Blindness

by Henry Green

  And she? Well, he wasn’t a very interesting case, was he? It was not as if he had eyes left in their sockets, eyes that needed fighting to save. There was nothing interesting in his condition. How she loved difficult cases. She had only just graduated, so she hadn’t had any. And he was quite healthy, he was really healing very quickly, and he hadn’t a trace of shock. They had always told her in the profession that she would soon get out of it once she had had one, but her dream was a case of delirium tremens; to hear the patient describe the blue mist and the snakes, snakes crawling over everything. But she hadn’t had one yet. They fought, there had to be two of you, it kept your hands full. She was sorry for the poor boy, but then he was not really suffering. Suffering made you a great well of pity, and that of course was love.

  Her hand felt the bandages and then started work. The pain redoubles, torn face with white-hot bars of pain shooting across it. He was in agonies. He was like a bird in a white-hot cage, the pain pursuing him wherever he turned, and he began to squirm, physically now, in bed. Agony filled his head and his body and everything of him. She was changing the dressing, it would be over soon, and he must not moan, for that was not strong or beautiful. Aah. There, he had done it, and the pain died down again to the old glow. She had finished and he had moaned just a second before everything had been over. All for nothing, and it did not seem much now. She was despising him for moaning, he could sense it. And the athlete would have riddled his lips with his strong teeth before he uttered a sound, and then only to ask for a cigarette. Poor woman. And he was blind, was he?

  So that he would grow on into a lonely old age. He would know his way round the house, and there would be his favourite walk in the garden. As all blind men he would do everything by touch, and he would have tremendous powers of hearing. He would play music divinely, on the gramophone. And the tears would course from behind his sightless eyeballs—but had he any? He had never thought of that. He felt with his hand, but the bandages were too tight. He remembered that men with amputated legs could still waggle the toes which by that time were in the dustbin. He squinted, and was sure that his eyes were there.

  “Nurse, have I any eyes?”

  “How do you mean? No, I am afraid they were both taken out, they had to be.”

  It had been a dull operation, and they were now in spirits on the mantelpiece of her room at home in the hospital. When she got back she was going to put them just where she could see them first thing every morning, with the toes and the kidney. She had had an awful trouble to get the eyes.

  Oh, so his eyes were gone. Now that was irritating, a personal loss. Dore had been furious because his appendix had been removed the term before last, he said it was a blemish on his personal beauty, but eyes were much more personal. Why hadn’t they taken the eyes of one of the “muddied oafs”? While he, he was blind. How had it happened? He had never asked; must have been some accident or something. He would ask.

  “Nurse, how did it happen?”

  “Do you think you can bear to talk about it?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, a small boy threw a stone at the train, and it broke your window as you were looking out. It was very careless of him. But what I can’t understand is your being unconscious immediately like that, and not remembering. But doctor said you could be told, and. . .”

  A small boy. Damn him.

  “And what happened to the small boy?”

  “He was whipped by the police yesterday. Won’t you try and get some sleep now?” and her hands smooth the pillow disinterestedly and tuck him up. Before, when he had remembered it, this had been deliciously thrilling. So a small boy in a fit of abstraction, or of boredom, had blinded him, a small boy who could not appreciate what he had done, at least only for so long as his bottom hurt him. Why, if he had the child, he would choke him. One’s fingers would go in and in till they would be enveloped by pink, warm flesh. The little thing would struggle for a while, and then it would be over, you know, just a tiny momentary discomfort for an eternity of pleasure, for were not his god-parents shouldering his sins for him? It would be a kindness to the little chap, and one would feel so much better for it afterwards. He would be apprehended for murder, and he would love it. He would make the warder read the papers to him every morning, he would be sure to have headlines: BLIND MAN MURDERS CHILD—no, TORTURES CHILD TO DEATH; and underneath that, if he was lucky, WOMAN JUROR VOMITS, something really sensational. Mr. Justice Punch, as in all trials of life and death, would be amazingly witty, and he would be too. He would make remarks that would earn him some famous title, such as THE AUDACIOUS SLAUGHTERER. All the children in England would wilt at his name. In the trial all his old brilliancy would be there. Talking. No more of those conversations that had been so tremendously important. No more snubs, no more bitternesses, for the rest of his life he would be surrounded by dear, good, dull people who would be kind and long-suffering and good, and who would not really be alive at all. How dull being good for ever, always being grateful and appreciative for fear of hurting their feelings. And never to see again, how important transparency was. His head was beginning to hurt again. Nothing but women all his life. Better to have died. Why didn’t the pain go away?

  What was the time?

  2. HER, HIM, THEM

  “GOOD morning, mum.”

  “Grmn’, J’net.”

  And Janet, after putting the can of hot water in the basin behind the screen, went to the red curtains and pulled them back. The sunlight leapt, catching fire on her fuzzy hair, and the morning came freely in by the open windows. Mrs. Haye, in the right half of the double-bed, had such a lost look in the eyes which were usually so imperious that Janet shook her head sadly.

  She had had a bad night, the first since Portgammon over the fireplace there had fallen with her jumpin’ timber and had broken his back. She would get up immediately, it was no use stickin’ here in this ghastly bed. Pity she did not take her bath in the morning, a bath now would do her good, But there was more need for it in the evening.

