Between Ourselves

by Donald Smith

  Glasgow was still a close-knit town. My father’s friends became assiduous in my cause: the College of Surgeons, and then the lawyers also, voted me a pension, in recognition of my cruel desertion by the broken reed which should have been my principal stay. My thoughts flew to Edinburgh and the chance of a new beginning, with my little ones brought back under their mother’s wing.

  It was a cold, wet day in early June 1782 when I stepped off the Glasgow coach. Imagine my reflections as I remembered that other journey to Edinburgh, the company I kept and the illusions I had harboured. Now I was entirely alone, standing with my bags outside the White Hart Inn and all the bustle of the Grassmarket indifferent around me. I started the climb up West Bow, the wind against me, blowing icy rain into my face. I felt defeated, spurned and painfully solitary. So despite my slender means I hailed a sedan chair at St Giles, and leaving my baggage in a porter’s cart I was carried to my cousin William’s apartments on the north side of the High Street.

  I should have explained that of all our relations it was the family of Uncle William Craig, my father’s minister brother, who had stood with me through my troubles and afforded me every practical assistance. My older cousin, lawyer William, welcomed me into his handsome, book-lined study, and listened intently as I poured out my anxieties and hopes. So unaccustomed had I become to a sympathetic ear, that at points I was close to tears. William promised to help me find an apartment and to support my efforts to bring my sons to join me.

  Perhaps he felt a little awkward sheltering me in his bachelor rooms; within a week he had settled me in a little apartment on the south side of Auld Reikie, at General’s Entry, off the Potterrow. And this is still the neuk in which I have built my cosy bield. George Square is just round the corner, with the town-houses of the Duchess of Gordon and other notables.

  I am very grateful to dear William for his tactful assistance, but also because as a lawyer and litterateur he had entry to all the best circles of Edinburgh society. Nonetheless I was determined to make my own way and soon gathered round me a small group of friends – Miss Nimmo, as you know, Miss Peacock, James Gray the schoolmaster and his lovely wife Mary, Dr Blacklock the blind poet and others whose tastes coincide with my own.

  Soon I was in my element, hosting intimate literary soirées and handing round delicate china cups. And now I have the friendship of an incomparable poetic talent. Do I sound trivial or fashionable, Sylvander? Truly I find consolation in the conversation of my equals. When solitary, I brood over my books and am strengthened. I felt more alive again in Edinburgh than for many years past.

  Meanwhile news reached Glasgow of my husband’s departure for Jamaica. It transpired that he had left under a cloud of temporary imprisonment due to debt. He continued to importune me with hectoring letters which, incredibly, appealed to my conscience and finer feelings, on which he had trampled so mercilessly: ‘Early this morning I leave this country for ever and therefore wish to pass some short time with you. Upon my word of honour, my dearest Nancy, it is the last night you will ever have an opportunity of seeing me in this world.’ You see, I have these passages by heart.

  The proposed meeting did not take place. My friends advised against seeing him and I declined an interview. However, James now finally released the children into my arms. For all his protestations to the contrary, he found the boys an encumbrance. He wrote implying that the little ones’ plight lay at my door, urging me to return from Edinburgh, the sooner the better, to take ‘these enduring pledges of our once happier days’ under my protection. None of his friends would have anything to do with them.

  His final letter, written on embarkation, bade me farewell with the assurance that, ‘For my part, I am willing to forget what is past, neither do I require an apology from you.’ I have this letter still, stained with tears of rage. I lost no time in bringing Andrew and William to Potterrow. And despite the infant’s indifferent health, the boys settled into our small home with all the happy resilience of children.

  If I have merit in anything, Sylvander, it is in my unfailing tenderness to my offspring. A worldly woman once told me in company that she was surprised by my love for them, considering what kind of a father they had. I replied that I could do no other than love my boys, and that the misfortune of such a father doubly endeared them to my heart. They are innocent; they depend on me; what higher claim can there be on my humanity? While I live, my fondest attention shall be theirs.

