ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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It all began with an astounding call from the White House. One minute Mary Ashley, Kansas housewife and political science teacher, was chatting over dinner with her family; the next minute the President of the United States was asking her to become the new ambassador to Romania! That call changes everything for Mary Ashley. She becomes an instant celebrity, hounded 'by the press, courted by politicians.
Finally Mary arrives in exotic Bucharest to take up her duties, confident, refreshingly candid-and dangerously innocent. For watching her closely is an in- visible network 'of powerful men whose aim is to sabotage the President's bold new peace plan. They are about to set a diabolical trap. And the inexperienced young diplomat is the perfect bait.
"We are all victims, Anselmo.
Our destinies are decided
by a cosmic roll of the dice, the winds of the stars,"
the vagrant breezes
of fortune that blow from the windmills of the gods."
-H. L. Dietrich A Final Destiny Prologue
Perho, Finland. The meeting took place in a comfortable weatherproofed cabin in a remote wooded area two hundred miles from Helsinki. The members of the Western branch of the Committee had arrived discreetly at irregular intervals. They came from eight different countries, but their visit had been quietly arranged by a senior minister in the Valtioneuvosto, the Finnish Council of State, and there was no record of entry in their passports. Upon their arrival, armed guards escorted them into the cabin, and'when the last visitor appeared, the cabin door was locked and the guards took up positions in the full-throated January winds, alert for any sign of intruders.
The members, seated around the large rectangular table, were men in
powerful positions, high in the councils of their respective governments. They had all met before in their official capacities, and they trusted one another because they had no choice. For added security, each had been assigned a code name.
The meeting lasted almost five hours, and the discussion was heated. Finally the chairman decided the time had come to call for a vote. He rose, standing tall, and turned to the man seated at his right. "Sigurd?"
"Yes."
"Odin?"
"Yes."
"Balder?"
"We're moving too hastily. The danger-" "Yes or no, please."
"No."
" Freyr?"
"Yes." "Sigmund?"
"Nein. If this should be exposed, our lives would be-" "Thor?"
"Yes."
"Tyr?"
"Yes."
"I vote yes. The resolution is passed. I will so inform the Controller. We will observe the usual precautions and leave at twenty-minute intervals. Thank you, gentlemen."
Two hours and forty-five minutes later the cabin was deserted. A crew of experts carrying kerosene moved in and set the cabin on fire, the red flames licked by the hungry winds.
When the fire brigade from Perho finally reached the scene, there was nothing left to see but the smoldering embers that outlined the cabin against the hissing snow.
The assistant to the fire chief approached the ashes, bent down, and sniffed. "Kerosene," he said. "Arson."
The fire chief was staring at the ruins, a puzzled expression on his face. "That's strange," he muttered.
"What?"
"I was hunting in these woods last week. There was no cabin." Chapter One
Stanton Rogers was destined to be President of the United States. He was a charismatic politician, highly visible to an approving public, and backed by powerful friends. Unfortunately for Rogers, his libido got in the way of his career.
It was not that Stanton Rogers fancied himself a Casanova. On the contrary, until that one fateful bedroom escapade he had been a model husband. He was handsome, wealthy, and although he had had ample opportunity to cheat on his wife, he had never given another woman a thought.
There was a second, perhaps greater irony: Stanton Rogers' wife, Elizabeth, was social, beautiful, and intelligent, arld the two of them shared a common interest in almost everything, whereas Barbara, the woman Rogers fell in love with, and eventually married after a much headlined divorce, was five years older than Stanton, pleasant-faced rather than pretty, and seemed to have nothing in common with him.
Stanton was athletic; Barbara hated all forms of exercise. Stanton was gregarious; Barbara preferred to be alone with her husband, or to entertain small groups. The biggest surprise was the political differences. Stanton was a liberal, while Barbara was an archconservative.
Paul Ellison, Stanton's closest friend, had said, "You must be out of your mind, chum! You and Liz are the perfect married couple. Do you have any idea what a divorce is going to do to your career?"
Stanton Rogers had replied tightly, "Back off, Paul. I'm in love with Barbara. Besides, half the marriages in this country end in divorce. It won't do anything."
Rogers had proved to be a poor prophet. The press kept the story of the bitterly fought divorce alive as long as they could, and the gossip papers played it up as luridly as possible, with pictures of Stanton Rogers' love nest and stories of secret midnight trusts. When the furor died dovlrn, Stanton Rogers' powerful political friends found a new white knight to champion: Paul Ellison.
Ellison was a sound choice. While he had neither Stanton ]Rogers' good looks nor his charisma, he was intelligent, likable, and had the right background. He was short in stature, with regular, even features and candid blue eyes. He had been happily married for ten, years to the daughter of a steel magnate.
Stanton Rogers and Paul Ellison had grown up together in New York. Their families had had adjoining summer homes in Southampton. They were, in the same class, first at Yale and later at Harvard Law School. Paul Ellison did well, but it was Stanton Rogers who was the star pupil. Once he was out of law school, Stanton Rogers' political star began rising meteorically, and if he was the comet, Paul Ellison was the tail.
The divorce changed everything. It was now Stanton Rogers who became the appendage to Paul Ellison. The trail leading to the presidency took almost fifteen years. First Ellison became a highly popular, articulate Senator. He fought against waste in government and Washington bureaucracy. He was a populist, and believed in international detente. When he was finally elected President of the United States, his first appointment was Stanton Rogers, as presidential foreign affairs adviser.
MAMEWL McLuhan's theory that television would turn the world into a global village had become a reality. The inauguration of the
forty-second President of the United States was carried by satellite to more than one hundred and ninety countries.
In the Black Rooster, a Washington, D.C., hangout for newsmen, Ben Cohn, a veteran political reporter for the Washington Post, was seated at a table with four colleagues, watching the inauguration on the television set over the bar.
The camera panned to show the massive crowds gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue, huddled inside their overcoats against the bitter January wind. Jason Merlin, Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court, finished the swearing-in oath, and the-new President shook his hand and stepped up to the microphone.
"Look at those idiots standing out there freezing their tails off"' Ben Cohn commenteel "Do you know why they aren't home like normal human beings, watching it on television?"
"Why?" asked one of the other reporters.
"Because a man is making history, my friends. One day all those people are going to tell their grandchildren that they were there the day Paul Ellison was sworn in. And they're all going to brag. "I was so close I could have touched him."' "You're a cynic, Cohn."
"And proud of it. Every politician in the world comes out of the same cookie cutter. They're all in it for what they can get out of it."
The truth was that Ben Cohn was not as cynical as he sounded. He had covered Paul Ellison's career from the beginning, and while it was true that he had not been impressed at first, as Ellison moved up the political ladder Ben Cohn began to change his opinion. This politician was nobody's yes-man. He was an oak in a forest of willows.
Outside, the sky exploded into icy sheets of rain, Ben Cohn hoped the weather was not an omen of the four years that lay ahead. He turned his attention back to the television set and President E.Ilison's speech.
"I speak today not only to our allies but to those countries in the Soviet cainp. I say to them now, as we prepare to move into the
twenty-first century, that there is no longer any room for confrontation and that we must learn to make the phrase 'one world' become a reality. Vast chasms lie between us, but the first priority of this administration will be to build unshakable bridges across those chasms."
His words rang out with a deep, heartfelt sincerity. He, means it, Ben Cohn thought. I hope no one assassinates the guy.
IN JUNeTiON City, Kansas, it was a potbellied stove kind of day, bleak and raw, and snowing hard. Mary Ashley cautiously steered her old station wagon toward the center of the highway, where the snowplows had been at work. The storm was going to make her late for the class she was teaching.
From the car radio came the Presiden's voice: "Because I believe that there is no problem that cannot be solved by genuine goodwill on both sides, the concrete wall around East Berlin and the iron curtain that surrounds the Soviet satellite countries must come down."
Mary Ashley thought, I'm glad I voted for him. Paul Ellison is going to make a great President.
IN BucH=ST, the capital of Remania, it was evening. President Alexandres lonescu sat in his office surrounded by half a dozen aides, listening to the broadcast on a shortwave radio.
"As you are aware," the American President was saying, "three years ago, upon the death of Remania's President, Nicolae CeauSSescu, ]Remania broke off diplomatic relations with the United States. I want to inform you now that we have approached the government of Remania and its President, Alexandres Ionescu, and he has agreed to reestablish diplomatic relations with our country.
"One of our first official acts will be to send an ambassador to Remania. And that is merely the beginning. I have no intention of stopping there. Albania broke off all diplomatic relations with the United States in 1946. I intend to reestablish those ties. In addition, I intend to strengthen our diplomatic relations with Bulgaria, with iczechoslovakia, and with East Germany.
"Sending our ambassador to Remania is the beginning of a worldwide people-to-people movement. Let us never forget that all mankind shares a common origin, common problems, and a common ultimate fate. Let us remember that the problems we share are greater than the problems that divide us, and that what divides us is of our own making."
Over the shortwave radio came the sounds of cheers and applause.
IN A heavily guarded villa in Neuilly, a suburb of Paris, the Remanian revolutionary leader, Marin Groza, was watching President Ellison on channel 2 television.
"I think our time has come, Ley. He really means it," said Marin Groza thoughtfully.
Ley Pastemak, his security chief, replied, "Won't this help Ionescu?"
Marin Groza shook his head. "lonescu is a tyrant, so in the end nothing will help him. But I must be careful with my timing. I failed when I tried to overthrow him before. I must not fail again."
PETE Connors had downed almost a fifth of Scotch while watching the inaugural speech. He poured himself another glassful and turned back to the image on the television set. "You filthy Communist!" he yelled at the screen. "This is my country, and the CIAs not gonna let you give it away. We're gonna stop you, Ellison. You can bet your bottom dollar on it"
Chapter Two
PAUL Ellison said, "I'm going to need your help, old friend." "You'll get it," Stanton Rogers replied quietly.
It was their first meeting together in the Oval Office, and President Ellison was uncomfortable. If Stanton hadn't made that one mistake, he thought, he would be sitting at this desk instead of me.
As though reading his mind, Stanton Rogers said, "I have a confession to make. The day you were nominated for the presidency, I was bitterly jealous. It was my dream, and you were living it. But I came to realize that if I couldn't sit in that chair, there was no one else I would want there but you."
Paul Ellison smiled at his friend and pressed the button on his desk. Seconds later a white-jacketed steward came into the room.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
Paul Ellison turned to Rogers. "Coffee?" "Sounds good."
"Want anything with it?"
"No, thanks. Barbara wants me to watch my waistline."
The President nodded to Henry, the steward, and he quietly left the room.
Barbara. She had surprised everyone. The gossip around Washington was that the marriage would not last out the first year. But it had been almost fifteen years now, and it was a success. Stanton Rogers had built up a prestigious law practice in-Washington, and Barbam had earned the reputation of being a gracious hostess.
Paul Ellison rose and began to pace. "My people-to-people speech seems to have caused quite an uproar. I suppose you've seen all the newspapers."
"Yes," said Stanton Rogers. "And quite candidly, Mr. President, you're scaring the pants off a lot of people. The armed forces are against your plan, and some powerful movers and shakers would like to see it fail."
Ellison sat down and faced his friend. "It's not going to fail."
The steward appeared with the coffee. "Can I get you something else, Mr. President?"
"No. That's it, Henry. Thank you."
The President waited until the steward had gone. "I want to talk to you about finding the right ambassador to send to Remania."
"Right."
"I don't have to tell you how important this 'is for us, Stan. I want you to get moving on it as quickly as you possibly can."
Stanton Rogers took a sip of his coffee and rose to his feet. "I'll get State on it right away."
IN a little suburb of Neuilly it was two a.m. Marin Groza's villa lay in ebon darkness, the moon nestled in a thick layer of -storm clouds. The streets were hushed at this hour, as a blackclad figure moved noiselessly through the trees toward the brick wall that surrounded the villa. Over one shoulder he carried a rope and a blanket, and in his arms he cradled a dart gun and an Uzi submachine gun with a silencer.
When he reached the wall, he stopped and listened. He waited, motionless, for five minutes. Finally, satisfied, he uncoiled the nylon rope and tossed the scaling hook attached to the end of it upward. It caught on the far edge of the wall, and swiffly the man began to climb. When he reached the top of the wall, he flung the blanket across it to protect himself against the poison-tipped metal spikes embedded on top. He stopped again to listen. He reversed the hook, shifhng the rope to the inside of the wall, and slid down onto the ground. He checked the balisong at his waist, the deadly Filipino folding knife that could be flicked open or closed with one hand.
The attack dogs would be next. The intruder crouched there, waiting for them to pick up his scent. There were two Dobermans, trained to kill.
But they were only the first obstacle. The grounds and the villa were filled with electronic devices and continuously monitored by television cameras. All mail and packages were received at the gatehouse and opened there by the guards. The doors of the villa were bombproof. The villa had its own water supply, and Marin Groza had a food taster. The villa was impregnable. Supposedly. The figure in black was here this night to prove that it was not.
He heard the sounds of the dogs rushing at him before he saw them. They came flying out of the darkness, charging at his throat. He aimed the dart gun and shot the one on his left first, then the one on his right, dodging out of the way of their hurtling bodies. And then there was only stillness.
The intruder knew where the sonic traps were buried in the ground, and he skirted them. He silently glided through the areas of the grounds that the television cameras did not cover, and in less than two minutes after he had gone over the wall" he was at the back door of the villa.
As he reached for the handle of the door he was caught in the sudden glare of floodlights. A voice called out, "Freeze! Drop your gun and raise your hands."
The figure in black carefully dropped his gun and looked up. There were half a dozen men spread out on the roof, with a variety of weapons pointed at him.
The man in black growled, "What the devil took you so long? I never should have gotten this far."
"You didn't," the head guard informed him. "We started tracking you before you got over the wall."
Ley Pastemak was not mollified. "Then you should have stopped me sooner. I could have been on a suicide mission with a load of grenades. I want a meeting of the entire staff in the morning, eight o'clock sharp. The dogs have been stunned. Have someone keep an eye on them until they wake up."
Ley Pastemak prided himself on being the best security chief in the world. He had been a pilot in the Israeli Six-Day War and after the war had become a top agent in Mossad, one of Israel's secret services.
He would never forget the morning, two years earlier, when his colonel had called him into his office and said, "Ley, Marin Groza wants to borrow you for a few weeks."
Mossad had a complete file on the Remanian dissident. Groza had been the leader of a popular Remanian movement to depose Alexandres Ionescu and was about to stage a coup when he was betrayed by one of his men. More than two dozen underground fighters had been executed, and Groza had barely escaped with his life. France had given him sanctuary. Then lonescu had put a price on his head. So far, half a dozen attempts to assassinate Groza had failed, but he had been wounded in the most recent attack.
"What does he want with me?" Pastemak had asked. "He has French government protection."
"Not good enough. He needs someone to set up a foolproof security system. He came to us. I recommended you."
"I'd have to go to Francer'
"'Only for a few weeks. Ley, we're talking about a mensch. He's the man in the white hat. Our information is that he'll soon have enough popular support in Remania to knock over Ionescu. When the timing is right, he'll make his move. Meanwhile, we have to keep the man alive."
Ley Pastemak had thought about it "A few weeks, you said?" "That's all."
The colonel had been wrong about the time, but he had been right about Marin Groza. He was a white-haired, fragile-looking man whose face was etched with sorrow. He had deep black eyes, and when he spoke, they blazed with passion.
"I don't give a damn whether I live or die," he told Ley at their first meeting. "We're all going to die. It's the when that I'm concerned about. I have to stay alive for another year or two. That's all the time I need to drive the tyrant Ionescu out of my country."
Ley Pastemak went to work on the security system at the villa in Neuilly. He used some of his own men, and the outsiders he hired were checked out thoroughly. Every single piece of equipment was
state-of-the-art.
Pastemak saw the Remanian rebel leader every day, and the more time he spent with him, the more he came to admire him. When Marin Groza asked Pastemak to stay on, Pastemak agreed, saying, "Until you're ready to make your move."
At irregular intervals Pastemak staged surprise attacks on the villa, testing its security. Now he thought, Some of the guards are getting careless. I'll have to replace them.
He walked through the hallways checking the heat sensors, the electronic warning systems, and the infrared beams at-the sill of each door. As he reached Groza's bedroom he heard a loud crack, and a moment later Groza began screaming out in agony.
Ley Pastemak passed Marin Groza's room and kept walking.
THE Monday-morning executive staff meeting was under way in the seventh-floor conference room at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Seated around the large oak table were Ned Tillingest, director of the CIA; General Oliver Brooks, Army Chief of Staff; Secretary of State Floyd Baker; Pete Connors, chief of counterintelligence; and Stanton Rogers.
Ned Tillingest, the CIA director, was in his sixties, a cold, taciturn man burdened with maleficent secrets. There is a light branch and a dark branch of the CIA. The dark branch handles clandestine operations, and for the past seven years Tillingest had been in charge of both
sections.
General Oliver Brooks was a West Point soldier who conducted his personal and professional life by the book. He was a'company man, and the company he worked for was the United States Army.
Floyd Baker, the Secretary of State, was of southern vintage,
silver-haired, distinguished-looking, with an olo-fashioned gallantry. He owned a chain of influential newspapers around the country and was reputed to be enormously wealthy.
Pete Connors was black Irish, a stubborn bulldog of a man, hard-drinking and fearless. He faced compulsory retirement in August. As chief of counterintelligence, Connors held sway over the most secret, highly compartmentalized branch of the CIA. He had worked his way up through the various intelligence divisions, and had been around in the good old days when CIA agents were the golden boys. In fact, Pete Connors had been a golden boy himself. As far as he was concerned, no sacrifice was too great to make for his country.
Now, in the middle of the meeting, his face was red with anger. "This idiotic people-to-people program has to be stopped. We can't allow the President to give the country away. We-"
Floyd Baker interrupted. "The President has been in office less than a week. We're all here to carry out his policies and-"
"He sprang his plan on us. We didn't have a chance to get together a rebuttal."
Ned Tillingest turned to Stanton Rogers. "Connors has a point. The President is actually planning to invite the communist countries to send their spies here posing as attaches, chauffeurs, secretaries, maids.
We're spending billions to guard the back door, and the President wants to throw open the front door."
General Brooks nodded agreement. "I wasn't consulted, either. In my opinion, the Presiden's plan could destroy this country."
Stanton Rogers said, "Gentlemen, some of us may disagree with the President, but Let's not forget that the people voted for Paul Elhson. We have to support him in every way we can." His words were followed by a reluctant silence. "All right, then. The President wants an update on Remania. What's the situation with President Ionescu?"
"lonescu's riding high in the saddle," Ned Tillingest replied. "Once he got rid of the CeauSSescu family, all of CeauSSescu's allies were either assassinated, jailed, or exiled. Since he seized power Ionescu's been bleeding the country dry. The people hate his guts."
"What about the prospects for a revolution?"
Tillingast said, "Ah, That's rather interesting. Remember a couple of
years back when Marin Groza almost toppled the lonescu government?"$ "Yes. Groza got out of the country by the skin of his teeth."
"With our help. Our information is that there's a popular ground swell to bring him back. Groza would be good for Romania, and good for us.
We're watching the situation."
Stanton Rogers turned to the Secretary of State. "Do you have that list of candidates for the Remanian post?"
Floyd Baker took an envelope from a leather attaches case and handed it to Rogers. "These are our top prospects. They're all career diplomats. Naturally," he added, "the State Department favors a career diplomat rather than a political appointee. Someone who's been trained for this kind of job. Remania is an extremely sensitive post."
"I agree." Stanton Rogers rose to his feet. "i'll discuss these names with the President and get back to you."
As the others got up to leaveNed Tillingast said, "Stay here, Pete. I want to talk to you." When they were alone, Tillingast said, "You came on pretty strong, Pete."
"But I'm right," Pete Connors said stubbornly. "The President is trying to sell out the country. What are we supposed to do?"
"Keep your mouth shut, Pete. And be careful. Very careful."
Ned Tillingast had been around longer than Pete Connors. He had been a member of Wild Bill Donovan's OSS before it became the CIA. He too hated what the bleeding hearts in Congress were doing to the organization he loved. It had been Tillingast who had recruited Pete Connors out of college, and Connors had turned out to be one of the best. But in the last few years Connors had become a cowboy-a little too independent, a little too quick on the trigger. Dangerous.
"Pete, have you heard anything,about an underground organization calling itself Patriots for Freedom?" Tillingast asked.
Connors frowned. "No. Can't say that I have. Who are they?" "All I have is smoke. See if you can get a lead on them." "Will do."
An hour later Pete Connors was making a phone call from a public booth. "I have a message for Odin," he said.
"This is Odin," General Oliver Brooks replied.
PAUL Ellison threw the list of candidates down on his desk. "They're dinosaurs," he snapped. "Every one of them."
"Mr. President," Rogers protested, "these people are all experienced career diplomats."
"And hidebound by State Department tradition. You remember how we lost Remania three years ago? Our experienced career diplomat in Bucharest screwed up, and we were out in the cold. The pin-striped boys worry me."
"But if you put an amateur in there, someone with no experience, you're taking a big risk."
"Maybe we need someone with a different kind of experience. Remania is going to be a test case, Stan." He hesitated. "I'm not kidding myself. I know that there are a lot of powerful people who don't want to see this work. If it fails, I'm going to get cut off at the knees. I don't intend for that to happen."
"I can check out some of our political appointees who-"
President Ellison shook his head. "Same problem. I want someone with a completely fresh point of view. Someone who can thaw the ice. The opposite of the ugly American."
Stanton Rogers was studying the President, puzzled. "Mr. President, I get the impression that you already have someone in mind."
"As a matter of fact," Paul Ellison said slowly, "I think I have." "Who is he?"
"She. Did you happen to see Ide article in Foreign Affairs magazine called'Ddtente Now'?"
"Yes."
"She wrote it. What did you think of it?"
"thought it was interesting. The author believes that we're in a position to try to seduce the communist countries into coming into our camp by offering them economic and-" He broke off "It was a lot like your inaugural speech."
"Only it was written six months earlier. She's published brilliant articles in Commentary and Public Affairs. Last year I read a book of hers on Eastern European politics, and I must admit it helped clarify some of my ideas."
"Okay. So she agrees with your theories. That's no reason-"
"Stan, she went further than my theory. She outlined a detailed plan That's brilliant. She wants to take the four major world economic pacts and combine them."
"How can we-"
"It would take time, but it could be done. Look. You know that in 1949 the Eastern-bloc countries formed a pact for mutual economic assistance, called COMECON, and in 1958 the other European countries formed the
EEC-the Common Market." "Right."
"We have the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, which includes the United States, some Western-bloc countries, and Yugoslavia. And don't forget that the Third World countries have formed a nonaligned movement of their own."
The Presiden's voice was charged with excitement. "Think of the possibilities. If we could combine these plans and form one big marketplace, it could be awesome! It would mean real world trade. And it could bring peace."
Stanton Rogers said cautiously, "It's an interesting idea, but It's a long way off. Do you know anything about this woman?"
"No. Except that she's extremely bright and that we're on the same wavelength. Her name is Mary Ashley. I want you to find out everything you can about her."
Two days later President Ellison and Stanton Rogers breakfasted together.
"I got the information you asked for." ]Rogers pulled a paper from his pocket. "Mary Elizabeth Ashley. Milford Road, junction City, Kansas. Age, almost thirty-five. Married to Dr. Edward Ashley. Two children: Beth, twelve, and Tim, ten. Assistant professor, Eastern European political science, Kansas State University. Grandfather born in Remania." He looked up thoughtfully. "I must admit she sounds interesting."
"I think so too. I'd like to have a full security check run on her." "I'll see that It's done."
"I DISAGREE, Professor Ashley," said Barry Dylan, one of the twelve graduate students in Mary Ashley's political science seminar. "Alexandros lonescu is worse than CeauSSescu ever was."
"Can you back up that statement?" Mary asked.
The waiting lists to get into Mary Ashley's classes were longer than any other professor's at Kansas State University. She was a superb teacher, with an easy sense of humor and a warmth that made being around her a pleasure. She had an oval face that changed from interesting to beautiful, depending on her mood. She had the high cheekbones of a model, and almond-shaped, hazel eyes. Her hair was dark and thick. She had a figure that made her female students envious and the males fantasize, yet she was unaware of how beautiful she was.
"Well," said Barry, "Ionescu has cracked down hard on all the pro-Groza elements and reestablished a hard-line, pro-Soviet position. Even CeauSSescu wasn't that bad."
Another student spoke up. "Then why is President Ellison so anxious to establish diplomatic relations with him?"
"Because we want to woo him into the Western orbit. Also-" The bell sounded. The time was up.
Mary said, "Monday we'll discuss the possible consequences of President Ellison's plan to penetrate the Eastern bloc. Have a good weekend."
Mary Ashley loved the give-and-take of her graduate seminar. Foreign names and places became real, and historical events took on flesh and blood. This was her fill year on the faculty at Kansas State, and teaching still excited her.
She especially enjoyed teaching about Remania. It had been her grandfather who had instilled in her a deep curiosity about his native land. He had told her romantic stories of Queen Marie
and baronesses and princesses; tales of Albert, the prince consort of England, and of Alexander II, Czar of Russia.
Somewhere in our background there is royal blood. If the revolution had not come, you would have been a princess.
She used to have dreams about it.
She taught five political science classes in addition to the graduate seminar, and each of them dealt with the Soviet Union and its satellite countries. At times she felt like a fraud. I've never been to any of the countries I teach about, she thought. I've never even been outside the United States.
Mary had planned a trip abroad when she received her master's degree, but that summer she met Edward Ashley, and the European trip turned into a three-day honeymoon at Waterville, fifty-five miles from junction City, where Edward was taking care of a critical heart patient.
"We really must travel next year," Mary said to Edward shortly after they were married. "I'm dying to see Rome and Paris and Remania."
"So am I. It's a date. Next summer."
But that following summer Beth was born, and Edward was caught up in his work at the Geary Community Hospital. Two years later Tim was born.
Mary had gotten her Ph.D. and gone back to teaching at Kansas State University, and somehow the years had melted away. Except for brief trips to Chicago, Atlanta, and Denver, Mary had never been out of the state of Kansas.
One day, she promised herself. One day ...
Mary gathered her notes together, put on her coat and a scarf, and headed out to her car. As she passed Denison Hall a stranger with a Nikon camera aimed it at the building and pressed the shutter. Mary was in the foreground of the picture. One hour later the photograph was on its way to Washington, D.C.
EVERY town has its own distinctive rhythm, a life pulse that springs from the people and the land. Junction City, in Geary County, is a farm community one hundred and thirty miles west of Kansas City. It prides itself on being the geographical center of the continental United States. The downtown shopping area consists of scattered stores,
fast-food chains, and gas stations-the types of establishments that are duplicated- n hundreds of small towns across America. But the residents of junction City love it for its bucolic peace and tranquillity. On weekdays, at least. Weekends, junction City becomes the
rest-and-recreation center for the soldiers at nearby Fort Riley.
MARY Ashley stopped to shop for dinner at Dillon's Market and then headed home. The Ashleys lived in an eight-room,stone house set in the middle of gently rolling hills. It had been bought by Dr. Edward Ashley and his bride thirteen years earlier.
"It's awfully large for just two people," Mary Ashley had protested when they'd first taken a look at it.
And Edward had taken her into his arms and held her close. "Who said It's going to be for only two people?"
When she walked in the door this evening, Tim and Beth ran to greet her.
"Guess what?" Tim said. "We're going to have our pictures in the paper!"
"Help me put away the groceries," Mary said. "What paper?" "The man didn't say, but he said we'd hear from him."
Mary stopped and turned to look at her son. "Did he say why?" "No," Tim said. "But he sure had a nitty Nikon."
ON SUNDAY, Mary celebrated-although that was not the word that sprang to her mind-her thirty-five birthday. Edward had' arranged a surprise party for her at the country club. Their neighbors, Florence and Douglas Schiller, and four other couples were waiting for her. Edward was as delighted as a small child at the look of amazement on Mary's face when she walked into the club and saw the festive table and the happy birthday banner. After dinner, as Mary blew out the candles on her cake, she looked across at Edward and thought, How lucky can a lady be?
Monday morning she awoke with a headache. There had been a lot of champagne toasts the night before. She eased her way out of bed and
went down to the kitchen, where she set about preparing breakfast for the children.
Beth, Mary's twelve-year-old daughter, walked into the room carrying an armful of books.
Mary put a box of cereal on the table. "I bought a new cereal for you. You're going to like it."
Beth sat dowti at the kitchen table and studied the label on the cereal box. "I can't eat this. You're trying to kill me."
"Don't put any ideas in my head,". her mother cautioned.
Tim, Mary's ten-year-old, ran into the kitchen. He slid into a chair at the table and said, "I'll have bacon and eggs."
"Whatever happened to good morning?" Mary asked. "Good morning. I'll have bacon and eggs. Can I go to the skating rink after school, Mom?"
"You're to come right home and study. Mrs. Reynolds called me. You're failing math. How do you think it looks for a college professor to have a son who's failing math?"
"It looks okay. You don't teach math."
They talk about the terrible twos, Mary thought grimly. What about the terrible nines, tens, elevens, and twelves?
She had packed a lunch for each of them, but she was concerned about Beth, wtio was on some kind of crazy new diet. "Please, Beth, eat all of your lunch today."
"If it has no artificial preservatives. I'm not going to let the greed of the food industry ruin my health."
Whatever happened to the good old days of junk food? Mary wondered.
Tim plucked a loose paper from one of Beth's notebooks. "Look at this!" he yelled. "'Dear Beth, Let's sit together during study period. I thought of you all day yesterday and-"$
"Give that back to me!" Beth screamed. "Thaes mine!"
"Hey! It's signe. "Virgil." I thought you were in love with Arnold."
Beth snatched the note away from him. "What would you know about love? You're a child."
At that moment they heard the horn of the school bus outside. Tim and Beth started toward the door.
"Wait! You haven't eaten your breakfasts," Mary said. She followed them out into the hallway.
"No time, Mother. Got to go." "Bye, Mom."
And they were gone.
Mary, feeling drained, looked up as Edward came down the stairs. "Morning, darling," he said.
"Sweetheart, would you do me a favor?"
"Sure, beautiful." He gave her a kiss. "Anything." "want to sell the children."
"Who'd buy them?"
"Strangers. They've reached the age where I can't do anything right. Beth has become a health-food freak, and your son is turning into a world-class dunce."
Edward said thoughtfully, "Maybe they're not our kids." "I hope not. I'm making oatmeal for you."
"Sorry, darling. No time. I'm due in surgery in half an hour."
Mary looked at Edwaid and felt a glow. Even after all these years, she thought, he's still the most attractive man I've ever known.
"I may decide to keep the kids, after all," she said. "I like their father a lot."
"To tell you the truth," said Edward, "I'm rather fond of their, mother." He took her in his arms.
MARY and Edward left the house together, bowing their heads against the relentless wind. Edward strapped himself into his Ford Granada and watched Mary as she got behind the wheel of the station wagon.
"Drive carefully, sweetheart," Edward called.
"You too, darling." She blew him a kiss, and the two cars drove away from the house, Edward heading toward the hospital and Mary toward the university.
Two men parked half a block from the Ashley house waited until the vehicles were out of sight. "Let's go."
They drove up to the house next door to the Ashleys'. The driver sat in the cilr while his companion walked up to the front door and rang -the bell. The door was opened by an attractive brunette in her middle
thirties.
"Mrs. Douglas Schiller?" "Yes?"
The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an identification card. "My name is Donald Zamlock. I'm with the Security Agency of the State Department. I want to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Mrs. Ashley."
She looked at him with concern. "Mary? Why would you be asking about her?"
"May I come in?"
"Yes." Florence Schiller led him into the living room. "Would you like some coffee?"
"No, thanks. I'll only take a few minutes." He smiled reassuringly. "This is just a routine check. She's not suspected of any wrongdoing."
"I should hope not," Florence Schiller said indignantly. "Mary Ashley is one of the nicest persons you'll ever meet." She added, "Have you met her?"
"No, ma'am. This visit is confidential, and I would appreciate it if you kept it that way. How long have you known Mrs. Ashley?"
"About thirteen years. Since the day she moved in next door." "Would you say that you know Mrs. Ashley well?"
"Of course I would. Mary's my closest friend. What-"
"Mrs. Schiller, in your opinion is Mrs. Ashley an emotionally stable person?"
"Of course she is."
"Mrs. Ashley's grandfather was born in Remania. Have you ever heard her discuss Remania?"
"Oh, once in a while she'll tell stories her grandfather told her about the old country."
"One last question. Have you ever heard Mrs. Ashley or Dr. Ashley say anything against the United States government?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Then in your estimation they're both loyal Americans?" "You bet they are. Would you mind telling me-"
The man rose. "I want to thank you for your time, Mrs. Schiller. And I'd like to impress upon you again that this matter is highly confidential. I would appreciate it if you didn't discuss it with anyone-not even your husband."
A moment later he was out the door. Florence Schiller stood there staring after him. "I don't believe this whole conversation took place," she said aloud.
BRIDGE WITH THEIR NEIGHBOIRS the Schillers was a Mondaynight ritual for Mary and Edward Ashley. The fact that Douglas Schiller was a doctor and worked with Edward at the hospital made the two couples even closer.
Douglas Schiller was normally a pleasant, easygoing man, but at the moment there was a grim expression on his face. They were in the middle of the game, and the Schillers were ten thousand points behind. For the fourth time that evening Florence Schiller had reneeed.
"Florence!" Douglas exploded. "Which side are you on?" "I'm sorry," she said nervously.
"Is anything bothering you?" Edward Ashley asked Florence. "I can't tell you."
They all looked at her in surprise: "What does that mean?" her husband asked.
Florence Schiller took a deep breath. "Mary, It's about you." "What about me?"
"I'm not supposed to tell. I promised." "You promised who?" Edward asked.
"A federal agent from Washington. He was at the house this morning asking me all kinds of questions about Mary."
"What kind of questions?" Edward demanded.
"Oh, you know. was she a loyal American? was she stable?" "Wait," Mary said excitedly. "I think I know. I'm up for tenure.
The university does some sensitive government research on campus, so I suppose they check everyone pretty thoroughly."
"Well, thank God That's all it is." Florence Schiller breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought they were going to lock you up."
"I hope they do." Mary smiled. "At Kansas State."
Abbeywood, England. "We are meeting under the usual rules, the chairman announced. "No records will be kept, this meeting will never be discussed, and we will refer to one another by the code names we have been assigned."
There were eight men inside the library of the fifteenth-century Claymore Castle. Two armed men kept vigil outside, while a third man guarded the door to the library.
.The chairman continued. "The Controller has received some disturbing information. Marin Groza is preparing a coup against Alexandros Ionescu. A group of senior army officers in Remania has decided to back Groza. This time he could very well be successful."
Odin spoke up. "How would that affect our plan?"
"It could destroy it. It would open too many bridges to the West." Freyr said, "Then we must prevent it from happening."
Balder asked, "How?"
"We assassinate Groza," the chairman replied.
"Impossible. His villa is impregnable. Anyway, no one in this room can afford to be involved in an assassination attempt."
"We wouldn't be directly involved," the chairman said. "The Controller has discovered a confidential dossier that concerns an international terrorist who's for hire. He's called Angel."
"Never heard of him," Sigmund said.
"So much the better. His credentials are most impressive. According to the Controller's file, Angel was involved in the Sikh Khalistan assassination in India. He helped the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. He's masterminded the assassinations of half a dozen army officers in Israel, and the Israelis have offered a milliondollar reward for him, dead or alive."
"He sounds promising," Thor said. "Can we get him?"
"He's expensive. If he agrees to take the contract, it will cost us two million dollars."
"How do we get to this Angel person?" Sigmund asked.
"All his contacts are handled through his mistress, a woman named Neusa Mufiez. Angel has set her up in an apartment in Buenos Aires."
Thor said, "Who would get in touch with her for us?"
The chairman replied, "The Controller has suggested a man named Harry Lantz. He was thrown out of the CIA for setting up his own drug
business in Vietnam. While he was with the CIA he did a tour in South America, so he knows the territory. He'd be a perfect go-between." He paused. "I suggest we take a vote. All those in favor of hiring Angel, please raise your hands."
Eight well-manicured hands went into the air.
"Then It's settled." The chairman rose. "The meeting is adjourned. Please observe the usual precautions as you leave."
Chapter Three
IN HIS hotel room in New York, Harry Lantz was awakened in the middle of the night by the ringing of the telephone.
Who the devil knows I'm here? he wondered. He looked blearily at the bedside clock, then snatched up the phone. "It's four o'clock in the morning! Who the-"
A soft voice at the other end of the line began speaking, and Lantz sat upright in bed, his heart beginning to pound. "Yes, sir."
He listened for a long time. Finally he said, "Yes,. sir. I understand. I'll be on the first plane to Buenos Aires. Thank you, sir."
He replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling. The man he had just spoken to was one of the most powerful men in the world and was going to pay him fifty thousand dollars to deliver a message. It would be fun going back to Argentina. Harry Lantz loved South American women.
THE 747 arrived at Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Aires at five the following afternoon. Harry Lantz felt a surge of excitement as he stepped out of the plane, but the blast of hot air startled him for a moment. Of course, he realized. It's summer here.
Yes, it was good to be back. Siesta was over, and the streets were crowded with people. When the taxi arrived at the Hotel El Conquistador, in the heart of the fashionable Barrio Norte sector, Lantz paid the driver with a million-peso note.
"Keep the change," he said. Their money was a joke.
Harry looked up an old friend. No one had ever .heard of Neusa Mufiez. Harry Lantz began to feel he might be on a wild-goose chase.
It was at the Pilar, a small bar in the barrio of Floresta, that his luck suddenly changed. It was a Friday night, and the bar was filled with workingmen. It took Lantz ten minutes to get the bartender's attention. Before Lantz was halfway through his prepared speech, the bartender said, "Neusa Muez? S(. I know her. If she wishes to talk to you, she will come here maana, about midnight."
The following evening Harry Lantz returned to the Pilar at eleven o'clock and took a place at the bar, watching the room gradually fill up. As midnight approached, he found himself getting more and more nervous. If she doesn't show up, he thought, I can kiss the fifty grand good-bye.
He wondered what she looked like. She had to be a stunner. He was authorized to offer her boyfriend, Angel, a cool two million dollars to assassinate someone, so Angel was probably up to his ears in millions. He would be able to afford a beautiful young mistress.
The door opened, and Lantz looked up expectantly. A woman was walking in alone. She was middle-aged and unattractive, with a fat, bloated body and huge, pendulous breasts that swayed as she walked. Her face was pockmarked, and she had dyed blond hair. A hooker down on her luck, Lantz decided.
The woman looked around the bar with vacant, listless eyes, then pushed her way over to Harry. "Wanna buy me a drink?"
She had a heavy Spanish accent.
She looks like a fat cow, Lantz thought..And she's drunk. "Get lost, sister."
"Esteban, the bartender. He say you are lookin' for me, no?" "He must have made a mistake. I'm looking for Neusa Muez." "Si. Yo soy Neusa Mudez."
But the wrong one, Harry thought. "Are you Angel's friend?" She smiled drunkenly. "Si."
Harry Lantz recovered swiffly. "Well, well." He forced a smile. "Can we go to a corner table and talk?"
They fought their way across the smoky bar, and when they were seated, Harry Lantz said, "I'd like to talk about-"' "You buy me a rum, s(? A double."
Lantz nodded. "Sure." When the waiter left, Lantz said, "I want to meet with Angel. I have a little present for him."
She studied him. "St? What kin'a present?" "Two million dollars."
Their drinks arrived. She downed hers in one gulp. "Wha' for you wanna give Angel two million dollars?"
"That's something I'll have to discuss with him in person."
"Thais not possible. Angel, he don' talk to nobody." "Lady, for two million dollars-"
Neusa Mufiez struggled to her feet. "I tol' you, he don' talk to nobody. Ad16s."
"Hey! Wait a minute! Don't go."
She looked down at him with bleary eyes. "What you wan'?" "sit down," Lantz said slowly, "and I'll tell you what I want." She sat down heavily. "I need a rum, huh?"
Harry Lantz was baffled. What kind of man is this Angel? he wondered. His mistress is not only the ugliest broad in all of South America, but she's a lush.
Lantz did not like dealing with drunks. On the other hand, he hated the thought of losing his fifty-thousand-dollar commission. He summoned the waiter and ordered the drink, then smiled and said reasonably, e Neusa, if I can't talk to Angel, how can I do business with him?"
"Ess simple. You tell me what you wan'. I tell Angel. If he say sf, I tell you s(. If he say no, I tell you no."
Lantz distrusted using her as a go-between, but he had no choice. "You've heard of Marin Groza?"
"No."
He patted her fat hand. "Angel will know who Groza is. You just say Marin Groza. He'll know. The people who sent me want him blown away. Killed."
"Oh. I'll ass' Angel. Wha' you say the man's name is?" He wanted to shake her. "Groza. Marin Groza.
"Yeah. My baby's outa town. I'll call him tonight an' meet you here tomorrow. Kin I have 'nother rum?"
Neusa Muez was turning out to be a nightmare. How could a man who was supposed to be as smart as Angel get hooked up with such a rum dummy?
THE following night Harry Lantz was seated at the same table in the Pilar, intermittently chewing peanuts and his fingernails. At two a.m. he saw Neusa Muez stumble through the door and make her way over to him.
"Hi," she mumbled, and slumped into a chair. "Neusa, did you remember to talk to Angel?"
She looked at him vacantly. "Angel? Si. Kin I have a drink, huh?"
He ordered a double rum for her and a double Scotch for himself. He needed it desperately. "What did Angel say, Neusa?"
,Angel? Oh, he say yeah. Ess okay."
Harry Lantz felt a surge of relief. "That's wonderful!" He no longer cared about his messenger-boy mission. He had thought of a better idea.
Lantz prided himself on being a pro. He was too smart to walk into a deal like this without first checking it ou.t. Before leaving the States, he had cautiously asked around about Angel, and what had impressed him most was that the Israelis had put a price of a million dollars on his head. This drunken floozy was going to lead him to Angel. He was going to collect that one million dollars.
He watched her slop down her drink, spilling some of it on her already soiled blouse. "What else did Angel say?"
"Angel say he wanna know' who your people are."
Lantz gave her a winning smile. "You tell him That's confidential, Neusa. I can't give him that information."
She shrugged. "Then Angel say to tell you to get lost."
Harry Lantz's mind started working at top speed. "Neusa, I'll telephone the people I'm working for, and if they give me permission, I'll give you a name. Okay?"
She nodded, indifferent.
"You tell Angel I'll have an answer for him by tomorrow. Is there someplace I can reach you?"
guess so."
He was making progress. "Where?" "Here."
He made the call collect from a telephone booth so it could not be traced. It had taken him one hour to get through.
"No," the Controller said. "I told you, no r -mmes.
"Yes, sir. But there's a problem. Neusa Mufiez, Angel's mistress, says he's willing to make a deal, but he won't move without knowing who he's dealing with."
"What is this woman like?" "She's a fat, ugly moron, sir."
"It's much too dangerous for my name to be used."
Harry Lantz could feel the deal slipping away from him. "Yes, sir," he said earnestly. "The only thing is, sir, Angel's reputation is based on his being able to keep his mouth shut. If he ever started talking, he wouldn't last five minutes in his business."
There was a long silence. "Very well. You may give Angel my name. But he is never to divulge it and never to contact me directly. He'll work only through you."
Harry Lantz could have danced. "Yes, sir. I'll tell him. Thank you, sir." He hung up, a big grin on his face. He was going to collect the fifty thousand. And then the million-dollar reward.
WHEN Harry Lantz met Neusa Muez late that evening, he immediately ordered a double rum for her and said happily, "Everything's set. I got permission."
She looked at him indifferently. "Yeah?"
He told her the name of his employer. It was a household word. She shrugged. "Never hearda him."
"Neusa, the people I work for want this done as quickly as possible. Marin Groza is hiding out in a villa in Neuilly, and-"
"Where?"
"It's a suburb of Paris," he said patiently. "Angel will know." "I need 'nother drink."
An hour later Neusa was still drinking, and this time Harry Lantz was encouraging her. When she's drunk enough, he thought, she's going to lead me straight to her boyfriend. The rest will be easy. "When is Angel coming back to town?" he asked.
She focused her watery eyes on him. "Nex' week."
Harry Lantz took her hand and stroked it. "Why don't you and I go back to your place?" he asked softly.
"Okay." He was in.
NEUSA MUez lived in a shabby two-room apartment that was as messy and unkempt as its tenant. When they walked through the door, Neusa made straight for the little bar in the corner.
Lantz watched as she poured a drink and downed it. She's the most ugly,
repulsive pig I've ever met, he thought, but the million dollars is going to be beautiful.
Lantz walked over to her and put his arms around her huge, flabby waist. "You're cute, do you know that?"
"Wha'?" Her eyes were glazed.
He was getting nowhere. He had to think of an approach that would get this amazon into bed. But he knew he had to make his move carefully. If he offended her, she might report him to Angel, and that would be the end of the deal.
As Lantz was desperately trying to think of a clever gambit Neusa mumbled, "Come on 'n the bedroom."
He grinned in relief. "That's a great idea, baby."
She stumbled as Lantz followed her into the small bedroom. In it was a large unmade bed and a bureau with a cracked mirror above it. It was the open closet that caught Harry Lantz's attention. He glimpsed a row of men's suits hanging on a rack.
He went into the bathroom to undress, and when he returned, Neusa was propped up in bed like a leviathan. He sat down beside her. She was drunker than he had thought. Th:It's good, he said to himself. It will make things easier. "You're a very pretty woman, honI like you a lot." He began to caress her. "I'll bet you live an exciting life being Angel's girlfriend. That must be really interesting. Tell me, baby, What's Angel like?"
There was a silence, and he wondered if Neusa had fallen asleep. "Don't go to sleep, sweetheart. Not yet." He felt her stir. "What kind of man is Angel? Is he handsome?"
"Rich. Angel, he's rich."
Lantz continued to caress her. "Who are his friends?"
Her voice was drowsy. "Angel got no fren's. I'm his fren'." Neusa closed her eyes. "Hey, I'm sleepy. Let's go to sleep."
Lantz stayed there quietly until he was certain Neusa was asleep. Then he carefully arose from the bed, padded over to the closet, and switched on the closet light.
There were a dozen suits hanging on the rack and six pairs of men's shoes on the floor. Lantz opened the jackets and examined the labels. The suits were all custom-made by Heffera, Avenida la Plata. I've hit the jackpot! Lantz gloated. They'll have a record of Angel's address. I'll go and ask a few questions. Then all I have to do is tip off my friends in Mossad and collect the reward.
Lantz thought he heard a sound from across the room. He quickly turned out the closet light and walked over to the bed. Neusa's eyes were closed, 'and she was snoring lightly. He tiptoed to the bureau and began looking through the drawers, hoping to find a photograph of Angel. No luck. He crept back to bed.
WHEN Harry Lantz awoke in the morning, he heard Neusa singing off key in the bathroom.
She was standing in front of the mirror. Her hair was done up in fat curlers, and she looked, if possible, even more unattractive than before. She pointed to the bathtub full of water. "I fix a bath for you. When you're finish', I fix breakfast."
"Sounds great," he lied.
"You like omelets? I make good omelets. Angel teach me."
Neusa plugged in an electric hair dryer and began to dry her hair.
Lantz stepped into the bathtub and lay back in the warm water, thinking, Maybe I should get a gun and take Angel myself. If I let the Israelis do it, there'll probably be an inquiry into who gets the reward. This way there won't be any question. I'll just tell them where to pick up his body.
Neusa said something, but Harry Lantz could barely hear her over the roar of the hair dryer.
"What did you say?" he called out. "I got a presen' for you from Angel."
She dropped the electric hair dryer into the water and stood there watching as Lantz's body twitched in a dance of death.
PRESIDENT PAUL ELLISON looked down at the last security report on Mary Ashley and said, "Not a blemish, Stan."
"I know. I think she's the perfect candidate. Of course, State isn't going to be happy."
"We'll send them a crying towel. Now Let's hope the Senate will back us up. Would you like another drink, Stan?"
"No, thanks. Unless you need me tonight, I'm taking Barbara to an opening at the Kennedy Center."
"You go ahead," Paul Ellison said. "Alice and I are due to entertain some relatives of hers."
"Please give my love to Alice," Stanton Rogers said. He rose. "And you give mine to Barbara."
Chapter Four
MARY Ashley's nerves were on edge during dinner. The children were being impossible again. Beth refused to touch her food.
"No one eats meat anymore," Beth insisted. "It's a barbaric custom carriedover from the cavernan. Civilized people don't eat live animals."
. "It's not alive," Tim argued. "It's dead, so you might as well eat it."
"Children! Quiet. Beth, go make yourself a salad." "She could go graze in the field," Tim offered. "Tim! Finish your dinner." Mary's head was pounding. The telephone rang.
"That's for me," Beth said. She leaped out of her chair and raced toward the telephone. She picked it up and said flirtatiously, "Virgil?" She listened a moment, and her expression changed. "Oh, sure," she said disgustedly. She slammed down the receiv&r and returned to the table.
"What was that all about?" Edward asked.
"Some joker. said it was the White House calling Mom." "The White House?"
The telephone rang again.
"I'll get it." Mary rose and walked over to the telephone. "Hello." As she listened, her face grew grim. "We're in the middle of dinner, and I don't think this is funny- What? Who?
The President?" There was a hush in the room. "Wait, I- Oh, good evening, Mr. President." There was a dazed expression on her face. Her family was watching her, wide-eyed. "Yes, sir. I do. I recognize your voice. H'm sorry about hanging up a moment ago. Beth thought it was Virgil, and- Yes, sir. Thank you." She stood there listening. "Would I be willing to serve as what?" Her face suddenly flushed.
Edward was on his feet, moving toward the phone, the children close behind him.
"There must be some mistake, Mr. President. My name is Mary Ashley. I'm a professor at Kansas State University, and- You read it? Thank you, sir." She listened for a long time. "Yes, sir. I agree. But that doesn't mean that I- Yes, sir. I'm sure It's a wonderful opportunity, but I- Of course. I will. I'll talk it over with my husband and get
back to you." She picked up a pen and wrote down a number. "Yes, sir. I have it. Thank you, Mr. President. Good-bye." She slowly replaced the receiver and stood there in shock.
"What in heaven was that all about?" Edward demanded. "was it really the President?" Tim asked.
Mary sank into a chair. "Yes. It really was."
Edward took Mary's hand in his. "Mary, what did he want?"
Mary sat there, numb, thinking, So That's why that man was questioning Florence. She looked up at Edward and the children and said slowly, "The President read my book and the article in Foreign Affairs, and he thought they were brilliant. He said That's the kind of thinking he Wants for his people-to-people program. He wants to nominate me as ambassador to Remania."
There was a look of total disbelief on Edward's face. "You? Why you?"
It was exactly'what Mary had asked herself, but she felt Edward could have been more tactful. He could have said, How wonderfull You'd make a great ambassador.
"You haven't had any political experience."
"I'm well aware of that," Mary responded tartly. "I agree that the whole thing is ridiculous."
"Are you going to be the ambassador?" Tim asked.
Edward turned to the children. "You two finish your dinner.
Your mother and I would like to have a little talk." Edward took Mary's arm and led her into the library. He turned to her and said, "I'm sorry if I sounded like a pompous jerk in there. It was just such a-"
"No. You were perfectly right. Why on earth should they have chosen me?"
"Honey, you'd probably make a great ambassador. But you must admit it came as a bit of a shock."
"Try thunderbolt. I still can't believe it." Mary laughed. "Wait until I tell Florence. She'll die."
"You're really excited about this, aren't you?" asked Edward. She looked at him in surprise. "Of course. Wouldn't you be?"
Edward chose his words carefully. "It is a great honor, honey, and I'm
sure they must have had good reason for choosing you'."
He hesitated. "We have to think about this very carefully."
She knew what he was going to say, and she thought, Edward's right. Of course he's right.
"I can't just leave my practice and walk out on my patients. I have to stay here. I don't know how long you'd have to be away, but if it really means a lot to you, well, maybe you could go over there with the children and I could join you whenever-"
Mary said softly, "You crazy man. Nothing means as much to me as you and the children. I could never live away from you."
He took her in his arms. "Are you sure?"
"I'm positive. It was exciting being asked. That's enough."
THE following morning Mary dialed the number that the President had given her. "This is Mrs. Edward Ashley. The Presidents assistant, Mr. Greene, is expecting my call."
"One moment, please."
A male voice on the other end said, "Hello. Mrs. Ashley?"
"Yes," Mary said. "Would yo. "Please give the President a message for me? That I'm very, very flattered by his offer, but my husband's profession ties him down here, so I'm afraid it would be impossible for me to accept. I hope he understands."
"I'll pass on your message," the voice said noncommittally. "Thank you, Mrs. Ashley." The line went dead.
Mary slowly replaced the receiver. It was done. For one brief
moment a tantalizing dream had been offered her. But that was all it was. A dream. This isomy real world, she thought. I'd better get ready for my first class.
Manama, Bahrein. The whitewashed stone house was anonymous, hidden among dozens of identical houses a short walk from the souks, the large, colorful outdoor markets. It was owned by a merchant sympathetic to the cause of Patriots for Freedom.
The chairman was speaking to the men gathered in the living room. "A problem has arisen. The motion that was recently passed has run into difficulty. The go-between we selected Harry Lantz-was murdered. His body was found floating in the harbor in Buenos Aires."
"Do the police have any idea who did it?" Balder asked. "I mean, can they connect this to us in any way?"
"No. We're perfectly safe."
Thor asked, "What about our plan? Can we go ahead with it?"
"Not at the moment. We have no idea how to reach Angel. However, the Controller gave Harry Lantz permission to reveal his name to him. If Angel is interested in our proposition, he will find a way to get in touch with him. All we can do now is wait."
THE man directly responsible for Marin Groza's safety was Roland Passy, the French minister of defense. Gendarmes were stationed in front of the villa -in Neuilly twenty-four hours a day, but it was the knowledge that Ley Pastemak was in charge of the villa's inner security that gave Passy confidence. He had seen the security arrangements himself and was firmly convinced that the house was impregnable.
In recent weeks rumors had been sweeping the diplomatic world that a coup was imminent, that Marin Groza was planning to return to Remania, and that Alexandres lonescu was going to be deposed by his senior military officers.
Ley Pastemak knocked on the door and entered the bookcrammed library that served as Mann Groza's office. Groza was seated behind his desk, working.
"Everybody wants to know when the revolution is going to happen," Pastemak said. "It's the world's worst-kept secret."
Tell them to be patient. Will you come to Bucharest with me, Ley?"
More than anything Ley Pastemak yearned to return to Israel. "I'll only take this job temporarily," he had told Marin Groza. "Until you're ready to make your move." Temporarily had turned into weeks and months, and finally into two years. And now it was time to make another decision.
In a world peopled with pygmies, Ley Pastemak thought, I have been given the privilege of serving a giant. Marin Groza was the most selfless and idealistic man Ley Pastemak had ever known.
When Pastemak had come to work for Groza, he had wondered about the man's family. Groza would never speak of them, but the officer who had arranged'for Pastemak to meet Groza told him the story.
"Groza was betrayed. The Securitate picked him up and tortured him for five days. They promised to free him if he would give . them the names of his associates in the underground. He wouldn't talk. They arrested his wife and his fourteen-year-old daughter and brought them to the interrogation room. Groza was given a choice: talk or watch them die.
It was the hardest decision any man ever had to make. It was the lives of his beloved wife and child against the lives of hundreds of people who believed in him." The man paused, then went on more slowly. "I think in the end what made Groza decide the way he did was that he was convinced he and his family were going to be killed anyway. He refused to give them the names. The guards strapped him in a chair and forced him to watch his wife and daughter being tortured until they died."
"How he must hate them!"
The officer looked into Ley Pastemak's eyes and said, "The most important thing for you to understand is that Marin Groza does not want to return to Remania to seek vengeance. He wants to go'back to free his people. He wants to make certain that such things can never again happen."
Ley Pastemak had been with Groza from that day on, and the more time he spent with the revolutionary, the more he came to love him. Now he would have to decide whether to give up his return to Israel and go to Remania with Groza.
PAsTERNAK was WALKING down the hallway that evening, and as he passed Marin Groza's bedroom door he heard the familiar screams of pain ring but. So It's Friday, Pastemak thought; Marin Groza's day of penance.
Every Friday night the halls of the villa resounded with Groza's screams. That was the day of the week when Groza would shut himself in his room and whip himself mercilessly, until his blood flowed, even though no amount of self-inflicted pain would 'ever eradicate the terrible guilt that consumed him. Each time he felt the lash of the whip, he would see his wife and daughter screaming for help. And he would cry out, "I'm sorry! I'll talk. Oh, God, please let me talk. .
.."
THE telephone call came ten days after Harry Lantz's body was found. The Controller was in the middle of a staff meeting in the conference room when the intercom buzzer sounded. "I know you asked not to be disturbed, sir, but there's a Miss Neusa Mufiez calling from Buenos Aires. It sounds urgent. I told her-"
"It's all right." He kept his emotions under tight control. "I'll take the call in my private office." He went into his office and locked the door. "Hello. Is this Miss Mufiez?"
"Yeah. I got a message for you from Angel. He din' like the nosy messenger you sent."
The Controller chose his words carefully. "I'm sorry. But we would still like Angel to go ahead. Would that be possible?"
"Yeah. He say he wanna do it."
"Excellent. How shall I arrange his advance?"
The woman laughed. "Angel, he don' need no advance. Nobody cheats Angel." Somehow the words were chilling. "When the job is finished, he say you put the money in- Wait a minute. I got it wrote down. Here it is-the State Bank in Zurich. I think That's someplace in Switzerland." She really did sound like a moron.
"I'll need the account number."
"Oh, yeah. Hol' on. I got it here somewhere." He heard the rustle of papers, and finally she was back on the telephone. "Here it is. j three four nine zero seven seven."
"How soon can he handle the matter?"
"When he's ready, sehor. Angel say you'll know when I ees done. You'll read 'bout it in the newspapers."
"Very well. I'm going to give you my private telephone number in case Angel needs to reach me."
He gave it to her slowly.
Thilisi, Russia. The meeting was being held in an isolated dacha bordering on the Kura River.
The chairman said, "Two urgent matters have arisen. The first is good news. The Controller has had word from Angel. The contract is moving forward."
"That's very good news indeed!" Freyr exclaimed. "What's the bad news?"
"I'm afraid it concerns the Presiden's candidate for the ambassadorship to Remania, but the situation can be handled. "
IT was difficult for Mary Ashley to keep her mind on her class. Too much had changed. The Junction City newspaper had carried a feature story on her rejection of the ambassadorship to Remania, and the fact that she had declined the Presiden's offer had made the story even bigger than if she had accepted it. In the eyes of the community and her students she had become a celebrity. It was a heady feeling.
Remania, she mused. Welcome to Remania, Madam Ambassador. Your limousine is here to drive you to your embassy. Her embassy. She had been invited to live in Bucharest, one of the most exciting capitals of the world, reporting to the President, being in the center of his people-to-people concept. I could have been a part of history.
Mary was roused from her reverie by the sound of the bell. Class was over. Time to go home and,change. Edward was taking her out to the country club for dinner. As befitted an almost ambassador.
IT was late by the time Edward and Mary arrived at the country club There was only a sprinkling of guests'left in the dining room. They stared, watching as Mary sat down, and whispered to one, another.
Edward looked at his wife and felt guilty. He was responsible for her turning down the Presiden's offer, and his reasons were valid. But there's more to it than that, Edward admitted to himself I was jealous. I reacted like a spoiled brat. What would have happened if the President had made me an offer like that? I'd probably have jumped at it. All I could think of was that I wanted Mary to stay home and take
care of me and the kids.
He sat there admiring Mary. I'll make it up to her, he thought. I'll surprise her this summer with a trip to Paris and London. Maybe Remania. We'll have a real honeymoon. "Any regrets?" he asked her.
Of course there were regrets. But they were castle-in-Spain regrets about the kind of glamorous, impossible dreams that everyone has. Mary smiled. "None, darling. It was a fluke that they even asked me." She took Edward's hand in hers. "I'm glad I refused the offer."
Edward leaned across the table and kissed his wife. "I love you so much, Mary."
"I love you twice as much, darling."
AT THREE o'clock in the morning, when Edward and Mary were fast asleep, the phone exploded into sound. Edward sleepily reached for the instrument and brought it to his ear. "Hello.-. .
A woman's urgent voice said, "Dr. Ashley?" "Yes?"
"Pete Grimes is havin' a heart attack. He's in pain somethin' awful. I think he's dyin'. I don't know what to do."
Edward sat up in bed, trying to blink the sleep away. "Don't do anything. ]Keep him still. I'll be there in half an hour." He slid out of bed and sewed to dress.
"Edward, whays wrong?" Mary mumbled. "Everything's fine. Go back to sleep."
Five minutes later Edward was on his way to the Grimes farm. It was a cold and raw morning, with a northwesterly wind driving the temperature well below zero. He turned the car onto Route j18, the two-lane highway that went through junction City. The town was asleep, its houses huddled against the bitter, frigid wind.
When Edward came to the end of Sixth Street, he made the turn that took him onto Route 57- How many times had he driven over this. road on hot summer days, with the sweet smell of corn and prairie hay in the air?
And how many winters had he driven on this road through a frosted landscape, with power lines delicately laced with ice, and lonely smoke from far-off chimneys?
Edward thought of Mary lying in their warm bed waiting for him. He was so lucky. I'll make everything up to her, he promised himself
Ahead, at the junction of Highways 57 and 77, was a stop sign. Edward came to a halt and looked up and down the deserted road. As he started into the intersection a truck appeared out of nowhere. He heard a
sudden roar, and his car was pinned by two bright headlights racing toward him. He caught a glimpse of the giant five-ton army truck bearing down on him, and the last sound he heard was his own voice screaming.
IN NEUILLY church bells pealed out across the quiet noon air. The gendarmes guarding Marin Groza's villa had no reason to pay attention to the dusty Renault sedan that was cruising by. Angel drove slowly, although not slowly enough to arouse suspicion, taking everything in.
There were two guards in front, a high wall, probably electrified, and inside" of course, would be the usual electronic nonsense of beams, sensors, and alarms. It would take an army to storm the villa. But I don't need an army, Angel thought. Only my genius. Marin Groza is a dead man. If only my mother were alive to see how rich I have become. ow happy it would have made her.
In Argentina podr families were very poor indeed, and Angel's mother had been of the poorest. Through the years Angel had watched friends and relatives die of hunger and sickness. Death was a way of life, and Angel thought philosophically, Since it is going to happen anyway, why not make a profit from it? In the beginning there were those who doubted Angel's lethal talents, but people who tried to put roadblocks in the way had a habit of disappearing. Angel's reputation as an assassin grew. I have never failed, Angel thought. I am Angel. The Angel of Death.
Chapter Five
THE snow-covered Kansas highway was ablaze with flashing red lights that turned the frosty air blood red. In the center of a circle of vehicles, ringed by headlights, sat the five-ton M871 army tractor-trailer, and partially beneath it, Edward Ashley's crumpled car. A dozen police officers and firemen were milling around, trying to keep warm in the predawn freeze. In the middle of the highway, covered by a tarpaulin, was a body.
A sheriffs car skidded to a stop, and Mary Ashley ran out of it. She was trembling so hard that she could barely stand. Sheriff Monster grabbed her arm. "I wouldn't look at him if I were you, Mrs. Ashley."
"Let go of me!" She was screaming. She shook loose from his grasp and started toward the tarpaulin.
"Please, Mrs. Ashley. You don't want to see what he looks like." He caught her as she fainted.
She woke up in the back seat of Sheriff Monster's car. He was sitting in the front seat watching her. The heater was on, and the car was stifling. Mary stared out the window at all the flashing red lights,and thought, It's a scene from hell. In spite of the heat, her teeth were chattering. "How did- How did it h-happen?"
"He ran the stop sign. An army truck was comin' along Seventyseven and tried to avoid im, but your husband drove right out in front of him."
She closed her eyes and saw the truck bearing down on Edward and felt his panic. All she could say was, "Edward was a c-careful driver. He would never run a stop sign."
The sheriff said sympathetically, "Mrs. Ashley, we have eyewitnesses. A priest and two nuns, and a Colonel Jenkins from ,Fort Riley. They all said your husband ran the stop sign."
Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion. Finally, she watched as Edward's body was lifted into the ambulance.
Sheriff Monster said, "They returned him to the morgue. I'd best get you back home. What's the name of your family doctor?"
"Edward Ashley," Mary said. "Edward Ashley is my family doctor."
LATER MARY REMEMBERED WALKING Up to the house and Sheriff Monster leading her inside. Florence and Douglas Schiller were waiting for her in the living room. The children were still asleep.
Florence threw her arms around Mary. "Oh, darling, I'm 'so terribly, terribly sorry."
"It's all right. Edward had an accident." Mary giggled.
Douglas Schiller looked into her eyes. They were wide and vacant. He felt a chill go through him. "Come on, I'm putting you to bed."
He gave her a sedative, helped her into bed, and sat at her side. An hour later Mary was still awake. He gave her another sedative. Then a third. Finally she slept.
IN JUNenON City there are strict investigative procedures involved in the report of a lone injury accident. An ambulance is dispatched from the county Ambulance Service, and a sheriff's officer is sent to the scene. If army personnel are involved in the accident, the CID-the Criminal Investigating Division of the army-conducts an investigation along with the sheriff's office.
Shel Planchard, a plainclothes officer from CID headquarters at Fort Riley, and the sheriff were examining the accident report in the sheriffs office.
"It beats me," Sheriff Monster said.
"What's the problem, Sheriff?" Planchard asked.
"Well, looky here. There were five witnesses to the accident, right? A priest and two nuns, Colonel Jenkins, and the truck driver,
every single one of them says- exactly the same thing: car ran the stop sign, turned onto the highway, and was hit by the army truck." Sheriff Monster scratched his head. "Mister, have you ever seen an accident
report where even two eyewitnesses said the same thing?" "It just shows that what happened was pretty obvious."
"There's somethin' else nigglin' at me. What were a priest and two nuns and a colonel doing out on Highway Seventy-seven at three thirty in the morning?"
"Nothing mysterious about that. The priest and the sisters were on their way to Leonardville. Colonel Jenkins was returning to Fort Riley."
The sheriff said, "I checked with the Department of Motor Vehicles. The last ticket Doc Ashley got was six years ago, for illegal parking. He had no accident record."
"Sheriff," said the CID man, "Just what are you suggesting?"
Monster shrugged. "I'm not suggestin' anythin'. I jest have a funny feelin' about this."
"If you think there's some kind of conspiracy involved, there's a big hole in your theory. If-"
The sheriff sighed. "I know. If it wasn't an accident, all the army truck had to do was knock him off and keep going'. There wouldn't be any reason for all these witnesses and rigmarole."
"Exactly." The CID man rose and stretched. "Well, I've got to get back to the base. As far as I'm concerned, the driver of the truck, Sergeant Wallis, is cleared. Are we in agreement?"
Sheriff Monster said reluctantly, "Yeah."
MARY Ashley decided later that the only thing that saved her sinity was being in a state of shock. Everything that happened seemed to be happening to someone else. She was underwater, moving slowly, hearing voices from a distance.
The church was filled to overflowing. There were dozens of wreaths and bouquets. On 'e of the largest wreaths had a card that read simply "My deepest sympathy. Paul Ellison."
The casket with Edward's body in it was closed. Mary could not bear to think of the reason.
The minister was speaking. "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling . place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth doth change, and though the mountains be shaken into the heart of the seas. "
She and Edward were in the small sailboat on Milford Lake.
"Do you like to sail?" he had asked on their first date. "I've never been sailing."
"Saturday," he said. "We have a date." They were married one week later.
"Do you know why I married you, lady?" Edward teased. "You passed the test. You laughed a lot and you didn't fall overboard."
When the service ended, Mary, Beth, and Tim got into the long black limousine that led the funeral procession to the cemetery. Because of the numbing cold, the graveside ceremony was kept brief.
I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore."
Finally, mercifully, it was over. Mary and the children watched the casket being lowered into the frozen, unearing earth. Goodbye, my darling.
IN AN office at CID headquarters Shel Planchard, the CID officer, was talking to Colonel Jenkins. "i'm afraid I have some bad news, sir.
Sergeant Wallis, the driver of the truck that killed the civilian doctor
... He had a fatal heart attack this morning." "That's a shame," said Colonel Jenkins.
"Yes, sir," the CID man said'. "His body is being cremated this morning. It was very sudden."
"Unfortunate. Well, I won't be here much longer. I'm being transferred overseas." Jenkins allowed himself a small smile. "A rather important promotion."
"Congratulations, sir. You've earned it."
Edward's death was the beginning of an unbearable hell for Mary Ashley. Everything within her screamed to deny what had happened to him, but the reality kept hitting her in fresh waves of shock.
Florence and Douglas and other friends often stayed with her, trying to make things easier, but Mary wished they would go away and leave her alone. When it was time to dispose of Edward's personal things, Florence offered to help her, but Mary said, "No. Edward would have wanted me to do it."
There were so many small, intimate things. Moving like an automaton, she ran her fingers over suits he would never again wear. The blue tie he had worn on their last night together. His gloves and scarf that
kept him warm. He would not need them in his cold grave.
She found love notes they had written to each other, bringing back memories of the lean days when Edward started his own practice, a Thanksgiving dinner without a turkey, summer picnics and winter sleigh rides, her first pregnancy and both of them reading and playing classical music to Beth while she was in the womb, the love letter Edward wrote when Tim was born, and a hundred other wonderful things that brought tears to her eyes. His death was like some cruel magician's trick.
Edward was everywhere. He was in the songs Mary heard on the radio, in the hills they had driven through together. He was in bed at her side when she awoke at sunrise.
She began to talk to him: I'm worried about the children, Edward. They don't want to go to school. Beth says they're afraid that when they get home, I won't be here. The dean wanted to know whether I planned to go back to teaching at the university. I told im not now. The children need me too much. Do you think Is
-,Would go back one day?
Edward would never leave her and the children. He was there, somewhere.
THERE was a popular bar on the Boulevard Bineau that Marin' Groza's guards frequented when they were not on duty at the villa in Neuilly. Angel selected a table where conversations could be overheard. The guards, away from the rigid routine of the villa, liked to drink, and when they drank, they talked. Angel listened, seeking the villa's vulnerable point. There was always a vulnerable point. One simply had to be clever enough to find it.
It was three days before Angel overheard a conversation that gave the clue to the solution of the problem. A guard was saying, "Groza sure whips himself viciously. You should hear the screaming that goes on every Friday night. last week I got a look at the whips he keeps in his closet. . .
It was all Angel needed.
Early the following morning Angel changed rental cars and drove a Fiat into Paris. The shop was on the Place Pigalle, in a section populated by prostitutes. Angel went inside, walking slowly along the aisles, carefully studying the merchandise. At length Angel selected a whip, paid cash for it, and left.
The next afternoon Angel brought the whip back to the shop. The manager looked up and growled, "No refunds."
"I don't want a refund," Angel explained. "I feel awkward carrying this around. I would appreciate it if you would mail it for me. I'll pay extra, of course."
That evening Angel was on a plane to Buenos Aires.
THE whip, carefully wrapped, arrived at the villa in Neuilly the following day. It was intercepted by the guard at the gatehouse. He opened the package and examined the whip with great care, thinking, You would think the old man had enough of these already. He passed it through, and another guard took it to Marin Groza's bedroom closet, where he placed it with the other whips.
Mary was preparing dinner when the telephone rang, and she picked it up, an operator said, "This is the White House. The President is calling Mrs. Edward Ashley. Please hold."
Moments later the familiar voice was on the line. "Mrs. Ashley, this is Paul Ellison. I just want you to know how terribly sorry we are about your husband. I understand he'was a fine man."
"Thank you, Mr. President. It was kind of you to send flowers."
"I don't want to intrude on your privacy, Mrs. Ashley, and I know It's been a very short time, but now that your domestic situation has changed, I'm asking you to reconsider my offer of an ambassadorship."
"Thank you, but I couldn't possibly-"
"Hear me out, please. I'm having someone fly out there to talk to you. His name is Stanton Rogers. I would appreciate it if you would at least meet with him."
She did not know what to say. How could she explain that her life had been shattered, that all that mattered now were Beth and Tim? "I'll meet with him, Mr. President," she said. "But I won't change my mind."
Stanton Rogers telephoned Mary right after the Presiden's call. "I promise to make my visit as brief as possible, Mrs. Ashley. I plan to fly in Monday afternoon to see you, if That's all right."
He's such an important man and he's being so polite, Mary thought. "That will be fine." In a reflex action she asked, "Would you care to have dinner with us?"
He hesitated, thinking what a boring evening it would be. "Thank you," he said.
Stanton Rogers was a formidable man, Mary decided. She had seen him on Meet the Press and in news photographs, but she thought, He looks bikeer in person. He was polite, but there was, something distant about him.
"Permit me to convey again the Presiden's sincere regrets about your terrible tragedy, Mrs. Ashley."
"Thank you." Mary introduced him to Beth and Tim. They made small talk while she went to check the pot roast.
When Mary had told Florence Schiller that Stanton Rogers was coming for dinner and that she was making a pot roast, Florence -had said, "People like Mr. Rogers don't eat pot roast."
"Oh? What do they eat?" Mary had asked. "Chateaubriand and crepes suzette." "Well, we're having pot roast."
Along with the pot roast Mary had prepared creamed mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables, and a salad. She had baked a pumpkin pie for dessert. Stanton Rogers finished everything on -his plate.
During dinner Mary and he talked about the colorful history of junction City. Finally he brought the conversation around to Remania. "Do you think there will be a revolution there?" he asked.
"Not in the present circumstances. The only man powerful enough to depose lonescu is Marin Groza, who's in exile."
The questioning went on. Mary Ashley was an expert on the iron curtain countries, and Stanton Rogers was impressed.
The President was right, he thought. She really is an authority on
]Remania. And there is something more. She's beautiful. She and the children make an all-American package that will sell. Stanton found himself getting more and more excited by the prospect. She can be more useful than she realizes.
At the end of the evening Stanton Rogers said, "Mrs. Ashley, I'm going to be frank with you. Initially I was against the President appointing you to a post as sensitive as Remania. I told him as much. I tell you this now because I've changed my mind. I think you will make an excellent ambassador."
Mary shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rogers. I'm no politician. I'm an amateur."
"Mrs. Ashley, some of our finest ambassadors have been amateurs. That is to say, their experience was not in the Foreign Service. Walter Annenberg, our former ambassador to the United Kingdom, was a publisher. John Kenneth Galbraith, our ambassador to India, was a professor. I could give you a dozen more examples. These people were all what you would call amateurs. What they had, Mrs. Ashley, was intelligence, a love for their country, and goodwill toward the people of the country where they were sent to serve."
"You make it sound so simple."
"As you're probably aware, you've already been investigated. You've been approved for a security clearance. You're an expert on ]Remania. And last but not least, you have the kind of image the President wants to project in the iron curtain countries."
Mary's face was thoughtful. "Mr..Rogers, I appreciate what you're saying. But I can't accept. I have Beth and Tim to think about. I can't just uproot them like-"
"There's a fine school for diplomats' children in Bucharest," Rogers told her. "It would be a wonderful education for them. They'd learn things they could never learn in school here."
The conversation was not going the way Mary had planned. "I don't- I'll think about it."
"I'm staying in town overnight," Stanton Rogers said. "I'll be at the All Seasons Motel. Believe me, Mrs. Ashley, I know what a big decision this is for you. But this program is important not only to the President but to our country. Please think about that."
When Rogers left, Mary went upstairs. The children were waiting for her, wide awake and excited.
"Are you going to take the job?" Beth asked.
"We have to have a talk. If I did decide to accept it, it would mean that you would have to leave school and all your friends. You would be living in a foreign country where we don't speak the language, and you would be going to a strange school."
"Tim and I talked about all that," Beth said, " and you know what we think? Any country would be really lucky to have you as an ambassador, Mom."
Mary talked to Edward that night: He made it sound as though the President really needed me, darling. I have the chance again, and I don't know what to do. To tell -you the truth, I'm terrified. This is our home. How can I leave it? This is all I have left of you. Please help me decide.... She found that she was crying.
She sat by the window for hours, looking out at the trees shivering in the howling, restless wind.
At nine o'clock in the morning Mary telephoned Stanton Rogers. "Mr. Rogers, would you please tell the President that I will be honored to accept his nomination for the ambassadorship."
As HE always did on Friday nights, Marin Groza shut his bedroom door, went to the closet, and selected a whip. Once he had made his choice, he took off his robe, exposing his back, which was covered with cruel welts. His expression was full of anguish as he raised the leather whip and cracked it down hard against his back.
Groza flinched with pain each time the tough leather beat against his skin. Once ... twice ... again ... and again, until the vision he had been waiting for came to him. With each lash, scenes of his wife and daughter being tortured scared through his brain. With each lash,
he could hear them beg for mercy.
Suddenly he stopped, holding the whip in midair. He was having difficulty breathing. "Help! Help-"
Ley Pastemak heard Groza's cry for help and came running in, gun in hand. He was too late. He watched as Groza toppled to the floor, his eyes open, staring at nothing.
Pastemak summoned the doctor, who lived in the villa and came into Groza's room within minutes. He bent down to examme the body. The skin had turned blue, and the muscles were flaccid. He picked up the whip and smelled it.
"What is it?" asked Pastemak. "Poison?"
The doctor nodded. "Curare. It's an extract from a South American plant. The Incas used it on darts to kill their enemies. Within three minutes the entire nervous system is paralyzed."
The two men stood staring helplessly at their dead leader.
THE NEws OF MAWN GROZA'S assassination was carried all over the world by satellite. Ley Pastemak was able to keep the details away from the press. In Washington, D.C., the President had a meeting with Stanton Rogers.
"Who do you think's behind it, Stan?"
"Either the Russians or lonescu. In the end it comes to the same thing, doesn't it? They didn't want the status quo disturbed."
"So we'll be dealing with Ionescu. Very well. Let's push the Mary Ashley appointment through as quickly as possible."
"She'll be here soon, Mr. President. No problem." "Good."
ON hearing the news, Angel smiled and thought, It happened sooner than I expected it would.
At ten p.m. the Controller's private phone rang, and he picked it up. "Hello."
He heard the sound of Neusa Mufiez's guttural voice. "Angel say to deposit the money in his bank account."
"Inform him that it will be taken care of immediately. And Miss Mufiez, tell Angel how pleased I am. Also tell him that I may need him again very soon. Do you have a telephone number where I can reach you?"
There was a long pause, then, "I guess so." She gave it to him.
"Fine. If Angel-" The line went dead.
IT was more than packing up a household, Mary thought. It was packing up a life. It was bidding farewell to thirteen years of dreams, memories, love. It was saying a final good-bye to Edward. This had been their home, and now it would become merely a house again, occupied by strangers with no awareness of the joys and sorrows and tears and laughter that had happened within these walls.
Besides packing, there were so many other practical details. An indefinite leave of absence from the university had been arranged with the dean. The children had been withdrawn from their school. There had been travel arrangements to make, airline tickets to buy, the house to rent. In the past Mary had taken all the financial transactions for granted, because Edward had been there to handle them. Now there was no Edward, except in her mind and in her heart, where he would always be.
Finally, miraculously, everything was ready. It was time to leave.
Mary walked upstairs to the bedroom she and Edward had shared for so many wonderful years. She stood there taking a long last look.
Chapter Six
WHEN their plane landed at Washington's Dulles Airport, Mary and the children were met by a young man from the State Department.
"Welcome to Washington, Mrs. Ashley. My name is John Bums. Mr.. Rogers asked me to meet you and see that you get to your hotel safely. I've checked you in at the Riverdale Towers. I think you'll all be comfortable there."
"Thank you." Mary introduced Beth and Tim.
"If you'll give me your baggage-claim checks, Mrs. Ashley, I'll see that everything is taken care of "
Twenty minutes later they were all seated in a chauffeur-driven limousine, heading toward the center of Washington.
PETE Connors, head of the counterintelligence section of the CIA, was working late, and his day was far from over. Every morning at three
a.m. a team reported to prepare the Presiden's daily intelligence checklist, collected from overnight cables. The report, code-named Pickles, had to be ready by six a.m. so that it could be on the Presiden's desk at the start of his day. An armed couner earned the list to the White House, entering at the west gate. Pete Connors had a renewed interest in the interceptedcable traffic coming from behind the iron curtain, because much of it concerned the appointment of Mary Ashley as the American ambassador to Remania.
The Soviet Union was worried that President Ellison's plan was a ploy to penetrate their satellite countries, to spy on them or seduce them.
The Commies aren't as worried as I am, Pete Connors thought grimly. If the Presiden's idea works, this whole country is going to be open house for their slimy spies.
Pete Connors had been informed the moment Mary Ashley landed in Washington. He had seen photographs of her and the children. She's going to be perfect, Connors thought happily.
THE Riverdale Towers, one block away from the Watergate, is a small family hotel with comfortable, nicely decorated suites.
No sooner had Mary checked in than Stanton Rogers telephoned. "Good evening, Mrs. Ashley." It was like hearing the voice of an'old friend. "I thought it would be a good idea if we met to discuss some of the procedures you'll be going through. Why don't we make it lunch tomorrow at the Grand?"
It was starting.
The following morning Mary arranged for the children to have room service,, and at one o'clock a taxi dropped her off at the Grand Hotel. Mary looked at it in awe. The Grand Hotel is its own center of power. Heads of state and diplomats from all over the world stay there, and it is easy to see why. It is an elegant building, with an imposing lobby that has Italian marble floors and gracious columns under a circular ceiling. There is a landscaped courtyard, with a fountain and an outdoor swimming pool. A marble staircase leads down to the promenade restaurant, where Stanton Rogers was waiting for her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Ashley." "Good afternoon, Mr. Rogers."
He laughed. "That sounds so formal. What about Stan and Mary?" She was pleased. "That would be nice."
When they had ordered lunch, Mary said, "Stan, will I be in Washington long?"
"About a month. We'll do everything we can to expedite your move. just between us, there have already been private discussions between the two governments. There will be no problem with the Remanians, but you still have to pass the Senate."
So the Remanian government is going to accept me, Mary thought. Perhaps I'm better qualified than I realized.
"There will be an open hearing of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.. That's scheduled for nine o'clock on Wednesday morning. They vote, and when they. turn in their report, the full Senate votes."
Mary said slowly, "Nominations have been voted down in the past, haven't they?"
"Yes. But you'll have the full backing of the White House. The President is eager to push, your appointment through as quickly as possible. Incidentally, he would like to meet with you this afternoon. Would four o'clock be convenient?"
Mary swallowed. "Yes, I- Of course."
"Excellent. A car will be downstairs for you at three thirty."
PAUL Ellison rose as Mary was ushered into the Oval Office. He walked over to shake her hand, grinned, and said, "Gotcha!"
Mary laughed. "I'm glad you did, Mr. President. This is a great honor for me."
"Sit down, Mrs. Ashley. May I call you Mary?" "Please." They sat down on the couch.
President Ellison said, "You're going to be my doppelgnger. Do you know what that is?"
"It's a kind of identical spirit of a living person."
"Right. And That's us. I can't tell you how excited I was when I read your latest article, Mary. It was as though I were reading something I had written myself. There are a lot of people who don't believe our people-to-people plan can work, but you and I are going to fool them."
Our people-to-people plan. He's a charmer, Mary thought. Aloud she said, "I want to do everything I can to help, Mr. President."
"I'm counting on you. Very heavily. Remania is the testing ground. Since Groza was assassinated, your job is going to be more difficult. If we can pull it off there, we can make it work in the other communist countries."
They spent the next thirty minutes discussing some of the problems that lay ahead, and then Paul Ellison said, "Stan Rogers will keep in close touch with you. He's become a big fan of yours." He held out his hand. "Good luck, doppelgnger."
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE SENATE Foreign Relations Committee hearing Mary was in panic. Oh, Edward, how I wish you were here with me. What am I going to tell them, darling? That in junction City I was homecoming queen?
Then the irony struck her. If Edward were alive, she would not be here. She'd be safe and warm at home with her husband and children, where she belonged.
She lay awake all night.
THE hearing was held in the Foreign Relations Committee room, with the full seventeen committee members seated on a dais. Along the left side of the room was the press table, filled with reporters, and in the center were seats for two hundred spectators. The room was filled to overflowing. Pete Connors sat in the back row. There was a sudden hush as Mary entered with Beth and Tim.
Mary was wearing a dark tailored suit and a white blouse. The children were in their Sunday best.
Ben Cohn, the political reporter for the Washington Post, watched as they came in. Goodness, he thought; they look like a Norman Rockwell painting.
An attendant seated the children in a front row, and Mary was escorted to the witness chair, facing the committee.
The questions started innocently enough. Senator Charles Campbell, the chairman of the committee and a supporter of President Ellison, spoke first. "According to the biography we've been furnished, Mrs. Ashley, you're a native of Kansas, and for the last several years you've taught political science at Kansas State University. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir." Mary was so nervous she could barely speak. "Your grandparents were Remanian?"
"My grandfather. Yes, sir."
"An article you wrote was published in Foreign Affairs magazine and came to the attention of the President?"
"That's my understanding."
"Mrs. Ashley, would you kindly tell this committee what the basic premise of your article is?"
"Several regional economic pacts currently exist in the world, and because they are mutually exclusive they serve to divide the world into antagonistic and competitive blocs." She felt as though she were conducting a seminar, and her nervousness began to disappear.
"My premise is simple," she continued. "I would like to see our country spearhead a movement to form a common market that includes allies and adversaries alike. Today, as- an example, we're paying billions of dollars to store surplus grain,,while people in dozens of countries are starving. The one-world common market could cure inequities of distribution, at fair market prices. I would like to try to make that happen."
Senator Harold Turkel, a senior member of the committee and a leader of the opposition party, spoke up. "I'd like to ask the nominee a few questions. Is this your first time in Washington, Mrs. Ashley?"
"Yes, sir. I think It's one of the most-" "Have you ever been to New York?"
"No, sir." "California?" "No, sir."
"Have you, in fact, ever been outside the state of Kansas?"
"Yes. I gave a lecture at the University of Chicago and a series of talks in Denver and Atlanta."
"That must have been very exciting for you, Mrs. Ashley," Turkel said dryly. "You expect to represent the United States in an iron curtain country, and you're telling us that your entire knowledge of the world comes from living in junction City, Kansas."
Mary held back her temper. "No, sir. My knowledge of the world comes from studying it. I have a Ph.D. in political science, and I've been teaching at Kansas State University for five years, with an emphasis on the iron curtain countries. I'm familiar with the current problems of the Remanian people, and with what their government thinks of the United States and why. I-" She broke off, afraid she had gone too far. And then, to her surprise, the committee started to applaud. All except Turkel.
The questioning went on. One hour later Senator Campbell asked, "Are there any more questions?"
"I think the nominee has expressed herself very clearly," one of the Senators commented.
"I agree. Thank you, Mrs. Ashley. This session is adjourned.
Pete Connors studied Mary thoughtfully a moment, then quietly left as the members of the press swarmed around her.
"Turn this way, Mrs. Ashley. Smile, please. One more. "Mrs. Ashley-"
Ben Cohn stood apart from the others, watching and listening. She's good, he thought; she has all the right answers. But there was something about her nomination that puzzled him. The problem was that he was not sure what it was.
When Mary arrived back at the hotel, emotionally drained, Stanton Rogers telephoned. "Hello, Madam Ambassador."
She felt giddy with relief "You mean I'm going to make it? Oh, Stan, I can't tell you how excited I am."
"So am I, Mary." His voice was filled with pride. "So am I."
THE final confirmation was almost a formality. The full Senate voted Mary in by a comfortable majority. President Ellison said to. Stanton Rogers, "Our plan is under way, Stan. Nothing can stop us now.
Rogers nodded. "Nothing," he agreed.
PETE Connors was in his office when he heard the news. He immediately wrote out a message and encoded it., One of his men was on duty in the CIA cable room.
"I want to use the Roger Channel," Connors said. "Wait outside." The Roger Channel is the CIgs ultraprivate cable system, only for top executives. The cable was addressed to Sigmund.
MARY Ashley was sworn in as the ambassador to the Socialist Republic of Remania, and the treadmill began. She was ordered to report to the Bureau of European Affairs at the State Department. There she was assigned a small, boxlike office next to the Remanian desk.
James Stickley, the Remanian desk officer, was a career diplomat, with twenty-five years in the service. He was in his late fifties, with a foxlike face and pale, cold eyes. He was considered the foremost expert on the Remanian desk and had fully expected to be appointed ambassador to Remania. The news about Mary Ashley was a bitter blow. It was bad enough to have been passed over, but to have lost out to a political appointee-an unknown hayseed from Kansas-was galling.
He studied Mary Ashley now, as she sat across from his desk.
Mary was also studying Stickley. There is something meanlooking about him, she thought.
"We're going to have to make an instant expert out of you." He handed her an armful of files. "You can start by reading these."
"I'll dedicate my morning to it."
"No. Now I want to introduce you to your military attaches, Colonel William McKinney. And in thirty minutes you're scheduled to begin a language course in Remanian. The course usually takes months, but I have orders to push you through the mill."
Bill McKinney wore mufd, but his military bearing was like a uniform. He was a tall middle-aged man, with a seamed, weathered face.
"Madam Ambassador." His voice was rough and gravelly, as though his throat had suffered an injury.
"I'm pleased to meet you," Mary said. Colonel McKinney was her first staff member, and meeting him gave her a sense of excitement. It seemed to bring her new position much closer. "Have you been to Remania
before?"
The colonel and James Stickley exchanged a look. "He's been there before,"." Stickley replied.
EVERY day Mary and Stickley went through the files of the Remanian desk together.
"I'll be reading the cables you send in," Stickley informed her. "They will be yellow copies for action, or white copies for information.
Duplicates of your cables will go to Defense, the CIA, the USIA, the Treasury Department, and a dozen other departments. One of the first issues you'll be expected to resolve is Americans being, held in Remanian prisons. We want their release."
"What are they charged with?"
"Espionage, drugs, theft-anything the Remanians want to charge them with."
Mary wondered how on earth one went about getting a charge of espionage dismissed.
Right," she said briskly.
"I'm going to give you a package," Stickley announced. "Don't let it out of your hands. It's for your eyes only. Read it and digest it, and return it to me personally tomorrow morning." He handed Mary a thick manila envelope sealed with red tape. "Sign for it, please."
She signed.
During the ride back to the hotel Mary clutched it to her lap, feeling like a character in a James Bond movie. ,
The children were dressed, up and waiting for her.
Oh, dear, Mary remembered. I promised to take them to a Chinese dinner and a movie. "Fellas," she said, "we'll have to make our excursion another evening. I have some urgent work to do."
"Sure, Mom."
"Okay."
And Mary thought, Before Edward died, they would have screamed like banshees. But they've had to grow up. She took them both in her arms. "I'll make it up to you," she promised.
The material James Stickley had given her was -incredible. No wonder he wants this right back, Mary thought. There were detailed reports on every important Remanian official, from the President to the minister of commerce. There was a dossier on their private habits, financial
dealings, friendships, personal traits, and prejudices. Some of the reading was lurid. Mary was up half the night memorizing the names and peccadilloes of the people with whom she would be dealing.
In the morning she returned the secret documents.
Stickley said, "Now you know everything you should know about the Remanian leaders."
"And then some," Mary murmured.
"There's something you should bear in mind: by now the Remanians also know everything there is to know about you."
"That won't get them far," Mary said.
"No?" Stickley leaned back in his chair. "You're a woman, and you're alone. You can be sure they've already marked you as an easy target. They'll play on your loneliness. Every move you make will be watched and recorded."
He's trying to frighten me, Mary thought. Well, it won't work.
TIME became a blur, a whirlwind of activity that left Mary exhausted. Besides language lessons, her schedule included a course at the Foreign Service Institute, briefings at the Defense Intelligence Agency, meetings with the secretary of international security affairs and with Senate committees. They all had demands, advice, questions.
On top of all this, a media blitz began. Mary found herself in front of the cameras on Good Morning America, Meet the Press, and Firing Line.
She was interviewed by the Washington Post, The New York Times, and half a dozen other important daily papers. She did interviews for the London Times, Der SViegel, Oggi, and Le Monde. Time magazine and People did feature articles on her and the children. Mary Ashley's photograph seemed to be everywhere, and whenever there was a newsbreak about an event in some far-off corner of the world, she was asked for her comments. Overnight Mary Ashley and her children became celebrities.
Tim said, "Mom, It's really spooky seeing our pictures on the covers of all the magazines."
"Spooky is the word," Mary agreed. Somehow she felt uneasy about the publicity, and she spoke to Stanton Rogers about it.
"Look on it as a part of your job. The President is trying to create an image. By the time you arrive in Remania, everyone there will know who you are."
"THERE'S something weird happening in this town," Ben Cohn said. The reporter and his girlfriend, Akiko Hadaka, were watching Mary Ashley on Meet the Press.
The new ambassador to Remania was saying, "I believe that China is
heading for a more humane,, iladividualistic communist society with its incorporation of Hong Kong and Macao."
"Now, what does that lady know about China?" Cohn muttered. He turned to Akiko. "You're looking at a housewife from Kansas who's become an expert on everything overnight."
"She seems very bright," Akiko said.
,: Bright is beside the point. Every time she gives an interview, the reporters go crazy. It's like a feeding frenzy. How did she get on Meet the Press? I'll tell you how. Someone decided that Mary Ashley was going to be a celebrity. The question is who and why."
"I'm supposed to be the one with the devious Oriental mind," Akiko said. "I think you're making more out of this than necessary." Ben Cohn lit a cigarette and took an angry puff on it. "You could be right," he grumbled.
An hour later he telephoned Ian Villiers, chief of press relations for the State Department.
"Benjie, my boy, what can I do for you?" asked Villiers.
"I need a favor. I understand you're handling the press for our new ambassador to Remania."
A cautious "Yes ... ?"
"Who's behind her buildu', Ian? I'm interested in-"
"I'm sorry, Ben. That's State Department business. I'm just a hired hand. You might drop a note to the Secretary."
Hanging.up, Ben made a decision. "I think I'm going to have to go out of town for a few days," he told Akiko.
"Where are you going, baby?" "Junction City, Kansas."
As it turned out, Ben Cohn was in Junction City for only one day. He spent an hour talking to Sheriff Monster, then drove a rental car to Fort Riley, where he visited the CID office. He caught a late afternoon flight home.
As Ben Cohn's plane took off, a person-to-person telephone call was placed from the fort to a number in Washington, D.C.
MARY Ashley was walking down the long corridor of the European Affairs section of the State Department, on her way to report to James Stickley, when she heard a deep male voice behind her say, "Now, That's what I call a perfect ten."
Mary spun around. A tall stranger was leanin against a wall, staring at her, an insolent grin on his face. He was dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes, and he looked scruffy and unshaven. There were laugh lines around his mouth, and his eyes were a bright, mocking blue. There was an air of arrogance about him that was infuriating. Mary turned on her heel and angrily walked away, conscious of his eyes following her.
The conference with James Stickley lasted for more than an hour. When Mary returned to her office, the stranger was seated in her chair, his feet on her desk, looking through her papers. She could feel the blood rising to her face.
"What the devil do you think you're doing?"
The man gave her a long, lazy look and slowly got to his feet. "i'm Mike Slade. My friends call me Michael."
She said icily, "What can I do for you, Mr. Slade?"
"Nothing, really," he said easily. "We're neighbors. I work here in the department, so I thought I'd come by and say hello."
"You've said it. I assume you have your own desk, so in the future you won't have. to sit at my desk and snoop."
"Well, well, it has a temper! I heard the Kansians, or whatever you people call yourselves, were supposed to be friendly folks."
"Mr. Slade, I'll give you two seconds to get out of my office." "I must have heard wrong," he mumbled to himself.
"And if you really work here, I'd suggest you go home and shave and put on some proper clothing."
He waved his hand at her. "Bye, honey. I'll be seeing you." Oh, no, Mary thought. No, you won't.
The next morning when Mary arrived for her daily session with Stickley, Mike Slade was there as well.
He grinned at Mary. "Hi. I took your advice and shaved." Stickley looked from one to the other. "You two have met?"
Mary gritted her teeth. "Not really. I found him. snooping at my desk."
James Stickley said, "Mrs. Ashley, Mike Slade. Mr. Slade is going to be your deputy chief of mission."
Mary stared at him. "He's what?"
"Mr. Slade is on the East European desk. He usually works out of Washington now, but he spent four years in Remania, and It's been decided to assign him to work with you."
"No!" she protested. "That's impossible."
"Mrs. Ashley, Mike Slade happens to be our top field expert on East European affairs. Your job is to make friends with the natives. My job is to see to it that you get all the help I can give you. And his name is Mike Slade. I really don't want to hear any more about it. Do I make myself clear?"
Mike said mildly, "I promise to shave every day."
Mary turned to Stickley. "I thought an ambassador was permitted to choose her own deputy chief of mission."
"That is correct, but-"
"Then I am unchoosing Mr. Slade. I don't want him."
"Under ordinary circumstances you would be within your rights, but in this case I'm afraid you have no choice. The order came from the White House."
In the days that followed, Mary could not seem to avoid Mike Slade. The man was everywhere. She ran into him in the Pentagon, in the Senate dining room, in the corridors of the State Department. He was always dressed in either denims and a Tshirt or in sport clothes. Mary wondered how he got away with it in an environment that was so formal.
One day Mary saw him having lunch with Colonel McKinney, her military attaches. They were engaged in an earnest conversation, and Mary wondered how close the two men were. Could they be old friends? And could they be planning to gang up on me? I'm, getting paranoid, Mary told herself. And I'm not even in Remania yet.
BEN Cohn was seated at a corner table at Mama Regina's when his lunch guest, Alfred Shuttleworth, arrived. The headwaiter seated him.
"Would you care fora drink, gentlemen?" Shuttleworth ordered a martini. "Nothing for me," Ben Cohn said.
Alfred Shuttleworth was a sallow-looking middle-aged man who worked in the European Affairs section of the State Department. A few years earlier he had been involved in a drunkdriving accident that Ben Cohn had covered for his newspaper, Shuttleworth's career had been at stake. Cohn had killed the story, and Shuttleworth showed his appreciation by giving him news tips from time to time.
"I need your help, AI."
"Name it, and you've got it."
"I'd like the inside information on our new ambassador to Remania." Alfred Shuttleworth frowned. "What do you mean?"
"AI, Lindbergh never had a buildup like this. Here's this Cinderella, who comes out of nowhere, is touched by the magic wand of our President, and suddenly becomes the nation's number one celebrity and political savant." Now, I'll admit the lady is pretty but she isn't that pretty.
The lady is bright-but she isn't that bright. I'll tell you something else That's out of killer. I flew to junction City, Kansas, her hometown, and talked to the sheriff there." Ben Cohn paused.
"Go on," Shuttleworth said.
"Mrs. Ashley originally turned down the President because her husband couldn't leave his medical practice. Then he was killed in a convenient auto accident. Voildl The lady's in Washington, on her way to Bucharest. Exactly as someone had planned from the beginning."
"Someone? Who?"
"That's the jackpot question." "Ben, what are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. Let me tell you what Sheriff Monster suggested. He thought it was peculiar that half a dozen people showed up in the middle of a freezing winter night just in time to Witness the accident. And do you want to hear something even more peculiar? They've all disappeared."
"Go on."
"The driver of the army truck that killed Dr. Ashley is dead of a heart attack. Twenty-seven years old. Colonel Jenkins-the officer in charge of the army investigation, as well as one of the witnesses to the accident-he's been promoted and transferred. No one seems to know where."
Shuttleworth shook his head. "Ben, I know you're a dam good reporter, but I think you've gone off the track. You're building a few coincidences into a Hitchcock scenario. People do get killed in auto accidents. You're looking for some kind of conspiracy where there is none."
"AI, have you heard of an organization called Patriots for Freedom?" "No."
"I keep hearing rumors, but there's nothing I can pin down."
"What kind of rumors?"
"It's supposed to be a cabal of high-level right-wing and leftwing fanatics from a dozen Eastern and Western countries. Their ideologies are diametrically opposed, but what brings them together is fear. The communist members think President Ellison's plan is a capitalist trick to destroy the Eastern bloc. The rightwingers believe his plan is an open door that will let the Communists destroy us. So they've formed this unholy alliance."
"I don't believe it."
"There's more. Besides the VIPS, splinter groups from various international security agencies are said to be involved. Do you think you could check it out for me?"
"I don't know, Ben. I'll try."
Shuttleworth was skeptical about Ben Cohn's theory. He liked Ben, and he wanted to help, but he had no idea how to go about tracking down a probably mythical organization. If it really did exist, it would be in some government computer. He himself had no access to the computers.
But I know someone who does, Shuttleworth said to himself. I'll give him a call.
ALFRED Shuttleworth was on his second martini when Pete Connors walked into the bar.
"Sorry I'm late," Connors said. "A minor problem at the pickle factory."
Pete Connors ordered a Scotch, and Shuttleworth ordered another martini. "Pete," Shuttleworth said, "I need a favor. Could you look up something for me in the CIA computer? It may not be in there, but I promised a friend I'd try."
"Sure," said Connors. "I owe you a few. Who do you want to know about?"
"It's not a who, It's a what. And it probably doesn't even exist. It's an organization called Patriots for Freedom. Have you heard of it?"
Pete Connors carefully set down his drink. "I can't,say that I have, AH. What's the name of your friend?"
"Ben Cohn. He's a reporter for the Post."
THERE was no way to get directly in touch with the Controller. He had organized and financed Patriots for Freedom, but he never attended Committee meetings, and he was completely anonymous. He was a telephone number-untraceable (Connors had tried)-and a recording that said, "You have sixty seconds in which to leave your message." The number was to be used only in case of emergencies. Connors stopped at a public telephone
booth to make the call. He talked to the recording. The message was received at six p.m.
In Buenos, Aires it was eight p.m.
The Controller listened to the message twice, then dialed a number. He waited for three full minutes before Neusa Mufiez's voice came on.
I's(?"
The Controller said, "This is the man who made arrangements with you before about Angel. I have another contract for him. Can you get in touch with him right away?"
"I don' know." She sounded drunk.
The woman was impossible. "Listen to me. Tell Angel I need this done immediately. I want him to-"
"Wait a minute. I gotta go to the toilet."
The Controller heard her drop the phone. He sat there, filled with frustration, until she came back on the line. "A lotta beer makes you go," she announced.
He gritted his teeth. "This is very important. I want you to get a pencil and write this down. I'll speak slowly."
"I WANTED to bring you the good news in person, Mary," said Stanton Rogers. "We just received official word that the Romanian government has approved you as the new ambassador from the United States. Now President Ellison can give you a letter of credence, and you'll be on your way."
"I- I don't know how to thank you for everything you've done, Stan." "I haven't done anything," Rogers protested. "It was the President who
selected you." He grinned. "And I must say, he made the perfect choice.
You can do more for our country over there than anyone else I can think of."
"Thank you," she said soberly. "I'll try to live up to that."
It was one of the most thrilling moments of Mary Ashley's life. It seemed almost too good to be true. And for no reason something that Mary's mother used to tell her popped into her mind: "If something seems to be too good to be true, Mary, you can bet it probably is."
THURSDAY morning Angel was in a bad mood. The flight from Buenos Aires to Washington, D.C., had been delayed because of a telephoned bomb threat. The world isn't safe anymore, Angel thought angrily.
The hotel room that had been reserved in Washington was too modern,
too-what was the word?-plastic. That was it. In Buenos Aires everything was autgntico. I'll finish this contract and get back home, Angel thought. The job is simple, almost an insult to my talent, but the money is excellent.
Angel's first stop was an electrical supply store, then a paint store, and finally a supermarket, where Angel's only purchase was six light bulbs. The rest of the equipment was waiting in the hotel room in two sealed boxes marked FRAGILE HANDLE with CARE. Inside the first box were four carefully packed army-green hand grenades. In the second box was soldering equipment.
Working very slowly, with :xquisite care, Angel cut the top off the first grenade, then painted the bottom the same color as the light bulbs. The next step was to scoop out the explosive from the grenade and replace it with a seismic explosive. When this was tightly packed, Angel added lead and metallic shrapnel to it. Then Angel shattered a light bulb against a table, preserving the filament and threaded base. It took less than a minute to solder the filament of the bulb to an electrically activated detonator. The final step was to insert it gently inside the painted grenade. When Angel was finished, it looked exactly like a normal light bulb.
Then Angel began to work on the remaining bulbs. After that, there was nothing to do but wait for the phone call.
The telephone rang at eight o'clock that evening. Angel picked up the phone and listened without speaking. After a moment a voice said, "He's gone."
The Un ride to the apartment building took seventeen minutes.
There was no doorman in the lobby. The target apartment was on the fifth floor, at the far end of the corridor. The lock was an early model Schlage, childishly simple to manipulate. Angel was inside the dark apartment within seconds.
It was the work of a few minutes to replace six light bulbs in the living room of the apartment. Afterward Angel headed for Dulles Airport to catch a midnight flight back to Buenos Aires.
That night Ben Cohn was killed by a mysterious explosion in his apartment. There was a brief item in the press attributing the accident to a leaky gas stove.
The next day Alfred Shutfleworth was reported missing by his wife. His body was never found.
STANTON Rogers accompanied Mary and the children to Dulles Airport in a State Department limousine.
"I want to thank you, Stan. You've been so wonderful," said Mary. He smiled. "I can't tell you how much pleasure It's given me."
"I hate to burden you with this, but James Stickley told me that Mike Slade is going to be my deputy chief of mission. Is there any way to change that?"
He looked at her in surprise. "Are you having some kind of problem with Slade?"
"Quite honestly, I don't like him. Is there someone who could replace him?"
Stanton Rogers said thoughtfully, "I don't know Mike Slade well, but he has a magnificent record. He's served brilliantly in posts in the Middle East and Europe. He can give you exactly the kind of expertise you're going to need."
She sighed. "That's what Mr. Stickley said."
"If you have any problem with him, I want you to let me know. In fact, if you have problems with anyone, I want you to let me know. I intend to make sure that you get every bit of help I can give you."
"I appreciate that."
"One last thing. If you have any messages that you want to send to me without anyone else reading them, the code at the top of the message is three x's. I'll be the only one to receive that message."
It was only after she and the children were airborne that the enormity of what was about to happen really struck Mary Ashley. It was so incredible that she had to say it aloud. "We're on our way to Remania, where I'm going to take up my post as ambassador from the United States."
Beth was looking at her strangely. "Yes, Mother. We know that." I'm going to be the best ambassador they've ever seen, Mary thought.
Before I'm finished, the United States and Remania are going to be close allies.
The next instant, Mary's euphoric dreams of-great statesmanship evaporated, giving way to panic. I'm not a real ambassador, she thought. I'm a fake. I'm going to get us into a war. God help us. Dorothy and I should never have left Kansas.
Chapter Seven
OTOPENI Airport, ten miles from the heart of Bucharest, is a modern airport, built to facilitate the flow of travelers from nearby iron curtain countries as well as to take care of the lesser number of Western tourists who visit Remania each year.
Inside the terminal were soldiers in brown uniforms, armed with rifles and pistols, and there was a stark air of coldness about the building
that had nothing to do with the frigid temperature. Unconsciously Tim and Beth moved closer to Mary. So they feel it too, she thought.
Two men were approaching. One of them, a slim, athletic man, introduced himself. "Welcome to Remania, Madam Ambassador. I'm jerry Davis, your public affairs consul. This is Tudor Costache, the Remanian chief of protocol."
"It is a pleasure to have you and your children with us," Costache said. "Welcome to our country."
In a way, Mary thought, It's going to be my country too. "Mulfumesc, domnule," she said.
"You speak Romanian!" Costache cried. "Cu pldcerel"
Mary hoped the man was not going to get carried away. "A few words, she replied hastily.
Tim said, "Bunddimineata." And Mary was so proud she could. have burst. She introduced Tim and Beth.
jerry Davis said, "Your limousine is waiting for you, Madain Ambassador. Colonel McKinney is outside."
There was a long line waiting to go through customs, but Mary and the children were outside the building in a matter of minutes. There were reporters and photographers at the entrance, but instead of the
free-forealls that Mary had encountered at home, everything was orderly and controlled. When they had finished, they thanked Mary and departed in a body.
Colonel McKinney, in army uniform, was waiting at the curb. He held out his hand. "Good morning, Madam Ambassador. Did you have a pleasant trip?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Mike Slade wanted to b ' e here, but there was some important business he had to take care of."
Mary was relieved.
A long black limousine with an American flag on the right front fender pulled up. A cheerful-looking man in a chauffeur's uniform held the door open.
"This is Florian."
The chauffeur grinned. "Welcome, Madam Ambassador. Master Tim. Miss Beth. It will be my pleasure to serve you."
"Thank you," Mary said.
"Florian will be at your disposal twenty-four hours a day. I thought we would go directly to the residence so you can unpack and relax. Tomorrow morning Florian will take you to the embassy."
"That sounds fine," Mary said.
The drive from the airport to the city was fascinating. They drove on a heavily traveled two-lane highway, but every few miles the traffic would be held up by plodding Gypsy carts. On both sides of the highway were modern factories next to ancient huts. The car passed farm after farm, with women working in the fields, colorful bandannas knotted around their heads. They drove by an ominous blue-and-gray building just off the main highway.
"What is that?" Mary asked.
Florian grimaced. "The Ivan Stelian Prison. That is where they put anyone who disagrees with the Remanian government."
At last they reached the center of Bucharest, which was very beautiful. There were parks and monuments and fountains everywhere one looked. Mary remembered her grandfather saying, "Bucharest is a miniature Paris, Mary. They even have a replica of the Eiffel Tower." And there it was. She was in the homeland of her forefathers.
The streets were crowded with people and streetcars, and the limousine had to honk its way through the traffic.
"The residence is just ahead," Colonel McKinney said as the car turned into a small tree-lined street.
The ambassador's residence was a large and beautiful oldfashioned three-story house surrounded by lovely grounds. The staff was lined up outside, waiting to welcome Mary.
jerry Davis made the introductions. "Mihai, your butler; Rosica, your housekeeper; Cosma, your chef; and Delia and Carmen, your maids."
Mary moved down the line receiving their bows and curtsies. They all seemed to be waiting for her to say something. She took a deep breath. "Bunaziua. Mulfumesc. Nu vorbesc-" Every bit of Remanian she had learned flew out of her head. She stared at them helplessly.
Mihai, the butler, bowed. "We all speak English, ma'am. We welcome you and shall be happy to serve your every need."
Mary sighed with relief. "Thank you."
"Let me show you around," jerry Davis said.
On the ground floor there was a library, a music room, a living room, a large dining room, a kitchen, and a pantry. A terrace ran the length of the building outside the dining room, facing a large park. At the rear of the house was an indoor swimming pool.
"Our own swimming pool!" Tim exclaimed. "Can I go swimming?" "Later, darling. Let's get settled in first."
The pidce de rdsistance was the ballroom, built near the garden. It was enormous. Glistening Baccarat sconces lined the walls, which were covered with flocked paper.
jerry Davis said, "This is where the embassy parties are given. Watch this." He pressed a switch on the wall. There was a gnding noise, and the ceiling began to split in the center, opening up until the sky became visible. "It can also be operated manually."
"Hey, That's neatly" Beth exclaimed.
"It's called the Ambassador's Folly," jerry explained. "It's too hot to keep open in the summer and too cold in the winter. We use it in April and September." As the cold air started to descend, he pressed the switch and the ceiling closed.
They followed him upstairs to a large central hall that led to the bedrooms.
"The third floor has servants' quarters," jerry continued. "In., the basement is a wine cellar."
"It's-It's enormous," Mary said. "Which is my room?" Beth asked.
"You and Tim can decide that between yourselves."
"You can have this one," Tim offered. "It's frilly. Girls like frilly things."
The master bedroom was lovely, with a queen-size bed with a goose-down comforter, two couches before a fireplace, a dressing table, and a wonderful view of the garden. Mary was so exhausted she could hardly wait to get into bed.
THE American embassy in Bucharest is a white, semi-Gothic two-story building with. an iron gate in front. The entrance is guarded by a marine officer, and a second marine sits inside a security booth at the side of the gate.
Inside, the lobby isornate. It has a marble floor, two closed circuit television sets at a desk guarded by a marine, and a fireplace. The corridors are lined with portraits of U.S. Presidents. A winding staircase leads to the second floor, where a conference room and offices are located.
The guard was waiting for Mary at the desk. "Good morning, Madam Ambassador. I'm Sergeant Hughes. They call me Gunny. They're waiting
for you upstairs. I'll escort you there."
"Thank you, Gunny." Mary followed him upstairs to a reception room, where a middle-aged woman was sitting behind a desk.
She rose. "Good morning, Madam Ambassador. I'm Dorothy Stone, your secretary."
"How do you do."
Dorothy said, "I'm afraid you have quite a crowd in there."
She opened the door, and Mary walked into the room. There were nine people seated around a large conference table. They rose as Mary entered. They were all staring at her, and she felt a wave of animosity that was almost palpable. The first person she saw was Mike Slade.
"I see you got here safely," Mike said. "Let me introduce you to your department heads. This is Lucas Janklow, administrative consul; Eddie Maltz, political consul; Patricia Hatfield, your economic consul; David Wallace, head of administration; Ted Thompson, agriculture. You've met jerry Davis, your public affairs consul. This is David Victor, commerce consul, and you already know Colonel Bill McKinney."
"Please be seated," Mary said. She sat at the head of the table and surveyed the group. Hostility comes in all sizes and shapes, Mary thought. It's going to take time to sort them out.
Mike Slade was saying, "All of us are serving at your discretion. You can replace any of us at any time."
That's a lie, Mary thought angrily; I tried to replace you.
There was general inconsequential conversation, until Mike Slade said, "Madam Ambassador, the individual consuls will now brief you on any serious problems."
Mary resented his taking charge, but she said nothing.
Ted Thompson, the agriculture consul, was the first to speak. "The Remanian agriculture minister is in worse trouble than he's admitting. They're going to have a disastrous crop this year, and we can't afford to let them go under."
The economic consul, Patricia Hatfield, protested. "We've given them enough aid, Ted. Remania's already operating under a favored-nations treaty. It's a GSP country." She looked at Mary and said patronizingly, "A GSP country is-"
"Is a generalized system of preferences," Mary cut in. "We treat Remania as a less developed country so that they get import and export advantages."
Hatfield's expression changed. "That's right."
"I'll see what I can do," Mary promised, making a note to herself.
Eddie Maltz, the political consul, spoke up. "I have an urgent problem. A nineteen-year-old American college student was arrested last night for possession of marijuana. That's an extremely serious offense here. The usual penalty is a five-year prison sentence."
How awful, Mary thought. "What can we do about it?"
Mike Slade said lazily, "You can try your charm on the head of the Securitate. His name is Istrase. He has a lot of power."
Eddie Maltz went on. "The girl says she was framed, and she may have a point. She was stupid enough to have an affair with a Remanian policeman. He turned her in."
Mary was horrified. "I'll see if I can do something." She turned to the public affairs consul, jerry Davis. "Do you have any urgent problems?"
"My department is having trouble getting approvals for repairs on the apartments our embassy staff live in. Some of our people are without heat, and in several of the apartments the toilets don't work and there's no running water."
"Can't they just go ahead and have their own repairs made?" "No. The Remanian government has to approve all repairs." "Have you complained about this?"
"Yes, ma'am. Every day for the last three months."
"It's called harassment," Mike Slade explained. "It's a war of nerves they like to play with us."
Ambassador Ashley was beginning to get a headache.
After the meeting broke up and she and Slade were alone, Mary asked, "Which one of them is the CIA agent attached to the embassy?"
Mike looked at her a moment. "Why don't you come with me?" He walked out of the conference room.
Mary followed him down a long corridor. He came to a large door with a marine guard standing in front of it. The guard stepped aside as Mike pushed the door open. He turned and gestured for Mary to enter.
She stepped inside and looked around. The room was an incredible combination of metal and glass, covering the floor, the walls, and the ceiling.
Mike closed the heavy door behind them. "This is the bubble room. Every
embassy in an iron curtain country has one. It's the only room in the embassy that can't be bugged."
He saw her look of disbelief.
"Madam Ambassador, not only is the embassy bugged, but you can bet your residence is bugged, and if you go out to a restaurant, your table will be bugged. You're in enemy territory."
Mary sank into a chair. "How do you handle that?" she asked. "I mean, not ever being able to talk freely."
"We do an electronic sweep every morning. We find their bugs and pull them out. They replace them, and we pull those out."
"Why do we permit Remanians to work in the embassy?"
"It's their playground. They're the home team. We play by their rules or blow the ball game. They can't get their microphones into this room, because there are marine guards on duty in front of that door
twenty-four hours a day. Now, what are your questions?" "I just wondered who the CIA man was."
"Eddie Maltz, your political consul."
Eddie Maltz. He was the middle-aged one, very thin, a sinister face. Or did she think that now because he was CIA? "Is he the only CIA man on the staff?"
"Yes." Mike Slade looked at his watch. "You're due to present your credentials to the Remanian government in thirty minutes. Florian is waiting for you outside. Take your letter of credence. You'll give the original to President Ionescu and put a copy in our safe."
Mary found that she was gritting her teeth. "I know that, Mr. Slade."
HEWUARTERS for the Remanian government is a forbidding sandstone building in the center of Bucharest. It is protected by a steel wall and surrounded by armed guards. An aide met Mary at the entrance and escorted her upstairs.
President Alexandros Ionescu greeted Mary in a long rectangular room on the second floor. The President had a powerful presence. He was dark, with curly black hair, hawklike features, and one of the most imperious noses Ma had ever seen. His eyes were blazing, mesmerizing. He took Mary's hand and gave it a lingering kiss. "You are even more beautiful than you look in your photographs."
"Thank you, Your Excellency." Mary opened her purse and took out the letter of credence President Ellison had given her.
Ioneseu gave it a careless glance. "Thank you. I accept it on behalf of the ]Remanian government. You are now officially the American
ambassador to my country." He beamed at her. "I have arranged a reception this evening for you. You will meet some of our people who will be working with you."
"That's very kind of you," Mary said.
He took her hand in his again and said, "I hope you will grow to love our country, Madam Ambassador." He massaged her hand.
"I'm sure I will." He thinks i'm just another pretty face, Mary thought grimly. I'll have to do something about that.
MARY returned to the embassy and spent the rest of the day sifting through the blizzard of white paper on her desk. There were the English translations of Remanian newspaper and magazine articles, the wireless file and the summary of news developments reported in the United States, a thick report on arms-control negotiations, and an update on the United Slates economy. There's enough reading material in one day, Mary thought, to keep me busy for a week, and I'm going to get this every day.
But the problem that disturbed Mary more was the feeling of antagonism from her staff. That had to be handled immediately. She sent for Harriet Kruger, her protocol officer. "How long have you worked here at the embassy?" Mary asked.
"Four years before our break with Remania, and now three glorious months." There was a note of irony in her voice. "May we have an off-the-record conversation?"
"No, ma'am."
Mary had forgotten. "Why don't we adjourn to the bubble room?" she suggested.
When Mary and Harriet Kruger were seated in the bubble room, Mary said, "Something just occurred to me. Our meeting this morning was held in the conference room. Isn't that bugged?"
"Probably," Harriet said cheerfully. "But it doesn't matter.
Mike Slade wouldn't let anything be discussed that the Romanians aren't already aware of."
Mike Slade. "What do you think of Slade?" Mary asked. "He's the best."
Mary decided not to express her opinion. "I got the feeling today that morale around here isn't good. Is it because of me, or has it always been that way?"
Harriet studied her a moment. "It's a combination of both. The Americans working here are in a pressure cooker. We're afraid to make
friends with Remanians, because they probably belong to the Securitate, so we stick together. We're a small group, so pretty soon that gets claustrophobic." She shrugged. "The pay is small, .the food is lousy,, and the weather is bad." She studied Mary. "None of that is your fault, Ambassador Ashley. You have two problems. The first is that you're a political appointee in charge of an embassy manned by career diplomats." She stopped. "Am I coming on too strong?"
"No. Please go on."
"Most of them were against you before you even got here. Career workers in an embassy tend not to rock the boat. Political appointees like to change things. To them, you're an.amateur telling professionals how to run their business. The second problem is that you're a woman. The men in the embassy'don't like taking orders from a woman."
"I see."
Harriet Kruger smiled. "But you sure have a great publicity agent. I've never seen so many magazine cover stories in my life. How do you do it?"
Mary had no answer to that. She was, in fact, disturbed by the comments she kept hearing about the amount of publicity she and the children were getting. There had even been an article in Pravda, with a picture of the three of them.
Harriet Kruger glanced at her watch. "oops! You're going to be late. Florian's waiting to take you home so you can change. Aside from President Ionescu's reception you have three parties tonight."
Mary was staring at her. "That's impossible. I have too-"
"It goes with the territory. There are seventy-five embassies in Bucharest, and on any given night some of them are celebrating something."
"Can't I say no?"
"That would be the United States saying no to them. They would be offended."
Mary sighed. "I guess I'd better go change."
As SOON as Mary arrived at the reception, President Ionescu walked over to her. He kissed her hand and said, "I have been looking forward to seeing you again."
"Thank you, Your Excellency. I too."
She had a feeling he had been drinking heavily. She recalled the dossier on him: Mained. One son, fourteen-the heir apparentand three daughters. Is a womanizer. Drinks a lot. A shrewd peasant mentality. Charming when it suits him. Generous to his friends. Dangerous and ruthless to his enemies.
Ioescu took Mary's arm and led her off to a deserted corner. "You will find us Remanians interesting." He squeezed her arm. "We are a very passionate people." He looked at her for a reaction, and when he got none, he went on. "We are descendants of the ancient Dacians and their conquerors, the Romans. For centuries we have been Europe's doormat.
The.Huns, Goths, Avars, Slays, and Mongols wiped their feet on us, but Remania has survived. And do you know how?" He leaned closer to her. "By giving our people a strong, firm leadership. They trust me, and I rule them well."
Mary thought of some of the stories she had heard. The arrests in the middle of the night, the atrocities, the disappearances.
Ioneseu was about to continue talking when a man came up to him and whispered in his ear. Ionescu's expression turned cold. He hissed something in Remanian, and the man hurried off. The dictator turned back to Mary, oozing charm again. "I must leave you now. I look forward to seeing you again soon."
And Ionescu was gone.
TO GET A Head START ON no crowded day that faced her, Mary had Florian pick her up at six thirty a.m. During the ride to the embassy she read the reports and communiques that had been delivered to the residence during the night.
As Mary walked past Mike Slade's office she stopped in surprise. He was at his desk working. "You're in early," she said.
He looked up. Morning. I'd like to have a word with you. Not here. Your office."
He followed Mary through the connecting door to her office, and she watched as he walked over to an instrument in the corner of the room. "This is a shredder," Mike informed her.
"I know that."
"Really? Last night you left some papers on top of your desk. By now they've been photographed and sent to Moscow."
"Oh, no! I must have forgotten. Which ones?" "A list of personal things you wanted to order. But That's beside the point. The cleaning women work for the Securitate. Lesson number one: at night everything must be locked up or shredded."
"What's lesson number two?" Mary asked coldly.
Mike grinned. "The ambassador always starts the day by having coffee with her deputy chief How do you take yours?"
"I- Black."
"Good. You have to watch your figure around here. The food is fattening." He started toward the door that led to his office. "I make my own special brew. You'll like it."
Mary sat there, infuriated by his arrogance. I have to be careful how I handle him, she decided. I want him out of here as quickly as possible.
He returned with two mugs of steaming coffee.
"How do I arrange for Beth and Tim to start school?" she asked.
"I've already arranged it. Florian will deliver them mornings and pick them up afternoons."
She was taken aback. "I- Thank you."
"The school is small but excellent. Each class has eight or nine students. They come from all over-Canadians, Israelis, Nigerians, you name it." Mike took a sip of his coffee. "I understand that you had a nice chat with our fearless leader last night."
"President Ionescu? Yes. He seemed very pleasant."
"Oh, he is. Until he gets annoyed with somebody. Don't let Ionescu's charm fool you. He's a dyed-in-the-wool s.o.b. His people despise him, but there's nothing they can do ibout it. The secret police are everywhere. The general rule of thumb here is that one out of every three people works for the Securitate or the KGB. A Remanian can be arrested merely for signing a petition."
Mary felt a shiver go through her. "They do have trials here?" "Oh, occasionally they'll have show trials, but most of the people
arrested manage to have fatal accidents while they're in police custody. In general, conditions here are horrifying, but the people are afraid to strike back, because they know they'll be shot. The standard of living is one of the lowest in Europe. There's a shortage of everything. If people see a line in front of a store, they'll join in and buy whatever's for sale while they have the chance."
"It seems to me," Mary said slowly, "that all these things add up to a wonderful opportunity for us to help them."
Mike Slade looked at her. "Sure," he said dryly. "Wonderful."
That afternoon as Mary was going through some newly arrived cables from Washington she thought about Mike Slade. He was arrogant and rude, yet he'd arranged for the children's school. He may be more complex than I thought, she decided. But I still don't trust him.
THE inside of the Ivan Stelian Prison was even more forbidding than its exterior. The corridors were narrow, painted a dull gray. There was a jungle of crowded black-barred cells, patrolled by uniformed guards
armed with machine guns. The stench was overpowering.
A guard led Mary to a small visitors' room, saying, "She's in there. You have ten minutes."
Mary entered, and the door closed behind her.
Hannah Murphy was seated at a small battle-scarred table. She was handcuffed and wearing prison garb. Her face was pale and gauss% and her eyes were red and swollen. Her hair was uncombed. "Hi," Mary said. "I'm the American ambassador."
Hannah Murphy looked at her and began to sob uncontrollably.
Mary put her arms around the girl and said soothingly, "Every thing is going to be all right. Now, just tell me what happened."
Hannah Murphy took a deep breath. "I met this man-he was a Remanian-and I was lonely. He was nice to me, and we- We spent the night together. A girlfriend had given me some marijuana. I shared it with him. When I woke up in the morning, he was gone, but the police were there. And they brought me to this hellhole." She shook her head helplessly. "Five years."
Mary thought of what Lucas Janklow had said as she was leaving for the prison: "There's nothing you can do for her. If ghe were a Remanian, they'd probably give her life." Now Mary looked at Hannah Murphy and said, "I'll do everything in my power to help you."
Mary had examined the official police report. It was signed by Captain Aurel Istrase, head of the Securitate. It was brief and unhelpful, but there was no doubt of the girl's guilt. I'll have to find another way, Mary thought. Aurel Istrase. The name had a familiar ring. She thought back to the confidential dossier James Stickley had shown her in Washington. She remembered something in there about Captain Istrase....
Mary arranged to meet with the captain the following morning.
AuREL Istrase was a short swarthy man with a scoffed face. He had come to the embassy for the meeting. He was curious about the new American ambassador.
"You wished to talk to me, Madam Ambassador?"
"Thank you for coming. I want to discuss Hannah Murphy."
"Ah, yes. The drug peddler. In Remania we have strict laws about people who sell drugs. They go to jail."
"Excellent," Mary said. "I'm pleased to hear that. I wish we had stricter drug laws in the United States."
Istrase was watching her, puzzled. "Then you agree with me?"
"Absolutely. Anyone who sells drugs deserves jail. Hannah Murphy, however, did not sell drugs. She offered to give some marijuana to a Remanian citizen."
"It is the same thing. If-"
"Not quite, Captain. The Remanian was a lieutenant on your police force. He smoked marijuana too. Has he been punished?"
"He was merely gathering evidence of a criminal act." "Your lieutenant has a wife and three children?" Captain Istrase frowned. "Yes."
"Does the lieutenant's wife know' about her husband's affair?" Captain Istrase stared at her. "Why should she?"
"Because it sounds to me like a clear case of entrapment. I think we had better make this whole thing public. The international press will be fascinated."
"There would be no point to that," Istrase said.
She sprang her ace. "Why? Because the lieutenant happens to be your son-in-law?"
"Certainly not! I just want to see justice done." "So do I," Mary assured him.
According to the dossier she had seen, the son-in-law specialized in making the acquaintance of young tourists, seducing them, suggesting places where they could trade in the black market or buy drugs, and then turning them in.
Mary said in a conciliatory tone, "I see no need for your daughter to know how her husband conducts himself. I think it would be much better if you released Hannah Murphy from jail and I sent her back to the States. What do you say, Captain?"
He sat there turning. Finally he shrugged. "I will use what little influence I have."
"I'm sure you will, Captain Istrase. Thank you."
The next day a grateful Hannah Murphy was on her way home. "How did you do it?" Mike Slade asked unbelievingly.
"I followed your advice. I charmed him." Chapter Eight
THE day Beth and Tim were to start school, Mary got a call at five a.m. from the embassy that a NIACT-A night action cable-had come in and required an immediate answer. It was the start of a long and busy day, and by the time Mary returned to the residence, it was after seven p.m. The children were waiting for her.
"Well," Mary asked, "how was school?"
"I like it," Beth replied. "Did you know there are kids there from twenty-two different countries? This neat Italian boy kept staring at me all through class. It's a great school."
"They've got a keen science laboratory," Tim added. "Tomorrow we're going to take some Remanian frogs apart."
"well, I'm glad you had no problems."
Beth said, "No, Mom. Mike Slade took care of us."
"What does Mike Slade have to do with your going to school?"
"Didn't he tell you? He took us there and introduced us to our teachers. He knows them all."
"He knows a lot of kids there too," Tim said. "And he introduced us to them. Everybody likes him. He's a neat guy."
A little too neat, Mary thought.
THE following morning when Mike walked into Mary's office, she said, "I understand that you took Beth and Tim to school."
He nodded. "It's tough for youngsters, trying to adjust in a foreign country. They're good kids. And speaking of kids, we have a sick one here you'd better take a look at "
He led her to a small office down the corrido;. On the couch was a white-faced young marine, groaning in pain.
"What happened?" Mary asked. "My guess is appendicitis."
"Then we'd better get him to a hospital right away."
"Not here. He has to be flown either to Rome, Zurich, or Frankfurt. No one from an American embassy ever goes to a hospital in an iron curtain country.
"But why?"
"Because we're vulnerable. We could be put under either or given scopolamine. They could extract all kinds of information from us. It's
a State Department rule. We fly him out."
"Why don't we have our own doctor?" Mary snapped.
"Because we're a C-category embassy. We haven't the budget for our own doctor. An American doctor pays us a visit here once every three months. In the meantime, we have a pharmacist for minor aches and pains." He picked up a form from the desk. "Just sign this, and he's on his way."
"Very well." Mary signed the paper. She walked over to the young marine and took his hand in hers. "You're going to be fine , she said softly. "Just fine."
Two hours later the marine was on a plane to Frankfurt.
MARY SPENT EVERY possible MOMENT she could with the children. They did a lot of sight-seeing. There were dozens of museums and old churches to visit, but for the children the highlight was the trip to Dracula's castle in Brasoy, located in the heart of Transylvania, a hundred miles from Bucharest.
"The,countThe count was really a prince," Florian explained on the drive
up. nnce Vlad Tepes. He was the great hero who stopped the Turkish invasion."
"I thought he just sucked blood and killed people," Tim said.
Florian nodded. "Yes. Unfortunately, after the war Vlad's power went to his head. He became a dictator, and he impaled his enemies on stakes. The legend grew that he was a vampire. An Irishman named Bram Stoker wrote a book based on the legend. A silly book, but it has done wonders for tourism."
Bran Castle was a huge stone monument high in the mountains. They climbed the steep stone steps leading to the castle and went into a low-ceilinged room containing guns and ancient artifacts.
"This is where Count Dracula murdered his victims and drank their blood," the guide said in a sepulchral voice.
The room was damp and eerie. A spiderweb brushed across Tim's face. "I'm not scared or anything," he said to his mother, "but can we get out of here?"
EVERY morning when Mary rode to work, she noticed long lines of people outside the gates waiting to get into the consular section of the embassy. She had taken it for granted that they were people with minor problems they hoped the consul could solve. But one morning she went to the window to take a closer look, and the expressions she saw on their faces compelled her to go into Mike's office.
"Who are all those people waiting in line outside?"
Mike walked with her to his window. "They're mostly Romanian Jews. They're waiting to file applications for visas."
"But there's an Israeli embassy in Bucharest."
"They think there's less of a chance of the Remanian security people finding out their intention if they come to us. They're wrong, of course." He pointed out the window. "That apartment house has several flats filled with agents using telescopic lenses,
photographing everybody who goes in -and out of the embassy." "That's terrible!"
"That's the way they play the game. When a Jewish family applies for a visa to emigrate, they lose their green job cards and they're thrown out of their apartments. Then it takes three to four years before the government will tell them whether they'll even get their exit papers, and the answer is usually no."
"Can't we do something about it?"
"We try all the time. But Ionescu enjoys playing a cat-andmouse game with the Jews. Very few of them are ever allowed to leave the country."
Mary looked out at the expressions of hopelessness on their faces. "There has to be a way," she said.
"Don't break your heart," Mike told her, handing her a mug of coffee.
What a cold man, Mary thought. I wonder if anything ever touches him. I'm going to do something to help the Jews, she promised herself.
Mike sat down at his desk. "There's a Remanian folk dance company opening tonight. They're supposed to be pretty good. Would you like to go?"
Mary was taken by surprise. The last thing she had expected was for Mike to invite her out.
And now, even more incredibly, she found herself saying yes.
"Good." Mike handed her a small envelope. "Here are three tickets. You can take Beth and Tim, courtesy of the Romaniari government. We get tickets to most of their openings."
Mary stood there, her face flushed, feeling like a fool. "Thank you," she said stiffly.
"I'll have Florian pick ypu up at eight o'clock."
BETH and Tim were not interested in going to the theater. Beth had invited a schoolmate for dinner. "It's my Italian friend," she said.
"To tell you the truth, I've never really cared much for folk dancing," Tim added.
Mary laughed. "I'll let you two off the hook this time."
She wondered if the children were as lonely as she was. She thought about whom she could invite to go with her, mentally running down the list: Colonel McKinney, jerry Davis, Harriet Kruger. There was no one she really wanted to be with. I'll go alone, she decided.
The folk theater, anornate relic of more tranquil times, was on Rasodia Roman, a bustling street filled with small stands selling flowers, plastic slippers, blouses, and pens. The entertainment was boring, the costumes tawdry, and the dancers awkward. The show seemed interminable, and when it was finally over, Mary was glad to escape into the fresh night air. Florian was standing by the limousine, in front of the theater.
"I'm afraid there will be a delay, Madam Ambassador. A flat tire. And a thief has stolen the spare. I have sent for one. It should be here in the next hour. Would you like to wait in the car?"
Mary looked up at the full moon. The evening was crisp and clear. She realized she had not taken a walk in the month since she had arrived in Bucharest. "I think I'll walk back."
She turned and started down the street toward the central square. Bucharest was a fascinating, exotic city. Even at this late hour most of the shops were open, and there were queues at all of them. Coffee shops were serving gogoage, the delicious Romanian doughnuts. The sidewalks were crowded with late-night shoppers carrying pungi, the string shopping bags. It seemed to Mary that the people were ominously quiet. They were staring at her, the women avidly eyeing her clothes. She began to walk faster. When she reached a street called Calea Victorier, she stopped, unsure of which direction to take. She said to a passerby, "Excuse me-" He gave her a quick, frightened look and hurried off.
How was she, going to get back? It seemed to her that the residence was somewhere to the east. She began walking in that direction. Soon she was on a small, dimly lit side street. In the fat distance she could see a broad, well-lit boulevard. I can get a taxi there, Mary thought with relief.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps behind her, and she turned. A large man in an overcoat was coming toward her.
"Excuse me," the man called out in a heavy Remanian accent. "Are you lost?"
She was filled with relief He was probably a policeman. "Yes," she said gratefully. "I want to go back to-"
There was the sudden roar of a car racing up behind her and then the squeal of brakes. The pedestrian in the overcoat grabbed Mary. She could smell his hot, fetid breath and feel his fat fingers bruising her wrist. He started pushing her toward the open door of the ear. "Get in!" the man growled.
"No!," Mary was fighting to break free, and screaming, "Help! Help me!"
There was a shout from across the street, and a figure came racing toward them. The man who had accosted her stopped, unsure of what to do.
The stranger yelled, "Let go of her!" He grabbed the man in the overcoat and pulled him away from Mary. She found herself suddenly free.
The man behind the wheel got out of the car to help his accomplice, but then from the far distance came the sound of an approaching siren, and the two men leaped into the car and it sped away.
A blue-and-white car with the word militia on the side and a flashing light on top pulled up in front of Mary. Two men in uniform hurried out. In Remanian one of them asked, "Are you all right?" And then in halting English, "What happened?"
Mary was fighting to get herself under control. "Two men. They-they tr-tried to force me into their car. If-if it hadn't been for this gentleman-" She turned around. But the stranger was gone.
MARY fought all night long, struggling to escape the men, waking in a panic, falling back to sleep and waking again. She kept reliving the scene. Had they known who she was? Or were they merely trying to rob a tourist?
When Mary arrived at her office, Mike Slade was waiting for her as usual. He brought in two cups of coffee and sat down across from, her. The coffee was delicious, and she realized that having .coffee with Mike had become a morning ritual.
"How was the theater?" he asked.
"Fine." The rest was none of his business.
"Did you get hurt when they tried to kidnap you?" "I- How do you know about that?"
His voice was filled with irony. "Madam Ambassador, Remania is one big open secret. It wasn't very clever of you to go for a stroll by yourself."
"I'm aware of that now. It won't happen again." "Good." His tone was brisk.,"Did they take anything?"
"No."
He frowned. "It makes no sense. If they had wanted your coat or purse, they could have taken them -from you on the street. Trying. to force you into a car means it was a kidnapping."
"Who would want to kidnap me?"
"It wouldn't have been Ionescu's men. He's trying to keep our relations on an even keel. It would have to be some dissident group." He took a sip of his coffee. "May I give you some advice?"
"I'm listening." "Go home."
"What?"
Mike Slade put down the cup. "Send in a letter of resignation, pack up your kids, and go back to Kansas', where you'll be safe."
Mary could feel her face getting red. "Mr. Slade, I made a mistake. It's not the first one I've made, and it probably won't be the last one. But I was appointed to this post by the President of the United States, and until he fires me, I don't want you or anyone else telling me to go home." She fought to keep control of her voice. "I expect the people in this embassy to work with me, not against me. If That's too much for you to handle, why don't you go home?"
Mike Slade stood up. "I'll see that the morning reports are put on your desk, Madam Ambassador."
The attempted kidnapping was the sole topic of conversation at the embassy that morning. How had everyone found out? Mary wondered. And how had Mike Slade found out? Mary wished she could have learned the name of her rescuer so that she could thank him. In the quick glimpse she had had of him, she had gotten the impression of an attractive man, probably in his early forties. He had had a foreign accent.
An idea started to gnaw at Mary, and it was hard to dismiss. The only person she knew of who wanted to get rid of her was Mike Slade. What if he had set up the attack to frighten her into leaving? He had given her the theater tickets. He had known where she would be.
THERE was a cocktail party at the French embassy that evening in honor of a visiting French concert pianist. Mary was tired and nervous, but she knew she had to go.
When she arrived, the embassy was already crowded with guests. As she was exchanging pleasantries with the ambassador .She caught sight of the stranger who had rescued her from the kidnappers. He was standing in a corner talking to the Italian ambassador and his aide.
"Please excuse me," Mary said, and moved Across the room toward her rescuer.
He was saying, "Of course I miss Paris, but I hope-" He broke off as he saw Mary approaching. "Ah, the lady in distress."
"You know each other?" the Italian ambassador asked. "We haven't been officially introduced," Mary replied. "Madam Ambassador, may I present Dr. Louis Desforges."
The expression on the Frenchman's face changed. "Madam Ambassador? I beg your pardon! I had no idea." His voice was filled with embarrassment. "I should have recognized you."
"You did better than that." Mary smiled. "You saved me."
The Italian ambassador looked at the doctor and said, "Ahl So you were the one." He turned to Mary. "I, heard about your unfortunate experience."
"It would have been unfortunate if Dr. Desforges hadn't come along. Thank you."
Louis Desforges smiled. "I'm happy that I was in the right place at the right time."
The ambassador saw an English contingent enter and said, "If you will excuse us, there is someone we have to see."
He and his aide hurried off. Mary was alone with the doctor. "Why did you run away when the police came?" she asked.
He studied her a moment. "It is not good policy to get involved with the ]Remanian police. They have a way of arresting witnesses, then pumping them for information. I'm a doctor attached to the French embassy here, and I don't have diplomatic enununity. I do, however, know a great deal about what goes on at our embassy."
He smiled. "So forgive me if I seemed to desert you."
There was a directness about him that was very appealing. In some way that Mary could not define, he reminded her of Edward. Perhaps because Louis Desforges was a doctor. But no, it was more than that. He had the same openness that Edward had had, almost the same smile.
"If you'll excuse me," Dr. Desforges said, "I must go and become a social animal."
"You don't like parties?"
He winced. "I despise them." "Does your wife enjoy them?"
"Yes, she did. Very much." He hesitated, then said, "She and our two children are dead."
Mary paled. "Oh, I'm so sorry. How His face was rigid. "I blame myself. We were living in Algeria. I was in the underground, fighting the terrorists." His words became slow and halting. "They found out my identity and blew away the house. I was away at the time."
"I'm so sorry," Mary said again. Hopeless, inadequate words.
"There is a cliche that time heals everything. I no longer believe it." His voice was bitter. He looked at her and said, "If you will excuse me, Madam Ambassador." He turned and walked over to greet a group of arriving guests.
He does remind me a little of Edward, Mary thought again. He's a brave man. He's in a lot of pain, . and I think That's what draws me to him. I'm in pain too. Will I ever get over missing you, Edward? It's so lonely here.
THE following day Mary could not get Dr. Louis Desforges out of her mind. He had saved her life and then disappeared. She was glad she had found him again. On an impulse she bought a beautiful silver bowl for him and had it sent to the French embassy. It was a small enough gesture after what he had done.
That afternoon Dr. Desforges telephoned. "Good afternoon, Madam Ambassador." The phrase sounded delightful in his French accent. "I called to thank you for your thoughtful gift. I assure you that it was unnecessary. I was delighted that I was able to be of some service."
"It was more than just some service," Mary told him. There was a pause. "Would you-" He stopped.
"Yes?" Mary prompted.
"Nothing, really." He sounded suddenly shy. "I was wondering if you might care to have dinner with me one evening, but I know how busy you must be and-"
"would love to," Mary said quickly. "Really? Are you free tomorrow night?"
"I have a party at six, but we could go after that." "Ah, splendid."
They agreed to meet at the Taru Restaurant at eight o'clock.
IN THE limousine on the way to the restaurant the next evening Mary asked Florian to stop at the embassy. She had left a silk scarf in her
office and wanted to pick it up.
Gunny was on duty at the desk. He stood at attention and saluted her. Mary went up the stairs to her office and turned on the light. She stood there, frozen. On the wall someone had sprayed in red paint GO HOME BEFORE YOU DIE. She backed out of the room, white-faced, and ran down to the lobby. "Gunny. Wh-who's been in my office?" she demanded.
"Why, no one that I know of, ma'am."
"Let me see your roster sheet." She tried to keep her voice from quavering.
"Yes, ma'am." Gunny pulled out the visitors' access sheet and handed it to her. Each name had the time of entry listed after it. She started at five thirty, the time she had left the office, and scanned the list.
There were a dozen names.
Mary looked up at the marine guard. "Were all the people on this list escorted to the offices they visited?"
"Always, Madam Ambassador. No one goes up to the second floor without an escort. Is something wrong?"
Something was very wrong.
Mary said, "Please send someone to my office to paint out that obscenity on the wall."
She turned and hurried outside, afraid she was going to be sick.
DR. Louis DESFORGES was waiting for Mary when she arrived .at the restaurant. He stood up as she approached the table.
"I'm sorry I'm late." Mary tried to sound normal. She wished she had not come. She pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm fine." Go home before you die. "I think I'd like a straight Scotch, please."
The doctor ordered drinks, then said, "It can't be easy being an ambassador in this country-especially for a woman. Remanians are male chauvinists, you know."
Mary forced a smile. "Tell me about yourself " Anything to take her mind off the threat.
"I am afraid there is not much to tell that is exciting."
"You mentioned that you fought in the underground in Algeria. That sounds exciting."
He shrugged. "We live in terrible times. I believe that every man must risk something so that in the end he does not have to risk everything.
The terrorist situation is literally that-terrifying. We must put an end to it." His voice was filled with passion.
He's like Edward, Mary thought. Edward was always passionate about his beliefs.
"If I had known that the price would be the lives of my family-" He stopped. His knuckles were white against the table. "Forgive me. I did not bring you here to talk about my troubles. Let me recommend the lamb. They do it very well here."
He ordered dinner and a bottle of wine, and they talked. Mary began to relax, to forget the frightening warning painted in red. She was finding it surprisingly easy to talk to this attractive Frenchman. In an odd way it was like talking to Edward. It was amazing how she and Louis shared so many of the same beliefs and felt the same way about so many things. Louis Desforges was born in a small town in France, and Mary was born in a small town in Kansas, thousands of miles apart, and yet their backgrounds were similar. His father had been a farmer and had scrimped and saved to send Louis to a medical school in Paris.
"My father was a wonderful man, Madam Ambassador." "Mary."
"Thank you, Mary."
She smiled. "You're welcome, Louis."
Mary wondered what his personal life was like. He was handsome and intelligent. "Have you thought of getting married again?" She could not believe she had asked him that.
He shook his head. "No. My wife was a remarkable woman. No one could ever replace her."
That's how I feel about Edward, Mary thought. And yet it was not really a question of replacing a beloved one. It was finding someone new to share things with.
Louis was saying, "So when I was offered the opportunity, I thought it would be interesting to visit Remania." He lowered his voice. "I confess I feel an evilness about this country. Not the people. They are lovely. But the government is everything I despise. There is no freedom here for anyone." He glanced around to make sure no one could overhear. "I shall be glad when my tour of duty is over and I can return to France."
Without thinking, Mary heard herself saying, "There are some people who think I should go home."
"I beg your pardon?"
And suddenly Mary found herself telling him about the paint scrawl on her office wall.
"But that is horrible! You have no idea who did this?" "No."
Louis said, "May I make an impertinent confession? Since I found out who you were, I have been asking questions. Everyone who knows you is very impressed with you."
She was listening to him with intense interest.
"You have brought here an image of America that is beautiful and intelligent and warm. If you believe in what you are doing, then you must fight for it. You must stay. Do not let anyone frighten you away." It was just what Edward would have said.
THE following morning Mike Slade brought in two cups of coffee. He nodded at the wall where the message had been painted. "I hear someone has been spraying graffiti on your walls."
"Yes. Have they found out who did it?"
Mike took a sip of coffee. "No. I went through the visitors' list myself Everyone is accounted for."
"That means it must have been someone here in the embassy." "Either that, or someone managed to sneak in past the guards." "Do you believe that?"
Mike put down his coffee cup. "Nope." "Neither do I."
"What exactly did it say?"
"'Go home before you die."' He made no comment. "Who would want to kill me?"
"I don't know. But we're doing everything we can to track down whoever it is. In the meantime, I've arranged for a marine guard to be posted outside your door at night."
"Mr. Slade, I would appreciate a straight answer. Do you think I'm in any real danger?"
He studied her thoughtfully. "Madam Ambassador, they, assassinated Abrahwn Lincoln, John Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Marin Groza. We're all vulnerable. The answer to your question is yes."
