 All
of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited
and specified time to live. Sometimes it was as long as a year;
sometimes as short as twenty-four hours. But always we were interested
in discovering just how the doomed man chose to spend his last days or
his last hours. I speak, of course, of free men who have a choice, not
condemned criminals whose sphere of activities is strictly delimited.
Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do
under similar circumstances. What events, what experiences,
what associations, should we crowd into those last hours as
mortal beings? What happiness should we find in reviewing the
past, what regrets?
Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to
live each day as if we should die to-morrow. Such an attitude
would emphasize sharply the values of life. We should live
each day with a gentleness, a vigor, and a keenness of
appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before
us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years
to come. There are those, of course, who would adopt the
epicurean motto of 'Eat, drink, and be merry,' but most people
would be chastened by the certainty of impending death.
In stories, the doomed hero is usually saved at the last
minute by some stroke of fortune, but almost always his sense
of values is changed. He becomes more appreciative of the
meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It has
often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the
shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they
do.
Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that
one day we must die, but usually we picture that day as far in
the future. When we are in buoyant health, death is all but
unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch out in
an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware
of our listless attitude toward life.
The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of
all our facilities and senses. Only the deaf appreciate
hearing, only the blind realize the manifold blessings that
lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to
those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those
who have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom
make the fullest use of these blessed faculties. Their eyes
and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without
concentration and with little appreciation. It is the same old
story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it,
of not being conscious of health until we are ill.
I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human
being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time
during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more
appreciative of sight; silence would teach him the joys of
sound.
Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover
what they see. Recently I was visited by a very good friend
who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I
asked her what she had observed. 'Nothing in particular,' she
replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been
accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced
that the seeing see little.
How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour
through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot
see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch.
I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands
lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the
rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches
of trees hopefully in search of a bud, the first sign of
awakening Nature after her winter's sleep. I feel the
delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its
remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of
Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very
fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the
happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have
the cool waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me
a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome
than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the pageant of
seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of which
streams through my finger tips.
At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these
things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how
much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who
have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color and
action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is
human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which have and to
long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that
in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere
convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.
If I were the president of a university I should establish
a compulsory course in 'How to Use Your Eyes'. The professor
would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their
lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before them. He
would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.
II
Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should
most like to see if I was given the use of my eyes, say, for
just three days. And while I am imagining, suppose you, too,
set your mind to work on the problem of how to work on the
problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only
three days to see. If with the oncoming darkness if the third
night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again,
how would you spend those three intervening days? What would
you most want to let your gaze rest upon?
I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have
become dear to me through my years of darkness. You, too,
would want to let your eyes rest long on the things that have
become dear to you so that you could take the memory of them
with you into the night that loomed before you.
If, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing days, to
be followed by a relapse into darkness, I should divide the
period into three parts.
On the first day, I should want to see the people whose
kindness and gentleness and companionship have made my life
worth living. First I should like to gaze long upon the face
of my dear teacher, Mrs. Ann Sullivan Macy, who came to me
when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should
want not merely to see the outline of her face, so that I
could cherish it in my memory, but to study that face and find
in it the living evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and
patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my
education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of
character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of
difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity which she
has revealed to me so often.
I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend
through that 'window of the soul,' the eye. I can only 'see'
through my finger tips the outline of a face. I can detect
laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my
friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot really
picture their personalities, of course, through the thoughts
they express to me, through whatever of their actions are
revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of
them which I am sure would come through sight of them, through
watching their reactions to various expressed and
circumstances, through noting the immediate and fleeting
reactions of their eyes and countenance.
Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the
months and years they reveal themselves to me in all their
phases; but of casual friends I have only an incomplete
impression, an impression gained from handclasp, from spoken
words which I take from their lips with my finger tips, or
which they tap into the palm of my hand.
How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who
can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another
person by watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver of
a muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever occur to you
to use your sight to see the inner nature of a friend or
acquaintance? Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually
the outward features of a face and let it go at that?
For instance, can you describe accurately the faces of five
good friends? Some of you can, but many cannot. As an
experiment, I have questioned husbands of long standing about
the color of their wives' eyes, and often they express
embarrassed confusion and admit that they so not know. And,
incidentally, it is a chronic complaint of wives that their
husbands do not notice new dresses, new hats, and changes in
household arrangements.
