The day was hardly different from many another day, though I will likely
recall it even when the mist of years has shrouded the past in an
undefined hueless cloud. The sunshine came in at my open window. Out of
doors it flooded all the land in its warm summer light—the spires of the
town and the bare college campus; farther, the tall bearded barley and
rustling oats; farther still, the wild grass and the forest, where the
river ran and the blue haze dipped from the sky.
The temptation was greater than I could stand, and taking my book I shut
up the “study,” as the students called my small apartment, leaving it
for one bounded by no walls or ceiling.
The woods rang with the hum and chirp of insects and birds. I threw
myself down beneath a tall, broad-spreading tree. Against its
moss-covered trunk I could hear the loud tap of the woodpecker secreted
high up among its leaves, and off at the end of a tender young twig a
robin trilled, swinging himself to and fro through the checkered
sunlight. I never grew weary listening to the changeful voice of the
forest and the river, and was hardly conscious of reading until I came
upon this paragraph:—
“As a particle of the atmosphere is never lost, so sound is never
lost. A strain of music or a simple tone will vibrate in the air
forever and ever, decreasing according to a fixed ratio. The diffusion
of the agitation extends in all directions, like the waves in a pool,
but the ear is unable to detect it beyond a certain point. It is well
known that some individuals can distinguish sounds which to others
under precisely similar circumstances are wholly lost. Thus the fault
is not in the sound itself, but in our organ of hearing, and a tone
once in existence is always in existence.”
This was nothing new to me. I had read it before, though I had never
thought of it particularly; but while I listened to the robin, it seemed
singular to know that all the sounds ever uttered, ever born, were
floating in the air _now_—all music, every tone, every bird-song—and we,
alas! could not hear them.
Suddenly a strange idea shot through my brain—Why not? Ay, _why not
hear_? Men had constructed instruments which could magnify to the eye
and—was it possible?—Why not?
I looked up and down the river, but saw neither it, nor the sky, nor the
moss that I touched. Did the woodpecker still tap secreted among the
leaves, and the robin sing, and the hum of insects run along the bank as
before? I can not recollect, I can not recollect anything, only Mother
Flinse, the deaf and dumb old crone that occasionally came to beg, and
sell nuts to the students, was standing in the gateway. I nodded to her
as I passed, and walked up her long, slim shadow that lay on the path.
It was a strange idea that had come so suddenly into my head and
startled me. I hardly dared to think of it, but I could think of nothing
else. It could not be possible, and yet—why not?
Over and over in the restless hours of the night I asked myself, I said
aloud, Why not? Then I laughed at my folly, and wondered what I was
thinking of and tried to sleep—but if it _could_ be done?
The idea clung to me. It forced itself up in class hours and made
confusion in the lessons. Some said the professor was ill those two or
three days before the vacation; perhaps I was. I scarcely slept; only
the one thought grew stronger—Men had done more wonderful things; it
certainly was possible, and I would accomplish this grand invention. I
would construct the king of all instruments—I would construct an
instrument which could catch these faint tones vibrating in the air and
render them audible. Yes, and I would labor quietly until it was
perfected, or the world might laugh.
The session closed and the college was deserted, save by the few musty
students whom, even in imagination, one could hardly separate or
distinguish from the old books on the library shelves. I could wish for
no better opportunity to begin my great work. The first thing would be
to prepare for it by a careful study of acoustics, and I buried myself
among volumes on the philosophy of sound.
I went down to London and purchased a common ear-trumpet. My own ear was
exceedingly acute, and to my great delight I found that, with the aid of
the trumpet just as it was, I could distinguish sounds at a much greater
distance, and those nearer were magnified in power. I had only to
improve upon this instrument; careful study, careful work, careful
experiment, and my hopes would undoubtedly be realized.
Back to my old room in the college I went with a complete set of tools.
So days and weeks I shut myself in, and every day and every week brought
nothing but disappointment. The instrument seemed only to diminish sound
rather than increase it, yet still I worked on and vowed I would not
grow discouraged.
Hour after hour I sat, looking out of my narrow window. The fields
of barley and waving oats had been reaped, the wheat too had ripened
and gone, but I did not notice. I sprang up with a joyful
exclamation—Strange never to have thought of it before! Perhaps I
had not spent my time in vain, after all. How could I expect to test
my instrument in this close room with only that little window? It
should be removed from immediate noises, high up in the open air,
where there would be no obstructions. I would never succeed here—but
where should I go? It must be some place in which I would never be
liable to interruption, for my first object was to be shielded and
work in secret.
I scoured the neighborhood for an appropriate spot without success, when
it occurred to me that I had heard some one say the old gray church was
shut up. This church was situated just beyond the suburbs of the town.
It was built of rough stone, mottled and stained by unknown years. The
high, square tower, covered by thick vines that clung and crept round
its base, was the most venerable monument among all the slabs and tombs
where it stood sentinel. Only graves deserted and uncared for by the
living kept it company. People said the place was too damp for use, and
talked of rebuilding, but it had never been done. Now if I could gain
access to the tower, that was the very place for my purpose.
I found the door securely fastened, and walked round and round without
discovering any way of entrance; but I made up my mind, if it were
possible to get inside of that church I would do it, and without the
help of keys. The high windows were not to be thought of; but in the
rear of the building, lower down, where the fuel had probably been kept,
there was a narrow opening which was boarded across. With very little
difficulty I knocked out the planks and crept through. It was a cellar,
and, as I had anticipated, the coal receptacle. After feeling about, I
found a few rough steps which led to a door that was unlocked and
communicated with the passage back of the vestry-room.
