the world i live in-海伦·凯勒自传(英文版)-第5章

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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




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　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　manded　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　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　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　deep　June　pastures　and　murmurous
streams。

The　sense　of　smell　has　told　me　of　a　ing　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；　bee　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　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　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。　An　unreasoning　resentment　flashed　through
me　at　this　ruthless　destruction　of　the　beauty　that　I　love。　But　there