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

Me. It Is Not Often That Such A Piece Of Awkwardness As This Is

Perpetrated On The Stage, But Dramatic Heroines Are Nevertheless Liable

To Sundry Disagreeable Difficulties Of A Very Unromantic Nature. If A

Gentleman In A Ball-Room Places His Hand Round A Lady's Waist To Waltz

With Her, She Can, Without Any Shock To The "Situation," Beg Him To

Release The End Spray Of Her Flowery Garland, Or The Floating Ribbons Of

Her Head-Dress, Which He May Have Imprisoned; But In The Middle Of A

Scene Of Tragedy Grief Or Horror, Of The Unreality Of Which, By Dint Of

The Effort Of Your Imagination, You Are No Longer Conscious, To Be

Obliged To Say, In Your Distraction, To Your Distracted Partner In Woe,

"Please Lift Your Arm From My Waist, You Are Pulling My Head Down

Backwards," Is A Distraction, Too, Of Its Kind.

The Only Occasion On Which I Ever Acted Juliet To A Romeo Who Looked The

Part Was One When Miss Ellen Tree Sustained It. The Acting Of Romeo, Or

Any Other Man's Part By A Woman (In Spite Of Mrs. Siddons's Hamlet), Is,

In My Judgment, Contrary To Every Artistic And Perhaps Natural

Propriety, But I Cannot Deny That The Stature "More Than Common Tall,"

And The Beautiful Face, Of Which The Fine Features Were Too Marked In

Their Classical Regularity To Look Feeble Or Even Effeminate, Of My Fair

Female Lover Made Her Physically An Appropriate Representative Of Romeo.

Miss Ellen Tree Looked Beautiful And Not Unmanly In The Part; She Was

Broad-Shouldered As Well As Tall, And Her Long Limbs Had The Fine

Proportions Of The Huntress Diana; Altogether, She Made A Very "Pretty

Fellow," As The Saying Was Formerly, As All Who Saw Her In Her Graceful

Performance Of Talfourd's "Ion" Will Testify; But Assumption Of That

Character, Which In Its Ideal Classical Purity Is Almost Without Sex,

Was Less Open To Objection Than That Of The Fighting Young Veronese

Noble Of The Fourteenth Century. She Fenced Very Well, However, And

Acquitted Herself Quite Manfully In Her Duel With Tybalt; The Only Hitch

In The Usual "Business" Of The Part Was Between Herself And Me, And I Do

Not Imagine The Public, For One Night, Were Much Aggrieved By The

Omission Of The Usual Clap-Trap Performance (Part Of Garrick's

Interpolation, Which Indeed Belongs To The Original Story, But Which

Shakespeare's True Poet's Sense Had Discarded) Of Romeo's Plucking

Juliet Up From Her Bier And Rushing With Her, Still Stiff And Motionless

In Her Death-Trance, Down To The Foot-Lights. This Feat Miss Tree

Insisted Upon Attempting With Me, And I As Stoutly Resisted All Her

Entreaties To Let Her Do So. I Was A Very Slender-Looking Girl, But Very

Heavy For All That. (A Friend Of Mine, On My First Voyage To America,

Lifting Me From A Small Height, Set Me Down Upon The Deck, Exclaiming,

"Oh, You Solid Little Lady!" And My Cousin, John Mason, The First Time

He Acted Romeo With Me, Though A Very Powerful, Muscular Young Man,

Whispered To Me As He Carried My Corpse Down The Stage With A Fine

Semblance Of Frenzy, "Jove, Fanny, You Are A Lift!") Finding That All

Argument And Remonstrance Was Unavailing, And That Miss Tree, Though By

No Means Other Than A Good Friend And Fellow-Worker Of Mine, Was Bent

Upon Performing This Gymnastic Feat, I Said At Last, "If You Attempt To

Lift Or Carry Me Down The Stage, I Will Kick And Scream Till You Set Me

Down," Which Ended The Controversy. I Do Not Know Whether She Believed

Me, But She Did Not Venture Upon The Experiment.

I Am Reminded By This Recollection Of My Pleasant Professional

Fellowship With Miss Ellen Tree Of A Curious Instance Of The

Unprincipled, Flagrant Recklessness With Which Scandalous Gossip Is

Received And Circulated In What Calls Itself The Best English Society.

In Mr. Charles Greville's "Memoirs," He Makes A Statement That Miss Tree

Was Never Engaged At Covent Garden. The Play-Bills And The Newspapers Of

The Day Abundantly Contradicted This Assertion (At The Time He Entered

It In His Diary), And, Of Course, The Discreditable Motive Assigned For

The _Fact_.

I Cannot Help Thinking That, Had Mr. Greville Lived, Much Of The

Voluminous Record He Kept Of Persons And Events Would Have Been Withheld

From Publication. He Told Me, Not Long Before His Death, That He Had No

Recollection Whatever Of The Contents Of The Earlier Volumes Of His MS.

Journal Which He Had Lent Me To Read; And It Is Infinitely To Be

Regretted, If He Did Not Look Over Them Before They Were Published, That

The Discretion He Exercised (Or Delegated) In The Omission Of Certain

Passages Was Not Allowed To Prevail To The Exclusion Of Others. Such

Partial Omissions Would Not Indeed Alter The Whole Tone And Character Of

The Book, But Might Have Mitigated The Shock Of Painful Surprise With

Which It Was Received By The Society He Described, And By No One More

Than Some Of Those Who Had Been On Terms Of The Friendliest Intimacy

With Him And Who Had Repeatedly Heard Him Assert That His Journal Would

Never Be Published In The Lifetime Of Any One Mentioned In It.

