SAINT ANDREWS
For the remainder of the year ’94 the exigencies of family life kept
Martin and me apart, she at Ross, or paying visits, I at home, doing the
illustrations for our Danish tour, with complete insincerity, from local
models. My diary says, “Impounded Mother to pose as the
Hofjägermesterinde, and Mary Anne Whoolly as a Copenhagen
market-woman--as Tennyson prophetically said, ‘All, all are Danes.’”
In the meantime “The Real Charlotte” continued to run the race set
before her, with a growing tide of approval from those whose approval we
most valued, and with steadily improving sales. In November I went to
Leicestershire (a visit that shall be told of hereafter), and thence I
moved on to Paris.
In January, 1895, Martin went to Scotland, and paid a very enjoyable
visit to some friends at St. Andrews, a visit that was ever specially
memorable for her from the fact that it was at St. Andrews, among the
kind and sympathetic and clever people whom she met there, that she
realised for the first time that with “The Real Charlotte” we had made a
mark, and a mark that was far deeper and more impressive than had been
hitherto suspected by either of us. The enjoyment of this discovery was
much enhanced by the fact that Mr. Andrew Lang, whom she met at St.
Andrews, was one of the firmest friends of the much-abused “Miss
Mullen.”
I have some letters that Martin wrote from St. Andrews, to me, in Paris,
and I do not think that I need apologise for transcribing them here,
even though some of her comments and descriptions do not err on the side
of over-formality. Her pleasure in the whole experience can, I think,
only give pleasure in return to the people who were so kind to her, and
whose welcome to her, as a writer, was so generous, and so unexpected.
Brief as was her acquaintance with Mr. Lang, his delightful personality
could hardly have been better comprehended than it was by her, and I
believe that his friends will understand, through all the chaff of her
descriptions, that he had no more genuine appreciator than Martin Ross.
V. F. M. to E. Œ. S. (St. Andrews, Jan. 16, 1895.)
“It _is_ a long journey here from Ross, by reason of the many
changes, and by reason of my back,” (she had fallen downstairs at
Ross, and had hurt her back, straining and bruising it very badly,)
“which gave me rather a poor time. I hurt it horribly getting in
and out of carriages, and was rather depressed about it
altogether.... However it is ever so much better to-day, and none
the worse for the dinner last night. I don’t think I looked _too_
bad, in spite of all. I was ladylike and somewhat hectic and
hollow-eyed. The Langs have large rooms, and their dinner-party was
fourteen ... an ugly nice youth was my portion, and I was put at
Andrew Lang’s left. I was not shy, but anxious. A. L. is very
curious to look at; tall, very thin, white hair, growing far down
his forehead, and shading dark eyebrows and piercing-looking,
charming brown eyes. He has a somewhat foxey profile, a lemon-pale
face and a black moustache. Altogether very quaint looks, and
appropriate. I think he is shy; he keeps his head down and often
does not look at you when speaking, his voice is rather high and
indistinct, and he pitches his sentences out with a jerk. Anyhow I
paid court to my own young man for soup and fish time, and found
him most agreeable and clever, and I _did_ talk of hunting, and he
was mad about it, so now! no more of your cautionary hints!
“To me then Andrew L. with a sort of off-hand fling,
“‘I suppose you’re the one that did the writing?’
“I explained with some care that it was not so. He said he didn’t
know how any two people could equally evolve characters, etc., that
_he_ had tried, and it was always he or the other who did it all. I
said I didn’t know how we managed, but anyhow that I knew little of
book-making as a science. He said I must know a good deal, on which
I had nothing to say. He talked of Miss Broughton, Stevenson, and
others, as personal friends, and exhibited at intervals a curious
silent laugh up under his nose.... He was so interesting that I
hardly noticed how ripping was the dinner, just as good as it could
be. I then retired upon my own man for a while, and Andrew upon his
woman; then my youth and he and I had a long talk about Oscar Wilde
and others. Altogether I have seldom been more entertained and at
ease. After dinner the matrons were introduced and were very civil,
and praised Charlotte for its ‘delightful humour, and freshness and
newness of feeling,’ and so on. One said that her son told her he
would get anything else of ours that he could lay his hands on.
Then the men again. I shared an unknown man with a matron, and then
the good and kind Andrew drew a chair up and discoursed me, and
told me how he is writing a life of Joan of Arc--‘the greatest
human being since Jesus Christ.’ He seems _wonderfully_ informed on
all subjects. To hear him reel off the historical surroundings of
the Book of Esther would surprise you and would scandalise the
Canon. He offered to give me a lesson in golf, but, like Cuthbert’s
soldier servant I ‘pleaded the ’eadache.’ I hear that I was highly
honoured, as he very often won’t talk to people and is rude; I must
say I thought he was, in his jerky, unconventional way, polite to
everyone.... This is a cultured house, and all the new books are
here.... I wish I had been walking in the moonlight by the Seine.
It is like a dream to think of it. Talking to Andrew Lang has made
me feel that nothing I could write _could_ be any good; he seems to
have seen the end of perfection. I will take my stand on Charlotte,
I think, and learn to make my own clothes, and so subside
noiselessly into middle age.”
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,
“‘The sacred Keep of Ilion is rent
With shaft and pit;’
“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.
“Andhrew he resaved me,
So dacent and so pleasant,
He’s as nice a man in fayture
As I ever seen before.”
(_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
slight embarrassment that it must have gone in the other line.
“We solemnly viewed the Regalia, of which he knew the history of every
stone, and the room where James VI was born, a place about as big as a
dinner-table, and so on, and his information on all was petrifying. Then
it was all but lunch time, but we flew into St. Giles’ on the way home
to see Montrose’s tomb. A more beautiful and charming face than
Montrose’s you couldn’t see, and the church is a very fine one. An old
verger caught sight of us, and instantly flung to the winds a party he
was taking round, and endeavoured to show us everything, in spite of A.
L.’s protests. At length I firmly said, ‘Please show us the door.’ He
smiled darkly, and led us to a door, which, when opened, led into an
oaken and carven little room. He then snatched a book from a shelf--and
a pen and ink from somewhere else.
“‘I know distinguished visitors when I see them!’ says he, showing us
the signatures of all the Royalties and distinguished people, about two
on each page. ‘Please write your names.’
“Andrew wrote his, and I mine, on a blank sheet, and there they remain
for posterity. Andrew swears the verger didn’t know him, and that it was
all the fur coat, and that our names were a bitter disappointment--_why_
didn’t I put ‘Princess of Connemara’?
“Then to lunch. The B----s were _very_ nice. He is tall and thin, she
short, both as pleasant and unconventional and easy as nice Irish people
alone are. After lunch she and Mrs. Lang tackled me in the drawing-room
about the original of the Real C. I gaily admitted that she was drawn
from life, and that you had known her a thousand times better than I.
Then I told them various tales of her, and, without thinking, revealed
her name.
“‘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.”