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

A Sort Of Catalepsy Of Rage.

Her Marriage With The Old French Merchant Malibran Was Speedily Followed

By Their Separation; He Went To France, Leaving His Divine Devil Of A

Wife In New York, And During His Absence She Used To Write Letters To

Him, Which She Frequently Showed To M. De La Forest, Who Was Her

Intimate Friend And Adviser, And Took A Paternal Interest In All Her

Affairs. These Epistles Often Expressed So Much Cordial Kindness And

Warmth Of Feeling Toward Her Husband, That M. De La Forest, Who Knew Her

Separation From Him To Have Been Entirely Her Own Act And Choice, And

Any Decent Agreement And Harmonious Life Between Them Absolutely

Impossible, Was Completely Puzzled By Such Professions Toward A Man With

Whom She Was Determined Never To Live, And Occasionally Said To Her,

"What Do You Mean? Do You Wish Your Husband To Come Here To You? Or Do

You Contemplate Going To Him? In Short, What Is Your Intention In

Writing With All This Affection To A Man From Whom You Have Separated

Yourself?" Upon This View Of Her Epistle, Which Did Not Appear To Have

Struck Her, M. De La Forest Said, She Would (Instead Of Rewriting It)

Tack On To It, With The Most Ludicrous Inconsistency, A Sort Of

Revocatory Codicil, In The Shape Of A Postscript, Expressing Her Decided

Desire That Her Husband Should Remain Where He Was, And Her Own Explicit

Determination Never Again To Enter Into Any More Intimate Relations With

Him Than Were Compatible With A Correspondence From Opposite Sides Of

The Atlantic, Whatever Personal Regard Or Affection For Him Her Letter

Might Appear To Express To The Contrary Notwithstanding.

To My Great Regret I Only Saw Her Act Once, Though I Heard Her Sing At

Concerts And In Private Repeatedly. My Only Personal Encounter With Her

Took Place In A Curious Fashion. My Father And Myself Were Acting At

Manchester, And Had Just Finished Performing The Parts Of Mr. And Mrs.

Beverley, One Night, In "The Gamester." On Our Return From The Theater,

As I Was Slowly And In Considerable Exhaustion Following My Father Up

The Hotel Stairs, As We Reached The Landing By Our Sitting-Room, A Door

Immediately Opposite To It Flew Open, And A Lady Dressed Like

Tilburina's Confidante, All In White Muslin, Rushed Out Of It, And Fell

Upon My Father's Breast, Sobbing Out Hysterically, "Oh, Mr. Kembel, My

Deare, Deare Mr. Kembel!" This Was Madame Malibran, Under The Effect Of

My Father's Performance Of The Gamester, Which She Had Just Witnessed.

"Come, Come," Quoth My Father (Who Was Old Enough To Have Been Hers, And

Knew Her Very Well), Patting Her Consolingly On The Back, "Come Now, My

Dear Madame Malibran, Compose Yourself; Don't Now, Marie, Don't, My Dear

Child!" All Which Was Taking Place On The Public Staircase, While I

Looked On In Wide-Eyed Amazement Behind. Madame Malibran, Having

Suffered Herself To Be Led Into Our Room, Gradually Composed Herself,

Ate Her Supper With Us, Expressed Herself With Much Kind Enthusiasm

About My Performance, And Gave Me A Word Of Advice As To Not Losing Any

Of My Height (Of Which I Had None To Spare) By Stooping, Saying Very

Amiably That, Being At A Disadvantage As To Her Own Stature, She Had

Never Wasted A Quarter Of An Inch Of It. This Little Reflection Upon Her

Own Proportions Must Have Been Meant As A Panacea To My Vanity For Her

Criticism Of My Deportment. My Person Was Indeed Of The Shortest; But

She Had The Figure Of A Nymph, And Was Rather Above Than Below Middle

Height. There Was In Other Respects Some Likeness Between Us; She Was

Certainly Not Really Handsome, But Her Eyes Were Magnificent, And Her

Whole Countenance Was Very Striking.

The First Time I Ever Saw Her Sister, Madame Viardot, She Was Sitting

With Mine, Who Introduced Me To Her; Pauline Viardot Continued Talking,

Now And Then, However, Stopping To Look Fixedly At Me, And At Last

Exclaimed, "Mais Comme Elle Ressemble À Ma Marie!" And One Evening At A

Private Concert In London, Having Arrived Late, I Remained Standing By

The Folding-Doors Of The Drawing-Room, While Lablache Finished A Song

Which He Had Begun Before I Came In, At The End Of Which He Came Up To

Me And Said, "You Cannot Think How You Frightened Me, When First I Saw

You Standing In That Doorway; You Looked So Absolutely Like Malibran,

Que Je Ne Savais En Vérité Pas Ce Que C'était." Malibran's Appearance

Was A Memorable Event In The Whole Musical World Of Europe, Throughout

Which Her Progress From Capital To Capital Was One Uninterrupted

Triumph; The Enthusiasm, As Is General In Such Cases, Growing With Its

Further And Wider Spread, So That At Venice She Was Allowed, In Spite Of

Old-Established Law And Custom, To Go About In A Gold And Crimson

Gondola, As Fine As The Bucentaur Itself, Instead Of The Floating

Hearses That Haunt The Sea-Paved Thoroughfares, And That Did Not Please

Her Gay And Magnificent Taste.

