Читать книгу The Life of Sir William Quiller Orchardson - Hilda Orchardson Gray - Страница 2
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ОглавлениеHow are all the sons of all the mothers
That bask mid herring nets and sundried bloaters?
The pretty girls too, also the others;
And in your ear, pray, how are all the “doaters”?
That keg you kindly sent to me—
Say, what the devil has come of it?
Are the contents still in the sea,
Or what sea-cook has got the profit?
Or has the hand of Providence
Been laid upon it, by the way,
To sell it for some meagre pence
To guard against a rainy day?
Fate is in the right—beyond all question
Some of that sort Fate the other day,
Gave me the pangs of stubborn indigestion,
For which I had some pills to take and pay.
The truth of this you safely may rely on
Nor think I bait my pen to catch salt herring;
To salt you is a point I’d not be shy on
And really here, I rank you with the erring.
The clock, I hear, has just struck one,
I’ve sat two hours and do begin to wink,
My pen is good, my paper is not done
Tho’, damn it, neither is my use of ink.
Good night, and may your slumbers still be soft
If that your pillow be an old and hard one
Like that to which I go as you’ve felt oft
When here. But truly I am yours, Orchardson.
Siccar on brae and bentie knowe
The bowmen they maun stand or fa’
Amang the lave young Craigenden,
They’ve bound him fast—the wale of a’.
Sae dreich and sair and tenderly
Fair Marley loots upon her knee
Wi’ boding heart sae tremblingly
She seeks her love where he may be.
Sweet day of rest from all save sin
And that, too, of the deeper sort
That prompts the yawn amid the preaching din
Or warbles in the sleepers’ tuneful snort.
Or stretched upon the sward looks on the sky
And deems the bells sound better at a distance
Though many in her few alone may sigh
And pray the saints to come to your assistance.
Bright day of dull repose or something worse
When wings abroad the clergy’s tender curse
Against all those who really know no better
Than stay at home to sleep or write a letter.
CHAPTER II EDINBURGH (continued)
My dearest Duncan, I trust you still are well,
And still survive beneath each passing shock
Of falls without a rise when “Bears” will sell
And “Bulls” are sometimes sold, too , with the stock
And lose besides their own dear stock of patience
And learn to know the pangs of indigestion
Although they grow more cautious o’er their rations
And steam their brains with punch to save congestion.
But how is our old friend
I hope in all his parts he’s still intact
And safe on earth to grin where others grumble
And scratch his head and know that “it’s a fact.”
And then again our good friends Mrs Gentle
And Gentle Cockletops the witty farmer
Ask for their healths both physical and mental
And if the latter had his Ayrshire charmer.
But ah! why linger o’er such themes as these
Which fall unheeded on thy faithful ear
Whose drum is beat in vain vain hope to please
Unless struck by her name whose love you bear.
Sweet name—though long or short ’tis sweet to thee
And jingles gently round or right above you
Then hush! and in soft tones say how is she
The greatly unexpressed the glorious lovely?
That purest unnamed myth of joy and fears,
That unblown bud of seven lang lang years.
Pray call her Mary, Nell or Isabel
The former pair are garnered in my breast
And being pretty may answer pretty well
To mark your special lovely from the rest.
But there! the Muse has heard the name of mine
And cannot sing of yours though your wellwisher;
For Helen sweetly chimes in every line
And looking in my head she finds Miss Fisher.
How oft at even by the gliding Tay
My thoughts have floated o’er its gentle breasts,
To wonder midst those lights which point the way
Where beauteous Helen wakes or slumb’ring rests,
To fix on one and fondly call it Hers,
And whisper to my heart its own dear choice,
And hear it murmured in the stilly hours
And echoed by the waters’ gurgling voice.
Oh! she is sweeter than the morning sigh
Which rises fragrant from the waking rose
To greet with frankincense the world’s great eye
And praise the source from whence its beauty flows
So sweet, so pure, so wrought about with grace
Spring in her step and summer in her eyes
She shows the seasons in her blooming face
And moves the Hesperus of earthly skies.
How passing pleasant (when the weather’s choice)
To stroll sans thought or care down by his side
To list the music of his gushing voice
Or read the unthumbed page there opened wide.
So poets think, I know, which is a pity
For after all I do prefer the city.
Then dearest sweet and ever charming Three,
List to the pleadings of the tuneful Nine
Without whose intercession as you see
I dare not venture nigh your triple shrine,
Fearful and anxious lest neglected duty
Has hurt me in the eyes of so much beauty.
And this translation too I was to send
In weekly numbers and in solid prose
With learned annotations at the end,
And all those aids to timid authors’ throes.
But I suspect that this with me is morally
Impossible, I rather do it orally.
Oh! Kate how shall I begin, how end
How lay my heart before you upon paper
How say unutterable things, how send
In sorry ink dropped by the midnight taper
The spirit of my love to hover near
And whisper thee of more than meets the ear?
