August 19, 2025 • 31 mins
In the late 19th century, being a Jew in Russia came with its own set of challenges and dangers. Facing persecution for their faith, many sought solace in their rich cultural traditions. When Mary Antins father decided to abandon these customs, he discovered that he no longer belonged in Russia. Thus, he emigrated to America with his family. While life presented its own struggles, Mary recalls her childhood in Boston with an almost idyllic sense of wonder. A bright and resilient young girl, she finds beauty in adversity and shares her inspiring journey through her captivating autobiography. Join Bridget as she brings Marys story to life, allowing you to experience her trials and triumphs firsthand. (Summary by Stav Nisser)
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter eleven of The Promised Land. This LibriVox recording is
in the public domain. Recording by bridget Gage, The Promised
Land by Mary Anton, Chapter eleven. My Country, the Public
School has done its best for us foreigners and for
the country, when it has made us into good Americans.
I am glad it is mine to tell how the
(00:20):
miracle was wrought. In one case, you should be glad
to hear of it, you born Americans, For it is
the story of the growth of your country, of the
flocking of your brothers and sisters from the far ends
of the earth to the flag you love, of the
recruiting of your armies of workers, thinkers, and leaders. And
you will be glad to hear of it, my comrades
and adoption, for it is a rehearsal of your own experience,
(00:43):
the thrill and wonder of which your own hearts have felt.
How long would you say, wise reader, it takes to
make an American. By the middle of my second year
in school, I had reached the sixth grade, when after
the Christmas holidays, we began to study the life of Washington,
running through us Ummery, of the Revolution, and the early
days of the Republic. It seemed to me that all
(01:04):
my reading and study had been idle until then. The reader,
the arithmetic, the song book that had so fascinated me
until now became suddenly sober exercise books tools wherewith to
hew away to the source of inspiration. When the teacher
read to us out of a big book with many
book marks in it, I sat rigid with attention in
my little chair. My hands tightly clasped on the edge
(01:27):
of my desk, and I painfully held my breath to
prevent sighs of disappointment escaping as I saw the teacher
skip the parts between book marks. When the class read
and it came my turn, my voice shook and the
book trembled in my hands. I could not pronounce the
name of George Washington without a pause. Never had I prayed,
Never had I chanted the songs of David. Never had
(01:50):
I called upon the most Holy in such utter reverence
and worship. As I repeated the simple sentences of my
child's story of the Patriot, I gazed with adoration at
the portraits of George and Martha Washington till I could
see them with my eyes shut. And whereas formerly my
self consciousness had bordered on conceit, and I thought myself
an uncommon person, parading my school books through the streets
(02:13):
and swelling with pride when a teacher detained me in conversation.
Now I grew humble all at once, seeing how insignificant
I was beside the great. As I read about the
noble boy who would not tell a lie to save
himself from punishment, I was, for the first time truly
repentant of my sins. Formerly I had fasted and prayed
and made sacrifice on the days of Atonement, but it
(02:36):
was more than half play in mimicry of my elders.
I had no real horror of sin, and I knew
so many ways of escaping punishment. I am sure my family,
my neighbors, my teachers in Polatsk, all my world in fact,
strove together by example and precept to teach me goodness.
Saintliness had a new incarnation, and about every third person
(02:56):
I knew. I did respect the saints, but I could
not help seeing that most of them were a little
bit stupid, and that mischief was more fun than piety. Goodness,
as I had known it was respectable, but not necessarily admirable.
The people I really admired. Like my uncle Solomon and
cousin Rachel, were those who preached the least and laughed
the most. My sister Frida was perfectly good, but she
(03:19):
did not think the less of me because I played tricks.
What I loved in my friends was not inimitable. One
could be downright good if one really wanted to. One
could be learned if one had books and teachers. One
could sing funny songs and tell anecdotes if one traveled
about and picked up such things like one's uncles and cousins.
But a human being strictly good, perfectly wise, and unfailingly valiant,
(03:43):
all at the same time. I had never heard or
dreamed of this wonderful George Washington was as inimitable as
he was irreproachable. Even if I had never never told
a lie, I could not compare myself to George Washington,
for I was not brave. I was afraid to go
out when snowballs would and I could never be the
first president of the United States. So I was forced
(04:06):
to revise my own estimate of myself. But the twin
of my new born humility, paradoxical as it may seem,
was a sense of dignity I had never known before.
For if I found that I was a person of
small consequence, I discovered at the same time that I
was more nobly related than I had ever supposed. I
had relatives and friends who are notable people by the
(04:26):
old standards. I had never been ashamed of my family.
But this George Washington, who died long before I was born,
was like a king in greatness, and he and I
were fellow citizens. There was a great deal about fellow
citizens and the patriotic literature we read at this time,
and I knew from my father how he was a
citizen through the process of naturalization, and how I also
(04:49):
was a citizen by virtue of my relation to him.
Undoubtedly I was a fellow citizen, and George Washington was another.
It thrilled me to realize what sudden greatness had be
fallen on me, and at the same time it sobered me,
as with a sense of responsibility, I strove to conduct
myself as befitted a fellow citizen. Before books came into
(05:11):
my life, I was given to star gazing and day dreaming.
When books were given me, I fell upon them as
a glut pounces on his meat. After a period of
enforced starvation, I lived with my nose in a book
and took no notice of the alternations of the sun
and stars. But now, after the advent of George Washington
and the American Revolution, I began to dream again. I
(05:33):
strayed on the common after school. Instead of hurrying home
to read, I hung on fence rails, my pet book
forgotten under my arm, and gazed off to the yellow
streaked February sunset and beyond and beyond. I was no
longer the central figure of my dreams. The dry weeds
in the lane crackled beneath the tread of heroes. What
(05:53):
more could America give a child? Ah? Much more? As
I read how the patriots planned the revolution, and the
woman gave their sons to die in battle, and the
heroes led to victory, and the rejoicing people set up
the republic, it dawned on me gradually what was meant
by my country. The people all desiring noble things and
striving for them, together, defying their oppressors, giving their lives
(06:17):
for each other. All this it was that made my country.
It was not a thing that I understood. I couldnt
go home and tell frieda about it, as I told
her other things I learned at school. But I knew
one could say my country and feel it as one
felt God or myself. My teachers, my schoolmates, Miss Dillingham,
George Washington himself could not mean more than I when
(06:39):
they said my country, after I had once felt it,
for the country was for all the citizens, and I
was a citizen. And when we stood up to sing America,
I shouted the words with all my might. I was
in very earnest, proclaiming to the world my love for
my new found country. I love thy rocks and rills,
thy woods and templed hills, Boston Harbor, Crescent Beach, Chelsea Square.
