Читать книгу The Song in the Green Thorn Tree - James William Barke - Страница 10

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He had risen early, for he could feel the breath of the morning creeping in under the eaves; and the patch of sky framed by the window was incredibly fresh: its translucent blueness seemed to shine from another and purer world...

He rose, pulled on an old working sark and held to him with his belt an old pair of grey breeks. He crept downstairs and let himself out into the morning. The dew was cold to his bare feet and the slight breeze played round his bare legs, for he had not fastened his breeks at the knees...

He climbed to the brow of the ridge, climbed into the rising sun already glinting its glorious light over the Muirs of Galston. The hares, unused to being disturbed so early, were loth to abandon their breakfast. They limped rather than ran down the green dew-drenched furrows. Above them, larks burbled and warbled joyously.

The breeze lifted the locks on his lifted head as he stood on the ridge, hands deep-thrust into his pockets, and snuffed into his lungs great gulps of the sweet caller air...

The land stretched and heaved and folded itself into the morning mist: a kindly green prosperous land of ripening crops and glistening lime-washed farm-biggins. On such a morning it was difficult to believe that folks could be poor and labour-driven; for Eden could not have looked more pleasant on the morning of its creation.

The dew glistened everywhere: on the eared corn and the bearded barley; on the blades of grass and the silvered thrissles; on the green thorn spray and the brown oaken twigs.

And then it flashed into his mind as he looked down the white trail of the Kilmarnock road that this summer Sunday morning was the day of Machlin Holy Fair. And what a day for a holy fair: there hadn’t been a day like it this summer!

This would be the first time he would celebrate the sacraments under Daddy Auld. Again he snuffed the caller air in large refreshing draughts...

After an early breakfast, Robin watched the folks droving in from Tarbolton and Kilmarnock and all the innumerable tributaries that fed these main roads.

Holy Fairs had always attracted enormous crowds wherever they were held. This one at Machlin promised, on such a fine Sunday, to attract the largest crowd Machlin had ever known. No doubt Daddy Auld’s popularity as a preacher had much to do with it. But the attractions of Machlin were not to be despised. Its howffs were famous for bannocks, cheese and ale...

Robin walked down the road with his family. But soon they were separated by the surge of worshippers pressing forward and by the need to give way to the young bloods of the parish who loved to gallop their mounts and make a display of their horsemanship. Some of the older folks journeyed in a variety of horse-drawn vehicles from tumbling-carts with crude disc wheels to the latest in carriages and box-traps.

No pilgrimage to Mecca of flowing robes in a dust of burnt sienna could have rivalled the motley procession that crowded the narrow streets of Machlin.

The men were dressed soberly enough. There was much hoddin grey and blue Kilmarnock bonnets; but there was some good braidcloth of funereal black and near-black and head-gear of heavy felts and black beavers. Yet the men were splashed with colour too, for many carried their lunches in red, green and yellow napkins. Among the gangrels, beggars and nondescripts could be seen an odd blue coat with brass buttons or a faded yellow waistcoat heavy with buttons and tarnished embroidery—relics of cast-off gentility.

It was the women who were most prodigal of colour. Shawls of every hue were given an airing. The lassies, of course, trudged with bare feet and bare legs, though they all carried stockings and shoes in their hands so that they might be reverently and decently clad when they entered under the sacred roof.

Separated from the family, Robin feasted his eyes on the spectacle and found it much to his taste. Here was a riot of human spectacle; and he was determined to let nothing escape him. One day he would put it all down in a poem just as Fergusson had set down the spectacle of Leith Races.

As arranged, he met Smith, Richmond, and Hunter the tanner at the Cross and exchanged greetings.

“Well, lads,” he said, “this is going to be a glorious day: there’ll be fun here and plenty gin this multitude are given physical and spiritual sustenance. Have you an idea what theological talent is to be holding forth from the tent?”

Smith, no doubt from table-talk with James Lamie, was able to supply some information.

“Black Jock Russell frae Kilmarnock will be here; Sandy Moodie o’ Riccarton; George Smith o’ Galston; Willie Peebles frae Ayr—There’s a wheen others I forget.”

“That’s the main artillery, eh? If I’m no’ mistaken, the first shots are about to be discharged.”

At the main entrance to the kirkyard a preaching-tent was erected. The tent was a simple structure of wood and canvas and merely gave the preacher protection from the elements and served as a rostrum. Moodie from Riccarton, an adjoining parish to Kilmarnock, had taken up his stance. He looked like some monstrous Punch without his Judy.

The crowd surged towards him. He was the first speaker and was due to prepare the first tables. Very soon the kirk doors would be thrown open and the first hundred communicants would surrender their communion tokens to the elders at the door and pass in to the tables where Daddy Auld would preside.

Behind the closed doors Auld was holding a last-minute conference with his elders.

“You’ve a sweatin’ day afore you, Mr. Auld. Oooh aye: a sweatin’ day. There’s twa thousand souls i’ Machlin the day: that’ll fill the tables a good score times. But blessed wark and a great refreshment in the Lord!”

“You’re certain we have laid in enough wine, Mr. Fisher? I could wish folks would bide in their own parishes and not descend on us like a plague o’ locusts——”

“Ah! but the folks weel ken that the chance o’ receiving the host frae you, Mr. Auld, is an occasion not to be missed. There never were crowds like this in your predecessor’s day.”

