He wrote another letter at midnight, attacking ‘your friend’s haughty dictatorial letter’, and adding ‘Can I wish that I had never seen you? That we had never met? No, I never will!. .. I esteem you, I love you, as a friend; I admire you, I love you as a woman, beyond anyone in all the circles of creation. I know I shall continue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you, nay to pray for myself for your sake.’
He had been confined to his room for six weeks and he occupied himself with his reading, his correspondence with Nancy, and visits from some friends, including Mrs Dunlop. He told Mrs Dunlop that ‘the miserable dunning and plaguing of Mr Creech has busied me until I’m good for nothing.’ He also occupied himself with song-writing. If he had not, he felt he would have gone mad with the boredom and physical inactivity. As it was, depression was never far away.
He had turned to his Bible for consolation and, as he told a friend, he’d ‘got through the five books of Moses and half way in Joshua. It’s really a glorious book.’
At one point he received a letter from Nancy which said, ‘When I meet you, I must chide you for writing in your romantic style. Do you remember that she who you address is a married woman? … You have too much of that impetuosity which generally accompanies noble minds.’ She also said, ‘I entreat you not to mention our correspondence to anyone on earth. Though I have an innocent conscience, my situation is a delicate one.’ For safety she had begun sending her letters with her maid, Jenny Clowe.
But eventually she wrote, asking, ‘Do you think you could venture this length in a coach, without hurting yourself? I wish you could come tomorrow or Saturday. I long for conversation with you, and lameness of body won’t hinder that. ’Tis really curious – so much fun passing between two persons who saw one another only once!’
It was after that meeting she’d accused him of irreligiosity. He was stung by this and had replied, ‘If you have, on some suspicious evidence, from some lying oracle, learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly-important a matter as real religion, you have, my dear Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend.’
Once Nancy discovered that he was an enemy of Calvinism, she began trying to convert him to her own narrow brand of Presbyterianism. But he stuck to his own sincerely held beliefs and told her, ‘My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of Jamie Dean’s grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire – Lord, grant that we may lead a gude life! For a gude life maks a gude end: at least help weel!’
Nancy’s letters were not the only ones he received. Much less welcome were the innumerable verse epistles by innumerable tyro poets asking (sometimes even demanding) his opinion and his help. He was pleased to praise and help anyone who showed even the slightest promise of talent, but so much he received was simply doggerel and bad doggerel at that.
He devoted some of his time to writing in connection with his Excise plans. He forced himself to draw on the influence of all the people in high places that he knew. To Graham of Fintry he wrote a long letter which included the passage, ‘I now solicit your patronage – you know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board, to be admitted an Officer of Excise. I have, according to form, been examined by a Superior, and today I give in his Certificate with a request for an Order for instructions.’
He had also written to Lord Glencairn. ‘I wish to get into the Excise; I am told that your Lordship’s interest will easily procure me the grant from the Commissioners.’ He’d added by way of explanation, ‘My brother’s lease is but a wretched one, though I think he will probably weather out the remaining seven years of it. After what I have given and will give him as a small farming capital to keep the family together, I guess my remaining all will be about two hundred pounds. Instead of beggaring myself with a small, dear farm, I will put this into a banking house. Extraordinary distress, or helpless old age have often harrowed my soul with fears; and I have one or two claims on me in the name of father; I will stoop to anything that honesty warrants to have it in my power to leave them some better remembrance of me than the odium of illegitimacy.’
He enclosed a copy of ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer’ and promised to call on his Lordship at the beginning of the following week ‘as against then I hope to have settled my business with Mr Creech. His solid sense in inches you must tell. But meet his cunning by the Scottish ell.’
At the same time, he was thinking and worrying about the offer of the farm at Ellisland. He still had reservations about the state and worth of the land, despite the surprising fact that a worthy and intelligent farmer, John Tennent, a friend of his father’s as well as his own, had viewed the area with him and thought the bargain practicable.
The business with Mr Creech, and all his other frustrations and misfortunes, had made him become thoroughly disenchanted with Edinburgh. He wrote to his friend Richard at Mauchline, ‘As I hope to see you soon, I shall not trouble you with a long letter of Edinburgh news. Indeed, there is nothing worth mentioning to you; everything going on as usual – houses building, bucks strutting, ladies flaring, black guards skulking, whores leering, etc., in the old way. I have not got, nor will for some time get the better of my bruised knee; but I have laid aside my crutches. A lame poet is unlucky; lame verse is an everyday circumstance. I saw Smith lately; hale and hearty as formerly. I have heard melancholy enough accounts of Jean; ’tis an unlucky affair.’
He was worried and upset to have heard that Jean, now nearly eight months pregnant, had left home after a quarrel with her parents and was at present on a visit to the Muirs of Tarbolton Mill. He vowed that as soon as his injury had healed and he was able to make some sort of financial settlement with Creech, he would return to Ayrshire and do what he could to help and comfort her.
Meantime he wrote a frosty letter to Creech, who replied with a promise on his honour that he should have the account settled on Monday. Now it was Tuesday and no word from the publisher. The only comfort in all his despair and frustration was an obliging and more-than-willing Jenny Clowe, Nancy’s maid, who – because of the great number of letters being delivered to and fro – was very often in his company.
