for all, to make a clean breast of
it, and let the world say what it pleased. In this I cannot but think
that she was right, though she often said, “I have never regretted for
a moment having burned it, but I shall regret all my life having made
it known publicly, though I could hardly have done otherwise. I did not
know my public, I did not know England.” Here I think she was wrong in
confusing England with a few anonymous letter-writers and scurrilous
persons; for however opinions may differ upon the act itself, its
wisdom or unwisdom, all right-thinking people honoured her for the
sacrifice which she had made. They would have honoured her even more if
they had known that she had done it for the sake of her husband’s name!
Her latest and most malevolent accuser, Miss Stisted, has also
urged against her that by this act she conveyed a “wrong impression
concerning the character of the book,” and so cast a slur upon her
husband’s memory. A wrong impression! The ignorance and animus of this
attack are obvious. The character of the manuscript was well known: it
was the translation of a notorious book.
The story of Burton’s inquiries in this unpleasant field was known
too, if not to the many at least to the few, and his enemies had not
scrupled to place the worst construction on his motives. His wife
knew this but too well, and she fought the prejudice with sleepless
vigilance all the years of her married life, and by this last act of
hers did her best to bury it in oblivion. Surely it is cruelly unjust
to say that it was she who cast the slur!
And now to refer to another matter. Miss Stisted animadverts on Lady
Burton’s having sold the library edition of _The Arabian Nights_
in 1894 “with merely a few excisions absolutely indispensable.”
“Coming as it did so soon,” she says, “after her somewhat theatrical
destruction of _The Scented Garden_,” this act “could not be
permitted to pass unchallenged.” She not only charges Lady Burton with
inconsistency, but hints at pecuniary greed, for she mentions the sum
she received. Yet there was nothing inconsistent in Lady Burton’s
conduct in this connexion. On the contrary, it is one more tribute to
her consistency, one more proof of the theory I have put forward in
her defence, for the excisions which Lady Burton made were only those
which referred to the subject which was the theme of _The Scented
Garden_. Lady Burton was no prude: she knew that ignorance is not
necessarily innocence. She knew also that her husband did not write
as “a young lady to young ladies”; but she drew the line at a certain
point, and she drew it rigidly. By her husband’s will she had full
power to bring out any editions she might please of _The Arabian
Nights_ or any other book of his. She therefore sanctioned the
library edition with certain excisions, and the reasons which prompted
her to make these excisions in _The Arabian Nights_ were the same
as those which led her to burn _The Scented Garden_.
CHAPTER II
_THE RETURN TO ENGLAND_
(1890–1891)
Not yet, poor soul! A few more darksome hours
And sore temptations met and overcome,
A few more crosses bravely, meekly carried,
Ere I can proudly call the tried one home.
Nerve then thy heart; the toil will soon be done,
The crown of self-denial nobly earned and won.
_From Lady Burton’s Devotional Book “Ten.”_
Lady Burton remained at Trieste three months after her husband’s death.
We have seen how she spent the first weeks of her bereavement, locked
up with his manuscripts and papers. During that time she would see
no one, speak to no one. When her work was done, all her husband’s
wishes as to the disposal of his private papers carried out, and the
manuscripts duly sorted and arranged, she came out from her seclusion,
and put herself a little in touch with the world again. She was deeply
touched at the sympathy which was shown to her. The Burtons had been so
many years at Trieste, and were so widely known there and respected,
that Sir Richard’s death was felt as a public loss. A eulogy of Sir
Richard was delivered in the Diet of Trieste, and the House adjourned
as a mark of respect to his memory. The city had three funeral
requiems for him, and hundreds of people in Trieste, from the highest
to the lowest, showed their sympathy with his widow. Her friends
rallied round her, for they knew that her loss was no ordinary one,
and she had consigned to the grave all that made life worth living for
to her. Nor was this sympathetic regard confined to Trieste alone; the
English press was full of the “dead lion,” and the dominant note was
that he had not been done justice to while he was alive. Lady Burton
was greatly gratified by all this, and she says a little bitterly: “It
shows how truly he was appreciated except by the handful who could have
made his life happy by success.”
Her first public act after her husband’s death was a defence of his
memory. She had fought so hard for him when living that it seemed
only natural to her to go on fighting for him now that he was beyond
the reach of praise or blame. Colonel Grant had written a letter to
_The Times_ anent an obituary notice of Sir Richard Burton, in
which he defended Speke, and spoke of the “grave charges” which Speke
communicated against Burton to his relatives and to the Geographical
Society. Lady Burton saw this letter some time after it appeared. She
knew well enough what it hinted at, and she lost no time in sending a
reply wherein she defended her husband’s character, and prefaced her
remarks with the characteristic lines:
He had not dared to do it,
Except he surely knew my lord was dead.
Lady Burton had soon to face, in these first days of her widowhood,
the problem of her altered circumstances. With her husband’s death his
salary as a Consul came to an end, and there was no pension for his
widow. For the last three or four years, since they had netted £10,000
by _The Arabian Nights_, the Burtons had been living at the rate
of £3,000–£4,000 a year, and had kept up their palazzo at Trieste and
a large staff of servants, in addition to continually travelling _en
prince_, with all the luxuries of the best hotels, servants, and a
resident doctor who always accompanied them. Lady Burton had sanctioned
this expenditure because she wished, as she said, to give her husband
every comfort during his declining days. Moreover, Burton had looked
forward to _The Scented Garden_ to replenish his exchequer. Now
Lady Burton found herself face to face with these facts: the whole of
the money of _The Arabian Nights_ was gone, her husband’s salary
was gone, _The Scented Garden_ was gone, and there was nothing
left for her but a tiny patrimony. It was therefore necessary that she
should rouse herself to a sense of the position. She did so without
delay. She determined as far as possible to carry out the plans which
she and her husband had made when they were looking forward to his
retirement from the Consular service; that is to say, she determined
to leave Trieste, to return to London, take a little flat, and occupy
herself with literary work. It was a sore pang to her to give up the
beautiful home on which she had expended so much care and taste, and
to part with her kind friends at Trieste, many of whom she had known
for eighteen years. At Trieste she was a personage. Every one knew her
and loved her. She knew well enough that when she came back to London
after such a long absence, except by a few faithful friends, she might
be forgotten and overlooked in the rush and hurry of modern life.
Nevertheless her course was plain; she had but one desire; that was
to get away from Trieste as quickly as might be, take her husband’s
remains with her, and lay them to rest in English soil, a rest which
she hoped to share with him before long.
After her husband’s funeral at Trieste, Lady Burton’s first step should
have been the dismissal of her household, except one or two servants.
She did not feel equal to this, however, and difficulties arose which
are touched on in the following letter:
“From the time I lost my all, my earthly god of thirty-five years,
in two hours, I have been like one with a blow on the head. I cannot
write about him; I must tell of myself. Having been eighteen years in
Trieste, it was difficult to leave so many dependent on me, so many
friends to bid farewell, so many philanthropic works to wind up the
affairs of, and I had to settle twenty rooms full of things I could
not throw away. It took me fourteen weeks to do it. During that time
I swam in a sea of small horrors--wickedness, treachery, threats; but
my Triestine friends stuck to me. The authorities behaved nobly, and I
pulled through and got off.”[50]
The next few months were busy ones for Lady Burton. It is hard under
any circumstances to break up a home of eighteen years, and harder
still when it has to be done as economically and expeditiously as
possible. She placed out all her old and trusted servants; she
endeavoured to find friends to take on the care of many of the aged and
poor people who were more or less dependent on her; she wound up the
institutions of which she was President; she paid her debts, and said
good-bye to all her friends. She refused to sell any of the furniture
or effects of the home she had loved so well. She said it would be
like selling her friends. So she packed the few things she thought she
would want to furnish her flat in London, and all her husband’s and
her own personal effects, his library and manuscripts, and she gave
away the rest of the furniture where she thought it would be useful
or valued. These duties occupied her fourteen weeks in all, and she
worked every day early and late, the only break in her labours being
her frequent visits to the _chapelle ardente_ where the remains of
her husband were reposing, preparatory to being carried to England. The
only comfort to her in this time of sorrow was a visit from her cousin,
Canon Waterton of Carlisle, a scholarly and cultured ecclesiastic,
who, in addition to providing her with spiritual consolation, also
gave her much valuable advice as to the disposition of the books and
manuscripts. In order to guard against any misconception, however, I
should like to add that Canon Waterton did not come to Trieste until
some time after _The Scented Garden_ had been burned. That act,
in spite of all that has been said to the contrary, was entirely
Lady Burton’s own act, influenced by no priest, layman, or any person
whatever. She spoke of it afterwards as a secret between herself and
the dead husband.
