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

     Question. The Great People Want A Plaything For This Season, And

     Have Set Their Hearts Upon That. I Acted Belvidera To My Father's

     Jaffier At Brighton; You Cannot Imagine How Great A Difference It

     Produced In My Acting. Mrs. Siddons And Miss O'Neill Had A Great

     Advantage Over Me In Their Tragic Partners. Have You Heard That Mr.

     Hope, The Author Of "Anastasius," Is Just Dead? That Was A

     Wonderfully Clever Book, Of Rather Questionable Moral Effects, I

     Think; The Same Sort Of Cynical Gloom And Discontent Which Pervade

     Byron's Writings Prevail In That; And I Thought It A Pity, Because

     In Other Respects It Seems A Genuine Book, True To Life And Human

     Nature. A Few Days Before I Heard Of His Death, Mr. Harness Was

     Discussing With Me A Theory Of Hope's Respecting The Destiny Of The

     Human Soul Hereafter. His Notion Is That All Spirit Is After Death

     To Form But One Whole Spiritual Existence, A Sort Of _Lumping_

     Which I Object To. I Should Like Always To Be Able To Know Myself

     From Somebody Else.

     I _Do_ Read The Papers Sometimes, Dear H----, And, Whenever I Do, I

     Wonder At You And All Sensible People Who Make A Daily Practice Of

     It; The Proceedings Of Parliament Would Make One Angry If They Did

     Not Make One So Sad, And Some Of The Debates Would Seem To Me

     Laughable But That I Know They Are Lamentable.

     I Have Just Finished Channing's Essay On Milton, Which Is

     Admirable.

     My Cousin Harry Sails For India On Thursday; His Mother Is Making A

     Brave Fight Of It, Poor Soul! I Met Them All At My Aunt Siddons's

     Last Night; She Was Remarkably Well, And "Charming," As She Styles

     Herself When That Is The Case. Good-By. Always Affectionately

     Yours,

                                                                FANNY.

I Suppose It Is One Of The Peculiarities Of The Real Poetical

Temperament To Receive, As It Were, A Double Impression Of Its Own

Phenomena--One Through The Senses, Affections, And Passions, And One

Through The Imagination--And To Have A Perpetual Tendency To Make

Intellectual Capital Of The Experiences Of Its Own Sensuous,

Sentimental, And Passionate Nature. In The Above Letter, Written So Many

Years Ago, I Have Used The Term _Experimentalizing_ With His Own Nature

As The Process Of A Poet's Mind; But Though Self-Consciousness And

Self-Observation Are Almost Inseparable From The Poetical Organization,

Goethe Is The Only Instance I Know Of What Could, With Any Propriety, Be

Termed Self-Experimentalizing--He Who Wrung The Heart And Turned The

Head Of The Whole Reading Europe Of His Day By His Own Love Passages

With Madame Kestner Transcribed Into "The Sorrows Of Werther."

Self-Illustration Is Perhaps A Better Term For The Result Of That

Passionate Egotism Which Is So Strong An Element In The Nature Of Most

Poets, And The Secret Of So Much Of Their Power. _Ils S'intéressent

Tellement À Ce Qui Les Regarde_, That They Interest Us Profoundly In It

Too, And By The Law Of Our Common Nature, And The Sympathy That Pervades

It, Their Great Difference From Their Kind Serves But To Enforce Their

Greater Likeness To It.

Goethe's Nature, However, Was Not At All A Predominantly Passionate One;

So Much The Contrary, Indeed, That One Hardly Escapes The Impression All

Through His Own Record Of His Life That He _Felt_ Through His

Overmastering Intellect Rather Than His Heart; And That He Analyzed Too

Well The Processes Of His Own Feelings Ever To Have Been Carried By Them

Beyond The Permission Of His Will, Or Out Of Sight Of That Æsthetic

Self-Culture, That Development, Which Really Seems To Have Been His

Prevailing Passion. A Strong Histrionic Vein Mixes, Too, With His More

Imaginative Mental Qualities, And Perpetually Reveals Itself In His

Assumption Of Fictitious Characters, In His Desire For Producing

"Situations" In His Daily Life, And In His Conscious "Effects" Upon

Those Whom He Sought To Impress.

His Genius Sometimes Reminds Me Of Ariel--The Subtle Spirit Who,

Observing From Aloof, As It Were (That Is, From The Infinite Distance Of

His Own _Unmoral_, Demoniacal Nature), The Follies And Sins And Sorrows

Of Humanity, Understands Them All And Sympathizes With None Of Them; And

Describes, With Equal Indifference, The Drunken, Brutish Delight In His

Music Expressed By The Coarse Neapolitan Buffoons And The Savage

Gorilla, Caliban, And The Abject Self-Reproach And Bitter, Poignant

Remorse Exhibited By Antonio And His Fellow Conspirators; Telling

Prospero That If _He_ Saw Them He Would Pity Them, And Adding, In His

Passionless Perception Of Their Anguish, "I Should, Sir, _Were I

Human_."

There Is A Species Of Remote Partiality In Goethe's Mode Of Delineating

The Sins And Sorrows Of His Fellows, That Seems Hardly Human And Still

Less Divine; "_Das Ist Dämonisch_," To Use His Own Expression About

Shakespeare, Who, However, Had Nothing Whatever In Common With That

Quality Of Moral _Neutrality_ Of The Great German Genius.

