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THE GIRL WHO FOUND 
 THE BLUE BIRD 
 
IIKLKX K'KI,LER 
 
THE GIRL WHO FOUND 
 THE BLUE BIRD 
 
 A VISIT TO HELEN KELLER 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGETTE LEBLANC 
 
 (Madame Maurice Maeterlinck) 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS 
 
 With Portraits ^ 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1914 
 
 «v^ 
 

 Copyright, 1913, 
 By DODD. mead AND COMPANY 
 
 OCT I 1914 
 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Helen Keller . . • Frontispiece 
 
 Georgette Leblanc . . Facing page 62 
 
PART I 
 
1 HOUGH I lived for centuries, 
 i should not forget a colour, a 
 shade, a line, nor any single detail 
 of the thousand that form the mem- 
 ory of my visits to Helen Keller, 
 the celebrated deaf, dumb and 
 blind American girl. 
 
 We are always making fresh ac- 
 quaintances; we look upon it as a 
 natural, everyday occurrence. We 
 go to meet an unknown person 
 with less emotion than we feel when 
 visiting for the first time a coun- 
 try or a cathedral; and yet it is 
 often for us the preface to a great 
 event. 
 
 If we could divine the existence 
 of exceptional creatures and go 
 through the world seeking them, 
 
-C 4 > 
 
 even as we go from one museum to 
 another, then our travels would, 
 in my opinion, be far more interest- 
 ing and of far greater beauty. 
 
 The mystery of our meetings is 
 infinite, for each individual is a 
 new experience. We have been 
 told his name, his birth and his 
 position ; and yet we know nothing. 
 What is his inner hfe? What are 
 the qualities of his mind and heart? 
 What are his interests, his long- 
 ings, his sorrows and his joys? In 
 a word, what are the elements that 
 widen or narrow the distance be- 
 tween us? Is a word enough to 
 make us hope that we have bridged 
 that gulf? Or shall we need 
 months merely to perceive the 
 other side, shall we be years in 
 winding round its edges? 
 
 We look at each other, we smile, 
 we go in quest of each other, 
 
-C 5 > 
 
 Sometimes we find each other for 
 an instant in the little path of 
 common tastes and fondly imagine 
 that we are alike. But the gulf 
 is still there! In vain we look 
 down into its depths: it consists 
 of a formidable past that is sealed 
 to us, of a character which we 
 shall never really know, of an in- 
 tangible soul and of a spirit dif- 
 ferent from our own; it consists of 
 a thousand things, all foreign to 
 ourselves, which nevertheless, when 
 entering into our spirit, will take 
 its form, even as a liquid takes the 
 shape of the vessel that contains it. 
 And this will give us the eternal 
 and charming illusion of under- 
 standing and of being understood. 
 The strong consider one another 
 at a distance, the restless clash to- 
 gether, the weak, staggering one 
 towards the other, find themselves 
 
momentarily erect again; but very 
 rarely do we know the wild, ro- 
 mantic delight of blending in per- 
 fect harmony our ideas, our wishes 
 and our dreams. 
 
 It was with these thoughts that 
 I went to Wrentham, where Helen 
 Keller lives, my heart wrung with 
 a twofold emotion, knowing that 
 I was going to encounter an ad- 
 mirable intelligence, but never hop- 
 ing to make myself understood; 
 certain of finding myself in the 
 presence of a perfect soul, yet im- 
 agining no opening through which 
 to reach it. No doubt, our meet- 
 ing would be governed by new 
 laws; but what manner of laws? 
 
 Dear Helen, you were soon to 
 prove to me that, by the straight 
 highways of simplicity and trust, 
 two minds can pass beyond looks 
 and words and find each other. 
 
II 
 
 Never shall I forget my long 
 motor-drive through the mournful 
 country-side. The wheels sink 
 deep into the snow; the desolate 
 trees lift their gaunt boughs in 
 vain appeal to the leaden sky. We 
 go through pine-woods: how elo- 
 quent is their sombre velvet in this 
 cold setting! We pass humble vil- 
 lages: the black wooden cabins re- 
 mind me of the ishas; I might be in 
 Russia. But here and there ap- 
 pears a cottage painted light- 
 green, orange-red or bright-yel- 
 low; and then, with the dazzling 
 snow that frames it, the landscape 
 makes me think of a Japanese 
 print with its white margins. 
 As the roads and banks are 
 
 7 
 
-c 8 :^ 
 
 buried under the snow, the car 
 bounds along, jolting incessantly- 
 over invisible obstacles. No one 
 seems alarmed and nothing stays 
 our rapid pace, for, in America, 
 people go faster than elsewhere 
 and think less of danger. This 
 crisp air is so heavily laden with 
 electricity that, at every moment, 
 the touch of one's hands creates a 
 spark; and it gives an impression 
 of life crackling under a glass sky. 
 There is no mist, no rain, no list- 
 lessness, no dreaming. Unfet- 
 tered by the past, all the forces of 
 the race go straight ahead. 
 
 To-day, my excursion is made 
 under the guidance of a charming 
 girl; for you no sooner express a 
 wish in this country, where hospi- 
 tality is a religion, than all your 
 friends are at your service. I en- 
 joy watching my companion, a 
 
•C 9 3- 
 
 thorough American, for all her 
 French charm of manner. Her 
 profile is smiling and grave, her 
 beauty at once bold and reticent; 
 and her whole person breathes a 
 most attractive air of mingled in- 
 dependence and seriousness. She 
 represents to me the fair flower of 
 an unfamiliar land and an unfa- 
 miliar system of education; and I 
 find myself studying her with equal 
 curiosity and sympathy. Yester- 
 day, we were at the same party, 
 dancing and singing late into the 
 night. And, now, the winter sun 
 has not yet risen and we are both 
 thinking with anguish, in the icy 
 morn, of the poor unknown sister 
 towards whom we are hasten- 
 ing. 
 
 Every one directs us on our way, 
 for Helen Keller is immensely 
 popular. When we reach Wren- 
 
•C10 3- 
 
 tham, we are at once told where 
 she lives: 
 
 "Go right through the village; 
 it's the first house standing by it- 
 self." 
 
 Both of us are pressing our faces 
 to the window and we see first a 
 small, one-storeyed building, with 
 a long inscription over the door: 
 
 "That's the hbrary which Miss 
 Keller presented to the village," 
 says my friend. 
 
 But we are already past the 
 cluster of farms and villas that con- 
 stitute Wren tham; and yonder, on 
 a slight eminence, appears the 
 house which we are seeking, a large 
 cottage standing white in its 
 white garden. As the car begins 
 to mount the slope, the sun throws 
 off its last morning veil and the 
 shadows of the trees lengthen 
 across the ghttering snow. 
 
•cll:^ 
 
 My heart shrinks as* I behold 
 that familiar picture which She 
 has never seen. Our car stops. 
 The church clock in the distance 
 strikes ten; and its booming voice 
 mingles with the laughter of the 
 harness-bells dancing along the 
 road. A dog barks persistently in 
 a farm hard by. Does the snow, 
 which deadens the sound of wheels 
 and footsteps, make voices seem 
 louder, as though they were strik- 
 ing against invisible walls to come 
 back to us more merrily? I feel 
 as though I hear too clearly. . . . 
 
 I look at the house bright 
 with many windows, all uncur- 
 tained. Is there not something 
 ironical in this? 
 
 On two sides of the cottage are 
 white-painted wooden piazzas; and 
 one of them is prolonged to form 
 a pergola. A few brave, belated 
 
-C12:}- 
 
 leaves cling round the pillars. 
 Why is it all so pretty? 
 
 A row of windows close together 
 form a charming verandah: here 
 again there are no curtains. What 
 is the use of all this readiness to 
 welcome the sweet country into 
 her home? 
 
 Her home! How cruel it looks 
 to me in the smiling perfection of 
 its beauty! How gay and lively 
 everything appears! 
 
 A few seconds ago, I was hear- 
 ing sounds with singular intensity; 
 and now I am ashamed at the un- 
 natural distinctness with which I 
 see the smallest things. . . . 
 
 I have been unconsciously fol- 
 lowing my companion's firm step. 
 After crossing one of the piazzas, 
 we entered the hall. She sent in 
 our names; and we are now wait- 
 ing in the parlour. It is a gay 
 
<1B> 
 
 and hospitable room, flooded with 
 daylight. Flowers everywhere, 
 bright colours, patches of sunlight 
 playing on the waxed floor. On 
 one side, the winter landscape fills 
 the broad, bare windows; on 
 the other, the eager flames leap in 
 the great fireplace: the impression 
 is sharply divided, like a fruit hard 
 and sour in one part, soft and mel- 
 low in another. 
 
 Standing with my eyes fixed on 
 the pallid country, I think of 
 Helen; and giddily, as, in our 
 dreams, we run to the brink of a 
 precipice, I turn a shuddering gaze 
 towards the landmarks of her stu- 
 pendous life. 
 
 I first heard the name of Helen 
 Keller, some years ago, through 
 our friend Gerard Harry. 
 
 *'Don't leave America without 
 seeing Helen Keller," he said. 
 
-c:i4> 
 
 **What Mark Twain observed 
 about her has become a classic: 
 *The two most interesting char- 
 acters of the nineteenth century are 
 Napoleon and Helen Keller.' " 
 
 "What has she done?" 
 
 "She is deaf, dumb and blind; 
 she reads German, French, Latin 
 and Greek ; she has passed the most 
 difficult examinations at Radcliffe 
 College; she has written her auto- 
 biography ; and she is only twenty- 
 eight." 
 
 A few days later, I had read 
 her story and, with deep emotion, 
 had traversed with her the suc- 
 cessive stages of her deliverance/ 
 Helen's hfe! A mad ascent, a 
 
 1 Not long after, two studies appeared on 
 Helen Keller: Man's Miracle^ by Gerard 
 Harry; and Le Cas de Miss Keller, an article 
 by Marie Len^ru in which that admirable 
 writer translates extracts from Helen Keller's 
 essay, Sense and Sensibility. 
 
 I 
 
superhuman determination to 
 come up merely with the normal 
 being. But, lik^ the swift run- 
 ner, she goes beyond the goal. 
 
 I will not here repeat the details 
 of a biography which is now 
 known on both sides of the At- 
 lantic. Besides, one hesitates to in- 
 sist on heredity in this connection, 
 for the reason that the phe- 
 nomenon which Helen presents ut- 
 terly removes her from all idea of 
 lineage. She is more isolated than 
 any living creature, first by her 
 inferiority and next by her su- 
 periority, for the perfect being 
 must be solitary, even as the ripe 
 fruit separates from the tree. 
 
 I will give simply the main out- 
 lines of her life. Until the age of 
 nineteen months, Helen was simi- 
 lar to other children: she owes her 
 physical defects to an illness. 
 
She has therefore faintly beheld 
 the glory of the noontide, the glow 
 of evening, the abyss of night. 
 Presently, her detractors — for not 
 even this detail is lacking to her 
 fame — will make use of that fact 
 to depreciate her merits. 
 
 "The child born blind and deaf 
 is a lump of matter," wrote Biich- 
 ner. 
 
 And his fellow-countrymen will 
 say: 
 
 "As Helen Keller once saw and 
 heard, all that she now does is to 
 remember." 
 
 Certainly our heroine has seen 
 the world and may have retained 
 the image of it; but her conscious- 
 ness, which developed long after- 
 wards, had to blossom in its dark- 
 ness; and it was into the intellect 
 that its roots delved to find their 
 nourishment. Besides, what is the 
 
value of a memory, other than its 
 own value? The beauty of the 
 soul diminishes or increases all that 
 descends into it ; and we can never 
 fill more than the cup that is held 
 out to us. 
 
