These forensick displays of poor Lachlan had turned our thoughts back to our nearly forgotten theatricals. We amused ourselves in the shrubbery re-acting several of our favourite scenes in Macbeth. My father coming upon us one day proposed that, as we were so well acquainted with Shakespeare in tragedy, we should try our hands on his Comedy, and if we liked he would prepare his own favourite for us ‘As you like it.’ We were delighted. He set to work, and leaving out objectionable passages and unnecessary scenes, made the prettiest three act drama of this pretty play. We learned our parts out among the birch wooding on the Ord Ban, selecting for our stage, when we had made progress enough to arrive at rehearsals, a beautiful spot upon a shoulder of the hill not so far from Kainapool, about a couple of miles from the Doune, so that we had a good walk to it all along the river side, through the planting. Still, though charmed with Rosalind and Celia, we could not bear giving up our older friends; we therefore persuaded my father to curtail Macbeth, and allow us to act both, before him and a select audience, as soon as ever William should come home for the holidays. We could not have got on without him, he and Jane being our stars. Little fat Miss Elphick, too, must play her part. She had gradually abandoned the strict disciplinarian style, and had become in many respects as latitudinarian as her Celtick nurtured pupils could desire. In this case, moreover, personal vanity had a large share in her gracious demeanour. She imagined herself handsome, graceful, and an actress—Mrs Jordan6 beautified, and from having heard her read she had caught, my mother said, some of the tone of that wonderful woman’s style. The part she chose for herself in ‘As you like it’ was Rosalind, and a vulgar Rosalind she made, exaggerating the very points an elegant mind would have softened, for Rosalind is somewhat more pen than even a ‘saucy lacquey’7 need have been, a little forward, and not over delicate. Mrs Harry Siddons8 refined her into the most exquisite piece of gay impulsive womanhood, a very Princess of romance. Poor Miss Elphick brought her up from the servants’ hall. We thought her queer looking in her doublet and hose, but Belleville, who was a good judge of such matters, having finished his education behind the scenes in the theatres, declared that she was finely limbed, had a leg fit for the buskin, with an eye and a voice that would have made her fortune had she followed the profession. She was very much pleased with herself, took a deal of trouble about her dress and her hair—a crop—and the proper placing of her hat and feather, and she knew her part perfectly.
Jane was a very gentlemanly Orlando, William a first rate Jaques; there never was a better, he looked the character, felt it, for in his young days William was cynical, turned his nose up habitually, very different from his pleased tranquillity now. I did both the Duke and Celia, was a stiff Duke and a lively Celia, roused her up a bit although we gave her no lover, left out all that. But the Actor in this pretty Comedy was Mary—dull, listless Mary. She chose the pan herself, and would have no other, and any thing equal to her Touchstone my father and Belleville solemnly declared they had never seen. Her humour, her voice, her manner, her air, her respectful fun to her ladies, her loving patronage of her Audrey, Anne Cameron, a very nice looking girl, the whole conception of the character was marvellous in a child of ten years of age. And she broke upon us suddenly, for in all our rehearsals her stupidity had been remarkable. She acted like a lump of lead. She never knew her part, every other word she was prompted, and when my father tried to put some life into her by reading to her as he wished her to speak, he made little of it; but how well she remembered. On the night of the play her acting was perfect. Johnny said it was the port wine, a large jug of which mixed with water stood in our green room, the upper part of the thrashing mill, and was dispensed in proper quantities by Miss Elphick between the Acts. Johnny affirmed that to this jug Touchstone applied at sundry unauthorised times, as he, in his capacity of third Lord, a very small one, attending on the forest Duke, had opportunities of discovering during his retirement behind the fanners, as he was seldom required upon the stage. The other Lords were represented by Jane McIntosh, and James and Eneas Cameron, and Caroline the french girl; by the help of caps and feathers and famous long boar spears they grouped remarkably well.
