Three
Days to See
Helen Keller
I have often thought it would be a blessing if each
human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his
early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence
would teach him the joys of sound.
Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I
should most like to see if I was given the use of my eyes, say, for just three
days. And while I am imagining, suppose you, too, set your mind to work on the
problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three days to see.
If with the oncoming darkness if the third night you knew that the sun would
never rise for you again, how would you spend those three intervening days?
What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?
I, naturally, should want most to see the things
which have become dear to me through my years of darkness. You, too, would want
to let your eyes rest long on the things that have become dear to you so that
you could take the memory of them with you into the night that loomed before
you.
If, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing
days, to be followed by a relapse into darkness, I should divide the period
into three parts.
On the first day, I should want to see the people
whose kindness and gentleness and companionship have made my life worth living.
First I should like to gaze long upon the face of my dear teacher, Mrs. Ann
Sullivan Macy, who came to me when I was a child and opened the outer world to
me. I should want not merely to see the outline of her face, so that I could
cherish it in my memory, but to study that face and find in it the living
evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and patience with which she accomplished
the difficult task of my education. I should like to see in her eyes that
strength of character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of
difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity which she has revealed to me
so often.
I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a
friend through that 'window of the soul,' the eye. I can only 'see' through my
finger tips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many
other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces. But I
cannot really picture their personalities, of course, through the thoughts they
express to me, through whatever of their actions are revealed to me. But I am
denied that deeper understanding of them which I am sure would come through
sight of them, through watching their reactions to various expressed and
circumstances, through noting the immediate and fleeting reactions of their
eyes and countenance.
Friends who are near to me I know well, because
through the months and years they reveal themselves to me in all their phases;
but of casual friends I have only an incomplete impression, an impression
gained from handclasp, from spoken words which I take from their lips with my
finger tips, or which they tap into the palm of my hand.
How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for
you who can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another person by
watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver of a muscle, the flutter of a
hand. But does it ever occur to you to use your sight to see the inner nature
of a friend or acquaintance? Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually
the outward features of a face and let it go at that?
The first day would be a busy one. I should call to
me all my dear friends and look long into their faces, imprinting upon my mind
the outward evidence of the beauty that is within them. I should let my eyes
rest, too, on the face of a baby, so that I could catch a vision of the eager,
innocent beauty which precedes the individuals consciousness of the conflicts
which life develops.
And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting
eyes of my dogs - the grave, canny little Scottie, Darkie, and the stalwart,
understanding Great Dane, Helga, whose warm, tender, and playful friendships
are so comforting to me.
On that busy first day I should also view the small
simple things of my home. I want to see the warm colors in the rugs under my
feet, the pictures on the walls, the intimate trifles that transform a house
into a home. My eyes would rest respectfully on the books in raised type which
I have read, but they would be more eagerly interested in the printed books
which seeing people can read, for during the long night of my life the books I
have read and those which have been read to me have built themselves into a
great shining lighthouse, revealing to me the deepest channels of human life
and the human spirit.
In the afternoon of that first seeing day, I should
take a long walk in the woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties of the
world of Nature, trying desperately to absorb in a few hours the vast splendor
which is constantly unfolding itself to those who can see. On the way home from
my woodland jaunt my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient
horses ploughing in the field and the serene content of men living close to the
soil. And I should pray for the glory of a colorful sunset.
When dusk had fallen, I should experience the double
delight of being able to see by artificial light, which the genius of man has
created to extend the power of his sight when Nature decrees darkness.
In the night of that first day of sight, I should
not be able to sleep, so full would be my mind of the memories of the day.
The next day - the second day of sight - I should
arise with the dawn and see the thrilling miracle by which night is transformed
into day. I should behold with awe the magnificent panorama of light with which
the sun awakens the sleeping earth.
This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the
world, past and present. I should want to see the pageant of man's progress,
the kaleidoscope of the ages. How can so much compressed into one day? Through
the museums, of course. Often I have visited the New York Museum of Natural
History to touch with my hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have
longed to see with my eyes the condensed history of the earth and its inhabitants
displayed there - animals and the races of men pictured in their native
environment; gigantic carcasses of dinosaurs and mastodons which roamed the
earth long before man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to
conquer the animal kingdom; realistic presentations of the processes of
evolution in animals, and in the implements which man has used to fashion for
himself a secure home on this planet; and a thousand and one other aspects of
natural history.
