The Nature of the Journey to the Silent Country—Substitutes for Perfect Silence—Sounds of Nature Companionable—The Direct Attack—“Just As I am”—Compensation in Idealized Memories—“Cut Out the Bitterness”—Reasons for Writing the Book—A Matter of Point of View, Concerning John Armstrong’s Possessions.

I think life has given me a certificate which qualifies me to act as guide and interpreter on the journey to the Silent Land. For forty years I have been traveling along the road to silence. I have seen some unfortunate people who were suddenly deprived of their hearing, as it seemed without warning. Fate did not give them even a chance to prepare for the death of sound. It was as if some cruel hand had suddenly dragged them into a prison, a form of living death through which the poor bewildered wretches must wander aimlessly until they could in some feeble way adjust themselves to the new conditions which we shall find in the world of silence. Happily my journey was not made in that way. I have wandered slowly and gently along the road, each year coming a little nearer to silence, yet working on so easily and unobtrusively that the way has not seemed hard and rough. I know every step of the road, and I can point out the landmarks as we pass along. You may be compelled to travel over the same route alone some day. Perhaps your feet are upon it even now, unknown to you. Take my advice and notice the milestones as you pass them.

Let’s not hurry. Let our journey be like one of those happy family wanderings in the old farm days, long before the age of gasoline. On a Sunday afternoon we would all start walking, on past the back of the farm. Father, mother and the baby, all would go. We could stop to drink from the spring, to rest under the pines, to stand on the hill looking off over the valleys. The beauty of the walk was that time was no object; our destination was nowhere in particular, and we always reached it. No one hears of those family trips in these days. We “go” now. The family, smaller than of old, will crowd into a car and go rushing about the country in an effort to cover as many miles as possible, and to do as little sight-seeing as may be during the rush. Now, we shall not hurry, and there will be no great objection to our leaving the road now and then to gather flowers or bright stones, or to watch a bird or a squirrel. We shall need all the pleasant memories we can think of when we arrive.

Very likely you have before now entered into a “solitude where none intrude,” and have thought yourself entirely alone in the silence. But you had not reached the real end of the road. You missed some of the familiar sounds of your everyday life, but there were substitutes. There was always the low growl of the ocean, the murmur of the wind among the trees, the cheerful ripple of the brook, the song of the birds, or some of the many sweet sounds of nature. It was not the silence which we know, nor were the voices which came to you harsh or distorted. They were clear and true, even though they were strange to you.

I did not realize how largely the habits of our life are bound up in sound until some years ago we hired a city woman to come and work in our farmhouse. We live in a lonely place. This woman spent one night with us. In the morning she came with terror in her eyes and begged to be taken back to New York.

“It’s so still here; I can’t sleep!”

It was true. Her ears had become so accustomed to the harsh noises of the city that every nerve and faculty had been tuned to them. The quiet of the country was as irksome to her as the constant city noises are annoying to the countryman, just from his silent hills. Perhaps you have awakened suddenly in the night in some quiet country place, let us say in the loneliness of Winter in the hill country. You looked from the window across the glittering snow to the dark pines which seemed to prison the farm and house. You fancied that you had finally reached the world of silence, and you were seized by a nameless terror as you imagined what would happen to you if sight were suddenly withdrawn. Then you heard the timbers of the house creak with the cold, the friendly wind sighed through the trees and around the corner of the house. There came faint chords of weird music as from an Æolian harp when it passed over some wire fence. Or perhaps there came to you the faint step of some prowling animal. Then the terror vanished before these sounds of the night. For this is not the world which I ask you to enter with me. We are bound for the world of the deaf. I tell you in advance that it is a dull, drab world, without music or pleasant conversation, into which none of the natural tones of the human voice or the multitudinous sounds of nature can come. You must leave them all behind, and you will never realize how much they have meant to you until they are out of your reach. Could you readjust your life for a new adventure in this strange world?

The deaf man must carry this world of silence about with him always, and it leads him into strange performances. I know a deaf man who went to a church service. He could hear nothing of the sermon, but he felt something of the glory of worship, and when the congregation stood up to sing my deaf friend felt that here was where he could help.

“Just as I am, without one plea,” announced the preacher, and the deaf man’s wife found the place in the hymn book. He sang along with the rest and thoroughly enjoyed it. However, one of the penalties of the Silent Country is that its inhabitants can rarely keep in step with the crowd. My friend did not realize that at the end of each verse the organist was expected to play a short interlude before the next verse started. There has never seemed to me to be any reason for these ornamental musical flourishes; they merely keep us from getting on with our singing.

