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

                             Ever Yours,

                                                              F. A. K.

The Majority Of Parents--Mothers, I Believe I Ought To Say--Err In One

Or Other Excess With Regard To Their Children. Love Either Blinds Them

Absolutely To Their Defects, Or Makes Them So Terribly Alive To Them As

To Exaggerate Every Imperfection. It Is Hard To Say Which Of The Errors

Is Most Injurious In Its Effects. I Suppose According As The Temperament

Is Desponding And Diffident, Or Sanguine And Self-Sufficient, The One

System Or The Other Is Likely To Do Most Harm.

My Mother's Intensely Nervous Organization, Acute Perceptions, And

Exacting Taste Made Her In Everything Most Keenly Alive To Our Faults

And Deficiencies. The Unsparing Severity Of The Sole Reply Or Comment

She Ever Vouchsafed To Our Stupidity, Want Of Sense, Or Want Of

Observation--"I Hate A Fool"--Has Remained Almost Like A Cut With A Lash

Across My Memory. Her Wincing Sensitiveness Of Ear Made It All But

Impossible For Me To Practice Either The Piano Or Singing Within Hearing

Of Her Exclamations Of Impatient Anguish At My False Chords And Flat

Intonations; And I Suppose Nothing But My Sister's _Unquenchable_

Musical Genius Would Have Sustained Her Naturally Timid, Sensitive

Disposition Under Such Discipline.

Two Of Our Family, My Eldest Brother And Myself, Were Endowed With Such

Robust Self-Esteem And Elastic Conceit As Not Only Defied Repression,

But, Unfortunately For Us, Could Never Be Effectually Snubbed; With My

Sister And My Younger Brother The Case Was Entirely Different, And

Encouragement Was Rather What They Required. How Well It Is For The Best

And Wisest, As Well As The Least Good And Least Wise, Of Trainers Of

Youth, That God Is Above All. I Do Not Myself Understand The Love That

Blinds One To The Defects Of Those Dear To One; Their Faults Are Part Of

Themselves, Without Which They Could Not Be Themselves, No More To Be

Denied Or Dissembled, It Seems To Me, Than The Color Of Their Eyes Or

Hair. I Do Not Feel The Scruple Which I Observe In Others, In Alluding

To The Failings Of Those They Love. The Mingled Good And Evil Qualities

In My Friends Make Up Their Individual Identity, And Neither From

Myself, Nor From Them, Nor From Others Does It Ever Occur To Me That

Half That Identity Should Or Could Be Concealed. I Could As Soon Imagine

Them Without Their Arms Or Their Legs As Without Their Peculiar Moral

Characteristics, And Could No More Think Of Them Without Their Faults

Than Without Their Virtues.

Many Were The Pleasant Hours, In Spite Of My Misgivings, That I Passed

With A Book In My Hand, Mechanically Pacing The Gravel Walks Of Russell

Square. Certain Readings Of Shakespeare's Plays, "Othello" And "Macbeth"

Especially, In Lonely Absorption Of Spirit, I Associate For Ever With

That Place. I Remember, Too, Reading At My Father's Request, During

Those Peripatetic Exercises, Two Plays Written By Sheil For His Amiable

Countrywoman, Miss O'Neill, In Which She Won Deserved Laurels: "Evadne,

Or The Statue," And "The Apostate." I Never Had The Pleasure Of Seeing

Miss O'Neill Act; But The Impression Left On My Mind By Those Plays Was

That Her Abilities Must Have Been Very Great To Have Given Them The

Effect And Success They Had. As For Me, As Usual, Of Course My Reply To

My Father Was A Disconsolate "I Am Sure _I_ Can Do Nothing With Them."

My Friend H---- S----, In Coming To Us In Russell Street, Came To A

House That Had Been Almost A Home To Her And Her Brother When They Were

Children, In The Life Of My Uncle And Mrs. John Kemble, By Whom They

Were Regarded With Great Affection, And Whom They Visited And Stayed

With As If They Had Been Young Relations Of Their Own.

My Hope Of Learning German And Drawing Was Frustrated By The Engrossing

Calls Of My Theatrical Occupations. The First Study Was Reserved For A

Long-Subsequent Season, When I Had Recourse To It As A Temporary

Distraction In Perplexity And Sorrow, From Which I Endeavored To Find

Relief In Some Sustained Intellectual Effort; And I Mastered It

Sufficiently To Translate Without Difficulty Schiller's "Mary Stuart"

And Some Of His Minor Poems.

