Three days of Helen Keller's epiphany. Biography of Helen Adams Keller, you need to know about such people. Helen's father was a captain in the Confederate army

30.10.2019

Imagine that you need to learn a new language. And it’s not just necessary, but vital. What is the difficulty, you ask? Textbooks, tutorials, courses. There is so much around! But there are several nuances: firstly, you do not have the opportunity to hear how this language sounds or talk to any of the native speakers; secondly, books in this language are written in ink that is invisible to you - it is physically impossible to read them.

Most people would answer that it is impossible to learn such a language. How do you learn a language that you just can't get in touch with? Where to start?

Additional condition. Imagine also that you live in the United States of America at the end of the 19th century. It was at this time that a young girl named Helen Keller lived in the south of the country. She loved nature, handicrafts, walks with friends, but there was something that distinguished Helen from all the people around her - the girl was deaf-blind.

Helen Keller was born a healthy baby, but became very ill (presumably scarlet fever), and at nineteen months she completely lost her hearing and vision, and as a result, the ability to learn to speak.

As Helen writes in her autobiography “The Story of My Life”: until the age of seven she lived in complete darkness and silence, she was overwhelmed with desires, but she did not know how to tell her family about them. This made her angry, and she just threw hysterics.

Helen's parents did not give up; they took the girl to the doctors, but the disease was incurable. They were advised one thing - to help the girl adapt as comfortably as possible to society.

What would you do in their place? 19th century There is no talk of any specialized centers or complex operations involving the implantation of medical devices. There were, of course, schools separately for the blind and separately for deaf children, but few had experience teaching a deaf-blind child.

This is how a super woman with a huge “S” enters history - Miss Anne Sullivan. She was hired as a governess for a seven-year-old girl, Helen, who behaved rather wildly and basically did only what she wanted.

How to communicate with a child who cannot see, cannot hear and cannot speak? Who doesn't even suspect that such interaction is real? Anne Sullivan started with love.

According to Helen, her world was very blurry and chaotic. The objects around had no meaning or value; they could be thrown or beaten. Using a toy as an example, Anne Sullivan showed the girl that every thing in the world has a name. She gave Helen the doll and carefully wrote the word “k-u-k-l-a” on its palm. Gradually the girl learned the names of all the things around her in the house. After individual objects, the teacher moved on to something more complex - she decided to teach the girl abstract concepts. When Helen sat on her mother’s lap for a long time, Anne wrote “l-u-b-o-v-b” on her palm. And one day, when the girl could not cope with one task, the nanny wrote “d-u-m-a-y” on her forehead.

“I instantly realized that the word meant a process that was happening in my head. This was my first abstract concept,” Helen writes.

Helen soon learned the alphabet and then learned to read books in Braille. But even this was not enough. She understood that people around communicate in another amazing way - their lips move, and they don’t necessarily have to touch each other to transmit information. So Helen became eager to learn how to talk. At that time, the ten-year-old girl did not even dream that in the future she would graduate from college with honors and give lectures to audiences across the country.

It all started with painstaking and incredibly hard work. When you learn to pronounce words in a new language, you repeat after a native speaker, you can hear your own mistakes and practice. Helen did almost the same thing. The “speaking” lesson consisted of the following steps. The teacher pronounced different sounds in order, and Helen watched the position of her lips, tongue, movement of the larynx and diaphragm. And then she repeated it all herself. So, literally by touch, the girl began to pronounce her first words.

After mastering native English, I went on to study German and French, mathematics, literature, history, Latin, etc.

Helen graduated from Radcliffe University with honors. She began to collaborate with the American Foundation for the Blind and wrote several books. In general, Helen has visited about 35 countries to give performances.

Helen Keller was not the first deaf-blind person to be taught; there were others before her. However, her training experience was the first to be reliably documented. Many teaching methods for people with similar disabilities were based on it..

Helen has become a symbol of struggle for many disabled people, author of an article in the magazine The Journal of Southern Historydescribed her role as follows: "Today Keller is perceived as a national icon, symbolizing the triumph of the disabled".

In 1903, Helen published her first literary work, an autobiography, The Story of My Life. Now this book is included in the required literature curriculum in many American schools., and it has also been translated into 50 languages.

“The Story of My Life” is worth reading and, if you have the opportunity, read it in English. The language is difficult, sometimes too ornate, sentences can seem confusing, and sometimes the abundance of details is confusing. But this book is the work of a man who, bit by bit, collected knowledge about the world that we see with you every day.

There is even a bronze monument to Helen Keller in the US Capitol. And the house in which she spent her childhood is listed on the National Register of Historic Places in America.

But do you know whose monument is still missing? Anne Sullivan. After all, she was only 20 years old when she arrived at the Kellers' house. She is still a very young girl who herself experienced vision problems as a child. The responsibility for a whole new human destiny fell on her shoulders. Helen herself wrote that she considered herself and her nanny to be one whole, “when she is not around, I truly become blind and deaf,” she said.

Anne devoted herself entirely to teaching Helen. She translated school lessons for the girl, university lectures, she traveled with her all over the country and helped work on her autobiography. This is the manifestation of real superpower - superlove, to sacrifice oneself for the good of one's neighbor - a little girl from a southern town. Anne was there until the day of her death (she died after dedicating 50 years of her life to Helen). Without Anne Sullivan, her resourcefulness, courage, patience, and perseverance, the world would never have heard of Helen Keller. Therefore, on April 14 (Ann's Birthday) we can take at least a couple of minutes to say thank you to a real teacher with a capital T. Love works wonders.

Preface

The most amazing thing about the books of the deaf-blind Elena Keller, and she wrote seven books, is that reading them does not evoke either condescending pity or tearful sympathy. It is as if you are reading the notes of a traveler to an unknown country. Vivid, accurate descriptions give the reader the opportunity to experience the unknown, accompanied by a person who is not burdened by an unusual journey, but, it seems, has chosen such a life route himself.

Elena Keller lost her sight and hearing at the age of one and a half years. Acute inflammation of the brain turned the quick-witted little girl into a restless animal who tried in vain to understand what was happening in the world around her and unsuccessfully to explain herself and her desires to this world. The strong and bright nature, which later helped her so much to become a Personality, at first manifested itself only in violent outbursts of uncontrollable anger.

At that time, most of her kind eventually became half-idiots, whom the family carefully hid in the attic or in a far corner. But Elena Keller was lucky. She was born in America, where at that time methods of teaching the deaf and blind were already being developed. And then a miracle happened: at the age of 5, Anna Sullivan, who herself experienced temporary blindness, became her teacher. A talented and patient teacher, a sensitive and loving soul, she became Elena Keller’s life partner and first taught her sign language and everything she knew, and then helped her further education.

Elena Keller lived to be 87 years old. Independence and depth of judgment, willpower and energy won her the respect of many of the most different people, including prominent statesmen, writers, scientists.

Mark Twain said that the two most remarkable personalities of the 19th century were Napoleon and Helen Keller. The comparison, at first glance, is unexpected, but understandable if we recognize that both have changed our understanding of the world and the boundaries of the possible. However, if Napoleon subjugated and united peoples with the power of strategic genius and weapons, then Elena Keller revealed to us from the inside the world of the physically disadvantaged. Thanks to her, we are imbued with compassion and respect for the strength of spirit, the source of which is the kindness of people, the wealth of human thought and faith in God's providence.

Compiled by

THE STORY OF MY LIFE, OR WHAT IS LOVE

To Alexander Graham Bell, who taught the deaf to speak and made it possible to hear the word spoken on the Atlantic coast in the Rocky Mountains, I dedicate this story of my life

Chapter 1. AND THAT DAY IS OUR...

It is with some trepidation that I begin to describe my life. I experience a superstitious hesitation, lifting the veil that envelops my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an autobiography is difficult. When I try to sort through my earliest memories, I find that reality and fantasy are intertwined and stretch through the years in a single chain, connecting the past with the present. A woman now living depicts in her imagination the events and experiences of the child. A few impressions emerge brightly from the depths of my early years, and the rest... “The rest lies in prison darkness.” In addition, the joys and sorrows of childhood lost their sharpness, many events vital to my early development were forgotten in the heat of excitement from new wonderful discoveries. Therefore, for fear of boring you, I will try to present in brief sketches only those episodes that seem to me the most important and interesting.

My family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a native of Switzerland who moved to Maryland. One of my Swiss ancestors was the first teacher of the deaf in Zurich and wrote a book on their education... An extraordinary coincidence. Although, it is true what they say that there is not a single king who does not have a slave among his ancestors, and not a single slave who does not have a king among his ancestors.

My grandfather, the grandson of Caspar Keller, having bought vast lands in Alabama, moved there. I was told that once a year he went on horseback from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia to buy supplies for his plantation, and my aunt has many of his letters to his family with charming, lively descriptions of these trips.

My grandmother was the daughter of Alexander Moore, one of Lafayette's aides-de-camp, and the granddaughter of Alexander Spotwood, the colonial governor of Virginia. She was also Robert E. Lee's second cousin.

My father, Arthur Keller, was a captain in the Confederate army. My mother, Kat Adams, his second wife, was much younger than him.

Before a fatal illness deprived me of my sight and hearing, I lived in a tiny house, consisting of one large square room and a second, small one, in which the maid slept. In the South, it was customary to build a small extension near the large main house, a kind of extension for temporary living. My father built such a house after Civil War, and when he married my mother, they began to live there. Entirely entwined with grapes, climbing roses and honeysuckle, the house from the garden side looked like a gazebo. The small porch was hidden from view by thickets of yellow roses and southern smilax, a favorite haunt of bees and hummingbirds.

The Kellers' main estate, where the whole family lived, was a stone's throw from our little pink gazebo. It was called “Green Ivy” because the house and the surrounding trees and fences were covered with beautiful English ivy. This old-fashioned garden was the paradise of my childhood.

I loved to feel my way along the hard square boxwood hedges and find the first violets and lilies of the valley by smell. It was there that I sought solace after violent outbursts of anger, plunging my flushed face into the coolness of the foliage. How joyful it was to get lost among the flowers, running from place to place, suddenly stumbling upon wonderful grapes, which I recognized by their leaves and clusters. Then I realized that these were grapes that entwined the walls of the summer house at the end of the garden! There, clematis flowed to the ground, branches of jasmine fell, and some rare fragrant flowers grew, which were called moth lilies for their delicate petals, similar to the wings of butterflies. But the roses... they were the most beautiful of all. Never later, in the greenhouses of the North, did I find such soul-quenching roses as those that covered my house in the South. They hung in long garlands over the porch, filling the air with an aroma unclouded by any other odors of the earth. Early in the morning, washed with dew, they were so velvety and clean that I couldn’t help but think: this is probably what the asphodels of God’s Garden of Eden should be like.

The beginning of my life was like the life of any other child. I came, I saw, I won - as always happens with the first child in the family. Of course, there was a lot of controversy about what to call me. The first child in the family cannot be called anything. My father suggested that I be named Mildred Campbell, in honor of one of the great-grandmothers whom he valued highly, and refused to take part in any further discussion. Mother resolved the problem by making it clear that she would like to name me after her mother, whose girl's name was Elena Everett. However, on the way to church with me in his arms, my father naturally forgot this name, especially since it was not one that he seriously considered. When the priest asked him what to name the child, he only remembered that they had decided to name me after my grandmother, and told me her name: Elena Adams.

I was told that even as a baby in long dresses I showed an ardent and decisive character. Everything that others did in my presence, I tried to repeat. At six months I attracted everyone's attention by saying, “Tea, tea, tea,” quite clearly. Even after my illness, I remembered one of the words I learned in those early months. It was the word “water,” and I continued to make similar sounds, trying to repeat it, even after the ability to speak was lost. I stopped repeating “va-va” only when I learned to spell the word.

They told me that I went on the day I turned one. Mother had just taken me out of the bath and was holding me in her lap when suddenly my attention was drawn to the flickering shadows of leaves dancing in the sunlight on the polished floor. I slipped off my mother’s lap and almost ran towards them. When the impulse dried up, I fell and cried so that my mother would take me in her arms again.

Elena Keller Adams. The story of my life

Preface

Elena Keller lived to be 87 years old. Independence and depth of judgment, willpower and energy won her the respect of many different people, including prominent statesmen, writers, and scientists.

Compiled by

THE STORY OF MY LIFE, OR WHAT IS LOVE

To Alexander Graham Bell, who taught the deaf to speak and made it possible to hear the word spoken on the Atlantic coast in the Rocky Mountains, I dedicate this story of my life

Chapter 1. AND THAT DAY IS OUR...

My father, Arthur Keller, was a captain in the Confederate army. My mother, Kat Adams, his second wife, was much younger than him.

Before a fatal illness deprived me of my sight and hearing, I lived in a tiny house, consisting of one large square room and a second, small one, in which the maid slept. In the South, it was customary to build a small extension near the large main house, a kind of extension for temporary living. My father built such a house after the Civil War, and when he married my mother, they began to live there. Entirely entwined with grapes, climbing roses and honeysuckle, the house from the garden side looked like a gazebo. The small porch was hidden from view by thickets of yellow roses and southern smilax, a favorite haunt of bees and hummingbirds.

The beginning of my life was like the life of any other child. I came, I saw, I won - as always happens with the first child in the family. Of course, there was a lot of controversy about what to call me. The first child in the family cannot be called anything. My father suggested that I be named Mildred Campbell, in honor of one of the great-grandmothers whom he valued highly, and refused to take part in any further discussion. My mother resolved the problem by making it clear that she wished to name me after her mother, whose maiden name was Helen Everett. However, on the way to church with me in his arms, my father naturally forgot this name, especially since it was not one that he seriously considered. When the priest asked him what to name the child, he only remembered that they had decided to name me after my grandmother, and told me her name: Elena Adams.

These happy days did not last long. Just one short spring, ringing with the chirping of bullfinches and mockingbirds, just one summer, generous with fruits and roses, just one red-golden autumn... They flew by, leaving their gifts at the feet of an ardent child who admired them. Then, in the dreary gloom of February, illness came, closing my eyes and ears and plunging me into the unconsciousness of a newborn babe. The doctor determined that there was a strong rush of blood to the brain and stomach and thought that I would not survive. However, early one morning the fever left me, as suddenly and mysteriously as it had appeared. There was great rejoicing in the family this morning. No one, not even the doctor, knew that I would never hear or see again.

I retain, it seems to me, vague memories of this illness. I remember the tenderness with which my mother tried to calm me down during the agonizing hours of tossing and pain, as well as my confusion and suffering when I woke up after a restless night spent in delirium, and turned my dry, inflamed eyes to the wall, away from the once beloved light that now every day it became more and more dim. But, with the exception of these fleeting memories, if they really are memories, the past seems somehow unreal to me, like a nightmare.

Gradually, I got used to the darkness and silence that surrounded me, and forgot that once everything was different, until she appeared... my teacher... the one who was destined to release my soul to freedom. But even before she appeared, in the first nineteen months of my life, I caught fleeting images of wide green fields, shining skies, trees and flowers, which the darkness that followed could not completely erase. If we once had sight, “that day is ours, and everything that he showed us is ours.”

Chapter 2. MY LOVED ONES

I can’t remember what happened in the first months after my illness. All I know is that I sat on my mother’s lap or clung to her dress while she did household chores. My hands felt every object, traced every movement, and in this way I was able to learn a lot. Soon I felt the need to communicate with others and began to clumsily give some signs. Shaking your head meant “no”, nodding meant “yes”, pulling towards you meant “come”, pushing away meant “go away”. What if I wanted bread? Then I pretended to cut the slices and spread them with butter. If I wanted ice cream for lunch, I would show them how to turn the handle of the ice cream maker and shake as if I was frozen. Mother managed to explain a lot to me. I always knew when she wanted me to bring something, and I ran in the direction she pushed me. It is to her loving wisdom that I owe everything that was good and bright in my impenetrable long night.

At the age of five, I learned to fold and put away clean clothes when they were brought in after washing, and to distinguish my clothes from others. By the way my mother and aunt dressed, I guessed when they were going out somewhere, and I invariably begged to take me with them. They always sent for me when guests came to us, and, seeing them off, I always waved my hand. I think I have a vague memory of the meaning of this gesture. One day some gentlemen came to visit my mother. I felt the push of the front door closing and other noises that accompanied their arrival. With a sudden epiphany, before anyone could stop me, I ran upstairs, eager to realize my idea of a “going out toilet.” Standing in front of the mirror, as I knew others had done, I poured oil over my head and thickly dusted my face with powder. Then I covered my head with a veil, so that it covered my face and fell in folds over my shoulders. I tied a huge bustle to my childish waist, so that it dangled behind my back, hanging almost to my hem. Thus dressed, I went down the stairs to the living room to entertain the company.

I don’t remember when I first realized that I was different from other people, but I’m sure it happened before my teacher arrived. I noticed that my mother and my friends do not use signs like I do when they want to communicate something to each other. They spoke with their mouths. Sometimes I stood between two interlocutors and touched their lips. However, I could not understand anything, and I was annoyed. I also moved my lips and gestured desperately, but to no avail. At times it made me so angry that I kicked and screamed until I was exhausted.

I guess I knew I was being mean because I knew that by kicking Ella, my nanny, I was hurting her. So when the rage passed, I felt something like regret. But I can't remember a single time when it stopped me from behaving this way if I didn't get what I wanted. My constant companions in those days were Martha Washington, our cook's daughter, and Belle, our old setter, once an excellent huntress. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I was almost always able to get her to do what I wanted. I liked to dominate her, and she most often submitted to my tyranny, without risking getting into a fight. I was strong, energetic and indifferent to the consequences of my actions. At the same time, I always knew what I wanted and insisted on my own, even if I had to fight for it, not sparing my belly. We spent a lot of time in the kitchen, kneading dough, helping make ice cream, grinding coffee beans, fighting over cookies, feeding the chickens and turkeys that scurried around the kitchen porch. Many of them were completely tame, so they ate from their hands and allowed themselves to be touched. One day a big turkey snatched a tomato from me and ran away with it. Inspired by the turkey's example, we stole from the kitchen a sweet cake that the cook had just frosted and ate every last crumb of it. Then I was very sick, and I wondered if the turkey had suffered the same sad fate.

Guinea fowl, do you know, likes to nest in the grass, in the most secluded places. One of my favorite pastimes was hunting for her eggs in the tall grass. I couldn't tell Martha Washington that I wanted to look for eggs, but I could cup my hands together and place them on the grass, indicating something round that was hiding in the grass. Martha understood me. When we were lucky and found a nest, I never allowed her to take the eggs home, making me understand with signs that she might fall and break them.

Grain was stored in the barns, horses were kept in the stables, but there was also a yard where cows were milked in the mornings and evenings. He was a source of unflagging interest for Martha and me. The milkmaids allowed me to put my hands on the cow while milking, and I often received a whip from the cow's tail for my curiosity.

Preparing for Christmas has always brought me joy. Of course, I didn’t know what was going on, but I delighted in the pleasant smells wafting throughout the house and the tidbits that were given to Martha Washington and me to keep us quiet. We undoubtedly got under our feet, but this in no way diminished our pleasure. We were allowed to grind spices, pick through raisins and lick the whorls. I hung my stocking for Santa Claus because others did, but I don’t remember being very interested in this ceremony, causing me to wake up before dawn and run in search of gifts.

Martha Washington loved to play pranks just as much as I did. Two small children were sitting on the veranda on a hot June day. One was black as a tree, with a shock of springy curls, tied with laces into many buns sticking out in different directions. The other is white, with long golden curls. One was six years old, the other two or three years older. The youngest girl was blind, the eldest was named Martha Washington. At first we carefully cut out paper people with scissors, but soon we got tired of this fun and, having cut the laces from our shoes into pieces, we cut off all the leaves from the honeysuckle that we could reach. After that, I turned my attention to the springs of Martha's hair. At first she objected, but then accepted her fate. Deciding then that justice demands retribution, she grabbed the scissors and managed to cut off one of my curls. She would have cut them all off if not for the timely intervention of my mother.

The events of those early years remained in my memory as fragmentary but vivid episodes. They brought meaning to the silent aimlessness of my life.

One day I happened to spill water on my apron, and I spread it in the living room in front of the fireplace to dry. The apron did not dry as quickly as I wanted, and I, coming closer, stuck it directly on the burning coals. The fire shot up, and in an instant the flames engulfed me. My clothes caught fire, I moaned desperately, and the noise attracted Viney, my old nanny, to help. Throwing a blanket over me, she almost suffocated me, but managed to put out the fire. I got off with, one might say, a slight fright.

