Contents
Chapter 1. AND THAT IS OUR DAY…
With some fear I begin to describe my life. I feel superstitious hesitation as I lift the veil that shrouds my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an autobiography is difficult. When I try to sort through my earliest memories, I find that reality and fantasy are intertwined and stretch through the years in a single chain, connecting the past with the present. A woman living today draws in her imagination the events and experiences of a child. Few impressions emerge brightly from the depths of my early years, and the rest … «On the rest lies the darkness of the prison.» In addition, the joys and sorrows of childhood lost their sharpness, many events vital to my early development were forgotten in the heat of excitement from new wonderful discoveries. Therefore, fearing to tire you, I will try to present in brief sketches only those episodes that seem to me the most important and interesting.
I was born June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a small town in northern Alabama.
My paternal family descended from Kaspar Keller, a Swiss native who settled in Maryland. One of my Swiss ancestors was the first teacher of the deaf in Zurich and wrote a book on teaching them… An extraordinary coincidence. Although, the truth is said that there is not a single king, among whose ancestors there is no slave, and not a single slave, among whose ancestors there would be no king.
My grandfather, the grandson of Caspar Keller, bought vast land in Alabama and moved there. I was told that once a year he went on horseback from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia to buy supplies for his plantation, and my aunt has many of his letters to the family with lovely, lively descriptions of these trips.
My grandmother was the daughter of Alexander Moore, one of Lafayette’s aides-de-camp, and the granddaughter of Alexander Spotwood, former colonial governor of Virginia. She was also a second cousin of Robert E. Lee.
My father, Arthur Keller, was a captain in the Confederate army. My mother Kat Adams, his second wife, was much younger than he was.
Before my fatal illness left me sightless and deaf, I lived in a tiny house, consisting of one large square room and a second, small one, in which a maid slept. In the South, it was customary to build a small, sort of extension for temporary living near the large main house. My father also built such a house after the Civil War, and when he married my mother, they began to live there. Entirely covered with grapes, climbing roses and honeysuckle, the house from the side of the garden seemed like an arbor. The little porch was hidden from view by thickets of yellow roses and southern smilax, a favorite haunt of bees and hummingbirds.
The main Keller estate, where the whole family lived, was a stone’s throw from our little pink arbor. It was called «Green Ivy» because both the house and the surrounding trees and fences were covered with the most beautiful English ivy. This old-fashioned garden was my childhood paradise.
I loved groping my way along the stiff, square boxwood hedges and smelling the first violets and lilies of the valley. It was there that I sought solace after violent outbursts of anger, plunging my flushed face into the coolness of the leaves. How joyful it was to get lost among the flowers, running from place to place, suddenly bumping into wonderful grapes, which I recognized by leaves and clusters. Then I understood that it was the grapes that weaved around the walls of the summer house at the end of the garden! There, clematis flowed to the ground, branches of jasmine fell and some rare fragrant flowers grew, which were called moth lilies for their delicate petals, similar to butterfly wings. But the roses…they were the prettiest of all. Never later, in the greenhouses of the North, did I find such soul-satisfying roses as those that twined around my house in the South. They hung in long garlands over the porch, filling the air with a scent unalloyed by any other smell of the earth. In the early morning, washed with dew, they were so velvety and clean that I could not help but think: this is how the asphodels of God’s Garden of Eden must be.
The beginning of my life was like that of any other child. I came, I saw, I won — as always happens with the first child in the family. Of course, there was a lot of controversy about what to call me. You can’t name the first child in the family somehow. My father offered to give me the name Mildred Campbell, after one of my great-grandmothers whom he held in high esteem, and declined to take part in further discussion. Mother solved the problem by letting me know that she would like to name me after her mother, whose maiden name was Helena Everett. However, on the way to church with me in his arms, my father naturally forgot this name, especially since it was not one that he seriously considered. When the priest asked him what to name the child, he only remembered that they decided to name me after my grandmother, and said her name: Helen Adams.