“Persons, Mr. Fisher, stand in no special grace before the Lord. An ordained minister is an ordained minister; and it is against Holy Writ that there should be preference—or any countenance given to vain likes and dislikes... Is that Mr. Moodie I hear i’ the tent? Now understand: I want a careful scrutiny o’ the admission tokens. Admit no man or woman on whatever pretext unless he or she delivers up the token. And see that the gentles are no’ kept beaking i’ the sun too long. There are numbers of the ungodly among the rabble. Some of the mechanics frae Kilmarnock have an unco spleen against their lawful betters—and I want no scandal i’ the kirkyard. I trust you’ll keep an eye on things—especially you, Mr. Fisher. Maybe you’ll seek an opportunity to mingle wi’ the multitude and give me your report.”

And yet Auld was human enough to feel satisfaction that his personality was such that enormous crowds were drawn to Machlin on the occasion of a Holy Fair. This satisfaction was in no way modified because his intelligence told him that the presence of such a throng of humanity was bound to lead to excesses, depravity and profanity.

For all that he wished the day over. His would be a long tiring ordeal. There would be no rest nor thought of rest until the day was far spent.

Though it was nearly a quarter of a century since Alexander Moodie had been translated from Tulliallan Parish on the banks of the river Forth, he could not suppress a wave of cynicism passing through him as he viewed the heterogeneous mass of Ayrshire humanity that thronged the kirkyard. Around the tent was a tight-packed mass of worshippers, solemn and lantern-jawed in their solemnity; but over their heads he saw people sprawling among the gravestones, gathered in groups about the open space beyond and gyrating slowly about the Cross. Worse: he could see a crowd already besieging the top door of Nance Tinnock’s howff... Well: he would give them the neat spirit of the doctrine—and there would be no mealy-mouthed evasions in his preparation. He would give Russell something to out-roar when he took his stance...

Racer Jess, the swift-footed, half-witted daughter of Poosie Nancie and her husband Black Geordie Gibson, had already taken up her stance at the Loudon Street entrance to the kirkyard. Her bare elbows leaned on the warm turf-dyke. Beside her were Bet Barbour and Maggie Borland, Machlin’s youngest and most desirable whores. Bet and Maggie rested their shoulders to the dyke and kept their eyes open for any likely lads that might be passing.

There were many strangers in the town with good money and warm blood, and they looked forward to a busy and profitable day.

“See that beggar there wi’ the yalla napekin?” whispered Bet.

“Whaur——? Him crackin’ wi’ her wi’ the scarlet shawl? What about him?”

“Gie him the by. It took me an hour to get rid o’ him ae market-day. An’ a damned mean runt forby.”

“I’ll watch him,” said Maggie, as her eyes narrowed to cunning slits.

Suddenly Racer Jess gave her leg a smack. “Thae beggaring clegs!” she cried in a loud, shrill voice that immediately brought scowls on the faces of the pious gathered round the tent.

“Keep your bluidy trap shut, or ye’ll hae the Black Bonnets chasin’ us!” hissed Bet, and dug her elbow in Jess’s gaunt ribs.

Jess spat on her finger and rubbed the spittle over the puncture in her thigh.

“I’ve had tippence frae Holy Willie afore noo,” she sniffed, and began clawing the lice at the nape of her neck.

James Armour, across the Cowgate behind the Whitefoord Arms, lectured his large family in the shade of curtained windows.

“We will go across for the third tables: I have arranged that with Mr. Auld and Willie Fisher. Now, look neither to your right nor your left but come in ahint me. There’s a rabble frae a’ the airts here to-day; and I’ll have no mixing among them. Now, Jean: I’ve warned you! There’s no outing the day. On a day like this decent folk bide within the four walls o’ their own house.”

Jean was disappointed. She would have liked to have taken a turn with Jean Markland, Lizzie Miller and Jean Smith to taste the excitement that even now she felt pulsing through the stone walls of their dwelling. She could feel the heat of the sun beaking on the kitchen window. But she sighed and drew a demure countenance: she knew only too well that her father’s word was law.

Jean knew how dismal the Machlin Sundays were. She was a sweet lass with a soul that sang like a choir of finches: her spirit bobbing joyously on the green spray of life.

Folks were surging into Machlin: the drowse of animation filled the twisted streets and the timbre of young men’s laughter rang in the air like the peal of bells.

Jean’s blood beat on the boundaries of her maidenhood—beat only to be beaten back. Not yet was it strong enough to triumph against the black glower of her father’s authority or undermine the gloomy tradition of a gloomy Sabbath... The flesh tingled and exulted; but the vestments of the Sabbath were grimy and sour with the stale sweat of denial—the denial of a long-delayed sacerdotalism.

Jean’s heart fluttered beneath a quivering breast like a bird in the snare: she bowed her head in resignation.

Across the gushet of the Cowgate, George Gibson was congratulating his spouse, Poosie Nancie, on the prospect of a record day’s business. Gangrels, whores and whoremasters were flocking into the town and promised good business for the howff. His serving-jurr, Agnes Wilson, was thinking of the amount of business she might do against her own account.

Even John Dow, who had a ribald blasphemous contempt for orthodoxy, welcomed the Holy Fair for the business it would bring him, and the excitement it would give to the day.

But there were many folks in Machlin who resented the influx of strangers—especially the undesirable riff-raff. They were careful to lock everything that could be moved behind the safety of their doors—even to the fowls on their midden-heads.

Only the less-respectable elements of the Machlin folks would allow their children to venture out into the streets—and they were liable to stern rebuke from the Session for doing so.