The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the
routine of their surroundings, and they actually see only the
startling and spectacular. But even in viewing the most
spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records reveal
every day how inaccurately 'eyewitnesses' see. A given event
will be 'seen' in several different ways by as many witnesses.
Some see more than others, but few see everything that is
within the range of their vision.
Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of
sight for just three days!
The first day would be a busy one. I should call to me all
my dear friends and look long into their faces, imprinting
upon my mind the outward evidence of the beauty that is within
them. I should let my eyes rest, too, on the face of a baby,
so that I could catch a vision of the eager, innocent beauty
which precedes the individuals consciousness of the conflicts
which life develops.
And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting eyes of
my dogs - the grave, canny little Scottie, Darkie, and the
stalwart, understanding Great Dane, Helga, whose warm, tender,
and playful friendships are so comforting to me.
On that busy first day I should also view the small simple
things of my home. I want to see the warm colors in the rugs
under my feet, the pictures on the walls, the intimate trifles
that transform a house into a home. My eyes would rest
respectfully on the books in raised type which I have read,
but they would be more eagerly interested in the printed books
which seeing people can read, for during the long night of my
life the books I have read and those which have been read to
me have built themselves into a great shining lighthouse,
revealing to me the deepest channels of human life and the
human spirit.
In the afternoon of that first seeing day, I should take a
long walk in the woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties
of the world of Nature, trying desperately to absorb in a few
hours the vast splendor which is constantly unfolding itself
to those who can see. On the way home from my woodland jaunt
my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient
horses ploughing in the field (perhaps I should see only a
tractor!) and the serene content of men living close to the
soil. And I should pray for the glory of a colorful sunset.
When dusk had fallen, I should experience the double
delight of being able to see by artificial light, which the
genius of man has created to extend the power of his sight
when Nature decrees darkness.
In the night of that first day of sight, I should not be
able to sleep, so full would be my mind of the memories of the
day.
III
The next day - the second day of sight - I should arise
with the dawn and see the thrilling miracle by which night is
transformed into day. I should behold with awe the magnificent
panorama of light with which the sun awakens the sleeping
earth.
This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world,
past and present. I should want to see the pageant of man's
progress, the kaleidoscope of the ages. How can so much
compressed into one day? Through the museums, of course. Often
I have visited the New York Museum of Natural History to touch
with my hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have
longed to see with my eyes the condensed history of the earth
and its inhabitants displayed there - animals and the races of
men pictured in their native environment; gigantic carcasses
of dinosaurs and mastodons which roamed the earth long before
man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to
conquer the animal kingdom; realistic presentations of the
processes of evolution in animals, and in the implements which
man has used to fashion for himself a secure home on this
planet; and a thousand and one other aspects of natural
history.
I wonder how many readers of this article have viewed this
panorama of the face of living things as pictured in that
inspiring museum. Many, of course, have not had the
opportunity, but, I am sure that many who have had the
opportunity have not made use of it. There, indeed, is a place
to use your eyes. You who can see can spend many fruitful days
there, but I, with my imaginary three days of sight, could
only take a hasty glimpse, and pass on.
My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for
just as the Museum of Natural History reveals the material
aspects of the world, so does the Metropolitan show the myriad
facets of the human spirit. Throughout the history of humanity
the urge to artistic expression has been almost as powerful as
the urge for food, shelter, and procreation. And here, in the
vast chambers of the Metropolitan Museum, is unfolded before
me the spirit of Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as expressed in
their art. I know well through my hands the sculptured gods
and goddesses of the ancient Nile-land. I have a few copies of
Parthenon friezes, and I have sensed the rhythmic beauty of
charging Athenian warriors. Apollos and Venuses and the winged
victory of Samothrace are friends of my finger tips. The
gnarled, bearded features of Homer are dear to me, for he,
too, knew blindness.
