Books: Robert Falconer

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'Well, have you got anything, Robert?' asked Ericson, as he entered
his room.

'Nothing,' answered Robert.

'What was the sermon about?'

'It was all to prove that God is a benevolent being.'

'Not a devil, that is,' answered Ericson. 'Small consolation that.'

'Sma' eneuch,' responded Robert. 'I cudna help thinkin' I kent mony
a tyke (dog) that God had made wi' mair o' what I wad ca' the divine
natur' in him nor a' that Dr. Soulis made oot to be in God himsel'.
He had no ill intentions wi' us--it amuntit to that. He wasna
ill-willy, as the bairns say. But the doctor had some sair wark, I
thoucht, to mak that oot, seein' we war a' the children o' wrath,
accordin' to him, born in sin, and inheritin' the guilt o' Adam's
first trespass. I dinna think Dr. Soulis cud say that God had dune
the best he cud for 's. But he never tried to say onything like
that. He jist made oot that he was a verra respectable kin' o' a
God, though maybe no a'thing we micht wuss. We oucht to be thankfu'
that he gae's a wee blink o' a chance o' no bein' brunt to a'
eternity, wi' nae chance ava. I dinna say that he said that, but
that's what it a' seemed to me to come till. He said a hantle aboot
the care o' Providence, but a' the gude that he did seemed to me to
be but a haudin' aff o' something ill that he had made as weel. Ye
wad hae thocht the deevil had made the warl', and syne God had
pitten us intil 't, and jist gied a bit wag o' 's han' whiles to
haud the deevil aff o' 's whan he was like to destroy the breed
a'thegither. For the grace that he spak aboot, that was less nor
the nature an' the providence. I cud see unco little o' grace intil
't.'

Here Ericson broke in--fearful, apparently, lest his boyfriend
should be actually about to deny the God in whom he did not himself
believe.

'Robert,' he said solemnly, 'one thing is certain: if there be a God
at all, he is not like that. If there be a God at all, we shall
know him by his perfection--his grand perfect truth, fairness,
love--a love to make life an absolute good--not a mere accommodation
of difficulties, not a mere preponderance of the balance on the side
of well-being. Love only could have been able to create. But they
don't seem jealous for the glory of God, those men. They don't mind
a speck, or even a blot, here and there upon him. The world doesn't
make them miserable. They can get over the misery of their
fellow-men without being troubled about them, or about the God that
could let such things be.7 They represent a God who does wonderfully
well, on the whole, after a middling fashion. I want a God who
loves perfectly. He may kill; he may torture even; but if it be for
love's sake, Lord, here am I. Do with me as thou wilt.'

Had Ericson forgotten that he had no proof of such a God? The next
moment the intellectual demon was awake.

'But what's the good of it all?' he said. 'I don't even know that
there is anything outside of me.'

'Ye ken that I'm here, Mr. Ericson,' suggested Robert.

'I know nothing of the sort. You may be another phantom--only
clearer.'

'Ye speik to me as gin ye thocht me somebody.'

'So does the man to his phantoms, and you call him mad. It is but a
yielding to the pressure of constant suggestion. I do not know--I
cannot know if there is anything outside of me.'

'But gin there warna, there wad be naebody for ye to love, Mr.
Ericson.'

'Of course not.'

'Nor naebody to love you, Mr. Ericson.'

'Of course not.'

'Syne ye wad be yer ain God, Mr. Ericson.'

'Yes. That would follow.'

'I canna imagine a waur hell--closed in amo' naething--wi' naething
a' aboot ye, luikin' something a' the time--kennin' 'at it 's a' a
lee, and nae able to win clear o' 't.'

'It is hell, my boy, or anything worse you can call it.'

'What for suld ye believe that, than, Mr. Ericson? I wadna believe
sic an ill thing as that. I dinna think I cud believe 't, gin ye
war to pruv 't to me.'

'I don't believe it. Nobody could prove that either, even if it
were so. I am only miserable that I can't prove the contrary.'

'Suppose there war a God, Mr. Ericson, do ye think ye bude (behoved)
to be able to pruv that? Do ye think God cud stan' to be pruved as
gin he war something sma' eneuch to be turned roon' and roon', and
luikit at upo' ilka side? Gin there war a God, wadna it jist be
sae--that we cudna prove him to be, I mean?'

'Perhaps. That is something. I have often thought of that. But
then you can't prove anything about it.'

