Читать книгу The Crest of the Broken Wave - James William Barke - Страница 7

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In Machlin, Jean was too busy to have time to give way to despair. Not that there was any natural tendency in Jean towards melancholy. Her nature, gay and light-hearted, was balanced by her quiet fatalism—her uncomplaining acceptance of her lot. She had got Rab and Rab had got his farm—what was there to worry about? Every day she attended at Mossgiel and worked hard under the direction of Rab’s mother and sisters: worked hard and learned quickly.

They were so pleased with her at Mossgiel that even Gilbert had a kind word. Indeed Gilbert had changed his opinion about her, though he would still give a canny Presbyterian side-nod with his head as if not admitting to himself that his opinion had changed.

There did not seem to be anything to worry about. But Jean knew that Rab was worried. She worried too about this writing to Graham of Fintry about an Exciseman’s job.

When he did manage back to Machlin for a few days she questioned him.

“What’s worrying you, Rab?”

“Nothing, Jean—at least nothing that canna be mended. It’s just—well, Jean, we maun face it. Ellisland may never be a success—at least no’ wi’ my money and my work. It’ll tak’ years to put the place in guid heart. And we canna wait years, lass—that’s all there’s to it. We’ll need to find an alternative somehow and somewhere. That’s why I wrote to Graham o’ Fintry. I’ll need to get into the Excise. I think I can manage that and the farm. Back and forward I may need to hire a bit o’ extra labour; but the expense o’ a week or twa’s hired labour’ll never be missed out o’ the Excise money. This way we’ll be able to weather in a year or twa—and then Ellisland will be able to maintain us in comfort.”

“If you think you can manage the twa jobs, Rab. You ken I’ll dae a’ I can and whatever mair.”

“Fine I ken that, lass. Now, you’re no’ to be worrying.”

“I’m no’ worrying, Rab, for I’ve nae fear o’ you. Only—I dinna like to see you sae worried and upset. And it’s long past time I was doon at this Ellisland and got attending to you—saw that you got a richt bite o’ guid meat.”

“Aye... And God Almighty, Jean lass, I could be doing wi’ you. What? But dinna worry: I’m no’ for putting in the winter mysel’. I’ve been speiring in a’ directions to see what there micht be by way o’ a hoose—ony dry warm corner would do us the now——”

“Gey near ony place would do, Rab.”

“Nearly... Ony place but Cullie’s. I’ll no’ be able to stand that much longer mysel’. But patience, lass, patience. We’ll win through. This winter’ll be the worst... I’ll need to gang through to Edinburgh ane o’ thae days: I’ve some affairs to settle wi’ that arch-scoundrel Creech...”

True enough: he had accounts to settle with Creech. But he had also accounts to settle with Jenny Clow.

Jenny had borne him a son. There might be some difficulty about that. Hell: but he had had to pay a heavy price for his bye-loves. But God be thanked: he was finished with all that nonsense now. Aye; and had things been right with Jean from the start there would never have been a Peggy Cameron or a Jenny Clow—or anyone else.

Not that he really regretted anything. He’d had many a happy hour with Peggy and Jenny and an odd one here and there forbye. What was the odds—now? His love for Jean hadn’t suffered in any way. Rather had it been enriched. Maybe it was only when a man had twa-three lassies through his hands that he appreciated the right lass when he got her.

And, Lord, it was good to get home to Baldy Muckle’s room in the Backcauseway and get straiked down in warmth and comfort and blessed satiation beside Jean.

This meant more to him than anything else life had to offer. Neither fame nor fortune could be half so sweet or so unutterably satisfying...

Clarinda! He dismissed her from his mind before her sweet sophisticated curves had an opportunity of hoving into consciousness...

The trouble with Mrs. MacLehose, as with Peggy Chalmers, was that their curves (their femininity, their personality) were sophisticated; were not wholly and truly aligned to their essential and natural bonework.

Gilbert said to him: “What’s like the trouble at Ellisland—is it another Mossgiel?”

“Aye—and it could be a bit o’ Lochlea and Mount Oliphant.”

“But I thought Auld Glen advised——”

“I thought so too, Gibby.”

“I’m sorry to hear this, Robin.”

“Of course if I’d enough money——”

“You’re no’ grudging what you loaned me?”

“I’m no’ grudging onything. I could do fine wi’ what I loaned you—but it would only be a drop in the bucket. No: it’s the future, Gibby, that worries me. I was a bit soft to begin wi’——” He spread out his toil-calloused hands. “But I’m hardened to hard work now.”

