Between Ourselves

by Donald Smith

For instance, imagine you and I just as we are at present – the same reasoning powers, sentiments and curiosity. Then imagine our bodies free from pain, the wants of nature readily to hand. Next, we are set free from the laws of gravitation, able to fly with ease through all the unconjectured bounds, the recesses of creation. What a life of bliss we would lead in our pursuit of virtue and knowledge, our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love.

  I see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a voluptuous Mahometan, but I should be a happy creature, and it would be a congenial paradise to you too. Can’t you see us hand in hand, or my arm about your lovely waist, making our observations on Sirius, or surveying a flaming comet, or in a shady bower of Venus dedicating the hour to love, while the most exalted strains of poesy and harmony would be the spontaneous language of our souls.

  Devotion is the favourite employment of your heart; so it is of mine. What greater power and incentive to praise, in all the fervour of adoration, that Being, whose unsearchable wisdom and goodness has pervaded every sense, every feeling, every instinct of our higher selves.

  You will be blessing the neglect of the maid who left me destitute of paper.

  SYLVANDER

  Out of the depths, to thee I cry.

  Unable to face food or drink. Anchored to the shitting stool, and passing blood amidst the freely flowing faeces.

  Why are good fellowship and noble amity pursued by dire disturbers and destroyers? God bless Betty and her cordials, a present help in trouble.

  Back to bed raw and scadded, till noon brought an emissary from the goddess. Clarinda’s Jenny.

  Why had I not noticed Jenny properly before? More than in the passing I mean. She had seemed a plain bush in the shade of Clarinda’s bloom. But standing there in the window light I saw slim elegance, graceful poise, neat fair features, red-gold hair and two steady light blue eyes. In that gaze I shed days of morose reflection, and all the discomforts of this morning after. With one blink, I was back in Mauchline.

  ‘Well, Jenny, what’s your business?’

  ‘Ah hae a letter, sir.’

  ‘From your mistress?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Thank you kindly.’

  I threw the packet onto my table.

  ‘Have you always lived in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Na, ah’m frae Leith an ah’m ganging that gait noo an mistress askit me fur tae tak yer letter.’

  ‘Excellent. And will you be coming back from Leith today?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So you can call in for my reply.’

  ‘If that’s whit ye want.’

  ‘It is, Jenny, truly what I want.’

  ‘Verra weill.’

  ‘Right then.’

  And with that she was off like a young gazelle unable to stand a moment longer, hair glinting in the sun. What a waking call for any young huntsman of the name.

  There were three notes in Clarinda’s bundle written one upon the other. Like a player dealing cards, I read them in turn. Damn and blast her for an ungrateful hussy. How dare she turn canting moralist now, clumping over exalted ground with iron-soled boots. God forgive me, but at times she’s like the milk-eyed cow that one moment gazes in liquid devotion, and the next lifts her tail in the air to skitter in all directions.

  Yet how these gentrified sneerers dress up their tortured self-denial in the garments of philosophy – she has ‘received a summons from Conscience to appear at the bar of Reason’.

  The long and short of it is, she is neither well nor happy. Her heart reproaches her – aye, and me too – for Wednesday. I must now determine against everything except what strictest delicacy warrants, or she will not see me on Saturday. What does that make me – a peasant churl, a clumsy oaf in my Lady’s boudoir? She’d be nane the waur o a guid fuck.

  Of course she tries to soften it by blaming herself but the implication is clear, she gives the game away with every sanctimonious line. By Thursday night, she urges friendship with God as our chief study and delight. This damnable aetherial notion of religion satisfies neither heart nor the belly. Sacred ties that unite – unite what? Two wraiths in the sky?

  Clarinda dearest, do you think I could forget – has she ever let me forget – that her present and eternal happiness depend upon her adherence to virtue. Happiness at least when measured by worldly and not heavenly approval. Is that sufficient reason to put me on the rack? ‘Happy Sylvander’ – my God, happy – that can be attached to Heaven and to Clarinda together. She at least cannot serve two masters.