 Until the age of nine years, 
 Helen Keller is a monster. A 
 peevish and unmanageable little 
 animal, she struggles and suffers 
 without knowing it. Then a 
 young governess, Anne Mansfield 
 Sullivan, comes to her and under- 
 takes her education with the pa- 
 tience of a saint. She invents 
 methods of communication: first, 
 the designation of objects, the 
 names of which she traces on the 
 child's hand; next, the connection 
 between words and things. Fol- 
 lows the awakening of thought, the 
 exercise of reflection, until at last, 
 by means of more and more subtle 
 
-C18 3- 
 
 experiments, a conception of the 
 abstract is attained. One fine 
 summer's day, while Anne SulU- 
 van is endeavouring to make the 
 child enter into the kingdom of the 
 feelings, Helen, after hesitating 
 between the warmth of the sun and 
 the scent of the flowers clasped in 
 her small fingers, throws herself 
 into Anne's arms. She has 
 grasped the fact that love lies 
 there, in the heart of her rescuer. 
 We are appalled at the thought 
 of that pregnant moment, when 
 Helen's mind was awakened simul- 
 taneously to the sense of its awful- 
 ness and of its power. Turning to- 
 wards the darkness, Helen asked 
 for the Ught; and she turned and 
 turned in vain, like a sufl*erer on 
 a bed of torment! The gradation 
 that enables us to bear our trou- 
 
bles by accustoming us to them 
 did not exist for her. At each 
 movement, that captive soul re- 
 ceived a mortal blow; and this at 
 the happy age when a child's 
 laughter at every moment gains 
 a fresh triumph. 
 
 By what miracle did Helen's 
 reason survive? Does moral force 
 exist in a poor little creature who 
 is still separated from the world 
 by the slenderest of partitions? 
 No; and I believe that Helen was 
 saved because she already pos- 
 sessed the passion for conquest. 
 She gauges an obstacle only the 
 better to overcome it. 
 
 From the day on which Helen 
 Keller first became a sentient be- 
 ing, her progress was unprec- 
 edented and swifter than that of 
 nonnal children; her imagination 
 
-C20> 
 
 was surprising; and we see shining 
 in the depths of her darkness the 
 divine spirit of enquiry that will 
 support her all the days of her life. 
 She thinks, she improves her mind, 
 she writes; she is zealous and ac- 
 tive; she creates institutions for 
 the welfare of the blind, founds 
 libraries, interests herself in poli- 
 tics, travels, plays games and visits 
 museums. 
 
 Does this mean that Helen does 
 not suffer? Let there be no mis- 
 take made: though the troubles of 
 super-beings are less apparent to 
 our eyes, though such beings do 
 not fill the air with their cries and 
 clamours, they nevertheless suffer 
 more intensely than others, for our 
 sufferings are proportionate to 
 our powers of resistance. 
 
 We attribute to the dying man 
 regrets which he no longer has, 
 
for everything disperses together. 
 Even so, the misfortunes that as- 
 sail us when we are in our prime 
 find room only within the compass 
 of our soul. 
 
Ill 
 
 Out suddenly a sound of foot- 
 steps rouses me from my reverie: 
 I hear some one in the distance, 
 on the echoing stairs; it is She, it 
 is certain to be She! A sort of 
 enthusiastic fear quickens my 
 whole being ; and my thoughts riot 
 like a swarm of midges in a ray 
 of sunshine. In a moment I shall 
 see her! What will she be like? 
 Wliat sort of face will she have, 
 what sort of expression and bear- 
 ing? How are we going to com- 
 municate? How shall I penetrate 
 into her prison? Alas! I de- 
 clined, when she so kindlv offered 
 to come to me yesterday. I 
 wanted to meet her in her own 
 home, amid her familiar surround- 
 
 32 
 
-C23> 
 
 ings. All this is often indicative 
 of character; and, now that I am 
 here, my fancy seems to me child- 
 ish. Is she not ever and always in 
 her tower of darkness and silence? 
 What can colour or form or har- 
 mony matter to her? Are not her 
 relations to things cold and life- 
 less? Does her splendid isolation 
 touch the outer w^orld at any point? 
 How can I hope to find her more 
 easily in her house than amid the 
 triviality of an hotel sitting-room? 
 She is here, close to me, on the 
 arm of Mrs. Macy, her teacher, 
 her good angel, her life. I saw 
 her coming from the far end of 
 three large rooms separated by 
 wide bays. She is here! At first, 
 I could not believe that this was 
 she, this smiling girl who seemed 
 to be looking at me out of her fine 
 blue eyes; and I instinctively 
 
turned to Mrs. Macy, who herself 
 was blind until the age of twenty 
 and who still wears a white veil to 
 temper the light to her weak eyes. 
 But Helen spoke! With an ef- 
 fort, she pronounces a few words 
 of welcome; and, when I hear that 
 voice which comes from an abyss, 
 that laugh, that ghostly laugh, 
 which echoes through her silence 
 like revellers' footsteps in the still- 
 ness of the night, I feel the hateful 
 distance that parts us and I am 
 filled with dread. 
 
 You will forgive me, dear 
 Helen, and your generous soul will 
 smile indulgently down in your 
 crystal darkness. You know that 
 we apply the term miracle to all 
 that surpasses our understanding 
 and that, directly we come into 
 touch with the finer realities, our 
 instinctive alarm clothes them in 
 
mystery. And so, when our two 
 souls sought each other, mine, 
 bhnded with tears, was the one that 
 was really astray: too far to hear 
 your call, too weak to come to you 
 at once, it was in despair at not 
 finding the road to the kingdom 
 which it felt was near at hand. 
 Since that day, we have become 
 friends, I have understood you and 
 I know that, in telling you to-day 
 what I suffered during our first 
 interview, I shall be revealing noth- 
 ing to your wondrous vision. 
 How your pity rose superior to 
 mine, when I instinctively turned 
 away my face wet with tears while 
 my lips formed trembling words 
 beneath your fingers I . . . 
 
 From the moment, therefore, 
 when I first set eyes on Helen 
 Keller, I was excited, anguish- 
 stricken, shuddering, tossed inces- 
 
-C26> 
 
 santly between enthusiasm and 
 horror, by turns astounded and re- 
 volted, incapable of estimating, 
 grasping or analysing my impres- 
 sions; my imagination was dis- 
 traught, my reason unbalanced, my 
 whole mind was in disorder; and 
 this first visit was wholly dominated 
 by the force and novelty of my sen- 
 sations. While Helen, with seren- 
 ity stamped upon her brow, but 
 yet curious about my life, spoke 
 and asked me a thousand questions, 
 gathering unwitting answers from 
 my mouth, it was I who was deaf 
 and dumb and blind in the pres- 
 ence of that being who seemed to 
 see me without seeing, to hear me 
 without hearing and to speak to 
 me from the heart of the unknown, 
 for my senses had suddenly become 
 useless and surged blindly against 
 faculties which I perceived with- 
 
 I 
 
<27> 
 
 out being able to understand 
 them. My brain formulated so- 
 lutions which it saw to be mad: 
 
 "While Helen is undoubtedly 
 deprived of our manner of hearing 
 and seeing, does she not possess a 
 sixth and a seventh sense whose 
 existence we do not suspect?" 
 
 I stood dismayed in the presence 
 of that power whose stupendous 
 mystery baffled me at every in- 
 stant and whose greatness I could 
 only measure by the excess of my 
 own bewilderment. . . . 
 
 The person who wouJd venture 
 to speak dogmatically of Helen 
 Keller after an hour's visit may 
 be taken to belong to the vast fam- 
 ily of the demented, who behold 
 without seeing, listen without hear- 
 ing and speak without understand- 
 ing. 
 
IV 
 
 When I saw the two women 
 come forward, I took a few steps 
 to meet them; and this brought us 
 to the hall. In America, as in 
 England, the intimacy of most 
 of the houses greets you on 
 the threshold. The cold entrance- 
 lobby, where we too often leave 
 with our furs or our sunshades 
 some of our inner warmth or light, 
 does not exist. Here, the hall con- 
 nects the parlour and the dining- 
 room without interrupting their 
 hospitable charm. There are 
 flowers and books upon a table; 
 deep easy-chairs are drawn up to 
 the blazing logs; and one is often 
 thick in conversation on the first 
 steps of the staircase. 
 
<29y 
 
 We are standing close together. 
 Helen has not left the arm of her 
 companion, whose husband, a 
 young American with a smile full 
 of sympathy and understanding, 
 has now joined the group. Helen 
 is tall and well-developed. She 
 has a finely-shaped head and well- 
 cut, regular features: the nose al- 
 most classically straight; the 
 rather full mouth nobly cui^ed; 
 the chin small but firm; the eyes 
 set in their deep sockets, alas, to 
 screen a too-penetrating glance; 
 and, dominating all, a lofty brow, a 
 high, square forehead that attracts 
 and holds the attention. Is it be- 
 cause the eyes are lacking that it 
 seems so much alive? Very clear, 
 very smooth, with only a tiny fur- 
 row grooved in the centre by effort 
 and study, it is indeed the sun of 
 that countenance, bathing it with 
 
its radiance. You feel that, if you 
 covered it, everything would grow 
 dim. Encircling her brow is a 
 black-velvet ribbon, its edges pret- 
 tily worked with very dainty steel 
 beads. Her chestnut hair, dressed 
 low down in the neck, is devoid of 
 wave or parting and drawn back 
 into a tight knot behind. At the 
 utmost, a softening touch may oc- 
 casionally be given by a lock which 
 has eluded the imprisoning ribbon 
 and strayed on her temples; and 
 yet this severe style suits her and, 
 when we study her profile and her 
 rather masculine throat, straight 
 and pure as a column, we are re- 
 minded of the Athenian youths on 
 some bas-relief. 
 
 Helen always holds herself very 
 erect, almost to stiffness, and her 
 dress is that of any other American 
 girl away from the big centres. 
 
The full, grey-cloth skirt and the 
 blouse of embroidered ninon sug- 
 gest a well-proportioned and 
 softly-rounded figure. She ges- 
 ticulates freely; and the nervous 
 vigour of her movements is full of 
 interest and significance. Her 
 arms have the force of tv^o strange 
 little people, the ready hands, now 
 insistent, now receptive, forming 
 the mysterious little heads, de- 
 voted to the service of an invisible 
 sovereign. While those hands 
 actually hear and speak, they also 
 appear to see, so quick are they 
 to grasp things or avoid them. 
 They are the outriders of Helen's 
 firm step and recoil instinctively 
 from the obstacle before coming 
 in contact with it. 
 
 I have mentioned Helen's step. 
 It alone is a revelation. All her 
 energy, her tenacity, her pluck, 
 
her superhuman courage, all her 
 power is there, in that firm and 
 rapid walk which seems to dart 
 forward under the constant gov- 
 ernance of an irresistible law. 
 You have but to observe the girl 
 for a moment to feel in her an im- 
 petuous force, captive passions that 
 at first knock impatiently at closed 
 doors and then escape by unsus- 
 pected outlets. Very few people 
 give so powerful an impression of 
 vitality. In a drawing-room full 
 of visitors, in a volatile atmosphere 
 of glances, smiles and chatter, 
 Helen, quivering as the forest 
 quivers in the night wind, change- 
 ful, impetuous, eloquent as nature 
 itself, or suddenly terrifying in her 
 adamantine immobility, Helen 
 would proclaim the victory of the 
 inner life and would stand there, 
 
in the midst of pleasure, like a 
 sublime and eternal interroga- 
 tion! . . . 
 
