I have thus far sketched the events of my life, but I have not shown how
much I have depended on books not only for pleasure and for the wisdom
they bring to all who read, but also for that knowledge which comes to
others through their eyes and their ears. Indeed, books have meant so
much more in my education than in that of others, that I shall go back
to the time when I began to read.
I read my first connected story in May, 1887, when I was seven years
old, and from that day to this I have devoured everything in the shape
of a printed page that has come within the reach of my hungry finger
tips. As I have said, I did not study regularly during the early years
of my education; nor did I read according to rule.
At first I had only a few books in raised print--"readers" for
beginners, a collection of stories for children, and a book about the
earth called "Our World." I think that was all; but I read them over
and over, until the words were so worn and pressed I could scarcely
make them out. Sometimes Miss Sullivan read to me, spelling into my
hand little stories and poems that she knew I should understand; but I
preferred reading myself to being read to, because I liked to read again
and again the things that pleased me.
It was during my first visit to Boston that I really began to read
in good earnest. I was permitted to spend a part of each day in the
Institution library, and to wander from bookcase to bookcase, and take
down whatever book my fingers lighted upon. And read I did, whether I
understood one word in ten or two words on a page. The words themselves
fascinated me; but I took no conscious account of what I read. My mind
must, however, have been very impressionable at that period, for it
retained many words and whole sentences, to the meaning of which I had
not the faintest clue; and afterward, when I began to talk and write,
these words and sentences would flash out quite naturally, so that my
friends wondered at the richness of my vocabulary. I must have read
parts of many books (in those early days I think I never read any one
book through) and a great deal of poetry in this uncomprehending way,
until I discovered "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which was the first book of
any consequence I read understandingly.
One day my teacher found me in a corner of the library poring over
the pages of "The Scarlet Letter." I was then about eight years old. I
remember she asked me if I liked little Pearl, and explained some of
the words that had puzzled me. Then she told me that she had a beautiful
story about a little boy which she was sure I should like better
than "The Scarlet Letter." The name of the story was "Little Lord
Fauntleroy," and she promised to read it to me the following summer. But
we did not begin the story until August; the first few weeks of my stay
at the seashore were so full of discoveries and excitement that I forgot
the very existence of books. Then my teacher went to visit some friends
in Boston, leaving me for a short time.
When she returned almost the first thing we did was to begin the story
of "Little Lord Fauntleroy." I recall distinctly the time and place when
we read the first chapters of the fascinating child's story. It was a
warm afternoon in August. We were sitting together in a hammock which
swung from two solemn pines at a short distance from the house. We had
hurried through the dish-washing after luncheon, in order that we might
have as long an afternoon as possible for the story. As we hastened
through the long grass toward the hammock, the grasshoppers swarmed
about us and fastened themselves on our clothes, and I remember that
my teacher insisted upon picking them all off before we sat down, which
seemed to me an unnecessary waste of time. The hammock was covered with
pine needles, for it had not been used while my teacher was away. The
warm sun shone on the pine trees and drew out all their fragrance. The
air was balmy, with a tang of the sea in it. Before we began the story
Miss Sullivan explained to me the things that she knew I should not
understand, and as we read on she explained the unfamiliar words.
At first there were many words I did not know, and the reading was
constantly interrupted; but as soon as I thoroughly comprehended the
situation, I became too eagerly absorbed in the story to notice mere
words, and I am afraid I listened impatiently to the explanations that
Miss Sullivan felt to be necessary. When her fingers were too tired
to spell another word, I had for the first time a keen sense of my
deprivations. I took the book in my hands and tried to feel the letters
with an intensity of longing that I can never forget.
Afterward, at my eager request, Mr. Anagnos had this story embossed,
and I read it again and again, until I almost knew it by heart; and all
through my childhood "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was my sweet and gentle
companion. I have given these details at the risk of being tedious,
because they are in such vivid contrast with my vague, mutable and
confused memories of earlier reading.