I wonder how many readers of this article have
viewed this panorama of the face of living things as pictured in that inspiring
museum. Many, of course, have not had the opportunity, but, I am sure that many
who have had the opportunity have not made use of it. There, indeed, is a place
to use your eyes. You who can see can spend many fruitful days there, but I,
with my imaginary three days of sight, could only take a hasty glimpse, and
pass on.
My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of
Art, for just as the Museum of Natural History reveals the material aspects of
the world, so does the Metropolitan show the myriad facets of the human spirit.
Throughout the history of humanity the urge to artistic expression has been
almost as powerful as the urge for food, shelter, and procreation. And here, in
the vast chambers of the Metropolitan Museum, is unfolded before me the spirit
of Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as expressed in their art. I know well through my
hands the sculptured gods and goddesses of the ancient Nile-land. I have a few
copies of Parthenon friezes, and I have sensed the rhythmic beauty of charging
Athenian warriors. Apollos and Venuses and the winged victory of Samothrace are
friends of my finger tips. The gnarled, bearded features of Homer are dear to
me, for he, too, knew blindness.
My hands have lingered upon the living marvel of
Roman sculpture as well as that of later generations. I have passed my hands
over a plaster cast of Michelangelo's inspiring and heroic Moses; I have sensed
the power of Rodin; I have been awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood
carving. These arts which can be touched have meaning for me, but even they
were meant to be seen rather than felt, and I can only guess at the beauty
which remains hidden from me. I can admire the simple lines of a Greek vase,
but its figured decorations are lost to me.
So on this, my second day of sight, I should try to
probe into the soul of man through his art. The things I knew through touch I
should now see. More splendid still, the whole magnificent world of painting would
be opened to me, from the Italian Primitives, with their serene religious
devotion, to the Moderns, with their feverish visions. I should look deep into
the canvases of Raphael, Leonardo Da Vinci, Titian, Rembrandt. I should want to
feast my eyes upon the warm colors of Veronese, study the mysteries of El
Greco, catch a new vision of Nature from Corot. Oh, there is so much rich
meaning and beauty in the art of the ages for you who have eyes to see!
Upon my short visit to this temple of art I should
not be able to review a fraction of that great world of art which is open to
you. I should be able to get only a superficial impression. Artists tell me
that for a deep and true appreciation of art one must educate the eye. One must
learn from experience to weigh the merits of line, of composition, of form and
color. If I had eyes, how happily would I embark upon so fascinating a study!
Yet I am told that, to many of you who have eyes to see, the world of art is a
dark night, unexplored and unilluminated.
It would be with extreme reluctance that I should
leave the Metropolitan Museum, which contains the key to beauty - a beauty so
neglected. Seeing persons, however, do not need a Metropolitan to find this key
to beauty. The same key lies waiting in smaller museums, and in books on the
shelves of even small libraries. But naturally, in my limited time of imaginary
sight, I should choose the place where the key unlocks the greatest treasures
in the shortest time.
The evening of my second day of sight I should spend
at a theatre or at the movies. Even now I often attend theatrical performances
of all sorts, but the action of the play must be spelled into my hand by a
companion. But how I should like to see with my own eyes the fascinating figure
of Hamlet, or the gusty Falstaff amid colorful Elizabethan trappings! How I
should like to follow each movement of the graceful Hamlet, each strut of the
hearty Falstaff! And since I could see only one play, I should be confronted by
a many-horned dilemma, for there are scores of plays I should want to see. You
who have eyes can see any you like. How many of you, I wonder, when you gaze at
a play, a movie, or any spectacle, realize and give thanks for the miracle of
sight which enables you to enjoy its color, grace, and movement?
I cannot enjoy the beauty rythmic movement except in
a sphere restricted to the touch of my hands. I can vision only dimly the grace
of a Pavlowa, although I know something of the delight of rhythm, for often I
can sense the beat of music as it vibrates through the floor. I can well
imagine that cadenced motion must be one of the most pleasing sights in the
world. I have been able to gather something of this by tracing with my fingers
the lines in sculptured marble; if this static grace can be so lovely, how much
more acute must be the thrill of seeing grace in motion.
One of my dearest memories is of the time when
Joseph Jefferson allowed me to touch his face and hands as he went through some
of the gestures and speeches of his beloved Rip Van Winkle. I was able to catch
thus a meager glimpse of the world of drama, and I shall never forget the
delight of that moment. But, oh, how much I must miss, and how much pleasure
you seeing ones can derive from watching and hearing the interplay of speech
and movement in the unfolding of a dramatic performance! If I could see only
one play, I should know how to picture in my mind the action of a hundred plays
which I have read or had transferred to me through the medium of manual
alphabet.
