Читать книгу The Crest of the Broken Wave - James William Barke - Страница 10

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The arrival of Jean at the Isle, the warmth and comfort of the house, the honest appetising food she prepared for him soon worked a revolution in his feelings towards Ellisland. He worked hard on his farm by day; but when he came home he was anxious to get down at the end of the table with a ream of paper.

But it had ever been so. Deeply in love with Jean, he found his creative energy surging through him, giving him a great strength. Gone for the moment was his melancholy and his melancholia. Now was the time for rejoicing in life—for recreating it in life and in song.

So he wrote and wrote. Yet his mind ever raced far ahead of his pen.

He could have done to neglect his farm and to have exhausted this creative upsurge that was on him. Maybe he should have done so. But his fear of poverty was too great. He had a responsibility to Jean and his family and to Dalswinton House, lying like a grave threat to his existence across the Nith.

So he applied himself to his farm and his poetry and his Jean. The month of December was one of the happiest he had ever known.

When he composed—or rather dashed off—his Elegy on the year 1788 and read it over to Jean, she realised how the opening lines so suited his moods: “For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, e’en let them die—for that they’re born!”

Everything interested him. Even his interest in the politics of the day had never been keener. Squire Riddell was often generous with his newspapers and these the Bard digested almost at a glance. Yet so apt and penetrating were his comments in prose and verse that such sheets as the Edinburgh Evening Courant, The British Chronicle and Lloyd’s Evening Post were only too delighted to print anything from his pen.

He relished his journalism, found deep satisfaction in his political poetry. It was grand to dash off a comment and see it in print in ten or twelve days’ time.

Often he was inwardly thankful that the rain prevented him from slaving at his farm and gave him an excuse to draw up to the fire to read or write or go over a song with Jean as the mood seized him.

“You see, Jean—this is how it should hae been a’ along. We could hae had a’ this a year ago—aye, damn-near twa years ago, had only Creech settled up wi’ me——”

“Maybe, Rab. But you enjoyed yoursel’ in Embro... And you had your tours. That did you a lot o’ guid—you mauna forget that. Maybe you wouldna hae settled doon sae weel twa year ago.”

“Aye ... maybe you’re richt as usual, Jean. It was fine seeing the Borders and the Highlands. Right, my lass, I’ll no grumble. Only I’m no’ keen to gang to Embro for that final settlement wi’ Creech——”

“And it will be final?”

“Damn the fear o’ that. I ken that having Creech’s word for it doesna in itself mean onything. But I think I ken whaur I hae him, even though he’s now God’s anointed baillie o’ Edinburgh. Robert Burns’ll be dealing wi’ a different Creech this time—and Creech’ll be dealing wi’ a very different Robert Burns.”

But the Bard’s plans for Edinburgh were upset by the death of his father’s brother Robert in Stewarton. He had known his uncle’s end was near, for the last time he had visited him—during one of his visits to Mrs. Dunlop—he had found him far gone in a rheumatic complaint that made his life a terrible pain and burden to him. It seemed significant to the nephew that his uncle Robert and his father William, from Clochnahill, should have both died in Ayrshire in physical distress and direst poverty.

Robert Burnes (as was the family spelling) had told his famous nephew that he was dying and that he feared for his growing family. The Bard had immediately assured him that he would take care of his cousin Fanny and one, if not two, of the boys: John maybe, or William.

Now the time had come for him to implement his promise; and though that time had come sooner than he had anticipated, he did not hesitate for a moment. Unable to attend the funeral himself—by the time he could get to Stewarton his uncle would be buried—he despatched his farm-boy to Stewarton with a letter...

“Fanny’ll be a big help to you, Jean.”

“What age’ll she be?”

“About sixteen or seventeen...”

“Whatever you say, Rab. If you’re bringing the twa boys and your brother William frae Mossgiel ... we’ll hae a housefu’.”

“You dinna think I was foolish——”

“No, no, Rab—they’re a’ welcome and mair; and you ken fine I’ll be guid to them.”

