“Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.”
Their history is a repetition of
that of Babylon. A nation from afar came with speed swiftly, and none
stumbled, or slept, or slumbered, but they brought desolation upon the
land, and took the stay and the staff from the people, the whole stay
of bread, and the whole stay of water, the mighty man, and the man of
war, the judge, and the prophet, and the prudent, and the ancient, and
none delivered them. Woe, indeed, is the heritage of those who walk
sad-thoughted and downcast through this radiant, soul-delighting
earth, blind to its beauty and deaf to its music, and of those who
call evil good, and good evil, and put darkness for light, and light
for darkness.
What care the weather-bronzed sons of the West, feeding the world
from the plains of Dakota, for the Omars and the Brahmins? They would
say to the Hindoos, "Blot out your philosophy, dead for a thousand
years, look with fresh eyes at Reality and Life, put away your
Brahmins and your crooked gods, and seek diligently for Vishnu the
Preserver."
Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement; nothing can be done
without hope. When our forefathers laid the foundation of the American
commonwealths, what nerved them to their task but a vision of a free
community? Against the cold, inhospitable sky, across the wilderness
white with snow, where lurked the hidden savage, gleamed the bow of
promise, toward which they set their faces with the faith that levels
mountains, fills up valleys, bridges rivers and carries civilization
to the uttermost parts of the earth. Although the pioneers could not
build according to the Hebraic ideal they saw, yet they gave the
pattern of all that is most enduring in our country to-day. They
brought to the wilderness the thinking mind, the printed book, the
deep-rooted desire for self-government and the English common law that
judges alike the king and the subject, the law on which rests the
whole structure of our society.
It is significant that the foundation of that law is optimistic. In
Latin countries the court proceeds with a pessimistic bias. The
prisoner is held guilty until he is proved innocent.
“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.”
Did you know that the blind children are going to have their
commencement exercises in Tremont Temple, next Tuesday afternoon?
I enclose a ticket, hoping that you will come. We shall all be
proud and happy to welcome our poet friend. I shall recite about
the beautiful cities of sunny Italy. I hope our kind friend Dr.
Ellis will come too, and take Tom in his arms.
With much love and a kiss, from your little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO REV. PHILLIPS BROOKS
South Boston, June 8, 1891.
My dear Mr. Brooks,
I send you my picture as I promised, and I hope when you look at
it this summer your thoughts will fly southward to your happy
little friend. I used to wish that I could see pictures with my
hands as I do statues, but now I do not often think about it
because my dear Father has filled my mind with beautiful
pictures, even of things I cannot see. If the light were not in
your eyes, dear Mr. Brooks, you would understand better how happy
your little Helen was when her teacher explained to her that the
best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor
even touched, but just felt in the heart. Every day I find out
something which makes me glad. Yesterday I thought for the first
time what a beautiful thing motion was, and it seemed to me that
everything was trying to get near to God, does it seem that way
to you? It is Sunday morning, and while I sit here in the library
writing this letter you are teaching hundreds of people some of
the grand and beautiful things about their heavenly Father. Are
you not very, very happy? and when you are a Bishop you will
preach to more people and more and more will be made glad.
Teacher sends her kind remembrances, and I send you with my
picture my dear love.
From your little friend
HELEN KELLER.
When the Perkins Institution closed in June, Helen and her
teacher went south to Tuscumbia, where they remained until
December. There is a hiatus of several months in the letters,
caused by the depressing effect on Helen and Miss Sullivan of the
"Frost King" episode. At the time this trouble seemed very grave
and brought them much unhappiness.
“The highest result of education is tolerance.”
Who can doubt the vastness of the achievements of education when one
considers how different the condition of the blind and the deaf is
from what it was a century ago? They were then objects of
superstitious pity, and shared the lowest beggar's lot. Everybody
looked upon their case as hopeless, and this view plunged them deeper
in despair. The blind themselves laughed in the face of Haüy when he
offered to teach them to read. How pitiable is the cramped sense of
imprisonment in circumstances which teaches men to expect no good and
to treat any attempt to relieve them as the vagary of a disordered
mind! But now, behold the transformation; see how institutions and
industrial establishments for the blind have sprung up as if by magic;
see how many of the deaf have learned not only to read and write, but
to speak; and remember that the faith and patience of Dr. Howe have
borne fruit in the efforts that are being made everywhere to educate
the deaf-blind and equip them for the struggle. Do you wonder that I
am full of hope and lifted up?
