The Story of My Life
it would have broken my spirit beyond repairing. But the angel of
forgetfulness has gathered up and carried away much of the misery and
all the bitterness of those sad days.
Miss Sullivan had never heard of "The Frost Fairies" or of the book
in which it was published. With the assistance of Dr. Alexander Graham
Bell, she investigated the matter carefully, and at last it came out
that Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins had a copy of Miss Canby's "Birdie and
His Friends" in 1888, the year that we spent the summer with her at
Brewster. Mrs. Hopkins was unable to find her copy; but she has told me
that at that time, while Miss Sullivan was away on a vacation, she tried
to amuse me by reading from various books, and although she could not
remember reading "The Frost Fairies" any more than I, yet she felt
sure that "Birdie and His Friends" was one of them. She explained the
disappearance of the book by the fact that she had a short time
before sold her house and disposed of many juvenile books, such as
old schoolbooks and fairy tales, and that "Birdie and His Friends" was
probably among them.
The stories had little or no meaning for me then; but the mere spelling
of the strange words was sufficient to amuse a little child who could do
almost nothing to amuse herself; and although I do not recall a single
circumstance connected with the reading of the stories, yet I cannot
help thinking that I made a great effort to remember the words, with the
intention of having my teacher explain them when she returned. One thing
is certain, the language was ineffaceably stamped upon my brain, though
for a long time no one knew it, least of all myself.
When Miss Sullivan came back, I did not speak to her about "The Frost
Fairies," probably because she began at once to read "Little Lord
Fauntleroy," which filled my mind to the exclusion of everything else.
But the fact remains that Miss Canby's story was read to me once, and
that long after I had forgotten it, it came back to me so naturally that
I never suspected that it was the child of another mind.
In my trouble I received many messages of love and sympathy. All the
friends I loved best, except one, have remained my own to the present
time.
Miss Canby herself wrote kindly, "Some day you will write a great story
out of your own head, that will be a comfort and help to many." But this
kind prophecy has never been fulfilled. I have never played with words
again for the mere pleasure of the game. Indeed, I have ever since been
tortured by the fear that what I write is not my own. For a long time,
when I wrote a letter, even to my mother, I was seized with a sudden
feeling of terror, and I would spell the sentences over and over, to
make sure that I had not read them in a book. Had it not been for the
persistent encouragement of Miss Sullivan, I think I should have given
up trying to write altogether.
I have read "The Frost Fairies" since, also the letters I wrote in which
I used other ideas of Miss Canby's. I find in one of them, a letter to
Mr. Anagnos, dated September 29, 1891, words and sentiments exactly like
those of the book. At the time I was writing "The Frost King," and this
letter, like many others, contains phrases which show that my mind was
saturated with the story. I represent my teacher as saying to me of the
golden autumn leaves, "Yes, they are beautiful enough to comfort us for
the flight of summer"--an idea direct from Miss Canby's story.
This habit of assimilating what pleased me and giving it out again as my
own appears in much of my early correspondence and my first attempts at
writing. In a composition which I wrote about the old cities of Greece
and Italy, I borrowed my glowing descriptions, with variations, from
sources I have forgotten. I knew Mr. Anagnos's great love of antiquity
and his enthusiastic appreciation of all beautiful sentiments about
Italy and Greece. I therefore gathered from all the books I read every
bit of poetry or of history that I thought would give him pleasure. Mr.
Anagnos, in speaking of my composition on the cities, has said, "These
ideas are poetic in their essence." But I do not understand how he ever
thought a blind and deaf child of eleven could have invented them. Yet
I cannot think that because I did not originate the ideas, my little
composition is therefore quite devoid of interest. It shows me that I
could express my appreciation of beautiful and poetic ideas in clear and
animated language.
Those early compositions were mental gymnastics. I was learning, as all
young and inexperienced persons learn, by assimilation and imitation,
to put ideas into words. Everything I found in books that pleased me I
retained in my memory, consciously or unconsciously, and adapted it.
The young writer, as Stevenson has said, instinctively tries to copy
whatever seems most admirable, and he shifts his admiration with
astonishing versatility. It is only after years of this sort of practice
that even great men have learned to marshal the legion of words which
come thronging through every byway of the mind.
I am afraid I have not yet completed this process. It is certain that
I cannot always distinguish my own thoughts from those I read,
because what I read becomes the very substance and texture of my mind.
Consequently, in nearly all that I write, I produce something which very
much resembles the crazy patchwork I used to make when I first learned
to sew. This patchwork was made of all sorts of odds and ends--pretty
bits of silk and velvet; but the coarse pieces that were not pleasant to
touch always predominated. Likewise my compositions are made up of crude
notions of my own, inlaid with the brighter thoughts and riper opinions
of the authors I have read. It seems to me that the great difficulty
of writing is to make the language of the educated mind express our
confused ideas, half feelings, half thoughts, when we are little more
than bundles of instinctive tendencies. Trying to write is very much
like trying to put a Chinese puzzle together. We have a pattern in
mind which we wish to work out in words; but the words will not fit the
spaces, or, if they do, they will not match the design. But we keep
on trying because we know that others have succeeded, and we are not
willing to acknowledge defeat.
