FOOTLIGHTS
TO FAME
Laura
Kerr
b y LAURA KEEK
In 1 825, London's Covent Garden theater was the
place to go. Not only did one often see the King and
Queen in its audience, but England's finest actors
appeared on its stage. Among these were the famous
K*mbl*s Sarah Kemble Siddons, her brothers, John
and Charles Kemble, and in her turn, the beautiful
Fanny*
Ai part-owner and manager of the theater,
Charft*, Fanny's father, devoted his life to Covent
Gordon. Wh*n tmf were bad, he sat, engulfed in
worry, at r*h*a,rsalt In Its dark emptiness often with
small Fanny at hii fide, Fanny wai too young to be
concerned with the fate of Covent Garden, so she
dr*am*d instead of the day when she, too, might
appear behind the twinkling footlights. When the
Itctrni that h*r parents have other plans for her, the
! aghast She dots not want to go off to boarding
uchoo! In Franca! She does not wont to learn to be a
lady so that she can later marry torn* rich country
Cjwlrti Howvr, Fanny It given no alternative, and
th* *p*ndi Ihrtft years at a school In Paris*
In 1 829 o financial panic sweeps through England,
and If) addition to this, a robbery leaves the Kemble
family almost penrtJitss, Wh*n th* sheriff threatens
Id dot* Covnfr Gardn, Charli Kembb Mt* upon on
Jdtapiirhaps a new leading lady will rekindle in-
terest in th th*atr In hit desperation, h places o
prominnt London critic in th* rc*sss of the empty
thot*r, ond oudfHoni Fanny. Wh*n th* critic d*clar**
f conr/ftmwf Oft back flap)
D DDD1
92 K313k 6 3 -00968 $3,50
Kerr, Laura (Nowak) 19Q4-
ts to fame: the life
92 K313k 63-00968 $3>50
Kerr, Laura ^( Nowak) 1904-
Footlights to fame; the life
of Fanny" Kerable, N.I,, Funk
& Wagnalls [1962] t
_Jj
Footlights to F
THE LIFE OF
4
..^...
TO BLANCHE YURKA,
who has brought inspiration and joy
to countless audiences over the world,
this book is affectionately dedicated.
FOOTLIGHTS
TO FAME
The Life of
Fanny table
Laura Ken
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, INC.
NEW YORK
Copyright 1962 by Laura Kerr
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 62-1617$
Manufactured in the United States of America
by H.Wolff, New York
Designed by Robin Fox
Footlights to Fame
THE LIFE OF
FANNY KEMBLE
1
SHE ATE HER BREAD SLOWLY, savoring each
mouthful. If she could make it last, her time of punish-
ment would soon be over. Fanny Kemble sighed loudly
yet hopelessly, knowing in her heart that her protesta-
tions could not be heard through the thick walls of her
bedroom.
Now she sat silent, remembering the exciting chat-
ter of the party downstairs, of which she had been a part.
That was the trouble 1 She could not learn to keep still
in the midst of all the exclaiming and declaiming that
went on in the Kemble household. She thought how
easy it would be to hold her tongue if she were like
her older brother John, who dreamed only of his books
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
and chemical experiments, anxious always to be excused
from grown-up company so that he could escape to his
room. Or like her little sister Adelaide, whose best
friend was the china doll their father had brought from
Edinburgh, where he had played Orlando in As You
Like It. Or even like her baby brother Henry, who kept
himself busy crying unless he was cradled in their moth-
er's arms.
Fanny added another pillow to the pile on which
she sat beside the window, pressing her small nose
against the coolness of the tiny pane. The square on
which they lived was a teeming place of hacks and car-
riages; of beshawled housewives bent on their daily
shopping, shy girls and boys clinging to their mothers'
long, full skirts; of important-looking men in high hats;
beggars and charwomen and all the manner of people
who made up London town. Like a dark frame on a pic-
ture was the dim border of little shops, their shutters
closed against the fog and smoke of the city. Even Cov-
ent Garden Theater was dark and mysterious unless
a play was in progress, and Fanny, when she had sat
beside her mother in its pulsating gloom of emptiness,
often wondered how the actors and actresses in re-
hearsal found the courage to utter their lines.
In all of her life which was almost eleven years long
she had seen only one play. Both excited and fright-
ened by the declamation on stage and the noisy ap-
plause of the audience, Fanny had been caught up in a
The Life of Fanny Kemble
current of emotion such as she had never before ex-
perienced. Indeed, it had been a memorable event for
the whole family, for it had marked the return to the
London stage for "one night only" of her famous aunt,
Mrs. Sarah Siddons. Although Fanny was but six years
old at that time, she could still remember how her father
had carried her into the marketplace to show her the
dense mass of people who hoped to get into the still
unopened doors of Covent Garden.
"There will be no room for such a little mite as you,
my pretty," Charles Kemble had said patiently. "You
can see for yourself I"
But though she did see, she pleaded and wheedled
and teased in the manner of the determined child she
was. That night she sat beside her mother, her brother,
and Aunt Dall who lived in their household wor-
shiping the London idol she was said to resemble.
She still remembered, too, the tall, statuesque figure all
in black standing there on the stage, with arms out-
stretched as if to cast a spell upon those who listened.
That night, long after her small sister was asleep be-
side her, Fanny stared into the darkness, unable to free
herself of the impressive sight.
Even since then she had been in awe of this fearsome
relative who lived next door and who often came to tea
or to talk of the uncertain fate of Charles Kemble's
theater. Charles had inherited his Uncle John's share of
the theater and taken over its managership. But even
- 5
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Aunt Siddons had been unable to teach Fanny proper
manners! Remembering the afternoon, she bowed her
head. Her aunt had been called in to see what she
could do with the niece who was once again being
punished for speaking when she had not been spoken to.
The great Talma, the French tragedian, had called,
begging a conference with Fanny's father or her Uncle
John. Fanny had gone to the door along with their serv-
ant who was at home alone with her. And when, upon
discovering that neither gentleman was there, the actor
had said to the maid, "Kindly tell your master that the
great tragedian, Talma, wishes an appointment with
him, 1 ' it had seemed only natural for Fanny to answer
quite truthfully,
"My father is a great tragedian, too, and so is my
Uncle John, and so is my baby brother who does nothing
but cry in his crib, and if that isn't a tragedy, I don't
know what is!"
Although the Frenchman had laughed heartily, Fanny
had been sent to her room and that was when her
parents called in "the Siddons/'
"You are bold and unmannered/' her aunt admon-
ished, big black eyes upon her niece. "God is not pleased
with you, child!"
Fanny simply smiled as i she had not heard the
stern words at all, and foolishly said what was in her
heart, "What beautiful eyes you have, Aunt Siddons! M
The Life of Fanny Kemble
This had meant bread and water again that night. It
seemed that Fanny never would learn to hold her
tongue.
A sudden crescendo of sound beneath the window in-
terrupted her thoughts. The party was over and un-
less her nose began to hurt too much from pressing it
against the glass, she could see each of the guests take
leave. The first to go was Uncle John, a tall handsome
man with a graying mustache, a wren of a wife on his
arm. Like her actor husband, Lucille Kemble had also
been on the stage before her marriage, though one
could not imagine her possessing the courage to face an
audience. As for Uncle John, he was almost as famous
as "the Siddons," having played Hamlet and Macbeth
and Julius Caesar all over the continent of Europe.
Uncle Stephen and his wife came next, both of them
being in the theater, too, although they acted mostly
in Scotland where they made their home. In fact, it was
because they had come up to London that her parents
had given this party. Close behind came Mrs. Siddons,
her dark face still beautiful even at the age of seventy,
though her body was no longer straight and slender.
And last of all came Charles Young, laughter shining
out of his eyes as he bade good-by to his friends.
How I love Uncle Young! thought Fanny, as she
knocked gently on the window pane and willed him to
look up at her* A close friend of Uncle John and her
- 7
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
father, he, too, was a Shakesperean actor, coming often
to visit at Covent Garden Chambers. And when the
men were not home, he would make straight for the
nursery, where he sang funny songs in French and Eng-
lish, or romped with the children until they were ex-
hausted. Being especially fond of Fanny, he often stood
her up on their tea table, crossing her fat little arms
and bidding her declaim after him. What fun it had
been playing Lady Macbeth to his Macbeth, painting
her hands red and repeating after him in her lisping
voice:
"My handth are of oo tolorl" And how delighted he
had been with the puckering of her mouth and her
grimaces as she pretended to be Shakespeare's wicked
heroine 1
A sudden silence reminded Fanny that the guests
were gone, and her parents on their way to a rehearsal
of the new play her mother had written. Called Smiles
and Tears, it was supposed to be funny. Fanny hoped
this was the case, for, since her mother was also play-
ing the lead, the whole Kembie family, with the ex-
ception of baby Henry, was to be in the audience
opening night.
"Fanny?*' It was Aunt Ball, who could not bear to
see her punished,
"Yes, Aunt?" Fanny jumped to her feet, smoothing
the wrinkles from her brown calico dress* "Is the party
over?"
* J8-
The Life of Fanny Kemble
A small, round woman with a pleasant face bustled
into the room as if she were in a hurry.
It was hard for Fanny to realize that Aunt Dall had
once been an actress. For years she had been the be-
loved keeper of the Kemble household.
"Fanny, when will you learn not to speak unless you
are spoken to!" Aunt Dall hurried about, picking up
pillows, straightening the china bowl and pitcher on
her niece's dresser.
"But lots of times I ask questions when no one is
speaking at all, Aunt!"
"Then you must wait and ask after the grown-ups
have gone, child. Your parents are considering sending
you to school in France again, Fanny. I should hate to
see you go."
Impulsively Fanny threw herself upon her aunt who
encircled her with her pudgy arms. "Don't let them
send me back to Boulogne to that dreadful place with
the attic! Oh, Aunt, I was frightened sitting there in the
darkness, thinking about my my badness. That is why
I climbed out onto the roof 1"
"And gave everyone such a fright!" The older woman
put Fanny from her gently. "Child, perhaps if you
prayed to God to make you better, you wouldn't have to
be punished."
"But I do pray to God and He just makes me worser
andworser!"
"Well, then/' replied Aunt Dall, not able to think
9
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
of a retort, "let us not talk of it any more your bad-
ness, I mean. It is enough to say that you're growing
up, that you must soon learn the womanly arts that will
make you an acceptable wife to some good man. You
must learn to be a lady."
"But I don't want to be a lady!" Fanny's eyes grew
black with protest. "I want to be an actress!"
"Your Aunt Siddons would be angry at your implica-
tion that one cannot be both an actress and a lady. I,
on the other hand, am unhappy that you wish to go
into the theater."
"But why, Aunt why? Everyone I know is in the
theater."
"Which is all the more reason you should marry
someone who is not. And that will be difficult i you
are an actress, child, as I who loved a nobleman well
know."
Fanny said nothing at all, for once realizing that at
that moment Dall did not want to be spoken to.
"Will you read me some poetry, Aunt, dear?" she ven-
tured at last.
"What shall it be? Paradise LostT*
"Oh, yes, I should like that very much!" cried Fanny
drawing her small chair up beside her aunt's larger
one. "And then something from Lord Byron, Aunt?"
she persisted, "I like the one that goes:
'It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard * "
10
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"Fanny, Fanny, why must you be so defiant? You
know your mother doesn't allow you to read that dread-
ful young man's poetry. And don't let me find you hid-
ing his poetry under your pillow either!"
Slowly Dall began to read Milton's immortal poem,
her voice sweet and mellow with the music o it. Fanny
sat quiet, listening with her whole being. But as soon as
her aunt went off to her own quarters, the little girl
picked up her diary, forming her letters carefully as she
had been taught at Boulogne.
"Today I was again sent to my room for talking too
much. I shall ask God to make me better so that I shall
not have to go back to school to learn manners. I also
am going to ask Him for a volume of Byron to hide
under my pillow. Yours faithfully, Fanny Kemble
May twenty-fourth, 1820."
A month later all was confusion in the Kemble house-
hold. Fanny's mother, long made ill by the smoke and
fog of London, had won a lifetime argument. She was
moving her family into the quiet of the country.
There was much chatter in the house as the children
packed their carpetbags with prized possessions, piling
their clothes in small metal trunks later to be loaded
into the hired hack. As for their mother, she flew
about the place like a Bantam hen, clucking cheerily
over each sign of progress > all the while reassuring her
disgruntled husband*
-4( 11
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
It was not that Charles Kemble objected to moving
to Bayswater. Always the imposing giant of a Shake-
spearean actor, even when his orange coat was badly
frayed, he was nonetheless a devoted husband and
father. He adored his wife, Marie Therese, still mar-
veling that this petite French actress, once the darling
of the English Courts, was actually his. If his beloved
felt that their children should be raised in a setting of
green hills and bubbling brooks, then he should at-
tempt to please her. And so he grumbled only in fear
that his half-empty pocketbook would not often let him
afford a hackney coach to travel the five long miles to
Covent Garden Theater, or that his weary body might
not be able to walk so far at the end of an evening's
rehearsal.
The gay chatter of the children persisted during the
entire journey to Bayswater, and as they came in sight
of their new home on Craven Hill, with its pretty gar-
dens both front and back, their joy knew no bounds. It
was a modest place, one of a row of houses, but the
green vines, which hung from each of its balconies, and
the tall elms shading it gave it an air of friendliness,
And although the chairs and sofas within the furnished
house were drab and commonplace, it was not long be-
fore Mrs. Kemble, with the aid of Aunt Dall, took
needle and thread, and with her own flare for artistic
arrangement, made it home.
For days John and Fanny explored, romping in the
12
The Life of Fanny Kemble
meadow across the road, choosing violets and forget-me-
nots from the flower nursery beyond, which was soon
to become their favorite shopping place. They spent
hours, too, with their mother in the gardens, planting
and weeding, while Adelaide sat and played with her
china doll.
Sometimes they went to visit the neighbors the
very fascinating Monsieur and Madame Belzoni who
lived on one side, the Blackshaw family on the other.
The Belzonis were Italians. He was a famous world
traveler and lecturer, and she an avid collector of art
treasures from the Far East. Fanny, always attracted by
the bizarre, never tired of hearing Madame tell of their
adventures as she smoked her long Turkish pipe, a
white turban wrapped about her head.
The Blackshaw family was equally delightful. Their
two daughters were the same ages as Fanny and Ade-
laide, and the four girls played back and forth at each
other's homes. But what really drew the Kemble girls,
as well as John, to the pretentious house next door was
the frequent presence of Uncle Beau Brummell, Mrs.
Blackshaw's brother and a favorite of King George IV.
A captain in His Majesty's own regiment, Uncle Beau,
as the Kemble girls called him, was known throughout
England as the king of fashion. Handsome, debonair,
and interested in all that was happening around him,
he soon captivated the entire Kemble family.
A third neighbor who delighted Fanny was Monsieur
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Latour, a famous French musician, who played often
from his compositions, to the delight of the little girl
who sat quietly listening on his doorstep.
With the autumn came a new sort of excitement
which began with a trip to London. Fanny and John
were once again to see a play. Anxious to bring what
culture and mental stimulation he could afford into
the lives of his children, their father had hired a hack-
ney to transport them and their mother to the city.
This in itself was exciting enough but to see a play
as well! Fanny was sure she would burst with the won-
der of it all.
Mr. Kemble's choice was an unfortunate one, the
first of the offerings on the double bill being a fright-
ening Scottish tragedy, Meg Murdoch or the Mountain
Hag. However, it was really the second offering which
caused Fanny to awaken and cry out with terror in the
nights that followed. Written around Hippolyte, queen
of the Amazons, it was elaborately staged and costumed,
the female warriors in shining armor, each carrying
a sword or spear. And during the action of the drama,
as one by one these brave women were slain, their blood
of red paint flowing freely, Fanny wept so loudly that
her father carried her from the theater.
In spite of its frightening aspects, the outing
awakened something long dormant in Fanny and her
brother. And from that day until John went off to
boarding school weeks later, the Kemble household was
14
The Life of Fanny Kemble
in the constant throes of theatrical production. John,
who was producer, achieved some fine effects with his
father's help. Soon there was even a bona fide minia-
ture theater in the playroom, with real footlights that
would burn, and a pale blue curtain.
The first production, The Miller and His Men, was
given only for the family. John and the Blackshaw
girls played all the parts, for Fanny was too frightened
to speak a word. It was exciting enough, she told her
father, to help with the mixing of the resin, salt and
brimstone, a feat which produced a diabolical sputter
and flash that made everyone in the audience jump. In
the second play, however, she agreed to learn some
lines if Adelaide would also play a part. After this
play, Fanny consented to take on the lead in their third
venture, Amoroso, King of Little Britain. She even
went with her brother to invite the neighbors to at-
tend.
It was to be a gala affair, for, as she had told her
parents, "We want to have an audiencel"
"But you always have an audience, ma petite" her
mother protested, smiling.
"But we mean a real audience not just our mother
and father and Aunt Dall," explained John.
"M-m~m. And whom would you like to invite?"
Their father stroked his black beard.
"Uncle Charley Young and Beau BrummellP an-
swered Fanny.
15
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"And Mr. and Mrs. Mathews, and the Listens, who
played Amoroso and Coquetinda on the real stage/'
put in John.
"Fine actors all, even the Beau who never plays him-
self/' Mr. Kemble laughed. "Would you also like the
newspaper critics to come?"
"Oh, no!" The two children, long acquainted with
the candid and cutting criticism of the press, were
wide-eyed with dismay.
"Then to your success!" Mr. Kemble rose from the
sofa on which he had been sitting. In his best theatrical
manner, he kissed Fanny's small hand and bowed for-
mally to his son. "To your success!" he said again
grandly.
Thus began days of terror for Fanny. What if she
should stumble or forget her lines with all those famous
people looking on? What if her mouth refused to open,
the words swallowed up in great gulps of fear? Suppose
the audience laughed, thinking her stupid instead of
afraid? Or that her parents were so humiliated they
would never again want to show their faces in London?
Even the remembrance of Uncle Young and the happy
times they had shared in Covent Garden Chambers
could not still her anxiety.
And in spite of the noisy applause and the cries of
"Brava, Coquetinda! Brava, Fanny!" after her perform-
ance, she promised herself that she would never act
again.
2
IT WAS A COOL DAY for June, and Fanny was
dressed in mittens, cloak, and bonnet as she waited
eagerly for her father to bring John home from Lon-
don. Once again it had been necessary to hire a hack,
as her brother was coming from boarding school and
would have his books and a trunk. When at last she saw
the coach turn into the lane which led to their house,
she jumped up and down with joy. She threw herself
upon her brother the moment he climbed down from
the coach. *
Coloring under her exuberance, he kissed her briefly
on one cheek, then stood her off.
"You'd think I'd been gone ten years/' he admon-
ished in his deepening voice.
17
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"It's twenty years to me!" cried Fanny dramatically.
"Why didn't you answer my letters?"
John shifted from one foot to the other. "It costs
money to send a letter. Then, too, I was studying very
hard: mathematics, chemistry, German, and French
to say nothing of Latin which took up a great deal o
time. It is not easy boarding school."
"I have been studying, too!" countered Fanny proudly
as she relieved him of his books. "Please let me carry
them," she added, following him up the hill, their
father close behind with the small trunk.
"And what now has captured your fancy, little one?
Tell me about it."
"Poetry, John! Oh, how I love it not only to read,
but to write. I shall show you some of my poems if you
promise not to laugh."
"Of course I won't laugh." John was indignant- "As
soon as I say hello to Mother, I'll meet you in the play-
room. There you can speak them properly from the
stage as poetry is meant to be spoken," He fell behind,
awaiting his father.
"Well." Mr. Kemble laughed. "For one who boasts
of drawing as large audiences as anyone at Covent Gar-
den, I seem to have small appeal for my children."
"Oh, Fatherl That is not true. We love you very
much. Why, you are the finest actor in all London,"
protested Fanny.
"Now, now! No trying to sweeten up my sour temper,
18
The Life of Fanny Kemble
my pretty." Her father feigned great sorrow. "I am
hurt, wounded, and aggrieved."
"And well you should be," said John seriously. "It's
just that I hadn't seen my sister in so many
months ..."
"Take your trunk, oh, one of young strength! I
will be gone!" Still their father played the tragedian,
but he finally admitted, after much pleading and reas-
surance, that he knew how great was their love.
So, hand in hand, the trunk and books having been
put in their proper places, they all went into the parlor
to greet Therese Kemble.
That was a wonderful summer, the summer of 1821,
and the last time Fanny was home for three years. The
two children spent long hours under the trees reading
poetry aloud, Milton's Paradise Lost, Sir Walter Scott's
Lady of the Lake, but much as Fanny teased, John
would not read her the poems of the sensational new
poet, Lord George Byron.
"I don't approve of his work at all," declared John.
"Nor of all the emotions he arouses with his passionate
poetry. And as for this business of every poor little
clerk and artist mimicking his dress with those wide col-
lars and flowing ties, I think it disgusting!"
"Yes, John," was all Fanny could think of to say. But
this did not prevent her from vowing that one day she
would have a volume of Byron even if God did not an-
swer her prayers*
19
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
This was the summer, too, when Fanny was taught
to ride and fish by her mother, an avid sportswoman
when her domestic duties allowed her the time. Fanny
loved to trot her horse along the road, breathing in the
freshness of the air with relish, her destination a stream
in a shady wood where she and her brother and some-
times Adelaide fished for hours on end.
On one such occasion, she and her mother went alone.
Adelaide was in bed with the measles, under Ball's
watchful eye, and John had gone to London with his
father who was rehearsing a new play. For a special
treat they had carried a basket lunch and now sat under
the trees, Fanny nibbling a chicken leg.
"Tell me about when you were a little girl/' she said
wistfully.
"But I have told it so often, ma petite/' said her
mother, smiling and giving her a brief hug.
"I want to hear it again all about how your father
brought you to England and left you here when you
were only six years old, Mama, Were you not frightened
and homesick?"
Her mother nodded vigorously, the small yellow
curls falling down onto her forehead. "But I didn't
have time to think about that, you seel Every day I re-
hearsed with Monsieur Le Texier Zelie, my dancing
teacher, along with the other little French children who
had crossed the Channel with me* It was difficult and
20 )*-
The Life of Fanny Kemble
tiring for one so young to learn the dance steps, to per-
form before English lords and ladies."
"But why didn't your father stay with you in England,
Mama?" Fanny wanted to know.
"Because he taught music in his native country of
France, little one. It was his livelihood. Besides, my
mother was there and my sisters and brothers. It was
supposed to have been a great opportunity to send me
to England with M. Texier's dancers!"
"Did you never cry yourself to sleep?" Fanny per-
sisted.
"Not often. You see, I learned to love the dancing
and the applause. And, too . . ." The sound of her
mother's tinkling laughter made Fanny smile. "I liked
sitting on the laps of the lords in the beautiful court-
room where we danced at parties. Even the Prince Re-
gent made a fuss over me, calling me his golden doll,
and popping over me the great glass bell that was meant
to protect Dresden figures far more precious than I."
"I should have been embarrassed," Fanny put in.
But her mother shook her head. "No, ma petite. One
learns to adjust to new people and their ways. It's a
broadening experience which you soon shall have if the
season's receipts at Covent Garden warrant a trip to
France."
For a moment Fanny could not speak, her eyes wide
with apprehension. "What do you mean, Mama?" she
21
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
asked, trying to delay the fearful moment she had been
dreading.
"I am a Frenchwoman, Fanny/' replied Mrs. Kemble
quietly. "Though I do love England, my child. But it is
in France that one learns to speak the language correctly,
to dance as I once did, and to play the pianoforte."
"But I do not want to leave you and Father, to be
so far away from John, Mama!"
"John will be off at Cambridge next year, ma petite.
As for you, once you're in school you'll love the excite-
ment of it all new knowledge, new friends. Besides,
it is time for you to learn to be a lady. The stage has
been fine for all of us, Fanny, but we don't want our
daughter to know its hardships. No, my dear, nothing
would make us happier than to have you marry a fine
gentleman who loves you and can give you a life o
ease."
For a long moment, Fanny said nothing at all, "A
lady instead of an actress like the rest of my family,"
she muttered under her breath as if she was speaking
only to herself. And then she felt a sort of sadness en-
gulf her, not only because she was leaving her parents'
home, but because she had no taste for the life they
had chosen for her,
Fanny thought her heart would break when she said
good-by to her mother at the door of the new school
22
The Life of Fanny Kemble
in Paris. Watching the coach disappear into the soft,
pink twilight, she held tightly to the arms o the chair
on which she sat. I will not cry, she told herself stub-
bornly. I am twelve years old twice as old as Mama
when my grandfather took her to London. And she did
not know a word of the language either while I ...
Fanny who had spoken French ever since she learned
to talk, held back her tears.
It was as her mother had said, and soon she became
so taken up with the busy life at Mrs. Rowden's School
that Craven Hill and her family and the dark theater in
London became beautiful but shadowy dreams. Not
only must she master the usual academic subjects, but
there were lessons in Italian, Greek, and religious study.
Fanny learned languages quickly and soon became the
envy of the other English girls. She was beginning to
speak French in that rapid, birdlike way which marked
one a native of the country. Possessing the same
mocking-bird quality that had made learning new
tongues a simple task for her actress-mother, Fanny also
mastered Italian and Greek well enough to read the
beautiful drama and poetry of those lands.
Learning anything by heart in a short time was one
of her talents. So it was not long before she could recite
whole poems from Sir Walter Scott and entire chapters
of the Bible, from which the girls read aloud each even-
ing. She wrote amazingly well, also, and when in Bible
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
class the students were asked to compose original ser-
mons, Fanny would not only compose her own but one
for each girl in the dormitory.
It was the dancing which thrilled her, however, and
she felt as if her spirit had been freed from the prison
of her body as she pirouetted about the shiny floor in
her prunella shoes and white cotton gloves. And it was
not unnatural that she delighted in the murmurings
of those who watched her. "She is a wood sprite/' "Her
feet are like wings!" "The child of another world." And
so she was, a fairy world in which she danced for her
Prince Charming as her mother had done so long ago,
Sometimes the girls were given permission to walk
in the Luxembourg Gardens, afterward visiting the art
gallery there. Once she met a boy with whom she had
danced at a school party and he told her he would write
her a letter. For weeks afterward, as she walked in the
Gardens or the Pare Monceaux with its winding paths
and gay little brooks, she dreamed of the boy and the
letter, a beautiful poetic letter such as Lord George
Byron might write to his love. But it never came, nor
did she ever see the boy again.
During vacation, she boarded with a French family
who lived in a small house in the suburbs. Here she was
free to wander in the forest, where she sat under the
great shade trees, writing poetry, or to play in the gar-
den with the daughters of her adopted parents* Soon
learning to adapt herself to her surroundings, Fanny
The Life of Fanny Kemble
quite understood that it was both too exhausting and
too expensive to make the trip to England and all that
she held dear.
At the beginning of her second year at Mrs. Rowden's,
a letter came from Covent Garden Theater.
"It is from my father!" she exclaimed joyfully to one
of her friends. "He's coming to Paris to read Macbeth!"
Ecstatically, she whirled about the bare dormitory in a
dizzying circle of pirouettes, stopping only to hug each
of the half-dozen schoolmates who watched her.
Now she began to count the weeks, then the days,
and at last the hours until his carriage should bring him
to the gate of Mrs. Rowden's School for Young Ladies.
When she saw him standing before her, elegant in his
wine-colored cloak with its brass buttons and silken neck
cloth, she thought she had never seen so handsome a
man.
"Papal" was all she could say, and the tears ran down
her cheeks. Charles Kemble, on the other hand, often
relishing an occasion to show his histrionic talent, stood
dumbly, his arms about her like a vise.
Thus began the blissful days Fanny would never
forget. Hand in hand they walked in the gardens of the
Tuilleries, dined at gay sidewalk cafs under the stars,
sat in rapt attention at the ballet where the celebrated
Bigottini danced in "Fou par Amour." Her hands
folded motionless in her lap, Fanny gazed in breathless
wonder at the pathos of the acting, the delicate grace o
25
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
the dancing. Another night she was taken, along with
some of the other students, by Mrs. Rowden to hear her
father's reading. Her heart swelled with pride until she
thought it certainly should burst.
But perhaps the most unforgettable evening of his
visit was the night they saw the famous actors of France,
Poitier and Brunet, in Les Danaides, a farce presented
at the Academic Royale de Musique. How the two of
them laughed at the actors' imitations of English ladies
and their dreadful French, their mannish strides and
grotesque flirtations! For, according to the popular cus-
tom of the day, both Poitier and his colleague played
womens' roles. Long after her father had kissed her
good-by, Fanny had only to think of the flat chests,
buck teeth, the tremendous shoes and coal-scuttle bon-
nets of the two Thespians in order to go into gales of
uncontrollable laughter. '
And now there was new excitement at school. The
girls were to present a play with a real audience made
up not only of all the students and teachers, but also of
parents and friends who lived nearby. Fanny had been
chosen to play the role of Hermione in Racine's An
dromaque, a tragedy based on Euripides. For weeks the
young actresses learned lines and rehearsed their parts,
often sewing late into the night on the robes they were
to wear at the performance.
At last the day of days arrived. Obediently choking
26
The Life of Fanny Kemble
down the raw egg that was supposed to soothe her
throat, Fanny straightened her gold paper crown. Her
heart beat wildly, her mouth was parched, and she
could not remember a single line of dialogue! Numbly
she found her place on stage along with Pyrrhus and
Andromaque. She opened her mouth to speak but no
sound came from it.