  There is great virtue in friendship. It is medicine for the soul and food for the mind, even when the dearest relations in life have been snatched away. Let us cast every kind of feeling, Sylvander, into the allowed bond of friendship. No malignant demon, as you suppose, was permitted to fill my cup with sorrow, but the wisdom of a tender Father who foresaw that I needed chastisement before I could be brought to myself.

  My dear friend, religion converts our heaviest misfortunes into blessings. I feel it to be so. Those passions naturally too violent for my peace have been broken and moderated by adversity. And if even that has been unable to conquer my vivacity, to what lengths might I have gone had I glided along in undisturbed prosperity! Would I have forgotten our ultimate destination and fixed my happiness on these fleeting shadows below? My heart was formed for love and I desire to devote it to Him who is the source of love.

  These convictions are encouraged in me by an especial friend and adviser, John Kemp, minister of the Tolbooth Church. How I wish you might meet him, Sylvander. His wise counsel, his manly blend of reason and religion, guides me in the right paths. Mr Kemp is father confessor to my wounded, orphaned soul. Because of his devotion I am never without a confiding ear.

  For many years I have sought for a male friend endowed with sentiments like yours, one who could regard me with tenderness unmixed with selfish desire, who could be my companion and protector, who would die sooner than injure me. I sought but I sought in vain. Heaven has, I hope, sent me this blessing now.

  I have been puzzling my brain about the fair one whose loss has wounded your heart. At first I thought it must be your Jean, but I don’t know if she possesses your deepest most faithful friendship. I cannot understand that bonnie lassie: her refusal after such proofs of love proves her to be either an angel or a dolt.

  I beg pardon for reading between the lines of your life, but you have thrown out many hints and suggestions in your poetry. I do not know all the circumstances and am therefore no judge. I admire your continued fondness even after enjoyment – few of your sex have souls in such cases. I take this to be the test of true love; mere desire is all that most people are susceptible of, and that is soon sated.

  You told me you never met with a woman able to love as ardently as yourself. I believe it and would advise you never to tie yourself with uxorious bonds till you meet such a one. You will find many who canna and some who mauna, but to be joined to one of either description would make you miserable. I think you had best resolve against wedlock, for unless a woman were qualified for companion, friend and mistress, she would not do for you. The last may gain possession but only the other two can keep hold.

  I have read the packet you sent me, twice, with close attention. Some parts beguile me to tears. With Desdemona, I felt ’twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful. When I reached the bit about your youthful struggles, I burst out in open sobs. It was that delightful flooding of the heart which arises from a combination of the keenest sympathies with the most pleasurable sensations. Nothing is so binding to a generous mind as to have so much confidence placed in it. You seem to be perfectly acquainted with that side of my nature.

  One thing alone hurt me, though I regretted many. It was your avowal of being an enemy to Calvinism. I guessed it was so but the confirmation in your own personal testimony gave me a shock I could only have felt for someone who concerned me deeply. You know that I am a strict Calvinist, excepting those dark doctrines to which I referred. Like many others, you are prejudiced, either by never having examined the creed with candour and impar
tiality, or from having met with weak and hypocritical disciples who do not understand these tenets or use them as a cloak for knavery. Both types abound and I should not be surprised by their effect on your own enlightened understanding.

  Your favourite discourse is the ‘religion of the bosom’. Did you imagine I meant any other? Poor would be that religion whose seat is merely the brain. I found all my hopes of pardon and acceptance with Heaven upon Christ’s atonement, whereas you base all on a good life. If anything we could do had been able to make good the violation of God’s moral law, where was the need – and I speak with reverence – of such an astonishing sacrifice? It is pride, my friend, that prevents us from embracing Jesus: we scorn to be indebted to God’s only Son and would be our own saviours. Yet He, and He alone, is the foundation of our hopes, to some a stumbling block, to others foolishness, but to those who believe the wisdom of God and the power of Love.

  If my head did not ache I would continue on this subject, but the story of my life has advanced to this present time. And besides, I hate controversial religion. But is my plea for mercy not religion of the bosom.

