19 Edinburgh, First Impressions
From the station, they took a cab to Lambret's Hotel in Princes Street, as
recommended. The wide but poorly-lit roads were quite steep. In Princes Street
itself, the houses were relatively low on the left, with on the right the
railings of huge gardens and high masses hidden in the darkness.
The travellers were welcomed by a Frenchman, Monsieur Lambret, the manager of
the hotel. They were given separate rooms, reached by the most illogical
staircase ever invented: British staircases are invariably like this, making it
very easy to get lost. The rooms were mean and shabby, rather like old-fashioned
hotels in the French provinces, in Amiens or Blois.
Having dropped off their luggage, and left their keys in the doors as is usual,
Jacques and then Jonathan went down to a fine parlour where an ample supper was
served: cold roast beef and ham, together with two pints of an excellent
Scottish ale, foaming in silver mugs emblazoned with the city arms.
Jacques devoured the food, the first since the early lunch in Liverpool. His
supper continued longer than Jonathan's, who spent the time contemplating a huge
wall-map of Scotland; at about 1 am, they retired. Before going to sleep,
Jacques couldn't resist opening the window overlooking Princes Street. The rain
was pouring down through total darkness, and nothing was visible except a huge
empty space with a large number of luminous points at a great height above it.
Jacques couldn't understand the phenomenon, and fell asleep still searching for
a reason.
At the first rays of the sun, he jumped out of bed, as Jonathan knocked on the
door. He rushed out onto the balcony. Princes Street, a wide and magnificent
thoroughfare, stretched before his eyes; on the right, above superb gardens,
stood a large hill, carrying on its crest Edinburgh Castle. In front of him,
over a railway station, huge houses erected their ten storeys, each covered with
windows. This panorama included the whole of the Old Town perched on the high
hill which fell away to the left. Above it, on the horizon, could be seen a
mountain peak.
"Our first excursion."
"Hardly. We're going to work our way round the heart of the city. We'll
have lunch somewhere, and then embark on that rather stiff climb."
Jacques gave in, and the two friends went out, with the day apparently going to
be fine.
Princes Street lies in a narrow hollow between the Old and New Towns. It has no
tributaries from the left, but runs alongside the station and the public gardens
with their magnificent lawns halfway along the street. A 150-foot-high structure
is visible, displaying the countless flowerings of flamboyant Gothic on its
cornices, its numerous pinnacle turrets and its sharp spire. This is the
Monument to Sir Walter Scott. The statue of the great writer, sitting in a
pensive attitude, is situated at the middle of a low platform, under the arches
of a ribbed vault. This statue of white marble is famous: it shows the eminent
novelist with fine and intelligent features. The monument, much too big for its
purpose, is adorned with a large number of statues of Scott's memorable heroes:
in the four alcoves of the lower section one can see, but not necessarily
admire, the Lady of the Lake, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Meg Merrilies and the Last
Minstrel.
The street continues between the gardens and a row of low buildings, nearly all
for travellers, the Queen's Hotel, Gibb's Royal Hotel, Caledonian Hotel and
Campbell's North British Hotel. The Royal Academy in Greek style and the
National Gallery in Etruscan style stand with gardens on both sides. All these
structures, of varying degrees of artistic merit, are entirely completed and
maintained with care — as always in England and Scotland. None of those
half-finished cornices, those toothing stones — some of them very long in the
tooth — none of that disgraceful scaffolding which rots away before the work
is even finished.