'I canna help thinkin' o' what Mr. Innes said to me ance. I was but
a laddie, but I never forgot it. I plaguit him sair wi' wantin' to
unnerstan' ilka thing afore I wad gang on wi' my questons (sums).
Says he, ae day, "Robert, my man, gin ye will aye unnerstan' afore
ye du as ye're tellt, ye'll never unnerstan' onything. But gin ye
du the thing I tell ye, ye'll be i' the mids o' 't afore ye ken 'at
ye're gaein' intil 't." I jist thocht I wad try him. It was at
lang division that I boglet maist. Weel, I gaed on, and I cud du
the thing weel eneuch, ohn made ae mistak. And aye I thocht the
maister was wrang, for I never kent the rizzon o' a' that beginnin'
at the wrang en', an' takin' doon an' substrackin', an' a' that. Ye
wad hardly believe me, Mr. Ericson: it was only this verra day, as I
was sittin' i' the kirk--it was a lang psalm they war singin'--that
ane wi' the foxes i' the tail o' 't--lang division came into my heid
again; and first aye bit glimmerin' o' licht cam in, and syne
anither, an' afore the psalm was dune I saw throu' the haill process
o' 't. But ye see, gin I hadna dune as I was tauld, and learnt a'
aboot hoo it was dune aforehan', I wad hae had naething to gang
rizzonin' aboot, an' wad hae fun' oot naething.'

'That's good, Robert. But when a man is dying for food, he can't
wait.'

'He micht try to get up and luik, though. He needna bide in 's bed
till somebody comes an' sweirs till him 'at he saw a haddie
(haddock) i' the press.'

'I have been looking, Robert--for years.'

'Maybe, like me, only for the rizzon o' 't, Mr. Ericson--gin ye'll
forgie my impidence.'

'But what's to be done in this case, Robert? Where's the work that
you can do in order to understand? Where's your long division,
man?'

'Ye're ayont me noo. I canna tell that, Mr. Ericson. It canna be
gaein' to the kirk, surely. Maybe it micht be sayin' yer prayers
and readin' yer Bible.'

Ericson did not reply, and the conversation dropped. Is it strange
that neither of these disciples should have thought of turning to
the story of Jesus, finding some word that he had spoken, and
beginning to do that as a first step towards a knowledge of the
doctrine that Jesus was the incarnate God, come to visit his
people--a very unlikely thing to man's wisdom, yet an idea that has
notwithstanding ascended above man's horizon, and shown itself the
grandest idea in his firmament?

In the evening Ericson asked again for his papers, from which he
handed Robert the following poem:--

WORDS IN THE NIGHT.

I woke at midnight, and my heart,
My beating heart said this to me:
Thou seest the moon how calm and bright
The world is fair by day and night,
But what is that to thee?
One touch to me--down dips the light
Over the land and sea.
All is mine, all is my own!
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
I am alive, I, only I!

One little touch and all is dark;
The winter with its sparkling moons
The spring with all her violets,
The crimson dawns and rich sunsets,
The autumn's yellowing noons.
I only toss my purple jets,
And thou art one that swoons
Upon a night of gust and roar,
Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems
Across the purple hills to roam;
Sweet odours touch him from the foam,
And downward sinking still he dreams
He walks the clover field at home,
And hears the rattling teams.
All is mine; all is my own!
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
I am alive, I, only I!

Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout
Full in the air, and in the downward spray
A hovering Iris span the marble tank,
Which as the wind came, ever rose and sank
Violet and red; so my continual play
Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank
Of human excellence, while they,
Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet
Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat:
Let the world's fountain play!
Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove;
Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies
He marks the dancing column with his eyes
Celestial, and amid his inmost grove
Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest,
Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest.

One heart beats in all nature, differing
But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours
Are but the waste and brunt of instruments
Wherewith a work is done; or as the hammers
On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents
Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape
The hard and scattered ore:
Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape
Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash
Thy life go from thee in a night of pain.
So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash
Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more
Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.

Hark the cock crows loud!
And without, all ghastly and ill,
Like a man uplift in his shroud,
The white white morn is propped on the hill;
And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill,
The icicles 'gin to glitter;
And the birds with a warble short and shrill,
Pass by the chamber-window still--
With a quick uneasy twitter.
Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter;
And wearily, wearily, one by one,
Men awake with the weary sun.

Life is a phantom shut in thee;
I am the master and keep the key;
So let me toss thee the days of old,
Crimson and orange and green and gold;
So let me fill thee yet again
With a rush of dreams from my spout amain;
For all is mine; all is my own;
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
And I am alive, I, only I.

Robert having read, sat and wept in silence. Ericson saw him, and
said tenderly,

'Robert, my boy, I'm not always so bad as that. Read this
one--though I never feel like it now. Perhaps it may come again
some day, though. I may once more deceive myself and be happy.'