“It canna do your farm much good wasting time coming up here to Machlin every twa-three weeks.”

“Wasting time!”

“Well ... I ken how you feel about Jean.”

“No you don’t, Gibby. You ken nocht about it.”

“Maybe no’: I’m beginning to appreciate Jean’s parts——”

“So you appreciate that she’s worth mair nor bedding?”

Gilbert turned away his face: “I don’t suppose you’ll ever change, Robin.”

“I don’t suppose I will. But make nae mistake: Jean means everything to me.”

“Aye—in some ways a better wife nor you deserve.”

“Granted! Aye, Jean’s a better wife nor I deserve. But—in another way—I deserved her fully enough. I suffered plenty for her.”

“So did she for you!”

“You’re beginning to see that, are you? There’s hope for you, Gilbert my boy. You’ll be a philosopher yet if you watch your step. For just as much as Jean and me’s suffered for each other the mair we mean to each other... Your come-easy loves go just as easily. I never held to the theory of one man one lass. You can only love as long as you can. But I never held to the theory of libertinism either——”

“No... ?”

“I ken you think otherwise, Gibby. Your platonic ideal relationship with your Lavinia has been your undoing. Oh, I don’t blame you... I don’t blame onybody. If you’ve nocht but stagnant blood in your veins then you can hae nocht but stagnant thoughts in your head. I get a bit tired sometimes trying to argue wi’ folk. Man—and woman too—should live according to their natures, according to the instincts, desires, capacities that have been implanted in them—or maybe inherited from their forebears. What raises the very devil in me is when folk try to threap down my throat that their way o’ life should be mine. Folk have ceased to be human beings—they have become moralists. That’s your besetting sin, Gibby: you’re a moralist—and your morals are no’ a’ o’ your ain making.”

“So you do deny the truths of revealed religion?”

“Religion—revealed or unrevealed. Revealed by whom, Gibby?”

“By God—in the ultimate.”

“By God in the ultimate. A comforting thought if you like comfortable ways o’ thinking about things. When I study the kind o’ folk that are familiar wi’ God I ken what to think. And when I hear them putting their petty moral strictures into the mouth o’ God, then I ken there’s no such God. If there was He would strike them dead for their blasphemy. You’ve read my verses: few hae read them with more application. But I micht as weel hae been writing in Greek for a’ the guid they’ve done you.”

“Should they have done me good?”

“Well, maybe no’ when you put it that way. But at least you might have understood what I’ve been driving at almost since ever I started writing.”

“You canna say I havena enjoyed them.”

“Uhuh! Enjoyed! Well ... they were meant to be enjoyed and plenty hae enjoyed. But damn few hae kent what they were about—though the meaning’s wrote plain for a’ to see.”

“Is this you coming back to Love and Liberty again?”

“Coming back to it? I was never away from it.”

“Oh——So why did you get married? Why didn’t you tell Mr. Auld to... ?”

“To go to hell? You don’t understand Daddy Auld either.”

“I understand enough, Robin. If you want to wriggle out of your own argument you can do so. I’ll no’ hold it up against you.”

“When did ever I wriggle out o’ onything? I too can pay to Caesar that which is Caesar’s and unto God that which is God’s.”

“Edinburgh learned you well in sophistry.”

“Did it? I’ll put it plainer to you, Gilbert. Plain enough for even you to see. I render to the Excise that which will satisfy the Excise into giving me a job. I see nae wisdom nor courage in starving myself to death or those that love me to death. So what do I do? I marry Jean to start wi’—and how do I marry Jean? By forcing you and Machlin and Father Auld and the Kirk o’ Scotland into recognising my marriage. And if I render them a guinea to solder their conscience and get a receipt—well, that’s a guinea weel rendered to Caesar.

“And the Excise accepts the receipts—and by the laws o’ the Kirk God’ll need to accept the receipt too—or pack the whole bluidy Kirk and the General Assembly aff to hell for dealing in contraband commandments. Though between you and me, Gibby, I’m mair nor content to leave my sins, so-called, for God to deal wi’ at His ain time. Aye, I maun hae some bits o’ scraps o’ receipts so as to prove to the world that I’m respectable—that I’m fit to be allowed to earn a bite for myself, and my bairns. You think this makes me a hypocrite? Na, na: the world’s the hypocrite.”