The highest result of education is tolerance. Long ago men fought and
died for their faith; but it took ages to teach them the other kind of
courage,--the courage to recognize the faiths of their brethren and
their rights of conscience. Tolerance is the first principle of
community; it is the spirit which conserves the best that all men
think. No loss by flood and lightning, no destruction of cities and
temples by the hostile forces of nature, has deprived man of so many
noble lives and impulses as those which his intolerance has destroyed.
With wonder and sorrow I go back in thought to the ages of
intolerance and bigotry. I see Jesus received with scorn and nailed
on the cross. I see his followers hounded and tortured and burned. I
am present where the finer spirits that revolt from the superstition
of the Middle Ages are accused of impiety and stricken down. I behold
the children of Israel reviled and persecuted unto death by those who
pretend Christianity with the tongue; I see them driven from land to
land, hunted from refuge to refuge, summoned to the felon's place,
exposed to the whip, mocked as they utter amid the pain of martyrdom a
confession of the faith which they have kept with such splendid
constancy.
“One can never consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar.”
I also
discuss the political situation with my dear father, and we decide the
most perplexing questions quite as satisfactorily to ourselves as if
I could see and hear. So you see what a blessing speech is to me. It
brings me into closer and tenderer relationship with those I love, and
makes it possible for me to enjoy the sweet companionship of a great
many persons from whom I should be entirely cut off if I could not talk.
I can remember the time before I learned to speak, and how I used to
struggle to express my thoughts by means of the manual alphabet--how my
thoughts used to beat against my finger tips like little birds striving
to gain their freedom, until one day Miss Fuller opened wide the
prison-door and let them escape. I wonder if she remembers how eagerly
and gladly they spread their wings and flew away. Of course, it was not
easy at first to fly. The speech-wings were weak and broken, and had
lost all the grace and beauty that had once been theirs; indeed, nothing
was left save the impulse to fly, but that was something. One can never
consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar. But, nevertheless,
it seemed to me sometimes that I could never use my speech-wings as God
intended I should use them; there were so many difficulties in the way,
so many discouragements; but I kept on trying, knowing that patience and
perseverance would win in the end. And while I worked, I built the most
beautiful air-castles, and dreamed dreams, the pleasantest of which was
of the time when I should talk like other people, and the thought of the
pleasure it would give my mother to hear my voice once more, sweetened
every effort and made every failure an incentive to try harder next
time. So I want to say to those who are trying to learn to speak and
those who are teaching them: Be of good cheer. Do not think of to-days
failures, but of the success that may come to-morrow. You have set
yourselves a difficult task, but you will succeed if you persevere,
and you will find a joy in overcoming obstacles--a delight in climbing
rugged paths, which you would perhaps never know if you did not sometime
slip backward--if the road was always smooth and pleasant.
“Literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disenfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourses of my book friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness.”
I am afraid I have written too much about my book-friends, and yet I
have mentioned only the authors I love most; and from this fact one
might easily suppose that my circle of friends was very limited and
undemocratic, which would be a very wrong impression. I like many
writers for many reasons--Carlyle for his ruggedness and scorn of
shams; Wordsworth, who teaches the oneness of man and nature; I find an
exquisite pleasure in the oddities and surprises of Hood, in Herrick's
quaintness and the palpable scent of lily and rose in his verses; I like
Whittier for his enthusiasms and moral rectitude. I knew him, and the
gentle remembrance of our friendship doubles the pleasure I have in
reading his poems. I love Mark Twain--who does not? The gods, too, loved
him and put into his heart all manner of wisdom; then, fearing lest he
should become a pessimist, they spanned his mind with a rainbow of love
and faith. I like Scott for his freshness, dash and large honesty. I
love all writers whose minds, like Lowell's, bubble up in the sunshine
of optimism--fountains of joy and good will, with occasionally a splash
of anger and here and there a healing spray of sympathy and pity.
In a word, literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No
barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of
my book-friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness.