From "Little Lord Fauntleroy" I date the beginning of my true interest
in books. During the next two years I read many books at my home and on
my visits to Boston. I cannot remember what they all were, or in what
order I read them; but I know that among them were "Greek Heroes," La
Fontaine's "Fables," Hawthorne's "Wonder Book," "Bible Stories," Lamb's
"Tales from Shakespeare," "A Child's History of England" by Dickens,
"The Arabian Nights," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "The Pilgrim's
Progress," "Robinson Crusoe," "Little Women," and "Heidi," a beautiful
little story which I afterward read in German. I read them in the
intervals between study and play with an ever-deepening sense of
pleasure. I did not study nor analyze them--I did not know whether they
were well written or not; I never thought about style or authorship.
They laid their treasures at my feet, and I accepted them as we accept
the sunshine and the love of our friends. I loved "Little Women" because
it gave me a sense of kinship with girls and boys who could see and
hear. Circumscribed as my life was in so many ways, I had to look
between the covers of books for news of the world that lay outside my
own.
I did not care especially for "The Pilgrim's Progress," which I think I
did not finish, or for the "Fables." I read La Fontaine's "Fables" first
in an English translation, and enjoyed them only after a half-hearted
fashion. Later I read the book again in French, and I found that, in
spite of the vivid word-pictures, and the wonderful mastery of language,
I liked it no better. I do not know why it is, but stories in which
animals are made to talk and act like human beings have never appealed
to me very strongly. The ludicrous caricatures of the animals occupy my
mind to the exclusion of the moral.
Then, again, La Fontaine seldom, if ever, appeals to our highest moral
sense. The highest chords he strikes are those of reason and self-love.
Through all the fables runs the thought that man's morality springs
wholly from self-love, and that if that self-love is directed and
restrained by reason, happiness must follow. Now, so far as I can judge,
self-love is the root of all evil; but, of course, I may be wrong, for
La Fontaine had greater opportunities of observing men than I am likely
ever to have. I do not object so much to the cynical and satirical
fables as to those in which momentous truths are taught by monkeys and
foxes.
But I love "The Jungle Book" and "Wild Animals I Have Known." I feel
a genuine interest in the animals themselves, because they are real
animals and not caricatures of men. One sympathizes with their loves and
hatreds, laughs over their comedies, and weeps over their tragedies. And
if they point a moral, it is so subtle that we are not conscious of it.
My mind opened naturally and joyously to a conception of antiquity.
Greece, ancient Greece, exercised a mysterious fascination over me. In
my fancy the pagan gods and goddesses still walked on earth and talked
face to face with men, and in my heart I secretly built shrines to those
I loved best. I knew and loved the whole tribe of nymphs and heroes
and demigods--no, not quite all, for the cruelty and greed of Medea and
Jason were too monstrous to be forgiven, and I used to wonder why
the gods permitted them to do wrong and then punished them for their
wickedness. And the mystery is still unsolved. I often wonder how
God can dumbness keep
While Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time.
It was the Iliad that made Greece my paradise. I was familiar with the
story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had
little difficulty in making the Greek words surrender their treasures
after I had passed the borderland of grammar. Great poetry, whether
written in Greek or in English, needs no other interpreter than a
responsive heart. Would that the host of those who make the great
works of the poets odious by their analysis, impositions and laborious
comments might learn this simple truth! It is not necessary that one
should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts
and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and
appreciate a fine poem. I know my learned professors have found greater
riches in the Iliad than I shall ever find; but I am not avaricious. I
am content that others should be wiser than I. But with all their wide
and comprehensive knowledge, they cannot measure their enjoyment of that
splendid epic, nor can I. When I read the finest passages of the Iliad,
I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping
circumstances of my life. My physical limitations are forgotten--my
world lies upward, the length and the breadth and the sweep of the
heavens are mine!
My admiration for the Aeneid is not so great, but it is none the
less real. I read it as much as possible without the help of notes or
dictionary, and I always like to translate the episodes that please me
especially. The word-painting of Virgil is wonderful sometimes; but his
gods and men move through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and
love like the graceful figures in an Elizabethan mask, whereas in the
Iliad they give three leaps and go on singing. Virgil is serene and
lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight; Homer is a beautiful,
animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair.
