Between Ourselves Page 14

  We lay down together and made love slowly, gently. Afterwards I stayed by her side and told her that I would be leaving this week. But that I would come back soon.

  She cried with hard, fierce sobs. When I tried to comfort, she turned her back to me, face to the wall, and refused speech. I got up and left saying that I would come to see her during the week. Why is it that I feel more sorrow for myself than pity for her distress?

  Immobile all day. Saw no one. Let them go to Kirk or Hell. What do I care?

  Johnson rescued me early. He needs a preface now for the second volume – excited and suddenly urgent, he almost dragged me out of bed. Sat down at the table and penned a glowing commendation. Here, volume by volume, are all the Scots songs – those already with music and others now set to melodies. The treasures of a people and of a nation. These books will outlive us all, and Johnson will be remembered with gratitude.

  Still low but today the corpse stirred.

  Down sharp to the printer’s shop to correct the sheets as they came off. I have my own stool there since the Edinburgh book, and a grudging respect from the setters, engravers and binders. They know my corrections to be swift and sure. Feeding back the sheets, I worked without a rest till the job was done. Honest toil amidst honest men. Johnson flapped around like a mother hen crazed by anxiety for her hatching chicks. Eventually I oxtered him off to Dowie’s to calm him down and let the job go forward.

  No heart for social visits. Came back to count my remaining coins, and write a long diligent reply to a letter from Mrs Dunlop. Hoping to call at Dunlop House on my way home, so I reported the social tittle-tattle to my dear guide in matters of etiquette and morals, and enclosed ‘Clarinda, Mistress of My Soul’. She may become my Ayrshire Clarinda, one without the curls, the lashes or the swelling bosom.

  The great book is ready – crisp and fresh on every newly cut page, all sheets upstanding between their handsome covers. Willie McElheney, a Belfast man lost in Edinburgh, pulled out a bottle of Bushmills whisky to handsel the new arrivals.

  Returned home to think who should be sent a copy. This at least has not been loss or waste. Creech must not know how deep I am in this venture; Johnson will have the credit. No message from Clarinda.

  The Museum’s dinner becomes my farewell to Edinburgh. I must name the day.

  Later. Clarinda letter arrived as I left for dinner. The cat is out of our bag; the squalling commences with a vengeance.

  She wants to break it off, never to see me again. The reason? A letter from Kemp expressing his and Craig’s concerns for her reputation and virtue. They are the elders to her Susannah. Arse-faced bastards, farting from every orifice. They crash into a secluded garden shaded with delicacy, truth and honour and dump a load of ill-smelling shite in the midst. Let the bigots stuff it down their own throats till they choke and spew.

  God help Clarinda. The tone is haughty and dictatorial. She must end forever such an unsuitable relationship. With whom though? It seems that they know not the man. Or surely they would have named me – the summit of obloquy in this tight-arsed town.

  Who gives a fellow creature, one who is neither her peer nor capable of being her judge, the right to catechise, scold, demean, abuse and insult, wantonly insult? Is it because she is a woman who cannot take a blade and thrust it into their stinking entrails?

  To hell with them. I must put my case to Clarinda. Have we been called to a sacred court or to the bar of reason that entitles dissolution of our union? No, their appeal is to base convention, not the higher truths that we have tasted together. Surely she sees that she is not under the slightest shadow of obligation to bestow her love, tenderness, caresses, affections, heart and soul on one who has habitually and barbarously broken every tie of nature, duty and gratitude to his faithful spouse? How then can it be improper to give that heart and those affections to another, when by so doing she harms neither children, herself or society at large?

  I was still composing these pleas when another letter arrived from Potterrow. I opened this new packet with trepidation. Now her distress pours out. How will she manage with the loss of friendship and support from her two principal guardians? How can I comfort her when I am the cause of her injury? Nancy, Nancy, how can I wish I had never seen you, that we had never met? Not while I live and breathe. Yet now it appears I am leaving her friendless.

