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

Macbeth I Have Mentioned My

Mother's Comically Expressed Dissatisfaction. Our Kind Friend, Major

Dawkins, Wished To Give My Father And Mother A Good Portrait Of Me, And

Suggested Mr. Pickersgill, A Very Eminent Portrait-Painter, As The

Artist Who Would Be Likely To Execute It Most Satisfactorily. Mr.

Pickersgill, Himself, Seemed Very Desirous To Undertake It, And Greatly

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As My Sittings Interfered With My Leisure, Of Which I Had But Little, It

Was Impossible Under The Circumstances That I Should Refuse, Especially

As He Represented That If He Succeeded, As He Hoped To Do, His Painting

Me Would Be An Advantage To Him; Portraits Of Public Exhibitors Being Of

Course Recognizable By The Public, And, If Good, Serving The Purpose Of

Advertisements. Unluckily, Mrs. Jameson Proposed Accompanying Me, In

Order To Lighten By Her Very Agreeable Conversation The Tedium Of The

Process. Her Intimate Acquaintance With My Face, With Which Mr.

Pickersgill Was Not Familiar, And Her Own Very Considerable Artistic

Knowledge And Taste Made Her, However, Less Discreet In Her Comments And

Suggestions With Regard To His Operations Than Was Altogether Pleasant

To Him; And After Exhibiting Various Symptoms Of Impatience, On One

Occasion He Came So Very Near Desiring Her To Mind Her Own Business,

That We Broke Off The Sitting Abruptly; And The Offended Painter Adding,

To My Dismay, That It Was Quite Evident He Was Not Considered Equal To

The Task He Had Undertaken, Our Own Attitude Toward Each Other Became So

Constrained, Not To Say Disagreeable, That On Taking My Leave I Declined

Returning Any More, And What Became Of Mr. Pickersgill's Beginning Of Me

I Do Not Know. Perhaps He Finished It By Memory, And It Is One Of The

Various Portraits Of Me, _Qui Courent Le Monde_, For Some Of Which I

Never Sat, Which Were Taken Either From The Stage Or Were Mere Efforts

Of Memory Of The Artists; One Of Which, A Head Of Beatrice, Painted By

My Friend Mr. Sully, Of Philadelphia, Was Engraved As A Frontispiece To

A Small Volume Of Poems I Published There, And Was One Of The Best

Likenesses Ever Taken Of Me.

 

The Success Of "The Maid Of Honor" Gave Me Great Pleasure. The Sterling

Merits Of The Play Do Not Perhaps Outweigh The One Insuperable Defect Of

The Despicable Character Of The Hero; One Can Hardly Sympathize With

Camiola's Devotion To Such An Idol, And His Unworthiness Not Only

Lessens The Interest Of The Piece, But Detracts From The Effect Of Her

Otherwise Very Noble Character. The Performance Of The Part Always Gave

Me Great Pleasure, And There Was At Once A Resemblance To And Difference

From My Favorite Character, Portia, That Made It A Study Of Much

Interest To Me. Both The Women, Young, Beautiful, And Of Unusual

Intellectual And Moral Excellence, Are Left Heiresses To Enormous

Wealth, And Are In Exceptional Positions Of Power And Freedom In The

Disposal Of It. Portia, However, Is Debarred By The Peculiar Nature Of

Her Father's Will From Bestowing Her Person And Fortune Upon Any One Of

Her Own Choice; Chance Serves Her To Her Wish (She Was Not Born To Be

Unhappy), And Gives Her To The Man She Loves, A Handsome, Extravagant

Young Gentleman, Who Would Certainly Have Been Pronounced By All Of Us

Quite Unworthy Of Her, Until She Proved Him Worthy By The Very Fact Of

Her Preference For Him; While Camiola's Lover Is Separated From Her By

The Double Obstacle Of His Royal Birth And Religious Vow.

