Note 2 — Chapter XVII

"I was told lately that a 'Scented Garden,' from a mild French translation, is being sold and passed off to the uneducated, not to scholars, as Burton's 'Scented Garden,' under the false plea that I carried away with me from Trieste a copy of it. I now state upon my oath, that there were but two copies of Richard Burton's 'Scented Garden;' one was his own original, and one a clean copy; that I burnt them both, and that no other copy was made from them, on the solemn written declaration of the copyist, and I warn the world against buying a spurious article. I also was told that people talk about bringing out works in collaboration with my husband. There is only one genuine collaboration, and that will appear in time; that is Catullus; Richard Burton's poetry, Mr. Leonard Smithers' prose. Richard, to save me, used to pretend to his men-friends that I knew nothing of these works, and people who want notoriety pretend that they were collaborating with him, thinking they can do so now with impunity. Richard did tell me everything, although he did not allow me to read the works; but now that he has left me his literary executrix I find it necessary to say that I do know my own business, that I warn people from taking liberties with my husband's name and my property to sell spurious literature. About six weeks before Richard died (not because he contemplated his death, but because we were going away for four months to Greece and Constantinople, which would leave us very little time on our return for the actual exodus on the following July 1st) we took, a week together, in the early morning, a list of all the manuscripts, published and unpublished, and their destinations when packed up for England. Hence, when I was offered assistance in the sorting and arrangements from numbers of people after his death, I replied, That I did not want help, because I knew them "as a shepherd knows his sheep"—hence a few bitter enemies. The so-called collaborations are all in my husband's handwriting, and I have them, or rather I keep all my literary treasures in a bank for safety, and take them out piecemeal as I need them. Three of his diaries have indeed been abstracted since his death, 1859, 1860, and 1861, but fortunately they are not the private ones, which were always kept under lock and key, but those containing public remarks, memoranda, and so on, which were left about. Numbers of our best books have also disappeared, notably an old Shakespeare of twelve vols., which he charged me never to part with. Of course it is impossible to say where they may have been lost during a period of seventeen months; I only got them housed March, 1892; only after I am dead let no one exhibit them as 'gifts from my intimate friend and fellow-worker, Richard Burton.' There is also missing £200 worth of scrip shares in African mines."