THREE days later Mary had dinner again with Dr. Louis Desforges. He seemed more relaxed with her this time, and although the core of sadness she sensed within him was still there, he took pains to be attentive and amusing. Mary wondered if he felt the same attraction toward her that she felt toward him.
After dinner when Louis took Mary back to the residence, she asked, "Would you like to come in?"
"Thank you," he said. "I would."
The children were downstairs doing their homework, and Mary introduced them to Louis.
He bent down before Beth and said, "May I?" And he put his arms around her and hugged her. He straightened up. "One of my little girls was three years younger than you. The other one was about your age. I'd like to think they would have grown up to be as pretty as you are, Beth."
Beth smiled. "Thank you. Where are-"
"would you all like some hot chocolate?" Mary asked hastily.
The four of them sat in the huge kitchen drinking the hot chocolate and talking.
The children were utterly enchanted with Louis. He focused entirely on them, telling them stories and anecdotes and jokes until he had them roaring with laughter.
It was almost midnight when Mary looked at her watch. "Oh, no! You children should have been in bed hours ago. Scoot."
Tim went over to Louis. "Will you come see us again?" "I hope so, Tim."
Mary saw Louis to the door. He took her hand in his. "They're beautiful children." His voice was husky. "I won't try to tell you what this evening has meant to me, Mary."
"I'm glad." She was looking into his eyes, and she felt him moving toward her. She raised her lips.
"Good night, Mary." And he was gone.
DAvm Victor, the commerce consul, hurried into Mary's office. "I have some very bad news. I just got a tip that President Ionescu is going to approve a contract with Argentina for a million and a half tons of corn, and with Brazil for half a million tons of soybeans. We were counting heavily on their buying from us."
"How far have the negotiations gone?"
"They're almost concluded. We've been shut out. I was about to send a cable to Washington-with your approval, of course."
"Hold off a bit," Mary said. "I want to think about it."
"You won't get President Ioneseu to change his mind. Believe me, I've tried every argument I could think of."
"Then we have nothing to lose if I give it a try." She buzzed her secretary. "Dorothy, get me the presidential palace."
ALExomRos Ionescu invited Mary to the palace for lunch. As she entered she was greeted at the door by Nicu, his fourteenyear-old son. He was a handsome boy, tall for his age, with beautiful black eyes and a flawless complexion.
"Good afternoon, Madsen Ambassador," he said. "I am Nicu. Welcome to the palace. I have heard very nice things about you."
"Thank you. I'm pleased to hear that, Nicu." "I will tell my father you have arrived."
MARY AND IONESCU SAT ACROss from each other in the formal dining room, just the two of them. The President had been drinking and was in a mellow mood. He lit a Snogoy, the vile-smelling Remanian cigarette.
"Mr; President," said Mary, "I was eager to meet with you, because there is something important I would like to discuss with you."
Ionescu almost laughed aloud. He knew exactly why she had come. The Americans wished to sell him corn and soybeans, but they were too late. The American ambassador would go away empty-handed this time. Too bad. Such an attractivewoman.
"Yes?" he said innocently.
"I want to talk to you about sister cities." lonescu blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sister cities. You know, like San Francisco and Osaka, Los Angeles and Bombay, Washington and Bangkok. "
"-don't understand. What does that have to do with-"
"Mr. President, it occurred to me that you could get headlines all over the world if you made Bucharest a sister city of some American city. It would get almost as much attention as President Ellison's
people-to-people plan."
He said cautiously, "A sister city with a city in the United States? It
is an interesting idea. What would it involve?"
"Mostly, wonderful publicity for you. You would be a hero. It would be your idea. You would pay the city a visit. A delegation from Kansas City would pay you a visit."
Kansas City?"
"That's just a suggestion, of course. Kansas City is Middle America. There are farmers there, like your farmers. Mr. President, your name will be on everyone's lips. No one in Europe has thought of doing this."
He sat there, silent. "I- I would naturally have to give this a great deal of thought."
"Naturally."
"Kansas City, Kansas, and Bucharest, Remania." He nodded. "We are a much larger city, of course."
"Of course. Bucharest would be the big sister."
"I must admit it is a very intriguing idea." Your name will be on everyone's lips. "Is there any chance of a rejection from the American side?" Ioneseu asked.
"Absolutely none. I can guarantee it."
He sat there reflecting. "When would this go into effect?"
"Just as soon as you're ready to announce it. I'll handle our end."
Ionescu thought. of something else. "We could set up a trade exchange with our sister city. Remania has many things to sell. Tell me, what crops does Kansas grow?"
"Among other things," Mary said quietly, "corn and soybeans."
"You really made the deal? You actually fooled him?" David Victor asked incredulously.
"Not for a minute," Mary assured him. "loneseu knew what I was after. He just liked the package I wrapped it in. You can go in and close the deal. He's already rehearsing his television speech."
WHEN Stanton Rogers heard the news, he telephoned Mary. "You're a genius." He laughed. "We thought we'd lost that deal. How in the world did you do it?"
"Ego," Mary said. "His."
"The President asked me to tell you what a really great job you're doing over there, Mary."
"Thank him for me, Stan."
"I will. By the way, the President and I are leaving for China in a few weeks. If you need me, you can get in touch with me.
through my office." "Have a wonderful trip." Chapter Nine
OVER the swiffly moving weeks the dancing March winds had given way to spring and then summer. Trees and flowers blossomed everywhere in Bucharest, and the parks were green.
In Buenos Aires, it was winter. When Neusa Muez returned to her apartment, it was the middle of the night. The telephone was ringing. "S(?"
It was the gringo from the United States. "May I speak with Angel?"
"Angel no here, senor. Wha' you wan'?"
"Tell Angel I need him for a contract in Bucharest." "Budapes'?"
The Controller found his irritation mounting. "Bucharest. Romania. Tell him It's a five-million-dollar contract. He has to be in Bucharest by the end of June. That's three weeks from now. Do you have that?"
"Wait a minute. I'm writin'. Okay. How many people Angel gotta kill for five million dollars?"
"A lot. "
THE daily long lines in front of the embassy continued to disturb Mary. She discussed it again with Mike Slade.
"There must be something we can do to help those people get out of the country."
"Everything's been tried," Mike assured her. "We've applied pressure, we've offered to sweeten the money pot.... Ionescu refuses to cut a deal."
"I'm going to have another talk with him." "Good luck."
Mary asked Dorothy Stone to set up an appointment with the dictator. A
few minutes later the secretary walked into Mary's office. "I'm sorry, Madun Ambassador. Something weird is going on at the presidential palace. Ionescu isn't seeing anybody. In fact, no one can even get in."
"Dorothy," Mary said, "see if you can find out What's going on there."
An hour later Dorothy reported back. "They're keeping it very hush-hush. Ionescu's son is dying."
Mary was aghast. "Nicu? What happened?"
"He has botulism poisoning. There was an epidemic in East Germany a few months ago. Apparently Nicu visited there and someone gave him some canned food as a gift. He ate some of it yesterday."
"But there's an antiserum for botulism!" Mary exclaimed.
"The European countries are out of it The epidemic used it up." "Oh, my God."
When Dorothy left the office, Mary sat there thinking, It, might be too late, but still ... She remembered how cheerful and happy young Nicu was. He was fourteen years old-only two years older than Beth. She pressed the intercom button. "Dorothy, get me Walter Reed hospital in Maryland."
Five minutes later she was speaking to the director.
"Yes, Madam Ambassador. We do have an antiserum for botulism poisoning, and I'll be happy to supply some. But botulism poisoning works very rapidly. I'm afraid that by the time it gets there . . ."
"I'll arrange for it to get here. just have it ready. Thank you."
Ten minutes later Mary was speaking to air force general Ralph Zukor, in Washington.
"Good morning, Madam Ambassador. Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. My wife and I are big fans of yours. How are-"
"General, I need a favor. I need your fastest jet." "I beg your pardon?"
"I need a jet to fly some serum to Bucharest right away. Can you do it?"
"Well, yes. But first you'll have to get approval from the Secretary of Defense. There are requisition forms to fill out."
Mary listened, seething. "General, a boy's life is at stake. He happens to be the son of the President of Remania. If that boy dies
because some form hasn't been filled out, I'm going to call the biggest press conference you've ever seen. And I'll let you explain why you let Ionescu's son die."
"I'm sorry, but I can't possibly authorize an operation like this without an approval from the White House. If-"
Mary snapped, "Then, get it. The serum will be delivered to Andrews Air Force Base. And General ... every single minute counts."
She hung up and sat there, silently praying.
General Zukor's aide said, "What was that all about, sir?"
"The ambassador expects me to send up an SR-71 to fly some serum to Remania. It's ridiculous. But we might as well cover ourselves, Get me Stanton Rogers."
Five minutes later the general was speaking to the President's foreign affairs adviser. "I just wanted to go on record with you that the request was made, and I naturally refused. If-"
Stanton Rogers said, "General, how soon can you have an SR-71 airborne?" "In ten minutes, but-"
"Do it."
Nicu lonescu's nervous system had been affected. He lay in bed, disoriented, sweating and pale, attached to a respirator. There were three doctors at his bedside.
President lonescu strode into the room. "What's happening?"
" Your Excellency, we have communicated with our colleagues all over Eastern and Western Europe. There is no antiseam left."
"What about the United States?"
The doctor shrugged. "By the time we could arrange for someone to fly the serum here. .." He paused delicately. "I'm afraid it would be too late."
Ionescu picked up his son's hand. "You're not going to die," he said, weeping. "You're not going to die."
AN A= helicopter delivered the antibotulism semm, packed in ice, to Andrews Air Force Base. Three minutes later the SR-7]L was in the air, on a northeast heading.
The SR-71-the U.S. Air Force's fastest supersonic jet-flies at three times the speed of sound. It slowed down once to refuel over the mid Atlantic. The plane- made the five-thousand-mile flight to Bucharest in a little over two and a half hours.
Colonel McKinney was waiting at the airport for the serum. An army escort cleared the way to the presidential palace.
MARY had remained in her office all night, getting up-to-the minute reports. At six a.m. McKinney telephoned. "They gave the boy the serum. The doctors say he's going to live."
"Oh, thank God!"
Two days later a diamond-and-emerald necklace was delivered to Mary's office with a note: "I can never thank you enough. Alexandros Ionescu."
"I don't believe this!" Dorothy exclaimed when she saw the necklace. "It must have cost half a million dollars!"
"At least," Mary said. "Return it."
The following morning President Ionescu sent for Mary.
When she arrived, an aide said, "The President is waiting for you in his office."
"May I see Nicu first?"
"Yes, of course." He led her upstairs.
Nicu was in bed reading. He looked up as Mary entered. "Good morning, Madam Ambassador."
"Good morning, Nicu."
"MY father told me what you did. I wish to thank you."
"I couldn't let you die. I'm saving you for Beth one day." Nicu laughed. "Bring her over, and we'll talk about it."
President Ionescu was waiting downstairs for Mary. He said without preamble, "You returned my gift."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
He indicated a chair. "Sit down." He studied her. "You saved my son's life. I must give you something." " Mary said, "I don't make trades for children's lives.
"You must want something! Name your price."
Mary said, "Your Excellency, there is no price. I have two children of my own. I know how you must feel."
He closed his eyes for a moment. "Do you? Nicu is my only son. If anything had happened to him-" He stopped, unable to go on.
"I went up to see him. He looks fine. If there's nothing else, Your Excellency, I have an appointment." She rose and started to leave.
"Waitl You will not accept a GIFT but-"
"No. I've explained-', IonesCu held up a hand. "All right, all right." He thought for a moment. "If you were to make a wish, what would you wish for?
Anything you want."
Mary stood there studying his face. Finally she said, "I wish that the restriction on the Jews waiting to leave Remania could be lifted."
"I see." lonescu was still for a long time before he looked up at Mary. "It shall be done. They will not all be allowed out, of course, but I will make it easier."
When the announcement was made public two days later, Mary received a telephone call from President Ellison himself "I thought I was sending a diplomat, and I got a miracle worker.
Congratulations, Mary, on everything you've done over there." "Thank you, Mr. President." She hung up, feeling a warm glow.
IN CELEBRATION of her diplomatic coup Louis invited Mary to a candlelit dinner in the rooftop restaurant at the Hotel Intercontinental. They saw each other whenever possible now, and more and more Mary had come to rely on him as an island of strength and,sanity. Before they parted that night, Mary found herself accepting an invitation to go away to the mountains with Louis the following weekend.
Once she got into bed, she lay in the dark talking to Edward: Darling, I'll always, always love you, but it's time I started a new life. You'll always be a part of that life, but there has to be someone else too.
Louis isn't you, but he's Louis. He's strong, and he's good, and he's brave. That's as close as I can come to having you. Please understand, Edward. Please....
"JULy is just around the corner," Harriet Kruger told Mary. "In the past the wnbassador always gave a Fourth of July party for the Americans living in Bucharest. If you'd prefer not to-"
"No. I think it's a lovely idea."
"Fine. I'll take care of all the arrangements. A lot of flags, balloons, an orchestra-the works."
"Sounds wonderful. Thank you, Harriet."
A big party would eat into the residence's expense account, but it would be worth it. The truth is, Mary thought, I miss home. She had been
here for only four months, but it seemed an eternity.
junction City had meant peace and security, an easy, friendly way of life. Here, there was fear and terror and a death threat scrawled on her office wall in red paint. Suddenly Mary felt a sharp pang of loneliness, a sense of being totally isolated from her roots, adrift in an alien and dangerous land. Then she thought about Louis, and the loneliness began to disappear.
MARY WAS HAVING HER USUAL morning coffee with Mike Slade, discussing the day's agenda.
When they finished, he said, "I've been hearing mmors about you. It seems that you're seeing a lot of Dr. Desforges."
Mary felt a flare of anger. "Who I see is no one's business."
"I beg to differ with you, Madam Ambassador. The State Department has a strict rule against getting involved with foreigners, and the doctor is a foreigner. He also happens to be an enemy agent."
Mary was almost too stunned to speak. "That's absurd!"
"Think about how you met him," Mike suggested. "The damsel in distress and the knight in shining armor. That's the oldest trick in the world. I've used it myself."
"I don't care what you've done," Mary retorted. "He's worth a dozen of you. He fought against terrorists in Algeria, and they murdered his wife and children."
Mike said mildly, "That's interesting. I've been examining his dossier. Your doctor never had a wife or children."
THEY stopped for lunch at TimiSSoara, on their way up to the Carpathian Mountains. The inn was decorated in the period atmosphere of a medieval wine cellar.
"The specially of the house is gone," Louis told Mary. "I would suggest the venison."
"Fine." she had never eaten venison. It was delicious. There was an air of confidence about Louis, a quiet strength that gave Mary a feeling of security.
After lunch they started out again. They passed farmers driving primitive homemade wagons, and caravans of Gypsies.
Louis was a skillful driver. Mary studied him as he drove. He's an enemy agent. She did not believe Mike Slade. Every instinct told her he was lying. She trusted Louis. No one could have faked the emotion I saw on his face when he was playing with the children, she thought.
The air was getting noticeably thinner and cooler. The mountains ahead
looked like pictures she had seen of the Swiss Alps, their peaks covered by mists and icy clouds the color of steel.
It was late afternoon when they reached their destination, Sio plea, a lovely mountain resort built like a miniature chalet. Their suite had a comfortable living room, simply furnished, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a terrace with a breathtaking view of the mountains.
"For the first time in my life"-Louis sighed-"I wish I were a painter." "It is a beautiful view.
He moved closer to her. "No. I wish I could paint you."
He took her in his arms and held her tightly. She buried her head against his chest, and then Louis's lips were on hers, and she forgot everything except what was happening to her. He led her to the bed. There was a frantic need in her for someone to reassure her, to protect her, to let her know that she was no longer alone. She needed to be one with him....
After a long, long time they lay contented. She nestled in his strong arms, and they talked.
"It's so strange," Louis said. "I feel whole again. Since Renee and the children were killed, I've been a ghost, wandering around lost."
"I've felt helpless too. Edward was my umbrella, and when it died and he wasn't there to protect me, I nearly drowned."
It was almost perfect. Almost. Because there was a question Mary dared not ask: Did you have a wife and children? The moment she asked that question, she knew everything between them would be over forever. Louis would never forgive her for doubting him. Curse Mike Slade, she thought.
Louis was watching her. "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing, darling."
Saturday they went on a tram to a mountain peak. In the eyening they drove to Eintrul, a rustic restaurant in the. mountains, where they had dinner in a large room that had an open fireplace mlith a roaring fire. There were hunting trophies on the wall, and through the windows they could look at the snow-covered hills outside. A perfect setting, with the perfect companion.
And finally, too soon, it was time to leave.
As they neared the outskirts of Bucharest they drove by fields of sunflowers, their faces moving toward the sun. That's me, Mary thought happily. I'm finally moving into the sunlight.
THE next MORNING WHEN MARY arrived at her office, there were a dozen red
roses with a note: "Thank you for you."
Mary read the card. And wondered if Louis had sent flowers to RencSSe. And wondered if there had been a Rent-e and two daughters. And hated herself for it. Why would Mike Slade make up terrible lie like that?
There was no way she could ever check it.
And at that moment Eddie Maltz, the political consul and CIA agent, walked into her office.
They spent some time discussing a colonel who had approached Maltz about defecting.
"He'd be a valuable asset for us," Maltz told her. "He'll be bringing some useful information with him, but be prepared to receive some heat from lonescu."
"Thank you, Mr. Maltz." He rose to leave.
On a sudden impulse Mary said ' "Wait. I wonder if I could ask you for a favor? It's personal and confidential."
"Sounds like our motto." Maltz smiled.
"I need some information on a Dr. Louis Desforges. He's attached to the French embassy." This was more difficult than she had imagined. It was a betrayal. "I'd like to know whether Dr. Desforges was once married and had two children. Do you think you could find out?"
"Will twenty-four hours be soon enough?" Maltz asked. "Yes, thank you." Please forgive me, Louis.
A short time later Mike Slade walked into Mary's office and put a cup of coffee on her desk. Something in his attitude seemed subtly changed.
Mary was not sure what it was, but she had a feeling that Mike Slade knew all about her weekend. She wondered whether he had spies following her.
She took a sip of the coffee. Excellent, as usual. That's one thing Mike Slade does well, Mary thought.
"We have some problems," he said. And for the rest of the morning they became involved in a discussion that included the Remanian financial crisis and a dozen other topics.
At the end of the meeting Mary was more tired than usual.
Mike Slade said, "The ballet is opening tonight. Corina Socoli is dancing." She was one of the leading ballerinas in the world.
Mary had met her once at a party at the presidential palace. "I have
some tickets if you're interested."
"No, thanks." She thought of the last time Mike had given her tickets. Besides, she was dining at the Chinese embassy.
. As MARY was dressing for dinner that evening she felt suddenly exhausted. She sank down on the bed. I wish I didn't have to go out tonight, she thought wearily. But I have to. My country is depending on me.
The evening was a blur of the same familiar diplomatic corps faces. Mary had only a hazy recollection of the others at her table.
She could not wait to get home.
When she awoke the following morning, she was feeling worse.
Her head ached, and she was nauseated. It took all of her willpower to get dressed and go to the embassy.
Mike Slade was waiting in her office, coffee in hand. He took one look at her and said, "You don't look too well. You okay?"
"I'm just tired."
"What you need is some coffee. It will perk you up. No pun intended." He handed her a cup. "Maybe you should fly to Frankfurt and see our doctor there."
Mary shook her head. "I'm all right." Her voice was slurred.
The only thing that made her feel slightly better was a visit from Eddie Maltz.
"I have the information you requested," he said. "Desforges was married for fourteen years. Wife's name, Ren6e. Two daughters, Phillips and Genevieve. They were murdered in Algeria by terrorists, as an act of vengeance against the doctor, who was fighting in the underground. Do you need any further information?"
"No," Mary said. "That's fine. Thank you."
By midafternoon Mary was feeling hot and feverish, and she called Louis to cancel dinner. She felt too ill to see anybody. She wished that the American doctor were in Bucharest. Perhaps Louis would know what was wrong with her. If I don't get over this, she told herself, I'll call him back.
Dorothy had the nurse send up some aspirin from the pharmacy. It did not help.
Somehow Mary managed to struggle through the rest of the
evening and when she finally arrived home, she fell straight into bed.
Her whole body ached, and she could feel that her temperature had climbed. I'm Yeally ill, she thought. I feel as though I'm dying. With an enormous effort she reached out and pulled the bell cord. Carmen, her maid, appeared.
She looked at Mary in alarm. "Madam Ambassadorl What-" Mary's voice was a croak. "Please call the French embassy. I need Dr. Desforges."
MARY opened her eyes and blinked. There were two blurred Louis figures bending over her.
"What's happening to you?" He felt her forehead. It was hot to the touch. "Have you taken your temperature?"
"I don't want to know." It hurt to talk.
Louis sat down on the edge of the bed. "Darling, when did you start feeling this way?"
"The day after we got back from the mountains."
Louis felt her pulse. It was weak and threatly. He smelled her breath. "Have you eaten something today with garlic?"
She shook her head. "I've hardly eaten all day."
He gently lifted her eyelids. "Have you been thirsty?" She nodded.
"Pain, muscle cramps, vomiting, nausea? "Yes. What's the matter with me, Louis?" "Do you feel like answering some questions?" She swallowed. "I'll try."
He held her hand. "Do you remember having anything to eat or drink that made you feel ill afterward?"
She shook her head.
"Do you eat breakfast here at the residence with the children?" "Usually, yes," she whispered.
"And the children are feeling well?" She nodded.
"What about lunch? Do you eat at the same place every day?"
"No. Sometimes the embassy, sometimes restaurants."
"Is there any one place you regularly have dinner, or anything you regularly eat?"
She closed her eyes.
He shook her gently. "Mary, listen to me." There was an urgency in his voice. "Is there any person you eat with constantly?"
She blinked up at him sleepily. "No." Why was he asking all these questions? "It's a virus," she mumbled. "Isn't it?"
He took a deep breath. "No. Someone is poisoning you."
It sent a bolt of electricity- through her body. She opened her eyes wide. "What? I don't believe it."
He was frowning. "I would say it was arsenic poisoning, except that arsenic is not for sale in Remania."
Mary felt a sudden tremor of fear. "Who-who would be trying to poison me?"
He squeezed her hand. "Darling, you've got to think. Are you sure there's no set routine you have where someone gives you something to eat or drink every day?"
"Of course not," Mary protested weakly. "I told you, I Coffee. Mike Slade. My own special brew. "Oh, no!"
"What is it?"
She cleared her throat and managed to whisper, "Mike Slade brings me coffee every morning."
Louis stared at her. "Your deputy chief? But what reason would he have for trying to kill you?"
"He-he wants to get rid of me."
"We'll talk about this later," Louis said urgently. "The first thing we have to do is treat you. I'm going to get something for you. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Mary lay there trying to grasp the meaning of what Louis had told her. What you need is some coffee. It will make you feel better. I brew it myself.
She drifted off into unconsciousness and was awakened by Louis's voice. "Mary!"
She forced her eyes open. Louis was at her bedside, taking a syringe
out of a small bag.
He lifted her arm. "I'm going to give you an injection of BAL.
It's an antidote for arsenic. I'm going to alternate it with penicillamine. Mary?" She was asleep.
The following morning Louis gave Mar)i another injection, and another one in the evening. The effects of the drugs were miraculous. The symptoms began to disappear. The following day Mary felt drained and weak, as though she had gone through a long illness, but all the pain and discomfort were gone.
"This is twice you've saved my life."
Louis looked at her soberly. "I think we'd better find out who's trying to take it."
"How do we do that?"
"I've been checking around at the various embassies. None of them carries arsenic. I have not beenable to find out about the American embassy. So what I want you to do is go to the embassy pharmacy. Tell them you need a pesticide. Say that you're having trouble with insects in your garden. Ask for Antrol. That's loaded with arsenic."
Mary looked at him, puzzled. "What's the point?"
"My hunch is that the arsenic had to be flown into Bucharest. If it is anywhere, it will be in the embassy pharmacy. Anyone who checks out a poison must sign for it. When you sign for the Antrol, see what names are on the sheet."
MARY walked down the long corridor to the embassy pharmacy, where the nurse was working behind the cage. "Good morning, Madam Ambassador. Are you feeling better?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Can I get you something?"
Mary took a nervous breath. "My-my gardener tells me he's having trouble with insects in the garden. I wondered whether you might have something to help, like Antrol?"
." Why, yes. As a matter of fact, we do." The nurse reached toward a back shelf and picked up a can with a poison label on it.
"You'll have to sign for it, if you don't mind. It has arsenic in it."
Mary was staring at the form placed in front of her. There was only one name on it. Mike Slade.
Chapter Ten
WHEN Mary tried to telephone Louis Desforges to tell him what she had learned, his line was busy. He was on the phone with Mike Slade. Dr. Desforges's first instinct had been to report the murder attempt except that he could not believe Slade was re sponsible. And so Louis had decided to telephone Slade himself "I have just left your ambassador," Louis Desforges said. "She is going to live."
"Well, that's good news, DOCtor. Why shouldn't she?" Louis's tone was cautious. "Someone has been poisoning her." "What are you talking about?" Mike demanded.
"I think perhaps you know what I'm talking about."
"Hold it! Are you saying that you think I'm responsible? You and I had better have a private talk someplace where we can't be overheard. Can you meet me tonight?"
"At what time?" asked Louis.
"I'm tied up until nine o'clock. Why don't you meet me a few minutes after, at Bineasa Forest. I'll meet you at the fountain and explain everything then."
Louis hesitated. "Very well. I will see you there." He hung up and thought, Mike Slade cannot possibly be behind this.
When Mary tried to telephone Louis again, he had left. No one knew where to reach him.
MARY and the children were having dinner at the residence. "You look a lot better," Beth said. "We were worried."
"I feel fine," Mary assured her. And it was the truth. Thank God for Louis l She could hear Mike Slade. Here's your coffee. I brewed it myself. Slowly killing her. She shuddered.
"Are you cold?" Tim asked.
"No, darling." Mary was thinking, I -must not involve the children in my 'nightmares. Besides, there is only one person who can help me. Stanton Rogers. But what proof do I have? That Mike Slade made coffee for me every morning?
Beth was talking to her. "So can we watch a movie tonight?"
Mary had not planned on running a movie, but she had spent so little time with the children lately that she decided to give them a treat. "Yes."
"Thank you, Madam Ambassador," Tim shouted. "Can we see American
Graffiti again?"
American Graffiti. And suddenly Mary knew what proof she might show Stanton Rogers.
At midnight she asked Carmen to call a taxi.
"Don't you want Florian to drive you?" Carmen asked. "No." This had to be done secretly.
"GooD evening, Madam Ambassador," said the marine guard when Mary emerged from the taxi. "Can I help you?"
"No, thank you. I'm going to my office for a few minutes."
The marine walked her to the entrance and opened the door for her. He watched her walk up the stairs to her office.
Mary turned the lights on and looked at the wall where the red scrawl had been washed away. She walked over to the connecting door that led to Mike Slade's office and entered. The room was in darkness. She turned on the lights.
There were no papers on his desk. The drawers were empty, except for brochures and timetables, innocent things that would be of no use to a snooping cleaning woman. Mary's eyes scrutinized the office. It had to be here somewhere.
She opened the drawers again and started examining their contents slowly and carefully. When she came to a bottom drawer, she felt something hard at the back, behind a mass of papers. She .pulled it out and held it in her hand, staring at it.
It was - a can of red spray paint.
AT A few minutes after nine p.m. Dr. Louis Desforges was waiting in Bineasa Forest, near the fountain. He wondered if he had done the wrong thing by not reporting Mike Slade. No, he thought. First I must hear what he has to say. If I made a false accusation, it would destroy him.
Mike Slade appeared suddenly out of the darkness. "Thanks for coming. We can clear this up very quickly. You said you thought someone was poisoning Mary Ashley."
: ,know it. Someone was feeding her arsenic." "And you think I'm responsible?"
"You could have put it in her coffee a little bit at a time."
:, Have you reported this to anyone?"
"Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first."
I'm glad you did," Mike said. He took his hand out of his pocket. In it was a -357-caliber Magnum pistol.
Louis stared. "What-what are you doing? Listen to me! You can't-""
Mike Slade pulled the trigger and watched the Frenchman's chest explode into a red cloud.
MARY was in the bubble room telephoning Stanton Bogers office on the secure line. It was six p.m. in Washington and one o'clock in the morning in Bucharest. "This is Ambassador Ashley.
I know that Mr. Rogers is in China with the President, but it's urgent that I speak to him. Is there any way I can reach him there?"
"I'm sorry, Madam Ambassador. His itinerary is very flexible. I have no telephone number for him."
Mary felt her heart plummet. "When will you hear from him?"
"It's difficult to say. They have a very busy schedule. Perhaps someone in the State Department could help you."
"No," Mary said dully. "No one else can help me. Thank you very much."
There she sat, surrounded by the most sophisticated electronic equipment in the world, and none of it was of any use to her.
Mike Slade was trying to murder her. She had to let someone know. But whom could she trust? The only one who knew what Mike Slade was trying to do was Louis Desforges.
Mary tried the number at his residence again, but there still was no answer. She remembered what Stanton Rogers had told her: "If you have any messages that you want to send to me without anyone else reading them, the code at the top of the message is three x's."
Mary hurried back to her office and wrote out an urgent message. She placed three x's at the top, took out the black code book from a locked drawer in her desk, and carefully encoded what she had written. At least if anything happened to her now, Stanton Rogers would know who was responsible.
Mary walked down the corridor to the communications room. Eddie Maltz, the CIA agent, happened to be behind the cage. "Good evening, Madam Ambassador. You're working late." "Yes. There's a message I want sent off right away."
"I'll take care of it personally."
"Thank you." She handed it to him and headed for the door.
When Eddie Maltz finished decoding the message, he read it through twice, frowning. He walked over to the shredder and watched the message turn into confetti.
Then he placed a call to Floyd Baker, the Secretary of State, in Washington. Code name: Thor.
IT TOOK Ley Pastemak two months to follow the circuitous trail that led to Buenos Aires. SIS and half a dozen other security agencies around the world had helped identify Angel as the killer. Mossad had given him the name of Neusa Mufiez, Angel's mistress. They all wanted to eliminate Angel. To Ley Pastemak, Angel had become an obsession.
Because of Pastemak's failure, Marin Groza had died, and Pastemak could never forgive himself for that. He could, however, make atonement.
He located the building where Neusa Muez lived and kept watch on it, waiting for Angel to appear. After five days, when there was no sign of him, Pastemak made his move. He waited until the woman left, and after fifteen minutes walked upstairs, picked the lock on her door, and entered the apartment. He searched it swiffly and thoroughly. There were no photographs, memos, or addresses that could lead him to Angel.
Pastemak discovered the suits in the closet. He examined the Heffera labels, took one of the jackets off the hanger, and tucked it under his arm. A minute later he was gone.
The following morning Ley Pastemak walked into Heffera's.
His hair was disheveled and his clothes were wrinkled, and he smelled of whiskey.
The manager of the men's shop came up to him and said disapprovingly, "May I help you, senor?"
Ley Pastemak grinned sheepishly. "Yeah," he said. "Tell you the truth, I got in a card game last night. We all got drunk.
Anyway, we ended up in my hotel room. One of the guys-I don't remember his name-left his jacket there." Ley held up the' jacket. "It had your label in it, so I figured you could tell me where to return it to him."
. The manager examined the jacket. "Yes, we tailored this. Please wait."
A few minutes later the man returned. "The name of the gentleman we made the jacket for is H. R. de Mendoza. He has a suite at the Aurora Hotel, suite four seventeen."
AT FOUR a.m. Ley Pastemak was silently moving down the deserted fourth-floor corridor of the Aurora Hotel. When he reached 417, he looked around to make sure no one was in sight.
He reached down to the lock and inserted a wire. When he heard the door click open, he pulled out a .45-caliber SIG-Sauer pistol with a silencer.
He sensed a draft as the door across the hall opened, and before he could swing around, he felt something hard and cold pressing. against the back of his neck.
"I don't like being followed," Angel said.
Ley Pastemak heard the click of the trigger a second before his brain was torn apart.
THE telephone call had come, and it was time to move. First Angel had some shopping to do. There was a good lingerie shop on
Pueyrred6n-expensive, but Neusa deserved the,best. The inside of the shop was cool and quiet.
"I would like to see a negligee, something very frilly," Angel said. The female clerk staied.
"The best you have."
Fifteen minutes later Angel left the shop and hailed a taxi.
Angel gave the driver an address on Humberto, alighted a block away, and hailed another taxi.
"A d6nde, porfavor?" "Aeropuerto."
There would be a ticket for London waiting there. Tourist. First class was too conspicuous.
Two hours later Angel watched the city of Buenos Aires disappear beneath the clouds, like some celestial magician's trick, and concentrated on the assignment ahead, thinking about the instructions that had been given. Make sure the children die with her. Their deaths must be spectacular.
Angel smiled and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
THE PAsSpoRT R= "H. R. DE Mendoza." The ticket at London's Heathrow Airport was on TAROM Airlines, to Bucharest.
Angel sent a telegram . from the airport: ARRIVING WEDNESDAY. H. R. DE MENDOZA.
It was addressed to Eddie Maltz.
IN the morning Mary kept trying to phone Louis at home. No answer. She
tried the French embassy. They had no idea where he was. "Please have him call me as soon as you hear from him."
She replaced the receiver. There was nothing to do but wait.
A few minutes later Dorothy Stone, her secretary, came into Mary's office. "There's a call for you, but she refuses to give her name.
"I'll take it." Mary picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Ambassador Ashley."
A soft female voice with a Remanian accent said, "This is Corina Socoli." The ballerina's name registered instantly.
"I need your help," the girl said. "I have decided to defect."
I can't handle this today, Mary thought. Not now. She said, "I-I don't know if I can help you." Her mind was racing. She tried to remember what she had been told about defectors: "Many of them are Soviet plants. We don't grant political asylum unless there's a dam good reason."
Corina Socoli was sobbing. "Please. I am not safe staying where I am. You must send someone to get me."
"Where are you?" Mary asked.
There was a pause. Then, "I am at the Roscow Inn, in Moldavia. Will you come for me?"
"I can't," Mary said. "But I'll send someone to get you. Don't call on this phone again. just wait where you are. I-"
The door opened, and Mike Slade walked in. Mary looked up in shock. He was moving toward her.
The voice on the phone was saying, "Hello? Hello?" "Who are you talking to?" Mike asked.
"To-to Dr. Desforges." She replaced the receiver, terrified.
"He's-he's on his way over to see me." Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. You're in the embassy. He wouldn't dare do anything to you here.
There was a strange look in Mike's eyes. "Are you sure you're well enough to be back at work?"
The nerve. "Yes. I'm fine." She was finding it hard to breathe.
Her intercom phone rang. "If you'll excuse me . . -"Sure." Mike Slade stood there staring at her, then turned and left.
Almost overcome with relief, Mary picked up the telephone.
"Hello?"
It was jerry Davis, the public affairs consul. "Madam Ambassador, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm afraid I have some terrible news. Dr.
Louis Desforges has been murdered."
The room began to swim. "Are you-are you sure?" "Yes, ma'am. His wallet was found on his body."
Sensory memories flooded through her, and a voice over the telephone was saying, "This is Sheriff Monster. Your husband has been killed in a car accident." And all the old sorrows came rushing back, stabbing at her, tearing her apart.
"How did it happen?" Her voice was strangled. "He was shot to death."
"Do they-do they know who did it?"
"No, ma'am. The Securitate .4nd the French embassy are investigating."
Mary dropped the receiver, her mind and body numb, and leaned back in her chair, studying the. ceiling. There was a crack in it. I must have that repaired, Mary thought. We mustn't have cracks in our embassy. There's another-crack. Cracks everywhere, and when there is a crack, evil things get in. Edward is dead.
Louis is dead. I can't go through this pain again. Who would want to kill Louis?
The answer immediately followed the question. Mike Slade.
Louis had discovered that Slade was feeding Mary arsenic. Slade probably thought that with Louis dead, no one could prove anything against him. A sudden realization filled her with a new terror. Who are you talking to? But Mike must have known that Desforges was dead.
Mary stayed in her office all morning, planning her next move.
I'm not going to let Mike Slade drive me away, she decided. I'm not going to let him kill me. I have to stop him. She was filled with a rage such as she had never known before. She was going to protect herself and her children. And she was going to destroy Mike Slade.
"Madam Ambassador..." Dorothy Stone was holding an envelope out to her. "The guard at the gate asked me to give you this."
The envelope was marked "Personal. For the amba , ssador's eyes only." Mary tore it open. The note was written in a neat copperplate handwriting. It read:
Dear Madam Ambassador:
Enjoy your last day on earth. Angel
Another one of Mike's scare tactics, Mary thought. It won't work. I'll keep well away from him.
COLONEL MCKinney was studying the note. He looked up at Mary. "You were scheduled to appear this afternoon at the ground breaking for the new library addition. I'll cancel it and-"
"No."
"Madam Ambassador, it's too dangerous for you to-"
"I'll be safe." She knew where the danger lay, and she had a plan. "Please tell Mike Slade that I wish to see him right away."
"You wanted to talk to me?" Mike Slade's tone was casual. "I received a call from someone who wants to defect." "Who is it?"
She had no intention of telling him. He would betray the girl. "That's not important. I want you to bring this, person in." Mike frowned. "This could lead to a lot of-"
Mary cut him short. "I want you to go to the ]Roscow Inn at Moldavia and pick her up."
He started to argue, until he saw the expression on her face. "If that's what you want, I'll send-"
"No." Mary's voice was steel. "I want you to go. I'm sending two men with you." With Gunny and another marine along, Mike would not be able to play any tricks. She had told Gunny not to let Mike Slade out of his sight.
Mike was studying Mary, puzzled. "I have a heavy schedule," he began.
"I want you to leave immediately. Gunny is waiting for you in your office. You're to bring the defector back here to me."
Mike nodded slowly. "All right."
Mary watched him go, with a feeling of relief so intense that she felt giddy. With Mike Slade out of the way, she would be safe.
THE ground-breaking ceremony for the new American library addition was
scheduled to be held at four o'clock at Alexandru Sahia Square, in a vacant lot next to the main library building. By three p.m. a large crowd had already gathered. Captain Aurel Istrase, head of the Securitate, had been told of the death threat and had ordered all automobiles removed from the square, so that there was no danger of a car bomb. In addition, police had been stationed around the entire area and a sharpshooter was on the roof of the library. At a few minutes before four, bomb experts swept the area and found no explosives; everything was in readiness for Mar)ls arrival.
As Mary walked from her limousine toward the lot where the ceremony was to take place, two armed -members of the Securitate walked in front of her and two behind her, shielding her with their bodies.
The onlookers applauded as she stepped into the small circle that had been cleared for her. The crowd was a mixture of Romamans, Americans, and attaches from other embassies in Bucharest. As Mary looked at the people she thought, I should never have come here. I'm terrified.
Colonel McKinney was saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present the ambassador from the United States of America."' The crowd applauded.
Mary took a deep breath and began. "Thank you.
She had been so caught up in the maelstrom of events of the past week that she had not prepared a speech, but some deep wellspring within her gave her the words. She found herself saying, "What we are doing here today may seem a small thing, but it is important, because it is one more bridge between our country and all the countries of Eastern Europe. The new buildding we are dedicating here today will be filled with information about the United States of America......
Colonel McKinney and his men were moving through the crowd. The note had said "Enjoy your last day on earth." When did the killer's day end? Six p.m.? Nine? Midnight?
On the far side of the square a car suddenly raced past the police barrier and screamed to a stop. at the curb. As a startled policeman moved toward it the driver jumped out and began running away. As he ran, he pulled a device from his pocket and pressed it. The car exploded, sending out a shower of metal into the er.owd. None of it reached the center,"where Mary was standing, but the spectators began to panic, trying to get away. The sharpshooter on the roof raised his rifle and put a bullet through the fleeing man's heart before he could escape.
It took the Remanian police an hour to clear the crowd away and remove the body. The fire department had put out the flames of the burning car'. Mary was driven back to the embassy, shaken.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to go to the residence and rest?" Colonel McKinney asked her. "You've just been through a horrifying experience."
"No," Mary said stubbornly. "The embassy." That was the only place where she could safely talk to Stanton Rogers. I must talk to him soon, she thought, or I'll go to pieces.
The strain of everything that was happening to her was becoming unbearable. She had made sure that Mike Slade was safely. out of the way, yet an attempt had still been made on her life. So he was not working alone.
AT six o'clock Mike Slade walked into Mary's office. He was furious. "I put Corina Socoli in a room upstairs", he said curtly.
"Nice shot, not to tell me who I was picking up. You've made a big mistake. We have to return her. She's a national treasure. The Romanian government would never allow her out of the country." Colonel McKinney hurried into the office. He stopped short as he saw Mike. "We have an identification on the dead man. He's Angel, all right. His real name is H. R. de Mendoza."
Mike was staring at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Didn't the ambassador tell you? She received a death warning from Angel. He tried to assassinate her at the ground-breaking ceremony this afternoon. One of Istrase's men got him."
Mike stood there, his eyes fixed on Mary. "Where's the body?" he asked McKinney.
"In the morgue at police headquarters."
THE body was lying on a stone slab. He had been an ordinarylooking man, of medium height, with a small, thin nose that went with his tight mouth, very small feet, and thinning hair. His belongings were piled on a table.
Mike examined the jacket label. It was from a shop in Buenos Aires. The leather shoes also had an Argentinean label. Mike turned to the sergeant. "What do you have on him?"
"He flew in from London on TAROM Airlines two days ago, checked into the Intercontinental under the name of de Mendoza.
His passport shows his home address as Buenos Aires. It is forged. He does not look like an international killer, does he?"
"No," Mike agreed. "He doesn't."
Two dozen blocks away Angel was walking past the residence.
The photographs that had been sent were excellent, but Angel believed in personally checking out every detail.
,Angel grinned at the thought of the harade in the town square.
It had been child's play to hire a junkie for the price of a nose-ful of cocaine. It threw everyone off guard. Let them sweat. But the big event is yet to come, Angel thought. For five million dollars I will give them a show they will never forget. What do the television networks call them? Spectaculars. They will get a spectacular in living color.
There will be a Fourth of July celebration at the residence , the voice had said. "There will be balloons, a marine band, entertainers." Angel smiled and thought, A five-million-dollar spectacular.
STANroN Rogers was on the line from Washington. Mary grabbed the private phone in the bubble room as if it were a lifeline.
"Mary, I can't understand a word you're saying. Slow down." "I'm sorry, Stan. Didn't you get my cable?"
"No. I've just returned. There was no cable from you. What's wrong?"
Mary fought to control her hysteria, thinking, Where should I begin? She took a deep breath, and said, "Mike Slade is trying to murder me."
There was a shocked silence. "Mary, you can't believe-"
"It's true. I know it is. I met a doctor from the French embassyLouis Desforges. I became ill, and he found out I was being poisoned with arsenic. Mike was doing it."
Rogers' voice was sharp. "What makes you think that?"
"Louis-Dr. Desforges-figured it out. Mike Slade made coffee for me every morning, with arsenic in it. I have proof that he got hold of the arsenic. Last night Louis was murdered, and this afternoon someone working with Slade tried to assassinate me."
This time the silence was even longer.
When Stanton Rogers spoke again, his tone was urgent. "What I'm going to ask you is very important, Mary. Think carefally.
Could it have been anyone besides Mike Slade?"
"No. He's been trying to get me out from the beginning." "All right," Rogers said crisply. "I'll inform the President.
We'll handle Slade. I'll also arrange extra protection for you."
"Stan, Sunday night I'm giving a Fourth of July party at the residence. Do you think I should cancel it?"
There was a thoughtful silence. "As a matter of fact, the party might
be a good idea. Keep a lot of people around you. Mary, I don't want to frighten you any more than you already are, but I would suggest that you not let the children out of your sight. Not for a minute. Slade might try to get at you. through them."
She felt a shudder go through her. "Why is Slade doing this?"
"I wish I knew. It makes no sense. But I'm going to find out. In the meantime, keep as far away from him as you possibly can."
When Mary hung up, it was as though an enormous burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
EDDiE Maltz answered on the first ring. The conversation lasted for ten minutes.
"I'll make sure everything is there," Eddie promised. Angel hung up.
Eddie Maltz thought, I wonder what Angel needs all that stuff for. He looked at his watch. Forty-eight hours to go.
THE moment Stanton Rogers finished talking to Mary, he placed an emergency call to Colonel McKinney. "I want you to pick up Mike Slade," he said. "Hold him in close custody until you hear from me."
"Mike Slade?" asked the colonel incredulously.
"I want him held and isolated. He's probably armed and dangerous. Don't let him talk to anyone. Call me back at the White House as soon as you have him."
"Yes, sir."
Two hours later Stanton Rogers' phone rang. He snatched up the receiver.
"It's Colonel.McKinney, Mr. Rogers." "Do you have Slade?"
"No, sir. There's a problem. Mike Slade has disappeared."
Sofia, Bulgaria. Saturday, July 3- In a small, nondescript building, a group of Eastern Committee members was meeting. Seated around the table were powerful representatives from Russia, China, Czechoslovakia, Pakistan, India, and Malaysia.
The chairman was speaking. "We welcome our brothers and sisters on the Eastern Committee who have joined us today. I am happy to tell you that we have excellent news from the Western Committee. The final phase of our plan is about to be successfully concluded. It will happen tomorrow night at the American ambassador's residence in Bucharest. Arrangements
have been made for international press and television coverage."
Code name Kali spoke. "The American ambassador and her two children-" "Will be assassinated, along with a hundred or so other Americans. We are all aware of the grave risks and the holocaust that may follow. It is time to put the motion to a vote." He started at the far end of the table. "Brahma?"
"Yes."
"Vishnu?"
"Yes." "Krishna?" "Yes."
When everyone had voted, the chairman declared, "It is unanimous. We owe a particular vote of thanks to the person who has helped so much to bring this about." He turned to the American.
"My pleasure," Mike Slade said.
THE decorations for the Fourth of July party were flown into Bucharest late Saturday afternoon and trucked directly to a United States government warehouse. The cargo consisted of a thousand red, white, and blue balloons packed in flat.boxes, three steel cylinders of helium to blow up the balloons, two hundred and fifty rolls of streamers, party favors, noisemakers, a dozen banners, and six dozen miniature American flags. The cargo.was unloaded in the warehouse at eight p.m. Two hours later a jeep arrived with three oxygen cylinders stamped with U.S. Army markings. The driver placed them inside.
At one a.m., when the warehouse was deserted, Angel appeared. The warehouse door had been left unlocked. Angel went inside, examined the cylinders carefully, and went to work. The first task was to empty the three helium tanks until each was only one-third full. After that, the rest was simple.
AT six o'clock on the evening Of July 4 a U.S. Army truck pulled up to the service entrance of the residence and was stopped. The guard said, "What have you got in there?"
"Goodies for the party tonight."
"Let's take a look." The guard inspected the inside of the truck. "What's in the boxes?"
"Some helium and balloons and flags and stuff." "Open them."
Fifteen minutes later the truck was passed through. Inside the compound a marine corporal and two marine guards unloaded the equipment and carried it into a storage room off the ballroom.
As they began to unpack, Eddie Maltz walked in, accompanied by a stranger wearing army fatigues.
One guard said, "Who's going to blow up all these balloons?"
"Don't worry," Eddie Maltz said. "This is the age of technology." He nodded toward the stranger. "Here's the one that's in charge of the balloons. Colonel McKinney's orders."
The other guard grinned at the stranger."'Better you than me." The two guards finished unpacking and left.
"You have an hour," Eddie Maltz told the stranger. "Better get to work." Maltz nodded to the corporal and walked out.
The corporal walked over to one of the cylinders. "What's in these babies?"
"Helium," the stranger said curtly.
As the corporal stood watching, the stranger picked up a balloon, put the neck to the nozzle of a cylinder for an instant, and, as the balloon filled, tied off the neck. The balloon floated to the ceiling. The whole operation took no more than a second.
"Hey, that's great." The corporal smiled.
IN HER Office at the embassy Mary Ashley was finishing UP some action cables. She desperately wished the party could have been called off There were going to be more than two hundred guests. She hoped Mike Slade was caught before the party began.
Tim and Beth were under constant supervision at the residence. How could Mike bear to harm them? He's not sane, she thought.
Mary rose to put some papers into the shredder, and froze.
Mike Slade was walking into her office through the connecting door. She opened her mouth to scream.
She was terrified. He could kill her before she could call for help, and he could escape the same way he had come in.
"Colonel McKinney's men are looking for you. You -can kill me," Mary said defiantly, "but you'll never escape."
Angel's the one who's trying to kill you," Mike said. "You're a liar. Angel is dead. I saw him shot."
"Angel is a professional from Argentina. The last thing he would do is walk around with Argentine labels in his clothes. The slob the police killed was an amateur who was set up."
"I don't believe a word you're saying," Mary said. "You killed Dr. Desforges. You tried to poison me. Do you deny that?"
Mike studied her for a long moment. "No. I don't deny it, but you'd better hear the story from a friend of mine." He turned toward the door to his office. "Come in, Bill."
Colonel McKinney walked into the room. "I think it's time we all had a chat, Madam Ambassador. . .
IN the residence storage room the stranger in army fatigues was filling the balloons under the watchful eye of the corporal.
Boy, that's one ugly customer, the corporal thought. Whewl The corporal could not understand why the white balloons were being filled from one cylinder, the red balloons from a second cylinder, and the blue ones from a third. Why not use each cylinder until it's empty? he wondered. He was tempted to ask, but he did not want to start a conversation. Not with this one.
"LET's start at the beginning," Colonel McKinney said. "On Inauguration Day when the President announced that he wanted to open relations with every iron curtain country, he exploded a bombshell. There's a faction in our government that's convinced that if we get too involved with the Eastern bloc, the Communists will destroy us. On the other side of the iron curtain there are Communists who believe that our President's plan is a trick-a Trojan horse to bring our capitalist spies into their countries. A group of powerful men on both sides had formed a supersecret alliance, called Patriots for Freedom. They decided the only way to destroy the President's plan was to let him start it, and then to sabotage it in such a dramatic way that it would never be tried again. That's where you came into the picture."
"But why me? Why was I chosen?"
"Because the packaging was important," Mike said. "You were exactly the image they needed-Mrs. America, with two squeakyclean kids. They were determined to have you. When your husband got in the wa . way, they murdered him and made it look like an accident so you wouldn't have any suspicions and refuse the post."
Mary could not speak. The horror of what Mike was saying was too appalling.
"Their next step was your buildup. They used their press connections around the world and saw to it that you became everyone's darling-the beautiful lady who was going to lead the world down the road to peace."
"And-and now?"
Mike's voice gentled. "Their plan is to assassinate you and the children as shockingly as possible-to sicken the world so much that it would put an end to any further ideas of ddtente."
Mary sat there in stunned silence.
"That states it bluntly but accurately," Colonel McKinney said quietly. "Mike is with the CIA. After your husband and Marin Groza were murdered, Mike started to get on the trail of Patriots for Freedom. They thought he was on their Ode and invited him to join.
"we talked the idea over with President Ellison, and he gave his approval. The President has been kept abreast of every development. His overriding concern has been that you and the children be protected, but he dared not discuss what he knew with you or anyone else, because Ned Tillingest, head of the CIA, had warned him that there were high-level leaks."
Mary's head was spinning. She said to Mike, "But you tried to kill me."
He sighed. "Lady, I've been trying to save your life. You haven't made it easy. I tried every way I knew how to get you to take the kids and go home, where you'd be safe."
"But you poisoned me."
"Not fatally. I wanted to get you just sick enough so that you'd have to leave Remania. Our doctors were waiting for 'you in Frankfurt. I couldn't tell you the truth, because it would have blown the whole operation. Even now, we don't know who put the organization together. He never attends meetings. He's known only as the Controller."
"And Louis?"
"The doctor was one of them. He was Angel's backup. He was an explosives expert. A phony kidnapping was set up, and you were rescued by Mr. Charm." Mike saw the expression on Mary Is face. "You were lonely and vulnerable, and they worked on that.
You weren't the first one to fall for the good doctor." Something bothered Mary. "But Mike, why did you kill Louis?"
"I had no choice. The whole point of their plan was to murder you,and the children as publicly and spectacularly as possible.
Louis knew I was a member of the Committee. Poisoning wasn't the way you were supposed to die. When he figured out that I was poisoning you, he became suspicious of me. I had to kill him before he exposed me to the Committee."
Mary sat there listening as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The man she had distrusted had poisoned her to keep her alive, and the
man she thought she loved had saved her for a more dramatic death. She and her children had been used. I was the Judas goat, Mary thought. All the warmth that everyone showed me was phony. The only one who was real was Stanton Rogers.
Or was he? "Stanton," Mary began. "Is he-"
"He's been protective of you all the way," Colonel McKinney assured her. "When he thought Mike was the one trying to kill you, he ordered me to arrest him."
Mary looked at Mike. He had been sent here to protect her, and all the time she had looked on him as the enemy. Her thoughts were in a turmoil. "Then Louis never did have a wife or children?"
"No."
Mary remembered something. "But I asked Eddie Maltz to check, and he told me that Louis was married and had two daughters."
Mike and Colonel McKinney exchanged a look.
"He'll be taken care of," McKinney said. "I sent him to Frankfurt. I'll have him picked up."
"Who is Angel?" Mary asked.
Mike answered, "He's an assassin from South America. He's probably the best in the world. The Committee agreed to pay him five million dollars to kill you."
Mary listened to the words in disbelief.
Mike went on. "We know he's in Bucharest, but we don't have a single description of Angel. He uses a dozen different passports.
No one has ever talked directly to him. They deal through his mistress, Neusa Mufiez. The various groups in the Committee are so compartmentalized that I haven't been able to learn what Angel's plan is."
"What's to stop him from killing me?"
"Us," said Colonel McKinney. "With the help of the Remanian government we've taken extraordinary precautions for the party.
We've covered every possible contingency." "What happens now?" Mary asked.
Mike said carefully, "That's up to you. Angel was ordered to carry out the contract at your party tonight. We're sure we can catch him, but if you and the children aren't at the party . .
"You're asking me to set myself up as a target?" Colonel McKinney said, "You don't have to agree."
I could end this now, Mary said to herself. I could go back to Kansas with the children and leave this nightmare behind. Angel would forget about me. She looked up at Mike and Bill McKinney and said, "I won't expose my children to danger."
McKinney said, "I can arrange for Beth and Tim to be spirited out of the residence and taken here under escort."
Mary looked at Mike for a long time. Finally she spoke. "How does a Judas goat dress?"
Chapter Eleven
There was a tremendous feeling of excitement in the air. Hundreds of curious Remanians had gathered outside the residence, which was ringed with huge spotlights that lit up the sky. The crowd was kept in order by a detachment of American MPs and Remanian police. Plain clothes men mingled with the multitude, looking for anything suspicious. Some of them moved around with trained police dogs that were sniffing for explosives.
The press coverage was enormous. There were photographers and reporters from a dozen countries. They had all been carefully checked and their equipment searched before they were allowed to'enter the residence.
"A cockroach couldn't sneak into this place tonight," the marine officer in-charge of security boasted.
IN THE storage room the marine corporal was getting bored watching the person in army fatigues filling up the balloons. He pulled out a cigarette and started to light it.
Angel yelled, "Put that out!"
The corporal looked up, startled. "What's the problem? You're filling those with helium, aren't you? Helium doesn't burn."
"Put it out! Colonel McKinney said no smoking here." Grumbling, the corporal put out the cigarette.
Angel watched to make sure there were no sparks left, then turned back to the task of filling each balloon from a different cylinder.
It was true that helium did not burn, but the cylinders were not filled with helium. The first tank was filled with propane, the second tank with white phosphorus, and the third with an oxygen-acetylene mix. Angel had left just enough helium in each tank to make the balloons rise.
Angel was filling the white balloons with propane, the red balloons with
oxygen-acetylene, and the blue balloons with white phosphorus. When the balloons were exploded, the white phosphorus would act as an incendiary for the initial gas discharge, drawing in oxygen so that all breath would be sucked out of the body of anyone within fifty yards. The phosphorus would instantly turn to a hot, scaring molten liquid, falling on every person in the room. The thermal effect would destroy the lungs and throat, and the blast would flatten an area of a square block.
It's going to be beautiful, Angel thought.
Angel straightened up and looked at the colorful balloons floating against the ceiling of the storage room. "I am finished."
"Okay." The corporal called four marine guards who were stationed in the ballroom itself.. "Help me get these balloons out there."
One of the guards opened wide the doors to the ballroom, which was already crowded with guests. The room had been decorated with American flags and red, white, and blue streamers. At the far end was a raised'stand for the band.
"It's a lovely room," Angel said, thinking, In one hour it will be filled with burned corpses. "Could I take a picture of it?"
The corporal shrugged. "Why not? Let's go, fellas."
The marines pushed past Angel and started shoving the inflated balloons into the ballroom. "Easy," Angel warned. "Easy."
"Don't worry," a marine called. "We won't break your precious balloons."
Angel stood in the doorway, staring at the riot of colors ascending in a rising rainbow, and smiled. One thousand of the lethal little beauties nestled against the ceiling. Angel took a camera from a pocket and stepped into the ballroom.
"Heyl You're not allowed in here," the corporal said. "I just want to take a picture to show my daughter."
I'll bet that's some looking daughter, the corporal thought sardonically. "All right. But make it quick."
Angel glanced across the room. Ambassador Mary Ashley was entering with her two children. Angel grinned. Perfect timing.
When the corporal turned his back, Angel quickly set the camera down under a cloth-covered table. The automatic timing device was set for a one-hour delay. Everything was ready.
Five minutes later Angel was outside the residence, strolling down Alexandru Sahia Street.
BEFORE the party began, Mary had taken the children upstairs. She felt she owed them the truth.
They sat listening, wide-eyed, as Mary explained what had been happening and what might be about to happen.
"You'll be taken out of here, where you'll be safe," she said. "But what about you?" Beth asked. "Can't you come with us?" "No, darling. Not if we want to catch this man."
Tim was trying not to cry. "How do you know they'll catch him?" Mary thought about that a moment, and said, "Because Mike Slade said so." Okay, fellas?"
Beth and Tim looked at each other. They were both whitefaced, terrified. Mary's heart went out to them. They're too young to have to go through this, she thought.
Fifteen minutes later Mary, Beth, and Tim entered the ballroom. They walked across the floor, greeting guests, trying to conceal their nervousness. When they reached the other side of the room, Mary turned to the children. "You have to get up very early tomorrow, " she said loudly. "Back to your rooms."
The moment the children left the ballroom, they were escorted to the service entrance by Colonel McKinney. He said to the two armed marines waiting at the door, "Take them to the embassy.
Don't let them out of your sight."
Mike Slade watched them leave, then went to find Mary.
"The children are on their way. I have to do some checking. I'll be back."
Mary tried to stop the pounding of her heart. How was Angel planning to assassinate her? She looked around the festive ballroom, but there was no clue.
"Don't leave me." The words came out before she could stop herself "I want to go with you. I feel safer with you."
Mike grinned. "Now, that's a switch. Come on."
Mary followed him, staying close behind. The orchestra had begun playing, and people were dancing. Those who were not dancing were helping themselves from the silver trays of champagne being offered, or from the buffet tables.
The room looked spectacular. Mary raised her head, and there were the balloons, a thousand of them-red, white, and bluefloating against the
pink ceiling. Her nerves were so taut that she was finding it difficult to breathe. Angel could be watching her .this very minute.
"Do you think Angel is here now?- she asked.
"don't kno*," Mike said. He saw the expression on her face. Look, if you want to leave-"
"No. I'm the bait. Without me, he won't spring the trap." He nodded and squeezed her arm. "Rlight."
Colonel McKinney approached. "We've done a thorough search, Mike. We haven't found a thing. I don't like it."
"Plees take another look around." Mike signaled to four armed, marines standing by, and they moved up next to Mary. "Be right back," Mike said.
Mary swallowed nervously. "Please."
Mike and McKinney, accompanied by two guards with sniffer dogs, searched every room in the residence. They found nothing suspicious.
In one of the guest rooms, its door guarded by marines, was Corina Socoli, lying on the bed reading a book. Young and beautiful and talented, the Remanian national treasure. Could she be a plant? Could she be helping Angel?
They returned to the kitchen.
"What about poison?" asked McKinney.
"Not photogenic enough. Angel's going for the big bang."
"Mike, there's no way anyone could get explosives into this place. The place is clean."
"There's one way."
McKinney looked at Mike. "How?" "I don't know. But Angel knows."
They searched the library and the offices again. Nothing. They passed the storage room, where the corporal was shoving out a few balloons that had been left behind. He watched them float to the ceiling.
"Pretty, huh?" the corporal said.
"Yeah," Mike said. He started to walk on, then stopped. "Corporal, where did these balloons come from?"
"From the U.S. air base in Frankfurt, sir."
Mike indicated the helium cylinders. "And these?"
"Same place. They were escorted to our warehouse per Colonel McKinney's instructions, sir."
Mike said to McKinney, "Let's check upstairs again."
They turned to leave. The corporal said, "Oh, Colonel, the person you sent forgot to leave a time slip. Is that going to be handled by military payroll or civilian?"
Colonel McKinney frowned. "What person?" "The one you authorized to fill the balloons." "I never- Who said I authorized it?"
"Eddie Maltz. He said youMcKinney said, "Eddie Maltz?"
Mike turned to the corporal, his voice urgent. "What did this man look like?"
"Oh, it wasn't a man, sir. It was a woman. To tell you the truth, I thought she looked weird. Fat and ugly. She had a funny accent.
She was pockmarked and had kind of a puffy face."
Mike said to McKinney, "That sounds a lot like the description of Neusa Mufiez that Harry lantz gave the Committee."
The revelation hit them both at the same time.
Mike said slowly, "Oh, my Godl Neusa Muez is Angell" He pointed to the cylinders. "She filled the balloons from these?"
"Yes, sir. It was funny. I lit a cigarette, and she screamed at me to put it out. I said. "Helium doesn't burn," and she said-"
Mike looked up. "The baloons! The explosives are in the baloons!" The two men stared at the high ceiling covered with the spectacular red, white, and blue balloons.
"She must be using some kind of a remote-control device to explode them." Mike turned to the corporal. "How long ago did she leave?"
"I guess about an hour ago."
UNDER the table, unseen, the timing device had six minutes left.
Mike was frantically scanning the room. "She could have put the timer anywhere. It could go off any second. We'll never find it."
Mary was approaching. Mike turned to her. "You've got to clear the room. Fast! Make an announcement. It will sound better coming from you. Get everybody outside."
She was looking at him, bewildered. "But why?"
"We found our playmate's toy," Mike said grimly. He pointed. Those balloons. They're lethal."
Mary was looking up at them, horror on her face. "Can't we take them down?"
Mike snapped, "There are hundreds of them. By the time-" Mary's throat was so dry she could hardly get the words out.
"Mike . . . I know a way." The two men stared at her. "The Ambassador's Folly. The roof It slides open."
Mike tried to control his excitement. "How does it work?"
:"There's a switch that-"
"No," Mike said. "Nothing electrical. A spark could set them all off. Can it be done manually?"
" Yes. The roof is divided in half There's a crank on each side that-" She was talking to herself The two men were frantically racing upstairs. When they reached the top floor, they found a door opening onto a loft and hurried inside. A wooden ladder led to a catwalk above that was used by workmen when they cleaned the ballroom ceiling. A crank was fastened to the wall.
"There must be another one on the other side," Mike said.
He started across the narrow catwalk, pushing his way through the sea of deadly balloons, struggling to keep his balance, trying not to look down at the mob of people far below. A current of air pushed a mass of balloons against him, and he slipped. One foot went off the catwalk. He began to fall. He grabbed the boards as he fell, hanging on. Slowly he managed to pull himself up. He was soaked in perspiration. He inched his way along the rest of the walk. Fastened to the wall was the crank.
"I'm ready," Mike called to the colonel, who was hidden from sight by the balloons. "Careful. No sudden moves."
"Right."
Mike began turning the crank very slowly.
Under the table, the timer was down to two minutes.
Mixe could hear the other crank being turned. Slowly, very Slowly, the
roof started to slide open. A few balloons drifted into the night air, and as the roof opened farther, more balloons began to escape. Hundreds of them poured through the opening, dancing into the star-filled night, drawing oohs and aahs from the unsuspecting guests below and the people out in the street.
Under the table, there were forty-five seconds remaining on the remote-control timer. A cluster of balloons caught on the edge of the ceiling, just out of Mike's reach. He leaned forward, trying to free them. They swayed just beyond his fingertips. Carefully he moved out on the catwalk, with nothing to hold on to, and strained to push the
balloons free. Now! Mike stood there watching the last of the balloons
-escape. They soared higher and higher, painting the velvet night with their vivid colors, and suddenly the -sky exploded.
There Was a tremendous roar, and the tongues of red and white flames shot high into the air. It was a Fourth of July celebration such as hoid never been seen before. Below, everyone applauded.
Mike watched, drained, too tired to move. It was over.
The roundup was timed to take place simultaneously, in farflung corners of the world.
Floyd Baker, the Secretary of State, was with his mistress when the door burst open. Four men came into the room. "FBI, Mr. Secretary. You're under arrest."
"You must be mad. What's the charge?" "Treason, Thor."
General Oliver Brooks, Odin, was having breakfitst at his club when two FBI agents walked up to his table and arrested him.
In London, Sir Alex Hyde-White, K.B.E., M.P., one of the senior heads of the British Secret Intelligence, Service, code nwne Freyr, was being toasted at a parliamentary dinner when the club steward approached him. "Excuse me, Sir Alex. There are some gentlemen outside who would like a word with you. "
In Paris, in the Chambre des D,6putds de la Rdpublique Frangaise, a deputy, Balder, was called off the floor.
In the parliament building in New Delhi, the speaker of the' Lok Sabha, Vishnu, was taken to jail.
In Rome, a deputy of the Camera dei Deputati, Tyr, was in a Turkish bath when he was arrested.
The sweep went on. In Mexico and Albania and Japan, high officials were arrested. A member of the Bundestag in West Germany, a deputy in the Nationalrat in Austria, the vice-chairman of the Presidium of the Soviet Union. The arrests included the president of a large shipping company
and a powerful union leader, a telesion evangelist and the head of an oil cartel.
Eddie Maltz was shot while trying to escape.
Pete Connors committed suicide while FBI agents were breaking down the door to his office.
MARY Ashley and Mike Slade were in the bubble room receiving telephone reports from around the world. Mike replaced the receiver and turned to Mary. "They've got most of them. Except for the Controller and Neusa Mufiez-Angel."
"No one knew that Angel was a woman?" Mary marveled.
"No. She had all of us fooled. Lantz described her to the Patriots for Freedom Committee as a fat, ugly moron.
"What about the Controller?" Mary asked.
"No one ever saw him. He gave orders by telephone. He was a brilliant organizer. The Committee was broken up into small cells so that one group never knew what the other was doing."
ANGEL was like an enraged animal. The contract had gone wrong somehow, but she had been prepared to make up for it.
She had called the private number in Washington and, using her dull, listless voice, had said, "Angel say to tell you no't to worry. There was some mistake, but he weel take care of it, mester. They will all die nex' time, and-"
"There won't be a next time!" the voice had exploded. "Angel bungled it. He's worse than an amateur."
"Angel tol' me-"
"I don't give a damn what he told you. He's finished. He won't get a cent. just tell that incompetent to keep away. I'll find someone else who knows how to do the job." And he had slammed the phone down.
The gringo dog. No one had ever treated Angel like that and lived. The man was going to pay. Oh, how he would pay!
THE private phone in the bubble room rang. Mary picked it up. It was Stanton Rogers. "Mary! You're safe! Thank God it's over. Tell me what happened."
"It was Angel. She tried to blow up the residence and-" "You mean he."
"No. Angel is a woman. Her name is Neusa Muez."
There was a long, stunned silence. "Neusa Muez? That fat, ugly moron was Angel?"
Mary felt a sudden chill. "That's right, Stan," she said slowly. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mary?"
"No. I'm on my way to see the children. I'll talk to you later." She replaced the receiver and sat dazed.
Mike looked at her. "What's the matter?"
She turned to him. "You said that Harry Lantz told only some Committee members what Neusa Mufiez looked like."
"Yes."
Mary said, "Stanton Rogers just described her."
WHEN Angel's plane landed at Dulles Airport, she went to a telephone booth and dialed the Controller's private number.
The familiar voice said, "Stanton Rogers."
Two days later Mike, Colonel McKinney, and Mary were seated in the embassy conference room. An electronics expert had just finished debugging it.
"It all fits now," Mike said. "The Controller had to be Stanton Rogers, but none of us could see it."
"But why would he want to kill me?" Mary asked. "In the beginning he was against my being appointed ambassador. He told me so himself."
Mike explained. "He hadn't completely formulated his plan then. But once he realized what you and the children symbolized, he fought for you to get the nomination. That's what threw us off the track. He was behind you all the way, seeing to it that you got a buildup in the press."
Mary shuddered. "Why did he get involved with-"
"He never forgave Paul Ellison for being President. He felt cheated. He started out as a liberal, and he married a right-wing reactionary. My guess is that his wife turned him around."
"Have they found him yet?"
"No. He's disappeared. But he can't hide for very long."
Stamton Rogers' head was found in a Washington, D.C., garbage dump two
days later. His eyes had been torn out.
PAUL Ellison was calling from the White House. "I'm refusing to accept your resignation, Mary. I know how 'much you've been through, but I'm asking you to remain at your post in Remania."
I know how much you've been through. Did anyone have any idea? She had been so unbelievably naive. She was going to show the world how wonderful Americans really were. And all the time she had been a
cat's-paw. She and her children had been placed in mortal danger. She thought of Edward and how he had been murdered, and of Louis and his lies and his death. She thought of the destruction Angel had sown all over the world.
I'm not the same person I was when I came here, Mary thought.
I've grown up the hard way, but I've grown up. I've managed to accomplish something here. I got Hannah Murphy out of prison, and I made our grain deal. I saved the' life of Ionescu's son, and I rescued some Jews.
"Hello. Are you there?" the President asked.
"Yes, sir." She looked over at Mike Slade, who was slouched back in his chair studying her.
"You've done a truly remarkable job," the President said.
"You're the person we need over there. You'll be doing our country a great service."
The President was waiting for an answer. Mary was weighing her decision. Finally she said, "Mr. President, if I did agree to stay, I would insist that.our country give sanctuary to Corina Socoli."
"I'm sorry, Mary. I've already explained why we can't do that. It would offend lonescu and-"
"He'll get over it. I know lonescu, Mr. President. He's using her as a bargaining chip."
There was a long silence. "How would you get her out?"
"An army cargo plane is due to arrive in the morning. I'll send her out in that."
There was a pause. "I'll square it with State. If that's all-"
Mary looked over at Mike Slade again. "There's one thing more. I want Mike Slade to stay here with me. I need him. We make a good team."
Mike was watching her, a private smile on his lips.
"I'm afraid that's impossible," the President said firmly. "I need Slade back here. He already has another assignment."
Mary sat there holding the phone, saying nothing.
The President went on. "We'll send you someone else. Anyone you want. Mary? Hello? What is this-some kind of blackmaill?"
Mary sat silently waiting.
Finally the President said grudgingly. "Well, I suppose if you really need him, we might spare him for a little while."
Mary felt her heart lighten. "Thank you, Mr. President. I'll be happy to stay on as ambassador."
The President had a final parting shot. "You're one ace of a negotiator, Madun Ambassador. I have some interesting plans in mind for you when you're finished there. Good luck! And stay out of trouble." The line went dead.
Mary replaced the receiver and looked at Mike. "You're going to be staying here. He told me to stay out of trouble."
Mike Slade grinned. "He has a nice sense of humor." He rose and moved toward her. "Do you remember the day I met you and called you a perfect ten?"
How well she remembered. "Yes."
"I was wrong. Now you're a perfect ten." She felt a warm glow. "Oh, mike. . .
"Since I'm staying on,. Madam Ambassador, we'd better talk about the problem we're having with the Remanian commerce minister." He looked into her eyes and said softly, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
Epilogue
Alice Springs, Australia.
The chairwoman was ad ' dressing the Committee. "We have suffered a setback, but because of the lessons we have learned, our organization will become even stronger. Now it is time to take a vote. Aphrodite?"
"Yes."
,: Athene?" "Yes. "Cybele?"
"Yes." Selene?"
Considering the horrible death of our former Controller, shouldn't we wait until-"
"Yes or no, please." "No."
"Nike?" "Yes. "Nemesis?" "Yes."
" The motion is carried. Please observe the usual precautions, ladies." ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The name Sidney Sheldon has become synonymous with the term best-selling novelist. But few of his fans know that before he composed a single line of any novel, Sheldon was a successful writer for stage, screen, and television. Over the years he collected an Oscar (for the film The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer) and a Tony Award (for the Broadway play Redhead).
Still broader popular success came to Sheldon later, with the television series I Dream of jeannie and Hart to Hart, which he created and produced. It wasn't until he was fifty-three that he turned to writing novels.
Why the change? Sheldon explains: "I came up with an idea for a television drama about a psychiatrist. In order for the plot to make Sidney Sheldon sense, the viewer had to know what the psychiactrist was thinking, and I didn't know how to achieve introspection like that on television. The only way to do it was as a novel." That novel was The Naked Face, and it was nominated for an Edgar award by the Mystery Writers of America. From then on, Sheldon wrote one best seller after another. Windmills of the Gods is his seventh.
Thorough research and old-fashioned hard work are Sheldon's trademarks. He spent three and a half years on Windmills, rewriting it a dozen times. But hard work alone is not enough. Sheldon attributes his books' enormous appeal to the simple fact that he likes what readers like. "My characters are very real to me," he says, "and I think therefore very real to others." The same rule applies to his penchant for intriguing.plot twists that keep the reader hooked. "I love that kind of book, and I think my readers do, too."
And speaking of twists, Windmills contains a secret one. Rememher the
somber quote by H. L. Dietrich at the beginning, from which the title is taken? "There is no H. L. Dietrich," Mr. Sheldon says impishly. "I make up those introductory quotes in all my books."
👁 :1
At ten minutes before eleven in the morning, the sky exploded into a carnival of white confetti that instantly blanketed the city. The soft snow turned the already frozen streets of Manhattan to grey slush and the icy December wind herded the Christmas shoppers towards the comfort of their apartments and homes.
On Lexington Avenue the tall, thin man in the yellow rain slicker moved along with the rushing Christmas crowd to a rhythm of his own. He was walking rapidly, but it was not with the frantic pace of the other pedestrians who were trying to escape the cold. His head was lifted and he seemed oblivious to the
passers-by who bumped against him. He was free after a lifetime of purgatory, and he was on his way home to tell Mary that it was finished. The past was going to bury its dead and the future was bright and golden. He was thinking how her face would glow when he told her the news. As he reached the corner of Fifty-ninth Street, the traffic light ambered its way to red and he stopped with the impatient crowd. A few feet away, a Salvation Army Santa Claus stood over a large kettle. The man reached in his pocket for some coins, an offering to the gods of fortune. At that instant someone clapped him on the back, a sudden stinging blow that rocked his whole body. Some overhearty Christmas drunk trying to be friendly.
Or Bruce Boyd. Bruce, who had never known his own strength and had a childish habit of hurting him physically. But he had not seen Bruce in more than a year. The man started to turn his head to see who had hit him, and to his surprise, his knees began to buckle. In slow motion, watching himself from a distance, he could see his body hit the sidewalk. There was a dull pain in his back and it began to spread. It became hard to breathe. He was aware of a parade of shoes moving past his face as though animated with a life of their own. His cheek began to feel numb from the freezing sidewalk He knew he must not lie there. He opened his mouth to ask someone to help him, and a warm, red river began to gush out and flow into the melting snow. He watched in dazed fascination as it moved across the sidewalk and ran down into the gutter. The pain was worse now, but he didn't mind it so much because he had suddenly remembered his good news. He was free. He was going to tell Mary that he was free. He closed his eyes to rest them from the blinding whiteness of the sky. The snow began to turn to icy sleet, but he no longer felt anything.
Chapter Two
Carol Roberts heard the sounds of the reception door opening and closing and the men walking in, and before she even looked up, she could smell what they were. There were two of them. One was in his middle forties. He was a big mother, about six foot three, and all muscle. He had a massive head with deep- set steely blue eyes and a weary, humourless mouth. The second man was younger. His features were clean-cut, sensitive. His eyes were brown and alert.
The two men looked completely different and yet, as far as Carol was concerned, they could have been identical.
They were fuzz. That was what she had smelled. As they moved towards her desk she could feel the drops of perspiration begin to trickle down her armpits through the shield of anti-perspirant. Frantically her mind darted over all the treacherous areas of vulnerability. Chick? Christ, he had kept out of trouble for over six months. Since that night in his apartment when he had asked her to marry him and had promised to quit the gang.
Sammy? He was overseas in the Air Force, and if anything had happened to her brother, they would not have sent these two mothers to break the news. No, they were here to bust her. She was carrying grass
in her purse, and some loudmouthed prick had rapped about it. But why two of them? Carol tried to tell herself that they could not touch her. She was no longer some dumb black hooker from Harlem that they could push around. Not any more. She was the receptionist for one of the biggest psychoanalysts in the country. But as the two men moved towards her, Carol's panic increased. There was the feral memory of too many years of hiding in stinking, overcrowded tenement apartments while the white Law broke down doors and hauled away a father, or a sister, or a cousin.
But nothing of the turmoil in her mind showed on her face. At first glance the two detectives saw only a young and nubile, tawny-skinned Negress in a smartly tailored beige dress. Her voice was cool and impersonal. 'May I help you?' she asked.
Then Lt. Andrew McGreavy, the older detective, spotted the spreading perspiration stain under the armpit of her dress. He automatically filed it away as an interesting piece of information for future use. The doctor's receptionist was up-tight. McGreavy pulled out a wallet with a worn badge pinned onto the cracked imitation leather, Lieutenant McGreavy, Nineteenth Precinct.' He indicated his partner. 'Detective Angeli. We're from the Homicide Division.'
Homicide? A muscle in Carol's arm twitched involuntarily. Chick! He had killed someone. He had broken his promise to her and gone back to the gang. He had pulled a robbery and had shot someone, or - was he shot? Dead? Is that what they had come to tell her? She felt the perspiration stain begin to widen. Carol suddenly became conscious of it. McGreavy was looking at her face, but she knew that he had noticed it. She and the McGreavys of the world needed no words. They recognized each other on sight. They had known each other for hundreds of years.
'We'd like to see Dr. Judd Stevens,' said the younger detective. His voice was gentle and polite, and went with his appearance. She noticed for the first time that he carried a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and held together with string.
It took an instant for his words to sink in. So it wasn't Chick. Or Sammy. Or the grass.
'I'm sorry,' she said, barely hiding her relief. 'Dr. Stevens is with a patient.'
This will only take a few minutes,' McGreavy said. 'We want to ask him some questions.' He paused. 'We can either do it here, or at Police Headquarters.'
She looked at the two of them a moment, puzzled. What the hell could two Homicide detectives want with Dr. Stevens? Whatever the police might think, the doctor had not done anything wrong. She knew him too well. How long had it been? Four years. It had started in night court...
It was three am and the overhead lights in the courtroom bathed everyone in an unhealthy pallor. The room was old and tired and uncaring, saturated with the stale smell of fear that had accumulated over
the years like layers of flaked paint.
It was Carol's lousy luck that Judge Murphy was sitting on the bench again. She had been up before him only two weeks before and had got off with probation. First offence. Meaning it was the first time the bastards had caught her. This time she knew the judge was going to throw the book at her.
The case on the docket ahead of hers was almost over. A tall, quiet-looking man standing before the judge was saying something about his client, a fat man in handcuffs who trembled all over. She figured the quiet-looking man must be a mouthpiece. There was a look about him, an air of easy confidence,
that made her feel the fat man was lucky to have him. She didn't have anyone.
The men moved away from the bench and Carol heard her name called. She stood up, pressing her
knees together to keep them from trembling. The bailiff gave her a gentle push towards the bench. The court clerk handed the charge sheet to the judge.
Judge Murphy looked at Carol, then at the sheet of paper in front of him.
'Carol Roberts. Soliciting on the streets, vagrancy, possession of marijuana, and resisting arrest.'
The last was a lot of shit. The policemen had shoved her and she had kicked him in the balls. After all, she was an American citizen.
'You were in here a few weeks ago, weren't you, Carol?'
She made her voice sound uncertain. 'I believe I was. Your Honour.' 'And I gave you probation.'
'Yes, sir.'
'How old are you?'
She should have known they would ask. 'Sixteen. Today's my sixteenth birthday. Happy birthday to me,' she said. And she burst into tears, huge sobs that wracked her body.
The tall, quiet man had been standing at a table at the side gathering up some papers and putting them in
a leather attache case. As Carol stood there sobbing, he looked up and watched her for a moment. Then he spoke to judge Murphy.
The judge called a recess and the two men disappeared into the judge's chambers. Fifteen minutes later, the bailiff escorted Carol into the judge's chambers, where the quiet man was earnestly talking to the judge.
'You're a lucky girl, Carol,' Judge Murphy said. 'You're going to get another chance. The Court is remanding you to the personal custody of Dr. Stevens.'
So the tall mother wasn't a mouthpiece — he was a quack. She wouldn't have cared if he was Jack the Ripper. All she wanted was to get out of that stinking courtroom before they found out it wasn't her birthday.
The doctor drove her to his apartment, making small talk that did not require any answers, giving Carol
a chance to pull herself together and think things out He stopped the car in front of a modern apartment building on Seventy-first Street overlooking the East River. The building had a doorman and an elevator operator, and from the calm
way they greeted him, you would think he came home every morning at three am with a sixteen-year-old black hooker.
Carol had never seen an apartment like the doctor's. The living-room was done in white with two long, low couches covered in oatmeal tweed. Between the couches was an enormous square coffee table with
a thick glass top. On it was a large chessboard with carved Venetian figures. Modern paintings hung on the wall. In the foyer was a closed-circuit television monitor that showed the entrance to the lobby. In
one comer of the living-room was a smoked glass bar with shelves of crystal glasses and decanters. Looking out the window, Carol could see tiny boats, far below, tossing their way along the East River.
'Courts always make me hungry,' Judd said. 'Why don't I whip up a little birthday supper?' And he took her into the kitchen where she watched him skilfully put together a Mexican omelette, French-fried potatoes, toasted English muffins, a salad, and coffee. That's one of the advantages of being a bachelor,' he said. I can cook when I feel like it.'
So he was a bachelor without any home pussy. If she played her cards right, this could turn out to be a bonanza. When she had finished devouring the meal, he had taken her into the guest bedroom. The bedroom was done in blue, dominated by a large double bed with a blue checked bedspread. There was
a low Spanish dresser of dark wood with brass fittings.
'You can spend the night here,' he said. 'I'll rustle up a pair of pyjamas for you.'
As Carol looked around the tastefully decorated room she thought, Carol, baby! You've hit the jackpot! This mother's looking for a piece of jailbait black ass. And you're the baby who is gonna give it to him.
She undressed and spent the next half hour in the shower. When she came out, a towel wrapped around her shining, voluptuous body, she saw that the motherfucking ofay had placed a pair of his pyjamas on the bed. She laughed knowingly and left them there. She threw the towel down and strolled into the living-room. He was not there. She looked through the door leading into a den. He was sitting at a large, comfortable desk with an old-fashioned desk lamp hanging over it The den was crammed with books from floor to ceiling. She walked up behind him and kissed him on the neck. 'Let's get started, baby' she whispered. 'You got me so horny I can't stand it' She pressed closer to him.
'What are we waitin' for, big daddy? If you don't ball me quick, I'll go out of my cotton-pickin' mind.'
He regarded her for a second with thoughtful dark grey eyes. 'Haven't you got enough trouble?' he asked mildly. 'You can't help being born a Negro, but who told you you had to be a black dropout pot-smoking sixteen-year-old whore?'
She stared at him, baffled, wondering what she had said wrong. Maybe he had to get himself worked up and whip her first to get his kicks. Or maybe it was the Reverend Davidson bit. He was going to pray over her black assf reform her, and then lay her. She tried again. She reached between bis legs and stroked him, whispering, 'Go, baby. Sock it to me.'
He gently disengaged himself and sat her in an armchair. She had never been so puzzled. He didn't look like a fag, but these days you never knew. 'What's your bag, baby? Tell me how you like to freak out
and I'll give it to you.'
'All right,' he said. 'Let's rap.' 'You mean --talk?'
'That's right.'
And they talked. All night long. It was the strangest night that Carol had ever spent. Dr Stevens kept leaping from one subject to another, exploring, testing her. He asked her opinion about Vietnam, ghettos, and college riots. Every time Carol thought she had figured out what he was really after, he switched to another subject. They talked of things she had never heard of, and about subjects in which she considered herself the world's greatest living expert.
Months afterwards she used to lie awake, trying to recall the word, the idea, the magic phrase that had changed her. She had never been able to because she finally realized that there had been no magic word. What Dr. Stevens had done was simple. He had talked to her. Really talked to her. No one had ever done that before. He had treated her like a human being, an equal, whose opinions and feelings he cared about.
Somewhere during the course of the night she suddenly became aware of her nakedness and went in and put on his pyjamas. He came in and sat on the edge of the bed and they talked some more. They talked about Mao Tse-tung and hula hoops and the Pill. And having a mother and father who had never been married. Carol told him things she had never told anybody in her life. Things
that had been long buried deep in her subconscious. And when she had finally fallen asleep, she had felt totally empty. It was as though she had had a major operation, and a river of poison had been drained out of her.
In the morning, after breakfast, he handed her a hundred dollars. She hesitated, then finally said, 'I lied. It's not my birthday.'
'I know.' He grinned. 'But we won't tell the judge.' His tone changed. 'You can take the money and walk out of here and no one will bother you until the next time you get caught by the police.' He paused. 'I need a receptionist. I think you'd be marvellous at the job.'
She looked at him unbelievingly. 'You're putting me on. I can't take shorthand or type.' 'You could if you went back to school' Carol looked at him a moment and then said enthusiastically, 'I never thought of that. That sounds groovy.' She couldn't wait to get the hell out of the apartment with his hundred dollars and flash it at the boys and girls at Fishman's Drug Store in Harlem, where the gang hung out. She could buy enough kicks with this money to last a week.
When she walked into Fishman's Drug Store, it was as though she had never been away. She saw the same bitter faces and heard the same hip, defeated chatter. She was home. She kept thinking of the doctor's apartment. It wasn't the furniture that made the big difference. It was so clean. And quiet It was like a little island somewhere in another world. And he had offered her a passport to it. What was there
to lose? She could try it for laughs, to show the doctor that he was wrong, that she couldn't make it.
To her own great surprise, Carol enrolled in night school.
She left her furnished room with the rust-stained washbasin and broken toilet and the torn green window shade and the lumpy iron cot where she would turn tricks and act out plays. She was a beautiful heiress in Paris or London or Rome, and the man pumping away on top of her was a wealthy, handsome prince, dying to marry her. And as each man had his orgasm and crawled off her, her dream died. Until the next time.
She left the room and all her princes without a backward glance and moved back in with her parents.
Dr. Stevens gave allowance while she was studying. She finished high school with top grades. The doctor was there on graduation day, his grey eyes bright
with pride. Someone believed in her. She was somebody. She took a day job at Nedick's and took a secretarial course at night. The day after she finished, she went to work for Dr. Stevens and could afford her own apartment
In the four years that had passed Dr Stevens had always treated her with the same grave courtesy he had shown her the first night At first she had waited for him to make some reference to what she had been, and what she had become.
But she had finally come to the realization that he had always seen her as what she was now. All he had done was to help her fulfil herself. Whenever she had a problem, he always found rime to discuss it with her. Recently she had been meaning to tell him about what had happened with her and Chick and ask him whether she should tell Chick, but she kept putting it off. She wanted her Dr. Stevens to be proud of her. She would have done anything for him. She would have slept with him, killed for him...
And now here were these two mothers from the Homicide Squad wanting to see him.
McGreavy was getting impatient 'How about it, miss?' he asked.
'I have orders never to disturb him when he's with a patient,' said Carol. She saw the expression that came into McGreavy's eyes. 'I'll ring him.' She picked up the phone and pressed the intercom buzzer. After thirty seconds of silence, Dr. Stevens's voice came over the phone. 'Yes?'
'There are two detectives here to see you, Doctor. They're from the Homicide Division.'
She listened for a change in his voice ... nervousness... fear. There was nothing. 'They'll have to wait,'
he said. He went off the line.
A surge of pride flared through her. Maybe they could panic her, but they could never get her doctor to lose his cool. She looked up defiantly. "You heard him,' she said.
"How long will his patient be in there?' asked Angeli, the younger man.
She glanced at the clock on the desk. 'Another twenty-five minutes. It's his last patient for the day.'
The two men exchanged a look.
'Well wait.' sighed McGreavy.
They took chairs. McGreavy was studying her. 'You look familiar,' he said.
She wasn't deceived. The mother was on a fishing expedition. 'You know what they say,' replied Carol
'We all look alike.'
Exactly twenty-five minutes later, Carol heard the click of the side door that led from the doctor's private office directly to the corridor. A few minutes later, the door of the doctor's office opened and Dr. Judd Stevens stepped out. He hesitated as he saw McGreavy. 'We've met before,' he said. He could not remember where.
McGreavy nodded impassively. "Yeah ... Lieutenant McGreavy.' He indicated Angeli. 'Detective Frank Angeli.'
Judd and Angeli shook hands. 'Come in.'
The men walked into Judd's private office and the door closed. Carol looked after them, trying to piece it together. The big detective had seemed antagonistic towards Dr. Stevens. But maybe that was just his natural charm. Carol was sure of only one thing. Her dress would have to go to the cleaner's. Judd's office was furnished like a French country living-room. There was no working desk. Instead, comfortable easy chairs and end tables with authentic antique lamps were scattered about the room. At the far end of the office a private door led out to the corridor. On the floor was an exquisitely patterned Edward Fields area rug, and in a corner was a comfortable damask-covered contour couch. McGreavy noted that there were no diplomas on the walls. But he had checked before coming here. If Dr. Stevens had wanted to, he could have covered his walls with diplomas and certificates.
This is the first psychiatrist's office I've ever been in,' Angeli said, openly impressed. 'I wish my house looked like this.'
'It relaxes my patients,' Judd said easily. 'And by the way, I'm a psychoanalyst.' 'Sorry,' Angeli said. 'What's the difference?'
'About fifty dollars an hour,' McGreavy said. 'My partner doesn't get around much.'
Partner. And Judd suddenly remembered. McGreavy's partner had been shot and killed and McGreavy had been wounded during the holdup of a liquor store four - or was it five? - years ago. A petty hoodlum named Amos Ziffren had been arrested for the crime. Ziffren's attorney had pleaded his client not guilty by reason of insanity. Judd had been called in as an expert for the defence and asked to examine Ziffren. He had found that he was hopelessly insane with advanced paresis. On Judd's testimony, Ziffren had escaped the death penalty and had been sent to a mental institution.
'I remember you now,' Judd said. 'The Ziffren case. You had three bullets in you; your partner was killed.'
'And I remember you,' McGreavy said. 'You got the killer off.' 'What can I do for you?'
'We need some information, Doctor,' McGreavy said He nodded to Angeli.
Angeli began fumbling at
the string on the package he carried.
'We'd like you to identify something for us,' McGreavy said. His voice was careful, giving nothing away.
Angeli had the package open. He held up a yellow oilskin rain slicker. 'Have you ever seen this before?'
'It looks like mine,' Judd said in surprise,
'It is yours. At least your name is stencilled inside.' 'Where did you find it?'
'Where do you think we found it?' The two men were no longer casual A subtle change had taken place
in their faces.
Judd studied McGreavy a moment, then picked up a pipe from a rack on a long, low table and began to fill it with tobacco from a jar. 'I think you'd better tell me what this is all about,' he said quietly.
'It's about this raincoat, Dr. Stevens," said McGreavy. 'If it's yours, we want to know how it got out of your possession.'
There's no mystery about it. It was drizzling when I came in this morning. My raincoat was at the cleaners, so I wore the yellow slicker. I keep it for fishing trips. One of my patients hadn't brought a raincoat. It was beginning to snow pretty heavily, so I let him borrow the slicker.' He stopped, suddenly worried. 'What's happened to him?'
'Happened to who?' McGreavy asked. 'My patient - John Hanson.'
'Check,' Angeli said gently. 'You hit the bull's-eye. The reason Mr. Hanson couldn't return the coat
himself is that he's dead.'
Judd felt a small shock go through him. 'Dead?' 'Someone stuck a knife in his back,' McGreavy said.
Judd stared at him increduously. McGreavy took the coat from Angeli and turned it around so that Judd could see the large, ugly slash in the material. The back of the coat was covered with dull, henna-coloured stains. A feeling of nausea swept over Judd. 'Who would want to kill him?'
'We were hoping that you could tell us, Dr. Stevens,' said Angeli. 'Who'd know better than his psychoanalyst?'
Judd shook his head helplessly. 'When did it happen?'
McGreavy answered. 'Eleven o'clock this morning. On Lexington Avenue, about a block from your office. A few dozen people must have seen him fall, but they were busy going home to get ready to celebrate the birth of Christ, so they let him lie there bleeding to death in the snow.'
Judd squeezed the edge of the table, his knuckles white. 'What time was Hanson here this morning?' asked Angeli. 'Ten o'clock.'
'How long do your sessions last. Doctor?'
'Fifty minutes.'
'Did he leave as soon as it was over?' 'Yes. I had another patient waiting.'
'Did Hanson go out through the reception office?"
'No. My patients come in through the reception office and leave by that door.' He indicated the private door leading to the outside corridor. 'In that way they don't meet each other.'
McGreavy nodded. 'So Hanson was killed within a few minutes of the time he left here. Why was he coming to see you?'
Judd hesitated. 'I'm sorry. I can't discuss a doctor-patient relationship.'
'Someone murdered him.' McGreavy said. 'You might be able to help us find his killer.'
Judd's pipe had gone out. He took his time lighting it again.
"How long had he been coming to you?' This time it was Angeli. Police teamwork.
"Three years.' Judd said. 'What was his problem?'
Judd hesitated. He saw John Hanson as he had looked that morning; excited, smiling, eager to enjoy his new freedom. 'He was a homosexual.'
'This is going to be another one of those beauties.' McGreavy said bitterly.
'Was a homosexual,' Judd said. 'Hanson was cured. I told him this morning that he didn't have to see me any more. He was ready to move back in with his family. He has - had — a wife and two children.'
'A fag with a family?' asked McGreavy. 'It happens often.'
'Maybe one of his homo playmates didn't want to cut him loose. They got in a fight. He lost his temper and slipped a knife in his boyfriend's back'
Judd considered. 'It's possible,' he said thoughtfully, "but I don't believe it.' 'Why not, Dr. Stevens?' asked Angeli.
'Because Hanson hadn't had any homosexual contacts in more than a year. I think it's much more likely that someone tried to mug him. Hanson was the kind of man who would have put up a fight.'
'A brave married fag,' McGreavy said heavily. He took out a cigar and lit it. There's only one thing wrong with the mugger theory. His wallet hadn't been touched. There was over a hundred dollars in it.' He watched Judd's reaction.
Angeli said, 'If we're looking for a nut, it might make it easier.'
'Not necessarily,' Judd objected He walked over to the window. 'Take a look at that crowd down there. One out of twenty is, has been, or will be in a mental hospital.'
'But if a. man's crazy...?'
'He doesn't have to necessarily appear crazy,' Judd explained. 'For every obvious case of insanity there are at least ten cases undiagnosed.'
McGreavy was studying Judd with open interest. 'You know a lot about human nature, don't you. Doctor?'
'There's no such thing as human nature,' Judd said. 'Any more than there's such a thing as animal nature. Try to average out a rabbit and a tiger. Or a squirrel and an elephant.'
'How long you been practising psychoanalysis?' asked McGreavy. 'Twelve years. Why?'
McGreavy shrugged. "You're a good-looking guy. I'll bet a lot of your patients fall in love with you, huh?'
Judd's eyes chilled. 1 don't understand the point of the question.'
'Oh, come on, Doc Sure you do. We're both men of the world. A fag walks in here and finds himself a handsome young doctor to tell bis troubles to.' His tone grew confidential. 'Now do you mean to say that in three years on your couch Hanson didn't get a little hard-on for you?'
Judd looked at him without expression. 'Is that your idea of being a man of the world, Lieutenant?'
McGreavy was unperturbed. 'It could have happened. And I'll tell you what else could have happened. You said you told Hanson you didn't want to see him again. Maybe he didn't like that. He'd grown dependent on you in three years.
The two of you had a fight.' Judd's face darkened with anger.
Angeli broke the tension. 'Can you think of anyone who had reason to hate him,
Doctor? Or someone
he might have hated?'
'If there were such a person,' Judd said, 'I would tell you. I think I knew everything there was to know about John Hanson. He was a happy man. He didn't hate anyone and I don't know of anyone who hated him.'
'Good for him. You must be one helluva doctor,' McGreavy said. 'Well take his file along with us.'
'No.'
'We can get a court order.'
'Get it. "There's nothing in that file that can help you.'
'Then what harm could it do if you gave it to us?' asked Angeli.
'It could hurt Hanson's wife and children. You're on the wrong track. You'll find that Hanson was killed by a stranger.'
'I don't believe it.' McGreavy snapped.
Angeli rewrapped the raincoat and tied the string around the bundle. 'We'll get this back to you when
we run some more tests on it,'
'Keep it,' Judd said.
McGreavy opened the private door leading to the corridor. "We'll be in touch with you, Doctor.' He walked out. Angeli nodded to Judd and followed McGreavy out.
Judd was still standing there, his mind churning, when Carol walked in. 'Is everything all right?' she
asked hesitantly.
'Someone killed John Hanson.'
'Killed him?'
'He was stabbed,' Judd said. 'Oh my God! But why?' The police don't know.'
'How terrible!' She saw his eyes and the pain in them Is there anything I can do, Doctor?'
'Would you close up the office, Carol? I'm going over to see Mrs. Hanson. I'd like to break the news to her myself.'
'Don't worry. Ill take care of everything,' said Carol. Thanks.'
And Judd left.
Thirty minutes later Carol had finished putting the files away and was locking her desk when the corridor door opened. It was after six o'clock and the building was closed. Carol looked up as the man smiled
and moved towards her.
Chapter Three
Mary Hanson was a doll of a woman; small, beautiful, exquisitely made. On the outside, she was soft, Southern-helpless-feminine, and on the inside, granite bitch. Judd had met her a week after beginning her husband's therapy. She had fought hysterically against it and Judd had asked her to have a talk with him. 'Why are you so opposed to your husband going through analysis?'
'I won't have my friends saying I married a crazy man,' she had told Judd. Tell him to give me a divorce; then he can do any damn thing he pleases.'
Judd had explained that a divorce at that point could destroy John completely.
There's nothing left to destroy,' Mary had screamed. 'If I'd known he was a fairy, do you think I would have married him? He's a woman.'
There's some woman in every man,' Judd had said. 'Just as there's some man in every woman. And in your husband's case, there are some difficult psychological problems to overcome. But he's trying, Mrs Hanson. I think you owe it to him and his children to help him.'
He had reasoned with her for more than three hours, and in the end she had reluctantly agreed to hold
off on the divorce. In the months that followed, she had become interested and then involved in the
battle that John was waging.
Judd made it a rule never to treat married couples, but Mary had asked him to let her become a patient, and he had found it helpful As she had begun to understand herself and where she had failed as a wife, John's progress had become dramatically rapid.
And now Judd was here to tell her that her husband had been senselessly murdered She looked up at him, unable to believe what he had just said, sure that it was some kind of macabre joke. And then realization set in. 'He's never coming back to me!' she screamed. 'He's never coming back to mel' She started tearing at her clothes in anguish, like a wounded animal. The six-year-old twins walked in. And from that moment on, there was bedlam. Judd managed to calm the children down and take them to a neighbour's house. He gave Mrs. Hanson
a sedative and called the family doctor. When he was sure there was nothing more he could do, he left. He got into his car and drove aimlessly, lost in thought. Hanson had fought his way through a hell, and at the moment of his victory ... It was such a pointless death. Could it have been some homosexual who had attacked him? Some former lover who was frustrated because Hanson had left him? It was possible, of course, but Judd did not believe it Lieutenant McGreavy had said that Hanson was killed a block away from the office. If the murderer bad been a homosexual, full of hatred, he would have made a rendezvous with Hanson at some private piace, either to try to persuade Hanson to come back to him or to pour out his recriminations before he killed him. He would not have 1 a knife into him on a crowded street and then fled.
On the comer ahead he saw a phone booth and suddenly remembered that he had promised to have dinner with Dr Peter Hadley and his wife, Norah. They were his closest friends, but he was in no mood to see anyone. He stopped the car at the kerb, went into the phone booth and dialled the Hadleys' number.
Norah answered the phone. Tou're latel Where are you?'
'Norah,' Judd said, 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to beg off tonight.'
'You can't,' she wailed. 'I have a sexy blonde sitting here dying to meet you.'
'Well do it another night.' Judd said. 'I'm really not up to it. Please apologize for me.'
'Doctors!' snorted Norah. 'Just a minute and I'll put your chum on.' Peter got on the phone. 'Anything wrong, Judd?'
Judd hesitated. 'Just a hard day, Pete. I'll tell you about it tomorrow."
'You're missing some delicious Scandinavian smorgasbord. I mean beautiful.'
'I'llmeet her another time.' promised Judd. He heard a hurried whisper, and then Norah got on the phone again.
'She'll be here for Christmas dinner, Judd. Will you come?'
He hesitated. 'Well talk about it later, Norah. I'm sorry about tonight.' He hung up. He wished he knew
of some tactful way to stop Norah's matchmaking.
Judd had got married in his senior year in college. Elizabeth had been a social science major, warm and bright and gay, and they had both been young and very much in love and full of wonderful plans to remake the world for all the children they were going to have. And on the first Christmas of their marriage, Elizabeth and their unborn child had been killed in a head-on automobile collision. Judd had plunged himself totally into his work, and in time had become one of the outstanding psychoanalysts in the country. But he was still not able to bear being with other people celebrating Christmas Day. Somehow, even though he told himself he was wrong, that belonged to Elizabeth and their cluld.
He pushed open the door of the phone booth. He was aware of a girl standing outside the booth waiting
to use the phone. She was young and pretty, dressed in a tight-fitting sweater and a miniskirt, with a bright-coloured raincoat. He stepped out of the booth. 'Sorry.' he apologized.
She gave him a warm smile. 'That's all right.' There was a wistful look on her face. He had seen that look before.
Loneliness seeking to break through the barrier that he had unconsciously set up.
If Judd knew that he had a quality that was attractive to women, it was deep in his subconscious. He had never analysed why. It was more of a handicap than an asset to have his female patients falling in love with him. It sometimes made life very difficult.
He moved past the girl with a friendly nod. He sensed her1 standing there in the rain, watching as he got into his car and drove away.
He turned the car onto the East River Drive and headed for the Merritt Parkway. An hour and a half later he was on the Connecticut Turnpike. The snow in New York was dirty and slushy, but the same storm had magically transformed the Connecticut landscape into a Currier and Ives picture postcard.
He drove past Westport and Danbury, deliberately forcing his mind to concentrate on the ribbon of road that flashed beneath bis wheels and the wintry wonderland that surrounded him. Each time his thoughts reached out to John Hanson, he made himself think of other things. He drove on through the darkness of the Connecticut countryside and hours later, emotionally worn out, finally turned the car around and headed for home.
Mike, the red-faced doorman who usually greeted him with a smile, was preoccupied and distant Family difficulties, Judd supposed. Usually Judd would chat with him about Mike's teenage son and married daughters, but Judd did not feel like talking this evening. He asked Mike to have the car sent down to the garage.
'Right, Dr. Stevens.' Mike seemed about to add something, then thought better of it
Judd walked into the building. Ben Katz, the manager, was crossing the lobby. He saw Judd, gave a nervous wave, and hurriedly disappeared into his apartment.
What's the matter with everyone tonight? thought Judd. Or is it just my nerves?
He stepped into the elevator.
Eddie, the elevator operator, nodded. 'Evening, Dr. Stevens.' 'Good evening, Eddie.'
Eddie swallowed and looked away self-consciously. 'Is anything wrong?' Judd asked.
Eddie quickly shook his head and kept his eyes averted.
My God, thought Judd. Another candidate for my couch. The building was suddenly full of them.
Eddie opened the elevator door and Judd got out. He started towards his apartment. He didn't hear the elevator door close, so he turned around. Eddie was staring at him. As Judd started to speak, Eddie quickly closed the elevator door. Judd went to his apartment, unlocked the door, and entered.
Every light in the apartment was on. Lieutenant McGreavy was opening a drawer in the living-room. Angeli was coming out of the bedroom. Judd felt anger flare in him. 'What are you doing in my apartment?'
'Waitin' for you, Dr Stevens,' McGreavy said.
Judd walked over and slammed the drawer shut, narrowly missing McGreavy's fingers. 'How did you
get in here?'
'We have a search warrant,' said Angeli.
Judd stared at him incredulously. 'A search warrant? For my apartment?' 'Suppose we ask the questions, Doctor,' McGreavy said
'You don't have to answer them,' interjected Angeli, 'without benefit of legal counsel Also, you should know that anything you say can be used as evidence against you.'
'Do you want to call a lawyer?' McGreavy asked.
'I don't need a lawyer. I told you that I loaned the raincoat to John Hanson this morning and I didn't see
it again until you brought it to my office this afternoon. I couldn't have killed him. I was with patients all day. Miss Roberts can verify that.'
McGreavy and Angeli exchanged a silent signal.
'Where did you go after you left your office this afternoon?' Angeli asked. 'To see Mrs Hanson.'
'We know that,' McGreavy said. 'Afterwards.' Judd hesitated. 'I drove around.'
'Where?'
'I drove up to Connecticut.'
'Where did you stop for dinner?' McGreavy asked. 'I didn't. I wasn't hungry.'
'So no one saw you?'
Judd thought for a moment. 'I suppose not.'
'Perhaps you stopped for gas somewhere,' suggested Angeli.
'No.' Judd said. 'I didn't. What difference does it make where I went tonight? Hanson was killed this morning.'
"Did you go back to your office any time after you left it this afternoon?'
McGreavy's voice was casual 'No,' Judd said. 'Why?'
'It was broken into.' 'What? By whom?'
"We don't know,' said McGreavy. 'I want you to come down and take a look around. You can tell us if anything is missing.'
'Of course,' Judd replied. 'Who reported it?'
'The night watchman,' said Angeli. 'Do you keep anything of value hi the office, Doctor? Gash? Drugs? Anything like that?'
'Petty cash,' Judd said. 'No addictive drugs. There was nothing there to steal. It doesn't make any sense.'
'Right,' McGreavy said. 'Let's go.'
In the elevator Eddie gave Judd an apologetic look. Judd met his eyes and nodded that he understood.
Surely, Judd thought, the police couldn't suspect him of breaking into his own office. It was as though McGreavy was determined to pin something on him because of his dead partner. But that had been five years ago. Could McGreavy have been brooding all these years, blaming it on the doctor? Waiting for a chance to get him?
There was an unmarked police car a few feet from the entrance. They got in and rode to the office in silence.
When they reached the office building, Judd signed the lobby register. Bigelow, the guard, looked at him strangely. Or did he imagine it?
They took the elevator to the fifteenth floor and walked down the corridor to Judd's office. A uniformed policeman was standing in front of the door. He nodded to McGreavy and stepped aside. Judd reached for his key.
'The door's unlocked,' Angeli said. He pushed the door open and they went in, Judd leading the way.
The reception office was in chaos. All the drawers had been pulled out of the desk and papers were strewn about the floor. Judd stared unbelievingly, feeling a shock of personal violation.
'What do you suppose they were looking for, Doctor?" asked McGreavy.
'I have no idea,' Judd said. He walked to the inner door and opened it, McGreavy close behind him.
In his office two end tables had been overturned, a smashed lamp lay on the floor, and blood soaked
the Fields rug.
In the far corner of the room, grotesquely spread out, was the body of Carol Roberts. She was nude.
Her hands were tied behind her back with piano wire, and acid had been splashed on her face and
breasts and between her thighs. The fingers of her right hand were broken. Her face was battered and swollen. A wadded handkerchief was stuffed in her mouth.
The two detectives watched Judd as he stared at the body. 'You look pale,' Angeli said. 'Sit down.'
Judd shook his head and took several deep breaths. When he spoke, his voice was shaking with rage. 'Who - who could have done this?'
That's what you're going to tell us, Dr. Stevens,' said McGreavy.
Judd looked up at him. "No one could have wanted to do this to Carol. She never hurt anyone in her life'
'I think it's about time you started singing another tune,' McGreavy said. 'No one wanted to hurt Hanson, but they stuck a knife in his back. No one wanted to hurt Carol, but they poured acid all over her and tortured her to death.' His voice became hard. 'And you stand there and tell me no one would want to hurt them. What the hell are you - deaf, dumb, and blind? The girl worked for you for four years.
You're a psychoanalyst. Are you trying to tell me you didn't know or care about her personal life?'
'Of course I cared,' Judd said tightly. "She had a boyfriend she was going to marry—'
'Chick. We've talked to him.'
'But he could never have done this. He's a decent boy and he loved Carol.' 'When was the last time you saw Carol alive?' asked Angeli.
'I told you. When I left here to go to see Mrs. Hanson. I asked Carol to close up the office.' His voice broke and he swallowed and took a deep breath.
'Were you scheduled to see any more patients today?' 'No.'
'Do you think this could have been done by a maniac?' Angeli asked.
'It must have been a maniac.' but — even a maniac has to have some motivation.'
'That's what I think,' McGreavy said.
Judd looked over to where Carol's body lay. It had the sad appearance o£ a disfigured rag doll, useless and discarded. 'How long are you going to leave her like this?' Judd asked angrily.
'They'll take her away now,' said Angeli. The coroner and the Homicide boys have already finished.'
Judd turned to McGreavy. 'You left her like this for me?'
Teah,' McGreavy said. 'I'm going to ask you again. Is there anything in this office that someone could want badly enough to' - he Indicated Carol - 'do that?'
'No.'
"What about the records of your patients?' Judd shook his head. 'Nothing.'
'You're not being very cooperative, Doctor, are you?' asked McGreavy.
'Don't you think I want to see you find whoever did this?' Judd snapped. 'If there was anything in my files that would help, I would tell you. I know my patients. There isn't any one among them who could have killed her. This was done by an outsider.'
'How do you know it wasn't someone after your files?' 'My files weren't touched.'
McGreavy looked at him with quickened interest. "How do you know that?' he asked. 'You haven't even looked.'
Judd walked over to the far wall. As the two men watched, he pressed the lower section of the panelling and the wall slid open, revealing racks of built-in shelves. They were filled with tapes. I record every session with my patients.' Judd said. 'I keep the tapes here.'
'Couldn't they have tortured Carol to try to force her to tell where those tapes were?'
There is nothing in any of these tapes worth anything to anyone. There was some other motive for her murder.'
Judd looked at Carol's scarred body again, and he was filled with helpless, blind rage. 'You've got to
find whoever did this!'
'I intend to," McGreavy said. He was looking at Judd.
On the windy, deserted street in front of Judd's office building, McGreavy told Angeli to drive Judd home. Tve got an errand to do,' McGreavy said. He turned to Judd. 'Goodnight, Doctor'
Judd watched the huge, lumbering figure move down the street. 'Let's go,' Angeli said. 'I'm freezing.'
Judd slid into the front seat beside Angeli, and the car pulled away from the kerb.
'I've got to go tell Carol's family,' Judd said. 'We've already been over there.'
Judd nodded wearily. He still wanted to see them himself, but it could wait.
There was a silence. Judd wondered what errand Lieutenant McGreavy could have at this hour of the morning.
As though reading his thoughts, Angeli said, 'McGreavy's a good cop. He thought Ziffren should have
got the electric chair for killing his partner,' 'Ziffren was insane.'
Angeli shrugged. 'I'll take your word for it, Doctor.'
But McGreavy hadn't, Judd thought He turned his mind to Carol and remembered her brightness and
her affection and her deep pride in what she was doing, and Angeli was speaking to him and he saw
that they had arrived at his apartment building.
Five minutes later Judd was in his apartment. There was no question of sleep. He fixed himself a brandy and carried it into the den. He remembered the night Carol had strolled in here, naked and beautiful, rubbing her warm, lithe body against his. He had acted cool and aloof because he had known that that was the only chance he had of helping her. But she had never known what willpower it had taken for
him to keep from making love to her. Or had she? He raised his brandy glass and drained it.
The city morgue looked tike all city morgues at three o'clock in the morning, except that someone had placed a wreath of mistletoe over the door. Someone, thought McGreavy, who had either an overabundance of holiday spirit or a macabre sense o£ humour.
McGreavy had waited impatiently in the corridor until the autopsy was completed. When the coroner waved to him, he walked into the sickly-white autopsy room. The coroner was scrubbing his hands at the large white sink. He was a small, birdlike man with a high, chirping voice and quick, nervous movements. He answered all of McGreavy's questions in a rapid, staccato manner, then fled. McGreavy remained there a few minutes, absorbed in what he had just learned. Then he walked out into the freezing night air to find a taxi. There was no sign of one. The sons of bitches were all vacationing in Bermuda. He could stand out here until his ass froze off. He spotted a police cruiser, flagged it down, showed his identification to the young rookie behind the wheel, and ordered him to drive him to the Nineteenth Precinct. It was against regulations, but what the hell. It was going to be a long night.
When McGreavy walked into the precinct, Angeli was waiting for him. "They just finished the autopsy
on Carol Roberts,' McGreavy said. 'And?'
'She was pregnant,'
Angeli looked at him in surprise.
'She was three months gone. A little late to have a safe abortion, and a little early to show.'
'Do you think that had anything to do with her murder?'
That's a good question,' McGreavy said 'If Carol's boyfriend knocked her up and they were going to get married anyway - what's the big deal? So they get married and have the kid a few months later. It happens every day of the week.
On the other hand, if he knocked her up and he didn't want to marry
her - that's no big deal, either. So she has the baby and no husband. That happens twice every day of
the week.'
'We talked to Chick. He wanted to marry her.'
'I know,' replied McGreavy. 'So we have to ask ourselves where that leaves us. It leaves us with a coloured girl who's pregnant. She goes to the father and tells him about it, and he murders her.'
'He'd have to be insane.'
'Or very foxy. I vote for foxy. Look at it this way: supposing Carol went to the father and broke the bad news and told him she wasn't going to have an abortion; she was going to have his baby. Maybe she used it to try to blackmail him into marrying her. But supposing he couldn't marry her because he was married already. Or maybe he was a white man. Let's say a well-known doctor with a fancy practice. H a thing like this ever got out, it would ruin him. Who the hell would go to a headshrinker who knocked up his coloured receptionist and had to marry her?'
'Stevens is a doctor.' said Angeli. There are a dozen ways he could have killed her without arousing suspicion.'
'Maybe,' McGreavy said. 'Maybe not If there was any suspicion and it could be traced back to him, he'd have a hard dme getting out of it. He buys poison - someone has a record of it He buys a rope or a knife - they can be traced. But look at this cute little setup. Some maniac comes in for no reason and murders his receptionist and he's the grief-stricken employer demanding that the police find the killer.'
'It sounds like a pretty flimsy case.'
'I'm not finished Let's take bis patient, John Hanson. Another senseless killing by this unknown maniac. I'll tell you something, Angeli. I don't believe in coincidences. And two coincidences like that in one day make me nervous. So I asked myself what connection there could be between the death of John Hanson and Carol Roberts, and suddenly it didn't seem so coincidental, after all.
Suppose Carol walked into his office and broke the bad news that he was going to be a daddy. They had a big fight and she tried to blackmail him. She said he had to marry her, give her money - whatever. John Hanson was waiting in
the outer office, listening. Maybe Stevens wasn't sure he had heard anything until he got on the couch. Then Hanson threatened him with exposure. Or tried to get him to sleep with him.'
'That's a lot of guesswork.'
"But it fits. When Hanson left, the doctor slipped out and fixed him so he couldn't talk. Then he had to come back and get rid of Carol. He made it look like some maniac did the job, then he stopped by to see Mrs. Hanson, and took a ride to Connecticut. Now his problems are solved. He's sitting pretty and the police are running their asses ofi searching for some unknown nut.'
'I can't buy it,' Angeli said. 'You're trying to build a murder case without a shred of concrete evidence.'
"What do you call "concrete"?' McGreavy asked. 'We've got two corpses. One of them is a pregnant
lady who worked for Stevens. The other is one of his patients, murdered a block from his office. He's coming to him for treatment because he's a homosexual. When I asked to listen to his tapes, he wouldn't let me. Why? Who is Dr. Stevens protecting? I asked him if anyone could have broken into his office looking for something. Then maybe we could have cooked up a nice theory that Carol caught them and they tortured her to try to find out where this mysterious something was. But guess what? There is no mysterious something. His tapes aren't worth a tinker's damn to anybody. He had no drugs in the office. No money. So we're looking for some goddamn maniac. Right? Except that I won't buy it. I think we're looking for Dr. Judd Stevens.'
'I think you're out to nail him,' said Angeli quietly.
McGreavy's face flushed with anger. "Because he's as guilty as hell.' 'Are you going to arrest him?'
'I'm going to give Dr. Stevens some rope,' McGreavy said. 'And while he's hanging himself, I'm going
to be digging into every little skeleton in his closet. When I nail him, he's going to stay nailed.' McGreavy turned and walked out.
Angeli looked after him thoughtfully. If he did nothing, there was a good chance that McGreavy would
try to railroad Dr. Stevens. He could not let that happen. He made a mental note to speak to Captain Bertelli in the morning.
Chapter Four
The morning newspapers headlined the sensational torture murder of Carol Roberts. Judd was tempted to have his telephone exchange call his patients and cancel his appointments for the day. He had not gone to bed, and his eyes felt heavy and gritty. But when he reviewed the list of patients, he decided that two of them would be desperate if he cancelled; three of them would be badly upset; the others could be handled. He decided it was better to continue with his normal routine, partly for his patients' sake, and partly because it was good therapy for him to try to keep his mind off what had happened,
Judd arrived at his office early, but already the corridor was crowded with newspaper and television reporters and photographers. He refused to let them in or to make a statement, and finally managed to
get rid of them. He opened the door to his inner office slowly, filled with trepidation. But the blood-stained rug had been removed and everything else had been put back in place. The office looked normal. Except that Carol would never walk in here again, smiling and full of life.
Judd heard the outer door open. His first patient had arrived.
Harrison Burke was a distinguished-looking silver-haired man who looked like the prototype of a big business executive, which he was: a vice-president of the International Steel Corporation. When Judd
had first seen Burke, he had wondered whether the executive had created his stereotyped image, or whether the image had created the executive. Some day he would write a book on face values; a doctor's bedside manner, a lawyer's flamboyance in a courtroom, an actress's face and figure — these were the universal currencies of acceptance: the surface image rather than the basic values.
Burke lay down on the couch, and Judd turned his attention to him. Burke had been sent to Judd by
Dr. Peter Hadley two months ago. It had taken Judd ten minutes to ascertain that Harrison Burke was a paranoiac with tendencies towards homicide. The morning headlines had been full of a murder that had taken place in this office the night before, but Burke never mentioned it. That was typical of his condition. He was totally immersed in himself.
'You didn't believe me before,' Burke said, 'but now I've got proof that they're after me.'
'I thought we had decided to keep an open mind about that, Harrison,' Judd replied carefully.
'Remember yesterday we agreed that the imagination could play—'
'It isn't my imagination,' shouted Burke. He sat up, his fists clenched. They're trying to kill me!'
'Why don't you lie down and try to relax?' Judd suggested soothingly.
Buike got to his feet. 'Is that all you've got to say? You don't even want to hear my proof!' His eyes narrowed. "How do I know you're not one of them?'
"You know I'm not one of them,' Judd said. 'I'm your friend. I'm trying to help you.' He felt a stab of disappointment. The progress he had thought they were making over the past month had completely eroded away. He was looking now at the same terrified paranoiac who had first walked into his office
two months ago.
<>Burke had started with International Steel as a mail boy. In twenty-five years his distinguished good
looks and his affable personality had taken him almost to the top of the corporate ladder. He had been next in line for the presidency. Then, four years ago, his wife and three children had perished in a fire at their summer home in Southampton. Burke had been in the Bahamas with his mistress. He had taken the tragedy harder than anyone realized. Reared as a devout Catholic, he was unable to shake off his burden of guilt He began to brood, and he saw less of his friends. He stayed home evenings, reliving the agonies of his wife and children burning to death while, in another part of his mind, he lay in bed with his mistress. It was like a motion picture that he ran over and over in his mind. He blamed himself completely for the death of his family. If only he had been there, he could have saved them. The thought became an obsession. He was a monster. He knew it and God knew it Surely others could see itl They must hate him as he hated himself. People smiled at him and pretended sympathy, hut all the while diey were waiting for him to expose himself, waiting to trap him. But he was too cunning for them. He stopped going to the executive dining-room and began to have lunch in the privacy of his office. He avoided everyone as much as possible.
Two years ago, when the company had needed a new president, they had passed over Harrison Burke and had hired an outsider. A year later the post of executive vice-president had opened up, and a man
was given the job over Burke's head. Now he had all the proof he needed that there was a conspiracy against him. He began to spy on the people around him. At night he hid tape recorders in the offices of other executives. Six months ago he had been caught. It was only because of his long seniority and position that he was not fired.
Trying to help him and relieve some of the pressure on him, the president of the company began to cut down on Burke's responsibilities. Instead of helping, it convinced Burke more than ever that they were out to get him. They were afraid of him because he was smarter than they were. H he became president, they would all lose their jobs because tkey were stupid fools. He began to make more and more mistakes. When these errors were called to his attention, he indignantly denied having made them. Someone was deliberately changing his reports, altering the figures and statistics, trying to discredit him. Soon he realized that it was not only the people in the company who were after him.
There were spies outside. He was constantly followed in the streets. They tapped his telephone line, read his mail. He was afraid to eat, lest they poison his food. His weight began to drop alarmingly. The worried president of the company arranged an appointment for him with Dr. Peter Hadley and insisted that Burke keep it. After spending half an hour with him, Dr. Hadley had phoned Judd. Judd's appointment book was full, but when Peter had told him how urgent it was, Judd reluctantly agreed to take him on.
Now Harrison Burke lay supine on the damask-covered contour couch, his fists clenched tighdy at his sides.
'Tell me about your proof.'
'They broke into my house last night They came to kill me. But I was too clever for them. I sleep in my den now and I have extra locks on all the doors so they can't get to me.'
'Did you report the break-in to the police?' Judd asked.
'Of course not! The police are in it with them. They have orders to shoot me.
But they wouldn't dare do
it while there are people around, so I stay in crowds.' 'I'm glad you gave me this information,' Judd said.
'What are you going to do with it?' Burke asked eagerly.
'I'm listening very carefully to everything you say,' Judd said. He indicated the tape recorder. Tve got it
all down on tape so if they do kill you, we'll have a record of the conspiracy.' Burke's face lit up. 'By God, that's good! Tapel That'll really fix them!'
'Why don't you lie down again?' Judd suggested.
Burke nodded and slid onto the couch. He closed his eyes. 'I'm tired. I haven't slept in months. I don't dare close my eyes. You don't know what it's like, having everybody after you.'
Don't I? He thought of McGreavy.
'Didn't your houseboy hear anyone break in?' Judd asked. 'Didn't I tell you?' Burke replied. 'I fired him two weeks ago.'
Judd quickly went over in his mind his recent sessions with Harrison Burke. Only three days ago Burke had described a fight he had had that day with his houseboy. So his sense of time had become disoriented. 'I don't believe you mentioned it,' Judd said casually. 'Are you sure it was two weeks ago
that you let him go?'
'I don't make mistakes,' snapped Burke. "How the hell do you think I got to be vice-president of one of the biggest corporations in the world? Because I've got a brilliant mind, Doctor, and don't forget it.'
'Why did you fire him?' 'He tried to poison me.' 'How?'
'With a plate of ham and eggs. Loaded with arsenic* 'Did you taste it?' Judd asked.
'Of course not,' Burke snorted.
'How did you know it was poisoned?'
'I could smeli the poison.' 'What did you say to him?'
A look of satisfaction came over Burke's face. 'I didn't say anything. I beat the shit out of him.'
A feeling of frustration swept over Judd. Given time, he was sure he could have helped Harrison Burke. But time had run out. There was always the danger in psychoanalysis that under the venting of free-flow association, the thin veneer of the it could blow wide open, letting escape all the primitive passions and emotions that huddled together in the mind like terrified wild beasts in the night. The free verbalizing was the first step in treatment. In Burke's case, it had boomeranged. These sessions had released all the latent hostilities that had been locked in his mind. Burke had seemed to improve with each session, agreeing with Judd that there was no conspiracy, that he was only overworked and emotionally exhausted. Judd had felt that he was guiding Burke to a point where they could begin deep analysis and start to attack the root of the problem. But Burke had been cunningly lying all along. He had been testing Judd, leading him on to try to trap him and find out whether he was one of them. Harrison Burke was a walking time bomb that could explode at any second There was no next of kin to notify. Should Judd call the president of the company and tell him what he felt? If he did, it would instantly destroy Burke's future. He would have to be put away in an institution. Was he right in his diagnosis that Burke was a potentially homicidal paranoiac? He would like to get another opinion before he called, but Burke would never consent. Judd knew he would have to make the decision alone. 'Harrison, I want you to make me a promise,' Judd said. "What kind of promise?'Burke asked warily. 'If they are trying to trick you, then they want you to do something violent so they can have you locked up ... But you're too smart for that No matter how they provoke you, I want you to promise me that you won't do anything to them.
That way, they can't touch you.'
Burke's eyes lit up. 'By God, you're right,' he said. 'So that's their plan! Well, we're too clever for them, aren't we?'
Outside, Judd heard the sound of the reception room door open and close. He looked at his watch.
His next patient was here.
Judd quietly snapped off the tape recorder. 'I think that's enough for today,' he said.
'You got all this down on the tape recorder?' Burke asked eagerly.
'Every word,' Judd said. 'No one's going to hurt you.' He hesitated. 'I don't think you should go to the office today. Why don't you go home and get some rest?'
'I can't,' Burke whispered, his voice filled with despair. 'If I'm not in my office, they'll take my name off the door and put someone else's name on it.' He leaned towards Judd. 'Be careful. If they know you're my friend, they'll try to get you, too.' Burke walked over to the door leading to the corridor. He opened
it a crack and peered up and down the corridor. Then he swiftly sidled out.
Judd looked after Mm, his mind filled with the pain of what he would have to do to Harrison Burke's life. Perhaps if Burke had come to him six months earlier... And then a sudden thought sent a chill through him. Was Harrison Burke already a murderer? Was it possible that he had been involved in the deaths of John Hanson and Carol Roberts? Both Burke and Hanson were patients. And they could have easily met. Several times in the past few months Burke's appointments had followed Hanson's. And Burke had been late more than once. He could have run into Hanson in the corridor. And seeing him several rimes could easily have triggered his paranoia, made him feel that Hanson was following him, threatening him. As for Carol, Burke had seen her every time he came to the office. Had his sick mind conceived some menace from her that could only be removed by her death? How long had Burke really been mentally ill? His
wife and three children had died in an accidental fire. Accidental? Somehow, he had to find out.
He went to the door leading to the reception office and opened it. 'Come in,' he said.
Anne Blake rose gracefully to her feet and moved towards him, a warm smile lighting her face. Judd felt again the same heart-turning feeling that had hit him when he had first seen her. It was the first time that he had felt any deep emotional response towards any woman since Elizabeth.
In no way did they look alike. Elizabeth had been blonde and small and blue- eyed. Anne Blake had black hah- and unbelievable violet eyes framed by long, dark lashes. She was tall, with a lovely, full-curved figure. She had an air of lively intelligence and a classic, patrician beauty that would have made her seem inaccessible, except for the warmth in her eyes. Her voice was low and soft, with a faint, husky quality.
Anne was in her middle twenties. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman Judd had ever seen. But it was something beyond her beauty that caught at Judd. There was an almost palpable force that pulled him to her, some unexplainable reaction that made him feel as though he had known her for ever. Feelings that he had thought long since dead had suddenly surfaced again, surprising him by their intensity.
She had appeared in Judd's office three weeks earlier, without an appointment. Carol had explained that his schedule was full and he could not possibly take on any new patients. But Anne had quietly asked if she could wait She had sat in the outer office for two hours, and Carol had finally taken pity on her and brought her in to Judd.
He had felt such an instant powerful emotional reaction to Anne that he had no idea what she said during the first few minutes. He remembered he had asked her to sit down and she had told him her name, Anne Blake. She was a housewife. Judd had asked her what her problem was. She had hesitated and said that she was not certain. She was not even sure she had a problem. A doctor friend of hers had mentioned that Judd was one of the most brilliant analysts in the country, but when Judd had asked who the doctor was, Anne had demurred. For all Judd knew, she could have got his name out of the telephone directory.
He had tried to explain to her how impossible his schedule was, that he simply was unable to take on any new patients. He offered to recommend half a dozen good analysts. But Anne had quietly insisted that she wanted him to treat her. In the end Judd had agreed. Outwardly, except for the fact that she appeared to be under some stress, she seemed perfectly normal, and he was certain that her problem would be a relatively simple one, easily solved. He broke his rule about not taking any patient without another doctor's recommendation, and he gave up his lunch hour in order to treat Anne. She had appeared twice
a week for the past three weeks, and Judd knew very little more about her than he had known when she first came in. He knew something more about himself. He was in love - for the first time since Elizabeth.
At their first session, Judd had asked her if she loved her husband, and hated himself for wanting to hear her say that she did not. But she had said, 'Yes. He's a kind man, and very strong.'
'Do you think he represents a father figure?' Judd had asked.
Anne had turned her incredible violet eyes on him. 'No. I wasn't looking for a father figure. I had a very happy home life as a child.'
"Where were you born?'
'In Revere, a small town near Boston.' 'Are both your parents still alive?'
'Father is alive. Mother died of a stroke when I was twelve.' 'Did your father and mother have a good relationship?' 'Yes. They were very much in love.'
It shows in you, thought Judd happily. With all the sickness and aberration and misery that he had seen, having Anne here was like a breath of April freshness.
'Any brothers or sisters?'
'No. I was an only child. A spoiled brat.' She smiled up at him. It was an open, friendly smile without guile or affectation.
She told him that she had lived abroad with her father, who was serving in the State Department, and when he had remarried and moved to California, she had gone to work at the UN as an interpreter. She spoke fluent French, Italian, and Spanish. She had met her future husband in the Bahamas when she was on vacation. He owned a construction firm. Anne had not been attracted to him at first, but he had been
a persistent and persuasive suitor. Two months after they met, Anne had married him. She had now been married for six months. They lived on an estate in New Jersey.
And that was all Judd had been able to find out about her in half a dozen visits. He still had not the slightest clue as to what her problem was. She had an emotional block about discussing it He
remembered some of the questions be had asked her during their first session. 'Does your problem involve your husband, Mrs. Blake?'
No answer.
'Are you and your husband compatible, physically?'
'Yes.' Embarrassed.
'Do you suspect him of having an affair with another woman?' 'No.' Amused.
'Are you having an affair with another man?* 'No.' Angry.
He hesitated, trying to figure out the best approach to take to break down the barrier. He decided on a buckshot technique: he would touch on every major category until he struck a nerve.
'Do you quarrel about money?' 'No. He's very generous.'
'Any in-law problems?'
'He's an orphan. My father lives in California.' "Were you or your husband ever addicted to drugs?' 'No.'
'Do you suspect your husband of being homosexual?' A low, warm laugh. 'No.'
He pressed on, because he had to. 'Have you ever had a sexual relationship with a woman?'
'No.' Reproachful.
He had touched on alcoholism, frigidity, a pregnancy she was afraid to face - everything he could think of. And each time she had looked at him with her thoughtful, intelligent eyes and had merely shaken her head. Whenever he tried to pin her down, she would head him off with, 'Please be patient with me. Let me do it my own way.'
With anyone else, he might have given up. But he knew that he had to help her. And he had to keep seeing her.
He had let her talk about any subject she chose. She had travelled to a dozen countries with her father and had met fascinating people. She had a quick mind and an unexpected humour. He found that diey liked the same books, the same music, the same playwrights. She was warm and friendly, but Judd could never detect the slightest sign that she reacted to him as anything other than a doctor. It was bitter irony. He had been subconsciously searching for someone like Anne for years, and now that she had walked into his life, his job was to help her solve whatever her problem was and send her back to her husband.
Now, as Anne walked into the office, Judd moved to the chair next to the couch and waited for her to lie down.
'Not today,' she said quietly. 'I just came to see if I could help.'
He stared at her, speechless for a moment. His emotions had been stretched so tight in the past two days that her unexpected sympathy unnerved him. As he looked at her, he had a wild impulse to pour out everything that was happening to him. To tell her about the nightmare that was engulfing him, about McGreavy and his idiotic suspicions. But he knew he could not. He was the doctor and she was his patient Worse than that. He was in love with her, and she was the untouchable wife of a man he did not even know.
She was standing there, watching him. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
'I liked Carol so much,' said Anne. 'Why would anyone kill her?' 'I don't know,' said Judd.
'Don't the police have any idea who did it?'
Do they? Judd thought bitterly. If she only knew.
Anne was looking at him curiously.
'The police have some theories,' Judd said.
'I know how terrible you must feel. I just wanted to come and tell you how very sorry I am. I wasn't
even sure you'd be in the office today.'
'I wasn't going to come in,' Judd said. 'But - well, here I am. As long as we're both here, why don't we talk a little about you?'
Anne hesitated. 'I'm not sure that there's anything to talk about any more.'
Judd felt his heart jump. Please, God, don't let her say that I'm not going to see her any more.
'I'm going to Europe with my husband next week.' 'That's wonderful,' he made himself say.
'I'm afraid I've wasted your time, Dr. Stevens, and I apologize.'
'Please don't,' Judd said. He found that his voice was husky. She was walking out on him. But of course she couldn't know that He was being infantile. His mind told him this clinically while his stomach ached with the physical hurt of her going away. For ever.
She opened her purse and took out some money. She was in the habit of paying in cash after each visit, unlike his other patients, who sent him cheques.
'No,' said Judd quickly. "You came here as a friend. I'm - grateful.'
Judd did something he had never done before with a patient. 'I would like you to come back once more,' he said.
She looked up at him quietly. 'Why?'
Because I can't bear to let you go so soon, he thought. Because I'll never meet anyone like you again. Because 1 wish I had met you first. Because I love you.
Aloud he said, 'I thought we might - round
things out. Talk a little to make sure that you really are over your problem.'
She smiled mischievously. 'You mean you want me to come back for my graduation?'
'Something like that,' he said. "Will you do it?'
'If you want me to - of course.' She rose. 'I haven't given you a chance with me. But I know you're a wonderful doctor. If I should ever need help, I'd come to you.'
She held out her hand and he took it She had a warm, firm handclasp. He felt again that compelling current that ran between diem and marvelled that she felt nothing.
'I'll see you Friday,' she said. 'Friday.'
He watched her walk out the private door leading to the corridor, then sank into a chair. He had never felt so completely alone in his life. But he couldn't sit here and do nothing. There had to be an answer, and if McGreavy wasn't going to find it, he had to discover it before McGreavy destroyed hint. On the dark side, Lieutenant McGreavy suspected him of two murders that he couldn't prove he did not commit. He might be arrested at any moment, which would mean that his professional life would be destroyed. He was in love with a married woman he would only see once more. He forced himself to turn to the bright side. He couldn't think of a single bloody thing,
Chapter Five
The rest of the day went by as though he were under water. A few of the patients made reference to Carol's murder, but the more disturbed ones were so self-absorbed that they could only think of themselves and their problems. Judd tried to concentrate, but bis thoughts kept drifting away, trying to find answers to what had happened. He would go over the tapes later to pick up what he had missed.
At seven o'clock, when Judd had ushered out the last patient, he went over to the recessed liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff scotch. It hit him with a jolt, and he suddenly remembered that he had not had any breakfast or lunch. The thought of food made him ill. He sank into a chair and thought about the two murders. There was nothing in the case histories of any of his patients that would cause someone to commit murder. A blackmailer might have tried to steal them. But blackmailers were cowards, preying on the weaknesses of others, and if Carol had caught one breaking hi and he had killed her, it would
have been done quickly, with a single blow. He would not have tortured her. There had to be some other explanation.
Judd sat there a long time, his mind slowly sifting the events of the past two days. Finally he sighed and gave it up. He looked at the clock and was startled to see how late it was.
By the time he left Ms office, it was after nine o'clock. As he stepped out of the lobby into the street, a blast of icy wind hit him. It had started to snow again.
The snow swirled through the sky, gently blurring everything so that it looked as though the city had been painted on a canvas that had not dried and the paints were running, melting down skyscrapers and streets into watery greys and whites. A large red-and-white sign in a store window across the street on Lexington Avenue warned:
ONLY 6 SHOPPING DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS
Christmas. He resolutely turned bis thoughts away from it and started to walk.
The street was deserted except for a lone pedestrian in the distance, hurrying home to his wife or sweetheart. Judd found himself wondering what Anne was doing. She was probably at home with her husband, discussing his day at the office, interested, caring. Or they had gone to bed, and ... Stop it!
he told himself.
There were no cars on the windswept street, so just before he reached the corner, Judd began to cross at an angle, heading towards the garage where he parked his car during the day. As he reached the middle
of the street, he heard a noise behind him, and turned. A large black limousine without lights was coming towards him, its tyres fighting for traction in the light powder of snow. It was less than ten feet away.
The drunken fool, thought Judd. He's in a skid and he's going to kill himself. Judd turned and leaped back towards die kerb and safety. The nose of the car swerved towards him, the car accelerating. Too late Judd realized the car was deliberately trying to run him down.
The last thing he remembered was something hard smashing against his chest, and a loud crash that sounded like thunder. The dark street suddenly lit up with bright Roman candles that seemed to explode in his head. In that split second of illumination, Judd suddenly knew the answer to everything. He knew why John Hanson and Carol Roberts had been murdered. He felt a sense of wild elation.
He had to tell McGreavy. Then the light faded, and there was only the silence of the wet darkness.
From the outside, the Nineteenth Police Precinct looked like an ancient, weatherbeaten four-storey
school building: brown brick, plaster fa£ade, and cornices white with trie droppings of generations of pigeons. The Nineteenth Precinct was responsible for the area of Manhattan from Fifty-ninth Street to Eighty-sixth Street, from Fifth Avenue to the East River.
The call from the hospital reporting the hit-and-run accident came through the police switchboard a few minutes after ten and was transferred to the Detective Bureau. The Nineteenth Precinct was having a busy night. Because of the weather, there had been a heavy increase in rapes and muggings. The deserted streets had become a frozen wasteland where marauders preyed on the hapless stragglers who wandered into their territory.
Most of the detectives were out on squeals, and the Detective Bureau was deserted except for Detective Frank Angeli and a sergeant, who was interrogating an arson suspect.
When the phone rang, Angeli answered. It was a nurse who bad a hit-and-run patient at the city hospital. The patient was asking for Lieutenant McGreavy. McGreavy had gone to the Hall of Records. When she gave Angeli the name of the patient, he told the nurse that be would be right over.
Angeli was hanging up the receiver as McGreavy walked in. Angeli quickly told him about the call.
'We'd better get right over to the hospital,' Angeli said.
'He'll keep. First I want to talk to the captain of the precinct where that accident occurred.'
Angeli watched as McGreavy dialled the number. He wondered whether Captain Bertelli had told McGreavy about his conversation with AngelL It had been short and to the point.
'Lieutenant McGreavy is a good cop,' Angeli had said, 'but I think he's influenced by what happened five years ago.'
Captain Bertelli had given him a long, cold stare. 'Are you accusing him of framing Dr. Stevens?'
'I'm not accusing him of anything. Captain. I just thought you should be aware of the situation.'
'Okay, I'm aware of it.' And the meeting was over.
McGreavy's phone conversation took three minutes while McGreavy grunted and made notes and Angeli impatiently paced back and forth. Ten minutes later the two detectives were in a squad car on the way to the hospital.
Judd's room was on the sixth floor at the end of a long, dreary corridor that had the sickly-sweet smell of all hospitals. The nurse who had phoned was escorting them to Judd's room.
'What shape is he in, Nurse?' asked McGreavy.
'The doctor will have to tell you that,' she said primly. And then continued, compulsively. 'It's a miracle the man wasn't killed. He has a possible concussion, some bruised ribs, and an injured left arm.'
'Is he conscious?' asked Angeli.
'Yes. We're having a terrible time keeping him in bed.' She turned to McGreavy. 'He keeps saying he
has to see you.'
They walked into the room. There were six beds in the room, all occupied. The nurse indicated a bed at the far corner that was curtained off, and McGreavy and Angeli walked over to it and stepped behind the curtain.
Judd was in bed, propped up. His face was pale and there was a large adhesive plaster on his forehead. His left arm was in a sling.
McGreavy spoke. 'I hear you had an accident.'
'It wasn't an accident,' said Judd. 'Someone tried to kill me.' His voice was weak and shaky.
'Who?' asked Angeli.
'I don't know, but it all fits in.' He turned to McGreavy. 'The killers weren't after John Hanson or Carol. They were after me.'
McGreavy looked at him in surprise. 'What makes you think so?'
'Hanson was killed because he was wearing my yellow slicker. They must have seen me go into my building wearing that coat When Hanson came our of my office wearing it, they mistook him for me.'
'That's possible,' said Angeli.
'Sure,' said McGreavy. He turned to Judd. 'And when they learned that they had killed the wrong man, they came into your office and tore your clothes off and found out you were really a little coloured girl, and they got so mad they beat you to death.'
'Carol was killed because they found her there when they came to get me,' Judd said.
McGreavy reached in his overcoat pocket and took out some notes. 'I just talked to the captain of the precinct where the accident happened.'
'It was no accident.'
'According to the police report, you were jaywalking.' Judd stared at him. 'Jaywalking?' he repeated weakly. 'You crossed in the middle of the street, Doctor.' 'There were no cars so I—'
'There was a car,' McGreavy corrected. "Only you didn't see it. It was snowing and the visibility was lousy. You stepped out of nowhere. The driver put on his brakes, went into a skid, and bit you. Then
he panicked and drove away.'
'That's not the way it happened and his headlights were off.'
'And you think that's evidence that he killed Hanson and Carol Roberts?'
'Someone tried to kill me,' repeated Judd insistently. McGreavy shook his head. 'It won't work, Doctor.' 'What won't work?' asked Judd.
'Did you really expect me to start heating the bushes for some mythical killer while you take the heat
off yourself?' His voice was suddenly hard. 'Did you know your receptionist was pregnant?'
Judd closed his eyes and let his head sink back on the pillow. So that was what Carol had wanted to speak to him about. He had half-guessed. And now McGreavy would think... He opened his eyes.
'No,' he said wearily. 'I didn't.'
Judd's head began pounding again. The pain was returning. He swallowed to fight off the nausea that engulfed him. He wanted to ring for the nurse, but he was damned if he would give McGreavy the satisfaction.
'I went through the records at City Hall,' said McGreavy. 'What would you say if I told you that your cute little pregnant receptionist had. been a hooker before she went to work for you?' The pounding in Judd's head was becoming steadily worse. 'Were you aware of that, Dr. Stevens? You don't have to answer. I'll answer for you. You knew it because you picked her up in night court four years ago, when sbe was arrested on a charge of soliciting. Now isn't it a little far-out for a respectable doctor to hire a hooker as
a receptionist in a high-class office?'
'No one is born a hooker,' said Judd. 'I was trying to help a sixteen-year-old child have a chance at life.'
'And get yourself a little free black tail on the side?' 'You dirty-minded bastard!'
McGreavy smiled without mirth. 'Where did you take Carol after you found her in night court?*
"To my apartment.' 'And she slept there?'
'Yes.'
McGreavy grinned. "You're a beauty! You picked up a good-looking young whore in night court and took her to your apartment to spend the night. What were you looking for - a chess partner? If you really didn't sleep with her, there's a damn good chance you're a homosexual And guess who that ties you in with? Right. John Hanson. If you did sleep with Carol, then the chances are pretty good that you continued sleeping with her until you finally got her knocked up. And you have the gall to lie there and tell me some cock-and-bull story about a hit-and-run maniac who's going around murdering people?' McGreavy turned and strode out of the room, his face red with anger.
The pounding in Judd's head had turned to a throbbing agony. Angeli was watching him, worried. 'You all right?'
'You've got to help me,' Judd said. 'Someone is trying to kill me,' It sounded like a threnody in his ears.
'Who'd have a motive for killing you, Doctor?' 'I don't know.'
'Do you have any enemies?* 'No.'
'Have you been sleeping with anyone's wife or girl friend?' Judd shook his head and instantly regretted the motion.
"Is there any money in your family - relatives who might want to get you out of the way?'
'No."
Angeli sighed 'OK. So there's no motive for anyone wanting to murder you. What about your patients? I think you'd better give us a list so we can check them out'
'I can't do that.'
'All I'm asking for is their names.'
'I'm sorry.' It was an effort to speak. 'If I were a dentist or a chiropodist I'd give it to you. But don't you see? These people have problems. Most of them serious problems. If you started questioning them, you'd not only shatter them; you'd destroy their confidence in me. I wouldn't be able to treat them any more. I can't give you that list.' He lay back on the pillow, exhausted.
Angeli looked at him quietly, then asked, "What do you call a man who thinks that everyone's out to kill him?'
'A paranoiac,' said Judd. He saw the look on Angeli's face. 'You don't think I'm... ?'
'Put yourself in my place,' Angeli said 'If I were in that bed right now, talking like you, and you were my doctor, what would you think?'
Judd dosed his eyes against the stabs of pain in his head. He heard Angeli's voice continue.
'McGreavy's waiting for me.'
Judd opened his eyes. "Wait... Give me a chance to prove that I'm telling the truth.'
'How?'
'Whoever's trying to kill me is going to try again. I want someone with me. Next time they try, he can catch them.'
Angeli looked at Judd 'Dr. Stevens, if someone really wants to kill you, all the policemen in the world can't stop them. If they don't get you today, they'll get you tomorrow. If they don't get you here, they'll get you somewhere else. It doesn't matter whether you're a king or a president, or just plain John Doe. life is a very thin thread. It only takes a second to snap it.'
'There's nothing - nothing at all you can do?'
'I can give you some advice. Have new locks put on the doors of your apartment, and check the
windows to make sure they're securely bolted. Don't let anyone in the apartment unless you know them. No delivery boys unless you've ordered the delivery yourself.'
Judd nodded, his throat dry and aching.
'Your building has a doorman and an elevator man,' continued Angeli. 'Can you trust them?*
The doorman has worked there for ten years. The elevator operator has been there eight years. I'd trust them with my life.'
Angeli nodded approvingly. 'Good. Ask them to keep their eyes open. If they're on the alert, it's going to be hard for anyone to sneak up to your apartment.
What about the office? Are you going to hire a new receptionist?'
Judd thought of a stranger sitting at Carol's desk, in her chair. A spasm o£ helpless anger wracked him. 'Not right away.'
'You might think about hiring a man,' said Angeli. 'I'll think about it.'
Angeli turned to go, then stopped. 'I have an idea,' he said hesitantly, 'but it's a long shot.'
'Yes?' He hated the eagerness in his voice. This man who killed McGreavy's old partner...' 'Ziffren.'
'Was he really insane?'
