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

     I Prize Your Letters, And You Know It Is True. Still, I Do Not

     Think My "Wish Is Father To My Thought" When I Say That I Think It

     Is Not Good For You To Lose Entirely Even Such An Interest As I Am

     To You. I Say "Even Such An Interest," Because I Believe Your

     Trouble Must Have Rendered Me And My Pursuits, For The Present At

     Least, Less Likely Than They Have Been To Occupy A Place In Your

     Thoughts. But 'Tis For You To Decide; If My Letters Weary Or Annoy

     You, Tell Me So, Dear H----, And I Will Not Write To You Until You

     Can "Follow My Paces" Better. If You Do Not Like To Make The

     Exertion Of Answering Me, I Will Still Continue To Let You Know My

     Proceedings, And Take It For Granted That You Will Not Cease To

     Love Me And Think Of Me. Dear H----, I Shall See You This Summer

     Again; You, And Yours, Whom I Love For Your Sake. I Shall Go On

     With This Letter, Because If You Are Inclined For A Gossip You Can

     Read It; And If Not, It May Perhaps Amuse Your Invalid. I Have Been

     Uncommonly Gay, For Me, This Winter, And I Dare Say Shall Continue

     To Be So, As It Does Not Disagree With Me, And I Am So Fond Of

     Dancing That A Quadrille Renders Palatable What Otherwise Would Be,

     I Think, Disagreeable Enough--The Manner In Which Society Is Now

     Organized. I Was At A Very Large Party The Other Night, At The Poet

     Campbell's, Where Every Material For A Delightful Evening--Good

     Rooms, Pretty Women, Clever Men--Was Brought Into Requisition To

     Make What, After All, Appeared To Me Nothing But A Wearisome, Hot

     Crowd. The Apartments Were Overfilled: To Converse With Anybody For

     Five Minutes Was Impossible. If One Stood Up One Was Squeezed To

     Death, And If One Sat Down One Was Stifled. I, Too (Who Was The

     Small Lioness Of The Evening), Was Subjected To A Most Disagreeable

     Ordeal, The Whole Night Being Stared At From Head To Foot By Every

     One That Could Pass Within Staring Distance Of Me. You Probably

     Will Wonder At This Circumstance Distressing A Young Person Who

     Three Times A Week Exhibits Herself On The Stage To Several Hundred

     People, But There I Do Not Distinguish The Individual Eyes That Are

     Fixed On Me, And My Mind Is Diverted From The Annoyances Of My Real

     Situation By The Distressful Circumstances Of My Feigned One.

     Moreover, To Add To My Sorrows, At The Beginning Of The Evening A

     Lady Spilled Some Coffee Over A Beautiful Dress Which I Was Wearing

     For The First Time. Now I Will Tell You What Consolations I Had To

     Support Me Under These Trials; First, The Self-Approving

     Consciousness Of The Smiling Fortitude With Which I Bore My Gown's

     Disaster; Secondly, A Lovely Nosegay, Which Was Presented To Me;

     And Lastly, At About Twelve O'clock, When The Rooms Were A Little

     Thinned, A Dance For An Hour Which Sent Me Home Perfectly Satisfied

     With My Fate. By The Bye, I Asked Campbell If He Knew Any Method To

     Preserve My Flowers From Fading, To Which He Replied, "Give Them To

     Me, And I Will Immortalize Them." I Did So, And Am Expecting Some

     Verses From Him In Return.

     On Thursday Next I Come Out In Mrs. Beverley; I Am Much Afraid Of

     It. The Play Wants The Indispensable Attribute Of All Works Of

     Art--Imagination; It Is A Most Touching Story, And Mrs. Beverley Is

     A Most Admirable Creature, But The Story Is Such As Might Be Read

     In A Newspaper, And Her Character Has Its Like In Many An English

     Home. I Think The Author Should Have Idealized Both His Incidents

     And His Heroine A Little, To Produce A Really Fine Play. Mrs.

     Beverley Is Not One Shade Inferior To Imogen In Purity, In Conjugal

     Devotion, And In Truth, But While The One Is To All Intents And

     Purposes A Model Wife, A Poet's Touch Has Made Of The Other A

     Divine Image Of All That Is Lovely And Excellent In Woman; And Yet,

     Certainly, Imogen Is Quite As _Real_ A Conception As Mrs. Beverley.

     The Absence Of The Poetical Element In The Play Prevents My Being

     Enthusiastic About My Part, And I Am The More Nervous About It For

     That Reason; When I Am Excited I Feel That I Can Excite Others, But

     In This Case--However, We Shall See; I May Succeed With It Better

     Than I Expect, And Perhaps My Audience May Like To See Me As A

     Quiet, Sober Lady, After The Belvideras And Juliets And Euphrasias

     They Have Hitherto Seen Me Represent. I Will Tell You My Dress: It

     Is A Silver Gray Silk, And A White Crape Hat With Drooping

     Feathers. I Think It Will Be Very Pretty. My Father Acts Beverley

     With Me, Which Will Be A Great Advantage To Me.

     Oh! I Must Tell You Of A Delightful Adventure Which Befell Me The

     Other Night While I Was Acting In "The Grecian Daughter." Mr.

