Adventures in Silence

by Herbert W. Collingwood

And this woman’s mother died. Her daughter was forced to sit beside her at the last, unable to hear the message which the mother, just passing into the unseen country, tried to give. In all the book of time, I suppose there is recorded no more terrifying sadness than the fact of this inability to hear the parting words. Sometimes I regret that I promised not to make this book a tale of woe, for what could I not tell, if I would, of the soul-destroying sadness of this longing to hear a whispered confidence?

The woman of whom I speak did not shrivel under the heat of calamity. She continued treatment, and has made some slight gain in hearing. And now she has qualified as an expert physician. People wonder how a deaf person can possibly diagnose organic diseases, such as heart trouble, or even pneumonia. They can do it, for I have known several very deaf physicians who yet have met with marked success. One in particular was for years a chief examiner for a large insurance company. There was something almost uncanny about the way this man could look into the human body and put his finger upon any weak spot. I finally decided that he had developed as a substitute for hearing a hidden power to record with the eye and mind the symptoms not visible to most of his profession. The others depended on man-made charts and rules. Their perfect ears had made them slaves to common practice. My deaf friend, deprived of the ordinary avenue of approach for consultation, had pushed off like a pioneer into the unknown, where he had found the mysterious power.

I am well aware that I am getting out where the water is deep and that many of you are not prepared to swim with me. But there are some very strange things happening in the silent world. Have you ever noticed two deaf people trying to communicate? Strange as the process may appear, they are able to make each other understand, and they do it quite easily, where a person with good ears would have great trouble. I feel convinced that this century will see a system of wordless thought communication worked out, though its beginnings may be crude. It will be developed first by the afflicted, chiefly by the deaf. I am sure that you have noticed, as I have, how the so-called dumb animals can communicate. Let us take a group of horses at pasture. Now that gasoline has so largely superseded oats as motive force on our farms, younger people may not fully understand, but most people of middle age will remember how old Dick and Kate and all the rest went to a service of grass on Sunday. Perhaps they were scattered all over the field. Suddenly Dick, the galled old veteran off by his fence corner, raised his head and considered for a moment. Near by were old Sport and Kate, feeding side by side as they have worked in the harness for years. Soon old Dick walked meditatively up to this pair. He halted beside them and they stopped feeding for a moment, apparently to listen. The old horse stayed with them for a time and then walked slowly about the field to the others. No audible sound was made, but finally, one by one, the horses all stopped feeding and followed their leader up to the shadow of the big tree. The gray mare and her foal were the last to go. There in the shade the horses stood for some time with their heads together. Evidently some soundless discussion was taking place. At one point the gray mare threatened to kick old Dick, but she was prevented by big Tom, who seemed to be sergeant-at-arms. After a time they separated, and each went back to the spot where he was feeding. Who does not know that there has been a convention at which these horses have agreed upon some definite line of conduct? They may have organized a barnyard strike or mutiny. Dick and Kate may refuse to pull at the plow. Perhaps the council agreed to let certain parts of the pasture grow up to fresh grass. We saw the colt chasing the sheep back to the hill. No doubt he had been appointed a committee of one to do this, since the sheep nibble too close to allow an honest horse a good mouthful. At any rate, through some power which humans do not possess, these animals are able to communicate, and to make their wants known. I presume that originally man possessed something of this strange power. As he developed audible language he let the ability fall into disuse. The Indians and some savages have retained much of it. I take it that the deaf, shut away from much of ordinary conversation, redevelop something of this power.

Kipling brings this idea out well in some of his Vermont stories. The farmer goes on Sunday afternoon to salt the horses in the back pasture, where the boarding horses are feeding. These boarders represent a strange mixture. There are “sore” truck horses from the city, family nags on vacation, and old veterans whose days of usefulness are ended. With this mixed company, bringing in all the tricks of the city, are the sober work horses of the farm. The farmer puts his salt on the rocks where the horses can lick it, and then sits down to look over the rolling country. Several of these city boarders are of the “tough” element, and they attempt to stir up a mutiny.

“See,” they say as they lick the salt, “now we have him. He does not suspect us. We can creep up behind him, kick him off that rock and trample him.”

But the farm horses object. This man has treated them well, and they will fight for him, and the toughs are awed. I have spent much time watching farm animals at silent communication, and I have come to believe that Kipling’s story may be partly true. I have seen our big Airedale, Bruce, sit with his head at one side watching the children at play on the lawn. He will walk off to where the other dogs are, and evidently tell them about it, glancing at the children as he does so.

Some men are able to talk with their eyebrows or their shoulders or their hands so that they are easily understood. I talked with an Italian once through an interpreter. This man was a fruit-grower, and my friend explained to him that I was growing peaches without cultivating the soil, just cutting the grass and weeds and letting them lie on the top of the ground. The Italian regarded this as rank heresy, and he evidently regretted his inability to express himself in English. He did give a curious long shrug to his shoulders, he spread out his hands, rolled his eyes and spat on the ground. He could not possibly have expressed his disapproval more eloquently, and I understood his feelings far better than I did those of the learned professor who elaborated a complicated theory for growing peaches.

All intelligent deaf men will tell you that they know something of this subtle power. Edison is very deaf, and I am not surprised to learn that he is studying it, attempting to organize it. It is one of the interesting mysteries of the silent world, and it can be made into a great healing compensation for one who will view his affliction with philosophy, concentrating his mind upon its study.

While, of course, I could make a long catalogue of the compensations and advantages of deafness, we must all admit that there is another side. For instance, the man of the silent world must avoid the pitfall of pronunciation. When sound is lost he forgets how words are pronounced, and the new words and phrases constantly entering the language are mysterious stumbling blocks. For example, no sensible deaf man will mention the name of that Russian society, the epithet now so glibly applied by conservatives to all who show radical tendencies. Nor would he attempt to put tongue to the hideous names of some of the new European States, or even to the name of McKinley’s assassin. He lets someone else attempt those, some reckless person with good ears. A strange thing about it is that our friends do not understand our limitations in this respect. My wife ought to know most of the restrictions and tricks of the deaf. Yet she was quite surprised when I hesitated about reading a church lecture without a rehearsal. It was a canned lecture, where you procure the slides and the manuscript, and select some well-voiced “home talent” to read it. I was chosen as the “talent,” but I remembered how years before I upset a sober-minded group by twisting up “Beelzebub.” Therefore, I wanted to read the lecture over several times and practice on some of the hard Bible names. Suppose I ran unexpectedly on those men who went down into the fiery furnace. Every child in the Sunday school could reel them off perfectly, but I had not heard of them for years, and I defy any one to get them right at sight.

Let the wise deaf man stick to the words he knows about until he has practiced the new ones to the satisfaction of his wife and daughter. He may well put up a defensive fight in most of his battles. Let him be sure of his facts, sure that he is right, and then stand his ground. Let others do the advancing and the countering and play the part of Napoleon generally; the deaf man will do better to “stand pat.”