“And you alone are right?”

“No: that would be too simple. Maybe I’m speaking ower big when I talk about the world. Well ... we’ll confine ourselves to Scotland. Scotland, the Scotland o’ saints and scholars and country squires is nothing but hypocrisy. Not one o’ them can square their beliefs wi’ their practice. But, as far as ever I have been able to read in history—and that at least takes me back to the Bible—morality has ever been a snare and a delusion——”

“All right, Robin; but what has this to do wi’ you settling down in Ellisland as a farmer?”

“I’ll go ower it again wi’ you. I’ve got to live. Oh, I suppose I could beg my way frae door to door—I may be forced to come to that yet. But—not yet. I’ve work to do. And I dinna mean ploughing and sowing and reaping. That’s just my bread and brose work. I’ve sangs to write: hundreds o’ sangs. Aye: so that our auld glorious melodies will be preserved. My reward? I’d be a bluidy gowk to look for ony reward! What reward d’ye think James Johnson’s getting? Can you value a sang the way you could a wedder ewe... ? You think I’ve changed since I cam’ back frae Auld Reekie. But I havena. I’m more experienced in the ways o’ the world, Gibby. But my attitude to life, my ideas, havena changed either—only deepened. The philosophy that I hammered out for mysel’ in Lochlea and Mossgiel here has become more intense wi’ the experience o’ the last two years. True enough, Gibby, at the moment I’m a bit in the depths and when I get into the trough o’ melancholy it’s no’ easy to climb out. You see: things are still going against me. Oh ... I havena given up hope yet. There’s plenty o’ fight and hard work in me still. I’m forgetting what started this discourse, am I? Dinna be surprised at the things you see me doing—and never mak’ the mistake o’ taking me for a hypocrite. I ken the world, Gilbert; and I’ll fight the world and if necessary deceive the world wi’ my own weapons.”

“A’ I can say, Robin, is that you’d talk your way out o’ ony argument. I could have nae other desire than to see you settled down as farmer, happy and prosperous. Naebody deserves that mair nor you. I’ve aey felt that and I’ve aey said that. I’ve stood up for you through thick and thin. I can thole the fact that there’s nothing for me but hard work and endless poverty. Even as a farmer I’m no’ half the farmer you are. I suppose I’m a dull clod and will need to suffer for that.”

“D’you really think you’re a dull clod, Gilbert?”

“Well ... I’ve little to show for the trifle o’ education I’ve laboured to acquire. No: I’m no’ a dull clod, Robin. I can read and I can reason—and I hae my principles——”

“Your morality.”

“All right, my morality. I’m no’ apologising for it. I’m no saint; but I’ve never done harm to onybody deliberately. And I ken I’m fit for better than slaving out my guts on Mossgiel for the rest o’ my days... But still and on, Robin: you canna escape predestination; and if it’s the Lord’s will——”

“You’ll bend your neck to the yoke?”

“Aye: I’ll bend my neck to the yoke—and I’ll do my best no’ to complain.”

“Or revolt?”

“Or revolt. Ye ken fine, Robin—and here I would fain plead wi’ you—those that are stiff-necked before the Lord and refuse to bend their necks to the yoke get their necks broken in the Lord’s ain time.”

“Amen, amen... It’s strange too, Gilbert, that here we stand brothers, flesh o’ the same flesh, and you were born a preacher wi’ the message o’ submission and I was born a poet wi’ the message o’ revolt. You’re right in a way, Gilbert. We canna escape our destiny. What’s for us’ll no’ go by us. The thing is to acknowledge your destiny—if your destiny’s strong enough or important enough to be acknowledged. The bulk o’ mankind hae damn-all destiny worth bothering about. And they must be led, coaxed, cajoled, inspired to fulfil a greater and fuller life than they themselves know. And in the end, Gilbert, I’m satisfied o’ this: the poet will win ower the preacher. For the preacher maun ever preach denial and the poet maun ever proclaim acceptance. In the end, Gibby, as in the beginning, a sweet sang’ll triumph ower a sour sermon. My experience o’ life teaches me that at the heart o’ a’ religion is sourness—sourness at God and man, beast and devil. Aye, and the sun, moon and stars. A sourness at life, Gibby. And by heaven! I see that sourness biting into you, biting deep into you... Ah, for Godsake, get yourself a wife and commence father...”

