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

The Stage

Their Profession. He Had Some Favorable Physical Qualifications For It:

A Rather Striking Face, Handsome Figure, Good Voice, And Plenty Of Fire

And Energy; He Was Tolerably Clever And Well-Informed, But Without

Either Imagination Or Refinement. My Father, Who Thought There Was The

Making Of A Good Actor In Him, Was Extremely Kind To Him.

 

                                       GLASGOW, MONDAY, June 28, 1830.

     MY DEAR MRS. JAMESON,

 

     I Believe That You Will Have Felt Too Well Convinced That I Had Not

     Had A Moment To Spare, To Be Surprised At My Not Having Sooner

     Acknowledged Your Very Kind Letter; Nothing But The Incessant

     Occupation Of My Time Would So Long Have Prevented Me From Doing

     So, But I Embrace The Opportunity Which The King's Death Affords Me

     Of Telling You How Much Obliged To You I Was For Writing To Me, And

     Writing As You Did. I Have Little News To Return You But What

     Concerns Myself, But I Shall Make No Coquettish Excuses About That,

     For I Really Believe 'Tis The Subject That Will Interest You Most

     Of Any I Could Find. First, Then, I Am Very Well, Rather Tired, And

     Sitting At An Inn Window, In A Dull, Dark, Handsome Square In

     Glasgow. My Fortnight In Edinburgh Is Over, And A Short Fortnight

     It Has Been, What With Rehearsals, Riding, Sitting For My Bust, And

     Acting. The Few Hurried Glimpses I Have Caught Of My Friends Have

     Been Like Dreams, And Now That I Have Parted From Them, No More To

     Meet Them There Certainly, The Whole Seems To Me Like Mere

     Bewilderment, And I Repeat To Myself In My Thoughts, Hardly

     Believing It, That The Next Time That I Visit Edinburgh I Shall Not

     Find The Dear Companionship Of My Cousins Nor The Fond Affection Of

     Mrs. Henry Siddons. This Will Be A Severe Loss To Me; Edinburgh

     Will, I Fear, Be Without Its Greatest Charm, And It Will Remain To

     Be Proved Whether These Lovely Scenes That I Have So Admired And

     Delighted In Owed All Their Incomparable Fascination To Their

     Intrinsic Beauty, Or To That Most Pleasurable Frame Of Mind I

     Enjoyed At The Same Time, The Consciousness Of The Kind Regard Of

     The Excellent Human Beings Among Whom I Lived.

 

     You Will Naturally Expect Me To Say Something Of My Theatrical

     Experiences In The Modern Athens. Our Houses Have Been Very Fine,

     Our Audiences (As Is Their National Nature) Very Cold; But Upon The

     Whole I Believe They Were Well Pleased With Us, Notwithstanding The

     Damping Influence Of The Newspapers, Which Have One And All Been

     Unfavorable To Me. The Deathlike Stillness Of The Audience, As It

     Afforded Me Neither Rest Nor Stimulus, Distressed Me A Good Deal;

     Which, I Think I Need Not Tell You, The Newspaper Criticisms Did

     Not. I Was Surprised, In Reading Them, To Find How Very Generally

     Their Strictures Were Confined To My External Disadvantages,--My

     Diminutive Stature And Defective Features; And That These Far-Famed

     Northern Critics Discussed These Rather Than What I Should Have

     Expected Them To Bestow Their Consideration Upon, The Dramatic

     Artist's Conception Of Character, And His (Or Her) Execution Of

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     That Conception. But Had Their Verdicts Been Still More Severe, I

     Have A Sufficient Consolation In Two Notes Of Sir Walter Scott's,

     Written To The Editor Of One Of The Papers, Ballantyne, His Own

     Particular Friend, Which The Latter Sent Me, And Where He Bears

     Such Testimony To My Exertions As I Do Not Care To Transcribe, For

     Fear My Cheeks Should Reflect A Lasting Blush On My Paper, But

     Which I Keep As A Treasure And Shall Certainly Show You With Pride

     And Pleasure When We Meet.

 