So this year (1890), the saddest in Lady Burton’s life, came to an
end. On January 20, 1891, she caused her husband’s remains to be
removed from the chapel and conveyed on board the Cunard steamer
_Palmyra_. She herself was going to England by the quicker route
overland.
Her work now being done, a few days later Lady Burton left Trieste for
the last time. The evening before her departure twenty of her friends
came up to spend the last hours with her. She walked round every room,
recalling her life in her happy home. She visited every nook and cranny
of the garden; she sat under the linden tree where she and her husband
had spent so many quiet hours, and she gazed at the beautiful views
for the last time. This went on till the time came for her to leave.
Many friends came to accompany her to the station. When she arrived
she found that she had to face quite a demonstration. All the leading
people in Trieste and the authorities of the city, all the children of
the orphanage in which she had taken so keen an interest, all the poor
whom she had helped, and all her private friends, who were many, were
there to bid her good-bye and offer her flowers. She says: “It was an
awful trial not to make an exhibition of myself, and I was glad when
the train steamed out; but for a whole hour, ascending the beautiful
road close to the sea and Miramar and Trieste, I never took my misty
eyes off Trieste and our home where I had been so happy for eighteen
years.”
On arriving in England, Lady Burton’s first care was to go and see Sir
Richard’s sister and niece, Lady and Miss Stisted, and acquaint them
with the circumstances of her husband’s death, and her intentions. We
will draw a veil over that meeting. She then went on to London and
stayed at the Langham Hotel, intending to remain there a few days until
she could find a lodging. At the Langham her three sisters were waiting
for her.
Two days after her arrival in London, Lady Burton went to see about
a monument to her husband. This monument has been already described,
and it is unnecessary to repeat the description at any length here.
Suffice it to say that it is a tomb, shaped like an Arab tent, of dark
Forest of Dean stone, lined inside with white Carrara marble. The
tent is surmounted by a large gilt star, and over the flap door is a
white marble crucifix. The fringe is composed of gilt crescents and
stars. The door supports an open book of white marble: on one page
is an inscription to Sir Richard Burton; the opposite page was then
left blank. Lady Burton had the tomb fitted up with an altar and other
accessories, so as to make it as much like a _chapelle ardente_
as possible, while preserving its Eastern character. There was room in
the tent for two coffins, those of her husband and herself. Finding
that her purse was too slender to carry out this somewhat elaborate
design, Lady Burton was encouraged by her friends to ask for a public
subscription, with the result that she received the greater part of
the money, but the appeal was not responded to as it might have been.
She found that, owing to the state of the weather, the monument could
not be completed for some months, but she selected the site in Mortlake
Cemetery, the spot which she and her husband had chosen many years
before, and had the ground pegged out. The next day, though very ill,
she, with her sister Mrs. Fitzgerald, went down to Liverpool to meet
her husband’s remains, which were arriving by sea. Lord and Lady
Derby, who had always been her kind friends, had arranged everything
for her, and the next morning Lady Burton went on board ship. She
says, “I forgot the people when I saw my beloved case, and I ran
forward to kiss it.” It was taken to the train, and Lady Burton and
her sister travelled by the same train to Mortlake, where they arrived
that evening. The coffin was conveyed by torchlight to a temporary
resting-place in the crypt under the altar of the church, where it
remained until the tent was erected. The same evening Lady Burton
returned to London, and, her work being done, the reaction set in. She
broke down and took to her bed that night, where she remained for many
weeks. She says: “I cannot describe the horror of the seventy-six days
enhanced by the fog, which, after sunlight and air, was like being
buried alive. The sense of desolation and loneliness and the longing
for him was cruel, and it became
The custom of the day
And the haunting of the night.
My altered circumstances, and the looking into and facing my future,
had also to be borne.”
In the meantime her friends, notably the Dowager Lady Stanley of
Alderley, the Royal Geographical and other Societies, had not been
idle, and her claims had been brought before the Queen, who was
graciously pleased to grant Lady Burton a pension of £150 a year from
the Civil List. This pension, which she enjoyed to the day of her
death, came to her as a surprise, and was not due to any effort of
her own. She would never have asked anything for herself: the only
thing she did ask for was that the nation should help her in raising a
monument to her husband’s honour; but, as we have seen, the nation was
somewhat lukewarm on that point.
At the end of April Lady Burton recovered sufficiently to leave
the hotel, and joined her sister, Mrs. Fitzgerald. She was chiefly
occupied during the next few months in looking out for a house, and
in completing the arrangements for her husband’s final resting-place.
About the middle of June the tent was finished. Sir Richard Burton’s
remains were transferred from the crypt under the church to the
mausoleum where they now rest. At the funeral service Lady Burton
occupied a _prie-dieu_ by the side, and to the right was Captain
St. George Burton, of the Black Watch, a cousin of Sir Richard. There
was a large gathering of representatives of both families and many
friends. The widow carried a little bunch of forget-me-nots, which she
laid on the coffin. This simple offering of love would doubtless have
been far more acceptable to the great explorer than the “wreath from
Royalty” the absence of which his latest biographer so loudly deplores.
When the ceremony was over, Lady Burton went away at once to the
country for a ten days’ rest to the Convent of the Canonesses of the
Holy Sepulchre, New Hall, Chelmsford, where she had been educated, and
which had received within its walls many of the Arundells of Wardour.
She left New Hall much refreshed and invigorated in mind and body, and
for the next month was busy arranging a house which she had taken in
Baker Street. She moved into it in September, 1891, and so entered upon
the last chapter of her life.
CHAPTER III
_THE TINKLING OF THE CAMEL’S BELL_
(1891–1896)
Friends of my youth, a last adieu! haply some day we meet again;
Yet ne’er the self-same men shall meet; the years shall make us
other men:
The light of morn has grown to noon, has paled with eve, and now
farewell!
Go, vanish from my Life as dies the tinkling of the Camel’s bell.
RICHARD BURTON (_The Kasidah_).
The next few months Lady Burton mainly occupied herself by arranging
in her new house the things which she had brought with her from
Trieste. When all was finished, her modest quarters in Baker Street
were curiously characteristic of the woman. Like many of the houses in
her beloved Damascus, the one in Baker Street was unpretentious, not
to say unprepossessing, when viewed from without, but within totally
different, for Lady Burton had managed to give it an oriental air,
and to catch something of the warmth and colouring of the East. This
was especially true of her little drawing-room, which had quite an
oriental aspect. Eastern curtains veiled the windows, the floor was
piled with Persian carpets, and a wide divan heaped with cushions and
draped with bright Bedawin rugs ran along one side of the room. There
were narghílehs and chibouques, and cups of filigree and porcelain for
the dispensing of delectable Arab coffee. Quaint brackets of Morocco
work, Eastern pictures, portraits, Persian enamels, and curios of every
description covered the walls. The most striking object in the room
was a life-size portrait of Sir Richard Burton, dressed in white, with
a scarlet cummerbund, flanked on either side by a collection of rare
books, most of them his works. Many other relics of him were scattered
about the room; and all over the house were to be found his books and
pictures, and busts of him. In fact, she made a cult of her husband’s
memory, and there were enough relics of him in the house to fill a
little museum.
