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THE ACTRESS IN HIGH LIFE:
An Episode in Winter Quarters.
(Sue Petigru Bowen)
"Grim-Visag'd War hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute."
New York:
Derby & Jackson.
1860.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, in the Clerk's
office of the District Court of South Carolina.
C.A. Alvord, Printer, New York.
THE ACTRESS IN HIGH LIFE;
AN EPISODE IN WINTER QUARTERS.
CHAPTER I.
I was a traveler, then, upon the moor,
I saw the hare that raced about with joy,
I heard the woods and distant waters roar,
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy;
The pleasant season did my heart employ.
My old remembrances went from me wholly,
And all the ways of men so vain and melancholy.
Wordsworth.
Gentle Reader: Wherever you may be, in bodily presence, when you cast
your eyes on this page, let it for a few hours transport your
complying spirit to a remote region and a bygone day. We may alter
names without injury to our story; but every real character, or event,
has its own time, place, and accidents; to tear it from them is like
transplanting a tree from its native spot; it must be trimmed and
pruned, and robbed of its due proportions and its natural grace.
Here, then, on this lovely day, near the end of the year 1812, you are
in Alemtejo--the largest, poorest, and, in every sense, worst peopled
province of Portugal. As its name implies, you are, as to Lisbon,
beyond the Tagus. Hasten eastward over this sandy, arid plain, covered
with a forest of stunted sea-pines, through whose tops the west wind
glides with monotonous and melancholy moans, fit music for the
wilderness around you. Nor need you loiter on this desolate moor,
scantily carpeted with heaths of different kinds and varying hues. The
drowsy tinkling of the cowbell amidst yonder brushwood, the goats
sportively clambering over that ledge of rocks, and those distant
dusky spots upon the downs, which may be sheep, tell you that all life
has not left the land. You may, perchance, on your journey, see a
goatherd or a shepherd here or there; by rarer chance may meet some
wayfarer like yourself, but as likely a robber as an honest man; and
may find shelter, at least, in one of the few and comfortless
_vendas_, the wretched inns the route affords.
You need not pause to gaze on many a wild scene, some beautiful, and
even here and there a fertile spot; nor loiter in this provincial
town--rich, perhaps, in Moorish ruins, but in nothing else--but hasten
onward till you reach that elevated point, where the road, one hundred
miles from Lisbon, winds over the ridge of yonder hill. The chilly
night winds of the peninsula have gone to sleep. Here, even in
midwinter, the sun at this hour shoots down scorching rays upon your
head. Seat yourself by the road-side, on this ledge of slate-rock, at
the foot of the cork-oak, which so invitingly spreads out its
sheltering arms. Here while you take breath, cast your eyes around
you.
You are no longer in the midst of broken, desolate wastes. To the
south-west rises the Serra d'Ossa--its sides clothed with evergreen
oaks, and a dense growth of underbrush sheltering the wolf and the
wild boar, while the northern slope of its rocky ridge is thatched
with snow. Before you is spread out the valley of the Guadiana.
Sloping downward toward the mighty stream, lie pasture, grove and
field, gaily mingled together. There, to the east, sits Elvas, on a
lofty hill, whose sides are covered with vineyards, oliveyards and
orchards, and just north of it, on a yet loftier peak, with a deep
narrow valley lying between them, stands the crowning castle of La
Lippe, the strongest fortress in Portugal. Far beyond, but plainly
seen through the clear atmosphere of the peninsula, now doubly
transparent since it has been purified by the heavy rains which here
usher in the winter, rises the blue mountain of Albuquerque, far away
in Spanish Estremadura. Whichever way you look, Sierras, nearer or
more distant, tower above the horizon, or fringe its utmost verge.
Among these scenes of nature's handiwork, a production of human art
demands your attention. See, on your right, the beginning of the
ancient aqueduct, reared by Moorish hands, which leads the pure
mountain stream for three miles across the valley to the city seated
on the hill. Here, the masonry is but a foot or two above the ground;
below, the road will lead you under its three tiers of arches, with
the water gliding an hundred feet above your head.
