At one point, in one of his moods, he’d written, ‘My nerves are in a damnable state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But let it go to hell! I’ll fight it out and be off with it.’
He’d also written about how he’d been caught and scolded by his wife for singing a bawdy ballad to himself. Alexander noticed that to Burns, it seemed to afford some sort of release at the most difficult times of his life to turn to coarseness like that. It was, Alexander supposed, part of this fighting, go-to-hell kind of attitude.
All the apparent difficulties and work, of course, did not stop Burns having a social life and adding to his seemingly endless list of friends, especially women friends. Only, women usually became more than just friends. This time, he’d made friends of neighbours called Riddell – Captain Robert Riddell and his wife Elizabeth, and their daughter-in-law, Maria. Maria’s husband was away from home a great deal and it was what Burns had written about Maria that tormented Alexander. He could recognise the usual signs of Burns falling in love. He raved on about how wonderful this woman was, how beautiful, how talented, how intelligent, etc. The fact that she was married did not, on this occasion, seem to matter.
Alexander had always believed that Burns would and did draw the line at having any physical intimacy with a married woman. But here, all Alexander’s suspicions were aroused. And, if married women were not safe against this callous, unprincipled predator, then Isobel was not safe. He had at last succeeded in winning her hand in marriage, helped to some degree, he knew, by her parents. They were eager to enjoy retirement in their house in Edinburgh and have him give up his doctoring and run the Dumfriesshire estate.
He shared their eagerness. There was nothing he would enjoy more than being safely installed as lord of the manor, and of such a large estate.
Isobel was a dutiful daughter and eventually agreed to the match. All had been going well. It was a quiet, contented life they were building together.
Then suddenly Isobel flared into life. She and Susanna, who had been living with them, heard that Burns was now in the area. Oh, the excitement that was immediately engendered.
Robert Burns. Robert Burns. The house reverberated with his name.
The last time Alexander had felt so angry was when he’d learned that Susanna had visited Burns in Edinburgh on her own. After all his warning! How stupidly indiscreet of her. What would people think? Especially as she was still supposed to be in mourning?
‘But I was only thinking of his welfare,’ she protested. ‘I took him some food and reading and writing material.’
She lied. At least about only thinking of his welfare. She was thinking of herself and her obsession with Burns. She just wanted to be with ‘the great man’, as she called him, and to worship at his altar.
As they all did. Stupid women! Isobel would be the same. Even enlightening them of some of Burns’ many faults did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm and admiration. He obviously was not as clever as one of Burns’ so-called friends – one of the Ainslies. Ainslie, Alexander long ago had found out, had spied on Burns at every turn and passed on information about him in a detrimental way to people that Burns loved – or imagined he loved – like Nancy MacElhose. He had particularly insinuated himself in with her. Ainslie was a despicable character and acted in the way he did for no reason except that he was a despicable character.
‘But I have a reason,’ Alexander told himself, ‘a very good reason to clip Burns’ wings in whatever way I can.’ He had already convinced himself that his marriage, his whole way of life, was at stake.
But no matter what he did, Burns always won. Take writing, for example. Alexander had published his second book of poems, on which he’d laboured long and conscientiously. This time the book had been reviewed. It was damned forever with the words ‘uninspired and pedestrian’.
Burns on the other hand kept bringing out yet another book, yet another edition, to nothing but praise.
One important part of Alexander’s life – his writing life – had been ruined. He wasn’t going to allow more heartache and humiliation to lay his life to waste. Hatred burned in him.
Isobel and Susanna were pressurising him into arranging a meeting with their hero.
‘Go and see him, Alexander,’ Isobel pleaded. ‘Persuade him to come and visit us.’
Susanna said, ‘I will come with you, Alexander. Robert and I are good friends. He will agree to be Isobel’s guest if I ask him. We can suggest a date that gives your mother-and father-in-law time to come from Edinburgh. They would not want to miss such an occasion.’
Robert Burns. Robert Burns.
‘All right, I’ll go,’ he growled, beaten down eventually, ‘but you don’t need to accompany me, Susanna.’
‘Oh yes, I do. I do. He would come to please me. I know it!’
Already she was running for her cloak and bonnet. And so they set off in the carriage, Alexander sitting silent and still, Susanna fidgeting endlessly with her dress, her cloak, her hair, her bonnet. Once at Ellisland, Susanna burst into the farmhouse and greeted Burns with such delight and in front of his wife, that Alexander was ashamed of her. And of course Burns greeted her with equal pleasure. His wife didn’t seem to mind. She had always been an unexceptional, plump girl and now she was an unexceptional, plump matron. It was taken for granted, he knew, that she was never included in any invitations or outings organised by the Riddells or any other of the local gentry. Nor, he was sure, would she have wanted to be included. She was obviously perfectly content in the part of a farmer’s wife and happy and grateful to be the wife of such an exceptional man.
Susanna chattered away to Burns while his wife made them a cup of tea. She never joined them, did not even sit down, but cheerfully busied herself with the children and other housewifely duties.