The things I have learned and the things I have been taught seem of
ridiculously little importance compared with their "large loves and
heavenly charities."
CHAPTER XXII
I trust that my readers have not concluded from the preceding chapter on
books that reading is my only pleasure; my pleasures and amusements are
many and varied.
More than once in the course of my story I have referred to my love of
the country and out-of-door sports. When I was quite a little girl, I
learned to row and swim, and during the summer, when I am at Wrentham,
Massachusetts, I almost live in my boat. Nothing gives me greater
pleasure than to take my friends out rowing when they visit me. Of
course, I cannot guide the boat very well. Some one usually sits in
the stern and manages the rudder while I row. Sometimes, however, I go
rowing without the rudder. It is fun to try to steer by the scent of
watergrasses and lilies, and of bushes that grow on the shore. I use
oars with leather bands, which keep them in position in the oarlocks,
and I know by the resistance of the water when the oars are evenly
poised.
“Many people know so little about what is beyond their short range of experience. They look within themselves - and find nothing! Therefore they conclude that there is nothing outside themselves either.”
Our impressions grow and change
unnoticed, so that what we suppose we thought as children may be quite
different from what we actually experienced in our childhood. I only
know that after my education began the world which came within my reach
was all alive. I spelled to my blocks and my dogs. I sympathized with
plants when the flowers were picked, because I thought it hurt them,
and that they grieved for their lost blossoms. It was two years before I
could be made to believe that my dogs did not understand what I said,
and I always apologized to them when I ran into or stepped on them.
As my experiences broadened and deepened, the indeterminate, poetic
feelings of childhood began to fix themselves in definite thoughts.
Nature--the world I could touch--was folded and filled with myself. I am
inclined to believe those philosophers who declare that we know nothing
but our own feelings and ideas. With a little ingenious reasoning one
may see in the material world simply a mirror, an image of permanent
mental sensations. In either sphere self-knowledge is the condition and
the limit of our consciousness. That is why, perhaps, many people know
so little about what is beyond their short range of experience. They
look within themselves--and find nothing! Therefore they conclude that
there is nothing outside themselves, either.
However that may be, I came later to look for an image of my emotions
and sensations in others. I had to learn the outward signs of inward
feelings. The start of fear, the suppressed, controlled tensity of pain,
the beat of happy muscles in others, had to be perceived and compared
with my own experiences before I could trace them back to the intangible
soul of another. Groping, uncertain, I at last found my identity, and
after seeing my thoughts and feelings repeated in others, I gradually
constructed my world of men and of God. As I read and study, I find
that this is what the rest of the race has done. Man looks within
himself and in time finds the measure and the meaning of the universe.
THE LARGER SANCTIONS
XII
THE LARGER SANCTIONS
SO, in the midst of life, eager, imperious life, the deaf-blind child,
fettered to the bare rock of circumstance, spider-like, sends out
gossamer threads of thought into the measureless void that surrounds
him. Patiently he explores the dark, until he builds up a knowledge of
the world he lives in, and his soul meets the beauty of the world, where
the sun shines always, and the birds sing.
“Doubts and mistrust are the mere panic of timid imagination, which the steadfast heart will conquer, and the large mind transcend.”
It lets us into the soul of
things and teaches us that although the world is full of suffering, it
is full also of the overcoming of it. My optimism, then, does not rest
on the absence of evil, but on a glad belief in the preponderance of
good and a willing effort always to coöperate with the good, that it
may prevail. I try to increase the power God has given me to see the
best in everything and every one, and make that Best a part of my
life. The world is sown with good; but unless I turn my glad thoughts
into practical living and till my own field, I cannot reap a kernel of
the good.
Thus my optimism is grounded in two worlds, myself and what is about
me. I demand that the world be good, and lo, it obeys. I proclaim the
world good, and facts range themselves to prove my proclamation
overwhelmingly true. To what is good I open the doors of my being, and
jealously shut them against what is bad. Such is the force of this
beautiful and wilful conviction, it carries itself in the face of all
opposition. I am never discouraged by absence of good. I never can be
argued into hopelessness. Doubt and mistrust are the mere panic of
timid imagination, which the steadfast heart will conquer, and the
large mind transcend.
