V. F. M. to E. Œ. S. (St. Andrews, Jan. 23, 1895.)

“Do you know that even now the sun doesn’t rise here till 8.30 at the best; at the worst it is not seen till about a quarter to nine! This, and the amazing cold of the wind make one know that this is pretty far north.... Since I last wrote various have been the dissipations. Afternoon teas, two dinners, an organ recital, a concert. It is very amusing. They are all, as people, more interesting than the average, being Scotch, and they have a high opinion of Charlotte. I am beginning to be accustomed to having people introduced to me, and feeling that they expect me to say something clever. I never do. I am merely very conversational, and feel in the highest spirits, which is the effect of the air. It is passing pleasant to hear my nice hostess tell me how she went into an assembly of women (and this being St. Andrews, mostly clever ones) and heard them raving of Charlotte. She then said, ‘I know one of the authors, and she is coming to stay with me!’ Sensation! By the bye, several people have told me that Charlotte is like ‘La Cousine Bette,’ which is one of Balzac’s novels. I had to admit that we have neither of us read Balzac. At one dinner-party the host, who is an excellent photographer, showed some very good lantern-slides, mostly ruins, old churches and the like, being things Mr. Lang is interested in. Finally came some statuary groups; from outside South Kensington, I think; horrible blacks on the backs of camels, etc. On the first glimpse of these Andrew, who had, I think, been getting bored, shuddered, and fled away into the next room, refusing to return till all was over.

“‘If you had any Greek statuary——’ he said, feebly, but there was none.

“Then I was turned on to shriek like a dog, and he was bewildered and perturbed, but not amused. He asked me, in an unhappy way, how I did it. I said by main strength, the way the Irishman played the fiddle. This was counted a good jest. On that the Langs left, he saying in a vague, dejected way, apropos of nothing, ‘If you’d like me to take you round the town sights I’ll go—perhaps if Monday were fine——’ he then faded out of the house.

“On Monday no sign of him, nor on Tuesday either. I withered in neglect, though assured that he never kept appointments, or did anything. Yesterday he sent word that he would come at 2.30, and he really did. The weather was furiously Arctic.

“‘Doctor Nansen, I presume?’ said I, coming in dressed and ready. He looked foolish, and admitted it was a bad day for exploration. (Monday had been lovely.) However we went. You will observe that I was keeping my tail very erect.

“In the iron blast we went down South Street, where most things are. It is a little like the High at Oxford, on a small trim scale. Andrew was immediately very nice, and I think he likes showing people round. Have I mentioned that he is a gentleman? Rather particularly so. It is worth mentioning. He was a most perished-looking one, this piercing day, with his white face, and his grey hair under a deerstalker, but still he looks all that. I won’t at this time tell you of all the churches and places he took me through. It was pleasant to hear him, in the middle of the leading Presbyterian Church, and before the pew opener, call John Knox a scoundrel, with intensest venom. In one small particular you may applaud me. He showed me a place where Lord Bute is scrabbling up the ruins of an old Priory and building ugly red sandstone imitations on the foundations. I said,

“This is the beginning of a sonnet by Andrew Lang, in the ‘Sonnets of this Century,’ mourning the modern prying into the story of Troy.

“We talked of dogs, and I quoted from Stevenson’s Essay. He also has written an attack on them, having been unaware of Stevenson’s. He keeps and adores a cat, which he says hates him.... While in the College Library Dr. Boyd (the ‘Country Parson’) came in and spoke to Mr. Lang. I examined the nearest bookcase, but was ware of the C.P.’s china blue eye upon me, and he presently spoke to me. He is like a clean, rubicund priest, with a high nose; more than all he is like a creditable ancestor on a wall, and should have a choker and a high coat collar. He told me that his wife is now ‘gloating over Charlotte,’ which was nice of him, and I am to go to tea with them to-morrow. Why aren’t you here to take your share?

“I said to Andrew that I thought of going to Edinburgh on Monday, to see a few things, and he said he would be there and would show me Holyrood. He said in his resigned voice, ‘I’ll meet you anywhere you like.’ ... I am going to write to Mr. Blackwood, who has asked me to go to see him. I will ask him if he would like the ‘Beggars.’ Andrew L. wants to go there too, so we may go together. Now you must be sick of A. L. and I will mention only two or three more things about him.