Her _Début_ In England Was An Absolute Conquest Of The Nation; And When

It Was Shocked By The News Of Her Untimely Death, Hundreds Of Those

Unsympathetic, Unæsthetic, Unenthusiastic English People Put Mourning On

For The Wonderfully Gifted Young Woman, Snatched Away In The Midst Of

Her Brilliant Career. Madame Malibran Composed Some Charming Songs, But

Her Great Reputation Derives Little Of Its Luster From Them,--That Great

Reputation Already A Mere Tradition.

At A Challenge I Would Not Decline, I Ventured Upon The Following Harsh

And Ungraceful But Literal Translation Of Some Of The Stanzas From

Alfred De Musset's Fine Lament For Malibran. My Poetical Competitor

Produced An Admirable Version Of Them, And Has Achieved Translations Of

Other Of His Verses, As Perfect As Translations Can Be; A Literary Feat

Of Extraordinary Difficulty, With The Works Of So Essentially National A

Writer, A Genius So Peculiarly French, As De Musset.

    "Oh, Maria Felicia! The Painter And Bard

     Behind Them, In Dying, Leave Undying Heirs.

     The Night Of Oblivion Their Memory Spares,

     And Their Great Eager Souls, Other Action Debarred,

     Against Death, Against Time, Having Valiantly Warred,

     Though Struck Down In The Strife, Claim Its Trophies As Theirs.

    "In The Iron Engraved, One His Thought Leaves Enshrined;

     With A Golden-Sweet Cadence Another's Entwined

     Makes For Ever All Those Who Shall Hear It His Friends.

     Though He Died, On The Canvas Lives Raphael's Mind;

     And From Death's Darkest Doom Till This World Of Ours Ends,

     The Mother-Clasped Infant His Glory Defends.

    "As The Lamp Guards The Flame, So The Bare, Marble Halls

     Of The Parthenon Keep, In Their Desolate Space,

     The Memory Of Phidias Enshrined In Their Walls.

     And Praxiteles' Child, The Young Venus, Yet Calls

     From The Altar, Where, Smiling, She Still Holds Her Place,

     The Centuries Conquered To Worship Her Grace.

    "Thus From Age After Age, While New Life They Receive,

     To Rest At God's Feet The Old Glories Are Gone;

     And The Accents Of Genius Their Echoes Still Weave

     With The Great Human Voice, Till Their Speech Is But One.

     And Of Thee, Dead But Yesterday, All Thy Fame Leaves

     But A Cross In The Dim Chapel's Darkness, Alone.

    "A Cross And Oblivion, Silence, And Death!

     Hark! The Wind's Softest Sob; Hark! The Ocean's Deep Breath!

     Hark! The Fisher Boy Singing His Way O'er The Plains!

     Of Thy Glory, Thy Hope, Thy Young Beauty's Bright Wreath,

     Not A Trace, Not A Sigh, Not An Echo Remains."

Those Garcia Sisters Were Among The Most Remarkable People Of Their Day,

Not Only For Their Peculiar High Artistic Gifts, Their Admirable Musical

And Dramatic Powers, But For The Vivid Originality Of Their Genius And

Great General Cultivation. Malibran Danced Almost As Well As She Sang,

And Once Took A Principal Part In A Ballet. She Drew And Painted Well,

As Did Her Sister Pauline Viardot, Whose Spirited Caricatures Of Her

Friends, And Herself Were Admirable Specimens Both Of Likenesses And Of

Humorous Talent In Delineating Them. Both Sisters Conversed Brilliantly,

Speaking Fluently Four Languages, And Executed The Music Of Different

Nations And Composers With A Perception Of The Peculiar Character Of

Each That Was Extraordinary. They Were Mistresses Of All The Different

Schools Of Religious, Dramatic, And National Compositions, And Gluck,

Jomelli, Pergolesi, Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Rossini, Bellini,

Scotch And Irish Melodies, Neapolitan Canzonette, And The Popular Airs

Of Their Own Country, Were All Rendered By Them With Equal Mastery.

To Resume My Story (Which Is Very Like That Of The Knife-Grinder). When

I Returned To The Stage, Many Years After I Had First Appeared On It, I

Restored The Beautiful End Of Shakespeare's "Romeo And Juliet" As He

Wrote It (In Spite Of Garrick And The Original Story), Thinking It Mere

Profanation To Intrude Sharp Discords Of Piercing Agony Into The Divine

Harmony Of Woe With Which It Closes.

                   "Thus With A Kiss I Die,"

    "Thy Husband In Thy Bosom There Lies Dead,"

Are Full Enough Of Bitter-Sweet Despair For The Last Chords Of That

Ineffable, Passionate Strain--The Swoon Of Sorrow Ending That Brief,

Palpitating Ecstasy, The Proper, Dirge-Like Close To That Triumphant

Hymn Of Love And Youth And Beauty. All The Frantic Rushing And Tortured

Writhing And Uproar Of Noisy Anguish Of The Usual Stage Ending Seemed

Utter Desecration To Me; But Garrick Was An Actor, The First Of Actors,

And His Death-Scene Of The Lovers And Ending Of The Play Is Much More

Theatrically Effective Than Shakespeare's.

The Report Of My Approaching Appearance On The Stage Excited A Good Deal

Of Interest Among The Acquaintances And Friends Of My Family, And

Occasioned A Renewal Of Cordial Relations Which Had Formerly Existed,

But Ceased For Some Time, Between Sir Thomas Lawrence And My Father And