Adventures in Silence

by Herbert W. Collingwood

Again, the roaring and the pounding will start without warning, and then as suddenly fade to a dim murmur. It appears to diminish when the victim can concentrate his mind upon some cheerful subject, so I take it to be more of a mental or nervous disorder—not essentially physical. Many times I have observed that these noises become more violent and malignant whenever the mind is led into melancholy channels. They appear to be modified and softened in dreams, so I am thankful that I have been able to train myself into the ability to lie down and sleep when the clamor becomes unendurable. I meet people who pride themselves on their ability to go without sleep, and I shudder to think of their fate should they ever be marooned in the silence, since they appear to regard extra hours of sleep as a form of gross negligence at least! These night-owls tell me that they are the “pep” of society—its greatest need. I am not so sure of their mission. As I see it, the world has already too much “pep” for its own good. We need more “salt.”

You have doubtless noticed deaf people who go about with a weary, half-frightened expression, and have wondered why they have failed to “brace up” and accept their lot with philosophy. You do not realize how these discordant sounds and malignant voices are driving these deaf people through life as a haunted man is lashed along the avenues of eternal doom. Of course his will frequently becomes broken down, and his capacity for consistent and continuous labor is practically destroyed. Do you know that if you were forced to remain for several hours in a roaring factory you would come back to your friends showing the same symptoms of voice and manner which you notice in the deaf?

In my own case these noises have not been greatly troublesome, since I have persistently refused to listen to them. It is not unlikely that they are largely imaginary—although you are free to experiment by taking a double dose of quinine, which should give you a fair imitation of what many deaf people live with. The chief noise trouble that I have had is a sort of low roaring or murmuring, at times rising to an angry bellow, and then again dying to a low muttering. The deaf usually remember common noises heard in their youth, although I fancy that as the years go on our memory of sound changes with them. My private demonstration reminds me of the old sound of the ocean, pounding on the shores of the seaport town in New England where I was born. It seems to me now that the ocean was never quiet, except at low tide, and even then there came a low growl from the bar far out at the harbor entrance. I can remember lying awake at night as a child, listening to the pounding of the surf or the lap of the waves against the wharf. With a gentle east wind there was a low, musical murmur, but when the wind rose and worked to the north it seemed to me like a giant smashing at the beach, or like a magnified version of the Autumn flails pounding on barn floors far back among the hills. It seems to me now that I can hear and distinguish all those variations of sound in the noises within my head; I have often wondered if such memories ever come to those who have perfect hearing.

Poets and dreamers have enlarged upon the romantic quality of “the sad sea waves.” I once knew a woman who wrote very successful songs about the “shining sea,” though she never saw the ocean in her life. Those who live in the interior, far from the ocean, with never a view of any large body of water, are easily led to believe that the sounds of the sea are delightful companions. I often wish I could share my part of the performance with them! I would gladly exchange my constant sound companion for ten minutes of wind among the trees. Bryant says:

“There is society, where none intrude,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar.”

True; but Bryant was not deaf. No doubt as a child he held a sea shell to his ear and listened to its murmuring with delight. But he could lay it aside when it became tiresome! One speaks from quite another point of view when incased for life within the shell. I think I know just how the Apostle John felt when, looking out from every direction from his weary island, he saw only the blue, rolling water. He wrote as part of his conception of heaven:

“There shall be no more sea!”

I agree with him fully, and yet I know people whose conception of heaven includes Byron’s apostrophe to the ocean. How can we all be satisfied?

Other curious sounds come to us as we sit in the silence. Some are interesting, a few are strange or delightful. I frequently seem to hear church bells gently chiming, just as they did years ago when the sound came over the hills of the little country town where I was a boy. The sound now seems to start far away, dim in the distance; gradually it comes nearer, until the tones seem to fall upon the ear with full power. They are always musical, never discordant; they go as suddenly and as unexpectedly as they come. And where do they come from? Can it be that dormant brain cells suddenly arouse to life and unload their charge of gentle memories? Or it may be—but you are not interested in what the deaf man comes to think of strange messengers who enter the silent world. You would not believe me were I to tell you all we think and feel about them.