Then suddenly it was as if an inner voice was speak-
ing to her, urging her on. "You are not Fanny Kemble,
a little girl afraid. You are Hermione, the Greek!" the
voice said. And Fanny felt as if she had taken leave of
herself and stood watching from the wings, seeing the
passionate hatred and love, the joys and rages play
across the face of this girl who was a stranger.
After the performance she stood silent as the stu-
dents and teachers crowded around her, all talking at
once, "You were magnificent, Fanny you were not like
that at rehearsal!" "You made me cry and cry." "You
are your father's daughter!"
Even Mrs. Rowden, who, in a vain effort to keep
Fanny unspoiled, remarked that with her small talent
she would be wise to choose a different life from that of
the theater, did not fool her. The Kemble blood ran in
her veins after all I
Fanny sat on the edge of her bed, quickly thumbing
through a leather covered book of poetry. Sitting beside
27
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
one of the older girls at tea, she had begged a peek at
the volume of Byron the student held on her lap.
Teasingly, the girl had put it behind her back, shak-
ing her head so as not to attract the attention of Mrs.
Rowden who was reading from the Old Testament.
"Just let me have it tonight!" Fanny mouthed the
words.
Again the girl shook her head, this time causing Mrs.
Rowden to look up. "Please pay attention to the mes-
sage of the Book," she admonished.
But Fanny was not to be thwarted. "I will give it
back in the morning." She formed her plea even more
slowly this time, whispering hoarsely, and in order not
to be scolded again, the upperclassman passed her the
coveted volume.
Now that the Byron was in her possession, Fanny was
both excited and terrified. Alone in the dormitory,
where the twilight darkness made reading difficult, she
sought the poem of the nightingale:
"It is the hour when from the boughs "
A step sounded on the threshold. Mrs. Rowden stood
in the doorway. "You must not strain your eyes, Fanny,
Go to the study. And be sure to turn up the lamp if it
is difficult for you to see." She turned on her heel and
left as quietly as she had come, but Fanny's heart beat
alarmingly fast.
Once again she bent to her task, the treasured lines
eluding her.
28
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"Fanny! Fanny! Guess what?" A group of her class-
mates descended on her, full of confidences they wanted
to share. Quickly Fanny slipped the book under her
mattress.
And there it stayed until early morning when the
first light of dawn lightened the roomful of youthful
sleepers. Fanny had not slept a wink, so great was the
warfare in her soul. Should she keep the forbidden
Byron, hiding it until she had a chance to feast herself
upon it? Or should she be the sort of girl her parents
would expect her to be honest and obedient, occupying
her mind with more elevating thoughts?
Showing her prized possession to her best friend had
only made the problem the greater. "If Mrs. Rowden
finds you reading that awful man, you will be dis-
missed from school," the girl had said. But never to
know what came after "The nightingale's high note is
heard . . ." How could she shut the door on such beau-
tiful knowledge?
She thought of her parents and the sacrifices they
were making to send her to boarding school in France.
She could not let them down! Stealthily she crept from
her bed and tiptoed across the dark hall into the study.
There with a great sigh, she slipped the Byron under a
chair as if that was where it had fallen.
A year later the tragic word was flashed around Paris.
Lord Byron was dead! Fanny wept as she had never
wept before not even when her mother's letter came
29
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
with the news of Uncle John's death. And she wondered,
childlike, if, when one day she was no longer of this
world, people would mourn her death as that of a great
poet also.
3
5*>S^
FANNY AND HER FATHER SAT up beside the
driver as the coach from London rumbled along the
road to Weybridge. A young lady of fifteen, she held her
head high. What did it matter that the villagers pointed
and smiled at the sight of her, at her huge leghorn cart-
wheel hat with its green bow tied under chin? She
loved her new hat and was secretly glad that her old
bonnet had blown off on board the Channel packet.
She smiled up at her father. The whole world should
be smiling today, for she was going home for the first
time in three years 1
"Is the new house pretty?" Fanny asked, raising her
above the noisy clomp, clomp of the horses' hooves.
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"It's pretty small." Her father laughed at his own
poor pun. "In fact, I feel the awkward giant in its tiny
rooms and garden. However, I only go up from London
on weekends. A three-hour trip each morning and night
would soon wear me out. But the air is better for your
mother. Besides, you know how she loves the outdoors."
"As do I, Papa. Does she ride and fish every day?"
Her father shook his head, a trace of regret creeping
into his voice. "This year has been a bad one at the
theater. Sometimes I wish your Uncle John had not
deeded me his share of the Garden. Of course, acting is
always an up-and-down affair. At any rate, we can't af-
ford horses, not even in the country." He smiled.
"Thank heaven, fishing is free. Your mother's out there
on that river bank every morning."
"And now, I shall be with her." Fanny's eyes shone
with anticipation. Then suddenly she was quiet, saying
nothing at all for a long time.
Engrossed in his own thoughts, Mr. Kemble did not
seem to notice her silence. When he did, he was all
concern.
"Are you cold, my pretty?" he ventured, putting his
arm about her thin waist*
"No, Papa,"
"Don't you feel well?"
"Yes, Papa."
"It was the Channel crossing which wore you outr
her father exclaimed. "Poor Fanny is tired/'
32 Jfr-
The Life of Fanny Kemble
For a long moment, she said nothing at all, her eyes
on the purple woods which bordered the rough road.
It was growing dark now and the miles separating her
from her mother seemed to go so slowly.
"Perhaps she will not even recognize me," Fanny said
at last. "Nor I her."
"Who?"
"My mother."
"So that is what has been worrying you, my pretty!"
Her father put back his head and laughed loudly, his
chest swelling under the flowered vest he affected.
"Don't trouble your dear head about that. Your mother
knows every one of those beautiful double lashes of
yours and just how many there are." He laughed again,
then sobered quickly. "These years of your schooling in
Paris have been terribly hard on her, Fan. She's been
counting the days till you get home."
"How soon will it be, Papa?"
Mr. Kemble took his great gold watch, a gift from
the Prince of Wales, from his pocket. "About thirty
minutes, little one."
Fanny sighed in relief, not only that her long jour-
ney was almost at an end, but that at least her father had
not had to pawn his beautiful watch, Things could ap-
parently have gone worse at his theater.
"Tell your horses I'm in a hurry," said Fanny to the
coachman. In mock seriousness he leaned over his four
spanking bays.
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"I've a young lady aboard who's mighty impatientl"
he bellowed. "Gidyap!"
After that it did seem as if the horses stepped out a
little faster. It was dark, however, when the coach
pulled up in front of Weybridge Inn. Even before she
had gathered up her belongings, Fanny heard the dear,
familiar voice, at once melodious and gay, "Is there
anyone aboard for Mrs. Kemble?"
The next thing she knew, she was in her mother's
arms, the two of them clinging fiercely to one another.
It was as if she had never been away.
"Mama! Mama!" The tears coursed down Fanny's
cheeks. Then they were both talking at once. Therese
Kemble chattered on about the new cottage, the orchard
behind it, and the neighboring castle with its endless
park in which Queen Elizabeth once practiced with the
bow and arrow. Fanny spoke of her sadness in parting
from her schoolmates, and of how her bonnet had
blown off into the Channel.
"And how is John?" she finished.
"John is fine!" cried her father, paternal pride in his
voice. "In fact, we had a letter from one of his masters
saying that your brother's record is unparalleled in his
class. Someday that boy will be a brilliant barrister,
mark my words."
"Dear John. When will he be home on vacation?"
"In a fortnight or so," Mrs, Kemble put in. "You
94
The Life of Fanny Kemble
will be surprised too at how your little sister has grown.
She has a beautiful soprano voice which we're training.
She's also very pretty, very friendly, very kind. You may
even like her!"
''She, too, will make a name for herself with that
voice," added Mr. Kemble. "It's like the nightingale's in
its sweetness, and extraordinary for a child."
"And child she is going to be for a long time, Charles."
His wife spoke with great firmness. "Surely life has
something better to offer our girls than the stage."
Charles Kemble said nothing at all, and Fanny, hold-
ing his hand in hers as they swung along to the Wey-
bridge cottage, understood his silence. Like her father,
she knew that life in the theater was exacting, difficult,
and cruel. Yet, like her father, she felt a strange loyalty
to the profession which forbade her condemning it.
Life in their small country home was delightful.
Along with Adelaide, whom she did like very much,
and John, whom she loved more than ever, Fanny spent
whole days hiking about the little village and the woods
around it. Together they explored the meadows sur-
rounding the deserted home of the Duke of York.
"Look, Fan," John would exclaim excitedly, "this
grotto is where the Prince Regent held counsel with the
Russian Emperor and the King of Prussia after the Bat-
tle of Waterloo."
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"And here's where she buried all her dogs," Adelaide
put in, indicating some sixty tiny tombstones in one
corner of the estate.
"Who buried whose dogs?" Fanny asked.
"The Duchess of York, silly. She had dozens of them
in her lifetime/'
Then the three explorers would be off into the sur-
rounding woods, talking to the birds and rabbits and
nervous deer that abounded there.
On some days Fanny sat and read in the tiny garden
behind the house. Often she climbed into a gnarled old
tree in the orchard to write letters and poetry, her
mood dictating which it should be. Occasionally she
went fishing with her mother. Soon tiring of baiting
her hook, a task she had always found unpleasant,
Fanny would lie on the river bank, looking into the
feathery treetops or up at the jewel-blue sky, all the
while making up little poems in her head.
John, of course, was a constant delight to her, with his
quick wit, profound knowledge, and good looks. Some-
times his sister watched him with such admiration that
he grew restive under her gaze, begging her not to stare
so.
"It's as if you're peering into the depths of my soul/*
he said one day,
"I am/' was Fanny's only answer and she continued
to worship him silently.
One day after she and her mother and brother had
36
The Life of Fanny Kemble
been fishing, they came home to find Aunt Dall in
tears*
"It's all gone!" she cried, her eyes red from crying.
"What's gone, Aunt?" John wanted to know, putting
the rods and line in their proper corner.
"The money your mother has been saving all sixty
sovereigns of it! What shall we do, Therese? There is
not a guinea in the house for food/'
Fanny's mother was devastated and took to her bed
at once, insisting she would stay there until her hus-
band came home that night to make everything all
right.
Everything would not be all right, Fanny well knew.
But somehow she could not get John excited about
the catastrophe, though he did consent to questioning
the maid-servant, who only protested her innocence the
more loudly. When his sister asked him to visit the
various tradespeople who made deliveries to the house,
he refused.
"The money is gone, Fan, and that is that/' he said,
going off to his room to read.
Fanny was shocked at her brother's indifference.
What had come over him? Was he all intellect and no
common sense? After taking a cup of. hot tea to her
mother and urging her to nap, Fanny went off to her
room. She must think what to do.
Adelaide, who was sewing on a tapestry, was unmind-
ful of the tragedy. Fanny, after kissing her gently on
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
one cheek, went to the windowseat and sat there staring
out into the back garden. How could she best help her
father? Perhaps she might sell some of her poetry.
But poetry paid so poorly. Perhaps she would write a
play, a tragedy in verse. The English loved that sort of
thing. One day it might even be produced at her father's
theater. Surely that would earn enough to keep them
all in food and fuel for weeks. She went to her desk,
spread out paper, and dipped the quill into the ink.
She had written but a few words when she heard her
father's voice in the downstairs parlor. Perhaps every-
thing would be all right!
Charles Kemble sat beside his prostrate wife. His
handsome face was aglow with optimism, his deep voice
truly Shakespearean as he pronounced the beautiful
words!
"We have a hit!" he said. "A beautiful opera by the
German, Weber- The rehearsals are perfect, his music
unforgettable. Even the members of the cast are dizzy
with the promise of success. All of us will go to the
opening next week. Come, my beloved." He put his
arms about his wife, raising her gently, telling her he
loved her more than life itself,
"But the sovereigns were stolen, Chariest 1 ' she pro-
tested weakly,
"No matter, my darling. Don't fret yourself, We will
have many sovereigns in less thar^ a fortnight. And I
can borrow enough to tide us over/*
38
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Fanny hadn't been to see an opera or a play since her
father's visit to Paris two years before. Her heart beat
fast with excitement as she sat beside her mother, her
sister, and brother in the house box. Dressed in her best
poplin, she looked down at the audience in the pit,
drinking in the gay chatter, admiring the silken gowns.
Truly there was nothing like the theater. Perhaps only
in acting would she find the freedom of expression and
living she so desired. Perhaps one day she might be
standing on this very platform, her shining costume of
such beauty that all who watched her would applaud
and cheer.
Her face clouded. Mama and Papa had said over and
over again that they didn't want her to go on the stage!
Ever since she had been to boarding school she had at
least tried to be obedient.
Der Freischutz was, as her father had predicted, an
instant success. The city went wild over the catchy
melodies and they were played everywhere at balls, in
concert halls, on the street corners where the organ-
grinders held sway. Clerks and servants hummed them
as they went about their duties. One old gentleman
advertising for a valet even stipulated that the applicant
"must be incapable of whistling a note from Der Frei-
schutz" The theater was sold out weeks in advance. At
long last its owner was free of debt.
In the grand manner, Charles Kemble bought lovely
39
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
clothes for his wife and children and presents each
weekend when he returned to the country. As for
Fanny, she reveled in her pretty dresses and the air of
prosperity that pervaded the house. But in her heart,
she thought of Weber. What sort of man was he that
could compose such music? Like everyone else, she knew
every chorus by heart, every ballet, every solo. She even
wore Weber's picture about her neck in a golden locket.
When, one Sunday, her father came home from the
city to announce that the composer had agreed to write
an opera just for Covent Garden, her joy knew no
bounds. Weber in London, at work on a new operal
Weber at Covent Garden to conduct Oberon. Now she
would meet him face to face. He might even hold her
hand in his, whispering sweet nothings when they met.
Her sister Adelaide, now her confidante, could stand
it no longer. "His music is beautiful, Fanny, but not his
face. He's an ugly old man, thin as a skeletonl"
So Oberon had its beginnings, the composer himself
coming to conduct Der Freischiitz while his new work
was in rehearsal. In London, he lived with a close
friend of Charles Kemble, Sir George Smart, and he
came several times to Weybridge. Fanny, seeing him at
close range, was shocked. Her sister was right. He did
look sick and was not the least bit romantic. However,
out of sheer stubbornness, she continued to wear her
locket. Besides, his music was beautiful.
After much advertising and promotion, Oberon was
10
The Life of Fanny Kemble
at last to open. Along with the members o the Kemble
family, except for John, who was back at Cambridge,
all London society was there, attired in its best and gay
with anticipation. The opera was not another Der Fret-
schutz in spite of the critics' insistence that its music
was better, its acting more finished. One would never
hear the tunes played on the street corners of the city.
That night, long after her sister was sleeping, Fanny
sat at her desk, pen in hand. Her father had spent
lavishly on the production. Somehow, he would have to
pay his bills. She must get to work on her play again.
She would have to make some money.
Fanny was almost seventeen years old, a restless, vi-
brant creature with a great love of life and of the out-
of-doors. Very often she felt confined by four walls
smothered, unable to breathe, her only relief coming
to her when she could escape into the forest where she
could walk along its shaded paths or wade barefoot in
some bubbling stream. Sometimes she felt her own body
a prison. From what did she want to escape? Why did
she feel such longing and for what?
She tortured herself with self-questioning. She worked
long hours on, her play, which she called Francis the
First. The story of a tragic princess and her wicked
mother who plotted to separate her child from her own
true love, it provided scope for the tragic scenes so
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
popular at that time. But even in the joy of writing,
Fanny felt imprisoned in some inexplicable way.
"You are too much alone, Fanny," her mother mur-
mured one day as they sat beside the river, fishing.
Fanny, absorbed in Scene Three, Act Two of her
drama, did not look up. "I'll be finished in a moment,"
she said.
"You should have more companionship, ma petite!"
"But I have you and Aunt Dall and Father, to say
nothing of Adelaide and Henry, Mama," replied Fanny,
putting aside her pencil and paper. "And when John is
home from school . . ."
"We are your family, little one," went on her mother.
"You need more outside interests."
"But Papa . . ." Fanny hesitated. "Doesn't Papa need
my help? I am trying to earn some money with my
writing, Mama. I'm almost finished with my play."
"You can finish your play at Heath Farm, Fanny,
We've arranged for you to visit your Aunt Lucy in
Hertfordshire. She lives on a lovely estate that Lord
Essex has given her out of admiration for your late
Uncle John. The change will do you good/'
"But Papa's debts?"
"He's lived with them before. He can do so again/'
So it was that Fanny journeyed to Heath Farm early
in the spring of the year. The woods were filled with
violets and pink beauties, and the singing of the
brightly colored birds was far sweeter than the music
42
The Life of Fanny Kemble
of the German composer. Aunt Lucy was warm and
friendly, if perhaps a little too proper. She brought
several pleasant young girls to Heath Farm to meet her
niece from London.
Fanny delighted in her new friendships, chattering
gaily of her life in the city, with its shops and theater
and cathedrals and galleries, and answering all the
questions put to her. It was another house guest, how-
ever, who fascinated her, an Irish woman several years
older than she. A writer of some prominence in her
own land, Harriet St. Leger was a study in contrasts.
She wore mannish leather boots, straight skirts of gray
or black, a man-styled hat over short-cropped curls. She
could discourse on any subject religion, world politics,
philosophy, the theater.
She liked especially to hear about the London stage,
the plays Fanny had seen, and the actors and actresses
in the Kemble company. She liked to talk of the many
dramas she herself had read over the years.
Fanny in turn poured out her soul to her new friend,
telling of her restlessness, her feeling of confinement,
her desire to earn money. Harriet listened, a tenderness
and softness shining out of eyes that belied the sever-
ity of the clothes she affected.
"When you marry, you'll be at peace/' she said.
"Surely one as pretty as you will take her vows when
very young."
"I'm not cut out for marriage, Harriet," Fanny pro-
43
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
tested. "I should dislike being tied to some man, gen-
erous and kind as he might be. No, I am basically a
wild creature with too much energy and emotion all
pent up inside/'
"Then what of your writing, Fanny? You say you
are never more content than when you're painting pic-
tures with words."
Again Fanny shook her head. "You know as I do that
writing is a lonesome business. I am so lonely up there
in my room with my pen and paper 1" Fanny told her
then the story of Francis the First, even reciting some
of the lines in verse.
Harriet's face was a study in concentration. "How
beautifully you express yourself, my dear," she said
when the first two acts of the play had been recounted
to her. "And you are only seventeen!" The older
woman shook her head in disbelief. "What do your
parents think of it?"
"Oh, I've not well not told them very much about
it. I plan to finish it first. I still have the whole third
act to write."
Walking side by side in the beautiful woods of Hert-
fordshire, they now came to a dancing brook over
which someone had built a crude bridge.
"Let's dangle our feet!" cried Fanny in sheer ecstasy.
"I should be delighted to." Harriet promptly took
off her boots and hose.
They sat silent on the little bridge, their toes in the
44
The Life of Fanny Kemble
cool water. "Would you like to act in your play, Fanny?"
Harriet was intent on pursuing the subject.
"Act in Francis? I hadn't thought of it. You see, my
mother and father don't want me to go on the stage.
They say it's too hard a life and not suitable for sensi-
tive young women."
Harriet frowned ever so slightly. "But, my dear, un-
less one is sensitive, one never makes a good actress at
all!"
Fanny's eyes danced. "Do you know," she confided,
"I sometimes dream that that I am another Siddons.
I can see myself there on the stage of Covent Garden,
all dressed in black, the applause ringing in my ears."
"And that should not surprise me, either." Harriet
smiled. "One with so much imagination and talent is
certainly supposed to be something! "
They both laughed at this, the conversation turning
to other matters. Fanny, sitting beside her new com-
panion, wished the summer might go on forever.
By the time, two weeks later, that Harriet St. Leger
returned to her home in Ireland, the two were fast
friends. Indeed, they promised to write each other as
often as they had anything important to say.
"We must never lose touch, my dear," said the Irish-
woman, "never, as long as we live, for there's something
very precious between us."
Fanny smiled with tears in her eyes. So began a
friendship that was to last for fifty years.
45
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
With Harriet gone, Fanny went about with the
young girls of her own age again. If dancing was the
entertainment, she was ecstatic, begging her aunt to
stay with her at the ball until early morning. If the
affair was, as she called it, just a "plain party," she
would soon be bored and ask to go home again. There
she would sit in the library, getting acquainted with
another friend, Lord Byron. She never got over her
surprise that Aunt Lucy had his book there. Or did the
volume belong to the Lord of Essex? At any rate,
Fanny read it avidly, shivering with horror at the blas-
phemy of Cain and Manfred, almost suffocating with
emotion during her first reading of Parisina in its en-
tirety.
It was true that the poet was outspokenly agnostic,
unbearably sensuous, and appealing largely to emotion.
Sometimes she flung the book from her as if it were an
unhealthy thing, retrieving it a moment later. But one
could not make one's entire diet of Byron.
"I'll read him only every other day/' she promised
herself, "with good doses of the Bible and Jeremy Tay-
lor's fine treatise, Holy Living and Holy Dying, on al-
ternate days for balance."
Thus, in the library at Heath Farm with Byron, she
passed her eighteenth summer*
46
WHEN IN EARLY SEPTEMBER Fanny returned
to Weybridge, it was to find her parents preparing to
move again. Fanny was heartbroken. However, as her
father pointed out, it was too expensive to maintain two
lodgings, the cottage in the country and rooms for him
in London.
The new house on James Street was large and square
and rather ugly, but it brought Fanny new freedom.
She had a room of her own for the first time in her
life. What joy it was to sit at her desk after the rest of
the family was asleep, writing voluminous letters to
Harriet or working on Francis the First. And although
there was no forest in which to roam, a little park
nearby was a place in which to walk,
47
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Too, she found much mental stimulation in being
with John's friends, who came often to the Kemble
home. Her special favorites were William Makepeace
Thackeray, a boy her own age, and Alfred Tennyson,
who was in her brother's class at Trinity College,
Cambridge University. Will Thackeray, like John,
planned to take up law. The son of a wealthy father,
life had been too easy for him; as a result, he was not
a good student, seeing no reason why he should exert
himself very much. Tennyson, on the other hand, whose
father was a poor nobleman, seemed to feel a great urge
to distinguish himself and the year before had won the
Chancellor's annual award for his poem, "Timbuctoo,"
He also was a serious student of history, the classics,
science and politics, and liked nothing better than to
talk endlessly on any of these. Fanny was a perfect
audience.
She also began to go out more socially, sometimes in
the company of her brother and his friends, but always
with her mother as chaperone. With her clever fingers,
Aunt Dall could be counted on to create a ball gown
as handsome as those designed by the finest dressmakers.
As for Fanny, she possessed infinite grace and never
lacked for dancing partners, often waltzing until the
wee hours of the morning.
One night when her father sat silent and gloomy at
the supper table, Fanny touched his hand.
"You are worried, Papa/' she said*
48
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Charles Kemble nodded. "Business has fallen off this
summer, child. I suppose it always does, but some-
how . . ."
"There's been so much rain, dear," said his wife.
"People just don't like to go out in it, even to Covent
Garden."
"You're right, Therese. All the same, I'm in debt
again with no chance of paying off."
"I shall pay off!" declared Fanny dramatically.
Mr. Kemble smiled at his daughter patronizingly.
"And how do you presume to do that, little one?"
"With the money I'm paid for my playl"
"What play?" asked her brother, who had not yet
returned to Cambridge for the winter sessions.
"Yes, what play, dear?" her mother wanted to know.
For a moment Fanny could not speak. Her brother
and her parents had forgotten about Francis the First!
Didn't they actually remember she was writing a trag-
edy in verse? "The one I told you about," she said at
last.
"What is the plot, ma petite?" asked Mrs. Kemble.
"Yes," urged her father, pushing back his chair.
"What is the plot?"
Fanny began to talk rapidly, calling up her best ad-
jectives with which to paint the heartbreaking picture of
the little princess who stabbed herself. "And in the
final scene/' she concluded, "it's very dark on stage.
The wicked mother is there, dressed in black, with the
49
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
monks from the nearby monastery all around her.
They are chanting De Profundis. Oh, it is so sad!"
"Such a tragic story, Fanny," said her mother, with a
note of scolding in her voice.
"But Father says Englishmen like tragedy, Mama,"
Fanny protested.
"And so they do," comforted Charles Kemble. "Be-
sides it isn't fair to judge the little play until we have
heard it."
Little play! Secretly, Fanny was indignant. No one was
taking her seriously at all.
"Read it to us, please," Adelaide begged.
"Another time." Fanny shook her head. "Besides, it
is not finished. Will you pardon me?"
She rose from the supper table with what dignity
she could muster and went quickly to her room, where
she began to cry bitterly.
Always sensitive to their children's moods and needs,
Mr, and Mrs. Kemble now showed a sudden interest in
the poetic tragedy. Fanny could not understand it
parents were unpredictable. First her mother begged
to read it scene by scene, making suggestions as she
went along, nodding with approbation. Then her father,
still wearing his worried look, asked how the play was
coming and John, soon to return to college, urged his
sister to finish Francis quickly so that he might hear it
before he had to leave.
50
The Life of Fanny Kemble
At last it was done, and a Sunday night when there
was no performance at the theater was chosen for the
reading. Charles Kemble had set the stage carefully. A
merry fire burned on the hearth, flame-shaped fairy
shadows dancing on the walls. Long tapers flickered on
the mantelpiece and in the hurricane lamp beside
Fanny's chair. As for the young dramatist, she was
dressed in a ruffled gown, with a red ribbon round her
waist and another ribbon in her curls.
All was in readiness, and her audience sat with up-
raised faces and folded hands. She looked down at them
with sudden fondness, a sort of panic seizing her. Who
was she to read a poor, pitiful play to this distinguished
assembly her mother, once the toast of London, her
father, the finest Shakespearean actor of his day, her
brother, the most brilliant boy in his class?
"Well . . ." said her father, smiling.
Her hands trembling, Fanny began to read the story
of Francis and the wicked queen.
When at last she had finished, she saw that both
Adelaide and Henry were crying. John applauded
loudly. As for Aunt Ball, she just sat shaking her head in
a sort of unbelief.
"Beautiful, my child! It's beautiful. We shall put it
on at Covent Garden!" exclaimed her father putting
his arms about her.
But it was her mother's silent approbation that
51
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
brought tears of happiness to Fanny's eyes. Mrs. Kemble
merely held her close, saying nothing at all. Then of
course, everyone began talking at once.
"I will take one of the leads/' said Mr. Kemble,
spreading out the script before him on his desk.
"Charles Young would be a perfect Bourbon. What do
you think, dear?" He turned to his wife.
"It needs a bit of cutting/' She, too, bent over the
pages, pencil in hand. "Here and here and " she
scratched out lines, then turned the page, "and here."
"Don't you think the scene with the monks is putting
it on too thick?" John asked.
"Yes. Leave the monks out altogether." His father
nodded vigorously. "That's too tragic a note for the
play to end on."
"Actually," murmured his wife, thoughtfully, "Francis
should be published before it goes into production,
don't you think?"
Fanny felt suddenly empty. For months she had lived
this play. She had been the young princess, never able
to free herself of the tragedy she had created, going to
bed with it, arising each morning full of poetic fancies
that cried out to be put down on paper. Now Francis
the First was .finished. If they were going to cut and
change it so much, perhaps it was not very good after
all
Unnoticed, she slipped off to her room where she
52
The Life of Fanny Kemble
sat disconsolately looking out o the window. After a
long, long time there was a knock at the door.
"It's Dall, my dearest."
"I've gone to bed." Fanny tried to make her voice
sound sleepy.
"Very well, Fanny. I just wanted to remind you that
you had two whole hours of pure happiness tonight
during your reading. Good night."
"Good night, Aunt." Fanny took her quill pen from
its place on her desk and dipped it into the ink. Her
aunt was right, of course, and strangely comforting.
She was being childish for one of eighteen. She would
write to Harriet, a sensible, adult letter.
"It's a clever performance for one so young," she said
of her play. "Nothing more. As far as paying off my
father's debts, it will be of little help."
The next day in a fit of discouragement, Fanny
gathered up all of her manuscripts except Francis the
First, which Charles Kemble planned "to produce in a
few months," and burned them in the fireplace. She
would never write again! Perhaps, she -thought, the
stage might give her the independence of mind and
body she so deeply desired. If only her parents did not
objectl
Within the fortnight, Fanny's cousin, Lizzie Siddons,
came from Edinburgh for a visit. Once again Fanny tried
to lose herself in the gaiety and the dancing, going as
53
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Anne Boleyn to a costume ball at which she was the
belle of the younger girls. When it was time for Lizzie
to go home again, Fanny went with her to Edinburgh
to spend the winter. Perhaps, she told herself, she might
find in that wild and beautiful country the answer to
the question of what Fanny Kemble was going to do
with her life.
Scotland was all she had hoped for. Rain or shine,
warm or bitingly cold, Fanny walked in the woods
near her aunt's home. Now she would follow a little
path to a cottage in the glen, visiting with the chil-
dren who played before it, or chatting with their young
mother. Next she would go through the woods and down
to the sea, where she stood watching the tumbling
breakers in mute ecstasy. Once some friendly fishermen
took her out in a boat; the waves pounded its frail bow
and she felt free and alive in a wonderful, inexplicable
way.
