“Do you enjoy Chinese poetry, Pat? No. I suppose that you’ve never had the pleasure. You should try it, you know. The Arthur Waley translations. These Chinese poets wrote wonderful pieces about the pleasure of sitting on the shore of their rivers and waiting for boats to arrive. Nothing much else happens in Chinese poetry, but then does one want much to happen in poetry? I rather think not.”
They turned down Scotland Street, walking slowly in order to allow Cyril to sniff at every kerbstone and lamp-post.
“It’s really rather easy to write eighth-century Chinese poetry,”
said Angus Lordie. “In English, of course. It requires little effort, I find.”
“Make one up now,” said Pat. “Go on. If you say it’s so easy.”
Angus Lordie stopped again. “Certainly. Well now, let us think.”
258
Poetry of the Tang Dynasty
He paused. Then turning to face Pat, he addressed her gravely: I look across this street of stone, This street which takes a country’s name, To the house with lights, where a gentle companion Prepares her jug of wine, brings to mind The hours that we have spent together In that quiet room; each stair that lies Between ourselves and her, will raise the heart a little, Will tidy the unhappiness from your courtyard, Will make you smile again. My unhappy friend; I tell you so; I tell you this is true.
He finished speaking, and bowed slightly to Pat. “My Chinese poem,” he said. “Not as good, perhaps, as that which might have been written by Li Po, if he were with us, which he is not, but capable perhaps of preparing you for an evening with Domenica and myself and conversation about things that really matter. And if, incidentally, this is balm for your undoubted unhappiness, then I shall consider myself to have done no more than any neighbour should do. N’est-ce-pas, Cyril ?”
91. God Looks Down on Belgium
“And where,” asked Domenica Macdonald, as she opened her door to them, “is your malodorous dog?”
Angus Lordie seemed not to be taken aback by what struck Pat as a less than warm welcome. But Pat’s concern proved to be misplaced. The relationship between her neighbour, Domenica, and her newly-acquired friend, Angus Lordie, was an easy one, and the banter they exchanged was good-natured. In the course of the evening, Angus Lordie was to describe Domenica – to her face – as a “frightful blue-stocking”, and in return she informed him that he was a “well-known failure”, a “roué” and
“a painter of dubious talent”.
“If you are referring to Cyril,” said Angus Lordie, “he is outside, tied to a railing, enjoying the smells of this odiferous street. He misses such smells in Drummond Place, with its rather better air. He is quite happy.”
Domenica ushered them into her study. “I really am rather pleased that you came to see me,” she said, as she took a half-full bottle of Macallan out of a cupboard. “I’ve been worrying about this fatwa of yours, Angus. Have those dissident Free Presbyterians shown their hand yet?”
Pat remembered the talk about the dissenting Free Presbyterian fatwa imposed upon Angus Lordie as a result of his uncomplimentary portrait of their Moderator. Angus Lordie had not mentioned anything more about it, and certainly his demeanour was not that of one labouring under a fatwa.
“Oh that,” said Angus Lordie, accepting the generous glass of whisky which Domenica had poured for him. “Yes, they’ve done one or two things to signal their displeasure, but I think that the whole thing will probably blow over.”
“And what precisely have they done?” asked Domenica.
“A group of them came and sang Gaelic psalms outside my door,” he replied. “You know those awful dirges that they go in for? Well, we had a bit of that. I went out and thanked them 260
God Looks Down on Belgium
afterwards and they looked a bit disconcerted. They mumbled something about how I would hear from them again, but they didn’t seem to have much heart for it.”
“It’s so difficult to sustain a fatwa,” said Domenica. “One has to be so enthusiastic. I’m not sure if I could find the moral energy myself.”
“Cyril howled when he heard the Gaelic psalms,” said Angus Lordie. “And they thought that he was joining in. He sounded so like them! Quite uncanny! Of course he does come from Lochboisdale and he’s probably heard Gaelic psalms before.
Perhaps it made him feel homesick.”
“Oh well,” said Domenica. “These things all add to the gaiety of nations. That’s the nice thing about life in Scotland. It’s hardly dull. I’m immensely relieved that I don’t live in a dull country.”
“Such as?” asked Pat. Her gap year had taken her to Australia and then, briefly on to New Zealand. New Zealand was perhaps somewhat quiet while Australia had proved to be far from dull; at least for her.
“Oh, Belgium,” said Domenica. “Belgium is extremely dull.”
Angus Lordie nodded his head in agreement. “I’ve never quite seen the reason for Belgium,” he said. “But I certainly agree with you about its dullness. Remember that party game in which people are invited to name one famous Belgian (other than anybody called Leopold) – that’s pretty revealing, isn’t it?”
“I have a list of famous Belgians somewhere,” said Domenica rather absently. “But I think I’ve mislaid it.”
“It’ll turn up,” said Angus Lordie, taking a sip of his whisky.
“These things do. Did I tell you, by the way, that I composed a hymn about Belgium? The Church of Scotland has been revising its hymnary and was asking for more modern contributions. I composed one of which I was really rather proud. I called it God looks down on Belgium.”
“And the words?” asked Domenica.
Angus Lordie cleared his throat. “The first verse goes as follows,” he began:
God Looks Down on Belgium
261
God’s never heard of Belgium,
But loves it just the same,
For God is kind
And doesn’t mind –
He’s not impressed with fame.
After he had finished, he folded his hands and looked at Domenica. Pat felt uncertain. Was this serious? She had enjoyed the Chinese poem which he had declaimed to her in Scotland Street, but this hymn seemed . . . well, he couldn’t possibly mean it.
Domenica looked at Angus Lordie and raised an eyebrow.
“Did the Church of Scotland use it?” she asked.
“Inexplicably, no,” said Angus Lordie. “I had a very polite letter back, but I fear that they feel that it’s not suitable. I suppose it’s something to do with comity within Europe. We have to pretend to take Belgium seriously.”
“We live in such a humourless age,” Domenica remarked. “It used to be possible to laugh. It used to be possible to enjoy oneself with fantasies – such as your ridiculous hymn – sorry, Angus
– but now? Well, now there are all sorts of censors and killjoys. Earnest, ignorant people who lecture us on what we can think and say. And do you know, we’ve lain down and submitted to the whole process. It’s been the most remarkable display of passivity. With the result that when we encounter anybody who thinks independently, or who doesn’t echo the received wisdoms of the day, we’re astonished.”
“In such a way is freedom of thought lost,” said Angus Lordie, who had been listening very attentively to Domenica. “By small cuts. By small acts of disapproval. By a thousand discouragements of spirit.”