New York, Monday, February 5, 1906
Dr. John Brown continued.--Incidents connected with Susy Clemens's childhood.--Bad spelling, etc.
His was a sweet and winning face--as beautiful a face as I have ever known. Reposeful1, gentle, benignant--the face of a saint at peace with all the world and placidly2 beaming upon it the sunshine of love that filled his heart. Doctor John was beloved by everybody in Scotland; and I think that on its downward sweep southward it found no frontier, I think so because when, a few years later, infirmities compelled Doctor John to give up his practice, and Mr. Douglas, the publisher, and other friend set themselves the task of raising a fund of a few thousand dollars, whose income was to be devoted3 to the support of himself and his maiden4 sister (who was in age), the fund was not only promptly5 made up, but so very promptly that the books were closed before friends a hundred miles south of the line had had an opportunity to contribute. No public appeal was made. The matter was never mentioned in print. Mr. Douglas and the other friends applied6 for contributions by private letter only. Many complaints came from London, and everywhere between, from people who had not been allowed an opportunity to contribute. This sort of complaint is so new to the world--so strikingly unusual--that I think it worth while to mention it.
Doctor John was very fond of animals, and particularly of dogs. No one needs to be told this who has read that pathetic and beautiful masterpiece, Rab and His Friends. After his death, his son, Jock, published a brief memorial of him which he distributed privately7 among the friends; and in it occurs a little episode which illustrates8 the relationship that existed between Doctor John and the other animals. It is furnished by an Edinburgh lady whom Doctor John used to pick up and carry to school or back in his carriage frequently at a time when she was twelve years old. She said that they were chatting together tranquilly9 one day, when he suddenly broke off in the midst of a sentence and thrust his head out of the carriage window eagerly--then resumed his place with a disappointed look on his face. The girl said: "Who is it? Some one you know?" He said, "No, a dog I don't know."
He had two names for Susy--"Wee wifie" and "megalopis." This formidable Greek title was conferred in honor of her big, big dark eyes. Susy and the Doctor had a good deal of romping12 together. Daily he unbent his dignity and played "bear" with the child, I do not now remember which of them was the bear, but I think it was the child. There was a sofa across a corner of the parlor13 with a door behind it opening into Susy's quarters, and she used to lie in wait for the Doctor behind the sofa--not lie in wait, but stand in wait; for you could only get just a glimpse of the top of her yellow head when she stood upright. According to the rules of the game, she was invisible, and this glimpse did not count. I think she must have been the bear, for I can remember two or three occasions when she sprang out from behind the sofa and surprised the Doctor into frenzies14 of fright, which were not in the least modified by the fact that he knew that the "bear" was there and was coming.
It seems incredible that Doctor John should ever have wanted to tell a grotesque15 and rollicking anecdote16. Such a thing seems so out of character with that gentle and tranquil10 nature that--but no matter. I tried to teach him the anecdote, and he tried his best for two or three days to perfect himself in it--and he never succeeded. It was the most impressive exhibition that ever was. There was no human being, nor dog, of his acquaintance in all Edinburgh that would not have been paralyzed with astonishment18 to step in there and see Doctor John trying to do that anecdote. It was one which I have told some hundreds of times on the platform, and which I was always very fond of, because it worked the audience so hard. It was a stammering19 man's account of how he got cured of his infirmity--which was accomplished20 by introducing a whistle into the midst of every word which he found himself unable to finish on account of the obstruction21 of the stammering. And so his whole account was an absurd mixture of stammering and whistling--which was irresistible22 to an audience properly keyed up for laughter. Doctor John learned to do the mechanical details of the anecdote, but he was never able to inform these details with expression. He was preternaturally grave and earnest all through, and so when he fetched up with the climaxing23 triumphant24 sentence at the end--but I must quote that sentence, or the reader will not understand. It was this:
"The doctor told me that whenever I wanted to sta--(whistle) sta--(whistle) sta--(whistle) am-mer, I must whistle; and I did, and it k--(whistle) k- (whistle) k- (whistle) k- ured me entirely25!"
The Doctor could not master that triumphant note. He always gravely stammered26 and whistled and whistled and stammered it through, and it came out at the end with the solemnity and the gravity of the judge delivering sentence to a man with the black cap on.
He was the loveliest creature in the world--except his aged27 sister, who was just like him. We made the round of his professional visits with him in his carriage every day for six weeks. He always brought a basket of grapes, and we brought books. The scheme which we began with on the first round of visits was the one which was maintained until the end--and was based upon this remark, which he made when he was disembarking from the carriage at his first stopping place, to visit a patient, "Entertain yourselves while I go in here and reduce the population."
