Blindness

by Henry Green

  June was an illusion—a lovely one. He had never felt anyone so alive. Coming into that room had been like a shower of sparks, or was it merely the mood he had been in? There were days when everything bristled with life, the mahogany table in the front hall almost purred when you stroked it, it was so warm and clinging. Great feline table. And the flowers poked their soft heads so confidingly into your palm, tickling. They must get another dog now that Ruffles was dead that he might have his hands licked. Stroking June, her skin would be so alive. There were days when everything was a toy, and when even the big flowers with heavy scents condescended, except the wooden lilies, and they stank of pollution. Violets were silly; they were not bold enough; they nestled simpering and were too frightened. But the others would play with you if you would only let them, gay exquisite things.

  He would write about these things, for life was only beginning again, and there were many things to say. Besides, one couldn’t for ever be sitting in a chair like this, and be for the rest of one’s life someone to be sorry for. And perhaps the way he saw everything was the right way, though there could be no right way but one’s own. Art was what created in the looker-on, and he would have to try and create in others. He would write slowly, slowly, and his story would drift as the country drifted, and it would be about trivial things. The man who chased tulips on a bicycle was silly as well as being an idiot, but the piano-tuner might make a story. He was of the type that had to feel over your face before he became confidential. Why hadn’t he done that to Miss Blandair? Of all practices it was the most revolting, and far more for yourself. Faces were so deformed, your fingers strayed into hair suddenly, though shut eyelids were incredibly alive. Not that the piano-tuner ever became confidential. He was very unhappy and very secretive. He had been blinded in the war, and the injustice of it made his hands burn when he talked about it. He gave himself away so painfully when he played after the tuning was over. But he had a few interesting things to say, how you would find when you were blind a little longer that you could tell by a feeling in your face when a wall or a chair or even something so low as a footstool was coming. So that you could walk about alone and unaided as he did. It would be wonderful, this new sense, he looked forward to it so, and was often imagining objects in the way when there were none. It would give a new feeling of companionship with the world. The darkness would be more intimate.

  But it would all be so different with her about. So that they would all go for walks together, all of them. There would be Mummy to take up to the top of Swan’s Wood, and of course June to take there, too, and Nanny to go round the garden on his arm, and Mamma to accompany visiting in the village. What talks they would have, telling Mummy what June was like, Nanny how inferior June was, and Mamma how sorry he was for June, though she would see through that. So that this, perhaps, was a beginning with June and the birds and the trees. They were much nearer, and Mummy was, too. The days would have change in them now.

  It was charming to think of Mummy being so close, but she wasn’t. And June was so much more tangible. It was also charming to think of the trees as being in conspiracy with the birds to make life more endurable, but of course they weren’t. One lived, that was all, and at times one lived more than at other times. But they were charming illusions, and they became real if you believed them. Oh! why did he think these things?

  Those gloves and things of her, why did they have so much of her about them? And why did the trees and the birds conspire together so openly? And why when he was alone did some presence—some companion of days that were dead now, because he could not remember them—why did she come and walk with him and sit by his side and make him understand dimly through his blindness? Mamma would come upon them when they were alone together sometimes, and she would say that he must not become morbid. And she would talk and talk until the longing went away.

  Was that what it was—a longing? Would he come upon it suddenly?

  There was no pain in his memory of her; if there had been it would have driven her away. That was why it was so lucky he had never known her; another illusion would have gone. Why did he go on thinking these things? Then it was lucky perhaps that he could not see any more, that the little boy had taken his sight away. For she was nearer than she had ever been before, now that he was blind.

  Evening was coming and with it the soft, harping rain, rustling, rustling. A bird was muttering liquidly, gently somewhere, and it was very like the night—kind, strange. And she was here with the feel of the air, and June was tomorrow, tangible as the sunlight. He shivered, and getting up he went into the house.

  2. WALKING OUT

  “MY NAME isn’t June, it’s Joan, and always was.”

  “But do you mind my calling you June? I think June is such a lovely name, so much nicer than Joan. You are just like June, too.”

  “Why should I be like June? You are silly. But I don’t mind. You can have your own way if you like, though I don’t know why you shouldn’t like Joan, which is my name whether you like it or not.”

  “That is the only reason why I like it.”

  “You are clever.”

  “But when June is your name I like it better than all other names, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, well, I will call you Joan, if June is not to your fancy.”

  “No, have it your own way.”

  “That is most awfully nice of you. I . . . No.”

  It was not going too well. It was so hard to find anything to talk about, and she was not easy. There was a terribly strained feeling in the air, they were feeding on each other’s shyness. But it would be better next time. The ice must break.

  “Where are we now?”

  “We’re just coming to the stile into Mr. Cume’s orchard.”

