The Life of George Borrow [171]
he and his family appeared in such an unpleasant light. It is unlikely that he asked for the book in order to prevent a review appearing in The Edinburgh, as has been suggested.
In the Preface, Lavengro is described as a dream; yet there can be not a vestage of doubt that Borrow's original intention had been to acknowledge it as an autobiography. This work is a kind of biography in the Robinson Crusoe style, he had written in 1844. This he contradicted in the Appendix to The Romany Rye; yet in his manuscript autobiography {391b} (13th Oct. 1862) he says: "In 1851 he published Lavengro, a work in which he gives an account of his early life." Why had Borrow changed his mind?
When Lavengro was begun, as a result of Ford's persistent appeals, Borrow was on the crest of the wave of success. He saw himself the literary hero of the hour. The Bible in Spain was selling in its thousands. The press had proclaimed it a masterpiece. He had seen himself a great man. The writer of a great book, however, does not occupy a position so kinglike in its loneliness as does gentleman a gypsy, round whom flock the gitanos to kiss his hand and garments as if he were a god or a hero. The literary and social worlds that The Bible in Spain opened to Borrow were not to be awed by his mystery, or, disciplined into abject hero-worship by one of those steady penetrating gazes, which cowed jockeys and alguacils. They claimed intellectual kinship and equality, the very things that Borrow had no intention of conceding them. He would have tolerated their "gentility nonsense" if they would have acknowledged his paramountcy. He found that to be a social or a literary lion was to be a tame lion, and he was too big for that. His conception of genius was that it had its moods, and mediocrity must suffer them.
Borrow would rush precipitately from the house where he was a guest; he would be unpardonably rude to some inoffensive and well-meaning woman who thought to please him by admiring his books; he would magnify a fight between their respective dogs into a deadly feud between himself and the rector of his parish: thus he made enemies by the dozen and, incidentally, earned for himself an extremely unenviable reputation. A hero with a lovable nature is twice a hero, because he is possessed of those qualities that commend themselves to the greater number. Wellington could never be a serious rival in a nation's heart to dear, weak, sensitive, noble Nelson, who lived for praise and frankly owned to it.
Borrow's lovable qualities were never permitted to show themselves in public, they were kept for the dingle, the fireside, or the inn- parlour. That he had a sweeter side to his nature there can be no doubt, and those who saw it were his wife, his step-daughter, and his friends, in particular those who, like Mr Watts-Dunton and Mr A. Egmont Hake, have striven for years to emphasise the more attractive part of his strange nature.
Borrow's attitude towards literature in itself was not calculated to gain friends for him. He was uncompromisingly and caustically severe upon some of the literary idols of his day, men who have survived that terrible handicap, contemporary recognition and appreciation.
He was not a deep reader, hardly a reader at all in the accepted meaning of the word. He frankly confessed that books were to him of secondary importance to man as a subject for study. In his criticisms of literature, he was apt to confuse the man with his works. His hatred of Scott is notorious; it was not the artist he so cordially disliked, but the politician; he admitted that Scott "wrote splendid novels about the Stuarts." {393a} He hailed him as "greater than Homer;" {393b} but the House of Stuart he held in utter detestation, and when writing or speaking of Scott he forgot to make a rather necessary distinction. He wrote:
"He admires his talents both as a prose writer and a poet; as a poet especially. {393c} . . . As a prose writer he admires him less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very high,
In the Preface, Lavengro is described as a dream; yet there can be not a vestage of doubt that Borrow's original intention had been to acknowledge it as an autobiography. This work is a kind of biography in the Robinson Crusoe style, he had written in 1844. This he contradicted in the Appendix to The Romany Rye; yet in his manuscript autobiography {391b} (13th Oct. 1862) he says: "In 1851 he published Lavengro, a work in which he gives an account of his early life." Why had Borrow changed his mind?
When Lavengro was begun, as a result of Ford's persistent appeals, Borrow was on the crest of the wave of success. He saw himself the literary hero of the hour. The Bible in Spain was selling in its thousands. The press had proclaimed it a masterpiece. He had seen himself a great man. The writer of a great book, however, does not occupy a position so kinglike in its loneliness as does gentleman a gypsy, round whom flock the gitanos to kiss his hand and garments as if he were a god or a hero. The literary and social worlds that The Bible in Spain opened to Borrow were not to be awed by his mystery, or, disciplined into abject hero-worship by one of those steady penetrating gazes, which cowed jockeys and alguacils. They claimed intellectual kinship and equality, the very things that Borrow had no intention of conceding them. He would have tolerated their "gentility nonsense" if they would have acknowledged his paramountcy. He found that to be a social or a literary lion was to be a tame lion, and he was too big for that. His conception of genius was that it had its moods, and mediocrity must suffer them.
Borrow would rush precipitately from the house where he was a guest; he would be unpardonably rude to some inoffensive and well-meaning woman who thought to please him by admiring his books; he would magnify a fight between their respective dogs into a deadly feud between himself and the rector of his parish: thus he made enemies by the dozen and, incidentally, earned for himself an extremely unenviable reputation. A hero with a lovable nature is twice a hero, because he is possessed of those qualities that commend themselves to the greater number. Wellington could never be a serious rival in a nation's heart to dear, weak, sensitive, noble Nelson, who lived for praise and frankly owned to it.
Borrow's lovable qualities were never permitted to show themselves in public, they were kept for the dingle, the fireside, or the inn- parlour. That he had a sweeter side to his nature there can be no doubt, and those who saw it were his wife, his step-daughter, and his friends, in particular those who, like Mr Watts-Dunton and Mr A. Egmont Hake, have striven for years to emphasise the more attractive part of his strange nature.
Borrow's attitude towards literature in itself was not calculated to gain friends for him. He was uncompromisingly and caustically severe upon some of the literary idols of his day, men who have survived that terrible handicap, contemporary recognition and appreciation.
He was not a deep reader, hardly a reader at all in the accepted meaning of the word. He frankly confessed that books were to him of secondary importance to man as a subject for study. In his criticisms of literature, he was apt to confuse the man with his works. His hatred of Scott is notorious; it was not the artist he so cordially disliked, but the politician; he admitted that Scott "wrote splendid novels about the Stuarts." {393a} He hailed him as "greater than Homer;" {393b} but the House of Stuart he held in utter detestation, and when writing or speaking of Scott he forgot to make a rather necessary distinction. He wrote:
"He admires his talents both as a prose writer and a poet; as a poet especially. {393c} . . . As a prose writer he admires him less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very high,