My Eighty Years

From the AUTHOR'S PRELUDE MONTAIGNE touches shrewdly one of the autobiographer's difficulties: "When all is summed up a man never speaks of himself without loss. A man's accusations of himself are always believed; his praises never." But it is worse than that, at least for a modern, for amongst us it is thought bad taste for a man to speak of himself at all. Still, it is permitted to write of women and men we have met and of things we have seen, provided we do not thrust our own ego grossly forward. One may, given due measure of tact and modesty, tell the story of one's life without offensive claims or confessions. And that is what this book must be: a story, true in substance and in fact. If it turn out to be a love story that may not be an unpardonable fault, since most lives would, to greater or less extent, fall under such a classification, and a real love story, honestly told, without sentimentality or vainglory, may prove interesting, or at worst amusing, to one's fellow-creatures. But here again the unwritten law obstructs the way: a man must not praise his own wife. "It is not done." Shall I be forgiven if I say that seems to me a defect in many autobiographies.? Why, when the Great Panjandrum stands in the limelight basking in applause, should Mrs. Panjandrum be hidden behind the curtain in a private box? Did she not help him; is it not even possible that she made him? And who can write a love story without a lady; and why must a life's history be robbed of the love interest? From the age of sixteen, when I first met my heroine, till the age of seventy, when I lost her, I lived for her. If I leave her out I am reduced to the strait of the needy knife-grinder. Besides, she was much nicer than I, and I would rather write of her than of myself. I liked her better. I had a dog who worshiped me. He would lie in a chair and gaze at me over the arm with adoring eyes. I used to feel ashamed to think how little I deserved such devotion. Did you ever hold a live song-thrush in your hand-f" There is a thrill in the soft resilience of the spangled breast and folded wings, and the luminous eyes of the wild creature, dilated with fear, are full of an intimate appeal. But to hold in one's hand the white soul of a woman; to be dowered with the life's service and devotion of the woman and not give thanks, is too stern a demand upon one's reticence. There! I have broken the rules already. I am bragging like one of Homer's heroes. I am blatantly boasting, claiming to have won a prize more honourable than a baton or a crown. And at my age!....