I was told that even as a baby in long dresses I showed an ardent and resolute character. Everything that others did in my presence, I tried to repeat. At six months, I got everyone’s attention by saying, «Tea, tea, tea,» quite clearly. Even after my illness, I remembered one of the words I had learned in those early months. It was the word «water» and I continued to make similar sounds, trying to repeat it, even after the ability to speak was lost. I stopped repeating «wah-wah» only when I learned how to spell this word.
I was told that I went on the day when I was one year old. Mother had just taken me out of the bath and was holding me on her lap, when suddenly my attention was drawn to the flickering on the rubbed floor of the shadows of the leaves dancing in the sunlight. I slid off my mother’s knees and almost ran towards them. When the impulse dried up, I fell down and cried for my mother to pick me up again.
These happy days did not last long. Just one short spring, ringing with the chirping of bullfinches and mockingbirds, just one summer, generous with fruits and roses, just one red-golden autumn … They swept past, leaving their gifts at the feet of an ardent, admiring child. Then, in a dismal, gloomy February, an illness came that closed my eyes and ears and plunged me into the unconsciousness of a newborn baby. The doctor determined a strong rush of blood to the brain and stomach and thought that I would not survive. However, one early morning, the fever left me, as suddenly and mysteriously as it appeared. This morning there was great jubilation in the family. No one, not even the doctor, knew that I would never hear or see again.
I have retained, it seems to me, vague memories of this disease. I remember the tenderness with which my mother tried to calm me during the agonizing hours of tossing and pain, as well as my confusion and suffering when I woke up after a restless night spent in delirium and turned dry, inflamed eyes to the wall, away from the once beloved light that now every day became more and more dim. But, except for these fleeting memories, if they are really memories, the past seems somehow unreal to me, like a nightmare.
Gradually, I got used to the darkness and silence that surrounded me, and forgot that once everything was different, until she appeared … my teacher … the one who was destined to set my soul free. But even before her appearance, in the first nineteen months of my life, I caught fleeting images of wide green fields, shining skies, trees and flowers, which the darkness that followed could not completely erase. If once we had sight — «and that day is ours, and ours is everything that he showed us.»
Chapter 2. MY RELATED
I cannot remember what happened in the first months after my illness. I only know that I sat on my mother’s lap or clung to her dress while she did household chores. My hands felt every object, traced every movement, and in this way I was able to learn a lot. Soon I felt the need to communicate with others and began to clumsily give some signs. Shaking the head meant no, nodding meant yes, pulling meant come, pushing meant go. What if I wanted bread? Then I depicted how slices are cut and buttered on them. If I wanted ice cream for lunch, I would show them how to turn the handle of an ice cream machine and shiver like I was cold. Mother was able to explain a lot to me. I always knew when she wanted me to bring something, and I ran in the direction where she pushed me. It is to her loving wisdom that I owe everything that was good and bright in my impenetrable long night.
At the age of five, I learned how to fold and put away clean clothes when they were brought in after washing, and to distinguish my clothes from the rest. By the way my mother and aunt dressed, I guessed when they were going to go out somewhere, and invariably begged to take me with them. They always sent for me when guests came to us, and when I saw them off, I always waved my hand. I think I have a vague memory of the meaning of this gesture. One day some gentlemen came to visit my mother. I felt the push of the front door closing and other noises that accompanied their arrival. Seized by a sudden insight, before anyone could stop me, I ran upstairs, eager to fulfill my idea of an «exit toilet.» Standing in front of the mirror, as I knew others did, I poured oil on my head and heavily powdered my face. Then I covered my head with a veil so that it covered my face and fell in folds over my shoulders. I tied a huge bustle to my childish waist, so that it dangled behind me, hanging almost to the hem. Thus dressed, I went down the stairs to the living room to entertain the company.
