I have often thought that to another deaf man we would have presented a most ridiculous spectacle. By this time I had discovered that my musical friend was by no means a prohibitionist; the breath which carried the sweet sound had a flavor all its own. He had been tarrying with other spirits besides the collection under my overcoat. I, still with the thick smear of lather, diligently held the “tail-piece” to my ear; the barber was scowling to hide his emotion, and with the open razor he looked like a pirate. Yet I think there has never been such music since the glorious night long ago when the angels’ song was heard by men. You will smile at the extravagant language of a deaf man who has no other music for comparison. Yet I think you never heard anything like this. No doubt you have listened at the opera or at church while some golden-voiced singer poured out marvelous melody. Ah, it could not compare With the soft, tender voice which came to my dull ears in that dim-lighted barber shop. For this man out of the troubles of his own life put all the sorrow, all the yearning, all the tender hopelessness of an imaginative race into its native songs. And with this came the glow of feeling that he was doing a kindly deed for an unfortunate person.
As he sang I saw it all; the sunshine splintering on the white cliffs, the sparkle of the little streams, the grassy meadows, the heavenly blue sky over all. And there was the heavy, muttering ocean with the glitter of the sun on its face. I thought of the thousands who had bravely passed over it seeking a distant home, but loyal in their hearts to the old green hills.
“Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen!”
We were carried back, and for the moment all the troubles and afflictions were forgotten. I saw tears in the eyes of the barber. The others shuffled their feet, and one found it necessary to blow his nose. And then—the song ended, and I was back on earth with only the old dull roaring in my ears, and a mass of lather on my face. I thought the Irishman turned sadly away.
“I cannot tell you, my friend, how much that means to me. It seems to me the most beautiful human music I ever heard. What can I do to repay you?”
“Nothing—it was only a neighborly deed, what any man should do with his poor gift. You cannot pay me. ’Tis only from love of the music and of helping that I did it.”
“But who are you—with such a voice?”
“I’m a poor Irishman, half-drunk now, ye see. I cannot sing without whiskey. I make me living at vaudeville, and the movies is bad for the business. I sing funny songs—some of them nasty. I know it’s a bad living, but sometimes, like now, I love the best old songs. But on the stage—” He shrugged.
“But tonight, instead of singing your comic songs, go on the stage and sing as you have done for me. It would be wonderful.”
“No, they’d get a hook and pull me off. You don’t understand. The people who come to hear me have got to laugh or die. Their lives are too hard. They must laugh and forget it. Make them think and cry and they would go crazy. That is where you folks go wrong on us. You say to think and work out of our troubles—but sorrow is always with us, and we must laugh or we shall drink and die.”