15
‘You’re a friend of the ploughman poet, aren’t you, Alexander?’ Professor Purdie said. He was a bulky man with short legs, a huge purple face and a capacity for claret drinking that made him universally admired.
‘Yes,’ Alexander replied, putting down his quill. He’d been working on a poem and was not pleased at being interrupted. ‘We come from the same area.’
‘We must make him welcome in the city when he arrives, and introduce him to as many people of influence as possible.’
‘Of course.’ Alexander cleared his throat and struggled to appear enthusiastic. In a loud voice, the professor then began to recite a list of the most prominent members of the literati – professors, medical men, philosophers, the most brilliant brains in Edinburgh.
‘None of the quality or nobility must miss him.’
‘Yes, I suppose …’ Alexander stumbled over the words. ‘Some of them may wish to meet him.’
‘Everybody will want to meet him, man. Isn’t that obvious by what we’ve heard and read? You must let me know the moment he arrives. No doubt he will contact you first.’
In fact, Robert had already contacted Alexander by messenger and explained that he’d had to stay a full day in bed after he’d arrived because he felt so exhausted and unwell. He still did not feel fit. He had a stomach upset, apparently, as well as his usual nervous headaches that always dragged him down into depression. Alexander suspected the cause on this occasion was the liberal hospitality that had been forced on him en route, especially whisky. Strong drink never agreed with Robert. For the most part, he managed to avoid it, something very difficult to do in such a hard-drinking country. He’d seen for himself how drunkenness could even be used as an excuse and justification for crime.
‘He’d had a good drink’ was common parlance in defence proceedings in court. Certainly in his grandfather’s court. And to say a fellow could take a good drink was to admire his manliness.
Alexander felt annoyed at the professor. After all, for all he knew, who he was calling ‘the ploughman poet’ would suffer agonies of embarrassment and feel completely out of place and inferior among any gathering of such luminaries. Of course, this was not the only subject about which he felt annoyance with the professor. It was the practice, and had been for years, for all the members of the College of Physicians and Surgeons to attend the hospital by monthly rotations. That meant the patients could have an opposite treatment according to the whim of the doctor every thirty days.
Alexander was one of those supporting Doctor Gregory, who attacked this absurdity and believed that the medical officials should be appointed permanently. Professor Purdie, quite an amiable man in most ways, vehemently and loudly opposed this idea and was all for holding on to their right, as they called it, which was really the power of annoying patients in their turn.
Power was the key word, it occurred to Alexander. Now the professor was all for being the power behind getting Robert Burns organised. No doubt he visualised all the social evenings Robert’s visit would engender and the many bottles of claret he would have an excuse for consuming. Not that he needed an excuse. Alexander was constantly amazed at the amount of drink Professor Purdie could down. It made him feel sick even to think of it.
Robert couldn’t cope with that. He would be doing his friend a favour to try to keep him away from such company. He must try to make sure Robert was kept out of the public eye as much as possible. Robert had a bad reputation for womanising in Ayrshire. Alexander wondered whether, if this were made known to the quality in Edinburgh, it would dampen their eagerness to pursue a meeting with Robert, or to talk so highly of him.
It was one thing admiring his poetry. Quite another surely to allow a man who had a reputation for fornicating into your drawing room to meet the ladies of your family. Alexander had begun to believe that it wasn’t so much the poetry per se that was proving the biggest attraction. It was the novelty of a common, uneducated ploughman being able to write anything at all. It was all a myth. Robert probably had a better knowledge of English writers and poets than the literati and all the others who were so entranced by the romantic idea of the ‘heaven-taught ploughman’.
Admittedly, Robert had only had about two years’ formal education in his life, but they had been with an excellent tutor. He’d also had a father who had been unusually well-read himself and determined in the extreme to make sure he supplied his family with books and with as much education as he personally could give them. Robert in fact, despite having to work on the farm since he was a young child, was steeped in literature of all kinds. He had also an amazingly retentive memory. There was nothing ‘heaven-taught’ about him.