Around this time I learned to use a key. One morning I locked my mother in the closet, where she was forced to remain for three hours, since the servants were in a remote part of the house. She banged on the door, and I sat outside on the steps and laughed, feeling the shock of each blow. This most harmful leprosy of mine convinced my parents that they needed to start teaching me as soon as possible. After my teacher Anne Sullivan came to see me, I tried to lock her in the room as soon as possible. I went upstairs with something that my mother told me should be given to Miss Sullivan. But as soon as I gave it to her, I slammed the door and locked it, and hid the key in the hall under the wardrobe. My father was forced to climb the ladder and rescue Miss Sullivan through the window, to my indescribable delight. I returned the key only a few months later.

When I was five years old, we moved from a house covered with vines to a large new house. Our family consisted of our father, mother, two older half-brothers and, subsequently, our sister Mildred. My earliest memory of my father is how I make my way to him through piles of paper and find him with a large sheet of paper, which for some reason he holds in front of his face. I was very puzzled, I reproduced his action, even put on his glasses, hoping that they would help me solve the riddle. But for several years this secret remained a secret. Then I found out what newspapers were and that my father published one of them.

My father was an unusually loving and generous man, endlessly devoted to his family. He rarely left us, leaving home only during hunting season. As I was told, he was an excellent hunter, famous for his accuracy as a shooter. He was a hospitable host, perhaps even too hospitable, since he rarely came home without a guest. His special pride was his huge garden, where, according to stories, he grew the most amazing watermelons and strawberries in our area. He always brought me the first ripened grapes and the finest berries. I remember how touched I was by his thoughtfulness as he led me from tree to tree, from vine to vine, and his joy when something gave me pleasure.

He was an excellent storyteller and, after I mastered the language of the mutes, he clumsily drew signs on my palm, conveying his wittiest anecdotes, and what pleased him most was when I then repeated them to the point.

I was in the North, enjoying the last beautiful days of the summer of 1896, when the news of his death arrived. He was ill for a short time, experienced brief but very acute pain - and it was all over. This was my first serious loss, my first personal brush with death.

How can I write about my mother? She is so close to me that talking about her seems indelicate.

For a long time I considered my little sister an invader. I realized that I was no longer the only light in my mother’s window, and this filled me with jealousy. Mildred constantly sat on her mother’s lap, where I was used to sitting, and appropriated all her mother’s care and time. One day something happened that, in my opinion, added insult to injury.

At that time I had an adored, worn-out Nancy doll. Alas, she was a frequent helpless victim of my violent outbursts and ardent affection for her, from which she acquired an even more shabby appearance. I had other dolls that could talk and cry, open and close their eyes, but I didn’t love any of them as much as Nancy. She had her own cradle, and I often rocked her to sleep for an hour or longer. I jealously guarded both the doll and the cradle, but one day I found my little sister sleeping peacefully in it. Outraged by this insolence on the part of someone with whom I had not yet been bound by ties of love, I became furious and overturned the cradle. The child could have hit himself to death, but the mother managed to catch her.

This happens when we wander through the valley of loneliness, almost unaware of the tender affection that grows from kind words, touching deeds and friendly communication. Subsequently, when I returned to the bosom of the human heritage that was rightfully mine, Mildred's and my hearts found each other. After that we were glad to go hand in hand wherever whim led us, although she did not understand my sign language at all, and I did not understand her baby talk.

Chapter 3. FROM THE DARKNESS OF EGYPT

As I grew up, my desire to express myself grew. The few signs I used became less and less responsive to my needs, and the inability to explain what I wanted was accompanied by outbursts of rage. I felt like some invisible hands were holding me, and I made desperate efforts to free myself. I struggled. It’s not that these flounderings helped, but the spirit of resistance was very strong in me. Usually I would end up bursting into tears and end up completely exhausted. If my mother happened to be nearby at that moment, I would crawl into her arms, too unhappy to remember the cause of the storm. After some time, the need for new ways of communicating with others became so urgent that outbursts of anger were repeated every day, and sometimes every hour.

My parents were deeply upset and puzzled. We lived too far from schools for the blind or deaf, and it seemed unrealistic that anyone would travel such a distance to teach a child privately. At times, even my friends and family doubted that I could be taught anything. For my mother, the only ray of hope flashed in Charles Dickens's book American Notes. She read there a story about Laura Bridgman, who, like me, was deaf and blind, and yet received an education. But mother also remembered with hopelessness that Dr. Howe, who discovered the method of teaching the deaf and blind, had long since died. Perhaps his methods died with him, and even if they did not die, then how could a little girl in distant Alabama take advantage of these wonderful benefits?

When I was six years old, my father heard about a prominent Baltimore ophthalmologist who was achieving success in many cases that seemed hopeless. My parents decided to take me to Baltimore and see if anything could be done for me.

The journey was very pleasant. I never once fell into anger: too much occupied my mind and hands. I made friends with many people on the train. One lady gave me a box of shells. My father drilled holes in them so that I could string them, and they happily occupied me for a long time. The carriage conductor also turned out to be very kind. Many times, clinging to the hem of his jacket, I followed him as he walked around the passengers, punching tickets. His composter, which he gave me to play with, was a magical toy. Sitting comfortably in the corner of my sofa, I amused myself for hours by punching holes in pieces of cardboard.

My aunt rolled me a big doll out of towels. It was an extremely ugly creature, without nose, mouth, eyes or ears; this one homemade doll not even a child's imagination could detect the face. It is curious that the absence of eyes struck me more than all the other defects of the doll combined. I persistently pointed this out to those around me, but no one thought of adding eyes to the doll. Suddenly a brilliant idea struck me: jumping off the sofa and rummaging under it, I found my aunt’s cloak, trimmed with large beads. Having torn off two beads, I indicated to my aunt that I wanted her to sew them to the doll. She raised my hand to her eyes questioningly, and I nodded decisively in response. The beads were sewn on the right places, and I couldn’t contain my joy. However, immediately after this I lost all interest in the doll that had regained its sight.

Upon arrival in Baltimore, we met with Dr. Chisholm, who received us very kindly, but could not do anything. He, however, advised his father to seek advice from Dr. Alexander Graham Bell from Washington. He can give information about schools and teachers for deaf or blind children. On the doctor's advice, we immediately went to Washington to see Dr. Bell.

My father traveled with a heavy heart and great fears, and I, unaware of his suffering, rejoiced, enjoying the pleasure of moving from place to place.

From the first minutes I felt tenderness and compassion emanating from Dr. Bell, which, along with his amazing scientific achievements, conquered many hearts. He held me on his lap, and I looked at his pocket watch, which he made to ring for me. He understood my signs well. I realized this and loved him for it. However, I could not even dream that meeting him would become the door through which I would move from darkness to light, from forced loneliness to friendship, communication, knowledge, love.

Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, the director of the Perkins Institute in Boston, where Dr. Howe had once worked, and ask if he knew of a teacher who could undertake my education. The father did this at once, and a few weeks later a kind letter arrived from Dr. Anagnos with the comforting news that such a teacher had been found. This happened in the summer of 1886, but Miss Sullivan did not come to us until the following March.

In this way I came out of the darkness of Egypt and stood before Sinai. And the Divine Power touched my soul, and it received its sight, and I experienced many miracles. I heard a voice that said: “Knowledge is love, light and insight.”

Chapter 4. APPROACHING STEPS

The most important day of my life was the one when my teacher Anna Sullivan came to see me. I am filled with amazement when I think of the immense contrast between the two lives connected on this day. This happened on March 7, 1887, three months before I turned seven years old.

On that significant day, in the afternoon, I stood on the porch, dumb, deaf, blind, waiting. From the signs from my mother, from the bustle in the house, I vaguely guessed that something unusual was about to happen. So I left the house and sat down to wait for this “something” on the steps of the porch. The midday sun, breaking through the masses of honeysuckle, warmed my face raised to the sky. Fingers almost unconsciously fingered familiar leaves and flowers, just blooming towards the sweet southern spring. I didn’t know what miracle or wonder the future had in store for me. Anger and bitterness continually tormented me, replacing passionate violence with deep exhaustion.

Have you ever found yourself at sea in a thick fog, when it seems that a dense white haze envelops you to the touch, and big ship in desperate anxiety, warily feeling the depth with his lot, he makes his way to the shore, and you wait with your heart beating, what will happen? Before my training began, I was like such a ship, only without a compass, without a lot or any way of knowing how far it was to a quiet bay. "Sveta! Give me light! - beat the silent cry of my soul.

And the light of love shone over me at that very hour.

I felt footsteps approaching. I extended my hand, as I assumed, to my mother. Someone took her - and I found myself caught, squeezed in the arms of the one who came to me to reveal all that exists and, most importantly, to love me.

The next morning upon arrival, my teacher took me to her room and gave me a doll. It was sent by the kids from the Perkins Institute, and Laura Bridgman dressed it. But I learned all this later. After I played with it a little, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled out the word "k-u-k-l-a" on my palm. I immediately became interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally managed to depict all the letters correctly, I blushed with pride and pleasure. I immediately ran to my mother, raised my hand and repeated to her the signs depicting the doll. I didn't realize I was spelling a word or even what it meant; I simply, like a monkey, folded my fingers and made them imitate what I felt. In the following days, just as thoughtlessly, I learned to write many words, such as “hat”, “cup”, “mouth”, and several verbs - “sit down”, “stand up”, “go”. But it was only after several weeks of lessons with the teacher that I realized that everything in the world has a name.

One day, while I was playing with my new porcelain doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll on my lap, spelled out “k-u-k-l-a” and made it clear that the word applied to both . Earlier we had a fight over the words “s-t-a-k-a-n” and “v-o-d-a”. Miss Sullivan tried to explain to me that "glass" is glass and "water" is water, but I kept confusing one with the other. In desperation, she stopped trying to reason with me for a while, only to resume them at the first opportunity. I was tired of her pestering and, grabbing a new doll, I threw it on the floor. With acute pleasure I felt its fragments at my feet. My wild outburst was followed by neither sadness nor repentance. I didn't like this doll. Still dark world where I lived, there were no heartfelt feelings, no tenderness. I felt the teacher sweep the remains of the unfortunate doll towards the fireplace, and felt satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort had been eliminated. She brought me a hat, and I realized that I was about to go out into the warm sunlight. This thought, if a wordless sensation can be called a thought, made me jump with pleasure.

We walked along the path to the well, attracted by the scent of honeysuckle that covered its fence. Someone stood there and pumped water. My teacher put my hand under the stream. As the cold stream hit my palm, she spelled out the word “v-o-d-a” on the other palm, first slowly and then quickly. I froze, my attention focused on the movement of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a vague image of something forgotten... the delight of a returned thought. Somehow the mysterious essence of language was suddenly revealed to me. I realized that “water” was a wonderful coolness pouring over my palm. The living world awakened my soul and gave it light.

I left the well full of zeal to study. Everything in the world has a name! Each new name gave birth to a new thought! On the way back, life pulsated in every object I touched. This happened because I saw everything with some strange new vision that I had just acquired. Entering my room, I remembered the broken doll. I carefully approached the fireplace and picked up the debris. I tried in vain to put them together. My eyes filled with tears as I realized what I had done. For the first time I felt remorse.

That day I learned a lot of new words. I don’t remember now which ones exactly, but I know for sure that among them were: “mother”, “father”, “sister”, “teacher”... words that made the world around blossom like Aaron’s rod. In the evening, when I lay down in bed, it would be difficult to find a happier child in the world than me. I relived all the joys that this day had brought me, and for the first time I dreamed of the coming of a new day.

Chapter 5. TREE OF PARADISE

I remember many episodes in the summer of 1887 that followed the sudden awakening of my soul. I did nothing except feel with my hands and learn the names of every object I touched. And the more things I touched, the more I learned their names and purposes, the more confident I became, the stronger my connection with the world around me.

When it was time for the daisies and buttercups to bloom, Miss Sullivan led me by the hand through a field where farmers were plowing, preparing the land for planting, to the banks of the Tennessee River. There, sitting on the warm grass, I received my first lessons in understanding the grace of nature. I learned how the sun and rain make every tree that is pleasant to the eye and good for food grow out of the ground, how birds make their nests and live by flying from place to place, how the squirrel, deer, lion and every other creature find their food and shelter. As my knowledge of subjects grew, I became more and more happy about the world in which I live. Long before I could add numbers or describe the shape of the Earth, Miss Sullivan taught me to find beauty in the scent of the forests, in every blade of grass, in the curves and dimples of my little sister's hand. She connected my early thoughts with nature and made me feel that I was equal to the birds and flowers, happy like them. But around this time I experienced something that taught me that nature is not always kind.

One day my teacher and I were returning after a long walk. The morning was beautiful, but when we turned back, it became sultry. Two or three times we stopped to rest under the trees. Our last stop was at a wild cherry tree not far from our house. Spreading and shady, this tree seemed to be created so that I could climb it with the help of the teacher and settle into the fork of the branches. It was so cozy and pleasant in the tree that Miss Sullivan suggested that I have breakfast there. I promised to sit still while she went home and brought food.

Suddenly some change happened to the tree. The warmth of the sun disappeared from the air. I realized that the sky had darkened, since the heat, which meant light for me, had disappeared somewhere from the surrounding space. A strange smell rose from the ground. I knew that such a smell always precedes a thunderstorm, and a nameless fear squeezed my heart. I felt completely cut off from friends and solid ground. An unknown abyss swallowed me up. I continued to sit quietly, waiting, but a chilling horror slowly took over me. I longed for the teacher to return, more than anything I wanted to come down from this tree.

There was an ominous silence, and then the tremulous movement of a thousand leaves. A trembling ran through the tree, and a gust of wind almost knocked me down if I had not clung to the branch with all my might. The tree tensed and swayed. Small twigs crunched around me. A wild desire to jump overtook me, but horror did not allow me to move. I crouched in the fork of branches. From time to time I felt a strong shaking: something heavy fell down, and the blow of the fall returned up the trunk, to the branch on which I was sitting. The tension reached its highest point, but just when I thought that the tree and I would fall to the ground together, the teacher grabbed my hand and helped me down. I clung to her, trembling with the realization of a new lesson: that nature “wages open war with her children, and under her most tender touch treacherous claws often lurk.”

After this experience, a long time passed before I decided to climb the tree again. Just the thought of this filled me with horror. But in the end, the alluring sweetness of the fragrant mimosa in full bloom overcame my fears.

On a beautiful spring morning, when I was sitting alone in the summer house and reading, a wonderful breath suddenly came over me. the most delicate aroma. I shuddered and involuntarily extended my hands forward. It seemed as if the spirit of spring had flown over me. "What is this?" - I asked and the next minute I recognized the smell of mimosa. I groped my way to the end of the garden, knowing that there was a mimosa tree growing near the fence, at the turn of the path. Yes, here it is!..

The tree stood trembling in the sunlight, its branches laden with flowers almost touching the tall grass. Was there anything so exquisitely beautiful in the world before! The sensitive leaves shrank at the slightest touch. It seemed like a tree of paradise miraculously transported to earth. Through the shower of flowers I made my way to the trunk, stood for a moment in indecision, then put my foot in a wide fork in the branches and began to pull myself up. It was difficult to hold on to the branches, because my palm could barely grasp them, and the bark painfully dug into my skin. But I felt an amazing feeling that I was doing something unusual and amazing, and therefore I climbed higher and higher until I reached a small seat that someone had installed in the crown so long ago that it had grown into the tree and became part of it. I sat there for a long, long time, feeling like a fairy on a pink cloud. After that, I spent many happy hours in the branches of my heavenly tree, immersed in dark thoughts and bright dreams.

Chapter 6. WHAT IS LOVE

Hearing children acquire the gift of speech without much effort. They enthusiastically pick up the words that other people drop from their lips on the fly. A deaf child must learn them slowly and often painfully. But, no matter how difficult this process is, its result is wonderful.

Gradually, step by step, Miss Sullivan and I moved forward until we had covered the vast distance from the first stuttering syllables to the flight of thought in the lines of Shakespeare.

At first I asked few questions. My ideas about the world were vague, and my vocabulary was poor. But, as my knowledge expanded and I learned more and more words, my field of interests also expanded. I returned again and again to the same subject, thirsting for new information. Sometimes a new word brought to life an image imprinted in my brain by some early experience.

I remember the morning when I first asked about the meaning of the word “love.” I found some early violets in the garden and brought them to my teacher. She tried to kiss me, but at that time I did not like to be kissed by anyone except my mother. Miss Sullivan put her arm around me affectionately and spelled out "I love Elena" on my palm.

"What is love?" - I asked.

She drew me to her and said: “It’s here,” pointing to my heart, the beats of which I then felt for the first time. Her words puzzled me greatly, because at that time I did not understand what I could not touch.

I smelled the violets in her hand and, partly with words, partly with signs, asked a question, the meaning of which meant: “Is love the scent of flowers?” “No,” my teacher answered.

I thought again. The warm sun shone on us.

“Is this love? - I insisted, pointing in the direction where the life-giving heat was coming from. “Isn’t this love?”

It seemed to me that there could be nothing more beautiful than the sun, whose warmth makes everything live and grow. But Miss Sullivan shook her head, and I fell silent again, puzzled and disappointed. I thought: how strange it is that my teacher, who knows so much, cannot show me love.

A day or two later, I stringed beads of different sizes, alternating them symmetrically: three large - two small, and so on. At the same time, I made many mistakes, and Miss Sullivan patiently, again and again, pointed them out to me. Finally, I myself noticed an obvious error in the sequence, concentrated for a moment and tried to figure out how to combine the beads further. Miss Sullivan touched my forehead and wrote with emphasis: “Think.”

In an instant it dawned on me that this word was the name of a process taking place in my head. This was my first conscious understanding of an abstract idea.

For a long time I sat not thinking about the beads on my lap, but trying, in the light of this new approach to the process of thinking, to find the meaning of the word “love”. I remember well that that day the sun was hidden behind the clouds, there were brief showers, but suddenly the sun broke through the clouds with all the southern splendor.

I asked my teacher again: “Is this love?”

“Love is like the clouds that cover the sky until the sun comes out,” she replied. - You see, you can’t touch the clouds, but you feel the rain and know how happy the flowers and the thirsty earth are after a hot day. In the same way, you cannot touch love, but you feel its sweetness penetrating everywhere. Without love, you wouldn’t be happy and you wouldn’t want to play.”

A beautiful truth dawned on my mind. I felt invisible threads stretching between my soul and the souls of other people...

From the very beginning of my education, Miss Sullivan made it a habit to talk to me as she would to any other non-deaf child. The only difference was that she spelled the phrases on my hand instead of saying them out loud. If I didn't know the words needed to express my thoughts, she told them to me, even suggested answers when I couldn't carry on a conversation.

This process continued for several years, because a deaf child cannot learn in a month or even in two or three years the countless word combinations used in the simplest everyday communication. A child who has hearing learns it from constant repetition and imitation. The conversations he hears at home awaken his curiosity and offer new topics, causing an involuntary response in his soul. A deaf child is deprived of this natural exchange of thoughts. My teacher repeated to me, as much as possible, verbatim, everything she heard around her, telling me how I could take part in conversations. However, it took a long time before I decided to take the initiative, and even longer before I was able to say the right words at the right moment.

It is very difficult for the blind and deaf to acquire the skills of pleasant conversation. How much greater are these difficulties for those who are both blind and deaf! They cannot distinguish intonations that give meaning and expressiveness to speech. They cannot observe the expression on the speaker’s face, they do not see the look that reveals the soul of the one who is speaking to you.

Chapter 7. GIRL IN THE CLOSET

Next important step my education was learning to read.

As soon as I could form a few words, my teacher gave me pieces of cardboard with words printed in raised letters. I quickly realized that each printed word represented an object, an action, or a property. I had a frame in which I could assemble words into small sentences, but before I composed these sentences in the frame, I, so to speak, realized them from objects. I put my doll on the bed and laid out the words “doll”, “on”, “bed” next to it. In this way I composed a phrase and at the same time expressed the meaning of this phrase with the objects themselves.

Miss Sullivan recalled that I once pinned the word “girl” to my apron and stood in my wardrobe. On the shelf I laid out the words “in” and “closet.” Nothing gave me as much pleasure as this game. The teacher and I could play it for hours. Often the entire furnishings of the room were rearranged to suit the constituent parts of the various proposals.

From raised printed cards there was one step to a printed book. In my "ABC for Beginners" I looked for words that I knew. When I found them, my joy was akin to the joy of the “driver” in a game of hide and seek, when he discovers someone who was hiding from him.

For a long time I did not have regular lessons. I studied very diligently, but it felt more like play than work. Everything Miss Sullivan taught me she illustrated with a charming story or poem. When I liked something or found it interesting, she would talk to me about it as if she were a little girl herself. Anything that kids consider boring, painful, or scary cramming (grammar, difficult math problems, or even more difficult classes) are still among my favorite memories.

