STEENIE’S HOUSE
Steenie seemed always to experience a strange sort of terror while
waiting for anyone to come out of the weem, into which he never
entered; and it was his repugnance to the place that chiefly moved him
to build a house of his own. He may have also calculated on being able,
with such a refuge at hand, to be on the hill in all weathers. They
still made use of their little hut as before, and Kirsty still kept her
library in it, but it was at the root of the Horn, and Steenie loved
the peak of it more than any other spot in his narrow world.
I have already said that when, on the occasion of its discovery,
Steenie, for the first and the last time, came out of the weem, he fled
to the Horn. There he roamed for hours, possessed with the feeling that
he had all but lost Kirsty who had taken possession of a house into
which he could never accompany her. For himself he would like a house
on the very top of the Horn, not one inside it!
Near the top was a little scoop out of the hill, sheltered on all sides
except the south, which, the one time I saw it, reminded me strongly of
Dante’s _grembo_ in the purgatorial hill, where the upward pilgrims had
to rest outside the gate, because of the darkness during which no man
could go higher. Here, it is true, were no flowers to weave a pattern
upon its carpet of green; true also, here were no beautiful angels, in
green wings and green garments, poised in the sweet night-air, watchful
with their short, pointless, flaming swords against the creeping enemy;
but it was, nevertheless, the loveliest carpet of grass and moss, and
as to the angels, I find it impossible to imagine, even in the heavenly
host, one heart more guardant than that of Kirsty, one truer, or more
devoted to its charge. The two were together as the child of earth, his
perplexities and terrors ever shot through with flashes of insight and
hope, and the fearless, less imaginative, confident angel, appointed to
watch and ward and see him safe through the loose-cragged mountain-pass
to the sunny vales beyond.
On the northern slope of the hollow, full in the face of the sun, a
little family of rocks had fallen together, odd in shapes and positions
but of long stable equilibrium, with narrow spaces between them. The
sun was throwing his last red rays among these rocks when Steenie the
same evening wandered into the little valley. The moment his eyes fell
upon them, he said in his heart, ‘Yon’s the place for a hoose! I’ll get
Kirsty to big ane, and mebbe she’ll come and bide in ’t wi’ me whiles!’
In his mind there were for some years two conflicting ideas of refuge,
one embodied in the heathery hut with Kirsty, the other typified by the
uplifted loneliness, the air and the space of the mountain upon which
the bonny man sometimes descended: for the last three years or more the
latter idea had had the upper hand: now it seemed possible to have the
two kinds of refuge together, where the more material would render the
more spiritual easier of attainment! Such were not Steenie’s words;
indeed he used none concerning the matter; but such were his vague
thoughts--feelings rather, not yet thoughts.
The spot had indeed many advantages. For one thing, the group of rocks
was the ready skeleton of the house Steenie wanted. Again, if the snow
sometimes lay deeper there than in other parts of the hill, there first
it began to melt. A third advantage was that, while, as I have said,
the valley was protected by higher ground everywhere but on the south,
it there afforded a large outlook over the boggy basin and over the
hills beyond its immediate rim, to a horizon in which stood some of the
loftier peaks of the highland mountains.
When Steenie’s soul was able for a season to banish the nameless forms
that haunt the dim borders of insanity, he would sit in that valley for
hours, regarding the wider-spread valley below him, in which he knew
every height and hollow, and, with his exceptionally keen sight, he
could descry signs of life where another would have beheld but an
everyway dead level. Not a live thing, it seemed almost, could spread
wing or wag tail, but Steenie would become thereby aware of its
presence. Kirsty, boastful to her parents of the faculty of Steenie,
said to her father one day,
‘I dinna believe, father, wi’ Steenie on the bog, a reid worm cud stick
up his heid oot o’ ’t ohn him seen ’t!’
‘I’m thinkin that’s no sayin over muckle, wuman!’ returned David. ‘I
never jist set mysel to luik, but I dinna think I ever did tak notice
o’ a worm settin up that heid o’ his oot o’ a bog. I dinna think it’s a
sile they care aboot. I kenna what they would get to please them there.
It’s the yerd they live upo’. Whaur craps winna grow, I doobt gien
worms can live.’
Kirsty laughed: she had made herself ridiculous, but the ridicule of
some is sweeter than the praise of others.
