Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2), Frances Ann Kemble [i can read book club .txt] 📗

Sorrow, Anguish,--The Sentimental And Suffering Element Of Tragedy. She

Was Expressly Devised For A Representative Victim; She Had, Too, A Rare

Endowment For Her Special Range Of Characters, In An Easily Excited,

Superficial Sensibility, Which Caused Her To Cry, As She Once Said To

Me, "Buckets Full," And Enabled Her To Exercise The (To Most Men)

Irresistible Influence Of A Beautiful Woman In Tears. The Power (Or

Weakness) Of Abundant Weeping Without Disfigurement Is An Attribute Of

Deficient Rather Than Excessive Feeling. In Such Persons The Tears Are

Poured From Their Crystal Cups Without Muscular Distortion Of The Rest

Of The Face. In Proportion To The Violence Or Depth Of Emotion, And The

Acute Or Profound Sensibility Of The Temperament, Is The Disturbance Of

The Countenance. In Sensitive Organizations, The Muscles Round The

Nostrils And Lips Quiver And Are Distorted, The Throat And Temples

Swell, And A Grimace, Which But For Its Miserable Significance Would Be

Grotesque, Convulses The Whole Face. Men's Tears Always Seem To Me As If

They Were Pumped Up From Their Heels, And Strained Through Every Drop Of

Blood In Their Veins; Women's, To Start As Under A Knife Stroke, Direct

With A Gush From Their Heart, Abundant And Beneficent; But Again, Women

Of The Temperament I Have Alluded To Above Have Fountains Of Lovely

Tears Behind Their Lovely Eyes, And Their Weeping, Which Is

Indescribably Beautiful, Is Comparatively Painless, And Yet Pathetic

Enough To Challenge Tender Compassion. I Have Twice Seen Such Tears

Shed, And Never Forgotten Them: Once From Heaven-Blue Eyes, And The Face

Looked Like A Flower With Pearly Dewdrops Sliding Over It; And Again,

Once From Magnificent, Dark, Uplifted Orbs, From Which The Falling Tears

Looked Like Diamond Rain-Drops By Moonlight.

 

Miss O'Neill Was A Supremely Touching, But Neither A Powerful Nor A

Passionate Actress. Personally, She Was The Very Beau Ideal Of Feminine

Weakness In Its Most Attractive Form--Delicacy. She Was Tall, Slender,

Elegantly Formed, And Extremely Graceful; Her Features Were Regular And

Finely Chiseled, And Her Hair Beautiful; Her Eyes Were Too Light, And

Her Eyebrows And Eyelashes Too Pale For Expression; Her Voice Wanted

Variety And Brilliancy For Comic Intonation, But Was Deep And Sonorous,

And Of A Fine Pathetic And Tragic Quality.

 

It Was Not An Easy Matter To Find A Romeo For Me, And In The Emergency

My Father And Mother Even Thought Of My Brother Henry's Trying The Part.

He Was In The First Bloom Of Youth, And Really Might Be Called

Beautiful; And Certainly, A Few Years Later, Might Have Been The Very

Ideal Of A Romeo. But He Looked Too Young For The Part, As Indeed He

Was, Being Three Years My Junior. The Overwhelming Objection, However,

Was His Own Insuperable Dislike To The Idea Of Acting, And His Ludicrous

Incapacity For Assuming The Faintest Appearance Of Any Sentiment.

However, He Learned The Words, And Never Shall I Forget The Explosion Of

Laughter Which Shook My Father, My Mother, And Myself, When, After

Hearing Him Recite The Balcony Scene With The Most Indescribable Mixture

Of Shy Terror And Nervous Convulsions Of Suppressed Giggling, My Father

Threw Down The Book, And Henry Gave Vent To His Feelings By Clapping His

Elbows Against His Sides And Bursting Into A Series Of Triumphant

Cock-Crows--An Expression Of Mental Relief So Ludicrously In Contrast

With His Sweet, Sentimental Face, And The Part He Had Just Been

Pretending To Assume, That I Thought We Never Should Have Recovered From

The Fits It Sent Us Into. We Were Literally All Crying With Laughter,

Volume 1 Chapter 11 Pg 11

And A More Farcical Scene Cannot Be Imagined. This, Of Course, Ended All

Idea Of That Young Chanticleer Being My Romeo; And Yet The Young Rascal

Was, Or Fancied He Was, Over Head And Ears In Love At This Very Time,

And An Exquisite Sketch Hayter Had Just Made Of Him Might With The

Utmost Propriety Have Been Sent To The Exhibition With No Other Title

Than "Portrait Of A Lover."

