Records of a Girlhood

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Title: Records of a Girlhood
Author: Frances Ann Kemble
Release Date: August 8, 2005 [EBook #16478]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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Transcriber's note
The spellings in this book are inconsistent in the original, and
have not been corrected except in the index, as explicitly noted
below.RECORDS OF A GIRLHOOD
BY
FRANCES ANN KEMBLE
SECOND EDITION.NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1880.
COPYRIGHT, 1879, BY HENRY HOLT & CO.
JOHN A. GRAY, Agent,
TYPE-SETTING MACHINERY,
16 & 18 JACOB STREET,
NEW YORK.
PREFATORY NOTE.
Considerable portions of this work originally appeared
in the Atlantic Monthly, but there is added to these a
large amount of new matter not hitherto published, and
the whole work has been thoroughly revised.
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI Index[1]
CHAPTER I.
A few years ago I received from a friend to whom they had been addressed a
collection of my own letters, written during a period of forty years, and
amounting to thousands—a history of my life.
The passion for universal history (i.e. any and every body's story) nowadays
seems to render any thing in the shape of personal recollections good enough
to be printed and read; and as the public appetite for gossip appears to be
insatiable, and is not unlikely some time or other to be gratified at my expense, I
have thought that my own gossip about myself may be as acceptable to it as
gossip about me written by another.
I have come to the garrulous time of life—to the remembering days, which only
by a little precede the forgetting ones. I have much leisure, and feel sure that it
will amuse me to write my own reminiscences; perhaps reading them may
amuse others who have no more to do than I have. To the idle, then, I offer
these lightest of leaves gathered in the idle end of autumn days, which have
succeeded years of labor often severe and sad enough, though its ostensible
purpose was only that of affording recreation to the public.
There are two lives of my aunt Siddons: one by Boaden, and one by the poet
Campbell. In these biographies due mention is made of my paternal
grandfather and grandmother. To the latter, Mrs. Roger Kemble, I am proud to
see, by Lawrence's portrait of her, I bear a personal resemblance; and I please
myself with imagining that the likeness is more than "skin deep." She was an
energetic, brave woman, who, in the humblest sphere of life and most difficult
circumstances, together with her husband fought manfully a hard battle with
[2]poverty, in maintaining and, as well as they could, training a family of twelve
children, of whom four died in childhood. But I am persuaded that whatever
qualities of mind or character I inherit from my father's family, I am more strongly
stamped with those which I derive from my mother, a woman who, possessing
no specific gift in such perfection as the dramatic talent of the Kembles, had in a
higher degree than any of them the peculiar organization of genius. To the fine
senses of a savage rather than a civilized nature, she joined an acute instinct of
correct criticism in all matters of art, and a general quickness and accuracy of
perception, and brilliant vividness of expression, that made her conversation
delightful. Had she possessed half the advantages of education which she and
my father labored to bestow upon us, she would, I think, have been one of themost remarkable persons of her time.
My mother was the daughter of Captain Decamp, an officer in one of the armies
that revolutionary France sent to invade republican Switzerland. He married the
daughter of a farmer from the neighborhood of Berne. From my grandmother's
home you could see the great Jungfrau range of the Alps, and I sometimes
wonder whether it is her blood in my veins that so loves and longs for those
supremely beautiful mountains.
Not long after his marriage my grandfather went to Vienna, where, on the
anniversary of the birth of the great Empress-King, my mother was born, and
named, after her, Maria Theresa. In Vienna, Captain Decamp made the
acquaintance of a young English nobleman, Lord Monson (afterwards the Earl
of Essex), who, with an enthusiasm more friendly than wise, eagerly urged the
accomplished Frenchman to come and settle in London, where his talents as a
draughtsman and musician, which were much above those of a mere amateur,
combined with the protection of such friends as he could not fail to find, would
easily enable him to maintain himself and his young wife and child.
In an evil hour my grandfather adopted this advice, and came to England. It was
the time when the emigration of the French nobility had filled London with
objects of sympathy, and society with sympathizers with their misfortunes.
Among the means resorted to for assisting the many interesting victims of the
Revolution, were representations, given under the direction of Le Texier, of
Berquin's and Madame de Genlis's juvenile dramas, by young French children.
These performances, combined with his own extraordinary readings, became
one of the fashionable frenzies of the day. I quote from Walter Scott's review of
[3]Boaden's life of my uncle the following notice of Le Texier: "On one of these
incidental topics we must pause for a moment, with delighted recollection. We
mean the readings of the celebrated Le Texier, who, seated at a desk, and
dressed in plain clothes, read French plays with such modulation of voice, and
such exquisite point of dialogue, as to form a pleasure different from that of the
theatre, but almost as great as we experience in listening to a first-rate actor.
We have only to add to a very good account given by Mr. Boaden of this
extraordinary entertainment, that when it commenced Mr. Le Texier read over
the dramatis personæ, with the little analysis of character usually attached to
each name, using the voice and manner with which he afterward read the part;
and so accurate was the key-note given that he had no need to name afterward
the person who spoke; the stupidest of the audience could not fail to recognize
them."
Among the little actors of Le Texier's troupe, my mother attracted the greatest
share of public attention by her beauty and grace, and the truth and spirit of her
performances.
The little French fairy was eagerly seized upon by admiring fine ladies and
gentlemen, and snatched up into their society, where she was fondled and
petted and played with; passing whole days in Mrs. Fitzherbert's drawing-room,
and many a half hour on the knees of her royal and disloyal husband, the
Prince Regent, one of whose favorite jokes was to place my mother under a
huge glass bell, made to cover some large group of precious Dresden china,
where her tiny figure and flashing face produced even a more beautiful effect
than the costly work of art whose crystal covering was made her momentarycage. I have often heard my mother refer to this season of her childhood's
favoritism with the fine folk of that day, one of her most vivid impressions of
which was the extraordinary beauty of person and royal charm of manner and
deportment of the Prince of Wales, and his enormous appetite: enormous
perhaps, after all, only by comparison with her own, which he compassionately
used to pity, saying frequently, when she declined the delicacies that he
pressed upon her, "Why, you poor child! Heaven has not blessed you with an
appetite." Of the precocious feeling and imagination of the poor little girl, thus
taken out of her own sphere of life into one so different and so dangerous, I
remember a very curious instance, told me by herself. One of the houses where
she was a most frequent visitor, and treated almost like a child of the family,
was that of Lady Rivers, whose brother, Mr. Rigby, while in the ministry, fought
[4]a duel with some political opponent. Mr. Rigby had taken great notice of the
little French child treated with such affectionate familiarity by his sister, and she
had attached herself so strongly to him that, on hearing the circumstance of his
duel suddenly mentioned for the first time, she fainted away: a story that always
reminded me of the little Spanish girl Florian mentions in his "Mémoires d'un
jeune Espagnol," who, at six years of age, having asked a young man of
upward of five and twenty if he loved her, so resented his repeating her
question to her elder sister that she never could be induced to speak to him
again.
Meantime, while the homes of the great and gay were her constant resort, the
child's home was becoming sadder, and her existence and that of her parents
more precarious and penurious day by day. From my grandfather's first arrival
in London, his chest had suffered from the clima