CHAPTER XII
Scotch Bonhomie. – Humour and Quick-Wittedness. – Reminiscences of a Lecturer. – How the Author was once taken for an Englishman.
It seems strange that in this country, so religious as it is, most of the anecdotes which the people are fond of relating should refer to religion, and that the hero of them should generally be the minister. All that joking at the Scriptures, that parodying of the Bible, those little comic scenes at the poor minister's expense, seem at first sight to be in direct opposition with the national character. It is nothing of the kind, however. These anecdotes, which after all have in reality nothing irreverent in them, prove but one thing to us, and that is, that the Scotch are steeped over head and ears in Bible, and are not sorry to get a laugh out of it now and then: it does them good, it is a little relief to them, and – if I may believe Dean Ramsay, the great authority on Scotch anecdotes – the ministers are the first to set the example.
Those anecdotes, I repeat, are not irreverent: I have heard them told by Scotchmen who would not think of shaving on a Sunday for fear of giving the cook extra work to boil water early. (And do not smile if I add that in the evening, after supper, there was hot water on the table for the toddy. At that hour the water had had time to boil without occasioning any extra labour. At all events, this is how I accounted for the phenomenon.)
Their anecdotes, in a word, prove that the Scotch see a subtle, pithy point more easily than the English, whatever these latter may say, and that they are not so intolerant in matters religious as they are often represented to be.
The further north you go in Great Britain, the more quick-wittedness and humour you find. For quickness in seizing the signification of a gesture, a glance, a tone, I do not hesitate, if my opinion have the slightest value, to give the palm to the Scotch.
When, for instance, in lecturing, I remind my audience that the English have given the British Isles the name of "United Kingdom," the Scotch shake with laughter: the little point of sarcasm does not escape their intelligence. In England, I am generally obliged to pause on it and give them time to reflect; and once or twice, in the south, I was seized with a great temptation to cry out, à la Mark Twain, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a joke."
I have found all my audiences sympathetic and indulgent; but that which provokes a laugh in the north, often leaves the south indifferent. In Birmingham, Yorkshire, Lancashire, in all these great centres of British activity, and in Scotland, that which is appreciated in a humorous lecture is a bit of covert satire – a pleasantry accompanied by an imperturble look: the kind of fun that the English themselves call "dry and quiet." In the south, you often regret to see that a broad joke brings you a roar of applause; while some of your pet points, those that you are proudest of, will pass almost unnoticed.
Let me give you an idea of that which the lecturer has to swallow sometimes.
In a room, a few miles out of London, I had just given a lecture to the members of a literary Society.
In this lecture, wishing to show to my audience that enlightened and intelligent French people know how to appreciate British virtues, I had recited almost in its entirety that scene in the Prise de Pèkin, in which the hero, a Times correspondent, walks to execution with a firm step, defying the Emperor of China and his mandarins with the words, "La Hangleterre il était le première nation du monde."
The lecture over, I had retired with the chairman to the committee-room. Immediately after, a lady presented herself at the door and asked the chairman to introduce me to her.
After the usual salutations and compliments, the worthy lady said to me pointblank:
"You are not a Frenchman; I knew you were an Englishman."
"I am afraid the compliment is a little exaggerated," I responded; "certainly you cannot make me believe that I speak English so well as to pass for an Englishman."
"Oh! that is not it," she said; "but at the end of your lecture you gave us a French quotation with a very strong English accent."
I begged the lady to excuse me, as "I had a train to catch."
CHAPTER XIII
Drollery of Scotch Phraseology. – A Scotchman who Lost his Head. – Two Severe Wounds. – Premature Death. – A Neat Comparison. – Cold Comfort.
I have spoken in a preceding chapter of the picturesque manner in which the Scotch people of the old school express themselves. Here are two or three examples which will well illustrate what I mean.
I one day made the acquaintance of an old Scotch soldier. He had been present at the battle of Waterloo, and was fond of talking about the Napoleonic wars.
I started his favourite topic.
He described the battle of Waterloo to me with the most remarkable clearness. It was even touching to hear him give the details of the death of one of his comrades whose head had been shot off by a cannon-ball.
"Poor fellow," he added, "he will have to appear at the Last Day with his head under his arm."
"Were you ever wounded, yourself?" I asked.
"Yes," replied the old Scot with an imperturbable seriousness which made it impossible to suppose that he intended a joke; "I received two wounds – one at Quatre-Bras and the other in the right leg."
I once had a long conversation with an old lady of eighty-two, whose grandfather had served, in his youth, under Bonnie Prince Charlie. She related to me all the wonderful adventures of her ancestor, and when she had come to the end, added, with a gravity that was sublime:
"He's deed noo."
