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

Death, Which Did Not Occur Till The Evening, Was Anticipated By Rumor. A

Terrible Cloud Covered This Great National Achievement, And Its Success,

Which In Every Respect Was Complete, Was Atoned For To The Nemesis Of

Good Fortune By The Sacrifice Of The First Financial Statesman Of The

Country.

                        GREAT RUSSELL STREET, Friday, October 1, 1830.

     DEAREST H----,

     I Have Risen Very Early, For What With Excitement, And The

     Wakefulness Always Attendant With Me Upon A New Bed, I Have Slept

     But Little, And I Snatch This First Hour Of The Day, The Only One I

     May Be Able To Command, To Tell You That I Have Heard From My

     Brother, And That He Is Safe And Well, For Which, Thank God!

     Further I Know Nothing. He Talks Vaguely Of Being With Us Toward

     The End Of The Winter, But In The Meantime, Unless He Finds Some

     Means Of Conveying Some Tidings Of His Welfare To Me, I Must Remain

     In Utter Ignorance Of His Circumstances And Situation. Your Letter,

     Which Was To Welcome Me To My New Home, Arrived There Two Days

     Before I Did, And Was Forwarded To Me Into Buckinghamshire. A Few

     Days There--Taking What Interest I Could In The Sporting And

     Fishing, The Country Quiet Of The Place, And Above All The

     Privilege Of Taking The Sacrament, Which, Had I Remained At Heaton,

     I Should Have Had No Opportunity Of Doing--Gave Me A Breathing-Time

     And A Sense Of Mental Repose Before Entering Again Upon That Busy

     Life Whose Demands Are Already Besieging Me In The Inexorable Form

     Of Half A Dozen New Stage Dresses To Be Devised, Ordered, And

     Executed In The Shortest Imaginable Time.

                                                           October 3d.

     You See How Truly I Prophesied At The Beginning Of This Letter,

     When I Said That The Hour Before Breakfast Was Perhaps The Only One

     I Should Be Able To Command That Day. I Might Have Said That Week,

     For This Is The First Instant I Have Been Able To Call My Own Since

     Then. I Rehearsed Juliet Yesterday, And Shall Do So Again To-Morrow

     Morning; The Theater Opens With It To-Morrow Night. I Have A New

     Nurse, And I Am Rehearsing For Her, Poor Woman! She Is Dreadfully

     Alarmed At Taking Mrs. Davenport's Place, Who Certainly Was A Very

     Great Favorite. I Am Half Crazy With The Number Of New Dresses To

     Be Got; For Though, Thanks To The Kindness And Activity Of My

     Mother, None Of The Trouble Of Devising Them Ever Falls On Me, Yet

     The Bare Catalogue Of Silks And Satins And Velvets, Hats And

     Feathers And Ruffs, Fills Me With Amazement And Trepidation. I

     Fancy I Shall Go Through All The Old Parts, And Then Come Out In A

     New Tragedy. I Shall Be Most Horribly Frightened, But I Hope I

     Shall Do Well, For The Sake Of The Poor Author, Who Is A Young Man

     Of Great Abilities, And To Whom I Wish Every Success. The Subject

     Of His Play Is Taken From A Spanish One, Called "The Jew Of

     Aragon," And The Whole Piece Is Of A New And Unhackneyed Order. My

     Father And I Play A Jewish Father And Daughter; This And The

     Novelty Of The Story Itself Will Perhaps Be Favorable To The Play;

     I Hope So With All My Heart.

     Mrs. Henry Siddons Has Taken A House In London For Six Months; I

     Have Not Seen Her Yet, But Am Most Anxious To Do So. Anxiety And

     Annoyance, I Fear, Have Just Caused Her A Severe Indisposition, But

     She Is A Little Better Now. Mrs. Siddons Is Much Better. She Is

     Staying At Leamington At Present.

     Dearest H----, Returning From Buckinghamshire The Other Day, I

     Passed Cassiobury, The Grove, The Little Lane Leading Down To Heath

     Farm, And Miss M----'S Cottage, And The First Days Of Our

     Acquaintance Came Back To My Memory. I Suppose I Should Have Liked

     And Loved You Wherever I Had Met You, But You Come In For A Share

     Of My Love And Liking Of Cassiobury, And The Spring, The Beautiful

     Season In Which We Met First. I Send You The Long-Promised Lock Of

     My Hair; You Will Be Surprised At The Lightness Of The Shade--At

     Least, I Was. It Was Cut From My Forehead, And I Think It Is A Nice

     Bit; Tell Me That You Get It Safe.

