Читать книгу The Wonder of All the Gay World - James William Barke - Страница 15

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Lord Monboddo’s house at number thirteen Saint John Street, leading off the Canongate, was a good solid house furnished in good solid style. Here on most Friday evenings when Monboddo was in Town he gave a supper. This supper was something of an event. Not only was it given in what the host thought to be the manner of the Ancients—plain fare, good wine, old silver and flowers, herbs or leafy twigs scattered about the table—but he always managed to invite to his board some remarkable characters.

James Burnett was an eccentric; but he was an erudite one. And for all that he was a law lord and had an extensive estate in the North-east country, he was no snob. Provided a man had intelligence and could talk well and wittily (and listen quietly) he did not care what his social standing was. He even liked to entertain men who held political and religious views in opposition to his own—for the dialect of argument was as the breath of life to him, as he was assured it had been to the Ancients.

From the moment he had heard Robert Burns in argument with Henry MacKenzie and Hugh Blair he had taken to him. He was intrigued at the fact that this vigorous-minded outspoken young man was a poet and a ploughman. He dismissed as sentimental nonsense the thesis of MacKenzie that Burns was heaven-taught. What intrigued Burnett was that he had brilliant ideas of his own; and he was curious to know how he had come by these ideas.

He had ploughmen in his own employment on Monboddo estate. Many a time he had conversed with them (or rather had lectured to them) on a variety of topics. But he had to confess that the Aberdeenshire ploughmen in no way resembled this specimen from Ayrshire. Maybe there was something peculiar about Ayrshire...

But Monboddo got more than a surprise when he found out that Robert Burns was the son of William Burns of the North-east—and that he had worked on his estate in days gone by.

“So ... Mr. Burns, you are not pure Ayrshire after all! Your mother, yes. But a man takes his blood from his father. You are of good Aberdeenshire stock, my lad—and the North country men have good clear heads like the good clear air they breathe. I must tell my daughter...”

Elizabeth Burnett listened with patient attention to her aged parent. Occasionally she smiled to the Bard—her smile emphasising some point of special agreement.

He was highly susceptible to the smiles of a fair maid. And Miss Burnett not only smiled to him: she was solicitous of his comfort in every way.

“Do you find your chair to your comfort, Mr. Burns? Shall I fill up your glass... ?”

“Madam!” he said at one moment when she was enquiring about his comfort: “believe me, madam, a whinstone by the roadside would be comfort itself in your presence.”

“What’s that?” cried Monboddo. “A stone seat, Burns? There again I’m persuaded that the Ancients preferred stone seats to the corroding comfort of the stuffed abominations so much in favour among this soft-spined generation. Stone seats—you have given me an idea. Eliza! remind me to have a word about this with old Smellie the next time he sups here. Smellie’s father was a stonemason, Burns, and Smellie who kens something about maist things will like as no’ ken something about stone seats. Noo I won’er...”

“Wouldn’t they be heavy to move around, sir—apart from the obvious disadvantages?”

“Disadvantages! My dear Burns: all this generation can think about is disadvantages. It’ll soon be a disadvantage for them to use their legs: syne it’ll be a disadvantage for them to use their arms: syne the tongue: syne the brain. All our faculties are the better o’ proper exercise; but folks noo-a-days seek for excuses to avoid these right an’ proper exercises. But you, my lad, that’s been born to the plough, you ken different. Aye; for when you were exercising yourself between the stilts you were exercising your mind too. The Ancients kent how a healthy mind and a healthy body went thegither. And this is where you hae the pass on thae puir bits o’ toon scribblers that spend their days bent ower a desk or a tavern table.”

“After a day at the plough, sir, I’d been gey glad the opportunity of either; and many a cold wet day I wad fain have changed the plough for the desk.”

“Cold and wet? What are they, sir, but nature’s whips for our lazy hides? Rain never did a man ony ill—barrin’ he didna keep his bluid moving. And when folks had nae fires to sit roastin’ themsel’s at they had to move about damned smairt to keep themsel’s warm. Aye, certes, they had that... What’s that, Eliza? Oh aye. Aye ... that’s so. I hae a maist important visitor the nicht, Burns. A man that’s anxious to meet ye. Aye; and you’ll be glad to meet him. Bishop Geddes: a verra fine gentleman and the son o’ a Banffshire crofter. Aye. A Roman Catholic—o’ sorts. One time Bishop of Dunkeld. Of course a titular honour. Aye; and sometime rector o’ the Scots College at Valladolid—in Spain. A most intelligent cleric. Maybe ower meikle brains for his Kirk. Oh, but Geddes’ll be a great power in his Kirk yet. Rome’ll no’ see a man o’ his abilities gan to waste. I trust, Burns, you’re no’ bigoted about the Romish persuasion?”

