I saw that it was a serious matter; and yet she only said a few
words, and looked at me with that smile of hers that was only half a
smile, and the rest a meaning. Another time she had a great question
to ask me, touching my life to the quick. She merely put her question,
and was silent; but I knew what answer she expected, and not being
able to give it then, I went away sad and reproved. Years later I had
my triumphant answer, but she was no longer there to receive it; and
so her eyes look at me, from the picture on the mantel there, with a
reproach I no longer merit.

I ought to go back and strike out all that talk about vanity. What
reason have I to be vain, when I reflect how at every step I was
petted, nursed, and encouraged? I did not even discover my own talent.
It was discovered first by my father in Russia, and next by my friend
in America. What did I ever do but write when they told me to write? I
suppose my grandfather who drove a spavined horse through lonely
country lanes sat in the shade of crisp-leaved oaks to refresh himself
with a bit of black bread; and an acorn falling beside him, in the
immense stillness, shook his heart with the echo, and left him
wondering. I suppose my father stole away from the synagogue one long
festival day, and stretched himself out in the sun-warmed grass, and
lost himself in dreams that made the world of men unreal when he
returned to them. And so what is there left for me to do, who do not
have to drive a horse nor interpret ancient lore, but put my
grandfather's question into words and set to music my father's dream?
The tongue am I of those who lived before me, as those that are to
come will be the voice of my unspoken thoughts. And so who shall be
applauded if the song be sweet, if the prophecy be true?

I never heard of any one who was so watched and coaxed, so passed
along from hand to helping hand, as was I. I always had friends. They
sprang up everywhere, as if they had stood waiting for me to come. So
here was my teacher, the moment she saw that I could give a good
paraphrase of her talk on "Snow," bent on finding out what more I
could do. One day she asked me if I had ever written poetry. I had
not, but I went home and tried. I believe it was more snow, and I
know it was wretched. I wish I could produce a copy of that early
effusion; it would prove that my judgment is not severe. Wretched it
was,--worse, a great deal, than reams of poetry that is written by
child