I do not remember when I first realized that I was different from other people, but I am sure that this happened before the arrival of my teacher. I noticed that my mother and my friends do not use signs, as I do, when they want to communicate something to each other. They spoke with their mouths. Sometimes I stood between two interlocutors and touched their lips. However, I could not understand anything, and I was annoyed. I also moved my lips and gesticulated frantically, but to no avail. At times it made me so angry that I kicked and screamed to the point of exhaustion.
I guess I knew I was being naughty because I knew kicking Ella, my babysitter, was hurting her. So when the rage passed, I felt something like regret. But I can’t think of a single instance where that stopped me from behaving like that if I didn’t get what I wanted. In those days my constant companions were Martha Washington, our cook’s daughter, and Belle, our old setter, once an excellent hunter. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I almost always managed to get her to do what I needed. I liked to dominate her, and she most often submitted to my tyranny, not risking a fight. I was strong, energetic and indifferent to the consequences of my actions. At the same time, I always knew what I wanted, and insisted on my own, even if I had to fight for this, not sparing my stomach. We spent a lot of time in the kitchen, kneading dough, helping to make ice cream, grinding coffee beans, fighting over cookies, feeding the chickens and turkeys that bustled around the kitchen porch. Many of them were completely tame, so they ate out of their hands and allowed themselves to be touched. Once a big turkey snatched a tomato from me and ran away with it. Inspired by the turkey example, we dragged a sweet pie from the kitchen that the cook had just glazed and ate it to the last crumb. Then I was very sick, and I wondered if the turkey had suffered the same sad fate.
Guinea fowl, you know, loves to nest in the grass, in the most secluded places. One of my favorite pastimes was hunting her eggs in the tall grass. I couldn’t tell Martha Washington that I wanted to look for eggs, but I could put my hands together in a handful and place them on the grass, indicating something round hiding in the grass. Martha understood. When we were lucky and found a nest, I never allowed her to take the eggs home, making her understand by signs that she might fall and break them.
Grain was stored in the barns, horses were kept in the stables, but there was also a yard where cows were milked in the mornings and evenings. He was a source of unflagging interest to Martha and me. The milkmaids allowed me to put my hands on the cow during milking, and I often got a whipping blow from the cow’s tail for my curiosity.
Preparing for Christmas has always been a joy to me. I didn’t know what was going on, of course, but I delighted in the pleasant smells that wafted through the house and the tidbits Martha Washington and I gave to keep us quiet. We certainly got in the way, but that in no way diminished our enjoyment. We were allowed to grind spices, pick raisins and lick the whorls. I hung my stocking to Santa Claus because others did, but I don’t remember being very interested in this ceremony, forcing me to wake up before dawn and run in search of gifts.
Martha Washington liked to play pranks just as much as I did. Two small children sat on the veranda on a hot June afternoon. One was black as a tree, with a shock of springy curls tied with laces into many bunches sticking out in different directions. The other is white, with long golden curls. One was six years old, the other two or three years older. The youngest girl was blind, the eldest was named Martha Washington. At first we carefully cut out paper men with scissors, but soon we got tired of this fun and, having cut the laces from our shoes into pieces, we cut off all the leaves that we could reach from the honeysuckle. After that, I turned my attention to the springs of Martha’s hair. At first she objected, but then resigned herself to her fate. Deciding then that justice requires retribution, she grabbed the scissors and managed to cut off one of my curls. She would have cut them all if not for the timely intervention of my mother.
The events of those early years remained in my memory as fragmentary but vivid episodes. They gave meaning to the silent aimlessness of my life.
Once I happened to pour water over my apron, and I spread it in the living room in front of the fireplace to dry. The apron did not dry as quickly as I would like, and, having come closer, I put it directly on the burning coals. The fire shot up, and in the blink of an eye, the flames engulfed me. My clothes caught fire, I bellowed frantically, the noise called Vini, my old nanny, to help. Throwing a blanket over me, she almost suffocated me, but managed to put out the fire. I got off, one might say, with a slight fright.
