Probably Congreve was drawing on his imagination entirely, especially as it is not likely that he ever encountered a genuine savage; but a deaf man with a natural love for music could have given him full understanding and appreciation of its mighty power. And, on the other hand, the silent life becomes drab and cold without the sweet tones of harmony. In this respect I think the man who was born deaf has less to regret than he who has known music only to lose it.
One of the most wretchedly pathetic figures in human history was Beethoven when he became convinced that he was losing his hearing. He realized at last that the melodies which meant all of life to him were passing from him with ever-increasing rapidity. He must have watched them go as a condemned man might see the sands dropping through the hourglass. For Beethoven was sadly deficient in the needed equipment of one who must enter the silent world. He had nothing but his music. There was no remaining solace. The deaf Beethoven does not present an heroic picture; he seems like a man cast upon a desert island without the instinct or the ability to search intelligently for food and water. There can be nothing more tragic than the fate of such a man thrown into alien conditions which demand skill and courage of a high order, who yet stands helpless through grief or terror. Compare Beethoven’s unmitigated despair with Milton’s heroic serenity:
“Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
But here we also see something of the different effects upon character of the two afflictions. The blind are more cheerful than the deaf. Some of their cheerfulness comes through the ability to hear music; the courage comes through their inability to see the danger.
When we deaf are adapting our lives to the inevitable we are surprised to find the number of new handles life really presents. We have been forced to look for them, and we can find new interests to give us a fresh hold upon life. Yet there is nothing we can do, there is no thought, philosophy or mental training that will ever be anything but a poor substitute for music.
Perhaps the most peculiar sensation in all our affliction comes when we sit in a room where skilled musicians are playing, and observe the effect of sound upon our companions. They are moved to laughter or tears. Their eyes brighten, their hands are clenched, or are beating time to the music; their faces flush as waves of emotion sweep over them. To us it seems most commonplace. We can merely see nimble fingers dancing over the piano keys or touching the strings of the violin. Perhaps we see the singer opening and shutting her mouth—much as she would eat her food—and this is all we know. The mechanical processes may even be grotesque. So far as any effect upon our emotions may be considered, the flying fingers might as well be sewing or knitting, the mouth might be talking the ordinary platitudes of conversation. The thrill is not for us. Large audiences rise while “America” is being sung or played—men and women listen with bowed heads. I stand up with them, but I hear no sound. I feel a thrill—for it is my country, too; yet can I be blamed for feeling that life has denied me the power to be as deeply stirred with that great emotion, and has given me no substitute? The mighty charms which may “soften rocks or bend the knotted oak” are made powerless by the little bones which have grown together inside my ear, and they are the smallest bones in the body.