the court; they often came to us in the garden, and with curiosity and
terror I listened to them and followed them about; nay, I even
ventured so far as to go with the attendants to those who were raving
mad. A long passage led to their cells. On one occasion, when the
attendants were out of the way, I lay down upon the floor, and peeped
through the crack of the door into one of these cells. I saw within a
lady almost naked, lying on her straw bed; her hair hung down over her
shoulders, and she sang with a very beautiful voice. All at once she
sprang up, and threw herself against the door where I lay; the little
valve through which she received her food burst open; she stared down
upon me, and stretched out her long arm toward me. I screamed for
terror,--I felt the tips of her fingers touching my clothes,--I was
half dead when the attendant came; and even in later years that sight
and that feeling remained within my soul.
I was very much afraid of my weak-minded grandfather. Only once had he
ever spoken to me, and then he had made use of the formal pronoun,
"you." He employed himself in cutting out of wood strange
figures,--men with beasts' heads and beasts with wings; these he
packed in a basket and carried them out into the country, where he
was everywhere well received by the peasant-women, because he gave to
them and their children these strange toys. One day, when he was
returning to Odense, I heard the boys in the street shouting after
him; I hid myself behind a flight of steps in terror, for I knew that
I was of his flesh and blood.
I very seldom played with other boys; even at school I took little
interest in their games, but remained sitting within doors. At home I
had playthings enough, which my father made for me. My greatest
delight was in making clothes for dolls, or in stretching out one of
my mother's aprons between the wall and two sticks before a
currant-bush which I had planted in the yard, and thus to gaze in
between the sun-illumined leaves. I was a singularly dreamy child, and
so constantly went about with my eyes shut, as at last to give the
impression of having weak sight, although the sense of sight was
especially cultivated by me.
An old woman-teacher, who had an A B C school, taught me the letters,
to spell, and "to read right," as it was called. She used to have her
seat in a high-backed arm-chair near the clock, from which at every
full stroke some little automata came out. She made use of a big rod,
which she always carried with her. The school consisted mostly of
girls. It was the custom of the school for all to spell loudly and in
as high a key as possible. The mistress dared not beat me, as my
mother had made it a condition of my going that I should not be
touched. One day having got a hit of the rod, I rose immediately, took
my book, and without further ceremony went home to my mother, asked
that I might go to another school, and that was granted me. My mother
sent me to Carsten's school for boys; there was also one girl there, a
little one somewhat older than I; we became very good friends; she
used to speak of the advantage it was to be to her in going into
service, and that she went to school especially to learn arithmetic,
for, as her mother told her, she could then become dairy-maid in some
great manor.
"That you can become in my castle when I am a nobleman!" said I; and
she laughed at me, and told me that I was only a poor boy. One day I
had drawn something which I called my castle, and I told her that I
was a changed child of high birth, and that the angels of God came
down and spoke to me. I wanted to make her stare as I did with the old
women in the hospital, but she would not be caught. She looked queerly
at me, and said to one of the other boys standing near, "He is a fool,
like his grandpapa," and I shivered at the words. I had said it to
give me an air of importance in their eyes; but I failed, and only
made them think that I was insane like my grandfather.
I never spoke to her again about these things, but we were no longer
the same playmates as before. I was the smallest in the school, and my
teacher, Mr. Carsten, always took me by the hand while the other boys
played, that I might not be run over; he loved me much, gave me cakes
and flowers, and tapped me on the cheeks. One of the older boys did
not know his lesson, and was punished by being placed, book in hand,
upon the school-table, around which we were seated; but seeing me
quite inconsolable at this punishment, he pardoned the culprit.
The poor old teacher became, later in life, telegraph-director at
Thorseng, where he still lived until a few years since. It is said
that the old man, when showing the visitors around, told them with a
pleasant smile, "Well, well, you will perhaps not believe that such a
poor old man as I was the first teacher of one of our most renowned
poets!"
Sometimes, during the harvest, my mother went into the field to glean.
I accompanied her, and we went, like Ruth in the Bible, to glean in
the rich fields of Boaz. One day we went to a place the bailiff of
which was well known for being a man of a rude and savage disposition.