Around the same time, I learned to use the key. One morning I locked my mother in the pantry, where she had to stay for three hours, as the servants were in a remote part of the house. She was pounding on the door, and I was sitting outside on the steps, laughing, shaking with each blow. This most harmful leprosy convinced my parents that I should start teaching as soon as possible. After my teacher Ann Sullivan came to see me, I tried to lock her in the room as soon as possible. I went upstairs with something that my mother gave me to understand should be given to Miss Sullivan. But as soon as I gave it to her, I slammed the door and locked it, and hid the key in the hall under the wardrobe. My father was forced to climb the stairs and rescue Miss Sullivan through the window, to my unspeakable delight. I returned the key only a few months later.
When I was five years old, we moved out of the vine-covered house into a big new house. Our family consisted of father, mother, two older half-brothers and, later, sister Mildred. My earliest memory of my father is how I make my way to him through heaps of paper and find him with a large sheet, which for some reason he holds in front of his face. I was very puzzled, I reproduced his action, even put on his glasses, hoping that they would help me solve the riddle. But for several years this secret remained a secret. Then I found out what newspapers are and that my father published one of them.
My father was an unusually loving and generous man, infinitely devoted to his family. He rarely left us, leaving home only during the hunting season. As I was told, he was an excellent hunter, famous for his marksmanship. He was a hospitable host, perhaps even too hospitable, as he rarely came home without a guest. His special pride was a huge garden, where, according to stories, he grew the most amazing watermelons and strawberries in our area. He always brought me the first ripe grapes and the best berries. I remember how touched I was by his solicitude as he led me from tree to tree, from vine to vine, and his joy at the fact that something gave me pleasure.
He was an excellent storyteller and, after I had mastered the language of the dumb, clumsily drew signs in my palm, passing on his most witty anecdotes, and he was most pleased when I later repeated them to the point.
I was in the North, enjoying the last beautiful days of the summer of 1896, when the news of his death came. He was ill for a short time, experienced brief but very sharp torments — and it was all over. This was my first heavy loss, my first personal encounter with death.
How can I write about my mother? She is so close to me that it seems indelicate to talk about her.
For a long time, I considered my little sister an invader. I understood that I was no longer the only light in my mother’s window, and this filled me with jealousy. Mildred constantly sat on her mother’s lap, where I used to sit, and arrogated to herself all the mother’s care and time. One day something happened that, in my opinion, added insult to insult.
I then had an adorable worn Nancy doll. Alas, she was often the helpless victim of my violent outbursts and ardent affection for her, which made her look even more shabby. I had other dolls that could talk and cry, open and close their eyes, but none of them I loved as much as Nancy. She had her own cradle, and I often rocked her for an hour or more. I jealously guarded both the doll and the cradle, but one day I found my little sister sleeping peacefully in it. Indignant at this insolence on the part of one with whom I had not yet been bound by bonds of love, I became furious and overturned the cradle. The child could hit to death, but the mother managed to catch her.
This is what happens when we wander through the valley of loneliness, almost unaware of the tender affection that grows from affectionate words, touching deeds and friendly communication. Subsequently, when I returned to the human heritage that is rightfully mine, Mildred and I found each other’s hearts. After that, we were happy to go hand in hand, wherever the whim led us, although she did not understand my sign language at all, and I did not understand her baby talk.
Chapter 3. FROM THE EGYPTIAN DARKNESS
As I grew up, the desire to express myself grew. The few signs I used became less and less suited to my needs, and the inability to explain what I wanted was accompanied by outbursts of rage. I felt some invisible hands holding me, and I made desperate efforts to free myself. I fought. Not that these wallowing helped, but the spirit of resistance was very strong in me. Usually, I ended up bursting into tears, and ended in complete exhaustion. If my mother happened to be around at that moment, I crawled into her arms, too unhappy to remember the cause of the storm that had swept past. Over time, the need for new ways to communicate with others became so urgent that temper tantrums recurred every day, sometimes every hour.