The deaf man knew nothing of all this. He was there to finish the singing of that hymn. It is a habit of the deaf to go straight to the end, since there is no reason why they should stop to listen. So he started in on the second verse as all the rest were marking time through that useless interlude, and he sang a solo:

“Just as I am, and waiting not!”

He sang with all his power, he was in good voice and his heart was full of the glory of the service. He was never a singer at best, and the voice of a deaf person is never musical. This hard, metallic voice cut into that interlude much like the snarl of a buzz saw. His wife tried to stop him, but he could not quite get the idea, and he sang on. It is rather a curious commentary on the slavery to habit which most intelligent human beings willingly assume that this one earnest man, just as little out of step, nearly destroyed the inspiration of that church service. The unconscious solo would have taken all the worship from the hearts of that congregation had it not been for the quick-witted organist.

Some human beings have risen to the mental capacity of animals in understanding and conveying a form of unspoken language. It may be “instinct,” “intuition,” or what you will, but in some way they are able to convey their meaning without words. I have found many such people in the world of silence. The organist possessed this power. Before the deaf man had sung five words she had stopped playing her interlude, had caught the time of what he was singing, and was signaling the choir to join her. By the time they reached the end of the second line at “one dark spot” the entire congregation was singing as though nothing had happened. The minister, too, sensed the situation, for at the end of the verse, before the deaf man could make another start, he said:

“Let us pray.” And the incident was happily closed.

As I look about me in the world of silence and see some of the sad blunders of my fellows, I feel that in their poor way they illustrate something of the life tragedy which often engulfs the reformer. The deaf man does not know or has forgotten that those who are blessed with good hearing do not and cannot go straight to the mark. Much of their time is wasted on useless “interludes” or ornamental flourishes which mean nothing in work or worship. This man at the church, while his heart was full, could only think of getting that hymn through, earnestly, lovingly, and without loss of time. He may have had more true worship in his heart than any other member of the congregation, but he dropped just a little out of form, and he quickly became a ridiculous nuisance. The truth is, if you did but know it, that some of your clumsy efforts to keep step with so-called fashionable people make you far more ridiculous than those of us who fall out of step. Nature never intended your big feet for dancing, but, because others dance, you must try it.

Your reformer broods over his mission until it becomes a part of his life, a habit which he cannot break. He reaches a position where he cannot compromise, sidestep or wait patiently. He goes ahead and never waits for “interludes,” which most of us must put in between efforts at “reform.” The rest of the world cannot follow him. He becomes a “crank,” a “nut,” or an “old stick,” because he cannot stop with the crowd and play with the theory of reform, but must push on with all his soul. It seems to us who look out upon the aimless procession moving before us that an average man feels that he cannot “succeed” unless he stops at command and plays the petty games of society; he has sold himself into the slavery of habit and fashion, though he knows how poor and trivial they may be. This is bad enough, but it is worse to see scores of people fastening the handcuffs on their children. Now and then the organist has visions which show her what to do, and she swings the great congregation to the deaf man’s lead. Unhappily there are few such organists.

It is strange, indeed, when you come to consider it, that two worlds, separated only by sound, lie side by side and yet so far apart. You cannot understand our life, and perhaps at times you shudder at the thought of how narrow our lives have been made. We who have known sound and lost it have learned to find substitutes, and we often wonder that you narrow your own lives by making such trivial and ignoble use of sound as we see you doing. Fate has narrowed our lives, and we have been forced to broaden them by seeking the larger thoughts. You, it often seems to us, straiten your own lives by dwelling with the smaller things of existence.

The deaf have one advantage at least. They have explored the pleasant roads and the dark alleys of both worlds. If they are of true heart, in doing so they have gained at least a glimpse of that other dim, mysterious country which lies hidden beyond us all. To the blind, the deaf, or to those who carry bravely the cross of some deep trouble, there will surely come vision and promise which never appear to those who are denied the privilege of passing through life under the shadow of a great affliction. But these visions do not come to those who pass on with downcast eyes, permitting their affliction to bear them down. They are reserved for those who defy fate and march through the dark places with smiling faces and uplifted eyes.

Someone has said that the deaf man is half dead, because he is unable to separate in his life the living memory or sound from the deadness of the silence.

“I must walk softly all my days in the bitterness of my soul.”

That was the old prophet’s dismal view of life, and how often have I heard hopeless sufferers, half insane with the jangle of head noises, quote that passage.

