Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2) by Frances Ann Kemble (most popular novels of all time TXT) 📖

The

     Mayows To-Morrow; An Evening Party On Monday; Tuesday, The Opera;

     Wednesday I Act Isabella; Thursday, A Dinner At Mr. Harness's;

     Friday I Act Bianca; Saturday We Have A Dinner Party At Home; The

     Monday Following I Act Constance; Tuesday There Is A Dance At The

     Fitzhughs'; And Sundry Dissipations Looming In The Horizon.

 

     Good-By, And God Bless You, My Dear H----. I Look Forward To Our

     Meeting At Ardgillan, Three Months Hence, With Delight, And Am

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     Affectionately Yours,

 

                                                              F. A. K.

 

     A---- And I Begin Our Riding Lessons On Wednesday Next. We Have Got

     Pretty Dark-Brown Habits And Red Velvet Waistcoats, And Shall Look

     Like Two Nice Little Robin-Redbreasts On Horseback; All I Dread Is

     That She May Be Frightened To Death, Which Might Militate Against

     Her Enjoyment, Perhaps.

 

     What You Say About My Brother John Is Very True; And Though My

     First Care Is For His Life, My Next Is For His Happiness, Which I

     Believe More Likely To Be Secured By His Remaining In The Midst Of

     Action And Excitement Abroad, Than In Any Steady Pursuit At Home.

     My Benefit Was Not As Good As It Ought To Have Been; It Was Not

     Sufficiently Advertised, And It Took Place On The Night Of The

     Reading Of The Reform Bill, Which Circumstance Was Exceedingly

     Injurious To It.

 

     To-Day Is John's Birthday. I Was In Hopes It Might Not Occur To My

     Mother, But She Alluded To It Yesterday. I Was Looking At That

     Little Sketch Of Him In Her Room This Morning, With A Heavy Heart.

     His Lot Seems Now Cast Indeed, And Most Strangely. I Would Give

     Anything To See Him And Hear His Voice Again, But I Fear To Wish

     Him Back Again Among Us. I Am Afraid That He Would Neither Be Happy

     Himself, Nor Make Others So.

 

 

                                           GREAT RUSSELL STREET, 1831.

 

     It Is A Long Time, Dear H----, Since I Have Written To You, And I

     Feel It So With Self-Reproach. To-Day, Except Paying A Round Of

     Visits With My Mother And Acting This Evening, I Have Nothing To

     Prevent My Talking With You In Tolerable Peace And Quiet--So Here I

     Am. You Have No Idea What A Quantity Of "Things To Be Done" Has

     Been Crowded Into The Last Fortnight: Studying Camiola, Rehearsing

     For Two Hours And A Half Every Other Day, Riding For Two Hours At A

     Time, And Sitting For My Picture Nearly As Long, Running From Place

     To Place About My Dresses, And Now Having Lady Teazle And Mrs.

     Oakley To _Get Up_, Immediately,--All This, With My Nightly Work Or

     Nightly Gayeties, Makes An Amount Of Occupation Of One Sort And

     Another That Hardly Leaves Me Time For Thought.

 

     You Will Be Glad To Hear That "The Maid Of Honor" Was Entirely

     Successful; That It Will Have A "Great Run," Or Bring Much Money To

     The Theater, I Doubt. It Is A _Cold_ Play, According To The Present

     Taste Of Audiences, And There Are Undoubted Defects In Its

     Construction Which In The Fastidious Judgment Of Our Critics Weigh

     Down Its Sterling Beauties.

 

     It Has Done Me Great Service, And To You I May Say That I Think It

     The Best Thing I Have Acted. Indeed, I Like My Own Performance Of

     It So Well (Which You Know Does Not Often Happen To Me), That I Beg

     You Will Make A---- Tell You Something About It. I Was Beautifully

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     Dressed And Looked Very Nice.

 

     We Have Heard Nothing Of John For Some Time Now, And My Mother Has

     Ceased To Express, If Not To Feel, Anxiety About Him, And Seems

     Tranquil At Present; But After All She Has Suffered On His Account,

     It Is Not, Perhaps, Surprising That She Should Subside Into The

     Calm Of Mere Exhaustion From That Cruel Over-Excitement.

 

     Our Appeal Before The Lords, After Having Been Put Off Once This

     Week, Will, In Consequence Of The Threatened Dissolution Of

     Parliament, Be Deferred _Sine Die_, As The Phrase Is. Oh, What

     Weary Work This Is For Those Who Are Tremblingly Waiting For A

     Result Of Vital Importance To Their Whole Fate And Fortune! Thank

     Heaven, I Am Liberally Endowed With Youth's Peculiar Power And

     Privilege Of Disregarding Future Sorrow, And Unless Under The

     Immediate Pressure Of Calamity Can Keep The Anticipation Of It At

     Bay. My Journal Has Become A Mere Catalogue Of The Names Of People

     I Meet And Places I Go To. I Have Had No Time Latterly For Anything

     But The Briefest Possible Registry Of My Daily Doings. Mrs. Harry

     Siddons Has Taken A Lodging In This Street, Nearly Opposite To Us,

     So That I Have The Happiness Of Seeing Her Rather Oftener Than I

     Have Been Able To Do Hitherto; The Girls Come Over, Too; And As We

     Have Lately Taken To Acting Charades And Proverbs, We Spend Our

     Evenings Very Pleasantly Together.