 

The Part Of Romeo Was Given To Mr. Abbot, An Old-Established Favorite

With The Public, A Very Amiable And Worthy Man, Old Enough To Have Been

My Father, Whose Performance, Not Certainly Of The Highest Order, Was

Nevertheless Not Below Inoffensive Mediocrity. But The Public, Who Were

Bent Upon Doing More Than Justice To Me, Were Less Than Just To Him; And

The Abuse Showered Upon His Romeo, Especially By My More Enthusiastic

Admirers Of The Male Sex, Might, I Should Think, Have Embittered His

Stage Relations With Me To The Point Of Making Me An Object Of

Detestation To Him, All Through Our Theatrical Lives. A Tragicomic

Incident Was Related To Me By One Of The Parties Concerned In It, Which

Certainly Proved That Poor Mr. Abbot Was Quite Aware Of The Little Favor

His Romeo Found With My Particular Friends. One Of Them, The Son Of Our

Kind And Valued Friends The G----S, An Excellent, Good-Hearted, But Not

Very Wise Young Fellow, Invariably Occupied A Certain Favorite And

Favorable Position In The Midst Of The Third Row Of The Pit Every Night

That I Acted. There Were No Stalls Or Reserved Seats Then, Though Not

Long After I Came Out The Majority Of The Seats In The Orchestra Were

Let To Spectators, And Generally Occupied By A Set Of Young Gentlemen

Whom Sir Thomas Lawrence Always Designated As My "Body Guard." This,

However, Had Not Yet Been Instituted, And My Friend G---- Had Often To

Wait Long Hours, And Even To Fight For The Privilege Of His Peculiar

Seat, Where He Rendered Himself, I Am Sorry To Say, Not A Little

Ludicrous, And Not Seldom Rather Obnoxious To Everybody In His Vicinity,

By The Vehement Demonstrations Of His Enthusiasm--His Frantic Cries Of

"Bravo," His Furious Applause, And His Irrepressible Exclamations Of

Ecstasy And Agony During The Whole Play. He Became As Familiar To The

Public As The Stage Lamps Themselves, And Some Of His Immediate

Neighbors Complained Rather Bitterly Of The Incessant Din And Clatter Of

His Approbation, And The Bruises, Thumps, Contusions, And Constant Fears

Which His Lively Sentiments Inflicted Upon Them. This _Fanatico_ Of

Mine, Walking Home From The Theater One Night With Two Other Like-Minded

Individuals, Indulged Himself In Obstreperous Abuse Of Poor Mr. Abbot,

In Which He Was Heartily Joined By His Companions. Toward Cavendish

Square The Broad, Quiet Streets Rang With The Uproarious Mirth With

Which They Recapitulated His "Damnable Faces," "Strange Postures,"