At moments of direct communi- 
 cation, that is to say, when Helen 
 gathers on my lips a scarce-opened 
 thought that seems to blossom in 
 the warmth of her intelligent hand, 
 her grave expression first denotes 
 attention; next a joyous convul- 
 sion of her whole body takes us by 
 surprise. It is a movement bril- 
 liant as a lightning-flash which tells 
 us that her darkness is suddenly 
 riven. Thus her erect and formal 
 bearing is constantly broken by 
 shivers which are caused by noth- 
 ing that is apparent to those who 
 watch her. To her, they corre- 
 spond with so many vibrations and 
 with a whole little world of sensa- 
 tions which we do Hot perceive. 
 
 34 
 
-{:35> 
 
 Those faint thrills and violent con- 
 vulsions, which make her start ex- 
 actly as though she had received 
 an electric shock, are the revelation 
 of a life that has its own laws and 
 its own conventions. 
 
 Her features retain no trace of 
 the terrible battles that must have 
 been waged within her at the time 
 of life's awakening. And yet how 
 she must have battered herself 
 against her prison-walls before ac- 
 cepting that life; with what rebel- 
 lious and what mad despair she 
 must at first have flung herself 
 upon the doors that would not 
 let her through! I feel her to 
 be ardent and passionate, full of 
 health and of impatience. This 
 woman whom I am observing 
 with all my powers and who 
 sometimes quivers under my 
 glance as though it reached her 
 
mind, this woman assuredly is not 
 one of the meek. Her face is 
 modelled by the cruel and exqui- 
 site fingers of an infinite sensibility ; 
 her nostrils seize and savour the 
 slightest breeze and, at such times, 
 tremble with a longing that sets 
 her face rippling like water brushed 
 by a bird's wing. 
 
 Her mouth, the idle servant of 
 the mind, the servant straying in 
 silence: more than any other is it 
 not devoted to the pleasure of 
 ready smiles, of sunshine and roses? 
 And do not her ever-flickering eye- 
 lids seem to droop over quivering 
 glances? Everything in her be- 
 trays perpetual alarms; but I feel 
 that she is armed and ready for the 
 fray. I see her, blind as she is, 
 sword in hand. Bravely she 
 fights, without flinching; she puri- 
 fies her dreams, without chasing 
 
-C37> 
 
 them away ; she stands her ground, 
 measures forces and wins. She 
 strikes back boldly at life as it 
 assails her; and, when beaten, 
 she is able in her secret soul to draw 
 victory out of her defeat. She 
 knows the triumph that belongs to 
 the vanquished. Sh^ has learnt 
 that, in the great balance of all- 
 pervading injustice, there is no 
 such thing as lasting sorrow. For, 
 while the palms and laurels weigh 
 down one scale, sorrow rises in the 
 other, rises in soUtude, thus pro- 
 claiming the one victory that can 
 crown its proud beauty. 
 
 I am not mistaken. It is a su- 
 perhuman energy that incessantly 
 brings Helen back to the essential 
 peace; and I tremble when I think 
 of that force which is ever going 
 from the night into the night, of 
 that force which wakes and falls 
 
-C38 3- 
 
 asleep, works, laughs and moves 
 in darkness. . . . 
 
 What celestial treasure is it that 
 each morning, in the recesses of a 
 prison-house, creates anew the 
 charm of dawn and sunlight? 
 
VI 
 
 We are sitting in the parlour; 
 and Mr. Macy's hand is now speak- 
 ing to Helen's. The girl bends 
 her head as though the better to 
 absorb the revealing element; she 
 smiles and answers with her nimble 
 fingers. Then her friend stands 
 up and moves away . , . and we 
 suddenly see Helen's silence! I 
 see it: it is tangible and so heavy 
 that it seems gradually to arrest all 
 conversation. I have lost the 
 power of speech. My thoughts 
 leave the bright room and I pass 
 through the same terrifying sensa- 
 tion which I experienced once be- 
 fore, when visiting a mine a thou- 
 sand feet below ground: I then 
 thought that the weight of the 
 
world was bearing upon my frail 
 shoulders; and it was as though I 
 could not find room to breathe in 
 the interminable gallery. I look 
 at Helen, immured upright, enig- 
 matic in her tomb. No, I cannot 
 imagine that her silence, which is 
 eternal, can be soft, peaceful and 
 sweet like ours, like that which we 
 seek and which we love because it 
 steeps us in unalloyed joy. Hers 
 seems to me to be of lead, similar 
 to that which is broken by the de- 
 cisive words or deeds that come to 
 inflict a mortal wound upon our 
 soul. And it reminds me also of 
 the most terrible of all silences, 
 that of the waiting which has out- 
 lasted hope. The air that sur- 
 roimds us at such times seems to 
 harden like plaster; and our feet 
 can no longer bear us, our hands 
 can no longer meet, our tears are 
 
dried and our heart stops beating. 
 An icy breath is upon us; and we 
 feel that, when death comes, it must 
 come like this. 
 
 I should like to speak, so as to 
 cease thinking; I should like to 
 make a movement : why is it impos- 
 sible? I suffer, I choke on the 
 brink of the darkness where I feel 
 that She breathes. She dwells 
 in a solitude where my imagina- 
 tion loses itself. Where is she? 
 Where is she? The gulf that 
 opens before me is too deep; my 
 sensations, my thoughts, my senti- 
 ments roll into it without the least 
 echo reaching my ears. I am as 
 one who throws stones into a well 
 to sound its depth and who, hear- 
 ing no sound, measures infinity by 
 the answering silence. Thus I 
 gauge the force of the impression 
 made upon me by the sudden 
 
eclipse of my life. . • . Still, I 
 must flee from my too vivid emo- 
 tions, I must escape from Helen's 
 silence. I try to turn away from 
 it, but it is everywhere: was it not 
 this silence that broke up the con- 
 versation and separated each one 
 of us? My friend stands leaning 
 against the chimney-piece; she 
 holds out first one small foot 
 and then the other to the flames. 
 Mrs. Macy is looking for a book; 
 and Mr. Macy is at the window 
 in the next room, gazing out 
 upon the wintry landscape. No, 
 it is not the silence that has 
 divided them, for Mr. Macy and 
 his wife know the infinite loneli- 
 ness of their dear sister; as for 
 my companion, that daring little 
 Amazon is very seldom seized 
 with panic. No, they have moved 
 away so that I may converse 
 
with Helen by myself. I have but 
 to take her hand: I will place it 
 softly to my mouth; Helen will 
 understand me, will answer me; 
 and slowly, reverently I shall ap- 
 proach her soul and break her si- 
 lence. , . . But, if it appears to me 
 unsurmountable, that is because the 
 mighty rush of my own life comes 
 breaking against it like a wave, 
 because I arrive on the threshold 
 of the sanctuary a prey to vain agi- 
 tations, because the noise of the 
 world is still ringing wildly in the 
 caverns of my brain and because 
 my face, my hands, my hair and 
 the very folds of my dress are still 
 spangled with all the unknown 
 glances. . . . 
 
 In the inevitable oneness of your 
 soul, Helen, you do not know the 
 exaltation that arises from self-de- 
 tachment. It exists in life; but on 
 
the stage it is all-powerful : you do 
 not know what a perturbing thing 
 it is to feel sorrow, joy and love, 
 to outstretch our arms, to measure 
 our steps, to smile or weep, all in 
 the little space formed by another's 
 thoughts. In a counterfeit ray of 
 moonlight, through words learnt 
 by rote and sentiments deliberately 
 assumed, we pour out our very 
 souls, for truth alone can soften 
 and subdue. . . . 
 
 That is why, on entering your 
 house, I was at once afraid of my 
 overwrought nerves, of my un- 
 bridled feelings. It is I, in my 
 palace with the thousand open 
 doors, I who tremble at receiving 
 you. My ears, Helen, are filled 
 with wondrous harmonies, my eyes 
 are heavy with fair visions and my 
 lips distil, together with the flowers 
 of gladness, the divine fictions of 
 
the poets. Under the limpid skies 
 of your young country, my fondly- 
 pampered emotion is incessantly in 
 advance of my reason. I have 
 quitted solitude, for a time, quitted 
 the temple whither we return 
 nightly to lay at the feet of our 
 gods the treasures amassed 
 throughout the day. Let me col- 
 lect myself, dear Helen; for my 
 eyes, ears and lips are the willing 
 victims of life. 
 
 I leant my head on the blind 
 girl's shoulder. She gave a shiver, 
 slowly clasped her hands and 
 pressed them to my heart. I felt 
 that her breath was coming more 
 quickly; I looked at her: she was 
 pale and turned her face towards 
 me. I imagined that she saw me 
 at that moment, for a tear softened 
 her eyes. Can one say that eyes 
 are dead when there still shines 
 
^46> 
 
 from them an expression so elo- 
 quently alive? 
 
 In a very low tone, she articu- 
 lated: 
 
 "I have found your heart." 
 Then, after a long silence, nerv- 
 ously, as though obeying the im- 
 pulse of an admirable discipline, 
 she raised her head proudly, tried 
 to smile and turned full to the sun, 1 
 
 which came and played in her 
 glazed pupils. J 
 
VII 
 
 Helen wishes to show me her 
 study, drags me away posthaste. 
 
 "Don't be astonished," says Mrs. 
 Macy, laughing. ''Helen cannot 
 walk slowly. I no longer try to 
 keep up with her in the country: 
 she used to tire me too much. 
 Now, she goes out with my hus- 
 band ; and they take long walks to- 
 gether in the morning." 
 *'Does she get up early?" 
 "She is always the first," replies 
 Mrs. Macy. "She is up at six 
 o'clock, dresses and does her hair 
 by herself; and she even likes do- 
 ing her own room. She must al- 
 ways be active. Do you see that 
 wire," she asked, going to a win- 
 dow, "stretched from tree to tree 
 
 47 
 
all round the grounds? That is to 
 let Helen run about freely without 
 fear of hurting herself. When she 
 wants exercise, she takes hold of 
 the wire and scampers along it, in 
 wind, rain or snow, like a regular 
 boy." 
 
 Full of curiosity, I go on asking 
 questions. Mr. Macy answers 
 them all; and I learn that every 
 day, after the morning walk in the 
 country, Helen comes back to 
 work. She is at present writing an 
 essay on the submerged tenth, for 
 her heart aches over the sufferings 
 of the poor. She takes a keen in- 
 terest in politics ; Mrs. Macy inter- 
 prets the newspaper to her; and 
 the afternoons are spent quietly in 
 reading, working and thinking. 
 Helen is fond of every kind of 
 sport: she boats, rides and loves 
 bicycling tandem, for the speed of 
 
-C 49 > 
 
 it intoxicates her and puts her in 
 the highest spirits. She loves her 
 dogs ; and they love her and accom- 
 pany her on all her expeditions. 
 She receives so many letters, from 
 all over the world, that she is unable 
 to reply to any but those which in- 
 terest her specially. Often young 
 girls come out from Boston to visit 
 her: she likes their gaiety. She 
 can embroider, knit and do every 
 sort of needlework; but more seri- 
 ous occupations attract her fine in- 
 teUigence. Sometimes, as a relaxa- 
 tion from the work of the day, she 
 plays cards or chess in the evening. 
 They show me the ingenious chess- 
 board contrived for her use and the 
 cards which she names to me one 
 by one, handling them with such 
 dexterity that I have hardly time 
 to perceive the little raised signs 
 with which they are marked. 
 