As For Drawing, That I Have Once Or Twice Tried To Accomplish, But The

Circumstances Of My Unsettled And Restless Life Have Been Unfavorable

For Any Steady Effort To Follow It Up, And I Have Got No Further Yet

Than A Passionate Desire To Know How To Draw. If (As I Sometimes

Imagine) In A Future Existence Undeveloped Capacities And Persistent

Yearnings For All Kinds Of Good May Find Expansion And Exercise, And Not

Only Our Moral But Also Our Intellectual Being Put Forth New Powers And

Achieve Progress In New Directions, Then In Some Of The Successive

Heavens To Which, Perhaps, I May Be Allowed To Climb (If To Any) I Shall

Be A Painter Of Pictures; A Mere Idea That Suggests A Heavenly State Of

Long-Desired Capacity, To Possess Which, Here On Earth, I Would Give At

Once The Finger Of Either Hand Least Indispensable To An Artist. Of The

Two Pursuits, A Painter's Or A Musician's, Considered Not As Arts But As

Accomplishments Merely, The Former Appears To Me Infinitely More

Desirable, For A Woman, Than The Latter Far More Frequently Cultivated

One. The One Is A Sedative, The Other An Acute Stimulant To The Nervous

System. The One Is A Perfectly Independent And Always To Be Commanded

Occupation; The Other Imperatively Demands An Instrument, Utters An

Audible Challenge To Attention, And Must Either Command Solitude Or

Disturb Any Society Not Inclined To Become An Audience. The One

Cultivates Habits Of Careful, Accurate Observation Of Nature, And

Requires Patient And Precise Labor In Reproducing Her Models; The Other

Appeals Powerfully To The Imagination And Emotions, And Charms Almost In

Proportion As It Excites Its Votaries. With Regard To Natural Aptitude,

The Most Musical Of Nations--The German--Shows By The Impartial Training

Of Its Common Schools How Universal It Considers A Certain Degree Of

Musical Capacity.

Our Musical Literature Of The Seventeenth And Eighteenth Centuries, The

Glees, Madrigals, Rounds, And Catches, Requiring Considerable Skill, And

Familiarly Performed Formerly In The Country Houses And Home Circles Of

Our Gentry, And The Noble Church Music Of Our Cathedral Choirs, Bear

Witness To A High Musical Inspiration, And Thorough Musical Training In

Their Composers And Executants.

We Seem To Have Lost This Vein Of Original National Music; The

Lancashire Weavers And Spinners Are Still Good Choristers, But Among The

German Half Of Our Common Teutonic Race, The Real Feeling For And

Knowledge Of Music Continues To Flourish, While With The Anglo-Saxons Of

Britain And America It Has Dwindled And Decayed.

                               GREAT RUSSELL STREET, November 8, 1830.

     DEAREST H----,

     I Received Your Note, For I Cannot Honor The Contents Of Your Last

     With The Name Of A Letter (Whatever Title The Shape And Quantity Of

     The Paper It Was Written On May Claim).

     I Have Made Up My Mind To Let You Make Up Yours, Without Urging You

     Further Upon The Subject; But I Must Reply To One Thing. You Say To

     Me, Could You Bring With You A Strip Of Sea-Shore, A Corner Of Blue

     Sky, Or Half A Dozen Waves, You Would Not Hesitate. Allow My To Say

     That Whereas By The Sea-Side Or Under A Bright Sky Your Society

     Enhances The Pleasure Derived From Them, I Now Desire It (Not

     Having These) As Delightful In Itself, Increasing My Enjoyment In

     The Beauties Of Nature, And Compensating For Their Absence. But I

     Have Done; Only If Mrs. K---- Has Held Out A False Hope To Me, She

     Is Ferocious And Atrocious, And That Is All, And So Pray Tell Her.

     I Had Left Myself So Little Room To Tell You About This

     Disagreeable Business Of The _Age_ Newspaper, In My Last, That I

     Thought What I Said Of It Would Be Almost Unintelligible To You. I

     Do Not Really Deserve The Sympathy You Express For My Feelings In

     The Matter, For Partly From Being Totally Ignorant Of The Nature

     And Extent Of My Injuries--Having Never, Of Course, Read A Line Of

     That Scurrilous Newspaper--And Partly From My Indifference To

     Everything That Is Said About Me, I Really Have Felt No Annoyance

     Or Distress On The Subject, Beyond, As I Told You, One Moment's

     Feminine Indignation At A Coarse Expression Which Was Repeated To

     Me, But Which In Strict Truth Did Not And Could Not Apply To Me;

     And Considerable Regret That My Father Should Have Touched Mr.

     Westmacott Even With A Stick, Or A "Pair Of Tongs." That Individual

     Intends Bringing A Suit For Damages, Which Makes Me Very Anxious To

     Have My Play And Rhymes Published, If I Can Get Anything For Them,

     As I Think The Profits Derived From My "Scribbles" (As Good Queen.

     Anne Called Her Letters) Would Be Better Bestowed In Paying For

     That Little Ebullition Of My Father's Temper Than In Decorating My

     Tiny Sanctum. What Does My Poor, Dear Father Expect, But That I

     Shall Be Bespattered If I Am To Live On The Highway?

     Mr. Murray Has Been Kind Enough To Say He Will Publish My Very

     Original Compositions, And I Am Preparing Them For Him. I Am Sorry

     To Say I Have Heard Nothing From My Brother; _Of_ Him I Have Heard,

     For His Whereabout Is Known And Talked Of--So Much So, Indeed, That

     My Father Says Further Concealment Is At Once Useless And

     Ridiculous. I May Therefore Now Tell You That He Is At This Moment

     In Spain, Trying To Levy Troops For The Cause Of The

     Constitutionalists. I Need Not Tell You, Dearest H----, How Much I

     Regret This, Because You Will Know How Deeply I Must Disapprove Of

     It. I Might Have Thought Any Young Man Quixotic Who Thus Mistook A

     Restless, Turbulent Spirit, Eager To Embrace A Quarrel Not His Own,

     For Patriotism And Self-Devotion To A Sacred Cause; But In My