Loe raamatut: «Erchie, My Droll Friend», lehekülg 11
“That’s because I was wi’ ye,” said Erchie when they came out.
“I daresay,” she agreed; “there’s aye some use for a man.”
XXVIII A BET ON BURNS
Duffy came round to Erchie’s on Saturday night for the loan of a copy of Burns, which he knew the old man had on the shelves of what he called his chevalier and book-case. “I’m wantin’ to learn a sang,” said he, “for I’m gaun to the Haggis Club in the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults on Monday if I’m spared.”
“Are ye, indeed!” said Erchie, drily. “Ye’ll be takin’ the new wife wi’ ye?”
“No fears o’ me,” said Duffy. “Wha ever heard o’ a wife at a Burns meetin’?”
“Oh! I divna ken onything aboot it,” said Erchie; “I thocht maybe the weemen were gaun to thae things nooadays, though they didna go when I was young, and I thocht maybe you bein’ sae lately mairried ye wanted to gie her a trate. It’s a droll thing aboot Burns that though the weemen were sae ta’en up wi’ him when he was leevin’, they’re no’ awfu’ keen on him noo that he’s deid. There’ll be thoosands o’ men hurrayin’ Burns on Monday nicht in a’ pairts o’ the warld, and eatin’ haggis till they’re no’ weel, but I’ll bate ye their wifes is no there. No; their wifes is at hame mendin’ their men’s sox, and chairgin’ the gazogene for the morn’s mornin’, when it’ll be sair wanted. And ye’re gaun to a Haggis Club, are ye? I didna ken ye were such a keen Burns hand.”
“Me!” cried Duffy, – “I’m jist daft for Burns. Fifty or mair o’ the members tak’ their coals frae me. Burns! Man, Erchie, I could gie ye Burns by the yaird – ‘Dark Lochnagar,’ and ‘The Flooers o’ the Forest,’ ‘We’re a’ Noddin’,’ and ‘Rollin’ Hame to Bonnie Scotland’ —
‘Rollin’ hame to Bonnie Scotland,
Rollin’ hame across the sea.’”
He sang the lines with gusto.
“Stop!” said Erchie, in alarm, “stop! There’s nae deafenin’ in thae ceilin’s, and the folk abin’ll think I’m giein’ Jinnet a leatherin’. Man! I didna think ye kent sae mony o’ Rabbie’s sangs. It’s a credit to ye. I’m shair ye divna need ony book to learn affa.”
“To tell ye the rale sets o’t, Erchie,” said Duffy, “it’s a bate. There’s a chap yonder at the coal hill thrieps doon my throat Burns didna write ‘Dark Lochnagar’ the wye I sing’t, and I want to show him’t in the book?”
“Hoo much is the bate?” asked Erchie.
“Haulf-a-croon,” said Duffy.
“Then sell yin o’ yer horses and pye the money,” said Erchie, “for ye’ve lost the bate. Burns had nae grudge against His countrymen. They did him nae hairm. He didna write ‘Dark Lochnagar’ the wye you sing it, for Burns never made his sangs wi’ a saw; in fact, he never wrote ‘Dark Lochnagar’ at a’; it was put oot by anither firm in the same tred, ca’d Byron.”
“My jove!” said Duffy, “I never kent that afore!”
“There’s lots o’ things ye never kent,” said Erchie. “Seein’ ye’re gaun to eat haggis on Monday nicht, ye micht tell us whit ye ken, no’ aboot Burns’s sangs, but aboot Burns himsel’.”
“There was naething wrang wi’ the chap,” said Duffy, “if he just had stuck to his wark. When I’m sellin’ coal I’m sellin’ coal, and no’ pentin’ pictures. But there was Burns! – if he happened to come on a moose’s nest in the field when he was plewin’, or see a flooer in his road when he was oot workin’ at the hye, he wad stop the plew, or lay doon his rake, and tak’ the efter-noon aff to mak’ a sang aboot the moose or the daisy.”
“A’, and jist wi’ his least wee bit touch,” said Erchie, admiringly. “He was great, that’s whit he was.”
“Maybe he was, but it spiled the wark; we wadna aloo that in the coal tred,” said Duffy. “He didna ken what compeetition was. I’ve seen things in my ain tred a knacky chap could mak’ a fine sang aboot if he was jist lettin’ him-sel’ go.”