His business dealings with music publishers were developing in a much more satisfactory manner than those with Creech. The work on the second volume of the Museum was fast progressing. As well as editing it, forty of the songs in it had either been wholly written by him or revised and expanded by him. For the Preface, he wrote, ‘Ignorance and Prejudice may perhaps affect to sneer at the simplicity of the poetry or music for some of these pieces; but their having been for ages the favourites of Nature’s Judges – the Common People, was to the Editor a sufficient test of their merit. Materials for the third Volume are in great forwardness.’
He managed, despite the difficulties of his still painful knee, to attend a party in George Street in the New Town at the home of Dowager Lady Wallace, Mrs Dunlop’s stepmother. This honour did nothing to cheer his worried spirits, and as he wrote to another friend that he loved dearly, Peggy Chalmers, ‘God have mercy on me! a poor damned, incautious, duped, unfortunate fool! The sport, the miserable victim, of rebellious pride; agonizing sensibility, and bedlam passions!’
Later he wrote another letter to her saying, ‘You will condemn me for the next step I have taken. I have entered into the Excise. I stay in the West for about three weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for six weeks instruction; afterwards, for I get employed instantly, I go où il plaît à Dieu – et mon Roi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question is not at what door of fortune’s palace shall we enter in, but what doors does she open to us?’
His knee took a turn for the worse and his worries increased. He feared that it ‘for some time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Excise instructions.’
As for the farm, it was in such a run-down condition that it would not be possible for him to take the lease for some time yet.
Meantime he wrote to Captain Richard Brown, saying he would arrive in Glasgow on Monday evening and
planned to put up for the night at the Black Bull Inn in Argyle Street, where the Edinburgh coach terminated. He said he hoped that Richard could meet him there, adding, ‘I am harried as if hauled by fifty devils, else I would come to Greenock.’ But he would, he said, keep all day Tuesday free in the hope that Richard could manage. Richard did not even wait for Tuesday, and was waiting in Glasgow on the Monday to meet the coach.
Robert’s younger brother, William, was also there to meet Robert off the coach. Robert was delighted and the three of them had a happy evening together. Robert still managed that evening, however, to write to Nancy. But he could not write every day after that, as Nancy had asked him to. From Glasgow he travelled to Paisley where he had promised to call on ‘My worthy, wise friend Mr Pattison’, who ‘did not allow me a moment’s respite …’
He met many others on his travels en route home. When he managed to write to Nancy again, he tried to reassure her: ‘My dearest Clarinda, you are ever present with me; and these hours that drawl by among the fools and rascals of this world, are only supportable in the idea that they are the forerunners of that happy hour that ushers me to the Mistress of my Soul.’
At last he reached Mauchline and visited Jean at the Mill. There he managed to arrange for her to move back to Mauchline but not to her parents’ house. Instead he found her an upstairs room and kitchen in the home of his old friend, Doctor John MacKenzie. By doing this, he felt sure that Jean would have the best and immediate medical attention when her time came. He also managed a reconciliation between Jean and her mother, and arranged for Mrs Armour to look after Jean during her confinement.
He was so busy, he again had to neglect his promise of writing to Clarinda every day. He had also to apologise to his friend, Willie Cruikshanks, for not writing sooner, complaining that ‘I have fought my way severely through the savage hospitality of this country – to send every guest drunk to bed if they can.’
He wrote in similar terms to Clarinda: ‘… yesterday, I dined at a friend’s at some distance; the savage hospitality of this country spent me the most part of the night over the nauseous potion in the bowl. This day – sick – headache – low spirits – miserable – fasting, except for a draught of water or small beer now eight o’clock at night – only able to crawl ten minutes walk into Mauchline, to wait the post in the pleasurable hope of hearing from the Mistress of my Soul.’
In reply, she lectured him for not writing as often as he’d promised (although he’d in fact written twice as many letters as she had), and also attacked his friend Pattison: ‘In the name of wonder how could you spend ten hours with such a despicable character?’
Towards the end of her long, angry lecture, however, she said, ‘Love and cherish your friend Mr Ainslie. He is your friend indeed.’
Robert had then to leave Mossgiel again to call at Galston and Newmilns, where he had to collect sums of money owing to him for the Edinburgh Edition. He wrote to his friend Robert Muir, ‘and I shall set off so early as to dispatch my business and reach Glasgow by night.’ In Glasgow he had more book business to attend to. Muir had been seriously ill and Robert told him that he hoped that ‘the spring will renew your shattered form’, but he could see that Muir was dying.
In an attempt to comfort and console his friend, he wrote, ‘… an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the valley – be it so; at least there is an end to pain, care, woes and wants; if that part of us called Mind, does survive the apparent destruction of the man – away with old-wife prejudices and tales! Every age and every nation has had a different set of stories, and as the many are always weak, of consequence they have often, perhaps always been deceived; a man, conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow creatures; even granting that he may have been the sport, at times, of passions and instincts; he goes to a great unknown Being who could have no other end in giving him existence but to make his happy; who gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force … It becomes a man of sense to think for himself; particularly in a case where all men are equally interested and where indeed all men are equally in the dark.’
