Читать книгу Journal of a Residence in America - Fanny Kemble - Страница 42

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D—— did not call me till ten o'clock, whereat I was in furious dudgeon. Got up, breakfasted, and off to rehearsal; Romeo and Juliet. Mr. Keppel has been dismissed, poor man! I'm sorry for him: my father is to play Romeo with me, I'm sorrier still for that. After rehearsal, came home, dawdled about my room: Mr. ——called: he is particularly fond of music. My father asked him to try the piano, which he accordingly did, and was playing most delightfully, when in walked Mr. ——, and by and by Colonel——, with his honour the Recorder, and General—— of the militia. I amused myself with looking over some exquisite brown silk stockings, wherewith I mean to match my gown. When they were all gone, dawdled about till time to dress. So poor dear H—— can't come from Philadelphia for our dinner—dear, I'm quite sorry! At five our party assembled; we were but thin in numbers, and the half empty table, together with the old ship faces, made it look, as some one observed, as if it was blowing hard. Our dinner was neither good nor well served, the wine not half iced. At the end of it, my father gave Captain—— his claret-jug, wherewith that worthy seemed much satisfied.

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We left the table soon; came and wrote journal. When the gentlemen joined us, they were all more or less "how com'd you so indeed?" Mr. ——and Mr. ——particularly. They put me down to the piano, and once or twice I thought I must have screamed. On one side vibrated dear Mr. ——, threatening my new gown with a cup of coffee, which he held at an awful angle from the horizontal line; singing with every body who opened their lips, and uttering such dreadfully discordant little squeals and squeaks, that I thought I should have died of suppressed laughter. On the other side, rather concerned, but not quite so much so, stood the Irishman; who, though warbling a little out of tune, and flourishing somewhat luxuriantly, still retained enough of his right senses to discriminate between Mr. ——'s yelps and singing, properly so called; and accordingly pished!—and pshawed!—and oh Lorded!—and good heavened! away—staring at the perpetrator with indignant horror through his spectacles, while his terrified wig stood on end in every direction, each particular hair appearing vehemently possessed with the centrifugal force. They all went away in good time, and we came to bed.