(07:03):
All was hallowed ground to me. As the days approached
when the school was to hold exercises in honor of
Washington's birthday, the halls resounded at all hours for the
strains of patriotic songs, and I, who was a model
of the attentive pupil, more than once lost my place
in the lesson as I strained to hear through closed
doors some neighboring class rehearsing the Star Spangled Banner. If
(07:25):
the doors happened to be open, and the chorus broke
out unveiled. Oh say, does that star spangled banner yet
wave o'er the land of the free and the home
of the brave. Delicious tremors ran up and down my spine,
and I was faint with suppressed enthusiasm. Where had been
my country until now? What flag had I loved? What
(07:46):
heroes had I worshiped? The very names of these things
had been unknown to me. Well, I knew that Polotsk
was not my country. It was Goluth exile. On many
occasions in the year we prayed to God to lead
us out of exile. The beautiful passover service closed with
the words next year, may we be in Jerusalem on
(08:07):
childish lips. Indeed those words were no conscious aspiration. We
repeated the Hebrew syllables after our elders, but without their
hope and longing. Still, not a child among us was
too young to feel in his own flesh the lash
of the oppressor. We knew what it was to be
Jews in exile from the spiteful treatment we suffered at
the hands of the smallest urchin who crossed himself. And
(08:29):
thence we knew that Israel had good reason to pray
for deliverance. But the story of the Exodus was not
history to me in the sense that the story of
the American Revolution was. It was more like a glorious myth,
a belief in which had the effect of cutting me
off from the actual world by linking me with the
world of phantoms. Those moments of exultation which the contemplation
(08:50):
of the biblical past afforded us, allowing us to call
ourselves the children of princes, served but to tinge with
a more poignant sense of disinheritance the long, humdrum stretches
of our life. In very truth, we were a people
without a country, surrounded by mocking foes and detractors. It
was difficult for me to realize the persons of my
people's heroes or the events in which they moved, except
(09:14):
in moments of abstraction from the world around me. I
scarcely understood that Jerusalem was an actual spot on the earth,
where once the kings of the Bible, real people like
my neighbors in Polotsk, ruled in puissant majesty. For the
conditions of our civil life did not permit us to
cultivate a spirit of nationalism. The freedom of worship that
was grudgingly granted within the narrow limits of the pale,
(09:36):
by no means included the right to set up openly
any idea of a Hebrew state, any hero other than
that Saar. What we children picked up of our ancient
political history was confused with the miraculous story of the creation,
with the supernatural legends and hazy associations of Bible lore.
As to our future, we Jews in Polotzk had no
national expectations, only a life warn dreamer here and there,
(10:00):
hoping to die in Palestine. If Fetka and I sang
with my father first making sure of our audience, Zion, Zion,
holly Zion, not forever is it lost. We did not
really picture to ourselves Judea restored. So it came to
pass that we did not know what my country could
mean to a man. And as we had no country,
(10:21):
so we had no flag to love. It was by
no far fetched symbolism that the banner of the House
of Romanov became the emblem of our latter day bondage
in our eyes. Even a child would know how to
hate the flag that we were forced, on pain of
severe penalties to hoist above our housetops in celebration of
the advent of one of our oppressors. And as it
was with country and flag, so it was with heroes
(10:42):
of war. We hated the uniform of the soldier to
the last brass button. On the person of a gentile,
it was the symbol of tyranny. On the person of
a Jew, it was the emblem of shame. So a
little Jewish girl in Pulatsk was apt to grow up hungry,
minded and empty hearted. And if still in her outreaching
youth she was set down in a land of outspoken patriotism,
(11:05):
she was likely to love her new country with a
great love, and to embrace its heroes in a great worship.
Naturalization with US Russian Jews may mean more than the
adoption of the immigrant by America. It may mean the
adoption of America by the immigrant. On the day of
the Washington celebration, I recited a poem that I had
composed in my enthusiasm. But composed is not the word.
(11:29):
The process of putting on paper the sediments that seethed
in my soul was really very discomposing. I dug the
words out of my heart, squeezed the rhythms out of
my brain, forced the missing syllables out of their hiding
places in the dictionary. May I never again know such
travail of the spirit as I endured during the fevered
days when I was engaged on the poem. It was
(11:51):
not as if I wanted to say that snow was
white or grass was green. I could do that without
a dictionary. It was a question now of the loftiest
sediments of the most abstract myths, the names of which
were very new in my vocabulary. It was necessary to
use polysyllables, and plenty of them, and where to find
rhymes for such words as tyranny, freedom, and justice when
(12:14):
you had less than two years acquaintance with English. The
name I wished to celebrate was the most difficult of all.
Nothing but Washington rhymed with Washington. It was a most
ambitious undertaking. But my heart could find no rest till
it had proclaimed itself to the world. So I wrestled
with my difficulties and spared not ink till inspiration perched
(12:34):
on my PenPoint, and my soul gave up its best.
When I had done, I was myself impressed with the length, gravity,
and nobility of my poem. My father was overcome with
emotion as he read it. His hands trembled as he
held the paper to the light, and the mist gathered
in his eyes. My teacher, Miss d White, was plainly
(12:54):
astonished at my performance, and said many kind things and
asked many questions, all of which I took very solemnly,
like one who had been in the clouds and returned
to Earth with a sign upon him. When Miss Toy
asked me to read my poem to the class on
the day of celebration, I readily consented. It was not
in me to refuse a chance to tell my schoolmates
(13:14):
what I thought of George Washington. I was not a
heroic figure when I stood up in front of the
class to pronounce the praises of the father of his country. Thin,
pale and hollow, with a shadow of short black curls
on my brow and the staring look of prominent eyes,
I must have looked more frightened than imposing. My dress
added no grace to my appearance. Plaids were in fashion,
(13:37):
and my frock was of a red and green plaid
that had a ghastly effect on my complexion. I hated
it when I thought of it. But on the great
day I did not know I had any dress on.
Heels clapped together, and hands glued to my sides. I
lifted up my voice in praise of George Washington. It
was not much of a voice, like my hollow cheeks.
It suggested consumption, my pronunciation faulty, my declamation flat. But
(14:02):
I had the courage of my convictions. I was face
to face with two score fellow citizens, in clean blusses
and extra frills. I must tell them what George Washington
had done for their country, for our country. For me,
I can laugh now at the impossible meters, the grandiose phrases,
the verbose repetitions of my poem. Years ago. I must
(14:25):
have laughed at it when I threw my only copy
into the waste basket. The copy I am now turning
over was loaned me by Miss Dwight, who faithfully preserved
it all these years for the sake no doubt of
what I strove to express when I laboriously hitched together
those dozen and more ungraceful stanzas. But to the forty
fellow citizens sitting and rose in front of me, it
(14:46):
was no laughing matter. Even the bad boys sat in
attitudes of attention, hypnotized by the solemnity of my demeanor.
If they got any inkling of what the hail of
big words was about, it must have been through a
cult suggestion. I think next their eighty eyes with my
single stare, and gave it to them Stanza after Stanza,
with such emphasis as the lameness of the lines permitted,
(15:09):
he whose courage will amazing bravery, did free his land
from a despot's rule, from man's greatest evil, almost slavery,
and all that's taught in tyranny's school, who gave his
land its liberty? Who was he? Twas he who e'er
will be our pride, immortal Washington, who always did in
truth confide, we hail our Washington. The best of the
(15:33):
verses were no better than these, but the children listened.