“Then for mercy’s sake aye keep a grip o’ yersel’,” said Erchie. “Mind ye hae a wife dependin’ on ye!”
“And then,” said Duffy, “he was a bit o’ the la-di-da. There’s naething o’ the la-di-da aboot me.”
“There is not!” admitted Erchie, frankly.
“But Burns, although he was a plewman to tred, went aboot wi’ a di’mond ring spilin’ folks’ windows. If he saw a clean pane o’ gless he never lost the chance o’ writin’ a bit verse on’t wi’ his di’mond ring. It was gey chawin’ to the folk the windows belanged to, but Burns never cared sae lang’s he let them see he had a rale di’mond ring that wad scratch gless.”
“It was the fashion at the time, Duffy,” said Erchie. “Nooadays when a poet has an idea for twa lines he keeps it under the bed till it sproots into a hale poem, and then he sends it to a magazine, and buys his wife, or somebody else’s, a di’mond ring wi’ whit he gets for’t. Writin’ on window-panes is no’ the go ony langer. It’s oot o’ date.”
“But I’m no’ runnin’ doon the chap,” said Duffy. “Only I aye thocht it was him that wrote ‘Dark Lochnagar.’ Are ye shair it wasna?”
Erchie nodded. “Nor ‘Rollin’ Hame to Bonnie Scotland’ either. He was far ower busy writin’ sangs aboot the Marys, and the Jeans, and the Peggys at the time to write aboot ony o’ yer ‘Dark Lochnagars.’”
“So he was,” admitted Duffy. “Yon’s a rare yin aboot Mary – ‘Kind, kind, and gentle is she —
… kind is my Mary,
The tender blossom on the tree
Is half sae sweet as Mary.’”
“Calm yersel’, Duffy,” said Erchie, in dramatic alarm. “I’m no deaf.”
“That was written aboot ‘Hielan’ Mary,’” said Duffy. “He met her at Dunoon the Fair Week, and I’ve seen her monument.”
“It’s yonder as nate’s ye like,” said Erchie. “Faith! it’s you that’s weel up in Burns, Duffy.”
“Oh! I’m no’ that faur back in my history,” said Duffy, quite pleased with himself. “But I could hae sworn it was him that put thegither ‘Rollin’ Hame to Bonnie Scotland’; it’s his style. He micht be rollin’, but he aye got hame. He was a gey wild chap, Burns.”.
“I’m no’ denyin’t, Duffy,” said Erchie. “But he hadna ony o’ the blessin’s we have in oor time to keep him tame. There was nae Free Leebrary to provide him wi’ books to keep him in the hoose at nicht, nae Good Templar Lodges to help him in keepin’ clear o’ the horrors o’ drink; and Poosy Nancy’s public-hoose didna shut at ten o’clock, nor even eleeven. If Burns had thae advantages, there’s nae’ sayin’ whit he micht hae risen to; perhaps he micht hae become an M.P., and dee’d wi’ money in the bank.”
“Och! there’s worse than Burns,” said Duffy. “I was gey throughither mysel’ when I was a young chap.”
“Ah! but ye couldna hae been that awfu’ bad, for ye never made ony poetry.”
“I never tried,” said Duffy; “I was the youngest o’ nine, and I was put oot to wark early. So there wasna time for me to try and be fancy in ony wye. But a gey wild chap, Burns!”
“Maybe no’ that awfu’ wild,” said Erchie. “Ye’re aye harpin’ on the wild. Burns was like a man takin’ a daunder oot in a country road on a fine nicht: he kept his een sae much on the stars that sometimes he tripped in the sheuch. If it was the like o’ you and me, Duffy, we wad be keepin’ oor e’e a’ the time on the road at oor feet to see if onybody hadna dropped onything, and there wad be nae fears o’ us fa’in in the sheuch. Except for his habit o’ makin’ sangs when he micht be makin’ money, Burns wasna very different frae the rest o’ us. There was ae thing aboot him – he aye payed his way, and never forgot his freen’s. He had a warm hert.”
“Man, ye should be doon at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults Haggis Club on Monday and propose the toast,” said Duffy, admiringly.
