Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2), Frances Ann Kemble [i can read book club .txt] 📗
- Author: Frances Ann Kemble
Book online «Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2), Frances Ann Kemble [i can read book club .txt] 📗». Author Frances Ann Kemble
Question. The Great People Want A Plaything For This Season, And
Have Set Their Hearts Upon That. I Acted Belvidera To My Father's
Jaffier At Brighton; You Cannot Imagine How Great A Difference It
Produced In My Acting. Mrs. Siddons And Miss O'Neill Had A Great
Advantage Over Me In Their Tragic Partners. Have You Heard That Mr.
Hope, The Author Of "Anastasius," Is Just Dead? That Was A
Wonderfully Clever Book, Of Rather Questionable Moral Effects, I
Think; The Same Sort Of Cynical Gloom And Discontent Which Pervade
Byron's Writings Prevail In That; And I Thought It A Pity, Because
In Other Respects It Seems A Genuine Book, True To Life And Human
Nature. A Few Days Before I Heard Of His Death, Mr. Harness Was
Discussing With Me A Theory Of Hope's Respecting The Destiny Of The
Human Soul Hereafter. His Notion Is That All Spirit Is After Death
To Form But One Whole Spiritual Existence, A Sort Of _Lumping_
Which I Object To. I Should Like Always To Be Able To Know Myself
From Somebody Else.
I _Do_ Read The Papers Sometimes, Dear H----, And, Whenever I Do, I
Wonder At You And All Sensible People Who Make A Daily Practice Of
It; The Proceedings Of Parliament Would Make One Angry If They Did
Volume 1 Chapter 19 Pg 126Not Make One So Sad, And Some Of The Debates Would Seem To Me
Laughable But That I Know They Are Lamentable.
I Have Just Finished Channing's Essay On Milton, Which Is
Admirable.
My Cousin Harry Sails For India On Thursday; His Mother Is Making A
Brave Fight Of It, Poor Soul! I Met Them All At My Aunt Siddons's
Last Night; She Was Remarkably Well, And "Charming," As She Styles
Herself When That Is The Case. Good-By. Always Affectionately
Yours,
FANNY.
I Suppose It Is One Of The Peculiarities Of The Real Poetical
Temperament To Receive, As It Were, A Double Impression Of Its Own
Phenomena--One Through The Senses, Affections, And Passions, And One
Through The Imagination--And To Have A Perpetual Tendency To Make
Intellectual Capital Of The Experiences Of Its Own Sensuous,
Sentimental, And Passionate Nature. In The Above Letter, Written So Many
Years Ago, I Have Used The Term _Experimentalizing_ With His Own Nature
As The Process Of A Poet's Mind; But Though Self-Consciousness And
Self-Observation Are Almost Inseparable From The Poetical Organization,
Goethe Is The Only Instance I Know Of What Could, With Any Propriety, Be
Termed Self-Experimentalizing--He Who Wrung The Heart And Turned The
Head Of The Whole Reading Europe Of His Day By His Own Love Passages
With Madame Kestner Transcribed Into "The Sorrows Of Werther."
Self-Illustration Is Perhaps A Better Term For The Result Of That
Passionate Egotism Which Is So Strong An Element In The Nature Of Most
Poets, And The Secret Of So Much Of Their Power. _Ils S'intéressent
Tellement À Ce Qui Les Regarde_, That They Interest Us Profoundly In It
Too, And By The Law Of Our Common Nature, And The Sympathy That Pervades
It, Their Great Difference From Their Kind Serves But To Enforce Their
Greater Likeness To It.
Goethe's Nature, However, Was Not At All A Predominantly Passionate One;
So Much The Contrary, Indeed, That One Hardly Escapes The Impression All
Through His Own Record Of His Life That He _Felt_ Through His
Overmastering Intellect Rather Than His Heart; And That He Analyzed Too
Well The Processes Of His Own Feelings Ever To Have Been Carried By Them
Beyond The Permission Of His Will, Or Out Of Sight Of That Æsthetic
Self-Culture, That Development, Which Really Seems To Have Been His
Prevailing Passion. A Strong Histrionic Vein Mixes, Too, With His More
Imaginative Mental Qualities, And Perpetually Reveals Itself In His
Assumption Of Fictitious Characters, In His Desire For Producing
"Situations" In His Daily Life, And In His Conscious "Effects" Upon
Those Whom He Sought To Impress.
His Genius Sometimes Reminds Me Of Ariel--The Subtle Spirit Who,
Observing From Aloof, As It Were (That Is, From The Infinite Distance Of
His Own _Unmoral_, Demoniacal Nature), The Follies And Sins And Sorrows
Of Humanity, Understands Them All And Sympathizes With None Of Them; And
Describes, With Equal Indifference, The Drunken, Brutish Delight In His
Volume 1 Chapter 19 Pg 127Music Expressed By The Coarse Neapolitan Buffoons And The Savage
Gorilla, Caliban, And The Abject Self-Reproach And Bitter, Poignant
Remorse Exhibited By Antonio And His Fellow Conspirators; Telling
Prospero That If _He_ Saw Them He Would Pity Them, And Adding, In His
Passionless Perception Of Their Anguish, "I Should, Sir, _Were I
Human_."
There Is A Species Of Remote Partiality In Goethe's Mode Of Delineating
The Sins And Sorrows Of His Fellows, That Seems Hardly Human And Still
Less Divine; "_Das Ist Dämonisch_," To Use His Own Expression About
Shakespeare, Who, However, Had Nothing Whatever In Common With That
Quality Of Moral _Neutrality_ Of The Great German Genius.