They had to. Presently I gave them news, declaring that
Washington wrote the famous Constitution Sacred's the hand that this
blessed guide to man had given, which says one and
all of mankind are alike, excepting none. This was received
in respectful silence, possibly because the other fellow citizens were
(15:57):
as hazy about historical facts as I. At this point
Hurrah for Washington, they understood, and three cheers for the Red, White,
and Blue was only to be expected on that occasion.
But there ran a special note through my poem, a
thought that only Isra Rubinstein or Becky Ironovitch could have
fully understood, besides myself, For I made myself the spokesman
(16:18):
of the luckless sons of Abraham, saying, then, we weary
Hebrew children at last found rest in the land where
reigned freedom, And like a nest to homeless birds, your
land proved to us, and therefore will we gratefully sing
your praise evermore. The boys and girls, who had never
been turned away from any door because of their father's religion,
sat as if fascinated in their places. But they woke
(16:41):
up and applauded heartily when I was done, following the
example of Miss d White, who wore the happy face,
which meant that one of her pupils had done well.
The recitation was repeated by request before several other classes,
and the applause was equally prolonged at each repetition. After
the exercise, I was surrounded, praised, question and made much
(17:03):
of by teachers as well as pupils. Plainly I had
not poured my praise of George Washington into deaf years.
The teachers asked me if anybody had helped me with
the poem. The girls invariably asked, Mary Anton, how could
you think of all those words? None of them thought
of the dictionary. If I had been satisfied with my
poem in the first place, the applause with which it
(17:25):
was received by my teachers and schoolmates convinced me that
I had produced a very fine thing. Indeed, so the
person whoever it was, perhaps my father, who suggested that
my tribute to Washington ought to be printed, did not
find me difficult to persuade. When I had achieved an
absolutely perfect copy of my verses at the expense of
a dozen sheets of blue ruled note paper, I crossed
(17:47):
the Mystic River to Boston and boldly invaded newspaper row.
It never occurred to me to send my manuscript by mail.
In fact, it has never been my way to send
a delicate where I could go myself, consciously or unconsciously.
I have always acted on the motto of a wise
man who was one of the dearest friends that Boston
kept for me until I came personal presence moves the world,
(18:11):
said the great Doctor Hale, and I went in person
to Beard the editor in his arm chair, from the
fairy Slip to the offices on the Boston Transcript. The
way was long, strange, and full of perils, but I
kept resolutely up on Hanover Street, being familiar with that
part of my route, till I came to a puzzling corner.
There I stopped, utterly, bewildered by the tangle of streets,
(18:33):
the roar of traffic, the giddy swarm of pedestrians. With
the precious manuscript tightly clasped, I balanced myself on the curbstone,
afraid to plunge into the boiling vortex of the crossing.
Every time I made a start, a clinging street car
snatched up the way. I could not even pick out
my street. The unobtrusive street signs were lost to my
(18:53):
unpracticed sight, and the glaring confusion of store signs and advertisements.
If I accosted a pedestrian to ask the way, I
had to speak several times before I was heard. Jews
hurrying by with bearded chins on their bosoms and eyes
and tent shrugged their shoulders at the name Transcript, and
shrugged till they were out of sight. Italian sauntering behind
(19:14):
their fruit carts, entered my inquiry with a lift of
the head that made their ear rings gleam, and a
wave of the hand that referred me to all four
points of the compass at once. I was trying to
catch the eye of the tall policeman, who stood grandly
in the middle of the crossing a stout pillar around
which the waves of traffic broke. When deliverance bellowed in
my ear Harold Globe record traveler, Eh, what's your wantsus?
(19:40):
The tall newsboy had to stoop to me, Transcript Sure,
and in half a twinkling he had picked me out
of paper from his bundle. When I explained to him,
he good naturedly tucked the paper in again, piloted me across,
unraveled the end of Washington Street for me, and with
much pointing out of landmarks, headed me for my destination.
My nose seeks the spire of the old South Church.
(20:03):
I found the Transcript building, a waste of corridors tunneled
by a maze of staircases. On the glazed glass doors
were many signs with the names or nicknames of many persons.
City editor beggars and peddlers not allowed. The nameless world
not included in these categories was warned off, forbidden to
be or do private, no admittance, don't knock, and the
(20:25):
various inhospitable legends on the doors and walls were punctuated
by frequent cuspidors on the floor. There was no sign
anywhere of the welcome which I, as an author, expected
to find in the home of a newspaper. I was
descending from the top story to the street for the
seventh time, trying to decide what kind of editor a
patriotic poem belonged to. When an untidy boy, carrying broad
(20:47):
paper streamers and whistling shrilly in defiance of an express
prohibition on the wall, bustled through the corridor and left
a door Ajar. I slipped in behind him and found
myself in a room full of editors. I was a
little surprised at the appearance of the editors. I had
imagined my editor would look like mister Jones, the principle
of my school, whose coat was always buttoned and whose
(21:09):
finger nails were beautiful. These people were in shirt sleeves
and they smoked, and they didn't politely turn in their
revolving chairs. When I came in and ask what can
I do for you? The room was noisy with typewriters,
and nobody heard my Please can you tell me? At last,
one of the machines stopped, and the operator thought he
heard something in the pause. He looked up through his
(21:31):
own smoke. I guess he thought he saw something, for
he stared. It troubled me a little to have him stare.
So I realized suddenly that the hand in which I
carried my manuscript was moist, and I was afraid it
would make marks on the paper. I held out the
manuscript to the editor, explaining that it was a poem
about George Washington, and would he please print it in
(21:51):
the transcript. There was something queer about that particular editor.
The way he stared and smiled made me feel about
eleven inches, and my voice kept growing smaller and smaller
as I neared the end of my speech. At last,
he spoke, laying down his pipe and sitting back at
his ease. So you have brought us a poem, my child,
(22:13):
it's about George Washington, I repeated impressively. Don't you want
to read it. I should be delighted, my dear, But
the fact is he did not take my paper. He
stood up and called across the room, say, Jack, here
is a young lady who has brought us a poem
about George Washington. Wrote it yourself. My dear wrote it
(22:34):
all herself. What shall we do with her? Mister Jack
came over and another man, my editor, made me repeat
my business, and they all looked interested, but nobody took
my paper from me. They put their hands into their pockets,
and my hand kept growing clammier all the time. The
three seemed to be consulting, but I could not understand
what they said or why. Mister Jack laughed. A fourth man,
(22:57):
who had been writing busily at a desk near by,
broke in on the consultation. That's enough, boys, he said,
that's enough. Take the young lady to mister Hurd. Mister Hurd,
it was found, was away on a vacation, and of
several other editors in several offices to whom I was referred,
none proved to be the proper editor to take charge
(23:17):
of a poem about George Washington. At last, an elderly
editor suggested that as mister Hurd would be away for
some time. I would do well to give up the
transcript and try the Herald across the way. A little
tired by my wanderings and bewildered by the complexity of
the editorial system, but still confident about my mission, I
picked my way across Washington Street and found the Herald offices.
(23:41):
Here I had instant good luck. The first editor I
addressed took my paper and invited me to a seat.
He read my poem much more quickly than I could myself,
and said it was very nice, and asked me some
questions and made notes on a slip of paper which
he pinned to my manuscript. He said he would have
my piece printed very soon and would send me a
copy of the issue in which it appeared. As I
(24:04):
was going I could not help giving the editor my hand.