“I’m better whaur I am,” said Erchie; “the best Burns Club a man can hae’s a weel-thumbed copy o’ the poems on his chevalier and book-case, and a wife that can sing ‘Ye Banks and Braes’ like por Jinnet.”
XXIX THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN
A sailor-man with a thick black beard, and all his belongings apparently on his back, – for the dunnage-bag he carried was so poorly stuffed it could have held little more than a pair of sea-boots, – went into Erchie’s close one afternoon, and slowly climbed the stair. He put the bag at his feet when he came to Erchie’s door with “MacPherson” on the name-plate, scratched his head, hitched his waist-belt once or twice, and seemed in a mood to turn and flee rather than to ring or knock. At last he faintly tugged the bell-pull, and leaned against the door-post with the air of one who expected he might have some parley before getting admittance.
There was a step in the lobby, and Erchie himself in his shirt-sleeves came to the door.
“We’re no’ for onything the day,” said he. “We have a sewin’-machine already, and we’re a’ in the Prudential Insurance, and the staircase windows were cleaned on Setturday, and – ”
“Faither,” said the sailor-man, “do ye no’ ken me?”
Erchie came closer and looked at the bearded face, and put his hand tremblingly upon the young man’s shoulder.
“Willie!” said he. “Willie!” he repeated. “Man, ye’re sair needin’ shavin’.” He shook his son, and “O, Willie,” said he, “whit’ll yer mither say? I suppose if I was the rale thing mysel’, I should kill the fatted calf or start the greetin’; but as shair’s death we havena kept a calf in this hoose since ye left it yoursel’, and I was never yin o’ the greetin’ kind. My goodness! Willie!”
He was so bewildered he forgot his visitor stood on the door-mat, until Willie lifted his dunnage-bag, and then he urged him into the kitchen.
“Where’s – where’s mother?” said the sailor.
“She micht be deid and in her grave for you,” said his father; “but she’s no’. She’s doon at Lindsay the grocer’s for a loaf. Oh ye rogue! ye rogue! Whit’ll she say to ye? Seeven years, come the fifth o’ June! Oh ye’re awfu’ needin’ shavin’. I hope – I hope the health’s fine?”
“Fine,” said Willie, and sat in a chair uneasily, like a stranger.
“And whaur in a’ the warld did ye come frae?” said his father, putting the kettle on the fire. They had not even shaken hands.
“China and roond aboot there,” said the son.
“China!” said his father. “And hoo did ye leave them a’ in China? They’re throng at the war there the noo, I see. I hope ye werena hurted.”
“No, nor hurted,” said Willie. “I hope ye’re fine yersel’ – and mother?”
“Me!” said Erchie. “Jist a fair gladiator! Divna ken my ain strength, and can eat ony-thing, jist like a connoshoor. As for yer mother, she’s wonderfu’; a wee frail, but aye able to dae her turns. She’ll be the gled wumman this – Whit I mean to say is, ye should get a reg’lar leatherin’ for your cairry-on. If I hadna my rheumatism in my shoother gey bad, I wad tak a stick to ye. I’m pretty wild at ye, mind I’m tellin’ ye. Whit dae ye think o’ yersel’, to gang awa’ and no’ write us for seeven years?”
“No’ an awfu’ lot,” said the son.
“That’s hopeful,” said his father. “I’m gled ye’re no’ puttin’ the blame on us. And I’m gled ye havena ony brass buttons on your claes.”
“Brass buttons?” said Willie.
“Ay! When your mother was wearyin’ to hear Erchie frae ye, I used to be tellin’ her that ye were likely a mate, or a purser, or something o’ that sort, and that busy in foreign pairts liftin’ the tickets in the fore saloon, where the dram’s cheaper and maist o’ the passengers go, that ye hadna time to write. Yince I took her doon to the docks and showed her a big ship gaun awa’ to Australia, wi’ the Captain on the tap flet, ca’in a handle and roarin’ ‘Let go that gangway!’ and ‘Nae smokin’ abaft the funnel!’ and she was as pleased as onything to see’t.’ Ever since then she thinks o’ her son Willie as a chap wi’ brass buttons ca’in a handle the same as he was a tramway driver, and that busy he hadna time to write. I’m gled ye havena brass buttons;” concluded Erchie, looking at his rather shabbily clothed scion. “It’s mair to your credit that ye were jist a fool and no’ a rascal.”
