Part 26

I have had the opportunity of questioning a blind and deaf young man whose life-history offers a striking contrast to that of Laura Bridgman, and illustrates with all the force of an experimental demonstration the critical educational importance of the early years of life. He was, at the time of my questioning him, twenty-three years of age, and was earning a comfortable living as a broom-maker. He had an active interest in the affairs of the world, and disliked to be considered in any way peculiar. His eyesight began to fail him in early childhood; and in his fifth year the sight of one eye was entirely lost, while that of the other was very poor. After a less gradual loss of hearing, he became completely deaf in his ninth year. At the age of twelve he was (practically) totally blind, deaf, and nearly mute. The small remnant of articulating power has been cultivated; and those who are accustomed to it can understand his spoken language. He also communicates as Laura Bridgman did, and has a further advantage over her in possessing a very acute sense of smell. He remembers the world of sight and hearing perfectly, and in a little sketch of his life which he wrote for me vividly describes the sights and sounds of his play-days. He usually dreams of seeing and hearing, though the experiences of his present existence also enter into his dreams. Some of his dreams relate to flowers which he smelled and saw; he dreamt of being upset in a boat; shortly after his confirmation he dreamt of seeing God. When he dreams of making brooms, his dream is entirely in terms of motion and feeling, not of sight. His history thus strongly emphasizes the importance which a variety of evidence attributes to the period of childhood, and perhaps especially to that from the third to the seventh year.

The remarkable powers which Helen Keller has exhibited throughout her phenomenal education give to an account of her dream life an especial interest. I am fortunate in being able to present her own account as she prepared it at my solicitation. The wealth and brilliancy of her imagination frequently lead to modes of expression which seem to brusquely contradict her sightless and soundless condition. But a careful observation of her mental activities brings out the verbal or literary character of such allusions, in certain cases essentially aided by associations with impressions of the senses that remain to her. In such cases her familiarity, through literature and through intercourse, with the experiences of the hearing and seeing and with the emotional and intellectual associations that ordinary persons might have with definite scenes or occasions, enables her to realize, and her vivid imagination to construct, a somewhat idealized account of her vicarious experiences, though perhaps real emotions. Her dream life seems in complete concordance with her waking condition; but this imaginative factor must be constantly borne in mind in reading her report of her dream life. The intrinsic interest of this human document, and the charm of the narrative, present so lifelike and almost confidential a portrayal of her world of dreams, that any elaborate comment would be unnecessary. It should be remembered that Helen Keller became totally blind and deaf at nineteen months; that her instruction began at the age of seven years; that she learned to speak orally from her eleventh year; that at present she speaks orally almost exclusively, although very proficient in the use of the finger alphabet; that she is able to understand what is said to her by placing her fingers upon the lips and throat of the speaker, but that the more expeditious and certain mode of communicating with her is by making the letters of the finger-alphabet in the palm of her hand. This latter method she uses entirely with her teacher and with all who are conversant with it. This account of her dreams was prepared in August, 1900, when she was twenty years of age; it was written off-hand by her on a type-writer, and is presented in its original form.

MY DREAMS

"It is no exaggeration to say that I live two distinct lives,--one in the everyday world and the other in the Land of Nod! Like most people I generally forget my dreams as soon as I wake up in the morning; but I know that when I dream I am just as active and as much interested in everything--trees, books and events--as when I am awake.

"My dreams have strangely changed during the past twelve years. Before and after my teacher first came to me, they were devoid of sound, or thought or emotion of any kind, except fear, and only came in the form of sensations. I would often dream that I ran into a still, dark room, and that, while I stood there, I felt something fall heavily without any noise, causing the floor to shake up and down violently; and each time I woke up with a jump. As I learned more and more about the objects around me, this strange dream ceased to haunt me; but I was in a high state of excitement and received impressions very easily. It is not strange then that I dreamed at that time of a wolf, which seemed to rush towards me and put his cruel teeth deep into my body! I could not speak (the fact was, I could only spell with my fingers), and I tried to scream; but no sound escaped from my lips. It is very likely that I had heard the story of Red Riding Hood, and was deeply impressed by it. This dream, however, passed away in time, and I began to dream of objects outside of myself.

"I never spelled with my fingers in my sleep; but I have often spoken, and one night I actually laughed. I was dreaming of a great frolic with my schoolmates at the Perkins Institution. But, if I do not use the manual alphabet in my dreams, my friends sometimes spell to me. Their sentences are always brief and vague. I obtain information in a very curious manner, which it is difficult to describe. My mind acts as a sort of mirror, in which faces and landscapes are reflected, and thoughts, which throng unbidden in my brain, describe the conversation and the events going on around me.

