go free; you cannot be vulgar, if you tried ever so hard."
And so the performance came, and went off more easily than I had imagined, – as so many dreaded events of our lives do pass away, without any of the terrible things happening which we have tormented ourselves by anticipating. The night was one not readily to be forgotten. The excitement of having to act a character so different from any I had hitherto attempted, and the anxiety natural to the effort, filled my mind entirely. I had no idea of the scene which was to follow the close of the comedy, so that it came upon me quite unexpectedly.
The "farewell" of a great actor to the arena of his triumphs was something my imagination had never pictured, and all at once it was brought most impressively before me, touching a deep sad minor chord in my young life. It moved me deeply. As I write, the exciting scene comes vividly before me, – the crowded stage, the pressing forward of all who had been Mr Kemble's comrades and contemporaries, – the good wishes, the farewells given, the tearful voices, the wet eyes, the curtain raised again and again. Ah, how can any one support such a trial? I determined in that moment that, when my time came to leave the stage, I would not leave it in this way. My heart could never have borne such a strain. I need not say that this resolve has remained unchanged. I could not have expected such a demonstrative farewell; but, whatever it might have been, the certainty that it is the
last time one does anything is, I think, well kept from us. I see now the actors in the play asking for a remembrance of the night, – gloves, handkerchiefs, feathers, one by one taken from the hat, then the hat itself, – all, in short, that could be severed from the dress. I, whose claim was as nothing compared to that of others, stood aside, greatly moved and sorrowful, weeping on my mother's shoulder, when, as the exciting scene was at last drawing to a close, Mr Kemble saw me, and exclaimed, "What! My Lady baby[1] Beatrice all in tears! What shall I do to comfort her! What can I give her in remembrance of her first Benedick?" I sobbed out, "Give me the book you studied Benedick from." He answered, "You shall have it, and many others!" He kept his word, and I have still two small volumes in which are collected many of the plays in which he acted, and also some in which his daughter, Fanny Kemble, who was then married and living in America, had acted. These came with a charming letter on the title-page addressed to his "dear little friend."
He also told my mother to bring me to him, if at any time she thought his advice might be valuable; and on several occasions afterwards he took the trouble of reading over new parts with me, and giving me his advice and help. One thing which he impressed upon me I never forgot. It was, on no account to give prominence to the physical aspect of any painful emotion. Let the expression be genuine, earnest, but not ugly. He pointed out to me how easy
- ↑ I must explain that "baby" was the pet name by which Mr Kemble always called me. I cannot tell why, unless it were because of the contrast he found between his own wide knowledge of the world and of art, and my innocent ignorance and youth. Delicate health had kept me in a quiet home, which I only left at intervals for a quieter life by the sea-side, so that I knew far less of the world and its ways than even most girls of my age.