“Cut out the bitterness, and I’ll walk softly with you,” was the comment of one brave soul who would not subscribe to the whole doctrine. I have had two deaf men quote that and tell me that their condition reminded them of what they had read of prison life in the Russian mines. Formerly, in some of these mines, men were chained together at their work below ground. Sometimes, when one member of the hideous partnership died, the survivor did not have his chains removed for days! One of my friends told me that he felt as though his life was passed dragging about wherever he went the dead body of sound, and what it had meant to his former life. Unless he could keep his mind fully occupied there would rise up before him the dim picture of the prisoner dragging his dead partner through the horrors of their underground prison. The other man who made the comparison had a happier view of life. He told me that he had read all he could find on the subject, and that when these men were released from their hateful prison and brought up into the sunlight, they seemed to know much about the great mystery into which we all must enter. So he felt that he was not carrying the dead around with him, but rather the living, for the spirit of the old life, the best of it in memory and inspiration, remained with him. So we deaf are like you of the sound-world in that some of us sink under our afflictions, while to others of us they are stepping-stones.

I have come to think that of all the human faculties, sound is the most closely associated with life. The blind man may say that light means more than sound; I do not know how the question can be fairly argued, but I think in most cases deafness removes us further from the real joy of living. You will notice that the blind are usually more cheerful than the deaf. But at any rate, all the seriously afflicted have lost something of life and are not on terms of full equality with those who are normal. Their compensations must come largely from another world.

Most people pass through life associating only with the living, and thus give but little thought to any world beside their own. The great majority of the people to whom I have talked about the other life are Christians, more or less interested in church or charitable work, yet they have no conception of what lies beyond. Many of them dimly imagine a dark valley or a black hole in the wall through which they will grope their way, hopeful that at some corner they may come upon the light. The law of compensation must give those of us who have lost an essential of human life a greater insight into that other shadowy existence. For us who have entered the silence there must somewhere be substitutes for music and for the charm of the human voice. Most of the deaf who formerly heard carry with them memories of music or kindly words, legacies from the world of sound. These are treasured in the brain, and as the years go by they become more and more ideal. Just as the chemist may by continued analysis find new treasures in substances which others have discarded, the man whose ears are sealed may find new beauties in an old song, or in some word lightly spoken, which you in your wild riot of sound have never discovered. And perhaps out of this long-continued analysis there may come fragments of a new language, a vision which may give one a closer view or a keener knowledge of worlds beyond. Who knows? Again, one may not only add the beauty of brightness to the past, but one may, if he will, summon the very imps of darkness out of the shadows for their hateful work of destroying faith and hope in the human heart. The Kingdom of Heaven or the prison of hell will be built as one may decide—and his tool is the brain.

“For as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he!”

It is my conviction that this proverb was written by a deaf man, who had thoroughly explored the world of silence!

While the inhabitants of every locality are usually anxious to increase their population, I am very frank to say that some of the recruits wished upon us are not a full credit to our community. The world in which we must live is naturally gloomy, where canned sunshine must be used about as canned fruit is carried into the northern snows. It is no help to have our ranks filled with discontented, unhappy beings who spend the years which might be made the best of their lives in bemoaning their fate and reminding the rest of us of our affliction. What we are trying to do is to forget it as far as we can. The deaf man does not want the world’s pity. That is the most distasteful thing you can hand him, even though it be wrapped in gold. For the expressed pity of our friends only leads to self-pity, and that, sooner or later, will pit the face of the soul like a case of moral smallpox. The most depressing thing I have to encounter is the well-meant pity of friends and acquaintances. I know from their faces that they are shuddering at the thought of my affliction, and I see them discussing it, as they look at me! Why can they not stop cultivating my trouble? All we ask is a fair chance to make a self-respecting living and to be treated as human beings. This compassion makes me feel that I am being analyzed and separated like an anatomical specimen; there will come to me out of the distant past of sound the bitter words of a great actor, who said as Shylock:

“I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?”

I was brought up among deaf people. They seemed rather amusing to me, and I could not imagine any condition which could put me in their place. I now see that I should have profited by a study of their life and habits. I could have been better prepared to live the life of a prisoner in the silent world. Would I have struggled for greater power and wealth? No, for they are not, after all, greater essentials here than in your world. Were I to go over the road again, I should fill my mind and soul with music, and should strive with every possible sacrifice to fill out my life with enduring friendships, the kind that come with youth. It seems to be practically impossible for the deaf man to gain that friendship which is stronger than any other human tie. My aurist once told me that at least sixty per cent of the people we meet in everyday life have lost part of their hearing. They cannot be called deaf, but the hearing is imperfect and deafness is progressive. Many of you who read this may be slowly traveling toward our world, without really knowing it. There are in the country today about sixty thousand deaf and dumb persons. If we include these, my estimate is that there are at least half a million persons who have little or no hearing, while over one million are obliged to use some kind of a device for the ears. So we may safely claim that our world is likely to become more thickly settled in the future, and we may well prepare to number the streets and put up signboards.

