CHAPTER 17

I awoke at exactly ten o’clock the next morning. Not once after I had fallen into sound sleep did I awaken until that late hour. I had been through excitement, wonders, joys and sorrows, and social lightness in rapid succession, all within the brief space of thirty hours. No wonder that I slept!

I dressed and hurried down to the streets, found a cafe and had a light breakfast. I was in no mood for any particular thing, except for a stray thought that maybe it would be best that I turn back and seek that old Walton roof again. I returned to my room to think, to try to make some feasible plans. But my mind was in such a chaotic state that nothing came of my hours of thought, unless it was a deep sense of sorrow which came upon me as my mind went back to other days. Dick was forever gone; Mrs. Walton, “ Mother, ” was gone; Nell was married; Marion might almost as well have been a myth, my stay at her home a sweet dream, for all I could make out of it. So the day whiled away. I even forgot the noon lunch because of my late breakfast … Nothing coming of these mental efforts, I wandered forth again and was soon among those surroundings whose atmosphere was a thing inherent—the sea and the ships. Here again were the hardy sea-faring men and the shipping. I thought of Danny, and wondered if he had ever made this port, or ever would. I wondered if we would ever again meet. I had a longing to see him, to clasp his hard, but genial hand, to stroll along the sidewalk together, to hear his tales and pour out mine to him. I couldn’t imagine that he had had any stranger adventures than I. He had sailed the seven seas, perhaps, but I had crossed a great continent and under a changed condition that he little dreamed of, which, happily, falls to comparatively few; I had been living in a world of silence, in, yet not of, the common world of all.

Normal people enjoy life largely through their ears and their eyes; the deaf find pleasurable sensations mostly through their eyes alone. Unusual sights, then, must kindle a livelier sense of enjoyment in a deaf person than in a hearing person, and the cosmopolitan setting of this busy maritime section now put me in new spirits. Here were Japs, Anzacs, Kanaka men, Hindus, Malays, Negroes, Philippinoes; Russians, Chinese, Greeks, Armenians, Turks, Koreans, Alaskan Indians, ugly, repulsive. American sailors from the warships, English and other naval men, common sailors and bedecked officers. I saw roustabouts, thugs, hardened, desolate creatures, working like mules, loading and unloading the ships. For miles, a wall of hulls; and for miles, a sky of masts and ropes and smokestacks. Mentally I drifted back to Liverpool.

Then I saw something decidedly novel and interesting. Several men with a new kind of camera were making pictures—motion pictures, which, at that date, was something to arrest attention. Instantly I was all eyes, taking in everything these men were doing with the rawness of a country boy. Evidently they were making a sea tale, as a party rigged out like travelers would repeatedly board and then leave a ship while the cameraman turned the crank. It didn’t occur to me then that this novel incident was to be a turning point in my life. Strange, I had tried all that day to hit on something to do, some line of employment to follow, but without the ghost of an idea coming. Then right here, this motion picture incident, an accident, led me to a solution. However, it was not until far into the following night, as I lay, restless, in my bed, that the idea came to me. Why not try my hand at writing a picture play? And why not get to the roots of the Carrel mystery, and make a story out of it? Such ideas do not come by the slow process of meditation, they hit like a bullet, and then the whole story reveals itself. One grabs a pencil and a sheet of paper, or uses his cuff, if no paper is handy, and outlines the story. Then he tucks the notes away and tries to divest his mind of the whole thing until such time as he may work it out in detail.

As I have before stated, I have some bent for writing, and very little for anything else, and I suppose, with full frankness, that herein lies the reason for my ill luck at getting jobs. So here was a prospect, an opportunity, maybe. Certainly there was a strong urge about it. I could get myself settled in some out-of-the-way place for little money and there set myself to work.

So I next wrote a letter back to my bank asking for a larger stipend, if it could be made, and two weeks later I heard from the bank, and it was in a small sense granted. If I needed more, I must earn it. Now I had some wherewithal to exist on, a plan to carry out, and a clear field of uninterrupted opportunity.

To cash my check at a bank in that strange city it was now necessary to get identification, and the only way I had of so doing was to see one of my artist friends and explain my situation. So I hunted up Dermit and found him in his studio shaping clay. I came in unannounced, which was necessary because he couldn’t hear a knock at the door. My entrance did not disturb him as his back was turned to me. I paused a moment to watch him at work. His deft fingers plied nimbly over the clay, shaping, moulding, changing, modeling the object with wonderful skill and precision. About the room were piled huge pieces of plaster, models in clay, pieces of bronze, tools, casts, statues in plaster, sacks of plaster of Paris, lumps of clay, grotesque mannikins, and so forth. I stepped up behind him and gently touched his shoulder. Like a wild deer roused by the snapping of a twig, he sprang to his feet, his face the picture of sudden wrath. I started back, apologetic, a little alarmed. Then, as he recognized me, he calmed his features, nodded a welcome and extended his hand. “ I beg your pardon, ” I stammered, if one can stammer on his nervous fingers. “ I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I’m in a predicament and need your assistance. ”

“ What is it? ” He held the clay figure in one hand and spelled with the other.

