Читать книгу The Wonder of All the Gay World - James William Barke - Страница 16

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The following morning, Saturday, the ninth of December, he obtained his copy of The Lounger from Creech.

“There you are, Robert—and you can’t say Henry MacKenzie hasn’t given you a lift. Oh aye: he means every word o’ it. You heard him yoursel’; but you’ll find it interesting—aye, stimulating—to read it all in print. I thought it excellent in manuscript; but it’s wonderful how print improves on a manuscript.”

“I’ll take another two copies to send to my friends in Ayrshire.”

“Certainly, Robert: they’ll be very proud to have it... I understand you were supping with Lord Monboddo last night. And Bishop Geddes and Doctor Gregory! How did you find them?”

“I found them most kind—and most interesting. Do you think, perhaps, that a set of complimentary verses on Miss Burnett might go into my new edition—if we have a new edition?”

Creech’s eyes shifted cunningly.

“You are on dangerous ground, Robert. Very dangerous ground... Of course——”

“I had intended that Bishop Geddes would be the judge as to the propriety of my verses should I write them.”

“Geddes... ? No: Henry MacKenzie or Doctor Blair must constitute your appeal in all such matters. Father Geddes is somewhat out of touch with the sentiment of the Town now-a-days. But I would be discreet about any verses that involve any members of our society. I’ve already told you—one false step and the prospect of a second edition may be ruined.”

“Yes; but I cannot conceive that what I might write concerning Miss Burnett would endanger my edition. I have nothing but the most solemn and sincere admiration for Miss Burnett.”

“Naturally, Robert: she is a very fine as well as a very handsome young woman. But if MacKenzie and Blair approve then I shall raise no objection.”

Considerably depressed, he set off to keep his appointment for a midday bite with John Richmond in Forrester’s Wynd. Richmond was not in the best of spirits either.

“Would you care to read what Henry MacKenzie says about my poems in The Lounger, Jock?”

Richmond raised his eyebrows. “Oh: so MacKenzie has put you in The Lounger, has he!” He took his copy at the opened page. He looked the review over. “Give you plenty o’ space, Rab. What does he say... ?”

Having read the review while waiting for Richmond, the Bard contented himself with watching the expression on his friend’s face.

At first Richmond read with a puzzled frown. Then he said: “This man’s a bluidy snob: ‘What uncommon penetration and sagacity this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered station, has looked upon men and manners!’ He must think you came out o’ Poosie Nancie’s howff. ‘Humble and unlettered station!’ No: I find that difficult to thole, Rab.”

“Go on, go on, Jock! There’s more to follow.”

“There is! ‘Against some passages of these last-mentioned poems it has been objected that they breathe a spirit of libertinism and irreligion.’ I wonder who’s objected? Oh, this has all been discussed and thought out before it was set in print. They’ve had a committee sitting on this for six months. Libertinism and irreligion! I’m willing to lay a wager that after the committee o’ the literati wrote that they adjourned to some low brothel and got drunk. Imagine onybody prating about libertinism and irreligion in Edinburgh! If they’d Daddy Auld in the High Kirk o’ Saint Giles they’d ken a’ aboot it. Are you for taking this and saying nothing?”

“Read on!”

“Aye ... of course—tries to blame it on the ignorant folks in the country. That gives him a handy back-door. No: he comes back again (and you think highly o’ Henry MacKenzie!): ‘In this, as in other respects it must be allowed that there are exceptional parts of the volume he has given to the public which caution would have suppressed or correction struck out; but poets are seldom cautious, and our poet had, alas! no friends or companions from whom correction could be obtained.’ (What about Robert Aiken and John Ballantine in Ayr—what about Gavin Hamilton and Dr. John MacKenzie?) ‘When we reflect on his rank in life, the habits to which he must have been subject, and the society in which he must have mixed’ (There’s more than Wee Smith and me libelled here!) ‘we regret, perhaps, more than wonder that delicacy should be so often offended in perusing a volume in which there is so much to interest and to please us!’

“Now listen, Rab. There were times when I thought that you went over the score a bit ... you ken fine what I mean. But never in what you wrote out for Wilson to print. The hypocrisy o’ this stinks worse than the stinks o’ Edinburgh. What! Everybody in the Toon kens that MacKenzie mixes wi’ a’ the low-life cock-fighting riff-raff such as Poosie Nancie wouldna let lie on her midden. Cock-fighting, mark you; and it’s only the dregs that go in for that. What is it he says again—‘delicacy should be so often offended.’ The Man of Feeling! He used to be a hero o’ yours—that’s what tickles me. Wait till I finish.

“ ‘To repair the wrongs of suffering or neglected merit; to call forth genius from the obscurity to which it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit and delight the world—these are the exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiority, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride.’ ”

Richmond threw The Lounger on the table. His face was white with anger.

In the past Richmond had ever been inclined to caution and to canniness. He had never championed the Bard with the spirited fire that had always burned in James Smith. But not even Smith could have denounced MacKenzie as vehemently as did John Richmond.

“Has this damned condescending fiddle-faddle got under your skin, Rab?”

“I’m grateful for your defence, Jock; grateful for the friendship that prompts it. No: it hasna got under my skin. I think I know the minds of the literati—at least I have some little experience of them. And I had some more experience wi’ Creech this morning. No ... MacKenzie means well—and he praises highly—very highly—for MacKenzie! He kens nothing about Ayrshire, kens nothing about you or me or Gavin Hamilton or John MacKenzie. He thinks we’re nothing but ignorant rustics. Weel, let him think. After all I’m a gey poor rustic, Jock. Not a penny to my name. Naturally men like MacKenzie think that they are the only folks who have read a book. I admit that bit’s hard to thole. I suppose they are hypocrites ... but they just couldna understand, Jock. We might as well be savages from Africa. So I’m a heaven-taught ploughman! That gives me a back-door. It saves me tedious explanations—explanations that wouldna be believed onyway. So I’ll just play Henry MacKenzie and his like at their own game. You see, Jock: at bottom they mean well—generously well—as long as it’s clearly understood that learning and taste and delicacy are their province.”

“You think I havena had to suffer this in my own walk o’ life since I came to Edinburgh? Ah, but then there’s nothing heaven-taught about me—I give no enviable superiority to greatness. I’ve to write corns on my fingers. Listen, Rab: if this review will do you ony good then forget what I’ve said. Aye ... I suppose it will help you. I suppose I should be congratulating you on a piece o’ good fortune—and if it is good fortune you ken you have my good wishes. But I’m a better man than Henry MacKenzie ony day o’ the week—and a better judge o’ poetry—and I’m no’ fit to buckle your shoon.”

“Don’t worry over me, Jock. I’ll get back to my plough one o’ these days—and you’ll win back to Machlin. And we’ll look back and laugh at the whole bluidy lot o’ them.”

“I hope so, Rab. What would you and I no’ give to be sitting in Pigeon Johnnie’s back-room the nicht?”

“At least, Jock, if we canna be back in Machlin, we can get a measure o’ Kilbagie.”

“That’s an inspiration, Rab. To hell wi’ economy for once!”