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

Volume 1 Chapter 11 Pg 7

Enthusiasm, Respect, Or Love For It, It Is Wonderful To Me That I Ever

Achieved _Any_ Success In It At All. The Dramatic Element Inherent In My

Organization Must Have Been Very Powerful, To Have Enabled Me Without

Either Study Of Or Love For My Profession To Do Anything Worth Anything

In It.

 

But This Is The Reason Why, With An Unusual Gift And Many Unusual

Advantages For It, I Did Really So Little; Why My Performances Were

Always Uneven In Themselves And Perfectly Unequal With Each Other, Never

Complete As A Whole, However Striking In Occasional Parts, And Never At

The Same Level Two Nights Together; Depending For Their Effect Upon The

State Of My Nerves And Spirits, Instead Of Being The Result Of

Deliberate Thought And Consideration,--Study, In Short, Carefully And

Conscientiously Applied To My Work; The Permanent Element Which

Preserves The Artist, However Inevitably He Must Feel The Influence Of

Moods Of Mind And Body, From Ever Being At Their Mercy.

 

I Brought But One Half The Necessary Material To The Exercise Of My

Profession, That Which Nature Gave Me; And Never Added The Cultivation

And Labor Requisite To Produce Any Fine Performance In The Right Sense

Of The Word; And, Coming Of A Family Of _Real_ Artists, Have Never Felt

That I Deserved That Honorable Name.

 

A Letter Written At This Time To Miss S---- Shows How Comparatively

Small A Part My Approaching Ordeal Engrossed My Thoughts.

 

                                     JAMES STREET, September 24, 1829,

     MY DEAREST H----,

 

     Your Letter Grieved Me Very Much, But It Did Not Surprise Me; Of

     Your Brother's Serious Illness I Had Heard From My Cousin, Horace

     Twiss. But Is There Indeed Cause For The Terrible Anxiety You

     Express? I Know How Impossible It Is To Argue With The

     Apprehensions Of Affection, And Should Have Forborne This Letter

     Altogether, But That I Felt Very Deeply Your Kindness In Writing To

     Me At Such A Time, And That I Would Fain Assure You Of My

     Heart-Felt Sympathy, However Unavailing It May Be. To You Who Have

     A Steadfast Anchor For Your Hopes, I Ought Not, Perhaps, To Say,

     "Do Not Despond." Yet, Dearest H----, Do Not Despond: Is There

     _Any_ Occasion When Despair Is Justified? I Know How Lightly All

     Soothing Counsel Must Be Held, In A Case Of Such Sorrow As Yours,

     But Among Fellow-Christians Such Words Still Have Some

     Significance; For The Most Unworthy Of That Holy Profession May

     Point Unfalteringly To The Only Consolations Adequate To The Need

     Of Those Far Above Them In Every Endowment Of Mind And Heart And

     Religious Attainment. Dear H----, I Hardly Know How To Tell You How

     Much I Feel For You, How Sincerely I Hope Your Fears May Prove

     Groundless, And How Earnestly I Pray That, Should They Prove

     Prophetic, You May Be Enabled To Bear The Affliction, To Meet Which

     I Doubt Not Strength Will Be Given You. This Is All I Dare Say;

     Those Who Love You Best Will Hardly Venture To Say More. To Put

     Away Entirely The Idea Of An Evil Which One May Be Called Upon At

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     Loan, The Repayment Of Which May Be Exacted At The Very Moment,

     Perhaps, When We Are Forgetting In Its Possession The Precarious

     Tenure By Which Alone It Is Ours.

 

     My Dear Father And Mother Have Both Been Very Unwell; The Former Is

     A Little Recovered, But The Latter Is Still In A Sad State Of

     Bodily Suffering And Mental Anxiety. Our Two Boys Are Well And

     Happy, And I Am Very Well And Not Otherwise Than Happy. I Regret To

     Say Mrs. Henry Siddons Will Leave London In A Very Short Time; This

     Is A Great Loss To Me. I Owe More To Her Than I Can Ever Repay; For

     Though Abundant Pains Had Been Bestowed Upon Me Previously To My

     Going To Her, It Was She Who Caused To Spring Whatever Scattered

     Seeds Of Good Were In Me, Which Almost Seemed As If They Had Been

     Cast Into The Soil In Vain.

 

     My Dear H----, I Am Going On The Stage: The Nearest Period Talked

     Of For My _Début_ Is The First Of October, At The Opening Of The

     Theater; The Furthest, November; But I Almost Think I Should Prefer

     The Nearest, For It Is A Very Serious Trial To Look Forward To, And

     I Wish It Were Over. Juliet Is To Be My Opening Part, But Not To My

     Father's Romeo; There Would Be Many Objections To That; He Will Do

     Mercutio For Me. I Do Not Enter More Fully Upon This, Because I

     Know How Few Things Can Be Of Interest To You In Your Present State

     Of Feeling, But I Wished You Not To Find The First Notice Of My

     Entrance On The Stage Of Life In A Newspaper. God Bless You,

     Dearest H----, And Grant You Better Hopes.

 

                        Your Most Affectionate

                                                                FANNY.