     Henry Is Staying In Buckinghamshire In All The Ecstasy Of A Young

     Cockney's First Sporting Days. When He Was Quite A Child And Was

     Asked What Profession He Intended To Embrace, He Replied That He

     Would Be "_A Gentleman And Wear Leather Breeches_," And I Think

     It Is The Very Destiny He Is Fitted To Fill. He Is The Perfect

     Picture Of Happiness When In His Shooting-Jacket And Gaiters, With

     His Gun On His Shoulder And A Bright Day Before Him; And Although

     We Were Obliged To Return To Town, My Mother Was Unwilling To

     Curtail His Pleasure, And Left Him To Murder Pheasants And Hares,

     And Amuse Himself In A Manly Fashion.

     I Did Not Like The Place At Which They Were Staying As Much As They

     Did, For Though The Country Was Very Pretty, I Had During The

     Summer Tour Seen So Much That Surpassed It That I Saw It At A

     Disadvantage. Then, I Have No Fancy For Gypsying, And The Greatest

     Taste For All The Formal Proprieties Of Life, And What I Should

     Call "Silver Fork Existence" In General; And The Inconveniences Of

     A Small Country Inn, Without Really Affecting My Comfort, Disturb

     My Decided Preference For Luxury. The Principal Diversion My

     Ingenious Mind Discovered To While Away My Time With Was A _Fiddle_

     (An Elderly One), Which I Routed Out Of A Lumber Closet, And From

     Which, After Due Invocations To St. Cecilia, I Drew Such Diabolical

     Sounds As I Flatter Myself Were Never Excelled By Tartini Or His

     Master, The Devil Himself. I Must Now Close This, For It Is

     Tea-Time.

The Play Of "The Jew Of Aragon," The First Dramatic Composition Of A

Young Gentleman Of The Name Of Wade, Of Whose Talent My Father Had A

Very High Opinion, Which He Trusted The Success Of His Piece Would

Confirm, I Am Sorry To Say Failed Entirely. It Was The First Time And

The Last That I Had The Distress Of Assisting In Damning A Piece, And

What With My Usual Intense Nervousness In Acting A New Part, My Anxiety

For The Interests Of Both The Author And The Theatre, And The Sort Of

Indignant Terror With Which, Instead Of The Applause I Was Accustomed

To, I Heard The Hisses Which Testified The Distaste And Disapprobation

Of The Public And The Failure Of The Play, I Was Perfectly Miserable

When The Curtain Fell, And The Poor Young Author, As Pale As A Ghost,

Came Forward To Meet My Father At The Side Scene, And Bravely Holding

Out His Hand To Him Said, "Never Mind For Me, Mr. Kemble; I'll Do Better

Another Time." And So Indeed He Did; For He Wrote A Charming Play On The

Old Pathetic Story Of "Griselda," In Which That Graceful Actress Miss

Jarman Played His Heroine, And My Father The Hero, And Which Had An

Entire And Well-Deserved Success. I Am Obliged To Confess That I Retain

No Recollection Whatever Of The Ill-Fated Play Of "The Jew Of Aragon,"

Or My Own Part In It, Save The Last _Scene_ Alone; This, I Recollect,

Was A Magnificent Jewish Place Of Worship, In Which My Father, Who Was

The High Priest, Appeared In Vestments Such As I Believe The Jewish

Priests Still Wear In Their Solemn Ceremonies, And Which Were So Closely

Copied From The Description Of Aaron's Sacred Pontifical Robes That I

Felt A Sense Of Impropriety In Such A Representation (Purely Historical,

As It Was Probably Considered, And In No Way Differing From The Costume

Accepted On The French Stage In Racine's Jewish Plays). And I Think It

Extremely Likely That The Failure Of The Piece, Which Had Been Imminent

All Through, Found Its Climax In The Unfavorable Impression Made Upon

The Audience By This Very Scene, In Spite Of My Father's Noble And

Picturesque Appearance.

I Never Heard Hisses On The Stage Before Or Since; And Though I Was Very

Well Aware That On This Occasion They Were Addressed Neither To Me Nor

To My Performance, I Think If They Had Been The Whistling Of Bullets

(Which I Have Also Heard Nearer Than Was Pleasant) I Could Not Have Felt

More Frightened And Furious.

Young Wade's Self-Control And Composure During The Catastrophe Of This

Play Reminds Me, By Contrast, Of A Most Ludicrous Story My Father Used

To Tell Of Some Unfortunate Authoress, Who, In An Evil Hour For Herself

And Some Friendly Provincial Manager, Persuaded Him To Bring Out An

Original Drama Of Hers.

The Audience (Not A Very Discriminating Or Numerous One) Were

Sufficiently Appreciative To Object Extremely To The Play, And Large

Enough To Make Their Objections Noisily Apparent.

The Manager, In His Own Distress Not Unmindful Of His Poor Friend, The

Authoress, Sought Her Out To Console Her, And Found Her Seated At The

Side Scene With A Glass Of Stiff Brandy And Water That Some

Commiserating Friend Had Administered To Her For Her Support, Rocking

Herself Piteously To And Fro, And, With The Tears Streaming Down Her