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

Only A Recipient, And

     Not A Commentary, And I Miss The Sifting, Examining, Scrutinizing,

     Discussing Intercourse That Compels One To The Analysis Of One's

     Own Ideas And Sentiments, And Makes The Society Of Any One With

     Whom One Communicates Unreservedly So Much More Profitable, As Well

     As Pleasurable, Than This Everlasting Self-Communion. I Miss My

     Wholesome Bitters, My Daily Dose Of Contradiction; And You Need Not

     Be Jealous Of My Book, For It Is A Miserable _Pis Aller_ For Our

     Interminable Talks.

 

     I Had A Visit From J---- F---- The Other Day, And She Stayed An

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     Hour, Talking Very Pleasantly, And A Little After Your Fashion; For

     She Propounded The Influence Of Matter Over Mind And The

     Impossibility Of Preserving A Sound And Vigorous Spirit In A Weak

     And Suffering Body. I Am Blessed With Such Robust Health That My

     Moral Shortcomings, However Anxious I May Be To Refer Them To

     Side-Ache, Toothache, Or Any Other Ache, I Am Afraid Deserve Small

     Mercy On The Score Of Physical Infirmity; But She, Poor Thing, I Am

     Sorry To Say, Suffers Much And Often From Ill Health, And

     Complained, With Evident Experience, Of The Difficulty Of

     Preserving A Cheerful Spirit And An Even Temper In The Dreary

     Atmosphere Of A Sick-Room.

 

     When She Was Gone I Set To Work With "Francis I.," And Corrected

     All The Errors In The Meter Which Mr. Milman Had Had The Kindness

     To Point Out To Me. I Then Went Over Beatrice With My Mother, Who

     Takes Infinite Pains With Me And Seems To Think I Profit. She Went

     To The Play With Mrs. Fitzgerald And Mrs. Edward Romilly, Who Is A

     Daughter Of Mrs. Marcet, And, Owing To A----'S Detestation Of That

     Learned Lady's Elementary Book On Natural Philosophy, I Was Very

     Desirous They Should Not Meet One Another, Though Certainly, If Any

     Of Mrs. Marcet's Works Are Dry And Dull, It Is Not This Charming

     Daughter Of Hers.

 

     But A---- Was Rabid Against "Nat. Phil.," As She Ignominiously

     Nick-Named Mrs. Marcet's Work On Natural Philosophy, And So I

     Brought Her To The Theater With Me; And She Stayed In My

     Dressing-Room When I Was There, And In My Aunt Siddons's Little Box

     When I Was Acting, As You Used To Do; But She Sang All The While

     She Was With Me, And Though I Made No Sign, It Gave Me The Nervous

     Fidgets To Such A Degree That I Almost Forgot My Part. In Spite Of

     Which I Acted Better, For My Mother Said So; And There Is Some Hope

     That By The Time The Play Is Withdrawn I Shall Not Play Beatrice

     "Like The Chief Mourner At A Funeral," Which Is What She Benignly

     Compares My Performance Of The Part To.

 

     The Alteration In My Gowns Met With Her Entire Approbation--I Mean

     The Taking Away Of The Plaits From Round The Waist--And My Aunt

     Dall Pronounced It An Immense Improvement And Wished You Could See

     It.

 

     Lady Dacre And Her Daughter, Mrs. Sullivan, And Mr. James Wortley

     Were In The Orchestra, And Came After The Play To Supper With Us,

     As Did Mr. And Mrs. Fitzgerald, Mrs. Edward Romilly, And Mr.

     Harness: A Very Pleasant Party, For The Ladies Are All Clever And

     Charming, And Got On Admirably Together.

 

     It Is Right, As You Are A Shareholder In That Valuable Property Of

     Ours, Covent Garden, You Should Know That There Was A Very Fine

     House, Though I Cannot Exactly Tell You The Amount Of The Receipts.

 

     I Miss You Dreadfully, My Dear H----, And I Do Wish You Could Come

     Back To Us When Dorothy Has Left You; But I Know That Cannot Be,

     And So I Look Forward To The Summer Time, The Sunny Time, The Rosy

     Time, When I Shall Be With You Again At Ardgillan.

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     Yesterday, I Read For The First Time Joanna Baillie's "Count

     Basil." I Am Not Sure That The Love She Describes Does Not Affect

     Me More Even Than Shakespeare's Delineation Of The Passion In

     "Romeo And Juliet." There Is A Nerveless Despondency About It That

     Seems To Me More Intolerable Than All The Vivid Palpitating Anguish

     Of The Tragedy Of Verona; It Is Like Dying Of Slow Poison, Or

     Malarial Fever, Compared With Being Shot Or Stabbed Or Even

     Bleeding To Death, Which Is Life Pouring Out From One, Instead Of

     Drying Up In One's Brains. I Think The Lines Beginning--

 

        "I Have Seen The Last Look Of Her Heavenly Eyes,"

 

     Some Of The Most Poignantly Pathetic I Know. I Afterward Read Over

     Again Mr. Procter's Play; It Is Extremely Well Written, But I Am

     Afraid It Would Not Act As Well As It Reads. I Believe I Told You

     That "Iñez De Castro" Was Finally Given Up.

