#violet jacob

[the-busy-ghost]

Sometimes she would go out alone and walk through the wet fields towards the river- for the higher reaches of the Lour were almost within sight of the windows at Fullarton- and look at its waters rolling seaward past that bit of country which had held so much for her. She loved it the more fiercely for the thought that she must soon turn her back on it. Once, a skein of wild geese passed over her head on their flight to the tidal marshes beyond Kaims, and the far-away scream in the air held her spellbound. High up, pushing their way to the sea, their necks outstretched as though drawn by a magnet to their goal, they held on their course; and their cry rang with the voice of the north- the voice of the soul of the coast.

"The Interloper" by Violet Jacob

Everything I have read by Violet Jacob so far is drenched in her love for Montrose and the surrounding country (which is not, as some descriptions of this book suggest, in the 'rugged Highlands' at all). Many passages in her books and poems have an evangelical tone in that respect, written by someone secure in the knowledge that her chosen part of Angus is the best place in the world and yet eager to win over as many other people as possible.

In 'Flemington', set during the '45, Montrose appears under its own name because of the relevance to the plot of certain historical events which took place in the town during the ill-fated rising. However in the 1904 novel The Interloper' it is transformed into the town of Kaims- as if, even though she had decided to create a fictional town for the purposes of plot, Jacob still could not imagine a better country than Montrose and its surroundings.

The geese here seem especially relevant since the return of thousands upon thousands of pink-footed geese to Montrose Basin, which occurs in early autumn every year, is a famous natural phenomenon in Scotland. The Lour too appears to be a thinly disguised version of the North Esk. I have to wonder whether the experience that Jacob gives to the fictional character Cecilia in the quote above was one which she had frequently had herself, as the daughter of Erskine of Dun, prior to her marriage and departure for India.

Anyway regardless of how this book turns out and my confusion over some of the plotting, Jacob's evident enthusiasm for her native Angus will always endear her works to me.

[the-busy-ghost]

The mair ye gie the less ye'll get, The road's aye reuch whaure'er ye strike it, The warld's a heap o' durt- an' yet Ye like it.

from “The Warld”, by Violet Jacob

[the-busy-ghost]

Last Sunday’s reading material- the Scots poetry of Violet Jacob. 

[the-busy-ghost]

"As Madam Flemington entered, she took possession of the room to the exclusion of everything else, and the minister felt as if he had no right to exist. Her eyes, meeting his, reflected the idea."

“Flemington”, by Violet Jacob

[the-busy-ghost]

The country smelt of blood; reeked of it. For miles and miles around Inverness, where the search for fugitives was hottest, burnt hovels and blackened walls made blots upon the tardy green of spring. Women went about, white-faced and silent, trying to keep from their eyes the self-betraying consciousness of hidden terrors; each striving to forget the peat-stack on the moor where some hunted creature was lying, the scrub in the hollow that sheltered some wounded body, the cranny in the hill to which she must journey painfully after dark with the crusts in her apron. The shot still rattled out over the countryside where the search was going on, and where, when it had been successful, a few maimed and haggard men stood along some shieling wall in front of a platoon of Cumberland's musketry. All down the shores of Loch Ness and among the hills above the Nairn water south-west of Culloden, the dark rocks raised their broken heads to the sky over God knows what agonies of suffering and hunger. The carrion-crow was busy in the land.

“Flemington”, by Violet Jacob

[the-busy-ghost]

Flemington was one of those blessed people for whom common sights do not glide by, a mere meaningless procession of alien things. Humanity's smallest actions had an interest for him, for he had that love of seeing effect follow cause, which is at once priceless and childish- priceless because anything that lifts from us the irritating burden of ourselves for so much as a moment is priceless; and childish because it is a survival of the years when all the universe was new. Priceless yet again, because it will  often lead us down unexpected side-tracks of knowledge in a world in which knowledge is power.

“Flemington”, by Violet Jacob

[maa-pix]

Violet Jacob’s poem Hallowe’en

The tattie-liftin’s nearly through, They’re ploughin’ whaur the barley grew, And aifter dark, roond ilka stack, Ye’ll see the horsemen stand an’ crack O Lachlan, but I mind o’ you!

I mind foo often we hae seen Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween The nakit branches, an’ below Baith fairm an’ bothie hae their show, Alowe wi’ lichts o’ Hallowe’en.

There’s bairns wi’ guizards at their tail Cloorin’ the doors wi’ runts o’ kail, And fine ye’ll hear the screichs an’ skirls O’ lassies wi’ their droukit curls Bobbin’ for aipples i’ the pail.

The bothie fire is loupin’ het, A new heid horseman’s kist is set Richt’s o’ the lum; whaur by the blaze The auld ane stude that kept yer claes— I canna thole to see it yet!

But gin the auld fowks’ tales are richt An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht, O freend o’ friends! what wad I gie To feel ye rax yer hand tae me Atween the dark an’ caun’le licht?

Awa’ in France, across the wave, The wee lichts burn on ilka grave, An’ you an’ me their lowe hae seen— Ye’ll mebbe hae yer Hallowe’en Yont, whaur ye’re lyin’ wi’ the lave.

There’s drink an’ daffin’, sang an’ dance And ploys and kisses get their chance, But Lachlan, man, the place I see Is whaur the auld kist used tae be And the lichts o’ Hallowe’en in France!

I had heard Jean Redpath several times on A Prairie Home Companion and other folk music radio shows in the 80s and 90s, but it wasn't until hearing her 1990 CD, Leaving the Land, that I fell in love with her work.

This particular poem was written by Violet Jacob after her son was killed at the Battle of the Somme in World War I. Jim Reid set it to music, but Jean's rendition is, I think perhaps, the first recorded version of this poem as a song. It's been covered many time since.

It's such a moving song of mourning a lost friend combined with the imagery of harvest celebrations that take place so close to Remembrance Day and All Hallow's Eve. ("Hallowe'en" coming originally from the Scots language term for the holiday.) To me, it is perhaps the most evocative autumn song there is.

"Oh friend of friends, what would I give to feel you reach out your hand to me, between the dark and candle light."

[violettesiren]

When winter’s pulse seems dead beneath the snow, And has no throb to give, Warm your cold heart at mine, beloved, and so Shall your heart live. For mine is fire—a furnace strong and red; Look up into my eyes, There shall you see a flame to make the dead Take life and rise. My eyes are brown, and yours are still and grey, Still as the frostbound lake Whose depths are sleeping in the icy sway, And will not wake. Soundless they are below the leaden sky, Bound with that silent chain; Yet chains may fall, and those that fettered lie May live again. Yes, turn away, grey eyes, you dare not face In mine the flame of life; When frost meets fire, ’tis but a little space That ends the strife. Then comes the hour, when, breaking from their bands, The swirling floods run free, And you, beloved, shall stretch your drowning hands, And cling to me.

Frostbound by Violet Jacob