"I remember a beautiful and striking illustration of the peculiar mode of communication I have just mentioned. One night I dreamed that I was in a lovely mansion, all built of leaves and flowers. My thoughts declared the floor was of green twigs, and the ceiling of pink and white roses. The walls were of roses, pinks, hyacinths, and many other flowers, loosely arranged so as to make the whole structure wavy and graceful. Here and there I saw an opening between the leaves, which admitted the purest air. I learned that the flowers were imperishable, and with such a wonderful discovery thrilling my spirit I awoke.

"I do not think I have seen or heard more than once in my sleep. Then the sunlight flashed suddenly on my eyes, and I was so dazzled I could not think or distinguish anything. When I looked up, some one spelled hastily to me, 'Why, you are looking back upon your babyhood!' As to the sound I heard, it was like the rushing of a mighty cataract, and reminded me forcibly of my visit to Niagara Falls. I remembered as if it were yesterday how I had come very close to the water and felt the great roar by placing my hand on a soft pillow. Now, however, I knew I was far away from the place whence the sound came, and the vibration fell clear, though not loud, upon my eardrums; so I concluded in my sleep that I really heard. What happened next I have entirely forgotten; but in the morning I was deeply impressed by the only instance in which I had dreamed of hearing, and I wished I could go back to Dreamland, just to hear that far-off, inspiring sound.

"Occasionally I think I am reading with my fingers, either Braille or line print, and even translating a little Latin, but always with an odd feeling that I am touching forbidden fruit. Somehow I feel that the spirits of sleep are displeased if any thoughts of literature cross my mind. Still I am free to enjoy everything else--I can wander among flowers and trees and be with my friends, especially those who live at a distance from where I happen to be. Sometimes I am with my mother, and at other times with my sister Mildred. My teacher scarcely ever appears in my dreams; but I know she would very often if a cruel fate should tear her away from me. I shall never forget the morning seven or eight years ago, when I dreamed that my dear friend, Bishop Brooks, was dying. A few hours later I found that my dream was a terrible reality. It is probable that I thought of him at the very moment when he was passing away, and I certainly wept in the same manner and in the same place while I dreamed, that I did afterwards!

"I hardly ever dream of anything that has happened the day before, although I sometimes have several different dreams on the same night; nor do I dream of the same things often. However, I dream oftenest of the unpleasant and horrible, no matter how happy and successful the day may have been. Indeed, I have found it unadvisable to read terrible stories or tragedies often, or in the evening. They impress me so painfully, and retain so firm a hold of my imagination that they sooner or later force themselves into my dreams. About two years ago I read 'Sixty Years a Queen' the story of the awful massacre at Cawnpore, which took place during the Indian Mutiny. It filled me with a horror that haunted me persistently for several days. At last I managed to banish these disagreeable feelings; but one night a frightful distortion of the selfsame story appeared before my mind. I thought I was in a small prison. At first I only noticed a skeleton hanging up on one of the walls; then I felt a strange, awful sound, like heavy iron being cast down, and the most heartrending cries ensued. I was informed that twenty men were being put to death with the utmost cruelty. I rushed madly from one room to another, and, as each ruffian came out, I locked the door behind him, in the hope that some of the victims might thereby be saved. All my efforts were futile, and I awoke with a sickening horror weighing down on my heart. I have also fancied that I saw cities on fire, and brave, innocent men dragged to a fiery martyrdom. One instant I would stand in speechless bewilderment, as the flames leaped up, dark and glaring, into a black sky. The next moment I would be in the midst of the conflagration, trying to save some of the sufferers, and seeing in dismay how they slipped away beyond my power. At such times I have thought myself the most wretched person in the world; but in the morning the bright sunshine and fresh air of our own dear, beautiful world would chase away those horrible phantoms.

"On the whole, my dreams are consistent with my feelings and sympathies; but once I thought I was engaged in a great boat-race between Yale and Harvard. Now, in reality I am always on Harvard's side in the great games; but at that time I dreamed that I was a thorough Yale man! Perhaps this inconsistency arose from the fact that a long time ago I had declared how glad I was of Harvard's failure to win a certain boat-race, because the Yale men rowed with the American stroke and the Harvard men had learned the English stroke. At any rate, sleeping or waking, I love my friends, and never think they change or grow unkind. From time to time I make friends in my dreams; but usually I am too busy running around and watching other people to have any long conversations or 'reveries.'