  At the hinnerend she prays over me – last thing last night or first this morning – petitioning a place for the poet in God’s bosom, and next a place for the tender charities of parent, brother, child. By Christ, I need no lesson in these charities. As for bosom, I would rather put my hands full on hers, and end this melancholy hysteria with frank acknowledged desire. Finally, she sends the whole extended tract round with Jenny – ‘who is a good soul’. Just in case I expected an infernal messenger.

  By mid afternoon my ravings receded and I crafted some pleas in reply. How could she wound my soul in such a fashion and wish the hour of parting sooner? If I have trespassed against decorum’s letter, where have I sinned against the spirit of her statutes?

  My whole appeal, Clarinda, to God, yourself and to me, be reconciled. Do not divide us by distrust, or raise false barriers against the innermost sensibilities. They are the divine essence of love and friendship. Do not destroy our peace by torturing your or my love.

  Unable to cap such a flourish, I proposed a visit tomorrow with Ainslie, who is desperate to see her though he can only stay a short time due to another previous engagement… She cannot resist the desire to meet ‘my bosom Bob’.

  Jenny returned as promised to collect my missive of mercy. We dallied a while till I proved the frankness of her look and the strength of honest desire. O, the bonny banks of Ayr flower fairer fresher than Edina’s unforgiving ramparts.

  Before leaving, Jenny let me know she lodged on the Cowgate near the foot of Niddrie Wynd. I knew I had seen her the other night; did she take a sighting of the poet?

  Remembered at the last that this was my name day, January twenty-fifth. I was exhausted by its dispensations, as if receiving triple measure for one light passage between two darks. But all has ended in blessed relief. Let tomorrow bring what it will.

  Back on an even keel this morning. Jenny was sent with a card to postpone my visit, but I dashed off a note in reply pleading Bob’s disappointment. Returned the messenger with a kiss for reward.

  As I expected, Nancy was charmed by Bob. There is something priestly in the way he bends a sympathetic ear, dips and nods his approbation. She thawed, then warmed with a confiding manner, seasoned by some gentle teasing. He was instantly smitten; I could see the signs. Had I not reminded him an hour later about his urgent appointment, he would have been drooling still.

  As for me, I rested content in this renewed cordiality. We chatted like old admirers and I took my leave with a friendly kiss. All was natural and unforced at the end.

  Took myself off to Niddrie Wynd, where I was amused to find that Jenny Clow resides in the same close as Jessie Haws. She has her own little chamber there in the attics where we could be private and unrestrained. Bit by bit, with lavish persuasions, I uncovered the body of a Venus beneath the plain cloth. I believe that Jenny is no stranger to the other sex, but for the first time I acquainted her with real female pleasure.

  Up with the lark to make my morning obeisance. Wrote to Clarinda in the same spirit of devotion. Last night we kindled a new happiness, but at a flame of innocence where Honour stands by as a sacred guard. Onto that sanctuary I cannot trespass: no one who loves as I love would make such an angel miserable.

  Went on to wait on Miss Nimmo’s friend Mrs Stewart, whose husband may carry some influence with the Excise. In her cold drawing room I was questioned like a child about my life, and roundly chided for scratching some Jacobite lines on an inn window.
O naughty poet – the sheer presumption. How is it the great of this world feel called not only to deafen us with the din of their entourage, but to lecture us on their superior wisdom? I could have laughed in her porridgy face but kept strict control of my tongue.

  Then I called round on Miss Nimmo, dear soul, to thank her for her good offices. How was she to know that Mrs S is a right royal fart. She prattled on kindly and restored my good humour.

  Schektl has done his music for the Clarinda setting and it is apt and enlivening. I must encourage Johnson to draw in more composers rather than depend solely on traditional airs. Kept sounding it through for the rest of the day, humming with my usual lumpen pitch.

  Prayed again this Sabbath evening for Nancy. My sincere self-denial as regards Clarinda has released a spring of spiritual enthusiasm deep in my soul.

  Thou Almighty Author of peace and goodness, and love, do thou give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man’s cup? Is it a draught of joy? Warm and open my heart to share it with cordial unenvious rejoicing. Is it the bitter potion of sorrow? Melt my heart with sympathetic woe.

