Three Days to See
by Hellen Keller
I
All of us have read thrilling(adj.令人震颤的) stories in which the hero had only a
limited and
specified time to live. Sometimes it was as long as a year; sometimes as
short
as twenty-four hours. But always we were interested in discovering just
how the doomed(adj.命中注定的) man chose to spend his last days or his last hours. I
speak, of course, of free men who have a choice, not condemned criminals
whose sphere of activities is strictly delimited.
Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar
circumstances. What events, what experiences, what associations, should we
crowd into those last hours as mortal beings? What happiness should we find in
reviewing the past, what regrets?
Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as if
we should die tomorrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of
life. We should live each day with a gentleness, a vigor, and a keenness of
appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before us in the constant
panorama(n.全景；全景画) of more days and months and years to come. There are those, of course,
who would adopt the epicurean motto of ‘Eat, drink, and be merry,‘ but most
people would be chastened by the certainty of impending death.In stories, the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune, but almost always his sense of values is changed. He becomes more appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It has often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do.
Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die,
but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant
health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch
out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware of our
listless attitude toward life.
The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our faculties and
senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold
blessings that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those
who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never
suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these
blessed faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily,
without concentration and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of
not being grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of
health until we are ill.
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.
Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see.
Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long
walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. "Nothing in
particular," she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been
accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing
see little.
How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the
woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of
things to
interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I
pass
my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough,
shaggy
bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in
search of
a bud, the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter‘s sleep. I
feel the
delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable
convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me.
Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small
tree
and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have
the
cool waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet
of
pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious
Persian
rug. To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the
action
of which streams through my finger tips.
At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get
so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by
sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color
and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to
appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not,
but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used
only as a mere convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.
If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course
in "How to Use Your Eyes." The professor would try to show his pupils how they
could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before
them. He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.
II
Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should most like to see if I
were 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 more days to see. If with the
oncoming darkness of the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for
you again, how would you spend those three precious 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. Anne 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 by touch. I know their personalities, of course, through other
means, 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 thoughts 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 a 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 into 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?
For instance, can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? Some
of you can, but many cannot. As an experiment, I have questioned husbands of
long standing about the color of their wives‘ eyes, and often they express
embarrassed confusion and admit that they do not know. And, incidentally, it is
a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new dresses, new
hats, and changes in household arrangements.
The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their
surroundings, and they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But
even in viewing the most spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records
reveal every day how inaccurately "eyewitnesses" see. A given event will be
"seen" in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than
others, but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.
Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three
days!
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 evidences 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 individual‘s 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 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 (perhaps I should see only a tractor!) 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.
III
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 be 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, in
man, 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 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 felt 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 marble 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 through 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 of rhythmic 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 meagre 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 the 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.
IV
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. Today I shall spend in
the workaday world of the present, amid the haunts of men going about the
business of life. And where can one find so many activities and conditions of
men as in New York? So the city becomes my destination.
I start from my home in the quiet little suburb of Forest Hills, Long Island.
Here, surrounded by green lawns, trees, and flowers, are neat little houses,
happy with the voices and movements of wives and children, havens of peaceful
rest for men who toil in the city. 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 --
structures 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 only 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. But perhaps if I had sight I should be like most
other women -- too interested in styles and the cut of individual dresses to
give much attention to the splendor of color in the mass. 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 again 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 crowded
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 the 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 tomorrow. 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.