Blindness

by Henry Green

  God, the boredom of this.

  “. . . but sometimes I hate it all.”

  “It must be horrid for you.”

  “I’ve had no one else to tell it all to.”

  “No, of course not. June, here we are in the wood. Do you feel the hollowness of it? For the trees crowd about us, and their branches roof us in slyly, with sly noises that one can just hear. And we seem to be in another world now, for the cart that is creaking along the road outside is so faint, floating through the twigs that urge the sound gently along as they are tickled by the wind. So that we might be on our way to some dark and dangerous spot. June, it is medieval.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It means long ago. But we are happy together, aren’t we? You know, you are the only person I would take with me to Swan’s Wood.”

  There was Mummy, but she did not count.

  “Why?”

  “Because I used to spend so much of my youth at the top there, thinking great thoughts.”

  “But why only me?”

  “Surely you know.”

  “Perhaps I don’t.”

  “Oh yes, you do.”

  “When I was little I used to tell everything to a friend I had then. We used to walk in the lane, down at Broadlands. One day she tripped up and cut her leg.”

  “And I have never told anyone everything.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I will some day, it would take too long now. June, are we getting near the top now?”

  And he would tell her, it would help, though she would not understand. But he would never tell her of his writing, that was too important.

  “I see light behind the trees.”

  “We are getting there. This must be near the top of the hill, and you are not a bit out of breath.”

  “My! an’ here we are. Is that your view? I don’t see much in it, not that it isn’t very pretty though.”

  “Shall we sit down?”

  “Yes.”

  She lets go of his hand and they sit down.

  “June, give me back your hand, it makes you so much more real.”

  “There it is, silly.”

  “And what do you see of my view?”

  “There are fields an’ trees an’ the river an’ behind that the hill with the waterworks’ tower an’ to the right there is the town with the Abbey, no more than that.”

  “That is all gone for me, anyway. June, my hand is so comfortable in yours.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Your hand is warm and so strong. But it is only just big enough to hold mine.”

  “Shall we change round?”

  “That is better. I have it captive now. It is like holding a bird.”

  “Oh you!”

  “Oh me?”

  “You are a funny boy.”

  “Do call me John.”

  “Funny John.”

  “How is your other hand, the one that was cut?”

  “It is better now. But it did hurt.”

  “Poor hand. I was so sorry.”

  “Were you? That was nice. There was no one who cared.”

  “Poor June. But didn’t your Father mind?”

  “No, he never would. He is always thinking of himself.”

  “Well, he ought to have. It was . . .”

  “No, no, he oughtn’t, it wasn’t his fault, he is a genius, you know. Great thoughts he has, not like you and me. Above it all.”

  Not like you and me!

  “But, poor hand. Give it me, June. Ah, now I have both your hands—so much and yet so little.”

  “No, don’t press it like that, you are hurting.”

  “How much would you give me of yours?”

  “Of mine? Why? Well, I haven’t very much to give. But if you like I’ll give you a brooch of my mother’s which is broken so as I can’t use it. You will remember me by that. But I expect you have a bad memory, John.”

  “Only when I have nothing to remember.”

  “What shall I give you, then?”

  “What you like best.”

  “And what will you give me?”

  “A ring, and more, perhaps.”

  “You are nice, John.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “Oh, well, I never. Don’t you ever think of me? It’s always you, you, you.”

  “But, of course I think of you much more than you would believe possible. And you come to me in my dreams.”

  “John!”

  “Yes, dear. It’s true, even if I haven’t told you before.”

  “How wonderful!”

  “It is, and more than wonderful.”

  He laughed, and there was a pause.

  “No, it’s not comfortable, your holding both my hands.”

  “Here is one back, then.”

  “John, the sun’s come out and the Abbey has gone all gold.”

  “And it has caught the trees as well, perhaps? When the sun came out for a moment it used to be a great thing for me, and I have sat here entranced, but when you think that all this doesn’t bother itself about one at all, it is a trifle boring.”

  “John, you are very like Father.”

  “Am I? How?”

  “I don’t know. You talk the same.”

  “Do I? Oh, well. But I used to dream here so. Have you never dreamed, June—about things, I mean?”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “And what do you do all day? There must be time to dream.”

  “Oh, there’s lots to do. But I do dream.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And this place would fit in with my mood. A view helps, do you find that?”

  “Yes.”

  “At last, something definite. You really think that?”

  “I suppose I do, seeing as how I said it.”

  “You are frightened of your feelings. But one soon grows out of that. I did a year ago.”

  “An’ then there is the river. I sit on the bank sometimes an’ watch it going by.”

  “I know. I love doing that. Do you fish?”

  “No, I don’t know how to.”

  “I used to, but I can’t now.”

  “Poor John.”

  “Poor me. But it will not be ‘poor me’ if you are nice.”

