bats
and spiders. I think that whoever nursed me must have been shockingly aged,
since my first conception of a living person was that of somebody mockingly
like myself, yet distorted, shrivelled, and decaying like the castle. To
me there was nothing grotesque in the bones and skeletons that strewed some
of the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. I fantastically associated
these things with everyday events, and thought them more natural than the
coloured pictures of living beings which I found in many of the mouldy
books.
From such books I learned all that I know. No teacher urged or
guided
me, and I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years—not
even my own; for although I had read of speech, I had never thought to try
to speak aloud. My aspect was a matter equally unthought of, for there were
no mirrors in the castle, and I merely regarded myself by instinct as akin
to the youthful figures I saw drawn and painted in the books. I felt conscious
of youth because I remembered so little.