And I will admit another reason for telling you about this quiet country. It concerns our own people, for whom I speak. I would gladly do what I can to make life easier for the deaf. Their lot is usually made harder through the failure of others to understand the affliction, and to realize what it means to live in the silence. In my own case I can make no complaint. I am confident that society has treated me better than I deserve, given me more than I have returned. I have been blessed with family and friends who have made my affliction far easier than it might have been. I realize that it is not easy for the ordinary person to be patient and fair with the deaf. We may so easily become nuisances. I presume that there is no harder test of a woman’s character and ability than for her to serve as the wife of a deaf man, to endure his moods and oddities and suspicions with gentleness and patience and loving help. A woman may well hesitate to enter such a life unless the man is of very superior character.

Now and then I meet deaf people who complain bitterly at the treatment which society metes out to them. In most cases I think they are wrong, for we must all admit squarely the foundation fact of our affliction, which is that we may very easily become a trouble and a nuisance socially. We represent perhaps two per cent of the nation’s population, and we can hardly expect the other ninety-eight per cent always to understand us. I have had people move away from me as though they expected me to bite them. Some sensitive souls might feel that they were thus associated with mad dogs, but it is better to see the humor of it. For my part, I have come to realize that I am barred from terms of social equality with those who live in the kingdom of sound. I have come to be prepared for a certain amount of impatience and annoyance. I am often myself impatient with those dull souls who depend so entirely upon their ears that they have failed to cultivate the instinct or the intuition which enables us to grasp a situation at a glance. But I do ask for our people a fair hearing, if I may put it that way. While we are deprived of many of your opportunities and possibilities, we think we have developed something which you lack, perhaps unconsciously. We can turn our experience over to you if you will be patient.

Do not fear that I shall corner you to make you listen to a tale of woe. The truth is that I often feel, in all sincerity, exceedingly sorry for you poor unfortunates who must listen to all the small talk and the skim-milk of conversation.

It is so long since I have been able to chatter and play with words that I forget what people talk about. Some of them at least seem to have talked their tongues loose from their brains. I often ask intelligent people after this chatter what it was all about, and whether their brains were really working as they babbled on. Not one in ten can give any good reason for the conversation or remember twenty words of it. Do you wonder that we of the silence, seeing this waste of words, pick up our strong and enduring book and wander away with the great undying characters of history, rather thankful that we are not as other men, condemned to waste good time on such trivial exercise of ears and tongues?

That is the way we like to think about it, but there is a worm in this philosophy after all. I have reasoned things out in this way fifty times; the logic seems perfect, and yet my mind works back from my book to the story of John Armstrong and his New England farm.

John was a seedling, rooted in one of those Vermont hill farms. The Psalmist tells of a man who is like “a tree planted by the rivers of water”; such a tree puts its roots down until it becomes well-nigh impossible to pull them out of the earth. There had been a mortgage howling at the Armstrong door for generations. Not much beside family pride can be grown on these hillsides, and John would have spent his life cultivating it to the end, if his lungs hadn’t given out. The country doctor put it to him straight; it was stay on the hills and die, or go to the Western desert and probably live. In some way the love of life proved strongest. John bequeathed his share of the family pride to brother Henry and went to Arizona. There he lost the use of one lung, but filled his pockets with money. He secured a great tract of desert land, and one day the engineers turned the course of a mountain stream and spread it over John’s land. At home in Vermont the little streams tumbled down hill, played with a few mill wheels, gave drink to a few cows and sheep, and played on until they reached the river, to be finally lost in the ocean. In Arizona the river caused the desert to bloom with Alfalfa, and wheat, and orchards, thus turning the sand to gold.

And one day John stood on the mountain with his friends and looked over the glowing country, all his—wealth uncounted. All his! Worth an entire county of Vermont, so his friends told him.

“You should be a happy man,” they said, “with all that wealth and power taken from the sand. A happy man—what more can you ask?”

“I know it,” said John. “I know it—and yet, in spite of it all, right face to face with all this wealth, I’d give the whole darned country for just one week in that Vermont pasture in June!”

And so, unmolested in my world of silence, free from chatter and small talk, able to concentrate my mind on strong books, I look across to the idle gossipers and know just how John Armstrong felt. I would give up all this restful calm if I could only hear my boy play his violin, if I could only hear little Rose when she comes to say good-night, if I could only hear that bird which they say is singing to her young in yonder tree.