The douce folks did not vaig the streets but held to the preaching-tent until it was their turn to take their place at the communion tables with Daddy Auld.

And the douce who liked their theology strongly laced with the astringency of Auld Licht doctrine were well served by Moodie. He had a rare edge to his tongue and he used it to slashing effect. He lingered long and luridly on the terrible damnation that awaited the sinners and backsliders; and he painted the burning lake and the boiling brimstone in singeing simile and malodorous metaphor: tidings, indeed, of salvation.

Many of his audience swayed and groaned and not a few wept bitter tears of repentance. But Moodie would not relent, nor did he offer any hope of easy access to the state of grace. His tidings were of thundering and universal damnation for all but the elect—and even they were brushed aside with scant courtesy.

Robin and his friends moved down Loudon Street to catch the drift of Moodie’s discourse. There was a crowd of spectators gathered around the kirkyard entry. Maggie Borland and Bet Barbour winked and leered in the manner of their profession at Robin and his friends.

Robin listened for some time to Moodie’s harangue. Then they decided they would go in and join the throng with a view to securing an early table. Once they had partaken of the host, they would be free for the rest of the day. As communicants of Machlin Kirk, they were entitled to some priority in the matter of access to the tables. So they dropped their pennies into the collection-plates, supervised by two elders just inside the entry, and made their way into the kirkyard.

Robin was in no scoffing frame of mind. But Moodie’s bitter denunciations galled him. It was a day of magnificent sunshine. Under the sun-dappled shadow of the great ash-tree, Moodie’s contorted face, spitting and spluttering a sulphurous spleen, was harshly irrevelant. While Robin’s sympathy and rich humorous interest was warmly roused by the quaintness and variety of the human scene, his spirit rebelled at the savage sourness of the philosophic theology of the Kirk.

It seemed to him that men like Moodie were the real enemies of life—not the irreverent gangrels and the poor whores like Racer Jess and Bet Barbour. Racer Jess might be lost to God: she was not wholly lost to life. And in so far as she was lost, she was more the victim of society and the operation of its mildewed moral laws.

But Moodie and his ilk were lost to God and man. They poisoned the well of life at the source. Neither love nor hope nor charity was compounded in their philosophy: the famished tiger of denial snarled from the hollow confines of their narrow breasts; and the serpent of Thou-shalt-not lay coiled in the recesses of their dark minds, the head of unreason ever poised to strike with sterile negation.

How he wished for the privilege of mounting that rostrum, and delivering a different message to the snuffling souls shrinking under the lowered brow and shifty eye of superstition and fear. How he would exhort them to cast out fear, shake off superstition and beg them to rejoice in the sun and the glory of human fellowship. It was a soured priest who had said that the heart of man was deceitful and above all things desperately wicked. The deceit and the wickedness sprang from decayed moral concepts festering in the mind. Cleanse the mind of the suppurating sores of mental passion gone to putrefaction and what sweet hozannas of rejoicing would flow spontaneously from the human heart!

And so there was something of contempt and rebellion smouldering in him as he passed from the warm sunshine into the dank mustiness of the kirk and took his place at the table.

Mercifully, Auld was brief—and business-like. His exhortation was cold in its Calvinistic logic; in his fencing he enumerated the cardinal sins that barred the communicant from partaking the sacrament; but he wasted no breath on any piddling peccadilloes. He broke the bread and passed it down the tables and gave them pause to compose themselves to the solemnity of the ordeal. Then he dismissed them in a benediction of quiet dignity and sincere strength.

Give William Auld his due, he seemed neither fool nor hypocrite. He might be cold in his square-cut logic; but the coldness sprang from the discipline of an ordered mind.

Yet Robin was dissatisfied. Auld was neither bitter nor hysterical; but for all that it was obvious how the shackles of his mind kept his emotions in a rigid and unbending thrall. To Auld there could be no deviation from the logic of doctrine: predestination predetermined the inexorable law of human conduct. Deviation led to disintegration; and disintegration was as the rush of Gadarine swine down a steep place into the sea.

It took him some time to throw off his mood of philosophic introspection. They wandered at leisure about the kirkyard. Some were eating their lunches; and the gay napkins spread out among the tombstones gave a carnival touch to the incongruous surroundings.

Among the forms and benches, placed in an irregular semicircle in front of the tent, lads and lassies were whispering and giggling and some quiet tickling and tentative cuddling was in progress...

They decided they would have a drink of ale; and on such a day they decided that, at this stage, it would be best to visit the Elbow Tavern, since the Elbow was farthest removed from the press and surge of the crowd.

But the Elbow was crowded with customers who had much the same idea as themselves; so when their caups were filled they made their way out and sat down on the grass to enjoy their drink.

“It’s a wonderful business,” said Robin. “The sublime and the ridiculous hand in hand.”

“There’s little sublimity about a Holy Fair,” said Smith. “It’s just a rabble: Auld Nick himself couldn’t distinguish the pious from the pagans.”

Hunter the tanner, a strong raw-boned fellow with a direct turn of mind, said: “Religion and houghmagandie gang thegither—and I’ll warrant the hizzies are in grand fettle what wi’ the heat—and the exhortations.”

“Aye,” said Richmond, “it’s the old old story. Did you ever hear how Poosie Nancie defied the Session? She was cited to compear for habitual drunkenness—and for keeping a bawdy house. By certes, Nancie faced up to them! Told Daddy Auld she had aye drank and aye would as long as she was able. Auld told her she would be barred the communion table. Nancie said she had a table o’ her own and let them try to bar her from that.”

