 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Story of My Life by Helen Keller Read by Maria Euther in London, England, February 2007 Chapter 15 The summer and winter following the frost-killing incident I spent with my family in Alabama. I recall with delight that home-going. Everything had budded and blossomed. I was happy. The frost-king was forgotten. When the ground was strewn with the crimson and golden leaves of autumn, and the must-centred grapes that covered the arbor at the end of the garden were turning golden brown in the sunshine, I began to write a sketch of my life, a year after I had written The Frost-King. I was still excessively scrupulous about everything I wrote. The thought that what I wrote might not be absolutely my own tormented me. No one knew of these fears except my teacher. A strange sensitiveness prevented me from referring to The Frost-King, and often when an idea flushed out in the course of conversation, I would spell softly to her, I am not sure it is mine. At other times, in the midst of her paragraph I was writing, I said to myself, Suppose it should be found that all of this was written by someone long ago. An impish fear clutched my hand, so that I could not write any more that day. And even now I sometimes feel the same uneasiness and disquietude. Miss Sullivan consoled and helped me in every way she could think of, but the terrible experience I had passed through left a lasting impression on my mind, the significance of which I am only just beginning to understand. It was with the hope of restoring my self-confidence that she persuaded me to write The Youth's Companion, a brief account of my life. I was then twelve years old. As I look back on my struggle to write that little story, it seems to me that I must have had a prophetic vision of the good that would come of the undertaking, or I should surely have failed. I wrote timidly, fearfully, but resolutely, urged on by my teacher, who knew that if I persevered I should find my mental foothold again, and get a grip on my faculties. Up to the time of the Frost King episode, I had lived the unconscious life of a little child. Now my thoughts were turned inward, and I had beheld things invisible. Gradually I emerged from the penumbra of that experience with a mind made clearer by trial and with a truer knowledge of life. The chief events of the year 1893 were my trip to Washington during the inauguration of President Cleveland, and visits to Niagara and the World's Fair. Under such circumstances my studies were constantly interrupted, and often put aside for many weeks, so that it is impossible for me to give a connected account of them. We went to Niagara in March 1893. It is difficult to describe my emotions when I stood on the point which overhangs the American falls, and felt the air vibrate and the earth tremble. It seems strange to many people that I should be impressed by the wonders and beauties of Niagara. They are always asking, what does this beauty or that music mean to you? You cannot see the waves rolling up the beach, or hear their roar, what do they mean to you? In the most evident sense they mean everything. I cannot fathom or define their meaning any more than I can fathom or define love or religion or goodness. During the summer of 1893 Miss Sullivan and I visited the World's Fair with Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. As I recall with unmixed delight those days when a thousand childish fancies became beautiful realities. Every day in imagination I made a trip round the world, and I saw many wonders from the uttermost parts of the earth. Marvels of invention, treasures of industry, and skill, and all the activities of human life actually passed under my fingertips. I like to visit the midway plazons. It seemed like the Arabian Nights. It was crowned so full of novelty and interest. Here was the India of my books and the curious bazaar with its sheavers and elephant gods. There was the land of the pyramids concentrated in a model Cairo with its mosques and long processions of camels. Yonder were the lagoons of Venice where we sailed every evening when the city and the fountains were illuminated. I also went on board a Viking ship which lay a short distance from the little craft. I had been on a man of war before in Boston, and it interested me to see on this Viking ship how the seaman was once all in all. How he sailed and took storm and calm alike with undaunted heart, and gave chase to whoever re-echoed his cry. We are of the sea, and fought with brains and sinews, self-reliant, self-sufficient, instead of being thrusted to the background by unintelligent machinery, as Jack is today. So it always is, man only is interesting to man. At a little distance from this ship there was a model of the Santa Maria which I also examined. The captain showed me Columbus's cabin and the desk with an hourglass on it. The small instrument impressed me, most because it made me think how weary the heroic navigator must have felt as he saw the sand dropping grain by grain while desperate men were plotting against his life. Mr. Higginbotham, president of the World's Fair, kindly gave me permission to judge the exhibits, and with an eagerness as insatiable as that with which Pizarro seized the treasures of Peru. I took in the glories of the fair with my fingers. It was a sort of tangible kaleidoscope, this white city of the West. Everything fascinated me, especially the French bronzers. They were so lifelike I thought they were angel visions which the artists had caught and bound in earthly forms. At the Cape of Good Hope exhibit, I learned much about the processes of mining diamonds. Whenever it was possible, I touched the machinery while it was in motion, so as to get a clearer idea how the stones were weighed, cut and polished. I searched in the washings for a diamond, and found it myself, the only true diamond, they said, that was ever found in the United States. Dr. Bell went everywhere with us, and in his own delightful way described to me the objects of greatest interest. In the electrical building, we examined the telephones, autophones, phonographs and other inventions, and he made me understand how it is possible to send a message on wires that mark space and outrun time, and like Prometheus to draw fire from the sky. We also visited the anthropological department, and I was much interested in the relics of ancient Mexico, in the root stone implements that are so often the only record of an age. The simple monuments of nature's unleaded children, so I thought as I fingered them, that seemed bound to last while the memorials of kings and sages crumble in duster way, and in the Egyptian mummies which I shrank from touching. From these relics I learned more about the progress of man than I have heard or read since. All these experiences added a great many new terms to my vocabulary, and in the three weeks I spent at the fair I took a long leap from the little child's interest in fairy tales and toys to the appreciation of the real and the earnest in the worker-day world. End of Chapter Read by Maria Eutha in London, England, February 2007 This is LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Story of My Life by Helen Keller Read by Maria Eutha in London, England, February 2007 Chapter 16 Before October 1893 I had studied various subjects by myself in a more or less desultory manner. I read the histories of Greece, Rome and the United States. I had a French grammar in raised print, and as I already knew some French, I often amused myself by composing in my head short exercises using the new words as I came across them, and ignoring rules and other technicalities as much as possible. I even tried, without aid, to master the French pronunciation as I found all the letters and sounds described in the book. Of course this was tasking slender powers for great ends, but it gave me something to do on a rainy day, and I acquired a sufficient knowledge of French to read with pleasure Lafontaine's Fables, Le Medecine, Malgré-Luis, and passages from Athalie. I also gave considerable time to the improvement of my speech. I read aloud to Miss Sullivan and recited passages from my favourite poets, which I had committed to memory. She corrected my pronunciation and helped me to phrase and inflict. It was not, however, until October, 1893, after I had recovered from the fatigue and excitement of my visit to the World's Fair, that I began to have lessons in special subjects at fixed hours. Miss Sullivan and I were at that time in Halton, Pennsylvania, visiting the family of Mr. William Wade. Mr. Irons, a neighbour of theirs, was a good Latin scholar. It was a range that I should study under him. I remember him as a man of rare sweet nature and of wide experience. He taught me Latin grammar principally, but he often helped me in arithmetic, which I found as troublesome as it was uninteresting. Mr. Irons also read with me Tennyson's In Memoriam. I had read many books before, but never from a critical point of view. I learnt for the first time to know an author, to recognise his style, as I recognised the class with my friend's hand. At first I was rather unwilling to study Latin grammar. It seemed absurd to waste time analysing every word I came across, noun, genitive, singular, feminine, when its meaning was quite plain. I thought I might just as well describe my pet in order to know it. Order, vertebrate, division, quadruped, glass, mammalia, genus, felinus, species, cat, individual, tabby. But as I got deeper into the subject, I became more interested, and the beauty of the language delighted me. I often amused myself by reading Latin passages, picking up the words I understood and trying to make sense. I have never ceased to enjoy this pastime. There is nothing more beautiful, I think, than the evanescent, fleeting images and sentiments presented by a language one is just becoming familiar with. Ideas that flit across the mental sky, shaped and tinted by capricious fancy. Miss Sullivan sat beside me at lessons, spilling into my hand whatever Mr. Irons said, and looking up new words for me. I was just beginning to read Caesar's Gallic War when I went to my home, Alabama. End of chapter, read by Maria Euther in London, England, February 2007. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Story of My Life by Helen Keller. Read by Maria Euther in London, England, February 2007. Chapter 17 In the summer of 1894, I attended the meeting at Chateau Coix of the American Association to promote the teaching of speech to the deaf. There it was arranged that I should go to the Wright-Humason School for the Deaf in New York City. I went there in October 1894, accompanied by Miss Sullivan. This school was chosen especially for the purpose of obtaining the highest advantages in vocal culture and training in lip reading. In addition to my work in these subjects, I studied during the two years I was in the school, arithmetic, physical geography, French and German. Miss Remy, my German teacher, could use the manual alphabet. And after I had acquired a small vocabulary, we talked together in Germany whenever we had a chance, and in a few months I could understand almost everything she said. Before the end of the first year, I read Wilhelm Tell with the greatest delight. Indeed, I think I made more progress in German than in any other of my studies. I found French much more difficult. I studied it with Madame Olivier, a French lady who did not know the manual alphabet, and who was obliged to give her instruction orally. I could not read her lips easily, so my progress was much slower than in German. I managed to read, however, Le Medici Malgruie again. It was very amusing, but I did not like it nearly so well as Wilhelm Tell. My progress in lip reading and speech was not what my teachers and I had hoped and expected it would be. It was my ambition to speak like other people, and my teachers believed that this could be accomplished. But, although we worked hard and faithfully, yet we did not quite reach our goal. I suppose we aimed too high, and disappointment was therefore inevitable. I still regarded arithmetic as a system of pitfalls. I hung about the dangerous frontier of guess, avoiding the infinite trouble to myself and others the broad value of reason. When I was not guessing, I was jumping at conclusions, and this fault, in addition to my dullness, aggravated my difficulties more than was right or necessary. But although these