We are now in the study. This 
 is Helen's kingdom. Again, 
 floods of light, more light than any- 
 where else, and a silence that seems 
 to me to be increased by that host 
 of white books which speak only to 
 her fingers. On the table in the 
 middle of the room stands a type- 
 writer specially constructed for the 
 blind girl's use; on the wall, I see 
 a medallion of Homer hung low 
 enough for her easily to reach and 
 touch it; and I remember the mov- 
 ing lines which she devotes to it in 
 her Story of my Life: 
 
 "How well I know each line in that 
 majestic brow: tracks of life and bitter 
 evidences of struggle and sorrow; those 
 sightless eyes seeking, even in the cold 
 plaster, for the light and the blue skies of 
 his beloved Hellas, but seeking in vain.** 
 
 And she quotes these lines of the 
 great poet whom she loves : 
 
"O dark^ dark, dark, amid the blaze 
 
 of noon, 
 Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 
 Without all hope of day !" 
 
 Behind the chair in which she 
 sits is a wide bow-window with 
 shelves on which pots of flowers are 
 arranged as in a conservatory. On 
 her right, another window brings 
 her the first rays of the morning. 
 Everything is bright, wholesome 
 and happy-looking, with no vain 
 luxury. It is good to be here and 
 to inhale real life, stripped of all 
 its useless ornaments. Flowers, 
 light and books make Helen's 
 kingdom. 
 
 I examine the big volumes stand- 
 ing on shelves along the two main 
 walls of the room. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Macy explains that the blind girl 
 reads from embossed characters 
 and from braille, which has sev- 
 
eral variations. The ordinary em- 
 bossed book is printed in roman 
 type, but the characters, which are 
 very simply designed, are square 
 and sharply angular; the small let- 
 ters are nearly a fifth of an inch 
 high ; and they are raised above the 
 page to about the thickness of a 
 thumb-nail. The size of the books 
 is similar to that of a volume of an 
 encyclopsedia. I take up one and 
 am surprised at its lightness, which 
 is due to the fact that, as the char- 
 acters in relief prevent the sheets 
 from lying quite flat, the number 
 of pages in a volume is bound to be 
 small. There are not many books 
 of this kind, for they are very ex- 
 pensive to produce; but Helen's 
 friends have had everything that 
 was likely to interest her specially 
 set up; and I judge the extent of 
 her culture from the titles which 
 
Mrs. Macy reads out to me. These 
 include all the great philosophers, 
 poets and dramatists: Shake- 
 speare, Horace, ^schylus, Virgil, 
 Cicero, Plato, Pascal. She reads 
 in their own language the Greeks 
 and the Romans, as well as Goethe, 
 Schiller and Heine. 
 
 A catholic taste has presided 
 over Helen's choice. She is thor- 
 oughly versed in French literature 
 and fondly quotes to me the most 
 varied thoughts of Maeterlinck. 
 She has learnt pages of The Blue 
 Bird by heart, for the pleasure of 
 constantly brightening her solitude 
 with them. She recites them to 
 me in a shadowy voice which she 
 seems to draw from her heart it- 
 self; then she gives me for Maeter- 
 linck a copy of her latest work, 
 The World I live In, and, in a 
 firm hand, inscribes it with some 
 
lines spoken by the Fairy in The 
 Blue Bird: 
 
 "All stones are alike, all stones are 
 precious, but man sees only a few of 
 them." 
 
 "Men are to be pitied," adds 
 Helen. "They do not know how 
 to be happy." 
 
 And, after a pause : 
 
 "I am sorry for men," she sighs. 
 
VIII 
 
 We are in Helen's bedroom, on 
 the first floor, a very cheerful, very 
 tidy, white-walled room. The bed 
 faces the window, which opens on a 
 large balcony overlooking the gar- 
 den. I am told that Helen loves 
 to rest her elbows on the rail and 
 turn her eyes towards the familiar 
 landscape. She goes straight to 
 the balcony now; and, as she 
 passes from the shadow to the sun- 
 shine, she holds out both hands to 
 the light and laughs as she feels the 
 hot rays upon her face. 
 
 "She adores the sim," says Mr. 
 Macy. *'She always receives it as 
 an unexpected favour." 
 
 Standing there, heedless of the 
 icy air, which she inhales raptur- 
 
 S5 
 
-{:56> 
 
 ously, Helen cries, like a happy 
 child: 
 
 "The sun! . . . The sun!'' 
 
 How primitive she seems to me 
 at this moment! She is indeed 
 wholly absorbed in a material satis- 
 faction: she is one with the earth, 
 the trees, the plants, with all the 
 animal life which she loves and 
 understands with a deeper insight 
 than we. 
 
 Are we not often limited by our 
 senses? 
 
 "When we see everything, we 
 see nothing," wrote that wonder- 
 ful woman, Laurent Evrard. 
 
 In front of us, a great tree, 
 stripped by the hand of winter, 
 stands out against the cold sky. 
 Its gnarled roots raise the snow 
 like hands folded under a white 
 sheet; and its shadow lying stark 
 upon the ground is the elegy of its 
 
spring. This tree calls up a pic- 
 ture of human misery. Those 
 over-zealous slaves, my eyes, have 
 seen much besides the tree ; and, by 
 a combination of images evolved in 
 my brain, I am at last carried thou- 
 sands of miles from what I look 
 upon. ^Vhat does Helen see? 
 Nothing and everything. Undis- 
 tracted by any object, she holds 
 communion with space and light 
 and with the garden, which has 
 yielded all its secrets to her. 
 Many a time she has encircled the 
 tree with her arms; she has sur- 
 prised its whispering to the wind; 
 she has considered its leaves; she 
 has felt it groaning against her 
 heart; she has had the height and 
 the shape of its branches explained 
 to her; and she has breathed the 
 perfume of its bark at all hours of 
 the day. If she is now thinking 
 
•{;58:)- 
 
 of the great tree, she sees it better 
 than we do, for all her energies 
 are occupied in recreating it in the 
 light of her knowledge. 
 
 Our glancq has barely alighted 
 before our attention is far away; 
 and sometimes even our eyes rest 
 on an object without summoning 
 our intelhgence. Our laws are 
 other; and this is fortunate, for our 
 too-busy senses would tyrannise 
 over us, if habit did not make them, 
 to a certain extent, act indepen- 
 dently of us. 
 
 Very often, our eyes and ears 
 amuse themselves like children un- 
 der the closer contemplation of a 
 spirit that is absorbed in itself, 
 hearkening only to its own har- 
 monies and pursuing its own life, 
 one that obliterates shapes and ban- 
 ishes sounds ; one that is steeped in 
 an eternal radiance; one that, I 
 
doubt not, taught a Helen Keller 
 how to smile, thus by a secret 
 glimmer revealing its divine pres- 
 ence. 
 
IX 
 
 It's lunch-time," says Mrs. Macy. 
 "You must stay and lunch with 
 us." 
 
 Such an atmosphere of simplic- 
 ity pervades this house that it 
 seems quite natural to me to form 
 part of this gracious and charming 
 household as long as possible ; and, 
 when we go back to the parlour, 
 preceded by Helen's vigorous 
 step, I find it difficult to believe 
 that I am only setting foot in it 
 for the second time. One might 
 live at Wrentham without making 
 any change in the house. In the 
 hospitable depths of just such Eng- 
 lish easy-chairs, we read our fa- 
 vourite books ; the low window-seats 
 are a temptation to day-dreams; 
 
 60 
 
and it is the peace which we cher- 
 ish that lies over all these things 
 which we ourselves might have 
 chosen. Those who live here have 
 succeeded, by the force of their in- 
 dividual life, in making their home 
 what it always should be, but so 
 seldom is, a haven: a haven not 
 only against the cold and rain, but 
 against stealthier foes, enemies 
 more difBcult to overcome. Walls 
 that ward off intruders, doors that 
 shut out the folly and spite of the 
 world, a roof that shelters peace 
 and happiness. . . . 
 
 There are two forces in this 
 house that keep watch like benevo- 
 lent goddesses: Anne Sullivan's 
 intelligence and her goodness. To 
 them Helen owes her life; it is 
 they that created her anew. Im- 
 prisoned in silence, isolated from 
 the world, she was a little animal, 
 
wild and insentient, struggling in 
 the darkness. Anne's heart and 
 brain came to set her free; and 
 Helen cannot do without them 
 now. The two forces that gave her 
 life ensure her present quiet con- 
 tent. Th^ thought fills me with 
 admiration and explains the sense 
 of well-being that steals over me. 
 With us, intelligence and good- 
 ness blossom in the current of in- 
 difference that bears good and 
 evil, sorrow and joy drifting on 
 its waters. These beautiful flowers 
 are ours to love, to gather, to 
 deck our lives with incessantly; 
 but, whereas to us they are an ac- 
 tual luxury, the fragrance and the 
 glory of our lot, to Helen they are 
 a necessity, her daily bread. To 
 be of use to her, they had to be- 
 come incarnate in a human being, 
 
GEORGETTE LEBLANC 
 
to assume a mortal shape and a 
 siiperhimian soul and will. 
 
 I see them, those two guardians 
 of the sacred prison into which they 
 unwearyingly pour daylight, space 
 and joy. I breathe them as one 
 breathes the incense in a church and 
 I find the same quietude; but the 
 fabric is a human soul whose mat- 
 ter is made of love and spiritual 
 light. Except for Anne Sullivan's 
 intelligence and goodness, Helen 
 would still be what she was at first, 
 a living nullity. 
 
 What a superb lesson! Helen 
 is not the work of life multiply- 
 ing itself blindly: she is the crea- 
 tion of a consciousness, the off- 
 spring of an intelligence. What 
 a rebuke to our discouragement 
 and impatience! How great a 
 monimient we raise by merely lay- 
 
ing one stone every day; but how 
 humble we must be in the presence 
 of the task! 
 
 The parlour clock strikes one. 
 I consult my charming guide with 
 a glance; and her smile grants me 
 a few moments longer. This is 
 the time at which lunch is served 
 every day. Helen's admirable 
 companion has simplified actions 
 and habits as much as possible. A 
 tray is brought with tea and coffee, 
 sandwiches and cakes, thus doing 
 away with one of the principal 
 meals, those mechanical formalities 
 which interrupt the freedom of 
 Helen's existence so unpleasantly. 
 Mrs. Macy at once sets Helen's 
 favourite delicacies before her and, 
 with fond solicitude, sugars her tea, 
 pours in the cream and places the 
 cup and tea-spoon in her hands. 
 
 I like this noble servitude which 
 
-C65> 
 
 has not sought to make Helen tri- 
 umph over the insignificant things 
 of life. No doubt, she can help 
 herself when necessary and when 
 she pleases; but why not save her 
 the trouble? Why constrain her 
 to spend a precious force to no pur- 
 pose? When the brain cannot be 
 obeyed instantaneously, when iso- 
 lation has divorced the thought 
 from the gesture, why bring it 
 painfully back? 
 
 When Mrs. Macy placed the 
 cup of tea in Helen's hands, Helen 
 thanked her with a smile; and at 
 that moment I received a vision of 
 the wonderful companionship that 
 unites the two women. With 
 what serene superiority Helen ac- 
 cepts to be "the inferior" in daily 
 life! Indeed, the blind girl may 
 well put out her hands when she is 
 hungry and chng to her friend's 
 
arm when she is tired. She may 
 well ask to be assisted in her weak- 
 ness, she who from the depths of 
 her Imninous darkness extends 
 over all those who surround her the 
 greatest, the most beautiful, the 
 most infinite protection! Is she 
 not there, in the house, as a safe- 
 guard of beautiful living? She is 
 protected, it is true; but see how 
 she herself protects others! Can 
 we doubt the quality of the bonds 
 which unite that admirable trio 
 at Wrentham? To the husband 
 and wife, Helen's presence has 
 the sweetness of a starry night. 
 She is an inspiration and an en- 
 couragement to those around her 
 and draws out the best that lies 
 hidden in them. By the very 
 force of her helplessness she en- 
 treats conscientiousness, she en- 
 joins generosity; her virtue calls 
 
< 67 > 
 
 for equal virtue; hei: energy com- 
 mands courage. She is the per- 
 manent mystery amid the ordinary 
 course of life. What lips, with 
 that hand upon them, could have 
 the power to utter baseness? 
 What fingers would dare to place 
 the weight of an unjust word on 
 that frail palm so innocently of- 
 fered? 
 