Steenie set about his house-building at once, and when he had got as
far as he could without her, called for help from Kirsty, who never
interfered with, and never failed him. Divots he was able to cut, and
of them he provided a good quantity, but when it came to moving stones,
two pairs of hands were often wanted. Indeed, before the heavier work
of ‘Steenie’s hoosie’ was over, the two had to beg the help of more--of
their father, and of men from the farm.
During its progress, Phemy Craig paid rather a lengthened visit to
Corbyknowe, and often joined the two in their labour on the Horn. She
was not very strong, but would carry a good deal in the course of the
day; and through this association with Steenie, her dread of him
gradually vanished, and they became comrades.
When Steenie’s design was at length carried out, they had built up with
stone and lime the open spaces between several of the rocks; had cased
these curtain-walls outside and lined them inside with softer and
warmer walls of fells or divots cut from the green sod of the hill; and
had covered in the whole as they found it possible--very irregularly no
doubt, but smoothing up all the corners and hollows with turf and
heather. This done, one of the men who was a good thatcher, fastened
the whole roof down with strong lines, so that the wind should not get
under and strip it off. The result was a sort of burrow, consisting of
several irregular compartments with open communication--or rather,
perhaps, of a single chamber composed of recesses. One small rock they
included quite: Steenie would make it serve for a table, and some of
its inequalities for shelves. In one of the compartments or recesses,
they contrived a fireplace, and in another a tolerably well-concealed
exit; for Steenie, like a trap-door-spider, could not endure the
thought of only one way out: one way was enough for getting in, but two
were needful for getting out, his best refuge being the open hill.
The night came at length when Steenie, in whose heart was a solemn,
silent jubilation, would take formal possession of his house. It was
soft and warm, in the middle of the month of July. The sun had been set
about an hour when he got up to leave the parlour, where the others
always sat in the summer, and where Steenie would now and then appear
among them. As usual he said goodnight to no one of them, but stole
gently out.
Kirsty knew what was in his mind, but was careful not to show that she
took any heed of his departure. As soon as her father and mother
retired, however, when he had been gone about half an hour, she put
aside her work, and hastened out. She felt a little anxious about him,
though she could not have said why. She had no dread of displeasing by
rejoining him; nothing, but a sight of the bonny man could, she knew,
give him more delight than having her to share his night-watch with
him. This she had done several times, and they were the only occasions
on which, so far as she could tell, he had slept any part of the night.
Folded in the twilight, Earth lay as still and peaceful as if she had
never done any wrong, never seen anything wrong in one of her children.
There was light everywhere, and darkness everywhere to make it strange.
A pale green gleam prevailed in the heavens, as if the world were a
glow-worm that sent abroad its home-born radiance into space, and
coloured the sky. In the green light rested a few small solid clouds
with sharp edges, and almost an assertion of repose. Throughout the
night it would be no darker! The sun seemed already to have begun to
rise, only he would be all night about it. From the door she saw the
point of the Horn clear against the green sky: Steenie would be up
there soon! he was hurrying thither! Sometimes he went very leisurely,
stopping and gazing, or sitting down to meditate: he would not do so
that night! A special solemnity in his countenance made her sure that
he would go straight to his new house. But she could walk faster than
he, and would not be long behind him!
The sky was full of pale stars, and Kirsty amused herself, as she went,
with arranging them--not into their constellations, though she knew the
shapes and names of most of them, but into mathematical figures. The
only star Steenie knew by name was the pole star, which, however, he
always called _The bonny man’s lantern_. Kirsty believed he had
thoughts of his own about many another, and a name for it too.
She had climbed the hill, and was drawing near the house, when she was
startled by a sound of something like singing, and stopped to listen.
She had never heard Steenie attempt to sing, and the very thought of
his doing so moved her greatly: she was always expecting something
marvellous to show itself in him. She drew nearer. It was not singing,
but it was something like it, or something trying to be like it--a
succession of broken, harsh, imperfect sounds, with here and there a
tone of brief sweetness. She thought she perceived in it an attempt at
melody, but the many notes that refused to be made, prevented her from
finding the melody intended, or the melody, rather, after which he was
feeling. The broken music ceased suddenly, and a different kind of
sound succeeded. She went yet nearer. He could not be reading: she had
tried to teach him to read, but the genuine effort he put forth to
learn made his head ache, and his eyes feel wild, he said, and she at
once gave up the endeavour. When she reached the door, she could
plainly hear him praying.
