Chapter 1

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 begin to write the story of my life with a kind of fear. I feel an almost superstitious hesitation about lifting the veil that clings to my childhood like a golden mist. Writing an autobiography is difficult. When I try to sort out my earliest impressions, fact and imagination look alike across the years that link past and present. The woman colors the child’s experiences with her own imagination. A few impressions from my first years stand out vividly, but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest." Besides, many childhood joys and sorrows have lost their sharpness. And in the excitement of great discoveries, I have forgotten many events that were vital to my early education. So, to avoid being tedious, I will try to offer a series of sketches. They will include only the episodes that seem most interesting and important to me.

I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern Alabama.

I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a small town in 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 father’s family is descended from Caspar Keller, a Swiss man who settled in Maryland. One of my Swiss ancestors was the first teacher of deaf people in Zurich. He also wrote a book about their education. That is a rather unusual coincidence. Though it is true that every king has had a slave among his ancestors, and every slave has 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 grandfather, Caspar Keller's son, "entered" large tracts of land in Alabama and eventually settled there. I have been told that he rode from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia once a year to buy supplies for the plantation. My aunt has many of his 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 grandmother Keller was the daughter of Alexander Moore, one of Lafayette's aides. She was also the granddaughter of Alexander Spotswood, an early colonial governor of Virginia. She was a second cousin of 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.

My father, Arthur H. Keller, was a captain in the Confederate Army. My mother, Kate Adams, was his second wife and many years younger than he was. 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 for the South and became a brigadier general. He married Lucy Helen Everett. She belonged to the same Everett family as Edward Everett and Dr. Edward Everett Hale. After the war, 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.

Until the illness that took away my sight and hearing, I lived in a tiny house. It had a large square room and a small room where the servant slept. In the South, it is customary to build a small house near the main house for occasional use. My father built such a house after the Civil War. When he married my mother, they went to live there. The house was completely covered with vines, climbing roses, and honeysuckles. From the garden, it looked like a bower. A screen of yellow roses and Southern smilax hid the little porch from view. Hummingbirds and bees loved to gather there.

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.

The Keller family home was a few steps from our little rose garden. It was called "Ivy Green" because beautiful English ivy covered the house, surrounding trees, and fences. 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.

Even before my teacher came, I used to feel my way along the square, stiff boxwood hedges. Guided by smell, I would find the first violets and lilies. After a fit of temper, I also went there for comfort, hiding my hot face in the cool leaves and grass. What joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers and wander happily from spot to spot! Sometimes I would suddenly come upon a beautiful vine and recognize it by its leaves and blossoms. I knew it was the vine that covered the crumbling summerhouse at the far end of the garden. There were also trailing clematis, drooping jessamine, and some rare, sweet flowers called butterfly lilies. Their delicate petals look like butterflies’ wings. But the roses were the loveliest of all. I have never found roses in the greenhouses of the North as satisfying to my heart as the climbing roses of my southern home. They hung in long garlands from our porch, filling the air with fragrance untouched by any earthy smell. In the early morning, washed in dew, they felt so soft and pure. I could not help wondering if they resembled the asphodels in 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.

The beginning of my life was simple and much like any other little life. I came, I saw, I conquered, as the first baby in a family always does. There was the usual amount of discussion about what to name me. Everyone insisted that the first baby in the family should not be named lightly. My father suggested Mildred Campbell, the name of an ancestor he greatly admired. He then refused to take any further part in the discussion. My mother settled the matter by saying she wanted me named after her mother, whose maiden name was Helen Everett. But in the excitement of carrying me to church, my father forgot the name on the way. That was natural enough, since he had refused to take part in choosing it. When the minister asked for my name, my father remembered only that I was to be named after my grandmother. So 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.

I am told that even when I was still wearing long baby dresses, I showed many signs of an eager, determined personality. I insisted on copying everything I saw other people do. At six months, I could chirp "How d'ye." One day, I caught everyone's attention by saying "Tea, tea, tea" quite clearly. Even after my illness, I remembered one of the words I had learned in those early months. It was the word "water." After I lost all other speech, I continued to make a sound for that word. I stopped 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.

I’m told I walked on my first birthday. My mother had just taken me out of the bathtub and was holding me in her lap. Suddenly, I noticed the flickering shadows of leaves dancing in the sunlight on the smooth floor. I slipped from my mother’s lap and almost ran toward the shadows. When the urge passed, I fell down and cried for her to pick me up.

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.

These happy days did not last long. One brief spring passed, filled with the songs of robins and mockingbirds. One summer passed, rich with fruit and roses. Then came an autumn of gold and crimson. Each season left its gifts at the feet of an eager, delighted child. Then, in the dreary month of February, I became ill. The illness closed my eyes and ears and plunged me into the unconsciousness of a newborn baby. They called the illness acute congestion of the stomach and brain. The doctor thought I would not survive. Early one morning, though, the fever left me as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come. My family rejoiced that morning, but no one, not even the doctor, knew I would 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 waking 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."

I think I still have vague memories of that illness. I especially remember how gently my mother tried to comfort me when I was awake, restless and in pain. I also remember waking from a restless half sleep in agony and confusion. My eyes were so dry and hot. I turned them toward the wall, away from the light I had once loved. The light grew dimmer and dimmer each day. But apart from these fleeting memories, if they really are memories, the illness seems very unreal, like a nightmare. Gradually, I grew used to the silence and darkness around me. I forgot that life had ever been different, until my teacher came. She was the one who would set my spirit free. But during the first nineteen months of my life, I had glimpsed broad, green fields, a bright sky, trees and flowers. The darkness that followed could not completely erase them. If we have once seen, "the day is ours, and what the day has shown."