So, through the evening of my second imaginary day
of sight, the great figures of dramatic literature would crowd sleep from my
eyes.
The following morning, I should again greet the
dawn, anxious to discover new delights, for I am sure that, for those who have
eyes which really see, the dawn of each day must be a perpetually new
revelation of beauty.
This, according to the terms of my imagined miracle,
is to be my third and last day of sight. I shall have no time to waste in
regrets or longings; there is too much to see. The first day I devoted to my
friends, animate and inanimate. The second revealed to me the history of man
and Nature. To-day I shall spend in the workday world of the present, amid the
haunts of men going about the business of life. And where one can find so many
activities and conditions of men as in New York? So the city becomes my
destination.
I drive across the lacy structure of steel which
spans the East River, and I get a new and startling vision of the power and
ingenuity of the mind of man. Busy boats chug and scurry about the river - racy
speed, boats, stolid, snorting tugs. If I had long days of sight ahead, I
should spend many of them watching the delightful activity upon the river.
I look ahead, and before me rise the fantastic
towers of New York, a city that seems to have stepped from the pages of a fairy
story. What an awe-inspiring sight, these glittering spires, these vast banks
of stone and steel - sculptures such as the gods might build for themselves!
This animated picture is a part of the lives of millions of people every day.
How many, I wonder, give it so much as a second glance? Very few, I fear. Their
eyes are blind to this magnificent sight because it is so familiar to them.
I hurry to the top of one of those gigantic
structures, the Empire State Building, for there, a short time ago, I 'saw' the
city below through the eyes of my secretary. I am anxious to compare my fancy
with reality. I am sure I should not be disappointed in the panorama spread out
before me, for to me it would be a vision of another world.
Now I begin my rounds of the city. First, I stand at
a busy corner, merely looking at people, trying by sight of them to understand
something of their lives. I see smiles, and I am happy. I see serious
determination, and I am proud. I see suffering, and I am compassionate.
I stroll down Fifth Avenue. I throw my eyes out of
focus, so that I see no particular object but a seething kaleidoscope of color.
I am certain that the colors of women's dresses moving in a throng must be a
gorgeous spectacle of which I should never tire. And I am convinced, too, that I should become
an inveterate window shopper, for it must be a delight to the eye to view the
myriad articles of beauty on display.
From Fifth Avenue I make a tour of the city - to
Park Avenue, to the slums, to factories, to parks where children play. I take a
stay-at-home trip abroad by visiting the foreign quarters. Always my eyes are
open wide to all the sights of both happiness and misery so that I may probe
deep and add to my understanding of how people work and live. My heart is full
of the images of people and things. My eye passes lightly over no single
trifle; it strives to touch and hold closely each thing its gaze rests upon.
Some sights are pleasant, filling the heart with happiness; but some are
miserably pathetic. To these latter I do not shut my eyes, for they, too are
part of life. To close the eye on them is to close the heart and mind.
My third day of sight is drawing to an end. Perhaps
there are many serious pursuits to which I should devote the few remaining
hours, but I am afraid that on the evening of that last day I should run away
to the theatre, to a hilariously funny play, so that I might appreciate the
overtones of comedy in the human spirit.
At midnight my temporary respite from blindness
would cease, and permanent night would close in on me again. Naturally in those
three short days I should not have seen all I wanted to see. Only when darkness
had again descended upon me should I realize how much I had left unseen. But my
mind would be so overcrowded with glorious memories that I should have little
time for regrets. Thereafter the touch of every object would bring a glowing
memory of how that object looked.
Perhaps this short outline of how I should spend
three days of sight does not agree with the programme you would set for
yourself if you knew that you were about to be stricken blind. I am, however,
sure that if you actually faced that fate your eyes would open to things you
had never seen before, storing up memories for the long night ahead. You would
use your eyes as never before. Everything you saw would become dear to you.
Your eyes would touch and embrace every object that came within your range of
vision. Then, at last, you would really see, and a new world of beauty would
open itself before you.
I who am blind can give one hint to those who see -
one admonition to those who would make full use of the gift of sight: Use your
eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be
applied to other senses. Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the
mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf to-morrow.
Touch each object you want to touch as if tomorrow your tactile sense would
fail. Smell the perfume of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if
tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense;
glory in all the facets of pleasure and beauty which the world reveals to you
through the several means of contact which Nature provides. But of all the
senses, I am sure that sight must be the most delightful.
Adapted
from piece published in The Atlantic
Monthly, January 1933.
