CHAPTER XV: THE SLOPE OF THE DUNE
Looking at Malcolm's life from the point of his own consciousness,
and not from that of the so called world, it was surely pleasant
enough. Innocence, devotion to another, health, pleasant labour
with an occasional shadow of danger to arouse the energies, leisure,
love of reading, a lofty minded friend, and, above all, a supreme
presence, visible to his heart in the meeting of vaulted sky and
outspread sea, and felt at moments in any waking wind that cooled
his glowing cheek and breathed into him anew of the breath of life,
--lapped in such conditions, bathed in such influences, the youth's
heart was swelling like a rosebud ready to burst into blossom.
But he had never yet felt the immediate presence of woman in any
of her closer relations. He had never known mother or sister; and,
although his voice always assumed a different tone and his manner
grew more gentle in the presence, of a woman, old or young, he
had found little individually attractive amongst the fisher girls.
There was not much in their circumstances to bring out the finer
influences of womankind in them: they had rough usage, hard work
at the curing and carrying of fish and the drying of nets, little
education, and but poor religious instruction. At the same time
any failure in what has come to be specially called virtue, was
all but unknown amongst them; and the profound faith in women, and
corresponding worship of everything essential to womanhood which
essentially belonged to a nature touched to fine issues, had as yet
met with no check. It had never come into Malcolm's thoughts that
there were live women capable of impurity. Mrs. Catanach was the
only woman he had ever looked upon with dislike--and that dislike
had generated no more than the vaguest suspicion. Let a woman's
faults be all that he had ever known in woman; he yet could look
on her with reverence--and the very heart of reverence is love,
whence it may be plainly seen that Malcolm's nature was at once
prepared for much delight, and exposed to much suffering. It followed
that all the women of his class loved and trusted him; and hence
in part it came that, absolutely free of arrogance, he was yet
confident in the presence of women. The tradesmen's daughters in
the upper town took pains to show him how high above him they were,
and women of better position spoke to him with a kind condescension
that made him feel the gulf that separated them; but to one and
all he spoke with the frankness of manly freedom.
But he had now arrived at that season when, in the order of things,
a man is compelled to have at least a glimmer of the life which
consists in sharing life with another. When once, through the thousand
unknown paths of creation, the human being is so far divided from
God that his individuality is secured, it has become yet more
needful that the crust gathered around him in the process should be
broken; and the love between man and woman arising from a difference
deep in the heart of God, and essential to the very being of each
--for by no words can I express my scorn of the evil fancy that
the distinction between them is solely or even primarily physical
--is one of his most powerful forces for blasting the wall of
separation, and first step towards the universal harmony of twain
making one. That love should be capable of ending in such vermiculate
results as too often appear, is no more against the loveliness of
the divine idea, than that the forms of man and woman, the spirit
gone from them, should degenerate to such things as may not be
looked upon. There is no plainer sign of the need of a God, than
the possible fate of love. The celestial Cupido may soar aloft on
seraph wings that assert his origin, or fall down on the belly of
a snake and creep to hell.
But Malcolm was not of the stuff of which coxcombs are made, and had
not begun to think even of the abyss that separated Lady Florimel
and himself--an abyss like that between star and star, across
which stretches no mediating air--a blank and blind space. He
felt her presence only as that of a being to be worshipped, to be
heard with rapture, and yet addressed without fear.
Though not greatly prejudiced in favour of books, Lady Florimel
had burrowed a little in the old library at Lossie House, and had
chanced on the Faerie Queene. She had often come upon the name of
the author in books of extracts, and now, turning over its leaves,
she found her own. Indeed, where else could her mother have found
the name Florimel? Her curiosity was roused, and she resolved--
no light undertaking--to read the poem through, and see who and
what the lady, Florimel, was. Notwithstanding the difficulty she met
with at first, she had persevered, and by this time it had become
easy enough. The copy she had found was in small volumes, of which
she now carried one about with her wherever she wandered; and
making her first acquaintance with the sea and the poem together,
she soon came to fancy that she could not fix her attention on the
book without the sound of the waves for an accompaniment to the
verse--although the gentler noise of an ever flowing stream would
have better suited the nature of Spenser's rhythm; for indeed,
he had composed the greater part of the poem with such a sound
in his ears, and there are indications in the poem itself that he
consciously took the river as his chosen analogue after which to
model the flow of his verse.
