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

     Paris; A---- Is Quite Well, And Almost More Of A Woman Than I Am;

     My Father Desires His Love To You, To Which I Add Mine To Your

     Eldest Niece And Your Invalid, And Remain Ever Your Affectionately

     Attached

                                                              F. A. K.

                                                           BLACKHEATH.

     MY DEAREST H----,

     I Was Exceedingly Glad To Receive Your Letter. You Ask Me For My

     Own Criticism On My Portia; You Know That I Think I Am Able To Do

     Myself Tolerably Impartial Justice, Which May Be A Great Mistake;

     But Whether It Is Or Not, I Request You Will Believe The Following

     Account In Preference To Any Other Report, Newspaper Or Letter,

     Public Or Private, Whatever.

     In The First Place, On My Benefit Night (My First Appearance In The

     Part) I Was So Excessively Nervous About It, And So Shaken With The

     Tremendous Uproar The Audience Made With Their Applause, That I

     Consider That Performance Entirely Out Of The Pale Of Criticism,

     And Quite Unworthy Of It. I Was _Frightened_ FLAT To A Degree I

     Could Hardly Have Believed Possible After My Previous Experience.

     I Am Happy To Think That I Improve In The Part, And Sincerely Hope

     That I Shall Continue To Do So For Some Time. The Principal Defect

     Of My Acting In It Is That It Wants Point--Brilliancy. I Do Not Do

     The Trial Scene One Bit Better Or Worse Than The Most Mediocre

     Actress Would, And Although The Comic Scenes Are Called Delightful

     By People Whose Last Idea Of Comedy Was Borrowed From Miss C---- Or

     Miss F----, My Mother Says (And I Believe Her) They Are Very

     _Vapid_. The Best Thing I Do In The Play (And I Think It Is The

     Best Thing I Do At All, Except Juliet's Balcony Scene) Is The Scene

     Of The Caskets, With Bassanio, And This I Think I Do _Well_. But

     The Scene Is Of So Comparatively Subdued, Quiet, And Uneffective A

     Nature That I Think The Occupants Of The Stage Boxes And The First

     Three Rows Of The Pit Must Be The Only Part Of The Audience Who

     Know Anything About My Acting Of That Portion Of The Play. I Like

     The Part Better Than Any I Have Yet Played. I Delight In The

     Poetry, And My Heart Goes With Every Sentiment Portia Utters. I

     Have A Real Satisfaction In Acting It, Which Is More Than I Can Say

     For Anything Else I Have Yet Had To Do. Juliet, With The Exception

     Of The Balcony Scene, I Act; But I Feel As If I _Were_ Portia--And

     How I Wish I Were! It Is Not A Part That Is Generally Much Liked By

     Actresses, Or That Excites Much Enthusiasm In The Public; There Are

     No Violent Situations With Which To (What Is Called) "Bring The

     House Down." Even The Climax Of The Piece, The Trial Scene, I

     Should Call, As Far As Portia Is Concerned, Rather Grand And

     Impressive Than Strikingly Or Startlingly Effective; And With The

     Exception Of That, The Whole Character Is So Delicate, So Nicely

     Blended, So True, And So Free From All Exaggeration, That It Seems

     To Me Hardly Fit For A Theater, Much Less One Of Our Immense

     Houses, Which Require Acting Almost As _Splashy_ And Coarse In

     Color And Outline As The Scene-Painting Of The Stage Is Obliged To

     Be. Covent Garden Is Too Large A Frame For That Exquisite,

     Harmonious Piece Of Portrait Painting. This Is A Long Lecture, But

     I Hope It Will Not Be An Uninteresting One To You; And Now Let Me

     Tell You Something Of My Dresses, Which Cost My Poor Mother Sad

     Trouble, And Were Really Beautiful. My First Was An Open Skirt Of

     The Palest Pink Levantine, Shot With White And The Deepest

     Rose-Color (It Was Like A Gown Made Of Strawberries And Cream), The

     Folds Of Which, As The Light Fell Upon Them, Produced The Most

     Beautiful Shades Of Shifting Hues Possible. The Under-Dress Was A

     Very Pale Blue Satin, Brocaded With Silver, Of Which My Sleeves

     Were Likewise Made; The Fashion Of The Costume Was Copied From

     Sundry Pictures Of Titian And Paul Veronese--The Pointed Body, Cut

     Square Over The Bosom And Shoulders, With A Full White Muslin Shirt

     Drawn Round My Neck, And Wide White Sleeves Within The Large Blue

     And Silver Brocade Ones. _Comprenez-Vous_ All This? My Head Was

     Covered With Diamonds (_Not Real_; I'm Anxious For My Character),

     And What Delighted Me Much More Was That I Had Jewels In The Roses

     Of My Shoes. I Think If I Had Been Portia I Never Would Have Worn

     Any Ornaments But Two Large Diamonds In My Shoe Bows. You See, It

     Shows A Pretty Good Stock Of Diamonds And A Careless Superiority To

     Such Possessions To Wear Them On One's Feet. Now Pray Don't Laugh

     At Me, I Was So Enchanted With My Fine Shoes! This Was My First

     Dress; The Second Was Simply The Doctor's Black Gown, With A

Curious Little Authentic Black Velvet Hat, Which Was Received With

     Immense Applause When I Put It On; I Could Hardly Keep My

     Countenance At The Effect My Hat Produced. My Third Dress, My Own

     Favorite, Was Made Exactly Like The First, The Ample Skirt Gathered

     All Round Into The Stomacher Body; The Material Was White Satin,

     Trimmed With Old Point Lace And Roman Pearls, With A Most Beautiful

     Crimson Velvet Hat, A Perfect Rubens, With One Sweeping White

     Feather Falling Over It....