"I am often led into pretty fantasies, of which I will give an illustration. Consternation was spread everywhere because the news had been received of King Winter's determination to establish his rule permanently in the temperate zones. The stern monarch fulfilled his threat all too soon; for, although it was mid-summer, yet the whole ocean was suddenly frozen, and all the boats and steamers were stuck fast in the ice. Commerce was ruined, and starvation was unavoidable. The flowers and trees shared in the universal sorrow, and bravely strove to keep alive through the summer. Finally, overcome by the intense cold, they dropped their leaves and blossoms, which they had kept fresh and spotless to the last. Slowly the flowers fluttered down and lay at King Winter's feet, silently supplicating him to show mercy, but all in vain. They froze unheeded, and were changed into pearls, diamonds, and turquoises.

"Another time I took it into my head to climb to the stars. I sprang up into the air, and was borne upward by a strong impulse. I could not see or hear; but my mind was my guide as well as my interpreter. Higher and higher I rose, until I was very close to the stars. Their intense light prevented me from coming any nearer; so I hung on invisible wings, fascinated by the rolling spheres and the constant play of light and shadow, which my thoughts reflected. All at once I lost my balance, I knew not how, and down, down I rushed through empty space, till I struck violently against a tree, and my body sank to the ground. The shock waked me up, and for a moment I thought all my bones were broken to atoms.

"I have said all that I can remember concerning my dreams; but what really surprises me is this; sometimes, in the midst of a nightmare, I am conscious of a desire to wake up, and I make a vigorous effort to break the spell. Something seems to hold my senses tightly, and it is only with a spasmodic movement that I can open my eyes. Even then I feel, or I think I feel, a rapid motion shaking my bed and a sound of light, swift footsteps. It seems strange to me that I should make such an effort to wake up, instead of doing it automatically."

This faithful and dramatic sketch is replete with specific as well as with generic corroborations of the distinctive results of the present inquiry. The differences between the dream experiences of Helen Keller before and after education are quite consistent with comparable results in the cases of other defectives--although dreams of her uneducated period seem to occur rarely if at all, and it is not possible to determine how soon after she began to speak, such speech-communication made its appearance in her dreams. It is interesting to note that oral speech, when once acquired, speedily superseded manual talking, and that automatic talking aloud in her sleep appeared; the finger alphabet became almost obsolete in her waking life, and likewise in her dreams. Yet the persistence of early acquired habits is strikingly shown in her occasional unconscious tendency to talk to herself by forming the letters with one hand against the palm of the other. These processes she seems to utilize quite automatically and unconsciously as aids to composition or to "thinking aloud."

In regard to the source and content of her dreams, the more realistic episodes reflect their perceptional origin in tactile and motor experiences; such are the attack of the wolf, the fall from a height, the reception of information through the palm, reading the raised print,--while dreams of flying naturally present the same elaboration of sensory elements as in normally equipped individuals. The dreams of seeing and hearing probably reflect far more of conceptual interpretation and imaginative inference than of true sensation; yet they are in part built up upon a sensory basis,--in the former case, that of the heat sensations radiating from a brilliant illumination (witness the flames of the conflagration, the "intense light" of the stars), in the latter of vibrational or jarring sensations communicated to the body (as in the torrent of Niagara). But, on the whole, the direct sensory tone of her dream life is weak; while for this very reason, possibly, the imaginative and "transferred" components are unusually dominant. The associative elaboration of fancies in dream life is rarely capable of simple analysis, and commonly reveals results, and not the processes or stages by which the results were reached. Dependent, as Helen Keller is so largely, upon the communication of others for her knowledge of what is going on about her, it is natural that this transferred communication should be important in her dream knowledge. That her consciousness of the process of such acquisition should be vague and difficult to express is natural; and the phrases "my thoughts declared," "my mind acts as a sort of mirror," "I was informed," are as satisfactory psychologically as could be expected. It is, however, in dreams not of external incidents involving vaguely transferred or directly communicated information, but in the free roamings of creative imagination, that the dream life of Helen Keller finds its most suitable _métier_; it is in this direction that this dream narrative, reflecting, as it does, her rich emotional nature and enthusiastically sympathetic temperament, presents its most distinctive and attractive aspect.

