Читать книгу The Crest of the Broken Wave - James William Barke - Страница 11

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William Burns was a lad of twenty-three years of age and was trying to improve on his apprenticeship as a saddler...

As Robert was friendly enough with Walter Auld, a Dumfries saddler, and as Wattie promised to give William a month’s work; and as William hoped eventually to make his way to England, he eventually arrived at Ellisland.

The Bard had ever had a soft side towards William. He was a good lad, gentle-mannered, gentle-voiced and good-looking in a slightly effeminate way. But he lacked guts, drive, personality—and he found the world tough-going.

The Bard knew just how tough the world could be and he knew the qualities William lacked. He talked to him as they sauntered along the Nith’s bank.

“You’ll get a few weeks’ work wi’ Wattie Auld in Dumfries—but nae mair than that—unless you prove a byornar saddler.”

“I’m a puir saddler, Robert.”

“But damnit, lad, you shouldna say that as if you were content you should be so. There’s nothing to hinder you being a first-class mechanic. Or is there?”

“I just dinna seem to have the application. I work hard enough too—I’m conscientious, Robert.”

“Is there onything else you’d like to try your hand at?”

“Y’ken I’m nae use at farming work.”

“No ... you never tried very hard.”

“I dinna see ocht else for me, then... I like reading and writing.”

“Writing? What hae you been writing?”

“Oh—nothing, nothing really. I mean I like writing letters... I mean, if I’d a lot of people to write to...”

“Weel: that’s aey something. But you see, William: the main business of life consists of securing for yourself a measure of independent security. Once you can provide yourself with food and clothing and shelter, put a penny by for a rainy day and yet hae a shillin’ in your pouch for a modest social emergency—once you’ve made your way in the world to that extent, then you can think about the refinements—as it were—o’ living... Oh, damn fine I ken how things are a’ arse for elbow in this world. But you’ve gotten a kinda arse-for-elbow approach to life yourself, William. Before you can do a damned thing you’ve got to work—and work hard. That’s the penalty o’ being born into a family o’ puir tenant-farmers. You’re the kind o’ lad who could do wi’ plenty o’ schooling—and gin you’d crammed your skull fu’ o’ their damned learning you’d hae made an excellent tutor in a gentleman’s family. But here you are, my lad, at twenty-three years of age and about to venture forth into the world and you fancy haudin’ South—into England——”

“I fancied there might be more openings that way for a Scotch lad——”

“Weel ... there micht be something in your fancies, William. What did Gilbert say?”

“Gilbert thinks I lack resolution—and maybe I do, Robert. And maybe, maybe I should be different from what I am...”

“Now, now, lad: you’re fine. You’re a credit to your father’s name and never get to thinking otherwise. Of course you’ve got resolution: otherwise you wouldna think o’ making your way doon into England on your own——”

“I just had to get awa’ frae Machlin, Robert. You ken how I’ve pestered you this while back?”

“’Course you’d to get awa’ frae Machlin. What the hell’s in Machlin for a lad o’ spirit and ambition?”

“But you liked it—once?”

“Aye ... once. Yes: I’ve had mony a happy nicht in Machlin as you ken. I was about your age then. Aye: when wee Smith and Jock Richmond and Clockie Brown and Davie Brice... Yes, William, my bonnie boy, there was a time for me when Machlin was the centre o’ the world. Things were discussed in Johnnie Dow’s back room yonder that paled ocht that was ever heard in Saint Stephen’s Hall. Nichts that you and Gibby and a wheen others never heard a cheep about. Over a glass o’ tippenny, William, we used to set the world to rights and strut our bit stage like giants and heroes——”

“And you were a giant and a hero, Robert. There’re plenty still talk about it in Machlin. I’ve heard Johnnie Dow talk about you mysel’. He’s said to me many a time: ‘You’re a wonderful family, you Burnses—but there’ll never be another like your brother Robert—the greatest man I ever served wi’ a gill o’ Kilbagie.’ In some ways Robert, you’re a legend there—especially to the younger generation.”

“A legend... Aye; but I was cursed as a black-hearted sinner about Machlin too. You wouldna hear ocht about that?”