Perhaps Nothing Indicates What I Should Call Goethe's Intellectual

_Unhumanity_ So Much As His Absolute Want Of Sympathy With The Progress

Of The Race. He Was But Mortal Man, However, Though He Had The Head Of

Jove, And Pallas Athena Might Have Sprung All Armed From It. Once, And

Once Only, If I Remember Rightly, In His Conversations With Eckermann,

The Cause Of Mankind Elicits An Expression Of Faith And Hope From Him,

In Some Reference To The Future Of America. I Recollect, On Reading The

Second Part Of "Faust" With My Friend Abeken (Assuredly The Most

Competent Of All Expounders Of That Extraordinary Composition), When I

Asked Him What Was The Signification Of That Final Cultivation Of The

Barren Sea Sand, In Faust's Blind Old Age, And Cried, "Is It Possible

That He Wishes To Indicate The Hopelessness Of All Attempt At Progress?"

His Replying, "I Am Afraid He Was No Believer In It." And So It Comes

That His Letters To Madame Von Stein Leave One Only Amazed With The More

Sorrowful Admiration That The Unrivaled Genius Of The Civilized World In

Its Most Civilized Age Found Perfect Satisfaction In The Inane Routine

Of The Life Of A Court Dignitary In A Petty German Principality.

It Is Worthy Of Note How, In The Two Instances Of His Great

Masterpieces, "Faust" And "Wilhelm Meister," Goethe Has Worked Up In A

Sequel All The Superabundant Material He Had Gathered For His Subject;

And In Each Case How The Life-Blood Of The Poet Pulses Through The First

Part, While The Second Is, As It Were, A Mere Storehouse Of Splendid

Intellectual Supply Which He Has Wrought Into Elaborate Phantasmagoria,

Dazzling In Their Brilliancy And Wonderful In Their Variety, But All

Alike Difficult To Comprehend And Sympathize With--The Rare Mental

Fragments, Precious Like Diamond Dust, Left After The Cutting Of Those

Two Perfect Gems.

Free-Trade Had Hardly Uttered A Whisper Yet Upon Any Subject Of National

Importance When The Monopoly Of Theatrical Property Was Attacked By Mr.

Arnold, Of The English Opera House, Who Assailed The Patents Of The Two

Great Theaters, Covent Garden And Drury Lane, And Demanded That The

Right To Act The Legitimate Drama (Till Then Their Especial Privilege)

Should Be Extended To All British Subjects Desirous To Open Play-Houses

And Perform Plays. A Lawsuit Ensued, And The Proprietors Of The Great

Houses--"His Majesty's Servants," By His Majesty's Royal Patent Since

The Days Of The Merry Monarch--Defended Their Monopoly To The Best Of

Their Ability. My Father, Questioned Before A Committee Of The House Of

Commons Upon The Subject, Showed Forth The Evils Likely, In His Opinion,

To Result To The Dramatic Art And The Public Taste By Throwing Open To

Unlimited Speculation The Right To Establish Theaters And Give

Theatrical Representations. The Great Companies Of Good Sterling Actors

Would Be Broken Up And Dispersed, And There Would No Longer Exist

Establishments Sufficiently Important To Maintain Any Large Body Of

Them; The Best Plays Would No Longer Find Adequate Representatives In

Any But A Few Of The Principal Parts, The Characters Of Theatrical

Pieces Produced Would Be Lowered, The School Of Fine And Careful Acting

Would Be Lost, No Play Of Shakespeare's Could Be Decorously Put On The

Stage, And The Profession And The Public Would Alike Fare The Worse For

The Change. But He Was One Of The Patented Proprietors, One Of The

Monopolists, A Party Most Deeply Interested In The Issue, And Therefore,

Perhaps, An Incompetent Judge In The Matter. The Cause Went Against Us,

And Every Item Of His Prophecy Concerning The Stage Has Undoubtedly Come

To Pass. The Fine Companies Of The Great Theaters Were Dissolved, And

Each Member Of The Body That Together Formed So Bright A Constellation

Went Off To Be The Solitary Star Or Planet Of Some Minor Sphere. The

Best Plays No Longer Found Decent Representatives For Any But One Or Two

Of Their First Parts; The Pieces Of More Serious Character And Higher

Pretension As Dramatic Works Were Supplanted By Burlesques And Parodies

Of Themselves; The School Of Acting Of The Kembles, Young, The Keans,

Macready, And Their Contemporaries, Gave Place To No School At All Of

Very Clever Ladies And Gentlemen, Who Certainly Had No Pretension To Act

Tragedy Or Declaim Blank Verse, But Who Played Low Comedy Better Than

High, And Lowest Farce Best Of All, And Who For The Most Part Wore The

Clothes Of The Sex To Which They Did Not Belong. Shakespeare's Plays

_All_ Became Historical, And The Profession Was Decidedly The Worse For

The Change; I Am Not Aware, However, That The Public Has Suffered Much

By It.

                                  GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March 5, 1831.

     MY DEAREST H----,

     I Am Extremely Obliged To You For Your Long Account Of Mrs. John

     Kemble, And All The Details Respecting Her With Which, As You Knew

     How Intensely Interesting They Were Likely To Be To Me, You Have So

     Kindly Filled Your Letter. Another Time, If You Can Afford To Give

     A Page Or Two To Her Interesting Dog, Pincher, I Shall Be Still

     More Grateful; You Know It Is But Omitting The Superfluous Word Or

     Two You Squeeze In About Yourself.

     As For The Journal I Keep, It Is--As What Is Not?--A Matter Of

     Mingled Good And Bad Influences And Results. I Am So Much Alone

     That I Find This Pouring Out Of My Thoughts And Feelings A Certain

     Satisfaction; But Unfortunately One's Book Is