The tower I wished to explore was situated in the remote corner of the
building. I passed on to the church. Its walls were discolored by green
mould, and blackened where the water had dripped through. The sun, low
down in the sky, lit the tall arched windows on the west, and made
yellow strips across the long aisles, over the faded pews with their
stiff, straight backs, over the chancel rail, over the altar with its
somber wood-work; but there was no warmth; only the cheerless glare
seemed to penetrate the cold, dead atmosphere,—only the cheerless glare
without sparkle, without life, came into that voiceless sanctuary where
the organ slept. At the right of the vestibule a staircase led to the
tower; it ascended to a platform laid on a level with the four windows
and a little above the point of the church roof. These four windows were
situated one on each side of the tower, running high up, and the lower
casement folding inward.
Here was my place. Above the tree-tops, in the free open air, with no
obstacle to obstruct the wind, I could work unmolested by people or
noise. The fresh breeze that fanned my face was cool and pleasant. An
hour ago I had been tired, disappointed, and depressed; but now, buoyant
with hope, I was ready to begin work again—work that I was determined to
accomplish.
The sun had gone. I did not see the broken slabs and urns in the shadow
down below; I did not see the sunken graves and the rank grass and the
briers. I looked over them and saw the gorgeous fringes along the
horizon, scarlet and gold and pearl; saw them quiver and brighten to
flame, and the white wings of pigeons whirl and circle in the deepening
glow.
I closed the windows, and when I had crawled out of the narrow hole,
carefully reset the boards just as I had found them. In another day all
the tools and books that I considered necessary were safely deposited in
the tower. I only intended to make this my workshop, still, of course,
occupying my old room in the college.
Here I matured plan after plan. I studied, read, worked, knowing,
_feeling_ that at last I must succeed; but failure followed failure, and
I sank into despondency only to begin again with a kind of desperation.
When I went down to London and wandered about, hunting up different
metals and hard woods, I never entered a concert-room or an opera-house.
Was there not music in store for me, such as no mortal ear had ever
heard? _All_ the music, every strain that had sounded in the past ages?
Ah, I could wait; I would work patiently and wait.
I was laboring now upon a theory that I had not tried heretofore. It was
my last resource; if this failed, then—but it would not fail! I resolved
not to make any test, not to put it near my ear until it was completed.
I discarded all woods and used only the metals which best transmitted
sound. Finally it was finished, even to the ivory ear-piece. I held the
instrument all ready—I held it and looked eastward and westward and back
again. Suddenly all control over the muscles of my hand was gone, it
felt like stone; then the strange sensation passed away. I stood up and
lifted the trumpet to my ear—What! Silence? No, no—I was faint, my brain
was confused, whirling. I would not believe it; I would wait a moment
until this dizziness was gone, and then—then I would be able to hear. I
was deaf now. I still held the instrument; in my agitation the ivory tip
shook off and rolled down rattling on the floor. I gazed at it
mechanically, as if it had been a pebble; I never thought of replacing
it, and, mechanically, I raised the trumpet a second time to my ear. A
crash of discordant sounds, a confused jarring noise broke upon me and I
drew back trembling, dismayed.
Fool! O fool of fools never to have thought of this, which a child, a
dunce would not have overlooked! My great invention was nothing, was
worse than nothing, was worse than a failure. I might have known that my
instrument would magnify present sounds in the air to such a degree as
to make them utterly drown all others, and, clashing together, produce
this noise like the heavy rumble of thunder.
The college reopened, and I took up my old line of duties, or at least
attempted them, for the school had grown distasteful to me. I was
restless, moody, and discontented. I tried to forget my disappointment,
but the effort was vain.
The spires of the town and the college campus glittered white, the
fields of barley and oats were fields of snow, the forest leaves had
withered and fallen, and the river slumbered, wrapped in a sheeting of
ice. Still I brooded over my failure, and when again the wild grass
turned green I no longer cared. I was not the same man that had looked
out at the waving grain and the blue haze only a year before. A gloomy
despondency had settled upon me, and I grew to hate the students, to
hate the college, to hate society. In the first shock of discovered
failure I had given up all hope, and the Winter passed I knew not how. I
never wondered if the trouble could be remedied. Now it suddenly
occurred to me, perhaps it was no failure after all. The instrument
might be made adjustable, so as to be sensible to faint or severe
vibrations at pleasure of the operator, and thus separate the sounds. I
remembered how but for the accidental removal of the ivory my instrument
perhaps would not have reflected any sound. I would work again and
persevere.
I would have resigned my professorship, only it might create suspicion.
I knew not that already they viewed me with curious eyes and sober
faces. When the session finally closed, they tried to persuade me to
leave the college during vacation and travel on the continent. I would
feel much fresher, they told me, in the Autumn. In the Autumn? Ay,
perhaps I might, perhaps I might, and I would not go abroad.
Once more the reapers came unnoticed. My work progressed slowly. Day by
day I toiled up in the old church tower, and night by night I dreamed.
In my sleep it often seemed that the instrument was suddenly completed,
but before I could raise it to my ear I would always waken with a
nervous start. So the feverish time went by, and at last I held it ready
for a second trial. Now the instrument was adjustable, and I had also
improved it so far as to be able to set it very accurately for any
particular period, thus rendering it sensible only to sounds of that
time, all heavier and fainter vibrations being excluded.