Penelope's Experiences in Scotland. Wiggin Kate Douglas Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ as formal and hackneyed now as they were in the olden time, when some of the favourite toasts were ‘May the pleasure of the evening bear the reflections of the morning!’ ‘May the friends of our youth be the companions of our old age!’ ‘May the honest heart never feel distress!’ ‘May the hand of charity wipe the eye of sorrow!’”

      “I can never do it in the world!” I ejaculated. “Oh, one ought never, never to leave one’s own country! A light-minded and cynical English gentleman told me that I should frequently be called upon to read hymns and recite verses of Scripture at family dinners in Edinburgh, and I hope I am always prepared to do that; but nobody warned me that I should have to evolve epigrammatic sentiments on the spur of the moment.”

      My confusion was so evident that the good dean relented and confessed that he was imposing upon my ignorance. He made me laugh heartily at the story of a poor dominie at Arndilly. He was called upon in his turn, at a large party, and having nothing to aid him in an exercise to which he was new save the example of his predecessors, lifted his glass after much writhing and groaning and gave, “The reflection of the moon in the cawm bosom of the lake!”

      At this moment Lady Baird glanced at me, and we all rose to go into the drawing-room; but on the way from my chair to the door, whither the earl escorted me, he said gallantly, “I suppose the men in your country do not take champagne at dinner? I cannot fancy their craving it when dining beside an American woman!”

      That was charming, though he did pay my country a compliment at my expense. One likes, of course, to have the type recognised as fine; at the same time his remark would have been more flattering if it had been less sweeping.

      When I remember that he offered me his ancestors, asked me to drive two hundred and eighty miles, and likened me to champagne, I feel that, with my heart already occupied and my hand promised, I could hardly have accomplished more in the course of a single dinner-hour.

      Chapter VII. Francesca meets th’ unconquer’d Scot

      Francesca’s experiences were not so fortunate; indeed, I have never seen her more out of sorts than she was during our long chat over the fire, after our return to Breadalbane Terrace.

      “How did you get on with your delightful minister?” inquired Salemina of the young lady, as she flung her unoffending wrap over the back of a chair. “He was quite the handsomest man in the room; who is he?”

      “He is the Reverend Ronald Macdonald, and the most disagreeable, condescending, ill-tempered prig I ever met!”

      “Why, Francesca!” I exclaimed. “Lady Baird speaks of him as her favourite nephew, and says he is full of charm.”

      “He is just as full of charm as he was when I met him,” returned the girl nonchalantly; “that is, he parted with none of it this evening. He was incorrigibly stiff and rude, and oh! so Scotch! I believe if one punctured him with a hat-pin, oatmeal would fly into the air!”

      “Doubtless you acquainted him, early in the evening, with the immeasurable advantages of our sleeping-car system, the superiority of our fast-running elevators, and the height of our buildings?” observed Salemina.

      “I mentioned them,” Francesca answered evasively.

      “You naturally inveighed against the Scotch climate?”

      “Oh, I alluded to it; but only when he said that our hot summers must be insufferable.”

      “I suppose you repeated the remark you made at luncheon, that the ladies you had seen in Princes Street were excessively plain?”

      “Yes, I did!” she replied hotly; “but that was because he said that American girls generally looked bloodless and frail. He asked if it were really true that they ate chalk and slate pencils. Wasn’t that unendurable? I answered that those were the chief solid article of food, but that after their complexions were established, so to speak, their parents often allowed them pickles and native claret to vary the diet.”

      “What did he say to that?” I asked.

      “Oh, he said, ‘Quite so, quite so’; that was his invariable response to all my witticisms. Then when I told him casually that the shops looked very small and dark and stuffy here, and that there were not as many tartans and plaids in the windows as we had expected, he remarked that as to the latter point, the American season had not opened yet! Presently he asserted that no royal city in Europe could boast ten centuries of such glorious and stirring history as Edinburgh. I said it did not appear to be stirring much at present, and that everything in Scotland seemed a little slow to an American; that he could have no idea of push or enterprise until he visited a city like Chicago. He retorted that, happily, Edinburgh was peculiarly free from the taint of the ledger and the counting-house; that it was Weimar without a Goethe, Boston without its twang!”

      “Incredible!” cried Salemina, deeply wounded in her local pride. “He never could have said ‘twang’ unless you had tried him beyond measure!”

      “I dare say I did; he is easily tried,” returned Francesca. “I asked him, sarcastically, if he had ever been in Boston. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it is not necessary to GO there! And while we are discussing these matters,’ he went on, ‘how is your American dyspepsia these days,—have you decided what is the cause of it?’

      “‘Yes, we have,’ said I, as quick as a flash; ‘we have always taken in more foreigners than we could assimilate!’ I wanted to tell him that one Scotsman of his type would upset the national digestion anywhere, but I restrained myself.”

      “I am glad you did restrain yourself—once,” exclaimed Salemina. “What a tactful person the Reverend Ronald must be, if you have reported him faithfully! Why didn’t you give him up, and turn to your other neighbour?”

      “I did, as soon as I could with courtesy; but the man on my left was the type that always haunts me at dinners; if the hostess hasn’t one on her visiting-list she imports one for the occasion. He asked me at once of what material the Brooklyn Bridge is made. I told him I really didn’t know. Why should I? I seldom go over it. Then he asked me whether it was a suspension bridge or a cantilever. Of course I didn’t know; I am not an engineer.”

      “You are so tactlessly, needlessly candid,” I expostulated. “Why didn’t you say boldly that the Brooklyn Bridge is a wooden cantilever, with gutta-percha braces? He didn’t know, or he wouldn’t have asked you. He couldn’t find out until he reached home, and you would never have seen him again; and if you had, and he had taunted you, you could have laughed vivaciously and said you were chaffing. That is my method, and it is the only way to preserve life in a foreign country. Even my earl, who did not thirst for information (fortunately), asked me the population of the Yellowstone Park, and I simply told him three hundred thousand, at a venture.”

      “That would never have satisfied my neighbour,” said Francesca. “Finding me in such a lamentable state of ignorance, he explained the principle of his own stupid Forth Bridge to me. When I said I understood perfectly, just to get into shallower water, where we wouldn’t need any bridge, the Reverend Ronald joined in the conversation, and asked me to repeat the explanation to him. Naturally I couldn’t, and he knew that I couldn’t when he asked me, so the bridge man (I don’t know his name, and don’t care to know it) drew a diagram of the national idol on his dinner-card and gave a dull and elaborate lecture upon it. Here is the card, and now that three hours have intervened I cannot tell which way to turn the drawing so as to make the bridge right side up; if there is anything puzzling in the world, it is these architectural plans and diagrams. I am going to pin it to the wall and ask the Reverend Ronald which way it goes.”

      “Do СКАЧАТЬ