“And was she barred?”

“Auld saw to that: said her foolish talk wasn’t worth answering. But Poosie didn’t give a docken; and she’ll be rakin’ in the siller the day.”

“So Poosie doesn’t give a damn about her immortal soul?”

“You see for yourself, Rab. And she kens fine what her own daughter, Racer Jess, is up to—no doubt she taught her the trade. But what can the Session do? Geordie and her are sunk as low as they can sink—they can’t sink them any lower.”

“And yet their howff brings more happiness to the gangrel-bodies than any blasts on the gospel horn.”

“You’re right there, Rab: folk are no’ as scared o’ the horn as they used to be.”

“Damned man, Jamie: I have a feeling that they never were.”

“Ah, I don’t know: folks are still sair hadden doon by the lads in black. It’s all right if you’re cut off like Geordie and Poosie but can still make your living for all that. But the Session can still draw the heels from you. Just fall foul o’ them and you’ll damn soon see.”

Robin listened to their talk. He had his own ideas; but to-day he was keeping them to himself. This was the day for catching manners living as they rose—and they were rising like trout in a hatch of mayflies.

Folks were continuing to jowk out and in the Elbow—all kinds and conditions of them. The older men were discussing the Holy Fairs of former days. Some were turning over the theological arguments of Moodie and Peebles and all were agreed that Moodie was doctrinally sound on damnation. Others were particularly critical of the host. Poor stuff was the verdict. The shortbread of the olden days was far better and gave a man a tastier chew to wash down wi’ a good slooch of claret. It was a gey fushionless stuff Auld went in for nowadays—no fire to it worthy of the solemnity of the occasion. Aye: a good sacrament was worthy of a good host—and Auld was fully scrimpy with his bread.

The young men lay on the grass and watched the passing scene or listened to the talk of men who came and sat beside them. But it soon became too hot to lie in the open, and this, combined with inactivity, began to irk them. Smith, Richmond and Hunter were due back at their homes for a bite of lunch, and though there was nothing to prevent Robin walking home the odd mile to Mossgiel he did not want to break his day. Finally he agreed to go home with Smith and share his bite. Lamie would be busy assisting Auld: they would have no need to fear the shadow of his company.

“As like as no’, Rab,” Smith confided to him as they sauntered round to the Cross, “Lizzie Miller’ll be in to have a crack wi’ my sister Jean: there’s something wrong if she doesna land in our house on a Sabbath after service.”

When they got round by the kirk the scene was busier than ever. William Peebles from Newton-on-Ayr was laying forth from the tent, polite, pernickety, dreadfully Anglified and sourly sarcastic. Mr. Peebles was uncertain of his dignity but by no means uncertain of his dogma. He was an intellectual: he liked to talk over the heads of his audience.

Robin noticed that folk grew tired of him and there was a continual coming and going on the fringe of his audience.

But though a large crowd was still within the precincts of the kirkyard, there were more folks than ever crowding Loudon Street—especially round the Whitefoord Arms and Poosie Nancie’s; on the Green between the kirkyard proper and the Cross many hundreds were seated eating their carried lunches—the women handing out cheese and bannocks to their husbands and families. Many were the good douce honest folk sitting there in their Sabbath braws; many were the lads and lassies talking and joking quietly or being introduced to mothers, fathers and acquaintances.

It was but a step from the Cross to Smith’s and Richmond’s and Robin was glad to get in out of the heat and turmoil of the day to relax in Lamie’s elbow-chair.

Mrs. Lamie was a motherly edition of her son James; but it was obvious that Lamie was something of a cloud on her life: she was tight-lipped and repressed.

There was nothing repressed about her daughter Jeannie.

She had all Jamie’s wit and intellectual perception. She had already met Robin and she was glad to see him.

“And what d’you think of our Holy Fair in Machlin, Rab?”

“Well ... I didn’t see many Machlin folks out and about, Jeannie.”

“No ... they have to get off the streets for the strangers. Have you been at your table?”

“Yes ... I’ve got that by for another year.”

“You’ll be glad?”

“I’m no’ sorry.”

“I’m afraid you’re no’ much better nor a heathen, Rab?”

“Well, Jeannie, when I see the grand specimens of civilisation sitting about the Machlin Kirkyard listening to the highly-civilised skirlin’ o’ Mr. Peebles, I wouldna say but that maybe you’re richt...”

Later, after they had had their bite, Jean Markland and Lizzie Miller came in to sup a dish of tea and exchange the gossip of the day. Lizzie, whose father was proprietor of the Sun Inn at the head of the Bellman’s Vennel, was a young lady of consequence; and as Jean Markland’s father was a merchant of standing, they were beyond censure from Lamie—indeed, he was socially proud that they were friendly with his step-daughter.

Jamie had once tried to make up to Lizzie but had met with little success—probably his stature was against him. For Jean Markland he had less regard. Jean was a plain lass, honest and with a very sweet disposition—but her sex was not manifest in the way that appealed to him.

Robin, however, was immediately in his element. Lizzie continued to be haughty in her rejoinders: she was attracted to Robin and she tried not to show it. Jean Markland, however, liked him from the moment he opened his mouth. And though she didn’t say much, she smiled at him in an open friendly manner whenever their eyes met.

Jamie said: “Your father’ll be losing a heap o’ siller the day, Lizzie: him no’ opening the Inn to the crowd.”

“We can do bravely without their siller.”

“That’s an uncommon sentiment.”

