I believe some of the complaints about me were instigated by Professor Jeffray and, looking back, I sometimes wonder if his disapproval of my friendship with Thomas Brown lay at the root of them. He had noticed the familiarity between us. Who would not have noticed it? Thomas never hid it. I think Jeffray found it incomprehensible that a man of Brown’s standing in the college as well as in the town should be on friendly terms with a mere gardener. That Thomas thought I was no common gardener (as he was often at pains to tell me and anyone who would listen) only served to irritate Jeffray the more. He could not understand it, and I think it inspired a kind of revulsion in him. But perhaps the fact that Thomas could be on such easy terms with everyone – scholars, professors, gardeners – irritated him even more.
‘Would it not be better to send one of the common gardeners foraging for specimens?’ Thomas remarked. ‘That’s what the professor said, William. And I said a common gardener would be quite ignorant of the places where he might find the wild plants necessary and that such a man – quite unlike yourself, William – would be unqualified for the task of field botanist. I said that I needed an uncommon gardener.’
‘Well, thank-you for your kind words. But I don’t want to antagonise the man.’
‘And neither have you. You can leave all that to me! I admire him in many ways, but I am not afraid of him.’
I had no option but to neglect the college gardens at times. More than ever, I was feeling that there were not enough hours in a day. I was overstretched and not quite in full health yet. Moreover, I was always trying to supplement my meagre income with the sale of crops from a few plots of land leased from the college, plots which I was supposed to tend in my spare time, but I had none.
Besides, I had constant troubles with the younger scholars, who seemed to be intent on making my life a misery, marauding about the gardens when they should have been studying, particularly during the winter months. In winter, the rule was now that the students were allowed to use the gardens. This had been introduced in an effort to encourage them to take air and exercise, but they were – not to put too fine a point on it – a rabble, or so it seemed to me who had the job of curbing their unruly behaviour, without having any real authority over them. When they had over-indulged in ale or, much worse, in rum punch or whisky toddies, they were uncontrollable. They would start fires and fights in about equal measure and the damage to trees and plants was extensive. Besides all that, I knew I was fighting a losing battle with the type foundry, and so I swung between the two extremes of pleasure and despair.
Things came to a head in the summer of 1806, when Thomas took it upon himself to write a letter to Professor Jeffray on my behalf. I think he was alarmed by some of the vitriol that had been coming my way. I must say I was both grateful to him and touched by his obvious regard for me. Mind you, when I first read the opening – he let me see the missive before he sent it to Jeffray – I almost lost my temper. And I can quote it, because it is here yet, in the commonplace book which he sent to me but a short while before he died.
I am very sorry, he had written, to start with, that the College is dissatisfied with William Lang’s behaviour and I am much afraid that it has been improper in many respects.
‘Improper?’ I said, indignantly. ‘Improper?’
We were in his library at the time. He had just finished drafting out a fair copy. He blotted the letter and handed it to me to read. ‘Why don’t you read on?’ he said, mildly.
‘In what respects has my behaviour been improper? What have I ever done that was improper in your eyes?’
He had the good grace to colour up. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘In my eyes, you have done nothing improper, not could you. And I’ve asked you to read on.’
‘So why say it?’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand all too well. You, even you, have to give them …’
‘… what they want to hear, my friend. Precisely.’
‘Even if it means stretching the truth?’
‘Even then. But with the best of intentions, I assure you.’
‘I once thought the college was a place of truth. A place where great men of learning sought the truth. That was what my father used to tell me. That was why he so admired the place.’
‘Well so it is.’
‘But only when expedient.’
‘William,’ he said, ‘My dear Will, come down off your high horse for a moment and read the rest of the letter for God’s sake.’
So I did. And very kindly he spoke of me as well, for it went on in this vein: I can only say that I have no fault to find but every reason to be completely pleased with him. The Botanic Garden is so very barren that its produce can scarcely be of any advantage to a lecturer on Botany such as myself. William is therefore under the necessity both of collecting plants himself in the fields and in neighbouring gardens, (‘To say nothing of helping lassies with swarms of bees,’ he added, with a smile) and of trusting to the exertions of the under-gardeners. William has always been active and intelligent and you must know that a common gardener, ignorant of the names and places of growth of the wild plants, would be entirely unqualified for the office of assistant to the Botanical lectureship.
I hardly knew what to make of it. It was not what I expected and I found myself moved by it.
‘So that’s what I am?’ I asked. ‘Assistant to the Botanical Lectureship.’
‘Aye, you are.’
‘Well all I can say is, I’m very upset that it isn’t a paid position.’
‘It would be if I had my way. But you will take nothing from me!’ he said, indignantly.
‘I know. I know.’ I carried on reading.
William unfortunately engaged in the business of an apothecary but this imprudence is now over and I know that he has lost so considerably by the speculation that he will not again engage in a similar one.
‘I had to say that for the simple reason that they have mentioned it on every possible occasion since, heaven help me!’ he remarked, as though to pre-empt my objections, but I was beyond objecting. In fact I was touched by his obvious partiality and the fact that he did not mind declaring as much to Faculty.
The college ought to calculate whether the emoluments derived from the office of College Gardener be sufficient to maintain a man with his family in this city where the expense of living is so high. If the college should make the situation comfortable I have little doubt that William Lang would be much better qualified for it than any common gardener that it could employ.
‘I am hoping,’ he observed,’ that they might be persuaded to pay you for your endeavours as my assistant. But read on to the end.’
His health has been bad for some time past but it will probably be soon completely restored. Since his father’s death he has maintained a mother and educated or supported his brothers and sisters, which unquestionably ought to have some influence on the College in his favour.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked when I had finished. I set the letter down on his writing table.
‘I think it is the most amazing mixture of reason and appeal. I don’t know whether to feel flattered or angry.’
‘Oh William. Make up your mind to be flattered. I have to do the best I can for you and it’s no use appealing to their better natures for I am not at all sure that they have any. I am simply trying to make your case as best I can.’
So that’s what I did. I made up my mind to be both grateful and flattered, and for a little while at least, the letter seemed to appease them, much as a bag of bones will appease a pack of hungry dogs. I went on collecting plants for the botanical lectures and visiting Jenny whenever I could. Her father welcomed me. Her sister had so far unbent towards me that she would creep up beside me and take my hand now and then. Sometimes she would say, ‘Can you fetch me some paper, William?’ Paper was at a premium in our house as well, but I would beg it from Thomas, who always had a ready supply. Anna wanted it so that she could draw pictures on it, which she was exceedingly fond of doing, not just flowers and landscapes and suchlike female pursuits but little sketches of her sister, her father, even myself when she could get me to sit still for long enough. I have them still. I am not inclined to look at them very often. But all the same, fate had taken a hand. I had not the slightest inkling that my carefully constructed castles in the air, all my dreams of a bright future, were about to come tumbling down around my ears.