SCENE III

At Professor Ferguson’s house in Edinburgh, nearly a year later—in February.

It is a cheerful, comfortable room, marked by the taste and culture of Edinburgh literary society at its best, with the elegance of fashion. A few portraits of Scots men of letters and action hang on the wall—Allan Ramsay, Robert Fergusson, James VI., Robert Bruce; in addition there are books and a pair or two of claymores, and two or three prints, including one by Bunbury of a dead soldier and his dog. On the mantelpiece is a bust of David Hume. The chill Scots winter day is brightened by a large fire in the grate; outside is snow.

Folding doors are open to a room beyond, where a luncheon party has been taking place. The ladies have left the table, and are seated round the room before us. They are the hostess, Mrs. Ferguson, the Duchess of Gordon, Mrs. Montgomery, Miss Taylor, and with them a boy of fifteen, the young Walter Scott. Men’s voices can be heard from time to time.

Another lady, young and beautiful, Mrs. Stewart of Stair, is seated at the piano, singing to her own accompaniment.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,

Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;

My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,

And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave!

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!

My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

[At the end of the song Walter Scott goes to a desk at the back of the room, and turns over the pages of a book.]

The Duchess: Bravo! A very beautiful song.

Miss Taylor (very fashionable, rather plain, towards fifty, and not for poetry): And you say he gave it to you?

Mrs. Stewart: He sent it this morning.

Miss Taylor: Rather indelicate, don’t you think—that piece about snowy feet?

Mrs. Stewart: I think it’s lovely.

Miss Taylor: Well, I must say I should feel rather embarrassed myself.

Mrs. Ferguson (benign and easy, the professor’s wife): I like that tune so much—Afton Water, isn’t it?

Mrs. Stewart: Yes.

Mrs. Ferguson: Jamie used to whistle it, I remember.

Mrs. Montgomery (marble, more the duchess than Gordon herself): I must say, Mrs. Ferguson, your young lion behaves himself quite prettily.

The Duchess: Why shouldn’t he, Mrs. Montgomery?

Mrs. Montgomery: Oh well, Duchess, you would hardly expect it from a ploughman, now would you?

The Duchess: ‘Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes’—wouldn’t you expect it of that?

Mrs. Stewart: His conversation is entrancing.

Miss Taylor: A very dangerous young man, and with those eyes too.

The Duchess: Nonsense, Martha. You needn’t alarm yourself.

Miss Taylor: Well, I shouldn’t like to be alone with him.

The Duchess: I am sure he would be discreet. I think you’re a very lucky woman, Mrs. Stewart. I wish Mr. Burns would write poems to me. My husband says there’s never been such a natural genius in Scotland before.

Mrs. Montgomery: Oh, come now. For an uncultivated talent it is pretty well, we may allow. But we must not turn his head.

Miss Taylor: I entirely agree with you, Mrs. Montgomery. Most unsafe.

Mrs. Stewart: I wonder he hasn’t married.

Mrs. Montgomery: Oh, my dear, haven’t you heard of the scandal in his own village? It would have been jail I’m told if it hadn’t been for some Mr. Gavin Hamilton who took a fancy to him. But I believe he has several families.

Miss Taylor: I really don’t think we ought to encourage him. And one of his poems, I hear, is quite friendly to the Devil.

The Duchess:

But, fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak’ a thought an’ men’!

Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—

Still hae a stake—

I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,

E’en for your sake!

Miss Taylor: Most confusing.

Walter Scott (moving from his book to Mrs. Stewart): Have you any more of his poems, ma’am?

Mrs. Stewart: I have his book, Walter.

Walter Scott: I wish I could read it.

Mrs. Stewart: I’ll lend it to you.

Walter Scott: Will you really? Thank you. He has got lovely eyes, hasn’t he? I should write poems if I had eyes like that. Couldn’t you sing again?

Mrs. Ferguson: Yes, please do, Mrs. Stewart.

Miss Taylor: Something with a little religion in it.

