THE APPROACH TO SILENCE
The Approach of Deafness—The College
Woman—Student Methods in General—Calamity and
Courage—Animals and Thought Communication—Another
Compensation—Pronunciation and the Defensive Campaign.
Some years ago we planted a hedge at the end of my lawn. For years
I could sit at the dining-table and look over it. At night I saw my
neighbor’s window-light, and by day I could see him or some of his
family moving about the house or the fields. As the years went on I
became aware that the hedge was growing. Finally there came a Spring
when the bushes were filled out with foliage so that all view of the
neighbor’s house was lost. I could not see the light at night. While I
knew the people were moving about during the daytime, I could not see
them. The hedge had shut me away from them, yet it had grown so slowly
and so gently that there was no shock. Had my neighbor shut himself
suddenly away from view by building a spite fence, the loss would have
been far greater. This instance somewhat resembles the difference
between sudden loss of hearing and its slow fading away.
I know of the curious case of a woman who could not be made to realize
that her hearing was going until the common tests of everyday life
convinced her that she was going deaf. What are these common tests? The
usual ones are inability to hear the clocks and the birds. Very likely
you have been in the habit of listening to the clock at night when
for some reason sleep was impossible. It has been a comfort to you to
think how this constant old friend goes calmly on through sun or storm,
through joy or sorrow, gathering up the dust of the seconds into the
grains of the minutes, and forming them into bricks of the hours and
days. Or you may have been alone in the house on a Winter’s night. You
heard the house timbers crack, and gentle fingers seemed to be tapping
on the window pane. Then there came a night when you lay awake and
missed the sound of your old friend, who seemed to have stopped checking
off the marching hours. Many a deaf person waking in the night, missing
the sound of the clock, has risen from bed and brought a light to start
the old timepiece going. Not one of you can realize what it means when
the light falls upon the face of the clock, revealing the minute hand
still cheerfully circling its appointed course. The clock is still
going, but something else has stopped.
We have endured another test in watching the birds. Most of us can
remember when the morning was full of bird music. One day as we walk
about it comes suddenly home to us that the birds are silent or have
disappeared. At least, we can no longer hear them. We look about and
notice a robin on the lawn. We see him throw back his head, open his
mouth and move his throat. He is evidently singing—but we did not know
it. I cannot tell you in ordinary language how a chill suddenly passes
over the heart as we realize that as long as life lasts music is to
become to us as unsubstantial as the shadow of a cloud passing over the
lawn.
The woman I speak of knew by these tests that her hearing was failing.
She was a student at college, where quick and sound ears are essential
if one is to obtain full benefit from lectures. I know just what this
means from my own experience, since I entered college some little time
after my ears began to fail. I am frequently asked how it is possible
for students with defective hearing to obtain an education. To the
ambitious man or woman the first thought on discovering the beginnings
of deafness is that the mind must be improved so as to make skilled
labor possible. Too many deaf people after a brief struggle feel
that fate has denied them the right to an education, and they give
up trying in despair. I found several ways of partly overcoming the
difficulty. I copied notes made by another student. In every class you
will find several natural reporters who make a very clear synopsis of
the lectures, and are rather proud of their skill. I found one lazy and
brilliant fellow who was an excellent reporter, though he absolutely
refused to study. He would give me his report and I would look up the
authorities and help him fill in the skeleton. We served each other like
the blind and the halt. I also made arrangements with several professors
to read their lecture notes. Most of them are quite willing to permit
this when they find the deaf man earnest and determined. In fact, the
average professor comes to be a dry sawbones of a fact dispenser, whose
daily struggle is to cram these facts into the more or less unwilling
student brain. When an interested deaf man appears, actually eager to
read the lectures, the soul of the driest professor will expand, for
here, he thinks, is full evidence of appreciation. The world and the
units which comprise it have always admired determination, or what plain
people call “grit.” I think it has been given that name because it is
that substance which the fighter may throw into the works of the machine
which would otherwise roll over him.
Working thus, I came to know something of the inner life of these
professors, whose daily routine comes to be a struggle with untrained
minds which resent all efforts to harness them. The attitude of the
average student in the class-room, as I recall it, reminds me of our
trotting colt, Beauty. She was so full of trotting blood that at
times it boiled over into a desire for a mad run. We thought we had a
world-beater, but when we put her on the track she could barely shade
four minutes. An experienced trainer took her in hand, put foot-weights
and straps on her and forced her to change her gait and concentrate
her power. How that beautiful little horse did rage and chafe at this
indignity! One could imagine her protest.
“Let me be free! Do I not know how to pick up my feet and use my limbs
for speed? My father was a king of speed—my mother of royal blood! Set
me free! Nature has given me natural swiftness—I do not need your art!”
But they held poor Beauty to it, though she chafed and lathered, and
tried to throw herself down. Everywhere she met the weights, the straps
and the cruel whip. At last she submitted to discipline and did as she
was told. She clipped fully ninety seconds from her natural speed for a
mile, but while she was forced to obey she had little respect for her
trainer.
