Читать книгу The Wonder of All the Gay World - James William Barke - Страница 10

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William Smellie was a very different man from William Creech. Where Creech was finicky elegant supercilious and formally polite, Smellie was rough direct and brutally unceremonious. His great flabby jowl was unshaven and his grizzled grey hair was unkempt. But the moment Creech made the introduction his face broke into a great wreath of soft smiles and he extended a ready hand.

“Shake, Mr. Burns, shake! I’ve been reading the extracts o’ your verses that Jamie Sibbald has been publishing in the Edinburgh Magazine. I’m beggared if I can lay hands on a copy o’ them... By God, sir, and you look the part too! A ploughman-poet, eh? And I’ll warrant you can drive a bonnie furrow! But welcome, Mr. Burns; and what can I do for you?”

Somewhat embarrassed, Creech outlined his plans. Smellie rasped his forefinger and thumb along the stubble on his chin.

“So that’s the airt the wind’s in, is it? Weel, we’ll no’ see you stuck, Mr. Burns, however the thing works out. We’ll get you out a volume some way or other. Dinna believe a word Willie Creech tells you, for he would lie his best friend into the Tolbooth if he could make a bawbee o’ profit out o’ the transaction. But I’ll tell ye what, Willie: send me down a rough o’ your prospectus and I’ll see about running off a wheen o’ quires. If I decide to print, Willie Scott’ll bind: I can speak for him. Mind you: we couldna dae ony less than twa thousand to mak’ it pay.”

“Yes indeed, William: two thousand was the edition I had in mind.”

“Weel, Mr. Burns: it rests wi’ the prospectus... Creech and me hae a prospectus running the now for my Natural History... Aye, we ken a’ aboot that side o’ the business. But if the Caledonian Hunt start the ball rolling I dinna think you hae much to fear. I’ll mak’ a good job o’ the printing; and you can rest assured that Willie Creech’ll mak’ a good job o’ pushing the sales. You certainly couldna get a better man to look after that side o’ the business. Now: what about a drink? Will ye tak’ a step up to the close-head to see Dawney Douglas?”

“You have a drink with Mr. Burns, William: I have much work to attend to at my office. I’ll tell you what: come and have breakfast with me to-morrow morning: Craig’s Close, first on your left: Henry MacKenzie and one or two others will be there. We’ll all be very glad to welcome you, Mr. Burns.”

Coming out of Smellie’s office the daylight was good since there was an open yard immediately opposite; but as they walked up the close it became darker and gloomier as the tall lands rose on either hand. Indeed when they turned into Dawney’s entrance, Smellie had to lead him for it was unbelievably dank and dark.

“Tak’ it easy. Watch the scale stair noo. Man, I could find my road here in my sleep. Aye: count the steps—there’s only seven o’ them. Here we are.”

Smellie opened the door on the landing. At once they found themselves in the kitchen. The hot air smote them as they entered. The landlady, an enormously fat woman, sat into a table working on a heap of oysters. The great folds of her buttocks overlapped the stool. Her arms, thick as a maiden’s thighs and red as a lobster’s claw, were bare to above the elbow. The expression on her heavy face was passive. But the moment she heard Smellie’s voice she turned and nodded to him with odd, almost comical gravity.

The Bard took her in in a fascinated glance. He knew her type. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find that she sweated goose-fat: a typical landlady even if an out-sized one. As long as she was about there would be plenty of good food.

Her husband came forward from the blazing fire wiping his hands on his once-white apron. He was a thin stooping fellow with a straggling apologetic moustache and a weak and watery eye.

“Weel, Dawney: my friend and I will just step ben for a minute. Bring us your best whisky and some cappie ale ... aye, and bring us a platter o’ herrin’, trotters—or ony damned thing you’ve ready to taste our gabs. Through here, Mr. Burns... We hae the place to oursel’s. Weel noo: this is where ye throw care aside and talk your mind. As I’ve said already: I’m damned pleased to see you. How long hae you been in the Toon? Since Tuesday night! You don’t let the grass grow under your feet... I see, I see: weel: you’ve done the right thing. You’ll need to keep an eye on Creech of coorse: there’s nae sentiment about him; but the best man for you if you manage to handle him the right way... Aye; and you’ll be twenty-eight in January! I would hae taken you for a lot more than that. The world’s afore you... But a word o’ advice: don’t pay too much heed to what the gentry say to you. Don’t be disappointed if they turn and leave you high and dry and pass you on the causeway and never see you. As for the literati: there’s no’ one of them I couldna write aff the face o’ the bluidy earth. I was editor o’ the Scots Magazine for five or six years and I was the first editor of the Encyclopædia Britannica. I don’t give myself airs. There’s Creech: he writes a fiddling wee thing for The Courant and thinks he’s an expert in the department o’ belles-lettres. By the way: Creech is a partner of my printing house here: he passes me a lot o’ work. But I’ve nae illusions about him. But it wad gie ye the dry-boaks to see the airs the literati gie themselves. But ability—real sterling ability—it’s just no’ there... No, Mr. Burns: look about you and say as little as you can. And then once you hae gotten your book published, tell them to go to hell. For you hae genius; and what is genius but ability carried as far as it can be carried... ?