 

     We Are Going To Get Up A Piece Called "Napoleon." I Do Not Mean My

     Cousins And Ourselves, But That Prosperous Establishment, Covent

     Garden Theatre. Think Of Bonaparte Being Acted! It Makes One Grin

     And Shudder.

 

     I Have Been Three Or Four Times To Mr. Pickersgill, And Generally

     Sit Two Hours At A Time To Him. I Dare Say He Will Make A Nice

     Picture Of Me, But His Anxiety That It Should In No Respect

     Resemble Sir Thomas Lawrence's Drawing Amuses Me. I Was In Hopes

     That When I Had Done With Him I Should Not Have To Sit To Anybody

     For Anything Again. But I Find I Am To Undergo That Boredom For A

     Bust By Mr. Turnerelli. I Wish I Could Impress Upon All My Artist

     Friends That My Face Is An Inimitable Original Which Nature Never

     Intended Should Be Copied. Pazienza! I Must Say, Though, That I

     Grudge The Time Thus Spent. I Want To Get On With My Play, But I'm

     Afraid For The Next Three Weeks That Will Be Hopeless.

 

     To Add To My Occupations Past, Present, And To Come, Not Having

     Enough Of Acting With My Professional Duties In That Line, I Am

     Going To Take Part In Some Private Theatricals. Lord Francis

     Leveson Wants To Get Up His Version Of Victor Hugo's "Hernani," At

     Bridgewater House, And Has Begged Me, As A Favor, To Act The

     Heroine; All The Rest Are To Be Amateurs. I Have Consented To This,

     Not Knowing Well How To Refuse, Yet For One Or Two Reasons I Almost

     Think I Had Better Not Have Done So. I Expect To Be Excessively

     Amused By It, But It Will Take Up A Terrible Deal Of My Time, For I

     Am Sure They Will Need Rehearsals Without End. I Do Not Know At All

     What Our Summer Plans Are; But I Believe We Shall Be Acting In The

     Provinces Till September, When If All Things Are Quiet In Paris My

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     Father Proposes Going Over With Me And One Or Two Members Of The

     Covent Garden Company, And Playing There For A Month Or So. I Think

     I Should Like That. I Fancy I Should Like Acting To A French

     Audience; They Are People Of Great Intellectual Refinement And

     Discrimination, And That Is A Pleasant Quality In An Audience. I

     Think My Father Seems Inclined To Take A---- With Us And Leave Her

     There. A Musical Education Can Nowhere Better Be Obtained, And

     Under The Care Of Mrs. Foster, About Whom I Believe I Wrote To You

     Once A Long Letter, There Could Be No Anxiety About Her Welfare.

 

     I Showed That Part Of Your Last Letter Which Concerned My Aunt Dall

     To Herself, Because I Knew It Would Please Her, And So It Did; And

     She Bids Me Tell You That She Values Your Good-Will And Esteem

     Extremely, And Should Do Still More If You Did Not _Misbestow So

     Much Of Them On Me_.

 

     Emily Fitzhugh Sent Me This Morning A Seal With A Pretty Device, In

     Consequence Of My Saying That I Thought It Was Pleasanter To Lean

     Upon One's Friends, Morally, Than To Be Leant Upon By Them--An Oak

     With Ivy Clinging To It And "Chiedo Sostegno" For The Motto. I Do

     Not Think I Shall Use It To Many People, Though.

 

     To-Morrow Sheridan Knowles Dines With Us, To Read A New Play He Has

     Written, In Which I Am To Act. In The Evening We Go To Lady Cork's,

     Sunday We Have A Dinner-Party Here, Monday I Act Camiola, Tuesday

     We Go To Mrs. Harry's, Wednesday I Act Camiola, And Further I Know

     Not. Good-By, Dear; Ever Yours,

 

                                                              F. A. K.

 

The Piece Which I Have Referred To In This Letter, Calling Itself

"Bonaparte," Was A Sensational Melodrama Upon The Fate And Fortunes Of

The Great Emperor, Beginning With His First Exploits As A Young

Artillery Officer, Himself Pointing And Firing The Cannon At Toulon, To

The Last Dreary Agony Of The Heart-Broken Exile Of St. Helena. It Was

Well Put Upon The Stage, And Presented A Series Of Historical Pictures

Of Considerable Interest And Effect, Not A Little Of Which Was Due To

The Great Resemblance Of Mr. Warde, Who Filled The Principal Part, To

The Portraits Of Napoleon. He Had Himself, I Believe, Been In The Army,

And Left It Under The Influence Of A Passion For The Stage, Which His

Dramatic Ability Hardly Justified; For Though He Was A Very Respectable

Actor, He Had No Genius Whatever, And Never Rose Above Irreproachable

Mediocrity. But His Military Training And His Peculiar Likeness To

Bonaparte Helped Him To Make His Part In This Piece Very Striking And

Effective, Though It Was Not In Itself The Merest Peg To Hang

"Situations" On.

 

I Was At This Time Sitting For My Picture To Mr. Pickersgill, With Whose

Portrait Of My Father In The Part Of