My parents were deeply upset and puzzled. We lived too far from schools for the blind or deaf, and it seemed unrealistic that someone would travel so far to teach a child privately. At times, even my friends and family doubted that I could be taught anything. For mother, the only ray of hope flashed in the book of Charles Dickens «American Notes». She read there a story about Laura Bridgeman, who, like me, was deaf and blind, and yet received an education. But mother also remembered with hopelessness that Dr. Howe, who discovered the method of teaching the deaf and blind, had died long ago. Perhaps his methods died with him, and if not, how could a little girl in distant Alabama have these wonderful benefits?
When I was six years old, my father heard about a prominent Baltimore optometrist who was successful in many cases that seemed hopeless. My parents decided to take me to Baltimore and see if there was anything they could do for me.
The journey was very pleasant. I never fell into anger: too much occupied my mind and hands. On the train, I made friends with many people. One lady gave me a box of shells. My father drilled holes in them so that I could string them, and they happily kept me busy for a long time. The carriage conductor was also very kind. Many times, clinging to the flaps of his jacket, I followed him as he went around the passengers, punching tickets. His composter, which he gave me to play with, was a magical toy. Cozy in the corner of my sofa, I spent hours amusing myself by punching holes in pieces of cardboard.
My aunt rolled a big towel doll for me. It was a most ugly creature, without a nose, mouth, eyes or ears; in this homemade doll, even the imagination of a child could not detect a face. It is curious that the absence of eyes struck me more than all the other defects of the doll put together. I importunately pointed this out to those around me, but no one thought of equipping the doll with eyes. Suddenly I had a brilliant idea: jumping off the sofa and rummaging under it, I found my aunt’s cloak trimmed with large beads. Having torn off two beads, I signaled to my aunt that I wanted her to sew them onto the doll. She raised my hand inquiringly to her eyes, I nodded decisively in response. The beads were sewn into place and I couldn’t contain my joy. However, immediately after that, I lost all interest in the seeing doll.
Upon our arrival in Baltimore, we met with Dr. Chisholm, who received us very kindly, but could not do anything. He, however, advised his father to consult Dr. Alexander Graham Bell of Washington. He can give information about schools and teachers for deaf or blind children. On the doctor’s advice, we immediately went to Washington to see Dr. Bell.
My father traveled with a heavy heart and great fears, and I, unaware of his suffering, rejoiced, enjoying the pleasure of moving from place to place.
From the first minutes, I felt the tenderness and sympathy emanating from Dr. Bell, which, along with his amazing scientific achievements, won many hearts. He held me on his lap while I looked at his pocket watch, which he had made ring for me. He understood my signs well. I realized it and fell in love with him for it. However, I could not even dream that meeting with him would become the door through which I would move from darkness to light, from forced loneliness to friendship, communication, knowledge, love.
Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, director of the Perkins Institute in Boston, where Dr. Howe had once worked, and ask if he knew of a teacher who could take over my teaching. The father immediately did this, and a few weeks later a kind letter arrived from Dr. Ananos with the comforting news that such a teacher had been found. This happened in the summer of 1886, but Miss Sullivan did not come to us until the following March.
Thus I came out of the darkness of Egypt and stood before Sinai. And the Divine Power touched my soul, and it received its sight, and I knew many miracles. I heard a voice that said: «Knowledge is love, light and insight.»
Chapter 4. APPROXIMATION OF STEPS
The most important day of my life is the day my teacher Anna Sullivan came to visit me. I am filled with amazement when I think of the immense contrast between the two lives brought together this day. It happened on March 7, 1887, three months before I was seven years old.
On that significant day, in the afternoon, I stood on the porch, dumb, deaf, blind, waiting. From the signs of my mother, from the bustle in the house, I vaguely guessed that something unusual was about to happen. So I left the house and sat down to wait for this «something» on the steps of the porch. The midday sun, breaking through the masses of honeysuckle, warmed my face raised to the sky. Fingers almost unconsciously touched the familiar leaves and flowers, just blossoming towards the sweet southern spring. I didn’t know what miracle or marvel the future had in store for me. Anger and bitterness continually tormented me, replacing passionate rage with deep exhaustion.