“But if you’ve been ahint the plough a’ thae years, it’s time you enjoyed yoursel’. We’ve a grand club meets here every week. Some o’ the best fellows i’ the Toon. I’ll introduce you some night. Bawdy songs: that’s one of our specialities: I’ll warrant ye ken some toppers! We’re organised on a military basis: The Crochallan Fencibles: Crochallan is Dawney the landlord’s favourite Gaelic song: that’s how we picked on the title... I’d hae thought you were a good singer. But that’s no’ a great drawback as lang as you can join in a chorus: I’m no’ much o’ a singer mysel’ come to that... And don’t miss Creech’s levee in the morning. You’ve got to get that subscription o’ yours going; and the only way to do that is to meet as mony folk as you can: you canna meet ower mony... It’s been a rare pleasure meeting wi’ you, Mr. Burns: I can see we’re going to hae mony a merry nicht thegither...”

“I think we’ll get on, Mr. Smellie.”

“Aye: what’s to hinder us? D’ye ken ony other folk i’ the Toon besides Glencairn?”

“I met Professor Stewart in Ayrshire——”

“Dugald! I ken Dugald Stewart fine. A bit staid. No’ very bright—a kind o’ plodding philosopher. Oh, but Dugald’s a’ richt. He’ll no’ dae ye ony harm. Onybody else?”

“James Dalrymple of Orangefield.”

“No ... I dinna ken him. Heard tell o’ him of coorse. One o’ the Caledonian Hunt. You’re a’ richt there. And noo that Glencairn’s sold his Kilmaurs seat and is settling up wi’ his creditors, Creech’ll be ready to sing his praises again—and do his bidding.”

“I reckon Glencairn a noble man.”

“There’s worse than Glencairn, I’ll grant you that. Keep him on your side as long as you can.”

“It seems you can’t have too many patrons here.”

“Or onywhere! By themselves, honest worth and sterling ability get nae place. I should hae been professor o’ Natural History at the College here. What was against me? I hadna the richt influence. Hadna the richt friends in the richt places. So they gave the post to a bluidy eediot that kens a damned sicht less about natural history than you do—aye, a damned sicht less.

“Ye see: I ken a’ their weaknesses. There’s damned few o’ them can write. When their manuscripts come to me I set them in order. Aye: I’ve been daft enough to rewrite some o’ them. Of coorse that’s a’ richt as lang as I’m Willie Smellie the printer. But they wouldna tak’ that sae nice frae Professor Smellie.”

“That’s sense enough. You must know all the literati here then.”

“Every one o’ them. Aye: and the law lords. They’re the boys! Wait till ye meet wi’ some o’ them. Monboddo, Kames, Gardenstone, Hailes. Oddities ye ken. Brilliant—but oddities. They’d just be village eediots in your part o’ the country. Oh, but there’s some great characters aboot the Toon. Man, you’ll meet wi’ mair wit worth and learning in the Crown Room through the wa’ there when the Crochallan Corps is in session than you’ll meet wi’ onywhere else. I’ll get you doon some nicht soon and put ye through your paces—and then you’ll be able to say you’ve met wi’ folk in Edinburgh that were worth meeting... But here’s Dawney wi’ a platter o’ something that smells guid... Dawney! This is Scotland’s poet, Robert Burns! Tak’ a guid look o’ him, Dawney, and ony time he comes in here—which I hope’ll be often—see that he’s well served wi’ the best that’s gaun.”

“Indeed yes; that is so, Mr. Smellie. Och, but Mr. Burns will be finding nothing but the best here at any time.”

“And never pay more than saxpence for what you eat. Leave the drink to Dawney: he’ll charge you honestly for that.”

“You are indeed a kind gentleman, Mr. Smellie. You are a stranger to the Town, Mr. Burns, sir? Ach well, now: I am a stranger myself.”

“Stranger be damned! You’re here twenty year to my knowledge. And yet maybe you’re richt, Dawney. I doubt if you’ve been the length o’ the Castle Hill?”

“Indeed now and I havena. I have enough to do here. Well now, gentlemen, if I can leave you—for it’s a busy time.”

“On you go, Dawney. Dinna keep the customers waiting.”

Dawney thanked them, nodded sadly and withdrew himself apologetically.

“Delve into the hash and grab a pig’s clit!” said Smellie. “Damnit but Dawney’s dishes are aye tasty.” His loose lips smacked round a trotter as his yellow stumps of teeth fastened into the gristle.

The Bard could not help contrasting the man who was to be his publisher with the man who was to be his printer.

Creech was prim pert elegantly supercilious mannered politely haughty, correct in everything from his carefully-powdered hair to the silver buckles on the shoes that protected his silken-hosed feet.

Willie Smellie was somewhat like an intelligent boar: bristly dirty slouchy clumsy inelegant: but with a rare light shining in his eye and a glorious directness burring on his broad warm tongue.

It was difficult to think that this was the man who had edited the Scots Magazine, written and edited the Encyclopædia Britannica and was about to put a great and learned work The Philosophy of Natural History before the world. But that he had extraordinary and unusual ability he did not doubt for a moment.

In a sense everything about Creech might be doubted—the man was so manifestly artificial. Everything about Smellie was so obviously genuine that it was inevitable that he should be taken on trust.

And a man like Smellie who knew everybody in the Town, and especially the literati, would be a great help to him.