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

Sat In Was In The Roughest Condition Which Admitted Of Their Occupying

It, At All; The Raw, New Chimney Smoked Intolerably. Out-Of-Doors The

Whole Place Was One Chaos Of Bricks, Mortar, Scaffolding, Tiles, And

Slates. A Heavy Mist Shrouded The Whole Landscape Of Lovely Tweed Side,

And Distilled In A Cold, Persistent, And Dumb Drizzle. Maida, The

Well-Beloved Staghound, Kept Fidgeting In And Out Of The Room, Walter

Scott Every Five Minutes Exclaiming, "Eh, Adam! The Puir Brute's Just

Wearying To Get Out;" Or, "Eh, Adam! The Puir Creature's Just Crying To

Come In;" When Sir Adam Would Open The Door To The Raw, Chilly Air For

The Wet, Muddy Hound's Exit Or Entrance, While Scott, With His Face

Swollen With A Grievous Toothache, And One Hand Pressed Hard To His

Cheek, With The Other Was Writing The Inimitably Humorous Opening

Chapters Of "The Antiquary," Which He Passed Across The Table, Sheet By

Sheet, To His Friend, Saying, "Now, Adam, D'ye Think That'll Do?" Such A

Picture Of Mental Triumph Over Outward Circumstances Has Surely Seldom

Been Surpassed: House-Builders, Smoky Chimney, Damp Draughts, Restless,

Dripping Dog, And Toothache Form What Our Friend, Miss Masson, Called A

"Concatenation Of Exteriorities" Little Favorable To Literary

Composition Of Any Sort; But Considered As Accompaniments Or Inspiration

Of That Delightfully Comical Beginning Of "The Antiquary," They Are All

But Incredible.

To My Theatrical Avocation I Have Been Indebted For Many Social

Pleasures And Privileges; Among Others, For Sir Walter Scott's Notice

And Acquaintance; But Among The Things It Has Deprived Me Of Was The

Opportunity Of Enjoying More Of His Honorable And Delightful

Intercourse. A Visit To Abbotsford, Urged Upon Us Most Kindly, Is One Of

The Lost Opportunities Of My Life That I Think Of Always With Bitter

Regret. Sir Walter Wanted Us To Go Down And Spend A Week With Him In The

Country, And Our Professional Engagements Rendered It Impossible For Us

To Do So; And There Are Few Things In My Whole Life That I Count Greater

Loss Than The Seven Days I Might Have Passed With That Admirable Genius

And Excellent, Kind Man, And Had To Forego. I Never Saw Abbotsford Until

After Its Master Had Departed From All Earthly Dwelling-Places. I Was

Staying In The Neighborhood, At The House Of My Friend, Mrs. M----, Of

Carolside, And Went Thither With Her And My Youngest Daughter. The House

Was Inhabited Only By Servants; And The Housekeeper, Whose Charge It Was

To Show It, Waited Till A Sufficient Number Of Tourists And Sight-Seers

Had Collected, And Then Drove Us All Together From Room To Room Of The

House In A Body, Calling Back Those Who Outstripped Her, And The Laggers

Who Would Fain Have Fallen A Few Paces Out Of The Sound Of The Dreary

Parrotry Of Her Inventory Of The Contents Of Each Apartment. There Was

His Writing-Table And Chair, His Dreadnaught Suit And Thick Walking

Shoes And Staff There In The Drawing-Room; The Table, Fitted Like A

Jeweler's Counter, With A Glass Cover, Protecting And Exhibiting All The

Royal And Precious Tokens Of Honor And Admiration, In The Shape Of

Orders, Boxes, Miniatures, Etc, Bestowed On Him By The Most Exalted

Worshipers Of His Genius, Hardly To Be Distinguished Under The Thick

Coat Of Dust With Which The Glass Was Darkened. Poor Anne Scott's

Portrait Looked Dolefully Down On The Strangers Staring Up At Her, And,

A Glass Door Being Open To The Garden, Mrs. M---- And Myself Stepped Out

For A Moment To Recover From The Miserable Impression Of Sadness And

Desecration The Whole Thing Produced On Us; But The Inexorable Voice Of

The Housekeeper Peremptorily Ordered Us To Return, As It Would Be, She

Said (And Very Truly), Quite Impossible For Her To Do Her Duty In

Describing The "Curiosities" Of The House, If Visitors Took Upon

Themselves To Stray About In Every Direction Instead Of Keeping Together

And Listening To What She Was Saying. How Glad We Were To Escape From

The Sort Of Nightmare Of The Affair!