The conversation of these Scots of the old school is full of surprises. You must be ready for anything. In the very middle of the most pathetic story, out will come a remark that will make you shake with laughter. This drollery has all the more hold over you, because it is natural. The Scot is too natural to aim at being amusing, and it is just this simplicity, this naturalness, which disarms and overcomes you.
Donald has a way of looking at things which gives his remarks a piquancy that is irresistible: it almost takes your breath away sometimes, you feel quite floored.
A Scotch pastor was trying to give a farmer of his parish an idea of the delights which await us in Paradise.
"Yes, Donald," he cried, "it is a perpetual concert. There's Raphael singing, Gabriel accompanying him on the harp, and all the angels flapping their wings to express their joy. Oh, Donald, what a sublime sight! You cannot imagine anything like it."
"Ay, ay, but I can," interrupted Donald. "It is just like the geese flap their wings when we have had a lang droot, an' they see the rain a comin'."
In making this remark, nothing is further from Donald's intention than to make a joke, or be irreverent. He says it in all seriousness. It is in this that a great charm of the Scotch phraseology lies.
A friend of mine told me that he was once walking through a churchyard with a Scotchman, and feeling a fit of sneezing coming on, he remarked to his companion that he feared he had taken a cold.
"That's bad," replied the Scotchman, "but there's mony a ane here who wad be glad o 't."
CHAPTER XIV
Family Life – "Can I assist you?" – "No, I will assist myself, thank you." – Hospitality in good Society. – The Friends of Friends are Friends. – When the Visitors come to an End there are more to follow. – Good Society. – Women. – Men. – Conversation in Scotland. – A Touching little Scene.
The hospitality of the Scotch, the simplicity of their manners, and the authority which the father wields, give Scotch family life quite a patriarchal aspect.
The existence which the Scotch lead is a little morose in its austerity, but it becomes these cool, calm people, brought up in a religion that is the enemy of joyousness, and in a climate that induces sadness. Gaiety is produced by an agreeable sense of existence; it is the reflection of a generous sun in temperate climates.
Austerity banishes familiarity from family life and engenders constraint. I have seen Scotch homes where laughter is considered ill-bred, and the joyous shouts of children are repressed. I felt ill at ease there; that reserve inspired by an overdrawn sense of propriety paralysed my tongue, and I could only answer in monosyllables the monosyllabic remarks of my host and hostess. Happily nothing more elaborate was expected of me.
"Is this your first visit to Scotland?"
"No, I have had the pleasure of visiting Scotland several times."
"Our country must seem very dull to you after France."
"A little … but I live in England."
"Which do you like best, England or Scotland?"
"Oh! Scotland, certainly."
"It is very cold to-day."
"Yes, but not colder than usual."
Heaven be thanked! dinner is announced, and I offer my arm to the lady of the house.
It is a family dinner. My host has before him a fine joint of beef, there are two chicken in front of my hostess, and I am placed opposite a boiled ham. A pair of carvers, laid with my cover, tell me that I shall have to carve the ham which is here eaten with the chicken. The idea is excellent; but all at once, down go the heads almost to the tablecloth. My host looks at the chicken, at the ham, and lastly at the ribs of beef. His face clouds and, bending over the beef, he growls a few inarticulate words at it. It is not, as Mark Twain would say, that there is anything the matter with it, Scotch beef is the best in the world. These words, that I was unable to catch the sense of, were meant to invoke the blessing of Heaven on the repast: it was Grace before meat. Very right. I like the idea of thanking Heaven for its favours, but why the frown?
A servant stands behind his master's chair, another behind my hostess.
My host arms himself with his carving knife and fork and, without relaxing a muscle of his face, says to me:
"Can I assist you to a little beef?"
"No, thank you, I think I will take a little chicken."
"Can I assist you, my dear?" he said looking at his wife.
"No, thank you, I will assist myself," replies that lady.
"May I assist you to a slice of ham?" I ask, seeing her put the wing of a chicken on her plate.
"A very small piece, please."
When everyone is assisted, conversation resumes its little monosyllabic jog-trot, until the arrival of the puddings and sweets, when each of us again begins to propose to assist the other, and to think "We will take a little of this or that."
The sensation of needles and pins in your legs, the phraseology that consists in expressing one's thoughts by I think I will take a little tart, I do not think I will take any cheese, very little of this, a very small piece of that, when one feels hungry, those few moments of solemn suspense during which the company look at one another waiting for the hostess to rise – all these things give you cold shivers.
At last the ladies withdraw, the men are left to themselves, and you feel a little less restrained.
I had already been present at many little scenes of this kind in England, not in high society where one finds much ease and liveliness, but in a few middle-class houses among straight-laced people. The little scene which I have attempted to describe passed in a country mansion. Yet I cannot enumerate all the delicate attentions with which those kind Scotch people surrounded me during my short stay among them. In most of the Scotch houses where I had the honour of being entertained, I found a generous and considerate hospitality, a hospitality which was all the more agreeable for not being overpowering. No fuss, no noise, no frivolous politeness. On my arrival the master of the house explained to me the geography of his habitation.
