ALL IN A LIFETIME
The Training School for Robbers—Eavesdroppers Who Heard
Not a Word—The Fox and the Wolf—The Murderer—The
Plans for Eloping—Regarding the Deaf as Uncanny—The
Narrowness and Prejudice of the Deaf Themselves—Dancing
and Singing Eliminated—The Blind and the Deaf, and the
Man with Both Afflictions.
On a lonely corner in New York City I once saw three boys practicing
the gentle art of highway robbery. One played the part of victim; he
walked along giving a good imitation of the ordinary citizen busy with
his own thoughts, giving little attention to his surroundings. The other
two boys approached him carelessly, apparently laughing at some joke.
As they passed, one of the “robbers” suddenly turned and threw his left
arm around the “citizen’s” head just below the chin. Then he quickly
slid his right arm down to pinion the arms of the victim just above
the elbow. He put his left knee at the middle of the victim’s back and
pulled with the left arm. It was a murderous grip; the more the victim
struggled the closer drew the “head lock” under his chin, and the neck
was forced back to the breaking point. The other boys deftly emptied
the unprotected pockets of watch and money. Then they threw the victim
to the ground and ran away. They rehearsed this over and over—taking
turns at the different positions, perfecting themselves in this
barbarous business.
I watched this fascinating play for some time, studying to think of some
way in which the victim might defend himself. He might possibly use his
feet, but taken unaware probably his breath would be shut off before
he could organize any defense. One can easily realize how powerless an
unsuspecting stranger would be at the hands of three trained villains
such as these boys seemed likely to become.
Two years later I had occasion to pass through the street where this
rogue’s training had been carried on. It was after dark, and just as my
mind reverted to this grewsome drill two men appeared from under the
shadow of the elevated station. They stopped and spoke to me, but I did
not understand. One of them repeated his question, pointing at my watch
chain. Naturally I pulled back my arm to strike him as I saw an opening,
but the other man quickly caught my head and arms in that murderous lock
which I had seen those boys practicing. He did not hurt me, but I found
myself powerless to move or speak. I cannot describe the feeling of
utter helplessness caused by that grip at my throat and arms. The first
man took my watch from my pocket and held it to the light, looked at it
carefully—_and put it back again_! He looked over my shoulder at his
companion who held me captive, and as his face was then in the light, I
could read the words on his lips:
“Only nine o’clock?”
Then I read once more:
“Thank you!”
My arms were set free, and, smiling, the two men hurried on. I assume
that they merely wanted to know the time. They saw that I could not hear
them and that I might call for help and put them in a bad position, so
they helped themselves to the time of day in true hold-up style.
One man’s adventure illustrates how deafness may be converted into
an asset if the affliction can be kept concealed. He went to a city
park, and was sitting on a bench which was partly concealed by trees
and shrubs. He was undergoing one of those periods of depression which
often fall upon us in the silence, after some sharp rebuff, or when
the real trouble of our affliction is visited upon us by some careless
associate. Completely absorbed, this man did not notice that a nearby
seat was occupied by a young woman and a man. Finally he did perceive
that they were talking earnestly—the man was evidently pleading and
the woman was inclined to deny him. But at last she evidently consented
to his proposition, and he looked cautiously around to make sure that
they were alone before sealing the agreement in the usual way. Then for
the first time he discovered my deaf friend within ten feet of their
bench! Of course these young people assumed that the deaf man had heard
it all. From the beginning conscience has made cowards of most of us.
The girl started to advertise her feelings with a scream, but her
companion checked her just in time by pointing to a park policeman who
was swinging his club at the corner of the path. Then he took out his
notebook, and without trying to talk he wrote this brief explanation and
handed it to the deaf man.
“Please don’t betray us. It is true that we have planned to elope. We
will be married this afternoon in New Jersey. I am sure her father
will forgive us when we return; it is our only way. You overheard by
accident—now be a good sport and let us alone!”
The deaf man put on his glasses to read the note. Through the film which
gathered on the lenses he saw only visions of youth and romance. No
woman would be likely to come into the land of silence and elope with
him! That would be but a clumsy and ridiculous performance, and he knew
it well. These young people were probably all wrong. Yonder policeman
would question them, find where they lived and notify the father of
the girl. As a sober-minded citizen opposed to youthful folly and far
removed from it, was it not his duty to stop such nonsense? And yet—
He who hesitates is frequently spared the necessity for decision. He
looked up to find that the young people had disappeared, they had
slipped out of sight during his meditation. And in his lonely silence
the deaf man could smile, for he was glad that they got away.
