Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2) by Frances Ann Kemble (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

     And Trashy I Cannot Well Conceive. It Had Been, You Know, A Great

     Part Of My Aunt Siddons's, And Nothing Better Proves Her Great

     Dramatic Genius Than Her Having Clothed So Meager A Part In Such

     Magnificent Proportions As She Gave To It, And Filled Out By Her

     Own Poetical Conception The Bare Skeleton Mr. Murphy's Euphrasia

     Presented To Her. This Frightened Me A Great Deal; Juliet And

     Belvidera Scarcely Anybody Can Do Ill, But Euphrasia I Thought Few

     People Could Do Well, And I Feared I Was Not One Of Them. Moreover,

     The Language Is At Once So Poor And So Bombastic That I Took Double

     The Time In Getting The Part By Rote I Should Have Taken For Any

     Part Of Shakespeare's. My Dress Was Beautiful; I Think I Will Tell

     It You. You Know You Told Me Even An Account Of Hat And Feathers

     Would Interest You. My Skirt Was Made Immensely Full And With A

     Long Train; It Was Of White Merino, Almost As Fine As Cashmere,

     With A Rich Gold Grecian Border. The Drapery Which Covered My

     Shoulders (If You Wish To Look For The Sort Of Costume In

     Engravings, I Give You Its Classical Name, _Peplum_) Was Made Of

     The Same Material Beautifully Embroidered, Leaving My Arms Quite

     Free And Uncovered. I Had On Flesh-Colored Silk Gloves, Of Course.

     A Bright Scarlet Sash With Heavy Gilt Acorns, Falling To My Feet,

     Scarlet Sandals To Match, And A Beautiful Grecian Head-Dress In

     Gold, Devised By My Mother, Completed The Whole, Which Really Had A

     Very Classical Effect, The Fine Material Of Which My Dress Was

     Formed Falling With Every Movement Into Soft, Graceful Folds.

     I Managed To Keep A Good Heart Until I Heard The Flourish Of Drums

     And Trumpets, In The Midst Of Which I Had To Rush On The Stage, And

     Certainly When I Did Come On My Appearance Must Have Been Curiously

     In Contrast With The "Prave 'Ords" I Uttered, For I Felt Like

     Nothing But A Hunted Hare, With My Eyes Starting From My Head, My

     "Nostrils All Wide," And My Limbs Trembling To Such A Degree That I

     Could Scarcely Stand. The Audience Received Me Very Kindly,

     However, And After A Little While I Recovered My Breath And

     Self-Possession, And Got On Very Comfortably, Considering That,

     What With Nervousness And The Short Time They Had Had To Study Them

     In, None Of The Actors Were Perfect In Their Parts. My Father Acted

     Evander, Which Added, No Doubt, To The Interest Of The Situation.

     The Play Went Off Admirably, And I Dare Say It Will Be Of Some

     Service To Me, But I Fear It Is Too Dull And Poor In Itself,

     Despite All That Can Be Done For It, To Be Of Much Use To The

     Theater. One Of My Great Difficulties In The Play Was To Produce

     Some Striking Effect After Stabbing Dionysius, Which Was A Point In

     Which My Aunt Always Achieved A Great Triumph. She Used To Fall On

     Her Knees As If Deprecating The Wrath Of Heaven For What She Had

     Done, And Her Mode Of Performing This Was Described To Me. But,

     Independently Of My Anxiety To Avoid Any Imitation That Might

     Induce A Comparison That Could Not But Be Fatally To My

     Disadvantage, I Did Not (To You I May Venture To Confess It) Feel

     The Situation In The Same Manner. Euphrasia Had Just Preserved Her

     Father's Life By A Deed Which, In Her Own Estimation And That Of

     Her Whole Nation, Entitled Her To An Immortal Dwelling In The

     Elysian Fields. The Only Feeling, Therefore, That I Can Conceive As

     Checking For A Moment Her Exultation Would Be The Natural Womanly

     Horror At The Sight Of Blood And Physical Suffering, The Expression

     Of Which Seems To Me Not Only Natural To Her, As Of The "Feminine

     Gender," But Not Altogether Superfluous To Reconcile An English

     Audience To So Unfeminine A Proceeding As Stabbing A Man. To

     Conciliate All This I Adopted The Course Of Immediately Dropping

     The Arm That Held The Dagger, And With The Other Veiling My Eyes

     With The Drapery Of My Dress, Which Answered Better My Own Idea Of

     The Situation, And Seemed To Produce A Great Effect. My Dearest

     H----, This Is A Long Detail, But I Think It Will Interest You And

     Perhaps Amuse Your Niece; If, However, It Wearies Your Spirits,

     Tell Me So, And Another Time I Will Not Confine My Communications

     So Much To My Own Little-Corner Of Life.

