the world i live in-海伦·凯勒自传(英文版)-第2部分

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that　it　does　in　space；　for；　without　egotism；　the　mind　is　as　large　as　the
universe。　When　I　think　of　hills；　I　think　of　the　upward　strength　I　tread
upon。　When　water　is　the　object　of　my　thought；　I　feel　the　cool　shock　of
the　plunge　and　the　quick　yielding　of　the　waves　that　crisp　and　curl　and
ripple　about　my　body。　The　pleasing　changes　of　rough　and　smooth；　pliant
and　rigid；　curved　and　straight　in　the　bark　and　branches　of　a　tree　give
the　truth　to　my　hand。　The　immovable　rock；　with　its　juts　and　warped
surface；　bends　beneath　my　fingers　into　all　manner　of　grooves　and
hollows。　The　bulge　of　a　watermelon　and　the　puffed…up　rotundities　of
squashes　that　sprout；　bud；　and　ripen　in　that　strange　garden　planted
somewhere　behind　my　finger…tips　are　the　ludicrous　in　my　tactual　memory
and　imagination。　My　fingers　are　tickled　to　delight　by　the　soft　ripple
of　a　baby's　laugh；　and　find　amusement　in　the　lusty　crow　of　the　barnyard
autocrat。　Once　I　had　a　pet　rooster　that　used　to　perch　on　my　knee　and
stretch　his　neck　and　crow。　A　bird　in　my　hand　was　then　worth　two　in
the……barnyard。

My　fingers　cannot；　of　course；　get　the　impression　of　a　large　whole　at　a
glance；　but　I　feel　the　parts；　and　my　mind　puts　them　together。　I　move
around　my　house；　touching　object　after　object　in　order；　before　I　can
form　an　idea　of　the　entire　house。　In　other　people's　houses　I　can　touch
only　what　is　shown　to　me……the　chief　objects　of　interest；　carvings　on　the
wall；　or　a　curious　architectural　feature；　exhibited　like　the　family
album。　Therefore　a　house　with　which　I　am　not　familiar　has　for　me；　at
first；　no　general　effect　or　harmony　of　detail。　It　is　not　a　plete
conception；　but　a　collection　of　object…impressions　which；　as　they　e
to　me；　are　disconnected　and　isolated。　But　my　mind　is　full　of
associations；　sensations；　theories；　and　with　them　it　constructs　the
house。　The　process　reminds　me　of　the　building　of　Solomon's　temple；　where
was　neither　saw；　nor　hammer；　nor　any　tool　heard　while　the　stones　were
being　laid　one　upon　another。　The　silent　worker　is　imagination　which
decrees　reality　out　of　chaos。

Without　imagination　what　a　poor　thing　my　world　would　be！　My　garden　would
be　a　silent　patch　of　earth　strewn　with　sticks　of　a　variety　of　shapes　and
smells。　But　when　the　eye　of　my　mind　is　opened　to　its　beauty；　the　bare
ground　brightens　beneath　my　feet；　and　the　hedge…row　bursts　into　leaf；
and　the　rose…tree　shakes　its　fragrance　everywhere。　I　know　how　budding
trees　look；　and　I　enter　into　the　amorous　joy　of　the　mating　birds；　and
this　is　the　miracle　of　imagination。

Twofold　is　the　miracle　when；　through　my　fingers；　my　imagination　reaches
forth　and　meets　the　imagination　of　an　artist　which　he　has　embodied　in　a
sculptured　form。　Although；　pared　with　the　life…warm；　mobile　face　of　a
friend；　the　marble　is　cold　and　pulseless　and　unresponsive；　yet　it　is
beautiful　to　my　hand。　Its　flowing　curves　and　bendings　are　a　real
pleasure；　only　breath　is　wanting；　but　under　the　spell　of　the　imagination
the　marble　thrills　and　bees　the　divine　reality　of　the　ideal。
Imagination　puts　a　sentiment　into　every　line　and　curve；　and　the　statue
in　my　touch　is　indeed　the　goddess　herself　who　breathes　and　moves　and
enchants。