"Yes. They sent him to the Matteawan State Hospital for mentally ill criminals.*
'Maybe he blames you for having him put away. Ill check him out. Just to make sure he hasn't escaped
or been released. Give me a call in the morning.' Thanks,' Judd said gratefully.
'It's my job. If you're involved in any of this. I'm going to help McGreavy nail you.' Angeli turned to go. He stopped again. 'You don't have to mention to McGreavy that I'm checking on Ziffren for you.'
'I won't.'
The two men smiled at each other. Angeli left. Judd was alone again.
If the situation was bleak that morning it was even bleaker now. Judd knew that he would already have been arrested for murder except for one thing- McGreavy's character. McGreavy wanted vengeance and he wanted it so badly that he would make sure that every last bit of evidence was in place. Could the hit-and-run have been an accident? There had been snow on the street, and the limousine could have accidentally skidded into him. But then, why had the headlights been off? And where had the car come from so suddenly?
He was convinced now that an assassin had struck - and would strike again. With that thought, he fell asleep.
Early the next morning Peter and Norah Hadley came to the hospital to see Judd. They had heard about the accident
Peter was Judd's age, smaller than Judd and painfully thin. They had come from the same town in Nebraska and had gone through medical school together.
Norah was English. She was blonde and chubby with a large, soft bosom a bit too large for her five feet three inches. She was vivacious and comfortable, and after five minutes' conversation with her, people felt they had known her for ever.
"You look lousy,' Peter said, studying Judd critically.
'That's what I like, Doctor. A bedside manner.' Judd's headache was almost gone and the pain in his
body had been reduced to a dull, aching soreness.
Norah handed him a bouquet of carnations. "We brought you some flowers, love,' she said. 'You poor
old darling.' She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. 'How did it happen?' asked Peter.
Judd hesitated. 'It was a hit-and-run accident'
'Everything hit the fan at once, didn't it? I read about poor Carol.'
'It's dreadful,' said Norah. 'I liked her so much.' Judd felt a tightness in his throat. 'So did I.'
'Any chance of catching the bastard who did it?' Peter asked. 'They're working on it'
'In this rooming's paper it said that a Lieutenant McGreavy is close to making an arrest. Do you know anything about it?'
'A little,' Judd said dryly. 'McGreavy likes to keep me up to date.'
'You never know how wonderful the police are until you really Deed them,' Norah said.
'Dr Harris let me take a look at your X-rays. Some nasty bruises - no concussion. You'll be out of here
in a few days.'
But Judd knew he had no time to spare.
They spent the next half hour in small talk, carefully avoiding the subject of Carol Roberts. Peter and Norah were unaware that John Hanson had been a patient of Judd's. For some reason of his own, McGreavy had kept that part of the story out of the newspapers.
When they got up to leave, Judd asked to speak to Peter alone. While Norah waited outside, Judd told Peter about Harrison Burke.
'I'm sorry,' said Peter. 'When I sent him to you, I knew he was in a bad way, but I was hoping there was still time for you to help him. Of course you have to put him away. When are you going to do it?'
'As soon as I get out of here,' Judd said. And he knew he was lying. He didn't want Harrison Burke sent away. Not just yet. He wanted to find out first whether Burke could have committed the two murders.
'If there's anything I can do for you, old buddy - call.' And Peter was gone.
Judd lay there, planning his next move. Since there was no rational motive for anyone wanting to kill him, it stood to reasoa that the murders had been committed by someone who was mentally unbalanced, someone with an
imagined grievance against him. The only two people he could think of who might fit into that category were Harrison Burke and Amos Ziffren, the man who had killed McGreavy's partner.
If Burke had no alibi for the morning Hanson was killed, then Judd would ask Detective Angeli to check him out further. If Burke had an alibi, then he would concentrate on Ziffren. The feeling of depression that had enveloped him began to lift. He felt that at last he was doing something. He was suddenly desperately impatient to get out of the hospital.
He rang for the nurse and told her he wanted to see Dr. Harris. Ten minutes later Seymour Harris walked into the room. He was a little gnome of a man with bright blue eyes and tufts of black hair sticking out of his cheeks. Judd had known him a long time and had a great respect for him.
'Well! Sleeping Beauty's awake. You look terrible.'
Judd was getting tired of hearing it 'I feel fine,' he lied. 'I want to get out of here'
'When?'
'Now.'
Dr. Harris looked at him reprovingly. 'You just got here. Why don't you stick around a few days? I'll
send you in a tew nymphomaniac nurses to keep you company.' 'Thanks, Seymour. I really do have to leave.'
Dr. Harris sighed 'OK. You're the doctor, Doctor. Personally, I wouldn't let my cat walk around in your condition.' He looked at Judd keenly. 'Anything I can do to help?'
Judd shook his head.
'I'll have Miss Bedpan get your clothes.'
Thirty minutes later the girl at the reception desk called a taxi for him. He was at his office at ten-fifteen.
Chapter Six
His first patient, Teri Washburn, was waiting in the corridor. Twenty years earlier Teri had been one of the biggest stars in the Hollywood firmament. Her career had fizzled overnight, and she had married a lumberman from Oregon and dropped out of sight. Teri had been married five or six times since then and was now living in New York with her latest husband, an importer. She looked up angrily as Judd came down the corridor.
'Well . . .' she said. The speech of reproval she had rehearsed died away as she saw his face. 'What happened to you?' she asked. "You look like you got caught between two horny mix-masters.'
'Just a little accident. Sorry I'm late.' He unlocked the door and ushered Teri into the reception office. Carol's empty desk and chair loomed in front of him.
'I read about Carol,' Teri said. There was an excited edge to her voice. "Was it a sex murder?'
'No,' Judd said shortly. He opened the door to his inner office. 'Give me ten minutes.'
He went into the office, consulted his calendar pad, and began dialling the numbers of his patients, cancelling the rest of his appointments for the day. He was able to reach all but three patients. His chest and arm hurt every time he moved, and his head was beginning to pound again. He took two Darvan from a drawer and washed them down with a glass of water. He walked over to the reception door and opened it for Teri. He steeled himself to put everything out of his mind for the next fifty minutes except the problems of his patient. Teri lay down on the couch, her skirt hiked up, and began talking.
Twenty years ago Teri Washburn had been a raving beauty, and traces of it were still there. She had the largest, softest, most innocent eyes that Judd had ever seen. The sultry mouth had a few hard lines around it, but it was still voluptuous, and her breasts were rounded and firm beneath a close-fitting Gucci print. Judd suspected that she had had a silicone injection, but he was waiting for her to mention
it. The rest of her body was still good, and her legs were great.
At one time or another, most of Judd's female patients thought they were in love with him, the natural transference from patient-doctor to patient-protector-
lover. But Teri's case was different. She had been trying to have an affair with Judd from the first minute she had walked into his office. She had tried to arouse him in every way she could think of -and Teri was an expert. Judd had finally warned her that unless she behaved herself, he would send her to another doctor. Since then she had behaved reasonably well with him: studying him, trying to find his Achilles heel. An eminent English physician had sent Teri
to him after a nasty international scandal at Antibes. A French gossip columnist had accused Teri of spending a weekend on the yacht of a famous Greek shipping magnate to whom she was engaged, and sleeping with his three brothers while the ship's owner flew to Rome for a day on business. The story was quickly hushed up and the columnist printed a retraction and was then quietly fired. In her first session with Judd, Teri had boasted that the story was true.
'It's wild,' she had said. 'I need sex all the time. I can't get enough of it' She had rubbed her hands against her hips, sliding her skirt up, and looked at Judd innocently. 'Do you know what I mean, honey?' she had asked.
Since that first visit, Judd had found out a great deal about Teri. She had come from a small coal-mining town in Pennsylvania.
'My father was a dumb Polack. He got his kicks getting drunk on boilermakers every Saturday night
and beating the shit out of my old lady.'
When she was thirteen, Teri had the body of a woman and the face of an angel. She learned that she could earn nickels by going to the back of the coal tips with the miners. The day her father had found
out, he had come into their small cabin screaming incoherently in Polish, and had thrown Teri's mother out. He had locked the door, taken off his heavy belt, and begun beating Teri. When he was through, he had raped her.
Judd had watched Teri as she lay there describing the scene, her face empty of any emotion.
'That was the last time I saw my father or mother.' "You ran away,' Judd said.
Teri twisted around on the couch in surprise. 'What?'
'After your father raped you—'
'Ran away?' Teri said. She threw back her head and let out a whoop of laughter. 'I liked it. It was my bitch of a mother who threw me out!'
Now Judd switched on the tape recorder. 'What would you like to talk about?' he asked.
'Fucking,' she said. 'Why don't we psychoanalyse you and find out why you're so straight?'
He ignored it "Why did you think Carol's death might have something to do with a sexual attack?'
'Because everything reminds me of sex, honey.' She squirmed and her skirt rode a little higher,
'Pull your skirt down, Teri.'
She gave him an innocent look. 'Sorry ... You missed a great birthday party Saturday night, Doc.'
'Tell me about it.'
She hesitated, an unaccustomed note of concern in her voice. 'You won't hate me?'
'I've told you that you don't need my approval. The only one whose approval you need is you. Right and wrong are the rules we make up ourselves so that we can play in the game with other people. Without rules, there can't be a game. But never forget — the rules are artificial.'
There was a silence. Then she spoke. 'It was a swinging party. My husband hired a six-piece band.'
He waited.
She twisted around to look at him. 'Are you sure you won't lose respect for me?'
'I want to help you. We've all done things we're ashamed of, but that does not signify that we have to continue doing them.'
She studied him a moment, then lay back on the couch. 'Did I ever tell you I suspected my husband, Harry, is impotent?'
'Yes.' She talked of it constantly.
'He hasn't really done it to me since we've been married. He always has some goddamn excuse . . .
Well . . .' Her mouth twisted bitterly. 'Well... Saturday night I fucked the band while Harry watched.'
She began to cry.
Judd handed her some kleenex and sat there, watching her.
<>No one had ever given Teri Washburn anything in her life that she had not been overcharged for. When she had first gone to Hollywood, she had landed a job as a waitress in a drive-in and used most of her wages to go to a third-rate dramatic coach. Within a week the coach had her move in with him, doing all his household chores and confining her coaching to the bedroom. A few weeks later, when she realized that he could not have got her an acting job even if he had wanted to, she had waited out on him and taken a job as a cashier in a Beverly Hills hotel drugstore. A movie executive had appeared on Christmas Eve to buy a last-minute gift for his wife. He had given Teri his card and told her to call him. Teri had made a screen test a week later. She was awkward and untrained, but she had three things going for her. She had a sensational face and figure, the camera loved her, and the studio executive was keeping her.
Teri Washburn appeared in bit parts in a dozen pictures the first year. She began to get fan mail. Her
parts grew larger. At the end of a year her benefactor died of a heart attack, and Teri was afraid the studio would fire her. Instead, the new executive called her in and told her that he had big plans for her. She got a new contract, a raise, and a larger apartment with a mirrored bedroom. Teri's roles gradually grew to leads in B pictures, and finally, as the public showed their adoration by putting down their money at the box office to see each new Teri Washburn picture, she began to star in A pictures.
All that had been a long time ago, and Judd felt sorry for her as she lay on his couch, trying to control
her sobs.
'Would you like some water?' he asked.
"N-no,' she said. 'I'm f-fine.' She took a handkerchief out of her purse and blew her nose.
'I'm sorry,' she said, 'for behaving like a goddamn idiot.' She sat tip. Judd sat there quietly, waiting for her to get control of herself. "Why do I many men like Harry?'
That's an important question. Do you have any idea why?'
'How the hell should I know!' screamed Teri. 'You're the psychiatrist. If I knew they were like that,
you don't think I'd marry those creeps, do you?' 'What do you think?'
She stared at him, shocked. "You mean you think I would?' She got to her feet angrily. "Why, you
dirty sonofa-bitch! You think I liked fucking the band?' 'Did you?'
In a fury she picked up a vase and flung it at him. It shattered against a table. 'Does that answer you?'
'No. That vase was two hundred dollars. 'I'll put it on your bill.' She stared at him helplessly. 'Did I really like it?' she whispered. 'You tell me.'
Her voice dropped even lower. 'I must be sick,' she said. 'Oh, God, I'm sick. Please help me, Judd.
Help me!'
Judd walked over to her. "You've got to help me help you.' She nodded her head, dumbly.
'I want you to go home and think about how you feel, Teri. Not while you're doing these things, but before you do them. Think about why you want to do them. When you know that, you'll know a great deal about yourself.'
She looked at him a moment, then her face relaxed. She took out her handkerchief and blew her nose again. Tou're a helluva man, Charlie Brown,' she said. She picked up her purse and gloves. 'See you
next week?'
'Yes,' he said. 'See you next week.' He opened the door to the corridor, and Teri exited.
He knew the answer to Teri's problem, but she would have to work it through for herself. She would have to leam that she could not buy love, that it had to be given freely. And she could not accept the fact that it could be given to her freely until she learned to believe that she was worthy of receiving love. Until that time, Teri would go on trying to buy it, using the only currency she had: her body. He knew the agony she was going through, the bottomless despair of self-loathing, and his heart went out to her. But the only way in which he could help her was to give the appearance of being impersonal and detached. He knew that to his patients he seemed remote and aloof from their problems, dispensing wisdom from some Olympian height. But that was a vital part of the facade of therapy. In reality he cared deeply about the problems of his patients. They would have been amazed if they had known how often the unspeakable demons that tried to batter down the ramparts of their emotions appeared in Judd'a own nightmares.
During the first six months of his practice as a psychiatrist, when he was undergoing the required two years of analysis necessary to become a psychoanalyst, Judd had developed blinding headaches. He was emphatically taking on the symptoms of all his patients, and it had taken him almost a year to learn to channel and control his emotional involvement
Now, as Judd locked Teri Washburn's tape away, his mind came forcibly back to his own dilemma. He walked over to the phone and dialled information for the number of the Nineteenth Precinct.
The switchboard operator connected him with the Detective Bureau. He heard McGreavy's deep bass voice over the phone, 'Lieutenant McGreavy.'
'Detective Angeli, please.' 'Hold on.'
Judd heard the clatter of the phone as McGreavy put the receiver down. A moment later Angeli's voice came over the wire. 'Detective Angeli.'
'Judd Stevens. I wondered whether you'd got that information yet?* There was an instant's hesitation. 'I checked into it,' said Angeli carefully.
'All you have to do is say "yes" or "no".' Judd's heart was pounding. It was an effort for him to ask the next question. 'Is Ziffren still at Matteawan?'
It seemed an eternity before Angeli answered. "Yes. He's still there.' A wave of disappointment surged through Judd. 'Oh. I see.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Thanks,' Judd said. Slowly he hung up.
So that left Harrison Burke. Harrison Burke, a hopeless paranoiac who was convinced that everyone
was out to kill him. Had Burke decided to strike first? John Hanson had left Judd's office at ten-fifty on Monday and had been killed a few minutes later.
Judd had to find out whether Harrison Burke was in
his office at that time. He looked up Burke's office number and dialled it.
'International Steel.' The voice had the remote, impersonal timbre of an automaton.
'Mr. Harrison Burke, please.'
'Mr. Harrison Burke . . . Thank you . . . One moment, please...'
Judd was gambling on Burke's secretary answering the phone. If she had stepped out for a moment and Burke answered it himself . . . 'Mr Burke's office.' It was a girl's voice.
This is Dr Judd Stevens. I wonder if you could give me some information?'
'Oh, yes, Dr. Stevens.' There was a note of relief in her voice, mixed with apprehension. She must have known that Judd was Burke's analyst. Was she counting on him for help? What had Burke been doing
to upset her?
'It's about Mr. Burke's bill...' Judd began.
'His bill?' She made no effort to conceal her disappointment.
Judd went on quickly. 'My receptionist is - is no longer with me, and I'm trying to straighten out the books. I see that she charged Mr Burke for a nine-thirty appointment this past Monday, and I wonder
if you'd mind checking his calendar for that morning?'
'Just a moment,' she said. There was disapproval in her voice now. He could read her mind. Her employer was cracking up and his analyst was only concerned about getting his money. She came back on the phone a few minutes later. 'I'm afraid your receptionist made a mistake, Dr. Stevens,' she said tartly. 'Mr. Burke couldn't have been at your office Monday morning.'
'Are you sure?' persisted Judd. 'It's down in her book -nine-thirty to—'
'I don't care what's down in her book, Doctor.' She was angry now, upset by his callousness.
'Mr Burke was in a staff meeting all morning on Monday. It began at eight o'clock.'
'Couldn't he have slipped out for an hour?'
'No, Doctor,' she said. 'Mr Burke never leaves his office during the day.' There was an accusation in
her voice. Can't you see that he's ill? What are you doing to help him? 'Shall I tell him you called?'
That won't be necessary,' Judd said. 'Thank you.' He wanted to add a word of reassurance, of comfort, but there was nothing he could say. He hung up.
So that was that. He had struck out If neither Ziffren nor Harrison Burke had tried to kill him - then there could be no one else with any motive. He was back where he had started. Some person - or persons - had murdered his receptionist and one of his patients. The hit-and-run incident could have been deliberate or accidental. At the rime it happened, it seemed to be deliberate. But looking at it dispassionately, Judd admitted to himself that be had been wrought up by the events of the last few days, to his highly emotional state he could easily have turned an accident into something sinister. The simple truth was that there was no one who could have any possible motive for killing him. He had an excellent relationship with all his patients, warm relationships with his friends. He had never, to his knowledge, harmed anyone The phone rang. He recognized Anne's low, throaty voice instantly.
'Are you busy?'
'No. I can talk.'
There was concern in her voice. 'I read that you were hit by a car. I wanted to call you sooner, but I didn't know where to reach you.'
He made bis voice light. 'It was nothing serious. It will teach me not to jaywalk' 'The papers said it was a hit-and-run accident.'
'Did they find the person who did it?'
'No. It was probably some kid out for a lark.' In a black limousine without lights.
'Are you sure?' asked Anne.
The question caught him by surprise. 'What do you mean?'
'I don't really know.' Her voice was uncertain. 'It's just that - Carol was murdered. And now - this.'
So she had put it together, too.
'It - it almost sounds as if there's a maniac running around loose.' 'If there is,' Judd assured her, 'the police will catch him.'
'Are you in any danger?'
His heart warmed. 'Of course not.' There was an awkward silence. There was so much he wanted to
say, but he couldn't He must not mistake a friendly phone call for anything more than the natural concern that a patient would have for her doctor. Anne was the type who would have called anyone who was in trouble. It meant no more than that.
'I'll still see you on Friday?* he asked.
'Yes.' There was an odd note in her voice. Was she going to change her mind?
'It's a date,' he said quickly. But of course it was not a date. It was a business appointment.
"Yes. Goodbye, Dr. Stevens.'
'Goodbye, Mrs. Blake. Thanks for calling. Thanks very much.' He hung up. And thought about Anne. And wondered if her tiusband had any idea what an incredibly lucky man he was.
What was her husband like? In the little Anne had said about him, Judd had formed the image of an attractive and thoughtful man. He was a sportsman, bright, was a successful businessman, donated
money to the arts. He sounded like the kind of person Judd would have liked for a friend- Under
different circumstances.
What could Anne's problem have been that she was afraid to discuss with her husband? Or her analyst? With a person of Anne's character, it was probably an overwhelming feeling of guilt because of an affair she had had either before she was married or after her marriage. He could not imagine her having casual affairs. Perhaps she would tell him on Friday. When he saw her for the last time.
The rest of the afternoon went by swiftly. Judd saw the few patients he had not been able to cancel. When the last one had departed, he took out the tape of Harrison Burke's last session and played it, making occasional notes as he listened.
When he had finished, he switched the tape recorder off. There was no choice. He had to call Burke's employer hi the morning and inform him of Burke's condition. He glanced out of the window and was surprised to see that night had fallen. It was almost eight o'clock. Now that he had finished concentrating on his work, he suddenly felt stiff and tired. His ribs were sore and his arm had begun to throb. He
would go home and soak in a nice hot bath.
He put away all the tapes except Burke's, which he locked in a drawer of a side table. He would turn it over to a court-appointed psychiatrist. He put on his overcoat and was halfway out the door when the phone rang. He went to the phone and picked it up. 'Dr. Stevens.'
There was no answer on the other end. He heard breathing, heavy and nasal.
'Hello?'
There was no response. Judd hung up. He stood there a moment, frowning. Wrong number, he decided. He turned out the office lights, locked the doors, and moved towards the bank of elevators. All the tenants were long since gone. It was too early for the night shift of maintenance workers, and except for Bigelow, the watchman, the building was deserted.
Judd walked over to the elevator and pressed the call button. The signal indicator did not move. He pressed the button again. Nothing happened.
And at that moment all the lights in the corridor blacked
Chapter Seven
Judd stood in front of the elevator, the wave of darkness lapping at him like a physical force. He could feel his heart slow and then begin to beat faster. A sudden, atavistic fear flooded his body, and he
reached in his pockets for a book of matches. He had left them in the office. Perhaps the lights were working on the floors below. Moving slowly and cautiously, he groped his way towards the door that led to the stairwell. He pushed the door open. The stairwell was in darkness. Carefully holding onto the railing, he started down into the blackness. In the distance below, he saw the wavering beam of a flashlight moving up the stairs. He was filled with sudden relief. Bigelow, the watchman. 'Bigelow!' he yelled. 'Bigelow! It's Dr. Stevens!' His voice bounced against the stone walls, echoing eerily through the stairwell. The figure holding the flashlight kept climbing silently, inexorably upward 'Who's there?' Judd demanded. The only answer was the echo of his words.
And Judd suddenly knew who was there. His assassins. There had to be at least two of them. One bad cut off the power in the basement while the other blocked the stairs to prevent his escape.
The beam of the flashlight was coming closer, only two or three floors below now, climbing rapidly. Judd's body went cold with fear. His heart began to pound like a triphammer, and his legs felt weak. He turned quickly and went
back up the stairs to bis floor. He opened the door and stood, listening. What if someone were waiting up here in the dark corridor for him?
The sounds of the footsteps advancing up the stairs were louder now. His mouth dry, Judd turned and made his way along the inky corridor. When he reached the elevators, he began counting office doors.
As he reached his office, he heard the stairwell door open. The keys slipped from his nervous fingers
and dropped to the floor. He fumbled for them frantically, found them, opened the door to his reception room, and went in, double-locking the door behind him. No one could open it now without a special key.
From the corridor outside, he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. He went into his private office and nicked the light switch. Nothing happened. There was no power at all in the building. He locked die inner door, then moved to the phone. He fumbled for the dial and dialled the operator. There were three long, steady rings, and then the operator's voice, Judd's only link to the outside world.
He spoke softly. 'Operator, this is an emergency. This is Dr. Judd Stevens. I want to speak to Detective Frank Angeli at the Nineteenth Precinct. Please hurry!'
'Thank you. Your number please?' Judd gave it to her.
'One moment, please.'
He heard the sound of someone testing the corridor entrance to his private office. They could not get
in that way because there was no outside knob on the door. 'Hurry, Operator!*
'One moment, please,' replied the cool, unhurried voice.
There was a buzz on the line and then the police switchboard operator spoke. 'Nineteenth Precinct.'
Judd's heart leaped. 'Detective Angeli. he said. 'It's urgent!'
'Detective Angeli... - just a moment, please.'
Outside in the corridor, something was happening. He could hear the sound of muted voices. Someone had joined the first man. What were they planning?
A familiar voice came on tlie phone. 'Detective Angeli's not here. This is his partner, Lieutenant McGreavy. Can—'
'This is Judd Stevens. I'm in my office. The lights are all out and someone's trying to break in and
kill me !'
There was a heavy silence on the other end. 'Look, Doctor,' said McGreavy. 'Why don't you come
down here and we'll talk a--'
'I can't come down there.' Judd almost shouted. 'Someone's trying to murder me!'
There was another silence at the other end of the line. McGreavy did not believe him and was not going to help him. Outside, Judd heard a door open, and then the sound of voices in the recepdon office. They were in the reception office! It was impossible for them to have got in without a key. But he could hear them moving, coming towards the door to his private office.
McGreavy's voice was coming over the phone, but Judd didn't even listen. It was too late. He replaced the receiver.
It would not have mattered even if McGreavy had agreed to come. The assassins were here! Life is a very thin thread and it only takes a second to snap it. The fear that gripped him turned to a blind rage. He refused to be slaughtered like Hanson and Carol. He was going to put up a fight. He felt around in the dark for a possible weapon. An ashtray... a letter opener ... useless. The assassins would have guns. It was a Kafka nightmare. He was being condemned for no reason by faceless executioners.
He heard them moving closer to the inner door and knew that he only had a minute or two left to live. With a strange, dispassionate calm, as though he were his own patient, he examined bis final thoughts.
He thought of Anne, and a sense of aching loss filled him. He thought of his patients, and of how much they needed him. Harrison Burke. With a pang he remembered that he had not yet told Burke's employer that Burke had to be
committed. He would put the tapes where they could be... His heart lurched. Perhaps he did have a weapon to fight with!
He heard the doorknob turning. The door was locked, but it was flimsy. It would be simple for them to break in. He quickly groped his way in the dark to the table where he had locked away Burke's tape. He heard a creak as pressure was applied against the reception-room door. Then he heard someone fumbling at the lock. Why don't they just break it down? he thought. Somewhere, far back in his mind, he felt the answer was important, but he had no time to think about it now With trembling fingers he unlocked the drawer with the tape in it. He ripped it out of its cardboard container, then moved over to the tape player and started to thread it. It was an outside chance, but it was the only one he had.
He stood there, concentrating, trying to recall his exact conversation with Burke. The pressure on the door increased. Judd gave a quick, silent prayer. 'I'm sorry about the power going out,' he said aloud.
'But I'm sure they'll have it fixed in a few minutes, Harrison. Why don't you lie down and relax?'
The noise at the door suddenly ceased. Judd had finished threading the tape into the player. He pressed the 'on' button. Nothing happened. Of course. All the power in the building was off. He could hear them begin to work on die lock again. A feeling of desperation seized him. 'That's better,' he said loudly. 'Just make yourself comfortable.' He fumbled for the packet of matches on the table, found it, tore out a match and lit it. He held the name close to the tape player.
There was a switch marked 'battery'. He turned the knob, then pressed the 'on' button again. At that moment, there was a sudden click as the lock on the door sprung open. His last defence was gone!
And then Burke's voice rang through the room. 'Is that all you've got to say?
You don't even want to
hear my proof. How do I know you're not one of them?'
Judd froze, not daring to move, bis heart roaring like thunder.
"You know I'm not one of them,' said Judd's voice from the tape. 'I'm your friend. I'm trying to help
you ... Tell me about your proof.'
'They broke into my house last night,' Burke's voice said. They came to kill me, but I was too clever
for them. I sleep in my den now, and I have extra locks on all the doors so they can't get to me.'
The sounds in the outer office had ceased.
Judd's voice again. 'Did you report the break-in to the police?'
'Of course not! The police are in it with them. They have orders to shoot me.
But they wouldn't dare
do it while there are odier people around, so I stay in crowds.' 'I'm glad you gave me this information.'
'What are you going to do with it?'
'I'm listening very carefully to everything you say,' said Judd's voice. 'I've got it all down' — at that moment a warning screamed in Judd's brain; the next words were - 'on tape.'
He made a dive for the switch and pressed it. '—in my mind,' Judd said loudly. 'And well work out the best way to handle it.' He stopped. He could not play the tape again because he had no way of telling where to pick it up. His only hope was that the men outside were convinced that Judd had a patient in
the office with him. Even if they believed it, would it stop them?
'Cases like this,' Judd said, raising his voice, 'are really more common than you'd believe, Harrison.' He gave an impatient exclamation. 'I wish they'd get these lights back on. I know your chauffeur's waiting
out in front for you. Hell probably wonder what's wrong and come up.'
Judd stopped and listened. He could hear whispering from the other side of the door. "What were they deciding? From the distant street below, he suddenly heard the insistent wail of an approaching siren.
The whispering stopped. He listened for the sound of the outer door closing, but he could hear nothing. Were they still out there, waiting? The scream of the siren grew louder. It stopped in front of the building.
And suddenly all the lights went on.
Chapter Eight
'Drink?'
McGreavy shook his head moodily, studying Judd. Judd poured himself his second stiff scotch while McGreavy watched without comment. Judd's hands were still trembling. As the warmth of the whisky floated through him, he felt himself beginning to relax.
McGreavy had arrived at the office two minutes after the lights had come on. With him was a stolid police sergeant who now sat making notes in a shorthand notebook.
McGreavy was talking. 'Let's go over it once more, Dr. Stevens.'
Judd toolt a deep breath and began again, deliberately keeping his voice calm and low. 'I locked the
office and went to the elevator. The corridor lights blacked out. I thought that the lights on the lower floors might be working, and I started to walk down.' Judd hesitated, reliving the fear. 'I saw someone coming up the stairs with a flashlight. I called out I thought it was Bigelow, the guard. It wasn't.'
'Who was it?'
'I've told you,' said Judd. 'I don't know. They didn't answer.' 'What made you think they were coming to kill you?'
An angry retort came to Judd's lips, and he checked it. It was essential to make McGreavy believe him. They followed me back to my office.'
'You think there were two men trying to kill you?' 'At least two,' Judd said. 'I heard them whispering.'
'You said that when you entered your reception office, you locked the outside door leading to the corridor. Is that right?'
'Yes.'
'And that when you came into your inner office, you locked the door leading to the reception office.'
'Yes.'
McGreavy walked over to the door leading from the reception office to Judd's inner office. 'Did they
try to force this door?'
'No,' admitted Judd. He remembered how puzzled he had been by that.
'Right,' said McGreavy. 'When you lock the reception-office door that opens onto the corridor, it takes
a special key to open it from the outside.'
Judd hesitated. He knew what McGreavy was leading up to. 'Yes.' 'Who had the keys to that lock?*
Judd felt his face reddening. 'Carol and I.'
McGreavy's voice was bland. 'What about the cleaning people? How did they get in?'
'We had a special arrangement with them. Carol came in early three mornings a week and let them in. They were finished before my first patient arrived.'
'That seems inconvenient. Why couldn't they get into these offices when they cleaned all the other offices?'
'Because the files I keep in here are of a highly confidential nature. I prefer the inconvenience to
having strangers in here when no one is around.'
McGreavy looked over at the sergeant to make sure he was getting it all down. Satisfied, he turned back to Judd. 'When we walked into the reception office, the door was unlocked. Not forced-unlocked.'
Judd said nothing.
McGreavy went on. 'You just told us that the only ones who had a key to that lock were you and
Carol. And we have Carol's key. Think again, Dr. Stevens. Who else had a key to that door?'
'Then how do you suppose those men got in?'
And Judd suddenly knew. "They made a copy of Carol's key when they killed her.'
'It's possible.' conceded McGreavy. A bleak smile touched his lips. 'If they made a copy, we'll find paraffin traces on her key. I'll have the lab run a test.'
Judd nodded. He felt as though he had scored a victory, but his feeling of satisfaction was short-lived.
'So the way you see it,' McGreavy said, 'two men - well assume for the moment there's no woman involved - had a key copied so they could get into your office and kill you. Right?'
'Right,' said Judd.
'Now you said that when you went into your office, you locked the inner door. True?'
'Yes,' Judd said.
McGreavy's voice was almost mild. "But we found that door unlocked, too,' 'They must have had a key to it'
'Then after they got it open, why didn't they kill you?' 'I told you. They heard the voices on the tape and—'
'These two desperate killers went to all the trouble to knock out the lights, trap you up here, break into your office - and then just vanished into thin air without harming a hair of your head?' His voice was
filled with contempt.
Judd felt cold anger rising in him. "What are you implying?'
'I'll spell it out for you. Doctor. I don't think anyone was here and I don't believe anyone tried to kill you.'
'You don't have to take my word for it,' Judd said angrily. 'What about the lights? What about the night watchman, Bigelow?'
'He's in the lobby.'
Judd's heart missed a beat. 'Dead?'
'He wasn't when he let us in. There was a faulty wire in the main power switch.
Bigelow was down in
the basement trying to fix it. He got it working just as I arrived.' Judd looked at him numbly. 'Oh,' he said finally.
'I don't know what you're playing at, Dr. Stevens,' McGreavy said, 'but from now on, count me out.'
He moved towards the door. 'And do me a favour. Don't call me again. I'll call you.'
The sergeant snapped his notebook shut and followed McGreavy out.
The effects of the whisky had evaporated. The euphoria had gone, and he was left with a deep depression. He had no idea what his next move should be. He was on the inside of a puzzle that had no key. He felt like the boy who cried 'wolf, except that the wolves were deadly, unseen phantoms, and every time McGreavy came, they seemed to vanish. Phantoms or ... There was one other possibility. It was so horrifying that he couldn't bring himself to even acknowledge it. But he had to.
He had to face the possibility that he was a paranoiac.
A mind that was overstressed could give birth to delusions that seemed totally real. He had been working too hard. He had not had a vacation in years. It was conceivable that the deaths of Hanson and Carol could have been the catalyst that had sent his mind over some emotional precipice so that events became enormously magnified and out of joint. People suffering from paranoia lived in a land where everyday, commonplace things represented nameless terrors. Take the car accident. If it had been a deliberate attempt to kill him, surely the driver would have got out and made sure that the job was finished. And the two men who had come here tonight. He did not know that they had guns. Would a paranoiac not assume that they were there to kill him? It was more logical to believe that they were sneak thieves. When they had heard the voices in his inner office, they had fled. Surely, if they were assassins, they would have
opened the unlocked door and killed him. How could he find out the truth? He knew it would be useless to appeal to the police again. There was no one to whom he could turn.
An idea began to form. It was born of desperation, but the more he examined it. the more sense it made. He picked up the telephone directory and began to rifle through the yellow pages.
Chapter Nine
At four o'clock the following afternoon Judd left his office and drove to an address on the lower West Side. It was an ancient, run-down brownstone apartment house. As he pulled up in front of the dilapidated building, Judd began to have misgivings. Perhaps he had the wrong address. Then a sign in a window of a first-floor apartment caught his eye:
Norman Z. Moody
Private Investigator Satisfaction Guaranteed
Judd alighted from the car. It was a raw, windy day with a forecast of laie snow. He moved gingerly across the icy sidewalk and walked into the vestibule of the building.
The vestibule smelled of mingled odours of stale cooking and urine. He pressed the burton marked 'Norman Z. Moody - 1', and a moment later a buzzer sounded. He stepped inside and found
Apartment 1. A sign on the door read:
Norman Z. Moody
Private Investigator
RING BELL AND ENTER
He rang the bell and entered.
Moody was obviously not a man given to throwing his money away on luxuries. The office looked as though it had been furnished by a blind, hyperthyroid pack rat. Odds and ends crammed every spare inch of the room. In one corner stood a tattered Japanese screen. Next to it was an East Indian lamp, and in front of the lamp a scarred Danish-modern table. Newspapers and old magazines were piled everywhere.
A door to an inner room burst open and Norman Z. Moody emerged. He was about five foot five and must have weighed three hundred pounds. He rolled as he walked, reminding Judd of an animated Buddha. He had a round, jovial face with wide, guileless, pale blue eyes. He was totally bald and his
head was egg-shaped. It was impossible to guess his age. 'Mr. Stevenson?' Moody greeted him.
'Dr. Stevens,' Judd said.
'Sit down, sit down.' Buddha with a Southern drawl.
Judd looked around for a seat. He removed a pile of old body-building and nudist magazines from a scrofulous-looking leather armchair with strips torn out of it, and gingerly sat down.
Moody was lowering his bulk into an oversized rocking chair. 'Well, now! What can I do for you?'
Judd knew that he had made a mistake. Over the phone he had carefully given Moody his full name. A name that had been on the front page of every New York newspaper in the last few days. And he had managed to pick the only private detective in the whole city who had never even heard of him. He cast about for some excuse to walk out.
'Who recommended me?'Moody prodded.
Judd hesitated, not wanting to offend him. 'I got your name out of the yellow pages.'
Moody laughed 'I don't know what I'd do without the yellow pages,' he said. 'Greatest invention since com liquor.' He gave another little laugh.
Judd got to his feet He was dealing with a total idiot. Tm sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Moody,' he said.
'I'd like to think about this some more before I..."
'Sure, sure. I understand.' Moody said. 'You'll have to pay me for the appointment, though.'
'Of course.' Judd said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out some bills. 'How much is it?'
'Fifty dollars.'
'Fifty—?' Judd swallowed angrily, peeled off some bills and thrust them in Moody's hand. Moody counted the money carefully.
'Thanks a lot.' Moody said. Judd started towards the door, feeling like a fool. 'Doctor...'
Judd turned. Moody was smiling at him benevolently, tucking the money into the pocket of his waistcoat 'As long as you're stuck for the fifty dollars.' he said mildly, 'you might as well sit down and tell me what your problem is. I always say that nothin' takes more weight off than gettin' things of your chest.'
The irony of it, coming from this silly fat man, almost made Judd laugh. Judd's whole life was devoted to listening to people get things off their chests. He studied Moody a moment. What could he lose? Perhaps talking it out with a stranger would help. Slowly he went back to his chair and sat down.
'You look like you're carryin* the weight of the world, Doc. I always say that four shoulders are better than two.'
Judd was not certain how many of Moody's aphorisms he was going to he able to stand.
Moody was watching him. 'What brought you here? Women, or money? I always say if you took away women and money, you'd solve most of the world's problems right there.' Moody was eyeing him,
waiting for an answer.
'I -I think someone is trying to kill me.' Blue eyes blinked. 'You think?'
Judd brushed the question aside. 'Perhaps you could give me the name of someone who specializes in investigating that kind of thing.'
'I certainly can.' Moody said. 'Norman Z. Moody. Best in the country.' Judd sighed in despair.
'Why don't you tell me about it, Doc?' Moody suggested. "Let's see if the two of us can't sort it out a little.'
Judd had to smile in spite of himself. It sounded so much like himself. Just lie down and say anything that comes into your mind. Why not? He took a deep breath and, as concisely as possible, told Moody the events of the past few days. As he spoke, he forgot that Moody was there. He was really speaking to himself, putting into words the baffling things that had occurred. He carefully said nothing to Moody about his fears for his own sanity. When Judd had finished, Moody regarded him happily.
"You got yourself a dilly of a problem there. Either somebody's out to murder you, or you're afraid that you're becoming a schizophrenic paranoiac'
Judd looked up in surprise. Score one for Norman Z. Moody.
Moody went on. "You said there are two detectives on the case. Do you remember their names?'
Judd hesitated. He was reluctant to get too deeply committed to this man. All he really wanted to do was to get out of there. 'Frank Angeli,' he answered, and 'and Lieutenant McGreavy.'
There was an almost imperceptible change in Moody's expression. 'What reason would anyone have to kill you. Doc?'
'I have no idea. As far as I know, I haven't any enemies.'
'Oh, come on. Everybody's got a few enemies layin' around. I always say enemies give a little salt to
the bread of life.'
Judd tried not to wince. 'Married?'
'No,' Judd said. 'Are you a fairy?'
Judd sighed. 'Look, I've been through all this with the police and—'
'Yeah, Only you're payin' me to help you,' Moody said, unperturbed. 'Owe anybody any money?'
'Just the normal monthly bills.' 'What about your patients?' 'What about them?'
"Well, I always say if you're lookin' for seashells, go down to the seashore. Your patients are a lot of loonies. Right?"
'Wrong,' Judd said curdy. 'They're people with problems.'
'Emotional problems that they can't solve themselves. Could one of them have it in for you? Oh, not
for any real reason, but maybe somebody with an imaginary grievance against you.'
'It's possible. Except for one thing. Most of my patients have been under my care for a year or more.
In that length of time I've got to know them as well as one human being can know another.'
'Don't they never get mad at you?' Moody asked innocently.
'Sometimes. But we're not looking for someone who's angry. We're looking for a homicidal paranoiac who has murdered at least two people and has made several attempts to murder me.' He hesitated, then made himself go on. 'If I have a patient like that and don't know it, then you're looking at the most incompetent psychoanalyst who ever lived'
He looked up and saw Moody studying him.
'I always say first things firs.' Moody said cheerfully. 'The first thing we've gotta do is find out whether someone's trying to knock you off, or whether
you're nuts. Right, Doc?' He broke into a broad smile, taking the offence out of his words.
'How?' Judd asked.
'Simple,' Moody said. 'Your problem is, you're standin' at home plate strikin' at curve balls, an' you
don't know if anyone's pitchin'. First we're gonna find out if there's a ball-game goin' on; then we're gonna find out who the players are. You got a car?'
'Yes.'
Judd had forgotten about walking out and finding another private detective. He sensed now behind Moody's bland, innocent face and his homespun maxims a quiet, intelligent capability.
'I think your nerves are shot,' Moody said. 'I want you to take a little vacation.' 'When?'
'Tomorrow morning.'
'That's impossible,' Judd protested. 'I have patients scheduled.. .' Moody brushed it aside. 'Cancel them.'
'But what good—'
'Do I tell you how to run your business?' Moody asked. 'When you leave here, I want you to go straight to a travel agency. Have them get you a reservation at" - he thought a moment - 'Grossinger's. That's a pretty drive up through the Catskills... Is there a garage in the apartment building where you live?'
'OK. Tell them to service your car for the trip. You don't want to have any breakdowns on the road'
'Couldn't I do this next week? Tomorrow is a full—'
'After you make your reservation, you're going back to your office and call all your patients. Tell them you've had an emergency and you'll be back in a week.'
'I really can't,' Judd said. If s out of the—'
'You'd better call Angeli, too.' Moody continued. 1 don't want the police hunting for you while you're gone.'
'Why am I doing this?' Judd asked.
'To protect your fifty dollars. That reminds me. Fm gonna need another two hundred for a retainer.
Plus fifty a day for expenses.'
Moody hauled his large bulk up out of the big rocker. 'I can get up there before dark. Can you leave about seven in the morning?'
'I... I suppose so. What will I find when I get up there?' 'With a little luck, a scorecard.'
Five minutes later Judd was thoughtfully getting into his car. He had told Moody that he could not go away and leave his patients on such short notice. But he knew that he was going to. He was literally putting his life into the hands of
the Falstaff of the private detective world. As he started to drive away, his eye caught Moody's sign
in the window.
SATISFACTION GUARANTEED
He'd better be right, Judd thought grimly.
The plan for the trip went smoothly. Judd stopped at a travel agency on Madison Avenue. They reserved a room for him at Grossinger's and provided him with a road map and a variety of colour brochures on the Catskills. Next he telephoned his answering service and arranged for them to call his patients and cancel all his appointments until further notice. He phoned the Nineteenth Precinct and asked for Detective Angeli.
'Angeli's home sick,' said an impersonal voice. 'Do you want his home number?'
'Yes.'
A few moments later he was talking to Angeli. From the sound of Angeli's voice, he had a heavy cold.
'I've decided I need to get out of town for a few days,' Judd said. 'I'm leaving in the morning. I wanted
to check it with you.'
There was a silence while Angeli thought it over. 'It might not be a bad idea. Where will you go?'
'I thought I'd drive up to Grossinger's.'
'All right,' Angeli said. 'Don't worry. I'll clear it with McGreavy.' He hesitated. 'I heard what happened
at your office last night.'
'You mean you heard McGreavy's version,' Judd said. 'Did you get a look at the men who tried to kill you?' So Angeli, at least, believed him.
'No.'
'Nothing at all that could help us find them? Colour, age, height?' 'I'm sorry,' Judd said. 'It was dark.'
Angeli sniffed. 'OK. I'll keep looking. Maybe I'll have some good news for you when you get back.
Be careful, Doctor.'
'I will,' Judd said gratefully. And he hung up.
Next he phoned Harrison Burke's employer and briefly explained Burke's situation. There was no choice but to have him committed as soon as possible.
Judd then called Peter, explained that he had to go out
of town for a week, and asked him to make the necessary arrangements for Burke. Peter agreed.
The decks were clear.
The thing that disturbed Judd the most was that he would be unable to see Anne on Friday. Perhaps he would never see her again.
As he drove back towards his apartment, he thought about Norman Z. Moody. He had an idea what Moody was up to. By having Judd notify all his patients that he was going away, Moody was making
sure that if one of Judd's patients was the killer - if there was a killer - a trap, using Judd as the bait, would be set for him.
Moody had instructed him to leave his forwarding address with his telephone exchange and with the doorman at the apartment building. He was making certain that everyone would know where Judd
was going.
When Judd pulled up in front of the apartment house, Mike was there to greet him.
'I'm leaving on a trip in the morning, Mike,' Judd informed him. 'Will you make sure the garage
services my car and fills the tank?'
'I'll have it taken care of, Dr. Stevens. What time will you be needing the car?'
'I'll be leaving at seven.' Judd sensed Mike watching him as he walked into the apartment building.
When he entered his apartment, he locked the doors and carefully checked the windows. Everything seemed to be in order.
He took two codeine pills, got undressed, and ran a hot bath, gingerly easing his aching body into it, feeling the tensions soaking out of his back and neck. He lay in the blessedly relaxing tub, thinking. Why had Moody warned him not to let the car break down on the road? Because that was the most likely
place for him to be attacked, somewhere on a lonely road in the Catskills And what could Moody
do about it if Judd were attacked? Moody had refused to tell him what his plan was - if there was a plan. The more Judd examined it, the more convinced he became that he was walking into a trap. Moody had said he was setting it up for Judd's pursuers. But no matter how many times he went over it, the answer always came out the same: the trap seemed designed to catch Judd. But why?
What interest could Moody have in getting him killed? My God, thought Judd.
I've picked a name at random out of the yellow pages of the Manhattan
Telephone Directory and I believe he wants to have me murdered! I am paranoiac!
He felt his eyes beginning to close. The pills and the hot bath had done their work well. Wearily he pulled himself out of the tub, carefully patted his bruised body dry with a fluffy towel, and put on a pair of pyjamas. He got into bed and set the electric alarm clock for six. The Catskills, he thought. It was an appropriate name. And he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
At six am, when the alarm went off, Judd was instantly awake. As though there had been no time lapse
at all, his first thought was, I don't believe in a series of coincidences and I don't believe that one of my patients is a mass murderer. Ergo, I am either a paranoiac, or am becoming one. What he needed was to consult another psychoanalyst without delay. He would phone Dr. Robbie. He knew that it would mean the end of his professional career, but there was no help for it. If he were suffering from paranoia, they would have to commit him. Did Moody suspect that he was dealing with a mental case? Was that why he suggested a vacation? Not because he believed anyone was after Judd's life, but because he could see the signs of a nervous breakdown? Perhaps the wisest course would be to follow Moody's advice and go to the Catskills for a few days. Alone, with all the pressures removed, he could calmly try to evaluate himself, try to reason out when Ms mind had started to trick him, when he had begun to lose touch with reality. Then, when he returned, he would make an appointment with Dr. Robbie and put himself under his care.
It was a painful decision to make, but having made it, Judd felt better. He dressed, packed a small suitcase with enough clothes for five days, and carried it out to the elevator.
Eddie was not on duty yet, and the elevator was on self-service. Judd rode down to the basement garage. He looted round for Wilt, the attendant, but he was nowhere around. The garage was deserted.
Judd sported his car parked in a corner against the cement wall. He walked over to it, put his suitcase in the back seat, opened the front door, and eased in behind the wheel. As he reached for the ignition key,
a man loomed up at his side from nowhere. Judd's heart skipped a beat.
'You're right on schedule.' It was Moody.
'I didn't know you were going to see me off.' Judd said.
Moody beamed at him, his cherubic face breaking into a huge smile, 'I had nothing better to do and
I couldn't sleep.'
Judd was suddenly grateful for the tactful way Moody had handled the situation. No reference to the
fact that Judd drive up to the country and take a rest Well, the least Judd could do was to keep up the pretence that everything was normal.
'I decided you were right. I'm going to drive up and see if I can find a scorecard to the ball-game.'
"Oh, you don't have to go anywhere for that,' Moody said. That's all taken care of.'
Judd looked at him blankly. 'I don't understand.'
'It's simple. I always say when you want to get to the bottom of anything, you gotta start diggin'.'
'Mr. Moody...'
Moody leaned against the door of the car. 'You know what I found intriguin' about your little problem, Doc? Seemed like every five minutes somebody was tryin' to kill you -maybe. Now that "maybe" fascinated me. There was nothin' for us to bite into till we found out whether you were crackin' up, or whether someone was really tryin' to turn you into a corpse.'
Judd looked at him. 'But the Catskills...' he said weakly.
'Oh, you wasn't never goin' to the Catskilla, Doc.' He opened the door of the car. 'Step out here.'
Bewildered, Judd stepped out of the car.
'You see, that was just advertising- I always say if you wanta catch a shark, you've gotta bloody up
the water first.'
Judd was watching his facc.
'I'm afraid you never would have got to the Catskills,' Moody said gently. He walked around to the hood of the cat, fumbled with the catch, and raised the hood. Judd walked over to his side. Taped to the distributor head were three sticks of dynamite. Two thin wires were dangling loose from the ignition.
'Booby-trapped,' Moody said.
Judd looked at him, baffled. 'But how did you...?'
Moody grinned. 'I told you, I'm a bad sleeper. I got here around midnight. I paid the nightman to go
out and have some fun, an' I just kinda waited in the shadows. The nightman'll cost another twenty dollars,' he added. 'I didn't want you to look cheap.'
Judd felt a sudden wave of affection towards the little fat man. Did you see who did it?'
'Nope. It was done before I got here. At six o'clock this mornin* I figured no one was gonna show up
any more, so I took a look.' He pointed to the dangling wires. Tfour friends are real cute. They rigged a second booby-trap so if you lifted the hood all the way, this wire would detonate the dynamite. The same thing would happen if you turned on your ignition. There's enough stuff here to wipe out half the garage.'
Judd felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Moody looked at him sympathetically. 'Cheer up,' he said. 'Look at the progress we've made. We know two things.
First of all, we know you're not nuts. And secondly" - the smile left his face - 'we know that somebody is God Almighty anxious to murder you, Dr Stevens.'
Chapter Ten
They were sitting in the living-room of Judd's apartment, talking, Moody's enormous body spilling over the large couch. Moody had carefully put the
pieces of the already defused bomb in the trunk of his own car.
'Shouldn't you have left it there so the police could have examined it?' Judd asked.
'I always say that the most confusin* thing in the world is too much information.'
'But it would have proved to Lieutenant McGreavy that I've been telling the truth.'
'Would it?'
Judd saw his point. As far as McGreavy was concerned, Judd could have placed it there himself. Still, it seemed odd to him that a private detective would withhold evidence from the police. He had a feeling that Moody was like an enormous iceberg. Most of the man was concealed under the surface, under that facade of gentle, small-town humbler. But now, as he listened to Moody talking, he was filled with elation. He was not insane and the world had not suddenly become filled with wild coincidences. There was an assassin on the loose. A fiesh-and-blood assassin. And for some reason he had chosen Judd as his target. My God, thought Judd, how easily out egos are destroyed. A few minutes ago he had been ready to believe that he was paranoiac. He owed Moody an incalculable debt.
'... You're the doctor,' Moody was saying. 'I'm just an old gumshoe, I always say when you want
honey, go to a beehive.'
Judd was beginning to understand Moody's jargon. 'You want my opinion about the kind of man, or
men, we're looking for.'
That's it,' beamed Moody. 'Are we dealin' with some homicidal maniac who broke out of a loony bin' -
Mental institution, Judd thought automatically.
— 'or have we got somethin' deeper goin' here?' 'Something deeper,' said Judd instantly.
'What makes you think so, Doc?'
"First of all, two men broke into my office last night I might swallow the theory of one lunatic, but two lunatics working together is too much.'
Moody nodded approvingly. 'Gotcha. Go on.'
'Secondly, a deranged mind may have an obsession, but it works in a definite pattern. I don't know why John Hanson and Carol Roberts were killed, but unless I'm wrong, I'm scheduled to be the third and last victim.'
'What makes you think you're the last?' asked Moody curiously.
'Because,' replied Judd, 'if there were going to be other murders, then the first time they failed to kill
me, they would have gone on to get whoever else was on their list. But instead of that, they've been concentrating on trying to kill me.'
'You know,' said Moody approvingly, 'you have the natural born makin's of a detective.'
Judd was frowning. There are several things that make no sense.' 'Such as?'
'First, the motive,' said Judd. 'I don't know anyone who—' 'We'll come back to that. What else?'
'If someone really was that anxious to kill me, when the car knocked me down, all the driver had to do was to back up and run over me. I was unconscious.'
'Ah! That's where Mr. Benson comes in.' Judd looked at him blankly.
'Mr Benson is the witness to your accident," explained Moody benevolently. 'I got his name from the police report and went to see him after you left my office. That'll be three-fifty for taxicabs. OK?'
Judd nodded, speechless.
<>'Mr. Benson - he's a furrier, by the way. Beautiful stuff. If you ever want to buy anything for your sweetheart, I can get you a discount Anyway, Tuesday, the night of the accident, he was comin' out
of an office building where his sister-in-law works. He dropped some pills off because his brother Matthew, who's a Bible salesman, had the flu an' she was goin' to take the pills home to him.'
Judd controlled his impatience. If Norman Z. Moody had felt like sitting there and reciting the entire
Bill of Rights, he was going to listen.
'So Mr. Benson dropped off these pills an' was comin' out of the building when he saw this limousine headin' towards you. Of course, he didn't know it was you at the time.'
Judd nodded.
The car was kinda crabbin' sideways, an' from Benson's angle, it looked like it was in a skid. When he saw it hit you, he started runnin' over to see if he could help. The limousine backed up to make another run at you. He saw Mr Benson an* got out of there like a bat outta hell.'
Judd swallowed. 'So if Mr. Benson hadn't happened along...'
'Yeah,' said Moody mildly. You might say you an' me wouldn't have met. These boys ain't playin'
games. They're out to get you, Doc.'
'What about the attack in my office? Why didn't they break the door down?'
Moody was silent for a moment, thinking. 'That's a puzzler. They coulda broken in an' killed you an' whoever was with you an' got away without anybody seein' them. But when they thought you weren't alone, they left. It don't fit in with the rest.' He sat there worrying his lower lip. 'Unless ...' he said.
'Unless what?'
A speculative look came over Moody's face. 'I wonder...' he breathed. 'What?'
'It'll keep for the time bein'. I got me a little idea, but it don't make sense until we find a motive.'
Judd shrugged helplessly. 'I don't know of anyone who has a motive for killing me.'
Moody thought about this a moment. 'Doc, could you have any secret that you shared with this patient
of yours, Hanson, an' Carol Roberts? Somethin' maybe only the three of you knew about?'
Judd shook his head. "The only secrets I have are professional secrets about my patients. And there's not one single thing in any of their case histories that would justify murder. None of my patients is a secret agent, or a foreign spy, or an escaped convict. They're just ordinary people - housewives, professional men, bank clerks — who have problems they can't cope with.'
Moody looked at him guilelessly. 'An' you're sure that you're not harbouring a homicidal maniac in your little group?'
Judd's voice was firm. "Positive. Yesterday I might not have been sure. To tell you the truth, I was beginning to think that I was suffering from paranoia and that you were humouring me.'
Moody smiled at him. The thought had crossed my mind,' he said. 'After you phoned me for an appointment, I did some checking up on you. I called a couple of pretty good doctor friends of mine.
You got quite a reputation.'
So the 'Mr. Stevenson' had been part of£ Moody's country bumpkin facade.
'If we go to the police now,' Judd said, 'with what we know, we can at least get them to start looking
for whoever's behind all this.'
Moody looked at him in mild surprise. 'You think so? We don't really have much to go on yet, do we, Doc?'
It was true.
'I wouldn't be discouraged,' Moody said. 'I think we're maldn' real progress. We've narrowed it down nicely.'
A note of frustration crept into Judd's voice. 'Sure It could be anyone in the Continental United States.'
Moody sat there a moment, contemplating the ceiling. Finally he shook his head. 'Families,' he sighed.
'Families?'
"Doc -I believe you when you say you know your patients inside out. If you tell me they couldn't do anything like this, I have 10 go along with you. It's your beehive an' you're th' keeper of the honey.'
He leaned forward on the couch. 'But tell me somethin'. When you take on a patient, do you interview
his family?'
"No. Sometimes the family isn't even aware that the patient is undergoing psychoanalysis.'
Moody leaned back, satisfied. 'There you are,' he said.
Judd looked at him. 'You think that some member of a patient's family is trying to kill me?'
"Could be.'
'They'd have no more motive than the patient. Less, probably.'
Moody painfully pushed himself to his feet. 'You never know, do you, Doc?
Tell you what I'd like you
to do. Get me a list of all the patients you've seen in the last four or five weeks. Can you do that?'
Judd hesitated. 'No,' he said, finally.
That confidential patient-doctor business? I think maybe it's time to bend that a little. Your life's at stake.'
'I think you're on the wrong track. What's been happening has nothing to do with my patients or then- families. If there had been any insanity in their families, it would have come out in the psychoanalysis.
He shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Moody. I have to protect my patients.'
'You said there was nothing in the files that was important.'
'Nothing that's important to us.' He thought of some of the material hi the files.
John Hanson picking
up sailors in gay bars on Third Avenue. Teri Washburn making love to the boys in the band. Fourteen-year-old Evelyn Warshak, the resident prostitute in the ninth grade... Tm sorry,' he said again.
'I can't show you the files.'
Moody shrugged. 'OK,' he said. 'OK. Then you're gonna have to do part of my job for me.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'Take out the tapes on everybody you've had on your couch for the last month.
Listen real careful to
each one. Only this time don't listen like a doctor - listen like a detective - look for anything the least
bit offbeat,'
'I do that anyway. That's my job.'
'Do it again. An' keep your eyes open. I don't want to lose you till we solve this case.' He picked up
his overcoat and struggled into it, making it look like an elephant ballet. Fat men were supposed to be graceful, thought Judd, but that did not include Mr. Moody. 'Do you know the most peculiar thing about this whole megillah?' queried Moody thoughtfully.
'What?'
'You put your finger on it before, when you said there were two men. Maybe one man might have a burning itch to knock you off—but why two?'
'I don't know.'
Moody studied him a moment, specularively. "By God!' he finally said. 'What is it?'
'I just might have a brainstorm. If Fm right, there could be more than two men out to kill you.'
Judd stared at him incredulously. 'You mean there's a whole group of maniacs after me? That doesn't make sense."
There was a look of growing excitement on Moody"s face. 'Doctor, I've got an idea who the umpire in this ballgame might be.' He looked at Judd, his eyes bright. 'I don't know how yet, or why - but it could be I know -who.'
'Who?'
Moody shook his head. TTou'd have me sent to a cracker factory if I told you. I always say if you're gonna shoot off your mouth, make sure it's loaded first Let me do a little target practice. If I'm on the right track, I'll tell you.'
'I hope you are,' Judd said earnestly.
Moody looked at him a moment. 'No, Doc. If you value your life worth a damn—pray I'm wrong.'
And Moody was gone.
He took a taxi to the office.
It was Friday noon, and with only three more shopping days until Christmas, the streets were crowded with late shoppers, bundled up against the raw wind sweeping in from the Hudson River. The store windows were festive and bright, filled with lighted Christmas trees and carved figures of the Nativity. Peace on Earth. Christmas. And Elizabeth, and their unborn baby. One day soon - if he survived - he would hare to make his own peace, free himself from the dead past and let go. He knew that with Anne he could have ... He firmly stopped himself. What was the point in fantasizing about a married woman about to go away with her husband, whom she loved?
The taxi pulled up in front of his office building and Judd got out, nervously looking around. But what could he look for? He had no idea what the murder weapon would be, or who would wield it.
When he reached his office, he locked the outer door, went to the panelling that concealed the tapes, and opened it. The tapes were filed chronologically, under the name of each patient. He selected the most recent ones and carried them
over to the tape recorder. With all his appointments cancelled for the day, he would be able to concentrate on trying to find some clue that might involve the friends or families of his patients. He felt that Moody's suggestion was farfetched, but he had too much respect for him to ignore it.
As he put on the first tape, he remembered the last time he had used the machine. Was it only last night? The memory filled him again with the sharp sense of nightmare. Someone had planned to murder him here in this room, where they had murdered Carol.
He suddenly realized that he had given no thought to his patients at the free hospital clinic where he worked one morning a week. It was probably because the murders had revolved around this office rather than the hospital. Still... He walked over to the section of the cabinets labelled 'clinic', looked through some of the tapes, and finally selected half a dozen. He put the first one on the tape recorder.
Rose Graham.
'... an accident, Doctor. Nancy cries a lot She's always been a whiny baby, so when I hit her, it's for
her own good, y'know?'
'Did you ever try to find out why Nancy cries a lot?' Judd's voice asked.
<>'Cause she's spoiled. Her daddy spoiled her rotten and then run off and left us. Nancy always thought
she was daddy's girl, but how much could Harry really have loved her if he run off like that?'
'You and Harry were never married, were you?"
'Well... Common law, I guess you'd call it. We was goin' to get married.' 'How long did you live together?'
'Four years.'
'How long was it after Harry left you that you broke Nancy's arm?'
'Bout a week, I guess. I didn't mean to break it. It's just that she wouldn't stop whining, so I finally
picked up this curtain, rod an' started beating on her.'
'Do you think Harry loved Nancy more than he loved you?' 'No. Harry was crazy about me.'
'Then why do you think he left you?'
'Because he was a man. An' y'know what men are? Animals! All of you! You should all be slaughtered like pigs!' Sobbing.
Judd switched off the tape and thought about Rose Graham. She was a psychotic misanthrope, and she had nearly beaten her six-year-old child to death on two separate occasions. But the pattern of the murders did not fit Rose Graham's psychosis.
He put on the next tape from the clinic.
Alexander Fallon.
The police say that you attacked Mr. Champion with a knife, Mr. Fallon.' 'I only did what I was told.'
'Someone told you to kill Mr. Champion?' 'He told me to do it.'
'He?'
'God.'
'Why did God tell you to kill him?'
'Because Champion's an evil man. He's an actor. I saw him on the stage. He kissed this woman. This actress. In front of the whole audience. He kissed her and...'
Silence.
'Go on.'
'He touched her - her titty.' "Did that upset you?'
'Of course! It upset me terribly. Don't you understand what that meant? He had carnal knowledge of her. When I came out of that theatre, I felt like I had just come from Sodom and Gomorrah. They had
to be punished.'
'So you decided to kill him.'
'I didn't decide it. God decided. I just carried out His orders.' 'Does God often talk to you?'
"Only when there's His work to be done He's chosen me as His instrument, because I'm pure. Do you know what makes me pure? Do you know what the most cleansing thing in the world is? Slaying the wicked!'
Alexander Fallon. Thirty-five, a part-time baker's assistant. He had been sent to a mental home for six months and then released. Could God have told him to destroy Hanson, a homosexual, and Carol, a former prostitute, and Judd, their benefactor? Judd decided that it was unlikely. Fallon's thought
processes took place in brief, painful spasms. Whoever had planned the murders was highly organized.
He played several more of the tapes from the clinic, but none of them fitted into the pattern he was searching for. No. It wasn't any patient at the clinic.
He looked over the office files again and a name caught his eye.
Skeet Gibson.
He put on the tape.
'Mornin', Dockie. How do you like this bee-u-ti-ful day I cooked up for you?' 'You're feeling good today.'
'If I was feelin' any better, they'd have me locked up. Did you catch my show last night?'
'No. I'm sorry, I wasn't able to.'
'I was only a smash. Jack Gould called me "the most lovable comedian in the world". An' who am I to argue with a genius like Jack Gould? You shoulda heard that audience! They were applauding like it
was going out of style. Do ya know what that proves?' That they can read "Applause" cards?"
'You're sharp, you devil, you. That's what I like - a head-shrinker with a sense of humour. The last
one I had was a drag. Had a great big heard that really bugged me,' 'Why?'
"Because it was a lady!' Loud laughter.
'Gotcha that time, didn't I, old cock? Seriously, folks, one of the reasons Fm feelin' so good is because
I just pledged a million dollars - count 'em: one million bucks - to help the kids in Biafra.'
'No wonder you feel good.'
'You bet your sweet ass. That story bit the front pages all over the world.' Is that important?'
"What do you mean, "Is that important?" How many guys pledge that kind of loot? You've gotta blow your own horn, Peter Pan. I'm glad I can afford to pledge the money.'
'You keep saying "pledge". Do you mean "give"?'
'Pledge - give - what's the difference? You pledge a million - give a few grand - an' they kiss your ass... Did I tell you it's my anniversary today?'
'No. Congratulations.'
Thanks. Fifteen great years. You never met Sally. There's the sweetest broad that ever walked God's earth. I really got lucky with my marriage. You know what a pain in the keester in-laws can be? Well, Sally's got these two brothers,
Ben an' Charley. I told you about them. Ben's head writer on my TV
show an' Charley's my producer. They're geniuses. I've been on the air seven years now. An' we're
never outta the top ten in the Nielsen's. I was smart to marry into a family like that, huh? Most women get fat an' sloppy once they've hooked their husband.
But Sally, bless her, is slimmer now than the day we were married. What a dame! ... Got a cigarette?'
'Here. I thought you quit smoking.'
'I just wanted to show myself I had the old willpower, so I quit. Now I'm smoking because I want
to ... I made a new deal with the network yesterday. I really shafted 'em. Is my time up yet?'
'No. Are you restless, Skeet?'
'To tell you the truth, sweetie, I'm in such great shape I don't know what the hell I'm coining in here
any more for.'
'No more problems?'
'Me? The world's my oyster an' I'm Diamond Jim Brady. I've gotta hand it to you. You've really helped me. You're my man. With the kind of money you make, maybe I should go into business and set up my own shingle, huh? ... That reminds me of the great story of the guy who goes to a wig-picker, but he's so nervous he just lays on tie couch and doesn't say anything. At the end of the hour, the shrink says, "That'll be fifty dollars." Well, that goes on for two whole years without the schmuck saying one word. Finally the little guy opens his mouth one day and says, "Doctor - could I ask you a question?" "Sure," says the Doc. And the little guy says, "Would you like a partner?"'
Loud laughter.
'You got a shot of aspirin or somethin'?' 'Certainly. Is it one of your bad headaches?'
'Nothin' I can't handle, old buddy ... Thanks. That'll do the trick.' 'What do you think brings these headaches on?'
'Just normal showbiz tension... We have our script reading this afternoon. 'Does that make you nervous?'
'Me? Hell, no! What have I got to be nervous about? If the jokes are lousy, I make a face, wink
at the audience, an' they eat it up. No matter how bad the show is, little old Skeet comes out smelling
like a rose.'
'Why do you think you have these headaches every week?'
'How the fuck do I know? You're supposed to be a doctor You tell me. I don't pay you to sit on your fat ass for an hour asking stupid questions. Jesus Christ, if an idiot like you can't cure a simple headache, they shouldn't let you be running around loose, messing up people's lives. Where'd you get your medical certificate? From a veterinarian school? I wouldn't trust my fuckin' cats with you. You're a goddamn quack! The only reason I came to you in the first place was because Sally shitted me into it It was the only way I could get her off my back. Do ya know my definition of Hell? Bein' married to an ugly,
skinny nag for fifteen years. If you're lookin' for some more suckers to cheat, take on her two idiot brothers, Ben an' Charley. Ben, my head writer, doesn't know which end of the pencil has the lead in it, an' his brother's even stupider. I wish they'd all drop dead. They're out to get me. You think I like you? You stink! You're so goddamn smug, sitting there looking down on everybody. You haven't got any problems, have you? Do you know why? Because you're not for real. You're out of it. All you do is sit
on your fat keester all day long an' steal money from sick people. Well, I'm gonna get you, you sonofabitch. I'm gonna report you to the AMA...'
'I wish I didn't have to go to that goddamn reading.' Silence.
'Well - keep your pecker up. See ya next week, sweetie.'
Judd switched off the recorder. Skeet Gibson, America's most beloved comedian, should have been institutionalized ten years ago. His hobbies were beating up young, blonde showgirls and getting into bar-room brawls. Skeet was a small man, but he had started out as a prizefighter, and he knew how to hurt. One o£ his favourite sports was going into a gay bar, coaxing an unsuspecting homosexual into the men's room, and beating him unconscious.
Skeet had been picked up by the police several times, but the incidents had always been hushed up. After all, he was America's most lovable comic Skeet was paranoid enough to want to kill, and he was capable of killing in a fit of rage. But Judd did not think he was cold-blooded enough to carry out this kind of planned vendetta. And in that, Judd felt certain, lay the key to the solution. Whoever was trying to murder him was doing it not in the heat of any passion, but methodically and cold-bloodedly. A madman.
Who was not mad.
Chapter Eleven
The phone rang. It was his answering service. They had been able to reach all bis patients except Anne Blake. Judd thanked the operator and hung up.
So Anne was coming here today. He was disturbed at how unreasonably happy he was at the thought of seeing her. He must remember that she was only coming by because he had asked her to, as her doctor. He sat there thinking about Anne. How much he knew about her... and how little.
He put Anne's tape on the tape recorder and listened to it. It was one of her first visits.
'Comfortable, Mrs. Blake?' 'Yes, thank you.' 'Relaxed?'
'Yes.'
"You're clenching your fists.' 'Perhaps I am a little tense.' 'About what?'
A long silence.
Tell me about your home life. You've been married six months.' Yes.'
'Go on.'
'I'm married to a wonderful man. We live in a beautiful house.' 'What kind of a house is it?'
'Country French... It's a lovely old place. There's a long, winding driveway leading to it. High up on the roof there's a funny old bronze rooster with its ail missing. I think some hunter shot it off a long time
ago. We have about five acres, mostly wooded. I go for long walks. It's like living in the country.'
'Do you like the country?' 'Very much.'
"Does your husband?' 'I think so.'
'A man doesn't usually buy five acres in the country unless he loves it.' 'He loves me. He would have bought it for me. He's very generous.' 'Let's talk about him.'
Silence.
'Is be good-looking?' 'Anthony's very handsome.'
Judd felt a pang of unreasonable, unprofessional jealousy.
'You're compatible physically?' It was like a tongue probing at a sore tooth. 'Yes.'
He knew what she would be like in bed: exciting and feminine and giving.
Christ, he thought,
get off the subject.
'Do you want children?' 'Oh, yes.'
'Does your husband?' 'Yes, of course.'
A long silence except for the silky rustling of the tape. Then:
'Mrs. Blake, you came to me because you said you had a desperate problem. It concerns your husband, doesn't it?'
Silence.
'Well, I'm assuming it does. From what you told me earlier, you love each other, you're both faithful, you both want children, you live in a beautiful home, your husband is successful, handsome, and he spoils you. And you've only been married six months. I'm afraid it's a little like the old joke: "What's my problem, Doctor?"'
There was silence again except for the impersonal whirring o£ the tape. Finally she spoke. 'It's ... it's difficult for me to talk about. I thought I could discuss it with a stranger, but' - he remembered vividly how she had twisted around on the couch to look up at him with those large, enigmatic eyes - 'it's harder. You see' - she was speaking more rapidly now, trying to overcome the barriers that had kept her silent
- 'I overheard something and I -I could easily have jumped to the wrong conclusion.'
'Something to do with your husband's personal life? Some woman?' 'No.'
'His business?' 'Yes...'
'You thought he lied about something? Tried to get the better of someone in a deal?'
'Something like that.'
Judd was on surer ground now. 'And it upset your confidence in him. It showed you a side of him that you had never seen before.'
'I -I can't discuss it. I feel disloyal to him even being here. Please don't ask me anything more today,
Dr. Stevens.'
And that had ended that session. Judd switched off the tape.
So Anne's husband had pulled a sharp business deal. He could have cheated on his taxes. Or forced someone into bankruptcy. Anne, naturally, would be upset.
She was a sensitive woman. Her faith in her husband would be shaken.
He thought about Anne's husband as a possible suspect He was in the construction business. Judd had never met him, but whatever business problem he was involved in could not, by any stretch of the imagination, have included John Hanson, Carol Roberts, or Judd.
But what about Anne herself? Could she be a psychopath? A homicidal maniac? Judd leaned back in his chair and tried to think about her objectively.
He knew nothing about her except what she had told him. Her background could have been fictitious,
she could have made it all up, but what would she have to gain? If this was some elaborate charade as a cover to murder, there had to be a motivation. The memory of her face and her voice flooded his mind, and he knew that she could have nothing to do with any of this. He would stake his life on it. The irony of the phrase made him grin.
He went over to get the tapes of Teri Washburn. Perhaps there was something there that he might have missed.
Teri had been having extra sessions lately at her own request Was she under some new pressure that she had not yet confided to him? Because of her incessant preoccupation with sex, it was difficult to determine accurately her
current progress. Still - why had she suddenly, urgently asked for more time with him?
Judd picked up one of her tapes at random and put it on.
'Let's talk about your marriages, Teri. You've been married five times.' 'Six, but who's counting?'
'Were you faithful to your husbands?' Laughter.
'You're putting toe on. There isn't a man in the world who can satisfy me. If s a physical thing.'
'What do you mean by "a physical thing"?'
'I mean that's the way I'm built. I just got a hot hole and it's gotta be kept filled all the time'
'Do you believe that?'
'That it's gotta be kept filled?'
'That you're different, physically, from any other woman.'
'Certainly. The studio doctor told me. It's a glandular thing or something.' A pause. 'He was a lousy lay.'
'I've seen all your charts. Physiologically your body is normal in every respect.' 'Fuck the charts, Charley. Why don't you find out for yourself?'
'Have you ever been in love, Teri?' 'I could be in love with you.' Silence.
'Get that look off your face. I can't help it I told you. It's the way I'm built. I'm always hungry.'
'I believe you. But it's not your body that's hungry. It's your emotions.' 'I've never been fucked in my emotions. Do you want to give it a whirl?' 'No.'
'What do you want?' 'To help you.'
'Why don't you come over here and sit down next to me?' 'That will be all for today.'
Judd switched off the tape. He remembered a dialogue they had had when Teri was talking about her career as a big star and he had asked her why she had left Hollywood.
'I slapped some obnoxious jerk at a drunken party,' she had said. 'And he turned out to be Mr Big.
He had me thrown out of Hollywood on my Polack ass.'
Judd had not probed any farther because at that time he was more interested in her home background, and the subject had never come up again. Now he felt a small nagging doubt He should have explored it farther. He had never had any interest in Hollywood except in the way Dr. Louis Leakey or Margaret Mead might be interested in the natives of Patagonia. Who would know about Teri Washburn, the glamour star?
Norah Hadley was a movie buff. Judd had seen a collection o£ movie magazines at their house and had kidded Peter about them. Norah had spent the entire evening defending Hollywood. He picked up the receiver and dialled.
Norah answered the phone. 'Hello,' said Judd.
'Judd!' Her voice was warm and friendly. 'You called to tell me when you're coming to dinner.'
'We'll do it soon.'
'You'd better,' she said. 'I promised Ingrid. She's beautiful.'
Judd was sure she was. But not in the way Anne was beautiful. 'You break another date with her and we'll be at war with Sweden.' 'It won't happen again.'
'Are you all over your accident?' 'Oh, yes.'
"What a horrible thing that was.'
There was a hesitant note in Norah'a voice. 'Judd... about Christmas Day. Peter and I would like you
to share it with us. Please.'
He felt the old familiar tightening hi his chest. They went through this every year. Peter and Norah
were his dearest friends, and they hated it that he spent every Christmas alone, walking among strangers, losing himself in alien crowds, driving his body to keep moving until he was too exhausted to think. It was as though he were celebrating some terrible black mass for the dead, letting his grief take possession of him and tear him apart, lacerating and shriving him in some ancient ritual over which he had no control. You're dramatizing it, he told himself wearily.
'Judd...'
He cleared his throat 'I'm sorry, Norah.' He knew how much she cared. 'Perhaps next Christmas.'
She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. 'Sure. I'll tell Pete.'
Thanks.' He suddenly remembered why he had called. *Norah - do you know who Teri Washburn is?'
'The Teri Washburn? The star? Why do you ask?' 'I -I saw her on Madison Avenue this morning.'
'In person? Honestly?' She was like an eager child. 'How did she look? Old? Young? Thin? Fat?'
'She looked fine. She used to be a pretty big star, didn't she?'
'Pretty big? Teri Washburn was the biggest - and in every way, if you know what I mean.'
'Whatever made a girl like that leave Hollywood?' 'She didn't exactly leave. She was booted out.'
So Teri had told him the truth. Judd felt better.
'You doctors keep your heads buried In the sand, don't you? Teri Washburn was involved in one
of the hottest scandals Hollywood ever had.' 'Really?' said Judd. "What happened?'
'She murdered her boyfriend.'
Chapter Twelve
It had started to snow again. From the street fifteen floors below, the sounds of traffic floated up, muted by the white, cottony flakes in the arctic wind. In a lighted office across the street he saw the blurred
face of a secretary streaming down the window. 'Norah - are you certain?'
'When it comes to Hollywood, you're talking to a walking encyclopaedia, love. Teri was living with the head of Continental Studios but she was keeping an assistant director on the side. She caught him
cheating on her one night and she stabbed him to death. The head of the studio pulled a lot of strings
and paid off a lot of people and it was hushed up and called an accident. Part of the arrangement was
that she get out of Hollywood and never come back And she never has.'
Judd stared at the phone numbly. 'Judd, are you there?'
'I'm here,'
'You sound funny.'
'Where did you hear all this?'
'Hear it? It was in all the newspapers and fan magazines. Everybody knew about it.'
Except him. 'Thanks, Norah,' he said. 'Say hello to Peter.' He hung up.
So that was the 'casual incident'. Teri Washburn had murdered a man and had never mentioned it to
him. And if she had murdered once...
Thoughtfully he picked up a pad and wrote down Teri Washburn'. The phone rang. Judd picked it up. 'Dr. Stevens...'
'Just checking to see if you're all right' It was Detective Angeli. His voice was still hoarse with a cold.
A feeling of gratitude filled Judd. Someone was on his side. 'Anything new?'
Judd hesitated. He could see no point in keeping quiet about the bomb.
'They tried again.' Judd told Angeli about Moody and the bomb that had been planted in his car. That should convince McGreavy,' he concluded.
'Where's the bomb?' Angeli's voice was excited. Judd hesitated. It's been dismantled.'
'It's been what?' Angeli asked incredulously. 'Who did that?' 'Moody. He didn't think it mattered.'
'Didn't matter! What does he think the Police Department is for? We might have been able to tell who planted that bomb just by looking at it. We keep a file of MOs.'
'MOs?'
'Modus operandi. People fall into habit patterns. H they do something one way the first time, chances
are they'll keep doing it the same - I don't have to tell you.'
'No,' said Judd thoughtfully. Surely Moody had known that. Had he some reason for not wanting to
show the bomb to McGreavy?
'Dr. Stevens - how did you hire Moody?'
'I found him in the yellow pages.' It sounded ridiculous even as he said it
He could hear Angeli swallow. 'Oh. Then you really don't know a damn thing about him.'
'I know I trust him. Why?'
'Right now,' Angeli said, 'I don't think you should trust anybody.'
"But Moody couldn't possibly be connected with any of this. My God! I picked him out of the phone book, at random.'
'I don't care where you got him. Something smells fishy. Moody says he set a trap to catch whoever's after you, but he doesn't close the trap until the bait's already been taken, so we can't pin it on anyone Then he shows you a bomb in your car that he could have put there himself. And wins your confidence.
Right?'
'I suppose you could look at it that way,' Judd said. 'But—'
'Maybe your friend Moody is cm the level, and maybe he's setting you up. I want you to play it nice
and cool until we find out'
Moody against him? It was difficult to believe. And yet, he remembered his earlier doubts when he
had thought Moody was sending him into an ambush.
'What do you want me to do?' asked Judd.
"How would you feel about leaving town? I mean really leaving town.' 'I can't leave my patients.'
'Dr. Stevens—'
'Besides,' Judd added, 'it really wouldn't solve anything, would it? I wouldn't even know what I'm running away from. When I came back, it would just start all over again.'
There was a moment's silence. "You have a point.' Angeli gave a sigh, and it turned into a wheeze. He sounded terrible. "When do you expect to hear from Moody again?'
'I don't know. He thinks he has some idea of who's behind all this.'
'Has it occurred to you that whoever's behind this can pay Moody a lot more than you can?' There was an urgency in Angeli's voice. 'If he asks you to meet him, call me. I'll be home in bed for the next day
or two. Whatever you do, Doctor, don't meet him alone!'
"You're building up a case out of nothing,' countered Judd. 'Just because Moody removed the bomb
from my car—'
There's more to it than that,' said Angeli 'I have a hunch you picked the wrong man.'
'I'l call you if I hear from him,' promised Judd. He hung up, shaken. Was Angeli being overly suspicious? It was true that Moody could have been lying about the bomb in order to win Judd's confidence. Then the next step would be easy. All he would have to do would be to call Judd and ask him to meet him in some deserted place on the pretext of having some evidence for him. Then ...
Judd shuddered. Could he have been wrong about Moody's character? He remembered his reaction when he had first met Moody. He had thought that the man was ineffectual and not very bright. Then he had realized that his homespun cover was a facade that concealed a quick, sharp brain. But that didn't mean that Moody could be trusted. And yet... He heard someone at the outer reception door and looked at his watch. Anne! He quickly locked the tapes away, walked over to the private corridor door, and opened it.
Anne was standing in the corridor. She was wearing a smartly tailored navy blue suit and a small hat that framed her face. She was dreamily lost in thought, unaware that Judd was watching her. He studied her, filling himself with her beauty, trying to find some imperfection, some reason for him to tell himself that she would be wrong for him, that he would one day find someone else better suited to him. The fox and the grapes. Freud was not the father of psychiatry. Aesop was.
'Hello,' he said.
She looked up, startled for an instant. Then she smiled. Hello.' 'Come in, Mrs. Blake.'
She moved past him into the office, her firm body brushing his. She turned and looked at him with
those incredible violet eyes. "Did they find the hit-and-run driver?' There was concern on her face,
a worried, genuine interest.
He felt again the insane urge to tell her everything. But he knew he could not At best, it would be a
cheap trick to win her sympathy. At worst, it might involve her hi some unknown danger.
'Not yet.' He indicated a chair.
Anne was watching his face. *You look tired. Should you be back at work so soon?'
Oh, God. He didn't think he could stand any sympathy. Not just now. And not from her. He said,
'I'm fine. I cancelled my appointments for today. My exchange wasn't able to reach you.'
An anxious expression crossed her face. She was afraid she was intruding. Anne — intruding. I'm so sorry. If you'd rather I left...'
'Please, no,' he said quickly. Tm glad they couldn't reach you.' This would be the last time he saw her. 'How are you feeling?' he asked.
She hesitated, started to say something, then changed her mind. 'A little confused.'
She was looking at him oddly, and there was something in her look that touched a faint, long-lost chord that he could almost, but not quite, remember. He felt a warmth flowing from her, an overpowering physical longing - and he suddenly realized what he was doing. He was attributing his own emotions to her. And for an instant he had been fooled, like any first-year psychiatry student.
'When do you leave for Europe?' he asked. 'On Christmas morning.'
'Just you and your husband?' He felt like a gibbering idiot, reduced to banalities. Babbitt, on an off day.
'Where will you go?'
'Stockholm - Paris - London - Rome.'
I'd lave to show you Rome, thought Judd. He had spent a year there interning at the American hospital. There was a fantastic old restaurant called Cybele near the Tivoli Gardens, high on a mountaintop by an ancient pagan shrine, where you could sit in die sun and watch the hundreds of wild pigeons darken the sky over the dappled cliffs.
And Anne was on her way to Rome with her husband.
'It will be a second honeymoon,' she said. There was strain in her voice, so faint that he might almost have imagined it An untrained ear would not have caught it.
Judd looked at her more closely. On the surface she seemed calm, normal, but underneath he sensed a tension. If this was the picture of a young girl in love going to Europe on a second honeymoon, then a piece of the picture was missing.
And he suddenly realized what it was.
There was no excitement in Anne. Or if there was, it was overshadowed by a patina of some stronger emotion. Sadness? Regret?
He realized that he was staring at her. 'How — how long will you be away ?' Babbitt strikes again.
A small smile crossed her lips, as though she knew what he was doing. Tm not certain,' she answered gravely. 'Anthony's plans are indefinite.'
'I see.' He looked down at the rug, miserable. He had to put an end to this. He couldn't let Anne leave, feeling that he was a complete fool. Send her away now. 'Mrs Blake...' he began.
"Yes''
He tried to keep his voice light. 'I really got you back here under false pretences. It wasn't necessary
for you to see me again. I just wanted to - to say goodbye.'
Oddly, puzzlingly, some of the tension seemed to drain out of her. 'I know,' she said quietly. 'I wanted
to say goodbye, too.' There was something in her voice that caught at him again.
She was getting to her feet. 'Judd ...' She looked up at him, holding his eyes with hers, and he saw in her eyes what she must have seen in his. It was a mirrored reflection of a current so strong that it was almost physical. He started to move towards her, then stopped. He could not let her become involved in the danger that surrounded him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost under control. 'Drop me a card from Rome.'
She looked ac him for a long moment. 'Please take care of yourself, Judd.' He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
And she was gone.
The phone rang three times before Judd heard it. He picked it up.
"That you. Doc?' It was Moody. His voice practically leaped out of the telephone, crackling with excitement. You alone?'
There was an odd quality in Moody's excitement that Judd could not quite identify. Caution? Fear?
'Doc - remember I told you I had a hunch who might be behind this?' 'I was right.'
Judd felt a quick chill go through him. 'You know who killed Hanson and Carol?'
'Yeah. I know who. And I know why. You're next, Doctor.' 'Tell me—'
'Not over the phone,' said Moody. 'We'd better meet somewhere and talk about it. Come alone.'
Judd stared at the phone in his hand.
COME ALONE!
'Are you listening?' asked Moody's voice.
'Yes.' said Judd quickly. What had Angeli said? Whatever you do, Doctor, don't meet him alone.
'Why can't we meet here?' he asked, stalling for time.
'I think I'm being followed. I managed to shake them off. I'm calling from the Five Star Meat Packing Company. It's on Twenty-third Street, west of Tenth Avenue, near the docks.'
Judd still found it impossible to believe that Moody was setting a trap for him. He decided to test him.
'I'll bring Angeli.'
Moody's voice was sharp. "Don't bring anyone. Come by yourself.' And there it was.
Judd thought of the fat little Buddha at the other end of the phone. His guileless friend who was
charging him fifty dollars a day and expenses to set him up for his own murder.
Judd kept his voice controlled. 'Very well.' he said. 'I'll be right over.' He tried one parting shot.
'Are you sure you really know who's behind this, Moody?'
'Dead sure, Doc. Have you ever heard of Don Vinton?' And Moody hung up.
Judd stood there, trying to sort out the storm of emotions that raced through him, He looked up
Angeli's home number and dialled it. It rang five times, and Judd was filled with a sudden panicky
fear that Angeli might not be at home. Dare he go meet Moody alone? Then he heard Angeli's nasal voice. 'Hello.'
'Judd Stevens. Moody just called.'
There was a quickening hi Angeli's voice. *What did he say?'
Judd hesitated, feeling a last vestige of unreasonable loyalty and - yes, affection
- towards the bumbling little fat man who was plotting to cold-bloodedly murder him. "He asked me to meet him at the Five Star Meat Packing Company. It's on Twenty-third Street near Tenth Avenue. He told me to come alone.'
Angeli laughed mirthlessly. 'I'll bet he did. Don't budge out of that office, Doctor. I'm going to call lieutenant McGreavy. We'll both pick you up.'
'Right,' said Judd. He hung up slowly. Norman Z. Moody. The jolly Buddha from the yellow pages. Judd felt a sudden, inexplicable sadness. He had liked Moody. And trusted him.
And Moody was waiting to kill him.
Chapter Thirteen
Twenty minutes later Judd unlocked his office door to admit Angeli and Lieutenant McGreavy. Angeli's eyes were red and teary. His voice was hoarse.
Judd had a momentary pang at having dragged him out
of a sick-bed. McGreavy's greeting was a curt, unfriendly nod.
'I told Lieutenant McGreavy about the phone call from Norman Moody,' Angeli said.
'Yeah. Let's find out what the hell this is all about,' McGreavy said sourly.
Five minutes later they were in an unmarked police car speeding downtown on the West Side. Angeli
was at the wheel. The light snowfall had stopped and the gruel-thin rays of the late afternoon sun had surrendered to the oppressive cover of storm clouds sweeping across the Manhattan sky. There was a loud clap of thunder in the distance and then a bright, jagged sword of lightning. Drops of rain began to spatter the windscreen. As the car continued downtown, tall, soaring skyscrapers gave way to small, grimy tenements huddled together as if for comfort against the biting cold.
The car turned into Twenty-third Street, going west towards the Hudson River.
They moved into a
land of junkyards and fix-it shops and dingy bars, then past that to blocks of garages, trucking yards
and freight companies. As the car neared the comer of Tenth Avenue,
McGreavy directed Angeli to pull over to the kerb.
'Well get out here.' McGreavy turned to Judd. 'Did Moody say whether anyone would be with him?'
'No.'
McGreavy unbuttoned his overcoat and transferred his service revolver from his holster to his overcoat pocket. Angeli followed suit. 'Stay in back of us,' McGreavy ordered Judd.
The three men started walking, ducking their heads against the wind-lashed rain. Halfway down the
block, they came to a dilapidated-looking building with a faded sign above the door that read:
FIVE STAR MEAT PACKING COMPANY
There were no cars or trucks or lights, no sign of life.
The two detectives walked up to die door, one on either side. McGreavy tested the door. It was locked. He looked around, but could see no bell. They listened. Silence, except for the sound of the rain.
'It looks closed,' Angeli said.
'It probably is,' McGreavy replied. 'The Friday before Christmas - most companies are knocking off
at noon.'
'There must be a loading entrance.'
Judd followed the two detectives as they moved cautiously towards the end of the building, trying to avoid the puddles in their path. They came to a service alley, and looking down it, they could discern a loading platform with deserted trucks pulled up in front of it. There was no activity. They moved
forward until they reached the platform. 'OK,' McGreavy said to Judd. 'Sing out.'
Judd hesitated, feeling unreasonably sad that he was betraying Moody. Then he lifted his voice.
'Moody!' The only response was the yowling of an angry tomcat disturbed in his search for dry shelter. 'Mr Moody!'
There was a large wooden sliding door on top of the platform, used to move the deliveries from inside
the warehouse to the area where the trucks were loaded. There were no steps leading onto the platform. McGreavy hoisted himself up, moving with surprising agility for such a large man.
Angeli followed, then Judd. Angeli waited over to the sliding door and pushed against it. It was unlocked. The great doot rolled open with a loud, high-pitched scream of protest. The tomcat answered hopefully, forgetting about shelter.
Inside the warehouse it was pitch black.
'Did you bring a flashlight?' McGreavy asked Angeli. 'No.'
'Shit!'
Cautiously they inched their way into the gloom. Judd called out again. 'Mr Moody! It's Judd Stevens.'
There was no sound except for the creaking of the boards as the men moved across the room. McGreavy rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a book of matches. He lit one and held it up. Its feeble, sputtering light cast a wavering yellow glow in what seemed to be an enormous empty cavern. The match guttered out. "Find the goddamn light switch.' McGreavy said, "That was my last match.'
Judd could hear Angeli groping along the walls looking for the light switch. Judd kept moving forward.
He could not see the other two men. 'Moody!' he called.
He heard Angeli's voice from across the room. 'Here's a switch.' There was a click. Nothing happened.
'The master switch must be off,' McGreavy said.
Judd bumped against a wall. As he put his hands out to brace himself, his fingers closed over a doorlatch. He shoved the latch up and pulled. A massive door swung open and a blast of frigid air hit him. 'I've found a door,' he called out. He stepped over a sill and cautiously moved forward. He heard the door close behind him and his heart began to hammer. Impossibly, it was darker here than in the other room, as though he had stepped into a deeper blackness.
'Moody! Moody...'
A thick, heavy silence. Moody had to be here somewhere. If he weren't, Judd knew what McGreavy would think. It would be the boy who cried wolf again.
Judd took another step forward and suddenly felt cold flesh lick against his face. He jerked away in
panic, feeling the short hairs on bis neck rise. He became aware of the strong smell of blood and death surrounding him. There was an evil in the darkness around him, waiting to close in on him. His scalp tingled with fear and his heart was beating so rapidly that it was difficult to breathe. With trembling fingers he fumbled for a book of matches in his overcoat, found one, and scraped a match against the cover. In its light he saw a huge dead eye icon up in front of his face, and it took a shocked second before he realized that he was looking at a
slaughtered cow dangling from a meat hook. He had one brief glimpse of other animal carcasses hanging from hooks, and the outline of a door in the far corner, before the match went out. The door probably led to an office. Moody could be in there, waiting for him.
Judd moved farther into the interior of the inky black cavern towards the door. He felt the cold brush of dead animal flesh again. He quickly stepped away and kept walking cautiously towards the office door. 'Moody!'
He wondered what was detaining Angeli and McGreavy, He moved past the slaughtered animals, feeling as though someone with a macabre sense of humour was playing a horrible, maniacal joke. But who and why were beyond his imagining. As he neared the door, he collided with another hanging carcass.
Judd stopped to get his bearings. He lit his last remaining match. In front of him, impaled on a meat hook and grinning obscenely, was the body of Norman
Z. Moody. The match went out.
Chapter Fourteen
The Coroner's men had finished their work and gone. Moody's body had been taken away and everyone had departed except Judd, McGreavy, and Angeli. They were sitting in the manager's small office, decorated with several impressive calendar nudes, an old desk, a swivel chair, and two filing cabinets. The lights were on and an electric heater was going.
The manager of the plant, a Mr. Paul Moretti, had been tracked down and pulled away from a pre-Christmas party to answer some questions. He had explained that since it was a holiday weekend,
he had let his employees off at noon. He had locked up at twelve-thirty, and to the best of his knowledge, there had been no one on the premises at that time. Mr. Moretti was belligerently drunk, and when McGreavy saw that he was going to be no further help, he had him driven home. Judd was barely conscious of what was happening in the room. His thoughts were on Moody, how cheerful and how
full of life he had been, and how cruelly he had died. And Judd blamed himself. If he had not involved Moody, the little detective would be alive today.
It was almost midnight. Judd had wearily reiterated the story of Moody's phone call for the tenth time. McGreavy, hunched up in his overcoat, sat there watching him, chewing savagely on a cigar. Finally he spoke. 'Do you read detective stories?'
Judd looked at him, surprised. 'No, why?'
'I'll tell you why. I think you're just too goddamn good to be true, Dr. Stevens. From the very beginning I've thought that you were in this thing up to your neck. And I told you so. So what happens? Suddenly you turn into the target instead of the killer. First you claim a car ran you down and—'
'A car did run him down,' Angeli reminded him.
'A rookie could answer that one,' McGreavy snapped. 'It could have been arranged by someone who's
in this with the doctor.' He turned back to Judd. "Next, you call Detective Angeli with a wild-eyed yam about two men breaking into your office and trying to kill you.'
'They did break in,' said Judd.
'No, they didn't,' snapped McGreavy. They used a special key.' His voice hardened.
"You said there were only two of those keys to that office - yours and Carol Roberts's.'
'That's right. I told you - they copied Carol's key.'
'I know what you told me. I had a paraffin test run. Carol's key was never copied, Doctor.' He paused to let it sink in. 'And since I have her key — that leaves yours, doesn't it?'
Judd looked at him, speechless.
'When I didn't buy the loose maniac theory, you hire a detective out of the yellow pages and he conveniently finds a bomb planted in your car. Only I can't see it because it's not -there any more. Then you decide ifs time to throw me another body, so you go through that rigmarole with Angeli about a phone call
to meet Moody, who knows this mysterious nut who's out to kill you. But guess what? We
get here and find him hanging on a meat hook.'
Judd flushed angrily. 'I'm not responsible for what happened.'
McGreavy gave him a long, hard look. "Do you know the only reason you're not under arrest? Because
I haven't found any motive to this Chinese puzzle yet. But I will. Doctor. That's a promise.' He got to
his feet.
Judd suddenly remembered. "Wait a minute!' he said. 'What about Don Vinton?'
'What about him?'
'Moody said he was the man behind all this.' 'Do you know anyone named Don Vinton?'
'No,' Judd said. 'I assumed he'd be known by the police.'
'I never heard of him.' McGreavy turned to Angeli Angeli shook his head.
'OK. Send out a make on Don Vinton. FBI. Interpol. Police chiefs in all major American cities.' He looked at Judd. 'Satisfied?'
Judd nodded. Whoever was behind all this must have some kind of criminal record. It should not be difficult to identify him.
He thought again of Moody, with his homely aphorisms and his quick mind. He must have been followed here. It was unlikely that he would have told anyone else about the rendezvous, because he had stressed the need for secrecy. At least they now knew the name of the man they were looking for.
Praemonitus, praemunitas.
Forewarned, forearmed.
The murder of Norman Z. Moody was splashed all over the front pages of the
newspapers the next morning. Judd picked up a paper on his way to the office. He was briefly mentioned as being a witness who had come across the body with the police, but McGreavy had managed to keep the full story out of the papers. McGreavy was playing his cards close to his chest. Judd wondered what Anne would think.
This was Saturday, when Judd made his morning rounds at the clinic. He had arranged for someone else to fill in for him there. He went to his office, travelling alone in the elevator and making sure that no one was lurking in the corridor. He wondered, even as he did so, how long anyone could live like this, expecting an assassin to strike at any moment.
Half a dozen times during the morning he started to pick up the phone and call Detective Angeli to ask about Don Vinton, but each time he controlled his impatience. Angeli would surely call him as soon as he knew something. Judd puzzled over what Don Vinton's motivation could be. He could have been a patient whom Judd had treated years ago, perhaps when he was an intern.
Someone who felt that Judd had slighted him or injured him in some way. But he could remember no patient named Vinton.
At noon he heard someone try to open the corridor door to the reception room. It was Angeli. Judd could tell nothing from his expression except that he looked even more drawn and haggard. His nose was red, and he was sniffling. He walked into the inner office and wearily flopped into a chair.
"Have you got any answers yet on Don Vinton?' Judd asked eagerly.
Angeli nodded. 'We got back teletypes from the FBI, the police chiefs and every big city in the United States, and Interpol.' Judd waited, afraid to breath. 'None of them ever heard of Don Vinton.'
Judd looked at Angeli incredulously, a sudden sinking sensation in his stomach. 'But that's impossible!
I mean -someone must know him. A man who could do all this just didn't come out of nowhere!'
'That's what McGreavy said,' replied Angeli wearily.
'Doctor, my men and I spent the night checking out every Don Vinton in Manhattan and all the other boroughs. We even covered New Jersey and Connecticut.' He took a ruled sheet of paper out of his pocket and showed it to Judd. 'We found eleven Don Vintons in the phone book who spell their name
"ton" — four who spell it "ten" — and two who spell it "tin". We even tried it as one name. We narrowed it down to five possibles and checked out every one of them. One is a paralytic. One of them is a priest. One is first vice-president of a bank. One of them is a fireman who was on duty when two of the murders occurred. It just left the last one. He runs a pet shop and he must be damn near eighty years old.'
Judd's throat was dry. He was suddenly aware of how much he had counted on this. Surely Moody wouldn't have given him the name unless he was certain.
And he hadn't said that Don Vinton was an accomplice; he had said he was behind the whole thing. It was inconceivable that the police would have no record of a man like that. Moody had been murdered because he had got onto the truth. And now
that Moody was out of the way, Judd was completely alone. The web was drawing tighter.
'I'm sorry,' Angeli said.
Judd looked at the detective and suddenly remembered that Angeli had not been home all night.
'I appreciate your trying,' he said gratefully.
Angeli leaned forward- 'Are you positive you heard Moody right?'
'Yes.' Judd closed his eyes in concentration. He had asked Moody if he was sure who was really behind this. He heard Moody"s voice again. Dead sure. Have you ever heard of Don Vinton? Don Vinton. He opened his eyes. 'Yes,' he repeated.
Angeli sighed. 'Then we're at a dead end.' He laughed mirthlessly. "No pun intended.' He sneezed.
'You'd better get to bed.'
Antgeli stood up. 'Yeah. I guess so.'
Judd hesitated. "How long have you been McGreavy's partner?' 'This is our first case together. Why?'
'Do you think he's capable of framing me for murder?'
Angeli sneezed again. 'I think maybe you're right, doctor. 'I'd better get to bed.' He walked over to the door.
'I may have a lead,' Judd said. Angeli stopped and turned. 'Go on.'
Judd told him about Teri. He added that he was also going to check out some of John Hanson's
former boyfriends.
'It doesn't sound like much,' Angeli said frankly, 'but I guess it's better than nothing.'
'I'm sick and tired of being a target. I'm going to start fighting back. I'm going after them.'
Angeli looked at him. 'With what? We're fighting shadows.'
'When witnesses describe a suspect, the police have an artist draw up a composite picture of all the descriptions. Right?'
Angeli nodded. 'An identikit.'
Judd began to pace in restless excitement. 'I'm going to give you an identikit of the personality of the
man who's behind this.'
'How can you? You've never seen him. It could be anyone.'
"No it couldn't,' Judd corrected. 'We're looking for someone very, very special.' 'Someone who's insane.'
'Insanity is a catchall phrase. It has no medical meaning. Sanity is simply the ability of the mind to adjust to reality. If we can't adjust, we either hide from reality, or we put ourselves above life, where we're super-beings who don't have to follow the rules.'
'Our man thinks he's a super-being.'
'Exactly. In a dangerous situation we have three choices, Angeli. Flight, constructive compromise, or attack. Our man attacks.'
'So he's a lunatic'
'No. Lunatics rarely kill. Their concentration span is extremely short. We're dealing with someone more complicated. He could be somatic, hypophrenic, schizoid, cycloid -or any combination of these. We
could be dealing with a fugue — temporary amnesia preceded by irrational acts. But the point is, his appearance and behaviour will seem perfectly normal to everyone."
'So we have nothing to go on.'
"You're wrong. We have a good deal to go on. I can give you a physical description of him,' said Judd. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating. 'Don Vinton is above average height, well proportioned, and has
the build of an athlete. He's neat in his appearance and meticulous about everything he does. He has no artistic talent. He doesn't paint or write or play the piano.'
Angeli was staring at him, open-mouthed.
Judd continued, speaking more quickly now, warming up. "He doesn't belong to any social clubs or organizations. Not unless he runs them. He's a man who has to be in charge. He's ruthless, and he's impatient. He thinks big. For example, he'd never get involved in petty thefts. If he had a record, it would be for bank robbery, kidnapping, or murder.' Judd's excitement was growing. The picture was growing sharper in his mind. "When you catch him, you'll find that he was probably rejected by one of his parents when he was a boy.'
Angeli interrupted. 'Doctor, I don't want to shoot down your balloon, but it could be some crazy, hopped-up junkie who—'
'No. The man we're looking for doesn't take drugs.' Judd's voice was positive. 'I'll tell you something
else about him. He played contact sports in schooL Football or hockey. He has no interest in chess,
word games, or puzzles.'
Angeli was watching him sceptically. 'There was more than one man,' he objected. 'You said so yourself.'
'I'm giving you a description of Don Vinton,' said Judd. The man who's masterminding this. I'll tell you something more about him. He's a Latin type.'
'What makes you think so?'
'Because of the methods used in the murders. A knife -acid - a bomb. He's South American, Italian, or Spanish.' He took a breath. 'There's your identikit.
That's the man who's committed three murders and is trying to kill me.'
Angeli swallowed. 'How the hell do you know all this?'
Judd sat down and leaned towards Angeli. 'It's my profession.'
'The mental side, sure. But how can you give a physical description of a man you've never seen?'
'I'm playing the odds. A doctor named Kreischmer found that eighty-five per cent of people suffering from paranoia have well-built, athletic bodies. Our man is an obvious paranoiac He has delusions of grandeur. He's a megalomaniac who thinks he's above the law.'
'Then why wasn't he locked up a long time ago?' 'Because he's wearing a mask.'
'He's what?'
'We all wear masks, Angeli' From the time we're past infancy, we're taught to conceal our real feelings,
to cover up our hatreds and fears.' There was authority in his voice. "But under stress, Don Vinton is going to drop his mask and show his naked face.'
'I see.'
'His ego is his vulnerable point. If it's threatened - really threatened - he'll crack. He's on the thin edge now. It won't take much to send him completely over.' He hesitated, then went on, speaking almost to himself. "He's a man with
— mana.' 'With what?'
'Mana. It's a term that the primitives use tor a roan who exerts influence on others because of the
demons in him, a man with an overpowering personality.'
'You said he doesn't paint, write, or play the piano. How do you know that?'
'The world is full of artists who are schizoids. Most of them manage to get through life without any violence because their work gives them an outlet in which to express themselves. Our man doesn't have that outlet. So he's like a volcano. The only way he can get rid of the pressure inside him is to erupt: Hanson - Carol - Moody.'
'You mean these were just senseless crimes that he committed to—'
'Not senseless to him. On the contrary...' His mind raced ahead swiftly. Several more pieces of the
puzzle were beginning to fall into place. He cursed himself for having been too blind, or frightened, to
see them. 'I'm the only one Don Vinton has been after — the prime target. John Hanson was killed because he was mistaken for me. When the killer found out his mistake, he came to the office for
another try. I had gone, but he found Carol there.' His voice was angry. 'He killed her so she couldn't identify him?'
'No. The man we're looking for isn't a sadist. Carol was tortured because he wanted something. Say,
a piece of incriminating evidence. And she wouldn't — or couldn't — give it to him.'
'What kind of evidence?' probed Angeli.
'I have no idea,' Judd said. 'But it's the key to this whole thing. Moody found out the answer, and
that's why they killed him.'
'There's one thing that still doesn't make sense. If they had killed you on the street, then they couldn't have got the evidence. It doesn't fit with the rest of your theory,' Angeli persisted.
'It could. Let's assume that the evidence is on one of my tapes. It might be perfectly harmless by itself, but if I put it together with other facts, it could threaten them. So they have two choices. Either take it away from me, or eliminate me so I can't reveal it to anyone. First they tried to eliminate me. But they made a mistake and killed Hanson. Then they went to the second alternative. They tried to get it from Carol. When that failed, they decided to
concentrate on killing me. That was the car accident. I was probably followed when I went to hire Moody, and he, in turn, was followed. When he got onto the
truth, they murdered him.'
Angeli looked at Judd, a thoughtful frown on his face.
'That's why the killer is not going to stop until I'm dead,' Judd concluded quietly. 'It's become a deadly game, and the man I've described can't stand losing.'
Angeli was studying him, weighing what Judd had said. 'If you're right,' he said finally, 'you're going to need protection.' He took his service revolver out, flipped the chamber open to make sure it was fully loaded.
'Thanks, Angeli, but I don't need a gun. I'm going to fight them with my own weapons.'
There was the sharp click of the outer door opening. 'Were you expecting anyone?'
Judd shook his head. 'Na I have no patients this afternoon.'
Gun still in hand, Angeli moved quietly to the door leading to the reception room. He stepped to
one side and yanked the door open. Peter Hadley stood there, a bewildered expression on his face.
"Who are you?' Angeli snapped.
Judd moved over to the door. 'It's all right,' Judd said quickly. 'He's a friend of mine.'
'Hey! What the hell goes?' asked Peter.
'Sorry,' Angeli apologized. He put his gun away. 'This is Dr. Peter Hadley - Detective Angeli.'
'What kind of nutty psychiatric clinic are you running here?' Peter asked.
'There's been a little trouble,' Angeli explained. 'Dr. Stevens's office has been ..
. burgled, and
we thought whoever did it might be returning."
Judd picked up the cue. 'Yes. They didn't find what they were looking for.' 'Does this have anything to do with Carol's murder?' Peter asked.
Angeli spoke before Judd could answer. "We're aot sure, Dr. Hadley. For the moment, the Department has asked Dr. Stevens not to discuss the case.'
'I understand,' Peter said. He looked at Judd, 'Is our luncheon date still on?'
Judd realized he had forgotten about it. 'Of course,' he said quickly. He turned to Angeli. 'I think
we've covered everything.'
'And then some," Angeli agreed. "You're sure you don't want...' He indicated his revolver.
Judd shook his head. Thanks.' 'OK. Be careful,' Angeli said. 'I will,' Judd promised. 'I will.'
Judd was preoccupied during luncheon, and Peter did not press him. They talked o£ mutual friends, patients that they had in common. Peter told Judd he had spoken to Harrison Burke's employer and it had been quietly arranged for Burke to have a mental examination. He was being sent to a private institution.
Over coffee Peter said, 'I don't know what kind of trouble you're having, Judd, but if I can be of any help...'
Judd shook his head. 'Thanks, Peter. This is something I have to take care of myself. I'd tell you all
about it when it's over.'
"I hope that's soon,' Peter said lightly. He hesitated. 'Judd —are you in any danger?'
'Of course not,' replied Judd.
Unless you counted a homicidal maniac who had committed three murders and was determined to
make Judd his fourth victim.
After lunch Judd returned to his office. He went through the same careful routine, checking to make
sure that he exposed himself to minimum vulnerability. For whatever that was worth.
He began going through the tapes again, listening for anything that might provide some clue. It was like turning on a torrent of verbal graffiti. The gusher of sounds that spewed forth was filled with hatred ... perversion ... fear ... self- pity ... megalomania... loneliness... emptiness... pain...
At the end of three hours he had found only one new name to add to his list:
Bruce Boyd, the man
with whom John Hanson had last lived. He put the Hanson tape on the recorder again.
'... I suppose I fell in love with Bruce the first time I saw him. He was the most beautiful man I had
ever seen.'
'Was he the passive or dominant partner, John?'
'Dominant. That's one of the things that attracted me to him. He's very strong. In fact, later, when we became lovers, we used to quarrel about that.'
'Why?'
'Bruce didn't realize how strong he really was. He used to walk up behind me and hit me on the back.
He meant it as a loving gesture, but one day he almost broke my spine. I wanted to kill him. When he shook hands, he would crush your fingers. He always pretended to be sorry, but Brace enjoys hurting people. He didn't need whips. He's very strong...'
Judd stopped the tape and sat there, thinking. The homosexual pattern did not fit into his concept of the killer, but on the other hand, Boyd had been involved with Hanson and was a sadist and an egotist.
He looked at the two names on his fist: Teri Washburn, who had killed a man in Hollywood and had never mentioned it; and Bruce Boyd, John Hanson's last lover. If it were one of them - which one?
Teri Washburn lived in a penthouse suite on Sutton Place. The entire apartment was decorated in shocking pink: walls, furniture, drapes. There were expensive pieces scattered around the room, and
the wall was covered with French impressionists. Judd recognized two Manets, two Degas, a Monet,
and a Renoir before Teri walked into the room. He had phoned her to tell her that he wanted to come
by. She had got ready for him. She was wearing a wispy pink negligee with nothing on underneath it.
'You really came,' she exclaimed happily. 'I wanted to talk to you.'
'Sure. A little drinkie?' 'No, thanks.'
'Then I think I'll fix myself one to celebrate,' Teri said. She moved towards tbe coral-shell bar in the corner of the large living-room.
Judd watched her thoughtfully.
She returned with her drink and sat next to him on the pink couch. 'So your cock finally got you up
here, honey,' she said- 'I knew you couldn't hold out on little Teri. I'm nuts about you, Judd. I'd do anything for you. You name it. You make all the crummy pricks I've known in my life look like dirt.'
She put her drink down and put her hand on his trousers. Judd took her hands in his. 'Teri,' he said. I need your help.'
Her mind was travelling hi its own groove. 'I know, baby,' she moaned. 'I'm going to fuck you like
you've never been fucked in your life.'
'Teri - listen to me! Someone is trying to murder me!'
Her eyes registered slow surprise. Acting — or real? He remembered a performance he had seen her
give on one of the late late shows. Real. She was good, but not that good an actress.
'For Christ sakel Who — who'd want to murder you?'
'It could be someone connected with one of my patients.' 'But - Jesus - why?'
'That's what I'm trying to find out, Teri. Have any of your Mends ever talked about killing ...
or murder? Maybe as a party game, for laughs?' Teri shook her head. 'No.'
'Do you know anyone named Don Vinton?' He watched her closely. 'Don Vinton? Uhn-uhn. Should I?'
'Teri - how do you feel about murder?' A small shiver went through her body.
He was holding her
wrists and he could feel her pulse racing. 'Does murder excite you?' 'I don't know.'
'Think about it,' Judd insisted. 'Does the thought of it excite you?' Her pulse was beginning to skip irregularly. 'No I Of course not.' "Why didn't you tell me about the man you killed in Hollywood?'
Without warning she reached out to rake his face with her long fingernails. He grabbed her wrists.
'You rotten sonofabitch! That was twenty years ago... So that's why you came. Get out of here.
Get out!' She collapsed in sobbing hysteria.
Judd watched her a moment. Teri was capable of being involved in a thrill murder. Her insecurity, her total lack of self-esteem, would make her easy prey to anyone who wanted to use her. She was like a piece of soft clay lying in the gutter. The person who picked her up could mould her into a beautiful statue - or into a deadly weapon. The question was, who had picked her up last? Don Vinton?
Judd got to his feet. 'I'm sorry,' he said. He walked out of the pink apartment.
Bruce Boyd occupied a house in a converted mews off the park in Greenwich Village. The door was opened by a white-jacketed Filipino butler. Judd gave his name and was invited to wait in the foyer. The butler disappeared. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. Judd checked his irritation. Perhaps he should have told Detective Angeli he was coming here. If Judd's theory was right, the next attempt on his life would take place very soon. And his attacker would try to make certain of his success.
The butler reappeared. 'Mr Boyd will see you now,' he said. He led Judd upstairs to a tastefully
decorated study, then discreetly withdrew.
Boyd was at a desk, writing. He was a beautiful man with sharp, delicate features, an aquiline nose, and
a sensuous, full mouth. He had blond hair curled into ringlets. He got to his feet as Judd entered. He was about six foot three with the chest and shoulders of a football player. Judd thought about his physical identikit of the killer. Boyd matched it. Judd wished more than ever that he had left some word with Angeli.
Boyd's voice was soft and cultured. 'Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Dr.
Stevens,' he said
pleasantly. 'I'm Bruce Boyd.' He held out his hand.
Judd reached out to take it and Boyd hit him in the mouth with a granite fist. The blow was totally unexpected, and the impact of it sent Judd crashing against a standing lamp, knocking it over as his
body fell to the fioor.
'I'm sorry, Doctor,' said Boyd, looking down at him. "You had that coming.
You've been a naughty
boy, haven't you? Get up and I'll fix you a drink.'
Judd shook his head groggily. He started to push himself up from the floor. When he got halfway up, Boyd kicked him in the groin with the tip of his shoe and Judd fell writhing to the floor in agony.
'I've been waiting for you to call,' Boyd said.
Judd looked up through the bunding waves of pain at the figure that towered over him. He tried to
speak, but he couldn't get the words out.
'Don't try to talk,' Boyd said sympathetically. 'It must hurt. I know why you're here. You want to
ask me about Johnny.'
Judd started to nod and Boyd kicked him in the head. Through a red blur he heard Boyd's voice coming from some distant place through a cottony filter, fading in and out. 'We loved each other until he went to you. You made him feel like a freak. You made him feel our love was dirty. Do you know who made it dirty, Dr. Stevens? You.'
Judd felt something hard smash into his ribs, sending an exquisite river of pain through his veins. He was seeing everything in beautiful colours now, as though his head were filled with shimmering rainbows.
'Who gave you the right to tell people how to love, Doctor? You sit there in your office like some kind
of god, condemning everyone who doesn't think like you.'
That's not true, Judd was answering somewhere in his mind. Hanson had never had choices before.
I gave him choices. And he didn't choose you.
'Now Johnny's dead.' said the blond giant towering over him. 'You killed my Johnny. And now I'm
going to kill you.'
He felt another kick behind his ear, and he began to slip into unconsciousness. Some remote part of his mind watched with a detached interest as the rest of him began to die. That small isolated piece of intelligence in his cerebellum
continued to function, its impulses flashing out weakening patterns of thought. He reproached himself for not having come closer to the truth. He had expected the killer to
be a dark, Latin type, and he was blond. He had been sure that the killer was not a homosexual, and
he had been wrong. He had found his homicidal maniac, and now he was going to die for it. He lost consciousness.
Chapter Sixteen
Some distant, remote part of his mind was trying to send him a message, trying to communicate something of cosmic importance, but the hammering deep inside his skull was so agonizing that he was unable to concentrate on anything else. Somewhere nearby, he could hear a high-pitched keening, like a wounded wild animal. Slowly, painfully, Judd opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed in a strange room. In a corner of the room, Bruce Boyd was weeping uncontrollably.
Judd started to sit up. The wracking pain in his body flooded his memory with recollection of what had happened to him, and he was suddenly filled with a wild, savage fury.
Boyd turned as he heard Judd stir. He walked over to the bed. 'It's your fault,' he whimpered.
'If it hadn't been for you, Johnny would still be safe with me.'
Without volition, propelled by some long-forgotten, deeply buried instinct for vengeance, Judd reached
for Boyd's throat, his fingers closing around his windpipe, squeezing with all their strength. Boyd made no move to protect himself. He stood there, tears streaming down his face. Judd looked into his eyes, and it was like looking into a pool of hell. Slowly his hands dropped away. My God, he thought, I'm a doctor.
A sick man attacks me and I want to kill him. He looked at Boyd, and he was looking at a destroyed, bewildered child.
And suddenly he realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him: Bruce Boyd was not Don Vinton. If he had been, Judd would not be alive now.
Boyd was incapable of committing murder. So
he had been right about him not fitting the identikit of the killer. There was a certain ironic consolation
in that.
'If it weren't for you, Johnny would be alive.' Boyd sobbed, 'He'd be here with me and I could have protected him.'
'I didn't ask John Hanson to leave you,' Judd said wearily. 'It was his idea.' 'You're a liar!'
'Things had been going wrong between you and John before he came to see me.'
There was a long silence. Then Boyd nodded. 'Yes. We -we were quarrelling all the time.'
'He was trying to find himself, and his instincts kept telling him that he wanted to go back to his wife
and children. Deep down inside, John wanted to be heterosexual.'
'Yes,' whispered Boyd. 'He used to talk about it all the time, and I thought it was just to punish me.'
He looked up at Judd. 'But one day he left me. He just - moved out. He stopped loving me.' There
was despair in his voice.
'He didn't stop loving you,' Judd said. 'Not as a friend.'
Boyd was looking at him now, his eyes riveted on Judd's face. "Will you help me?' His eyes were filled with desperation. "H-help me. You've got to help me!'
It was a cry of anguish. Judd looked at him a long moment. 'Yes,' Judd said. 'I'll help you.'
'Will I be normal?'
'There's no such thing as normal. Each person carries his own normality within him, and no two people are alike."
'Can you make me heterosexual?'
'That depends on how much you really want to be. We can give you psychoanalysis.'
'And if it fails?'
'If we find that you're meant to be homosexual, at least you'll be better adjusted to it.'
"When can we start?' Boyd asked.
And Judd was jolted back to reality. He was sitting here talking about treating a patient when, for all he knew, he was going to be murdered within the next twenty-four hours. And he was still no closer to finding out who Don Vinton was. He had eliminated Teri and Boyd, the last suspects on his list He knew no more now than when he had started. If his analysis of the killer was correct, by now he would have worked himself up to a murderous rage. The next attack would come very, very soon.
'Call me Monday,' he said.
Aa the taxi took him towards his apartment building. Judd tried to weigh his chances of survival. They looked bleak. What could he have that Don Vinton wanted so desperately? And who was Don Vinton? How could be have had no police record? Could he be using some other name? No. Moody had clearly said 'Don Vinton'.
It was difficult to concentrate. Every movement of the taxi sent spasms of excruciating pain through his bruised body. Judd thought about the murders and attempted murders that had been committed so far. looking for some kind of pattern that made sense. A knifing, murder by torture, a hit-and-run 'accident',
a bomb in his car, strangulation. There was no pattern that he could discern. Only a ruthless, maniacal violence. He had no way of knowing how the next attempt would be made. Or by whom. His greatest vulnerability would be the office and his apartment. He remembered Angeli's advice. He must have stronger locks put on the doors of the apartment. He would tell Mike, the doorman, and Eddie, the elevator operator, to keep their eyes open. He could trust them.
The taxi pulled up in front of his apartment house. The doorman opened the taxi door.
He was a total stranger.
Chapter Seventeen
He was a large, swarthy man with a pockmarked face and deep-set black eyes.
An old scar ran across
his throat. He was wearing Mike's uniform coat and it was too tight for him.
The taxi pulled away and Judd was alone with the man. He was struck by a sudden wave of pain. My God, not now. He gritted his teeth. "Where's Mike?' he asked
'On vacation. Doctor.'
Doctor. So the man knew who he was. And Mike on vacation? In December?
There was a small smile of satisfaction on the man's face. Judd looked up and down the windswept
street, but it was completely deserted. He could try to make a run for it, but in his condition be wouldn't stand a chance. His body was beaten and sore, and it hurt every time he took a breath.
"You look like you been in an accident.' The man's voice was almost genial.
Judd turned without answering and walked into the lobby of the apartment building. He could count
on Eddie to get help.
The doorman followed Judd into the lobby. Eddie was in the elevator, his back turned. Judd started walking towards the elevator, every step a separate agony. He knew he dared not falter now. The important thing was not to let the man catch him alone. He would be afraid of witnesses.
'Eddie!' Judd called.
The man in the elevator turned.
Judd had never seen him before. He was a smaller version of the doorman, except that there was
no scar. It was obvious that the two men were brothers.
Judd stopped, trapped between the two of them. There was no one else in the lobby.
'Goin' up,' said the man in the elevator. He had the same satisfied smile as his brother.
So these, finally, were the faces of death. Judd was sure that neither of them was the brain behind what was happening. They were hired professional killers. Would they kill him in the lobby, or would they prefer to do it in his apartment? His apartment, he reasoned. That would give them more time to make their escape before his body was found.
Judd took a step towards the manager's office. 'I have to see Mr. Katz about—' The larger man blocked his way. 'Mr. Katz is busy, Doc' he said softly.
The man in the elevator spoke. 'I'l; take you upstairs.' 'No,' Judd said. 'I—'
'Do like he says.' There was no emotion in his voice.
There was a sudden blast of cold air as the lobby door opened. Two men and two women hurried in, laughing and chattering, huddled in their coats.
'It's worse than Siberia,' said one of the women.
The man holding her arm was pudgy-faced, with a Midwestern accent. 'Tain't a fit night for man nor beast.'
The group was moving towards the elevator. The doorman and elevator operator looked at each other silently.
The second woman spoke. She was a tiny, platinum blonde with a heavy Southern accent. 'It's been a perfecdy dreamy evening. Thank you all so much.' She was sending the men away.
The second man gave a howl of protest "You're not going to let us go without a little nightcap, are you?'
'It's awfully late, George,' simpered the first woman.
'But it's below zero outside. You've gotta give us a little anti-freeze.' The other man added his plea. 'Just one drink and then we go.' 'Well...'
Judd was holding his breath. Please!
The platinum blonde relented. 'All right. But just one, you-all hear?'
Laughing, the group stepped into the elevator. Judd quickly moved in with them. The doorman stood there uncertainly, looking at his brother. The one in the elevator shrugged, closed the door, and started the elevator up. Judd's apartment was on the fifth floor. If the group got out before him, he was in trouble. If they got out after Hm, he had a chance to get into his apartment, barricade himself, and call for help.
'Floor?'
The little blonde giggled. 'I don't know what my husband would say if he saw me inviting two strange men up to my apartment' She turned to the elevator operator. Ten.'
Judd exhaled and realized that he had been holding his breath. He spoke quickly. 'Five.'
The elevator operator gave him a patient, knowing look and opened the door at Five. Judd got out.
The elevator door dosed.
Judd moved towards his apartment, stumbling with pain. He took out his key, opened the door, and went In, his heart pounding. He had five minutes at the most before they came to kill him. He closed the door and started to put the chain lock in the bolt. It came off in his hand. He looked at it and saw that it had been cut through. He flung it down and moved towards the phone. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He stood there, fighting the pain, his eyes closed, while precious time passed. With an effort, he started towards the phone again,
moving slowly. The only person he could think of to call was Angeli, but Angeli was at home, ill. Besides -what could he say? We have a new doorman and elevator operator and I think they're going to kill me! He slowly became aware that he was holding the receiver in his hand, standing there numbly, too dazed to do anything. Concussion, he thought. Boyd may have killed me, after all. They would walk in and find him like this - helpless. He remembered the look in the eyes of the big man. He had to outwit them, keep them off balance. But good God - how?
He turned on the small TV set that monitored the lobby. The lobby was deserted. The pain returned, washing over him in waves, making him feel faint He forced his tired mind to focus on the problem. He was in an emergency ... Yes ... Emergency. He had to take emergency measures. Yes... His vision was blurring again. His eyes focused on the phone. Emergency ... He moved the dial close to his eyes so that he could read the numbers. Slowly, painfully, he dialled. A voice answered on the fifth ring. Judd spoke, His words slurred and indistinct. His eye was caught by a flurry of motion in the TV monitor. The two men, in street clothes, were crossing the lobby and moving towards the elevator.
His time had run out.
The two men moved soundlessly towards Judd's, apartment and took positions on either side of the
door. The larger of the men, Rocky, softly tried the door. It was locked. He took out a celluloid card
and carefully inserted it over the lock. He nodded to his brother, and both men took out revolvers with silencers on them. Rocky slid the celluloid card against the lock and pushed the unresisting door open, slowly. They walked into the living-room, guns held out in front of them. They were confronted by three closed doors. There was no sign of Judd. The smaller brother, Nick, tried the first door. It was locked.
He smiled at his brother, put the muzzle of his gun against the lock, and pulled the trigger. The door noiselessly swung open into a bedroom. The two men moved inside, guns sweeping the room.
There was no one inside. Nick checked the closets while Rocky returned to the living-room. They moved without haste, knowing that Judd was in the apartment hiding, helpless. There was almost deliberate enjoyment in their
unhurried movements, as though they were savouring the moments before the kill.
Nick tried the second closed door. It was locked. He shot the bolt out and moved into the room. It was the den. Empty. They grinned at each other and walked towards the last closed door. As they passed the TV monitor, Rocky caught his brother's arm. On the set they could see three men hurrying into the lobby. Two of them, wearing the white jackets of interns, were pushing a wheeled stretcher. The third carried a medical bag.
'What the hell!'"
"Keep your cool, Rocky. So someone's sick. There must be a hundred apartments in this building.'
They watched the TV set in fascination as the two interns wheeled the stretcher into the elevator. The group disappeared inside it, and the elevator door dosed.
'Give them a couple of minutes.' It was Nick. 'It could be some kind of accident. That means there
might be cops.'
'Of all the fuckin' luck!'
'Don't worry. Stevens ain't goin' nowhere.'
The door to the apartment burst open and the doctor and the two interns entered, pushing the stretcher ahead of them. Swiftly the two killers shoved their guns into their overcoat pockets.
The doctor waited up to the brother. 'Is he dead?' 'Who?'
"The suicide victim. Is he dead or alive?'
The two killers looked at each other, bewildered. "You guys got the wrong apartment.'
The doctor pushed past the two killers and tried the bedroom door. 'It's locked. Help me break it down.'
The two brothers watched helplessly as the doctor and the interns smashed the door open with their shoulders. The doctor stepped into the bedroom. 'Bring the stretcher.' He moved to the bedside where Judd lay on the bed. 'Are you all right?'
Judd looked up, trying to make his eyes focus. 'Hospital,' mumbled Judd. "You're on your way.'
As the two killers watched in frustration, the interns wheeled the stretcher into the bedroom, skilfully
slid Judd onto it, and wrapped him in blankets. 'Let's blow,' said Rocky.
The doctor watched the two men leave. Then he turned to Judd, who lay on the stretcher, his face white and haggard. 'Are you all right, Judd?' His voice was filled with deep concern.
Judd tried a smile that didn't come off. 'Great,' he said. He could scarcely hear his own voice.
'Thanks, Pete.'
Peter looked down at his friend, then nodded to the two interns. 'Let's go!'
Chapter Eighteen
The hospital room was different, but the nurse was the same. A glaring bundle of disapproval. Seated
at his bedside, she was the first thing that Judd saw when he opened his eyes.
'Well. We're up,' she said primly. 'Dr. Harris wants to see you. I'll tell him we're awake.' She waited stiffly out of the room.
Judd sat up, moving carefully. Arm and leg reflexes a bit slow, but unimpaired. He tried focusing on a chair across the room, one eye at a time. His vision was a little blurred.
"Want a consultation?'
He looked up. Dr. Seymour Harris had come into the room.
'Well,' Dr. Harris said cheerfully, 'you're turning out to be one of our best customers. Do you know how much your stitching bill alone is? We're going to have to give you discount rates ... How did you sleep, Judd?' He sat down on the edge of the bed.
'Like a baby. What did you give me?' 'A shot of sodium luminol.'
'What time is it?' 'Noon.'
'My God,' Judd said. 'I've got to get out of here.'
Dr. Harris removed the chart from the clipboard he carried. 'What would you like to talk about first? Your concussion? Lacerations? Contusions?'
'I feel fine.'
The doctor put the chart aside. His voice grew serious. 'Judd, your body's taken a lot of punishment. More than you realize. If you're smart, you'll stay right in this bed for a few days and rest. Then you'll take a vacation for a month.'
'Thanks, Seymour,' Judd said.
'You mean thanks, but - no, thanks.' 'There's something I have to take care of.'
Dr. Harris sighed. 'Do you know who make the worst patients in the world? Doctors.' He changed the subject, conceding defeat 'Peter was here all night. He's been calling every hour. He's worried about you. He thinks someone tried to kill you last night.'
'You know how doctors are — over-imaginative.'
Harris eyed him a moment, shrugged, then said, 'You're the analyst. I'm only Ben Casey. Maybe you know what you're doing - but I wouldn't bet a nickel on it. Are you sure you won't stay in bed a few days?'
'I can't'
'OK, Tiger. I'll let you leave tomorrow.'
Judd started to protest, but Harris cut him off.
'Don't argue. Today's Sunday. The guys who beat you up need a rest.' 'Seymour...'
'Another thing. I hate to sound like a Jewish mother, but have you been eating lately?'
'Not much,' Judd said.
'OK. I'm giving Miss Bedpan twenty-four hours to fatten you up. And Judd...' 'Yes?'
'Be careful. I hate to lose such a good customer.' And Dr. Harris was gone.
Judd dosed his eyes to rest a moment. He heard the rattle of dishes, and when he looked up, a beautiful Irish nurse was wheeling in a dining tray.
'You're awake, Dr. Stevens.' She smiled. 'What time is it?'
'Six o'clock.'
He had slept the day away.
She was placing the food on his bed tray. "You're having a treat tonight - turkey. Tomorrow's
Christmas Eve.'
'I know.' He had no appetite for dinner until he took the first bite and suddenly discovered that he was ravenous. Dr Harris had shut off all phone calls, so he lay in bed, undisturbed, gathering his strength, marshalling the forces within him. Tomorrow he would need all the energy he could muster.
At ten o'clock the next morning Dr. Seymour Harris bustled into Judd's room. 'How's my favourite patient?' he beamed. 'You look almost human.'
'I feel almost human,' smiled Judd.
'Good. You're going to have a visitor. I wouldn't want you to scare him.'
Peter. And probably Norah. They seemed to be spending most of their time lately visiting him in hospitals.
Dr. Harris went on. 'It's a Lieutenant McGreavy.' Judd's heart sank.
'He's very anxious to talk to you. He's on his way over here. He wanted to be sure you were awake.'
So he could arrest him. With Angeli home sick, McGreavy had been free to manufacture evidence that would convict Judd. Once McGreavy got his hands on him, there was no hope. He had to escape before McGreavy arrived.
'Would you ask the nurse to get the barber?' Judd said. 'I'd like a shave.' His voice must have sounded odd, because Dr. Harris was looking at him strangely. Or was that because of something McGreavy had told Dr. Harris about him?
'Certainly, Judd.' He left.
The moment the door closed, Judd got out of bed and stood up. The two nights of sleep had done miracles for him. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but that would pass. Now he had to move
quickly. It took him three minutes to dress.
He opened the door a crack, made sure that no one was around who would try to stop him, and headed for the service stairs. As he started down the stairs, the elevator door opened and he saw McGreavy get off and start towards the room he had just left. He was moving swiftly, and behind him were a uniformed
policeman and two detectives. Quickly, Judd went down the stairs and headed for the ambulance entrance. A block away from the hospital he hailed a taxi.
McGreavy walked into the hospital room and took one look at the unoccupied bed and the empty closet 'Fan out,' he said to the others. 'You might still catch him.' He scooped up the phone. The operator connected him with the police switchboard. 'This is McGreavy,' he said rapidly. 'I want an all-points bulletin put out. Urgent ... Dr. Stevens, Judd. Male, Caucasian. Age...'
The taxi pulled up in front of Judd's office building. From now on, there was no safety for him
anywhere. He could not go back to his apartment He would have to check into some hotel.
Returning to his office was dangerous, but it had to be done this once. He needed a phone number.
He paid the driver and walked into the lobby. Every muscle in his body ached He moved quickly. He knew he had very little time. It was unlikely that they would be expecting him to return to his office, but he must take no chances. It was now a question of who got him first. The police or the assassins.
When he reached his office, he opened the door and went inside, locking the door after him. The inner office seemed strange and hostile, and Judd knew that he could not treat his patients here any longer. He would be subjecting them to too much danger. He was filled with anger at what Don Vinton was doing to his life. He could visualize the scene that must have occurred when the two brothers went back and reported that they had failed to kill him. If he had read Don Vinton's character correctly, he would have been in a towering rage. The next attack would come at any moment.
Judd went across the room to get Anne's phone number. For he had remembered two things in. the hospital.
Some of Anne's appointments were scheduled just ahead of John Hanson's.
And Anne and Carol had had several chats together; Carol might have innocently confided some deadly information to Anne. If so, she could be in danger.
He took his address book out of a locked drawer, looked up Anne's phone number, and dialled. There were three rings, and then a neutral voice came on.
This is a special operator. What number are you calling, please?'
Judd gave her the number. A few moments later the operator was back on the line. 'I am sorry. You
are calling a wrong number. Please check your directory or consult Information.'
'Thank you,' Judd said. He hung up. He sat there a moment, remembering what his answering service
had said a few days ago. They had been able to reach all his patients except Anne. The numbers could have been transposed when they were put in the book. He looked in the telephone directory, but there was no listing under her husband's name or her name. He suddenly felt that it was very important that he talk to Anne. He copied down her address:
617 Woodside Avenue, Bayonne, New Jersey.
Fifteen minutes later, he was at an Avis counter, renting a car. There was a sign behind the counter that read: 'We're second, so we try harder.' We're in the same boat, thought Judd.
A few minutes later, he drove out of the garage. He rode around the block, satisfied himself that he was not being followed, and headed over the George Washington Bridge for New Jersey.
When he reached Bayonne, he stopped at a filling station to ask directions. 'Next corner and make a
left - third street.'
Thanks.' Judd drove off. At the thought of seeing Anne again, his heart began to quicken. What was he going to say to her without alarming her? Would her husband be there?
Judd made a left turn onto Woodside Avenue. He looked at the numbers. He was in the nine hundred block. The houses on both sides of the street were
small, old, and weatherbeaten. He drove to the seven hundred block. The houses seemed to become progressively older and smaller.
Anne lived on a beautiful wooded estate. There were virtually no trees here. When Judd reached the address Anne had given him, he was almost prepared for what he saw.
617 was a weed-covered vacant lot.
Chapter Nineteen
He sat in the car across from the vacant lot, trying to put it all together. The wrong phone number could have been a mistake. Or the address could have been a mistake. But not both. Anne had deliberately lied to him. And if she had lied about who she was and where she lived, what else had she lied about? He forced himself to objectively examine everything he really knew about her. It came to almost nothing.
She had walked into his office unannounced and insisted on becoming a patient. In the four weeks that she had been coming to him, she had carefully managed not to reveal what her problem was, and then had suddenly announced that it was solved and she was going away. After each visit she had paid him in cash so that there would be no way of tracing her. But what reason could she have had for posing as a patient and then vanishing? There was only one answer. And as it hit Judd, he became physically sick.
If someone wanted to set him up for murder - wanted to know his routine at the office - wanted to know what the inside of the office looked like - what better way than to gain access as a patient? That was
what she was doing there. Don Vinton had sent her. She had learned what she needed to know and then had disappeared without a trace.
It had all been pretence, and how eager he had been to be taken in by it How she must have laughed when she went back to report to Don Vinton about the amorous idiot who called himself an analyst and pretended to be an expert
about people. He was head over heels in love with a girl whose sole interest in him was setting him up to be murdered. How was that for a judge of character? What an amusing paper that would make for the American Psychiatric Association.
But what if it were not true? Supposing Anne had come to him with a legitimate problem, had used a fictitious name because she was afraid of embarrassing someone? In lime the problem had solved itself and she had decided that she no longer needed the help of an analyst. But Judd knew that it was too easy. There was an 'x' quantity about Anne that needed to be discovered. He had a strong feeling that in that unknown quantity could lie the answer to what was happening. It was possible that she was being forced to act against her will. But even as he thought it, he knew he was being foolish. He was trying to cast her as a damsel in distress with himself as a knight in shining armour. Had she set him up for murder? Somehow, he had to find out.
An elderly woman in a tom housecoat had come out of a house across the street and was staring at him. He turned the car around and headed back for the George Washington Bridge.
There was a line of cars behind him. Any one of them could be following him.
But why would they
have to follow him? His enemies knew where to find him. He couldn't sit and passively wait for them
to attack. He had to do the attacking himself, keep them off guard, enrage Don Vinton into making a
blunder so that he could be checkmated And he had to do it before McGreavy caught him and locked
him up.
Judd drove towards Manhattan. The only possible key to all this was Anne - and she had disappeared without a trace. The day after tomorrow she would be out of the country.
And Judd suddenly realized that he had one chance of finding her.
It was Christmas Eve and the Pan-Am office was crowded with travellers and would-be travellers on standby, fighting to get space on planes flying all over the world.
Judd made his way to the counter through the waiting lines and asked to see the manager. The
uniformed girl behind the counter gave him a professionally coded smile and asked him to wait; the manager was on the phone.
Judd stood there hearing a babel of phrases. 'I want to leave India on the fifth.'
'Will Paris be cold?'
'I want a car to meet me in Lisbon.'
He felt a desperate desire to get on a plane and run away. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was, physically and emotionally. Don Vinton seemed to have an army at his disposal, but Judd was alone. What chance did he have against him?
'Can I help you?'
Judd turned. A tall, cadaverous-looking man stood behind the counter. 'I'm Friendly,' he said. He waited for Judd to appreciate the joke. Judd smiled dutifully. 'Charles Friendly. What can I do for you?'
'I'm Dr Stevens. I'm trying to locate a patient of mine. She's booked on a flight leaving for Europe tomorrow.'
'The name?'
'Blake. Anne Blake.' He hesitated. 'Possibly it's under Mr. and Mrs Anthony Blake.'
'What city is she flying to?' 'I-I'm not sure.'
'Are they hooked on one of our morning or afternoon flights?' 'I'm not even certain if it's with your airline,' Judd said.
The friendliness dropped out of Mr Friendly's eyes. 'Then I'm afraid I can't help you.'
Judd felt a sudden feeling of panic. 'It's really urgent. I must find her before she goes.'
'Doctor, Pan-American has one or more flights leaving every day for Amsterdam, Barcelona, Berlin, Brussels, Copenhagen, Dublin, Dusseldorf, Frankfurt, Hamburg, Lisbon, London, Munich, Paris, Rome, Shannon, Stuttgart, and Vienna. So have most of the other international airlines. You'll have to contact each one individually. And I doubt if they can help you unless you can give them the destination and time of departure.' The expression on Mr Friendly's face was one of impatience. 'If you'll excuse me ...' He turned to walk away.
'Wait!' said Judd How could he explain that this might be his last chance to stay alive? His last link to finding out who was attempting to kill him.
Friendly was regarding him with barely concealed annoyance. 'Yes?'
Judd forced a smile on his face, hating himself for it, 'Don't you have some kind of central computing system/ he asked, 'where you can get passengers' names by ... ?'
'Only if you know the flight number,' Mr Friendly said. He turned and was gone.
Judd stood there at the counter, feeling sick. Check and checkmate. He was defeated. There was nowhere else to move.
A group of Italian priests bustled in, dressed in long, flapping black robes and wide black hats, looking like something out of the Middle Ages. They were weighed down with cheap cardboard suitcases, boxes and gift baskets of fruit. They were speaking loudly in Italian and obviously teasing the youngest member of their group, a boy who looked no more than eighteen or nineteen. They were probably returning home to Rome after a vacation, thought Judd, as he listened to their babbling. Rome... where Anne would be.. Anne again.
The priests were moving towards the counter.
'E molto bene di ritornare a casa' 'Si. d'accordo.'
'Signore, per piacere, guardatemi'
'Tutto va bene?' 'Si, ma—'
'Dio mio, dove sono i mid biglietti?' 'Cretino, hai perduto i biglietti.' 'Ah, eccoli.'
The priests handed their airline tickets to the youngest priest, who moved bashfully towards the girl at
the counter. Judd looked towards the exit. A large man in a grey overcoat was lounging in the doorway.
The young priest was talking to the girl behind the counter. 'Dieci. Dieci.'
The girl stared at him blankly. The priest summoned up his knowledge of English and said very
carefully, 'Ten. Billetta. Teeket' He pushed the tickets towards her. The girl smiled happily and began to process the tickets.
The priests burst into delighted cries of approval at their companion's linguistic abilities and clapped him on the back. There was no point in staying here any longer. Sooner or later he would have to face whatever was out there. Judd slowly turned and started to move past the group of priests.
'Guarda te che ha fatto il Don Vinton.'
Judd stopped, the blood suddenly rushing to his face. He turned to the tubby little priest who had spoken and took his arm. 'Excuse me,' he said. His voice was hoarse and unsteady. 'Did you say "Don Vinton"?'
The priest looked up at him blankly, then patted him on the arm and started to move away.
Judd tightened his grip. 'Wait!' he said.
The priest was looking at him nervously. Judd forced himself to speak calmly. 'Don Vinton. Which
one is he? Show him to me,'
All the priests were now staring at Judd. The little priest looked at his companions. 'E un americano matto.'
A babble of excited Italian rose from the group. Out of the corner of his eye, Judd saw Friendly watching him from behind the counter. Friendly opened the counter gate and started to move towards him. Judd fought to control a rising panic He let go of the priest's arm, leaned close to him, and said slowly and distinctly, Don Vinton'.
The little priest looked into Judd's face for a moment and then his own face splintered into merriment. 'Don Vinton?'
The manager was approaching rapidly, his manner hostile. Judd nodded to the priest encouragingly.
The little priest pointed to the boy. "Don Vinton - big man".' And suddenly the puzzle fell into place.
Chapter Twenty
'Slow down, slow down,' Angeli said hoarsely. 'I can't understand a word you're saying.'
'Sorry,' Judd said. He took a deep breath. 'I've got the answer!' He was so relieved to hear Angeli's
voice over the phone that he was almost babbling. 'I know who's trying to kill me. I know who Don Vinton is.'
There was a sceptical note in Angeli's voice. 'We couldn't find any Don Vinton.'
"Do you know why? Because it isn't a him - it's a who.'
'Will you speak more slowly?'
Judd's voice was trembling with excitement. 'Don Vinton isn't a name. It's an Italian expression. It
means "the big man". That's what Moody was trying to tell me. That 'The Big Man' was after me.'
'You lost me. Doctor.'
'It doesn't mean anything in English,' said Judd, "but when you say it in Italian - doesn't it suggest anything to you? An organization of killers run by The Big Man?'
There was a long silence over the phone. 'La Cosa Nostra?'
'Who else could assemble a group of killers and weapons like that? Acid, bombs - guns! Remember
I told you the man we're looking for would be a Southern European? He's Italian.'
'It doesn't make sense. Why nould La Cosa Nostra want to kill you?'
'I have absolutely no idea. But I'm right. I know I'm right. And it fits in with something Moody said.
He said there was a group of men out to kill me.'
'It's the craziest theory I've ever heard,' Angeli said. There was a pause, then he added, 'But I suppose
it could be possible.'
Judd was flooded with sudden relief. If Angeli had not been willing to listen to him, he would have had
no one to turn to.
'Have you discussed this with anyone?' 'No,' Judd said.
'Don't!' Angeli's voice was urgent. 'If you're right, your life depends on it. Don't go near your office or apartment.'
'I won't,' Judd promised. He suddenly remembered. 'Did you know McGreavy has a warrant out for
my arrest?'
'Yes.' Angeli hesitated. 'If McGreavy picks you up, you'll never get to the station alive.'
My God. So he had been right about McGreavy. But he could not believe that McGreavy was the brain behind this. There was someone directing him... Don Vinton. The Big Man.
'Can you hear me?'
Judd's mouth was suddenly dry. 'Yes.'
A man in a grey overcoat stood outside the phone booth looking in at Judd.
Was it the same man he had seen before? 'Angeli...'
"Yes?"
'I don't know who the others are. I don't know what they look like. How do I stay alive until they're caught?'
The man outside the booth was staring at him.
Angeli's voice came over the line. 'We're going straight to the FBI. I have a friend who has connections. He'll see that you're protected until you're safe. OK?' There was a note of assurance in Angeli's voice.
'OK,' Judd said gratefully. His knees felt like jelly. 'Where are you?*
'In a phone booth in the lower lobby of the Pan-Am Building.'
'Don't move. Keep plenty of people around you. I'm on ray way.' There was a click at the other end
of the line as Angeli hung up.
He put the phone back on the squad-room desk, a sick feeling deep inside him. Over the years he had become accustomed to dealing with murderers, rapists, perverts of every description, and somehow, in time, a protective shell had formed, allowing him to go on believing in the basic dignity and humanity
of man.
But a rogue cop was something different.
A rogue cop was a corruption that touched everyone on the force, that violated everything that decent cops fought and died for.
The squad room was filled with the passage of feet and the murmur of voices, but he heard none of it. Two uniformed patrolmen passed through the room with a giant drunk in handcuffs. One of the officers had a black eye and the other held a handkerchief to a bloody nose. The sleeve of his uniform had been ripped half off. The patrolman would have to pay for that himself. These men were ready to risk their lives every day and night of the year. But that wasn't what made headlines. A crooked cop made headlines. One crooked cop tainted them all. His own partner.
Wearily he got up and walked down the ancient corridor to the captain's office. He knocked once and went in.
Behind a battered desk pocked with the lighted cigar butts of countless years sat Captain Bertelli. Two FBI men were in the room, dressed in business suits. Captain Bertelli looked up as the door opened. 'Well?'
The detective nodded. 'It checks out. The property custodian said he came in and borrowed Carol Roberts's key from the evidence locker Wednesday afternoon and returned it late Wednesday night. That's why the paraffin test was negative - he got into Dr. Stevens's office by using an original key.
The custodian never questioned it because he knew he was assigned to the case.'
'Do you know where he is now?' asked the younger of the FBI men. "No. We had a tail on him, but he lost him. He could be anywhere.' 'He'll be hunting for Dr. Stevens,' said the second FBI agent.
Captain Bertelli turned to the FBI men. "What are the chances of Dr. Stevens staying alive?'
The man shook his head. 'If they find him before we do - none.'
Captain Bertelli nodded. "We've got to find him first.' His voice grew savage. 'I want Angeli brought
back, too. I don't care how you get him.' He turned to the detective. 'Just get him, McGreavy.'
The police radio began to crackle out a staccato message: 'Code Ten ... Code Ten ... All cars...
pick up five ...'
