The Story of My Life
I had another tree friend, gentle and more approachable than the great
oak--a linden that grew in the dooryard at Red Farm. One afternoon,
during a terrible thunderstorm, I felt a tremendous crash against the
side of the house and knew, even before they told me, that the linden
had fallen. We went out to see the hero that had withstood so many
tempests, and it wrung my heart to see him prostrate who had mightily
striven and was now mightily fallen.
But I must not forget that I was going to write about last summer in
particular. As soon as my examinations were over, Miss Sullivan and I
hastened to this green nook, where we have a little cottage on one of
the three lakes for which Wrentham is famous. Here the long, sunny days
were mine, and all thoughts of work and college and the noisy city were
thrust into the background. In Wrentham we caught echoes of what was
happening in the world--war, alliance, social conflict. We heard of the
cruel, unnecessary fighting in the far-away Pacific, and learned of the
struggles going on between capital and labour. We knew that beyond the
border of our Eden men were making history by the sweat of their brows
when they might better make a holiday. But we little heeded these
things. These things would pass away; here were lakes and woods and
broad daisy-starred fields and sweet-breathed meadows, and they shall
endure forever.
People who think that all sensations reach us through the eye and the
ear have expressed surprise that I should notice any difference, except
possibly the absence of pavements, between walking in city streets
and in country roads. They forget that my whole body is alive to the
conditions about me. The rumble and roar of the city smite the nerves of
my face, and I feel the ceaseless tramp of an unseen multitude, and the
dissonant tumult frets my spirit. The grinding of heavy wagons on hard
pavements and the monotonous clangour of machinery are all the more
torturing to the nerves if one's attention is not diverted by the
panorama that is always present in the noisy streets to people who can
see.
In the country one sees only Nature's fair works, and one's soul is not
saddened by the cruel struggle for mere existence that goes on in the
crowded city. Several times I have visited the narrow, dirty streets
where the poor live, and I grow hot and indignant to think that good
people should be content to live in fine houses and become strong
and beautiful, while others are condemned to live in hideous, sunless
tenements and grow ugly, withered and cringing. The children who crowd
these grimy alleys, half-clad and underfed, shrink away from your
outstretched hand as if from a blow. Dear little creatures, they crouch
in my heart and haunt me with a constant sense of pain. There are men
and women, too, all gnarled and bent out of shape. I have felt their
hard, rough hands and realized what an endless struggle their existence
must be--no more than a series of scrimmages, thwarted attempts to do
something. Their life seems an immense disparity between effort and
opportunity. The sun and the air are God's free gifts to all we say, but
are they so? In yonder city's dingy alleys the sun shines not, and the
air is foul. Oh, man, how dost thou forget and obstruct thy brother man,
and say, "Give us this day our daily bread," when he has none! Oh, would
that men would leave the city, its splendour and its tumult and its
gold, and return to wood and field and simple, honest living! Then would
their children grow stately as noble trees, and their thoughts sweet and
pure as wayside flowers. It is impossible not to think of all this when
I return to the country after a year of work in town.
What a joy it is to feel the soft, springy earth under my feet once
more, to follow grassy roads that lead to ferny brooks where I can bathe
my fingers in a cataract of rippling notes, or to clamber over a
stone wall into green fields that tumble and roll and climb in riotous
gladness!
Next to a leisurely walk I enjoy a "spin" on my tandem bicycle. It is
splendid to feel the wind blowing in my face and the springy motion of
my iron steed. The rapid rush through the air gives me a delicious sense
of strength and buoyancy, and the exercise makes my pulses dance and my
heart sing.
Whenever it is possible, my dog accompanies me on a walk or ride or
sail. I have had many dog friends--huge mastiffs, soft-eyed spaniels,
wood-wise setters and honest, homely bull terriers. At present the lord
of my affections is one of these bull terriers. He has a long pedigree,
a crooked tail and the drollest "phiz" in dogdom. My dog friends seem
to understand my limitations, and always keep close beside me when I
am alone. I love their affectionate ways and the eloquent wag of their
tails.
When a rainy day keeps me indoors, I amuse myself after the manner of
other girls. I like to knit and crochet; I read in the happy-go-lucky
way I love, here and there a line; or perhaps I play a game or two of
checkers or chess with a friend. I have a special board on which I play
these games. The squares are cut out, so that the men stand in them
firmly. The black checkers are flat and the white ones curved on top.
Each checker has a hole in the middle in which a brass knob can be
placed to distinguish the king from the commons. The chessmen are of
two sizes, the white larger than the black, so that I have no trouble
in following my opponent's maneuvers by moving my hands lightly over the
board after a play. The jar made by shifting the men from one hole to
another tells me when it is my turn.
If I happen to be all alone and in an idle mood, I play a game of
solitaire, of which I am very fond. I use playing cards marked in the
upper right-hand corner with braille symbols which indicate the value of
the card.