We saw him coming with a huge whip in his hand, and my mother and all
the others ran away. I had wooden shoes on my bare feet, and in my
haste I lost these, and then the thorns pricked me so that I could not
run, and thus I was left behind and alone. The man came up and lifted
his whip to strike me, when I looked him in the face and involuntarily
exclaimed, "How dare you strike me, when God can see it?"
The strong, stern man looked at me, and at once became mild; he patted
me on my cheeks, asked me my name, and gave me money.
[Illustration]
When I brought this to my mother and showed it her, she said to the
others, "He is a strange child, my Hans Christian; everybody is kind
to him. This bad fellow even has given him money."
MADAME MICHELET,
FRENCH AUTHOR, WIFE OF THE WELL-KNOWN WRITER, MICHELET.
Among my earliest recollections, dating (if my memory deceive me not)
from the time when I was between the ages of four and five, is that of
being seated beside a grave, industrious person, who seemed to be
constantly watching me. Her beautiful but stern countenance impressed
one chiefly by the peculiar expression of the light blue eyes, so rare
in Southern Europe. Their gaze was like that which has looked in youth
across vast plains, wide horizons, and great rivers. This lady was my
mother, born in Louisiana, of English parentage.
I had constant toil before me, strangely unbroken for so young a
child. At six years of age, I knit my own stockings, by and by my
brothers' also, walking up and down the shady path. I did not care to
go farther; I was uneasy if, when I turned, I could not see the green
blind at my mother's window.
Our lowly house had an easterly aspect. At its northeast corner, my
mother sat at work, with her little people around her; my father had
his study at the opposite end, towards the south. I began to pick up
my alphabet with him; for I had double tasks. I studied my books in
the intervals of sewing or knitting. My brothers ran away to play
after lessons; but I returned to my mother's work-room. I liked very
well, however, to trace on my slate the great bars which are called
"jambages." It seemed to me as if I drew something, from within
myself, which came to the pencil's point. When my bars began to look
regular, I paused often to admire what I had done; then, if my dear
papa would lean towards me, and say, "Very well, little princess," I
drew myself up with pride.
My father had a sweet and penetrating voice; his dark complexion
showed his Southern origin, which also betrayed itself in the
passionate fire of his eyes, dark, with black lashes, which softened
their glance. With all their electric fire, they were not wanting in
an indefinable expression of tenderness and sweetness. At sixty years
of age, after a life of strange, and even tragic, incidents, his heart
remained ever young and light, benevolent to all, disposed to confide
in human nature,--sometimes too easily.
I had none of the enjoyments of city-bred children, and less still of
that childish wit which is sure to win maternal admiration for every
word which falls from the lips of the little deities. Mother Nature
alone gave me a welcome, and yet my early days were not sad; all the
country-side looked so lovely to me.
[Illustration]
Just beyond the farm lay the cornfields which belonged to us; they
were of no great extent, but to me they seemed infinite. When
Marianne, proud of her master's possessions, would say, "Look, miss,
there, there, and farther on,--all is yours," I was really frightened;
for I saw the moving grain, undulating like the ocean, and stretching
far away. I liked better to believe that the world ended at our
meadow. Sometimes my father went across the fields to see what the
reapers were doing, and then I hid my face in Marianne's apron, and
cried, "Not so far, not so far! papa will be lost!"
I was then five years old. That cry was the childish expression of a
sentiment, the shadow of which gained on me year by year,--the fear
that I might lose my father. I desired to please, to be praised, and
to be loved. I felt so drawn towards my mother, that I sometimes
jumped from my seat to give her a kiss; but when I met her look, and
saw her eyes, pale and clear as a silvery lake, I recoiled, and sat
down quietly. Years have passed, and yet I still regret those joys of
childhood which I never knew,--a mother's caresses. My education might
have been so easy; my mother might have understood my heart,--a kiss
is sometimes eloquent; and in a daily embrace she would perhaps have
guessed the thoughts I was too young to utter, and would have learned
how faithfully I loved her.