Angeli switched the radio off. 'Anyone know I picked you up?' he asked. 'No one,' Judd assured him.
'You haven't discussed La Cosa Nostra with anybody?' 'Only you.'
Angeli nodded, satisfied.
They had crossed the George Washington Bridge and were headed for New Jersey. But everything had changed. Before, he had been filled with apprehension. Now, with Angeli at his side, he no longer felt
like the hunted. He was the hunter. And the thought filled him with deep satisfaction.
At Angeli's suggestion, Judd had left his rented car in Manhattan and he was riding in Angeli's unmarked police car. Angeli had headed north on the Palisades Interstate Parkway and exited at Orangeburg. They were approaching Old Tappan.
'It was smart of you to spot what was going on, Doctor,' Angeli said.
Judd shook his head. 'I should have figured it out as soon as I knew there was more than one man involved. It had to be an organization using professional killers. I think Moody suspected the truth when he saw the bomb in my car.
They had access to every kind of weapon.'
And Anne. She was part of the operation, setting him up so that they could murder him. And yet - he couldn't hate her. No matter what she had done, he could never hate her.
Angeli had turned off the main highway. He deftly tooled the car onto a secondary road that led towards
a wooded area.
'Does your friend know we're coming?' Judd asked. 'I phoned him. He's all ready for you.'
A side road appeared abrupdy, and Angeli turned the car into it. He drove for a mile, then braked to a stop in front of an electric gate. Judd noticed a small television camera mounted above the gate. There was a click and the gate swung open, then closed solidly behind them. They began driving up a long, curving driveway. Through the trees ahead, Judd caught a glimpse of the sprawling roof of an enormous house. High on top, flashing in the sun, was a bronze rooster.
Its tail was missing.
Chapter Twenty-one
In the soundproofed, neon-lit communications centre at Police Headquarters, a dozen shirtsleeved police officers manned the giant switchboard. Six operators sat of each side of the board. In the middle of the board was a pneumatic hute. As the calls came in, the operators wrote a message, put it in the chute, and sent it upstairs to the dispatcher, imediate relay to a sub-station or patrol car. The calls never ceased. They poured in day and night, like a river of tragedy flooding in from the citizens of the huge metropolis. Men and women who were terrified... lonely ... desperate ... drunk ... injured ... homicidal... It was a scene from Hogarth, painted with vivid, anguished words instead of colours.
On this Monday afternoon there was a feeling of added tension in the air. Each telephone operator handled his job with full concentration, and yet each was aware of the number of detectives and FBI agents who kept moving in and out of the room, receiving and giving orders, working efficiently and quietly as they spread a vast electronic net for Dr. Judd Stevens and Detective Frank Angeli. The atmosphere was quickened, strangely staccato, as though the action were being staged by some grim, nervous puppeteer.
Captain Bertelli was talking to Allen Sullivan, a member of the Mayor's Crime Commission, when McGreavy walked in. McGreavy had met Sullivan before.
He was tough and honest. Bertelli broke
off his conversation and turned to the detective, his face a question mark.
'Things are moving,' McGreavy said. 'We found an eyewitness, a night watchman who works in the building across the street from Dr. Stevens's office building. On Wednesday night, when someone
broke into Dr. Stevens's office, the watchman was just going on duty. He saw two men go into the building. The street door was locked and they opened it with a key. He figured they worked there.'
'Did you get an ID?'
'He identified a picture of Angeli.'
'Wednesday night Angeli was supposed to have been home in bed with the flu.' 'Right.'
'What about the second man?'
'The watchman didn't get a good look at him.'
An operator plugged in one of the innumerable red lights blinking across the switchboard and turned to Captain Bertelli. 'For you. Captain. New Jersey Highway Patrol.'
Bertefli snatched up an extension phone. 'Captain Bertelli.' He listened a moment 'Are you sure?...
Good! Will you get every unit you can in there? Set up roadblocks. I want that area covered lite a
blanket. Keep in close touch... Thanks.' He hung up and turned to the two men. 'It looks like we got
a break. A rookie patrolman in New Jersey spotted Angeli's car on a secondary road near Orangeburg. The Highway Patrol's combing the area now.'
'Dr. Stevens?'
'He was in the car with Angeli. Alive. Don't worry. They'll find them.'
McGreavy pulled out two cigars. He offered one to Sullivan, who refused it, handed one to Bertelli, and put the other one between his teeth. 'We've got one thing going for us. Dr. Stevens leads a charmed life.' He struck a match and lit
the two cigars. 'I just talked to a friend of his - Dr. Peter Hadley. Dr. Hadley told me he went to pick up Stevens in his office a few days ago and found Angeli there with a gun in his hand. Angeli told some cock-and-bull story about expecting a burglar. My guess is that Dr. Hadley's arrival saved Stevens's life.'
'How did you first get on to Angeli?' Sullivan asked.
'It started with a couple of tips that he was shaking down some merchants,'
McGreavy said. 'When I
went to check them out, the victims wouldn't talk. They were scared, but I couldn't figure out why. I didn't say anything to Angeli. I just started keeping a close watch on him. When the Hanson murder broke, Angeli came and asked if he could work on the case with me. He gave me some bullshit about
how much he admired me and how he had always wanted to be my partner. I knew he had to have an angle, so with Captain Bertelh's permission, I played along with him. No wonder he wanted to work on the case - he was in it up to his ass! At that time I wasn't sure whether Dr. Stevens was involved in the murders of Hanson and Carol Roberts, but I decided to use him to set up Angeli. I built up a phoney
case against Stevens and told Angeli I was going to nail the doctor for the murders. I figured that if
Angeli thought he was off the hook, he'd relax and get careless.' 'Did it work?'
"No. Angeli surprised the hell out of me by putting up a fight to keep Stevens out of jail.'
Sullivan looked up, puzzled. 'But why?'
"Because he was trying to knock him off and he couldn't get to him if he were locked up.'
'When McGreavy began to put the pressure on,' Captain Bertelli said, 'Angeli came to me hinting that McGreavy was trying to frame Dr. Stevens.'
'We were sure then that we were on the right track,' McGreavy said. 'Stevens hired a private detective named Norman Moody. I checked Moody out and learned that he had tangled with Angeli before when
a client of Moody's was picked up by Angeli on a drugs rap. Moody said his client was framed. Knowing what I know now, I'd say Moody was telling the truth.'
'So Moody lucked into the answer from the beginning.'
'It wasn't all luck. Moody was bright. He knew Angeli was probably involved. When he found the bomb in Dr. Stevens's car, he turned it over to the FBI and asked them to check it out.'
'He was afraid if Angeli got hold of it, he'd find a way to get rid of it?'
That's my guess. But someone slipped up and a copy of the report was sent to Angeli. He knew then
that Moody was on to him. The real break we got was when Moody came up with the name
"Don Vinton".'
'Cosa Nostra for The Big Man".'
'Yeah. For some reason, someone in La Cosa Nostra was out to get Dr Stevens.' 'How did you tie up Angeli with La Cosa Nostra?'
'I went back to the merchants Angeli had been putting the squeeze on. When I mentioned La Cosa Nostra, they panicked. Angeli was working for one of the Cosa Nostra families, but he got greedy and was doing a little shakedown business of his own on the side.'
'Why would La Cosa Nostra want to kill Dr. Stevens?' Sullivan asked.
'I don't know. We're working on several angles.' He sighed wearily. "We got two lousy breaks. Angeli slipped the men we had tailing him, and Dr. Stevens ran away from the hospital before I could warn
him about Angeli and give him protection.'
The switchboard flashed. An operator plugged in the call and listened a moment. 'Captain Bertelli.'
Bertelli grabbed the extension phone. 'Captain Bertelli.' He listened, saying nothing, then slowly replaced the receiver and turned to McGreavy. They lost them.'
Chapter Twenty-two
Anthony DeMarco had mana.
Judd could feel the burning power of his personality across the room, coming in waves that struck like
a tangible force. When Anne had said her husband was handsome, she had not exaggerated.
DeMarco had a classic Roman face with a perfectly sculptured profile, coal black eyes, and attractive streaks of grey in his dark hair. He was in his middle forties, tall and athletic, and moved with a restless animal grace. His voice was deep and magnetic 'Would you care for a drink, Doctor?'
Judd shook his head, fascinated by the man before him. Anyone would have sworn that DeMarco
was a perfectly normal, charming man, a perfect host welcoming an honoured guest.
There were five of them in the richly panelled library. Judd, DeMarco,
Detective Angeli, and the two
men who had tried to kill Judd at his apartment building, Rocky and Nick Vaccaro. They had formed a circle around Judd. He was looking into the faces of the enemy, and there was a grim satisfaction in it. Finally he knew who he was fighting. If 'fighting' was the right word. He had walked into Angeli's trap. Worse. He had phoned Angeli and invited him to come and get him. Angeli, the Judas goat who had led him here to the slaughter.
DeMarco was studying him with deep interest, his black eyes probing. 'I've heard a great deal about
you,' he said.
Judd said nothing.
'Forgive me for having you brought here in this fashion, but it is necessary to ask you a few questions.' He smiled apologetically, radiating warmth.
Judd knew what was coming, and his mind moved swiftly ahead. "What did you and my wife talk about, Dr. Stevens?'
Judd put surprise into his voice. 'Your wife? I don't know your wife.'
DeMarco shook his head reproachfully. 'She's been going to your office twice a week for the last three weeks.'
Judd frowned thoughtfully. 'I have no patient named DeMarco...'
DeMarco nodded understandingly. 'Perhaps she used another name. Maybe her maiden name. Blake - Anne Blake.'
Judd carefully registered surprise. 'Anne Blake?' The two Vaccaro brothers moved in closer.
'No,' DeMarco said sharply. He turned to Judd. His affable manner was gone. 'Doctor, if you try to
play games with me, I'm going to do things to you that you wouldn't believe.'
Judd looked into his eyes and believed him. He knew that his life was hanging by a thread. He forced indignation into his voice, "You can do what you please. Until this moment I had no idea that Anne
Blake was your wife.'
'That could be true,' Angeli said. 'He—'
DeMarco ignored Angeli. 'What did you and my wife talk about for three weeks?'
They had arrived at the moment of truth. From the instant Judd had seen the bronze rooster on the roof, the final pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. Anne had not set him up for murder. She had been a victim, like himself. She had married Anthony DeMarco, successful owner of a large construction firm, without any idea of who he really was. Then something must have happened to make her suspect that her husband was not what he had seemed to be, that he was involved in something dark and terrible With no one to talk to, she had turned for help to an analyst, a stranger, in whom she could confide. But in Judd's office her basic loyalty to her husband had kept her from discussing her fears.
'We didn't talk about much of anything,' said Judd evenly. 'Your wife refused to tell me what her
problem was.'
DeMarco's black eyes were fixed on him, probing, weighing. 'You'll have to come up with something better than that.'
How DeMarco must have panicked when he learned that his wife was going to a psychoanalyst - the
wife of a leader in La Cosa Nostra. No wonder DeMarco had killed, trying to get hold of Anne's file.
'All she told me.' Judd said, 'was that she was unhappy about something, but couldn't discuss it.'
'That took ten seconds,' DeMarco said. 'I've got a record of every minute she spent in your office.
What did she talk about for the rest of the three weeks? She must have told you who I am.'
'She said you owned a construction company.'
DeMarco was studying him coldly. Judd could feel beads of perspiration forming on his forehead.
'I've been reading up on analysis, Doctor. The patient talks about everything that's on his mind.'
That's part of the therapy.' Judd said matter-of-factly. That's why I wasn't getting anywhere with
Mrs. Blake -with Mrs. DeMarco. I intended to dismiss her as a patient.' 'But you didn't'
'I didn't have to. When she came to see me Friday, she told me that she was leaving for Europe."
'Annie's changed her mind. She doesn't want to go to Europe with me. Do you know why?'
Judd looked at him, genuinely puzzled. 'No.' 'Because of you, Doctor.'
Judd's heart gave a little leap. He carefully kept his feelings out of his voice. 'I don't understand.'
'Sure you do, Annie and I had a long talk last night. She thinks she made a mistake about our marriage. She's not happy with me any more, because she thinks she goes for you! When DeMarco spoke, it was almost in a hypnotic whisper. 'I want you to tell me all about what happened when you two were alone
in your office and she was on your couch.'
Judd steeled himself against the mixed emotions that were coursing through him. She did care! But what good was it going to do either of them? DeMarco was looking at him, waiting for an answer. 'Nothing happened. If you read up on analysis, you'll know that every female patient goes through an emotional transference. At one time or another, they all think they're in love with their doctor. It's just a passing phase.'
DeMarco was watching him intently, his black eyes probing into Judd's.
'How did you know she was coming to see me?' Judd asked, making the question casual.
DeMarco looked at Judd a moment, then walked over to a large desk and picked up a razor-sharp letter opener in the shape of a dagger. 'One of my men saw her go into your building. There are a lot of baby doctors there and they figured maybe Annie was keeping back a little surprise from me. They followed her up to your office.' He turned to Judd.
'It was a surprise, all right They found out she was going to a psychiatrist. The wife of Anthony
DeMarco spilling my personal business to a headshrinker.' 'I told you she didn't—'
DeMarco's voice was soft 'The Commissione held a meeting. They voted for me to kill her, like
we'd kill any traitor.'
He was pacing now, reminding Judd of a dangerous, caged animal. 'But they can't give me orders like a peasant soldier. I am Anthony DeMarco, a Capo. I promised them that if she had discussed any of our business, I would kill the
man she talked to. With these two hands.' He held up his fists, one of them holding the razor-edged dagger. That's you, Doctor.'
DeMarco was circling him now as he talked, and each rime that DeMarco walked in back of him,
Judd unconsciously braced himself.
'You're making a mistake if—' Judd started.
'No. You know who made the mistake?' Annie.' He looked Judd up and down. He sounded genuinely puzzled. 'How could she think you're a better man than I am?'
The Vaccaro brothers snickered.
'You're nothing. A patsy who goes to an office every day and makes - what? Thirty grand a year? Fifty? A hundred? I make more than that in a week.' DeMarco's mask was supping away more quickly now, eroding under the pressure of his emotions. He was beginning to speak in short, excited bursts, a patina
of ugliness warping his handsome features. Anne had only seen him behind his facade. Judd was looking into the naked face of a homicidal paranoiac. "You and that little putana pick each other!'
'We haven't picked each other,' Judd said.
DeMarco was watching him, his eyes blazing. 'She doesn't mean anything to you?
'I told you. She's just another patient.' 'OK,' DeMarco said at last. 'You tell her.' 'Tell her what?'
'That you don't give a damn about her. I'm going to send her down here. I want you to talk to her, alone.'
Judd's pulse began to race. He was going to be given a chance to save himself and Anne.
DeMarco flicked his hand and the men moved out into the hallway. DeMarco turned to Judd. His deep black eyes were hooded. He smiled gently, the mask
in place again. 'As long as Annie doesn't know anything, she will live. You're going to convince her that she should go to Europe with me.'
Judd felt his mouth go suddenly dry. There was a triumphant glint in DeMarco's eyes. Judd knew why. He had underestimated his opponent.
Fatally.
DeMarco was not a chess player, and yet he had been clever enough to know that he held a pawn that made Judd helpless. Anne. Whatever move Judd made, she was in danger. If he sent her away to Europe with DeMarco, he was certain that her life would be in jeopardy. He did not believe that DeMarco was going to let her live. La Cosa Nostra would not allow it. In Europe DeMarco would arrange an 'accident'. But if Judd told Anne not to go, if she found out what was happening to him, she would try to interfere, and that would mean instant death for her. There was no escape: only a choice of two traps.
From the window of her bedroom on the second floor, Anne had watched the arrival of Judd and Angeli. For one exhilarating moment, she had believed that Judd was coming to take her away, to rescue her from the terrifying situation she was in. But then she had seen Angeli take out a gun and force Judd into the house.
She had known the truth about her husband for the last forty-eight hours. Before that, it had only been a dim, glimmering suspicion, so incredible that she had tried to brush it aside. It had begun a few months ago, when she bad gone to a play in Manhattan and had come home unexpectedly early because the star was drunk and the curtain had been rung down in the middle of the second act. Anthony had told her that he was having a business meeting at the house, but that it would be over before she returned. When she had arrived, the meeting was still going on. And before her surprised husband had been able to close the library door, she had heard someone angrily shouting, 'I vote that we hit the factory tonight and take care of the bastards once and for all!' The phrase, the ruthless appearance of the strangers in the room, and Anthony's agitation at seeing her had combined to unnerve Anne. She had let his glib explanations convince her because she had wanted desperately to be convinced. In the six months of their marriage,
he had been a tender, considerate husband. She had seen occasional flashes of a violent temper, but he had always quickly managed to gain control of himself.
A few weeks after the theatre incident, she had picked up a telephone and had overheard Anthony's
voice on an extension phone. 'We're taking over a shipment from Toronto tonight. You'll have to have someone handle the guard. He's not with us.'
She had hung up, shaken. 'Take over a shipment' . . . 'handle the guard' . . . They sounded ominous, but they could have been innocent business phrases. Carefully, casually, she tried to question Anthony about his business activities. It was as though a steel wall went up. She was confronted by an angry stranger who told her to take care of his home and keep out of his business. They had quarrelled bitterly, and the next evening he had given her an outrageously expensive necklace and tenderly apologized.
A month later, the third incident had occurred. Anne had been awakened at four o'clock in the morning by the slamming of a door. She had slipped into a negligee and gone downstairs to investigate. She heard voices coming from the library, raised in argument. She went towards the door, but stopped as she saw Anthony in the room talking to half a dozen strangers. Afraid that he would be angry if she interrupted, she quietly went back upstairs and returned to bed. At breakfast the next morning, she asked him how
he had slept.
'Great. I fell off at ten o'clock and never opened my eyes once.'
And Anne knew that she was in trouble. She had no idea what kind of trouble or how serious it was.
All she knew was that her husband had lied to her for reasons that she could not fathom. What kind of business could he be involved in that had to be conducted secretly in the middle of the night with men who looked like hoodlums? She was afraid to broach the subject again with Anthony. A panic began to build in her. There was no one with whom she could talk.
A few nights later, at a dinner party at the country club to which they belonged, someone had mentioned a psychoanalyst named Judd Stevens, and talked about how brilliant he was.
'He's a kind of analyst's analyst, if you know what I mean. He's terribly attractive, but it's wasted.
- he's one of those dedicated types.'
Anne had carefully noted the name and the following week had gone to see him.
The first meeting with Judd had turned her life topsy-turvy. She had felt herself drawn into an emotional vortex that had left her shaken. In her confusion, she had been scarcely able to talk to him, and she had left feeling like a schoolgirl, promising herself that she would not go back. But she had gone back to
prove to herself that what had happened was a flute, an accident. Her reaction the second time was
even stronger. She had always prided herself on being sensible and realistic, and now she was acting like
a seventeen-year-old girl in love for the first time. She found herself unable to discuss her husband with Judd, and so they had talked about other things, and after each session Anne found herself more in love with this warm, sensitive stranger.
She knew it was hopeless because she would never divorce Anthony. She felt there must be some
terrible flaw in her that would allow her to marry a man and six months later fall in love with another man. She decided that it would be better if she never saw Judd again.
And then a series of strange things had begun to happen. Carol Roberts was killed, and Judd was
knocked down by a hit-and-run driver. She read in the newspapers that Judd was there when Moody's body was found in the Five Star Warehouse. She had seen the name of the warehouse before.
On the letterhead of an invoice on Anthony's desk. And a terrible suspicion began to form in her mind.
It seemed incredible that Anthony could be involved in any of the awful things that had been happening, and yet... She felt as though she was trapped in a terrifying nightmare, and there was no way out. She could not discuss her fears with Judd, and she was afraid to discuss them with Anthony. She told herself that her suspicions were groundless: Anthony did not even know of Judd's existence.
And then, forty-eight hours ago, Anthony had come into her bedroom and started questioning her about her visits to Judd. Her first reaction had been anger that he had been spying on her, but that had quickly given way to all the fears that had been preying upon her. As she looked into his twisted, enraged face, she knew that her husband was capable of anything.
Even murder.
During the questioning, she had made one terrible mistake. She had let him know how she felt about Judd. Anthony's eyes had turned deep black, and he had shaken his head as though warding off a
physical blow.
It was not until she was alone again that she realized how much danger Judd was in, and that she could not leave him. She told Anthony that she would not go to Europe with him.
And now Judd was here, in this house. His life in peril, because of her.
The bedroom door opened and Anthony walked in. He stood watching her for a moment.
'You have a visitor,' he said.
She walked into the library wearing a yellow skirt and blouse, her hair back loosely over her shoulders. Her face was drawn and pale, but there was an air of quiet composure about her. Judd was in the room, alone.
"Hello, Dr. Stevens. Anthony told me that you were here.'
Judd had the sensation that they were acting out a charade for the benefit of an unseen, deadly audience. He intuitively knew that Anne was aware of the situation and was placing herself in his hands, waiting to follow whatever lead he offered.
And there was nothing he could do except try to keep her alive a little longer. If Anne refused to go to Europe, DeMarco would certainly have her lulled here.
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Each word could be as dangerous as the bomb planted in his car. 'Mrs. DeMarco, your husband is upset because you changed your mind about going to Europe with him'
Anne waited, listening, weighing. 'I'm sorry,' she said.
'So am I. I think you should go,' Judd said, raising his voice.
Anne was studying his face, reading his eyes. 'What if I refuse? What if I just walk out?'
Judd was filled with sudden alarm. 'You mustn't do that.' She would never leave this house alive.
'Mrs. DeMarco,' he said deliberately, 'your husband is under the mistaken impression that you're in
love with me.'
She opened her lips to speak and he quickly went on, 'I explained to him that that's a normal part of analysis - an emotional transference that all patients go through.'
She picked up his lead. 'I know. I'm afraid it was foolish of me to go to you in the first place. I should have tried to solve my problem myself.' Her eyes told him how much she meant it, how much she regretted the danger she had placed him in. 'I've been thinking it over. Perhaps a holiday in Europe
would be good for me.'
He breathed a quick sigh of relief. She had understood.
But there was no way he could warn her of the real danger. Or did she know? And even if she knew,
was there anything she could do about it? He looked past Anne towards the library window framing the tall trees that bordered the woods. She had told him that she took long walks in them. It was possible
she might be familiar with a way out. If they could get to the woods... He lowered his voice, urgently. 'Anne—'
'Finished your little chat?'
Judd spun around. DeMarco had quietly walked into the room. Behind him came Angeli and the
Vaccaro brothers.
Anne turned to her husband. 'Yes,' she said, 'Dr. Stevens thinks I should go to Europe with you. I'm going to take his advice.'
DeMarco smiled and looked at Judd. 'I knew I could count on you, Doctor.' He was radiating charm, beaming with the expansive satisfaction of a man who has
achieved total victory. It was as though the incredible energy that flowed through DeMarco could be converted at will, switched from a dark evil to an overpowering, attractive warmth. No wonder Anne had been taken in by him. Even Judd found it hard to believe at this instant that this gracious, friendly Adonis was a cold-blooded, psychopathic murderer.
DeMarco turned to Anne. 'We'll be leaving early in the morning, darling. Why don't you go upstairs and start packing?'
Anne hesitated She did not want to leave Judd alone with these men. 'I..." She looked at Judd helplessly. He nodded imperceptibly.
'All right.' Anne held out her hand. 'Goodbye, Dr. Stevens.' Judd took her hand. 'Goodbye.'
And this time it was goodbye. There was no way out Judd watched as she turned, nodded at the others, and walked out o£ the room.
DeMarco looked after her. 'Isn't she beautiful?' There was a strange expression on his face. Love, possessiveness — and something else. Regret? For what he was about to do to Anne?
'She doesn't know anything about all this,' Judd said. 'Why don't you keep her out of it? Let her go away.'
He watched the switch turn in DeMarco, and it was almost physical. The charm vanished, and hate
began to fill the room, a current flowing from DeMarco to Judd, not touching anyone else. There was
an ecstatic, almost orgiastic expression on DeMarco's face. "Let's go, Doctor.'
Judd looked around the room, measuring his chances of escape. Surely DeMarco would prefer not to
kill him in his home. It had to be now or never. The Vaccaro brothers were watching him hungrily,
hoping he would make a move. Angeli was standing near the window, his hand near his gun holster.
'I wouldn't try it,' DeMarco said softly. 'You're a dead man -- but we're going to do it my way,"
He gave Judd a push towards the door. The others closed in on him, and they headed towards the entrance hall.
When Anne reached the upstairs hallway, she waited near the landing, watching the hall below. She
drew back out of sight as she saw Judd and the others move towards the front door. She hurried into
her bedroom and looked out the window. The men were pushing Judd into Angeli's car.
Quickly Anne reached for the telephone and dialled operator. It seemed an eternity before there was
an answer.
'Operator, I want the police! Hurry - it's an emergency!'
And a man's hand reached in front of her and pressed down the receiver. Anne gave a little scream
and whirled around. Nick Vaccaro was standing over her, grinning.
Chapter Twenty-three
Angeli switched on the headlights. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, but the sun was buried
somewhere behind the mass of cumulus clouds that scudded overhead, pushed by the icy winds.
They had been driving for over an hour.
Angeli was at the wheel. Rocky Vaccaro was seated next to him. Judd was in the back seat with
Anthony DeMarco.
In the beginning Judd had kept an eye out for a passing police car, hoping that he might somehow make
a desperate bid to attract attention, but Angeli was driving through little-used side roads where there was almost no traffic. They skirted the edges of Morristown, picked up Route 206 and headed south towards the sparsely populated, bleak plains of central New Jersey. The grey sky opened up and it began to pour: a cold, icy sleet that beat against the windscreen like tiny drums gone mad.
'Slow down,' DeMarco commanded. 'We don't want to have an accident.' Angeli obediently lightened his foot on the accelerator.
DeMarco turned to Judd. 'That's where most people make their mistake. They don't plan things out
like me.'
Judd looked at DeMarco, studying him clinically. The man was suffering from megalomania, beyond
the reach of reason or logic. There was no way to appeal to him. There was some moral sense missing
in him that allowed him to kill without compunction. Judd knew most of the answers now.
DeMarco had committed the murders with his own hand out of a sense of honour - a Sicilian's revenge, to erase the stain that he thought his wife had placed on him and his Cosa Nostra family. He had killed John Hanson by mistake. When Angeli had reported back to him and told him what had happened, DeMarco had gone back to the office and found Carol. Poor Carol. She could not give him the tapes of Mrs. DeMarco because she did not know Anne by that name. If DeMarco had kept his temper, he could have helped Carol figure out whom he was talking about; but it was part of his sickness that he had no tolerance for frustration and he had gone into an insane rage, and Carol had died. Horribly. It was DeMarco who had run Judd down, and later had come to kill him at his office with Angeli. Judd had
been puzzled by the fact that they had not broken in and shot him. But he realized now that since McGreavy was sure Judd was guilty, they had decided to make his death look like a suicide, committed
in remorse. That would stop any further police investigation.
And Moody . . . poor Moody. When Judd had told him the names of the detectives on the case, he had thought he was reacting to McGreavy - when it was really Angeli Moody had learned that Angeli was involved with the Cosa Nostra, and when he followed up on it...
He looked over at DeMarco. 'What's going to happen to Anne?' 'Don't worry. I'll take care of her,' DeMarco said.
Angeli smiled. 'Yeah.'
Judd felt a helpless rage sweep over him.
'I was wrong to marry someone outside the family,' brooded DeMarco. 'Outsiders can never understand
it like it is. Never.'
They were travelling in an almost barren section of fiat-lands. An occasional factory dotted the sleet-blurred skyline in the distance.
"We're almost there,' Angeli announced.
'You've done a good job,' DeMarco said. 'We're going to hide you away somewhere until the heat cools down. Where would you like to go?'
'I like Florida.'
DeMarco nodded approvingly. 'No problem. You'll stay with one of the family.'
'I know some great broads down there.' Angeli smiled.
DeMarco smiled back at him in the mirror. 'You'll come back with a tanned ass.'
'I hope that's all I come back with.' Rocky Vaccaro laughed.
In the distance, on the right, Judd saw the sprawled buildings of a factory spuming smoke into the air. They reached a small side road leading to the factory. Angeli turned into it and drove until they came to a high wall. The gate was closed. Angeli leaned on the horn and a man in a raincoat and rain hat appeared behind the gate. When he saw DeMarco, he nodded, unlocked the gate, and swung it open. Angeli drove the car inside, and the gate closed behind them. They had arrived.
At the Nineteenth Precinct, Lieutenant McGreavy was in his office, going over a list of names with
three detectives, Captain Bertelli, and the two FBI men.
This is a list of the Cosa Nostra families in the East. All the Sub-Capos and Capo Regimes. Our
problem is, we don't know which one Angeli is hooked up with.' 'How long would it take to get a rundown on them?' asked Bertelli.
One of the FBI men spoke. There are over sixty names here. It would take at least twenty-four hours, but..." He stopped.
McGreavy finished the sentence for him. 'But Dr. Stevens won't be alive twenty-four hours from now.'
A young uniformed policeman hurried up to the open door. He hesitated as he saw the group of men.
'What is it?' McGreavy asked.
'New Jersey didn't know if it's important, Lieutenant, but you asked them to report anything unusual.
An operator got a call from an adult female asking for Police Headquarters. She said it was an
emergency, and then the line went dead. The operator waited, but there was no call back.'
'Where did the call come from?' 'A town called Old Tappan.' 'Did she get the number?'
'No. The caller hung up too quickly.' 'Great.' McGreavy said bitterly.
'Forget it,' Bertelli said. 'It was probably some old lady reporting a lost cat.'
McGreavy's phone rang, a long, insistent peal. He picked up the phone, 'Lieutenant McGreavy.' The others in the room watched his face draw tight with tension. 'Right! Tell them not to make a move until
I get there. I'm on my way!' He slammed the receiver down. 'The Highway Patrol just spotted Angeli's car going south on Route 206, just outside Millstone.'
'Are they tailing it?' It was one of the FBI men.
The patrol car was going in the opposite direction. By the time they got turned around, it had disappeared. I know that area. There's nothing out there but a few factories.' He turned to one of the FBI men. 'Can you get me a fast rundown on the names of the factories there and who owns them?*
'Will do.' The FBI man reached for the phone.
'I'm heading out there,' McGreavy said. 'Call me when you get it.' He turned to the men. "Let's move!' He started out the door, the three detectives and the second FBI man on his heels.
Angeli drove past the watchman's shack near the gate and continued towards a group of odd-looking structures that reached into the sky. There were high brick chimneys and giant flumes, their curved shapes rearing up out of the grey drizzle like prehistoric monsters in an ancient, timeless landscape.
The car rolled up to a complex of large pipes and conveyor belts and braked to a stop. Angeli and Vaccaro got out of the car and Vaccaro opened the rear door on Judd's side. He had a gun in his hand. 'Out, Doctor.'
Slowly, Judd got out of the car, followed by DeMarco. A tremendous din and wind hurded at them, in front of them, about twenty-five feet away, was an enormous pipeline filled with roaring, compressed
air, sucking in everything that came near its open, greedy lip.
This is one of the biggest pipelines in the country,' DeMarco boasted, raising his voice to make himself heard. 'Do you want to see how it works?'
Judd looked at him incredulously. DeMarco was acting the part of the perfect host again, entertaining
a guest. No — not acting. He meant it. That was what was terrifying. DeMarco was about to murder Judd, and it would be a routine business transaction, something that had to be taken care of, like
disposing of a piece of useless equipment, but he wanted to impress him first 'Come on, Doctor. It's interesting.'
They moved towards the pipeline, Angeli leading the way, DeMarco at Judd's side and Rocky Vaccaro bringing up the rear.
'This plant grosses over five million dollars a year,' De Marco said proudly. The whole operation is automatic'
As they got closer to the pipeline, the roar increased, the noise became almost intolerable. A hundred yards from the entrance to the vacuum chamber, a large conveyor belt carried giant logs to a planing machine twenty feet long and five feet high, with half a dozen razor-sharp cutter heads. The planed logs were then carried upwards to a hog, a fierce porcupine-looking rotor bristling with knives. The air was filled with flying sawdust mixed with rain, being sucked into the pipeline.
'It doesn't matter how big the logs are,' DeMarco said proudly. The machines cut them down to fit that thirty-six-inch pipe.'
DeMarco took a snub-nosed .38 Colt out of bis pocket and called out, 'Angeli.' Angeli turned.
"Have a good trip to Florida.' DeMarco squeezed the trigger, and a red hole exploded in Angeli's shirt front. Angeli stared at DeMarco with a puzzled half- smile on his face, as though waiting for the answer
to a riddle he had just heard. DeMarco pulled the trigger again. Angeli crumpled to the ground. DeMarco nodded to Rocky Vaccaro, and the big man picked up Angeli's body, slung it over his shoulder, and moved towards the pipeline.
DeMarco turned to Judd. 'Angeli was stupid. Every cop in the country's looking for him. If they found him, he'd lead them to me.'
The cold-blooded murder of Angeli was shock enough, but what followed was even worse. Judd watched, horrified, as Vaccaro carried Angeli's body towards the lip of the giant pipeline. The tremendous pressure caught at Angeli's body,
greedily sucking it in. Vaccaro had to grab a large metal handle on the lip of the pipe to keep himself from being pulled in by the deadly cyclone of air. Judd had one last glimpse of Angeli's body whirling into the pipe through the vortex of sawdust and logs, and it was gone. Vaccaro reached for the valve next to the lip of the pipe and turned it. A cover slid over the mouth of the pipe, shutting off the cyclone of air. Then the sudden silence was deafening.
DeMarco turned to Judd and raised his gun. There was an exalted, mystic expression on his face, and Judd realized that murder was almost a religious experience for him. It was a crucible that purified. Judd knew that his moment of death had come. He felt no fear for himself, but he was consumed by rage that this man would be allowed to live, to murder Anne, to destroy other innocent, decent people. He heard a growling, a moan of rage and frustration, and realized it was coming from his own lips. He was like a trapped animal obsessed with the desire to kill his captor.
DeMarco was smiling at him, reading his thoughts. 'I'm going to give it to you in the gut, Doctor. It'll
take a little longer, but you'll have more time to worry about what's going to happen to Annie.'
There was one hope. One slim hope.
'Someone should worry about her,' Judd said. 'She's never had a man.' DeMarco stared at him blankly.
Judd was yelling now, fighting to make DeMarco listen. 'Do you know what your cock is? That gun
in your hand. Without a gun or a knife, you're a woman.' He saw DeMarco's face fill with slow rage.
'You have no balls, DeMarco. Without that gun, you're a joke.'
A red film was filling DeMarco's eyes, like a warning flag of death. Vaccaro took a step forward. DeMarco waved him back.
'I'll kill you with these bare hands,' DeMarco said as he threw the gun to the ground. 'With these bare hands!' Slowly, like a powerful animal, he started towards Judd.
Judd backed away, out of reach. He knew he stood no chance against DeMarco physically. His only
hope was to work on DeMarco's sick mind, making it unable to function. He had to keep striking at DeMarco's most vulnerable area - his pride in his manhood. "You're a homosexual, De Marco!'
DeMarco laughed and lunged at him. Judd moved out of reach. Vaccaro picked up the gun from the ground. 'Chief! Let me finish him!' 'Keep out of this!' DeMarco roared.
The two men circled, feinting for position. Judd's foot slipped on a pile of soggy sawdust, and DeMarco rushed at him like a charging bull. His huge fist hit Judd on the side of the mouth, knocking him back. Judd recovered and lashed out at DeMarco, hitting him in the face. DeMarco rocked back, then lunged forward and drove his fists into Judd's stomach. Three smashing blows that knocked the breath out of Judd. He tried to speak to taunt DeMarco, but he was gasping for air. DeMarco was hovering over
him like a savage bird of prey.
'Getting winded, Doctor?' he laughed. 'I was a boxer. I'm going to give you lessons. I'm going to work
on your kidneys and then your head and your eyes. I'm gonna put your eyes out, Doctor. Before I'm through with you, you're going to beg me to shoot you.'
Judd believed him. In the eerie light that spilled from the clouded sky, DeMarco looked like an enraged animal. He rushed at Judd again and caught him with his fist, splitting his cheek open with a heavy cameo ring. Judd lashed out at DeMarco, pounding at his face with both fists. DeMarco did not even flinch.
DeMarco began hitting Judd's kidneys, his hands working like pistons. Judd pulled away, his body a sea of pain.
'You're not getting tired, are you, Doctor?' He started to close in again. Judd knew that his body could
not take much more punishment He had to keep talking. It was his only chance. 'DeMarco...' He gasped.
DeMarco feinted and Judd swung at him. DeMarco ducked, laughed, and slammed his fist squarely between Judd's legs. Judd doubled over, filled with an unbelievable agony, and fell to the ground. DeMarco was on top of him, his hands at his throat.
'My bare hands,' DeMarco screamed, 'I'm going to tear your eyes out with my bare hands.' He dug
his huge fists into Judd's eyes.
They were speeding past Bedminster heading south on Route 206, when the call cracked in over the radio. 'Code Three . .. Code Three ... All cars stand by... New York Unit Twenty-seven ... New York Unit Twenty-seven...'
McGreavy grabbed the radio microphone. 'New York Twenty-seven... Come in!'
Captain Bertelli's excited voice came over the radio. "We've got it pinned down, Mac. There's a New Jersey pipeline company two miles south of Millstone. It's owned by the Five Star Corporation - the
same company that owns the meat-packing plant. It's one of the fronts Tony DeMarco uses.'
'Sounds right,' McGreavy said, "We're on our way.' "How far are you from there?'
'Ten miles.' 'Good luck.' 'Yeah.'
McGreavy switched off the radio, hit the siren, and slammed the accelerator to the floorboard.
The sky was spinning in wet circles overhead and something was pounding at him, tearing his body
apart He tried to see, but bis eyes weie swollen shut. A fist smashed into bis ribs, and he felt the
agonizing splinter of bones breaking. He could feel DeMarco's hot breath on his face, coming in quick, excited gasps. He tried to see him, but he was locked in darkness. He opened his mouth and forced
words past his thick, swollen tongue.
"You s-see,' he gasped. 'I was r-right ... You can - you can only hit a man - when he's down ...'
The breathing in his face stopped. He felt two hands grab him and pull him to his feet.
"You're a dead man, Doctor. And I did it with my bare hands.'
Judd backed away from the voice. 'You're an - an a-animal,' he said, gasping for breath.
'A psychopath . . . You should be locked up... in an... insane asylum.' DeMarco's voice was thick with rage. "You're a liar!'
'It's the t-truth,' Judd said, moving back. 'Your ... your brain is diseased . . . Your mind is going to ... snap and you'll be ... like an idiot baby.' Judd backed away, unable to see where he was going. Behind him he heard the faint hum of the closed pipeline, waiting like a sleeping giant.
DeMarco lunged at Judd, his huge hands clutching his throat. 'I'm going to break your neck!' His enormous fingers closed on Judd's windpipe, squeezing.
Judd felt his head begin to swim. This was his last chance. Every instinct in him screamed out to grab DeMarco's hands and pull them away from his throat so that he could breathe. Instead, with a final tremendous effort of will, he put his hands in back of him, fumbling for the pipe valve. He felt himself beginning to slide into unconsciousness, and in that instant his hands closed on the valve. With a final, desperate burst of energy, he turned the handle and swerved his body around so that DeMarco was nearest the opening. A tremendous vacuum of air suddenly blasted at them, trying to pull them into the vortex of the pipe.
Judd clung frantically to the valve with both hands, fighting the cyclonic fury of the wind. He felt DeMarco's fingers digging into his throat as DeMarco was pulled towards the pipe. DeMarco could have saved himself, but in his mindless insane fury, he refused to let go. Judd could not see DeMarco's face, but the voice was a demented animal cry, the words lost in the roar of the wind.
Judd's fingers started to slip off the valve. He was going to be pulled into the pipeline with DeMarco. He gave a quick, last prayer, and in that instant he felt DeMarco's hands slip away from his throat. There
was a loud, reverberating scream, and then only the roar from the pipeline. DeMarco had vanished.
Judd stood there, bone weary, unable to move, waiting for the shot from Vaccaro.
A moment later it rang out.
He stood there, wondering why Vaccaro had missed. Through the dull haze of pain, he heard more
shots, and the sound of feet running, and then his name being called. And then someone had an arm around him and McGreavy's voice was saying, 'Mother of God! Look at his face!'
Strong hands gripped his arm and pulled him away from the awful roaring tug of the pipeline. Something wet was running down his cheeks and he did not know whether it was blood or rain or tears, and he did not care.
It was over.
He forced one puffed eye open and through a narrow, blood-red slit, he could dimly see McGreavy. 'Anne's at the house,' Judd said. "DeMarco's wife. We've got to go to her.'
McGreavy was looking at him strangely, not moving, and Judd realized that no words had come out.
He lifted his mouth up to McGreavy's ear and spoke slowly, in a hoarse, broken croak.
'Anne DeMarco... She's at the... house... help.'
McGreavy walked over to the police car, picked up the radio transmitter, and issued instructions. Judd stood there, unsteady, still rocking back and forth from DeMarco's blows, letting the cold, biting wind wash over him. In front of him he could see a body lying on the ground, and knew it was Rocky Vaccaro.
We've won, he thought. We've won. He kept saying the phrase over and over in his mind. And even as he said it, he knew it was meaningless. What kind of victory was it? He had thought of himself as a decent, civilized human being -a doctor, a healer - and he had turned into a savage animal filled with the lust to
kill. He had sent a sick man over the brink of insanity and then murdered him. It was a terrible burden he would have to live with always. Because even though he could tell himself it was in self-defence, he knew - God help him - that he had enjoyed doing it. And for that he could never forgive himself. He was no better than DeMarco, or the Vaccaro brothers, or any of the others.
Civilization was a thin, dangerously fragile veneer, and when that veneer cracked, man became one of the beasts again, falling back into the slime of the primeval abyss he prided himself on having climbed up from.
Judd was too weary to think about it any longer. Now he wanted only to see diat Anne was safe.
McGreavy was standing there, his manner strangely gentle. 'There's a police car on the way to her house, Dr. Stevens. OK?' Judd nodded gratefully.
McGreavy took his arm and guided him towards a car. As he moved slowly, painfully, across the courtyard, he realized that it had stopped raining. On the far horizon the thunder-heads had been swept away by the raw December wind, and the sky was clearing. In the west a small ray of light appeared as the sun began to fight its way through, growing brighter and brighter.
It was going to be a beautiful Christmas.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
At the age of twenty-four, Sidney Sheldon had three hit musicals playing simultaneously on Broadway.
A theatrical, motion picture, and television producer-writer-director, Mr. Sheldon has been awarded an Oscar for his original screenplay of The Bachelor and the Bobby Soxer, Screen Writers Guild Awards for Annie Get Your Gun
and Easter Parade, and a Tony for his Broadway show Redhead. His other novels are The Other Side of Midnight, A Stranger in the Mirror, Bloodline and Rage of Angels. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, actress Jorja Curtright, and their daughter Mary.
👁 :3
From papyrus to bits and bytes around 1500 B.C., the world's first library was established in Tell el Amaran, Egypt. Eight hundred years later, the first public library opened in Athens, Greece. It took another two thousand years for the computer to be invented. The first known mention of a possible future online information service was printed in the Atlantic Monthly magazine in 1945. Nine years later, the Naval Ordinance Test Station opened their online search service in California (U.S.A.) the first full-text database came six years later. MEDLARS were a bibliographic database containing references to medical literature. From now on, things started to roll at a faster pace:
* In 1972, DIALOG (U.S.A.) opened their Educational Resources
Information Center and National Technical Information Service
databases for online searching. (Appendix 1 contains infor-
mation about the major online services referred to in this
book.)
* In 1974, Dow Jones News/Retrieval (U.S.A.) launched a
financial information service for stock brokers.
* In 1978, the first bulletin board was put into operation in
Chicago (U.S.A.).
* CompuServe (U.S.A.) launched a service for home users in
1979.
The online world was born in the United States. Little happened in the rest of the world until the late 1980s. American companies and users still dominate, but they are no longer alone. Today, we can access over 5,000 public databases. They are available from more than 500,000 online systems ("host computers") all over the world. With so many online services, it is difficult to find our way through the maze of offerings. This book therefore starts with a map of the online world.
The structure and contents of the online world The online world can be described as a cake with multiple layers, where the information sources are the bottom layer. You - the user - are the marzipan figure on the top. The online world contains the following tiers:
(1) Database producers and information providers (2) Online service companies (3) Gateways and networks (4) The services (5) The user interface (6) The data transport services (7) The User.
1. Database producers and information providers. I have a bulletin board system in Norway (at +47 370 31378). My BBS is running on a small personal computer, and offers shareware and public domain software. Anybody can call my board to have programs transferred to their personal computers by modem (see appendix 2 for how to do this). When you call this BBS to "download" a free program for to your computer's hard disk, don't expect to find one made by me. I don't write programs. All available programs have been written by others. When you call Data-Star in Switzerland, or CompuServe in the U.S. to read news, you may find some stories authored by these companies. Most of their news, however, are written by others. InfoPro Technologies delivers Russian scientific and technical articles from "Referativnyi Zurnal" through online services like Orbit, Pergamon and BRS. InfoPro is not the originator. The text has been prepared by VINITI (the Institute for scientific and technical information of the xUSSR). My BBS (the "Saltrod Horror Show"), Data-Star, NIFTY-Serve, Orbit, Pergamon, BRS, and CompuServe are online services. We call those who have provided the news and information on these services for information providers or database producers. The American news agency Associated Press is an information provider. They write the news, and sell them to online services like Dialog, CompuServe, Nexis and NewsNet. These online services let you read the news by modem. The information providers sell the right to distribute their news. Your news reading charges may be imbedded in the online service's standard access rates. Some services will ask you to pay a surcharge when reading news. Most subscribers pay US$12.80 per hour (1993) to use CompuServe at 2400 bits per second (bps). At this speed, you typically receive around 240 characters of news per second. If you access at higher speeds, you will have to pay more. CompuServe pays Associated Press part of what they earn each time you read their news. There is no surcharge for reading AP news on this service. Others charge more. To read Mid-East Business Digest through NewsNet, you pay a surcharge of US$72.00 per hour at 2400 bps (1993). Scanning newsletter headlines and conducting keyword searches are cheaper. You pay the the basic connect charge, which is US$90.00 per hour at this speed. Thus, your total cost for reading Mid-East Business Digest amounts to US$2.70 per minute. CompuServe's database service IQuest lets you search NewsNet through a gateway to find and read the same articles. Here, reading will only set you back US$21.50/hour (provided the articles are among the first hits in your search). Many information providers also distribute information through grassroots bulletin boards. The Newsbytes News Network and the USA Today newsletter services (also in full text on Dialog and Nexis) are two examples. The rates for reading the same article may therefore differ considerably depending on what online service you are using. If you are a regular reader, shop around for the best price. Information providers may have subcontractors. The Ziff-Davis service Computer Database Plus, a database with full-text articles from magazines like Datamation and Wall Street Computer Review, depends on them. Datamation pays journalists to write the articles. Ziff-Davis pays Datamation for the right to distribute the articles to CompuServe's subscribers. CompuServe pays Ziff-Davis part of what you pay when reading the text.
2. Online services The term "online services" refers to information services provided by computer systems, large or small, to owners of personal computers with modems. What is offered, differ by system. It may include access to libraries of programs and data, electronic mail, online shopping malls, discussion forums, hardware and software vendor support, games and entertainment, financial data, stock market quotes, and research capabilities. You do not always need a phone and a modem when "dialing up." Some services can be accessed through leased phone lines, amateur radio, or other methods. Check out appendix 1 for a list of major services mentioned in this book, with addresses, phone numbers, and a short description. CompuServe (U.S.A.), Twics (Japan), and Orbit (England) are commercial. They charge you for using their services. Some online services are priced like magazines and newspapers with a flat subscription rate for basic services. You can use this part of a service as much as you like within a given period. GEnie, CompuServe, BIX, America Online, and Delphi are among those offering such pricing options. Other online services charge for 'connect time'. They have a rate per hour or minute. MCI Mail uses "no cure, no pay." You only pay to send or read mail. To check for unread letters in your mailbox is free. There are all kinds of creative pricing schemes. Some services have different rates for access during the day, night and weekends. Others have different rates for users living far away. Sometimes the remote subscriber pays more, in other cases less than ordinary subscribers. Still, most online services are free. This is particularly true for the over hundred thousand bulletin board systems around the world. The owners of these services often regard them as a hobby, a public service, a necessary marketing expense, or do it for other reasons. The cost of setting up and operating a bulletin board system is low. Consequently, the BBS systems are as varied as the people who run them. Each BBS has its own character. My BBS is also free. I consider it an online appendix to this book and the articles I write. National Geographic BBS in Washington, D.C., U.S.A. (tel.: +1- 202-775-6738) is run by the magazine of the same name. This board is also free. They regard it as a part of their marketing strategy. It provides them with input to the editors, and it is an easy way of maintaining contacts with schools. Semaforum BBS in Norway is run by a company. Its purpose is customer support and to give information to prospective customers. The cost is a marketing expense. Some large, international online services on the Internet, BITNET, and UUCP are almost free. They address research and educational institutions and are financed by public funds. These services are now being made available to other users at very moderate rates. Some users fear that using online services will increase their telephone costs dramatically, and especially when using services in other countries. This is often unjustified. Read chapter 13 and 15 for tips about how to keep your communications costs down.
3. Gateways and networks ———————————— CompuServe users select the Computer Database Plus from a menu. This prompts CompuServe to dial another online service and lets you use this, as if you were still using CompuServe. You hardly notice the difference. You are using Computer Database Plus through a gateway. CompuServe users searching the IQuest databases get the following welcome message:
One moment please…
Connected to 19EASYN
Welcome to IQuest
(c) 1991 Telebase Systems, Inc. U.S. Patent No. 4,774,655
Through another gateway, CompuServe connects you to the online service Telebase Systems, Inc. Telebase lets you go through other gateways to search in databases on online services like BRS, MEDLINE and NewsNet. While searching, you may get similar progress reports:
Dialing BRS
Connect BRS
Scanning …. Please wait
Dialing Medline
Connect Medline
Scanning …. Please wait
All the time, your modem is connected to CompuServe. You are mentally using IQuest and not other online services. Technically, you are going through various gateways to reach the information libraries. You pay CompuServe for the privilege. In turn, they pay a fee to Telebase, and others. You can read The New York Times on Down Jones News/Retrieval through gateways from MCI Mail and GEnie. Accessing information through a gateway is often simpler than logging on to several online systems. Calling several systems often costs more, and it certainly takes time. Users of BBSes connected to RelayNet or FidoNet can join in global discussions. Participants in other countries also call their favorite local systems. To the individual user, it looks as if they all use the same bulletin board system. The networks that tie these boards together regularly send new discussion items to the other participating boards. Write "This is not correct!" in a distributed conference on a Norwegian FidoNet BBS, and others may soon read your line on San Bernardino BBS in Colton (Canada), Wonderland Board in Macau or the HighTech BBS in Sidney (Australia). SciLink (Canada) administers a network for distribution of conferences between systems using the Caucus software system. Participants in Tokyo, Toronto and San Francisco can discuss as if they were all logged on to the same online service. The main purpose may not be to make it simpler or cheaper for the user. One typical motive is to reduce an online service's own communications costs. KIDLINK is a global project for children between 10 - 15 years of age. It allows kids to discuss through a system of electronic mail. Part of the dialog takes place by the children sending email to a recipient called KIDCAFE. A message to 'the cafe' goes through the international networks to a host computer in North Dakota (U.S.A.). There, a computer program called LISTSERV distributes copies of the message to names on an electronic address list. (Conferences administered by a LISTSERV are called 'discussion lists'.) SciLink in Toronto is one recipient. Messages forwarded from North Dakota are made available for users as entries in a 'local' conference called KIDCAFE. A user in Tokyo can read a message, as if it had been entered locally. If she wants to reply, her answer is sent back to the LISTSERV for redistribution to the world. Western Michigan University (U.S.A.) is also a recipient. Here, another LISTSERV program is in charge of forwarding the mail to yet another list of (local) addresses. We call it a 'mail exploder'. This mailing list has been set up by local administrators to reduce costs. The individual user is not allowed to receive copies of messages all the way from North Dakota. One Michigan recipient may be a local area network. You will find many smart technical solutions in the online world. Actually, this is how the online world got started. Two systems were interconnected for exchange of electronic mail. Then, another system was added, and another. One day it was a global network of computer systems. Some network systems are connected by leased telephone lines. Other networks, like FidoNet, depend mainly on dial-up using regular voice-grade telephone service. Each BBS dial regularly to other computers in the network to send or receive mail and files. They may do it once per day, twice per day or whatever. Then someone got the idea of interconnecting networks. FidoNet was connected to the UUCP network, which was connected to the Internet, which in turn was connected to the Bergen By Byte BBS in Norway, CompuServe, SciLink, MCI Mail, and various local area networks. Today, the online world is a global web of networks. The world is 'cabled'. You, me and all the other modem users stand to benefit enormously.
4. The services The most popular online services are electronic mail, chat, file transfers, conferences and discussion forums, news, reading of online journals and grassroots publications, database searching, entertainment. The online world has an infinite number of niches, things that people are interested in and have fun doing.
Electronic mail is not just like paper mail. Email is faster, easier to edit and use in other applications. Your mail may be private, or public. It can be 'broadcasted' to many by a mailing list. The principle is the same on all systems. Typically, an email message is sent to your mailbox in the following form:
To: Odd de Presno
Subject: Happy Birthday
Text: I wish you well on your birthday. -Ole
The mailbox systems automatically add your name (i.e., the sender's return email address), the creation date, and forward it to the recipient. If the recipient's mailbox is on another system, the message is routed through one or several networks to reach its destination. Several email services offer forwarding to fax, telex or ordinary postal service delivery. Some offer forwarding to paging services. When new mail arrives in your mailbox, messages with text like 'MAIL from opresno@extern.uio.no' will be displayed on your beeper's small screen. Soon, you can send electronic mail to anyone. By the turn of the century, it probably will be difficult to tell the difference between fax messages and email. The services will automatically convert incoming faxes to computer-readable text and pictures, so that you can use them in word processing and other computer applications. Automatic language translation is another trend. You will soon be able to send a message in English, and have it automatically translated into Spanish for Spanish-reading recipients, or into other languages. Conference systems with automatic translation are already being used in Japan (English to/from Japanese). One day we may also have a global email address directory. "What is the address of Nobuo Hasumi in Japan." Press ENTER, and there it is. Today, the largest commercial players email vendors are MCI, Dialcom, Telemail, AT&T Mail and CompuServe. The fight for dominance goes on.
'Chat' Email has one important disadvantage. It may take time for it to be picked up and read by the recipient. The alternative is real-time conferencing, a form of direct keyboard-to-keyboard dialog between users. We call it 'chat'. Most large systems let you chat with many users simultaneously. Even small bulletin boards usually have a chat feature. Chat is set up in several ways. On some systems, you see each character on the screen once it is entered by your dialog partners. Other systems send entries line by line, that is, whenever you press ENTER or Return. Here, it may be difficult to know whether the other person is waiting for you to type, or if he is actively entering new words. You will find regular chat conferences in CompuServe's forums. Often, they invite a person to give a keynote speech before opening 'the floor' for questions and answers. John Sculley of Apple Computers and various politicians have been featured in such 'meetings'. In May 1991, the KIDLINK project arranged a full-day chat between kids from all over the world. Line, a 12-year old Norwegian girl, started the day talking with Japanese kids at the Nishimachi and Kanto International School in Tokyo. When her computer was switched off late at night, she was having an intense exchange with children in North America. The chats took place on various online services and networks, including Internet Relay Chat (IRC), BITNET's Relay Chat, Cleveland Free-Net (U.S.A.), TWICS in Tokyo, the global network Tymnet, and the Education Forum on CompuServe. The discussions had no moderator. This made the encounters chaotic at times. The kids enjoyed it, though! One-line messages shot back and forth over the continents conveying intense simultaneous conversations, occasionally disrupted by exclamations and requests for technical help. Speed is a problem when chatting. It takes a lot of time since most users are slow typists. If individual Messages span more than one line, there is always a risk that it will be split up by lines coming from others. It takes time to understand what goes on. Users of SciLink (Canada) use a method they call 'semi-sync chat'. The trick is to use ordinary batch-mode conferences for chatting. Instead of calling up, reading and sending mail and then log out, they stay online waiting for new messages to arrive. This approach allows you to enter multiple-line messages without risking that it to broken up by other messages. The flow of the discussion is often better, and each person's entries easier to understand.
File transfers The availability of free software on bulletin boards brought the online world out of the closet. Today, you can also retrieve books and articles, technical reports, graphics pictures, files of digitized music, weather reports, and much more. Millions of files are transferred to and from the online services each day. File transfers typically represent over 75 percent of the bulletin boards' utilization time. Downloading free software is still the most popular service. In June 1991, users of my BBS (which has only one phone line) downloaded 86 megabytes' worth of public domain and shareware programs. (86MB equals around 86,000,000 bytes.) In May 1993, users downloaded 108 megabytes distributed over 1,446 files. Add to this the megabytes being downloaded from hundreds of thousands of other bulletin boards. The number is staggering.
If you want to download free software: read in appendix 3 about how to do it.
Downloading is simple. Just dial an online service, order transfer of a given file, select a file transfer protocol (like XMODEM), and the file comes crawling to you through the phone line. Services on the Internet offer file transfer through gateways using a command called FTP (File Transfer Protocol). It works like this:
Say you're logging on to the ULRIK service at the University of
Oslo in Norway. Your objective is to download free programs
from a large library in Oakland, U.S.A.
After having connected to Ulrik, you enter the command
'ftp OAK.Oakland.Edu' to connect to the computer in California.
A few seconds later, the remote host asks for your logon
id. You enter 'anonymous', and supply your email address as
password. This will give you access.
You use the cd command (change directory) to navigate to
the desired library catalog on the remote hard disk. You locate
the desired file, and use a GET command to transfer the file
to your file area on Ulrik.
When done, you logout from the remote computer to be
returned to Ulrik's services. Your final job is to transfer
the file from Ulrik to your personal computer using traditional
methods.
Being able to send Internet mail does not guarantee access to the ftp command. If ftp is unavailable, you may transfer the file by email using a technique called UUENCODEing. Here, the file is converted before transfer into a format that can be sent as ordinary mail (into a seven bits, even character code). When the file arrives in your mailbox, you 'read' it as an ordinary message and store the codes in a work file on your disk. Finally, you decode the file using a special utility program (often called UUDECODE). Read more about this in Chapter 12.
Conferences and discussions Online conferences have many things in common with traditional face- to-face conferences and discussions, except that participants don't physically meet in the same room. They 'come' by modem and discuss using electronic messages (sometimes also through "Chat"). There are discussions about any conceivable topic, from How to start your own company, Brainstorming, Architectural design, The Future of Education and Investments, to AIDS, The Baltic States, Psychology, and Cartoons. Instead of calling these discussions "online conferences," some services use terms like echos, discussion or mailing lists, clubs, newsgroups, round tables, SIGs (Special Interest Groups), and forums. They use other terms in an attempt to make their offerings more attractive and exclusive. Others refer to "conferences" by using the name of the software used to administer the discussions, like LISTSERV, PortaCom, News, Usenet, Caucus, or PARTIcipate. On the bottom line, we're still talking email. However, while private mail is usually read by one recipient only, 'conference mail' may be read by thousands of people from the whole world. All of them can talk and discuss SIMULTANEOUSLY. It is almost impossible for one single individual to dominate. The number of active participants can therefore be far larger than in 'face-to- face' conferences. The conferencing software automatically records all that is said. Every character. Each participant can decide what to read and when. He may even use the messages in other applications later on. Opinions and information can easily be selected and pasted into reports or new responses. Some conferences are public and open for anybody. Others are for a closed group (of registered) participants. They are normally structured by topic and the structure is influenced by the participants' behavior. If the topic is limited, like in "The football match between Mexico and Uruguay," it may start with an introduction followed by comments, questions, and answers like pearls on a thread. After some time the conference is 'finished'. Conferences called 'IBM PC' or 'MS-DOS' often contain so many different sub-topics that they seem chaotic to the outsider. The message subject headings typically have references to computer equipment (like in 'Wyse 050 or TVI 925'), requests for help (like in 'Need Xywrite help!'), experience reports, equipment for sale, news reports, etc. The sequence of messages are often illogical.
The contents and the quality of the discussion are what separates one online conference from others.
How a conference grows into something useful, depends in part on the features of the software used by the online service. But this is much less important than the kind of people you meet there and their willingness to contribute. Messages in the IBM Hardware Forum on CompuServe are divided into 11 sections. Section 2 is called Printers' utilities. If you have problems with an old Epson FX-80 printer, send requests for help to "All" (=to everybody) and store it in this section. CompuServe has over one million subscribers (1993). They call in from all over the place to join the IBM Hardware forum. Some are there to show off competence (read: to sell their expertise). Others visit to find solutions to a problem, or simply to learn. A conference with many users increases your chances of meeting others with relevant know-how. As always, the quality of the people is the first requirement of a good conference. Professional 'Sysops' moderate the discussion in IBMHW. They get up to 15 percent of what you pay CompuServe for using their forum. To them, being a sysop is a profession. They use a fair amount of time trying to make the forum a lively and interesting place. The Printers/utilities section is not just about Epson FX-80. Its members have hundreds of different printers, each with their own set of user problems. Let's use this to explain differences between some conferencing systems. Each message in CompuServe's forums contains the sender's name (his local email address), subject, date, and the text itself. We call this the 'bulletin board model'. Here, a message typically looks like this:
#: 24988 S10/Portable Desktops
22-Jul-91 10:05:38
Sb: #T5200 425meg HDD
Fm: Gordon Norman 72356,370
To: Menno Aartsen 72611,2066 (X)
Menno-
Can you share the HD specs on that 425'er…random access time, transfer rate, MTBF, etc.?
Gordon
This message may not be of interest to you. Each day, hundreds of messages OUTSIDE your area of interest are being posted. You do NOT want to read these messages. CompuServe allows selective reading of messages. You can select all messages containing a given word or text string in the subject title ('Sb:' above). You can read threads of messages from a given message number (replies, and replies to replies). You can read all messages to/from a given person, from a given message number, and from a given date. There are many options. The PARTIcipate conferencing software functions diametrically different from CompuServe's forum software. PARTI is used on TWICS (Japan), Unison (U.S.A.), NWI (U.S.A.), and The Point (can be accessed through a gateway from CompuServe). PARTI lets the user log on using an alias. For example, he can use the identity 'BATMAN'. You may never get to know the true name of the other person. On the other hand, this allows people to talk about controversial topics, which they would otherwise not want to have their names associated with. Anyone can start a conference. It can be public, private or a combination. Combination conferences allow public review of the messages in the conference, but restrict the number of people who can contribute to the discussion. Enter 'write', and PARTI will prompt you with "Enter the text of your note, then type .send or .open to transmit." Enter the welcome text for your new conference, like in this example:
"This conference is based on a series of articles about shareware and public domain programs for MSDOS computers, which I wrote for publication in England. Since the editor cheated me and they never reached the printing press, I've decided to make them available online instead of letting them rot on my hard disk. Join to read, discuss or (hopefully) enjoy! "
When done, I entered ".open odd de presno", added the name of the conference ("MSDOS TIPS") and a short description ("GOOD PD AND SHAREWARE PROGRAMS").
The conference was presented to the other PARTI users on TWICS like this:
"MSDOS TIPS" by ODD DE PRESNO, Feb. 23, 1990 at 11:57 about
GOOD PD AND SHAREWARE PROGRAMS (7 notes)
Few systems of the bulletin board model let users start their own conferences at will. All new topics must be stored in a given structure. The administrators (sysops) of the service manage the evolution of the 'conference room'. After a while, old messages may even be deleted to make room for new. In PARTI, conference messages are organized under a topic, or any sub-topics that can be derived from the main topic. Conferences are modeled after their counterparts in the face- to-face world. They start with an introduction followed by a discussion about a narrow topic, like here:
"SMART PEOPLE" by MACBETH on Jan. 4, 1992 at 12:27, about WHO ARE
THE BEST AND THE BRIGHTEST (504 characters and 17 notes).
In this example above, the welcome message is 504 characters long. Following that, there are 17 other messages (called notes). Notes are stored without individual subject headers and the name of a recipient. Everything is posted to 'the group'. If CompuServe message above had been posted on PARTI, then the first five lines might have been reduced to:
12 (of 12) SHABBY DOG Jul. 22, 1991 at 10:05 (119 characters)
On PARTI, all participants read all notes. Selective reading must be done in other ways (by searching conference contents). These two conferencing models seem to attract different types of discussions. PARTI has given birth to more discussions on topics like these (from PARTI on The Point, January 1992):
"HELLO BEEP" by THE SHADOW on Sept. 17, 1991 at 19:20, about
BEEP'S ADVENTURES IN JAPAN, AND THE LIKE (840 characters and 22
notes).
"MEMORIES" by LOU on Dec. 21, 1991 at 12:31, about …….I
REMEMBER WHEN…… (423 characters and 1 notes).
"AMENDMENT II 1991" by PASSIN THRU on Dec. 25, 1991 at 20:55,
about OUR RIGHTS TO OWN AND POSSESS FIREARMS, AND THE MYTH
REGARDING ASSAULT WEAPONS. (3036 characters and 38 notes).
"TV SHOWS" by THE SHADOW on Nov. 16, 1990 at 18:00, about
DISCUSSION OF TELEVISION SHOWS (105 characters and 37 notes).
"PHILOSOPHY FOR AMATEURS" by MACBETH on April 13, 1990 at 10:08,
about TALKING ABOUT THINKING (187 characters and 97 notes).
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOTO" by PONDER on Jan. 2, 1992 at 14:34, about
AND I BET HE THOUGHT I FORGOT. (86 characters and 15 notes).
"ONLINE LOTTERY" by DEEDUB on Jan. 3, 1992 at 07:40, about
MULTIPLYING OUR CHANCES TO WIN THE LOTTERY (1238 characters and
62 notes).
"WHO SHOT KENNEDY" by MATT on Jan. 3, 1992 at 22:29, about THE
ASSASINATION OF JOHN F. KENNEDY; THOUGHTS, COMMENTS, QUESTIONS
AND THEORIES! (529 characters and 83 notes).
"THE ECONOMY" by LOU on Jan. 5, 1992 at 16:40, about THE ECONOMY,
AS IT AFFECTS US ALL. (167 characters and 49 notes).
"PUERTO RICO" by PACKER on Jan. 18, 1992 at 20:47, about PARA
DISCUTIR ASUNTOS PUERTORIQUENA (166 characters and 9 notes).
Systems using the bulletin board model rarely have conferences like "MEMORIES." In PARTI, one-note conferences are allowed to stay. In the bulletin board environment, they soon disappear. You can probably still join MEMORIES on the Point to add your own feelings or point-of-views. In larger PARTI conferences, the notes can be read like a book. Often, side discussions appear like 'branches' on a 'tree'. Join and read them, if you want to. Or just pass. The bulletin board systems (including CompuServe's forums) and PARTIcipate are at two extremes of the spectrum of conference systems. Toward the BBS model, there are systems like FidoNet Echo, RBBS-PC, and PortaCom. Toward the PARTI side, there are systems like Caucus.
Many companies set up bulletin board systems to provide technical support to customers. McAfee Associates, Inc. in California is one example. They offer technical information, help, upgrade software, list of agents, technical bulletins with lists of products, and new products through agents' support BBSes all over the world. For example, when in Port of Spain, Trinidad & Tobago call the Opus Networx BBS at (819) 628-4023. Setting up a professional BBS is not very expensive. You can easily have 32 people online to the same conference simultaneously on a standard 80386-based PC, running Xenix and Caucus conferencing software. This is what the Washington Information Service Corp. in U.S.A. did. There's an abundance of software to choose from. Many companies rent private 'conference rooms' on commercial online services rather than doing it in-house. The advantage is easier access to an established multi-user system and user base. Microsoft, Toshiba, Quarterdeck, Digital Research, Tandy, Novell and hundreds of others rent public support forum space on CompuServe to keep in touch with customers all over the world. Others rent space on regional bulletin boards. Other corporate applications of such services include internal organizational development and communications, and coordination of projects. On Norwegian bulletin boards the main language is Norwegian. In France, expect French. Local systems usually depend on messages in the local language. Services catering to a larger geographical area often have a different policy. English is the most common language for international discussions. Spanish possibly number two. Example: TWICS in Japan is an English language system. Its Spanish language conference ESPANOL has participants from Japan, Mexico and Norway. On MetaNet (Arlington, U.S.A.) the conferences are divided into conference areas. One area was called The Salon. The welcome message said: 'All conferences and responses posted here may freely be ported to other conferencing systems'. MetaNet regularly 'ports' (exchanges) conference notes with systems in Europe, Asia and North America. Exchanging conferences have long traditions in the bulletin board world. To some, it is routine to call Thunderball Cave BBS in Oslo to discuss photography with people in California. New messages are exchanged daily across country boundaries. The global web of connections between computers enables us to discuss with people living in other parts of the world, as if they were living next door.
Things Take Time! How long does it take a message to get from Hyougo in Japan to Saltrod in Norway? Or to Dominique Christian in Paris? Sometimes, mail travels from mailbox service to mailbox service in seconds. That is usually the case with messages from my mailbox in Norway to KIDLINK's LISTSERV in North Dakota, U.S.A. Messages that must go through many gateways may take more time. How long it takes, depends on the degree of automation in the mail systems involved, and how these systems have been connected to the global matrix of networks. Speed is high if the computers are interconnected with fixed, high-capacity lines. This is not so for mail from Oslo to Dominique in Paris. His mail is routed through a system in London and is forwarded once per day through a dial-up connection. It usually takes at least one day to reach the destination.
News Most large news agencies have online counterparts. You can often read their news online before it appears in print. This is the case with news from sources like NTB, Agence France-Presse, Associated Press, Kyodo News Report (Japan), Reuters, Xinhua English Language News Service (China) and TASS. Some news is only made available in electronic form. News may be read in several ways, depending on what online service you use: * From a list of headlines. Enter a story's number to receive its full text. The news may be split up into groups, like Sports, International news, Business, and Entertainment. * Some services let you hook directly into a news agency's 'feed line' to get news as it is being made available. At 11.02, 11.04, 11.15, etc. * News may be 'clipped' and stored in your mailbox twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Clipping services search articles for occurrences of your personal keyword phrases while you're offline. In this way, you can monitor new products, companies, people, and countries, even when you're not online. NewsFlash is NewsNet's electronic clipping service, a powerful resource that lets you monitor NewsNet's newsletters for topics of interest. On the Executive News Service (CompuServe), you can search for words in story headlines. You can also search for first three lines of text from 8,000 stories/day from Washington Post, OTC NewsAlert, Associated Press, United Press International and Reuters Financial News Wire. Newspapers used to receive news through the wires before the online user. This built-in delay has now been removed on many services. Industry and professional news is usually available online long before it appears in print.
Databases Some years ago, most databases just contained references to articles, books and other written or electronic sources of information. The typical search result looked like this:
0019201 02-88-68
TRIMETHOPRIM-SULFAMETHOXAZOLE in CYST Fluid from Autosomal
Dominant POLYCYSTIC KIDNEYS.
Elzinga L.W.; et al. W.M. Bennett, Dept. of Med., Oregon Hlth.
Sci. Univ., 3101 Southwest Sam Jackson Park Rd., Portland,
OR 97201.
Kid. Int. 32: 884-888. Dec. 1987
Subfile: Internal Medicine; Family Practice; Nephrology;
Infectious Disease; Clinical Pharmacology; Highlights of General
Medicine
You had to take the reference to a library to get a print copy of the article. Some services let you to order a copy while online, to be sent you by mail from a copying service. Full-text searching is now the rule. When you find an article of interest, you can have the full text displayed on your screen at once (normally without accompanying pictures and tables, though). The search commands are simpler and more powerful.
Just for fun Many online services focus on your leisure time. They offer reviews and news about movies, video, music, and sport. There are forums for stamp and coin collectors, travel maniacs, passionate cooks, wine tasters, and other special interest groups. Besides, many services are entertaining in themselves. Large, complex adventure games, where hundreds of users can play simultaneously, are popular choices. People sit glued to the computer screen for hours. 'Chat', this keyboard-to-keyboard contact-phone type of simultaneous conversation between from two and up to hundreds of persons, is also popular. It works like a combination of a social activity and a role-playing/strategy/fantasy/skill-improving game. Shopping is the online equivalent of traditional mail order business. The difference is that you can buy while browsing. Some commercial services distribute colorful catalogues to users to support sales. Some distribute pictures of the merchandise by modem. You can buy anything from racer fitness equipment and diamonds to cars. Enter your credit card number and the Chevrolet is yours. The online mail order business is becoming increasingly global.
Level 5: The user interface This term describes how the online service is presented to you, that is, in what form text, pictures and sound appear on your personal communications computer. Most online services offer the first three of these four levels. Some offer more:
1. Menus for novices. The user can select (navigate) by
pressing a figure or a letter.
2. Short menus or lists of commands for the intermediate user.
The user knows some about how the service works, and just
wants a short reminder to help navigate.
3. A short prompt (often just a character, like a "!"), which
tells the expert user where he is in the system right now.
Those knowing the service inside out, don't need reminders
about what word or command to enter at this point.
4. Some services offer automatic access without any menus or
visible prompts at all. Everything happens in a two-way
stream of unintelligent data. The only menus that the user
sees, are those belonging to the program running on his
personal computer.
Some services emphasize colors, graphics and sound. They may require that users have certain hardware or special add-on cards in their communications computer. Often, a special communications program is also needed. Other services use methods for presenting colors and graphics already built into their users' computers (and programs). Colors, graphics and sound are highly desirable in some applications, like online games and weather forecasts. But even where it is not important, there will always be many wanting it. To the professional on a fact-gathering mission, these features may give slower data transfer and problems when saving text to disk for later use. Therefore, many prefer ASCII text with no extras. Sports cars are nice, but for delivering furniture they're seldom any good. The same applies to the user interfaces. No one is perfect for all applications.
Level 6: The data transporters When the online service's host computer is far away, the user often faces the challenges of:
1. Noise on the line, which may result in unreadable text or
errors in the received material.
2. Expensive long distance calls
There are many alternatives to direct long distance calling. Some offers better quality data transfers and lower costs. The regional packet data services used to be a popular option. In Scandinavia, the offerings of the local PTTs are called Datapak. Similar services are offered in most countries, often by a national telephone monopoly. Competitively priced alternatives are appearing in many countries as national telecom monopolies are brought to an end. For example, Infonet, TRI-P, and i-Com compete successfully with former monopolies for transport of data to and from North America. The Internet is a global network serving millions of mailboxes. It provides very cost-efficient mail exchange with private and public networks throughout the world. IXI is a packet data network operated by European Research centers. DASnet offers transport of mail between mail systems that have no direct connection with each others. (More about this in Chapter 13.)
Level 7: The user This is you and me. Turn the page to the next chapter and read about how to use the online services.
👁 :1
[3]
I
THE SEEING HAND
I HAVE just touched my dog. He was rolling on the grass, with pleasure in every muscle and limb. I wanted to catch a picture of him in my fingers, and I touched him as lightly as I would cobwebs; but lo, his fat body revolved, stiffened and solidified into an upright position, and his tongue gave my hand a lick! He pressed close to me, as if he were fain to crowd himself into my hand. He loved it with his tail, with his paw, with his tongue. If he could speak, I believe he would say with me that paradise is attained by touch; for in touch is all love and intelligence.
[4]
This small incident started me on a chat about hands, and if my chat is fortunate I have to thank my dog-star. In any case, it is pleasant to have something to talk about that no one else has monopolized; it is like making a new path in the trackless woods, blazing the trail where no foot has pressed before. I am glad to take you by the hand and lead you along an untrodden way into a world where the hand is supreme. But at the very outset we encounter a difficulty. You are so accustomed to light, I fear you will stumble when I try to guide you through the land of darkness and silence. The blind are not supposed to be the best of guides. Still, though I cannot warrant not to lose you, I promise that you shall not be led into fire or water, or fall into a deep pit. If you[5] will follow me patiently, you will find that "there's a sound so fine, nothing lives 'twixt it and silence," and that there is more meant in things than meets the eye.
My hand is to me what your hearing and sight together are to you. In large measure we travel the same highways, read the same books, speak the same language, yet our experiences are different. All my comings and goings turn on the hand as on a pivot. It is the hand that binds me to the world of men and women. The hand is my feeler with which I reach through isolation and darkness and seize every pleasure, every activity that my fingers encounter. With the dropping of a little word from another's hand into mine, a slight flutter of the fingers, began the intelligence,[6] the joy, the fullness of my life. Like Job, I feel as if a hand had made me, fashioned me together round about and moulded my very soul.
In all my experiences and thoughts I am conscious of a hand. Whatever moves me, whatever thrills me, is as a hand that touches me in the dark, and that touch is my reality. You might as well say that a sight which makes you glad, or a blow which brings the stinging tears to your eyes, is unreal as to say that those impressions are unreal which I have accumulated by means of touch. The delicate tremble of a butterfly's wings in my hand, the soft petals of violets curling in the cool folds of their leaves or lifting sweetly out of the meadow-grass, the clear, firm outline of face and limb, the smooth arch of a[7] horse's neck and the velvety touch of his nose—all these, and a thousand resultant combinations, which take shape in my mind, constitute my world.
Ideas make the world we live in, and impressions furnish ideas. My world is built of touch- sensations, devoid of physical colour and sound; but without colour and sound it breathes and throbs with life. Every object is associated in my mind with tactual qualities which, combined in countless ways, give me a sense of power, of beauty, or of incongruity: for with my hands I can
feel the comic as well as the beautiful in the outward appearance of things. Remember that you, dependent on your sight, do not realize how many things are tangible. All palpable things are mobile or rigid, solid or liquid, big or[8] small, warm or cold, and these qualities are variously modified. The coolness of a water-lily rounding into bloom is different from the coolness of an evening wind in summer, and different again from the coolness of the rain that soaks into the hearts of growing things and gives them life and body. The velvet of the rose is not that of a ripe peach or of a baby's dimpled cheek. The hardness of the rock is to the hardness of wood what a man's deep bass is to a woman's voice when it is low. What I call beauty I find in certain combinations of all these qualities, and is largely derived from the flow of curved and straight lines which is over all things.
"What does the straight line mean to you?" I think you will ask.[9]
It means several things. It symbolizes duty. It seems to have the quality of inexorableness that duty has. When I have something to do that must not be set aside, I feel as if I were going forward in a straight line, bound to arrive somewhere, or go on forever without swerving to the right or to the left.
That is what it means. To escape this moralizing you should ask, "How does the straight line feel?" It feels, as I suppose it looks, straight—a dull thought drawn out endlessly. Eloquence to the touch resides not in straight lines, but in unstraight lines, or in many curved and straight lines together. They appear and disappear, are now deep, now shallow, now broken off or lengthened or swelling. They rise and sink beneath my fingers, they[10] are full of sudden starts and pauses, and their variety is inexhaustible and wonderful. So you see I am not shut out from the region of the beautiful, though my hand cannot perceive the brilliant colours in the sunset or on the mountain, or reach into the blue depths of the sky.
Physics tells me that I am well off in a world which, I am told, knows neither cold nor sound, but is made in terms of size, shape, and inherent qualities; for at least every object appears to my fingers standing solidly right side up, and is not an inverted image on the retina which, I understand, your brain is at infinite though unconscious labour to set back on its feet. A tangible object passes complete into my brain with the warmth of life upon it, and occupies the same place[11] that it does in space; for, without egotism, the mind is as large as the universe. When I think of hills, I think of the upward strength I tread upon. When water is the object of my thought, I feel the cool shock of the plunge and the quick yielding of the waves that crisp and curl and ripple about my body. The pleasing changes of rough and smooth, pliant and rigid, curved and straight in the bark and branches of a tree give the truth to my hand. The immovable rock, with its juts and warped surface, bends beneath my fingers into all manner of grooves and hollows. The bulge of a watermelon and the puffed-up rotundities of squashes that sprout, bud, and ripen in that strange garden planted somewhere behind my finger-tips are the ludicrous in my tactual memory and[12] imagination. My fingers are tickled to delight by the soft ripple of a baby's laugh, and find amusement in the lusty crow of the barnyard autocrat. Once I had a pet rooster that used to perch on my knee and stretch his neck and crow. A bird in my hand was then worth two in the—barnyard.
My fingers cannot, of course, get the impression of a large whole at a glance; but I feel the parts, and my mind puts them together. I move around my house, touching object after object in order, before I can form an idea of the entire house. In other people's houses I can touch only
what is shown to me—the chief objects of interest, carvings on the wall, or a curious architectural feature, exhibited like the family album. Therefore a house with which I am not familiar[13] has for me, at first, no general effect or harmony of detail. It is not a complete conception, but a collection of object-impressions which, as they come to me, are disconnected and isolated. But my mind is full of associations, sensations, theories, and with them it constructs the house. The process reminds me of the building of Solomon's temple, where was neither saw, nor hammer, nor any tool heard while the stones were being laid one upon another. The silent worker is imagination which decrees reality out of chaos.
Without imagination what a poor thing my world would be! My garden would be a silent patch of earth strewn with sticks of a variety of shapes and smells. But when the eye of my mind is opened to its beauty, the bare ground[14] brightens beneath my feet, and the hedge-row bursts into leaf, and the rose-tree shakes its fragrance everywhere. I know how budding trees look, and I enter into the amorous joy of the mating birds, and this is the miracle of imagination.
Twofold is the miracle when, through my fingers, my imagination reaches forth and meets the imagination of an artist which he has embodied in a sculptured form. Although, compared with the life-warm, mobile face of a friend, the marble is cold and pulseless and unresponsive, yet it is beautiful to my hand. Its flowing curves and bendings are a real pleasure; only breath is wanting; but under the spell of the imagination the marble thrills and becomes the divine reality of the ideal.[15] Imagination puts a sentiment into every line and curve, and the statue in my touch is indeed the goddess herself who breathes and moves and enchants.
It is true, however, that some sculptures, even recognized masterpieces, do not please my hand. When I touch what there is of the Winged Victory, it reminds me at first of a headless, limbless dream that flies towards me in an unrestful sleep. The garments of the Victory thrust stiffly out behind, and do not resemble garments that I have felt flying, fluttering, folding, spreading in the wind. But imagination fulfils these imperfections, and straightway the Victory becomes a powerful and spirited figure with the sweep of sea-winds in her robes and the splendour of conquest in her wings.[16]
I find in a beautiful statue perfection of bodily form, the qualities of balance and completeness. The Minerva, hung with a web of poetical allusion, gives me a sense of exhilaration that is almost physical; and I like the luxuriant, wavy hair of Bacchus and Apollo, and the wreath of ivy, so suggestive of pagan holidays.
So imagination crowns the experience of my hands. And they learned their cunning from the wise hand of another, which, itself guided by imagination, led me safely in paths that I knew not, made darkness light before me, and made crooked ways straight.
[17]
THE HANDS OF OTHERS
[19]
II
THE HANDS OF OTHERS
THE warmth and protectiveness of the hand are most homefelt to me who have always looked to it for aid and joy. I understand perfectly how the Psalmist can lift up his voice with strength and gladness, singing, "I put my trust in the Lord at all times, and his hand shall uphold me, and I shall dwell in safety." In the strength of the human hand, too, there is something divine. I am told that the glance of a beloved eye thrills one from a distance; but there is no distance in the touch of[20] a beloved hand. Even the letters I receive are—
Kind letters that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the presence of a hand.
It is interesting to observe the differences in the hands of people. They show all kinds of vitality, energy, stillness, and cordiality. I never realized how living the hand is until I saw those chill plaster images in Mr. Hutton's collection of casts. The hand I know in life has the fullness of blood in its veins, and is elastic with spirit. How different dear Mr. Hutton's hand was from its dull, insensate image! To me the cast lacks the very form of the hand. Of the many casts in Mr. Hutton's collection I did not recognize any, not even[21] my own. But a loving hand I never forget. I remember in my fingers the large hands of Bishop Brooks, brimful of tenderness and a strong man's joy. If you were deaf and blind, and could have held Mr. Jefferson's hand, you would have seen in it a face and heard a kind voice unlike any other you have known. Mark Twain's hand is full of whimsies and the drollest humours, and while you hold it the drollery changes to sympathy and championship.
I am told that the words I have just written do not "describe" the hands of my friends, but merely endow them with the kindly human qualities which I know they possess, and which language conveys in abstract words. The criticism implies that I am not giving the primary truth of what I feel; but how[22] otherwise do descriptions in books I read, written by men who can see, render the visible look of a face? I read that a face is strong, gentle; that it is full of patience, of intellect; that it is fine, sweet, noble, beautiful. Have I not the same right to use these words in describing what I feel as you have in describing what you see? They express truly what I feel in the hand. I am seldom conscious of physical qualities, and I do not remember whether the fingers of a hand are short or long, or the skin is moist or dry. No more can you, without conscious effort, recall the details of a face, even when you have seen it many times. If you do recall the features, and say that an eye is blue, a chin sharp, a nose short, or a cheek sunken, I fancy that you do not succeed well in giving[23] the impression of the person,—not so well as when you interpret at once to the heart the essential moral qualities of the face—its humour, gravity, sadness, spirituality. If I should tell you in physical terms how a hand feels, you would be no wiser for my account than a blind man to whom you describe a face in detail. Remember
that when a blind man recovers his sight, he does not recognize the commonest thing that has been familiar to his touch, the dearest face intimate to his fingers, and it does not help him at all that things and people have been described to him again and again. So you, who are untrained of touch, do not recognize a hand by the grasp; and so, too, any description I might give would fail to make you acquainted with a friendly hand which my fingers have[24] often folded about, and which my affection translates to my memory.
I cannot describe hands under any class or type; there is no democracy of hands. Some hands tell me that they do everything with the maximum of bustle and noise. Other hands are fidgety and unadvised, with nervous, fussy fingers which indicate a nature sensitive to the little pricks of daily life. Sometimes I recognize with foreboding the kindly but stupid hand of one who tells with many words news that is no news. I have met a bishop with a jocose hand, a humourist with a hand of leaden gravity, a man of pretentious valour with a timorous hand, and a quiet, apologetic man with a fist of iron. When I was a little girl I was taken to see[A] a woman[25] who was blind and paralysed. I shall never forget how she held out her small, trembling hand and pressed sympathy into mine. My eyes fill with tears as I think of her. The weariness, pain, darkness, and sweet patience were all to be felt in her thin, wasted, groping, loving hand.
Few people who do not know me will understand, I think, how much I get of the mood of a friend who is engaged in oral conversation with somebody else. My hand follows his motions; I touch his hand, his arm, his face. I can tell when he is full of glee over a good joke which has not been repeated to me, or when he is telling a lively story. One[26] of my friends is rather aggressive, and his hand always announces the coming of a dispute. By his impatient jerk I know he has argument ready for some one. I have felt him start as a sudden recollection or a new idea shot through his mind. I have felt grief in his hand. I have felt his soul wrap itself in darkness majestically as in a garment. Another friend has positive, emphatic hands which show great pertinacity of opinion. She is the only person I know who emphasizes her spelled words and accents them as she emphasizes and accents her spoken words when I read her lips. I like this varied emphasis better than the monotonous pound of unmodulated people who hammer their meaning into my palm.
Some hands, when they clasp yours,[27] beam and bubble over with gladness. They throb and expand with life. Strangers have clasped my hand like that of a long-lost sister. Other people shake hands with me as if with the fear that I may do them mischief. Such persons hold out civil finger-tips which they permit you to touch, and in the moment of contract they retreat, and inwardly you hope that you will not be called upon again to take that hand of "dormouse valour." It betokens a prudish mind, ungracious pride, and not seldom mistrust. It is the antipode to the hand of those who have large, lovable natures.
The handshake of some people makes you think of accident and sudden death. Contrast this ill-boding hand with the quick, skilful, quiet hand of a nurse[28] whom I remember with affection because she took the best care of my teacher. I have clasped the hands of some rich people that spin not and toil not, and yet are not beautiful. Beneath their soft, smooth roundness what a chaos of undeveloped character!
I am sure there is no hand comparable to the physician's in patient skill, merciful gentleness and splendid certainty. No wonder that Ruskin finds in the sure strokes of the surgeon the perfection of control and delicate precision for the artist to emulate. If the physician is a man of
great nature, there will be healing for the spirit in his touch. This magic touch of well-being was in the hand of a dear friend of mine who was our doctor in sickness and health. His happy cordial spirit did his patients[29] good whether they needed medicine or not.
As there are many beauties of the face, so the beauties of the hand are many. Touch has its ecstasies. The hands of people of strong individuality and sensitiveness are wonderfully mobile. In a glance of their finger-tips they express many shades of thought. Now and again I touch a fine, graceful, supple-wristed hand which spells with the same beauty and distinction that you must see in the handwriting of some highly cultivated people. I wish you could see how prettily little children spell in my hand. They are wild flowers of humanity, and their finger motions wild flowers of speech.
All this is my private science of palmistry, and when I tell your fortune[30] it is by no mysterious intuition or gipsy witchcraft, but by natural, explicable recognition of the embossed character in your hand. Not only is the hand as easy to recognize as the face, but it reveals its secrets more openly and unconsciously. People control their countenances, but the hand is under no such restraint. It relaxes and becomes listless when the spirit is low and dejected; the muscles tighten when the mind is excited or the heart glad; and permanent qualities stand written on it all the time.
[31]
THE HAND OF THE RACE
[33]
III
THE HAND OF THE RACE
LOOK in your "Century Dictionary," or if you are blind, ask your teacher to do it for you, and learn how many idioms are made on the idea of hand, and how many words are formed from the Latin root manus—enough words to name all the essential affairs of life. "Hand," with quotations and compounds, occupies twenty-four columns, eight pages of this dictionary. The hand is defined as "the organ of apprehension." How perfectly the definition fits my case in both senses of the word "apprehend"! With my hand I seize[34] and hold all that I find in the three worlds—physical, intellectual, and spiritual.
Think how man has regarded the world in terms of the hand. All life is divided between what lies on one hand and on the other. The products of skill are manufactures. The conduct of affairs
is management. History seems to be the record—alas for our chronicles of war!—of the manœuvres of armies. But the history of peace, too, the narrative of labour in the field, the forest, and the vineyard, is written in the victorious sign manual—the sign of the hand that has conquered the wilderness. The labourer himself is called a hand. In manacle and manumission we read the story of human slavery and freedom.
The minor idioms are myriad; but I[35] will not recall too many, lest you cry, "Hands off!" I cannot desist, however, from this word-game until I have set down a few. Whatever is not one's own by first possession is second-hand. That is what I am told my knowledge is. But my well- meaning friends come to my defence, and, not content with endowing me with natural first-hand knowledge which is rightfully mine, ascribe to me a preternatural sixth sense and credit to miracles and heaven-sent compensations all that I have won and discovered with my good right hand. And with my left hand too; for with that I read, and it is as true and honourable as the other. By what half-development of human power has the left hand been neglected? When we arrive at the acme of civilization shall we not all be ambidextrous,[36] and in our hand-to-hand contests against difficulties shall we not be doubly triumphant? It occurs to me, by the way, that when my teacher was training my unreclaimed spirit, her struggle against the powers of darkness, with the stout arm of discipline and the light of the manual alphabet, was in two senses a hand-to-hand conflict.
No essay would be complete without quotations from Shakspere. In the field which, in the presumption of my youth, I thought was my own he has reaped before me. In almost every play there are passages where the hand plays a part. Lady Macbeth's heart-broken soliloquy over her little hand, from which all the perfumes of Arabia will not wash the stain, is the most pitiful moment in the tragedy. Mark Antony[37] rewards Scarus, the bravest of his soldiers, by asking Cleopatra to give him her hand: "Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand." In a different mood he is enraged because Thyreus, whom he despises, has presumed to kiss the hand of the queen, "my playfellow, the kingly seal of high hearts." When Cleopatra is threatened with the humiliation of gracing Cæsar's triumph, she snatches a dagger, exclaiming, "I will trust my resolution and my good hands." With the same swift instinct, Cassius trusts to his hands when he stabs Cæsar: "Speak, hands, for me!" "Let me kiss your hand," says the blind Gloster to Lear. "Let me wipe it first," replies the broken old king; "it smells of mortality." How charged is this single touch with sad meaning! How it opens[38] our eyes to the fearful purging Lear has undergone, to learn that royalty is no defence against ingratitude and cruelty! Gloster's exclamation about his son, "Did I but live to see thee in my touch, I'd say I had eyes again," is as true to a pulse within me as the grief he feels. The ghost in "Hamlet" recites the wrongs from which springs the tragedy:
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand.
At once of life, of crown, of queen dispatch'd.
How that passage in "Othello" stops your breath—that passage full of bitter double intention in which Othello's suspicion tips with evil what he says about Desdemona's hand; and she in innocence answers only the innocent meaning of his words: "For 'twas that hand that gave away my heart."[39]
Not all Shakspere's great passages about the hand are tragic. Remember the light play of words in "Romeo and Juliet" where the dialogue, flying nimbly back and forth, weaves a pretty sonnet about the hand. And who knows the hand, if not the lover?
The touch of the hand is in every chapter of the Bible. Why, you could almost rewrite Exodus as the story of the hand. Everything is done by the hand of the Lord and of Moses. The oppression of the Hebrews is translated thus: "The hand of Pharaoh was heavy upon the Hebrews." Their departure out of the land is told in these vivid words: "The Lord brought the children of Israel out of the house of bondage with a strong hand and a stretched-out arm." At the stretching out of the hand[40] of Moses the waters of the Red Sea part and stand all on a heap. When the Lord lifts his hand in anger, thousands perish in the wilderness. Every act, every decree in the history of Israel, as indeed in the history of the human race, is sanctioned by the hand. Is it not used in the great moments of swearing, blessing, cursing, smiting, agreeing, marrying, building, destroying? Its sacredness is in the law that no sacrifice is valid unless the sacrificer lay his hand upon the head of the victim. The congregation lay their hands on the heads of those who are sentenced to death. How terrible the dumb condemnation of their hands must be to the condemned! When Moses builds the altar on Mount Sinai, he is commanded to use no tool, but rear it with his own hands. Earth,[41] sea, sky, man, and all lower animals are holy unto the Lord because he has formed them with his hand. When the Psalmist considers the heavens and the earth, he exclaims: "What is man, O Lord, that thou art mindful of him? For thou hast made him to have dominion over the works of thy hands." The supplicating gesture of the hand always accompanies the spoken prayer, and with clean hands goes the pure heart.
Christ comforted and blessed and healed and wrought many miracles with his hands. He touched the eyes of the blind, and they were opened. When Jairus sought him, overwhelmed with grief, Jesus went and laid his hands on the ruler's daughter, and she awoke from the sleep of death to her father's love. You also remember how he healed[42] the crooked woman. He said to her, "Woman, thou art loosed from thine infirmity," and he laid his hands on her, and immediately she was made straight, and she glorified God.
Look where we will, we find the hand in time and history, working, building, inventing, bringing civilization out of barbarism. The hand symbolizes power and the excellence of work. The mechanic's hand, that minister of elemental forces, the hand that hews, saws, cuts, builds, is useful in the world equally with the delicate hand that paints a wild flower or moulds a Grecian urn, or the hand of a statesman that writes a law. The eye cannot say to the hand, "I have no need of thee." Blessed be the hand! Thrice blessed be the hands that work!
[43]
THE POWER OF TOUCH
[45]
IV
THE POWER OF TOUCH
SOME months ago, in a newspaper which announced the publication of the "Matilda Ziegler Magazine for the Blind," appeared the following paragraph:
"Many poems and stories must be omitted because they deal with sight. Allusion to moonbeams, rainbows, starlight, clouds, and beautiful scenery may not be printed, because they serve to emphasize the blind man's sense of his affliction."
That is to say, I may not talk about beautiful mansions and gardens because[46] I am poor. I may not read about Paris and the West Indies because I cannot visit them in their territorial reality. I may not dream of heaven because it is possible that I may never go there. Yet a venturesome spirit impels me to use words of sight and sound whose meaning I can guess only from analogy and fancy. This hazardous game is half the delight, the frolic, of daily life. I glow as I read of splendours which the eye alone can survey. Allusions to moonbeams and clouds do not emphasize the sense of my affliction: they carry my soul beyond affliction's narrow actuality.
Critics delight to tell us what we cannot do. They assume that blindness and deafness sever us completely from the things which the seeing and the hearing enjoy, and hence they assert we have no[47] moral right to talk about beauty, the skies, mountains, the song of birds, and colours. They declare that the very sensations we have from the sense of touch are "vicarious," as though our friends felt the sun for us! They deny a priori what they have not seen and I have felt. Some brave doubters have gone so far even as to deny my existence. In order, therefore, that I may know that I exist, I resort to Descartes's method: "I think, therefore I am." Thus I am metaphysically established, and I throw upon the doubters the burden of proving my non- existence. When we consider how little has been found out about the mind, is it not amazing that any one should presume to define what one can know or cannot know? I admit that there are innumerable marvels in the visible universe[48] unguessed by me. Likewise, O confident critic, there are a myriad sensations perceived by me of which you do not dream.
Necessity gives to the eye a precious power of seeing, and in the same way it gives a precious power of feeling to the whole body. Sometimes it seems as if the very substance of my flesh were so many eyes looking out at will upon a world new created every day. The silence and darkness which are said to shut me in, open my door most hospitably to countless sensations that distract, inform, admonish, and amuse. With my three trusty guides, touch, smell, and taste, I make many excursions into the borderland of experience which is in sight of the city of Light. Nature accommodates itself to every[49] man's necessity. If the eye is maimed, so that it does not see the beauteous face of day, the touch becomes more poignant and discriminating. Nature proceeds through practice to strengthen and augment the remaining senses. For this reason the blind often hear with greater ease and distinctness than other people. The sense of smell becomes almost a new faculty to penetrate the tangle and vagueness of things. Thus, according to an immutable law, the senses assist and reinforce one another.
It is not for me to say whether we see best with the hand or the eye. I only know that the world I see with my fingers is alive, ruddy, and satisfying. Touch brings the blind many sweet certainties which our more fortunate fellows miss, because their sense of touch[50] is uncultivated. When they look at things, they put their hands in their pockets. No doubt that is one reason why their knowledge is often so vague, inaccurate, and useless. It is probable, too, that our knowledge of phenomena beyond the reach of the hand is equally imperfect. But, at all events, we behold them through a golden mist of fantasy.
There is nothing, however, misty or uncertain about what we can touch. Through the sense of touch I know the faces of friends, the illimitable variety of straight and curved lines, all surfaces, the exuberance of the soil, the delicate shapes of flowers, the noble forms of trees, and the range of mighty winds. Besides objects, surfaces, and atmospherical changes, I perceive countless vibrations. I derive much knowledge[51] of everyday matter from the jars and jolts which are to be felt everywhere in the house.
Footsteps, I discover, vary tactually according to the age, the sex, and the manners of the walker. It is impossible to mistake a child's patter for the tread of a grown person. The step of the young man, strong and free, differs from the heavy, sedate tread of the middle-aged, and from the step of the old man, whose feet drag along the floor, or beat it with slow, faltering accents. On a bare floor a girl walks with a rapid, elastic rhythm which is quite distinct from the graver step of the elderly woman. I have laughed over the creak of new shoes and the clatter of a stout maid performing a jig in the kitchen. One day, in the dining-room of an hotel,[52] a tactual dissonance arrested my attention. I sat still and listened with my feet. I found that two waiters were walking back and forth, but not with the same gait. A band was playing, and I could feel the music-waves along the floor. One of the waiters walked in time to the band, graceful and light, while the other disregarded the music and rushed from table to table to the beat of some discord in his own mind. Their steps reminded me of a spirited war-steed harnessed with a cart- horse.
Often footsteps reveal in some measure the character and the mood of the walker. I feel in them firmness and indecision, hurry and deliberation, activity and laziness, fatigue, carelessness, timidity, anger, and sorrow. I am most[53] conscious of these moods and traits in persons with whom I am familiar.
Footsteps are frequently interrupted by certain jars and jerks, so that I know when one kneels, kicks, shakes something, sits down, or gets up. Thus I follow to some extent the actions of people about me and the changes of their postures. Just now a thick, soft patter of bare, padded feet and a slight jolt told me that my dog had jumped on the chair to look out of the window. I do not, however, allow him to go uninvestigated; for occasionally I feel the same motion, and find him, not on the chair, but trespassing on the sofa.
When a carpenter works in the house or in the barn near by, I know by the slanting, up-and- down, toothed vibration, and the ringing concussion of blow[54] upon blow, that he is sawing or hammering. If I am near enough, a certain vibration, travelling back and forth along a wooden surface, brings me the information that he is using a plane.
A slight flutter on the rug tells me that a breeze has blown my papers off the table. A round thump is a signal that a pencil has rolled on the floor. If a book falls, it gives a flat thud. A wooden rap on the balustrade announces that dinner is ready. Many of these vibrations are
obliterated out of doors. On a lawn or the road, I can feel only running, stamping, and the rumble of wheels.
By placing my hand on a person's lips and throat, I gain an idea of many specific vibrations, and interpret them: a boy's chuckle, a man's "Whew!" of surprise,[55] the "Hem!" of annoyance or perplexity, the moan of pain, a scream, a whisper, a rasp, a sob, a choke, and a gasp. The utterances of animals, though wordless, are eloquent to me—the cat's purr, its mew, its angry, jerky, scolding spit; the dog's bow-wow of warning or of joyous welcome, its yelp of despair, and its contented snore; the cow's moo; a monkey's chatter; the snort of a horse; the lion's roar, and the terrible snarl of the tiger. Perhaps I ought to add, for the benefit of the critics and doubters who may peruse this essay, that with my own hands I have felt all these sounds. From my childhood to the present day I have availed myself of every opportunity to visit zoological gardens, menageries, and the circus, and all the animals, except the tiger, have[56] talked into my hand. I have touched the tiger only in a museum, where he is as harmless as a lamb. I have, however, heard him talk by putting my hand on the bars of his cage. I have touched several lions in the flesh, and felt them roar royally, like a cataract over rocks.
To continue, I know the plop of liquid in a pitcher. So if I spill my milk, I have not the excuse of ignorance. I am also familiar with the pop of a cork, the sputter of a flame, the tick-tack of the clock, the metallic swing of the windmill, the laboured rise and fall of the pump, the voluminous spurt of the hose, the deceptive tap of the breeze at door and window, and many other vibrations past computing.
There are tactual vibrations which do not belong to skin-touch. They penetrate[57] the skin, the nerves, the bones, like pain, heat, and cold. The beat of a drum smites me through from the chest to the shoulder-blades. The din of the train, the bridge, and grinding machinery retains its "old-man-of-the-sea" grip upon me long after its cause has been left behind. If vibration and motion combine in my touch for any length of time, the earth seems to run away while I stand still. When I step off the train, the platform whirls round, and I find it difficult to walk steadily.
Every atom of my body is a vibroscope. But my sensations are not infallible. I reach out, and my fingers meet something furry, which jumps about, gathers itself together as if to spring, and acts like an animal. I pause a moment for caution. I touch it again[58] more firmly, and find it is a fur coat fluttering and flapping in the wind. To me, as to you, the earth seems motionless, and the sun appears to move; for the rays of the afternoon withdraw more and more, as they touch my face, until the air becomes cool. From this I understand how it is that the shore seems to recede as you sail away from it. Hence I feel no incredulity when you say that parallel lines appear to converge, and the earth and sky to meet. My few senses long ago revealed to me their imperfections and deceptivity.
Not only are the senses deceptive, but numerous usages in our language indicate that people who have five senses find it difficult to keep their functions distinct. I understand that we hear views, see tones, taste music. I am told[59] that voices have colour. Tact, which I have supposed to be a matter of nice perception, turns out to be a matter of taste. Judging from the large use of the word, taste appears to be the most important of all the senses. Taste governs the great and small conventions of life. Certainly the language of the senses is full of contradictions, and my fellows who have five doors to their house are not more surely at home in themselves than I. May I not, then, be excused if this account of my sensations lacks precision?
[61]
THE FINER VIBRATIONS
[63]
V
THE FINER VIBRATIONS
I HAVE spoken of the numerous jars and jolts which daily minister to my faculties. The loftier and grander vibrations which appeal to my emotions are varied and abundant. I listen with awe to the roll of the thunder and the muffled avalanche of sound when the sea flings itself upon the shore. And I love the instrument by which all the diapasons of the ocean are caught and released in surging floods—the many-voiced organ. If music could be seen, I could point where the organ-notes go, as they rise and fall, climb up and up, rock and sway, now loud and deep, now high and[64] stormy, anon soft and solemn, with lighter vibrations interspersed between and running across them. I should say that organ-music fills to an ecstasy the act of feeling.
There is tangible delight in other instruments, too. The violin seems beautifully alive as it responds to the lightest wish of the master. The distinction between its notes is more delicate than between the notes of the piano.
I enjoy the music of the piano most when I touch the instrument. If I keep my hand on the piano-case, I detect tiny quavers, returns of melody, and the hush that follows. This explains to me how sound can die away to the listening ear:
... How thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
[65]
I am able to follow the dominant spirit and mood of the music. I catch the joyous dance as it bounds over the keys, the slow dirge, the reverie. I thrill to the fiery sweep of notes crossed by thunderous tones in the "Walküre," where Wotan kindles the dread flames that guard the sleeping Brunhild. How wonderful is the instrument on which a great musician sings with his hands! I have never succeeded in distinguishing one composition from another. I think this is impossible; but the concentration and strain upon my attention would be so great that I doubt if the pleasure derived would be commensurate to the effort.
Nor can I distinguish easily a tune that is sung. But by placing my hand on another's throat and cheek, I enjoy[66] the changes of the voice. I know when it is low or high, clear or muffled, sad or cheery. The thin, quavering sensation of an old voice differs in my touch from the sensation of a young voice. A Southerner's drawl is quite unlike the Yankee twang. Sometimes the flow and ebb of a voice is so enchanting that my fingers quiver with exquisite pleasure, even if I do not understand a word that is spoken.
On the other hand, I am exceedingly sensitive to the harshness of noises like grinding, scraping, and the hoarse creak of rusty locks. Fog-whistles are my vibratory nightmares. I have stood near a bridge in process of construction, and felt the tactual din, the rattle of heavy masses of stone, the roll of loosened earth, the rumble of engines, the dumping[67] of dirt-cars, the triple blows of vulcan hammers. I can also smell the fire-pots, the tar and cement. So I have a vivid idea of mighty labours in steel and stone, and I believe that I am acquainted with all the fiendish noises which can be made by man or machinery. The whack of heavy falling bodies, the sudden shivering splinter of chopped logs, the crystal shatter of pounded ice, the crash of a tree hurled to the earth by a hurricane, the irrational, persistent chaos of noise made by switching freight-trains, the explosion of gas, the blasting of stone, and the terrific grinding of rock upon rock which precedes the collapse—all these have been in my touch-experience, and contribute to my idea of Bedlam, of a battle, a waterspout, an earthquake, and other enormous accumulations of sound.[68]
Touch brings me into contact with the traffic and manifold activity of the city. Besides the bustle and crowding of people and the nondescript grating and electric howling of street-cars, I am conscious of exhalations from many different kinds of shops; from automobiles, drays, horses, fruit stands, and many varieties of smoke.
Odours strange and musty, The air sharp and dusty With lime and with sand, That no one can stand, Make the street impassable, The people irascible,
Until every one cries, As he trembling goes
With the sight of his eyes And the scent of his nose
Quite stopped—or at least much diminished— "Gracious! when will this city be finished?"[B]
[69]
To face page 70
"Listening" to the Trees
The city is interesting; but the tactual silence of the country is always most welcome after the din of town and the irritating concussions of the train. How noiseless and undisturbing are the demolition, the repairs and the alterations, of nature! With no sound of hammer or saw or stone severed from stone, but a music of rustles and ripe thumps on the grass come the fluttering leaves and mellow fruits which the wind tumbles all day from the branches. Silently all droops, all withers, all is poured back into the earth that it may recreate; all sleeps while the busy architects of day and night ply their silent work elsewhere. The same serenity reigns when all at once the soil yields up a newly wrought creation. Softly the ocean of grass, moss, and flowers[70] rolls surge upon surge across the earth. Curtains of foliage drape the bare branches. Great trees make ready in their sturdy hearts to receive again birds which occupy their spacious chambers to the south and west. Nay, there is no place so lowly that it may not lodge some happy creature. The meadow brook undoes its icy fetters with rippling notes, gurgles, and runs free. And all this is wrought in less than two months to the music of nature's orchestra, in the midst of balmy incense.
The thousand soft voices of the earth have truly found their way to me—the small rustle in tufts of grass, the silky swish of leaves, the buzz of insects, the hum of bees in blossoms I have plucked, the flutter of a bird's wings after his bath, and the slender rippling[71] vibration of water
running over pebbles. Once having been felt, these loved voices rustle, buzz, hum, flutter, and ripple in my thought forever, an undying part of happy memories.
Between my experiences and the experiences of others there is no gulf of mute space which I may not bridge. For I have endlessly varied, instructive contacts with all the world, with life, with the atmosphere whose radiant activity enfolds us all. The thrilling energy of the all-encasing air is warm and rapturous. Heat-waves and sound-waves play upon my face in infinite variety and combination, until I am able to surmise what must be the myriad sounds that my senseless ears have not heard.
The air varies in different regions, at[72] different seasons of the year, and even different hours of the day. The odorous, fresh sea-breezes are distinct from the fitful breezes along river banks, which are humid and freighted with inland smells. The bracing, light, dry air of the mountains can never be mistaken for the pungent salt air of the ocean. The air of winter is dense, hard, compressed. In the spring it has new vitality. It is light, mobile, and laden with a thousand palpitating odours from earth, grass, and sprouting leaves. The air of midsummer is dense, saturated, or dry and burning, as if it came from a furnace. When a cool breeze brushes the sultry stillness, it brings fewer odours than in May, and frequently the odour of a coming tempest. The avalanche of coolness which sweeps through the low-hanging[73] air bears little resemblance to the stinging coolness of winter.
The rain of winter is raw, without odour, and dismal. The rain of spring is brisk, fragrant, charged with life-giving warmth. I welcome it delightedly as it visits the earth, enriches the streams, waters the hills abundantly, makes the furrows soft with showers for the seed, elicits a perfume which I cannot breathe deep enough. Spring rain is beautiful, impartial, lovable. With pearly drops it washes every leaf on tree and bush, ministers equally to salutary herbs and noxious growths, searches out every living thing that needs its beneficence.
The senses assist and reinforce each other to such an extent that I am not sure whether touch or smell tells me the most about the world. Everywhere the[74] river of touch is joined by the brooks of odour-perception. Each season has its distinctive odours. The spring is earthy and full of sap. July is rich with the odour of ripening grain and hay. As the season advances, a crisp, dry, mature odour predominates, and golden-rod, tansy, and everlastings mark the onward march of the year. In autumn, soft, alluring scents fill the air, floating from thicket, grass, flower, and tree, and they tell me of time and change, of death and life's renewal, desire and its fulfilment.
[75]
SMELL, THE FALLEN ANGEL
[77]
VI
SMELL, THE FALLEN ANGEL
FOR some inexplicable reason the sense of smell does not hold the high position it deserves among its sisters. There is something of the fallen angel about it. When it woos us with woodland scents and beguiles us with the fragrance of lovely gardens, it is admitted frankly to our discourse. But when it gives us warning of something noxious in our vicinity, it is treated as if the demon had got the upper hand of the angel, and is relegated to outer darkness, punished for its faithful service. It is most difficult to keep the true[78] significance of words when one discusses the prejudices of mankind, and I find it hard to give an account of odour-perceptions which shall be at once dignified and truthful.
In my experience smell is most important, and I find that there is high authority for the nobility of the sense which we have neglected and disparaged. It is recorded that the Lord commanded that incense be burnt before him continually with a sweet savour. I doubt if there is any sensation arising from sight more delightful than the odours which filter through sun- warmed, wind-tossed branches, or the tide of scents which swells, subsides, rises again wave on wave, filling the wide world with invisible sweetness. A whiff of the universe makes us dream of worlds we have[79] never seen, recalls in a flash entire epochs of our dearest experience. I never smell daisies without living over again the ecstatic mornings that my teacher and I spent wandering in the fields, while I learned new words and the names of things. Smell is a potent wizard that transports us across a thousand miles and all the years we have lived. The odour of fruits wafts me to my Southern home, to my childish frolics in the peach orchard. Other odours, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief. Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening grain fields far away.
The faintest whiff from a meadow[80] where the new-mown hay lies in the hot sun displaces the here and the now. I am back again in the old red barn. My little friends and I are playing in the haymow. A huge mow it is, packed with crisp, sweet hay, from the top of which the smallest child can reach the straining rafters. In their stalls beneath are the farm animals. Here is Jerry, unresponsive, unbeautiful Jerry, crunching his oats like a true pessimist, resolved to find his feed not good—at least not so good as it ought to be. Again I touch Brownie, eager, grateful little Brownie, ready to leave the juiciest fodder for a pat, straining his beautiful, slender neck for a caress. Near by stands Lady Belle, with sweet, moist mouth, lazily extracting the sealed-up cordial from timothy and clover, and dreaming of[81] deep June pastures and murmurous streams.
The sense of smell has told me of a coming storm hours before there was any sign of it visible. I notice first a throb of expectancy, a slight quiver, a concentration in my nostrils. As the storm draws nearer, my nostrils dilate the better to receive the flood of earth-odours which seem to multiply and extend, until I feel the splash of rain against my cheek. As the tempest departs, receding farther and farther, the odours fade, become fainter and fainter, and die away beyond the bar of space.
I know by smell the kind of house we enter. I have recognized an old-fashioned country house because it has several layers of odours, left by a succession of[82] families, of plants, perfumes, and draperies.
In the evening quiet there are fewer vibrations than in the daytime, and then I rely more largely upon smell. The sulphuric scent of a match tells me that the lamps are being lighted. Later I note the wavering trail of odour that flits about and disappears. It is the curfew signal; the lights are out for the night.
Out of doors I am aware by smell and touch of the ground we tread and the places we pass. Sometimes, when there is no wind, the odours are so grouped that I know the character of the country, and can place a hayfield, a country store, a garden, a barn, a grove of pines, a farmhouse with the windows open.
The other day I went to walk toward a[83] familiar wood. Suddenly a disturbing odour made me pause in dismay. Then followed a peculiar, measured jar, followed by dull, heavy thunder. I understood the odour and the jar only too well. The trees were being cut down. We climbed the stone wall to the left. It borders the wood which I have loved so long that it seems to be my peculiar possession. But to-day an unfamiliar rush of air and an unwonted outburst of sun told me that my tree friends were gone. The place was empty, like a deserted dwelling. I stretched out my hand. Where once stood the steadfast pines, great, beautiful, sweet, my hand touched raw, moist stumps. All about lay broken branches, like the antlers of stricken deer. The fragrant, piled-up sawdust swirled and tumbled about me.[84] An unreasoning resentment flashed through me at this ruthless destruction of the beauty that I love. But there is no anger, no resentment in nature. The air is equally charged with the odours of life and of destruction, for death equally with growth forever ministers to all-conquering life. The sun shines as ever, and the winds riot through the newly opened spaces. I know that a new forest will spring where the old one stood, as beautiful, as beneficent.
Touch sensations are permanent and definite. Odours deviate and are fugitive, changing in their shades, degrees, and location. There is something else in odour which gives me a sense of distance. I should call it horizon—the line where odour and fancy meet at the farthest limit of scent.[85]
Smell gives me more idea than touch or taste of the manner in which sight and hearing probably discharge their functions. Touch seems to reside in the object touched, because there is a contact of surfaces. In smell there is no notion of relievo, and odour seems to reside not in the object smelt, but in the organ. Since I smell a tree at a distance, it is comprehensible to me that a person sees it without touching it. I am not puzzled over the fact that he receives it as an image on his retina without relievo, since my smell perceives the tree as a thin sphere with no fullness or content. By themselves, odours suggest nothing. I must learn by association to judge from them of distance, of place, and of the actions or the surroundings which are the usual occasions for them,[86] just as I am told people judge from colour, light, and sound.
From exhalations I learn much about people. I often know the work they are engaged in. The odours of wood, iron, paint, and drugs cling to the garments of those that work in them. Thus I can distinguish the carpenter from the ironworker, the artist from the mason or the chemist. When a person passes quickly from one place to another I get a scent impression of where he has
been—the kitchen, the garden, or the sick-room. I gain pleasurable ideas of freshness and good taste from the odours of soap, toilet water, clean garments, woollen and silk stuffs, and gloves.
I have not, indeed, the all-knowing scent of the hound or the wild animal. None but the halt and the blind need[87] fear my skill in pursuit; for there are other things besides water, stale trails, confusing cross tracks to put me at fault. Nevertheless, human odours are as varied and capable of recognition as hands and faces. The dear odours of those I love are so definite, so unmistakable, that nothing can quite obliterate them. If many years should elapse before I saw an intimate friend again, I think I should recognize his odour instantly in the heart of Africa, as promptly as would my brother that barks.
Once, long ago, in a crowded railway station, a lady kissed me as she hurried by. I had not touched even her dress. But she left a scent with her kiss which gave me a glimpse of her. The years are many since she kissed[88] me. Yet her odour is fresh in my memory.
It is difficult to put into words the thing itself, the elusive person-odour. There seems to be no adequate vocabulary of smells, and I must fall back on approximate phrase and metaphor.
Some people have a vague, unsubstantial odour that floats about, mocking every effort to identify it. It is the will-o'-the-wisp of my olfactive experience. Sometimes I meet one who lacks a distinctive person-scent, and I seldom find such a one lively or entertaining. On the other hand, one who has a pungent odour often possesses great vitality, energy, and vigour of mind.
Masculine exhalations are as a rule stronger, more vivid, more widely differentiated than those of women. In[89] the odour of young men there is something elemental, as of fire, storm, and salt sea. It pulsates with buoyancy and desire. It suggests all things strong and beautiful and joyous, and gives me a sense of physical happiness. I wonder if others observe that all infants have the same scent—pure, simple, undecipherable as their dormant personality. It is not until the age of six or seven that they begin to have perceptible individual odours. These develop and mature along with their mental and bodily powers.
What I have written about smell, especially person-smell, will perhaps be regarded as the abnormal sentiment of one who can have no idea of the "world of reality and beauty which the eye perceives." There are people who are[90] colour-blind, people who are tone-deaf. Most people are smell-blind-and-deaf. We should not condemn a musical composition on the testimony of an ear which cannot distinguish one chord from another, or judge a picture by the verdict of a colour-blind critic. The sensations of smell which cheer, inform, and broaden my life are not less pleasant merely because some critic who treads the wide, bright pathway of the eye has not cultivated his olfactive sense. Without the shy, fugitive, often unobserved sensations and the certainties which taste, smell, and touch give me, I should be obliged to take my conception of the universe wholly from others. I should lack the alchemy by which I now infuse into my world light, colour, and the Protean spark. The sensuous reality[91] which interthreads and supports all the gropings of my imagination would be shattered. The solid earth would melt from under my feet and disperse itself in space. The objects dear to my hands would become formless, dead things, and I should walk among them as among invisible ghosts.
[93]
RELATIVE VALUES OF THE SENSES
[95]
VII
RELATIVE VALUES OF THE SENSES
I WAS once without the sense of smell and taste for several days. It seemed incredible, this utter detachment from odours, to breathe the air in and observe never a single scent. The feeling was probably similar, though less in degree, to that of one who first loses sight and cannot but expect to see the light again any day, any minute. I knew I should smell again some time. Still, after the wonder had passed off, a loneliness crept over me as vast as the air whose myriad odours I missed. The multitudinous subtle delights that smell[96] makes mine became for a time wistful memories. When I recovered the lost sense, my heart bounded with gladness. It is a fine dramatic touch that Hans Andersen gives to the story of Kay and Gerda in the passage about flowers. Kay, whom the wicked magician's glass has blinded to human love, rushes away fiercely from home when he discovers that the roses have lost their sweetness.
The loss of smell for a few days gave me a clearer idea than I had ever had what it is to be blinded suddenly, helplessly. With a little stretch of the imagination I knew then what it must be when the great curtain shuts out suddenly the light of day, the stars, and the firmament itself. I see the blind man's eyes strain for the light, as he fearfully tries to walk his old rounds,[97] until the unchanging blank that everywhere spreads before him stamps the reality of the dark upon his consciousness.
My temporary loss of smell proved to me, too, that the absence of a sense need not dull the mental faculties and does not distort one's view of the world, and so I reason that blindness and deafness need not pervert the inner order of the intellect. I know that if there were no odours for me I should still possess a considerable part of the world. Novelties and surprises would abound, adventures would thicken in the dark.
In my classification of the senses, smell is a little the ear's inferior, and touch is a great deal the eye's superior. I find that great artists and philosophers[98] agree with me in this. Diderot says:
Je trouvais que de tous les sens, l'œil était le plus superficiel; l'oreille, le plus orgueilleux; l'odorat, le plus voluptueux; le goût, le plus superstitieux et le plus inconstant; le toucher, le plus profond et le plus philosophe.[C]
A friend whom I have never seen sends me a quotation from Symonds's "Renaissance in Italy":
Lorenzo Ghiberti, after describing a piece of antique sculpture he saw in Rome adds, "To express the perfection of learning, mastery, and art displayed in it is beyond the power of language. Its more exquisite beauties could not be discovered by the sight, but only by the touch of the hand passed over it." Of another classic marble at Padua he[99] says, "This statue, when the Christian faith triumphed, was hidden in that place by some gentle soul, who, seeing it so perfect, fashioned with art so wonderful, and with such power of genius, and being moved to reverent pity, caused a sepulchre of bricks to be built, and there within buried the statue, and covered it with a broad slab of stone, that it might not in any way be injured. It has very many sweet beauties which the eyes alone can comprehend not, either by strong or tempered light; only the hand by touching them finds them out."
Hold out your hands to feel the luxury of the sunbeams. Press the soft blossoms against your cheek, and finger their graces of form, their delicate mutability of shape, their pliancy and freshness. Expose your face to the aerial floods that sweep the heavens, "inhale great draughts of space," wonder, wonder[100] at the wind's unwearied activity. Pile note on note the infinite music that flows increasingly to your soul from the tactual sonorities of a thousand branches and tumbling waters. How can the world be shrivelled when this most profound, emotional sense, touch, is faithful to its service? I am sure that if a fairy bade me choose between the sense of light and that of touch, I would not part with the warm, endearing contact of human hands or the wealth of form, the nobility and fullness that press into my palms.
[101]
THE FIVE-SENSED WORLD
[103]
VIII
THE FIVE-SENSED WORLD
THE poets have taught us how full of wonders is the night; and the night of blindness has its wonders, too. The only lightless dark is the night of ignorance and insensibility. We differ, blind and seeing, one from another, not in our senses, but in the use we make of them, in the imagination and courage with which we seek wisdom beyond our senses.
It is more difficult to teach ignorance to think than to teach an intelligent blind man to see the grandeur of Niagara. I have walked with people whose eyes[104] are full of light, but who see nothing in wood, sea, or sky, nothing in city streets, nothing in books. What a witless
masquerade is this seeing! It were better far to sail forever in the night of blindness, with sense and feeling and mind, than to be thus content with the mere act of seeing. They have the sunset, the morning skies, the purple of distant hills, yet their souls voyage through this enchanted world with a barren stare.
The calamity of the blind is immense, irreparable. But it does not take away our share of the things that count—service, friendship, humour, imagination, wisdom. It is the secret inner will that controls one's fate. We are capable of willing to be good, of loving and being loved, of thinking to the end that we may[105] be wiser. We possess these spirit-born forces equally with all God's children. Therefore we, too, see the lightnings and hear the thunders of Sinai. We, too, march through the wilderness and the solitary place that shall be glad for us, and as we pass, God maketh the desert to blossom like the rose. We, too, go in unto the Promised Land to possess the treasures of the spirit, the unseen permanence of life and nature.
The blind man of spirit faces the unknown and grapples with it, and what else does the world of seeing men do? He has imagination, sympathy, humanity, and these ineradicable existences compel him to share by a sort of proxy in a sense he has not. When he meets terms of colour, light, physiognomy, he guesses, divines, puzzles out their meaning[106] by analogies drawn from the senses he has. I naturally tend to think, reason, draw inferences as if I had five senses instead of three. This tendency is beyond my control; it is involuntary, habitual, instinctive. I cannot compel my mind to say "I feel" instead of "I see" or "I hear." The word "feel" proves on examination to be no less a convention than "see" and "hear" when I seek for words accurately to describe the outward things that affect my three bodily senses. When a man loses a leg, his brain persists in impelling him to use what he has not and yet feels to be there. Can it be that the brain is so constituted that it will continue the activity which animates the sight and the hearing, after the eye and the ear have been destroyed?[107]
It might seem that the five senses would work intelligently together only when resident in the same body. Yet when two or three are left unaided, they reach out for their complements in another body, and find that they yoke easily with the borrowed team. When my hand aches from overtouching, I find relief in the sight of another. When my mind lags, wearied with the strain of forcing out thoughts about dark, musicless, colourless, detached substance, it recovers its elasticity as soon as I resort to the powers of another mind which commands light, harmony, colour. Now, if the five senses will not remain disassociated, the life of the deaf-blind cannot be severed from the life of the seeing, hearing race.
The deaf-blind person may be[108] plunged and replunged like Schiller's diver into seas of the unknown. But, unlike the doomed hero, he returns triumphant, grasping the priceless truth that his mind is not crippled, not limited to the infirmity of his senses. The world of the eye and the ear becomes to him a subject of fateful interest. He seizes every word of sight and hearing because his sensations compel it. Light and colour, of which he has no tactual evidence, he studies fearlessly, believing that all humanly knowable truth is open to him. He is in a position similar to that of the astronomer who, firm, patient, watches a star night after night for many years and feels rewarded if he discovers a single fact about it. The man deaf-blind to ordinary outward things, and the man deaf-blind to the[109] immeasurable universe, are both limited by time and space; but they have made a compact to wring service from their limitations.
The bulk of the world's knowledge is an imaginary construction. History is but a mode of imagining, of making us see civilizations that no longer appear upon the earth. Some of the most significant discoveries in modern science owe their origin to the imagination of men who had neither accurate knowledge nor exact instruments to demonstrate their beliefs. If astronomy had not kept always in advance of the telescope, no one would ever have thought a telescope worth making. What great invention has not existed in the inventor's mind long before he gave it tangible shape?[110]
A more splendid example of imaginative knowledge is the unity with which philosophers start their study of the world. They can never perceive the world in its entire reality. Yet their imagination, with its magnificent allowance for error, its power of treating uncertainty as negligible, has pointed the way for empirical knowledge.
In their highest creative moments the great poet, the great musician cease to use the crude instruments of sight and hearing. They break away from their sense-moorings, rise on strong, compelling wings of spirit far above our misty hills and darkened valleys into the region of light, music, intellect.
What eye hath seen the glories of the New Jerusalem? What ear hath heard the music of the spheres, the steps of[111] time, the strokes of chance, the blows of death? Men have not heard with their physical sense the tumult of sweet voices above the hills of Judea nor seen the heavenly vision; but millions have listened to that spiritual message through many ages.
Our blindness changes not a whit the course of inner realities. Of us it is as true as it is of the seeing that the most beautiful world is always entered through the imagination. If you wish to be something that you are not,—something fine, noble, good,—you shut your eyes, and for one dreamy moment you are that which you long to be.
[113]
INWARD VISIONS
[115]
IX
INWARD VISIONS
ACCORDING to all art, all nature, all coherent human thought, we know that order, proportion, form, are essential elements of beauty. Now order, proportion, and form, are palpable to the
touch. But beauty and rhythm are deeper than sense. They are like love and faith. They spring out of a spiritual process only slightly dependent upon sensations. Order, proportion, form, cannot generate in the mind the abstract idea of beauty, unless there is already a soul intelligence to breathe life into the elements. Many persons, having perfect[116] eyes, are blind in their perceptions. Many persons, having perfect ears, are emotionally deaf. Yet these are the very ones who dare to set limits to the vision of those who, lacking a sense or two, have will, soul, passion, imagination. Faith is a mockery if it teaches us not that we may construct a world unspeakably more complete and beautiful than the material world. And I, too, may construct my better world, for I am a child of God, an inheritor of a fragment of the Mind that created all worlds.
There is a consonance of all things, a blending of all that we know about the material world and the spiritual. It consists for me of all the impressions, vibrations, heat, cold, taste, smell, and the sensations which these convey to the mind, infinitely combined, interwoven[117] with associated ideas and acquired knowledge. No thoughtful person will believe that what I said about the meaning of footsteps is strictly true of mere jolts and jars. It is an array of the spiritual in certain natural elements, tactual beats, and an acquired knowledge of physical habits and moral traits of highly organized human beings. What would odours signify if they were not associated with the time of the year, the place I live in, and the people I know?
The result of such a blending is sometimes a discordant trying of strings far removed from a melody, very far from a symphony. (For the benefit of those who must be reassured, I will say that I have felt a musician tuning his violin, that I have read about a symphony, and so have a fair intellectual perception of[118] my metaphor.) But with training and experience the faculties gather up the stray notes and combine them into a full, harmonious whole. If the person who accomplishes this task is peculiarly gifted, we call him a poet. The blind and the deaf are not great poets, it is true. Yet now and again you find one deaf and blind who has attained to his royal kingdom of beauty.
I have a little volume of poems by a deaf-blind lady, Madame Bertha Galeron. Her poetry has versatility of thought. Now it is tender and sweet, now full of tragic passion and the sternness of destiny. Victor Hugo called her "La Grande Voyante." She has written several plays, two of which have been acted in Paris. The French Academy has crowned her work.[119]
The infinite wonders of the universe are revealed to us in exact measure as we are capable of receiving them. The keenness of our vision depends not on how much we can see, but on how much we feel. Nor yet does mere knowledge create beauty. Nature sings her most exquisite songs to those who love her. She does not unfold her secrets to those who come only to gratify their desire of analysis, to gather facts, but to those who see in her manifold phenomena suggestions of lofty, delicate sentiments.
To face page 120
The Little Boy Next Door
Am I to be denied the use of such adjectives as "freshness" and "sparkle," "dark" and "gloomy"? I have walked in the fields at early morning. I have felt a rose-bush laden with dew and fragrance. I have felt the curves and[120] graces of my kitten at play. I have known the sweet, shy ways of little children. I have known the sad opposites of all these, a ghastly touch picture. Remember, I have sometimes travelled over a dusty road as far as my feet could go. At a sudden turn I have stepped upon starved, ignoble weeds, and reaching out my hands, I have touched a fair tree out of which a parasite had taken the life like a vampire. I have touched a pretty bird whose soft wings hung limp, whose little heart beat no more. I have wept over the feebleness and deformity of a child, lame, or born blind, or, worse still, mindless. If I had the genius of Thomson, I, too, could depict a "City of Dreadful Night" from mere touch sensations. From contrasts so irreconcilable can we fail to form an idea of[121] beauty and know surely when we meet with loveliness?
Here is a sonnet eloquent of a blind man's power of vision:
THE MOUNTAIN TO THE PINE
Thou tall, majestic monarch of the wood,
That standest where no wild vines dare to creep, Men call thee old, and say that thou hast stood A century upon my rugged steep;
Yet unto me thy life is but a day,
When I recall the things that I have seen,— The forest monarchs that have passed away Upon the spot where first I saw thy green; For I am older than the age of man,
Or all the living things that crawl or creep, Or birds of air, or creatures of the deep;
I was the first dim outline of God's plan:
Only the waters of the restless sea
And the infinite stars in heaven are old to me.
[122]
I am glad my friend Mr. Stedman knew that poem while he was making his Anthology, for knowing it, so fine a poet and critic could not fail to give it a place in his treasure-house of American poetry. The poet, Mr. Clarence Hawkes, has been blind since childhood; yet he finds in nature hints of combinations for his mental pictures. Out of the knowledge and impressions that come to him he constructs a masterpiece which hangs upon the walls of his thought. And into the poet's house come all the true spirits of the world.
It was a rare poet who thought of the mountain as "the first dim outline of God's plan." That is the real wonder of the poem, and not that a blind man should speak so confidently of sky and sea. Our ideas of the sky are an accumulation[123] of touch-glimpses, literary allusions, and the observations of others, with an emotional blending of all. My face feels only a tiny portion of the atmosphere; but I go through continuous space and feel the air at every point, every instant. I have been told about the distances from our earth to the sun, to the other planets, and to the fixed stars. I multiply a thousand times the utmost height and width that my touch compasses, and thus I gain a deep sense of the sky's immensity.
Move me along constantly over water, water, nothing but water, and you give me the solitude, the vastness of ocean which fills the eye. I have been in a little sail-boat on the sea, when the rising tide swept it toward the shore. May I not understand the poet's[124] figure: "The green of spring overflows the earth like a tide"? I have felt the flame of a candle blow and flutter in the breeze. May I not, then, say: "Myriads of fireflies flit hither and thither in the dew-wet grass like little fluttering tapers"?
Combine the endless space of air, the sun's warmth, the clouds that are described to my understanding spirit, the frequent breaking through the soil of a brook or the expanse of the wind-ruffled lake, the tactual undulation of the hills, which I recall when I am far away from them, the towering trees upon trees as I walk by them, the bearings that I try to keep while others tell me the directions of the various points of the scenery, and you will begin to feel surer of my mental landscape. The utmost bound to which[125] my thought will go with clearness is the horizon of my mind. From this horizon I imagine the one which the eye marks.
Touch cannot bridge distance,—it is fit only for the contact of surfaces,—but thought leaps the chasm. For this reason I am able to use words descriptive of objects distant from my senses. I have felt the rondure of the infant's tender form. I can apply this perception to the landscape and to the far-off hills.
[127]
ANALOGIES IN SENSE PERCEPTION
[129]
X
ANALOGIES IN SENSE PERCEPTION
I HAVE not touched the outline of a star nor the glory of the moon, but I believe that God has set two lights in mind, the greater to rule by day and the lesser by night, and by them I know that I am able to navigate my life-bark, as certain of reaching the haven as he who steers by the North Star. Perhaps my sun shines not as yours. The colours that glorify my world, the blue of the sky, the green of the fields, may not correspond exactly with those you delight in; but they are none the less colour to me. The sun does not shine for my[130] physical eyes, nor does the lightning flash, nor do the trees turn green in the spring; but they have not therefore ceased to exist, any more than the landscape is annihilated when you turn your back on it.
I understand how scarlet can differ from crimson because I know that the smell of an orange is not the smell of a grape-fruit. I can also conceive that colours have shades, and guess what shades are. In smell and taste there are varieties not broad enough to be fundamental; so I call them shades. There are half a dozen roses near me. They all have the unmistakable rose scent; yet my nose tells me that they are not the same. The American Beauty is distinct from the Jacqueminot and La France. Odours in certain grasses fade[131] as really to my sense as certain colours do to yours in the sun. The freshness of a flower in my hand is analogous to the freshness I taste in an apple newly picked. I make use of analogies like these to enlarge my conceptions of colours. Some analogies which I draw between qualities in surface and vibration, taste and smell, are drawn by others between sight, hearing, and touch. This fact encourages me to persevere, to try and bridge the gap between the eye and the hand.
Certainly I get far enough to sympathize with the delight that my kind feel in beauty they see and harmony they hear. This bond between humanity and me is worth keeping, even if the idea on which I base it prove erroneous.
Sweet, beautiful vibrations exist for[132] my touch, even though they travel through other substances than air to reach me. So I imagine sweet, delightful sounds, and the artistic arrangement of them which is called music, and I remember that they travel through the air to the ear, conveying impressions somewhat like mine. I also know what tones are, since they are perceptible tactually in a voice. Now, heat varies greatly in the sun, in the fire, in hands, and in the fur of animals; indeed, there is such a thing for me as a cold sun. So I think of the varieties of light that touch the eye, cold and warm, vivid and dim, soft and glaring, but always light, and I imagine their passage through the air to an extensive sense, instead of to a narrow one like touch. From the experience I have had with voices I guess[133] how the eye distinguishes shades in the midst of light. While I read the lips of a woman whose voice is soprano, I note a low tone or a glad tone in the midst of a high, flowing voice. When I feel my cheeks hot, I know that I am red. I have talked so much and read so much about colours that through no will of my own I attach meanings to them, just as all people attach certain meanings to abstract terms like hope, idealism, monotheism, intellect, which cannot be represented truly by visible objects, but which are understood from analogies between immaterial concepts and the ideas they awaken of external things. The force of association drives me to say that white is exalted and pure, green is exuberant, red suggests love or shame or strength. Without the colour or its[134] equivalent, life to me would be dark, barren, a vast blackness.
Thus through an inner law of completeness my thoughts are not permitted to remain colourless. It strains my mind to separate colour and sound from objects. Since my education began I have always had things described to me with their colours and sounds by one with keen senses and a fine feeling for the significant. Therefore I habitually think of things as coloured and resonant. Habit accounts for part. The soul sense accounts for another part. The brain with its five-sensed construction asserts its right and accounts for the rest. Inclusive of all, the unity of the world demands that colour be kept in it, whether I have cognizance of it or not. Rather than be shut out, I take part in it by discussing[135] it, imagining it, happy in the happiness of those near me who gaze at the lovely hues of the sunset or the rainbow.
My hand has its share in this multiple knowledge, but it must never be forgotten that with the fingers I see only a very small portion of a surface, and that I must pass my hand continually over it before my touch grasps the whole. It is still more important, however, to remember that my imagination is not tethered to certain points, locations, and distances. It puts all the parts together simultaneously as if it saw or knew instead of feeling them. Though I feel only a small part of my horse at a time,—my horse is nervous and does not submit to manual explorations,— yet, because I have many times felt hock, nose,[136] hoof and mane, I can see the steeds of Phœbus Apollo coursing the heavens.
With such a power active it is impossible that my thought should be vague, indistinct. It must needs be potent, definite. This is really a corollary of the philosophical truth that the real world exists only for the mind. That is to say, I can never touch the world in its entirety; indeed, I touch less of it than the portion that others see or hear. But all creatures, all objects, pass into my brain entire, and occupy the same extent there that they do in material space. I declare that for me branched thoughts, instead of pines, wave, sway, rustle, make musical the ridges of mountains rising summit upon summit. Mention a rose too far away for me to smell it. Straightway a scent steals into my nostril,[137] a form presses against my palm in all its dilating softness, with rounded petals, slightly curled edges, curving stem, leaves drooping. When I would fain view the world as a whole, it rushes into vision—man, beast, bird, reptile, fly, sky, ocean, mountains,
plain, rock, pebble. The warmth of life, the reality of creation is over all—the throb of human hands, glossiness of fur, lithe windings of long bodies, poignant buzzing of insects, the ruggedness of the steeps as I climb them, the liquid mobility and boom of waves upon the rocks. Strange to say, try as I may, I cannot force my touch to pervade this universe in all directions. The moment I try, the whole vanishes; only small objects or narrow portions of a surface, mere touch-signs, a chaos of things scattered[138] at random, remain. No thrill, no delight is excited thereby. Restore to the artistic, comprehensive internal sense its rightful domain, and you give me joy which best proves the reality.
BEFORE THE SOUL DAWN
[139]
[141]
XI
BEFORE THE SOUL DAWN
BEFORE my teacher came to me, I did not know that I am. I lived in a world that was a no- world. I cannot hope to describe adequately that unconscious, yet conscious time of nothingness. I did not know that I knew aught, or that I lived or acted or desired. I had neither will nor intellect. I was carried along to objects and acts by a certain blind natural impetus. I had a mind which caused me to feel anger, satisfaction, desire. These two facts led those about me to suppose that[142] I willed and thought. I can remember all this, not because I knew that it was so, but because I have tactual memory. It enables me to remember that I never contracted my forehead in the act of thinking. I never viewed anything beforehand or chose it. I also recall tactually the fact that never in a start of the body or a heart-beat did I feel that I loved or cared for anything. My inner life, then, was a blank without past, present, or future, without hope or anticipation, without wonder or joy or faith.
It was not night—it was not day.
. . . . .
But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness, without a place;
There were no stars—no earth—no time— No check—no change—no good—no crime.
[143]
My dormant being had no idea of God or immortality, no fear of death.
I remember, also through touch, that I had a power of association. I felt tactual jars like the stamp of a foot, the opening of a window or its closing, the slam of a door. After repeatedly smelling rain and feeling the discomfort of wetness, I acted like those about me: I ran to shut the window. But that was not thought in any sense. It was the same kind of association that makes animals take shelter from the rain. From the same instinct of aping others, I folded the clothes that came from the laundry, and put mine away, fed the turkeys, sewed bead-eyes on my doll's face, and did many other things of which I have the tactual remembrance. When I wanted anything I liked,—ice-cream,[144] for instance, of which I was very fond,—I had a delicious taste on my tongue (which, by the way, I never have now), and in my hand I felt the turning of the freezer. I made the sign, and my mother knew I wanted ice-cream. I "thought" and desired in my fingers. If I had made a man, I should certainly have put the brain and soul in his finger-tips. From reminiscences like these I conclude that it is the opening of the two faculties, freedom of will, or choice, and rationality, or the power of thinking from one thing to another, which makes it possible to come into being first as a child, afterwards as a man.
Since I had no power of thought, I did not compare one mental state with another. So I was not conscious of any change or process going on in my brain[145] when my teacher began to instruct me. I merely felt keen delight in obtaining more easily what I wanted by means of the finger motions she taught me. I thought only of objects, and only objects I wanted. It was the turning of the freezer on a larger scale. When I learned the meaning of "I" and "me" and found that I was something, I began to think. Then consciousness first existed for me. Thus it was not the sense of touch that brought me knowledge. It was the awakening of my soul that first rendered my senses their value, their cognizance of objects, names, qualities, and properties. Thought made me conscious of love, joy, and all the emotions. I was eager to know, then to understand, afterward to reflect on what I knew and understood,[146] and the blind impetus, which had before driven me hither and thither at the dictates of my sensations, vanished forever.
I cannot represent more clearly than any one else the gradual and subtle changes from first impressions to abstract ideas. But I know that my physical ideas, that is, ideas derived from material objects, appear to me first an idea similar to those of touch. Instantly they pass into intellectual meanings. Afterward the meaning finds expression in what is called "inner speech." When I was a child, my inner speech was inner spelling. Although I am even now frequently caught spelling to myself on my fingers, yet I talk to myself, too, with my lips, and it is true that when I first learned to speak,[147] my mind discarded the finger-symbols and began to articulate. However, when I try to recall what some one has said to me, I am conscious of a hand spelling into mine.
It has often been asked what were my earliest impressions of the world in which I found myself. But one who thinks at all of his first impressions knows what a riddle this is. Our impressions grow and change unnoticed, so that what we suppose we thought as children may be quite different from what we actually experienced in our childhood. I only know that after my education began the world which came within my reach was all alive. I spelled to my blocks and my dogs. I sympathized with plants when the flowers were picked, because I thought it hurt them,[148] and that they grieved for their lost blossoms. It was two years before I could be made to believe that my dogs did not understand what I said, and I always apologized to them when I ran into or stepped on them.
As my experiences broadened and deepened, the indeterminate, poetic feelings of childhood began to fix themselves in definite thoughts. Nature—the world I could touch—was folded and filled with myself. I am inclined to believe those philosophers who declare that we know nothing but our own feelings and ideas. With a little ingenious reasoning one may see in the material world simply a mirror, an image of permanent mental sensations. In either sphere self- knowledge is the condition and the limit of our consciousness. That[149] is why, perhaps, many people know so little about what is beyond their short range of experience. They look within themselves—and find nothing! Therefore they conclude that there is nothing outside themselves, either.
However that may be, I came later to look for an image of my emotions and sensations in others. I had to learn the outward signs of inward feelings. The start of fear, the suppressed, controlled tensity of pain, the beat of happy muscles in others, had to be perceived and compared with my own experiences before I could trace them back to the intangible soul of another. Groping, uncertain, I at last found my identity, and after seeing my thoughts and feelings repeated in others, I gradually constructed my world of men and of God.[150] As I read and study, I find that this is what the rest of the race has done. Man looks within himself and in time finds the measure and the meaning of the universe.
THE LARGER SANCTIONS
[151]
[153]
XII
THE LARGER SANCTIONS
SO, in the midst of life, eager, imperious life, the deaf-blind child, fettered to the bare rock of circumstance, spider-like, sends out gossamer threads of thought into the measureless void that surrounds him. Patiently he explores the dark, until he builds up a knowledge of the world he lives in, and his soul meets the beauty of the world, where the sun shines always, and the birds sing. To the blind child the dark is kindly. In it he finds nothing extraordinary or terrible. It is his familiar world; even the groping from place to[154] place, the halting steps, the dependence upon others, do not seem strange to him. He does not know how many countless pleasures the dark shuts out from him. Not until he weighs his life in the scale of others' experience does he realize what it is to live forever in the dark. But the knowledge that teaches him this bitterness also brings its consolation—spiritual light, the promise of the day that shall be.
The blind child—the deaf-blind child—has inherited the mind of seeing and hearing ancestors—a mind measured to five senses. Therefore he must be influenced, even if it be unknown to himself, by the light, colour, song which have been transmitted through the language he is taught, for the chambers of the mind are ready to receive that language. The[155] brain of the race is so permeated with colour that it dyes even the speech of the blind. Every object I think of is stained with the hue that belongs to it by association and memory. The experience of the deaf-blind person, in a world of seeing, hearing people, is like that of a sailor on an island where the inhabitants speak a language unknown to him, whose life is unlike that he has lived. He is one, they are many; there is no chance of compromise. He must learn to see with their eyes, to hear with their ears, to think their thoughts, to follow their ideals.
If the dark, silent world which surrounds him were essentially different from the sunlit, resonant world, it would be incomprehensible to his kind, and could never be discussed. If his feelings[156] and sensations were fundamentally different from those of others, they would be inconceivable except to those who had similar sensations and feelings. If the mental consciousness of the deaf-blind person were absolutely dissimilar to that of his fellows, he would have no means of imagining what they think. Since the mind of the sightless is essentially the same as that of the seeing in that it admits of no lack, it must supply some sort of equivalent for missing physical sensations. It must perceive a likeness between things outward and things inward, a correspondence between the seen and the unseen. I make use of such a correspondence in many relations, and no matter how far I pursue it to things I cannot see, it does not break under the test.[157]
As a working hypothesis, correspondence is adequate to all life, through the whole range of phenomena. The flash of thought and its swiftness explain the lightning flash and the sweep of a comet through the heavens. My mental sky opens to me the vast celestial spaces, and I proceed to fill them with the images of my spiritual stars. I recognize truth by the clearness and guidance that it gives my thought, and, knowing what that clearness is, I can imagine what light is to the eye. It is not a convention of language, but a forcible feeling of the reality, that at times makes me start when I say, "Oh, I see my mistake!" or "How dark, cheerless is his life!" I know these are metaphors. Still, I must prove with them, since there is nothing in our language to replace them. Deaf-blind[158] metaphors to correspond do not exist and are not necessary. Because I can understand the word "reflect" figuratively, a mirror has never perplexed me. The manner in which my imagination perceives absent things enables me to see how glasses can magnify things, bring them nearer, or remove them farther.
Deny me this correspondence, this internal sense, confine me to the fragmentary, incoherent touch-world, and lo, I become as a bat which wanders about on the wing. Suppose I omitted all words of seeing, hearing, colour, light, landscape, the thousand phenomena, instruments and beauties connected with them. I should suffer a great diminution of the wonder and delight in attaining knowledge; also—more dreadful loss—my[159] emotions would be blunted, so that I could not be touched by things unseen.
