20 A Town of Contrasts
"I would be overjoyed," announced Jacques, striding down the High
Street, "to find a tavern with the arms of Wallace, the Three-Cranes or the
Coat-of-Arms of Southwark. A little local colour would contribute a great deal
to our lunch."
"No objection; but let's be sure we do find lunch, whether or not it's
under a picturesque sign."
Locating food outside the hotels is difficult in Edinburgh. There are no
Paris-style restaurants, and the rare taverns don't display the least
sign-board. But at long last, and with a great deal of patience, the starving
tourists discovered a sort of coffee-house in front of the Tron Kirk; and there,
for a very modest sum, feasted on cold meat and Scottish ale. Jonathan would
have liked to try out a few fresh eggs, but couldn't make himself understood, as
he didn't know what the English for à la coque was.
After their substantial meal, Jacques came back to his earlier idea concerning
the mountain seen from his window — and Jonathan had to go along. They
descended the High Street towards Holyrood Palace, via the long working-class
thoroughfare described by Scott in such graphic detail in The Abbot; and then
crossed North and South Bridges, whose gigantic arches link the three hills of
the capital. At the southern limits they could see the university, built on the
site of the house that the Earl of Bothwell blew up, Darnley's body with it.
One cannot take a step in Edinburgh without meeting the living traces of Mary
Queen of Scots, or being surrounded by Walter Scott's poignant ruins. The High
Street is re-baptised the Netherbow, and passes the house of the great reformer
John Knox. He was the only man to resist the smiles of the Queen, and was thus
able to die peacefully in his bed, on the 24th of November 1572. The Netherbow
finally becomes the Canongate, that ancient street which once used to be the
whole town.
This is the most poverty-stricken area — and the closest to the royal palace.
Naked children, barefoot girls and women dressed in rags, beggars with hats,
cross paths, collide, drag themselves along, creep with their starving faces
beneath the high tenements. And yet, in the midst of this rickety population, in
this contaminated air so favourable to epidemics, on these heavy, muddy cobbles,
at the end of these "closes", dark, damp, infected passage-ways
leading to disgusting slums, the visitor can climb down the step-less stairs
into the two surrounding ravines — and thus find the terrible poetry of Old
Scotland.
Waverley lodged here when he arrived in Edinburgh for the first time, and the
tailor sewed for him here the famous battle-tartan that Widow Flockhart admired
so much. Here in all probability the Highlanders discharged their guns to
celebrate the Young Pretender's victory, with Flora Mac-Ivor almost being hit by
an enthusiastic bullet. The Canongate can be compared with nowhere else; it is
unique in this world, with its street stalls, its shops, its signs grating on
iron chains, its overhanging eaves, the prison clock which hangs a disconsolate
face over the street, the stalls still standing from the ancient inns —
everything gives it a character that only Delacroix's brush could convey. In
this street, almost everywhere in fact, there seem to be more women than men. It
is because there are very few men-servants in Edinburgh; whereas domestics and
chambermaids, decked out in their mistresses' old hats, throng here, filling the
streets.
At the approach to Holyrood Palace, the street gets wider. One passes a
hospital, and then the Canongate Kirk with its prominent graveyard. The building
itself is without grace or presence. It displays all the splendours of
Renaissance Gothic, and hence an inferior purity of style. But it did appear to
the two friends so delicately elaborate, so patiently worked, so freshly
blooming, that it was a pleasure for the eyes. It seemed to have sprouted there
in a single summer night, like a flower from the tropics.
Jacques and Jonathan headed for Holyrood, guarded by soldiers still wearing the
traditional Scottish costume: kilts of thick green material, checked plaids and
goatskin bags with long hairs hanging down over the laps. Being a little short
of time, they merely admired the four large crenellated towers making the
façade look medieval. Except for the ruined chapel with its Gothic arches
behind the palace, it is impossible to know which parts are new or restored.
Despite the fatal events and high crimes that occurred inside, despite the
tragic memories of Mary Queen of Scots' love for poor Rizzio, this ancient
residence does not have a sad and lugubrious air, rather the opposite. One could
imagine a small pleasure-château which has kept its feudal character by some
whim of the owner. Only a deposed king, like Charles X of France, would not have
felt a deep peace there, without regrets about the past, without worries for the
future.
" `Holyrood, Holyrood' (Victor Hugo). And now for the mountain."
"It looks a bit steep. Perhaps we should ask whether there's a gentler
path?"
"Not on your life. We head straight up. Forward march!"
Jacques dashed into the Queen's Park, on the right of the palace. A regiment of
cavalry was exercising. Their shining weapons and red uniforms produced a
delightful effect amongst this countryside. A few trees shaded the shores of a
small lake, in fact little more than a pond, bathing the feet of the hills.