As it turned out, Professor Purdie did not get the chance to introduce Robert to anyone. Robert had already been invited to all the drawing rooms of the quality and nobility, or noblesse as Robert called them, before the Professor had even met him.
Alexander had been on duty at the hospital and kept so busy that he didn’t see Robert for over two weeks. Apparently, James Dalrymple of Orange Field had been the one who had opened doors for Robert. Before their meeting, Robert had sent Alexander a letter saying, ‘I have met very warm friends in the Literati, Professors Stewart, Blair, Grenfield and also Henry MacKenzie, author of The Man of Feeling. I am likewise kindly and most generously patronised by the Earl of Glencairn, the Duchess of Gordon, the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord and Lady Belting; Sir John Whiteford, the Dean of Faculty, the Honourable Henry Erskine, and several others. Our worthy friend, Mr Stewart, with that goodness truly like himself, got me into the periodical paper, The Lounger.’
He wrote home on a typically sardonic note, ‘I’m in a fair way to becoming as eminent as Thomas à Kempis or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor Robin’s and Aberdeen Almanacs along with the Black Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing, and by all probability, I shall soon be the tenth Worthy, and the eighth Wise Man of the world …’
Of course, Alexander told himself, the whole thing was just a novelty, a bit of excitement to amuse people who had time on their hands. It wouldn’t last. Every year, Edinburgh had to have some diversion, some novelty. It just so happened that this year it was the novelty of a ploughman poet.
He wondered if all the adulation would turn Robert’s head. After being taken up by the Earl of Glencairn especially, every door in polite society would be open to him. Glencairn had even introduced Robert to the best publisher in Edinburgh. Not only that, he’d written letters to every one of his friends ordering them to subscribe to the second edition. He’d also persuaded every one of the Caledonian Hunt to do the same.
Robert had become very emotional and completely carried away with enthusiasm about Glencairn. His dark eyes glowed with excitement. ‘Alexander! The providential care of a good God has placed me under the patronage of one of his noblest creatures, the Earl of Glencairn: Oublie moi, Grand Dieu, si jamais je l’oublie!’
Alexander became sick to his soul with Robert’s emotional ravings about the Earl. The Earl daren’t pay even polite attention to anyone else without Robert being devastated. The last time they’d supped together, Robert was in such an emotional state.
‘The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul, Alexander, because I dearly esteem, respect and love him.’
‘Why?’ Alexander picked at his food, unable to look up and meet Robert’s eyes. ‘What crime has the noble lord committed against you?’
‘Yesterday he showed so much attention – engrossing attention – to a member of the aristocracy, an absolute blockhead, a dunderpate. I was within half a point of throwing down my gage of contemptuous defiance. But he shook my hand and looked so benevolently good at parting.’ Robert sighed. ‘God bless him, I thought. And if I should never see him again, I shall love him until my dying day!’
Alexander could
not bear it. ‘You’ll have more to worry you than that incident if some of the gossip I’ve heard reaches the noble lord’s ears. He will not be so benevolently good then, I fear.’
The light went out of Robert’s eyes. ‘I know I have enemies who have been circulating unfavourable gossip about me. Probably it’s in connection with the Armour affair. Probably it originally stems from old Armour. That man hates me so much. I can only hope that my Lord Glencairn would defend me as stoutly as Sir John Whitefoord did.’
‘He defended your conduct?’
‘So I’m told by MacKenzie. I wrote to Sir John immediately to thank him. I acknowledged that too frequently I’m the sport of whim, caprice and passion – but reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve.’ Robert pushed his plate of half-eaten food away. ‘It’s all very humiliating and depressing though. I did love Jean – I think I still love her – and we did go through a form of marriage. It hurt me beyond words when she allowed that to be annulled.’