I Returned There On Another Occasion, One Of A Large And Merry Party Who

Had Obtained Permission To Picnic In The Grounds, But Who, Deterred By

The Threatening Aspect Of The Skies From Gypsying (As Had Originally

Been Proposed) By The Side Of The Tweed, Were Allowed, By Sir Adam

Ferguson's Interest With The Housekeeper, To Assemble Round The Table In

The Dining-Room Of Abbotsford. Here, Again, The Past Was So Present With

Me As To Destroy All Enjoyment, And, Thinking How I Might Have Had The

Great Good Fortune To Sit There With The Man Who Had Made The Whole

Place Illustrious, I Felt Ashamed And Grieved At Being There Then,

Though My Companions Were All Kind, Merry, Good-Hearted People, Bent

Upon Their Own And Each Other's Enjoyment. Sir Adam Ferguson Had Grown

Very Old, And Told No More The Vivid Anecdotes Of Former Days; And To

Complete My Mental Discomfort, On The Wall Immediately Opposite To Me

Hung A Strange Picture Of Mary Stuart's Head, Severed From The Trunk And

Lying On A White Cloth On A Table, As One Sees The Head Of John The

Baptist In The Charger, In Pictures Of Herodias's Daughter. It Was A

Ghastly Presentation Of The Guillotined Head Of A Pretty But Rather

Common-Looking French Woman--A Fancy Picture Which It Certainly Would

Not Have Been My Fancy To Have Presiding Over My Dinner-Table.