“I trust, sir, I am bigoted about no man’s beliefs. And I have long ceased to judge a man by what beliefs he professes. I prefer to judge him on his own worth. And if he is a good honest man and does well by his fellows I care not what label he hangs round his neck. Aye: even though the label be atheist. It is the hypocrite, sir, I scorn—the man who acts against the creed he professes to believe in. I’ll be delighted indeed to meet your friend the bishop as I have had little opportunity to observe the Romish mind in action.”

“Well spoken, my lad—that’s how I like to hear a man talk. We have mony narrow-minded bigots in our Presbyterian Kirk, Burns. Mony narrow bigots.”

“I have suffered from them, sir—I know their kind only too well.”

“Aye, weel—though mind, gin the Catholics had the upper hand I’ve nae doubt but ye’d find some gey fanatical bigots amang them. We hae the lesson o’ the Inquisition as testimony to that. No’ that we can preen oursel’ ower meikle on that score. An’ the way thae auld wives were burned at the stake for witches—shamefu’, downright shamefu’. It’s a terrible thing, Burns, when humans in a’ their weakness and ignorance think that God’s wisdom rests only in their Ark... Ah, but ye’ll find my friend Geddes is nae bigot...”

And indeed the Bard had not been in conversation with Geddes for more than a few minutes before he recognised the soundness of Monboddo’s estimate.

Geddes had a mild and benign exterior. He spoke softly; and there was a gentle caressing cadence in his voice. Yet for all this he spoke not humbly but with a firm authority that came from a deep inward conviction of his essential rectitude.

He eyed the Bard keenly.

“Forgive me, Mr. Burns, if I seem to scrutinise you too closely. I have read your poems. To say they have given me great pleasure is to say what is obvious. A man would need to be a dull clod not to enjoy them. But the fact is that I never met with an author who was more like his work than you are. As I sit here I realise you could have written not otherwise than you have done.”

“Is that so strange, sir?”

“It shouldn’t be. I have met with not a few of the great writers gathered in London. But never yet have I fallen in with an author who resembled the picture I had drawn of him from a reading of his work. I had a picture of you—not so much in the physical sense as in the spiritual sense.”

“I am not a very spiritual man, Father.”

“What nonsense is this, my boy? Of course you are a spiritual man. You have a very fine spirit. What you mean perhaps is that you find yourself in rebellion against certain of the outward tenets of your faith—as reflected by your pastors. This much at least I have gathered from your book.”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“Ah well: let me confess, Mr. Burns, that I have some sympathy with you there. But come: we must not spend our time on theology——”

“But we could spend our time on a less profitable subject—and I have not hitherto had the pleasure of conversing with one of your faith. You mentioned orthodoxy: do you think orthodoxy in itself is to be admired?”

“In itself, yes. In the ideal state we would all be orthodox because we would all believe the same truths and all truth would be divine. But we are very far from living in an ideal state—not even our worthy host’s Ancients experienced that pre-Christian uniformity of belief. There were orthodox and unorthodox among them. And so it must ever be—this is the burden of our earthly heritage. But orthodoxy for itself: that is a very different matter. Man loses the spirit and clings to the letter. He turns aside from revelation and clings to ritual. You, Mr. Burns, cling to revelation and care little for ritual—and I am much of your mind. And yet the poet and the preacher should have this in common: theirs is not so much to discover truth as to propound it, lead men to it, explain it to men. And in this the poet may be more successful than the preacher. He should be more skilled in the harmony of words—so that his words—and his truths—fall on the ears of mankind as a sweet music.”

“All this I can appreciate, Father. But surely the poet—and the preacher—must have faith and be able to draw strength and inspiration from his faith. A preacher may echo the truths of his Church—a poet must echo—nay must give direct utterance to—the truths he finds within himself.”

“Yes: the truths he finds within himself. But whence come such truths? From God—or from the echo of other men’s thoughts in his own mind?”

“From nature’s God come all truths—if a man can win himself free from the corruption of orthodoxy. All this, Father, I’m afraid must sound like heresy to you. But I must be honest with myself if I’m to be honest with you. It’s difficult for me to accept as truth that which I have not experienced as truth in myself.”

