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

It Is Every One's Interest To Strike Down; So That At The Miserable

Jew's Final Defeat The Whole Audience Gasps With A Sense Of Unspeakable

Relief. Perhaps, Too, The Master Meant To Show--At Any Rate He Has

Shown--That The Deadly Sin Of Hatred, Indulged Even With A Cause, Ends

In The Dire Disease Of Causeless Hate And The Rabid Frenzy Of A Maniac.

It Has Sometimes Been Objected To This Wonderful Scene That Portia's

Reticence And Delay In Relieving Antonio And Her Husband From Their

Suspense Is Unnatural. But Portia Is A Very _Superior Woman_, Able To

Control Not Only Her Own Palpitating Sympathy With Their Anguish, But

Her Impatient Yearning To Put An End To It, Till She Has Made Ever

Effort To Redeem The Wretch Whose Hardness Of Heart Fills Her With

Incredulous Amazement--A Heavenly Instinct Akin To The Divine Love That

Desires Not That A Sinner Should Perish, Which Enables Her To Postpone

Her Own Relief And That Of Those Precious To Her Till She Has Exhausted

Endeavor To Soften Shylock; And Shakespeare Thus Not Only Justifies The

Stern Severity Of Her Ultimate Sentence On Him, But Shows Her Endowed

With The Highest Powers Of Self-Command, And Patient, Long-Suffering

With Evil; Her Teasing Her Husband Half To Death Afterward Restores The

Balance Of Her Humanity, Which Was Sinking Heavily Toward Perfection.

Bryan Waller Procter, Dear Barry Cornwall--Beloved By All Who Knew Him,

Even His Fellow-Poets, For His Sweet, Gentle Disposition--Had Married

(As I Have Said Elsewhere) Anne Skepper, The Daughter Of Our Friend,

Mrs. Basil Montague. They Were Among Our Most Intimate And Friendly

Acquaintance. Their House Was The Resort Of All The Choice Spirits Of

The London Society Of Their Day, Her Pungent Epigrams And Brilliant

Sallies Making The Most Delightful Contrast Imaginable To The Cordial

Kindness Of His Conversation And The Affectionate Tenderness Of His

Manner; She Was Like A Fresh Lemon--Golden, Fragrant, Firm, And

Wholesome--And He Was Like The Honey Of Hymettus; They Were An

Incomparable Compound.

The Play Which I Spoke Of As His, In My Last Letter, Was Ford's "White

Devil," Of Which The Notorious Vittoria Corrombona, Duchess Of

Bracciano, Is The Heroine. The Powerful But Coarse Treatment Of The

Italian Story By The Elizabethan Playwright Has Been Chastened Into

Something More Adapted To Modern Taste By Barry Cornwall; But, Even With

His Kindred Power And Skillful Handling, The Work Of The Early Master

Retained Too Rough A Flavor For The Public Palate Of Our Day, And Very

Reluctantly The Project Of Bringing It Out Was Abandoned.

The Tragical Story Of Vittoria Corrombona, Eminently Tragical In That

Age Of Dramatic Lives And Deaths, Has Furnished Not Only The Subject Of

This Fine Play Of Ford's, But That Of A Magnificent Historical Novel, By

The Great German Writer, Tieck, In Which It Is Difficult To Say Which

Predominates, The Intense Interest Of The Heroine's Individual Career,

Or That Created By The Splendid Delineation Of The Whole State Of Italy

At That Period--The Days Of The Grand Old Sixtus The Fifth In Rome, And

Of The Contemporary Medici In Florence; It Is Altogether A Masterpiece

By A Great Master. Superior In Tragic Horror, Because Unrelieved By The

General Picture Of Contemporaneous Events, But Quite Inferior As A Work

Of Imagination, Is The Comparatively Short Sketch Of Vittoria

Corrombona's Life And Death Contained In A Collection Of Italian Stories

Called "Crimes Célèbres," By Stendal, Where It Keeps Company With Other

Tragedies Of Private Life, Which During The Same Century Occupied With

Their Atrocious Details The Tribunals Of Justice In Rome. Among The

Collection Is The Story From Which Mr. Fechter's Melodrama Of "Bel

Demonio" Was Taken, The Story Of The Cenci, And The Story Of A Certain

Duchess Of Pagliano, All Of Them Inconceivably Horrible And Revolting.

About The Same Time That This Play Of Barry Cornwall's Was Given Up, A

Long Negotiation Between Miss Mitford And The Management Of Covent

Garden Came To A Conclusion By Her Withdrawal Of Her Play Of "Iñez De

Castro," A Tragedy Founded Upon One Of The Most Romantic And Picturesque

Incidents In The Spanish Chronicle. After Much Uncertainty And Many

Difficulties, The Project Of Bringing It Out Was Abandoned. I Remember

Thinking I Could Do Nothing With The Part Of The Heroine, Whose Corpse

Is Produced In The Last Act, Seated On The Throne And Receiving The

Homage Of The Subjects Of Her Husband, Pedro The Cruel--A Very Ghastly

Incident In The Story, Which I Think Would In Itself Have Endangered The

Success Of The Play. My Despondency About The Part Of Inez Had Nothing

To Do With The Possible Effect Of This Situation, However, But Was My

Invariable Impression With Regard To Every New Part That Was Assigned To

Me On First Reading It. But I Am Sure Miss Mitford Had No Cause To

Regret That I Had Not Undertaken This; The Success Of Her Play In My

Hands Ran A Risk Such As Her Fine Play Of "Rienzi," In Those Of Mr.