My hands have lingered upon the living marvel of Roman
sculpture as well as that of later generations. I have passed
my hands over a plaster cast of Michelangelo's inspiring and
heroic Moses; I have sensed the power of Rodin; I have been
awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood carving. These arts
which can be touched have meaning for me, but even they were
meant to be seen rather than felt, and I can only guess at the
beauty which remains hidden from me. I can admire the simple
lines of a Greek vase, but its figured decorations are lost to
me.
So on this, my second day of sight, I should try to probe
into the soul of man through his art. The things I knew
through touch I should now see. More splendid still, the whole
magnificent world of painting would be opened to me, from the
Italian Primitives, with their serene religious devotion, to
the Moderns, with their feverish visions. I should look deep
into the canvases of Raphael, Leonardo Da Vinci, Titian,
Rembrandt. I should want to feast my eyes upon the warm colors
of Veronese, study the mysteries of El Greco, catch a new
vision of Nature from Corot. Oh, there is so much rich meaning
and beauty in the art of the ages for you who have eyes to
see!
Upon my short visit to this temple of art I should not be
able to review a fraction of that great world of art which is
open to you. I should be able to get only a superficial
impression. Artists tell me that for a deep and true
appreciation of art one must educate the eye. One must learn
from experience to weigh the merits of line, of composition,
of form and color. If I had eyes, how happily would I embark
upon so fascinating a study! Yet I am told that, to many of
you who have eyes to see, the world of art is a dark night,
unexplored and unilluminated.
It would be with extreme reluctance that I should leave the
Metropolitan Museum, which contains the key to beauty - a
beauty so neglected. Seeing persons, however, do not need a
Metropolitan to find this key to beauty. The same key lies
waiting in smaller museums, and in books on the shelves of
even small libraries. But naturally, in my limited time of
imaginary sight, I should choose the place where the key
unlocks the greatest treasures in the shortest time.
The evening of my second day of sight I should spend at a
theatre or at the movies. Even now I often attend theatrical
performances of all sorts, but the action of the play must be
spelled into my hand by a companion. But how I should like to
see with my own eyes the fascinating figure of Hamlet, or the
gusty Falstaff amid colorful Elizabethan trappings! How I
should like to follow each movement of the graceful Hamlet,
each strut of the hearty Falstaff! And since I could see only
one play, I should be confronted by a many-horned dilemma, for
there are scores of plays I should want to see. You who have
eyes can see any you like. How many of you, I wonder, when you
gaze at a play, a movie, or any spectacle, realize and give
thanks for the miracle of sight which enables you to enjoy its
color, grace, and movement?
I cannot enjoy the beauty rythmic movement except in a
sphere restricted to the touch of my hands. I can vision only
dimly the grace of a Pavlowa, although I know something of the
delight of rhythm, for often I can sense the beat of music as
it vibrates through the floor. I can well imagine that
cadenced motion must be one of the most pleasing sights in the
world. I have been able to gather something of this by tracing
with my fingers the lines in sculptured marble; if this static
grace can be so lovely, how much more acute must be the thrill
of seeing grace in motion.
One of my dearest memories is of the time when Joseph
Jefferson allowed me to touch his face and hands as he went
through some of the gestures and speeches of his beloved Rip
Van Winkle. I was able to catch thus a meager glimpse of the
world of drama, and I shall never forget the delight of that
moment. But, oh, how much I must miss, and how much pleasure
you seeing ones can derive from watching and hearing the
interplay of speech and movement in the unfolding of a
dramatic performance! If I could see only one play, I should
know how to picture in my mind the action of a hundred plays
which I have read or had transferred to me through the medium
of manual alphabet.
So, through the evening of my second imaginary day of
sight, the great figures of dramatic literature would crowd
sleep from my eyes.
IV
The following morning, I should again greet the dawn,
anxious to discover new delights, for I am sure that, for
those who have eyes which really see, the dawn of each day
must be a perpetually new revelation of beauty.
This, according to the terms of my imagined miracle, is to
be my third and last day of sight. I shall have no time to
waste in regrets or longings; there is too much to see. The
first day I devoted to my friends, animate and inanimate. The
second revealed to me the history of man and Nature. To-day I
shall spend in the workday world of the present, amid the
haunts of men going about the business of life. And where one
can find so many activities and conditions of men as in New
York? So the city becomes my destination.