The people who frequented her aunt's home were
scientists, philosophers, and physicians of repute. One
of the doctors took special note of Fanny in spite
of the fact, as she wrote her parents, "He is old as the
hills thirty-one!*' Yet she delighted in going his rounds,
sitting up beside him in his gig, hoping as they drove
through the romantic Scottish countryside that they
might stumble onto Sir Walter Scott himself.
Here, too, she fell in love for the first time. Her
suitor, for he loved Fanny in return, was none other
54 ~
The Life of Fanny Kemble
than her cousin, Henry Siddons, a dashing young army
officer. Home on leave for a month, he was constantly at
her side. They walked in the woods from noon until
sunset in blissful silence. They sat quietly side by side
in the library, reading philosophy and poetry. Some-
times, in the evenings, Henry took her off to a ball in
the company of his mother and sister. He danced well
and Fanny's heart beat very fast when he claimed her
as his partner.
After she had gone to bed each night, filled with the
new and strange excitement of being in love, she slept
but fitfully, no longer concerned about her own future
except as Henry's wife. If only God would keep him
safe for he was leaving in a fortnight to report for
duty in the Orient.
"I will love you till I die," he promised when they
said good-by.
"I shall wait forever," Fanny murmured.
After that she stood silent while he etched her name
on the blade of his sword. He kissed her again and was
gone.
After Henry left Edinburgh, Fanny was much alone.
And although Lizzie teased and cajoled, she seldom went
dancing, preferring to read or just sit and think. Some-
how there was a strange feeling of closeness to God in
her aunt's house. Not that her parents and aunts and
uncles did not go to church every Sabbath. Indeed they
did. It was the sense of oneness with the whole universe,
55
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
the sort of calm that permeated the Siddons household
that was missing in the Kemble manage. Fanny reveled
in this new spiritual grace. She felt refreshed, renewed,
and even gave up reading Byron to prove it.
Back in London early in the spring of 1829, she
found her father in great distress. John, the apple of
his eye, had written that he was going to leave Cam-
bridge along with young Thackeray. John had decided
not to become a lawyer, planning instead to go into
the ministry. Charles Kemble was shocked and dis-
appointed, not because he objected to his son's choosing
the religious life, but because he felt the boy didn't
know his own mind.
Added to this worry was the descending fortune of
his theater, for the country was in the throes of a
depression.
"What we need is a new and beautiful leading
lady," he told Fanny one day. "The public's tired of
familiar faces/'
He decided he would have to go on tour again in
order to make ends meet, leaving his beloved Therese
at home to watch over the theater. He felt only half a
person when she was not at his side. Manchester, Bath,
Scotland, and Ireland were on his itinerary and he would
come home with heavy pockets.
The night he left, Fanny lay awake until dawn, her
confused thoughts playing leapfrog in her mind. Would
56
The Life of Fanny Kemble
she marry her cousin and live in the Highlands? Should
she try to find work as a governess, for surely her
knowledge of literature and her studies at Mrs. Row-
den's had fitted her well to play such a role? If only her
parents did not feel so strongly on the subject o the
stage! She would like to try her hand at it. She tossed
and turned, unable to sleep, wondering if, like her
brother John, she was a ship without a destination.
One afternoon when Fanny was playing the piano, she
heard her mother's quick step in the hall and then the
sound of crying. She jumped to her feet just in time to
see Therese Kemble collapse on the sofa.
"Mama! Mama!" Fanny sat beside her, chafing her
mother's hands. "Speak to me, Mama!"
But Mrs. Kemble only shook her head.
"Quick, Ball the smelling salts!" cried Fanny, open-
ing the windows wide.
Her aunt was beside her in a moment, passing the
bottle back and forth under her sister's nose. At last
Mrs. Kemble began to talk, little bursts of sound coming
from her parched lips.
"I saw them yes I saw them with my own eyes!
They were all over Covent Garden dozens of them
dozens of bills! The theater is to be sold, Dall sold at
auction. Just as if we were disreputable beggars. Our
theater is to be sold!"
"Ill think of something, Mama!" Fanny continued to
rub the pale hands*
57
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAMB
"Oh, but the disgrace of itl"
"You're not to fret, Mama. I will work as a governess.
Governesses are well paid and . . ."
Her mother sat bolt upright. "I should rather see
you go on the stage, Fanny. Yes, child, even on the
stage!"
Fanny stood very still. Had her mother given her
permission to follow the road which beckoned her?
"Mama," she breathed, "I am not too young, am I?
Nor too ugly, to be Papa's new leading lady?"
For a moment her mother did not seem to have heard
her supplication. Then very quietly, she spoke. "I shall
have to ask your father. I'll write him today. He must
come home from Ireland."
Once again Fanny tossed about in her bed, distracted
as she was by the vivid pictures which danced before her
eyes. Now she stood alone on stage, all dressed in black
like "the Siddons," her hands outstretched to a wildly
cheering audience. Then she saw herself alone in the
wings awaiting her cue, her throat dry, hands trem-
bling with fright, a mute and terrified Portia* That was
the trouble. She was too full of fear to be an actress, too
afraid of an audience's eyes ever to speak a line* If only
Mama would forget to write her father!
The next morning beside her plate at breakfast was
a volume of Shakespeare.
"I should suggest you learn Romeo and Juliet," said
her mother in a matter-of-fact voice.
58
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"Yes, Mama/' Fanny was anxious not to upset the
quicksilver disposition of her parent.
Up in her room, she curled herself into her favorite
chair, her appetite for reading insatiable. This was her
introduction to the English bard, and she lost herself at
once in the tale of the ill-starred lovers. When the
sun went down behind the tall trees in the park, she had
memorized her lines.
She found her mother mending stockings in front of
the hearth.
"I should like to recite for you, Mama," she said, her
eyes dancing.
"Recite what, ma petite?"
"Juliet, of course. I know it by heart."
"I'd forgotten you memorize so quickly/' murmured
her mother. "Recite, then/'
I'll look to like, if looking liking move:
But no more deep will I endart mine eye
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
She went through the entire play, speaking the lines
faultlessly. When she had finished, her mother merely
nodded. "Thank you, dear." That was all.
Fanny fled to her room with tears in her eyes. She
was glad Adelaide was at her singing lesson, that John
was in Germany studying theology, and even happier
that her father had not yet returned from Ireland, She
had felt such emotion in Juliet, yet her own voice had
59
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAMI
been flat and expressionless. She was a failure. Her
dear mother had been a witness to her shame.
When her father came home again, he looked tired
and old, and the sight of him made Fanny's heart ache.
Long after she and Henry and Adelaide had been sent
off to bed, she could hear her parents talking. Noise-
lessly, she stole out into the upstairs hall.
"Perhaps I should just let the Garden go," Her father
was speaking.
"Perhaps. But you've given your life to it."
"You could take the children to Paris. Find a cheap
little pension."
"And you?"
"I should stay here till after the after the auc-
tion."
"Oh, the disgrace of it all"
Their voices trailed off into nothingness.
A few days later Charles Kemble turned to Fanny at
the breakfast table. "I should like you to go in to
London with me later in the day. I'll hear your Juliet
at the Garden and find out if your voice will carry. Better
get up on your lines."
60
5
FANNY STEPPED OUT ONTO THE stage, her
heart beating with such violence that she was certain her
father could hear it in the back row. She looked about
her in the dimly lighted theater. The empty platform
was foreboding with its racks of canvas dining-halls, dun-
geons, and forests piled on either side, no living crea-
tures stirring in the wings. In front of her were the rows
of seats in their gray dust shrouds, yawning with empti-
ness. Just as she opened her lips to speak into the fright-
ening darkness, a thin shaft of light from a window fell
upon the boards. Fanny stepped into its path, the
warmth of the afternoon sun on her cheek. Falteringly,
she began.
61
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
She hesitated at the end o her speech.
"'Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?'"
Charles Kemble prompted from his back row seat, hi*
voice deep and resonant.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man! O! be some other name!
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd.
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself,
Fanny knew every word of the dialogue, each semi-
colon and comma. Yet on this bare stage she could not
project the emotion she had felt reading the poetic
tragedy alone in her own room. If only her beloved
Henry were at her side to whisper his love.
" 'I take thee at thy word/ " Her father's voice went
on in Romeo's words. " 'Call me but love, and 111 be
new baptiz'd; Henceforth I never will be Romeo/ "
62
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Fanny took up the lines where he left off. As Juliet
had loved the young Montague, so Fanny loved her
dashing army officer somewhere in the Orient. Then
suddenly it was as if he were there before her, his face
close enough to touch. How painful it was to be in love!
If, like Shakespeare's lovers, Fate should part them for-
ever, her heart would break.
Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.
The words flowed from Fanny's lips in a steady
stream of spoken suffering. The pasteboard scenery
faded into nothingness, the great emptiness of the
theater fusing with a vision of the forest glen where
she and Henry had said good-by.
"That's enough, Fan!" Her father's command
brought her back to reality.
"She will be a great success!" said a strange voice.
"Bring her out at once."
Fanny's eyes widened. Then her father had not been
alone in the audience. She stepped down from the
stage, assisted by an unfamiliar hand. She was face to
face with one of London's most vitriolic critics.
Talking animatedly to Charles Kemble, the man
scarcely noticed her presence in his excitement. "Three
weeks is all you need, my friend. Why, she's up on her
lines to perfection! Only the stage business might con-
63
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
fuse her. Just three weeks and your theater will be
saved!"
He turned to Fanny, an imaginary goblet in his hand.
"To the new leading lady of Covent Garden!"
The next day found the Kemble household in a flurry
of excitement. Fanny was to make her debut in Papa's
theater!
"May God cause His face to shine upon you," prayed
Dall audibly over and over again.
"I wish I were making my debut," sighed Adelaide.
"I'm sick of just practicing and practicing some more."
"You are far too young, too physically immature to
be an opera singer," said Charles Kemble. "What about
Fanny's costumes?"
"I shall make them, of course!" put in Aunt Dall.
"We must take great pains with the designs," added
Therese Kemble, "remembering always to ask ourselves,
'How will this dress look when it walks, runs, rushes,
kneels, sits down, falls, and turns its back?' "
"They will, of course, be of the period," said Fanny's
father.
"Not necessarily/' Her mother shook her head, "The
great Garrick wore a full suit of scarlet for his Macbeth,
Aunt Siddons portrayed Portia in piles of powdered
curls, high-heeled shoes, and a hoopskirt! It's the
beauty of Fanny's gowns and whether they become her
that are important/'
"Ugh! I'm never going on the stage/' grunted young
64
The Life of Fanny Kcmble
Henry. "I'm going to be a soldier in the King's army.
A captain maybe!"
His father clapped him on the back. "Good! I'm
glad to hear you say that. But to get back to Fanny's
costumes . . ."
Suddenly Fanny, who had said nothing for a long
time, jumped to her feet. "You will be my Romeo,
Papa?"
"Why, I hadn't thought." Her father looked sur-
prised.
"But you're the finest Romeo the world has ever
known!" Fanny exclaimed.
"Thank you, child." Now Charles Kemble began to
walk back and forth agitatedly. "However, as to playing
opposite you . . ."
His words trailed off in the silent room.
"I don't think an audience would react very favor-
ably to a father's being well, being Romeo to his
daughter's Juliet," said Aunt Dall.
"But that's silly!" Fanny protested. She had been
counting on her father's portrayal of his famed role to
give her confidence.
Once again there was silence. Henry was the first to
speak. "It's not silly, Sis," he said with boyish wisdom-
"Papa's too old to be in love with you!"
"Nonsense!" His mother came to her husband's resr
cue. "Why, your father's the finest-looking man on the
London stage. That, however, is beside the point. No
-< &
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
audience will accept a love scene between father and
child/'
"You're right, of course, my sweet." Charles Kemble
kissed his wife fondly on the cheek.
"But I shall be terrified. Papa, I can never go on
without you!" cried Fanny.
"Then 111 play Mercutio, and your mother, Lady
Capulet."
Now it was Therese's turn to be astonished. "But
I've not set foot on a stage in ten years, Charles," she
moaned. "Besides, I have gained too much weight."
"Then it is time you took it off, my dear," her hus-
band proclaimed teasingly. "As for being Juliet's mother
it shouldn't be too much of a strain for you. You've had
years of practice!"
They all laughed at this, with both amusement
and relief. Many things had been decided.
Now Fanny began counting the days in reverse
nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen.
A week was already gone, and still she felt uncomfortable
on stage with her father's experienced company. Round
and peppery Mrs. Davenport was to play the nurse,
and Mr. Keely, Peter, the nurse's servant. As for Romeo,
Mr. Abbot, who was as old as her father and not nearly
as handsome, would play opposite her. Submitting to his
embraces was almost more than Fanny could bear, so
she shut her eyes whenever he kissed her, pretending
Henry Siddons' lips were upon her own*
66
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"You're letting your voice drop/' her father would
say, breaking the spell and sending Henry back to the
Orient where he belonged.
The second week Fanny worked not only on the
stage business but on her posture as well. "Stand up!
Shoulders back," she would say to herself. "Project your
voice, smile, cry, hold out your arms!" Would the re*
hearsals never end? She was too excited to sleep, too
exhausted to keep her eyes open.
On Sunday afternoon, there was a knock at the door
of the Kemble home. Fanny's father answered it and
ushered in a bearded gentleman whose manner was
courtly.
"Sir Thomas Laurence, Fanny." Charles Kemble in-
troduced his old friend to his family with much pride.
"And my wife you know."
"How good to see you again!" murmured Therese.
"It's been a long time since we last met."
"Sir Thomas is one of England's finest portrait
painters, Fanny. He's done your Aunt Siddons, of
course."
The painter bowed low. "Sometime I should like to
sketch the new Kemble, also," he said thoughtfully,
studying Fanny from all angles. "You have the same
beauty as your famous aunt, child. Of course, she was
the finest actress on the English stage."
He came often to visit with Fanny after that, dis-
cussing her costumes, suggesting new acting techniques,
67
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
even sitting in the darkened theater during rehearsal.
One day he asked if he might draw her picture.
"This will be a pencil sketch/ 1 he murmured. "The
oil will have to wait." His pencil moved back and forth
across the paper skillfully. "You have a double row of
eyelashes/' he mused. "I do believe you're even more
beautiful than the Siddons. On opening night, I shall
sit in the house box with your illustrious relative and
see if you are as great."
It was, at last, opening night. Fanny spent the day in
a sort of suspended calm, a rehearsal having been de-
cided against. During the morning, she played the pi-
ano, remembering even the simple pieces she had
learned as a child. After a very light noon meal, she
went for a walk in St. James's Park, the soft autumn
breeze caressing her cheeks. When she tired of that,
she went up to her bedroom sanctuary, curling herself
into her favorite rocking chair with a copy of a book
she cherished, Blunt's Scripture Characters. This was
a collection of short biographies of the Apostles. Then
while she bathed, she said over and over again the first
two lines of the Twenty-third Psalm- "The Lord is my
Shepherd . . ."
When she left for the theater, along with her mother
and Aunt Ball, it was still twilight.
"The sun shines upon your head like a halo/' her
68
The Life of Fanny Kemble
mother said as the coach bore them to Covent Garden.
"It is a good sign."
"A benediction from God," declared Dall solemnly.
Fanny, sitting between them, bowed her head.
The theater had been sold out. Another Kemble was
to make her debut, whispered the audience, recalling
Sarah Kemble Siddons, who, though she was aged and
unwell, was to be in the house box that night. Had
there ever been a Desdemona as fine as the great Sarah's,
a Rosalinda or a Lady Macbeth? Then there was the
child's uncle, "Glorious John," who scored in Hamlet
and Macbeth, to say nothing of her own father, incom-
parable as Orlando, Falstaff, and Romeo himself. And
Fanny's mother, one-time darling of the Court, also was
to appear as the new Juliet's parent!
Fanny sat in her dressing room backstage, the perfect
ingenue in her white satin gown with its girdle of
brilliants. Therese Kemble had won. Her daughter was
to be costumed in modern dress, something much more
becortiing than the simple garment Juliet had worn
in Shakespeare's time.
"I will not cry," Fanny told herself, her hands fiercely
pressed together. If only she could run from this place,
down the steps and into the street, never to be seen
again 1 The tears coursed down her cheeks, smearing the
make-up Dall had so recently applied.
"Heaven smiles on you, child/' said her aunt wiping
off the streaks and putting on more rouge.
69
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"Where is Mama?"
"In her dressing room composing herself," said Dall,
a trace of severity in her voice. "It's not easy for a
woman who has thought only of her husband and chil-
dren for over a decade to appear on the stage."
"And Papa? Where is Papa?" Fanny persisted.
"He just knocked on the door, but I sent him away.
I told him you were fine."
There was a second knock on the dressing-room door.
"Miss Kemble?" It was the call-boy. "You're on!"
"Come," Aunt Dall put one arm about her, leading
her gently into the wings. Therese Kemble had just
made her entrance. The applause was deafening.
"I cannot remember a Hnel" Fanny threw herself
into her aunt's arms.
"Courage, dear child," comforted cheery, round Mrs.
Davenport. "Courage."
"My legs will not move!" moaned Fanny,
"Never mind the audience," urged Mr. Kelly. "Not
any more than if they were just a row of cabbages."
" 'Nurse! Where's my daughter? call her forth to
me/ "
Those were her mother's lines spoken by her
mother's voice! Mrs. Davenport waddled on stage.
Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old,
I bade her come. What, lamb! what, ladybird!
God forbid! Where's this girl? What, Juliet!
70
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Fanny stood as if frozen to the spot. Then she felt
herself being propelled into motion, Aunt Dall push-
ing from behind. The green baize floor rose up to meet
her, the eyes of the audience swam before her own, and
applause roared about her ears. She was dizzy as she
ran toward her mother.
" 'How now! Who calls?' " she cried in a weak, thin
voice. " 'Madam, I am here!' " The familiar words
tumbled from her lips, some intelligible, others so
softly spoken that they must not have been heard at
all. And then she remembered something that had
happened to her long ago at Mrs. Rowden's school in
France.
"I am not Fanny Kemble, alone and afraid," she
breathed. "I am Juliet who is loved by Romeo! I must
be Juliet!" Now she began to lose herself in the char-
acterization, the poetry she spoke becoming a sort of
half-sung music. In the balcony scene, her impassioned
phrases made the scene glow. She was Shakespeare's girl-
ish heroine.
The performance was over. Again and again the
audience called Fanny back onto the stage where, in a
sort of blissful haze, she bowed and smiled and smiled
and bowed until at last the lights were turned low and
the curtain closed.
Backstage everyone was talking at once. "Magnifi-
cent!" "The most beautiful Juliet since the Siddons!"
"So sensitive, so moving, so tragic!" Her father caught
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
her up in his arms. Her mother kissed her. Aunt Dall
and Adelaide were laughing and crying at the same
time, and Henry stood beaming at his sister with a new
look of: admiration. The Siddons was there to con-
gratulate her niece.
'It's a proud moment for me, my child," she said in
the voice of an old woman. "Thank you, Fanny."
Back at home there was more celebration. Friends
and admirers unable to work their way through the
backstage throng had come to pay their respects. Even
Sir Thomas Laurence was there, his eyes shining with
emotion. Fanny's head was in a whirl, her whole being
filled with elation.
In the small hours of the morning, she went wearily
to bed. Snug in the palm of her hand beneath the
pillow was a watch made in Geneva. It was a gift from
her father. Her fingers caressed it. In her wildest
dreams, she had never thought that one day she would
own a gold watch.
72
6
A WEEK. AFTER HER DEBUT in Romeo and Ju*
liet, Fanny wrote to her dearest friend.
Buckingham Gate,
James Street
October 5, 1829
Dear Harriet,
My trial is over and thank heaven most fortunately. Our
most ambitious wishes could hardly have gone beyond the
result. At the same time, I hail my success in Romeo and
Juliet as a source of great happiness to my dear mother and
father. I also hope that the interest which has been excited
in the public may tend to revive the decaying dramatic art.
You once said that you thought acting a fascinating oc-
73
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
cupation. Perhaps it is, though it indeed carries drawbacks
which act as an antidote to the love of admiration it fosters.
In our profession, as in all arts, there is the mechanical proc-
ess, the labor, the refining, the controlling the very feeling
one has. And when all the intense feeling and careful work
is done, an actor must often see those points of his perform-
ance most worthy, overlooked; and others, perhaps crude in
taste, commended. All of this tends to sober the mind as to
the value of applause. Above all, the constant consciousness
of the great distance between a fine conception and one's
best execution of it, is a powerful check to self-satisfaction.
My life has now become settled. I go each evening to the
theater with my aunt for the raising of the curtain. In my
dressing-room I keep busy with some needlework on a piece
of tapestry, not being allowed to go into the Green Room
where the older actors sit between their appearances on
stage. This is so that my morals will not be corrupted!
My salary is thirty guineas each Saturday, and already I
have paid my father's creditors a small portion of his debt. I
shall easily earn a thousand pounds this year.
I am invited everywhere, a veritable lioness of society, and
were my poor mother willing and able to sit up with me 'til
two and three in the morning, I could be dancing at a ball
every night. I do love to dance, likewise having no objection
to being sought after by the young bachelors of LondonI If
I am spoiled and my head turned, I can only say, I will need
a strong head not to be so.
Do write me of yourself and of your brother's health. I
think often of those most beautiful days of my life which
were spent with you! May Fate bring us together soon.
Yours devotedly,
Fanny
74
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Romeo and /u/e>j_played over a hundred times, each
performance sold out. Sometimes Fanny acted her role
with such sensitivity and passion that her mother would
nod and say, "Lovely, dear! You were lovely! And you
made me cry."
On other occasions Therese Kemble would throw up
her hands and cry, "My, you need to practice. How is it
possible to be so bad?"
Then Fanny's heart would sink and she would mope
about the house or escape to the park, where she tried
to walk off her depression, forgetting that her audience
always applauded with wild enthusiasm.
Sir Thomas Laurence came often to Covent Garden.
He sat in the house box, a quizzical expression on his
face, and scribbled notes as the production progressed.
"You waved your arms about too much." "You strode
about the stage instead of walking." "You were divine
in the death scene; never lose that hush in your voice"
such were the famous artist's comments which he later
passed on to Fanny. He came often to the Kemble home,
too, to work on the pencil drawing. Fanny sat for him
happily for hours while they talked of his work and hers,
and how they might each improve performances. Were
he not so much older than I, she told herself, I might
fall in love with him.
Sometimes when her Juliet did not go well, Fanny
lay awake until the rosy fingers of dawn painted the
sky with its first pale streaks of light. Why did she then
75
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
feel a stranger to Shakespeare's heroine? Why could
she not identify herself with this young girl so like her-
self? Again she even felt a sort of distaste for her role,
full of uncertainty about her emotions toward acting
as a profession. Was this not a superficial way to live
one's life, pretending to be in someone else's shoes?
She did not know. She could not decide. If only she
could be outdoors more, free of the noise and crowds
that were London! Perhaps that was all she needed,
some fresh air.
"Papa, would you be averse to my my taking up
riding again?" she ventured one day at the dinner
table.
"No no, of course not, except that we don't have
the money with which to buy you a horse."
"But I have my own money, sir."
Her father beamed. "Of course you do!" And then
he laughed. "When one has been poor so long, it's hard
to imagine that each penny need no longer be counted."
"Someday when we don't owe so much on the
theater, I shall buy both you and Mama horses, tool"
Fanny was ecstatic and, that very afternoon, she went
shopping with her parents for "a proper animal."
Fanny's riding master was the same retired army
captain who had long ago taught her mother the rules
of horsemanship. He was, of course, delighted to see
his former pupil again, bowing grandly over her hand
which he held in his. "You were a fine equestrian,
76
The Life of Fanny Kemble
madame," he said. "And now to think you are the
mother of the toast of London!"
Choosing to ignore his flattery in an effort to keep
her daughter's head from being turned, Mrs. Kemble
merely smiled. "Captain Bozzard, Fanny rode with me
as a small child. I must warn you that she is by nature
reckless."
"Fearlessness alone does not make the rider," replied
the aging riding-master, "but along with a good seat
and knowing how to manage a horse's mouth delicately,
it helps."
Now Fanny had lessons twice each week and soon
learned to manage her horse in the walk, trot, and can-
ter with grace and precision. One day when she was en-
joying a solitary ride around the ring, the little door
under the gallery opened, disclosing the captain in the
company of a middle-aged woman and a little girl.
"I should like to put you through your paces!" he
called, and Fanny waved her acquiescence. When she
had finished executing her various feats of horseman-
ship, the captain introduced her to her audience of two.
"Your Highness, the Duchess of York, and the Prin-
cess Victoria, Miss Kemble!" he said.
Fanny dismounted quickly and curtsied.
"I shall never be as graceful!" sighed the little girl,
as sadly she followed her aunt from the ring.
So it was Fanny first met the princess who one day
would rule over the British Isles.
77
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"A letter for Miss Fanny!" exclaimed Dall one bright
morning in early November.
Fanny, who was dressing to go for a canter, flew down-
stairs in her eagerness. "Where is it from?" she called.
"From whence is it, you mean!" corrected her aunt.
"Tell me, Dall. Please tell me!"
"It is from the Orient, child," replied the older
woman with a smile. "Love, love, young love," she
teased, and went on with her dusting.
Upstairs in her room again, Fanny sat down in her
favorite rocking chair. Her heart beat very fast, but she
did not break the gold waxen seal on the envelope. Not
yet not until she had had proper time to bring her
own dear cousin into focus. She half-shut her eyes,
smiling, and the memory of the tall, handsome soldier
smiled back at her. With trembling fingers, she opened
the letter.
"My dear child," Henry began. Terror struck into
Fanny's heart. Since when had he begun to regard her
as a child! She read on:
It grieves me to write you thus. Yet not to do so would be
to play the coward, a role ill-suited to a soldier of the Scot-
tish regiment. I have for some time experienced a loneliness
impossible to describe here in my isolated world, so many
miles from all that I hold dear. Even your young face is now
but a beautiful and misty dream.
Will you then forgive my transgression, knowing that had
Fate not otherwise decreed, you and I would one day have
belonged only to each other? Much as I find it difficult to
78
The Life of Fanny Kemble
bear you such news, and I say this in all modesty, I took unto
myself last week a wife.
Fanny read no further. She crumpled the letter into
a tight ball. Smoothing her long riding skirt, she fas-
tened the frogs on her coat and, with her crop in her
hand, stole from the house. Perhaps if she rode and
rode, she would be able to breathe again, in spite of
her heartbreak.
It was fortunate that at this time Fanny's life was
filled with excitement. One night, just after the curtain
closed on Romeo and Juliet, she rose from her couch
of tragedy, white robes unfolding about her, to see her
father coming toward her with a most handsome young
man.
"This is Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Fanny," said
Charles Kemble. "He has asked me to present him to
you, my dear. My daughter Fanny, sir."
"Mr. Mendelssohn, the brilliant composer! It is an
honor for me to meet you!" cried Fanny before her new
friend had had a chance to pay her a single compliment.
So the two young artists found one another and a
friendship began that was to last a lifetime.
On the twenty-seventh of November, Fanny was
twenty years old. The night before, the cast of Romeo
and Juliet celebrated the occasion in the Green Room,
which had been forbidden one so young and innocent.
Here she was toasted by those theater stalwarts of her
7?
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
father's company who for one night at least tried to
forget that this shimmering young star had replaced
them in the theatrical firmament.
On the afternoon of her birthday, Aunt Dall also
planned a party just for the family. While they lingered
over the rich cake she had baked, a large package was
delivered at the Kemble house on James Street.
"What can it be?" Adelaide wanted to know.
"Open it!" cried her mother, equally excited.
With her father's help, Fanny broke the string and
peered into the multitudinous folds.
"You hold onto the wrappings I'll lift out whatever
is inside," said Charles Kemble, and with a sudden tug
released a large picture in a wide gold frame.
Fanny jumped to her feet and looked over her
father's shoulder. "It's a print of Reynolds portrait of
Aunt Siddons!" she exclaimed. "What does the inscrip-
tion say?" Then she read aloud: " 'This portrait, The
Tragic Muse, by England's greatest painter, of the
noblest subject of his pencil, is presented to her niece
and worthy successor by her most faithful friend and
servant, Laurence/ "
Unable to speak, Fanny held out her arms for the
picture,
Romeo and Juliet had been playing for more than
three months at Covent Garden, and although still to
80
The Life of Fanny Kemble
crowded houses, Charles Kemble felt it was time to
prepare a new production.
"We want to close while they're still begging for
more, Fan! Always leave them hungry, child. Remember
that if anything ever happens to me." He handed her
the new script, admonishing her at the same time.
"Venice Preserved boasts the longest dialogue in
English drama the heroine's role, I mean. Take your
time learning it."
Fanny mastered it perfectly in three hours. She came
back downstairs from her room wearing a puzzled frown.
"I don't understand this Belvidera, sir," she mur-
mured. "She is not like me, nor I like her."
"Otway is a fine dramatist, Fanny," her father ar-
gued. "And Venice Preserved was one of the Siddons'
favorites."
"Why must I be such a copycat, Papa?"
"Because one never lets the audience forget, child.
Never."
So the rehearsals began by day, Fanny still playing
Juliet each evening. Now there was less time for canters
in the park or for talks with Sir Thomas Laurence,
for whom she was still posing and on whom she
depended for advice.
One chill Sunday in January, when the wind howled
in the streets of London, Laurence knocked at the door
of the Kemble household.
81
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"May I come in and finish my drawing?" he ventured,
giving the maid-servant his great cloak and coming to
warm his hands beside the fire in the hearth.