disappointments caused me great depression at times, I pursued my other studies with unflagging interest, especially physical geography. It was a joy to learn the secrets of nature, how, in the picturesque language of the Old Testament, the winds are made to blow from the corners of the heavens, how the vapours ascend from the ends of the earth, how rivers are cut among the rocks, and mountains overturned by the roots, and in what ways man may overcome many forces mightier than himself. The two years in New York were happy ones, and I looked back to them with genuine pleasure. I remember especially the walks we all took together every day in Central Park, the only part of the city that was congenial to me. I never lost a jot of my delight in this great park. I loved to have it described every time I entered it, for it was beautiful in all its aspects, and these aspects were so many that it was beautiful in a different way each day of the nine months I spent in New York. In the spring we made excursions to various places of interest. We sailed on the Hudson River and wandered about on its green banks, of which Bryant loved to sing. I liked the simple wild grandeur of the palisades. Among the places I visited there were West Point, Terry Town, the home of Washington Irvy, where I walked through Sleepy Hollow. The teachers at the Wright-Humason School were also planning how they might give the pupils every advantage that those who hear enjoy, how they might make much of few tendencies and passive memories in the cases of the little ones, and lead them out of the cramping circumstances in which their lives were set. Before I left New York these bright days were darkened by the greatest sorrow that I have ever borne, except the death of my father. Mr. John P. Spaulding of Boston died in February 1896. Only those who knew and loved him best can understand what his friendship meant to me. He who made everyone happy in a beautiful, unobtrusive way was most kind and tender to Miss Sullivan and me. So long as we felt his loving presence and knew that he took her watchful interest in our work, fraught with so many difficulties, we could not be discouraged. His going away left a vacancy in our lives that has never been filled. End of chapter, read by Maria Euther in London, England, February 2007. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Story of My Life by Helen Keller. Read by Maria Euther in London, England, February 2007. Chapter 18 In October 1896, I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies to be prepared for Radcliffe. When I was a little girl, I visited Wesley and surprised my friends by the announcement, some day I shall go to college, but I shall go to Harvard. When asked why I would not go to Wesley, I replied that there were only girls there. The thought of going to college took root in my heart and became an earnest desire which impelled me to enter into a competition for a degree with seeing and hearing girls in the face of strong opposition of many true and wise friends. When I left New York, the idea had become a fixed purpose and it was decided that I should go to Cambridge. This was the nearest approach I could get to Harvard and to the fulfilment of my childish declaration. At the Cambridge School, the plan was to have Miss Sullivan attend the classes with me and interpret to me the instruction given. Of course my instructors had had no experience in teaching any but normal pupils and my only means of conversing with them was reading their lips. My studies for the first year were English history, English literature, German, Latin, arithmetic, Latin composition and occasional themes. Until then I had never taken a course of study with the idea of preparing for college, but I had been well drilled in English by Miss Sullivan and it soon became evident to my teachers that I needed no special instruction in this subject beyond a critical study of the books prescribed by the college. I had had, moreover, a good start in French and received six months instruction in Latin, but German was the subject with which I was most familiar. In spite, however, of these advantages there were serious drawbacks to my progress. Miss Sullivan could not spell out in my hand all the books required and it was very difficult to have textbooks embossed in time to be of use to me, although my friends in London and Philadelphia were willing to hasten the work. For a while indeed I had to copy my Latin in Braille so that I could recite with the other girls. My instructors soon became sufficiently familiar with my imperfect speech to answer my questions readily and correct mistakes. I could not make notes in class or write exercises, but I wrote all my compositions and translations at home on my typewriter. Each day Miss Sullivan went to the classes with me and spelled into my hand with infinite patience all that the teachers said. In study hours she had to look up new words for me and read and reread notes and books I did not have in race print. The tedium of that work is hard to conceive. Frau Gröt, my German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the principal, were the only teachers in the school who learnt the finger-at-alphabet to give me instruction. No one realised more fully than dear Frau Gröt how slow and inadequate her spelling was. Nevertheless, in the goodness of her heart she laboriously spelt out her instructions to me in special lessons twice a week to give Miss Sullivan a little rest. But though everybody was kind and ready to help us there was only one hand that could turn drudgery into pleasure. That year I finished arithmetic, reviewed my Latin grammar and read three chapters of Caesar's Gaelic War. In German I read partly with my fingers and partly with Miss Sullivan's insistence, Schiller's Leid von Gluch and Tauscher, Hein's Harzreis, Freitags, Ausstämstaat Freik, Friedrichs des Großen, Reils Fluch der Schonheit, Lessings meiner von Ballenhelm und Geurth aus meinem Leben. I took the greatest delight in these German books, especially Schiller's wonderful lyrics, the history of Frederick the Great's magnificent achievements and the account of Geth's life. I was sorry to finish the Harzreis, so full of happy witticisms and charming descriptions of vine-clad hills, streams at sea and ripple in the sunshine and wild regions, sacred to tradition and legend, the gray sisters of the long-vanished imaginative age, descriptions such as can only be given to those whom nature is a feeling, a love and an appetite. Mr. Gilman instructed me part of the year in English literature. We read together, as you like it, Burke's speech on conciliation with America and McCawley's Life of Samuel Johnson. Mr. Gilman's broad views of history and literature and his clever explanations made my work easier and pleasanter than it could have been had I only read notes mechanically with the necessary brief explanations given in the classes. Burke's speech was more instructive than any other book on a political subject that I had ever read. My mind stirred with the stirring times and the characters round which the life of two contending nations centered seemed to move right before me. I wondered more and more, while Burke's masterly speech rolled onto the mighty surges of eloquence, how it was that King George and his ministers could have turned a deaf ear to his warning prophecy of our victory and their humiliation. Then I entered into the melancholy details of the relation which the great statesman stood to his party and to the representatives of the people. I thought how strange it was that such precious seeds of truth and wisdom should have fallen among the tires of ignorance and corruption. In a different way, McCawley's Life of Samuel Johnson was interesting. My heart went out to the learning man who ate the bread of affliction in Grubb Street and yet, in the midst of toil and cruel suffering of body and soul, always had a kind word and lent a helping hand to the poor and despised. I rejoiced over all his successes. I shut my eyes to his faults and wondered, not that he had them, but they had not crushed or dwarfed his soul. In spite of McCawley's brilliancy and his admirable faculty of making the commonplace seem fresh and picturesque, his positiveness wearied me at times and his frequent sacrifices of truth to effect kept me in a questioning attitude very unlike the attitude of reverence in which I had listened to the Demosthenes of Great Britain. At the Cambridge School for the first time in my life I enjoyed the companionship of seeing and hearing girls of my own age. I lived with several others in one of the pleasant houses connected with the school. The house where Mr. Howells used to live and we all had the advantage of home life. I joined them in many of their games, even blind man's buff and frolics in the snow. I took long walks with them, we discussed our studies and read aloud the things that interested us. Some of the girls learned to speak to me so that Miss Sullivan did not have to repeat their conversation. At Christmas my mother and little sister spent the holidays with me and Mr. Gilman kindly offered to let Mildred study in his school. So Mildred stayed with me in Cambridge for the six happy months we were hardly ever apart. It makes me most happy to remember the hours we spent helping each other in study and sharing our recreation together. I took preliminary examinations for Radcliffe from the 29th of June to the 3rd of July, 1897. The subjects I offered were elementary and advanced German, French, Latin, English, Greek and Roman history, making nine hours in all. I did everything and received honours in German and English. Perhaps an explanation of the method that was in use when I took my examinations will not be amiss here. The student was required to pass in 16 hours, 12 hours being called elementary and four advanced. He had to pass five hours at a time to have them counted. The examination papers were given out at 9 o'clock at Harvard and brought to Radcliffe by a special messenger. Each candidate was known not by his name but by a number. I was number 233, but as I had to use my typewriter my identity could not be concealed. It was thought advisable for me to have my examinations in a room by myself because the noise of the typewriter might disturb the other girls. Mr. Gilman read all the papers to me by means of the manual alphabet. A man was placed on guard at the door to prevent interruption. The first day I had German Mr. Gilman sat beside me and read the paper through first, then sentence by sentence while I repeated the words aloud to make sure that I understood him perfectly. The papers were difficult and I felt very anxious as I wrote out my answers on the typewriter. Mr. Gilman spelled to me what I had written and made such changes as I thought necessary and he inserted them. I wish to say here that I have not had this advantage since in any of my examinations. At Ratcliffe no one reads the papers to me after they are written and I have no opportunity to correct errors unless I finish before the time is up. In that case I correct only such mistakes as I can recall in the few minutes aloud and make notes of these corrections at the end of my paper. If I passed with higher credit in the preliminaries than in the finals then there are two reasons. In the finals no one read my work over to me and in the preliminaries I offered subjects with some of which I was in a measure familiar before my work in the Cambridge school for at the beginning of the year I passed examinations in English, History, French and German which Mr. Gilman gave me from previous Harvard papers. Mr. Gilman sent my written work to the examiners with the certificate that I, candidate number 233, had written the papers. All other preliminary examinations were conducted in the same manner. None of them were so difficult as the first. I remember that in the day the Latin paper was brought to us Professor Schilling came in and informed me that I had passed satisfactorily in German. This encouraged me greatly and I sped on to the end of the ordeal with a light heart and a steady hand. End of chapter read by Maria Euthier in London, England, February 2007 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Story of my life by Helen Keller Read by Maria Euthier in London, England, February 2007 Chapter 19 When I began my second year at the Gilman school I was full of hope and determination to succeed but during the first