I cannot explain the special sympathy with which Miss Sullivan regarded my amusements and whims. Perhaps this was a consequence of her long association with the blind. Added to this was her amazing ability for vivid and lively descriptions. She quickly touched on uninteresting details and never tormented me with test questions to make sure that I remembered from the lesson the day before yesterday. She introduced me to the dry technical details of the sciences little by little, making each subject so joyful that I could not help but remember what she taught me.

We read and studied outside, preferring the sun-drenched forests to home. In all my early activities there was the breath of oak forests, the tart resinous smell of pine needles mixed with the aroma of wild grapes. Sitting in the blessed shade of a tulip tree, I learned to understand that everything has significance and justification. “And the beauty of things taught me their benefits...” Truly everything that buzzed, chirped, sang or bloomed took part in my upbringing: loud-voiced frogs, crickets and grasshoppers, which I carefully held in the palm of my hand until they, having become accustomed, started up again their trills and squawks, fluffy chicks and wildflowers, blooming dogwoods, meadow violets and apple blossoms.

I touched the opening cotton bolls, felt their loose pulp and shaggy seeds. I felt the sighs of the wind in the movement of the ears, the silky rustle of the long leaves of the maize and the indignant snort of my pony when we caught him in the meadow and put the bit in his mouth. Oh, my God! How well I remember the spicy clover smell of his breath!..

Sometimes I rose at dawn and made my way into the garden while heavy dew still lay on the herbs and flowers. Few people know what a joy it is to feel the tenderness of rose petals clinging to your palm, or the lovely swaying of lilies in the morning breeze. Sometimes, when I picked a flower, I grabbed some insect with it and felt the faint movement of a pair of wings rubbing against each other in a fit of sudden horror.

Another favorite place for my morning walks was the orchard, where the fruits ripened starting in July. Large peaches, covered with light fluff, fell into my hand on their own, and when playful winds blew into the treetops, apples fell at my feet. Oh, with what pleasure I collected them in my apron and, pressing my face to the smooth apple cheeks, still warm from the sun, skipped in a hurry to go home!

The teacher and I often went to Keller's Landing, an old, dilapidated wooden landing stage on the Tennessee River that was used to land soldiers during the Civil War. Miss Sullivan and I spent many happy hours there studying geography. I built dams from pebbles, created lakes and islands, deepened the riverbed, all for fun, without thinking at all that I was learning lessons at the same time. With increasing amazement I listened to Miss Sullivan's stories about the big world around us, with its fire-spewing mountains, buried cities, moving icy rivers and many other, no less strange phenomena. She made me sculpt convex geographical maps out of clay so that I could feel the mountain ranges and valleys, trace the winding flow of rivers with my finger. I really liked it, but the division of the Earth into climatic zones and poles brought confusion and confusion into my head. The laces that illustrated these concepts and the wooden sticks that denoted the poles seemed so real to me that to this day the very mention of a climate zone evokes in me the image of numerous circles made of twine. I have no doubt that if someone tried, I could forever believe that polar bears actually climb to the North Pole sticking out of the globe.

It seems that only arithmetic did not evoke any love in me. From the very beginning I was not at all interested in the science of numbers. Miss Sullivan tried to teach me counting by stringing beads in groups, or addition and subtraction by moving straws one way or the other. However, I never had the patience to select and arrange more than five or six groups per lesson. As soon as I finished the task, I considered my duty fulfilled and immediately ran away in search of playmates.

In the same leisurely manner I studied zoology and botany.

One day, a gentleman whose name I have forgotten sent me a collection of fossils. There were shells with beautiful patterns, pieces of sandstone with bird footprints, and a lovely raised fern relief. They became the keys that opened the world before the flood to me. With trembling fingers, I perceived images of terrible monsters with clumsy, unpronounceable names, who once wandered through primeval forests, stripping branches from giant trees for food, and then dying in the swamps of prehistoric times. These strange creatures disturbed my dreams for a long time, and the dark period in which they lived became a dark background for my joyful Today, full of sunshine and roses, echoing with the light clatter of my pony’s hooves.

Another time, I was given a beautiful shell, and with childish delight I learned how this tiny mollusk had created a shining home for itself, and how on quiet nights, when the breeze does not wrinkle the surface of the water, the nautilus mollusk sails along the blue waves of the Indian Ocean in its boat from mother of pearl My teacher read me the book “The Nautilus and His House” and explained that the process of creating a shell by a mollusk is similar to the process of developing the mind. Just as the miraculous mantle of the nautilus transforms the substance absorbed from the water into a part of itself, so the particles of knowledge absorbed by us undergo a similar change, turning into pearls of thoughts.

The growth of the flower provided food for another lesson. We bought a lily with pointed buds ready to open. It seemed to me that the thin leaves, enveloping them like fingers, opened slowly and reluctantly, as if not wanting to show the world the beauty they were hiding. The process of blossoming was going on, but systematically and continuously. There was always one bud larger and more beautiful than the others, which pushed aside its outer coverings with greater solemnity, like a beauty in delicate silken robes, confident that she was the queen lily by right given to her from above, while her more timid sisters shyly moved their green caps until the entire plant became a single nodding branch, the embodiment of fragrance and charm.

At one time, on the windowsill, covered with plants, there was a glass aquarium ball with eleven tadpoles. How fun it was to put your hand in there and feel the quick jolts of their movement, letting the tadpoles slide between your fingers and along your palm. Somehow the most ambitious of them jumped above the water and jumped out of the glass bowl onto the floor, where I found him, rather dead than alive. The only sign of life was a slight twitching of the tail. However, as soon as he returned to his element, he rushed to the bottom, and then began to swim in circles in wild fun. He had made his leap, he had seen the big world and was now ready to calmly wait in his glass house under the shade of a huge fuchsia tree for the achievement of mature froghood. Then he will go to live permanently in the shady pond at the end of the garden, where he will fill the summer nights with the music of his funny serenades.

This is how I learned from nature itself. In the beginning, I was just a lump of undiscovered possibilities of living matter. My teacher helped them develop. When she appeared, everything around was filled with love and joy, taking on significance and meaning. Since then, she never missed an opportunity to show that beauty is in everything, and she never stopped trying to make my life pleasant and useful with her thoughts, actions, and example.

The genius of my teacher, her instant responsiveness, her emotional tact made the first years of my education so wonderful. She caught the right moment to transfer knowledge, I was able to perceive it with pleasure. She understood that a child’s mind is like a shallow stream that runs, babbling and playing, over the pebbles of knowledge and reflects either a flower or a curly cloud. Rushing further and further along this channel, like any stream, it will be fed by hidden springs until it becomes a wide and deep river, capable of reflecting undulating hills, shining shadows of trees and blue skies, as well as the sweet head of a modest flower.

Every teacher can bring a child into the classroom, but not everyone can make him learn. A child will not work willingly if he does not feel that he is free to choose an activity or recreation. He must feel the delight of victory and the bitterness of disappointment before he takes up work that is unpleasant to him, and cheerfully begins to make his way through the textbooks.

My teacher is so close to me that I can’t imagine myself without her. It is difficult for me to say how much of my enjoyment of everything beautiful was instilled in me by nature, and how much came to me thanks to her influence. I feel that her soul is inseparable from mine, all my steps in life echo in her. All the best in me belongs to her: there is no talent, no inspiration, no joy in me that her loving touch would not awaken in me.

Chapter 8. MERRY CHRISTMAS

The first Christmas after Miss Sullivan's arrival in Tuscumbia was a great event. Every member of the family had a surprise for me, but what pleased me most was that Miss Sullivan and I also had surprises for everyone else. The mystery with which we surrounded our gifts delighted me beyond words. Friends tried to arouse my curiosity with words and phrases written on my hand, which they cut off before finishing. Miss Sullivan and I encouraged this game, which taught me a much better sense of language than any formal lessons. Every evening, sitting by the fire with blazing logs, we played our guessing game, which became more and more exciting as Christmas approached.

On Christmas Eve, the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their own Christmas tree, to which we were invited. In the center of the classroom stood, all lit up, a beautiful tree. Its branches, laden with wonderful strange fruits, shimmered in the soft light. It was a moment of indescribable happiness. I danced and jumped around the tree in ecstasy. Having learned that a gift had been prepared for each child here, I was very happy, and the kind people who organized the holiday allowed me to distribute these gifts to the children. Absorbed in the delight of this activity, I forgot to look for the gifts intended for me. When I remembered them, my impatience knew no bounds. I realized that the gifts received were not those that my loved ones had hinted about. My teacher assured me that the gifts would be even more wonderful. I was persuaded to be content with the gifts from the school tree for now and to be patient until the morning.

That night, after hanging up the stocking, I pretended to be asleep for a long time so as not to miss the arrival of Santa Claus. Finally, with a new doll and a white bear in my hands, I fell asleep. The next morning I woke up the whole family with my first, “Merry Christmas!” I found surprises not only in my stocking, but also on the table, on all the chairs, by the door and on the windowsill. Really, I couldn’t step without bumping into something wrapped in rustling paper. And when my teacher gave me a canary, my cup of bliss overflowed.

Miss Sullivan taught me how to take care of my pet. Every morning after breakfast, I prepared his bath, cleaned his cage to keep it neat and cozy, filled his feeders with fresh seeds and well water, and hung a sprig of chickweed on his swing. Little Tim was so tame that he would jump on my finger and peck the candied cherries from my hand.

One morning I left the cage on the windowsill while I went to get water for Tim’s bath. As I was returning, a cat slipped past me from the door, brushing me with its furry side. Having stuck my hand into the cage, I did not feel the slight flutter of Tim’s wings, his sharp clawed paws did not grab my finger. And I realized that I would never see my sweet little singer again...

Chapter 9. TOUCHING HISTORY

Next important event in my life was a visit to Boston, to the Institute for the Blind, in May 1888. I remember like yesterday, the preparations, our departure with my mother and my teacher, the journey itself and, finally, our arrival in Boston. How different this trip was from the one to Baltimore two years earlier! I was no longer a restless, excited creature, demanding attention from everyone on the train so as not to get bored. I sat quietly next to Miss Sullivan, intently taking in everything she told me about the things passing by outside the window: the beautiful Tennessee River, the vast cotton fields, the hills and forests, about the laughing Negroes who waved to us from the platforms at the stations, and between stations they passed on wagons with delicious balls of popcorn. From the opposite seat, my rag doll Nancy, in a new plaid chintz dress and a frilly summer hat, stared at me with beady eyes. Sometimes, distracted from Miss Sullivan's stories, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her in my arms, but more often I calmed my conscience by telling myself that she was probably sleeping.

Since I will have no further opportunity to mention Nancy, I would like to relate here the sad fate that befell her shortly after our arrival in Boston. She was all smeared with dirt from the shortbread cakes that I fed her heavily, although Nancy never showed any particular inclination towards them. The washerwoman at the Perkins Institute secretly took her to give her a bath. This, however, turned out to be beyond the capabilities of poor Nancy. The next time I saw her, she was a shapeless heap of rags, unrecognizable if not for two beady eyes looking at me reproachfully.

Finally the train arrived at Boston Station. It was a fairy tale, which came true. The fabulous “once upon a time” turned into “now,” and what was called “in the far side” turned out to be “here.”

No sooner had we arrived at the Perkins Institute than I had already made friends among small blind children. I was incredibly happy that they knew the “manual alphabet”. What a pleasure it was to converse with others in your own language! Until then, I was a foreigner speaking through an interpreter. However, it took me some time to realize that my new friends were blind. I knew that, unlike other people, I could not see, but I could not believe that these sweet, friendly children who surrounded me and cheerfully included me in their games were also blind. I remember the surprise and pain I felt when I noticed that, like me, they put their hands on top of mine during our conversations and that they read books with their fingers. Although I had been told about this before, although I was aware of my deprivation, I vaguely assumed that if they could hear, they must surely have some kind of “second sight”. I was completely unprepared to discover one child, then another, then a third, deprived of this precious gift. But they were so happy and satisfied with life that my regrets melted away in communication with them.

One day spent with blind children made me feel like I was in a new environment - just like at home. The days passed quickly, and each new day brought me more and more pleasant experiences. I couldn’t believe that there was a big unknown world outside the walls of the institute: for me, Boston was the beginning and the end of everything.

While in Boston, we visited Bunker Hill, and there I received my first history lesson. The story of the brave men who fought bravely in the place where we now stood excited me extremely. I climbed onto the monument, counted all its steps and, climbing higher and higher, thought about how the soldiers climbed this long ladder to shoot at those standing below.

The next day we went to Plymouth. This was my first trip on the ocean, my first trip on a steamship. How much life and movement there was there! However, mistaking the roar of cars for the thunder of a thunderstorm, I burst into tears, afraid that if it rained, we would not be able to have a picnic. What interested me most in Plymouth was the cliff where the Pilgrims, the first settlers from Europe, landed. I was able to touch it with my hands and, probably, that’s why the arrival of the pilgrims to America, their labors and great deeds became alive and dear to me. I then often held in my hands a small model of Pilgrim's Rock, which some kind gentleman gave me there on the hill. I felt its curves, the crevice in the center and the depressed numbers “1602” - and everything I knew about this wonderful story with settlers who landed on a wild coast flashed through my head.

How my imagination ran wild with the splendor of their feat! I adored them, considering them the bravest and kindest people. Years later, I was very surprised and disappointed to learn how they persecuted other people. It makes us feel ashamed even as we praise their courage and energy.

Among the many friends I met in Boston were Mr. William Endicott and his daughter. Their kindness to me became a seed from which many pleasant memories sprouted in the future. We visited them beautiful house at Beverly Farms. I remember with delight how I walked through their rose garden, how their dogs, the huge Leo and the little curly-haired and long-eared Fritz, came to meet me, how Nimrod, the fastest horse, poked his nose into my hands in search of sugar. I also remember the beach where I first played in the sand, dense and smooth, very different from the loose, prickly sand mixed with shells and rags of algae in Brewster. Mr. Endicott told me about big ships, sailing from Boston to Europe. I saw him many times after that, and he always remained a good friend to me. I always think of it when I call Boston "The City good hearts».

Chapter 10. THE SMELL OF THE OCEAN

Before the Perkins Institute closed for the summer, it was decided that my teacher and I would spend the holidays in Brewster, on Cape Cod, with Mrs. Hopkins, our dear friend.

Until then, I had always lived inland and never breathed a breath of salty sea air. However, in the book “Our World” I read a description of the ocean and was filled with amazement and an impatient desire to touch the ocean wave and feel the roar of the surf. My childish heart beat excitedly when I realized that my cherished wish would soon come true.

As soon as they helped me change into a bathing suit, I jumped up from the warm sand and fearlessly threw myself into the cool water. I felt the swaying of powerful waves. They rose and fell. The living movement of water awakened in me a piercing, tremulous joy. Suddenly my ecstasy turned to horror: my foot hit a stone, and the next moment a wave overwhelmed my head. I stretched my arms forward, trying to find at least some kind of support, but I squeezed in my palms only water and pieces of seaweed that the waves threw in my face. All my desperate efforts were in vain. It was scary! Reliable solid ground slipped out from under my feet, and everything - life, warmth, air, love - disappeared somewhere, obscured by the wild, all-encompassing elements... Finally, the ocean, having had plenty of fun with its new toy, threw me back to the shore, and the next for a minute I was wrapped in the arms of my teacher. Oh, this cozy long affectionate hug! As soon as I recovered enough from the fright to speak, I immediately demanded an answer: “Who put so much salt in this water?”

Having recovered from my first stay in the water, I thought that the most wonderful entertainment was to sit in a swimsuit on a large stone in the surf and feel the roll of wave after wave. Breaking against the stones, they showered me with splashes from head to toe. I felt the movement of pebbles, the light blows of pebbles, as the waves threw their considerable weight onto the shore, which shook under their furious attack. The air trembled from their onslaught. The waves rolled back to gather strength for a new impulse, and I, tense, enchanted, felt with my whole body the power of the water avalanche rushing towards me.

Each time it took me a lot of difficulty to leave the ocean shore. The astringency of the clean and free, unpolluted air was akin to calm, unhurried, deep reflection. Shells, pebbles, pieces of seaweed with tiny sea animals clinging to them have never lost their charm for me. One day Miss Sullivan called my attention to a strange creature which she had caught while basking in the shallows. It was a crab. I felt him and found it amazing that he carried his house on his back. I decided that he would probably make an excellent friend, and I did not leave Miss Sullivan alone until she had placed him in a hole near the well, where I had no doubt that he would be completely safe. However, the next morning, when I got there, alas, I discovered that my crab had disappeared. Nobody knew where he had gone. My disappointment was bitter, but little by little I realized that it was unwise and cruel to forcibly snatch the poor creature out of its element. And a little later I felt joyful at the thought that, perhaps, he had returned to his native sea.

Chapter 11. THE GREAT HUNT

In the fall, I returned home, with my soul and heart overflowing with joyful memories. Looking over my memory of the variety of impressions from my stay in the North, I am still amazed at this miracle. It seemed that this was the beginning of all beginnings. Treasures of the new lay at my feet beautiful world, I enjoyed the newness of pleasure and knowledge gained at every step. I got used to everything. I was not at peace for a minute. My life was full of movement, like those tiny insects that fit their entire life into one day. I met many people who talked to me, drawing signs on my hand, after which a miracle happened!.. The barren desert where I used to live suddenly blossomed like a rose garden.

I spent the next few months with my family at our summer cottage located in the mountains, 14 miles from Tuscumbia. Nearby there was an abandoned quarry where limestone was once mined. Three playful streams flowed down from the mountain springs, running down in cheerful waterfalls from the stones trying to block their path. The entrance to the quarry was overgrown with tall ferns, which completely covered the limestone slopes, and in some places blocked the path of the streams. A dense forest rose to the very top of the mountain. There were huge oaks and luxurious evergreen trees, the trunks of which resembled mossy columns, and garlands of ivy and mistletoe hung from the branches. There were also wild persimmons growing there, from which a sweet aroma flowed, penetrating into every corner of the forest, inexplicably pleasing the heart. In several places, vines of wild muscadine grapes stretch from tree to tree, creating bowers for butterflies and other insects. What a pleasure it was to get lost in the summer twilight in these thickets and inhale the fresh amazing smells rising from the ground at the end of the day!

Our cottage, which looked like a peasant hut, stood in an unusually beautiful place, on the top of a mountain, among oaks and pines. Small rooms were located on either side of a long open hall. There was a wide area around the house, along which the mountain wind flowed freely, filled with the fragrant aromas of the forest. Miss Sullivan and I spent most of our time on this site. There we worked, ate, played. There was a huge hazel tree at the back door of the house, around which the porch was built. In front of the house, the trees stood so close to the windows that I could touch them and feel the breeze moving their branches, or catch the leaves falling to the ground under the sharp autumn gusts of wind.

Many guests came to Fern Quarry - that was the name of our estate. In the evenings, around the fire, the men played cards and talked about hunting and fishing. They talked about their wonderful trophies, how many wild ducks and turkeys they had shot the last time, what kind of “brutal trout” they had caught, how they had tracked down the cunning fox, fooled the clever possum and caught the fastest deer. Having listened to their stories, I had no doubt that if they came across a lion, tiger, bear or some other wild animal, he would be in trouble.

“Tomorrow we’ll go in pursuit!” - the farewell cry of friends thundered in the mountains before going their separate ways for the night. The men lay down right in the hall, in front of our doors, and I felt the deep breathing of the dogs and hunters sleeping on makeshift beds.

At dawn I was awakened by the smell of coffee, the tapping of guns being removed from the walls, and the heavy footsteps of men pacing the hall, hoping for the biggest luck of the season. I could also feel the tramp of the horses they rode from the city. The horses were tied under the trees and, having stood there all night, neighed loudly with impatience to start galloping. Finally, the hunters mounted their horses, and, as the old song says, “the brave hunters, jingling their bridles, accompanied by the cracking of whips, rushed off, whooping and screaming loudly, letting the hounds go ahead.”

Later we began to prepare for the barbecue - roasting game on an open grill over coals. A fire was lit at the bottom of a deep earthen pit, large sticks were placed crosswise on top of it, the meat was hung on them and turned on spits. Negroes squatted around the fire and drove away flies with long branches. The appetizing smell of meat awakened a wild hunger in me, long before it was time to sit down at the table.

When the bustle of preparations for the barbecue was in full swing, the hunting party returned. They appeared in twos, threes, tired and hot, the horses were in soap, the tired dogs were breathing heavily... All gloomy, without prey! Everyone claimed to have seen at least one deer close by. But no matter how zealously the dogs chased the beast, no matter how accurately the guns aimed, a twig crunched, or the trigger clicked, and the deer was gone. They were as lucky, I suspect, as the little boy who said he could almost see a rabbit because he could see its tracks. Soon the company forgot about its disappointment. We sat down at the table and started eating not venison, but ordinary pork or beef.

