“She grew up into a superb woman, but she was dumb, from an absolute want of intellect.  I tried all means to introduce a gleam of sense into her head, but nothing succeeded.  I thought that I noticed that she knew her nurse, though as soon as she was weaned, she failed to recognize her mother.  She could never pronounce that word, which is the first that children utter, and the last which soldiers murmur when they are dying on the field of battle.  She sometimes tried to talk, but she produced nothing but incoherent sounds.

“When the weather was fine, she laughed continually, and emitted some low cries which might be compared to the twittering of birds; when it rained she cried and moaned in a mournful, terrifying manner, which sounded like the howling of a dog when a death occurs in a house.

“She was fond of rolling on the grass, like young animals do, and of running about madly, and she used to clap her hands every morning, when the sun shone into her room, and would jump out of bed and insist by signs, on being dressed as quickly as possible, so that she might get out.

“She did not appear to distinguish between people, between her mother and her nurse, or between her father and me, or between the coachman and the cook.  I liked her parents, who were very unhappy on her account, very much, and went to see them nearly every day.  I dined with them tolerably frequently, which enabled me to remark that Bertha (they had called her Bertha), seemed to recognize the various dishes, and to prefer some to others.  At that time she was twelve years old, but as fully formed in figure as a girl of eighteen, and taller than I was.  Then, the idea struck me of developing her greediness, and by these means to try and produce some slight powers of distinguishing into her mind, and to force her, by the diversity of flavors, if not to reason, at any rate to arrive at instinctive distinctions, which would of themselves constitute a species of work that was material to thought.  Later on, by appealing to her passions, and by carefully making use of those which could serve us, we might hope to obtain a kind of reaction on her intellect, and by degrees increase the insensible action of her brain.

“One day I put two plates before her, one of soup, and the other of very sweet vanilla cream.  I made her taste each of them successively, and then I let her choose for herself, and she ate the plate of cream.  In a short time I made her very greedy, so greedy that it appeared as if the only idea she had in her head was the desire for eating.  She perfectly recognized the various dishes, and stretched out her hands towards those that she liked, and took hold of them eagerly, and she used to cry when they were taken from her.  Then I thought I would try and teach her to come to the dining room when the dinner bell rang.  It took a long time, but I succeeded in the end.  In her vacant intellect, there was a fixed correlation between the sound and her taste, a correspondence between two senses, an appeal from one to the other, and consequently a sort of connection of ideas—­if one can call that kind of instinctive hyphen between two organic functions an idea—­and so I carried my experiments further, and taught her, with much difficulty, to recognize meal times on the face of the clock.