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

Mind At Ease As To The

     Result Of My Appearance In "The Gamester;" But Although They Have

     Forestalled Me In The Sum Total Of The Account, There Are Some

     Small Details Which May Perhaps Interest You, Of Which They Can

     Give You No Knowledge. I Shall Talk To You Much Of Myself, Dearest

     H----, And Hope It Will Not Weary You; That Precious Little Self Is

Volume 1 Chapter 13 Pg 48

     Just Now So Fully Occupied With Its Own Affairs That I Have Little

     Else To Talk Of. [I Probably Also Felt Much As Our Kind And Most

     Comical Friend Dessauer Used, When He Emphatically Declared, "Mais,

     Je M'interesse Extrêmement À Ce Qui Me Regarde."]

 

     I Do Not Think I Ever Spent A More Miserable Day Than The One In

     Which I Acted Mrs. Beverley For The First Time. Stage Nervousness,

     My Father And Mother Both Tell Me, Increases Instead Of Diminishing

     With Practice; And Certainly, As Far As My Own Limited Experience

     Goes, I Find It So. The First Hazard, I Should Say, Was Not Half So

     Fearful As The Last; And Though On The First Night That I Ever

     Stood Upon The Stage I Thought I Never Could Be More Frightened In

     My Life, I Find That With Each New Part My Fear Has Augmented In

     Proportion As Previous Success Would Have Rendered It More Damaging

     To Fail. A Stumble At Starting Would Have Been Bad Enough, And

     Might Have Bruised Me; But A Fall From The Height To Which I Have

     Been Raised Might Break My Neck, Or At Any Rate Cripple Me For

     Life. I Do Not Believe That To Fail In A Part Would Make Me

     Individually Unhappy For A Moment; But So Much Of Real Importance

     To Others, So Much Of The Most Serious Interests And So Much Of The

     Feelings Of Those Most Dear To Me, Is Involved In The Continuance

     Of My Good Fortune, That I Am In Every Way Justified In Dreading A

     Failure. These Considerations, And Their Not Unnatural Result, A

     Violent Headache And Side-Ache, Together With No Very Great Liking

     For The Part (Interesting As It Is, It Is So Perfectly Prosaic),

     Had Made Me So Nervous That The Whole Of The Day Was Spent In Fits

     Of Crying; And When The Curtain Drew Up, And I Was "Discovered,"

     I'm Sure I Must Have Looked As Jaded And Tear-Worn As Poor Mrs.

     Beverley Ever Did. However, All Went Well With Me Till The Last

     Act, When My Father's Acting And My Own Previous State Of

     Nervousness Combined To Make My Part Of The Tragedy Anything But

     Feigning; I Sobbed So Violently That I Could Hardly Articulate My

     Words, And At The Last Fell Upon The Dead Body Of Beverley With A

     Hysterical Cry That Had All The Merit Of Pure Nature, If None

     Other, To Recommend It. Fortunately The Curtain Fell Then, And I

     Was Carried To My Dressing-Room To Finish My Fit In Private. The

     Last Act Of That Play Gives Me Such Pains In My Arms And Legs, With

     Sheer Nervous Distress, That I Am Ready To Drop Down With

     Exhaustion At The End Of It; And This Reminds Me Of The Very

     Difficult Question Which You Expect Me To Answer, Respecting The

     Species Of Power Which Is Called Into Play In The Act, So Called,

     Of _Acting_.

 

     I Am The Worst Reasoner, Analyzer, And Metaphysician That Ever Was

     Born; And Therefore Whatever I Say On The Subject Can Be Worth Very

     Little, As A Reply To Your Question, But May Furnish You With Some

     Data For Making A Theory About It For Yourself.

 