  Above all, do thou give me the manly mind, that resolutely exemplifies in life and manners those sentiments which I would wish to be thought to possess. The friend of my soul – there may I never deviate from firmest fidelity and most active kindness. Clarinda, dear object of my fondest love – there may the most sacred inviolate honour, the most faithful kindling constancy, ever watch over and animate my every thought and imagination.

  Snow last night, frozen hard this morning. So I extracted Bob and Willie from their duties. We walked out to Duddingston, icy snow crunching underfoot and the old hill capped in white. To the south I could see the rigs furrowed with the lie of the land but smoothed out by this winter covering. I could feel the adamantine earth below my hands, chilled by thoughts of unremitting labour. How could I go back to such a life, wresting a poor recompense from unyielding nature. But when we followed the track round the shoulder of the hill, a joyful scene met our eyes. The loch was frozen over, bizzing with skaters and burnished bright by curlers’ brooms. Braziers cheered the icy banks and sliding stones were urged on not just by sweeping brushes, but by wild cries stoked with regular applications of warming flasks. What a tumbling, shouting, playing press of cloud-breathing humanity.

  We stood and watched till we began to lose sensation in our feet. So we repaired to the Sheep’s Heid for mutton stew laced with brandies. How I wished poor Fergusson, my brother in the Muse, could be one of our party – to hear how he would catch this day of roister-rouster in tangy feisty verse. A Hyperborean Bacchanal.

  Auld Reikie, thourt the canty hole

  A bield for mony caldrife soul,

  Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

  Baith warm and couth;

  While round they gar the bicker roll

  To weet their mouth.

  We slipped and stumbled hame. I mark this day down for the calendar of precious times that should ever be remembered, never cast into the grey oblivion of lost moments, forgotten selves.

  Another from Clarinda awaited my return. Long and in two parts. She is pleased to be my friend but when I come across her mind as a lover she has a sting of guilt. Scanning this early sentence, I put the thing aside. Would anyone not weary of this one-note melody?

  Considered a visit to the Cowgate but was too cold and wet to venture out again. So took a final warming glass, and composed myself to consider Brodie’s offer which I have neglected. Not to mention Creech.

  Sober reflections. Day comes more iron-grey than light.

  Are we ever free in life to make choices worthy of our deeper truer selves?

  Clarinda bound in iron bands. Another man’s wife. Why should her destiny, or that of any woman, be determined by the whim of a creature such as McLehose? Yet she is hemmed in on all sides.

  On Sunday, it seems she consulted with Reverend Kemp and confessed to receiving a tender impression. It seemed natural that she should unbosom herself, and no doubt he was very obliging. Like a benevolent parent, Kemp urged only friendship, given her situation. ‘Should I mention this to my special friend?’ she went on to ask. Unbosom, then, to Cousin William! ‘Not at all,’ counsels the wily Kemp, ‘since you are not bound to him by any formal tie.’ Only the tie of craven dependence!

  Poor Nancy. A woman made to give and to receive love is confined in her museum case of dusty respectability. Cousin William is to call on her today. Has he sniffed some gossip?

  Meanwhile Clarinda wants me to meet with Mr Kemp. Heaven help us, she sees in him my perfect other half. The bird can sing in her cage but only blindfolded.

  As for Brodie in his den, he exercises power by preying on man’s greed and cruelty. Yet I wonder what turned someone raised in privilege and moral superiority so completely to the night. Is he in some obscure fashion a victim too? Is his the necessary shadow to Edinburgh’s daylight?

  I should spurn this connection outright but… to trace the Deacon’s life, as I did for Clarinda and she for me… would that untangle the roots of good and ill, or bury them beyond discovery? Could a poetic form tell the tale while keeping the hero’s identity a secret – or should I turn novelist? Imagine the reaction were the Deacon to appear, masked, before the Edinburgh public in a stage play. He who must not be named.

  Tomorrow I will summon some energy and call on Mr Brodie, before attending the court of Clarinda. She wants me to take my chance at half past eight, for she is expiring from want of knowing what Ainslie thinks of her. I shall dangle a smitten Bob before her claws.