“He put a notice of Charlotte into some American magazine for which he writes, before he knew me. I believe it is a good one, but am rather shy of asking about it. You will be glad that she is getting a lift in America. I hope some of your artist friends will see it. He told me that Charlotte treated of quite a new phase, and seemed to think that was its chiefest merit. He would prefer our writing in future more of the sort of people one is likely to meet in everyday life. He put his name in the Mark Twain Birthday Book, and I told him you had compiled it. Lastly, I may remark that when he leaves St. Andrews to-morrow, all other men go with him, as far as I am concerned, or rather they stay, and they seem bourgeois and commonplace (which is ungrateful, and not strictly true, and of course there are exceptions, and, chief among them, my nice host, and Father A., who are always what one likes).... Post has come, bringing a most unexpected tribute to the Real C. from T. P. O’Connor in the Weekly Sun. It is really one of the best, and best-written notices we have ever had. I read it with high gratification, in spite of his calling us ‘Shoneens’—(whatever they may be).... The Editor of Black and White has written asking for something about St. Andrews, from an Irish point of view. ‘But what about the artist?’ says he. What indeed? And I don’t know what to write about. Everyone has written about St. Andrews.... I saw them play the game of ‘Curling,’ which was funny, like bowls played on ice, with big round stones that slide. The friends of a stone tear in front of it as it slides, sweeping the ice with twigs so as to further its progress. When a good bowl is made they say ‘Fine stone!’ It is in many ways absurd....”

St. Andrews, Jan. 29. ’95.

“...The dissipations have raged, and I have been much courted by the ladies of St. Andrews. I shall not come back here again. Having created an impression I shall retire on it before they begin to find me out. It will be your turn next.... Mrs. Lang wrote to say that the B——s, with whom the Langs were staying in Edinburgh, wanted me to lunch there, being ‘proud to be my compatriots.’ Professor B. is Irish, and is professor of Greek at Edinburgh University, and Mrs. B. is also Irish.... Accordingly, yesterday I hied me forth alone. It was a lovely hard frost here, but by the time I was half way—(it is about two hours by train)—the snow began. I drove to the B——s, along Princes Street, all horrible with snow, but my breath was taken away by the beauty of it. There is a deep fall of ground along one side, where once there was a lake, then with one incredible lep, up towers the crag, three hundred feet, and the Castle, and the ramparts all along the top. It was foggy, with sun struggling through, and to see that thing hump its great shoulder into the haze was fine. You know what I think of Scott. You would think the same if you once saw Edinburgh. It was almost overwhelming to think of all that has happened there—However, to resume, before you are bored.

(vide Jimmy and the Song of Ross). He is indeed, and he has a most correct and rather effeminate profile. No one else was in. He was as miserable about the snow as a cat, and huddled into a huge coat lined with sable. In state we drove up to the Castle by a long round, and how the horse got up that slippery hill I don’t know. The Castle was very grand; snowy courtyards with grey old walls, and chapels, and dining-halls, most infinitely preferable to Frederiksborg. The view should have been noble; as the weather was, one could only see Scott’s monument—a very fine thing—and a very hazy town. It is an awful thing to look over those parapets! A company of the Black Watch was drilling in the outer courtyard, very grand, and a piper went strutting like a turkeycock, and skirling. It was wild, and I stood up by ‘Mons Meg’ and was thrilled. Is it an insult to mention that Mons Meg is the huge, historic old gun, and crouches like a she-mastiff on the topmost crag, glaring forth over Edinburgh with the most concentrated defiance? You couldn’t believe the expression of that gun. I asked Andrew L. whether it was the same as ‘Muckle-mouthed Meg,’ having vague memories of the name. He said in a dying gasp that Muckle-mouthed Meg was his great-great-grandmother! That was a bad miss, but I preserved my head just enough to enquire what had become of the ‘Muckle mouth.’ (I may add that his own is admirable.) He could only say with some

“‘Oh yes!’ says Mrs. B. in ecstasy, ‘she was my husband’s cousin!’

“I covered my face with my hands, and I swear that the blush trickled through my fingers. I then rose, in strong convulsions, and attempted to fly the house. Professor B—— was called in to triumph over me, and said that she was only a very distant cousin, and that he had never seen her, and didn’t care what had been said of her. They were enchanted about it and my confusion, and they have asked me to go to their place in Ireland, with delightful cordiality.... Andrew L. and I then walked forth to Blackwood’s, a very fine old-fashioned place, with interesting pictures. We were instantly shown upstairs, to a large, pleasant room, where was Mr. Blackwood.... I broached the subject of the ‘Beggars,’ while Andrew stuck his nose into a book. Mr. Blackwood said he would like to see it.... Mr. Lang then spoke to him about an article on Junius that he is writing, and I put my nose into a book. We then left. There was no time to see Holyrood.... Thus to the train. My most comfortable thought during the two hours’ journey home was that in talking to Mrs. B. I had placed Charlotte on your shoulders! Andrew L. was very kind, and told me that if ever I wanted anything done that he could help me in, that he would do it.... My last impression of him is of his whipping out of the carriage as it began to move on, in the midst of an account of how Buddha died of eating roast pork to surfeit.”