ENG-110 Composition I

GIFT UNIVERSITY GUJRANWALA

 CONTENTS

Poetry

1. All the World’s a Stage William Shakespeare 1

2. Tartary Walter de la Mare 3
3. I Like to See it Lap the Miles Emily Dickinson 5
4. The Snare James Stephen 6
5. The Tyger William Blake 7
6. The Road Not Taken Robert Frost 9

Short Stories

1. The Use of Force William Carlos Williams 11

2. Charles Shirley Jackson 15

One Act Play

1. The Bear Anton Chekhov 20

Reading for Reflection and Emulation - Essay

1. Three Days to See Helen Keller 33

Poetry

All the World’s a Stage

William Shakespeare

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

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With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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 Tartary
Walter de la Mare

If I were Lord of Tartary,

Myself, and me alone,

My bed should be of ivory,

Of beaten gold my throne;

And in my court should peacocks flaunt,

And in my forests tigers haunt,

And in my pools great fishes slant

Their fins athwart the sun.

If I were Lord of Tartary,

Trumpeters every day

To all my meals should summon me,

And in my courtyards bray;

And in the evening lamps should shine,

Yellow as honey, red as wine,

While harp, and flute, and mandolin

Made music sweet and gay.

If I were Lord of Tartary,

I'd wear a robe of beads,

White, and gold, and green they'd be --

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And small and thick as seeds;

And ere should wane the morning star,

I'd don my robe and scimitar.

And zebras seven should draw my car

Through Tartary's dark gleades.

Lord of the fruits of Tartary.

Her rivers silver-pale!

Lord of the hills of Tartary.

Glen, thicket, wood, and dale!

Her flashing stars, her scented breeze,

Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas,

Her bird-delighting citron-trees,

In every purple vale!

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 I Like to See it Lap the Miles
Emily Dickinson

I like to see it lap the Miles –

And lick the Valleys up –

And stop to feed itself at Tanks –

And then – prodigious, step

Around a Pile of Mountains –

And supercilious peer

In Shanties – by the sides of Roads –

And then a Quarry pare

To fit its Ribs

And crawl between

Complaining all the while

In horrid – hooting stanza –

Then chase itself down Hill –

And neigh like Boanerges –

Then – punctual as a Star

Stop – docile and omnipotent

At its own stable door –

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 The Snare
James Stephen

I hear a sudden cry of pain!

There is a rabbit in a snare:

Now I hear the cry again,

But I cannot tell from where.

But I cannot tell from where

He is calling out for aid!

Crying on the frightened air,

Making everything afraid!

Making everything afraid!

Wrinkling up his little face!

And he cries again for aid;

- and I cannot find the place!

And I cannot find the place

Where his paw is in the snare!

Little One! Oh, Little One!

I am searching everywhere!

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 The Tyger
William Blake

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.

Burnt the fire of thine eyes!

On what wings dare he aspire!

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp,

Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

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When the stars threw down their spears

And water'd heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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 The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–

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I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

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Short Stories

The Use of Force

William Carlos Williams

They were new patients to me, all I had was the name, Olson. Please come down as soon as you
can, my daughter is very sick.

When I arrived I was met by the mother, a big startled looking woman, very clean and apologetic
who merely said, Is this the doctor? and let me in. In the back, she added. You must excuse us,
doctor, we have her in the kitchen where it is warm. It is very damp here sometimes.

The child was fully dressed and sitting on her father's lap near the kitchen table. He tried to get
up, but I motioned for him not to bother, took off my overcoat and started to look things over. I
could see that they were all very nervous, eyeing me up and down distrustfully. As often, in such
cases, they weren't telling me more than they had to, it was up to me to tell them; that's why they
were spending three dollars on me.

The child was fairly eating me up with her cold, steady eyes, and no expression to her face
whatever. She did not move and seemed, inwardly, quiet; an unusually attractive little thing, and
as strong as a heifer in appearance. But her face was flushed, she was breathing rapidly, and I
realized that she had a high fever. She had magnificent blonde hair, in profusion. One of those
picture children often reproduced in advertising leaflets and the photogravure sections of the
Sunday papers.

She's had a fever for three days, began the father and we don't know what it comes from. My
wife has given her things, you know, like people do, but it don't do no good. And there's been a
lot of sickness around. So we tho't you'd better look her over and tell us what is the matter.

As doctors often do I took a trial shot at it as a point of departure. Has she had a sore throat?

Both parents answered me together, No . . . No, she says her throat don't hurt her.

Does your throat hurt you? added the mother to the child. But the little girl's expression didn't
change nor did she move her eyes from my face.

Have you looked?

I tried to, said the mother, but I couldn't see.

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As it happens we had been having a number of cases of diphtheria in the school to which this
child went during that month and we were all, quite apparently, thinking of that, though no one
had as yet spoken of the thing.

Well, I said, suppose we take a look at the throat first. I smiled in my best professional manner
and asking for the child's first name I said, come on, Mathilda, open your mouth and let's take a
look at your throat.

Nothing doing.

Aw, come on, I coaxed, just open your mouth wide and let me take a look. Look, I said opening
both hands wide, I haven't anything in my hands. Just open up and let me see.

Such a nice man, put in the mother. Look how kind he is to you. Come on, do what he tells you
to. He won't hurt you.

At that I ground my teeth in disgust. If only they wouldn't use the word "hurt" I might be able to
get somewhere. But I did not allow myself to be hurried or disturbed but speaking quietly and
slowly I approached the child again.

As I moved my chair a little nearer suddenly with one catlike movement both her hands clawed
instinctively for my eyes and she almost reached them too. In fact she knocked my glasses flying
and they fell, though unbroken, several feet away from me on the kitchen floor.

Both the mother and father almost turned themselves inside out in embarrassment and apology.
You bad girl, said the mother, taking her and shaking her by one arm. Look what you've done.
The nice man . . .

For heaven's sake, I broke in. Don't call me a nice man to her. I'm here to look at her throat on
the chance that she might have diphtheria and possibly die of it. But that's nothing to her. Look
here, I said to the child, we're going to look at your throat. You're old enough to understand what
I'm saying. Will you open it now by yourself or shall we have to open it for you?

Not a move. Even her expression hadn't changed. Her breaths however were coming faster and
faster. Then the battle began. I had to do it. I had to have a throat culture for her own protection.
But first I told the parents that it was entirely up to them. I explained the danger but said that I
would not insist on a throat examination so long as they would take the responsibility.

If you don't do what the doctor says you'll have to go to the hospital, the mother admonished her
severely.

Oh yeah? I had to smile to myself. After all, I had already fallen in love with the savage brat, the
parents were contemptible to me. In the ensuing struggle they grew more and more abject,
crushed, exhausted while she surely rose to magnificent heights of insane fury of effort bred of
her terror of me.