In this house Lady Burton settled down with her sister, Mrs.
Fitzgerald, to her daily life in England, which was mostly a record of
work--arduous and unceasing work, which began at 10.30 in the morning,
and lasted till 6.30 at night. Sometimes, indeed, she would work much
later, far on into the night, and generally in the morning she would do
a certain amount of work before breakfast, for the old habit of early
rising clung to her still, and until her death she never broke herself
of the custom of waking at five o’clock in the morning. At the top of
her Baker Street house Lady Burton built out a large room, or rather
loft. It was here she housed her husband’s manuscripts, which she knew,
as she used to say, “as a shepherd knew his sheep.” They lined three
sides of the room, and filled many packing-cases on the floor. To this
place she was wont to repair daily, ascending a tortuous staircase, and
finally getting into the loft by means of a ladder. Later she had to
abandon this steep ascent, but so long as it was possible she scaled
the ladder daily, and would sit on a packing-case surrounded by her
beloved manuscripts for hours together.
Lady Burton was scarcely settled in Baker Street before her sister
(the one next to her in age), Mrs. Smyth Pigott, of Brockley Court,
Somerset, died. She had to go down to Weston-super-Mare for the
funeral. When that was over she came back to Baker Street, where she
remained over Christmas. She wrote to a friend of hers about this time:
“I dream always of my books and the pile of work. I am worrying on
as well as I can with my miscellaneous writing. Fogs have kept us in
black darkness and pea-soup thickness for five days without a lift, and
with smarting eyes and compressed head I have double work at heart.
I passed Christmas night in the Convent of the Holy Souls. I went in
my cab--the streets were one sheet of ice--and two flambeaux on each
side. In Regent’s Park the fog was black and thick. We had communion
and three masses at midnight. It was too lovely: in the dead silence
a little before midnight you heard the shepherd’s pipe, or reed, in
the distance, and echo nearer and nearer, and then the soft, clear
voices burst into ‘Glory be to God in the Highest,’ and this was the
refrain all through the service. I passed the time with our Lord and
my darling, who had many masses said for him in London and all over
England that night. I am better and have stronger nerves, and am
perhaps more peaceful.”[51]
In January, 1892, Lady Burton went down to her cottage at Mortlake,
which she called “Our Cottage.” In taking this house she had followed
the plan which her husband when living had always adopted, of having a
retreat a little way from their work, where they could go occasionally
for rest and change. They had intended to follow this plan when they
settled down in London. Another motive drew Lady Burton to Mortlake
too: this cottage was close to the mausoleum of her husband, and she
could visit it when she chose. It was a tiny cottage, plainly but
prettily furnished. Most of her relics and curios were housed at Baker
Street, and this place had few associations for her beyond those which
connected it with her husband’s grave. The cottage was covered with
creepers outside, and trees grew all round it. She had a charming
little garden at the back, in which she took a good deal of pride; and
when the summer came she had a big tent erected in the garden, and
would sit there for many hours together, doing her work and frequently
taking her meals out there. She had always lived an outdoor life, and
this tent recalled to her the days in the East. Here, too, she received
a great many friends who found their way down to Mortlake; she was fond
of asking them to come and take tea with her in her tent. From this
arose a silly rumour, which I mention only to contradict, that Lady
Burton was in the habit of receiving her visitors in her husband’s
tomb, which, as we have seen, was also fashioned like an Arab tent,
though of stone.
Lady Burton stayed down at Mortlake for a few months, and came back to
Baker Street in March, 1892, where she remained for two or three months.
For the first year of her life in England she lived like a recluse,
never going out anywhere except on business or to church, never
accepting an invitation or paying visits; but about this time she
gradually came out of her seclusion, and began to collect around her
a small circle of near relatives and friends. Always fond of society,
though she had now abjured it in a general sense, she could not live
alone, so in addition to the companionship of her favourite sister
Mrs. Fitzgerald, who lived with her and shared all her thoughts, she
widened her circle a little and received a few friends. She was fond
of entertaining, and gave many little informal gatherings, which
were memorable from the grace and charm of the hostess. Lady Burton
was always a picturesque and fascinating personality, but never more
so than in these last years of her life. She possessed a fine and
handsome presence, which was rendered even more effective by her plain
black dress and widow’s cap, with its long white veil which formed
an effective background to her finely cut features. She reminded
me of some of the pictures one sees of Mary Stuart. I do not think
the resemblance ceased altogether with her personal appearance, for
her manners were always queenly and gracious; and when she became
interested in anything, her face would light up and her blue eyes
would brighten, and one could see something of the courage and spirit
which she shared in common with the ill-fated queen. She was a most
accomplished woman and a clever linguist. She could write and speak
fluently French, Italian, Arabic, and Portuguese. German she knew also,
though not so well, and she had more than a smattering of Yiddish.
She was well-read in the literature of all these (save Yiddish, of
course), yet never was a woman less of a “blue-stocking.” She was a
brilliant talker, full of wit and charm in her conversation, and there
was nothing she liked better than to relate, in her inimitable way,
some of her many adventures in the past. In fact, though singularly
well-informed on all the current questions of the hour, one could see
that her heart was ever in the past, and her thoughts seldom strayed
far from her husband. Thus it came about, after his death as in his
life, she devoted herself wholly to glorifying his name, and I do
not think it is any disparagement to Sir Richard Burton to say that
his personality would never have impressed itself upon the public
imagination in the way it did, if it had not been for the efforts of
his wife.
In the summer of this year Lady Burton went to Ventnor, and also paid
a few visits, and in the autumn she stayed at Ascot with her sister
Mrs. Van Zeller, whose husband had just died. In November she went to
Mortlake, where she settled down in earnest to write the biography of
her husband, a work which occupied her eight months. When once she
began, she worked at it morning, noon, and night, from early till late,
and except for a flying visit to Baker Street for Christmas, she never
ceased her labours until the book was finished at the end of March,
1893. She wrote to a friend at this time:
“I finished the book last night, and have never left Mortlake. It has
taken me eight months. I hope it will be out the end of May. I do not
know if I can harden my heart against the curs,[52] but I can put out
my tongue and point my pen and play pussy cat about their eyes and
ears. I am to have six months’ rest, but you know what that means.”[53]
Lady Burton received a substantial sum from the publishers for the
book, and it was published in May. The success which it achieved was
immediate and unqualified, and, what is more, deserved, for with all
its faults it is a great book--the last great work in the life of
the woman who never thought of self, and her supreme achievement to
raise aloft her husband’s name. Its success was very grateful to Lady
Burton’s heart, not on her own account, but her husband’s; in fact, it
may be said to have gilded with brightness the last years of her life.
She felt now that her work was done and that nothing remained. She
wrote to a friend early in the New Year (1894)[54]:
“I have had my head quite turned by the great success of my book. First
came about a hundred half-nasty, or wholly nasty, critiques; then
the book made its way. I had three leading articles, over a thousand
charming reviews, and have been inundated with the loveliest letters
and invitations.... With my earnings I am embellishing his mausoleum,
and am putting up in honour of his poem, _Kasidah_, festoons of
camel bells from the desert, in the roof of the tent where he lies, so
that when I open or shut the door, or at the elevation of the Mass,
the ‘tinkling of the camel bell’ will sound just as it does in the
desert. On January 22 I am going down to pass the day in it, because it
is my thirty-third wedding day, and the bells will ring for the first
time. I am also carrying out all his favourite projects, and bringing
out by degrees all his works hitherto published or unpublished, as of
the former only small quantities were published, and these are mostly
extinct. If God gives me two years, I shall be content. I live in my
little _chaumière_ near the mausoleum on the banks of the Thames
for the six good months of the year, and in my warm dry home in London
six bad months, with my sister. You cannot think how the picture of
Richard by you was admired at the Grosvenor Gallery, and I put your
name over it. I have now got it home again, and I thought he smiled
as I brought him back in the cab for joy to get home.... There is a
great wax-work exhibition in England which is very beautifully done
(Tussaud’s). They have now put Richard in the Meccan dress he wore in
the desert. They have given him a large space with sand, water, palms,
and three camels, and a domed skylight, painted yellow, throws a lurid
light on the scene. It is quite life-like. I gave them the real clothes
and the real weapons, and dressed him myself. When it was offered to
him during his life, his face beamed, and he said, ‘That will bring me
in contact with the people.’”