Not long after trying to comfort his friend, Robert was in desperate need of comfort himself. He received the news that Jean had given birth to twin girls and both had died.
He cursed not only the injury that prevented him from immediately going to her, but also his insecure financial position. He had to get his affairs in order so that he had a decent home and some security to offer her.
27
Susanna was plunged into one of her quandaries. She had fallen deeply in love with Robert Burns but her traumatic experiences with Neil Guthrie were still vivid in her mind, with all the pain and fear that had accompanied them. She could not bring herself to imagine physical intimacy with Robert, or any man, ever again.
She was relieved when she learned from Alexander about the poet’s ‘paper passion’, as he called it, with the Edinburgh woman. In a way, it was her protection. It made her feel safer to adore Robert, to look at his black hair and brows, his expressive eyes and mouth, and to allow her heart to melt at the sight of him. She gazed at him leaning back on one chair with his injured leg resting up on another. She dashed eagerly about making him dishes of tea and tasty meals and arranging and rearranging the cushion under his knee.
She was glad when he paid little more than friendly or brotherly affection towards her. Yet oh how she loved him and admired him and longed to be his sweetheart and stay close to him forever.
Alexander had warned her before they’d arrived in Edinburgh. ‘Remember, Susanna, you are supposed to be in mourning. At least try to act the part and behave with some decorum.’
She managed to do so with everybody else, but Robert knew her true circumstances. There was no need to look mournful with him. Even if there had been the need, how could she sit silently with bowed head and downcast eyes when in the company of genius? She felt honoured to be in the same room as him. Doubly so when he entertained her by reading one of his poems or encouraging her to join in singing one of his songs.
Green grow the rashes, o;
Green grow the rashes, o;
The sweetest hours that I e’er spent,
Were spent among the lassies, o …
He made her laugh at the way he recited
I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young to marry yet;
I’m o’er young, ’twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammy yet …
Alexander did not seem even amused, far less join in the singing or the laughter. He was such a solemn fellow. She told him so and he gave her a sullen, warning stare.
‘It would fit you better, madam, to show some solemnity. You seem to forget you have come straight from your husband’s burial.’
She flushed and lowered her eyes. She wanted to burst into a torrent of words of explanation to Robert, but it was impossible to talk in any detail of the gross obscenities and indecencies she had suffered. She had never even been able to speak of them to her brother.
Robert sighed. ‘Don’t chastise the girl. It’s my fault. It’s been a selfish indulgence on my part to take the opportunity to laugh and sing. I was feeling so low in spirits before you came. Anyway, we both know, Alexander, that Susanna’s marriage was not a happy one and Neil Guthrie was cruel to her. It’s not surprising she doesn’t mourn for the loss of such a man.’
‘At least I’m glad I have been the means of cheering you a little,’ Susanna said, tossing a defiant glance in Alexander’s direction.
He was the best of brothers, yet in some ways such a strange fellow. He had depths in him that she could neither understand nor reach.
While they were chatting to Robert, Susanna – to her delight – discovered that he was planning to take up the lease of a farm in Dumfriesshire. That meant, once Alexander was married, she could be connected to the McKenzie family and no doubt could often go
for weeks at a time to stay on the Dumfriesshire estate, as she was about to do now. The McKenzies and Robert would be neighbours. All sorts of possibilities and opportunities opened up before her.
She could see Robert often – every day perhaps. They could become close. The idea quickly became a heady mixture of joy and terror. She tried to tell herself that she was being ridiculous. The cause of her terror was dead and gone. Robert was not Neil. Robert was a loving and gentle human being, who would not purposely hurt anyone, not even an animal. Not even a mouse. She had been most moved by his poem, ‘On Seeing a Wounded Hare Limp by Me – which a fellow had just shot at’.
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art,
And blasted be thy murdrous-aiming eye!
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor never pleasure glad thy cruel heart! …
She had nothing to fear from Robert Burns. She knew that perfectly well. Her mind kept repeating the words and totally believing them. It was her soul and her weak flesh that quailed. There was neither reason nor logic in her fear. She knew that. Yet her fear would not go away.
Time! That’s what she needed, she told herself. After all, Neil was hardly cold in his grave. She hadn’t had time to get used to the idea that he was dead, that she was actually, truly free of him, that she was safe.
‘I must give myself time,’ she thought. ‘I will be all right, once I can relax for a time in Dumfriesshire.’
She plied Robert with eager questions – when would he be going, did he know that he could be neighbours with the McKenzies, and that Alexander was going to marry Isobel McKenzie? She caught Alexander’s eye and was so taken aback by the fury in it, her voice died in her throat. Why on earth he should appear so enraged at her for talking about Dumfriesshire and his marriage, she could not for the life of her understand. He’d never indicated that there was to be any secrecy attached to his plans. One would have thought he would have been more than happy to have her speak of them, or to speak of them himself, and share the good news with his friend.
A Darkening of the Heart Page 19