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The father tried his best, and he was a big man but the fact that she was his daughter, his shame
at her behavior and his dread of hurting her made him release her just at the critical times when I
had almost achieved success, till I wanted to kill him. But his dread also that she might have
diphtheria made him tell me to go on, go on though he himself was almost fainting, while the
mother moved back and forth behind us raising and lowering her hands in an agony of
apprehension.

Put her in front of you on your lap, I ordered, and hold both her wrists.

But as soon as he did the child let out a scream. Don't, you're hurting me. Let go of my hands.
Let them go I tell you. Then she shrieked terrifyingly, hysterically. Stop it! Stop it! You're killing
me!

Do you think she can stand it, doctor! said the mother.

You get out, said the husband to his wife. Do you want her to die of diphtheria?

Come on now, hold her, I said.

Then I grasped the child's head with my left hand and tried to get the wooden tongue depressor
between her teeth. She fought, with clenched teeth, desperately! But now I also had grown
furious - at a child. I tried to hold myself down but I couldn't. I know how to expose a throat for
inspection. And I did my best. When finally I got the wooden spatula behind the last teeth and
just the point of it into the mouth cavity, she opened up for an instant but before I could see
anything she came down again and gripping the wooden blade between her molars she reduced it
to splinters before I could get it out again.

Aren't you ashamed, the mother yelled at her. Aren't you ashamed to act like that in front of the
doctor?

Get me a smooth-handled spoon of some sort, I told the mother. We're going through with this.
The child's mouth was already bleeding. Her tongue was cut and she was screaming in wild
hysterical shrieks. Perhaps I should have desisted and come back in an hour or more. No doubt it
would have been better. But I have seen at least two children lying dead in bed of neglect in such
cases, and feeling that I must get a diagnosis now or never I went at it again. But the worst of it
was that I too had got beyond reason. I could have torn the child apart in my own fury and
enjoyed it. It was a pleasure to attack her. My face was burning with it.

The damned little brat must be protected against her own idiocy, one says to one's self at such
times. Others must be protected against her. It is a social necessity. And all these things are true.
But a blind fury, a feeling of adult shame, bred of a longing for muscular release are the
operatives. One goes on to the end.

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In a final unreasoning assault I overpowered the child's neck and jaws. I forced the heavy silver
spoon back of her teeth and down her throat till she gagged. And there it was - both tonsils
covered with membrane. She had fought valiantly to keep me from knowing her secret. She had
been hiding that sore throat for three days at least and lying to her parents in order to escape just
such an outcome as this.

Now truly she was furious. She had been on the defensive before but now she attacked. Tried to
get off her father's lap and fly at me while tears of defeat blinded her eyes.

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 Charles
Shirley Jackson

The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with bibs and began
wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next
door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweet-voiced nursery-school tot
replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering1 character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave
good-bye to me.

He came home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor, and the voice
suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?”

At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk, and remarked that his
teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain.

“How was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual.

“All right,” he said.

“Did you learn anything?” his father asked.

Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.

“Anything,” I said. “Didn’t learn anything.”

“The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter. “For being
fresh,” he added, with his mouth full.

“What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”

Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and made him
stand in a corner. He was awfully fresh.”

“What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and left, while his
father was still saying, “See here, young man.”

The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles was bad again
today.” He grinned enormously and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.”

“Good heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked again?”

“He sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father.

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“What?” his father said, looking up.

“Look down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began to laugh insanely.
“Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly.

“Because she tried to make him color with red crayons,” Laurie said. “Charles wanted to color
with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said nobody play with Charles
but everybody did.”

The third day–it was Wednesday of the first week–Charles bounced a see-saw on to the head of a
little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all during recess. Thursday
Charles had to stand in a corner during story-time because he kept pounding his feet on the floor.
Friday Charles was deprived of blackboard privileges because he threw chalk.

On Saturday I remarked to my husband, “Do you think kindergarten is too unsettling for Laurie?
All this toughness, and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds like such a bad influence.”

“It’ll be all right,” my husband said reassuringly. “Bound to be people like Charles in the world.
Might as well meet them now as later.”

On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he came up the hill; I
was waiting anxiously on the front steps. “Charles,” Laurie yelled all the way up the hill,
“Charles was bad again.”

“Come right in,” I said, as soon as he came close enough. “Lunch is waiting.”

“You know what Charles did?” he demanded, following me through the door. “Charles yelled so
in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep
quiet, and so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the children stayed to watch him.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He just sat there,” Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. “Hi, Pop, y’old dust mop.”

“Charles had to stay after school today,” I told my husband. “Everyone stayed with him.”

“What does this Charles look like?” my husband asked Laurie. “What’s his other name?”

“He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t have any rubbers and he doesn’t ever wear
a jacket.”

Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the baby had a cold
kept me from going; I wanted passionately to meet Charles’s mother. On Tuesday Laurie
remarked suddenly, “Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today.”

“Charles’s mother?” my husband and I asked simultaneously.

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“Naaah,” Laurie said scornfully. “It was a man who came and made us do exercises, we had to
touch our toes. Look.” He climbed down from his chair and squatted down and touched his toes.
“Like this,” he said. He got solemnly back into his chair and said, picking up his fork, “Charles
didn’t even do exercises.”

“That’s fine,” I said heartily. “Didn’t Charles want to do exercises?”

“Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was so fresh to the teacher’s friend he wasn’t let do exercises.”

“Fresh again?” I said.

“He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend told Charles to touch his toes
like I just did and Charles kicked him.”

“What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Laurie’s father asked him.

Laurie shrugged elaborately. “Throw him out of school, I guess,” he said.

Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit a boy in the
stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again and so did all the other
children.

With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution in our family; the baby was being
a Charles when she cried all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he filled his wagon full of
mud and pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband, when he caught his elbow in the
telephone cord and pulled the telephone, ashtray, and a bowl of flowers off the table, said, after
the first minute, “Looks like Charles.”

During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles; Laurie reported grimly
at lunch on Thursday of the third week, “Charles was so good today the teacher gave him an
apple.”

“What?” I said, and my husband added warily, “You mean Charles?”

“Charles,” Laurie said. “He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books afterward and
the teacher said he was her helper.”

“What happened?” I asked incredulously.

“He was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged.

“Can this be true, about Charles?” I asked my husband that night. “Can something like this
happen?”

“Wait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal with, this may
mean he’s only plotting.”

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He seemed to be wrong. For over a week Charles was the teacher’s helper; each day he handed
things out and he picked things up; no one had to stay after school.

“The PTA meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m going to find
Charles’s mother there.”

“Ask her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.”

“I’d like to know myself,” I said.

On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did today?” Laurie
demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little girl to say a word and she
said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and Charles laughed.”