Could my college professors have controlled their human colts with
weights, straps and whips, it is more than likely that education would
have established a new record. I found my teachers quite willing to give
the list of references from which their lectures were taken, and with
these in hand the deaf student may read in advance of his class and be
fully prepared. As a rule, he does not stand high in recitations, but
excels in his written work. The truth is that for work which requires
study and research, deafness is something of an advantage. It enables
a student fully to concentrate his mind on the subject. It seems to me
that most of the world’s imperishable thoughts have been born in the
silence, or, at least, in solitude. The fact is that the human ear, for
all the joy, comfort or power it may give, is at best a treacherous and
undependable organ. Perhaps I cannot be classed as an authority on a
subject which involves accurate hearing, but I know that the greatest
danger in my business is that we are sometimes forced to rely upon
spoken or hearsay evidence. I will not use statements in print until
they are written out and signed. Too many people depend for their facts
upon what others tell them. The brain may distort the message and memory
may blur it. The wise deaf man learns to discount spoken testimony, and
will act only upon printed or written words. I have had people come to
me fully primed for an hour’s talk of complaint or scandal; I hand them
a pad of paper and a pencil, settle back and say:
“Now tell me all about it.”
That pen or pencil is usually as efficient as a milk-tester in
determining the surprisingly small amount of fat which exists in the
milk of ordinary conversation.
You see, as I told you I should be likely to do, I have wandered away
from the text. That is characteristic of the deaf, for we seldom hear
the text, anyway. The woman I started to tell about managed to work
through college and began treatment for her deafness. This promised some
relief, when suddenly the great earthquake shook San Francisco. The
shock and fright of that catastrophe destroyed her hearing entirely. I
have heard of several cases where deafness came like this, in a flash.
As one man repeated to me:
“At twenty-nine minutes past ten I actually heard a pin drop on the
floor of my room. At half-past ten it would have been necessary to prick
me to let me know that the pin was there.”
And this woman’s mother died. Her daughter was forced to sit beside her
at the last, unable to hear the message which the mother, just passing
into the unseen country, tried to give. In all the book of time, I
suppose there is recorded no more terrifying sadness than the fact of
this inability to hear the parting words. Sometimes I regret that I
promised not to make this book a tale of woe, for what could I not tell,
if I would, of the soul-destroying sadness of this longing to hear a
whispered confidence?
The woman of whom I speak did not shrivel under the heat of calamity.
She continued treatment, and has made some slight gain in hearing. And
now she has qualified as an expert physician. People wonder how a deaf
person can possibly diagnose organic diseases, such as heart trouble,
or even pneumonia. They can do it, for I have known several very deaf
physicians who yet have met with marked success. One in particular was
for years a chief examiner for a large insurance company. There was
something almost uncanny about the way this man could look into the
human body and put his finger upon any weak spot. I finally decided
that he had developed as a substitute for hearing a hidden power to
record with the eye and mind the symptoms not visible to most of his
profession. The others depended on man-made charts and rules. Their
perfect ears had made them slaves to common practice. My deaf friend,
deprived of the ordinary avenue of approach for consultation, had pushed
off like a pioneer into the unknown, where he had found the mysterious
power.
I am well aware that I am getting out where the water is deep and that
many of you are not prepared to swim with me. But there are some very
strange things happening in the silent world. Have you ever noticed
two deaf people trying to communicate? Strange as the process may
appear, they are able to make each other understand, and they do it
quite easily, where a person with good ears would have great trouble.
I feel convinced that this century will see a system of wordless
thought communication worked out, though its beginnings may be crude.
It will be developed first by the afflicted, chiefly by the deaf. I am
sure that you have noticed, as I have, how the so-called dumb animals
can communicate. Let us take a group of horses at pasture. Now that
gasoline has so largely superseded oats as motive force on our farms,
younger people may not fully understand, but most people of middle age
will remember how old Dick and Kate and all the rest went to a service
of grass on Sunday. Perhaps they were scattered all over the field.
Suddenly Dick, the galled old veteran off by his fence corner, raised
his head and considered for a moment. Near by were old Sport and Kate,
feeding side by side as they have worked in the harness for years. Soon
old Dick walked meditatively up to this pair. He halted beside them and
they stopped feeding for a moment, apparently to listen. The old horse
stayed with them for a time and then walked slowly about the field to
the others. No audible sound was made, but finally, one by one, the
horses all stopped feeding and followed their leader up to the shadow
of the big tree. The gray mare and her foal were the last to go. There
in the shade the horses stood for some time with their heads together.