  “But aren’t I being nice?”

  “Fairly.”

  “Well, I never! Only fairly? What more do you want?”

  “Lots more.”

  “You are a one. But it is nice up here.”

  “With you. Say ‘with you.’”

  “Why should I? No, I won’t.”

  “Say ‘with you.’”

  “No—hi, stop! What are you doing? If you go on like that I shall go home.”

  “But you didn’t say ‘with you.’”

  “Why should I?”

  “To please me.”

  “I’m not sure I want to now.”

  “Do.”

  “I’m sure I don’t see why I should. But as you seem to’ve set your heart on it, here it is—‘with you,’ stupid.”

  “It has no meaning now; how sad. You are very cruel, June. I used to think of cruel ladies and of kind ones when I was up here, but they were none of them like you.”

  “Cruel ladies and kind ones? What do you mean?”

  “Such as one used to see on the cinema. I used to grow so romantic over this view. I wanted to go into politics then. When you thought of all the people starving, there was nothing else to do. I became Prime Minister, of course, up here, and addressed huge meetings which thundered applause. Once, at one of those meetings, a lady became so affected by my words that she had a fit. She was carried out, and the commotion over it gave me time to drink a cup of water, which was most necessary. It was all very vivid up here. I was to lead a public life of the greatest possible brilliance. It is different now.”

  “How wonderful that would be.”

  “You know what I mean? One planned everything out on a broad scale, reme
mbering little scraps of flattery that someone or other had been so good as to throw one and building on that. One was so hungry for flattery. The funny thing is that when one goes blind life goes on just the same, only half of it is lopped off.”

  “Yes?”

  “One would think that life would stop, wouldn’t you? But it always goes on, goes on, and that is rather irritating.”

  “My life’s always the same.”

  “Yes, I was on the crest of my audience and the woman threw her fit just as the climax was reached; but I repeat myself. I shan’t feel that sort of thing any more now, there is so little to want.”

  “Oh, John!”

  “And it would have been so lonely without you.”

  “Would it?”

  “Say you like being up here with me.”

  “All right, so long as it pleases you.”

  “Pleases me? Only that?”

  How slow, how slow this was.

  “Oh, well. Nice boy.”

  “Thanks. But now, do you know what I am going to do now? After all, one must have something to put against one’s name. For I am going to write, yes, to write. Such books, June, such amazing tales, rich with intricate plot. Life will be clotted and I will dissect it, choosing little bits to analyse. I shall be a great writer. I am sure of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I will be. What else is there to live for? Writing means so much to me, and it is the only thing in which the blind are not hampered. There was Milton.”

  “Ah yes, Milton.”

  “I must justify myself somehow.”

  “Funny John.”

  “Yes, very comical. Blundering about in the dark yet knowing about everything really. I know I do. And I will tell the world.”

  “Yes.”

  “But do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see, June, no one cares enough, about the war and everything. No one really cared about my going blind.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I will write about these things—no one cares and I will be as uncaring as any. I will be a great writer one day, and people will be brought to see the famous blind man who lends people in his books the eyes that he lost, and . . .”

  Poor John, he was properly off it now. She did not understand all this writing stuff; and how did one do it, it would be so difficult when one could not see the page?

  “. . . but I am boring you.”

  “No, you’re not. Do go on.”

  “It is getting cold out here.”

  “Oh, don’t let’s go home just yet.”

  “So you like being out here?”

  “Yes.”

  Why had he told her about his writing? Now everything was spoilt. And of course she did not understand. She was lamentably stupid. They had better go home.

  “But you will catch a chill.”

  “Why should I? We can make each other warm.”

  And she pressed closer to him, and she laughed.

  She would call that snuggling, he thought. There was a pause.

  “John,” she said, pulling his arm, “how silent you are.”

  “I have just said so much.”

  “How do you mean? Oh, John, will you write about me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Fancy me being in a book. Just think.”

  “Would you like to be?”

  “Of course I would. Father writes books too, only they never get written.”

  “Does he put you in them?”

  “Oh no, they are not that sort.”

  “What sort are they?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s always talking about his writing,” She paused. “John, you’ll make me the person your hero’s in love with, won’t you? and your hero’ll be you, I suppose?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You aren’t very chirpy now, are you, John?”

  “No, it is cold out here.”

  “But don’t I keep you warm?”

  “It is my other side that is so cold.”

  “Well, an’ perhaps we’d better go home.”

  “Yes, perhaps we had better go home.”

  They get up. He staggers, then, arm in arm, they go down the hill through the wood.

  “Mind, John, there’s a fallen tree here.”

  “Thanks. Where? Oh, here. June, how sad it is going home.”

  “Yes, it is. But we’ll go out again.”

  “Of course.”