My dear, my sweet and charming Sophy
I read your pretty little letter
Had it contained one word of me
I would have liked it better.
In dear Coatbridge you’re now at rest
And happy in your early lovers
And he the dearest and the best
Now proves the heart his waistcoat covers.
Then Amy, dear, pray listen here,
You know the blarney stone?
He kissed it with the very lips
That vowed he was your own.
This preface here begins to swell
Its length just like a first quiet visit
Made to some lady to see if she is well
And take her hand perhaps to kiss it,
If she allows, and is not backward;
Time runs so that you never miss it
Till at a point that’s rather awkward
You to the devil wish your visit.
The casual sweets I relish most
Just like flirtation after supper
When hunger in some dish is lost
Nor yet is found upon the nightmare’s crupper.
You then are soothed and sentimental
And pleased to talk or walk or sit
Especially if she’s ornamental
About the head or has some wit.
The stoics hold true happiness is found
With those alone who never knew a pleasure,
And being rather fearful lest they run aground
When ebbs the tide and they, cautious beyond measure,
Lay out their scheme with all due circumspection
But overlook the joys of retrospection.
Go walk with Berkeley on creation’s brink
And feed and gaze on doubt, and doubt your sight
Think you are not, or that you do not think,
Then doubt that you are either wrong or right;
Doubt pleasure, pain, or even lovely’s kiss
And be not certain that there’s day or night
But doubt your doubt if that it doubt of this .
Trembling as it grows,
Bedewed in every shower
Fading as it grows.
Love is but a dream
A day dream of the heart
A glimpse of heaven between
Breaking clouds that part.
The woods are leafless neath their shade
No lovers walk or birds now sing.
Can love or song with dull leaves fade?
Ah! do they grow but with the Spring?
But Winter sweeping on the ground
Her name bears on his stormy wing
And thrilling memory at the sound
Casts o’er my heart eternal spring.
The rose the lily from their stalk
Fall trembling neath sere autumn skies,
And every gem in Flora’s walk
Gleams but awhile then faded dies.
But such is not the fate of Love
It withers not but still doth rise
Where planted by the hand above,
The only flower which never dies.
Oh! such an eye
To kill or cure again.
Exhausted Nature seeks awhile to rest
And calmly sleeps upon the earth’s cold breast,
While creeping Winter with his icy hand
Spreads his cold sheet in folds upon the land.
Breathing his stillness o’er the lake’s pure face,
He casts death’s shadow o’er life’s wonted place;
Or wildly bounding from his northern lair
Scatters his tempests through the howling air.
The bright moon rises as we cross the ferry,
The dancing waves support her silver train,
And all on board the passage boat are merry
In various ways, some dance with might and main;
Some sit and lounge alone, while here and there
In happy silence stand some wiser pair.
Farewell! my native shores, farewell!
Ye scenes that smile upon the Forth,
Ye hills and dales I know so well,
Ye islets of my native North!
Farewell! your voice sits on the breeze,
It sighs a last farewell to me,
Your form sinks faintly in the seas
And night veils my sad heart and thee.
You blooming flowers, say how she passed
Or left you with a rosy kiss,
Which bashful bud looked on her last,
Which last received that touch of bliss.
You songsters mute that linger here
Ah! lead me to her gentle feet,
To her who is my dove, my dear,
My sun and flowers, my all, my sweet,
Or lend your voices sweet awhile
Its tones her footsteps here may wile
To list its loving madrigal.
And when I sun me in her smile
And bathe deep in her liquid eyes
A wreath of love I’ll twine the while,
All buds and bloom, hopes, fears and sighs.
The rugged [peak] that smiles above the cloud,
The darkened valleys ’neath the watery skies,
The rattling brooks ...
The wee wee flowers ...
John pensive sits beneath his parachute
And then the bit where [?] grand and mute.
Well Borders, Boy, how are you living?
Dear Sir, how do you do?
I’m writing here and can’t help giving
My compliments to you.
The blocks come tumbling in apace
Good Lord how you must suffer!
The same old drawings still to face
Perhaps from some new duffer.
And Mr. Graves, I hope, is well
And still can take his coffee,
From any Turk he’d take the bell
And wear it as a trophy.
How is that small pecker Smith
Who dotes on dots mysterious?
Round ones or square that prove with pith
[He feels] they’re rather serious.
But in your ear how is my dear?
Dear Emily, I mean?
Whene’er I see her far or near
I wish that I had never been.
Now, my dear boy, do tie up Cupid
I’m certain else to get entangled ...
CHAPTER III LONDON—BEFORE MARRIAGE
And though in life it may betide
Our paths are severed far and wide
Yet ne’er shall you forgotten be—
Will you remember Margaret C.?
Universal near and far,
I cannot say I think the same.