Mrs. Stewart (after a glance at this, sings):

Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,

Adown her neck and bosom hing;

How sweet unto that breast to cling

And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,

O, what a feast her bonnie mou’!

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,

A crimson still diviner.

Miss Taylor: Really!

The Duchess: I think my husband is right, Miss Taylor.

[From the room beyond comes the sound of voices, or particularly of one voice, raised in argument. Mrs. Montgomery majestically moves up to a view of the proceedings.]

Mrs. Montgomery: Dear me. Mr. Burns seems to be making a speech. I fear I was mistaken.

The Duchess: It’s that foolish man Robertson. He was speaking ill of Mr. Gray’s Elegy. He was very provoking. Mr. Burns does quite right to defend it.

Burns’s voice (from the far room): Sir, I now perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, and after all be a damned blockhead.

[The Reverend Mr. Robertson, a pedantic and acidulated clergyman, comes hurriedly through the door accompanied by his host, Professor Ferguson, followed by Burns.]

Mr. Robertson: Did you hear that?

Professor Ferguson: I beg you, Mr. Robertson—

Robertson: It is highly preposterous—

Burns: Will you allow me, sir, to apologise? I withdraw my observation, and you may call the Elegy what you will.

Ferguson: May I add my word—

Robertson: Very well, very well. I will overlook your indiscretion, Mr. Burns. And believe me Gray is a very inferior poet.

[They are now followed into the room by Dr. Blacklock, the aged blind poet, and Lord Muir, a middle-aged sporting laird. Blacklock sits beside the Duchess of Gordon, conducted by Ferguson; Robertson by Miss Taylor; Muir on a chair near them; Ferguson goes to Walter Scott, who has returned to his book at the window; and Burns joins Mrs. Stewart, who is still seated at the piano. There is an undercurrent of conversation from the various groups.]

Miss Taylor (to Robertson): That was extremely generous of you, dear Mr. Robertson.

Robertson: Charity becomes my cloth, madam.

Muir (immensely pleased with the incident): Yes, but a damned blockhead. That’s straight riding, you must allow that, sir.

Robertson: I regret, your lordship, I am no Nimrod.

Muir: No, but damme, sir, we can all admire a straight line. I like the lad.

Miss Taylor: It’s all very well, Lord Muir, but it’s most unbecoming to call a reverend gentleman a—h’m—blockhead.

Muir: A damned blockhead, ma’am, that’s the word.

Robertson (turning his back to him, addressing Miss Taylor): As I was remarking to you at luncheon, the history of pew-rents is very misleading—

[They drift into their own conversation.]

Muir (to Mrs. Montgomery, under his breath): That’s the kind of poetry I can understand.

Burns (to Mrs. Stewart): You did me great honour in your singing.

Mrs. Stewart: The songs are their own recommendation, Mr. Burns.

Burns: Sponsored by such beauty, madam, they could not fail.

Mrs. Stewart (touching the piano very lightly to the air of ‘Afton Water’): Do you find Edinburgh agreeable?

Burns: Some moments of it.

Mrs. Stewart: I hear of your fame everywhere.

Burns: Fortunately it does not deceive me.

Mrs. Stewart: But you have the sincere interest of many.

Burns: There are not many whose interest is valuable. With most, I please for a season—a new fashion in the window.

Mrs. Stewart: A poet must not be bitter, Mr. Burns.

Burns: I am not bitter, madam. I know my friends from the rest, that is all.

Mrs. Stewart: Your friends should be happy.

Burns: You are very gracious. You forget the—condescensions.

Mrs. Stewart: But that would be impossible.

Burns: Believe me, it is common. My plough lends a virtue to flattery.

Mrs. Stewart: There is honest esteem as well—delight.

Burns: I am as sensitive to it, madam, as the top leaves to the last ripple of evening wind. You are bountiful.

The Duchess (speaking across): Mrs. Ferguson, do you think we might ask Mr. Burns to sing one of his songs himself?

Mrs. Ferguson: If he would be so kind.

