The Life of George Borrow [178]
out, and, it being nearly dark, he stepped one side of the gate and fell over the wall. He did not mention the accident, although he bruised himself a good deal, and it was some days before I heard of it. His words to me that evening, when bidding me good-bye, were: 'Well, we have shared the old-fashioned hospitality of old-fashioned people in an old-fashioned house.'" {407a}
Borrow created something of a sensation in the neighbourhood. As a celebrity his autograph was much sought after; but he would gratify nobody. His hosts experienced many little surprises from their guest's strange ways. He would plunge into a moorland pool to fetch a bird that had fallen to his gun, or, round the family fireside, he would shout his ballads of the North, at one time alarming his audience by seizing a carving-knife and brandishing it about in the air to emphasize the passionate nature of his song. When a card- party proved too dull he slipped off and found his way into some slums, picking up all the disreputable characters he could find, working off his knowledge of cant on them, and getting out of them what he could. {407b}
On one occasion when dining at the house of a local celebrity he was suddenly missed from table during dessert.
"A search revealed him in a remote room surrounded by the children of the house, whom he was amusing by his stories and catechising in the subject of their studies and pursuits. He excused his absence by saying that he had been fascinated by the intelligence of the children, and had forgotten about the dinner." {407c}
His hatred of gentility led him into some actions that can only be characterised as childish. Even in Cornwall he was on the lookout for his fetish. On one occasion when dining with the ex-Mayor of Liskeard, he pulled out of his pocket and used instead of a handkerchief, a dirty old grease-stained rag with which he was wont to clean his gun. {408a} This was done as a protest against something or other that seemed to him to suggest mock refinement.
When at Wolsdon as the guest of the Pollards there arrived a lady and gentleman of the name of Hambly, according to the Note Books. In spite of this brief reference, Borrow immediately recognised a hated name. Never was one of the name good, he informed Mr Berkeley. He may even have been informed that they were descendants of the Headborough whom his father had knocked down. He showed his detestation for the name by being as rude as he could to those who bore it.
Borrow was as incapable of dissimulating his dislikes as he was of controlling his moods. Even during his short stay at Penquite he was on one occasion, at least, plunged into a deep melancholy, sitting before a huge fire entirely oblivious to the presence of others in the room. Mrs Berkeley, who, with the vicar himself, was a caller, thinking to produce some good effect upon the gloomy man, sat down at the piano and played some old Irish and Scottish airs. After a time Borrow began to listen, then he raised his head, and finally "he suddenly sprang to his feet, clapped his hands several times, danced about the room, and struck up some joyous melody. From that moment he was a different man." He told them "tales and side-splitting anecdotes," he joined the party at supper, and when the vicar and his wife rose to take their leave he pressed Mrs Berkeley's hands, and told her that her music had been as David's harp to his soul.
To the young man he met during this visit who informed him that he had left the Army as it was no place for a gentleman, Borrow replied that it was no place for a man who was not a gentleman, and that he was quite right in leaving it. To speak against the Army to Borrow was to speak against his honoured father.
How Borrow struck his Cornish kinsfolk is shown in a letter written by his hostess to a friend. "I must tell you," she writes, "a bit about our distinguished visitor." She gives one of the most valuable portraits of Borrow that exists. He was to her:
"A fine tall man of about six feet three, well-proportioned
Borrow created something of a sensation in the neighbourhood. As a celebrity his autograph was much sought after; but he would gratify nobody. His hosts experienced many little surprises from their guest's strange ways. He would plunge into a moorland pool to fetch a bird that had fallen to his gun, or, round the family fireside, he would shout his ballads of the North, at one time alarming his audience by seizing a carving-knife and brandishing it about in the air to emphasize the passionate nature of his song. When a card- party proved too dull he slipped off and found his way into some slums, picking up all the disreputable characters he could find, working off his knowledge of cant on them, and getting out of them what he could. {407b}
On one occasion when dining at the house of a local celebrity he was suddenly missed from table during dessert.
"A search revealed him in a remote room surrounded by the children of the house, whom he was amusing by his stories and catechising in the subject of their studies and pursuits. He excused his absence by saying that he had been fascinated by the intelligence of the children, and had forgotten about the dinner." {407c}
His hatred of gentility led him into some actions that can only be characterised as childish. Even in Cornwall he was on the lookout for his fetish. On one occasion when dining with the ex-Mayor of Liskeard, he pulled out of his pocket and used instead of a handkerchief, a dirty old grease-stained rag with which he was wont to clean his gun. {408a} This was done as a protest against something or other that seemed to him to suggest mock refinement.
When at Wolsdon as the guest of the Pollards there arrived a lady and gentleman of the name of Hambly, according to the Note Books. In spite of this brief reference, Borrow immediately recognised a hated name. Never was one of the name good, he informed Mr Berkeley. He may even have been informed that they were descendants of the Headborough whom his father had knocked down. He showed his detestation for the name by being as rude as he could to those who bore it.
Borrow was as incapable of dissimulating his dislikes as he was of controlling his moods. Even during his short stay at Penquite he was on one occasion, at least, plunged into a deep melancholy, sitting before a huge fire entirely oblivious to the presence of others in the room. Mrs Berkeley, who, with the vicar himself, was a caller, thinking to produce some good effect upon the gloomy man, sat down at the piano and played some old Irish and Scottish airs. After a time Borrow began to listen, then he raised his head, and finally "he suddenly sprang to his feet, clapped his hands several times, danced about the room, and struck up some joyous melody. From that moment he was a different man." He told them "tales and side-splitting anecdotes," he joined the party at supper, and when the vicar and his wife rose to take their leave he pressed Mrs Berkeley's hands, and told her that her music had been as David's harp to his soul.
To the young man he met during this visit who informed him that he had left the Army as it was no place for a gentleman, Borrow replied that it was no place for a man who was not a gentleman, and that he was quite right in leaving it. To speak against the Army to Borrow was to speak against his honoured father.
How Borrow struck his Cornish kinsfolk is shown in a letter written by his hostess to a friend. "I must tell you," she writes, "a bit about our distinguished visitor." She gives one of the most valuable portraits of Borrow that exists. He was to her:
"A fine tall man of about six feet three, well-proportioned