It was a long time since Robert and Gilbert had had a long talk together. Mostly when they met nowadays it was to exchange mundane information in lean words linked in lean sentences. But a thin dry sourness was general at Mossgiel. Only his youngest brother, William, seemed to be free from it. And William was desperately anxious to get quit of Mossgiel. Time and again Robert had promised to help him and always William had been disappointed. Yet he worshipped Robert and still anchored all his hopes in him. Robert never eluded him—not even with his eyes. Gilbert had a poor opinion of his parts and considered him feckless—if not worthless.

But Robert’s relation to his family was good. They accepted him as married and if not exactly settled down, then making shift to do so. Nancy promised that as soon as his new house was ready she would come down to Ellisland and help Jean.

But, apart from Jean and their room in the Backcauseway, there was nothing to hold him in Machlin. He didn’t visit Gavin Hamilton now. Hamilton had not forgiven him for not sinking his Edinburgh money into Mossgiel. He still enjoyed a crack with Dr. John MacKenzie and sometimes he had a warm gossip with Johnnie Dow. But he had few real friends in Machlin now and he would be glad when he didn’t need to come back to Baldy Muckle’s room.

As for the Machlin belles, he was glad enough to stop and have a word with them; but his passion for Jean was too all-absorbing for him to have either time or inclination to dally in their company.

Strange what a couple of years could do! Machlin was dead to him now. Yet he had spent some of the happiest days of his life in and about it. He would always have pleasant memories of the Machlin he had known when first he came to Mossgiel—just as he would have pleasant memories of Tarbolton when he had first come to Lochlea.

But nothing remained the same. Time gathered the waters of memory into an ever swifter stream moving relentlessly towards oblivion’s shoreless sea.

No man was ever more truly poet than Robert Burns; but no poet was ever more sane, more balanced, more practical. Always he had known poverty and starvation and a toil that amounted to slavery. When the fear of actual physical starvation did not rat-gnaw at his resolve, it whip-lashed him into frenzied activity.

His feverish bouts of physical activity at Ellisland often exhausted him. Then an old tune would come into his mind and he would be threshing out words to the melody. Often he would sit far into the night cobbling an old half-broken refrain into a passable lyric. Sometimes he hammered out on a golden anvil a harmony of new words and old notes with an artistry as fresh and exquisite as the first dawn over Eden when the Lord had rested from His labours and had found them good.

And he would come back to Machlin with a packet of songs; and Jean would sing them over. He would swing on the back legs of his elbow chair and experience a deep enchantment. Jean had the perfect voice for his folk-songs. She sang effortlessly.

Often enough the Bard had to coach her patiently in the rhythm. But Jean’s ready ear was quick in response. She gave him what he wanted with sometimes a subtle shade or two added for good measure.

And so the first summer at Ellisland passed into the first autumn and then chill November’s surly blasts blew bleak and bitter winter across the Dunscore hills; and the Nith, swollen and red, swept in endless spates to the Solway.

Now he dreaded the winter as he had never dreaded winter—and Cullie’s spence...

Maybe he would not have survived that winter—and maybe he had already endured more than his rheumatic-vitiated body could withstand. But just when he was about to give in, salvation came in the shape of a house.

David Newall, the Dalswinton estate factor, was a Dumfries lawyer who occupied the mansion-house at the Isle (behind and a little beyond David Cullie’s wretched hovel). He usually resided in Dumfries during the winter.

One day the Bard had complained to him of the misery of Cullie’s spence and the intolerable delay of the Dumfries masons over his new house and steading.

“You needna endure the winter in Cullie’s cow-shed, Mr. Burns. We canna hae Scotland’s Bard treated like that. And to tell the truth, Mr. Burns, my house at the Isle would be none the waur o’ a guid firing through thae wat winter days—and we get a damnable rain here. I’ve kent it wat for four months without ony remission—day and nicht and nicht and day. You could occupy the kitchen and a room... You’ll need to see to your ain firing; but—eh—I’ll no’ charge you by way o’ rent provided, of course, that you’re oot by the time I’ll want in. If we hae ocht like a good April I’ll want in by then—the first o’ May by the latest onywey. Na, na, Mr. Burns: nae thanks—I’ll only be too glad to get the place fired and the dampness kept at bay. An’ maybe you could spare a bit look at the gairden and an odd cairt o’ manure or lime, you ken ... whatever you can spare and what you’ll ken best yoursel’ it needs... Aye ... I’m surprised at Thomas Boyd no’ making better way wi’ the bigging o’ your steading and dwellin’ hoose. The fault wi’ a’ thae builders and contractor-bodies is the same. Far ower greedy. They tak’ on wark here, there an a’ ower the countraside. They gie a day or twa to you and a day or twa to me and in trying to please everybody please naebody. I dinna pass much o’ Dalswinton work their way—unless on Mr. Miller’s direct orders. Keep pressing on Boyd. Keep on his door-step, as it were: I’ll hae a word wi’ him too...

