i was once without the sense of smell and taste for several days. it seemed incredible, this utter detachment from odours, to breathe the air in and observe never a single scent. the feeling was probably similar, though less in degree, to that of one who first loses sight and cannot but expect to see the light again any day, any minute. i knew i should smell again some time. still, after the wonder had passed off, a loneliness crept over me as vast as the air whose myriad odours i missed. the multitudinous subtle delights that smell makes mine became for a time wistful memories. when i recovered the lost sense, my heart bounded with gladness. it is a fine dramatic touch that hans andersen gives to the story of kay and gerda in the passage about flowers. kay, whom the wicked magician's glass has blinded to human love, rushes away fiercely from home when he discovers that the roses have lost their sweetness.
the loss of smell for a few days gave me a clearer idea than i had ever had what it is to be blinded suddenly, helplessly. with a little stretch of the imagination i knew then what it must be when the great curtain shuts out suddenly the light of day, the stars, and the firmament itself. i see the blind man's eyes strain for the light, as he fearfully tries to walk his old rounds, until the unchanging blank that everywhere spreads before him stamps the reality of the dark upon his consciousness.
my temporary loss of smell proved to me, too, that the absence of a sense need not dull the mental faculties and does not distort one's view of the world, and so i reason that blindness and deafness need not pervert the inner order of the intellect. i know that if there were no odours for me i should still possess a considerable part of the world. novelties and surprises would abound, adventures would thicken in the dark.
in my classification of the senses, smell is a little the ear's inferior, and touch is a great deal the eye's superior. i find that great artists and philosophers agree with me in this. diderot says:
je trouvais que de tous les sens, l'œil était le plus superficiel; l'oreille, le plus orgueilleux; l'odorat, le plus voluptueux; le goût, le plus superstitieux et le plus inconstant; le toucher, le plus profond et le plus philosophe.[c]
a friend whom i have never seen sends me a quotation from symonds's "renaissance in italy":
lorenzo ghiberti, after describing a piece of antique sculpture he saw in rome adds, "to express the perfection of learning, mastery, and art displayed in it is beyond the power of language. its more exquisite beauties could not be discovered by the sight, but only by the touch of the hand passed over it." of another classic marble at padua he says, "this statue, when the christian faith triumphed, was hidden in that place by some gentle soul, who, seeing it so perfect, fashioned with art so wonderful, and with such power of genius, and being moved to reverent pity, caused a sepulchre of bricks to be built, and there within buried the statue, and covered it with a broad slab of stone, that it might not in any way be injured. it has very many sweet beauties which the eyes alone can comprehend not, either by strong or tempered light; only the hand by touching them finds them out."
hold out your hands to feel the luxury of the sunbeams. press the soft blossoms against your cheek, and finger their graces of form, their delicate mutability of shape, their pliancy and freshness. expose your face to the aerial floods that sweep the heavens, "inhale great draughts of space," wonder, wonder at the wind's unwearied activity. pile note on note the infinite music that flows increasingly to your soul from the tactual sonorities of a thousand branches and tumbling waters. how can the world be shrivelled when this most profound, emotional sense, touch, is faithful to its service? i am sure that if a fairy bade me choose between the sense of light and that of touch, i would not part with the warm, endearing contact of human hands or the wealth of form, the nobility and fullness that press into my palms.
