Chapter 2

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 cannot remember 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 did her housework. My hands felt every object and followed every movement. In this way, I learned about many things. Soon I felt the need to communicate with others and began making simple signs. A shake of my head meant "No" and a nod meant "Yes." A pull meant "Come" and a push meant "Go." When I wanted bread, I pretended to cut and butter slices. If I wanted my mother to make ice cream for dinner, I pretended to work the ice cream freezer. I also shivered to show that it was cold. My mother also managed to make me understand a good deal. I always knew when she wanted me to bring her something. I would run upstairs or anywhere else she pointed me. Indeed, I owe all that was bright and good in my long night to her loving wisdom.

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 understood a good deal of what was happening around me. When I was five, I learned to fold and put away the clean clothes brought in from the laundry. I could tell which clothes were mine. I knew from the way my mother and aunt dressed when they were going out. I always begged to go with them. Whenever we had company, someone would send for me. When the guests left, I waved to them. I think I had a vague memory of what the gesture meant. One day, some gentlemen came to visit my mother. I felt the front door close and noticed other sounds that told me they had arrived. Suddenly, I had an idea. I ran upstairs before anyone could stop me to put on what I thought was a dress for company. I stood before the mirror, as I had seen others do. I rubbed oil on my head and covered my face thickly with powder. Then I pinned a veil over my head. It covered my face and fell in folds down to my shoulders. I tied an enormous bustle around my small waist. It hung down behind me, almost reaching the hem of my skirt. Dressed like this, I went downstairs 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 do not remember when I first realized I was different from other people. But I knew it before my teacher came to me. I had noticed that my mother and friends talked with their mouths when they wanted something done. They did not use signs as I did. Sometimes I stood between two people who were talking and touched their lips. I could not understand them, and I was frustrated. I moved my lips and waved my hands wildly, but it did not help. At times, this made me so angry 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.

I think I knew when I was naughty because I knew kicking Ella, my nurse, hurt her. When my temper passed, I felt something like regret. But I cannot remember that feeling ever stopping me from being naughty again when I did not 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.

In those days, my constant companions were Martha Washington, the young Black daughter of our cook, and Belle, an old setter. Belle had been a great hunter in her day. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I rarely had trouble making her do exactly what I wanted. I enjoyed bossing her around, and she usually gave in rather than risk a physical fight. I was strong, active, and unconcerned about the consequences. I knew what I wanted and always got my way, even if I had to fight tooth and nail for it. We spent a lot of time in the kitchen, kneading balls of dough, helping make ice cream, and grinding coffee. We also quarreled over the cake bowl and fed the hens and turkeys crowding around the kitchen steps. Many of the birds were so tame that they would eat from my hand and let me feel them. One day, a big gobbler snatched a tomato from me and ran away with it. Perhaps inspired by Master Gobbler's success, we carried a freshly frosted cake from the kitchen to the woodpile. We ate every bit of it. I was quite ill afterward, and I wonder if the turkey was punished too.

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.

Guinea-fowl like to hide their nests in secluded places. One of my greatest pleasures was hunting for their eggs in the long grass. I could not tell Martha Washington when I wanted to hunt for eggs. Instead, I would curl my hands into balls and put them on the ground. This meant something round in the grass, and Martha always understood. When we were lucky enough to find a nest, I never let her carry the eggs home. I made it clear through 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.

Martha and I were always interested in the corn sheds, the horse stable, and the yard where cows were milked morning and evening. The people milking the cows let me keep my hands on them while they worked. My curiosity often earned me a good swat from a cow’s tail.

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.

Getting 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 smells that filled the house. I also enjoyed the treats given to Martha Washington and me to keep us quiet. We were terribly in the way, but that did not spoil our pleasure in the least. We were allowed to grind the spices, sort the raisins, and lick the stirring spoons. I hung my stocking because everyone else did. But I cannot remember being especially interested in the ritual. I was not curious enough 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.

Martha Washington loved mischief as much as I did. One hot July afternoon, two little children sat on the veranda steps. One was as black as ebony. Little bunches of fuzzy hair, tied with shoestrings, stuck out all over her head like corkscrews. The other was white, with long golden curls. One child was six years old, and the other was two or three years older. The younger child was blind. That was me, and the other was Martha Washington. We were cutting out paper dolls, but we soon grew tired of it. We cut up our shoestrings and clipped off all the honeysuckle leaves we could reach. Then I turned my attention to Martha’s corkscrews. She objected at first, but finally gave in. Thinking it was only fair to take turns, she grabbed the scissors and cut off one of my curls. She would have cut them all off, but my mother stepped in just in time.

