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

Which Made So Great An Impression On Me. Not Long After This Mrs.

Siddons, Dining With Us One Day, Asked My Mother How The Sketch Lawrence

Was Making Of Me Was Getting On. After My Mother's Reply, My Aunt

Remained Silent For Some Time, And Then, Laying Her Hand On My Father's

Arm, Said, "Charles, When I Die, I Wish To Be Carried To My Grave By You

And Lawrence." Lawrence Reached His Grave While She Was Yet Tottering On

The Brink Of Hers.

After My Next Sitting, My Mother, Thinking He Might Be Gratified By My

Aunt's Feeling Toward Him, Mentioned Her Having Dined With Us. He Asked

Eagerly Of Her Health, Her Looks, Her Words, And My Mother Telling Him

Of Her Speech About Him, He Threw Down His Pencil, Clasped His Hands,

And, With His Eyes Full Of Tears And His Face Convulsed, Exclaimed,

"Good God! Did She Say That?"

When My Likeness Was Finished, Lawrence Showed It To My Mother, Who,

Though She Had Attended All My Sittings, Had Never Seen It Till It Was

Completed. As She Stood Silently Looking At It, He Said, "What Strikes

You? What Do You Think?" "It Is Very Like Maria," Said My Mother, Almost

Involuntarily, I Am Sure, For Immediately This Strange Man Fell Into One

Of These Paroxysms Of Emotion, And Became So Agitated As Scarcely To Be

Able To Speak; And At Last, With A Violent Effort, Said, "Oh, She Is

Very Like Her; She Is Very Like Them All!"

In Spite Of These Emotions Which I Heard And Saw Sir Thomas Lawrence

Express, I Know Positively That At His Death A Lady, Who Had Been An

Intimate Acquaintance Of Our Family For Many Years, Put On Widow's Weeds

For Him, In The Full Persuasion That Had He Lived He Would Have Married

Her, And That, The Mutual Regard They Entertained For Each Other

Warranted Her Assuming The Deepest Mourning For Him. Not The Least

Curious Part Of The Emotional Demonstrations I Have Described, Was The

Contrast Which They Formed To Sir Thomas Lawrence's Habitual Demeanor,

Which Was Polished And Refined, But Reserved To A Degree Of Coldness,

And As Indicative Of Reticent Discretion And Imperturbable Self-Control

As Became A Man Who Lived In Such High Social Places, And Frequented The

Palaces Of Royalty And The Boudoirs Of The Great Rival Beauties Of The

English Aristocracy. On My Twentieth Birthday, Which Occurred Soon After

My First Appearance, Lawrence Sent Me A Magnificent Proof-Plate Of

Reynolds's Portrait Of My Aunt As The "Tragic Muse," Beautifully Framed,

And With This Inscription: "This Portrait, By England's Greatest

Painter, Of The Noblest Subject Of His Pencil, Is Presented To Her Niece

And Worthy Successor, By Her Most Faithful Humble Friend And Servant,

Lawrence." When My Mother Saw This, She Exclaimed At It, And Said, "I Am

Surprised He Ever Brought Himself To Write Those Words--Her 'Worthy

Successor.'" A Few Days After, Lawrence Begged Me To Let Him Have The

Print Again, As He Was Not Satisfied With The Finishing Of The Frame. It

Was Sent To Him, And When It Came Back He Had Effaced The Words In Which

He Had Admitted _Any_ Worthy Successor To His "Tragic Muse;" And Mr.

H----, Who Was At That Time His Secretary, Told Me That Lawrence Had The

Print Lying With That Inscription In His Drawing-Room For Several Days

Before Sending It To Me, And Had Said To Him, "Cover It Up; I Cannot

Bear To Look At It."

