The Story of My Life
I remember well the first time I went to the theatre. It was twelve
years ago. Elsie Leslie, the little actress, was in Boston, and Miss
Sullivan took me to see her in "The Prince and the Pauper." I shall
never forget the ripple of alternating joy and woe that ran through that
beautiful little play, or the wonderful child who acted it. After the
play I was permitted to go behind the scenes and meet her in her royal
costume. It would have been hard to find a lovelier or more lovable
child than Elsie, as she stood with a cloud of golden hair floating over
her shoulders, smiling brightly, showing no signs of shyness or fatigue,
though she had been playing to an immense audience. I was only just
learning to speak, and had previously repeated her name until I could
say it perfectly. Imagine my delight when she understood the few words I
spoke to her and without hesitation stretched her hand to greet me.
Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitations touches at
many points the life of the World Beautiful? Everything has its wonders,
even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in,
therein to be content.
Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist
as I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate. Beyond there is light,
and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent,
pitiless, bars the way. Fain would I question his imperious decree, for
my heart is still undisciplined and passionate; but my tongue will not
utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back
into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul.
Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, "There is joy in
self-forgetfulness." So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun,
the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my
happiness.
CHAPTER XXIII
Would that I could enrich this sketch with the names of all those who
have ministered to my happiness! Some of them would be found written
in our literature and dear to the hearts of many, while others would
be wholly unknown to most of my readers. But their influence, though it
escapes fame, shall live immortal in the lives that have been sweetened
and ennobled by it. Those are red-letter days in our lives when we meet
people who thrill us like a fine poem, people whose handshake is brimful
of unspoken sympathy, and whose sweet, rich natures impart to our eager,
impatient spirits a wonderful restfulness which, in its essence, is
divine. The perplexities, irritations and worries that have absorbed us
pass like unpleasant dreams, and we wake to see with new eyes and hear
with new ears the beauty and harmony of God's real world. The solemn
nothings that fill our everyday life blossom suddenly into bright
possibilities. In a word, while such friends are near us we feel that
all is well. Perhaps we never saw them before, and they may never cross
our life's path again; but the influence of their calm, mellow natures
is a libation poured upon our discontent, and we feel its healing touch,
as the ocean feels the mountain stream freshening its brine.
I have often been asked, "Do not people bore you?" I do not understand
quite what that means. I suppose the calls of the stupid and curious,
especially of newspaper reporters, are always inopportune. I also
dislike people who try to talk down to my understanding. They are like
people who when walking with you try to shorten their steps to suit
yours; the hypocrisy in both cases is equally exasperating.
The hands of those I meet are dumbly eloquent to me. The touch of some
hands is an impertinence. I have met people so empty of joy, that when
I clasped their frosty finger tips, it seemed as if I were shaking hands
with a northeast storm. Others there are whose hands have sunbeams in
them, so that their grasp warms my heart. It may be only the clinging
touch of a child's hand; but there is as much potential sunshine in it
for me as there is in a loving glance for others. A hearty handshake or
a friendly letter gives me genuine pleasure.
I have many far-off friends whom I have never seen. Indeed they are so
many that I have often been unable to reply to their letters; but I
wish to say here that I am always grateful for their kind words, however
insufficiently I acknowledge them.
I count it one of the sweetest privileges of my life to have known and
conversed with many men of genius. Only those who knew Bishop Brooks can
appreciate the joy his friendship was to those who possessed it. As a
child I loved to sit on his knee and clasp his great hand with one of
mine, while Miss Sullivan spelled into the other his beautiful words
about God and the spiritual world. I heard him with a child's wonder
and delight. My spirit could not reach up to his, but he gave me a real
sense of joy in life, and I never left him without carrying away a fine
thought that grew in beauty and depth of meaning as I grew. Once, when I
was puzzled to know why there were so many religions, he said: "There is
one universal religion, Helen--the religion of love. Love your Heavenly
Father with your whole heart and soul, love every child of God as much
as ever you can, and remember that the possibilities of good are greater
than the possibilities of evil; and you have the key to Heaven." And
his life was a happy illustration of this great truth. In his noble
soul love and widest knowledge were blended with faith that had become
insight. He saw
God in all that liberates and lifts,
In all that humbles, sweetens and consoles.
Bishop Brooks taught me no special creed or dogma; but he impressed upon
my mind two great ideas--the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of
man, and made me feel that these truths underlie all creeds and forms of
worship. God is love, God is our Father, we are His children; therefore
the darkest clouds will break and though right be worsted, wrong shall
not triumph.
I am too happy in this world to think much about the future, except
to remember that I have cherished friends awaiting me there in God's
beautiful Somewhere. In spite of the lapse of years, they seem so close
to me that I should not think it strange if at any moment they should
clasp my hand and speak words of endearment as they used to before they
went away.