 It seems to me that lies must 
 needs be cast aside on the threshold 
 of her night, like useless garments. 
 Before this life consecrated wholly 
 to thought, that which is illusory 
 must shrivel up, that which is not 
 strong must abandon hope, that 
 which is not enduring can find no 
 peace. Habit and time them- 
 selves are vanquished at Wren- 
 tham: how could they perform 
 their work of destruction, their 
 gnawing, levelling and severing? 
 
-C68> 
 
 The wretched little stream of daily 
 needs has not been and never will 
 be able to dissolve the indispen- 
 sable and sublime alliance between 
 Helen and Anne. Can the pris- 
 oner grow accustomed to the ray 
 of light that finds its way into his 
 cell day after day? Should a 
 friend succeed in communicating 
 with him, can he ever receive with- 
 out emotion the words of affection 
 that speak to his heart deep down 
 in the eternal silence? • . . 
 
X 
 
 OUDDENLY, I hear Helen's laugh, 
 that strange, lost laugh, that far- 
 away, strident laugh which to 
 my unaccustomed ears sounds like 
 a joy in anguish. Mr. Macy 
 handed her a cake; she imagined 
 that she was taking it, but it fell 
 into her lap; and, very quickly, as 
 though she wished to save us from 
 a painful thought, she laughed. 
 
 I look at Mr. Macy, who smiles 
 as he answers : 
 
 "It's always like that, whenever 
 she meets with a mishap. If she 
 knocks herself, or breaks some- 
 thing, or does anything clumsy, she 
 makes fim of herself. And then 
 she is so cheerful ; she is so fond of 
 life: you know, she would like to 
 
-C70> 
 
 live a thousand years. She loves 
 sports and games and, above all, 
 study; and, would you believe it, 
 she has also a feeling for art." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" his wife chimes in, al- 
 ways eager to explain the dear 
 prodigy. "Indeed, she sometimes 
 wonders if the hand is not more 
 sensitive to the beauties of sculp- 
 ture than the eye!" 
 
 And I remember those words of 
 Helen's in The Story of my Life: 
 
 "I should think the wonderful rhyth- 
 mical flow of lines and curves could be 
 more subtly felt than seen. Be this as it 
 may, I know that I feel the heart-throbs 
 of the ancient Greeks in their marble gods 
 and goddesses/* 
 
 Anne Sulhvan continues her wel- 
 come information : 
 
 "She is very fond of the theatre 
 too, I explain the piece to her 
 during the performance and she 
 
^71> 
 
 thinks that she is hving amid the 
 events on the stage; she is player 
 and spectator in one. She asked 
 to meet Irving and Ellen Terry; 
 she touched their faces and has re- 
 tained an mif orgettable impression 
 of them." 
 
 Speaking of Joseph Jefferson, 
 who was playing Kip van Winkle 
 in New York at the time when 
 Helen was still at school, Mrs. 
 Macy says: 
 
 "Helen had often read the story, 
 but she never felt the charm of it 
 as she did in the play. The actor's 
 beautiful, pathetic representation 
 quite carried her away with delight. 
 She has a picture of old Rip in her 
 fingers which they will never lose." 
 
 Evidently, Helen has a finger 
 memorj^ as we have an ocular and 
 aural memory. Anne Sullivan 
 tells me that she and her pupil re- 
 
member "in their fingers" what 
 they have said at different times; 
 and I learn that, when Helen reads 
 a passage which interests her par- 
 ticularly, she repeats it on the fin- 
 gers of her right hand so as to fix 
 it in her brain. Sometimes even 
 this gesture becomes unconscious; 
 and, when she strolls in the garden, 
 they see her making quick, contin- 
 ual movements, as though, in spite 
 of herself, her vigorous mind felt a 
 need to incarnate itself in her val- 
 iant hands. 
 
 But the pleasure which she takes 
 in the theatre surprises and amazes 
 us. By what strange intuition can 
 Helen feel the charm of a public 
 performance? Alone in her in- 
 finite darkness, seeing nothing and 
 hearing nothing, while her compan- 
 ion tells her what is happening, 
 eould she not imagine herself at the 
 
theatre when she is in the cahn of 
 her own room? No and again no; 
 and that is where this astonishing 
 being asserts her connection with a 
 world of which we have no cogni- 
 sance. The vibrations strike her, 
 the waves of sound caress her, the 
 mingled perfmnes envelop her, she 
 breathes the hot vaporous air. 
 The heavily-charged atmosphere 
 peculiar to a playhouse excites and 
 stimulates her. The unknown 
 agencies that inform her pass to 
 and fro between her and the crowd, 
 filling voids and satisfying her de- 
 vouring curiosity. Her all-power- 
 ful mind catches fire; and one can 
 imagine that solitary and passion- 
 ate soul gathering all the wander- 
 ing and inactive forces floating 
 over the audience who, like chil- 
 dren, watch the pictures and follow 
 the events enacted on the stage. 
 
Helen was twelve years old when 
 Miss Sullivan first took her to the 
 theatre. It was at Boston, where 
 Elsie Leslie, the child-actress, was 
 playing the chief part in a piece 
 entitled The Prince and the 
 Pauper, Helen appears to have 
 experienced ineffaceable emotions, 
 at once glad and melancholy. We 
 must really admire the courage of 
 the teacher who subjected the lit- 
 tle blind, deaf and dumb girl to so 
 ciTiel a test, bringing her into di- 
 rect contact with prohibited joys 
 and exposing her to the worst suf- 
 ferings. And even more do we ad- 
 mire her who came victorious out 
 of every struggle, having so to 
 speak built upon her incomplete 
 life a new life composed wholly of 
 divination, intelligence and will- 
 power. . . . 
 
XI 
 
 Another thing proved to me 
 how greatly Helen's sensibility 
 differs from ours. The rush and 
 bustle of towns wearies her; and 
 she spoke to me of her love for the 
 country : 
 
 "People seem surprised at this 
 preference," she said, dragging 
 from her throat the reluctant syl- 
 lables that come forth one by one 
 in imperfect sounds. Then, with 
 her favourite gesture, an abrupt 
 movement that lifts her head and 
 imparts a proud motion to her 
 whole bust, she continued : 
 
 "Yes, people who think that all 
 sensations reach us through the eye 
 and the ear have expressed surprise 
 that I should notice any diiFerence, 
 
 75 
 
<7e> 
 
 except possibly the absence of 
 pavements, between walking in city 
 streets and in country roads. 
 They forget that my whole body is 
 alive to the conditions about me. 
 The rumble and roar of the city 
 smite the nerves of my face; and I 
 feel the ceaseless tramp of an un- 
 seen multitude; and the dissonant 
 tumult frets my spirit. The grind- 
 ing of heavy waggons on hard 
 pavements and the monotonous 
 clangour of machinery are all the 
 more torturing to one's nerves if 
 one's attention is not diverted by 
 the panorama that is always pres- 
 ent in the noisy streets to people 
 who can see." 
 
 And Helen found pleasure in de- 
 scribing to me at length the joys 
 which she derives from the sweet 
 serenity of nature, her infinite love 
 for flowers and especially for the 
 
trees, which she looks upon as 
 friends, her hoating-trips, her ex- 
 cursions into the mountains, her 
 walks in the fields and meadows. 
 And, in spite of her difficulty with 
 her speech, which sometimes needed 
 the help of a fraternal hand to lib- 
 erate its lyric vehemence, I seemed 
 to perceive through her shrill rhap- 
 sodies the special fragrance and the 
 mysterious beauty which belong in 
 turns to morning, to twilight and 
 to night, which belong, in short, to 
 the hour that secretly enshrouds 
 each memory deep at the bottom of 
 our soul. Thanks to her marvel- 
 lous imagination, I saw all that she 
 had not seen, I heard all that she 
 had not heard, I enjoyed all the 
 pleasures that kept her palpitating 
 before me with ardour and delight. 
 Then, gradually taking courage, 
 I ventured to ask her the question 
 
-C78> 
 
 which all those who try to explain 
 the miracle of her intelligence ask 
 themselves: had the normal infant 
 that she was for the first nineteen 
 months of her life unconsciously be- 
 queathed to her a legacy of shapes 
 and lines and colours? With her 
 perfect and transparent honesty, 
 Helen hesitated for a second and 
 then reminded me of a paragraph 
 in her book which is evidence of her 
 uneasiness on this point and which 
 solves the problem in these words: 
 
 "It seems to me that there is in each of 
 us a capacity to comprehend the impres- 
 sions and emotions which have been ex- 
 perienced by mankind from the beginning. 
 Each individual has a subconscious memory 
 of the green earth and murmuring waters; 
 and blindness and deafness cannot rob him 
 of this gift from past generations. This 
 inherited capacity is a sort of sixth sense, 
 a soul-sense which sees, hears, feels, all in 
 one/' 
 
-C79> 
 
 Helen also spoke to me of her 
 games, of her dogs and of her fond- 
 ness for little children; and, in do- 
 ing so, she used a charming phrase : 
 
 '*I wish you knew," she was say- 
 ing, "how prettily children spell 
 into one's hand. They are the first 
 blossom of humanity; and their 
 tiny fingers are as it were the wild 
 flowers of conversation" 
 
 She also said : 
 
 "It is delicious to feel one's palm 
 tickled by a hahy's silky laughter '^ 
 
 And, when I asked her for fur- 
 ther explanations, she began with! 
 these words : 
 
 "Try to understand me. You 
 will find that no sound, however 
 beautiful, has the eloquence of si- 
 lence and that we learn more by 
 touch than by looking. Is there 
 not something divine in the power 
 of the human hand? They tell 
 
me that the glance of a loved one 
 makes you quiver at a distance; 
 but there is no distance in the touch 
 of a cherished hand," 
 
 And she concluded by exclaim- 
 ing: 
 
 "You are convinced now and 
 you no longer think that I am shut 
 out from the beauties of the phys- 
 ical world? One finds marvels 
 everywhere, even in darkness and 
 silence; and, however defective my 
 state may be, I know how to be 
 happy in it." 
 
 It is with this just and laudable 
 pride that Helen is constantly as- 
 serting the charms of her kingdom. 
 Her dignity is like a vigilant 
 watcher on the threshold of her 
 night. We feel that she never dal- 
 lies with vain melancholy; and, if 
 we claim the right to enter the pre- 
 cincts of her prison-house, she or- 
 
ders us to study it without pity or 
 fear and with the noble joy which 
 the mere wish for knowledge im- 
 parts to the heart. 
 
