“NO MUSIC IN HIMSELF”
Music—Beethoven in the Silent World—And Milton—Our
Emotional Desert—Dream Compensation—The “Sings” in the
Old Farmhouse, and the “Rest” for the Weary—The Drunken
Irish Singer in the Barber Shop.
“The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved by concord of sweet sounds
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted.”
This passage always reminds me of the colored man who went to church
to hear the new minister’s trial sermon. The preacher was fond of
quotations, and among others he gave an old favorite in new guise:
“He who steals my purse is po’ white trash!”
One of the elders of the church immediately jumped up and interrupted:
“Say, brother, where you done git that idee at?”
“Dat, sar, am one ob the immortal, thoughtful gems of William
Shakespeare.”
“Well, sar,” came in rich tones from the gentleman who had come to
criticise the sermon, “my only remark am: _Amen, Shakespeare!_”
Shakespeare certainly did not have the citizens of the silent world in
mind when he wrote that, but we deaf are often moved to say _Amen_.
Stratagems are somewhat out of our line, since they require good ears
to carry them through, but otherwise this is a perfect description of
what the lack of music may mean to us. It is our greatest loss. We may
rise in imagination above many deprivations, but we can never forget
the sinister fate which keeps from our ears forever the beauty of the
singing voice and the vibrating string.
“Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.
To soften rocks or bend the knotted oak.”
Probably Congreve was drawing on his imagination entirely, especially
as it is not likely that he ever encountered a genuine savage; but
a deaf man with a natural love for music could have given him full
understanding and appreciation of its mighty power. And, on the other
hand, the silent life becomes drab and cold without the sweet tones of
harmony. In this respect I think the man who was born deaf has less to
regret than he who has known music only to lose it.
One of the most wretchedly pathetic figures in human history was
Beethoven when he became convinced that he was losing his hearing. He
realized at last that the melodies which meant all of life to him were
passing from him with ever-increasing rapidity. He must have watched
them go as a condemned man might see the sands dropping through the
hourglass. For Beethoven was sadly deficient in the needed equipment
of one who must enter the silent world. He had nothing but his music.
There was no remaining solace. The deaf Beethoven does not present an
heroic picture; he seems like a man cast upon a desert island without
the instinct or the ability to search intelligently for food and water.
There can be nothing more tragic than the fate of such a man thrown into
alien conditions which demand skill and courage of a high order, who yet
stands helpless through grief or terror. Compare Beethoven’s unmitigated
despair with Milton’s heroic serenity:
“Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
But here we also see something of the different effects upon character
of the two afflictions. The blind are more cheerful than the deaf. Some
of their cheerfulness comes through the ability to hear music; the
courage comes through their inability to _see_ the danger.
When we deaf are adapting our lives to the inevitable we are surprised
to find the number of new handles life really presents. We have been
forced to look for them, and we can find new interests to give us a
fresh hold upon life. Yet there is nothing we can do, there is no
thought, philosophy or mental training that will ever be anything but a
poor substitute for music.
Perhaps the most peculiar sensation in all our affliction comes when
we sit in a room where skilled musicians are playing, and observe the
effect of sound upon our companions. They are moved to laughter or
tears. Their eyes brighten, their hands are clenched, or are beating
time to the music; their faces flush as waves of emotion sweep over
them. To us it seems most commonplace. We can merely see nimble fingers
dancing over the piano keys or touching the strings of the violin.
Perhaps we see the singer opening and shutting her mouth—much as she
would eat her food—and this is all we know. The mechanical processes
may even be grotesque. So far as any effect upon our emotions may be
considered, the flying fingers might as well be sewing or knitting, the
mouth might be talking the ordinary platitudes of conversation. The
thrill is not for us. Large audiences rise while “America” is being sung
or played—men and women listen with bowed heads. I stand up with them,
but I hear no sound. I feel a thrill—for it is _my_ country, too; yet
can I be blamed for feeling that life has denied me the power to be as
deeply stirred with that great emotion, and has given me no substitute?
The mighty charms which may “soften rocks or bend the knotted oak” are
made powerless by the little bones which have grown together inside my
ear, and they are the smallest bones in the body.
I have talked with deaf persons about their conception of heaven. What
will be the physical sensation when what we call “life” is finally
stolen away? I have given much thought to that. Most deaf people tell me
without hesitation that, according to their great hope and belief, some
great burst of music will suddenly be borne in upon them when:
“The casement slowly grows a glimmering square.”
They can conceive of no greater joy or reward; no existence more sublime
than that which is filled with the noblest music.