He had been accustomed to hear his father pray--always extempore. To
the Scot’s mind it is a perplexity how prayer and reading should ever
seem one. Kirsty went a little deeper into the matter when she said:--
‘The things that I want, I ken; and I maun hae them! There’s nae
necessity ava to tell me what I want. The buik may wauk a sense o’
want, I daur say, I dinna ken, but it maistly pits intil me the thoucht
o’ something a body micht weel want, withoot makin me awaur o’ wantin
’t at that preceese moment.’
Prayer, with Steenie, as well as with Kirsty, was the utterance,
audible or silent, in the ever open ear, of what was moving in him at
the time. This was what she now heard him say:--
‘Bonny man, I ken ye weel: there’s naebody in h’aven or earth ’at’s
like ye! Ye ken yersel I wad jist dee for ye; or gien there be onything
waur to bide nor deein, that’s what I would du for ye--gien ye wantit
it o’ me, that is, for I’m houpin sair ’at ye winna want it, I’m that
awfu cooardly! Oh bonny man, tak the fear oot o’ my hert, and mak me
ready jist to walk aff o’ the face o’ the warl’, weichty feet and a’,
to du yer wull, ohn thoucht twise aboot it! And eh, bonny man, willna
ye come doon sometime or lang, and walk the hill here, that I may luik
upo’ ye ance mair--as i’ the days of old, whan the starlicht muntain
shook wi’ the micht o’ the prayer ye heavit up til yer father in
h’aven? Eh, gien ye war but ance to luik in at the door o’ this my
hoose that ye hae gien me, it wud thenceforth be to me as the gate o’
paradise! But, ’deed, it’s that onygait, for it’s nigh whaur ye tak yer
walks abro’d. But gien ye _war_ to luik in at the door, and cry
_Steenie_! sune wud ye see whether I was in the hoose or no!--I thank
ye sair for this hoose: I’m gaein to hae a rich and a happy time upo’
this hill o’ Zion, whaur the feet o’ the ae man gangs walkin!--And eh,
bonny man, gie a luik i’ the face o’ my father and mither i’ their bed
ower at the Knowe; and I pray ye see ’at Kirsty’s gettin a fine sleep,
for she has a heap o’ tribble wi’ me. I’m no worth min’in’, yet ye min’
me: she is worth min’in’!--and that clever!--as ye ken wha made her!
And luik upo’ this bit hoosie, ’at I ca’ my ain, and they a’ helpit me
to bigg, but as a lean-to til the hoose at hame, for I’m no awa frae it
or them--jist as that hoose and this hoose and a’ the hooses are a’
jist but bairnies’ hooses, biggit by themsels aboot the big flure o’
thy kitchie and i’ the neuks o’ the same--wi’ yer ain truffs and stanes
and divots, sir.’
Steenie’s voice ceased, and Kirsty, thinking his prayer had come to an
end, knocked at the door, lest her sudden appearance should startle
him. From his knees, as she knew by the sound of his rising, Steenie
sprang up, came darting to the door with the cry, ‘It’s yersel! It’s
yersel, bonny man!’ and seemed to tear it open. Oh, how sorry was
Kirsty to stand where the loved of the human was not! She had almost
turned and fled.
‘It’s only me, Steenie!’ she faltered, nearly crying.
Steenie stood and stared trembling. Neither, for a moment or two, could
speak.
‘Eh, Steenie,’ said Kirsty at length, ‘I’m richt sorry I disappintit
ye! I didna ken what I was duin. I oucht to hae turnt and gane hame
again!’
‘Ye cudna help it,’ answered Steenie. ‘Ye cudna be him, or ye wud! But
ye’re the neist best, and richt welcome. I’m as glaid as can be to see
ye, Kirsty. Come awa ben the hoose.’
Kirsty followed him in silence, and sat down dejected. The loving heart
saw it.
‘Maybe ye’re him efter a’!’ said Steenie. ‘He can tak ony shape he
likes. I wudna won’er gien ye was him! Ye’re unco like him ony gait!’
‘Na, na, Steenie! I’m far frae that! But I wud fain be what he wud hae
me, jist as ye wud yersel. Sae ye maun tak me, what I am, for his sake,
Steenie!’