“What word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper it to you, it’s so
bad.” He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and
Laurie whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened.

“Did Charles tell the little girl to say that?” he asked respectfully.

“She said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice.”

“What happened to Charles?” my husband asked.

“Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.”

Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself three or four
times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk.

My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the PTA meeting. “Invite her
over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at her.”

“If only she’s there,” I said prayerfully.

“She’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a PTA meeting without
Charles’s mother.”

At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to determine
which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard enough. No one stood
up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned
Charles.

After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher. She had a plate with
a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of
marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously, and smiled.

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“I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.”

“We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said.

“Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.”

“We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now he’s a fine
little helper. With occasional lapses, of course.”

“Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’s influence.”

“Charles?”

“Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with Charles.”

“Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”

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One Act Play

The Bear
Anton Chekhov

This English translation was published in Contemporary One-Act Plays. Ed. B. Roland Lewis.
New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1922.

PERSONS IN THE PLAY

HELENA IVANOVNA POPOV, a young widow, mistress of a country estate

GRIGORI STEPANOVITCH SMIRNOV, proprietor of a country estate

LUKA, servant of MRS. POPOV

A gardener. A Coachman. Several workmen.

TIME: The present.

SCENE: A well-furnished reception-room in MRS. POPOV'S home. MRS. POPOV is discovered

in deep mourning, sitting upon a sofa, gazing steadfastly at a photograph. LUKA is also present.

LUKA: It isn't right, ma'am. You're wearing yourself out! The maid and the cook have gone
looking for berries; everything that breathes is enjoying life; even the cat knows how to be
happy--slips about the courtyard and catches birds--but you hide yourself here in the house as
though you were in a cloister. Yes, truly, by actual reckoning you haven't left this house for a
whole year.

MRS. POPOV: And I shall never leave it--why should I? My life is over. He lies in his grave,
and I have buried myself within these four walls. We are both dead.

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LUKA: There you are again! It's too awful to listen to, so it is! Nikolai Michailovitch is dead; it
was the will of the Lord, and the Lord has given him eternal peace. You have grieved over it and
that ought to be enough. Now it's time to stop. One can't weep and wear mourning forever! My
wife died a few years ago. I grieved for her. I wept a whole month--and then it was over. Must
one be forever singing lamentations? That would be more than your husband was worth! [He
sighs.] You have forgotten all your neighbors. You don't go out and you receive no one. We live-
-you'll pardon me--like the spiders, and the good light of day we never see. All the livery is eaten
by mice--as though there weren't any more nice people in the world! But the whole
neighborhood is full of gentlefolk. The regiment is stationed in Riblov--officers--simply
beautiful! One can't see enough of them! Every Friday a ball, and military music every day. Oh,
my dear, dear ma'am, young and pretty as you are, if you'd only let your spirits live--! Beauty
can't last forever. When ten short years are over, you'll be glad enough to go out a bit and meet
the officers--and then it'll be too late.

MRS. POPOV: [Resolutely.] Please don't speak of these things again. You know very well that
since the death of Nikolai Michailovitch my life is absolutely nothing to me. You think I live, but
it only seems so. Do you understand? Oh, that his departed soul may see how I love him! I know,
it's no secret to you; he was often unjust to me, cruel, and--he wasn't faithful, but I shall be
faithful to the grave and prove to him how I can love. There, in the Beyond, he'll find me the
same as I was until his death.

LUKA: What is the use of all these words, when you'd so much rather go walking in the garden
or order Tobby or Welikan harnessed to the trap, and visit the neighbors?

MRS. POPOV: [Weeping.] Oh!

LUKA: Madam, dear madam, what is it? In Heaven's name!

MRS. POPOV: He loved Tobby so! He always drove him to the Kortschagins or the Vlassovs.
What a wonderful horseman he was! How fine he looked when he pulled at the reigns with all
his might! Tobby, Tobby--give him an extra measure of oats to-day!

LUKA: Yes, ma'am.

[A bell rings loudly.]

MRS. POPOV: [Shudders.] What's that? I am at home to no one.

LUKA: Yes, ma'am.

[He goes out, centre.]

MRS. POPOV: [Gazing at the photograph.] You shall see, Nikolai, how I can love and forgive!
My love will die only with me--when my poor heart stops beating. [She smiles through her
tears.] And aren't you ashamed? I have been a good, true wife; I have imprisoned myself and I

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shall remain true until death, and you--you--you're not ashamed of yourself, my dear monster!
You quarrelled with me, left me alone for weeks--

[LUKA enters in great excitement.]

LUKA: Oh, ma'am, someone is asking for you, insists on seeing you--

MRS. POPOV: You told him that since my husband's death I receive no one?

LUKA: I said so, but he won't listen; he says it is a pressing matter.

MRS. POPOV: I receive no one!

LUKA: I told him that, but he's a wild man; he swore and pushed himself into the room; he's in
the dining-room now.

MRS. POPOV: [Excitedly.] Good. Show him in. The impudent--!

[LUKA goes out, centre.]

MRS. POPOV: What a bore people are! What can they want with me? Why do they disturb my
peace? [She sighs.] Yes, it is clear I must enter a convent. [Meditatively.] Yes, a convent.

[SMIRNOV enters, followed by LUKA.]

SMIRNOV: [To LUKA.] Fool, you make too much noise! You're an ass! [Discovering MRS.
POPOV--politely.] Madam, I have the honor to introduce myself: Lieutenant in the Artillery,
retired, country gentleman, Grigori Stapanovitch Smirnov! I'm compelled to bother you about an
exceedingly important matter.

MRS. POPOV: [Without offering her hand.] What is it you wish?

SMIRNOV: Your deceased husband, with whom I had the honor to be acquainted, left me two
notes amounting to about twelve hundred roubles. Inasmuch as I have to pay the interest to-
morrow on a loan from the Agrarian Bank, I should like to request, madam, that you pay me the
money to-day.

MRS. POPOV: Twelve-hundred--and for what was my husband indebted to you?

SMIRNOV: He bought oats from me.

MRS. POPOV: [With a sigh, to LUKA.] Don't forget to give Tobby an extra measure of oats.

[LUKA goes out.]

MRS. POPOV: [To SMIRNOV.] If Nikolai Michailovitch is indebted to you, I shall, of course,
pay you, but I am sorry, I haven't the money to-day. To-morrow my manager will return from the

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city and I shall notify him to pay you what is due you, but until then I cannot satisfy your
request. Furthermore, today is just seven months since the death of my husband, and I am not in
the mood to discuss money matters.

SMIRNOV: And I am in the mood to fly up the chimney with my feet in the air if I can't lay
hands on that interest to-morrow. They'll seize my estate!

MRS. POPOV: Day after to-morrow you will receive the money.

SMIRNOV: I don't need the money day after to-morrow; I need it to-day.