Burns of course was persuaded to visit the McKenzies and a date was set. A message was immediately posted to Mr and Mrs McKenzie. Then endless talk began between Isobel and Susanna. What the dinner menu would consist of. What they would wear. How they must ask Burns to read some of their favourite poems.
‘He’s such a good reader. He gives such a wonderful performance. Just like a professional actor.’
Robert Burns. Robert Burns.
And there he was with his raven black hair and brows, and glossy dark eyes. There he was in his well cut blue coat and fawn breeches and waistcoat and lace at his neck and cuffs. Not forgetting his polished, knee-high boots.
Oh, how all the ladies twittered and fawned around him. Especially Isobel.
Oh, how Alexander hated him. Yet he still could feel ashamed of his hatred. Especially when Robert congratulated him on having such a lovely wife and a lovely home and on how well he was running the estate. Already he had made a name in the district, according to Robert. Word had got around that he was a good and fair employer. That was perfectly true, of course. He was as good and conscientious an employer of workers on the estate as he’d been a good and conscientious doctor to his patients.
But what would anything matter if he lost Isobel? The problem was that Robert had a warm and loving nature that was hard to resist. He even found it hard to resist. Nevertheless, he did not trust him. At least not with women.
He remembered how, while carrying on a passionate correspondence with Nancy MacElhose, Robert was every now and again having sexual gratification with Nancy’s maid. Alexander could hardly credit it. The maid – Jenny Clowe, her name was – would deliver a letter from her mistress and when the mood was on him, or probably when he was so frustrated with not being able to possess Mrs MacElhose, he had houghmagandy with the messenger.
Who could trust a man like that? A man like that was capable of anything.
What a ridiculous fuss Mrs McKenzie and Isobel made of Burns at that first dinner party. Even Mr McKenzie joined in the singing of praises.
Robert Burns. Robert Burns.
&n
bsp; It made Alexander sick. The worst of it was they were already planning and discussing other meetings, other social occasions. There would be no end to it. There was no use trying to console himself with the fact that Burns wouldn’t, couldn’t, have all that much time for socialising when he had to do so much work, especially for the Excise.
Burns had always shown an amazing amount of energy. He kept burning himself out, of course, hitting rock bottom, but then, miraculously, gaining another surge of high spirits.
He had even started a country library system with Riddell. They called it the Monkland Friendly Society. Captain Riddell had been elected President of the Society and his name guaranteed a good patronage but it was obvious to everyone that it was Burns who did all the work.
Burns was treasurer, librarian and censor. He made up the rules. He encouraged ordinary people in the country to read, saying that those who did were likely to be ‘a superior being to their neighbour, who, perhaps, stalks beside a team, very little removed except in shape from the brutes he drives’.
And all the time he was continuing to write poetry and songs. He was supplying songs for two very different editors, James Johnson and George Thomson. How and when he did this, while coping with such a workload, Alexander could not imagine. He’d even composed what even he had to admit to himself was a masterpiece. Admitting this was like plunging a dagger into his own heart.
He read the long poem, ‘Tam o’ Shanter’, only because Burns gave it to him to read while he was in his company. Despite his reluctance even to look at it, the words leapt exultantly from the page. He could feel the rhythm of Tam’s horse in the words as they galloped along. Even the first verse had a hypnotic rhythm to it.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An’ folks begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sultry, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
Of course, the McKenzies insisted Burns read the poem on his next visit. After he finished, there was complete silence for a moment or two – the kind of stunned hush in a theatre before riotous applause breaks out.
Oh, how Burns was applauded. They said he should write for the theatre and he said he was thinking about it. How could he possibly do it? All sorts of powerful emotions and confusions were churning inside Alexander.
Mrs Burns had said in connection with the writing of ‘Tam o’ Shanter’ that one day, one of the farm servants had rushed into the house saying that the master had gone mad. He was marching up and down a hillock, shouting and laughing to himself. She had told the man just to leave him be as it was the best thing to do when he was like that. Eventually, it began to rain so hard that she had to go out and find Burns and bring him back herself. She found him sheltered under a tree with a piece of paper and pencil in his hand and still talking and laughing to himself.
He had been composing verses of ‘Tam o’ Shanter’ and that night he’d read the whole poem to the assembled family and servants. The children had become so frightened by the reading that they’d hidden under the table.
Mrs Burns was insisting that he’d written it all on the one day and Alexander believed her. Although Burns said, ‘All my poetry has the affect of easy composition, but is the result of laborious correction.’ ‘Tam o’ Shanter’ seemed to have leapt white hot from the mind of Burns. It brimmed with his miraculous energy.
It made Alexander despair. Nothing could be done to stop such a man. Unless he burned himself out for good. The thought gave Alexander a glimmer of hope.
32
Kate Watson was a poor widow woman who on local gala days kept a shebeen. Robert went to her door and everyone expected the seizure of the contraband barrels Kate had inside. Instead, Robert gave a nod and a gesture with his forefinger. It brought Kate to the door.