Although I had not experienced any hand shaking in newspaper row,
I felt that as author and editor, we were on
a very pleasant footing, and I gave him my hand
in token of comradeship. I had regained my full stature
and something over during this cordial interview, and when I
stepped out into the street and saw the crowd. Intently
(24:26):
studying the bulletin board, I spelled out of all proportion,
for I told myself that I Mary Anton, was one
of the Inspired Brotherhood who had made newspapers so interesting.
I did not know whether my poem would be put
upon the bulletin board, but at any rate, it would
be in the paper with my name at the bottom,
like my story about snow and Miss Dillingham's school journal,
(24:48):
and all these people in the streets and more. Thousands
of people all Boston would read my poem and learn
my name and wonder who I was. I smiled to
myself in delicious amusement when and a man deliberately put
me out of his path as I dreamed my way
through the jostling crowd. If only he knew whom he
was treating so unceremoniously. When the paper with my poem
(25:11):
in it arrived, the whole house pounced upon it at once.
I was surprised to find that my verses were not
all over the front page. The poem was a little
hard to find, if anything, being tucked away in the
middle of the voluminous sheet. But when we found it,
it looked wonderful, just like real poetry, not at all
as of somebody we knew had written it. It occupied
(25:31):
a gratifying amount of space, and was introduced by flattering
biographical sketch of the author. The author the material for
which the friendly editor had artfully drawn from me during
that happy interview, and my name, as I had prophesied,
was at the bottom. When the excitement in the house
had subsided, my father took all the change out of
the cash strawer and went to buy up the Herald.
(25:53):
He did not count the pennies. He just bought Harald's
all he could lay his hands on, and distributed them
gratis to all our friends, relatives and acquaintances, to all
who could read, and to some who could not. For
weeks he carried a clipping from the Herald in his
breast pocket, and few were the occasions when he did
not manage to introduce it into the conversation. He treasured
(26:14):
that clipping as for years he had treasured the letters
I wrote him from Polotzk. Although my father bought up
most of the issue containing my poem, a few hundred
copies were left to circulate among the general public, enough
to spread the flame of my patriotic ardor and to
enkindle a thousand sluggish hearts. Really, there was something more
solemn than vanity in my satisfaction. Pleased as I was
(26:37):
with my notoriety and nobody, but I knew how exceedingly pleased.
I had a sober feeling about it. All. I enjoyed
being praised and admired and envied. But what gave a
divine flavor to my happiness was the idea that I
had publicly borne testimony to the goodness of my exalted hero,
to the greatness of my adopted country. I did not
(26:58):
discount the homage of Arlington Street because I did not
properly rate the intelligence of its population. I took the
admiration of my schoolmates without a grain of salt. It
was just so much honey to me. I could not
know that what made me great in the eyes of
my neighbors was that there was a piece about me
in the paper. It mattered very little to them what
the piece was about. I thought they really admired my
(27:20):
sediments on the street. In the schoolyard, I was pointed out.
The people said that's Mary Anton. She had her name
in the paper. I thought, they said, this is she
who loves her country and worships George Washington. To repeat,
I was well aware that I was something of a
celebrity and took all possible satisfaction in the fact. Yet
(27:40):
I gave my schoolmates no occasion to call me stuck up.
My vanity did not express itself in strutting or wagging
the head. I played tag and puss in the corner
in the schoolyard and did everything that was comrade Lake.
But in the schoolroom I conducted myself gravely, as befitting
one who was preparing for the noble career of a poet.
(28:01):
I am forgetting Lizzie mac dee. I am trying to
give the impression that I behaved with at least outward
modesty during my schoolgirl triumphs, whereas Lizzie could testify that
she knew Mary Anton as a vain, boastful, curly headed
little jew. For I had a special style of deportment
with Lizzie. If there was any girl in the school
besides me who could keep near the top of the
(28:22):
class all the year through and give bright answers when
the principal or the school committee popped sudden questions and
right rhymes that almost always rhymed. I was determined that
the ambitious person should not soar unduly in her own estimation.
So I took care to show Lizzie all my poetry,
and when she showed me hers, I did not admire
it too warmly. Lizzie, as I have already said, was
(28:44):
in a Sunday school mood even on week days. Her
verses all had morals. My poems were about the crystal
snow and the ocean blue and sweet spring and fleecy clouds.
When I tried to drag in a moral, it kicked
so that the music of my lines went out in
a grown So I had a sweet revenge when Lizzie
one day bellunteered to bolster up the eloquence of mister Jones,
(29:06):
the principal, who was lecturing the class for bad behavior,
by comparing the bad boys in the schoolroom to the
rotten apple that spoils the barrelful. The groans, coughs, a hymns,
feet shufflings, and paper pellets that filled the room as
Saint Elizabeth sat down, even in the principal's presence, were
sweet balm to my smart of envy. I didn't care
(29:26):
if I didn't know how to moralize. When my teacher
had visitors, I was aware that I was the show
pupil of the class. I was always made to recite.
My compositions were passed around, and often I was called
up on the platform, oh climax of exaltation, to be
interviewed by the distinguished strangers, while the class took advantage
of the teacher's distraction to hold forbidden intercourse on matters
(29:49):
not prescribed in the curriculum. When I returned to my
seat after such public audience with a great I looked
to see if Lizzie mc dee was taking notice. And Lizzie,
who was a generous soul her Sunday school airs notwithstanding,
generally smiled and I forgave her her rhymes. Not but
what I paid a price for my honors. With all
(30:09):
my self possession, I had a certain capacity for shyness.
Even when I arose to recite before the customary audience
of my class, I suffered from incipient stage fright, and
my voice trembled over the first few words. When visitors
were in the room, I was even more troubled. And
when I was made the special object of their attention,
my triumph was marred by acute distress. If I was
(30:31):
called up to speak to the visitors, forty pairs of
eyes pricked me in the back. As I went, I
stumbled in the aisle and knocked down things that were
not in my way at all, and my awkwardness increasing
my embarrassment. I would gladly have changed place with Lizzie
or the bad boy in the back row, anything, only
to be less conspicuous. When I found myself shaking hands
(30:52):
with an august school committee man or a teacher from
New York, the remnants of my self possession vanished in
awe and it was in a very husky voice that
I repeated as I was asked my name, lineage, and
personal history. On the whole, I do not think that
the school committee man found a very forward creature and
a solemn faced little girl with the tight curls and
(31:13):
the terrible red and green plaid. These awful audiences did
not always end with the hand shaking. Sometimes the great
personages asked me to write to them and exchanged addresses
with me. Some of these correspondences continued through the years
and were the source of much pleasure on one side.
At Least and Arlington Street took notice when I received
(31:33):
letters with important looking or aristocratic looking letterheads. Lizzie mc
dee also took notice. I saw to that end of
Chapter eleven.
Chapter eleven of The Promised Land. This LibriVox recording is
in the public domain. Recording by bridget Gage, The Promised
Land by Mary Anton, Chapter eleven. My Country, the Public
School has done its best for us foreigners and for
the country, when it has made us into good Americans.