Partial compensation for the longing and its denial comes with the music
that we hear in dreams. The brain treasures up the desires of our waking
hours, and attempts to satisfy them during sleep. I knew of a man who
had lived a wild, sunny life in the open air. He was thrown into prison
unjustly, and was held in a dark cell for weeks. He was able to endure
this because, as he said, he had for years “soaked up all possible
sunshine.” The sun’s energy had been “canned in his system,” and it
carried him through his trouble. So may the deaf man be cheered after
he enters the silent world if in his youth he was able to “soak up” his
full share of music. It was my privilege as a boy to serve as “supe”
or stage-hand at a theater, where I heard most of the great operas.
The memory of that music has remained with me all through these long
years. Sometimes I am tempted to sing one of those wonderful songs to my
children. I presume there are few objects more ridiculous to a musician
than a deaf man trying to sing. My people may well smile at my painful
efforts (though the children do not, until they become worldly-wise),
but they will never understand unless they become exiled to the silent
land what such remembered music really means. But I must wait for
dreams, wherein all outside conventions and inhibitions are thrown off,
to give me the perfect rendition of remembered melodies.
There was an old farmer who used to scold his daughter because she would
spend five dollars of her money for an occasional trip to the city,
where she could hear famous singers.
“Why,” said he, “what nonsense, what folly to spend five dollars for
only two short hours of pleasure.”
But he did not realize that the money was paying for a memory which
would remain with the girl all her life. I would, if I could, have a
child soak his soul full of the noblest music that human power can give
him.
In a fair analysis of the situation even the advantages of being deaf
to music should be stated. I am not asked to listen while little Mary
plays her piece on the piano. No one primes little Tommy to sing “Let
me like a soldier fall” for my benefit. I am not required to render
any opinion regarding the musical ability of those hopefuls. I am told
that such musical criticism has developed some most remarkable liars,
chiefly, I fancy, among the young men who are particularly interested
in little Mary’s older sister. I am also informed that some of the
singing to which you must listen is rather calculated to rouse the
savage breast than to soothe it. Once I spent the night at a country
house where, long after honest people should have been abed, a company
of young men drove out from town to serenade the young lady daughter. I
slept through it all, from “Stars of the Summer Night” to “Good Night,
Ladies!” The father of the serenaded one was a very outspoken business
man, whose word carried far, and he assured me that I was to be envied,
for the “quartette of calves” kept him awake for hours. He wanted
someone to give them more rope. “Why,” said this critical parent, “you
should have heard these softheads sing ‘How Can I Bear to Leave Thee?’
I tried to make them understand that I could let them leave without
turning a hair.” Hand organs beneath the window, German bands blowing
wind, wandering minstrels of all kinds, may start waves of more or less
harmonious sound afloat, so that my sensitive friends go about with
fingers at their ears, while I have the pleasure of imagining that it
is angel music. But at the end of all this satisfactory reasoning I
shrug my shoulders and begin to figure what I would give if I could go
back through the years to one of the old “sings” in my uncle’s kitchen.
How I should like to bring back the night when the stranger from Boston
sang “Jesus, Lover of My Soul” to that beautiful air from “Norma.”
However, if I could have my choice tonight of all the music I have ever
heard, I should go back to that lonely farmhouse beside the marsh. The
neighbors have come over the hill for a Sunday night “sing.” No lamps
are needed, for there is a fine blaze in the fireplace. There is snow
outside, and creepy, crackling sounds from the frost are in the timbers;
the moonlight sparkles over all. One of the girls sits at the little
melodeon. I’d give—well, what _can_ a man give—to hear old Uncle
Dwelly Baker sing “Rest for the Weary.” I can see him now sitting in
the big rocking-chair by the window. How his bald head and his white
whiskers shine in the moonlight! His eyes are shut, his spectacles have
been pushed to the top of his head. He rocks and rocks, singing:
“On the other side of Jordan,
In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the tree of Life is blooming,
There is rest for you.”
And here we all come in on the chorus:
“There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you!”
My reason for choosing this above all other music is that these people
in their dull, hard life were really weary, and they really found rest
in this song.
Some years ago I went for a shave into a barber shop of a New England
city. I was to deliver an address, and somehow I have found nothing
more soothing to the nerves than to sink down into a chair while the
barber rubs in the lather and then scrapes it off. All this, of course,
is conditioned upon the sharpness of the razor and my inability to hear
the barber’s questions. I have often wondered if imaginative barbers
ever feel a desire to seize the victim by the throat and use the razor
like a carving-knife. Several of them have looked at me as though they
would enjoy doing this, and the thought has actually driven me to a
safety razor. But, at any rate, shortly before this speech was due I
went in for my shave. At that time I carried an electric instrument, a
sort of personal telephone, which enabled me to hear at least part of
conversations. It contained a small battery, a sound magnifier and an
ear piece. I hung this on a nail, threw my overcoat and hat over it, and
sat down for my shave when the boss barber motioned “next.”