few weeks I was confronted with unforeseen difficulties. Mr. Gilman had agreed that that year I should study mathematics principally. I had physics, algebra, geometry, astronomy, Greek and Latin. Unfortunately many of the books I needed had not been in Boston time for me to begin with the classes and I lacked important apparatus for some of my studies. The classes I was in were very large and it was impossible for the teachers to give me special instruction. Miss Sullivan was obliged to read all the books to me and interpret for the instructors and for the first time in eleven years it seemed as if her dear hand would not be equal to the task. It was necessary for me to write algebra and geometry in class and solve problems in physics and this I could not do until we bought a Braille writer by means of which I could put down the steps and processes of my work. I could not follow with my eyes the geometrical figures drawn on the blackboard and my only means of getting a clear idea of them was to make them on a cushion with straight and curved wires which had bent and pointed ends. I had to carry in my mind, as Mr. Keith said in his report, the lettering of the figures, the hypothesis and conclusion, the construction and the process of the proof. In a word every study had its obstacles. Sometimes I lost all courage and betrayed my feelings in a way I am ashamed to remember, especially as the signs of my trouble were afterwards used against Miss Sullivan, the only person of all the kind friends I had there who could make the crooked straight and the rough places smooth. Little by little however my difficulties began to disappear. The embossed books and other apparatus arrived and I threw myself into the work with renewed confidence. Algebra and geometry were the only studies that continued to defy my efforts to comprehend them. As I have said before I had no aptitude for mathematics and different points were not explained to me as fully as I wished. The geometrical diagrams were particularly vexing because I could not see the relation of the different parts to one another even on the cushion. It was not until Mr. Keith taught me that I had a clear idea of mathematics. I was beginning to overcome these difficulties that occurred which changed everything. Just before the books came Mr. Gilman had begun to remonstrate with Miss Sullivan on the ground that I was working too hard and in spite of my earnest protestations he reduced the number of my recitations. At the beginning we had agreed that I should if necessary take five years to prepare for college but at the end of the first year the success of my examinations showed Miss Sullivan, Miss Harbour, Mr. Gilman's headteacher and one another that I could without too much effort complete my preparation in two years more. Mr. Gilman had at first agreed to this but when my tasks had become somewhat perplexing he insisted that I was overworked and that I should remain at his school three years longer. I did not like this plan for I wished to enter college with my class. On the 17th of November I was not very well and did not go to school. Although Miss Sullivan knew that my indisposition was not serious yet Mr. Gilman on hearing it declared that I was breaking down and made changes in my studies which would have rendered it impossible for me to take my final examinations with my class. In the end the difference of opinion between Mr. Gilman and Miss Sullivan resulted in my mother's withdrawing my sister Mildred and me from the Cambridge school. After some delay it was arranged that I should continue my studies under a tutor. Mr. Merton S. Keith of Cambridge. Miss Sullivan and I spent the rest of the winter with our friends the Chamberlains in Renton, 25 miles from Boston. From February to July 1898 Mr. Keith came out to Renton twice a week and taught me algebra, geometry, Greek and Latin. Miss Sullivan interpreted his instruction. In October 1898 we returned to Boston. For eight months Mr. Keith gave me lessons five times a week in periods of about an hour. He explained each time what I did not understand in the previous lesson. I signed new work and took home with him the Greek exercises which I had written during the week on my typewriter, corrected them fully and returned them to me. In this way my preparation for college went on without interruption. I found it much easier and pleasanter to be taught by myself than to receive instruction in class. There was no hurry, no confusion. My tutor had plenty of time to explain what I did not understand so I got on faster and did better work than I ever did in school. I still found more difficulty in mastering problems in mathematics than I did in any other of my studies. I wish algebra and geometry had been half as easy as the languages and literature. But even mathematics Mr. Keith made interesting. He succeeded in whittling problems small enough to get through my brain. He kept my mind alert and eager and trained it to reason clearly and to seek conclusions calmly and logically instead of jumping wildly into space and arriving nowhere. He was always gentle and forebearing and no matter how dull I might be and believe me my stupidity would often have exhausted the patience of Job. On the 29th and 30th of June, 1899 I took my final examinations for Ratcliffe College. The first day I had elementary Greek and advanced Latin and the second day Geometry, Algebra and Advanced Greek. The college authorities did not allow Miss Sullivan to read the examination papers to me. So Mr. Eugene C. Vining, one of the instructors at the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was employed to copy the papers for me in American Braille. Mr. Vining was a stranger to me and could not communicate with me except by writing Braille. The proctor was also a stranger and did not attempt to communicate with me in any way. The Braille worked well enough in the languages but when it came to Geometry and Algebra difficulties arose. I was sorely perplexed and felt discouraged by testing much precious time, especially in Algebra. It is true that I was familiar with all literary Braille in common use in this country English, American and New York Point. But the various signs and symbols in Geometry and Algebra in the three systems are very different and I had used only the English Braille in my Algebra. Two days before the examinations Mr. Vining sent me a Braille copy of one of the old Harvard papers in Algebra. To my dismay I found it was in the American notation. I sat down immediately and wrote to Mr. Vining asking him to explain the signs. I received another paper and a table of signs by return mail and I set to work to learn the notation. But on the night before the Algebra examination while I was struggling over some very complicated examples I could not tell the combinations of bracket, brace and radical. Both Mr. Keith and I were distressed and full of verbodings for the morrow but we went over to the college a little before the examination began and had Mr. Vining explain more fully the American symbols. In Geometry my chief difficulty was that I had always been accustomed to read the propositions in line print or to have them spelled into my hand and somehow although the propositions were right before me I found the Braille confusing and could not fix clearly in my mind what I was reading. But when I took up Algebra I had a harder time still the signs which I had so lately learned and which I thought I knew perplexed me. Besides I could not see what I wrote on my typewriter. I had always done my work in Braille or in my head. Mr. Keith had relied too much on my ability to solve problems mentally and had not trained me to write examination papers. Consequently my work was painfully slow and I had to read the examples over and over before I could form any idea of what I was required to do. Indeed I am not sure now that I read all the signs correctly. I found it very hard to keep my wits about me. But I do not blame anyone. The administrative board of Radcliffe did not realise how difficult they were making my examinations nor did they understand the peculiar difficulties I had to surmount. But if they unintentionally placed obstacles in my way I have the consolation of knowing that I overcame them all. End of Chapter Read by Maria Youther in London, England, February 2007 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Story of My Life by Helen Keller Read by Maria Youther in London, England, February 2007 Chapter 20 The struggle for admission to college was ended and I could now enter Radcliffe whenever I pleased. Before I entered college however I thought it best that I should study another year under Mr Keith. It was not therefore until the fall of 1900 that my dream of going to college was realised. I remember my first day at Radcliffe. It was a day full of interest for me. I had looked forward to it for years. The potent force within me stronger than the persuasion of my friends, stronger even than the pleadings of my heart had impelled me to try my strength by the standards of those who see and hear. I knew that there were obstacles in the way but I was eager to overcome them. I had taken to heart the words of the wise Roman who said, To be banished from Rome is but to live outside of Rome. Debarred from the great highways of knowledge I was compelled to make the journey across country by unfrequenting roads. That was all. And I knew that in college there were many by-paths where I could touch hands with girls who were thinking, loving and struggling like me. I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening in beauty and light and I felt within me the capacity to know all things. In the wonderland of mind I should be free as another. Its people, scenery, manners, joys, tragedies should be living tangible interpreters of the real world. The lecture hall seemed filled with the spirit of the great and the wise and I thought the professors were the embodiment of wisdom. I have since learned differently. I am not going to tell anybody. But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum I had imagined. Many of the dreams that delighted my youngen experience became beautifully less and faded into the light of common day. Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going to college. The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think to reflect my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit which one hears only in leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning one leaves the dearest pleasures, solitude, books and imagination outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment. But I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day. My studies the first year were French, German, History, English composition and English literature. In the French course I read some of the works of Coniel, Molière, Racine, Alfred de Musée and St. Boeuf and in the German those of Geth and Schuyler. I reviewed rapidly the whole period of history from the fall of the Roman Empire to the 18th century and in English literature studied critically Milton's Palms and Areopagatica. I am frequently asked how I overcome the peculiar conditions under which I work in college. In the classroom I am of course practically alone. The professor is as remote as if he was speaking through a telephone. The lectures are spelled into my hand as rapidly as possible and much of the individuality of the lecturer is lost to me in the effort to keep in the race. The words rushed through my hand are the pursuit of a hair which they often miss. But in this respect I do not think they are much worse off than the girls who take notes. If the mind is occupied with the mechanical process of hearing and putting words on paper at pelmel speed I should not think one could pay much attention to the subject under consideration or the manner in which it is presented. I cannot make notes during lectures because my hands are busy listening. Usually I jot down what I can remember of them when I get home. I take the exercises, daily themes, criticisms and our tests, the mid-year and final examinations on my typewriter so that the professors have no difficulty in finding out how little I know. When I began the study of Latin prosody I devised and explained to my professor a system of science indicating the different meters and quantities. I use the Hammond typewriter. I have tried many machines and I find the Hammond is the best adapted to the