As my college days draw to a close, I find myself looking forward with
beating heart and bright anticipations to what the future holds of
activity for me. My share in the work of the world may be limited; but
the fact that it is work makes it precious. Nay, the desire and will
to work is optimism itself.
Two generations ago Carlyle flung forth his gospel of work. To the
dreamers of the Revolution, who built cloud-castles of happiness, and,
when the inevitable winds rent the castles asunder, turned
pessimists--to those ineffectual Endymions, Alastors and Werthers,
this Scots peasant, man of dreams in the hard, practical world, cried
aloud his creed of labor. "Be no longer a Chaos, but a World. Produce!
produce! Were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal fraction of a
product, produce it, in God's name! 'Tis the utmost thou hast in thee;
out with it, then. Up, up! whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it
with thy whole might. Work while it is called To-day; for the Night
cometh wherein no man may work.
“Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it”
No doubt, there were comfortable
optimists who thought Wilberforce a meddlesome fanatic when he was
working with might and main to free the slaves. I distrust the rash
optimism in this country that cries, "Hurrah, we're all right! This is
the greatest nation on earth," when there are grievances that call
loudly for redress. That is false optimism. Optimism that does not
count the cost is like a house builded on sand. A man must understand
evil and be acquainted with sorrow before he can write himself an
optimist and expect others to believe that he has reason for the faith
that is in him.
I know what evil is. Once or twice I have wrestled with it, and for a
time felt its chilling touch on my life; so I speak with knowledge
when I say that evil is of no consequence, except as a sort of mental
gymnastic. For the very reason that I have come in contact with it, I
am more truly an optimist. I can say with conviction that the struggle
which evil necessitates is one of the greatest blessings. It makes us
strong, patient, helpful men and women. It lets us into the soul of
things and teaches us that although the world is full of suffering, it
is full also of the overcoming of it. My optimism, then, does not rest
on the absence of evil, but on a glad belief in the preponderance of
good and a willing effort always to coöperate with the good, that it
may prevail. I try to increase the power God has given me to see the
best in everything and every one, and make that Best a part of my
life. The world is sown with good; but unless I turn my glad thoughts
into practical living and till my own field, I cannot reap a kernel of
the good.
Thus my optimism is grounded in two worlds, myself and what is about
me. I demand that the world be good, and lo, it obeys. I proclaim the
world good, and facts range themselves to prove my proclamation
overwhelmingly true. To what is good I open the doors of my being, and
jealously shut them against what is bad. Such is the force of this
beautiful and wilful conviction, it carries itself in the face of all
opposition. I am never discouraged by absence of good. I never can be
argued into hopelessness. Doubt and mistrust are the mere panic of
timid imagination, which the steadfast heart will conquer, and the
large mind transcend.
“Museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration. Doubtless it will seem strange to many that the hand unaided by sight can feel action, sentiment, beauty in the cold marble; and yet it is true that I derive genuine pleasure from touching great works of art. As my finger tips trace line and curve, they discover the thought and emotion which the artist has portrayed.”
The chessmen are of
two sizes, the white larger than the black, so that I have no trouble
in following my opponent's maneuvers by moving my hands lightly over the
board after a play. The jar made by shifting the men from one hole to
another tells me when it is my turn.
If I happen to be all alone and in an idle mood, I play a game of
solitaire, of which I am very fond. I use playing cards marked in the
upper right-hand corner with braille symbols which indicate the value of
the card.
If there are children around, nothing pleases me so much as to frolic
with them. I find even the smallest child excellent company, and I am
glad to say that children usually like me. They lead me about and show
me the things they are interested in. Of course the little ones cannot
spell on their fingers; but I manage to read their lips. If I do not
succeed they resort to dumb show. Sometimes I make a mistake and do the
wrong thing. A burst of childish laughter greets my blunder, and the
pantomime begins all over again. I often tell them stories or teach them
a game, and the winged hours depart and leave us good and happy.
Museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration.
Doubtless it will seem strange to many that the hand unaided by sight
can feel action, sentiment, beauty in the cold marble; and yet it is
true that I derive genuine pleasure from touching great works of art.