'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson. That's waur than despair. That's
flat unbelief. Ye no more ken that ye're deceivin' yersel' than ye
ken that ye're no doin' 't.'

Ericson did not reply; and Robert read the following sonnet aloud,
feeling his way delicately through its mazes:--

Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one!
Press thy face in the grass, and do not speak.
Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week
Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun,
Which is her god; seven times she doth not shun
Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek
Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek
Of voices utterless which rave and run
Through all the star-penumbra, craving light
And tidings of the dawn from East and West.
Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest
With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night
Treading aloft with moons. Nor hath she fright
Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast.

Ericson turned his face to the wall, and Robert withdrew to his own
chamber.

CHAPTER XIII.

SHARGAR'S ARM.

Not many weeks passed before Shargar knew Aberdeen better than most
Aberdonians. From the Pier-head to the Rubislaw Road, he knew, if
not every court, yet every thoroughfare and short cut. And Aberdeen
began to know him. He was very soon recognized as trustworthy, and
had pretty nearly as much to do as he could manage. Shargar,
therefore, was all over the city like a cracker, and could have told
at almost any hour where Dr. Anderson was to be found--generally in
the lower parts of it, for the good man visited much among the poor;
giving them almost exclusively the benefit of his large experience.
Shargar delighted in keeping an eye upon the doctor, carefully
avoiding to show himself.

One day as he was hurrying through the Green (a non virendo) on a
mission from the Rothieden carrier, he came upon the doctor's
chariot standing in one of the narrowest streets, and, as usual,
paused to contemplate the equipage and get a peep of the owner. The
morning was very sharp. There was no snow, but a cold fog, like
vaporized hoar-frost, filled the air. It was weather in which the
East Indian could not venture out on foot, else he could have
reached the place by a stair from Union Street far sooner than he
could drive thither. His horses apparently liked the cold as little
as himself. They had been moving about restlessly for some time
before the doctor made his appearance. The moment he got in and
shut the door, one of them reared, while the other began to haul on
his traces, eager for a gallop. Something about the chain gave way,
the pole swerved round under the rearing horse, and great confusion
and danger would have ensued, had not Shargar rushed from his coign
of vantage, sprung at the bit of the rearing horse, and dragged him
off the pole, over which he was just casting his near leg. As soon
as his feet touched the ground he too pulled, and away went the
chariot and down went Shargar. But in a moment more several men had
laid hold of the horses' heads, and stopped them.

'Oh Lord!' cried Shargar, as he rose with his arm dangling by his
side, 'what will Donal' Joss say? I'm like to swarf (faint). Haud
awa' frae that basket, ye wuddyfous (withy-fowls, gallows-birds),'
he cried, darting towards the hamper he had left in the entry of a
court, round which a few ragged urchins had gathered; but just as he
reached it he staggered and fell. Nor did he know anything more
till he found the carriage stopping with himself and the hamper
inside it.

As soon as the coachman had got his harness put to rights, the
doctor had driven back to see how the lad had fared, for he had felt
the carriage go over something. They had found him lying beside his
hamper, had secured both, and as a preliminary measure were
proceeding to deliver the latter.

'Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?' cried Shargar, jumping up and
falling back again.

'Don't you know me, Moray?' said the doctor, for he felt shy of
calling the poor boy by his nickname: he had no right to do so.

'Na, I dinna ken ye. Lat me awa'.--I beg yer pardon, doctor: I
thocht ye was ane o' thae wuddyfous rinnin' awa' wi' Donal' Joss's
basket. Eh me! sic a stoun' i' my airm! But naebody ca's me Moray.
They a' ca' me Shargar. What richt hae I to be ca'd Moray?' added
the poor boy, feeling, I almost believe for the first time, the
stain upon his birth. Yet ye had as good a right before God to be
called Moray as any other son of that worthy sire, the Baron of
Rothie included. Possibly the trumpet-blowing angels did call him
Moray, or some better name.

'The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,' said the doctor,
this time repeating the name with emphasis.

'Deil a bit o' 't!' cried Shargar. 'He daurna lea' his box wi' thae
deevils o' horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They'll
play some mischeef some day.'

'Indeed, they've played enough already, my poor boy. They've broken
your arm.'

'Never min' that. That's no muckle. Ye're welcome, doctor, to my
twa airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an' that lang-leggit
frien' o' his--the Lord forgie me--Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist
pay him what I canna mak for a day or twa, till 't jines again--to
haud them gaein', ye ken.--It winna be muckle to you, doctor,' added
Shargar, beseechingly.