MRS. POPOV: I'm sorry I can't pay you today.

SMIRNOV: And I can't wait until day after to-morrow.

MRS. POPOV: But what can I do if I haven't it?

SMIRNOV: So you can't pay?

MRS. POPOV: I cannot.

SMIRNOV: Hm! Is that your last word?

MRS. POPOV: My last.

SMIRNOV: Absolutely?

MRS. POPOV: Absolutely.

SMIRNOV: Thank you. [He shrugs his shoulders.] And they expect me to stand for all that. The
toll-gatherer just now met me in the road and asked why I was always worrying. Why, in
Heaven's name, shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday
morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had
paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept;
in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope
for a little money, and all you give me is moods! Why shouldn't I worry?

MRS. POPOV: I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town, and then
you will get your money.

SMIRNOV: I did not come to see the manager; I came to see you. What the devil--pardon the
language--do I care for your manager?

MRS. POPOV: Really, sir, I am not used to such language or such manners. I shan't listen to you
any further.

[She goes out, left.]

23
SMIRNOV: What can one say to that? Moods! Seven months since her husband died! Do I have
to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have I to pay the interest or not? The husband is
dead and all that; the manager is--the devil with him!--travelling somewhere. Now, tell me, what
am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon? Or knock my head against a stone
wall? If I call on Grusdev he chooses to be "not at home," Iroschevitch has simply hidden
himself, I have quarrelled with Kurzin and came near throwing him out of the window, Masutov
is ill and this woman has--moods! Not one of them will pay up! And all because I've spoiled
them, because I'm an old whiner, dish-rag! I'm too tender-hearted with them. But wait! I allow
nobody to play tricks with me, the devil with 'em all! I'll stay here and not budge until she pays!
Brr! How angry I am, how terribly angry I am! Every tendon is trembling with anger, and I can
hardly breathe! I'm even growing ill! [He calls out.] Servant!

[LUKA enters.]

LUKA: What is it you wish?

SMIRNOV: Bring me Kvas or water! [LUKA goes out.] Well, what can we do? She hasn't it on
hand? What sort of logic is that? A fellow stands with the knife at his throat, he needs money, he
is on the point of hanging himself, and she won't pay because she isn't in the mood to discuss
money matters. Women's logic! That's why I never liked to talk to women, and why I dislike
doing it now. I would rather sit on a powder barrel than talk with a woman. Brr!--I'm getting cold
as ice; this affair has made me so angry. I need only to see such a romantic creature from a
distance to get so angry that I have cramps in my calves! It's enough to make one yell for help!

[Enter LUKA.]

LUKA: [Hands him water.] Madam is ill and is not receiving.

SMIRNOV: March! [LUKA goes out.] Ill and isn't receiving! All right, it isn't necessary. I won't
receive, either! I'll sit here and stay until you bring that money. If you're ill a week, I'll sit here a
week. If you're ill a year, I'll sit here a year. As Heaven is my witness, I'll get the money. You
don't disturb me with your mourning--or with your dimples. We know these dimples! [He calls
out the window.] Simon, unharness! We aren't going to leave right away. I am going to stay here.
Tell them in the stable to give the horses some oats. The left horse has twisted the bridle again.
[Imitating him.] Stop! I'll show you how. Stop! [Leaves window.] It's awful. Unbearable heat, no
money, didn't sleep last night and now--mourning-dresses with moods. My head aches; perhaps I
ought to have a drink. Ye-s, I must have a drink. [Calling.] Servant!

LUKA: What do you wish?

SMIRNOV: Something to drink! [LUKA goes out. SMIRNOV sits down and looks at his
clothes.] Ugh, a fine figure! No use denying that. Dust, dirty boots, unwashed, uncombed, straw
on my vest--the lady probably took me for a highwayman. [He yawns.] It was a little impolite to

24
come into a reception-room with such clothes. Oh, well, no harm done. I'm not here as a guest.
I'm a creditor. And there is no special costume for creditors.

LUKA: [Entering with glass.] You take great liberty, sir.

SMIRNOV: [Angrily.] What?

LUKA: I--I--I just----

SMIRNOV: Whom are you talking to? Keep quiet.

LUKA: [Angrily.] Nice mess! This fellow won't leave!

[He goes out.]

SMIRNOV: Lord, how angry I am! Angry enough to throw mud at the whole world! I even feel
ill! Servant!

[MRS. POPOV comes in with downcast eyes.]

MRS. POPOV: Sir, in my solitude I have become unaccustomed to the human voice and I cannot
stand the sound of loud talking. I beg you, please to cease disturbing my rest.

SMIRNOV: Pay me my money and I'll leave.

MRS. POPOV: I told you once, plainly, in your native tongue, that I haven't the money at hand;
wait until day after to-morrow.

SMIRNOV: And I also had the honor of informing you in your native tongue that I need the
money, not day after to-morrow, but to-day. If you don't pay me to-day I shall have to hang
myself to-morrow.

MRS. POPOV: But what can I do if I haven't the money?

SMIRNOV: So you are not going to pay immediately? You're not?

MRS. POPOV: I cannot.

SMIRNOV: Then I'll sit here until I get the money. [He sits down.] You will pay day after to-
morrow? Excellent! Here I stay until day after to-morrow. [Jumps up.] I ask you, do I have to
pay that interest to-morrow or not? Or do you think I'm joking?

MRS. POPOV: Sir, I beg of you, don't scream! This is not a stable.

SMIRNOV: I'm not talking about stables, I'm asking you whether I have to pay that interest to-
morrow or not?

25
MRS. POPOV: You have no idea how to treat a lady.

SMIRNOV: Oh, yes, I have.

MRS. POPOV: No, you have not. You are an ill-bred, vulgar person! Respectable people don't
speak so to ladies.

SMIRNOV: How remarkable! How do you want one to speak to you? In French, perhaps!
Madame, je vous prie! Pardon me for having disturbed you. What beautiful weather we are
having to-day! And how this mourning becomes you!

[He makes a low bow with mock ceremony.]

MRS. POPOV: Not at all funny! I think it vulgar!