 Helen had been speaking with 
 her lips for a long time, while hold- 
 ing her friend's hand and pressing 
 it nervously to the rhythm of her 
 sentences. She did not seem tired ; 
 and, whenever the strain was ap- 
 parent, her bright smile was always 
 there to soften an impression that 
 might otherwise have been painful ; 
 but I felt relieved each time that 
 Mrs, Macy's fingers met her 
 thought half way. How could I 
 accustom myself to that barbarous 
 voice repeating words, dictated by 
 the most exquisite of souls, 
 mechanically and with no feeling 
 for their beauty? For everything 
 is disconnected in this curious 
 woman. Her means of expreg- 
 
sion, created by her will, are scat- 
 tered materials which her intelli- 
 gence is continually striving to 
 bring together and which, for that 
 very reason, make the blundering 
 of a body that is not adapted to our 
 conditions of life appear still 
 stranger. Her hands, which open 
 their palms to hear; her gestures, 
 which are strangers; her voice, 
 which awakens no echo within her; 
 her words, which she patiently es- 
 says to carve out of silence: all 
 these are astounding and bewilder- 
 ing. And the fairy-play begins 
 with the spectacle of her imagina- 
 tion, the imagination of a poet, 
 springing up, bursting into full 
 magnificence and falling back upon 
 its own source like a fountain play- 
 ing in the sunshine and flooding the 
 cold stone basin with its wealth of 
 pearls. 
 
XII 
 
 JVIeanwhile, it was growing 
 late; and I thought of the time, 
 glad as I would have been to for- 
 get it. The car, which had been 
 put up a short distance away, had 
 stolen silently across the thick snow 
 and was now throbbing under the 
 windows. The dull sound pro- 
 duced no quiver in the air and 
 passed unperceived by Helen ; but, 
 when my companion rose suddenly 
 to give an order to the driver, the 
 blind girl started and turned her 
 head in th^ direction of the depart- 
 ing footsteps whose vibrations on 
 the waxed floor had informed her 
 of the movement. She guessed at 
 once and stretched towards me 
 hands full of ardent entreaty; and 
 
 83 
 
then, impatient to express what was 
 in her mind, she feverishly spelt 
 out the syllables in the palm which 
 her teacher held out to her. 
 
 *'She does not wish you to go," 
 said Anne Sullivan, ''without leav- 
 ing some memory behind you. 
 She wants you to sing her some- 
 thing." 
 
 I stood dumbfounded, thinking 
 that I must have misunderstood; 
 but Miss Sullivan explained and, 
 following her instruction, I went 
 up close to Helen, who placed her 
 left hand very lightly on my mouth. 
 In my emotion and bewilderment, 
 I did not know what farewell song 
 to fix upon. My memory was Uke 
 an ant-hill into which something 
 has been suddenly thrown, sending 
 a whole little world helter-skelter; 
 my mind sought in vain for an air, 
 a melody, a song of some kind; and 
 
I was more surprised than Helen 
 when my voice rose in the silence 
 and sobbed out Maeterlinck's la- 
 ment: 
 
 " *Et^ s*il revenait un jour, que faut-il 
 
 lui dire?* 
 *Dites-lui qu'on I'attendit jusqu'a s*en 
 
 mourir/ " 
 
 At that moment, Helen, who had 
 bowed her head under the weight 
 of an overpowering attention, be- 
 gan to lift up her right hand and 
 her forefinger seemed to trace in 
 space the exact shape of the line of 
 music. Faithfully her gesture 
 sank with the low notes and as- 
 cended in a brief flight when a 
 higher note intervened. At the 
 same time, her lips studiously 
 formed each word that I pro- 
 nounced. 
 
 My emotion indeed was scarcely 
 in keeping with my singing. I 
 
was all wrapped up in the strange 
 experience which set my heart beat- 
 ing; and I remembered that Helen 
 had written in one of her remark- 
 able essays : 
 
 "Every atom of my body is a vibro- 
 scope.'* 
 
 So she went on, without falter- 
 ing or blundering, to the last verse: 
 
 " *Dites-lui que j 'ai souri, de peur 
 qu'il ne pleure/ '* 
 
 Then, all anguish-stricken and 
 panting, Helen remained fixed in 
 a sort of inward contemplation 
 whose gravity held all speech and 
 movement suspended, after which 
 her trembling hands passed, with 
 slow precision, over my face, neck 
 and hair, 
 
 "She wants to remember you 
 well," whispered Mrs. Macy. 
 
And, while Helen's fingers were 
 learning me hy hearty I felt that 
 each of their touches was removing 
 a shadow and gradually revealing 
 my features to the light of her 
 mind. 
 
 More touching than words or 
 kisses, a wind from the unknown 
 filled the sails of that mysterious 
 farewell. I shall never forget it. 
 The blind woman's actions were at 
 once a blessing and a prayer. 
 Like a thirsty soil, her darkness ab- 
 sorbed my spirit and the mantle of 
 her sacred silence enveloped my 
 life in an infinite protection. It 
 was more eloquent than the tend- 
 erest solicitude. It manifested to 
 us, through the anguish of a sepa- 
 ration, the deep significance of a 
 meeting which had taken place be- 
 yond ourselves, almost unknown to 
 us, and which was now sinking 
 
-ess:}. 
 
 regretfully into our conscious- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 I kissed both her dear compan- 
 ions; and my heart was wrung as 
 though habit, that powerful link, 
 had long united us. On the white 
 piazza, in the cold landscape, I 
 turned round for the last time. 
 The winter sun was already red 
 and lit up, as though they were so 
 many sheets of metal, the windows 
 whose bareness had struck me on 
 my arrival ; but I was no longer as- 
 tonished that Helen's home was like 
 a glass-house bathed in light: I 
 knew now that the rarest of human 
 plants blossomed there in its pride. 
 
 The blind girl stood erect against 
 the glass door. Her hands were 
 folded; and her white face glowed 
 with passionate earnestness. 
 
PART II 
 
When I left Wrentham, I 
 thought that I should never go 
 back to it ; but on the day after my 
 visit I had the opportunity of pro- 
 longing my stay in America and I 
 welcomed it joyfully and was soon 
 making my way once more to the 
 white cottage through the same si- 
 lent country clad in its luminous 
 mantle. 
 
 Helen believes that I sailed yes- 
 terday ; and I have not told her that 
 I am coming. Will she recognise 
 me at once? The experiment in- 
 terests me, while another sentiment, 
 deeper and more poignant, gives 
 fresh zest to my curiosity. In the 
 face of that personality, so vigor- 
 ous and so sane, in the presence of 
 
 91 
 
<^2^ 
 
 that bright and beautiful intelli- 
 gence, the problem was now in- 
 verted: I no longer care about be- 
 ing understood, I wish to under- 
 stand! I wish to find the solution 
 to the sublime riddle which she pre- 
 sents. For, though Helen was 
 born defective, she has, thanks to 
 her pluck and her strength, be- 
 come merely "different." She 
 had to create her own relations 
 with the universe; she adapted her- 
 self to it in a fashion other than 
 ours; and she moves in a world 
 peculiar to herself. 
 
 But how it irritates me to think 
 of the moral short-sightedness that 
 prevents us from quite naturally 
 admitting human conditions that 
 happen to deviate from our ownl 
 While in the heroic girl's presence, 
 I constantly felt as if I was losing 
 my reason. During the hours that 
 
-C93> 
 
 followed on our meeting, my en- 
 thusiasm found no outlet save in 
 tears; and even this time, despite 
 my convictions, despite the hope 
 which filled me with gladness and 
 whose justification I was coming 
 to her to find, I none the less felt 
 an invincible terror throbbing be- 
 neath my joy. • . • 
 
II 
 
 llELEN was at work. We had 
 hushed our footsteps; there was 
 nothing to warn her. Mr. Macy 
 softly opened the study-door; and 
 the three of us stood on the thresh- 
 old, happy to see each other again, 
 lowering our voices instinctively as 
 we talked and laughed, though her 
 profound isolation protected her 
 better than our discretion. Helen 
 was at work and nothing could 
 reach her ; she was wholly wrapped 
 up in her thoughts, which ranged 
 through continents. Never had I 
 seen a more absolute picture of in- 
 tellectual activity. 
 
 Helen was using her typewriter; 
 and the heavy silence around her 
 was hammered regularly by the lit- 
 
 94 
 
tie hard taps of each letter. Her 
 rigid attitude was more striking 
 than ever. She was sitting, 
 dressed as on the last occasion, at 
 her table by the window, where 
 pots of flowers stand on shelves; 
 and the same light as before turned 
 the room into a radiant conserva- 
 tory. Are not things, like human 
 beings, loyal in their service to the 
 blind girl? Do they not come be- 
 tween her and the world so as to 
 deaden every shock? I shall often, 
 when I think of Helen, be con- 
 scious of that fond conspiracy. 
 
 I was in no hurry to betray my 
 presence; and my companions un- 
 derstood me. The picture which 
 we were contemplating breathed 
 such profound and absolute peace. 
 Helen asserted in our eyes the 
 strength and security of one living 
 far removed from all. What a 
 
-C96> 
 
 beautiful lesson in proportion, for 
 my senses blinded by externals! 
 What an incomparable lesson! 
 
 "I did not take her in at all, the 
 other day," I said to Mrs. Macy. 
 "I was too much excited. This 
 time, I have returned to Wren- 
 tham like a disciple to his master; 
 and, if I understand her as I would 
 wish, I will try with all my faith 
 and all my heart to carry her 
 luminous teaching to the distant 
 sisters for whom she had such a 
 tender solicitude." 
 
 And I imparted to Mrs. Macy 
 all my ideas about her pupil. She 
 told me that my deductions were 
 correct and that I might assure my- 
 self of this by direct reference to 
 Helen. Without this precious 
 permission, I should not have dared 
 question her : is not her dear Anne 
 like a good angel standing guard 
 
<97y 
 
 over her cloistered life? Does she 
 not spare her everything that can 
 be spared her? 
 
 I was about to go up to Helen, 
 when I saw her suddenly stop 
 working. She sighed, passed her 
 hand over her forehead, which was 
 a little contracted with the effort of 
 thinking, and then resumed her 
 writing. 
 
 I waited a little while. I could 
 not bear to interrupt her ; I was on 
 the threshold of a temple and I was 
 afraid lest, in knocking, I should 
 do a mortal hurt to a prayer that 
 seemed incarnate. 
 
 The blind girl working opposite 
 me was both very far away, because 
 unaware of my presence, and very 
 near, because of that unconscious- 
 ness which allowed me, so to speak, 
 to see the working of her mind. 
 Until that moment, I had never 
 
realised the impenetrable armour 
 furnished by our senses. I was 
 going to kiss Helen; and my kiss 
 would be laid right upon her naked 
 soul. 
 
 I kiss her, I stoop over her cheek, 
 passing my arm around her neck; 
 but she draws herself up, panting 
 as though an electric current had 
 touched her. Her nervous hands 
 seek mine ; then they run along my 
 arms, my neck, my cheeks, my hair 
 and, for a second, they doubt: her 
 quivering nostrils recognise some 
 subtle odour, her lips move, she is 
 just about to speak my name. . . . 
 But it is impossible! She knows 
 that I am gone : this very morning 
 she was glad of the fine weather 
 and hoping that the sea would be 
 merciful to my pangs. She re- 
 jects the syllables that force them- 
 selves upon her and feverishly con- 
 
-C 99 > 
 
 tinues her examination. I am 
 wearing quite different clothes; 
 and that also disconcerts her. 
 Nevertheless, she finds the game 
 exciting. Her face lights up with 
 pleasure, for the feast of hearts has 
 already begun. She laughs, I 
 laugh too; and my gaiety removes 
 her last doubts. Then she kisses 
 me, hugs me, shows me her affec- 
 tion with adorable smiles and ges- 
 tures ; she falters words full of hap- 
 piness ; and I see the thousand pure 
 enthusiasms of that generous na- 
 ture glowing in all their radiance. 
 