As a child, Susy had a passionate28 temper; and it cost her much remorse29 and many tears before she learned to govern it, but after that it was a wholesome30 salt, and her character was the stronger and healthier for its presence. It enabled her to be good with dignity; it preserved her not only from being good for vanity's sake, but from even the appearance of it. In looking back over the long-vanished years it seems but natural and excusable that I should dwell with longing31 affection and preference upon incidents of her young life which made it beautiful to us, and that I should let its few and small offenses33 go unsummoned and unreproached.
In the summer of 1880, when Susy was just eight years of age, the family were at Quarry34 Farm, on top of a high hill, three miles from Elmira, New York, where we always spent our summers, in those days. Hay-cutting time was approaching, and Susy and Clara were counting the hours, for the time was big with a great event for them; they had been promised that they might mount the wagon35 and ride home from the fields on the summit of the hay mountain. This perilous36 privilege, so dear to their age and species, had never been granted them before. Their excitement had no bounds. They could talk of nothing but this epoch-making adventure, now. But misfortune overtook Susy on the very morning of the important day. In a sudden outbreak of passion she corrected Clara--with a shovel37, or stick, or something of the sort. At any rate, the offense32 committed was of a gravity clearly beyond the limit allowed in the nursery. In accordance with the rule and custom of the house, Susy went to her mother to confess and to help decide upon the size and character of the punishment due. It was quite understood that as a punishment could have but one rational object and function--to act as a reminder38 and warn the transgressor39 against transgressing40 in the same way again--the children would know about as well as any how to choose a penalty which would be rememberable and effective. Susy and her mother discussed various punishments, but none of them seemed adequate. This fault was an unusually serious one, and required the setting up of a danger signal in the memory that would not blow out nor burn out, but remain a fixture42 there and furnish its saving warning indefinitely. Among the punishments mentioned was deprivation43 of the hay-wagon ride. It was noticeable that this one hit Susy hard. Finally, in the summing up, the mother named over the list and asked, "Which one do you think it ought to be, Susy?"
Susy studied, shrank from her duty, and asked, "Which do you think, mamma?"
"Well, Susy, I would rather leave it to you. You make the choice, yourself."
It cost Susy a struggle, and much and deep thinking and weighing--but she came out where anyone who knew her could have foretold44 she would:
"Well, mamma, I'll make it the hay wagon, because, you know, the other things might not make me remember not to do it again, but if I don't get to ride on the hay wagon I can remember it easily."
In this world the real penalty, the sharp one, the lasting45 one, never falls otherwise than on the wrong person. It was not I that corrected Clara, but the remembrance of poor Susy's lost hay ride still brings me a pang--after twenty-six years.
Apparently46 Susy was born with humane47 feelings for the animals and compassion48 for their troubles. This enabled her to see a new point in an old story, once, when she was only six years old--a point which had been overlooked by older, and perhaps duller, people for many ages. Her mother told her the moving story of the sale of Joseph by his brethren, the staining of his coat with the blood of the slaughtered49 kid, and the rest of it. She dwelt upon the inhumanity of the brothers, their cruelty toward their helpless young brother, and the unbrotherly treachery which they practiced upon him; for she hoped to teach the child a lesson in gentle pity and mercifulness which she would remember. Apparently her desire was accomplished, for the tears came into Susy's eyes and she was deeply moved. Then she said, "Poor little kid!"
A child's frank envy of the privileges and distinctions of its elders is often a delicately flattering attention and the reverse of unwelcome, but sometimes the envy is not placed where the beneficiary is expecting it to be placed. Once when Susy was seven, she sat breathlessly absorbed in watching a guest of ours adorn50 herself for a ball. The lady was charmed by this homage51, this mute and gentle admiration52, and was happy in it. And when her pretty labors53 were finished, and she stood at last perfect, unimprovable, clothed like Solomon in his glory, she paused, confident and expectant, to receive from Susy's tongue the tribute that was burning in her eyes. Susy drew an envious54 little sigh and said, "I wish I could have crooked55 teeth and spectacles!"
Once, when Susy was six months along in her eighth year, she did something one day in the presence of company which subjected her to criticism and reproof56. Afterward57, when she was alone with her mother, as was her custom she reflected a little while over the matter. Then she set up what I think--and what the shade of Burns would think--was a quite good philosophical58 defense59: "Well, mamma, you know I didn't see myself, and so I couldn't know how it looked."