As my finger tips trace line and curve, they discover the thought and
emotion which the artist has portrayed. I can feel in the faces of gods
and heroes hate, courage and love, just as I can detect them in living
faces I am permitted to touch. I feel in Diana's posture the grace and
freedom of the forest and the spirit that tames the mountain lion
and subdues the fiercest passions. My soul delights in the repose and
gracious curves of the Venus; and in Barre's bronzes the secrets of the
jungle are revealed to me.
A medallion of Homer hangs on the wall of my study, conveniently low, so
that I can easily reach it and touch the beautiful, sad face with loving
reverence. How well I know each line in that majestic brow--tracks of
life and bitter evidences of struggle and sorrow; those sightless eyes
seeking, even in the cold plaster, for the light and the blue skies of
his beloved Hellas, but seeking in vain; that beautiful mouth, firm and
true and tender. It is the face of a poet, and of a man acquainted with
sorrow. Ah, how well I understand his deprivation--the perpetual night
in which he dwelt--
O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!
“Toleration is the greatest gift of the mind; it requires the same effort of the brain that it takes to balance oneself on a bicycle.”
Her imagination is so
vital that she falls completely under the illusion of a story, and lives
in its world. Miss Sullivan writes in a letter of 1891:
"Yesterday I read to her the story of 'Macbeth,' as told by Charles
and Mary Lamb. She was very greatly excited by it, and said: 'It is
terrible! It makes me tremble!' After thinking a little while, she
added, 'I think Shakespeare made it very terrible so that people would
see how fearful it is to do wrong.'"
Of the real world she knows more of the good and less of the evil than
most people seem to know. Her teacher does not harass her with the
little unhappy things; but of the important difficulties they have
been through, Miss Keller was fully informed, took her share of
the suffering, and put her mind to the problems. She is logical and
tolerant, most trustful of a world that has treated her kindly.
Once when some one asked her to define "love," she replied, "Why, bless
you, that is easy; it is what everybody feels for everybody else."
"Toleration," she said once, when she was visiting her friend Mrs.
Laurence Hutton, "is the greatest gift of the mind; it requires the same
effort of the brain that it takes to balance oneself on a bicycle."
She has a large, generous sympathy and absolute fairness of temper. So
far as she is noticeably different from other people she is less bound
by convention. She has the courage of her metaphors and lets them take
her skyward when we poor self-conscious folk would think them rather
too bookish for ordinary conversation. She always says exactly what she
thinks, without fear of the plain truth; yet no one is more tactful and
adroit than she in turning an unpleasant truth so that it will do the
least possible hurt to the feelings of others. Not all the attention
that has been paid her since she was a child has made her take herself
too seriously. Sometimes she gets started on a very solemn preachment.
Then her teacher calls her an incorrigible little sermonizer, and she
laughs at herself. Often, however, her sober ideas are not to be laughed
at, for her earnestness carries her listeners with her. There is never
the least false sententiousness in what she says. She means everything
so thoroughly that her very quotations, her echoes from what she has
read, are in truth original.
“We could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only joy in the world”
Holmes, written soon
after a visit to him, he published in "Over the Teacups."
[Atlantic Monthly, May, 1890]
TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
South Boston, Mass., March 1, 1890.
Dear, Kind Poet:--I have thought of you many times since that
bright Sunday when I bade you good-bye; and I am going to write
you a letter, because I love you. I am sorry that you have no
little children to play with you sometimes; but I think you are
very happy with your books, and your many, many friends. On
Washington's birthday a great many people came here to see the
blind children; and I read for them from your poems, and showed
them some beautiful shells, which came from a little island near
Palos.
I am reading a very sad story, called "Little Jakey." Jakey was
the sweetest little fellow you can imagine, but he was poor and
blind. I used to think--when I was small, and before I could
read--that everybody was always happy, and at first it made me
very sad to know about pain and great sorrow; but now I know that
we could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only
joy in the world.
I am studying about insects in zoology, and I have learned many
things about butterflies. They do not make honey for us, like the
bees, but many of them are as beautiful as the flowers they light
upon, and they always delight the hearts of little children. They
live a gay life, flitting from flower to flower, sipping the
drops of honeydew, without a thought for the morrow. They are
just like little boys and girls when they forget books and
studies, and run away to the woods and the fields, to gather wild
flowers, or wade in the ponds for fragrant lilies, happy in the
bright sunshine.