I had my own pony in Fern Quarry. I called him Black Beauty because I read a book with that name, and he was very similar to its hero with shiny black fur and a white star on his forehead. I spent a lot happy hours while riding it.

On those mornings when I didn't feel like riding, my teacher and I would wander through the woods and let ourselves get lost among the trees and vines, following not the road but the paths made by cows and horses. Often we wandered into impenetrable thickets, from which we could only get out by going around. We returned to the cottage with armfuls of ferns, goldenrod, laurel and luxurious swamp flowers found only in the South.

Sometimes I went with Mildred and my little cousins to pick persimmons. I didn’t eat them myself, but I loved their subtle aroma and loved looking for them in leaves and grass. We also went for nuts, and I helped the kids open their shells, releasing large sweet kernels.

At the foot of the mountain passed railway, and we loved watching the trains go by. Sometimes frantic train whistles would call us out onto the porch, and Mildred would excitedly tell me that a cow or horse had wandered onto the railroad tracks. About a mile from our house the railroad crossed a deep, narrow gorge, across which was a lattice bridge. It was very difficult to walk along it, since the sleepers were located at a fairly large distance from each other and were so narrow that it seemed like you were walking on knives.

One day Mildred, Miss Sullivan, and I got lost in the woods and, after wandering for many hours, we could not find our way back. Suddenly Mildred pointed her little hand into the distance and exclaimed: “There’s a bridge!” We would have preferred any other route, but it was already getting dark, and the lattice bridge made it possible to take a shortcut. I had to feel each sleeper with my foot in order to take a step, but I was not afraid and walked well until I heard the puffing of a steam locomotive from afar.

"I see a train!" - Mildred exclaimed, and in the next minute he would have run over us if we had not climbed down the rungs. It flew over our heads. I felt the hot breath of the machine on my face, almost suffocating from the burning and smoke. The train rumbled, the trellis trestle shook and swayed, it seemed to me that we were about to fall off and fall into the abyss. With incredible difficulty we climbed back onto the path. We got home when it was completely dark and found an empty cottage: the whole family had gone looking for us.

Chapter 12. FROST AND SUN

After my first visit to Boston, I spent almost every winter in the North. I once visited a New England village surrounded by frozen lakes and vast snow-covered fields.

I remember my amazement when I discovered that someone's mysterious hand had laid bare the trees and bushes, leaving only the occasional wrinkled leaf here and there. The birds flew away, their empty nests on bare trees full of snow. The earth seemed to be numb from this icy touch, the soul of the trees hid in the roots and there, curled up in the darkness, quietly fell asleep. All life seemed to have retreated, hidden, and even when the sun was shining, the day “shrank, froze, as if it had become old and bloodless.” Withered grass and bushes turned into bouquets of icicles.

And then the day came when the chilly air announced the coming snowfall. We ran out of the house to feel the first touch of the first tiny snowflakes on our faces and palms. Hour after hour they smoothly fell from heavenly heights to the ground, smoothing it out more and more evenly. A snowy night fell over the world, and the next morning the familiar landscape was barely recognizable. All the roads were covered with snow, there were no landmarks or signs left, we were surrounded by a white expanse with trees rising among it.

In the evening, a northeast wind rose, and the snowflakes swirled in a furious whirlpool. We sat around a large fireplace, told funny tales, had fun and completely forgot that we were in the middle of a dull desert, cut off from the rest of the world. At night the wind raged with such force that it filled me with vague horror. The beams creaked and groaned, the branches of the trees surrounding the house hit the windows and walls.

Three days later the snow stopped. The sun broke through the clouds and shone over the endless white plain. Snowdrifts of the most fantastic kind - mounds, pyramids, labyrinths - rose at every step.

Narrow paths were dug through the drifts. I put on a warm raincoat with a hood and left the house. The frosty air burned my cheeks. Partly along cleared paths, partly overcoming small snowdrifts, Miss Sullivan and I managed to reach a pine forest beyond a wide pasture. The trees, white and motionless, stood before us like figures in a marble frieze. There was no smell of pine needles. The sun's rays fell on the branches, which fell in a generous rain of diamonds when we touched them. The light was so piercing that it penetrated the veil of darkness that enveloped my eyes...

As the days passed, the snowdrifts gradually shrunk under the warmth of the sun, but before they had time to melt, another snow storm swept through, so that throughout the entire winter I never had to feel the bare ground under my feet. In the interval between blizzards, the trees lost their brilliant cover, and the undergrowth was completely exposed, but the lake did not melt.

That winter our favorite pastime was sledding. In some places the shore of the lake rose steeply. We slid down these slopes. We sat on the sled, the boy gave us a good push - and off we went! Down between the snowdrifts, jumping over potholes, we rushed towards the lake and then smoothly rolled along its sparkling surface to the opposite shore. What a joy! What blissful madness! For one frantic, happy moment, we broke the chain chaining us to the ground, and, holding hands with the wind, we felt a divine flight!

Chapter 13. I AM NOT SILENT ANYMORE

In the spring of 1890 I learned to speak.

My desire to make sounds that others can understand has always been very strong. I tried to make noises with my voice, holding one hand on my throat and feeling the movement of my lips with the other. I liked everything that could make noise, I liked to feel the purring of a cat and the barking of a dog. I also liked to keep my hand on the singer’s throat or on the piano while they were playing it. Before I lost my sight and hearing, I quickly learned to speak, but after the illness I suddenly stopped talking because I couldn’t hear myself. For days I sat on my mother’s lap, holding my hands on her face: I was very entertained by the movement of her lips. I also moved my lips, although I had forgotten what conversation was. Relatives told me that I cried and laughed and made syllable sounds for some time. But this was not a means of communication, but a need to exercise the vocal cords. However, there was a word that had meaning to me, the meaning of which I still remember to this day. I pronounced “water” as “wa-wa.” However, even this became less and less intelligible. I completely stopped using these sounds when I learned to draw letters with my fingers.

I realized a long time ago that others use a different way of communicating than mine. Not knowing that a deaf child could be taught to speak, I was dissatisfied with the communication methods I was using. Anyone who is entirely dependent on the manual alphabet always feels constrained and limited. This feeling began to make me feel annoyed, aware of an emptiness that needed to be filled. My thoughts fought like birds trying to fly against the wind, but I persistently repeated attempts to use my lips and voice. Those close to me tried to suppress this desire in me, fearing that it would lead me to severe disappointment. But I didn't give in to them. Soon an incident occurred that led to a breakthrough through this barrier. I heard about Ragnhild Kaata.

In 1890, Mrs. Lamson, one of Laura Bridgman's teachers, who had just returned from a trip to Scandinavia, came to see me and told me about Ragnhild Kaata, a deaf-blind Norwegian girl who had managed to speak. No sooner had Mrs. Lamson finished telling the story of Ragnhild's successes than I was already eager to repeat them. I will not rest until my teacher takes me to Miss Sarah Fuller, the headmistress of the Horace Mann School, for advice and help. This charming and sweet lady herself offered to teach me, which we began on March 26, 1890.

Miss Fuller's method was as follows: She lightly passed my hand over her face and let me feel the position of her tongue and lips while she made the sounds. I imitated her with ardent zeal, and within an hour I had learned the articulation of six sounds: M, P, A, S, T, I. Miss Fuller gave me a total of eleven lessons. I will never forget the surprise and delight I felt when I uttered the first coherent sentence: “I’m warm.” True, I stuttered a lot, but it was real human speech.

My soul, feeling a surge of new strength, broke free from its shackles, and through this broken, almost symbolic language, it reached out to the world of knowledge and faith.

No deaf child, trying to pronounce words he had never heard, will forget the delightful amazement and joy of discovery that seized him when he uttered his first word. Only such a person can truly appreciate the fervor with which I spoke to toys, stones, trees, birds or animals, or my delight when Mildred answered my call, or the dogs obeyed my command. The inexplicable bliss of speaking to others catchphrases, not requiring a translator! I spoke, and happy thoughts flew free along with my words - the same ones that for so long and so vainly tried to free themselves from the power of my fingers.

You should not assume that such short term I was actually able to speak. I learned only the simplest elements of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan could understand me, but most people would not understand one word out of a hundred that I spoke! It is also not true that, having learned these elements, I did the rest of the work myself. If it weren't for Miss Sullivan's genius, her persistence and enthusiasm, I wouldn't have gotten so far in mastering speech. Firstly, I had to work day and night so that at least those closest to me could understand me; secondly, I constantly needed Miss Sullivan's help in my efforts to articulate each sound clearly and to combine these sounds in a thousand ways. Even now she brings my mispronunciation to my attention every day.

All teachers of the deaf know what it is like, what painful work it is. I had to use my sense of touch to detect in each case the vibrations of the throat, the movements of the mouth and the expression of the face, and very often the sense of touch was mistaken. In such cases, I had to repeat words or sentences for hours until I felt the correct sound in my voice. My job was to practice, practice, practice. Fatigue and despondency often depressed me, but the next moment the thought that I would soon get home and show my family what I had achieved spurred me on. I passionately imagined their joy at my success: “Now my sister will understand me!” This thought was stronger than all the obstacles. In ecstasy, I repeated again and again: “I am no longer silent!” I was amazed at how much easier it was to speak rather than draw signs with my fingers. And I stopped using the manual alphabet; only Miss Sullivan and some friends continued to use it in conversations with me, as it was more convenient and faster than lip reading.

Perhaps, here I will explain the technique of using the manual alphabet, which puzzles people who rarely come into contact with us. The one who reads to me or speaks to me draws letter signs on my hand. I place my hand on the speaker’s hand, almost weightlessly, so as not to impede his movements. The position of the hand, changing every moment, is as easy to feel as it is to move the gaze from one point to another - as far as I can imagine. I do not feel each letter separately, just as you do not consider each letter separately when reading. Constant practice makes the fingers extremely flexible, light, mobile, and some of my friends transmit speech as quickly as a good typist types. Of course, such transmission of words by letter is no more conscious than in ordinary writing...

Finally, the happiest of happy moments arrived: I was returning home. On the way, I talked non-stop with Miss Sullivan to improve myself until the last minute. Before I knew it, the train stopped at Tuscumbia Station, where my whole family was waiting for me on the platform. My eyes are still filled with tears when I remember how my mother hugged me to her, trembling with joy, how she perceived every word I uttered. Little Mildred, squealing with delight, grabbed my other hand and kissed me; as for my father, he expressed his pride in a long silence. Isaiah's prophecy has come true: “The hills and mountains will sing before you, and the trees will applaud you!”

Chapter 14. THE TALE OF KING FROST

In the winter of 1892, the clear horizon of my childhood was suddenly darkened. Joy left my heart, and for a long time it was dominated by doubts, anxieties and fears. Books have lost all their charm for me, and even now the thought of those terrible days chills my heart.

The root from which the trouble grew was my little story “King Frost,” written and sent to Mr. Anagnos at the Perkins Institute for the Blind.

I wrote this story in Tuscumbia after I learned to speak. That autumn we stayed at Fern Quarry longer than usual. While we were there, Miss Sullivan described to me the beauties of the late foliage, and these descriptions must have revived in my memory a story that had once been read to me, and I remembered it unconsciously and almost verbatim. It seemed to me that I was “making it all up,” as the children say.

I sat down at the table and wrote down my invention. Thoughts flowed easily and smoothly. Words and images flew to my fingertips. I scribbled phrase after phrase on the braille board in the delight of writing. Now, if words and images come to me effortlessly, I take this as a sure sign that they were not born in my head, but wandered into it from somewhere outside. And with regret I drive away these foundlings. But then I greedily absorbed everything I read, without the slightest thought about the authorship. Even now I am not always sure where the line lies between my own feelings and thoughts and what I read in books. I believe this is due to the fact that many of my impressions come to me through the eyes and ears of others.

After finishing writing my story, I read it to my teacher. I remember how much pleasure I felt from the most beautiful passages and how angry I was when she interrupted me to correct the pronunciation of some word. Over dinner, the essay was read to the whole family, and my relatives were amazed at my talent. Someone asked me if I had read this in some book. The question surprised me very much, since I had not the slightest idea that anyone would read something like that to me. I said, “Oh no, this is my story! I wrote it for Mr. Anagnos, for his birthday."

Having rewritten the opus, I sent it to Boston. Someone suggested that I replace the name “Autumn Leaves” with “Tsar Frost,” which I did. I carried the letter to the post office with such a feeling as if I was flying through the air. It never occurred to me how cruelly I would pay for this gift.

Mr. Anagnos was delighted with “King Frost,” and he published the story in the journal of the Perkins Institute. My happiness reached immeasurable heights... from where I was soon thrown to the ground. I was in Boston briefly when it turned out that a story similar to my “King Frost” had appeared before I was born under the title “The Frost Fairies” in Miss Margaret Canby’s book “Birdie and His Friends.” Both stories were so similar in plot and language that it became obvious: my story turned out to be real plagiarism.

There is no child who has had more chance to drink from the bitter cup of disappointment than I have. I disgraced myself! I have brought suspicion upon my most loved ones! And how could this happen? I racked my brain until I was exhausted, trying to remember everything I had read before I wrote “King Frost,” but I couldn’t remember anything similar. Maybe a poem for children, “The Pranks of Frost,” but I definitely didn’t use it in my story.

At first Mr. Anagnos, very upset, believed me. He was unusually kind and affectionate to me, and for a short time the clouds cleared. To reassure him, I tried to be cheerful and dress up for Washington's birthday party, which took place shortly after I learned the sad news.

I was supposed to represent Ceres at a masquerade held by blind girls. How well I remember the graceful folds of my dress, the bright autumn leaves that crowned my head, the grains and fruits in my hands... and, amid the fun of the masquerade, the oppressive feeling of impending disaster, which made my heart clench.

The evening before the holiday, one of the teachers at the Perkins Institute asked me a question about “King Frost,” and I answered that Miss Sullivan had told me a lot about Frost and his miracles. The teacher interpreted my answer as an admission that I remembered Miss Canby's story "The Frost Fairies." She hastened to communicate her conclusions to Mr. Anagnos. He believed it, or at least suspected that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen other people's bright thoughts and given them to him in order to gain his favor. I was summoned to answer before a commission of inquiry consisting of teachers and staff of the institute. Miss Sullivan told me to leave me alone, after which they began to question me, or rather interrogate me, with a persistent determination to make me confess that I remembered reading The Frost Fairies to me. Not being able to express it in words, I felt doubts and suspicions in every question, and also felt that my good friend Mr. Anagnos was looking at me with reproach. The blood was pounding in my temples, my heart was beating desperately, I could barely speak and answered in monosyllables. Even the knowledge that this was all an absurd mistake did not lessen my suffering. So when I was finally allowed to leave the room, I was in such a state that I did not notice either the kindness of my teacher or the sympathy of my friends, who said that I was a brave girl and that they were proud of me.

As I lay in bed that night, I cried as I hope few children cry. I was cold, it seemed to me that I would die before the morning, and this thought consoled me. I think that if such a misfortune had come to me when I was older, it would have broken me irreparably. But the angel of oblivion carried away a large share of sadness and all the bitterness of those sad days.

Miss Sullivan had never heard of the Frost Fairies. With the help of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, she carefully investigated the story and found that her friend Mrs. Sophia Hopkins, with whom we were visiting at Cod Point, Brewster, in the summer of 1888, had a copy of Miss Canby's book. Mrs. Hopkins could not find her, but she remembered that when Miss Sullivan went on vacation, she, trying to entertain me, read me various books, and the collection “Birdie and His Friends” was among these books.

All these readings out loud had no meaning to me then. Even the simple drawing of letter signs was then enough to entertain a child who had almost nothing to entertain himself with. Although I do not remember anything about the circumstances of this reading, I cannot help but admit that I always tried to remember more words, so that upon my teacher’s return I could find out their meaning. One thing is clear: the words from this book are indelibly imprinted on my mind, although for a long time no one suspected it. And I am the least of all.

When Miss Sullivan returned to Brewster, I did not talk to her about The Frost Fairies, apparently because she immediately began reading Little Lord Fauntleroy with me, which crowded everything else out of my mind. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Miss Canby's book was once read to me, and, although a long time passed and I forgot about it, it came back to me so naturally that I did not suspect it to be a child of someone else's imagination.

In these misfortunes of mine I received many letters expressing sympathy. All my most beloved friends, with the exception of one, remain my friends to this day.

Miss Canby herself wrote to me: “Someday, Elena, you will compose a wonderful fairy tale, and it will serve as help and consolation to many.” This good prophecy was not destined to come true. I never played with words for pleasure again. Moreover, since then I have always been tormented by fear: what if what I wrote are not my words? For a long time, when I wrote letters, even to my mother, I was seized with sudden horror, and I re-read what I wrote again and again to make sure that I had not read it all in the book. If it had not been for Miss Sullivan's persistent encouragement, I think I would have stopped writing altogether.

The habit of assimilating the thoughts of others that I liked and then passing them off as my own is manifested in many of my early letters and first attempts at writing. In writing about the old cities of Italy and Greece, I borrowed colorful descriptions from many sources. I knew how much Mr. Anagnos loved antiquity, I knew about his enthusiastic admiration for the art of Rome and Greece. So I collected all the poems and stories I could from the various books I had read to please him. Speaking about my essay, Mr. Anagnos said: “These thoughts are poetic in nature.” But I don’t understand how he could assume that a blind and deaf eleven-year-old child was capable of inventing them. However, I do not believe that just because I did not come up with all these thoughts myself, my writing was completely devoid of interest. This showed me to myself that I could express my understanding of beauty in a clear and lively manner.

These early works were a kind of mental gymnastics. Like all young and inexperienced people, through absorption and imitation, I learned to put thoughts into words. Everything I liked in books, I learned, willingly or unwillingly. As Stevenson said, a young writer instinctively copies whatever he admires and changes the subject of his admiration with amazing flexibility. Only after many years of such practice do great people learn to control the legion of words that crowd their heads.

I'm afraid that this process has not yet ended in me. I can say with confidence that I am not always able to distinguish my own thoughts from those I read, because reading has become the essence and fabric of my mind. It turns out that almost everything I write is a patchwork quilt, all entirely in crazy patterns, like the ones I made when I was learning to sew. These patterns were made up of various scraps and trimmings, among which there were lovely scraps of silk and velvet, but mostly scraps of coarser fabric, not nearly as pleasant to the touch. Likewise, my writings consist of my own clumsy notes interspersed with bright thoughts and mature judgments of authors I have read. It seems to me that the main difficulty of writing is how to express our confused concepts, vague feelings and immature thoughts in the language of an educated and clear mind. After all, we ourselves are just bundles of instinctive impulses. Trying to describe them is like trying to put together a Chinese puzzle. Or sew the same beautiful patchwork quilt. We have a picture in our heads that we want to convey in words, but the words do not fit into the given boundaries, and if they do, they do not correspond to the overall pattern. However, we keep trying because we know others have succeeded and we don't want to admit failure.

“There is no way to be original, you have to be born,” said Stevenson, and although I may not be original, I still hope that one day my own thoughts and experiences will come out into the world. In the meantime, I will believe, hope and persevere, and will not allow the bitter memory of “King Frost” to hinder my efforts.

This sad experience did me good: it made me think about some of the problems of writing. My only regret is that it resulted in the loss of one of my most treasured friends, Mr. Anagnos.

After the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Women's Home Magazine, Mr. Anagnos said that he considered me innocent in the story of "King Frost." He wrote that the commission of inquiry before which I then appeared consisted of eight people: four blind and four sighted. Four of them, he said, thought that I knew that Miss Canby's story had been read to me; four others took the opposite point of view. Mr. Anagnos claimed that he himself cast a vote in favor of a decision favorable to me.

Be that as it may, whatever side he supported, when I entered the room where Mr. Anagnos so often held me on his knee and, forgetting about business, laughed at my pranks, I felt hostility in the atmosphere itself, and subsequent events confirmed this is my first impression. For two years, Mr. Anagnos seemed to believe that Ms. Sullivan and I were innocent. Then he apparently changed his favorable opinion, I don't know why. I also don't know the details of the investigation. I never even learned the names of the members of this court, who hardly spoke to me. I was too excited to notice anything, too scared to ask questions. Really, I barely remember what I said then.

I have presented here such a detailed account of the story of the ill-fated “Tsar Frost” because it became a very important milestone in my life. In order to avoid any misunderstandings, I have tried to present all the facts as they appear to me, without thinking either about protecting myself or about shifting the blame to someone else.

Chapter 15. MAN IS INTERESTED ONLY IN MAN

I spent the summer and winter that followed the story of “King Frost” with my family in Alabama. I remember this visit with delight. I was happy.

"Tsar Frost" was forgotten.

When the earth was covered with a red and gold carpet autumn leaves, and as the sun turned the green bunches of muscat grapes that covered the arbor at the far end of the garden golden brown, I began to sketch a quick sketch of my life.