     We Are Spending Our Holiday Of Passion Week Here For The Sake Of A

     Little Quiet And Fresh Air; We Had Intended Going To Dover, But

     Were Prevented. You Ask Me After My Mother: She Is Pretty Well Now,

     But Her Health Is Extremely Uncertain, And Her Spirits, Which Are

     Likewise Very Variable, Have So Much Influence Over It That Her

     Condition Fluctuates Constantly; She Has Been Very Well, Though,

     For The Last Few Days. London, I Think, Never Agrees With Her, And

     We Have Been Racketing To Such A Degree That Quiet Had Become Not

     Only Desirable But Necessary. Thank You For Wishing Me Plenty Of

     Dancing. I Have Abundance Of It, And Like It Extremely; But I Fear

     I Am Very Unreasonable About It, For My Conscience Smote Me The

     Other Day When I Came To Consider That The Night Before, Although

     My Mother Had Stayed At A Ball With Me Till Three In The Morning, I

     Was By No Means Gracious In My Obedience To Her Request That I

     Should Spare Myself For My Work. You See, Dear H----, I Am Much The

     Same As Ever, Still As Foolishly Fond Of Dancing, And Still, I

     Fear, Almost As Far From "Begetting A Temperance In All Things" As

     When You And I Wandered About Heath Farm Together.

     We Met With A Comical Little Adventure The Other Evening. We Were

     Wandering Over The Common, And Encountered Two Gypsies. I Always

     Had Desired To Have My Fortune Told, So A---- And I Each Seized

     Hold Of A Sibyl And Listened To Our Fates.

     After Predicting To Me All Manner Of Good Luck And Two Lovers, And

     Foretelling That I Should Marry Blue Eyes (Which I Will Not), The

     Gypsy Went Up To My Father, And Began, "Pray, Sir, Let Me Tell Your

     Fortune: You Have Been Much Wronged, Sir, Kept Out Of Your Rights,

     Sir, And What Belonged To You, Sir,--And That By Them As You

     Thought Was Your Friends, Sir." My Father Turned Away Laughing, But

     My Mother, With A Face Of Amazed And Amazing Credulity, Put Her

     Hand In Her Pocket, Exclaiming, "I Must Give Her Something For

     That, Though!" Isn't That Delicious?

     Oh, H----! How Hard It Is To Do Right And Be Good! But To Be Sure,

     "If To Do Were As Easy As To Know What Were Good To Be Done," Etc.

     How I Wish I Could Have An Hour's Talk With You! I Have So Much To

     Say, And I Have Neither Time Nor Paper To Say It In; So I Must

     Leave Off.

     Good-By, God Bless You; Pray Look Forward To The Pleasure Of Seeing

     Me, And Believe Me Ever

                          Your Affectionate

The House Where I Used To Visit At Lea, In The Neighborhood Of

Blackheath, Was A Girls' School, Kept By Ladies Of The Name Of Grimani,

In Which My Aunt Victoire Decamp Was An Assistant Governess. These

Ladies Were Descended From A Noble Venetian Family, Of Which The

Reverend Julian Young, Their Nephew, Has Given An Account In His

Extremely Interesting And Amusing Memoir Of His Father; His Mother,

Julia Grimani, Being The Sister Of My Kind Friends, The Directresses Of

The Blackheath School. One Of These, Bellina Grimani, A Charming And

Attractive Woman, Who Was At One Time Attached To The Household Of The

Ill-Fated And Ill-Conducted Caroline Of Brunswick, Princess Of Wales,

Died Young And Single. The Elder Miss Grimani Married A Mr. H---- Within

A Few Years. Though I Have Never In The Intervening Fifty Years Met With

Them, I Have Seen Two Ladies Who Were Nieces Of Miss Grimani, And Pupils

In Her School When I Was A Small Visitor There. My Principal

Recollections Connected With The Place Were The Superior Moral

Excellence Of One Of These Damsels, E---- B----, Who Was Held Up Before

My Unworthy Eyes As A Model Of School-Girl Virtue, At Once To Shame And

Encourage Me; Bellina Grimani's Sweet Face And Voice; Some Very Fine

Cedar Trees On The Lawn, And A Picture In The Drawing-Room Of Prospero

With His Three-Year-Old Miranda In A Boat In The Midst Of A Raging Sea,

Which Work Of Art Used To Shake My Childish Bosom With A Tragical

Passion Of Terror And Pity, Invariably Ending In Bitter Tears. I Was

Much Spoiled And Very Happy During My Visits To Lea,