 

     Sally And Lizzy Siddons Came And Sat With Me For Some Time; They

     Seem Well And Cheerful. Their Mother, They Said, Was Not Very Well;

     How Should She Be! Though, Indeed, Regret Would Be Selfish. Her Son

     Is Gone To Fulfill His Own Wishes In Pursuing The Career For Which

     He Was Most Fit; He Will Find In His Uncle George Siddons's House

     In Calcutta Almost A Second Home. Sally, Whom You Know I Respect

     Almost As Much As Love, Said It Was Surprising How Soon They Had

     Learned To Accept And Become Reconciled To Their Brother's

     Departure. Besides All Our Self-Invoked Aids Of Reason And

     Religion, Nature's Own Provision For The Need Of Our Sorrows Is

     More Bountiful And Beneficent Than We Always Perceive Or

     Acknowledge. No One Can Go On Living Upon Agony; We Cannot Grieve

     For Ever If We Would, And Our Most Strenuous Efforts Of

     Self-Control Derive Help From The Inevitable Law Of Change, Against

     Which We Sometimes Murmur And Struggle As If It Wronged Our

     Consistency In Sorrow And Constancy In Love. The Tendency To _Heal_

     Is As Universal As The Liability To _Smart_. You Always Speak Of

     Change With A Sort Of Vague Horror That Surprises Me. Though All

     Things Round Us Are For Ever Shifting And Altering, And Though We

     Ourselves Vary And Change, There Is A Supreme Spirit Of

     Steadfastness In The Midst Of This Huge Unrest, And An Abiding,

     Unshaken, Immovable Principle Of Good Guiding This Vanishing World

     Of Fluctuating Atoms, In Whose Eternal Permanence Of Nature We

     Largely Participate, And Our Tendency Toward And Aspiration For

     Whose Perfect Stability Is One Of The Very Causes Of The Progress,

     And Therefore Mutability, Of Our Existence. Perhaps The Most

     Painful Of All The Forms In Which Change Confronts Us Is In The

     Increased Infirmities And Diminished Graces Which After Long

     Absence We Observe In Those We Love; The Failure Of Power And

     Vitality In The Outward Frame, The Lessened Vividness Of The

     Intellect We Have Admired, Strike Us With A Sharp Surprise Of

     Distress, And It Is Startling To Have Revealed Suddenly To Us, In

     The Condition Of Others, How Rapidly, Powerfully, And Unobservedly

     Time Has Been Dealing With Ourselves. But Those Who Believe In

     Eternity Should Be Able To Accept Time, And The Ruin Of The Altar

     From Which The Flame Leaps Up To Heaven Signifies Little.

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     My Father And I Went To Visit Macdonald's Collection Of Sculpture

     To-Day. I Was Very Much Pleased With Some Of The Things; There Are

     Some Good Colossal Figures, And An Exquisite Statue Of A Kneeling

     Girl, That Charmed Me Greatly; There Are Some Excellent Busts, Too.

     How Wonderfully That Irrevocable Substance Assumes The Soft, Round

     Forms Of Life! The Color In Its Passionless Purity (Absence Of

     Color, I Suppose I Should Say) Is Really Harder Than The Substance

     Itself Of Marble. I Could Not Fall In Love With A Statue, As The

     Poor Girl In Procter's Poem Did With The Apollo Belvidere, Though I

     Think I Could With A Fine Portrait: How Could One Fall In Love With

     What Had No Eyes! Was It Not Thorwaldsen Who Said That The Three

     Materials In Which Sculptors Worked--Clay, Plaster, And

     Marble--Were Like Life, Death, And Immortality? I Thought My Own

     Bust (The One Macdonald Executed In Edinburgh, You Know) Very Good;

     The Marble Is Beautiful, And I Really Think My Friend Did Wonders

     With His Impracticable Subject; The Shape Of The Head And Shoulders

     Is Very Pretty. I Wonder What Sappho Was Like! An Ugly Woman, It Is

     Said; I Do Not Know Upon What Authority, Unless Her Own; But I

     Wonder What Kind Of Ugliness She Enjoyed! Among Other Heads, We Saw

     One Of Brougham's Mother, A Venerable And Striking Countenance,

     Very Becoming The Mother Of The Chancellor Of England. There Was A

     Bust, Too, Of Poor Mr. Huskisson, Taken After Death. I Heard A

     Curious Thing Of Him To-Day: It Seems That On The Night Before The

     Opening Of The Railroad, As He Was Sitting With Some Friends, He

     Said, "I Cannot Tell What Ails Me; I Have A Strange Weight On My

     Spirits; I Am Sure Something Dreadful Will Happen To-Morrow; I Wish

     It Were Over;" And That, When They Recapitulated All The

     Precautions, And All The Means That Had Been Taken For Security,

     Comfort, And Pleasure, All He Replied Was, "I Wish To God It Were

     Over!" There Is Something Awful In These Stories Of Presentiments

     That Always Impresses Me Deeply--This Warning Shadow, Projected By

     No Perceptible Object, Falling Darkly And Chilly Over One; This

     Indistinct Whisper Of Destiny, Of Which One Hears The Sound,

     Without Distinguishing The Sense; This Muffled Tread Of Fate

     Approaching Us!

 

     Did You Read Horace Twiss's Speech On The Reform Bill? Every One

     Seems To Think It Was Excellent, Whether They Agree With His

     Opinions And Sentiments Or Not. I Saw By The Paper, To-Day,