     It Appears To Me That The Two Indispensable Elements Of Fine Acting

     Are A Certain Amount Of Poetical Imagination And A Power Of

     Assumption, Which Is A Good Deal The Rarer Gift Of The Two; In

     Addition To These, A Sort Of Vigilant Presence Of Mind Is

     Necessary, Which Constantly Looks After And Avoids Or Removes The

     Petty Obstacles That Are Perpetually Destroying The Imaginary

Volume 1 Chapter 13 Pg 49

     Illusion, And Reminding One In One's Own Despite That One Is Not

     Really Juliet Or Belvidera. The Curious Part Of Acting, To Me, Is

     The Sort Of Double Process Which The Mind Carries On At Once, The

     Combined Operation Of One's Faculties, So To Speak, In

     Diametrically Opposite Directions; For Instance, In That Very Last

     Scene Of Mrs. Beverley, While I Was Half Dead With Crying In The

     Midst Of The Real Grief, Created By An Entirely Unreal Cause, I

     Perceived That My Tears Were Falling Like Rain All Over My Silk

     Dress, And Spoiling It; And I Calculated And Measured Most

     Accurately The Space That My Father Would Require To Fall In, And

     Moved Myself And My Train Accordingly In The Midst Of The Anguish I

     Was To Feign, And Absolutely Did Endure. It Is This Watchful

     Faculty (Perfectly Prosaic And Commonplace In Its Nature), Which

     Never Deserts Me While I Am Uttering All That Exquisite Passionate

     Poetry In Juliet's Balcony Scene, While I Feel As If My Own Soul

     Was On My Lips, And My Color Comes And Goes With The Intensity Of

     The Sentiment I Am Expressing; Which Prevents Me From Falling Over

     My Train, From Setting Fire To Myself With The Lamps Placed Close

     To Me, From Leaning Upon My Canvas Balcony When I Seem To Throw

     Myself All But Over It. In Short, While The Whole Person Appears To

     Be Merely Following The Mind In Producing The Desired Effect And

     Illusion Upon The Spectator, Both The Intellect And The Senses Are

     Constantly Engrossed In Guarding Against The Smallest Accidents

     That Might Militate Against It; And While Representing Things

     Absolutely Imaginary, They Are Taking Accurate Cognizance Of Every

     Real Surrounding Object That Can Either Assist Or Mar The Result

     They Seek To Produce. This Seems To Me By Far The Most Singular

     Part Of The Process, Which Is Altogether A Very Curious And

     Complicated One. I Am Glad You Got My Print Safe; It Is A Very

     Beautiful Thing (I Mean The Drawing), And I Am Glad To Think That

     It Is Like Me, Though Much Flattered. I Suppose It Is Like What

     Those Who Love Me Have Sometimes Seen Me, But To The Majority Of My

     Acquaintance It Must Appear Unwarrantably Good-Looking. The Effect

     Of It Is Much Too Large For Me, But When My Mother Ventured To

     Suggest This To Lawrence, He Said That That Was A Peculiarity Of

     His Drawings, And That He Thought Persons Familiar With His Style

     Would Understand It.

 

     My Dearest H----, You Express Something Of Regret At My Necessity

     (I Can Hardly Call It Choice) Of A Profession. There Are Many Times

     When I Myself Cannot Help Wishing It Might Have Been Otherwise; But

     Then Come Other Thoughts: The Talent Which I Possess For It Was, I

     Suppose, Given To Me For Some Good Purpose, And To Be Used.

     Nevertheless, When I Reflect That Although Hitherto My Profession

     Has Not Appeared To Me Attractive Enough To Engross My Mind, Yet

     That Admiration And Applause, And The Excitement Springing

     Therefrom, May Become Necessary To Me, I Resolve Not Only To Watch

     But To Pray Against Such A Result. I Have No Desire To Sell My Soul

     For Anything, Least Of All For Sham Fame, Mere Notoriety. Besides,

     My Mind Has Such Far Deeper Enjoyment In Other Pursuits; The

     Happiness Of Reading Shakespeare's Heavenly Imaginations Is So Far

     Beyond All The Excitement Of Acting Them (White Satin, Gas Lights,

     Applause, And All), That I Cannot Conceive A Time When Having Him

Volume 1 Chapter 13 Pg 50

     Public Popularity. While I Can Sit Obliviously Curled Up In An

     Armchair, And Read What He Says Till My Eyes Are Full Of Delicious,

     Quiet Tears, And My Heart Of Blessed, Good, Quiet Thoughts And

     Feelings, I Shall Not Crave That Which Falls So Far Short Of Any

     Real Enjoyment, And Hitherto Certainly Seems To Me As Remote As

     Possible From Any Real Happiness.

 

     This Enviable Condition Of Body And Mind Was Mine While Studying

     Portia In "The Merchant Of Venice," Which Is To Be Given On The

     25th For My Benefit. I Shall Be Much Frightened, I Know, But I

     Delight In The Part; Indeed, Portia Is My Favoritest Of All

     Shakespeare's Women. She Is So Generous, Affectionate, Wise, So

     Arch And Full Of Fun, And Such A True Lady, That I Think If I Could

     But Convey Her To My Audience As Her Creator Has Conveyed Her To

     Me, I Could Not Fail To Please Them Much. I Think Her Speech To

     Bassanio, After His Successful Choice Of The Casket, The Most

     Lovely, Tender, Modest, Dignified Piece Of True Womanly Feeling

     That Was Ever Expressed By Woman.

 

     I Certainly Ought To Act That Character Well, I Do So Delight In

     It; I Know Nothing Of My Dress. But Perhaps I Shall Have Some

     Opportunity Of Writing To You Again Before It Is Acted. Now All I

     Have To Say Must Be Packed Close, For I Ought To Be Going To Bed,

     And I Have No More Paper. I Have Taken Two Riding Lessons And Like

     It Much, Though It Makes My Bones Ache A Little. I Go Out A Great

     Deal, And That I Like Very Much Whenever There Is Dancing, But Not

     Else. My Own Home Spoils Me For Society; Perhaps I Ought Not To Say

     It, But After The Sort Of Conversation I Am Used To The Usual

     Jargon Of Society Seems Poor Stuff; But You Know When I Am Dancing

     I Am "O'er All The Ills Of Life Victorious." John Has Taken His

     Degree And Will Be Back With Us At Easter; Henry Has Left