Jacques couldn't help thinking about the scenes from Waverley, on this very
spot, where Bonnie Prince Charlie's army had assembled. Its tartans waved in the
wind, its plumes rippled, its unfolded banners displayed the rallying cries of
the Clauronalds, the Macfarlanes, the Tullibardines, the Gordons. In the middle
stood the Prince's standard, with its motto Tandem triumphans ["Victory in
the end"]. Shortly afterwards, it would be vindicated at the Battle of
Prestonpans.
Loud explosions rang out at regular intervals, echoing from the mountain hollows
on the right. A company of riflemen in dark costumes were practising with
precision rifles. Little by little, climbing up the surrounding hillocks, the
travellers took in the mountain. But Jacques had sworn not to turn round until
he had got to the top of the longed-for summit.
First they had to cross Victoria Drive, a magnificent circular avenue that Scott
claimed to have built merely by writing a few lines in The Heart of Midlothian.
He paints an enchanting picture of the paths that wind up under Salisbury Crags.
These crags form the lower foundations of Arthur's Seat, which Jacques was now
climbing. It is nearly a thousand feet high, but he never fully believed this,
for it seemed three hundred feet at the most. Unaccustomed to this sort of
panorama, he was to suffer later from similar disappointments. At long last,
well ahead of poor out-of-breath Jonathan, he got to the top — covered in
sweat, unable to breathe and missing heart-beats. He closed his eyes and turned
round.
His amazed eyes had never seen such a wonderful spectacle before. The solitary
head of Arthur's Seat dominated the surrounding hills; at its feet was laid out
a perspective of all Edinburgh, with the modern developments and parallel
streets of the New Town, the confusing heaps of houses and the strange networks
of Auld Reekie. Two landmarks dominated the view, the Castle on its basalt rock
and Calton Hill bearing on its rounded rump the ruins of a Greek temple.
Magnificent tree-lined avenues lead out from the capital city. To the north, the
estuary of the Firth of Forth cuts deep into the land and opens up the Port of
Leith. Further on winds the harmonious coast of the Kingdom of Fife, and in the
east lies the immensity of the open sea, always calm and blue from these
heights. As Charles Nodier says, an avenue as straight as the road to Pireus
runs from this New Athens to the North Sea. The far-off peak of Ben Lomond
stands out to the west, and on the right extend the beaches and bathing
facilities of Newhaven and Portobello.
The pen cannot convey this awe-inspiring scene. Jacques was silent, gripped by
that hushed emotion produced by nature's most magnificent displays. Jonathan had
joined him, and shared his mute admiration. They remained a long while without
moving while the sea-wind bathed them in its penetrating scents.
"Let's go, let's go now. Otherwise we'll never be able to leave this
spellbinding spectacle. Come on, Jonathan."
They had approached Arthur's Seat up its steepest slope. A slower path wound
down the other side; young girls were climbing up it, pink and giggling,
laughing and shouting: "Och, mae laegs, mae poo-oor laegs!" Jonathan,
proud to understand, gave them his friendliest smile.
While working his way down the mountain, he had the idea of going for a bathe at
Portobello; so, with Jacques on his heels, he headed off across the countryside.
Half an hour later they were at the seaside.
Portobello is a cluster of houses along a fine beach. Where does this Italianate
name come from, amongst the hard Gaelic syllables? Jonathan could only explain
it by the presence at the Queen's court of the singer Rizzio and his companions.
There on the yellow sand could be seen the bathing activities made popular by
the illustrated magazines. Large numbers of families spent the hottest hours of
the day there; while the children played, the maids and governesses watched over
their games and the mothers and charming young misses vanished into the sea. The
men bathed about ten yards away from the women. A cabin on wheels took them
beyond the first waves.
"That's British modesty for you! In France we don't have this sort of
segregation."
"It's a shame, a terrible shame. But when in Rome . . ."
They entered two cabins. After a few moments came a cry.
"Jonathan, please ask the gentleman for swimming-costumes."
"H'm, it's a bit difficult, I don't know the right word."
"Try sign-language."
Jonathan called the man over. But despite all his efforts, he couldn't get
anything out of him.
"We're in a fine pickle, Jonathan. Why didn't he understand you?"
"It's ridiculous, he's as stubborn as a Breton male!"
"But we can't . . ."
The words froze on his lips. Through the slightly-open door, he had just caught
sight of a magnificent male bather, a pure-blooded Briton, slowly and gracefully
emerging from the water, in the most perfect nakedness . . .
"Um, take a look."
Jonathan was flabbergasted. Other bathers were coming back out, with as little
clothing on as the first, and not paying any more attention to the women and
girls on the beach!
The two friends hesitated no longer. They ran up to the first breaker and dived
into it without a backwards look.
"So much for British modesty," said Jacques, shaking the water out of
his hair.
"Anything else, I'm sure, would be most frightfully infra dig."
The water seemed a little cool to men who a few days before had been swimming in
the Bay of Arcachon. Accordingly, after a certain amount of hesitation at
returning to their cabins in this primitive state, perhaps understandable, they
emerged from the bitter swell backwards, braving the young ladies' amusement at
their awkward posture and hasty retreat.