Ill 
 
 As I make my excuses for inter- 
 rupting her work, she joyfully in- 
 forms me that this is almost a 
 holiday. Her singing-master will 
 soon be here with his wife ; they are 
 very dear friends of hers ; they both 
 of them come two or three times a 
 week to spend the afternoon, for 
 the lessons are very tiring to Helen 
 and it is only possible to work for 
 a few moments at a time. In the 
 intervals, they walk about and 
 xaiK. • • • 
 
 Just then, Mrs. White arrives. 
 Mr. White is detained at the 
 Boston Conservatoire, but his wife 
 will give the lesson on the admir- 
 able principles which he has in- 
 vented for the deaf, dumb and blind 
 
 100 
 
•cioi> 
 
 girl's benefit. They propose to 
 start at once. We go to the par- 
 lour. I do not feel embarrassed 
 by the presence of a stranger. 
 Mrs. White is so thoroughly in har- 
 mony with the household that I feel 
 as if I had met her here be- 
 fore. The reason is that the same 
 love shines in the beautiful pro- 
 tective glance in which she envelops 
 Helen; besides, who would not be 
 affected by that rare atmosphere of 
 wholesome simplicity which reigns 
 at Wrentham? 
 
 Helen is standing against the 
 piano. One hand is placed on the 
 neck of Mrs. White, who, after 
 striking a chord, sings a note. 
 Vaguely guided by the vibration 
 received in the palm of her hand, 
 the deaf and dumb girl utters a 
 sound, or rather a sort of ardent 
 
-C102> 
 
 plaint that seems flung like a buoy 
 into an unknown sea. . . . 
 
 But the teacher's patient ear 
 seizes an indication, fleeting, no 
 doubt, but yet sufficient to explain 
 to the pupil her distance from the 
 port for which she is steering; and 
 they begin all over again, twenty 
 and thirty times in succession. 
 
 "Higher, Helen, higher still, and 
 remember the vibration," says Mrs. 
 Macy, who is holding her right 
 hand and thus saving her the eff^ort 
 of reading what the singing- 
 mistress is saying. 
 
 The difficulty is great enough as 
 it is; I can feel that the girl finds 
 it terribly hard to draw her poor 
 lost voice from the abyss in which 
 it is struggling; and, when, after 
 ten minutes, the practice is stopped, 
 her face relaxes and her attitude is 
 eloquent of satisfaction at a well- 
 
earned rest. Then she takes my 
 arm affectionately, to return to her 
 study: 
 
 "We can talk better here," she 
 says; and, as she utters the words, 
 she calls my attention to the in- 
 creased flexibility of her voice after 
 those exercises; and this encour- 
 ages her to hope that she will be 
 able to speak in public in a few 
 years' time. 
 
 She would so much like to give 
 lectures. 
 
 "On what?" 
 
 "Oh, first on the education of 
 deaf, dumb and blind women," she 
 replies, quickly. "And then on 
 women in general." 
 
 Helen goes on to explain that she 
 once had a feminine ideal which she 
 has outgrown, as it failed to stand 
 the severe test of her criticism. 
 She believes that women, with their 
 
judgment and their patient energy, 
 are called upon to play their part 
 in the world's education: then, she 
 says, men will no longer address 
 themselves to women's weakness, 
 but to their strength; and women 
 will be more precious in propor- 
 tion as their character is devel- 
 oped. 
 
 She has two favourite heroines: 
 Iphigenia, whom she loves for the 
 conflicting ideas that rend her soul, 
 and Maeterlinck's Ariane, who, by 
 her deeds and words, seems to cre- 
 ate a new morality of freedom, 
 love and daring. 
 
 "I find them admirable," she 
 says, "alike in their virtues and 
 their failings." And, with a smile, 
 she adds, "Horace, it is true, tells 
 us, in one of his odes, that many 
 faults are virtues which we do not 
 understand. But, in any case, we 
 
ought to give gentler names to the 
 failings of those we love." 
 
 "You, Helen, whose hfe is less 
 subject to distractions than ours 
 and who live above all in the spirit, ) 
 
 you must have very few faults?" I 
 
 "Then they are all the greater!" ( 
 
 says the blind girl, laughing. \ 
 
 Ah, dear Helen, your victory an- ), 
 
 swers for you : if you were not de- \ 
 
 termined to the point of obstinacy, ! 
 
 courageous to rashness, inquisitive ^ 
 
 almost to disobedience and self- 
 willed almost to rebellion, how S 
 should you have lightened your | 
 darkness? Horace spoke truly, I 
 for our faults are often the ex- \ 
 tremes of our virtues; without I 
 them, those virtues remain passive ; 
 thanks to them, they live, they dare 
 and they become magnificently 
 shameless. 
 
 "I am always angry at my slow- 
 
ness," she cries, with an energy that 
 drives the syllables against the sides 
 of her throat. "I grow irritated at 
 the stupidity of this machine of 
 mine." 
 
 And, so that I may know of 
 which machine she speaks, she 
 strikes her head and her throat with 
 mock ferocity. Then she goes on: 
 
 **My ideas fight wildly for ex- 
 pression, as in The Blue Bird the 
 little Children of the Future fight 
 to come into the world. But 
 Father Time keeps them from get- 
 ting out. I hope he won't do the 
 same with my ideas ! . . ." 
 
 We all laugh at Helen's fancy, 
 but I cannot help protesting. She 
 calls herself slow ! It is only a very 
 short time since light has pene- 
 trated to her soul; and yet she 
 seems the fruit of a century of pa- 
 tience. Tenacious as nature, as 
 
the drop of water that wears away 
 the stone, as the ivy whose un- 
 wearying vigour clothes the ruins 
 in an eternal spring, her existence 
 is the emblem of human effort over- 
 coming all the powers of darkness 
 and steering straight for the light. 
 She calls herself slow! And we 
 see her powerful mind, more alive 
 than those at work in their many- 
 windowed palaces, advancing with 
 a firm step in the darkness of a tun- 
 nel that has no outlet, queen of a 
 kingdom maintained by force of 
 will, a kingdom created by sheer 
 courage. And what courage! A 
 courage that transcends our imag- 
 ination, when we come to think 
 that the same quality that inspires 
 our moments of heroism is the 
 source and origin of the smallest 
 of her pleasures. 
 
 Not a single action can she ac- 
 
-C108> 
 
 complish without a superhuman ef- 
 fort, whether she talks to us of her 
 work, her amusements or her plans, 
 whether she goes to a theatre or a 
 concert, or visits a town or mu- 
 seum, or simply strolls in her 
 garden. If her courage forsook 
 her, she would be lost; yet who 
 knows if she has not profited by this 
 iron necessity? Is not her intelli- 
 gence incessantly stimulated by the 
 exercise of an indispensable will? 
 Have not her poor, hard-won re- 
 sources made her retain in her 
 woman's nature the mental acute- 
 ness and receptiveness of a child? 
 
IV 
 
 ilELENi also speaks to me of 
 feminine evolution, in which she 
 suspects a danger for her sisters: 
 
 "By asserting their rights, will 
 they not lose their charm?" she asks. 
 
 Then she rejects this thought 
 with a shrug of her shoulders: 
 
 "After all," she says, "what does 
 it matter what we are? The im- 
 portant thing is what we are able 
 to do." 
 
 All Helen's psychology lies in 
 that reflection. Cut oiF from ex- 
 ternals, she has freed herself from 
 them; and why should this simple 
 girl care about a beauty which is 
 the luxury of the eyes? She natu- 
 rally knows nothing of the thou- 
 sand precious threads of which our 
 
 109 
 
-ciio> 
 
 woman's strength is woven. . . • 
 I rise absent-mindedly and catch 
 sight of Helen in the glass. A 
 strange vision! With her back 
 turned to the window and to the 
 bright snow-clad landscape, the 
 blind girl is seated stiff and 
 straight in a chair which happens 
 to be opposite a mirror. Her set, 
 unconscious face looks like a por- 
 trait in its frame. Her broad, 
 finely-shaped head stands out 
 against the vast wilderness of snow ; 
 and the sun draws a glittering halo 
 round her head. Helen appears to 
 me like a saint imagined by some 
 Italian primitive. The fixed eyes 
 do not answer to the inflexion of 
 the face; the neck is a little stiff; 
 the hands clasped over the knees 
 are not really resting: she is a 
 Cimabue virgin, infinitely touching 
 in her simplicity. Absolutely ab- 
 
-ciii> 
 
 sorbed in thought, dominated by a 
 definite, obvious intelligence, she 
 nevertheless suggests something 
 unfinished. . . . Many times al- 
 ready I have asked myself what 
 Helen lacks ; the mirror tells me : it 
 has not instructed her; it has never 
 told her her charms and her de- 
 fects; it has never revealed her 
 image to her. That image lives 
 and dies in the mirror, whereas with 
 us it is the revealer, teaching 
 us, correcting us and becoming 
 the eternal companion of a grace 
 which it unceasingly abandons and 
 directs by turns. We can neither 
 elude nor flee it; it is always with 
 us; it symbolises our womanhood; 
 it is distinct and fantastic, trans- 
 parent and coloured like a figure 
 in a stained-glass window through 
 which we see the world outside. 
 We shall never ourselves know how 
 
^112> 
 
 far that inseparable sister influ- 
 ences our gravest actions and 
 deeds. • . . 
 
 But, though we have need to see 
 ourselves in order to find fulfil- 
 ment, it is not in the glass of the 
 docile and faithful mirror that we 
 really know ourselves. It is by the 
 looks of others; for the eyes 
 of others seem to pour out the 
 beauty that fills them. There is 
 here a mysterious interchange. 
 Does not the woman who loves rise 
 and grow to the height of the eyes 
 that contemplate her? 
 
 Looks that tremble and glance, 
 looks that flame, pursue and weigh, 
 prayerful, joyful or sorrowful 
 looks, cold looks that judge, blame 
 or approve: one and all they give, 
 one and all they teach us to know 
 ourselves. 'Tis therefore in the 
 critical flash of others' looks that 
 
-C113> 
 
 we behold the truth; and we are 
 the prisoners of the harmony that 
 is expected of us. 
 
 Dear Helen has not stirred from 
 her frame: has she guessed my re- 
 flections during my long silence? 
 I think so, I am even a little in- 
 clined to fear so; and at all risks I 
 express to her the other side of my 
 thought: 
 
 "Independent of externals, 
 Helen, you make for reality by the 
 most direct paths." 
 
 "And therefore," she says, "my 
 life is harder, but simpler than that 
 of others." 
 
 Helen in fact is close to that ^ 
 unity which we seek in vain, though 
 wisdom promises it to us. To all 
 of us there comes a day when our 
 life is simplified. Dreams and 
 vanities are in us like banners on 
 the day after a festival; withered 
 
flowers, faded ribbons, streaming 
 colours : in the face of our anxiety, 
 nothing remains but the essential. 
 But, just because the details be- 
 come effaced, the horizon widens, 
 distances appear and other and 
 graver problems arise. . . . 
 
 "And yet," replies the blind girl, 
 "that evolution has taken place in 
 my world. What others learn 
 from life I have learnt from the 
 books that are my sphere." 
 
 "That is true," says Mrs. Macy, 
 who is following our conversation. 
 "There is nothing that Helen does 
 not know; I have never hidden any- 
 thing from her; besides, she is too 
 clear-sighted for it to have been 
 possible." 
 
 "Then I may safely ask her what 
 she thinks of love and happiness?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly!" replied Mrs. 
 Macy. "She has thought a great 
 
-C115> 
 deal of the love and happiness of 
 
 women." 
 
 And she at once communicates 
 my question to Helen. 
 