“Mr. Miller o’ Dalswinton? Yes: he’s a clever man. Imphm ... made twa-three fortunes twa-three ways. Ah well, Mr. Burns, I can see you’re ettlin’ to mak’ a braw place o’ Ellisland. Coorse, I’m nae proper farmer—but nae doubt you’ll see your way to get back what you’re putting intillt? Well ... I was thinking that too, Mr. Burns. I didna like to say. Aye, aye! Just what I thocht, a cauld wat dirty dour bitch o’ a place. A grand place i’ the summer days for lying about the banks o’ the Nith and fishing a salmon or maybe writing a verse or twa. Couldna get better. But for farming! Oh, I like a stroll alang the banks o’ the Nith, Mr. Burns. I’ve seen you at work and I’ve seen the work you’ve been doing. To be frank: I was surprised. You farm weel, Mr. Burns, I’ll say that for you; and I’ve told Mr. Miller that. Somehow even if I did think o’ you as a ploughman-poet—the agricultural side o’ your genius I restricted to the mere act o’ ploughing. I’ll allow you that methods o’ farming differ frae place to place. Quite true, quite true: sometimes from parish to parish... But damned, Mr. Burns, it can be hellish lonely and gloomy here i’ the lang winter nichts and the short bleak winter days—especially after two winters o’ dissipation in Edinburry. True, wi’ wife and weans round the ingle and you at the board-end scribbling away with the quill ... aye: I confess that’s a worthy enough vision. And of course you’re in love wi’ a young wife. Ah, that mak’s a michty difference, Mr. Burns. Juist a’ the difference i’ the warld. There I envy you, sir. I mean I don’t envy you your poetry—that’s juist something I’ve never even thocht o’ aspiring to—no! But youthfu’ domestic bliss—you’re juist hitting thirty years! Not that I’m no’—so to speak—in love wi’ Mrs. Newall. No ... I mean rural domestic bliss, contentment—and contentment on little o’ this warld’s gear as it were... That’s what I mean, Mr. Burns—and that’s something that glows through your verses like a warm house-licht beckoning on the weary traveller... Aye; but then if Ellisland doesna pay its way... That’s where my experience o’ the warld, Mr. Burns, would add a word o’ caution. I’ve seen sae mony guid men come to ruin through bad ground and ane or twa bad harvests in succession. Nae fault o’ their ain. Nae lack o’ husbandry or application to the soil. Juist a lack o’ the bawbees, Mr. Burns, to tide them ower a bad season. It comes to that in the end—the lack o’ the first and readiest. When you hae to rake doon into the pouch to pay a debt and the siller’s no’ there... Fine I understand your experience o’ life, Mr. Burns—juist as fine can I understand your fears. But the wonderfu’ thing, Mr. Burns, is that you’ve managed to write verses about it a’. That can only mean one thing. You hae a heart aboon it a’. Undoubtedly, yes, undoubtedly: the heart is superior to the brain where that’s concerned...

“The thing that amazes me about you, Mr. Burns, is your conversation. You’re no’ only a poet—Scotland’s poet—you’re a philosopher. And that’s an astonishing combination. I confess—afore I got acquaint wi’ you—that I didna expect to find the philosopher in you at all. True—I juist didna read deeply enough into your poetry. Grant you: the philosophy’s there. But then, in your verses you clothe it in such honest hame-spun that you juist dinna tak’ it for philosophy. Whereas when you speak—that’s when you get the real smack o’ the philosopher. But much though I like to crack wi’ you into the wee sma’ hours ayont the twal I mauna detain you. Now: nae mair thanks, Mr. Burns. It was grand to read your verses: it’s been glorious meeting and talking wi’ you; and if the use o’ the kitchen and a room or twa at the Isle, here, will make a’ that difference to your first winter in Ellisland, I’m amply repaid... And ony time you’re in Dumfries and I can be of ony service to you—well, you ken where to fa’ in wi’ me.”