 

My Father Not Acting Romeo With Me Deprived Me Of The Most Poetical And

Graceful Stage Lover Of His Day; But The Public, Who Had Long Been

Familiar With His Rendering Of The Part Of Romeo, Gained As Much As I

Lost, By His Taking That Of Mercutio, Which Has Never Since Been So

Admirably Represented, And I Dare Affirm Will Never Be Given More

Perfectly. The Graceful Ease, And Airy Sparkling Brilliancy Of His

Delivery Of The Witty Fancies Of That Merry Gentleman, The Gallant

Defiance Of His Bearing Toward The Enemies Of His House, And His

Heroically Pathetic And Humorous Death-Scene, Were Beyond Description

Charming. He Was One Of The Best Romeos, And Incomparably _The_ Best

Mercutio, That Ever Trod The English Stage.

 

My Father Was Miss O'Neill's Romeo Throughout Her Whole Theatrical

Career, During Which No Other Juliet Was Tolerated By The English

Public. This Amiable And Excellent Woman Was Always An Attached Friend

Of Our Family, And One Day, When She Was About To Take Leave Of Me, At

The End Of A Morning Visit, I Begged Her To Let My Father Have The

Pleasure Of Seeing Her, And Ran To His Study To Tell Him Whom I Had With

Me. He Followed Me Hastily To The Drawing-Room, And Stopping At The

Door, Extended His Arms Towards Her, Exclaiming, "Ah, Juliet!" Lady

Becher Ran To Him And Embraced Him With A Pretty, Affectionate Grace,

And The Scene Was Pathetical As Well As Comical, For They Were Both

White-Haired, She Being Considerably Upward Of Sixty And He Of Seventy

Years Old; But She Still Retained The Slender Elegance Of Her Exquisite

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Figure, And He Some Traces Of His Pre-Eminent Personal Beauty.

 

My Mother Had A Great Admiration And Personal Regard For Lady Becher,

And Told Me An Anecdote Of Her Early Life Which Transmitted Those

Feelings Of Hers To Me. Lord F----, Eldest Son Of The Earl Of E----, A

Personally And Mentally Attractive Young Man, Fell Desperately In Love

With Miss O'Neill, Who Was (What The Popular Theatrical Heroine Of The

Day Always Is) The Realization Of Their Ideal To The Youth, Male And

Female, Of Her Time, The Stage Star Of Her Contemporaries. Lord F----'S

Family Had Nothing To Say Against The Character, Conduct, Or Personal

Endowments Of The Beautiful, Actress Who Had Enchanted, To Such Serious

Purpose As Marriage, The Heir Of Their House; But Much, Reasonably And

Rightly Enough, Against Marriages Disproportionate To Such A Degree As

That, And The Objectionable Nature Of The Young Woman's Peculiar

Circumstances And Public Calling. Both Miss O'Neill, However, And Lord

F---- Were Enough In Earnest In Their Mutual Regard To Accept The Test

Of A Year's Separation And Suspension Of All Intercourse. She Remained

To Utter Herself In Juliet To The English Public, And Her Lover Went And

Travelled Abroad, Both Believing In Themselves And Each Other. No

Letters Or Communication Passed Between Them; But Toward The End Of

Their Year Of Probation Vague Rumors Came Flying To England Of The Life

Of Dissipation Led By The Young Man, And Of The Unworthy Companions With

Whom He Entertained The Most Intimate Relations. After This Came More

Explicit Tales Of Positive Entanglement With One Particular Person, And

Reports Of An Entire Devotion To One Object Quite Incompatible With The

Constancy Professed And Promised To His English Mistress.

 

Probably Aware That Every Effort Would, Till The Last, Be Made By Lord

F----'S Family To Detach Them From Each Other, Bound By Her Promise To

Hold No Intercourse With Him, But Determined To Take The Verdict Of Her

Fate From No One But Himself, Miss O'Neill Obtained A Brief Leave Of

Absence From Her Theatrical Duties, Went With Her Brother And Sister To

Calais, Whence She Travelled Alone To Paris (Poor, Fair Juliet! When I

Think Of Her, Not As I Ever Knew Her, But Such As I Know She Must Then

Have Been, No More Pathetic Image Presents Itself To My Mind), And Took

Effectual Measures To Ascertain Beyond All Shadow Of Doubt The Bitter

Truth Of The Evil Reports Of Her Fickle Lover's Mode Of Life. His

Devotion To One Lady, The More Respectable Form Of Infidelity Which Must

Inevitably Have Canceled Their Contract Of Love, Was Not Indeed True,

And Probably The Story Had Been Fabricated Because The Mere General

Accusation Of Profligacy Might Easily Have Been Turned Into An Appeal To

Her Mercy, As The Result Of Reckless Despondency And Of His Utter

Separation From Her; And A Woman In Her Circumstances Might Not Have

Been Hard To Find Who Would Have Persuaded Herself That She Might

Overlook "All That," Reclaim Her Lover, And Be An Earl's Wife. Miss

O'Neill Rejoined Her Family At Calais, Wrote To Lord F----'S Father, The

Earl Of E----, Her Final And Irrevocable Rejection Of His Son's Suit,

Fell Ill Of Love And Sorrow, And Lay For Some Space Between Life And

Death For The Sake Of Her Unworthy Lover; Rallied Bravely, Recovered,

Resumed Her Work,--Her Sway Over Thousands Of Human Hearts,--And, After

Lapse Of Healing And Forgiving And Forgetting Time, Married Sir William

Wrixon Becher.

 

The Peculiar Excellence Of Her Acting Lay In The Expression Of Pathos

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