"You may, indeed/' replied Fanny's mother, who was
mending her husband's long, black hose. "Do sit down.
Fanny's in her room working on her lines, but I'll call
her."
"I'm glad to see you, Sir Thomas, 1 ' put in Charles
Kemble, drawing up a chair for their guest. "Perhaps
you'll have some ideas about Fanny's costumes in the
new play."
"I should like to think so/' replied Laurence, rising
again to greet Fanny who came to him with out-
stretched hands.
"Lovely child!" he said and kissed her fingertips.
"Lovely Belvidera! May you break the hearts of your
countrymen all over again."
"I'm terrified of the part, Sir Thomas," Fanny said.
"Don't you think I am too small in stature, too young,
too much Juliet?"
Laurence shook his head gently. "No, my dear, the
audience will forget your lack of height once you're
into the role. Creatures of the most daring energy are to
be found among short men and women."
"You give me confidence, Sir Thomas!"
"Not too much, I hope, my Fanny. For you must not
go running on, in all the nakedness of talent. That is
not enough. I myself will help you with your gestures,
82
The Life of Fanny Kemble
your inflections, for I've been studying you and your
Juliet ever since the curtain first went up on it/'
While the artist sketched, they sat together Fanny,
Sir Thomas, Aunt Ball, and her parents the whole
afternoon, discussing the new play.
"And now the costuming/' put in Charles Kemble.
"From start to finish this is a tragedy, the drama of a
deranged woman who digs for her husband's body in
the ground. I think Fanny must wear black."
"I agree with your father," added Therese Kemble
quickly, only too conscious of the consternation written
on her daughter's face.
"Not even one pretty frock?" Fanny cried. "Not even
before Belvidera is poverty-stricken?"
"Fanny's right. She should wear a handsome cos-
tume in the first scene. Her appearance in it will only
heighten the contrast. Hm-m-m!" Laurence sketched
quickly his conception of Fanny's "pretty frock." "How
do you like it?" he said at last, proffering the rough
draft to his young model.
"Some embroidered material would be effective/'
added Sir Thomas. "A soft blue, perhaps, with jewels to
highlight the whole ensemble. And as for the hat, let's
give it a high crown and feather a beautiful one, all
white and curling."
"Oh, I shall be very grand!" exclaimed Fanny de-
lightedly. "And not quite so small a creature, either!"
Everyone laughed, then, and so the matter was de-
83
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
cided. But Fanny did not feel at ease in the role, and she
faced opening night in a panic. Stepping on stage amid
a thunder of applause, she stood as if frozen to the spot.
How long had the words in her throat taken her breath,
refusing to be spoken? How long had she been a marble
statue without life or color? Raising her eyes in a sort of
silent supplication to God, she saw Sir Thomas' face in
the half-light. As usual he sat in the house box, along
with her mother and father, smiling confidently.
Suddenly she began to speak, her lines flowing in an
endless musical stream. At the conclusion of her first
speech, the theater rang with tumultuous approbation.
When the final curtain came down and Charles Kemble
stepped on stage to announce repetition of the perform-
ance, the whole pit became a mass of raised hats and
floating handerchiefs, the cheering and applause deafen-
ing.
The critics were unanimous in their praise, one of
them writing enthusiastically, "It is like looking at Mrs.
Siddons through the diminishing end of an opera glass."
A week later Sir Thomas Laurence was dead. He had
spent his last hours looking at his engravings of Fanny
Kemble. His last work was a sketch of her.
As for Fanny, she was inconsolable, and it was only
because of the fine training he had given her that she
was able to get through her role in Venice Preserved
each night. One evening after she put on her trailing
84
The Life of Fanny Kemble
black veil for the graveyard scene, Belvidera's sorrow
became her own. As she bent over the make-shift grave
on stage, she let out the blood-curdling shriek the script
called for. But this time she could not stop. She con-
tinued to scream hysterically and ran behind the wings,
downstairs, and out onto the street, where her father
caught her and brought her back to her dressing room.
"If only I might play something happy, sir!" she
pleaded. But her father shook his head. "It is tragedy
which has brought you fame/' he told her firmly.
Her next play was The Grecian Daughter, chosen also
for its emotional appeal. An overly sentimental story of
a young girl's devotion to her penniless father, the crit-
ics were at once reminded that Fanny had recently saved
Govent Garden for her own parent. The young actress
was sickened by the publicity and played her role joy-
lessly, except for a single performance. She wrote Har-
riet of the humorous event during the early part of
1830:
The other evening, my stage husband, Phocion, portrayed
by the aging Abbot, clasped me in his arms so energetically
that he threw me down and then fell himself. I landed with
all my draperies in modest order, luckily, but I was never
more confused nor frightened. However, I soon recovered
and helped my better half to his feet. He was quite aghast,
poor man, and I do believe would have been standing there
yet with his eyes and mouth wide open, if I had- not man-
aged to proceed with the scene.
- 85
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
I am now learning Portia, The Merchant of Venice being
our next production. (It opens on the twenty-fifth of March.)
I shall be terrified, I know, but I delight in the part; indeed,
Portia is my favorite of all Shakespeare's women. She is so
generous, so wise; yet arch and full of fun, and a true lady. I
think her speech to Bassanio the most tender and dignified
piece of womanly feeling that was ever expressed by woman.
If I can make her live for my audience as she lives for me, I
cannot fail to please.
I'm sending you a print of Sir Thomas' drawing of my
Juliet, it having just come on the market. If only the dear
man were here to autograph it for youl At any rate, you will
have an opportunity to refresh your memory of me before
I descend upon you sometime in July. Along with my parents
and my aunt, I shall be on tour in Ireland for a whole
month, going first to Dublin, then to Cork. You really must
not be away when I come, or else I won't cornel Which is
good Irish, isn't it?
As ever your devoted friend,
Fanny
86
T
FANNY OPENED AT COVENT GARDEN in The
Merchant of Venice on March twenty-fifth, 1830.
"My dress was made of strawberries and cream/' she
wrote in her diary, "and there was not a vacant seat in
the house."
Yet on the night of the first benefit for herself a cus-
tom indulged in by actors of that day she was an un-
happy Portia. Throughout the production, the enthusi-
astic audience had interrupted with bursts of applause,
or loud demands for Fanny's attention. Ordinarily
grateful for admiration, Fanny found herself seething
with resentment. The audience was not interested in
the brave and sensitive heroine of Shakespeare's drama,
but in Fanny Kemble, a human puppet. Was she not
87
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
then Portia, so delicate, so softly womanly? Even the
theater seemed too big, too elaborate a frame for this
exquisite portrait.
Fanny went home from Covent Garden in a sorrowful
mood which was not alleviated by her mother crying
mournfully, "You were just dreadful, my child!" Mrs.
Kemble threw up her hands. "My, but you need polish,
point, a bit of brilliancy 1"
"I'm sorry, Mother," Fanny managed, holding back
her tears. She went off to bed.
She lay awake for hours with doubts and wonderings
tumbling crazily through her mind. Perhaps the stage
was not for her, she thought unhappily. If after all the
weeks of rehearsal and study, she had failed so com-
pletely to capture Portia's personality and make it her
own, she was without imagination. And how she dis-
liked the sham of the powder and the paint, the artifi-
ciality of the scenery, the blatantly exposed emotions.
Was this living, or was it rather playing at being alive, a
sort of "let's pretend'?
Yet the audience had liked her even if her mother had
not, applauding noisily from the moment the curtain
went up, disclosing Portia in her diamond-studded shoes,
until it came down on the trial scene with the heroine
in her becoming little black velvet hat.
She fell asleep as the sun came up. When she awoke,
she still felt exhausted and deeply troubled. Yet the feel
of the cold water on her cheeks as she stood over the
88
The Life of Fanny Kemble
blue and white basin on her bureau steadied her. What
was she thinking of? She was the main support of
the family. There was her sister's musical career, her
brother Henry's commission in the army to be bought
and paid for if he were to know his life's ambition, her
mother and father to be taken care of.
With a small sigh, she curled up on the window seat,
the warmth of unexpected spring sunshine comforting
her. She must go over and over her lines, invading the
mind of the elusive and lovely heroine. She must en-
velop herself in the part, pushing Fanny Kemble far
back into the shadows of reality so that she would be
lost and forgotten. She must become Portia.
"I am Portial" she said at last. Sudden joy flooded her
whole being and stayed with her all during her perform-
ance that evening.
The Merchant of Venice played to capacity houses for
four weeks, and as the days flew by on wings of enchant-
ment, Fanny forgot her mental turmoil in the excite-
ment of bringing her heroine to life. When she was not
in rehearsal, she read a great deal Byron, Keats, Sir
Walter Scott, and countless plays, searching always for a
suitable vehicle for her own talents. She still wrote let-
ters to Harriet St. Leger and to a new friend, Mrs.
Jameson, a popular author of the day. She also worked
on writing a new play.
Early in June, she and her father set out on their sum-
mer tour. Mrs. Kemble was in too delicate a state of
89
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
health to go along. "How glad I am that you're my
aunt!" cried Fanny, burying Dall in a sudden hug. "It's
like having two mothers." For Dall was to take The-
rese's place as companion, chaperone, and critic, and
many were the nights that Fanny wept on her ample
shoulder.
It was in Bath that Fanny experienced indifference to
the Kemble name and talent for the first time.
"One critic said I was too restrained," murmured
Fanny the day after her first performance. "Another,
that I am too small to be Portia! Oh, Aunt, I'm so hu-
miliated!"
"Anyone as beautiful as you should be a stranger to
that emotion, child," said Dall with a trace of im-
patience. "Besides, I cried from start to finish, which is
quite a compliment since I've seen you do the role at
least ten times."
"Don't fret, Fan." Her father put his arms about her.
"This is good preparation for the Scots, you know. They
sit on their hands."
"What do you mean?" Fanny was incredulous.
"Just what I say, little one! A Scotsman just can't bear
to let his feelings show," explained Charles Kemble.
"Oh, dear, the poor things." Fanny sighed. "I'm glad
I'm English or am I French?" she finished, squaring
her slim shoulders.
It was indeed true. Although she and her father
played to crowded theaters, there was not a ripple of
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The Life of Fanny Kemble
applause to break the cold, unfriendly silence in the
Scottish theaters. It was in Edinburgh, however, that
Fanny experienced one o the most poignant moments
of her life. While riding with her father one morning,
she was startled when a benign-looking Scot held up his
hand to halt her father's horse.
"Pardon me, sir," began the stranger, "but I should
like to be introduced to your famous daughter."
Charles Kemble tipped his hat and smiled. "And so
you shall be, and she in turn be honored. Fanny, my
dear, this is one of your heroes, Sir Walter Scott."
Fanny, who thought her heart would surely stop beat-
ing, sat staring dumbly at the poet whose music had so
long fed her soul.
"I'm truly delighted, Miss Kemble." Sir Walter
bowed low. "Not only do I admire your acting, but also
the way in which you handle that mare. A good horse-
woman has great merit in the eyes of an old Borderman,
you know!"
"Thank you, sir," was all Fanny could manage.
"You know, we Scots wear a hard shell, Miss Fanny,"
he went on in his kindly voice. "Your Portia pleased me
mightily, however, and I have just written the critics to
tell them so."
Afterward the three Kembles breakfasted with the
great man and his daughter Anne. Finding her tongue
at last, Fanny told him of her love of his poetry, reciting
bits of it from memory. She was deeply touched when
91
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
he whispered, "I admire you most of all because of what
you're doing for your father. I, too, have known what it
is to be poor!"
It was an occasion Fanny never forgot, hugging it to
herself comfortingly whenever she was chilled by feel-
ings of inadequacy or indecision.
Early July found the trio in Ireland. Fanny was beside
herself with anticipation. After such a long time, she
was to be reunited with Harriet.
"It's as if we never said good-by!" she cried at the
sight of her friend. Almost at once they were deep in
lengthy and wonderful talks about love and philosophy
and the meaning of life on this earth. When Fanny told
of the coldness of the Scots, Harriet shook her head.
"You won't find the Irish any better," she warned.
"You see, we, too, distrust the English. You must win our
hearts/'
On opening night, Fanny was seized with chilling
fear. She could not face another Edinburgh. Yet she had
spoken but a few lines when she felt the warmth of her
audience flow up and about her. Perhaps they sensed
her nervousness and were trying to give her courage.
Coming out of the theater with Aunt Dall after the
performance, she was astonished to find some two hun-
dred young men there to pay her homage. Fanny made
a dash for her carriage. The young men ran alongside it
all the way back to the hotel. There they formed a
double-line escort for her to walk between.
92
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"Begorra and yer the foine actress!" cried one swain,
peeking under her bonnet.
"Thank you, sir/' murmured Fanny.
"Begad, but she looks well by gaslight!" cried an-
other.
"Och, and by daylight, too!" cried a third, slapping
his thigh in delight.
Laughing, Fanny escaped into the hotel. Upstairs in
her room, she sank down on the bed, exhausted but
happy, safe, and beloved. Edinburgh seemed a long
time ago.
One evening during her stay in Ireland, Fanny was
entertained in the home of Lady Morgan, a friend of
Harriet. During dinner, news of the French Revolu-
tion of 1830 was delivered to their hostess, who cried
out joyfully, "How I rejoice in the birth of the new
France!"
After that Fanny sat silent, deep in her own thoughts.
France, as well as England, had been her home. How
close she felt to her mother's people, how much a part
of their struggle for freedom. Suddenly all her dis-
satisfaction with the artificiality of her existence over-
whelmed her. While she had been pretending to be
someone else, her French sisters had been living the
reality of war. At that moment she disliked her pro-
fession fiercely,
9)
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
At the end of the summer, Aunt Dall, Fanny, and her
father returned to London.
"Mama, Mama!" cried Fanny holding her mother
close. "We have missed you so."
Her father, too, was ecstatic that he was back in Eng-
land. His love for his wife shone out of his eyes. "May I
never have to leave you again, my darling," he whis-
pered over and over again, all unmindful of the pres-
ence of his daughter and his sister-in-law.
After she had unpacked her luggage, Fanny went alone
to Covent Garden. She stood motionless in the shadow
of this place which had nurtured her since she was an
infant. And as she stood in the darkness, all of her life
seemed to appear before her in a series of scenes, her
father's pride in his profession and the royal theater
pervading them all. Suddenly she knew that she could
never let him down, that she wanted to add to his pride
and his happiness. Oh, how good it was to be in London
again, she thought, with the wide stage of Covent Gar-
den holding out its arms I
The Siddons had just celebrated her seventy-fifth
birthday. A beautiful aristocrat, she still reigned su-
preme over her small world. Delighting a chosen few
with readings from Shakespeare in her own parlor, she
also drew to her imperious side her nieces, nephews,
and cousins. So it was on Christmas Day of 1830 that Sid-
donses and Kembles came from as far away as Scotland
to pay her court.
94
The Life of Fanny Kemble
It was a gala occasion with an elaborate feast served
on golden dishes. After dinner each member of the fam-
ily offered a taste of his or her special talent. Fanny
started the proceedings with a scene from The Merchant
of Venice, her mother and father following in a playlet
Charles Kemble had written for the occasion. However,
it was Adelaide who was the sensation of the afternoon.
A slender young beauty with a fine soprano voice, she
accompanied herself on the guitar that Fanny's earnings
had bought.
"Two daughters with such talent is more than your
share!" exclaimed the Siddons. "You're truly blessed,
Charles and Therese."
Fanny, who so seldom had felt her aunt's approval, was
suddenly warmed clear through. Her aunt did think she
could act then!
"And now, Mrs. Siddons," she implored with new-
found courage, "will you give us Lady Macbeth? We beg
of you this pleasure!"
So it was that the great Sarah acted for the last time
her most famous Shakespearean role in the bosom of
her family. It was a magnificent performance, and
watching and listening to her, Fanny thought what dig-
nity the absence of make-up and costume lent the occa-
sion.
"A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!" cried
the Siddonses and Kembles to one another as they said
their good-bys at the end of a long and memorable day.
-4( 95
JFOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
The year 1831 > however, did not usher in a happy
period o English history. During the summer of the
previous year, King George IV had died, and the Duke
o Wellington had taken over the reins of the kingdom.
Now, however, with England in the throes of a depres-
sion, the Duke's government was tottering. With real
privation on every side and the subject of the Reform
Bills on every tongue, people were not interested in
the theater. At Covent Garden, the attendance fell off
sharply, and Fanny was grieved to see the lines of worry
come back into her father's face.
For Fanny, however, there was always excitement.
Starring in a new play, The Provoked Husband, she was
elated when the new king and queen commanded a per-
formance. On that night at least, the royal theater was
sold out. Following the cue of Queen Adelaide, who was
obviously pleased with the production, the audience
called the star back again and again. A week later the
Queen sent round the royal portrait encrusted with tiny
diamonds. The joy of the Kemble family knew no
bounds.
One afternoon in early spring, there was a knock at
the door of the house on James Street. Fanny, who had
been accompanying Adelaide on the piano, answered it,
expecting a tradesman.
"Why, Alfred Tennyson!" she exclaimed, holding out
her hands. "What a wonderful surprise. How many
months it's been since we have had a glimpse of you!"
96
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Now they were all talking at once, Therese, Aunt
Dall, Adelaide, and Fanny. Charles Kemble was at the
theater, trying hard to straighten out his confused ac-
count books.
They talked of Fanny's summer of travel, and of how
she had missed Tennyson that winter at balls and par-
ties. Fanny mentioned that she had never found a danc-
ing partner to replace him. They talked of her brother
John, who had returned to his studying in Germany
after months of fighting in Spain.
"My father fears he will never find himself/' sighed
Fanny.
"Even I have begun to worry/' put in her mother.
"First the law, then the ministry, and finally to risk his
life in the Spanish Revolution!"
Tennyson shook his head, smiling. "He's just having
growing pains, like all of us. After all, he is only twenty-
two."
"And I, who am a year younger, feel so old!" Fanny
sighed again. "But what of you, Alfred? We have talked
Kemble too long."
For a moment the young poet did not reply. Then
with the look of a small boy seeking reassurance, he
gazed into Fanny's eyes. "I ask a favor of you, my dear.
I've brought you a small book of my poems in manu-
script form my first book. Will you tell me what you
think of them? Truly before I send them off to the
printer?"
97
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"I will indeed, Alfred, but do read aloud from it
first."
When Therese and Adelaide added their supplica-
tions to Fanny's, the young poet riffled through the
pages in longhand.
"I'll begin with 'The Sisters/ " he said. "Being in the
presence of such lovely ones, it seems appropriate."
Before the afternoon was over, Adelaide and Fanny
had set the tragic poem to music. As for the rest of the
poetry, Fanny was thrilled beyond belief. "Coming out
of the greatest head of any man I've ever clapped eyes on,
his poems are lyrically beautiful," she wrote to Harriet.
"England will long be proud of him, for he shall bring
glory to her name."
In June of the same year Sarah Siddons died after a
long illness. Fanny, acting for the first time her aunt's
most famous role of Lady Macbeth, was desolate. Once
again she poured out her heart to her friend in Ireland.
"I feel as if I were standing up by the great pyramid of
Egypt to see how tall I am," she said. "The Lady Mac-
beth will never be played again and I wish that, in
honor of my aunt, the play might be forbidden on the
English stage for the next ten years."
Covent Garden closed its doors for seven nights in
mourning for this brightest light of the London theater*
98
8
SHUTTING THE DOOR on the postman with a
mere nod, Fanny's hands trembled as she opened the
package which was addressed to her.
"Mama, Mama, it's cornel" she cried, her face aglow
with excitement.
"What has come, ma petiteT* Her mother flew down
the stairs, hose to be mended in one hand, needle and
darning worsted in the other.
"Francis the First. My play is all here in this beautiful
book, Mama!" Fanny twirled about, then threw her
arms about her mother.
Therese Kemble smiled into her daughter's eyes.
"This is a moment of great pride for all of us, Fanny
the publication of your first play." Then she was silent
99
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
for a moment. "But why, little one, is it more important
to you than than having the King and Queen come to
see you, as they did in The Provoked Husband?"
"Because now I can buy Henry his commission in the
army! You know, until I held this published manu-
script in my hands, I just couldn't believe that I would
ever see something of mine in print. But I am so happy
for Henry!"
Therese Kemble held her daughter at arms* length,
hose and thread tumbling to the floor. "How blessed we
are to have a compassionate child as well as a talented
one," she said, and her eyes filled with tears.
Charles Kemble produced Fanny's play early in Au-
gust of 1832 at the royal theater, with its author play-
ing Louisa of Savoy. And although she was in reality
many years younger than the Queen Mother, Londoners
flocked to see her in Francis the First, which the Quar-
terly Review described as "a remarkable production,
the language pure, free and elegant, the whole tone
strictly dramatic."
For four weeks Covent Garden was filled to over-
flowing each night. Then slowly the crowds began to
shrink, and the play closed to make way for The Hunch-
back, by Sheldon Knowles, one of Fanny's most highly
praised vehicles. As for Fanny, she was transported over
the success of her first literary venture and the fact that
the book ran into several editions. Equally happy was
Henry, who had at last realized his lifetime ambition.
100
The Life of Fanny Kemble
In spite of a successful spring season, that summer
again found Fanny and her father on the road in order
to keep the proverbial wolf from the door of their be-
loved theater. The "wolf this time was one Mr. S. J.
Arnold, owner and manager of the English Opera House.
His business was also suffering from the economic slump,
and he was now determined to extend his activities into
the legitimate theater. In order to accomplish this, he
must break the monopoly which for over a hundred
years had given Drury Lane Theater and Covent Gar-
den the sole rights to managership in London.
Charles Kemble, believing as he did that only the
finest of actors should be tolerated by English audi-
ences, pleaded his cause before the House of Commons
with tears in his eyes:
Have you worthy gentlemen ever considered the evils that
will ensue if just anyone is allowed to manage a theater?
This will mean the breaking up of the fine old companies
where each actor is of great stature, duty-bound to perform
as a conscientious artist. It is certain to sound the death
knell of great drama in London! What else can happen with
myriad companies in production over the city, their ranks
filled with inexperienced actors and actresses?
Although the Lords listened politely to Mr. Kemble's
plea, he had a feeling from the start that their decision
would go against him. Besides, he was an honest man,
and he admitted that over the years the two London
101
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
theaters had taken many liberties with their long-stand-
ing rights.
Mr. Arnold and his attorneys argued that, as manager
of Covent Garden, Charles Kemble was an "interested
party/' anxious not only to maintain high standards in
the London theater but also to save his own skin. In ad-
dition to the Arnold case, there were also half a dozen
Chancery suits against the Garden. All of this weighed
heavily on the shoulders of the Kembles.
When Fanny and Charles set off on their tour, the suit
before the House of Commons was still unsettled.
"Let's forget all about it, Papa, dear/' whispered
Fanny within the darkness of the coach that carried
them into the provinces. "For the next few weeks we
will act our roles to the best of our ability, go to all the
parties to which we are asked, and be happy 1"
Nodding in agreement, Charles took his daughter's
hand in his. And they kept their promise to each
other. They were the epitome of gaiety at dinners and
receptions in their honor, dancing until the early morn-
ing hours when there was a ball, playing their hearts
out in Romeo and Juliet, The Provoked Husband, and
The Hunchback. Yet whenever Fanny chanced to steal a
glance at her father, should they be alone, she could not
help seeing the sadness that was written on his face.
Returning home at midsummer, the pair found deep
consternation at Covent Garden. England's recession had
not abated, particularly in the city, and the actors had
102
The Life of Fanny Kemble
cut their own salaries. Fanny's childhood hero, Charles
Young, was acting for nothing out of devotion to the
Kemble family. The theater was in serious trouble. On
top of this, the House of Commons had decided against
monopoly of management in London.
Heartsick, Charles Kemble called his family around
him. He took some comfort from the fact that his son
John had at last returned to England after months of
study in Germany under the eminent bibliophile, Jacob
Grimm.
"With John lecturing at Cambridge, and Adelaide
and Fanny at your side, you will know the love and care
I would give you, Therese," he said to his wife, his voice
choked with emotion. "I can see only one course to fol-
low. I must go to America."
America that dreadful, uncivilized country across
the Atlantic Ocean! Fanny could not believe her ears.
Covertly, she looked at Adelaide, on the threshold of a
great operatic career; at her mother, head bowed, tears
falling uncontrolledly; at her father, deep in sorrow
over the loss of his beloved Covent Garden. Fanny sat up
very straight. Her family must think her brave even if
she was not.
"And I shall go with you," she said calmly, wonder-
ing if human hearts ever really did break.
Was it a bad dream that she would never again act on
the stage of Covent Garden, shouts of "Long Live the
-4( 103
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Kemblel" ringing in her ears? Was it a nightmare from
which she would awaken, this farewell to her brothers,
to Adelaide, to her mother, all of whom she would not
see for two years?
On August first, 1832, she stood on the deck of the
Pacific, England's finest sailing vessel, as it set out across
the endless blue ocean. Beside her, as the great sails un-
furled, were Aunt Dall and her father, the tears cours-
ing down their cheeks. As for Fanny, who wept at will on
stage, she could not cry. She felt nothing but a great
emptiness.
It was an eventful crossing of calm and storm, of new
friendships and associations, with Fanny the toast of the
ship. When, at the end of five weeks, the Pacific reached
the harbor of New York, it was quarantined. Not only
were there fog and torrential rain, but an epidemic of
cholera had been raging in the city. That night and the
next, Fanny wept into her pillow. She ached for the feel
of England beneath her feet. She longed for the com-
panionship of her friends. But most of all, she wanted
her mother.
On the third day, hope was born anew. The sun
shone brightly, the cholera was abating, and the eager
passengers were to be released from their ship. The
Kemble trio went at once to their hotel suite in America
House, which faced an emerald park. Fanny could even
see across the street the theater where she was to make
her American debut.
104
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"The city strikes me as foreign in its appearance
continental, I mean," she wrote in her diary. "Trees
are mixed with houses painted various colors, all having
blinds on the outside . . . Yesterday evening the trees,
lighted shop windows, and brilliant moonlight were
like a suggestion of the Boulevards. It is very gay and
rather like a Fair."
Strolling up Broadway with Aunt Dall and her fa-
ther, Fanny was interested in the friendly Americans
who laughed and talked together with such lack of
restraint. As for the many Negroes, in their bright
clothes, their dark faces smiling, she found them fasci-
nating.
"These are not the American slaves I have read about
certainly," she whispered to her father, who shook his
head.
"It's only in the South of the country that white men
own black men," he said.
"What a wicked practice!" breathed Fanny, sickened
by the thought.
However, she soon forgot her concern for her fellow
men in rehearsal and the round of parties given for
the visiting Kembles. Armed with letters of introduc-
tion from prominent Englishmen, Fanny and her father
found themselves frequent guests of honor. Much as the
friendliness of their hosts and hostesses warmed their
hearts, Fanny was shocked by the absence of the accus-
tomed English elegance, not only in household appoint-
-4[ 105
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
ments but in manners as well. She noted in her journal,
which she kept religiously, that she was more convinced
than ever that the English were a superior race.
On September seventeenth, 1833, her father opened
at the Park Theater in the title role of Hamlet. Fanny
and her aunt sat in a private box. Charles Kemble
had never acted the part more brilliantly. The capacity
house called him back again and again.
"If only Mama were here," sighed Fanny.
The next night, Fanny played Bianca in Fazio for her
debut performance. In spite of an inept leading man
and the star's nervousness, the critics were extravagant
in their praise.
"It was impossible not to share each emotion and
sympathize with her in every phase of her passion/'
wrote The American.
"The great peculiarity of her acting is mind/' de-
clared The Mirror. "We have seen the finest female
genius of this day."
It is difficult to be homesick always when one's rooms
are filled with great baskets of flowers, thought Fanny,
and more difficult to be disdainful of a country whose
people besiege you with invitations, congratulations,
and letters of endearment.
"I'm beginning to like America in spite of myself/'
she said late one night as she shared an after-theater
supper with her father and Aunt DalL "At least I am
grateful."
106
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"Have you seen the boy who sits each night in awed
worship, his eyes never leaving your face?" asked her
aunt. "He always manages a front-row seat yet he can't
be more than twelve or thirteen."
"I'll look for him tonight," promised Fanny. "Some
time I want to thank him."
But when one was the toast of a great city like New
York, it was difficult to remember the adoration of
small boys, and not for nearly two decades did Fanny
learn her admirer's identity. He was Walt Whitman,
who became one of America's immortal poets.
Whitman wrote thirty years later:
Fanny Kemble I Name to conjure up great mimic scenes
withal perhaps the greatest! ... I remember well her
rendering of Bianca in Fazio . . . nothing finer did stage
ever exhibit the veterans of all nations said so, and my
boyish heart and head felt it in every minute cell ... It
was my good luck to see her nearly every night she played at
the Old Park. And it was strange but certainly true that her
playing, and the elder Booth's, with Alboni's and Bettina's
singing, gave the first part of the influence that resulted in
my Leaves of Grass.
At the end of two weeks, during which the Kembles
acted in an equally successful Romeo and Juliet, they
set out for Philadelphia. Here again their ovations were
tremendous, and the Chestnut Street Theater turned
hundreds away from the box office. Fanny's star had
107
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
never shone more brightly and she lived in a bower of
blooms sent by her countless swains. But among the
baskets o flowers, there was always a special nosegay of
pink roses framed in lace. "From a Philadelphia friend,"
read the proper little card which accompanied them.
