Blindness

by Henry Green

  And her affairs were none too bright. It was as much as one could do to keep the house and the garden going, what with the income tax and the super-tax and everything. The car would have to go, and with it Evans. Harry could drive her about in the dog-cart, it would be like the old days again except when one of them passed her. It was terrible to see the country changing, the big houses being sold, everyone tightening the belt, with the frightful war to pay for. Now that he was blind there was no hope of his ever making any money. And the charities had not stopped. What would happen to John? Even if he hadn’t gone blind it would have been difficult enough. There were more charities now, if anything; they came by every post. Her letters, she had forgotten. She rang the bell. That Mrs. Walters had written for a subscription to a garden fête in aid of the local hospital. Of course she stole half the money you sent, but a little of it was fairly certain to be used by the hospital. The woman never kept accounts for those things, which was wicked. Then, again, Mrs. Andrew and her Parish Nurse, the effrontery of it when she did not subscribe to the Barwood one. What a fight it was. Were there any blind boys in Norbury of his own age, nice boys whom he could make friends with? They could not afford to go to London where he might find some. They could, of course, if they sold Barwood. Sell Barwood!—No, and he would appreciate still having it when he grew older. To be blind in one of those poky little suburban villas, with a wireless set, and with aeroplanes going overhead, and motor bikes and gramophones. No.

  William came in.

  What had she rung for? Blank.

  “It is all right, William, I have found it now.”

  It was terrible, she could not even remember when she rang.

  No, everything must go on just the same, the garden would be still the best in twelve miles, even if all the world went blind. They must find a companion for the boy, Mabel would be able to help there. Someone who would spend his time with him, her time, that would be better. It was so terrible, he would never marry now, she would have no grandchildren. The place would be sold, the name would die, there was no one. Ralph had been the last. “Granny.” He would not meet any nice girls now, he could never marry. A girl would not want to marry a blind man. All her dreams were gone, of his marrying, of her going up to live in the Dower House—that was why the Evanses had it on a short lease. She would have made friends with his wife and would have shown her how to run everything. His wife would have made changes in the house, of course, and it would have been sad seeing the place different; but then the grandchildren, and he would have made such a good father. Why was it taken away quite suddenly like this? But then they might still find some girl who had had a story, or who was unhappy at home, who would be glad, who would not be quite—but who would do. He must marry. All the bachelors one had known had been so womanish, old grandfathers without children. John Goe. She could not fill his life, there would have to be a wife. Mabel might know of someone. Perhaps they would not be happy, but they would be married. And she ought to be happy here, it was a wonderful place, so beautiful with the garden and the house. It had been her real life, this place; before she had married she had not counted, something had just been training her for this. And she had improved it, with the rock garden and the flowers. Mary Haye had not known one flower from another. And she had got the village straight, there had been no illegitimate children for two years, and they were all married. It would be a blow going, a bit of her cut off, but the Dower House was only a mile off, and right in the middle of the village. And now perhaps she would be able to live here till she died if he did not marry. But he must, for his happiness, if there was to be someone to look after him when she died. And she would have grandchildren after all, it might turn out all right, one never knew in this world; there had been Berty Askew. If everything failed he could have a housekeeper. Yes, it was immoral, but he must have love, and someone to look after him. After Grandmamma died the Grandparent had had one at Tarnarvaran. Argyll and the heather . . . Really, now that this trouble was upon her, Edward might write. But it was for him to act first.

  She must order dinner. There was comfort in choosing his food, it was something to do for him. Going out she straightened a picture that was a little crooked. As she opened the door the sunlight invaded the passage beyond, and made a square of yellow on the parquet floor.

  In front of the swing door into the kitchen she halted. Honestly, one did not like to enter the kitchen now for fear of findin’ Mrs. Lane gigglin’ with Herbert. That affair. Well, if they brought things to a head and married, they would have to leave. She could not bear a married couple among the servants, they quarrelled so.

  Inside it was very clean, the deal tables were like butter, the grey-tiled floor, worn in places, shone almost. Along one wall was hung a museum of cooking utensils, every size of saucepan known to science, and sinister shapes. Mrs. Lane was waiting. Where was her smile? Oh, of course it was. How nice they all were. Mrs. Lane began talking at once.

  “I am sorry to say’m that Muriel has had some kittens in the night. We none of us suspected’m. In the potato box’m.”

  What, again!

  “Tell Harry to drown ’em immediately.”

  One must be practical.

  “If I could find a home for them’m?”

  “Very well, Mrs. Lane, only I cannot have them here. What with the stable cat and the laundry cat there are too many of ’em about. What is there this morning?”

  “Very good’m. I’ve got a bit of cod for upstairs”—it was no use mentioning no name—“an’ would you like one of the rabbits Brown brought in yesterday, and the pigeon pie’m, with cherry tart for upstairs?”

  “That will do nicely.”

  “An’ for dinner I . . .” etc.

  As she was going out into the kitchen yard so as to gain the stables, Mrs. Lane ran after her to stop her. She spoke low and fast.

  “Madam, the nurse asked me this morning that she could ’ave ’er meals seprit. Didn’t like to take them in the servants’ ’all’m.”