 Helen remains impassive and 
 says, slowly: 
 
 "All real love is precious." 
 
 But I insist: 
 
 "I am not speaking of love in 
 general, Helen." 
 
 Then I see a soft light of resig- 
 nation pass over her face; and, in 
 a serious tone, she says: 
 
 "What woman has not longed 
 for love? But ... I think it is 
 forbidden me, like music and 
 light. . . ." 
 
 I look at the bUnd girl. She 
 sighs and lowers her lids as though 
 her eyes might betray her. I see 
 her youth and the glow of health in 
 her cheeks; a dull rebellion stirs 
 me; and, with my natural inclina- 
 
-C116> 
 
 tion for sympathy, I feel a need to 
 depreciate the too-delicious joys 
 which a barbarous injustice seems 
 to deny her: 
 
 "Ah, you could be loved, Helen, 
 you could, I am sure of it ; but I do 
 not know that you ought to wish it. 
 You would not have done what you 
 have done, if you had known love! 
 You do not know how dangerous it 
 is, how it makes us live on 
 mountain-peaks in the midst of 
 abysses. We are close to the sky, 
 but we turn giddy; and all the illu- 
 sions of space assail us; and the 
 too-bright light burns us; and we 
 are lost, if we do not contrive, by a 
 sort of contradictory will, to draw a 
 new force from the very heart of 
 total surrender. . . . No, do not 
 regret love. It is the enemy of our 
 intelligence, of our strength and 
 even of our worth. You see. 
 
-C117> 
 
 Helen, between two intelligent 
 people, experience of love, though 
 it be favourable to the man, may 
 be fatal to the woman. Whereas 
 the man becomes stronger by a love 
 which his nature orders and meas- 
 ures, the woman is lost in a senti- 
 ment that submerges her. . • ." 
 
 I could have added that, to my 
 mind, it is better to contribute to 
 the happiness and accomplishment 
 of a being than slightly to raise our 
 small stature ; I could have told her 
 that hfe is very ephemeral, that 
 values are very relative and glories 
 very illusive; but I was delighted, 
 on the contrary, not to be seen or 
 heard, for the sound of my voice 
 would have belied the rigour of my 
 words; and, in spite of myself, I 
 felt that my mouth, as it curved 
 into a smile, clothed them in a light 
 that transfigured them. And yet 
 
I was not lying, dear Helen! We 
 all know that our truest sentiment 
 becomes modified according as we 
 discover it on one side or another 
 and that, when sincerity, like 
 limpid water, penetrates most 
 deeply into our soul, it is then that 
 we feel ourselves to be in a per- 
 petual contradiction. 
 
 "I divine," said the blind girl, 
 "all the sorrows contained in the 
 joys of love. There is nothing 
 that I do not know of the suffer- 
 ings of the world." 
 
 Here is Helen speaking again, 
 with some bitterness, of the suffer- 
 ing of the world. 
 
 "But where are you, Helen, to 
 talk like this ? In what mysterious 
 country do you dwell? You do 
 not suffer, do you?" 
 
 She smiled and reflected. Then 
 she said : 
 
-C119> 
 
 ''Happiness is like the mountain- 
 summit. It is sometimes hidden 
 by clouds, but we know that it is 
 there." 
 
 "Is it always there, Helen?" 
 
 "When we wish it, because it de- 
 pends upon our state of mind." 
 
 "And have you the strength al- 
 ways to wish it?" 
 
 "No." And, shrugging her 
 shoulders a little cynically, she 
 added, "Am I not a woman? I 
 weep as much as the others, but I 
 believe it to be good for the soil, 
 like rain. All my visions are born 
 of love and poetry; and . . . and 
 those flowers cannot bloom without 
 tears." 
 
 Helen almost always expresses 
 herself thus, in images and sym- 
 bols; one feels that she is wonder- 
 fully sensitive to the music of words 
 and to rhythm, that mysterious 
 
force which governs the truest es- 
 sential beauty. Is it not the sense 
 of art that has been largely instru- 
 mental in saving her? Is it not 
 this precious gift which bestows an 
 unwearying curiosity upon her and 
 attaches her to life in spite of all 
 things? Helen possesses the im- 
 agination of a poet to whom 
 reality, however admirable it may 
 be, is never more than a starting- 
 point . . , and we may well ask 
 ourselves if she would not be dis- 
 appointed were she suddenly to be- 
 hold a world which her mind has 
 clothed in the most glittering en- 
 chantment. . . . 
 
 After a moment's thought, 
 Helen resumes : 
 
 "I should like one day to have 
 the power to express man's prayer 
 to the light!" 
 
 And, as she speaks these words. 
 
a charming smile irradiates her 
 features. 
 
 "Helen, you shall utter that 
 prayer which you already live, you 
 shall utter it, for you dwell in a 
 transparent night, whereas our 
 ever-straying senses turn a bright 
 sky into a cloud-darkened day. If 
 you but knew how few things we 
 see, how badly we hear and how 
 incompletely!" 
 
 *'Are not our senses the servants 
 of our mind?" 
 
 "They ought to be, but they di- 
 vide and scatter our forces by 
 bringing us too much; our con- 
 sciousness involuntarily and a? 
 every moment registers a thousand 
 useless things; and that is why it 
 advises us to flee the world if we 
 would work and think. We do 
 not live intensely unless we know 
 how to close our lives to the outer 
 
world. It may be love that keeps 
 us between two flowering hedges, 
 checking our aspirations as they 
 mount to heaven; it may be that 
 work and a single idea imprison us ; 
 it may be that a dream envelops 
 us, an aim fascinates us or our will 
 erects its iron barrier between us 
 and fancy: our strength grows 
 only in isolation. Our notion of 
 infinity begins where sound and 
 shape die. To you, infinity is. here, 
 in the breeze that cools your brow, 
 in the perfume which, however 
 subtle, remains, annihilating the 
 years, burying the past; infinity is 
 here, in the hand that presses 
 yours. . . ." 
 
 For the last few minutes, Helen, 
 a little tired of reading on my lips, 
 had been listening and replying 
 through the mind of her faithful 
 
-{:i23> 
 
 companion. Suddenly she asked 
 me: 
 
 "Have you religion?" And she 
 added, "I believe in God." 
 
 I remember greatly admiring 
 Anne Sullivan's account of the in- 
 tellectual development of her pupil. 
 After recognising Helen's sane 
 mind and enlightened judgment, 
 she writes : 
 
 "No creed or dogma has been taught 
 to Helen; nor has any effort been made 
 to force religious beliefs on her atten- 
 tion." 
 
 Helen's religion lies especially in 
 self-abnegation and love for others ; 
 and it is thus that she believes her- 
 self to have found happiness : 
 
 "As the world is in ourselves," 
 she said, "happiness is not outside 
 us; it is not a thing which we can 
 
attain; if we seek it, we do not find 
 it. . . ." 
 
 "You are right, Helen; and that 
 is why we ought not to be surprised 
 to see so many creatures who have 
 everything to make them happy 
 and who are not happy. What is 
 the use of possessing the elements 
 of happiness if we have not in our- 
 selves the essential energy that 
 builds it up patiently and maintains 
 it in spite of all? But in you this 
 energy, so rare in any case, be- 
 comes heroic. . . ." 
 
 With a gesture expressing gen- 
 tle denial, Helen replied: 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 And, after a pause, she contin- 
 ued, gravely: 
 
 " To find one's life, one must first 
 lose it. Mine was lost a thousand 
 times ; I could not recover the half 
 of it." 
 
-C125> 
 
 One might well think upon this 
 maxim, which teaches us one of the 
 great secrets of our moral force. 
 It increases in proportion as we ex- 
 pend it. Ask little of it; and we 
 have nothing. Be insatiable; and 
 it becomes inexhaustible. 
 
 I was eager to ask her the ques- 
 tion that was burning my lips: 
 
 "Then you are happy?" 
 
 Helen was just then bending 
 over the hand of Mrs. Macy, who 
 communicated the question to her. 
 She drew herself up proudly: 
 
 "If I were not happy, my life 
 would be a failure. I am very 
 happy." 
 
 "Can I in all truth, Helen, hold 
 you up as an example to your dis- 
 tant sisters and call you *The Girl 
 who found the Blue Bird'?" 
 
 The white peace of the cottage 
 at Wrentham seemed to fly into a 
 
<126> 
 
 thousand splinters like a pane of 
 glass suddenly smashed by a vol- 
 ley of stones. Helen was scream- 
 ing with delight ; she had sprung up 
 quickly and, walking across the 
 room, uttered notes that sought to 
 strike the joyous pitch of a song of 
 gladness : 
 
 *'Yes, yes, it's true!" she shouted. 
 "I have found the Blue Bird! I 
 have foimd the Blue Bird!" 
 
 And in her excitement she 
 pressed her hands to her forehead, 
 clasped them convulsively in a tri- 
 umphant prayer and unclasped 
 them to seize hold of mine. . . . 
 
1 HE sound of that captive hap- 
 piness will ring in my ears all my 
 life long. Even now, when I am 
 speaking of the heroine, it floods 
 my memories with the impetuos- 
 ity of a torrent that tears away 
 everything on its passage; and the 
 miracle of Helen's life will always 
 have two aspects in my eyes. It 
 is a miracle of patience no less than 
 of passion. 
 
 Her life seems to me a sublime 
 lesson; and can we describe her as 
 abnormal when we see her wander- 
 ing in a world where so many mys- 
 teries dwell? Between her and 
 us, space no longer exists, if we 
 think of the space that stretches 
 from the known to the unknown. 
 
 127 
 
And can we say that her destiny 
 is incomplete? Helen is the ex- 
 ample necessary to our day, the 
 glorification of effort, intelligence 
 and strength, the sanctification of 
 continuous and hidden heroism. 
 She is a primitive saint and a saint 
 of to-morrow! She is the arch- 
 angel of the victories that are eter- 
 nal and of the virtues that do not 
 change with moral systems or with 
 peoples. 
 
 Be happy, Helen, and be free, 
 for you have proved that there is 
 no real prison save in mediocrity, 
 that the darkness which has no end- 
 ing is the darkness of the mind and 
 that mortal silence reigns only in 
 loveless hearts. 
 
 But listen to me : I would crave 
 of you one thing. Since you pos- 
 sess every heroic quaUty, we need 
 not hesitate to wish you a crown- 
 
ing one. Deprived of sight, of 
 hearing and of speech, you have 
 been able to create afresh Hght, 
 harmony and language; you know 
 what we see, you know what we 
 hear, you know how to communi- 
 cate with us. Cease to astonish us : 
 you have joined us, you wished it 
 and you have succeeded. Hence- 
 forth forsake this world, which 
 you have heroically conquered, and 
 lead us into regions that are closed 
 to us. Tell us the secret of your 
 wisdom and your light. By the 
 science of touch and smell, you 
 have revealed to us a kingdom 
 which we knew imperfectly; there 
 is another, Helen, which we do not 
 know at all : it is the world of eter- 
 nal darkness and silence. All the 
 sighs of life heave and throb in our 
 solitude. We know darkness and 
 silence only that we may seek re- 
 
-C130> 
 
 pose there or savour in them the 
 profound joys that dread light and 
 sound. To us, shade and quiet- 
 ness are refuges to which we resort 
 with eyes glutted with light, ears 
 jSlled with harmony. 
 
 Tell us what voices charmed 
 your tomb, what stars lighted it. 
 Analyse for us the springs of a 
 power which we cannot conceive. 
 
 Helen, wonderful Helen, you 
 who have surpassed us in strength 
 and wisdom, tell us by what golden 
 gate we may join you in our turn! 
 
 THE END 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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