We grew so fond of our Comedy, Macbeth was thought less of. We acted it first, Jane and William surpassing themselves. Mary was Banquo, Miss Elphick the King, Mary was Hecate, and the witches and the Company at the Banquet were the same as did the Forest Lords, for we had each to play many parts. They were obliged to make me Lady Macbeth, a part I don t think it possible I could have done well, though my father took infinite pains with me. I was told I looked extremely handsome in black velvet and point lace, a dress the real Lady Macbeth would have opened her eyes at. All the people called out ‘Preach, preach,’ pronounced pree-ak, when, thus arrayed and with a long train, the Thane’s wife came forward with her letter; a very gratifying sound to one, who had been hitherto considered the plainest of the family. Even Grace Baillie, the most obliging creature in the world, could only force herself to say, when contemplating the pale thin object presented to her, ‘Eliza will be very lady like.’ This was during the milk breakfast season. It is astonishing what a difference a fitter dish made. Grace Baillie was more polite to me than the great Joanna Baillie’s9 little old sister was to my cousin Anne Frere at Hampstead. Some one remarking how like Anne was to my Aunt, her mother, ‘never mind my dear,’ said this kind meaning old lady, ‘it is better to be good than to be handsome‘—and my Aunt sitting there, excellent as that dear good Aunt was, she did not quite like that story. While I was extremely vain of my ‘pre-ach,’ ‘bonnie,’ and they were judges of both beauty and merit, our highlanders, they were charmed with William’s Macduff, applauded him after their fashion vehemently, many of the women bursting into tears; Jenny Dairy wetted her apron through ‘to see puir Mr William greeting for his wife and family.’
We had a large audience. All our particular friends, Belleville, Mrs and Miss Macpherson, Camerons from the Croft, McIntoshes from the Dell, and Mr Alexander Grant from Garmouth. These were the select, on the front benches. Behind were John and Betty Campbell from the Dell of Killi-huntly up in Badenoch—the farm they had taken on leaving our service—McKenzie and Mrs McKenzie, once Mrs Lynch, from their inn at Aviemore, and all our own servants. Our theatre was pan of the granary, decorated by ourselves with old carpets, old curtains, green boughs, and plenty of candles. We made all our own dresses, Anne Cameron and Jane McIntosh assisting; and as the old black trunk in the long garret was made over to us, we had my grandmother’s blue and silver, and yellow satin, and flowered silks, and heaps of embroidered waistcoats, scarfs and handkerchiefs, all of which we turned to account.
One peculiarity of this acting was that we became so attached to the characters we could not bear to think ill of them. We excused every body for every act, with the exception of Lady Macbeth; we could in no way get her out of the scrape of the murder, till we stumbled in Holinshed’s chronicles10 on the story as told in his times. Even then we could not approve of her, but judging of her by the morals of her age, we almost justified her for getting rid of a wicked cruel king, whose conduct to her and hers had been so ferocious. We quite forgot we were only shifting the saddle. We were like the biographers who always become so enamoured of their subjects they can never see their faults. We had also to make out the locality of the forest of Ardennes, and we settled it to our perfect satisfaction near Hainault; the principality or duchy from which the two Dukes came eluded our researches.
The next stirring event was another alteration, a final one it proved, of the principal Staircase, the painting and papering of all that new part of the house, and the fitting up of the drawing room as a Library. We had lived so long with doors and shutters of plain deal, cane backed chairs and sofas, common Scotch carpeting, etc., that the chilly atmosphere of our half furnished apartments never struck us as requiring improvement. My mother had long wished for a little more comfort round her, and the books having accumulated quite beyond the study shelves my fat
her determined on removing them; he gave himself great credit for his tact in the choice of his bookcases; they were all made of the fir from his forest, picked pieces of course, highly varnished so as to resemble satinwood and relieved by black mouldings. The room was large, very lofty, and really looked well when finished, but it was a work of time. All summer and all autumn and part of the winter the various jobs were going on, and in the middle of the bustle we caught the measles, sickened one after the other, we four who had hitherto escaped—and no Doctor in the country, for tall Mr Stuart from Grantown, eighteen miles off, who used to attend every one on Speyside, was dead. He was a retired Army Surgeon who had settled in Strathspey on the chance of practice, skilful enough for ordinary cases in his line, medical aid being little wanted. Herbs and such simples cured the generality, and we had my grandfather’s medicine chest administered very sagaciously by my father. He did not like undertaking the measles, then considered a serious complaint, so he sent to Inverness for Dr Ponton. He paid two very expensive visits, and we all got well.