Uncouth Gestures, And Ungainly Deportment; Imitation Followed Imitation

Of The Poor Actor's Peculiar Declamation, And The Night Became Noisy

With The Shouts Of Mingled Derision And Execration Of His Critics; When

Suddenly, As They Came To A Gas-Light At The Corner Of A Crossing, A

Solitary Figure Which Had Been Preceding Them, Without Possibility Of

Escape, Down The Long Avenue Of Harley Street, Where G---- Lived, Turned

Abruptly Round, And Confronted Them With Mr. Abbot's Unimpressive

Countenance. "Gentlemen," He Said, "No One Can Be More Aware Than Myself

Of The Defects Of My Performance Of Romeo, No One More Conscious Of Its

Entire Unworthiness Of Miss Kemble's Juliet; But All I Can Say Is, That

I Do Not Act The Part By My Own Choice, And Shall Be Delighted To Resign

It To Either Of You Who May Feel More Capable Than I Am Of Doing It

Volume 1 Chapter 11 Pg 12

Justice." The Young Gentlemen, Though Admiring Me "Not Wisely, But Too

Well," Were Good-Hearted Fellows, And Were Struck With The Manly And

Moderate Tone Of Mr. Abbot's Rebuke, And Shocked At Having

Unintentionally Wounded The Feelings Of A Person Who (Except As Romeo),

Was Every Way Deserving Of Their Respect. Of Course They Could Not

Swallow All Their Foolish Words, And Abbot Bowed And Was Gone Before

They Could Stutter An Apology. I Have No Doubt That His Next Appearance

As Romeo Was Hailed With Some Very Cordial, Remorseful Applause,

Addressed To Him Personally As Some Relief To Their Feelings, By My

Indiscreet Partisans. My Friend G----, Not Very Long After This

Theatrical Passion Of His, Became What Is Sometimes Called "Religious,"

And Had Thoughts Of Going Into The Church, And Giving Up The Play-House.

He Confided To My Mother, Who Was His Mother's Intimate Friend, And Of

Whom He Was Very Fond, His Conscientious Scruples, Which She In No Wise

Combated; Though She Probably Thought More Moderation In Going To The

Theater, And A Little More Self-Control When There, Might Not, In Any

Event, Be Undesirable Changes In His Practice, Whether His Taking Holy

Orders Cut Him Off Entirely From What Was Then His Principal Pleasure,

Or Not. One Night, When The Venerable Prebend Of St. Paul's, Her Old

Friend, Dr. Hughes, Was In Her Box With Her, Witnessing My Performance

(Which My Mother Never Failed To Attend), She Pointed Out G----,

_Scrimmaging_ About, As Usual, In His Wonted Place In The Pit, And Said,

"There Is A Poor Lad Who Is Terribly Disturbed In His Own Mind About The

Very Thing He Is Doing At This Moment. He Is Thinking Of Going Into The

Church, And More Than Half Believes That He Ought To Give Up Coming To

The Play." "That Depends, I Should Say," Replied Dear Old Dr. Hughes,

"Upon His Own Conviction In The Matter, And Nothing Else; Meantime, Pray

Give Him My Compliments, And Tell Him _I_ Have Enjoyed The Performance

To-Night Extremely."

 

Mr. Abbot Was In Truth Not A Bad Actor, Though A Perfectly Uninteresting

One In Tragedy; He Had A Good Figure, Face, And Voice, The Carriage And

Appearance Of A Well-Bred Person, And, In What Is Called Genteel Comedy,

Precisely The Air And Manner Which It Is Most Difficult To Assume, That

Of A Gentleman. He Had Been In The Army, And Had Left It For The Stage,

Where His Performances Were Always Respectable, Though Seldom Anything

More. Wanting Passion And Expression In Tragedy, He Naturally Resorted

To Vehemence To Supply Their Place, And Was Exaggerated And Violent From

The Absence Of All Dramatic Feeling And Imagination. Moreover, In

Moments Of Powerful Emotion He Was Apt To Become Unsteady On His Legs,

And Always Filled Me With Terror Lest In Some Of His Headlong Runs And

Rushes About The Stage He Should Lose His Balance And Fall; As Indeed He

Once Did, To My Unspeakable Distress, In The Play Of "The Grecian

Daughter," In Which He Enacted My Husband, Phocion, And Flying To

Embrace Me, After A Period Of Painful And Eventful Separation, He

Completely Overbalanced Himself, And Swinging Round With Me In His Arms,

We Both Came To The Ground Together. "Oh, Mr. Abbot!" Was All I Could

Ejaculate; He, Poor Man, Literally Pale Green With Dismay, Picked Me Up

In Profound Silence, And The Audience Kindly Covered Our Confusion, And

Comforted Us By Vehement Applause, Not, Indeed, Unmixed With Laughter.

But My Friends And Admirers Were None The More His After That Exploit;

And I Remained In Mortal Dread Of His Stage Embraces For Ever After,

Steadying Myself Carefully On My Feet, And Bracing My Whole Figure To

"Stand Fast," Whenever He Made The Smallest Affectionate Approach Toward