“We happen to be uncommon people, Mr. Burns.”

“Come on, come on,” said Jeannie Smith, “we’ll have none o’ this Miss Miller, Mr. Burns. Plain Lizzie and Rab’ll do fine among friends.”

“I prefer Eliza to Lizzie—if you don’t mind.”

“Eliza by all means,” said Robin. “Neither Lizzie nor Betty becomes you. Eliza has a flavour of its own—and it suits you.”

“She’ll get nae Eliza from me then. She’s been Lizzie to me since ever she ran to the school.”

“But Jeannie: there’s a sonnet of itself in Eliza—a fine Sunday sonnet—nice and genteel in the fine English of Shenstone. I must try it some day.”

“There’s no occasion for sonnets, Mr. Burns—besides, poetry shouldn’t be discussed on a Sunday.”

“No more than public-houses should be opened?”

“Not on Communion Sunday.”

Jamie said: “It’s a lot of hypocrisy if you ask me. The multitude must be refreshed.”

Jeannie said: “Wait till Mr. Russell from Kilmarnock starts and that’ll be refreshment enough for everybody. You could hear him up in Mossgiel, Rab.”

“With the wind in the right quarter I believe you could, Jean. It’s a pity we couldn’t all take a turn up the road...”

“You forget the day, Mr. Burns.”

“No, Eliza: neither the day nor the night.”

“And what’s the night got to do wi’ it, Rab?”

“You should know, Jeannie, that what cannot bear the light of day must have recourse to the light of moon or stars.”

“Fegs, Rab, but I wouldn’t trust you myself gin the moon was up.”

Mrs. Lamie, who came in with the masking-pot hot from the kitchen hob, said: “That’s no way to be talking on this day, Jeannie—if James Lamie heard you...”

“What’s the odds, mother? You’ll have a dish o’ tea, Rab?”

“Thank you, Jeannie.”

Eliza said: “Are you no’ thinking of getting married, Mr. Burns?”

“The idea never crossed my mind until I saw you, Eliza.”

“That doesna say much for the rest of us,” said Jeannie Smith.

“Well ... I have hardly the fortune to be another Solomon.”

“If you ask me, Rab, men must have been gey scarce in his day else he would never hae got a’ the women he did.”

“I think,” said Eliza, “that they must have been low creatures.”

“Not so, Eliza: they were dark and comely—and poets wrote songs in their honour.”

“No’ as good songs as yours, Rab,” said Jamie. “You bide a wee, Eliza—Rab’ll put a verse or twa on you that’ll make you the talk o’ the parish.”

Eliza blushed. “If you do, Rab, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Fegs, Lizzie,” said Jeannie: “you havena been doing much speaking to him so far. Still ... I wonder you don’t get married, Rab—seeing you’re so much o’ a poet.”

“And why should poets get married more than other men?”

“Oh, you ken what poets are!” She turned to Jean Markland. “We do: don’t we, Jean?”

“I think it must be wonderful to be a poet—and I dinna think a poet should get married.”

Robin was interested. “Why?”

“I don’t know... I think it would spoil everything—when he was young anyway.”

Eliza was jealous of Jean Markland’s remark. “I think marriage would put a lot of nonsense out of their heads.”

“Aye: and put a lot o’ new nonsense in,” said Jeannie Smith.

Robert was still interested in Jean Markland. “And who’s your favourite poet, Jean?”

“I like all that I know... Maybe Allan Ramsay?”

But the conversation was becoming too dull for James Smith.

“Ach, Rab can write better poetry than ony o’ them. What about taking another turn round the town: we’re missing all the fun—and we don’t want to miss Black Jock ... come on!”

“Aye: on you go—and I hope Mr. Russell puts the fear of death into the pair of you, for you could do with it.”

In taking his leave of them somewhat reluctantly Robin said to Jean Markland: “Maybe some other day, Jean, we’ll continue our discussion of the poets. Allan Ramsay was one of my first poets—and I still have a warm heart to him.”

When they were gone, Jean Markland said: “I can’t get away from Rab Burns’ eyes. Did you see how they glow ... and change... I never thought a man could have eyes like that.”

“Aye,” said Jeannie. “No wonder he’s a poet. But sometimes I think he should have been a lassie.”

“Oh, I think that’s a terrible thing to say, Jeannie.” Eliza was shocked.

“Oh, I don’t mean he’s a Jessie. He’s a man all right. ’Deed, he’s too much of a man. But he’ll lead ony lass that falls in love wi’ him a queer dance.”

“How d’you mean, Jeannie?”

“You shouldn’t need to ask me that, Lizzie. I’ll warrant there’s no’ a lass in the parish but would like a hug frae him.”

“Oh, that’s disgraceful——”

“Aye ... and you more than ony of them, Lizzie.”

Outside, the sun, now beyond its meridian, beaked mercilessly down on the town. Sparrows dusted themselves in the kail-yard dust. From the thatches, seen against the still blue of the northern skyline, heat waves radiated in broken coils. It was an August heat and the earth’s pores cracked to drink it in.

The multitude was seeking rest and comfort. It was too warm to vaig the streets in their heavy Sabbath cleadings. Hundreds were asprawl the open space between the Cross and the kirkyard. Many were sound asleep. Amid the drowse of lazy half-hearted conversation could be heard the drone of snoring.