But here comes a native of this region to enliven, if not adorn, the
landscape. This lean, swarthy young fellow, under his _sombrero_ with
ample brim, exhibits a fair specimen of the peasants of Alemtejo. His
sheep-skin jacket hangs loosely from his shoulders, and between his
nether garment and his clumsy shoes, he displays the greater part of a
pair of sinewy legs, which would be brown, were they not so well
powdered with the slate dust of the rocky road he travels. With a long
goad he urges on the panting beasts, yoked to the rudest of all
vehicles--the bullock cart of Portugal. Its low wheels, made of solid
wooden blocks, are fastened to the axle-tree, which turns with them,
and at every step squeaks out complaining notes under the burden of a
cask of the muddy and little prized wine of the province, which is
seeking a market at Elvas.
The carter is now overtaken by a peasant girl, who, with basket on her
arm, has been gathering chesnuts and _bolotas_ in the wood. They are
no strangers to each other, and she exchanges her brisk, elastic step,
for a pace better suited to that of the toiling oxen. The beauty of
this dusky belle consists of a smiling mouth, bright black eyes, and
youth and health. Though fond of gaudy colors, she is not over
dressed. A light handkerchief rather binds her raven hair than covers
her head. Her bright blue petticoat, scanty in length, and her
orange-colored spencer, open in front, both well worn, and showing
here and there a rent, but half conceal the graces of her form, and a
pair of nimble feet, scorning the trammels of leather, pick their way
skillfully along the stony path. That she does not contemn ornament,
is shown by her one small golden ear-ring, long since divorced from
its mate, and the devout faith which glows in her bosom is symbolized
by the little silver image of our lady, slung from her neck by a
silken cord, spun by her own silk worms, and twisted by her own hands.
In short, she is neither beautiful, nor noble, nor rich; yet her
company seems instantly to smooth the road and lighten the toils of
travel to her swain. He helps himself, unasked, out of her basket, and
urges her to partake of the stores of his leathern wallet--hard goat's
cheese--and the crumbling loaf of _broa_, or maize bread. Soon in deep
and sweet conference, in their crabbed, but expressive tongue, he
forgets to make occasional use of his goad, and thus keeping pace with
the loitering bullocks, they go leisurely along. Let them pass on, and
wait for better game.
Turn and look at this cavalcade toiling up toward you. A sudden bend
in the road has brought it into view, and its aspect, half native,
half foreign--its mixed civil and military character--attract
attention. Two mounted orderlies, in a British uniform, lead the way,
and are followed by a clumsy Lisbon coach, every part of it well laden
with luggage. It is drawn by four noble mules, such as are seldom seen
out of the peninsula, deserving more stylish postillions than those
who, in ragged jackets, greasy leathern breeches and huge jack boots,
are urging them on. Two men sit at ease on the coach box. One, a tall
young fellow, looks at a distance like a field-officer in a flashy
uniform, but is only an English footman in a gaudy livery, who needs
the training of a London winter or two, in a fashionable household, to
make him a flunky of the first water. The other, an old man, with a
severe countenance, is plainly dressed, but, with a less brilliant
exterior, has a more respectable air than his companion. He, too, is
the man in authority as, from time to time, he directs the party and
urges them on in somewhat impatient tones.
If you are familiar with the country and the times, you may imagine
that some British general officer has been so long in the peninsula,
that he has adopted the style and equipage of Cuesta, and some other
Spanish leaders, and fallen into their habits of slow and dignified
motion. You will think it high time for him to be sent home, that some
one less luxurious and stately, but more alert and energetic, may fill
his place. One look into the coach will undeceive you. Its chief
occupant is a lady, whose years do not exceed nineteen; and she is
evidently no native of Alemtejo, nor of Portugal; and might have been
sent out hither as a specimen of what a more northern country can
occasionally produce. While she looks out with deep, yet lively
interest on the scenery before and around her, you naturally gaze with
deeper interest only upon her. Her companion is her maid, some years
older than herself, who might be worth looking at, were her mistress
out of the way.