“And this is what has brought all heretics to the rack, the wheel and the stake! Yes: we have here one of the fundamental problems besetting mankind. The strength of orthodoxy—or conformity—is that it is—or should be—a collective strength: its wisdom should not be the wisdom of the individual but the wisdom of mankind—the sum total as it were of the universal revelation of God. Yes: that is indeed its strength and my Church places great reliance on that strength. But the danger of conformity is that it can too easily harden into dogma and empty ritual. The rebel on the other hand, especially the individual rebel of high spiritual quality, may be capable of revealing afresh to men the divine purpose. My Church recognises this in the recognition it gives to gifted sons by canonisation into the sainthood. You, my dear Burns, are a true poet and therefore a true rebel. And it is because I feel your rebellion is essentially on the side of the angels that I find your verses so appealing. But you are also a lay poet. So you must not be surprised if secular society seeks to excommunicate you.”

“You are certainly the first cleric I have ever known who could argue with such elegant common sense, Father; but I am in no danger of excommunication from society since I have never and can never be a member of the gentry. My society is that of the common people of Scotland. They may excommunicate me: they may reject me: only they have that power. But as long as I speak their language and give voice to their sentiments I think I can be sure of my ground.”

“Ah, the voice of the people! Beware, my dear Burns, of danger here. You are not the voice of the people: you are the voice of your own conscience, your own will, your own inward necessity. The common people can be very cruel in their blindness.”

“I know my people, Father. My thoughts may not be their thoughts; but their thoughts are mine. It could not be otherwise. I eat as they eat, live as they live, toil as they toil: when they hunger I hunger; when they are cold I am cold. I am of them, bone of their bone, flesh of their flesh. And even as I share their virtues I share their vices, their loves and their hates. In so far as I am a poet, in so far as I have gifts that they have not, then in so far am I privileged—but privileged to give expression to their hopes and fears and aspirations. It cannot be otherwise since I have no ambition to be other than of them to the end of my days. As I said to Lord Monboddo the other day when we were discussing the Greek and Latin tongues: I have at my disposal but the tongue of my fathers, the language of the common people of Scotland. And this is the only tongue in which I can speak.”

“No... Even now you don’t speak the language of the people—you speak the language of scholarship—the language that pays no attention to social boundaries. I myself am the son of a peasant and was brought up in the peasant’s shed. But I neither think nor speak as a peasant though I understand—and appreciate—their thoughts and speech. And I think our worthy host will support me in this.”

Monboddo clacked furiously with his tongue. “A more interesting and edifying conversation I havena listened to this while back. I’m loth to interrupt it. About poets I ken little and for the subtleties o’ theology I care less. But then we hae here a maist extraornar poet and a maist extraornar theologian. And I flatter mysel’ that mine’s the only table in Edinburgh whaur a conversation like this could tak’ place. You said Doctor Gregory’s coming later, Geddes? It’s a pity he wasna forward. This talk wad dae him a lot o’ guid. But ... ahem ... if I’m to give learned counsel’s opinion I maun state that I canna accept the premises either o’ ye hae advanced wi’ sic skill—and—eh—eloquence. For, ye see, a’ things hae a history: they hae a beginning; and hence they hae a development. A’ history begins in ancient times. And the first important development in man’s history begins wi’ his learning to speak. Aye; but what garred him learn to speak? The need to communicate his thoughts! Simple thoughts at first to answer simple needs. And syne the needs became mair complex and sae the thought became mair complex...

“... now what Burns here, as poet, seeks to convey is the thought in his brain—and he wants that thought understood by the folk he understands. Had he been brought up familiar wi’ the Latin tongue he wad hae socht to express his thoughts in that tongue since the best o’ mankind has been doing that since the Ancients perfected that language. That’s the reason why Burns writes in the Scotch dialect.”

“And why doesn’t he speak it?”

“Oh, he can speak it fine. The fact that he learned guid English is but an accident though it proves his great mental ability. Noo you, Geddes, are a scholar first and a theologian afterwards. A’ the sources o’ learning are open to you. Noo, for the scholar, learning is the goal o’ a’ activity. A simple priest may be like a simple ploughman—the one may hae nae mair learning nor the tither. Ah, but you’re a bishop, Geddes. An’ a’ bishops are learned men and scholars—whatever their piety or otherwise. It’s no’ essentially a bishop’s job to be pious—he’s there to see that piety is guided on the right lines—as his learning has taught him. Shake your head as ye like, Geddes—what I’m saying’s the historical truth.”

“The only historical truth is God’s truth.”

“Sophistry, Geddes. The Almighty works through history—the Almighty, in a way, is history. Eh ... did you want to say something, Burns?”