Have you ever found yourself in the sea in a thick fog, when it seems that a white haze dense to the touch envelops you, and a large ship in desperate anxiety, cautiously feeling the depth with a lot, makes its way to the shore, and you wait with a beating heart, what will happen? Before my training began, I was like such a ship, only without a compass, without a lot, and any way to know how far it was to a quiet bay. «Sveta! Give me light! the silent cry of my soul beat.
And the light of love shone over me at that very hour.
I felt footsteps coming. I held out my hand, as I thought, to my mother. Someone took it — and I found myself caught, clasped in the arms of the one who came to me to open all things and, most importantly, to love me.
The next morning upon my arrival, my teacher took me to her room and gave me a doll. The kids from the Perkins Institute sent it, and Laura Bridgman dressed it. But I learned all this later. After I had played with her for a while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled the word ‘w-w-w-l-a’ on my palm. I immediately became interested in this game of fingers and tried to imitate it. When I finally managed to draw all the letters correctly, I blushed with pride and pleasure. Running immediately to my mother, I raised my hand and repeated to her the signs depicting a doll. I didn’t realize I was spelling a word, or even what it meant; I just, like a monkey, folded my fingers and forced them to imitate what I felt. In the days that followed, I learned, just as thoughtlessly, to write a lot of words, such as «hat», «cup», «mouth», and several verbs — «sit down», «stand up», «go». But only after a few weeks of classes with a teacher, I realized that everything in the world has a name.
One day, when I was playing with my new china doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll on my lap, spelled «k-o-k-l-a» and made it clear that the word refers to both . Previously, we had a skirmish over the words «s-t-a-k-a-n» and «w-o-d-a.» Miss Sullivan tried to explain to me that «glass» is glass and «water» is water, but I kept confusing one for the other. In desperation, she temporarily stopped trying to reason with me, but only to resume them at the first opportunity. I got tired of her pestering and, grabbing a new doll, I threw it on the floor. With keen pleasure, I felt its fragments at my feet. My wild outburst was not followed by sadness or remorse. I didn’t like this doll. In the still dark world where I lived, there was no heartfelt feeling, no tenderness. I felt how the teacher swept the remains of the unfortunate doll towards the fireplace, and felt satisfied that the cause of my inconvenience was eliminated. She brought me a hat, and I knew that I was about to step out into the warm sunlight. This thought, if a wordless sensation can be called a thought, made me jump with pleasure.
We walked along the path to the well, attracted by the scent of honeysuckle that curled around its railing. Someone stood there pumping water. My teacher put my hand under the jet. When the cold current hit my palm, she spelled the word «w-o-d-a» in the other palm, slowly at first, then quickly. I froze, my attention was riveted to the movement of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a vague image of something forgotten… the delight of a returned thought. I somehow suddenly opened the mysterious essence of the language. I realized that «water» is a wonderful coolness pouring over my palm. The living world awakened my soul, gave it light.
I left the well full of zeal for learning. Everything in the world has a name! Each new name gave rise to a new thought! On the way back, every object I touched pulsated with life. This happened because I saw everything with some strange new vision that I had just acquired. Entering my room, I remembered the broken doll. I cautiously approached the fireplace and picked up the pieces. I tried in vain to put them together. My eyes filled with tears as I realized what I had done. For the first time, I felt remorse.
I learned a lot of new words that day. I don’t remember now which ones, but I know for sure that among them were: “mother”, “father”, “sister”, “teacher” … words that made the world around bloom like Aaron’s rod. In the evening, when I went to bed, it would be difficult to find a happier child in the world than me. I re-experienced all the joys that this day brought me, and for the first time dreamed of the coming of a new day.
references
- Elena Keller Adams. Story of my life. Chapters 1 to 21
- Stories about Helen Keller by her teacher Anna Sullivan
- Article about Helen Keller. «Owning my soul, I own everything»