Looking Wise and Saying Nothing—Passing Encouragement Around—The Critic and the Short Skirts—The “Lion” and the Honest Deaf Man—How Reputation and the Deaf Man Overtook the Hon. Robt. Grey—The Simultaneous Blessings at the Dinner-table—Jealousy and Mrs. Brewster.

It has been said of a Cape Cod man that if he will tell where he comes from, look wise and say nothing, he will pass as a person of fine intellect. Much the same is true of the deaf man. He is too apt to talk all the time, or else to say nothing—and sometimes he does both at once. Many of us betray the shoals of our mind and our shallow waters of thought by talking too much. The Yankee is naturally inquisitive. He has injured his position in history by asking too many useless questions. Unfortunately, this is also the failing of too many of the deaf. Instead of realizing that the choicest bits of conversation are reserved for them, they persist in trying to borrow the dross. Cardinal Wolsey’s outburst of bitter self-reproach would be a valuable memory gem for us:

Here we must part with the foolish ambition to deal in small talk. The surest way for us to become social nuisances is constantly to demand the details of current conversation, and some of our worst embarrassments come when some well-meaning, loud-voiced person diligently relays to us the trivial remarks. For be it known that the bubbles of words which work up from the feeble fermenting of shallow thoughts are usually stale and unprofitable. And many a deaf person has passed an hour of agony in company smiling and pretending to enjoy conversation which might as well be carried on in Europe, as far as his understanding goes. A student of lip-reading can find much amusing practice in such situations, but it is far better for the rest of us to say frankly that we cannot hear the talk, and then retire from the field with a book.

Every deaf person who possesses even a trace of humor can tell how he or she has passed as an important personage by looking wise and saying nothing. On several occasions I have played the part of intelligent critic with some success. I can sit on the front seat at a lecture or a concert, look intently at the speaker or singer, smile and frown at the right places in the program, and make an effort to look wise. The performer soon comes to think that he has at least one very keen and appreciative listener, and soon he aims the best points at me. Of course, we all know how the heart and spirit glow in the face of evident appreciation. I do not hear a sound, but I present the appearance of the mighty rock in the weary land of inattentive listeners. I have even had the susceptible artist hunt me out afterwards, evidently seeking some delicate compliment—for who is proof against such desires? However, I keep out of the way, for it would never do for him to find that the appreciative hearer is a deaf man. A friend of mine, working on the same principle of passing encouragement around, keeps an eye open for deaf men or those who seem discouraged, and when he meets some one who seems to be losing his grip, he gives a military salute. When his children criticise such a performance, he says:

“Why not? It makes him feel good. It inoculates his pride. He goes on his way thinking that perhaps after all he may be somebody, since that ‘distinguished-looking man’ recognized him!”

There is a sorry old joke that I have played repeatedly on vain or inquisitive people. I worked it off on my friend, Brown, three times running. Brown is the type of fellow who is much in love with his own voice. They tell me that he can deliver a fair speech, but that he spoils the effect by making it quite evident that he is casting pearls, and that lack of proper appreciation classes the audience with a well-known suggestion of the New Testament. I have never heard Brown’s words, but his actions speak loudly to a deaf man. So I wait until he begins to describe some oratorical triumph and then start on him.

“Great! I know a man down town who would gladly pay five hundred dollars to hear you speak. Thus far he has not been able to hear you.”

Brown absorbs the compliment with the air of a man well accustomed to such little tributes. But I know how his mind is working, and, sure enough, soon he rises to the bait.

“By the way, what did you say about that man who is anxious to hear me speak?”

“I said that there is a very intelligent man down town who says he would give five hundred dollars to hear you speak. Thus far he has been denied that privilege, but I think he means what he says.”

“That’s good! No doubt some one who has heard me has told him about it. I expect to speak at a banquet next week. Perhaps we could have this man invited. I should be glad to give him pleasure.”

“It certainly would give him great pleasure. I am sure he would travel far to get within sound of your voice.”

“By the way, I do not recall that you mentioned the name of this gentleman.”

“He is a deaf man. He has not heard a sound for years! I know he would give five hundred dollars to be able to hear you.”