Since Bishop Brooks died I have read the Bible through; also some
philosophical works on religion, among them Swedenborg's "Heaven and
Hell" and Drummond's "Ascent of Man," and I have found no creed or
system more soul-satisfying than Bishop Brooks's creed of love. I knew
Mr. Henry Drummond, and the memory of his strong, warm hand-clasp is
like a benediction. He was the most sympathetic of companions. He knew
so much and was so genial that it was impossible to feel dull in his
presence.
I remember well the first time I saw Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. He had
invited Miss Sullivan and me to call on him one Sunday afternoon. It was
early in the spring, just after I had learned to speak. We were shown
at once to his library where we found him seated in a big armchair by an
open fire which glowed and crackled on the hearth, thinking, he said, of
other days.
"And listening to the murmur of the River Charles," I suggested.
"Yes," he replied, "the Charles has many dear associations for me."
There was an odour of print and leather in the room which told me that
it was full of books, and I stretched out my hand instinctively to find
them. My fingers lighted upon a beautiful volume of Tennyson's poems,
and when Miss Sullivan told me what it was I began to recite:
Break, break, break
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
But I stopped suddenly. I felt tears on my hand. I had made my beloved
poet weep, and I was greatly distressed. He made me sit in his armchair,
while he brought different interesting things for me to examine, and
at his request I recited "The Chambered Nautilus," which was then my
favorite poem. After that I saw Dr. Holmes many times and learned to
love the man as well as the poet.
One beautiful summer day, not long after my meeting with Dr. Holmes,
Miss Sullivan and I visited Whittier in his quiet home on the Merrimac.
His gentle courtesy and quaint speech won my heart. He had a book of
his poems in raised print from which I read "In School Days." He was
delighted that I could pronounce the words so well, and said that he had
no difficulty in understanding me. Then I asked many questions about the
poem, and read his answers by placing my fingers on his lips. He said he
was the little boy in the poem, and that the girl's name was Sally, and
more which I have forgotten. I also recited "Laus Deo," and as I spoke
the concluding verses, he placed in my hands a statue of a slave from
whose crouching figure the fetters were falling, even as they fell from
Peter's limbs when the angel led him forth out of prison. Afterward we
went into his study, and he wrote his autograph for my teacher ["With
great admiration of thy noble work in releasing from bondage the mind of
thy dear pupil, I am truly thy friend. John G. Whittier."] and expressed
his admiration of her work, saying to me, "She is thy spiritual
liberator." Then he led me to the gate and kissed me tenderly on my
forehead. I promised to visit him again the following summer, but he
died before the promise was fulfilled.
Dr. Edward Everett Hale is one of my very oldest friends. I have known
him since I was eight, and my love for him has increased with my years.
His wise, tender sympathy has been the support of Miss Sullivan and me
in times of trial and sorrow, and his strong hand has helped us over
many rough places; and what he has done for us he has done for thousands
of those who have difficult tasks to accomplish. He has filled the old
skins of dogma with the new wine of love, and shown men what it is to
believe, live and be free. What he has taught we have seen beautifully
expressed in his own life--love of country, kindness to the least of his
brethren, and a sincere desire to live upward and onward. He has been
a prophet and an inspirer of men, and a mighty doer of the Word, the
friend of all his race--God bless him!
I have already written of my first meeting with Dr. Alexander Graham
Bell. Since then I have spent many happy days with him at Washington and
at his beautiful home in the heart of Cape Breton Island, near Baddeck,
the village made famous by Charles Dudley Warner's book. Here in Dr.
Bell's laboratory, or in the fields on the shore of the great Bras d'Or,
I have spent many delightful hours listening to what he had to tell me
about his experiments, and helping him fly kites by means of which he
expects to discover the laws that shall govern the future air-ship. Dr.
Bell is proficient in many fields of science, and has the art of making
every subject he touches interesting, even the most abstruse theories.
He makes you feel that if you only had a little more time, you, too,
might be an inventor. He has a humorous and poetic side, too. His
dominating passion is his love for children. He is never quite so happy
as when he has a little deaf child in his arms. His labours in behalf of
the deaf will live on and bless generations of children yet to come; and
we love him alike for what he himself has achieved and for what he has
evoked from others.
During the two years I spent in New York I had many opportunities to
talk with distinguished people whose names I had often heard, but whom I
had never expected to meet. Most of them I met first in the house of my
good friend, Mr. Laurence Hutton. It was a great privilege to visit him
and dear Mrs. Hutton in their lovely home, and see their library and
read the beautiful sentiments and bright thoughts gifted friends had