“Only this. I think scholars and clergymen are too apt to be on familiar terms wi’ the deity—and a long-faced familiarity at that.”

Geddes laughed; but Monboddo thought the interjection irrelevant.

“No, no, James—Burns has the right of it. We are too solemn; and we are too familiar with the mysteries of creation. Laughter restores sanity—and a sense of humility.”

Monboddo performed some high-speed clacking. “Mysteries of creation, ha! Investigate, investigate—and the mysteries disappear. Aye; but mystery is half the craft of the clergy...”

Robert Burns was intensely interested. This was conversation after his own heart. It was glorious to be in the company of men whose minds were vigorous and adventuresome. He could go on all night listening and arguing. He had been told that Monboddo was an eccentric. Maybe he was; but the man possessed a lot of shrewd sense for all that. He was unfortunate in that he lacked any sense of humour.

John Geddes was a very different type of man. Geddes had the lively intelligence that is founded on humour, and the deep elemental seriousness that is the base of all humour that is not cruel and senseless mockery. If he was truly a Popish divine then he put all the Presbyterian representatives he had met completely out of countenance. His cast of mind was utterly at variance with that of Father Auld. Auld was never in doubt, never uncertain of his doctrine. Geddes might not have doubts of any fundamental kind; but at least he was prepared to admit that doubt was possible—and that those who doubted were not necessarily heading straight for hell. Or at least he was prepared to give an opponent the benefit of his unbelief.

Tolerance and kindliness were hall-marked on the man. Erudition sat easily on his shoulders. His speech was soft and sought not to offend by an intolerant righteousness.

What the Bard did not realise was that John Geddes had long held a position of authority in Valladolid in a stronghold of his faith where no challenge had to be encountered from without. In this atmosphere Geddes had acquired grace and poise and assurance. There was nothing of the martyr about John Geddes. As a shepherd he was prepared to lead and guide a flock: he was not prepared to identify himself with them. This measure of detachment—as Monboddo correctly assessed—was the detachment of the scholar-divine rather than the divine scholar.

The Bard was disappointed when Professor Gregory was shown in and Elizabeth Burnett announced that the supper was served.

James Gregory, who was professor of the Institutes of Medicine at the University although he was still in his sunny thirties, was a very different type of man from any of the Edinburgh literati he had met.

Gregory was an Aberdeen man (here he had affinities with Monboddo and Geddes); and the quality of intellectual conceit was marked on his features. He carried his head slightly back so that his straight if rather prominent nose seemed tip-tilted. His voice was inclined to harshness for he was in the habit of rasping out his lectures without much ceremony—indeed he was but biding his time till old Doctor Cullen retired and he assumed the chair on the Practice of Physic.

But James Gregory did not think that his intellectual range should be confined to medicine. He was not afraid to pronounce judgment on any topic that came before his attention. To give him his due Gregory was no fool: he possessed great intellectual faculties and his judgments were often based on sound native common sense. But he was young in experience and arrogant in his tone to those he thought beneath him. He had heard of the ploughman-poet; but any real knowledge of his poetry he had obtained by second-hand means—and in conversation with his friend Geddes.

He had not come earlier because he had thought the evening would be dull—and he had no intention of showing deference to a ploughman merely because he had written a few verses.

The first thing that surprised him about the ploughman-poet was his appearance. The Bard rose and shook hands with him on introduction; and in that moment of introduction Gregory realised that he was meeting a man who would at least hold his own in any company.

“Let me say, Mr. Burns, right at the outset, that I havena read your poems—I canna tell whether they merit the praise they’ve gotten or no’.”

“And do you think, sir, you would be in a position to tell if you had read them? I am not, you see, in the position to tell whether your judgment of poetry would merit my attention.”

“Oh, nae offence, Mr. Burns.”

“And none taken, Doctor Gregory. Believe me, we might as well understand each other in this matter. There is no compulsion on any man to read my verses and I would not have it any other way.”

Geddes took the Bard by the arm and led him to the table.

“Gregory is a professor, my dear Burns—a professor of everything under the sun. And, except on medicine, he dispenses his advice gratis. But he’s a good man for all that when you get used to his conceits.”

“Ah, damn it—I didna think a ploughman wad be sae sensitive.”

“Now, now, James,” urged Geddes: “Robert here has put you nicely in your place—so you might as well put a good face on it.”

Across the table Elizabeth Burnett smiled at him. He relaxed immediately.

“The fault is mine. Of course a ploughman has no feelings and precious little brains. I sit at your feet, Professor.”

James Gregory drew down his brows while at the same time managing to tilt his nose a portion nearer the ceiling.