Another deaf man was traveling through a Western State in a Pullman.
This man noticed two men who seemed to be engaged in a most earnest
discussion. They sat across the aisle from him and as they talked they
glanced furtively about. They were a forbidding pair, one a great
hulking brute with a broad red face—the other a little rat of a man
with a low, receding forehead and a bright, restless eye. The wolf
and the fox appeared to be hunting together. Frequently the big man
became emphatic and struck the back of the seat with his great fist
while the little man shook his head and bared his teeth in a smile
which seemed like a menace. The deaf man wished to change his position
so as to get a better view of the country, and he happened to drop
into the seat which backed up against the one in which the wolf and
the fox were laying their plans. At first they paid no attention to
him, but continued to argue and gesticulate. Finally the fox realized
that the head of the deaf man was within a foot of their conversation.
How was he to know that the “listener” might as well have been a mile
away in so far as successful eavesdropping was concerned? He instantly
signalled to the wolf and the discussion stopped. They both soon moved
to the smoking-room, where they whispered for a little time; then the
fox came to sit beside the deaf man. He glanced about anxiously, but
finally said:
“Did you happen to hear what we were saying?”
The “eavesdropper” read some of the words on the lips of the other, and
vaguely nodded his head. Then the fox took a piece of paper and wrote:
“It is a good joke. I made a bet with my friend that we could make you
think we were in earnest in planning the job. Of course there is nothing
to it. It was a fake talk.”
Just then the wolf appeared with his hat and suitcase. The train was
approaching a small town. “Come,” he said, “we get out here.” His friend
jumped up to join him. They sprang off as the train stopped, though the
conductor said that their tickets would have carried them fifty miles
farther. The deaf man caught a look of fear and suspicion from the fox
as the two disappeared. Of course they were planning mischief, but fear
of this deaf man caused them to run from him as they would have fled a
plague.
Many years ago I passed a Winter in a lumber camp far up among the
snows of Northern Michigan. My bunk-mate was a gigantic, silent man, a
stranger and a mystery to all the rest of us. He said little and made
no friends. He had a curious habit of glancing hurriedly about him; he
started at light sounds and appeared to keep a watchful eye always upon
the door. Frequently at night I found him awake, gazing at the lantern
which always hung at the door, near the end of the camp. One day the
driver of the supply team smuggled a bottle of whiskey into camp and my
bunk-mate was able to get two good drinks. We worked together that day
in a lonely place, and he became quite talkative. I could not hear him
well, but he was evidently trying to tell some incident of his own life.
There in the forest, knee deep in snow, he appeared to be acting out a
tragedy. At the last he did not seem to realize that I was there. He
addressed some imaginary person, holding out his hands as if in appeal.
Apparently this was rejected, and his face changed in anger. He caught
up his axe and rushed up to a fallen log; he struck it a blow which sent
a great chip flying a hundred feet away. Then he looked at me in wonder,
seeming to realize that I must have overheard him. He sat on the log,
took great handfuls of snow and held them against his head. I found
myself helping him with a great chunk of ice which I had brought from
the brook.
“It was the whiskey,” he suddenly shouted. “It’s poison. It makes me
talk and think. Say—did you hear what I said? What was it?”
He looked at me with hard, savage eyes. I had not heard his ravings and
did not recount his actions. He continued to stare at me silently, axe
in hand. Then he decided to believe my denial and he kept at work as
before, silent and grim. As we went back to camp that night he asked me
once more, with apparent irrelevance:
“Did you hear what I said?”
I again assured him that I had understood nothing, which was the truth.
He seemed satisfied, but during the evening he divided his attention
between me and the outside door; he was again puzzled over the chance
that I had heard. In the early morning I awoke to find myself alone in
the bunk. The man did not appear again.
Two nights later I sat on the bench by the camp stove drying my clothes
after another day in the wet snow. At the moment when I was remembering
that curious watch-dog habit of my bunk-mate’s the door suddenly opened
and two men entered. One was the sheriff of a county in the lower
tier, near the Ohio line; the other was also armed. They were after my
bunk-mate—too late.
“What’s it for?” asked the foreman.
“Murder, I reckon. He quarreled with his wife and hit her with an axe.”
