The
progressive development of man is vitally dependent on invention.
It is the most important product of his creative brain. Its
ultimate purpose is the complete mastery of mind over the material
world, the harnessing of the forces of nature to human needs. This
is the difficult task of the inventor who is often misunderstood
and unrewarded. But he finds ample compensation in the pleasing
exercises of his powers and in the knowledge of being one of that
exceptionally privileged class without whom the race would have
long ago perished in the bitter struggle against pitiless elements.
Speaking for myself, I have already had more than my full measure
of this exquisite enjoyment; so much, that for many years my life
was little short of continuous rapture. I am credited with being
one of the hardest workers and perhaps I am, if thought is the
equivalent of labor, for I have devoted to it almost all of my
waking hours. But if work is interpreted to be a definite
performance in a specified time according to a rigid rule, then I
may be the worst of idlers.
Every effort under compulsion
demands a sacrifice of life-energy. I never paid such a price. On
the contrary, I have thrived on my thoughts. In attempting to give
a connected and faithful account of my activities in this story of
my life, I must dwell, however reluctantly, on the impressions of
my youth and the circumstances and events which have been
instrumental in determining my career. Our first endeavors are
purely instinctive promptings of an imagination vivid and
undisciplined. As we grow older, reason asserts itself and we
become more and more systematic and designing. But those early
impulses, though not immediately productive, are of the greatest
moment and may shape our very destinies. Indeed, I feel now that
had I understood and cultivated instead of suppressing them, I
would have added substantial value to my bequest to the world. But
not until I had attained manhood did I realize that I was an
inventor.
This was due to a number of
causes. In the first place I had a brother who was gifted to an
extraordinary degree, one of those rare phenomena of mentality
which biological investigation has failed to explain. His premature
death left my earth parents disconsolate. (I will explain my remark
about my “earth parents” later.) We owned a horse which had been
presented to us by a dear friend. It was a magnificent animal of
Arabian breed, possessed of almost human intelligence, and was
cared for and petted by the whole family, having on one occasion
saved my dear father’s life under remarkable circumstances.
My father had been called one
winter night to perform an urgent duty and while crossing the
mountains, infested by wolves, the horse became frightened and ran
away, throwing him violently to the ground. It arrived home
bleeding and exhausted, but after the alarm was sounded,
immediately dashed off again, returning to the spot, and before the
searching party were far on the way they were met by my father, who
had recovered consciousness and remounted, not realizing that he
had been lying in the snow for several hours. This horse was
responsible for my brother’s injuries from which he died. I
witnessed the tragic scene and although so many years have elapsed
since, my visual impression of it has lost none of its force. The
recollection of his attainments made every effort of mine seem dull
in comparison. Anything I did that was creditable merely caused my
parents to feel their loss more keenly. So I grew up with little
confidence in myself.
But I was far from being
considered a stupid boy, if I am to judge from an incident of which
I have still a strong remembrance. One day the Aldermen were
passing through a street where I was playing with other boys. The
oldest of these venerable gentlemen, a wealthy citizen, paused to
give a silver piece to each of us. Coming to me, he suddenly
stopped and commanded, “Look in my eyes.” I met his gaze, my hand
outstretched to receive the much valued coin, when to my dismay, he
said, “No, not much; you can get nothing from me. You are too
smart.”
They used to tell a funny story
about me. I had two old aunts with wrinkled faces, one of them
having two teeth protruding like the tusks of an elephant, which
she buried in my cheek every time she kissed me. Nothing would
scare me more than the prospects of being kissed by these
affectionate, unattractive relatives. It happened that while being
carried in my mother’s arms, they asked who was the prettier of the
two. After examining their faces intently, I answered thoughtfully,
pointing to one of them, “This here is not as ugly as the
other.”
Then again, I was intended from
my very birth for the clerical profession and this thought
constantly oppressed me. I longed to be an engineer, but my father
was inflexible. He was the son of an officer who served in the army
of the Great Napoleon and in common with his brother, professor of
mathematics in a prominent institution, had received a military
education; but singularly enough, later embraced the clergy in
which vocation he achieved eminence. He was a very erudite man, a
veritable natural philosopher, poet and writer and his sermons were
said to be as eloquent as those of Abraham a-Sancta-Clara. He had a
prodigious memory and frequently recited at length from works in
several languages. He often remarked playfully that if some of the
classics were lost he could restore them. His style of writing was
much admired. He penned sentences short and terse and full of wit
and satire. The humorous remarks he made were always peculiar and
characteristic. Just to illustrate, I may mention one or two
instances.
Among the help, there was a
cross-eyed man called Mane, employed to do work around the farm. He
was chopping wood one day. As he swung the ax, my father, who stood
nearby and felt very uncomfortable, cautioned him, “For God’s sake,
Mane, do not strike at what you are looking but at what you intend
to hit.”
On another occasion he was taking
out for a drive a friend who carelessly permitted his costly fur
coat to rub on the carriage wheel. My father reminded him of it
saying, “Pull in your coat; you are ruining my tire.”
He had the odd habit of talking
to himself and would often carry on an animated conversation and
indulge in heated argument, changing the tone of his voice. A
casual listener might have sworn that several people were in the
room.
Although I must trace to my
mother’s influence whatever inventiveness I possess, the training
he gave me must have been helpful. It comprised all sorts of
exercises, as guessing one another’s thoughts, discovering the
defects of some form of expression, repeating long sentences or
performing mental calculations. These daily lessons were intended
to strengthen memory and reason, and especially to develop the
critical sense, and were undoubtedly very beneficial.
My mother descended from one of
the oldest families in the country and a line of inventors. Both
her father and grandfather originated numerous implements for
household, agricultural and other uses. She was a truly great
woman, of rare skill, courage and fortitude, who had braved the
storms of life and passed through many a trying experience. When
she was sixteen, a virulent pestilence swept the country. Her
father was called away to administer the last sacraments to the
dying and during his absence she went alone to the assistance of a
neighboring family who were stricken by the dread disease. She
bathed, clothed and laid out the bodies, decorating them with
flowers according to the custom of the country and when her father
returned he found everything ready for a Christian burial.
My mother was an inventor of the
first order and would, I believe, have achieved great things had
she not been so remote from modern life and its multifold
opportunities. She invented and constructed all kinds of tools and
devices and wove the finest designs from thread which was spun by
her. She even planted the seeds, raised the plants and separated
the fibers herself. She worked indefatigably, from break of day
till late at night, and most of the wearing apparel and furnishings
of the home were the product of her hands. When she was past sixty,
her fingers were still nimble enough to tie three knots in an
eyelash.