 

The Golden Daughter Of The Splendid Republic Receives And Dismisses

Princes And Kings As Her Suitors, Indifferent To Any But Their Personal

Merits; We Feel She Is Their Equal In The Lowest As Their Superior In

The Highest Of Their "Qualities;" With Camiola It Is Impossible Not To

Suspect That Her Lover's Rank Must Have Had Some Share In The Glamor He

Throws Over Her. In Some Italian Version Of The Story That I Have Read,

Camiola Is Called The "Merchant's Daughter;" And Contrasting Her Bearing

And Demeanor With The Easy Courtesy And Sweet, Genial Graciousness Of

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Portia, We Feel That She Must Have Been Of Lower Birth And Breeding Than

The Magnificent And Charming Venetian. Portia Is Almost Always In An

Attitude Of (Unconscious) Condescension In Her Relations With All Around

Her; Camiola, In One Of Self-Assertion Or Self-Defense. There Is An

Element Of Harshness, Bordering Upon Coarseness, In The Texture Of Her

Character, Which In Spite Of Her Fine Qualities Makes Itself

Unpleasantly Felt, Especially Contrasted With That Of Portia, To Whom

The Idea Of Encountering Insolence Or Insult Must Have Been As

_Impossible_ As To The French Duchess, Who, Warned That If She Went Into

The Streets Alone At Night She Would Probably Be Insulted, Replied With

Ineffable Security And Simplicity, "Qui? Moi!" One Can Imagine The

Merchant's Daughter _Growing Up_ To The Possession Of Her Great Wealth,

Through The Narrowing And Hardening Influences Of Sordid Circumstances

And Habits Of Careful Calculation And Rigid Economy, Thrifty, Prudent,

Just, And Eminently Conscientious; Of Portia One Can Only Think As Of A

Creature Born In The Very Lap Of Luxury And Nursed In The Midst Of Sunny

Magnificence, Whose Very Element Was Elegant Opulence And Refined

Splendor, And By Whose Cradle Fortune Herself Stood Godmother. She Seems

Like A Perfect Rose, Blooming In A Precious Vase Of Gold And Gems And

Exquisite Workmanship. Camiola's Contemptuous Rebuff Of Her Insolent

Courtier Lover; Her Merciless Ridicule Of Her Fantastical, Half-Witted

Suitor; Her Bitter And Harsh Rebuke Of Adorni When He Draws His Sword

Upon The Man Who Had Insulted Her; Above All, Her Hard And Cold

Insensibility To His Unbounded Devotion, And The Cruelty Of Making Him

The Agent For The Ransom Of Her Lover From Captivity (The Selfishness Of

Her Passion Inducing Her To Employ Him Because She Knows How Absolutely

She May Depend Upon The Unselfishness Of His); And Her Final Stern And

Peremptory Claim Of Bertrand's Promise, Are All Things That Portia Could

Never Have Done. Portia Is The Lady Of Belmont, And Camiola Is The

Merchant's Daughter, A Very Noble And Magnanimous Woman. In The

Munificent Bestowal Of Their Wealth, The One To Ransom Her Husband's

Friend From Death, The Other To Redeem Her Own Lover From Captivity, The

Manner Of The Gift Is Strikingly Characteristic Of The Two Natures. When

Portia, Radiant With The Joy Of Relieving Bassanio's Anguish, Speaks Of

Antonio's Heavy Ransom As The "Petty Debt," We Feel Sure That If It Had

Been Half Her Fortune It Would Have Seemed To Her An Insignificant Price

To Pay For Her Husband's Peace Of Mind. Camiola Reads The Price Set Upon

Her Lover's Head, And With Grave Deliberation Says, "Half My Estate,

Adorni," Before She Bids Him Begone And Purchase At That Cost The

Prince's Release From Captivity. Moreover, In Claiming Her Right Of

Purchase Over Him, At The Very Moment Of His Union With Another Woman,

She Gives A Character Of Barter Or Sale To The Whole Transaction, And