And to this day I wonder what would have happened to me in the woods if
I had heard what he said.
Deaf persons undoubtedly come to be really troublesome to many kindly
and essentially generous men and women. I have never been able to
understand the feeling; perhaps it resembles the creepy terror which
the touch or the sight of a cat arouses in some persons. At any rate
I have been introduced to people who are unmistakably afraid of me.
They cross the street to avoid a face-to-face encounter. I think they
would not dare to walk alone with me at night. I have come to realize
that a fair proportion of the human beings I meet are actually afraid
of me, or uncomfortable in my presence until I in some way make them
understand that I will not annoy them, or that I have a message for them
which can be delivered by no one else. Some deaf people live tormented
by the thought that society rejects them, or at best merely tolerates
them. They would be far happier to admit frankly that they are not as
other men, and realize that there is no reason why the world should give
them special accommodation. They should rather seek to acquire original
personality or power which would make them so luminous that the world
would eagerly follow them. This is possible in some way for every deaf
person. It is our best hope.
One of the finest men I ever knew told me frankly that two classes
of people make him shudder; men belonging to the Salvation Army, in
uniform, and deaf persons, trying to hear. This friend is a thoroughly
sincere clergyman, with a leaning toward the full dignity of the cloth.
The Salvation Army came to his town, and being charitably disposed
toward the workers, he attended one of their meetings. Greatly to his
embarrassment the captain called in a loud voice for Brother Johnson to
pray. The clergyman started in the formal manner but at the first period
he was greeted with a loud chorus—“_Amen, brother!_” While the drummer
pounded on his drum and clashed his brass. My friend still suffers
from the shock. His feeling for the deaf may be traced to Aunt Sallie.
At the bedside of a sick friend he was asked to pray. Before he could
even start, Aunt Sallie, very deaf but anxious to miss nothing, planted
herself so close as to place her ear about six inches from his mouth.
I do not wonder that this man will cross the street at the approach of
deafness or a uniformed Salvation Army officer.
And it must be admitted that it is quite easy for the deaf themselves
to become narrow and prejudiced. Frequently when exiled to the silent
world, with poetry and laughter shut out, we use a clipped yard-stick
to measure the good which is always to be found in everyone. Sometimes
prejudice is carried to a ridiculous extreme. When I was a boy Deacon
Drake of the Congregational Church went to a funeral at which a
Unitarian minister officiated. The Deacon had not heard for years, but
he sat stiff-necked and solemn until the choir sang a hymn which visibly
affected the people. He asked his daughter for the name of the hymn and
she wrote it out—“Nearer, My God, to Thee.” The old man had heard not
a note, but as he disapproved of the sentiment expressed he rose and
tramped firmly out of the room.
Job asked “Where is wisdom to be found?” Surely the deaf may eliminate
singing and dancing as promising prospects for their search! Once a deaf
man went to a party and fell into the hands of a feminine “joker.” This
lady had wagered that she could dance a Virginia reel with a man unable
to hear a note of the music. She contended that she would make him hear
through vibration and thus guide him properly. Of course the deaf man
knew better, but what was he to do? What could any man do in such a
case? You yourself would probably trample all over judgment and common
sense and stand out to make yourself ridiculous as man has done for
centuries, and will doubtless continue to do!
They started bravely, but half way down the line the music quickened and
the ill-starred deaf man landed heavily upon the foot of his partner.
It was a cruel smash. The vibration process was reversed. She lost her
wager and he was counted out, but he should have known better.
Perhaps you have seen a deaf man trying to march in a parade; I once saw
one trying to keep step to his own wedding march! Well, I may say that
the wife of a deaf man has many trials, usually she must do the marching
for both.
I have often been asked whether total deafness is a greater affliction
than total blindness. It would be very difficult to decide. At times
the blind man would gladly exchange his hearing for sight; he so longs
to see the faces of old friends or of his children. Yet frequently he
is glad that the burden of deafness has not been laid upon him. In like
manner the deaf man would sometimes give all he has for the sound of
some familiar voice or the melody of some old song. Yet, considering
carefully and weighing all the evidence, total blindness seems the
greater affliction. But I have had blind men “feel sorry” for me because
I miss the sounds of the birds and cannot hear whispered confidences.