"There is no way to become original, except to be born so," says
Stevenson, and although I may not be original, I hope sometime to
outgrow my artificial, periwigged compositions. Then, perhaps, my own
thoughts and experiences will come to the surface. Meanwhile I trust and
hope and persevere, and try not to let the bitter memory of "The Frost
King" trammel my efforts.
So this sad experience may have done me good and set me thinking on some
of the problems of composition. My only regret is that it resulted in
the loss of one of my dearest friends, Mr. Anagnos.
Since the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Ladies' Home
Journal, Mr. Anagnos has made a statement, in a letter to Mr. Macy, that
at the time of the "Frost King" matter, he believed I was innocent. He
says, the court of investigation before which I was brought consisted
of eight people: four blind, four seeing persons. Four of them, he says,
thought I knew that Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and the
others did not hold this view. Mr. Anagnos states that he cast his vote
with those who were favourable to me.
But, however the case may have been, with whichever side he may have
cast his vote, when I went into the room where Mr. Anagnos had so often
held me on his knee and, forgetting his many cares, had shared in my
frolics, and found there persons who seemed to doubt me, I felt that
there was something hostile and menacing in the very atmosphere, and
subsequent events have borne out this impression. For two years he seems
to have held the belief that Miss Sullivan and I were innocent. Then he
evidently retracted his favourable judgment, why I do not know. Nor did
I know the details of the investigation. I never knew even the names of
the members of the "court" who did not speak to me. I was too excited
to notice anything, too frightened to ask questions. Indeed, I could
scarcely think what I was saying, or what was being said to me.
I have given this account of the "Frost King" affair because it was
important in my life and education; and, in order that there might be no
misunderstanding, I have set forth all the facts as they appear to me,
without a thought of defending myself or of laying blame on any one.
CHAPTER XV
The summer and winter following the "Frost King" incident I spent with
my family in Alabama. I recall with delight that home-going. Everything
had budded and blossomed. I was happy. "The Frost King" was forgotten.
When the ground was strewn with the crimson and golden leaves of autumn,
and the musk-scented grapes that covered the arbour at the end of the
garden were turning golden brown in the sunshine, I began to write a
sketch of my life--a year after I had written "The Frost King."
I was still excessively scrupulous about everything I wrote. The thought
that what I wrote might not be absolutely my own tormented me. No one
knew of these fears except my teacher. A strange sensitiveness prevented
me from referring to the "Frost King"; and often when an idea flashed
out in the course of conversation I would spell softly to her, "I am
not sure it is mine." At other times, in the midst of a paragraph I was
writing, I said to myself, "Suppose it should be found that all this was
written by some one long ago!" An impish fear clutched my hand, so that
I could not write any more that day. And even now I sometimes feel the
same uneasiness and disquietude. Miss Sullivan consoled and helped me in
every way she could think of; but the terrible experience I had passed
through left a lasting impression on my mind, the significance of
which I am only just beginning to understand. It was with the hope of
restoring my self-confidence that she persuaded me to write for the
Youth's Companion a brief account of my life. I was then twelve years
old. As I look back on my struggle to write that little story, it seems
to me that I must have had a prophetic vision of the good that would
come of the undertaking, or I should surely have failed.
I wrote timidly, fearfully, but resolutely, urged on by my teacher, who
knew that if I persevered, I should find my mental foothold again and
get a grip on my faculties. Up to the time of the "Frost King" episode,
I had lived the unconscious life of a little child; now my thoughts were
turned inward, and I beheld things invisible. Gradually I emerged from
the penumbra of that experience with a mind made clearer by trial and
with a truer knowledge of life.
The chief events of the year 1893 were my trip to Washington during
the inauguration of President Cleveland, and visits to Niagara and
the World's Fair. Under such circumstances my studies were constantly
interrupted and often put aside for many weeks, so that it is impossible
for me to give a connected account of them.
We went to Niagara in March, 1893. It is difficult to describe my
emotions when I stood on the point which overhangs the American Falls
and felt the air vibrate and the earth tremble.
It seems strange to many people that I should be impressed by the
wonders and beauties of Niagara. They are always asking: "What does this
beauty or that music mean to you? You cannot see the waves rolling up
the beach or hear their roar. What do they mean to you?" In the most
evident sense they mean everything. I cannot fathom or define their
meaning any more than I can fathom or define love or religion or
goodness.
During the summer of 1893, Miss Sullivan and I visited the World's Fair