One Day, At The End Of My Sitting, Lawrence Showed Me A Lovely Portrait

Of Mrs. Inchbald, Of Whom My Mother, As We Drove Home, Told Me A Number

Of Amusing Anecdotes. She Was Very Beautiful, And Gifted With Original

Genius, As Her Plays And Farces And Novels (Above All, The "Simple

Story") Testify; She Was Not An Actress Of Any Special Merit, But Of

Respectable Mediocrity. She Stuttered Habitually, But Her Delivery Was

Never Impeded By This Defect On The Stage; A Curious Circumstance, Not

Uncommon To Persons Who Have That Infirmity, And Who Can Read And Recite

Without Suffering From It, Though Quite Unable To Speak Fluently. Mrs.

Inchbald Was A Person Of A Very Remarkable Character, Lovely, Poor, With

Unusual Mental Powers And Of Irreproachable Conduct. Her Life Was

Devoted To The Care Of Some Dependent Relation, Who From Sickness Was

Incapable Of Self-Support. Mrs. Inchbald Had A Singular Uprightness And

Unworldliness, And A Childlike Directness And Simplicity Of Manner,

Which, Combined With Her Personal Loveliness And Halting, Broken

Utterance, Gave To Her Conversation, Which Was Both Humorous And Witty,

A Most Peculiar And Comical Charm. Once, After Traveling All Day In A

Pouring Rain, On Alighting At Her Inn, The Coachman, Dripping All Over

With Wet, Offered His Arm To Help Her Out Of The Coach, When She

Exclaimed, To The Great Amusement Of Her Fellow-Travelers, "Oh, No, No!

Y-Y-Y-You Will Give Me M-M-M-My Death Of C-C-C-Cold; Do Bring Me A-A-A-A

_Dry_ Man." An Aristocratic Neighbor Of Hers, With Whom She Was Slightly

Acquainted, Driving With His Daughter In The Vicinity Of Her Very Humble

Suburban Residence, Overtook Her Walking Along The Road One Very Hot

Day, And, Stopping His Carriage, Asked Her To Let Him Have The Pleasure

Of Taking Her Home; When She Instantly Declined, With The Characteristic

Excuse That She Had Just Come From The Market Gardener's: "And, My Lord,

I-I-I Have My Pocket F-F-Full Of Onions,"--An Unsophisticated Statement

Of Facts Which Made Them Laugh Extremely. At The First Reading Of One Of

Her Pieces, A Certain Young Lady, With Rather A Lean, Lanky Figure,

Being Proposed To Her For The Part Of The Heroine, She Indignantly

Exclaimed, "No, No, No; I-I-I-I Won't Have That S-S-S-Stick Of A Girl!

D-D-D-Do Give Me A-A-A Girl With _Bumps!_" Coming Off The Stage One

Evening, She Was About To Sit Down By Mrs. Siddons In The Green-Room,

When Suddenly, Looking At Her Magnificent Neighbor, She Said, "No, I

Won't S-S-S-Sit By You; You're T-T-T-Too Handsome!"--In Which Respect

She Certainly Need Have Feared No Competition, And Less With My Aunt

Than Any One, Their Style Of Beauty Being So Absolutely Dissimilar.

Somebody Speaking Of Having Oysters For Supper, Much Surprise Was

Excited By Mrs. Inchbald's Saying That She Had Never Eaten One.

Questions And Remonstrances, Exclamations Of Astonishment, And Earnest

Advice To Enlarge Her Experience In That Respect, Assailed Her From The

Whole Green-Room, When She Finally Delivered Herself Thus: "Oh No,

Indeed! I-I-I-I Never, Never Could! What! E-E-E-Eat The Eyes And

T-T-T-The Nose, The Teeth A-A-A-And The Toes, The A-A-A-All Of A

Creature!" She Was An Enthusiastic Admirer Of My Uncle John, And The

Hero Of Her "Simple Story," Doriforth, Is Supposed To Have Been Intended

By Her As A Portrait Of Him. On One Occasion, When She Was Sitting By

The Fireplace In The Green-Room, Waiting To Be Called Upon The Stage,

She And Miss Mellon (Afterward Mrs. Coutts And Duchess Of St Albans)