However, I think the blind are happier than the deaf. There is less of
the torture of Tantalus about their affliction. If they are surrounded
by loving and considerate friends they have less to regret than the
deaf; their embarrassments are not brought home so cruelly, for they
do not see the consequences of their own blunders. I know a woman who
was suddenly blinded, twenty-five years ago. She has lived usefully and
happily with her family. Her children are now middle-age men and women,
showing the wrinkles and the wear of life. Her husband and her brother
have aged, but not for her. She only sees the old vision of youth and
power. An illuminated silence would have given her all the signs of age
creeping upon those nearest her, and would have destroyed her intimate
part in the everyday family life. Her children never could have come
to her, weeping, seeking her sacred confidences, had she been unable to
hear them.
Society has a more kindly feeling for the blind man than for the
deaf—at least so it seems to us. You may find a good illustration of
this at some party or social gathering in the country. The neighbors
gather; very likely it is Winter and they come from lonely places,
eager for human companionship. It is a jolly gathering. Perhaps a blind
man and a deaf man of equal social importance, will enter the room
simultaneously. The blind man hears the laughter and the happy chatter
and at once enters into the spirit of the evening. The deaf man catches
no happy contagion, he feels a melancholy irritation. He would have been
far happier at home with his book, but his wife and daughter urged upon
him the duty of coming to “enjoy himself” and—here he is.
Half a dozen people rush to the blind man. He must be guided to a
comfortable seat where a willing interpreter will quickly make him feel
at home. He is told about the new red dress which Mrs. Jones is wearing,
it is so becoming! Miss Foster is in blue, and her hair is arranged in
the latest New York style. Henry Benson has shaved off his beard. John
Mercer has a bandage on his hand where he cut it with the saw. The Chase
girls have new fur coats. The blind man sees it through the eyes of his
neighbor. It is a pleasure to sit unobtrusively and talk to him—it
gives one a thrill of satisfaction to feel that the blind man is made
happy.
But who rushes to the deaf man for the privilege of being his
interpreter? In all my experience I have known only one person to do
this. As he looks about him for a vacant seat the deaf man sees few
inviting hands or faces. If he is able to read facial expressions at all
he soon fancies that there are many versions of the thought:
“Oh, I hope that man will not sit near me!”
Who desires to attract attention by screaming at the deaf man or to
spend the evening writing out for him what others are saying?
A little handful of people once attended a prayer meeting at a little
country church back among the hills. It was during a severe, gloomy
Winter, a season of unusual trouble and unusual complaint. The little
stove could barely melt the thick frost on the windows. The feeble lamps
gave but a dim light. Yet as the meeting progressed through prayer
and song that melancholy group of farmers mellowed, and undoubtedly
something of holy joy came to them. I, of course, heard not a word
of the service, but apparently each person waited for the spirit to
move them, then rose and repeated some well-worn prayer or a verse of
Scripture. It was utterly crude and simple, but a certain power fell
upon that company and for the moment it was lifted out of the dull
commonplace of daily life. Little or nothing of the spiritual uplift
came to me. At the close of the service I saw people who had come gloomy
and depressed acting like happy children, shaking hands, forgetting
old troubles, buoyed and braced. And some of them seemed to regard my
calmness with wonder—I could not fully join in their happiness.
It is evident that a sincere religious spirit can bring great comfort
to the deaf. Now and then I find a deaf man who practices what I
call professional religion with all the cant and the pious phrases
necessary. It never seems to ring true. The deaf are notorious failures
at deception. But a firm trust in God and a sincere belief in His power
and mercy should be “As the shadow of a mighty rock in a weary land”—of
silence. We must have the best possible moral support.
I know of a man who is both blind and deaf. Once when I gave way
momentarily to depression his wife wrote me:
“I felt like writing an invitation to you to come and look at my husband
who is both blind and deaf. An accident twenty-one years ago caused the
loss of sight, which came on gradually but finally became complete. When
I told him you were to write “Adventures in Silence,” he said, ‘Why
not the wonders of silence and darkness?’ That has been his attitude
all through these burdened years. These are but a small portion of the
misfortunes and trials which have befallen us, but as he guides himself
by lines hung from one point to another just high enough to take the
crook of his cane there comes never a word of discouragement or despair.
Here let me say that an educated, trained mind is the finest gift you
can give to your children. It is the possession of a wonderful mind well
trained by a splendid education that has been next to God’s love that
has kept ‘my man’ upright and strong through the darkened and silent
valley.”
We may all of us readily understand that no human or material power is
strong enough to sustain a man through such a fate.