Burns: Madam, if her Grace so compliments me. Will Mrs. Stewart play an air for me?

Muir: Couldn’t it be something with a chorus—eh? Nothing like opening the lungs, sir (to Robertson).

Robertson: I regret, your lordship, I am no Orpheus.

Muir: No, but damme, sir, sing cracked, what odds?

Burns: Do you know ‘The Campbells are Coming,’ madam?

Mrs. Stewart: This?

[She plays the air.]

Burns: Aye—that. I’ve made some new verses for it—thus—

[He sings.]

Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay,

I looked down to bonnie Lochleven

And saw three bonnie perches play.

The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!

The Campbells are comin’ to bonnie Lochleven,

The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!

Great Argyle he goes before;

He makes the cannons and guns to roar,

Wi’ sound o’ trumpet, fife and drum;

The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!

The Campbells are comin’, etc.

The Campbells they are a’ in arms,

Their loyal faith and truth to show,

Wi’ banners rattling in the wind,

The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!

The Campbells are comin’, etc.

[The Duchess of Gordon, and Mrs. Stewart, with Blacklock and Ferguson, join enthusiastically in the choruses, Mrs. Ferguson more mildly, Mrs. Montgomery perfunctorily, and Muir excitedly, moving about the room, vainly exhorting Robertson and Miss Taylor. Walter Scott, tense with wondering admiration, slowly approaches Burns as he sings, and stands beside him.

At the close of the song there is a burst of applause, and cries of, ‘Bravo! Bravo! Another please, Mr. Burns,’ through which is heard.]

Miss Taylor (to Robertson): Very incendiary in sentiment, I must say.

Robertson: A very just criticism.

[The calls for another song persist.]

Burns: The tune of ‘The Collier’s Bonnie Lassie’?

[Mrs. Stewart plays the air, and he sings, very quietly, his audience now Mrs. Stewart alone.]

O saw ye bonnie Lesley,

As she gaed o’er the Border?

She’s gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;

For Nature made her what she is,

And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects, we before thee:

Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o’ men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee;

He’d look into thy bonnie face,

And say, ‘I canna wrang thee!’

[Very gravely and courteously he bows to Mrs. Stewart at the end, and to a murmur of approval moves across to the fireplace. Mrs. Stewart remains talking to Walter. Muir follows Burns to the fireplace.]

Muir: Very pretty, Mr. Burns—especially that one about the Campbells. I believe you join our little party at dinner to-night?

Burns: I am much obliged to your lordship.

Muir: The Barley Sheaf at seven. I subscribed for two copies of your book. Don’t understand most of it, but I daresay I’ve spent money worse. And I like straight riding, sir. Seven o’clock. [Burns bows to this.]

Muir (to the Duchess): Good-day, your Grace. (To Mrs. Ferguson.) Very entertaining, Mrs. Ferguson.

[He takes his leave generally and goes, speaking to Ferguson on his way out. Robertson is saying good-bye to Miss Taylor, and crosses to Mrs. Ferguson.]

Robertson: Good-afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson. A most instructive gathering, I am sure.

Mrs. Ferguson: Good-afternoon, Mr. Robertson. It was very considerate of you to spare us the time.

Robertson (bowing stiffly to Burns): Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns. And may the Lord chasten your muse.

Burns: Yes, sir. I will speak to Him about it.

Robertson: I will remember it in my devotions.

[He follows Muir, taking leave of the company as he goes.]

Burns (to Mrs. Ferguson): I fear I was a little heated before we left table. I beg your indulgence. (To the Duchess.) Ma’am.

The Duchess (privately to him): You were quite right. He is a—damned blockhead, I think you said.

Ferguson (to Miss Taylor): Very striking poems those, don’t you think, Miss Taylor?

Miss Taylor: Poetry is a pagan art, Mr. Ferguson.

Ferguson: But such fervour is refreshing.

Miss Taylor: Very irregular.

[Burns has moved up to Ferguson, and is studying the Bunbury print on the wall.]