Young Or Mr. Macready, Could Never Have Incurred; And It Was Well For

Her That To Their Delineation Of Her Roman Tribune, And Not Mine Of Her

Aragonese Lady, Her Reputation With The Public As A Dramatic Writer Was

Confided.

I Have Mentioned In This Last Letter A Morning Visit From Chantrey, The

Eminent Sculptor, Who Was Among Our Frequenter. His Appearance And

Manners Were Simple And Almost Rustic, And He Was Shy And Silent In

Society, All Which May Have Been Results Of His Obscure Birth And Early

Want Of Education. It Was To Sir Francis Chantrey That My Father's

Friends Applied For The Design Of The Beautiful Silver Vase Which They

Presented To Him At The End Of His Professional Career. The Sculptor's

Idea Seemed To Me A Very Happy And Appropriate One, And The Design Was

Admirably Executed; It Consisted Of A Simple And Elegant Figure Of

Hamlet On The Cover Of The Vase, And Round It, In Fine Relief, The

"Seven Ages Of Man," From Jacques's Speech In "As You Like It;" The

Whole Work Was Very Beautiful, And Has A Double Interest For Me, As That

Not Only Of An Eminent Artist, But A Kind Friend Of My Father's.

                                  GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March 7, 1831.

     MY DEAREST H----,

     With Regard To Change As We Contemplate It When Parting From Those

     We Love, I Confess I Should Shrink From The Idea Of Years

     Intervening Before You And I Met Again; Not That I Apprehend Any

     Diminution Of Our Affection, But It Would Be Painful To Be No

     Longer Young, Or To Have Grown _Suddenly_ Old To Each Other. But I

     Hope This Will Not Be So; I Hope We May Go On Meeting Often Enough

     For That Change Which Is Inevitable To Be Long Imperceptible; I

     Hope We May Be Allowed To Go On _Wondering_ Together, Till We Meet

     Where You Will Certainly Be Happy, If Wonder Is For Once Joined To

     _Knowledge_. I Remember My Aunt Whitelock Saying That When She Went

     To America She Left My Father A Toddling Thing That She Used To

     Dandle And Carry About; And The First Time She Saw Him After Her

Return, He Had A Baby Of His Own In His Arms. That Sort Of Thing

     Makes One's Heart Jump Into One's Mouth With Dismay; It Seems As If

     All The Time One Had Been _Living Away_, Unconsciously, Was Thrown

     In A Lump At One's Head.

     J---- F---- Told Me On Thursday That Her Sister, Whose Wedding-Day

     Seemed To Be About Yesterday, Was The Mother Of Four Children; She

     Has Lost No Time, It Is True, But My "Yesterday" Must Be Five Years

     Old. After Dinner, Yesterday, I Wrote A New Last Scene To "Francis

     I." I Mean To Send It To Murray.

     A---- Says You Seem Younger To Her Than I Do; Which, Considering

     Your Fourteen Years' Seniority Over Me, Is Curious; But The Truth

     Is, Though She Does Not Know It, I Am Still _Too Young_; I Have Not

     Lived, Experienced, And Suffered Enough To Have Acquired The

     Self-Forgetfulness And Gentle Forbearance That Make Us Good And

     Pleasant Companions To Our _Youngers_.

     Henry And I Are Going Together To The Zoological Gardens One Of

     These Days; That Lovely Tigress Hangs About My Heart, And I Must Go

     And See Her Again. Ever Your Affectionate

                                                          F.A. KEMBLE.

                                  GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March 9, 1831.

     MY DEAR H----,

     Why Are You Not Here To Kiss And Congratulate Me? I Am So Proud And

     Happy! Mr. Murray Has Given Me Four Hundred And Fifty Pounds For My

     Play Alone! The Other Things He Does Not Wish To Publish With It.

     Only Think Of It--Was There Ever Such Publishing Munificence! My

     Father Has The Face To Say _It Is Not Enough!_ But Looks So Proud

     And Pleased That His Face Alone Shows It Is _Too Much_ By A Great

     Deal; My Mother Is Enchanted, And I Am So Happy, So Thankful For

     This Prosperous Result Of My Work, So Delighted At Earning So Much,

     So Surprised And Charmed To Think That What Gave Me Nothing But

     Pleasure In The Doing Has Brought Me Such An After-Harvest Of

     Profit; It Is Too Good Almost To Be True, And Yet It Is True.

     But I Am Happy And Have Been Much Excited From Another Reason

     To-Day. Richard Trench, John's Dear Friend And Companion, Is Just

     Returned From Spain, And Came Here This Morning To See Us. I Sat

     With Him A Long While. John Is Well And In Good Spirits. Mr. Trench

     Before Leaving Gibraltar Had Used Every Persuasion To Induce My

     Brother To Return With Him, And Had Even Got Him On Board The

     Vessel In Which They Were To Sail, But John's Heart Failed Him At

     The Thought Of Forsaking Torrijos, And He Went Back. The Account

     Mr. Trench Gives Of Their Proceedings Is Much As I Imagined Them To

     Have Been. They Hired A House Which They Denominated Constitution

     Hall, Where They Passed Their Time Smoking And Drinking Ale, John

     Holding Forth Upon German Metaphysics, Which Grew Dense In

     Proportion As The Tobacco Fumes Grew Thick And His Glass Grew