I am glad it is mine to tell how the
(00:20):
miracle was wrought. In one case, you should be glad
to hear of it, you born Americans, For it is
the story of the growth of your country, of the
flocking of your brothers and sisters from the far ends
of the earth to the flag you love, of the
recruiting of your armies of workers, thinkers, and leaders. And
you will be glad to hear of it, my comrades
and adoption, for it is a rehearsal of your own experience,
(00:43):
the thrill and wonder of which your own hearts have felt.
How long would you say, wise reader, it takes to
make an American. By the middle of my second year
in school, I had reached the sixth grade, when after
the Christmas holidays, we began to study the life of Washington,
running through us Ummery, of the Revolution, and the early
days of the Republic. It seemed to me that all
(01:04):
my reading and study had been idle until then. The reader,
the arithmetic, the song book that had so fascinated me
until now became suddenly sober exercise books tools wherewith to
hew away to the source of inspiration. When the teacher
read to us out of a big book with many
book marks in it, I sat rigid with attention in
my little chair. My hands tightly clasped on the edge
(01:27):
of my desk, and I painfully held my breath to
prevent sighs of disappointment escaping as I saw the teacher
skip the parts between book marks. When the class read
and it came my turn, my voice shook and the
book trembled in my hands. I could not pronounce the
name of George Washington without a pause. Never had I prayed,
Never had I chanted the songs of David. Never had
(01:50):
I called upon the most Holy in such utter reverence
and worship. As I repeated the simple sentences of my
child's story of the Patriot, I gazed with adoration at
the portraits of George and Martha Washington till I could
see them with my eyes shut. And whereas formerly my
self consciousness had bordered on conceit, and I thought myself
an uncommon person, parading my school books through the streets
(02:13):
and swelling with pride when a teacher detained me in conversation.
Now I grew humble all at once, seeing how insignificant
I was beside the great. As I read about the
noble boy who would not tell a lie to save
himself from punishment, I was, for the first time truly
repentant of my sins. Formerly I had fasted and prayed
and made sacrifice on the days of Atonement, but it
(02:36):
was more than half play in mimicry of my elders.
I had no real horror of sin, and I knew
so many ways of escaping punishment. I am sure my family,
my neighbors, my teachers in Polatsk, all my world in fact,
strove together by example and precept to teach me goodness.
Saintliness had a new incarnation, and about every third person
(02:56):
I knew. I did respect the saints, but I could
not help seeing that most of them were a little
bit stupid, and that mischief was more fun than piety. Goodness,
as I had known it was respectable, but not necessarily admirable.
The people I really admired. Like my uncle Solomon and
cousin Rachel, were those who preached the least and laughed
the most. My sister Frida was perfectly good, but she
(03:19):
did not think the less of me because I played tricks.
What I loved in my friends was not inimitable. One
could be downright good if one really wanted to. One
could be learned if one had books and teachers. One
could sing funny songs and tell anecdotes if one traveled
about and picked up such things like one's uncles and cousins.
But a human being strictly good, perfectly wise, and unfailingly valiant,
(03:43):
all at the same time. I had never heard or
dreamed of this wonderful George Washington was as inimitable as
he was irreproachable. Even if I had never never told
a lie, I could not compare myself to George Washington,
for I was not brave. I was afraid to go
out when snowballs would and I could never be the
first president of the United States. So I was forced
(04:06):
to revise my own estimate of myself. But the twin
of my new born humility, paradoxical as it may seem,
was a sense of dignity I had never known before.
For if I found that I was a person of
small consequence, I discovered at the same time that I
was more nobly related than I had ever supposed. I
had relatives and friends who are notable people by the
(04:26):
old standards. I had never been ashamed of my family.
But this George Washington, who died long before I was born,
was like a king in greatness, and he and I
were fellow citizens. There was a great deal about fellow
citizens and the patriotic literature we read at this time,
and I knew from my father how he was a
citizen through the process of naturalization, and how I also
(04:49):
was a citizen by virtue of my relation to him.
Undoubtedly I was a fellow citizen, and George Washington was another.
It thrilled me to realize what sudden greatness had be
fallen on me, and at the same time it sobered me,
as with a sense of responsibility, I strove to conduct
myself as befitted a fellow citizen. Before books came into
(05:11):
my life, I was given to star gazing and day dreaming.
When books were given me, I fell upon them as
a glut pounces on his meat. After a period of
enforced starvation, I lived with my nose in a book
and took no notice of the alternations of the sun
and stars. But now, after the advent of George Washington
and the American Revolution, I began to dream again. I
(05:33):
strayed on the common after school. Instead of hurrying home
to read, I hung on fence rails, my pet book
forgotten under my arm, and gazed off to the yellow
streaked February sunset and beyond and beyond. I was no
longer the central figure of my dreams. The dry weeds
in the lane crackled beneath the tread of heroes. What
(05:53):
more could America give a child? Ah? Much more? As
I read how the patriots planned the revolution, and the
woman gave their sons to die in battle, and the
heroes led to victory, and the rejoicing people set up
the republic, it dawned on me gradually what was meant
by my country. The people all desiring noble things and
striving for them, together, defying their oppressors, giving their lives
(06:17):
for each other. All this it was that made my country.
It was not a thing that I understood. I couldnt
go home and tell frieda about it, as I told
her other things I learned at school. But I knew
one could say my country and feel it as one
felt God or myself. My teachers, my schoolmates, Miss Dillingham,
George Washington himself could not mean more than I when
(06:39):
they said my country, after I had once felt it,
for the country was for all the citizens, and I
was a citizen. And when we stood up to sing America,
I shouted the words with all my might. I was
in very earnest, proclaiming to the world my love for
my new found country. I love thy rocks and rills,
thy woods and templed hills, Boston Harbor, Crescent Beach, Chelsea Square.
(07:03):
All was hallowed ground to me. As the days approached
when the school was to hold exercises in honor of
Washington's birthday, the halls resounded at all hours for the
strains of patriotic songs, and I, who was a model
of the attentive pupil, more than once lost my place
in the lesson as I strained to hear through closed
doors some neighboring class rehearsing the Star Spangled Banner. If
(07:25):
the doors happened to be open, and the chorus broke
out unveiled. Oh say, does that star spangled banner yet
wave o'er the land of the free and the home
of the brave. Delicious tremors ran up and down my spine,
and I was faint with suppressed enthusiasm. Where had been
my country until now? What flag had I loved? What
(07:46):
heroes had I worshiped? The very names of these things
had been unknown to me. Well, I knew that Polotsk
was not my country. It was Goluth exile. On many
occasions in the year we prayed to God to lead
us out of exile. The beautiful passover service closed with
the words next year, may we be in Jerusalem on
(08:07):
childish lips. Indeed those words were no conscious aspiration. We
repeated the Hebrew syllables after our elders, but without their
hope and longing. Still, not a child among us was
too young to feel in his own flesh the lash
of the oppressor. We knew what it was to be
Jews in exile from the spiteful treatment we suffered at
the hands of the smallest urchin who crossed himself. And
(08:29):
thence we knew that Israel had good reason to pray
for deliverance. But the story of the Exodus was not
history to me in the sense that the story of
the American Revolution was. It was more like a glorious myth,
a belief in which had the effect of cutting me
off from the actual world by linking me with the
world of phantoms. Those moments of exultation which the contemplation
(08:50):
of the biblical past afforded us, allowing us to call
ourselves the children of princes, served but to tinge with
a more poignant sense of disinheritance the long, humdrum stretches
of our life. In very truth, we were a people
without a country, surrounded by mocking foes and detractors. It
was difficult for me to realize the persons of my
people's heroes or the events in which they moved, except
(09:14):
in moments of abstraction from the world around me. I
scarcely understood that Jerusalem was an actual spot on the earth,
where once the kings of the Bible, real people like
my neighbors in Polotsk, ruled in puissant majesty. For the
conditions of our civil life did not permit us to
cultivate a spirit of nationalism. The freedom of worship that
was grudgingly granted within the narrow limits of the pale,
(09:36):
by no means included the right to set up openly
any idea of a Hebrew state, any hero other than
that Saar. What we children picked up of our ancient
political history was confused with the miraculous story of the creation,
with the supernatural legends and hazy associations of Bible lore.