Only Once After This Dreary Party Of Pleasure Did I Return, Many Years

Later, To Abbotsford. I Was Alone, And The Tourist Season Was Over, And

The Sad Autumnal Afternoon Offering Little Prospect Of My Being Joined

By Other Sight-Seers, I Prevailed With The Housekeeper, Who Admitted Me,

To Let Me Wander About The Place, Without Entering The House; And I

Spent A Most Melancholy Hour In The Garden And In Pacing Up And Down The

Terrace Overlooking The Tweed Side. The Place Was No Longer Inhabited At

All; My Ringing At The Gate Had Brought, After Much Delay, A Servant

From Mr. Hope's New Residence, Built At Some Distance From Scott's

House, And From Her I Learned That The Proprietor Of Abbotsford Had

Withdrawn To The House He Had Erected For Himself, Leaving The Poet's

Dwelling Exclusively As A Place Of Pilgrimage For Travelers And

Strangers, With Not Even A Servant Residing Under Its Roof. The House

Abandoned To Curious Wayfarers; The Sons And Daughters, The Grandson And

Granddaughter, Every Member Of The Founder's Family Dead; Mr. Hope

Remarried To A Lady Of The House Of Arundel, And Living In A

Semi-Monastic Seclusion In A House Walled Off From The Tourist-Haunted

Shrine Of The Great Man Whose Memory Alone Was Left To Inhabit It,--All

These Circumstances Filled Me With Indescribable Sadness As I Paced Up

And Down In The Gloaming, And Thought Of The Strange Passion For

Founding Here A Family Of The Old Border Type Which Had Obfuscated The

Keen, Clear Brain Of Walter Scott, Made His Wonderful Gifts Subservient

To The Most Futile Object Of Ambition, Driven Him To The Verge Of

Disgrace And Bankruptcy, Embittered The Evening Of His Laborious And

Glorious Career, And Finally Ended In This,--The Utter Extinction Of The

Name He Had Illustrated And The Family He Had Hoped To Found. And While

His Noble Works Remain To Make His Memory Ever Loved And Honored, This

_Brummagem_ Mediæval Mansion, This Mock Feudal Castle With Its Imitation

Baronial Hall (Upon A Diminutive Scale) Hung Round With Suits Of Armor,

Testifies To The Utter Perversity Of Good Sense And Good Taste Resulting

From This One Mental Infirmity, This Craving To Be A Border Chieftain Of

The Sixteenth Century Instead Of An Edinburgh Lawyer Of The Nineteenth,

And His Preference For The Distinction Of A Petty Landholder To That Of

The Foremost Genius Of His Age. Mr. Combe, In Speaking Of This Feudal

Insanity Of Scott And The Piteous Havoc It Made Of His Life, Told Me

That At One Time He And Ballantyne, With Whom He Had Entered Into

Partnership, Were Staving Off Imminent Ruin By Indorsing And Accepting

Each Other's Bills, And Carried On That Process To The Extremest Verge

Compatible With Honesty. What A History Of Astounding Success And Utter

Failure!

                                                GLASGOW, July 3, 1830.

     You Will, Ere This, My Dear Mrs. Jameson, Have Received My Very

     Tardy Reply To Your First Kind Letter. I Got Your Second Last Night

     At The Theater, Just After I _Had Given Away My Jewels To Mr.

     Beverley_. I Was Much Gratified By Your Profession Of Affection For

     Me, For Though I Am Not Over-Desirous Of Public Admiration And

     Approbation, I Am Anxious To Secure The Good-Will Of Individuals

     Whose Intellect I Admire, And On Whose Character I Can With

     Confidence Rely. Your Letter, However, Made Me Uncomfortable In

     Some Respects; You Seem Unhappy And Perplexed. I Am Sure You Will

     Believe Me When I Say That, Without The Remotest Thought Of

     Intruding On The Sacredness Of Private Annoyances And Distresses, I

     Most Sincerely Sympathize In Your Uneasiness, Whatever May Be Its

     Cause, And Earnestly Pray That The Cloud, Which The Two Or Three

     Last Times We Met In London Hung So Heavily On Your Spirits, May

     Pass Away. It Is Not For Me To Say To You, "Patience," My Dear Mrs.

     Jameson; You Have Suffered Too Much To Have Neglected That Only

     Remedy Of Our Afflictions, But I Trust Heaven Will Make It An

     Efficacious One To You, And Erelong Send You Less Need Of It. I Am

     Glad You See My Mother Often, And Very Glad That To Assist Your

     Recollection Of Me You Find Interest And Amusement In Discussing

     The Fitting Up Of My Room With Her. Pray Do Not Forget That The

     Drawing You Made Of The Rooms In James Street Is Mine, And That

     When You Visit Me In My New Abode It Will Be Pleasant To Have That

     Remembrance Before Us Of A Place Where We Have Spent Some Hours

     Very Happily Together.

     What You Say Of Mrs. N---- Only Echoes My Own Thoughts Of Her. She

     Is A Splendid Creature, Nobly Endowed Every Way; Too Nobly To

     Become Through Mere Frivolity And Foolish Vanity The Mark Of The

     Malice And Envy Of Such _Things_ As She Is Surrounded By, And Who

     Will All Eagerly Embrace The Opportunity Of Slandering One So

     Immeasurably Their Superior In Every Respect. I Do Not Know Much Of

     Her, But I Feel Deeply Interested In Her; Not Precisely With The

     Interest Inspired By Loving Or Even Liking, But With That Feeling

     Of Admiring Solicitude With Which One Must Regard A Person So

     Gifted, So Tempted, And In Such A Position As Hers. I Am Glad That

     Lovely Sister Of Hers Is Married, Though Matrimony In That World Is

     Not Always The Securest Haven For A Woman's Virtue Or Happiness; It

     Is Sometimes In That Society The Reverse Of An "Honorable Estate."