Has anything arisen to disprove the adequacy of correspondence? Has any chamber of the blind man's brain been opened and found empty? Has any psychologist explored the mind of the sightless and been able to say, "There is no sensation here"?
I tread the solid earth; I breathe the scented air. Out of these two experiences I form numberless associations and correspondences. I observe, I feel, I think, I imagine. I associate the countless varied impressions, experiences, concepts. Out of these materials Fancy, the cunning artisan of the brain, welds an image which the sceptic would deny me, because I cannot see with my physical eyes the changeful,[160] lovely face of my thought-child. He would break the mind's mirror. This spirit-vandal would humble my soul and force me to bite the dust of material things. While I champ the bit of circumstance, he scourges and goads me with the spur of fact. If I heeded him, the sweet-visaged earth would vanish into nothing, and I should hold in my hand nought but an aimless, soulless lump of dead matter. But although the body physical is rooted alive to the Promethean rock, the spirit-proud huntress of the air will still pursue the shining, open highways of the universe.
Blindness has no limiting effect upon mental vision. My intellectual horizon is infinitely wide. The universe it encircles is immeasurable. Would they who bid me keep within the narrow[161] bound of my meagre senses demand of Herschel that he roof his stellar universe and give us back Plato's solid firmament of glassy spheres? Would they command Darwin from the grave and bid him blot out his geological time, give us back a paltry few thousand years? Oh, the supercilious doubters! They ever strive to clip the upward daring wings of the spirit.
A person deprived of one or more senses is not, as many seem to think, turned out into a trackless wilderness without landmark or guide. The blind man carries with him into his dark environment all the faculties essential to the apprehension of the visible world whose door is closed behind him. He finds his surroundings everywhere homogeneous with those of the sunlit world;[162] for there is an inexhaustible ocean of likenesses between the world within, and the world without, and these likenesses, these correspondences, he finds equal to every exigency his life offers.
The necessity of some such thing as correspondence or symbolism appears more and more urgent as we consider the duties that religion and philosophy enjoin upon us.
The blind are expected to read the Bible as a means of attaining spiritual happiness. Now, the Bible is filled throughout with references to clouds, stars, colours, and beauty, and often the mention of these is essential to the meaning of the parable or the message in which they occur. Here one must needs see the inconsistency of people who believe in the Bible, and yet deny us a[163] right to talk about what we do not see, and for that matter what they do not see, either. Who shall forbid my heart to sing: "Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were dark waters and thick clouds of the skies"?
Philosophy constantly points out the untrustworthiness of the five senses and the important work of reason which corrects the errors of sight and reveals its illusions. If we cannot depend on five senses, how much less may we rely on three! What ground have we for discarding light, sound, and colour as an integral part of our world? How are we to know that they have ceased to exist for us? We must take their reality for granted, even as the philosopher assumes[164] the reality of the world without being able to see it physically as a whole.
Ancient philosophy offers an argument which seems still valid. There is in the blind as in the seeing an Absolute which gives truth to what we know to be true, order to what is orderly, beauty to the beautiful, touchableness to what is tangible. If this is granted, it follows that this
Absolute is not imperfect, incomplete, partial. It must needs go beyond the limited evidence of our sensations, and also give light to what is invisible, music to the musical that silence dulls. Thus mind itself compels us to acknowledge that we are in a world of intellectual order, beauty, and harmony. The essences, or absolutes of these ideas, necessarily dispel their opposites which belong with evil, disorder and discord.[165] Thus deafness and blindness do not exist in the immaterial mind, which is philosophically the real world, but are banished with the perishable material senses. Reality, of which visible things are the symbol, shines before my mind. While I walk about my chamber with unsteady steps, my spirit sweeps skyward on eagle wings and looks out with unquenchable vision upon the world of eternal beauty.
[167]
THE DREAM WORLD
[169]
XIII
THE DREAM WORLD
EVERYBODY takes his own dreams seriously, but yawns at the breakfast-table when somebody else begins to tell the adventures of the night before. I hesitate, therefore, to enter upon an account of my dreams; for it is a literary sin to bore the reader, and a scientific sin to report the facts of a far country with more regard to point and brevity than to complete and literal truth. The psychologists have trained a pack of theories and facts which they keep in leash, like so many bulldogs, and which they let loose upon us whenever we depart[170] from the straight and narrow path of dream probability. One may not even tell an entertaining dream without being suspected of having liberally edited it,—as if editing were one of the seven deadly sins, instead of a useful and honourable occupation! Be it understood, then, that I am discoursing at my own breakfast-table, and that no scientific man is present to trip the autocrat.
I used to wonder why scientific men and others were always asking me about my dreams. But I am not surprised now, since I have discovered what some of them believe to be the ordinary waking experience of one who is both deaf and blind. They think that I can know very little about objects even a few feet beyond the reach of my arms. Everything[171] outside of myself, according to them, is a hazy blur. Trees, mountains, cities, the ocean, even the house I live in are but fairy fabrications, misty unrealities. Therefore it is assumed that my dreams should have peculiar interest for the man of science. In some undefined way it is expected that they should reveal the world I dwell in to be flat, formless, colourless, without perspective, with little
thickness and less solidity—a vast solitude of soundless space. But who shall put into words limitless, visionless, silent void? One should be a disembodied spirit indeed to make anything out of such insubstantial experiences. A world, or a dream for that matter, to be comprehensible to us, must, I should think, have a warp of substance woven into the woof of fantasy.[172] We cannot imagine even in dreams an object which has no counterpart in reality. Ghosts always resemble somebody, and if they do not appear themselves, their presence is indicated by circumstances with which we are perfectly familiar.
During sleep we enter a strange, mysterious realm which science has thus far not explored. Beyond the border-line of slumber the investigator may not pass with his common-sense rule and test. Sleep with softest touch locks all the gates of our physical senses and lulls to rest the conscious will—the disciplinarian of our waking thoughts. Then the spirit wrenches itself free from the sinewy arms of reason and like a winged courser spurns the firm green earth and speeds away[173] upon wind and cloud, leaving neither trace nor footprint by which science may track its flight and bring us knowledge of the distant, shadowy country that we nightly visit. When we come back from the dream-realm, we can give no reasonable report of what we met there. But once across the border, we feel at home as if we had always lived there and had never made any excursions into this rational daylight world.
My dreams do not seem to differ very much from the dreams of other people. Some of them are coherent and safely hitched to an event or a conclusion. Others are inconsequent and fantastic. All attest that in Dreamland there is no such thing as repose. We are always up and doing with a mind for any adventure.[174] We act, strive, think, suffer and are glad to no purpose. We leave outside the portals of Sleep all troublesome incredulities and vexatious speculations as to probability. I float wraith-like upon clouds in and out among the winds, without the faintest notion that I am doing anything unusual. In Dreamland I find little that is altogether strange or wholly new to my experience. No matter what happens, I am not astonished, however extraordinary the circumstances may be. I visit a foreign land where I have not been in reality, and I converse with peoples whose language I have never heard. Yet we manage to understand each other perfectly. Into whatsoever situation or society my wanderings bring me, there is the same homogeneity. If I happen into Vagabondia,[175] I make merry with the jolly folk of the road or the tavern.
I do not remember ever to have met persons with whom I could not at once communicate, or to have been shocked or surprised at the doings of my dream-companions. In its strange wanderings in those dusky groves of Slumberland my soul takes everything for granted and adapts itself to the wildest phantoms. I am seldom confused. Everything is as clear as day. I know events the instant they take place, and wherever I turn my steps, Mind is my faithful guide and interpreter.
I suppose every one has had in a dream the exasperating, profitless experience of seeking something urgently desired at the moment, and the aching, weary sensation that follows each failure[176] to track the thing to its hiding-place. Sometimes with a singing dizziness in my head I climb and climb, I know not where or why. Yet I cannot quit the torturing, passionate endeavour, though again and again I reach out blindly for an object to hold to. Of course according to the perversity of dreams there is no object near. I clutch empty air, and then I fall downward, and still downward, and in the midst of the fall I dissolve into the atmosphere upon which I have been floating so precariously.
Some of my dreams seem to be traced one within another like a series of concentric circles. In sleep I think I cannot sleep. I toss about in the toils of tasks unfinished. I decide to get up and read for a while. I know the shelf in[177] my library where I keep the book I want. The book has no name, but I find it without difficulty. I settle myself comfortably in the morris-chair, the great book open on my knee. Not a word can I make out, the pages are utterly blank. I am not surprised, but keenly disappointed. I finger the pages, I bend over them lovingly, the tears fall on my hands. I shut the book quickly as the thought passes through my mind, "The print will be all rubbed out if I get it wet." Yet there is no print tangible on the page!
This morning I thought that I awoke. I was certain that I had overslept. I seized my watch, and sure enough, it pointed to an hour after my rising time. I sprang up in the greatest hurry, knowing that breakfast was ready.[178] I called my mother, who declared that my watch must be wrong. She was positive it could not be so late. I looked at my watch again, and lo! the hands wiggled, whirled, buzzed and disappeared. I awoke more fully as my dismay grew, until I was at the antipodes of sleep. Finally my eyes opened actually, and I knew that I had been dreaming. I had only waked into sleep. What is still more bewildering, there is no difference between the consciousness of the sham waking and that of the real one.
It is fearful to think that all that we have ever seen, felt, read, and done may suddenly rise to our dream-vision, as the sea casts up objects it has swallowed. I have held a little child in my arms in the midst of a riot and spoken vehemently,[179] imploring the Russian soldiers not to massacre the Jews. I have re-lived the agonizing scenes of the Sepoy Rebellion and the French Revolution. Cities have burned before my eyes, and I have fought the flames until I fell exhausted. Holocausts overtake the world, and I struggle in vain to save my friends.
Once in a dream a message came speeding over land and sea that winter was descending upon the world from the North Pole, that the Arctic zone was shifting to our mild climate. Far and wide the message flew. The ocean was congealed in midsummer. Ships were held fast in the ice by thousands, the ships with large, white sails were held fast. Riches of the Orient and the plenteous harvests of the Golden West might no more pass between nation and[180] nation. For some time the trees and flowers grew on, despite the intense cold. Birds flew into the houses for safety, and those which winter had overtaken lay on the snow with wings spread in vain flight. At last the foliage and blossoms fell at the feet of Winter. The petals of the flowers were turned to rubies and sapphires. The leaves froze into emeralds. The trees moaned and tossed their branches as the frost pierced them through bark and sap, pierced into their very roots. I shivered myself awake, and with a tumult of joy I breathed the many sweet morning odours wakened by the summer sun.
One need not visit an African jungle or an Indian forest to hunt the tiger. One can lie in bed amid downy pillows[181] and dream tigers as terrible as any in the pathless wild. I was a little girl when one night I tried to cross the garden in front of my aunt's house in Alabama. I was in pursuit of a large cat with a great bushy tail. A few hours before he had clawed my little canary out of its cage and crunched it between his cruel teeth. I could not see the cat. But the thought in my mind was distinct: "He is making for the high grass at the end of the garden. I'll get there first!" I put my hand on the box border and ran swiftly along the path. When I reached the high grass, there was the cat gliding into the wavy tangle. I rushed forward and tried to seize him and take the bird from between his teeth. To my horror a huge beast, not the cat at all, sprang[182] out from the grass, and his sinewy shoulder rubbed against me with palpitating strength! His ears
stood up and quivered with anger. His eyes were hot. His nostrils were large and wet. His lips moved horribly. I knew it was a tiger, a real live tiger, and that I should be devoured—my little bird and I. I do not know what happened after that. The next important thing seldom happens in dreams.
Some time earlier I had a dream which made a vivid impression upon me. My aunt was weeping because she could not find me. But I took an impish pleasure in the thought that she and others were searching for me, and making great noise which I felt through my feet. Suddenly the spirit of mischief gave way to uncertainty and fear. I felt cold.[183] The air smelt like ice and salt. I tried to run; but the long grass tripped me, and I fell forward on my face. I lay very still, feeling with all my body. After a while my sensations seemed to be concentrated in my fingers, and I perceived that the grass blades were sharp as knives, and hurt my hands cruelly. I tried to get up cautiously, so as not to cut myself on the sharp grass. I put down a tentative foot, much as my kitten treads for the first time the primeval forest in the backyard. All at once I felt the stealthy patter of something creeping, creeping, creeping purposefully toward me. I do not know how at that time the idea was in my mind; I had no words for intention or purpose. Yet it was precisely the evil intent, and not the creeping[184] animal that terrified me. I had no fear of living creatures. I loved my father's dogs, the frisky little calf, the gentle cows, the horses and mules that ate apples from my hand, and none of them had ever harmed me. I lay low, waiting in breathless terror for the creature to spring and bury its long claws in my flesh. I thought, "They will feel like turkey-claws." Something warm and wet touched my face. I shrieked, struck out frantically, and awoke. Something was still struggling in my arms. I held on with might and main until I was exhausted, then I loosed my hold. I found dear old Belle, the setter, shaking herself and looking at me reproachfully. She and I had gone to sleep together on the rug, and had naturally wandered to the dream-forest where dogs and[185] little girls hunt wild game and have strange adventures. We encountered hosts of elfin foes, and it required all the dog tactics at Belle's command to acquit herself like the lady and huntress that she was. Belle had her dreams too. We used to lie under the trees and flowers in the old garden, and I used to laugh with delight when the magnolia leaves fell with little thuds, and Belle jumped up, thinking she had heard a partridge. She would pursue the leaf, point it, bring it back to me and lay it at my feet with a humorous wag of her tail as much as to say, "This is the kind of bird that waked me." I made a chain for her neck out of the lovely blue Paulownia flowers and covered her with great heart- shaped leaves.[186]
Dear old Belle, she has long been dreaming among the lotus-flowers and poppies of the dogs' paradise.
Certain dreams have haunted me since my childhood. One which recurs often proceeds after this wise: A spirit seems to pass before my face. I feel an extreme heat like the blast from an engine. It is the embodiment of evil. I must have had it first after the day that I nearly got burnt.
Another spirit which visits me often brings a sensation of cool dampness, such as one feels on a chill November night when the window is open. The spirit stops just beyond my reach, sways back and forth like a creature in grief. My blood is chilled, and seems to freeze in my veins. I try to move, but my body is still, and I cannot even cry out.[187] After a while the spirit passes on, and I say to myself shudderingly, "That was Death. I wonder if he has taken her." The pronoun stands for my Teacher.
In my dreams I have sensations, odours, tastes and ideas which I do not remember to have had in reality. Perhaps they are the glimpses which my mind catches through the veil of sleep of my earliest babyhood. I have heard "the trampling of many waters." Sometimes a wonderful light visits me in sleep. Such a flash and glory as it is! I gaze and gaze until it vanishes. I smell and taste much as in my waking hours; but the sense of touch plays a less important part. In sleep I almost never grope. No one guides me. Even in a crowded street I am self-sufficient,[188] and I enjoy an independence quite foreign to my physical life. Now I seldom spell on my fingers, and it is still rarer for others to spell into my hand. My mind acts independent of my physical organs. I am delighted to be thus endowed, if only in sleep; for then my soul dons its winged sandals and joyfully joins the throng of happy beings who dwell beyond the reaches of bodily sense.
The moral inconsistency of dreams is glaring. Mine grow less and less accordant with my proper principles. I am nightly hurled into an unethical medley of extremes. I must either defend another to the last drop of my blood or condemn him past all repenting. I commit murder, sleeping, to save the lives of others. I ascribe to those I love best acts and words which it[189] mortifies me to remember, and I cast reproach after reproach upon them. It is fortunate for our peace of mind that most wicked dreams are soon forgotten. Death, sudden and awful, strange loves and hates remorselessly pursued, cunningly plotted revenge, are seldom more than dim haunting recollections in the morning, and during the day they are erased by the normal activities of the mind. Sometimes immediately on waking, I am so vexed at the memory of a dream-fracas, I wish I may dream no more. With this wish distinctly before me I drop off again into a new turmoil of dreams.
Oh, dreams, what opprobrium I heap upon you—you, the most pointless things imaginable, saucy apes, brewers of odious contrasts, haunting birds of ill omen,[190] mocking echoes, unseasonable reminders, oft-returning vexations, skeletons in my morris-chair, jesters in the tomb, death's-heads at the wedding feast, outlaws of the brain that every night defy the mind's police service, thieves of my Hesperidean apples, breakers of my domestic peace, murderers of sleep. "Oh, dreadful dreams that do fright my spirit from her propriety!" No wonder that Hamlet preferred the ills he knew rather than run the risk of one dream-vision.
Yet remove the dream-world, and the loss is inconceivable. The magic spell which binds poetry together is broken. The splendour of art and the soaring might of imagination are lessened because no phantom of fadeless sunsets and flowers urges onward to a goal. Gone is the mute permission or connivance[191] which emboldens the soul to mock the limits of time and space, forecast and gather in harvests of achievement for ages yet unborn. Blot out dreams, and the blind lose one of their chief comforts; for in the visions of sleep they behold their belief in the seeing mind and their expectation of light beyond the blank, narrow night justified. Nay, our conception of immortality is shaken. Faith, the motive-power of human life, flickers out. Before such vacancy and bareness the shocks of wrecked worlds were indeed welcome. In truth, dreams bring us the thought independently of us and in spite of us that the soul
"may right
Her nature, shoot large sail on lengthening cord, And rush exultant on the Infinite."
[193]
DREAMS AND REALITY
[195]
XIV
DREAMS AND REALITY
IT is astonishing to think how our real wide-awake world revolves around the shadowy unrealities of Dreamland. Despite all that we say about the inconsequence of dreams, we often reason by them. We stake our greatest hopes upon them. Nay, we build upon them the fabric of an ideal world. I can recall few fine, thoughtful poems, few noble works of art or any system of philosophy in which there is not evidence that dream-fantasies symbolize truths concealed by phenomena.
[196]
The fact that in dreams confusion reigns, and illogical connections occur gives plausibility to the theory which Sir Arthur Mitchell and other scientific men hold, that our dream-thinking is uncontrolled and undirected by the will. The will—the inhibiting and guiding power—finds rest and refreshment in sleep, while the mind, like a barque without rudder or compass, drifts aimlessly upon an uncharted sea. But curiously enough, these fantasies and inter-twistings of thought are to be found in great imaginative poems like Spenser's "Færie Queene." Lamb was impressed by the analogy between our dream-thinking and the work of the imagination. Speaking of the episode in the cave of Mammon, Lamb wrote:[197]
"It is not enough to say that the whole episode is a copy of the mind's conceptions in sleep; it is—in some sort, but what a copy! Let the most romantic of us that has been entertained all night with the spectacle of some wild and magnificent vision, re-combine it in the morning and try it by his waking judgment. That which appeared so shifting and yet so coherent, when it came under cool examination, shall appear so reasonless and so unlinked, that we are ashamed to have been so deluded, and to have taken, though but in sleep, a monster for a god. The transitions in this episode are every whit as violent as in the most extravagant dream, and yet the waking judgment ratifies them."
Perhaps I feel more than others the[198] analogy between the world of our waking life and the world of dreams because before I was taught, I lived in a sort of perpetual dream. The testimony of parents and friends who watched me day after day is the only means that I have of knowing the actuality of those early, obscure years of my childhood. The physical acts of going to bed and
waking in the morning alone mark the transition from reality to Dreamland. As near as I can tell, asleep or awake I only felt with my body. I can recollect no process which I should now dignify with the term of thought. It is true that my bodily sensations were extremely acute; but beyond a crude connection with physical wants they are not associated or directed. They had little relation to[199] each other, to me or the experience of others. Idea—that which gives identity and continuity to experience—came into my sleeping and waking existence at the same moment with the awakening of self-consciousness. Before that moment my mind was in a state of anarchy in which meaningless sensations rioted, and if thought existed, it was so vague and inconsequent, it cannot be made a part of discourse. Yet before my education began, I dreamed. I know that I must have dreamed because I recall no break in my tactual experiences. Things fell suddenly, heavily. I felt my clothing afire, or I fell into a tub of cold water. Once I smelt bananas, and the odour in my nostrils was so vivid that in the morning, before I was dressed, I went[200] to the sideboard to look for the bananas. There were no bananas, and no odour of bananas anywhere! My life was in fact a dream throughout.
The likeness between my waking state and the sleeping one is still marked. In both states I see, but not with my eyes. I hear, but not with my ears. I speak, and am spoken to, without the sound of a voice. I am moved to pleasure by visions of ineffable beauty which I have never beheld in the physical world. Once in a dream I held in my hand a pearl. The one I saw in my dreams must, therefore, have been a creation of my imagination. It was a smooth, exquisitely moulded crystal. As I gazed into its shimmering deeps, my soul was flooded with an ecstasy of tenderness, and I was filled with wonder[201] as one who should for the first time look into the cool, sweet heart of a rose. My pearl was dew and fire, the velvety green of moss, the soft whiteness of lilies, and the distilled hues and sweetness of a thousand roses. It seemed to me, the soul of beauty was dissolved in its crystal bosom. This beauteous vision strengthens my conviction that the world which the mind builds up out of countless subtle experiences and suggestions is fairer than the world of the senses. The splendour of the sunset my friends gaze at across the purpling hills is wonderful. But the sunset of the inner vision brings purer delight because it is the worshipful blending of all the beauty that we have known and desired.
I believe that I am more fortunate in[202] my dreams than most people; for as I think back over my dreams, the pleasant ones seem to predominate, although we naturally recall most vividly and tell most eagerly the grotesque and fantastic adventures in Slumberland. I have friends, however, whose dreams are always troubled and disturbed. They wake fatigued and bruised, and they tell me that they would give a kingdom for one dreamless night. There is one friend who declares that she has never had a felicitous dream in her life. The grind and worry of the day invade the sweet domain of sleep and weary her with incessant, profitless effort. I feel very sorry for this friend, and perhaps it is hardly fair to insist upon the pleasure of dreaming in the presence of one whose dream-experience is so unhappy.[203] Still, it is true that my dreams have uses as many and sweet as those of adversity. All my yearning for the strange, the weird, the ghostlike is gratified in dreams. They carry me out of the accustomed and commonplace. In a flash, in the winking of an eye they snatch the burden from my shoulder, the trivial task from my hand and the pain and disappointment from my heart, and I behold the lovely face of my dream. It dances round me with merry measure and darts hither and thither in happy abandon. Sudden, sweet fancies spring forth from every nook and corner, and delightful surprises meet me at every turn. A happy dream is more precious than gold and rubies.
I like to think that in dreams we catch glimpses of a life larger than our[204] own. We see it as a little child, or as a savage who visits a civilized nation. Thoughts are imparted to us far above our ordinary thinking. Feelings nobler and wiser than any we have known thrill us between heart-beats. For one fleeting night a princelier nature captures us, and we become as great as our aspirations. I daresay we return to the little world of our daily activities with as distorted a half- memory of what we have seen as that of the African who visited England, and afterwards said he had been in a huge hill which carried him over great waters. The comprehensiveness of our thought, whether we are asleep or awake, no doubt depends largely upon our idiosyncrasies, constitution, habits, and mental capacity. But whatever may be the nature of our[205] dreams, the mental processes that characterize them are analogous to those which go on when the mind is not held to attention by the will.
[207]
A WAKING DREAM
[209]
XV
A WAKING DREAM
I HAVE sat for hours in a sort of reverie, letting my mind have its way without inhibition and direction, and idly noted down the incessant beat of thought upon thought, image upon image. I have observed that my thoughts make all kinds of connections, wind in and out, trace concentric circles, and break up in eddies of fantasy, just as in dreams. One day I had a literary frolic with a certain set of thoughts which dropped in for an afternoon call. I wrote for three or four hours as they arrived, and the resulting record is much[210] like a dream. I found that the most disconnected, dissimilar thoughts came in arm-in-arm—I dreamed a wide-awake dream. The difference is that in waking dreams I can look back upon the endless succession of thoughts, while in the dreams of sleep I can recall but few ideas and images. I catch broken threads from the warp and woof of a pattern I cannot see, or glowing leaves which have floated on a slumber- wind from a tree that I cannot identify. In this reverie I held the key to the company of ideas. I give my record of them to show what analogies exist between thoughts when they are not directed and the behaviour of real dream-thinking.
I had an essay to write. I wanted my mind fresh and obedient, and all its[211] handmaidens ready to hold up my hands in the task. I intended to discourse learnedly upon my educational experiences, and I was unusually anxious to do my best. I had a working plan in my head for the
essay, which was to be grave, wise, and abounding in ideas. Moreover, it was to have an academic flavour suggestive of sheepskin, and the reader was to be duly impressed with the austere dignity of cap and gown. I shut myself up in the study, resolved to beat out on the keys of my typewriter this immortal chapter of my life-history. Alexander was no more confident of conquering Asia with the splendid army which his father Philip had disciplined than I was of finding my mental house in order and my thoughts obedient. My mind had had a long vacation, and[212] I was now coming back to it in an hour that it looked not for me. My situation was similar to that of the master who went into a far country and expected on his home coming to find everything as he left it. But returning he found his servants giving a party. Confusion was rampant. There was fiddling and dancing and the babble of many tongues, so that the voice of the master could not be heard. Though he shouted and beat upon the gate, it remained closed.
So it was with me. I sounded the trumpet loud and long; but the vassals of thought would not rally to my standard. Each had his arm round the waist of a fair partner, and I know not what wild tunes "put life and mettle into their heels." There was nothing to do.[213] I looked about helplessly upon my great retinue, and realized that it is not the possession of a thing but the ability to use it which is of value. I settled back in my chair to watch the pageant. It was rather pleasant sitting there, "idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean," watching my own thoughts at play. It was like thinking fine things to say without taking the trouble to write them. I felt like Alice in Wonderland when she ran at full speed with the red queen and never passed anything or got anywhere.
The merry frolic went on madly. The dancers were all manner of thoughts. There were sad thoughts and happy thoughts, thoughts suited to every clime and weather, thoughts bearing the mark of every age and nation,[214] silly thoughts and wise thoughts, thoughts of people, of things, and of nothing, good thoughts, impish thoughts, and large, gracious thoughts. There they went swinging hand-in-hand in corkscrew fashion. An antic jester in green and gold led the dance. The guests followed no order or precedent. No two thoughts were related to each other even by the fortieth cousinship. There was not so much as an international alliance between them. Each thought behaved like a newly created poet.
"His mouth he could not ope, But there flew out a trope."
Magical lyrics—oh, if I only had written them down! Pell-mell they came down the sequestered avenues of my mind, this merry throng. With bacchanal song and shout they came, and eye[215] hath not since beheld confusion worse confounded.
Shut your eyes, and see them come—the knights and ladies of my revel. Plumed and turbaned they come, clad in mail and silken broideries, gentle maids in Quaker gray, gay princes in scarlet cloaks, coquettes with roses in their hair, monks in cowls that might have covered the tall Minster Tower, demure little girls hugging paper dolls, and rollicking school-boys with ruddy morning faces, an absent-minded professor carrying his shoes under his arms and looking wise, followed by cronies, fairies, goblins, and all the troops just loosed from Noah's storm-tossed ark. They walked, they strutted, they soared, they swam, and some came in through fire. One sprite climbed up to the moon on a[216] ladder made of leaves and frozen dew-drops. A peacock with a great hooked bill flew in and out among the branches of a pomegranate-tree pecking the rosy fruit. He screamed so loud that Apollo turned in his chariot of flame and from his burnished bow
shot golden arrows at him. This did not disturb the peacock in the least; for he spread his gem- like wings and flourished his wonderful, fire-tipped tail in the very face of the sun-god! Then came Venus—an exact copy of my own plaster cast—serene, calm-eyed, dancing "high and disposedly" like Queen Elizabeth, surrounded by a troop of lovely Cupids mounted on rose- tinted clouds, blown hither and thither by sweet winds, while all around danced flowers and streams and queer little Japanese cherry-trees in pots![217] They were followed by jovial Pan with green hair and jewelled sandals, and by his side—I could scarcely believe my eyes!— walked a modest nun counting her beads. At a little distance were seen three dancers arm-in-arm, a lean, starved platitude, a rosy, dimpled joke, and a steel-ribbed sermon on predestination. Close upon them came a whole string of Nights with wind-blown hair and Days with faggots on their backs. All at once I saw the ample figure of Life rise above the whirling mass holding a naked child in one hand and in the other a gleaming sword. A bear crouched at her feet, and all about her swirled and glowed a multitudinous host of tiny atoms which sang all together, "We are the will of God." Atom wedded atom, and chemical married chemical,[218] and the cosmic dance went on in changing, changeless measure, until my head sang like a buzz-saw.
Just as I was thinking I would leave this scene of phantoms and take a stroll in the quiet groves of Slumber I noticed a commotion near one of the entrances to my enchanted palace. It was evident from the whispering and buzzing that went round that more celebrities had arrived. The first personage I saw was Homer, blind no more, leading by a golden chain the white- beaked ships of the Achaians bobbing their heads and squawking like so many white swans. Plato and Mother Goose with the numerous children of the shoe came next. Simple Simon, Jill, and Jack who had had his head mended, and the cat that fell into the cream—all these danced in[219] a giddy reel, while Plato solemnly discoursed on the laws of Topsyturvy Land. Then followed grim-visaged Calvin and "violet-crowned, sweet-smiling Sappho" who danced a Schottische. Aristophanes and Molière joined for a measure, both talking at once, Molière in Greek and Aristophanes in German. I thought this odd, because it occurred to me that German was a dead language before Aristophanes was born. Bright-eyed Shelley brought in a fluttering lark which burst into the song of Chaucer's chanticleer. Henry Esmond gave his hand in a stately minuet to Diana of the Crossways. He evidently did not understand her nineteenth century wit; for he did not laugh. Perhaps he had lost his taste for clever women. Anon Dante and Swedenborg came together[220] conversing earnestly about things remote and mystical. Swedenborg said it was very warm. Dante replied that it might rain in the night.
Suddenly there was a great clamour, and I found that "The Battle of the Books" had begun raging anew. Two figures entered in lively dispute. One was dressed in plain homespun and the other wore a scholar's gown over a suit of motley. I gathered from their conversation that they were Cotton Mather and William Shakspere. Mather insisted that the witches in "Macbeth" should be caught and hanged. Shakspere replied that the witches had already suffered enough at the hands of commentators. They were pushed aside by the twelve knights of the Round Table, who marched in bearing on[221] a salver the goose that laid golden eggs. "The Pope's Mule" and "The Golden Bull" had a combat of history and fiction such as I had read of in books, but never before witnessed. These little animals were put to rout by a huge elephant which lumbered in with Rudyard Kipling riding high on its trunk. The elephant changed suddenly to "a rakish craft." (I do not know what a rakish craft is; but this was very rakish and very crafty.) It must have been abandoned long ago by wild pirates of the southern seas; for clinging to the rigging, and jovially cheering as the ship went down, I made out a man with blazing eyes, clad in a
velveteen jacket. As the ship disappeared from sight, Falstaff rushed to the rescue of the lonely navigator—and stole his purse![222] But Miranda persuaded him to give it back. Stevenson said, "Who steals my purse steals trash." Falstaff laughed and called this a good joke, as good as any he had heard in his day.
This was the signal for a rushing swarm of quotations. They surged to and fro, an inchoate throng of half finished phrases, mutilated sentences, parodied sentiments, and brilliant metaphors. I could not distinguish any phrases or ideas of my own making. I saw a poor, ragged, shrunken sentence that might have been mine own catch the wings of a fair idea with the light of genius shining like a halo about its head.
Ever and anon the dancers changed partners without invitation or permission. Thoughts fell in love at sight, married in a measure, and joined hands[223] without previous courtship. An incongruity is the wedding of two thoughts which have had no reasonable courtship, and marriages without wooing are apt to lead to domestic discord, even to the breaking up of an ancient, time-honoured family. Among the wedded couples were certain similes hitherto inviolable in their bachelorhood and spinsterhood, and held in great respect. Their extraordinary proceedings nearly broke up the dance. But the fatuity of their union was evident to them, and they parted. Other similes seemed to have the habit of living in discord. They had been many times married and divorced. They belonged to the notorious society of Mixed Metaphors.
A company of phantoms floated in and out wearing tantalizing garments[224] of oblivion. They seemed about to dance, then vanished. They reappeared half a dozen times, but never unveiled their faces. The imp Curiosity pulled Memory by the sleeve and said, "Why do they run away? 'Tis strange knavery!" Out ran Memory to capture them. After a great deal of racing and puffing and collision it apprehended some of the fugitives and brought them in. But when it tore off their masks, lo! some were disappointingly commonplace, and others were gipsy quotations trying to conceal the punctuation marks that belonged to them. Memory was much chagrined to have had such a hard chase only to catch this sorry lot of graceless rogues.
Into the rabble strode four stately giants who called themselves History,[225] Philosophy, Law, and Medicine. They seemed too solemn and imposing to join in a masque. But even as I gazed at these formidable guests, they all split into fragments which went whirling, dancing in divisions, subdivisions, re-subdivisions of scientific nonsense! History split into philology, ethnology, anthropology, and mythology, and these again split finer than the splitting of hairs. Each speciality hugged its bit of knowledge and waltzed it round and round. The rest of the company began to nod, and I felt drowsy myself. To put an end to the solemn gyrations, a troop of fairies mercifully waved poppies over us all, the masque faded, my head fell, and I started. Sleep had wakened me. At my elbow I found my old friend Bottom.[226]
"Bottom," I said, "I have had a dream past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, his hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was."
[227]
A CHANT OF DARKNESS
[229]
A CHANT OF DARKNESS
"My wings are folded o'er mine ears, My wings are crossèd o'er mine eyes, Yet through their silver shade appears, And through their lulling plumes arise, A Shape, a throng of sounds."
Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound."
I DARE not ask why we are reft of light, Banished to our solitary isles amid the unmeasured seas, Or how our sight was nurtured to glorious vision, To fade and vanish and leave us in the dark alone. The secret of God is upon our tabernacle; [230]Into His mystery I dare not pry. Only this I know: With Him is strength, with Him is wisdom, And His wisdom hath set darkness in our paths. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, And in a little time we shall return again Into the vast, unanswering dark.
O Dark! thou awful, sweet, and holy Dark! In thy solemn spaces, beyond the human eye,
God fashioned His universe; laid the foundations of the earth, Laid the measure thereof, and stretched the line upon it;
Shut up the sea with doors, and made the glory Of the clouds a covering for it;
Commanded His morning, and, behold! chaos fled Before the uplifted face of the sun;
Divided a water-course for the overflowing of waters;
[231]Sent rain upon the earth—
Upon the wilderness wherein there was no man, Upon the desert where grew no tender herb, And, lo! there was greenness upon the plains, And the hills were clothed with beauty!
Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,
And in a little time we shall return again Into the vast, unanswering dark.
O Dark! thou secret and inscrutable Dark!
In thy silent depths, the springs whereof man hath not fathomed, God wrought the soul of man.
O Dark! compassionate, all-knowing Dark!
Tenderly, as shadows to the evening, comes thy message to man. Softly thou layest thy hand on his tired eyelids,
And his soul, weary and homesick, returns Unto thy soothing embrace.
Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, And in a little time we shall return again [232]Into the vast, unanswering dark.
O Dark! wise, vital, thought-quickening Dark! In thy mystery thou hidest the light
That is the soul's life.
Upon thy solitary shores I walk unafraid;
I dread no evil; though I walk in the valley of the shadow, I shall not know the ecstasy of fear
When gentle Death leads me through life's open door, When the bands of night are sundered,
And the day outpours its light.
Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, And in a little time we shall return again
Into the vast, unanswering dark.
The timid soul, fear-driven, shuns the dark;
But upon the cheeks of him who must abide in shadow Breathes the wind of rushing angel-wings,
[233] And round him falls a light from unseen fires. Magical beams glow athwart the darkness;
Paths of beauty wind through his black world To another world of light,
Where no veil of sense shuts him out from Paradise. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, And in a little time we shall return again
Into the vast, unanswering dark.
O Dark! thou blessèd, quiet Dark!
To the lone exile who must dwell with thee Thou art benign and friendly;
From the harsh world thou dost shut him in;
To him thou whisperest the secrets of the wondrous night;
Upon him thou bestowest regions wide and boundless as his spirit;
Thou givest a glory to all humble things;
With thy hovering pinions thou coverest all unlovely objects;
[234] Under thy brooding wings there is peace. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, And in a little time we shall return again
Into the vast, unanswering dark.
II
ONCE in regions void of light I wandered; In blank darkness I stumbled,
And fear led me by the hand; My feet pressed earthward, Afraid of pitfalls.
By many shapeless terrors of the night affrighted, To the wakeful day
I held out beseeching arms.
Then came Love, bearing in her hand The torch that is the light unto my feet, And softly spoke Love: "Hast thou Entered into the treasures of darkness?
[235] Hast thou entered into the treasures of the night? Search out thy blindness. It holdeth
Riches past computing."
The words of Love set my spirit aflame.
My eager fingers searched out the mysteries, The splendours, the inmost sacredness, of things, And in the vacancies discerned
With spiritual sense the fullness of life; And the gates of Day stood wide.
I am shaken with gladness; My limbs tremble with joy; My heart and the earth Tremble with happiness; The ecstasy of life
Is abroad in the world.
Knowledge hath uncurtained heaven;
On the uttermost shores of darkness there is light;
[236] Midnight hath sent forth a beam!
The blind that stumbled in darkness without light Behold a new day!
In the obscurity gleams the star of Thought;
Imagination hath a luminous eye, And the mind hath a glorious vision.
III
"THE man is blind. What is life to him?
A closed book held up against a sightless face. Would that he could see
Yon beauteous star, and know For one transcendent moment The palpitating joy of sight!"
All sight is of the soul. Behold it in the upward flight
Of the unfettered spirit! Hast thou seen [237]Thought bloom in the blind child's face? Hast thou seen his mind grow,
Like the running dawn, to grasp The vision of the Master?
It was the miracle of inward sight.
In the realms of wonderment where I dwell I explore life with my hands;
I recognize, and am happy;
My fingers are ever athirst for the earth, And drink up its wonders with delight, Draw out earth's dear delights;
My feet are charged with the murmur, The throb, of all things that grow.
This is touch, this quivering, This flame, this ether,
This glad rush of blood, This daylight in my heart,
This glow of sympathy in my palms! Thou blind, loving, all-prying touch, [238]Thou openest the book of life to me.
The noiseless little noises of the earth Come with softest rustle;
The shy, sweet feet of life;
The silky mutter of moth-wings Against my restraining palm; The strident beat of insect-wings, The silvery trickle of water;
Little breezes busy in the summer grass;
The music of crisp, whisking, scurrying leaves, The swirling, wind-swept, frost-tinted leaves; The crystal splash of summer rain,
Saturate with the odours of the sod.
With alert fingers I listen To the showers of sound
That the wind shakes from the forest. I bathe in the liquid shade
Under the pines, where the air hangs cool
[239]After the shower is done. My saucy little friend the squirrel Flips my shoulder with his tail,
Leaps from leafy billow to leafy billow, Returns to eat his breakfast from my hand. Between us there is glad sympathy;
He gambols; my pulses dance;
I am exultingly full of the joy of life!
Have not my fingers split the sand On the sun-flooded beach?
Hath not my naked body felt the water sing When the sea hath enveloped it
With rippling music? Have I not felt
The lilt of waves beneath my boat, The flap of sail,
The strain of mast, The wild rush
Of the lightning-charged winds?
Have I not smelt the swift, keen flight [240]Of winged odours before the tempest? Here is joy awake, aglow;
Here is the tumult of the heart.
My hands evoke sight and sound out of feeling, Intershifting the senses endlessly;
Linking motion with sight, odour with sound They give colour to the honeyed breeze,
The measure and passion of a symphony To the beat and quiver of unseen wings. In the secrets of earth and sun and air My fingers are wise;
They snatch light out of darkness,
They thrill to harmonies breathed in silence.
I walked in the stillness of the night, And my soul uttered her gladness.
O Night, still, odorous Night, I love thee! O wide, spacious Night, I love thee! [241]O steadfast, glorious Night!
I touch thee with my hands; I lean against thy strength; I am comforted.
O fathomless, soothing Night!
Thou art a balm to my restless spirit, I nestle gratefully in thy bosom, Dark, gracious mother!
Like a dove, I rest in thy bosom.
Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, And in a little time we shall return again
Into the vast, unanswering dark.
[242]
PRINTED BY
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PLYMOUTH
👁 :
PREFACE.
I
IN 1824, when General Lafayette arrived at Philadelphia, and was nobly welcomed as “The Nation’s Guest,” the writer of this book was staying several weeks at the hospitable home of his amiable and kind relative, Mrs. Betsy Ross. The arrival of Lafayette excited and brightened her extraordinary memory, as she very cheerfully entertained all her friends, by relating the most interesting facts of the Revolution, and its Flag of Victory. Her words we well remember. She objected, as a member of the society of “Friends,” to sit for her portrait, nevertheless, a miniature of her in crayon was made, and is now highly prized; and at this late day, we deem it our duty to publish the true history of the origin of the first Flag of our Country, and the patriotism of America’s most illustrious Heroine.
The BRAVEST of the brave demands our song,
Who made the Flag so firm and strong,
Of all earth’s emblems the brightest diadem,
The Freemen’s shield, the Patriot’s gem.
Listen to her thrilling, cheering voice, her soul-inspiring, martial song, whilst a dozen of the ladies of her household joined in the chorus, as she handed over each Flag to the gallant troops, on their way to camp, and roused their enthusiasm to the highest pitch. The ladies of the Revolution loved her for her magnanimous and modest Quaker deportment, and the army of Washington applauded her dignified admonitions, so full of patriotism and power of song. Quakers very[iv] seldom sing, but Betsy Ross always said, “My voice shall be devoted to God and my country, and whenever the spirit moves me, I’ll sing and shout for liberty!”—and with an enthusiasm for Independence, exhibiting a spirit power, only to be equalled by absolute phrensy, she waved her Flag aloft, and she did sing to the gallant volunteers, the
“WAR SONG OF INDEPENDENCE.”
“Come on, my hearts of temper’d steel,
Away! away! to arms!!
No foreign slaves shall give us law,
No British tyrants reign;
’Tis Independence makes us free,
And Freedom we’ll maintain.
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white and blue,
To conquest we will go.
“A soldier is a gentleman,
His honor is his life,
And he that won’t stand by his Flag,
Will ne’er stand by his Wife.
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white and blue,
To conquest we will go.
“Then hark! to arms! to arms!! to arms!!!
’Tis the time that tries men’s souls!
The rising world shall sing of you,
A Thousand Years to come,
And to your children’s children TELL
The Wonders you have done.
When to conquest you did go! did go! did go!
With the red, white and blue,
To conquest you did go.”
[v]
Many inspired songs (after the close of the war for American Independence) were carried home by Gen. Lafayette, (the companion of Washington,) Rochambeau, and many of the French engineers and soldiers, on their return to France, having proved their chivalry and united their hearts, blood, songs and arms with Americans, for the liberties of America; and, but for the “War Song” of Betsy Ross, the “Marseillaise Hymn” would not have been written by Rouget de Lille, a French officer of engineers, in 1791. Marshal Luckner commanded the French Revolutionary army at that time on their march from Marseilles to Paris; that whole army became phrensied by the words of the “War Songs” of American Independence, that they had helped to gain, and Rouget de Lille caught the inspiratory words, “And hark, away to arms! to conquest we will go!” and quickly composed the song that he entitled the “Chant de Guerre de l’ Armée du Rhin,” the “War Song of the Army of the Rhine,” which the Parisians, some years afterwards, named the “Hymne des Marseillaise.” Thus the “War Song of Independence” became combined, in word and spirit, in the “Marseillaise Hymn,” and has ever since enlivened the march of the armies of France to conquest and played an important part in the revolutions, not only of France, but of other Continental States.
In 1870, William J. Canby, Esq., (the grandson of Mrs. John Ross,) of Philadelphia, read before the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, a very interesting paper on the subject of the “Centennial Anniversary of the American Flag,” in which he stated that his maternal grandmother, “Betsy Ross,” was the first maker of the “Stars and Stripes.” She lived in Arch street at the time, and continued in the business of making Flags for many years.
[vi]
decoration
[1]
MRS. BETSY ROSS,
THE AUTHOR OF THE FLAG AND SEAL OF THE UNITED STATES.
M
MISS ELIZABETH GRISCOM was born 1742, in Philadelphia, and was married in 1762 to Mr. John Ross, a merchant of that city. She was a strict member of The Society of Friends, and by them always called “Betsy Ross.” She was unsurpassed in fine needlework, and well known throughout Philadelphia and New York cities as the most artistic upholstress in America. She used the most superior, richest and finest of imported embroidered velvets, satins, silks and woolens, that were brought to this country by the packet ships of Caleb and Thomas Cope, Boyd & Reed, and John Ross, agreeably to her express orders; and she had a dozen or more of her sisters, daughters and nieces constantly employed sewing and finishing variegated needlework, in the very best manner, as she directed them; and thus no other upholsterer could possibly compete with her. She was a natural artist, an inventive genius, who fully understood the best effects of complimentary colors, and the grandeur of the primary colors; yet, strange as it may appear, though one of the plainest of “Quakers,” she invariably used cloths of the very brightest, and in every instance the primary colors combined, so as to be distinguished from all other objects, and she quickly judged and comprehended the styles that would best please her customers. Her brilliant draperies and tri-colored curtains, in the public halls, hotel parlors, and drawing rooms, were greatly admired; whilst General Washington, General Hand, Thomas Mifflin, George Clymer, Jared[2] Ingersoll, J. Koch, Gouveneur Morris, Robert Morris, Judge James Wilson, Frederick A. Muhlenberg, Joseph Wilson, Caleb and Thomas Cope, Thomas Wilson, Timothy Matlack, James Trimble, and William Shippen, are some of the names on her store-books, as her generous and kind friends and patrons, whose heirs still possess beautiful curtains and magnificent quilts of variegated silks and satins, unsurpassed, at this day, for beauty of utility, justness of composition, that none but a perfect artist could produce; and the constant use of materials of primary colors were her praise, excellence, and fame.
Colonel George Ross, (a member of the Continental Congress,) and James Trimble, (afterwards Deputy Secretary of Pennsylvania,) were her brothers-in-law, and through their suggestions, she adorned, with drapery, the Hall of Congress, and the Governor’s reception room. Her upholstery in the ladies’ cabins and state rooms of Caleb and Thomas Cope’s packet ships was unrivalled and not equalled by the state rooms of the European packets; whilst from the topmasts of Cope’s packets, her waving red, white, and blue STREAMERS made glad the travelers of the seas, several years before the Revolution of 1776. Some of the theatres and public halls of Philadelphia were embellished and decorated with curtains of white, mazarine, and scarlet velvets and silks in waves, festoons, and pendents, and in many instances the curtains were embroidered with gold and silver figures of vines, leaves, and stars that glittered with superb brilliancy, whilst the curtains were invariably supported by a golden spread eagle, with lightning darts in its talons and a silvery olive branch in its beak; and these were the original and wonderful handiwork of Betsy Ross. She could not think of or invent anything brighter or more graceful than her most celebrated gay and glittering primary colored curtains, spangled with stars and supported by a golden eagle, that already ornamented and adorned the interior of the chief Halls of the land. They were her[3] daily delight and divinely brilliant dreams by night. With her scissors she cut the form of a small shield, upon which she sewed five-pointed stars and tri-colored stripes, in imitation of General Washington’s coat-of-arms, which embraced stars and pales upon his escutcheon; this shield she fastened upon the eagle’s breast; and, inspired with one bright thought, she seized her meritorious daily work, flung it to the breeze, hung it “UPON THE OUTER WALLS,” and the Freemen of Columbia cheered, and hailed it “The Flag of the Union!” And that one independent FLING made all the people King!
At the request of Dr. Franklin, Mr. Robert Morris and Col. George Ross, she designed and made the first Flag of the United States, consisting of thirteen red and white stripes, a blue field as a square, on the left and upper corner, and upon the blue field was a spread eagle, with thirteen stars, in a circle of rays of glory, surrounding its head, and the United States Seal was afterwards made from the same design of the United States Flag, viz: A red, white and blue shield on the breast of an American Eagle, holding in its talons an olive branch and thirteen arrows; in its beak a scroll inscribed with this motto, “E Pluribus Unum,” and above its head thirteen stars arranged in a circle of glory. These designs were approved and adopted by the Committee and Congress, and they were made before the words “United States of America,” were legally used. The country was called “Columbia,” the Congress was styled the “Continental Congress,” the States were called “Colonies,”; every petition sent to the King of Great Britain, and every public document, were issued by “The North American Colonies;” our Country had no name until Betsy Ross marked upon her Flags, “The United States of America.” Dr. Franklin, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson had been appointed (December, 1775, by Congress, a Secret Committee) to prepare a Flag, and a device for a Seal for the Colonies, and Dr.[4] Rittenhouse was requested by the Committee, to engrave the Seal corresponding with the eagle on the Flag.
On the 4th day of July, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was finished and signed, and the Rev. Dr. Duché, Chaplain of Congress, had offered up his celebrated “Prayer of Independence,” the Star Spangled Banner was unfurled, and emblazoned the Hall of Independence, and hung around the spire of the Old State House Bell, as it sounded its tones of warning beyond the city limits, re-echoed across the Delaware, and proclaimed the liberty of the land, amidst the thundering shouts of Freemen, the roaring of cannons, musketry, firearms, and bonfires; then the Secret Committee, Franklin, Jefferson and Adams, was publicly announced by the President of Congress, and the Seal (already made) of the “United Colonies,” was used that day. Aye! the Flags waved, the Seal was engraved, and the thirteen “United States of America” were saved.
The Flag was afterwards adopted by Congress, June 14, 1777, and September 15, 1789, they passed the act, that “The Seal heretofore used by the ‘United Colonies’ in Congress assembled, shall be the Seal of the ‘United States;’” and for his beautiful workmanship in engraving that seal, Dr. Rittenhouse was honored with the appointment of Director of the United States Mint; and Franklin styled Rittenhouse, “the Newton of America.”
Mrs. Ross also engaged Mr. George Barrett, (of Cherry near Third street, Philadelphia,) an ornamental painter, and accomplished artist, to paint upon the blue fields of one dozen silk Flags, a gilded bald-headed spread eagle, with thirteen silvered stars encircling its head in rays of glory, which were executed in the finest artistic style, for the use of Congress and General Washington’s army; they were always much admired, and daily used until worn out; and, Betsy Ross also directed Mr. Barrett to ornament the army drums with the same[5] design of the eagle and thirteen stars, and the letters “United States of America,” that gave great delight and spirit to the drummers, to such an extent that Mr. Barrett was kept busy ornamenting flags, flagstaffs, and drums for Washington’s army. The committee of Congress were so much pleased with the design of the eagle and thirteen stars that they concluded to adopt and use it for the “National Seal” exclusively; but, Betsy Ross, Col. George Ross, and Lieut. Paul Jones earnestly protested against despoiling the Flag by leaving out and omitting the eagle, and declared that the Army might, if they choose, have the stars only, but as for the Navy they would never give up the Bald Eagle, the conquerer of all birds, belonging only to America; and from that day to this the bald eagle of America spreads its wings upon the Flags of the United States Revenue vessels as the emblem of freedom, independence, liberty, power, empire, and victory.
From that time our beautiful Flag was composed of thirteen stars and stripes. The red stripes were emblematic of fervency and zeal; the white, of integrity and purity; the blue field with stars, of unity, power, and glory. The number thirteen was symbolical of the thirteen colonial states, that severed their allegiance from the sovereignty of Great Britain, and declared, in 1776, that they were free and independent powers.
The size of the Flag of the army is six feet six inches in length, by four feet four inches in width, with seven red and six white stripes. The first seven stripes, (four red and three white,) bound the square of the blue field for the stars, the stripes extending from the extremity of the field to the end of the Flag. The eighth stripe is white, extending partly at the base of the field.
According to the act of Congress, April 4, 1818, on the admission of every new State into the Union, a star was to be added to the galaxy of the most brilliant Banner of earth.
[6]
Mrs. Betsy Ross put all her household to work in earnest, and the “Flags,” made of silk and bunting, were not only admired, but afterwards approved and adopted by the committee of Congress. General George Washington, Dr. Benjamin Franklin, and Thomas Jefferson, frequently visited her store, to see what progress she was making, and were not only pleased, but expressed their astonishment at her dexterity and judgment, and in the most flattering terms complimented her for her remarkable skill with the SCISSORS, as she folded a piece of white silk and with one cut formed the beautiful five-pointed star.
Mrs. Ross, by order of the Government, continued making the army and navy Flags of the United States for upwards of fifty-five years, and after her death, in 1832, her daughter, Mrs. Clarissa S. Wilson continued the business, and they became generally and widely known as the most patriotic ladies of America. After the death of Mr. John Ross, she was married to Mr. John Claypoole, the grandson of Sir John Claypoole, the grandson of Oliver Cromwell, who came to Philadelphia with William Penn. She afterwards moved from Arch near Third street, to Second street near Dock, where she resided until her death, at the good old age of four score years and ten.
Mrs. Betsy Ross was of medium height, strong in form, but remarkably graceful and erect; she had a handsome face, a very fair transparent complexion, projecting eyebrows, blue sparkling eyes, and light brown hair. She was a perfect “Friend” in all her speech and movements; possessed of the most refined sprightly intellect and polished education; in fact she was well known throughout the whole of Philadelphia city, as a “sharp, thorough going woman.” First in Friends’ Meeting, where the spirit moved her to speak and to act; First amidst the Daughters of Benevolence, furnishing clothing and lint for the Continental troops, scattering printed patriotic songs and appeals amongst them; and First and most effective in her attentions to the[7] sick. She was, in truth, what her friends styled her, “A Healing Medium,”—but respected and esteemed by all the physicians and surgeons of Philadelphia, as “the true Friend of the sick,” for when her hand touched and bathed the burning fevered brow of the sick soldier, he knew that he had one friend, and that friend was a true one. Whenever she entered the sick chamber, she saturated her handkerchief with vinegar, (that she carried in a phial in her pocket, as a precaution against contagion,) and after wiping her forehead, lips and hands, she quietly approached the bedside of the afflicted invalid, and placing her hand upon his forehead, she would whisper these words, “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ I pray that your health may be restored,” and then she would administer the medicines and restoratives as directed by the visiting physicians; and her angelic nature, purer than that of Jeanne Dare, was the powerful agency of health. She was the worthiest Heroine of the Revolution.
During the frightful devastation caused by the yellow fever in 1793, Mrs. Betsy Ross was most active in alleviating the terrible miseries of that epidemic. Moved with sorrow at the sufferings of others, she carried not only her own life in her hands, but medicines to relieve the sick and dying. Day and night she ceased not; whilst her angelic visits were cheered with success. Her personal perfections irresistably commanded the admiration and love of the sick and afflicted to such a degree, that the celebrated Dr. Benjamin Rush, styled her the “Magical Quakeress.” They who would not now honor, esteem, and love the name of Betsy Ross do not deserve to enjoy the protection of the glorious starry Flag of the Union, in the land of the free and home of the brave, or in any land upon earth where the Flag of the Union waves. Her biography will ornament the brightest pages of our country’s history, and her STATUE, surrounded by a group of her daughters and nieces, cutting, sewing and making the “Star Spangled Banners,”[8] must soon grace the Capitol of our nation, and the patriotic Ladies of America will design, erect, and pay for it. Yes, the friend of Washington, Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Morris, Jones, Rittenhouse, Ross, the immutable friend of Liberty, and of the soldiers of the Independence of 1776, will forever live in the hearts of all freemen.
[9]
JOHN PAUL JONES,
WITH THE FIRST U. S. FLAG, ESTABLISHING THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS.
P
PAUL JONES, the bravest of Naval Commanders, was born at Selkirk, Scotland, 1730, and came to America about 1770, to fight the battles of Liberty and Independence. He was styled “The Washington of the Seas,” “The deadliest foe of Cowards.” Lieutenant Paul Jones and Mrs. Elizabeth Ross, of Philadelphia, became intimate friends and neighbors, well known as the most zealous patriots in the cause of Independence, doing battle against tyrants and oppressors, and Thomas Jefferson, Dr. Franklin, John Adams, Dr. Rittenhouse and Robert Morris were their truest and most steadfast friends and patrons. Mrs. Ross designed and made the Flag that Lieutenant Jones hoisted upon the Flagship of War, in the Delaware bay. During the month of December, 1775, by the request and explicit orders of Dr. Franklin, Col. George Ross and Robert Morris, the three members of a Secret Committee of Congress, Lieutenant Jones was supplied with one of Mrs. Ross’ first and best Flags, the red white and blue emblem of Liberty, for which Congress paid. Afterward, for Jones’ brave honoring of that Flag, Congress awarded him $25,000 and a golden medal, and he was further complimented by an invitation to Paris, where the cross of military merit and a sword of honor were presented to him by the King of France, at the written request of our Congress, for his dauntless courage and his triumphant victory as the Captain of the “Richard,” with the first Flag of the Union, over the British Flag of the “Serapis.”
[10]
In January 1776, the following vessels were fitted out.
The “Alfred,” of thirty guns and three hundred men, Dudley Saltonstall, Captain, bearing the Pine Tree Flag, presented by the colony of Connecticut.
The “Columbus,” of twenty-eight guns and three hundred men, Abraham Whipple, Captain, bearing the Flag of the Red Cross of Saint George, presented by the Colony of Vermont.
The “Andrew Doria,” of eighteen guns and two hundred men, Nicholas Biddle, Captain, bearing the Flag of the White Cross of Saint Andrew, presented by the Philadelphians.
The “Cabot,” of fourteen guns and two hundred men, John W. Hopkins, Captain, bearing the Pine Tree white silk Flag from Connecticut.
The “Providence,” of twelve guns, bearing the Flag with the Cross of Saint Andrew, presented by Rhode Island.
The “Hornet,” of fourteen guns, bearing the yellow silk Flag of Virginia, with Rattlesnake.
The “Wasp,” eight guns, bearing the yellow silk Flag of South Carolina, with a Crescent, a Beaver and a Rattlesnake, with the motto, “Don’t tread on me.”
The Dispatch vessel “Fly,” bearing a blue Flag with Red Cross of Saint George.
E. Hopkins, was Commander-in-chief of the fleet, and John Paul Jones first lieutenant. Jones was offered the command of the sloop “Providence,” which he declined, declaring that he preferred to be “Chevalier Bannaret,” to hoist and carry the bald eagle, with glittering stars and stripes, on the flagship “Alfred,” and when the Commander-in-chief, E. Hopkins, came on board of her, January 1, 1776, Jones hoisted the American Union Flag, with his own hands, which was the first time it was ever displayed on a man-of-war, and[11] waving his navy cap swiftly overhead, shouted “Three Cheers for the Red, White and Blue! The Haughtiest of Monarchs shall bow before that Flag!!!” “Again, Three cheers for our Commander-in-Chief and the American Navy!!!” And thus he boldly evinced his lofty and chivalrous character, bravely assuming the responsibility, and his achievement of glorious deeds aided in the recognition of our Independence.
On the 14th day of February, 1778, the United States Flag was, for the first time, recognized in the fullest and completest manner by the Flag of France. Lieutenant Paul Jones, on board the brig “Independence,” at the entrance of Quiberon bay, sailed through the French fleet, commanded by Admiral La Motte Piquet, (who was keeping the coast of France clear of British cruisers,) and our National Emblem was most courteously complimented and saluted by nine guns. The American Flag was first carried around the world in 1789, by the “Columbia,” Captain Gray, of Boston, AND SALUTED IN EVERY PORT.
[12]
THE COLONY REBEL FLAGS.
P
PRIOR to July 4th, 1776, various kinds of Flags were used. Mr. Endicott, Puritan Governor, aided in a religious crusade against the cross of St. George; he cut the cross from the Flag flying at Salem, and was tried for treason, but escaped on the ground that his act was not actuated by treasonable motives, but religious zeal.
About the first of January, 1776, the immortal Washington unfurled his Flag in compliment to the United Colonies, but it was so nearly like the British Flag, that the Bunker Hill patriots objected to it, because it was a blue Flag with the St. George and St. Andrew’s crosses combined; too much like the Flag of the Britons. Nearly every regiment had its own colony Flag. All sorts of devices, corresponding with the variegated coats of the Continental troops, or militia, scarcely two alike. They were styled “Colony Rebel Flags;” still, the “Colony Rebel Flags” were all used as rallying Flags, until they were eclipsed by the starry Flag, called “The Appeal to Heaven,”—“The Star Spangled Banner.”
[13]
WASHINGTON’S ORDER,
FOR “THE FLAG OF THE UNION.”
T
TO General Putnam, desiring him in the most pressing terms, to give positive orders to all the Colonels to have “Union Colors” immediately completed for their respective regiments; and Colonel Kitzema received the two first regimental silk “stars and stripes” from the secret committee of Congress, through General Putnam, and Colonel Curtenieus; whilst the brilliant Banner of the Union floated from the top of Washington’s headquarters in New York City.
The real truth was, that previous to the “Declaration of Independence,” the leaders of our armies, the Governors of the thirteen colonies, and the Continental Congress were afraid to publicly unfurl an Independent Union Flag; even Washington’s combined crosses were discountenanced, disapproved of, and treated with indifference; but, the boldness of Colonel George Ross and John Ross, with the dashing, daring seamanship of Paul Jones, the firm patriotism, industry, and energy of that devoted friend of Independence, the Immortal Betsy Ross, who forced the “Flag of Liberty” forward, as true patriots of America, bid defiance to all Tory opposition, and flaunted the Stars and Stripes from the highest pinnacles of our land, the “Union Standard,” that was never styled a “Rebel Flag,” or Flag of any single Colony or State, but was styled “The Appeal to Heaven,” made the cherished Flag of Independence, the triumphant Flag of Earth!
[14]
THE RATTLESNAKE FLAG,
OF 1775, THAT CHARMED AND INCITED THE TROOPS OF VIRGINIA TO ACTION.
T
THE Flag of Virginia was a rattlesnake with blue tongue forked like lightning, and with thirteen rattles, looking like a fierce Anaconda coiled, but with head and tail up, painted on white silk, having the motto, “Don’t tread on me!” It was considered as an emblem of wisdom, and of endless duration as a representative of America, an animal found in no other part of the world. The eye of this creature excels in brightness that of any other animal; it has no eyelids and is therefore an emblem of vigilance. It never begins an attack nor ever surrenders, it is therefore an emblem of magnanimity and true courage. It never wounds until it has given notice to its enemies of their danger. Its wounds, however small, are decisive and fatal. The power of fascination attributed to it resembles America. Those who look steadily in its eyes are delighted, and involuntarily advance toward, and having once approached it, never leave it.
[15]
THE FLAG AT YORKTOWN.
A
AT the battle of Yorktown, October 19, 1781, the French troops triumphantly carried our American Stars and Stripes, with the spread eagle on the blue field, for the eagle was their adoration, and they stormed the redoubts, led on by the chivalric and heroic Generals Muhlenberg and Lafayette, who immediately hoisted that Flag upon the turret of the fortifications. The instant that Lord Cornwallis spied it, he was terror stricken. The waving of that Flag compelled him to surrender; for that Flag was the proclamation of Victory! and IT ended the war in a blaze of glory.
[16]
The Flag with its Message.
W
WHEREVER the Flag of Betsy Ross went, it waved majestically and above suspicion; no temptation or opposition could deter it, for her godly prayer went with it, and upon every Flag she forwarded, she pinned her printed message, viz: “Every man that is against this Flag is a Traitor.” Aye! where the battle was the hottest, and amidst the hail of fire where the bullets fell the fastest and thickest, that Flag cheered the wounded and dying patriots to shout “Fight on! Fight on! Fight on!” And when the brave Commander Lawrence saw that the Flag on his Frigate still waved, though wounded and dying, he cried out, in these immortal words, “Don’t give up the ship!”
On the 28th of June, 1776, the British Fleet and Army of Sir Henry Clinton commenced their furious “Attack on Fort Moultrie,” but, one circumstance serves to illustrate the daring, enthusiastic courage and love for the Flag of Independence which pervaded the American Troops. In the course of the engagement, the Flag staff of the Fort was shot away, followed by peals of derision from the minions of the Fleet, but Sergeant Jasper leaped down upon the beach, snatched up the Flag, fastened it to a sponge-staff, and while the ships were incessantly directing their broadsides upon the Fort, he mounted the merlon and deliberately replaced the Flag, shouting “IT STILL FLIES!” That warrior’s shout was echoed by the Garrison, and suddenly checked Sir Henry’s derision. The British Fleet and Army were greatly mortified by the flying Stars and Stripes, and[17] were terribly repulsed by the brave defence of Fort Moultrie, whilst the whole Garrison were fiercely echoing and re-echoing the shout—“IT STILL FLIES!!” The news of this undaunted intrepidity and exulting victory spread throughout the continent, and Sergeant Jasper was honorably promoted by Congress for his unparalleled heroism. Yes, thank God, our Flag “IT STILL FLIES,” and never can be conquered.
[18]
THE CENTENNIAL FLAG.
A
AT the Centennial Celebration and World’s Exhibition at the city of Philadelphia, 1876, “The Flags of all Nations” waved from the highest pinnacles, but the flashing, glittering “Star Spangled Banner” far outshone them all; like a mighty flame of Liberty flying through the skies, it blazed and waved, streamed and flew as the victorious Starry Banner of the Firmament, proclaiming by its expanding, snapping, cracking, sharper, louder sounds, the establishment of Freedom, Liberty, Independence, and the Union of the World! whilst in every house its graceful folds protected each and all in their own religious, family worship; the household Idol of Peace that ever and anon, silently wafted every daily prayer and song of praise, to the God of our Fathers, the true and holy Creator of the Universe.
[19]
PATRIOTIC SONGS.
T
THE following are copies of some of the printed Songs and Appeals that Betsy Ross circulated and distributed with her own hands in the streets of Philadelphia, and from the front door of her Flag store and depot, to the troops on their way to Washington’s camp:
THE GALLANT VOLUNTEER OF 1776.
“Come on, my hearts of temper’d steel,
And leave your girls and farms,
Your sports, and plays, and holidays,
And hark, away to arms!
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the flag of the brave,
To conquest we will go.
A soldier is a gentleman,
His honor is his life,
And he that won’t stand by his flag,
Will ne’er stand by his wife.
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white, and blue,
To conquest we will go.
For love and honor are the same,
Or else so ne’er ally’d,
That neither can exist alone,
But flourish side by side.
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white, and blue,
[20]To conquest we will go.
So fare you well sweethearts awhile,
You smiling girls adieu,
Ye made this starry flag divine,
We’ll kiss it out with you.
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white, and blue,
To conquest we will go.
The sun is up, our banner shines,
The hills are green and gay,
And all inviting honor calls,
Away! my boys, away!
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white, and blue,
To conquest we will go.
In shady tents by cooling streams,
With hearts all firm and free,
We’ll shout the freedom of the land,
In songs of liberty!
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white, and blue,
To conquest we will go.
No foreign slaves shall give us law,
No British tyrants reign,
’Tis Independence made us free,
And Freedom we’ll maintain.
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white, and blue,
To conquest we will go.
We’ll charge the foe from post to post,
Attack their works and lines,
And with the stars and stripes aloft,
We’ll capture their Burgoynes.
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white, and blue,
[21]To conquest we will go.
And when the war is over, boys,
Then down we’ll sit at ease,
Protected by the freemen’s flag,
And live just as we please.
When from conquest we shall go! shall go! shall go!
With the red, white, and blue,
From conquest we shall go.
Each hearty lad shall take his lass,
All beaming like a star,
And in her softer arms forget,
The dangers of the war.
When to conquest we did go! did go! did go!
With the red, white, and blue,
To conquest we did go.
The rising WORLD SHALL SING OF US,
A THOUSAND YEARS to come,
And to their children’s children tell
The WONDERS WE have done.
When to conquest we did go! did go! did go!
With the red, white, and blue,
To conquest we did go.
So honest fellows here’s my hand,
My heart, my very soul,
With all the joys of Liberty,
Good fortune and a bowl.
And to conquest we will go! will go! will go!
With the red, white, and blue,
To conquest we will go.”
[22]
STIRRING APPEALS FOR CONSTITUTIONAL LIBERTY.
“My lads, you say you are going to fight for Liberty! these are words in everybody’s mouth, but few understand their real meaning. Liberty is not a power to do what we please and have what we desire; this may be the Liberty of a wolf or of a beast of prey, but is not the Liberty of a man considered as a member of society. True Liberty is the being governed by laws of our own making; the inhabitants of every country to choose persons from amongst themselves, in whom they can confide; which persons so elected shall make laws to bind the whole. True Constitutional Liberty is the Liberty for which we are now contending, and may God in his blessings grant this to us all.
“Now, the King of England, has sent over fleets and armies to compel us to give up this invaluable privilege into his hands; but with the blessings of God, we will maintain it against him and all the world, so long as we have a man left to fire a musket. Let our constant prayer be God and Liberty.
“Our Congress have hitherto conducted us with wisdom and integrity, and although in some instances it may be thought they might have managed better than they have done, yet they have piloted us in safety through a tempestuous ocean, to the present period; and so God save the American Congress!”
[23]
WASHINGTON, THE IDOL OF AMERICA.
“My lads, I would speak a few words of the General and his Army, now encamped on the banks of the Schuylkill, enduring all the hardships of their homely situation with cheerful patience; and what is it think you blunts the keen edge of the northern winds, and makes content smile on the tops of frozen hills? I will tell you, it is the love of that “Liberty” I have sat before you, it is the consciousness of the justice of our cause. I suppose when you think of our incomparable General Washington, you figure to yourselves a stout, bulky man, of a terrible countenance, covered with gold lace, living in a magnificent house and having a great train of attendants around him. You are quite mistaken; he neither has nor needs any external ornaments. Would you hang farthing candles around the Sun to increase his lustre? His glory will admit of no addition. Your General is a plain man, plain in his dress and frugal at his board; yet a native dignity will command your respect, and the affability of his manners win your love. He is brave without ostentation; magnificent without pomp; and accomplished without pride. He is an honor to the human race and the Idol of America. And so God save General Washington and his Army.”
[24]
The Immortal Francis S. Key.
O
ON the night of September 15, 1814, whilst the British fleet, under the command of the English Admiral Cochrane, were bombarding Fort M’Henry, at the city of Baltimore, Francis S. Key, was divinely inspired with the sublime sight of the glorious Banner of the Union still waving over the Fort, and a thousand times reflected, multiplying and increasing in splendor, in every stream of fire throughout the skies, every glare meeting every leaping wave of the billowy Chesapeake Bay, the heavens and waters together joined, each wave glaring with new admired light; but, when the Fort resisted all the efforts of the British ships-of-war, and forced the Admiral to retire, amidst the joyous exultation, the great shouts of the countless hosts of freemen, “Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously!” “The Flag of the Union still triumphs!” Who? Oh! Who can imagine the feelings of Francis S. Key, as o’er his head the flying bombs sang terribly, spent their force in air, and roused all the internal powers of his poetic spirit, his inspired soul to sing still louder?
“Oh! say can you see by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming;
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thro’ the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watch’d were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets red glare, and bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro’ the night that our Flag was still there.
Oh! say does that star spangled banner yet wave,
[25]O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
Chorus—Oh! say, does the star spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore dimly seen thro’ the midst of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes;
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now, it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream;
’Tis the star spangled banner, oh! long may it wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Chorus—Oh! say, does the star spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore,
’Mid the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country they’d leave us no more?
Their blood has wash’d out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;
And the star spangled banner in triumph doth wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Chorus—Oh! say, does the star spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
Oh! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand,
Between their loved home and the war’s desolation;
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven rescued land,
Praise the Power that made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto, “In God is our trust;”
And the star spangled banner in triumph shall wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Chorus—And the star spangled banner in triumph shall wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
👁 :1
I have heard that nothing gives an author so great pleasure, as to find his works respectfully quoted by others. Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified by an incident I am going to relate to you. I stopped my horse, lately, where a great number of people were collected at an auction of merchants' goods. The hour of the sale not being come, they were conversing on the badness of the times; and one of the company called to a plain, clean, old man, with white locks,[8] 'Pray, Father Abraham, what think you of the times? Will not those heavy taxes quite ruin the country! How shall we be ever able to pay them? What would you advise us to?'——Father Abraham stood up, and replied, 'If you would have my advice, I will give it you in short; "for a word to the wise is enough," as Poor Richard says.' They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and, gathering round him, he proceeded as follows:
'Friends,' says he, 'the taxes are indeed very heavy; and, if those laid on by the government were the only ones we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we have[9] many others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the commissioners cannot ease or deliver us by allowing an abatement. However, let us hearken to good advice, and something may be done for us; "God helps them that help themselves," as Poor Richard says.
I. 'It would be thought a hard government that should tax its people one-tenth part of their time to be employed in its service: but idleness taxes many of us much more; sloth, by bringing on diseases, absolutely shortens life.
[10]
Published by W. Darton, Junr. Octr. 1, 1805.
"Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labour wears, while the used key is always bright," as Poor Richard says.—"But, dost thou love life? then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of," as Poor Richard says.—How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep! forgetting[11] that, "the sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that there will be sleeping enough in the grave," as Poor Richard says.
man and angel
"If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be" as Poor Richard says, "the greatest prodigality;" since, as he elsewhere tells us, "Lost time is never found again; and what we call time enough, always[12] proves little enough." Let us then up and be doing, and doing to the purpose: so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. "Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy; and he that riseth late, must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night; while laziness travels so slowly, that poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that drive thee; and early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise," as Poor Richard says.
The Sun shone yesterday, and I would not work, to-day it rains and I cannot work Published by W. Darton, Junr. Octr. 1, 1805.
'So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times? We may make these times better, if we bestir ourselves. "Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will die fasting. There are no gains without pains; then help hands, for I have no lands;" or[13] if I have, they are smartly taxed. "He that hath a trade, hath an estate; and he that hath a calling, hath an office of profit and honour," as Poor Richard says; but then the trade must be worked at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay our taxes.—If we are industrious, we shall never starve; for "at the working man's house hunger looks in, but dares not enter." Nor will the bailiff or the constable enter, for "industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them." What, though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation left you a legacy. "Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all things to industry. Then plow deep, while sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep."[14] Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindered to-morrow. "One to-day is worth two to-morrows," as Poor Richard says, and farther, "Never leave that till to-morrow, which you can do to-day."—If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good master should catch you idle? Are you then[15] your own master? be ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your country, and your king. Handle your tools without mittens: remember, that "The cat in gloves catches no mice," as Poor Richard says. It is true, there is much to be done, and, perhaps, you are weak-handed: but stick to it steadily,[16] and you will see great effects; for "Constant dropping wears away stones; and by diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable; and little strokes fell great oaks."
Cat
'Methinks I hear some of you say, "Must a man afford himself no leisure?" I will tell thee, my friend, what Poor Richard says, "Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure; and, since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour." Leisure is time for doing something useful; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the lazy man never; for "A life of leisure and a life of laziness are two things. Many, without labour, would live by their wits only, but they break for want of stock;" whereas industry gives comfort, and plenty, and[17] respect. "Fly pleasures and they will follow you. The diligent spinner has a large shift; and now I have a sheep and a cow, every body bids me good-morrow."
II. 'But with our industry we must likewise be steady, settled, and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not trust too much to others: for, as Poor Richard says,
"I never saw an oft-removed tree,
Nor yet an oft-removed family,
That throve so well as those that settled be."
And again, "Three removes are as bad as a fire," and again, "Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee:" and again, "If you would have your business done, go; if not, send." And again,
[18]
"He that by the plow would thrive,
Himself must either hold or drive."
'And again, "The eye of the master will do more work than both his hands:" and again, "Want of care does us more damage than want of knowledge;" and again, "Not to oversee workmen, is to leave them your purse open."
[19]
man on back of cart
people working
'Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of many; for, "In the affairs of this world, men are saved, not by faith, but by the want of it:" but a man's own care is profitable; for, "If you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like,—serve yourself. A[20] little neglect may breed great mischief; for want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; and for want of a horse the rider was lost;" being overtaken and slain by the enemy; all for want of a little care about a horse-shoe nail.
III. 'So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one's own business; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our industry more certainly successful. A man may if he knows not how to save as he gets, "keep his nose all his life to the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen makes a lean will;" and,
[21]
"Many estates are spent in the getting,
Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting,
And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting."
"If you would be wealthy, think of saving, as well as of getting. The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her out-goes are greater than her incomes."
family
men sitting around a table
'Away, then, with your expensive follies, and you will not then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and chargeable families; for,
"Women and wine, game and deceit,
Make the wealth small, and the want great."
[22]
And farther, "What maintains one vice, would bring up two children." You may think perhaps, that a little tea, or a little punch now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, and a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; but remember, "Many a little makes a mickle." Beware of little expences;[23] "A small leak will sink a great ship," as Poor Richard says; and again, "Who dainties love shall beggars prove;" and moreover, "Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them." Here you are all got together to this sale of fineries and nick-nacks. You call them goods; but, if you do not take care, they will prove evils to some of you.[24] You expect they will be sold cheap, and, perhaps, they may for less than they cost; but, if you have no occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Remember what poor Richard says, "Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries." And again, "At a great pennyworth pause a while:" he means, that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not real; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do thee more harm than good. For, in another place, he says, "Many have been ruined by buying good pennyworths." Again, "It is foolish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance;" and yet this folly is practised every day at auctions, for want of minding the Almanack. Many a one, for the sake of finery on[25] the back, have gone with a hungry belly, and half starved their families; "Silks and satins, scarlet and velvets, put out the kitchen fire," as Poor Richard says. These are not the necessaries of life; they can scarcely be called the conveniences: and yet only because they look pretty, how many want to have them?—By these, and other extravagancies, the genteel are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of those whom they formerly despised, but who, through industry and frugality, have maintained their standing; in which case it appears plainly, that "A ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees," as Poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a small estate left them, which they[26] knew not the getting of; they think "it is day, and will never be night:" that a little to be spent out of so much is not worth minding; but "Always taking out of the meal-tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the bottom," as Poor Richard says; and then, "When the well is dry, they know the worth of water." But this they might have known before, if they had taken his advice. "If you would know the value of money, go and try to borrow some; for he that goes a borrowing, goes a sorrowing," as Poor Richard says; and, indeed, so does he that lends to such people, when he goes to get it in again. Poor Dick farther advises, and says,
[27]
"Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse,
Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse."
man and lady walking in street
'And again, "Pride is as loud a beggar as Want, and a great deal more saucy." When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy ten more, that your appearance may be all of a piece; but[28] Poor Dick says, "It is easier to suppress the first desire, than to satisfy all that follow it." And it is as truly folly for the poor to ape the rich, as for the frog to swell, in order to equal the ox.
"Vessels large may venture more,
But little boats should keep near shore."
It is, however, a folly soon punished: for, as Poor Richard says, "Pride that dines on vanity, sups on contempt;—Pride breakfasted with Plenty, dined with Poverty and supped with Infamy." And, after all, of what use is this pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so much is suffered? It cannot promote health, nor ease pain; it makes no increase of merit in the person, it creates envy, it hastens misfortune.
[29]
'But what madness it must be to run in debt for these superfluities? We are offered, by the terms of this sale, six months credit; and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, because we cannot spare the ready money, and hope now to be fine without it. But, ah! think what you do when you run in debt; you give to another power over your liberty, If you cannot pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor; you will be in fear when you speak to him; you will make poor pitiful sneaking excuses, and, by degrees, come to lose your veracity, and sink into base, downright lying; for, "The second vice is lying[30], the first is running in debt," as Poor Richard says; and again, to the same purpose, "Lying rides upon Debt's back:" whereas a free-born Englishman ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to see or speak to any man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. "It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright."—What would you think of that prince, or of that government, who should issue an edict forbidding you to dress like a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude? Would you not say that you were free, have a right to dress as you please, and that such an edict would be a breach of[31] your privileges, and such a government tyrannical? And yet you are about to put yourself under that tyranny, when you run in debt for such dress! Your creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to deprive you of your liberty, by confining you in gaol for life, or by selling you for a servant, if you should not be able to pay him. When you have got your bargain, you may, perhaps, think little of payment; but, as Poor Richard says, "Creditors have better memories than debtors; creditors are a superstitious sect, great observers of set days and times." The day comes round before you are aware, and the demand is made before you are prepared to satisfy[32] it; or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term, which at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely short: "Time will seem to have added wings to his heels as well as his shoulders. Those have a short Lent, who owe money to be paid at Easter." At present, perhaps, you may think yourselves in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance without injury; but
"For age and want save while you may,
No morning sun lasts a whole day."
'Gain may be temporary and uncertain; but ever, while you live, expense is constant and certain; and "It is easier to build two chimneys, than to keep one in fuel," as Poor Richard[33] says: so, "Rather go to bed supper-less, than rise in debt,"
Get what you can, and what you get hold,
'Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold.
And when you have got the Philosopher's stone, sure you will no longer complain of bad times, or the difficulty of paying taxes.
IV. 'This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom; but, after all, do not depend too much upon your own industry, and frugality, and prudence, though excellent things; for they may all be blasted without the blessing of Heaven; and therefore, ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that at present seem to want it,[34] but comfort and help them. Remember, Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous.
men at a table
'And now to conclude, "Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other," as Poor Richard says, and scarce in that; for it is true, "We may give advice, but we cannot give conduct." However, remember this, "They that will not be counselled[35] cannot be helped;" and farther, that "If you will not hear Reason, she will surely rap your knuckles," as Poor Richard says.'
Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people heard it, and approved the doctrine, and immediately practised the contrary, just as if it had been a common sermon; for the auction opened, and they began to buy extravagantly.—I found the good man had thoroughly studied my Almanacks, and digested all I had dropt on those topics during the course of twenty-five years. The frequent mention he made of me must have tired any one else; but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though I was conscious that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my[36] own, which he ascribed to me; but rather the gleanings that I had made of the sense of all ages and nations. However, I resolved to be the better for the echo of it; and, though I had at first determined to buy stuff for a new coat, I went away, resolved to wear my old one a little longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit will be as great as mine.—I am, as ever, thine to serve thee,
👁 :3
It is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life. I have, as it were, a superstitious hesitation in lifting the veil that clings about my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an autobiography is a difficult one. When I try to classify my earliest impressions, I find that fact and fancy look alike across the years that link the past with the present. The woman paints the child's experiences in her own fantasy. A few impressions stand out vividly from the first years of my life; but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest." Besides, many of the joys and sorrows of childhood have lost their poignancy; and many incidents of vital importance in my early education have been forgotten in the excitement of great discoveries. In order, therefore, not to be tedious I shall try to present in a series of sketches only the episodes that seem to me to be the most interesting and important.
I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern Alabama.
The family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a native of Switzerland, who settled in Maryland. One of my Swiss ancestors was the first teacher of the deaf in Zurich and wrote a book on the subject of their education—rather a singular coincidence; though it is true that there is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his.
My grandfather, Caspar Keller's son, "entered" large tracts of land in Alabama and finally settled there. I have been told that once a year he went from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia on horseback to purchase supplies for the plantation, and my aunt has in her possession many of the letters to his family, which give charming and vivid accounts of these trips.
My Grandmother Keller was a daughter of one of Lafayette's aides, Alexander Moore, and granddaughter of Alexander Spotswood, an early Colonial Governor of Virginia. She was also second cousin to Robert E. Lee.
My father, Arthur H. Keller, was a captain in the Confederate Army, and my mother, Kate Adams, was his second wife and many years younger. Her grandfather, Benjamin Adams, married Susanna E. Goodhue, and lived in Newbury, Massachusetts, for many years. Their son, Charles Adams, was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, and moved to Helena, Arkansas. When the Civil War broke out, he fought on the side of the South and became a brigadier-general. He married Lucy Helen Everett, who belonged to the same family of Everetts as Edward Everett and Dr. Edward Everett Hale. After the war was over the family moved to Memphis, Tennessee.
I lived, up to the time of the illness that deprived me of my sight and hearing, in a tiny house consisting of a large square room and a small one, in which the servant slept. It is a custom in the South to build a small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion. Such a house my father built after the Civil War, and when he married my mother they went to live in it. It was completely covered with vines, climbing roses and honeysuckles. From the garden it looked like an arbour. The little porch was hidden from view by a screen of yellow roses and Southern smilax. It was the favourite haunt of humming-birds and bees.
The Keller homestead, where the family lived, was a few steps from our little rose-bower. It was called "Ivy Green" because the house and the surrounding trees and fences were covered with beautiful English ivy. Its old-fashioned garden was the paradise of my childhood.
Even in the days before my teacher came, I used to feel along the square stiff boxwood hedges, and, guided by the sense of smell would find the first violets and lilies. There, too, after a fit of temper, I went to find comfort and to hide my hot face in the cool leaves and grass. What joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers, to wander happily from spot to spot, until, coming suddenly upon a beautiful vine, I recognized it by its leaves and blossoms, and knew it was the vine which covered the tumble-down summer-house at the farther end of the garden! Here, also, were trailing clematis, drooping jessamine, and some rare sweet flowers called butterfly lilies, because their fragile petals resemble butterflies' wings. But the roses—they were loveliest of all. Never have I found in the greenhouses of the North such heart-satisfying roses as the climbing roses of my southern home. They used to hang in long festoons from our porch, filling the whole air with their fragrance, untainted by any earthy smell; and in the early morning, washed in the dew, they felt so soft, so pure, I could not help wondering if they did not resemble the asphodels of God's garden.
The beginning of my life was simple and much like every other little life. I came, I saw, I conquered, as the first baby in the family always does. There was the usual amount of discussion as to a name for me. The first baby in the family was not to be lightly named, every one was emphatic about that. My father suggested the name of Mildred Campbell, an ancestor whom he highly esteemed, and he declined to take any further part in the discussion. My mother solved the problem by giving it as her wish that I should be called after her mother, whose maiden name was Helen Everett. But in the excitement of carrying me to church my father lost the name on the way, very naturally, since it was one in which he had declined to have a part. When the minister asked him for it, he just remembered that it had been decided to call me after my grandmother, and he gave her name as Helen Adams.
I am told that while I was still in long dresses I showed many signs of an eager, self-asserting disposition. Everything that I saw other people do I insisted upon imitating. At six months I could pipe out "How d'ye," and one day I attracted every one's attention by saying "Tea, tea, tea" quite plainly. Even after my illness I remembered one of the words I had learned in these early months. It was the word "water," and I continued to make some sound for that word after all other speech was lost. I ceased making the sound "wah-wah" only when I learned to spell the word.
They tell me I walked the day I was a year old. My mother had just taken me out of the bath-tub and was holding me in her lap, when I was suddenly attracted by the flickering shadows of leaves that danced in the sunlight on the smooth floor. I slipped from my mother's lap and almost ran toward them. The impulse gone, I fell down and cried for her to take me up in her arms.
These happy days did not last long. One brief spring, musical with the song of robin and mocking-bird, one summer rich in fruit and roses, one autumn of gold and crimson sped by and left their gifts at the feet of an eager, delighted child. Then, in the dreary month of February, came the illness which closed my eyes and ears and plunged me into the unconsciousness of a new-born baby. They called it acute congestion of the stomach and brain. The doctor thought I could not live. Early one morning, however, the fever left me as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come. There was great rejoicing in the family that morning, but no one, not even the doctor, knew that I should never see or hear again.
I fancy I still have confused recollections of that illness. I especially remember the tenderness with which my mother tried to soothe me in my waling hours of fret and pain, and the agony and bewilderment with which I awoke after a tossing half sleep, and turned my eyes, so dry and hot, to the wall away from the once-loved light, which came to me dim and yet more dim each day. But, except for these fleeting memories, if, indeed, they be memories, it all seems very unreal, like a nightmare. Gradually I got used to the silence and darkness that surrounded me and forgot that it had ever been different, until she came—my teacher—who was to set my spirit free. But during the first nineteen months of my life I had caught glimpses of broad, green fields, a luminous sky, trees and flowers which the darkness that followed could not wholly blot out. If we have once seen, "the day is ours, and what the day has shown."
CHAPTER II
I cannot recall what happened during the first months after my illness. I only know that I sat in my mother's lap or clung to her dress as she went about her household duties. My hands felt every object and observed every motion, and in this way I learned to know many things. Soon I felt the need of some communication with others and began to make crude signs. A shake of the head meant "No" and a nod, "Yes," a pull meant "Come" and a push, "Go." Was it bread that I wanted? Then I would imitate the acts of cutting the slices and buttering them. If I wanted my mother to make ice-cream for dinner I made the sign for working the freezer and shivered, indicating cold. My mother, moreover, succeeded in making me understand a good deal. I always knew when she wished me to bring her something, and I would run upstairs or anywhere else she indicated. Indeed, I owe to her loving wisdom all that was bright and good in my long night.
I understood a good deal of what was going on about me. At five I learned to fold and put away the clean clothes when they were brought in from the laundry, and I distinguished my own from the rest. I knew by the way my mother and aunt dressed when they were going out, and I invariably begged to go with them. I was always sent for when there was company, and when the guests took their leave, I waved my hand to them, I think with a vague remembrance of the meaning of the gesture. One day some gentlemen called on my mother, and I felt the shutting of the front door and other sounds that indicated their arrival. On a sudden thought I ran upstairs before any one could stop me, to put on my idea of a company dress. Standing before the mirror, as I had seen others do, I anointed mine head with oil and covered my face thickly with powder. Then I pinned a veil over my head so that it covered my face and fell in folds down to my shoulders, and tied an enormous bustle round my small waist, so that it dangled behind, almost meeting the hem of my skirt. Thus attired I went down to help entertain the company.
I do not remember when I first realized that I was different from other people; but I knew it before my teacher came to me. I had noticed that my mother and my friends did not use signs as I did when they wanted anything done, but talked with their mouths. Sometimes I stood between two persons who were conversing and touched their lips. I could not understand, and was vexed. I moved my lips and gesticulated frantically without result. This made me so angry at times that I kicked and screamed until I was exhausted.
I think I knew when I was naughty, for I knew that it hurt Ella, my nurse, to kick her, and when my fit of temper was over I had a feeling akin to regret. But I cannot remember any instance in which this feeling prevented me from repeating the naughtiness when I failed to get what I wanted.
In those days a little coloured girl, Martha Washington, the child of our cook, and Belle, an old setter, and a great hunter in her day, were my constant companions. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I seldom had any difficulty in making her do just as I wished. It pleased me to domineer over her, and she generally submitted to my tyranny rather than risk a hand-to-hand encounter. I was strong, active, indifferent to consequences. I knew my own mind well enough and always had my own way, even if I had to fight tooth and nail for it. We spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, kneading dough balls, helping make ice-cream, grinding coffee, quarreling over the cake-bowl, and feeding the hens and turkeys that swarmed about the kitchen steps. Many of them were so tame that they would eat from my hand and let me feel them. One big gobbler snatched a tomato from me one day and ran away with it. Inspired, perhaps, by Master Gobbler's success, we carried off to the woodpile a cake which the cook had just frosted, and ate every bit of it. I was quite ill afterward, and I wonder if retribution also overtook the turkey.
The guinea-fowl likes to hide her nest in out-of-the-way places, and it was one of my greatest delights to hunt for the eggs in the long grass. I could not tell Martha Washington when I wanted to go egg-hunting, but I would double my hands and put them on the ground, which meant something round in the grass, and Martha always understood. When we were fortunate enough to find a nest I never allowed her to carry the eggs home, making her understand by emphatic signs that she might fall and break them.
The sheds where the corn was stored, the stable where the horses were kept, and the yard where the cows were milked morning and evening were unfailing sources of interest to Martha and me. The milkers would let me keep my hands on the cows while they milked, and I often got well switched by the cow for my curiosity.
The making ready for Christmas was always a delight to me. Of course I did not know what it was all about, but I enjoyed the pleasant odours that filled the house and the tidbits that were given to Martha Washington and me to keep us quiet. We were sadly in the way, but that did not interfere with our pleasure in the least. They allowed us to grind the spices, pick over the raisins and lick the stirring spoons. I hung my stocking because the others did; I cannot remember, however, that the ceremony interested me especially, nor did my curiosity cause me to wake before daylight to look for my gifts.
Martha Washington had as great a love of mischief as I. Two little children were seated on the veranda steps one hot July afternoon. One was black as ebony, with little bunches of fuzzy hair tied with shoestrings sticking out all over her head like corkscrews. The other was white, with long golden curls. One child was six years old, the other two or three years older. The younger child was blind—that was I—and the other was Martha Washington. We were busy cutting out paper dolls; but we soon wearied of this amusement, and after cutting up our shoestrings and clipping all the leaves off the honeysuckle that were within reach, I turned my attention to Martha's corkscrews. She objected at first, but finally submitted. Thinking that turn and turn about is fair play, she seized the scissors and cut off one of my curls, and would have cut them all off but for my mother's timely interference.
Belle, our dog, my other companion, was old and lazy and liked to sleep by the open fire rather than to romp with me. I tried hard to teach her my sign language, but she was dull and inattentive. She sometimes started and quivered with excitement, then she became perfectly rigid, as dogs do when they point a bird. I did not then know why Belle acted in this way; but I knew she was not doing as I wished. This vexed me and the lesson always ended in a one-sided boxing match. Belle would get up, stretch herself lazily, give one or two contemptuous sniffs, go to the opposite side of the hearth and lie down again, and I, wearied and disappointed, went off in search of Martha.
Many incidents of those early years are fixed in my memory, isolated, but clear and distinct, making the sense of that silent, aimless, dayless life all the more intense.
One day I happened to spill water on my apron, and I spread it out to dry before the fire which was flickering on the sitting-room hearth. The apron did not dry quickly enough to suit me, so I drew nearer and threw it right over the hot ashes. The fire leaped into life; the flames encircled me so that in a moment my clothes were blazing. I made a terrified noise that brought Viny, my old nurse, to the rescue. Throwing a blanket over me, she almost suffocated me, but she put out the fire. Except for my hands and hair I was not badly burned.
About this time I found out the use of a key. One morning I locked my mother up in the pantry, where she was obliged to remain three hours, as the servants were in a detached part of the house. She kept pounding on the door, while I sat outside on the porch steps and laughed with glee as I felt the jar of the pounding. This most naughty prank of mine convinced my parents that I must be taught as soon as possible. After my teacher, Miss Sullivan, came to me, I sought an early opportunity to lock her in her room. I went upstairs with something which my mother made me understand I was to give to Miss Sullivan; but no sooner had I given it to her than I slammed the door to, locked it, and hid the key under the wardrobe in the hall. I could not be induced to tell where the key was. My father was obliged to get a ladder and take Miss Sullivan out through the window—much to my delight. Months after I produced the key.
When I was about five years old we moved from the little vine-covered house to a large new one. The family consisted of my father and mother, two older half-brothers, and, afterward, a little sister, Mildred. My earliest distinct recollection of my father is making my way through great drifts of newspapers to his side and finding him alone, holding a sheet of paper before his face. I was greatly puzzled to know what he was doing. I imitated this action, even wearing his spectacles, thinking they might help solve the mystery. But I did not find out the secret for several years. Then I learned what those papers were, and that my father edited one of them.
My father was most loving and indulgent, devoted to his home, seldom leaving us, except in the hunting season. He was a great hunter, I have been told, and a celebrated shot. Next to his family he loved his dogs and gun. His hospitality was great, almost to a fault, and he seldom came home without bringing a guest. His special pride was the big garden where, it was said, he raised the finest watermelons and strawberries in the county; and to me he brought the first ripe grapes and the choicest berries. I remember his caressing touch as he led me from tree to tree, from vine to vine, and his eager delight in whatever pleased me.
He was a famous story-teller; after I had acquired language he used to spell clumsily into my hand his cleverest anecdotes, and nothing pleased him more than to have me repeat them at an opportune moment.
I was in the North, enjoying the last beautiful days of the summer of 1896, when I heard the news of my father's death. He had had a short illness, there had been a brief time of acute suffering, then all was over. This was my first great sorrow—my first personal experience with death.
How shall I write of my mother? She is so near to me that it almost seems indelicate to speak of her.
For a long time I regarded my little sister as an intruder. I knew that I had ceased to be my mother's only darling, and the thought filled me with jealousy. She sat in my mother's lap constantly, where I used to sit, and seemed to take up all her care and time. One day something happened which seemed to me to be adding insult to injury.
At that time I had a much-petted, much-abused doll, which I afterward named Nancy. She was, alas, the helpless victim of my outbursts of temper and of affection, so that she became much the worse for wear. I had dolls which talked, and cried, and opened and shut their eyes; yet I never loved one of them as I loved poor Nancy. She had a cradle, and I often spent an hour or more rocking her. I guarded both doll and cradle with the most jealous care; but once I discovered my little sister sleeping peacefully in the cradle. At this presumption on the part of one to whom as yet no tie of love bound me I grew angry. I rushed upon the cradle and over-turned it, and the baby might have been killed had my mother not caught her as she fell. Thus it is that when we walk in the valley of twofold solitude we know little of the tender affections that grow out of endearing words and actions and companionship. But afterward, when I was restored to my human heritage, Mildred and I grew into each other's hearts, so that we were content to go hand-in-hand wherever caprice led us, although she could not understand my finger language, nor I her childish prattle.
CHAPTER III
Meanwhile the desire to express myself grew. The few signs I used became less and less adequate, and my failures to make myself understood were invariably followed by outbursts of passion. I felt as if invisible hands were holding me, and I made frantic efforts to free myself. I struggled—not that struggling helped matters, but the spirit of resistance was strong within me; I generally broke down in tears and physical exhaustion. If my mother happened to be near I crept into her arms, too miserable even to remember the cause of the tempest. After awhile the need of some means of communication became so urgent that these outbursts occurred daily, sometimes hourly.
My parents were deeply grieved and perplexed. We lived a long way from any school for the blind or the deaf, and it seemed unlikely that any one would come to such an out-of-the-way place as Tuscumbia to teach a child who was both deaf and blind. Indeed, my friends and relatives sometimes doubted whether I could be taught. My mother's only ray of hope came from Dickens's "American Notes." She had read his account of Laura Bridgman, and remembered vaguely that she was deaf and blind, yet had been educated. But she also remembered with a hopeless pang that Dr. Howe, who had discovered the way to teach the deaf and blind, had been dead many years. His methods had probably died with him; and if they had not, how was a little girl in a far-off town in Alabama to receive the benefit of them?
When I was about six years old, my father heard of an eminent oculist in Baltimore, who had been successful in many cases that had seemed hopeless. My parents at once determined to take me to Baltimore to see if anything could be done for my eyes.
The journey, which I remember well was very pleasant. I made friends with many people on the train. One lady gave me a box of shells. My father made holes in these so that I could string them, and for a long time they kept me happy and contented. The conductor, too, was kind. Often when he went his rounds I clung to his coat tails while he collected and punched the tickets. His punch, with which he let me play, was a delightful toy. Curled up in a corner of the seat I amused myself for hours making funny little holes in bits of cardboard.
My aunt made me a big doll out of towels. It was the most comical shapeless thing, this improvised doll, with no nose, mouth, ears or eyes—nothing that even the imagination of a child could convert into a face. Curiously enough, the absence of eyes struck me more than all the other defects put together. I pointed this out to everybody with provoking persistency, but no one seemed equal to the task of providing the doll with eyes. A bright idea, however, shot into my mind, and the problem was solved. I tumbled off the seat and searched under it until I found my aunt's cape, which was trimmed with large beads. I pulled two beads off and indicated to her that I wanted her to sew them on my doll. She raised my hand to her eyes in a questioning way, and I nodded energetically. The beads were sewed in the right place and I could not contain myself for joy; but immediately I lost all interest in the doll. During the whole trip I did not have one fit of temper, there were so many things to keep my mind and fingers busy.
When we arrived in Baltimore, Dr. Chisholm received us kindly: but he could do nothing. He said, however, that I could be educated, and advised my father to consult Dr. Alexander Graham Bell of Washington, who would be able to give him information about schools and teachers of deaf or blind children. Acting on the doctor's advice, we went immediately to Washington to see Dr. Bell, my father with a sad heart and many misgivings, I wholly unconscious of his anguish, finding pleasure in the excitement of moving from place to place. Child as I was, I at once felt the tenderness and sympathy which endeared Dr. Bell to so many hearts, as his wonderful achievements enlist their admiration. He held me on his knee while I examined his watch, and he made it strike for me. He understood my signs, and I knew it and loved him at once. But I did not dream that that interview would be the door through which I should pass from darkness into light, from isolation to friendship, companionship, knowledge, love.
Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, director of the Perkins Institution in Boston, the scene of Dr. Howe's great labours for the blind, and ask him if he had a teacher competent to begin my education. This my father did at once, and in a few weeks there came a kind letter from Mr. Anagnos with the comforting assurance that a teacher had been found. This was in the summer of 1886. But Miss Sullivan did not arrive until the following March.
Thus I came up out of Egypt and stood before Sinai, and a power divine touched my spirit and gave it sight, so that I beheld many wonders. And from the sacred mountain I heard a voice which said, "Knowledge is love and light and vision."
CHAPTER IV
The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder when I consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which it connects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I was seven years old.
On the afternoon of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb, expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother's signs and from the hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually for weeks and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.
Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding-line, and had no way of knowing how near the harbour was. "Light! give me light!" was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.
I felt approaching footsteps, I stretched out my hand as I supposed to my mother. Some one took it, and I was caught up and held close in the arms of her who had come to reveal all things to me, and, more than all things else, to love me.
The morning after my teacher came she led me into her room and gave me a doll. The little blind children at the Perkins Institution had sent it and Laura Bridgman had dressed it; but I did not know this until afterward. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into my hand the word "d-o-l-l." I was at once interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded in making the letters correctly I was flushed with childish pleasure and pride. Running downstairs to my mother I held up my hand and made the letters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word or even that words existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-like imitation. In the days that followed I learned to spell in this uncomprehending way a great many words, among them pin, hat, cup and a few verbs like sit, stand and walk. But my teacher had been with me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name.
One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll into my lap also, spelled "d-o-l-l" and tried to make me understand that "d-o-l-l" applied to both. Earlier in the day we had had a tussle over the words "m-u-g" and "w-a-t-e-r." Miss Sullivan had tried to impress it upon me that "m-u-g" is mug and that "w-a-t-e-r" is water, but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had dropped the subject for the time, only to renew it at the first opportunity. I became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizing the new doll, I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow nor regret followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In the still, dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment or tenderness. I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the hearth, and I had a sense of satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort was removed. She brought me my hat, and I knew I was going out into the warm sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may be called a thought, made me hop and skip with pleasure.
We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some one was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled into the other the word water, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten—a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that "w-a-t-e-r" meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept away.
I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house every object which I touched seemed to quiver with life. That was because I saw everything with the strange, new sight that had come to me. On entering the door I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way to the hearth and picked up the pieces. I tried vainly to put them together. Then my eyes filled with tears; for I realized what I had done, and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow.
I learned a great many new words that day. I do not remember what they all were; but I do know that mother, father, sister, teacher were among them—words that were to make the world blossom for me, "like Aaron's rod, with flowers." It would have been difficult to find a happier child than I was as I lay in my crib at the close of that eventful day and lived over the joys it had brought me, and for the first time longed for a new day to come.
CHAPTER V
I recall many incidents of the summer of 1887 that followed my soul's sudden awakening. I did nothing but explore with my hands and learn the name of every object that I touched; and the more I handled things and learned their names and uses, the more joyous and confident grew my sense of kinship with the rest of the world.
When the time of daisies and buttercups came Miss Sullivan took me by the hand across the fields, where men were preparing the earth for the seed, to the banks of the Tennessee River, and there, sitting on the warm grass, I had my first lessons in the beneficence of nature. I learned how the sun and the rain make to grow out of the ground every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, how birds build their nests and live and thrive from land to land, how the squirrel, the deer, the lion and every other creature finds food and shelter. As my knowledge of things grew I felt more and more the delight of the world I was in. Long before I learned to do a sum in arithmetic or describe the shape of the earth, Miss Sullivan had taught me to find beauty in the fragrant woods, in every blade of grass, and in the curves and dimples of my baby sister's hand. She linked my earliest thoughts with nature, and made me feel that "birds and flowers and I were happy peers."
But about this time I had an experience which taught me that nature is not always kind. One day my teacher and I were returning from a long ramble. The morning had been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry when at last we turned our faces homeward. Two or three times we stopped to rest under a tree by the wayside. Our last halt was under a wild cherry tree a short distance from the house. The shade was grateful, and the tree was so easy to climb that with my teacher's assistance I was able to scramble to a seat in the branches. It was so cool up in the tree that Miss Sullivan proposed that we have our luncheon there. I promised to keep still while she went to the house to fetch it.
Suddenly a change passed over the tree. All the sun's warmth left the air. I knew the sky was black, because all the heat, which meant light to me, had died out of the atmosphere. A strange odour came up from the earth. I knew it, it was the odour that always precedes a thunderstorm, and a nameless fear clutched at my heart. I felt absolutely alone, cut off from my friends and the firm earth. The immense, the unknown, enfolded me. I remained still and expectant; a chilling terror crept over me. I longed for my teacher's return; but above all things I wanted to get down from that tree.
There was a moment of sinister silence, then a multitudinous stirring of the leaves. A shiver ran through the tree, and the wind sent forth a blast that would have knocked me off had I not clung to the branch with might and main. The tree swayed and strained. The small twigs snapped and fell about me in showers. A wild impulse to jump seized me, but terror held me fast. I crouched down in the fork of the tree. The branches lashed about me. I felt the intermittent jarring that came now and then, as if something heavy had fallen and the shock had traveled up till it reached the limb I sat on. It worked my suspense up to the highest point, and just as I was thinking the tree and I should fall together, my teacher seized my hand and helped me down. I clung to her, trembling with joy to feel the earth under my feet once more. I had learned a new lesson—that nature "wages open war against her children, and under softest touch hides treacherous claws."
After this experience it was a long time before I climbed another tree. The mere thought filled me with terror. It was the sweet allurement of the mimosa tree in full bloom that finally overcame my fears. One beautiful spring morning when I was alone in the summer-house, reading, I became aware of a wonderful subtle fragrance in the air. I started up and instinctively stretched out my hands. It seemed as if the spirit of spring had passed through the summer-house. "What is it?" I asked, and the next minute I recognized the odour of the mimosa blossoms. I felt my way to the end of the garden, knowing that the mimosa tree was near the fence, at the turn of the path. Yes, there it was, all quivering in the warm sunshine, its blossom-laden branches almost touching the long grass. Was there ever anything so exquisitely beautiful in the world before! Its delicate blossoms shrank from the slightest earthly touch; it seemed as if a tree of paradise had been transplanted to earth. I made my way through a shower of petals to the great trunk and for one minute stood irresolute; then, putting my foot in the broad space between the forked branches, I pulled myself up into the tree. I had some difficulty in holding on, for the branches were very large and the bark hurt my hands. But I had a delicious sense that I was doing something unusual and wonderful so I kept on climbing higher and higher, until I reached a little seat which somebody had built there so long ago that it had grown part of the tree itself. I sat there for a long, long time, feeling like a fairy on a rosy cloud. After that I spent many happy hours in my tree of paradise, thinking fair thoughts and dreaming bright dreams.
CHAPTER VI
I had now the key to all language, and I was eager to learn to use it. Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the words that fall from others' lips they catch on the wing, as it were, delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a slow and often painful process. But whatever the process, the result is wonderful. Gradually from naming an object we advance step by step until we have traversed the vast distance between our first stammered syllable and the sweep of thought in a line of Shakespeare.
At first, when my teacher told me about a new thing I asked very few questions. My ideas were vague, and my vocabulary was inadequate; but as my knowledge of things grew, and I learned more and more words, my field of inquiry broadened, and I would return again and again to the same subject, eager for further information. Sometimes a new word revived an image that some earlier experience had engraved on my brain.
I remember the morning that I first asked the meaning of the word, "love." This was before I knew many words. I had found a few early violets in the garden and brought them to my teacher. She tried to kiss me: but at that time I did not like to have any one kiss me except my mother. Miss Sullivan put her arm gently round me and spelled into my hand, "I love Helen."
"What is love?" I asked.
She drew me closer to her and said, "It is here," pointing to my heart, whose beats I was conscious of for the first time. Her words puzzled me very much because I did not then understand anything unless I touched it.
I smelt the violets in her hand and asked, half in words, half in signs, a question which meant, "Is love the sweetness of flowers?"
"No," said my teacher.
Again I thought. The warm sun was shining on us.
"Is this not love?" I asked, pointing in the direction from which the heat came. "Is this not love?"
It seemed to me that there could be nothing more beautiful than the sun, whose warmth makes all things grow. But Miss Sullivan shook her head, and I was greatly puzzled and disappointed. I thought it strange that my teacher could not show me love.
A day or two afterward I was stringing beads of different sizes in symmetrical groups—two large beads, three small ones, and so on. I had made many mistakes, and Miss Sullivan had pointed them out again and again with gentle patience. Finally I noticed a very obvious error in the sequence and for an instant I concentrated my attention on the lesson and tried to think how I should have arranged the beads. Miss Sullivan touched my forehead and spelled with decided emphasis, "Think."
In a flash I knew that the word was the name of the process that was going on in my head. This was my first conscious perception of an abstract idea.
For a long time I was still—I was not thinking of the beads in my lap, but trying to find a meaning for "love" in the light of this new idea. The sun had been under a cloud all day, and there had been brief showers; but suddenly the sun broke forth in all its southern splendour.
Again I asked my teacher, "Is this not love?"
"Love is something like the clouds that were in the sky before the sun came out," she replied. Then in simpler words than these, which at that time I could not have understood, she explained: "You cannot touch the clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. You cannot touch love either; but you feel the sweetness that it pours into everything. Without love you would not be happy or want to play."
The beautiful truth burst upon my mind—I felt that there were invisible lines stretched between my spirit and the spirits of others.
From the beginning of my education Miss Sullivan made it a practice to speak to me as she would speak to any hearing child; the only difference was that she spelled the sentences into my hand instead of speaking them. If I did not know the words and idioms necessary to express my thoughts she supplied them, even suggesting conversation when I was unable to keep up my end of the dialogue.
This process was continued for several years; for the deaf child does not learn in a month, or even in two or three years, the numberless idioms and expressions used in the simplest daily intercourse. The little hearing child learns these from constant repetition and imitation. The conversation he hears in his home stimulates his mind and suggests topics and calls forth the spontaneous expression of his own thoughts. This natural exchange of ideas is denied to the deaf child. My teacher, realizing this, determined to supply the kinds of stimulus I lacked. This she did by repeating to me as far as possible, verbatim, what she heard, and by showing me how I could take part in the conversation. But it was a long time before I ventured to take the initiative, and still longer before I could find something appropriate to say at the right time.
The deaf and the blind find it very difficult to acquire the amenities of conversation. How much more this difficulty must be augmented in the case of those who are both deaf and blind! They cannot distinguish the tone of the voice or, without assistance, go up and down the gamut of tones that give significance to words; nor can they watch the expression of the speaker's face, and a look is often the very soul of what one says.
CHAPTER VII
The next important step in my education was learning to read.
As soon as I could spell a few words my teacher gave me slips of cardboard on which were printed words in raised letters. I quickly learned that each printed word stood for an object, an act, or a quality. I had a frame in which I could arrange the words in little sentences; but before I ever put sentences in the frame I used to make them in objects. I found the slips of paper which represented, for example, "doll," "is," "on," "bed" and placed each name on its object; then I put my doll on the bed with the words is, on, bed arranged beside the doll, thus making a sentence of the words, and at the same time carrying out the idea of the sentence with the things themselves.
One day, Miss Sullivan tells me, I pinned the word girl on my pinafore and stood in the wardrobe. On the shelf I arranged the words, is, in, wardrobe. Nothing delighted me so much as this game. My teacher and I played it for hours at a time. Often everything in the room was arranged in object sentences.
From the printed slip it was but a step to the printed book. I took my "Reader for Beginners" and hunted for the words I knew; when I found them my joy was like that of a game of hide-and-seek. Thus I began to read. Of the time when I began to read connected stories I shall speak later.
For a long time I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied most earnestly it seemed more like play than work. Everything Miss Sullivan taught me she illustrated by a beautiful story or a poem. Whenever anything delighted or interested me she talked it over with me just as if she were a little girl herself. What many children think of with dread, as a painful plodding through grammar, hard sums and harder definitions, is to-day one of my most precious memories.
I cannot explain the peculiar sympathy Miss Sullivan had with my pleasures and desires. Perhaps it was the result of long association with the blind. Added to this she had a wonderful faculty for description. She went quickly over uninteresting details, and never nagged me with questions to see if I remembered the day-before-yesterday's lesson. She introduced dry technicalities of science little by little, making every subject so real that I could not help remembering what she taught.
We read and studied out of doors, preferring the sunlit woods to the house. All my early lessons have in them the breath of the woods—the fine, resinous odour of pine needles, blended with the perfume of wild grapes. Seated in the gracious shade of a wild tulip tree, I learned to think that everything has a lesson and a suggestion. "The loveliness of things taught me all their use." Indeed, everything that could hum, or buzz, or sing, or bloom had a part in my education-noisy-throated frogs, katydids and crickets held in my hand until forgetting their embarrassment, they trilled their reedy note, little downy chickens and wildflowers, the dogwood blossoms, meadow-violets and budding fruit trees. I felt the bursting cotton-bolls and fingered their soft fiber and fuzzy seeds; I felt the low soughing of the wind through the cornstalks, the silky rustling of the long leaves, and the indignant snort of my pony, as we caught him in the pasture and put the bit in his mouth—ah me! how well I remember the spicy, clovery smell of his breath!
Sometimes I rose at dawn and stole into the garden while the heavy dew lay on the grass and flowers. Few know what joy it is to feel the roses pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies as they sway in the morning breeze. Sometimes I caught an insect in the flower I was plucking, and I felt the faint noise of a pair of wings rubbed together in a sudden terror, as the little creature became aware of a pressure from without.
Another favourite haunt of mine was the orchard, where the fruit ripened early in July. The large, downy peaches would reach themselves into my hand, and as the joyous breezes flew about the trees the apples tumbled at my feet. Oh, the delight with which I gathered up the fruit in my pinafore, pressed my face against the smooth cheeks of the apples, still warm from the sun, and skipped back to the house!
Our favourite walk was to Keller's Landing, an old tumbledown lumber-wharf on the Tennessee River, used during the Civil War to land soldiers. There we spent many happy hours and played at learning geography. I built dams of pebbles, made islands and lakes, and dug river-beds, all for fun, and never dreamed that I was learning a lesson. I listened with increasing wonder to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the great round world with its burning mountains, buried cities, moving rivers of ice, and many other things as strange. She made raised maps in clay, so that I could feel the mountain ridges and valleys, and follow with my fingers the devious course of rivers. I liked this, too; but the division of the earth into zones and poles confused and teased my mind. The illustrative strings and the orange stick representing the poles seemed so real that even to this day the mere mention of temperate zone suggests a series of twine circles; and I believe that if any one should set about it he could convince me that white bears actually climb the North Pole.
Arithmetic seems to have been the only study I did not like. From the first I was not interested in the science of numbers. Miss Sullivan tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups, and by arranging kintergarten straws I learned to add and subtract. I never had patience to arrange more than five or six groups at a time. When I had accomplished this my conscience was at rest for the day, and I went out quickly to find my playmates.
In this same leisurely manner I studied zoology and botany.
Once a gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, sent me a collection of fossils—tiny mollusk shells beautifully marked, and bits of sandstone with the print of birds' claws, and a lovely fern in bas-relief. These were the keys which unlocked the treasures of the antediluvian world for me. With trembling fingers I listened to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the terrible beasts, with uncouth, unpronounceable names, which once went tramping through the primeval forests, tearing down the branches of gigantic trees for food, and died in the dismal swamps of an unknown age. For a long time these strange creatures haunted my dreams, and this gloomy period formed a somber background to the joyous Now, filled with sunshine and roses and echoing with the gentle beat of my pony's hoof.
Another time a beautiful shell was given me, and with a child's surprise and delight I learned how a tiny mollusk had built the lustrous coil for his dwelling place, and how on still nights, when there is no breeze stirring the waves, the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the Indian Ocean in his "ship of pearl." After I had learned a great many interesting things about the life and habits of the children of the sea—how in the midst of dashing waves the little polyps build the beautiful coral isles of the Pacific, and the foraminifera have made the chalk-hills of many a land—my teacher read me "The Chambered Nautilus," and showed me that the shell-building process of the mollusks is symbolical of the development of the mind. Just as the wonder-working mantle of the Nautilus changes the material it absorbs from the water and makes it a part of itself, so the bits of knowledge one gathers undergo a similar change and become pearls of thought.
Again, it was the growth of a plant that furnished the text for a lesson. We bought a lily and set it in a sunny window. Very soon the green, pointed buds showed signs of opening. The slender, fingerlike leaves on the outside opened slowly, reluctant, I thought, to reveal the loveliness they hid; once having made a start, however, the opening process went on rapidly, but in order and systematically. There was always one bud larger and more beautiful than the rest, which pushed her outer, covering back with more pomp, as if the beauty in soft, silky robes knew that she was the lily-queen by right divine, while her more timid sisters doffed their green hoods shyly, until the whole plant was one nodding bough of loveliness and fragrance.
Once there were eleven tadpoles in a glass globe set in a window full of plants. I remember the eagerness with which I made discoveries about them. It was great fun to plunge my hand into the bowl and feel the tadpoles frisk about, and to let them slip and slide between my fingers. One day a more ambitious fellow leaped beyond the edge of the bowl and fell on the floor, where I found him to all appearance more dead than alive. The only sign of life was a slight wriggling of his tail. But no sooner had he returned to his element than he darted to the bottom, swimming round and round in joyous activity. He had made his leap, he had seen the great world, and was content to stay in his pretty glass house under the big fuchsia tree until he attained the dignity of froghood. Then he went to live in the leafy pool at the end of the garden, where he made the summer nights musical with his quaint love-song.
Thus I learned from life itself. At the beginning I was only a little mass of possibilities. It was my teacher who unfolded and developed them. When she came, everything about me breathed of love and joy and was full of meaning. She has never since let pass an opportunity to point out the beauty that is in everything, nor has she ceased trying in thought and action and example to make my life sweet and useful.
It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me. She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower.
Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks.
My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell. I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers. All the best of me belongs to her—there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch.
CHAPTER VIII
The first Christmas after Miss Sullivan came to Tuscumbia was a great event. Every one in the family prepared surprises for me, but what pleased me most, Miss Sullivan and I prepared surprises for everybody else. The mystery that surrounded the gifts was my greatest delight and amusement. My friends did all they could to excite my curiosity by hints and half-spelled sentences which they pretended to break off in the nick of time. Miss Sullivan and I kept up a game of guessing which taught me more about the use of language than any set lessons could have done. Every evening, seated round a glowing wood fire, we played our guessing game, which grew more and more exciting as Christmas approached.
On Christmas Eve the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their tree, to which they invited me. In the centre of the schoolroom stood a beautiful tree ablaze and shimmering in the soft light, its branches loaded with strange, wonderful fruit. It was a moment of supreme happiness. I danced and capered round the tree in an ecstasy. When I learned that there was a gift for each child, I was delighted, and the kind people who had prepared the tree permitted me to hand the presents to the children. In the pleasure of doing this, I did not stop to look at my own gifts; but when I was ready for them, my impatience for the real Christmas to begin almost got beyond control. I knew the gifts I already had were not those of which friends had thrown out such tantalizing hints, and my teacher said the presents I was to have would be even nicer than these. I was persuaded, however, to content myself with the gifts from the tree and leave the others until morning.
That night, after I had hung my stocking, I lay awake a long time, pretending to be asleep and keeping alert to see what Santa Claus would do when he came. At last I fell asleep with a new doll and a white bear in my arms. Next morning it was I who waked the whole family with my first "Merry Christmas!" I found surprises, not in the stocking only, but on the table, on all the chairs, at the door, on the very window-sill; indeed, I could hardly walk without stumbling on a bit of Christmas wrapped up in tissue paper. But when my teacher presented me with a canary, my cup of happiness overflowed.
Little Tim was so tame that he would hop on my finger and eat candied cherries out of my hand. Miss Sullivan taught me to take all the care of my new pet. Every morning after breakfast I prepared his bath, made his cage clean and sweet, filled his cups with fresh seed and water from the well-house, and hung a spray of chickweed in his swing.
One morning I left the cage on the window-seat while I went to fetch water for his bath. When I returned I felt a big cat brush past me as I opened the door. At first I did not realize what had happened; but when I put my hand in the cage and Tim's pretty wings did not meet my touch or his small pointed claws take hold of my finger, I knew that I should never see my sweet little singer again.
CHAPTER IX
The next important event in my life was my visit to Boston, in May, 1888. As if it were yesterday I remember the preparations, the departure with my teacher and my mother, the journey, and finally the arrival in Boston. How different this journey was from the one I had made to Baltimore two years before! I was no longer a restless, excitable little creature, requiring the attention of everybody on the train to keep me amused. I sat quietly beside Miss Sullivan, taking in with eager interest all that she told me about what she saw out of the car window: the beautiful Tennessee River, the great cotton-fields, the hills and woods, and the crowds of laughing negroes at the stations, who waved to the people on the train and brought delicious candy and popcorn balls through the car. On the seat opposite me sat my big rag doll, Nancy, in a new gingham dress and a beruffled sunbonnet, looking at me out of two bead eyes. Sometimes, when I was not absorbed in Miss Sullivan's descriptions, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her up in my arms, but I generally calmed my conscience by making myself believe that she was asleep.
As I shall not have occasion to refer to Nancy again, I wish to tell here a sad experience she had soon after our arrival in Boston. She was covered with dirt—the remains of mud pies I had compelled her to eat, although she had never shown any special liking for them. The laundress at the Perkins Institution secretly carried her off to give her a bath. This was too much for poor Nancy. When I next saw her she was a formless heap of cotton, which I should not have recognized at all except for the two bead eyes which looked out at me reproachfully.
When the train at last pulled into the station at Boston it was as if a beautiful fairy tale had come true. The "once upon a time" was now; the "far-away country" was here.
We had scarcely arrived at the Perkins Institution for the Blind when I began to make friends with the little blind children. It delighted me inexpressibly to find that they knew the manual alphabet. What joy to talk with other children in my own language! Until then I had been like a foreigner speaking through an interpreter. In the school where Laura Bridgman was taught I was in my own country. It took me some time to appreciate the fact that my new friends were blind. I knew I could not see; but it did not seem possible that all the eager, loving children who gathered round me and joined heartily in my frolics were also blind. I remember the surprise and the pain I felt as I noticed that they placed their hands over mine when I talked to them and that they read books with their fingers. Although I had been told this before, and although I understood my own deprivations, yet I had thought vaguely that since they could hear, they must have a sort of "second sight," and I was not prepared to find one child and another and yet another deprived of the same precious gift. But they were so happy and contented that I lost all sense of pain in the pleasure of their companionship.
One day spent with the blind children made me feel thoroughly at home in my new environment, and I looked eagerly from one pleasant experience to another as the days flew swiftly by. I could not quite convince myself that there was much world left, for I regarded Boston as the beginning and the end of creation.
While we were in Boston we visited Bunker Hill, and there I had my first lesson in history. The story of the brave men who had fought on the spot where we stood excited me greatly. I climbed the monument, counting the steps, and wondering as I went higher and yet higher if the soldiers had climbed this great stairway and shot at the enemy on the ground below.
The next day we went to Plymouth by water. This was my first trip on the ocean and my first voyage in a steamboat. How full of life and motion it was! But the rumble of the machinery made me think it was thundering, and I began to cry, because I feared if it rained we should not be able to have our picnic out of doors. I was more interested, I think, in the great rock on which the Pilgrims landed than in anything else in Plymouth. I could touch it, and perhaps that made the coming of the Pilgrims and their toils and great deeds seem more real to me. I have often held in my hand a little model of the Plymouth Rock which a kind gentleman gave me at Pilgrim Hall, and I have fingered its curves, the split in the centre and the embossed figures "1620," and turned over in my mind all that I knew about the wonderful story of the Pilgrims.
How my childish imagination glowed with the splendour of their enterprise! I idealized them as the bravest and most generous men that ever sought a home in a strange land. I thought they desired the freedom of their fellow men as well as their own. I was keenly surprised and disappointed years later to learn of their acts of persecution that make us tingle with shame, even while we glory in the courage and energy that gave us our "Country Beautiful."
Among the many friends I made in Boston were Mr. William Endicott and his daughter. Their kindness to me was the seed from which many pleasant memories have since grown. One day we visited their beautiful home at Beverly Farms. I remember with delight how I went through their rose-garden, how their dogs, big Leo and little curly-haired Fritz with long ears, came to meet me, and how Nimrod, the swiftest of the horses, poked his nose into my hands for a pat and a lump of sugar. I also remember the beach, where for the first time I played in the sand. It was hard, smooth sand, very different from the loose, sharp sand, mingled with kelp and shells, at Brewster. Mr. Endicott told me about the great ships that came sailing by from Boston, bound for Europe. I saw him many times after that, and he was always a good friend to me; indeed, I was thinking of him when I called Boston "the City of Kind Hearts."
CHAPTER X
Just before the Perkins Institution closed for the summer, it was arranged that my teacher and I should spend our vacation at Brewster, on Cape Cod, with our dear friend, Mrs. Hopkins. I was delighted, for my mind was full of the prospective joys and of the wonderful stories I had heard about the sea.
My most vivid recollection of that summer is the ocean. I had always lived far inland and had never had so much as a whiff of salt air; but I had read in a big book called "Our World" a description of the ocean which filled me with wonder and an intense longing to touch the mighty sea and feel it roar. So my little heart leaped high with eager excitement when I knew that my wish was at last to be realized.
No sooner had I been helped into my bathing-suit than I sprang out upon the warm sand and without thought of fear plunged into the cool water. I felt the great billows rock and sink. The buoyant motion of the water filled me with an exquisite, quivering joy. Suddenly my ecstasy gave place to terror; for my foot struck against a rock and the next instant there was a rush of water over my head. I thrust out my hands to grasp some support, I clutched at the water and at the seaweed which the waves tossed in my face. But all my frantic efforts were in vain. The waves seemed to be playing a game with me, and tossed me from one to another in their wild frolic. It was fearful! The good, firm earth had slipped from my feet, and everything seemed shut out from this strange, all-enveloping element—life, air, warmth and love. At last, however, the sea, as if weary of its new toy, threw me back on the shore, and in another instant I was clasped in my teacher's arms. Oh, the comfort of the long, tender embrace! As soon as I had recovered from my panic sufficiently to say anything, I demanded: "Who put salt in the water?"
After I had recovered from my first experience in the water, I thought it great fun to sit on a big rock in my bathing-suit and feel wave after wave dash against the rock, sending up a shower of spray which quite covered me. I felt the pebbles rattling as the waves threw their ponderous weight against the shore; the whole beach seemed racked by their terrific onset, and the air throbbed with their pulsations. The breakers would swoop back to gather themselves for a mightier leap, and I clung to the rock, tense, fascinated, as I felt the dash and roar of the rushing sea!
I could never stay long enough on the shore. The tang of the untainted, fresh and free sea air was like a cool, quieting thought, and the shells and pebbles and the seaweed with tiny living creatures attached to it never lost their fascination for me. One day Miss Sullivan attracted my attention to a strange object which she had captured basking in the shallow water. It was a great horseshoe crab—the first one I had ever seen. I felt of him and thought it very strange that he should carry his house on his back. It suddenly occurred to me that he might make a delightful pet; so I seized him by the tail with both hands and carried him home. This feat pleased me highly, as his body was very heavy, and it took all my strength to drag him half a mile. I would not leave Miss Sullivan in peace until she had put the crab in a trough near the well where I was confident he would be secure. But next morning I went to the trough, and lo, he had disappeared! Nobody knew where he had gone, or how he had escaped. My disappointment was bitter at the time; but little by little I came to realize that it was not kind or wise to force this poor dumb creature out of his element, and after awhile I felt happy in the thought that perhaps he had returned to the sea.
CHAPTER XI
In the autumn I returned to my Southern home with a heart full of joyous memories. As I recall that visit North I am filled with wonder at the richness and variety of the experiences that cluster about it. It seems to have been the beginning of everything. The treasures of a new, beautiful world were laid at my feet, and I took in pleasure and information at every turn. I lived myself into all things. I was never still a moment; my life was as full of motion as those little insects that crowd a whole existence into one brief day. I met many people who talked with me by spelling into my hand, and thought in joyous sympathy leaped up to meet thought, and behold, a miracle had been wrought! The barren places between my mind and the minds of others blossomed like the rose.
I spent the autumn months with my family at our summer cottage, on a mountain about fourteen miles from Tuscumbia. It was called Fern Quarry, because near it there was a limestone quarry, long since abandoned. Three frolicsome little streams ran through it from springs in the rocks above, leaping here and tumbling there in laughing cascades wherever the rocks tried to bar their way. The opening was filled with ferns which completely covered the beds of limestone and in places hid the streams. The rest of the mountain was thickly wooded. Here were great oaks and splendid evergreens with trunks like mossy pillars, from the branches of which hung garlands of ivy and mistletoe, and persimmon trees, the odour of which pervaded every nook and corner of the wood—an illusive, fragrant something that made the heart glad. In places the wild muscadine and scuppernong vines stretched from tree to tree, making arbours which were always full of butterflies and buzzing insects. It was delightful to lose ourselves in the green hollows of that tangled wood in the late afternoon, and to smell the cool, delicious odours that came up from the earth at the close of day.
Our cottage was a sort of rough camp, beautifully situated on the top of the mountain among oaks and pines. The small rooms were arranged on each side of a long open hall. Round the house was a wide piazza, where the mountain winds blew, sweet with all wood-scents. We lived on the piazza most of the time—there we worked, ate and played. At the back door there was a great butternut tree, round which the steps had been built, and in front the trees stood so close that I could touch them and feel the wind shake their branches, or the leaves twirl downward in the autumn blast.
Many visitors came to Fern Quarry. In the evening, by the campfire, the men played cards and whiled away the hours in talk and sport. They told stories of their wonderful feats with fowl, fish and quadruped—how many wild ducks and turkeys they had shot, what "savage trout" they had caught, and how they had bagged the craftiest foxes, outwitted the most clever 'possums and overtaken the fleetest deer, until I thought that surely the lion, the tiger, the bear and the rest of the wild tribe would not be able to stand before these wily hunters. "To-morrow to the chase!" was their good-night shout as the circle of merry friends broke up for the night. The men slept in the hall outside our door, and I could feel the deep breathing of the dogs and the hunters as they lay on their improvised beds.
At dawn I was awakened by the smell of coffee, the rattling of guns, and the heavy footsteps of the men as they strode about, promising themselves the greatest luck of the season. I could also feel the stamping of the horses, which they had ridden out from town and hitched under the trees, where they stood all night, neighing loudly, impatient to be off. At last the men mounted, and, as they say in the old songs, away went the steeds with bridles ringing and whips cracking and hounds racing ahead, and away went the champion hunters "with hark and whoop and wild halloo!"
Later in the morning we made preparations for a barbecue. A fire was kindled at the bottom of a deep hole in the ground, big sticks were laid crosswise at the top, and meat was hung from them and turned on spits. Around the fire squatted negroes, driving away the flies with long branches. The savoury odour of the meat made me hungry long before the tables were set.
When the bustle and excitement of preparation was at its height, the hunting party made its appearance, struggling in by twos and threes, the men hot and weary, the horses covered with foam, and the jaded hounds panting and dejected—and not a single kill! Every man declared that he had seen at least one deer, and that the animal had come very close; but however hotly the dogs might pursue the game, however well the guns might be aimed, at the snap of the trigger there was not a deer in sight. They had been as fortunate as the little boy who said he came very near seeing a rabbit—he saw his tracks. The party soon forgot its disappointment, however, and we sat down, not to venison, but to a tamer feast of veal and roast pig.
One summer I had my pony at Fern Quarry. I called him Black Beauty, as I had just read the book, and he resembled his namesake in every way, from his glossy black coat to the white star on his forehead. I spent many of my happiest hours on his back. Occasionally, when it was quite safe, my teacher would let go the leading-rein, and the pony sauntered on or stopped at his sweet will to eat grass or nibble the leaves of the trees that grew beside the narrow trail.
On mornings when I did not care for the ride, my teacher and I would start after breakfast for a ramble in the woods, and allow ourselves to get lost amid the trees and vines, with no road to follow except the paths made by cows and horses. Frequently we came upon impassable thickets which forced us to take a round about way. We always returned to the cottage with armfuls of laurel, goldenrod, ferns and gorgeous swamp-flowers such as grow only in the South.
Sometimes I would go with Mildred and my little cousins to gather persimmons. I did not eat them; but I loved their fragrance and enjoyed hunting for them in the leaves and grass. We also went nutting, and I helped them open the chestnut burrs and break the shells of hickory-nuts and walnuts—the big, sweet walnuts!
At the foot of the mountain there was a railroad, and the children watched the trains whiz by. Sometimes a terrific whistle brought us to the steps, and Mildred told me in great excitement that a cow or a horse had strayed on the track. About a mile distant there was a trestle spanning a deep gorge. It was very difficult to walk over, the ties were wide apart and so narrow that one felt as if one were walking on knives. I had never crossed it until one day Mildred, Miss Sullivan and I were lost in the woods, and wandered for hours without finding a path.
Suddenly Mildred pointed with her little hand and exclaimed, "There's the trestle!" We would have taken any way rather than this; but it was late and growing dark, and the trestle was a short cut home. I had to feel for the rails with my toe; but I was not afraid, and got on very well, until all at once there came a faint "puff, puff" from the distance.
"I see the train!" cried Mildred, and in another minute it would have been upon us had we not climbed down on the crossbraces while it rushed over our heads. I felt the hot breath from the engine on my face, and the smoke and ashes almost choked us. As the train rumbled by, the trestle shook and swayed until I thought we should be dashed to the chasm below. With the utmost difficulty we regained the track. Long after dark we reached home and found the cottage empty; the family were all out hunting for us.
CHAPTER XII
After my first visit to Boston, I spent almost every winter in the North. Once I went on a visit to a New England village with its frozen lakes and vast snow fields. It was then that I had opportunities such as had never been mine to enter into the treasures of the snow.
I recall my surprise on discovering that a mysterious hand had stripped the trees and bushes, leaving only here and there a wrinkled leaf. The birds had flown, and their empty nests in the bare trees were filled with snow. Winter was on hill and field. The earth seemed benumbed by his icy touch, and the very spirits of the trees had withdrawn to their roots, and there, curled up in the dark, lay fast asleep. All life seemed to have ebbed away, and even when the sun shone the day was
Shrunk and cold,
As if her veins were sapless and old,
And she rose up decrepitly
For a last dim look at earth and sea.
The withered grass and the bushes were transformed into a forest of icicles.
Then came a day when the chill air portended a snowstorm. We rushed out-of-doors to feel the first few tiny flakes descending. Hour by hour the flakes dropped silently, softly from their airy height to the earth, and the country became more and more level. A snowy night closed upon the world, and in the morning one could scarcely recognize a feature of the landscape. All the roads were hidden, not a single landmark was visible, only a waste of snow with trees rising out of it.
In the evening a wind from the northeast sprang up, and the flakes rushed hither and thither in furious melee. Around the great fire we sat and told merry tales, and frolicked, and quite forgot that we were in the midst of a desolate solitude, shut in from all communication with the outside world. But during the night the fury of the wind increased to such a degree that it thrilled us with a vague terror. The rafters creaked and strained, and the branches of the trees surrounding the house rattled and beat against the windows, as the winds rioted up and down the country.
On the third day after the beginning of the storm the snow ceased. The sun broke through the clouds and shone upon a vast, undulating white plain. High mounds, pyramids heaped in fantastic shapes, and impenetrable drifts lay scattered in every direction.
Narrow paths were shoveled through the drifts. I put on my cloak and hood and went out. The air stung my cheeks like fire. Half walking in the paths, half working our way through the lesser drifts, we succeeded in reaching a pine grove just outside a broad pasture. The trees stood motionless and white like figures in a marble frieze. There was no odour of pine-needles. The rays of the sun fell upon the trees, so that the twigs sparkled like diamonds and dropped in showers when we touched them. So dazzling was the light, it penetrated even the darkness that veils my eyes.
As the days wore on, the drifts gradually shrunk, but before they were wholly gone another storm came, so that I scarcely felt the earth under my feet once all winter. At intervals the trees lost their icy covering, and the bulrushes and underbrush were bare; but the lake lay frozen and hard beneath the sun.
Our favourite amusement during that winter was tobogganing. In places the shore of the lake rises abruptly from the water's edge. Down these steep slopes we used to coast. We would get on our toboggan, a boy would give us a shove, and off we went! Plunging through drifts, leaping hollows, swooping down upon the lake, we would shoot across its gleaming surface to the opposite bank. What joy! What exhilarating madness! For one wild, glad moment we snapped the chain that binds us to earth, and joining hands with the winds we felt ourselves divine!
CHAPTER XIII
It was in the spring of 1890 that I learned to speak. The impulse to utter audible sounds had always been strong within me. I used to make noises, keeping one hand on my throat while the other hand felt the movements of my lips. I was pleased with anything that made a noise and liked to feel the cat purr and the dog bark. I also liked to keep my hand on a singer's throat, or on a piano when it was being played. Before I lost my sight and hearing, I was fast learning to talk, but after my illness it was found that I had ceased to speak because I could not hear. I used to sit in my mother's lap all day long and keep my hands on her face because it amused me to feel the motions of her lips; and I moved my lips, too, although I had forgotten what talking was. My friends say that I laughed and cried naturally, and for awhile I made many sounds and word-elements, not because they were a means of communication, but because the need of exercising my vocal organs was imperative. There was, however, one word the meaning of which I still remembered, WATER. I pronounced it "wa-wa." Even this became less and less intelligible until the time when Miss Sullivan began to teach me. I stopped using it only after I had learned to spell the word on my fingers.
I had known for a long time that the people about me used a method of communication different from mine; and even before I knew that a deaf child could be taught to speak, I was conscious of dissatisfaction with the means of communication I already possessed. One who is entirely dependent upon the manual alphabet has always a sense of restraint, of narrowness. This feeling began to agitate me with a vexing, forward-reaching sense of a lack that should be filled. My thoughts would often rise and beat up like birds against the wind, and I persisted in using my lips and voice. Friends tried to discourage this tendency, fearing lest it would lead to disappointment. But I persisted, and an accident soon occurred which resulted in the breaking down of this great barrier—I heard the story of Ragnhild Kaata.
In 1890 Mrs. Lamson, who had been one of Laura Bridgman's teachers, and who had just returned from a visit to Norway and Sweden, came to see me, and told me of Ragnhild Kaata, a deaf and blind girl in Norway who had actually been taught to speak. Mrs. Lamson had scarcely finished telling me about this girl's success before I was on fire with eagerness. I resolved that I, too, would learn to speak. I would not rest satisfied until my teacher took me, for advice and assistance, to Miss Sarah Fuller, principal of the Horace Mann School. This lovely, sweet-natured lady offered to teach me herself, and we began the twenty-sixth of March, 1890.
Miss Fuller's method was this: she passed my hand lightly over her face, and let me feel the position of her tongue and lips when she made a sound. I was eager to imitate every motion and in an hour had learned six elements of speech: M, P, A, S, T, I. Miss Fuller gave me eleven lessons in all. I shall never forget the surprise and delight I felt when I uttered my first connected sentence, "It is warm." True, they were broken and stammering syllables; but they were human speech. My soul, conscious of new strength, came out of bondage, and was reaching through those broken symbols of speech to all knowledge and all faith.
No deaf child who has earnestly tried to speak the words which he has never heard—to come out of the prison of silence, where no tone of love, no song of bird, no strain of music ever pierces the stillness—can forget the thrill of surprise, the joy of discovery which came over him when he uttered his first word. Only such a one can appreciate the eagerness with which I talked to my toys, to stones, trees, birds and dumb animals, or the delight I felt when at my call Mildred ran to me or my dogs obeyed my commands. It is an unspeakable boon to me to be able to speak in winged words that need no interpretation. As I talked, happy thoughts fluttered up out of my words that might perhaps have struggled in vain to escape my fingers.
But it must not be supposed that I could really talk in this short time. I had learned only the elements of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan could understand me, but most people would not have understood one word in a hundred. Nor is it true that, after I had learned these elements, I did the rest of the work myself. But for Miss Sullivan's genius, untiring perseverance and devotion, I could not have progressed as far as I have toward natural speech. In the first place, I laboured night and day before I could be understood even by my most intimate friends; in the second place, I needed Miss Sullivan's assistance constantly in my efforts to articulate each sound clearly and to combine all sounds in a thousand ways. Even now she calls my attention every day to mispronounced words.
All teachers of the deaf know what this means, and only they can at all appreciate the peculiar difficulties with which I had to contend. In reading my teacher's lips I was wholly dependent on my fingers: I had to use the sense of touch in catching the vibrations of the throat, the movements of the mouth and the expression of the face; and often this sense was at fault. In such cases I was forced to repeat the words or sentences, sometimes for hours, until I felt the proper ring in my own voice. My work was practice, practice, practice. Discouragement and weariness cast me down frequently; but the next moment the thought that I should soon be at home and show my loved ones what I had accomplished, spurred me on, and I eagerly looked forward to their pleasure in my achievement.
"My little sister will understand me now," was a thought stronger than all obstacles. I used to repeat ecstatically, "I am not dumb now." I could not be despondent while I anticipated the delight of talking to my mother and reading her responses from her lips. It astonished me to find how much easier it is to talk than to spell with the fingers, and I discarded the manual alphabet as a medium of communication on my part; but Miss Sullivan and a few friends still use it in speaking to me, for it is more convenient and more rapid than lip-reading.
Just here, perhaps, I had better explain our use of the manual alphabet, which seems to puzzle people who do not know us. One who reads or talks to me spells with his hand, using the single-hand manual alphabet generally employed by the deaf. I place my hand on the hand of the speaker so lightly as not to impede its movements. The position of the hand is as easy to feel as it is to see. I do not feel each letter any more than you see each letter separately when you read. Constant practice makes the fingers very flexible, and some of my friends spell rapidly—about as fast as an expert writes on a typewriter. The mere spelling is, of course, no more a conscious act than it is in writing.
When I had made speech my own, I could not wait to go home. At last the happiest of happy moments arrived. I had made my homeward journey, talking constantly to Miss Sullivan, not for the sake of talking, but determined to improve to the last minute. Almost before I knew it, the train stopped at the Tuscumbia station, and there on the platform stood the whole family. My eyes fill with tears now as I think how my mother pressed me close to her, speechless and trembling with delight, taking in every syllable that I spoke, while little Mildred seized my free hand and kissed it and danced, and my father expressed his pride and affection in a big silence. It was as if Isaiah's prophecy had been fulfilled in me, "The mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands!"
CHAPTER XIV
The winter of 1892 was darkened by the one cloud in my childhood's bright sky. Joy deserted my heart, and for a long, long time I lived in doubt, anxiety and fear. Books lost their charm for me, and even now the thought of those dreadful days chills my heart. A little story called "The Frost King," which I wrote and sent to Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was at the root of the trouble. In order to make the matter clear, I must set forth the facts connected with this episode, which justice to my teacher and to myself compels me to relate.
I wrote the story when I was at home, the autumn after I had learned to speak. We had stayed up at Fern Quarry later than usual. While we were there, Miss Sullivan had described to me the beauties of the late foliage, and it seems that her descriptions revived the memory of a story, which must have been read to me, and which I must have unconsciously retained. I thought then that I was "making up a story," as children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas should slip from me. My thoughts flowed easily; I felt a sense of joy in the composition. Words and images came tripping to my finger ends, and as I thought out sentence after sentence, I wrote them on my braille slate. Now, if words and images come to me without effort, it is a pretty sure sign that they are not the offspring of my own mind, but stray waifs that I regretfully dismiss. At that time I eagerly absorbed everything I read without a thought of authorship, and even now I cannot be quite sure of the boundary line between my ideas and those I find in books. I suppose that is because so many of my impressions come to me through the medium of others' eyes and ears.
When the story was finished, I read it to my teacher, and I recall now vividly the pleasure I felt in the more beautiful passages, and my annoyance at being interrupted to have the pronunciation of a word corrected. At dinner it was read to the assembled family, who were surprised that I could write so well. Some one asked me if I had read it in a book.
This question surprised me very much; for I had not the faintest recollection of having had it read to me. I spoke up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos."
Accordingly I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday. It was suggested that I should change the title from "Autumn Leaves" to "The Frost King," which I did. I carried the little story to the post-office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I little dreamed how cruelly I should pay for that birthday gift.
Mr. Anagnos was delighted with "The Frost King," and published it in one of the Perkins Institution reports. This was the pinnacle of my happiness, from which I was in a little while dashed to earth. I had been in Boston only a short time when it was discovered that a story similar to "The Frost King," called "The Frost Fairies" by Miss Margaret T. Canby, had appeared before I was born in a book called "Birdie and His Friends." The two stories were so much alike in thought and language that it was evident Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and that mine was—a plagiarism. It was difficult to make me understand this; but when I did understand I was astonished and grieved. No child ever drank deeper of the cup of bitterness than I did. I had disgraced myself; I had brought suspicion upon those I loved best. And yet how could it possibly have happened? I racked my brain until I was weary to recall anything about the frost that I had read before I wrote "The Frost King"; but I could remember nothing, except the common reference to Jack Frost, and a poem for children, "The Freaks of the Frost," and I knew I had not used that in my composition.
At first Mr. Anagnos, though deeply troubled, seemed to believe me. He was unusually tender and kind to me, and for a brief space the shadow lifted. To please him I tried not to be unhappy, and to make myself as pretty as possible for the celebration of Washington's birthday, which took place very soon after I received the sad news.
I was to be Ceres in a kind of masque given by the blind girls. How well I remember the graceful draperies that enfolded me, the bright autumn leaves that wreathed my head, and the fruit and grain at my feet and in my hands, and beneath all the piety of the masque the oppressive sense of coming ill that made my heart heavy.
The night before the celebration, one of the teachers of the Institution had asked me a question connected with "The Frost King," and I was telling her that Miss Sullivan had talked to me about Jack Frost and his wonderful works. Something I said made her think she detected in my words a confession that I did remember Miss Canby's story of "The Frost Fairies," and she laid her conclusions before Mr. Anagnos, although I had told her most emphatically that she was mistaken.
Mr. Anagnos, who loved me tenderly, thinking that he had been deceived, turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of love and innocence. He believed, or at least suspected, that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen the bright thoughts of another and imposed them on him to win his admiration. I was brought before a court of investigation composed of the teachers and officers of the Institution, and Miss Sullivan was asked to leave me. Then I was questioned and cross-questioned with what seemed to me a determination on the part of my judges to force me to acknowledge that I remembered having had "The Frost Fairies" read to me. I felt in every question the doubt and suspicion that was in their minds, and I felt, too, that a loved friend was looking at me reproachfully, although I could not have put all this into words. The blood pressed about my thumping heart, and I could scarcely speak, except in monosyllables. Even the consciousness that it was only a dreadful mistake did not lessen my suffering, and when at last I was allowed to leave the room, I was dazed and did not notice my teacher's caresses, or the tender words of my friends, who said I was a brave little girl and they were proud of me.
As I lay in my bed that night, I wept as I hope few children have wept. I felt so cold, I imagined I should die before morning, and the thought comforted me. I think if this sorrow had come to me when I was older, it would have broken my spirit beyond repairing. But the angel of forgetfulness has gathered up and carried away much of the misery and all the bitterness of those sad days.