It was a sultry afternoon, and Florimel lay on the seaward side
of the dune, buried in her book. The sky was foggy with heat, and
the sea lay dull, as if oppressed by the superincumbent air, and
leaden in hue, as if its colour had been destroyed by the sun. The
tide was rising slowly, with a muffled and sleepy murmur on the
sand; for here were no pebbles to impart a hiss to the wave as it
rushed up the bank, or to go softly hurtling down the slope with
it as it sank. As she read, Malcolm was walking towards her along
the top of the dune, but not until he came almost above where she
lay, did she hear his step in the soft quenching sand.
She nodded kindly, and he descended approaching her.
"Did ye want me, my leddy?" he asked.
"No," she answered.
"I wasna sure whether ye noddit 'cause ye wantit me or no," said
Malcolm, and turned to reascend the dune.
"Where are you going now?" she asked.
"Ow! nae gait in particlar. I jist cam oot to see hoo things war
luikin."
"What things?"
"Ow! jist the lift (sky), an' the sea, an' sic generals."
That Malcolm's delight in the presences of Nature--I say presences,
as distinguished from forms and colours and all analyzed sources
of her influences--should have already become a conscious thing
to himself requires to account for it the fact that his master,
Graham, was already under the influences of Wordsworth, whom he had
hailed as a Crabbe that had burst his shell and spread the wings
of an eagle the virtue passed from him to his pupil.
"I won't detain you from such important business," said Lady
Florimel, and dropped her eyes on her book.
"Gien ye want my company, my leddy, I can luik aboot me jist as
weel here as ony ither gait," said Malcolm.
And as he spoke, he gently stretched himself on the dune, about
three yards aside and lower down. Florimel looked half amused and
half annoyed, but she had brought it on herself, and would punish
him only by dropping her eyes again on her book, and keeping silent.
She had come to the Florimel of snow.
Malcolm lay and looked at her for a few moments pondering; then
fancying he had found the cause of her offence, rose, and, passing
to the other side of her, again lay down, but at a still more
respectful distance.
"Why do you move?" she asked, without looking up.
"'Cause there's jist a possible air o' win' frae the nor'east."
"And you want me to shelter you from it?" said Lady Florimel.
"Na, na, my leddy," returned Malcolm, laughing; "for as bonny's ye
are, ye wad be but sma' scoug (shelter)."
"Why did you move, then?" persisted the girl, who understood what
he said just about half.
"Weel, my leddy, ye see it's het, an' I'm aye amang the fish mair
or less, an' I didna ken 'at I was to hae the honour o' sittin'
doon aside ye; sae I thocht ye was maybe smellin' the fish. It's
healthy eneuch, but some fowk disna like it; an' for a' that I ken,
you gran' fowk's senses may be mair ready to scunner (take offence)
than oors. 'Deed, my leddy, we wadna need to be particlar, whiles,
or it wad be the waur for 's."
Simple as it was, the explanation served to restore her equanimity,
disturbed by what had seemed his presumption in lying down in her
presence: she saw that she had mistaken the action. The fact was,
that, concluding from her behaviour she had something to say to him,
but was not yet at leisure for him, he had lain down, as a loving
dog might, to await her time. It was devotion, not coolness. To remain
standing before her would have seemed a demand on her attention; to
lie down was to withdraw and wait. But Florimel, although pleased,
was only the more inclined to torment--a peculiarity of disposition
which she inherited from her father: she bowed her face once more
over her book, and read though three whole stanzas, without however
understanding a single phrase in them, before she spoke. Then
looking up, and regarding for a moment the youth who lay watching
her with the eyes of the servants in the psalm, she said,--"Well?
What are you waiting for?"
"I thocht ye wantit me, my leddy! I beg yer pardon," answered
Malcolm, springing to his feet, and turning to go.
"Do you ever read?" she asked.