Blacklock: That young man has the pure flame of genius in him.

Mrs. Montgomery: A little disconcerting, doctor. We have to remember society, you know.

Blacklock: Society may be trusted with its own preservation, Mrs. Montgomery, but Scotland has never heard songs the like of that before. We must cherish them.

Burns: There is a sublime pathos in that. (Reading from the print.) ‘The child of misery baptised in tears.’ Whose words are those?

Ferguson: I do not remember. Dr. Blacklock, perhaps—Doctor, ‘The child of misery baptised in tears’—do you recall the author?

Blacklock: No, I am afraid not.

[Walter Scott speaks with some timid excitement to Mrs. Stewart.]

Mrs. Stewart: Walter Scott here tells me they are by Langhorne.

Burns: Indeed, Langhorne. You read the poets?

Walter Scott: Every day.

Burns: They will never fail you. I am much indebted to you, Mr. Scott.

[He leaves the boy entirely elated, and moves towards his place by the fire.]

Blacklock: Mr. Burns.

Burns (crossing to him): Sir?

Blacklock: I am an old man, Mr. Burns, and I have been allowed, if I may say so, many honours. I would give them all to have written those songs.

Burns: They have often been my only security, sir.

Mrs. Montgomery: Dr. Blacklock is very considerate of your merit, Mr. Burns.

Burns: There are obligations, ma’am, not easy to discharge with modesty. I am very sensible of Dr. Blacklock’s kindness.

Blacklock: Mr. Burns is quite right, Mrs. Montgomery. I was not offering him compliments.

[He lifts his hand paternally for Burns to take. Burns, with great tenderness, returns the salute, and goes back to the fireplace. Miss Taylor rises and moves over to Mrs. Ferguson.]

Miss Taylor: Good-afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson. We meet on Friday.

Mrs. Ferguson: Yes, Miss Taylor.

Miss Taylor: Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns. I trust you will not neglect the vineyard.

Burns: There are no vineyards at Mossgiel, madam.

Miss Taylor: I mean the Lord’s. The labourer must be worthy of his hire.

Burns: The labourer—hired. Yes, I will remember.

[Miss Taylor takes leave of the Duchess and the company, and goes, accompanied to the door by Mrs. Ferguson.

Walter Scott comes to Mrs. Ferguson and shakes her hand. He stands a moment before Burns, looking at him uncertainly.]

Burns (holding out his hand, which Walter takes): Good-bye.

Walter Scott: Good-bye, sir.

[Leaving Burns rather poignantly taken aback by the unexpected ceremony of address, he bows to the Duchess and the others and goes. Mrs. Stewart is now standing by Dr. Blacklock, and as Mrs. Montgomery rises, she takes her place.]

Mrs. Montgomery (to her hostess): Good-afternoon. Good-afternoon, Duchess. If I can help Mr. Burns with any recommendation, he will let me know. Word left at Wilson’s bookshop will reach me.

[She goes, escorted by the Fergusons.]

The Duchess: Dr. Blair was praising your poems this morning, Mr. Burns. But he suggested that you might with advantage enlarge your scope. He spoke of Dr. Young and Mr. Akenside.

Burns: I fear my Pegasus is for light journeys only, your Grace.

[Mrs. Ferguson is now sitting opposite Mrs. Stewart with Blacklock. Ferguson joins the group at the fire.]

Blacklock: If Mr. Burns would humour me before I go, might I ask for another of his—masterpieces.

The Duchess: Yes—please.

Burns: Will Mrs. Stewart favour me—the duet you were speaking of?

[Mrs. Stewart goes to the piano, and they sing.]

She

As I gaed down the water-side,

There I met my shepherd lad,

He row’d me sweetly in his plaid,

And ca’d me his dearie.

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,

Ca’ them where the heather grows,

Ca’ them where the burnie rows,

My bonnie dearie!

Will ye gang down the water-side,

And see the waves sae sweetly glide?

