《the world i live in-海伦·凯勒自传(英文版)》海伦·凯勒自传(英文版)-第13章

into　the　elements。　Many　persons；　having　perfect　eyes；　are　blind　in
their　perceptions。　Many　persons；　having　perfect　ears；　are　emotionally
deaf。　Yet　these　are　the　very　ones　who　dare　to　set　limits　to　the　vision
of　those　who；　lacking　a　sense　or　two；　have　will；　soul；　passion；
imagination。　Faith　is　a　mockery　if　it　teaches　us　not　that　we　may
construct　a　world　unspeakably　more　plete　and　beautiful　than　the
material　world。　And　I；　too；　may　construct　my　better　world；　for　I　am　a
child　of　God；　an　inheritor　of　a　fragment　of　the　Mind　that　created　all
worlds。
There　is　a　consonance　of　all　things；　a　blending　of　all　that　we　know
about　the　material　world　and　the　spiritual。　It　consists　for　me　of　all
the　impressions；　vibrations；　heat；　cold；　taste；　smell；　and　the
sensations　which　these　convey　to　the　mind；　infinitely　bined；
interwoven　with　associated　ideas　and　acquired　knowledge。　No　thoughtful
person　will　believe　that　what　I　said　about　the　meaning　of　footsteps　is
strictly　true　of　mere　jolts　and　jars。　It　is　an　array　of　the　spiritual　in
certain　natural　elements；　tactual　beats；　and　an　acquired　knowledge　of
physical　habits　and　moral　traits　of　highly　organized　human　beings。　What
would　odours　signify　if　they　were　not　associated　with　the　time　of　the
year；　the　place　I　live　in；　and　the　people　I　know？
The　result　of　such　a　blending　is　sometimes　a　discordant　trying　of
strings　far　removed　from　a　melody；　very　far　from　a　symphony。　（For　the
benefit　of　those　who　must　be　reassured；　I　will　say　that　I　have　felt　a
musician　tuning　his　violin；　that　I　have　read　about　a　symphony；　and　so
have　a　fair　intellectual　perception　of　my　metaphor。）　But　with　training
and　experience　the　faculties　gather　up　the　stray　notes　and　bine　them
into　a　full；　harmonious　whole。　If　the　person　who　acplishes　this　task
is　peculiarly　gifted；　we　call　him　a　poet。　The　blind　and　the　deaf　are　not
great　poets；　it　is　true。　Yet　now　and　again　you　find　one　deaf　and　blind
who　has　attained　to　his　royal　kingdom　of　beauty。
I　have　a　little　volume　of　poems　by　a　deaf…blind　lady；　Madame　Bertha
Galeron。　Her　poetry　has　versatility　of　thought。　Now　it　is　tender　and
sweet；　now　full　of　tragic　passion　and　the　sternness　of　destiny。　Victor
Hugo　called　her　〃La　Grande　Voyante。〃　She　has　written　several　plays；　two
of　which　have　been　acted　in　Paris。　The　French　Academy　has　crowned　her
work。
The　infinite　wonders　of　the　universe　are　revealed　to　us　in　exact　measure
as　we　are　capable　of　receiving　them。　The　keenness　of　our　vision　depends
not　on　how　much　we　can　see；　but　on　how　much　we　feel。　Nor　yet　does　mere
knowledge　create　beauty。　Nature　sings　her　most　exquisite　songs　to　those
who　love　her。　She　does　not　unfold　her　secrets　to　those　who　e　only　to
gratify　their　desire　of　analysis；　to　gather　facts；　but　to　those　who　see
in　her　manifold　phenomena　suggestions　of　lofty；　delicate　sentiments。
＇Illustration：　Copyright；　1907；　by　The　Whitman　Studio
The　Little　Boy　Next　Door
To　face　page　120＇
