Years later I had my triumphant answer, but she was no longer there to receive it; and so her eyes look at me, from the picture on the mantel there, with a reproach I no longer merit.
I ought to go back and strike out all that talk about vanity.

What reason have I to be vain, when I reflect how at every step I was petted, nursed, and encouraged?
I did not even discover my own talent.
It was discovered first by my father in Russia, and next by my friend in America.

What did I ever do but write when they told me to write?
I suppose my grandfather who drove a spavined horse through lonely country lanes sat in the shade of crisp-leaved oaks to refresh himself with a bit of black bread; and an acorn falling beside him, in the immense stillness, shook his heart with the echo, and left him wondering.

I suppose my father stole away from the synagogue one long festival day, and stretched himself out in the sun-warmed grass, and lost himself in dreams that made the world of men unreal when he returned to them.

And so what is there left for me to do, who do not have to drive a horse nor interpret ancient lore, but put my grandfather's question into words and set to music my father's dream?
The tongue am I of those who lived before me, as those that are to come will be the voice of my unspoken thoughts.