I still continued to be overly suspicious of everything I wrote. The thought that what I wrote might turn out to be “not quite mine” tormented me. No one knew about these fears except my teacher. Miss Sullivan consoled me and helped me in every way she could think of. Hoping to restore my self-confidence, she convinced me to write for the magazine "Sputnik Youth" short essay my life. I was then 12 years old. Looking back at the torment that I endured while composing this little story, I can only assume today that some providence of the benefits that could flow from this undertaking forced me not to abandon what I had started.

Encouraged by my teacher, who understood that if I persisted in writing, I would regain my footing, I wrote timidly, fearfully, but decisively. Until the time of writing and the failure of “King Frost,” I lived the thoughtless life of a child. Now my thoughts turned inward, and I saw what was invisible to the world.

The main event of the summer of 1893 was a trip to Washington for the inauguration of President Cleveland, as well as a visit to Niagara and the World's Fair. Under such circumstances, my studies were constantly interrupted and postponed for many weeks, so that it is almost impossible to tell a coherent account of them.

Many people find it strange that I could be shocked by the beauty of Niagara. They always ask: “What do these beauties mean to you? You cannot see the waves rolling onto the shore or hear their roar. What do they give you? The simplest and most obvious answer is everything. I cannot comprehend or define them, just as I cannot comprehend or define love, religion, virtue.

In the summer Miss Sullivan and I attended the World's Fair, accompanied by Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. I remember with sincere delight those days when thousands of children's fantasies became reality. Every day I imagined what I was doing trip around the world. I have seen the wonders of invention, the treasures of crafts and industry, all advances in every department of human life have passed under my fingertips. I enjoyed visiting the central exhibition pavilion. It was like all the tales of the Arabian Nights put together, there was so much wonderful stuff there. Here is India with its fancy bazaars, statues of Shiva and elephant gods, and here is the country of the pyramids, concentrated in the model of Cairo, then the lagoons of Venice, along which we rode in a gondola every evening, when the fountains were illuminated. I also boarded a Viking ship that was located near a small pier. I had already been on board a warship in Boston, and now it was interesting for me to see how the Viking ship worked, to imagine how they, fearlessly facing both storm and calm, set off in pursuit shouting: “We are the lords of the seas!” - and fought with muscles and minds, relying only on themselves, instead of giving way to a stupid machine. It always happens: “a person is only interested in a person.”

Not far from this ship there was a model of the Santa Maria, which I also examined. The captain showed me Columbus's cabin and his desk, on which stood an hourglass. This little instrument made the greatest impression on me: I imagined how the tired sailor hero watched the grains of sand fall one after another, while desperate sailors plotted to kill him.

Mr. Higinbotham, the President of the World's Fair, kindly gave me permission to touch the exhibits, and with insatiable ardor, like Pizzarro seizing the treasures of Peru, I began to sort through and feel all the wonders of the fair. In the section representing the Cape Good Hope, I got acquainted with diamond mining. Wherever possible, I touched the machines as I worked to get a more accurate understanding of how gemstones were weighed, cut and polished. I put my hand into the washing machine... and there I found the only diamond, as the guides joked, ever found in the United States.

Dr. Bell walked with us everywhere and in his charming manner described the most interesting exhibits. In the Electricity pavilion we examined telephones, phonographs and other inventions. Dr. Bell explained to me how a message could be sent across wires, defying distance and outrunning time, like Prometheus who stole the fire of heaven. We also visited the Anthropology pavilion, where I was interested in the rough-hewn stones, simple monuments to the life of ignorant children of nature, miraculously surviving, while many monuments of kings and sages crumbled to dust. There were also Egyptian mummies there, but I avoided touching them.

Chapter 16. OTHER LANGUAGES

Until October 1893, I studied various subjects independently and randomly. I read about the history of Greece, Rome and the United States, learned French grammar from books with raised print, and since I already knew a little French, I often amused myself by composing in my head short phrases with new words, ignoring the rules as much as possible. I also tried to master French pronunciation without any help. It was, of course, absurd to undertake such a large task with my feeble strength, but it provided entertainment on rainy days, and in this way I acquired sufficient knowledge of French to enjoy reading the fables of La Fontaine and The Imaginary Invalid.

I also spent a significant amount of time improving my speech. I read and recited passages of my favorite poems aloud to Miss Sullivan, and she corrected my pronunciation. However, it was not until October 1893, having overcome the fatigue and excitement of visiting the World's Fair, that I began to receive lessons in special subjects during the hours allotted for them.

At this time Miss Sullivan and I were visiting in Halton, Pennsylvania, with the family of Mr. William Wade. Their neighbor, Mr. Iron, was a good Latinist; he agreed that I would study under his leadership. I remember the man's unusually sweet personality and his vast knowledge. He mainly taught me Latin, but he often helped me with arithmetic, which I found boring. Mr. Iron also read to me "In memoriam" by Tennyson. I had read a lot of books before, but never looked at them from a critical point of view. For the first time I understood what it meant to recognize an author, his style, just as I recognize a friendly handshake.

At first I was reluctant to learn Latin grammar. It seemed ridiculous to me to spend time analyzing every word I encountered (noun, genitive, singular, feminine) when its meaning was clear and understandable. But the beauty of this language began to give me true pleasure. I amused myself by reading passages of Latin, picking out individual words that I understood, and trying to guess the meaning of the whole phrase.

In my opinion, there is nothing more beautiful than the fleeting, elusive images and feelings that language presents to us when we first begin to get acquainted with it. Miss Sullivan sat next to me in class and spelled everything Mr. Iron said on my hand. I had just started reading Caesar's Gallic War when it was time to return to Alabama.

Chapter 17. WINDS BLOW FROM FOUR SIDES

In the summer of 1894 I attended the convention of the American Association for the Advancement of the Teaching of Oral Speech to the Deaf, held at Chautauqua. There it was decided that I would go to New York, to the Wright-Humason School. I went there in October, accompanied by Miss Sullivan. This school was chosen specifically to take advantage of the highest achievements in the field of vocal culture and lip reading. In addition to these subjects, for two years I studied arithmetic, geography, French and German at school.

Miss Rimi, my German teacher, knew how to use manual alphabet, and after I acquired some vocabulary, she and I spoke German at every opportunity. After a few months I could understand almost everything she said. Even before the end of my first year at this school, I read William Tell with delight. Perhaps I succeeded more in German than in other subjects. French was worse for me. I studied it with Madame Olivier, who did not know the manual alphabet, so she had to give me explanations orally. I could barely read her lips, so my progress was much slower. However, I got to read The Imaginary Invalid again, and it was fun, although not as exciting as William Tell.

My progress in mastering oral speech and lip reading was not as fast as the teachers and I had hoped and expected. I tried to speak like other people, and the teachers thought that this was quite possible. However, despite persistent and hard work, we did not fully achieve our goal. I think we aimed too high. I continued to treat arithmetic as a network of traps and traps and teetered on the edge of guesswork, rejecting, much to the displeasure of my teachers, the broad road of logical reasoning. If I failed to guess what the answer should be, I jumped to conclusions, and this, in addition to my stupidity, aggravated the difficulties.

However, although these disappointments at times made me despondent, I continued my other activities with unflagging interest. I was especially attracted to physical geography. What a joy it was to learn the secrets of nature: how, according to the vivid expression from the Old Testament, the winds blow from the four sides of the heavens, how vapors rise up from the four ends of the earth, how rivers make their way through rocks, and mountains are overturned by their roots, and how a person can overcome powers greater than him.

The two years in New York were happy, I look back on them with real pleasure. I especially remember the daily walks we went on in Central Park. I was always happy to meet him, I loved when he was described to me every time. Every day of the nine months I lived in New York, the park was different and beautiful.

In the spring we were taken on excursions to all sorts of interesting places. We sailed along the Hudson, wandered along its green banks. I loved the simplicity and wild grandeur of the basalt pillars. Among the places I visited were West Point, Tarrytown, Washington Irving's home. There I walked along the “Sleepy Hollow” he praised.

The teachers of the Wright-Humeyson School were constantly thinking about how to provide their students with the advantages that those who are not deaf enjoy. They tried with all their might to awaken as much as possible the few dormant memories of the kids and bring them out of the prison where circumstances had driven them.

Even before I left New York bright days were overshadowed by the second greatest sadness I have ever experienced. The first was the death of my father. And after him died Mr. John Spalding of Boston. Only those who knew and loved him can understand how much his friendship meant to me. He was unusually kind and affectionate to me and Miss Sullivan, and he made everyone else happy, in his sweet, unobtrusive manner...

As long as we felt that he was following our work with interest, we did not lose vigor and courage. His passing left a void in our lives that has never been filled.

Chapter 18. MY FIRST EXAMINATIONS

In October 1896 I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies to prepare for Radcliffe College.

When I was little, on a visit to Wellesley, I amazed my friends by declaring, “Someday I will go to college... and definitely Harvard!” When they asked me why not Wellesley, I answered because it was only girls. The dream of going to college gradually grew into a burning desire, which impelled me, in spite of the open opposition of many faithful and wise friends, to enter into competition with girls who had sight and hearing. By the time I left New York, this aspiration had become a clear goal: it was decided that I would go to Cambridge.

The teachers there had no experience teaching students like me. My only means of communication with them was lip reading. In the first year my classes included English history, English literature, German, Latin, arithmetic and free essays. Until then I had never taken a systematic course in any subject, but I was well trained in English by Miss Sullivan, and it soon became clear to my teachers that I needed no special preparation in this subject except a critical analysis of the books prescribed by the program. I also began to thoroughly study French, I studied Latin for six months, but most of all, undoubtedly, I was familiar with the German language.

However, despite all these advantages, great difficulties arose in my advancement in science. Miss Sullivan could not translate all the required books for me in manual alphabet, and it was very difficult to receive textbooks in raised print in a timely manner, although my friends in London and Philadelphia made every effort to speed this up. For a while I had to copy out my Latin exercises in Braille myself in order to practice with the other girls. The teachers soon became sufficiently familiar with my imperfect speech to answer my questions and correct my mistakes. I couldn’t take notes in class, but I wrote essays and translations at home on a special typewriter.

Every day Miss Sullivan would go to class with me and, with infinite patience, spell on my hand everything the teachers said. During homework hours, she had to explain to me the meaning of new words, read and retell books to me that did not exist in raised print. It’s hard to imagine the tediousness of this work. Frau Groethe, the German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the headmaster, were the only teachers who learned finger alphabet to teach me. No one understood better than dear Frau Gröthe how slowly and ineptly she used it. But out of the kindness of her heart, she carefully wrote her explanations on my hand twice a week during special lessons to give Miss Sullivan a break. Although everyone was very kind to me and full of willingness to help, only her faithful hand turned boring cramming into pleasure.

That year I completed a course in arithmetic, brushed up on Latin grammar and read three chapters of Caesar's Notes on the Gallic War. In German I read, partly with my own fingers, partly with the help of Miss Sullivan, Schiller’s “The Song of the Bell” and “The Handkerchief,” Heine’s “Journey through the Harz,” Lessing’s “Minna von Barnhelm,” Freitag’s “On the State of Frederick the Great,” “From my life" by Goethe. I thoroughly enjoyed these books, especially Schiller's wonderful lyrics. I was sorry to part with “Journey through the Harz,” with its cheerful playfulness and charming descriptions of hills covered with vineyards, streams murmuring and sparkling in the sun, lost corners covered with legends, these gray-haired sisters of ages long past and enchanting. Only someone for whom nature is “feeling, love, and taste” could write this way.

Mr. Gilman taught me English literature for part of the year. We read How You Like It together? Shakespeare, Burke's Speech for the Reconciliation of America, and Macaulay's Life of Samuel Johnson. Mr. Gilman's subtle explanations and extensive knowledge of literature and history made my work easier and more enjoyable than it would have been if I had only mechanically read class notes.

Burke's speech gave me more insight into politics than I could have gotten from any other book on the subject. My mind was excited by pictures of that alarming time; events and characters that were at the center of the life of two warring nations passed before me. As Burke's powerful oratory unfolded, I became more and more amazed that King George and his ministers could have failed to hear the warning of our victory and their inevitable humiliation.

No less interesting to me, although in a completely different way, was “The Life of Samuel Johnson.” My heart was drawn to this lonely man, who, amid the labors and cruel suffering of body and soul that beset him, always found a kind word and extended a helping hand to the poor and humiliated. I rejoiced at his successes, I closed my eyes to his mistakes and was surprised not that he made them, but that they did not crush him. However, despite the brilliance of Macaulay's language and his amazing ability to present the everyday with freshness and vivacity, I at times tired of his constant neglect of truth in favor of greater expression and the way he forced his opinions on the reader.

At Cambridge school, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed the company of sighted and hearing girls my age. I lived with several of them in a small cozy house, next to the school. I took part in common games, discovering for myself and for them that a blind person can also frolic and fool around in the snow. I went for walks with them, we discussed our activities and read interesting books out loud, as some of the girls learned to talk to me.

My mother and sister came to visit me during the Christmas holidays. Mr. Gilman kindly invited Mildred to study at his school, so she remained with me at Cambridge, and we were not separated for the next happy six months. I rejoice remembering our joint activities in which we helped each other.

I took the preliminary examinations for Radcliffe College from June 29 to July 3, 1897. They concerned knowledge of German, French, Latin and English, as well as Greek and Roman history. I successfully passed the tests in all subjects, and in German and English with honors.

Perhaps we should tell you how these tests were carried out. The student was supposed to pass the exams in 16 hours: 12 were allocated to test basic knowledge, another 4 were allocated to advanced knowledge. Exam tickets were issued at 9 a.m. at Harvard and delivered to Radcliffe by messenger. Each candidate was known only by number. I was No. 233, but in my case there was no anonymity, since I was allowed to use a typewriter. It was considered advisable for me to be alone in the room during the exam, as the noise of the typewriter might disturb the other girls. Mr. Gilman read all the tickets to me using manual alphabet. To avoid misunderstandings, a guard was posted at the door.

On the first day there was an exam in German. Mr. Gilman sat down next to me and first read the entire ticket to me, then phrase by phrase, while I repeated the questions out loud to make sure I understood him correctly. The tickets were difficult and I was very nervous as I typed the answers. Then Mr. Gilman read to me what I had written, again using manual alphabet, and I made the corrections I thought were necessary, and he made them. I must say that I never experienced such conditions during exams again. At Radcliffe no one read my answers after they were written, and I was given no opportunity to correct mistakes unless I finished the work well before the allotted time. Then, in the remaining minutes, I made those corrections that I could remember, typing them at the end of the answer. I passed the preliminary exams successfully for two reasons. Firstly, because no one re-read my answers to me, and secondly, because I was taking tests on subjects that were partly familiar to me before studying at the Cambridge school. At the beginning of the year I took exams there in English, history, French and German, for which Mr. Gilman used the previous year's Harvard cards.

All preliminary examinations were conducted in the same manner. The first one was the most difficult. So I remembered the day when the Latin tickets were brought to us. Professor Schilling came in and told me that I had passed the German exam satisfactorily. This encouraged me greatly, and I continued to type my answers with a firm hand and a light heart.

Chapter 19. LOVE OF GEOMETRY

I started my second year at school full of hope and determination to succeed. But in the first few weeks I encountered unforeseen difficulties. Dr. Gilman agreed that I would spend this year mainly studying the sciences. So I enthusiastically took up physics, algebra, geometry and astronomy, as well as Greek and Latin. Unfortunately, many of the books I needed were not in raised print by the time classes began. The classes in which I studied were too crowded and the teachers could not pay special attention to me. Miss Sullivan had to read all the textbooks to me in manual alphabet and, in addition, translate the words of the teachers, so that for the first time in eleven years her dear hand was not able to cope with an impossible task.

Exercises in algebra and geometry had to be written in class and problems in physics had to be solved there. I couldn't do this until we bought a braille writing board. Deprived of the opportunity to follow with my eyes the outline of geometric figures on the chalkboard, I had to pin them on the pillow with straight and crooked wires, the ends of which were bent and pointed. I had to keep in mind letter designations in the figures, the theorem and conclusion, as well as the entire course of the proof. Needless to say, what difficulties I experienced! Losing patience and courage, I showed my feelings in ways that I am ashamed to remember, especially because these manifestations of my grief were later reproached by Miss Sullivan, the only one of all good friends who could smooth out the rough edges and straighten the sharp turns.

However, step by step my difficulties began to disappear. The raised books and other teaching aids arrived, and I plunged into my work with renewed zeal, although tedious algebra and geometry continued to resist my attempts to understand them. As I already mentioned, I had absolutely no ability for mathematics, the intricacies of its various sections were not explained to me with due completeness. Geometric drawings and diagrams especially annoyed me; in no way could I establish connections and relationships between their various parts, even on a pad. It was only after studying with Mr. Keith that I was able to gain a more or less clear understanding of the mathematical sciences.

I was already beginning to revel in my successes when an event occurred that suddenly changed everything.

Shortly before my books arrived, Mr. Gilman began to blame Miss Sullivan for studying too much, and, despite my vehement objections, he reduced the amount of assignments. At the very beginning of classes, we agreed that, if necessary, I would prepare for college for five years. However, successful examinations at the end of the first year showed Miss Sullivan and Miss Harbaugh, who was in charge of the Gilman School, that I could easily complete my training within two years. Mr. Gilman initially agreed to this, but when the assignments began to cause me difficulty, he insisted that I remain in school for three years. This option did not suit me; I wanted to go to college with my own class.

On November 17, I didn’t feel well and didn’t go to school. Miss Sullivan knew that my illness was not very serious, but Mr. Gilman, hearing about it, decided that I was on the verge of a mental breakdown, and made changes to the schedule that made it impossible for me to take the final exams with my class. Disagreements between Mr. Gilman and Miss Sullivan led to Mother taking Mildred and me out of school.

After some pause, it was agreed that I would continue my studies under the guidance of a private teacher, Mr. Merton Keith of Cambridge.

From February to July, 1898, Mr. Keith came to Wrentham, 25 miles from Boston, where Miss Sullivan and I lived with our friends the Chamberlains. Mr. Keith taught me for an hour five times a week in the fall. Each time he explained to me what I did not understand in the last lesson, and gave me a new task, and took with him the Greek exercises that I did at home on a typewriter. The next time he returned them to me corrected.

This is how my preparation for college went. I found that studying alone was much more enjoyable than being in a class. There was no rush or misunderstanding. The teacher had enough time to explain to me what I didn’t understand, so I learned faster and better than at school. Math still gave me more difficulty than other subjects. I dreamed that it would be at least half as difficult as literature. But even mathematics was interesting with Mr. Keith. He encouraged my mind to always be ready, taught me to think clearly and clearly, to draw conclusions calmly and logically, and not to jump headlong into the unknown, landing in God knows where. He was invariably kind and patient, no matter how stupid I seemed, and at times, believe me, my stupidity would have exhausted Job's long-suffering.

On June 29 and 30, 1899, I took my final exams. On the first day I took elementary Greek and advanced Latin, and the next day I took geometry, algebra and advanced Greek.

The college authorities did not allow Miss Sullivan to read my exam papers. To one of the teachers in Perkinsovsk

Preface

Elena Keller lived to be 87 years old. Independence and depth of judgment, willpower and energy won her the respect of many different people, including prominent statesmen, writers, and scientists.

Compiled by

THE STORY OF MY LIFE, OR WHAT IS LOVE

To Alexander Graham Bell, who taught the deaf to speak and made it possible to hear the word spoken on the Atlantic coast in the Rocky Mountains, I dedicate this story of my life

Chapter 1. AND THAT DAY IS OUR...

My father, Arthur Keller, was a captain in the Confederate army. My mother, Kat Adams, his second wife, was much younger than him.

Before a fatal illness deprived me of my sight and hearing, I lived in a tiny house, consisting of one large square room and a second, small one, in which the maid slept. In the South, it was customary to build a small extension near the large main house, a kind of extension for temporary living. My father built such a house after the Civil War, and when he married my mother, they began to live there. Entirely entwined with grapes, climbing roses and honeysuckle, the house from the garden side looked like a gazebo. The small porch was hidden from view by thickets of yellow roses and southern smilax, a favorite haunt of bees and hummingbirds.

The beginning of my life was like the life of any other child. I came, I saw, I won - as always happens with the first child in the family. Of course, there was a lot of controversy about what to call me. The first child in the family cannot be called anything. My father suggested that I be named Mildred Campbell, in honor of one of the great-grandmothers whom he valued highly, and refused to take part in any further discussion. My mother resolved the problem by making it clear that she wished to name me after her mother, whose maiden name was Helen Everett. However, on the way to church with me in his arms, my father naturally forgot this name, especially since it was not one that he seriously considered. When the priest asked him what to name the child, he only remembered that they had decided to name me after my grandmother, and told me her name: Elena Adams.