  “Janet, I will get up and dress now.”

  “Now’m?”

  “Yes, now.”

  Later: “Will you have the brown tweed or the green’m?”

  “The heather mixture. Janet, these stockings each have a hole in the heel. I wish you would not put me out stockings that are unfit to wear.”

  She was in one of her tempers today, and no wonder. But as cook had said at supper last night, “No one to give notice till a year ’as passed by.”

  She was washing behind the screen, splashing and blowing. Then her teeth were being attacked. Work and forget, work and forget, till some plan emerged. She would send for Mabel Palmer and they would talk it out.

  She almost fell asleep while Janet was doing her hair.

  Diving upwards through the heather-mixture skirt, she said, “Tell William to ring up Mrs. Palmer, Norbury 27, you know, to ask her if she will come to tea today.”

  “Yes’m.”

  She struggled into the brown jumper and before the looking-glass put in the fox-head pin. There was old Pinch in the herbaceous border doing nothing already. She had never seen him about so early, it was really extraordinary. She looked a long time at Ralph in his photograph, but he was absolutely the same. His smile said nothing, gave her no advice, but only waited to be told what to do, just as he had been obeying the photographer then. He would have had more in common with the boy perhaps, would have been able to talk to him of pig-sticking out in India in the old 10th days. She could do nothing to distract him. But then he didn’t hunt, he didn’t shoot, he only fished and that sitting down, and he couldn’t fish now. Perhaps it was just as well he had given up huntin’, it would have been terrible had that been taken away from her suddenly.

  How heavy her skirt felt, and she was stiff. She felt old today, really old: this terrible affair coming suddenly like this, just when the Nursing Association was beginning to go a little better, too. And she could do nothing for the poor boy
, nothing. But something must be done, there must be some way out. Of course, he would never see again, it was terrible, she had seen that the first time the doctors saw her at the hospital, where that appalling woman was head nurse. She had not had a ward all through the war for nothing, she had seen at once. Some occupation must be found for him, it was the future one had to think about, and Mabel Palmer might know of something. Or his friends might—but then he hadn’t any, or at any rate she had never seen them. There it was, first Ralph falling down dead of his heart on the stairs, and now fifteen years after the boy was blinded, worse than being dead. What could one say to him? What could one do?

  She went downstairs. In the Oak Hall she found the dog, who rose slowly to greet her, looking awkwardly in her direction.

  “You, Ruffles? Why have they let you out so early? Poor blind old thing. Oh, so old.”

  She scratched his neck gently. Would it be better to have him destroyed? He was so old, he could hardly see any more, and it hurt him to bark. What enjoyment could he get out of life, lying there by the fire, asleep all day and hardly eating at all? Yet he had been such a good servant, for ten years he had barked faithfully at friends. And the only time he had not barked was when the burglars had come that once, when they had eaten the Christmas cake, and had left the silver. But it would be kinder to put him out of the way. One must be practical. But he was blind!

  William came in by the dining-room door carrying one of the silver inkstands as if it had been a chalice. His episcopal face was set in the same grave lines, his black tail-coat clung reverently to a body as if wasted by fasting, his eyes, faithfully sad, had the same expression of respectful aloofness. William, at least, never changed. She remembered so well old Lady Randolph, who had known him fifty years ago when he was at Greenham, saying, “I see no change in William.” But of course her eyesight had not been very grand, nevertheless William had shown distant pleasure when told. Still he was too aged, he could not do his share of the work, it must all fall on Robert; the boy was so lazy, though, that it would be good for him to do a little extra. But what could one do? He had served her for years, he had been a most conscientious servant, and it was only the night when the burglars did come that he had been asleep. However, they had only eaten the Christmas cake, they had left the silver.

  “William, I should like breakfast as soon as possible.”

  “Very well, madam.”

  And he was gone. Yes, it was convenient to have him about. He was quiet, he never exceeded himself, and he understood.

  Outside, on the little patch of lawn up to the drive, they were mowing already with the horse-mower. They had made a very early start. The same George, the same Henry leading the pony which had carried John across the open country behind the hounds before he had given up, and which was still the same. It was only John who had changed.

  “George,” she cried, “George.”

  The pony halted by himself, the men listened.

  “George, see that no stones get in the blades, it ruins them. Henry, you must pick them up and throw them back on to the drive.”

  Both: “Yas’m.”

  And they went on mowing.

  Of course they were going to keep her waiting for her breakfast now. But no, William came in and gravely announced it.

  As she went in she looked gratefully at him, he was a symbol. He had come to them directly after the honeymoon, prematurely white and sad. Ralph used to say that he was a marvellous valet. Thirty years ago. Then they had gone to India with the 10th. Ten years after they had come back, and had found William again. It was extraordinary, that, and Ralph had said then that he tasted comfort for the first time in ten years. At the funeral William had sent his own wreath, on it written in his copy-book handwriting, “To his master respectfully from his valet.” It had not been tactful, she had had to thank him. He had exceeded himself. His only lapse.