Perhaps Nothing Indicates What I Should Call Goethe's Intellectual
_Unhumanity_ So Much As His Absolute Want Of Sympathy With The Progress
Of The Race. He Was But Mortal Man, However, Though He Had The Head Of
Jove, And Pallas Athena Might Have Sprung All Armed From It. Once, And
Once Only, If I Remember Rightly, In His Conversations With Eckermann,
The Cause Of Mankind Elicits An Expression Of Faith And Hope From Him,
In Some Reference To The Future Of America. I Recollect, On Reading The
Second Part Of "Faust" With My Friend Abeken (Assuredly The Most
Competent Of All Expounders Of That Extraordinary Composition), When I
Asked Him What Was The Signification Of That Final Cultivation Of The
Barren Sea Sand, In Faust's Blind Old Age, And Cried, "Is It Possible
That He Wishes To Indicate The Hopelessness Of All Attempt At Progress?"
His Replying, "I Am Afraid He Was No Believer In It." And So It Comes
That His Letters To Madame Von Stein Leave One Only Amazed With The More
Sorrowful Admiration That The Unrivaled Genius Of The Civilized World In
Its Most Civilized Age Found Perfect Satisfaction In The Inane Routine
Of The Life Of A Court Dignitary In A Petty German Principality.
It Is Worthy Of Note How, In The Two Instances Of His Great
Masterpieces, "Faust" And "Wilhelm Meister," Goethe Has Worked Up In A
Sequel All The Superabundant Material He Had Gathered For His Subject;
And In Each Case How The Life-Blood Of The Poet Pulses Through The First
Part, While The Second Is, As It Were, A Mere Storehouse Of Splendid
Intellectual Supply Which He Has Wrought Into Elaborate Phantasmagoria,
Dazzling In Their Brilliancy And Wonderful In Their Variety, But All
Alike Difficult To Comprehend And Sympathize With--The Rare Mental
Fragments, Precious Like Diamond Dust, Left After The Cutting Of Those
Two Perfect Gems.
Free-Trade Had Hardly Uttered A Whisper Yet Upon Any Subject Of National
Importance When The Monopoly Of Theatrical Property Was Attacked By Mr.
Arnold, Of The English Opera House, Who Assailed The Patents Of The Two
Great Theaters, Covent Garden And Drury Lane, And Demanded That The
Right To Act The Legitimate Drama (Till Then Their Especial Privilege)
Should Be Extended To All British Subjects Desirous To Open Play-Houses
And Perform Plays. A Lawsuit Ensued, And The Proprietors Of The Great
Houses--"His Majesty's Servants," By His Majesty's Royal Patent Since
The Days Of The Merry Monarch--Defended Their Monopoly To The Best Of
Their Ability. My Father, Questioned Before A Committee Of The House Of
Commons Upon The Subject, Showed Forth The Evils Likely, In His Opinion,
To Result To The Dramatic Art And The Public Taste By Throwing Open To
Volume 1 Chapter 19 Pg 128Unlimited Speculation The Right To Establish Theaters And Give
Theatrical Representations. The Great Companies Of Good Sterling Actors
Would Be Broken Up And Dispersed, And There Would No Longer Exist
Establishments Sufficiently Important To Maintain Any Large Body Of
Them; The Best Plays Would No Longer Find Adequate Representatives In
Any But A Few Of The Principal Parts, The Characters Of Theatrical
Pieces Produced Would Be Lowered, The School Of Fine And Careful Acting
Would Be Lost, No Play Of Shakespeare's Could Be Decorously Put On The
Stage, And The Profession And The Public Would Alike Fare The Worse For
The Change. But He Was One Of The Patented Proprietors, One Of The
Monopolists, A Party Most Deeply Interested In The Issue, And Therefore,
Perhaps, An Incompetent Judge In The Matter. The Cause Went Against Us,
And Every Item Of His Prophecy Concerning The Stage Has Undoubtedly Come
To Pass. The Fine Companies Of The Great Theaters Were Dissolved, And
Each Member Of The Body That Together Formed So Bright A Constellation
Went Off To Be The Solitary Star Or Planet Of Some Minor Sphere. The
Best Plays No Longer Found Decent Representatives For Any But One Or Two
Of Their First Parts; The Pieces Of More Serious Character And Higher
Pretension As Dramatic Works Were Supplanted By Burlesques And Parodies
Of Themselves; The School Of Acting Of The Kembles, Young, The Keans,
Macready, And Their Contemporaries, Gave Place To No School At All Of
Very Clever Ladies And Gentlemen, Who Certainly Had No Pretension To Act
Tragedy Or Declaim Blank Verse, But Who Played Low Comedy Better Than
High, And Lowest Farce Best Of All, And Who For The Most Part Wore The
Clothes Of The Sex To Which They Did Not Belong. Shakespeare's Plays
_All_ Became Historical, And The Profession Was Decidedly The Worse For
The Change; I Am Not Aware, However, That The Public Has Suffered Much
By It.
GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March 5, 1831.
MY DEAREST H----,
I Am Extremely Obliged To You For Your Long Account Of Mrs. John
Kemble, And All The Details Respecting Her With Which, As You Knew
How Intensely Interesting They Were Likely To Be To Me, You Have So
Kindly Filled Your Letter. Another Time, If You Can Afford To Give
A Page Or Two To Her Interesting Dog, Pincher, I Shall Be Still
More Grateful; You Know It Is But Omitting The Superfluous Word Or
Two You Squeeze In About Yourself.
As For The Journal I Keep, It Is--As What Is Not?--A Matter Of
Mingled Good And Bad Influences And Results. I Am So Much Alone
That I Find This Pouring Out Of My Thoughts And Feelings A Certain
Satisfaction; But Unfortunately One's Book Is
Comments (0)