One of the orderlies, turning in his saddle, now points out the city
to the old man, who, in turn, leans over to the coach window, and
calls out, "My lady, there is Elvas!"
"And my father is in Elvas!" She leans eagerly out of the window; but
the front of the clumsy vehicle obstructs the view, and she calls out,
"Stop the coach, Moodie, and let me out. I will not go one step
further until I have taken a good look at Elvas."
The old man testily orders a halt. The footman opens the door, and the
lady springs lightly out, followed by her maid. Neglecting all other
objects in sight, she gazes long and eagerly at the city seated on the
hill. The interest she shows is no longer merely that of observant
curiosity, but is prompted by the gushing affections of the heart. In
Elvas, besides much new and strange, there is something known and
loved.
She now begins to question the orderlies as to the exact spot where
her father has quartered himself; but the old man interrupts her:
"You have traveled a long way, my lady, to get to Elvas, but you will
never reach it while you stand looking at it and spiering about it."
"Very true, old Wisdom. How comes it that you are always in the right?
Let us push on now, and in an hour," she exclaims, stepping into the
coach, "I will see my father, for the first time since I was
fourteen."
The coach moves on, but too slowly for her. Leaning out of the window,
and surveying the road, she calls out gaily, "Our way lies down hill,
Moodie, and they tell me that mules are so sure-footed that they never
stumble. Pray buy or borrow that long goad from the young gentleman in
the sheep-skin jacket. By skillful use of it you might mend our pace,
and bring us sooner to Elvas."
We will leave this impatient lady to hasten on to Elvas, whether
expedited or not by the use of the goad, to inquire the occasion of
her journey thither.
For five years the peninsula has been one battlefield, and the present
has been one of unceasing activity to the British troops. Beginning
the year by suddenly crossing the frontier and investing Ciudad
Rodrigo, they had taken it by storm in January, while the French were
preparing to relieve it. Equally unexpectedly crossing the Tagus and
the Guadiana, they had sat down before the strong fortress of Badajoz,
and to save a few precious days, in which Soult and Marmont might have
united their hosts to its rescue, they, in April, took it in a bloody
assault, buying immediate possession at the price of more than a
thousand precious lives. No sooner had the disappointed Marshals
withdrawn their armies to less exhausted regions, than the forts of
Almarez were surprised in May, and the direct route of communication
between them cut off. The British army then invaded Spain on the side
of the kingdom of Leon: the forts of Salamanca fell before them in
June, and in July the battle of Salamanca crushed the French force in
that quarter, and opened the road to Madrid to the British, who,
driving thence the intrusive king, acquired the control of all central
Spain. But, at length, in October, the castle of Burgos defied their
utmost efforts, unaided by a siege-train. The French hosts from north,
south and east, abandoning rich provinces and strong fortresses they
had held for years, gathered around them in overwhelming numbers; and
slowly, reluctantly, and with many a stubborn halt, the English
general retraced his steps toward Portugal. The prostrated strength of
both armies put an end to the campaign. The French gave up the
pursuit, being too hungry to march further, or to fight any more; and
the discipline and appetites of the British soldiers were indicated,
on their march through the forests bordering the Huebra, by the
fusilade opened on the herds of swine, which were fattening on the
acorns there. For a moment their commander thought himself surprised,
and that the country, for miles around, was the scene of one
wide-spread skirmish with the foe. Even hanging a few of his men did
not put a stop to the disorder. Late in November the troops were
permitted to pause for rest, in the neighborhood of Ciudad Rodrigo,
with their energies prostrated and their discipline relaxed through
the sieges and battles, the continual marches, the exposure and the
want of a campaign so long and arduous as this. Strange it seemed to
them, after going so far, and doing and suffering so much, that they
should end the campaign where they had begun it. Yet they had done
much: wrenching the larger and richer half of Spain out of the grasp
of the French, and changing their possession of the country to a mere
invasion of it.