Miss Sullivan had never heard of "The Frost Fairies" or of the book in which it was published. With the assistance of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, she investigated the matter carefully, and at last it came out that Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins had a copy of Miss Canby's "Birdie and His Friends" in 1888, the year that we spent the summer with her at Brewster. Mrs. Hopkins was unable to find her copy; but she has told me that at that time, while Miss Sullivan was away on a vacation, she tried to amuse me by reading from various books, and although she could not remember reading "The Frost Fairies" any more than I, yet she felt sure that "Birdie and His Friends" was one of them. She explained the disappearance of the book by the fact that she had a short time before sold her house and disposed of many juvenile books, such as old schoolbooks and fairy tales, and that "Birdie and His Friends" was probably among them.
The stories had little or no meaning for me then; but the mere spelling of the strange words was sufficient to amuse a little child who could do almost nothing to amuse herself; and although I do not recall a single circumstance connected with the reading of the stories, yet I cannot help thinking that I made a great effort to remember the words, with the intention of having my teacher explain them when she returned. One thing is certain, the language was ineffaceably stamped upon my brain, though for a long time no one knew it, least of all myself.
When Miss Sullivan came back, I did not speak to her about "The Frost Fairies," probably because she began at once to read "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which filled my mind to the exclusion of everything else. But the fact remains that Miss Canby's story was read to me once, and that long after I had forgotten it, it came back to me so naturally that I never suspected that it was the child of another mind.
In my trouble I received many messages of love and sympathy. All the friends I loved best, except one, have remained my own to the present time.
Miss Canby herself wrote kindly, "Some day you will write a great story out of your own head, that will be a comfort and help to many." But this kind prophecy has never been fulfilled. I have never played with words again for the mere pleasure of the game. Indeed, I have ever since been tortured by the fear that what I write is not my own. For a long time, when I wrote a letter, even to my mother, I was seized with a sudden feeling of terror, and I would spell the sentences over and over, to make sure that I had not read them in a book. Had it not been for the persistent encouragement of Miss Sullivan, I think I should have given up trying to write altogether.
I have read "The Frost Fairies" since, also the letters I wrote in which I used other ideas of Miss Canby's. I find in one of them, a letter to Mr. Anagnos, dated September 29, 1891, words and sentiments exactly like those of the book. At the time I was writing "The Frost King," and this letter, like many others, contains phrases which show that my mind was saturated with the story. I represent my teacher as saying to me of the golden autumn leaves, "Yes, they are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer"—an idea direct from Miss Canby's story.
This habit of assimilating what pleased me and giving it out again as my own appears in much of my early correspondence and my first attempts at writing. In a composition which I wrote about the old cities of Greece and Italy, I borrowed my glowing descriptions, with variations, from sources I have forgotten. I knew Mr. Anagnos's great love of antiquity and his enthusiastic appreciation of all beautiful sentiments about Italy and Greece. I therefore gathered from all the books I read every bit of poetry or of history that I thought would give him pleasure. Mr. Anagnos, in speaking of my composition on the cities, has said, "These ideas are poetic in their essence." But I do not understand how he ever thought a blind and deaf child of eleven could have invented them. Yet I cannot think that because I did not originate the ideas, my little composition is therefore quite devoid of interest. It shows me that I could express my appreciation of beautiful and poetic ideas in clear and animated language.
Those early compositions were mental gymnastics. I was learning, as all young and inexperienced persons learn, by assimilation and imitation, to put ideas into words. Everything I found in books that pleased me I retained in my memory, consciously or unconsciously, and adapted it. The young writer, as Stevenson has said, instinctively tries to copy whatever seems most admirable, and he shifts his admiration with astonishing versatility. It is only after years of this sort of practice that even great men have learned to marshal the legion of words which come thronging through every byway of the mind.
I am afraid I have not yet completed this process. It is certain that I cannot always distinguish my own thoughts from those I read, because what I read becomes the very substance and texture of my mind. Consequently, in nearly all that I write, I produce something which very much resembles the crazy patchwork I used to make when I first learned to sew. This patchwork was made of all sorts of odds and ends—pretty bits of silk and velvet; but the coarse pieces that were not pleasant to touch always predominated. Likewise my compositions are made up of crude notions of my own, inlaid with the brighter thoughts and riper opinions of the authors I have read. It seems to me that the great difficulty of writing is to make the language of the educated mind express our confused ideas, half feelings, half thoughts, when we are little more than bundles of instinctive tendencies. Trying to write is very much like trying to put a Chinese puzzle together. We have a pattern in mind which we wish to work out in words; but the words will not fit the spaces, or, if they do, they will not match the design. But we keep on trying because we know that others have succeeded, and we are not willing to acknowledge defeat.
"There is no way to become original, except to be born so," says Stevenson, and although I may not be original, I hope sometime to outgrow my artificial, periwigged compositions. Then, perhaps, my own thoughts and experiences will come to the surface. Meanwhile I trust and hope and persevere, and try not to let the bitter memory of "The Frost King" trammel my efforts.
So this sad experience may have done me good and set me thinking on some of the problems of composition. My only regret is that it resulted in the loss of one of my dearest friends, Mr. Anagnos.
Since the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Ladies' Home Journal, Mr. Anagnos has made a statement, in a letter to Mr. Macy, that at the time of the "Frost King" matter, he believed I was innocent. He says, the court of investigation before which I was brought consisted of eight people: four blind, four seeing persons. Four of them, he says, thought I knew that Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and the others did not hold this view. Mr. Anagnos states that he cast his vote with those who were favourable to me.
But, however the case may have been, with whichever side he may have cast his vote, when I went into the room where Mr. Anagnos had so often held me on his knee and, forgetting his many cares, had shared in my frolics, and found there persons who seemed to doubt me, I felt that there was something hostile and menacing in the very atmosphere, and subsequent events have borne out this impression. For two years he seems to have held the belief that Miss Sullivan and I were innocent. Then he evidently retracted his favourable judgment, why I do not know. Nor did I know the details of the investigation. I never knew even the names of the members of the "court" who did not speak to me. I was too excited to notice anything, too frightened to ask questions. Indeed, I could scarcely think what I was saying, or what was being said to me.
I have given this account of the "Frost King" affair because it was important in my life and education; and, in order that there might be no misunderstanding, I have set forth all the facts as they appear to me, without a thought of defending myself or of laying blame on any one.
CHAPTER XV
The summer and winter following the "Frost King" 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 musk-scented grapes that covered the arbour 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 flashed 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 a paragraph I was writing, I said to myself, "Suppose it should be found that all this was written by some one 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 for 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 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. 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, treasuries of industry and skill and all the activities of human life actually passed under my finger tips.
I liked to visit the Midway Plaisance. It seemed like the "Arabian Nights," it was crammed so full of novelty and interest. Here was the India of my books in the curious bazaar with its Shivas and elephant-gods; there was the land of the Pyramids concentrated in a model Cairo with its mosques and its 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 whosoever reechoed his cry, "We are of the sea!" and fought with brains and sinews, self-reliant, self-sufficient, instead of being thrust into the background by unintelligent machinery, as Jack is to-day. 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 hour-glass on it. This 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. Higinbotham, President of the World's Fair, kindly gave me permission to touch 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 bronzes. They were so lifelike, I thought they were angel visions which the artist 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 mock 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 rude stone implements that are so often the only record of an age—the simple monuments of nature's unlettered children (so I thought as I fingered them) that seem bound to last while the memorials of kings and sages crumble in dust away—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 workaday world.
CHAPTER XVI
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 La Fontaine's "Fables," "Le Medecin Malgre Lui" 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 inflect. 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 Hulton, Pennsylvania, visiting the family of Mr. William Wade. Mr. Irons, a neighbour of theirs, was a good Latin scholar; it was arranged 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 learned for the first time to know an author, to recognize his style as I recognize the clasp of a friend's hand.
At first I was rather unwilling to study Latin grammar. It seemed absurd to waste time analyzing, 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; class, 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 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 my lessons, spelling 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 in Alabama.
CHAPTER XVII
In the summer of 1894, I attended the meeting at Chautauqua 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 Reamy, my German teacher, could use the manual alphabet, and after I had acquired a small vocabulary, we talked together in German 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 of my other 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, however, to read "Le Medecin Malgre Lui" 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 with infinite trouble to myself and others the broad valley 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 four corners of the heavens, how the vapours ascend from the ends of the earth, how rivers are cut out 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 look 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 were West Point, Tarrytown, the home of Washington Irving, where I walked through "Sleepy Hollow."
The teachers at the Wright-Humason School were always 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 every one 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 a 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.
CHAPTER XVIII
In October, 1896, I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies, to be prepared for Radcliffe.
When I was a little girl, I visited Wellesley 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 Wellesley, 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 competition for a degree with seeing and hearing girls, in the face of the 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 fulfillment 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 that 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 raised print. The tedium of that work is hard to conceive. Frau Grote, my German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the principal, were the only teachers in the school who learned the finger alphabet to give me instruction. No one realized more fully than dear Frau Grote how slow and inadequate her spelling was. Nevertheless, in the goodness of her heart she laboriously spelled 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 "Gallic War." In German I read, partly with my fingers and partly with Miss Sullivan's assistance, Schiller's "Lied von der Glocke" and "Taucher," Heine's "Harzreise," Freytag's "Aus dem Staat Friedrichs des Grossen," Riehl's "Fluch Der Schonheit," Lessing's "Minna von Barnhelm," and Goethe's "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 Goethe's life. I was sorry to finish "Die Harzreise," so full of happy witticisms and charming descriptions of vine-clad hills, streams that sing and ripple in the sunshine, and wild regions, sacred to tradition and legend, the gray sisters of a long-vanished, imaginative age—descriptions such as can be given only by those to 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 Macaulay'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 necessarily 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 centred seemed to move right before me. I wondered more and more, while Burke's masterly speech rolled on in 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 in 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 tares of ignorance and corruption.
In a different way Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson" was interesting. My heart went out to the lonely man who ate the bread of affliction in Grub 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 that they had not crushed or dwarfed his soul. But in spite of Macaulay'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, and for 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 my preliminary examinations for Radcliffe from the 29th of June to the 3rd of July in 1897. The subjects I offered were Elementary and Advanced German, French, Latin, English, and Greek and Roman history, making nine hours in all. I passed in 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 sixteen hours—twelve 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 nine 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 No. 233, but, as I had to use a 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 I 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 Radcliffe 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 allowed, 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, 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 had 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 a certificate that I, candidate No. 233, had written the papers.
All the other preliminary examinations were conducted in the same manner. None of them was so difficult as the first. I remember that the day the Latin paper was brought to us, Professor Schilling came in and informed me 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.
CHAPTER XIX
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 embossed in 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 says 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 afterward 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; the 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 when an event 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 Harbaugh (Mr. Gilman's head teacher), and one other, that I could without too much effort complete my preparation in two years more. Mr. Gilman 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 his plan, for I wished to enter college with my class.
On the seventeenth 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 of 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 Chamberlins in Wrentham, twenty-five miles from Boston.
From February to July, 1898, Mr. Keith came out to Wrentham 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, assigned 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 forbearing, 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 Radcliffe 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 wasting 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 that 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 forebodings 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 any one. The administrative board of Radcliffe did not realize 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.
CHAPTER XX
The struggle for admission to college was ended, and I could now enter Radcliffe whenever I pleased. Before I entered college, however, it was thought 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 realized.
I remember my first day at Radcliffe. It was a day full of interest for me. I had looked forward to it for years. A 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 unfrequented roads—that was all; and I knew that in college there were many bypaths 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 as free as another. Its people, scenery, manners, joys, tragedies should be living, tangible interpreters of the real world. The lecture-halls seemed filled with the spirit of the great and the wise, and I thought the professors were the embodiment of wisdom. If 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 had delighted my young inexperience 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 Corneille, Moliere, Racine, Alfred de Musset and Sainte-Beuve, and in the German those of Goethe and Schiller. I reviewed rapidly the whole period of history from the fall of the Roman Empire to the eighteenth century, and in English literature studied critically Milton's poems and "Areopagitica."
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 were 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 rush through my hand like hounds in pursuit of a hare which they often miss. But in this respect I do not think I am 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 pell-mell 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 the lectures, because my hands are busy listening. Usually I jot down what I can remember of them when I get home. I write the exercises, daily themes, criticisms and hour-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 signs 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 are 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 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 are 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, every one 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 am 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 than they can ever know.
Last year, my second year at Radcliffe, I studied English composition, the Bible as English composition, the governments of America and Europe, the Odes of Horace, 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 any one else I have had until this year, 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 Jahweh and Elohim; and you go home feeling that you have had "a glimpse of that perfection in which 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. Kittredge, 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 erewhile seemed 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 analyze them before we can be sure that we have a Milton or an Isaiah, 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 flower 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 in 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 Kittredge 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 at 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 my mind is 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 Bob Acres 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 formula 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 dump everything out, and there in a corner is your man, serenely brooding on 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 mass of 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 assailed by hailstones 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 Radcliffe 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 learned 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 is to feel the great heart-throbs of humanity through the centuries; and if one does not feel in these pulsations a heavenward striving, one must indeed be deaf to the harmonies of life.
CHAPTER XXI
I have thus far sketched the events of my life, but I have not shown how much I have 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 printed page that has come within the reach of my hungry finger tips. As I have said, I did not study regularly during the early years of my education; nor did I read according to rule.
At first I had only a few books in raised 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 wander from bookcase to bookcase, and take down whatever book my fingers lighted upon. And read I did, whether I understood one word in ten or two 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 afterward, 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 Fauntleroy," which was the first book of any consequence I read understandingly.
One day my teacher found me in a corner of the library poring over the pages of "The Scarlet Letter." I was then about eight years old. I remember she asked me if I liked little Pearl, and explained some of the words that had puzzled me. Then she told me that 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 Fauntleroy," 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 were 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 Fauntleroy." 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 dish-washing after luncheon, in order that 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 remember that my teacher insisted upon 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 and drew out all their fragrance. The air was balmy, with a tang of the sea in it. Before we began the story Miss Sullivan explained to me the things that 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 feel the letters with an intensity of longing that I can never forget.
Afterward, at my eager request, Mr. Anagnos 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 Fauntleroy" was my sweet and gentle companion. I have given these details at the risk of being tedious, because they are in such vivid contrast with my vague, mutable and confused memories of earlier reading.
From "Little Lord Fauntleroy" I date the beginning of my true interest in books. During the next two years I read many books at my home and 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," La Fontaine's "Fables," Hawthorne's "Wonder Book," "Bible Stories," Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare," "A Child's History of England" by Dickens, "The Arabian Nights," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "The Pilgrim's Progress," "Robinson Crusoe," "Little Women," and "Heidi," a beautiful little story which I afterward read in German. I read them in the intervals between study and play with an ever-deepening sense of pleasure. I did not study nor analyze 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 Pilgrim's Progress," which I think I did not finish, or for the "Fables." I read La Fontaine's "Fables" 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, La Fontaine seldom, if ever, appeals to our highest moral sense. The highest chords he strikes are those of reason and self-love. Through all the fables runs the thought that man's morality springs wholly from self-love, and that if that 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 La Fontaine had greater opportunities of observing men than I am likely ever to have. I do not object so much to the cynical and satirical fables as to 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 a moral, it is so subtle that we are not conscious of it.
My mind opened naturally and joyously to a conception of antiquity. Greece, 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 loved 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 punished 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 the 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 the Greek words surrender their treasures after I had passed the borderland 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, impositions 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 poem. 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 length and the breadth and the sweep of the heavens are mine!
My admiration for the Aeneid is not so great, but it is none the less 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 gods and men move through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and love like the graceful figures in an Elizabethan mask, whereas in the Iliad they give three leaps 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 traveled round the word 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 Pilgrim's Progress was justified by the end; but 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 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 the coat of many colours unto the tent of Jacob and told their wicked lie! I cannot understand why the stories of the Greeks should have been so full of charm for me, and those of the Bible so devoid of interest, unless it was that I had made the acquaintance of several Greeks in Boston and been inspired by their enthusiasm for the stories of their country; whereas I had not met a single Hebrew or Egyptian, and therefore concluded that they were nothing more than barbarians, and the stories about them were probably all made up, which hypothesis explained the repetitions and the queer names. 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 an ever-broadening 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 me for the unpleasant details it has forced upon my attention. For my part, I wish, with Mr. Howells, 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 any one to having these great works weakened or falsified.
There is something impressive, awful, in the simplicity and 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 life of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital! Ruth is so loyal and gentle-hearted, we cannot help 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 rise 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 Lamb's "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 pursued me even 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 Gloster's eyes are put out. Anger seized me, my fingers refused to move, I sat rigid for one long moment, the blood throbbing in my temples, and 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 Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel 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 know 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 work 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 Kittredge. I know 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 dryer dates to Green's impartial, picturesque "History of the English People"; from Freeman's "History of Europe" to Emerton'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 believe 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 and built great cities, how a few great rulers, earthly Titans, put everything under their feet, and with a decisive word opened the gates of happiness for millions and closed them upon millions more: how different nations pioneered in art and knowledge and broke 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 sons of the North; and how by 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 French and German literature. The German puts strength before beauty, and truth before convention, both in life and in literature. There is a vehement, sledge-hammer vigour 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 Goethe's "Faust":
All things transitory But as symbols are sent. Earth's insufficiency Here grows to event. The indescribable Here it is done. The Woman Soul leads us upward and on!
Of all the French writers that I have read, I like Moliere and Racine best. There are fine things in Balzac and passages in Merimee which strike one like a keen blast of sea air. Alfred de Musset 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 Goethe and Schiller 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—Carlyle 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 enthusiasms 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 of wisdom; then, 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 Lowell's, bubble up in the sunshine of optimism—fountains of joy and good will, with occasionally a splash of anger and here and there a healing spray of sympathy and pity.
In a word, literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. 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 seem of ridiculously little importance compared with their "large loves and heavenly charities."
CHAPTER XXII
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 out-of-door sports. When I was quite a little girl, I learned to row and swim, and during the summer, when I am at Wrentham, Massachusetts, I almost live in my boat. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to take my friends out rowing when they visit me. Of course, I cannot guide the boat very well. Some one 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 to steer by the scent of watergrasses and lilies, and of bushes that grow on the shore. I use oars with leather bands, which keep them in position in the oarlocks, 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 feel 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 moonlight nights. I cannot, it is true, see the moon climb up the sky behind the pines and steal softly across the heavens, 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 pond-lily presses shyly against my hand. Frequently, as we emerge from the shelter of a cove or inlet, I am suddenly conscious of the spaciousness of the air about me. A luminous warmth seems to enfold me. Whether it comes from the trees which have been heated 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 opportunities 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 McNabb's Island, to York Redoubt, and to the Northwest Arm! And at night what soothing, wondrous hours we spent in the shadow of the great, silent men-of-war. Oh, it was all so interesting, so beautiful! The memory of it is a joy forever.
One day we had a thrilling experience. There was a regatta in the Northwest Arm, in which the boats from the different warships were engaged. We went in a sail-boat along with many others to watch the races. Hundreds of little sail-boats swung to and fro close by, and the sea was calm. When the races were over, and 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. Our little boat confronted the gale fearlessly; with sails spread and ropes taut, she seemed to sit upon the wind. Now she swirled 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 gunboats in the harbour saluted and the seamen shouted applause for the master of the only little sail-boat 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. Wrentham, Massachusetts, is associated with nearly all of my joys and sorrows. For many years Red Farm, by King Philip's Pond, the home of Mr. J. E. Chamberlin 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 of elf and gnome, of hero and wily bear, are pleasant things to remember. Mr. Chamberlin initiated me into the mysteries of tree and wild-flower, 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,
Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive
Of sunshine and wide air and wingéd things,
By sympathy of nature, so do I
have evidence of things unseen.
It seems to me 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 Wrentham. 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 lore say it must have stood there eight hundred 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 dooryard at Red Farm. One afternoon, during a terrible thunderstorm, I felt a tremendous crash against the side of the house and 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 that 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 Wrentham 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 Wrentham we caught echoes of what was happening in the world—war, alliance, social conflict. We heard of the cruel, unnecessary fighting in the far-away 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-breathed meadows, and they shall endure forever.
People who think that all sensations reach us through the eye and the 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, and the dissonant tumult frets my spirit. The grinding of heavy wagons on hard pavements and the monotonous clangour 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-clad and underfed, shrink away from your outstretched 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, too, all gnarled and bent out of shape. I have felt their hard, rough hands and realized what an endless struggle their existence must be—no more than a series of scrimmages, thwarted attempts to do something. Their life seems an immense disparity between effort and opportunity. The sun and the air are God's free gifts to all we say, but are they so? In yonder city's dingy alleys the sun shines not, and the air is foul. Oh, man, how dost thou forget and obstruct thy brother man, and say, "Give us this day our daily bread," when he has none! Oh, would that men would leave the city, its splendour and its tumult and its gold, and return to wood and field 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 this when I return to the country after a year of work in town.
What a joy it is to feel 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, or to 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 in 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 accompanies me on a walk or ride or sail. I have had many dog friends—huge mastiffs, soft-eyed spaniels, wood-wise 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 "phiz" 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 or two of 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, the white larger than the 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 a game, 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 feel 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 finger tips 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 hate, courage and love, 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 Barre'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 can 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—
O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day!
In imagination I can hear Homer singing, as with unsteady, hesitating 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 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 heart-throbs 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 is being acted on the stage far more than reading it, because then 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 kingship; and there was majesty of intellect in his every gesture and attitude and the royalty that subdues and overcomes in every line of his sensitive face. 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 on waking 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 seated themselves 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 spelled 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 a hitch and his mouth a twitch, and in an instant I was in the village of Falling Water and felt Schneider's shaggy head against my knee. Mr. Jefferson recited the best 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 action that should go with the lines. Of course, I have no sense whatever of dramatic action, and could make only 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 signing 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 her 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 enfolds 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 the way. Fain 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 unshed 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 sun, the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my happiness.
CHAPTER XXIII
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 wake 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 upon our discontent, and we feel its healing touch, as the ocean feels 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 finger tips, 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; but I wish to say here that I am always grateful for their kind words, however insufficiently I acknowledge them.
I count it 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 loved to sit on his knee and clasp his great hand with one of mine, while Miss Sullivan spelled 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 life, and I never left him without carrying away a fine thought that grew in beauty and 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 ever you 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 this 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, 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 seem so close to me that I should not think it 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's 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 feel dull in his presence.
I remember well the first time I saw Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. He had invited Miss Sullivan 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 where we found him seated in a big armchair 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 an odour 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, and when Miss Sullivan told me what it was I began to recite:
Break, break, break On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
But I stopped suddenly. I felt tears on my hand. I had made my beloved poet weep, and I was greatly distressed. He made me sit in his armchair, while he brought different interesting things for me to examine, and at his request I recited "The Chambered Nautilus," which was then my favorite 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 Merrimac. His gentle courtesy and quaint speech won my heart. He had a book of his poems in raised print from which I read "In School Days." He was delighted that I could pronounce the words 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, and 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. Afterward we went into his study, and he wrote his autograph for my teacher ["With great admiration of thy noble work in releasing from bondage the mind of thy dear pupil, I am truly thy friend. john J. Whittier."] 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, but he died 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. His 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!
I have already 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 Baddeck, 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 Bras d'Or, 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 air-ship. Dr. Bell is proficient in many fields of science, and has the art of making every subject he touches interesting, even the most abstruse 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 bless 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. Laurence Hutton. It was a great privilege to visit him and dear Mrs. Hutton in their lovely home, and 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 every one the best thoughts and kindest 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 fellowmen.
Mrs. Hutton is a true and tried friend. Much that I hold sweetest, 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 Stedman. I also knew Mr. Charles Dudley Warner, the most delightful of story-tellers 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 to see me the dear poet of the woodlands—Mr. John Burroughs. 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 Aeneas on his march toward 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 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 eye in his handshake. Even while he utters his cynical wisdom in an indescribably droll voice, he makes you feel that his heart is a 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 Wiggin), 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. Laurence Hutton.
I shall mention only two other friends. One is Mrs. William Thaw, of Pittsburgh, whom I have often visited in her home, Lyndhurst. She is always doing something to make some one happy, and her generosity and wise counsel have never failed my teacher and me in all the 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 for him the respect of all. Kind to every one, he goes about doing good, silent and unseen. Again I touch upon the circle of honoured names I must not mention; but I would fain 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.
II. LETTERS(1887-1901)
INTRODUCTION
Helen Keller's letters are important, not only as a supplementary story of her life, but as a demonstration of her growth in thought and expression—the growth which in itself has made her distinguished.
These letters are, however, not merely remarkable as the productions of a deaf and blind girl, to be read with wonder and curiosity; they are good letters almost from the first. The best passages are those in which she talks about herself, and gives her world in terms of her experience of it. Her views on the precession of the equinoxes are not important, but most important are her accounts of what speech meant to her, of how she felt the statues, the dogs, the chickens at the poultry show, and how she stood in the aisle of St. Bartholomew's and felt the organ rumble. Those are passages of which one would ask for more. The reason they are comparatively few is that all her life she has been trying to be "like other people," and so she too often describes things not as they appear to her, but as they appear to one with eyes and ears.
One cause for the excellence of her letters is the great number of them. They are the exercises which have trained her to write. She has lived at different times in different parts of the country, and so has been separated from most of her friends and relatives. Of her friends, many have been distinguished people, to whom—not often, I think, at the sacrifice of spontaneity—she has felt it necessary to write well. To them and to a few friends with whom she is in closest sympathy she writes with intimate frankness whatever she is thinking about. Her naive retelling of a child's tale she has heard, like the story of "Little Jakey," which she rehearses for Dr. Holmes and Bishop Brooks, is charming and her grave paraphrase of the day's lesson in geography or botany, her parrot-like repetition of what she has heard, and her conscious display of new words, are delightful and instructive; for they show not only what she was learning, but how, by putting it all into letters, she made the new knowledge and the new words her own.
So these selections from Miss Keller's correspondence are made with two purposes—to show her development and to preserve the most entertaining and significant passages from several hundred letters. Many of those written before 1892 were published in the reports of the Perkins Institution for the Blind. All letters up to that year are printed intact, for it is legitimate to be interested in the degree of skill the child showed in writing, even to details of punctuation; so it is well to preserve a literal integrity of reproduction. From the letters after the year 1892 I have culled in the spirit of one making an anthology, choosing the passages best in style and most important from the point of view of biography. Where I have been able to collate the original letters I have preserved everything as Miss Keller wrote it, punctuation, spelling, and all. I have done nothing but select and cut.
The letters are arranged in chronological order. One or two letters from Bishop Brooks, Dr. Holmes, and Whittier are put immediately after the letters to which they are replies. Except for two or three important letters of 1901, these selections cease with the year 1900. In that year Miss Keller entered college. Now that she is a grown woman, her mature letters should be judged like those of any other person, and it seems best that no more of her correspondence be published unless she should become distinguished beyond the fact that she is the only well-educated deaf and blind person in the world.
LETTERS (1887-1901)
Miss Sullivan began to teach Helen Keller on March 3rd, 1887.
Three months and a half after the first word was spelled into her
hand, she wrote in pencil this letter
TO HER COUSIN ANNA, MRS. GEORGE T. TURNER
[Tuscumbia, Alabama, June 17, 1887.]
helen write anna george will give helen apple simpson will shoot
bird jack will give helen stick of candy doctor will give mildred
medicine mother will make mildred new dress
[No signature]
Twenty-five days later, while she was on a short visit away from
home, she wrote to her mother. Two words are almost illegible,
and the angular print slants in every direction.
TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
[Huntsville, Alabama, July 12, 1887.]
Helen will write mother letter papa did give helen medicine
mildred will sit in swing mildred did kiss helen teacher did give
helen peach george is sick in bed george arm is hurt anna did
give helen lemonade dog did stand up.
conductor did punch ticket papa did give helen drink of water in
car
carlotta did give helen flowers anna will buy helen pretty new
hat helen will hug and kiss mother helen will come home
grandmother does love helen
good-by
[No signature.]
By the following September Helen shows improvement in fulness of
construction and more extended relations of thought.
TO THE BLIND GIRLS AT THE PERKINS INSTITUTION IN SOUTH BOSTON
[Tuscumbia, September, 1887.]
Helen will write little blind girls a letter Helen and teacher
will come to see little blind girls Helen and teacher will go in
steam car to boston Helen and blind girls will have fun blind
girls can talk on fingers Helen will see Mr anagnos Mr anagnos
will love and kiss Helen Helen will go to school with blind girls
Helen can read and count and spell and write like blind girls
mildred will not go to boston Mildred does cry prince and jumbo
will go to boston papa does shoot ducks with gun and ducks do
fall in water and jumbo and mamie do swim in water and bring
ducks out in mouth to papa Helen does play with dogs Helen does
ride on horseback with teacher Helen does give handee grass in
hand teacher does whip handee to go fast Helen is blind Helen
will put letter in envelope for blind girls good-by
HELEN KELLER
A few weeks later her style is more nearly correct and freer in
movement. She improves in idiom, although she still omits
articles and uses the "did" construction for the simple past.
This is an idiom common among children.
TO THE BLIND GIRLS AT THE PERKINS INSTITUTION
[Tuscumbia, October 24, 1887.]
dear little blind girls
I will write you a letter I thank you for pretty desk I did write
to mother in memphis on it mother and mildred came home wednesday
mother brought me a pretty new dress and hat papa did go to
huntsville he brought me apples and candy I and teacher will come
to boston and see you nancy is my doll she does cry I do rock
nancy to sleep mildred is sick doctor will give her medicine to
make her well. I and teacher did go to church sunday mr. lane did
read in book and talk Lady did play organ. I did give man money
in basket. I will be good girl and teacher will curl my hair
lovely. I will hug and kiss little blind girls mr. anagnos will
come to see me.
good-by
HELEN KELLER
TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS, DIRECTOR OF THE PERKINS INSTITUTION
[Tuscumbia, November, 1887.]
dear mr. anagnos I will write you a letter. I and teacher did
have pictures. teacher will send it to you. photographer does
make pictures. carpenter does build new houses. gardener does dig
and hoe ground and plant vegetables. my doll nancy is sleeping.
she is sick. mildred is well uncle frank has gone hunting deer.
we will have venison for breakfast when he comes home. I did ride
in wheel barrow and teacher did push it. simpson did give me
popcorn and walnuts. cousin rosa has gone to see her mother.
people do go to church sunday. I did read in my book about fox
and box. fox can sit in the box. I do like to read in my book.
you do love me. I do love you.
good-by
HELEN KELLER.
TO DR. ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL
[Tuscumbia, November, 1887.]
Dear Mr. Bell.
I am glad to write you a letter, Father will send you picture. I
and Father and aunt did go to see you in Washington. I did play
with your watch. I do love you. I saw doctor in Washington. He
looked at my eyes. I can read stories in my book. I can write and
spell and count. good girl. My sister can walk and run. We do
have fun with Jumbo. Prince is not good dog. He can not get
birds. Rat did kill baby pigeons. I am sorry. Rat does not know
wrong. I and mother and teacher will go to Boston in June. I will
see little blind girls. Nancy will go with me. She is a good
doll. Father will buy me lovely new watch. Cousin Anna gave me a
pretty doll. Her name is Allie.
Good-by,
HELEN KELLER.
By the beginning of the next year her idioms are firmer. More
adjectives appear, including adjectives of colour. Although she
can have no sensuous knowledge of colour, she can use the words,
as we use most of our vocabulary, intellectually, with truth, not
to impression, but to fact. This letter is to a school-mate at
the Perkins Institution.
TO MISS SARAH TOMLINSON
Tuscumbia, Ala. Jan. 2nd 1888.
Dear Sarah
I am happy to write to you this morning. I hope Mr. Anagnos is
coming to see me soon. I will go to Boston in June and I will buy
father gloves, and James nice collar, and Simpson cuffs. I saw
Miss Betty and her scholars. They had a pretty Christmas-tree,
and there were many pretty presents on it for little children. I
had a mug, and little bird and candy. I had many lovely things
for Christmas. Aunt gave me a trunk for Nancy and clothes. I went
to party with teacher and mother. We did dance and play and eat
nuts and candy and cakes and oranges and I did have fun with
little boys and girls. Mrs. Hopkins did send me lovely ring, I do
love her and little blind girls.
Men and boys do make carpets in mills. Wool grows on sheep. Men
do cut sheep's wool off with large shears, and send it to the
mill. Men and women do make wool cloth in mills.
Cotton grows on large stalks in fields. Men and boys and girls
and women do pick cotton. We do make thread and cotton dresses of
cotton. Cotton has pretty white and red flowers on it. Teacher
did tear her dress. Mildred does cry. I will nurse Nancy. Mother
will buy me lovely new aprons and dress to take to Boston. I went
to Knoxville with father and aunt. Bessie is weak and little.
Mrs. Thompson's chickens killed Leila's chickens. Eva does sleep
in my bed. I do love good girls.
Good-by
HELEN KELLER.
The next two letters mention her visit in January to her
relatives in Memphis, Tennessee. She was taken to the cotton
exchange. When she felt the maps and blackboards she asked, "Do
men go to school?" She wrote on the blackboard the names of all
the gentlemen present. While at Memphis she went over one of the
large Mississippi steamers.
TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Tuscumbia, Alabama, February 15th 1888.
Dear Mr. Hale,
I am happy to write you a letter this morning. Teacher told me
about kind gentleman I shall be glad to read pretty story I do
read stories in my book about tigers and lions and sheep.
I am coming to Boston in June to see little blind girls and I
will come to see you. I went to Memphis to see grandmother and
Aunt Nannie. Teacher bought me lovely new dress and cap and
aprons. Little Natalie is a very weak and small baby. Father took
us to see steamboat. It was on a large river. Boat is like house.
Mildred is a good baby. I do love to play with little sister.
Nancy was not a good child when I went to Memphis. She did cry
loud. I will not write more to-day. I am tired.
Good-by
HELEN KELLER.
TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS
Tuscumbia, Ala., Feb. 24th, 1888.
My dear Mr. Anagnos,—I am glad to write you a letter in Braille.
This morning Lucien Thompson sent me a beautiful bouquet of
violets and crocuses and jonquils. Sunday Adeline Moses brought
me a lovely doll. It came from New York. Her name is Adeline
Keller. She can shut her eyes and bend her arms and sit down and
stand up straight. She has on a pretty red dress. She is Nancy's
sister and I am their mother. Allie is their cousin. Nancy was a
bad child when I went to Memphis she cried loud, I whipped her
with a stick.
Mildred does feed little chickens with crumbs. I love to play
with little sister.
Teacher and I went to Memphis to see aunt Nannie and grandmother.
Louise is aunt Nannie's child. Teacher bought me a lovely new
dress and gloves and stockings and collars and grandmother made
me warm flannels, and aunt Nannie made me aprons. Lady made me a
pretty cap. I went to see Robert and Mr. Graves and Mrs. Graves
and little Natalie, and Mr. Farris and Mr. Mayo and Mary and
everyone. I do love Robert and teacher. She does not want me to
write more today. I feel tired.
I found box of candy in Mr. Grave's pocket. Father took us to see
steam boat it is like house. Boat was on very large river. Yates
plowed yard today to plant grass. Mule pulled plow. Mother will
make garden of vegetables. Father will plant melons and peas and
beans.
Cousin Bell will come to see us Saturday. Mother will make
ice-cream for dinner, we will have ice-cream and cake for dinner.
Lucien Thompson is sick. I am sorry for him.
Teacher and I went to walk in the yard, and I learned about how
flowers and trees grow. Sun rises in the east and sets in the
west. Sheffield is north and Tuscumbia is south. We will go to
Boston in June. I will have fun with little blind girls.
Good bye
HELEN KELLER.
"Uncle Morrie" of the next letter is Mr. Morrison Heady, of
Normandy, Kentucky, who lost his sight and hearing when he was a
boy. He is the author of some commendable verses.
TO MR. MORRISON HEADY
Tuscumbia, Ala., March 1st 1888.
My dear uncle Morrie,—I am happy to write you a letter, I do
love you, and I will hug and kiss you when I see you.
Mr. Anagnos is coming to see me Monday. I do love to run and hop
and skip with Robert in bright warm sun. I do know little girl in
Lexington Ky. her name is Katherine Hobson.
I am going to Boston in June with mother and teacher, I will have
fun with little blind girls, and Mr. Hale will send me pretty
story. I do read stories in my book about lions and tigers and
bears.
Mildred will not go to Boston, she does cry. I love to play with
little sister, she is weak and small baby. Eva is better.
Yates killed ants, ants stung Yates. Yates is digging in garden.
Mr. Anagnos did see oranges, they look like golden apples.
Robert will come to see me Sunday when sun shines and I will have
fun with him. My cousin Frank lives in Louisville. I will come to
Memphis again to see Mr. Farris and Mrs. Graves and Mr. Mayo and
Mr. Graves. Natalie is a good girl and does not cry, and she will
be big and Mrs. Graves is making short dresses for her. Natalie
has a little carriage. Mr. Mayo has been to Duck Hill and he
brought sweet flowers home.
With much love and a kiss
HELEN A. KELLER.
In this account of the picnic we get an illuminating glimpse of
Miss Sullivan's skill in teaching her pupil during play hours.
This was a day when the child's vocabulary grew.
TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS
Tuscumbia, Ala., May 3rd 1888.
Dear Mr. Anagnos.—I am glad to write to you this morning,
because I love you very much. I was very happy to receive pretty
book and nice candy and two letters from you. I will come to see
you soon and will ask you many questions about countries and you
will love good child.
Mother is making me pretty new dresses to wear in Boston and I
will look lovely to see little girls and boys and you. Friday
teacher and I went to a picnic with little children. We played
games and ate dinner under the trees, and we found ferns and wild
flowers. I walked in the woods and learned names of many trees.
There are poplar and cedar and pine and oak and ash and hickory
and maple trees. They make a pleasant shade and the little birds
love to swing to and fro and sing sweetly up in the trees.
Rabbits hop and squirrels run and ugly snakes do crawl in the
woods. Geraniums and roses jasamines and japonicas are cultivated
flowers. I help mother and teacher water them every night before
supper.
Cousin Arthur made me a swing in the ash tree. Aunt Ev. has gone
to Memphis. Uncle Frank is here. He is picking strawberries for
dinner. Nancy is sick again, new teeth do make her ill. Adeline
is well and she can go to Cincinnati Monday with me. Aunt Ev.
will send me a boy doll, Harry will be Nancy's and Adeline's
brother. Wee sister is a good girl. I am tired now and I do want
to go down stairs. I send many kisses and hugs with letter.
Your darling child
HELEN KELLER.
Toward the end of May Mrs. Keller, Helen, and Miss Sullivan
started for Boston. On the way they spent a few days in
Washington, where they saw Dr. Alexander Graham Bell and called
on President Cleveland. On May 26th they arrived in Boston and
went to the Perkins Institution; here Helen met the little blind
girls with whom she had corresponded the year before.
Early in July she went to Brewster, Massachusetts, and spent the
rest of the summer. Here occurred her first encounter with the
sea, of which she has since written.
TO MISS MARY C. MOORE
So. Boston, Mass. Sept. 1888
My dear Miss Moore
Are you very glad to receive a nice letter from your darling
little friend? I love you very dearly because you are my friend.
My precious little sister is quite well now. She likes to sit in
my little rocking-chair and put her kitty to sleep. Would you
like to see darling little Mildred? She is a very pretty baby.
Her eyes are very big and blue, and her cheeks are soft and round
and rosy and her hair is very bright and golden. She is very good
and sweet when she does not cry loud. Next summer Mildred will go
out in the garden with me and pick the big sweet strawberries and
then she will be very happy. I hope she will not eat too many of
the delicious fruit for they will make her very ill.
Sometime will you please come to Alabama and visit me? My uncle
James is going to buy me a very gentle pony and a pretty cart and
I shall be very happy to take you and Harry to ride. I hope Harry
will not be afraid of my pony. I think my father will buy me a
beautiful little brother some day. I shall be very gentle and
patient to my new little brother. When I visit many strange
countries my brother and Mildred will stay with grandmother
because they will be too small to see a great many people and I
think they would cry loud on the great rough ocean.
When Capt. Baker gets well he will take me in his big ship to
Africa. Then I shall see lions and tigers and monkeys. I will get
a baby lion and a white monkey and a mild bear to bring home. I
had a very pleasant time at Brewster. I went in bathing almost
every day and Carrie and Frank and little Helen and I had fun. We
splashed and jumped and waded in the deep water. I am not afraid
to float now. Can Harry float and swim? We came to Boston last
Thursday, and Mr. Anagnos was delighted to see me, and he hugged
and kissed me. The little girls are coming back to school next
Wednesday.
Will you please tell Harry to write me a very long letter soon?
When you come to Tuscumbia to see me I hope my father will have
many sweet apples and juicy peaches and fine pears and delicious
grapes and large water melons.
I hope you think about me and love me because I am a good little
child.
With much love and two kisses
From your little friend
HELEN A. KELLER.
In this account of a visit to some friends, Helen's thought is
much what one would expect from an ordinary child of eight,
except perhaps her naive satisfaction in the boldness of the
young gentlemen.
TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
So. Boston, Mass, Sept. 24th 1888.
My dear Mother,
I think you will be very glad to know all about my visit to West
Newton. Teacher and I had a lovely time with many kind friends.
West Newton is not far from Boston and we went there in the steam
cars very quickly.
Mrs. Freeman and Carrie and Ethel and Frank and Helen came to
station to meet us in a huge carriage. I was delighted to see my
dear little friends and I hugged and kissed them. Then we rode
for a long time to see all the beautiful things in West Newton.
Many very handsome houses and large soft green lawns around them
and trees and bright flowers and fountains. The horse's name was
Prince and he was gentle and liked to trot very fast. When we
went home we saw eight rabbits and two fat puppies, and a nice
little white pony, and two wee kittens and a pretty curly dog
named Don. Pony's name was Mollie and I had a nice ride on her
back; I was not afraid, I hope my uncle will get me a dear little
pony and a little cart very soon.
Clifton did not kiss me because he does not like to kiss little
girls. He is shy. I am very glad that Frank and Clarence and
Robbie and Eddie and Charles and George were not very shy. I
played with many little girls and we had fun. I rode on Carrie's
tricicle and picked flowers and ate fruit and hopped and skipped
and danced and went to ride. Many ladies and gentlemen came to
see us. Lucy and Dora and Charles were born in China. I was born
in America, and Mr. Anagnos was born in Greece. Mr. Drew says
little girls in China cannot talk on their fingers but I think
when I go to China I will teach them. Chinese nurse came to see
me, her name was Asu. She showed me a tiny atze that very rich
ladies in China wear because their feet never grow large. Amah
means a nurse. We came home in horse cars because it was Sunday
and steam cars do not go often on Sunday. Conductors and
engineers do get very tired and go home to rest. I saw little
Willie Swan in the car and he gave me a juicy pear. He was six
years old. What did I do when I was six years old? Will you
please ask my father to come to train to meet teacher and me? I
am very sorry that Eva and Bessie are sick. I hope I can have a
nice party my birthday, and I do want Carrie and Ethel and Frank
and Helen to come to Alabama to visit me. Will Mildred sleep with
me when I come home.
With much love and thousand kisses.
From your dear little daughter.
HELEN A. KELLER.
Her visit to Plymouth was in July. This letter, written three
months later, shows how well she remembered her first lesson in
history.
TO MR. MORRISON HEADY
South Boston, Mass. October 1st, 1888.
My dear uncle Morrie,—I think you will be very glad to receive a
letter from your dear little friend Helen. I am very happy to
write to you because I think of you and love you. I read pretty
stories in the book you sent me, about Charles and his boat, and
Arthur and his dream, and Rosa and the sheep.
I have been in a large boat. It was like a ship. Mother and
teacher and Mrs. Hopkins and Mr. Anagnos and Mr. Rodocanachi and
many other friends went to Plymouth to see many old things. I
will tell you a little story about Plymouth.
Many years ago there lived in England many good people, but the
king and his friends were not kind and gentle and patient with
good people, because the king did not like to have the people
disobey him. People did not like to go to church with the king;
but they did like to build very nice little churches for
themselves.
The king was very angry with the people and they were sorry and
they said, we will go away to a strange country to live and leave
very dear home and friends and naughty king. So, they put all
their things into big boxes, and said, Good-bye. I am sorry for
them because they cried much. When they went to Holland they did
not know anyone; and they could not know what the people were
talking about because they did not know Dutch. But soon they
learned some Dutch words; but they loved their own language and
they did not want little boys and girls to forget it and learn to
talk funny Dutch. So they said, We must go to a new country far
away and build schools and houses and churches and make new
cities. So they put all their things in boxes and said, Good-bye
to their new friends and sailed away in a large boat to find a
new country. Poor people were not happy for their hearts were
full of sad thoughts because they did not know much about
America. I think little children must have been afraid of a great
ocean for it is very strong and it makes a large boat rock and
then the little children would fall down and hurt their heads.
After they had been many weeks on the deep ocean where they could
not see trees or flowers or grass, but just water and the
beautiful sky, for ships could not sail quickly then because men
did not know about engines and steam. One day a dear little
baby-boy was born. His name was Peregrine White. I am very sorry
that poor little Peregrine is dead now. Every day the people went
upon deck to look out for land. One day there was a great shout
on the ship for the people saw the land and they were full of joy
because they had reached a new country safely. Little girls and
boys jumped and clapped their hands. They were all glad when they
stepped upon a huge rock. I did see the rock in Plymouth and a
little ship like the Mayflower and the cradle that dear little
Peregrine slept in and many old things that came in the
Mayflower. Would you like to visit Plymouth some time and see
many old things.
Now I am very tired and I will rest.
With much love and many kisses, from your little friend.
HELEN A. KELLER.
The foreign words in these two letters, the first of which was
written during a visit to the kindergarten for the blind, she had
been told months before, and had stowed them away in her memory.
She assimilated words and practised with them, sometimes using
them intelligently, sometimes repeating them in a parrot-like
fashion. Even when she did not fully understand words or ideas,
she liked to set them down as though she did. It was in this way
that she learned to use correctly words of sound and vision which
express ideas outside of her experience. "Edith" is Edith Thomas.
TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS
Roxbury, Mass. Oct. 17th, 1888.
Mon cher Monsieur Anagnos,
I am sitting by the window and the beautiful sun is shining on me
Teacher and I came to the kindergarten yesterday. There are
twenty seven little children here and they are all blind. I am
sorry because they cannot see much. Sometime will they have very
well eyes? Poor Edith is blind and deaf and dumb. Are you very
sad for Edith and me? Soon I shall go home to see my mother and
my father and my dear good and sweet little sister. I hope you
will come to Alabama to visit me and I will take you to ride in
my little cart and I think you will like to see me on my dear
little pony's back. I shall wear my lovely cap and my new riding
dress. If the sun shines brightly I will take you to see Leila
and Eva and Bessie. When I am thirteen years old I am going to
travel in many strange and beautiful countries. I shall climb
very high mountains in Norway and see much ice and snow. I hope I
will not fall and hurt my head I shall visit little Lord
Fauntleroy in England and he will be glad to show me his grand
and very ancient castle. And we will run with the deer and feed
the rabbits and catch the squirrels. I shall not be afraid of
Fauntleroy's great dog Dougal. I hope Fauntleroy take me to see a
very kind queen. When I go to France I will take French. A little
French boy will say, Parlez-vous Francais? and I will say, Oui,
Monsieur, vous avez un joli chapeau. Donnez moi un baiser. I hope
you will go with me to Athens to see the maid of Athens. She was
very lovely lady and I will talk Greek to her. I will say, se
agapo and, pos echete and I think she will say, kalos, and then I
will say chaere. Will you please come to see me soon and take me
to the theater? When you come I will say, Kale emera, and when
you go home I will say, Kale nykta. Now I am too tired to write
more. Je vous aime. Au revoir
From your darling little friend
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO MISS EVELINA H. KELLER
[So. Boston, Mass. October 29, 1888.]
My dearest Aunt,—I am coming home very soon and I think you and
every one will be very glad to see my teacher and me. I am very
happy because I have learned much about many things. I am
studying French and German and Latin and Greek. Se agapo is
Greek, and it means I love thee. J'ai une bonne petite soeur is
French, and it means I have a good little sister. Nous avons un
bon pere et une bonne mere means, we have a good father and a
good mother. Puer is boy in Latin, and Mutter is mother in
German. I will teach Mildred many languages when I come home.
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO MRS. SOPHIA C. HOPKINS
Tuscumbia, Ala. Dec. 11th, 1888.
My dear Mrs. Hopkins:—
I have just fed my dear little pigeon. My brother Simpson gave it
to me last Sunday. I named it Annie, for my teacher. My puppy has
had his supper and gone to bed. My rabbits are sleeping, too; and
very soon I shall go to bed. Teacher is writing letters to her
friends. Mother and father and their friends have gone to see a
huge furnace. The furnace is to make iron. The iron ore is found
in the ground; but it cannot be used until it has been brought to
the furnace and melted, and all the dirt taken out, and just the
pure iron left. Then it is all ready to be manufactured into
engines, stoves, kettles and many other things.
Coal is found in the ground, too. Many years ago, before people
came to live on the earth, great trees and tall grasses and huge
ferns and all the beautiful flowers cover the earth. When the
leaves and the trees fell, the water and the soil covered them;
and then more trees grew and fell also, and were buried under
water and soil. After they had all been pressed together for many
thousands of years, the wood grew very hard, like rock, and then
it was all ready for people to burn. Can you see leaves and ferns
and bark on the coal? Men go down into the ground and dig out the
coal, and steam-cars take it to the large cities, and sell it to
people to burn, to make them warm and happy when it is cold out
of doors.
Are you very lonely and sad now? I hope you will come to see me
soon, and stay a long time.
With much love from your little friend
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO MISS DELLA BENNETT
Tuscumbia, Ala., Jan. 29, 1889.
My dear Miss Bennett:—I am delighted to write to you this
morning. We have just eaten our breakfast. Mildred is running
about downstairs. I have been reading in my book about
astronomers. Astronomer comes from the Latin word astra, which
means stars; and astronomers are men who study the stars, and
tell us about them. When we are sleeping quietly in our beds,
they are watching the beautiful sky through the telescope. A
telescope is like a very strong eye. The stars are so far away
that people cannot tell much about them, without very excellent
instruments. Do you like to look out of your window, and see
little stars? Teacher says she can see Venus from our window, and
it is a large and beautiful star. The stars are called the
earth's brothers and sisters.
There are a great many instruments besides those which the
astronomers use. A knife is an instrument to cut with. I think
the bell is an instrument, too. I will tell you what I know about
bells.
Some bells are musical and others are unmusical. Some are very
tiny and some are very large. I saw a very large bell at
Wellesley. It came from Japan. Bells are used for many purposes.
They tell us when breakfast is ready, when to go to school, when
it is time for church, and when there is a fire. They tell people
when to go to work, and when to go home and rest. The engine-bell
tells the passengers that they are coming to a station, and it
tells the people to keep out of the way. Sometimes very terrible
accidents happen, and many people are burned and drowned and
injured. The other day I broke my doll's head off; but that was
not a dreadful accident, because dolls do not live and feel, like
people. My little pigeons are well, and so is my little bird. I
would like to have some clay. Teacher says it is time for me to
study now. Good-bye.
With much love, and many kisses,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Tuscumbia, Alabama, February 21st, 1889.
My dear Mr. Hale,
I am very much afraid that you are thinking in your mind that
little Helen has forgotten all about you and her dear cousins.
But I think you will be delighted to receive this letter because
then you will know that I of[ten] think about you and I love you
dearly for you are my dear cousin. I have been at home a great
many weeks now. It made me feel very sad to leave Boston and I
missed all of my friends greatly, but of course I was glad to get
back to my lovely home once more. My darling little sister is
growing very fast. Sometimes she tries to spell very short words
on her small [fingers] but she is too young to remember hard
words. When she is older I will teach her many things if she is
patient and obedient. My teacher says, if children learn to be
patient and gentle while they are little, that when they grow to
be young ladies and gentlemen they will not forget to be kind and
loving and brave. I hope I shall be courageous always. A little
girl in a story was not courageous. She thought she saw little
elves with tall pointed [hats] peeping from between the bushes
and dancing down the long alleys, and the poor little girl was
terrified. Did you have a pleasant Christmas? I had many lovely
presents given to me. The other day I had a fine party. All of my
dear little friends came to see me. We played games, and ate
ice-cream and cake and fruit. Then we had great fun. The sun is
shining brightly to-day and I hope we shall go to ride if the
roads are dry. In a few days the beautiful spring will be here. I
am very glad because I love the warm sunshine and the fragrant
flowers. I think Flowers grow to make people happy and good. I
have four dolls now. Cedric is my little boy, he is named for
Lord Fauntleroy. He has big brown eyes and long golden hair and
pretty round cheeks. Ida is my baby. A lady brought her to me
from Paris. She can drink milk like a real baby. Lucy is a fine
young lady. She has on a dainty lace dress and satin slippers.
Poor old Nancy is growing old and very feeble. She is almost an
invalid. I have two tame pigeons and a tiny canary bird. Jumbo is
very strong and faithful. He will not let anything harm us at
night. I go to school every day I am studying reading, writing,
arithmetic, geography and language. My Mother and teacher send
you and Mrs. Hale their kind greetings and Mildred sends you a
kiss.
With much love and kisses, from your
Affectionate cousin
HELEN A. KELLER.
During the winter Miss Sullivan and her pupil were working at
Helen's home in Tuscumbia, and to good purpose, for by spring
Helen had learned to write idiomatic English. After May, 1889, I
find almost no inaccuracies, except some evident slips of the
pencil. She uses words precisely and makes easy, fluent
sentences.
TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS
Tuscumbia, Ala., May 18, 1889.
My Dear Mr. Anagnos:—You cannot imagine how delighted I was to
receive a letter from you last evening. I am very sorry that you
are going so far away. We shall miss you very, very much. I would
love to visit many beautiful cities with you. When I was in
Huntsville I saw Dr. Bryson, and he told me that he had been to
Rome and Athens and Paris and London. He had climbed the high
mountains in Switzerland and visited beautiful churches in Italy
and France, and he saw a great many ancient castles. I hope you
will please write to me from all the cities you visit. When you
go to Holland please give my love to the lovely princess
Wilhelmina. She is a dear little girl, and when she is old enough
she will be the queen of Holland. If you go to Roumania please
ask the good queen Elizabeth about her little invalid brother,
and tell her that I am very sorry that her darling little girl
died. I should like to send a kiss to Vittorio, the little prince
of Naples, but teacher says she is afraid you will not remember
so many messages. When I am thirteen years old I shall visit them
all myself.
I thank you very much for the beautiful story about Lord
Fauntleroy, and so does teacher.
I am so glad that Eva is coming to stay with me this summer. We
will have fine times together. Give Howard my love, and tell him
to answer my letter. Thursday we had a picnic. It was very
pleasant out in the shady woods, and we all enjoyed the picnic
very much.
Mildred is out in the yard playing, and mother is picking the
delicious strawberries. Father and Uncle Frank are down town.
Simpson is coming home soon. Mildred and I had our pictures taken
while we were in Huntsville. I will send you one.
The roses have been beautiful. Mother has a great many fine
roses. The La France and the Lamarque are the most fragrant; but
the Marechal Neil, Solfaterre, Jacqueminot, Nipheots, Etoile de
Lyon, Papa Gontier, Gabrielle Drevet and the Perle des Jardines
are all lovely roses.
Please give the little boys and girls my love. I think of them
every day and I love them dearly in my heart. When you come home
from Europe I hope you will be all well and very happy to get
home again. Do not forget to give my love to Miss Calliope
Kehayia and Mr. Francis Demetrios Kalopothakes.
Lovingly, your little friend,
HELEN ADAMS KELLER.
Like a good many of Helen Keller's early letters, this to her
French teacher is her re-phrasing of a story. It shows how much
the gift of writing is, in the early stages of its development,
the gift of mimicry.
TO MISS FANNIE S. MARRETT
Tuscumbia, Ala., May 17, 1889.
My Dear Miss Marrett—I am thinking about a dear little girl, who
wept very hard. She wept because her brother teased her very
much. I will tell you what he did, and I think you will feel very
sorry for the little child. She had a most beautiful doll given
her. Oh, it was a lovely and delicate doll! but the little girl's
brother, a tall lad, had taken the doll, and set it up in a high
tree in the garden, and had run away. The little girl could not
reach the doll, and could not help it down, and therefore she
cried. The doll cried, too, and stretched out its arms from among
the green branches, and looked distressed. Soon the dismal night
would come—and was the doll to sit up in the tree all night, and
by herself? The little girl could not endure that thought. "I
will stay with you," said she to the doll, although she was not
at all courageous. Already she began to see quite plainly the
little elves in their tall pointed hats, dancing down the dusky
alleys, and peeping from between the bushes, and they seemed to
come nearer and nearer; and she stretched her hands up towards
the tree in which the doll sat and they laughed, and pointed
their fingers at her. How terrified was the little girl; but if
one has not done anything wrong, these strange little elves
cannot harm one. "Have I done anything wrong? Ah, yes!" said the
little girl. "I have laughed at the poor duck, with the red rag
tied round its leg. It hobbled, and that made me laugh; but it is
wrong to laugh at the poor animals!"
Is it not a pitiful story? I hope the father punished the naughty
little boy. Shall you be very glad to see my teacher next
Thursday? She is going home to rest, but she will come back to me
next autumn.
Lovingly, your little friend,
HELEN ADAMS KELLER.
TO MISS MARY E. RILEY
Tuscumbia, Ala., May 27, 1889.
My Dear Miss Riley:—I wish you were here in the warm, sunny
south today. Little sister and I would take you out into the
garden, and pick the delicious raspberries and a few strawberries
for you. How would you like that? The strawberries are nearly all
gone. In the evening, when it is cool and pleasant, we would walk
in the yard, and catch the grasshoppers and butterflies. We would
talk about the birds and flowers and grass and Jumbo and Pearl.
If you liked, we would run and jump and hop and dance, and be
very happy. I think you would enjoy hearing the mocking-birds
sing. One sits on the twig of a tree, just beneath our window,
and he fills the air with his glad songs. But I am afraid you
cannot come to Tuscumbia; so I will write to you, and send you a
sweet kiss and my love. How is Dick? Daisy is happy, but she
would be happy ever if she had a little mate. My little children
are all well except Nancy, and she is quite feeble. My
grandmother and aunt Corinne are here. Grandmother is going to
make me two new dresses. Give my love to all the little girls,
and tell them that Helen loves them very, very much. Eva sends
love to all.
With much love and many kisses, from your affectionate little
friend,
HELEN ADAMS KELLER.
During the summer Miss Sullivan was away from Helen for three
months and a half, the first separation of teacher and pupil.
Only once afterward in fifteen years was their constant
companionship broken for more than a few days at a time.
TO MISS ANNE MANSFIELD SULLIVAN
Tuscumbia, Ala., August 7, 1889.
Dearest Teacher—I am very glad to write to you this evening, for
I have been thinking much about you all day. I am sitting on the
piazza, and my little white pigeon is perched on the back of my
chair, watching me write. Her little brown mate has flown away
with the other birds; but Annie is not sad, for she likes to stay
with me. Fauntleroy is asleep upstairs, and Nancy is putting Lucy
to bed. Perhaps the mocking bird is singing them to sleep. All
the beautiful flowers are in bloom now. The air is sweet with the
perfume of jasmines, heliotropes and roses. It is getting warm
here now, so father is going to take us to the Quarry on the 20th
of August. I think we shall have a beautiful time out in the
cool, pleasant woods. I will write and tell you all the pleasant
things we do. I am so glad that Lester and Henry are good little
infants. Give them many sweet kisses for me.
What was the name of the little boy who fell in love with the
beautiful star? Eva has been telling me a story about a lovely
little girl named Heidi. Will you please send it to me? I shall
be delighted to have a typewriter.
Little Arthur is growing very fast. He has on short dresses now.
Cousin Leila thinks he will walk in a little while. Then I will
take his soft chubby hand in mine, and go out in the bright
sunshine with him. He will pull the largest roses, and chase the
gayest butterflies. I will take very good care of him, and not
let him fall and hurt himself. Father and some other gentlemen
went hunting yesterday. Father killed thirty-eight birds. We had
some of them for supper, and they were very nice. Last Monday
Simpson shot a pretty crane. The crane is a large and strong
bird. His wings are as long as my arm, and his bill is as long as
my foot. He eats little fishes, and other small animals. Father
says he can fly nearly all day without stopping.
Mildred is the dearest and sweetest little maiden in the world.
She is very roguish, too. Sometimes, when mother does not know
it, she goes out into the vineyard, and gets her apron full of
delicious grapes. I think she would like to put her two soft arms
around your neck and hug you.
Sunday I went to church. I love to go to church, because I like
to see my friends.
A gentleman gave me a beautiful card. It was a picture of a mill,
near a beautiful brook. There was a boat floating on the water,
and the fragrant lilies were growing all around the boat. Not far
from the mill there was an old house, with many trees growing
close to it. There were eight pigeons on the roof of the house,
and a great dog on the step. Pearl is a very proud mother-dog
now. She has eight puppies, and she thinks there never were such
fine puppies as hers.
I read in my books every day. I love them very, very, very much.
I do want you to come back to me soon. I miss you so very, very
much. I cannot know about many things, when my dear teacher is
not here. I send you five thousand kisses, and more love than I
can tell. I send Mrs. H. much love and a kiss.
From your affectionate little pupil,
HELEN A. KELLER.
In the fall Helen and Miss Sullivan returned to Perkins
Institution at South Boston.
TO MISS MILDRED KELLER
South Boston, Oct. 24, 1889.
My Precious Little Sister:—Good morning. I am going to send you
a birthday gift with this letter. I hope it will please you very
much, because it makes me happy to send it. The dress is blue
like your eyes, and candy is sweet just like your dear little
self. I think mother will be glad to make the dress for you, and
when you wear it you will look as pretty as a rose. The
picture-book will tell you all about many strange and wild
animals. You must not be afraid of them. They cannot come out of
the picture to harm you.
I go to school every day, and I learn many new things. At eight I
study arithmetic. I like that. At nine I go to the gymnasium with
the little girls and we have great fun. I wish you could be here
to play three little squirrels, and two gentle doves, and to make
a pretty nest for a dear little robin. The mocking bird does not
live in the cold north. At ten I study about the earth on which
we all live. At eleven I talk with teacher and at twelve I study
zoology. I do not know what I shall do in the afternoon yet.
Now, my darling little Mildred, good bye. Give father and mother
a great deal of love and many hugs and kisses for me. Teacher
sends her love too.
From your loving sister,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
South Boston, Mass., Nov. 20, 1889.
My Dear Mr. Wade:—I have just received a letter from my mother,
telling me that the beautiful mastiff puppy you sent me had
arrived in Tuscumbia safely. Thank you very much for the nice
gift. I am very sorry that I was not at home to welcome her; but
my mother and my baby sister will be very kind to her while her
mistress is away. I hope she is not lonely and unhappy. I think
puppies can feel very home-sick, as well as little girls. I
should like to call her Lioness, for your dog. May I? I hope she
will be very faithful,—and brave, too.
I am studying in Boston, with my dear teacher. I learn a great
many new and wonderful things. I study about the earth, and the
animals, and I like arithmetic exceedingly. I learn many new
words, too. EXCEEDINGLY is one that I learned yesterday. When I
see Lioness I will tell her many things which will surprise her
greatly. I think she will laugh when I tell her she is a
vertebrate, a mammal, a quadruped; and I shall be very sorry to
tell her that she belongs to the order Carnivora. I study French,
too. When I talk French to Lioness I will call her mon beau
chien. Please tell Lion that I will take good care of Lioness. I
shall be happy to have a letter from you when you like to write
to me.
From your loving little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
P.S. I am studying at the Institution for the Blind.
H. A. K.
This letter is indorsed in Whittier's hand, "Helen A.
Keller—deaf dumb and blind—aged nine years." "Browns" is a
lapse of the pencil for "brown eyes."
TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Inst. for the Blind, So. Boston, Mass.,
Nov. 27, 1889.
Dear Poet,
I think you will be surprised to receive a letter from a little
girl whom you do not know, but I thought you would be glad to
hear that your beautiful poems make me very happy. Yesterday I
read "In School Days" and "My Playmate," and I enjoyed them
greatly. I was very sorry that the poor little girl with the
browns and the "tangled golden curls" died. It is very pleasant
to live here in our beautiful world. I cannot see the lovely
things with my eyes, but my mind can see them all, and so I am
joyful all the day long.
When I walk out in my garden I cannot see the beautiful flowers
but I know that they are all around me; for is not the air sweet
with their fragrance? I know too that the tiny lily-bells are
whispering pretty secrets to their companions else they would not
look so happy. I love you very dearly, because you have taught me
so many lovely things about flowers, and birds, and people. Now I
must say, good-bye. I hope [you] will enjoy the Thanksgiving very
much.
From your loving little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
To Mr. John Greenleaf Whittier.
Whittier's reply, to which there is a reference in the following
letter, has been lost.
TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
South Boston, Mass., Dec. 3, 1889.
My Dear Mother:—Your little daughter is very happy to write to
you this beautiful morning. It is cold and rainy here to-day.
Yesterday the Countess of Meath came again to see me. She gave me
a beautiful bunch of violets. Her little girls are named Violet
and May. The Earl said he should be delighted to visit Tuscumbia
the next time he comes to America. Lady Meath said she would like
to see your flowers, and hear the mocking-birds sing. When I
visit England they want me to come to see them, and stay a few
weeks. They will take me to see the Queen.
I had a lovely letter from the poet Whittier. He loves me. Mr.
Wade wants teacher and me to come and see him next spring. May we
go? He said you must feed Lioness from your hand, because she
will be more gentle if she does not eat with other dogs.
Mr. Wilson came to call on us one Thursday. I was delighted to
receive the flowers from home. They came while we were eating
breakfast, and my friends enjoyed them with me. We had a very
nice dinner on Thanksgiving day,—turkey and plum-pudding. Last
week I visited a beautiful art store. I saw a great many statues,
and the gentleman gave me an angel.
Sunday I went to church on board a great warship. After the
services were over the soldier-sailors showed us around. There
were four hundred and sixty sailors. They were very kind to me.
One carried me in his arms so that my feet would not touch the
water. They wore blue uniforms and queer little caps. There was a
terrible fire Thursday. Many stores were burned, and four men
were killed. I am very sorry for them. Tell father, please, to
write to me. How is dear little sister? Give her many kisses for
me. Now I must close. With much love, from your darling child,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
So. Boston, Mass., Dec. 24, 1889
My dear Mother,
Yesterday I sent you a little Christmas box. I am very sorry that
I could not send it before so that you would receive it tomorrow,
but I could not finish the watch-case any sooner. I made all of
the gifts myself, excepting father's handkerchief. I wish I could
have made father a gift too, but I did not have sufficient time.
I hope you will like your watch-case, for it made me very happy
to make it for you. You must keep your lovely new montre in it.
If it is too warm in Tuscumbia for little sister to wear her
pretty mittens, she can keep them because her sister made them
for her. I imagine she will have fun with the little toy man.
Tell her to shake him, and then he will blow his trumpet. I thank
my dear kind father for sending me some money, to buy gifts for
my friends. I love to make everybody happy. I should like to be
at home on Christmas day. We would be very happy together. I
think of my beautiful home every day. Please do not forget to
send me some pretty presents to hang on my tree. I am going to
have a Christmas tree, in the parlor and teacher will hang all of
my gifts upon it. It will be a funny tree. All of the girls have
gone home to spend Christmas. Teacher and I are the only babies
left for Mrs. Hopkins to care for. Teacher has been sick in bed
for many days. Her throat was very sore and the doctor thought
she would have to go away to the hospital, but she is better now.
I have not been sick at all. The little girls are well too.
Friday I am going to spend the day with my little friends Carrie,
Ethel, Frank and Helen Freeman. We will have great fun I am sure.
Mr. and Miss Endicott came to see me, and I went to ride in the
carriage. They are going to give me a lovely present, but I
cannot guess what it will be. Sammy has a dear new brother. He is
very soft and delicate yet. Mr. Anagnos is in Athens now. He is
delighted because I am here. Now I must say, good-bye. I hope I
have written my letter nicely, but it is very difficult to write
on this paper and teacher is not here to give me better. Give
many kisses to little sister and much love to all. Lovingly
HELEN.
TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
South Boston, Jan. 8, 1890.
My dear Mr. Hale:
The beautiful shells came last night. I thank you very much for
them. I shall always keep them, and it will make me very happy to
think that you found them, on that far away island, from which
Columbus sailed to discover our dear country. When I am eleven
years old it will be four hundred years since he started with the
three small ships to cross the great strange ocean. He was very
brave. The little girls were delighted to see the lovely shells.
I told them all I knew about them. Are you very glad that you
could make so many happy? I am. I should be very happy to come
and teach you the Braille sometime, if you have time to learn,
but I am afraid you are too busy. A few days ago I received a
little box of English violets from Lady Meath. The flowers were
wilted, but the kind thought which came with them was as sweet
and as fresh as newly pulled violets.
With loving greeting to the little cousins, and Mrs. Hale and a
sweet kiss for yourself,
From your little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
This, the first of Helen's letters to Dr. Holmes, written soon
after a visit to him, he published in "Over the Teacups."
[Atlantic Monthly, May, 1890]
TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
South Boston, Mass., March 1, 1890.
Dear, Kind Poet:—I have thought of you many times since that
bright Sunday when I bade you good-bye; and I am going to write
you a letter, because I love you. I am sorry that you have no
little children to play with you sometimes; but I think you are
very happy with your books, and your many, many friends. On
Washington's birthday a great many people came here to see the
blind children; and I read for them from your poems, and showed
them some beautiful shells, which came from a little island near
Palos.
I am reading a very sad story, called "Little Jakey." Jakey was
the sweetest little fellow you can imagine, but he was poor and
blind. I used to think—when I was small, and before I could
read—that everybody was always happy, and at first it made me
very sad to know about pain and great sorrow; but now I know that
we could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only
joy in the world.
I am studying about insects in zoology, and I have learned many
things about butterflies. They do not make honey for us, like the
bees, but many of them are as beautiful as the flowers they light
upon, and they always delight the hearts of little children. They
live a gay life, flitting from flower to flower, sipping the
drops of honeydew, without a thought for the morrow. They are
just like little boys and girls when they forget books and
studies, and run away to the woods and the fields, to gather wild
flowers, or wade in the ponds for fragrant lilies, happy in the
bright sunshine.
If my little sister comes to Boston next June, will you let me
bring her to see you? She is a lovely baby, and I am sure you
will love her.
Now I must tell my gentle poet good-bye, for I have a letter to
write home before I go to bed.
From your loving little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO MISS SARAH FULLER [Miss Fuller gave Helen Keller her first
lesson in articulation. See Chapter IV, Speech.]
South Boston, Mass., April 3, 1890.
My dear Miss Fuller,
My heart is full of joy this beautiful morning, because I have
learned to speak many new words, and I can make a few sentences.
Last evening I went out in the yard and spoke to the moon. I
said, "O! moon come to me!" Do you think the lovely moon was glad
that I could speak to her? How glad my mother will be. I can
hardly wait for June to come I am so eager to speak to her and to
my precious little sister. Mildred could not understand me when I
spelled with my fingers, but now she will sit in my lap and I
will tell her many things to please her, and we shall be so happy
together. Are you very, very happy because you can make so many
people happy? I think you are very kind and patient, and I love
you very dearly. My teacher told me Tuesday that you wanted to
know how I came to wish to talk with my mouth. I will tell you
all about it, for I remember my thoughts perfectly. When I was a
very little child I used to sit in my mother's lap all the time,
because I was very timid, and did not like to be left by myself.
And I would keep my little hand on her face all the while,
because it amused me to feel her face and lips move when she
talked with people. I did not know then what she was doing, for I
was quite ignorant of all things. Then when I was older I learned
to play with my nurse and the little negro children and I noticed
that they kept moving their lips just like my mother, so I moved
mine too, but sometimes it made me angry and I would hold my
playmates' mouths very hard. I did not know then that it was very
naughty to do so. After a long time my dear teacher came to me,
and taught me to communicate with my fingers and I was satisfied
and happy. But when I came to school in Boston I met some deaf
people who talked with their mouths like all other people, and
one day a lady who had been to Norway came to see me, and told me
of a blind and deaf girl [Ragnhild Kaata] she had seen in that
far away land who had been taught to speak and understand others
when they spoke to her. This good and happy news delighted me
exceedingly, for then I was sure that I should learn also. I
tried to make sounds like my little playmates, but teacher told
me that the voice was very delicate and sensitive and that it
would injure it to make incorrect sounds, and promised to take me
to see a kind and wise lady who would teach me rightly. That lady
was yourself. Now I am as happy as the little birds, because I
can speak and perhaps I shall sing too. All of my friends will be
so surprised and glad.
Your loving little pupil,
HELEN A. KELLER.
When the Perkins Institution closed for the summer, Helen and
Miss Sullivan went to Tuscumbia. This was the first home-going
after she had learned to "talk with her mouth."
TO REV. PHILLIPS BROOKS
Tuscumbia, Alabama, July 14, 1890.
My dear Mr. Brooks, I am very glad to write to you this beautiful
day because you are my kind friend and I love you, and because I
wish to know many things. I have been at home three weeks, and
Oh, how happy I have been with dear mother and father and
precious little sister. I was very, very sad to part with all of
my friends in Boston, but I was so eager to see my baby sister I
could hardly wait for the train to take me home. But I tried very
hard to be patient for teacher's sake. Mildred has grown much
taller and stronger than she was when I went to Boston, and she
is the sweetest and dearest little child in the world. My parents
were delighted to hear me speak, and I was overjoyed to give them
such a happy surprise. I think it is so pleasant to make
everybody happy. Why does the dear Father in heaven think it best
for us to have very great sorrow sometimes? I am always happy and
so was Little Lord Fauntleroy, but dear Little Jakey's life was
full of sadness. God did not put the light in Jakey's eyes and he
was blind, and his father was not gentle and loving. Do you think
poor Jakey loved his Father in heaven more because his other
father was unkind to him? How did God tell people that his home
was in heaven? When people do very wrong and hurt animals and
treat children unkindly God is grieved, but what will he do to
them to teach them to be pitiful and loving? I think he will tell
them how dearly He loves them and that He wants them to be good
and happy, and they will not wish to grieve their father who
loves them so much, and they will want to please him in
everything they do, so they will love each other and do good to
everyone, and be kind to animals.
Please tell me something that you know about God. It makes me
happy to know much about my loving Father, who is good and wise.
I hope you will write to your little friend when you have time. I
should like very much to see you to-day Is the sun very hot in
Boston now? this afternoon if it is cool enough I shall take
Mildred for a ride on my donkey. Mr. Wade sent Neddy to me, and
he is the prettiest donkey you can imagine. My great dog Lioness
goes with us when we ride to protect us. Simpson, that is my
brother, brought me some beautiful pond lilies yesterday—he is a
very brother to me.
Teacher sends you her kind remembrances, and father and mother
also send their regards.
From your loving little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
DR. BROOKS'S REPLY
London, August 3, 1890.
My Dear Helen—I was very glad indeed to get your letter. It has
followed me across the ocean and found me in this magnificent
great city which I should like to tell you all about if I could
take time for it and make my letter long enough. Some time when
you come and see me in my study in Boston I shall be glad to talk
to you about it all if you care to hear.
But now I want to tell you how glad I am that you are so happy
and enjoying your home so very much. I can almost think I see you
with your father and mother and little sister, with all the
brightness of the beautiful country about you, and it makes me
very glad to know how glad you are.
I am glad also to know, from the questions which you ask me, what
you are thinking about. I do not see how we can help thinking
about God when He is so good to us all the time. Let me tell you
how it seems to me that we come to know about our heavenly
Father. It is from the power of love which is in our own hearts.
Love is at the soul of everything. Whatever has not the power of
loving must have a very dreary life indeed. We like to think that
the sunshine and the winds and the trees are able to love in some
way of their own, for it would make us know that they were happy
if we knew that they could love. And so God who is the greatest
and happiest of all beings is the most loving too. All the love
that is in our hearts comes from him, as all the light which is
in the flowers comes from the sun. And the more we love the more
near we are to God and His Love.
I told you that I was very happy because of your happiness.
Indeed I am. So are your Father and your Mother and your Teacher
and all your friends. But do you not think that God is happy too
because you are happy? I am sure He is. And He is happier than
any of us because He is greater than any of us, and also because
He not merely SEES your happiness as we do, but He also MADE it.
He gives it to you as the sun gives light and color to the rose.
And we are always most glad of what we not merely see our friends
enjoy, but of what we give them to enjoy. Are we not?
But God does not only want us to be HAPPY; He wants us to be
good. He wants that most of all. He knows that we can be really
happy only when we are good. A great deal of the trouble that is
in the world is medicine which is very bad to take, but which it
is good to take because it makes us better. We see how good
people may be in great trouble when we think of Jesus who was the
greatest sufferer that ever lived and yet was the best Being and
so, I am sure, the happiest Being that the world has ever seen.
I love to tell you about God. But He will tell you Himself by the
love which He will put into your heart if you ask Him. And Jesus,
who is His Son, but is nearer to Him than all of us His other
Children, came into the world on purpose to tell us all about our
Father's Love. If you read His words, you will see how full His
heart is of the love of God. "We KNOW that He loves us," He says.
And so He loved men Himself and though they were very cruel to
Him and at last killed Him, He was willing to die for them
because He loved them so. And, Helen, He loves men still, and He
loves us, and He tells us that we may love Him.
And so love is everything. And if anybody asks you, or if you ask
yourself what God is, answer, "God is Love." That is the
beautiful answer which the Bible gives.
All this is what you are to think of and to understand more and
more as you grow older. Think of it now, and let it make every
blessing brighter because your dear Father sends it to you.
You will come back to Boston I hope soon after I do. I shall be
there by the middle of September. I shall want you to tell me all
about everything, and not forget the Donkey.
I send my kind remembrance to your father and mother, and to your
teacher. I wish I could see your little sister.
Good Bye, dear Helen. Do write to me soon again, directing your
letter to Boston.
Your affectionate friend
PHILLIPS BROOKS.
DR. HOLMES'S REPLY
To a letter which has been lost.
Beverly Farms, Mass., August 1, 1890.
My Dear Little Friend Helen:
I received your welcome letter several days ago, but I have so
much writing to do that I am apt to make my letters wait a good
while before they get answered.
It gratifies me very much to find that you remember me so kindly.
Your letter is charming, and I am greatly pleased with it. I
rejoice to know that you are well and happy. I am very much
delighted to hear of your new acquisition—that you "talk with
your mouth" as well as with your fingers. What a curious thing
SPEECH is! The tongue is so serviceable a member (taking all
sorts of shapes, just as is wanted),—the teeth, the lips, the
roof of the mouth, all ready to help, and so heap up the sound of
the voice into the solid bits which we call consonants, and make
room for the curiously shaped breathings which we call vowels!
You have studied all this, I don't doubt, since you have
practised vocal speaking.
I am surprised at the mastery of language which your letter
shows. It almost makes me think the world would get along as well
without seeing and hearing as with them. Perhaps people would be
better in a great many ways, for they could not fight as they do
now. Just think of an army of blind people, with guns and cannon!
Think of the poor drummers! Of what use would they and their
drumsticks be? You are spared the pain of many sights and sounds,
which you are only too happy in escaping. Then think how much
kindness you are sure of as long as you live. Everybody will feel
an interest in dear little Helen; everybody will want to do
something for her; and, if she becomes an ancient, gray-haired
woman, she is still sure of being thoughtfully cared for.
Your parents and friends must take great satisfaction in your
progress. It does great credit, not only to you, but to your
instructors, who have so broken down the walls that seemed to
shut you in that now your outlook seems more bright and cheerful
than that of many seeing and hearing children.
Good-bye, dear little Helen! With every kind wish from your
friend,
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
This letter was written to some gentlemen in Gardiner, Maine, who
named a lumber vessel after her.
TO MESSRS. BRADSTREET
Tuscumbia, Ala., July 14, 1890.
My Dear, Kind Friends:—I thank you very, very much for naming
your beautiful new ship for me. It makes me very happy to know
that I have kind and loving friends in the far-away State of
Maine. I did not imagine, when I studied about the forests of
Maine, that a strong and beautiful ship would go sailing all over
the world, carrying wood from those rich forests, to build
pleasant homes and schools and churches in distant countries. I
hope the great ocean will love the new Helen, and let her sail
over its blue waves peacefully. Please tell the brave sailors,
who have charge of the HELEN KELLER, that little Helen who stays
at home will often think of them with loving thoughts. I hope I
shall see you and my beautiful namesake some time.
With much love, from your little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
To the Messrs. Bradstreet.
Helen and Miss Sullivan returned to the Perkins Institution early
in November.
TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
South Boston, Nov. 10, 1890.
My Dearest Mother:—My heart has been full of thoughts of you and
my beautiful home ever since we parted so sadly on Wednesday
night. How I wish I could see you this lovely morning, and tell
you all that has happened since I left home! And my darling
little sister, how I wish I could give her a hundred kisses! And
my dear father, how he would like to hear about our journey! But
I cannot see you and talk to you, so I will write and tell you
all that I can think of.
We did not reach Boston until Saturday morning. I am sorry to say
that our train was delayed in several places, which made us late
in reaching New York. When we got to Jersey City at six o'clock
Friday evening we were obliged to cross the Harlem River in a
ferry-boat. We found the boat and the transfer carriage with much
less difficulty than teacher expected. When we arrived at the
station they told us that the train did not leave for Boston
until eleven o'clock, but that we could take the sleeper at nine,
which we did. We went to bed and slept until morning. When we
awoke we were in Boston. I was delighted to get there, though I
was much disappointed because we did not arrive on Mr. Anagnos'
birthday. We surprised our dear friends, however, for they did
not expect us Saturday; but when the bell rung Miss Marrett
guessed who was at the door, and Mrs. Hopkins jumped up from the
breakfast table and ran to the door to meet us; she was indeed
much astonished to see us. After we had had some breakfast we
went up to see Mr. Anagnos. I was overjoyed to see my dearest and
kindest friend once more. He gave me a beautiful watch. I have it
pinned to my dress. I tell everybody the time when they ask me. I
have only seen Mr. Anagnos twice. I have many questions to ask
him about the countries he has been travelling in. But I suppose
he is very busy now.
The hills in Virginia were very lovely. Jack Frost had dressed
them in gold and crimson. The view was most charmingly
picturesque. Pennsylvania is a very beautiful State. The grass
was as green as though it was springtime, and the golden ears of
corn gathered together in heaps in the great fields looked very
pretty. In Harrisburg we saw a donkey like Neddy. How I wish I
could see my own donkey and my dear Lioness! Do they miss their
mistress very much? Tell Mildred she must be kind to them for my
sake.
Our room is pleasant and comfortable.
My typewriter was much injured coming. The case was broken and
the keys are nearly all out. Teacher is going to see if it can be
fixed.
There are many new books in the library. What a nice time I shall
have reading them! I have already read Sara Crewe. It is a very
pretty story, and I will tell it to you some time. Now, sweet
mother, your little girl must say good-bye.
With much love to father, Mildred, you and all the dear friends,
lovingly your little daughter,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
South Boston, Dec. 17, 1890.
Dear Kind Poet,
This is your birthday; that was the first thought which came into
my mind when I awoke this morning; and it made me glad to think I
could write you a letter and tell you how much your little
friends love their sweet poet and his birthday. This evening they
are going to entertain their friends with readings from your
poems and music. I hope the swift winged messengers of love will
be here to carry some of the sweet melody to you, in your little
study by the Merrimac. At first I was very sorry when I found
that the sun had hidden his shining face behind dull clouds, but
afterwards I thought why he did it, and then I was happy. The sun
knows that you like to see the world covered with beautiful white
snow and so he kept back all his brightness, and let the little
crystals form in the sky. When they are ready, they will softly
fall and tenderly cover every object. Then the sun will appear in
all his radiance and fill the world with light. If I were with
you to-day I would give you eighty-three kisses, one for each
year you have lived. Eighty-three years seems very long to me.
Does it seem long to you? I wonder how many years there will be
in eternity. I am afraid I cannot think about so much time. I
received the letter which you wrote to me last summer, and I
thank you for it. I am staying in Boston now at the Institution
for the Blind, but I have not commenced my studies yet, because
my dearest friend, Mr. Anagnos wants me to rest and play a great
deal.
Teacher is well and sends her kind remembrance to you. The happy
Christmas time is almost here! I can hardly wait for the fun to
begin! I hope your Christmas Day will be a very happy one and
that the New Year will be full of brightness and joy for you and
every one.
From your little friend
HELEN A. KELLER.
WHITTIER'S REPLY
My Dear Young Friend—I was very glad to have such a pleasant
letter on my birthday. I had two or three hundred others and
thine was one of the most welcome of all. I must tell thee about
how the day passed at Oak Knoll. Of course the sun did not shine,
but we had great open wood fires in the rooms, which were all
very sweet with roses and other flowers, which were sent to me
from distant friends; and fruits of all kinds from California and
other places. Some relatives and dear old friends were with me
through the day. I do not wonder thee thinks eighty three years a
long time, but to me it seems but a very little while since I was
a boy no older than thee, playing on the old farm at Haverhill. I
thank thee for all thy good wishes, and wish thee as many. I am
glad thee is at the Institution; it is an excellent place. Give
my best regards to Miss Sullivan, and with a great deal of love I
am
Thy old friend,
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
Tommy Stringer, who appears in several of the following letters,
became blind and deaf when he was four years old. His mother was
dead and his father was too poor to take care of him. For a while
he was kept in the general hospital at Allegheny. From here he
was to be sent to an almshouse, for at that time there was no
other place for him in Pennsylvania. Helen heard of him through
Mr. J. G. Brown of Pittsburgh, who wrote her that he had failed
to secure a tutor for Tommy. She wanted him brought to Boston,
and when she was told that money would be needed to get him a
teacher, she answered, "We will raise it." She began to solicit
contributions from her friends, and saved her pennies.
Dr. Alexander Graham Bell advised Tommy's friends to send him to
Boston, and the trustees of the Perkins Institution agreed to
admit him to the kindergarten for the blind.
Meanwhile opportunity came to Helen to make a considerable
contribution to Tommy's education. The winter before, her dog
Lioness had been killed, and friends set to work to raise money
to buy Helen another dog. Helen asked that the contributions,
which people were sending from all over America and England, be
devoted to Tommy's education. Turned to this new use, the fund
grew fast, and Tommy was provided for. He was admitted to the
kindergarten on the sixth of April.
Miss Keller wrote lately, "I shall never forget the pennies sent
by many a poor child who could ill spare them, 'for little
Tommy,' or the swift sympathy with which people from far and
near, whom I had never seen, responded to the dumb cry of a
little captive soul for aid."
TO MR. GEORGE R. KREHL
Institution for the Blind,
South Boston, Mass., March 20, 1891.
My Dear Friend, Mr. Krehl:—I have just heard, through Mr. Wade,
of your kind offer to buy me a gentle dog, and I want to thank
you for the kind thought. It makes me very happy indeed to know
that I have such dear friends in other lands. It makes me think
that all people are good and loving. I have read that the English
and Americans are cousins; but I am sure it would be much truer
to say that we are brothers and sisters. My friends have told me
about your great and magnificent city, and I have read a great
deal that wise Englishmen have written. I have begun to read
"Enoch Arden," and I know several of the great poet's poems by
heart. I am eager to cross the ocean, for I want to see my
English friends and their good and wise queen. Once the Earl of
Meath came to see me, and he told me that the queen was much
beloved by her people, because of her gentleness and wisdom. Some
day you will be surprised to see a little strange girl coming
into your office; but when you know it is the little girl who
loves dogs and all other animals, you will laugh, and I hope you
will give her a kiss, just as Mr. Wade does. He has another dog
for me, and he thinks she will be as brave and faithful as my
beautiful Lioness. And now I want to tell you what the dog lovers
in America are going to do. They are going to send me some money
for a poor little deaf and dumb and blind child. His name is
Tommy, and he is five years old. His parents are too poor to pay
to have the little fellow sent to school; so, instead of giving
me a dog, the gentlemen are going to help make Tommy's life as
bright and joyous as mine. Is it not a beautiful plan? Education
will bring light and music into Tommy's soul, and then he cannot
help being happy.
From your loving little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
[South Boston, Mass., April, 1891.]
Dear Dr. Holmes:—Your beautiful words about spring have been
making music in my heart, these bright April days. I love every
word of "Spring" and "Spring Has Come." I think you will be glad
to hear that these poems have taught me to enjoy and love the
beautiful springtime, even though I cannot see the fair, frail
blossoms which proclaim its approach, or hear the joyous warbling
of the home-coming birds. But when I read "Spring Has Come," lo!
I am not blind any longer, for I see with your eyes and hear with
your ears. Sweet Mother Nature can have no secrets from me when
my poet is near. I have chosen this paper because I want the
spray of violets in the corner to tell you of my grateful love. I
want you to see baby Tom, the little blind and deaf and dumb
child who has just come to our pretty garden. He is poor and
helpless and lonely now, but before another April education will
have brought light and gladness into Tommy's life. If you do
come, you will want to ask the kind people of Boston to help
brighten Tommy's whole life. Your loving friend,
HELEN KELLER.
TO SIR JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS
Perkins Institution for the Blind,
South Boston, Mass., April 30, 1891.
My Dear Mr. Millais:—Your little American sister is going to
write you a letter, because she wants you to know how pleased she
was to hear you were interested in our poor little Tommy, and had
sent some money to help educate him. It is very beautiful to
think that people far away in England feel sorry for a little
helpless child in America. I used to think, when I read in my
books about your great city, that when I visited it the people
would be strangers to me, but now I feel differently. It seems to
me that all people who have loving, pitying hearts, are not
strangers to each other. I can hardly wait patiently for the time
to come when I shall see my dear English friends, and their
beautiful island home. My favourite poet has written some lines
about England which I love very much. I think you will like them
too, so I will try to write them for you.
"Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,
From seaweed fringe to mountain heather,
The British oak with rooted grasp
Her slender handful holds together,
With cliffs of white and bowers of green,
And ocean narrowing to caress her,
And hills and threaded streams between,
Our little mother isle, God bless her!"
You will be glad to hear that Tommy has a kind lady to teach him,
and that he is a pretty, active little fellow. He loves to climb
much better than to spell, but that is because he does not know
yet what a wonderful thing language is. He cannot imagine how
very, very happy he will be when he can tell us his thoughts, and
we can tell him how we have loved him so long.
Tomorrow April will hide her tears and blushes beneath the
flowers of lovely May. I wonder if the May-days in England are as
beautiful as they are here.
Now I must say good-bye. Please think of me always as your loving
little sister,
HELEN KELLER.
TO REV. PHILLIPS BROOKS
So. Boston, May 1, 1891.
My Dear Mr. Brooks:
Helen sends you a loving greeting this bright May-day. My teacher
has just told me that you have been made a bishop, and that your
friends everywhere are rejoicing because one whom they love has
been greatly honored. I do not understand very well what a
bishop's work is, but I am sure it must be good and helpful, and
I am glad that my dear friend is brave, and wise, and loving
enough to do it. It is very beautiful to think that you can tell
so many people of the heavenly Father's tender love for all His
children even when they are not gentle and noble as He wishes
them to be. I hope the glad news which you will tell them will
make their hearts beat fast with joy and love. I hope too, that
Bishop Brooks' whole life will be as rich in happiness as the
month of May is full of blossoms and singing birds.
From your loving little friend,
HELEN KELLER.
Before a teacher was found for Tommy and while he was still in
the care of Helen and Miss Sullivan, a reception was held for him
at the kindergarten. At Helen's request Bishop Brooks made an
address. Helen wrote letters to the newspapers which brought many
generous replies. All of these she answered herself, and she made
public acknowledgment in letters to the newspapers. This letter
is to the editor of the Boston Herald, enclosing a complete list
of the subscribers. The contributions amounted to more than
sixteen hundred dollars.
TO MR. JOHN H. HOLMES
South Boston, May 13, 1891.
Editor of the Boston Herald:
My Dear Mr. Holmes:—Will you kindly print in the Herald, the
enclosed list? I think the readers of your paper will be glad to
know that so much has been done for dear little Tommy, and that
they will all wish to share in the pleasure of helping him. He is
very happy indeed at the kindergarten, and is learning something
every day. He has found out that doors have locks, and that
little sticks and bits of paper can be got into the key-hole
quite easily; but he does not seem very eager to get them out
after they are in. He loves to climb the bed-posts and unscrew
the steam valves much better than to spell, but that is because
he does not understand that words would help him to make new and
interesting discoveries. I hope that good people will continue to
work for Tommy until his fund is completed, and education has
brought light and music into his little life.
From your little friend,
HELEN KELLER.
TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
South Boston, May 27, 1891.
Dear, Gentle Poet:—I fear that you will think Helen a very
troublesome little girl if she writes to you too often; but how
is she to help sending you loving and grateful messages, when you
do so much to make her glad? I cannot begin to tell you how
delighted I was when Mr. Anagnos told me that you had sent him
some money to help educate "Baby Tom." Then I knew that you had
not forgotten the dear little child, for the gift brought with it
the thought of tender sympathy. I am very sorry to say that Tommy
has not learned any words yet. He is the same restless little
creature he was when you saw him. But it is pleasant to think
that he is happy and playful in his bright new home, and by and
by that strange, wonderful thing teacher calls MIND, will begin
to spread its beautiful wings and fly away in search of
knowledge-land. Words are the mind's wings, are they not?
I have been to Andover since I saw you, and I was greatly
interested in all that my friends told me about Phillips Academy,
because I knew you had been there, and I felt it was a place dear
to you. I tried to imagine my gentle poet when he was a
school-boy, and I wondered if it was in Andover he learned the
songs of the birds and the secrets of the shy little woodland
children. I am sure his heart was always full of music, and in
God's beautiful world he must have heard love's sweet replying.
When I came home teacher read to me "The School-boy," for it is
not in our print.
Did you know that the blind children are going to have their
commencement exercises in Tremont Temple, next Tuesday afternoon?
I enclose a ticket, hoping that you will come. We shall all be
proud and happy to welcome our poet friend. I shall recite about
the beautiful cities of sunny Italy. I hope our kind friend Dr.
Ellis will come too, and take Tom in his arms.
With much love and a kiss, from your little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.
TO REV. PHILLIPS BROOKS
South Boston, June 8, 1891.
My dear Mr. Brooks,
I send you my picture as I promised, and I hope when you look at
it this summer your thoughts will fly southward to your happy
little friend. I used to wish that I could see pictures with my
hands as I do statues, but now I do not often think about it
because my dear Father has filled my mind with beautiful
pictures, even of things I cannot see. If the light were not in
your eyes, dear Mr. Brooks, you would understand better how happy
your little Helen was when her teacher explained to her that the
best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor
even touched, but just felt in the heart. Every day I find out
something which makes me glad. Yesterday I thought for the first
time what a beautiful thing motion was, and it seemed to me that
everything was trying to get near to God, does it seem that way
to you? It is Sunday morning, and while I sit here in the library
writing this letter you are teaching hundreds of people some of
the grand and beautiful things about their heavenly Father. Are
you not very, very happy? and when you are a Bishop you will
preach to more people and more and more will be made glad.
Teacher sends her kind remembrances, and I send you with my
picture my dear love.
From your little friend
HELEN KELLER.
When the Perkins Institution closed in June, Helen and her
teacher went south to Tuscumbia, where they remained until
December. There is a hiatus of several months in the letters,
caused by the depressing effect on Helen and Miss Sullivan of the
"Frost King" episode. At the time this trouble seemed very grave
and brought them much unhappiness. An analysis of the case has
been made elsewhere, and Miss Keller has written her account of
it.
TO MR. ALBERT H. MUNSELL
Brewster, Mar. 10, 1892.
My dear Mr. Munsell,
Surely I need not tell you that your letter was very welcome. I
enjoyed every word of it and wished that it was longer. I laughed
when you spoke of old Neptune's wild moods. He has, in truth,
behaved very strangely ever since we came to Brewster. It is
evident that something has displeased his Majesty but I cannot
imagine what it can be. His expression has been so turbulent that
I have feared to give him your kind message. Who knows! Perhaps
the Old Sea God as he lay asleep upon the shore, heard the soft
music of growing things—the stir of life in the earth's bosom,
and his stormy heart was angry, because he knew that his and
Winter's reign was almost at an end. So together the unhappy
monarch[s] fought most despairingly, thinking that gentle Spring
would turn and fly at the very sight of the havoc caused by their
forces. But lo! the lovely maiden only smiles more sweetly, and
breathes upon the icy battlements of her enemies, and in a moment
they vanish, and the glad Earth gives her a royal welcome. But I
must put away these idle fancies until we meet again. Please give
your dear mother my love. Teacher wishes me to say that she liked
the photograph very much and she will see about having some when
we return. Now, dear friend, Please accept these few words
because of the love that is linked with them.
Lovingly yours
HELEN KELLER.
This letter was reproduced in facsimile in St. Nicholas, June,
1892. It is undated, but must have been written two or three
months before it was published.
To St. Nicholas
Dear St. Nicholas:
It gives me very great pleasure to send you my autograph because
I want the boys and girls who read St. Nicholas to know how blind
children write. I suppose some of them wonder how we keep the
lines so straight so I will try to tell them how it is done. We
have a grooved board which we put between the pages when we wish
to write. The parallel grooves correspond to lines and when we
have pressed the paper into them by means of the blunt end of the
pencil it is very easy to keep the words even. The small letters
are all made in the grooves, while the long ones extend above and
below them. We guide the pencil with the right hand, and feel
carefully with the forefinger of the left hand to see that we
shape and space the letters correctly. It is very difficult at
first to form them plainly, but if we keep on trying it gradually
becomes easier, and after a great deal of practice we can write
legible letters to our friends. Then we are very, very happy.
Sometime they may visit a school for the blind. If they do, I am
sure they will wish to see the pupils write.
Very sincerely your little friend
HELEN KELLER.
In May, 1892, Helen gave a tea in aid of the kindergarten for the
blind. It was quite her own idea, and was given in the house of
Mrs. Mahlon D. Spaulding, sister of Mr. John P. Spaulding, one of
Helen's kindest and most liberal friends. The tea brought more
than two thousand dollars for the blind children.
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
South Boston, May 9, 1892.
My dear Miss Carrie:—I was much pleased to receive your kind
letter. Need I tell you that I was more than delighted to hear
that you are really interested in the "tea"? Of course we must
not give it up. Very soon I am going far away, to my own dear
home, in the sunny south, and it would always make me happy to
think that the last thing which my dear friends in Boston did for
my pleasure was to help make the lives of many little sightless
children good and happy. I know that kind people cannot help
feeling a tender sympathy for the little ones, who cannot see the
beautiful light, or any of the wonderful things which give them
pleasure; and it seems to me that all loving sympathy must
express itself in acts of kindness; and when the friends of
little helpless blind children understand that we are working for
their happiness, they will come and make our "tea" a success, and
I am sure I shall be the happiest little girl in all the world.
Please let Bishop Brooks know our plans, so that he may arrange
to be with us. I am glad Miss Eleanor is interested. Please give
her my love. I will see you to-morrow and then we can make the
rest of our plans. Please give your dear aunt teacher's and my
love and tell her that we enjoyed our little visit very much
indeed.
Lovingly yours,
HELEN KELLER.
TO MR. JOHN P. SPAULDING
South Boston, May 11th, 1892.
My dear Mr. Spaulding:—I am afraid you will think your little
friend, Helen, very troublesome when you read this letter; but I
am sure you will not blame me when I tell you that I am very
anxious about something. You remember teacher and I told you
Sunday that I wanted to have a little tea in aid of the
kindergarten. We thought everything was arranged: but we found
Monday that Mrs. Elliott would not be willing to let us invite
more than fifty people, because Mrs. Howe's house is quite small.
I am sure that a great many people would like to come to the tea,
and help me do something to brighten the lives of little blind
children; but some of my friends say that I shall have to give up
the idea of having a tea unless we can find another house.
Teacher said yesterday, that perhaps Mrs. Spaulding would be
willing to let us have her beautiful house, and [I] thought I
would ask you about it. Do you think Mrs. Spaulding would help
me, if I wrote to her? I shall be so disappointed if my little
plans fail, because I have wanted for a long time to do something
for the poor little ones who are waiting to enter the
kindergarten. Please let me know what you think about the house,
and try to forgive me for troubling you so much.
Lovingly your little friend,
HELEN KELLER.
TO MR. EDWARD H. CLEMENT
South Boston, May 18th, 1892.
My dear Mr. Clement:—I am going to write to you this beautiful
morning because my heart is brimful of happiness and I want you
and all my dear friends in the Transcript office to rejoice with
me. The preparations for my tea are nearly completed, and I am
looking forward joyfully to the event. I know I shall not fail.
Kind people will not disappoint me, when they know that I plead
for helpless little children who live in darkness and ignorance.
They will come to my tea and buy light,—the beautiful light of
knowledge and love for many little ones who are blind and
friendless. I remember perfectly when my dear teacher came to me.
Then I was like the little blind children who are waiting to
enter the kindergarten. There was no light in my soul. This
wonderful world with all its sunlight and beauty was hidden from
me, and I had never dreamed of its loveliness. But teacher came
to me and taught my little fingers to use the beautiful key that
has unlocked the door of my dark prison and set my spirit free.
It is my earnest wish to share my happiness with others, and I
ask the kind people of Boston to help me make the lives of little
blind children brighter and happier.
Lovingly your little friend,
HELEN KELLER.
At the end of June Miss Sullivan and Helen went home to
Tuscumbia.
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
Tuscumbia, Alabama, July 9th 1892.
My dear Carrie—You are to look upon it as a most positive proof
of my love that I write to you to-day. For a whole week it has
been "cold and dark and dreary" in Tuscumbia, and I must confess
the continuous rain and dismalness of the weather fills me with
gloomy thoughts and makes the writing of letters, or any pleasant
employment, seem quite impossible. Nevertheless, I must tell you
that we are alive,—that we reached home safely, and that we
speak of you daily, and enjoy your interesting letters very much.
I had a beautiful visit at Hulton. Everything was fresh and
spring-like, and we stayed out of doors all day. We even ate our
breakfast out on the piazza. Sometimes we sat in the hammock, and
teacher read to me. I rode horseback nearly every evening and
once I rode five miles at a fast gallop. O, it was great fun! Do
you like to ride? I have a very pretty little cart now, and if it
ever stops raining teacher and I are going to drive every
evening. And I have another beautiful Mastiff—the largest one I
ever saw—and he will go along to protect us. His name is Eumer.
A queer name, is it not? I think it is Saxon. We expect to go to
the mountains next week. My little brother, Phillips, is not
well, and we think the clear mountain air will benefit him.
Mildred is a sweet little sister and I am sure you would love
her. I thank you very much for your photograph. I like to have my
friends' pictures even though I cannot see them. I was greatly
amused at the idea of your writing the square hand. I do not
write on a Braille tablet, as you suppose, but on a grooved board
like the piece which I enclose. You could not read Braille; for
it is written in dots, not at all like ordinary letters. Please
give my love to Miss Derby and tell her that I hope she gave my
sweetest love to Baby Ruth. What was the book you sent me for my
birthday? I received several, and I do not know which was from
you. I had one gift which especially pleased me. It was a lovely
cape crocheted, for me, by an old gentleman, seventy-five years
of age. And every stitch, he writes, represents a kind wish for
my health and happiness. Tell your little cousins I think they
had better get upon the fence with me until after the election;
for there are so many parties and candidates that I doubt if such
youthful politicians would make a wise selection. Please give my
love to Rosy when you write, and believe me,
Your loving friend
HELEN KELLER.
P.S. How do you like this type-written letter?
H. K.
TO MRS. GROVER CLEVELAND
My dear Mrs. Cleveland,
I am going to write you a little letter this beautiful morning
because I love you and dear little Ruth very much indeed, and
also because I wish to thank you for the loving message which you
sent me through Miss Derby. I am glad, very glad that such a
kind, beautiful lady loves me. I have loved you for a long time,
but I did not think you had ever heard of me until your sweet
message came. Please kiss your dear little baby for me, and tell
her I have a little brother nearly sixteen months old. His name
is Phillips Brooks. I named him myself after my dear friend
Phillips Brooks. I send you with this letter a pretty book which
my teacher thinks will interest you, and my picture. Please
accept them with the love and good wishes of your friend,
HELEN KELLER.
Tuscumbia, Alabama.
November fourth. [1892.]
Hitherto the letters have been given in full; from this point on
passages are omitted and the omissions are indicated.
TO MR. JOHN HITZ
Tuscumbia, Alabama, Dec. 19, 1892.
My Dear Mr. Hitz,
I hardly know how to begin a letter to you, it has been such a
long time since your kind letter reached me, and there is so much
that I would like to write if I could. You must have wondered why
your letter has not had an answer, and perhaps you have thought
Teacher and me very naughty indeed. If so, you will be very sorry
when I tell you something. Teacher's eyes have been hurting her
so that she could not write to any one, and I have been trying to
fulfil a promise which I made last summer. Before I left Boston,
I was asked to write a sketch of my life for the Youth's
Companion. I had intended to write the sketch during my vacation:
but I was not well, and I did not feel able to write even to my
friends. But when the bright, pleasant autumn days came, and I
felt strong again I began to think about the sketch. It was some
time before I could plan it to suit me. You see, it is not very
pleasant to write all about one's self. At last, however, I got
something bit by bit that Teacher thought would do, and I set
about putting the scraps together, which was not an easy task:
for, although I worked some on it every day, I did not finish it
until a week ago Saturday. I sent the sketch to the Companion as
soon as it was finished; but I do not know that they will accept
it. Since then, I have not been well, and I have been obliged to
keep very quiet, and rest; but to-day I am better, and to-morrow
I shall be well again, I hope.
The reports which you have read in the paper about me are not
true at all. We received the Silent Worker which you sent, and I
wrote right away to the editor to tell him that it was a mistake.
Sometimes I am not well; but I am not a "wreck," and there is
nothing "distressing" about my condition.
I enjoyed your dear letter so much! I am always delighted when
anyone writes me a beautiful thought which I can treasure in my
memory forever. It is because my books are full of the riches of
which Mr. Ruskin speaks that I love them so dearly. I did not
realize until I began to write the sketch for the Companion, what
precious companions books have been to me, and how blessed even
my life has been: and now I am happier than ever because I do
realize the happiness that has come to me. I hope you will write
to me as often as you can. Teacher and I are always delighted to
hear from you. I want to write to Mr. Bell and send him my
picture. I suppose he has been too busy to write to his little
friend. I often think of the pleasant time we had all together in
Boston last spring.
Now I am going to tell you a secret. I think we, Teacher, and my
father and little sister, and myself, will visit Washington next
March!!! Then I shall see you, and dear Mr. Bell, and Elsie and
Daisy again! Would not it be lovely if Mrs. Pratt could meet us
there? I think I will write to her and tell her the secret
too....
Lovingly your little friend,
HELEN KELLER.
P.S. Teacher says you want to know what kind of a pet I would
like to have. I love all living things,—I suppose everyone does;
but of course I cannot have a menagerie. I have a beautiful pony,
and a large dog. And I would like a little dog to hold in my lap,
or a big pussy (there are no fine cats in Tuscumbia) or a parrot.
I would like to feel a parrot talk, it would be so much fun! but
I would be pleased with, and love any little creature you send
me.
H. K.
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
Tuscumbia, Alabama, February 18, 1893.
...You have often been in my thoughts during these sad days,
while my heart has been grieving over the loss of my beloved
friend [Phillips Brooks died January 23, 1893], and I have wished
many times that I was in Boston with those who knew and loved him
as I did... he was so much of a friend to me! so tender and
loving always! I do try not to mourn his death too sadly. I do
try to think that he is still near, very near; but sometimes the
thought that he is not here, that I shall not see him when I go
to Boston,—that he is gone,—rushes over my soul like a great
wave of sorrow. But at other times, when I am happier, I do feel
his beautiful presence, and his loving hand leading me in
pleasant ways. Do you remember the happy hour we spent with him
last June when he held my hand, as he always did, and talked to
us about his friend Tennyson, and our own dear poet Dr. Holmes,
and I tried to teach him the manual alphabet, and he laughed so
gaily over his mistakes, and afterward I told him about my tea,
and he promised to come? I can hear him now, saying in his
cheerful, decided way, in reply to my wish that my tea might be a
success, "Of course it will, Helen. Put your whole heart in the
good work, my child, and it cannot fail." I am glad the people
are going to raise a monument to his memory....
In March Helen and Miss Sullivan went North, and spent the next
few months traveling and visiting friends.
In reading this letter about Niagara one should remember that
Miss Keller knows distance and shape, and that the size of
Niagara is within her experience after she has explored it,
crossed the bridge and gone down in the elevator. Especially
important are such details as her feeling the rush of the water
by putting her hand on the window. Dr. Bell gave her a down
pillow, which she held against her to increase the vibrations.
TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
South Boston, April 13, 1893.
...Teacher, Mrs. Pratt and I very unexpectedly decided to take a
journey with dear Dr. Bell Mr. Westervelt, a gentleman whom
father met in Washington, has a school for the deaf in Rochester.
We went there first....
Mr. Westervelt gave us a reception one afternoon. A great many
people came. Some of them asked odd questions. A lady seemed
surprised that I loved flowers when I could not see their
beautiful colors, and when I assured her I did love them, she
said, "no doubt you feel the colors with your fingers." But of
course, it is not alone for their bright colors that we love the
flowers.... A gentleman asked me what BEAUTY meant to my mind. I
must confess I was puzzled at first. But after a minute I
answered that beauty was a form of goodness—and he went away.
When the reception was over we went back to the hotel and teacher
slept quite unconscious of the surprise which was in store for
her. Mr. Bell and I planned it together, and Mr. Bell made all
the arrangements before we told teacher anything about it. This
was the surprise—I was to have the pleasure of taking my dear
teacher to see Niagara Falls!...
The hotel was so near the river that I could feel it rushing past
by putting my hand on the window. The next morning the sun rose
bright and warm, and we got up quickly for our hearts were full
of pleasant expectation.... You can never imagine how I felt when
I stood in the presence of Niagara until you have the same
mysterious sensations yourself. I could hardly realize that it
was water that I felt rushing and plunging with impetuous fury at
my feet. It seemed as if it were some living thing rushing on to
some terrible fate. I wish I could describe the cataract as it
is, its beauty and awful grandeur, and the fearful and
irresistible plunge of its waters over the brow of the precipice.
One feels helpless and overwhelmed in the presence of such a vast
force. I had the same feeling once before when I first stood by
the great ocean and felt its waves beating against the shore. I
suppose you feel so, too, when you gaze up to the stars in the
stillness of the night, do you not?... We went down a hundred and
twenty feet in an elevator that we might see the violent eddies
and whirlpools in the deep gorge below the Falls. Within two
miles of the Falls is a wonderful suspension bridge. It is thrown
across the gorge at a height of two hundred and fifty-eight feet
above the water and is supported on each bank by towers of solid
rock, which are eight hundred feet apart. When we crossed over to
the Canadian side, I cried, "God save the Queen!" Teacher said I
was a little traitor. But I do not think so. I was only doing as
the Canadians do, while I was in their country, and besides I
honor England's good queen.
You will be pleased, dear Mother, to hear that a kind lady whose
name is Miss Hooker is endeavoring to improve my speech. Oh, I do
so hope and pray that I shall speak well some day!...
Mr. Munsell spent last Sunday evening with us. How you would have
enjoyed hearing him tell about Venice! His beautiful
word-pictures made us feel as if we were sitting in the shadow of
San Marco, dreaming, or sailing upon the moonlit canal.... I hope
when I visit Venice, as I surely shall some day, that Mr. Munsell
will go with me. That is my castle in the air. You see, none of
my friends describe things to me so vividly and so beautifully as
he does....
Her visit to the World's Fair she described in a letter to Mr.
John P. Spaulding, which was published in St. Nicholas, and is
much like the following letter. In a prefatory note which Miss
Sullivan wrote for St. Nicholas, she says that people frequently
said to her, "Helen sees more with her fingers than we do with
our eyes." The President of the Exposition gave her this letter:
TO THE CHIEFS OF THE DEPARTMENTS AND OFFICERS IN CHARGE OF
BUILDINGS AND EXHIBITS
GENTLEMEN—The bearer, Miss Helen Keller, accompanied by Miss
Sullivan, is desirous of making a complete inspection of the
Exposition in all Departments. She is blind and deaf, but is able
to converse, and is introduced to me as one having a wonderful
ability to understand the objects she visits, and as being
possessed of a high order of intelligence and of culture beyond
her years. Please favour her with every facility to examine the
exhibits in the several Departments, and extend to her such other
courtesies as may be possible.
Thanking you in advance for the same, I am, with respect,
Very truly yours,
(signed) H. N. HIGINBOTHAM,
President.
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
Hulton, Penn., August 17, 1893.
...Every one at the Fair was very kind to me... Nearly all of the
exhibitors seemed perfectly willing to let me touch the most
delicate things, and they were very nice about explaining
everything to me. A French gentleman, whose name I cannot
remember, showed me the great French bronzes. I believe they gave
me more pleasure than anything else at the Fair: they were so
lifelike and wonderful to my touch. Dr. Bell went with us himself
to the electrical building, and showed us some of the historical
telephones. I saw the one through which Emperor Dom Pedro
listened to the words, "To be, or not to be," at the Centennial.
Dr. Gillett of Illinois took us to the Liberal Arts and Woman's
buildings. In the former I visited Tiffany's exhibit, and held
the beautiful Tiffany diamond, which is valued at one hundred
thousand dollars, and touched many other rare and costly things.
I sat in King Ludwig's armchair and felt like a queen when Dr.
Gillett remarked that I had many loyal subjects. At the Woman's
building we met the Princess Maria Schaovskoy of Russia, and a
beautiful Syrian lady. I liked them both very much. I went to the
Japanese department with Prof. Morse who is a well-known
lecturer. I never realized what a wonderful people the Japanese
are until I saw their most interesting exhibit. Japan must indeed
be a paradise for children to judge from the great number of
playthings which are manufactured there. The queer-looking
Japanese musical instruments, and their beautiful works of art
were interesting. The Japanese books are very odd. There are
forty-seven letters in their alphabets. Prof. Morse knows a great
deal about Japan, and is very kind and wise. He invited me to
visit his museum in Salem the next time I go to Boston. But I
think I enjoyed the sails on the tranquil lagoon, and the lovely
scenes, as my friends described them to me, more than anything
else at the Fair. Once, while we were out on the water, the sun
went down over the rim of the earth, and threw a soft, rosy light
over the White City, making it look more than ever like
Dreamland....
Of course, we visited the Midway Plaisance. It was a bewildering
and fascinating place. I went into the streets of Cairo, and rode
on the camel. That was fine fun. We also rode in the Ferris
wheel, and on the ice-railway, and had a sail in the
Whale-back....
In the spring of 1893 a club was started in Tuscumbia, of which
Mrs. Keller was president, to establish a public library. Miss
Keller says:
"I wrote to my friends about the work and enlisted their
sympathy. Several hundred books, including many fine ones, were
sent to me in a short time, as well as money and encouragement.
This generous assistance encouraged the ladies, and they have
gone on collecting and buying books ever since, until now they
have a very respectable public library in the town."
TO MRS. CHARLES E. INCHES
Hulton, Penn., Oct. 21, 1893.
...We spent September at home in Tuscumbia... and were all very
happy together.... Our quiet mountain home was especially
attractive and restful after the excitement and fatigue of our
visit to the World's Fair. We enjoyed the beauty and solitude of
the hills more than ever.
And now we are in Hulton, Penn. again where I am going to study
this winter with a tutor assisted by my dear teacher. I study
Arithmetic, Latin and literature. I enjoy my lessons very much.
It is so pleasant to learn about new things. Every day I find how
little I know, but I do not feel discouraged since God has given
me an eternity in which to learn more. In literature I am
studying Longfellow's poetry. I know a great deal of it by heart,
for I loved it long before I knew a metaphor from a synecdoche. I
used to say I did not like arithmetic very well, but now I have
changed my mind. I see what a good and useful study it is, though
I must confess my mind wanders from it sometimes! for, nice and
useful as arithmetic is, it is not as interesting as a beautiful
poem or a lovely story. But bless me, how time does fly. I have
only a few moments left in which to answer your questions about
the "Helen Keller" Public Library.
1. I think there are about 3,000 people in Tuscumbia, Ala., and
perhaps half of them are colored people. 2. At present there is
no library of any sort in the town. That is why I thought about
starting one. My mother and several of my lady friends said they
would help me, and they formed a club, the object of which is to
work for the establishment of a free public library in Tuscumbia.
They have now about 100 books and about $55 in money, and a kind
gentleman has given us land on which to erect a library building.
But in the meantime the club has rented a little room in a
central part of the town, and the books which we already have are
free to all. 3. Only a few of my kind friends in Boston know
anything about the library. I did not like to trouble them while
I was trying to get money for poor little Tommy, for of course it
was more important that he should be educated than that my people
should have books to read. 4. I do not know what books we have,
but I think it is a miscellaneous (I think that is the word)
collection....
P.S. My teacher thinks it would be more businesslike to say that
a list of the contributors toward the building fund will be kept
and published in my father's paper, the "North Alabamian."
H. K.
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
Hulton, Penn., December 28, 1893.
...Please thank dear Miss Derby for me for the pretty shield
which she sent me. It is a very interesting souvenir of Columbus,
and of the Fair White City; but I cannot imagine what discoveries
I have made,—I mean new discoveries. We are all discoverers in
one sense, being born quite ignorant of all things; but I hardly
think that is what she meant. Tell her she must explain why I am
a discoverer....
TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Hulton, Pennsylvania, January 14, 1894
My dear Cousin: I had thought to write to you long before this in
answer to your kind letter which I was so glad to receive, and to
thank you for the beautiful little book which you sent me; but I
have been very busy since the beginning of the New Year. The
publication of my little story in the Youth's Companion has
brought me a large number of letters,—last week I received
sixty-one!—and besides replying to some of these letters, I have
many lessons to learn, among them Arithmetic and Latin; and, you
know, Caesar is Caesar still, imperious and tyrannical, and if a
little girl would understand so great a man, and the wars and
conquests of which he tells in his beautiful Latin language, she
must study much and think much, and study and thought require
time.
I shall prize the little book always, not only for its own value;
but because of its associations with you. It is a delight to
think of you as the giver of one of your books into which, I am
sure, you have wrought your own thoughts and feelings, and I
thank you very much for remembering me in such a very beautiful
way....
In February Helen and Miss Sullivan returned to Tuscumbia. They
spent the rest of the spring reading and studying. In the summer
they attended the meeting at Chautauqua of the American
Association for the Promotion of the Teaching of Speech to the
Deaf, where Miss Sullivan read a paper on Helen Keller's
education.
In the fall Helen and Miss Sullivan entered the Wright-Humason
School in New York, which makes a special of lip-reading and
voice-culture. The "singing lessons" were to strengthen her
voice. She had taken a few piano lessons at the Perkins
Institution. The experiment was interesting, but of course came
to little.
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
The Wright-Humason School.
42 West 76th St.
New York. Oct. 23, 1894.
...The school is very pleasant, and bless you! it is quite
fashionable.... I study Arithmetic, English Literature and United
States History as I did last winter. I also keep a diary. I enjoy
my singing lessons with Dr. Humason more than I can say. I expect
to take piano lessons sometime....
Last Saturday our kind teachers planned a delightful trip to
Bedloe's Island to see Bartholdi's great statue of Liberty
enlightening the world.... The ancient cannon, which look
seaward, wear a very menacing expression; but I doubt if there is
any unkindness in their rusty old hearts.
Liberty is a gigantic figure of a woman in Greek draperies,
holding in her right hand a torch.... A spiral stairway leads
from the base of this pedestal to the torch. We climbed up to the
head which will hold forty persons, and viewed the scene on which
Liberty gazes day and night, and O, how wonderful it was! We did
not wonder that the great French artist thought the place worthy
to be the home of his grand ideal. The glorious bay lay calm and
beautiful in the October sunshine, and the ships came and went
like idle dreams; those seaward going slowly disappeared like
clouds that change from gold to gray; those homeward coming sped
more quickly like birds that seek their mother's nest....
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
The Wright-Humason School.
New York, March 15, 1895.
...I think I have improved a little in lip-reading, though I
still find it very difficult to read rapid speech; but I am sure
I shall succeed some day if I only persevere. Dr. Humason is
still trying to improve my speech. Oh, Carrie, how I should like
to speak like other people! I should be willing to work night and
day if it could only be accomplished. Think what a joy it would
be to all of my friends to hear me speak naturally!! I wonder why
it is so difficult and perplexing for a deaf child to learn to
speak when it is so easy for other people; but I am sure I shall
speak perfectly some time if I am only patient....
Although I have been so busy, I have found time to read a good
deal.... I have lately read "Wilhelm Tell" by Schiller, and "The
Lost Vestal."... Now I am reading "Nathan the Wise" by Lessing
and "King Arthur" by Miss Mulock.
...You know our kind teachers take us to see everything which
they think will interest us, and we learn a great deal in that
delightful way. On George Washington's birthday we all went to
the Dog Show, and although there was a great crowd in the Madison
Square Garden, and despite the bewilderment caused by the variety
of sounds made by the dog-orchestra, which was very confusing to
those who could hear them, we enjoyed the afternoon very much.
Among the dogs which received the most attention were the
bulldogs. They permitted themselves startling liberties when any
one caressed them, crowding themselves almost into one's arms and
helping themselves without ceremony to kisses, apparently
unconscious of the impropriety of their conduct. Dear me, what
unbeautiful little beasts they are! But they are so good natured
and friendly, one cannot help liking them.
Dr. Humason, Teacher, and I left the others at the Dog Show and
went to a reception given by the "Metropolitan Club."... It is
sometimes called the "Millionaires' Club." The building is
magnificent, being built of white marble; the rooms are large and
splendidly furnished; but I must confess, so much splendor is
rather oppressive to me; and I didn't envy the millionaires in
the least all the happiness their gorgeous surroundings are
supposed to bring them....
TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
New York, March 31, 1895.
...Teacher and I spent the afternoon at Mr. Hutton's, and had a
most delightful time!... We met Mr. Clemens and Mr. Howells
there! I had known about them for a long time; but I had never
thought that I should see them, and talk to them; and I can
scarcely realize now that this great pleasure has been mine! But,
much as I wonder that I, only a little girl of fourteen, should
come in contact with so many distinguished people, I do realize
that I am a very happy child, and very grateful for the many
beautiful privileges I have enjoyed. The two distinguished
authors were very gentle and kind, and I could not tell which of
them I loved best. Mr. Clemens told us many entertaining stories,
and made us laugh till we cried. I only wish you could have seen
and heard him! He told us that he would go to Europe in a few
days to bring his wife and his daughter, Jeanne, back to America,
because Jeanne, who is studying in Paris, has learned so much in
three years and a half that if he did not bring her home, she
would soon know more than he did. I think Mark Twain is a very
appropriate nom de plume for Mr. Clemens because it has a funny
and quaint sound, and goes well with his amusing writings, and
its nautical significance suggests the deep and beautiful things
that he has written. I think he is very handsome indeed....
Teacher said she thought he looked something like Paradeuski. (If
that is the way to spell the name.) Mr. Howells told me a little
about Venice, which is one of his favorite cities, and spoke very
tenderly of his dear little girl, Winnifred, who is now with God.
He has another daughter, named Mildred, who knows Carrie. I might
have seen Mrs. Wiggin, the sweet author of "Birds' Christmas
Carol," but she had a dangerous cough and could not come. I was
much disappointed not to see her, but I hope I shall have that
pleasure some other time. Mr. Hutton gave me a lovely little
glass, shaped like a thistle, which belonged to his dear mother,
as a souvenir of my delightful visit. We also met Mr. Rogers...
who kindly left his carriage to bring us home.
When the Wright-Humason School closed for the summer, Miss
Sullivan and Helen went South.
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
Tuscumbia, Alabama, July 29, 1895.
...I am spending my vacation very quietly and pleasantly at my
beautiful, sunny home, with my loving parents, my darling little
sister and my small brother, Phillips My precious teacher is
with me too, and so of course I am happy I read a little, walk a
little, write a little and play with the children a great deal,
and the days slip by delightfully!...
My friends are so pleased with the improvement which I made in
speech and lip-reading last year, that it has been decided best
for me to continue my studies in New York another year I am
delighted at the prospect, of spending another year in your great
city I used to think that I should never feel "at home" in New
York, but since I have made the acquaintance of so many people,
and can look back to such a bright and successful winter there, I
find myself looking forward to next year, and anticipating still
brighter and better times in the Metropolis
Please give my kindest love to Mr Hutton, and Mrs Riggs and Mr
Warner too, although I have never had the pleasure of knowing him
personally As I listen Venicewards, I hear Mr Hutton's pen
dancing over the pages of his new book It is a pleasant sound
because it is full of promise How much I shall enjoy reading it!
Please pardon me, my dear Mrs Hutton, for sending you a
typewritten letter across the ocean I have tried several times
to write with a pencil on my little writing machine since I came
home; but I have found it very difficult to do so on account of
the heat The moisture of my hand soils and blurs the paper so
dreadfully, that I am compelled to use my typewriter altogether
And it is not my "Remington" either, but a naughty little thing
that gets out of order on the slightest provocation, and cannot
be induced to make a period...
TO MRS. WILLIAM THAW
New York, October 16, 1895.
Here we are once more in the great metropolis! We left Hulton
Friday night and arrived here Saturday morning. Our friends were
greatly surprised to see us, as they had not expected us before
the last of this month. I rested Saturday afternoon, for I was
very tired, and Sunday I visited with my schoolmates, and now
that I feel quite rested, I am going to write to you; for I know
you will want to hear that we reached New York safely. We had to
change cars at Philadelphia; but we did not mind it much. After
we had had our breakfast, Teacher asked one of the train-men in
the station if the New York train was made up. He said no, it
would not be called for about fifteen minutes; so we sat down to
wait; but in a moment the man came back and asked Teacher if we
would like to go to the train at once. She said we would, and he
took us way out on the track and put us on board our train. Thus
we avoided the rush and had a nice quiet visit before the train
started. Was that not very kind? So it always is. Some one is
ever ready to scatter little acts of kindness along our pathway,
making it smooth and pleasant...
We had a quiet but very pleasant time in Hulton. Mr. Wade is just
as dear and good as ever! He has lately had several books printed
in England for me, "Old Mortality," "The Castle of Otranto" and
"King of No-land."...
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
New York, December 29, 1895.
...Teacher and I have been very gay of late. We have seen our
kind friends, Mrs. Dodge, Mr. and Mrs. Hutton, Mrs. Riggs and her
husband, and met many distinguished people, among whom were Miss
Ellen Terry, Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Stockton! Weren't we very
fortunate? Miss Terry was lovely. She kissed Teacher and said, "I
do not know whether I am glad to see you or not; for I feel so
ashamed of myself when I think of how much you have done for the
little girl." We also met Mr. and Mrs. Terry, Miss Terry's
brother and his wife. I thought her beauty angellic, and oh, what
a clear, beautiful voice she had! We saw Miss Terry again with
Sir Henry in "King Charles the First," a week ago last Friday,
and after the play they kindly let me feel of them and get an
idea of how they looked. How noble and kingly the King was,
especially in his misfortunes! And how pretty and faithful the
poor Queen was! The play seemed so real, we almost forgot where
we were, and believed we were watching the genuine scenes as they
were acted so long ago. The last act affected us most deeply, and
we all wept, wondering how the executioner could have the heart
to tear the King from his loving wife's arms.
I have just finished reading "Ivanhoe." It was very exciting; but
I must say I did not enjoy it very much. Sweet Rebecca, with her
strong, brave spirit, and her pure, generous nature, was the only
character which thoroughly won my admiration. Now I am reading
"Stories from Scottish History," and they are very thrilling and
absorbing!...
The next two letters were written just after the death of Mr.
John P. Spaulding.
TO MRS. GEORGE H. BRADFORD
New York, February 4, 1896.
What can I say which will make you understand how much Teacher
and I appreciate your thoughtful kindness in sending us those
little souvenirs of the dear room where we first met the best and
kindest of friends? Indeed, you can never know all the comfort
you have given us. We have put the dear picture on the
mantel-piece in our room where we can see it every day, and I
often go and touch it, and somehow I cannot help feeling that our
beloved friend is very near to me.... It was very hard to take up
our school work again, as if nothing had happened; but I am sure
it is well that we have duties which must be done, and which take
our minds away for a time at least from our sorrow....
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
New York, March 2nd, 1896.
...We miss dear King John sadly. It was so hard to lose him, he
was the best and kindest of friends, and I do not know what we
shall do without him....
We went to a poultry-show... and the man there kindly permitted
us to feel of the birds. They were so tame, they stood perfectly
still when I handled them. I saw great big turkeys, geese,
guineas, ducks and many others.
Almost two weeks ago we called at Mr. Hutton's and had a
delightful time. We always do! We met Mr. Warner, the writer, Mr.
Mabie, the editor of the Outlook and other pleasant people. I am
sure you would like to know Mr. and Mrs. Hutton, they are so kind
and interesting. I can never tell you how much pleasure they have
given us.
Mr. Warner and Mr. Burroughs, the great lover of nature, came to
see us a few days after, and we had a delightful talk with them.
They were both very, very dear! Mr. Burroughs told me about his
home near the Hudson, and what a happy place it must be! I hope
we shall visit it some day. Teacher has read me his lively
stories about his boyhood, and I enjoyed them greatly. Have you
read the beautiful poem, "Waiting"? I know it, and it makes me
feel so happy, it has such sweet thoughts. Mr. Warner showed me a
scarf-pin with a beetle on it which was made in Egypt fifteen
hundred years before Christ, and told me that the beetle meant
immortality to the Egyptians because it wrapped itself up and
went to sleep and came out again in a new form, thus renewing
itself.
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
New York, April 25, 1896.
...My studies are the same as they were when I saw you, except
that I have taken up French with a French teacher who comes three
times a week. I read her lips almost exclusively, (she does not
know the manual alphabet) and we get on quite well. I have read
"Le Medecin Malgre Lui," a very good French comedy by Moliere,
with pleasure; and they say I speak French pretty well now, and
German also. Anyway, French and German people understand what I
am trying to say, and that is very encouraging. In voice-training
I have still the same old difficulties to contend against; and
the fulfilment of my wish to speak well seems O, so far away!
Sometimes I feel sure that I catch a faint glimpse of the goal I
am striving for, but in another minute a bend in the road hides
it from my view, and I am again left wandering in the dark! But I
try hard not to be discouraged. Surely we shall all find at last
the ideals we are seeking....
TO MR. JOHN HITZ
Brewster, Mass. July 15, 1896.
...As to the book, I am sure I shall enjoy it very much when I am
admitted, by the magic of Teacher's dear fingers, into the
companionship of the two sisters who went to the Immortal
Fountain.
As I sit by the window writing to you, it is so lovely to have
the soft, cool breezes fan my cheek and to feel that the hard
work of last year is over! Teacher seems to feel benefitted by
the change too; for she is already beginning to look like her
dear old self. We only need you, dear Mr. Hitz, to complete our
happiness. Teacher and Mrs. Hopkins both say you must come as
soon as you can! We will try to make you comfortable.
Teacher and I spent nine days at Philadelphia. Have you ever been
at Dr. Crouter's Institution? Mr. Howes has probably given you a
full account of our doings. We were busy all the time; we
attended the meetings and talked with hundreds of people, among
whom were dear Dr. Bell, Mr. Banerji of Calcutta, Monsieur Magnat
of Paris with whom I conversed in French exclusively, and many
other distinguished persons. We had looked forward to seeing you
there, and so we were greatly disappointed that you did not come.
We think of you so, so often! and our hearts go out to you in
tenderest sympathy; and you know better than this poor letter can
tell you how happy we always are to have you with us! I made a
"speech" on July eighth, telling the members of the Association
what an unspeakable blessing speech has been to me, and urging
them to give every little deaf child an opportunity to learn to
speak. Every one said I spoke very well and intelligibly. After
my little "speech," we attended a reception at which over six
hundred people were present. I must confess I do not like such
large receptions; the people crowd so, and we have to do so much
talking; and yet it is at receptions like the one in Philadelphia
that we often meet friends whom we learn to love afterwards. We
left the city last Thursday night, and arrived in Brewster Friday
afternoon. We missed the Cape Cod train Friday morning, and so we
came down to Provincetown in the steamer Longfellow. I am glad we
did so; for it was lovely and cool on the water, and Boston
Harbor is always interesting.
We spent about three weeks in Boston, after leaving New York, and
I need not tell you we had a most delightful time. We visited our
good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlin, at Wrentham, out in the
country, where they have a lovely home. Their house stands near a
charming lake where we went boating and canoeing, which was great
fun. We also went in bathing several times. Mr. and Mrs.
Chamberlin celebrated the 17th of June by giving a picnic to
their literary friends. There were about forty persons present,
all of whom were writers and publishers. Our friend, Mr. Alden,
the editor of Harper's was there, and of course we enjoyed his
society very much....
TO CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
Brewster, Mass., September 3, 1896.
...I have been meaning to write to you all summer; there were
many things I wanted to tell you, and I thought perhaps you would
like to hear about our vacation by the seaside, and our plans for
next year; but the happy, idle days slipped away so quickly, and
there were so many pleasant things to do every moment, that I
never found time to clothe my thought in words, and send them to
you. I wonder what becomes of lost opportunities. Perhaps our
guardian angel gathers them up as we drop them, and will give
them back to us in the beautiful sometime when we have grown
wiser, and learned how to use them rightly. But, however this may
be, I cannot now write the letter which has lain in my thought
for you so long. My heart is too full of sadness to dwell upon
the happiness the summer has brought me. My father is dead. He
died last Saturday at my home in Tuscumbia, and I was not there.
My own dear loving father! Oh, dear friend, how shall I ever bear
it!...
On the first of October Miss Keller entered the Cambridge School
for Young Ladies, of which Mr. Arthur Gilman is Principal. The
"examinations" mentioned in this letter were merely tests given
in the school, but as they were old Harvard papers, it is evident
that in some subjects Miss Keller was already fairly well
prepared for Radcliffe.
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
37 Concord Avenue, Cambridge, Mass.
October 8, 1896.
...I got up early this morning, so that I could write you a few
lines. I know you want to hear how I like my school. I do wish
you could come and see for yourself what a beautiful school it
is! There are about a hundred girls, and they are all so bright
and happy; it is a joy to be with them.
You will be glad to hear that I passed my examinations
successfully. I have been examined in English, German, French,
and Greek and Roman history. They were the entrance examinations
for Harvard College; so I feel pleased to think I could pass
them. This year is going to be a very busy one for Teacher and
myself. I am studying Arithmetic, English Literature, English
History, German, Latin, and advanced geography; there is a great
deal of preparatory reading required, and, as few of the books
are in raised print, poor Teacher has to spell them all out to
me; and that means hard work.
You must tell Mr. Howells when you see him, that we are living in
his house....
TO MRS. WILLIAM THAW
37 Concord Avenue, Cambridge, Mass.,
December 2, 1896.
...It takes me a long time to prepare my lessons, because I have
to have every word of them spelled out in my hand. Not one of the
textbooks which I am obliged to use is in raised print; so of
course my work is harder than it would be if I could read my
lessons over by myself. But it is harder for Teacher than it is
for me because the strain on her poor eyes is so great, and I
cannot help worrying about them. Sometimes it really seems as if
the task which we have set ourselves were more than we can
accomplish; but at other times I enjoy my work more than I can
say.
It is such a delight to be with the other girls, and do
everything that they do. I study Latin, German, Arithmetic and
English History, all of which I enjoy except Arithmetic. I am
afraid I have not a mathematical mind; for my figures always
manage to get into the wrong places!...
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
Cambridge, Mass., May 3, 1897.
...You know I am trying very hard to get through with the reading
for the examinations in June, and this, in addition to my regular
schoolwork keeps me awfully busy. But Johnson, and "The Plague"
and everything else must wait a few minutes this afternoon, while
I say, thank you, my dear Mrs. Hutton....
...What a splendid time we had at the "Players' Club." I always
thought clubs were dull, smoky places, where men talked politics,
and told endless stories, all about themselves and their
wonderful exploits: but now I see, I must have been quite
wrong....
TO MR. JOHN HITZ
Wrentham, Mass. July 9, 1897.
...Teacher and I are going to spend the summer at Wrentham, Mass.
with our friends, the Chamberlins. I think you remember Mr.
Chamberlin, the "Listener" in the Boston Transcript. They are
dear, kind people....
But I know you want to hear about my examinations. I know that
you will be glad to hear that I passed all of them successfully.
The subjects I offered were elementary and advanced German,
French, Latin, English, and Greek and Roman History. It seems
almost too good to be true, does it not? All the time I was
preparing for the great ordeal, I could not suppress an inward
fear and trembling lest I should fail, and now it is an
unspeakable relief to know that I have passed the examinations
with credit. But what I consider my crown of success is the
happiness and pleasure that my victory has brought dear Teacher.
Indeed, I feel that the success is hers more than mine; for she
is my constant inspiration....
At the end of September Miss Sullivan and Miss Keller returned to
the Cambridge School, where they remained until early in
December. Then the interference of Mr. Gilman resulted in Mrs.
Keller's withdrawing Miss Helen and her sister, Miss Mildred,
from the school. Miss Sullivan and her pupil went to Wrentham,
where they worked under Mr. Merton S. Keith, an enthusiastic and
skilful teacher.
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
Wrentham, February 20, 1898.
...I resumed my studies soon after your departure, and in a very
little while we were working as merrily as if the dreadful
experience of a month ago had been but a dream. I cannot tell you
how much I enjoy the country. It is so fresh, and peaceful and
free! I do think I could work all day long without feeling tired
if they would let me. There are so many pleasant things to
do—not always very easy things,—much of my work in Algebra and
Geometry is hard: but I love it all, especially Greek. Just
think, I shall soon finish my grammar! Then comes the "Iliad."
What an inexpressible joy it will be to read about Achilles, and
Ulysses, and Andromache and Athene, and the rest of my old
friends in their own glorious language! I think Greek is the
loveliest language that I know anything about. If it is true that
the violin is the most perfect of musical instruments, then Greek
is the violin of human thought.
We have had some splendid toboganning this month. Every morning,
before lesson-time, we all go out to the steep hill on the
northern shore of the lake near the house, and coast for an hour
or so. Some one balances the toboggan on the very crest of the
hill, while we get on, and when we are ready, off we dash down
the side of the hill in a headlong rush, and, leaping a
projection, plunge into a snow-drift and go swimming far across
the pond at a tremendous rate!...
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
[Wrentham] April 12, 1898.
...I am glad Mr. Keith is so well pleased with my progress. It is
true that Algebra and Geometry are growing easier all the time,
especially algebra; and I have just received books in raised
print which will greatly facilitate my work....
I find I get on faster, and do better work with Mr. Keith than I
did in the classes at the Cambridge School, and I think it was
well that I gave up that kind of work. At any rate, I have not
been idle since I left school; I have accomplished more, and been
happier than I could have been there....
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
[Wrentham] May 29, 1898.
...My work goes on bravely. Each day is filled to the brim with
hard study; for I am anxious to accomplish as much as possible
before I put away my books for the summer vacation. You will be
pleased to hear that I did three problems in Geometry yesterday
without assistance. Mr. Keith and Teacher were quite enthusiastic
over the achievement, and I must confess, I felt somewhat elated
myself. Now I feel as if I should succeed in doing something in
mathematics, although I cannot see why it is so very important to
know that the lines drawn from the extremities of the base of an
isosceles triangle to the middle points of the opposite sides are
equal! The knowledge doesn't make life any sweeter or happier,
does it? On the other hand, when we learn a new word, it is the
key to untold treasures....
TO CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
Wrentham, Mass., June 7, 1898.
I am afraid you will conclude that I am not very anxious for a
tandem after all, since I have let nearly a week pass without
answering your letter in regard to the kind of wheel I should
like. But really, I have been so constantly occupied with my
studies since we returned from New York, that I have not had time
even to think of the fun it would be to have a bicycle! You see,
I am anxious to accomplish as much as possible before the long
summer vacation begins. I am glad, though, that it is nearly time
to put away my books; for the sunshine and flowers, and the
lovely lake in front of our house are doing their best to tempt
me away from my Greek and Mathematics, especially from the
latter! I am sure the daisies and buttercups have as little use
for the science of Geometry as I, in spite of the fact that they
so beautifully illustrate its principles.
But bless me, I mustn't forget the tandem! The truth is, I know
very little about bicycles. I have only ridden a "sociable,"
which is very different from the ordinary tandem. The "sociable"
is safer, perhaps, than the tandem; but it is very heavy and
awkward, and has a way of taking up the greater part of the road.
Besides, I have been told that "sociables" cost more than other
kinds of bicycles. My teacher and other friends think I could
ride a Columbia tandem in the country with perfect safety. They
also think your suggestion about a fixed handlebar a good one. I
ride with a divided skirt, and so does my teacher; but it would
be easier for her to mount a man's wheel than for me; so, if it
could be arranged to have the ladies' seat behind, I think it
would be better....
TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
Wrentham, September 11, 1898.
...I am out of doors all the time, rowing, swimming, riding and
doing a multitude of other pleasant things. This morning I rode
over twelve miles on my tandem! I rode on a rough road, and fell
off three or four times, and am now awfully lame! But the weather
and the scenery were so beautiful, and it was such fun to go
scooting over the smoother part of the road, I didn't mind the
mishaps in the least.
I have really learned to swim and dive—after a fashion! I can
swim a little under water, and do almost anything I like, without
fear of getting drowned! Isn't that fine? It is almost no effort
for me to row around the lake, no matter how heavy the load may
be. So you can well imagine how strong and brown I am....
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
12 Newbury Street, Boston,
October 23, 1898.
This is the first opportunity I have had to write to you since we
came here last Monday. We have been in such a whirl ever since we
decided to come to Boston; it seemed as if we should never get
settled. Poor Teacher has had her hands full, attending to
movers, and express-men, and all sorts of people. I wish it were
not such a bother to move, especially as we have to do it so
often!...
...Mr. Keith comes here at half past three every day except
Saturday. He says he prefers to come here for the present. I am
reading the "Iliad," and the "Aeneid" and Cicero, besides doing a
lot in Geometry and Algebra. The "Iliad" is beautiful with all
the truth, and grace and simplicity of a wonderfully childlike
people while the "Aeneid" is more stately and reserved. It is
like a beautiful maiden, who always lived in a palace, surrounded
by a magnificent court; while the "Iliad" is like a splendid
youth, who has had the earth for his playground.
The weather has been awfully dismal all the week; but to-day is
beautiful, and our room floor is flooded with sunlight. By and by
we shall take a little walk in the Public Gardens. I wish the
Wrentham woods were round the corner! But alas! they are not, and
I shall have to content myself with a stroll in the Gardens.
Somehow, after the great fields and pastures and lofty
pine-groves of the country, they seem shut-in and conventional.
Even the trees seem citified and self-conscious. Indeed, I doubt
if they are on speaking terms with their country cousins! Do you
know, I cannot help feeling sorry for these trees with all their
fashionable airs? They are like the people whom they see every
day, who prefer the crowded, noisy city to the quiet and freedom
of the country. They do not even suspect how circumscribed their
lives are. They look down pityingly on the country-folk, who have
never had an opportunity "to see the great world." Oh my! if they
only realized their limitations, they would flee for their lives
to the woods and fields. But what nonsense is this! You will
think I'm pining away for my beloved Wrentham, which is true in
one sense and not in another. I do miss Red Farm and the dear
ones there dreadfully; but I am not unhappy. I have Teacher and
my books, and I have the certainty that something sweet and good
will come to me in this great city, where human beings struggle
so bravely all their lives to wring happiness from cruel
circumstances. Anyway, I am glad to have my share in life,
whether it be bright or sad....
TO MRS. WILLIAM THAW
Boston, December 6th, 1898.
My teacher and I had a good laugh over the girls' frolic. How
funny they must have looked in their "rough-rider" costumes,
mounted upon their fiery steeds! "Slim" would describe them, if
they were anything like the saw-horses I have seen. What jolly
times they must have at—! I cannot help wishing sometimes that
I could have some of the fun that other girls have. How quickly I
should lock up all these mighty warriors, and hoary sages, and
impossible heroes, who are now almost my only companions; and
dance and sing and frolic like other girls! But I must not waste
my time wishing idle wishes; and after all my ancient friends are
very wise and interesting, and I usually enjoy their society very
much indeed. It is only once in a great while that I feel
discontented, and allow myself to wish for things I cannot hope
for in this life. But, as you know, my heart is usually brimful
of happiness. The thought that my dear Heavenly Father is always
near, giving me abundantly of all those things, which truly
enrich life and make it sweet and beautiful, makes every
deprivation seem of little moment compared with the countless
blessings I enjoy.
TO MRS. WILLIAM THAW
12 Newbury Street, Boston,
December 19th, 1898.
...I realize now what a selfish, greedy girl I was to ask that my
cup of happiness should be filled to overflowing, without
stopping to think how many other people's cups were quite empty.
I feel heartily ashamed of my thoughtlessness. One of the
childish illusions, which it has been hardest for me to get rid
of, is that we have only to make our wishes known in order to
have them granted. But I am slowly learning that there is not
happiness enough in the world for everyone to have all that he
wants; and it grieves me to think that I should have forgotten,
even for a moment, that I already have more than my share, and
that like poor little Oliver Twist I should have asked for
"more."...
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
12 Newberry Street, Boston.
December 22, 1898
...I suppose Mr. Keith writes you the work-a-day news. If so, you
know that I have finished all the geometry, and nearly all the
Algebra required for the Harvard examinations, and after
Christmas I shall begin a very careful review of both subjects.
You will be glad to hear that I enjoy Mathematics now. Why, I can
do long, complicated quadratic equations in my head quite easily,
and it is great fun! I think Mr. Keith is a wonderful teacher,
and I feel very grateful to him for having made me see the beauty
of Mathematics. Next to my own dear teacher, he has done more
than any one else to enrich and broaden my mind.
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
12 Newbury Street, Boston,
January 17, 1899.
...Have you seen Kipling's "Dreaming True," or "Kitchener's
School?" It is a very strong poem and set me dreaming too. Of
course you have read about the "Gordon Memorial College," which
the English people are to erect at Khartoum. While I was thinking
over the blessings that would come to the people of Egypt through
this college, and eventually to England herself, there came into
my heart the strong desire that my own dear country should in a
similar way convert the terrible loss of her brave sons on the
"Maine" into a like blessing to the people of Cuba. Would a
college at Havana not be the noblest and most enduring monument
that could be raised to the brave men of the "Maine," as well as
a source of infinite good to all concerned? Imagine entering the
Havana harbor, and having the pier, where the "Maine" was
anchored on that dreadful night, when she was so mysteriously
destroyed, pointed out to you, and being told that the great,
beautiful building overlooking the spot was the "Maine Memorial
College," erected by the American people, and having for its
object the education both of Cubans and Spaniards! What a
glorious triumph such a monument would be of the best and highest
instincts of a Christian nation! In it there would be no
suggestion of hatred or revenge, nor a trace of the old-time
belief that might makes right. On the other hand, it would be a
pledge to the world that we intend to stand by our declaration of
war, and give Cuba to the Cubans, as soon as we have fitted them
to assume the duties and responsibilities of a self-governing
people....
TO MR. JOHN HITZ
12 Newbury Street, Boston,
February 3, 1899.
...I had an exceedingly interesting experience last Monday. A
kind friend took me over in the morning to the Boston Art Museum.
