Sobre a Deficiência Visual

Blindness

Henry Green

excerpt

Portrait of a Blind Man - Steve Salo

SAT., 7 APRIL
Dear Seymour,
An awful thing has happened. John is blinded. Mrs. Haye, his stepmother, you know, wrote a letter from Barwood which reached me this morning. The doctors say he hasn’t a chance of seeing again. She has asked me to write to all his school friends and to you. It is a terrible story. Apparently he was going home after Noat had ‘gone down,’ on Thursday, that is. The train was somewhere between Stroud and Gloucester, and was just going to enter a cutting, A small boy was sitting on the fence by the line and threw a big stone at the train. John must have been looking through the window at the time, for the broken glass caught him full, cut great furrows in his face, and both his eyes are blind for good. Isn’t it dreadful? Mrs. Haye says that he suffers terribly. It is a tragedy. Blindness, the most . . . etc.

Outside it was raining, and through the leaded window panes a grey light came and was lost in the room. The afternoon was passing wearily, and the soft sound of the rain, never faster, never slower, tired. A big bed in one corner of the room, opposite a chest of drawers, and on it a few books and a pot of false flowers. In the grate a weary fire, hissing spitefully when a drop of rain found its way down the chimney. Below the bed a yellow wardrobe over which large grain marks circled aimlessly, on which there was a full-length glass. Beyond, the door, green, as were the thick embrasures of the two windows green, and the carpet, and the curtains.

The walls were a neutral yellow that said nothing, and on them were hung cheap Italian crayon drawings of precocious saints in infancy. The room was called the Saints’ Room. Behind the glass of each were hundreds of dead flies, midges, for the room had a strange attraction for these things in summer, when the white ceiling would be black with them by sunset. With winter coming on they would creep away under the glass to dine on attendant angel lips. Perhaps the attraction was rather the hot-water cistern that was under the roof just above, and which gave a hint of passion to the virgin whitewash.

He lay in bed, imagining the room. To the left, on the dressing-table by the bed, would be the looking-glass that would never stay the right level. It would be propped up with a book, so that it gazed blandly up at the ceiling, mimicking the chalky white, and waiting for something else to mimic. On the chair between table and bed was sitting the young trained nurse, breathing stertorously over a book.

There came quick steps climbing stair carpet, two quick steps at the top on the linoleum, and the door opened. Emily Haye came in. She was red, red with forty years’ reckless exposure to the sun. Where neck joined body, before the swift V turned the attention to the mud-coloured jumper knitted by herself, there glowed a patch of skin turned by the sun to a deeper red. She was wearing rough tweeds, and she was smelling of soap, because it was near tea-time.

He turns his head on the pillow, the nurse rises, and Mrs. Haye walks firmly up the room.

“Well, how are you?”

“All right, thanks.”

“I’ll sit by him for a bit, nurse, you go and get your tea. It’s rainin’ like anything outside. I went for a walk, got as far as Wyleman’s barn, and there I turned and came back. Stepped in and saw Mrs. Green’s baby. It’s her first, so she’s making a fuss of it; beautiful baby, though. Have you been comfortable?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Get any sleep?”

“No.”

“Is it hurting you much now?”

“Just about the same.”

“It’s too wretched for you, this thing comin’ right at the beginning of the holidays. I should be very angry, but you seem to be takin’ it calmly; you are always like that, you know, John, always hiding things. I was talking with the specialist just as he was going—and he says that you probably will not be able to go back to Noat next term. So you will miss your last term, which is so important they tell me. It means so much to you in after-life, or something. I know Ralph always used to say that it had meant a great deal to him, the responsibility and all that. But I expect you’re glad.”

“Of course. Father may have had some responsibility, but they would never have given any to me, however long I stayed there. I was too incompetent. Can you imagine me enforcing authority?”

“I think that you would be excellent in authority, I do really. But as Mabel Palmer was saying at tea the other day, you never seemed to have any of the ambition of ordinary boys—to be captain of football or cricket, and so on. I did so want to be a boy when I was a girl. I wanted to be good at cricket, and they never let us play in those days.”

“You would have made a fine cricketer, Mamma. But I don’t think you would have thought much of school life, if you had gone there. You wouldn’t have been as wretched as I was, but you would have seen through it, I think. You don’t judge people now by their goodness at games, do you?”

“You know you weren’t wretched, and—oh, well, we mustn’t argue. John, what’s it like with that thing in front of your eyes so that you can’t see anything? What’s it feel like?”

“I don’t know, everything’s black, that’s all.”

What was it in the air? Why were they talking in long sentences, importantly?