SMIRNOV: [Imitating her.] Not at all funny--vulgar! I don't understand how to behave in the
company of ladies. Madam, in the course of my life I have seen more women than you have
sparrows. Three times have I fought duels for women, twelve I jilted and nine jilted me. There
was a time when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bowed and scraped. I loved, suffered,
sighed to the moon, melted in love's torments. I loved passionately, I loved to madness, loved in
every key, chattered like a magpie on emancipation, sacrificed half my fortune in the tender
passion, until now the devil knows I've had enough of it. Your obedient servant will let you lead
him around by the nose no more. Enough! Black eyes, passionate eyes, coral lips, dimples in
cheeks, moonlight whispers, soft, modest sights--for all that, madam, I wouldn't pay a kopeck! I
am not speaking of present company, but of women in general; from the tiniest to the greatest,
they are conceited, hypocritical, chattering, odious, deceitful from top to toe; vain, petty, cruel
with a maddening logic and [he strikes his forehead] in this respect, please excuse my frankness,
but one sparrow is worth ten of the aforementioned petticoat-philosophers. When one sees one of
the romantic creatures before him he imagines he is looking at some holy being, so wonderful
that its one breath could dissolve him in a sea of a thousand charms and delights; but if one looks
into the soul--it's nothing but a common crocodile. [He siezes the arm-chair and breaks it in
two.] But the worst of all is that this crocodile imagines it is a masterpiece of creation, and that it
has a monopoly on all the tender passions. May the devil hang me upside down if there is
anything to love about a woman! When she is in love, all she knows is how to complain and shed
tears. If the man suffers and makes sacrifices she swings her train about and tries to lead him by
the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman, and naturally you know woman's nature; tell
me on your honor, have you ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and faithful?
Never! Only the old and the deformed are true and faithful. It's easier to find a cat with horns or a
white woodcock, than a faithful woman.

MRS. POPOV: But allow me to ask, who is true and faithful in love? The man, perhaps?

SMIRNOV: Yes, indeed! The man!

26
MRS. POPOV: The man! [She laughs sarcastically.] The man true and faithful in love! Well,
that is something new! [Bitterly.] How can you make such a statement? Men true and faithful!
So long as we have gone thus far, I may as well say that of all the men I have known, my
husband was the best; I loved him passionately with all my soul, as only a young, sensible
woman may love; I gave him my youth, my happiness, my fortune, my life. I worshipped him
like a heathen. And what happened? This best of men betrayed me in every possible way. After
his death I found his desk filled with love-letters. While he was alive he left me alone for
months--it is horrible even to think about it--he made love to other women in my very presence,
he wasted my money and made fun of my feelings--and in spite of everything I trusted him and
was true to him. And more than that: he is dead and I am still true to him. I have buried myself
within these four walls and I shall wear this mourning to my grave.

SMIRNOV: [Laughing disrespectfully.] Mourning! What on earth do you take me for? As if I

didn't know why you wore this black domino and why you buried yourself within these four
walls. Such a secret! So romantic! Some knight will pass the castle, gaze up at the windows, and
think to himself: "Here dwells the mysterious Tamara who, for love of her husband, has buried
herself within four walls." Oh, I understand the art!

MRS. POPOV: [Springing up.] What? What do you mean by saying such things to me?

SMIRNOV: You have buried yourself alive, but meanwhile you have not forgotten to powder
your nose!

MRS. POPOV: How dare you speak so?

SMIRNOV: Don't scream at me, please; I'm not the manager. Allow me to call things by their
right names. I am not a woman, and I am accustomed to speak out what I think. So please don't
scream.

MRS. POPOV: I'm not screaming. It is you who are screaming. Please leave me, I beg you.

SMIRNOV: Pay me my money, and I'll leave.

MRS. POPOV: I won't give you the money.

SMIRNOV: You won't? You won't give me my money?

MRS. POPOV: I don't care what you do. You won't get a kopeck! Leave me!

SMIRNOV: As I haven't had the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiancé, please
don't make a scene. [He sits down.] I can't stand it.

MRS. POPOV: [Breathing hard.] You are going to sit down?

SMIRNOV: I already have.

27
MRS. POPOV: Kindly leave the house!

SMIRNOV: Give me the money.

MRS. POPOV: I don't care to speak with impudent men. Leave! [Pause.] You aren't going?

SMIRNOV: No.

MRS. POPOV: No?

SMIRNOV: No.

MRS. POPOV: Very well.

[She rings the bell. Enter LUKA.]

MRS. POPOV: Luka, show the gentleman out.

LUKA: [Going to SMIRNOV.] Sir, why don't you leave when you are ordered? What do you
want?

SMIRNOV: [Jumping up.] Whom do you think you are talking to? I'll grind you to powder.

LUKA: [Puts his hand to his heart.] Good Lord! [He drops into a chair.] Oh, I'm ill; I can't
breathe!

MRS. POPOV: Where is Dascha? [Calling.] Dascha! Pelageja! Dascha!

[She rings.]

LUKA: They're all gone! I'm ill! Water!

MRS. POPOV: [To SMIRNOV.] Leave! Get out!

SMIRNOV: Kindly be a little more polite!

MRS. POPOV: [Striking her fists and stamping her feet.] You are vulgar! You're a boor! A
monster!

SMIRNOV: What did you say?

MRS. POPOV: I said you were a boor, a monster!

SMIRNOV: [Steps toward her quickly.] Permit me to ask what right you have to insult me?

MRS. POPOV: What of it? Do you think I am afraid of you?

SMIRNOV: And you think that because you are a romantic creature you can insult me without
being punished? I challenge you!

28
LUKA: Merciful Heaven! Water!

SMIRNOV: We'll have a duel!

MRS. POPOV: Do you think because you have big fists and a steer's neck I am afraid of you?

SMIRNOV: I allow no one to insult me, and I make no exception because you are a woman, one
of the "weaker sex!"

MRS. POPOV: [Trying to cry him down.] Boor, boor, boor!

SMIRNOV: It is high time to do away with the old superstition that it is only the man who is
forced to give satisfaction. If there is equity at all let their be equity in all things. There's a limit!

MRS. POPOV: You wish to fight a duel? Very well.

SMIRNOV: Immediately.

MRS. POPOV: Immediately. My husband had pistols. I'll bring them. [She hurries away, then
turns.] Oh, what a pleasure it will be to put a bullet in your impudent head. The devil take you!

[She goes out.]

SMIRNOV: I'll shoot her down! I'm no fledgling, no sentimental young puppy. For me there is
no weaker sex!

LUKA: Oh, sir. [Falls to his knees.] Have mercy on me, an old man, and go away. You have
frightened me to death already, and now you want to fight a duel.

SMIRNOV: [Paying no attention.] A duel. That's equity, emancipation. That way the sexes are
made equal. I'll shoot her down as a matter of principle. What can a person say to such a woman?
[Imitating her.] "The devil take you. I'll put a bullet in your impudent head." What can one say
to that? She was angry, her eyes blazed, she accepted the challenge. On my honor, it's the first
time in my life that I ever saw such a woman.

LUKA: Oh, sir. Go away. Go away!

SMIRNOV: That is a woman. I can understand her. A real woman. No shilly-shallying, but fire,
powder, and noise! It would be a pity to shoot a woman like that.

LUKA: [Weeping.] Oh, sir, go away.

[Enter MRS. POPOV.]

MRS. POPOV: Here are the pistols. But before we have our duel, please show me how to shoot.
I have never had a pistol in my hand before!