Alexander stole another look at Robert’s weather-browned face, with its black brows and black frame of hair. Despite his well-cut coat and buckskin breeches, he still had the brawny, rough look of a farmer. Alexander couldn’t fathom what women saw in him. Country wenches could be attracted by some sort of animal sexuality he exuded. But even ladies of the aristocracy like the Duchess of Gordon had become enamoured with him. This was despite his, at times, sarcastic and sardonic tongue. His wit was ready but not the most pleasing or to everyone’s taste.
He was glad to note however that although high-born ladies made a great fuss of Robert, he was allowed no liberties. If Robert wanted or needed sexual favours, it looked as if he’d have to seek wenches of the lower orders, more of his own class.
Perhaps the discreet warnings that he’d managed to circulate had paid off in that respect. Whisperings about Robert’s drinking habits had not been so successful.
Dugald Stewart had said, ‘Yes, I too have heard reports of Burns’ predilection for convivial and not very select society. But from my own observation, I have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety.’
Alexander managed a smile. ‘It seems that Edinburgh is having a good effect on my friend. I’m extremely relieved about that. I was afraid that all the excessive attention he’s been having would spoil him.’
‘No.’ Professor Stewart shook his head. ‘On the contrary, he is showing much good sense and behaving wonderfully well.’ He fixed Alexander with a curious look. ‘Don’t you think so yourself?’
‘Yes indeed,’ Alexander hastily assured him. ‘As I say, I’m extremely relieved now that I find my anxieties about him have proved quite unnecessary.’
It was true. It was all true, Alexander kept telling himself in an effort to quell the strange demons that kept clawing up inside him. If he hadn’t had his work and the comfort of his poetry, he didn’t know how he’d cope with them. But in the hospital, when he was amputating a man’s leg for instance, he needed a clear head, steady nerves and a cool determination. This was not easy while the patient was screaming and violently struggling. It also needed quite strong helpers to fight to hold the patient down, and a strong arm to wield the saw. He stifled his wayward thoughts about his friend and concentrated on the operation. He’d acquired the ability to keep any emotion in check, and carry out his duties efficiently. He had always been a good, conscientious doctor and surgeon.
It was only with Robert that he tended to lose control of his inner self. Sometimes he wondered if Robert’s extreme emotionalism could be infectious. Only recently, he’d gone with Robert, at Professor Stewart’s invitation, to one of the weekly conversazione among the most brilliant literary society in Edinburgh. At first Robert had seemed little inclined to mingle easily in the company. He strolled round the room looking at the pictures on the walls. He stopped at a picture representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery on the one side, on the other side his widow with a child in her arms. Robert read aloud the lines written underneath. To everyone’s shock and to Alexander’s acute embarrassment, Robert’s voice broke and tears filled his eyes. The room turned silent as Robert looked around and asked who had written the lines. Not one philosopher could remember. Then, after a decent interval, a pale, lame boy – Walter Scott, Alexander believed his name was – ventured a reply.
‘They were written by one Langhorn.’
Robert rewarded him with a look and said, ‘You’ll be a man yet, Sir.’
But not like Robert Burns, Alexander hoped. What kind of man would be moved to shed tears at a painting? He was quite unbalanced. He’d once expressed to him that he’d felt near to Bedlam, and Alexander was beginning to think Robert Burns was on the verge of a nervous breakdown most of the time. That was despite other people’s observations and opinions that Robert behaved with nothing more than simple manliness. Simple manliness indeed! What about his extremism? His moods of alternating elation and depression. His foolish tears. His powers of exaggeration. Even Professor Stewart had noticed that.
‘But Professor,’ Alexander had said mildly, ‘what you have observed about my friend’s sobriety may be a true picture of him. I hope it is. However, he himself has, in the past, written to me about fits of debauchery and licentiousness.’
The professor had actually laughed. ‘Man, man, you of all people should know that part of the genius of Burns is his powers of exaggeration. He loves to make vivid word pictures of folk, including himself. What an imagination he has! What emotion he is capable of expressing! It completely carries him away at times.’