peculiar needs of my work. With this machine movable type shuttles can be used and one can have several shuttles each with a different set of characters Greek, French or mathematical according to the kind of writing one wishes to do on the typewriter. Without it I doubt if I could go to college. Very few of the books required in the various courses I printed for the blind and I am obliged to have them spelled into my hand. Consequently I need more time to prepare my lessons than the other girls. The manual part takes longer and I have perplexities which they have not. There are days when the close attention I must give to details chafes my spirit and the thought that I must spend hours reading a few chapters while in the world without other girls a laughing and singing and dancing makes me rebellious. But I soon recover my buoyancy and laugh the discontent out of my heart. For after all anyone who wishes to gain true knowledge must climb the hill difficulty alone. And since there is no royal road to the summit I must zigzag it in my own way. I slip back many times I fall, I stand still I run against the edge of hidden obstacles I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better I trudge on, I gain a little I feel encouraged, I get more eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon Every struggle is a victory one more effort and I reach the luminous cloud the blue depths of the sky the uplands of my desire I'm not always alone however in these struggles Mr. William Wade and Mr. E. E. Allen principal of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instruction of the Blind get for me many of the books I need in raised print Their thoughtfulness has been more of a help and encouragement to me Last year my second year at Radcliffe I studied English composition The Bible is English literature the governments of America and Europe the Odes of Oris and Latin comedy The class in composition was the pleasantest it was very lively the lectures were always interesting vivacious, witty for the instructor Mr. Charles Townsend Copeland more than anyone else brings before you literature in all its original freshness and power for one short hour you are permitted to drink in the eternal beauty of the old masters without needless interpretation or exposition you revel in their fine thoughts you enjoy with all your soul the sweet thunder of the Old Testament forgetting the existence of Yahweh and Elohim and you go home feeling that you have had a glimpse of that perfection spirit and form dwell in immortal harmony truth and beauty bearing a new growth on the ancient stem of time this year is the happiest because I am studying subjects that especially interest me economics, Elizabethan literature Shakespeare under Professor George L. Kittridge and the history of philosophy under Professor Josiah Royce through philosophy one enters with sympathy of comprehension into the traditions of remote ages and other modes of thought which air while seem alien and without reason but college is not the universal Athens I thought it was there one does not meet the great and the wise face to face one does not even feel their living touch they are there it is true but they seem mummified we must extract them from the crannied wall of learning and dissect and analyse them before we can be sure that we have a Milton and not merely a clever imitation many scholars forget it seems to me that our enjoyment of the great works of literature depends more upon the depth of our sympathy than upon our understanding the trouble is that very few of their laborious explanations stick in the memory the mind drops them as a branch drops its overripe fruit it is possible to know a flower, root and stem and all and all the processes of growth and yet to have no appreciation of the flowers fresh bathed in heaven's dew again and again I ask impatiently why concern myself with these explanations and hypotheses they fly hither and thither and my thought like blind birds beating the air with ineffectual wings I do not mean to object to a thorough knowledge of the famous works we read I object only to the interminable comments and bewildering criticisms that teach but one thing there are as many opinions as there are men but when a great scholar like Professor Kittridge interprets what the master said it is as if new sight were given the blind he brings back Shakespeare the poet there are however times when I long to sweep away half the things I am expected to learn for the overtaxed mind cannot enjoy the treasure it has secured the greatest cost it is impossible I think to read in one day four or five different books in different languages and treating of widely different subjects and not lose sight of the very ends for which one reads when one reads hurriedly and nervously having in mind written tests and examinations one's brain becomes encumbered with a lot of choice bric-a-brac for which there seems to be little use at the present time I am so full of heterogeneous matter that I almost despair of ever being able to put it in order whenever I enter the region that was the kingdom of my mind I feel like the proverbial bull in the china shop a thousand odds and ends of knowledge come crashing about my head like hailstones and when I try to escape them theme goblins and college nixies of all sorts pursue me until I wish oh may I be forgiven the wicked wish that I might smash the idols I came to worship but the examinations are the chief bugbears of my college life although I have faced them many times and cast them down and made them bite the dust yet they rise again and menace me with pale looks until like bobakers I feel my courage oozing out at my finger ends the days before these ordeals take place are spent in cramming your mind with mystic formulae and indigestible dates unpalatable diets until you wish that books and science and you were buried in the depths of the sea at last the dreaded hour arrives and you are a favoured being indeed if you feel prepared and are able at the right time to call to your standard thoughts that will aid you in that supreme effort it happens too often that your trumpet call is unheeded it is most perplexing and exasperating that just at the moment when you need your memory and a nice sense of discrimination these faculties take to themselves wings and fly away the facts you have garnered with such infinite trouble invariably fail you at a pinch give a brief account of huss and his work huss who was he and what did he do the name looks strangely familiar you ransack your budget of historic facts much as you would hunt for a bit of silk in a rag bag you are sure it is somewhere in your mind near the top you saw it there the other day when you were looking up the beginnings of the reformation but where is it now you fish out all manner of odds and ends of knowledge revolutions schisms massacres systems of government but huss where is he you are amazed at all the things you know which are not on the examination paper in desperation you seize the budget and get the money out and there in a corner is your man serenely brooding in his own private thought unconscious of the catastrophe which he has brought upon you just then the proctor informs you that the time is up with a feeling of intense disgust you kick the massive rubbish into a corner and go home your head full of revolutionary schemes to abolish the divine right of professors to ask questions without the consent of the questioned it comes over me that in the last two or three pages of this chapter I have used figures which will turn the laugh against me ah here they are the mixed metaphors mocking and strutting about before me pointing to the bull in the china shop the sail by hail stones and the bugbears with pale looks an unanalyzed species let them mock on the words describe so exactly the atmosphere of jostling tumbling ideas I live in that I will wink at them for once and put on a deliberate air to say that my ideas of college have changed while my days at Ratcliffe were still in the future they were encircled with a halo of romance which they have lost but in the transition from romantic to actual I have learnt many things I should never have known had I not tried the experiment one of them is the precious science of patience which teaches us that we should take our education as we would take a walk in the country leisurely our minds hospitably open to impressions of every sort such knowledge floods the soul unseen with a soundless tidal wave of deepening thought knowledge is power rather knowledge is happiness because to have knowledge broad deep knowledge is to know true ends from false and lofty things from low to know the thoughts and deeds that have marked man's progress the great heartthrobs of humanity through the centuries and if one does not feel in these pulsations a heaven would striving one must indeed be deaf to the harmonies of life End of chapter read by Maria Euthar in London England February 2007 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information and to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Story of My Life by Helen Keller Read by Maria Euthar in London England February 2007 I have thus far sketched the events of my life but I have not shown how much I depended on books not only for pleasure and for the wisdom they bring to all who read but also for that knowledge which comes to others through their eyes and their ears Indeed books have meant so much more in my education than in that of others that I shall go back to the time when I began to read I read my first connected story in May 1887 when I was seven years old and from that day to this I have devoured everything in the shape of a printer page that has come within the reach of my hungry fingertips As I have said I did not study regularly during or did I read according to rule At first I had only a few books in race print readers for beginners a collection of stories for children and a book about the earth called Our World I think that was all but I read them over and over until the words were so worn and pressed I could scarcely make them out Sometimes Miss Sullivan read to me spelling into my hand little stories and poems that she knew I should understand but I preferred reading myself to being read to because I liked to read again and again the things that pleased me It was during my first visit to Boston that I really began to read in good earnest I was permitted to spend a part of each day in the institution library and to wonder from bookcase to bookcase and take down whatever book my fingers lighted upon and read I did whether I understood one word in ten words on a page The words themselves fascinated me but I took no conscious account of what I read My mind must however have been very impressionable at that period for it retained many words and whole sentences to the meaning of which I had not the faintest clue and afterwards when I began to talk and write these words and sentences would flash out quite naturally so that my friends wondered at the richness of my vocabulary I must have read parts of many books in those early days I think I never read any one book through and a great deal of poetry in this uncomprehending way until I discovered Little Lord Fontleroy which was the first book of any consequence I read understandingly One day my teacher found me in a corner of the library pouring over the pages of the scarlet letter I was then about eight years old I remember she asked me if I liked Little Pearl she explained some of the words that puzzled me then she told me she had a beautiful story about a little boy which she was sure I should like better than the scarlet letter the name of the story was Little Lord Fontleroy and she promised to read it to me the following summer but we did not begin the story until August the first few weeks of my stay at the seashore was so full of discoveries and excitement that I forgot the very existence of books then my teacher went to visit some friends in Boston leaving me for a short time when she returned almost the first thing we did was to begin the story of Little Lord Fontleroy I recall distinctly the time and place when we read the first chapters of the fascinating child's story it was a warm afternoon in August we were sitting together in a hammock which swung from two solemn pines at a short distance from the house we had hurried through the dishwashing after luncheon in order to see what we might have as