The other works of Sir Richard’s which Lady Burton brought out
after the Life of her husband included _Il Pentamerone_ and
_Catullus_. She also arranged for a new edition of his _Arabian
Nights_, and she began what she called the “Memorial Library,” which
was mainly composed of the republication of half-forgotten books which
he had written in the days before he became famous. She also recalled,
at great pecuniary sacrifice to herself, another work which she thought
was doing harm to his memory, and destroyed the copies.
Upon the publication of the Life of her husband, Lady Burton was
overwhelmed with letters from old acquaintances who had half-forgotten
her, from tried and trusted friends of her husband and herself,
and from people whom she had never known, but who were struck by
the magnitude of her self-sacrificing love. All these letters were
pleasant. But she also received a number of letters of a very doubtful
nature, which included begging letters and applications requesting
to see her from quacks and charlatans of different kinds, who by
professing great admiration for her husband, and veneration for his
memory, thought they would find in Lady Burton an easy prey. In this
they were mistaken. Although generous and open-hearted as the day, she
always found out charlatans in the long run. She used to say she “liked
to give them rope enough.” Unfortunately, though, it must be admitted
that Lady Burton had the defects of her qualities. Absolutely truthful
herself, she was the last in the world to suspect double-dealing
in others, and the result was that she sometimes misplaced her
confidence, and put her trust in the wrong people. This led her into
difficulties which she would otherwise have avoided.
The publication of the Life of her husband seemed also to arouse a
number of dormant animosities, and it led, among other things, to a
large increase in the number of abusive and insulting letters which she
received from anonymous writers, chiefly with regard to her burning
of _The Scented Garden_. They gave her great pain and annoyance.
But many approved of her action, and among others who wrote to her a
generous letter of sympathy was Lady Guendolen Ramsden, the daughter of
her old friends the Duke and Duchess of Somerset. I give Lady Burton’s
reply because it shows how much she appreciated the kindness of her
friends:
“_October 31, 1893._
“MY DEAR LADY GUENDOLEN,
“I cannot tell you what pleasure your very kind letter gave me.
I feared that you and all your family had forgotten me long ago.
I was, and so was Richard, very much attached to the Duke and
Duchess; they always made us welcome, they always made us feel
at home. I delighted in the Duke--so clever, so fascinating, and
he was my _beau idéal_ of a gentleman of the Old School,
whilst the kindness of heart, the high breeding, and the wit of
the Duchess attached us both greatly to her. You were such a
very young girl that I knew you the least, and yet you are the
one to be kind to me now. The ones I knew best were poor Lord
St. Maur and Lady Ulrica. Let me now thank you for speaking so
truly and handsomely of my dear husband, and your kindness and
sympathy with me and my work. It is quite true! If you knew
what a small section of people have made me suffer, and the
horrible letters that they have written me, you would feel sorry
to think that there were such people in the world, and when I
reflect that it was that class of people who would have received
the manuscript with joy, I know how right I was to burn it. It
was not the _learned_ people, as you imagine, who regret
this, because there was no learning to be gained in it. My dear
husband did it simply to fill our purse again. The people who
were angry were the people who loathe good, and seek for nothing
but that class of literature. My husband had no vicious motive
in writing it; he dissected these things as a doctor would a
body. I was calculating what effect it would have on the mass
of uneducated people who _might_ read it. I did receive
many beautiful letters on the subject, and the papers have
more or less never let me drop, but often much blame. I was so
astonished to find myself either praised or blamed; it seemed
to me the natural thing for a woman to do; but I see now how
mistaken I was to have confessed it, and to imagine it was my
duty to confess, which I certainly did. I know that he, being
dead, would not have wished it published; if so, why did he
leave it to me?... You are quite right; it has pleased me more
than I can say that you should approve and confirm my ideas, and
I am so thankful that the Life has succeeded. I got my best
reward in a review which said that ‘Richard Burton’s widow might
comfort herself, as England now knew the man inside and out,
that she had lifted every cloud from his memory, and his fame
would shine as a beacon in all future ages.’ I remember so well
the party at Lady Margaret Beaumont’s. I can shut my eyes and
see the whole dinner-table; we were twenty-five in party. And I
remember well also the party at Bulstrode. If I am alive in the
summer, I shall be only too glad to pass a few days with you at
Bulstrode, if you will let me. I feel that a talk to you would
carry me back to my happy days.
“Believe me, with warmest thanks,
“Yours sincerely,
“ISABEL BURTON.”
After the publication of the Life of her husband Lady Burton spent most
of her time at Baker Street, with intervals at Mortlake, and a few
visits to friends, including Lady Windsor, Lord Arundell of Wardour,
Lady Guendolen Ramsden at Bulstrode, and Canon Waterton at Carlisle.
The year which followed (1894) may be said to have been her last active
year, and it was the pleasantest year of her life in England. The
success which had attended her book had brought her more into contact
with the world than she had been at any time since her husband’s death,
and she saw that there was a field of usefulness still before her. This
was the year in which she saw most friends, entertained most, and went
about most. Her health, never good, seemed to rally, and she was far
less nervous than usual. She may be said about this time to have taken
almost to literature as a profession, for she worked at it eight hours
every day, in addition to keeping up a large correspondence, chiefly on
literary and business matters. She went frequently to the play, got all
the new books, and kept herself well in touch with the current thought
of the day. She was not in sympathy with a good deal of it, and her way
of expressing her opinions was delightfully frank and original. Despite
her abiding sense of her loss, there was nothing morbid about Lady
Burton. She was bright and cheerful, full of interest in things, and
perfectly happy in the society of her dearly loved sister.
I think that here one might mention a few characteristics of Lady
Burton. She was always very generous, but her generosity was not of the
kind which would commend itself to the Charity Organization Society.
For instance, she had an incurable propensity of giving away to beggars
in the street. She never let one go. The result was that she frequently
returned home with an empty purse; indeed, so aware was she of her
weakness, she took out little money with her as a rule, so that she
might not be tempted too far. When people remonstrated with her on
this indiscriminate almsgiving, she used to say, “I would rather give
to ten rogues than turn one honest man away; I should be amply repaid
if there were one fairly good one amongst them.” She was very fond of
children--that is, _en bloc_; but she did not care to be troubled
with them at too close quarters. She often took out the poor children
of the Roman Catholic schools to treats on Wimbledon Common. She would
hire drags, and go up there for the afternoon with them. She never
forgot them at Christmas, and she would always set aside a day or two
for buying them toys. Her way of doing this was somewhat peculiar. She
had been so used to buying things of itinerant vendors in the streets
abroad that she could not break herself of the habit in England. So,
instead of going to a toy shop, she used to take a four-wheel cab, and
drive slowly down Oxford Street and Regent Street; and whenever she
came across a pedlar with toys on a tray, she would pull up her cab and
make her purchases. These purchases generally took a good deal of time,
for Lady Burton had been so much in the habit of dealing at bazars in
the East that she was always under the impression that the pedlars in
England asked double or treble what they really thought they would get.
The result was a good deal of bargaining between her and the vendors.
She used to make wholesale purchases; and during her bargaining,
which was carried on with much animation, a crowd assembled, and not
infrequently the younger members of it came in for a share of the
spoils.
