<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></SPAN></span></p>
<h2>IV</h2>
<h3>THE POWER OF TOUCH</h3>
<div class='cap'>SOME months ago, in a newspaper
which announced the publication of
the "Matilda Ziegler Magazine for the
Blind," appeared the following paragraph:</div>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>That is to say, I may not talk about
beautiful mansions and gardens because<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></SPAN></span>
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 <i>a priori</i>
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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></SPAN></span>
unguessed by me. Likewise, O
confident critic, there are a myriad sensations
perceived by me of which you do
not dream.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></SPAN></span>
of everyday matter from the jars and
jolts which are to be felt everywhere in
the house.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></SPAN></span>
conscious of these moods and traits in
persons with whom I am familiar.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></SPAN></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>To continue, I know the <i>plop</i> 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.</p>
<p>There are tactual vibrations which do
not belong to skin-touch. They penetrate<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></SPAN></span>
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?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></SPAN></span></p>
<h2>THE FINER VIBRATIONS</h2>
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