A friend of mine tells a Georgia experience of deafness and darkness. Long after dark he reached the small town where he was to spend the night. However black true “pitch” may be, there never was anything darker than that portion of the atmosphere which surrounded the railroad station as this deaf man stepped off the train. Finally a light appeared from behind the station. It proved to be a dim lantern in the hands of a colored man so black that his face seemed to make a shadow in the dark. Conversation with the deaf regarding details is not satisfactory under such conditions. The colored man held his lantern up near to his face and talked, but his mouth was too large and open to make lip-reading easy. The deaf man did finally grasp the fact that this agent of the night represented the leading hotel in town. So, under his guidance my friend found his way to an old closed carriage. The colored man hung his lantern on a spring, roused his sleepy mule, and off they started over a succession of humps and mud holes. Finally, after one tremendous bump, the lonely lantern went out and the carriage halted. The deaf man could distinguish ahead only two luminous spots of light; they were the eyes of the mule, who, instead of running as a horse might have done, merely looked reproachfully at his driver. The colored man had no matches, but he drove on through the blackness, placidly trusting to the mule for guidance. Now there are times in the life of every deaf man when he must either aspire to philosophy or retire into insanity. My friend, inside of that rickety carriage, smiled at the thought which entered his mind. Ages before one of his stone age ancestors had crouched far back on his bed of leaves, shrinking in terror at the evil spirits which the darkness was hiding. Here he was in the silent darkness after all the long ages, but he was serene in soul because hundreds of years of artificial light had brought to him their message of courage and faith.
The “hotel” proved to be an old-fashioned Southern mansion, rambling and shaky, fronted by large unpainted columns which sagged a bit, with windows that rattled and big echoing halls in which old memories congregated. My friend was tired, and after a light supper he asked to be taken to his room. The landlord, a grave and dignified man, who limped a little from a wound received at Gettysburg, took up a lighted candle and led the way to a big corner room at the back of the house on the first floor. He put the candle and the matches down on the bureau and then pulled out a revolver, which he placed beside the candle.
“We have been having a little trouble with some of our niggers,” he said. “They steal. Keep your windows fastened, and put your watch and money under your pillow. If anyone should get in, fire first and inquire afterward. That is our plan. Good-night.”
This deaf man hardly knows how to fire a modern revolver. It is doubtful if he could come anywhere near to a barn door in sunlight, to say nothing of the inky blackness which encompassed that house. However, he obediently put his valuables under the pillow, placed the big revolver carefully on the chair beside his bed, blew out the light and retired. In such a situation it seems to me that keen, quick ears would have been a misfortune. And this deaf man, being philosophical as well as very weary, fell asleep before he could fully realize the surrounding conditions.
How long he slept he cannot now tell, but he suddenly woke with a start and sat up in bed, knowing that someone was within a few feet of him. I know that both the blind and the deaf have a curious faculty of divining the presence of others in the silence of the darkness. My friend knew that somewhere in the silent darkness human beings were going through some stealthy performance. He reached for the revolver, but the chair upon which he had placed it was not there! As quietly as possible he groped his way to the bureau and found the matches. But it was impossible to light them. He scratched at least a dozen until they broke in two, but they would not ignite. The candle was in his hand, but the light within, which he craved, could not be produced. Alone in the silent blackness, a numb terror fell upon the heart of the deaf man. He was as helpless as his remote ancestor, shrinking into his primeval black cave. He was even in a worse situation, for the cave man had hearing with which to note the approach of his enemy. The modern man would not know how near was the lurking enemy until he felt the clutching hand. He dared not cry out or grope for help through that rambling house—the landlord had stipulated that questions be asked afterward! Finally, urged on by that mysterious instinct of the deaf, he groped his way along the hall until he reached the corner window. This he opened, and he stood there waiting for the terror to reveal itself. Suddenly he perceived that someone had passed close to him through the outside darkness—he even felt a slight movement of air as something passed by; he thought a human hand was laid on the window sill for an instant. With eyes strained to the limit of tension and ears quickened a little by terror, the deaf man realized that a door near him had gently opened. Then came a dim sound and the air waves of a struggle, and the deaf man knew that someone was creeping back past him through the darkness. As startling as would have been a nail driven into his heart came the thud and the shock of a quick blow on the side of the house nearest him—a low, stifled cry penetrated even his dull ears. Then off again crept a human form, feeling its way along the house.
No, the deaf man did not dream all this. It all happened just as I relate it. Out in that silent blackness a tragedy had been enacted. After a time the deaf man cautiously put his hand out of the window down toward the place where that quick blow had fallen. His reaching fingers slowly crept down past the sill to the wooden post upon which the house was built. There they encountered a soft, warm, sticky smear, which coated the top of the post. The fingers did not dare to close. The horror-stricken, lonely man held his right hand rigid and suffered one of those crises when either philosophy or insanity must come to the aid of the deaf. He determined to keep his mind clear. Finally he became aware that light was coming; off in the east a crimson streak appeared along the sky; the wind was blowing the mists away. Little by little the light gained. The man looked at his hand, and, as he had feared, it showed a red stain. The light grew, and he finally gained courage to look out of the window. The post was covered with blood. There was still visible the mark of a blow of an axe. Just back from the corner was a small house, within which a rooster was crowing—half a dozen hens were on their way out for the day’s wanderings. In the door of a small cook-house in the backyard a fat colored woman was picking a Plymouth Rock chicken. The deaf man glanced once more at the house post and saw on the ground beside it the head of a rooster!
It was a thoughtful man who washed his hands and looked about the room. The revolver still lay on the chair where he had placed it; he had evidently put his hand out on the wrong side of the bed. There was the candle and there were the matches—untouched; near at hand was a box of toothpicks, half of them broken in pieces, with scratches on the box.
Later the deaf man sat out in the gallery, watching the sun rise, his mind busy with strange matters as he waited for breakfast. At length the landlord appeared.
“I hope, sir, you rested well. I feared you might be disturbed. We wanted to give you a taste of fried chicken, Georgia style, so the nigger killed one this morning. I hope it did not disturb you, sir.”