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?