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.

Belle, our dog and my other companion, was old and lazy. She preferred sleeping by the open fire to playing with me. I tried hard to teach her my sign language, but she was slow to learn and paid little attention. Sometimes she would start and tremble with excitement. Then she would become perfectly still, as dogs do when they point at a bird. I did not know then why Belle behaved this way, but I knew she was not doing what I wanted. This annoyed me, and the lesson always ended in a one-sided boxing match. Belle would get up, stretch lazily, and sniff once or twice with contempt. Then she would go to the other side of the fireplace and lie down again. Tired and disappointed, I would go looking for 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.

Many moments from those early years remain in my memory. They stand alone, but are clear and distinct. They make my sense of that silent, aimless life without days 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.

One day I accidentally spilled water on my apron. I spread it out to dry in front of the fire flickering in the sitting room fireplace. The apron did not dry fast enough for me, so I moved closer and threw it right over the hot ashes. The fire sprang to life, and flames surrounded me. In a moment, my clothes were on fire. I cried out in terror, and Viny, my old nurse, came to rescue me. She threw a blanket over me and 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.

Around this time, I discovered what a key could do. One morning, I locked my mother in the pantry. She had to stay there for three hours because the servants were in a separate part of the house. She kept pounding on the door while I sat outside on the porch steps. I laughed with delight as I felt the vibrations from her pounding. This very naughty prank convinced my parents that I needed to be taught as soon as possible. After my teacher, Miss Sullivan, came to me, I soon looked for a chance to lock her in her room. My mother made me understand that I was to give Miss Sullivan something, so I took it upstairs. As soon as I gave it to her, I slammed the door shut and locked it. Then I hid the key under the wardrobe in the hall. No one could persuade me to say where the key was. My father had to get a ladder and help Miss Sullivan out through the window, much to my delight. Months later, I brought out 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.

When I was about five years old, we moved from the little house covered in vines to a large new one. My family included my father and mother, two older half-brothers, and later, a little sister named Mildred. My earliest clear memory of my father is making my way through huge piles of newspapers to reach him. He was alone, holding a sheet of paper in front of his face. I was very puzzled about what he was doing. I copied him and even wore his glasses, thinking they might help me solve the mystery. But I did not discover 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.

My father was very loving and indulgent. He was devoted to his home and rarely left us, except during hunting season. I have been told that he was a great hunter and an excellent shot. After his family, he loved his dogs and his gun most. He was very generous to guests, almost too generous, and rarely came home without bringing someone with him. He was especially proud of his large garden. People said he grew the finest watermelons and strawberries in the county. He brought me the first ripe grapes and the best berries. I remember his gentle touch as he led me from tree to tree and vine to vine. He was delighted by anything that 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.

He was a famous storyteller. After I learned language, he used to spell his cleverest stories into my hand, though he did so clumsily. Nothing pleased him more than hearing me repeat them at just the right 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.

I was in the North, enjoying the last beautiful days of summer in 1896, when I learned that my father had died. He had been ill for a short time and had suffered intensely for a brief period. Then it was all over. His death was my first great sorrow. It was 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.

How can I write about my mother? She is so close to me that speaking about her almost feels improper.

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.

For a long time, I saw my little sister as an intruder. I knew I was no longer my mother’s only darling, and the thought filled me with jealousy. My sister sat in my mother’s lap all the time, where I used to sit. She seemed to take up all my mother’s care and time. One day, something happened that seemed to add 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.

At that time, I had a doll whom I both pampered and abused. I later named her Nancy. Sadly, she was the helpless victim of my outbursts of both anger and affection. As a result, she became quite worn out. I had dolls that talked, cried, and opened and closed their eyes. Yet I never loved any 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 great jealousy. But one day I found my little sister sleeping peacefully in the cradle. I had no bond of love with her yet, and I was angry that she had dared to use it. I rushed at the cradle and overturned it. The baby might have been killed if my mother had not caught her as she fell. When we live in the valley of twofold solitude, we know little of the tender affection that grows from loving words, actions, and companionship. But later, when I was restored to my human heritage, Mildred and I grew to love each other. We were happy to go hand in hand wherever we pleased, although she could not understand my finger language, and I could not understand her childish chatter.