  3. FINISHING

  “HOW MINUTE we are.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, this does not seem to be a time of great feeling, perhaps we have had too many of them lately. And we are so small compared to the trees. Gods come and go, but trees remain. By ‘small’ I don’t mean ‘in height.’ They seem to me so lasting, so grave in their fat green cloaks, or in winter like naked lace.”

  “There, an’ I’ve forgotten to feed the chickens.”

  “We are so petty, while time in the towns rolls by on well-oiled wheels with horrible efficiency. The machinery there goes on and on, and there are bits of it that are not right. The most horrible injustices.”

  “There’s no justice.”

  “No, there is no justice.”

  A long way beneath something in the town was dropped with a clang, while a tug coming up the river whistled to get through the lock, a long shriek which shivered through the trees. Birds circled in specks round the Abbey tower. There was no wind and on the hill smoke from a cottage fire drifted straight up towards the blue sky, for the sun was shining. Just in front, in the meadow by the edge of the wood, a rabbit was feeding quietly, trembling at being alive. And they sat together against a tree, he with his head on one side to catch what was going on, and she dozing, with the world drifting in and out of her mind.

  “I hate this easy life with the millions toiling there.”

  “I don’t find it easy.”

  “No, I suppose not. But I will do something, even if I am blind.”

  She pulled a wisp of hair away from her face and rearranged the ragged scarf about her neck.

  “I expect you will, John.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  A confused shouting came from the lock, into which the barges were being packed. Several dogs were barking at each other while men ran about. The rabbit sat up and listened.

  “John, there’s a darling rabbit out there,” and the rabbit fled.

  “Oh?”

  “He’s gone now.”

  “Oh?”

  And they were silent. From the other side of the wood a ploughman cried to his horses. Then from in front came a rattling of machinery and the lock gates creaked, painfully slow.

  “Why are you so silent today, John?”

  “I must go, I must go away.”

  “What do you mean, away from here?”

  “No, to the towns.”

  “Yes, I know. You do want to get off sometimes. So do I. Minnie is getting very tiresome, he’s been making messes all over the house, an’ father does hate messes. I really don’t know what to do.”

  “What is Minnie?”

  “Our cat.”

  “Why do you give him a female name?”

  “I don’t know. Father always calls him she. Father hates cats.”

  She had told him this before.

  “An’ Father’s so nervy nowadays, you don’t know what to do with him. It gets harder and harder to live there at all. Father spends so much money on—on small things we don’t need. There often isn’t enough to eat an’. . .”

  He heard a train snort in the distance like a dragon, and the wood round reared itself in tall crowding shapes and dark images. A voice droned complaint and he saw a little figure at the foot of an image throwing words at the things which hemmed her in.

  “. . . but he doesn’t care, he never thinks of me, it’s me who has always to be thinking of him, how to keep him alive, how to keep the home round his head, how to manage so’s he wo
n’t starve. Always thinking of him, I am, and he with never a thought to me.”

  “Poor June.”

  “Yes, it is poor June. You don’t know what it is with your easy life down there. There’s times when you don’t know if your own life’s safe when the fit is on him, he’s so dangerous.”

  “June, he doesn’t attack you?”

  “Attack me? If you could see my—the bruises on my arm, you simply wouldn’t believe. And he was brought to it, brought to it.”

  “I must go away.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “We ought all to go away for a time. The country is poisoning us, June. Under all the smiles that one hears and the soft kindness that one sees at first, there is so much cruelty. We will go.”

  “They brought him to it.”

  “It’s all so different in the towns, there is so much more going on.”

  “But I don’t want any more to go on. I’ve got enough as it is.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. If it wasn’t for Father’s being as he is, it wouldn’t be bad. He’s worse than usual just now, and he won’t have you do anything for him.”

  “We shall never do any good in the country. What is the use of staying down here? I ought to go away.”

  “But how can we?”

  We? How awkward!

  “I shall never do any writing down here. It’s no good, one can’t.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so.”

  “Does nothing ever happen in the country?”

  “Well, I don’t know that you have much to complain of, poor darling.”

  “What, you mean going blind like that? Yes, I had forgotten. Except for that, then, nothing has happened. Sometimes I see a pool shut in by trees with their branches reflected in the stagnant water. Nothing ever moves, the pool just lies there, day and night, and the trees look in. At long intervals there is a ripple; the pool lets it die. And then the trees look in the same as before.”

  “Funny John.”

  “I may be, but that is the country.”

  “D’you know how I live in that house where there’s everything to clean, and with not a soul to help me, mind you, with a man that throws anything away, anywhere, an’ the chickens to feed and the meals to cook?”

  “There would be food to prepare and boards to scrub in towns.”

  “Oh, I know there would, but we could have a gay time there, what with dancing an’ nice dresses an’ everything.”