“Man, ye’re jist as great a caution as ever,” said Willie, with the sincerest admiration.
“Duffy the coal-man tellt me he saw ye yince doon aboot the Broomielaw,” said Erchie. “It was three years ago. I daursay ye were ower throng at the time to come up and see your mither and me. It’s a guid wye up here frae the Broomielaw; it costs a penny on the skoosh car. Or maybe it was a wet day.”
Willie’s face, got red. “It wasna only yince I was at the Broomielaw,” he Said. “I’ve been in Gleska four times since I left it.”
“Were ye indeed?” said his father. “Weel, weel, it was rale considerate o’, ye no’ to bother your auld mither and me. I’ll wager ye werena needin’ ony money.”
“I was needin’ money gey bad every time,” said the son. “I aye had some when I landed, but it never got past the Broomielaw wi’ me. And that’s the wye I never cam near ye. I was ashamed, as shair’s death. Every time I was in the Clyde I cam up here at nicht, or to the auld hoose afore ye flitted, and looked at the close or went roond to the back coort and looked at the kitchen window.”
“It’s a good thing I didna see ye there, or I wad maybe hae gien ye a clourin’.”
“I wad hae liked it fine if ye had,” said the young man. “A clourin’ was the very thing I was needin’, and I kent it mysel, I was an awfu’ fool, faither.”
“That’s jist whit ye were,” Erchie admitted. “It’s a lingerin’ disease, and that’s the warst o’t. I hope ye’ll maybe get ower’t.”
“If I didna think I had got ower’t I wadna hae been here the nicht,” said the son. “I’ll warrant ye’ll no’ hae to complain o’ me again.” Erchie took his hand. “Willie,” said he, “gie me your thoomb on that. I ken the MacPhersons, if their mind’s made up, and I think ye’re auld enough noo to try your hand at sense. It’ll no’ hurt ye. Willie, Willie, it wasna mysel’ I worried aboot thae seeven years, nor you either; for I kent fine the prodigal wad come back, if it was only to see if his faither de’ed and left him onything. The prodigal son! Awfu’ needin’ a shave! Your mither’ll be the prood wumman this nicht.”
Before Jinnet had come back from the grocer’s Erchie put his son into the parlour, so that the returned wanderer might not too abruptly confront his mother. She suspected nothing for a little, going about her ordinary offices in the kitchen till something fidgety in her husband’s appearance directed her more close attention to him, and there was seen then an elation in his countenance that made her ask him what the matter was.
“Ye’re awfu’ joco,” said she. “Are ye plannin’ some bawr for Duffy?”
“Not me,” said Erchie. “I’m jist wearyin’ for my tea. And, by the wye, Jinnet,” he added, “ye micht put doon anither cup for a frien’ o’ mine I’m expectin’ frae abroad.”
“Frae abroad!” cried Jinnet, turning pale.
“Ye havena heard onything o’ – o’ – ”
“Have I no’?” said Erchie. “There’s a chap in the room at this meenute that wad be awfu’ like Willie if he had a clean shave.”
Ten minutes later Erchie joined his wife and Willie in the room. The dunnage-bag was being emptied before Jinnet by a son who was anxious to make the most of his gifts from foreign parts, though painfully conscious of their value.
“Oh, whit braw shells!” cried his mother. “Jist the very thing I was needin’ for the mantelpiece. The Carmichaels say wally dugs is no’ the go noo at a’. It was rale thochtfu’ o’ ye to tak’ them a’ the wye frae abroad for me.”
“And here a song folio and a pund o’ sweet tobacco for you, faither,” said Willie.
Erchie took them in his hand. “Man, that’s the very thing,” said he. “If ‘Dark Lochnagar’s’ in’t, I’ll be upside wi’ Duffy.”
“Whit’s this?” asked Jinnet, as the sailor brought forth for her a bottle containing some dark thick fluid.
“Riga balsam, – whit the sailors use for sair hands,” said Willie.
“Oh, it’s the very thing Erchie used to say ye wad bring back when ye cam,” cried Jinnet in delight. “It’ll be awfu’ useful. I’m almost vext I havena onything sair aboot me the day.”
“No’ even a sair hert,” said Erchie, and the son looked contritely at his mother.