To the day of her death she always felt strongly on the subject of
the prevention of cruelty to animals, and indeed engaged in a fierce
controversy with Father Vaughan on the subject of vivisection. She
was never tired of denouncing the “barbarism of bearing-reins,” and
so forth. When she went out in a cab, she invariably inspected the
horse carefully first, to see if it looked well fed and cared for; if
not, she discharged the cab and got another one, and she would always
impress upon the driver that he must not beat his horse under any
consideration when he was driving her. She would then get into the cab,
let the window down, and keep a watch. If the driver forgot himself so
far as to give a flick with his whip, Lady Burton would lunge at him
with her umbrella from behind. Upon the cabby remonstrating at this
unlooked-for attack, she would retort, “Yes, and how do you like it?”
On one occasion though she was not consistent. She took a cab with her
sister from Charing Cross Station, and was in a great hurry to get
home. Of course she impressed as usual upon the Jehu that he was not to
beat his horse. The horse, which was a wretched old screw, refused, in
consequence, to go at more than a walking pace; and as Lady Burton was
in a hurry to get back, and was fuming with impatience inside, she at
last forgot herself so far as to put her head out of the window and cry
to the driver, “Why don’t you beat him? Why don’t you make him go?”
In politics Lady Burton described herself as a progressive
Conservative, which, being interpreted, would seem to signify that,
though she was intensely conservative with regard to the things which
she had at heart, such as religion and the importance of upholding the
old _régime_, she was exceedingly progressive in smaller matters.
Her views on social questions especially were remarkably broad, and
it may safely be said that there never was a woman who had less
narrowness or bigotry in her composition. She was fond of saying, “Let
us hear all sides of the question, for that is the only way in which we
can hope to arrive at the truth.”
I should like to add a few words as to her spiritual life, because it
entered so profoundly into all that she said and did, that no record
of her would be complete which ignored it. We have seen how in every
crisis of her life, through all her perils, trials, and difficulties,
she turned instinctively to that Source where many look for strength
and some find it. Lady Burton was one of those who found it: though
all else might fail her, this consolation never failed. In her fervent
faith is to be found the occult force which enabled her to dare all
things, hope all things, endure all things. We may agree with her
religious views or not, but we are compelled to admit their power to
sustain her through life’s battle. The secret of her strength was
this: to her the things spiritual and invisible--which to many of us
are unreal, however loudly we may profess our belief in them--were
living realities. It is difficult for some of us perhaps, in this
material, sceptical world of ours, to realize a nature like hers. Yet
there are many such, and they form the strongest proof of the living
force of Christianity to-day. “Transcendental,” the world remarks,
with a sneer. But who is there among us who would not, an he could,
exchange uncertainty and unrest for the possession of a peace which the
world cannot give? There are some natures who _can_ believe, who
_can_ look forward to a prize so great and wonderful as to hold
the pain and trouble of the race of very small account when weighed
against the hope of victory. Lady Burton was one of these; she had her
feet firm set upon the everlasting Rock. The teaching of her Church was
to her divinest truth. The supernatural was real, the spiritual actual.
The conflict between the powers of light and the powers of darkness,
between good angels and evil angels, between benign influences and
malefic forces, was no figure of speech with her, but a reality. In
these last years of her life more especially the earthly veil seemed to
have fallen from her eyes. She seemed to have grasped something of the
vision of the servant of Elisha, for whom the prophet prayed: “_Lord,
I pray Thee, open his eyes, that he may see. And the Lord opened the
eyes of the young man; and he saw: and, behold, the mountain was full
of horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha._”
Because of all this, because her religion was such an actuality
to her, is, I think, due half the misunderstandings which have
arisen with regard to Lady Burton’s attitude towards so-called
“spiritualism.” She always held that Catholicism was the highest form
of spiritualism--using the word in its highest meaning--and from this
attitude she never wavered. She had lived much in the East, and had
come much into contact with oriental occult influences, but what she
saw only served to convince her more of the truths of her religion.
Lady Burton was a Christian mystic, not in the vulgar sense of the
word, but only in the sense that many devout and religious women have
been Christian mystics too. Like Saint Catherine of Sienna, Saint
Teresa, and other holy women, she was specially attracted to the
spiritual and devotional aspect of the Catholic Faith. Neither did her
devotion to the spiritual element unfit her for the practical side of
things: quite the contrary. Like Saint Teresa, side by side with her
religious life, she was a remarkably shrewd woman of business. It need
scarcely be added that between so-called “spiritualism” as practised
in England and the Catholicism of Lady Burton there was a great gulf
fixed, and one which she proved to be unbridgeable. This lower form of
spiritualism, to use her own words, “can only act as a decoy to a crowd
of sensation-seekers, who yearn to see a ghost as they would go to see
a pantomime.” Such things she considered, when not absolutely farcical,
worked for evil, and not for good. As she wrote to a friend:
“That faculty you have about the spirits, though you may ignore it,
is the cause of your constant misfortunes. I have great experience
and knowledge in these matters. As soon as you are happy these demons
of envy, spite, and malicious intention attack you for evil ends, and
ruin your happiness to get hold of your body and soul. Never practise
or interest yourself in these matters, and debar them from your house
by prayer and absolute non-hearing or seeing them.... Do not treat my
words lightly, because I have had experience of it myself, and I had
untold misfortune until I did as I advise you. The more God loves you,
the more will this spirit hate and pursue you and want you for his own.
Drive him forth and resist him.... There is a spiritualism (I hate the
word!) that comes from God, but it does not come in this guise. This
sort is from the spirits of evil.”[55]
I have dwelt on this side of Lady Burton’s character in order to
contradict many foolish rumours. During the last years of her life
in England, when her health was failing, she was induced against
her better judgment to have some dealings with certain so-called
“spiritualists,” who approached her under the plea of “communicating”
with her husband, thus appealing to her at the least point of
resistance. Lady Burton told her sister that she wanted to see “if
there was anything in it,” and to compare it with the occultism of
the East. In the course of her inquiries she unfortunately signed
certain papers which contained ridiculous “revelations.” On thinking
the matter over subsequently, the absurdity of the thing struck her.
She came to the conclusion that there was nothing in it at all, and
that, as compared with the occultism of the East, this was mere
_kindergarten_. She then wished to recall the papers. She was very
ill at the time, and unable to write herself; but she mentioned the
matter to her sister at Eastbourne a short time before her death, and
said, “The first thing I do when I get back to London will be to recall
those silly papers.” She was most anxious to return to London for this
purpose; but the day after her return she died. Mrs. Fitzgerald at once
communicated Lady Burton’s dying wishes to the person in whose charge
the papers were, and requested that they should not be published. But
with a disregard alike for the wishes of the dead and the feelings of
the living, the person rushed some of these absurd “communications”
into print within a few weeks of Lady Burton’s death, and despite all
remonstrance was later proceeding to publish others, when stopped by a
threat of legal proceedings from the executors.
Early in 1895 Lady Burton was struck down with the prevailing epidemic
of influenza; and though she rallied a little after a month or two,
she never recovered. She was no longer able to walk up and down stairs
without assistance, or even across the room. Her decline set in rapidly
after this illness; for the influenza gave a fresh impetus to her
internal malady, which she knew must be fatal to her sooner or later.
She remained in Baker Street a sad invalid the first six months of the
year, and then she recovered sufficiently to be removed to Eastbourne
for a change. It was in July that I saw her last, just before she left
for Eastbourne. She asked me to come and see her. I went one Sunday
afternoon, and I was grieved to see the change which a few months had
worked in her. She was lying on a couch in an upper room. Her face was
of waxen whiteness, and her voice weak, but the brave, indomitable
spirit shone from her eyes still, and she talked cheerfully for a long
time about her literary labours and her plans and arrangements for some
time ahead.