I start from my home in the quiet little suburb of Forest
Hills, Long Island. Here, surrounded by green lawns, trees,
and flowers, are neat little houses, happy with the voices and
movements of wives and children, havens of peaceful rest for
men who toil in the city. I drive across the lacy structure of
steel which spans the East River, and I get a new and
startling vision of the power and ingenuity of the mind of
man. Busy boats chug and scurry about the river - racy speed,
boats, stolid, snorting tugs. If I had long days of sight
ahead, I should spend many of them watching the delightful
activity upon the river.
I look ahead, and before me rise the fantastic towers of
New York, a city that seems to have stepped from the pages of
a fairy story. What an awe-inspiring sight, these glittering
spires, these vast banks of stone and steel - sculptures such
as the gods might build for themselves! This animated picture
is a part of the lives of millions of people every day. How
many, I wonder, give it so much as a second glance? Very few,
I fear. Their eyes are blind to this magnificent sight because
it is so familiar to them.
I hurry to the top of one of those gigantic structures, the
Empire State Building, for there, a short time ago, I 'saw'
the city below through the eyes of my secretary. I am anxious
to compare my fancy with reality. I am sure I should not be
disappointed in the panorama spread out before me, for to me
it would be a vision of another world.
Now I begin my rounds of the city. First, I stand at a busy
corner, merely looking at people, trying by sight of them to
understand something of their lives. I see smiles, and I am
happy. I see serious determination, and I am proud. I see
suffering, and I am compassionate.
I stroll down Fifth Avenue. I throw my eyes out of focus,
so that I see no particular object but a seething kaleidoscope
of color. I am certain that the colors of women's dresses
moving in a throng must be a gorgeous spectacle of which I
should never tire. But perhaps if I had sight I should be like
most other women - too interested in styles and the cut of
individual dresses to give much attention to the splendor of
color in the mass. And I am convinced, too, that I should
become an inveterate window shopper, for it must be a delight
to the eye to view the myriad articles of beauty on display.
From Fifth Avenue I make a tour of the city - to Park
Avenue, to the slums, to factories, to parks where children
play. I take a stay-at-home trip abroad by visiting the
foreign quarters. Always my eyes are open wide to all the
sights of both happiness and misery so that I may probe deep
and add to my understanding of how people work and live. My
heart is full of the images of people and things. My eye
passes lightly over no single trifle; it strives to touch and
hold closely each thing its gaze rests upon. Some sights are
pleasant, filling the heart with happiness; but some are
miserably pathetic. To these latter I do not shut my eyes, for
they, too are part of life. To close the eye on them is to
close the heart and mind.
My third day of sight is drawing to an end. Perhaps there
are many serious pursuits to which I should devote the few
remaining hours, but I am afraid that on the evening of that
last day I should run away to the theatre, to a hilariously
funny play, so that I might appreciate the overtones of comedy
in the human spirit.
At midnight my temporary respite from blindness would
cease, and permanent night would close in on me again.
Naturally in those three short days I should not have seen all
I wanted to see. Only when darkness had again descended upon
me should I realize how much I had left unseen. But my mind
would be so overcrowded with glorious memories that I should
have little time for regrets. Thereafter the touch of every
object would bring a glowing memory of how that object looked.
Perhaps this short outline of how I should spend three days
of sight does not agree with the programme you would set for
yourself if you knew that you were about to be stricken blind.
I am, however, sure that if you actually faced that fate your
eyes would open to things you had never seen before, storing
up memories for the long night ahead. You would use your eyes
as never before. Everything you saw would become dear to you.
Your eyes would touch and embrace every object that came
within your range of vision. Then, at last, you would really
see, and a new world of beauty would open itself before you.
I who am blind can give one hint to those who see - one
admonition to those who would make full use of the gift of
sight: Use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken
blind. And the same method can be applied to other senses.
Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the mighty
strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf
to-morrow. Touch each object you want to touch as if tomorrow
your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers,
taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never
smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense; glory in
all the facets of pleasure and beauty which the world reveals
to you through the several means of contact which Nature
provides. But of all the senses, I am sure that sight must be
the most delightful.
Published in the Atlantic Monthly, January 1933.
|
|
Login |
Register |
View Cart |
Contact
| 