And then Brown refuses to speak to me for a month. He has no use for these “funny men.” His vanity finally gets the best of him, however, and a little later he “falls” for the same story with variations. You can tell him of the man who would willingly give a thousand dollars to see the great orator. Of course, he is blind. Then there is the enthusiastic citizen who would gladly run a mile in order to join the audience. He is a cripple with only one leg. Of course, these are worn, old jokes, but the deaf man may be pardoned for indulging in the old-timers if they help to offset some of his own blunders and mishaps.

Let it be known, however, that we deaf never shine as critics where our opinions will have weight. Some men, naturally strong and dominant, reach high positions, where they have power over others, and they become hard taskmasters because through their inability to hear they make too many snap judgments and become too critical. They may be efficient, but frequently it is a raw and brutal efficiency which accomplishes little good. One very deaf man was invited to a meeting of a literary society in a Western town. It seemed to be the only entertainment in town that night, and though it was obviously no place for a deaf man, he went along with his friends. We know how to amuse ourselves at such places. We may not hear a word, but the mind can be kept active with some detail of business, or a review or something we have read. This man applauded and smiled with the rest. It is often a foolish performance, but we invariably fall into it. By assuming a serious expression of countenance whenever it was apparent that the program called for thought, this man found himself being accepted as a wise critic. One young woman was determined to attract the attention of the distinguished-looking stranger. She read her essay with one eye on him, and he did his best to look appreciative. When the literary exercises were over the chairman called various leading citizens to discuss the meeting and criticise the various performances. The young woman was anxious to hear a word of praise from the visitor. So, at her suggestion, the president wrote a note and passed it to the deaf man—a note suggesting that he give a truthful criticism of at least one number. This fishing for compliments is like other forms of angling; you never know what you are going to catch. My friend protested and tried to explain, but there was no escape. Being a man of some determination, and, moreover, with severe old-fashioned ideas, he stood up and delivered his criticism:

“My friends, I am no critic. Nature has made it necessary for me to hear with my eyes, and I can offer but one suggestion. I may be wrong. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but it seems to me that if I had to walk through life on such a pair of pipestems as I have seen tonight, they would be the last thing in the world that I would take pride in exhibiting. I’d wear a dress that would sweep the floor.”

The company reserved their laughter until they were safe at home, but with one accord everyone glanced at the short skirt of the literary young woman. It is safe to say that she never again suggested an unknown deaf man as critic of her literary efforts.

Sometimes the deaf go fishing for compliments themselves, with very disastrous results. We may wisely conclude that few bouquets will be thrown in our direction. Even those which reach us may contain some kind of hook concealed amid the flowers. Yet there was Henry Bascom, very deaf, very vain, and filled with the almost criminal idea that he could write poetry. He refused to work at his trade, for he felt that his muse did not care to brush her skirts against overalls or working clothes. His brother-in-law, a blunt, outspoken man, was growing weary of “feeding lazy poets.” Once he roared out a protest, but Henry did not get it straight, and hoped it was some sort of compliment. So he insisted that his sister repeat it. But she hesitated. Finally she temporized:

“George merely said something about the great need of energy in the world.”

Of course, Henry should have known that there was explosive material hidden in all this, but he only decided that something fine was being kept away from him. So when George came home he began again:

“George, I was much interested in what you said this morning. Won’t you repeat it so that I can have it exact?”

And George very willingly complied. He wrote the message carefully in ink:

“I told Mary that if you belonged to me I would make you work even if you bust a gut!”

Investigation will destroy illusion nine times out of ten. If you think your friends are saying nice things about you, let it go at that. Take my advice and let analysis of such doubtful remarks alone. Eight times out of ten, for the deaf, it will lead to an explosion.

And there was the deaf man who went to the reception with his wife and daughter. Some remarkable literary lion had come to town, and the elite had turned out to see him feed and hear him roar, if he could be induced to perform. The deaf man, at his distance, watched the lion carefully and felt that here was a kindred spirit. For back of the stereotyped smile and the smug mask of conventionality there was another person, a real human being, who had grown weary of the foolishness, and was eager to get back into the wilderness, where outsiders, like the deaf and the uncelebrated, may have their fling.

But the women continued to parade themselves and their ideas before the celebrity with an ostentation that was quite enough to rouse the ire of a sensible dweller in the silence. This man held in as long as he could, and then remarked to his wife in what he thought was a whisper:

“Those silly girls make me very tired.”