  My God, Sylvander, why am I so anxious to have you embrace the Gospel in all its fullness? I dare not look too deep for an answer. Let your own heart provide one.

  All my esteem and benevolence are at your disposal,

  Yours ever, CLARINDA.

  EDINBURGH

  January to March 1788

  THE JOURNAL

  HAVE SENT MY life in sheets to Clarinda. I had intended to place it in her hands but changed my mind at the last. Nancy is a different prospect in the flesh, quite different from my previous brief impression in company. She was of course en pleine toilette, with abundant curls piled high, curbed only by a blue silk ribbon – a graceful spray of lace behind. The hair is blonde, deep, fair to the roots. Cheeks and lips delightfully full, eyes alight beneath lush curving lashes. A dainty dish to tempt any gourmand; yet she was tense, and pleading a headache.

  We were enfin à deux. Very proper yet confidential, old friends and correspondents. She steered the conversation in literary directions, while my remarks were personal, yet discreet. How could we come to know each other better, now that the Rubicon of meeting had been crossed? I was glad to remember my epistle to Dr Moore and promised to send her a copy: ‘How remiss not to have forwarded it before.’ She promised to consider a reply, but in the meantime gave me more verses. I expressed due appreciation. We were genial, at ease grazing on safe pastures, and parted promising to write soon. No pressure or presumption on either side.

  I was meditating another meeting, and how to suggest it, my letter scarce begun, when a note arrived from – Miss Nimmo’s brother, the Excise Officer. It was a reply to mine of some days since, saying he is now ready to conduct my formal interview. So I hastened to obey, gathering up my best coat, my crutch, and my certificate of bachelorhood. No man ever appeared better qualified.

  Nimmo was correct yet friendly. We shall see what comes of it, if anything. When he signs my examination, I shall write to Graham of Fintry. That gentleman is my best remaining hope of some preferment beyond the plough.

  Tired after all this unwonted exertion, I stayed in to cultivate anew my best confidante. These pages are needed more than ever. The next few weeks may prove decisive in this poor wandering fellow’s earthly pilgrimage.

  Up with the lark; breakfast in the kitchen accompanied by Betty’s ministrations. Nimmo’s signed examination came round – wholly favourable. Do I owe this to the good sister Nimmo or simply to plain honesty? Wrote immediately to Fintry. When Lear asks Kent why he wishes to be in his service he answers ‘because you have that in your face I could like to call master’. This is the substance of my appeal: I solicit his patronage to be admitted an Officer of Excise.

  I have the papers in due order; I have no wife (two children living, but not reckoned by His Majesty’s Customs), propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity to duty. Above all, this may be my only chance of a sufficiency outwith that miserable struggle for bread, which would have sent my father into the maws of imprisonment had death not swallowed him first. I am your most humble servant.

  Hobbled round to Johnny Dowie’s to toast unexpected prospects of good fortune, and renew my acquaintance with the town.

  Long epistle this morning from Nancy on her favoured topic – religion. Put to one side for later consideration. Instead hobbled, nay, hopped, round to Creech.

  ‘Why, Mr Burns, what an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘I am much improved.’

  ‘So I see with my own eyes. We have business to settle, Mr Burns, author’s affairs.’

  ‘Yes, and that is why—’

  ‘So come ben, come ben, my dear fellow, Edinburgh’s illuminati are gathered here in the shop. Come through and give us the time of day.’

  No change in that quarter. But at least the old privateer has sighted the brig Burns on his horizon. Full sail ahead, boarding party ahoy.

  I looked in on Johnson. He is desperate to conclude the second volume – wife and children at wits end and so forth. I pledged it my full attention.

  Dined out with Willie and Bob, freemen to a man. They received me back with open arms, long lost brothers reunited in communion of wit and the bottle.

  Alas, this proved poor preparation for my theological disquisition, but I screwed myself manfully to the task.