  Waited on Creech once more at his place of business in the Luckenbooths. Business, though, may be a miscalling since nothing appears further from his mind or conversation. It was as if our exchange of letters had never been. Instead he took it on himself to announce me in the shop and praise my Elegy on Lord President Dundas. This for him exemplifies poetry’s highest strain – propping up the great and powerful.

  Next Creech will propose a second Edinburgh Edition of Robert Burns with the elegy and any other meagre works I have produced, all subscribed within his existing copyright. For which I am still unpaid! Curse Creech and all his kind. I will never pen another poem here except a last farewell.

  As for the Dundas dynasty, they have given not a jot of notice to my verses. Poetry attracts their disdain but for the poet they have only contempt; I am beneath notice. Every time now that I see the name Dundas in the column of a newspaper, my heart constricts. I feel my forehead flush and my lip quiver.

  Yet I will not be put down by their ilk. My songs will lend the people’s voice a hearing. Those who dine on homely fare and wear the hodden grey will not bend the knee forever to burkies who strut to display their worthless baubles. A man’s a man for all that. And Creech will pay his full dues to the poet whatever it takes.

  Fortified my stirring resolutions with Johnson at Dowie’s, and then proceeded to the Deacon’s caverns in the late afternoon. When I asked to see him, glances were exchanged and going down the passage I brushed against two burly fellows hurrying up the way. They looked the other way.

  Himself seemed slightly disconcerted, but I took the initiative and asked about his life and upbringing. Gradually he relaxed and answered my questions plainly without touching on the central mystery. He seems free of remorse and proud of the secret influence he wields. Could he exert some pressure on Creech if I asked? I gave him to understand that I was still considering his proposal and would remain entirely confidential. For his part, the Deacon repeated his mantra, ‘Don’t delay, Mr Burns, who knows what tomorrow holds for you or me?’ The gambler’s instinct for blind chance, or some dark foreknowing? For him or me?

  As before, I left the Deacon in need of ready cheer, so I looked in at Niddrie’s Wynd to see if Jenny had lowsed from work. I found her and Jessie very chief together in the Haw’s ground floor room. They both seemed pleased to see me, and Jessie gave me a wink to let me know she knew, while on the other side Jenny
winked to let me know that Jessie knew. No doubt they had spent an hour already winking to each other. Nothing would do but that I take them both to Clartie’s, one on either side, for stovies with hot toddies. Thus genial Nature provides the remedy for January’s chills. Nonetheless, I felt an icy dart when I began to take my leave. Handsome Jenny looked me boldly in the eye as if to say she knew where I was calling; and why should I prefer the yea and nay of Mistress Nancy’s manners to her frank embrace. I had no reply to give, so I paid and went back into the Cowgate.

  I found Clarinda tearful and disposed to collapse. This was a different face, so I cradled her in my arms and let her sobs exhaust themselves against my consoling warmth. I remembered holding some distressed lamb in this way at my mother’s fireside.

  Gradually she calmed, so I offered more substantial comfort, easing her bosom and caressing her hips and thighs with gentle motions. She clung closer, turning her body into mine till I found her mouth moist and open to my lips. She pressed down on my knees and I moved my hand to the seat of her desire. For one sweet moment we were joined in precious union. But I dared go no further for fear of destroying such blissful release. We sat for a long time leaning on each other as the glow receded. Neither of us spoke.

  Finally I raised her to her feet and kissed her farewell. Her cheeks were bathed in tears but I fancied they were not all of sadness. As I turned to go my own eyes were filled to overflowing.

  Now, Clarinda, I should lay down my pen and close this journal, since I believe sincerely that Heaven has nothing more to give us on this earth. Ae fond kiss and then we parted. The rest should be silence.

  Prince Charles Edward Stewart died yesterday in exile. Nicol came round to give me the news and we went out to a gathering in the Prince’s honour. Songs and toasts. Scotland would be the poorer in music were it not for the Bonnie Pretender. Yet his passing also ends the hope of Restoration. Are Scotland’s ancient freedoms finally lost, buried and lamented?

  Here Stewarts once in triumph reigned

  And laws for Scotland’s weal ordained.