'Trust me for that, Moray,' returned Dr. Anderson. 'I owe you a good
deal more than that. My brains might have been out by this time.'

'The Lord be praised!' said Shargar, making about his first
profession of Christianity. 'Robert 'ill think something o' me noo.'

During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some one to
appear from the shop, and longing to pitch into the 'camstary'
horse, but not daring to lift his whip beyond its natural angle. No
one came. All at once Shargar knew where he was.

'Guid be here! we're at Donal's door! Guid day to ye, doctor; an'
I'm muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war comin' oor gait, the
morn, or the neist day, to see Maister Ericson, ye wad tie up my
airm, for it gangs wallopin' aboot, an' that canna be guid for the
stickin' o' 't thegither again.'

'My poor boy! you don't think I'm going to leave you here, do you?'
said the doctor, proceeding to open the carriage-door.

'But whaur's the hamper?' said Shargar, looking about him in dismay.

'The coachman has got it on the box,' answered the doctor.

'Eh! that'll never do. Gin thae rampaugin' brutes war to tak a
start again, what wad come o' the bit basket? I maun get it doon
direckly.'

'Sit still. I will get it down, and deliver it myself.' As he
spoke the doctor got out.

'Tak care o' 't, sir; tak care o' 't. William Walker said there was
a jar o' drained hinney i' the basket; an' the bairns wad miss 't
sair gin 't war spult.'

'I will take good care of it,' responded the doctor.

He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told the
coachman to drive home.

'Whaur are ye takin' me till?' exclaimed Shargar. 'Willie hasna
payed me for the parcel.'

'Never mind Willie. I'll pay you,' said the doctor.

'But Robert wadna like me to tak siller whaur I did nae wark for
't,' objected Shargar. 'He's some pernickety (precise)--Robert. But
I'll jist say 'at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe that 'll saitisfee
him. An' faith! I'm queer aboot my left fin here.'

'We'll soon set it all right,' said the doctor.

When they reached his house he led the way to his surgery, and there
put the broken limb in splints. He then told Johnston to help the
patient to bed.

'I maun gang hame,' objected Shargar. 'What wad Robert think?'

'I will tell him all about it,' said the doctor.

'Yersel, sir?' stipulated Shargar.

'Yes, myself.'

'Afore nicht?'

'Directly,' answered the doctor, and Shargar yielded.

'But what will Robert say?' were his last words, as he fell asleep,
appreciating, no doubt, the superiority of the bed to his usual lair
upon the hearthrug.

Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted himself.
Followed a small consultation about him; for the accident had
ripened the doctor's intentions concerning the outcast.

'As soon as his arm is sound again, he shall go to the
grammar-school,' he said.

'An' the college?' asked Robert.

'I hope so,' answered the doctor. 'Do you think he will do well? He
has plenty of courage, at all events, and that is a fine thing.'

'Ow ay,' answered Robert; 'he's no ill aff for smeddum
(spirit)--that is, gin it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift
a han' for himsel'; an' that's what garred me tak till him sae
muckle. He's a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he'll gang
wi' onybody--and haud up wi' him.'

'What do you think him fit for, then?'

Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the hopes
which the doctor's friendliness had given him. Therefore he was
ready with his answer.

'Gin ye cud ensure him no bein' made a general o', he wad mak a
gran' sojer. Set's face foret, and say "quick mairch," an' he'll ca
his bagonet throu auld Hornie. But lay nae consequences upo' him,
for he cudna stan' unner them.'

Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went home to
see how his patient was getting on.

CHAPTER XIV.

MYSIE'S FACE.

Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear weather, in
which everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, did him good.
But not yet could he use his brain. He turned with dislike even
from his friend Plato. He would sit in bed or on his chair by the
fireside for hours, with his hands folded before him, and his
eyelids drooping, and let his thoughts flow, for he could not think.
And that these thoughts flowed not always with other than sweet
sounds over the stones of question, the curves of his lip would
testify to the friendly, furtive glance of the watchful Robert.
None but the troubled mind knows its own consolations; and I
believe the saddest life has its own presence--however it may be
unrecognized as such--of the upholding Deity. Doth God care for the
hairs that perish from our heads? To a mind like Ericson's the
remembered scent, the recurring vision of a flower loved in
childhood, is enough to sustain anxiety with beauty, for the lovely
is itself healing and hope-giving, because it is the form and
presence of the true. To have such a presence is to be; and while a
mind exists in any high consciousness, the intellectual trouble that
springs from the desire to know its own life, to be assured of its
rounded law and security, ceases, for the desire itself falls into
abeyance.