The Reverend Alexander Miller, a physical dumpling of a man, was peching Presbyterian orthodoxy from the preaching-tent. As he was still awaiting a call to a kirk and was filling in his time assisting ordained ministers, he was careful to give no offence. But since he was neither hot nor cold in his Calvinistic zeal, he greatly displeased the orthodox, who promptly spewed him out of their mouths. Many, finding that the fushionless flavour lingered notwithstanding, hied themselves off to Nance Tinnock’s to see what effect a caup of ale might have.

Young Willie Peebles had been hard enough to thole with his Anglified pomposities, even though he had been doctrinally sound. But the sermon-tasters relished something more than sound doctrine: they responded to vigour, violence, high colour and thundering exhortation.

Podgy Miller, lacking the safe anchorage of a kirk and lacking either a deep faith or a solid conviction in Auld Licht doctrine, was pathetically destitute of vigour and colour; nor could he roll any thunder into his periods.

He hummed and hawed, peched and grunted and dabbed the sweat-beads from his brosy face with a yellow napkin. The crowd shuffled and drifted away. Damned, what was the Word coming to when gowks bound up like harvest frogs were let loose on such a day to gulder and guddle... Lord send Black Jock Russell from Kilmarnock to put worthy tongue on Holy Writ, set the cheek of Faith by the jowl of Works and come down with a thundering clap on the doup of Deliverance.

And still the flaming girdle of the sun beat down its rays on road and roof, ledge and lintel, orthodox and unorthodox, lad and lass, man, wife and bairn...

Still the crowds flocked to the communion tables. Old Robin Gibb, the beadle, sweated and groaned and called to the Black Bonnet supervising at the tent: “Fire away there: the fifteenth table is filling up and there’s nae end till the wark.”

A bunch of mechanics from Kilmarnock, bent on a day’s outing and some fun with the lassies, came bundling into the kirkyard from Nance Tinnock’s. They staggered across the ground, picking their way between the sleeping and resting communicants, and making bold remarks to such lassies as attracted their fancy.

They stood for a moment listening to Mr. Miller. They were eating whangs of cheese and farrels of bannock. Suddenly, with a derisive laugh, a long stooping squint-eyed lad threw the heel of his cheese in Miller’s face; his comrades followed suit. With ribald laughter they rushed out the entry and narrowly escaped colliding with Black Jock, who had just arrived to wind up the preparations and put a finish on the day’s good work.

The advent of John Russell, a great burly black-browed man in the prime of his life, saved the situation for Mr. Miller, who was now completely demoralised.

Russell wasn’t long in sizing up the situation. In no time he had mounted the rostrum. The crowd now gathered thickly round the tent. There was much thrusting and pushing to get a good position; for though there would be no difficulty in hearing him, it was added entertainment to watch the contortions of his massive face and note the flail-like movements of his powerful arms or the fore-hammer blows of his clenched fist crashing on the wooden anvil of the tent.

Robin was standing at the Cross conversing with Smith and a young Machlin souter, David Brice, when Russell mounted the rostrum.

Brice, who was of an age with Robin, was a good lad. He often joined the company in John Dow’s and proved an intelligent and entertaining companion. He was well-read in philosophy and favoured an extreme rationalism with an extreme radicalism in politics.

“When you look about you,” he was saying, “and picture this assembly complete wi’ wings and harps, you see how clean ridiculous is the idea of a personal immortality.”

“Exactly,” said Robin. “But can you see them gracing Cloven Clootie’s haunts?”

“And it’s a pity you canna. It would be worth while making the journey just to see them.”

“But mind you,” added Robin, “the fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip to hold the wretches in order. Moodie kens that. And, by certes, he kens how to lash them wi’ it.”

“Look about you,” said Brice: “a grand day o’ sunshine: you couldna wish for a better. See what man wi’ all his boasted reason does wi’ it! Look at them! If that’s no’ superstition I don’t know the meaning o’ the word. I’d give a lot to hear what David Hume would say about them. No wonder they prate on the efficacy o’ faith: it’s a blind man’s faith.”

“A blind man wi’ a blank mind, Dave.”

“You’ve hit it, Jamie.”

“And yet,” said Robin, “it’s a rich scene—glorious! Damnit: it’s heaped up and running over wi’ drama—the human comedy. We Scots are a great folk: the Bible and a bawd gang thegither wi’ us. You canna get away from it. I’ll warrant there’s more minds running to houghmagandie than are reaching out to heaven. There’ll be more bairns conceived the night than in ony other night of the year. It’s in the air: you can feel it.”

“I can feel that way ony nicht withouten a holy fair, Rab.”

“So can I, Jamie—but that’s no’ what I mean. You can’t stir the soul without stirring the flesh.”

“But why bring in the soul—that’s only superstition.”

“No ... I’m not with you there, Dave. Oh, I know what you mean—philosophically. And as to immortality, I’ll no’ dispute wi’ you. Ah, but there’s a soul for all that. There’s a something that’s no’ just the heart and no’ just the mind either. A blend of the two that goes beyond either one of them: we don’t know its beginning or its end or how rightly it affects us. But in all times of doubt and difficulty...”

A great roar blasted from the tent. It was followed by a rapid succession of verbal explosions. Then great billowing waves of oratory surged through the dozing streets and crashed against the sun-baked walls of the dwellings until they finally dissipated themselves in the open countryside.

The first explosion shook Machlin to its foundations. The wide-awake trembled in fear. Many of those sleeping and dozing about the kirkyard and the Cross started violently from their sleep, many fearing that the last trump had sounded and that judgment-day was upon them in blazing riot; others feared that they had wakened from their long sleep to find themselves in hell and that the sergeant-major of the damned in person was drilling the raw recruits.