  Our Author and Preserver, Clarinda, knows our frailty and we respond with reverence and awe by native impulse. He is not willing that any should perish but that all should come to eternal life. This is the religion of benevolence and of everlasting joy. The mean-spirited or uncharitable exclude themselves requiring no banishment to outer darkness since the dark is already in them. But to guide us the Creator has made Jesus Christ, whose relation to Him we cannot comprehend, though we know he is a light to our path.

  That, I believe, is sincerely put, but a harmless falsehood may also be apt. Clarinda’s letter announces her presence in St James Square at two o’clock this afternoon when I was otherwise engaged. ‘I watched at the window for you but was disappointed.’

  Enough – timorous criticisms are no concern of mine. I have dashed off the letter and sealed it. ’Tis now the witching time, and whatever is out of joint is the fault of spells and enchantments. She will be fast asleep. I kiss the messenger, warm wax moulded by my breathing lips. May good angels attend and guard you as my good wishes.

  Beauty which whether waking or asleep

  Shot forth peculiar graces.

  Good night, Clarinda, and may God grant my restless soul peace tonight. Let me have a larger share of dull cart-horse plodding home, native, dumb, unconscious bliss.

  Soberly sat down to reckon my day’s account. Uncomfortable night followed by restless day. Little morning left to me, but glanced at Johnson’s promised selection, then went out instead of settling to my task.

  I intended to nod at Creech, justifying this as a pecuniary measure, albeit one without return. However, met Nicol on the road, apparently playing truant from his pupils, so we repaired to the Canongate to evade untimely sightings.

  What a strange tormented spirit Nicol is, always in revolt. Resentment against his headmaster, Adam, a harmless scholar, boils over. Adam’s attempt to govern, reasonable enough in the circumstances, stifles Nicol’s very breath, aggravates his inner soul. He is like Milton’s Satan, but with smouldering fire gnawing at his vitals. Prometheus or Satan?

  Yet Nicol is frank and free – as I learned to my cost on our summer tour. Neither Reverend nor Duchess is spared his satiric scorn or proud resentment. Even at Atholl Castle I had to withdraw in order to accommodate his self-imposed exclusion. Nicol is no Bob Ainslie, trimming and tacking to the company.

  Amidst other talk, Nicol referred to the Deacon and told me outright that this denizen of Auld Reikie’s darker deeps is none other than William Brodie, Deacon of the Guilds and prominent citizen of our capital town. How could he live in such duplicity and e
scape detection? Because, according to Nicol, Edinburgh is a festering corpse in which worms twist and cavort, hidden even to their own kind. It suits many to mix the legal and the clandestine. My appetite was whetted.

  I drank little after last night’s convivial turn, nursing a queasy gut, but William drank steadily. I launched him homewards, then veered off into Canongate kirkyard to inspect my headstone to poor Fergusson – is he not living and dying proof of Nicol’s bitter philosophy? The Muse of Scotia’s ancient tongue would have lain unremarked and unremembered in the same mooly earth that covers murdered Darnley and all this shipwrecked host of priests, merchants and makars. Perhaps that is the fate of poets: neglected when alive and only reluctantly recalled when dead. At the last, Fergusson was confined to the madhouse, unable to pay even a doctor’s bill, far less his funeral expenses. The spectres entered his brain and posssesed his wracked and wasted body, till the bones rubbed through his raw skin and the fevered light in his eyes went out. Is that what Edinburgh holds for me?

  Returned home to find a package from Clarinda. It is the story of her life up till this point, and needs deliberate reading. I shall take it to bed. She wants to meet me on Friday, even though one of her boys has been ill. She wonders that I can write at all after sitting two or three hours over a bottle with indifferent company. No wonder I should turn at last to a congenial friend who can relish most things with me, except port.

  I sense that Clarinda herself was once heart and soul of the party, but now her spirits are pruned and restrained from merriment. Everything in her situation makes prudence necessary. The key to these allusions lies in the bulky packet, a riposte to my autobiographical account. Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow she will walk again in St James Square, allowing the poet a distant view.