I wrote the story when I was at home, the autumn after I had learned to speak. We had stayed up at Fern Quarry3 later than usual. While we were there, Miss Sullivan had described to me the beauties of the late foliage4, and it seems that her descriptions revived the memory of a story, which must have been read to me, and which I must have unconsciously retained. I thought then that I was "making up a story," as children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas should slip from me. My thoughts flowed easily; I felt a sense of joy in the composition. Words and images came tripping to my finger ends, and as I thought out sentence after sentence, I wrote them on my braille slate5. Now, if words and images come to me without effort, it is a pretty sure sign that they are not the offspring of my own mind, but stray waifs that I regretfully dismiss. At that time I eagerly absorbed everything I read without a thought of authorship, and even now I cannot be quite sure of the boundary line between my ideas and those I find in books. I suppose that is because so many of my impressions come to me through the medium of others' eyes and ears.
When the story was finished, I read it to my teacher, and I recall now vividly6 the pleasure I felt in the more beautiful passages, and my annoyance7 at being interrupted to have the pronunciation of a word corrected. At dinner it was read to the assembled family, who were surprised that I could write so well. Some one asked me if I had read it in a book.
This question surprised me very much; for I had not the faintest recollection of having had it read to me. I spoke8 up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos."
Accordingly I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday. It was suggested that I should change the title from "Autumn Leaves" to "The Frost King," which I did. I carried the little story to the post-office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I little dreamed how cruelly I should pay for that birthday gift.
Mr. Anagnos was delighted with "The Frost King," and published it in one of the Perkins Institution reports. This was the pinnacle9 of my happiness, from which I was in a little while dashed to earth. I had been in Boston only a short time when it was discovered that a story similar to "The Frost King," called "The Frost Fairies" by Miss Margaret T. Canby, had appeared before I was born in a book called "Birdie and His Friends." The two stories were so much alike in thought and language that it was evident Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and that mine was--a plagiarism10. It was difficult to make me understand this; but when I did understand I was astonished and grieved. No child ever drank deeper of the cup of bitterness than I did. I had disgraced myself; I had brought suspicion upon those I loved best. And yet how could it possibly have happened? I racked my brain until I was weary to recall anything about the frost that I had read before I wrote "The Frost King"; but I could remember nothing, except the common reference to Jack11 Frost, and a poem for children, "The Freaks of the Frost," and I knew I had not used that in my composition.
At first Mr. Anagnos, though deeply troubled, seemed to believe me. He was unusually tender and kind to me, and for a brief space the shadow lifted. To please him I tried not to be unhappy, and to make myself as pretty as possible for the celebration of Washington's birthday, which took place very soon after I received the sad news.
I was to be Ceres in a kind of masque given by the blind girls. How well I remember the graceful12 draperies that enfolded me, the bright autumn leaves that wreathed my head, and the fruit and grain at my feet and in my hands, and beneath all the piety13 of the masque the oppressive sense of coming ill that made my heart heavy.
The night before the celebration, one of the teachers of the Institution had asked me a question connected with "The Frost King," and I was telling her that Miss Sullivan had talked to me about Jack Frost and his wonderful works. Something I said made her think she detected in my words a confession14 that I did remember Miss Canby's story of "The Frost Fairies," and she laid her conclusions before Mr. Anagnos, although I had told her most emphatically that she was mistaken.
Mr. Anagnos, who loved me tenderly, thinking that he had been deceived, turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of love and innocence15. He believed, or at least suspected, that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately16 stolen the bright thoughts of another and imposed them on him to win his admiration17. I was brought before a court of investigation18 composed of the teachers and officers of the Institution, and Miss Sullivan was asked to leave me. Then I was questioned and cross-questioned with what seemed to me a determination on the part of my judges to force me to acknowledge that I remembered having had "The Frost Fairies" read to me. I felt in every question the doubt and suspicion that was in their minds, and I felt, too, that a loved friend was looking at me reproachfully, although I could not have put all this into words. The blood pressed about my thumping19 heart, and I could scarcely speak, except in monosyllables. Even the consciousness that it was only a dreadful mistake did not lessen20 my suffering, and when at last I was allowed to leave the room, I was dazed and did not notice my teacher's caresses21, or the tender words of my friends, who said I was a brave little girl and they were proud of me.
As I lay in my bed that night, I wept as I hope few children have wept. I felt so cold, I imagined I should die before morning, and the thought comforted me. I think if this sorrow had come to me when I was older, it would have broken my spirit beyond repairing. But the angel of forgetfulness has gathered up and carried away much of the misery22 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 disappearance23 of the book by the fact that she had a short time before sold her house and disposed of many juvenile24 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 mere25 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 exclusion26 of everything else. But the fact remains27 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 kindly28, "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 persistent29 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 saturated30 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 antiquity31 and his enthusiastic appreciation32 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 poetic33 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 devoid34 of interest. It shows me that I could express my appreciation of beautiful and poetic ideas in clear and animated35 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, instinctively36 tries to copy whatever seems most admirable, and he shifts his admiration with astonishing versatility38. It is only after years of this sort of practice that even great men have learned to marshal the legion of words which come thronging39 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 texture40 of my mind. Consequently, in nearly all that I write, I produce something which very much resembles the crazy patchwork41 I used to make when I first learned to sew. This patchwork was made of all sorts of odds42 and ends--pretty bits of silk and velvet43; 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 instinctive37 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 outgrow44 my artificial, periwigged compositions. Then, perhaps, my own thoughts and experiences will come to the surface. Meanwhile I trust and hope and persevere45, 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 favourable46 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 retracted47 his favourable judgment48, 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.
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1
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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6
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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8
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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9
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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12
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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21
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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26
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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42
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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43
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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44
outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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45
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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46
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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47
retracted
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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48
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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