  “Then it was here that the bulldog attacked a cow. Most alarming it was. Flew at her nose.”

  “No, he didn’t, did he?”

  “Yes, but I pulled him off. Do you like bulldogs?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen very many. I only saw yours once or twice, and then he rather frightened me.”

  “He was so tame, really.”

  There was a pause. They walked on.

  “Do you like dogs?”

  “I don’t know. No.”

  “You don’t like dogs! Oh, June, I love them.”

  “I like cats.”

  “No, I don’t like cats. They are so funny and mysterious, or is that just what you like about them?”

  “Father doesn’t like cats either.”

  “Doesn’t he?”

  “No, he doesn’t!”

  “Have you got a cat?”

  “Yes, he’s called Minnie.”

  “They are so nice to have about the house—pets, I mean.”

  “Yes, aren’t they?”

  A pause. She was wonderful, so shy and retiring. What was there to say? He sought for words.

  “Will you come for another walk with me one day?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “We could go to the top of Swan’s Wood. It would be very nice of you. I am so alone.”

  “Why do you want to go up to the top? What happens there?”

  —What would? “There is a view, that’s all. A lovely view that I used to look at a great deal in the old days. And you can describe it to me when we get there.”

  “All right. Though I don’t know what you see in views.”

  He was a queer person, but very exciting.

  They walked. He guided his steps from the sound of hers. He felt awkward. Then he stumbled and almost fell, on purpose. She stopped and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Take care. You mustn’t fall down and hurt yourself.”

  “There is no harm done. I say, June, would you mind dreadfully if I did put my hand on your arm? I should be able to get along easier then.”

  “If you want to.”

  They set out again. Was it imagination or did she press his arm under hers, close to her? Had she much
on? His heart beat, one felt that one could never say anything again. Wasn’t she wonderful!

  “Do you like cows?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “They frighten me sometimes, although I live most of the time in the country. Don’t they you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “But they looked so fierce with their horns, and sometimes when they were frightened in Norbury market their eyes went purple and they slavered at the mouth.”

  “They are very stupid, that’s all.”

  “I’m not sure. And bulls, of course, are really dangerous.”

  “Bulls?” She laughed.

  “I like calves, June.”

  “Yes, calves are all right. They are so funny when they are young an’ their legs go wobbly.”

  He laughed. That was a little more human of her.

  “But they are awfully dangerous when they are like that, for the mother is only too ready to attack you, isn’t she?”

  “Quite likely. Don’t men fight bulls in Spain or some place like that?”

  “Yes, they do. And in England they used to set bulldogs on to bulls, so it’s in their blood. That was why ours went for Crayshaw’s cow. But I should have thought that they ought to stage cat-and-dog fights.”

  “Oh?”

  Back to cats again. But his arm was in hers, and it was warm there.

  “There’s a gate coming.”

  “The one into the road?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Mind, you mustn’t hurt yourself.”

  She guided him through, and his feet felt the stones.

  “Well, this is where I leave you. I’ll walk back by the road.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “Yes. You will be coming tomorrow to have your hand looked to, won’t you?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Poor hand, I am so sorry about it. Does it hurt very much?”

  “It does rather.”

  Here was someone to make a fuss over it, and it did hurt too.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  There was a pause. They faced each other in the middle of the road. His head was on one side and he didn’t seem to know where she was quite. Poor blind young man, she was sorry for him. He must be looked after.

  The awkwardness had fallen again between them. There was nothing to say. But she had agreed to come up to Swan’s Wood, which was one good thing. She was very nice.

  “Well, perhaps I had better be going back.”

  “Yes, an’ so had I,”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  And he began to walk home. Their first meeting was over. It had been terrifying. But they had walked arm in arm anyway. The touch and the warmth were so much finer when one was blind. And one was more frightened; still, her voice had been kind. She would come again right enough. He touched his blue glasses, he must be a sight. His steps sounded hollowly on the road, and he thought of a dream when he had run and run and run. But there had been no birds then, they had all been hushed. For suddenly, the sun came out, and, warmed by him, a bird began to sing in little cascades of friendliness. How good the world was. He wanted his lunch.

  *

  Nanny sat by the fire. Shadows ran up and down the walls of her room, and it was very quiet in there except for her breathing and the murmuring kettle. Kettles were so companionable. On the table by her side was a cup of tea which steamed up at the ceiling, broadly at first, and then the steam narrowed down till at last it was lost in a pinprick. It could not get so high. On the table was a patchwork cover, the heirloom of her family. By the cup stood a tea-caddy and by that a spoon. The kettle spurted steam at the fender in sudden, angry bursts.