29
LUKA: God be merciful and have pity upon us! I'll go and get the gardener and the coachman.
Why has this horror come to us?

[He goes out.]

SMIRNOV: [Looking at the pistols.] You see, there are different kinds. There are special
duelling pistols, with cap and ball. But these are revolvers, Smith & Wesson, with ejectors; fine
pistols! A pair like that cost at least ninety roubles. This is the way to hold a revolver. [Aside.]
Those eyes, those eyes! A real woman!

MRS. POPOV: Like this?

SMIRNOV: Yes, that way. Then you pull the hammer back--so--then you aim--put your head
back a little. Just stretch your arm out, please. So--then press your finger on the thing like that,
and that is all. The chief thing is this: don't get excited, don't hurry your aim, and take care that
your hand doesn't tremble.

MRS. POPOV: It isn't well to shoot inside; let's go into the garden.

SMIRNOV: Yes. I'll tell you now, I am going to shoot into the air.

MRS. POPOV: That is too much! Why?

SMIRNOV: Because---because. That's my business.

MRS. POPOV: You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h. No, no, my dear sir, no flinching! Please follow
me. I won't rest until I've made a hole in that head I hate so much. Are you afraid?

SMIRNOV: Yes, I'm afraid.

MRS. POPOV: You are lying. Why won't you fight?

SMIRNOV: Because--because--I--like you.

MRS. POPOV: [With an angry laugh.] You like me! He dares to say he likes me! [She points to
the door.] Go.

SMIRNOV: [Laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and starts. At the door he
stops a moment, gazing at her silently, then he approaches her, hesitating.] Listen! Are you still
angry? I was mad as the devil, but please understand me--how can I express myself? The thing is
like this--such things are-- [He raises his voice.] Now, is it my fault that you owe me money?
[Grasps the back of the chair, which breaks.] The devil know what breakable furniture you
have! I like you! Do you understand? I--I'm almost in love!

MRS. POPOV: Leave! I hate you.

30
SMIRNOV: Lord! What a woman! I never in my life met one like her. I'm lost, ruined! I've been
caught like a mouse in a trap.

MRS. POPOV: Go, or I'll shoot.

SMIRNOV: Shoot! You have no idea what happiness it would be to die in sight of those
beautiful eyes, to die from the revolver in this little velvet hand! I'm mad! Consider it and decide
immediately, for if I go now, we shall never see each other again. Decide--speak--I am a noble, a
respectable man, have an income of ten thousand, can shoot a coin thrown into the air. I own
some fine horses. Will you be my wife?

MRS. POPOV: [Swings the revolver angrily.] I'll shoot!

SMIRNOV: My mind is not clear--I can't understand. Servant--water! I have fallen in love like
any young man. [He takes her hand and she cries with pain.] I love you! [He kneels.] I love you
as I have never loved before. Twelve women I jilted, nine jilted me, but not one of them all have
I loved as I love you. I am conquered, lost; I lie at your feet like a fool and beg for your hand.
Shame and disgrace! For five years I haven't been in love; I thanked the Lord for it, and now I
am caught, like a carriage tongue in another carriage. I beg for your hand! Yes or no? Will you?-
-Good!

[He gets up and goes quickly to the door.]

MRS. POPOV: Wait a minute!

SMIRNOV: [Stopping.] Well?

MRS. POPOV: Nothing. You may go. But--wait a moment. No, go on, go on. I hate you. Or--no;
don't go. Oh, if you knew how angry I was, how angry! [She throws the revolver on to the
chair.] My finger is swollen from this thing. [She angrily tears her handkerchief.] What are you
standing there for? Get out!

SMIRNOV: Farewell!

MRS. POPOV: Yes, go. [Cries out.] Why are you going? Wait--no, go!! Oh, how angry I am!
Don't come too near, don't come too near--er--come--no nearer.

SMIRNOV: [Approaching her.] How angry I am with myself! Fall in love like a schoolboy,
throw myself on my knees. I've got a chill! [Strongly.] I love you. This is fine--all I needed was
to fall in love. To-morrow I have to pay my interest, the hay harvest has begun, and then you
appear! [He takes her in his arms.] I can never forgive myself.

MRS. POPOV: Go away! Take your hands off me! I hate you--you--this is--

31
 [Enter LUKA with an axe, the gardener with a rake, the coachman with a pitchfork, and
workmen with poles.]

LUKA: [Staring at the pair.] Merciful heavens!

[A long pause.]

MRS. POPOV: [Dropping her eyes.] Tell them in the stable that Tobby isn't to have any oats.

32
Reading for Reflection and Emulation - Essay

Three Days to See

Helen Keller

All of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited and specified time to
live. Sometimes it was as long as a year; sometimes as short as twenty-four hours. But always we
were interested in discovering just how the doomed man chose to spend his last days or his last
hours. I speak, of course, of free men who have a choice, not condemned criminals whose sphere
of activities is strictly delimited.

Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar circumstances. What
events, what experiences, what associations, should we crowd into those last hours as mortal
beings? What happiness should we find in reviewing the past, what regrets?

Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as if we should die to-
morrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of life. We should live each day
with a gentleness, a vigor, and a keenness of appreciation which are often lost when time
stretches before us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. There
are those, of course, who would adopt the epicurean motto of 'Eat, drink, and be merry,' but most
people would be chastened by the certainty of impending death.

In stories, the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune, but
almost always his sense of values is changed. He becomes more appreciative of the meaning of
life and its permanent spiritual values. It has often been noted that those who live, or have lived,
in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do.

Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die, but usually we
picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant health, death is all but
unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch out in an endless vista. So we go about
our petty tasks, hardly aware of our listless attitude toward life.

The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our facilities and senses. Only the
deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold blessings that lie in sight. Particularly
does this observation apply to those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who
have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed
faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without concentration and with

33
little appreciation. It is the same old story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it,
of not being conscious of health until we are ill.

I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for
a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative
of sight; silence would teach him the joys of sound.

Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited
by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what
she had observed. 'Nothing in particular,' she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not
been accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.

How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing
worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I
feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver
birch, or the rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in
search of a bud, the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter's sleep. I feel the delightful,
velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the
miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently
on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool
waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy
grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the pageant of seasons is a
thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my finger tips.

At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure
from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who have eyes
apparently see little. The panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted.
It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which have and to long for that which we have not,
but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere convenience
rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.

If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course in “How to Use
Your Eyes.” The professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their lives by
really seeing what passes unnoticed before them. He would try to awake their dormant and
sluggish faculties.

II

Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should most like to see if I was given the use of
my eyes, say, for just three days. And while I am imagining, suppose you, too, set your mind to
work on the problem of how to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you
had only three days to see. If with the oncoming darkness if the third night you knew that the sun

34
would never rise for you again, how would you spend those three intervening days? What would
you most want to let your gaze rest upon?