At Eastbourne she took a cottage, and remained there from September,
1895, to March 21, 1896. It was evident to her sister and all around
her that she was fast failing; but whenever she was well enough she did
some work. At this time she had begun her autobiography. When she was
free from pain, she was always bright and cheerful, and enjoyed a joke
as much as ever.
Early in the New Year, 1897, she became rapidly worse, and her one wish
was to recover sufficiently to go home. One of the last letters she
ever wrote was to her friend Madame de Gutmansthal-Benvenuti:
“I never forget you, and I wish our thoughts were telephones. I am
very bad, and my one prayer is to be able to get home to London. The
doctor is going to remove me on the first possible day. I work every
moment I am free from pain. You will be glad to hear that I have had
permission from Rome for Mass and Communion in the house, which is a
great blessing to me. I have no strength to dictate more.”[56]
The second week in March Lady Burton rallied a little, and the doctor
thought her sufficiently well to be removed to London. She accordingly
travelled on March 21. She was moved on a bed into an invalid carriage,
and was accompanied by her sister, who never left her side, and the
doctor and a priest. She was very cheerful during the journey; and when
she got to Victoria, she said she felt so much better that she would
walk along the platform to the cab. Mrs. Fitzgerald got out first; but
on turning round to help her sister, she found that she had fainted.
The doctor administered restoratives; and when she had recovered a
little, she was carried to a cab, and driven to her house in Baker
Street.
Towards the evening she seemed better, and was glad to be back in her
familiar surroundings again. She kept saying to her sister, “Thank God,
I am at home again!” She had a haunting fear latterly at Eastbourne
that she would not have the strength to come home. By this time it was
of course known that she could not possibly recover, and the end would
only be a question of a little time. But that evening no one thought
that death was imminent. During the night, however, she grew worse.
The next morning (Passion Sunday, March 22) her sister saw a great
change in her. She asked her what she wished, and Lady Burton answered,
“It depends on you whether I receive the Last Sacraments.” The priest
was summoned at once, and administered Extreme Unction and the Holy
Viaticum. She followed all the prayers, and was conscious to the last.
When all was over, she bowed her head and whispered, “Thank God.” A
smile of peace and trusting came over her face, and with a faint sigh
she breathed her last. She had heard the “tinkling of his camel’s bell.”
[Illustration: THE ROOM IN WHICH LADY BURTON DIED.]
[Illustration: THE ARAB TENT AT MORTLAKE.]
* * * * *
She was buried in the little cemetery at Mortlake one bright spring
afternoon, when all Nature seemed waking from its winter sleep. She was
laid to rest in the Arab tent by the side of him whom she had loved so
dearly, there to sleep with the quiet dead until the great Resurrection
Day. She was buried with all the rites of her Church. The coffin was
taken down to Mort lake the evening before, and rested before the
altar in the little church all night. The next morning High Mass was
celebrated in the presence of her relatives and friends; and after
the Benediction, the procession, headed by the choir singing _In
Paradiso_, wound its way along the path to the mausoleum, where the
final ceremony took place. As the door was opened, the camel bells
began to tinkle, and they continued ringing throughout the ceremony.
They have never rung since. The door of the tent is now closed, and on
the opposite page of the marble book which sets forth the deeds and
renown of her husband are written these words only:
=Isabel his Wife.=
THE END.
INDEX
A
Abd el Kadir, 386, 396, 507
Acre, St. Jean d’, 489
Adelsberg Caves, the, 546
Aden, 74, 570
Alderley, Dowager Lady Stanley of, 747
Alexandria, 365, 621
Alford, Lady Marian, 529
Algiers, 694
Almack’s, fancy ball at, 26
Anthropological Society, dinner to Burton, 230
Anti-Lebanon, 371
Antioch, the Patriarch, Primate of, 432
Arneh, Druze wedding at, 453
Arundell, Blanche, 63, 88, 96, 556
---- Blanche Lady, 6, 439
---- Mr., death of, 684
---- Mrs., her opposition to Lady Burton’s marriage, 151;
her death, 530
Arundells of Wardour, family history, 1–10
Austria, Emperor and Empress of, 545;
the Court of, 545
Auvergne, Princess de la Tour d’, 361
Ayde, Sir John, 681
B
Ba’albak, 430
Bahia, 342
Balme, Col de, 127
Barbacena, 281
---- Vicomte and Vicomtesse, 259
Beaconsfield, Lord, 614, 621, 623
Beatson, General, 79
Beaumont, Lady Margaret, 760
Beg, Omar, 412
Beyrout, 367
Bird, Dr., 155, 166
---- Miss Alice, 166, 689
Bishop, Miss, 683, 695, 751, 755
Blanc, Mont, 124
Bludán, 427 _et seq._;
news of the recall, 499
Bologna, 639
Bombay, 73;
journey to, 554, 572;
the Towers of Silence, 586;
the Hindû Smáshán, 588
---- Government remove Burton’s name from Army List, 175
Boulogne, life at, 40 _et seq._, 555;
last visit to, 691
Brazil, 244 _et seq._
---- Emperor and Empress of, 259
British Association meeting at Bath, 1864, 228
Bull-fight at Lisbon, a, 233
Bülow, Madame von, 552
Burton, Captain St. George, 747
Byculla, races at, 576
C
Cameron, Captain Verney Lovett, 631, 635
Candahar, 624
Carnival at Venice, 114
Carthage, 694
Cazalem, 597, 599
Cenis, Mont, ascent of, 117
Chambord, Comte de (Henri V.), 113, 115, 610
Chamounix, 124
Chavannes, Comtesse de, 115
Cheron, Chevalier de St., 113
Chillon, 130
Citta Vecchia, 535
Clarendon, Lord, 352, 513, 623
Clifford, Isabel, 14
Constable, Sir Clifford and Lady, 157
Copsey, Mr. Charles, 284
Crawford, Rev. John, 522
Cruz, Santa, 198
D
Dahomé, King of, 226
Damascus, 372, 375
Dead Sea, 483
Derby, Lord, 230, 508, 623, 693;
and Lady, 746
Digby, Hon. Jane, El Mezráb, 393
---- Lord, 393, 395
Dublin, 229
Dudley, Georgina Lady, 545
E
Eastbourne, 768
Eldridge, Consul-General, 520
Ellenborough, Lady, 389, 393, 459, 507
Elliot, Sir Henry, 493, 522;
letter to Lady Burton, 516
Elphinstone Point, 593
Entre Rios, 275
Eu, Comte and Comtesse d’, 258
Extreme Unction, Sacrament of, administered to Sir Richard Burton,
702, 706
F
Fernando Po, 175
Fisherwomen of Boulogne, the, 44
Fitzgerald, Mrs., 15, 634, 746, 750, 753, 767, 769
Fiume, 546
Florence, 110, 544
Frankel, Rev. E. B., 522
Funchal, 189