Beneath the hazels spreading wide

The moon it shines fu’ clearly.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

She

If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said,

I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad,

And ye may row me in your plaid,

And I sall be your dearie.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Blacklock: The sweetest voice of Caledonia’s sons, Mrs. Ferguson.

The Duchess (rising): Well, your poet has captivated me entirely, Mrs. Ferguson. I return to Gordon Castle next week, Mr. Burns. I hope you will visit us there.

Burns (kissing her offered hand): If you will indulge me so far, your Grace.

[The Duchess says good-bye to Mrs. Stewart and Dr. Blacklock, and goes out with Mrs. Ferguson, passing Ferguson at the door. Ferguson moves down to Blacklock.]

Blacklock (rising): Mr. Ferguson? I am greatly your debtor. It has been one of the most memorable occasions in a long life. A very great privilege, Mr. Burns.

[He holds out his hand in the direction of Burns, who takes it with real veneration. Then he goes, Ferguson directing his steps.]

Burns: You are staying in Edinburgh long?

Mrs. Stewart: I leave to-morrow.

Burns (looking at his watch): I must go. Mrs. Ferguson will be tired of me. You sang enchantingly.

Mrs. Stewart: You are joining the Barley Sheaf party to-night?

Burns: Yes.

Mrs. Stewart: You are happy there?

Burns: I am free. And nobody patronises me.

Mrs. Stewart: But they have been very civil to you here.

Burns: Some of them. And there have been consolations even beyond that. The old man, and the boy, and you. But the others—you heard. Why should I? Where does it lead me?

Mrs. Stewart: Success at the Barley Sheaf is more gratifying?

Burns: I know, madam, I know. But I shall never learn discipline.

Mrs. Stewart: Not even for the sake of your friends?

Burns: In a few weeks I shall have passed out of all this—back from it, if you will. My friends, who will they be then? I do not expect remembrance.

Mrs. Stewart: That is not kind.

Burns: It is generous of you to think it. O, I am not ungrateful, believe me. I have been fortunate in opinions that I shall cherish. But those—with their vineyards, and preachments over me, and Akensides, and Wilson’s bookshop—did you hear that? My time may come, but it is not now, in Edinburgh.

Mrs. Stewart: And so birthright may be wasted, at the Barley Sheaf?

Burns: Do not let me deceive you, madam. Like my songs—yes, I pray you will do that. But they thrive in that company—I am at home there. I am not proud of it, and it will settle my account early, likely enough. But I know my condition. Virtue was born a caprice in me, madam, and fortune has not husbanded her for me. I sing sometimes, and for the rest I have no talent, perhaps, but a little to know myself.

Mrs. Stewart: I understand. And you will be yourself.

Burns: Even through disaster, I must. It is the only honour I have.

[The Fergusons come back.]

Mrs. Ferguson: Forgive us, please.

Burns: Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson, for your kindness—it was very obliging of you to bring me here. Good-afternoon.

Mrs. Ferguson: Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns.

Ferguson: Many flattering things have been said, Mr. Burns.

Burns (to Mrs. Stewart): Good-afternoon, madam.

Mrs. Stewart: Good luck, Mr. Burns.

Ferguson (going out with him): Very flattering, I assure you. Most gratifying you must find it—

[They go out.]

Mrs. Ferguson: Shall you come with me, my dear, to Dr. Mackenzie’s?

Mrs. Stewart: I think I would rather stay at home this afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson.

[Ferguson returns and goes to his desk for a book.]

Mrs. Ferguson: Certainly, my dear. I’ll tell Maggie.

Ferguson: Very pleasant. Dr. Robertson was most instructive at lunch upon the second epistle, don’t you think? Yes.

[He bustles out.]

Mrs. Ferguson: She shall bring tea to you here.

[She goes.]

[Mrs. Stewart plays a few notes of ‘Afton Water’ on the piano. Then she changes the air, and sings very softly.]

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

[She pauses, and laughs lightly and humorously at herself, and]

THE CURTAIN FALLS