“Fine I ken... Oh, and they’ll need to work, they’ll need to earn their bite. And if Fanny’s the lass I think she is, she’ll do that and mair. I’m no’ so sure about my brother William. There’s something wrong wi’ him I just canna put my finger on. The boy’s got intelligence and he’s got ambition o’ a kind—but there seems to be nae proper gumption about him.”

“He hasna much smeddum, puir laddie. But I think he’ll dae better once he’s awa’ frae Mossgiel and Gilbert’s influence.”

“Maybe you’re no’ far wrong there, lass. Gilbert ... you see the trouble wi’ Gibby, Jean, is that he’s always right.”

“Think sae?”

“Aye: if you weigh up a’ Gibby’s arguments, you’ll find he’s richt. Logically and morally speaking. But then he’s so bluidy smug wi’ it a’ that he gets folks’ backs up.”

“There’s a bit of the bully in him too, Rab. But I ken what you mean—he’s honest enough and likes to deal fair wi’ everybody——”

“Aye... Weel, here we are. We thocht we were for having the Isle to oursel’s—at least till I brocht my sister Nancy doon in the spring. But what the hell! The house can dae wi’ plenty o’ young folks about it. They’ll be company for you when I’m awa’ in Edinburgh.”

“Aye—they’ll be company. Though there’s nae company could mak’ up for you, Rab. But you’re richt: I’ll need the company for I juist couldna bide in this meikle house by my lane.”

Soon the long quiet nights at the Isle were no more. Fanny, John and William, his cousins, were there; and his brother William.

Many folks thought that Robert Burns was a foolhardy over-generous man giving hospitality to so many young people—especially when his circumstances seemed so ill-suited to the burden. But his uncle’s plight reminded him too closely of his father’s and he couldn’t shut the children out.

Fanny was as bright and lovable a girl as he had ever known. Jean took to her immediately and she to Jean. Indeed in many ways she closely resembled Jean when the Bard had first known her.

And it looked as if the parallel was developing with a startling closeness; for soon Adam Armour came to work as a mason on the new wing of Dalswinton House and soon he was at the Isle every other evening and soon he was paying Fanny every attention.

The Bard had a great softness for Adam Armour and he was Jean’s favourite brother; and so fortune seemed to smile on the pair.

“This is what I’ve aey hankered for, Jean—a hame o’ my own and plenty o’ young folks about enjoying themselves. And friends too. I’ve never had a place where I could invite my friends. But things’ll be different from now on.”

“I’ll dae what I can for your friends, Rab——”

“My friends, Jean, will be your friends—we’ll share them thegither.”

“I’m no’ used to mixing wi’ gentry.”

“Gentry! That’s another story. Dinna worry about the gentry, Jean. Ony connection I hae wi’ them is of no great consequence. Take Glenriddell there, ower at the Carse—he’s one o’ your gentry. Guid kens Glenriddell’s an honest enough fellow and I like him well enough and, indeed, it’s a’ to my advantage that I should pay my respects at the Carse now and then. But I’d never dream o’ having Glenriddell cracking awa’ at my ingle-neuk or drawing his chair into my table—not, of course, that Glenriddell or his likes would dream o’ honouring my fire-side.”

“Well—juist as lang as you keep the gentry as far frae me as I keep myself frae them we’ll be happy enough about the arrangement. I’ll never grudge you the gentry, Rab. I ken they mean a lot to you and I can understand how they dote on your company—your company maun flatter them even though they wouldna admit it. But I’m nae gentry, Rab, and I’ll never aim that airt.”

“Aye: they’re a puir lot, Jean, for a’ their drink and dripping roasts...”

Another wife might well have grudged him his hours spent in the company of men and women who would not have invited her to share their table and who would not have dreamed of sharing hers. But Jean was too serene in her relationship with the Bard to worry about such trifles; and with the young ones about the house she had never an idle or a lonely moment.