I think I must have drifted away in a half-dream while the barber went
over one side of my face. He was just brushing in the hot lather on the
other side when I suddenly became aware of a great commotion in the
shop. I straightened up with one side of my face well lathered, to find
a “spirit hunt” in progress. The barber stood with his brush in one
hand and an open razor in the other. Several men had armed themselves
with canes and umbrellas. A fierce-looking Irishman with a club was
stealthily approaching my overcoat as it hung on the nail. He raised
his club to strike a heavy blow. I jumped out of that chair as I fancy
a person would leave the electric chair if he were suddenly freed. I
caught him by the arm.
“What are you spoiling my overcoat for?”
“It’s a spirit. The devil himself. Hear him holler in there! Hark at
him! Do ye not hear thim groans?”
Then it suddenly came to me what the “spirit” was. I had put my
“acousticon” or electric hearing device into its case without shutting
off the electric current. It was really a small telephone, and while
the current is on, the sound magnifier gathers the sounds in a room and
throws them out in a series of whistles, groanings and roarings. The
Irishman and his friends had finally located the “spirit” emitting these
noises under my coat, where it certainly was hiding.
With the coating of lather still on my face, I took the coat down
and explained the instrument. The men listened like children as I
switched the current on and off, explained the dry cell battery, the ear
piece and the receiver. I let them try it at the ear until they were
satisfied—all but the Irishman. He looked at the machine for a moment
and then glanced at me and raised his voice:
“Ye poor thing; ye don’t hear nothin’, do ye?”
“Not much. I have the advantage of you, for you must listen to
everybody. I don’t have to. I am sure you have heard things today you
were sorry to hear.”
“Ain’t that right now? But don’t nobody ever come and bawl ye out?”
“No; not even my wife, for, you see, her throat would give out before my
ears would give in. Bawling out a deaf man is no joke for the bawler!”
“Well, it’s good to be delivered from the women; they have tongues like
a fish-hook, ’tis true. But don’t ye hear no good music?”
“No; I have not heard natural music for years; the little that comes to
me seems to have some tin-pan drumming in it.”
“But, say, mister, don’t ye hear no good music in your dreams? I ask ye
that now—as man to man. Have ye no singing dreams?”
“Yes, that is the strangest part of it. While I am asleep music often
comes to me, such music as, I am sure, mortal rarely hears. It seems to
me like music far beyond this world.”
“Ah, but don’t ye hate to wake up and leave that music behind ye? Don’t
ye hate to come back to life, where ye hear no sound? Ain’t it terrible
to think God has forsaken ye by shutting out music? Wouldn’t ye rather
be dead when ye might sleep forever with music in your ears?”
“No; for God has not forsaken me. I have my work to do in the world, and
I must do it. I will not run away from a thing like this. I will rise
above it. You see, I have friends. You are interested, and I know you
would help me if I needed help.”
“Would I not, now? Just put that tail-piece to your ear.”
I hesitated for a moment, but he repeated, sternly:
“Put that tail-piece to your ear and let on the juice again right away.”
With the cold lather still on my face, I put up the ear piece and turned
on the current. Then a beautiful thing happened. My Irish friend took
off his hat, put his mouth close to my receiver, and began to sing. He
had a beautiful tenor voice, and it came to me sweet and clear, while
the barber and the others gathered to listen.
“Kathleen mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill.
The lark from her gray wing the bright dew is shaking—
Oh, Kathleen mavourneen,—what? lingering still?
Oh, hast thou forgotten, this day we must sever,
Oh, hast thou forgotten, this day we must part?”
He sang it through—the sad, hopeless longing of a weary heart. “_It
may be for years, and it may be forever._” I glanced at the barber, and
saw him still with the open razor and the brush in his hands, while the
others stood about with heads bowed as they listened. And at the end of
the song my friend started another:
“Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Come back, Aroon, to the land of thy birth.
Come with the shamrocks of springtime, mavourneen,
And its Killarney shall ring with thy mirth!”
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.”
Then came the reception committee on the run for me, for my time on the
program had come and the speaker who was to hold the stage until I came
had already repeated part of his speech three times. The barber finished
shaving me, and I went my way; but I shall always remember my Irish
singer and his philosophy.
“_A man in trouble must either laugh or die._”