No such freedom was allowed us. The morning kiss and familiar speech
with one's parents are permitted at the North, but are less frequent
in the South of France. Authority overshadows family affection. My
father, who was an easy man and loved to talk, might have disregarded
such regulations; but my mother kept us at a distance. It made one
thoughtful and reserved to watch her going out and coming in, with her
noble air, severe and silent. We felt we must be careful not to give
cause for blame.
My mother could spin like a fairy. All winter she sat at her wheel;
and perhaps her wandering thoughts were soothed by the gentle
monotonous music of its humming. My father, seeing her so beautiful at
her work, secretly ordered a light, slender spinning-wheel to be
carved for her use, which she found one morning at the foot of her
bed. Her cheek flushed with pleasure; she scarcely dared to touch it,
it looked so fragile. "Do not be afraid," said my father; "it looks
fragile, but it can well stand use. It is made of boxwood from our own
garden. It grew slowly, as all things do that last. Neither your
little hand nor foot can injure it." My mother took her finest
Flanders flax, of silvery tresses knotted with a cherry-colored
ribbon. The children made a circle round the wheel, which turned for
the first time under my mother's hands. My father was watching,
between smiles and tears, to see how dexterously she handled the
distaff. The thread was invisible, but the bobbin grew bigger. My
mother would have been contented if the days had been prolonged to
four-and-twenty hours, while she was sitting by her beautiful wheel.
When we rose in the morning, we said a prayer. We knelt together; my
father standing, bareheaded, in the midst. After that, what delight it
was to run to the hill-top, to meet the first rays of the sun, and to
hear our birds singing little songs about the welcome daylight! From
the garden, the orchard, the oaks, and from the open fields, their
voices were heard; and yet, in my heart, I hid more songs than all the
birds in the world would have known how to sing. I was not sad by
nature. I had the instincts of the lark, and longed to be as happy.
Since I had no wings to carry me up to the clouds, I would have liked
to hide myself like him among the tall grain and the flax.
One of my great enjoyments was to meet the strong south-winds that
came to us from the ocean. I loved to struggle with the buffets of the
blast. It was terrible, but sweet, to feel it tossing and twisting my
curls, and flinging them backward. After these morning races on the
hills, I went to visit the wild flowers,--weeds that no one else
cherished; but I loved them better than all other plants. Near the
water, in little pools hollowed by the rains in stormy weather, on the
border of the wood, sprang up, flourished, and died, forests of dwarf
proportions; white, transparent stars; bells full of sweet odors. All
were mysterious and ephemeral; so much the more did I prize and regret
them.
If I indeed had the merry disposition of the lark, I had also his
sensitive timidity, that brings him sometimes to hide between the
furrows in the earth. A look, a word, a shadow, was enough to
discourage me. My smiles died away, I shrunk into myself, and did not
dare to move.
"Why did my mother choose three boys, rather than three girls, after I
was born?" This problem was often in my mind. Boys only tear blouses,
which they don't know how to mend. If she had only thought how happy I
would be with a sister, a dear little sister! How I should have loved
her,--scolded her sometimes, but kissed her very often! We should have
had our work and play together, thoroughly independent of all those
gentlemen,--our brothers.
My eldest sister was too far from my age. There seemed to be centuries
between us. I had one friend,--my cat, Zizi; but she was a wild,
restless creature, and no companion, for I could scarcely hold her an
instant. She preferred the roof of the house to my lap.
I became very thoughtful, and said to myself, "How shall I get a
companion? and how do people make dolls?" It did not occur to me, who
had never seen a toy-shop, that they could be purchased ready-made. My
chin resting on my hand, I sat in meditation, wondering how I could
create what I desired. My passionate desire overruled my fears, and I
decided to work from my own inspiration.
I rejected wood, as too hard to afford the proper material for my
dolly. Clay, so moist and cold, chilled the warmth of my invention. I
took some soft, white linen, and some clean bran, and with them formed
the body. I was like the savages, who desire a little god to worship.
It must have a head with eyes, and with ears to listen; and it must
have a breast, to hold its heart. All the rest is less important, and
remains undefined.
