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

Mother.

Lawrence's Enthusiastic Admiration For My Uncle John And Mrs. Siddons,

Testified By The Numerous Striking Portraits In Which He Has Recorded

Their Personal Beauty And Dramatic Picturesqueness, Led To A Most

Intimate And Close Friendship Between The Great Painter And The Eminent

Actors, And, Subsequently, To Very Painful Circumstances, Which

Estranged Him For Years From All Our Family, And Forbade All Renewal Of

The Relations Between Himself And Mrs. Siddons Which Had Been So Cruelly

Interrupted.

While Frequenting Her House Upon Terms Of The Most Affectionate

Intimacy, He Proposed To Her Eldest Daughter, My Cousin Sarah, And Was

Accepted By Her. Before Long, However, He Became Deeply Dejected, Moody,

Restless, And Evidently Extremely And Unaccountably Wretched. Violent

Scenes Of The Most Painful Emotion, Of Which The Cause Was Inexplicable

And Incomprehensible, Took Place Repeatedly Between Himself And Mrs.

Siddons, To Whom He Finally, In A Paroxysm Of Self-Abandoned Misery,

Confessed That He Had Mistaken His Own Feelings, And That Her Younger

Daughter, And Not The Elder, Was The Real Object Of His Affection, And

Ended By Imploring Permission To Transfer His Addresses From The One To

The Other Sister. How This Extraordinary Change Was Accomplished I Know

Not; But Only That It Took Place, And That Maria Siddons Became Engaged

To Her Sister's Faithless Lover. To Neither Of Them, However Was He

Destined Ever To Be United; They Were Both Exceedingly Delicate Young

Women, With A Tendency To Consumption, Which Was Probably Developed And

Accelerated In Its Progress In No Small Measure By All The Bitterness

And Complicated Difficulties Of This Disastrous Double Courtship.

Maria, The Youngest, An Exceedingly Beautiful Girl, Died First, And On

Her Death-Bed Exacted From Her Sister A Promise That She Would Never

Become Lawrence's Wife; The Promise Was Given, And She Died, And Had Not

Lain Long In Her Untimely Grave When Her Sister Was Laid In It Beside

Her. The Death Of These Two Lovely And Amiable Women Broke Off All

Connection Between Sir Thomas Lawrence And My Aunt, And From That Time

They Never Saw Or Had Any Intercourse With Each Other.

It Was Years After These Events That Lawrence, Meeting My Father

Accidentally In The Street One Day, Stopped Him And Spoke With Great

Feeling Of His Sympathy For Us All In My Approaching Trial, And Begged

Permission To Come And See My Mother And Become Acquainted With Me,

Which He Accordingly Did; And From That Time Till His Death, Which

Occurred But A Few Months Later, He Was Unwearied In Acts Of Friendly

And Affectionate Kindness To Me. He Came Repeatedly To Consult With My

Mother About The Disputed Point Of My Dress, And Gave His Sanction To

Her Decision Upon It. The First Dress Of Belvidera, I Remember, Was A

Point Of Nice Discussion Between Them. Plain Black Velvet And A

Lugubrious Long Vail Were Considered My Only Admissible Wear, After My

Husband's Ruin; But Before The Sale Of Our Furniture, It Was Conceded

That I Might Relieve The Somber Venetian Patrician's Black Dress With

White Satin Puffs And Crimson Linings And Rich Embroidery Of Gold And

Pearl; Moreover, Before Our Bankruptcy, I Was Allowed (Not, However,

Without Serious Demur On The Part Of Lawrence) To Cover My Head With A

Black Hat And White Feather, With Which, Of Course, I Was Enamored,

Having Never Worn Anything But My Hair On My Head Before, And Feeling An

Unspeakable Accession Of Dignity In This Piece Of Attire. I Begged Hard

To Be Allowed To Wear It Through The Tragedy, But This, With Some

Laughter At My Intense Desire For It, Was Forbidden, And I Was Reduced

After The First Scene Of The Play To My Own Unadorned Locks, Which I

Think Greatly Strengthened My Feeling Of The Abject Misery Into Which I

Had Fallen.

When In Town, Lawrence Never Omitted One Of My Performances, Always

Occupying The Stage Box, And Invariably Sending Me The Next Morning A

Letter, Full Of The Most Detailed And Delicate Criticism, Showing A

Minute Attention To Every Inflection Of My Voice, Every Gesture, Every

Attitude, Which, Combined With Expressions Of Enthusiastic Admiration,

With Which This Discriminating And Careful Review Of My Performance

Invariably Terminated, Was As Strong A Dose Of The Finest Flattery As

Could Well Have Been Offered To A Girl Of My Age, On The Very First Step

Of Her Artistic Career. I Used To Read Over The Last Of These Remarkable

Criticisms, Invariably, Before Going To The Theater, In Order To Profit

By Every Suggestion Of Alteration Or Hint Of Improvement They Contained;

And I Was In The Act Of Reperusing The Last I Ever Received From Him,

When My Father Came In And Said, "Lawrence Is Dead."