  It was close in her room because she never opened the window. Her black dress rose stiffly up against the heat, and the whalebone in her collar kept the chin from drooping. Little flames would come up to lick the kettle, and then the shadows on the wall would jump out of the room. But she sat straight and quiet as the people in the photographs round. She was of their time. Only her breathing, tired and hoarse, helped the kettle to break the quiet of the watching photographs.

  It wasn’t right his going out with her like this. This would be the third time he had gone out with her, and it wasn’t like Mrs. Haye to allow it, it ought to be stopped. At that age they could so easily fall in love with each other. And what would happen then? Young people always went into those things blind, they didn’t see what the consequences of their actions were. He ought to be more careful of whom he took up with. His daughter, indeed. What would everyone be saying? And that her boy should go out with that thing, him that she had brought up since he was a squalling babby, it was not right.

  There had been the time when he had first been given to her—a wonderful baby strong as you could wish, full seven and a half pounds from the moment he was born, and since then she had fed him with her own hands just like as she was doing now, and getting up at nights constant when he was hollering for his pap. She had seen him grow up right from the beginning. And he had gone blind—it couldn’t have been worse!—so that now he could never have a good time with the young ladies or nothing, poor Master Johnnie! But she would see him out of this thing that had come upon them, she had seen him out of many such—there had been the time when he had been taken with whooping cough a deal of trouble they had had with him, but they had pulled him through. Mrs. Haye had been such a good mother to him better indeed than his real one Mrs. Richard Haye would ever have been. There were stories the servants that were with her told but then, what was the good of believing stories but from what was said she was too free altogether. You can never trust men not even your husband’s best friend but there it was!

  And Master John had growed up and gone to college but that never had agreed with him, he was weakly ever since she could remember. It was what she said that had kept him from a preparatory school even if the doctor had said so too. Then they had had the governess who was not up to much with all her airs and graces. The way she used to carry on with that teacher in Norbury, undignifying. But he had been too weakly for college, he had never been happy there even if he had growed to the figure of a man he was. The other boys what were less well-behaved and brought up would have always been at him, she knew their ways. And there had come a time when he would hardly so much as throw a glance at her and say “Hullo, Nanny,” and Mr. William had said one day “He is growing up,” and she had seen him going away from her when the only things she could do for him was to darn his socks and sew on buttons, but he was back to her now, she could help him again bring him up his food and take him out for walks. It wasn’t right that hussy taking hold on him and everyone would be talking you see if they didn’t.

  Then the master had married again and a good thing too for the first one wasn’t such as to waste breath over. Beautiful she had been, too beautiful they was a danger them lovely ones though what he could see in this hussy she didn’t know but then he couldn’t see, poor Master John that was what it was. There had been great goings on for the marriage, a servants’ ball and the service in church had been lovely the bridesmaids being in pink and the clergyman having a lovely voice. She had been a good mistress to her Mrs. Haye had been, only a hard word now and then from that day on. And she had made a good mother to Master John, always thinking of him and looking after him just as if he was her own boy. Then the master going to India with his regiment and leaving her with Master John to live with the grandparents, what was dead now some time, and where they didn’t treat her proper they was half-starving the poor boy. They hadn’t no illusions of his mother but it wasn’t his fault poor little mite what she was. And then their coming back after she had wrote to tell them, though the regiment did come back too, and his falling downstairs dead as mutton his heart having gone sudden like. A lovely funeral it was and a fine corpse he made lying out on the bed. In the church it was the men of the estate that carried the coffin, and the church was draped in black, and there were offic
ers from the regiment and wreaths that the officers had sent and some from the men. Everything had been done in style. And the mistress had been splendid. Quite soon after she had said to her “Well Jennings it is up to us to bring him up” and she had said back “We will’m.”

  And then he had begun to crawl round the nursery, very fond of coal he had been, and always full of mischief. And they had all said then what a fine man he was going to grow up into, and so he is, but they none of them had the gift of sight so they couldn’t have foretold this. When she had been told she was sitting in this chair as like as she might be now and she said “Lord have mercy on us,” she remembered it as if it was yesterday, though it did seem an age away, and that only six months really. In the next room in the old day-nursery was all the toys he used to have and her first thought was that he would never be able to play with them again. You got a bit mixed up with time when you grew older. They were all in the cupboard there the tin soldiers scarlet and blue with some cannon and the spotted horse which he used to be that fond of and the marbles with colours inside that he always wanted to swallow, they was a peril them things, and the box of bricks as he grew older so that they said he was going to be an architeck, and what would he be now? He had loved his toys, she could remember his sitting on his heels and getting excited over the soldiers as if they was real and fighting a real battle. They were all there in the cupboard waiting. Nothing had been lost and now that her time was coming perhaps when she was gone they would throw them away or give them to some poor child instead of keeping them, maybe for his children if he had any. Waste that was.