  Nothing seemed worth while. Yesterday had tired her out utterly. First the doctors destroying her last bit of hope, and then her breaking it to him, which had been so terrible. She had gone up again after tea, and it had been frightful, his face underneath the bandages had been tortured, his mouth in a half-sneer. She had been frightened of him. And finally, as nicely as he could, he had asked her to leave him for the evening. The nurse had met her at the door and had whispered, “He is in rather a state,” as if she had not known that. The woman was a fool.

  This coffee was undrinkable. The cook had probably been gigglin’ again with Herbert. That affair! You could not drink it, absolutely undrinkable. She would make a row. But was it worth while? She felt so tired today. But the house must go on just as usual, there must be no giving way. She rang the bell. They must find some occupation for the boy, he could not be left there rankling. Making fancy baskets, or pen-wipers, all those things blinded soldiers did, something to do. William coughed.

  “William, this coffee is undrinkable. Will you tell the cook to find some occupation for . . . to find some . . . The roaster must be out of order. No, don’t take my cup away. I will drink it for this once.”

  Had he seen? At any rate he would not tell. She had not been able to give a simple order, it was terrible, without giving herself away. She must make inquiries about Braille books, and find someone to teach it to him. A knock.

  “Come in.”

  It was the nurse.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Haye. I came down because I wish you would come up to speak to John. He has refused to eat his breakfast, and there was a nice bit of bacon this morning. I am afraid he is taking it rather badly, he did not sleep much last night. But if you would come up and get him quieter.”

  What right had she to call him John? She must be changed. Oh, the misery of it, and the tortures he must be going through. She could do nothing, if she spoke to him she would only say the wrong thing.

  She rose from the table and looked at the coffee-pot.

  “I can do nothing with him, nurse. I think it would be better to leave him to himself, he always prefers that. He will be quieter this evening.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Haye; I dressed his wounds this morning, they are getting on nicely.”

  His wounds. The scars. And he would wear black spectacles. He had been so handsome. It would be better not to go up this morning, but let him quieten down.

  She sat down and looked out of the windows in the bay. The big lawn was before her, they would begin to mow it soon. Dotted over it were blackbirds and thrushes looking for worms, and in the longer grass at the bottom she could see the cock pheasant being very cautious. They were pretty things to look at, but he and his two wives did eat the bulbs so. She would have to send for Brown to come down and kill them. And what good was it keeping up the shootin’, now that all hope had gone of his ever holdin’ a gun? But nothing must change. The lower border was really looking very fine, the daffodils were doing splendidly. It was just the same, the garden, and how well it looked now. He hadn’t eaten his breakfast. No. Of course, once in a while a tree fell down and made a gap that would look awkward for a bit, but there were others growing and you became used to it. There went a pigeon, fine birds but a pest, they did more harm to the land than the rooks. She ought never to have made that birthday promise to John, that the garden should be a sanctuary for them; but going out to watch them had made him very happy in the old days, and now? What would he do now?

  She got up heavily and left the dining-room. Going through the house she came to the sitting-room, which looked out on to the small rose garden surrounded by a high wall. It ought to look well this year, not that he would see it, though. She had a lot of things to do this morning, she would not let the thing come up and crush her. His was the sort of nature which needed to be left alone, so it was no use going up to see him. Plans must be made for when his new life would begin, and some idea might emerge out of her work. Being blind he could do work for the other blind, and so not feel solitary, but get the feeling of a regiment. Meanwhile there was the Nursing Association. She must w
rite to his friends, too, they ought to know that he was blind. Would they really care? But of course anyone who knew John must care. Then their letters would come in return, shy and halting, with a whole flood of consolation from the neighbours, half of whom did not care in the least. She would have to answer them; but no, she couldn’t. Then they would say that the blow had aged her, she had said that so often herself. Their letters would be full of their own little griefs, a child who had a cold, a husband worried by his Indian liver, one who had been cut publicly by Mrs. So-and-So—but this wasn’t fair. They would write rather of someone of theirs who had died recently or years and years ago, of the memory of their grief then, of what had helped them then, of prayer, of a wonderful sleeping draught. Not sleeping, that was what was so hard. And she would answer suitably, for of course by now one knew what to say, but it was hateful, people laying little private bits of themselves bare, and she being expected to do likewise. She could say everything to Mabel, but not to them. Still, it would be all over some day. Life would not be the same, it would go on differently, and yet really be just the same. But did that help? Could she say to the boy, “You will get used to it in time”? It was ridiculous. Could she preach religion at him when she was not quite sure herself? Something must be done.

  She took up the Nursing accounts. Five pounds in subscriptions, it was not bad. That Mrs. Binder. She would have to write to her, it was ridiculous not to subscribe. She was the sort of woman to put spider webs on a cut. But they did not give their babies cider to drink any more as a substitute for mother’s milk, she had stopped that. Yet perhaps Mrs. Moon did, she would do anything, and her house was so filthy. The annual inspection had gone off so well, too, the Moon child had been the only one to have nits in her hair. What could one do? The house was filthy, the husband earned very low wages, you could not turn them out for being insanitary, they would have nowhere to go. And the house was losing value every day. John must learn to care about these things.