Furze Hall, 17
G
Geneva, 120
Genoa, 102
Gerard, Elizabeth, 14
---- Lord, 8, 183, 355, 689
---- Monica Lady, 173
Germany, the Empress Frederick of, 545
Ghazis, the, 410
Ghazzeh, 636, 638
Gibraltar, 681
Giram, Cape, 193
Gladstone, Mr. W. E., 551
Goa, 594 _et seq._, 713
Gobat, Bishop, 481
Golconda, 585
Gordon, General, 644, 645;
letters from, 646 _et seq._;
his death at Kartoum, 644, 675
Gordon, Mr. and Mrs., 294
Gorizia, 610
Grant, Colonel, 740
Granville, Lord, 456, 465, 508, 516, 531, 532, 621;
his reasons for Burton’s recall, 520, 528
Grindlay’s fire, 178
Gutmansthal-Benvenuti, Mme. de, 696, 742, 755, 769
Gypsy forecast, a, 21
H
Hammerton, Colonel, 714
Harar in Somaliland, 73
Havre, 136
Hawthorne, General, 338
Hay, Sir J. D., 680
Henri V. (Comte de Chambord), 113, 115, 610
Honfleur, 137
Houghton, Lord, 177, 355, 551
Howard, Cardinal, 543
Hunt, Mr. Holman, 481
Hyderabad, 580;
the Nizam of, 580 _et seq._
I
Iceland, 529, 552
Ideal lover, the, 37
Ireland, a trip to, 229
Ismail, Khedive, and the Mines of Midian, 610 _et seq._, 621
Italy, Queen of, 558
J
Jaffa, 367, 470
James, Miss, 522
Jayrúd, 407
Jeddah, 563
Jerusalem, 471
Joly, Mrs. Francis, 767
Jowett, Professor, 551
Juiz de Fóra, 277
Jung, Sir Salar, 580
K
Karachi, 730
Karla Caves, 578
Karyatayn, 412
Kazeh, 143
Kebir, Amir el, 583
Kennedy, Mr., 466
L
Lagôa Dourada, 285
Laguna, 200
Lanauli, 578
Lausanne, 131
Layard, Sir Henry, 182
Lebanon, 370
---- Cedars of, 432
Lee, Dr., 284
Leghorn, 110
Leighton, Sir Frederick, 354, 376;
his picture of Sir Richard Burton, 551
Lentaigne, the convict philanthropist, 229
Leslie, Dr. Ralph, 688, 690
Lever, Charles, 530, 532, 580
Levis, Duc de, 115
Lido, the, 114
Lipizza, the Emperor of Austria’s stud farm at, 546
Lisbon, 231
Llandaff, Lord (Mr. Henry Matthews), 548
Lytton, Lord and Lady, 233, 624
M
Machico, 192
Madeira, 190
Máhábáleshwar, 591, 593, 594
Malta, 694
Marianna, 302
Marienbad, 631, 635
Martelani, Pietro, 709
Mátherán, 577
Mattei, Count, 639
Meade, Sir Richard, 585
Mecca, 69, 565, 713
Midian, the Mines of, 610, 621
Mijwal, Shaykh, 394
Milan, 558
Milnes, Monckton (Lord Houghton), 81, 179
Mitford, Mr., 468
Monson, Sir Edmund, 699
Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, 361
Montanvert, 125
Montreux, 692
Mormons, Burton’s book on the, 180
Morocco, 643, 680, 682, 685
Motto Velho, 295 _et seq._
Mortlake, Lady Burton’s cottage at, 752
---- Cemetery, 228;
burial of Sir Richard Burton, 746, 747;
burial of Lady Burton, 770
Mukhtára, 449
Murchison, Sir Roderick, 355
N
Napier, Sir Charles, 730
Napoleon, Louis, 396
---- some relics of, 181
Nazareth, 486;
the riot at, 487
Nevill, Major and Mrs., 580
New Hall (Convent), 17, 748
Nice, 100
Novikoff, Madame Olga, 631
O
Oberammergau, the Passion Play at, 623, 627
Opçina, 542;
ball at, 627
Orotava, 201
Ouchy, 131
“Ouida,” 537, 544
Ouro Branco, 328
---- Preto, 305
P
Paget, Sir Augustus and Lady, 543, 639
Palmer, Mr. E. H., 430
---- Professor, 636
Palmerston, Lord, 177
Palmyra, 403 _et seq._
Paris, 97;
after the Franco-German War, 556;
Lady Burton’s fall downstairs, 616
Pasarni Ghát, 592
Perrochel, Vicomte de, 414, 421
Perry, Sir William, 533
Persigny, Duchesse de, 383
Petropolis, 258, 273, 339
Pico Arriere, 193
Pigott, Mrs. Smyth, 96, 751
Pisa, 109
Poissardes, Carolina, “Queen” of the, 44, 58, 556
Poonah, 579, 592
Port Said, 561
Portugal, a trip to, 230
Procopio, Com. Mariano, 277
Prout, Colonel, 659
Q
Queen, the, makes Burton K.C.M.G., 682;
grants pension to Lady Burton, 747
R
Ralli, Baroness Paul de, 706, 709
Ramsden, Lady Guendolen, 758
Reclus, Elisée, 692
Richards, Mr. Alfred Bates, 605
Rio de Janeiro, 244
Riviera, the earthquake in the, 1887, 687
Rome, 544
Rosebery, Lord, 685, 687
Royal Geographical Society and Speke, 144
Russell, Lady John, 177
---- Lord John, 175, 227
S
Sabará, 315
Safed, 491
Salahíyyeh, 376, 454
Salisbury, Lord and Lady, 614, 623, 682, 685, 687;
letters from Lady Salisbury, 618, 622, 693
Santos, 230, 248
São João, 283
---- Paulo, 248
_Scented Garden, The_, 696, 698;
truth about, 719 _et seq._;
burning of, 726
Schwartzenburg, Prince, 393
Scott, Rev. J. Orr, 522
Seão, Senhor Nicolão, 334
Shazlis, the, 496, 521
Sitt Jumblatt, the, 449
Smith, Mr. W. H., 623;
letter from, 623
Somerset, Duke and Duchess of, 552, 758
Spain, Maria Theresa, ex-Queen of, 547
Speke, Lieut., 73, 140–144, 228, 355, 740
Spezzia, 107
Stafford, Lord, 468
Stanhope, Lady Hester, 361, 393, 426
Stanley, Lord, 230, 351
Stisted, Lady, 745
---- Miss, 393, 745;
her impeachment of Lady Burton, 510 _et seq._, 702, 736
Suez, 602, 612
Swinburne, Algernon, 354
Symmonds, Mr., 302
T
Tabút or Mūharram, Feast of, 575
Tanganyika, Lake, 142
Tangiers, 683
Teneriffe, 198 _et seq._;
the Peak of, 210
Thornton, Sir Edward and Lady, 247
Tiberias, Lake of, 491
Treloar, Captain, 301, 338
Trieste, 531, 535 _et seq._, 604 _et seq._, 616 _et seq._;
Burton a confirmed invalid, 689;
his death at, 700
Tunis, 694
Tupper, Martin, 619
Tyrwhitt-Drake, Mr. Charles, 473, 546, 547
U
Usagara Mountains, 141
V
Varden, Dr., 490
Vaughan, Cardinal, 709
Veldes, 630
Venice, 112, 533, 559;
Geographical Congress at, 631
Vevey, 130
Vienna, 544
W
Wahi, 592
Wales, the Prince of, 585, 687
Wali, the, 372, 391, 392;
his daughter’s wedding, 459, 464;
his dispute with Burton, 517
Warren, Sir Charles, 638
Waterton, Canon, 743, 760
Wikar Shums Ool Umárá, the, 582
Wilson, Miss Ellen, 435
---- Sir Andrew, 660
Windsor, Lady, 760
Wiseman, Cardinal, 713
Wright, Rev. W., 522
Wuld Ali, 461
Würtemberg, Duke of, 560
Z
Zebedani, 437
Zeller, Mrs. Van, 15, 754
Zenobia, 419
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] [Miss Stisted speaks of her as “Jane Digby, who capped her wild
career by marrying a camel-driver,” and animadverts on Lady Burton for
befriending her. The Shaykh was never a camel-driver in his life, and
few, I think, will blame Lady Burton for her kindness to this poor
lady, her countrywoman, in a strange land.]
[2] _The Inner Life of Syria, Palestine, and the Holy Land_, by
Isabel Burton, 2 vols.
[3] Lady Ellenborough referred to her biography, which she had dictated
to Lady Burton--the true story of her life, which Lady Burton had
promised to publish for her, to clear away misrepresentations. In
consequence of difficulties which subsequently arose Lady Burton did
not publish it.
[4] Miss Stisted’s Life of Sir Richard Burton, p. 360. This book was
published December, 1896, eight months after Lady Burton’s death.