  “If she wants to eat alone, Mrs. Lane, we had better humour her. Have them sent up to her room.”

  “Very good’m.”

  An’ who was to take ’em up to ’er, stuck-up thing?

  There, now there was going to be trouble about the nurse. Cook had been angry, although she had tried not to show it. Really they might leave her alone and not bother her with their little quarrels. Somebody would be giving notice in a week. Still, Mrs. Lane would not go while Herbert was here.

  “Harry, Harry!”

  A sound of hissing came suddenly through an open window on the other side of the little yard. A head wobbled anxiously behind a steamy window further down. A hoof clanked.

  There was the stable cat. “Shoo!”

  “Harry!”

  “Yess’m.”

  She inspected the horses and went out.

  No, she would not go to the laundry this morning. The damp heat would be rather exhausting. Curry had been riding a nice bay last season which had looked up to her weight. She was getting rather tired of Jolly. She stopped, that had reminded her.

  “Harry, you can take them both out to exercise tomorrow, I shall not go out, of course.”

  “Very good’m.”

  He would never ride now, all her hopes of getting him back to the love of it were broken, and he could not even go on a lead, for that was so dangerous. What would he do?

  She went through the door in the wall into the kitchen garden. She called:

  “Weston, Weston!”

  There was Herbert pickin’ lettuces just for the chance of going to Mrs. Lane in the kitchen with them. He raised his bent body and touched his cap. She nodded.

  Again she cried:

  “Weston!”

  A cry came from the other end, from the middle of the artichokes, the tops of which you could hardly see—it was a big kitchen garden. Weston appeared walking quickly. He took his cap off.

  “How are the peaches getting on?”

&nbs
p; Peaches were good for convalescents.

  “Very nicely’m. Going to be a good crop, and the apples too. Was among the artichokes’m. Fine crop this year. Never seen ’em so high.”

  “What beautiful cabbages, Weston.”

  He would eat them, as he could not see flowers.

  “Yes’m. Going to be a good crop.”

  “Yes; well, good morning, Weston.”

  “Good morning’m.”

  Into the garden. Pinch was still at the same spot on the border as he had been when she had looked out of her bedroom window. He was too old, but he was a faithful servant.

  Yes, his wife was going on as well as was to be hoped. Yes, it was bad weather for the farmers.

  Pinch was the same, so why had he changed? What was the matter with Pinch’s wife? Just age perhaps, any way they would be the next for the almshouses. When Mrs. Biggs died they could go in, and that should not be long now. This would leave vacant their cottage on Ploughman’s Lane, which that nice man from Huntly could have. How nice the trees were with their fresh green; whatever happened the seasons went round. If this warm weather went on he could get out to be on the lawn but then you could never tell with the English spring. She would have to go in to write those letters, while it was so lovely out here. There was the moorhen starting her nest in the same place in the moat. Mrs. Trench’s baby would be due about now, her sixth, while that Jim Pender, earning excellent wages, only had his one girl, and she was five years old. It was ridiculous, she would have to speak to him about it, a great strong fellow like him with such a pretty wife. She must have some jelly and things sent up to Mrs. Trench. He must take an interest in the village now that he had nothing to do. He could start a club for the men and teach them something, he would do it very well, talking about art or books, or one of those things he was so interested in. That would do something to occupy his time. There was a daffodil out already, it had planted itself there, it looked so pretty against the bole of the tree. How good a garden was for one! She felt quieter after the ghastly night she had had. The only way out of trouble like this was to work for others till you forgot, when a plan would emerge quite suddenly, that was what life taught one, and Mabel was the same.

  Annie was weeding the gravel of the Yew Walk. In summer she weeded, in winter she swept leaves, and she picked up dead branches all the year round.

  “Good morning, Annie.”

  “Good morning’m.”

  She was not quite all there, poor thing, but there was nothing to be done for her, she would always be like that.

  The attendances at church were disgraceful again now, just as bad as when the Shame had had it. That had been the only time the village had been right and she wrong. No one had been able to persuade her till she had seen for herself. It was all part of this modern spirit, she had seen terrible dangers there for him, but now, poor boy, that he was blind she could at least keep him to herself away from those things that led nowhere. She ought to go back now to write those dreadful letters, but it was so lovely out here, with the sunlight. And it didn’t look as if it would last, there were clouds about. She had been right to put on thick clothes. How pretty the little stone Cupid was, king of his little garden of wallflowers walled in by yews, it would be a blaze of colour. Now that the flagstones were down you could see what a difference it made.

  She opened the door into Ralph’s old study. It would be his now, as she had always meant it to be. It got all the sun in the morning, and there were no awkward corners. He would have a hard time at first in getting about, but she would lead him and teach him where the furniture was and all that, it was one of the things she could do for him.