But most of this was lost on Monboddo who was eyeing the table to see that everything was in order. He was anxious that both the Bishop and the Bard should be suitably impressed with the way he observed the practices of his beloved Ancients.

But the Bard was not impressed: he was merely curious. But he accepted a boiled egg from Elizabeth Burnett as if it had been a rarity he had never seen.

“Now, sir,” said Monboddo, “tak’ a boiled egg! There’s a dish for you supplied by nature—complete in itself—and packed with honest nourishment. Where’s your French chef and fiddle-faddle who could concoct a dish to equal it?”

“Ah, yes, Monboddo—but the French cooks we see over here are poor examples of their nation’s cooking. The honest French and Spanish cooks are masters of many fine dishes.”

“If folks wad eat mair honest food there wad be less need for me to prescribe my purging mixture.”

Elizabeth screwed up her face; but Gregory, undeterred, launched out on a panegyric on the merits of purging in general and the merits of his purge in particular.

But the worthy Monboddo was not to be bested: he too had his sure and certain specifics and was able to relate them to the Ancients.

The Bard made no contribution to the subject. His anger at Gregory had vanished and his interest in purging was negligible. But he was interested in Elizabeth and he watched her closely. He would much rather they had conversed on a topic upon which she could have entered. Instead he had to content himself with odd snatches of commonplace remark.

And then, with a suddenness that startled him, Gregory lost all interest in his purging powder and said: “And now, Mr. Burns, what think you o’ Edinburgh?”

“As a town, Doctor Gregory, I am unable to think of anything finer. But then I have not travelled.”

“But you like it?”

“I do.”

“And what about the folk you have met?”

“I have met with marked kindness and attention—far beyond my merit, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, dinna be ower modest, sir: dinna be ower modest. Folk tak’ you at your own valuation. And what about the ladies? A’ poets are admirers o’ the fair sex, are they no’?”

“Well, sir, there are many opinions on that score—and we need not enter upon them here. But I welcome the opportunity of stating my opinion that Miss Elizabeth here outshines the ladies of Edinburgh for every female virtue I can think of...”

Monboddo’s face softened and his daughter blushed; and before either Geddes or Gregory could say a word Monboddo rose to the occasion.

“Noo that was verra nice o’ you to say that, Burns—for I ken you mean it. Aye, and father though I be, it’s only me kens how richt ye are.”

“I hope, sir, to have the opportunity soon of paying my respects to Miss Elizabeth in a set of verses.”

“There now, Eliza—that’s a handsome tribute to you. Aye; and one the Ancients wad hae appreciated.”

“Oh, I have done nothing to merit a poem, Mr. Burns.”

Geddes said: “I know I can speak for Doctor Gregory, Elizabeth, when I say that Robert Burns will have in you a source of inspiration that could not possibly fail him—or fail to bring forth his sweetest and purest notes.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Well, Eliza, if Mr. Burns writes a poem in your honour, I’ll promise to mak’ him give me a copy o’ it—and I’ll wear it next my heart.” Gregory said this with conviction.

“Gentlemen,” said Monboddo, much moved (for he doted on his daughter), “you have brought comfort to my grey hairs. Without my daughter’s ministrations and companionship my life would be gey dreich. And in paying her thae compliments ye hae gladdened my heart. Eliza, my dear, fill up the beakers and we’ll drink a toast.”

Bishop Geddes and Professor Gregory lived in Saint John Street. The Bard bade them goodnight in the wind-swept darkness. They had promised to meet again round Monboddo’s table.

Gregory reached out for his hand. “Damnit: shake hands, Burns. I did you an injustice—but I hope you’ll bear me no grudge for that. And if there’s onything I can dae for you—just come down and chap on my door: I’ll consider it a pleasure. Good luck to you.”

“You’re very kind, Doctor——”

“No, damnit—begging your pardon, Father—I’m no’ kind—that’s half my trouble. But I’ve learned a lesson the nicht I’ll no’ forget in a hurry. And mind me wi’ a copy o’ your verses on Eliza Burnett.”

And as he trudged home the Bard began to try over some verses in his mind. But the words refused to clink. His mind refused to leave the rut of stilted English prose.

There was no passion in his regard for Elizabeth Burnett—only admiration and much gratitude. She was not of the flesh and blood of his world. She was angelic: she belonged to another world. And he began to doubt if his muse could follow her there.

But if he did manage a set of tolerable verses Bishop Geddes would be the first judge of their merit. On such a theme there could be no appeal from the judgment of such a remarkable man.