When at last Fanny met this "friend," Pierce Butler,
the son of a distinguished Philadelphia physician and
grandson of Major Butler, an Englishman who brought
his regiment to America before the Revolution, she
knew she was in love.
"I have never felt like this before/' she confided to
her aunt.
"M-m-m," said Dall wisely. "Tell me about this
young man."
"He's quite handsome, Aunt not that looks matter
that much I He is tall and blond and and, I guess, very
rich, though I don't care about that either."
"It is nice to be rich, Fanny. What does he do to make
all that money?'*
"That is why I find him so fascinating. He's so so
well, he has several talents. He dabbles in politics. He is
an attorney. He runs the Butler Plantation down in
well, I really don't know where it is. And besides all
this, he is very musical. He sings beautifully and also
plays the flute!"
Dall nodded her head in approval. "Mr. Butler
should make you a fine husband."
"But, Aunt, he has not asked me yet, nor is there
108 -
The Life of Fanny Kemble
any indication that he will. Don't start matchmaking I"
"You are twenty-three quite old enough to marry/'
concluded Ball, thereby announcing her intention to
aid and abet Pierce Butler's campaign for her niece's
hand.
Now it was Pierce in whose company Fanny was seen
everywhere. Pierce took her walking in the Park, with
Dall a discreet distance behind in her role of chaperone.
Pierce it was who found her a beautiful saddle horse,
and the two of them rode out into the country together.
But most of all, Fanny admired this man for his knowl-
edge of world and national affairs, his interest in music
and art and religion. With great patience he explained
the controversial doctrine of nullification, by virtue of
which a state which refused to go along with the present
high tariffs could withdraw from the Union. He talked,
too, of President Andrew Jackson, recently re-elected to
office.
"Is it true that he gambles and swears and owns race
horses?" Fanny wanted to know.
"Our President is quite different from your monarch,
Fanny/' Pierce explained. "Mr. Jackson came from poor
parents who lived on a little farm in the Carolinas. He
is self-taught, self-made. He worked his way up in the
true American tradition. Why, he's been a successful
merchant, congressman, and general and planter. They
say he owns hundreds of slaves. And to think he was
once a poor boyl"
109
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Fanny's face clouded. "Your President is a slave-
owner?" she asked incredulously.
Pierce looked down at her, love shining out of his
dark-blue eyes. "What does all that matter/' he whis-
pered huskily, "when I love you so very much?"
He kissed her for the first time that night, with dig-
nity, on one cheek. Whenever Fanny thought of it, she
put her small hand on the place his lips had rested.
Soon thereafter Fanny and her father and Ball jour-
neyed to Baltimore, a village of neat, red brick houses
which made her homesick for England all over again.
But Pierce had preceded her, and her room was filled
with geraniums, roses, and camellias. Here again she
and her father were received with tremendous enthu-
siasm and her heart was gay as they set out for Washing-
ton.
From Washington she wrote to her mother that she
would never forget the Capital City. On opening night
the theater was filled to overflowing, the audience the
most distinguished in America. John Quincy Adams sat
in one box in the company of Dolly Madison, the aging
but charming widow of another ex-President. On the
opposite side of the house was Judge Story of Massachu-
setts, along with Senator Daniel Webster. All of the
Judges of the Supreme Court were there also, in the
company of Chief Justice John Marshall. But the most
110
The Life of Fanny Kemble
exciting thing was Pierce Butler's appearance in the pit,
where he played his flute with the orchestra.
"Just to be near me, he hired himself out as a musi-
cian!" cried Fanny, hugging first her father and then
her aunt. "He is incorrigible."
"In a delightful sort of way." Ball nodded.
Fanny agreed happily. "You are right, and unless he
shows some fault soon, I shall find him irresistible, too."
Her happiness was short-lived. "You could do worse
than marry this young man, Fanny," her father said
seriously. "If my affairs at Covent Garden continue to
worsen, we shall never be able to go back to England."
Once again Fanny was inconsolable. Never to see Ade-
laide, her brothers, or her mother again? She could not
bear to think about such a catastrophe.
From Washington the Kembles journeyed to Boston.
When once more Fanny looked down into the orchestra,
it was to find Pierce smiling up at her. Much as she had
regarded marriage as a sort of shackled existence, cer-
tainly life with this madcap Romeo would be exciting.
In Boston, Fanny felt more at home than in any other
American city. By day she strolled with Pierce in the
Common, so like her beloved Green Park in London. In
the homes she visited, the English influence was every-
where. Even the people of the city conducted them-
selves with British restraint, modulating their voices,
laughing quietly, if they laughed at all.
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FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"If I should ever settle down in America, I should
like to live in Boston/' mused Fanny one sunny after-
noon in early summer. She and Pierce had ridden out
from the city on a winding road which led to Cam-
bridge. Now sitting on the crest of a little hill over-
looking a quaint old cemetery called Mount Auburn,
they were holding hands while their horses rested.
"Td spend all my time going back and forth to tend
my law practice in Philadelphia/' said Pierce. He took
her in his arms and covered her face with kisses.
Boston was an exciting place, Fanny told herself, what
with Pierce in constant attendance, and the fascinat-
ing people she continued to meet. There was Daniel
Webster, whom she had heard making an oration in the
Senate in Washington; John Quincy Adams, who flatter-
ingly insisted on talking about Shakespeare when she
wanted to hear about life in the White House; Judge
Story, who was teaching some summer courses at
Harvard University; Dr. William Channing, eminent
scholar, writer, and preacher; Catherine Sedgwick, a
famous author of the day. And it was with Miss Sedg-
wick, an older woman, that Fanny was to have another
lifelong friendship. Somehow knowing her eased the
pain of being so far from Harriet.
Coming home from the theater to Tremont House
one night with Pierce at her side, Fanny found that Aunt
Dall had retired early. Mr. Kemble was still at his office
behind stage doing some bookkeeping.
112
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"I asked for your hand in marriage tonight, Fanny/'
said Pierce, taking her in his arms. "Your father has
given his consent. Will you give me yours?"
In answer Fanny held up her face and they kissed,
sealing the bargain.
"Never have I known such happiness, my darling
Mother," Fanny wrote the next day. "Like a contented
kitten, I shall sit before his hearth and purr when he is
at my side, busying myself with study and writing when
he is not. If only you were here, I could ask for nothing
more."
Back in New York, Pierce took Fanny to the races and
on a steamboat ride up the Hudson to visit America's
famed military academy, West Point. Then, promising
lifelong devotion, he returned to Philadelphia, as he
so simply put it, "to do some work."
Before the summer was over, he joined Fanny and her
family at Niagara Falls, bringing with him all sorts of
gifts for his fiancee, including silver knives and forks
from the Butler home to replace the crude iron ones
furnished by the inns of the area. Fanny was ecstatic as
they explored Montreal, Quebec, and the countryside
along the St. Lawrence River. And her heart sang as she
dreamed each night of her future in this new, brave
land.
They returned to Boston reluctantly. "If only our
vacation could have lasted forever," sighed Fanny, her
hand in Pierce's. Their carriage jogged merrily along
-M|[ 113
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
the road, the regular clop-clop of the horses' hooves play-
ing an accompaniment. Suddenly there was a breath-
taking jolt. The air was filled with dust, shouts, and loud
neighing as all of them Charles Kemble, Pierce,
Fanny, Aunt Ball, and the driver tumbled on top of
one another.
Dusting herself off, Fanny stood up. The coach was on
its side, and the horses were trying frantically to extri-
cate themselves from the harness. While the coachman
shouted orders, she looked about. Her father, too, was
on his feet, Pierce steadying him. But where was Ball?
"Aunt! Oh, Aunt!" Fanny was frantic. Then she spied
Ball sitting on the edge of the road, apparently unable
to rise. Pierce saw her at the same time and, as one, he
and Fanny went to the little round woman who looked
up dazedly.
"Are you all right?" chorused the two young people.
Ball merely continued to stare, her face lined with
pain. Tenderly, Pierce lifted her up into his arms,
carrying her like a child to the carriage, which by this
time had been righted. He held her thus all the way to
Boston.
Back at Tremont House, Ball insisted she was as
good as before. "I was only frightened, little one/' she
said over and over again. However, Charles called a
doctor. The doctor frowned with concern at the sight of
his patient.
114
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"Her spine is seriously injured/' he confided to
Fanny. "She will need good care for a long time."
Pierce went back to Philadelphia, and Fanny spent
every moment she was not on stage at her aunt's side.
Ball never complained, although she was obviously in
pain, and despite what the doctor tried to do for her,
she grew weaker each day.
One night when Fanny returned from the theater, she
found Ball in tears. Quickly she sat down beside her,
taking the chubby hands in hers.
"And why are you crying? In all the years I've known
you, never have I seen you anything but a tower of
strength, my darling!"
"I feel such a burden. How glad I am you are to
marry Pierce! Every woman needs a home, children,
security."
"I am marrying Pierce because I love him, Aunt."
"All the same, being poor is a tragedy. I am glad he's
rich." Ball shut her eyes then and slept, her hands still
held tightly by Fanny.
A few evenings later, Fanny chanced to be at a supper
party at which she was introduced to a Philadelphia
publisher, a Mr. Lee.
"I believe you once submitted a book of your poetry
to me," murmured the publisher. "Poetry is a great
115
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
gamble, however. Do you have anything else we might
be interested in?"
For a moment, Fanny said nothing at all. Then in-
spiration came to her. If she could sell her journal, she
could make some money for her aunt.
'I've been keeping a kind of diary of my reactions to
your country/' she ventured. "Being such a personal
thing. . . /' Her voice trailed off.
"But that is just what would sell!*' Mr. Lee's face
brightened. "Now when may I see it and make a deci-
sion, Miss Kemble?" His words ran together in his ex-
citement.
"Right now! Yes, right now/' Fanny, too, was excited.
"You see, I carry my copybooks with me. I am always
scribbling about the parties I go to, the conduct of
American ladies and gentlemen, what everyone is wear-
ing, and so on."
Early the next morning, Mr. Lee called at her hotel.
"You write brilliantly, Miss Kemble. Brilliantly! Your
diary may strike some sparks in Philadelphia society,
but that will only swell the sales. I'm prepared to pur-
chase it for publication, my dear. In fact, I have a bank
draft right here."
Fanny was stunned with his generosity and hardly
heard his admonitions as he rattled off suggestions. She
remembered later only that he thought it best she sub-
stitute initials for given names.
Soon thereafter Fanny hastened to Dall. "I have some-
116
The Life of Fanny Kemble
thing for you, sweet aunt/' Fanny said and came toward
her, check in hand. ''You need never feel a burden
again you now have your own money/'
The days went by. Yet even as she reveled in her new
security, Dall was growing weaker. On the night of their
last performance in Boston, Fanny left Tremont House
with a heavy heart. A servant maid had been hired to
stay with her aunt.
"I'll leave after the first curtain," she promised Dall.
"You'll do no such thingl" chided the dearest "round
ball in the world/' who seemed to have shrunk during
the last few weeks. "I want you there to receive every
plaudit."
In answer, Fanny blew a kiss from the door before she
stole out into the night.
In spite of their New England constraint, the audi-
ence went wild after the performance, cheering and
stomping and cheering some more. When at last the
star of the evening held up her hands for quiet, all of
Boston rushed onstage, encircling her with praise and
love. One young smitten swain even placed upon her
head a circle of blood-red roses. Long after she had
run out into the street, Fanny could hear them calling,
"Come back soon, Fanny Kemblel Come back!"
The moment she entered their suite at the hotel, she
felt the hush of impending death. Dall lay motionless
on her pillow, her eyes glazed, her breath coming in
short and labored gasps. Wordlessly, Fanny took the
117
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
wasted figure in her arms, rocking back and forth as if
she were cradling a child. She held Ball thus until she
died,
"She was my other mother," Fanny breathed, looking
up at her father through a mist of tears.
Charles Kemble, so passionate in his eloquence on
stage, could not speak, for he, too, was weeping bitterly.
"We buried Aunt in the tiny cemetery in Cambridge
where Pierce and I often sat and spoke of love," Fanny
wrote to her mother. "I wished her to lie there, for life
and love and death have their trysting place at the
grave."
118
9
ON THE SEVENTH of June, 1834, Fanny Kemble
was joined in marriage to Pierce Butler, socially promi-
nent attorney, political leader, musician, and plantation
owner. The wedding was a beautiful affair at Christ
Church in Philadelphia, and all of the city's most im-
portant citizens were there to admire and congratulate
the happy pair.
"May you find much joy together!" said Pierce's fa-
ther, bestowing a kiss on the cheek of the bride, who
was looking exceptionally beautiful in shimmering white
satin and lace.
"How delighted we are for Pierce," murmured Mar-
garet Butler, Fanny's new sister-in-law. A Southerner by
birth, she exuded charm and warmth. This, of course,
119
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
pleased Fanny, who never ceased longing for her own
sister.
"Welcome to the Butler family!" cried Pierce's
brother John, as he proudly introduced her to his
friends and relatives. Fanny, wrapped tenderly in this
new love, thought she had never been so happy.
"My dearest," she whispered, looking up at her hus-
band, who smiled down at her adoringly.
They left the next day for New York City where
Fanny was to finish out her theatrical engagement. Mr.
Ireland, the most revered of the American critics, wrote
glowingly of her farewell performances:
"Her triumph in America was complete; she was the
acknowledged Queen of Tragedy from Boston to New
Orleans without a rival near her throne. Fanny Kemble,
whom all eyes admired, and all tongues praised, was the
most intellectual, passionate and original English actress
of the age,"
Two weeks after her own wedding day, Fanny bade
farewell to the stage in Philadelphia's Chestnut Thea-
ter, playing the leading role in The Wedding Day. Also
making his final appearance, Pierce gallantly played his
flute in the orchestra. As the curtain came down, he
leaped onstage and proudly embraced his bride.
Setting out with her new husband the next morning
for a lovely old inn in the Blue Ridge Mountains,
Fanny felt no regret. Her "let's pretend" existence was
over. Now she looked forward to sharing her days, her
120
The Life of Fanny Kemble
thoughts, and her inner longings with the man she
loved. Life stretched before her like an endless happy
dream, a beautiful fulfillment that made the difficult
years of becoming a woman worthwhile.
The journey to Virginia Hot Springs took several
days by carriage and coach, but listening to her hus-
band's voice, touching his hand, and looking up into his
handsome face speeded time on magic wings for Fanny.
When his lips brushed her cheek, she was consumed by
a love she had never before understood or desired. Oh,
Pierce, her heart cried out, let me care for you, comfort
you, adore youl Let me be the mainspring of your
being.
It was as if the floodgates of a long self -discipline had
broken at last. No longer need she weep for Lady Mac-
beth's sorrow, no longer argue because she was Portia,
no longer suffer because she was Juliet, speaking the
lines written by some strange hand. She had her own
lines now, her own husband to cherish, and someday
her own children to love.
At the Springs, each morning dawned more beautiful
than the last. Sometimes the newlyweds wandered hand
in hand along a half-hidden mountain trail, breathing
in the sparkling air or listening to brightly plumaged
birds singing out with a joy matched only by their own.
Sometimes they carried a basket lunch out into the
woods and sat quietly, drenched in the beauty around
them. Now and again Fanny waded in a murmuring
-H< 121
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
brook while Pierce lay on the grassy bank, watching her
with open admiration. On rainy days they sat in their
little parlor reading aloud, their fingers intertwined be-
tween them on the sofa.
"Tell me about Butler Place/' said Fanny one morn-
ing over breakfast.
"That's right you've not seen it, have you? Well, it
belongs to my aunt, as you know, though she's not
lived there for years/' Pierce reached across the table
for Fanny's small hand. "It's a lovely spot, my beloved
a big, airy house out in the country, all covered with
vines. Around it are lawns and gardens, and beyond
these are the apple orchards. Ever picked your own
fruit right off a tree, Fanny? It's nectar pure nectar!"
"It will be wonderful to live in a home again."
Fanny looked far off into the past. "Your aunt is kind to
lend it to us."
"Oh, and the lane, Fanny! I forgot to tell you about
that. I still remember how, when I was a small boy, I
used to trudge up the lane from the road, all the while
the house growing bigger and bigger as I approached.
How proud I was. How safe I felt!"
"Let's go home, Pierce." Fanny's eyes shone.
"You'll be miserably hot in the city, my love." Pierce
protested.
"But we won't be in the city. We'll be at Butler
Place," Fanny urged.
"I'd planned to stay here for six weeks," her husband
122
The Life of Fanny Kemble
went on, "and we've only been here a month. I hope
the house is ready for us there were to be some im-
provements made, you know." He frowned thought-
fully. "Are you bored, little one?"
"Oh, no! My dearest, no. It's only that that we've
been well, playing at being married long enough. Oh,
Pierce," she put her hand on his imploringly, "I want
to be your everyday wife to share your worries, your
successes. Besides, I must learn how to keep house, now
that I am Mrs. Pierce Butler! And how to entertain
your important friends. I wish I had a copy of a cook-
book my mother helped compile it's called The Cook's
Oracle, or something like that."
Pierce put back his head and laughed heartily. "Then
off to Butler Place we shall go." He got up from his
chair opposite her, pulled her to her feet, and held her
close. "And I shall find that cookbook first thing, my
precious, and the biggest apron in all Philadelphia to
go with it!"
As they covered the miles of road which led into the
hill country north of Philadelphia, her heart beat
faster and faster. Would her new home resemble her
aunt's country place in Scotland, with its happy child'
hood memories? Or would it be more like the estates
near London with their spreading trees and carefully
clipped hedges? Even if it were typically American,
surely it would have a Colonial charm, with handsomely
paneled, high-ceilinged rooms and wide verandas where
123
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
one sat on soft summer evenings. Hurry, my love, hurry,
her heart whispered.
At long last they turned into the lane which led to
Butler Place.
"Shut your eyes!" Pierce cried in boyish anticipation.
"Now open them!"
Fanny, peering through the small window of their
carriage, suddenly felt frozen with despair. Was her
husband playing a cruel joke, she wondered, as she
stared at the ugly, gray square house, its stucco chipped
and discolored, its sides covered with dead vines, the
gardens and grass around it uncut and untended.
"I don't understand this!" Pierce leaped from the
carriage, his voice loud with anger. "My aunt's tenant
had better do some explaining."
He stalked off furiously, leaving Fanny behind. When
he returned a few minutes later, he was still angry.
With her usual perception, Fanny sensed that she was
now the cause of his irritation. "We weren't expected
for another two weeks," he said coldly. "The work of
putting the house in condition has just started."
They drove back to Philadelphia in silence.
"Perhaps it will be better this way we can superin-
tend the work ourselves," Pierce said at last. "In the
meantime we can stay with Aunt Frances in the city."
"Oh, no, Pierce! Your aunt frightens me. Besides, I
should be lost in Butler mansion . . ." her voice trailed
off uncertainly.
124
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"Then perhaps my father . . ."
"Your father's entertaining some English surgeons,
remember?" Fanny reminded him.
"That's right. Oh, well, a boardinghouse will do for
a while . . ." He patted Fanny's hand.
But Fanny said nothing at all, biting back the tears.
She did not want to spend any of her first weeks as Mrs.
Pierce Butler in a boardinghouse or a hotel.
John Butler and his wife seemed delighted to see
them. Margaret hovered over her new sister-in-law in
her sweet, Southern way. "But you shall stay right here
with us!" she cried when she heard their plight. "We
have plenty of room for you until your house is ready.
Besides, it will give us a wonderful chance to know
each other better. I've always wanted a sister, you
know," she whispered to Fanny.
"So have I here in America," agreed Fanny, squeez-
ing her hand.
Aglow with happiness once more, she sang as she put
away her clothes in Margaret Butler's guest room. Soon
Pierce would join her there and take her in his arms.
But although she busied herself for an unreasonably
long time, her husband did not come.
When later she joined the family in the parlor, Pierce
greeted her with a mere nod. He was talking earnestly
with his brother about some matter of business. Fanny
felt chilled by his rejection and sat silent, letting the
others talk.
225
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
At dinner she was on John's right. "We haven't told
you about our wedding trip!" she said to him brightly.
"You've no doubt been to the Springs. Aren't they
lovely?"
Now she chattered on of their experiences in the
Blue Ridge Mountains, of the beauty abounding there,
of the charm of the old inn. When at last she had
finished, there was a strange silence.
"Such a delightful spot," she murmured, turning to
Margaret. "You have been there?"
"Margaret seldom travels," John put in. "She has
many duties at home."
Feeling the rebuff, Fanny sat silent, as did the others.
When the maid passed the dessert, the new Mrs. Butler
could stand it no longer.
"Have I offended anyone?" she asked bluntly. "If I
have, I'm truly sorry. You are all so quiet I"
"Don't you think too much conversation at the table
disturbs the digestion?" asked Margaret by way of
reply.
"I I hadn't really thought," stammered Fanny. She
hoped things would be better in the parlor after din-
ner.
But it wasn't better at all. Once there, the men
buried their heads in their newspapers, while Margaret
took up some embroidery.
"You have no handiwork?" she asked tentatively.
When Fanny shook her head, her hostess added,
126 ta~-
The Life of Fanny Kemble
"You'd best find some. Our husbands like to read un-
disturbed after a heavy meal." Now she smiled know-
ingly. "All American husbands do, you know/'
Politely Fanny nodded and smiled back. But inside
she was not smiling, but rather seething with an almost
unbearable rage. Just how long was Pierce Butler going
to ignore her?
"What are the Whigs up to these days?" she asked
suddenly, knowing that any reference to the new party
could not help but draw her husband's attention.
But it was her sister-in-law who answered the ques-
tion, sweetly but with firmness. "We do not discuss the
the Whigs in our home, my dear," she said.
That night in their own quarters, Fanny fought down
her resentment as long as she could. "Why were you so
rude to me this evening?" she said at last.
"Rude?" Pierce continued to splash his face above the
blue and white basin on his washstand.
"Yes, Pierce, rude. It was bad enough to eat our first
meal in your brother's home in silence. But then to
have you and John sit in the parlor for two hours and
read the paperl" She walked about the room agitatedly,
at last facing him. "And why, for goodness' sake, don't
we mention the Whigs in this house!"
"Now look here, Mrs. Butler . . ." Pierce was angry,
too. "American husbands are not expected constantly
to dance attendance on their wives. We were on our
honeymoon down in Virginia. It well, it is very differ-
127
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
ent now that we have come back to the city. As for the
Whigs, they are not only anti-Mason, but anti-slavery!
At least most of them are."
Fanny's eyes flashed. "And what is so wrong with
being anti-slavery? I think the buying and selling of
human beings is cruel and downright sinful!"
For a long moment her husband said nothing at all.
Then, his voice as coldly sharp as steel, he spoke, "As
the wife of a slave-holder, you had best keep quiet about
what you think." And without another word, he
climbed into the big four-poster and turned his back.
Fanny, lying sleepless beside her husband, tried to
quiet the turmoil in her heart. Although she had long
known that the Butler family had both rice and cotton
plantations in Georgia, she had somehow never con-
sidered the possibility of their owning slaves. Just to
be with her handsome and charming husband had
been enough. Yet now, because she had married her
true love, she was that most abominable of persons, a
slave-holder.
Pierce and his brother had gone to the office when
Fanny awakened the next morning. As she wandered
into the dining-room, she was told that, in the true
Southern manner, her sister-in-law was still resting.
The men did not come home for their noon meal and
the two women shared theirs in silence, afterward go-
ing out onto the veranda. Here Margaret was gaily
talkative, making all sorts of suggestions as to where one
128
The Life of Fanny Kemble
could buy materials for the draperies and chair cover-
ings at Butler Place. After an hour or so, even this sub-
ject palled, and once again Margaret picked up her
embroidery.
It was with joyful expectation that Fanny heard a
knock on the great front door. Perhaps Pierce had
come home early. Instead it was the family minister
there to welcome the new Mrs. Butler. A Unitarian of
reputation, Dr. Furness proved to be both a stimulating
and tolerant man. When her sister-in-law excused her-
self for a moment to attend to some household duty,
Fanny leaned toward him eagerly.
"Do you, as a man of God, approve of slavery?" she
asked quite frankly.
"As a man, I do not approve of that wicked practice,"
he assured her. "You will find much opposition to it in
Philadelphia, my dear. In fact, only last year the
American Anti : slavery Society was formed in our city
and is very active in combating this disgrace, Mrs.
Butler. However, as the wife of a slave-holder, you must
be careful. Use the utmost tact, my dear."
"You mean I must support my husband no matter
what his habits, his conduct?" Fanny was incredulous.
Dr. Furness shook his head. "No, Mrs. Butler, I
meant only that in trying to make Mr. Butler see the
error of his ways, you must use great tact." He stood up
now to take his leave. "Please feel free to come to me
when you are sorely tried," he said comfortingly.
129
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"And do come to church on Sunday. I shall look for-
ward to seeing you/'
"We shall be there," she promised. "Mr. Butler and
I always attend service, you know."
Already her heart felt less heavy. She had made her
first friend in Philadelphia.
Pierce did not return until just before dinnertime.
The meal was again eaten in silence. As before, the four
retired to the parlor, the men to lose themselves in
stories of the day's happenings. After an hour of fidget-
ing, during which time Fanny chided herself for not
having shopped for some handiwork, she was shocked
to see her husband and John taking their leave.
"Good night, my dears/' said Pierce smiling down at
them. "I hope you two lovely ladies will have a pleas-
ant evening together/' He bowed gallantly and fol-
lowed his brother, out into the night.
Fanny sat silent, uncomprehending, and then turned
to her sister-in-law, her eyes flashing. "Where are they
going?" she demanded.
Margaret spoke softly, lovingly. "Why, surely, you
don't expect them to spend every evening with us, my
dear? American men almost never do at least not
when they are rich enough to belong to a club. Pierce
and John belong to three, you see."
Fanny excused herself early, going off to her room in
a state of near shock. So this was what her life was to
be a separation and not a joining, a cutting off from
130
The Life of Fanny Kemble
all that was stimulating and productive, not an en-
richment. She sat beside her window for hours looking
off into the star-studded night, tears coursing down her
cheeks. What had happened to the gay camaraderie
she and Pierce had known those first blissful weeks?
What had happened to the joys of shared discovery, the
mutual delight in each other's presence?
Suddenly she wanted her mother, wanted her as she
had during that first long winter in the French school,
wanted her as if she were a child again instead of a
woman. Her nostalgia almost overcame her when she
thought of England and the gay suppers with her father
at the head of the table, Adelaide, John, and Henry
unmerciful in their teasing. She could hear Charles.
Kemble now, his deep and musical voice making some*
thing important of the most trivial event, his carefully
chosen words giving meaning to hi&iavery utterance.
She wiped her eyes and sat motionless until much later
when Pierce finally came in.
"My dearest," he said, "you are still awake! And
sitting in the dark all alone."
He lifted her up beside him, holding her tentierly*
as he whispered of his love. Fanny said nothing at all,
smiling in the darkness. It was enough after all that
her husband held her in his arms.
-g{
ALTHOUGH MORE THAN A month had gone by
since the Pierce Butlers had moved into John Butler's
home, the house in Branchtown was still not complete.
Once she was finished with the choosing of wallpaper
and curtain materials, Fanny found that the hours
dragged by endlessly. There were, of course, the con-
certs at the Academy of Music, which the whole family
attended, and an occasional play or private evening
party or ball, when Pierce was his gay and enchanting
self. For the most part, however, she sat with Margaret
in the evenings, embroidering patiently and precisely,
while the brothers went off to one of their clubs.
Will it always be like this? Fanny wondered, in a sort
of panic. Or will our lives take on new meaning when
132
The Life of Fanny Kemble
we are in our own home? Sometimes she was so irritated
by her husband's indifference that she said things to
provoke him, telling herself it was better to upset him
than not to be noticed at all. On one such evening, she
brought up the matter of slavery.
"In a land boasting equality for all, the owning of
slaves poses an enigma/' she said, as soon as the men
had settled down with their newspapers.
"My darling," Pierce said without looking up, "our
slaves are better fed, better cared for in every way,
than the free poor of London, believe mel"
"Pierce is quite right," put in John Butler. "You
have only to see them singing and dancing like happy
children to know that. Our slaves love and respect us,
Fanny."
"And they do not want to be free," concluded her
husband, folding his paper noisily. "I think I'll go to
the club early this evening." He bowed pleasantly to
Margaret and Fanny. "Good night, ladies."
As soon as the men were out of earshot, Margaret
turned reproachfully to her sister-in-law. "You have
upset them needlessly," she chided.
"But I am troubled, also," said Fanny. 'Is that of no
importance to my husband? Besides, if the slaves are
treated so well, why are the Abolitionists crying out
against beatings and torture and other cruel punish-
ments? Why, Margaret?"
Still her hostess smiled sweetly. "The Abolitionists
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
are rabble-rousers, my dear troublemakers, seizing on
an opportunity to publicize themselves."
Fanny dropped her eyes, bending once more over her
sewing. But with each thrust of the needle, she grew
more angry. At last she went off to bed, pleading a
headache.
The next evening, John, who was plainly agitated all
through dinner, called his brother aside and suggested
that the ladies go ahead into the parlor. Almost im-
mediately Pierce suggested retiring early.
At least he is not going off to his club, thought Fanny,
as she followed him up the candle-lighted stairs. How-
ever, her joy was short-lived. Once in their bedroom,
her husband turned on her angrily.
"John tells me your journal is being published, Mrs.
Butler! What is the meaning of this public insult to
to my friends?"
Fanny was aghast. "What whatever can you mean?"
