The Story of My Life
around her. It is impossible for any one with whom Helen is conversing
to be particularly happy or sad, and withhold the knowledge of this fact
from her.
She observes the slightest emphasis placed upon a word in conversation,
and she discovers meaning in every change of position, and in the varied
play of the muscles of the hand. She responds quickly to the gentle
pressure of affection, the pat of approval, the jerk of impatience, the
firm motion of command, and to the many other variations of the almost
infinite language of the feelings; and she has become so expert in
interpreting this unconscious language of the emotions that she is often
able to divine our very thoughts.
In my account of Helen last year, I mentioned several instances where
she seemed to have called into use an inexplicable mental faculty; but
it now seems to me, after carefully considering the matter, that this
power may be explained by her perfect familiarity with the muscular
variations of those with whom she comes into contact, caused by their
emotions. She has been forced to depend largely upon this muscular sense
as a means of ascertaining the mental condition of those about her. She
has learned to connect certain movements of the body with anger, others
with joy, and others still with sorrow. One day, while she was out
walking with her mother and Mr. Anagnos, a boy threw a torpedo, which
startled Mrs. Keller. Helen felt the change in her mother's movements
instantly, and asked, "What are we afraid of?" On one occasion, while
walking on the Common with her, I saw a police officer taking a man
to the station-house. The agitation which I felt evidently produced a
perceptible physical change; for Helen asked, excitedly, "What do you
see?"
A striking illustration of this strange power was recently shown while
her ears were being examined by the aurists in Cincinnati. Several
experiments were tried, to determine positively whether or not she had
any perception of sound. All present were astonished when she appeared
not only to hear a whistle, but also an ordinary tone of voice. She
would turn her head, smile, and act as though she had heard what was
said. I was then standing beside her, holding her hand. Thinking that
she was receiving impressions from me, I put her hands upon the table,
and withdrew to the opposite side of the room. The aurists then
tried their experiments with quite different results. Helen remained
motionless through them all, not once showing the least sign that she
realized what was going on. At my suggestion, one of the gentlemen took
her hand, and the tests were repeated. This time her countenance changed
whenever she was spoken to, but there was not such a decided lighting up
of the features as when I had held her hand.
In the account of Helen last year it was stated that she knew nothing
about death, or the burial of the body; yet on entering a cemetery
for the first time in her life, she showed signs of emotion--her eyes
actually filling with tears.
A circumstance equally remarkable occurred last summer; but, before
relating it, I will mention what she now knows with regard to death.
Even before I knew her, she had handled a dead chicken, or bird, or some
other small animal. Some time after the visit to the cemetery before
referred to, Helen became interested in a horse that had met with an
accident by which one of his legs had been badly injured, and she went
daily with me to visit him. The wounded leg soon became so much worse
that the horse was suspended from a beam. The animal groaned with pain,
and Helen, perceiving his groans, was filled with pity. At last it
became necessary to kill him, and, when Helen next asked to go and see
him, I told her that he was DEAD. This was the first time that she had
heard the word. I then explained that he had been shot to relieve him
from suffering, and that he was now BURIED--put into the ground. I am
inclined to believe that the idea of his having been intentionally shot
did not make much impression upon her; but I think she did realize the
fact that life was extinct in the horse as in the dead birds she had
touched, and also that he had been put into the ground. Since this
occurrence, I have used the word DEAD whenever occasion required, but
with no further explanation of its meaning.
While making a visit at Brewster, Massachusetts, she one day accompanied
my friend and me through the graveyard. She examined one stone after
another, and seemed pleased when she could decipher a name. She smelt of
the flowers, but showed no desire to pluck them; and, when I gathered
a few for her, she refused to have them pinned on her dress. When her
attention was drawn to a marble slab inscribed with the name FLORENCE
in relief, she dropped upon the ground as though looking for something,
then turned to me with a face full of trouble, and asked, "Were is poor
little Florence?" I evaded the question, but she persisted. Turning to
my friend, she asked, "Did you cry loud for poor little Florence?" Then
she added: "I think she is very dead. Who put her in big hole?" As she
continued to ask these distressing questions, we left the cemetery.
Florence was the daughter of my friend, and was a young lady at the time
of her death; but Helen had been told nothing about her, nor did she
even know that my friend had had a daughter. Helen had been given a bed
and carriage for her dolls, which she had received and used like any
other gift. On her return to the house after her visit to the cemetery,
she ran to the closet where these toys were kept, and carried them to
my friend, saying, "They are poor little Florence's." This was true,
although we were at a loss to understand how she guessed it. A letter
written to her mother in the course of the following week gave an
account of her impression in her own words:
"I put my little babies to sleep in Florence's little bed, and I take
them to ride in her carriage. Poor little Florence is dead. She was very
sick and died. Mrs. H. did cry loud for her dear little child. She got
in the ground, and she is very dirty, and she is cold. Florence was very
lovely like Sadie, and Mrs. H. kissed her and hugged her much. Florence
is very sad in big hole. Doctor gave her medicine to make her well, but
poor Florence did not get well. When she was very sick she tossed and
moaned in bed. Mrs. H. will go to see her soon."
