CHAPTER VII

DISTRACTION

Fishing—In the Commons—Need for Distraction—What Helen Keller thinks—Sir Francis Campbell—Leap Frog—Despair and Cheer—Paupers and Political Economy.

[Sidenote: What Fishing meant for Fawcett.]

It sometimes seems inconsistent that one so acutely sensitive as Fawcett was to suffering of all kinds should not have hesitated to get pleasure from a sport involving the necessary cruelty of fishing. In discussing this, Fawcett at times would maintain the usual ground of the fishes insensibility to pain, but again he would frankly justify it as the best method of keeping himself employed and distracted from the weighty problems which often overburdened him.

It must not be forgotten that, however clever in adapting themselves to their misfortune the blind are, they are relieved from the thousands of the distractions which disturb the concentration of even the best seeing worker. In his lecture-room the sighted teacher is unconsciously drawn from the monotony of his one purpose by seeing his mind play on the sensibilities of his hearers.

[Sidenote: Screened Bobbing Bonnets.]

In the House of Commons the statesman’s mind is unconsciously diverted by the lights, the expressions of his opponents, the sympathy on the faces of his partisans, the guests in the gallery, to say nothing of his imaginings concerning those hidden and gracious unseen personalities behind the screen in the ladies’ gallery—that screen which, perhaps more than anything else in the House of Commons, piques the curiosity of the beholder, and sets his thoughts aglow with the mysteries of the Orient. If the indiscreet and objectionable person who devised that screen had left the wives and mothers and sweethearts of the members to regale the combatants in the arena beneath them with a smile of approbation, or a glimpse of their spring bonnets, or even the pang caused by the thought of the inevitable bill which belongs to such plumage, the path of duty and politics would have been less dull.

Then, think of the countless literary distractions, the day’s paper, the illustrated magazine, the picture posters, and even the advertisements which to the hurrying business man unconsciously suggest fresh trains of thought. Again, the sight of the crowd, with its noble and curious personalities, or the occasional patch of colour made by the passing omnibus whose garish poster proclaims the latest star at the theatre. All these, and countless others, make up a kaleidoscope, which, however taxing and at times palling to the man with sight, are counter-irritants which make it difficult for him to over-concentrate or to become exhausted by harping continuously on one thought, to the exclusion of all else. To think without interruption the seeing man sometimes closes his eyes. The blind man’s eyes are always closed, and therefore to keep his spirits bright, to prevent morbidity and even insanity, occupations and amusement are not only advisable, but imperative. In frank recognition of this Fawcett felt that the larger good—his usefulness to the community—justified his ‘going fishing.’

[Sidenote: What Helen Keller thinks.]

The great need of recreation brings as its corollary the advantages for uninterrupted thought, which are among the alleviations of the loss of sight. Helen Keller, in answer to the question, What is it to be blind? said joyfully, ‘To be blind is to see the bright side of life.’ She is perfectly sincere in this, and feels that in blindness, uncomeliness and ugliness can never obtrude, while imagination is free to paint the most sublime pictures. Not a few blind people have said that they would prefer not to see, because with sight would come many disillusionments.

It is a question of great interest whether either Miss Keller or Fawcett, without their spur from blindness, without that need of iron determination and unflinching pluck to win their race in the dark, would, as seeing people, have attained their respective distinction and have been such great servants of humanity. Many fail on account of the insurmountable barriers which seem to accompany blindness, but not a few heroic souls are developed and stimulated by their blindness in a way that nothing else could have equalled. To these ranks it seems that Fawcett belonged.

He hesitated greatly to allude to his blindness, and we find him doing so voluntarily, only to help those similarly afflicted. It was a very painful thing for him to speak on behalf of the blind, and on one such occasion he confided to a friend that he had never been so nervous in his life. He hated to be put, or to place himself, in a position to evoke pity, still more to seem to show what he had achieved despite his handicap.

He said to the blind, ‘Act as if you were not blind, be of good courage, and help yourselves.’ He advised the seeing, ‘Do not patronise; treat us without reference to our misfortune; and, above all, help us to be independent.’ Also, he emphasised that ‘home associations are for the blind as important as for you’ (meaning the seeing); ‘you must not wall up the blind.’ ‘Do not sever them from all the pleasures and fascinations of home.’

[Sidenote: Sir Francis Campbell.]

He was particularly interested in the work of Dr. Campbell, later Sir Francis Campbell, the intrepid American blind man who was knighted by King Edward for the splendid work he had done to emancipate the blind through education. Fawcett spoke often for the benefit of Campbell’s work at the Royal Normal College for the Blind. The following quotations from Fawcett’s speeches were written for this book by some of the blind stenographers employed at the college, the work of which was inspired by Sir Francis.

Fawcett, referring to the blind, said, ‘Nothing, he found, was so hard to bear as to hear people, when they spoke of the blind, assume a patronising tone towards them, as if they were suffering from something for which in some mysterious way they should feel thankful. The kindest thing that could be done or said to a blind person was not to use patronising language, but to tell him, as far as possible, to be “of good cheer,” to give him confidence that help would be afforded him whenever it was required, that there was still good work for him to do, and the more active his career, the more useful his life to others, the more happy his days to himself.’

[Sidenote: Fawcett Reminiscences.]

