THE BIRTH OF ESPERANTO.

Freely translated from an Esperanto version of a Russian letter written by Dr Zamenhof, by John Ellis.

"This is an appropriate place for me to say a few words about the material for the dictionary. Much earlier, when I had examined and rejected every non-essential from the grammar, I had desired to exercise the principles of economy in respect of the word-material also. Thinking that it was a matter of indifference what form any particular word took, so long as it was agreed that it should express a given idea, I simply invented words, taking care only that they should be as short as possible, and did not contain an unnecessary number of letters. Instead of using "interparoli" (to converse), a word of eleven letters, why should we not express the idea just as well by some word of two letters, say, "pa"? So I simply wrote the shortest and most easily pronounced mathematical series of conjoined letters, to each factor of which series I gave a certain meaning (e.g., a, ab, ac, ad, ba, ca, da ...; e, eb, ec ...; be, ce ...; aba, aca ... etc.).

"But I immediately rejected this notion, for my own personal experiments proved that these invented words were very difficult to learn, and even more so to remember. I came to the conclusion that the material for the dictionary must be Romance-Teutonic, altered only so far as regularity and other important requirements of language demanded. Standing upon this ground, I soon observed that the present languages possessed an immense supply of words already international, with which all the nations had a prior acquaintance, and which formed a veritable treasure house for the future international language—and, of course, I utilised this treasure.

"In 1878 the language was more or less ready, although there was a good deal of difference between my lingwe uniwersala of that date and the present Esperanto. I told my fellow-students about it—I was then in the 8th Class of the gymnasium—and the greater part of them were attracted by the idea, and struck by the unusual easiness of the language, began to study it. On the 5th of December, 1878, we united to celebrate the birth of my language by a solemn festival. During the feast there were speeches in the new language, and we enthusiastically sang a hymn the commencing words of which were as follows:—

which being interpreted into English, 'May the enmity of nations fall away, fall away, for the hour is come! All mankind must become as one family.’

"On the table, in addition to the grammar and dictionary, lay some translations in the new language.

"And thus the first stage of my language came to an end.

"I was then still too young for my work to appear before the public, and I decided to wait five or six years longer, and during that time to carefully test my language and to work it out fully and practically. Half a year after the feast of December 5th, 1878, we finished our course at the gymnasium and separated. The future apostles of the new language made some attempts to discuss 'the new language,’ but, meeting with the ridicule of their elders, forthwith renounced it, and I remained in a glorious minority of one. Foreseeing nothing but scoffing and persecution, I decided to hide my work from the eyes of all.

"For five and a-half years whilst I was at the University I never spoke to anyone about it. That was a very trying time for me. The secrecy tormented me. Compelled to carefully conceal my thoughts and plans, I went scarcely anywhere, took no part in anything, and the most enjoyable time of life—the student-years—was, for me, the saddest. Sometimes I endeavoured to find distraction in society, but I felt myself a stranger, sighed and went away, and from time to time eased my heart by writing poems in the language I was elaborating. One of these poems, 'Mia penso,’ I afterwards inserted in the first brochure which I published; but to those readers who were unacquainted with the circumstances under which they were written the verses would appear strange and incomprehensible.

"For six years I worked at perfecting and testing my language, and it gave me plenty of work, although in 1878 I had thought that it was quite ready. I made many translations and wrote original works in it, and severe trials showed me that what I had considered to be quite finished in theory was nevertheless not ready for practical use.

"There was much to lop, alter, correct, and radically to transform. Words and forms, principles and postulates, jostled with and opposed each other, whereas in theory, taken separately and not subjected to extended tests, they had appeared to me perfectly good. Such things, for instance, as the indeterminate preposition 'je,’ the elastic verb 'meti,’ the neutral termination 'aŭ,’ etc, possibly would never have entered into my head if I had proceeded only upon theory. Some forms which had appeared to possess a wealth of advantage proved in practice to be nothing but useless ballast, and on this account I discarded several unnecessary suffixes.

"In 1878 it seemed to me that it was sufficient if my language possessed a grammar and a dictionary; its heaviness and want of grace I attributed only to the fact that I did not know the language sufficiently well; but practice ever more and more convinced me that a language requires in addition an indescribable something, a uniting element, giving to it life and a defined and unmistakable spirit.

"I therefore began to avoid making literal translations, and made an effort to think in the neutral language.

"Later I noticed that the language with which I was occupied was ceasing to be a shadowy reflection of the language from which I happened to be translating, and was becoming imbued with its own life and invested with a spirit of its own, and acquiring a physiognomy properly defined, clearly expressed, and independent of any other influence. My speech flowed of itself, flexibly, gracefully, and totally untrammelled, just as my living native tongue.

"Yet another circumstance compelled me to postpone for a long time the appearance of my language; for many years another problem of immense importance to a neutral language had remained unsolved. I knew that everyone would say 'Your language will be of no use to me until the world at large accepts it, so I shall make no use of it until everyone else does.’ But since the world at large is composed only of its units, my neutral language could have no future until it was of use to each separate unit independently of whether the world at large accepted it or not.

This problem I considered for a long while. At last the so-called secret alphabets, which do not necessitate any prior knowledge of them, and enable any person not in the secret to understand all that is written if you but transmit the key, gave me an idea. I arranged my language after the fashion of such a key, inserting not only the entire dictionary but also the whole grammar in the form of its separate elements. This key, entirely self-contained and alphabetically arranged, enabled anyone of any nationality to understand without further ado a letter written in Esperanto.

"I had left the University and begun my medical practice; I began to consider the publication of my labours. I had prepared the manuscript of my first brochure, 'an International Language, by Dr. Esperanto,’ and sought out a publisher. And here for the first time I met that bitter practicality of life, the financial question, against which I had and still have to fight yet the more. For two years I looked in vain for a publisher. And when indeed I had found one he spent half a year in preparing my brochure for publication, and finally—refused.

At length, after strenuous efforts, I succeeded in publishing the brochure myself in July, 1887. Before I did so I was much perplexed—I felt that I stood before the Rubicon. Having once published my brochure, retreat would be impossible, and I knew what kind of fate attends a doctor who is dependent upon the public, if that public comes to regard him as a visionary, or a man who busies himself with side issues. I felt that it was staking my whole future peace of mind, my livelihood, and that of my family, but I could not abandon the idea which had entered into my body and my blood, and ... I crossed the Rubicon."

Lazaro Ludoviko Zamenhof.