“Elena Keller The Story of My Life 1 Elena Keller THE STORY OF MY LIFE, OR WHAT IS LOVE To Alexander Graham Bell, who taught the deaf to speak and made it possible to hear in the Rocky Mountains...”

-- [ Page 1 ] --

Elena Keller Story of my life 1

Elena Keller

THE STORY OF MY LIFE,

OR WHAT IS LOVE

Alexander Graham Bell, who taught the deaf to speak and made

possible to hear a word spoken in the Rocky Mountains

coast of the Atlantic, I dedicate this story to my life

AND THAT DAY IS OUR...

“The rest is covered in prison darkness.” In addition, the joys and sorrows of childhood lost their sharpness, many events vital to my early development were forgotten in the heat of excitement from new wonderful discoveries. Therefore, for fear of boring you, I will try to present in brief sketches only those episodes that seem to me the most important and interesting.

My father, Arthur Keller, was a captain in the Confederate army. My mother, Kat Adams, his second wife, was much younger than him.

Before a fatal illness deprived me of my sight and hearing, I lived in a tiny house, consisting of one large square room and a second, small one, in which the maid slept. In the South, it was customary to build a small extension near the large main house, a kind of extension for temporary living. My father built such a house after the Civil War, and when he married my mother, they began to live there. Entirely entwined with grapes, climbing roses and honeysuckle, the house from the garden side looked like a gazebo. The small porch was hidden from view by thickets of yellow roses and southern smilax, a favorite haunt of bees and hummingbirds.

I loved to feel my way along the hard square boxwood hedges and find the first violets and lilies of the valley by smell.

It was there that I sought solace after violent outbursts of anger, plunging my flushed face into the coolness of the foliage. How joyful it was to get lost among the flowers, running from place to place, suddenly stumbling upon wonderful grapes, which I recognized by their leaves and clusters. Then I realized that these were grapes that entwined the walls of the summer house at the end of the garden! There, clematis flowed to the ground, branches of jasmine fell, and some rare fragrant flowers grew, which were called moth lilies for their delicate petals, similar to the wings of butterflies. But the roses... they were the most beautiful of all. Never later, in the greenhouses of the North, did I find such soul-quenching roses as those that covered my house in the South. They hung in long garlands over the porch, filling the air with an aroma unclouded by any other odors of the earth.

Early in the morning, washed with dew, they were so velvety and clean that I couldn’t help but think:

This is probably how the asphodels of God's Garden of Eden should be.

The beginning of my life was like the life of any other child. I came, I saw, I won - as always happens with the first child in the family. Of course, there was a lot of controversy about what to call me. The first child in the family cannot be called anything. My father suggested that I be named Mildred Campbell, in honor of one of the great-grandmothers whom he valued highly, and refused to take part in any further discussion. My mother resolved the problem by making it clear that she wished to name me after her mother, whose maiden name was Helen Everett. However, on the way to church with me in his arms, my father naturally forgot this name, especially since it was not one that he seriously considered. When the priest asked him what to name the child, he only remembered that they had decided to name me after my grandmother, and told me her name: Elena Adams.

Even after my illness, I remembered one of the words that I learned in those early Elena Keller The Story of My Life 3 months. It was the word “water,” and I continued to make similar sounds, trying to repeat it, even after the ability to speak was lost. I stopped repeating “va-va” only when I learned to spell the word.

They told me that I went on the day I turned one.

Mother had just taken me out of the bath and was holding me in her lap when suddenly my attention was drawn to the flickering shadows of leaves dancing in the sunlight on the polished floor. I slipped off my mother’s lap and almost ran towards them. When the impulse dried up, I fell and cried so that my mother would take me in her arms again.

These happy days did not last long. Just one short spring, ringing with the chirping of bullfinches and mockingbirds, just one summer, generous with fruits and roses, just one red-golden autumn.

They rushed by, leaving their gifts at the feet of the ardent child who admired them. Then, in the dreary gloom of February, illness came, closing my eyes and ears and plunging me into the unconsciousness of a newborn babe. The doctor determined that there was a strong rush of blood to the brain and stomach and thought that I would not survive. However, early one morning the fever left me, as suddenly and mysteriously as it had appeared. There was great rejoicing in the family this morning. No one, not even the doctor, knew that I would never hear or see again.

Elena Keller Story of my life 4

Chapter 2 MY LOVED ONES

I guess I knew I was being mean because I knew that by kicking Ella, my nanny, I was hurting her. So, when the rage passed, Elena Keller The Story of My Life 5 I felt something like regret. But I can't remember a single time when it stopped me from behaving this way if I didn't get what I wanted. My constant companions in those days were Martha Washington, our cook's daughter, and Belle, our old setter, once an excellent huntress. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I was almost always able to get her to do what I wanted. I liked to dominate her, and she most often submitted to my tyranny, without risking getting into a fight. I was strong, energetic and indifferent to the consequences of my actions. At the same time, I always knew what I wanted and insisted on my own, even if I had to fight for it, not sparing my belly. We spent a lot of time in the kitchen, kneading dough, helping make ice cream, grinding coffee beans, fighting over cookies, feeding the chickens and turkeys that scurried around the kitchen porch.

Many of them were completely tame, so they ate from their hands and allowed themselves to be touched. One day a big turkey snatched a tomato from me and ran away with it. Inspired by the turkey's example, we stole from the kitchen a sweet cake that the cook had just frosted and ate every last crumb of it. Then I was very sick, and I wondered if the turkey had suffered the same sad fate.

Martha Washington loved to play pranks just as much as I did.

Two small children were sitting on the veranda on a hot June day. One was black as a tree, with a shock of springy curls, tied with laces into many buns sticking out in different directions. The other is Elena Keller The Story of My Life 6 white, with long golden curls. One was six years old, the other two or three years older. The youngest girl was blind, the eldest was named Martha Washington. At first we carefully cut out paper people with scissors, but soon we got tired of this fun and, having cut the laces from our shoes into pieces, we cut off all the leaves from the honeysuckle that we could reach. After that, I turned my attention to the springs of Martha's hair. At first she objected, but then accepted her fate. Deciding then that justice demands retribution, she grabbed the scissors and managed to cut off one of my curls.

She would have cut them all off if not for the timely intervention of my mother.

The events of those early years remained in my memory as fragmentary but vivid episodes. They brought meaning to the silent aimlessness of my life.

The fire shot up, and in an instant the flames engulfed me. My clothes caught fire, I moaned desperately, and the noise attracted Viney, my old nanny, to help. Throwing a blanket over me, she almost suffocated me, but managed to put out the fire. I got off with, one might say, a slight fright.

My father was an unusually loving and generous man, endlessly devoted to his family. He rarely left us, leaving home only Elena Keller The Story of My Life 7 during the hunting season. As I was told, he was an excellent hunter, famous for his accuracy as a shooter. He was a hospitable host, perhaps even too hospitable, since he rarely came home without a guest.

His special pride was his huge garden, where, according to stories, he grew the most amazing watermelons and strawberries in our area. He always brought me the first ripened grapes and the finest berries. I remember how touched I was by his thoughtfulness as he led me from tree to tree, from vine to vine, and his joy when something gave me pleasure.

How can I write about my mother? She is so close to me that talking about her seems indelicate.

Elena Keller Story of my life 8

Chapter 3 FROM THE DARKNESS OF EGYPT

As I grew up, my desire to express myself grew. The few signs I used became less and less responsive to my needs, and the inability to explain what I wanted was accompanied by outbursts of rage.

I felt like some invisible hands were holding me, and I made desperate efforts to free myself. I struggled. It’s not that these flounderings helped, but the spirit of resistance was very strong in me.

Usually I would end up bursting into tears and end up completely exhausted. If my mother happened to be nearby at that moment, I would crawl into her arms, too unhappy to remember the cause of the storm. After some time, the need for new ways of communicating with others became so urgent that outbursts of anger were repeated every day, and sometimes every hour.

My parents were deeply upset and puzzled. We lived too far from schools for the blind or deaf, and it seemed unrealistic that anyone would travel such a distance to teach a child privately.

At times, even my friends and family doubted that I could be taught anything. For my mother, the only ray of hope flashed in Charles Dickens's book American Notes. She read there a story about Laura Bridgman, who, like me, was deaf and blind, and yet received an education. But mother also remembered with hopelessness that Dr. Howe, who discovered the method of teaching the deaf and blind, had long since died. Perhaps his methods died with him, and even if they did not die, then how could a little girl in distant Alabama take advantage of these wonderful benefits?

The journey was very pleasant. I never got angry:

there was too much on my mind and hands. I made friends with many people on the train. One lady gave me a box of shells. My father drilled holes in them so that I could string them, and they happily occupied me for a long time. The carriage conductor also turned out to be very kind. Many times, clinging to the hem of his jacket, I followed him as he walked around the passengers, punching tickets. His composter, which he gave me to play with, was a magical toy. Sitting comfortably in the corner of my sofa, I amused myself for hours by punching holes in pieces of cardboard.

My aunt rolled me a big doll out of towels. It was an extremely ugly creature, without nose, mouth, eyes or ears; Even a child’s imagination could not have discovered this homemade doll Elena Keller The Story of My Life 9 faces. It is curious that the absence of eyes struck me more than all the other defects of the doll combined. I persistently pointed this out to those around me, but no one thought of adding eyes to the doll. Suddenly a brilliant idea struck me: jumping off the sofa and rummaging under it, I found my aunt’s cloak, trimmed with large beads. Having torn off two beads, I indicated to my aunt that I wanted her to sew them to the doll. She raised my hand to her eyes questioningly, and I nodded decisively in response. The beads were sewn into the right places, and I could not contain my joy. However, immediately after this I lost all interest in the doll that had regained its sight.

Upon arrival in Baltimore, we met with Dr. Chisholm, who received us very kindly, but could not do anything.

He, however, advised his father to seek advice from Dr. Alexander Graham Bell from Washington. He can give information about schools and teachers for deaf or blind children. On the doctor's advice, we immediately went to Washington to see Dr. Bell.

My father traveled with a heavy heart and great fears, and I, unaware of his suffering, rejoiced, enjoying the pleasure of moving from place to place.

From the first minutes, I felt the tenderness and compassion emanating from Dr. Bell, which, along with his amazing scientific achievements, won many hearts. He held me on his lap, and I looked at his pocket watch, which he made to ring for me.

He understood my signs well. I realized this and loved him for it.

However, I could not even dream that meeting him would become the door through which I would move from darkness to light, from forced loneliness to friendship, communication, knowledge, love.

Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, the director of the Perkins Institute in Boston, where Dr. Howe had once worked, and ask if he knew of a teacher who could undertake my education.

The father did this at once, and a few weeks later a kind letter arrived from Dr. Anagnos with the comforting news that such a teacher had been found. This happened in the summer of 1886, but Miss Sullivan did not come to us until the following March.

Elena Keller The Story of My Life 10 Chapter 4

APPROACHING STEPS

So I left the house and sat down to wait for this “something” on the steps of the porch. The midday sun, breaking through the masses of honeysuckle, warmed my face raised to the sky. Fingers almost unconsciously fingered familiar leaves and flowers, just blooming towards the sweet southern spring. I didn’t know what miracle or wonder the future had in store for me. Anger and bitterness continually tormented me, replacing passionate violence with deep exhaustion.

Have you ever found yourself at sea in a thick fog, when it seems that a dense white haze envelops you to the touch, and a large ship in desperate anxiety, warily feeling the depth with its lot, makes its way to the shore, and you wait with a beating heart, what will happen? Before my training began, I was like such a ship, only without a compass, without a lot, or any way of knowing how far it was to a quiet bay. "Sveta! Give me light! - beat the silent cry of my soul.

And the light of love shone over me at that very hour.

Elena Keller The Story of My Life 11 One day, when I was playing with my new porcelain doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll on my lap, spelled out “k-u-k-l-a” and made it clear, that the word applies to both. Earlier we had a fight over the words “s-t-a-k-a-n” and “v-o-d-a”.

Miss Sullivan tried to explain to me that "glass" is glass and "water"

Water, but I kept confusing one with the other. In desperation, she stopped trying to reason with me for a while, only to resume them at the first opportunity. I was tired of her pestering and, grabbing a new doll, I threw it on the floor. With acute pleasure I felt its fragments at my feet. My wild outburst was followed by neither sadness nor repentance. I didn't like this doll. In the still dark world where I lived, there was no heartfelt feeling, no tenderness. I felt the teacher sweep the remains of the unfortunate doll towards the fireplace, and felt satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort had been eliminated. She brought me a hat, and I realized that I was about to go out into the warm sunlight. This thought, if a wordless sensation can be called a thought, made me jump with pleasure.

Elena Keller Story of my life 12

Chapter 5 TREE OF PARADISE

As my knowledge of subjects grew, I became more and more happy about the world in which I live. Long before I could add numbers or describe the shape of the Earth, Miss Sullivan taught me to find beauty in the scent of the forests, in every blade of grass, in the curves and dimples of my little sister's hand. She connected my early thoughts with nature and made me feel that I was equal to the birds and flowers, happy like them. But around this time I experienced something that taught me that nature is not always kind.

One day my teacher and I were returning after a long walk.

The morning was beautiful, but when we turned back, it became sultry. Two or three times we stopped to rest under the trees.

Our last stop was at a wild cherry tree not far from our house.

Spreading and shady, this tree seemed to be created so that I could climb it with the help of the teacher and settle into the fork of the branches. It was so cozy and pleasant in the tree that Miss Sullivan suggested that I have breakfast there. I promised to sit still while she went home and brought food.

There was an ominous silence, and then the tremulous movement of a thousand leaves. A trembling ran through the tree, and a gust of wind almost knocked me down, Elena Keller The Story of My Life 13 if I had not clung to the branch with all my might. The tree tensed and swayed. Small twigs crunched around me. A wild desire to jump overtook me, but horror did not allow me to move. I crouched in the fork of branches. From time to time I felt a strong shaking: something heavy fell down, and the blow of the fall returned up the trunk, to the branch on which I was sitting. The tension reached its highest point, but just when I thought that the tree and I would fall to the ground together, the teacher grabbed my hand and helped me down. I clung to her, trembling with the realization of a new lesson: that nature “wages open war with her children, and under her most tender touch treacherous claws often lurk.”

On a beautiful spring morning, when I was sitting alone in the summer house and reading, a wonderful, delicate aroma suddenly wafted over me. I shuddered and involuntarily extended my hands forward. It seemed as if the spirit of spring had flown over me. "What is this?" - I asked and the next minute I recognized the smell of mimosa. I groped my way to the end of the garden, knowing that there was a mimosa tree growing near the fence, at the turn of the path. Yes, here it is!..

Elena Keller Story of my life 14

Chapter 6 WHAT IS LOVE

Hearing children acquire the gift of speech without much effort.

They enthusiastically pick up the words that other people drop from their lips on the fly.

A deaf child must learn them slowly and often painfully. But, no matter how difficult this process is, its result is wonderful.

Gradually, step by step, Miss Sullivan and I moved forward until we had covered the vast distance from the first stuttering syllables to the flight of thought in the lines of Shakespeare.

"What is love?" - I asked.

I smelled the violets in her hand and, partly with words, partly with signs, asked a question, the meaning of which meant: “Is love the scent of flowers?” “No,” my teacher answered.

I thought again. The warm sun shone on us.

“Is this love? - I insisted, pointing in the direction where the life-giving heat was coming from. “Isn’t this love?”

Miss Sullivan touched my forehead and wrote with emphasis:

Elena Keller The story of my life 15 In an instant, it dawned on me that this word was the name of a process happening in my head. This was my first conscious understanding of an abstract idea.

I asked my teacher again: “Is this love?”

A beautiful truth dawned on my mind. I felt invisible threads stretching between my soul and the souls of other people...

This process continued for several years, because a deaf child cannot learn in a month or even in two or three years the countless word combinations used in the simplest everyday communication.

A child who has hearing learns it from constant repetition and imitation. The conversations he hears at home awaken his curiosity and offer new topics, causing an involuntary response in his soul. A deaf child is deprived of this natural exchange of thoughts. My teacher repeated to me, as much as possible, verbatim, everything she heard around her, telling me how I could take part in conversations. However, it took a long time before I decided to take the initiative, and even longer before I was able to say the right words at the right moment.

It is very difficult for the blind and deaf to acquire the skills of pleasant conversation.

How much greater are these difficulties for those who are both blind and deaf! They cannot distinguish intonations that give meaning and expressiveness to speech. They cannot observe the expression on the speaker’s face, they do not see the look that reveals the soul of the one who is speaking to you.

Elena Keller Story of my life 16

Chapter 7 GIRL IN THE CLOSET

The next important step in my education was learning to read.

Often the entire furnishings of the room were rearranged to suit the constituent parts of the various proposals.

From raised printed cards there was one step to a printed book.

In my “ABC for Beginners” I looked for words that I knew.

When I found them, my joy was akin to the joy of the “driver” in a game of hide and seek, when he discovers someone who was hiding from him.

We read and studied outside, preferring the sun-drenched forests to home. In all my early activities there was a breath Elena Keller The story of my life 17 oak forests, the tart resinous smell of pine needles mixed with the aroma of wild grapes. Sitting in the blessed shade of a tulip tree, I learned to understand that everything has significance and justification. “And the beauty of things taught me their benefits...” Truly, everything that buzzed, chirped, sang or bloomed took part in my upbringing: loud-voiced frogs, crickets and grasshoppers, which I carefully held in the palm of my hand until they, having become accustomed, the trills and squawks, fluffy chicks and wildflowers, blooming dogwoods, meadow violets and apple blossoms began again.

The teacher and I often went to Keller's Landing, an old, dilapidated wooden landing stage on the Tennessee River that was used to land soldiers during the Civil War. Miss Sullivan and I spent many happy hours there studying geography. I built dams from pebbles, created lakes and islands, deepened the riverbed, all for fun, without thinking at all that I was learning lessons at the same time. With increasing amazement I listened to Miss Sullivan's stories about the big world around us, with its fire-spewing mountains, buried cities, moving icy rivers and many other, no less strange phenomena. She made me sculpt convex geographical maps from clay so that I could feel the mountain ranges and valleys, trace the winding flow of rivers with my finger. I really liked it, but the division of the Earth into climatic zones and poles brought confusion and confusion into my head. The laces that illustrated these concepts and the wooden sticks that denoted the poles seemed so real to me that to this day the very mention of a climate zone evokes in me the image of numerous circles made of twine. I have no doubt that if someone Elena Keller The Story of My Life 18 tried, I could forever believe that polar bears actually climb to the North Pole sticking out of the globe.

It seems that only arithmetic did not evoke any love in me. From the very beginning, I had absolutely no interest in the science of numbers. Miss Sullivan tried to teach me counting by stringing beads in groups, or addition and subtraction by moving straws one way or the other.

However, I never had the patience to select and arrange more than five or six groups per lesson. As soon as I finished the task, I considered my duty fulfilled and immediately ran away in search of playmates.

In the same leisurely manner I studied zoology and botany.

With trembling fingers, I perceived images of terrible monsters with clumsy, unpronounceable names, who once wandered through primeval forests, stripping branches from giant trees for food, and then dying in the swamps of prehistoric times. These strange creatures disturbed my dreams for a long time, and the dark period in which they lived became a dark background for my joyful Today, full of sunshine and roses, echoing with the light tramp of my pony’s hooves.

Another time, I was given a beautiful shell, and with childish delight I learned how this tiny mollusk had created a shining home for itself, and how on quiet nights, when the breeze does not wrinkle the surface of the water, the molluscnautilus sails along the blue waves of the Indian Ocean in its mother-of-pearl boat. My teacher read me the book “The Nautilus and His House” and explained that the process of creating a shell by a mollusk is similar to the process of developing the mind. Just as the miraculous mantle of the nautilus transforms the substance absorbed from the water into a part of itself, so the particles of knowledge absorbed by us undergo a similar change, turning into pearls of thoughts.

The process of blossoming was going on, but systematically and continuously. There was always one bud larger and more beautiful than the others, which pushed aside its outer coverings with greater solemnity, like a beauty in delicate silken robes, confident that she was the queen lily by right given to her from above, while her more timid sisters shyly moved their green caps until the entire plant became a single nodding branch, the embodiment of fragrance and charm.

At one time, on the windowsill, covered with plants, there was a glass aquarium ball with eleven tadpoles. How fun it was to put your hand there and feel the quick shocks of their movement, to let Elena Keller The Story of My Life 19 tadpoles slide between the fingers and along the palm. Somehow the most ambitious of them jumped above the water and jumped out of the glass bowl onto the floor, where I found him, more dead than alive.

The only sign of life was a slight twitching of the tail.