long an afternoon as possible for the story as we hastened through the long grass toward the hammock the grasshoppers swarmed about us and fastened themselves on our clothes and I remembered that my teacher insisted on picking them all off before we sat down which seemed to me an unnecessary waste of time the hammock was covered with pine needles for it had not been used while my teacher was away the warm sun shone on the pine trees throughout all their fragrance the air was barmy with a tang of the sea in it before we began the story Miss Sullivan explained to me that the things she knew I should not understand and as we read on she explained the unfamiliar words at first there were many words I did not know and the reading was constantly interrupted but as soon as I thoroughly comprehended the situation I became too eagerly absorbed in the story to notice mere words and I am afraid I listened impatiently to the explanations that Miss Sullivan felt to be necessary when her fingers were too tired to spell another word I had for the first time a keen sense of my deprivations I took the book in my hands and tried to fill the letters with an intensity of longing that I could never forget afterward at my eager request Mr. Enagnos had this story embossed and I read it again and again until I almost knew it by heart and all through my childhood Little Lord Fontleroy was my sweet and gentle companion I have given these details at risk of being tedious because they are in such vivid contrast with my vague mutable confused memories of earlier reading from Little Lord Fontleroy I date the beginning of my true interest in books during the next two years I read many books at my home or on my visits to Boston I cannot remember what they all were or in what order I read them but I know that among them were Greek heroes Lafontaine's Fables Hawthorne's Wonder Book Bible Stories Lambs Tales from Shakespeare A Child's History of England by Dickens The Arabian Nights The Swiss Family Robinson The Pilgrims Progress Robinson Caruso Little Women and Heidi A beautiful little story I read them in the intervals between study and play with an ever-deepening sense of pleasure. I did not study nor analyse them I did not know whether they were well written or not. I never thought about style or authorship. They laid their treasures at my feet and I accepted them as we accept the sunshine and the love of our friends I loved Little Women because it gave me a sense of kinship with girls and boys who could see and hear circumscribed as my life was in so many ways I had to look between the covers of books for news of the world that lay outside my own. I did not care especially for the Pilgrims Progress, which I think I did not finish, or for the Fables. I read Lafontaine's Fables a first in an English translation and enjoyed them only after a half-hearted fashion. Later I read the book again in French and I found that in spite of the vivid word pictures and the wonderful mastery of language I liked it no better. I do not know why it is, but stories in which animals are made to talk and act like human beings have never appealed to me very strongly. The ludicrous caricatures of the animals occupy my mind to the exclusion of the moral. Then again Lafontaine's seldom if ever appeals to our higher moral sense. The highest chords he strikes are those of reason and self-love. All the Fables runs the thought that man's morality springs wholly from self-love, and that if self-love is directed and restrained by reason happiness must follow. Now, so far as I can judge self-love is the root of all evil. But of course I may be wrong. For Lafontaine had greater opportunities of observing men than I am likely to ever to have. I do not object so much to the cynical and satirical Fables as those in which momentous truths are taught by monkeys and foxes. But I love the Jungle Book, and wild animals I have known. I feel a genuine interest in the animals themselves because they are real animals and not caricatures of men. One sympathizes with their loves and hatreds, laughs over their comedies, and weeps over their tragedies. And if they point to moral, it is so subtle that we are not conscious of it. My mind opened naturally and joyously to the conception of antiquity. Ancient Greece exercised a mysterious fascination over me. In my fancy the pagan gods and goddesses still walked on earth and talked face to face with men, and in my heart I secretly built shrines to those I love best. I knew and loved the whole tribe of nymphs and heroes and demigods. No, not quite all, for the cruelty and greed of Medea and Jason were too monstrous to be forgiven. And I used to wonder why the gods permitted them to do wrong, and then punish them for their wickedness. And the mystery is still unsolved. I often wonder how God can dumbness keep while sin creeps grinning through his house of time. It was Iliad that made Greece my paradise. I was familiar with the story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had little difficulty in making Greek words surrender their treasures after I had passed the border land of grammar. Great poetry, whether written in Greek or in English, needs no other interpreter than a responsive heart. Would that the host of those who make the great works of the poets, odious by their analysis, in positions and laborious comments might learn this simple truth. It is not necessary that one should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and appreciate a fine power. I know my learned professors have found greater riches in the Iliad than I shall ever find. But I am not avaricious. I am content that others should be wiser than I. But with all their wide and comprehensive knowledge they cannot measure their enjoyment of that splendid epic nor can I. When I read the finest passages of the Iliad, I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping circumstances of my life. My physical limitations are forgotten. My world lies upward. The lengthen the breadth and the sweep of the heavens are mine. My admiration for the Iliad is not so great, but it is nonetheless real. I read it as much as possible without the help of notes or dictionary. And I always like to translate the episodes that please me especially. The word painting of Virgil is wonderful sometimes, but his guards and men walk through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and love like graceful figures in an Elisabeth and mask, whereas in the Iliad they give three lips and go on singing. Virgil is serene and lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight. Homer is a beautiful, animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair. How easy it is to fly on paper wings. From Greek heroes to the Iliad was no day's journey, nor was it altogether pleasant. One could have travelled round the world many times while I trudged my weary way through the labyrinthine mazes of grammars and dictionaries or fell into those dreadful pitfalls called examinations, set by schools and colleges for the confusion of those who seek after knowledge. I suppose this sort of pilgrims' progress was justified by the end. And it seemed interminable to me in spite of the pleasant surprises that met me now and then at a turn in the road. I began to read the Bible long before I could understand it. Now it seems strange to me that there should have been a time when my spirit was deaf to its wondrous harmonies. But I do remember well a rainy Sunday morning when, having nothing else to do, I begged my cousin to read me a story out of the Bible. Although she did not think I should understand, she began to spell into my hand the story of Joseph and his brothers. Somehow it failed to interest me. The unusual language and repetition made the story seem unreal and far away in the land of Canaan. And I fell asleep and wandered off to the land of Nod before the brothers came with a coat of many colours onto the tent of Jacob and told their wicked lie. I cannot understand why the stories of the Greek should have been so full of charm for me and those of the Bible so devoid of interest. Unless it was that I made the acquaintance of all Greeks in Boston and being inspired by their enthusiasm for the stories of their country whereas I had not met a single Hebrew or Egyptian and therefore concluded that there were nothing more than barbarians and the stories about them were probably all made up. Curiously enough it never occurred to me to call Greek patronymics queer. But how shall I speak of the glories I have since discovered in the Bible? For years I have read it with a sense of joy and inspiration and I love it as I love no other book. Still there is much in the Bible against which every instinct of my being rebels so much that I regret the necessity which has compelled me to read it through from beginning to end. I do not think that the knowledge which I have gained of its history and sources compensates for the unpleasant details it has forced upon my attention. For my part I wish Mr. Hals that the literature of the past might be purged of all that is ugly and barbarous in it. Although I should object as much as anyone to having these great works weakened or falsified there is something impressive, awful in the simplicity of the terrible directness of the book of Esther. Could there be anything more dramatic than the scene in which Esther stands before her wicked lord? She knows her life is in his hands there is no one to protect her from his wrath yet conquering her woman's fear she approaches him animated by the noblest patriotism having but one thought if I perish I perish but if I live my people shall live. The story of Ruth too how oriental it is yet how different is the story of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital. Ruth is so loyal and gentle hearted we cannot help but loving her as she stands with the reapers amid the waving corn. Her beautiful unselfish spirit shines out like a bright star in the night of a dark and cruel age. Love like Ruth's love which can ride above conflicting creeds and deep seated racial prejudices is hard to find in all the world. The Bible gives me a deep comforting sense that things seen are temporal and things unseen are eternal. I do not remember a time since I have been capable of loving books that I have not loved Shakespeare. I cannot tell exactly when I began Lambs Tales from Shakespeare but I know that I read them at first with a child's understanding and a child's wonder. Macbeth seems to have impressed me most. One reading was sufficient to stamp every detail of the story upon my memory forever. For a long time the ghosts and witches came into dreamland. I could see, absolutely see the dagger and Lady Macbeth's little white hand. The dreadful stain was as real to me as to the grief-stricken queen. I read King Lear soon after Macbeth and I shall never forget the feeling of horror when I came to the scene in which Gloucester's eyes are put out. Anger sees me. My fingers refuse to move. I sat rigid for one long moment the blood throbbing in my temples all the hatred that a child can feel concentrated in my heart. I must have made the acquaintance of Shylock and Satan about the same time for the two characters were long associated in my mind. I remember that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good even if they wished to because no one seemed willing to help them or to give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the devils, the judices, and even the devil are broken spokes in the great will of good which shall in due time be made whole. It seems strange that my first reading of Shakespeare should have left me so many unpleasant memories. The bright, gentle, fanciful plays, the ones I like best now, appear not to have impressed me at first, perhaps because they reflected the habitual sunshine and gaiety of a child's life, but there is nothing more capricious than the memory of a child, what it will hold and what it will lose. I have since read Shakespeare's plays many times and no parts of them by heart, but I cannot tell which of them I like best. My delight in them is as varied as my moods. The little songs and the sonnets have a meaning for me as fresh and wonderful as the dramas. But with all my love for Shakespeare it is often weary to read all the meanings into his lines which critics and commentators have given them. I used to try to remember their interpretations but they discouraged and vexed me, so I made a