As to our future, we Jews in Polotzk had no
national expectations, only a life warn dreamer here and there,
(10:00):
hoping to die in Palestine. If Fetka and I sang
with my father first making sure of our audience, Zion, Zion,
holly Zion, not forever is it lost. We did not
really picture to ourselves Judea restored. So it came to
pass that we did not know what my country could
mean to a man. And as we had no country,
(10:21):
so we had no flag to love. It was by
no far fetched symbolism that the banner of the House
of Romanov became the emblem of our latter day bondage
in our eyes. Even a child would know how to
hate the flag that we were forced, on pain of
severe penalties to hoist above our housetops in celebration of
the advent of one of our oppressors. And as it
was with country and flag, so it was with heroes
(10:42):
of war. We hated the uniform of the soldier to
the last brass button. On the person of a gentile,
it was the symbol of tyranny. On the person of
a Jew, it was the emblem of shame. So a
little Jewish girl in Pulatsk was apt to grow up hungry,
minded and empty hearted. And if still in her outreaching
youth she was set down in a land of outspoken patriotism,
(11:05):
she was likely to love her new country with a
great love, and to embrace its heroes in a great worship.
Naturalization with US Russian Jews may mean more than the
adoption of the immigrant by America. It may mean the
adoption of America by the immigrant. On the day of
the Washington celebration, I recited a poem that I had
composed in my enthusiasm. But composed is not the word.
(11:29):
The process of putting on paper the sediments that seethed
in my soul was really very discomposing. I dug the
words out of my heart, squeezed the rhythms out of
my brain, forced the missing syllables out of their hiding
places in the dictionary. May I never again know such
travail of the spirit as I endured during the fevered
days when I was engaged on the poem. It was
(11:51):
not as if I wanted to say that snow was
white or grass was green. I could do that without
a dictionary. It was a question now of the loftiest
sediments of the most abstract myths, the names of which
were very new in my vocabulary. It was necessary to
use polysyllables, and plenty of them, and where to find
rhymes for such words as tyranny, freedom, and justice when
(12:14):
you had less than two years acquaintance with English. The
name I wished to celebrate was the most difficult of all.
Nothing but Washington rhymed with Washington. It was a most
ambitious undertaking. But my heart could find no rest till
it had proclaimed itself to the world. So I wrestled
with my difficulties and spared not ink till inspiration perched
(12:34):
on my PenPoint, and my soul gave up its best.
When I had done, I was myself impressed with the length, gravity,
and nobility of my poem. My father was overcome with
emotion as he read it. His hands trembled as he
held the paper to the light, and the mist gathered
in his eyes. My teacher, Miss d White, was plainly
(12:54):
astonished at my performance, and said many kind things and
asked many questions, all of which I took very solemnly,
like one who had been in the clouds and returned
to Earth with a sign upon him. When Miss Toy
asked me to read my poem to the class on
the day of celebration, I readily consented. It was not
in me to refuse a chance to tell my schoolmates
(13:14):
what I thought of George Washington. I was not a
heroic figure when I stood up in front of the
class to pronounce the praises of the father of his country. Thin,
pale and hollow, with a shadow of short black curls
on my brow and the staring look of prominent eyes,
I must have looked more frightened than imposing. My dress
added no grace to my appearance. Plaids were in fashion,
(13:37):
and my frock was of a red and green plaid
that had a ghastly effect on my complexion. I hated
it when I thought of it. But on the great
day I did not know I had any dress on.
Heels clapped together, and hands glued to my sides. I
lifted up my voice in praise of George Washington. It
was not much of a voice, like my hollow cheeks.
It suggested consumption, my pronunciation faulty, my declamation flat. But
(14:02):
I had the courage of my convictions. I was face
to face with two score fellow citizens, in clean blusses
and extra frills. I must tell them what George Washington
had done for their country, for our country. For me,
I can laugh now at the impossible meters, the grandiose phrases,
the verbose repetitions of my poem. Years ago. I must
(14:25):
have laughed at it when I threw my only copy
into the waste basket. The copy I am now turning
over was loaned me by Miss Dwight, who faithfully preserved
it all these years for the sake no doubt of
what I strove to express when I laboriously hitched together
those dozen and more ungraceful stanzas. But to the forty
fellow citizens sitting and rose in front of me, it
(14:46):
was no laughing matter. Even the bad boys sat in
attitudes of attention, hypnotized by the solemnity of my demeanor.
If they got any inkling of what the hail of
big words was about, it must have been through a
cult suggestion. I think next their eighty eyes with my
single stare, and gave it to them Stanza after Stanza,
with such emphasis as the lameness of the lines permitted,
(15:09):
he whose courage will amazing bravery, did free his land
from a despot's rule, from man's greatest evil, almost slavery,
and all that's taught in tyranny's school, who gave his
land its liberty? Who was he? Twas he who e'er
will be our pride, immortal Washington, who always did in
truth confide, we hail our Washington. The best of the
(15:33):
verses were no better than these, but the children listened.
They had to. Presently I gave them news, declaring that
Washington wrote the famous Constitution Sacred's the hand that this
blessed guide to man had given, which says one and
all of mankind are alike, excepting none. This was received
in respectful silence, possibly because the other fellow citizens were
(15:57):
as hazy about historical facts as I. At this point
Hurrah for Washington, they understood, and three cheers for the Red, White,
and Blue was only to be expected on that occasion.
But there ran a special note through my poem, a
thought that only Isra Rubinstein or Becky Ironovitch could have
fully understood, besides myself, For I made myself the spokesman
(16:18):
of the luckless sons of Abraham, saying, then, we weary
Hebrew children at last found rest in the land where
reigned freedom, And like a nest to homeless birds, your
land proved to us, and therefore will we gratefully sing
your praise evermore. The boys and girls, who had never
been turned away from any door because of their father's religion,
sat as if fascinated in their places. But they woke
(16:41):
up and applauded heartily when I was done, following the
example of Miss d White, who wore the happy face,
which meant that one of her pupils had done well.