Burns closed his lips slowly on an unfinished sentence and stared incredulously in the direction of the tent.

“I’ll warrant,” said Smith, “that opening roar was heard in the Chapel of Ease at Kilmarnock itself.”

“I’ve heard Black Jock give mony a bellow, but a sound the like o’ that I never heard from man or beast—it’s downright diabolical. What in God’s name has gotten his dander?”

Black Jock was inspired. He would put such a fear of hell-fire and damnation into them as would do them for another year. He would teach them to approach the communion table with a light step and a careless heart! Before he was finished he would have them crawling there on their bended knees begging forgiveness between their weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Another bellow and a frightened cur came tearing round the corner of Loudon Street in a shower of dust and pebbles, tail thrust between its legs, as if pursued by a pack of wolf-hounds, and almost reversing its anatomy in a frenzied attempt to turn into the sanctuary of the Backcauseway. As it skidded broadside on the heat-burnished cobbles, it emitted such a howl of undiluted terror that an intoxicated communicant, staggering out of Nance Tinnock’s low door, swore to his dying day that it was no common mongrel but Auld Hornie himself, flying from the wrath to come in the shape of a mad dog.

At the far-away corner of the town, snug in the Elbow Tavern, men started from their seats: not a few, in their nervous apprehension, jittled the ale from their trembling caups. An ancient worthy of many a Holy Fair raised his ale to his lips but didn’t wait to drain the dregs: he gave his whiskers a back-hand brush: “That’s Black Jock roarin’; by certes the gospel horn’ll get a blast noo—let me round to the tent for Godsake: I wadna miss this for a’ the yill in Machlin.” Grabbing his thorn stick, he fought his way out of the ben of the tavern amid curses, groans and lamentations.

In the back room of John Dow’s, Holy Willie, seeking a quick refreshment, was so demoralised by the roaring blasts that smote his ears from across the narrow width of Loudon Street that he threw open the window and let himself out head first into the back lane, much to Jean Armour’s amusement, as she watched through a chink in the curtains.

Bet Barbour, engaged in amorous dalliance with a young Galston farmer in Ronald’s loft (where his horse was stabled) shivered and flung her arms round the suddenly-stiffened, upward-craning neck of her customer.

But as the blasts rumbled and reverberated through every neuk and crannie of Machlin, they raised fear, despondency, terror, ribald merriment, blasphemy, holy rapture and maudlin hysteria. Horses nickered in their stalls, cattle lowed, dogs howled and the birds of the air fled the boughs and the thatched roofs.

Daddy Auld speeded his benediction (his immediate flock were ill at ease) and mopped his lined and haggard face with a large napkin which he drew from the tail of his coat. He was feeling the burden of his seventy-five years. He called to old Robin Gibb, the beadle:

“Steek the door, Robin. Mr. Russell will hold the multitude for a while yet.”

“He will that, Mr. Auld. Would you no’ care to streek yourself in the vestry for ten minutes like. It’s sair wark, Mr. Auld, and it would be no sin to rest in your labours.”

“No sin, Robin; I might even close my eyes for a few minutes and seek the blessing of the Lord. But,” and here he dropped his arms listlessly, “with Mr. Russell holding forth i’ the tent...”

“Come awa’ ben, Mr. Auld. Aye ... I’ve heard mony a grand voice—and whan you first cam’ to Machlin, Mr. Auld, you could gar the auld bauks dirl—but the likes o’ Black Jock... You ken, sir: I hae found myself wondering if it was a’thegither just the thing: y’ken—a wee shadie loud for a proper reverence.”

“Robin, man, I’ll confess that thought has occurred to me too—atween ourselves: strictly atween ourselves. But the Lord moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. And doubtless in giving Mr. Russell siccan a pair of byornar lungs He meant him to put them to good use. If you’ll leave me, Robin, I’ll rest a while in the cool and dark o’ the corner here.”

“I’ve a wee sup o’ Kilbagie, Mr. Auld—it’ll set you up against the next table——”

“Just as you say, Robin. And keep the door steekit till I call you.”

Outside, the greatest concourse of communicants of the day was gathered round the tent. In Loudon Street about the jammed entry a great crowd of godly and ungodly, gangrels and unco guid, milled and jostled in the hope of viewing the preacher.

The host of the Whitefoord Arms thrust his head and shoulders out from his upper bedroom window to enjoy a grandstand view, when a pigeon, frightened from her last clutch of the season, dropped a gowpen of scalding lime on the crown of his bald head. With a howl of rage, Johnnie shot himself back into the room, carrying the lower sash of the window on his shoulders.

But Black Jock was only getting into his stride, finding the weight of his eloquence.

“What must it be to be banished for ever from the presence of Almighty God? You’ll be cast into everlasting fire. And whatna bed is there! Nae feathers, but fire; nae friends, but furies; nae ease, but fetters; nae daylight, but darkness; nae clock to pass awa’ the time, but endless eternity; fire eternal aye burning and never dying awa’. It shall not be quenched day or night. The smoke thereof shall go up for ever and ever. The wicked shall be crowded like bricks in a fiery furnace. Good Lord, what a world of miseries hath seized on miserable sinners! Their executioners are devils; the dungeon fills; the earth stands open; the furnace is burning to receive you. O how you poor souls will quake and tremble! Every part of your body will bear a part in the woeful ditty: eyes weeping, hands wringing, breasts beating, heads aching with voices crying. The Judge is risen from His glorious seat. The saints guard Him along, and the sentenced prisoners are delivered to the gaolers. Shrieks of horror shall be heard. What woes and lamentations shall be uttered when devils and reprobates and all the damned crew of hell shall be driven into hell never to return. Down you go! howling, shrieking and gnashing your teeth... What wailing, weeping, roaring, yelling, filling both heaven and earth. O miserable wretches!”