Burns said to her, ‘Kate, are ye mad? Dinna ye know that the supervisor and I will be in upon you in the course of forty minutes? Goodbye t’ye at present.’
This friendly hint was immediately and gratefully acted on. It saved the widow a fine of several pounds. The annual revenue loss only amounted to five shillings. Kate was not the only poor person to whom Robert showed mercy during his early morning house visits on the day of a gala or fair.
Nevertheless he was an energetic and conscientious officer, and when dealing with real smugglers and serious offenders, he was as enthusiastic and even more efficient than most other excisemen. He explained his method to Alexander and the McKenzies: ‘I recorded every defaulter; but at the court, I myself begged off every poor body that was unable to pay, which seeming candour gave me so much implicit credit with the Hon. Bench that with his compliments, they gave me such ample vengeance on the rest that my decree is double the amount of any division in the district.’
The detecting officer was given not only half of all fines imposed, but half the produce of seizures as well. As a result, Robert was able to add a considerable amount to his basic salary. He had to do a great deal of riding in a wide area, however, and it was hard and fatiguing. As a result, Robert started trying to obtain a position in his own locality. All seemed to be going fairly smoothly until he had a terrible blow.
The Earl of Glencairn had gone to Portugal for the sake of his health but his condition had worsened there. He decided to return home but died before the ship reached England. Robert was grief-stricken, absolutely heartbroken. He wrote a long poem, ‘Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn’, which ended with,
The bridegroom may forget the bride,
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a’ that thou hast done for me.
He wrote immediately to ask when the Earl’s remains would be interred, ‘so that I may cross the country and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my ever-revered benefactor’.
Robert bought a grey tail coat and black gloves in readiness but he was snubbed by the Earl’s relations and not even invited to the requiem service held in Ayrshire. They did not even acknowledge the beautiful Lament he sent to them. Normally any kind of snub, especially one delivered by his so-called superiors, made him angry and retaliate with savage satire. But on this occasion, he was only grief-stricken and heartbroken at the loss of his dearest and most loved friend.
His low spirits affected his health and he was laid low with nervous symptoms of headaches, depression and palpitations. He wasn’t able even to write up his excise books. He couldn’t raise his head, far less ride over ten parishes. Thankfully, when he recovered, he was given a transfer to Dumfries Third Division.
For a time, Robert rode between the farm at Ellisland and Dumfries every day. If the weather was very bad – and it often was very bad – he stayed overnight at the Globe Tavern in Dumfries. There he became familiar with Anna Parks. Anna Parks was a relative of the owner of the Globe and she worked there as a barmaid. She was a friendly girl, to say the least, and was very taken with the handsome poet who, lonely without his wife and family, easily succumbed to her charms.
The result of this familiarity was Anna Parks’ pregnancy. Mrs Burns and Anna Parks both gave birth within little more than a week of each other. Afterwards, Anna gave her baby up to Robert, and Jean looked after the little girl, along with her own. Anna Parks disappeared from the local scene after that, and it was said she later married a soldier. A friend asked Jean if she wasn’t angry at Robert for this
behaviour but she just replied, ‘Oor Robin should hae had twa wives.’
Robert had also been writing letters in support of a male friend who was in trouble. Indeed, he went to quite extraordinary lengths in his efforts to help his friend, who was James Clarke, the principal schoolmaster in Moffat. The patronage of the school was in the hands of the lords of the magistrates and town council of Edinburgh. Robert not only drafted a letter for Clarke to send to the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, but wrote himself to many influential people he knew in attempts to prevent Clarke from losing his job. He told one friend that Clarke was ‘suffering severely under the persecution of one or two malicious but powerful individuals of his employers’. Robert had never lifted a finger against his own children and always believed in teaching by getting them interested in any subject. His letter to a friend about Clarke was therefore uncharacteristically robust.
‘He is accused of harshness to some perverse dunces that were placed under his care’ he wrote. ‘God help the teacher, a man of genius and sensibility, for such is my friend Clarke, when the blockhead father presents him his booby son, and insists on having the rays of science lighted up in a fellow’s head whose skull is impervious and inaccessible to any other way than a positive fracture with a cudgel!’
Robert, while the dispute was going on and despite the fact that he could little afford it, gave his friend the loan of quite a large sum of money.
Ultimately everything was settled in the schoolmaster’s favour and Robert sent him a note saying, ‘Bravo! Clarke. In spite of Hopeton and his myridons thou camest off victorious!’ His delight at this was soon swamped by the news that Mrs Nancy MacElhose was leaving for Jamaica to rejoin her husband and try for a reconciliation. All his romantic dreams came back to him in a torrent of emotion that poured out in a hasty scrawl on a card in the Sanquar Post Office. He immediately posted the card as a parting gift.
Ae fond kiss and then we sever!
A Darkening of the Heart Page 22