secret compact with myself not to try any more. This compact I have only just broken in my study of Shakespeare under Professor Kittridge. I know that there are many things in Shakespeare and in the world that I do not understand and I am glad to see veil after veil lift gradually, revealing new realms of thought and beauty. Next to poetry I love history. I have read every historical work that I have been able to lay my hands on from a catalogue of dry facts and drier dates to Greene's impartial, picturesque history of the English people and Freeman's history of Europe to Emmerton's Middle Ages. The first book that gave me any real sense of the value of history was Swinton's World History which I received on my thirteenth birthday. Though I believed that it is no longer considered valid yet I have kept it ever since as one of my treasures. From it I learned how the races of men spread from land to land build great cities and how a few great rulers, earthly Titans, put everything under their feet and with a decisive word open the gates of happiness for millions and closed upon millions more. How different nations pioneered in art and knowledge ground for the mightier growths of coming ages. How civilization underwent, as it were, the holocaust of a degenerate age and rose again like the phoenix among the nobler signs of the north and how liberty, tolerance and education, the great and the wise have opened the way for the salvation of the whole world. In my college reading I have become somewhat familiar with the French and German literature. The German put strength before beauty and truth before convention both in life and in literature. There is a vehement, sledgehammer vigor about everything that he does. When he speaks it is not to impress others but because his heart would burst if he did not find an outlet for the thoughts that burn in his soul. Then, too, there is in German literature a fine reserve which I like but its chief glory is the recognition I find in it of the redeeming potency of woman's self-sacrificing love. This thought pervades all German literature and is mystically expressed in Geth's Faust. All things transitory but as symbols are sent earth's insufficiency he grows to a vent. The indescribable, here it is done the woman's soul leads us upward and on. Of all the French writers that I have read I like Mollier and Racine best. There are fine things in Balzac and passages in Meribie which strike one like a keen blast of sea air. Alfred de Mousset is impossible. I admire Victor Hugo I appreciate his genius, his brilliancy, his romanticism though he is not one of my literary passions. But Hugo and Geth and Sheila and all great poets of all great nations are interpreters of eternal things and my spirit reverently follows them into the regions where beauty and truth and goodness are one. I am afraid I have written too much about my book friends and yet I have mentioned only the authors I love most and from this fact one might easily suppose that my circle of friends was very limited and undemocratic which would be a very wrong impression. I like many writers for many reasons Carlisle for his ruggedness and Scorn of Shams Wordsworth who teaches the oneness of man and nature I find an exquisite pleasure in the oddities and surprises of hood, in Herrick's quaintness and the palpable scent of Lily and Rose in his verses I like Whittier for his enthusiasm and moral rectitude I knew him and the gentle remembrance of our friendship doubles the pleasure I have in reading his poems. I love Mark Twain who does not The gods too loved him and put into his heart all manner fearing lest he should become a pessimist they spanned his mind with a rainbow of love and faith I like Scott for his freshness dash and large honesty I love all writers whose minds like loals bubble up in the sunshine of optimism fountains of joy and goodwill with occasionally a splash of anger here and there a healing spray of sympathy and pity In a word literature is my utopia here I am not disenfranchised no barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet gracious discourse of my book friends they talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness the things I have learned and the things I have been taught seems of ridiculously little importance compared with their large loves and heavenly charities End of chapter read by Maria Youther in London, England February 2007 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Story of My Life by Helen Keller Read by Maria Youther in London, England February 2007 Chapter 22 I trust that my readers have not concluded from the preceding chapter on books that reading is my only pleasure My pleasures and amusements are many and varied More than once in the course of my story I have referred to my love of the country and of out-of-door sports When I was quite a little girl I learned to row and swim When I am at Renton, Massachusetts I almost live in my boat Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to take my friends out rowing when they come to visit me Of course I cannot guide the boat very well Someone usually sits in the stern and manages the rudder while I row Sometimes, however, I go rowing without the rudder It is fun to try and steer by the scent of water grasses and lilies and of bushes that grow on the shore I use oars with leather bands which keep them in position in the oar locks and I know by the resistance of the water when the oars are evenly poised In the same manner I can also tell when I am pulling against the current I like to contend with wind and wave What is more exhilarating than to make your staunch little boat obedient to your will and muscle go skimming lightly over glistening tilting waves and to fill the steady, imperious surge of the water I also enjoy canoeing and I suppose you will smile when I say that I especially like it on moonlit nights I cannot, it is true see the moon climb up the sky behind the pines and still softly making a shining path for us to follow but I know she is there and as I lie back among the pillows and put my hand in the water I fancy that I feel the shimmer of her garments as she passes Sometimes a daring little fish slips between my fingers and often a pondlily presses shyly against my hand Frequently as we emerge from the shelter of the cove or inland I am suddenly conscious of the spaciousness of the air about me and the warmth seems to enfold me whether it comes from the trees which have been heeded by the sun or from the water I can never discover I have had the same strange sensation even in the heart of the city I have felt it on cold stormy days and at night it is like the kiss of warm lips on my face My favourite amusement is sailing In the summer of 1901 I visited Nova Scotia and had the opportunity such as I had not enjoyed before to make the acquaintance of the ocean. After spending a few days in Evangeline's country about which Longfellow's beautiful poem has woven a spell of enchantment Miss Sullivan and I went to Halifax where we remained the greater part of the summer. The harbour was our joy our paradise what glorious sails we had to Bedford Basin to McNambs Island to York Redoubt and to the North West Arm the most glorious hours we spent in the shadow of the great silent men of war oh it was also interesting so beautiful the memory of it is a joy for ever one day we had a thrilling experience it was a regatta in the North West Arm in which the boats from different warships were engaged we went in a sailboat along with many others to watch the races hundreds of little sailboats swung to and fro close by and the sea was calm when the races were over and when we turned our faces homeward one of the party noticed a black cloud drifting in from the sea which grew and spread and thickened until it covered the whole sky the wind rose and the waves chopped angrily at unseen barriers a little boat confronted the gal fearlessly with sails spread and ropes taught she seemed to sit upon the wind now she swelled in the billows now she sprang upward on a gigantic wave only to be driven down with angry howl and hiss down came the mainsail tacking and jibbing we wrestled with opposing winds that drove us from side to side with impetuous fury our hearts beat fast and our hands trembled with excitement not fear for we had the hearts of vikings and we knew that our skipper was master of the situation he had steered through many a storm with firm hand and sea wise eye as they passed us the large craft and the gun boats in the harbour saluted and the seamen shouted applause for the master of the only little sailboat that ventured out into the storm at last cold, hungry and weary we reached our pier last summer I spent in one of the loveliest nooks of one of the most charming villages in New England Brentham Massachusetts is associated with nearly all of my joys and sorrows for many years Red Farm by Kings Phillips Pond the home of J. E. Chamberlain and his family was my home I remember with deepest gratitude the kindness of these dear friends and the happy days I spent with them the sweet companionship of their children meant much to me I joined in all their sports and rambles through the woods and frolics in the water the prattle of the little ones and their pleasure in the stories I told them were pleasant things to remember Mr. Chamberlain initiated me into the mysteries of tree and wildflower until with the little ear of love I heard the flow of sap in the oak and saw the sun glint from leaf to leaf thus it is that even as the roots shut in the darksome earth sharing the treetops' joyance and conceive of sunshine and wide air and winged things by sympathy of nature so do I the evidence of things unseen it seems that there is in each of us a capacity to comprehend the impressions and emotions which have been experienced by mankind from the beginning each individual has a subconscious memory of the green earth and murmuring waters and blindness and deafness cannot rob him of this gift from past generations this inherited capacity is a sort of sixth sense a soul sense which sees, hears, feels all in one I have many tree friends in Rentom one of them, a splendid oak is the special pride of my heart I take all my other friends to see this king tree it stands on a bluff overlooking King Philip's pond and those who are wise in tree law say it must have stood there 800 or a thousand years there is a tradition that under this tree King Philip the heroic Indian chief gazed his last on earth and sky I had another tree friend gentle and more approachable than the great oak a linden that grew in the doiyard at Red Farm one afternoon during a terrible thunderstorm I felt a tremendous crash against the side of the house I knew, even before they told me that the linden had fallen we went out to see the hero that had withstood so many tempests and it wrung my heart to see him prostrate who had mightily striven and was now mightily fallen but I must not forget I was going to write about last summer in particular as soon as my examinations were over Miss Sullivan and I hastened to this green nook where we have a little cottage on one of the three lakes for which Rentom is famous here the long sunny days were mine and all thoughts of work and college and the noisy city were thrust into the background in Rentom we caught echoes of what was happening in the world war, alliance, social conflict we heard of the cruel unnecessary fighting in the faraway Pacific and learned of the struggles going on between capital and labour we knew that beyond the border of our Eden men were making history by the sweat of their brows when they might better make a holiday but we little heeded these things these things would pass away here were lakes and woods and broad daisy-starred fields and sweet-breath meadows and they shall endure forever people who think that all sensations reach us through the eye and ear have expressed surprise that I should notice any difference except possibly the absence of pavements between walking in city streets and in country roads they forget that my whole body is alive to the conditions about me the rumble and roar of the city smite the nerves of my face and I feel the ceaseless tramp of an unseen multitude the grinding of heavy wagons on half pavements and the monotonous clanger of machinery are all the more torturing to the nerves if one's attention is not diverted by the panorama that is always present in the noisy streets to people