Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 60: The Heart as Metaphor

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 25th Apr 2025, 07:00 BST

Domenica sat in the kitchen, surrounded by her friends, while Angus attended to glasses, filling them with wine or zero-alcohol beer. For Bertie, who had been specially invited, along with Stuart and Nicola, there was a bottle of Irn Bru Zero, a drink newly on the market from which everything had been extracted, including the orange colouring of the original. This was also marketed as water, but under a slightly different label.

Domenica turned to her friend, Dilly, and asked her about Colonsay, the Hebridean island to which Dilly went in the summer. Had there been warm winds from the west, smelling slightly of seaweed? There had. Had there been days when the sea was absolutely calm, flat and silver, a mirror to the mountains in the distance? There had been several such days. Had there been the sound of children’s voices on the beach, and wildflowers in the grass, and the MacBrayne ferry coming in from Oban, a dot on the horizon now but getting bigger by the moment? Yes, all that was there; all that had happened.

James Holloway, another friend who was always at their parties, came and sat next to them. He spoke to them about an exhibition of the Scottish Colourists that James Knox had put together. It was important to see the Colourists in the context of what was happening in France and elsewhere. Domenica agreed. “We do not make much sense unless you look at those around us.”

“Of course,” said James. “You’re an anthropologist. You do that instinctively. You’re aware of the culture that shapes all of us.”

Elspeth passed by, carrying a plate for replenishment. She said, “You must come and see us out at Nine Mile Burn. All of you. We mustn’t lose touch.”

“No,” said Domenica, “we mustn’t lose touch.” And with sudden insight – one of those rare moments when we are vouchsafed a vision of agape – she realised how fortunate she and Angus were to live here, at this particular time, in this particular place. They had taken it all for granted, but she realised that they should not have done that. It was as fragile as it was precious, and it could easily be destroyed by so many dangers, indifference being in the vanguard of its enemies. But what was it – the thing she was thinking of? It was human community; it was being part of something; it was sharing a mutual attachment to some idea of the good, in an age in which bad manners were becoming the international norm. It was, in short, civilization, that precious, precious concept that people disregarded now and seemed embarrassed even to mention.

James looked about him. Angus had come into the room, and now James remembered his duty. He always called on Angus for a poem on these occasions, and it was time to do that now. “Angus,” he began, but did not have to say anything more. Angus nodded, and took a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Dear friends,” he said, “You expect this, I know … and so here is something about the heart. Just that – the heart. I have called it The Heart as Metaphor.”

“Few metaphors, he began, are as important, few as regular

Companions in our language, as uncomplaining;

The human heart begins its long duty at birth

Seems unsurprised by what we ask of it.

For more than being that daily essential,

The heart is a subtle and familiar metaphor,

A way of talking about the world,

A way of telling others how we feel.

How easily, for instance, do we break

The metaphorical hearts of others

While following the promptings of our own;

In its sorrow, the heart resigns itself to fracture.

Hearts may be followed, regularly are,

Yet hearts are unreliable guides,

They lead us seductively down paths

They claim to know, but frequently do not.

You broke my heart, you found that out

But kept silent; I thought of you every day

Never forgetting unexpected moments,

Stored such things, of course, in my heart.

And always failed to utter the words

The heart would articulate, had it the chance;

The head may apply a rule of silence

While the heart would have it otherwise.

My heart is yours, it always has been,

Don’t turn away and say you didn’t know;

You did; the heart is a bad actor

Finds it hard, you know, to dissemble.

It is a condition of the human heart

To be largely unfulfilled; that happens

Often in life and yet we start each day

Hoping the heart gets what it wants.

The heart has a photograph album

Quite of its own: often we may leave our heart

In Paris or the Tuscan countryside,

Some spot where we’ve known happiness;

My own heart has been left so many times

In some quiet Highland glen, rain-washed,

Or at a point where blue islands, distant,

Occur on the sea’s horizon, afterthoughts

To the land I love so much it hurts:

Scotland claims my heart, I’ve given up

Fighting unequal battles that I’ll never win;

Yes, Scotland: there goes my heart again.”

He stopped. Nobody spoke. Someone cried, but did so quietly. Bertie looked up at the ceiling, where the evening sun had traced a small unwavering line of gold .

The End

(of this volume)