Such toils need long rest. Privations and sufferings like theirs
should be repaid by no scanty measure of plenty and enjoyment. The
troops went into winter quarters chiefly between the Douro and the
Tagus; but, as an army in this country is always in danger of
starvation, a brigade was sent over into Alemtejo, at once, to make
themselves comfortable, and to facilitate getting up supplies from a
province which now had something in it: as, for four years, the French
had been kept out of it.
Accordingly, it was absolutely refreshing to see the liberal provision
made for the almost insatiable wants of this brigade--for among them
our story lies. They proved themselves good soldiers, to a man, in
their zeal to refresh and strengthen themselves against the next
campaign, by enjoying, to the full, every good thing within their
reach. The officers, especially, ransacked the country for every
commodity that could promote enjoyment; and what Alemtejo could not
furnish, Lisbon and London must provide. Nothing was too costly for
their purses, no place too distant for their search. Doubtless, the
veterans of the greatest of all great captains were permitted for a
time to run a free and joyous career in Capua; and this brigade,
besides having a little corner of Portugal to themselves, somewhat out
of sight of the commander-in-chief and of Sir Rowland Hill, enjoyed
the further advantage of being led by a good soldier in the field, and
a free-liver in garrison and camp, who looked upon his men in winter
quarters, after a hard campaign, somewhat in the light of school-boys
in the holidays, and was willing to see the lads enjoy themselves
freely.
Lord Strathern, a veteran somewhat the worse for wear, had entered the
army a cadet of a Scotch family, more noble than rich. At length, the
obliging death of a cousin brought him a Scotch peerage, and an estate
little adequate to support that dignity. High rank, and a narrow
estate, form an inconvenient union; so he stuck to the profession
which he loved, and, being a widower, entrusted his only child, a
daughter, to a sister in Scotland.
Though he had seen little of domestic life, he was an affectionate
man. The briskness of the last campaign, and the number of his friends
who dropped off in the course of it, strongly warned him that if he
would once again see his daughter, now attaining womanhood, it would
be well to lose no time about it. So, one morning, during the retreat
from Burgos, after issuing the brigade orders for the day, he penned
an order to his sister in Scotland, to send out the young lady, with
proper attendants, under the care of the wife of any officer of rank
who might be sailing for Lisbon. There she would be within reach, and
he might find leisure to visit her.
His sister would have protested against this had she had an
opportunity; but the order of the father, and the affectionate and
adventurous spirit of the daughter, at once decided the matter. On her
arrival, however, in Lisbon, her father was too busy establishing his
brigade in comfortable quarters, to meet her there; and the military
horizon giving promise of a quiet winter, he summoned her to join him
at Elvas.
The brigade had been for some weeks living in clover in their modern
Capua, when Lady Mabel Stewart joined her father. A Portuguese
provincial town, with its filthy streets and squalid populace, could
be no agreeable place of residence to a British lady. Lord Strathern
felt this, and, looking about him, found a large building in the midst
of an orchard without the walls of Elvas, and more than half-way down
the hill. It had been erected by one of the monastic societies of the
city, as a place of occasional retirement for pleasure, or devotion,
or both. The French had summarily turned them out of it five years
before, and so thoroughly plundered them, at the same time, that they
had not since found heart or means to repair and refurnish it.
Accordingly, it was a good deal dilapidated. But the refectory and the
kitchen took his lordship's eye. The former could dine half the
officers of the brigade at a time, and the latter allowed abundant
elbow-room to cooks and scullions, while preparing the feast. So, here
he established the headquarters of his brigade, and here Lady Mabel
Stewart made her appearance in the new dignity of womanhood, to
preside over his household.