From Gressoney, St. Jean, September 1, 1891, he wrote to Mrs. Matthews:—
Many thanks for your letter received last night; as it crossed one from me to the Dad, which I hope he could read (it was writ large), I should not write again at once (having, of course, nothing to say—except that it is, pour changer, a splendid afternoon, and I ought to be out of doors) but that I want you at once to tell the poor old Dad how concerned and sorry I am to hear that he has been so ailing, and ailing so long, and how I wonder at his superb power of recuperation. I don't ask in this letter how the Dad is, because I am sure he will send me a line in answer to my note to him. But I have another reason for writing at once; I want you, please, to thank Lina with best love, for her nice long letter (she does not want a letter written from here), and tell her, before it is too late, that I hope she won't give up her Ballater without a very full trial, because I know that it takes many people a considerable time to get acclimatised to that bracing air. Tell her also that I was myself going to suggest an Ausflug to Braemar; if she goes to the Invercauld Arms let her use my name, and she will be well treated. I should peculiarly like her to see the Lynn of Dee—she will only have to scramble five or six yards off the main road to look down into the stream from under some of the grandest old Scotch firs in Scotland; and I verily believe that the watching for a silent bit of those dark, dark, seemingly bottomless, noiselessly swirling pools, tiny as they are under the hollow grey craig, will, somehow, whisper a big peace and a strange wondering fascination into her being; the whole thing is not bigger than an expensive toy, but it lays a never-failing grip on me.[82]—Affectionate brother,
Fred.
To Mrs. Orr when in Scotland:—
August 22, 1891.
If you can manage it go to a favourite haunt of mine, the Lynn of Dee, quite a tiny tumble of green waters in fantastically scooped grey rocks, no higher than a cottage, under astounding old Scotch firs (by-the-bye the grandest tree in the world to my thinking), where I have sat interminably long looking down into the dark deep pools, from which now and then a salmon leaps. To me no spot about there is so fascinating.
Grand Hotel, Brufani, Perugia,
October 3, 1891.
Dear Lina,—Well, I am glad you got to the Lynn of Dee, though sorry that you could not be there in solitude and see it without sitting in a pool of water. I am glad, too, that you saw the salmon leap; I did not mention that most exciting spectacle because it is not by any means always on view—you were in luck; but what you must make for another time is the bit three or four yards below the fall where the vehemence of the winter torrent has scooped and worn pools so deep that as your eye is drawn down past half-hidden submerged rocky shapes you come at last to absolute dark brown night, and whilst you are conscious of a rapid, swirling current, no sound, no faintest gurgle even, reaches your ear; the silent mystery of it all absolutely invades and possesses you; that is what I faintly tried to put into my "Solitude," of which a photogravure embellishes your staircase. I am vexed that you had so much rain; however, you had a few fine glimpses, and if a rainy day in Scotland is like the Scotch Sawbath, a fine one throws you the gates of Heaven. It is curious how much clearer the air is (when clear) than we get it south of the Tweed.
I am glad that the Dad has rallied so satisfactorily; tell him, with my love, that I have heard from the gentleman in Copenhagen for whom I carved the marble "Athlete." He is benighted enough to say that in his opinion it is one of the most important statues of modern times; and he wants my bust, if there is one, for his collection of portraits.