tick of cinnamon. On the
occasion of the betrothal she had arrived late, dressed in
indescribable odds and ends, with an artificial red flower stuck into
her frowzy wig. She pushed and elbowed her way to the middle of the
table, where the shadchan sat ready with paper and ink to take down
the articles of the contract. On every point she had some comment to
make, till a dispute arose over a note which my grandfather offered as
part of the dowry, the hossen's people insisting on cash. No one
insisted so loudly as the cousin with the red flower in her wig; and
when the other cousins seemed about to weaken and accept the note,
Red-Flower stood up and exhorted them to be firm, lest their flesh and
blood be cheated under their noses. The meddlesome cousin was silenced
at last, the contract was signed, the happiness of the engaged couple
was pledged in wine, the guests dispersed. And all this while my
mother had not opened her mouth, and my father had scarcely been
heard.

That is the way my fate was sealed. It gives me a shudder of wonder to
think what a narrow escape I had; I came so near not being born at
all. If the beggarly cousin with the frowzy wig had prevailed upon her
family and broken off the match, then my mother would not have married
my father, and I should at this moment be an unborn possibility in a
philosopher's brain. It is right that I should pick my words most
carefully, and meditate over every comma, because I am describing
miracles too great for careless utterance. If I had died after my
first breath, my history would still be worth recording. For before I
could lie on my mother's breast, the earth had to be prepared, and the
stars had to take their places; a million races had to die, testing
the laws of life; and a boy and girl had to be bound for life to watch
together for my coming. I was millions of years on the way, and I came
through the seas of chance, over the fiery mountain of law, by the
zigzag path of human possibility. Multitudes were pushed back into the
abyss of non-existence, that I should have way to creep into being.
And at the last, when I stood at the gate of life, a weazen-faced
fishwife, who had not wit enough to support herself, came near
shutting me out.

Such creatures of accident are we, liable to a thousand deaths before
we are born. But once we are here, we may create our own world, if we
choose. Since I have stood on my own feet, I have never met my master.
For every time I