Now Pierce paced back and forth, gesticulating with
his hands. "John tells me that Carey, Lee and Blan-
chard are bringing out that childish diary you kept of
your reactions to American society? Is this true, or is it
not?"
"Oh, that." Fanny's relief was boundless. She had
quite forgotten about her diary, "Surely I told you be-
fore we were married that . . /'
"You told me nothing! Nothing at all. For one who
complained that there was no privacy in the theater,
B4
The Life of Fanny Kemble
you are behaving strangely. All Philadelphia will be
talking about us."
"But Pierce . . ." Fanny went to him, her hands
outstretched. "I only wanted to earn some money for
Aunt Dall! This seemed like an easy way she felt such
a burden, you know."
"I see/' Once again her husband began his pacing.
"Both Mr. Carey and Mr. Lee are friends of mine
close friends. If I can persuade them to to withold
publication, Fanny . . ." He hesitated, unsure of his
footing.
"But, Pierce, I've already used the money. All of it."
"Then I shall gladly pay it back to them that is, if
you are willing?"
"If it is so important to you ..." Fanny began. But
Pierce's arms were about her and he kissed her tenderly.
"Thank you, Fanny. Thank you," he said.
When Fanny awakened the next morning, her hus-
band had already been to the publisher and was back
again.
"They won't listen to mel" he cried from his vantage
point at the foot of the canopied bed.
"What does it matter, my beloved," Fanny murmured
sleepily. Somehow the world of her diary seemed a long
time ago. The house in Branchtown was ready for them.
By day's end, she would be living in her own home.
It was exciting to settle her own things in the rose-
covered parlor, to put away her clothes and her hus-
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
band's in their proper places. Cookbook in hand, she
even went into the kitchen to experiment, but the maid
soon discouraged that. With servants inside and out,
there was little for Fanny to do and soon she was as
bored as she had been at John's.
Walking through the countryside one day, she had a
happy thought Perhaps Pierce would buy some horses!
How good it would be to ride beside her husband in
the early morning freshness, to talk of love and life's
ambitions once more. Now she walked faster and faster
in her excitement. Her pace became a run. And when
at last she rushed into the house, it was to find Pierce
sitting at her desk.
"What are you doing?" she asked bluntly.
"Editing your page proofs,'* he said. "I've spent two
hours just cutting out an adjective here or a name
there which might offend someone. It is much im-
proved."
"When did the proofs come? How dare you touch
them!" Fanny cried.
"But I thought you didn't care one way or another."
Pierce was astounded.
"Whether or not my diary was published didn't mat-
ter to me." Fanny's voice was cold with anger. "But if it
is to be in print, then I care very much that it not be an
insipid bit of inconsequence. And if your friends are
silly enough to get their feelings hurt . . "
136
The Life of Fanny Kemble
But Pierce had left the room, the page proofs in
his hand.
Digging her nails into her palms, Fanny dashed out
o the house, tears streaming down her face. Where she
went did not matter. All that was important was that
she get away far away from the man she had married.
She did not go home again until early morning. She
tiptoed into the bedroom she shared with her husband
just as the sun rose.
"My darlingl My beloved! I was so worried about
you." Once again Pierce took her in his arms, soothing
and comforting her.
The winter passed slowly on the Pennsylvania farm.
Sometimes Pierce stayed in the city overnight and,
when he was at home, he was preoccupied and silent.
It was with childish enthusiasm then that Fanny wel-
comed an occasional visitor from Philadelphia: Sheridan
Knowles, the English playwright and author of The
Hunchback; Miss Martineau, British reformer and pub-
lic speaker who was on her way South to "do something
about the slaves"; Dr. Furness, who twice brought Dr.
William Channing, the eminent Unitarian minister and
abolitionist; Lucretia Mott, whose summer home was
next door to Butler Place.
This quiet Quaker woman had a fascination for
Fanny. A born fighter, she sounded the trumpet for
137
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
women's rights and the freedom of the slaves. It was
even rumored that she sheltered runaways from time
to time.
"I'd rather you do not see Lucretia Mott again," de-
clared Pierce sternly one evening at dinner. "We are not
the only slave-holders in Pennsylvania, you know."
Fanny, lowering her eyes, said nothing for a moment.
Then looking up at her husband, she asked, "May I
have a riding horse, Pierce?"
A week later, she wrote to Harriet St. Leger: "Pierce
brought me a beautiful saddle horse a bright bay
with black points ... I have christened him Forrester
after the hero of my play. He grins with delight when I
talk to him. He has high courage and a good temper. I
do not know what would become of me if anything
were to happen to him."
Each day, no matter the weather, Fanny rode out
over the countryside. She told her husband excitedly of
every small discovery, of her joy in being a part of na-
ture. But even her enthusiasm did not awaken in Pierce
a desire to go with her. Like his interest in reading,
music, and good talk, his interest in horses seemed to
have died since his marriage.
"What has happened to us?" Fanny asked Pierce one
winter night as the wind roared through the valleys
and snow swirled about the farmhouse in Branchtown.
"What do you mean, my sweet? We live like most
married couples. I go off to work or to my club. You
138
The Life of Fanny Kemble
busy yourself around the house. What more do you
want, Fanny? Certainly you have everything a woman
might desire . . ."
"Except her husband, Pierce! Don't you see? I want
to share your life."
Once again Pierce took her in his arms. "And so you
do, my dear," he said. But this time Fanny was not
comforted.
The next day she tried to do some writing poetry,
the first scene of a new play but somehow the words
would not fall into place. Perhaps she should take up a
study Latin, bookkeeping, anything to keep her busy.
Perhaps next summer Pierce would take her on a jour-
ney. They might even go back to England.
Then her journal was published and once again
Fanny Kemble was the talk of Philadelphia. "What a
shocking thing for a visitor from England to do. How
dare she make fun of us who were so very kind to her!"
Yet much as Philadelphia society deplored the writing
of the diary, everyone read it with glee. Who, they
whispered, was the boy who rode like an ass on horse-
back? Who had served oysters as big as beefsteaks and
no finger bowls? To whom was Mrs. Butler referring
when she wrote: "The time of locking of doors at
gentlemen's dinner parties, and drinking till the com-
pany dropped one by one under the table has, with the
equally disgusting habit of spitting on the floor, long
vanished in England, tho' not in America."
-[ 139
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Pierce blushed and apologized. Fanny's parents, who
had found a copy at their London bookseller's, blushed
and apologized, too. Even Fanny wanted to blush for
shame when she reread the book she had so childishly
written. But her husband's "I told you so," sealed her
lips.
She and Pierce quarreled more and more often, if
not over the journal, then over the subject of slavery.
"I should think you would be proud to educate your
slaves so they will be prepared for freedom," she said.
"I shall let you do that, my sweet 1" Pierce refused to
take her seriously.
"Oh, Pierce, please do. When next you go to Georgia,
take me along. I should like to teach the Negroes to
want their freedom to read, to work as human beings
for profit instead of a pitiful subsistence." There was a
fierceness in Fanny's plea which did not escape her
husband.
"I'll hear no more of such nonsense!" he said sternly.
During the summer of 1835, Fanny and Pierce's
daughter Sally, named after her famous great-aunt Sid-
dons, was born. A blue-eyed elf with golden hair and
dimpled smile, she was the idol of both her father and
mother.
Now Fanny sang happily as she planted and weeded
the gardens, her little daughter on a blanket beside
her. Sometimes, too, as she played with the baby, Pierce
140
The Life of Fanny Kemble
came home and would stand smiling down at them
with the wonderment of love in his eyes. I only I could
learn to be a docile and proper wife, Fanny thought,
Pierce would be happier with me.
But she could not, and when, later in the summer,
they fled from the heat into the Berkshire Mountains in
Massachusetts, she found herself once more embroiled
in the matter of freedom for the slaves. Stockbridge,
which nestled on the banks of the Husatonic River, was
a haven for the literary and artistic. Catherine Sedgwick,
noted novelist and abolitionist, was among them. Almost
immediately Fanny started work on an article decrying
the evils of slavery revising, embellishing, working it
over and over. When Pierce came to take her and little
Sally back to the city, she showed him her article with
great pride.
"If you send that to a publisher, you forfeit all right
to bear my namel" he cried, white with indignation.
Obediently, Fanny put the article into the bottom
drawer of her desk. But she began to feel as though she
were a prisoner in her husband's home.
-4( 141
THE AUTUMN OF 1835 was a golden time in
Branchtown the maples were splendid in their bur-
nished cloaks, the breeze was gentle and warm, and
small Sally was growing from a tiny infant into a
dimpling baby girl. Although Fanny delighted in her
daughter, once the winter set in, she felt imprisoned by
the deep white snow that settled down about the house.
She was still frightfully lonely, she wrote to Harriet,
for, much as she adored the baby, how indeed did one
communicate with someone so new in the world?
If only she might go back to England to see her
parents, Adelaide, and her brothers! One night just
after the New Year she took her courage in hand.
"Aren't you the least bit curious about England?"
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The Life of Fanny Kemble
she ventured. She and Pierce sat at opposite ends of the
parlor, he reading the newspaper after a big dinner,
Fanny mending.
"Of course I should like to see London and all the
countryside about, my dear." Pierce did not look up,
but he turned a page noisily. "However, my business
life and my civic duties don't seem to allow me time
for such such frivolity."
Fanny crossed the room to sit beside him on the
wine-colored velvet sofa. "I want to show my country to
you," she said gently. "Even more, I should like to show
you off to my country. Oh, Mr. Butler, my mother and
father would be enchanted with our baby I"
For a moment, Pierce sat silent. Then as i fired
with sudden inspiration, he threw down the paper and
jumped to his feet. "Well do itl We'll go to England
next summer and stay as long as you wish."
Now the weeks flew by on enchanted wings as Fanny
plotted and planned. They would, of course, take Mar-
gery, the nurse, so they would be free to go about.
Adelaide, who had been studying voice in Vienna,
would be home again. John, who was now teaching at
Cambridge, would come up for weekends with his
new German wife. And Harriet dear Harriet would
spend at least a fortnight with them in her parents'
house.
Sometimes Fanny was so transported with anticipation
that she would take up the baby and whirl her about,
-4( 143
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
all the while crooning, "I love you, your papa loves you,
everyone in Londontown loves little Sally Butler 1" And
then she would march stiffly about the room chanting
nursery rhymes that all ended, "To London we will go,
to London we will go. Hi, ho, the merry-o, to London
we will go."
Even Pierce was enthusiastic about the journey,
which would take from four to five weeks, and he
learned all there was to know about the best sailing
vessels, favorable winds, and so on. Then, in May, with
their plans all made, Pierce's aunt died suddenly in her
sleep.
"Aunt's affairs must be settled before you can go
anywhere," said John Butler.
"And when we do attempt a journey, it will have to
be South to the plantations," agreed Pierce. "Not to
England," he added firmly.
"I don't really mind . . ." began Fanny, biting back
the tears.
Gratefully her husband put his arms about her. "You
are a dear and obedient girl," he murmured, rewarding
her with a kiss on one cheek.
"But I should very much like to go to Georgia with
you," she amended from the protection of his shoul-
der.
Pierce thrust her from him. "What are you saying,
Fanny? Don't you realize the hardships one must endure
in traveling through a thousand miles of backwoods
144
The Life of Fanny Kemble
country? Besides there's no room for you on St. Simon's
Island. John and I will share the caretaker's crude
cottage, but you are the mistress of the plantation,
the mother of my child. Besides, it is unthinkable to
submit Sally to that comfortless life!"
"If you say so/' Fanny murmured, trying valiantly to
be the docile mate her husband desired. At least she
would say no more about the matter tonight not when
Pierce was tired and worried.
The next evening John and Margaret Butler and
some cousins, who had traveled to Philadelphia for
the funeral service, dined at Butler Place. Fanny outdid
herself, ordering and helping to prepare her husband's
favorite dishes. At the end of the meal, Pierce suggested
the ladies join their husbands as matters of family busi-
ness must be discussed.
"I am told that last year's cotton profits were way
down," he began, settling himself in his favorite chair.
"If raising cotton in Georgia proves unrewarding, we
may have to move our operations to Alabama, Pierce,"
suggested John. "We could make a fortune there with
slave labor, you know." And then turning to Fanny, he
asked teasingly, "How would you like to live in the
teaming wilds of the South, my dear?"
"Ill go anywhere," cried Fanny fiercely, the words
tumbling from her lips, "yes, anywhere freezing, fry-
ing, or starving if by so doing, I can lighten the bur-
den of our slaves!"
145
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
The room was cold with silence. Even Fanny shivered
as she searched each pair of eyes for a flash of under-
standing and sympathy. There was none. She faced, in-
stead, shock, shame, and enmity.
Then suddenly Margaret began to laugh, as if
charmed by some new and delightful surprise. "Don't
you think, Fanny," she said, "that the Widow Farming-
ton wears the most beautiful bonnets? I'm sure she
makes them herself, too certainly with her small in-
come she can't afford a milliner,"
"She's truly a fine woman/' put in Pierce ponder-
ously.
"And would make some man a fine wife," agreed
John.
Fanny sat silent, seething with angry disbelief. Long
after she and her husband had retired for the night,
she lay sleepless beside him. Her thoughts were in a
turmoil. How could these kindly people continue to
shut their eyes to the evils of slavery? Church attend-
ance on the Sabbath, the giving of alms to the poor,
Christmas baskets, and other charitable works were part
and parcel of being a Philadelphia Butler. Pierce's own
father was a distinguished physician who never turned
away a patient, rich man or pauper. Yet the buying
and selling of human flesh did not offend their senses.
Surely, she reasoned, this dreadful practice of forcing
one's slaves to work at the lash of a whip was a sinful
practice. The fact that her own husband was sometimes
146
The Life of Fanny Kemble
responsible for cruelty to these defenseless Negroes was
intolerable. Yet some of her friends told her that in
defying her husband, she was also sinful. Had not God
made man superior to woman? Why, her very own
cousin had told her that on Judgment Day Pierce would
be the one who would have to answer for his wife's
misdemeanors.
"I don't believe it!" cried Fanny in the darkness.
"You don't believe what, my dear?" grunted Pierce,
turning over sleepily.
But Fanny did not answer him. If her husband could
not understand her bewilderment when he was awake,
surely he would not be sympathetic now.
The next morning she sat down to write Harriet
St. Leger that their long anticipated reunion must be
postponed. She concluded:
It is also a great disappointment to me that I am not going
South this winter. I would undergo much to be among the
people of Negroland . . . for it seems to me we are pos-
sessed of power and opportunity to do a great work. In every
point of view I feel that we ought to embrace the cause of
the slaves. They will be free assuredly and that, before many
years. Why not make friends of them instead of deadly
enemies? Why not give them at once the wages of their toil?
Is it to be supposed that a man will work more for fear of
the lash than he will for the sake of an adequate reward? Oh,
I wish I were the man who owned these slaves instead of
being supported (to me, disgracefully!) by their unpaid
labor!
147
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Now June became July and July became August as
the hot summer droned to its end. Pierce and John
were busy making plans to travel to Georgia as soon as
the Southern heat was less intense. Patiently Fanny
tried again and again to make her husband understand
that she could not have peace of mind until she saw
with her own eyes that their slaves were well cared for.
But Pierce was adamant, at last refusing even to discuss
the subject.
'I've booked passage for you on a ship to England
sailing November first/' he announced one evening in
early autumn as he and Fanny sat fanning themselves on
the wide veranda.
For a moment Fanny could not speak. Then re-
covering her voice, she managed a breathless, "Thank
you, Pierce."
"Ill join you sometime in the spring," her husband
continued. "Does that make you happy?"
"Very happy, Pierce." Fanny's voice was still small
and far away, but in her heart she was crying out to
her mother, her father, and all those she loved in Eng-
land, "I'm coming home! I'm coming homel"
The little sailing packet which carried Fanny, nurse
Margery, and small Sally pulled away from the dock as
scheduled on the first day of November. There were no
other women and only a few men passengers aboard,
148
The Life of Fanny Kemble
and the journey soon became a nightmare. Not only
did the strong winds throw the ship off course, but
during the second week out, a storm of such proportions
blew up that Fanny and Margery spent the better part
o the following five days on their knees praying.
Even year-old Sally was terrified as the three of them
sat in their cabin, a waterproof covering fastened tightly
over the skylights to keep out the onrush of water.
On one occasion, Fanny became so concerned that
the lack of fresh air might be harmful to Sally that she
persuaded the captain to remove the protection, but
only for a moment. The ocean rushed in upon them,
drenching them to the skin. It was better to sit in dark-
ness than to drown.
On the last day of the storm, Fanny felt certain they
were lost. She began to sing lustily all the hymns she
had learned as a child. When at last the tempest sub-
sided, the captain complimented her on her bravery.
"And there you were, while I was praying for safe
landing, singing happily like a birdl"
Fanny, too exhausted from her experience even to
explain, merely smiled.
The whole Kemble family was at the dock to meet
them at Liverpool, crowding about the little trio with
murmurings of love and welcome.
-{ 14*
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"Ma petite! My little one! You have come home. And
the baby what a lovely baby. Oh, Fanny, Fanny,
Fanny!"
As for Fanny, she could only stare dumbly, drinking
in the sight of them. Adelaide, a tall and stately woman
now, was beautiful. John, his cheerful German wife on
his arm, looked older and more studious. Her mother,
always in frail health, was full of animation and excite-
ment, but her eyes were tired. Only her father remained
the same a cultured English gentleman whose voice
was still as resonant as ever.
"And where is Henry?" Fanny asked.
"His regiment is on maneuvers/' answered Charles
Kemble. "He'll be joining us in a fortnight."
Putting her things to rights in her father's house in
St. James's Place, Fanny felt she would burst with the
love that welled up inside her. What joy to love and to
be loved unashamedly, warmly, and without question.
Surely it was the absence of this easy give-and-take of
affection which made her life with Pierce so difficult.
The weeks flew by on wings of enchantment. London,
a more fascinating city than she had remembered,
charmed her with its gaily colored carriages encrusted
with their handsome coats-of-arms. She delighted, too,
in the uniformed servants, the well-dressed business-
men, the ladylike women one saw on the streets all
the sights that spelled England. Why, she had even
forgotten the flower girls on every corner, their baskets
150
The Life of Fanny Kemble
piled high with brilliant blooms 1 And little Sally
seemed to delight in her daily outings in her mother's
own perambulator.
In the evenings there were once again the parties
and balls Fanny so loved, many of them given in honor
of the English actress returned home. As Adelaide was
usually included in these social events, she and Fanny
became closer friends each day.
"Do you not miss the stage, Fanny?" Adelaide asked
as they rode home from a party at which her sister had
been the star attraction, most of the conversation cen-
tering about Fanny's past triumphs.
"I do not allow myself to miss it, sister dear/' mur-
mured Fanny. "As you know there was much in the
theater that was distasteful to me the sham, the
pretending to live life instead of truly living it. I have
a mission, now, you see. If only Pierce will will . . ."
Her voice trailed off, but before they reached the
doorway to her father's home, she had told her sister
of her concern for the slaves.
"And you?" she asked as they sat a moment before
the hearth in which Mr. Kemble had left a bit of fire.
"Are you as anxious for a career as Mother and Father
want it for you, Adelaide?"
"Even more, Fanny!" Adelaide's eyes shone. "My
music is my life. Oh, I know that one day love will
come to me . . /'
"As it came to me," murmured Fanny, "uninvited.
151
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Oh, but I wouldn't trade Sally for fame or fortune! She
is my life."
"And America? Do you feel at home in that wild
country?" Adelaide wanted to know.
"It is not so new and wild any longer." Fanny smiled,
remembering her own feelings when first she and her
father had set sail for their American tour. "Like all
young things and creatures, it makes mistakes/' she said
loyally. Here in the warm circle of the Kemble family,
she felt great affection for her adopted land.
The winter of 1836-1837 was an exciting time in
London. First of all, King William died and the young
Victoria ascended the throne. Fanny went with an old
friend to see the eighteen-year-old monarch greet the
Houses of Parliament for the first time.
"Although she looked like a child," Fanny wrote her
friend Harriet, who was traveling in Austria and Ger-
many, "I have never listened to words, more musical in
their gentle distinctness than the 'My Lords and Gentle-
men' which broke the breathless silence of the illus-
trious assembly. It would be impossible to hear more
excellent utterances than that of the Queen's English
by the English queen."
Also during Fanny's visit, Charles Kemble retired
from the stage after forty years. As licenser of plays,
he would continue to have a role in the world he
loved, yet no longer must he endure daily rehearsals
and nightly performances.
152
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Covent Garden, so long his life, was filled to capacity
for the occasion. Fanny, sitting with her family in the
house box, attracted no little attention herself. But her
eyes were only for her father. With great pride she
watched his graceful entrance, his deftness of move-
ment, as she heard the beauty of his spoken words on
a stage for the last time. When the curtain came down
on his last performance as Benedict in Much Ado
about Nothing, she stood cheering and applauding as
the tears coursed down her cheeks.
Nurtured by all the excitement around her, stimu-
lated by the talk in the bosom of her family, Fanny
felt really alive again. Now her mind was so filled
with images crying out for expression that she sat at her
desk for long hours, filling one sheet of paper after
another. She was writing a play about a notorious gam-
bler whose name was on the tongue of every Londoner.
"I am calling it An English Tragedy/' she wrote to
Harriet. "I am on fire with ideas and it will be perhaps
the best thing I have ever done."
So the busy, happy weeks passed into months, the
spring into summer. Still Pierce did not join her as he
had promised. Once he had returned from completing
his duties in Georgia, he had become involved in draft-
ing a new constitution for the state of Pennsylvania.
This was important work, Fanny knew. Yet she longed
to touch her husband's face, to feel his arms about her
again. Perhaps it was she who had been difficult to live
15)
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
with an outspoken, rebellious wife. Perhaps the slaves
were happy people, just as Pierce had said, dancing and
singing their idle hours away. Perhaps, on the other
hand, they sang as she had sung on the ship simply to
keep up their spirits. She would never know until she
saw for herself.
154
12
FANNY HAD BEEN IN LONDON almost a year
before she had word that her husband was joining her
there. She hurried off to meet him in Liverpool, with
small Sally in tow, and was heartstick to find that his
ship had been becalmed for an unlimited period of time
some miles offshore. She waited for two weeks before the
winds blew at last, wondering all the while what she
would do about their many invitations in London.
When finally the packet drew up beside the wharf
and Fanny saw Pierce striding toward her, she wanted to
throw herself into his arms. Instead, she turned one
cheek.
"My dear," murmured Pierce Butler, kissing her
155
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
briefly. "And little Sally. How your father's missed
you!'*
Back in London, their life was gaily hectic; Pierce
expanded under the attention given him as Fanny Kem-
ble's husband. When, at the end of two weeks of festivi-
ties, they prepared to sail for home, he was obviously
regretful.
As for Fanny, she was ready to take up her life in
America once more. Perhaps this long separation had
taught them their need of each other. Perhaps now
they could be friends as well as lovers.
Soon after their return to Branchtown, Pierce took
Fanny on a trip to Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsyl-
vania. The State Convention was in session. Here he was
the devoted husband, even riding horseback with her
during the noon recess. Guiding her mount along the
banks of the bright and tranquil Susquehanna River,
Fanny's spirits soared. She breathed deeply of the fresh
mountain air, her eyes feasting on the purple highlands.
As for the meeting itself, she wrote vividly of it to
Harriet St. Leger: "Many of the members of the Con-
vention have been kind enough to call upon me and I
have attended some of their debates. They are for the
most part uncultivated men, unlettered and ungram-
mared . . . Yet the shrewdness, the sound sense, the
original observations of some of them are striking and
remarkable."
156
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Back in Branchtown, the winter closed in. Just before
Christmas, Sally came down with a severe case of scarlet
fever. Gravely ill with the disease, she was pale and
listless for weeks. During this time, their mutual con-
cern drew Fanny and Pierce closer together. However,
once Sally had recovered, her father's attention wan-
dered again as he became involved in business matters
and government work.
That summer the Butlers' second daughter was born.
Sitting with tiny Frances in her arms, Fanny felt con-
tentment growing within her. Perhaps with two chil-
dren to occupy her, she could better adjust to her hus-
band's frequent absences, his preoccupation with his
man's world.
But in her adopted country there was little content-
ment. The matter of slavery was increasingly on the
tongue of every thinking person. In Philadelphia an
angry mob broke up an abolitionist meeting, burning
the hall to the ground. In the churches the debate over
the rights and wrongs of owning human beings waxed
strong.
Perhaps the most dignified and learned supporter
of the anti-slavery cause was Fanny's friend, Dr. Wil-
liam Charming, a minister and a respected leader of
New England liberalism. When, in the heat of the sum-
mer, Fanny took her babies to Lenox, Massachusetts,
to escape the weather, she saw a great deal of Dr. Chan-
ning, along with Catherine Sedgwick, the novelist, her
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
brother Charles, and Charles' wife. All were ardent
abolitionists.
Fanny found her thoughts in a turmoil. She had tried
valiantly to be a docile and obedient wife. Yet when
she heard Dr. Channing declaim from his pulpit, she
knew there was no escape from the course of action that
would drive Pierce from her side more and more.
"Slavery crushes the human spirit!" declared the
preacher. "It denies the dignity of labor, forbids reason
in a reasonable human being, last of all dissolving the
most sacred of domestic relationships. It is, let us say
honestly, a sinful practice."
He was right, of course. Yet what could the wife of a
slave-holder do?
"Only the slave-owners themselves can abolish this
evil, my dear/' said the kindly Unitarian minister.
"You must, by gentle persuasion, try to educate your
husband. I do not believe in violence, nor even in the
organizing of anti-slavery societies. They only serve to
antagonize/'
In spite of this challenge to her peace of mind, Fanny
spent a happy month in Lenox, driving with her friends
through the countryside, picnicking in the coolness of
the woods, riding horseback along some half-hidden
stream. And then one morning, just as she was about to
mount her prancing bay, the news came to her. Her
mother had died, very suddenly, while visiting in Sur-
rey.
The Life of Fanny Kemble
At first Fanny was stunned into a sort of blessed numb-
ness. Then, little by little, the true realization of her
loss dawned on her. And as for her father, how would
he live in this world without his Maria Therese to love
and cherish? Fanny knew that only if she buried herself
in some great new interest, could she forget her sorrow.
Back in Branchtown, she took her courage in hand.
"Do you plan to visit the plantations this year,
Pierce?" she asked bluntly.
"As a matter of fact I do," answered her husband.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I want to go with you to take care of you.
You are not well."
"It is strange you speak of my health, my dear. Only
yesterday John and I decided that the hot sun of Geor-
gia would be good for my rheumatism."
So Fanny's long-standing wish was to come true. It
was early December, however, before the party of five
was ready to begin the thousand-mile journey.
They traveled by stage and rail, rumbling through
the frozen countryside in crowded coaches that were
breathless with heat from coal stoves.
They concluded their trip on the water. At last the
tiny steamboat which carried them from Savannah,
Georgia, to Darrien, bumped against the dock. They
were, in a manner of speaking, home. Emerging from
her cabin with her family, Fanny looked down into a sea
of grinning Negro faces.
-( 159
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"Welcome, massal Welcome! We glad to see you, too,
Lily-Missus!"
Now the slaves pushed and pulled at each other,
fighting to touch Fanny's garments, to kiss her hands.
Trying to keep a tight hold on Sally, Fanny stepped onto
the dock.
"Pierce!" she cried in alarm, as a laughing man lifted
her daughter high into the air. But Pierce was having
his own troubles, attempting to rescue Margery and the
baby from the jostling, grasping mass of humanity.
Finally, the overseer arrived, delivering them to the
cottage that was to be their home for the next few
months. Safe at last, Fanny collapsed with laughter on
the crude sofa. She had been hugged and kissed, even
worshipped by her husband's slaves. Perhaps they did
like belonging to Pierce Butler after all.
Throughout the day, Fanny was conscious of the
Negroes' presence. They peered curiously through the
windows at her little girls. When she ventured out to
explore the swampy island, they clustered about with
mumbled admiration. On her way to the rice mill, she
was halted by so many curious ones that she turned
back, seeking her husband.
She and Pierce that night talked late with the overseer,
an intelligent young man who had come only recently
to manage the rice plantations on Butler's Island.
Although Mr. O'Donnell showed concern for the wel-
160
The Life of Fanny Kemble
fare of their several hundred slaves, he admitted that he
still used the whip on the lazy. Fanny shuddered.
"What if someone still holds back?" she breathed.
"He's taken to the head driver who is permitted to
lash him up to three dozen times/'
Her husband, as if unmoved by O'Donnell's answer,
countered with a question. "Are the women producing
enough babies for us?"
The young man nodded. "Yes, sir and we praise
them for their devotion to you/' he added.
Fanny covered her mouth as if hiding a yawn. "I'm
tired after our long journey," she murmured. "Will you
excuse me?"
Refusing to give in to a rush of nausea, she fled to
her room, shutting the door behind her. So her hus-
band's slaves were ordered to produce living, thinking
human creatures for him! And, because she was his wife,
for her! She dropped to her knees. "Dear God," she
prayed, "forgive us."
Fanny was up early the next morning and, after mak-
ing plans with Margery for the care of the children, she
went off to the slaves' quarters. The island, which cov-
ered several thousand acres, was swamp land, bordered
on the one side by the Alamata River and on the other
by a sort of jungle growth. The rice fields flourished in
161
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
all directions, being divided into huge squares of stub-
ble by narrow dikes.