who can see in the country one sees only nature's fair works and one's soul is not saddened by the cruel struggle for mere existence that goes on in the crowded city several times I have visited the narrow dirty streets where the poor live and I grow hot and indignant to think that good people should be content to live in fine houses and become strong and beautiful while others are condemned to live in hideous sunless tenements and grow ugly withered and cringing the children who crowd these grimy alleys half-cloud and underfed shrink away from your art-stretched hand as if from a blow dear little creatures they crouch in my heart and haunt me with a constant sense of pain there are men and women to all gnawed and bent out of shape I've felt their hard rough hands and realised what an endless struggle their existence must be no more than a series of scrimmages with thwarted attempts to do something their life seems an immense disparity between effort and opportunity the sun and the air are God's great gifts to all we say but are they so? in Yonder City's dingy alleys the sun shines not and the air is foul O man, how dost thou forget and obstruct thy brother-man and say, give us this day our daily bread when he has none O wood that men would leave the city its splendour and its tumult and its gold and return to wood and feel and simple, honest living then would their children grow stately as noble trees and their thoughts sweet and pure as wayside flowers it is impossible not to think of all of this when I return to the country for a year of work in town what a joy it is to fill the soft springy earth under my feet once more to follow grassy roads that lead to ferny brooks where I can bathe my fingers in a cataract of rippling notes what a clamber over a stone wall into green fields that tumble and roll and climb in riotous gladness next to a leisurely walk I enjoy a spin on my tandem bicycle it is splendid to feel the wind blowing on my face and the springy motion of my iron steed the rapid rush through the air gives me a delicious sense of strength and buoyancy and the exercise makes my pulses dance and my heart sing whenever it is possible my dog will companies me on a walk or ride or sail I've had many dog friends huge mastiffs soft-eyed spaniels woodwise setters and honest homely bull terriers at present the lord of my affections is one of these bull terriers he has a long pedigree a crooked tail and the drollest fizz in dogdom my dog friends seem to understand my limitations and always keep close beside me when I am alone I love their affectionate ways and the eloquent wag of their tails when a rainy day keeps me indoors I amuse myself after the manner of other girls I like to knit and crochet I read in the happy-go-lucky way I love here and there a line or perhaps I play a game of two with checkers or chess with a friend I have a special board on which I play these games the squares are cut out so that the men stand in them firmly the black checkers are flat and the white ones curved on top each checker has a hole in the middle in which a brass knob can be placed to distinguish the king from the commons the chessmen are of two sizes white larger than black so that I have no trouble in following my opponent's maneuvers by moving my hands lightly over the board after a play the jar made by shifting the men from one hole to another tells me when it is my turn if I happen to be all alone and in an idle mood I play a game of solitaire of which I am very fond I use playing cards marked in the upper right hand corner with braille symbols which indicate the value of the card if there are children around nothing pleases me so much as to frolic with them I find even the smallest child excellent company and I am glad to say that children usually like me they lead me about and show me the things they are interested in of course the little ones cannot spell on their fingers but I manage to read their lips if I do not succeed they resort to dumb show sometimes I make a mistake and do the wrong thing a burst of childish laughter greets my blunder and the pantomime begins all over again I often tell them stories or teach them again and the winged hours depart and leave us good and happy museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration doubtless it will seem strange to many that the hand unaided by sight can fill action, sentiment, beauty in the cold marble and yet it is true that I derive genuine pleasure from touching great works of art as my fingertips trace line and curve they discover the thought and emotion which the artist has portrayed I can feel in the faces of gods and heroes just as I can detect them in living faces I am permitted to touch I feel in Diana's posture the grace and freedom of the forest and the spirit that tames the mountain lion and subdues the fiercest passions my soul delights in the repose and gracious curves of the Venus and in Bahre's bronzes the secrets of the jungle are revealed to me a medallion of Homer hangs on the wall of my study conveniently low so that I could easily reach it and touch the beautiful sad face with loving reverence how well I know each line in that majestic brow tracks of life and bitter evidences of struggle and sorrow those sightless eyes seeking even in the cold plaster for the light and the blue skies of his beloved Hellas but seeking in vain that beautiful mouth, firm and true and tender it is the face of a poet and of a man acquainted with sorrow ah, how well I understand his deprivation the perpetual night in which he dwelt oh dark, dark amid the blaze of noon irrevocably dark total eclipse without all hope of day in imagination I can hear Homer singing as with unsteady, unhesitating steps he gropes his way from camp to camp singing of life, of love, of war of the splendid achievements of a noble race it was a wonderful glorious song and it won the blind poet an immortal crown the admiration of all ages I sometimes wonder if the hand is not more sensitive to the beauties of the sculpture than the eye I should think the wonderful rhythmical flow of lines and curves could be more subtly felt than seen be this as it may I know that I can feel the heartthrobs of the ancient Greeks in their marble gods and goddesses another pleasure which comes more rarely than the others is going to the theatre I enjoy having a play described to me while it has been acted on stage far more than reading it because it seems as if I were living in the midst of stirring events it has been my privilege to meet a few great actors and actresses who have the power of so bewitching you that you forget time and place and live again in the romantic past I have been permitted to touch the face and costume of Miss Ellen Terry as she impersonated our ideal of a queen and there was about her that divinity that hedges sublimest woe beside her stood Sir Henry Irving wearing the symbols of kinship and there was a majesty of intellect in his every gesture and attitude and the royalty that subdues and overcomes in every line of his sensitive space in the king's face which he wore as a mask there was a remoteness and inaccessibility of grief which I shall never forget I also know Mr. Jefferson I am proud to count him among my friends I go to see him whenever I happen to be where he is acting the first time I saw him act was while at school in New York he played Rip Van Winkle I had often read the story but I had never felt the charm of Rip's slow, quaint, kind ways as I did in the play Mr. Jefferson's beautiful, pathetic representation quite carried me away with delight I have a picture of old Rip in my fingers which they will never lose after the play Miss Sullivan took me to see him behind the scenes and I felt of his curious garb and his flowing hair and beard Mr. Jefferson let me touch his face so that I could imagine how he looked unwaking from that strange sleep of twenty years and he showed me how poor old Rip staggered to his feet I have also seen him in The Rivals once while I was calling on him in Boston he acted the most striking parts of The Rivals for me the reception room where we sat served for a stage he and his son sit in the cells at the big table and Bob Acres wrote his challenge I followed all his movements with my hands and caught the drollery of his blunders and gestures in a way that would have been impossible had it all been spelt to me then they rose to fight the duel and I followed the swift thrusts and parries of the swords and the waverings of poor Bob as his courage oozed out at his finger ends then the great actor gave his coat of hitch and his mouth a twitch and in an instance I was in the village of falling water and felt Schneider's shaggy head against my knee Mr. Jefferson resided the dialogues of Rip Van Winkle in which the tear came close upon the smile he asked me to indicate as far as I could the gestures and actions that should go with the lines of course I have no sense whatever of dramatic action and could only make random guesses but with masterful art he suited the action to the word the sigh of Rip as he murmurs is a man so soon forgotten when he is gone the dismay with which he searches for dog and gun after his long sleep and his comical irresolution over the signing of the contract with Derrick all these seem to be right out of life itself that is the ideal life where things happen as we think they should I remember well the first time I went to the theatre it was twelve years ago Elsie Leslie, the little actress, was in Boston and Miss Sullivan took me to see her in the prince and the pauper I shall never forget the ripple of alternating joy and woe that ran through that beautiful little play or the wonderful child who acted it after the play I was permitted to go behind the scenes and meet her in her royal costume it would have been hard to find a lovelier or more lovable child than Elsie as she stood with a cloud of golden hair floating over her shoulders smiling brightly showing no signs of shyness or fatigue though she had been playing to an immense audience I was only just learning to speak and had previously repeated her name until I could say it perfectly imagine my delight when she understood the few words I spoke to her and without hesitation stretched a hand to greet me is it not true then that my life with all its limitations touches at many points the life of the world beautiful everything has its wonders even darkness and silence and I learn whatever state I may be in therein to be content sometimes it is true a sense of isolation involves me like a cold mist as I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate beyond there is light and music and sweet companionship but I may not enter fate, silent, pitiless, bars away vain would I question his imperious decree for my heart is still undisciplined and passionate but my tongue will not utter the bitter futile words that rise to my lips and they fall back into my heart like unshared tears silence sits immense upon my soul then comes hope with a smile and whispers there is joy in self-forgetfulness so I try to make the light in others eyes, my son the music in others ears, my symphony the smile on others lips, my happiness End of chapter Read by Maria Euther in London, England, February 2007 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information and to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Story of My Life by Helen Keller Read by Maria Euther in London, England, February 2007 Chapter 23 Would that I could enrich this sketch with the names of all those who have ministered to my happiness some of them would be found written in our literature and dear to the hearts of many while others would be wholly unknown to most of my readers but their influence, though it escapes fame shall live immortal in the lives that have been sweetened and ennobled by it Those are red-letter days in our lives when we meet people who thrill us like a fine poem people whose handshake is brimful of unspoken sympathy and whose sweet, rich natures impart to our eager impatient spirits a wonderful restfulness which, in its essence, is divine The perplexities, irritations and worries that have absorbed us pass like unpleasant dreams and we wait to see, with new eyes and hear, with new ears the beauty and harmony of God's real world The solemn nothings that fill our everyday life blossom suddenly into bright possibilities In a word, while such friends are near us we feel that all is well Perhaps we