In homes where the near friends and visitors are mainly literary people--lawyers, judges, professors, and clergymen--the children's ears become early familiarized with wide vocabularies. It is natural for them to pick up any words that fall in their way; it is natural for them to pick up big and little ones indiscriminately; it is natural for them to use without fear any word that comes to their net, no matter how formidable it may be as to size. As a result, their talk is a curious and funny musketry-clatter of little words, interrupted at intervals60 by the heavy-artillery crash of a word of such imposing61 sound and size that it seems to shake the ground and rattle62 the windows. Sometimes the child gets a wrong idea of a word which it has picked up by chance, and attaches to it a meaning which impairs63 its usefulness--but this does not happen as often as one might expect it would. Indeed, it happens with an infrequency which may be regarded as remarkable64. As a child, Susy had good fortune with her large words, and she employed many of them. She made no more than her fair share of mistakes. Once when she thought something very funny was going to happen (but it didn't) she was racked and torn with laughter, by anticipation65. But apparently she still felt sure of her position, for she said, "If it had happened, I should have been transformed [transported] with glee."
And earlier, when she was a little maid of five years, she informed a visitor that she had been in a church only once, and that was the time when Clara was "crucified" (christened).
In Heidelberg, when she was six, she noticed that the Schloss gardens--
Dear me, how remote things do come together! I break off that sentence to remark that at a luncheon66 uptown yesterday, I reminded the hostess that she had not made me acquainted with all the guests. She said yes, she was aware of that--that by request of one of the ladies she had left me to guess that lady out for myself; that I had known that lady for a day, more than a quarter of a century ago, and that the lady was desirous of finding out how long it would take me to dig her up out of my memory. The rest of the company were in the game and were anxious to see whether I would succeed or fail. It seemed to me, as the time drifted along, that I was never going to be able to locate that woman; but at last, when the luncheon was nearly finished, a discussion broke out as to where the most comfortable hotel in the world was to be found. Various hotels on the several sides of the ocean were mentioned, and at last somebody reminded her that she had not put forward a preference yet, and she was asked to name the hotel that she thought was, from her point of view, the most satisfactory and comfortable hotel on the planet, and she said, promptly, "The 'Slosh,' at Heidelberg."
I said at once, "I am sincerely glad to meet you again, Mrs. Jones, after this long stretch of years--but you were Miss Smith in those days. Have I located you?"
"Yes," she said, "you have."
I knew I had. During that day at Heidelberg, so many ages ago, many charitable people tried furtively67 to get that young Miss Smith to adopt the prevailing68 pronunciation of Schloss, by saying Schloss softly and casually69 every time she said "Slosh," but nobody succeeded in converting her. And I knew perfectly70 well that this was that same old Smith girl, because there could not be two persons on this planet at one and the same time who could preserve and stick to a mispronunciation like that for nearly a generation.
As I was saying, when I interrupted myself--in Heidelberg, when Susy was six, she noticed that the Schloss gardens were populous71 with snails72 creeping all about everywhere. One day she found a new dish on her table and inquired concerning it, and learned that it was made of snails. She was awed73 and impressed, and said, "Wild ones, mamma?"
She was thoughtful and considerate of others--an acquired quality, no doubt. No one seems to be born with it. One hot day, at home in Hartford, when she was a little child, her mother borrowed her fan several times (a Japanese one, value five cents), refreshed herself with it a moment or two, then handed it back with a word of thanks. Susy knew her mother would use the fan all the time if she could do it without putting a deprivation upon its owner. She also knew that her mother could not be persuaded to do that. A relief must be devised somehow; Susy devised it. She got five cents out of her money box and carried it to Patrick and asked him to take it downtown (a mile and a half) and buy a Japanese fan and bring it home. He did it--and thus thoughtfully and delicately was the exigency74 met and the mother's comfort secured. It is to the child's credit that she did not save herself expense by bringing down another and more costly75 kind of fan from upstairs, but was content to act upon the impression that her mother desired the Japanese kind--content to accomplish the desire and stop with that, without troubling about the wisdom or unwisdom of it.
Sometimes while she was still a child, her speech fell into quaint17 and strikingly expressive76 forms. Once--aged nine or ten--she came to her mother's room when her sister Jean was a baby and said Jean was crying in the nursery, and asked if she might ring for the nurse. Her mother asked, "Is she crying hard?"--meaning cross, ugly.
"Well, no, mamma. It is a weary, lonesome cry."