She had previously obtained permission from General Loring, Supt.
of the Museum, for me to touch the statues, especially those
which represented my old friends in the "Iliad" and "Aeneid." Was
that not lovely? While I was there, General Loring himself came
in, and showed me some of the most beautiful statues, among which
were the Venus of Medici, the Minerva of the Parthenon, Diana, in
her hunting costume, with her hand on the quiver and a doe by her
side, and the unfortunate Laocoon and his two little sons,
struggling in the fearful coils of two huge serpents, and
stretching their arms to the skies with heart-rending cries. I
also saw Apollo Belvidere. He had just slain the Python and was
standing by a great pillar of rock, extending his graceful hand
in triumph over the terrible snake. Oh, he was simply beautiful!
Venus entranced me. She looked as if she had just risen from the
foam of the sea, and her loveliness was like a strain of heavenly
music. I also saw poor Niobe with her youngest child clinging
close to her while she implored the cruel goddess not to kill her
last darling. I almost cried, it was all so real and tragic.
General Loring kindly showed me a copy of one of the wonderful
bronze doors of the Baptistry of Florence, and I felt of the
graceful pillars, resting on the backs of fierce lions. So you
see, I had a foretaste of the pleasure which I hope some day to
have of visiting Florence. My friend said, she would sometime
show me the copies of the marbles brought away by Lord Elgin from
the Parthenon. But somehow, I should prefer to see the originals
in the place where Genius meant them to remain, not only as a
hymn of praise to the gods, but also as a monument of the glory
of Greece. It really seems wrong to snatch such sacred things
away from the sanctuary of the Past where they belong....
TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
Boston, February 19th, 1899.
Why, bless you, I thought I wrote to you the day after the
"Eclogues" arrived, and told you how glad I was to have them!
Perhaps you never got that letter. At any rate, I thank you, dear
friend, for taking such a world of trouble for me. You will be
glad to hear that the books from England are coming now. I
already have the seventh and eighth books of the "Aeneid" and one
book of the "Iliad," all of which is most fortunate, as I have
come almost to the end of my embossed text-books.
It gives me great pleasure to hear how much is being done for the
deaf-blind. The more I learn of them, the more kindness I find.
Why, only a little while ago people thought it quite impossible
to teach the deaf-blind anything; but no sooner was it proved
possible than hundreds of kind, sympathetic hearts were fired
with the desire to help them, and now we see how many of those
poor, unfortunate persons are being taught to see the beauty and
reality of life. Love always finds its way to an imprisoned soul,
and leads it out into the world of freedom and intelligence!
As to the two-handed alphabet, I think it is much easier for
those who have sight than the manual alphabet; for most of the
letters look like the large capitals in books; but I think when
it comes to teaching a deaf-blind person to spell, the manual
alphabet is much more convenient, and less conspicuous....
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
12 Newbury Street, Boston,
March 5, 1899.
...I am now sure that I shall be ready for my examinations in
June. There is but one cloud in my sky at present; but that is
one which casts a dark shadow over my life, and makes me very
anxious at times. My teacher's eyes are no better: indeed, I
think they grow more troublesome, though she is very brave and
patient, and will not give up. But it is most distressing to me
to feel that she is sacrificing her sight for me. I feel as if I
ought to give up the idea of going to college altogether: for not
all the knowledge in the world could make me happy, if obtained
at such a cost. I do wish, Mrs. Hutton, you would try to persuade
Teacher to take a rest, and have her eyes treated. She will not
listen to me.
I have just had some pictures taken, and if they are good, I
would like to send one to Mr. Rogers, if you think he would like
to have it. I would like so much to show him in some way how
deeply I appreciate all that he is doing for me, and I cannot
think of anything better to do.
Every one here is talking about the Sargent pictures. It is a
wonderful exhibition of portraits, they say. How I wish I had
eyes to see them! How I should delight in their beauty and color!
However, I am glad that I am not debarred from all pleasure in
the pictures. I have at least the satisfaction of seeing them
through the eyes of my friends, which is a real pleasure. I am so
thankful that I can rejoice in the beauties, which my friends
gather and put into my hands!
We are all so glad and thankful that Mr. Kipling did not die! I
have his "Jungle-Book" in raised print, and what a splendid,
refreshing book it is! I cannot help feeling as if I knew its
gifted author. What a real, manly, lovable nature his must be!...
TO DR. DAVID H. GREER
12 Newbury Street, Boston,
May 8, 1899.
...Each day brings me all that I can possibly accomplish, and
each night brings me rest, and the sweet thought that I am a
little nearer to my goal than ever before. My Greek progresses
finely. I have finished the ninth book of the "Iliad" and am just
beginning the "Odyssey." I am also reading the "Aeneid" and the
"Eclogues." Some of my friends tell me that I am very foolish to
give so much time to Greek and Latin; but I am sure they would
not think so, if they realized what a wonderful world of
experience and thought Homer and Virgil have opened up to me. I
think I shall enjoy the "Odyssey" most of all. The "Iliad" tells
of almost nothing but war, and one sometimes wearies of the clash
of spears and the din of battle; but the "Odyssey" tells of
nobler courage—the courage of a soul sore tried, but steadfast
to the end. I often wonder, as I read these splendid poems why,
at the same time that Homer's songs of war fired the Greeks with
valor, his songs of manly virtue did not have a stronger
influence upon the spiritual life of the people. Perhaps the
reason is, that thoughts truly great are like seeds cast into the
human mind, and either lie there unnoticed, or are tossed about
and played with, like toys, until, grown wise through suffering
and experience, a race discovers and cultivates them. Then the
world has advanced one step in its heavenward march.
I am working very hard just now. I intend to take my examinations
in June, and there is a great deal to be done, before I shall
feel ready to meet the ordeal....
You will be glad to hear that my mother, and little sister and
brother are coming north to spend this summer with me. We shall
all live together in a small cottage on one of the lakes at
Wrentham, while my dear teacher takes a much needed rest. She has
not had a vacation for twelve years, think of it, and all that
time she has been the sunshine of my life. Now her eyes are
troubling her a great deal, and we all think she ought to be
relieved, for a while, of every care and responsibility. But we
shall not be quite separated; we shall see each other every day,
I hope. And, when July comes, you can think of me as rowing my
dear ones around the lovely lake in the little boat you gave me,
the happiest girl in the world!...
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
[Boston] May 28th 1899.
...We have had a hard day. Mr. Keith was here for three hours
this afternoon, pouring a torrent of Latin and Greek into my poor
bewildered brain. I really believe he knows more Latin and Greek
Grammar than Cicero or Homer ever dreamed of! Cicero is splendid,
but his orations are very difficult to translate. I feel ashamed
sometimes, when I make that eloquent man say what sounds absurd
or insipid; but how is a school-girl to interpret such genius?
Why, I should have to be a Cicero to talk like a Cicero!...
Linnie Haguewood is a deaf-blind girl, one of the many whom Mr.
William Wade has helped. She is being educated by Miss Dora
Donald who, at the beginning of her work with her pupil, was
supplied by Mr. Hitz, Superintendent of the Volta Bureau, with
copies of all documents relating to Miss Sullivan's work with
Miss Keller.
TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
Wrentham, Mass., June 5, 1899.
...Linnie Haguewood's letter, which you sent me some weeks ago,
interested me very much. It seemed to show spontaneity and great
sweetness of character. I was a good deal amused by what she said
about history. I am sorry she does not enjoy it; but I too feel
sometimes how dark, and mysterious and even fearful the history
of old peoples, old religions and old forms of government really
is.
Well, I must confess, I do not like the sign-language, and I do
not think it would be of much use to the deaf-blind. I find it
very difficult to follow the rapid motions made by the
deaf-mutes, and besides, signs seem a great hindrance to them in
acquiring the power of using language easily and freely. Why, I
find it hard to understand them sometimes when they spell on
their fingers. On the whole, if they cannot be taught
articulation, the manual alphabet seems the best and most
convenient means of communication. At any rate, I am sure the
deaf-blind cannot learn to use signs with any degree of facility.
The other day, I met a deaf Norwegian gentleman, who knows
Ragnhild Kaata and her teacher very well, and we had a very
interesting conversation about her. He said she was very
industrious and happy. She spins, and does a great deal of fancy
work, and reads, and leads a pleasant, useful life. Just think,
she cannot use the manual alphabet! She reads the lips well, and
if she cannot understand a phrase, her friends write it in her
hand, and in this way she converses with strangers. I cannot make
out anything written in my hand, so you see, Ragnhild has got
ahead of me in some things. I do hope I shall see her sometime...
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
Wrentham, July 29, 1899.
...I passed in all the subjects I offered, and with credit in
advanced Latin.... But I must confess, I had a hard time on the
second day of my examinations. They would not allow Teacher to
read any of the papers to me; so the papers were copied for me in
braille. This arrangement worked very well in the languages, but
not nearly so well in the Mathematics. Consequently, I did not do
so well as I should have done, if Teacher had been allowed to
read the Algebra and Geometry to me. But you must not think I
blame any one. Of course they did not realize how difficult and
perplexing they were making the examinations for me. How could
they—they can see and hear, and I suppose they could not
understand matters from my point of view....
Thus far my summer has been sweeter than anything I can remember.
My mother, and sister and little brother have been here five
weeks, and our happiness knows no bounds. Not only do we enjoy
being together; but we also find our little home most delightful.
I do wish you could see the view of the beautiful lake from our
piazza, the islands looking like little emerald peaks in the
golden sunlight, and the canoes flitting here and there, like
autumn leaves in the gentle breeze, and breathe in the peculiarly
delicious fragrance of the woods, which comes like a murmur from
an unknown clime. I cannot help wondering if it is the same
fragrance that greeted the Norsemen long ago, when, according to
tradition, they visited our shores—an odorous echo of many
centuries of silent growth and decay in flower and tree....
TO MRS. SAMUEL RICHARD FULLER
Wrentham, October 20, 1899.
...I suppose it is time for me to tell you something about our
plans for the winter. You know it has long been my ambition to go
to Radcliffe, and receive a degree, as many other girls have
done; but Dean Irwin of Radcliffe, has persuaded me to take a
special course for the present. She said I had already shown the
world that I could do the college work, by passing all my
examinations successfully, in spite of many obstacles. She showed
me how very foolish it would be for me to pursue a four years'
course of study at Radcliffe, simply to be like other girls, when
I might better be cultivating whatever ability I had for writing.
She said she did not consider a degree of any real value, but
thought it was much more desirable to do something original than
to waste one's energies only for a degree. Her arguments seemed
so wise and practical, that I could not but yield. I found it
hard, very hard, to give up the idea of going to college; it had
been in my mind ever since I was a little girl; but there is no
use doing a foolish thing, because one has wanted to do it a long
time, is there?
But, while we were discussing plans for the winter, a suggestion
which Dr. Hale had made long ago flashed across Teacher's
mind—that I might take courses somewhat like those offered at
Radcliffe, under the instruction of the professors in these
courses. Miss Irwin seemed to have no objection to this proposal,
and kindly offered to see the professors and find out if they
would give me lessons. If they will be so good as to teach me and
if we have money enough to do as we have planned, my studies this
year will be English, English Literature of the Elizabethan
period, Latin and German....
TO MR. JOHN HITZ
138 Brattle St., Cambridge,
Nov. 11, 1899.
...As to the braille question, I cannot tell how deeply it
distresses me to hear that my statement with regard to the
examinations has been doubted. Ignorance seems to be at the
bottom of all these contradictions. Why, you yourself seem to
think that I taught you American braille, when you do not know a
single letter in the system! I could not help laughing when you
said you had been writing to me in American braille—and there
you were writing your letter in English braille!
The facts about the braille examinations are as follows:
How I passed my Entrance Examinations for Radcliffe College.
On the 29th and 30th of June, 1899, I took my examinations for
Radcliffe College. The first day I had elementary Greek and
advanced Latin, and the second day Geometry, Algebra and advanced
Greek.
The college authorities would not permit 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 braille. Mr. Vining was a
perfect stranger to me, and could not communicate with me except
by writing in braille. The Proctor also was a stranger, and did
not attempt to communicate with me in any way; and, as they were
both unfamiliar with my speech, they could not readily understand
what I said to them.
However, the braille worked well enough in the languages; but
when it came to Geometry and Algebra, it was different. I was
sorely perplexed, and felt quite discouraged, and wasted much
precious time, especially in Algebra. It is true that I am
perfectly familiar with all literary braille—English, American,
and New York Point; but the method of writing the various signs
used in Geometry and Algebra in the three systems is very
different, and two days before the examinations I knew only the
English method. I had used it all through my school work, and
never any other system.
In Geometry, my chief difficulty was, that I had always been
accustomed to reading the propositions in Line Print, or having
them spelled into my hand; and somehow, although the propositions
were right before me, yet the braille confused me, and I could
not fix in my mind clearly what I was reading. But, when I took
up Algebra, I had a harder time still—I was terribly handicapped
by my imperfect knowledge of the notation. The signs, which I had
learned the day before, and which I thought I knew perfectly,
confused me. Consequently my work was painfully slow, and I was
obliged to read the examples over and over before I could form a
clear idea what I was required to do. Indeed, I am not sure now
that I read all the signs correctly, especially as I was much
distressed, and found it very hard to keep my wits about me....
Now there is one more fact, which I wish to state very plainly,
in regard to what Mr. Gilman wrote to you. I never received any
direct instruction in the Gilman School. Miss Sullivan always sat
beside me, and told me what the teachers said. I did teach Miss
Hall, my teacher in Physics, how to write the American braille,
but she never gave me any instruction by means of it, unless a
few problems written for practice, which made me waste much
precious time deciphering them, can be called instruction. Dear
Frau Grote learned the manual alphabet, and used to teach me
herself; but this was in private lessons, which were paid for by
my friends. In the German class Miss Sullivan interpreted to me
as well as she could what the teacher said.
Perhaps, if you would send a copy of this to the head of the
Cambridge School, it might enlighten his mind on a few subjects,
on which he seems to be in total darkness just now....
TO MISS MILDRED KELLER
138 Brattle Street, Cambridge,
November 26, 1899.
...At last we are settled for the winter, and our work is going
smoothly. Mr. Keith comes every afternoon at four o'clock, and
gives me a "friendly lift" over the rough stretches of road, over
which every student must go. I am studying English history,
English literature, French and Latin, and by and by I shall take
up German and English composition—let us groan! You know, I
detest grammar as much as you do; but I suppose I must go through
it if I am to write, just as we had to get ducked in the lake
hundreds of times before we could swim! In French Teacher is
reading "Columba" to me. It is a delightful novel, full of
piquant expressions and thrilling adventures, (don't dare to
blame me for using big words, since you do the same!) and, if you
ever read it, I think you will enjoy it immensely. You are
studying English history, aren't you. O but it's exceedingly
interesting! I'm making quite a thorough study of the Elizabethan
period—of the Reformation, and the Acts of Supremacy and
Conformity, and the maritime discoveries, and all the big things,
which the "deuce" seems to have invented to plague innocent
youngsters like yourself!...
Now we have a swell winter outfit—coats, hats, gowns, flannels
and all. We've just had four lovely dresses made by a French
dressmaker. I have two, of which one has a black silk skirt, with
a black lace net over it, and a waist of white poplin, with
turquoise velvet and chiffon, and cream lace over a satin yoke.
The other is woollen, and of a very pretty green. The waist is
trimmed with pink and green brocaded velvet, and white lace, I
think, and has double reefers on the front, tucked and trimmed
with velvet, and also a row of tiny white buttons. Teacher too
has a silk dress. The skirt is black, while the waist is mostly
yellow, trimmed with delicate lavender chiffon, and black velvet
bows and lace. Her other dress is purple, trimmed with purple
velvet, and the waist has a collar of cream lace. So you may
imagine that we look quite like peacocks, only we've no
trains....
A week ago yesterday there was [a] great football game between
Harvard and Yale, and there was tremendous excitement here. We
could hear the yells of the boys and the cheers of the lookers-on
as plainly in our room as if we had been on the field. Colonel
Roosevelt was there, on Harvard's side; but bless you, he wore a
white sweater, and no crimson that we know of! There were about
twenty-five thousand people at the game, and, when we went out,
the noise was so terrific, we nearly jumped out of our skins,
thinking it was the din of war, and not of a football game that
we heard. But, in spite of all their wild efforts, neither side
was scored, and we all laughed and said, "Oh, well now the pot
can't call the kettle black!"...
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
559 Madison Avenue, New York,
January 2, 1900.
...We have been here a week now, and are going to stay with Miss
Rhoades until Saturday. We are enjoying every moment of our
visit, every one is so good to us. We have seen many of our old
friends, and made some new ones. We dined with the Rogers last
Friday, and oh, they were so kind to us! The thought of their
gentle courtesy and genuine kindness brings a warm glow of joy
and gratitude to my heart. I have seen Dr. Greer too. He has such
a kind heart! I love him more than ever. We went to St.
Bartholomew's Sunday, and I have not felt so much at home in a
church since dear Bishop Brooks died. Dr. Greer read so slowly,
that my teacher could tell me every word. His people must have
wondered at his unusual deliberation. After the service he asked
Mr. Warren, the organist to play for me. I stood in the middle of
the church, where the vibrations from the great organ were
strongest, and I felt the mighty waves of sound beat against me,
as the great billows beat against a little ship at sea.
TO MR. JOHN HITZ
138 Brattle Street, Cambridge,
Feb. 3, 1900.
...My studies are more interesting than ever. In Latin, I am
reading Horace's odes. Although I find them difficult to
translate, yet I think they are the loveliest pieces of Latin
poetry I have read or shall ever read. In French we have finished
"Colomba," and I am reading "Horace" by Corneille and La
Fontaine's fables, both of which are in braille. I have not gone
far in either; but I know I shall enjoy the fables, they are so
delightfully written, and give such good lessons in a simple and
yet attractive way. I do not think I have told you that my dear
teacher is reading "The Faery Queen" to me. I am afraid I find
fault with the poem as much as I enjoy it. I do not care much for
the allegories, indeed I often find them tiresome, and I cannot
help thinking that Spenser's world of knights, paynims, fairies,
dragons and all sorts of strange creatures is a somewhat
grotesque and amusing world; but the poem itself is lovely and as
musical as a running brook.
I am now the proud owner of about fifteen new books, which we
ordered from Louisville. Among them are "Henry Esmond," "Bacon's
Essays" and extracts from "English Literature." Perhaps next week
I shall have some more books, "The Tempest," "A Midsummer Night's
Dream" and possibly some selections from Green's history of
England. Am I not very fortunate?
I am afraid this letter savors too much of books—but really they
make up my whole life these days, and I scarcely see or hear of
anything else! I do believe I sleep on books every night! You
know a student's life is of necessity somewhat circumscribed and
narrow and crowds out almost everything that is not in books....
TO THE CHAIRMAN OF THE ACADEMIC BOARD OF RADCLIFFE COLLEGE
138 Brattle Street, Cambridge, Mass.,
May 5, 1900.
Dear Sir:
As an aid to me in determining my plans for study the coming
year, I apply to you for information as to the possibility of my
taking the regular courses in Radcliffe College.
Since receiving my certificate of admission to Radcliffe last
July, I have been studying with a private tutor, Horace,
Aeschylus, French, German, Rhetoric, English History, English
Literature and Criticism, and English composition.
In college I should wish to continue most, if not all of these
subjects. The conditions under which I work require the presence
of Miss Sullivan, who has been my teacher and companion for
thirteen years, as an interpreter of oral speech and as a reader
of examination papers. In college she, or possibly in some
subjects some one else, would of necessity be with me in the
lecture-room and at recitations. I should do all my written work
on a typewriter, and if a Professor could not understand my
speech, I could write out my answers to his questions and hand
them to him after the recitation.
Is it possible for the College to accommodate itself to these
unprecedented conditions, so as to enable me to pursue my studies
at Radcliffe? I realize that the obstacles in the way of my
receiving a college education are very great—to others they may
seem insurmountable; but, dear Sir, a true soldier does not
acknowledge defeat before the battle.
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
38 Brattle Street, Cambridge,
June 9, 1900.
...I have not yet heard from the Academic Board in reply to my
letter; but I sincerely hope they will answer favorably. My
friends think it very strange that they should hesitate so long,
especially when I have not asked them to simplify my work in the
least, but only to modify it so as to meet the existing
circumstances. Cornell has offered to make arrangements suited to
the conditions under which I work, if I should decide to go to
that college, and the University of Chicago has made a similar
offer, but I am afraid if I went to any other college, it would
be thought that I did not pass my examinations for Radcliffe
satisfactorily....
In the fall Miss Keller entered Radcliffe College.
TO MR. JOHN HITZ
14 Coolidge Ave., Cambridge,
Nov. 26, 1900.
...—has already communicated with you in regard to her and my
plan of establishing an institution for deaf and blind children.
At first I was most enthusiastic in its support, and I never
dreamed that any grave objections could be raised except indeed
by those who are hostile to Teacher, but now, after thinking most
SERIOUSLY and consulting my friends, I have decided that—'s
plan is by no means feasible. In my eagerness to make it possible
for deaf and blind children to have the same advantages that I
have had, I quite forgot that there might be many obstacles in
the way of my accomplishing anything like what—proposed.
My friends thought we might have one or two pupils in our own
home, thereby securing to me the advantage of being helpful to
others without any of the disadvantages of a large school. They
were very kind; but I could not help feeling that they spoke more
from a business than a humanitarian point of view. I am sure they
did not quite understand how passionately I desire that all who
are afflicted like myself shall receive their rightful
inheritance of thought, knowledge and love. Still I could not
shut my eyes to the force and weight of their arguments, and I
saw plainly that I must abandon—'s scheme as impracticable.
They also said that I ought to appoint an advisory committee to
control my affairs while I am at Radcliffe. I considered this
suggestion carefully, then I told Mr. Rhoades that I should be
proud and glad to have wise friends to whom I could always turn
for advice in all important matters. For this committee I chose
six, my mother, Teacher, because she is like a mother to me, Mrs.
Hutton, Mr. Rhoades, Dr. Greer and Mr. Rogers, because it is they
who have supported me all these years and made it possible for me
to enter college. Mrs. Hutton had already written to mother,
asking her to telegraph if she was willing for me to have other
advisers besides herself and Teacher. This morning we received
word that mother had given her consent to this arrangement. Now
it remains for me to write to Dr. Greer and Mr. Rogers....
We had a long talk with Dr. Bell. Finally he proposed a plan
which delighted us all beyond words. He said that it was a
gigantic blunder to attempt to found a school for deaf and blind
children, because then they would lose the most precious
opportunities of entering into the fuller, richer, freer life of
seeing and hearing children. I had had misgivings on this point;
but I could not see how we were to help it. However Mr. Bell
suggested that—and all her friends who are interested in her
scheme should organize an association for the promotion of the
education of the deaf and blind, Teacher and myself being
included of course. Under his plan they were to appoint Teacher
to train others to instruct deaf and blind children in their own
homes, just as she had taught me. Funds were to be raised for the
teachers' lodgings and also for their salaries. At the same time
Dr. Bell added that I could rest content and fight my way through
Radcliffe in competition with seeing and hearing girls, while the
great desire of my heart was being fulfilled. We clapped our
hands and shouted;—went away beaming with pleasure, and
Teacher and I felt more light of heart than we had for sometime.
Of course we can do nothing just now; but the painful anxiety
about my college work and the future welfare of the deaf and
blind has been lifted from our minds. Do tell me what you think
about Dr. Bell's suggestion. It seems most practical and wise to
me; but I must know all that there is to be known about it before
I speak or act in the matter....
TO MR. JOHN D. WRIGHT
Cambridge, December 9, 1900.
Do you think me a villain and—I can't think of a word bad enough
to express your opinion of me, unless indeed horse-thief will
answer the purpose. Tell me truly, do you think me as bad as
that? I hope not; for I have thought many letters to you which
never got on paper, and I am delighted to get your good letter,
yes, I really was, and I intended to answer it immediately, but
the days slip by unnoticed when one is busy, and I have been VERY
busy this fall. You must believe that. Radcliffe girls are always
up to their ears in work. If you doubt it, you'd better come and
see for yourself.
Yes, I am taking the regular college course for a degree. When I
am a B.A., I suppose you will not dare call me a villain! I am
studying English—Sophomore English, if you please, (though I
can't see that it is different from just plain English) German,
French and History. I'm enjoying my work even more than I
expected to, which is another way of saying that I'm glad I came.
It is hard, very hard at times; but it hasn't swamped me yet. No,
I am not studying Mathematics, or Greek or Latin either. The
courses at Radcliffe are elective, only certain courses in
English are prescribed. I passed off my English and advanced
French before I entered college, and I choose the courses I like
best. I don't however intend to give up Latin and Greek entirely.
Perhaps I shall take up these studies later; but I've said
goodbye to Mathematics forever, and I assure you, I was delighted
to see the last of those horrid goblins! I hope to obtain my
degree in four years; but I'm not very particular about that.
There's no great hurry, and I want to get as much as possible out
of my studies. Many of my friends would be well pleased if I
would take two or even one course a year, but I rather object to
spending the rest of my life in college....
TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
14 Coolidge Avenue, Cambridge,
December 9, 1900.
...Since you are so much interested in the deaf and blind, I will
begin by telling you of several cases I have come across lately.
Last October I heard of an unusually bright little girl in Texas.
Her name is Ruby Rice, and she is thirteen years old, I think.
She has never been taught; but they say she can sew and likes to
help others in this sort of work. Her sense of smell is
wonderful. Why, when she enters a store, she will go straight to
the showcases, and she can also distinguish her own things. Her
parents are very anxious indeed to find a teacher for her. They
have also written to Mr. Hitz about her.
I also know a child at the Institution for the Deaf in
Mississippi. Her name is Maud Scott, and she is six years old.
Miss Watkins, the lady who has charge of her wrote me a most
interesting letter. She said that Maud was born deaf and lost her
sight when she was only three months old, and that when she went
to the Institution a few weeks ago, she was quite helpless. She
could not even walk and had very little use of her hands. When
they tried to teach her to string beads, her little hands fell to
her side. Evidently her sense of touch has not been developed,
and as yet she can walk only when she holds some one's hand; but
she seems to be an exceedingly bright child. Miss Watkins adds
that she is very pretty. I have written to her that when Maud
learns to read, I shall have many stories to send her. The dear,
sweet little girl, it makes my heart ache to think how utterly
she is cut off from all that is good and desirable in life. But
Miss Watkins seems to be just the kind of teacher she needs.
I was in New York not long ago and I saw Miss Rhoades, who told
me that she had seen Katie McGirr. She said the poor young girl
talked and acted exactly like a little child. Katie played with
Miss Rhoades's rings and took them away, saying with a merry
laugh, "You shall not have them again!" She could only understand
Miss Rhoades when she talked about the simplest things. The
latter wished to send her some books; but she could not find
anything simple enough for her! She said Katie was very sweet
indeed, but sadly in need of proper instruction. I was much
surprised to hear all this; for I judged from your letters that
Katie was a very precocious girl....
A few days ago I met Tommy Stringer in the railroad station at
Wrentham. He is a great, strong boy now, and he will soon need a
man to take care of him; he is really too big for a lady to
manage. He goes to the public school, I hear, and his progress is
astonishing, they say; but it doesn't show as yet in his
conversation, which is limited to "Yes" and "No."...
TO MR. CHARLES T. COPELAND
December 20, 1900.
My dear Mr. Copeland;
I venture to write to you because I am afraid that if I do not
explain why I have stopped writing themes, you will think I have
become discouraged, or perhaps that to escape criticism I have
beat a cowardly retreat from your class. Please do not think
either of these very unpleasant thoughts. I am not discouraged,
nor am I afraid. I am confident that I could go on writing themes
like those I have written, and I suppose I should get through the
course with fairly good marks; but this sort of literary
patch-work has lost all interest for me. I have never been
satisfied with my work; but I never knew what my difficulty was
until you pointed it out to me. When I came to your class last
October, I was trying with all my might to be like everybody
else, to forget as entirely as possible my limitations and
peculiar environment. Now, however, I see the folly of attempting
to hitch one's wagon to a star with harness that does not belong
to it.
I have always accepted other peoples experiences and observations
as a matter of course. It never occurred to me that it might be
worth while to make my own observations and describe the
experiences peculiarly my own. Henceforth I am resolved to be
myself, to live my own life and write my own thoughts when I have
any. When I have written something that seems to be fresh and
spontaneous and worthy of your criticisms, I will bring it to
you, if I may, and if you think it good, I shall be happy; but if
your verdict is unfavorable, I shall try again and yet again
until I have succeeded in pleasing you...
TO MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
14 Coolidge Avenue, Cambridge,
December 27, 1900.
...So you read about our class luncheon in the papers? How in the
world do the papers find out everything, I wonder. I am sure no
reporter was present. I had a splendid time; the toasts and
speeches were great fun. I only spoke a few words, as I did not
know I was expected to speak until a few minutes before I was
called upon. I think I wrote you that I had been elected
Vice-President of the Freshman Class of Radcliffe.
Did I tell you in my last letter that I had a new dress, a real
party dress with low neck and short sleeves and quite a train? It
is pale blue, trimmed with chiffon of the same color. I have worn
it only once, but then I felt that Solomon in all his glory was
not to be compared with me! Anyway, he certainly never had a
dress like mine!...
A gentleman in Philadelphia has just written to my teacher about
a deaf and blind child in Paris, whose parents are Poles. The
mother is a physician and a brilliant woman, he says. This little
boy could speak two or three languages before he lost his hearing
through sickness, and he is now only about five years old. Poor
little fellow, I wish I could do something for him; but he is so
young, my teacher thinks it would be too bad to separate him from
his mother. I have had a letter from Mrs. Thaw with regard to the
possibility of doing something for these children. Dr. Bell
thinks the present census will show that there are more than a
thousand in the United States alone [The number of deaf-blind
young enough to be benefited by education is not so large as
this; but the education of this class of defectives has been
neglected.]; and Mrs. Thaw thinks if all my friends were to unite
their efforts, "it would be an easy matter to establish at the
beginning of this new century a new line upon which mercy might
travel," and the rescue of these unfortunate children could be
accomplished....
TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
Cambridge, February 2, 1901.
...By the way, have you any specimens of English braille
especially printed for those who have lost their sight late in
life or have fingers hardened by long toil, so that their touch
is less sensitive than that of other blind people? I read an
account of such a system in one of my English magazines, and I am
anxious to know more about it. If it is as efficient as they say,
I see no reason why English braille should not be adopted by the
blind of all countries. Why, it is the print that can be most
readily adapted to many different languages. Even Greek can be
embossed in it, as you know. Then, too, it will be rendered still
more efficient by the "interpointing system," which will save an
immense amount of space and paper. There is nothing more absurd,
I think, than to have five or six different prints for the
blind....
This letter was written in response to a tentative offer from the
editor of The Great Round World to have the magazine published in
raised type for the blind, if enough were willing to subscribe.
It is evident that the blind should have a good magazine, not a
special magazine for the blind, but one of our best monthlies,
printed in embossed letters. The blind alone could not support
it, but it would not take very much money to make up the
additional expense.
To THE GREAT ROUND WORLD
Cambridge, Feb. 16, 1901.
The Great Round World,
New York City.
Gentlemen: I have only to-day found time to reply to your
interesting letter. A little bird had already sung the good news
in my ear; but it was doubly pleasant to have it straight from
you.
It would be splendid to have The Great Round World printed in
"language that can be felt." I doubt if any one who enjoys the
wondrous privilege of seeing can have any conception of the boon
such a publication as you contemplate would be to the sightless.
To be able to read for one's self what is being willed, thought
and done in the world—the world in whose joys and sorrows,
failures and successes one feels the keenest interest—that would
indeed be a happiness too deep for words. I trust that the effort
of The Great Round World to bring light to those who sit in
darkness will receive the encouragement and support it so richly
deserves.
I doubt, however, if the number of subscribers to an embossed
edition of The Great Round World would ever be large; for I am
told that the blind as a class are poor. But why should not the
friends of the blind assist The Great Round World, if necessary?
Surely there are hearts and hands ever ready to make it possible
for generous intentions to be wrought into noble deeds.
Wishing you godspeed in an undertaking that is very dear to my
heart, I am, etc.
TO MISS NINA RHOADES
Cambridge, Sept. 25, 1901.
...We remained in Halifax until about the middle of August....
Day after day the Harbor, the warships, and the park kept us busy
thinking and feeling and enjoying.... When the Indiana visited
Halifax, we were invited to go on board, and she sent her own
launch for us. I touched the immense cannon, read with my fingers
several of the names of the Spanish ships that were captured at
Santiago, and felt the places where she had been pierced with
shells. The Indiana was the largest and finest ship in the
Harbor, and we felt very proud of her.
After we left Halifax, we visited Dr. Bell at Cape Breton. He has
a charming, romantic house on a mountain called Beinn Bhreagh,
which overlooks the Bras d'Or Lake....
Dr. Bell told me many interesting things about his work. He had
just constructed a boat that could be propelled by a kite with
the wind in its favor, and one day he tried experiments to see if
he could steer the kite against the wind. I was there and really
helped him fly the kites. On one of them I noticed that the
strings were of wire, and having had some experience in bead
work, I said I thought they would break. Dr. Bell said "No!" with
great confidence, and the kite was sent up. It began to pull and
tug, and lo, the wires broke, and off went the great red dragon,
and poor Dr. Bell stood looking forlornly after it. After that he
asked me if the strings were all right and changed them at once
when I answered in the negative. Altogether we had great fun....
TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE [Read by Dr. Hale at the celebration
of the centenary of Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe, at Tremont Temple,
Boston, Nov. 11, 1901.]
Cambridge, Nov. 10, 1901.
My teacher and I expect to be present at the meeting tomorrow in
commemoration of the one hundredth anniversary of Dr. Howe's
birth; but I very much doubt if we shall have an opportunity to
speak with you; so I am writing now to tell you how delighted I
am that you are to speak at the meeting, because I feel that you,
better than any one I know will express the heartfelt gratitude
of those who owe their education, their opportunities, their
happiness to him who opened the eyes of the blind and gave the
dumb lip language.
Sitting here in my study, surrounded by my books, enjoying the
sweet and intimate companionship of the great and the wise, I am
trying to realize what my life might have been, if Dr. Howe had
failed in the great task God gave him to perform. If he had not
taken upon himself the responsibility of Laura Bridgman's
education and led her out of the pit of Acheron back to her human
inheritance, should I be a sophomore at Radcliffe College
to-day—who can say? But it is idle to speculate about what might
have been in connection with Dr. Howe's great achievement.
I think only those who have escaped that death-in-life existence,
from which Laura Bridgman was rescued, can realize how isolated,
how shrouded in darkness, how cramped by its own impotence is a
soul without thought or faith or hope. Words are powerless to
describe the desolation of that prison-house, or the joy of the
soul that is delivered out of its captivity. When we compare the
needs and helplessness of the blind before Dr. Howe began his
work, with their present usefulness and independence, we realize
that great things have been done in our midst. What if physical
conditions have built up high walls about us? Thanks to our
friend and helper, our world lies upward; the length and breadth
and sweep of the heavens are ours!
It is pleasant to think that Dr. Howe's noble deeds will receive
their due tribute of affection and gratitude, in the city, which
was the scene of his great labors and splendid victories for
humanity.
With kind greetings, in which my teacher joins me, I am
Affectionately your friend,
HELEN KELLER.
TO THE HON. GEORGE FRISBIE HOAR
Cambridge, Mass., November 25, 1901.
My Dear Senator Hoar:—
I am glad you liked my letter about Dr. Howe. It was written out
of my heart, and perhaps that is why it met a sympathetic
response in other hearts. I will ask Dr. Hale to lend me the
letter, so that I can make a copy of it for you.
You see, I use a typewriter—it is my right hand man, so to
speak. Without it I do not see how I could go to college. I write
all my themes and examinations on it, even Greek. Indeed, it has
only one drawback, and that probably is regarded as an advantage
by the professors; it is that one's mistakes may be detected at a
glance; for there is no chance to hide them in illegible writing.
I know you will be amused when I tell you that I am deeply
interested in politics. I like to have the papers read to me, and
I try to understand the great questions of the day; but I am
afraid my knowledge is very unstable; for I change my opinions
with every new book I read. I used to think that when I studied
Civil Government and Economics, all my difficulties and
perplexities would blossom into beautiful certainties; but alas,
I find that there are more tares than wheat in these fertile
fields of knowledge....
III: A SUPPLEMENTARY ACCOUNT OF HELEN KELLER'S LIFE AND EDUCATION
CHAPTER I. The Writing of the Book
It is fitting that Miss Keller's "Story of My Life" should appear at this time. What is remarkable in her career is already accomplished, and whatever she may do in the future will be but a relatively slight addition to the success which distinguishes her now. That success has just been assured, for it is her work at Radcliffe during the last two years which has shown that she can carry her education as far as if she were studying under normal conditions. Whatever doubts Miss Keller herself may have had are now at rest.
Several passages of her autobiography, as it appeared in serial form, have been made the subject of a grave editorial in a Boston newspaper, in which the writer regretted Miss Keller's apparent disillusionment in regard to the value of her college life. He quoted the passages in which she explains that college is not the "universal Athens" she had hoped to find, and cited the cases of other remarkable persons whose college life had proved disappointing. But it is to be remembered that Miss Keller has written many things in her autobiography for the fun of writing them, and the disillusion, which the writer of the editorial took seriously, is in great part humorous. Miss Keller does not suppose her views to be of great importance, and when she utters her opinions on important matters she takes it for granted that her reader will receive them as the opinions of a junior in college, not of one who writes with the wisdom of maturity. For instance, it surprised her that some people were annoyed at what she said about the Bible, and she was amused that they did not see, what was plain enough, that she had been obliged to read the whole Bible in a course in English literature, not as a religious duty put upon her by her teacher or her parents.
I ought to apologize to the reader and to Miss Keller for presuming to say what her subject matter is worth, but one more explanation is necessary. In her account of her early education Miss Keller is not giving a scientifically accurate record of her life, nor even of the important events. She cannot know in detail how she was taught, and her memory of her childhood is in some cases an idealized memory of what she has learned later from her teacher and others. She is less able to recall events of fifteen years ago than most of us are to recollect our childhood. That is why her teacher's records may be found to differ in some particulars from Miss Keller's account.
The way in which Miss Keller wrote her story shows, as nothing else can show, the difficulties she had to overcome. When we write, we can go back over our work, shuffle the pages, interline, rearrange, see how the paragraphs look in proof, and so construct the whole work before the eye, as an architect constructs his plans. When Miss Keller puts her work in typewritten form, she cannot refer to it again unless some one reads it to her by means of the manual alphabet.
This difficulty is in part obviated by the use of her braille machine, which makes a manuscript that she can read; but as her work must be put ultimately in typewritten form, and as a braille machine is somewhat cumbersome, she has got into the habit of writing directly on her typewriter. She depends so little on her braille manuscript, that, when she began to write her story more than a year ago and had put in braille a hundred pages of material and notes, she made the mistake of destroying these notes before she had finished her manuscript. Thus she composed much of her story on the typewriter, and in constructing it as a whole depended on her memory to guide her in putting together the detached episodes, which Miss Sullivan read over to her.
Last July, when she had finished under great pressure of work her final chapter, she set to work to rewrite the whole story. Her good friend, Mr. William Wade, had a complete braille copy made for her from the magazine proofs. Then for the first time she had her whole manuscript under her finger at once. She saw imperfections in the arrangement of paragraphs and the repetition of phrases. She saw, too, that her story properly fell into short chapters and redivided it.
Partly from temperament, partly from the conditions of her work, she has written rather a series of brilliant passages than a unified narrative; in point of fact, several paragraphs of her story are short themes written in her English courses, and the small unit sometimes shows its original limits.
In rewriting the story, Miss Keller made corrections on separate pages on her braille machine. Long corrections she wrote out on her typewriter, with catch-words to indicate where they belonged. Then she read from her braille copy the entire story, making corrections as she read, which were taken down on the manuscript that went to the printer. During this revision she discussed questions of subject matter and phrasing. She sat running her finger over the braille manuscript, stopping now and then to refer to the braille notes on which she had indicated her corrections, all the time reading aloud to verify the manuscript.
She listened to criticism just as any author listens to his friends or his editor. Miss Sullivan, who is an excellent critic, made suggestions at many points in the course of composition and revision. One newspaper suggested that Miss Keller had been led into writing the book and had been influenced to put certain things into it by zealous friends. As a matter of fact, most of the advice she has received and heeded has led to excisions rather than to additions. The book is Miss Keller's and is final proof of her independent power.
CHAPTER II. PERSONALITY
Mark Twain has said that the two most interesting characters of the nineteenth century are Napoleon and Helen Keller. The admiration with which the world has regarded her is more than justified by what she has done. No one can tell any great truth about her which has not already been written, and all that I can do is to give a few more facts about Miss Keller's work and add a little to what is known of her personality.
Miss Keller is tall and strongly built, and has always had good health. She seems to be more nervous than she really is, because she expresses more with her hands than do most English-speaking people. One reason for this habit of gesture is that her hands have been so long her instruments of communication that they have taken to themselves the quick shiftings of the eye, and express some of the things that we say in a glance. All deaf people naturally gesticulate. Indeed, at one time it was believed that the best way for them to communicate was through systematized gestures, the sign language invented by the Abbe de l'Epee.
When Miss Keller speaks, her face is animated and expresses all the modes of her thought—the expressions that make the features eloquent and give speech half its meaning. On the other hand she does not know another's expression. When she is talking with an intimate friend, however, her hand goes quickly to her friend's face to see, as she says, "the twist of the mouth." In this way she is able to get the meaning of those half sentences which we complete unconsciously from the tone of the voice or the twinkle of the eye.
Her memory of people is remarkable. She remembers the grasp of fingers she has held before, all the characteristic tightening of the muscles that makes one person's handshake different from that of another.
The trait most characteristic, perhaps, of Miss Keller (and also of Miss Sullivan) is humour. Skill in the use of words and her habit of playing with them make her ready with mots and epigrams.
Some one asked her if she liked to study.
"Yes," she replied, "but I like to play also, and I feel sometimes as if I were a music box with all the play shut up inside me."
When she met Dr. Furness, the Shakespearean scholar, he warned her not to let the college professors tell her too many assumed facts about the life of Shakespeare; all we know, he said, is that Shakespeare was baptized, married, and died.
"Well," she replied, "he seems to have done all the essential things."
Once a friend who was learning the manual alphabet kept making "g," which is like the hand of a sign-post, for "h," which is made with two fingers extended. Finally Miss Keller told him to "fire both barrels."
Mr. Joseph Jefferson was once explaining to Miss Keller what the bumps on her head meant.
"That," he said, "is your prize-fighting bump."
"I never fight," she replied, "except against difficulties."
Miss Keller's humour is that deeper kind of humour which is courage.
Thirteen years ago she made up her mind to learn to speak, and she gave her teacher no rest until she was allowed to take lessons, although wise people, even Miss Sullivan, the wisest of them all, regarded it as an experiment unlikely to succeed and almost sure to make her unhappy. It was this same perseverance that made her go to college. After she had passed her examinations and received her certificate of admission, she was advised by the Dean of Radcliffe and others not to go on. She accordingly delayed a year. But she was not satisfied until she had carried out her purpose and entered college.
Her life has been a series of attempts to do whatever other people do, and to do it as well. Her success has been complete, for in trying to be like other people she has come most fully to be herself. Her unwillingness to be beaten has developed her courage. Where another can go, she can go. Her respect for physical bravery is like Stevenson's—the boy's contempt for the fellow who cries, with a touch of young bravado in it. She takes tramps in the woods, plunging through the underbrush, where she is scratched and bruised; yet you could not get her to admit that she is hurt, and you certainly could not persuade her to stay at home next time.
So when people try experiments with her, she displays a sportsmanlike determination to win in any test, however unreasonable, that one may wish to put her to.
If she does not know the answer to a question, she guesses with mischievous assurance. Ask her the colour of your coat (no blind person can tell colour), she will feel it and say "black." If it happens to be blue, and you tell her so triumphantly, she is likely to answer, "Thank you. I am glad you know. Why did you ask me?"
Her whimsical and adventuresome spirit puts her so much on her mettle that she makes rather a poor subject for the psychological experimenter. Moreover, Miss Sullivan does not see why Miss Keller should be subjected to the investigation of the scientist, and has not herself made many experiments. When a psychologist asked her if Miss Keller spelled on her fingers in her sleep, Miss Sullivan replied that she did not think it worth while to sit up and watch, such matters were of so little consequence.
Miss Keller likes to be part of the company. If any one whom she is touching laughs at a joke, she laughs, too, just as if she had heard it. If others are aglow with music, a responding glow, caught sympathetically, shines in her face. Indeed, she feels the movements of Miss Sullivan so minutely that she responds to her moods, and so she seems to know what is going on, even though the conversation has not been spelled to her for some time. In the same way her response to music is in part sympathetic, although she enjoys it for its own sake.
Music probably can mean little to her but beat and pulsation. She cannot sing and she cannot play the piano, although, as some early experiments show, she could learn mechanically to beat out a tune on the keys. Her enjoyment of music, however, is very genuine, for she has a tactile recognition of sound when the waves of air beat against her. Part of her experience of the rhythm of music comes, no doubt, from the vibration of solid objects which she is touching: the floor, or, what is more evident, the case of the piano, on which her hand rests. But she seems to feel the pulsation of the air itself. When the organ was played for her in St. Bartholomew's, the whole building shook with the great pedal notes, but that does not altogether account for what she felt and enjoyed. The vibration of the air as the organ notes swelled made her sway in answer. Sometimes she puts her hand on a singer's throat to feel the muscular thrill and contraction, and from this she gets genuine pleasure. No one knows, however, just what her sensations are. It is amusing to read in one of the magazines of 1895 that Miss Keller "has a just and intelligent appreciation of different composers from having literally felt their music, Schumann being her favourite." If she knows the difference between Schumann and Beethoven, it is because she has read it, and if she has read it, she remembers it and can tell any one who asks her.
Miss Keller's effort to reach out and meet other people on their own intellectual ground has kept her informed of daily affairs. When her education became more systematic and she was busy with books, it would have been very easy for Miss Sullivan to let her draw into herself, if she had been so inclined. But every one who has met her has given his best ideas to her and she has taken them. If, in the course of a conversation, the friend next to her has ceased for some moments to spell into her hand, the question comes inevitably, "What are you talking about?" Thus she picks up the fragments of the daily intercourse of normal people, so that her detailed information is singularly full and accurate. She is a good talker on the little occasional affairs of life.
Much of her knowledge comes to her directly. When she is out walking she often stops suddenly, attracted by the odour of a bit of shrubbery. She reaches out and touches the leaves, and the world of growing things is hers, as truly as it is ours, to enjoy while she holds the leaves in her fingers and smells the blossoms, and to remember when the walk is done.
When she is in a new place, especially an interesting place like Niagara, whoever accompanies her—usually, of course, Miss Sullivan—is kept busy giving her an idea of visible details. Miss Sullivan, who knows her pupil's mind, selects from the passing landscape essential elements, which give a certain clearness to Miss Keller's imagined view of an outer world that to our eyes is confused and overloaded with particulars. If her companion does not give her enough details, Miss Keller asks questions until she has completed the view to her satisfaction.
She does not see with her eyes, but through the inner faculty to serve which eyes were given to us. When she returns from a walk and tells some one about it, her descriptions are accurate and vivid. A comparative experience drawn from written descriptions and from her teacher's words has kept her free from errors in her use of terms of sound and vision. True, her view of life is highly coloured and full of poetic exaggeration; the universe, as she sees it, is no doubt a little better than it really is. But her knowledge of it is not so incomplete as one might suppose. Occasionally she astonishes you by ignorance of some fact which no one happens to have told her; for instance, she did not know, until her first plunge into the sea, that it is salt. Many of the detached incidents and facts of our daily life pass around and over her unobserved; but she has enough detailed acquaintance with the world to keep her view of it from being essentially defective.
Most that she knows at first hand comes from her sense of touch. This sense is not, however, so finely developed as in some other blind people. Laura Bridgman could tell minute shades of difference in the size of thread, and made beautiful lace. Miss Keller used to knit and crochet, but she has had better things to do. With her varied powers and accomplishments, her sense of touch has not been used enough to develop it very far beyond normal acuteness. A friend tried Miss Keller one day with several coins. She was slower than he expected her to be in identifying them by their relative weight and size. But it should be said she almost never handles money—one of the many sordid and petty details of life, by the way, which she has been spared.
She recognizes the subject and general intention of a statuette six inches high. Anything shallower than a half-inch bas-relief is a blank to her, so far as it expresses an idea of beauty. Large statues, of which she can feel the sweep of line with her whole hand, she knows in their higher esthetic value. She suggests herself that she can know them better than we do, because she can get the true dimensions and appreciate more immediately the solid nature of a sculptured figure. When she was at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston she stood on a step-ladder and let both hands play over the statues. When she felt a bas-relief of dancing girls she asked, "Where are the singers?" When she found them she said, "One is silent." The lips of the singer were closed.
It is, however, in her daily life that one can best measure the delicacy of her senses and her manual skill. She seems to have very little sense of direction. She gropes her way without much certainty in rooms where she is quite familiar. Most blind people are aided by the sense of sound, so that a fair comparison is hard to make, except with other deaf-blind persons. Her dexterity is not notable either in comparison with the normal person, whose movements are guided by the eye, or, I am told, with other blind people. She has practised no single constructive craft which would call for the use of her hands. When she was twelve, her friend Mr. Albert H. Munsell, the artist, let her experiment with a wax tablet and a stylus. He says that she did pretty well and managed to make, after models, some conventional designs of the outlines of leaves and rosettes. The only thing she does which requires skill with the hands is her work on the typewriter. Although she has used the typewriter since she was eleven years old, she is rather careful than rapid. She writes with fair speed and absolute sureness. Her manuscripts seldom contain typographical errors when she hands them to Miss Sullivan to read. Her typewriter has no special attachments. She keeps the relative position of the keys by an occasional touch of the little finger on the outer edge of the board.
Miss Keller's reading of the manual alphabet by her sense of touch seems to cause some perplexity. Even people who know her fairly well have written in the magazines about Miss Sullivan's "mysterious telegraphic communications" with her pupil. The manual alphabet is that in use among all educated deaf people. Most dictionaries contain an engraving of the manual letters. The deaf person with sight looks at the fingers of his companion, but it is also possible to feel them. Miss Keller puts her fingers lightly over the hand of one who is talking to her and gets the words as rapidly as they can be spelled. As she explains, she is not conscious of the single letters or of separate words. Miss Sullivan and others who live constantly with the deaf can spell very rapidly—fast enough to get a slow lecture, not fast enough to get every word of a rapid speaker.
Anybody can learn the manual letters in a few minutes, use them slowly in a day, and in thirty days of constant use talk to Miss Keller or any other deaf person without realizing what his fingers are doing. If more people knew this, and the friends and relatives of deaf children learned the manual alphabet at once the deaf all over the world would be happier and better educated.
Miss Keller reads by means of embossed print or the various kinds of braille. The ordinary embossed book is made with roman letters, both small letters and capitals. These letters are of simple, square, angular design. The small letters are about three-sixteenths of an inch high, and are raised from the page the thickness of the thumbnail. The books are large, about the size of a volume of an encyclopedia. Green's "Short History of the English People" is in six large volumes. The books are not heavy, because the leaves with the raised type do not lie close. The time that one of Miss Keller's friends realizes most strongly that she is blind is when he comes on her suddenly in the dark and hears the rustle of her fingers across the page.
The most convenient print for the blind is braille, which has several variations, too many, indeed—English, American, New York Point. Miss Keller reads them all. Most educated blind people know several, but it would save trouble if, as Miss Keller suggests, English braille were universally adopted. The facsimile on page xv [omitted from etext] gives an idea of how the raised dots look. Each character (either a letter or a special braille contraction) is a combination made by varying in place and number points in six possible positions. Miss Keller has a braille writer on which she keeps notes and writes letters to her blind friends. There are six keys, and by pressing different combinations at a stroke (as one plays a chord on the piano) the operator makes a character at a time in a sheet of thick paper, and can write about half as rapidly as on a typewriter. Braille is especially useful in making single manuscript copies of books.
Books for the blind are very limited in number. They cost a great deal to publish and they have not a large enough sale to make them profitable to the publisher; but there are several institutions with special funds to pay for embossed books. Miss Keller is more fortunate than most blind people in the kindness of her friends who have books made especially for her, and in the willingness of gentlemen, like Mr. E. E. Allen of the Pennsylvania Institute for the Instruction of the Blind, to print, as he has on several occasions, editions of books that she has needed.
Miss Keller does not as a rule read very fast, but she reads deliberately, not so much because she feels the words less quickly than we see then, as because it is one of her habits of mind to do things thoroughly and well. When a passage interests her, or she needs to remember it for some future use, she flutters it off swiftly on the fingers of her right hand. Sometimes this finger-play is unconscious. Miss Keller talks to herself absent-mindedly in the manual alphabet. When she is walking up or down the hall or along the veranda, her hands go flying along beside her like a confusion of birds' wings.
There is, I am told, tactile memory as well as visual and aural memory. Miss Sullivan says that both she and Miss Keller remember "in their fingers" what they have said. For Miss Keller to spell a sentence in the manual alphabet impresses it on her mind just as we learn a thing from having heard it many times and can call back the memory of its sound.
Like every deaf or blind person, Miss Keller depends on her sense of smell to an unusual degree. When she was a little girl she smelled everything and knew where she was, what neighbour's house she was passing, by the distinctive odours. As her intellect grew she became less dependent on this sense. To what extent she now identifies objects by their odour is hard to determine. The sense of smell has fallen into disrepute, and a deaf person is reluctant to speak of it. Miss Keller's acute sense of smell may account, however, in some part for that recognition of persons and things which it has been customary to attribute to a special sense, or to an unusual development of the power that we all seem to have of telling when some one is near.
The question of a special "sixth sense," such as people have ascribed. to Miss Keller, is a delicate one. This much is certain, she cannot have any sense that other people may not have, and the existence of a special sense is not evident to her or to any one who knows her. Miss Keller is distinctly not a singular proof of occult and mysterious theories, and any attempt to explain her in that way fails to reckon with her normality. She is no more mysterious and complex than any other person. All that she is, all that she has done, can be explained directly, except such things in every human being as never can be explained. She does not, it would seem, prove the existence of spirit without matter, or of innate ideas, or of immortality, or anything else that any other human being does not prove. Philosophers have tried to find out what was her conception of abstract ideas before she learned language. If she had any conception, there is no way of discovering it now; for she cannot remember, and obviously there was no record at the time. She had no conception of God before she heard the word "God," as her comments very clearly show.
Her sense of time is excellent, but whether it would have developed as a special faculty cannot be known, for she has had a watch since she was seven years old.
Miss Keller has two watches, which have been given her. They are, I think, the only ones of their kind in America. The watch has on the back cover a flat gold indicator which can be pushed freely around from left to right until, by means of a pin inside the case, it locks with the hour hand and takes a corresponding position. The point of this gold indicator bends over the edge of the case, round which are set eleven raised points—the stem forms the twelfth. Thus the watch, an ordinary watch with a white dial for the person who sees, becomes for a blind person by this special attachment in effect one with a single raised hour hand and raised figures. Though there is less than half an inch between the points—a space which represents sixty minutes—Miss Keller tells the time almost exactly. It should be said that any double-case watch with the crystal removed serves well enough for a blind person whose touch is sufficiently delicate to feel the position of the hands and not disturb or injure them.
The finer traits of Miss Keller's character are so well known that one needs not say much about them. Good sense, good humour, and imagination keep her scheme of things sane and beautiful. No attempt is made by those around her either to preserve or to break her illusions. When she was a little girl, a good many unwise and tactless things that were said for her benefit were not repeated to her, thanks to the wise watchfulness of Miss Sullivan. Now that she has grown up, nobody thinks of being less frank with her than with any other intelligent young woman. What her good friend, Charles Dudley Warner, wrote about her in Harper's Magazine in 1896 was true then, and it remains true now:
"I believe she is the purest-minded human ever in existence.... The world to her is what her own mind is. She has not even learned that exhibition on which so many pride themselves, of 'righteous indignation.'
"Some time ago, when a policeman shot dead her dog, a dearly loved daily companion, she found in her forgiving heart no condemnation for the man; she only said, 'If he had only known what a good dog she was, he wouldn't have shot her.' It was said of old time, 'Lord forgive them, they know not what they do!'
"Of course the question will arise whether, if Helen Keller had not been guarded from the knowledge of evil, she would have been what she is to-day.... Her mind has neither been made effeminate by the weak and silly literature, nor has it been vitiated by that which is suggestive of baseness. In consequence her mind is not only vigorous, but it is pure. She is in love with noble things, with noble thoughts, and with the characters of noble men and women."
She still has a childlike aversion to tragedies. Her imagination is so vital that she falls completely under the illusion of a story, and lives in its world. Miss Sullivan writes in a letter of 1891:
"Yesterday I read to her the story of 'Macbeth,' as told by Charles and Mary Lamb. She was very greatly excited by it, and said: 'It is terrible! It makes me tremble!' After thinking a little while, she added, 'I think Shakespeare made it very terrible so that people would see how fearful it is to do wrong.'"
Of the real world she knows more of the good and less of the evil than most people seem to know. Her teacher does not harass her with the little unhappy things; but of the important difficulties they have been through, Miss Keller was fully informed, took her share of the suffering, and put her mind to the problems. She is logical and tolerant, most trustful of a world that has treated her kindly.
Once when some one asked her to define "love," she replied, "Why, bless you, that is easy; it is what everybody feels for everybody else."
"Toleration," she said once, when she was visiting her friend Mrs. Laurence Hutton, "is the greatest gift of the mind; it requires the same effort of the brain that it takes to balance oneself on a bicycle."
She has a large, generous sympathy and absolute fairness of temper. So far as she is noticeably different from other people she is less bound by convention. She has the courage of her metaphors and lets them take her skyward when we poor self-conscious folk would think them rather too bookish for ordinary conversation. She always says exactly what she thinks, without fear of the plain truth; yet no one is more tactful and adroit than she in turning an unpleasant truth so that it will do the least possible hurt to the feelings of others. Not all the attention that has been paid her since she was a child has made her take herself too seriously. Sometimes she gets started on a very solemn preachment. Then her teacher calls her an incorrigible little sermonizer, and she laughs at herself. Often, however, her sober ideas are not to be laughed at, for her earnestness carries her listeners with her. There is never the least false sententiousness in what she says. She means everything so thoroughly that her very quotations, her echoes from what she has read, are in truth original.
Her logic and her sympathy are in excellent balance. Her sympathy is of the swift and ministering sort which, fortunately, she has found so often in other people. And her sympathies go further and shape her opinions on political and national movements. She was intensely pro-Boer and wrote a strong argument in favour of Boer independence. When she was told of the surrender of the brave little people, her face clouded and she was silent a few minutes. Then she asked clear, penetrating questions about the terms of the surrender, and began to discuss them.
Both Mr. Gilman and Mr. Keith, the teachers who prepared her for college, were struck by her power of constructive reasoning; and she was excellent in pure mathematics, though she seems never to have enjoyed it much. Some of the best of her writing, apart from her fanciful and imaginative work, is her exposition in examinations and technical themes, and in some letters which she found it necessary to write to clear up misunderstandings, and which are models of close thinking enforced with sweet vehemence.
She is an optimist and an idealist.
"I hope," she writes in a letter, "that L—— isn't too practical, for if she is, I'm afraid she'll miss a great deal of pleasure."
In the diary that she kept at the Wright-Humason School in New York she wrote on October 18, 1894, "I find that I have four things to learn in my school life here, and indeed, in life—to think clearly without hurry or confusion, to love everybody sincerely, to act in everything with the highest motives, and to trust in dear God unhesitatingly."
CHAPTER III. EDUCATION
It is now sixty-five years since Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe knew that he had made his way through Laura Bridgman's fingers to her intelligence. The names of Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller will always be linked together, and it is necessary to understand what Dr. Howe did for his pupil before one comes to an account of Miss Sullivan's work. For Dr. Howe is the great pioneer on whose work that of Miss Sullivan and other teachers of the deaf-blind immediately depends.
Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe was born in Boston, November 10, 1801, and died in Boston, January 9, 1876. He was a great philanthropist, interested especially in the education of all defectives, the feeble-minded, the blind, and the deaf. Far in advance of his time he advocated many public measures for the relief of the poor and the diseased, for which he was laughed at then, but which have since been put into practice. As head of the Perkins Institution for the Blind in Boston, he heard of Laura Bridgman and had her brought to the Institution on October 4, 1837.
Laura Bridgman was born at Hanover, New Hampshire, December 21, 1829; so she was almost eight years old when Dr. Howe began his experiments with her. At the age of twenty-six months scarlet fever left her without sight or hearing. She also lost her sense of smell and taste. Dr. Howe was an experimental scientist and had in him the spirit of New England transcendentalism with its large faith and large charities. Science and faith together led him to try to make his way into the soul which he believed was born in Laura Bridgman as in every other human being. His plan was to teach Laura by means of raised types. He pasted raised labels on objects and made her fit the labels to the objects and the objects to the labels. When she had learned in this way to associate raised words with things, in much the same manner, he says, as a dog learns tricks, he began to resolve the words into their letter elements and to teach her to put together "k-e-y," "c-a-p." His success convinced him that language can be conveyed through type to the mind of the blind-deaf child, who, before education, is in the state of the baby who has not learned to prattle; indeed, is in a much worse state, for the brain has grown in years without natural nourishment.
After Laura's education had progressed for two months with the use only of raised letters, Dr. Howe sent one of his teachers to learn the manual alphabet from a deaf-mute. She taught it to Laura, and from that time on the manual alphabet was the means of communicating with her.
After the first year or two Dr. Howe did not teach Laura Bridgman himself, but gave her over to other teachers, who under his direction carried on the work of teaching her language.
Too much cannot be said in praise of Dr. Howe's work. As an investigator he kept always the scientist's attitude. He never forgot to keep his records of Laura Bridgman in the fashion of one who works in a laboratory. The result is, his records of her are systematic and careful. From a scientific standpoint it is unfortunate that it was impossible to keep such a complete record of Helen Keller's development. This in itself is a great comment on the difference between Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller. Laura always remained an object of curious study. Helen Keller became so rapidly a distinctive personality that she kept her teacher in a breathless race to meet the needs of her pupil, with no time or strength to make a scientific study.
In some ways this is unfortunate. Miss Sullivan knew at the beginning that Helen Keller would be more interesting and successful than Laura Bridgman, and she expresses in one of her letters the need of keeping notes. But neither temperament nor training allowed her to make her pupil the object of any experiment or observation which did not help in the child's development. As soon as a thing was done, a definite goal passed, the teacher did not always look back and describe the way she had come. The explanation of the fact was unimportant compared to the fact itself and the need of hurrying on. There are two other reasons why Miss Sullivan's records are incomplete. It has always been a severe tax on her eyes to write, and she was early discouraged from publishing data by the inaccurate use made of what she at first supplied.
When she first wrote from Tuscumbia to Mr. Michael Anagnos, Dr. Howes son-in-law and his successor as Director of the Perkins Institution, about her work with her pupil, the Boston papers began at once to publish exaggerated accounts of Helen Keller. Miss Sullivan protested. In a letter dated April 10, 1887, only five weeks after she went to Helen Keller, she wrote to a friend:
"—sent me a Boston Herald containing a stupid article about Helen. How perfectly absurd to say that Helen is 'already talking fluently!' Why, one might just as well say that a two-year-old child converses fluently when he says 'apple give,' or 'baby walk go.' I suppose if you included his screaming, crowing, whimpering, grunting, squalling, with occasional kicks, in his conversation, it might be regarded as fluent—even eloquent. Then it is amusing to read of the elaborate preparation I underwent to fit me for the great task my friends entrusted to me. I am sorry that preparation didn't include spelling, it would have saved me such a lot of trouble."
On March 4, 1888, she writes in a letter:
"Indeed, I am heartily glad that I don't know all that is being said and written about Helen and myself. I assure you I know quite enough. Nearly every mail brings some absurd statement, printed or written. The truth is not wonderful enough to suit the newspapers; so they enlarge upon it and invent ridiculous embellishments. One paper has Helen demonstrating problems in geometry by means of her playing blocks. I expect to hear next that she has written a treatise on the origin and future of the planets!"
In December, 1887, appeared the first report of the Director of the Perkins Institution, which deals with Helen Keller. For this report Miss Sullivan prepared, in reluctant compliance with the request of Mr. Anagnos, an account of her work. This with the extracts from her letters, scattered through the report, is the first valid source of information about Helen Keller. Of this report Miss Sullivan wrote in a letter dated October 30, 1887:
"Have you seen the paper I wrote for the 'report'? Mr. Anagnos was delighted with it. He says Helen's progress has been 'a triumphal march from the beginning,' and he has many flattering things to say about her teacher. I think he is inclined to exaggerate; at all events, his language is too glowing, and simple facts are set forth in such a manner that they bewilder one. Doubtless the work of the past few months does seem like a triumphal march to him; but then people seldom see the halting and painful steps by which the most insignificant success is achieved."
As Mr. Anagnos was the head of a great institution, what he said had much more effect than the facts in Miss Sullivan's account on which he based his statements. The newspapers caught Mr. Anagnos's spirit and exaggerated a hundred-fold. In a year after she first went to Helen Keller, Miss Sullivan found herself and her pupil the centre of a stupendous fiction. Then the educators all over the world said their say and for the most part did not help matters. There grew up a mass of controversial matter which it is amusing to read now. Teachers of the deaf proved a priori that what Miss Sullivan had done could not be, and some discredit was reflected on her statements, because they were surrounded by the vague eloquence of Mr. Anagnos. Thus the story of Helen Keller, incredible when told with moderation, had the misfortune to be heralded by exaggerated announcements, and naturally met either an ignorant credulity or an incredulous hostility.
In November, 1888, another report of the Perkins Institution appeared with a second paper by Miss Sullivan, and then nothing official was published until November, 1891, when Mr. Anagnos issued the last Perkins Institution report containing anything about Helen Keller. For this report Miss Sullivan wrote the fullest and largest account she has ever written; and in this report appeared the "Frost King," which is discussed fully in a later chapter. Then the controversy waxed fiercer than ever.
Finding that other people seemed to know so much more about Helen Keller than she did, Miss Sullivan kept silent and has been silent for ten years, except for her paper in the first volta Bureau Souvenir of Helen Keller and the paper which, at Dr. Bell's request, she prepared in 1894 for the meeting at Chautauqua of the American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf. When Dr. Bell and others tell her, what is certainly true from an impersonal point of view, that she owes it to the cause of education to write what she knows, she answers very properly that she owes all her time and all her energies to her pupil.
Although Miss Sullivan is still rather amused than distressed when some one, even one of her friends, makes mistakes in published articles about her and Miss Keller, still she sees that Miss Keller's book should include all the information that the teacher could at present furnish. So she consented to the publication of extracts from letters which she wrote during the first year of her work with her pupil. These letters were written to Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins, the only person to whom Miss Sullivan ever wrote freely. Mrs. Hopkins has been a matron at the Perkins Institution for twenty years, and during the time that Miss Sullivan was a pupil there she was like a mother to her. In these letters we have an almost weekly record of Miss Sullivan's work. Some of the details she had forgotten, as she grew more and more to generalize. Many people have thought that any attempt to find the principles in her method would be nothing but a later theory superimposed on Miss Sullivan's work. But it is evident that in these letters she was making a clear analysis of what she was doing. She was her own critic, and in spite of her later declaration, made with her modest carelessness, that she followed no particular method, she was very clearly learning from her task and phrasing at the time principles of education of unique value not only in the teaching of the deaf but in the teaching of all children. The extracts from her letters and reports form an important contribution to pedagogy, and more than justify the opinion of Dr. Daniel C. Gilman, who wrote in 1893, when he was President of Johns Hopkins University:
"I have just read... your most interesting account of the various steps you have taken in the education of your wonderful pupil, and I hope you will allow me to express my admiration for the wisdom that has guided your methods and the affection which has inspired your labours."
Miss Anne Mansfield Sullivan was born at Springfield, Massachusetts. Very early in her life she became almost totally blind, and she entered the Perkins Institution October 7, 1880, when she was fourteen years old. Later her sight was partially restored.
Mr. Anagnos says in his report of 1887: "She was obliged to begin her education at the lowest and most elementary point; but she showed from the very start that she had in herself the force and capacity which insure success.... She has finally reached the goal for which she strove so bravely. The golden words that Dr. Howe uttered and the example that he left passed into her thoughts and heart and helped her on the road to usefulness; and now she stands by his side as his worthy successor in one of the most cherished branches of his work.... Miss Sullivan's talents are of the highest order."
In 1886 she graduated from the Perkins Institution. When Captain Keller applied to the director for a teacher, Mr. Anagnos recommended her. The only time she had to prepare herself for the work with her pupil was from August, 1886, when Captain Keller wrote, to February, 1887. During this time she read Dr. Howe's reports. She was further aided by the fact that during the six years of her school life she had lived in the house with Laura Bridgman. It was Dr. Howe who, by his work with Laura Bridgman, made Miss Sullivan's work possible: but it was Miss Sullivan who discovered the way to teach language to the deaf-blind.
It must be remembered that Miss Sullivan had to solve her problems unaided by previous experience or the assistance of any other teacher. During the first year of her work with Helen Keller, in which she taught her pupil language, they were in Tuscumbia; and when they came North and visited the Perkins Institution, Helen Keller was never a regular student there or subject to the discipline of the Institution. The impression that Miss Sullivan educated Helen Keller "under the direction of Mr. Anagnos" is erroneous. In the three years during which at various times Miss Keller and Miss Sullivan were guests of the Perkins Institution, the teachers there did not help Miss Sullivan, and Mr. Anagnos did not even use the manual alphabet with facility as a means of communication. Mr. Anagnos wrote in the report of the Perkins Institution, dated November 27, 1888: "At my urgent request, Helen, accompanied by her mother and her teacher, came to the North in the last week of May, and spent several months with us as our guests.... We gladly allowed her to use freely our library of embossed books, our collection of stuffed animals, sea-shells, models of flowers and plants, and the rest of our apparatus for instructing the blind through the sense of touch. I do not doubt that she derived from them much pleasure and not a little profit. But whether Helen stays at home or makes visits in other parts of the country, her education is always under the immediate direction and exclusive control of her teacher. No one interferes with Miss Sullivan's plans, or shares in her tasks. She has been allowed entire freedom in the choice of means and methods for carrying on her great work; and, as we can judge by the results, she has made a most judicious and discreet use of this privilege. What the little pupil has thus far accomplished is widely known, and her wonderful attainments command general admiration; but only those who are familiar with the particulars of the grand achievement know that the credit is largely due to the intelligence, wisdom, sagacity, unremitting perseverance and unbending will of the instructress, who rescued the child from the depths of everlasting night and stillness, and watched over the different phases of her mental and moral development with maternal solicitude and enthusiastic devotion."
Here follow in order Miss Sullivan's letters and the most important passages from the reports. I have omitted from each succeeding report what has already been explained and does not need to be repeated. For the ease of the reader I have, with Miss Sullivan's consent, made the extracts run together continuously and supplied words of connection and the resulting necessary changes in syntax, and Miss Sullivan has made slight changes in the phrasing of her reports and also of her letters, which were carelessly written. I have also italicized a few important passages. Some of her opinions Miss Sullivan would like to enlarge and revise. That remains for her to do at another time. At present we have here the fullest record that has been published. The first letter is dated March 6, 1887, three days after her arrival in Tuscumbia.
...It was 6.30 when I reached Tuscumbia. I found Mrs. Keller and Mr. James Keller waiting for me. They said somebody had met every train for two days. The drive from the station to the house, a distance of one mile, was very lovely and restful. I was surprised to find Mrs. Keller a very young-looking woman, not much older than myself, I should think. Captain Keller met us in the yard and gave me a cheery welcome and a hearty handshake. My first question was, "Where is Helen?" I tried with all my might to control the eagerness that made me tremble so that I could hardly walk. As we approached the house I saw a child standing in the doorway, and Captain Keller said, "There she is. She has known all day that some one was expected, and she has been wild ever since her mother went to the station for you." I had scarcely put my foot on the steps, when she rushed toward me with such force that she would have thrown me backward if Captain Keller had not been behind me. She felt my face and dress and my bag, which she took out of my hand and tried to open. It did not open easily, and she felt carefully to see if there was a keyhole. Finding that there was, she turned to me, making the sign of turning a key and pointing to the bag. Her mother interfered at this point and showed Helen by signs that she must not touch the bag. Her face flushed, and when her mother attempted to take the bag from her, she grew very angry. I attracted her attention by showing her my watch and letting her hold it in her hand. Instantly the tempest subsided, and we went upstairs together. Here I opened the bag, and she went through it eagerly, probably expecting to find something to eat. Friends had probably brought her candy in their bags, and she expected to find some in mine. I made her understand, by pointing to a trunk in the hall and to myself and nodding my head, that I had a trunk, and then made the sign that she had used for eating, and nodded again. She understood in a flash and ran downstairs to tell her mother, by means of emphatic signs, that there was some candy in a trunk for her. She returned in a few minutes and helped me put away my things. It was too comical to see her put on my bonnet and cock her head first on one side, then on the other, and look in the mirror, just as if she could see. Somehow I had expected to see a pale, delicate child—I suppose I got the idea from Dr. Howe's description of Laura Bridgman when she came to the Institution. But there's nothing pale or delicate about Helen. She is large, strong, and ruddy, and as unrestrained in her movements as a young colt. She has none of those nervous habits that are so noticeable and so distressing in blind children. Her body is well formed and vigorous, and Mrs. Keller says she has not been ill a day since the illness that deprived her of her sight and hearing. She has a fine head, and it is set on her shoulders just right. Her face is hard to describe. It is intelligent, but lacks mobility, or soul, or something. Her mouth is large and finely shaped. You see at a glance that she is blind. One eye is larger than the other, and protrudes noticeably. She rarely smiles; indeed, I have seen her smile only once or twice since I came. She is unresponsive and even impatient of caresses from any one except her mother. She is very quick-tempered and wilful, and nobody, except her brother James, has attempted to control her. The greatest problem I shall have to solve is how to discipline and control her without breaking her spirit. I shall go rather slowly at first and try to win her love. I shall not attempt to conquer her by force alone; but I shall insist on reasonable obedience from the start. One thing that impresses everybody is Helen's tireless activity. She is never still a moment. She is here, there, and everywhere. Her hands are in everything; but nothing holds her attention for long. Dear child, her restless spirit gropes in the dark. Her untaught, unsatisfied hands destroy whatever they touch because they do not know what else to do with things.
She helped me unpack my trunk when it came, and was delighted when she found the doll the little girls sent her. I thought it a good opportunity to teach her her first word. I spelled "d-o-l-l" slowly in her hand and pointed to the doll and nodded my head, which seems to be her sign for possession. Whenever anybody gives her anything, she points to it, then to herself, and nods her head. She looked puzzled and felt my hand, and I repeated the letters. She imitated them very well and pointed to the doll. Then I took the doll, meaning to give it back to her when she had made the letters; but she thought I meant to take it from her, and in an instant she was in a temper, and tried to seize the doll. I shook my head and tried to form the letters with her fingers; but she got more and more angry. I forced her into a chair and held her there until I was nearly exhausted. Then it occurred to me that it was useless to continue the struggle—I must do something to turn the current of her thoughts. I let her go, but refused to give up the doll. I went downstairs and got some cake (she is very fond of sweets). I showed Helen the cake and spelled "c-a-k-e" in her hand, holding the cake toward her. Of course she wanted it and tried to take it; but I spelled the word again and patted her hand. She made the letters rapidly, and I gave her the cake, which she ate in a great hurry, thinking, I suppose, that I might take it from her. Then I showed her the doll and spelled the word again, holding the doll toward her as I held the cake. She made the letters "d-o-l"' and I made the other "l" and gave her the doll. She ran downstairs with it and could not be induced to return to my room all day.
Yesterday I gave her a sewing-card to do. I made the first row of vertical lines and let her feel it and notice that there were several rows of little holes. She began to work delightedly and finished the card in a few minutes, and did it very neatly indeed. I thought I would try another word; so I spelled "c-a-r-d." She made the "c-a," then stopped and thought, and making the sign for eating and pointing downward she pushed me toward the door, meaning that I must go downstairs for some cake. The two letters "c-a," you see, had reminded her of Fridays "lesson"—not that she had any idea that cake was the name of the thing, but it was simply a matter of association, I suppose. I finished the word "c-a-k-e" and obeyed her command. She was delighted. Then I spelled "d-o-l-l" and began to hunt for it. She follows with her hands every motion you make, and she knew that I was looking for the doll. She pointed down, meaning that the doll was downstairs. I made the signs that she had used when she wished me to go for the cake, and pushed her toward the door. She started forward, then hesitated a moment, evidently debating within herself whether she would go or not. She decided to send me instead. I shook my head and spelled "d-o-l-l" more emphatically, and opened the door for her; but she obstinately refused to obey. She had not finished the cake she was eating, and I took it away, indicating that if she brought the doll I would give her back the cake. She stood perfectly still for one long moment, her face crimson; then her desire for the cake triumphed, and she ran downstairs and brought the doll, and of course I gave her the cake, but could not persuade her to enter the room again.
She was very troublesome when I began to write this morning. She kept coming up behind me and putting her hand on the paper and into the ink-bottle. These blots are her handiwork. Finally I remembered the kindergarten beads, and set her to work stringing them. First I put on two wooden beads and one glass bead, then made her feel of the string and the two boxes of beads. She nodded and began at once to fill the string with wooden beads. I shook my head and took them all off and made her feel of the two wooden beads and the one glass bead. She examined them thoughtfully and began again. This time she put on the glass bead first and the two wooden ones next. I took them off and showed her that the two wooden ones must go on first, then the glass bead. She had no further trouble and filled the string quickly, too quickly, in fact. She tied the ends together when she had finished the string, and put the beads round her neck. I did not make the knot large enough in the next string, and the beads came off as fast as she put them on; but she solved the difficulty herself by putting the string through a bead and tying it. I thought this very clever. She amused herself with the beads until dinner-time, bringing the strings to me now and then for my approval.
My eyes are very much inflamed. I know this letter is very carelessly written. I had a lot to say, and couldn't stop to think how to express things neatly. Please do not show my letter to any one. If you want to, you may read it to my friends.
Monday P.M.
I had a battle royal with Helen this morning. Although I try very hard not to force issues, I find it very difficult to avoid them.
Helen's table manners are appalling. She puts her hands in our plates and helps herself, and when the dishes are passed, she grabs them and takes out whatever she wants. This morning I would not let her put her hand in my plate. She persisted, and a contest of wills followed. Naturally the family was much disturbed, and left the room. I locked the dining-room door, and proceeded to eat my breakfast, though the food almost choked me. Helen was lying on the floor, kicking and screaming and trying to pull my chair from under me. She kept this up for half an hour, then she got up to see what I was doing. I let her see that I was eating, but did not let her put her hand in the plate. She pinched me, and I slapped her every time she did it. Then she went all round the table to see who was there, and finding no one but me, she seemed bewildered. After a few minutes she came back to her place and began to eat her breakfast with her fingers. I gave her a spoon, which she threw on the floor. I forced her out of the chair and made her pick it up. Finally I succeeded in getting her back in her chair again, and held the spoon in her hand, compelling her to take up the food with it and put it in her mouth. In a few minutes she yielded and finished her breakfast peaceably. Then we had another tussle over folding her napkin. When she had finished, she threw it on the floor and ran toward the door. Finding it locked, she began to kick and scream all over again. It was another hour before I succeeded in getting her napkin folded. Then I let her out into the warm sunshine and went up to my room and threw myself on the bed exhausted. I had a good cry and felt better. I suppose I shall have many such battles with the little woman before she learns the only two essential things I can teach her, obedience and love.
Good-by, dear. Don't worry; I'll do my best and leave the rest to whatever power manages that which we cannot. I like Mrs. Keller very much.
Tuscumbia, Alabama, March 11, 1887.
Since I wrote you, Helen and I have gone to live all by ourselves in a little garden-house about a quarter of a mile from her home, only a short distance from Ivy Green, the Keller homestead. I very soon made up my mind that I could do nothing with Helen in the midst of the family, who have always allowed her to do exactly as she pleased. She has tyrannized over everybody, her mother, her father, the servants, the little darkies who play with her, and nobody had ever seriously disputed her will, except occasionally her brother James, until I came; and like all tyrants she holds tenaciously to her divine right to do as she pleases. If she ever failed to get what she wanted, it was because of her inability to make the vassals of her household understand what it was. Every thwarted desire was the signal for a passionate outburst, and as she grew older and stronger, these tempests became more violent. As I began to teach her, I was beset by many difficulties. She wouldn't yield a point without contesting it to the bitter end. I couldn't coax her or compromise with her. To get her to do the simplest thing, such as combing her hair or washing her hands or buttoning her boots, it was necessary to use force, and, of course, a distressing scene followed. The family naturally felt inclined to interfere, especially her father, who cannot bear to see her cry. So they were all willing to give in for the sake of peace. Besides, her past experiences and associations were all against me. I saw clearly that it was useless to try to teach her language or anything else until she learned to obey me. I have thought about it a great deal, and the more I think, the more certain I am that obedience is the gateway through which knowledge, yes, and love, too, enter the mind of the child. As I wrote you, I meant to go slowly at first. I had an idea that I could win the love and confidence of my little pupil by the same means that I should use if she could see and hear. But I soon found that I was cut off from all the usual approaches to the child's heart. She accepted everything I did for her as a matter of course, and refused to be caressed, and there was no way of appealing to her affection or sympathy or childish love of approbation. She would or she wouldn't, and there was an end of it. Thus it is, we study, plan and prepare ourselves for a task, and when the hour for action arrives, we find that the system we have followed with such labour and pride does not fit the occasion; and then there's nothing for us to do but rely on something within us, some innate capacity for knowing and doing, which we did not know we possessed until the hour of our great need brought it to light.
I had a good, frank talk with Mrs. Keller, and explained to her how difficult it was going to be to do anything with Helen under the existing circumstances. I told her that in my opinion the child ought to be separated from the family for a few weeks at least—that she must learn to depend on and obey me before I could make any headway. After a long time Mrs. Keller said that she would think the matter over and see what Captain Keller thought of sending Helen away with me. Captain Keller fell in with the scheme most readily and suggested that the little garden-house at the "old place" be got ready for us. He said that Helen might recognize the place, as she had often been there, but she would have no idea of her surroundings, and they could come every day to see that all was going well, with the understanding, of course, that she was to know nothing of their visits. I hurried the preparations for our departure as much as possible, and here we are.
The little house is a genuine bit of paradise. It consists of one large square room with a great fireplace, a spacious bay-window, and a small room where our servant, a little negro boy, sleeps. There is a piazza in front, covered with vines that grow so luxuriantly that you have to part them to see the garden beyond. Our meals are brought from the house, and we usually eat on the piazza. The little negro boy takes care of the fire when we need one, so I can give my whole attention to Helen.
She was greatly excited at first, and kicked and screamed herself into a sort of stupor, but when supper was brought she ate heartily and seemed brighter, although she refused to let me touch her. She devoted herself to her dolls the first evening, and when it was bedtime she undressed very quietly, but when she felt me get into bed with her, she jumped out on the other side, and nothing that I could do would induce her to get in again. But I was afraid she would take cold, and I insisted that she must go to bed. We had a terrific tussle, I can tell you. The struggle lasted for nearly two hours. I never saw such strength and endurance in a child. But fortunately for us both, I am a little stronger, and quite as obstinate when I set out. I finally succeeded in getting her on the bed and covered her up, and she lay curled up as near the edge of the bed as possible.
The next morning she was very docile, but evidently homesick. She kept going to the door, as if she expected some one, and every now and then she would touch her cheek, which is her sign for her mother, and shake her head sadly. She played with her dolls more than usual, and would have nothing to do with me. It is amusing and pathetic to see Helen with her dolls. I don't think she has any special tenderness for them—I have never seen her caress them; but she dresses and undresses them many times during the day and handles them exactly as she has seen her mother and the nurse handle her baby sister.
This morning Nancy, her favourite doll, seemed to have some difficulty about swallowing the milk that was being administered to her in large spoonfuls; for Helen suddenly put down the cup and began to slap her on the back and turn her over on her knees, trotting her gently and patting her softly all the time. This lasted for several minutes; then this mood passed, and Nancy was thrown ruthlessly on the floor and pushed to one side, while a large, pink-cheeked, fuzzy-haired member of the family received the little mother's undivided attention.
Helen knows several words now, but has no idea how to use them, or that everything has a name. I think, however, she will learn quickly enough by and by. As I have said before, she is wonderfully bright and active and as quick as lightning in her movements.
March 13, 1887.
You will be glad to hear that my experiment is working out finely. I have not had any trouble at all with Helen, either yesterday or to-day. She has learned three new words, and when I give her the objects, the names of which she has learned, she spells them unhesitatingly; but she seems glad when the lesson is over.
We had a good frolic this morning out in the garden. Helen evidently knew where she was as soon as she touched the boxwood hedges, and made many signs which I did not understand. No doubt they were signs for the different members of the family at Ivy Green.
I have just heard something that surprised me very much. It seems that Mr. Anagnos had heard of Helen before he received Captain Keller's letter last summer. Mr. Wilson, a teacher at Florence, and a friend of the Kellers', studied at Harvard the summer before and went to the Perkins Institution to learn if anything could be done for his friend's child. He saw a gentleman whom he presumed to be the director, and told him about Helen. He says the gentleman was not particularly interested, but said he would see if anything could be done. Doesn't it seem strange that Mr. Anagnos never referred to this interview?
March 20, 1887.
My heart is singing for joy this morning. A miracle has happened! The light of understanding has shone upon my little pupil's mind, and behold, all things are changed!
The wild little creature of two weeks ago has been transformed into a gentle child. She is sitting by me as I write, her face serene and happy, crocheting a long red chain of Scotch wool. She learned the stitch this week, and is very proud of the achievement. When she succeeded in making a chain that would reach across the room, she patted herself on the arm and put the first work of her hands lovingly against her cheek. She lets me kiss her now, and when she is in a particularly gentle mood, she will sit in my lap for a minute or two; but she does not return my caresses. The great step—the step that counts—has been taken. The little savage has learned her first lesson in obedience, and finds the yoke easy. It now remains my pleasant task to direct and mould the beautiful intelligence that is beginning to stir in the child-soul. Already people remark the change in Helen. Her father looks in at us morning and evening as he goes to and from his office, and sees her contentedly stringing her beads or making horizontal lines on her sewing-card, and exclaims, "How quiet she is!" When I came, her movements were so insistent that one always felt there was something unnatural and almost weird about her. I have noticed also that she eats much less, a fact which troubles her father so much that he is anxious to get her home. He says she is homesick. I don't agree with him; but I suppose we shall have to leave our little bower very soon.
Helen has learned several nouns this week. "M-u-g" and "m-i-l-k," have given her more trouble than other words. When she spells "milk," she points to the mug, and when she spells "mug," she makes the sign for pouring or drinking, which shows that she has confused the words. She has no idea yet that everything has a name.
Yesterday I had the little negro boy come in when Helen was having her lesson, and learn the letters, too. This pleased her very much and stimulated her ambition to excel Percy. She was delighted if he made a mistake, and made him form the letter over several times. When he succeeded in forming it to suit her, she patted him on his woolly head so vigorously that I thought some of his slips were intentional.
One day this week Captain Keller brought Belle, a setter of which he is very proud, to see us. He wondered if Helen would recognize her old playmate. Helen was giving Nancy a bath, and didn't notice the dog at first. She usually feels the softest step and throws out her arms to ascertain if any one is near her. Belle didn't seem very anxious to attract her attention. I imagine she has been rather roughly handled sometimes by her little mistress. The dog hadn't been in the room more than half a minute, however, before Helen began to sniff, and dumped the doll into the wash-bowl and felt about the room. She stumbled upon Belle, who was crouching near the window where Captain Keller was standing. It was evident that she recognized the dog; for she put her arms round her neck and squeezed her. Then Helen sat down by her and began to manipulate her claws. We couldn't think for a second what she was doing; but when we saw her make the letters "d-o-l-l" on her own fingers, we knew that she was trying to teach Belle to spell.
March 28, 1887.
Helen and I came home yesterday. I am sorry they wouldn't let us stay another week; but I think I have made the most I could of the opportunities that were mine the past two weeks, and I don't expect that I shall have any serious trouble with Helen in the future. The back of the greatest obstacle in the path of progress is broken. I think "no" and "yes," conveyed by a shake or a nod of my head, have become facts as apparent to her as hot and cold or as the difference between pain and pleasure. And I don't intend that the lesson she has learned at the cost of so much pain and trouble shall be unlearned. I shall stand between her and the over-indulgence of her parents. I have told Captain and Mrs. Keller that they must not interfere with me in any way. I have done my best to make them see the terrible injustice to Helen of allowing her to have her way in everything, and I have pointed out that the processes of teaching the child that everything cannot be as he wills it, are apt to be painful both to him and to his teacher. They have promised to let me have a free hand and help me as much as possible. The improvement they cannot help seeing in their child has given them more confidence in me. Of course, it is hard for them. I realize that it hurts to see their afflicted little child punished and made to do things against her will. Only a few hours after my talk with Captain and Mrs. Keller (and they had agreed to everything), Helen took a notion that she wouldn't use her napkin at table. I think she wanted to see what would happen. I attempted several times to put the napkin round her neck; but each time she tore it off and threw it on the floor and finally began to kick the table. I took her plate away and started to take her out of the room. Her father objected and said that no child of his should be deprived of his food on any account.
Helen didn't come up to my room after supper, and I didn't see her again until breakfast-time. She was at her place when I came down. She had put the napkin under her chin, instead of pinning it at the back, as was her custom. She called my attention to the new arrangement, and when I did not object she seemed pleased and patted herself. When she left the dining-room, she took my hand and patted it. I wondered if she was trying to "make up." I thought I would try the effect of a little belated discipline. I went back to the dining-room and got a napkin. When Helen came upstairs for her lesson, I arranged the objects on the table as usual, except that the cake, which I always give her in bits as a reward when she spells a word quickly and correctly, was not there. She noticed this at once and made the sign for it. I showed her the napkin and pinned it round her neck, then tore it off and threw it on the floor and shook my head. I repeated this performance several times. I think she understood perfectly well; for she slapped her hand two or three times and shook her head. We began the lesson as usual. I gave her an object, and she spelled the name (she knows twelve now). After spelling half the words, she stopped suddenly, as if a thought had flashed into her mind, and felt for the napkin. She pinned it round her neck and made the sign for cake (it didn't occur to her to spell the word, you see). I took this for a promise that if I gave her some cake she would be a good girl. I gave her a larger piece than usual, and she chuckled and patted herself.
April 3, 1887.
We almost live in the garden, where everything is growing and blooming and glowing. After breakfast we go out and watch the men at work. Helen loves to dig and play in the dirt like any other child. This morning she planted her doll and showed me that she expected her to grow as tall as I. You must see that she is very bright, but you have no idea how cunning she is.
At ten we come in and string beads for a few minutes. She can make a great many combinations now, and often invents new ones herself. Then I let her decide whether she will sew or knit or crochet. She learned to knit very quickly, and is making a wash-cloth for her mother. Last week she made her doll an apron, and it was done as well as any child of her age could do it. But I am always glad when this work is over for the day. Sewing and crocheting are inventions of the devil, I think. I'd rather break stones on the king's highway than hem a handkerchief. At eleven we have gymnastics. She knows all the free-hand movements and the "Anvil Chorus" with the dumb-bells. Her father says he is going to fit up a gymnasium for her in the pump-house; but we both like a good romp better than set exercises. The hour from twelve to one is devoted to the learning of new words. BUT YOU MUSTN'T THINK THIS IS THE ONLY TIME I SPELL TO HELEN; FOR I SPELL IN HER HAND EVERYTHING WE DO ALL DAY LONG, ALTHOUGH SHE HAS NO IDEA AS YET WHAT THE SPELLING MEANS. After dinner I rest for an hour, and Helen plays with her dolls or frolics in the yard with the little darkies, who were her constant companions before I came. Later I join them, and we make the rounds of the outhouses. We visit the horses and mules in their stalls and hunt for eggs and feed the turkeys. Often, when the weather is fine, we drive from four to six, or go to see her aunt at Ivy Green or her cousins in the town. Helen's instincts are decidedly social; she likes to have people about her and to visit her friends, partly, I think, because they always have things she likes to eat. After supper we go to my room and do all sorts of things until eight, when I undress the little woman and put her to bed. She sleeps with me now. Mrs. Keller wanted to get a nurse for her, but I concluded I'd rather be her nurse than look after a stupid, lazy negress. Besides, I like to have Helen depend on me for everything, AND I FIND IT MUCH EASIER TO TEACH HER THINGS AT ODD MOMENTS THAN AT SET TIMES.
On March 31st I found that Helen knew eighteen nouns and three verbs. Here is a list of the words. Those with a cross after them are words she asked for herself: DOLL, MUG, PIN, KEY, DOG, HAT, CUP, BOX, WATER, MILK, CANDY, EYE (X), FINGER (X), TOE (X), HEAD (X), CAKE, BABY, MOTHER, SIT, STAND, WALK. On April 1st she learned the nouns KNIFE, FORK, SPOON, SAUCER, TEA, PAPA, BED, and the verb RUN.
April 5, 1887.
I must write you a line this morning because something very important has happened. Helen has taken the second great step in her education. She has learned that EVERYTHING HAS A NAME, AND THAT THE MANUAL ALPHABET IS THE KEY TO EVERYTHING SHE WANTS TO KNOW.
In a previous letter I think I wrote you that "mug" and "milk" had given Helen more trouble than all the rest. She confused the nouns with the verb "drink." She didn't know the word for "drink," but went through the pantomime of drinking whenever she spelled "mug" or "milk." This morning, while she was washing, she wanted to know the name for "water." When she wants to know the name of anything, she points to it and pats my hand. I spelled "w-a-t-e-r" and thought no more about it until after breakfast. Then it occurred to me that with the help of this new word I might succeed in straightening out the "mug-milk" difficulty. We went out to the pump-house, and I made Helen hold her mug under the spout while I pumped. As the cold water gushed forth, filling the mug, I spelled "w-a-t-e-r" in Helen's free hand. The word coming so close upon the sensation of cold water rushing over her hand seemed to startle her. She dropped the mug and stood as one transfixed. A new light came into her face. She spelled "water" several times. Then she dropped on the ground and asked for its name and pointed to the pump and the trellis, and suddenly turning round she asked for my name. I spelled "Teacher." Just then the nurse brought Helen's little sister into the pump-house, and Helen spelled "baby" and pointed to the nurse. All the way back to the house she was highly excited, and learned the name of every object she touched, so that in a few hours she had adDED THIRTY NEW WORDS TO HER VOCABULARY. HERE ARE SOME OF THEM: DOOR, OPEN, SHUT, GIVE, GO, COME, and a great many more.
P.S.—I didn't finish my letter in time to get it posted last night; so I shall add a line. Helen got up this morning like a radiant fairy. She has flitted from object to object, asking the name of everything and kissing me for very gladness. Last night when I got in bed, she stole into my arms of her own accord and kissed me for the first time, and I thought my heart would burst, so full was it of joy.
April 10, 1887.
I see an improvement in Helen day to day, almost from hour to hour. Everything must have a name now. Wherever we go, she asks eagerly for the names of things she has not learned at home. She is anxious for her friends to spell, and eager to teach the letters to every one she meets. She drops the signs and pantomime she used before, as soon as she has words to supply their place, and the acquirement of a new word affords her the liveliest pleasure. And we notice that her face grows more expressive each day.
I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO TRY TO HAVE REGULAR LESSONS FOR THE PRESENT. I AM GOING TO TREAT HELEN EXACTLY LIKE A TWO-YEAR-OLD CHILD. IT OCCURRED TO ME THE OTHER DAY THAT IT IS ABSURD TO REQUIRE A CHILD TO COME TO A CERTAIN PLACE AT A CERTAIN TIME AND RECITE CERTAIN LESSONS, WHEN HE HAS NOT YET ACQUIRED A WORKING VOCABULARY. I sent Helen away and sat down to think. I asked myself, "How does a normal child learn language?" The answer was simple, "By imitation." The child comes into the world with the ability to learn, and he learns of himself, provided he is supplied with sufficient outward stimulus. He sees people do things, and he tries to do them. He hears others speak, and he tried to speak. BUT LONG BEFORE HE UTTERS HIS FIRST WORD, HE UNDERSTANDS WHAT IS SAID TO HIM. I have been observing Helen's little cousin lately. She is about fifteen months old, and already understands a great deal. In response to questions she points out prettily her nose, mouth, eye, chin, cheek, ear. If I say, "Where is baby's other ear?" she points it out correctly. If I hand her a flower, and say, "Give it to mamma," she takes it to her mother. If I say, "Where is the little rogue?" she hides behind her mother's chair, or covers her face with her hands and peeps out at me with an expression of genuine roguishness. She obeys many commands like these: "Come," "Kiss," "Go to papa," "Shut the door," "Give me the biscuit." But I have not heard her try to say any of these words, although they have been repeated hundreds of times in her hearing, and it is perfectly evident that she understands them. These observations have given me a clue to the method to be followed in teaching Helen language.I SHALL TALK INTO HER HAND AS WE TALK INTO THE BABY'S EARS. I shall assume that she has the normal child's capacity of assimilation and imitation. I SHALL USE COMPLETE SENTENCES IN TALKING TO HER, and fill out the meaning with gestures and her descriptive signs when necessity requires it; but I shall not try to keep her mind fixed on any one thing. I shall do all I can to interest and stimulate it, and wait for results.
April 24, 1887.
The new scheme works splendidly. Helen knows the meaning of more than a hundred words now, and learns new ones daily without the slightest suspicion that she is performing a most difficult feat. She learns because she can't help it, just as the bird learns to fly. But don't imagine that she "talks fluently." Like her baby cousin, she expresses whole sentences by single words. "Milk," with a gesture means, "Give me more milk." "Mother," accompanied by an inquiring look, means, "Were is mother?" "Go" means, "I want to go out." But when I spell into her hand, "Give me some bread," she hands me the bread, or if I say, "Get your hat and we will go to walk," she obeys instantly. The two words, "hat" and "walk" would have the same effect; BUT THE WHOLE SENTENCE, REPEATED MANY TIMES DURING THE DAY, MUST IN TIME IMPRESS ITSELF UPON THE BRAIN, AND BY AND BY SHE WILL USE IT HERSELF.
We play a little game which I find most useful in developing the intellect, and which incidentally answers the purpose of a language lesson. It is an adaptation of hide-the-thimble. I hide something, a ball or a spool, and we hunt for it. When we first played this game two or three days ago, she showed no ingenuity at all in finding the object. She looked in places where it would have been impossible to put the ball or the spool. For instance, when I hid the ball, she looked under her writing-board. Again, when I hid the spool, she looked for it in a little box not more than an inch long; and she very soon gave up the search. Now I can keep up her interest in the game for an hour or longer, and she shows much more intelligence, and often great ingenuity in the search. This morning I hid a cracker. She looked everywhere she could think of without success, and was evidently in despair when suddenly a thought struck her, and she came running to me and made me open my mouth very wide, while she gave it a thorough investigation. Finding no trace of the cracker there, she pointed to my stomach and spelled "eat," meaning, "Did you eat it?"
Friday we went down town and met a gentleman who gave Helen some candy, which she ate, except one small piece which she put in her apron pocket. When we reached home, she found her mother, and of her own accord said, "Give baby candy." Mrs. Keller spelled, "No—baby eat—no." Helen went to the cradle and felt of Mildred's mouth and pointed to her own teeth. Mrs. Keller spelled "teeth." Helen shook her head and spelled "Baby teeth—no, baby eat—no," meaning of course, "Baby cannot eat because she has no teeth."
May 8, 1887.
No, I don't want any more kindergarten materials. I used my little stock of beads, cards and straws at first because I didn't know what else to do; but the need for them is past, for the present at any rate.
I am beginning to suspect all elaborate and special systems of education. They seem to me to be built up on the supposition that every child is a kind of idiot who must be taught to think. Whereas, if the child is left to himself, he will think more and better, if less showily. Let him go and come freely, let him touch real things and combine his impressions for himself, instead of sitting indoors at a little round table, while a sweet-voiced teacher suggests that he build a stone wall with his wooden blocks, or make a rainbow out of strips of coloured paper, or plant straw trees in bead flower-pots. Such teaching fills the mind with artificial associations that must be got rid of, before the child can develop independent ideas out of actual experiences.
Helen is learning adjectives and adverbs as easily as she learned nouns. The idea always precedes the word. She had signs for SMALL and LARGE long before I came to her. If she wanted a small object and was given a large one, she would shake her head and take up a tiny bit of the skin of one hand between the thumb and finger of the other. If she wanted to indicate something large, she spread the fingers of both hands as wide as she could, and brought them together, as if to clasp a big ball. The other day I substituted the words SMALL and LARGE for these signs, and she at once adopted the words and discarded the signs. I can now tell her to bring me a large book or a small plate, to go upstairs slowly, to run fast and to walk quickly. This morning she used the conjunction AND for the first time. I told her to shut the door, and she added, "and lock."
She came tearing upstairs a few minutes ago in a state of great excitement. I couldn't make out at first what it was all about. She kept spelling "dog—baby" and pointing to her five fingers one after another, and sucking them. My first thought was, one of the dogs has hurt Mildred; but Helen's beaming face set my fears at rest. Nothing would do but I must go somewhere with her to see something. She led the way to the pump-house, and there in the corner was one of the setters with five dear little pups! I taught her the word "puppy" and drew her hand over them all, while they sucked, and spelled "puppies." She was much interested in the feeding process, and spelled "mother-dog" and "baby" several times. Helen noticed that the puppies' eyes were closed, and she said, "Eyes—shut. Sleep—no," meaning, "The eyes are shut, but the puppies are not asleep." She screamed with glee when the little things squealed and squirmed in their efforts to get back to their mother, and spelled, "Baby—eat large." I suppose her idea was "Baby eats much." She pointed to each puppy, one after another, and to her five fingers, and I taught her the word FIVE. Then she held up one finger and said "baby." I knew she was thinking of Mildred, and I spelled, "One baby and five puppies." After she had played with them a little while, the thought occurred to her that the puppies must have special names, like people, and she asked for the name of each pup. I told her to ask her father, and she said, "No—mother." She evidently thought mothers were more likely to know about babies of all sorts. She noticed that one of the puppies was much smaller than the others, and she spelled "small," making the sign at the same time, and I said "very small." She evidently understood that VERY was the name of the new thing that had come into her head; for all the way back to the house she used the word VERY correctly. One stone was "small," another was "very small." When she touched her little sister, she said: "Baby—small. Puppy—very small." Soon after, she began to vary her steps from large to small, and little mincing steps were "very small." She is going through the house now, applying the new words to all kinds of objects.
Since I have abandoned the idea of regular lessons, I find that Helen learns much faster. I am convinced that the time spent by the teacher in digging out of the child what she has put into him, for the sake of satisfying herself that it has taken root, is so much time thrown away. IT'S MUCH BETTER, I THINK, TO ASSUME THAT THE CHILD IS DOING HIS PART, AND THAT THE SEED YOU HAVE SOWN WILL BEAR FRUIT IN DUE TIME. It's only fair to the child, anyhow, and it saves you much unnecessary trouble.
May 16, 1887.
We have begun to take long walks every morning, immediately after breakfast. The weather is fine, and the air is full of the scent of strawberries. Our objective point is Keller's Landing, on the Tennessee, about two miles distant. We never know how we get there, or where we are at a given moment; but that only adds to our enjoyment, especially when everything is new and strange. Indeed, I feel as if I had never seen anything until now, Helen finds so much to ask about along the way. We chase butterflies, and sometimes catch one. Then we sit down under a tree, or in the shade of a bush, and talk about it. Afterwards, if it has survived the lesson, we let it go; but usually its life and beauty are sacrificed on the altar of learning, though in another sense it lives forever; for has it not been transformed into living thoughts? It is wonderful how words generate ideas! Every new word Helen learns seems to carry with it necessity for many more. Her mind grows through its ceaseless activity.
Keller's Landing was used during the war to land troops, but has long since gone to pieces, and is overgrown with moss and weeds. The solitude of the place sets one dreaming. Near the landing there is a beautiful little spring, which Helen calls "squirrel-cup," because I told her the squirrels came there to drink. She has felt dead squirrels and rabbits and other wild animals, and is anxious to see a "walk-squirrel," which interpreted, means, I think, a "live squirrel." We go home about dinner-time usually, and Helen is eager to tell her mother everything she has seen. THIS DESIRE TO REPEAT WHAT HAS BEEN TOLD HER SHOWS A MARKED ADVANCE IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF HER INTELLECT, AND IS AN INVALUABLE STIMULUS TO THE ACQUISITION OF LANGUAGE. I ASK ALL HER FRIENDS TO ENCOURAGE HER TO TELL THEM OF HER DOINGS, AND TO MANIFEST AS MUCH CURIOSITY AND PLEASURE IN HER LITTLE ADVENTURES AS THEY POSSIBLY CAN. This gratifies the child's love of approbation and keeps up her interest in things. This is the basis of real intercourse. She makes many mistakes, of course, twists words and phrases, puts the cart before the horse, and gets herself into hopeless tangles of nouns and verbs; but so does the hearing child. I am sure these difficulties will take care of themselves. The impulse to tell is the important thing. I supply a word here and there, sometimes a sentence, and suggest something which she has omitted or forgotten. Thus her vocabulary grows apace, and the new words germinate and bring forth new ideas; and they are the stuff out of which heaven and earth are made.
May 22, 1887.
My work grows more absorbing and interesting every day. Helen is a wonderful child, so spontaneous and eager to learn. She knows about 300 words now and A GREAT MANY COMMON IDIOMS, and it is not three months yet since she learned her first word. It is a rare privilege to watch the birth, growth, and first feeble struggles of a living mind; this privilege is mine; and moreover, it is given me to rouse and guide this bright intelligence.
If only I were better fitted for the great task! I feel every day more and more inadequate. My mind is full of ideas; but I cannot get them into working shape. You see, my mind is undisciplined, full of skips and jumps, and here and there a lot of things huddled together in dark corners. How I long to put it in order! Oh, if only there were some one to help me! I need a teacher quite as much as Helen. I know that the education of this child will be the distinguishing event of my life, if I have the brains and perseverance to accomplish it. I have made up my mind about one thing: Helen must learn to use books—indeed, we must both learn to use them, and that reminds me—will you please ask Mr. Anagnos to get me Perez's and Sully's Psychologies? I think I shall find them helpful.
We have reading lessons every day. Usually we take one of the little "Readers" up in a big tree near the house and spend an hour or two finding the words Helen already knows. WE MAKE A SORT OF GAME OF IT and try to see who can find the words most quickly, Helen with her fingers, or I with my eyes, and she learns as many new words as I can explain with the help of those she knows. When her fingers light upon words she knows, she fairly screams with pleasure and hugs and kisses me for joy, especially if she thinks she has me beaten. It would astonish you to see how many words she learns in an hour in this pleasant manner. Afterward I put the new words into little sentences in the frame, and sometimes it is possible to tell a little story about a bee or a cat or a little boy in this way. I can now tell her to go upstairs or down, out of doors or into the house, lock or unlock a door, take or bring objects, sit, stand, walk, run, lie, creep, roll, or climb. She is delighted with action-words; so it is no trouble at all to teach her verbs. She is always ready for a lesson, and the eagerness with which she absorbs ideas is very delightful. She is as triumphant over the conquest of a sentence as a general who has captured the enemy's stronghold.
One of Helen's old habits, that is strongest and hardest to correct, is a tendency to break things. If she finds anything in her way, she flings it on the floor, no matter what it is: a glass, a pitcher, or even a lamp. She has a great many dolls, and every one of them has been broken in a fit of temper or ennui. The other day a friend brought her a new doll from Memphis, and I thought I would see if I could make Helen understand that she must not break it. I made her go through the motion of knocking the doll's head on the table and spelled to her: "No, no, Helen is naughty. Teacher is sad," and let her feel the grieved expression on my face. Then I made her caress the doll and kiss the hurt spot and hold it gently in her arms, and I spelled to her, "Good Helen, teacher is happy," and let her feel the smile on my face. She went through these motions several times, mimicking every movement, then she stood very still for a moment with a troubled look on her face, which suddenly cleared, and she spelled, "Good Helen," and wreathed her face in a very large, artificial smile. Then she carried the doll upstairs and put it on the top shelf of the wardrobe, and she has not touched it since.
Please give my kind regards to Mr. Anagnos and let him see my letter, if you think best. I hear there is a deaf and blind child being educated at the Baltimore Institution.
June 2, 1887.
The weather is scorching. We need rain badly. We are all troubled about Helen. She is very nervous and excitable. She is restless at night and has no appetite. It is hard to know what to do with her. The doctor says her mind is too active; but how are we to keep her from thinking? She begins to spell the minute she wakes up in the morning, and continues all day long. If I refuse to talk to her, she spells into her own hand, and apparently carries on the liveliest conversation with herself.
I gave her my braille slate to play with, thinking that the mechanical pricking of holes in the paper would amuse her and rest her mind. But what was my astonishment when I found that the little witch was writing letters! I had no idea she knew what a letter was. She has often gone with me to the post-office to mail letters, and I suppose I have repeated to her things I wrote to you. She knew, too, that I sometimes write "letters to blind girls" on the slate; but I didn't suppose that she had any clear idea what a letter was. One day she brought me a sheet that she had punched full of holes, and wanted to put it in an envelope and take it to the post-office. She said, "Frank—letter." I asked her what she had written to Frank. She replied, "Much words. Puppy motherdog—five. Baby—cry. Hot. Helen walk—no. Sunfire—bad. Frank—come. Helen—kiss Frank. Strawberries—very good."
Helen is almost as eager to read as she is to talk. I find she grasps the import of whole sentences, catching from the context the meaning of words she doesn't know; and her eager questions indicate the outward reaching of her mind and its unusual powers.
The other night when I went to bed, I found Helen sound asleep with a big book clasped tightly in her arms. She had evidently been reading, and fallen asleep. When I asked her about it in the morning, she said, "Book—cry," and completed her meaning by shaking and other signs of fear. I taught her the word AFRAID, and she said: "Helen is not afraid. Book is afraid. Book will sleep with girl." I told her that the book wasn't afraid, and must sleep in its case, and that "girl" mustn't read in bed. She looked very roguish, and apparently understood that I saw through her ruse.
I am glad Mr. Anagnos thinks so highly of me as a teacher. But "genius" and "originality" are words we should not use lightly. If, indeed, they apply to me even remotely, I do not see that I deserve any laudation on that account.
And right here I want to say something which is for your ears alone. Something within me tells me that I shall succeed beyond my dreams. Were it not for some circumstances that make such an idea highly improbable, even absurd, I should think Helen's education would surpass in interest and wonder Dr. Howe's achievement. I know that she has remarkable powers, and I believe that I shall be able to develop and mould them. I cannot tell how I know these things. I had no idea a short time ago how to go to work; I was feeling about in the dark; but somehow I know now, and I know that I know. I cannot explain it; but when difficulties arise, I am not perplexed or doubtful. I know how to meet them; I seem to divine Helen's peculiar needs. It is wonderful.
Already people are taking a deep interest in Helen. No one can see her without being impressed. She is no ordinary child, and people's interest in her education will be no ordinary interest. Therefore let us be exceedingly careful what we say and write about her. I shall write freely to you and tell you everything, on one condition: It is this: you must promise never to show my letters to any one. My beautiful Helen shall not be transformed into a prodigy if I can help it.
June 5, 1887.
The heat makes Helen languid and quiet. Indeed, the Tophetic weather has reduced us all to a semi-liquid state. Yesterday Helen took off her clothes and sat in her skin all the afternoon. When the sun got round to the window where she was sitting with her book, she got up impatiently and shut the window. But when the sun came in just the same, she came over to me with a grieved look and spelled emphatically: "Sun is bad boy. Sun must go to bed."
She is the dearest, cutest little thing now, and so loving! One day, when I wanted her to bring me some water, she said: "Legs very tired. Legs cry much."
She is much interested in some little chickens that are pecking their way into the world this morning. I let her hold a shell in her hand, and feel the chicken "chip, chip." Her astonishment, when she felt the tiny creature inside, cannot be put in a letter. The hen was very gentle, and made no objection to our investigations. Besides the chickens, we have several other additions to the family—two calves, a colt, and a penful of funny little pigs. You would be amused to see me hold a squealing pig in my arms, while Helen feels it all over, and asks countless questions—questions not easy to answer either. After seeing the chicken come out of the egg, she asked: "Did baby pig grow in egg? Where are many shells?"
Helen's head measures twenty and one-half inches, and mine measures twenty-one and one-half inches. You see, I'm only one inch ahead!
June 12, 1887.
The weather continues hot. Helen is about the same—pale and thin; but you mustn't think she is really ill. I am sure the heat, and not the natural, beautiful activity of her mind, is responsible for her condition. Of course, I shall not overtax her brain. We are bothered a good deal by people who assume the responsibility of the world when God is neglectful. They tell us that Helen is "overdoing," that her mind is too active (these very people thought she had no mind at all a few months ago!) and suggest many absurd and impossible remedies. But so far nobody seems to have thought of chloroforming her, which is, I think, the only effective way of stopping the natural exercise of her faculties. It's queer how ready people always are with advice in any real or imaginary emergency, and no matter how many times experience has shown them to be wrong, they continue to set forth their opinions, as if they had received them from the Almighty!
I am teaching Helen the square-hand letters as a sort of diversion. It gives her something to do, and keeps her quiet, which I think is desirable while this enervating weather lasts. She has a perfect mania for counting. She has counted everything in the house, and is now busy counting the words in her primer. I hope it will not occur to her to count the hairs of her head. If she could see and hear, I suppose she would get rid of her superfluous energy in ways which would not, perhaps, tax her brain so much, although I suspect that the ordinary child takes his play pretty seriously. The little fellow who whirls his "New York Flyer" round the nursery, making "horseshoe curves" undreamed of by less imaginative engineers, is concentrating his whole soul on his toy locomotive.
She just came to say, with a worried expression, "Girl—not count very large (many) words." I said, "No, go and play with Nancy." This suggestion didn't please her, however; for she replied, "No. Nancy is very sick." I asked what was the matter, and she said, "Much (many) teeth do make Nancy sick." (Mildred is teething.)
I happened to tell her the other day that the vine on the fence was a "creeper." She was greatly amused, and began at once to find analogies between her movements and those of the plants. They run, creep, hop, and skip, bend, fall, climb, and swing; but she tells me roguishly that she is "walk-plant."
Helen held some worsted for me last night while I wound it. Afterward she began to swing round and round, spelling to herself all the time, "Wind fast, wind slow," and apparently enjoying her conceit very much.
June 15, 1887.
We had a glorious thunder-tempest last night, and it's much cooler to-day. We all feel refreshed, as if we'd had a shower-bath. Helen's as lively as a cricket. She wanted to know if men were shooting in the sky when she felt the thunder, and if the trees and flowers drank all the rain.
June 19, 1887.
My little pupil continues to manifest the same eagerness to learn as at first. Her every waking moment is spent in the endeavour to satisfy her innate desire for knowledge, and her mind works so incessantly that we have feared for her health. But her appetite, which left her a few weeks ago, has returned, and her sleep seems more quiet and natural. She will be seven years old the twenty-seventh of this month. Her height is four feet one inch, and her head measures twenty and one-half inches in circumference, the line being drawn round the head so as to pass over the prominences of the parietal and frontal bones. Above this line the head rises one and one-fourth inches.
During our walks she keeps up a continual spelling, and delights to accompany it with actions such as skipping, hopping, jumping, running, walking fast, walking slow, and the like. When she drops stitches she says, "Helen wrong, teacher will cry." If she wants water she says, "Give Helen drink water." She knows four hundred words besides numerous proper nouns. In one lesson I taught her these words: BEDSTEAD, MATTRESS, SHEET, BLANKET, COMFORTER, SPREAD, PILLOW. The next day I found that she remembered all but spread. The same day she had learned, at different times, the words: hOUSE, WEED, DUST, SWING, MOLASSES, FAST, SLOW, MAPLE-SUGAR and COUNTER, and she had not forgotten one of these last. This will give you an idea of the retentive memory she possesses. She can count to thirty very quickly, and can write seven of the square-hand letters and the words which can be made with them. She seems to understand about writing letters, and is impatient to "write Frank letter." She enjoys punching holes in paper with the stiletto, and I supposed it was because she could examine the result of her work; but we watched her one day, and I was much surprised to find that she imagined she was writing a letter. She would spell "Eva" (a cousin of whom she is very fond) with one hand, then make believe to write it; then spell, "sick in bed," and write that. She kept this up for nearly an hour. She was (or imagined she was) putting on paper the things which had interested her. When she had finished the letter she carried it to her mother and spelled, "Frank letter," and gave it to her brother to take to the post-office. She had been with me to take letters to the post-office.
She recognizes instantly a person whom she has once met, and spells the name. Unlike Laura Bridgman, she is fond of gentlemen, and we notice that she makes friends with a gentleman sooner than with a lady.
She is always ready to share whatever she has with those about her, often keeping but very little for herself. She is very fond of dress and of all kinds of finery, and is very unhappy when she finds a hole in anything she is wearing. She will insist on having her hair put in curl papers when she is so sleepy she can scarcely stand. She discovered a hole in her boot the other morning, and, after breakfast, she went to her father and spelled, "Helen new boot Simpson (her brother) buggy store man." One can easily see her meaning.
July 3, 1887.
There was a great rumpus downstairs this morning. I heard Helen screaming, and ran down to see what was the matter. I found her in a terrible passion. I had hoped this would never happen again. She has been so gentle and obedient the past two months, I thought love had subdued the lion; but it seems he was only sleeping. At all events, there she was, tearing and scratching and biting Viney like some wild thing. It seems Viney had attempted to take a glass, which Helen was filling with stones, fearing that she would break it. Helen resisted, and Viney tried to force it out of her hand, and I suspect that she slapped the child, or did something which caused this unusual outburst of temper. When I took her hand she was trembling violently, and began to cry. I asked what was the matter, and she spelled: "Viney—bad," and began to slap and kick her with renewed violence. I held her hands firmly until she became more calm.
Later Helen came to my room, looking very sad, and wanted to kiss me. I said, "I cannot kiss naughty girl." She spelled, "Helen is good, Viney is bad." I said: "You struck Viney and kicked her and hurt her. You were very naughty, and I cannot kiss naughty girl." She stood very still for a moment, and it was evident from her face, which was flushed and troubled, that a struggle was going on in her mind. Then she said: "Helen did (does) not love teacher. Helen do love mother. Mother will whip Viney." I told her that she had better not talk about it any more, but think. She knew that I was much troubled, and would have liked to stay near me; but I thought it best for her to sit by herself. At the dinner-table she was greatly disturbed because I didn't eat, and suggested that "Cook make tea for teacher." But I told her that my heart was sad, and I didn't feel like eating. She began to cry and sob and clung to me.
She was very much excited when we went upstairs; so I tried to interest her in a curious insect called a stick-bug. It's the queerest thing I ever saw—a little bundle of fagots fastened together in the middle. I wouldn't believe it was alive until I saw it move. Even then it looked more like a mechanical toy than a living creature. But the poor little girl couldn't fix her attention. Her heart was full of trouble, and she wanted to talk about it. She said: "Can bug know about naughty girl? Is bug very happy?" Then, putting her arms round my neck, she said: "I am (will be) good to-morrow. Helen is (will be) good all days." I said, "Will you tell Viney you are very sorry you scratched and kicked her?" She smiled and answered, "Viney (can) not spell words." "I will tell Viney you are very sorry," I said. "Will you go with me and find Viney?" She was very willing to go, and let Viney kiss her, though she didn't return the caress. She has been unusually affectionate since, and it seems to me there is a sweetness-a soul-beauty in her face which I have not seen before.
July 31, 1887.
Helen's pencil-writing is excellent, as you will see from the enclosed letter, which she wrote for her own amusement. I am teaching her the braille alphabet, and she is delighted to be able to make words herself that she can feel.
She has now reached the question stage of her development. It is "what?" "why?" "when?" especially "why?" all day long, and as her intelligence grows her inquiries become more insistent. I remember how unbearable I used to find the inquisitiveness of my friends' children; but I know now that these questions indicate the child's growing interest in the cause of things. The "why?" is the DOOR THROUGH WHICH HE ENTERS THE WORLD OF REASON AND REFLECTION. "How does carpenter know to build house?" "Who put chickens in eggs?" "Why is Viney black?" "Flies bite—why?" "Can flies know not to bite?" "Why did father kill sheep?" Of course she asks many questions that are not as intelligent as these. Her mind isn't more logical than the minds of ordinary children. On the whole, her questions are analogous to those that a bright three-year-old child asks; but her desire for knowledge is so earnest, the questions are never tedious, though they draw heavily upon my meager store of information, and tax my ingenuity to the utmost.
I had a letter from Laura Bridgman last Sunday. Please give her my love, and tell her Helen sends her a kiss. I read the letter at the supper-table, and Mrs. Keller exclaimed: "My, Miss Annie, Helen writes almost as well as that now!" It is true.
August 21, 1887.
We had a beautiful time in Huntsville. Everybody there was delighted with Helen, and showered her with gifts and kisses. The first evening she learned the names of all the people in the hotel, about twenty, I think. The next morning we were astonished to find that she remembered all of them, and recognized every one she had met the night before. She taught the young people the alphabet, and several of them learned to talk with her. One of the girls taught her to dance the polka, and a little boy showed her his rabbits and spelled their names for her. She was delighted, and showed her pleasure by hugging and kissing the little fellow, which embarrassed him very much.
We had Helen's picture taken with a fuzzy, red-eyed little poodle, who got himself into my lady's good graces by tricks and cunning devices known only to dogs with an instinct for getting what they want.
She has talked incessantly since her return about what she did in Huntsville, and we notice a very decided improvement in her ability to use language. Curiously enough, a drive we took to the top of Monte Sano, a beautiful mountain not far from Huntsville, seems to have impressed her more than anything else, except the wonderful poodle. She remembers all that I told her about it, and in telling her mother REPEATED THE VERY WORDS AND PHRASES I HAD USED IN DESCRIBING IT TO HER. In conclusion she asked her mother if she should like to see "very high mountain and beautiful cloudcaps." I hadn't used this expression. I said, "The clouds touch the mountain softly, like beautiful flowers." You see, I had to use words and images with which she was familiar through the sense of touch. But it hardly seems possible that any mere words should convey to one who has never seen a mountain the faintest idea of its grandeur; and I don't see how any one is ever to know what impression she did receive, or the cause of her pleasure in what was told her about it. All that we do know certainly is that she has a good memory and imagination and the faculty of association.
August 28, 1887.
I do wish things would stop being born! "New puppies," "new calves" and "new babies" keep Helen's interest in the why and wherefore of things at white heat. The arrival of a new baby at Ivy Green the other day was the occasion of a fresh outburst of questions about the origin of babies and live things in general. "Where did Leila get new baby? How did doctor know where to find baby? Did Leila tell doctor to get very small new baby? Where did doctor find Guy and Prince?" (puppies) "Why is Elizabeth Evelyn's sister?" etc., etc. These questions were sometimes asked under circumstances which rendered them embarrassing, and I made up my mind that something must be done. If it was natural for Helen to ask such questions, it was my duty to answer them. It's a great mistake, I think, to put children off with falsehoods and nonsense, when their growing powers of observation and discrimination excite in them a desire to know about things. From the beginning, I HAVE MADE IT A PRACTICE TO ANSWER ALL HELEN'S QUESTIONS TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY IN A WAY INTELLIGIBLE TO HER, and at the same time truthfully. "Why should I treat these questions differently?" I asked myself. I decided that there was no reason, except my deplorable ignorance of the great facts that underlie our physical existence. It was no doubt because of this ignorance that I rushed in where more experienced angels fear to tread. There isn't a living soul in this part of the world to whom I can go for advice in this, or indeed, in any other educational difficulty. The only thing for me to do in a perplexity is to go ahead, and learn by making mistakes. But in this case I don't think I made a mistake. I took Helen and my Botany, "How Plants Grow," up in the tree, where we often go to read and study, and I told her in simple words the story of plantlife. I reminded her of the corn, beans and watermelon-seed she had planted in the spring, and told her that the tall corn in the garden, and the beans and watermelon vines had grown from those seeds. I explained how the earth keeps the seeds warm and moist, until the little leaves are strong enough to push themselves out into the light and air where they can breathe and grow and bloom and make more seeds, from which other baby-plants shall grow. I drew an analogy between plant and animal-life, and told her that seeds are eggs as truly as hens' eggs and birds' eggs—that the mother hen keeps her eggs warm and dry until the little chicks come out. I made her understand that all life comes from an egg. The mother bird lays her eggs in a nest and keeps them warm until the birdlings are hatched. The mother fish lays her eggs where she knows they will be moist and safe, until it is time for the little fish to come out. I told her that she could call the egg the cradle of life. Then I told her that other animals like the dog and cow, and human beings, do not lay their eggs, but nourish their young in their own bodies. I had no difficulty in making it clear to her that if plants and animals didn't produce offspring after their kind, they would cease to exist, and everything in the world would soon die. But the function of sex I passed over as lightly as possible. I did, however, try to give her the idea that love is the great continuer of life. The subject was difficult, and my knowledge inadequate; but I am glad I didn't shirk my responsibility; for, stumbling, hesitating, and incomplete as my explanation was, it touched deep responsive chords in the soul of my little pupil, and the readiness with which she comprehended the great facts of physical life confirmed me in the opinion that the child has dormant within him, when he comes into the world, all the experiences of the race. These experiences are like photographic negatives, until language develops them and brings out the memory-images.
September 4, 1887.
Helen had a letter this morning from her uncle, Doctor Keller. He invited her to come to see him at Hot Springs. The name Hot Springs interested her, and she asked many questions about it. She knows about cold springs. There are several near Tuscumbia; one very large one from which the town got its name. "Tuscumbia" is the Indian for "Great Spring." But she was surprised that hot water should come out of the ground. She wanted to know who made fire under the ground, and if it was like the fire in stoves, and if it burned the roots of plants and trees.
She was much pleased with the letter, and after she had asked all the questions she could think of, she took it to her mother, who was sewing in the hall, and read it to her. It was amusing to see her hold it before her eyes and spell the sentences out on her fingers, just as I had done. Afterward she tried to read it to Belle (the dog) and Mildred. Mrs. Keller and I watched the nursery comedy from the door. Belle was sleepy, and Mildred inattentive. Helen looked very serious, and, once or twice, when Mildred tried to take the letter, she put her hand away impatiently. Finally Belle got up, shook herself, and was about to walk away, when Helen caught her by the neck and forced her to lie down again. In the meantime Mildred had got the letter and crept away with it. Helen felt on the floor for it, but not finding it there, she evidently suspected Mildred; for she made the little sound which is her "baby call." Then she got up and stood very still, as if listening with her feet for Mildred's "thump, thump." When she had located the sound, she went quickly toward the little culprit and found her chewing the precious letter! This was too much for Helen. She snatched the letter and slapped the little hands soundly. Mrs. Keller took the baby in her arms, and when we had succeeded in pacifying her, I asked Helen, "What did you do to baby?" She looked troubled, and hesitated a moment before answering. Then she said: "Wrong girl did eat letter. Helen did slap very wrong girl." I told her that Mildred was very small, and didn't know that it was wrong to put the letter in her mouth.
"I did tell baby, no, no, much (many) times," was Helen's reply.
I said, "Mildred doesn't understand your fingers, and we must be very gentle with her."
She shook her head.
"Baby—not think. Helen will give baby pretty letter," and with that she ran upstairs and brought down a neatly folded sheet of braille, on which she had written some words, and gave it to Mildred, saying, "Baby can eat all words."
September 18, 1887.
I do not wonder you were surprised to hear that I was going to write something for the report. I do not know myself how it happened, except that I got tired of saying "no," and Captain Keller urged me to do it. He agreed with Mr. Anagnos that it was my duty to give others the benefit of my experience. Besides, they said Helen's wonderful deliverance might be a boon to other afflicted children.
When I sit down to write, my thoughts freeze, and when I get them on paper they look like wooden soldiers all in a row, and if a live one happens along, I put him in a strait-jacket. It's easy enough, however, to say Helen is wonderful, because she really is. I kept a record of everything she said last week, and I found that she knows six hundred words. This does not mean, however, that she always uses them correctly. Sometimes her sentences are like Chinese puzzles; but they are the kind of puzzles children make when they try to express their half-formed ideas by means of arbitrary language. She has the true language-impulse, and shows great fertility of resource in making the words at her command convey her meaning.
Lately she has been much interested in colour. She found the word "brown" in her primer and wanted to know its meaning. I told her that her hair was brown, and she asked, "Is brown very pretty?" After we had been all over the house, and I had told her the colour of everything she touched, she suggested that we go to the hen-houses and barns; but I told her she must wait until another day because I was very tired. We sat in the hammock; but there was no rest for the weary there. Helen was eager to know "more colour." I wonder if she has any vague idea of colour—any reminiscent impression of light and sound. It seems as if a child who could see and hear until her nineteenth month must retain some of her first impressions, though ever so faintly. Helen talks a great deal about things that she cannot know of through the sense of touch. She asks many questions about the sky, day and night, the ocean and mountains. She likes to have me tell her what I see in pictures.
But I seem to have lost the thread of my discourse. "What colour is think?" was one of the restful questions she asked, as we swung to and fro in the hammock. I told her that when we are happy our thoughts are bright, and when we are naughty they are sad. Quick as a flash she said, "My think is white, Viney's think is black." You see, she had an idea that the colour of our thoughts matched that of our skin. I couldn't help laughing, for at that very moment Viney was shouting at the top of her voice:
"I long to sit on dem jasper walls And see dem sinners stumble and fall!"
October 3, 1887.
My account for the report is finished and sent off. I have two copies, and will send you one; but you mustn't show it to anybody. It's Mr. Anagnos's property until it is published.
I suppose the little girls enjoyed Helen's letter. She wrote it out of her own head, as the children say.
She talks a great deal about what she will do when she goes to Boston. She asked the other day, "Who made all things and Boston?" She says Mildred will not go there because "Baby does cry all days."
October 25, 1887.
Helen wrote another letter to the little girls yesterday, and her father sent it to Mr. Anagnos. Ask him to let you see it. She has begun to use the pronouns of her own accord. This morning I happened to say, "Helen will go upstairs." She laughed and said, "Teacher is wrong. You will go upstairs." This is another great forward step. Thus it always is. Yesterday's perplexities are strangely simple to-day, and to-day's difficulties become to-morrow's pastime.
The rapid development of Helen's mind is beautiful to watch. I doubt if any teacher ever had a work of such absorbing interest. There must have been one lucky star in the heavens at my birth, and I am just beginning to feel its beneficent influence.
I had two letters from Mr. Anagnos last week. He is more grateful for my report than the English idiom will express. Now he wants a picture "of darling Helen and her illustrious teacher, to grace the pages of the forthcoming annual report."
October, 1887.
You have probably read, ere this, Helen's second letter to the little girls. I am aware that the progress which she has made between the writing of the two letters must seem incredible. Only those who are with her daily can realize the rapid advancement which she is making in the acquisition of language. You will see from her letter that she uses many pronouns correctly. She rarely misuses or omits one in conversation. Her passion for writing letters and putting her thoughts upon paper grows more intense. She now tells stories in which the imagination plays an important part. She is also beginning to realize that she is not like other children. The other day she asked, "What do my eyes do?" I told her that I could see things with my eyes, and that she could see them with her fingers. After thinking a moment she said, "My eyes are bad!" then she changed it into "My eyes are sick!"
Miss Sullivan's first report, which was published in the official report of the Perkins Institution for the year 1887, is a short summary of what is fully recorded in the letters. Here follows the last part, beginning with the great day, April 5th, when Helen learned water.
In her reports Miss Sullivan speaks of "lessons" as if they came in regular order. This is the effect of putting it all in a summary. "Lesson" is too formal for the continuous daily work.
One day I took her to the cistern. As the water gushed from the pump I spelled "w-a-t-e-r." Instantly she tapped my hand for a repetition, and then made the word herself with a radiant face. Just then the nurse came into the cistern-house bringing her little sister. I put Helen's hand on the baby and formed the letters "b-a-b-y," which she repeated without help and with the light of a new intelligence in her face.
On our way back to the house everything she touched had to be named for her, and repetition was seldom necessary. Neither the length of the word nor the combination of letters seems to make any difference to the child. Indeed, she remembers HELIOTROPE and CHRYSANTHEMUM more readily than she does shorter names. At the end of August she knew 625 words.
This lesson was followed by one on words indicative of place-relations. Her dress was put IN a trunk, and then ON it, and these prepositions were spelled for her. Very soon she learned the difference between ON and IN, though it was some time before she could use these words in sentences of her own. Whenever it was possible she was made the actor in the lesson, and was delighted to stand ON the chair, and to be put INTO the wardrobe. In connection with this lesson she learned the names of the members of the family and the word IS. "Helen is in wardrobe," "Mildred is in crib," "Box is on table," "Papa is on bed," are specimens of sentences constructed by her during the latter part of April.
Next came a lesson on words expressive of positive quality. For the first lesson I had two balls, one made of worsted, large and soft, the other a bullet. She perceived the difference in size at once. Taking the bullet she made her habitual sign for SMALL—that is, by pinching a little bit of the skin of one hand. Then she took the other ball and made her sign for LARGE by spreading both hands over it. I substituted the adjectives LARGE and SMALL for those signs. Then her attention was called to the hardness of the one ball and the softness of the other, and she learned SOFT and HARD. A few minutes afterward she felt of her little sister's head and said to her mother, "Mildred's head is small and hard." Next I tried to teach her the meaning of FAST and SLOW. She helped me wind some worsted one day, first rapidly and afterward slowly. I then said to her with the finger alphabet, "wind fast," or "wind slow," holding her hands and showing her how to do as I wished. The next day, while exercising, she spelled to me, "Helen wind fast," and began to walk rapidly. Then she said, "Helen wind slow," again suiting the action to the words.
I now thought it time to teach her to read printed words. A slip on which was printed, in raised letters, the word BOX was placed on the object, and the same experiment was tried with a great many articles, but she did not immediately comprehend that the label-name represented the thing. Then I took an alphabet sheet and put her finger on the letter A, at the same time making A with my fingers. She moved her finger from one printed character to another as I formed each letter on my fingers. She learned all the letters, both capital and small, in one day. Next I turned to the first page of the primer and made her touch the word CAT, spelling it on my fingers at the same time. Instantly she caught the idea, and asked me to find DOG and many other words. Indeed, she was much displeased because I could not find her name in the book. Just then I had no sentences in raised letters which she could understand; but she would sit for hours feeling each word in her book. When she touched one with which she was familiar, a peculiarly sweet expression lighted her face, and we saw her countenance growing sweeter and more earnest every day. About this time I sent a list of the words she knew to Mr. Anagnos, and he very kindly had them printed for her. Her mother and I cut up several sheets of printed words so that she could arrange them into sentences. This delighted her more than anything she had yet done; and the practice thus obtained prepared the way for the writing lessons. There was no difficulty in making her understand how to write the same sentences with pencil and paper which she made every day with the slips, and she very soon perceived that she need not confine herself to phrases already learned, but could communicate any thought that was passing through her mind. I put one of the writing boards used by the blind between the folds of the paper on the table, and allowed her to examine an alphabet of the square letters, such as she was to make. I then guided her hand to form the sentence, "Cat does drink milk." When she finished it she was overjoyed. She carried it to her mother, who spelled it to her.
Day after day she moved her pencil in the same tracks along the grooved paper, never for a moment expressing the least impatience or sense of fatigue.
As she had now learned to express her ideas on paper, I next taught her the braille system. She learned it gladly when she discovered that she could herself read what she had written; and this still affords her constant pleasure. For a whole evening she will sit at the table writing whatever comes into her busy brain; and I seldom find any difficulty in reading what she has written.
Her progress in arithmetic has been equally remarkable. She can add and subtract with great rapidity up to the sum of one hundred; and she knows the multiplication tables as far as the FIVES. She was working recently with the number forty, when I said to her, "Make twos." She replied immediately, "Twenty twos make forty." Later I said, "Make fifteen threes and count." I wished her to make the groups of threes and supposed she would then have to count them in order to know what number fifteen threes would make. But instantly she spelled the answer: "Fifteen threes make forty-five."
On being told that she was white and that one of the servants was black, she concluded that all who occupied a similar menial position were of the same hue; and whenever I asked her the colour of a servant she would say "black." When asked the colour of some one whose occupation she did not know she seemed bewildered, and finally said "blue."
She has never been told anything about death or the burial of the body, and yet on entering the cemetery for the first time in her life, with her mother and me, to look at some flowers, she laid her hand on our eyes and repeatedly spelled "cry—cry." Her eyes actually filled with tears. The flowers did not seem to give her pleasure, and she was very quiet while we stayed there.
On another occasion while walking with me she seemed conscious of the presence of her brother, although we were distant from him. She spelled his name repeatedly and started in the direction in which he was coming.
When walking or riding she often gives the names of the people we meet almost as soon as we recognize them.
The letters take up the account again.
November 13, 1887.
We took Helen to the circus, and had "the time of our lives"! The circus people were much interested in Helen, and did everything they could to make her first circus a memorable event. They let her feel the animals whenever it was safe. She fed the elephants, and was allowed to climb up on the back of the largest, and sit in the lap of the "Oriental Princess," while the elephant marched majestically around the ring. She felt some young lions. They were as gentle as kittens; but I told her they would get wild and fierce as they grew older. She said to the keeper, "I will take the baby lions home and teach them to be mild." The keeper of the bears made one big black fellow stand on his hind legs and hold out his great paw to us, which Helen shook politely. She was greatly delighted with the monkeys and kept her hand on the star performer while he went through his tricks, and laughed heartily when he took off his hat to the audience. One cute little fellow stole her hair-ribbon, and another tried to snatch the flowers out of her hat. I don't know who had the best time, the monkeys, Helen or the spectators. One of the leopards licked her hands, and the man in charge of the giraffes lifted her up in his arms so that she could feel their ears and see how tall they were. She also felt a Greek chariot, and the charioteer would have liked to take her round the ring; but she was afraid of "many swift horses." The riders and clowns and rope-walkers were all glad to let the little blind girl feel their costumes and follow their motions whenever it was possible, and she kissed them all, to show her gratitude. Some of them cried, and the wild man of Borneo shrank from her sweet little face in terror. She has talked about nothing but the circus ever since. In order to answer her questions, I have been obliged to read a great deal about animals. At present I feel like a jungle on wheels!
December 12, 1887.
I find it hard to realize that Christmas is almost here, in spite of the fact that Helen talks about nothing else. Do you remember what a happy time we had last Christmas?
Helen has learned to tell the time at last, and her father is going to give her a watch for Christmas.
Helen is as eager to have stories told her as any hearing child I ever knew. She has made me repeat the story of little Red Riding Hood so often that I believe I could say it backward. She likes stories that make her cry—I think we all do, it's so nice to feel sad when you've nothing particular to be sad about. I am teaching her little rhymes and verses, too. They fix beautiful thoughts in her memory. I think, too, that they quicken all the child's faculties, because they stimulate the imagination. Of course I don't try to explain everything. If I did, there would be no opportunity for the play of fancy. TOO MUCH EXPLANATION DIRECTS THE CHILD'S ATTENTION TO WORDS AND SENTENCES, SO THAT HE FAILS TO GET THE THOUGHT AS A WHOLE. I do not think anyone can read, or talk for that matter, until he forgets words and sentences in the technical sense.
January 1, 1888.
It is a great thing to feel that you are of some use in the world, that you are necessary to somebody. Helen's dependence on me for almost everything makes me strong and glad.
Christmas week was a very busy one here, too. Helen is invited to all the children's entertainments, and I take her to as many as I can. I want her to know children and to be with them as much as possible. Several little girls have learned to spell on their fingers and are very proud of the accomplishment. One little chap, about seven, was persuaded to learn the letters, and he spelled his name for Helen. She was delighted, and showed her joy, by hugging and kissing him, much to his embarrassment.
Saturday the school-children had their tree, and I took Helen. It was the first Christmas tree she had ever seen, and she was puzzled, and asked many questions. "Who made tree grow in house? Why? Who put many things on tree?" She objected to its miscellaneous fruits and began to remove them, evidently thinking they were all meant for her. It was not difficult, however, to make her understand that there was a present for each child, and to her great delight she was permitted to hand the gifts to the children. There were several presents for herself. She placed them in a chair, resisting all temptation to look at them until every child had received his gifts. One little girl had fewer presents than the rest, and Helen insisted on sharing her gifts with her. It was very sweet to see the children's eager interest in Helen, and their readiness to give her pleasure. The exercises began at nine, and it was one o'clock before we could leave. My fingers and head ached; but Helen was as fresh and full of spirit as when we left home.
After dinner it began to snow, and we had a good frolic and an interesting lesson about the snow. Sunday morning the ground was covered, and Helen and the cook's children and I played snowball. By noon the snow was all gone. It was the first snow I had seen here, and it made me a little homesick. The Christmas season has furnished many lessons, and added scores of new words to Helen's vocabulary.
For weeks we did nothing but talk and read and tell each other stories about Christmas. Of course I do not try to explain all the new words, nor does Helen fully understand the little stories I tell her; but constant repetition fixes the words and phrases in the mind, and little by little the meaning will come to her. I SEE NO SENSE IN "FAKING" CONVERSATION FOR THE SAKE OF TEACHING LANGUAGE. IT'S STUPID AND DEADENING TO PUPIL AND TEACHER. TALK SHOULD BE NATURAL AND HAVE FOR ITS OBJECT AN EXCHANGE OF IDEAS. If there is nothing in the child's mind to communicate, it hardly seems worth while to require him to write on the blackboard, or spell on his fingers, cut and dried sentences about "the cat," "the bird," "a dog." I HAVE TRIED FROM THE BEGINNING TO TALK NATURALLY TO HELEN AND TO TEACH HER TO TELL ME ONLY THINGS THAT INTEREST HER AND ASK QUESTIONS ONLY FOR THE SAKE OF FINDING OUT WHAT SHE WANTS TO KNOW. When I see that she is eager to tell me something, but is hampered because she does not know the words, I supply them and the necessary idioms, and we get along finely. The child's eagerness and interest carry her over many obstacles that would be our undoing if we stopped to define and explain everything. What would happen, do you think, if some one should try to measure our intelligence by our ability to define the commonest words we use? I fear me, if I were put to such a test, I should be consigned to the primary class in a school for the feeble-minded.
It was touching and beautiful to see Helen enjoy her first Christmas. Of course, she hung her stocking—two of them lest Santa Claus should forget one, and she lay awake for a long time and got up two or three times to see if anything had happened. When I told her that Santa Claus would not come until she was asleep, she shut her eyes and said, "He will think girl is asleep." She was awake the first thing in the morning, and ran to the fireplace for her stocking; and when she found that Santa Claus had filled both stockings, she danced about for a minute, then grew very quiet, and came to ask me if I thought Santa Claus had made a mistake, and thought there were two little girls, and would come back for the gifts when he discovered his mistake. The ring you sent her was in the toe of the stocking, and when I told her you gave it to Santa Claus for her, she said, "I do love Mrs. Hopkins." She had a trunk and clothes for Nancy, and her comment was, "Now Nancy will go to party." When she saw the braille slate and paper, she said, "I will write many letters, and I will thank Santa Claus very much." It was evident that every one, especially Captain and Mrs. Keller, was deeply moved at the thought of the difference between this bright Christmas and the last, when their little girl had no conscious part in the Christmas festivities. As we came downstairs, Mrs. Keller said to me with tears in her eyes, "Miss Annie, I thank God every day of my life for sending you to us; but I never realized until this morning what a blessing you have been to us." Captain Keller took my hand, but could not speak. But his silence was more eloquent than words. My heart, too, was full of gratitude and solemn joy.
The other day Helen came across the word grandfather in a little story and asked her mother, "Where is grandfather?" meaning her grandfather. Mrs. Keller replied, "He is dead." "Did father shoot him?" Helen asked, and added, "I will eat grandfather for dinner." So far, her only knowledge of death is in connection with things to eat. She knows that her father shoots partridges and deer and other game.
This morning she asked me the meaning of "carpenter," and the question furnished the text for the day's lesson. After talking about the various things that carpenters make, she asked me, "Did carpenter make me?" and before I could answer, she spelled quickly, "No, no, photographer made me in Sheffield."
One of the greatest iron furnaces has been started in Sheffield, and we went over the other evening to see them make a "run." Helen felt the heat and asked, "Did the sun fall?"
January 9, 1888.
The report came last night. I appreciate the kind things Mr. Anagnos has said about Helen and me; but his extravagant way of saying them rubs me the wrong way. The simple facts would be so much more convincing! Why, for instance, does he take the trouble to ascribe motives to me that I never dreamed of? You know, and he knows, and I know, that my motive in coming here was not in any sense philanthropic. How ridiculous it is to say I had drunk so copiously of the noble spirit of Dr. Howe that I was fired with the desire to rescue from darkness and obscurity the little Alabamian! I came here simply because circumstances made it necessary for me to earn my living, and I seized upon the first opportunity that offered itself, although I did not suspect nor did he, that I had any special fitness for the work.
January 26, 1888.
I suppose you got Helen's letter. The little rascal has taken it into her head not to write with a pencil. I wanted her to write to her Uncle Frank this morning, but she objected. She said: "Pencil is very tired in head. I will write Uncle Frank braille letter." I said, "But Uncle Frank cannot read braille." "I will teach him," she said. I explained that Uncle Frank was old, and couldn't learn braille easily. In a flash she answered, "I think Uncle Frank is much (too) old to read very small letters." Finally I persuaded her to write a few lines; but she broke her pencil six times before she finished it. I said to her, "You are a naughty girl." "No," she replied, "pencil is very weak." I think her objection to pencil-writing is readily accounted for by the fact that she has been asked to write so many specimens for friends and strangers. You know how the children at the Institution detest it. It is irksome because the process is so slow, and they cannot read what they have written or correct their mistakes.
Helen is more and more interested in colour. When I told her that Mildred's eyes were blue, she asked, "Are they like wee skies?" A little while after I had told her that a carnation that had been given her was red, she puckered up her mouth and said, "Lips are like one pink." I told her they were tulips; but of course she didn't understand the word-play. I can't believe that the colour-impressions she received during the year and a half she could see and hear are entirely lost. Everything we have seen and heard is in the mind somewhere. It may be too vague and confused to be recognizable, but it is there all the same, like the landscape we lose in the deepening twilight.
February 10, 1888.
We got home last night. We had a splendid time in Memphis, but I didn't rest much. It was nothing but excitement from first to last—drives, luncheons, receptions, and all that they involve when you have an eager, tireless child like Helen on your hands. She talked incessantly. I don't know what I should have done, had some of the young people not learned to talk with her. They relieved me as much as possible. But even then I can never have a quiet half hour to myself. It is always: "Oh, Miss Sullivan, please come and tell us what Helen means," or "Miss Sullivan, won't you please explain this to Helen? We can't make her understand." I believe half the white population of Memphis called on us. Helen was petted and caressed enough to spoil an angel; but I do not think it is possible to spoil her, she is too unconscious of herself, and too loving.
The stores in Memphis are very good, and I managed to spend all the money that I had with me. One day Helen said, "I must buy Nancy a very pretty hat." I said, "Very well, we will go shopping this afternoon." She had a silver dollar and a dime. When we reached the shop, I asked her how much she would pay for Nancy's hat. She answered promptly, "I will pay ten cents." "What will you do with the dollar?" I asked. "I will buy some good candy to take to Tuscumbia," was her reply.