The cabins in which the slaves lived were, it seemed,
pinned to this wet ground by central chimneys. Fanny
quickened her steps as she approached Settlement Num-
ber One.
"May I come in?" she asked at the open door of the
first in a row of miserable dwellings.
When there was no answer, she stepped inside the
filthiest place she had ever seen. The cabin measured
perhaps twelve by fifteen feet and was divided into
sleeping alcoves with piles of moss on the floor for beds.
In the center of the main room was a wide-eyed assort-
ment of children each of the girls holding a baby.
"Are you . . ." Fanny began clumsily, "are you all
sisters and brothers?"
One of the older boys shook his head. More than one
family lived in each of the cabins, Fanny decided.
As she stood looking down at the cluttered floor where
geese and hens played among the children, she saw that
it was nothing but trampled earth, well disguised with
accumulated filth.
"Where arejyour mothers?" she asked, knowing the
answer.
"In the fields, Missus," the eldest boy spoke up.
"Why don't you sweep the floor while they are gone?"
Fanny prodded, looking about for the broom.
This suggestion, however, met with no response. Was
162
The Life of Fanny Kemble
it possible, she asked herself, that these ragged, filthy
children did not know what she meant?
"I will sweep it then," she offered, and proceeded to
do so. At once the children doubled up with laughter.
Stubbornly, Fanny paid them no attention, continuing
to tidy the crowded little hut. Finally two older boys
joined her, gathering up dirty rags and shooing the
poultry outside.
Fanny turned her attention to the children them-
selves, explaining patiently that only animals were un-
washed and dirty.
"You must comb your hair." She spoke the words
slowly. "And wash your faces." Again she went to work
with rags and a pail of water.
"I shall come again tomorrow," she promised. "And
for every face that is clean, there will be a penny." She
took some coins from her purse, stuffing them into the
newly scrubbed hands. Then, smiling, she went on in
the direction of the next cabin.
She worked all morning and most of the afternoon as
the heartbreaking scene repeated itself over and over
again. While the mothers toiled from sunup to sundown
in the rice fields, little girls of ten and eleven tended
the babies who would also grow up to work for Massa
Butler without human comforts, wages, or simple
dignity. Fanny felt such revulsion that she wondered
if she could hold her temper when she faced her hus-
band.
163
the Sutler Plantation
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Yet that very evening, she heard from her man cook
that there was to be a ball for all the inhabitants of
Butler's Island. His eyes danced with anticipation as he
spoke of it to his wife, who was the maid-of-all-work.
The next morning Fanny began another round of
visits. She was pleased to find the mother of the family
at home on her first call. This was because one of her
children was sick. Big Harriet seemed intelligent and
listened attentively as Fanny explained the importance
of cleanliness.
"But Missus, when ah's in the field all day, ah don't
have no strength left to do housework," she said. "If
only the Master understood how hard we work, Lily-
Missus! If only he give us woman-tasks. Does Lily-
Missus know we works as long hours as the men?"
No, Fanny did not know that. Before she went on
with her tour of the Settlements, she would speak to the
overseer about it.
Early in the afternoon, after a hurried dinner, she
started out for the infirmary. On the way, she was
stopped by several young girls who giggled and hid
their faces.
"What can I do for you?" Fanny asked.
"We'd like some bright ribbons to wear to the ball,
Lily-Missus!" was the answer. When Fanny nodded her
reply, they danced about giddily, encircling and hug-
ging her until she gasped for breath.
The infirmary was a large, two-story building with
165
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
several windows. Yet as Fanny looked up at them, she
saw that most of the shutters were nailed shut. Peer-
ing inside, she saw a dozen forms huddled about on
hard wooden benches. At their feet, on the bare floor,
lay several women too ill to move, their bodies wrapped
in filthy blankets.
Unbelieving, Fanny tiptoed about the room so as not
to disturb those fortunate enough to be asleep. Some of
the women suffered from rheumatism, but there they
lay on the cold, damp earth without mattress or pillow.
Others were victims of mysterious fevers, crying out in
their delirium. Still others waited for their poor un-
fortunate babies to be born.
Her visit to the men's section on the second floor was
even more revolting. Thoroughly sickened by what she
had experienced, Fanny fled from the infirmary, her
clothes covered with dust and vermin.
She found Pierce in his office with his manager. Dig-
ging her nails into the palms of her hands, she fought
for self-control. "Your hospital is not fit for dumb ani-
mals/* she said.
She spoke then of all that she had seen. When she
finished, her husband turned to the overseer. "Why have
you done nothing about the infirmary?"
"When Mr. John visited the hospital last year, sir/'
the young man spoke up without hesitation, "I told
him we must make some changes, but he never men-
tioned the matter again."
166
The Life of Fanny Kemble
For a moment Pierce said nothing at all. Then he
turned back to Fanny with a half-smile. "You have my
permission to do what you can, my dear," he said.
The next morning Fanny heard a great mumbling
among the slaves who kept house for her.
"What is the matter?" she asked the cook's wife.
"Harriet with the sick child was flogged this morn-
ing, ma'am. Twenty-two times she was flogged. Now she
is sicker than the baby."
"And why was she whipped?" Fanny wanted to know.
"Because she complained, Lily-Missus complained
to you about working so hard in the fields."
Watching Pierce as he walked along the dike which
skirted the river, Fanny was filled with apprehension.
How long, she asked herself, could a woman respect a
husband who allowed the torture of his fellow human
beings?
167
13
PIERCE AND MR. O'DONNELL HAD been clos-
eted in her husband's office since supper, and Fanny re-
tired early. Yet she could not sleep. Perhaps she would
write the Sedgwicks a letter, she thought, lighting a can-
dle on her desk.
She began, "The sights which tear at one's heart-
strings here in this dread place are almost too terrible
to describe/' Then she went on and poured out her
distress to her friends in Lenox, painting in vivid lan-
guage a picture of life on a Georgia plantation. That
she would not mail this letter or those that were to fol-
low was probable. That they would never be published
as a journal was a certainty, for in spite of her loathing
of the custom of slavery, she still loved her husband.
168
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Losing all sense of time, she wrote page after page,
experiencing a strange alleviation of the sense of guilt
that had taken hold of her. "Guilt," she scribbled in a
postscript, "that I am a member of a race of people
who with untroubled conscience can inflict such pain on
their fellow humans."
The sound of Pierce's footsteps on the stairs made her
jump. She thrust her letter into the desk drawer.
"I'm glad you're still awake, Mrs. Butler," her hus-
band said coldly.
"Oh?" Fanny turned her face up to his, wearing a
brave half -smile.
"In your zeal to reform my slaves," he thundered,
"you've taught them bribery 1"
"Whatever do you mean, Mr. Butler?" As Dr. Chan-
ning had said, Fanny knew she must keep her temper,
trying to use gentle persuasion to bring her husband
around.
"I mean that I forbid the giving out of pennies for
clean hands," Pierce roared.
"Oh, that." Fanny managed to smile again. "I was
only trying to impress them your people, I should say
with the importance of cleanliness. They are like
children, Pierce!"
Her husband paced back and forth. "Did it ever oc-
cur to you that you make my task of maintaining law
and order difficult? Even disagreeable?"
Impulsively, Fanny held out her arms. "Oh, my dear
169
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
one, it does trouble you then to be so so cruel to these
people!"
Now Pierce stiffened, turning away from her coldly.
"You misunderstand me, Mrs. Butler. If slavery is an
evil, it is irremediable. These men, women, and chil-
dren depend on me for food, shelter, clothing. Why,
were I to turn them out into the world, they would
starve! As you say, they are childlike. One cannot have
several hundred children living on an island without
the need for punishment."
Fanny's eyes flashed. "In my country, we look down
upon the Irish. Yet transplant them to America where
they can live and work in dignity, and they are trans-
formed. All your people need is a chance, Pierce. Just a
chance."
"Stop being so dramatic! You're not onstage nor do
you have an audience.*' With that, Pierce blew out the
candle, a signal that it was time for bed.
A week later Fanny finished a second letter to the
Sedgwicks.
Yesterday I visited the Number One Settlement again,
where I found Everything in feverish preparation for a balL
A huge boat had just arrived from the cotton plantation at
St. Simon's Island, which is also our property. This was
laden with the youth and beauty of that portion of the estate
who had been invited to the party.
The ball, which we attended along with the overseer, was
170 J|M-
The Life of Fanny Kemble
held in one of the rooms of the infirmary (which I might add
has been cleaned up since my first visit). It is impossible for
me to describe the things these people did with their bodies,
their faces, the whites of their eyes and teeth ... As Pierce
says, even the aged ones, act like children.
The winter days were never long enough for Fanny.
When she was not busy with her own babies, she was
nursing some poor creature in the infirmary or sewing
layettes for the newborn infants of the slaves. Bent over
her sewing in this strange world that was her new home,
she thought often of Aunt Dall, at whose side she had
learned fine stitching as a child. How grateful she was
to her beloved "little round ball" of a relative!
It was comforting to see the changes in the infirmary
of the Number One Settlement. Where once the sick
had slept on the mud floor, now they lay on rough
mattresses with clean blankets over them. Certainly
Pierce had been cooperative in this matter, ordering
new bedsteads to be made in the carpentry shop, suggest-
ing that Dr. Holmes, the physician from Darrien, come
twice each week instead o only once* Even when the
Negroes died, as many of them did, Fanny took comfort
in the fact that they went out o the world with dignity.
Now the inhabitants of Butler Island began to fol-
low their mistress about in blind adoration, pouring out
their grievances. These she in turn relayed to her hus-
band, and sometimes her pleas brought results. But of-
171
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
ten Pierce turned a deaf ear. One evening, in quiet
desperation, he said, "When will you stop undermin-
ing my authority? When will you desist from feeding
these savages on their own discontent? Don't you know
that since you came here there have been more floggings
than ever before in the history of the island?"
Troubled, Fanny slept little that night. If only she
could play the subservient wife, closing her mind to
the supplications of the slaves. If only she could forget
that the very food she ate, the bed she slept on, the
chair she rocked her babies in were the products of
back-breaking toil beneath the whip. She tossed and
turned, unable to sleep, torturing herself with doubts.
Perhaps Pierce was right. She might indeed be making
life more difficult for the pitiful creatures she wanted to
help.
Toward morning she fell into a deep sleep, only to be
awakened by the sound of loud knocking. Her husband
was in his clothes and down the stairs in an instant.
She did not see him until several hours later, when
she and small Sally came in from a row on the river.
"Good morning, my dears," he said kissing his
daughter on the back of the neck, and smiling down at
Fanny.
"Something is wrongl" Fanny exclaimed, shocked at
the weariness in her husband's face.
"It's Shadrack." Pierce shook his head. 'I've already
172
The Life of Fanny Kemble
sent for Dr. Holmes, but it's too late. The boy's dying."
"Shadrack dying? But he's so young!"
"Yes. Besides which, he's polite, cheerful, and intel-
ligent/'
Fanny's eyes flashed. "Which makes him worth twelve
or thirteen hundred dollars, doesn't it? It's expensive to
lose so valuable a slave."
"I can do without your sarcasm this morning, Mrs.
Butler. I've known Shadrack since he was a tiny baby.
Now that I've had my dinner, 111 go sit with him
again."
For three days and nights, Fanny and Pierce took
turns keeping vigil over the young slave, following the
doctor's orders carefully. However, pneumonia had in-
fected his lungs and he failed rapidly. On the fourth
night, just after Fanny had fallen asleep, she was
awakened by her husband's touch.
'It's over," he whispered hoarsely, "he's gone."
Fanny was out of bed in an instant, her arms about
Pierce's waist. They had not been so close for a very
long time*
The next morning Pierce went off early to fetch
Roswell King, his former overseer, who had arrived
in Darrien for a visit. Weary after hours of tossing,
Fanny ordered breakfast in bed. Suddenly in the midst
of it, she heard loud weeping beneath her window.
Slipping on a cloak, she ran downstairs where she found
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Psyche, the pretty Negro Pierce had ordered to help
Margery with the children.
"My child, what is wrong?" Fanny wanted to know.
Between sobs, the girl managed to blurt out her ques-
tion. "Lily-Missus, who owns me?"
Taken unaware, Fanny also stammered. "Why why,
Mr. Butler. Doesn't he?"
It had never occurred to her that Pierce did not own
all the slaves on the island.
"No'm." Psyche shook her head violently. "For'n he
left for Alabama, Massa King bought me an' my little-
uns for to take along. Now he's comin* back to fetch
me!" She began to cry all over again.
"There, there," Fanny crooned, unable to think of
more comforting words.
"An' if'n ah goes to Alabama, ah'll never see my
husban' no more. Ah can't live without Joe, Lily-Mis-
sus!"
Quickly Fanny sat down on the front stoop, drawing
the slave girl down beside her. "Now don't you worry,
Psyche," she promised. 'Til do something. Yes, I'll do
something. In the meantime, why don't you take Sally
and baby Fanny for a walk? They're tired of being in-
doors after all that rain yesterday/'
The moment her children and Psyche were out of
sight, Fanny dressed and went in search of Mr.
O'DonnelL When he told her that he himself had
bought Psyche back again, not for the Butlers, but for
174
The Life of Fanny Kemble
himself, she gave a great sigh of relief. At least Psyche
would remain on the plantation.
She did not see her husband or Roswell King until
evening. Although she had decided in advance that she
would not like their former overseer, she was pleasantly
surprised. Their guest was a gracious, intelligent man
who had also served Major Butler for many years. When
he volunteered that "any man, white or black, will work
more efficiently for wages than for the whip," he com-
pletely won her over, and she forgave him for keeping
Pierce up till all hours playing chess.
The next morning she awakened with a light heart.
Perhaps Mr. King with his progressive views could in-
fluence her husband. She dressed quickly and went
down to the dining-room. Nodding to her guest, she
turned as she heard a wild outcry outside the win-
dows, and then her husband's voice, harsh with anger,
"Ah'll kill myself, ah will!" one of the slaves was
shouting* "Kill myself dead for'n I goes to Alabama,
for'n I leaves Psyche and my little-uns behind!" Then
the frenzied man broke into weeping.
"Stop sniveling, Joel" That was Pierce, cold and
cruel, drowning out the sound of the crying. "Stop
sniveling about something that can't be helped and act
like a man/'
"But Massa, ah loves Psychel" The Negro's voice was
a prayer now, a whispered prayer, and Fanny turned to
Roswell King for help.
-4( 115
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
But Mr. King only smiled. "They forget quickly/' he
said and sipped his morning chocolate.
Without uttering a word in reply, Fanny fled to her
room, where Pierce found her soon after. "What do you
mean by leaving the table while our guest is still at
breakfast?" he demanded.
Fanny covered her mouth in order to stifle the anger
which cried out for expression.
"Answer me!" ordered her husband.
"You are made of stone!" she hissed. "What have you
done to that poor, defenseless creature?"
For a moment Pierce looked at her in a puzzled way.
"Oh, thatl I merely gave Joe to Mr. King to show him
our gratitude!"
"You gave a man away as a present! A living, breath-
ing human being. Oh, Pierce, you are made of stone!"
Fanny buried her head in her arms and wept, long
after the closing of the bedroom door announced her
husband's departure.
It was late afternoon before she found the strength
to make her way downstairs. Sally and small Fanny were
playing on a counterpane Margery had spread on the
floor. Wordlessly, Fanny took them into her arms, hold-
ing them close, her love for them warming her whole
being. Soon after, Mr. O'Donnell came into the room
on his way to the office.
"Mr. King has gone," he said. "Didn't take Joe.
176
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Didn't want to be bothered with anyone so trouble-
some."
Fanny could scarcely breathe in her relief. "Does
Psyche know?" she said at last.
But Mr. O'Donnell only shrugged and went into his
office.
Early the next morning, Fanny went to find the man-
ager. She had counted out all her rings and bracelets,
cradling them in her hand. "I have come to buy Psyche
and her children from you," she began.
"Dear me, ma'am," Mr. O'Donnell stammered. "I'm
sorry. I didn't know but I've already sold them. Just
this morningl"
Fanny said nothing, waiting for the shock to wear
off. "This morning?" she managed at last,
"Yes, ma'am. To Mr. Butler."
Later Fanny wrote again to the Sedgwicks:
Though my husband resents my upbraidings, they have been
with good effect* Only today he bought these poor creatures,
thus protecting them from the misery of being parted in the
future. Believe me, I left Mr, O'Donnell still speaking and
ran to thank Mr. Butler for what he had done . . \ Think
how it fares with slaves where there is no crazy English-
woman to weep and implore and entreat for them, and no
master willing to listen,
As the days grew into weeks, Fanny found herself in
an emotional turmoil* Sometimes she longed to pour
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
out her heart to Pierce, who still showed flashes o com-
passion for his people, tenderness for his wife. At other
times, the touch of his lips on hers sent a shiver of
distaste through her. What was to become of their mar-
riage? Divorce would mean permanent separation from
her little girls who, according to the laws of the land,
belonged to their father. Could she bear never to see
her children again? In early morning hours, she tried
to settle these questions. But she found no answer, so she
continued to live day by day, giving what comfort she
could to the unfortunate inhabitants of Butler's Island.
The end of February brought a change of pace. The
Butler family was to move on to St. Simon's Island and
its cotton plantations, fifteen miles nearer the sea.
"You will like St. Simon's," Pierce assured Fanny in
one of their happier moments. "The house is large and
roomy, the gardens and vegetation beautiful, the air
cooler and fresh. I will even buy you a saddle horse!"
With tears in her eyes, Fanny bade her people good-
by. They came to her in droves, begging last minute
favors, kissing her hands. She would be back next year,
she promised, laden with supplies of medicine for the
infirmary, with Bibles for London, the preacher.
St. Simon's was a beautiful tropical island where
bright flowers bordered the homes of the planters and
grew wild in the fields and forest, a fairyland of
bloom and birds. On her new horse, Fanny rode miles
each day, sometimes stopping to repay a neighborly call,
178
The Life of Fanny Kemble
at other times breathing in the air and admiring the
scenery. When she could exercise in the open, life did
not seem so grim, even if once again she found suffer-
ing and deprivation.
Pierce willingly gave permission for her to moder-
nize the hospital where, as on Butler's Island, the sick
and dying lay on the damp earth. Again she went about
teaching cleanliness and Godliness, even conducting
prayer meetings in her own parlor.
One day some young mothers came to Fanny, com-
plaining that their children were hungry. When Fanny
learned that their rations consisted of two helpings of
corn meal each day, she said: "Then take some of my
rice and sugar/' The moment they had left she went to
find Pierce.
"Why do you believe such trash?*' was her husband's
answer. "We feed our slaves well, Fanny, Why, we even
give them meat sometimes!"
When his wife was still not satisfied, he took a dif-
ferent tack. "Have you not heard our people singing
on the river, Fanny? They are proud to be Butler slaves.
Proud to work our plantations/'
"Yes, I've heard them sing, but I have eyes to see
with, too! And with my eyes I see the deprivation, the
suffering, the misery all around us. Oh, Pierce * - ."
In a flash her husband's mood changed as he turned
on her. "Your credulity only makes the slaves more dis-
contented, Mrs, Butler. Therefore, as your husband, I
179
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
forbid you to bring me another petition! Go to your
bedchamber."
"I must soon return North," Fanny wrote to Eliza-
beth Sedgwick, "else my condition will be worse than
that of the Negroes. I was not born among slaves and
cannot bear to live among them, condemned as I am to
see and hear so much wretchedness without means of
alleviating it."
But this was only March and the Butlers were not to
return to Branchtown until the end of April. Somehow
Fanny filled her days with riding, rowing on the river
with her little girls, or teaching Sally to read. Secretly,
too, she found another source of grim satisfaction. Alec,
one of the house servants, had asked her to teach him
his letters along with Sally.
Whenever her twenty-year-old pupil learned a new
word, or read another sentence, Fanny's heart swelled
with pride. She even told herself it was no matter if
her husband did have to go to jail because she defied the
laws of Georgia which ordered that no slave should be
taught to read or write.
One morning, some new mothers came to Fanny,
complaining o long hours.
"If we's slow, we gets whipped," said one of them.
"And when we gets whipped, we faint," added a tall,
thin woman of forty.
"I can do nothing for you," said Fanny sadly. "My
180
The Life of Fanny Kemble
husband will no longer listen to me." Then seeing the
hopelessness in their faces, she went on, "Now, perhaps
if you go to Mr. Butler . ."
She watched them take their leave, sitting motion-
less in her rocker on the veranda. In a moment the
sound of her husband's voice came to her on the soft
April breeze.
"Do your work well/' he was saying sternly. "God
will give you the strength to serve your master here on
earth. And in serving me, you do the will of the Master
up in heaven."
That night when Pierce went into his office with the
overseer, Fanny threw a cloak about her shoulders. She
made her way to the quarters of Jack, a Negro who was
one of her personal servants, and called for him im-
periously. "I want to go out in the boat!"
"It's dangerous to ride on the river after dark,
Missy/' protested the young Negro.
"I command you to fetch it. I am going to Butler's
Islandl"
Fanny sank back among the cushions. Never again
would she look on the face of a man who commanded
his slaves to work for him in the name of a merciful
God.
Fanny Butler stayed on at the rice plantation for two
days, thankful that Pierce did not come for her. London,
Psyche, and Joe all welcomed her tearfully, but there
was no contentment in her heart* Although she realized
181
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
that her small daughters could get along without her,
she knew she could not exist without them. In the mid-
dle of the third night, she bade Jack take her back
home.
282
"W HAT HAVE I TO TELL YOU of myself OT o
anything belonging to me?" wrote Fanny to Harriet St.
Leger one torrid summer day in 1839. "Ever since we re-
turned to Branchtown, I have been vegetating . . . My
days roll on in a sort of dreamy, monotonous succession
with an imperceptible motion like the ceaseless creeping
of a glacier- I order my household. I teach Sally to read.
I write to you. I copy for Mrs. Sedgwick the journal
I kept on the plantation. Sometimes I ride a bit or play
the piano so as not to forget my notes. Once a week I
go to town, on Sundays to church. And so my life slides
away from me. I live almost entirely alone except for my
little girls."
183
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Fanny sealed the envelope with wax. How much she
had left unsaid. Yet could she write even to her best
friend that loneliness was breaking her heart, that the
only man she had ever loved scarcely acknowledged
her existence?
The summer passed on leaden feet. When finally
Pierce announced that he was going to Hot Springs,
Virginia, for his rheumatism, Fanny felt a blessed sense
of release. With a light heart, she packed up her chil-
dren and was off to Lenox to visit the Sedgwicks, who
had long been urging her to come.
"Fanny, darling Fanny!" Charles and Elizabeth were
there to meet her when she tumbled into their arms
from the stage. Dr. Channing came to call that very
afternoon, and Frances and Henry Longfellow arrived
early in the evening.
"Everyone loves us here, don't they?" observed small
Sally.
Happily, Fanny nodded. So she learned that her
daughters were aware of the tension which pervaded
the air at Branchtown.
Her holiday was nourishing her, and she felt a new
strength as she roamed the flowering forests with her
two little girls or rode on horseback over the country-
side. When the sun had set each evening and her babies
were tucked in bed, she sat enthralled as the conversa-
tion of her brilliant and voluble friends flowed around
184
The Life of Fanny Kemble
her. There was, o course, much talk of the slave planta-
tions.
"You will publish the journal?" Dr. Channing
prompted.
"Oh, no! Not as long as I am married to a slave-
holder," Fanny protested.
"But you would strike a telling blow for the aboli-
tionists."
Fanny was adamant. "I still love my husband too
much to humiliate him before the world. Besides . . ."
Her eyes filled with tears. "I cannot risk losing my
daughters. Not even for the sake of the slaves."
At the end of two weeks Fanny and Pierce were re-
united in Branchtown, Pierce obviously having bene-
fitted from his rest and the healing baths. When Fanny
asked if she might again accompany him on his journey
to the plantations, he surprised her by saying yes. This
time, Fanny told herself, she would be more stalwart
in her purpose, refusing to be thwarted. Happily she
began to prepare for the trip, shopping for bandages
and medical supplies, collecting Bibles for London, the
preacher, ticking off the days until their departure*
Then one night Pierce asked to speak with her alone
before going off to one of his clubs.
''John refuses permission for you to go to Georgia/'
he said.
185
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Fanny's eyes flashed angrily. "Since when does your
brother direct the course of our lives?"
"He is the elder," said her husband. "He also is half-
owner of the plantations, my dear."
Heartsick, Fanny unpacked her trunks and put away
the girls' dresses and cloaks. The next morning the post
brought a letter from her sister Adelaide, begging her to
bring the children to the Continent for the winter. "We
are taking a house in Nice," she added in a postscript,
"and how happy you would make our Father!"
"Have you no respect for convention?" thundered
Pierce when Fanny approached him on the subject. "For
you to go abroad without me or without my joining
you there is unthinkable!"
Fanny, making a valiant effort to hold her tongue,
did not suggest that his presence would be more than
welcome.
A month later, her self-control paid off. A second let-
ter had come from St. James's Street. "Fate has altered
your course," wrote the younger sister to the older one.
"Our father is gravely ill and unless you set out at once,
you will not see him alive."
"Of course you shall go and I with you," announced
Pierce.
In London once again, and with her husband and
children, Fanny felt as if she were living in a happy
dream. Gone was the persistent nightmare of planta-
186
The Life of Fanny Kemble
tion life, gone the sea of pleading black faces which had
haunted her nights. Changeable as a shifting wind,
Pierce was suddenly all concern for her ailing father,
for her. Was their rented house large enough? Was the
guest room in which Charles Kemble would recuperate
cheery and warm? Gaily he romped with the children
on the green or took them walking in the park. Gal-
lantly he escorted his wife and sister to receptions and
balls, once Mr. Kemble was on the road to recovery.
Reborn and filled with hope that her marriage might
yet survive, Fanny wrote in glowing terms to Harriet
St. Leger:
We are lifted off our feet by a torrent of social engage-
ments . . Our house is full from morning to night ... I
am a little bewildered after my solitary existence in Amer-
ica ... Right now Richard Lane, the renowned artist, has
been making likenesses of us all: Pierce and I in one eternity,
our chicks in another, their two little profiles looking so
pretty and funny, the one behind the other.
Adding to the excitement of life in London was Ade-
laide's semi-public debut in the company of the pianist
Franz Liszt. For the Polish benefit, the Duchess of Suth-
erland had lent Safford House, and Fanny was dazzled
by the roof of gold and white, the marble balustrade,
and the crimson floor coverings. However, it was the
beauty of her sister's voice which left her quite speech-
less*
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"Our eldest daughter described my feelings perfectly/'
Fanny wrote to the Sedgwicks. "The other evening I
went up to look in on my babies while Adelaide was
still practicing. There I found Sally sitting straight up
in bed.
" 'Well, how many angels have you got down there, I
should like to know!' she cried, her eyes shining with
appreciation of her aunt's talent."
Even Pierce was thrilled with his sister-in-law's per-
formance, and when Adelaide remarked that she was to
sing at Covent Garden the following winter season, he
exclaimed that certainly the Butlers would have to stay
in London for that.
So they would.be spending a second season in Eng-
land! Fanny was delighted, longing to throw her arms
about her husband and to tell him of her gratitude. Yet
she had learned better; whenever she showed the man
she loved any affection, she sensed his withdrawal.
Life in the Butler household was good, however, with
Charles Kemble being well on the way to recovery and
Pierce entering into their social life with real enthusi-
asm. The summer months found them on an exciting
tour across the Continent, while Adelaide filled several
singing engagements preparatory to her London con-
cert. In the company were the Pierce Butlers and their
two daughters, Charles Kemble, Chorley the musical
critic of theAtheneum and Liszt himself.
Never had the famous pianist played with such bril-
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The Life of Fanny Kemble
liance, producing "all manner of eruptions, earthquakes
and tornadoes of sound." And seldom had Adelaide
sung with such depth of tone, such beauty of soul. It
was no wonder that she was in high spirits, adored and
feted wherever she went, or that Pierce, basking in re-
flected glory, had never enjoyed himself so much.
Would her husband never grow up? Fanny asked
herself wearily. For much as she found pleasure in
traveling with Adelaide and her entourage, she was
worried about her little girls. Late hours and inter-
rupted sleep were not good for small children, and she
was glad when the tour was over and the party re-
turned to London.
On the night of Adelaide's debut at Covent Garden,
Fanny felt bemused as she sat in the old familiar theater.
Almost magically the years slipped away and she was
once more the untutored Thespian of eighteen who
stood on that same stage, struck dumb with fright.
Tentatively, she touched Pierce's hand in the dark-
ness, but only to feel it withdraw.
All during the concert Fanny found herself inhabiting
the lovely body that belonged to her sister, reliving her
first moments on this vast, bright stage. Why had she
turned away from the world of the theater, the world
which had for so long nourished her soul? And now by
what strange fate did she find herself married to a hus-
band she loved, but could not respect; yearned for, yet
could not like any longer?
-4( 189
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
"Brava! Brava!" The audience had gone wild cheer-
ing, applauding, crying for more. Fanny was brought
back to the present as her sister bowed and smiled be-
fore the admiring throng. Her encore brought tears to
Fanny's eyes.
The London press declared that the youngest Kemble
was the coming prima donna of the musical world. "She
is as talented an actress as her older sister, with it all,"
the notice concluded. Two issues of Punch included
poetry which immortalized Adelaide's performance;
artists begged to paint her portrait; the man on the
street spoke her name in hushed tones. As for Charles
Kemble, he stood between his daughters, the proudest
of fathers. "The Gods have smiled on me again/' he
declared.