"This is the smoking-room, this the library, here is the drawing-room, and there is your bedroom. And now, my dear sir, be at home, or get home."
That is the best kind of hospitality. The Scotchman puts all the resources of his house at your disposition and, in a really hospitable spirit, leaves you to use them according to your taste.
Several families I know of keep open house all the year round. The friends of friends are friends, and are always well received no matter at what hour they may make their appearance. Some will arrive in time for dinner, play a game of billiards and retire. At the breakfast table, the mistress of the house enquires of her husband how many guests he has, and he often finds it very difficult to answer her question.
I was very much amused one Sunday morning in one of these houses. The breakfast was on the table from nine to half-past twelve. The guests took as much sleep as they liked and came down when they pleased. When I thought they were all down there were more to come. They helped themselves to tea or coffee, and having boiled an egg over the fire, set down comfortably to their breakfast. Some had gone to church, others to the library to smoke, or to the park to take the air. Two only turned up at two o'clock to luncheon. I should not wonder if one or two stayed in bed all day, for I think I remember that, at dinner-time, I saw a face or two that looked to me like fresh acquaintances.
Good society is the same everywhere – like hotels, as Edmond About said. It is only a question of more or less manners in the first, and more or less fleas in the second.
In Scotland fleas are rare. They would starve on the skin of the Scotch men and are too well-mannered to attack that of the Scotch ladies.
As to good society it is no exception to the rule here.
To study the manners of the Scotch, as well as to study the manners of any other nation, you must mix with the middle classes, with the people above all, for they are the real repository of the traditions of the country. You must travel third-class; there is nothing to be learnt in first. For that matter, there is nothing alarming about that in Scotland, their third-class carriages are superior to our French seconds.
The Scotchwoman is pretty.
She has not the sparkling, piquant physiognomy of the Frenchwoman; she has not the beautiful clear grey eyes – those eyes so dreamy and tender – of the Irishwoman. But she looks more simple and reserved than her English sisters, although her manner is just as frank.
I have often admired Scotchwomen of a pronounced Celtic type. They have large eyes, dark and well shaped, with long lashes; their features are admirably regular, they are generally rather under middle height, with broad shoulders and perfectly proportioned sculptural lines.
Red hair is common in Scotland. One sees more of it in Edinburgh and Glasgow than in the whole of England; but the skin is so fine, the features are so delicate, the complexion so clear, that the little defect passes unperceived or forgiven.
The men are hard and sinewy.
In point of appearance I prefer the English and Irish men. Scotchmen are well fitted for the battle of life. They are useful to their country but hardly ornamental.
The Scotchman is absorbed in business. In his leisure moments he goes into politics or theology; he studies or takes outdoor exercise. He has little time to consecrate to women. He prefers the company of men.
The women are timid, the men reserved, and if you feel ready to undertake the burden of the conversation, you will be listened to in Scotland; but I cannot guarantee that you will be appreciated. Your words are criticised, examined, and sifted, and when you flatter yourself with the sweet thought that you have given your host a high idea of your conversational powers, you will often only have succeeded in making a fool of yourself in their eyes.
Never try to entertain the Scotch. Rather hear what they have to say. Reply to their questions; but if you would inspire them with respect, be sober in your speech, and above all avoid dogmatising. Leave the door of discussion always open, so that each member of the company may enter easily. Many Frenchmen have the bad habit of dogmatising, as if their verdicts were without appeal. This habit is an outcome of our frank, impulsive character; but the Scotch would be slow in appreciating it.
When a Scotchman asked me – which he invariably did – what were my political opinions, I answered him that a monarchy has its good points, and a republic has incontestable advantages. That allowed each one to express himself freely upon the two forms of government, and instead of entertaining them, I listened, which was infinitely more prudent, and perhaps also more profitable for me.
I have several times been a witness of very touching little scenes in Scotland, which proved to me that there are hearts of gold to be found under the rough surfaces of Scotchmen.
Here is one among many; it is a reminiscence of my visit in a country seat not far from Edinburgh.
"I want to introduce you to an old lady, who wishes very much to make your acquaintance," said my host to me one day.
"Who is the lady?" I asked.
"It is an old servant who has been in the family more than eighty years. It was she who brought up my father, myself, and my children. She is ninety-eight years old to-day, and with our care we hope to see her live to a hundred."
We went upstairs, and on the third floor we entered a little suite of apartments, consisting of two most comfortable rooms, a bedroom and a little parlour. There we found the old lady, sitting in an arm-chair, and having a chat with one of the young ladies of the house.
"Janet," said my host, "I bring you our friend who wishes to present his respects to you."
"I am no as active as I was," said the good old soul to me, "but I am wonderfu' weel for my age. I shall soon be a hundred years of age."
