ver asked questions of callers beyond what an extreme courtesy
required. I noticed the latter trait when a child, in contrast to the
custom of most people; for to ask questions seemed to be the usual and
almost only manner of carrying on conversation among the neighbors.
Moreover, I was myself pestered beyond endurance by a fire of questions
whenever I went anywhere, or anybody came to us. I inherit from my
mother a great reserve in speech and fondness for silence; and, as the
latter can only be purchased by retirement, I have added to silence a
love of solitude in which I have doubtless too much indulged myself. All
sorts of suppositions follow a man who retires and declines the
ambitions of his contemporaries. By some he is thought a coward or
eccentric; by others he is believed to be a philosopher. Those of a more
indulgent temper guess that delicate health or some disappointment in
love, in business or profession has driven him away from his kind. None
of these solutions hits the marks. And although I have no wish to
relieve myself of responsibility for my course of life, still less to
apologize for it, destiny, in form of a woman, my mother, has directed
my life in spite of reason, the persuasion of friends or the allurements
of the world--the world which inflicts its just penalties upon him who
refrains from becoming an actor, who persists in being a spectator. The
paradox of my nature is that I love my kind as much as I love solitude
and silence. My friendships are now sixty years old. My mother also
enjoyed society although she never sought it. She was easily amused, but
I never heard her laugh aloud; her whole face smiled and it was more
contagious than the outbursts of more demonstrative persons. She
listened apparently with all her senses and faculties. It was this
characteristic I imagine, that, when outward voices were withdrawn, made
possible the turning of an inward ear to the responses of her soul. In
no other way can I account for the fact that without education or
opportunities she became a refined gentle-woman, became intelligent
without books and had an insight and judgment in all matters within her
sphere, much depended upon by her family and acquaintances. She was
feminine to the tips of her fingers, and sympathetic with distress and
misfortune. From her scanty cupboard she fed all who asked for food. She
believed and often said that the loaf which is divided is never
consumed. Wandering beggars knew