Between Ourselves Page 15
Finally I wrote to Miller to request the lease from Martinmas. The farm is so run-down that all it offers this summer is some grass and tumbled roofs. There will be allowance for a new farmhouse, drainage and fencing. So the poet is not all will-o-the-wisp in this transaction. Perhaps I can still have the Excise too and drive both horses in one harness. Am I the man of business? You would be proud to see my present guiles.
Alas, Robert Muir is a shattered frame waiting to meet his Maker. Often when young he gave me a port in the storm of youthful indiscretion. I could always depend on friendship and protection at Tarbolton Mill. An honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece of broke machinery, and moulder with the clods, so be it. At least there is an end of pain and care, woes and wants. Yet if that part of us called Mind does survive the apparent destruction of the man, then there is no truth in old wives’ prejudice and tales. We go to a great unknown Being who has no end in giving us existence than to make us happy. If that be atheism then I am King of Siam.
So much, Bob, for philosophy and my news. Apologies for not writing sooner but apologies for not writing may be like apologies for not singing – better than the song. I have fought my way sincerely through the savage hospitalities of this country and will win back to Edinburgh early next week. Greet Clarinda with a kiss.
Yours ever, BURNS
Arrived this afternoon. Hied straight to Dowie’s then back to my snug eyrie. Had this delightful room really become my prison through those leg-bound weeks? Dashed a note off by urgent messenger to Clarinda, to perch on her snowy bosom and herald the poet’s imminent arrival.
The town is agog with Deacon Brodie, who has fled under criminal pursuit. But not for gaming or pimping or extortion, as one might expect. It transpires the Deacon had a sideline in armed robbery. By day his legitimate apprentices would measure locks and doors, hasps and padlocks, across respectable Edinburgh. By night the Deacon and his gang went, secret duplicates in hand, to rob and pillage prosperous citizens.
But they overreached themselves by attacking the General Excise Office for Scotland in Chessel’s Court – the very place where I pressed my suit for the Commission. Pray God no sortie or surveillance coincided with my visits. They were surprised in the act and fled with only sixteen pounds from the cashier’s drawer. Six hundred pounds lay in a secret drawer below – so much for the Deacon’s craft! The gang were armed with pistols but withdrew without a shot being fired.
Next, tempted by a government pardon and reward, Brodie’s closest turned against his rule. One, Brown, handed himself in for protection, only to receive a prison visit from one of Edinburgh’s most prominent citizens – the Deacon! Was murder intended? Whatever, the very next day Brodie fled his native town, followed by a hue and cry across the nation. He has two hundred pounds on his head, and rumour says he has left the country altogether.
Now all spills out in his fleeing wake. Accumulated debts – how could he spend so much? Illicit trades and connections, and horror and delight, three wives with three dependent families – all in God-fearing Reikie’s narrow domain. Such entertainment far outruns anything the stage has to offer Edinburgh.
My mind runs over recent months. Is there any trace that could link me to Brodie’s dark trades? Thank God I refused his patronage – the double drama of the Deacon must wait another hand. I must steer clear of the Cowgate region, conclude my Edinburgh affairs, and speedily withdraw to Ayrshire. In the eyes of the law I am without reproach.
If he is caught, the Deacon’s hanging will be the greatest show the streets have seen since Porteous was strung up. The gibbet is the highest mercy he can plead since short of hanging, drawing and quartering, the affronted pieties can scarcely be appeased. He has squeezed Edinburgh hard in its inmost sanctum, the purse. Unless he can claim the privilege of old status to go beneath his own perfected blade – the Maiden – and see his head tumble cleanly into the basket. Yet some have been known to hang and still survive. The Deacon may gamble on his own demise. Certes, Brodie has broken his reserve with a vengeance to give the poet an unsurpassable tale, which I dare not be the one to tell. His mocking laughter is still ringing in my ears. Bells below, some disturbance. For a moment I am hunted by panic; but it is only some message for the poet, hurriedly delivered… passed upstairs.
Edinburgh is at its end for me. Last words, and farewell. What change a few short days can bring.
Jean gave birth to twins, two lassies, my bonnie little flooers. One dead, the other dying. They’ll both be coffined unbaptised before my return. Poor Jean: her second brace. To go full term and see them perish in cauld spring. Twa wee lambs. Nature can be fell cruel.
Creech has finally loosed his grip, one hand at a time. I have half the subscription money but no copyright dues. That must await another siege. Beugo says the old fox may be planning a run of copies behind my back, but he has secretly marked his engravings so that we can detect another printing. I’ll expose him if he tries to cheat me, however respectable.
Twin offspring I may have been denied, but I do have a farm and Instructions for the Excise. The lease for Ellisland is signed, the missives sent. My training for the Customs round begins next month in Ayrshire.
Searching auld wives’ barrels
Ochon the day
That clarty barm should stain my laurels
But what’ll ye say!
These muvin things caad wives an weans
Wad muve the very herts o stanes.
The night before last, I was handsomely toasted and dined by the Commissioners. Graham of Fintry proved much better than wintry to the bard. Peggy will be pleased to see me settled, though the exertion puts the poet in his early grave. So women wish the best for those they love.
Clarinda and I have parted but I cannot regret our connection. She is the dearest partner of my soul. Wherever we roam, we shall let each other know how we go on. And every week, every fortnight at least, I will send her two or three sheets full of observations, nonsense, news, rhymes and old songs. She will take your place, old faithful friend.
Last night we went out for a stroll up the Lawnmarket onto Castlehill. A fresh clear breeze was blowing from the firth, and the tight green and yellow buds were waiting expectantly to unfurl on all the trees. Our season of concealment was past and over; all was open in the cheering evening light. We wandered back to Potterrow where I had left my presentation gift – two engraved glasses, the tribute of one poet to another.
Fair Empress of the Poet’s soul,
And Queen of Poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.
She will always remember me by them. Bob and she can toast my memory together. I asked after Jenny, but she seemed to have finished her day’s work as usual.
Now that I have a farm, I suppose I should have a wife. In truth I already have the happiness or misery of a much and long-loved fellow creature in my hands. Shall I give her legal title to my body, and farewell rakery! Last time I sat here in the Bull, I had my oldest friend to chaff and chasten, but tonight I have only a book for company.
Even if I do not get polite tattle, modish manners and fashionable dress, I also give boarding-school affectation a wide berth. But I would get the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the country. She mine and I hers, body and soul, in sickness and health, to the close of our days.
When I began this journal, I was at a deal of pain to form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual and moral powers. Since I went to Edinburgh, I have not added anything to the account. I trust that I am taking every atom of my being back to the shades, the coverts of my early life, the haunts of my remaining years.
EDINBURGH
Fourth Day of November 1788
Deposition of the Last Wishes of Jenny Clow,
Formerly a Serving Maid
Recorded Verbatim by Robert AinSlie WS
in Niddrie Wy
nd, Cowgate
I, Jenny Clow, being very sick of a spreading fever, am making my last wishes.
My natural son Robert Burns will go to Mr and Mrs Aitken of Causewayside, who having no children of their own have shown him great kindness. They will care for him and provide. He is nearly three years old.
He is not to be given to his natural father Robert Burns the Poet. Even if he asks.
I thank my mistress Mrs McLehose for her kindness. She did not know of my relations with Burns.
I thank my parents and am sorry for their trouble with me.
The three shillings I got from the Tron Kirk poor box are to go with my child, for him to remember his mother by.
My shawl, spoons and stool are to go to Jessie Haws living in this stair. She and her little girl are also poorly and need money to buy bread.
God have mercy upon us.
This is Jenny Clow
X
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