, whatever personal regard or affection for him her letter
might appear to express to the contrary notwithstanding.

To my great regret I only saw her act once, though I heard her sing at
concerts and in private repeatedly. My only personal encounter with her
took place in a curious fashion. My father and myself were acting at
Manchester, and had just finished performing the parts of Mr. and Mrs.
Beverley, one night, in "The Gamester." On our return from the theater,
as I was slowly and in considerable exhaustion following my father up
the hotel stairs, as we reached the landing by our sitting-room, a door
immediately opposite to it flew open, and a lady dressed like
Tilburina's Confidante, all in white muslin, rushed out of it, and fell
upon my father's breast, sobbing out hysterically, "Oh, Mr. Kembel, my
deare, deare Mr. Kembel!" This was Madame Malibran, under the effect of
my father's performance of the Gamester, which she had just witnessed.
"Come, come," quoth my father (who was old enough to have been hers, and
knew her very well), patting her consolingly on the back, "Come now, my
dear Madame Malibran, compose yourself; don't now, Marie, don't, my dear
child!" all which was taking place on the public staircase, while I
looked on in wide-eyed amazement behind. Madame Malibran, having
suffered herself to be led into our room, gradually composed herself,
ate her supper with us, expressed herself with much kind enthusiasm
about my performance, and gave me a word of advice as to not losing any
of my height (of which I had none to spare) by stooping, saying very
amiably that, being at a disadvantage as to her own stature, she had
never wasted a quarter of an inch of it. This little reflection upon her
own proportions must have been meant as a panacea to my vanity for her
criticism of my deportment. My person was indeed of the shortest; but
she had the figure of a nymph, and was rather above than below middle
height. There was in other respects some likeness between us; she was
certainly not really handsome, but her eyes were magnificent, and her
whole countenance was very striking.

The first time I ever saw her sister, Madame Viardot, she was sitting
with mine, who introduced me to her; Pauline Viardot continued talking,
now and then, however, stopping to look fixedly at me, and at last
exclaimed, "Mais comme elle ressemble a ma Marie!" and one evening at a
private concert in London, having arrived late, I remained