It　is　true；　however；　that　some　sculptures；　even　recognized　masterpieces；
do　not　please　my　hand。　When　I　touch　what　there　is　of　the　Winged　Victory；
it　reminds　me　at　first　of　a　headless；　limbless　dream　that　flies　towards
me　in　an　unrestful　sleep。　The　garments　of　the　Victory　thrust　stiffly　out
behind；　and　do　not　resemble　garments　that　I　have　felt　flying；
fluttering；　folding；　spreading　in　the　wind。　But　imagination　fulfils
these　imperfections；　and　straightway　the　Victory　bees　a　powerful　and
spirited　figure　with　the　sweep　of　sea…winds　in　her　robes　and　the
splendour　of　conquest　in　her　wings。

I　find　in　a　beautiful　statue　perfection　of　bodily　form；　the　qualities　of
balance　and　pleteness。　The　Minerva；　hung　with　a　web　of　poetical
allusion；　gives　me　a　sense　of　exhilaration　that　is　almost　physical；　and
I　like　the　luxuriant；　wavy　hair　of　Bacchus　and　Apollo；　and　the　wreath　of
ivy；　so　suggestive　of　pagan　holidays。

So　imagination　crowns　the　experience　of　my　hands。　And　they　learned　their
cunning　from　the　wise　hand　of　another；　which；　itself　guided　by
imagination；　led　me　safely　in　paths　that　I　knew　not；　made　darkness　light
before　me；　and　made　crooked　ways　straight。




THE　HANDS　OF　OTHERS




II

THE　HANDS　OF　OTHERS


THE　warmth　and　protectiveness　of　the　hand　are　most　homefelt　to　me　who
have　always　looked　to　it　for　aid　and　joy。　I　understand　perfectly　how　the
Psalmist　can　lift　up　his　voice　with　strength　and　gladness；　singing；　〃I
put　my　trust　in　the　Lord　at　all　times；　and　his　hand　shall　uphold　me；　and
I　shall　dwell　in　safety。〃　In　the　strength　of　the　human　hand；　too；　there
is　something　divine。　I　am　told　that　the　glance　of　a　beloved　eye　thrills
one　from　a　distance；　but　there　is　no　distance　in　the　touch　of　a　beloved
hand。　Even　the　letters　I　receive　are……

　　　　　　　　　　Kind　letters　that　betray　the　heart's　deep　history；
　　　　　　　　　　In　which　we　feel　the　presence　of　a　hand。

It　is　interesting　to　observe　the　differences　in　the　hands　of　people。
They　show　all　kinds　of　vitality；　energy；　stillness；　and　cordiality。　I
never　realized　how　living　the　hand　is　until　I　saw　those　chill　plaster
images　in　Mr。　Hutton's　collection　of　casts。　The　hand　I　know　in　life　has
the　fullness　of　blood　in　its　veins；　and　is　elastic　with　spirit。　How
different　dear　Mr。　Hutton's　hand　was　from　its　dull；　insensate　image！　To
me　the　cast　lacks　the　very　form　of　the　hand。　Of　the　many　casts　in　Mr。
Hutton's　collection　I　did　not　recognize　any；　not　even　my　own。　But　a
loving　hand　I　never　forget。　I　remember　in　my　fingers　the　large　hands　of
Bishop　Brooks；　brimful　of　tenderness　and　a　strong　man's　joy。　If　you　were
deaf　and　blind；　and　could　have　held　Mr。　Jefferson's　hand；　you　would　have
seen　in　it　a　face　and　heard　a　kind　voice　unlike　any　other　you　have
known。　Mark　Twain's　hand　is　full　of　whimsies　and　the　drollest　humours；
and　while　you　hold　it　the　drollery　changes　to　sympathy　and　championship。

＇Illustration：　Copyright；　1907；　by　the　Whitman　Studio

The　Medallion

The　bas…relief　on　the　wall　is　a　portrait　of　the　Queen　Dowager　of　Spain；
which　Her　Majesty　had　made　for　Miss　Keller