“Oh, plenty... But only from the ones who envy you your success.”

“Success! Look about you. D’you see these bare bluidy acres o’ stane and water-logged clay? Upwards o’ a hundred and seventy acres o’ them at damn-near a pound an acre o’ rent. And that heap o’ stanes and lime—that’s my new house a-building... Look well on a’ that, William, and you’re looking at success...”

“But I thocht Mr. Tennant advised you?”

“Yes, yes, Auld Glen... But I’m no’ hiding ahint Auld Glen. Ellisland could be made a farm and a guid farm. And believe me I’m the very man—poet or no’ poet—who could make it a guid farm: one o’ the best in Scotland. I could hae them flockin’ frae far and near to praise my farming even as they’ve praised my verses. Now: dinna think I’m boasting. I’ve a’ the intelligence needed for farming and plenty o’ experience o’ what spells failure. Then what’s holding me back? Capital, William—a guid going cash account i’ the Bank o’ Scotland in Dumfries. Gie me that and I’d double my capital in ten years and own every bluidy acre o’ it forbye. But, as it is—well, I’ll hae to struggle awa’ in my ain strictly limited fashion and try by every effort no’ to run into debt. For believe me, William, once you add debt to your worries, you’re finished. The hell-hounds o’ Justice can be bad enough; but the hell-hounds unleashed by creditors bound straight frae the kennels o’ hell...

“And yet, William, you ken how much I dislike the language o’ complaint ... life has its compensations. I could hae been settled in waur places and, for my money, wi’ waur ground. It’s a grand place this i’ the lang simmer day and a glorious prospect a’ round you. And when my new house is finished and spring comes round again—well, I’ll win through yet. It’s ‘never, never to despair,’ lad—that’s what counts. And guidkens: gloomy December’s no’ a time o’ year for a farmer to plod about his wet acres and view his prospects.

“Sae we’ll see how you get on wi’ Wattie Auld and what idea o’ prospects you can gather for your next stage, which should tak’ you south about Carlisle way. And mind: as long as I hae a hame o’ my ain you’re welcome to your bed and your bite. Dinna get it into your head that now you’ve left Mossgiel and your mither and Gilbert that you’re awa’ out into the world a hameless laddie. By God no: no’ as long as I’m living. And mind that what I say goes for Jean too. Jean’s on your side: she kens what the world can be like——”

“I’ve aey admired my new sister, Robert. You ken I’ve always stuck up for her.”

“And weel you may. You’ll no’ find mony like Jean on your travels—and nane wi’ a kinder heart.”

And William thought that his brother was the greatest man who had ever lived. A man who strode purposefully on the earth and feared no one. A man who talked with a force and eloquence that was spell-binding. A man who knew people of every class and condition and who corresponded with anybody who mattered in Scotland. An amazing man; his own brother and yet somehow not his brother at all but utterly independent of family, of kith or kin. A man who had to be approached from the outside and never from the inside. And yet a man who was more than a brother and somehow sustained and assured him as only an elder brother could.

William was profoundly touched by Robert’s kindness; but his emotions were all tangled up. He knew he would have to quit Ellisland—and soon. For there was no doubt to William that Robert would only tolerate him provided he made every effort to succeed in life.

William was determined as never before in his life to make a place for himself, so that when he returned to Ellisland on his way to Mossgiel his success would be evident to everyone, but especially to Robert his brother who was Scotland’s Bard.

Standing on the soggy bank by the river Nith on that gloomy afternoon the world did seem cold and friendless and unutterably bleak. The road to England, and to York—his first goal—seemed interminably long and milestoned with uncertainty... William built resolution on the quicksands of his emotions and he had to build feverishly against the imminence of collapse. He tried desperately hard not to blurt out to Robin that he was lonely and afraid; that what he longed for more than anything was to have a lass in whom he could confide, who would share his life and build with him a bield, however simple, against the cold blasts of the outside world.

But the Bard could sense all that troubled William. He suffered for the lad. He was flesh of his flesh—but how damnably unfitted, through an excess of sensibility, for the struggle in the market-place of life.