I worked after this fashion, and rounded my doll's head by tying it
firmly. There was a clearly perceptible neck,--a little stiff,
perhaps; a well-developed chest; and then came vague drapery, which
dispensed with limbs. There were rudiments of arms,--not very
graceful, but movable; indeed, they moved of themselves. I was filled
with admiration. Why might not the body move? I had read how God
breathed upon Adam and Eve the breath of life; with my whole heart and
my six years' strength I breathed on the creature I had made. I
looked; she did not stir. Never mind. I was her mother, and she loved
me; that was enough. The dangers that menaced our mutual affection
only served to increase it. She gave me anxiety from the moment of her
birth. How and where could I keep her in safety? Surrounded by
mischievous boys, sworn enemies to their sisters' dolls, I was
obliged to hide mine in a dark corner of a shed, where the wagons and
carriages were kept. After being punished, I could conceive no
consolation equal to taking my child to bed with me. To warm her, I
tucked her into my little bed, with the friendly pussy who was keeping
it warm for me. At bedtime, I laid her on my heart, still heaving with
sobs; and she seemed to sigh too. If I missed her in the night, I
became wide awake; I hunted for her, full of apprehension. Often she
was quite at the bottom of the bed. I brought her out, folded her in
my arms, and fell asleep happy.
I liked, in my extreme loneliness, to believe that she had a living
soul. Her grandparents were not aware of her existence. Would she have
been so thoroughly my own, if other people had known her? I loved
better to hide her from all eyes.
One thing was wanting to my satisfaction. My doll had a head, but no
face. I desired to look into her eyes, to see a smile on her
countenance that should resemble mine. Sunday was the great holiday,
when everybody did what they liked. Drawing and painting were the
favorite occupations. Around the fire, in winter time, the little ones
made soldiers; while my elder brother, who was a true artist, and
worked with the best colors, painted dresses and costumes of various
sorts. We watched his performances, dazzled by the marvels which he
had at his finger-ends.
It was during this time of general preoccupation that my daughter,
carefully hidden under my apron, arrived among her uncles. No one
noticed me; and I tried, successfully, to possess myself of a brush,
with some colors. But I could do nothing well; my hand trembled, and
all my lines were crooked. Then I made an heroic resolution,--to ask
my brother's assistance boldly. The temptation was strong, indeed,
which led me to brave the malice of so many imps. I stepped forward,
and, with a voice which I vainly endeavored to steady, I said, "Would
you be so kind as to make a face for my doll?" My eldest brother
seemed not at all surprised, but took the doll in his hands with great
gravity, and examined it; then, with apparent care, chose a brush.
Suddenly he drew across her countenance two broad stripes of red and
black, something like a cross; and gave me back my poor little doll,
with a burst of laughter. The soft linen absorbed the colors, which
ran together in a great blot. It was very dreadful. Great cries
followed; everybody crowded round to see this wonderful work. Then a
cousin of ours, who was passing Sunday with us, seized my treasure,
and tossed it up to the ceiling. It fell flat on the floor. I picked
it up; and, if the bad boy had not taken flight, he would have
suffered, very likely, from my resentment.
Sad days were in store for us. My child and I were watched in all our
interviews. Often was she dragged from her hiding-places among the
bushes and in the high grass. Everybody made war upon her,--even Zizi,
the cat, who shared her nightly couch. My brothers sometimes gave the
doll to Zizi as a plaything; and, in my absence, even she was not
sorry to claw it, and roll it about on the garden walks. When I next
found it, it was a shapeless bunch of dusty rags. With the constancy
of a great affection, I remade again and again the beloved being
predestined to destruction; and each time I pondered how to create
something more beautiful. This aiming at perfection seemed to calm my
grief. I made a better form, and produced symmetrical legs (once, to
my surprise, the rudiment of a foot appeared); but the better my work
was, the more bitter the ridicule, and I began to be discouraged.
My doll, beyond a doubt, was in mortal peril. My brothers whispered
together; and their sidelong glances foreboded me no good. I felt that
I was watched. In order to elude their vigilance, I constantly
transferred my treasure from one hiding-place to another; and many
nights it lay under the open sky. What jeers, what laughter, had it
been found!