“ I need to be identified at a bank. I want to cash a check—can you help me? ”

“ Yes, very glad to do so; but it would have been better for you to have carried traveller’s cheques. I’m busy, you see, for a little while, and if you can wait here the job will soon be done. Maybe you’d enjoy watching this thing modelled. Please sit down there. ”

I sat down and Dermit resumed his work. I watched him as he skillfully shaped that plastic mass into a thing of beauty, a thing I was sure he meant to be a faun, and I was right. He worked steadily and rapidly, never pausing to talk, and I was sensible enough not to interrupt his work. He was in the mood, a psychic mood, or state, which I understood, and I just remained still, watching, wondering, admiring. At last he paused, gave his work a critical looking over, glanced about and at me, and held up the finished model.

“ There, Mickey, it’s done. Could you have done it—can you do it? ”

I shook my head negatively, remarking that about the only thing the Creator had endowed me with was a bent for rhyming and scribbling, and that I had made up my mind to try a movie play. Whereupon he stared at me in amazement.

“ You can’t do it—and even if you should succeed in making a presentable story, you couldn’t put it over. I know deaf fellows who have tried it and they can’t get anywhere. Where one could write, he would fail at the business end of it, and couldn’t get any hearing person to take him seriously enough to offer assistance, or back him in getting the picture made. Art is art, and you go through fire—as I have done, and still am doing. But for a deaf man, you are trying a thing even harder than sculpture or painting, where the eye and the hand may carry out the inspiration; but with writing it’s different, you need those impressions that come through the ear—you must get the popular view of things to make your work commercially successful. ” He paused a moment, then, “ Mickey, cut it out—it’s too difficult. ”

“ But I won’t cut it out, ” I replied, with a tinge of resentment. “ I’ve got a story to work out and I’ve scribbled more or less all my life, for the fun of it. Now I mean to take it up in earnest. I wasn’t encouraged in this sort of thing when I was at college, seems that the professors all felt the same way—waste of time for a deaf youth to try for literary success; but when a fellow feels that a thing is in him, when it haunts him half the time, when his head is filled with ideas, his imagination runs wild as mine does, it must be there. That’s me, and I’m going to give ‘ me ’ a chance. ”

Dermit had listened attentively.

“ Mickey, I see eye to eye with you, and I also understand the professors ’ opinions—writing is not like painting and sculpture, one needs to hear to write, to get the common viewpoint, to understand people, to get facts, information, the trend of ever-changing life. You might do well in factual writing, articles, and so on, but fiction, that’s different. Edsum and I both had the itch to do our line of art, painting and sculpture. Instead of going to college for a general higher education, we went to Paris and spent four years there in the art schools. ”

“ I knew you were once students over there. ” I laughed. Dermit perked up. “ How did you know that? ”

“ I saw you and Edsum talking about it at the Cliff House. ”

“ Spying on us—eavesdropping? ”

“ Guess so. You see, a writer must be a good observer, and that’s a point once in my favor; but it didn’t require much effort on my part to watch you that night. ” Dermit smiled. I think he was beginning to have more respect for my ability. He stood up.

“ All right, Mickey, go ahead and try the game, no harm. We’ll go to the bank now, the First National where I bank. ” He washed his hands and put on his coat.

So Dermit and I went to the First National, where Dermit observed that I was worth just one hundred and ten dollars, including my new check for forty dollars. After this business we took a stroll about town, Dermit pointing out some of his great bronzes, and when evening came, Dermit was my guest at the Bortola.

We spent an hour at the table. Dermit told me his life’s struggles. Always his physical condition would defeat his chances. No one would credit him with having the powers he really possessed—no faith in him—a deaf-mute. Impossible! Merit could not come of such a person. Only with the aid of financial and political influences could he land contracts. Then people could see, and did see, and those people wondered, and halting critics at last stood admiring, yet skeptical, watching for a chance for a pen death thrust.

“ That’s what’s in store for you, Mickey, take my word. You’ll work your fingers to stubs before you’ll get a hearing, before you’ll land anywhere—that is, if they know you’re deaf. ”

I took my cue—I’d keep my dead ears a secret; I’d hide in a cave, if necessary, and do my work, coming out, like a groundhog, under protection of darkness or cloudy weather.

At last Dermit and I parted, I with his final warning haunting me, despite my resolute attitude; he, with his cocksure knowledge that I would fail, but satisfied that he had only done his duty. I returned to my room, and the next day saw my literary venture’s beginning.

