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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 word 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 Merimee 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."
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