  I sat down to write again moderating my spleen, softening my argument less it affront her alarmed sensibility. I plead forgiveness for the injury and promise to be with her tonight. No sooner had this gone than another arrived from Clarinda written earlier than her last. Such are the vagaries of the penny post. I felt calmer now, pulling back from the brink and able to state our situation with greater clarity and dignity, as befits two natures such as ours.

  I met you, my dear Clarinda, by far the first of womankind, at least to me. I esteemed, I loved you at first sight, both of which attachments you have done me the honour to return. The longer I am acquainted with you, the more innate worth I discover in you.

  You have suffered a loss, I confess, for my sake; but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship; if every endeavour to be worthy of your friendship; if a love, strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of religion; if all these can make anything like a compensation for the evil I have occasioned you; if they be worth your acceptance, or can in the least add to your enjoyments – so help Sylvander, you Powers above, in his hour of need, as he freely gives all these to Clarinda!

  I esteem you, I love you, as a friend; I admire you, I love you, as a woman, beyond any in the circle of creation. I know I shall continue to admire you, to love you, to pray for you, nay, to pray for myself for your sake.

  Dispatched and ate a hurried lunch at home, awaiting any further revelations. I take up the Museum and turn its pages with a soothing satisfaction. Here is contained the anonymous genius of a nation, but also songs by Smollett, Ramsay, Hamilton of Gilbertfield, Fergusson, Ossian MacPherson, Dr Blacklock, and Robert Burns. Here too is ‘Cauld Kail in Aberdeen’ as revised by the D— of G—, and two songs ‘By a Lady’. So I immortalise Nancy’s poetic gift. A fair exchange for shaking off the slimy Kemp and confidential Craig.

  Write to John Skinner enclosing Volume Two with my compliments. Old Tullochgorum will weigh its true worth. Also requested five songs for Volume Three.

  Another letter, but from Graham of Fintry assuring me of a Commission in the Excise. The die is cast. But at least my begging days are done.

  Later. Like two brimming rivers our feelings burst their banks and flow into one united stream. That a woman lonely and forlorn, yet glowing with love and sympathy, cannot join with her soul-mate is an offence to God and Nature. We wept together and embraced. But our time was short and I slipped away in the darkness like a common criminal.

  Tried to write again this morning but threw it to one side. More words are useless. Breenged out instead to face down this wretched place. What more can the stone faces inflict on me? Why should they avert their sightless gaze from me, the living man and poet? Strode up to walk on Calton Hill but sudden rage invaded me. I pulled up a sapling by the roots, and started up Leith Wynd to confront Creech and demand my payment. But I met with Ainslie and he dissuaded me. According to him, I was waving the tree and muttering ‘I’ll break that shite Creech’s head.’ He thought I had been in drink all night.

  Came back and wrote in measured terms of sympathy to Nancy. The act of writing can uphold us like a ship in stormy seas.

  After lunch and some small talk in the family kitchen, I cornered Creech in his den, without the camouflage of company. Whether something desperate in my eyes or the definite date of my departure sobered him, he swore solemnly to finalise the statement and make a payment when I return in two weeks time. We went out, took tea together, and shook hands. This time I think I have him.

  Looked in at Dowie’s to pledge my satisfaction but my birse was up and refused to settle. Before five o’clock I was in Hastie’s Close aski
ng for the Deacon. The minions looked askance but he was clearly there in advance of some evening business and eventually I was ushered downwards.

  He seemed disarranged, not his usual steely self. Was the wig awry, the hand a mite unsteady on the decanter? Perhaps I was deceived in the guttering gloom?

  ‘Good evening to you, sir.’

  ‘And to you, Mr Burns.’

  The old formalities at least were still in place. I apologised for calling round unannounced as if we were in a Canongate mansion. Then I regretted my immediate departure from the town. This pierced his reserve.

  ‘So, you’re slinking off.’

  ‘My business here is ended, sir.’

  ‘And what of my business?’

  ‘I am very sorry that I cannot make that my concern.’

  The dam burst. A foul drain overflowed.

  ‘You conceited wee puppy. Awa back to the midden whaur ye belong. Naeboby mucks aboot wi me and walks away scatheless.’

  He was salivating copiously and spitting in my face with fury. I stepped back but retained my composure.