Liked by friends, they’re loth to blame,
Loveliest of Adam’s race
Elegant in form and face;
Rove no more I pray.
Remember you are but a man.
Cruel artist to give pain,
Hundreds sigh for thee in vain.
A time will come, you need not fear,
Remember this is still Leap Year!
Do not think you will pass free
Soon your fate will come I see.
Oh! handsome William I must try
Now, to say that word, “Good-bye.”
CHAPTER IV LONDON—BEFORE MARRIAGE (continued)
CHAPTER V LONDON—HONEYMOON DAYS
CHAPTER VI LONDON (SPENSER STREET) AND WESTGATE
CHAPTER VII LONDON (SPENSER STREET) AND WESTGATE (continued)
CHAPTER VIII 13 PORTLAND PLACE, W.—ART
CHAPTER IX DRY-FLY FISHING—AMESBURY AND RAMSBURY
CHAPTER X 13 PORTLAND PLACE: FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES: CLUBS
CHAPTER XI SCOTLAND—FISHING AND SCHOOL HOLIDAYS
My boat is by the shore,
While Guthrie soothes the waiting Sligh,
Answering to the old man’s “damn”
With, an if he could, “cherchez la femme.”
CHAPTER XII SCOTLAND (continued)
CHAPTER XIII DRY-FLY FISHING—RAMSBURY
Laddie if thou wilt.
The moon is blind and I am kind,
Laddie if thou wilt.
CHAPTER XV LETTERS TO HILDA AND IAN IN GERMANY, 1889-1900
CHAPTER XVI VISITINGS IN SCOTLAND
A Week is lost, a Day is gained
The loss we’ll ne’er complain;
There’ll soon be little Days enough
To make a Week again.
This is a world of disappointment.
CHAPTER XVIII FOR THE BENEFIT OF LOVERS
Meanwhile till then and then and after I am yours.
Yours over much.
Your hurried but affectionate.
With more love than is good for you.
Yours as you know.
Sleep sound and dream of yours.
Good-bye much love and many what ye callums. Yours.
Think of me as yours.
Yours very very much.
Yours emphatically yours.
Yours as ever.
Consider Hilda, my amanuensis and me always more never less yours.
Yours most awfully,
Good night, and God bless you, Yours lovingly.
Your sweetheart.
Good-bye. Yours as much.
Yours very much.
Yours.
With very very much love.
Yours yours yours.
Your Quiller.
Your anxious.
Yours with a long kiss and a longing sigh.
Is there a photo up here? I want to kiss it—with great love.
And moreover I am yours .
Your loving.
Yours with much love.
Your patient.
I am yours impatiently.
Rather hard that about the price! Never mind! I am for all that still Your Sweetheart.
Till to-morrow, with a kiss on account, Yours very.
Yours as much and more than ever you can think.
Yours with a big one.
Yours in a hurry.
Your lover.
Your affectionate.
Your very loving.
Yours very very.
Yours ever so much.
Yours altogether.
Yours as before.
Good-bye affectionately.
Good-bye, and very sorry to disappoint the dear old thing.
Yours “awefully.”
Yours all round.
And now my Sweetheart, good night and good night.
Yours more than possible.
Many kisses from your old sweetheart.
Now and ever your sweetheart.
With all my heart yours.
With all my love yours altogether.
Till then and after yours with a big one.
Yours in great haste, but none the less yours.
All yours.
Yours really.
Yours kissingly.
Yours with all his heart.
All my love to the dear Old Lady.
Good-bye my dear Old Lady, I kiss you heartily.
I am your devoted other half and waiting.
Here is the post, so good-bye and much love.
Yours more than enough.
Yours lovingly as usual.
With all his love.
Yours in love.
Yours so much.
Good-bye, and much love—always.
With all the love of Quiller.
Yours as always.
Yours in haste with much love.
Yours altogether.
As Sheila used to say, “Yours all round the neck.”
You are all the world to Quiller.
Yours and Yours only.
Yours “so” much.
Give all the rest my love, and however much you give it will take nothing from what there is for you, Believe me.
Yours though at a distance.
Love to them all and a big one for yourself, from—to use Quentin’s style.
Yours awfully tired of it [separation].
With all my love.
Always yours.
Moreover, remember me as yours.
Your affectionate Q. Orchardson, I mean Quiller.
Yours with an embracing love.
Moreover, I am very much yours.
Your affectionate etc.
Yours in everything.
Meantime, yours always.
Yours all love.
Yours with all love.
Yours with a much lighter heart—and no Tic——
With great love.
Your loving.
Think of your loving.
Yours with many kisses.
Still your sweetheart.
CHAPTER XIX SCATTERED MEMORIES OF THE PICTURES
’Tis the little rift within the lute
That by and by doth make the music mute.
Upon his widowed heart it falls,
Echoing a hallowed voice.
“My son is my son till he takes him a wife,
My daughter’s my daughter all the days of my life.”
