Adventures in Silence

by Herbert W. Collingwood

I am out of humanity’s reach,

I must finish my journey alone;

Never hear the sweet music of speech,

I start at the sound of my own!”

I had read this many times before without getting its full power. Now I saw that I was drifting with other deaf men out of reach of the “soft music of speech.” Suppose that I were to end my days on a desert island of complete silence! The idea haunted me for days, and I thought it out to the end. At last it came to me that Robinson Crusoe and Alexander Selkirk were but examples of brave spirits who could not be conquered by ordinary conditions. Other men have been marooned or swept ashore upon deserted or unknown islands—men of feeble will, without stern personal power. They made a struggle to hold on to civilization, but finally gave up, surrendered to natural forces, and either perished or reverted to barbarism. They, “heirs of all the ages,” renounced the progress of their race and went back nearer to the brute. Crusoe and Selkirk were made of sterner stuff. They were not to be beaten; out of the crudest materials they made home and companions and retained self-respect and much of the sweetness of life. Each made his own house in a new world, fashioned it by sheer force of will and faith. I made up my mind that I would do likewise. I would build my own house in the silent world and would make it a house of cheer.

But who will help the deaf man to build his house? Where can he find the material? I meet deaf people who complain bitterly because the people with whom they work and live do not treat them with full understanding and consideration. Let us be honest, and remember how little we ever went out of our way to stand by the deaf before our own affliction put us out of the social game! No doubt we laughed with the others at the queer blunders of deaf people, or let them see our annoyance when communication with them became a trouble. The chances are that we will receive fairer treatment from our associates than we ourselves gave to the afflicted in our best days. As for me, I vote the world a kindly place; people treat me reasonably. They are not cruel, but many of them are busy or selfish, and I fully realize that it is no pleasure for the average man or woman to attempt communication with the deaf. I do not blame them for avoiding it. And even when they use us well, from the very nature of the situation which separates us they can help but little in the building of these isolated houses of the silent world.

But I have lived to learn a strange thing. The silent world is peopled with the ghosts and shadows of men and women who have lived in other ages. Somehow they seem to feel that they would like to relive their lives, and repeat their message to humanity; but only the blind, the deaf and those otherwise afflicted seem to be able to meet them fully. The great undying souls who have made or modified history and human thought live in books, pictures and memories, but only in the world of silence can they give full comfort and power. For we come to know them so intimately that we learn how each one of them went about his great work carrying a cross of some kind—and the bond of sympathy to the afflicted grows stronger. You with light physical crosses perhaps think that you take full inspiration from Milton. Have you ever thought how much clearer his message can be to the blind or the deaf? Here, then, is our help and our hope. Our ears are not dull to the reverberating echoes of the past, and we can reach back for the best worldly solace—the experience and advice of those who have fought the good fight, and won.

It would be nonsense for anyone to claim that he goes through this preparatory course in philosophy with patience or good temper. He misses too much. The future is too uncertain. The dread of losing the rest of his hearing and the thought of the blight which this would mean to his future will at times drive the deaf man to desperation. At times he is almost willing to take the advice of Job’s wife—

“Dost thou still retain thine integrity? Curse God and die!”

And some of us never gain the faith and philosophy which make life in the silence endurable. Others acquire them slowly by a burning process which scars, but in the end gives them new strength. I remember two incidents which influenced me during the first days of my realization of what was ahead. They are of distinctly opposite character.