“I canna stand it,” said Brice. “There’s neither reverence nor decency in such uncivilised bellowing.”

“But it’s grand entertainment,” said Smith. “You can see the folk are enjoying themselves: they’ve been waiting all day for this.”

“Aye,” said Burns: “Moodie only whetted their appetites.”

But there was no consoling Brice. “I never had any appetite for a bellyfu’ o’ brunstane—and that’s all the sustenance Black Jock has to offer. What d’you say for a walk along the Barskimming road?”

“Might as well,” said Smith. “There’s no’ a howff in Machlin you could get a quiet drink the day. By certes, they’re raking in mair siller nor the kirk.”

“Do none o’ the Machlin belles appear the day?”

“None—barrin’ Racer Jess and two-three whores, Rab.”

“I half thought I might have clapped eyes on this Jean Armour you’re aye talking about. For all the times I’ve been in Machlin I seem to have missed her—except what I see o’ her beneath her shawl i’ the kirk—and that’s little enough to pass judgment on.”

“Dave, here, has a notion o’ Jean.”

“Half Machlin seems to have a notion o’ her.”

“Aye; but there’s no’ a sweeter lass in Machlin, Rab.”

“Well, Jamie, I’m lippening on you to get us acquaint—if Davie doesn’t object.”

“I’m no’ committed, Rab. James Armour wouldna have me for a good-son. I’m only a poor cobbler wi’ heterodox opinions—he’d sooner set the dogs on me.”

“Well, Dave, if Jamie and you are for a dander, I think I’ll edge into the crowd here: I’m in the notion to hear Black Jock out.”

The sun was going down into the west in a richly-earned blaze of glory, and the gloaming was beginning to muster in the woods and shaws; and cruisies and candles were being lit in many Machlin homes ere Daddy Auld broke the last host and gave his final benediction for the day.

The crowd had largely dispersed and the Machlin streets were beginning to resume their Sabbath quiet. True, the howffs were still doing a roaring trade and John Dow had not given over his blustering blasphemy. But, though timid and shy, peace was creeping back into the village now that Black Jock’s last bellowings had rumbled away out of earshot.

Willie Fisher and James Lamie accompanied Daddy Auld home with the collection—they would make an accurate and final accounting to-morrow night. Meantime they had to make their last round of the howffs, clear them of those who still lingered at the ale, and note the names of any who might be drunk so that they could be brought before the Session in due course.

Robin had come on Betty Paton in the crowd round the tent. Now they trudged home in the gloaming. Betty’s household duties at Largieside had prevented her attendance at Machlin till late in the afternoon—she had been fortunate indeed to get admitted to the second-last table.

“I was sure I would see you, Rab. I was sure you would wait for me.”

“You would have been disappointed if I hadna waited?”

“Aye ... it’s a long tramp hame—by your lane.”

“There’s plenty going that road.”

“But I ettled to come hame wi’ you, Rab.”

“Maybe I ettled the same way. God! what a day it’s been. My ears are still dirlin’ wi’ Black Jock’s roaring and blasting.”

“You dinna think hell’s like yon, Rab, do you?”

“Hell? There’s no such place, lass. And even if there was, you would never see it.”

“There must be a hell, Rab.”

“Even so ... I’m saying you’ll never see it. God’s no’ waiting to cast you into the lowin’ pit: God’s nae monster, Betty, even if He did create Black Jock in His image.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Rab. But fegs, I think Black Jock’s father had mair to do wi’ it than the Almighty.”

“Or maybe his mither?”

“Maybe them baith.”

“What if any o’ the elders hear us laughin’—you’re a terrible man, Rab.”

“You’ve got to laugh, Betty—or go mad. It’s been a glorious day.”

“Will you write a poem on it?”

“Now what made you think that?”

“Och, I ken you. I can tell by your eyes when you’re thinking on a poem: there’s a smoke like ... like reek passes ower them—as if the sight was far away. I watched you when you were listening to Black Jock—but you werena right listening, were you?”

“Ah, you’re a witch, Betty... Aye, I’ll write a poem on Machlin’s Holy Fair—some day.”

“It’ll be a guid yin.”

“It’ll be a’ that.”

“Will I be in it?”

“No ... you’ll no’ be in it. Just Racer Jess—and two-three whores.”

“And why will I no’ be in it, Rab?”

“Because you maun aye keep something to yoursel’ you scarce wad tell to ony.”

“What does that mean, Rab?”

“It means that you and me will round off the day low down in the broom yonder ayont Lochlea. That’s if the midges dinna bite the——”

“Wheesht, Rab, wheesht: you mauna say words like that. D’you think maybe we should?”

“I’ve stopped thinking, Betty. Look at the night! You can feel the gloaming creeping along the marrow of your bones even as it creeps along the sheughs—even the throat o’ the hoolet is soft wi’ it. That’s how Nature smoothes away the wrinkles from the brow o’ the hard world. The canny hour at e’en, lass—and my arms about my dearie.”

“Dinna, Rab, dinna—or we’ll never see the broom the nicht.”