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.