Evidently some soundless discussion was taking place. At one point the
gray mare threatened to kick old Dick, but she was prevented by big Tom,
who seemed to be sergeant-at-arms. After a time they separated, and
each went back to the spot where he was feeding. Who does not know that
there has been a convention at which these horses have agreed upon some
definite line of conduct? They may have organized a barnyard strike
or mutiny. Dick and Kate may refuse to pull at the plow. Perhaps the
council agreed to let certain parts of the pasture grow up to fresh
grass. We saw the colt chasing the sheep back to the hill. No doubt
he had been appointed a committee of one to do this, since the sheep
nibble too close to allow an honest horse a good mouthful. At any rate,
through some power which humans do not possess, these animals are able
to communicate, and to make their wants known. I presume that originally
man possessed something of this strange power. As he developed audible
language he let the ability fall into disuse. The Indians and some
savages have retained much of it. I take it that the deaf, shut away
from much of ordinary conversation, redevelop something of this power.
Kipling brings this idea out well in some of his Vermont stories. The
farmer goes on Sunday afternoon to salt the horses in the back pasture,
where the boarding horses are feeding. These boarders represent a
strange mixture. There are “sore” truck horses from the city, family
nags on vacation, and old veterans whose days of usefulness are ended.
With this mixed company, bringing in all the tricks of the city, are
the sober work horses of the farm. The farmer puts his salt on the
rocks where the horses can lick it, and then sits down to look over the
rolling country. Several of these city boarders are of the “tough”
element, and they attempt to stir up a mutiny.
“See,” they say as they lick the salt, “now we have him. He does not
suspect us. We can creep up behind him, kick him off that rock and
trample him.”
But the farm horses object. This man has treated them well, and they
will fight for him, and the toughs are awed. I have spent much time
watching farm animals at silent communication, and I have come to
believe that Kipling’s story may be partly true. I have seen our big
Airedale, Bruce, sit with his head at one side watching the children
at play on the lawn. He will walk off to where the other dogs are, and
evidently tell them about it, glancing at the children as he does so.
Some men are able to talk with their eyebrows or their shoulders or
their hands so that they are easily understood. I talked with an Italian
once through an interpreter. This man was a fruit-grower, and my friend
explained to him that I was growing peaches without cultivating the
soil, just cutting the grass and weeds and letting them lie on the
top of the ground. The Italian regarded this as rank heresy, and he
evidently regretted his inability to express himself in English. He did
give a curious long shrug to his shoulders, he spread out his hands,
rolled his eyes and spat on the ground. He could not possibly have
expressed his disapproval more eloquently, and I understood his feelings
far better than I did those of the learned professor who elaborated a
complicated theory for growing peaches.
All intelligent deaf men will tell you that they know something of this
subtle power. Edison is very deaf, and I am not surprised to learn
that he is studying it, attempting to organize it. It is one of the
interesting mysteries of the silent world, and it can be made into a
great healing compensation for one who will view his affliction with
philosophy, concentrating his mind upon its study.
While, of course, I could make a long catalogue of the compensations
and advantages of deafness, we must all admit that there is another
side. For instance, the man of the silent world must avoid the
pitfall of pronunciation. When sound is lost he forgets how words are
pronounced, and the new words and phrases constantly entering the
language are mysterious stumbling blocks. For example, no sensible deaf
man will mention the name of that Russian society, the epithet now so
glibly applied by conservatives to all who show radical tendencies.
Nor would he attempt to put tongue to the hideous names of some of
the new European States, or even to the name of McKinley’s assassin.
He lets someone else attempt those, some reckless person with good
ears. A strange thing about it is that our friends do not understand
our limitations in this respect. My wife ought to know most of the
restrictions and tricks of the deaf. Yet she was quite surprised when I
hesitated about reading a church lecture without a rehearsal. It was
a canned lecture, where you procure the slides and the manuscript, and
select some well-voiced “home talent” to read it. I was chosen as the
“talent,” but I remembered how years before I upset a sober-minded group
by twisting up “Beelzebub.” Therefore, I wanted to read the lecture over
several times and practice on some of the hard Bible names. Suppose I
ran unexpectedly on those men who went down into the fiery furnace.
Every child in the Sunday school could reel them off perfectly, but I
had not heard of them for years, and I defy any one to get them right at
sight.
Let the wise deaf man stick to the words he knows about until he has
practiced the new ones to the satisfaction of his wife and daughter. He
may well put up a defensive fight in most of his battles. Let him be
sure of his facts, sure that he is right, and then stand his ground. Let
others do the advancing and the countering and play the part of Napoleon
generally; the deaf man will do better to “stand pat.”
“But when was there ever a successful defensive campaign?”
I advise you to get out your history and read of the Norman conquest.
The battle of Hastings decided that. The Saxons lost that battle by
refusing to “stand pat.” They ran out of their stronghold and were
divided and destroyed. Had they taken my advice to deaf men, the
history of England would have been bound in blond leather instead of
black! That might have made considerable difference to you and me. I
think I may say without fear of contradiction that the deaf invite most
of their troubles by running out after them; when if we would keep
within our own defenses and stand our ground we might avoid them.