[5] _The Case of Captain Burton, late H.B.M. Consul at Damascus._
Clayton & Co., Parliamentary Printing Works, 1872.
[6] _Vide_ Letter from Foreign Office to Captain Burton, June 19,
1869 (Blue Book, p. 2).
[7] Letter of Captain Burton to Foreign Office, June 21, 1869 (Blue
Book, p. 2).
[8] Letter from Sir Henry Elliott to Lady Burton, July 12, 1871.
[9] Letter from Sir Henry Elliot to Lady Burton, July 12, 1871.
[10] Blue Book, p. 75.
[11] Blue Book, pp. 140, 141.
[12] _Vide_ Letter from Lord Granville to Captain Burton, under
Flying Seal, care of Consul-General Eldridge, July 22, 1871 (Blue Book,
p. 109).
[13] _Vide_ Letter of Captain Burton to Sir Henry Elliot, July 14,
1871 (Blue Book, pp. 95, 96).
[14] Letter from Captain Burton to the Rev. E. B. Frankel, Rev. J. Orr
Scott, Miss James, Rev. W. Wright, and Rev. John Crawford, Bludán, July
19, 1871 (Blue Book, p. 92).
[15] Miss Stisted’s Life of Burton, p. 361.
[16] Lady Burton thus describes her visit to the Austrian Court: “I was
very much dazzled by the Court. I thought everything was beautifully
done, so arranged as to give every one pleasure, and somehow it was
the graciousness that was in itself a welcome. I shall never forget
the first night that I saw the Empress--a vision of beauty, clothed
in silver, crowned with water-lilies, with large rows of diamonds and
emeralds round her small head and her beautiful hair, and descending
all down her dress in festoons. The throne-room is immense, with
marble columns down each side--all the men arranged on one side and
all the women on the other, and the new presentations with their
ambassadors and ambassadresses nearest the throne. When the Emperor
and Empress came in, they walked up the middle, the Empress curtseying
most gracefully and smiling a general gracious greeting. They then
ascended the throne, and presently the Empress turned to our side. The
presentations first took place, and she spoke to each one in her own
language, and on her own particular subject. I was quite entranced
with her beauty, her cleverness, and her conversation. She passed down
the ladies’ side, and then came up that of the men, the Emperor doing
exactly the same as she had done. He also spoke to us. Then some few
of us whose families the Empress knew about were asked to sit down,
and refreshments were handed to us--the present Georgina Lady Dudley
sitting by the Empress. It was a thing never to be forgotten to have
seen those two beautiful women sitting side by side. The Empress
Frederick of Germany--Crown Princess she was then--was also there, and
sent for some of us on another day, which was in many ways another
memorable event, and her husband also came in” (_Life of Sir Richard
Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. ii., pp. 24, 25).
[17] This and the next chapter are compiled from the original notes
from which Lady Burton wrote her _A. E. I._ and sundry letters and
diaries. By so doing I am able to give the Indian tour in her own words.
[18] Speech at the British National Association of Spiritualists,
December 13, 1878.
[19] Letter to Miss Bishop from Opçina, January 17, 1881.
[20] Letter to Miss Bishop from Trieste, December 5, 1881.
[21] This refers to _Camoens: the Commentary, Life, and Lusiads_.
Englished by R. F. Burton. Two vols. Containing a Glossary, and
Reviewers Reviewed, by Isabel Burton. 1880.
[22] From her devotional book _Laméd_, pp. 28, 29.
[23] _Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. ii.,
p. 248.
[24] Gondokoro was the seat of Government of the Province of the
Equator.
[25] Sir Samuel Baker, whom Gordon succeeded as Governor of the tribes
which inhabit the Nile Basin in 1874.
[26] Romalus Gessi (Gessi Pasha), a member of Gordon’s staff.
[27] Mtesa, King of Uganda.
[28] Mr. Rivers Wilson.
[29] Nevertheless he permitted Dr. Birkbeck Hill to edit and publish
his letters in 1881, which give a good account of his work in Central
Africa.
[30] Johannis, King of Abyssinia.
[31] Colonel Prout, of the American army, for some time in command of
the Equatorial Provinces.
[32] King of Unyoro, a powerful and treacherous savage. Sir Samuel
Baker attempted to depose him, but Kaba Rega maintained his power.
[33] _Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. ii.,
p. 177.
[34] He actually compiled a book of quotations from the Bible and
Shakspeare for use in case of need, which he called _The Black
Book_.
[35] Letter to Miss Bishop from Tangiers, Morocco, February 16, 1886.
[36] The late Lord Gerard.
[37] Letter to Miss Bird from Trieste, April 10, 1887.
[38] The Duchess of Fife.
[39] Letter to Miss Bishop, July 21, 1890.
[40] Lady Burton’s maid, now dead.
[41] _Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. ii.,
pp. 410–414. This work was published in May, 1893.
[42] Miss Stisted’s Life of Burton, pp. 409–414.
[43] Translated from the Italian.
[44] A tonic, a strengthening restorative.
[45] An official (generally a physician) who visits the dead, and
assures himself that the death is real, and not an apparent one.
[46] The Baroness Paul de Ralli, who procured the above attestation
from the priest, sent it in the first instance to Cardinal Vaughan,
together with the following letter:
“TRIESTE, AUSTRIA, _January 19, 1897_.
“MY LORD CARDINAL,
“There has lately been published a so-called ‘true’ Life of the
late Sir Richard Burton, written by his niece. Since my letter
to _The Catholic Times_, which appeared in the issue of
December 24, it has been pointed out to me that it would be well
if I could procure a written attestation of the priest who gave
Extreme Unction to the late Sir Richard Burton. I am authorized
by Monseigneur Sterk to place in the hands of your Eminence
the enclosed manuscript, written by Monseigneur Martelani, who
is now Prebendary of the Cathedral here. As an intimate friend
of the Burtons, I beg to say that everything said about the
life of the Burtons at this place in the ‘true’ life has been
written from dictation, and, furthermore, that I could name the
authoress’s informant, which makes the book worthless for those
who know the source from which the authoress has gathered her
information--the same source which has made Lady Burton’s life
hideous from the day of her husband’s death to the time she
left this place. As regards those who claim to have known all
about Sir Richard Burton--‘They knew the man well,’ etc.--allow
me to point out that the exoteric subtleties of his character
were only exceeded by the esoteric; and to what an extent this
is true is only known to those who were at the same time his
friends and his wife’s intimate friends, of whom there are
several here beside myself. My position at the Villa Gosslett
was perhaps a little exceptional. Having come here from England
in 1875 after my marriage, I was looked upon by the Burtons as a
sort of ex-subject of theirs.
“Believe me to be, my Lord Cardinal,
“Yours faithfully,
“CATHERINE DE RALLI.”
[47] Speech at the Anthropological Society, London, 1865.
[48] Lady Burton’s letter to _The Morning Post_, June 19, 1891.
[49] Vol. X. _Arabian Nights_, Terminal Essay, Section D, pp. 205,
206, 1886.
[50] Letter to Madame de Gutmansthal-Benvenuti, from London, March 1,
1891.
[51] Letter to Miss Bishop, December 27, 1891.
[52] Burton’s enemies.
[53] Letter to Miss Bishop from Mortlake, March 25, 1893.
[54] Letter to Madame de Gutmansthal-Benvenuti, January 10, 1894.
[55] Letter of Lady Burton written from Trieste to Mrs. Francis Joly,
April 17, 1890.
[56] Holywell Lodge, Eastbourne, March 13, 1896.
Transcriber’s Notes:
1. Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been
corrected silently.
2. Where hyphenation is in doubt, it has been retained as in the
original
3. Some hyphenated and non-hyphenated versions of the same words have
been retained as in the original.
4. Italics are shown as _xxx_.
5. Bold print is shown as =xxx=.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The romance of Isabel Lady Burton : The story of her life. Volume II" ***
Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.