     Among The Delightful Occurrences Of Last Week, I Must Record Our

     Breakfasting With Walter Scott. I Was Wonderfully Happy. To Whom,

     Since Shakespeare, Does The Reading World Owe So Many Hours Of

     Perfect, Peaceful Pleasure, Of Blessed Forgetfulness Of All Things

     Miserable And Mean In Its Daily Life? The Party Was A Small But

     Interesting One: Sir Walter And His Daughter Anne, His Old Friend

     Sir Adam Ferguson And Lady Ferguson, And Miss Ferrier, The

     Authoress Of "Marriage" And "Inheritance," With Both Which Capital

     Books I Hope, For Your Own Sake, You Are Acquainted. Sir Walter Was

     Most Delightful, And I Even Forgot All Awful Sense Of His Celebrity

     In His Kind, Cordial, And Almost Affectionate Manner Toward Me. He

     Is Exceedingly Like All The Engravings, Pictures, And Busts Of Him

     With Which One Is Familiar, And It Seems Strange That So Varied And

     Noble An Intellect Should Be Expressed In The Features Of A Shrewd,

     Kindly, But Not Otherwise Striking Countenance. He Told Me Several

     Things That Interested Me Very Much; Among Others, His Being

     Present At The Time When, After Much Searching, The Regalia Of

     Scotland Was Found Locked Up In A Room In Edinburgh Castle, Where,

     As He Said, The Dust Of Centuries Had Accumulated Upon It, And

     Where The Ashes Of Fires Lit More Than Two Hundred Years Before

     Were Still Lying In The Grate. He Told Me A Story That Made Me Cry,

     Of A Poor Old Lady Upward Of Eighty Years Of Age, Who Belonged To

     One Of The Great Jacobite Families,--She Was A Maxwell,--Sending To

     Him At The Time The Scottish Crown Was Found, To Implore Permission

     To See It But For One Instant; Which (Although In Every Other Case

     The Same Petition Had Been Refused) Was Granted To Her In

     Consideration Of Her Great Age And The Vital Importance She Seemed

     To Attach To It. I Never Shall Forget His Describing Her When First

     She Saw It, Appearing For A Moment Petrified At Sight Of It, And

     Then Tottering Forward And Falling Down On Her Knees, And Weeping

     And Wailing Over These Poor Remains Of The Royalty Of Her Country

     As If It Had Been The Dead Body Of Her Child.

 

     Sir Adam Ferguson Is A Delightful Person, Whose Quick, Bustling

     Manner Forms A Striking Contrast To Walter Scott's Quiet Tone Of

     Voice And Deliberate Enunciation I Have Also Made Acquaintance With

     Jeffrey, Who Came And Called Upon Us The Other Morning, And, I

     Hear, Like Some Of His Fellow-Townsmen, Complains Piteously That I

     Am Not Prettier. Indeed, I Am Very Sorry For It, And I Heartily

     Wish I Were; But I Did Not Think Him Handsome Either, And I Wonder

     Why He Is Not Handsomer? Though I Don't Care So Much About His Want

     Of Beauty As He Seems To Do About Mine. But I Am Running On At A

     Tremendous Rate, And Quite Forget That I Have Traveled Upward Of

     Forty Miles To-Day, And That I Promised My Mother, Whenever I

     Could, To Go To Bed Early. Good-By, My Dear Mrs. Jameson. I Hope

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     You Will Be Able To Make Out This Scrawl, And To Decipher That I Am

     Yours Affectionately,

 

                                                         F. A. KEMBLE.

 

Of The Proverbial Frigidity Of The Edinburgh Public I Had Been

Forewarned, And Of Its Probably Disheartening Effect Upon Myself. Mrs.

Harry Siddons Had Often Told Me Of The Intolerable Sense Of Depression

With Which It Affected Mrs. Siddons, Who, She Said, After Some Of Her

Grandest Outbursts Of Passion, To Which Not A Single Expression Of

Applause Or Sympathy Had Responded, Exhausted And Breathless With The

Effort She Had Made, Would Pant Out In Despair, Under Her Breath,

"Stupid People, Stupid People!" Stupid, However, They Undoubtedly Were

Not, Though, As Undoubtedly, Their Want Of Excitability And

Demonstrativeness Diminished Their Own Pleasure By Communicating Itself

To The Great Actress And Partially Paralyzing Her Powers. That This

Habitual Reserve Sometimes Gave Way To Very Violent Exhibitions Of

Enthusiasm, The More Fervent From Its General Repression, There Is No

Doubt; And I Think It Was In Edinburgh That My Friend, Mr. Harness, Told

Me The Whole Of The Sleep-Walking Scene In "Macbeth" Had Once Been So

Vehemently Encored That My Aunt Was Literally Obliged To Go Over It A

Second Time, Before The Piece Was Allowed To Proceed.

 

Scott's Opinion Of My Acting, Which Would, Of Course, Have Been Very

Valuable To Me, Let It Have Been What It Would, Was Written To His

Friend And Editor (_Eheu!_), Ballantyne, Who Was Also The Editor Of One

Of The Principal Edinburgh Papers, In Which Unfavorable Criticisms Of My

Performances Had Appeared, And In Opposition To Which Sir Walter Scott

Told Him He Was Too Hard Upon Me, And That For His Part He Had Seen

Nothing So Good Since Mrs. Siddons. This Encouraging Verdict Was

Courteously Forwarded To Me By Mr. Ballantyne Himself, Who Said He Was

Sure I Would Like To Possess It. The First Time I Ever Saw Walter Scott,

My Father And Myself Were Riding Slowly Down Princes Street, Up Which

Scott Was Walking; He Stopped My Father's Horse, Which Was Near The

Pavement, And Desired To Be Introduced To Me. Then Followed A String Of

Cordial Invitations Which Previous Engagements And Our Work At The

Theater Forbade Our Accepting, All But The Pressing One With Which He

Wound Up, That We Would At Least Come And Breakfast With Him. The First

Words He Addressed To Me As I Entered The Room Were, "You Appear To Be A

Very Good Horsewoman, Which Is A Great Merit In The Eyes Of An Old

Border-Man." Every _R_ In Which Sentence Was Rolled Into A Combination

Of Double _U_ And Double _R_ By His Border Burr, Which Made It Memorable

To Me By This Peculiarity Of His Pleasant Speech. My Previous

Acquaintance With Miss Ferrier's Admirable Novels Would Have Made Me

Very Glad Of The Opportunity Of Meeting Her, And I Should Have Thought

Sir Adam Ferguson Delightfully Entertaining, But That I Could Not Bear

To Lose, While Listening To Any One Else, A Single Word Spoken By Walter

Scott.

 

I Never Can Forget, However, The Description Sir Adam Ferguson Gave Me

Of A Morning He Had Passed With Scott At Abbotsford, Which At That Time

Was Still Unfinished, And, Swarming With Carpenters, Painters, Masons,

And Bricklayers, Was Surrounded With All The Dirt And Disorderly

Discomfort Inseparable From The Process Of House-Building. The Room They

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