However, as soon as he returned to his element, he rushed to the bottom, and then began to swim in circles in wild fun. He had made his leap, he had seen the big world and was now ready to calmly wait in his glass house under the shade of a huge fuchsia tree for the achievement of mature froghood. Then he will go to live permanently in the shady pond at the end of the garden, where he will fill the summer nights with the music of his funny serenades.

Elena Keller Story of my life 20

Chapter 8 MERRY CHRISTMAS

On Christmas Eve, the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their own Christmas tree, to which we were invited. In the center of the classroom stood, all lit up, a beautiful tree.

Its branches, laden with wonderful strange fruits, shimmered in the soft light. It was a moment of indescribable happiness. I danced and jumped around the tree in ecstasy. Having learned that a gift had been prepared for each child here, I was very happy, and the kind people who organized the holiday allowed me to distribute these gifts to the children. Absorbed in the delight of this activity, I forgot to look for the gifts intended for me. When I remembered them, my impatience knew no bounds. I realized that the gifts received were not those that my loved ones had hinted about. My teacher assured me that the gifts would be even more wonderful. I was persuaded to be content with the gifts from the school tree for now and to be patient until the morning.

One morning I left the cage on the windowsill while I went to get water for Tim’s bath. As I was returning, a cat slipped past me from the door, brushing me with its furry side. Sticking my hand into the cage, Elena Keller Story of my life 21 I did not feel the slight flutter of Tim’s wings, his sharp clawed paws did not grab my finger. And I realized that I would never see my sweet little singer again...

Chapter 9 TOUCHING HISTORY

The next important event in my life was a visit to Boston, to the Institute for the Blind, in May 1888. I remember like yesterday, the preparations, our departure with my mother and my teacher, the journey itself and, finally, our arrival in Boston. How different this trip was from the one to Baltimore two years earlier! I was no longer a restless, excited creature, demanding attention from everyone on the train so as not to get bored. I sat quietly next to Miss Sullivan, intently taking in everything she told me about the things passing by outside the window: the beautiful Tennessee River, the vast cotton fields, the hills and forests, about the laughing Negroes who waved to us from the platforms at the stations, and between stations they passed on wagons with delicious balls of popcorn. From the opposite seat, my rag doll Nancy, in a new plaid chintz dress and a frilly summer hat, stared at me with beady eyes. Sometimes, distracted from Miss Sullivan's stories, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her in my arms, but more often I calmed my conscience by telling myself that she was probably sleeping.

Since I will have no further opportunity to mention Nancy, I would like to tell here about the sad fate that befell her shortly after our arrival in Boston. She was smeared all over with dirt, due to the shortbread pies that I fed her heavily, although Nancy never showed any particular inclination for them. The washerwoman at the Perkins Institute secretly took her to give her a bath. This, however, turned out to be beyond the capabilities of poor Nancy.

The next time I saw her, she was a shapeless heap of rags, unrecognizable if not for two beady eyes looking at me reproachfully.

Finally the train arrived at Boston Station. It was a fairy tale come true. The fabulous “once upon a time” turned into “now,” and what was called “in the far side” turned out to be “here.”

No sooner had we arrived at the Perkins Institute than I had already made friends among small blind children. I was incredibly happy that they knew the “manual alphabet”. What a pleasure it was to converse with others in your own language! Until then, I was a foreigner speaking through an interpreter. However, it took me some time to realize that my new friends were blind. I knew that, unlike other people, I could not see, but I could not believe that these sweet, friendly children who surrounded me and cheerfully included me in their games were also blind. I remember the surprise and pain that Elena Keller The Story of My Life 22 felt when I noticed that, like me, they put their hands on top of mine during our conversations and that they read books with their fingers. Although I had been told about this before, although I was aware of my deprivation, I vaguely assumed that if they could hear, they must surely have some kind of “second sight”. I was completely unprepared to discover one child, then another, then a third, deprived of this precious gift. But they were so happy and satisfied with life that my regrets melted away in communication with them.

While in Boston, we visited Bunker Hill, and there I received my first history lesson. The story of the brave men who fought bravely in the place where we now stood excited me extremely.

I climbed onto the monument, counted all its steps and, climbing higher and higher, thought about how the soldiers climbed this long ladder to shoot at those standing below.

I also remember the beach where I first played in sand, dense and smooth, very different from the loose, prickly sand mixed with shells and rags of algae in Brewster. Mr. Endicott told me about large ships sailing from Boston to Europe. I saw him many times after that, and he always remained a good friend to me. I always think of him when I call Boston “The City of Kind Hearts.”

Chapter 10 THE SMELL OF THE OCEAN

Before the Perkins Institute closed for the summer, it was decided that my teacher and I would spend the holidays in Brewster, on Cape Cod, with Mrs. Hopkins, our dear friend.

Until then, I had always lived inland and never breathed a breath of salty sea air. However, in the book “Our World”

I read the description of the ocean and was filled with amazement and an impatient desire to touch the ocean wave and feel the roar of the surf. My childish heart beat excitedly when I realized that my cherished wish would soon come true.

As soon as they helped me change into a bathing suit, I jumped up from the warm sand and fearlessly threw myself into the cool water. I felt the swaying of powerful waves. They rose and fell. The living movement of water awakened in me a piercing, tremulous joy. Suddenly my ecstasy turned to horror: my foot hit a stone, and the next moment a wave overwhelmed my head. I stretched my arms forward, trying to find at least some kind of support, but I squeezed in my palms only water and pieces of seaweed that the waves threw in my face. All my desperate efforts were in vain. It was scary! Reliable solid ground slipped out from under my feet, and everything - life, warmth, air, love - disappeared somewhere, obscured by the wild all-encompassing elements... Finally, the ocean, having had plenty of fun with its new toy, threw me back to the shore, and the next minute I was wrapped in the arms of my teacher. Oh, this cozy long affectionate hug! As soon as I recovered enough from my fright to speak, I immediately demanded an answer: “Who put so much salt in this water?”

The waves rolled back to gather strength for a new impulse, and I, tense, enchanted, felt with my whole body the power of the water avalanche rushing towards me.

Each time it took me a lot of difficulty to leave the ocean shore.

Elena Keller The Story of My Life 24 The astringency of the clean and free, unpolluted air was akin to calm, unhurried, deep reflection. Shells, pebbles, pieces of seaweed with tiny sea animals clinging to them have never lost their charm for me. One day Miss Sullivan called my attention to a strange creature which she had caught while basking in the shallows. It was a crab. I felt him and found it amazing that he carried his house on his back. I decided that he would probably make an excellent friend, and I did not leave Miss Sullivan alone until she had placed him in a hole near the well, where I had no doubt that he would be completely safe. However, the next morning, when I got there, alas, I discovered that my crab had disappeared. Nobody knew where he had gone. My disappointment was bitter, but little by little I realized that it was unwise and cruel to forcibly snatch the poor creature out of its element. And a little later I felt joyful at the thought that, perhaps, he had returned to his native sea.

Chapter 11 THE GREAT HUNT

It seemed that this was the beginning of all beginnings. The treasures of a wonderful new world lay at my feet, I enjoyed the novelty of pleasures and knowledge gained at every step. I got used to everything. I was not at peace for a minute. My life was full of movement, like those tiny insects that fit their entire life into one day. I met many people who talked to me, drawing signs on my hand, after which a miracle happened!.. The barren desert where I used to live suddenly blossomed like a rose garden.

What a pleasure it was to get lost in the summer twilight in these thickets and inhale the fresh amazing smells rising from the ground at the end of the day!

Elena Keller The Story of My Life 25 Our cottage, which looked like a peasant hut, stood in an unusually beautiful place, on the top of a mountain, among oaks and pines.

Small rooms were located on either side of a long open hall. There was a wide area around the house, along which the mountain wind flowed freely, filled with the fragrant aromas of the forest. Miss Sullivan and I spent most of our time on this site. There we worked, ate, played. There was a huge hazel tree at the back door of the house, around which the porch was built. In front of the house, the trees stood so close to the windows that I could touch them and feel the breeze moving their branches, or catch the leaves falling to the ground under the sharp autumn gusts of wind.

When the bustle of preparations for the barbecue was in full swing, the hunting party returned. They appeared in twos, threes, tired and hot, the horses were in soap, the tired dogs were breathing heavily... All gloomy, without prey! Everyone claimed to have seen at least one deer close by. But no matter how zealously the dogs chased the beast, no matter how accurately the guns aimed, a twig crunched, or the trigger clicked, and the deer was gone. They were lucky, I suspect, in Elena Keller The Story of My Life 26 exactly like the little boy who said that he almost saw a rabbit because he saw its tracks. Soon the company forgot about its disappointment. We sat down at the table and started eating not venison, but ordinary pork or beef.

I had my own pony in Fern Quarry. I called him Black Beauty because I read a book with that name, and he was very similar to its hero with shiny black fur and a white star on his forehead.

I spent many happy hours riding on it.

There was a railway at the foot of the mountain, and we loved watching the trains rush by. Sometimes frantic train whistles would call us out onto the porch, and Mildred would excitedly tell me that a cow or horse had wandered onto the railroad tracks. About a mile from our house the railroad crossed a deep, narrow gorge, across which was a lattice bridge. It was very difficult to walk along it, since the sleepers were located at a fairly large distance from each other and were so narrow that it seemed like you were walking on knives.

One day Mildred, Miss Sullivan, and I got lost in the woods and, after wandering for many hours, we could not find our way back.

Suddenly Mildred pointed her little hand into the distance and exclaimed:

“Here is the bridge!” We would have preferred any other route, but it was already getting dark, and the lattice bridge made it possible to take a shortcut. I had to feel each sleeper with my foot in order to take a step, but I was not afraid and walked well until I heard the puffing of a steam locomotive in the distance.

Elena Keller The story of my life 27

Chapter 12 FROST AND SUN

After my first visit to Boston, I spent almost every winter in the North. I once visited a New England village surrounded by frozen lakes and vast snow-covered fields.

A snowy night fell over the world, and the next morning the familiar landscape was barely recognizable. All the roads were covered with snow, there were no landmarks or signs left, we were surrounded by a white expanse with trees rising among it.

Three days later the snow stopped. The sun broke through the clouds and shone over the endless white plain. Snowdrifts of the most fantastic kind - mounds, pyramids, labyrinths - rose at every step.

Narrow paths were dug through the drifts. I put on a warm raincoat with a hood and left the house. The frosty air burned my cheeks.

Partly along cleared paths, partly overcoming small snowdrifts, Miss Sullivan and I managed to reach a pine forest beyond a wide pasture. The trees, white and motionless, stood before us like figures in a marble frieze. There was no smell of pine needles. The sun's rays fell on the branches, which fell in a generous rain of diamonds when we touched them. The light was so piercing that it penetrated the veil of darkness that enveloped my eyes...

Elena Keller The story of my life 28 That winter, our favorite pastime was sledding. In some places the shore of the lake rose steeply. We slid down these slopes. We sat on the sled, the boy gave us a good push - and off we went! Down between the snowdrifts, jumping over potholes, we rushed towards the lake and then smoothly rolled along its sparkling surface to the opposite shore. What a joy! What blissful madness! For one frantic, happy moment, we broke the chain chaining us to the ground, and, holding hands with the wind, we felt a divine flight!

Chapter 13 I AM NOT SILENT ANYMORE

In the spring of 1890 I learned to speak.

I pronounced “water” as “wa-wa.” However, even this became less and less intelligible. I completely stopped using these sounds when I learned to draw letters with my fingers.

In 1890, Mrs. Lamson, one of Laura Bridgman's teachers, who had just returned from a trip to Scandinavia, came to see me and told me about Ragnhild Kaata, a deaf-blind Norwegian girl who had managed to speak. No sooner had Mrs. Lamson finished her story about Ragnhild's successes than I was already eager to repeat them. I will not rest until my teacher takes me to Miss Sarah Fuller, the headmistress of the Horace Mann School, for advice and help. This charming and sweet lady herself offered to teach me, which we began on March 26, 1890.

My soul, feeling a surge of new strength, broke free from its shackles, and through this broken, almost symbolic language, it reached out to the world of knowledge and faith.

No deaf child, trying to pronounce words he had never heard, will forget the delightful amazement and joy of discovery that seized him when he uttered his first word. Only such a person can truly appreciate the fervor with which I spoke to toys, stones, trees, birds or animals, or my delight when Mildred answered my call, or the dogs obeyed my command. Inexplicable bliss is to speak with other winged words that do not require a translator! I spoke, and happy thoughts flew free along with my words - the same ones that for so long and so vainly tried to free themselves from the power of my fingers.

You shouldn’t assume that in such a short period of time I was actually able to speak. I learned only the simplest elements of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan could understand me, but most people would not understand one word out of a hundred that I spoke! It is also not true that, having learned these elements, I did the rest of the work myself. If it weren't for Miss Sullivan's genius, her persistence and enthusiasm, I wouldn't have gotten so far in mastering speech. Firstly, I had to work day and night so that at least those closest to me could understand me; secondly, I constantly needed Miss Sullivan's help in my efforts to articulate each sound clearly and to combine these sounds in a thousand ways. Even now she brings my mispronunciation to my attention every day.

All teachers of the deaf know what it is like, what painful work it is. I had to use my sense of touch to detect in each case the vibrations of the throat, the movements of the mouth and the expression of the face, and very often the sense of touch was mistaken. In such cases, I had to repeat words or sentences for hours until I felt the correct sound in my voice. My job was to practice, practice, practice. Fatigue and despondency often depressed me, but the next moment the thought that I would soon get home and show my relatives what I had achieved drove me on. I passionately imagined their joy at my success: “Now my sister will understand me!” This thought was stronger than all the obstacles. In ecstasy, I repeated again and again: “I am no longer silent!” I was amazed at how much easier it was to speak rather than draw signs with my fingers. And I stopped using the manual alphabet; only Miss Sullivan and some friends continued to use it in conversations with me, as it was more convenient and faster than lip reading.

Elena Keller The story of my life 31

Chapter 14 THE TALE OF KING FROST

In the winter of 1892, the clear horizon of my childhood was suddenly darkened.

Joy left my heart, and for a long time it was dominated by doubts, anxieties and fears. Books have lost all their charm for me, and even now the thought of those terrible days chills my heart.

The root from which the trouble grew was my little story “King Frost,” written and sent to Mr. Anagnos at the Perkins Institute for the Blind.

I wrote this story in Tuscumbia after I learned to speak. That autumn we stayed at Fern Quarry longer than usual.

While we were there, Miss Sullivan described to me the beauties of the late foliage, and these descriptions must have revived in my memory a story that had once been read to me, and I remembered it unconsciously and almost verbatim.

It seemed to me that I was “making it all up,” as the children say.

I sat down at the table and wrote down my invention. Thoughts flowed easily and smoothly.

Words and images flew to my fingertips. I scribbled phrase after phrase on the braille board in the delight of writing. Now, if words and images come to me effortlessly, I take this as a sure sign that they were not born in my head, but wandered into it from somewhere outside. And with regret I drive away these foundlings. But then I greedily absorbed everything I read, without the slightest thought about the authorship. Even now I am not always sure where the line lies between my own feelings and thoughts and what I read in books. I believe this is due to the fact that many of my impressions come to me through the eyes and ears of others.

After finishing writing my story, I read it to my teacher.

I remember how much pleasure I felt from the most beautiful passages and how angry I was when she interrupted me to correct the pronunciation of some word. Over dinner, the essay was read to the whole family, and my relatives were amazed at my talent. Someone asked me if I had read this in some book. The question surprised me very much, since I had not the slightest idea that anyone would read something like that to me. I said, “Oh no, this is my story! I wrote it for Mr. Anagnos, for his birthday."

It never occurred to me how cruelly I would pay for this gift.

Mr. Anagnos was delighted with “King Frost,” and he published the story in the journal of the Perkins Institute. My happiness reached immeasurable heights... from where I was soon thrown to the ground. I came to Boston briefly when it turned out that a story similar to my "Tsar Elena Keller The Story of My Life 32 Frosts" appeared before I was born under the name "Frost Fairies"

in Miss Margaret Canby's book Birdie and His Friends. Both stories were so similar in plot and language that it became obvious: my story turned out to be real plagiarism.

At first Mr. Anagnos, very upset, believed me. He was unusually kind and affectionate to me, and for a short time the clouds cleared.

To reassure him, I tried to be cheerful and dress up for Washington's birthday party, which took place shortly after I learned the sad news.

The teacher interpreted my answer as an admission that I remembered Miss Canby's story "The Frost Fairies." She hastened to communicate her conclusions to Mr. Anagnos. He believed it, or at least suspected that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen other people's bright thoughts and given them to him in order to gain his favor. I was summoned to answer before a commission of inquiry consisting of teachers and staff of the institute. Miss Sullivan told me to leave me alone, after which they began to question me, or rather interrogate me, with a persistent determination to make me confess that I remembered reading The Frost Fairies to me. Not being able to express it in words, I felt doubts and suspicions in every question, and also felt that my good friend Mr. Anagnos was looking at me with reproach. The blood was pounding in my temples, my heart was beating desperately, I could barely speak and answered in monosyllables. Even the knowledge that this was all an absurd mistake did not lessen my suffering. So when I was finally allowed to leave the room, I was in such a state that I did not notice either the kindness of my teacher or the sympathy of my friends, who said that I was a brave girl and that they were proud of me.

As I lay in bed that night, I cried as I hope few children cry. I was cold, it seemed to me that I would die before the morning, and this thought consoled me. I think that if such a misfortune had come to me when I was older, it would have broken me irreparably. But the angel Elena Keller The Story of My Life 33 oblivion carried away a large share of sadness and all the bitterness of those sad days.

All these readings out loud had no meaning to me then.

Even the simple drawing of letter signs was then enough to entertain a child who had almost nothing to entertain himself with. Although I do not remember anything about the circumstances of this reading, I cannot help but admit that I always tried to remember as many words as possible so that when my teacher returned, I could find out their meaning. One thing is clear: the words from this book are indelibly imprinted on my mind, although for a long time no one suspected it. And I am the least of all.

In these misfortunes of mine I received many letters expressing sympathy. All my most beloved friends, with the exception of one, remain my friends to this day.

Miss Canby herself wrote to me: “Someday, Elena, you will compose a wonderful fairy tale, and it will serve as help and consolation to many.”

This good prophecy was not destined to come true. I never played with words for pleasure again. Moreover, since then I have always been tormented by fear: what if what I wrote are not my words? For a long time, when I wrote letters, even to my mother, I was seized with sudden horror, and I re-read what I wrote again and again to make sure that I had not read it all in the book. If it had not been for Miss Sullivan's persistent encouragement, I think I would have stopped writing altogether.

The habit of assimilating the thoughts of others that I liked and then passing them off as my own is manifested in many of my early letters and first attempts at writing. In writing about the old cities of Italy and Greece, I borrowed colorful descriptions from many sources. I knew how much Mr. Anagnos loved antiquity, I knew about his enthusiastic admiration for the art of Rome and Greece. So I collected all the poems and stories I could from the various books I had read to please him. Speaking about my essay, Mr. Anagnos said: “These thoughts are poetic in nature.” But I don’t understand how he could have assumed, Elena Keller The Story of My Life 34, that a blind and deaf eleven-year-old child was capable of inventing them. However, I do not believe that just because I did not come up with all these thoughts myself, my writing was completely devoid of interest. This showed me to myself that I could express my understanding of beauty in a clear and lively manner.

This sad experience did me good: it made me think about some of the problems of writing. My only regret is that it resulted in the loss of one of my most treasured friends, Mr. Anagnos.

After the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Women's Home Magazine, Mr. Anagnos said that he considered me innocent in the story of "King Frost." He wrote that the commission of inquiry before which I then appeared consisted of eight people: four blind people and four sighted people. Four of them, he said, thought that I knew that Miss Canby's story had been read to me; four others took the opposite point of view. Mr. Anagnos claimed that he himself cast a vote in favor of a decision favorable to me.

Chapter 15 MAN IS INTERESTED ONLY IN MAN

I spent the summer and winter that followed the story of “King Frost” with my family in Alabama. I remember this visit with delight.

I was happy.

"Tsar Frost" was forgotten.

When the ground was covered with a red-and-gold carpet of autumn leaves, and the green clusters of muscadine grapes that covered the arbor at the far end of the garden were turned golden brown by the sun, I began to sketch a quick sketch of my life.

I still continued to be overly suspicious of everything I wrote. The thought that what I wrote might turn out to be “not quite mine” tormented me. No one knew about these fears except my teacher. Miss Sullivan consoled me and helped me in every way she could think of. In the hope of restoring my self-confidence, she convinced me to write a short sketch of my life for the magazine Companion of Youth. I was then 12 years old. Looking back at the torment that I endured while composing this little story, I can only assume today that some providence of the benefits that could flow from this undertaking forced me not to abandon what I had started.