To put an end to my torments, I threw my child into a very dark
corner, and feigned to forget her. I confess to a shocking resolution;
for an evil temptation assailed me. But, if self-love began to triumph
over my affection for her, it was but as a momentary flash, a troubled
dream. Without the dear little being, I should have had nothing to
live for. It was, in fact, my second self. After much searching, my
unlucky doll was discovered. Its limbs were torn off without mercy;
and the body, being tossed up into an acacia-tree, was stuck on the
thorns. It was impossible to bring it down. The victim hung, abandoned
to the autumnal gales, to the wintry tempests, to the westerly rains,
and to the northern snows. I watched her faithfully, believing that
the time would come when she would revisit this earth.
In the spring, the gardener came to prune the trees. With tears in my
eyes, I said, "Bring me back my doll from those branches." He found
only a fragment of her poor little dress, torn and faded. The sight
almost broke my heart.
All hope being gone, I became more sensitive to the rough treatment of
my brothers; and I fell into a sort of despair. After my life with
_her_ whom I had lost; after my emotions, my secret joys and fears,--I
felt all the desolation of my bereavement. I longed for wings to fly
away. When my sister excluded me from her sports with her companions,
I climbed into the swing, and said to the gardener, "Jean, swing me
high,--higher yet: I wish to fly away." But I was soon frightened
enough to beg for mercy.
Then I tried to lose myself. Behind the grove which closed in our
horizon stretched a long slope, undulating towards a deep cut below.
With infinite pains, I surmounted all obstacles, and gained the road.
How far, far away from home I felt! My heart was beating violently.
What sorrow this would give to my dear father! Where should I sleep? I
should never dare to ask shelter at a farm-house, much less lie down
among the bushes, where the screech-owls made a noise all night. So,
without further reflection, I returned home.
Animals are happier. I wished to be little Lauret, the gold-colored
ox, who labors so patiently, and comes and goes all day long. Or I'd
like to be Grisette or Brunette, the pretty asses who are mother's
pets.
After all, who would not like to be a flower? However, a flower lives
but a very little while: you are cut down as soon as born. A tree
lasts much longer. Yet what a bore it must be to stay always in one
place! To stand with one's foot buried in the ground,--it is too
dreadful; the thought worried me when I was in bed, thinking things
over.
I would have been a bird, if a good fairy had taken pity on me. Birds
are so free, so happy, they sing all day long. If I were a bird, I
would come and fly about our woods, and would perch on the roof of our
house. I would come to see my empty chair, my place at table, and my
mother looking sad; then, at my father's hour for reading, alone in
the garden, I would fly, and perch on his shoulder, and my father
would know me at once.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
JEAN PAUL RICHTER,
ONE OF THE GREAT AUTHORS OF GERMANY.
It was in the year 1763 that I came into the world, in the same month
that the golden and gray wagtail, the robin-redbreast, the crane, and
the red-hammer came also; and, in case anybody wished to strew flowers
on the cradle of the new-born, the spoonwort and the aspen hung out
their tender blossoms,--on the 20th of March, in the early morning. I
was born in Wunsiedel, in the highlands of the Fitchtelbirge. Ah! I am
glad to have been born in thee, little city of the mountains, whose
tops look down upon us like the heads of eagles, and where we can
glance over villages and mountain meadows, and drink health at all thy
fountains!
To my great joy I can call up from my twelfth or, at farthest, my
fourteenth month of age one pale little remembrance, like an early and
frail snow-drop, from the fresh soil of my childhood. I recollect
that a scholar loved me much, and carried me about in his arms, and
took me to a great dark room and gave me milk to drink.
In 1765 my father was appointed minister to Joditz, where I was
carried in a girl's cap and petticoat. The little Saale River, born
like myself in the Fitchtelbirge, ran with me to Joditz, as it
afterwards ran after me to Hof when I removed there. A small brook
traverses the little town, that is crossed on a plank as I remember.
The old castle and the pastor's house were the two principal
buildings. There was a school-house right opposite the parsonage, into
which I was admitted, when big enough to wear breeches and a green
taffety cap. The schoolmaster was sickly and lean, but I loved him,
and watched anxiously with him as he lay hid behind his birdcage
placed in the open window to catch goldfinches, or when he spread a
net in the snow and caught a yellow-hammer.