Enslavement: The True Story of Fanny Kemble

Quaka. Oh!

Aaaah! Quaka!

Quaka!

Juba!

Juba!

Guess you got no pass,

huh, quaka?

That's your name?

What kind of name is "quaka,"

huh?! Quack quack!

I ain't never seen no

nigger duck before!

I bet you'll think twice before

you run off to plant your oats

in your little wife,

huh, quaka?

Do it!

Aaaah!

Aaaah!

Aaah! Aaaah....

Bravo! Bravo!

Give her the flower!

Miss kemble!

Man: Step back, please.

I just want an autograph!

See that she gets it tonight.

Yes, I will.

Man: Thomas Scully

is here tonight.

He's a very fine painter, Fanny.

I want you to meet him.

He's assured me he can paint

a true likeness of you.

No, father, no one can paint

me as I am, because I am not

what I appear to be.

That is a true statement.

Elizabeth!

You said only a few people.

These are only a few people.

Would you like me to mind

the child for a while?

If it were only possible.

Ha ha ha ha!

Tonight was my last

performance in america.

The audience coughed

too much, did they?

Oh, I'm sorry. What the matter?

Everything. Blundering actors

who didn't know their parts,

comatose audiences, and america.

I'm tired of spittoons and bad

Brandy and competing with wild

pigs for space on the sidewalks.

So this is the capricious

kemble we've all heard about.

Introduce us, Mrs. Sedgwick.

Fanny, this is John Quincy

Adams, the esteemed former

president of the United States.

And Daniel Webster, senator

and famous orator.

Fanny was just saying how much

she loves america.

Finest country on earth.

My mother-in-law was English.

By the bye, she loved

Shakespeare, adored it.

You were quite good tonight.

Women wept.

But I think desdemona's

misfortune is a very just

judgment upon her for

marrying a nigger.

Desdemona's fault was

being in love, sir.

Othello's error was pride...

Not being a negro, a condition

over which he had no control.

Good evening.

Excuse me.

What I wonder is if you've ever

had any control over your mouth.

Now, what is the matter?

I am sick to death of

being Fanny kemble.

I'm so good at it I don't dare

be anyone else.

Well, that's honest.

What's to be done?

Fanny, they're waiting

for you. Come.

And now our next musician

is Pierce Butler who will play

a flute sonata by carulli,

accompanied by Mr. Avelen

on the guitar.

I would like to dedicate

this piece to our charming

guest of honor,

miss Fanny kemble.

What's in a name?

That which we call a Rose

by any other name

would smell as sweet.

Fanny: Not only do you know

Shakespeare, you play the flute

very well, Mr. Butler.

Are you a musician?

If my music moves you I am,

otherwise I am merely

a dull lawyer.

I'm surprised you found time

to leave roses for me

throughout the tour.

I don't recall saying I did.

Perhaps you're too ashamed

to confess it.

Is that why you never

signed your name?

If I had signed my name,

I would have been another one

of those moon-faced admirers

gaping at us through the

windows; I wanted to be

the one dancing with you, and

talking to you in the garden.

But how are you different

from them?

They're only dazzled by

the roles I play.

Because I know you better.

"In the inmost chambers of my

soul, there is another world,

a blessed home o'er which

no living power holdeth control,

close to which ill things

do never come."

I read your book of poetry.

Those poems are the foolish

musings of a young girl.

The fact they're even published

is my eternal punishment

for having written them.

Well, I'm very glad you did.

I knew the poet was rare--

I did not know she was

also beautiful.

You're beginning to sound

a lot like a moon-faced admirer

yourself, Mr. Butler.

Would you feel safer

if I were?

It is time for me to go.

Once we go back inside,

you belong to them.

I much prefer having you

all to myself.

Good night, miss kemble.

I think I'd prefer that too,

Mr. Butler.

"Our performance of othello

was well received, though on the

whole, Philadelphia audiences

cannot distinguish good theater

from a cattle race.

After the performance,

I received yet another

single white Rose.

But the mystery is finally over.

Elizabeth's soiree was witless

but mildly interesting--

my last, I vow--

but it was there that my secret

admirer made his presence known.

Pierce Butler.

He was so brash and I was so

aloof, both of us playing our

parts, but he liked the only

good poem I've ever written,

and he played the flute

hauntingly.

Quite handsome, too."

Miss kemble!

Miss kimble, are you all right?

Of course I'm all right.

Why do you ask?

I thought your horse

had run away with you.

What a preposterous idea.

Have you been following me,

Mr. Butler?

Oh, no.

Well, yes.

I paid the stable boy six

shillings to tell me where you

rode; I wanted to escort you.

I thought the rain might have

made the trails unfit for