Just at this time there dropped from the moon into the village of Kingussie a miserable looking man in a well worn tartan jacket, with a handsome wife, somewhat older than himself, and several children. They arrived from Lochaber in an old gig, a small cart following with luggage and a short supply of furniture and they hired the room over Peter McPherson’s new shop. This man announced himself as Dr Smith, brother to a clever man of the same name in the west, near Fort William. He had been some weeks there, creeping into a little practice among the neighbours, before we heard of him. A poor woman in Rothiemurchus died in childbed, her case was one of difficulty and there being no skilful aid at hand, she died. The woman usually employed on these occasions had no way failed in attention but she had not been equal to the circumstances. This unhappy event determined my father to look out for a Doctor, and he went up to speak to Belleville about it. They also held an inquiry into the causes of the accident, and Dr Smith was brought forward to give his professional testimony, Belleville having heard him spoken of. His knowledge, his intelligence, his general information amazed them; here was the very man they wanted. Accordingly it was resolved to try him for a year. The Marquis of Huntly, the Duke of Gordon, and Ballindalloch were written to. Poor Balnespick was away; he had gone ill to Cheltenham, where he died. And the regular subscription for the care of the poor being immediately provided, this poor clever man was at once relieved from the fear of starvation, and had the hope besides of illness among the upper classes that would pay him better. He began with us, for we all took ill again, an illness no one could make any thing of; all the symptoms of measles, and measles we had just recovered from; yet measles it was and Mary and I had them very severely; her cough gave us great anxiety with winter approaching. Dr Ponton was again sent for, on her account, but his grave pomposity suggested no change from Dr Smith’s treatment, and so with another heavy fee he took leave of us.
After the measles Dr Smith appeared no more in the old tartan jacket. A neat cloth coat and a pair of serviceable trowsers replaced the very shabby suit and though he still preferred walking to any other exercise, twenty or even thirty miles a day being a common thing with him, he neither looked so pale nor so worn as when he had first shewn himself at the Inquest. This it was his nature to be, no amount of good living could put any flesh on him, but good society in a wonderfully short time improved his manners. He was ‘quick at the uptake,’ fond of reading, a good listener, and a pleasant talker. If we all improved him, he was himself a most agreeable addition to all of us. Even Belleville’s well stored memory seldom found a quotation thrown away. The Doctor had been meant for something better; a cloud hung over his early history.
When my father had set all his various hands to work—Donald Maclean and his half dozen men to the Staircase, a cabinet maker from Perth with assistants, to the new Library, Grant the painter from Elgin with his men to their papering and oil brushes—he set off himself to be re-elected for Great Grimsby, a Dissolution of Parliament having made this necessary. An immensity of money was spent there on this occasion, another Candidate having been got to start, the rich Mr Fazakerley.11 Out of four two only could succeed, and my unfortunate father was one of them. While he was away we had no room to sit in but the old gloomy study. My Mother made it as neat as she could, and as we could pop in and out of the shrubbery by the low windows we got reconciled to its other defects, yet were glad when the painters having finished the bowwindowed bedroom over the dining room, she was able to fit that up as her drawing room for the autumn company—Quite ready she got it against my father’s return, with the finest man ever was seen for a valet, whom he had picked up in London; a Norfolk giant, six foot one, magnificent in shirt frill. It was well Bell did not work for him, she would never have stood that small plaiting. The poor girl who did, a Jenny Barron the dyer’s daughter, that washed for all the men servants, got many a lecture for inefficiency, Mr Gouard making more fuss than enough about himself in all ways.