To　face　page　22＇

I　am　told　that　the　words　I　have　just　written　do　not　〃describe〃　the　hands
of　my　friends；　but　merely　endow　them　with　the　kindly　human　qualities
which　I　know　they　possess；　and　which　language　conveys　in　abstract　words。
The　criticism　implies　that　I　am　not　giving　the　primary　truth　of　what　I
feel；　but　how　otherwise　do　descriptions　in　books　I　read；　written　by　men
who　can　see；　render　the　visible　look　of　a　face？　I　read　that　a　face　is
strong；　gentle；　that　it　is　full　of　patience；　of　intellect；　that　it　is
fine；　sweet；　noble；　beautiful。　Have　I　not　the　same　right　to　use　these
words　in　describing　what　I　feel　as　you　have　in　describing　what　you　see？
They　express　truly　what　I　feel　in　the　hand。　I　am　seldom　conscious　of
physical　qualities；　and　I　do　not　remember　whether　the　fingers　of　a　hand
are　short　or　long；　or　the　skin　is　moist　or　dry。　No　more　can　you；　without
conscious　effort；　recall　the　details　of　a　face；　even　when　you　have　seen
it　many　times。　If　you　do　recall　the　features；　and　say　that　an　eye　is
blue；　a　chin　sharp；　a　nose　short；　or　a　cheek　sunken；　I　fancy　that　you　do
not　succeed　well　in　giving　the　impression　of　the　person；……not　so　well
as　when　you　interpret　at　once　to　the　heart　the　essential　moral　qualities
of　the　face……its　humour；　gravity；　sadness；　spirituality。　If　I　should
tell　you　in　physical　terms　how　a　hand　feels；　you　would　be　no　wiser　for
my　account　than　a　blind　man　to　whom　you　describe　a　face　in　detail。
Remember　that　when　a　blind　man　recovers　his　sight；　he　does　not　recognize
the　monest　thing　that　has　been　familiar　to　his　touch；　the　dearest
face　intimate　to　his　fingers；　and　it　does　not　help　him　at　all　that
things　and　people　have　been　described　to　him　again　and　again。　So　you；
who　are　untrained　of　touch；　do　not　recognize　a　hand　by　the　grasp；　and
so；　too；　any　description　I　might　give　would　fail　to　make　you　acquainted
with　a　friendly　hand　which　my　fingers　have　often　folded　about；　and
which　my　affection　translates　to　my　memory。

I　cannot　describe　hands　under　any　class　or　type；　there　is　no　democracy
of　hands。　Some　hands　tell　me　that　they　do　everything　with　the　maximum　of
bustle　and　noise。　Other　hands　are　fidgety　and　unadvised；　with　nervous；
fussy　fingers　which　indicate　a　nature　sensitive　to　the　little　pricks　of
daily　life。　Sometimes　I　recognize　with　foreboding　the　kindly　but　stupid
hand　of　one　who　tells　with　many　words　news　that　is　no　news。　I　have　met　a
bishop　with　a　jocose　hand；　a　humourist　with　a　hand　of　leaden　gravity；　a
man　of　pretentious　valour　with　a　timorous　hand；　and　a　quiet；　apologetic
man　with　a　fist　of　iron。　When　I　was　a　little　girl　I　was　taken　to　see＇A＇
a　woman　who　was　blind　and　paralysed。　I　shall　never　forget　how　she　held
out　her　small；　trembling　hand　and　pressed　sympathy　into　mine。　My　eyes
fill　with　tears　as　I　think　of　her。　The　weariness；　pain；　darkness；　and
sweet　patience　were　all　to　be　felt　in　her　thin；　wasted；　groping；　loving
hand。

Few　people　who　do　not　know　me　will　understand；　I　think；　how　much　I　get
of　the　mood　of　a　friend　who　is　engaged　in　oral　conversation　with
somebody　else。　My　hand　follows　his　motions；　I　touch　his　hand；　his　arm；
his　face。　I　can　tell　when　he　is　full　of　glee　over　a　good　joke　which　has
not　been　repeated　to　me；　or　when　he　is　telling　a　lively　story。　One　of
my　friends　is　rather　aggressive；　and　his　hand　always　announces　the
ing　of　a　dispute。　By　his　impatient　jerk　I　know　he　has　argument　ready
for　some　one。　I　have　felt　him　start　as　a　sudden　recollection　or　a　new
idea　shot　through　his　mind。　I　have　felt　grief　in　his　hand。　I　have　felt
his　soul　wrap　itself　in　darkness　majestically　as　in　a　garment。　Another
friend　has　positive；　emphatic　hands　which　show　great　pertinacity　of
opinion。　She　is　the　only　person　I　know　who　emphasizes　her　spelled　words
and　accents　them　as　she　emphasizes　and　accents　her　spoken　words　when　I
read　her　lips。　I　like　this　varied　emphasis　better　than　the　monotonous
pound　of　unmodulated　people　who　hammer　their　meaning　into　my　palm。

Some　h