The recitation was repeated by request before several other classes,
and the applause was equally prolonged at each repetition. After
the exercise, I was surrounded, praised, question and made much
(17:03):
of by teachers as well as pupils. Plainly I had
not poured my praise of George Washington into deaf years.
The teachers asked me if anybody had helped me with
the poem. The girls invariably asked, Mary Anton, how could
you think of all those words? None of them thought
of the dictionary. If I had been satisfied with my
poem in the first place, the applause with which it
(17:25):
was received by my teachers and schoolmates convinced me that
I had produced a very fine thing. Indeed, so the
person whoever it was, perhaps my father, who suggested that
my tribute to Washington ought to be printed, did not
find me difficult to persuade. When I had achieved an
absolutely perfect copy of my verses at the expense of
a dozen sheets of blue ruled note paper, I crossed
(17:47):
the Mystic River to Boston and boldly invaded newspaper row.
It never occurred to me to send my manuscript by mail.
In fact, it has never been my way to send
a delicate where I could go myself, consciously or unconsciously.
I have always acted on the motto of a wise
man who was one of the dearest friends that Boston
kept for me until I came personal presence moves the world,
(18:11):
said the great Doctor Hale, and I went in person
to Beard the editor in his arm chair, from the
fairy Slip to the offices on the Boston Transcript. The
way was long, strange, and full of perils, but I
kept resolutely up on Hanover Street, being familiar with that
part of my route, till I came to a puzzling corner.
There I stopped, utterly, bewildered by the tangle of streets,
(18:33):
the roar of traffic, the giddy swarm of pedestrians. With
the precious manuscript tightly clasped, I balanced myself on the curbstone,
afraid to plunge into the boiling vortex of the crossing.
Every time I made a start, a clinging street car
snatched up the way. I could not even pick out
my street. The unobtrusive street signs were lost to my
(18:53):
unpracticed sight, and the glaring confusion of store signs and advertisements.
If I accosted a pedestrian to ask the way, I
had to speak several times before I was heard. Jews
hurrying by with bearded chins on their bosoms and eyes
and tent shrugged their shoulders at the name Transcript, and
shrugged till they were out of sight. Italian sauntering behind
(19:14):
their fruit carts, entered my inquiry with a lift of
the head that made their ear rings gleam, and a
wave of the hand that referred me to all four
points of the compass at once. I was trying to
catch the eye of the tall policeman, who stood grandly
in the middle of the crossing a stout pillar around
which the waves of traffic broke. When deliverance bellowed in
my ear Harold Globe record traveler, Eh, what's your wantsus?
(19:40):
The tall newsboy had to stoop to me, Transcript Sure,
and in half a twinkling he had picked me out
of paper from his bundle. When I explained to him,
he good naturedly tucked the paper in again, piloted me across,
unraveled the end of Washington Street for me, and with
much pointing out of landmarks, headed me for my destination.
My nose seeks the spire of the old South Church.
(20:03):
I found the Transcript building, a waste of corridors tunneled
by a maze of staircases. On the glazed glass doors
were many signs with the names or nicknames of many persons.
City editor beggars and peddlers not allowed. The nameless world
not included in these categories was warned off, forbidden to
be or do private, no admittance, don't knock, and the
(20:25):
various inhospitable legends on the doors and walls were punctuated
by frequent cuspidors on the floor. There was no sign
anywhere of the welcome which I, as an author, expected
to find in the home of a newspaper. I was
descending from the top story to the street for the
seventh time, trying to decide what kind of editor a
patriotic poem belonged to. When an untidy boy, carrying broad
(20:47):
paper streamers and whistling shrilly in defiance of an express
prohibition on the wall, bustled through the corridor and left
a door Ajar. I slipped in behind him and found
myself in a room full of editors. I was a
little surprised at the appearance of the editors. I had
imagined my editor would look like mister Jones, the principle
of my school, whose coat was always buttoned and whose
(21:09):
finger nails were beautiful. These people were in shirt sleeves
and they smoked, and they didn't politely turn in their
revolving chairs. When I came in and ask what can
I do for you? The room was noisy with typewriters,
and nobody heard my Please can you tell me? At last,
one of the machines stopped, and the operator thought he
heard something in the pause. He looked up through his
(21:31):
own smoke. I guess he thought he saw something, for
he stared. It troubled me a little to have him stare.
So I realized suddenly that the hand in which I
carried my manuscript was moist, and I was afraid it
would make marks on the paper. I held out the
manuscript to the editor, explaining that it was a poem
about George Washington, and would he please print it in
(21:51):
the transcript. There was something queer about that particular editor.
The way he stared and smiled made me feel about
eleven inches, and my voice kept growing smaller and smaller
as I neared the end of my speech. At last,
he spoke, laying down his pipe and sitting back at
his ease. So you have brought us a poem, my child,
(22:13):
it's about George Washington, I repeated impressively. Don't you want
to read it. I should be delighted, my dear, But
the fact is he did not take my paper. He
stood up and called across the room, say, Jack, here
is a young lady who has brought us a poem
about George Washington. Wrote it yourself. My dear wrote it
(22:34):
all herself. What shall we do with her? Mister Jack
came over and another man, my editor, made me repeat
my business, and they all looked interested, but nobody took
my paper from me. They put their hands into their pockets,
and my hand kept growing clammier all the time. The
three seemed to be consulting, but I could not understand
what they said or why. Mister Jack laughed. A fourth man,
(22:57):
who had been writing busily at a desk near by,
broke in on the consultation. That's enough, boys, he said,
that's enough. Take the young lady to mister Hurd. Mister Hurd,
it was found, was away on a vacation, and of
several other editors in several offices to whom I was referred,
none proved to be the proper editor to take charge
(23:17):
of a poem about George Washington. At last, an elderly
editor suggested that as mister Hurd would be away for
some time. I would do well to give up the
transcript and try the Herald across the way. A little
tired by my wanderings and bewildered by the complexity of
the editorial system, but still confident about my mission, I
picked my way across Washington Street and found the Herald offices.
(23:41):
Here I had instant good luck. The first editor I
addressed took my paper and invited me to a seat.
He read my poem much more quickly than I could myself,
and said it was very nice, and asked me some
questions and made notes on a slip of paper which
he pinned to my manuscript. He said he would have
my piece printed very soon and would send me a
copy of the issue in which it appeared. As I
(24:04):
was going I could not help giving the editor my hand.
Although I had not experienced any hand shaking in newspaper row,
I felt that as author and editor, we were on
a very pleasant footing, and I gave him my hand
in token of comradeship. I had regained my full stature
and something over during this cordial interview, and when I
stepped out into the street and saw the crowd. Intently
(24:26):
studying the bulletin board, I spelled out of all proportion,
for I told myself that I Mary Anton, was one
of the Inspired Brotherhood who had made newspapers so interesting.
I did not know whether my poem would be put
upon the bulletin board, but at any rate, it would
be in the paper with my name at the bottom,
like my story about snow and Miss Dillingham's school journal,
(24:48):
and all these people in the streets and more. Thousands
of people all Boston would read my poem and learn
my name and wonder who I was. I smiled to
myself in delicious amusement when and a man deliberately put
me out of his path as I dreamed my way
through the jostling crowd. If only he knew whom he
was treating so unceremoniously. When the paper with my poem
(25:11):
in it arrived, the whole house pounced upon it at once.