Alexander experienced a state of pure hatred. Immediately he smoothed it over, cooled the heat of it. He smiled at the professor. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it?’
16
The clock beat a ruthless tattoo and the wind every now and again pounced on the window frames and angrily agitated them. Susanna was waiting. She had everything arranged. Nothing could go wrong. Yet her stomach churned in terror in case it did.
Neil had joined a group of friends at someone’s house for a game of hazard. On this occasion, the ladies had not been invited. She had waited for such a night. It had happened before. Neil had come home very late and very drunk. But still his glass of whisky had to be laid ready on the bedside table. He never missed his nightcap. Once he had nearly killed her for forgetting it.
Tonight she made doubly sure that it was there. Into it she had stirred the sleeping potion her father kept ready for her mother. She had secured twice her mother’s normal dose. Plus the whisky, it should render Neil unconscious for the whole night and, hopefully, most of the next day.
Early next morning, before the servants arrived, she would hide all his clothes to delay him further. Then she would saddle up one of the horses, secure the saddle bags containing as many of her clothes and possessions as possible, and gallop away. Her whole body pulsed with fear and excitement. She felt light headed. Beads of sweat trickled down over her eyes and between her breasts.
‘Oh please God, let me get safely away,’ she kept whispering. ‘Oh please God.’
She sat at the bedroom window, the moonlight ghosting her white nightgown and flicking silver on to her shawl and the long auburn tresses that hung over it. She was watching and listening for the sound of Neil’s horse. So intense was her concentration on the dark distance outside, she was unaware of the iciness of the inside of the room, until the dawn chorus startled her. She began shivering uncontrollably. What if he had decided to sleep overnight at his friend’s house? Gambling sessions could go on for hours but he’d never been this late before.
She was on the point of weeping in despair when she caught the sound of a horse’s hooves. The clatter became louder and she shrank quickly back from the window in case she could be seen. Her bare feet pattered across to the bed.
She burrowed underneath the covers, closed her eyes and prayed that he would be too drunk to notice her trembling. Her straining ears heard the first bang of t
he outside door, the stumbling feet along the corridor and up the stairs. The muffled oaths as he staggered and fell. Her skin crept with the draught of the bedroom door opening. The creak of the floorboards. She felt him near. Then there was a faint scraping sound, a gulp, and a smacking of lips.
Oh, hallelujah! He’d taken the whisky laced with sleeping potion.
She waited. Soon he was snoring loudly. Carefully – very, very carefully – she eased herself out of bed. Not daring to light a candle, she crossed the room with only the grey mist of the moon guiding her way. On the landing outside, a candelabra guttered low. It had been left to light Neil’s way up the stairs. Still in her nightdress and bare feet, she tiptoed to the room in which her outdoor clothes lay ready. She had chosen a black riding outfit with a calesh hood tied with ribbons under her chin. When she’d worn the outfit before, she’d been out riding with some of the local gentry. The ladies in the party had remarked on her ‘modest’ appearance. She hadn’t been sure at the time whether the remark had been a compliment or an insult.
Now she didn’t care how she looked, or what anyone would think, as long as she could get away safely and as quickly as possible.
She held her breath until she was out of the house, on the horse and, quietly at first, was guiding the animal along the rough path in the direction of Tarbolton. Once away from what she imagined was the earshot of the house, she urged the horse into a wild gallop. Suddenly it reared high in the air and she was tossed from the saddle to jar painfully onto the hard ground. For a moment, she was too shocked to move. Then to her horror she caught sight of a man’s top boots striding towards her and then the man towering above her.
‘Please, please.’ Sobbing in terror she cowered away. ‘Don’t hurt me. Oh please …’
‘You’ve nothing to fear from me, lassie. Here, let me help you up.’
A Darkening of the Heart Page 11