How easy it is to fly on paper wings! From "Greek Heroes" to the Iliad
was no day's journey, nor was it altogether pleasant. One could have
traveled round the world many times while I trudged my weary way through
the labyrinthine mazes of grammars and dictionaries, or fell into those
dreadful pitfalls called examinations, set by schools and colleges for
the confusion of those who seek after knowledge. I suppose this sort of
Pilgrim's Progress was justified by the end; but it seemed interminable
to me, in spite of the pleasant surprises that met me now and then at a
turn in the road.
I began to read the Bible long before I could understand it. Now it
seems strange to me that there should have been a time when my spirit
was deaf to its wondrous harmonies; but I remember well a rainy Sunday
morning when, having nothing else to do, I begged my cousin to read me a
story out of the Bible. Although she did not think I should understand,
she began to spell into my hand the story of Joseph and his brothers.
Somehow it failed to interest me. The unusual language and repetition
made the story seem unreal and far away in the land of Canaan, and I
fell asleep and wandered off to the land of Nod, before the brothers
came with the coat of many colours unto the tent of Jacob and told their
wicked lie! I cannot understand why the stories of the Greeks should
have been so full of charm for me, and those of the Bible so devoid
of interest, unless it was that I had made the acquaintance of several
Greeks in Boston and been inspired by their enthusiasm for the stories
of their country; whereas I had not met a single Hebrew or Egyptian, and
therefore concluded that they were nothing more than barbarians, and the
stories about them were probably all made up, which hypothesis explained
the repetitions and the queer names. Curiously enough, it never occurred
to me to call Greek patronymics "queer."
But how shall I speak of the glories I have since discovered in the
Bible? For years I have read it with an ever-broadening sense of joy and
inspiration; and I love it as I love no other book. Still there is much
in the Bible against which every instinct of my being rebels, so much
that I regret the necessity which has compelled me to read it through
from beginning to end. I do not think that the knowledge which I have
gained of its history and sources compensates me for the unpleasant
details it has forced upon my attention. For my part, I wish, with Mr.
Howells, that the literature of the past might be purged of all that is
ugly and barbarous in it, although I should object as much as any one to
having these great works weakened or falsified.
There is something impressive, awful, in the simplicity and terrible
directness of the book of Esther. Could there be anything more dramatic
than the scene in which Esther stands before her wicked lord? She knows
her life is in his hands; there is no one to protect her from his wrath.
Yet, conquering her woman's fear, she approaches him, animated by the
noblest patriotism, having but one thought: "If I perish, I perish; but
if I live, my people shall live."
The story of Ruth, too--how Oriental it is! Yet how different is the
life of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital!
Ruth is so loyal and gentle-hearted, we cannot help loving her, as she
stands with the reapers amid the waving corn. Her beautiful, unselfish
spirit shines out like a bright star in the night of a dark and cruel
age. Love like Ruth's, love which can rise above conflicting creeds and
deep-seated racial prejudices, is hard to find in all the world.
The Bible gives me a deep, comforting sense that "things seen are
temporal, and things unseen are eternal."
I do not remember a time since I have been capable of loving books that
I have not loved Shakespeare. I cannot tell exactly when I began Lamb's
"Tales from Shakespeare"; but I know that I read them at first with
a child's understanding and a child's wonder. "Macbeth" seems to have
impressed me most. One reading was sufficient to stamp every detail of
the story upon my memory forever. For a long time the ghosts and witches
pursued me even into Dreamland. I could see, absolutely see, the dagger
and Lady Macbeth's little white hand--the dreadful stain was as real to
me as to the grief-stricken queen.
I read "King Lear" soon after "Macbeth," and I shall never forget the
feeling of horror when I came to the scene in which Gloster's eyes are
put out. Anger seized me, my fingers refused to move, I sat rigid for
one long moment, the blood throbbing in my temples, and all the hatred
that a child can feel concentrated in my heart.
I must have made the acquaintance of Shylock and Satan about the same
time, for the two characters were long associated in my mind. I remember
that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good
even if they wished to, because no one seemed willing to help them or
to give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to
condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks,
the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel of
good which shall in due time be made whole.
It seems strange that my first reading of Shakespeare should have left
me so many unpleasant memories. The bright, gentle, fanciful plays--the
ones I like best now--appear not to have impressed me at first, perhaps
because they reflected the habitual sunshine and gaiety of a child's
life. But "there is nothing more capricious than the memory of a child:
what it will hold, and what it will lose."