The social season of 1841 was in full swing and the
Butlers and their celebrated sister were invited every-
where, which of course meant that they must entertain,
too. Pierce especially relished playing the rich Ameri-
can gentleman, having as guests the aristocracy o Lon-
don. And Fanny enjoyed her role, too, though she felt
a nagging worry. Was her husband's income unending?
Would the money never run out? And if it did, what
would happen to the children who were the light of her
life?
During that season Fanny was presented to the Dow-
ager Queen Adelaide at Marlborough House, an expe-
rience she quite enjoyed. Then, however, their friend,
190
The Life of Fanny Kemble
the Duke of Rutland, sent word that Queen Victoria
had asked why the Kemble had not bowed at court.
This was equal to a summons, but Fanny balked.
"I have neither a proper gown nor jewels/' she in-
sisted when Pierce urged her on.
"Then you must have a dress madel As for diamonds,
you can rent them/' he declared. "I'll not hear of your
refusing."
Obediently Fanny ordered a white satin gown
trimmed with rosepoint lace, and bows of crimson for
her black hair. She rented jewels, too, even allowing
herself to be coached by Lady Edgerton who was to
sponsor her.
Of the affair she wrote tongue-in-cheek to Harriet: "I
kissed a soft white hand which I believe was Victoria's.
I saw a pair of handsome legs which I am convinced
were not hers but Prince Albert's. This is all I saw of
the royal family, I then made a sweeping curtsey and
came away with no impression but that of a crowded
mass of full-dressed confusion/*
When Fanny presented her dressmaker's bill to her
husband, he was furious*
"Does Madame Devy think I am made of money?"
But Fanny only shook her head, going off to her
bechamber. Let him rant and rave, she told herself. I
will pay for the dress. I will pay for it with money I
earn selling some of my writing. She had been busy
writing again now that she was back in the stimulating
-H< 191
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
atmosphere of London. Poetry, criticism, translations, a
play these had flowed out of her as naturally as water
from a fountain. It would be exciting to see her work in
print.
Within a month, she had sold a ballet, Pocahontas,
a translation of Mademoiselle de Belle lie by Dumas,
and an account of her journey from Philadelphia to
the Georgia plantations. Madame Bevy's bill was paid.
It was comforting, too, to learn that even if she had
not been presented at court, she would have needed a
new gown. Lord and Lady Edgerton, long interested in
private theatricals, had decided to produce Fanny's be-
loved The Hunchback at their country home with
Fanny playing Julie, and her sister, Helen of Troy.
Even Pierce was to appear in the production. During
rehearsal Fanny experienced great excitement, yet her
husband's apparent resentment of her success in the
leading role pierced her bubble of elation cruelly. Be-
sides there was news of a measles epidemic in the city,
and she could not wait to get home to her children.
Back in London, she was unprepared for the news
that Adelaide, on the threshold of world fame, was to
marry Edward Sartoris, a wealthy, highly cultured Ital-
ian. She prayed that this marriage would not be
doomed to failure, leaving her beautiful sister alone
and empty. Strangely enough, Fanny had begun to long
for America and her home. Perhaps now that she and
192
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Pierce had reached a sort of friendly truce, they could
rebuild their marriage. Certainly she had never met an-
other man she loved. Perhaps, too, it was true that she
had been headstrong and willful in her opposition to
his slave-holdings, though slavery still seemed to her a
sinful practice. If only if only somehow she did not
know her own longings. One thing was certain, how-
ever: her husband had not worked in two years and
her children's future must be protected,
"When are we going back to Branchtown?" she asked
one evening.
"I thought you preferred living in London," Pierce
countered.
"Branchtown is our home, Mr. Butler. We must
soon decide whether our girls are to be Americans or
Englishwomen. Besides, you yourself have said we are
spending too much money."
"We'll sail in October," came the reply. But when
their lease expired, Pierce told his wife that he had
rented a larger house in Hyde Park for the following
season. "And this winter," he announced, "we shall en-
tertain on a very grand scalel"
Fanny said nothing. She had no influence over this
man who was the father of her children; nevertheless,
she must somehow guard them against his extravagances.
Month after month they stayed on in London, dining
and dancing their lives away. Although Fanny was cer-
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
tain that Pierce was no longer true to her, she chose to
ignore this, fearing that to anger him was to lose Sally
and Frances. Little by little she lived more unto her-
self, playing quietly with the little girls, or writing
poetry or the scenes of a new play. When she did go out,
it was to spend an hour with Lady Byron, her devoted
friend, or Charles Dickens, whose gifted mind she ad-
mired, or the young poet Robert Browning.
Then Harriet St. Leger came to London for a fort-
night. During that visit, Fanny gained new insight into
her own problems. That winter, too, she learned of
the death of her beloved Dr. Channing. Who now
would speak for the slaves in a wise and gentle tongue?
she wondered. She found herself thinking more and
more of the plight of her people, telling little anecdotes
of her experiences in Georgia. Sometimes Fanny's ac-
counts touched deeply the hearts of her listeners. At
other times they made people laugh. But always she saw
the look of fury which darkened the face of her hus-
band. Pierce, day by day, grew more distant, more ex-
travagant, and more outrageous in his attentions to
other women.
In April of 1843 news of the stockmarket crash in
America and the subsequent pressure from Pierce's cred-
itors shocked him into action.
"We'll pack at once," he declared, "and sail as soon
as we can obtain passage. Once back in Branchtown/'
he added, "we'll find lodgings in a boardinghouse/'
194
The Life of Fanny Kemblc
"But, Papa/' cried the little girls in one voice, "we
want to live in our house!"
Their father shook his head. "We can no longer af-
ford to do that," he said firmly, as he avoided looking
into their mother's eyes.
195
15
-T^ffsg
f
THE NEXT TWO YEARS were a time of rebellion
and misery for Fanny. Life in the boardinghouse was
crowded, drab, and crude; the girls wilted like fading
flowers in the summer heat. As for her husband, Fanny
saw less and less of him, and there were ugly scandals
about him and other women. While Fanny sought only
to please Pierce so that she would not be parted from
her children, he found increasing fault with her. When
it was rumored that she had gone fishing in a page's
costume, he forbade her to make any decisions in regard
to his children's conduct.
"Anyone who shows such poor taste is not a fit
mother!" he declared, adding that in the future the
196
The Life of Fanny Kemble
governess would be responsible for the girls' behavior,
health, and morals.
On the plea that he could no longer afford to own a
horse, he sold Fanny's beloved Forrester. Enraged, she
immediately wrote and sold an article on Alfred Lord
Tennyson to the Knickerbocker Magazine and bought
Forrester back. Pierce was in a rage, but once again
Fanny held her peace. Her husband's affairs were pros-
pering and he talked of moving his family back into the
house at Branchtown. Nothing must interfere with this
move, Fanny thought desperately, for unless Sally and
small Fanny could escape from boardinghouse life, they
would become ill.
One night Pierce called her to his side, regarding his
wife with obvious hatred and scorn. "I am moving the
girls back to Branchtown," he said coldly. "You are wel-
come to come if you wish, though you will no longer be
mistress of Butler Place/'
Fanny, flinching as under a whiplash, stood silent.
"As the mother of my children, you will have an an-
nual allowance of eight hundred pounds, and your own
suite of rooms where the girls may visit you for two
hours each day* That is all, Mrs, Butler."
Stunned, Fanny left the room. No longer could she
choose even a piece of challis for Sally and Fan! No
longer could she talk freely with them, molding their
young minds to the image of the fine, compassionate
women she wanted them to be. Still, two hours each day,
m
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
even under the wary eyes of a governess, were better
than no time at all.
Within days after the Butler family had returned to
Branchtown, small Fanny fell downstairs and broke her
arm.
"May I care for her until the pain has subsided?"
Fanny entreated.
But her husband shook his head. "When she is well
enough, she may again visit you in your suite/' he re-
torted. "You may not go into hers."
In June of that year Fanny herself had an accident
when her horse slipped on a muddy stretch of forest
path. Merely shaken up herself, she was heartsick to
find that Forrester had broken his leg and must be shot.
This unfortunate incident seemed to preface a time of
tragedy in Philadelphia. An anti-Catholic crusade was
gaining momentum, resulting in the burning of the
city's most beautiful churches. Two months later, Fanny
wrote to Harriet: "Catholics are shot down in the
streets, their houses pillaged in broad daylight. The
world has gone mad, the spirit of lawlessness growing
from day to day. People have even been allowed to set
fire to the property of Negroes, murdering them with-
out anyone's caring."
A virtual prisoner in her own home, Fanny poured
out her grief through her letters to Harriet and to the
Sedgwicks, who in turn consoled her via the mails. With-
out their sympathy, she could not have endured watch-
198
The Life of Fanny Kemble
ing her daughters go about in dresses she had not
chosen, read books she did not approve, and speak the
language of a Southern slave-holder.
One morning when two letters arrived from Eliza-
beth and Charles Sedgwick, Pierce, who delivered them
to her quarters, glowered darkly.
"I forbid you to either read your communications
or to write to these people again/' he said. "Rabble-
rousing Abolitionists! I will not have their poisoned
letters coming to my home."
This was the final humiliation. As soon as her husband
had left, Fanny packed her belongings and fled back to
the boardinghouse. From there she would write her lit-
tle girls that she had gone on a journey. In the mean-
time, she would try to collect her wits and decide what
to do.
Day after day she sat alone in her room searching for
a solution. She wrote to her friends, her father, and
to Adelaide begging counsel. When the answers came
back, she read and reread each one. Even the Long-
fellows urged her not to desert her daughters. Yet when
Pierced father called, beseeching her to return to her
husband, she shook her head*
"I cannot/' she said. "For it takes more strength than
I have to die a little each day/'
In spite of her decision, however, she put off making
the final break, praying for wisdom and guidance.
One August day when she went for a walk, in an at-
199
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
tempt to escape the smothering heat in her tiny room,
she came face to face with Sally and her nurse.
"Mama! Mama! There's my mother!" cried the ten-
year-old, running toward her.
"Sally!" Fanny held out her arms, the tears stream-
ing down her cheeks. But the nurse turned the child
roughly in the other direction and propelled her toward
home.
"You are not to speak to the lady, Sally," she chided.
"Your father has forbidden it."
All night long, as she tossed and turned in her bed,
Fanny heard her daughter's entreaties, "Please, nurse,
please." The words hammered against her weariness. In
the morning, she dressed and packed up her belongings
once more. It was not right that her children should
suffer as she did. If the law declared that they belonged
to their father, their mother must obey it.
"In the autumn of 1845," she wrote in her journal, "I
returned to England."
Harriet was on the dock in Liverpool, and carried
Fanny off to Charles Kemble's quarters in London.
Fanny's friends clustered about her, offering sympathy,
diversion, advice. Quietly grateful, she nodded and
smiled in appreciation; yet she felt like a dead thing,
immune to pain, to tender care. When Adelaide and
her husband wrote in early December that she was wel-
200
The Life of Fanny Kemble
come, yes, more than welcome in their home, she kissed
her father good-by and went to Rome.
In January of 1846, she wrote in her journal, which
was later to be published in America:
My window opens on a terraced garden full of orange and
lemon trees, magnolias, myrtle, camellias and roses all in
bloom. A fountain of aqua f elice trickles under the superin-
tendence of a statue into a marble shell, escaping under the
garden. The view of the Eternal City and its beauteous
girdle of hills surpasses all description as the twin towers of
the Trinity rise close up to it into the blue sky.
With Adelaide, she went to see the city's treasures.
They visited Rospigliosi Palace, where she stood in
wonderment before Guillo's Aurora; Barberini Palace,
where she gazed awestruck at Titian's Holy and Profane
Love, and at Raphael's Fornarina. Sometimes they rode
in the campagna, the enchanted plain "which spread
out hazy and unbroken as the summer sea over whose
surface whole companies of larks trill and twitter and
twinkle in a chorus o jubilant song/' Again they sought
out the many fountains of Rome, in whose cooling
waters Fanny was wont to trail her fingers. Once again
she wrote in her Year of Consolation, later to be pub-
lished under that title:
Fire purifies but destroys; water cleanses and revives, Christ
was baptized in water. Himself washing His disciples's feet.
201
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
I believe that the material element is as potent in strength-
ening and healing the body as the spiritual element is in
healing the mind.
Slowly, slowly Fanny was regaining her strength, her
desire to live. Yet sometimes when she looked down at
the faces of her sister's sleeping children, she felt a pain
so intense that it left her weak and breathless. She wrote
often to Sally, less often to Fanny, trying to make them
understand her apparent desertion. Pierce, unpredict-
able as always, did not interfere, and now and again a
precious letter came to her in return.
One morning when Fanny looked out of her bedroom
window onto the enchanting view below, she saw that
the acacia was in bloom. With tears choking her, she sat
at her desk, pouring out her anguish in verse.
The blossoms hang upon the tree
As when with their sweet breath, they greeted me,
Against my casement on that sunny morn
When thou, first blossom of my spring was born . . .
And as I lay panting from the fierce strife
With death and agony that won thy life,
Their snowy clusters hung on their brown bough
E'en as upon my breast, my May-bud, thou.
They seem to me thy sisters, oh, my childl
And now the air, full of thy fragrance mild
Recalls that hour; a ten-fold agony
Pulls at my heart strings as I think of thee.
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The Life of Fanny Kemble
Was it in vain? Oh, was it all in vain?
The night of hope, of terror and of pain,
When from the shadowy boundaries of death
I brought thee safely, breathing living breath.
Upon my heart it was a holy shrine
Full of God's praise they laid this treasure mine.
And from the tender depths the blue heaven smiled
And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child.
And solemn joy of a new life was spread
Like a mysterious halo round that bed.
And so passed her year of consolation. Financially she
had bettered herself, for her journal, published in New
York City by Wiley and Putnam, had a long and profita-
ble sale.
Back in London with Charles Kemble, Fanny was rest-
less. Only in being active could she forget the past. Her
father was now seventy. But in spite of his years, his
career had prospered. For some time he had traveled
about Great Britain and the Continent giving readings
from Shakespeare.
"Why not wear my boots, Fanny?" asked Charles
Kemble one evening as they lingered over their supper.
"This roving life is beginning to take its toll of me. Oh,
yes, I admit it!" He smiled fondly at his daughter.
"I like reading Shakespeare/' mused Fanny, "even
better than acting it."
She, as well as her father, however, realized that it
203
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
was more than a decade since she had trod the boards in
London. Too, he was anxious that she return to Amer-
ica in a last endeavor at reconciliation with her husband
and children.
"I lack funds to go now/' she demurred. "Perhaps i
I played one of my old roles here in London . . ."
So it was decided. For weeks Fanny and her father in-
terviewed agents and inspected theaters. Her adventures
into the business side of the theater proved new and
frightening to Fanny. She would make her debut in her
old favorite, The Hunchback. If this was successful, she
might consider a reading tour.
Her engagement, though a financial success, brought
her little comfort. Standing before the wildly applaud-
ing audience in Manchester, where the play opened,
Fanny was immersed in nostalgia. Her aunt's dear face
peered at her through her memories, her mother's
chirping voice was a dart in her heart. Even thinking
about the gay and gallant flutist who had once gazed at
her from the orchestra pits in far-off America brought
tears to her eyes. What had happened to their love?
How were the precious fruits of it, Sally and the smaller
Fanny, faring so far out of her reach? Did they long for
their mother as she longed for them?
When her tour in The Hunchback was concluded,
she went to her father. "I should like to try on your
boots, now, my darling/' she said* "I feel the same dis-
204 }--
The Life of Fanny Kemble
satisfaction with the artificiality, the powder and the
paint, the greediness of my managers. Why, do you
know, they even refuse to let me do a benefit perform-
ance for the starving Irish?"
She wrote to Harriet soon after:
I gladly avail myself of my father's reading version of the
plays, reading those he cut and prepared for that purpose
. . . You see, he found it expedient to make one play the
subject of each rendition, taking two hours for the perform-
ance and dividing the play as fairly as possible into two
parts. In this way he could retain the whole story of the play
and so much only of the wisdom and beauty bestowed on its
development by the author as could be kept within two
hours' delivery.
When I came to ready the much greater number I planned
to read, I found the task a very difficult one and was struck
with the judgment and taste my father had used. But I was
determined not to limit my repertory to the few most the-
atrically popular of Shakespeare's dramas but to include in
my course all his works.
Absorbed, Fanny sat long and late over her task,
thrilled anew by the dramatic poetry of England's im-
mortal playwright. Again she confided to Harriet: "My
great reward has been in passing a large portion of my
life in familiar intercourse with that greatest and best
English mind and heart, and living almost daily in that
world above the world into which he has lifted me."
205
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
She faced her first audience as a reader with quiet
confidence. And as she spoke the lines, she knew that at
last she had found the perfect dramatic medium. Freed
of artifice, of distracting scenery and costuming, Shake-
speare was alone on stage, the true beauty of his poetry
the only music.
Fanny Kemble's readings met with instant success.
Managers from all over England sought her services, and
thus she was launched on a new phase of her career.
When she was able to put Sally and her little sister from
her mind, she was almost happy. How great a service
she would be doing humanity if, because of her work,
the public might learn to know and love the Immortal
Bardl
Strangely, in her new-found contentment she began
to think of Pierce more and more often. Certainly she
had been headstrong, even relentless, in her zeal to
bring comfort to the southern Negro. If she had, on the
other hand, been politic, compassionate toward her hus-
band and his problems instead of defiant, might their
story have had a happier ending? Perhaps he, too, had
learned patience, realizing as she did that both husband
and wife must give precious ground to build a marriage.
Even thinking about him made the blood rush to
Fanny's temples. She had never loved another man as
she had Pierce. Charles Kemble was right. She must go
"back to America and try once more.
206
The Life of Fanny Kemble
Then the blow struck. Word came from a Philadel-
phia lawyer that Pierce Butler was suing for divorce.
Before nightfall, Fanny had broken her remaining pro-
fessional engagements and set sail for America. She
could not let her children go without a struggle.
207
16
FANNY WENT AT ONCE to a hotel in Philadel-
phia where two attorneys and the Honorable Rufus
Choate awaited her. Pierce was charging neglect of her
children and desertion,
"Then I'll prepare a retort that will make his hair
stand on end!" Fanny asserted.
She spent hours, days on her defense. Her only hope
was that the Court of Common Pleas would include her
story in the proceedings.
Bluntly and without preamble, the Court refused het
request. However, every newspaper in the country gave
the story of the beloved English actress sympathetic
coverage. William Cullen Bryant's New York Evening
Post declared staunchly:
"The circumstance of Mrs. Butler's readmission to
208
The Life of Fanny Kemble
her husband's household in Branchtown was a refine-
ment of cruelty without parallel."
Once again Fanny's name was emblazoned in head-
lines, pushing off the front page accounts of Zachary
Taylor's entrance into the White House and the Gold
Rush of 1849. The case dragged on for a year, during
which time the defendant tried to live her days as if
the names Butler and Kemble were not on the lips of
every American who could read.
For her career, she gave humble thanks. She was
much in demand.
"We went last evening to hear Mrs. Butler read The
Tempest," wrote her good friend Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow. "A crowded house, a desk covered with red
on a platform like the gory-block on the scaffold; upon
which the magnificent Fanny bowed her head in tears
and great emotion. What glorious reading! The spiritual
Ariel, the stern Prospero, the lover Ferdinand, Miranda
the beloved; Stefano, Trincuro, Caliban each had a
voice distinct and separate as of many actors ..."
After attending her two dozen recitals, the poet
made a second entry in his diary: "I composed this
morning a sonnet on Mrs. Butler's readings/' Grateful
because that generous lady had appeared before his
students of poetry at Harvard University, he and Mrs.
Longfellow entertained her in their famous Cambridge
home. It was here that Fanny first heard his sonnet,
listening with tears in her eyes.
209
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
Oh, precious evenings all too swiftly spedl
How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read . . .
O happy Reader! having for thy text
The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught
The rarest essence of all human thought!
Oh, happy Poet! by no critic vexed!
How must thy listening spirit now rejoice
To be interpreted by such a voice.
From Boston, Fanny traveled to New York where
again she took the city by storm, reading three evenings
and one afternoon each week at Stuyvesant Institute. It
was soothing to one whose heart ached to be so enthu-
siastically received by her audiences, and comforting to
earn from two to three thousand dollars each week.
Yet always in the back of Fanny's consciousness were
the haunting images of two young girls who once had
called her Mother.
One morning during the winter of 1849, Fanny re-
ceived a communication from her lawyers. She read its
contents with trembling fingers. Did her eyes deceive
her? For some unexplained reason, Pierce had agreed
that "for one month during the summer/' she might
have the company of her children. Dropping to her
knees, Fanny wept for sheer joy.
Weary of hotel living, she had for some time been
toying with the idea of buying a house in Lenox*
Pierce's unexpected generosity settled the matter. With
the help of her friends, she found a charming cottage
210
The Life of Fanny Kemble
high on a hill overlooking the jewel-blue Lenox Lake.
"I christen you The Perch!" Fanny cried gaily in the
company of the Sedgwicks and the Longfellows. "You
are my sanctuary, my refuge!"
It was at The Perch that Fanny welcomed her daugh-
ters, two shy strangers who walked toward her hand
in hand. Her heart beat so loudly she was certain they
must hear it. She longed to hold out her arms. Instead,
she shook hands politely as she bit back her tears.
At fourteen Sally was a handsome girl who regarded
her mother respectfully but coldly. While Fanny chat-
tered on about her plans for their vacation, she wondered
if she would ever see love in Sally's questioning brown
eyes. Small Fanny on the other hand behaved as if she
and her mother were old friends, long separated.
The first night her daughters spent under her roof,
Fanny slept little. Was a month long enough? she asked
herself over and over again. Or was she reunited with
her beloved children only to lose them forever?
Now The Perch was gay with song and laughter as
Fanny filled it with students from Elizabeth Sedgwick's
school and the young daughters of her neighbors. Like
bright-colored birds, they came early each day carrying
the Butler girls off on hayrides, mountain climbs, tea
parties, or picnics in the waiting woods* Sometimes
Fanny went along as energetic and joyous as the others.
Sometimes she stayed at home, making preparations for
the feast she was going to serve them. Her happiest
211
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
moments were spent at the piano where she played the
accompaniment for the singing that Sally and young
Fanny so enjoyed.
One evening as the sun was setting over the lake, a
group of girls gathered at The Perch and begged Fanny
to play for them. Almost without knowing why, her
fingers sought and found a melody that Adelaide had
sung years ago. Smiling up at the fresh young faces
which encircled her own, Fanny looked into the eyes of
her eldest daughter. For a moment she saw only puz-
zlement there. Then suddenly Sally smiled, as if she
were saying, "I am ready to be friends,"
Fanny's spirits soared. She sang when she awakened
each morning. She sang when she dressed. She sang
as she gave orders to her maid-servant for the day. Life
was wonderful. She would not worry about tomorrow.
"I am so happy!" she told Elizabeth Sedgwick. "I
must do something nice for someone."
"Then why not give a reading in Lenox?" suggested
her friend.
Fanny's eyes brightened. 'Tor the benefit of the
poor?"
"No, my dear for the benefit of the libraryl" came
the answer. "We have no poor in Lenox, but we do
need a new village clock and some more books."
So it was decided. Fanny would read A Midsummer-
Night's Dream, a play long familiar to her, and easily
understood by her daughters. For this must be her
212 J~,
The Life of Fanny Kemble
finest hour on stage. Sally and small Fanny had never
seen a performance by this person who called herself
Mother.
Fanny rehearsed as she had not rehearsed in a long
time. And when she made her entrance, becomingly
gowned in lavendar velvet with a ruching of creamy
lace about her throat, her hands were cold with ap-
prehension. She sat down before the little table on
which lay her gold and black book. Slowly she turned
the pages, smiling at the cheering audience.
The moments grew into hours as Fanny lost herself
in the play. Yet her fingers still trembled and she dared
not look into the upturned faces of those two who
meant so much to her. At last she spoke in Bottom's
voice, walking clumsily back and forth, her knees quak-
ing amusingly as she sang of courage. The audience
cried out in its delight, the laughter of her own chil-
dren rippling across the room to bring her joy.
In all her life, Fanny could not remember when she
had received such a tribute.
When Pierce appeared to reclaim his daughters,
Fanny regarded him sadly. This man she had once
loved so passionately was old and sick, a beaten man
who could no longer even stir his wife to anger*
She stood in a circle of sunlight, watching the girls
go down the path with their father. Silently she
hugged the final sight of them to her heart. God
21*
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
willing, she would somehow live out the years until
she might see them again.
The Kemble-Butler divorce became final in Septem-
ber of 1849.
In 1856 a grown-up Sally of twenty-one came to her
mother of her own free will to spend the summer at
The Perch. Although Fanny had wanted to take her
abroad, showing off her beautiful child to Adelaide, to
her father, to the Robert Brownings in Rome, Sally
demurred. She was in love with a brilliant young doctor,
Owen Wister. Europe was too far away.
Now the years were in two parts, the winter months
for Fanny's readings, the summers for Sally. The
Kemble was a rich woman, financially and spiritually,
for at least one child had come home. Even the news
of Charles Kemble's death and that of her brother
Henry's close upon it could not still the singing in
Fanny's heart.
In July, 1859, Sally married her doctor, Owen Wister,
and young Fanny spent that summer with her mother.
They went to Rome to visit Adelaide; to England to see
John Kemble, the bibliophile recluse and his scholarly
wife; to Scotland to see Henry's widow and son; and to
Ireland for a visit with Harriet St. Leger.
Back in America during the winter of 1860, Fanny
completed an article for the Atlantic Monthly, "Notes
on the Characters in Shakespeare's Plays." She read again
214
The Life of Fanny Kemble
also the letters she had written so long ago to Elizabeth
Sedgwick from Butler's Island. She had thought much
about the island plantations in recent months, having
learned that in order to settle some debts, her former
husband had sold half his slaves. Dear Psyche was among
them! Once again Fanny awakened in the night, haunted
by her memories.
During these years Fanny was not alone in her con-
cern for the slaves. All of America talked of the blind-
ness of the South, the rashness of the North. What
would finally settle the question? Must it be civil war?
That summer such an exciting event occurred in the
Kemble family that even the thoughts of the sharpen-
ing anti-slavery movement were driven from Fanny's
mind. Sally Wister gave birth to a son! From the mo-
ment of his arrival, young Owen Wister, Junior, was
the light of his grandmother's life.
War broke over the land in 1861 and Pierce was
arrested for high treason. Retained in a prison near Fort
Lafayette, New York, he was charged with having con-
spired against the government for the purchase of arms
for the Confederacy. Although he was held for several
months, he was at last released for lack of evidence.
During the summer of 1863, Fanny journeyed to
London. To her horror, the aristocracy of the city her
life-long friends were jubilant over Lee's most recent
victory. Now, they said happily, England would again
have cotton. Fanny was beside herself. What could one
215
FOOTLIGHTS TO FAME
middle-aged English-American woman do? How might
she open the eyes o her countrymen?
Why, not, she asked herself, publish the journal she
had so long kept secret? After twenty years her oppor-
tunity to help Psyche and the others had come. In a
fever of activity she set about editing and revising her
letters to Elizabeth. In May of 1863 the London edition
of Journal of a Residence on a Georgia Plantation ap-
peared in the London bookstores for the first time, and
the American edition followed two months later. Fanny
Kemble was, in a way, behind the footlights again
the full glare of publicity was upon her. The book was
a best seller on both continents almost at once, and life
was busily wonderful.
At the end of the Civil War, Fanny returned to
America. She saw much of Sally, Sally's doctor husband,
and their bright young son. Each summer Fanny hur-
ried up to Lenox where she lived happily with her
second daughter. When "small Fanny/' now Mrs. James
W. Leigh, the wife of a young clergyman, protested that
"you can't go racing around the world forever/' her
mother merely smiled and said,
"When I can no longer run, I'll sit down and write
about the places I've run to."
Just before her seventieth birthday, Fanny sent off
a letter to her lifelong friend in Ireland, "You will be
216
The Life of Fanny Kemble
amused, dear Harriet," she began, "when you hear what
my latest occupation is. I am at work on the libretto of
an opera at the request of my grandson who is compos-
ing the music for it. He has himself chosen the sub-
ject, telling me how he wishes it treated. I am accord-
ingly working under his direction which I think is
showing an amiable desire to please in faculties grown
stiff with seventy years' wear and tear."
In this beloved grandson, Fanny saw the look of the
Kembles. Handsome as her uncle John, brilliant as her
elder brother, he possessed the sensitive good humor of
her father and the musical talent of Adelaide. But Fanny
was certain of one thing. Owen Wister, Junior, would
one day have something of worth to say and would say
it triumphantly. Twenty years later he wrote the famous
classic The Virginian.
Fanny Kemble, adored mother and grandmother, was
content. Yet it was still true that when she stepped on
stage in her lavendar velvet gown, the voice of Shake-
speare speaking through her own, she felt most truly
alive*
217
(continued from front flap)
that Fanny has great talent, her father launches her
in a revival of Romeo ana* Juliet. In spite of Fanny's
terror on opening night, she is a sensation and at
eighteen she becomes the toast of London. During an
American tour with her father a few years later, Fanny
meets and marries handsome Pierce Butler of Phila-
delphia.
* * *
How Fanny learns the hard lesson that neither fame
nor marriage to one's true love are a guarantee
of lasting happiness makes a dramatic and heart-
stirring story.
Also by Laura Kerr
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