never saw them before and they may never cross our life's path again but the influence of their calm, mellow natures is a libation poured on our discontent and we feel its healing touch as the ocean fills the mountain stream freshening its brine I have often been asked Do not people bore you? I do not understand quite what that means I suppose the calls of the stupid and curious especially of newspaper reporters are always inopportune I also dislike people who try to talk down to my understanding They are like people who, when walking with you try to shorten their steps to suit yours The hypocrisy in both cases is equally exasperating The hands of those I meet are dumbly eloquent to me The touch of some hands is an impertinence I have met people so empty of joy that when I clasped their frosty fingertips it seemed as if I were shaking hands with a northeast storm Others there are whose hands have sunbeams in them so that their grasp warms my heart It may be only the clinging touch of a child's hand but there is as much potential sunshine in it for me as there is in a loving glance for others A hearty handshake or a friendly letter gives me genuine pleasure I have many far-off friends whom I have never seen Indeed they are so many that I have often been unable to reply to their letters I wish to say here that I am always grateful for their kind words however insufficiently I acknowledge them I count at one of the sweetest privileges of my life to have known and conversed with many men of genius Only those who knew Bishop Brooks can appreciate the joy his friendship was to those who possessed it As a child I love to sit on his knee and clasp his great hand with one of mine while Miss Sullivan spelt into the other his beautiful words about God and the spiritual world I heard him with a child's wonder and delight My spirit could not reach up to his but he gave me a real sense of joy in my life and I never left him without carrying away a fine thought that grew in beauty in depth of meaning as I grew Once, when I was puzzled to know why there were so many religions he said, there is one universal religion Helen the religion of love Love your heavenly Father with your whole heart and soul Love every child of God as much as you ever can and remember that the possibilities of good are greater than the possibilities of evil and you have the key to heaven and his life was a happy illustration of his great truth In his noble soul, love and widest knowledge were blended with faith that had become insight He saw God in all that liberates and lifts in all that humbles, sweetens and consoles Bishop Brooks taught me no special creed or dogma but he impressed upon my mind two great ideas the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man and made me feel that these truths underlie all creeds and forms of worship God is love, God is our Father and we are his children therefore the darkest clouds will break and though right be worsted wrong shall not triumph I am too happy in this world to think much about the future except to remember that I have cherished friends awaiting me there in God's beautiful somewhere In spite of the lapse of years they seemed so close to me that I should not think at strange if at any moment they should clasp my hand and speak words of endearment as they used to before they went away Since Bishop Brooks died I have read the Bible through also some philosophical works on religion among them Swedenborg's heaven and hell and Drummond's Ascent of Man and I have found no creed or system more soul-satisfying than Bishop Brooks' creed of love I knew Mr. Henry Drummond and the memory of his strong, warm, hand-clasp is like a benediction He was the most sympathetic of companions He knew so much and was so genial that it was impossible to fill dull in his presence I remember well the first time I saw Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes He had invited Miss Oliver and me to call on him one Sunday afternoon It was early in the spring just after I had learned to speak We were shown at once to his library and found him seated in a big arm-chair by an open fire which glowed and crackled on the hearth thinking, he said, of other days And listening to the murmur of the river Charles I suggested Yes, he replied, the Charles has many dear associations for me There was a nodder of print and leather in the room which told me that it was full of books and I stretched out my hand instinctively to find them My fingers lighted upon a beautiful volume of Tennyson's poems When Miss Sullivan told me what it was I began to recite, break, break, break on their cold grey stones, O.C. But I stopped suddenly I felt tears on my hand I had made my beloved poet weeped and I was greatly distressed He made me sit in his arm-chair while he brought different interesting things for me to examine and at his request I recited The Chambered Nautilus which was then my favourite poem After that I saw Dr. Holmes many times and learned to love the man as well as the poet One beautiful summer day, not long after my meeting with Dr. Holmes Miss Sullivan and I visited Whittier in his quiet home on the Merrimack His gentle courtesy and quaint speech won my heart He had a book of poems in raised print from which I read in school days He was delighted that I could pronounce the word so well and said that he had no difficulty in understanding me Then I asked many questions about the poem and read his answers by placing my fingers on his lips He said he was the little boy in the poem and that the girl's name was Sally the more which I have forgotten I also recited Laus Deo and as I spoke the concluding verses He placed in my hands a statue of a slave from whose crouching figure the fetters were falling even as they fell from Peter's limbs when the angel led him forth out of prison Afterwards we went into his study and he wrote his autograph from my teacher and expressed his admiration of her work saying to me she is thy spiritual liberator Then he led me to the gate and kissed me tenderly on my forehead I promised to visit him again the following summer before the promise was fulfilled Dr. Edward Everett Hale is one of my very oldest friends I have known him since I was eight and my love for him has increased with my years He is wise, tender sympathy has been the support of Miss Sullivan and me in times of trial and sorrow and his strong hand has helped us over many rough places and what he has done for us he has done for thousands of those who have difficult tasks to accomplish He has filled the old skins of dogma with the new wine of love and shown men what it is to believe, live and be free What he has taught we have seen beautifully expressed in his own life love of country, kindness to the least of his brethren and a sincere desire to live upward and onward He has been a prophet and an inspirer of men and a mighty doer of the word the friend of all his race God bless him This is the very written of my first meeting with Dr. Alexander Graham Bell Since then I have spent many happy days with him at Washington and at his beautiful home in the heart of Cape Breton Island, near Baddick the village made famous by Charles Dudley Warner's book Here in Dr. Bell's laboratory or in the fields on the shore of the Great Brust Ore I have spent many delightful hours listening to what he had to tell me about his experiments and helping him fly kites by means of which he expects to discover the laws that shall govern the future airship Dr. Bell is proficient in many fields of science and has the art of making every subject he touches interesting even the most abtruse theories He makes you feel that if you only had a little more time you too might be an inventor He has a humorous and poetic side too His dominating passion is his love for children He is never quite so happy as when he has a little deaf child in his arms His labours in behalf of the deaf will live on and blessed generations of children yet to come and we love him alike for what he himself has achieved and for what he has evoked from others During the two years I spent in New York I had many opportunities to talk with distinguished people whose names I had often heard but whom I had never expected to meet Most of them I met first in the house of my good friend Mr. Lawrence Hutton It was a great privilege to visit him and dear Mrs. Hutton in their lovely home and to see their library and read the beautiful sentiments and bright thoughts gifted friends had written for them It has been truly said that Mr. Hutton has the faculty of bringing out in everyone the best thoughts and kinder sentiments One does not need to read a boy I knew to understand him the most generous, sweet-natured boy I ever knew a good friend in all sorts of weather who traces the footprints of love in the life of dogs as well as in that of his fellow men Mrs. Hutton is a true and tried friend much that I hold most precious I owe to her She has oftenest advised and helped me in my progress through college When I find my work particularly difficult and discouraging she writes me letters that make me feel glad and brave for she is one of those from whom we learn that one painful duty fulfilled makes the next plainer and easier Mr. Hutton introduced me to many of his literary friends greatest of whom are Mr. William Dean Howells and Mark Twain I also met Mr. Richard Watson Gilder and Mr. Edmund Clarence Steadman I also knew Mr. Charles Dudley Warner the most delightful of storytellers and the most beloved friend whose sympathy was so broad that it may be truly said of him he loved all living things and his neighbour as himself Once Mr. Warner brought me to see the dear poet of the Woodlands Mr. John Burrows They were all gentle and sympathetic and I felt the charm of their manner as much as I had felt the brilliancy of their essays and poems I could not keep pace with all these literary folk as they glanced from subject to subject and entered into deep dispute or made conversation sparkle with epigrams and happy witticisms I was like little Ascanius who followed with unequal steps the heroic strides of Ineos on his march towards mighty destinies but they spoke many gracious words to me Mr. Gilder told me about his moonlight journeys across the vast desert to the pyramids and in a letter he wrote me that he made his mark under his signature deep in the paper so that I could feel it This reminds me that Dr. Hale used to give a personal touch to his letters to me by pricking his signature in braille I read from Mark Twain's lips one or two of his good stories He has his own way of thinking, saying and doing everything I feel the twinkle of his eyes in his handshake Even while he utters his cynical wisdom in an indescribably droll voice he makes you feel that his heart is the tender iliad of human sympathy There are a host of other interesting people I met in New York Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge the beloved editor of St. Nicholas and Mrs. Riggs Kate Douglas Wigan, the sweet author of Patsy I received from them gifts that have the gentle concurrence of the heart books containing their own thoughts soul-illumined letters and photographs that I love to have described again and again But there is not space to mention all my friends and indeed there are things about them hidden behind the wings of cherubim things too sacred to set forth in cold print It is with hesitancy that I have spoken even of Mrs. Lawrence Hutton I shall mention only two other friends One is Mrs. William Thorne of Pittsburgh whom I have often visited in her home, Lindhurst She is always doing something to make someone happy and her generosity and wise counsel have never failed my teacher and me in all these years we have known her To the other friend I am also deeply indebted He is well known for the powerful hand with which he guides vast enterprises and his wonderful abilities have gained him the respect of all kind to everyone he goes about doing good, silent and unseen Again I touch upon the circle of honoured names I must not mention but I would feign acknowledge his generosity and affectionate interest which make it possible for me to go to college Thus it is that my friends have made the story of my life In a thousand ways they have turned my limitations into beautiful privileges and enabled me to walk serene and happy in the shadow cast by my deprivation End of chapter and end of book Read by Maria Euther in London, England, February 2007