the world i live in-海伦·凯勒自传(英文版)-第5部分

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rays　of　the　afternoon　withdraw　more　and　more；　as　they　touch　my　face；
until　the　air　bees　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　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？




THE　FINER　VIBRATIONS




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　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！

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　〃Walkuere；〃　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　position　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　mensurate　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　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　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。

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＇


＇Illustration：　Copyright；　1907；　by　The　Whitman　Studio

〃Listening〃　to　the　Trees

To　face　page　70＇

The　city　is　interesting；　but　the　tactual　silence　of　the　country　is
always　most　wele　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　e　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　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　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　bination；　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　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；　pressed。　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　ing　tempest。　The　avalanche　of
coolness　which　sweeps　through　the　low…hanging　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　wele　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　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。

FOOTNOTE：

＇B＇　George　Arnold。




SMELL；　THE　FALLEN　ANGEL




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