  ‘I’m making no implication against you; I’ve had enough of Edinburgh.’

  ‘Man, you’re no fit tae scour the streets o Edinburgh, wi your sentimental naethins, your rights o man. It’s trash, every last bit o it.’

  He had a hold of my jacket now, but I believe I have his exact words.

  ‘Believe me, Burns, the ainly thing this toun unnerstauns is power, aye an money, an if need be force tae pit fear intae their black, stinkin herts.’

  With the last spitting syllable a drunken grin spread across his face, more ludicrously terrible than all his previous composure.

  I shook myself free of his grip and stumbled back up the stairs. No one prevented me and within seconds I was in the Cowgate, retching against a wall. For an instant I had a mad impulse to return and tell him about my Excise Commission, but as I leant my sweating brow against the cold stone, I could hear an inner voice chanting ‘a dog returning to his own vomit, own vomit, own vomit’.

  I crept along the Cowgate, skulking in shadows. I had no mind for further company, yet thought if I could get to Liberton’s Wynd Nicol would keep me from myself and from a bottle. Eventually to win home and write down what happened.

  A defeated cur. Is that what I am, running, whining for his kennel? A dog returning to his vomit. God help me, Clarinda, and pray for me.

  Shivering and sweating by turns all morning. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears, the old thorn in my chest. Betty administered broth and whisky with a liberal hand, as if she knew I would soon be out of reach.

  Got myself out of bed after lunch, and forced myself to a task. Put the Edinburgh subscribers on one side, and my list for Scots Musical Museum on the other. The gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt loomed large. I persisted with a shaky hand ticking those few who merited a mint copy.

  By late afternoon my quakes had subsided to quivers. Remembering the innocent pleasures of last Saturday, I ventured out to Niddre’s Wynd with a cautious step. The stair was shut and deserted so I sat quietly in Dowie’s till Clarinda’s coast was clear. I spoke not a word to a soul and no man spoke to me. Was I already under the Deacon’s prohibition?

  At Potterrow I was like a familiar ghost, acknowledged but already absent. The odious Craig had been before me and consoled her on the contretemps with Kemp. She had thanked him for his visit; then he said it was to mask the change in his friendship. Mark the mealy-mouthed, smooth-tongued hypocrite. He did not name me but spoke in a way that plainly showed he knew. Such was Nancy’s account. I made a semblance of deep emotion to hide my anger. We parted shortly thereafter with I believe mutual relief.

  Could not abide to end the night there, so I resorted back to the Cowgate. Jessie was at her corner and I asked after my Jenny.

  ‘She’s nae weill, Maister Burns.’

  ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘Awa hame, for the noo, onygates.’

  I was disappointed but covered it well, joking about my broken heart. She laughed in my face and I pushed her into the close, fumbling at the jade’s skirts. Another laugh as I grasped her warm buttocks but my insistence lasted only four or five quick strokes. Afterwards we lay down in her room but I could do no more tonight. She showed me out and shoved me towards St James Square.

  Even Johnnie Pintle has finished with Edinburgh now. Wanted to drink brandy but it makes my pulse thump unbearably. Just glad to lie down in my own narrow bed.

  Betty packed my few clothes and books. I promised to be back soon. ‘Aye weill, ye’ll nae be sae blate,’ she chided, sponging me down and lathering my jaw for a much needed shave. She’s the best woman I met in Edinburgh.

  I wrote to Peggy reporting the Commission and my leaving Edinburgh. The future life is not a farm, but where God chooses I will go. My feelings could not survive such a return after what farming has done to my family. No, this is my mature deliberation. The question is not into what door of fortune’s palace we shall enter, but what entrance she opens to us. This is immediate bread and though poor in comparison with the last eighteen months of my existence, it is luxury compared to my whole preceding life. I was not likely to make an easy gain for I wanted a goal, an ambition, which is a dangerous and unhappy thing. Yet I have got this without mortifying pretension. I count some of the Commissioners as acquaintance and a few as friends.

