Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2) - Frances Ann Kemble (sad books to read TXT) 📗

Volume 1 Chapter 11 Pg 1

Alfred Tennyson Had Only Just Gathered His Earliest Laurels. My Brother

John Gave Me The First Copy Of His Poems I Ever Possessed, With A

Prophecy Of His Future Fame And Excellence Written On The Fly-Leaf Of

It. I Have Never Ceased To Exult In My Possession Of That Copy Of The

First Edition Of Those Poems, Which Became The Songs Of Our Every Day

And Every Hour, Almost; We Delighted In Them And Knew Them By Heart, And

Read And Said Them Over And Over Again Incessantly; They Were Our

Pictures, Our Music, And Infinite Was The Scorn And Indignation With

Which We Received The Slightest Word Of Adverse Criticism Upon Them. I

Remember Mrs. Milman, One Evening At My Father's House, Challenging Me

Laughingly About My Enthusiasm For Tennyson, And Asking Me If I Had Read

A Certain Severely Caustic And Condemnatory Article In The _Quarterly_

Upon His Poems. "Have You Read It?" Said She; "It Is So Amusing! Shall I

Send It To You?" "No, Thank You," Said I; "Have You Read The Poems, May

I Ask?" "I Cannot Say That I Have," Said She, Laughing. "Oh, Then," Said

I (Not Laughing), "Perhaps It Would Be Better That I Should Send You

Those?"

 

It Has Always Been Incomprehensible To Me How The Author Of Those Poems

Ever Brought Himself To Alter Them, As He Did, In So Many Instances--All

(As It Seemed To Me) For The Worse Rather Than The Better. I Certainly

Could Hardly Love His Verses Better Than He Did Himself, But The Various

Changes He Made In Them Have Always Appeared To Me Cruel Disfigurements

Of The Original Thoughts And Expressions, Which Were To Me Treasures Not

To Be Touched Even By His Hand; And His Changing Lines Which I Thought

Perfect, Omitting Beautiful Stanzas That I Loved, And Interpolating

Others That I Hated, And Disfiguring And Maiming His Own Exquisite

Creations With Second Thoughts (None Of Which Were Best To Me), Has

Caused Me To Rejoice, While I Mourn, Over My Copy Of The First Version

Of "The May Queen," "Oenone," "The Miller's Daughter," And All The

Subsequent _Improved_ Poems, Of Which The Improvements Were To Me

Desecrations. In Justice To Tennyson, I Must Add That The Present

Generation Of His Readers Swear By _Their_ Version Of His Poems As We

Did By Ours, For The Same Reason,--They Knew It First.

 

The Early Death Of Arthur Hallam, And The Imperishable Monument Of Love

Raised By Tennyson's Genius To His Memory, Have Tended To Give Him A

Pre-Eminence Among The Companions Of His Youth Which I Do Not Think His

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Abilities Would Have Won For Him Had He Lived; Though They Were

Undoubtedly Of A High Order. There Was A Gentleness And Purity Almost

Virginal In His Voice, Manner, And Countenance; And The Upper Part Of

His Face, His Forehead And Eyes (Perhaps In Readiness For His Early

Translation), Wore The Angelic Radiance That They Still Must Wear In

Heaven. Some Time Or Other, At Some Rare Moments Of The Divine Spirit's

Supremacy In Our Souls, We All Put On The Heavenly Face That Will Be

Ours Hereafter, And For A Brief Lightning Space Our Friends Behold Us As

We Shall Look When This Mortal Has Put On Immortality. On Arthur

Hallam's Brow And Eyes This Heavenly Light, So Fugitive On Other Human

Faces, Rested Habitually, As If He Was Thinking And Seeing In Heaven.

 

Of All Those Very Remarkable Young Men, John Sterling Was By Far The

Most Brilliant And Striking In His Conversation, And The One Of Whose

Future Eminence We Should All Of Us Have Augured Most Confidently. But

Though His Life Was Cut Off Prematurely, It Was Sufficiently Prolonged

To Disprove This Estimate Of His Powers. The Extreme Vividness Of His

Look, Manner, And Speech Gave A Wonderful Impression Of Latent Vitality

And Power; Perhaps Some Of This Lambent, Flashing Brightness May Have

Been But The Result Of The Morbid Physical Conditions Of His Existence,

Like The Flush On His Cheek And The Fire In His Eye; The Over Stimulated

And Excited Intellectual Activity, The Offspring Of Disease, Mistaken By

Us For Morning Instead Of Sunset Splendor, Promise Of Future Light And

Heat Instead Of Prognostication Of Approaching Darkness And Decay. It

Certainly Has Always Struck Me As Singular That Sterling, Who In His

Life Accomplished So Little And Left So Little Of The Work By Which Men

Are Generally Pronounced To Be Gifted With Exceptional Ability, Should

Have Been The Subject Of Two Such Interesting Biographies As Those

Written Of Him By Julius Hare And Carlyle. I Think He Must Have Been One

Of Those Persons In Whom Genius Makes Itself Felt And Acknowledged

Chiefly Through The Medium Of Personal Intercourse; A Not Infrequent

Thing, I Think, With Women, And Perhaps Men, Wanting The Full Vigor Of

Normal Health. I Suppose It Is Some Failure Not So Much In The Power

Possessed As In The Power Of Producing It In A Less Evanescent Form Than

That Of Spoken Words, And The Looks That With Such Organizations Are

More Than The Words Themselves. Sterling's Genius Was His _Wesen_,

Himself, And He Could Detach No Portion Of It That Retained Anything

Like The Power And Beauty One Would Have Expected. After All, The World

Has Twice Been Moved (Once Intellectually And Once Morally), As Never

Before Or Since, By Those Whose Spoken Words, Gathered Up By Others, Are

All That Remain Of Them. Personal Influence Is The Strongest And The

Most Subtle Of Powers, And Sterling Impressed All Who Knew Him As A Man

Of Undoubted Genius; Those Who Never Knew Him Will Perhaps Always Wonder

Why.