"Nonsense," said my host kissing his old nurse, "who told you that? You have forgotten how to count, Janet; don't get absurd ideas into your head."
"We never leave her alone," he said to me; "my wife and daughters take it in turn to pass the day with her and amuse her. They bring their needlework and help poor old Janet to forget time."
I looked around me. The walls were covered with drawings and a thousand ornaments that only the heart of woman knows how to invent. Never a good dish came on the table without Janet having her share. At night all the family met in her little parlour for prayers and Bible reading.
I shook hands with the old servant and went away greatly touched.
"She is no longer a servant," said my host to me; "she has property, and all the household call her the old lady. She will be buried with us. I have already seen to the carrying out of her wishes on this subject. She wants to lie at the feet of the family, and has begged to have her grave made across the foot of ours. So I have bought a piece of ground next to our vault, and Janet's desire is to be carried out. We hope to keep her many years yet; we shall all miss her when she is gone."
All this was said without apparent emotion, without the least ostentation.
"Well," I said to myself, "in Scotland more than anywhere one must not judge people by their exterior."
CHAPTER XV
Little Sketches of Family Life in Scotland. – The Scotchman of "John Bull and his Island." – Painful Explanations. – As a Father I love you, as a Customer I take you in. – A Good Investment. – Killing two Birds with one Stone. – A Young Man in a Hurry.
What letters of recrimination I received on the subject of a certain Scotchman presented to the readers of John Bull and His Island! What downpours!
Some accused me of caricaturing, some of imposture. Others, with more delicacy, hinted that I should do better at novel writing than at impressions de voyage.
For a month my letter-box was besieged, and at each rat-tat of the postman I used to say to myself: "One more indignant Scotchman."
After all, what had I done to draw down such thunders?
Here is the offending passage:
"A young literary Scotchman of my acquaintance generally passes a month once a year in the house of his father on the outskirts of Edinburgh. His father is a Presbyterian minister in a very enviable position. On the day of his departure, my friend invariably finds beside his plate at breakfast, a little paper carefully folded: it is the detailed account of the repasts he has taken during his stay under the paternal roof; in other words, his bill."
I never pretended to say that this kind of father was common in Scotland. I did not say I knew of two such fathers, I said I knew of one.
The Scotch have not yet digested my delicious Papa. In all parts of Scotland I was taken to task in the same manner.
"Come, come, my dear sir, own that it was not true, confess that it was a little bit of your own invention."
"His name, what is his name?" cried a few indiscreet ones.
I convinced a few, a few remained undecided; I even saw two or three go away still firmly believing the story was a creation of my brain.
I can only say that my friend did not appear to grumble at his father's treatment, for he finished by adding:
"On the whole, I do not complain, the bill is always very reasonable."
For that matter, I have come across a better case still.
I know of a Scotch father who bought a house for a thousand pounds and sold it to his son, six months later, for twelve hundred.
That is not all.
The son had not the money in hand, and it was the father who advanced the cash – at five per cent.
Considering the price money is at nowadays, it was an investment to be proud of.
Do not imagine that the father ran the least risk of losing the capital: he took a mortgage on the house.
The son, seeing that the money had been advanced to him at high interest, paid off his father as quickly as he could. He is now his own landlord, and Papa is on the look-out for another good investment.
I should pity the reader, even were he a Scotchman as seen through Sydney Smith's spectacles, if he took this Caledonian for a typical portrait of the Scotch father.
At the beginning of this volume, I compared the Scot to the Norman, and I may say that I have witnessed, in Normandy, little scenes of family life which are quite a match for those I have just described. But the actors in them were peasants.
I am indebted to a doctor in the neighbourhood of Aberdeen for the following anecdote:
"I was one day called to the bedside of an old farmer who was dangerously ill," said the doctor to me. "On leaving the patient's room, I took his son aside and told him that it was useless for me to deceive him as to the state of his father, and that I very much feared he had not an hour to live, or, at the best, could not outlast the day."
"'Are you quite sure?' said the son, scrutinising me keenly.
"'I am only too sure,' I replied.
"I shook the young man's hands and drove away. I had scarcely been at home an hour, when a little cart drew up before my door. I saw the young farmer alight from it and, a minute later, he entered my consulting room. He held his cap in his hand, twisting it uneasily.
"'Is your father worse?' I asked.
"'No, doctor, just the same. I have come, because I had a little business in town … and I wanted to ask you at the same time… Well, I thought that perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me Father's certificate of death now… As you say it is certain he won't pull through the day, I suppose you don't mind whether it is to-day or to-morrow that you give it me, and it will save me the trouble of coming in again on purpose.'
"It was all I could do to make the young fellow understand that I could not sign the certificate of death of a man who was still alive.
"The old farmer died next morning at nine o'clock.
"At ten, the son came to announce the news and to ask me for the certificate."