I Had Been Sitting To Him For Some Time Previously For A Pencil Sketch,

Which He Gave My Mother; It Was His Last Work, And Certainly The Most

Beautiful Of His Drawings. He Had Appointed A Day For Beginning A

Full-Length, Life-Size Portrait Of Me As Juliet, And We Had Seen Him

Only A Week Before His Death, And, In The Interval, Received A Note From

Him, Merely Saying He Was Rather Indisposed. His Death, Which Was Quite

Unexpected, Created A Very Great Public Sensation, And There Was

Something Sufficiently Mysterious About Its Circumstances To Give Rise

To A Report That He Had Committed Suicide.

The Shock Of This Event Was Terrible To Me, Although I Have Sometimes

Since Thought It Was Fortunate For Me Rather Than Otherwise. Sir Thomas

Lawrence's Enthusiastically Expressed Admiration For Me, His Constant

Kindness, His Sympathy In My Success, And The Warm Interest He Took In

Everything That Concerned Me, Might Only Have Inspired Me With A

Grateful Sense Of His Condescension And Goodness. But I Was A Very

Romantic Girl, With A Most Excitable Imagination, And Such Was To Me The

Melancholy Charm Of Lawrence's Countenance, The Elegant Distinction Of

His Person, And Exquisite Refined Gentleness Of His Voice And Manner,

That A Very Dangerous Fascination Was Added To My Sense Of Gratitude For

All His Personal Kindness To Me, And My Admiration For His Genius; And I

Think It Not At All Unlikely That, Had Our Intercourse Continued, And

Had I Sat To Him For The Projected Portrait Of Juliet, In Spite Of The

Forty Years' Difference In Our Ages, And My Knowledge Of His Disastrous

Relations With My Cousins, I Should Have Become In Love With Him Myself,

And Been The Fourth Member Of Our Family Whose Life He Would Have

Disturbed And Embittered. His Sentimentality Was Of A Peculiar

Mischievous Order, As It Not Only Induced Women To Fall In Love With

Him, But Enabled Him To Persuade Himself That He Was In Love With Them,

And Apparently With More Than One At A Time.

While I Was Sitting To Him For The Beautiful Sketch He Gave My Mother,

One Or Two Little Incidents Occurred That Illustrated Curiously Enough

This Superficial Pseudo-Sensibility Of His. On One Occasion, When He

Spent The Evening With Us, My Mother Had Made Me Sing For Him; And The

Next Day, After My Sitting, He Said In A Strange, Hesitating, Broken

Manner, As If Struggling To Control Some Strong Emotion, "I Have A Very

Great Favor To Beg Of You; The Next Time I Have The Honor And Pleasure

Of Spending The Evening With You, Will You, If Mrs. Kemble Does Not

Disapprove Of It, Sing This Song For Me?" He Put A Piece Of Music Into

My Hand, And Immediately Left Us Without Another Word. On Our Way Home

In The Carriage, I Unrolled The Song, The Title Of Which Was, "These Few

Pale Autumn Flowers." "Ha!" Said My Mother, With, I Thought, Rather A

Peculiar Expression, As I Read The Words; But She Added No Further

Comment. Both Words And Music Were Plaintive And Pathetic, And Had An

Original Stamp In The Melancholy They Expressed.

The Next Time Lawrence Spent The Evening With Us I Sang The Song For

Him. While I Did So, He Stood By The Piano In A State Of Profound

Abstraction, From Which He Recovered Himself, As If Coming Back From

Very Far Away, And With An Expression Of Acute Pain On His Countenance,

He Thanked Me Repeatedly For What He Called The Great Favor I Had Done

Him.

At The End Of My Next Sitting, When My Mother And Myself Had Risen To

Take Leave Of Him, He Said, "No, Don't Go Yet,--Stay A Moment,--I Want

To Show You Something--If I Can;" And He Moved Restlessly About, Taking

Up And Putting Down His Chalks And Pencils, And Standing, And Sitting

Down Again, As If Unable To Make Up His Mind To Do What He Wished. At

Length He Went Abruptly To An Easel, And, Removing From It A Canvas With

A Few Slight Sketches On It, He Discovered Behind It The Profile

Portrait Of A Lady In A White Dress Folded Simply Across Her Bosom, And

Showing Her Beautiful Neck And Shoulders. Her Head Was Dressed With A

Sort Of Sibylline Turban, And She Supported It Upon A Most Lovely Hand

And Arm, Her Elbow Resting On A Large Book, Toward Which She Bent, And

On The Pages Of Which Her Eyes Were Fixed, The Exquisite Eyelid And

Lashes Hiding The Eyes. "Oh, How Beautiful! Oh, Who Is It!" Exclaimed I.

"A--A Lady," Stammered Lawrence, Turning White And Red, "Toward

Whom--For Whom--I Entertained The Profoundest Regard." Thereupon He Fled

Out Of The Room. "It Is The Portrait Of Mrs. W----," Said My Mother;

"She Is Now Dead; She Was An Exceedingly Beautiful And Accomplished

Woman, The Authoress Of The Words And Music Of The Song Sir Thomas

Lawrence Asked You To Learn For Him."

The Great Painter's Devotion To This Lovely Person Had Been Matter Of

Notoriety In The London World. Strangely Enough, But A Very Short Time

Ago I Discovered That She Was The Kinswoman Of My Friend Miss Cobb's

Mother, Of Whom Miss Cobb Possessed A Miniature, In Which The Fashion Of

Dress And Style Of Head-Dress Were The Same As Those In The Picture I

Saw, And In Which I Also Traced Some Resemblance To The Beautiful Face