If my little sister comes to Boston next June, will you let me
bring her to see you? She is a lovely baby, and I am sure you
will love her.
Now I must tell my gentle poet good-bye, for I have a letter to
write home before I go to bed.
From your loving little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO MISS SARAH FULLER [Miss Fuller gave Helen Keller her first
lesson in articulation.
“Knowledge is love and light and vision.”
Bell to so many hearts, as his wonderful achievements enlist their
admiration. He held me on his knee while I examined his watch, and he
made it strike for me. He understood my signs, and I knew it and loved
him at once. But I did not dream that that interview would be the door
through which I should pass from darkness into light, from isolation to
friendship, companionship, knowledge, love.
Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, director of the
Perkins Institution in Boston, the scene of Dr. Howe's great labours
for the blind, and ask him if he had a teacher competent to begin my
education. This my father did at once, and in a few weeks there came
a kind letter from Mr. Anagnos with the comforting assurance that
a teacher had been found. This was in the summer of 1886. But Miss
Sullivan did not arrive until the following March.
Thus I came up out of Egypt and stood before Sinai, and a power divine
touched my spirit and gave it sight, so that I beheld many wonders. And
from the sacred mountain I heard a voice which said, "Knowledge is love
and light and vision."
CHAPTER IV
The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my
teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder
when I consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which
it connects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I was
seven years old.
On the afternoon of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb,
expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother's signs and from the
hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to
happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun
penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell
on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the
familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the
sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or
surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually for
weeks and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.
“Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.”
No doubt, there were comfortable
optimists who thought Wilberforce a meddlesome fanatic when he was
working with might and main to free the slaves. I distrust the rash
optimism in this country that cries, "Hurrah, we're all right! This is
the greatest nation on earth," when there are grievances that call
loudly for redress. That is false optimism. Optimism that does not
count the cost is like a house builded on sand. A man must understand
evil and be acquainted with sorrow before he can write himself an
optimist and expect others to believe that he has reason for the faith
that is in him.
I know what evil is. Once or twice I have wrestled with it, and for a
time felt its chilling touch on my life; so I speak with knowledge
when I say that evil is of no consequence, except as a sort of mental
gymnastic. For the very reason that I have come in contact with it, I
am more truly an optimist. I can say with conviction that the struggle
which evil necessitates is one of the greatest blessings. It makes us
strong, patient, helpful men and women. It lets us into the soul of
things and teaches us that although the world is full of suffering, it
is full also of the overcoming of it. My optimism, then, does not rest
on the absence of evil, but on a glad belief in the preponderance of
good and a willing effort always to coöperate with the good, that it
may prevail. I try to increase the power God has given me to see the
best in everything and every one, and make that Best a part of my
life. The world is sown with good; but unless I turn my glad thoughts
into practical living and till my own field, I cannot reap a kernel of
the good.
Thus my optimism is grounded in two worlds, myself and what is about
me. I demand that the world be good, and lo, it obeys. I proclaim the
world good, and facts range themselves to prove my proclamation
overwhelmingly true. To what is good I open the doors of my being, and
jealously shut them against what is bad. Such is the force of this
beautiful and wilful conviction, it carries itself in the face of all
opposition. I am never discouraged by absence of good. I never can be
argued into hopelessness. Doubt and mistrust are the mere panic of
timid imagination, which the steadfast heart will conquer, and the
large mind transcend.
“Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”
I remember well the first time I went to the theatre. It was twelve
years ago. Elsie Leslie, the little actress, was in Boston, and Miss
Sullivan took me to see her in "The Prince and the Pauper." I shall
never forget the ripple of alternating joy and woe that ran through that
beautiful little play, or the wonderful child who acted it. After the
play I was permitted to go behind the scenes and meet her in her royal
costume. It would have been hard to find a lovelier or more lovable
child than Elsie, as she stood with a cloud of golden hair floating over
her shoulders, smiling brightly, showing no signs of shyness or fatigue,
though she had been playing to an immense audience. I was only just
learning to speak, and had previously repeated her name until I could
say it perfectly. Imagine my delight when she understood the few words I
spoke to her and without hesitation stretched her hand to greet me.
Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitations touches at
many points the life of the World Beautiful? Everything has its wonders,
even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in,
therein to be content.
Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist
as I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate. Beyond there is light,
and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent,
pitiless, bars the way. Fain would I question his imperious decree, for
my heart is still undisciplined and passionate; but my tongue will not
utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back
into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul.
Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, "There is joy in
self-forgetfulness." So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun,
the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my
happiness.
CHAPTER XXIII
Would that I could enrich this sketch with the names of all those who
have ministered to my happiness! Some of them would be found written
in our literature and dear to the hearts of many, while others would
be wholly unknown to most of my readers. But their influence, though it
escapes fame, shall live immortal in the lives that have been sweetened
and ennobled by it.
Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content
I remember well the first time I went to the theatre. It was twelve
years ago. Elsie Leslie, the little actress, was in Boston, and Miss
Sullivan took me to see her in "The Prince and the Pauper." I shall
never forget the ripple of alternating joy and woe that ran through that
beautiful little play, or the wonderful child who acted it. After the
play I was permitted to go behind the scenes and meet her in her royal
costume. It would have been hard to find a lovelier or more lovable
child than Elsie, as she stood with a cloud of golden hair floating over
her shoulders, smiling brightly, showing no signs of shyness or fatigue,
though she had been playing to an immense audience. I was only just
learning to speak, and had previously repeated her name until I could
say it perfectly. Imagine my delight when she understood the few words I
spoke to her and without hesitation stretched her hand to greet me.
Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitations touches at
many points the life of the World Beautiful? Everything has its wonders,
even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in,
therein to be content.
Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist
as I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate. Beyond there is light,
and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent,
pitiless, bars the way. Fain would I question his imperious decree, for
my heart is still undisciplined and passionate; but my tongue will not
utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back
into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul.
Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, "There is joy in
self-forgetfulness." So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun,
the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my
happiness.
CHAPTER XXIII
Would that I could enrich this sketch with the names of all those who
have ministered to my happiness! Some of them would be found written
in our literature and dear to the hearts of many, while others would
be wholly unknown to most of my readers. But their influence, though it
escapes fame, shall live immortal in the lives that have been sweetened
and ennobled by it.
We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world
Holmes, written soon
after a visit to him, he published in "Over the Teacups."
[Atlantic Monthly, May, 1890]
TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
South Boston, Mass., March 1, 1890.
Dear, Kind Poet:--I have thought of you many times since that
bright Sunday when I bade you good-bye; and I am going to write
you a letter, because I love you. I am sorry that you have no
little children to play with you sometimes; but I think you are
very happy with your books, and your many, many friends. On
Washington's birthday a great many people came here to see the
blind children; and I read for them from your poems, and showed
them some beautiful shells, which came from a little island near
Palos.
I am reading a very sad story, called "Little Jakey." Jakey was
the sweetest little fellow you can imagine, but he was poor and
blind. I used to think--when I was small, and before I could
read--that everybody was always happy, and at first it made me
very sad to know about pain and great sorrow; but now I know that
we could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only
joy in the world.
I am studying about insects in zoology, and I have learned many
things about butterflies. They do not make honey for us, like the
bees, but many of them are as beautiful as the flowers they light
upon, and they always delight the hearts of little children. They
live a gay life, flitting from flower to flower, sipping the
drops of honeydew, without a thought for the morrow. They are
just like little boys and girls when they forget books and
studies, and run away to the woods and the fields, to gather wild
flowers, or wade in the ponds for fragrant lilies, happy in the
bright sunshine.
If my little sister comes to Boston next June, will you let me
bring her to see you? She is a lovely baby, and I am sure you
will love her.
Now I must tell my gentle poet good-bye, for I have a letter to
write home before I go to bed.
From your loving little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO MISS SARAH FULLER [Miss Fuller gave Helen Keller her first
lesson in articulation.
For, after all, every one who wishes to gain true knowledge must climb the Hill Difficulty alone, and since there is no royal road to the summit, I must zigzag it in my own way. I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better, I trudge on, I gain a little, I feel encouraged, I get more eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon. Every struggle is a victory. One more effort and I reach the luminous cloud, the blue depths of the sky, the uplands of my desire.