"Aften that," replied Malcolm, turning again, and standing stock
still. "An' I like best to read jist as yer leddyship's readin'
the noo, lyin' o' the san' hill, wi' the haill sea afore me, an
naething atween me an' the icebergs but the watter an' the stars
an' a wheen islands. It's like readin' wi' fower een, that!"
"And what do you read on such occasions?" carelessly drawled his
persecutor.
"Whiles ae thing an' whiles anither--whiles onything I can lay my
han's upo'. I like traivels an' sic like weel eneuch; an' history,
gien it be na ower dry like. I div not like sermons, an' there's
mair o' them in Portlossie than onything ither. Mr Graham--that's
the schoolmaister--has a gran' libbrary, but it's maist Laitin an'
Greek, an' though I like the Laitin weel, it's no what I wad read
i' the face o' the sea. When ye're in dreid o' wantin' a dictionar',
that spiles a'."
"Can you read Latin then?"
"Ay: what for no, my leddy? I can read Virgil middlin'; an' Horace's
Ars Poetica, the whilk Mr Graham says is no its richt name ava, but
jist Epistola ad Pisones; for gien they bude to gie 't anither it
sud ha' been Ars Dramatica. But leddies dinna care aboot sic things."
"You gentlemen give us no chance. You won't teach us."
"Noo, my leddy, dinna begin to mak' ghem o' me, like my lord. I
cud ill bide it frae him, an' gien ye tak till 't as weel, 1 maun
jist haud oot o' yer gait. I'm nae gentleman, an' hae ower muckle
respeck for what becomes a gentleman to be pleased at bein' ca'd
ane. But as for the Laitin, I'll be prood to instruck yer leddyship
whan ye please."
"I'm afraid I've no great wish to learn," said Florimel.
"I daur say no," said Malcolm quietly, and again addressed himself
to go.
"Do you like novels?" asked the girl.
"I never saw a novelle. There's no ane amo' a' Mr Graham's buiks,
an' I s' warran' there's full twa hunner o' them. I dinna believe
there's a single novelle in a' Portlossie."
"Don't be too sure: there are a good many in our library."
"I hadna the presumption, my leddy, to coont the Hoose in Portlossie
--Ye'll hae a sicht o' buiks up there, no?"
"Have you never been in the library?"
"I never set fut i' the hoose--'cep' i' the kitchie, an' ance
or twise steppin' across the ha' frae the ae door to the tither.
I wad fain see what kin' o' a place great fowk like you bides in,
an' what kin' o' things, buiks an' a', ye hae aboot ye. It's no
easy for the like o' huz 'at has but a but an' a ben (outer and
inner room), to unnerstan' hoo ye fill sic a muckle place as yon.
I wad be aye i' the libbrary, I think. But," he went on, glancing
involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her
dress, "yer leddyship's sae licht fittit, ye'll be ower the haill
dwallin', like a wee bird in a muckle cage. Whan I want room, I
like it wantin' wa's."
Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained
him.
"Do you ever read poetry?"
"Ay, sometimes--whan it's auld."
"One would think you were talking about wine! Does age improve
poetry as well?"
"I ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. Miss Horn gae me a glaiss the
ither day, an' it tastit weel, but whether it was merum or mixtum,
I couldna tell mair nor a haddick. Doobtless age does gar poetry
smack a wee better; but I said auld only 'cause there's sae little
new poetry that I care aboot comes my gait. Mr Graham's unco ta'en
wi' Maister Wordsworth--no an ill name for a poet; do ye ken
onything aboot him, my leddy?"
"I never heard of him."
"I wadna gie an auld Scots ballant for a barrowfu' o' his. There's
gran' bits here an' there, nae doobt, but it 's ower mim mou'ed
for me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's ower saft an' sliddery like i' yer mou', my leddy."
"What sort do you like then?"
"I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine mou'fu' o' him. I dinna like
the verse 'at ye can murle (crumble) oot atween yer lips an' yer
teeth. I like the verse 'at ye maun open yer mou' weel to lat gang.
Syne it's worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan' 't or no."
"I don't see how you can say that."