It is a pleasure to me to recall various incidents which reveal the delicacies77 of feeling which were so considerable a part of her budding character. Such a revelation came once in a way which, while creditable to her heart, was defective78 in another direction. She was in her eleventh year, then. Her mother had been making the Christmas purchases, and she allowed Susy to see the presents which were for Patrick's children. Among these was a handsome sled for Jimmy, on which a stag was painted; also in gilt79 capitals the word "DEER." Susy was excited and joyous80 over everything until she came to this sled. Then she became sober and silent--yet the sled was the choicest of all the gifts. Her mother was surprised and also disappointed, and said:
"Why, Susy, doesn't it please you? Isn't it fine?"
Susy hesitated, and it was plain that she did not want to say the thing that was in her mind. However, being urged, she brought it haltingly out:
"Well, mamma, it is fine, and of course it did cost a good deal--but--but--why should that be mentioned?"
Seeing that she was not understood, she reluctantly pointed11 to that word "DEER." It was her orthography81 that was at fault, not her heart. She had inherited both from her mother.
The ability to spell is a natural gift. The person not born with it can never become perfect in it. I was always able to spell correctly. My wife and her sister, Mrs. Crane, were always bad spellers. Once when Clara was a little chap her mother was away from home for a few days, and Clara wrote her a small letter every day. When her mother returned, she praised Clara's letters. Then she said, "But in one of them, Clara, you spelled a word wrong."
Clara said, with quite unconscious brutality82, "Why, mamma, how did you know?"
More than a quarter of a century has elapsed, and Mrs. Crane is under our roof here in New York for a few days. Her head is white now, but she is as pretty and winning and sweet as she was in those ancient times at her Quarry Farm, where she was an idol83 and the rest of us were the worshipers. Her gift of imperfect orthography remains84 unimpaired. She writes a great many letters. This was always a passion of hers. Yesterday she asked me how to spell New Jersey85, and I knew by her look, after she got the information, that she was regretting she hadn't asked somebody years ago. The miracles which she and her sister, Mrs. Clemens, were able to perform without help of dictionary or spelling book are incredible. During the year of my engagement--1869--while I was out on the lecture platform, the daily letter that came for me generally brought me news from the front--by which expression I refer to the internecine86 war that was always going on in a friendly way between these two orthographists about the spelling of words. One of these words was scissors. They never seemed to consult a dictionary; they always wanted something or somebody that was more reliable. Between them, they had spelled scissors in seven different ways, a feat87 which I am certain no person now living, educated or uneducated, can match. I have forgotten how I was required to say which of the seven ways was the right one. I couldn't do it. If there had been fourteen ways, none of them would have been right. I remember only one of the instances offered--the other six have passed from my memory. That one was "sicisiors." That way of spelling it looked so reasonable--so plausible88, to the discoverer of it, that I was hardly believed when I decided89 against it. Mrs. Crane keeps by her, to this day, a little book of about thirty pages of note-paper, on which she has written, in a large hand, words which she needs to use in her letters every day--words which the cat could spell without prompting or tuition, and yet are words which Mrs. Crane never allows herself to risk upon paper without looking at that vocabulary of hers, each time, to make certain.
During my engagement year, thirty-seven years ago, a considerable company of young people amused themselves in the Langdon homestead one night with the game of Verbarium, which was brand new at the time and very popular. A text word was chosen and each person wrote that word in large letters across the top of a sheet of paper, then sat with pencil in hand and ready to begin as soon as game was called. The player could begin with the first letter of that text word and build words out of the text word during two minutes by the watch. But he must not use a letter that was not in the text word and he must not use any letter in the text word twice, unless the letter occurred twice in the text word. I remember the first bout41 that we had at that game. The text word was California. When game was called everybody began to set down words as fast as he could make his pencil move--"corn," "car," "cone," and so on, digging out the shortest words first because they could be set down more quickly than the longer ones. When the two minutes were up, the scores were examined, and the prize went to the person who had achieved the largest number of words. The good scores ranged along between thirty and fifty or sixty words. But Mrs. Crane would not allow her score to be examined. She was plainly doubtful about getting that prize. But when persuasion90 failed to avail we chased her about the place, captured her, and took her score away from her by force. She had achieved only one word, and that was calf--which she had spelled "caff." And she never would have gotten even that one word honestly--she had to introduce a letter that didn't belong in the text word in order to get it.
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reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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frenzies
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| 狂乱( frenzy的名词复数 )； 极度的激动 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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climaxing
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| vt.& vi.达到顶点（climax的现在分词形式） | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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offenses
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| n.进攻( offense的名词复数 )；（球队的）前锋；进攻方法；攻势 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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transgressor
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| n.违背者 | |
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transgressing
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| v.超越( transgress的现在分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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impairs
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| v.损害，削弱( impair的第三人称单数 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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orthography
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| n.拼字法，拼字式 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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internecine
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| adj.两败俱伤的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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