IV

Returning to the general data regarding the dreams of the blind, the question that next suggests itself is whether and how, in cases where blindness ensued after a remembered period of vision, the pre-blindness period is distinguished from the post-blindness period in dream-imagery. It was noticed, for instance, that the blind and deaf young man mentioned above, though seeing in his dreams, never thus saw the shop in which he worked. It is easy to imagine that the more or less sudden loss of sight, the immersion into a strange and dark world, would for a time leave the individual living entirely upon the past. His remembered experiences are richer and more vivid (we are supposing his blindness to occur after childhood) than those he now has; he is learning a new language and translates everything back into the old. His dreams will naturally continue to be those of his seeing life. As his experiences in his new surroundings increase, and the memory of the old begins to fade, the tendency of recent impressions to arise in the automatism of dreaming will bring the events of the post-blindness period as factors into his dreams. I find in my list only seven who do not have such dreams; and in these the blindness has been on the average of only 2.8 years standing. The average age of "blinding" of the seven is fifteen years, making it probable that the adaptation to the new environment has here been a slow one, and that such dreams will occur later on. On the other hand, cases occur in which, after three, two, or even one year's blindness, when the persons so afflicted were young, events happening within that period have been dreamed of. Heermann cites a case of a man of seventy who never dreamed of the hospital in which he had been living for eighteen years, and to which he was brought shortly after his blindness. This and other cases suggest that the more mature and settled the brain-tissue, the more difficult is it to impress upon it new conditions sufficiently deeply to have them appear in the automatic life of dreams.

Whether there is a difference in the vividness, or any other characteristic which sight would lend, in the dreams of events before and after blindness, is a question to which I could obtain few intelligent and satisfactory answers; but, as far as they go, the tendency of these replies is to show that when blindness ensues close upon the critical period of five to seven years of age, the power of vivid dream-vision is more exclusively limited to the events of the years of full sight; and, as Heermann pointed out, this power is often subject to a comparatively early decay. Similarly, I find that those who lose their sight near the critical age are not nearly so apt to retain color in their dream-vision as those who become blind later on. The average age of "blinding" of twenty-four persons who have colored dream-vision, is 16.6 years, including one case in which blindness set in as early as the seventh year. All who see enough to see color, have colored dream-vision.

I also asked those who became blind in youth, or later, whether they were in the habit of giving imaginary faces to the persons they met after their blindness, and whether they ever saw such in their dreams. Some answered in very vague terms, but several undoubtedly make good use of this power, probably somewhat on the same basis as we imagine the appearance of eminent men of whom we have read or heard, but whose features we have never seen. When we remember how erroneous such impressions often are, we can understand how easily it may mislead the blind. Such imaginary faces and scenes also enter into their dreams, but to a less extent than into those of the sighted. Dr. Kitto[20] quotes a letter from a musician who lost his sight when eighteen years old, but who retains a very strong visualizing power both in waking life and in dreams. The mention of a famous man, of a friend, or of a scene, always carries with it a visual picture, complete and vivid. Moreover, these images of his friends are reported to change as the friends grow old; and he feels himself intellectually in no way different from the seeing.

This leads naturally to the consideration of the power of the imagination in the blind. It is not difficult to understand that they are deprived of one powerful means of cultivating this faculty, that the eye is in one sense the organ of the ideal. Their knowledge is more realistic and tangible, and so their dreams often, though by no means always, lack all poetical characteristics, and are very commonplace. Ghosts, elves, fairies, monsters, and all the host of strange romance that commonly people dreams, are not nearly so well represented as in the dreams of the sighted. What is almost typical in the dreams of the latter is unusual in the dreams of the blind, especially of those early blind. Many observe that such dreams grow rare as they outgrow their youth,[21] which is probably true of the sighted. When the blind dream of ghosts they either hear them, and that usually not until they are close at hand, or they are actually touched by them. A blind man, describing a dream in which his friend appeared to him, said: "Then I dreamt that he tried to frighten me, and make believe he was a ghost, by _pushing me down sideways_," etc. By some the ghost is heard only; it has a rough voice, and its bones rattle; or it pursues the victim, humming and groaning as it runs.

Contrary to the opinions of some writers, I find hearing, and not the group of tactual-motor sensations, to be the chief sense with the blind, both in waking and in dreams. That hearing owes very much of this supremacy to its being the vehicle of conversation, goes without saying. Many of the blind dream almost exclusively in this sense, and it is quite generally spoken of as the most important. Even those who see a little, often regard hearing as their most useful sense; those who see well enough to see color, almost invariably claim for their partial sight an importance exceeding that of hearing. Next in importance to hearing is the group of sensations accompanying motion. An important item in the dreams of the sighted is furnished by this complex of sensations, and the same is true of the blind; almost all remember such dreams, and some make this their most important avenue of sensation. Yet such a purely artificial movement as reading the raised type with the finger almost never occurs in dreams. The boys dream of playing, running, jumping, and so on; the men of broom-making, piano-tuning, teaching, and similar work; the girls of sewing, fancy work, household work, and the like.