The entire company heard him, and the wife and daughter were deeply mortified. They did manage to cut off the rest of his remarks, and finally, exceedingly conscious that he had made a bad blunder, the deaf man retreated to the porch to look at the stars. They are old friends who never find fault when one stumbles over some woman-made rule of society. And there came the lion, broken away temporarily from his keepers, fumigating with a cigar some of the thoughts which his admirers had aroused. He went straight to the deaf man and held out his hand.

“My friend, you are the only honest man in this house. The rest of us are tired, but we lack the courage to admit it in public. How do you come to be so brave?”

Another deaf man went back to his old town after fifteen years’ absence. They were about to hold a political convention to nominate a candidate for Congress. The Hon. Robert Grey controlled most of the delegates. No one in particular was enthusiastic about the Hon. Robert excepting himself and his close friends, yet no one could quite summon the courage to tell the truth about him. The deaf man arrived, and saw a large, black-haired man dominating the stage.

“Why,” he said, in what he intended to be a subdued tone, “there is Bob Gray. He’s the man who stole the town funds while he was treasurer. What’s he doing here? He should be in jail!”

He had not gauged his voice correctly, and half the people in the hall heard him. It was just what the rest had lacked the courage to say. The deaf man, with his simplicity and directness, had penetrated into the hiding place of the big issue of the campaign. His remark changed the entire spirit of the convention, and the Hon. Robert Grey was left at home.

The deaf man is often laughed at for his blunders, but, unwittingly, he has pricked many a bubble and exposed many a fraud through his blunderings. Take the case of the young man who fancied the minister’s daughter and went to church with her. The congregation was small, and the collections were generally in line with the congregation. The collector was a deaf man, a faithful attendant, who, as he said, could not even hear the money drop into the box. Our young man took a five-dollar gold piece out of his pocket and held it up so that the minister’s daughter could see it and observe his great liberality. She protested in a whisper:

“Oh, that’s too much! I wouldn’t give that amount.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. My usual habit is to give ten dollars, but I don’t happen to have such a coin with me today.”

So the bluffer waved her away, and really would have been able to “get away with it” had it not been for the deaf man. When the box was presented the young man deftly palmed his gold piece and dropped a penny into the box. The organist played on through the offertory, and the deaf man marched up the aisle with his contributions. The minister had tried to tell him several times that it was not in good taste to report the size of the contributions publicly, but the deaf man was a zealous soul, and did not quite understand, so he carefully counted the amount found in the box, and, just before the last hymn, he stood up in front of the pulpit.

“My friends, I want to announce that the contributions for the day amount to $3.27. ‘The Lord loveth a cheerful giver.’”

And the minister’s daughter, being rather good at mental arithmetic, glanced at the young man, and fully understood.

Dr. A. W. Jackson tells a story which all deaf men will appreciate. He was invited to preach the sermon in a country church, and after the service he was taken for dinner to Deacon Bentley’s house. There was a great family gathering, and the long table was spread in the kitchen. The deacon sat at one end, the minister at the other. Naturally, the minister expected to be asked to say the “grace,” so he prepared his mind for it. We deaf demand a “sign” for such invitations, and Dr. Jackson thought he had one when the deacon, far down the room, seemed to nod his head as at a suggestion. So the preacher shut his eyes, bent down his head and blessed the food with a long and fervent prayer. He knew something was wrong, for he felt the table shaking, but he went serenely on until he finished with a devout “amen.” How are we to know what really happens at such times until we get home, where our faithful reporter can tell us about it? Dr. Jackson did not in the least understand until his wife explained that Deacon Bentley had not given the expected sign, and, being deaf himself, he had bowed his own head and said a rival blessing. Probably the spectacle of the two deaf men offering simultaneous petitions blessed all who were present with abundant appetite.

This was indeed ridiculous, but, no doubt, you have seen normal men acting in much the same way, foolishly interfering with the jobs or prerogatives of others when they know full well they have no business out of their own corners. It is like the group of men I saw at a country railway station trying to turn a locomotive on an old-fashioned turntable. The engineer had run his machine on to the table, and though the men were pushing on the lever with all their might, they could not move the engine. Finally the engineer backed her about two feet. The weight was then so nicely adjusted that a single man turned the table with ease. At first there had been a poor adjustment. The men were trying to lift the entire weight; when it became nicely balanced the engine nearly turned itself. I think most men at some period of their lives get out of their own corners to show others how the job of life should be worked out. They throw the machinery out of balance and double the world’s work.