     Abbot, Who Personates My Husband, Phocion, At A Certain Part Of The

     Play Where We Have To Embrace, Thought Fit To Clasp Me So

     Energetically In His Arms That He Threw Me Down, And Fell Down

     Himself. I Fell Seated, With All My Draperies In Most Modest Order,

     Which Was Very Fortunate, But Certainly I Never Was More Frightened

     Or Confused. However, I Soon Recovered My Presence Of Mind, And

     Helped My Better Half On With His Part, For He Was Quite Aghast,

     Poor Man, At His Own Exploit, And I Do Believe Would Have Been

     Standing With His Eyes And Mouth Wide Open To This Moment, If I Had

     Not Managed To Proceed With The Scene Somehow And Anyhow.

     I Gave The Commission For Your Print Of Me, Dear H----, To

     Colnaghi, And I Hope You Will Like It, And That The More You Look

     At It The Stronger The Likeness Will Appear To You. Was My Brother

     John Returned From Germany, When Last I Wrote To You? I Forget.

     However, He Has Just Left Us To Take His Degree At Cambridge,

     Previous To Being Ordained. Henry, Too, Returned Yesterday To

     Paris, So That The House Is In Mourning For Its Liveliest Inmates.

     I Continue Quite Well, And Indeed I Think My Work Agrees With Me;

     Or If I Am A Little Tired With Acting, Why, A Night's Dancing Soon

     Sets Me Right Again. T---- B---- Is In Town, And Came To See Me The

     Other Day. I Like Her; She Is A Gentle, Nice Person; She Is Going

     Back In A Week To Cassiobury. How I Wish You And I Had Wings, And

     That Heath Farm Belonged To Us! It Is Coming To The Time Of Year

     When We First Became Acquainted; And, Besides All Its Associations

     Of Kindly Feeling And Affectionate Friendship, Your Image Is

     Connected In My Mind With All The Pleasantest Things In Nature--The

     Spring, May Blossoms, Glow-Worms, "Bright Hill And Bosky Dell;" And

     It Dates From Somewhere "Twixt The Last Violet And The Earliest

     Rose," Which Is Not A Quotation, Though I Have Put It In Inverted

     Commas, But Something That Just Came To The Tip Of My Pen And Looks

     Like Poetry. I Must Leave Off Now, For I Got Leave To Stay At Home

     To-Night To Write To You Instead Of Going To The Opera, With Many

     Injunctions That I Would Go To Bed Early; So, Now It Is Late, I

     Must Do So. Good-By, Dearest H----; Believe Me Ever

                      Yours Most Affectionately,

                                                              F. A. K.

     P.S.--This Is My Summer Tour--Bath, Edinburgh, Dublin, Liverpool,

     Manchester, And Birmingham. I Am Miss _Fanny_ Kemble, Because Henry

     Kemble's Daughter, My Uncle Stephen's Granddaughter, Is Miss Kemble

     By Right Of Birth.

The Lady Who Spoiled My Pretty Cream-Colored Poplin Dress By Spilling

Coffee On The Front Of It, Instantly, In The Midst Of Her Vehement

Self-Upbraidings And Humble Apologies For Her Awkwardness, Adopted A

Very Singular Method Of Appeasing My Displeasure And Soothing My

Distress, By Deliberately Pouring A Spoonful Of Coffee Upon The Front

Breadth Of Her Own Velvet Gown. My Amazement At This Proceeding Was

Excessive, And It Neither Calmed My Wrath Nor Comforted My Sorrow, But

Exasperated Me With A Sense Of Her Extreme Folly And Her Conviction Of

Mine. The Perpetrator Of This Singular Act Of Atonement Was The

Beautiful Julia, Eldest Daughter Of The Adjutant-General, Sir John

Macdonald, And The Lady Whom The Duke Of Wellington Pronounced The

Handsomest Woman In London; A Verdict Which Appeared To Me Too

Favorable, Though She Certainly Was One Of The Handsomest Women In

London. An Intimate Acquaintance Subsisted Between Her Family And Ours

For Several Years, And I Was Indebted To Sir John Macdonald's

Assistance, Most Kindly Exerted In My Behalf, For The Happiness Of

Giving My Youngest Brother His Commission In The Army, Which Sir John

Enabled Me To Purchase In His Own Regiment; And I Was Indebted To The

Great Liberality Of Mr. John Murray, The Celebrated Publisher, For The

Means Of Thus Providing For My Brother Henry. The Generous Price

(Remuneration I Dare Not Call It) Which He Gave Me For My Play Of

"Francis The First" Obtained For Me My Brother's Commission.

                             JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE, March 9th.

     DEAREST H----,

     I Have Been So Busy All This Day, Signing Benefit Tickets, That I

     Hardly Feel As If I Could Write Anything But "25th March, F.A.K."

     Our Two Last Letters Crossed On The Road, And Yours Was So Kind An

     Answer To Mine, Which You Had Not Yet Received, That I Feel No

     Further Scruple In Breaking In Upon You With The Frivolity Of My

     Worldly Occupations And Proceedings.

     I Was Sorry That The Newspapers Should Give You The First Account

     Of My Mrs. Beverley, But My Time Is So Taken Up With "An Infinite

     Deal Of Nothing" That I Have Not Had An Hour To Call My Own Till

     This Evening, And This Evening Is My Only Unengaged One For Nearly

     Three Weeks To Come.

     The Papers Will Probably Have Set Your