Encouraged by my teacher, who understood that if I persisted in writing, I would regain my footing, I wrote timidly, fearfully, but decisively. Until the time of writing and failure of “Tsar Elena Keller The Story of My Life 36 Frosts,” I lived the thoughtless life of a child. Now my thoughts turned inward, and I saw what was invisible to the world.

What do they give you? The simplest and most obvious answer is everything. I cannot comprehend or define them, just as I cannot comprehend or define love, religion, virtue.

Every day I imagined that I was traveling around the world. I have seen the wonders of invention, the treasures of crafts and industry, all advances in every department of human life have passed under my fingertips. I enjoyed visiting the central exhibition pavilion. It was like all the tales of the Arabian Nights put together, there was so much wonderful stuff there. Here is India with its fancy bazaars, statues of Shiva and elephant gods, and here is the country of the pyramids, concentrated in the model of Cairo, then the lagoons of Venice, along which we rode in a gondola every evening, when the fountains were illuminated. I also boarded a Viking ship that was located near a small pier. I had already been on board a warship in Boston, and now it was interesting for me to see how the Viking ship worked, to imagine how they, fearlessly facing both storm and calm, set off in pursuit shouting: “We are the lords of the seas!” - and fought with muscles and minds, relying only on themselves, instead of giving way to a stupid machine. It always happens: “a person is only interested in a person.”

Mr. Higinbotham, the President of the World's Fair, kindly gave me permission to touch the exhibits, and with insatiable ardor, like Pizzarro seizing the treasures of Peru, I began to sort through and feel all the wonders of the fair. In the section representing the Cape of Good Hope, I became acquainted with diamond mining. Wherever possible, I touched the machines as I worked to get a more accurate idea of how gems were weighed, cut and polished. I put my hand into the washing machine... and there I found the only diamond, as the guides joked, ever found in the United States.

Dr. Bell walked with us everywhere and in his charming manner described the most interesting exhibits. In the Electricity pavilion

we examined telephones, phonographs and other inventions. Dr. Bell explained to me how a message could be sent across wires, defying distance and outrunning time, like Prometheus who stole the fire of heaven.

We also visited the Anthropology pavilion, where I was interested in the rough-hewn stones, simple monuments to the life of ignorant children of nature, miraculously surviving, while many monuments of kings and sages crumbled to dust. There were also Egyptian mummies there, but I avoided touching them.

Chapter 16 OTHER LANGUAGES

Until October 1893, I studied various subjects independently and randomly. I read about the history of Greece, Rome and the United States, learned French grammar from books with raised print, and since I already knew a little French, I often amused myself by making short phrases in my head with new words, ignoring the rules as much as possible. I also tried to master French pronunciation without any help. It was, of course, absurd to undertake such a large task with my feeble strength, but it provided entertainment on rainy days, and in this way I acquired sufficient knowledge of French to enjoy reading the fables of La Fontaine and The Imaginary Invalid.

At this time Miss Sullivan and I were visiting in Halton, Pennsylvania, with the family of Mr. William Wade. Their neighbor, Mr. Iron, was a good Latinist;

he agreed that I would study under his leadership. I remember the man's unusually sweet personality and his vast knowledge. He mainly taught me Latin, but he often helped me with arithmetic, which I found boring. Mr. Iron also read to me "In memoriam" by Tennyson. I had read a lot of books before, but never looked at them from a critical point of view. For the first time I understood what it meant to recognize an author, his style, just as I recognize a friendly handshake.

At first I was reluctant to learn Latin grammar. It seemed to me that Elena Keller The Story of My Life 38 was ridiculous to waste time analyzing every word that comes across (noun, genitive, singular, feminine) when its meaning is clear and understandable. But the beauty of this language began to give me true pleasure. I amused myself by reading passages of Latin, picking out individual words that I understood, and trying to guess the meaning of the whole phrase.

Chapter 17 WINDS BLOW FROM FOUR SIDES

This school was chosen specifically to take advantage of the highest achievements in the field of vocal culture and lip reading.

In addition to these subjects, for two years I studied arithmetic, geography, French and German at school.

Perhaps I succeeded more in German than in other subjects.

French was worse for me. I studied it with Madame Olivier, who did not know the manual alphabet, so she had to give me explanations orally. I could barely read her lips, so my progress was much slower. However, I got to read The Imaginary Invalid again, and it was fun, although not as exciting as William Tell.

I think we aimed too high. I continued to treat arithmetic as a network of traps and traps and teetered on the edge of guesswork, rejecting, much to the displeasure of my teachers, the broad road of logical reasoning. If I could not guess what the answer should be, I jumped to conclusions, and this, in addition to my stupidity, added to the difficulties.

However, although these disappointments at times made me despondent, I continued my other activities with unflagging interest.

I was especially attracted to physical geography. What a joy it was to learn the secrets of nature: how, according to the vivid expression from the Old Testament, the winds blow from the four sides of the heavens, how vapors rise up from the four ends of the earth, how rivers make their way through rocks, and mountains are overturned by their roots, and how a person can overcome powers greater than him.

The two years in New York were happy, I look back on them with real pleasure. I especially remember the daily walks we took in Central Park. I was always happy to meet him, I loved when he was described to me every time.

Every day of the nine months I lived in New York, the park was different in its beauty.

Even before I left New York, the bright days were darkened by the second greatest sadness I have ever experienced. The first was the death of my father. And after him died Mr. John Spalding of Boston. Only those who knew and loved him can understand how much his friendship meant to me. He was unusually kind and affectionate to me and Miss Sullivan, and he made everyone else happy, in his sweet, unobtrusive manner...

As long as we felt that he was following our work with interest, we did not lose vigor and courage. His passing left a void in our lives that has never been filled.

Elena Keller The story of my life 40

Chapter 18 MY FIRST EXAMINATIONS

In October 1896 I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies to prepare for Radcliffe College.

Every day Miss Sullivan would go to class with me and, with infinite patience, spell on my hand everything the teachers said. During homework hours, she had to explain to me the meaning of new words, read and retell books to me that did not exist in raised print. It’s hard to imagine the tediousness of this work. Frau Groethe, the German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the headmaster, were the only teachers who learned finger alphabet to teach me. No one understood better than dear Frau Gröthe how slowly and ineptly she used it. But out of the kindness of her heart, Elena Keller The Story of My Life 41 twice a week during special lessons, she diligently wrote her explanations on my hand to give Miss Sullivan a break. Although everyone was very kind to me and full of willingness to help, only her faithful hand turned boring cramming into pleasure.

That year I completed a course in arithmetic, brushed up on Latin grammar and read three chapters of Caesar's Notes on the Gallic War. In German I read, partly with my own fingers, partly with the help of Miss Sullivan, Schiller’s “The Song of the Bell” and “The Handkerchief,” Heine’s “Journey through the Harz,” Lessing’s “Minna von Barnhelm,” Freitag’s “On the State of Frederick the Great,” “From My Life.” » Goethe. I thoroughly enjoyed these books, especially Schiller's wonderful lyrics. I was sorry to part with “Journey through the Harz,” with its cheerful playfulness and charming descriptions of hills covered with vineyards, streams murmuring and sparkling in the sun, lost corners covered with legends, these gray-haired sisters of ages long past and enchanting. Only someone for whom nature is “feeling, love, and taste” could write this way.

Mr. Gilman taught me English literature for part of the year.

We read How You Like It together? Shakespeare, Burke's Speech for the Reconciliation of America, and Macaulay's Life of Samuel Johnson.

Mr. Gilman's subtle explanations and extensive knowledge of literature and history made my work easier and more enjoyable than it would have been if I had only mechanically read class notes.

As Burke's powerful oratory unfolded, I became more and more amazed that King George and his ministers could have failed to hear the warning of our victory and their inevitable humiliation.

However, despite the brilliance of Macaulay's language and his amazing ability to present the everyday with freshness and vivacity, I at times tired of his constant neglect of truth in favor of greater expression and the way he forced his opinions on the reader.

At Cambridge school, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed the company of sighted and hearing girls my age. I lived with several of them in a small cozy house, next to the school. I took part in common games, discovering for myself and for them that a blind person can also frolic and fool around in the snow. I went for walks with them, we discussed our activities and read interesting books aloud, because some of the girls learned to talk to me.

My mother and sister came to visit me during the Christmas holidays.

Mr. Gilman kindly invited Mildred to study at his school, so she remained with me at Cambridge, and we were not separated for the next happy six months. I rejoice remembering our joint activities in which we helped each other.

All preliminary examinations were conducted in the same manner.

The first one was the most difficult. So I remembered the day when the Latin tickets were brought to us. Professor Schilling came in and told me that I had passed the German exam satisfactorily. This inspired me in the highest degree Elena Keller The story of my life 43 degrees, and I continued typing my answers with a firm hand and with a light heart.

Chapter 19 LOVE OF GEOMETRY

Losing patience and courage, I showed my feelings in ways that I am ashamed to remember, especially because these manifestations of my grief were later reproached by Miss Sullivan, the only one of all good friends who could smooth out the rough edges and straighten the sharp turns.

However, step by step my difficulties began to disappear.

The raised books and other teaching aids arrived, and I plunged into my work with renewed zeal, although tedious algebra and geometry continued to resist my attempts to understand them. As I already mentioned, I had absolutely no ability for mathematics, the intricacies of its various sections were not explained to me with due completeness. Geometric drawings and diagrams especially annoyed me; in no way could I establish connections and relationships between their various parts, even on a pad. It was only after studying with Mr. Keith that I was able to gain a more or less clear understanding of the mathematical sciences.

I was already beginning to revel in my successes when an event occurred that suddenly changed everything.

Shortly before my books arrived, Mr. Gilman began to blame Miss Sullivan for studying too much, and, despite my violent objections, he reduced the volume of assignments. At the very beginning of classes, we agreed that, if necessary, I would prepare for college for five years.

However, successful examinations at the end of the first year showed Miss Sullivan and Miss Harbaugh, who was in charge of the Gilman School, that I could easily complete my training within two years. Mr. Gilman initially agreed to this, but when the assignments began to cause me difficulty, he insisted that I remain in school for three years. This option did not suit me; I wanted to go to college with my own class.

After some pause, it was agreed that I would continue my studies under the guidance of a private teacher, Mr. Merton Keith of Cambridge.

This is how my preparation for college went. I found that studying alone was much more enjoyable than being in a class. There was no rush or misunderstanding. The teacher had enough time to explain to me what I didn’t understand, so I learned faster and better than at school. Math still gave me more difficulty than other subjects. I dreamed that it would be at least half as difficult as literature. But with Mr. Keith it was interesting to study even mathematics. He encouraged my mind to always be ready, taught me to think clearly and clearly, to draw conclusions calmly and logically, and not to jump headlong into the unknown, landing in God knows where. He was invariably kind and patient, no matter how stupid I seemed, and at times, believe me, my stupidity would have exhausted Job's long-suffering.

On June 29 and 30, 1899, I took my final exams. On the first day I took elementary Greek and advanced Latin, and the next day I took geometry, algebra and advanced Greek.

The college authorities did not allow Miss Sullivan to read my exam papers. One of the teachers at the Perkins Institute for the Blind, Mr. Eugene K. Vining, was assigned to translate them for me. Mr. Vining was a stranger to me and could only communicate with me through a Braille typewriter. The exam supervisor was also an outsider and made no attempts to communicate with me.

The Braille system worked well when it came to languages, but when it came to geometry and algebra, difficulties began. I was familiar with all three braille letter systems used in the United States (English, American and New York dotted). However, the algebraic and geometric signs and symbols in these three systems differ from each other. While studying algebra, I used English braille.

Two days before the exam, Mr. Vining sent me a braille copy of the old Harvard algebra papers. To my horror, I discovered that it was written in American style. I immediately notified Mr. Vining of this and asked him to explain these signs to me. I received other tickets and a table of signs by return mail and sat down to study them.

But the night before the exam, fighting with some complex example, I realized that I could not distinguish between roots, square and round brackets. Both Mr. Keith and I were very alarmed and filled with forebodings regarding tomorrow. In the morning we arrived at college early, and Mr. Vining explained to me in detail the American Braille system.

The biggest difficulty I had to face during the geometry exam was that I was used to having the terms of the problem written on my hand. Printed braille confused me, and I could not understand what was required of me. However, when I moved on to algebra, it got even worse. The signs that I had just learned and that I thought I remembered were jumbled in my head. Besides, I didn't see what I was typing. Mr. Keith relied too much on my ability to solve problems in my head and did not coach me in writing answers to tickets.

So I worked very slowly, reading the examples over and over again, trying to understand what was required of me. At the same time, I was not at all sure that I was reading all the signs correctly. I could barely control myself to maintain my presence of mind...

But I don't blame anyone. The members of the Radcliffe College management did not realize how difficult they had made my exam and did not understand the difficulties that I had to face. They unwittingly placed additional obstacles in my path, and I was consoled by the fact that I managed to overcome them all.

Elena Keller The story of my life 46

Chapter 20 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER? KNOWLEDGE IS HAPPINESS!

The struggle to get into college is over. However, we felt that it would be beneficial for me to study with Mr. Keith for another year. As a result, my dream came true only in the fall of 1900.

I remember my first day at Radcliffe. I've been waiting for him for many years. Something, much stronger than the persuasion of friends and the prayers of my own heart, urged me to test myself by the standards of those who see and hear. I knew that I would encounter many obstacles, but I was eager to overcome them. I deeply felt the words of the wise Roman who said: “To be expelled from Rome is only to live outside Rome.”

Separated from the high roads of knowledge, I was forced to make my journey along untrodden paths - that’s all. I knew that I would find many friends in college who thought, loved, and fought for their rights the same way I did.

A world of beauty and light opened up before me. I felt within myself the ability to know him fully. In the wonderful land of knowledge, it seemed to me that I would be as free as any other person. In its vastness, people and landscapes, legends and customs, joys and sorrows will become for me living, tangible transmitters of the real world. The lecture halls were inhabited by the spirits of the great and the wise, and the professors seemed to me the embodiment of profundity. Did my opinion change later? I won't tell anyone this.

But I soon realized that college was not at all the romantic lyceum that I had imagined it to be. The dreams that delighted my youth faded in the light of ordinary day. Gradually, I began to realize that going to college had its disadvantages.

The first thing I experienced and still experience is a lack of time. Previously, I always had time to think, reflect, and be alone with my thoughts. I loved to sit alone in the evenings, immersed in the innermost melodies of my soul, heard only in moments of quiet peace, when the words of a beloved poet suddenly touch a hidden heart string, and it, hitherto mute, responds with a sweet and pure sound. In college there was no time to indulge in such thoughts.

People go to college to study, not to think. Entering the gates of learning, your favorite joys - solitude, books, the play of imagination - you leave outside, along with the rustling of the pine trees. Perhaps I should have consoled myself with the fact that I am storing up treasures of joy for the future, but I am careless enough to prefer present joy to reserves collected for a rainy day.

In my first year I studied French, German, history and English literature. I read Corneille, Molière, Racine, Alfred de Musset and Saint-Beuve, as well as Goethe and Schiller. I moved confidently through history, quickly surveying the entire period of history, from the fall of the Roman Empire to XVIII century, and in English literature Elena Keller was engaged in analysis of Milton's poems and Areopagitica.

I am often asked how I adjusted to the demands of college. I was practically alone in the classroom. The teacher seemed to be talking to me on the phone. Lectures were quickly written on my hand, and, of course, in the pursuit of the speed of conveying meaning, the individuality of the lecturer was often lost. The words rushed along my hand like dogs chasing a hare, which they were not always able to catch up with. But in this respect, I think I was not too different from the girls who tried to take notes on everything. If the mind is occupied with the mechanical work of catching individual phrases and transferring them to paper, in my opinion, there can be no attention left for thinking about the subject of the lecture or about the manner of presenting the material.

I couldn't take notes during the lecture because my hands were busy listening. Usually, when I came home, I wrote down what I remembered.

I typed exercises, daily assignments, tests, semi-annual tests and finals. exam papers, so it wasn’t difficult for the teachers to figure out how little I knew.

When I started studying Latin prosody, I came up with and explained to the teacher a system of signs that denoted different meters and accents.

I used a Hammond typewriter because I found it best suited to my specific needs. With this machine you can use interchangeable carriages with different symbols and letters, in accordance with the nature of the work. Without it, I probably wouldn't have been able to attend college.

Very few books necessary for the study of various disciplines are printed for the blind. Hence the need arose to have much more time to prepare homework than other students needed. With the manual alphabet everything was transmitted more slowly, and understanding it required incomparably more effort. There were days when the close attention I had to pay to the smallest details was terribly depressing. The thought of having to spend several hours reading two or three chapters while other girls were laughing and singing, dancing and walking around made me furiously protest.

However, I soon pulled myself together, and my cheerfulness returned to me.

Because, after all, anyone who wants to gain true knowledge must climb the mountain alone, and since there is no broad road to the heights of knowledge, I must zigzag the path. I will stumble, stumble upon obstacles, fall into bitterness and come to my senses, then trying to maintain patience. I will mark time, slowly drag my feet, hope, become more and more confident, climb higher and see further. One more effort - and I will touch the shining cloud, the blue depths of the sky, the pinnacle of my desires. And I am not alone in this struggle. Mr. William Wade and Mr. I. I. Allen, head of the Pennsylvania Institute for the Education of the Blind, procured for me many of the books I needed. Their Elena Keller History of My Life 48 responsiveness gave me, in addition to practical benefits, also encouragement.

IN last year During my time at Radcliffe, I studied English literature and stylistics, the Bible, the political structure of America and Europe, the odes of Horace and Latin comedies. The English Literature Composition class was one of the most enjoyable experiences I've ever had. The lectures were interesting, witty and engaging. The teacher, Mr. Charles Townsend Copeland, presented us with masterpieces of literature in all their original freshness and strength. In the short time of the lesson, we received a breath of the eternal beauty of the creations of the old masters, not clouded by aimless interpretations and comments. You could enjoy the subtlety of the thought. You absorbed with all your soul the sweet thunders of the Old Testament and, forgetting about Yahweh and Elohim, went home, feeling that a ray of immortal harmony flashed before you, in which form and spirit reside, and truth and beauty, like a new bud, sprout on an ancient trunk time.

This year was the happiest, because I studied subjects that especially interested me: economics, Elizabethan literature and Shakespeare under the guidance of Professor George C. Kittredge, history and philosophy under the guidance of Professor Josiah Royce.

At the same time, the college was not at all some kind of modern Athens, as I had imagined from afar. There you do not meet face to face with great sages, you do not even feel living contact with them.

They are present there, this is true, but in some kind of mummified form. We had to take them out every day, walled up in the walls of the building of science, take them apart piece by piece and subject them to analysis, before being sure that we were dealing with the genuine Milton or Isaiah, and not with a clever fake. I think scholars often forget that our enjoyment of great works of literature in to a greater extent depends on our sympathies than on our understanding. The trouble is that few of their labored explanations stick in memory. The mind drops them like a branch drops an overripe fruit. After all, you can know everything about flowers and roots, stems and leaves, about all the processes of growth and not feel the charm of a bud freshly washed with dew. Again and again I impatiently asked: “Why bother yourself with all these explanations and assumptions? They rush back and forth in my thoughts, like blind birds helplessly beating the air with their weak wings.” I do not mean by this to negate the careful study of the illustrious works which we are required to read. I object only to the endless comments and contradictory criticism, which prove only one thing: there are so many heads, so many minds. But when an excellent teacher like Professor Kittredge interprets the creations of a master, it is like the sight of a blind man. Live Shakespeare is here, next to you.

Amateur and TV..."Parveen Darabadi. Doctor of Historical Sciences, Professor of the Department of International Relations at Baku State University, author of more than 100 scientific papers, some small stories, however, are annoying. Here are episodes from one of his trips. I received a leave of absence and decided to go to my brother in the Urals: for twelve years there have been no... "research by the Government of the Kabardino-Balkarian Republic and the Kabardino-Balkarian Scientific Center of the Russian Academy of Sciences, the North Caucasus Genealogical Society, the Kabardino-Balkarian Historical and Genealogical Genealogy..."

“N evvsteyya dosed getizn i his p i. In the history of the Dnieper Cossacks, clear and coherent historical data begin only from the half of the 15th century. About the long struggle that arose during the reign of Bogdan Kh tiysh gts kom, and a major coup...”

“Sergei Nikolaevich Burin Vladimir Aleksandrovich Vedyushkin General history. History of modern times. 7th grade Series "Vertical (Bustard)" Text provided by the copyright holder http://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=8333175 General history: History of Modern Times. 7th grade: textbook / V. A. Vedyushkin, S. N. Burin: Bustard; Moscow; 2013 ISBN...”

"Federal State Autonomous Educational Institution of Higher Education National Research University Higher School of Economics Faculty of Social Sciences and Humanities Department of Humanities Work program disciplines Latin language – 2nd level d...”