Years ago, when I worked as a hired man in a back-country neighborhood, I belonged to a debating society. I was on the program committee, and we found something of a task in selecting subjects for debate which were within the life and thought of our audience. “Resolved, that the mop is a more useful element in civilization than the dishcloth” was a prime favorite with the women. “Resolved, that for a man starting on a farm a cow is more useful than a woman” brought out great argumentative effort from the men, and as I recall it, the cow won on the statement that if crops failed and you could not pay the mortgage, you could sell the cow. If I were back there now, knowing what I do of life, I should suggest a new topic: “Resolved, that deafness is a greater affliction to a woman than to a man.” Here is fine opportunity for argument. The man is shut out of many lines of bread-winning, while the woman is denied the right to indulge largely in small talk and gossip.

I think deaf women are more likely than men to be exceedingly jealous. Mrs. Helen Brewster was deaf, and she made life a burden to her husband, Frank. He was really one of the most circumspect of men, but if he stopped for a moment to talk with Miss Kempton, the sixty-year-old dressmaker, poor Helen was quick to imagine him taking advantage of her affliction to exchange nonsense with the other ladies. And right here let me say to the deaf and the near-deaf: force yourselves to believe that your friends, and particularly the members of your family, are absolutely true; do not ever permit your mind to suggest that those upon whom you must rely for help or interpretation are unfaithful. Never admit this until you cannot escape the conviction. Remember that most persons we meet are kindly and well disposed, if selfish and thoughtless. They are not plotting our destruction or even our unhappiness. It is too easy for the deaf to turn life into a veritable hell by permitting the hideous devils of depression to master the brain.

Now, Helen Brewster was jealous without reason, and perhaps the unreasonable phase of that disease runs its most violent course. The Brewsters lived on the ground floor of an old-fashioned town house. In the family living on the upper floor was a daughter, Mary Crimmins, who caused Helen’s worst paroxysms. In Winter, after an unusually hard storm, the old roof was endangered by its load of snow. Mary Crimmins called from her window to Frank as the only man then in the house to mount the roof and shovel away the snow. And Helen, washing dinner dishes at the sink, saw the two talking, Frank looking up and smiling, and immediately concluded that the topic was much warmer than snow. Frank got a ladder and a shovel, and mounted to the roof, while poor Helen sat in the sitting-room bathing her soul in misery, for while men do not usually present a ladder when planning an elopement in broad daylight, all things were possible to her distorted mind. Soon there came a small avalanche of snow from the roof, but the distracted deaf woman did not hear it. Then her son came rushing into the room, screaming with such breath as was left in him:

“Oh, ma! It’s terrible!”

“What’s the matter?”

“The snow all slipped and knocked the ladder down, and pa—”

“What about pa?”

“He’s up there hugging—”

Johnnie really finished his sentence, but the words “pa” and “hugging” were enough for Helen.

“He is, is he? I’ll attend to him!” And she rushed upstairs and knocked loudly at the door; then, without waiting for any invitation, she strode in. Old Mrs. Crimmins sat knitting by the window, while in a corner behind her sat Mary with a stranger, a fine-looking young man. Before the irate deaf woman could properly unload her mind, Mary blushing red, came and screamed in her neighbor’s ear:

“This is my fiance, Henry Jordon. We meant to keep it secret, and you are the first one I’ve told. I know you won’t repeat it.”

“But where’s Frank?” the astonished Helen at last managed to say. Johnnie had followed her upstairs, and he was well drilled in handling the deaf. So he caught hold of his mother’s dress and pulled her to the door.

“Come and see, ma,” he cried.

He led her downstairs, out into the snow and pointed. And there was pa. The snow had slipped beneath his feet, and carried him to the very edge of the roof. He had saved himself only by catching at the chimney. There he stood, with both hands clasped about it, “hugging” literally for dear life.

It was a very silent and thoughtful deaf woman who raised the ladder and gave her husband a chance to discontinue his attention to the chimney. And that is about the way nine-tenths of our imaginary troubles terminate. It never did pay to hug a rumor or a delusion too strenuously. Better conserve your strength for something more substantial.