If there are children around, nothing pleases me so much as to frolic
with them. I find even the smallest child excellent company, and I am
glad to say that children usually like me. They lead me about and show
me the things they are interested in. Of course the little ones cannot
spell on their fingers; but I manage to read their lips. If I do not
succeed they resort to dumb show. Sometimes I make a mistake and do the
wrong thing. A burst of childish laughter greets my blunder, and the
pantomime begins all over again. I often tell them stories or teach them
a game, and the wingéd hours depart and leave us good and happy.
Museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration.
Doubtless it will seem strange to many that the hand unaided by sight
can feel action, sentiment, beauty in the cold marble; and yet it is
true that I derive genuine pleasure from touching great works of art.
As my finger tips trace line and curve, they discover the thought and
emotion which the artist has portrayed. I can feel in the faces of gods
and heroes hate, courage and love, just as I can detect them in living
faces I am permitted to touch. I feel in Diana's posture the grace and
freedom of the forest and the spirit that tames the mountain lion
and subdues the fiercest passions. My soul delights in the repose and
gracious curves of the Venus; and in Barre's bronzes the secrets of the
jungle are revealed to me.
A medallion of Homer hangs on the wall of my study, conveniently low, so
that I can easily reach it and touch the beautiful, sad face with loving
reverence. How well I know each line in that majestic brow--tracks of
life and bitter evidences of struggle and sorrow; those sightless eyes
seeking, even in the cold plaster, for the light and the blue skies of
his beloved Hellas, but seeking in vain; that beautiful mouth, firm and
true and tender. It is the face of a poet, and of a man acquainted with
sorrow. Ah, how well I understand his deprivation--the perpetual night
in which he dwelt--
O dark, dark, dark amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!
In imagination I can hear Homer singing, as with unsteady, hesitating
steps he gropes his way from camp to camp--singing of life, of love, of
war, of the splendid achievements of a noble race. It was a wonderful,
glorious song, and it won the blind poet an immortal crown, the
admiration of all ages.
I sometimes wonder if the hand is not more sensitive to the beauties of
sculpture than the eye. I should think the wonderful rhythmical flow of
lines and curves could be more subtly felt than seen. Be this as it may,
I know that I can feel the heart-throbs of the ancient Greeks in their
marble gods and goddesses.
Another pleasure, which comes more rarely than the others, is going to
the theatre. I enjoy having a play described to me while it is being
acted on the stage far more than reading it, because then it seems as if
I were living in the midst of stirring events. It has been my privilege
to meet a few great actors and actresses who have the power of so
bewitching you that you forget time and place and live again in the
romantic past. I have been permitted to touch the face and costume of
Miss Ellen Terry as she impersonated our ideal of a queen; and there was
about her that divinity that hedges sublimest woe. Beside her stood Sir
Henry Irving, wearing the symbols of kingship; and there was majesty of
intellect in his every gesture and attitude and the royalty that subdues
and overcomes in every line of his sensitive face. In the king's face,
which he wore as a mask, there was a remoteness and inaccessibility of
grief which I shall never forget.
I also know Mr. Jefferson. I am proud to count him among my friends. I
go to see him whenever I happen to be where he is acting. The first
time I saw him act was while at school in New York. He played "Rip Van
Winkle." I had often read the story, but I had never felt the charm of
Rip's slow, quaint, kind ways as I did in the play. Mr. Jefferson's,
beautiful, pathetic representation quite carried me away with delight.
I have a picture of old Rip in my fingers which they will never lose.
After the play Miss Sullivan took me to see him behind the scenes, and
I felt of his curious garb and his flowing hair and beard. Mr. Jefferson
let me touch his face so that I could imagine how he looked on waking
from that strange sleep of twenty years, and he showed me how poor old
Rip staggered to his feet.
I have also seen him in "The Rivals." Once while I was calling on him
in Boston he acted the most striking parts of "The Rivals" for me. The
reception-room where we sat served for a stage. He and his son seated
themselves at the big table, and Bob Acres wrote his challenge. I
followed all his movements with my hands, and caught the drollery of his
blunders and gestures in a way that would have been impossible had it
all been spelled to me. Then they rose to fight the duel, and I followed
the swift thrusts and parries of the swords and the waverings of poor
Bob as his courage oozed out at his finger ends. Then the great actor
gave his coat a hitch and his mouth a twitch, and in an instant I was in
the village of Falling Water and felt Schneider's shaggy head against my
knee. Mr. Jefferson recited the best dialogues of "Rip Van Winkle," in
which the tear came close upon the smile. He asked me to indicate as
far as I could the gestures and action that should go with the lines. Of
course, I have no sense whatever of dramatic action, and could make only
random guesses; but with masterful art he suited the action to the word.
The sigh of Rip as he murmurs, "Is a man so soon forgotten when he is
gone?" the dismay with which he searches for dog and gun after his
long sleep, and his comical irresolution over signing the contract with
Derrick--all these seem to be right out of life itself; that is, the
ideal life, where things happen as we think they should.