I have since read Shakespeare's plays many times and know parts of them
by heart, but I cannot tell which of them I like best. My delight in
them is as varied as my moods. The little songs and the sonnets have a
meaning for me as fresh and wonderful as the dramas. But, with all my
love for Shakespeare, it is often weary work to read all the meanings
into his lines which critics and commentators have given them. I used
to try to remember their interpretations, but they discouraged and vexed
me; so I made a secret compact with myself not to try any more. This
compact I have only just broken in my study of Shakespeare under
Professor Kittredge. I know there are many things in Shakespeare, and
in the world, that I do not understand; and I am glad to see veil after
veil lift gradually, revealing new realms of thought and beauty.
Next to poetry I love history. I have read every historical work that
I have been able to lay my hands on, from a catalogue of dry facts and
dryer dates to Green's impartial, picturesque "History of the English
People"; from Freeman's "History of Europe" to Emerton's "Middle Ages."
The first book that gave me any real sense of the value of history was
Swinton's "World History," which I received on my thirteenth birthday.
Though I believe it is no longer considered valid, yet I have kept it
ever since as one of my treasures. From it I learned how the races of
men spread from land to land and built great cities, how a few great
rulers, earthly Titans, put everything under their feet, and with a
decisive word opened the gates of happiness for millions and closed them
upon millions more: how different nations pioneered in art and
knowledge and broke ground for the mightier growths of coming ages; how
civilization underwent as it were, the holocaust of a degenerate age,
and rose again, like the Phoenix, among the nobler sons of the North;
and how by liberty, tolerance and education the great and the wise have
opened the way for the salvation of the whole world.
In my college reading I have become somewhat familiar with French and
German literature. The German puts strength before beauty, and truth
before convention, both in life and in literature. There is a vehement,
sledge-hammer vigour about everything that he does. When he speaks, it
is not to impress others, but because his heart would burst if he did
not find an outlet for the thoughts that burn in his soul.
Then, too, there is in German literature a fine reserve which I like;
but its chief glory is the recognition I find in it of the redeeming
potency of woman's self-sacrificing love. This thought pervades all
German literature and is mystically expressed in Goethe's "Faust":
All things transitory
But as symbols are sent.
Earth's insufficiency
Here grows to event.
The indescribable
Here it is done.
The Woman Soul leads us upward and on!
Of all the French writers that I have read, I like Moliere and Racine
best. There are fine things in Balzac and passages in Mérimée which
strike one like a keen blast of sea air. Alfred de Musset is impossible!
I admire Victor Hugo--I appreciate his genius, his brilliancy, his
romanticism; though he is not one of my literary passions. But Hugo
and Goethe and Schiller and all great poets of all great nations are
interpreters of eternal things, and my spirit reverently follows them
into the regions where Beauty and Truth and Goodness are one.
I am afraid I have written too much about my book-friends, and yet I
have mentioned only the authors I love most; and from this fact one
might easily suppose that my circle of friends was very limited and
undemocratic, which would be a very wrong impression. I like many
writers for many reasons--Carlyle for his ruggedness and scorn of
shams; Wordsworth, who teaches the oneness of man and nature; I find an
exquisite pleasure in the oddities and surprises of Hood, in Herrick's
quaintness and the palpable scent of lily and rose in his verses; I like
Whittier for his enthusiasms and moral rectitude. I knew him, and the
gentle remembrance of our friendship doubles the pleasure I have in
reading his poems. I love Mark Twain--who does not? The gods, too, loved
him and put into his heart all manner of wisdom; then, fearing lest he
should become a pessimist, they spanned his mind with a rainbow of love
and faith. I like Scott for his freshness, dash and large honesty. I
love all writers whose minds, like Lowell's, bubble up in the sunshine
of optimism--fountains of joy and good will, with occasionally a splash
of anger and here and there a healing spray of sympathy and pity.
In a word, literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No
barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of
my book-friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness.
The things I have learned and the things I have been taught seem of
ridiculously little importance compared with their "large loves and
heavenly charities."