Three Days to See
Helen Keller
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 tomorrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of
life. We should live each day with a gentleness, a vigor, and a keenness of
appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before us in the constant
panorama 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 ahs
often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death
bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do.
Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die,
but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant
health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch
out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware of our
listless attitude toward life.
The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our faculties and
senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold
blessings that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those
who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never
suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these
blessed faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily,
without concentration and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of
not being grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of
health until we are ill.
I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken
blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life.
Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence would tech him the
joys of sound.
Now and them I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see.
Recently I was visited by a very good friends 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 reposes, 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 the 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 thought my open finger. To me a lush carpet of pine
needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To
me the page ant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of
which streams through my finger tips.
At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get
so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by
sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. the panorama of color
and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to
appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not,
but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used
only as a mere conveniences 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.
Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should most like to see if I
were given the use of my eyes, say, for just three days. And while I am
imagining, suppose you, too, set your mind to work on the problem of how you
would use your own eyes if you had only three more days to see. If with the on-
coming darkness of the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for
you again, how would you spend those three precious intervening days? What
would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?
I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to me
through my years of darkness. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest 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.
The First Day
On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness
and companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze
long upon the face of my dear teacher, Mrs. Anne Sullivan Macy, who came to me
when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not merely
to see the outline of her face, so that I could cherish it in my memory, but to
study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic
tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my
education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character which
has enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties, and that compassion
for all humanity which she has revealed to me so often.
I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that "Window
of the soul", the eye. I can only "see" through my finger tips the outline of a
face. I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my
friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot really picture their
personalities by touch. I know their personalities, of course, through other
means, through the thoughts they express to me, through whatever of their
actions are revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of them
which I am sure would come through sight of them, through watching their
reactions to various expressed thoughts and circumstances, through noting the
immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes and countenance.
Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the months and years
they reveal themselves to me in all their phases; but of casual friends I have
only an incomplete impression, an impression gained from a handclasp, from
spoken words which I take from their lips with my finger tips, or which they
tap into the palm of my hand.
How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp
quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of
expression, the quiver of a muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever
occur to you to use your sight to see into the inner nature of a friends or
acquaintance/ Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward
features of a face and let it go at that?
For instance can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? some
of you can, but many cannot. As an experiment, I have questioned husbands of
long standing about the color of their wives' eyes, and often they express
embarrassed confusion and admit that they do not know. And, incidentally, it is
a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new dresses, new
hats, and changes in household arrangements.
The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their
surroundings, and they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But
even in viewing the most spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records
reveal every day how inaccurately "eyewitnesses" see. A given event will
be "seen" in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than
others, but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.
Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three
days!
The first day would be a busy one. I should call to me all my dear friends and
look long into their faces, imprinting upon my mind the outward evidences of
the beauty that is within them. I should let my eyes rest, too, on the face of
a baby, so that I could catch a vision of the eager, innocent beauty which
precedes the individual's consciousness of the conflicts which life develops.
And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting eyes of my dogs - the grave,
canny little Scottie, Darkie, and the stalwart, understanding Great Dane,
Helga, whose warm, tender , and playful friendships are so comforting to me.
On that busy first day I should also view the small simple things of my home. I
want to see the warm colors in the rugs under my feet, the pictures on the
walls, the intimate trifles that transform a house into home. My eyes would
rest respectfully on the books in raised type which I have read, but they would
be more eagerly interested in the printed books which seeing people can read,
for during the long night of my life the books I have read and those which have
been read to me have built themselves into a great shining lighthouse,
revealing to me the deepest channels of human life and the human spirit.
In the afternoon of that first seeing day. I should take a long walk in the
woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties of the world of Nature trying
desperately to absorb in a few hours the vast splendor which is constantly
unfolding itself to those who can see. On the way home from my woodland jaunt
my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient horses ploughing
in the field 9perhaps 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.
The Second Day
The next day - the second day of sight - I should arise with the dawn and see
the thrilling miracle by which night is transformed into day. I should behold
with awe the magnificent panorama of light with which the sun awakens the
sleeping earth.
This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world, past and present. I
should want to see the pageant of man's progress, the kaleidoscope of the ages.
How can so much be compressed into one day? Through the museums, of course.