I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years
of darkness. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest long on the things that have become dear
to you so that you could take the memory of them with you into the night that loomed before
you.

If, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing days, to be followed by a relapse into darkness, I
should divide the period into three parts.

On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness and
companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze long upon the face of
my dear teacher, Mrs. Ann Sullivan Macy, who came to me when I was a child and opened the
outer world to me. I should want not merely to see the outline of her face, so that I could cherish
it in my memory, but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic
tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my education. I should
like to see in her eyes that strength of character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of
difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity which she has revealed to me so often.

I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that 'window of the soul,' the
eye. I can only “see” through my finger tips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow,
and many other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot
really picture their personalities, of course, through the thoughts they express to me, through
whatever of their actions are revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of them
which I am sure would come through sight of them, through watching their reactions to various
expressed and circumstances, through noting the immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes
and countenance.

Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the months and years they reveal
themselves to me in all their phases; but of casual friends I have only an incomplete impression,
an impression gained from handclasp, from spoken words which I take from their lips with my
fingertips, or which they tap into the palm of my hand.

How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp quickly the
essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver of a
muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever occur to you to use your sight to see the inner
nature of a friend or acquaintance? Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward
features of a face and let it go at that?

For instance, can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? Some of you can, but
many cannot. As an experiment, I have questioned husbands of long standing about the color of
their wives' eyes, and often they express embarrassed confusion and admit that they so not know.

35
And, incidentally, it is a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new
dresses, new hats, and changes in household arrangements.

The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their surroundings, and
they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But even in viewing the most spectacular
sights the eyes are lazy. Court records reveal every day how inaccurately “eyewitnesses” see. A
given event will be “seen” in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than
others, but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.

Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three days!

The first day would be a busy one. I should call to me all my dear friends and look long into their
faces, imprinting upon my mind the outward evidence of the beauty that is within them. I should
let my eyes rest, too, on the face of a baby, so that I could catch a vision of the eager, innocent
beauty which precedes the individuals consciousness of the conflicts which life develops.

And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting eyes of my dogs -- the grave, canny little Scottie,
Darkie, and the stalwart, understanding Great Dane, Helga, whose warm, tender, and playful
friendships are so comforting to me.

On that busy first day I should also view the small simple things of my home. I want to see the
warm colors in the rugs under my feet, the pictures on the walls, the intimate trifles that
transform a house into a home. My eyes would rest respectfully on the books in raised type
which I have read, but they would be more eagerly interested in the printed books which seeing
people can read, for during the long night of my life the books I have read and those which have
been read to me have built themselves into a great shining lighthouse, revealing to me the
deepest channels of human life and the human spirit.

In the afternoon of that first seeing day, I should take a long walk in the woods and intoxicate my
eyes on the beauties of the world of Nature, trying desperately to absorb in a few hours the vast
splendor which is constantly unfolding itself to those who can see. On the way home from my
woodland jaunt my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient horses ploughing in
the field (perhaps I should see only a tractor!) and the serene content of men living close to the
soil. And I should pray for the glory of a colorful sunset.

When dusk had fallen, I should experience the double delight of being able to see by artificial
light, which the genius of man has created to extend the power of his sight when Nature decrees
darkness.

In the night of that first day of sight, I should not be able to sleep, so full would be my mind of
the memories of the day.

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 III

The next day -- the second day of sight -- I should arise with the dawn and see the thrilling
miracle by which night is transformed into day. I should behold with awe the magnificent
panorama of light with which the sun awakens the sleeping earth.

This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world, past and present. I should want to see
the pageant of man's progress, the kaleidoscope of the ages. How can so much compressed into
one day? Through the museums, of course. Often I have visited the New York Museum of
Natural History to touch with my hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have longed to
see with my eyes the condensed history of the earth and its inhabitants displayed there -- animals
and the races of men pictured in their native environment; gigantic carcasses of dinosaurs and
mastodons which roamed the earth long before man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful
brain, to conquer the animal kingdom; realistic presentations of the processes of evolution in
animals, and in the implements which man has used to fashion for himself a secure home on this
planet; and a thousand and one other aspects of natural history.

I wonder how many readers of this article have viewed this panorama of the face of living things
as pictured in that inspiring museum. Many, of course, have not had the opportunity, but, I am
sure that many who have had the opportunity have not made use of it. There, indeed, is a place to
use your eyes. You who can see can spend many fruitful days there, but I, with my imaginary
three days of sight, could only take a hasty glimpse, and pass on.

My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for just as the Museum of Natural
History reveals the material aspects of the world, so does the Metropolitan show the myriad
facets of the human spirit. Throughout the history of humanity the urge to artistic expression has
been almost as powerful as the urge for food, shelter, and procreation. And here, in the vast
chambers of the Metropolitan Museum, is unfolded before me the spirit of Egypt, Greece, and
Rome, as expressed in their art. I know well through my hands the sculptured gods and
goddesses of the ancient Nile-land. I have a few copies of Parthenon friezes, and I have sensed
the rhythmic beauty of charging Athenian warriors. Apollos and Venuses and the winged victory
of Samothrace are friends of my finger tips. The gnarled, bearded features of Homer are dear to
me, for he, too, knew blindness.

My hands have lingered upon the living marvel of Roman sculpture as well as that of later
generations. I have passed my hands over a plaster cast of Michelangelo's inspiring and heroic
Moses; I have sensed the power of Rodin; I have been awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood
carving. These arts which can be touched have meaning for me, but even they were meant to be
seen rather than felt, and I can only guess at the beauty which remains hidden from me. I can
admire the simple lines of a Greek vase, but its figured decorations are lost to me.

So on this, my second day of sight, I should try to probe into the soul of man through his art. The
things I knew through touch I should now see. More splendid still, the whole magnificent world

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of painting would be opened to me, from the Italian Primitives, with their serene religious
devotion, to the Moderns, with their feverish visions. I should look deep into the canvases of
Raphael, Leonardo Da Vinci, Titian, Rembrandt. I should want to feast my eyes upon the warm
colors of Veronese, study the mysteries of El Greco, catch a new vision of Nature from Corot.
Oh, there is so much rich meaning and beauty in the art of the ages for you who have eyes to see!

Upon my short visit to this temple of art I should not be able to review a fraction of that great
world of art which is open to you. I should be able to get only a superficial impression. Artists
tell me that for a deep and true appreciation of art one must educate the eye. One must learn from
experience to weigh the merits of line, of composition, of form and color. If I had eyes, how
happily would I embark upon so fascinating a study! Yet I am told that, to many of you who
have eyes to see, the world of art is a dark night, unexplored and unilluminated.