     Cecilia Dined With Us On Sunday, But Was Very Far From Well. I Have

     Not Seen My Aunt Siddons Since Sir Thomas Lawrence's Death. I

     Almost Dread Doing So: She Must Have Felt So Much On Hearing It; He

     Was For Many Years So Mixed Up With Those Dearest To Her, And His

     Memory Must Always Recall Theirs. I Hear Campbell Means To Write

     His Life. His Letters To Me Will Perhaps Be Published In It. Had I

     Known They Were Likely To Be So Used, I Would Have Preserved Them

     All. As It Is, It Is The Merest Chance That All Of Them Are Not

     Destroyed; For, Admirable As They Were In Point Of Taste And

     Critical Judgment, Some Of Them Seemed To Me Such Mere Specimens Of

     Refined Flattery That, Having Extracted The Advice Likely To Be

     Profitable To Me, I Committed The Epistles Themselves To The

     Flames, Which Probably Would Have Been The Ultimate Destination Of

     Them All; But Now They Have Acquired A Sad Value They Had Not

     Before, And I Shall Keep Them As Relics Of A Man Of Great Genius

     And, In Many Respects, I Believe, A Truly Amiable Person.

     The Drawing, Which Is, You Know, My Mother's Property, Is Safe In

     Mr. Lane's Hands, And Will Be Restored To Us On Saturday. The

     Funeral Takes Place To-Morrow; My Father, I Believe, Will Attend;

     Neither My Mother Nor Myself Can Muster Courage To Witness It,

     Although We Had Places Offered To Us. It Is To Take Place In St.

     Paul's, For Westminster Abbey Is Full. All The Beautiful Unfinished

     Portraits Which Filled His Rooms Will Be Returned Imperfect To

     Their Owners, And I Wonder Who Will Venture To Complete Them, For

     He Has Certainly Not Left His Like Behind Him. Reports Have Been

     Widely Spread That His Circumstances Were Much Embarrassed, But I

     Fancy When All His Effects Are Sold There Will Be A Small Surplus.

     He Behaved With The Utmost Liberality About His Drawing Of Me, For

     He Gave It To My Mother, And Would Not Accept Of Any Remuneration

     For The Copyright Of The Print From Mr. Lane--Who, It Is Said, Made

     Three Hundred Pounds By The First Impressions Taken From It--Saying

     That He Had Had So Much Pleasure In The Work That He Would Not Take

     A Farthing For Either Time Or Trouble.

     We Are All Tolerably Well; I Am Quite So, And Rejoice Daily In That

     Strength Of Constitution Which, Among Other Of My Qualifications,

     Entitles Me To The Appellation Of "Shetland Pony."

     How Are You All? How Is E----? Tell Her All About Me, Because It

     May Amuse Her. I Wish You Could Have Seen Me, Dear H----, In My

     Greek Dress; I Really Look Very Well In It, And Taller Than Usual,

     In Consequence Of All The Long Draperies; Moreover, I "Stood

     Grandly" Erect, And Put Off The "Sidelong Stoop" In Favor Of A More

     Heroic And Statue-Like Deportment. Oh, H----, I Am Exceedingly

     Happy, _Et Pour Peu De Chose_, Perhaps You Will Think: My Father

     Has Given Me Leave To Have Riding Lessons, So That I Shall Be In

     Right Earnest "An Angel On Horseback," And When I Come To Ardgillan

     (And It Won't Be Long First) I Shall Make You Mount Upon A Horse

     And Gallop Over The Sand With Me; Won't You, My Dear? Believe Me

     Ever Your Affectionate

                                                                FANNY.

The Words In Inverted Commas At The End Of This Letter Had Reference To

Some Strictures Miss S---- Had Made Upon My Carriage, And To A Family

Joke Against Me In Consequence Of My Having Once Said, In Speaking Of My

Desire To Ride, That I Should Not Care To Be An Angel In Heaven Unless I

Could Be An "Angel On Horseback." My Invariable Description Of A Woman

Riding Was "A Happy Woman," And After Much Experience Of Unhappiness,

Certainly Not Dissipated By Equestrian Exercise, I Still Agree With

Wordsworth That "The Horse And Rider Are A Happy Pair." After Acting The

Grecian Daughter For Some Time I Altered My Attitude In The Last Scene,

After The Murder Of Dionysius, More To My Own Satisfaction: Instead Of

Dropping The Arm That Held The Dagger By My Side, I Raised The Weapon To

Heaven, As If Appealing To The Gods For Justification And Tendering

Them, As It Were, The Homage Of My Deed; Of Course I Still Continued To

Vail My Eyes And Turn My Head Away From The Sight Of My Victim.

               JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE, Saturday, February 20th.

     DEAREST H----,

     I Need Hardly Apologize To You For My Long Silence, For I Am Sure

     That You Will Have Understood It To Have Proceeded From No Want Of

     Inclination On My Part To Answer Your Last, But From Really Not

     Having Had Half An Hour At My Command In Which To Do So. I Have

     Thought, Too (Although That Has Not Prevented My Writing), Much

     Upon The Tenor Of Your Letter, And The Evident Depression It Was

     Written In, And I Hardly Know How To Resolve: Whether I Ought Not

     To Forbear Wearying You With Matters Which Every Way Are Discordant

     With Your Own Thoughts And Feelings, Or Whether It Is Better, By

     Inducing You To Answer Me, To Give You Some Motive, However

     Trifling, For Exertion. Dearest H----, If The Effort Of Writing To

     Me Is Too Painful To You, Do Not Do It. I Give You A Most

     Disinterested Counsel, For I Have Told You More Than Once How Much