The Autobiography of an Idea

city called Boston. In her leisure moments, she knitted, knitted, knitted; gloves, mittens, scarves, socks, stockings, shawls; she knitted in silk, in wool, in cotton; she knitted with wooden needles and with steel needles; sometimes she used two needles, sometimes three. Frequently in night’s still hours, she read in her Bible. Her precise hour of retiring was always 1 a.m. She had her coffee served in bed, and arose precisely at 10 a.m. Grandpa’s hours were reverse. At or about 8 o’clock in the evening he would lay down his long-stemmed clay pipe, yawn, chirrup a bit, drag himself from his comfortable chair, kiss everyone goodnight and make his exit. His grandson, following soon after, passed the open door at the head of the stairs. He always looked in, and always saw grandpa stretched full length in bed, reading by the light of a student lamp some book on astronomy. The child did not intrude. He knew full well that however much Grandpa ridiculed so many things, he never poked fun at the solar system. In this domain, and the star-laden firmament, he lived his real life. This was his grand passion. All else was trivial. The vastness awed him; the brilliance inspired him; he kept close track of the movements of the planets. He read endlessly about the moon and the vast, fiery sun, and the earth’s spiral path.

But it was in Autumn, when the full train of the Pleiades, the Hyades, Orion and Canis Major had cleared the horizon and stood forth in all their conjoined majestically-moving glory, that Grandpa went forth in the early hours of night to make vigils with the stars, to venerate, to adore this panoply of constellations, to be wholly lost within the splendor of the sky. Here was the man⁠—all else was husk. What communion he held within the stillness of night, within his own stillest hour, no man shall know. Now and then he would, bit by bit, endeavor to impart a little of his knowledge. But he knew well enough his grandson was not of age. Still, the boy learned to recognize and name several of the constellations as well as some of the larger stars and planets. One evening they were walking together along the garden path. The crescent moon was smiling just above the treetops to the westward. They had been silent, thus far, when Grandpa of a sudden asked, “Louis, have you ever seen the penumbra of the moon?” When the meaning of penumbra had been asked and answered, when the child had grasped the idea that it was the rest of the moon next to the crescent, he said, “Yes, Grandpa, I see it.”

“What is it like?”

“It is curved at the edge and flat the rest of the way. It is pale blue, like a fog. It is beautiful.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Grandpa, “how I envy your young eyes! I have never seen it. I have tried with opera glasses, but still could not see it. It must be wonderful⁠—and I shall never see it. Ah, my dear boy, little do you know what treasures your sharp eyes may bring to you. You see things that I cannot see and shall never see. When you are older you will know what I mean.”

The child was startled. He did not know his Grandpa was nearsighted. True, he had noticed that when Grandpa read in bed, he held the book very close to his eyes. He had noticed that some people wore spectacles, that his Grandma wore spectacles in the evening. But Grandpa didn’t wear spectacles at all. Why then could he not see the penumbra of the moon? It was all strange, very strange to him; it was anything but strange to Grandpa⁠—it was a sorrow. To that eager mind, burdened with reluctant eyes, it was a calamity that he could not see and would never see the penumbra of the moon.

Grandma on the other hand was not imaginative. In place of this divine power she had well-defined, solidly settled ideas concerning decorum, breeding, formal and informal social intercourse, and a certain consciousness that Mrs. Grundy resided as definitely in South Reading as elsewhere. Upon her arrival there, one of her first activities was to seek out a church, attendance upon which would at one and the same time insure to her unquestioned respectability, and, as nearly as possible, coincide with her individual views of doctrine. Indeed Grandmama was conservative of the social order of her day. She seemed oblivious to hypocrisy and cant. She was devoid of them. In this instance, she differed diametrically with her daughter Andrienne, who railed bitterly at that cloak of respectability which to her view camouflaged the sins of the world. Candor and sincerity were her ideals of character and conduct. There was but limited choice in the village and Grandmama soon fixed upon the Baptist Church as her selection. She began regular attendance. The child had now reached the age at which she deemed it proper that he, also, should attend divine service. Thus another new world was to arise above the limited horizon of his experience.

Among the treasures of barn and pasture, there was a certain and only horse named Billy. He was an object at the time technically known as a “family horse⁠—safe for any lady to drive.” Billy was a sallow plug, who, as a finality, had resigned himself to a life of servitude, but not of service. Within the barn was housed what was mentioned familiarly as the “carryall.” It was a family carriage, having an enclosed body. It was a neat solid affair, well built, well finished and upholstered, and with good lines. It was of the essence of respectability, even as Billy was of the lower classes. Billy’s harness was all that could be desired, and on Sundays Billy was groomed to the extent of his limited adaptability to the exactions of high life. Billy, harness, and carryall, made a rather interesting combination, even though Billy,