We visited the Stock Exchange and a steamboat. Helen was greatly interested in the boat, and insisted on being shown every inch of it from the engine to the flag on the flagstaff. I was gratified to read what the Nation had to say about Helen last week.
Captain Keller has had two interesting letters since the publication of the "Report," one from Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, and the other from Dr. Edward Everett Hale. Dr. Hale claims kinship with Helen, and seems very proud of his little cousin. Dr. Bell writes that Helen's progress is without a parallel in the education of the deaf, or something like that and he says many nice things about her teacher.
March 5, 1888.
I did not have a chance to finish my letter yesterday. Miss Ev. came up to help me make a list of words Helen has learned. We have got as far as P, and there are 900 words to her credit. I had Helen begin a journal March 1st.[Most of this journal was lost. Fortunately, however, Helen Keller wrote so many letters and exercises that there is no lack of records of that sort.] I don't know how long she will keep it up. It's rather stupid business, I think. Just now she finds it great fun. She seems to like to tell all she knows. This is what Helen wrote Sunday:
"I got up, washed my face and hands, combed my hair, picked three dew violets for Teacher and ate my breakfast. After breakfast I played with dolls short. Nancy was cross. Cross is cry and kick. I read in my book about large, fierce animals. Fierce is much cross and strong and very hungry. I do not love fierce animals. I wrote letter to Uncle James. He lives in Hotsprings. He is doctor. Doctor makes sick girl well. I do not like sick. Then I ate my dinner. I like much icecream very much. After dinner father went to Birmingham on train far away. I had letter from Robert. He loves me. He said Dear Helen, Robert was glad to get a letter from dear, sweet little Helen. I will come to see you when the sun shines. Mrs. Newsum is Robert's wife. Robert is her husband. Robert and I will run and jump and hop and dance and swing and talk about birds and flowers and trees and grass and Jumbo and Pearl will go with us. Teacher will say, We are silly. She is funny. Funny makes us laugh. Natalie is a good girl and does not cry. Mildred does cry. She will be a nice girl in many days and run and play with me. Mrs. Graves is making short dresses for Natalie. Mr. Mayo went to Duckhill and brought home many sweet flowers. Mr. Mayo and Mr. Farris and Mr. Graves love me and Teacher. I am going to Memphis to see them soon, and they will hug and kiss me. Thornton goes to school and gets his face dirty. Boy must be very careful. After supper I played romp with Teacher in bed. She buried me under the pillows and then I grew very slow like tree out of ground. Now, I will go to bed. HELEN KELLER."
April 16, 1888.
We are just back from church. Captain Keller said at breakfast this morning that he wished I would take Helen to church. The Presbytery would be there in a body, and he wanted the ministers to see Helen. The Sunday-school was in session when we arrived, and I wish you could have seen the sensation Helen's entrance caused. The children were so pleased to see her at Sunday-school, they paid no attention to their teachers, but rushed out of their seats and surrounded us. She kissed them all, boys and girls, willing or unwilling. She seemed to think at first that the children all belonged to the visiting ministers; but soon she recognized some little friends among them, and I told her the ministers didn't bring their children with them. She looked disappointed and said, "I'll send them many kisses." One of the ministers wished me to ask Helen, "What do ministers do?" She said, "They read and talk loud to people to be good." He put her answer down in his note book. When it was time for the church service to begin, she was in such a state of excitement that I thought it best to take her away; but Captain Keller said, "No, she will be all right." So there was nothing to do but stay. It was impossible to keep Helen quiet. She hugged and kissed me, and the quiet-looking divine who sat on the other side of her. He gave her his watch to play with; but that didn't keep her still. She wanted to show it to the little boy in the seat behind us. When the communion service began, she smelt the wine, and sniffed so loud that every one in the church could hear. When the wine was passed to our neighbour, he was obliged to stand up to prevent her taking it away from him. I never was so glad to get out of a place as I was to leave that church! I tried to hurry Helen out-of-doors, but she kept her arm extended, and every coat-tail she touched must needs turn round and give an account of the children he left at home, and receive kisses according to their number. Everybody laughed at her antics, and you would have thought they were leaving a place of amusement rather than a church. Captain Keller invited some of the ministers to dinner. Helen was irrepressible. She described in the most animated pantomime, supplemented by spelling, what she was going to do in Brewster. Finally she got up from the table and went through the motion of picking seaweed and shells, and splashing in the water, holding up her skirts higher than was proper under the circumstances. Then she threw herself on the floor and began to swim so energetically that some of us thought we should be kicked out of our chairs! Her motions are often more expressive than any words, and she is as graceful as a nymph.
I wonder if the days seem as interminable to you as they do to me. We talk and plan and dream about nothing but Boston, Boston, Boston. I think Mrs. Keller has definitely decided to go with us, but she will not stay all summer.
May 15, 1888.
Do you realize that this is the last letter I shall write to you for a long, long time? The next word that you receive from me will be in a yellow envelope, and it will tell you when we shall reach Boston. I am too happy to write letters; but I must tell you about our visit to Cincinnati.
We spent a delightful week with the "doctors." Dr. Keller met us in Memphis. Almost every one on the train was a physician, and Dr. Keller seemed to know them all. When we reached Cincinnati, we found the place full of doctors. There were several prominent Boston physicians among them. We stayed at the Burnet House. Everybody was delighted with Helen. All the learned men marveled at her intelligence and gaiety. There is something about her that attracts people. I think it is her joyous interest in everything and everybody.
Wherever she went she was the centre of interest. She was delighted with the orchestra at the hotel, and whenever the music began she danced round the room, hugging and kissing every one she happened to touch. Her happiness impressed all; nobody seemed to pity her. One gentleman said to Dr. Keller, "I have lived long and seen many happy faces; but I have never seen such a radiant face as this child's before to-night." Another said, "Damn me! but I'd give everything I own in the world to have that little girl always near me." But I haven't time to write all the pleasant things people said—they would make a very large book, and the kind things they did for us would fill another volume. Dr. Keller distributed the extracts from the report that Mr. Anagnos sent me, and he could have disposed of a thousand if he had had them. Do you remember Dr. Garcelon, who was Governor of Maine several years ago? He took us to drive one afternoon, and wanted to give Helen a doll; but she said: "I do not like too many children. Nancy is sick, and Adeline is cross, and Ida is very bad." We laughed until we cried, she was so serious about it. "What would you like, then?" asked the Doctor. "Some beautiful gloves to talk with," she answered. The Doctor was puzzled. He had never heard of "talking-gloves"; but I explained that she had seen a glove on which the alphabet was printed, and evidently thought they could be bought. I told him he could buy some gloves if he wished, and that I would have the alphabet stamped on them.
We lunched with Mr. Thayer (your former pastor) and his wife. He asked me how I had taught Helen adjectives and the names of abstract ideas like goodness and happiness. These same questions had been asked me a hundred times by the learned doctors. It seems strange that people should marvel at what is really so simple. Why, it is as easy to teach the name of an idea, if it is clearly formulated in the child's mind, as to teach the name of an object. It would indeed be a herculean task to teach the words if the ideas did not already exist in the child's mind. If his experiences and observations hadn't led him to the concepts, SMALL, LARGE, GOOD, BAD, SWEET, SOUR, he would have nothing to attach the word-tags to.
I, little ignorant I, found myself explaining to the wise men of the East and the West such simple things as these: If you give a child something sweet, and he wags his tongue and smacks his lips and looks pleased, he has a very definite sensation; and if, every time he has this experience, he hears the word SWEET, or has it spelled into his hand, he will quickly adopt this arbitrary sign for his sensation. Likewise, if you put a bit of lemon on his tongue, he puckers up his lips and tries to spit it out; and after he has had this experience a few times, if you offer him a lemon, he shuts his mouth and makes faces, clearly indicating that he remembers the unpleasant sensation. You label it SOUR, and he adopts your symbol. If you had called these sensations respectively BLACK and WHITE, he would have adopted them as readily; but he would mean by BLACK and WHITE the same things that he means by SWEET and SOUR. In the same way the child learns from many experiences to differentiate his feelings, and we name them for him—GOOD, BAD, GENTLE, ROUGH, HAPPY, SAD. It is not the word, but the capacity to experience the sensation that counts in his education.
This extract from one of Miss Sullivan's letters is added because it contains interesting casual opinions stimulated by observing the methods of others.
We visited a little school for the deaf. We were very kindly received, and Helen enjoyed meeting the children. Two of the teachers knew the manual alphabet, and talked to her without an interpreter. They were astonished at her command of language. Not a child in the school, they said, had anything like Helen's facility of expression, and some of them had been under instruction for two or three years. I was incredulous at first; but after I had watched the children at work for a couple of hours, I knew that what I had been told was true, and I wasn't surprised. In one room some little tots were standing before the blackboard, painfully constructing "simple sentences." A little girl had written: "I have a new dress. It is a pretty dress. My mamma made my pretty new dress. I love mamma." A curly-headed little boy was writing: "I have a large ball. I like to kick my large ball." When we entered the room, the children's attention was riveted on Helen. One of them pulled me by the sleeve and said, "Girl is blind." The teacher was writing on the blackboard: "The girl's name is Helen. She is deaf. She cannot see. We are very sorry." I said: "Why do you write those sentences on the board? Wouldn't the children understand if you talked to them about Helen?" The teacher said something about getting the correct construction, and continued to construct an exercise out of Helen. I asked her if the little girl who had written about the new dress was particularly pleased with her dress. "No," she replied, "I think not; but children learn better if they write about things that concern them personally." It seemed all so mechanical and difficult, my heart ached for the poor little children. Nobody thinks of making a hearing child say, "I have a pretty new dress," at the beginning. These children were older in years, it is true, than the baby who lisps, "Papa kiss baby—pretty," and fills out her meaning by pointing to her new dress; but their ability to understand and use language was no greater.
There was the same difficulty throughout the school. In every classroom I saw sentences on the blackboard, which evidently had been written to illustrate some grammatical rule, or for the purpose of using words that had previously been taught in the same, or in some other connection. This sort of thing may be necessary in some stages of education; but it isn't the way to acquire language. NOTHING, I THINK, CRUSHES THE CHILD'S IMPULSE TO TALK NATURALLY MORE EFFECTUALLY THAN THESE BLACKBOARD EXERCISES. The schoolroom is not the place to teach any young child language, least of all the deaf child. He must be kept as unconscious as the hearing child of the fact that he is learning words,AND HE SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO PRATTLE ON HIS FINGERS, OR WITH HIS PENCIL, IN MONOSYLLABLES IF HE CHOOSES, UNTIL SUCH TIME AS HIS GROWING INTELLIGENCE DEMANDS THE SENTENCE. Language should not be associated in his mind with endless hours in school, with puzzling questions in grammar, or with anything that is an enemy to joy. But I must not get into the habit of criticizing other people's methods too severely. I may be as far from the straight road as they.
Miss Sullivan's second report brings the account down to October 1st, 1888.
During the past year Helen has enjoyed excellent health. Her eyes and ears have been examined by specialists, and it is their opinion that she cannot have the slightest perception of either light or sound.
It is impossible to tell exactly to what extent the senses of smell and taste aid her in gaining information respecting physical qualities; but, according to eminent authority, these senses do exert a great influence on the mental and moral development. Dugald Stewart says, "Some of the most significant words relating to the human mind are borrowed from the sense of smell; and the conspicuous place which its sensations occupy in the poetical language of all nations shows how easily and naturally they ally themselves with the refined operations of the fancy and the moral emotions of the heart." Helen certainly derives great pleasure from the exercise of these senses. On entering a greenhouse her countenance becomes radiant, and she will tell the names of the flowers with which she is familiar, by the sense of smell alone. Her recollections of the sensations of smell are very vivid. She enjoys in anticipation the scent of a rose or a violet; and if she is promised a bouquet of these flowers, a peculiarly happy expression lights her face, indicating that in imagination she perceives their fragrance, and that it is pleasant to her. It frequently happens that the perfume of a flower or the flavour of a fruit recalls to her mind some happy event in home life, or a delightful birthday party.
Her sense of touch has sensibly increased during the year, and has gained in acuteness and delicacy. Indeed, her whole body is so finely organized that she seems to use it as a medium for bringing herself into closer relations with her fellow creatures. She is able not only to distinguish with great accuracy the different undulations of the air and the vibrations of the floor made by various sounds and motions, and to recognize her friends and acquaintances the instant she touches their hands or clothing, but she also perceives the state of mind of those around her. It is impossible for any one with whom Helen is conversing to be particularly happy or sad, and withhold the knowledge of this fact from her.
She observes the slightest emphasis placed upon a word in conversation, and she discovers meaning in every change of position, and in the varied play of the muscles of the hand. She responds quickly to the gentle pressure of affection, the pat of approval, the jerk of impatience, the firm motion of command, and to the many other variations of the almost infinite language of the feelings; and she has become so expert in interpreting this unconscious language of the emotions that she is often able to divine our very thoughts.
In my account of Helen last year, I mentioned several instances where she seemed to have called into use an inexplicable mental faculty; but it now seems to me, after carefully considering the matter, that this power may be explained by her perfect familiarity with the muscular variations of those with whom she comes into contact, caused by their emotions. She has been forced to depend largely upon this muscular sense as a means of ascertaining the mental condition of those about her. She has learned to connect certain movements of the body with anger, others with joy, and others still with sorrow. One day, while she was out walking with her mother and Mr. Anagnos, a boy threw a torpedo, which startled Mrs. Keller. Helen felt the change in her mother's movements instantly, and asked, "What are we afraid of?" On one occasion, while walking on the Common with her, I saw a police officer taking a man to the station-house. The agitation which I felt evidently produced a perceptible physical change; for Helen asked, excitedly, "What do you see?"
A striking illustration of this strange power was recently shown while her ears were being examined by the aurists in Cincinnati. Several experiments were tried, to determine positively whether or not she had any perception of sound. All present were astonished when she appeared not only to hear a whistle, but also an ordinary tone of voice. She would turn her head, smile, and act as though she had heard what was said. I was then standing beside her, holding her hand. Thinking that she was receiving impressions from me, I put her hands upon the table, and withdrew to the opposite side of the room. The aurists then tried their experiments with quite different results. Helen remained motionless through them all, not once showing the least sign that she realized what was going on. At my suggestion, one of the gentlemen took her hand, and the tests were repeated. This time her countenance changed whenever she was spoken to, but there was not such a decided lighting up of the features as when I had held her hand.
In the account of Helen last year it was stated that she knew nothing about death, or the burial of the body; yet on entering a cemetery for the first time in her life, she showed signs of emotion—her eyes actually filling with tears.
A circumstance equally remarkable occurred last summer; but, before relating it, I will mention what she now knows with regard to death. Even before I knew her, she had handled a dead chicken, or bird, or some other small animal. Some time after the visit to the cemetery before referred to, Helen became interested in a horse that had met with an accident by which one of his legs had been badly injured, and she went daily with me to visit him. The wounded leg soon became so much worse that the horse was suspended from a beam. The animal groaned with pain, and Helen, perceiving his groans, was filled with pity. At last it became necessary to kill him, and, when Helen next asked to go and see him, I told her that he was DEAD. This was the first time that she had heard the word. I then explained that he had been shot to relieve him from suffering, and that he was now BURIED—put into the ground. I am inclined to believe that the idea of his having been intentionally shot did not make much impression upon her; but I think she did realize the fact that life was extinct in the horse as in the dead birds she had touched, and also that he had been put into the ground. Since this occurrence, I have used the word DEAD whenever occasion required, but with no further explanation of its meaning.
While making a visit at Brewster, Massachusetts, she one day accompanied my friend and me through the graveyard. She examined one stone after another, and seemed pleased when she could decipher a name. She smelt of the flowers, but showed no desire to pluck them; and, when I gathered a few for her, she refused to have them pinned on her dress. When her attention was drawn to a marble slab inscribed with the name FLORENCE in relief, she dropped upon the ground as though looking for something, then turned to me with a face full of trouble, and asked, "Were is poor little Florence?" I evaded the question, but she persisted. Turning to my friend, she asked, "Did you cry loud for poor little Florence?" Then she added: "I think she is very dead. Who put her in big hole?" As she continued to ask these distressing questions, we left the cemetery. Florence was the daughter of my friend, and was a young lady at the time of her death; but Helen had been told nothing about her, nor did she even know that my friend had had a daughter. Helen had been given a bed and carriage for her dolls, which she had received and used like any other gift. On her return to the house after her visit to the cemetery, she ran to the closet where these toys were kept, and carried them to my friend, saying, "They are poor little Florence's." This was true, although we were at a loss to understand how she guessed it. A letter written to her mother in the course of the following week gave an account of her impression in her own words:
"I put my little babies to sleep in Florence's little bed, and I take them to ride in her carriage. Poor little Florence is dead. She was very sick and died. Mrs. H. did cry loud for her dear little child. She got in the ground, and she is very dirty, and she is cold. Florence was very lovely like Sadie, and Mrs. H. kissed her and hugged her much. Florence is very sad in big hole. Doctor gave her medicine to make her well, but poor Florence did not get well. When she was very sick she tossed and moaned in bed. Mrs. H. will go to see her soon."
Notwithstanding the activity of Helen's mind, she is a very natural child. She is fond of fun and frolic, and loves dearly to be with other children. She is never fretful or irritable, and I have never seen her impatient with her playmates because they failed to understand her. She will play for hours together with children who cannot understand a single word she spells, and it is pathetic to watch the eager gestures and excited pantomime through which her ideas and emotions find expression. Occasionally some little boy or girl will try to learn the manual alphabet. Then it is beautiful to observe with what patience, sweetness, and perseverance Helen endeavours to bring the unruly fingers of her little friend into proper position.
One day, while Helen was wearing a little jacket of which she was very proud, her mother said: "There is a poor little girl who has no cloak to keep her warm. Will you give her yours?" Helen began to pull off the jacket, saying, "I must give it to a poor little strange girl."
She is very fond of children younger than herself, and a baby invariably calls forth all the motherly instincts of her nature. She will handle the baby as tenderly as the most careful nurse could desire. It is pleasant, too, to note her thoughtfulness for little children, and her readiness to yield to their whims.
She has a very sociable disposition, and delights in the companionship of those who can follow the rapid motions of her fingers; but if left alone she will amuse herself for hours at a time with her knitting or sewing.
She reads a great deal. She bends over her book with a look of intense interest, and as the forefinger of her left hand runs along the line, she spells out the words with the other hand; but often her motions are so rapid as to be unintelligible even to those accustomed to reading the swift and varied movements of her fingers.
Every shade of feeling finds expression through her mobile features. Her behaviour is easy and natural, and it is charming because of its frankness and evident sincerity. Her heart is too full of unselfishness and affection to allow a dream of fear or unkindness. She does not realize that one can be anything but kind-hearted and tender. She is not conscious of any reason why she should be awkward; consequently, her movements are free and graceful.
She is very fond of all the living things at home, and she will not have them unkindly treated. When she is riding in the carriage she will not allow the driver to use the whip, because, she says, "poor horses will cry." One morning she was greatly distressed by finding that one of the dogs had a block fastened to her collar. We explained that it was done to keep Pearl from running away. Helen expressed a great deal of sympathy, and at every opportunity during the day she would find Pearl and carry the burden from place to place.
Her father wrote to her last summer that the birds and bees were eating all his grapes. At first she was very indignant, and said the little creatures were "very wrong"; but she seemed pleased when I explained to her that the birds and bees were hungry, and did not know that it was selfish to eat all the fruit. In a letter written soon afterward she says:
"I am very sorry that bumblebees and hornets and birds and large flies and worms are eating all of my father's delicious grapes. They like juicy fruit to eat as well as people, and they are hungry. They are not very wrong to eat too many grapes because they do not know much."
She continues to make rapid progress in the acquisition of language as her experiences increase. While these were few and elementary, her vocabulary was necessarily limited; but, as she learns more of the world about her, her judgment grows more accurate, her reasoning powers grow stronger, more active and subtle, and the language by which she expresses this intellectual activity gains in fluency and logic.
When traveling she drinks in thought and language. Sitting beside her in the car, I describe what I see from the window—hills and valleys and the rivers; cotton-fields and gardens in which strawberries, peaches, pears, melons, and vegetables are growing; herds of cows and horses feeding in broad meadows, and flocks of sheep on the hillside; the cities with their churches and schools, hotels and warehouses, and the occupations of the busy people. While I am communicating these things, Helen manifests intense interest; and, in default of words, she indicates by gestures and pantomime her desire to learn more of her surroundings and of the great forces which are operating everywhere. In this way, she learns countless new expressions without any apparent effort.
From the day when Helen first grasped the idea that all objects have names, and that these can be communicated by certain movements of the fingers, I have talked to her exactly as I should have done had she been able to hear, with only this exception, that I have addressed the words to her fingers instead of to her ears. Naturally, there was at first a strong tendency on her part to use only the important words in a sentence. She would say: "Helen milk." I got the milk to show her that she had used the correct word; but I did not let her drink it until she had, with my assistance, made a complete sentence, as "Give Helen some milk to drink." In these early lessons I encouraged her in the use of different forms of expression for conveying the same idea. If she was eating some candy, I said: "Will Helen please give teacher some candy?" or, "Teacher would like to eat some of Helen's candy," emphasizing the 's. She very soon perceived that the same idea could be expressed in a great many ways. In two or three months after I began to teach her she would say: "Helen wants to go to bed," or, "Helen is sleepy, and Helen will go to bed."
I am constantly asked the question, "How did you teach her the meaning of words expressive of intellectual and moral qualities?" I believe it was more through association and repetition than through any explanation of mine. This is especially true of her earlier lessons, when her knowledge of language was so slight as to make explanation impossible.
I always made it a practice to use the words descriptive of emotions, of intellectual or moral qualities and actions, in connection with the circumstance which required these words. Soon after I became her teacher Helen broke her new doll, of which she was very fond. She began to cry. I said to her, "Teacher is SORRY." After a few repetitions she came to associate the word with the feeling.
The word HAPPY she learned in the same way; ALSO, RIGHT, WRONG, GOOD, BAD, and other adjectives. The word LOVE she learned as other children do—by its association with caresses.
One day I asked her a simple question in a combination of numbers, which I was sure she knew. She answered at random. I checked her, and she stood still, the expression of her face plainly showing that she was trying to think. I touched her forehead, and spelled "t-h-i-n-k." The word, thus connected with the act, seemed to impress itself on her mind much as if I had placed her hand upon an object and then spelled its name. Since that time she has always used the word THINK.
At a later period I began to use such words as PERHAPS, SUPPOSE, EXPECT, FORGET, REMEMBER. If Helen asked, "Where is mother now?" I replied: "I do not know. PERHAPS she is with Leila."
She is always anxious to learn the names of people we meet in the horse-cars or elsewhere, and to know where they are going, and what they will do. Conversations of this kind are frequent:
HELEN. What is little boy's name?
TEACHER. I do not know, for he is a little stranger; but PERHAPS his name is Jack.
HELEN. Where is he going?
TEACHER. He MAY BE going to the Common to have fun with other boys.
HELEN. What will he play?
TEACHER. I SUPPOSE he will play ball.
HELEN. What are boys doing now?
TEACHER. PERHAPS they are expecting Jack, and are waiting for him.
After the words have become familiar to her, she uses them in composition.
September 26, 1888.
"This morning teacher and I sat by the window and we saw a little boy walking on the sidewalk. It was raining very hard and he had a very large umbrella to keep off the rain-drops.
"I do not know how old he was but THINK he MAY HAVE BEEN six years old. PERHAPS his name was Joe. I do not know where he was going because he was a little strange boy. But PERHAPS his mother sent him to a store to buy something for dinner. He had a bag in one hand. I SUPPOSE he was going to take it to his mother."
In teaching her the use of language, I have not confined myself to any particular theory or system. I have observed the spontaneous movements of my pupil's mind, and have tried to follow the suggestions thus given to me.
Owing to the nervousness of Helen's temperament, every precaution has been taken to avoid unduly exciting her already very active brain. The greater part of the year has been spent in travel and in visits to different places, and her lessons have been those suggested by the various scenes and experiences through which she has passed. She continues to manifest the same eagerness to learn as at first. It is never necessary to urge her to study. Indeed, I am often obliged to coax her to leave an example or a composition.
While not confining myself to any special system of instruction, I have tried to add to her general information and intelligence, to enlarge her acquaintance with things around her, and to bring her into easy and natural relations with people. I have encouraged her to keep a diary, from which the following selection has been made:
"March 22nd, 1888.
"Mr. Anagnos came to see me Thursday. I was glad to hug and kiss him. He takes care of sixty little blind girls and seventy little blind boys. I do love them. Little blind girls sent me a pretty work-basket. I found scissors and thread, and needle-book with many needles in it, and crochet hook and emery, and thimble, and box, and yard measure and buttons, and pin-cushion. I will write little blind girls a letter to thank them. I will make pretty clothes for Nancy and Adeline and Allie. I will go to Cincinnati in May and buy another child. Then I will have four children. New baby's name is Harry. Mr. Wilson and Mr. Mitchell came to see us Sunday. Mr. Anagnos went to Louisville Monday to see little blind children. Mother went to Huntsville. I slept with father, and Mildred slept with teacher. I did learn about calm. It does mean quiet and happy. Uncle Morrie sent me pretty stories. I read about birds. The quail lays fifteen or twenty eggs and they are white. She makes her nest on the ground. The blue-bird makes her nest in a hollow tree and her eggs are blue. The robin's eggs are green. I learned a song about spring. March, April, May are spring.
Now melts the snow. The warm winds blow The waters flow And robin dear, Is come to show That Spring is here.
"James killed snipes for breakfast. Little chickens did get very cold and die. I am sorry. Teacher and I went to ride on Tennessee River, in a boat. I saw Mr. Wilson and James row with oars. Boat did glide swiftly and I put hand in water and felt it flowing.
"I caught fish with hook and line and pole. We climbed high hill and teacher fell and hurt her head. I ate very small fish for supper. I did read about cow and calf. The cow loves to eat grass as well as girl does bread and butter and milk. Little calf does run and leap in field. She likes to skip and play, for she is happy when the sun is bright and warm. Little boy did love his calf. And he did say, I will kiss you, little calf, and he put his arms around calf's neck and kissed her. The calf licked good boy's face with long rough tongue. Calf must not open mouth much to kiss. I am tired, and teacher does not want me to write more."
In the autumn she went to a circus. While we were standing before his cage the lion roared, and Helen felt the vibration of the air so distinctly that she was able to reproduce the noise quite accurately.
I tried to describe to her the appearance of a camel; but, as we were not allowed to touch the animal, I feared that she did not get a correct idea of its shape. A few days afterward, however, hearing a commotion in the schoolroom, I went in and found Helen on all fours with a pillow so strapped upon her back as to leave a hollow in the middle, thus making a hump on either side. Between these humps she had placed her doll, which she was giving a ride around the room. I watched her for some time as she moved about, trying to take long strides in order to carry out the idea I had given her of a camel's gait. When I asked her what she was doing, she replied, "I am a very funny camel."
During the next two years neither Mr. Anagnos, who was in Europe for a year, nor Miss Sullivan wrote anything about Helen Keller for publication. In 1892 appeared the Perkins Institution report for 1891, containing a full account of Helen Keller, including many of her letters, exercises, and compositions. As some of the letters and the story of the "Frost King" are published here, there is no need of printing any more samples of Helen Keller's writing during the third, fourth and fifth years of her education. It was the first two years that counted. From Miss Sullivan's part of this report I give her most important comments and such biographical matter as does not appear elsewhere in the present volume.
These extracts Mr. Anagnos took from Miss Sullivan's notes and memoranda.
One day, while her pony and her donkey were standing side by side, Helen went from one to the other, examining them closely. At last she paused with her hand upon Neddy's head, and addressed him thus: "Yes, dear Neddy, it is true that you are not as beautiful as Black Beauty. Your body is not so handsomely formed, and there is no proud look in your face, and your neck does not arch, Besides, your long ears make you look a little funny. Of course, you cannot help it, and I love you just as well as if you were the most beautiful creature in the world."
Helen has been greatly interested in the story of "Black Beauty." To show how quickly she perceives and associates ideas, I will give an instance which all who have read the book will be able to appreciate. I was reading the following paragraph to her:
"The horse was an old, worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept coat, and bones that showed plainly through it; the knees knuckled over, and the forelegs were very unsteady. I had been eating some hay, and the wind rolled a little lock of it that way, and the poor creature put out her long, thin neck and picked it up, and then turned round and looked about for more. There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not help noticing, and then, as I was thinking where I had seen that horse before, she looked full at me and said, 'Black Beauty, is that you?'"
At this point Helen pressed my hand to stop me. She was sobbing convulsively. "It was poor Ginger," was all she could say at first. Later, when she was able to talk about it, she said: "Poor Ginger! The words made a distinct picture in my mind. I could see the way Ginger looked; all her beauty gone, her beautiful arched neck drooping, all the spirit gone out of her flashing eyes, all the playfulness gone out of her manner. Oh, how terrible it was! I never knew before that there could be such a change in anything. There were very few spots of sunshine in poor Ginger's life, and the sadnesses were so many!" After a moment she added, mournfully, "I fear some people's lives are just like Ginger's."
This morning Helen was reading for the first time Bryant's poem, "Oh, mother of a mighty race!" I said to her, "Tell me, when you have read the poem through, who you think the mother is." When she came to the line, "There's freedom at thy gates, and rest," she exclaimed: "It means America! The gate, I suppose, is New York City, and Freedom is the great statue of Liberty." After she had read "The Battlefield," by the same author, I asked her which verse she thought was the most beautiful. She replied, "I like this verse best:
'Truth crushed to earth shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshipers.'"
She is at once transported into the midst of the events of a story. She rejoices when justice wins, she is sad when virtue lies low, and her face glows with admiration and reverence when heroic deeds are described. She even enters into the spirit of battle; she says, "I think it is right for men to fight against wrongs and tyrants."
Here begins Miss Sullivan's connected account in the report of 1891:
During the past three years Helen has continued to make rapid progress in the acquisition of language. She has one advantage over ordinary children, that nothing from without distracts her attention from her studies.
But this advantage involves a corresponding disadvantage, the danger of unduly severe mental application. Her mind is so constituted that she is in a state of feverish unrest while conscious that there is something that she does not comprehend. I have never known her to be willing to leave a lesson when she felt that there was anything in it which she did not understand. If I suggest her leaving a problem in arithmetic until the next day, she answers, "I think it will make my mind stronger to do it now."
A few evenings ago we were discussing the tariff. Helen wanted me to tell her about it. I said: "No. You cannot understand it yet." She was quiet for a moment, and then asked, with spirit: "How do you know that I cannot understand? I have a good mind! You must remember, dear teacher, that Greek parents were very particular with their children, and they used to let them listen to wise words, and I think they understood some of them." I have found it best not to tell her that she cannot understand, because she is almost certain to become excited.
Not long ago I tried to show her how to build a tower with her blocks. As the design was somewhat complicated, the slightest jar made the structure fall. After a time I became discouraged, and told her I was afraid she could not make it stand, but that I would build it for her; but she did not approve of this plan. She was determined to build the tower herself; and for nearly three hours she worked away, patiently gathering up the blocks whenever they fell, and beginning over again, until at last her perseverance was crowned with success. The tower stood complete in every part.
Until October, 1889, I had not deemed it best to confine Helen to any regular and systematic course of study. For the first two years of her intellectual life she was like a child in a strange country, where everything was new and perplexing; and, until she gained a knowledge of language, it was not possible to give her a definite course of instruction.
Moreover, Helen's inquisitiveness was so great during these years that it would have interfered with her progress in the acquisition of language, if a consideration of the questions which were constantly occurring to her had been deferred until the completion of a lesson. In all probability she would have forgotten the question, and a good opportunity to explain something of real interest to her would have been lost. Therefore it has always seemed best to me to teach anything whenever my pupil needed to know it, whether it had any bearing on the projected lesson or not, her inquiries have often led us far away from the subject under immediate consideration.
Since October, 1889, her work has been more regular and has included arithmetic, geography, zoology, botany and reading.
She has made considerable progress in the study of arithmetic. She readily explains the processes of multiplication, addition, subtraction, and division, and seems to understand the operations. She has nearly finished Colburn's mental arithmetic, her last work being in improper fractions. She has also done some good work in written arithmetic. Her mind works so rapidly, that it often happens, that when I give her an example she will give me the correct answer before I have time to write out the question. She pays little attention to the language used in stating a problem, and seldom stops to ask the meaning of unknown words or phrases until she is ready to explain her work. Once, when a question puzzled her very much, I suggested that we take a walk and then perhaps she would understand it. She shook her head decidedly, and said: "My enemies would think I was running away. I must stay and conquer them now," and she did.
The intellectual improvement which Helen has made in the past two years is shown more clearly in her greater command of language and in her ability to recognize nicer shades of meaning in the use of words, than in any other branch of her education.
Not a day passes that she does not learn many new words, nor are these merely the names of tangible and sensible objects. For instance, she one day wished to know the meaning of the following words: PHENOMENON, COMPRISE, ENERGY, REPRODUCTION, EXTRAORDINARY, PERPETUAL and MYSTERY. Some of these words have successive steps of meaning, beginning with what is simple and leading on to what is abstract. It would have been a hopeless task to make Helen comprehend the more abstruse meanings of the word MYSTERY, but she understood readily that it signified something hidden or concealed, and when she makes greater progress she will grasp its more abstruse meaning as easily as she now does the simpler signification. In investigating any subject there must occur at the beginning words and phrases which cannot be adequately understood until the pupil has made considerable advancement; yet I have thought it best to go on giving my pupil simple definitions, thinking that, although these may be somewhat vague and provisional, they will come to one another's assistance, and that what is obscure to-day will be plain to-morrow.
I regard my pupil as a free and active being, whose own spontaneous impulses must be my surest guide. I have always talked to Helen exactly as I would talk to a seeing and hearing child, and I have insisted that other people should do the same. Whenever any one asks me if she will understand this or that word I always reply: "Never mind whether she understands each separate word of a sentence or not. She will guess the meanings of the new words from their connection with others which are already intelligible to her."
In selecting books for Helen to read, I have never chosen them with reference to her deafness and blindness. She always reads such books as seeing and hearing children of her age read and enjoy. Of course, in the beginning it was necessary that the things described should be familiar and interesting, and the English pure and simple. I remember distinctly when she first attempted to read a little story. She had learned the printed letters, and for some time had amused herself by making simple sentences, using slips on which the words were printed in raised letters; but these sentences had no special relation to one another. One morning we caught a mouse, and it occurred to me, with a live mouse and a live cat to stimulate her interest, that I might arrange some sentences in such a way as to form a little story, and thus give her a new conception of the use of language. So I put the following sentences in the frame, and gave it to Helen: "The cat is on the box. A mouse is in the box. The cat can see the mouse. The cat would like to eat the mouse. Do not let the cat get the mouse. The cat can have some milk, and the mouse can have some cake." The word THE she did not know, and of course she wished it explained. At that stage of her advancement it would have been impossible to explain its use, and so I did not try, but moved her finger on to the next word, which she recognized with a bright smile. Then, as I put her hand upon puss sitting on the box, she made a little exclamation of surprise, and the rest of the sentence became perfectly clear to her. When she had read the words of the second sentence, I showed her that there really was a mouse in the box. She then moved her finger to the next line with an expression of eager interest. "The cat can see the mouse." Here I made the cat look at the mouse, and let Helen feel the cat. The expression of the little girl's countenance showed that she was perplexed. I called her attention to the following line, and, although she knew only the three words, CAT, EAT and MOUSE, she caught the idea. She pulled the cat away and put her on the floor, at the same time covering the box with the frame. When she read, "Do not let the cat get the mouse!" she recognized the negation in the sentence, and seemed to know that the cat must not get the mouse. GET and LET were new words. She was familiar with the words of the last sentence, and was delighted when allowed to act them out. By signs she made me understand that she wished another story, and I gave her a book containing very short stories, written in the most elementary style. She ran her fingers along the lines, finding the words she knew and guessing at the meaning of others, in a way that would convince the most conservative of educators that a little deaf child, if given the opportunity, will learn to read as easily and naturally as ordinary children.
I am convinced that Helen's use of English is due largely to her familiarity with books. She often reads for two or three hours in succession, and then lays aside her book reluctantly. One day as we left the library I noticed that she appeared more serious than usual, and I asked the cause. "I am thinking how much wiser we always are when we leave here than we are when we come," was her reply.
When asked why she loved books so much, she once replied: "Because they tell me so much that is interesting about things I cannot see, and they are never tired or troubled like people. They tell me over and over what I want to know."
While reading from Dickens's "Child's History of England," we came to the sentence, "Still the spirit of the Britons was not broken." I asked what she thought that meant. She replied, "I think it means that the brave Britons were not discouraged because the Romans had won so many battles, and they wished all the more to drive them away." It would not have been possible for her to define the words in this sentence; and yet she had caught the author's meaning, and was able to give it in her own words. The next lines are still more idiomatic, "When Suetonius left the country, they fell upon his troops and retook the island of Anglesea." Here is her interpretation of the sentence: "It means that when the Roman general had gone away, the Britons began to fight again; and because the Roman soldiers had no general to tell them what to do, they were overcome by the Britons and lost the island they had captured."
She prefers intellectual to manual occupations, and is not so fond of fancy work as many of the blind children are; yet she is eager to join them in whatever they are doing. She has learned to use the Caligraph typewriter, and writes very correctly, but not rapidly as yet, having had less than a month's practice.
More than two years ago a cousin taught her the telegraph alphabet by making the dots and dashes on the back of her hand with his finger. Whenever she meets any one who is familiar with this system, she is delighted to use it in conversation. I have found it a convenient medium of communicating with Helen when she is at some distance from me, for it enables me to talk with her by tapping upon the floor with my foot. She feels the vibrations and understands what is said to her.
It was hoped that one so peculiarly endowed by nature as Helen, would, if left entirely to her own resources, throw some light upon such psychological questions as were not exhaustively investigated by Dr. Howe; but their hopes were not to be realized. In the case of Helen, as in that of Laura Bridgman, disappointment was inevitable. It is impossible to isolate a child in the midst of society, so that he shall not be influenced by the beliefs of those with whom he associates. In Helen's case such an end could not have been attained without depriving her of that intercourse with others, which is essential to her nature.
It must have been evident to those who watched the rapid unfolding of Helen's faculties that it would not be possible to keep her inquisitive spirit for any length of time from reaching out toward the unfathomable mysteries of life. But great care has been taken not to lead her thoughts prematurely to the consideration of subjects which perplex and confuse all minds. Children ask profound questions, but they often receive shallow answers, or, to speak more correctly, they are quieted by such answers.
"Were did I come from?" and "Where shall I go when I die?" were questions Helen asked when she was eight years old. But the explanations which she was able to understand at that time did not satisfy, although they forced her to remain silent, until her mind should begin to put forth its higher powers, and generalize from innumerable impressions and ideas which streamed in upon it from books and from her daily experiences. Her mind sought for the cause of things.
As her observation of phenomena became more extensive and her vocabulary richer and more subtle, enabling her to express her own conceptions and ideas clearly, and also to comprehend the thoughts and experiences of others, she became acquainted with the limit of human creative power, and perceived that some power, not human, must have created the earth, the sun, and the thousand natural objects with which she was perfectly familiar.
Finally she one day demanded a name for the power, the existence of which she had already conceived in her own mind.
Through Charles Kingsley's "Greek Heroes" she had become familiar with the beautiful stories of the Greek gods and goddesses, and she must have met with the words GOD, HEAVEN, SOUL, and a great many similar expressions in books.
She never asked the meaning of such words, nor made any comment when they occurred; and until February, 1889, no one had ever spoken to her of God. At that time, a dear relative who was also an earnest Christian, tried to tell her about God but, as this lady did not use words suited to the comprehension of the child, they made little impression upon Helen's mind. When I subsequently talked with her she said: "I have something very funny to tell you. A. says God made me and every one out of sand; but it must be a joke. I am made of flesh and blood and bone, am I not?" Here she examined her arm with evident satisfaction, laughing heartily to herself. After a moment she went on: "A. says God is everywhere, and that He is all love; but I do not think a person can be made out of love. Love is only something in our hearts. Then A. said another very comical thing. She says He (meaning God) is my dear father. It made me laugh quite hard, for I know my father is Arthur Keller."
I explained to her that she was not yet able to understand what had been told her, and so easily led her to see that it would be better not to talk about such things until she was wiser.
She had met with the expression Mother Nature in the course of her reading, and for a long time she was in the habit of ascribing to Mother Nature whatever she felt to be beyond the power of man to accomplish. She would say, when speaking of the growth of a plant, "Mother Nature sends the sunshine and the rain to make the trees and the grass and the flowers grow." The following extract from my notes will show what were her ideas at this time:
Helen seemed a little serious after supper, and Mrs. H. asked her of what she was thinking. "I am thinking how very busy dear Mother Nature is in the springtime," she replied. When asked why, she answered: "Because she has so many children to take care of. She is the mother of everything; the flowers and trees and winds."
"How does Mother Nature take care of the flowers?" I asked.
"She sends the sunshine and rain to make them grow," Helen replied; and after a moment she added, "I think the sunshine is Nature's warm smile, and the raindrops are her tears."
Later she said: "I do not know if Mother Nature made me. I think my mother got me from heaven, but I do not know where that place is. I know that daisies and pansies come from seeds which have been put in the ground; but children do not grow out of the ground, I am sure. I have never seen a plant-child! But I cannot imagine who made Mother Nature, can you? I love the beautiful spring, because the budding trees and the blossoming flowers and the tender green leaves fill my heart with joy. I must go now to see my garden. The daisies and the pansies will think I have forgotten them."
After May, 1890, it was evident to me that she had reached a point where it was impossible to keep from her the religious beliefs held by those with whom she was in daily contact. She almost overwhelmed me with inquiries which were the natural outgrowth of her quickened intelligence.
Early in May she wrote on her tablet the following list of questions:
"I wish to write about things I do not understand. Who made the earth and the seas, and everything? What makes the sun hot? Where was I before I came to mother? I know that plants grow from seeds which are in the ground, but I am sure people do not grow that way. I never saw a child-plant. Little birds and chickens come out of eggs. I have seen them. What was the egg before it was an egg? Why does not the earth fall, it is so very large and heavy? Tell me something that Father Nature does. May I read the book called the Bible? Please tell your little pupil many things when you have much time."
Can any one doubt after reading these questions that the child who was capable of asking them was also capable of understanding at least their elementary answers? She could not, of course, have grasped such abstractions as a complete answer to her questions would involve; but one's whole life is nothing more than a continual advance in the comprehension of the meaning and scope of such ideas.
Throughout Helen's education I have invariably assumed that she can understand whatever it is desirable for her to know. Unless there had been in Helen's mind some such intellectual process as the questions indicate, any explanation of them would have been unintelligible to her. Without that degree of mental development and activity which perceives the necessity of superhuman creative power, no explanation of natural phenomena is possible.
After she had succeeded in formulating the ideas which had been slowly growing in her mind, they seemed suddenly to absorb all her thoughts, and she became impatient to have everything explained. As we were passing a large globe a short time after she had written the questions, she stopped before it and asked, "Who made the REAL world?" I replied, "No one knows how the earth, the sun, and all the worlds which we call stars came to be; but I will tell you how wise men have tried to account for their origin, and to interpret the great and mysterious forces of nature."
She knew that the Greeks had many gods to whom they ascribed various powers, because they believed that the sun, the lightning, and a hundred other natural forces, were independent and superhuman powers. But after a great deal of thought and study, I told her, men came to believe that all forces were manifestations of one power, and to that power they gave the name GOD.
She was very still for a few minutes, evidently thinking earnestly. She then asked, "Who made God?" I was compelled to evade her question, for I could not explain to her the mystery of a self-existent being. Indeed, many of her eager questions would have puzzled a far wiser person than I am. Here are some of them: "What did God make the new worlds out of?" "Where did He get the soil, and the water, and the seeds, and the first animals?" "Where is God?" "Did you ever see God?" I told her that God was everywhere, and that she must not think of Him as a person, but as the life, the mind, the soul of everything. She interrupted me: "Everything does not have life. The rocks have not life, and they cannot think." It is often necessary to remind her that there are infinitely many things that the wisest people in the world cannot explain.
No creed or dogma has been taught to Helen, nor has any effort been made to force religious beliefs upon her attention. Being fully aware of my own incompetence to give her any adequate explanations of the mysteries which underlie the names of God, soul, and immortality, I have always felt obliged, by a sense of duty to my pupil, to say as little as possible about spiritual matters. The Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks has explained to her in a beautiful way the fatherhood of God.
She has not as yet been allowed to read the Bible, because I do not see how she can do so at present without getting a very erroneous conception of the attributes of God. I have already told her in simple language of the beautiful and helpful life of Jesus, and of His cruel death. The narrative affected her greatly when first she listened to it.
When she referred to our conversation again, it was to ask, "Why did not Jesus go away, so that His enemies could not find Him?" She thought the miracles of Jesus very strange. When told that Jesus walked on the sea to meet His disciples, she said, decidedly, "It does not mean WALKED, it means SWAM." When told of the instance in which Jesus raised the dead, she was much perplexed, saying, "I did not know life could come back into the dead body!"
One day she said, sadly: "I am blind and deaf. That is why I cannot see God." I taught her the word INVISIBLE, and told her we could not see God with our eyes, because He was a spirit; but that when our hearts were full of goodness and gentleness, then we saw Him because then we were more like Him.
At another time she asked, "What is a soul?" "No one knows what the soul is like," I replied; "but we know that it is not the body, and it is that part of us which thinks and loves and hopes, and which Christian people believe will live on after the body is dead." I then asked her, "Can you think of your soul as separate from your body?" "Oh, yes!" she replied; "because last hour I was thinking very hard of Mr. Anagnos, and then my mind,"—then changing the word—"my soul was in Athens, but my body was here in the study." At this moment another thought seemed to flash through her mind, and she added, "But Mr. Anagnos did not speak to my soul." I explained to her that the soul, too, is invisible, or in other words, that it is without apparent form. "But if I write what my soul thinks," she said, "then it will be visible, and the words will be its body."
A long time ago Helen said to me, "I would like to live sixteen hundred years." When asked if she would not like to live ALWAYS in a beautiful country called heaven, her first question was, "Where is heaven?" I was obliged to confess that I did not know, but suggested that it might be on one of the stars. A moment after she said, "Will you please go first and tell me all about it?" and then she added, "Tuscumbia is a very beautiful little town." It was more than a year before she alluded to the subject again, and when she did return to it, her questions were numerous and persistent. She asked: "Where is heaven, and what is it like? Why cannot we know as much about heaven as we do about foreign countries?" I told her in very simple language that there may be many places called heaven, but that essentially it was a condition—the fulfilment of the heart's desire, the satisfaction of its wants; and that heaven existed wherever RIGHT was acknowledged, believed in, and loved.
She shrinks from the thought of death with evident dismay. Recently, on being shown a deer which had been killed by her brother, she was greatly distressed, and asked sorrowfully, "Why must everything die, even the fleet-footed deer?" At another time she asked, "Do you not think we would be very much happier always, if we did not have to die?" I said, "No; because, if there were no death, our world would soon be so crowded with living creatures that it would be impossible for any of them to live comfortably." "But," said Helen, quickly, "I think God could make some more worlds as well as He made this one."
When friends have told her of the great happiness which awaits her in another life, she instantly asked: "How do you know, if you have not been dead?"
The literal sense in which she sometimes takes common words and idioms shows how necessary it is that we should make sure that she receives their correct meaning. When told recently that Hungarians were born musicians, she asked in surprise, "Do they sing when they are born?" When her friend added that some of the pupils he had seen in Budapest had more than one hundred tunes in their heads, she said, laughing, "I think their heads must be very noisy." She sees the ridiculous quickly, and, instead of being seriously troubled by metaphorical language, she is often amused at her own too literal conception of its meaning.
Having been told that the soul was without form, she was much perplexed at David's words, "He leadeth my soul." "Has it feet? Can it walk? Is it blind?" she asked; for in her mind the idea of being led was associated with blindness.
Of all the subjects which perplex and trouble Helen, none distresses her so much as the knowledge of the existence of evil, and of the suffering which results from it. For a long time it was possible to keep this knowledge from her; and it will always be comparatively easy to prevent her from coming in personal contact with vice and wickedness. The fact that sin exists, and that great misery results from it, dawned gradually upon her mind as she understood more and more clearly the lives and experiences of those around her. The necessity of laws and penalties had to be explained to her. She found it very hard to reconcile the presence of evil in the world with the idea of God which had been presented to her mind.
One day she asked, "Does God take care of us all the time?" She was answered in the affirmative. "Then why did He let little sister fall this morning, and hurt her head so badly?" Another time she was asking about the power and goodness of God. She had been told of a terrible storm at sea, in which several lives were lost, and she asked, "Why did not God save the people if He can do all things?"
Surrounded by loving friends and the gentlest influences, as Helen had always been, she has, from the earliest stage of her intellectual enlightenment, willingly done right. She knows with unerring instinct what is right, and does it joyously. She does not think of one wrong act as harmless, of another as of no consequence, and of another as not intended. To her pure soul all evil is equally unlovely.
These passages from the paper Miss Sullivan prepared for the meeting at Chautauqua, in July, 1894, of the American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, contain her latest written account of her methods.
You must not imagine that as soon as Helen grasped the idea that everything had a name she at once became mistress of the treasury of the English language, or that "her mental faculties emerged, full armed, from their then living tomb, as Pallas Athene from the head of Zeus," as one of her enthusiastic admirers would have us believe. At first, the words, phrases and sentences which she used in expressing her thoughts were all reproductions of what we had used in conversation with her, and which her memory had unconsciously retained. And indeed, this is true of the language of all children. Their language is the memory of the language they hear spoken in their homes. Countless repetition of the conversation of daily life has impressed certain words and phrases upon their memories, and when they come to talk themselves, memory supplies the words they lisp. Likewise, the language of educated people is the memory of the language of books.
Language grows out of life, out of its needs and experiences. At first my little pupil's mind was all but vacant. She had been living in a world she could not realize. LANGUAGE and KNOWLEDGE are indissolubly connected; they are interdependent. Good work in language presupposes and depends on a real knowledge of things. As soon as Helen grasped the idea that everything had a name, and that by means of the manual alphabet these names could be transmitted from one to another, I proceeded to awaken her further interest in the OBJECTS whose names she learned to spell with such evident joy. I NEVER TAUGHT LANGUAGE FOR THE PURPOSE OF TEACHING IT; but invariably used language as a medium for the communication of THOUGHT; thus the learning of language was COINCIDENT with the acquisition of knowledge. In order to use language intelligently, one must have something to talk ABOUT, and having something to talk about is the result of having had experiences; no amount of language training will enable our little children to use language with ease and fluency unless they have something clearly in their minds which they wish to communicate, or unless we succeed in awakening in them a desire to know what is in the minds of others.
At first I did not attempt to confine my pupil to any system. I always tried to find out what interested her most, and made that the starting-point for the new lesson, whether it had any bearing on the lesson I had planned to teach or not. During the first two years of her intellectual life, I required Helen to write very little. In order to write one must have something to write about, and having something to write about requires some mental preparation. The memory must be stored with ideas and the mind must be enriched with knowledge before writing becomes a natural and pleasurable effort. Too often, I think, children are required to write before they have anything to say. Teach them to think and read and talk without self-repression, and they will write because they cannot help it.
Helen acquired language by practice and habit rather than by study of rules and definitions. Grammar with its puzzling array of classifications, nomenclatures, and paradigms, was wholly discarded in her education. She learned language by being brought in contact with the LIVING language itself; she was made to deal with it in everyday conversation, and in her books, and to turn it over in a variety of ways until she was able to use it correctly. No doubt I talked much more with my fingers, and more constantly than I should have done with my mouth; for had she possessed the use of sight and hearing, she would have been less dependent on me for entertainment and instruction.
I believe every child has hidden away somewhere in his being noble capacities which may be quickened and developed if we go about it in the right way; but we shall never properly develop the higher natures of our little ones while we continue to fill their minds with the so-called rudiments. Mathematics will never make them loving, nor will the accurate knowledge of the size and shape of the world help them to appreciate its beauties. Let us lead them during the first years to find their greatest pleasure in Nature. Let them run in the fields, learn about animals, and observe real things. Children will educate themselves under right conditions. They require guidance and sympathy far more than instruction.
I think much of the fluency with which Helen uses language is due to the fact that nearly every impression which she receives comes through the medium of language. But after due allowance has been made for Helen's natural aptitude for acquiring language, and for the advantage resulting from her peculiar environment, I think that we shall still find that the constant companionship of good books has been of supreme importance in her education. It may be true, as some maintain, that language cannot express to us much beyond what we have lived and experienced; but I have always observed that children manifest the greatest delight in the lofty, poetic language which we are too ready to think beyond their comprehension. "This is all you will understand," said a teacher to a class of little children, closing the book which she had been reading to them. "Oh, please read us the rest, even if we won't understand it," they pleaded, delighted with the rhythm, and the beauty which they felt, even though they could not have explained it. It is not necessary that a child should understand every word in a book before he can read with pleasure and profit. Indeed, only such explanations should be given as are really essential. Helen drank in language which she at first could not understand, and it remained in her mind until needed, when it fitted itself naturally and easily into her conversation and compositions. Indeed, it is maintained by some that she reads too much, that a great deal of originative force is dissipated in the enjoyment of books; that when she might see and say things for herself, she sees them only through the eyes of others, and says them in their language, but I am convinced that original composition without the preparation of much reading is an impossibility. Helen has had the best and purest models in language constantly presented to her, and her conversation and her writing are unconscious reproductions of what she has read. Reading, I think, should be kept independent of the regular school exercises. Children should be encouraged to read for the pure delight of it. The attitude of the child toward his books should be that of unconscious receptivity. The great works of the imagination ought to become a part of his life, as they were once of the very substance of the men who wrote them. It is true, the more sensitive and imaginative the mind is that receives the thought-pictures and images of literature, the more nicely the finest lines are reproduced. Helen has the vitality of feeling, the freshness and eagerness of interest, and the spiritual insight of the artistic temperament, and naturally she has a more active and intense joy in life, simply as life, and in nature, books, and people than less gifted mortals. Her mind is so filled with the beautiful thoughts and ideals of the great poets that nothing seems commonplace to her; for her imagination colours all life with its own rich hues.
There has been much discussion of such of Miss Sullivan's statements and explanations as have been published before. Too much has been written by people who do not know the problems of the deaf at first hand, and I do not care to add much to it. Miss Keller's education, however, is so fundamentally a question of language teaching that it rather includes the problems of the deaf than limits itself to the deaf alone. Teachers can draw their own conclusions. For the majority of readers, who will not approach Miss Keller's life from the educator's point of view, I will summarize a few principal things in Miss Sullivan's methods.
Miss Sullivan has begun where Dr. Howe left off. He invented the instrument, the physical means of working, but the teaching of language is quite another thing from the mechanical means by which language may be taught. By experiment, by studying other children, Miss Sullivan came upon the practical way of teaching language by the natural method. It was for this "natural method" that Dr. Howe was groping, but he never got to this idea, that a deaf child should not be taught each word separately by definition, but should be given language by endless repetition of language which it does not understand. And this is Miss Sullivan's great discovery. All day long in their play-time and work-time Miss Sullivan kept spelling into her pupil's hand, and by that Helen Keller absorbed words, just as the child in the cradle absorbs words by hearing thousands of them before he uses one and by associating the words with the occasion of their utterance. Thus he learns that words name things and actions and feelings. Now, that is the first principle in Miss Sullivan's method, one that had practical results, and one which, so far as I can discover, had never been put in practice in the education of a deaf child, not to say a deaf-blind child, until Miss Sullivan tried it with Helen Keller. And the principle had never been formulated clearly until Miss Sullivan wrote her letters.
The second principle in her method (the numerical order is, of course, arbitrary) is never to talk to the child about things distasteful or wearisome to him. In the first deaf school Miss Sullivan ever visited, the teacher was busy at the blackboard telling the children by written words something they did not want to know, while they were crowding round their visitor with wide-awake curiosity, showing there were a thousand things they did want to know. Why not, says Miss Sullivan, make a language lesson out of what they were interested in?
Akin to this idea of talking to the child about what interests him, is the principle never to silence a child who asks questions, but to answer the questions as truly as possible; for, says Miss Sullivan, the question is the door to the child's mind. Miss Sullivan never needlessly belittled her ideas or expressions to suit the supposed state of the child's intelligence. She urged every one to speak to Helen naturally, to give her full sentences and intelligent ideas, never minding whether Helen understood or not. Thus Miss Sullivan knew what so many people do not understand, that after the first rudimentary definitions of HAT, CUP, GO, SIT, the unit of language, as the child learns it, is the sentence, which is also the unit of language in our adult experience. We do not take in a sentence word by word, but as a whole. It is the proposition, something predicated about something, that conveys an idea. True, single words do suggest and express ideas; the child may say simply "mamma" when he means "Where is mamma?" but he learns the expression of the ideas that relate to mamma—he learns language—by hearing complete sentences. And though Miss Sullivan did not force grammatical completeness upon the first finger-lispings of her pupil, yet when she herself repeated Helen's sentence, "mamma milk," she filled out the construction, completed the child's ellipsis and said, "Mamma will bring Helen some milk."
Thus Miss Sullivan was working out a natural method, which is so simple, so lacking in artificial system, that her method seems rather to be a destruction of method. It is doubtful if we should have heard of Helen Keller if Miss Sullivan had not been where there were other children. By watching them, she learned to treat her pupil as nearly as possible like an ordinary child.
The manual alphabet was not the only means of presenting words to Helen Keller's fingers. Books supplemented, perhaps equaled in importance the manual alphabet, as a means of teaching language. Helen sat poring over them before she could read, not at first for the story, but to find words she knew; and the definition of new words which is implied in their context, in their position with reference to words known, added to Helen's vocabulary. Books are the storehouse of language, and any child, whether deaf or not, if he has his attention attracted in any way to printed pages, must learn. He learns not by reading what he understands, but by reading and remembering words he does not understand. And though perhaps few children will have as much precocious interest in books as did Helen Keller, yet the natural curiosity of every healthy child may be turned to printed pages, especially if the teacher is clever and plays a word game as Miss Sullivan did. Helen Keller is supposed to have a special aptitude for languages. It is true rather that she has a special aptitude for thinking, and her leaning toward language is due to the fact that language to her meant life. It was not a special subject, like geography or arithmetic, but her way to outward things.
When at the age of fourteen she had had but a few lessons in German, she read over the words of "Wilhelm Tell" and managed to get the story. Of grammar she knew nothing and she cared nothing for it. She got the language from the language itself, and this is, next to hearing the language spoken, the way for any one to get a foreign tongue, more vital and, in the end, easier than our schoolroom method of beginning with the grammar. In the same way she played with Latin, learning not only from the lessons her first Latin teacher gave her, but from going over and over the words of a text, a game she played by herself.
Mr. John D. Wright, one of her teachers at the Wright-Humason School, says in a letter to me:
"Often I found her, when she had a little leisure, sitting in her favourite corner, in a chair whose arms supported the big volume prepared for the blind, and passing her finger slowly over the lines of Moliere's 'Le Medecin Malgre Lui,' chuckling to herself at the comical situations and humorous lines. At that time her actual working vocabulary in French was very small, but by using her judgment, as we laughingly called the mental process, she could guess at the meanings of the words and put the sense together much as a child puzzles out a sliced object. The result was that in a few weeks she and I spent a most hilarious hour one evening while she poured out to me the whole story, dwelling with great gusto on its humour and sparkling wit. It was not a lesson, but only one of her recreations."
So Helen Keller's aptitude for language is her whole mental aptitude, turned to language because of its extraordinary value to her.
There have been many discussions of the question whether Helen Keller's achievements are due to her natural ability or to the method by which she was taught.
It is true that a teacher with ten times Miss Sullivan's genius could not have made a pupil so remarkable as Helen Keller out of a child born dull and mentally deficient. But it is also true that, with ten times her native genius, Helen Keller could not have grown to what she is, if she had not been excellently taught from the very start, and especially at the start. And the fact remains that she was taught by a method of teaching language to the deaf the essential principles of which are clearly expressed in Miss Sullivan's letters, written while she was discovering the method and putting it successfully into practice. And it can be applied by any teacher to any healthy deaf child, and in the broadest interpretation of the principles, can be applied to the teaching of language of all kinds to all children.
In the many discussions of this question writers seem to throw us from one horn to another of a dilemma—either a born genius in Helen Keller, or a perfect method in the teacher. Both things may be true at once, and there is another truth which makes the dilemma imperfect. Miss Sullivan is a person of extraordinary power. Her method might not succeed so completely in the hands of any one else. Miss Sullivan's vigorous, original mind has lent much of its vitality to her pupil. If Miss Keller is fond of language and not interested especially in mathematics, it is not surprising to find Miss Sullivan's interests very similar. And this does not mean that Miss Keller is unduly dependent on her teacher. It is told of her that, as a child of eight, when some one tried to interfere with her, she sat sober a few moments, and, when asked what was the trouble, answered, "I am preparing to assert my independence." Such an aggressive personality cannot grow up in mere dependence even under the guidance of a will like Miss Sullivan's. But Miss Sullivan by her "natural aptitude" has done for her pupil much that is not capable of analysis and reduction to principle; she has given the inspiration which is in all close friendship, and which rather develops than limits the powers of either person. Moreover, if Miss Keller is a "marvel of sweetness and goodness," if she has a love "of all things good and beautiful," this implies something about the teacher who has lived with her for sixteen years.
There is, then, a good deal that Miss Sullivan has done for Miss Keller which no other teacher can do in just the same way for any one else. To have another Helen Keller there must be another Miss Sullivan. To have another, well-educated deaf and blind child, there need only be another teacher, living under favourable conditions, among plenty of external interests, unseparated from her pupil allowed to have a free hand, and using as many as she needs of the principles which Miss Sullivan has saved her the trouble of finding out for herself, modifying and adding as she finds it necessary; and there must be a pupil in good health, of good native powers, young enough not to have grown beyond recovery in ignorance. Any deaf child or deaf and blind child in good health can be taught. And the one to do it is the parent or the special teacher, not the school. I know that this idea will be vigorously combated by those who conduct schools for the deaf. To be sure, the deaf school is the only thing possible for children educated by the State. But it is evident that precisely what the deaf child needs to be taught is what other children learn before they go to school at all. When Miss Sullivan went out in the barnyard and picked up a little chicken and talked to Helen about it, she was giving a kind of instruction impossible inside four walls, and impossible with more than one pupil at a time.
Surely Dr. Howe is wrong when he says, "A teacher cannot be a child." That is just what the teacher of the deaf child must be, a child ready to play and romp, and interested in all childish things.
The temptation to discuss, solely in the light of Helen Keller, the whole matter of educating the deaf is a dangerous one, and one which I have not taken particular care to avoid, because my opinions are of no authority and I have merely tried to suggest problems and reinforce some of the main ideas expressed by Miss Sullivan, who is an authority. It is a question whether Helen Keller's success has not led teachers to expect too much of other children, and I know of deaf-blind children who are dragged along by their teachers and friends, and become the subjects of glowing reports, which are pathetically untrue, because one sees behind the reports how the children are tugged at to bring them somewhere near the exaggerated things that are said about them.
Let me sum up a few of the elements that made Helen Keller what she is. In the first place she had nineteen months' experience of sight and sound. This meant some mental development. She had inherited vigour of body and mind. She expressed ideas in signs before she learned language. Mrs. Keller writes me that before her illness Helen made signs for everything, and her mother thought this habit the cause of her slowness in learning to speak. After the illness, when they were dependent on signs, Helen's tendency to gesture developed. How far she could receive communications is hard to determine, but she knew much that was going on around her. She recognized that others used their lips; she "saw" her father reading a paper and when he laid it down she sat in his chair and held the paper before her face. Her early rages were an unhappy expression of the natural force of character which instruction was to turn into trained and organized power.
It was, then, to a good subject that Miss Sullivan brought her devotion and intelligence, and fearless willingness to experiment. Miss Sullivan's methods were so good that even without the practical result, any one would recognize the truth of the teacher's ideas. Miss Sullivan has in addition a vigorous personality. And finally all the conditions were good for that first nature school, in which the teacher and pupil played together, exploring together and educating themselves, pupil and teacher inseparable.
Miss Keller's later education is easy to understand and needs no further explanation than she has given. Those interested may get on application to the Volta Bureau, Washington, D. C., the reports of the teachers who prepared her for college, Mr. Arthur Gilman of the Cambridge School for Young Ladies, and Mr. Merton S. Keith.
CHAPTER IV. SPEECH
The two persons who have written authoritatively about Miss Keller's speech and the way she learned it are Miss Sarah Fuller, of the Horace Mann School for the Deaf in Boston, Massachusetts, who gave her the first lessons, and Miss Sullivan, who, by her unremitting discipline, carried on the success of these first lessons.
Before I quote from Miss Sullivan's account, let me try to give some impression of what Miss Keller's speech and voice qualities are at present.
Her voice is low and pleasant to listen to. Her speech lacks variety and modulation; it runs in a sing-song when she is reading aloud; and when she speaks with fair degree of loudness, it hovers about two or three middle tones. Her voice has an aspirate quality; there seems always to be too much breath for the amount of tone. Some of her notes are musical and charming. When she is telling a child's story, or one with pathos in it, her voice runs into pretty slurs from one tone to another. This is like the effect of the slow dwelling on long words, not quite well managed, that one notices in a child who is telling a solemn story.
The principal thing that is lacking is sentence accent and variety in the inflection of phrases. Miss Keller pronounces each word as a foreigner does when he is still labouring with the elements of a sentence, or as children sometimes read in school when they have to pick out each word.
She speaks French and German. Her friend, Mr. John Hitz, whose native tongue is German, says that her pronunciation is excellent. Another friend, who is as familiar with French as with English, finds her French much more intelligible than her English. When she speaks English she distributes her emphasis as in French and so does not put sufficient stress on accented syllables. She says for example, "pro-vo-ca-tion," "in-di-vi-du-al," with ever so little difference between the value of syllables, and a good deal of inconsistency in the pronunciation of the same word one day and the next. It would, I think, be hard to make her feel just how to pronounce DICTIONARY without her erring either toward DICTIONAYRY or DICTION'RY, and, of course the word is neither one nor the other. For no system of marks in a lexicon can tell one how to pronounce a word. The only way is to hear it, especially in a language like English which is so full of unspellable, suppressed vowels and quasi-vowels.
Miss Keller's vowels are not firm. Her AWFUL is nearly AWFIL. The wavering is caused by the absence of accent on FUL, for she pronounces FULL correctly.
She sometimes mispronounces as she reads aloud and comes on a word which she happens never to have uttered, though she may have written it many times. This difficulty and some others may be corrected when she and Miss Sullivan have more time. Since 1894, they have been so much in their books that they have neglected everything that was not necessary to the immediate task of passing the school years successfully. Miss Keller will never be able, I believe, to speak loud without destroying the pleasant quality and the distinctness of her words, but she can do much to make her speech clearer.
When she was at the Wright-Humason School in New York, Dr. Humason tried to improve her voice, not only her word pronunciation, but the voice itself, and gave her lessons in tone and vocal exercises.
It is hard to say whether or not Miss Keller's speech is easy to understand. Some understand her readily; others do not. Her friends grow accustomed to her speech and forget that it is different from that of any one else. Children seldom have any difficulty in understanding her; which suggests that her deliberate measured speech is like theirs, before they come to the adult trick of running all the words of a phrase into one movement of the breath. I am told that Miss Keller speaks better than most other deaf people.
Miss Keller has told how she learned to speak. Miss Sullivan's account in her address at Chautauqua, in July, 1894, at the meeting of The American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, is substantially like Miss Keller's in points of fact.
MISS SULLIVAN'S ACCOUNT OF MISS KELLER'S SPEECH
It was three years from the time when Helen began to communicate by means of the manual alphabet that she received her first lesson in the more natural and universal medium of human intercourse—oral language. She had become very proficient in the use of the manual alphabet, which was her only means of communication with the outside world; through it she had acquired a vocabulary which enabled her to converse freely, read intelligently, and write with comparative ease and correctness. Nevertheless, the impulse to utter audible sounds was strong within her, and the constant efforts which I made to repress this instinctive tendency, which I feared in time would become unpleasant, were of no avail. I made no effort to teach her to speak, because I regarded her inability to watch the lips of others as an insurmountable obstacle. But she gradually became conscious that her way of communicating was different from that used by those around her, and one day her thoughts found expression. "How do the blind girls know what to say with their mouths? Why do you not teach me to talk like them? Do deaf children ever learn to speak?" I explained to her that some deaf children were taught to speak, but that they could see their teachers' mouths, and that that was a very great assistance to them. But she interrupted me to say she was very sure she could feel my mouth very well. Soon after this conversation, a lady came to see her and told her about the deaf and blind Norwegian child, Ragnhild Kaata, who had been taught to speak and understand what her teacher said to her by touching his lips with her fingers. She at once resolved to learn to speak, and from that day to this she has never wavered in that resolution. She began immediately to make sounds which she called speaking, and I saw the necessity of correct instruction, since her heart was set upon learning to talk; and, feeling my own incompetence to teach her, never having given the subject of articulation serious study, I went with my pupil for advice and assistance, to Miss Sarah Fuller. Miss Fuller was delighted with Helen's earnestness and enthusiasm, and at once began to teach her. In a few lessons she learned nearly all of the English sounds, and in less than a month she was able to articulate a great many words distinctly. From the first she was not content to be drilled in single sounds, but was impatient to pronounce words and sentences. The length of the word or the difficulty of the arrangement of the elements never seemed to discourage her. But, with all her eagerness and intelligence, learning to speak taxed her powers to the utmost. But there was satisfaction in seeing from day to day the evidence of growing mastery and the possibility of final success. And Helen's success has been more complete and inspiring than any of her friends expected, and the child's delight in being able to utter her thoughts in living and distinct speech is shared by all who witness her pleasure when strangers tell her that they understand her.
I have been asked a great many times whether I think Helen will ever speak naturally; that is, as other people speak. I am hardly prepared to decide that question, or even give an opinion regarding it. I believe that I have hardly begun yet to know what is possible. Teachers of the deaf often express surprise that Helen's speech is so good when she has not received any regular instruction in speech since the first few lessons given her by Miss Fuller. I can only say in reply, "This is due to habitual imitation and practice! practice! practice!" Nature has determined how the child shall learn to speak, and all we can do is to aid him in the simplest, easiest way possible, by encouraging him to observe and imitate the vibrations in the voice.
Some further details appear in an earlier, more detailed account, which Miss Sullivan wrote for the Perkins Institution Report of 1891.
I knew that Laura Bridgman had shown the same intuitive desire to produce sounds, and had even learned to pronounce a few simple words, which she took great delight in using, and I did not doubt that Helen could accomplish as much as this. I thought, however, that the advantage she would derive would not repay her for the time and labour that such an experiment would cost.
Moreover, the absence of hearing renders the voice monotonous and often very disagreeable; and such speech is generally unintelligible except to those familiar with the speaker.
The acquiring of speech by untaught deaf children is always slow and often painful. Too much stress, it seems to me, is often laid upon the importance of teaching a deaf child to articulate—a process which may be detrimental to the pupil's intellectual development. In the very nature of things, articulation is an unsatisfactory means of education; while the use of the manual alphabet quickens and invigorates mental activity, since through it the deaf child is brought into close contact with the English language, and the highest and most abstract ideas may be conveyed to the mind readily and accurately. Helen's case proved it to be also an invaluable aid in acquiring articulation. She was already perfectly familiar with words and the construction of sentences, and had only mechanical difficulties to overcome. Moreover, she knew what a pleasure speech would be to her, and this definite knowledge of what she was striving for gave her the delight of anticipation which made drudgery easy. The untaught deaf child who is made to articulate does not know what the goal is, and his lessons in speech are for a long time tedious and meaningless.
Before describing the process of teaching Helen to speak, it may be well to state briefly to what extent she had used the vocal organs before she began to receive regular instruction in articulation. When she was stricken down with the illness which resulted in her loss of sight and hearing, at the age of nineteen months, she was learning to talk. The unmeaning babblings of the infant were becoming day by day conscious and voluntary signs of what she felt and thought. But the disease checked her progress in the acquisition of oral language, and, when her physical strength returned, it was found that she had ceased to speak intelligibly because she could no longer hear a sound. She continued to exercise her vocal organs mechanically, as ordinary children do. Her cries and laughter and the tones of her voice as she pronounced many word elements were perfectly natural, but the child evidently attached no significance to them, and with one exception they were produced not with any intention of communicating with those around her, but from the sheer necessity of exercising her innate, organic, and hereditary faculty of expression. She always attached a meaning to the word water, which was one of the first sounds her baby lips learned to form, and it was the only word which she continued to articulate after she lost her hearing. Her pronunciation of this gradually became indistinct, and when I first knew her it was nothing more than a peculiar noise. Nevertheless, it was the only sign she ever made for water, and not until she had learned to spell the word with her fingers did she forget the spoken symbol. The word water, and the gesture which corresponds to the word good-by,seem to have been all that the child remembered of the natural and acquired signs with which she had been familiar before her illness.
As she became acquainted with her surroundings through the sense of feeling (I use the word in the broadest sense, as including all tactile impressions), she felt more and more the pressing necessity of communicating with those around her. Her little hands felt every object and observed every movement of the persons about her, and she was quick to imitate these movements. She was thus able to express her more imperative needs and many of her thoughts.
At the time when I became her teacher, she had made for herself upward of sixty signs, all of which were imitative and were readily understood by those who knew her. The only signs which I think she may have invented were her signs for SMALL and LARGE. Whenever she wished for anything very much she would gesticulate in a very expressive manner. Failing to make herself understood, she would become violent. In the years of her mental imprisonment she depended entirely upon signs, and she did not work out for herself any sort of articulate language capable of expressing ideas. It seems, however, that, while she was still suffering from severe pain, she noticed the movements of her mother's lips.
When she was not occupied, she wandered restlessly about the house, making strange though rarely unpleasant sounds. I have seen her rock her doll, making a continuous, monotonous sound, keeping one hand on her throat, while the fingers of the other hand noted the movements of her lips. This was in imitation of her mother's crooning to the baby. Occasionally she broke out into a merry laugh, and then she would reach out and touch the mouth of any one who happened to be near her, to see if he were laughing also. If she detected no smile, she gesticulated excitedly, trying to convey her thought; but if she failed to make her companion laugh, she sat still for a few moments, with a troubled and disappointed expression. She was pleased with anything which made a noise. She liked to feel the cat purr; and if by chance she felt a dog in the act of barking, she showed great pleasure. She always liked to stand by the piano when some one was playing and singing. She kept one hand on the singer's mouth, while the other rested on the piano, and she stood in this position as long as any one would sing to her, and afterward she would make a continuous sound which she called singing. The only words she had learned to pronounce with any degree of distinctness previous to March, 1890, were PAPA, MAMMA, BABY, SISTER. These words she had caught without instruction from the lips of friends. It will be seen that they contain three vowel and six consonant elements, and these formed the foundation for her first real lesson in speaking.
At the end of the first lesson she was able to pronounce distinctly the following sounds: a, a", a^, e, i, o, c soft like s and hard like k, g hard, b, l, n, m, t, p, s, u, k, f and d. Hard consonants were, and indeed still are, very difficult for her to pronounce in connection with one another in the same word; she often suppresses the one and changes the other, and sometimes she replaces both by an analogous sound with soft aspiration. The confusion between l and r was very noticeable in her speech at first. She would repeatedly use one for the other. The great difficulty in the pronunciation of the r made it one of the last elements which she mastered. The ch, sh and soft g also gave her much trouble, and she does not yet enunciate them clearly. [The difficulties which Miss Sullivan found in 1891 are, in a measure, the difficulties which show in Miss Keller's speech today.]
When she had been talking for less than a week, she met her friend, Mr. Rodocanachi, and immediately began to struggle with the pronunciation of his name; nor would she give it up until she was able to articulate the word distinctly. Her interest never diminished for a moment; and, in her eagerness to overcome the difficulties which beset her on all sides, she taxed her powers to the utmost, and learned in eleven lessons all of the separate elements of speech.
Enough appears in the accounts by Miss Keller's teacher to show the process by which she reads the lips with her fingers, the process by which she was taught to speak, and by which, of course, she can listen to conversation now. In reading the lips she is not so quick or so accurate as some reports declare. It is a clumsy and unsatisfactory way of receiving communication, useless when Miss Sullivan or some one else who knows the manual alphabet is present to give Miss Keller the spoken words of others. Indeed, when some friend is trying to speak to Miss Keller, and the attempt is not proving successful, Miss Sullivan usually helps by spelling the lost words into Miss Keller's hand.
President Roosevelt had little difficulty last spring in making Miss Keller understand him, and especially requested Miss Sullivan not to spell into her hand. She got every word, for the President's speech is notably distinct. Other people say they have no success in making Miss Keller "hear" them.
A few friends to whom she is accustomed, like Mrs. A. C. Pratt, and Mr. J. E. Chamberlin, can pass a whole day with her and tell her everything without the manual alphabet. The ability to read the lips helps Miss Keller in getting corrections of her pronunciation from Miss Sullivan and others, just as it was the means of her learning to speak at all, but it is rather an accomplishment than a necessity.
It must be remembered that speech contributed in no way to her fundamental education, though without the ability to speak she could hardly have gone to higher schools and to college. But she knows better than any one else what value speech has had for her. The following is her address at the fifth meeting of the American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, at Mt. Airy, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, July 8, 1896:
ADDRESS OF HELEN KELLER AT MT. AIRY
If you knew all the joy I feel in being able to speak to you to-day, I think you would have some idea of the value of speech to the deaf, and you would understand why I want every little deaf child in all this great world to have an opportunity to learn to speak. I know that much has been said and written on this subject, and that there is a wide difference of opinion among teachers of the deaf in regard to oral instruction. It seems very strange to me that there should be this difference of opinion; I cannot understand how any one interested in our education can fail to appreciate the satisfaction we feel in being able to express our thoughts in living words. Why, I use speech constantly, and I cannot begin to tell you how much pleasure it gives me to do so. Of course I know that it is not always easy for strangers to understand me, but it will be by and by; and in the meantime I have the unspeakable happiness of knowing that my family and friends rejoice in my ability to speak. My little sister and baby brother love to have me tell them stories in the long summer evenings when I am at home; and my mother and teacher often ask me to read to them from my favourite books. I also discuss the political situation with my dear father, and we decide the most perplexing questions quite as satisfactorily to ourselves as if I could see and hear. So you see what a blessing speech is to me. It brings me into closer and tenderer relationship with those I love, and makes it possible for me to enjoy the sweet companionship of a great many persons from whom I should be entirely cut off if I could not talk.
I can remember the time before I learned to speak, and how I used to struggle to express my thoughts by means of the manual alphabet—how my thoughts used to beat against my finger tips like little birds striving to gain their freedom, until one day Miss Fuller opened wide the prison-door and let them escape. I wonder if she remembers how eagerly and gladly they spread their wings and flew away. Of course, it was not easy at first to fly. The speech-wings were weak and broken, and had lost all the grace and beauty that had once been theirs; indeed, nothing was left save the impulse to fly, but that was something. One can never consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar. But, nevertheless, it seemed to me sometimes that I could never use my speech-wings as God intended I should use them; there were so many difficulties in the way, so many discouragements; but I kept on trying, knowing that patience and perseverance would win in the end. And while I worked, I built the most beautiful air-castles, and dreamed dreams, the pleasantest of which was of the time when I should talk like other people, and the thought of the pleasure it would give my mother to hear my voice once more, sweetened every effort and made every failure an incentive to try harder next time. So I want to say to those who are trying to learn to speak and those who are teaching them: Be of good cheer. Do not think of to-days failures, but of the success that may come to-morrow. You have set yourselves a difficult task, but you will succeed if you persevere, and you will find a joy in overcoming obstacles—a delight in climbing rugged paths, which you would perhaps never know if you did not sometime slip backward—if the road was always smooth and pleasant. Remember, no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost. Sometime, somewhere, somehow we shall find that which we seek. We shall speak, yes, and sing, too, as God intended we should speak and sing.
CHAPTER V. LITERARY STYLE
No one can have read Miss Keller's autobiography without feeling that she writes unusually fine English. Any teacher of composition knows that he can bring his pupils to the point of writing without errors in syntax or in the choice of words. It is just this accuracy which Miss Keller's early education fixes as the point to which any healthy child can be brought, and which the analysis of that education accounts for. Those who try to make her an exception not to be explained by any such analysis of her early education, fortify their position by an appeal to the remarkable excellence of her use of language even when she was a child.
This appeal is to a certain degree valid; for, indeed, those additional harmonies of language and beauties of thought which make style are the gifts of the gods. No teacher could have made Helen Keller sensitive to the beauties of language and to the finer interplay of thought which demands expression in melodious word groupings.
At the same time the inborn gift of style can be starved or stimulated. No innate genius can invent fine language. The stuff of which good style is made must be given to the mind from without and given skilfully. A child of the muses cannot write fine English unless fine English has been its nourishment. In this, as in all other things, Miss Sullivan has been the wise teacher. If she had not had taste and an enthusiasm for good English, Helen Keller might have been brought up on the "Juvenile Literature," which belittles the language under pretense of being simply phrased for children; as if a child's book could not, like "Treasure Island" or "Robinson Crusoe" or the "Jungle Book," be in good style.
If Miss Sullivan wrote fine English, the beauty of Helen Keller's style would, in part, be explicable at once. But the extracts from Miss Sullivan's letters and from her reports, although they are clear and accurate, have not the beauty which distinguishes Miss Keller's English. Her service as a teacher of English is not to be measured by her own skill in composition. The reason why she read to her pupil so many good books is due, in some measure, to the fact that she had so recently recovered her eyesight. When she became Helen Keller's teacher she was just awakening to the good things that are in books, from which she had been shut out during her years of blindness.
In Captain Keller's library she found excellent books, Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare," and better still Montaigne. After the first year or so of elementary work she met her pupil on equal terms, and they read and enjoyed good books together.
Besides the selection of good books, there is one other cause for Miss Keller's excellence in writing, for which Miss Sullivan deserves unlimited credit. That is her tireless and unrelenting discipline, which is evident in all her work. She never allowed her pupil to send off letters which contained offenses against taste, but made her write them over until they were not only correct, but charming and well phrased.
Any one who has tried to write knows what Miss Keller owes to the endless practice which Miss Sullivan demanded of her. Let a teacher with a liking for good style insist on a child's writing a paragraph over and over again until it is more than correct, and he will be training, even beyond his own power of expression, the power of expression in the child.
How far Miss Sullivan carried this process of refinement and selection is evident from the humorous comment of Dr. Bell, that she made her pupil a little old woman, too widely different from ordinary children in her maturity of thought. When Dr. Bell said this he was arguing his own case. For it was Dr. Bell who first saw the principles that underlie Miss Sullivan's method, and explained the process by which Helen Keller absorbed language from books.
There is, moreover, a reason why Helen Keller writes good English, which lies in the very absence of sight and hearing. The disadvantages of being deaf and blind were overcome and the advantages remained. She excels other deaf people because she was taught as if she were normal. On the other hand, the peculiar value to her of language, which ordinary people take for granted as a necessary part of them like their right hand, made her think about language and love it. Language was her liberator, and from the first she cherished it.
The proof of Miss Keller's early skill in the use of English, and the final comment on the excellence of this whole method of teaching, is contained in an incident, which, although at the time it seemed unfortunate, can no longer be regretted. I refer to the "Frost King" episode, which I shall explain in detail. Miss Keller has given her account of it, and the whole matter was discussed in the first Volta Bureau Souvenir from which I quote at length:
MISS SULLIVAN'S ACCOUNT OF THE "FROST KING"
HON. JOHN HITZ, Superintendent of the Volta Bureau, Washington, D. C.
Dear Sir: Since my paper was prepared for the second edition of the Souvenir "Helen Keller," some facts have been brought to my notice which are of interest in connection with the subject of the acquisition of language by my pupil, and if it is not already too late for publication in this issue of the Souvenir, I shall be glad if I may have opportunity to explain them in detail.
Perhaps it will be remembered that in my paper*, where allusion is made to Helen's remarkable memory, it is noted that she appears to retain in her mind many forms of expression which, at the time they are received, she probably does not understand; but when further information is acquired, the language retained in her memory finds full or partial expression in her conversation or writing, according as it proves of greater or less value to her in the fitness of its application to the new experience. Doubtless this is true in the case of every intelligent child, and should not, perhaps, be considered worthy of especial mention in Helen's case, but for the fact that a child who is deprived of the senses of sight and hearing might not be expected to be as gifted mentally as this little girl proves to be; hence it is quite possible we may be inclined to class as marvelous many things we discover in the development of her mind which do not merit such an explanation.
* In this paper Miss Sullivan says: "During this winter (1891-92) I went with her into the yard while a light snow was falling, and let her feel the falling flakes. She appeared to enjoy it very much indeed. As we went in she repeated these words, 'Out of the cloud-folds of his garments Winter shakes the snow.' I inquired of her where she had read this; she did not remember having read it, did not seem to know that she had learned it. As I had never heard it, I inquired of several of my friends if they recalled the words; no one seemed to remember it. The teachers at the Institution expressed the opinion that the description did not appear in any book in raised print in that library; but one lady, Miss Marrett, took upon herself the task of examining books of poems in ordinary type, and was rewarded by finding the following lines in one of Longfellow's minor poems, entitled 'Snowflakes':
'Out of the bosom of the air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.'
"It would seem that Helen had learned and treasured the memory of this expression of the poet, and this morning in the snow-storm had found its application."
In the hope that I may be pardoned if I appear to overestimate the remarkable mental capacity and power of comprehension and discrimination which my pupil possesses, I wish to add that, while I have always known that Helen made great use of such descriptions and comparisons as appeal to her imagination and fine poetic nature, yet recent developments in her writings convince me of the fact that I have not in the past been fully aware to what extent she absorbs the language of her favourite authors. In the early part of her education I had full knowledge of all the books she read and of nearly all the stories which were read to her, and could without difficulty trace the source of any adaptations noted in her writing or conversation; and I have always been much pleased to observe how appropriately she applies the expressions of a favourite author in her own compositions.
The following extracts from a few of her published letters give evidence of how valuable this power of retaining the memory of beautiful language has been to her. One warm, sunny day in early spring, when we were at the North, the balmy atmosphere appears to have brought to her mind the sentiment expressed by Longfellow in "Hiawatha," and she almost sings with the poet: "The ground was all aquiver with the stir of new life. My heart sang for very joy. I thought of my own dear home. I knew that in that sunny land spring had come in all its splendour. 'All its birds and all its blossoms, all its flowers and all its grasses.'"
About the same time, in a letter to a friend, in which she makes mention of her Southern home, she gives so close a reproduction from a poem by one of her favourite authors that I will give extracts from Helen's letter and from the poem itself:
EXTRACTS FROM HELEN'S LETTER
[The entire letter is published on pp. 245 and 246 of the Report of the Perkins Institution for 1891]
The blue-bird with his azure plumes, the thrush clad all in brown, the robin jerking his spasmodic throat, the oriole drifting like a flake of fire, the jolly bobolink and his happy mate, the mocking-bird imitating the notes of all, the red-bird with his one sweet trill, and the busy little wren, are all making the trees in our front yard ring with their glad song.
FROM THE POEM ENTITLED "SPRING" BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes The fragrance borrowed from the myrtle blooms; The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down, Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown; The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire Rent by a whirlwind from a blazing spire; The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, Repeats imperious, his staccato note; The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bullrush tipsy with his weight: Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings, Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle wings.
On the last day of April she uses another expression from the same poem, which is more an adaptation than a reproduction: "To-morrow April will hide her tears and blushes beneath the flowers of lovely May."
In a letter to a friend at the Perkins Institution, dated May 17, 1889, she gives a reproduction from one of Hans Christian Andersen's stories, which I had read to her not long before. This letter is published in the Perkins Institution Report (1891), p. 204. The original story was read to her from a copy of "Andersen's Stories," published by Leavitt & Allen Bros., and may be found on p. 97 of Part I. in that volume.
Her admiration for the impressive explanations which Bishop Brooks has given her of the Fatherhood of God is well known. In one of his letters, speaking of how God in every way tells us of His love, he says, "I think he writes it even upon the walls of the great house of nature which we live in, that he is our Father." The next year at Andover she said: "It seems to me the world is full of goodness, beauty, and love; and how grateful we must be to our heavenly Father, who has given us so much to enjoy! His love and care are written all over the walls of nature."
In these later years, since Helen has come in contact with so many persons who are able to converse freely with her, she has made the acquaintance of some literature with which I am not familiar; she has also found in books printed in raised letters, in the reading of which I have been unable to follow her, much material for the cultivation of the taste she possesses for poetical imagery. The pages of the book she reads become to her like paintings, to which her imaginative powers give life and colour. She is at once transported into the midst of the events portrayed in the story she reads or is told, and the characters and descriptions become real to her; she rejoices when justice wins, and is sad when virtue goes unrewarded. The pictures the language paints on her memory appear to make an indelible impression; and many times, when an experience comes to her similar in character, the language starts forth with wonderful accuracy, like the reflection from a mirror.
Helen's mind is so gifted by nature that she seems able to understand with only the faintest touch of explanation every possible variety of external relations. One day in Alabama, as we were gathering wild flowers near the springs on the hillsides, she seemed to understand for the first time that the springs were surrounded by mountains, and she exclaimed: "The mountains are crowding around the springs to look at their own beautiful reflections!" I do not know where she obtained this language, yet it is evident that it must have come to her from without, as it would hardly be possible for a person deprived of the visual sense to originate such an idea. In mentioning a visit to Lexington, Mass., she writes: "As we rode along we could see the forest monarchs bend their proud forms to listen to the little children of the woodlands whispering their secrets. The anemone, the wild violet, the hepatica, and the funny little curled-up ferns all peeped out at us from beneath the brown leaves." She closes this letter with, "I must go to bed, for Morpheus has touched my eyelids with his golden wand." Here again, I am unable to state where she acquired these expressions.
She has always seemed to prefer stories which exercise the imagination, and catches and retains the poetic spirit in all such literature; but not until this winter have I been conscious that her memory absorbed the exact language to such an extent that she is herself unable to trace the source.
This is shown in a little story she wrote in October last at the home of her parents in Tuscumbia, which she called "Autumn Leaves." She was at work upon it about two weeks, writing a little each day, at her own pleasure. When it was finished, and we read it in the family, it occasioned much comment on account of the beautiful imagery, and we could not understand how Helen could describe such pictures without the aid of sight. As we had never seen or heard of any such story as this before, we inquired of her where she read it; she replied, "I did not read it; it is my story for Mr. Anagnos's birthday." While I was surprised that she could write like this, I was not more astonished than I had been many times before at the unexpected achievements of my little pupil, especially as we had exchanged many beautiful thoughts on the subject of the glory of the ripening foliage during the autumn of this year.
Before Helen made her final copy of the story, it was suggested to her to change its title to "The Frost King," as more appropriate to the subject of which the story treated; to this she willingly assented. The story was written by Helen in braille, as usual and copied by her in the same manner, I then interlined the manuscript for the greater convenience of those who desired to read it. Helen wrote a little letter, and, enclosing the manuscript, forwarded both by mail to Mr. Anagnos for his birthday.
The story was printed in the January number of the Mentor and, from a review of it in the Goodson Gazette, I was startled to find that a very similar story had been published in 1873, seven years before Helen was born. This story, "Frost Fairies," appeared in a book written by Miss Margaret T. Canby, entitled "Birdie and his Fairy Friends." The passages quoted from the two stories were so much alike in thought and expression as to convince me that Miss Canby's story must at some time have been read to Helen.
As I had never read this story, or even heard of the book, I inquired of Helen if she knew anything about the matter, and found she did not. She was utterly unable to recall either the name of the story or the book. Careful examination was made of the books in raised print in the library of the Perkins Institution to learn if any extracts from this volume could be found there; but nothing was discovered. I then concluded that the story must have been read to her a long time ago, as her memory usually retains with great distinctness facts and impressions which have been committed to its keeping.
After making careful inquiry, I succeeded in obtaining the information that our friend, Mrs. S. C. Hopkins, had a copy of this book in 1888 which was presented to her little daughter in 1873 or 1874. Helen and I spent the summer of 1888 with Mrs. Hopkins at her home in Brewster, Mass., where she kindly relieved me a part of the time, of the care of Helen. She amused and entertained Helen by reading to her from a collection of juvenile publications, among which was the copy of "Birdie and his Fairy Friends"; and, while Mrs. Hopkins does not remember this story of "Frost Fairies," she is confident that she read to Helen extracts, if not entire stories, from this volume. But as she was not able to find her copy, and applications for the volume at bookstores in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Albany, and other places resulted only in failure, search was instituted for the author herself. This became a difficult task, as her publishers in Philadelphia had retired from business many years ago; however, it was eventually discovered that her residence is at Wilmington, Delaware, and copies of the second edition of the book, 1889, were obtained from her. She has since secured and forwarded to me a copy of the first edition.
The most generous and gratifying letters have been received from Miss Canby by Helen's friends, a few extracts from which are given:
Under date of February 24, 1892, after mentioning the order of the publication of the stories in the magazine, she writes:
"All the stories were revised before publishing them in book form; additions were made to the number as first published, I think, and some of the titles may have been changed."
In the same letter she writes:
"I hope that you will be able to make her understand that I am glad she enjoyed my story, and that I hope the new book will give her pleasure by renewing her friendship with the Fairies. I shall write to her in a short time. I am so much impressed with what I have learned of her that I have written a little poem entitled A Silent Singer, which I may send to her mother after a while. Can you tell me in what paper the article appeared accusing Helen of plagiarism, and giving passages from both stories? I should like much to see it, and to obtain a few copies if possible."
Under date of March 9, 1892, Miss Canby writes:
"I find traces, in the Report which you so kindly sent me, of little Helen having heard other stories than that of 'Frost Fairies.' On page 132, in a letter, there is a passage which must have been suggested by my story called 'The Rose Fairies' (see pp. 13-16 of 'Birdie') and on pages 93 and 94 of the Report the description of a thunderstorm is very much like Birdie's idea of the same in the 'Dew Fairies' on page 59 and 60 of my book. What a wonderfully active and retentive mind that gifted child must have! If she had remembered and written down accurately, a short story, and that soon after hearing it, it would have been a marvel; but to have heard the story once, three years ago, and in such a way that neither her parents nor teacher could ever allude to it or refresh her memory about it, and then to have been able to reproduce it so vividly, even adding some touches of her own in perfect keeping with the rest, which really improve the original, is something that very few girls of riper age, and with every advantage of sight, hearing, and even great talents for composition, could have done as well, if at all. Under the circumstances, I do not see how any one can be so unkind as to call it a plagiarism; it is a wonderful feat of memory, and stands ALONE, as doubtless much of her work will in future, if her mental powers grow and develop with her years as greatly as in the few years past. I have known many children well, have been surrounded by them all my life, and love nothing better than to talk with them, amuse them, and quietly notice their traits of mind and character; but I do not recollect more than one girl of Helen's age who had the love and thirst for knowledge, and the store of literary and general information, and the skill in composition, which Helen possesses. She is indeed a 'Wonder-Child.' Thank you very much for the Report, Gazette, and Helen's Journal. The last made me realize the great disappointment to the dear child more than before. Please give her my warm love, and tell her not to feel troubled about it any more. No one shall be allowed to think it was anything wrong; and some day she will write a great, beautiful story or poem that will make many people happy. Tell her there are a few bitter drops in every one's cup, and the only way is to take the bitter patiently, and the sweet thankfully. I shall love to hear of her reception of the book and how she likes the stories which are new to her."
I have now (March, 1892) read to Helen "The Frost Fairies," "The Rose Fairies," and a portion of "The Dew Fairies," but she is unable to throw any light on the matter. She recognized them at once as her own stories, with variations, and was much puzzled to know how they could have been published before she was born! She thinks it is wonderful that two people should write stories so much alike; but she still considers her own as original.
I give below a portion of Miss Canby's story, "The Rose Fairies," and also Helen's letter to Mr. Anagnos containing her "dream," so that the likenesses and differences may be studied by those interested in the subject:
THE ROSE FAIRIES
[From"Birdie and his Fairy Friends," by Margaret T. Canby]
One pleasant morning little Birdie might have been seen sitting quietly on the grass-plat at the side of his mother's house, looking very earnestly at the rose-bushes.
It was quite early; great Mr. Sun, who is such an early riser in summer time, had not been up very long; the birds were just beginning to chirp their "good-mornings" to each other; and as for the flowers, they were still asleep. But Birdie was so busy all day, trotting about the house and garden, that he was always ready for HIS nest at night, before the birds and flowers had thought of seeking THEIRS; and so it came to pass that when Mr. Sun raised his head above the green woods and smiled lovingly upon the earth, Birdie was often the first to see him, and to smile back at him, all the while rubbing his eyes with his dimpled fists, until between smiling and rubbing, he was wide awake.
And what do you think he did next! Why, the little rogue rolled into his mamma's bed, and kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, and her mouth, until she began to dream that it was raining kisses; and at last she opened her eyes to see what it all meant, and found that it was Birdie, trying to "kiss her awake," as he said.
She loved her little boy very dearly, and liked to make him happy, and when he said, "Please dress me, dear mamma, and let me go out to play in the garden," she cheerfully consented; and, soon after, Birdie went downstairs in his morning-dress of cool linen, and with his round face bright and rosy from its bath, and ran out on the gravel path to play, until breakfast was ready.
He stood still a moment to look about him, and think what he should do first. The fresh morning air blew softly in his face, as if to welcome him and be his merry playmate; and the bright eye of Mr. Sun looked at him with a warm and glowing smile; but Birdie soon walked on to find something to play with. As he came in sight of the rose-bushes that grew near the side of the house, he suddenly clapped his hands, and with a little shout of joy stopped to look at them; they were all covered with lovely rosebuds. Some were red, some white, and others pale pink, and they were just peeping out of the green leaves, as rosy-faced children peep out from their warm beds in wintertime before they are quite willing to get up. A few days before, Birdie's papa had told him that the green balls on the rose-bushes had beautiful flowers shut up within them, but the little boy found it hard to believe, for he was so young that he did not remember how pretty the roses had been the summer before. Now he found out that his father's words were true, for a few days of warm weather had turned the green balls into rosebuds, and they were SO beautiful that it was enough to make Birdie stand still before them, his blue eyes dancing with delight and his little hands clasped tightly together.
After awhile he went nearer, and looking closely at the buds, found that they were folded up, leaf over leaf, as eyelids are folded over sleeping eyes, so that Birdie thought they must be asleep. "Lazy roses, wake up," said he, giving the branches a gentle shake; but only the dew fell off in bright drops, and the flowers were still shut up. At last Birdie remembered how he had awakened his mother with kisses, and thought he would try the same plan with the roses; so he drew up his red lips until THEY looked like a rosebud, too, and bending down a branch with a lovely pink bud upon it, he kissed it softly two or three times.
Here the similarity in the language of the story to that in the letter ceases.
HELEN'S LETTER TO MR. ANAGNOS
(Written February 2 and 3, 1890.)
[This letter was enclosed in another written in French, dated Le 1 fevrier 1890.]
My Dear Mr. Anagnos: You will laugh when you open your little friend's letter and see all the queer mistakes she has made in French, but I think you will be pleased to know that I can write even a short letter in French. It makes me very happy to please you and my dear teacher. I wish I could see your little niece Amelia. I am sure we should love each other. I hope you will bring some of Virginia Evanghelides' poems home with you, and translate them for me. Teacher and I have just returned from our walk. It is a beautiful day. We met a sweet little child. She was playing on the pier with a wee brother. She gave me a kiss and then ran away, because she was a shy little girl. I wonder if you would like to have me tell you a pretty dream which I had a long time ago when I was a very little child? Teacher says it was a day-dream, and she thinks you would be delighted to hear it. One pleasant morning in the beautiful springtime, I thought I was sitting on the soft grass under my dear mother's window, looking very earnestly at the rose-bushes which were growing all around me. It was quite early, the sun had not been up very long; the birds were just beginning to sing joyously. The flowers were still asleep. They would not awake until the sun had smiled lovingly upon them. I was a very happy little child with rosy cheeks, and large blue eyes, and the most beautiful golden ringlets you can imagine. The fresh morning air blew gently in my face, as if to welcome me, and be my merry playmate, and the sun looked at me with a warm and tender smile. I clapped my chubby hands for joy when I saw that the rose-bushes were covered with lovely buds. Some were red, some white, and others were delicate pink, and they were peeping out from between the green leaves like beautiful little fairies. I had never seen anything so lovely before, for I was very young and I could not remember how pretty the roses had been the summer before. My little heart was filled with a sweet joy, and I danced around the rosebushes to show my delight. After a while I went very near to a beautiful white rose-bush which was completely covered with buds and sparkling with dewdrops; I bent down one of the branches with a lovely pure white bud upon it, and kissed it softly many times; just then I felt two loving arms steal gently around me, and loving lips kissing my eyelids, my cheeks, and my mouth, until I began to think it was raining kisses; and at last I opened my eyes to see what it all meant, and found it was my precious mother, who was bending over me, trying to kiss me awake. Do you like my day-dream? If you do, perhaps I will dream again for you some time.
Teacher and all of your friends send you their love. I shall be so glad when you come home, for I greatly miss you. Please give my love to your good Greek friends, and tell them that I shall come to Athens some day.
Lovingly your little friend and playmate, HELEN A. KELLER.
"The Frost Fairies" and "The Frost Kings" are given in full, as the differences are as important as the resemblances:
The Frost Fairies [From "Birdie and his Fairy Friends"] by Margaret T. Canby
King Frost, or Jack Frost as he is sometimes called, lives in a cold country far to the North; but every year he takes a journey over the world in a car of golden clouds drawn by a strong and rapid steed called "North Wind." Wherever he goes he does many wonderful things; he builds bridges over every stream, clear as glass in appearance but often strong as iron; he puts the flowers and plants to sleep by one touch of his hand, and they all bow down and sink into the warm earth, until spring returns; then, lest we should grieve for the flowers, he places at our windows lovely wreaths and sprays of his white northern flowers, or delicate little forests of fairy pine-trees, pure white and very beautiful. But his most wonderful work is the painting of the trees, which look, after his task is done, as if they were covered with the brightest layers of gold and rubies; and are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer.
I will tell you how King Frost first thought of this kind work, for it is a strange story. You must know that this King, like all other kings, has great treasures of gold and precious stones in his palace; but, being a good-hearted old fellow, he does not keep his riches locked up all the time, but tries to do good and make others happy with them. He has two neighbours, who live still farther north; one is King Winter, a cross and churlish old monarch, who is hard and cruel, and delights in making the poor suffer and weep; but the other neighbour is Santa Claus, a fine, good-natured, jolly old soul, who loves to do good, and who brings presents to the poor, and to nice little children at Christmas.
Well, one day King Frost was trying to think of some good that he could do with his treasure; and suddenly he concluded to send some of it to his kind neighbour, Santa Claus, to buy presents of food and clothing for the poor, that they might not suffer so much when King Winter went near their homes. So he called together his merry little fairies, and showing them a number of jars and vases filled with gold and precious stones, told them to carry those carefully to the palace of Santa Claus, and give them to him with the compliments of King Frost. "He will know how to make good use of the treasure," added Jack Frost; then he told the fairies not to loiter by the way, but to do his bidding quickly.
The fairies promised obedience and soon started on their journey, dragging the great glass jars and vases along, as well as they could, and now and then grumbling a little at having such hard work to do, for they were idle fairies, and liked play better than work. At last they reached a great forest, and, being quite tired, they decided to rest awhile and look for nuts before going any further. But lest the treasure should be stolen from them, they hid the jars among the thick leaves of the forest trees, placing some high up near the top, and others in different parts of the various trees, until they thought no one could find them.
Then they began to wander about and hunt for nuts, and climb the trees to shake them down, and worked much harder for their own pleasure than they had done for their master's bidding, for it is a strange truth that fairies and children never complain of the toil and trouble they take in search of amusement, although they often grumble when asked to work for the good of others.
The frost fairies were so busy and so merry over their nutting frolic that they soon forgot their errand and their king's command to go quickly; but, as they played and loitered in the forest until noon, they found the reason why they were told to hasten; for although they had, as they thought, hidden the treasure so carefully, they had not secured it from the power of Mr. Sun, who was an enemy of Jack Frost, and delighted to undo his work and weaken him whenever he could.
His bright eyes found out the jars of treasure among the trees, and as the idle fairies left them there until noon, at which time Mr. Sun is the strongest, the delicate glass began to melt and break, and before long every jar and vase was cracked or broken, and the precious treasures they contained were melting, too, and dripping slowly in streams of gold and crimson over the trees and bushes of the forest.
Still, for awhile, the frost fairies did not notice this strange occurrence, for they were down on the grass, so far below the tree-tops that the wonderful shower of treasure was a long time in reaching them; but at last one of them said, "Hark! I believe it is raining; I certainly hear the falling drops." The others laughed, and told him that it seldom rained when the sun was shining; but as they listened they plainly heard the tinkling of many drops falling through the forest, and sliding from leaf to leaf until they reached the bramble-bushes beside them, when, to their great dismay, they found that the RAIN-DROPS were MELTED RUBIES, which hardened on the leaves and turned them to bright crimson in a moment. Then looking more closely at the trees around, they saw that the treasure was all melting away, and that much of it was already spread over the leaves of the oak trees and maples, which were shining with their gorgeous dress of gold and bronze, crimson and emerald. It was very beautiful; but the idle fairies were too much frightened at the mischief their disobedience had caused, to admire the beauty of the forest, and at once tried to hide themselves among the bushes, lest King Frost should come and punish them.
Their fears were well founded, for their long absence had alarmed the king, and he had started out to look for his tardy servants, and just as they were all hidden, he came along slowly, looking on all sides for the fairies. Of course, he soon noticed the brightness of the leaves, and discovered the cause, too, when he caught sight of the broken jars and vases from which the melted treasure was still dropping. And when he came to the nut trees, and saw the shells left by the idle fairies and all the traces of their frolic, he knew exactly how they had acted, and that they had disobeyed him by playing and loitering on their way through the woods.
King Frost frowned and looked very angry at first, and his fairies trembled for fear and cowered still lower in their hiding-places; but just then two little children came dancing through the wood, and though they did not see King Frost or the fairies, they saw the beautiful colour of the leaves, and laughed with delight, and began picking great bunches to take to their mother. "The leaves are as pretty as flowers," said they; and they called the golden leaves "buttercups," and the red ones "roses," and were very happy as they went singing through the wood.
Their pleasure charmed away King Frost's anger, and he, too, began to admire the painted trees, and at last he said to himself, "My treasures are not wasted if they make little children happy. I will not be offended at my idle, thoughtless fairies, for they have taught me a new way of doing good." When the frost fairies heard these words they crept, one by one, from their corners, and, kneeling down before their master, confessed their fault, and asked his pardon. He frowned upon them for awhile, and scolded them, too, but he soon relented, and said he would forgive them this time, and would only punish them by making them carry more treasure to the forest, and hide it in the trees, until all the leaves, with Mr. Sun's help, were covered with gold and ruby coats.
Then the fairies thanked him for his forgiveness, and promised to work very hard to please him; and the good-natured king took them all up in his arms, and carried them safely home to his palace. From that time, I suppose, it has been part of Jack Frost's work to paint the trees with the glowing colours we see in the autumn; and if they are NOT covered with gold and precious stones, I do not know how he makes them so bright; DO YOU?
The Frost King by Helen A. Keller
King Frost lives in a beautiful palace far to the North, in the land of perpetual snow. The palace, which is magnificent beyond description, was built centuries ago, in the reign of King Glacier. At a little distance from the palace we might easily mistake it for a mountain whose peaks were mounting heavenward to receive the last kiss of the departing day. But on nearer approach we should discover our error. What we had supposed to be peaks were in reality a thousand glittering spires. Nothing could be more beautiful than the architecture of this ice-palace. The walls are curiously constructed of massive blocks of ice which terminate in cliff-like towers. The entrance to the palace is at the end of an arched recess, and it is guarded night and day by twelve soldierly-looking white Bears.
But, children, you must make King Frost a visit the very first opportunity you have, and see for yourselves this wonderful palace. The old King will welcome you kindly, for he loves children, and it is his chief delight to give them pleasure.
You must know that King Frost, like all other kings, has great treasures of gold and precious stones; but as he is a generous old monarch, he endeavours to make a right use of his riches. So wherever he goes he does many wonderful works; he builds bridges over every stream, as transparent as glass, but often as strong as iron; he shakes the forest trees until the ripe nuts fall into the laps of laughing children; he puts the flowers to sleep with one touch of his hand; then, lest we should mourn for the bright faces of the flowers, he paints the leaves with gold and crimson and emerald, and when his task is done the trees are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer. I will tell you how King Frost happened to think of painting the leaves, for it is a strange story.
One day while King Frost was surveying his vast wealth and thinking what good he could do with it, he suddenly bethought him of his jolly old neighbour, Santa Claus. "I will send my treasures to Santa Claus," said the King to himself. "He is the very man to dispose of them satisfactorily, for he knows where the poor and the unhappy live, and his kind old heart is always full of benevolent plans for their relief." So he called together the merry little fairies of his household and, showing them the jars and vases containing his treasures, he bade them carry them to the palace of Santa Claus as quickly as they could. The fairies promised obedience, and were off in a twinkling, dragging the heavy jars and vases along after them as well as they could, now and then grumbling a little at having such a hard task, for they were idle fairies and loved to play better than to work. After awhile they came to a great forest and, being tired and hungry, they thought they would rest a little and look for nuts before continuing their journey. But thinking their treasure might be stolen from them, they hid the jars among the thick green leaves of the various trees until they were sure that no one could find them. Then they began to wander merrily about searching for nuts, climbing trees, peeping curiously into the empty birds' nests, and playing hide and seek from behind the trees. Now, these naughty fairies were so busy and so merry over their frolic that they forgot all about their errand and their master's command to go quickly, but soon they found to their dismay why they had been bidden to hasten, for although they had, as they supposed, hidden the treasure carefully, yet the bright eyes of King Sun had spied out the jars among the leaves, and as he and King Frost could never agree as to what was the best way of benefiting the world, he was very glad of a good opportunity of playing a joke upon his rather sharp rival. King Sun laughed softly to himself when the delicate jars began to melt and break. At length every jar and vase was cracked or broken, and the precious stones they contained were melting, too, and running in little streams over the trees and bushes of the forest.
Still the idle fairies did not notice what was happening, for they were down on the grass, and the wonderful shower of treasure was a long time in reaching them; but at last they plainly heard the tinkling of many drops falling like rain through the forest, and sliding from leaf to leaf until they reached the little bushes by their side, when to their astonishment they discovered that the rain-drops were melted rubies which hardened on the leaves, and turned them to crimson and gold in a moment. Then looking around more closely, they saw that much of the treasure was already melted, for the oaks and maples were arrayed in gorgeous dresses of gold and crimson and emerald. It was very beautiful, but the disobedient fairies were too frightened to notice the beauty of the trees. They were afraid that King Frost would come and punish them. So they hid themselves among the bushes and waited silently for something to happen. Their fears were well founded, for their long absence had alarmed the King, and he mounted North Wind and went out in search of his tardy couriers. Of course, he had not gone far when he noticed the brightness of the leaves, and he quickly guessed the cause when he saw the broken jars from which the treasure was still dropping. At first King Frost was very angry, and the fairies trembled and crouched lower in their hiding-places, and I do not know what might have happened to them if just then a party of boys and girls had not entered the wood. When the children saw the trees all aglow with brilliant colors they clapped their hands and shouted for joy, and immediately began to pick great bunches to take home. "The leaves are as lovely as the flowers!" cried they, in their delight. Their pleasure banished the anger from King Frost's heart and the frown from his brow, and he, too, began to admire the painted trees. He said to himself, "My treasures are not wasted if they make little children happy. My idle fairies and my fiery enemy have taught me a new way of doing good."
When the fairies heard this, they were greatly relieved and came forth from their hiding-places, confessed their fault, and asked their master's forgiveness.
Ever since that time it has been King Frost's great delight to paint the leaves with the glowing colors we see in the autumn, and if they are not covered with gold and precious stones I cannot imagine what makes them so bright, can you?
If the story of "The Frost Fairies" was read to Helen in the summer of 1888, she could not have understood very much of it at that time, for she had only been under instruction since March, 1887.
Can it be that the language of the story had remained dormant in her mind until my description of the beauty of the autumn scenery in 1891 brought it vividly before her mental vision?
I have made careful investigation among Helen's friends in Alabama and in Boston and its vicinity, but thus far have been unable to ascertain any later date when it could have been read to her.
Another fact is of great significance in this connection. "The Rose Fairies" was published in the same volume with "The Frost Fairies," and, therefore, was probably read to Helen at or about the same time.
Now Helen, in her letter of February, 1890 (quoted above), alludes to this story of Miss Canby's as a dream "WHICH I HAD A LONG TIME AGO WHEN I WAS A VERY LITTLE CHILD." Surely, a year and a half would appear "a long time ago" to a little girl like Helen; we therefore have reason to believe that the stories must have been read to her at least as early as the summer of 1888.
HELEN KELLER'S OWN STATEMENT
(The following entry made by Helen in her diary speaks for itself.)
'1892. January 30. This morning I took a bath, and when teacher came upstairs to comb my hair she told me some very sad news which made me unhappy all day. Some one wrote to Mr. Anagnos that the story which I sent him as a birthday gift, and which I wrote myself, was not my story at all, but that a lady had written it a long time ago. The person said her story was called "Frost Fairies." I am sure I never heard it. It made us feel so bad to think that people thought we had been untrue and wicked. My heart was full of tears, for I love the beautiful truth with my whole heart and mind.
'It troubles me greatly now. I do not know what I shall do. I never thought that people could make such mistakes. I am perfectly sure I wrote the story myself. Mr. Anagnos is much troubled. It grieves me to think that I have been the cause of his unhappiness, but of course I did not mean to do it.
'I thought about my story in the autumn, because teacher told me about the autumn leaves while we walked in the woods at Fern Quarry. I thought fairies must have painted them because they are so wonderful, and I thought, too, that King Frost must have jars and vases containing precious treasures, because I knew that other kings long ago had, and because teacher told me that the leaves were painted ruby, emerald, gold, crimson, and brown; so that I thought the paint must be melted stones. I knew that they must make children happy because they are so lovely, and it made me very happy to think that the leaves were so beautiful and that the trees glowed so, although I could not see them.
'I thought everybody had the same thought about the leaves, but I do not know now. I thought very much about the sad news when teacher went to the doctor's; she was not here at dinner and I missed her.'
I do not feel that I can add anything more that will be of interest. My own heart is too "full of tears" when I remember how my dear little pupil suffered when she knew "that people thought we had been untrue and wicked," for I know that she does indeed "love the beautiful truth with her whole heart and mind."
Yours truly, ANNIE M. SULLIVAN.
So much appears in the Volta Bureau Souvenir. The following letter from Mr. Anagnos is reprinted from the American Annals of the Deaf, April, 1892:
PERKINS INSTITUTION AND MASSACHUSETTS SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND SO. BOSTON, March 11, 1892. TO THE EDITOR OF THE ANNALS.
Sir: In compliance with your wishes I make the following statement concerning Helen Keller's story of "King Frost." It was sent to me as a birthday gift on November 7th, from Tuscumbia, Alabama. Knowing as well as I do Helen's extraordinary abilities I did not hesitate to accept it as her own work; nor do I doubt to-day that she is fully capable of writing such a composition. Soon after its appearance in print I was pained to learn, through the Goodson Gazette, that a portion of the story (eight or nine passages) is either a reproduction or adaptation of Miss Margaret Canby's "Frost Fairies." I immediately instituted an inquiry to ascertain the facts in the case. None of our teachers or officers who are accustomed to converse with Helen ever knew or heard about Miss Canby's book, nor did the child's parents and relatives at home have any knowledge of it. Her father, Captain Keller, wrote to me as follows on the subject:
"I hasten to assure you that Helen could not have received any idea of the story from any of her relations or friends here, none of whom can communicate with her readily enough to impress her with the details of a story of that character."
At my request, one of the teachers in the girls' department examined Helen in regard to the construction of the story. Her testimony is as follows:
"I first tried to ascertain what had suggested to Helen's mind the particular fancies which made her story seem like a reproduction of one written by Miss Margaret Canby. Helen told me that for a long time she had thought of Jack Frost as a king, because of the many treasures which he possessed. Such rich treasures must be kept in a safe place, and so she had imagined them stored in jars and vases in one part of the royal palace. She said that one autumn day her teacher told her as they were walking together in the woods, about the many beautiful colours of the leaves, and she had thought that such beauty must make people very happy, and very grateful to King Frost. I asked Helen what stories she had read about Jack Frost. In answer to my question she recited a part of the poem called 'Freaks of the Frost,' and she referred to a little piece about winter, in one of the school readers. She could not remember that any one had ever read to her any stories about King Frost, but said she had talked with her teacher about Jack Frost and the wonderful things he did."
The only person that we supposed might possibly have read the story to Helen was her friend, Mrs. Hopkins, whom she was visiting at the time in Brewster. I asked Miss Sullivan to go at once to see Mrs. Hopkins and ascertain the facts in the matter. The result of her investigation is embodied in the printed note herewith enclosed. [This note is a statement of the bare facts and an apology, which Mr. Anagnos inserted in his report of the Perkins Institute.]
I have scarcely any doubt that Miss Canby's little book was read to Helen, by Mrs. Hopkins, in the summer of 1888. But the child has no recollection whatever of this fact. On Miss Sullivan's return to Brewster, she read to Helen the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which she had purchased in Boston for the purpose. The child was at once fascinated and absorbed with the charming story, which evidently made a deeper impression upon her mind than any previously read to her, as was shown in the frequent reference to it, both in her conversation and letters, for many months afterward. Her intense interest in Fauntleroy must have buried all remembrance of "Frost Fairies," and when, more than three years later, she had acquired a fuller knowledge and use of language, and was told of Jack Frost and his work, the seed so long buried sprang up into new thoughts and fancies. This may explain the reason why Helen claims persistently that "The Frost King" is her own story. She seems to have some idea of the difference between original composition and reproduction. She did not know the meaning of the word "plagiarism" until quite recently, when it was explained to her. She is absolutely truthful. Veracity is the strongest element of her character. She was very much surprised and grieved when she was told that her composition was an adaptation of Miss Canby's story of "Frost Fairies." She could not keep back her tears, and the chief cause of her pain seemed to be the fear lest people should doubt her truthfulness. She said, with great intensity of feeling, "I love the beautiful truth." A most rigid examination of the child of about two hours' duration, at which eight persons were present and asked all sorts of questions with perfect freedom, failed to elicit in the least any testimony convicting either her teacher or any one else of the intention or attempt to practice deception.
In view of these facts I cannot but think that Helen, while writing "The Frost King," was entirely unconscious of ever having had the story of "Frost Fairies" read to her, and that her memory has been accompanied by such a loss of associations that she herself honestly believed her composition to be original. This theory is shared by many persons who are perfectly well acquainted with the child and who are able to rise above the clouds of a narrow prejudice.
Very sincerely yours, M. ANAGNOS. Director of the Perkins Institution and Massachusetts School for the Blind.
The episode had a deadening effect on Helen Keller and on Miss Sullivan, who feared that she had allowed the habit of imitation, which has in truth made Miss Keller a writer, to go too far. Even to-day, when Miss Keller strikes off a fine phrase, Miss Sullivan says in humorous despair, "I wonder where she got that?" But she knows now, since she has studied with her pupil in college the problems of composition, under the wise advice of Mr. Charles T. Copeland, that the style of every writer and indeed, of every human being, illiterate or cultivated, is a composite reminiscence of all that he has read and heard. Of the sources of his vocabulary he is, for the most part, as unaware as he is of the moment when he ate the food which makes a bit of his thumbnail. With most of us the contributions from different sources are blended, crossed and confused. A child with but few sources may keep distinct what he draws from each. In this case Helen Keller held almost intact in her mind, unmixed with other ideas, the words of a story which at the time it was read to her she did not fully understand. The importance of this cannot be overestimated. It shows how the child-mind gathers into itself words it has heard, and how they lurk there ready to come out when the key that releases the spring is touched. The reason that we do not observe this process in ordinary children is, because we seldom observe them at all, and because they are fed from so many sources that the memories are confused and mutually destructive. The story of "The Frost King" did not, however, come from Helen Keller's mind intact, but had taken to itself the mould of the child's temperament and had drawn on a vocabulary that to some extent had been supplied in other ways. The style of her version is in some respects even better than the style of Miss Canby's story. It has the imaginative credulity of a primitive folktale; whereas Miss Canby's story is evidently told for children by an older person, who adopts the manner of a fairy tale and cannot conceal the mature mood which allows such didactic phrases as "Jack Frost as he is sometimes called," "Noon, at which time Mr. Sun is strongest." Most people will feel the superior imaginative quality of Helen Keller's opening paragraph. Surely the writer must become as a little child to see things like that. "Twelve soldierly-looking white bears" is a stroke of genius, and there is beauty of rhythm throughout the child's narrative. It is original in the same way that a poet's version of an old story is original.
This little story calls into life all the questions of language and the philosophy of style. Some conclusions may be briefly suggested.
All use of language is imitative, and one's style is made up of all other styles that one has met.
The way to write good English is to read it and hear it. Thus it is that any child may be taught to use correct English by not being allowed to read or hear any other kind. In a child, the selection of the better from the worse is not conscious; he is the servant of his word experience.
The ordinary man will never be rid of the fallacy that words obey thought, that one thinks first and phrases afterward. There must first, it is true, be the intention, the desire to utter something, but the idea does not often become specific, does not take shape until it is phrased; certainly an idea is a different thing by virtue of being phrased. Words often make the thought, and the master of words will say things greater than are in him. A remarkable example is a paragraph from Miss Keller's sketch in the Youth's Companion. Writing of the moment when she learned that everything has a name, she says: "We met the nurse carrying my little cousin; and teacher spelled 'baby.' AND FOR THE FIRST TIME I was impressed with the smallness and helplessness of a little baby, and mingled with the thought there was another one of myself, and I was glad I was myself, and not a baby." It was a word that created these thoughts in her mind. So the master of words is master of thoughts which the words create, and says things greater than he could otherwise know. Helen Keller writing "The Frost King" was building better than she knew and saying more than she meant.
Whoever makes a sentence of words utters not his wisdom, but the wisdom of the race whose life is in the words, though they have never been so grouped before. The man who can write stories thinks of stories to write. The medium calls forth the thing it conveys, and the greater the medium the deeper the thoughts.
The educated man is the man whose expression is educated. The substance of thought is language, and language is the one thing to teach the deaf child and every other child. Let him get language and he gets the very stuff that language is made of, the thought and the experience of his race. The language must be one used by a nation, not an artificial thing. Volapuk is a paradox, unless one has French or English or German or some other language that has grown up in a nation. The deaf child who has only the sign language of De l'Epee is an intellectual Philip Nolan, an alien from all races, and his thoughts are not the thoughts of an Englishman, or a Frenchman, or a Spaniard. The Lord's prayer in signs is not the Lord's prayer in English.
In his essay on style De Quincey says that the best English is to be found in the letters of the cultivated gentlewoman, because she has read only a few good books and has not been corrupted by the style of newspapers and the jargon of street, market-place, and assembly hall.
Precisely these outward circumstances account for Helen Keller's use of English. In the early years of her education she had only good things to read; some were, indeed, trivial and not excellent in style, but not one was positively bad in manner or substance. This happy condition has obtained throughout her life. She has been nurtured on imaginative literature, and she has gathered from it into her vigorous and tenacious memory the style of great writers. "A new word opens its heart to me," she writes in a letter; and when she uses the word its heart is still open. When she was twelve years old, she was asked what book she would take on a long railroad journey. "Paradise Lost," she answered, and she read it on the train.
Until the last year or two she has not been master of her style, rather has her style been master of her. It is only since she has made composition a more conscious study that she has ceased to be the victim of the phrase; the lucky victim, fortunately, of the good phrase.
When in 1892, she was encouraged to write a sketch of her life for the Youth's Companion, in the hope that it would reassure her and help her to recover from the effect of "The Frost King," she produced a piece of composition which is much more remarkable and in itself more entertaining at some points than the corresponding part of her story in this book. When she came to retell the story in a fuller form, the echo was still in her mind of the phrases she had written nine years before. Yet she had not seen her sketch in the Youth's Companion since she wrote it, except two passages which Miss Sullivan read to her to remind her of things she should say in this autobiography, and to show her, when her phrasing troubled her, how much better she did as a little girl.
From the early sketch I take a few passages which seem to me, without making very much allowance for difference in time, almost as good as anything she has written since:
I discovered the true way to walk when I was a year old, and during the radiant summer days that followed I was never still a minute....
Then when my father came in the evening, I would run to the gate to meet him, and he would take me up in his strong arms and put back the tangled curls from my face and kiss me many times, saying, "What has my Little Woman been doing to-day?"
But the brightest summer has winter behind it. In the cold, dreary month of February, when I was nineteen months old, I had a serious illness. I still have confused memories of that illness. My mother sat beside my little bed and tried to soothe my feverish moans while in her troubled heart she prayed, "Father in Heaven, spare my baby's life!" But the fever grew and flamed in my eyes, and for several days my kind physician thought I would die.
But early one morning the fever left me as mysteriously and unexpectedly as it had come, and I fell into a quiet sleep. Then my parents knew I would live, and they were very happy. They did not know for some time after my recovery that the cruel fever had taken my sight and hearing; taken all the light and music and gladness out of my little life.
But I was too young to realize what had happened. When I awoke and found that all was dark and still, I suppose I thought it was night, and I must have wondered why day was so long coming. Gradually, however, I got used to the silence and darkness that surrounded me, and forgot that it had ever been day.
I forgot everything that had been except my mother's tender love. Soon even my childish voice was stilled, because I had ceased to hear any sound.
But all was not lost! After all, sight and hearing are but two of the beautiful blessings which God had given me. The most precious, the most wonderful of His gifts was still mine. My mind remained clear and active, "though fled fore'er the light."
As soon as my strength returned, I began to take an interest in what the people around me were doing. I would cling to my mother's dress as she went about her household duties, and my little hands felt every object and observed every motion, and in this way I learned a great many things.
When I was a little older I felt the need of some means of communication with those around me, and I began to make simple signs which my parents and friends readily understood; but it often happened that I was unable to express my thoughts intelligibly, and at such times I would give way to my angry feelings utterly....
Teacher had been with me nearly two weeks, and I had learned eighteen or twenty words, before that thought flashed into my mind, as the sun breaks upon the sleeping world; and in that moment of illumination the secret of language was revealed to me, and I caught a glimpse of the beautiful country I was about to explore.
Teacher had been trying all the morning to make me understand that the mug and the milk in the mug had different names; but I was very dull, and kept spelling MILK for mug, and mug for milk until teacher must have lost all hope of making me see my mistake. At last she got up, gave me the mug, and led me out of the door to the pump-house. Some one was pumping water, and as the cool fresh stream burst forth, teacher made me put my mug under the spout and spelled "w-a-t-e-r," Water!
That word startled my soul, and it awoke, full of the spirit of the morning, full of joyous, exultant song. Until that day my mind had been like a darkened chamber, waiting for words to enter and light the lamp, which is thought....
I learned a great many words that day. I do not remember what they all were; but I do know that MOTHER, FATHER, SISTER and TEACHER were among them. It would have been difficult to find a happier little child than I was that night as I lay in my crib and thought over the joy the day had brought me, and for the first time longed for a new day to come.
The next morning I awoke with joy in my heart. Everything I touched seemed to quiver with life. It was because I saw everything with the new, strange, beautiful sight which had been given me. I was never angry after that because I understood what my friends said to me, and I was very busy learning many wonderful things. I was never still during the first glad days of my freedom. I was continually spelling and acting out the words as I spelled them. I would run, skip, jump and swing, no matter where I happened to be. Everything was budding and blossoming. The honeysuckle hung in long garlands, deliciously fragrant, and the roses had never been so beautiful before. Teacher and I lived out-of-doors from morning until night, and I rejoiced greatly in the forgotten light and sunshine found again....
The morning after our arrival I awoke bright and early. A beautiful summer day had dawned, the day on which I was to make the acquaintance of a somber and mysterious friend. I got up, and dressed quickly and ran downstairs. I met Teacher in the hall, and begged to be taken to the sea at once. "Not yet," she responded, laughing. "We must have breakfast first." As soon as breakfast was over we hurried off to the shore. Our pathway led through low, sandy hills, and as we hastened on, I often caught my feet in the long, coarse grass, and tumbled, laughing, in the warm, shining sand. The beautiful, warm air was peculiarly fragrant, and I noticed it got cooler and fresher as we went on.
Suddenly we stopped, and I knew, without being told, the Sea was at my feet. I knew, too, it was immense! awful! and for a moment some of the sunshine seemed to have gone out of the day. But I do not think I was afraid; for later, when I had put on my bathing-suit, and the little waves ran up on the beach and kissed my feet, I shouted for joy, and plunged fearlessly into the surf. But, unfortunately, I struck my foot on a rock and fell forward into the cold water.
Then a strange, fearful sense of danger terrified me. The salt water filled my eyes, and took away my breath, and a great wave threw me up on the beach as easily as if I had been a little pebble. For several days after that I was very timid, and could hardly be persuaded to go in the water at all; but by degrees my courage returned, and almost before the summer was over, I thought it the greatest fun to be tossed about by the sea-waves....
I do not know whether the difference or the similarity in phrasing between the child's version and the woman's is the more remarkable. The early story is simpler and shows less deliberate artifice, though even then Miss Keller was prematurely conscious of style, but the art of the later narrative, as in the passage about the sea, or the passage on the medallion of Homer, is surely a fulfilment of the promise of the early story. It was in these early days that Dr. Holmes wrote to her: "I am delighted with the style of your letters. There is no affectation about them, and as they come straight from your heart, so they go straight to mine."
In the years when she was growing out of childhood, her style lost its early simplicity and became stiff and, as she says, "periwigged." In these years the fear came many times to Miss Sullivan lest the success of the child was to cease with childhood. At times Miss Keller seemed to lack flexibility, her thoughts ran in set phrases which she seemed to have no power to revise or turn over in new ways.
Then came the work in college—original theme writing with new ideals of composition or at least new methods of suggesting those ideals. Miss Keller began to get the better of her old friendly taskmaster, the phrase. This book, her first mature experiment in writing, settles the question of her ability to write.
The style of the Bible is everywhere in Miss Keller's work, just as it is in the style of most great English writers. Stevenson, whom Miss Sullivan likes and used to read to her pupil, is another marked influence. In her autobiography are many quotations, chiefly from the Bible and Stevenson, distinct from the context or interwoven with it, the whole a fabric quite of her own design. Her vocabulary has all the phrases that other people use, and the explanation of it, and the reasonableness of it ought to be evident by this time. There is no reason why she should strike from her vocabulary all words of sound and vision. Writing for other people, she should in many cases be true to outer fact rather than to her own experience. So long as she uses words correctly, she should be granted the privilege of using them freely, and not be expected to confine herself to a vocabulary true to her lack of sight and hearing. In her style, as in what she writes about, we must concede to the artist what we deny to the autobiographer. It should be explained, too, that LOOK and SEE are used by the blind, and HEAR by the deaf, for PERCEIVE; they are simple and more convenient words. Only a literal person could think of holding the blind to PERCEPTION or APPERCEPTION, when SEEING and LOOKING are so much easier, and have, moreover, in the speech of all men the meaning of intellectual recognition as well as recognition through the sense of sight. When Miss Keller examines a statue, she says in her natural idiom, as her fingers run over the marble, "It looks like a head of Flora."
It is true, on the other hand, that in her descriptions, she is best from the point of view of art when she is faithful to her own sensations; and this is precisely true of all artists.
Her recent training has taught her to drop a good deal of her conventionality and to write about experiences in her life which are peculiar to her and which, like the storm in the wild cherry tree, mean most and call for the truest phrasing. She has learned more and more to give up the style she borrowed from books and tried to use, because she wanted to write like other people; she has learned that she is at her best when she "feels" the lilies sway; lets the roses press into her hands and speaks of the heat which to her means light.
Miss Keller's autobiography contains almost everything that she ever intended to publish. It seems worth while, however, to quote from some of her chance bits of writing, which are neither so informal as her letters nor so carefully composed as her story of her life. These extracts are from her exercises in her course in composition, where she showed herself at the beginning of her college life quite without rival among her classmates. Mr. Charles T. Copeland, who has been for many years instructor in English and Lecturer on English Literature at Harvard and Radcliffe, said to me: "In some of her work she has shown that she can write better than any pupil I ever had, man or woman. She has an excellent 'ear' for the flow of sentences." The extracts follow:
A few verses of Omar Khayyam's poetry have just been read to me, and I feel as if I had spent the last half-hour in a magnificent sepulcher. Yes, it is a tomb in which hope, joy and the power of acting nobly lie buried. Every beautiful description, every deep thought glides insensibly into the same mournful chant of the brevity of life, of the slow decay and dissolution of all earthly things. The poet's bright, fond memories of love, youth and beauty are but the funeral torches shedding their light on this tomb, or to modify the image a little, they are the flowers that bloom on it, watered with tears and fed by a bleeding heart. Beside the tomb sits a weary soul, rejoicing neither in the joys of the past nor in the possibilities of the future, but seeking consolation in forgetfulness. In vain the inspiring sea shouts to this languid soul, in vain the heavens strive with its weakness; it still persists in regretting and seeks a refuge in oblivion from the pangs of present woe. At times it catches some faint echo from the living, joyous, real world, a gleam of the perfection that is to be; and, thrilled out of its despondency, feels capable of working out a grand ideal even "in the poor, miserable, hampered actual," wherein it is placed; but in a moment the inspiration, the vision is gone, and this great, much-suffering soul is again enveloped in the darkness of uncertainty and despair.
It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil. If they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui.
I often think that beautiful ideas embarrass most people as much as the company of great men. They are regarded generally as far more appropriate in books and in public discourses than in the parlor or at the table. Of course I do not refer to beautiful sentiments, but to the higher truths relating to everyday life. Few people that I know seem ever to pause in their daily intercourse to wonder at the beautiful bits of truth they have gathered during their years of study. Often when I speak enthusiastically of something in history or in poetry, I receive no response, and I feel that I must change the subject and return to the commonest topics, such as the weather, dressmaking, sports, sickness, "blues" and "worries." To be sure, I take the keenest interest in everything that concerns those who surround me; it is this very interest which makes it so difficult for me to carry on a conversation with some people who will not talk or say what they think, but I should not be sorry to find more friends ready to talk with me now and then about the wonderful things I read. We need not be like "Les Femmes Savantes" but we ought to have something to say about what we learn as well as about what we MUST do, and what our professors say or how they mark our themes.
To-day I took luncheon with the Freshman Class of Radcliffe. This was my first real experience in college life, and a delightful experience it was! For the first time since my entrance into Radcliffe I had the opportunity to make friends with all my classmates, and the pleasure of knowing that they regarded me as one of themselves, instead of thinking of me as living apart and taking no interest in the everyday nothings of their life, as I had sometimes feared they did. I have often been surprised to hear this opinion expressed or rather implied by girls of my own age and even by people advanced in years. Once some one wrote to me that in his mind I was always "sweet and earnest," thinking only of what is wise, good and interesting—as if he thought I was one of those wearisome saints of whom there are only too many in the world! I always laugh at these foolish notions, and assure my friends that it is much better to have a few faults and be cheerful and responsive in spite of all deprivations than to retire into one's shell, pet one's affliction, clothe it with sanctity, and then set one's self up as a monument of patience, virtue, goodness and all in all; but even while I laugh I feel a twinge of pain in my heart, because it seems rather hard to me that any one should imagine that I do not feel the tender bonds which draw me to my young sisters—the sympathies springing from what we have in common—youth, hope, a half-eager, half-timid attitude towards the life before us and above all the royalty of maidenhood.
Sainte-Beuve says, "Il vient un age peut-etre quand on n'ecrit plus." This is the only allusion I have read to the possibility that the sources of literature, varied and infinite as they seem now, may sometime be exhausted. It surprises me to find that such an idea has crossed the mind of any one, especially of a highly gifted critic. The very fact that the nineteenth century has not produced many authors whom the world may count among the greatest of all time does not in my opinion justify the remark, "There may come a time when people cease to write."
In the first place, the fountains of literature are fed by two vast worlds, one of action, one of thought, by a succession of creations in the one and of changes in the other. New experiences and events call forth new ideas and stir men to ask questions unthought of before, and seek a definite answer in the depths of human knowledge.
In the second place, if it is true that as many centuries must pass before the world becomes perfect as passed before it became what it is to-day, literature will surely be enriched incalculably by the tremendous changes, acquisitions and improvements that cannot fail to take place in the distant future. If genius has been silent for a century it has not been idle. On the contrary, it has been collecting fresh materials not only from the remote past, but also from the age of progress and development, and perhaps in the new century there will be outbursts of splendor in all the various branches of literature. At present the world is undergoing a complete revolution, and in the midst of falling systems and empires, conflicting theories and creeds, discoveries and inventions, it is a marvel how one can produce any great literary works at all. This is an age of workers, not of thinkers. The song to-day is:
Let the dead past bury its dead, Act, act in the living present, Heart within and God overhead.
A little later, when the rush and heat of achievement relax, we can begin to expect the appearance of grand men to celebrate in glorious poetry and prose the deeds and triumphs of the last few centuries.
It is very interesting to watch a plant grow, it is like taking part in creation. When all outside is cold and white, when the little children of the woodland are gone to their nurseries in the warm earth, and the empty nests on the bare trees fill with snow, my window-garden glows and smiles, making summer within while it is winter without. It is wonderful to see flowers bloom in the midst of a snow-storm! I have felt a bud "shyly doff her green hood and blossom with a silken burst of sound," while the icy fingers of the snow beat against the window-panes. What secret power, I wonder, caused this blossoming miracle? What mysterious force guided the seedling from the dark earth up to the light, through leaf and stem and bud, to glorious fulfilment in the perfect flower? Who could have dreamed that such beauty lurked in the dark earth, was latent in the tiny seed we planted? Beautiful flower, you have taught me to see a little way into the hidden heart of things. Now I understand that the darkness everywhere may hold possibilities better even than my hopes.
A FREE TRANSLATION FROM HORACE BOOK II-18.
I am not one of those on whom fortune deigns to smile. My house is not resplendent with ivory and gold; nor is it adorned with marble arches, resting on graceful columns brought from the quarries of distant Africa. For me no thrifty spinners weave purple garments. I have not unexpectedly fallen heir to princely estates, titles or power; but I have something more to be desired than all the world's treasures—the love of my friends, and honorable fame, won by my own industry and talents. Despite my poverty, it is my privilege to be the companion of the rich and mighty. I am too grateful for all these blessings to wish for more from princes, or from the gods. My little Sabine farm is dear to me; for here I spend my happiest days, far from the noise and strife of the world.
O, ye who live in the midst of luxury, who seek beautiful marbles for new villas, that shall surpass the old in splendor, you never dream that the shadow of death is hanging over your halls. Forgetful of the tomb, you lay the foundation of your palaces. In your mad pursuit of pleasure you rob the sea of its beach and desecrate hallowed ground. More even than this, in your wickedness you destroy the peaceful homes of your clients! Without a touch of remorse you drive the father from his land, clasping to his bosom his household gods and his half-naked children.
You forget that death comes to the rich and the poor alike, and comes once for all; but remember, Acheron could not be bribed by gold to ferry the crafty Prometheus back to the sunlit world. Tantalus, too, great as he was above all mortals, went down to the kingdom of the dead, never to return. Remember, too, that, although death is inexorable, yet he is just; for he brings retribution to the rich for their wickedness, and gives the poor eternal rest from their toil and sorrow.
Ah, the pranks that the nixies of Dreamland play on us while we sleep! Methinks "they are jesters at the Court of Heaven." They frequently take the shape of daily themes to mock me; they strut about on the stage of Sleep like foolish virgins, only they carry well-trimmed note-books in their hands instead of empty lamps. At other times they examine and cross-examine me in all the studies I have ever had, and invariably ask me questions as easy to answer as this: "What was the name of the first mouse that worried Hippopotamus, satrap of Cambridge under Astyagas, grandfather of Cyrus the Great?" I wake terror-stricken with the words ringing in my ears, "An answer or your life!"
Such are the distorted fancies that flit through the mind of one who is at college and lives as I do in an atmosphere of ideas, conceptions and half-thoughts, half-feelings which tumble and jostle each other until one is almost crazy. I rarely have dreams that are not in keeping with what I really think and feel, but one night my very nature seemed to change, and I stood in the eye of the world a mighty man and a terrible. Naturally I love peace and hate war and all that pertains to war; I see nothing admirable in the ruthless career of Napoleon, save its finish. Nevertheless, in that dream the spirit of that pitiless slayer of men entered me! I shall never forget how the fury of battle throbbed in my veins—it seemed as if the tumultuous beating of my heart would stop my breath. I rode a fiery hunter—I can feel the impatient toss of his head now and the quiver that ran through him at the first roar of the cannon.
From the top of the hill where I stood I saw my army surging over a sunlit plain like angry breakers, and as they moved, I saw the green of fields, like the cool hollows between billows. Trumpet answered trumpet above the steady beat of drums and the rhythm of marching feet. I spurred my panting steed and waving my sword on high and shouting, "I come! Behold me, warriors—Europe!" I plunged into the oncoming billows, as a strong swimmer dives into breakers, and struck, alas, 'tis true, the bedpost!
Now I rarely sleep without dreaming; but before Miss Sullivan came to me, my dreams were few and far between, devoid of thought or coherency, except those of a purely physical nature. In my dreams something was always falling suddenly and heavily, and at times my nurse seemed to punish me for my unkind treatment of her in the daytime and return at an usurer's rate of interest my kickings and pinchings. I would wake with a start or struggle frantically to escape from my tormentor. I was very fond of bananas, and one night I dreamed that I found a long string of them in the dining-room, near the cupboard, all peeled and deliciously ripe, and all I had to do was to stand under the string and eat as long as I could eat.
After Miss Sullivan came to me, the more I learned, the oftener I dreamed; but with the waking of my mind there came many dreary fancies and vague terrors which troubled my sleep for a long time. I dreaded the darkness and loved the woodfire. Its warm touch seemed so like a human caress, I really thought it was a sentient being, capable of loving and protecting me. One cold winter night I was alone in my room. Miss Sullivan had put out the light and gone away, thinking I was sound asleep. Suddenly I felt my bed shake, and a wolf seemed to spring on me and snarl in my face. It was only a dream, but I thought it real, and my heart sank within me. I dared not scream, and I dared not stay in bed. Perhaps this was a confused recollection of the story I had heard not long before about Red Riding Hood. At all events, I slipped down from the bed and nestled close to the fire which had not flickered out. The instant I felt its warmth I was reassured, and I sat a long time watching it climb higher and higher in shining waves. At last sleep surprised me, and when Miss Sullivan returned she found me wrapped in a blanket by the hearth.
Often when I dream, thoughts pass through my mind like cowled shadows, silent and remote, and disappear. Perhaps they are the ghosts of thoughts that once inhabited the mind of an ancestor. At other times the things I have learned and the things I have been taught, drop away, as the lizard sheds its skin, and I see my soul as God sees it. There are also rare and beautiful moments when I see and hear in Dreamland. What if in my waking hours a sound should ring through the silent halls of hearing? What if a ray of light should flash through the darkened chambers of my soul? What would happen, I ask many and many a time. Would the bow-and-string tension of life snap? Would the heart, overweighted with sudden joy, stop beating for very excess of happiness?
THE END
👁 :3
Rosalind Elsie Franklin was born into an affluent and influential Jewish family on July 25, 1920, in Notting Hill, London, England. She displayed exceptional intelligence from early childhood, knowing from the age of 15 that she wanted to be a scientist. She received her education at several schools, including North London Collegiate School, where she excelled in science, among other things.
Franklin enrolled at Newnham College, Cambridge, in 1938 and studied chemistry. In 1941, she was awarded Second Class Honors in her finals, which, at that time, was accepted as a bachelor's degree in the qualifications for employment. She went on to work as an assistant research officer at the British Coal Utilisation Research Association, where she studied the porosity of coal—work that was the basis of her 1945 Ph.D. thesis "The physical chemistry of solid organic colloids with special reference to coal."
In the fall of 1946, Franklin was appointed at the Laboratoire Central des Services Chimiques de l'Etat in Paris, where she worked with crystallographer Jacques Mering. He taught her X-ray diffraction, which would play an important role in her research that led to the discovery of "the secret of life"—the structure of DNA. In addition, Franklin pioneered the use of X-rays to create images of crystallized solids in analyzing complex, unorganized matter, not just single crystals.
DNA, Scientific Discoveries and Credit Controversy
In January 1951, Franklin began working as a research associate at the King's College London in the biophysics unit, where director John Randall used her expertise and X-ray diffraction techniques (mostly of proteins and lipids in solution) on DNA fibers. Studying DNA structure with X-ray diffraction, Franklin and her student Raymond Gosling made an amazing discovery: They took pictures of DNA and discovered that there were two forms of it, a dry "A" form and a wet "B" form. One of their X-ray diffraction pictures of the "B" form of DNA, known as Photograph 51, became famous as critical evidence in identifying the structure of DNA. The photo was acquired through 100 hours of X-ray exposure from a machine Franklin herself had refined.
John Desmond Bernal, one of the United Kingdom’s most well-known and controversial scientists and a pioneer in X-ray crystallography, spoke highly of Franklin around the time of her death in 1958. "As a scientist Miss Franklin was distinguished by extreme clarity and perfection in everything she undertook," he said. "Her photographs were among the most beautiful X-ray photographs of any substance ever taken. Their excellence was the fruit of extreme care in preparation and mounting of the specimens as well as in the taking of the photographs."
Despite her cautious and diligent work ethic, Franklin had a personality conflict with colleague Maurice Wilkins, one that would end up costing her greatly. In January 1953, Wilkins changed the course of DNA history by disclosing without Franklin's permission or knowledge her Photo 51 to competing scientist James Watson, who was working on his own DNA model with Francis Crick at Cambridge.
Upon seeing the photograph, Watson said, "My jaw fell open and my pulse began to race," according to author Brenda Maddox, who in 2002 wrote a book about Franklin titled Rosalind Franklin: The Dark Lady of DNA.
The two scientists did, in fact, use what they saw in Photo 51 as the basis for their famous model of DNA, which they published on March 7, 1953, and for which they received a Nobel Prize in 1962. Crick and Watson were also able to take most of the credit for the finding: When publishing their model in Nature magazine in April 1953, they included a footnote acknowledging that they were "stimulated by a general knowledge" of Franklin's and Wilkins' unpublished contribution, when in fact, much of their work was rooted in Franklin's photo and findings. Randall and the Cambridge laboratory director came to an agreement, and both Wilkins' and Franklin's articles were published second and third in the same issue of Nature. Still, it appeared that their articles were merely supporting Crick and Watson's.
Franklin left King's College in March 1953 and relocated to Birkbeck College, where she studied the structure of the tobacco mosaic virus and the structure of RNA. Because Randall let Franklin leave on the condition that she would not work on DNA, she turned her attention back to studies of coal. In five years, Franklin published 17 papers on viruses, and her group laid the foundations for structural virology.
Illness and Death
In the fall of 1956, Franklin discovered that she had ovarian cancer. She continued working throughout the following two years, despite having three operations and experimental chemotherapy. She experienced a 10-month remission and worked up until several weeks before her death on April 16, 1958, at the age of 37.
• REFERANCE : Article Title: Rosalind Franklin Biography
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