Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2), Frances Ann Kemble [i can read book club .txt] 📗
- Author: Frances Ann Kemble
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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 48Just 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 49Illusion, 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 50Public 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
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