But although Ericson was so weak, he was always able and ready to
help Robert in any difficulty not unfrequently springing from his
imperfect preparation in Greek; for while Mr. Innes was an excellent
Latin scholar, his knowledge of Greek was too limited either to
compel learning or inspire enthusiasm, And with the keen instinct he
possessed in everything immediate between man and man, Robert would
sometimes search for a difficulty in order to request its solution;
for then Ericson would rouse himself to explain as few men could
have explained: where a clear view was to be had of anything,
Ericson either had it or knew that he had it not. Hence Robert's
progress was good; for one word from a wise helper will clear off a
whole atmosphere of obstructions.

At length one day when Robert came home he found him seated at the
table, with his slate, working away at the Differential Calculus.
After this he recovered more rapidly, and ere another week was over
began to attend one class a day. He had been so far in advance
before, that though he could not expect prizes, there was no fear of
his passing.

One morning, Robert, coming out from a lecture, saw Ericson in the
quadrangle talking to an elderly gentleman. When they met in the
afternoon Ericson told him that that was Mr. Lindsay, and that he
had asked them both to spend the evening at his house. Robert would
go anywhere to be with his friend.

He got out his Sunday clothes, and dressed himself with anxiety: he
had visited scarcely at all, and was shy and doubtful. He then sat
down to his books, till Ericson came to his door--dressed, and hence
in Robert's eyes ceremonial--a stately, graceful gentleman. Renewed
awe came upon him at the sight, and renewed gratitude. There was a
flush on Ericson's cheek, and a fire in his eye. Robert had never
seen him look so grand. But there was a something about him that
rendered him uneasy--a look that made Ericson seem strange, as if
his life lay in some far-off region.

'I want you to take your violin with you, Robert,' he said.

'Hoots!' returned Robert, 'hoo can I do that? To tak her wi' me the
first time I gang to a strange hoose, as gin I thocht a'body wad
think as muckle o' my auld wife as I do mysel'! That wadna be
mainners--wad it noo, Mr. Ericson?'

'But I told Mr. Lindsay that you could play well. The old gentleman
is fond of Scotch tunes, and you will please him if you take it.'

'That maks a' the differ,' answered Robert.

'Thank you,' said Ericson, as Robert went towards his instrument;
and, turning, would have walked from the house without any
additional protection.

'Whaur are ye gaein' that gait, Mr. Ericson? Tak yer plaid, or
ye'll be laid up again, as sure's ye live.'

'I'm warm enough,' returned Ericson.

'That's naething. The cauld 's jist lyin' i' the street like a
verra deevil to get a grup o' ye. Gin ye dinna pit on yer plaid, I
winna tak my fiddle.'

Ericson yielded; and they set out together.

I will account for Ericson's request about the violin.

He went to the episcopal church on Sundays, and sat where he could
see Mysie--sat longing and thirsting ever till the music returned.
Yet the music he never heard; he watched only its transmutation
into form, never taking his eyes off Mysie's face. Reflected thence
in a metamorphosed echo, he followed all its changes. Never was one
powerless to produce it more strangely responsive to its influence.
She had no voice; she had never been taught the use of any
instrument. A world of musical feeling was pent up in her, and
music raised the suddener storms in her mobile nature, that she was
unable to give that feeling utterance. The waves of her soul dashed
the more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those shores were
precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters. It was
that his soul might hover like a bird of Paradise over the lovely
changes of her countenance, changes more lovely and frequent than
those of an English May, that Ericson persuaded Robert to take his
violin.

The last of the sunlight was departing, and a large full moon was
growing through the fog on the horizon. The sky was almost clear of
clouds, and the air was cold and penetrating. Robert drew Eric's
plaid closer over his chest. Eric thanked him lightly, but his
voice sounded eager; and it was with a long hasty stride that he
went up the hill through the gathering of the light frosty mist. He
stopped at the stair upon which Robert had found him that memorable
night. They went up. The door had been left on the latch for their
entrance. They went up more steps between rocky walls. When in
after years he read the Purgatorio, as often as he came to one of
its ascents, Robert saw this stair with his inward eye. At the top
of the stair was the garden, still ascending, and at the top of the
garden shone the glow of Mr. Lindsay's parlour through the
red-curtained window. To Robert it shone a refuge for Ericson from
the night air; to Ericson it shone the casket of the richest jewel
of the universe. Well might the ruddy glow stream forth to meet
him! Only in glowing red could such beauty be rightly closed. With
trembling hand he knocked at the door.