"Jist hear, my leddy! Here's a bit I cam upo' last nicht:
His volant touch,
Instinct through all proportions, low and high,
Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.
Hear till 't! It's gran'--even though ye dinna ken what it means
a bit."
"I do know what it means," said Florimel. "Let me see: volant means
--what does volant mean?"
"It means fleein', I suppose."
"Well, he means some musician or other."
"Of coorse: it maun be Jubal--I ken a' the words but fugue; though
I canna tell what business instinct an' proportions hae there."
"It's describing how the man's fingers, playing a fugue--on the
organ, I suppose,--"
"A fugue 'll be some kin' o' a tune, than? That casts a heap o'
licht on't, my leddy--I never saw an organ: what is 't like?"
"Something like a pianoforte."
"But I never saw ane o' them either. It's ill makin' things
a'thegither oot o' yer ain heid."
"Well, it's played with the fingers--like this," said Florimel.
"And the fugue is a kind of piece where one part pursues the other,
--"
"An' syne," cried Malcolm eagerly, "that ane turns roon' an' rins
efter the first;--that 'll be 'fled and pursued transverse.'
I hae't! I hae't! See, my leddy, what it is to hae sic schoolin',
wi' music an' a'! The proportions--that's the relation o' the
notes to ane anither; an' fugue--that comes frae fugere to flee
--'fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue '--the tane
rinnin' efter the tither, roon' an' roon'. Ay, I hae't noo!--
Resonant--that's echoing or resounding. But what's instinct my
leddy? It maun be an adjective, I'm thinkin'."
Although the modesty of Malcolm had led him to conclude the girl
immeasurably his superior in learning because she could tell him
what a fugue was, he soon found she could help him no further, for
she understood scarcely anything about grammar, and her vocabulary
was limited enough. Not a doubt interfered, however, with her
acceptance of the imputed superiority; for it is as easy for some
to assume as it is for others to yield.
"I hae't! It is an adjective," cried Malcolm, after a short pause
of thought. "It's the touch that's instinct. But I fancy there sud
be a comma efter instinct.--His fingers were sae used till 't
that they could 'maist do the thing o' themsel's--Isna 't lucky,
my leddy, that I thocht o' sayin' 't ower to you! I'll read the buik
frae the beginnin',--it's the neist to the last, I think,--jist
to come upo' the twa lines i' their ain place, ohn their expeckin'
me like, an' see hoo gran' they soon' whan a body unnerstan's them.
Thank ye, my leddy."
"I suppose you read Milton to your grandfather?"
"Ay, sometimes--i' the lang forenights."
"What do you mean by the forenights?"
"I mean efter it's dark an' afore ye gang to yer bed.--He likes
the battles o' the angels best. As sune 's it comes to ony fechtin',
up he gets, an' gangs stridin' aboot the flure; an' whiles he maks
a claucht at 's claymore; an' faith! ance he maist cawed aff my
heid wi' 't, for he had made a mistak aboot whaur I was sittin'."
"What's a claymore?"
"A muckle heelan' braidswoord, my leddy. Clay frae gladius verra
likly; an' more 's the Gaelic for great: claymore, great sword.
Blin' as my gran'father is, ye wad sweer he had fochten in 's day,
gien ye hard hoo he'll gar't whurr an' whustle aboot 's heid as
gien 't war a bit lath o' wud."
"But that's very dangerous," said Florimel, something aghast at
the recital.
"Ow, ay!" assented Malcolm, indifferently,--"Gien ye wad luik
in, my leddy, I wad lat ye see his claymore, an' his dirk, an' his
skene dhu, an' a'."
"I don't think I could venture. He's too dreadful! I should be
terrified at him."
"Dreidfu' my leddy? He's the quaietest, kin'liest auld man I that
is, providit ye say naething for a Cawmill, or agen ony ither
hielanman. Ye see he comes o' Glenco, an' the Cawmills are jist a
hate till him--specially Cawmill o' Glenlyon, wha was the warst
o' them a'. Ye sud hear him tell the story till 's pipes, my leddy!
It's gran' to hear him! An' the poetry a' his ain!"