Often I have visited the New York Museum of Natural History to touch with my
hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have longed to see with my
eyes the condensed history of the earth and its inhabitants displayed there -
animals and the races of men pictured in their native environment; gigantic
carcasses of dinosaurs and mastodons which roamed the earth long before man
appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to conquer the animal
kingdom; realistic presentations of the processes of development in animals, in
man, and in the implements which man has used to fashion for himself a secure
home on this planet; and a thousand and one other aspects of natural history.
I wonder how many readers of this article have viewed this panorama of the face
of living things as pictured in that inspiring museum. Many, of course, have
not had the opportunity, but I am sure that many who have had the opportunity
have not made use of it. there, indeed, is a place to use your eyes. You who
see can spend many fruitful days there, but I with my imaginary three days of
sight, could only take a hasty glimpse, and pass on.
My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for just as the Museum of
Natural History reveals the material aspects of the world, so does the
Metropolitan show the myriad facets of the human spirit. Throughout the history
of humanity the urge to artistic expression has been almost as powerful as the
urge for food, shelter, and procreation. And here , in the vast chambers of the
Metropolitan Museum, is unfolded before me the spirit of Egypt, Greece, and
Rome, as expressed in their art. I know well through my hands the sculptured
gods and goddesses of the ancient Nile-land. I have felt copies of Parthenon
friezes, and I have sensed the rhythmic beauty of charging Athenian warriors.
Apollos and Venuses and the Winged Victory of Samothrace are friends of my
finger tips. The gnarled, bearded features of Homer are dear to me, for he,
too, knew blindness.
My hands have lingered upon the living marble of roman sculpture as well as
that of later generations. I have passed my hands over a plaster cast of
Michelangelo's inspiring and heroic Moses; I have sensed the power of Rodin; I
have been awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood carving. These arts which
can be touched have meaning for me, but even they were meant to be seen rather
than felt, and I can only guess at the beauty which remains hidden from me. I
can admire the simple lines of a Greek vase, but its figured decorations are
lost to me.
So on this, my second day of sight, I should try to probe into the soul of man
through this 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 E1 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 deep and true
appreciation of art one must educated the eye. One must learn through
experience to weigh the merits of line, of composition, of form and color. If I
had eyes, how happily would I embark upon so fascinating a study! Yet I am told
that, to many of you who have eyes to see, the world of art is a dark night,
unexplored and unilluminated.
It would be with extreme reluctance that I should leave the Metropolitan
Museum, which contains the key to beauty -- a beauty so neglected. Seeing
persons, however, do not need a metropolitan to find this key to beauty. The
same key lies waiting in smaller museums, and in books on the shelves of even
small libraries. But naturally, in my limited time of imaginary sight, I should
choose the place where the key unlocks the greatest treasures in the shortest
time.
The evening of my second day of sight I should spend at a theatre or at the
movies. Even now I often attend theatrical performances of all sorts, but the
action of the play must be spelled into my hand by a companion. But how I
should like to see with my own eyes the fascinating figure of Hamlet, or the
gusty Falstaff amid colorful Elizabethan trappings! How I should like to follow
each movement of the graceful Hamlet, each strut of the hearty Falstaff! And
since I could see only one play, I should be confronted by a many-horned
dilemma, for there are scores of plays I should want to see. You who have
eyes can see any you like. How many of you, I wonder, when you gaze at a play,
a movie, or any spectacle, realize and give thanks for the miracle of sight
which enables you to enjoy its color , grace, and movement?
I cannot enjoy the beauty of rhythmic movement except in a sphere restricted to
the touch of my hands. I can vision only dimly the grace of a Pavlowa, although
I know something of the delight of rhythm, for often I can sense the beat of
music as it vibrates through the floor. I can well imagine that cadenced motion
must be one of the most pleasing sights in the world. I have been able to
gather something of this by tracing with my fingers the lines in sculptured
marble; if this static grace can be so lovely, how much more acute must be the
thrill of seeing grace in motion.
One of my dearest memories is of the time when Joseph Jefferson allowed me to
touch his face and hands as he went through some of the gestures and speeches
of his beloved Rip Van Winkle. I was able to catch thus a 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 the manual alphabet.
So, through the evening of my second imaginary day of sight, the great fingers
of dramatic literature would crowd sleep from my eyes.