  In the Oak Hall there was a note for her. The parson’s wife again. Oh, this time she wanted fifty cups and saucers for the Mothers’ Union tea. Well, she could have them. What, again? No, no, not another. Yes, in the PS, “I am going to have another darling baby.” That was too much. Would they never stop? And they could not afford it with the covey they had already. All it meant was that Mrs. Crayshaw would not be able to do any visiting in the village for quite two months. Now there was another letter to write, of congratulation this time, and it was going to be hard to word. What did they call it, a quiver full? Tomorrow and there would be another letter from her, she would have heard about him by then, it would be full of earnest stuff. And she did not want sympathy, she wanted practical advice.

  It was all so difficult. She had betrayed him this morning, she had not thought nearly enough about it all. She was beginning not to care already. This morning she had frittered away, excusing herself by saying that Mabel would think of something, while everyone knew that it was always she who talked while Mabel listened. Still, it was necessary to talk. But last night had been so dreadful, when she had lain in bed turning the thing over and over in her mind, and she had prayed too. She had thought of many ways to occupy his time, but they had all gone out of her head now. Those red curtains were getting faded, but Skeam’s man had been insolent when last he came. That was what we were comin’ to, a decorator’s tout giving himself airs. Before all this she had meant to put John into a decorator’s business, he was so artistic that he would have done wonders, perhaps even made a little money. But there, it was no use thinkin’ of might-have-beens. He must marry, it was the only thing he could do. He must be a man, and not be left unfinished. They would have the marriage in the church, and a dinner for the tenants in the Great Hall. But he was so young. And she would spend the evenin’ of her days in the Dower House.

  She passed through the Great Hall. She buried her head violently into a pot of dead roses. In her room Ruffles was sleeping fitfully in his basket. She picked up a paper, glanced at the headlines, then put it aside. She sat in her armchair and looked vacantly at Greylock over the fireplace. Along the mantel-board were ranged a few cards to charities, to funerals, and to weddings. She picked up the paper again and looked through the Society column, and then the deaths and marriages, and then threw it on to the floor. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away in the pocket of her skirt. She rubbed her face slowly in her hands, when she stopped it was redder still. Then she sat for some time looking at nothing at all, thinking of nothing at all. The specks kept on rising in the sunlight.

  She got up. She rang the bell. She went to the writing-table and sat down. She opened the inkstand hoof, Choirboy’s hoof, and she looked at her pens. She dipped one into the ink, and she drew a bit of paper towards her. Then she looked out of the window on to the rose garden for some time.

  William came in.

  “William, Mrs. Crayshaw has written to say that she will want fifty cups and saucers . . . No, on second thoughts . . . It is all right, William, I will go and tell cook myself. And—oh, William, the letters, please.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  William held the door open for her. Mrs. Lane might not like it from the butler. She would go up to see him after this. But you could not be too careful with servants nowadays, and . . .

  *

  How did one pass the time when one was blind? Six days had gone by since she had told him, days filled with the echo of people round occupying themselves on his account. Mamma had had three long conferences with Mrs. Palmer, conferences which had reached him through vague references as to what he was going to do, with not a word as to what he was going to do now. Nan was struggling with an emotion already waning. Her long silences, in which she sent out waves of sentimentality, told that she was trying to freeze what was left into permanency. The nurse helped him grudgingly back to health, the new life was forming, and it was even more boring than the former. They read to him in turn for hours on end, Mamma talked of finding a professional reader. It was now so ordinary to be blind.

  He was in the long chair, under the cedar on the lawn. He felt the sky low and his bandages tight. The air nosed furtively through the branches and made the leaves whisper while it tickled his face. Pigeons were cooing, catching each other up, repeating, answering, as if all the
world depended on their little loves. It was the sound he liked best about the garden; he yawned and began to doze.

  He was alone for the moment. Nan had left him to take a cup of tea. The nurse was taking the daily walk that was necessary to her trade union health, and Mrs. Haye had gone up to the village to console Mrs. Trench, whose week-old baby was dying. Herbert, leaning on the sill of the kitchen window, was making noises at Mrs. Lane while she toyed with a chopper, just out of his reach. Weston was lost in wonder, love and praise before the artichokes, he had a camera in his pocket and had taken a record of their splendour. Twenty years on and he would be showing it to his grandchildren, to prove how things did grow in the old days. Twenty years ago Pinch had seen better. Harry was hissing over a sporting paper; Doris in an attic was letting down her hair, she was about to plait the two soft pigtails. Jenny, the laundry cat, was very near the sparrow now, by the bramble in the left-hand corner of the drying ground.

  He roused himself—if he went to sleep it would only mean that he would lie awake all night. He fingered the letter that Nan had read to him from J. W. P., full of regret that he was not coming back next term, saying that he would get his leaving-book from the Headmaster for him. No more going back now, which was one good thing, and no more irritations with J. W. P. He had done a great deal of work, though, that last year; he had really worked quite hard at writing, and he would go on now, there was time when one was blind. J. W. P. had disapproved, of course, and had said that no one should write before he was twenty-one, but about that time he had come under the influence of the small master with spectacles, whose theory was that no boy should have any ideas before he had left school. Perhaps they were right, it was certainly easier to give oneself up to a physical existence. Healthy sanity. And here was weakness, in saying that they ever could be right. But he was in such an appalling desolation that anything might be right. Why had he taken that train?