Appeals For Justice As A Defrauded Creditor, Insisting Upon Her "Money's

Worth," Like Shylock Himself, As If The Love With Which Her Heart Is

Breaking Had Been A Mere Question Of Traffic Between The Heir Of Sicily

And The Merchant's Daughter. In Spite Of All Which She Is A Very Fine

Creature, Immeasurably Superior To The Despicable Man Who Accepts Her

Favors And Betrays Her Love. It Is Worthy Of Note That Bassanio, Who Is

Clearly Nothing Else Remarkable, Is Every Inch A Gentleman, And In That

Respect No Unfit Mate For Portia; While The Sicilian Prince Is A

Blackguard Utterly, Beneath Camiola In Every Particular But That Of His

Birth.

 

I Remember Two Things Connected With My Performance Of Camiola Which

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Amused Me A Good Deal At The Time. In The Last Scene, When She Proclaims

Her Intention Of Taking The Vail, Camiola Makes Tardy Acknowledgment To

Adorni For His Life-Long Constancy And Love By Leaving Him A Third Of

Her Estate, With The Simple Words, "To Thee, Adorni, For Thy True And

Faithful Service" (A Characteristic Proceeding On The Part Of The

Merchant's Daughter. Portia Would Have Given Him The Ring From Her

Finger, Or The Flower From Her Bosom, Besides The Fortune). I Used To

Pause Upon The Last Words, Endeavoring To Convey, If One Look And Tone

Might Do It, All The Regretful Gratitude Which Ought To Have Filled Her

Heart, While Uttering With Her Farewell That First, Last, And Only

Recognition Of His Infinite Devotion To Her. One Evening, When The

Audience Were Perfectly Silent And One Might Have "Heard A Pin Drop," As

The Saying Is, As I Spoke These Words, A Loud And Enthusiastic

Exclamation Of, "Beautiful!" Uttered By A Single Voice Resounded Through

The Theater, And Was Followed By Such A Burst Of Applause That I Was

Startled And Almost For A Moment Frightened By The Sudden Explosion Of

Feeling, For Which I Was Quite Unprepared, And Which I Have Never

Forgotten.

 

Another Night, As I Was Leaving The Stage, After The Play, I Met Behind

The Scenes My Dear Friend Mr. Harness, With Old Mr. Sotheby; Both Were

Very Kind In Their Commendation Of My Performance, But The Latter Kept

Repeating With Much Emphasis, "But How Do You Contrive To Make Yourself

Look So Beautiful?" A Rather Equivocal Compliment, Which Had A Peculiar

Significance; My Beauty, Or Rather My Lack Of It, Being A Sore Subject

Between Us, As I Had Made It The Reason For Refusing To Act Mary Stuart

In His Play Of "Darnley," Assuring Him I Was Too Ugly To Look The Part

Properly; So Upon This Accusation Of Making Myself "Look Beautiful," I

Could Only Reply, With Much Laughing, "Good-Looking Enough For Camiola,

But Not For Queen Mary."

 

I Received With Great Pleasure A Congratulatory Letter From Mrs.

Jameson, Which, In Spite Of My Feeling Her Praise Excessive, Confirmed

Me In My Opinion Of The Effect The Piece Ought To Produce Upon

Intelligent Spectators. She Had Seen All The Great Dramatic Performers

Of The Continental Theaters, And Had Had Many Opportunities, Both At

Home And Abroad, Of Cultivating Her Taste And Forming Her Judgment, And

Her Opinion Was, Therefore, More Valuable To Me Than Much Of The

Criticism And Praise That I Received.

 

                                    GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March, 1831.

     DEAR MRS. JAMESON,

 

     My Mother Is Confined To Her Bed With A Bad Cold, Or She Would Have

     Answered Your Note Herself; But, Being Disabled, She Has

     Commissioned Me To Do So, And Desires Me To