  Tomorrow I take the coach for Glasgow from the White Hart. Retracing Nancy’s journey. Perhaps she will be waiting for me, a sole companion like McLehose. I will come back but not to settle. The clatter of the horses is stirring in my blood.

  Interleaved letter to Robert Ainslie, stained and crumpled, perhaps inserted by a later hand.

  Monday I shall be at the Black Bull in Glasgow to take the morning stage. But tonight I have a whim to write and let you know my movements since leaving Edinburgh. Of course you are not without your own source of news, the fair spy, who receives my occasional reports and tells me in turn of your attentions. ‘You must love and cherish Mr Ainslie,’ Clarinda instructs me. Beatific Bob. I can feel you smirking at forty miles.

  Two weeks have passed since I was at the Bull on the outward leg. My old mentor Captain Brown came to meet me and I poured out the crises of recent months in one great splurge. He was amazed and amused by equal turns, yet it did me good to unlock my sorry luggage and be thoroughly berated as a lily livered epicene for my trouble. Strange how a coach ride and a ribbing begin to change your view of things.

  My younger brother Willie joined us, then I fought my way through Paisley and Kilmarnock, pitched against those old familiar foes of mine, the World, the Devil and the Flesh – all three so terrible astride the fields of dissipation. Clarinda’s correspondence followed my progress without ever catching me or netting a reply.

  For two days I sought refuge at Dunlop House with my former instructress in the ways of polite society. She and all her household made much of the poet’s return, though I submitted myself to her chiding on selected episodes of my Edinburgh experience. You, Bob, are sole repository of the whole tale. Beware.

  Hearing she was at Tarbolton with the Muirs, I went straight to Jean rather than home to Mauchline. I found her with the cargo well laid in, but unfortunately moored at the mercy of wind and tide. She had been banished like a martyr, forlorn and destitute, and all for the good old cause. I reconciled her to her fate, and to her mother who will attend her lying-in. I towed her into a convenient harbour, a hired room in Mauchline, where she may lie snug till unloading. I took her to my arms – still the same delicious armful – and fucked her till she rejoiced with joy unspeakable and fullness of glory.

  But, Bob, I have been prudent and cautious to an astonishing degree. I swore her privately and solemnly never to attempt any claim on me as a husband, even if anybody should persuade her she had such a claim, which she has not either during my life or after my death. She did all this like a good girl, so I took the opportunity of some dry horse litter and gav
e her such a thundering scalade as electrified the very marrow of her bones. What a peacemaker and mediator is a richt guid weel-willy pintle. He is the pledge and bond of union, the league and covenant, Aaron’s rod and Jacob’s staff, the horn of life and the tree of plenty between man and woman.

  Of course I had to report to a certain lady of our acquaintance and omitted some passages. To compare Jean with my Clarinda is to set the glimmer of a farthing taper beside the cloudless meridian sun. Tasteless insipidity, vulgarity of soul and mercenary fawning. I have done with her and she with me and so forth.

  Next it was off to Dumfries to view Patrick Miller’s farm as promised. John Tennant gave it a good report and advised me to accept the bargain. Old Glen is the most sensible intelligent farmer in the county, so I was rocked by his opinion. Now I have two plans of life before me. These opinions are private till I return to Edinburgh and meet the Excise.

  It was a different story back in Mauchline. Gilbert continues hard-pressed and his landlord, my old friend Gavin Hamilton, tried to persuade me to secure my brother’s lease. The language of refusal is the most difficult on earth to me, but I could not undertake this responsibility. He demanded it as if it were his due and was hurt at my refusal. As if I have not a hundred obligations to fulfil! Even so must old acquaintance be forgot.

  I wrote to Mrs McLehose on my road home from Cumnock to tell her that the farming scheme may hold, but that you and she are my only confidantes. She writes complaining she has only had one letter from me. Please assure her I wrote from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and then Cumnock.

  Also I have religiously observed our sacred Sabbath hour of eight. Mind you, it is apparent that Clarinda has other consolations nearer to hand. My friend, Mr Ainslie, whom I must love and cherish, has called often and alleviated her anxiety. I hear also that she supped again at Kemp’s last Friday, so things run on again in their wonted way.