Читать книгу Journal of a Residence in America - Fanny Kemble - Страница 34

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This day week we landed in New York; and this day was its prototype, rainy, dull, and dreary; with occasional fits of sunshine, and light delicious air, as capricious as a fine lady. After breakfast, Colonel—— called. Wrote journal, and practised till one o'clock. My father then set off with Colonel—— for Hoboken, a place across the water, famous once for duelling, but now the favourite resort of a turtle-eating club, who go there every Tuesday to cook and swallow turtle. The day was as bad as a party of pleasure could expect, (and when were their expectations of bad weather disappointed?) nathless, my father, at the Colonel's instigation, persevered, and went forth, leaving me his card of invitation, which made me scream for half an hour; the wording as follows:—"Sir, the Hoboken Turtle Club will meet at the grove, for spoon exercise, on Tuesday, the 11th inst., by order of the President." Mr. ——and the Doctor paid us a visit of some length.

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When they were gone, read a canto in Dante, and sketched till four o'clock. I wish I could make myself draw. I want to do every thing in the world that can be done, and, by the by, that reminds me of my German, which I must persecute. At four o'clock sent for a hair-dresser, that I might in good time see that I am not made an object on my first night. He was a Frenchman, and after listening profoundly to my description of the head-dress I wanted, replied, as none but a Frenchman could, "Madame, la difficulté n'est pas d'exécuter votre coiffure, mais de la bien concevoir." However, he conceived and executed sundry very smooth-looking bows, and, upon the whole, dressed my hair very nicely, but charged a dollar for so doing; O nefarious! D—— and I dined tête-à-tête; the evening was sulky—I was in miserable spirits.

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Sat working till my father came home, which he did at about half past six. His account of his dinner was any thing but delightful; to be sure he has no taste for rainy ruralities, and his feeling description of the damp ground, damp trees, damp clothes, and damp atmosphere, gave me the rheumatiz, letting alone that they had nothing to eat but turtle, and that out of iron spoons.—"Ah, you vill go a pleasuring."

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He had a cold before, and I fear this will make him very ill. He went like wisdom to take a vapour bath directly. ——came, and sat with us till he returned. Had tea at eight, and embroidered till midnight. The wind is rioting over the earth. I should like to see the Hudson now. The black clouds, like masses of dark hair, are driven over the moon's pale face; the red lights and fire engines are dancing up and down; the streets, the church bells are all tolling—'tis sad and strange.

'Tis all in vain, it may not last,

The sickly sunlight dies away,

And the thick clouds that veil the past

Roll darkly o'er my present day.

Have I not flung them off, and striven

To seek some dawning hope in vain?

Have I not been for ever driven

Back to the bitter past again?

What though a brighter sky bends o'er

Scenes where no former image greets me?

Though lost in paths untrod before,

Here, even here, pale Memory meets me.

Oh life—oh blighted bloomless tree!

Why cling thy fibres to the earth?

Summer can bring no flower to thee,

Autumn no bearing, spring no birth.

Bid me not strive, I'll strive no more,

To win from pain my joyless breast;

Sorrow has plough'd too deeply o'er

Life's Eden—let it take the rest!