Adventures in Silence

by Herbert W. Collingwood

“I will make it work. The principle is right. We will find the way. The time will come when this boy here will be able to talk with anyone in any part of New England without raising his voice above an ordinary tone.”

And as a boy I thought that if I could ever face criticism and ridicule with such confidence, the world, or at least as much of it as is worth while, would be mine. I had faith in what Bell told us, and looked forward to the day when his words would come true. The prophecy has been more than fulfilled for others, but for us of the silence the telephone remains a mystery which others must interpret for us. Yet somehow I feel as confident as Bell that in some way out of our affliction will come a new means of communication between humans which will make the silence an enviable abiding-place.

My children have become greatly interested in radio communication. As I write this one of my boys is developing a crude outfit with which he actually takes sound waves from the air and translates them into music or speech. People tell me of great concerts and speeches sent through the air for hundreds of miles. Tonight thousands of country people, seated in their own homes, are listening while this marvelous instrument reaches up into the air and brings down treasures of sound until it seems as though the speaker or singer were in the next room. We deaf can readily understand what all this will mean for the future; it will undoubtedly do more than the automobile toward bringing humanity together and grouping the peoples of the world in thought and pleasure. Yet how little it will mean to us! It may even be an added cross, for evidently both pleasure and the business of the future are to depend more and more upon the ability to hear well.

I can remember as though it were yesterday the day that Lincoln was assassinated. I was a small youngster, but the event was printed into my brain. I know that news of this world-shaking event passed but slowly out into the country. There were lonely farms out among the hills where farmers did not know of Lincoln’s death for days. There was no way of quick communication. I thought of that during the last deciding baseball game between the Giants and the Yankees. Seated in our farmhouse beside his little radio ’phone, my boy could even hear the crack of the bat against the ball. He could hear the roaring of the crowd and the growl of “Babe” Ruth when the umpire called him out on strikes. And all this marvellous change has come about during my life! You may perhaps imagine the feelings of the deaf when they realize that they are shut away from such wonderful things.

But modern life is so efficiently strung upon wires that even the deaf must at times make use of the telephone. Some of our experiences in selecting proxies to represent us at the wire are worth recording. Every deaf man who takes even a small part in modern business must make some use of the ’phone or be helplessly outdistanced in the race. In the West they tell of a Mexican who wanted to get a message to his sweetheart. They offered him his choice between the telegraph and the telephone, and explained the difference. He chose the telephone without hesitation, for he “wanted no man in between.” The deaf man must have some one “in between,” and usually it is a matter of nice judgment to choose the person to occupy that position. From choice the deaf will take the telegram; they can read it, and the fact that each word costs a certain sum of money means a brief message. If telephone messages were paid for in the same way, all the world would gain in brevity of expression, or else the income taxes of telephone companies would soon pay the national debt.

It is remarkable how a deaf person with good eyes comes to be an expert at estimating character by appearance or actions. I find that we unconsciously analyze habits or manners, and group the possessors with some skill. Let a man come to me and write out his questions, and I am very sure that I can tell his business. A doctor accustomed to writing prescriptions frames his questions slowly and stops at the end of each sentence to make sure of the next one. A bookkeeper writes mechanically, and seldom prepares an original question. A grocer or a drygoods clerk, accustomed to writing down orders, betrays his occupation by certain flourishes with the pencil when he tries to write out a question, just as he is seized with a desire to rub his hands together during a sale. One would think that a lawyer would be very successful at this task. He usually fails. I have appeared as witness in several lawsuits, and able lawyers have completely lost their efficiency (and their patience) in trying to cross-examine me. Should any deaf person who reads this be called to the witness chair, my advice would be absolutely to refuse to answer any question that is not written out and first read by the judge. His examination will not become tedious. To the lawyer who desires a clear, straight story from a deaf person, I should say make the questions short and clear. Have most of them typewritten beforehand, and keep good-natured. A deaf man who knows the resources of his affliction can become expert at concealing evidence.

Many men tell me that they finally estimate a man’s power and character by the quality and tone of his voice. The substitute knowledge or “instinct” which we gain through observation is nowhere more useful than in selecting telephone proxies from strangers. Take this man with the stiff neck and erect shoulders. Where shall we draw the line between stupid obstinacy and firm character? Here is this shambling and shuffling person. Does his manner denote a weak, nerveless will, and inability to concentrate his mind, or is it merely superficial, easy-going good nature, when at heart he is capable of flashing out in anger or taking a bold stand? The fellow who keeps his hands in his pocket and the other who constantly waves them about—a deaf man may well beware when either approach him. And what of the man who seems to be continually looking for post, tree or wall against which he may lean? We come to know them all.

Some years ago I chanced to be in a small Alabama town, among people I had never seen before. My mission was a delicate one, demanding keen judgment and careful diplomacy. It became absolutely necessary for me to communicate promptly and privately with my wife, who at the time was on a steamship somewhere off Cape Hatteras. I could not use a telephone, but I found a man whom I could trust. So I telegraphed to Charleston and instructed my wife to call a certain ’phone number in this Alabama town. The message was repeated by wireless, and far off on the wind-blown ocean it reached the ship and was delivered. When the good lady reached Charleston she called up the number I had given, delivered her message to good ears, and it was turned over to me accurately in writing. One can readily see how tragic it would be if the interpreter for the deaf man chanced to be careless or criminal, for I should regard it as no less than a criminal act for one purposely to deceive a deaf person. I have employed strangers of all colors and conditions in this position of trust, and it is pleasant to think that most of them have been efficient and true in the emergencies. For it is an emergency when one is suddenly called upon to act as interpreter in the affairs of a stranger. This matter of using the telephone has become so simple to most people that it is hard to realize the dire complications it may involve for the deaf.

Once I was delegated to meet my sister and daughter at the old Long Island ferry in New York. They had spent the day on the island, and were to come back at night. Before the Pennsylvania Railroad dug its tunnels under the East River passengers came across from Long Island City at Thirty-fourth street. The landing and the transfer to street-cars was a jumble at best. It was about the easiest place in the world to miss your friends in daylight, while in the evening, under the dim lights, hunting for human express packages was much like going through a grab-bag. My passengers did not arrive. There was no sign of them anywhere among the masses of humans which boat after boat poured out. I began to be worried, for neither of them had been over the route before. I found that the train they had named had arrived on time. Either they had not come or the great city had swallowed them. It was plainly a case where the telephone became a necessity, but I could not go to the nearest ’phone and call up the friends with whom they had been staying. I had to find some proxy who would deliver my message and give me an honest report. All this was serious business at a time when the papers were full of stories of abductions and insults to girls. Whom could I trust in such a situation?

I looked about, and finally decided to appeal to a man who resembled a Methodist minister. At least, he wore a black coat, a white tie, and had adorned his face with a pair of “burnsides.” Also, I caught a gesture—a spreading out of the hands—which seemed to say: “Bless you, my children!” So, as an occasional occupant of the pews, I confidently approached the pulpit.