Notwithstanding the activity of Helen's mind, she is a very natural
child. She is fond of fun and frolic, and loves dearly to be with other
children. She is never fretful or irritable, and I have never seen her
impatient with her playmates because they failed to understand her.
She will play for hours together with children who cannot understand a
single word she spells, and it is pathetic to watch the eager gestures
and excited pantomime through which her ideas and emotions find
expression. Occasionally some little boy or girl will try to learn the
manual alphabet. Then it is beautiful to observe with what patience,
sweetness, and perseverance Helen endeavours to bring the unruly fingers
of her little friend into proper position.
One day, while Helen was wearing a little jacket of which she was very
proud, her mother said: "There is a poor little girl who has no cloak
to keep her warm. Will you give her yours?" Helen began to pull off the
jacket, saying, "I must give it to a poor little strange girl."
She is very fond of children younger than herself, and a baby invariably
calls forth all the motherly instincts of her nature. She will handle
the baby as tenderly as the most careful nurse could desire. It is
pleasant, too, to note her thoughtfulness for little children, and her
readiness to yield to their whims.
She has a very sociable disposition, and delights in the companionship
of those who can follow the rapid motions of her fingers; but if left
alone she will amuse herself for hours at a time with her knitting or
sewing.
She reads a great deal. She bends over her book with a look of intense
interest, and as the forefinger of her left hand runs along the line,
she spells out the words with the other hand; but often her motions are
so rapid as to be unintelligible even to those accustomed to reading the
swift and varied movements of her fingers.
Every shade of feeling finds expression through her mobile features.
Her behaviour is easy and natural, and it is charming because of its
frankness and evident sincerity. Her heart is too full of unselfishness
and affection to allow a dream of fear or unkindness. She does not
realize that one can be anything but kind-hearted and tender. She is
not conscious of any reason why she should be awkward; consequently, her
movements are free and graceful.
She is very fond of all the living things at home, and she will not have
them unkindly treated. When she is riding in the carriage she will not
allow the driver to use the whip, because, she says, "poor horses will
cry." One morning she was greatly distressed by finding that one of the
dogs had a block fastened to her collar. We explained that it was
done to keep Pearl from running away. Helen expressed a great deal of
sympathy, and at every opportunity during the day she would find Pearl
and carry the burden from place to place.
Her father wrote to her last summer that the birds and bees were eating
all his grapes. At first she was very indignant, and said the little
creatures were "very wrong"; but she seemed pleased when I explained to
her that the birds and bees were hungry, and did not know that it was
selfish to eat all the fruit. In a letter written soon afterward she
says:
"I am very sorry that bumblebees and hornets and birds and large flies
and worms are eating all of my father's delicious grapes. They like
juicy fruit to eat as well as people, and they are hungry. They are not
very wrong to eat too many grapes because they do not know much."
She continues to make rapid progress in the acquisition of language
as her experiences increase. While these were few and elementary, her
vocabulary was necessarily limited; but, as she learns more of the world
about her, her judgment grows more accurate, her reasoning powers
grow stronger, more active and subtle, and the language by which she
expresses this intellectual activity gains in fluency and logic.
When traveling she drinks in thought and language. Sitting beside her
in the car, I describe what I see from the window--hills and valleys and
the rivers; cotton-fields and gardens in which strawberries, peaches,
pears, melons, and vegetables are growing; herds of cows and horses
feeding in broad meadows, and flocks of sheep on the hillside; the
cities with their churches and schools, hotels and warehouses, and the
occupations of the busy people. While I am communicating these things,
Helen manifests intense interest; and, in default of words, she
indicates by gestures and pantomime her desire to learn more of her
surroundings and of the great forces which are operating everywhere.
In this way, she learns countless new expressions without any apparent
effort.
From the day when Helen first grasped the idea that all objects have
names, and that these can be communicated by certain movements of the
fingers, I have talked to her exactly as I should have done had she been
able to hear, with only this exception, that I have addressed the words
to her fingers instead of to her ears. Naturally, there was at first
a strong tendency on her part to use only the important words in a
sentence. She would say: "Helen milk." I got the milk to show her that
she had used the correct word; but I did not let her drink it until she
had, with my assistance, made a complete sentence, as "Give Helen some
milk to drink." In these early lessons I encouraged her in the use of