I use the Hammond typewriter. I have tried many machines, and I find the
Hammond is the best adapted to the peculiar needs of my work. With this
machine movable type shuttles can be used, and one can have several
shuttles, each with a different set of characters--Greek, French, or
mathematical, according to the kind of writing one wishes to do on the
typewriter. Without it, I doubt if I could go to college.
Very few of the books required in the various courses are printed
for the blind, and I am obliged to have them spelled into my hand.
Consequently I need more time to prepare my lessons than other girls.
The manual part takes longer, and I have perplexities which they have
not. There are days when the close attention I must give to details
chafes my spirit, and the thought that I must spend hours reading a
few chapters, while in the world without other girls are laughing and
singing and dancing, makes me rebellious; but I soon recover my buoyancy
and laugh the discontent out of my heart. For, after all, every one who
wishes to gain true knowledge must climb the Hill Difficulty alone, and
since there is no royal road to the summit, I must zigzag it in my own
way. I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the
edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep
it better, I trudge on, I gain a little, I feel encouraged, I get more
eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon. Every
struggle is a victory. One more effort and I reach the luminous cloud,
the blue depths of the sky, the uplands of my desire. I am not always
alone, however, in these struggles. Mr. William Wade and Mr. E. E.
Allen, Principal of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instruction of
the Blind, get for me many of the books I need in raised print. Their
thoughtfulness has been more of a help and encouragement to me than they
can ever know.
Last year, my second year at Radcliffe, I studied English composition,
the Bible as English composition, the governments of America and Europe,
the Odes of Horace, and Latin comedy. The class in composition was the
pleasantest. It was very lively. The lectures were always interesting,
vivacious, witty; for the instructor, Mr. Charles Townsend Copeland,
more than any one else I have had until this year, brings before you
literature in all its original freshness and power. For one short hour
you are permitted to drink in the eternal beauty of the old masters
without needless interpretation or exposition. You revel in their fine
thoughts. You enjoy with all your soul the sweet thunder of the Old
Testament, forgetting the existence of Jahweh and Elohim; and you go
home feeling that you have had "a glimpse of that perfection in which
spirit and form dwell in immortal harmony; truth and beauty bearing a
new growth on the ancient stem of time.
The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in leisure moments when the words ofsome loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college there is no time to commune with ones thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures--solitude, books and imagination--outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.
Debarred from the great highways of knowledge,
I was compelled to make the journey across country by unfrequented
roads--that was all; and I knew that in college there were many bypaths
where I could touch hands with girls who were thinking, loving and
struggling like me.
I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening
in beauty and light, and I felt within me the capacity to know all
things. In the wonderland of Mind I should be as free as another. Its
people, scenery, manners, joys, tragedies should be living, tangible
interpreters of the real world. The lecture-halls seemed filled with the
spirit of the great and the wise, and I thought the professors were
the embodiment of wisdom. If I have since learned differently, I am not
going to tell anybody.
But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum
I had imagined. Many of the dreams that had delighted my young
inexperience became beautifully less and "faded into the light of common
day." Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going
to college.
The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time
to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening
and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in
leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet
chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college there
is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn,
it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one
leaves the dearest pleasures--solitude, books and imagination--outside
with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in
the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I
am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a
rainy day.
My studies the first year were French, German, history, English
composition and English literature. In the French course I read some
of the works of Corneille, Moliere, Racine, Alfred de Musset and
Sainte-Beuve, and in the German those of Goethe and Schiller. I reviewed
rapidly the whole period of history from the fall of the Roman Empire
to the eighteenth century, and in English literature studied critically
Milton's poems and "Areopagitica."
I am frequently asked how I overcome the peculiar conditions under which
I work in college. In the classroom I am of course practically alone.
The professor is as remote as if he were speaking through a telephone.
The lectures are spelled into my hand as rapidly as possible, and much
of the individuality of the lecturer is lost to me in the effort to keep
in the race. The words rush through my hand like hounds in pursuit of a
hare which they often miss. But in this respect I do not think I am much
worse off than the girls who take notes.
“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”
“Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.”