To a blind and most responsive audience he said, ‘I did not lose my sight until I had reached manhood. I was twenty-five years of age at the time, and when I knew that my sight was gone, never to return, many friends came forward and, prompted by the kindest motives, advised me to adopt a life of quiet contemplation. I very soon, however, came to the resolution to live, as far as possible, just as I had lived before, following the same pursuits and enjoying, as well as I could, the same pleasures. (Cheers.) I would strongly advise those who may be similarly situated to try to pursue the same course, for I have found that there is a wide range of amusements in which I can take just the same delight as I did in days of yore. No one can more enjoy catching a salmon in the Tweed or the Spey, or throwing a fly in some quiet trout stream in Wiltshire or Hampshire. I can take the greatest delight, accompanied by a friend, in a gallop over the turf; a long row from Oxford to London gives me the same invigorating exercise that it used to do, and during the recent long frost I do not think any one in the whole country found more pleasure than I did in a long day’s skating with a friend. Often in the Cambridgeshire fens I have skated fifty or sixty miles in the day. (Cheers.) It is a true remark that nature provides a wonderful compensating power, but I am bound to say that of all the compensations which I have found, the greatest is the generous and cordial readiness with which people are ever ready to come forward to offer us that assistance without which we are often powerless to do anything. (Cheers.) This with regard to our lot is certainly a silver lining to the dark cloud.’

‘There are at the present time some nine or ten different systems of printing for the blind. Each of these systems has its different advocates, and as the cost of printing is very heavy, a great and unnecessary outlay is incurred in printing the same book in many different ways. If an agreement could be arrived at to adopt one particular system, with the same outlay the numbers of books that would be brought within the reach of the blind would be increased manyfold, and an inestimable boon would be conferred upon them by having brought within their reach a greater number of the masterpieces of English literature.’

[Sidenote: Leap-frog.]

Fawcett spoke of an apparently hopeless blind boy who had come to the institution. At last his chance of making his way seemed assured, because Dr. Campbell had induced him to play leap-frog. Fawcett said that that seemed to him ‘the one test which ought to be applied to any institution devoted to the training of the youthful blind. Notwithstanding,’ he said, ‘no one felt more than he, or was more anxious to acknowledge, that, however independent they might be made, they still constantly required some assistance; and he felt that whatever he might be doing at the present time, he should be reduced to a state of entire helplessness if it were not for the friendly arm and helping voice which were always extended to him.’

[Sidenote: An Apostle of Despair.]

At a meeting to promote a scheme for the benefit of the blind an apostle of despair began a prepared speech; but Fawcett, who had preceded him, so completely convinced his audience of the sanity of a cheerful and useful outlook when helping the blind that the apostle of despair found the wind completely taken out of his sails, and was forced to sit down with his speech unfinished. At the end of the controversy, when the gloomy speaker had retired, Fawcett said to Lady Campbell, ‘I hope I didn’t hit him too hard!’

Fawcett was most generous to his opponents, and feared lest his victories should have caused them the slightest suffering.

When Postmaster-General he was anxious to bring deaf and dumb assorters into the Post Office.

When he heard that telegraphy was thought of as a possible occupation for the blind, he sent for Sir Francis Campbell, to talk the matter over at the Post Office with the Comptroller-General. ‘For,’ said Fawcett, ‘if you think it is practical for the blind to be employed in this way, I shall give them a chance.’ The plan was not considered practical, though Fawcett was eager for it.

[Sidenote: Heartening the Blind.]

He was zealous to do anything he could by his energy and gaiety to help those afflicted as he was but who took a more despondent view of their condition.

The frank recognition which he gives of his dependence in his blindness on the help of others gives touching insight into one of the integral qualities of his friendship. A friendship meant for him the acceptance of countless little services which it would be a privilege for his friend to perform, and while tacitly accepting these aids Fawcett felt deeply thankful, and sought automatically to do what he could in return. His kindness was not in the least of the give-and-take type; he revelled in giving fully of his life and strength where there could not possibly be any return.

[Sidenote: Wright of Salisbury.]

[Sidenote: Paupers and Political Economy.]

An old fisherman and a delightful character, Wright of Salisbury, was a great friend of Fawcett. Wright was an ardent politician and a pronounced Liberal; that he was a celebrated angler is proved by Fawcett’s remark, ‘Why, Wright, I was in Wales fishing and they knew you there, and when I was in Scotland I asked if they knew you, and they said, “Oh yes, quite well.”’ The two used to go fishing together, and Fawcett would make special request of his companion to tell him of every blind person they met. He never met any one afflicted with blindness without offering help. On one occasion, Wright has chronicled, he was greatly concerned after he had given a poor blind person alms, and asked whether Wright had noticed what coin he had given to the woman. When the fisherman said he thought that it was a ‘florin or half a crown,’ Fawcett exclaimed with a sigh of relief, ‘Oh, I am so glad; I was afraid I gave her a penny.’

His ear was wonderfully acute, and he would detect the tapping of a beggar’s stick on the sidewalk at a great distance, or in the midst of the roar of London traffic. The distinguished political economist, as soon as he heard this little progressive noise, would let all his well-assorted theories of economy and social justice fly to the winds and hail the approaching beggar merrily, stop and have a few cheery words with him, and before they parted gave him some pence. His secretary never knew him to overlook a beggar or to fail to give him money. It is the only instance that I can find in his life where he did not live up to his principles.

CAMBRIDGE AGAIN

‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’

‘Be swift to hear; and let thy life be sincere; and with patience give answer.’