My mother had had all the bedrooms in the new part of the house painted and papered to please herself. In the old part she had painted, but had not ventured on papering, the old walls not having been studded; they were therefore done in distemper, as were those of the dining room. The colours were not happily chosen, buff and grey, and the dining room peagreen; all the wood work white, very cold looking. The dining room peagreen was relieved by the gilt frames of the Thorley pictures, mostly by Dutch or Flemish Artists, a small well chosen selection. There was a Berghem, two Boths, a Watteau, a Jan Stein, a small Wouverman, and several more undoubted originals, though by painters of less note.12 One we admired much was one of the three authorised copies of Raphael’s ‘Giardiniera’ the Virgin and child and little dark St John beside her, made by a favourite pupil. Castle Howard has another, Russborough claims the third.13 The subject, however, was so in favour that many pencils were tried on it, all the possessors claiming of course to hold one of the three valuables. There were two coloured chalk sketches by Rembrandt of himself and a friend; a piece of fruit, fish, and game considered very fine;—in all about fifteen paintings, including two nearly full length portraits, a Raper ancestor and his friend Sir Christopher Wren. A court beauty by Sir Peter Lely14 was sent up to a bedroom, she really was not dressed enough to be downstairs; and a James the 6th style of man was promoted to the Library, the only picture allowed to be in the room. We neither know the man nor the painter but it was always judged to have been done by a masterly hand. A few other old landscapes, not so well preserved, were hung about in the bedrooms. One portrait, unframed, in bad preservation too, always riveted my eyes. We called it the dying nun, because of the style of the accessories. It was awfully true to deputing nature and must, I think, have been the work of no pretender, whether his name be known to fame or not. Our Grant ancestors were spread over the walls of the Staircase. The Spreckled Laird and some of his family, Himself in armour, his brother Corrour in ditto, his wife the Lady Jean in a very low cut red velvet gown, with her yellow hair flowing all down over her shoulders, their little boys, my Uncle Rothy and one who died young, of whom my brother Johnny was the image, in court like suits, holding out birds and nosegays; Lord Elchies in his ermine, some others unknown. They made a better show after they were framed by my brother John when he was home on leave from India.
The Library was long in being completed; there was a good deal of work in the bookcases, as they entirely surrounded the room. My Mother had made the upstairs drawing room so pretty, and the view from its three windows was so very beautiful, no one entering it could wish for any other. We looked up the Spey to the Quaich range of mountains, Tor Alvie on the one hand, the Ord Ban on the other, and the broom island, now a pretty lawn covered by sheep, just in front between us and the river. The Grand piano forte was there, and the harp and a writing table, the fire place filled with balsams, other green house plants in the small light closets opening out of the room, and sofas and chairs in plenty. Angelica Koffman�
�s prints were pinned on the walls.15 Altogether it was very cheerful and summery, and many a pleasant hour was spent in this pretty apartment. Amongst other visitors there came ‘Tom Lauder’ and his friend, from henceforward our dear friend, Dr Gordon. My father and Mother had known him before, but to us young people he was a stranger.
Dr Gordon was hardly handsome, and yet his friends all thought him so; not very tall, slight, fair. It was the expression of his countenance that was charming, and the manner, so gay, so simple, so attractive. He was very clever, had made his own way and was getting on rapidly. He had married, not well, I think, though he was very happy, and it had been a long attachment. It was a bad connexion, and she, to my mind, was not an agreeable woman—dawdling, untidy, grave. She was very useful to him, however, translating German for him and such like, having a good head for languages. Among his accomplishments was a most exquisite voice and style of singing; there was no greater treat than to hear his ‘Banks and Braes o’ bonnie Doon,’ ‘Scots wha hae wi Wallace bled’ or ‘Low down in the Broom,’ etc., etc., for his fund was inexhaustible and whether the strain were tender or lively, spirited or sad, he gave musick and words as if inspired. He got up a great many duets with me and recommended the cultivation of both my voice and William’s, but we really could not admire ourselves, it was such perfect delight listening to him. Mr Lauder sang too, but not well. He delighted in the ‘Red Cross Knight’; his Wife, who had the voice of a Clarion trumpet, much admired by some, though rather louder toned than pleased refined ears, joined him in a great number of catches and glees of this sort. When she was not with him he sang them by himself with the greatest good nature. He shone much more in his drawings,16 his sketches were very pretty, very faithful. We had holiday during the whole of his happy visit, accompanying him to all his favourite views in the mornings, and giving ourselves up to Dr Gordon and musick in the evenings.
Memoirs of a Highland Lady Page 34