This was the man’s hour, not the dog’s, yet Steenie threw himself at
her feet.
‘Gang oot a bit by yersel, Steenie,’ she said, caressing him with her
hand. ‘That’s what ye like best, I ken! Ye needna min’ me! I only
cam to see ye sattlet intil yer ain hoose. I’ll bide a gey bit. Gang ye
oot, an ken ’at I’m i’ the hoose, and that ye can come back to me whan
ye like. I hae my buik, and can sit and read fine.’
‘Ye’re aye richt, Kirsty!’ answered Steenie, rising. ‘Ye aye ken what
I’m needin. I maun win oot, for I’m some chokin like.--But jist come
here a minute first,’ he went on, leading the way to the door. There he
pointed up into the wild of stars, and said, ‘Ye see yon star o’ the
tap o’ that ither ane ’at’s brichter nor itsel?’
‘I see ’t fine, and ken ’t weel,’ answered Kirsty.
‘Weel, whan that starnie comes richt ower the white tap o’ yon stane i’
the mids o’ that side o’ the howe, I s’ be here at the door.’
Kirsty looked at the stone, saw that the star would arrive at the point
indicated in about an hour, and said, ‘Weel, I’ll be expeckin ye,
Steenie!’ whereupon he departed, going farther up the hill to court the
soothing of the silent heaven.
In conditions of consciousness known only to himself and
incommunicable, the poor fellow sustained an all but continuous
hand-to-hand struggle with insanity, more or less agonized according to
the nature and force of its varying assault; in which struggle, if not
always victorious, he had yet never been defeated. Often tempted to
escape misery by death, he had hitherto stood firm. Some part of every
solitary night was spent, I imagine, in fighting that or other evil
suggestion. Doubtless, what kept him lord of himself through all the
truth-aping delusions that usurped his consciousness, was his
unyielding faith in the bonny man.
The name by which he so constantly thought and spoke of the saviour of
men was not of his own finding. The story was well known of the idiot,
who, having partaken of the Lord’s supper, was heard, as he retired,
murmuring to himself, ‘Eh, the bonny man! the bonny man!’ And persons
were not wanting, sound in mind as large of heart, who thought the
idiot might well have seen him who came to deliver them that were
bound. Steenie took up the tale with most believing mind. Never
doubting the man had seen the Lord, he responded with the passionate
desire himself to see _the bonny man_. It awoke in him while yet quite
a boy, and never left him, but, increasing as he grew, became, as well
it might, a fixed idea, a sober, waiting, unebbing passion, urging him
to righteousness and lovingkindness.
Kirsty took from her pocket an old translation of Plato’s Phædo, and
sat absorbed in it until the star, unheeded of her, attained its goal,
and there was Steenie by her side! She shut the book and rose.
‘I’m a heap better, Kirsty,’ said Steenie. ‘The ill colour’s awa doon
the stair, and the saft win’ ’s made its w’y oot o’ the lift, an’ ’s
won at me. I ’maist think a han’ cam and clappit my heid. Sae noo I’m
jist as weel ’s there’s ony need to be o’ this side the mist. It helpit
me a heap to ken ’at ye was sittin there: I cud aye rin til ye!--Noo
gang awa to yer bed, and tak a guid sleep. I’m some thinkin I’ll be
hame til my br’akfast.’
‘Weel, mother’s gaein to the toon the morn, and I’ll be wantit fell
sair; I may as weel gang!’ answered Kirsty, and without a goodnight, or
farewell of any sort, for she knew how he felt in regard to
leave-takings, Kirsty left him, and went slowly home. The moon was up
and so bright that every now and then she would stop for a moment and
read a little from her book, and then walk on thinking about it.
From that night, even in the stormy dark of winter, Kirsty was not
nearly so anxious about Steenie away from the house: on the Horn he had
his place of refuge, and she knew he never ventured on the bog after
sunset. He always sought her when he wanted to sleep in the daytime,
but he was gradually growing quieter in his mind, and, Kirsty had
reason to think, slept a good deal more at night.
But the better he grew the more had he the look of one expecting
something; and Kirsty often heard him saying to himself--‘It’s comin!
it’s comin!’
‘And at last,’ she said, telling his story many years after, ‘at last
it cam; and ahint it, I doobtna, cam the face o’ the bonny man!’