Were Laughingly Discussing Their Male Friends And Acquaintances From The

Matrimonial Point Of View. My Uncle John, Who Was Standing Near,

Excessively Amused, At Length Jestingly Said To Mrs. Inchbald, Who Had

Been Comically Energetic In Her Declarations Of Who She Could Or Would,

Or Never Could Or Would, Have Married, "Well, Mrs. Inchbald, Would You

Have Had Me?" "Dear Heart!" Said The Stammering Beauty, Turning Her

Sweet Sunny Face Up To Him, "I'd Have J-J-J-Jumped At You!"

One Day Lawrence Took Us, From The Room Where I Generally Sat To Him,

Into A Long Gallery Where Were A Number Of His Pictures, And, Leading Me

By The Hand, Desired Me Not To Raise My Eyes Till He Told Me. On The

Word Of Command I Looked Up, And Found Myself Standing Close To And

Immediately Underneath, As It Were, A Colossal Figure Of Satan. The

Sudden Shock Of Finding Myself In Such Proximity To This Terrible Image

Made Me Burst Into Nervous Tears. Lawrence Was Greatly Distressed At The

Result Of His Experiment, Which Had Been Simply To Obtain A Verdict From

My Unprepared Impression Of The Power Of His Picture. A Conversation We

Had Been Having Upon The Subject Of Milton And The Character Of Satan

Had Made Him Think Of Showing This Picture To Me. I Was Too Much

Agitated To Form Any Judgment Of It, But I Thought I Perceived Through

Its Fierce And Tragical Expression Some Trace Of My Uncle's Face And

Features, A Sort Of "More So" Of The Bitter Pride And Scornful

Melancholy Of The Banished Roman In The Volscian Hall. Lawrence's

Imagination Was So Filled With The Poetical And Dramatic Suggestions

Which He Derived From The Kemble Brother And Sister, That I Thought A

Likeness Of Them Lurked In This Portrait Of The Prince Of Darkness; And

Perhaps He Could Scarcely Have Found A Better Model For His Archfiend

Than My Uncle, To Whom His Mother Occasionally Addressed The

Characteristic Reproof, "Sir, You Are As Proud As Lucifer!" (He And That

Remarkable Mother Of His Must Really Have Been A Good Deal Like

Coriolanus And Volumnia.) To Console Me For The Fright He Had Given Me,

Lawrence Took Me Into His Drawing-Room--That Beautiful Apartment Filled

With Beautiful Things, Including His Magnificent Collection Of Original

Drawings By The Old Masters, And Precious Gems Of Old And Modern

Art--The Treasure-House Of All The Exquisite Objects Of Beauty And

Curiosity That He Had Gathered Together During His Whole Life, And That

(With The Exception Of Raphael's And Michael Angelo's Drawings, Now In

The Museum At Oxford) Were So Soon, At His Most Unexpected Death, To Be

Scattered Abroad And Become, In Separate, Disjointed Portions, The

Property Of A Hundred Different Purchasers. Here, He Said, He Hoped

Often To Persuade My Father And Mother And Myself To Pass Our Unengaged

Evenings With Him; Here He Should Like To Make My Brother John, Of Whom

I Had Spoken Enthusiastically To Him, Free Of His Art Collections; And,

Adding That He Would Write To My Mother To Fix The Day For My First

Sitting For Juliet, He Put Into My Hands A Copy Of The First Edition Of

Milton's "Paradise Lost." I Never Entered That Room Or His House, Or Saw

Him Again; He Died About Ten Days After That.

Lawrence Did Not Talk Much While He Took His Sketch Of Me, And I

Remember Very Little That Passed Between Him And My Mother But What Was

Purely Personal. I Recollect He Told Me That I Had A Double Row Of

Eyelashes, Which Was An Unusual Peculiarity. He Expressed The Most

Decided Preference For Satin Over Every Other Material For Painting,

Expatiating Rapturously On