Am　I　to　be　denied　the　use　of　such　adjectives　as　〃freshness〃　and
〃sparkle；〃　〃dark〃　and　〃gloomy〃？　I　have　walked　in　the　fields　at　early
morning。　I　have　felt　a　rose…bush　laden　with　dew　and　fragrance。　I　have
felt　the　curves　and　graces　of　my　kitten　at　play。　I　have　known　the
sweet；　shy　ways　of　little　children。　I　have　known　the　sad　opposites　of
all　these；　a　ghastly　touch　picture。　Remember；　I　have　sometimes　travelled
over　a　dusty　road　as　far　as　my　feet　could　go。　At　a　sudden　turn　I　have
stepped　upon　starved；　ignoble　weeds；　and　reaching　out　my　hands；　I　have
touched　a　fair　tree　out　of　which　a　parasite　had　taken　the　life　like　a
vampire。　I　have　touched　a　pretty　bird　whose　soft　wings　hung　limp；　whose
little　heart　beat　no　more。　I　have　wept　over　the　feebleness　and　deformity
of　a　child；　lame；　or　born　blind；　or；　worse　still；　mindless。　If　I　had　the
genius　of　Thomson；　I；　too；　could　depict　a　〃City　of　Dreadful　Night〃　from
mere　touch　sensations。　From　contrasts　so　irreconcilable　can　we　fail　to
form　an　idea　of　beauty　and　know　surely　when　we　meet　with　loveliness？
Here　is　a　son　eloquent　of　a　blind　man"s　power　of　vision：
THE　MOUNTAIN　TO　THE　PINE
Thou　tall；　majestic　monarch　of　the　wood；
That　standest　where　no　wild　vines　dare　to　creep；
Men　call　thee　old；　and　say　that　thou　hast　stood
A　century　upon　my　rugged　steep；
Yet　unto　me　thy　life　is　but　a　day；
When　I　recall　the　things　that　I　have　seen；……
The　forest　monarchs　that　have　passed　away
Upon　the　spot　where　first　I　saw　thy　green；
For　I　am　older　than　the　age　of　man；
Or　all　the　living　things　that　crawl　or　creep；
Or　birds　of　air；　or　creatures　of　the　deep；
I　was　the　first　dim　outline　of　God"s　plan：
Only　the　waters　of　the　restless　sea
And　the　infinite　stars　in　heaven　are　old　to　me。
I　am　glad　my　friend　Mr。　Stedman　knew　that　poem　while　he　was　making　his
Anthology；　for　knowing　it；　so　fine　a　poet　and　critic　could　not　fail　to
give　it　a　place　in　his　treasure…house　of　American　poetry。　The　poet；　Mr。
Clarence　Hawkes；　has　been　blind　since　childhood；　yet　he　finds　in　nature
hints　of　binations　for　his　mental　pictures。　Out　of　the　knowledge　and
impressions　that　e　to　him　he　constructs　a　masterpiece　which　hangs
upon　the　walls　of　his　thought。　And　into　the　poet"s　house　e　all　the
true　spirits　of　the　world。
It　was　a　rare　poet　who　thought　of　the　mountain　as　〃the　first　dim　outline
of　God"s　plan。〃　That　is　the　real　wonder　of　the　poem；　and　not　that　a
blind　man　should　speak　so　confidently　of　sky　and　sea。　Our　ideas　of　the
sky　are　an　accumulation　of　touch…glimpses；　literary　allusions；　and　the
observations　of　others；　with　an　emotional　blending　of　all。　My　face　feels
only　a　tiny　portion　of　the　atmosphere；　but　I　go　through　continuous　space
and　feel　the　air　at　every　point；　every　instant。　I　have　been　told　about
the　distances　from　our　earth　to　the　sun；　to　the　other　plas；　and　to
the　fixed　stars。　I　multiply　a　thousand　times　the　utmost　height　and　width
that　my　touch　passes；　and　thus　I　gain　a　deep　sense　of　the　sky"s
immensity。
Move　me　along　constantly　over　water；　water；　nothing　but　water；　and　you
give　me