I was surprised to find that my verses were not
all over the front page. The poem was a little
hard to find, if anything, being tucked away in the
middle of the voluminous sheet. But when we found it,
it looked wonderful, just like real poetry, not at all
as of somebody we knew had written it. It occupied
(25:31):
a gratifying amount of space, and was introduced by flattering
biographical sketch of the author. The author the material for
which the friendly editor had artfully drawn from me during
that happy interview, and my name, as I had prophesied,
was at the bottom. When the excitement in the house
had subsided, my father took all the change out of
the cash strawer and went to buy up the Herald.
(25:53):
He did not count the pennies. He just bought Harald's
all he could lay his hands on, and distributed them
gratis to all our friends, relatives and acquaintances, to all
who could read, and to some who could not. For
weeks he carried a clipping from the Herald in his
breast pocket, and few were the occasions when he did
not manage to introduce it into the conversation. He treasured
(26:14):
that clipping as for years he had treasured the letters
I wrote him from Polotzk. Although my father bought up
most of the issue containing my poem, a few hundred
copies were left to circulate among the general public, enough
to spread the flame of my patriotic ardor and to
enkindle a thousand sluggish hearts. Really, there was something more
solemn than vanity in my satisfaction. Pleased as I was
(26:37):
with my notoriety and nobody, but I knew how exceedingly pleased.
I had a sober feeling about it. All. I enjoyed
being praised and admired and envied. But what gave a
divine flavor to my happiness was the idea that I
had publicly borne testimony to the goodness of my exalted hero,
to the greatness of my adopted country. I did not
(26:58):
discount the homage of Arlington Street because I did not
properly rate the intelligence of its population. I took the
admiration of my schoolmates without a grain of salt. It
was just so much honey to me. I could not
know that what made me great in the eyes of
my neighbors was that there was a piece about me
in the paper. It mattered very little to them what
the piece was about. I thought they really admired my
(27:20):
sediments on the street. In the schoolyard, I was pointed out.
The people said that's Mary Anton. She had her name
in the paper. I thought, they said, this is she
who loves her country and worships George Washington. To repeat,
I was well aware that I was something of a
celebrity and took all possible satisfaction in the fact. Yet
(27:40):
I gave my schoolmates no occasion to call me stuck up.
My vanity did not express itself in strutting or wagging
the head. I played tag and puss in the corner
in the schoolyard and did everything that was comrade Lake.
But in the schoolroom I conducted myself gravely, as befitting
one who was preparing for the noble career of a poet.
(28:01):
I am forgetting Lizzie mac dee. I am trying to
give the impression that I behaved with at least outward
modesty during my schoolgirl triumphs, whereas Lizzie could testify that
she knew Mary Anton as a vain, boastful, curly headed
little jew. For I had a special style of deportment
with Lizzie. If there was any girl in the school
besides me who could keep near the top of the
(28:22):
class all the year through and give bright answers when
the principal or the school committee popped sudden questions and
right rhymes that almost always rhymed. I was determined that
the ambitious person should not soar unduly in her own estimation.
So I took care to show Lizzie all my poetry,
and when she showed me hers, I did not admire
it too warmly. Lizzie, as I have already said, was
(28:44):
in a Sunday school mood even on week days. Her
verses all had morals. My poems were about the crystal
snow and the ocean blue and sweet spring and fleecy clouds.
When I tried to drag in a moral, it kicked
so that the music of my lines went out in
a grown So I had a sweet revenge when Lizzie
one day bellunteered to bolster up the eloquence of mister Jones,
(29:06):
the principal, who was lecturing the class for bad behavior,
by comparing the bad boys in the schoolroom to the
rotten apple that spoils the barrelful. The groans, coughs, a hymns,
feet shufflings, and paper pellets that filled the room as
Saint Elizabeth sat down, even in the principal's presence, were
sweet balm to my smart of envy. I didn't care
(29:26):
if I didn't know how to moralize. When my teacher
had visitors, I was aware that I was the show
pupil of the class. I was always made to recite.
My compositions were passed around, and often I was called
up on the platform, oh climax of exaltation, to be
interviewed by the distinguished strangers, while the class took advantage
of the teacher's distraction to hold forbidden intercourse on matters
(29:49):
not prescribed in the curriculum. When I returned to my
seat after such public audience with a great I looked
to see if Lizzie mc dee was taking notice. And Lizzie,
who was a generous soul her Sunday school airs notwithstanding,
generally smiled and I forgave her her rhymes. Not but
what I paid a price for my honors. With all
(30:09):
my self possession, I had a certain capacity for shyness.
Even when I arose to recite before the customary audience
of my class, I suffered from incipient stage fright, and
my voice trembled over the first few words. When visitors
were in the room, I was even more troubled. And
when I was made the special object of their attention,
my triumph was marred by acute distress. If I was
(30:31):
called up to speak to the visitors, forty pairs of
eyes pricked me in the back. As I went, I
stumbled in the aisle and knocked down things that were
not in my way at all, and my awkwardness increasing
my embarrassment. I would gladly have changed place with Lizzie
or the bad boy in the back row, anything, only
to be less conspicuous. When I found myself shaking hands
(30:52):
with an august school committee man or a teacher from
New York, the remnants of my self possession vanished in
awe and it was in a very husky voice that
I repeated as I was asked my name, lineage, and
personal history. On the whole, I do not think that
the school committee man found a very forward creature and
a solemn faced little girl with the tight curls and
(31:13):
the terrible red and green plaid. These awful audiences did
not always end with the hand shaking. Sometimes the great
personages asked me to write to them and exchanged addresses
with me. Some of these correspondences continued through the years
and were the source of much pleasure on one side.
At Least and Arlington Street took notice when I received
(31:33):
letters with important looking or aristocratic looking letterheads. Lizzie mc
dee also took notice. I saw to that end of
Chapter eleven.
Popular Podcasts
NFL Daily with Gregg Rosenthal
Gregg Rosenthal and a rotating crew of elite NFL Media co-hosts, including Patrick Claybon, Colleen Wolfe, Steve Wyche, Nick Shook and Jourdan Rodrigue of The Athletic get you caught up daily on all the NFL news and analysis you need to be smarter and funnier than your friends.
On Purpose with Jay Shetty
I’m Jay Shetty host of On Purpose the worlds #1 Mental Health podcast and I’m so grateful you found us. I started this podcast 5 years ago to invite you into conversations and workshops that are designed to help make you happier, healthier and more healed. I believe that when you (yes you) feel seen, heard and understood you’re able to deal with relationship struggles, work challenges and life’s ups and downs with more ease and grace. I interview experts, celebrities, thought leaders and athletes so that we can grow our mindset, build better habits and uncover a side of them we’ve never seen before. New episodes every Monday and Friday. Your support means the world to me and I don’t take it for granted — click the follow button and leave a review to help us spread the love with On Purpose. I can’t wait for you to listen to your first or 500th episode!
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com