Early in the morning I set out for the country to find a congenial and secluded retreat. My plan was to get as near the Carrel home as prudence would permit. My reason for so doing, as one may guess, was to get in communication with Marion. And this was not nearly so difficult as I had feared. Taking the streetcar that ran near the Carrel home, I went on beyond the estate and was soon rushing through a wooded tract, not far back from the sea. Here and there I noted little huts, cabins, and summer cottages, just what I wanted. I got off the car and strolled all over that wooded upland.

To my delight, one point offered a full view of the Carrel estate, the great mansion standing out in detail. And not fifty feet from that spot there stood a small cabin, or summer shack. A circumspection of the little dwelling gave me the impression that it was a two-room affair; it measured about fourteen by twenty feet, was rather old, yet in a good state of preservation. I clapped my hands for joy. Here I might stay, and yonder, in plain view, was Marion’s home! Not a hearing person, but a deaf one, would so quickly recognize my advantageous position. The eye will catch a signal at a greater distance than the ear will catch the human voice. I had but to use my wits, be patient and persistent, and Marion would yet get a message from me.

Fortune at last seemed to be kind. This position and this little dwelling were exactly suited to my needs. The next step was to find the owner of the hut and learn if I might rent it. It was early spring—too early for the summer tourists, and when finally I found the man who owned the property I had no difficulty in making arrangements to occupy it. I explained that I was something of a student and wished a quiet place for a few months, as he seemed somewhat curious to know why I should care to live in such a place. We went over to the hut and I was shown the interior, two rooms and a kitchenette, neatly furnished. I rented it, then and there for twelve dollars a month—cheap enough, but was told that the rent would soar skyward when the heat came down. So the hut was mine—to live in.

I shook hands with Smith, my landlord, locked the door and was soon on my way back to the city to get my things at the hotel and to order a supply of groceries. My kitchenette well stocked with provisions, my next purchase was a powerful field glass, with both night and day adjustments, a hand mirror, a notebook, pencils, and two reams of writing paper. I next rented a typewriter. Then, I went to a book store and bought a secondhand dictionary, a good grammar, a rhetoric, and a book of prepositions. The clerk was all smiles.

“ Going to start a college of English? ” he asked.

“ Yes. ” I replied, “ And I’m both student and teacher. The college has two rooms. ”

Loaded down with my purchases, such as I could possibly carry and a barnful of enthusiasm, I landed once more at the door of my new home. As I look back now and see myself trudging up the hill to that hut I am conscious of a feeling of awe and wonder, admiration and apprehension; and both the humor and the seriousness of it stand out strangely in my mind. I am like one witnessing a mock-heroic play, but come prepared only for the serious.

It was fun to set up housekeeping out there. It was a great sport to cook my meals and wash the dishes; and it was grand to roam freely about the wooded headlands and gaze out over the blue sea. And what a sight to watch the ships go by! What enchantment to look down upon the great city by night, all lighted up and filled with hurrying, carefree people!

My glass thus revealed the illumined city which seemed like a great, bejewelled crown miraculously floating in a vast void of darkness. My glass also revealed the lonely Farallones way out in the sea; and, again, at night, turning the glass upward, the heavens brought out all my poetical fancies. With all these wonders and charms to awaken my imagination I would also sit for long spells trying to spy a fairy figure about the grounds of that mysterious place, the Carrel estate. And Dermit had not even heard of this place or Marion; neither had Edsum! Marion’s lack of surprise that I might have expected at the outcome of my visit all the more deepened the mystery.

It seemed to me that Marion was jailed, and again it was clear that she was not. She was not denied her education, she was alone and free on that ill-fated train, until Dick and I met her. She was here enjoying the best of everything—her home could not have been better and finer had she been a princess. Yet no one knew of her, it would seem. Even Smith, my landlord, knew nothing about Mr. Carrel, had never met him; two famous deaf artists had never heard of a rich deaf beauty only a few miles from them! And here was I, who did know her, who had accompanied her on the Overland, who had watched her at that semblance of a hospital in the mining town, and had guarded her and seen her safely home, denied the natural desire to know her better and to see more of her!

The first week in my hut passed quickly. Every day I had used my glass earnestly seeking the figure of Marion, but to no avail. Then I thought, what if she is no longer there? What if her father, so bent on making a nun of her, suspecting that I would contrive to see her again, had sent her away! A wall of concrete surmounted by an iron fence four feet high enclosed the estate and at what cost and labor it undoubtedly had been constructed! Its height forbade ready mounting, and I would not be a trespasser. I returned that night baffled and crestfallen, but all the more curious and determined to get to the bottom of the mystery of that house—and of Marion.