I Consider That I Was Quite Justified In Using Even This Naughty Child's

Threat To Prevent Miss Tree From Doing What Might Very Well Have Ended

In Some Dangerous And Ludicrous Accident; Nor Did I Feel At All Guilty

Toward Her Of The Species Of Malice Prepense Which Malibran Exhibited

Toward Sontag, When They Sang In The Opera Of "Romeo And Juliet," On The

First Occasion Of Their Appearing Together During Their Brilliant Public

Career In England. Malibran's Mischievousness Partook Of The Force And

Versatility Of Her Extraordinary Genius, And Having Tormented Poor

Mademoiselle Sontag With Every Inconceivable Freak And Caprice During

The Whole Rehearsal Of The Opera, At Length, When Requested By Her To

Say In What Part Of The Stage She Intended To Fall In The Last Scene,

She, Malibran, Replied That She "Really Didn't Know," That She "Really

Couldn't Tell;" Sometimes She "Died In One Place, Sometimes In Another,

Just As It Happened, Or The Humor Took Her At The Moment." As Sontag Was

Bound To Expire In Loving Proximity To Her, And Was, I Take It, Much

Less Liable To Spontaneous Inspiration Than Her Fiery Rival, This Was By

No Means Satisfactory. She Had Nothing Like The Original Genius Of The

Other Woman, But Was Nevertheless A More Perfect Artist. Wanting Weight

And Power And Passion For Such Parts As Norma, Medea, Semiramide, Etc.,

She Was Perfect In The Tenderer And More Pathetic Parts Of Amina, Lucia

Di Lammermoor, Linda Di Chamouni; Exquisite In The Rosina And Carolina

Of The "Barbiere" And "Matrimonio Segreto;" And, In My Opinion, Quite

Unrivaled In Her Countess, In The "Nozze," And, Indeed, In All Rendering

Of Mozart's Music, To Whose Peculiar And Pre-Eminent Genius Hers Seemed

To Me In Some Degree Allied, And Of Whose Works She Was The Only

Interpreter I Ever Heard, Gifted Alike With The Profound German

Understanding Of Music And The Enchanting Italian Power Of Rendering It.

Her Mode Of Uttering Sound, Of Putting Forth Her Voice (The Test Which

All But Italians, Or Most Carefully Italian-Trained Singers, Fail In),

Was As Purely Unteutonic As Possible. She Was One Of The Most Perfect

Singers I Ever Heard, And Suggests To My Memory The Quaint Praise Of The

Gypsy Vocal Performance In The Ballad Of "Johnny Faa"--

    "They Sang So Sweet,

     So Very _Complete_,"

She Was The First Rosina I Ever Heard Who Introduced Into The Scene Of

The Music-Lesson "Rhodes Air," With The Famous Violin Variations, Which

She Performed By Way Of A _Vocalise_, To The Utter Amazement Of Her

Noble Music-Master, I Should Think, As Well As Her Audience.

Mademoiselle Nilsson Is The Only Prima Donna Since Her Day Who Has At

All Reminded Me Of Sontag, Who Was Lovely To Look At, Delightful To

Listen To, Good, Amiable, And Charming, And, Compared With Malibran,

Like The Evening Star To A Comet.

Defeated By Malibran's Viciousness In Rehearsing Her Death-Scene, She

Resigned Herself To The Impromptu Imposed Upon Her, And Prepared To

Follow Her Romeo, Wherever _She_ Might Choose To Die; But When The

Evening Came, Malibran Contrived To Die Close To The Foot-Lights And In

Front Of The Curtain; Sontag Of Necessity Followed, And Fell Beside Her

There; The Drop Came Down, And There Lay The Two Fair Corpses In Full

View Of The Audience, Of Course Unable To Rise Or Move, Till A Couple Of

Stage Footmen, In Red Plush Breeches, Ran In To The Rescue, Took The

Dead Capulet And Montague Each By The Shoulders, And Dragged Them Off At

The Side Scenes; The Spanish Woman In The Heroism Of Her Maliciousness

Submitting To This Ignominy For The Pleasure Of Subjecting Her Gentle

German Rival To It.

Madame Malibran Was Always An Object Of The Greatest Interest To Me, Not

Only On Account Of Her Extraordinary Genius, And Great And Various

Gifts, But Because Of The Many Details I Heard Of Her Youth From M. De

La Forest, The French Consul In New York, Who Knew Her As Marie Garcia,

A Wild And Wayward But Most Wonderful Girl, Under Her Father's

Tyrannical And Harsh Rule During The Time They Spent In The United

States. He Said That There Was Not A Piece Of Furniture In Their

Apartment That Had Not Been Thrown By The Father At The Daughter's Head,

In The Course Of The Moral And Artistic Training He Bestowed Upon Her:

It Is Perhaps Wonderful That Success In Either Direction Should Have

Been The Result Of Such A System; But, Upon The Whole, The Singer Seems

To Have Profited More Than The Woman From It, As Might Have Been

Expected. Garcia Was An Incomparable Artist, Actor, And Singer (No Such

Don Giovanni Has Ever Been Heard Or Seen Since), And Bestowed Upon All

His Children The Finest Musical Education That Ever Made Great Natural

Gifts Available To The Utmost To Their Possessors. I Suppose It Was From

Him, Too, That Marie Derived With Her Spanish Blood The Vehement,

Uncontrollable Nature Of Which M. De La Forest Told Me He Had Witnessed

Such Extraordinary Exhibitions In Her Girlhood. He Said She Would Fly

Into Passions Of Rage, In Which She Would Set Her Teeth In The Sleeve Of

Her Silk Gown, And Tear And Rend Great Pieces Out Of The Thick Texture

As If It Were Muslin; A Test Of The Strength Of Those Beautiful Teeth,

As Well As Of The Fury Of Her Passion. She Then Would Fall Rigid On The

Floor, Without Motion, Breath, Pulse, Or Color,