It would be with extreme reluctance that I should leave the Metropolitan Museum, which
contains the key to beauty -- a beauty so neglected. Seeing persons, however, do not need a
Metropolitan to find this key to beauty. The same key lies waiting in smaller museums, and in
books on the shelves of even small libraries. But naturally, in my limited time of imaginary sight,
I should choose the place where the key unlocks the greatest treasures in the shortest time.

The evening of my second day of sight I should spend at a theatre or at the movies. Even now I
often attend theatrical performances of all sorts, but the action of the play must be spelled into
my hand by a companion. But how I should like to see with my own eyes the fascinating figure
of Hamlet, or the gusty Falstaff amid colorful Elizabethan trappings! How I should like to follow
each movement of the graceful Hamlet, each strut of the hearty Falstaff! And since I could see
only one play, I should be confronted by a many-horned dilemma, for there are scores of plays I
should want to see. You who have eyes can see any you like. How many of you, I wonder, when
you gaze at a play, a movie, or any spectacle, realize and give thanks for the miracle of sight
which enables you to enjoy its color, grace, and movement?

I cannot enjoy the beauty rythmic movement except in a sphere restricted to the touch of my
hands. I can vision only dimly the grace of a Pavlowa, although I know something of the delight
of rhythm, for often I can sense the beat of music as it vibrates through the floor. I can well
imagine that cadenced motion must be one of the most pleasing sights in the world. I have been
able to gather something of this by tracing with my fingers the lines in sculptured marble; if this
static grace can be so lovely, how much more acute must be the thrill of seeing grace in motion.

One of my dearest memories is of the time when Joseph Jefferson allowed me to touch his face
and hands as he went through some of the gestures and speeches of his beloved Rip Van Winkle.
I was able to catch thus a meager glimpse of the world of drama, and I shall never forget the
delight of that moment. But, oh, how much I must miss, and how much pleasure you seeing ones
can derive from watching and hearing the interplay of speech and movement in the unfolding of
a dramatic performance! If I could see only one play, I should know how to picture in my mind

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the action of a hundred plays which I have read or had transferred to me through the medium of
manual alphabet.

So, through the evening of my second imaginary day of sight, the great figures of dramatic
literature would crowd sleep from my eyes.

IV

The following morning, I should again greet the dawn, anxious to discover new delights, for I am
sure that, for those who have eyes which really see, the dawn of each day must be a perpetually
new revelation of beauty.

This, according to the terms of my imagined miracle, is to be my third and last day of sight. I
shall have no time to waste in regrets or longings; there is too much to see. The first day I
devoted to my friends, animate and inanimate. The second revealed to me the history of man and
Nature. To-day I shall spend in the workday world of the present, amid the haunts of men going
about the business of life. And where one can find so many activities and conditions of men as in
New York? So the city becomes my destination.

I start from my home in the quiet little suburb of Forest Hills, Long Island. Here, surrounded by
green lawns, trees, and flowers, are neat little houses, happy with the voices and movements of
wives and children, havens of peaceful rest for men who toil in the city. I drive across the lacy
structure of steel which spans the East River, and I get a new and startling vision of the power
and ingenuity of the mind of man. Busy boats chug and scurry about the river - racy speed, boats,
stolid, snorting tugs. If I had long days of sight ahead, I should spend many of them watching the
delightful activity upon the river.

I look ahead, and before me rise the fantastic towers of New York, a city that seems to have
stepped from the pages of a fairy story. What an awe-inspiring sight, these glittering spires, these
vast banks of stone and steel - sculptures such as the gods might build for themselves! This
animated picture is a part of the lives of millions of people every day. How many, I wonder, give
it so much as a second glance? Very few, I fear. Their eyes are blind to this magnificent sight
because it is so familiar to them.

I hurry to the top of one of those gigantic structures, the Empire State Building, for there, a short
time ago, I 'saw' the city below through the eyes of my secretary. I am anxious to compare my
fancy with reality. I am sure I should not be disappointed in the panorama spread out before me,
for to me it would be a vision of another world.

Now I begin my rounds of the city. First, I stand at a busy corner, merely looking at people,
trying by sight of them to understand something of their lives. I see smiles, and I am happy. I see
serious determination, and I am proud. I see suffering, and I am compassionate.

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I stroll down Fifth Avenue. I throw my eyes out of focus, so that I see no particular object but a
seething kaleidoscope of color. I am certain that the colors of women's dresses moving in a
throng must be a gorgeous spectacle of which I should never tire. But perhaps if I had sight I
should be like most other women -- too interested in styles and the cut of individual dresses to
give much attention to the splendor of color in the mass. And I am convinced, too, that I should
become an inveterate window shopper, for it must be a delight to the eye to view the myriad
articles of beauty on display.

From Fifth Avenue I make a tour of the city -- to Park Avenue, to the slums, to factories, to parks
where children play. I take a stay-at-home trip abroad by visiting the foreign quarters. Always
my eyes are open wide to all the sights of both happiness and misery so that I may probe deep
and add to my understanding of how people work and live. My heart is full of the images of
people and things. My eye passes lightly over no single trifle; it strives to touch and hold closely
each thing its gaze rests upon. Some sights are pleasant, filling the heart with happiness; but
some are miserably pathetic. To these latter I do not shut my eyes, for they, too are part of life.
To close the eye on them is to close the heart and mind.

My third day of sight is drawing to an end. Perhaps there are many serious pursuits to which I
should devote the few remaining hours, but I am afraid that on the evening of that last day I
should run away to the theatre, to a hilariously funny play, so that I might appreciate the
overtones of comedy in the human spirit.

At midnight my temporary respite from blindness would cease, and permanent night would close
in on me again. Naturally in those three short days I should not have seen all I wanted to see.
Only when darkness had again descended upon me should I realize how much I had left unseen.
But my mind would be so overcrowded with glorious memories that I should have little time for
regrets. Thereafter the touch of every object would bring a glowing memory of how that object
looked.

Perhaps this short outline of how I should spend three days of sight does not agree with the
programme you would set for yourself if you knew that you were about to be stricken blind. I
am, however, sure that if you actually faced that fate your eyes would open to things you had
never seen before, storing up memories for the long night ahead. You would use your eyes as
never before. Everything you saw would become dear to you. Your eyes would touch and
embrace every object that came within your range of vision. Then, at last, you would really see,
and a new world of beauty would open itself before you.

I who am blind can give one hint to those who see - one admonition to those who would make
full use of the gift of sight: Use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the
same method can be applied to other senses. Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the
mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf to-morrow. Touch each object
you want to touch as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers,

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taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the
most of every sense; glory in all the facets of pleasure and beauty which the world reveals to you
through the several means of contact which Nature provides. But of all the senses, I am sure that
sight must be the most delightful.

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