 

My Life Was Rather Sad At This Time: My Brother's Failure At College Was

A Source Of Disappointment And Distress To My Parents; And I, Who

Admired Him Extremely, And Believed In Him Implicitly, Was Grieved At

His Miscarriage And His Absence From England; While The Darkening

Prospects Of The Theater Threw A Gloom Over Us All. My Hitherto Frequent

Interchange Of Letters With My Dear Friend H---- S---- Had Become

Interrupted And Almost Suspended By The Prolonged And Dangerous Illness

Of Her Brother; And I Was Thrown Almost Entirely Upon Myself, And Was

Finding My Life Monotonously Dreary, When Events Occurred That Changed

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Its Whole Tenor Almost Suddenly, And Determined My Future Career With

Less Of Deliberation Than Would Probably Have Satisfied Either My

Parents Or Myself Under Less Stringent Circumstances.

 

It Was In The Autumn Of 1829, My Father Being Then Absent On A

Professional Tour In Ireland, That My Mother, Coming In From Walking One

Day, Threw Herself Into A Chair And Burst Into Tears. She Had Been

Evidently Much Depressed For Some Time Past, And I Was Alarmed At Her

Distress, Of Which I Begged Her To Tell Me The Cause. "Oh, It Has Come

At Last," She Answered; "Our Property Is To Be Sold. I Have Seen That

Fine Building All Covered With Placards And Bills Of Sale; The Theater

Must Be Closed, And I Know Not How Many Hundred Poor People Will Be

Turned Adrift Without Employment!" I Believed The Theater Employed

Regularly Seven Hundred Persons In All Its Different Departments,

Without Reckoning The Great Number Of What Were Called Supernumeraries,

Who Were Hired By The Night At Christmas, Easter, And On All Occasions

Of Any Specially Showy Spectacle. Seized With A Sort Of Terror, Like The

Lady Of Shallott, That "The Curse Had Come Upon Me," I Comforted My

Mother With Expressions Of Pity And Affection, And, As Soon As I Left

Her, Wrote A Most Urgent Entreaty To My Father That He Would Allow Me To

Act For Myself, And Seek Employment As A Governess, So As To Relieve Him

At Once At Least Of The Burden Of My Maintenance. I Brought This Letter

To My Mother, And Begged Her Permission To Send It, To Which She

Consented; But, As I Afterward Learned, She Wrote By The Same Post To My

Father, Requesting Him Not To Give A Positive Answer To My Letter Until

His Return To Town. The Next Day She Asked Me Whether I Seriously

Thought I Had Any Real Talent For The Stage. My School-Day Triumphs In

Racine's "Andromaque" Were Far Enough Behind Me, And I Could Only

Answer, With As Much Perplexity As Good Faith, That I Had Not The

Slightest Idea Whether I Had Or Not. She Begged Me To Learn Some Part

And Say It To Her, That She Might Form Some Opinion Of My Power, And I

Chose Shakespeare's Portia, Then, As Now, My Ideal Of A Perfect

Woman--The Wise, Witty Woman, Loving With All Her Soul And Submitting

With All Her Heart To A Man Whom Everybody But Herself (Who Was The Best

Judge) Would Have Judged Her Inferior; The Laughter-Loving,

Light-Hearted, True-Hearted, Deep-Hearted Woman, Full Of Keen

Perception, Of Active Efficiency, Of Wisdom Prompted By Love, Of

Tenderest Unselfishness, Of Generous Magnanimity; Noble, Simple, Humble,

Pure; True, Dutiful, Religious, And Full Of Fun; Delightful Above All

Others, The Woman Of Women. Having Learned It By Heart, I Recited Portia

To My Mother, Whose Only Comment Was, "There Is Hardly Passion Enough In

This Part To Test Any Tragic Power. I Wish You Would Study Juliet For

Me." Study To Me Then, As Unfortunately Long Afterward, Simply Meant To

Learn By Heart, Which I Did Again, And Repeated My Lesson To My Mother,

Who Again Heard Me Without Any Observation Whatever. Meantime My Father

Returned To Town And My Letter Remained Unanswered, And I Was Wondering

In My Mind What Reply I Should Receive To My Urgent Entreaty, When One

Morning My Mother Told Me She Wished Me To Recite Juliet To My Father;

And So In The Evening I Stood Up Before Them Both, And With

Indescribable Trepidation Repeated My First Lesson In Tragedy.

 

They Neither Of Them Said Anything Beyond "Very Well,--Very Nice, My

Dear," With Many Kisses And Caresses, From Which I Escaped To Sit Down

On The Stairs Half-Way Between The Drawing-Room And My Bedroom, And Get

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In Floods Of Tears. A Few Days After This My Father Told Me He Wished To

Take Me To The Theater With Him To Try Whether My Voice Was Of

Sufficient Strength