“I should go mad if I were like that, not to be able to see where one is going. John dear, you are very patient, I shouldn’t be nearly as good as you.”

“I can quite imagine that. But it won’t be for so very long?”

Why had he ended with a question?

“Well, we must be practical. And the specialist was telling me it would be quite a long time before—before you would be up and about again. But doctors always exaggerate, you know. And there’s your poor face to get well besides.”

“But how long will it be before I shall be able to take this damned head-dress off in daylight? It was all very well when the old fool took it off in the darkened room so that I couldn’t see anything, nor he either. His breath did smell nasty, too.”

“My dear boy, I never notice people’s breath.”

“ ‘May be the sign of a deep-rooted disorder.’ ‘Even your best friends won’t tell you.’ ‘Halitosis is an insidious enemy,’ and so on. And an American firm has got the only thing on God’s earth that will cure you. He ought to take it, really.”

“John, I do wish you would not swear like that. The servants would be very shocked if they knew, and it is such a bad example to the village boys.”

“But, heavens above, they don’t hear me swear.”

“No, but they hear of it, don’t you see.”

—Must talk. “Rather an amusing thing has happened. You know Doris, the third housemaid. Well, she is little more than a child, and hasn’t got her hair up. When she came, of course I insisted that she should put it up, which upset her terribly. Now, when she takes the afternoon off she puts it into a pigtail again. Silly little thing.”

“What’s that in your voice? You aren’t angry with her, are you? Because I think it’s rather nice. I like pigtails, don’t you? Do you know that bit of Browning, Porphyrias’ Lover? But when shall I be able to see a pigtail again, that’s the point?”

“What’s that thing, John, a poem, or what?”

“He makes her lover strangle her with her own hair, done in a pigtail. I don’t know what it means, no one knows, only I am quite sure I should like to do it. Think—the soft, silken rope, and the warm, white neck, and . . .”

“Now, don’t be silly. I don’t understand.”

“But when shall I be allowed to take this off? It will be fun seeing again. I suppose he gave some idea of a date?”

“Yes, but he was not very definite, in a way he was rather vague. You see, it is a long business. Eyes are delicate things.”

Dread.

“How long?—three months? I only thought it would be one, but it can’t be helped.”

“Longer than that, I am afraid. Much longer, he said.”

“Six months?”

“Dear boy, we must be practical. It may take a—a very long time indeed.”

“In fact, I shall be blind for life. Why didn’t you tell me at once? No, no, of course I understand.”

So he was blind.

She looks out of the window into the grey blur outside. Drops are having small races on the panes. The murmur fills the room with lazy sound. Now and then a drop falls from an eave to a sill, and sometimes a little cascade of drips patter down.

His heart is thumping, and there is a tightness in his throat, that’s all. She had not actually said that he was blind. It wasn’t he. All the same she hadn’t actually said—but he was blind. Blind. Would it always be black? No, it couldn’t. Poor Mamma, she must be upset about it all. What could be done? How dreadful if she started a scene while he was lying there in bed, helpless. But of course he wasn’t blind. Besides, she hadn’t actually said. What had she said? But then she hadn’t actually said he wasn’t. What was it? He felt hot in bed, lost. He put out a hand, met hers, and drew it away quickly. He must say something. What? (Blind? Yes, blind.) But . . .

“We must be practical, John darling, we must run this together.”—Darling? She never used that. What was she saying? “. . . bicycles for two, tandems they’re called, aren’t they? Work together, let me do half the work like on a tandem bicycle. Your father and I went on a trip on one for our honeymoon, years ago now, when bicycles were the latest thing. I wish he was here now, he was a wonderful man, and he would have helped, and—and he would have known what to do.”

“What was he like?” (So he was blind, how funny.)

“Dear boy, he was the finest man to hounds in three counties, and the most lovely shot. I remember him killing fifty birds in sixty cartridges with driven grouse at your grandfather’s up in Scotland. A beautiful shot. He would have helped.”

“It’s all right, I guessed it all along, you see. I knew it really when the man was looking at me in what he said was darkness. There was something in his manner. Christ! my eyes hurt, though.”

“Dear boy, don’t swear like that. No, it can’t be your eyes that hurt; if they did it would be a very good thing. It’s your face that—that is cut up rather. Not that all hope is gone, of course, there is still a chance, there always is, the specialist said so. Miracles have happened before now. But I do hate your swearing like this.”

“I’m sorry.”

Why had she died, who could have helped him so much now? All these years he had thought so little about her, and now she was back, and she ought to be sitting by the bed, and she would be helping so much, and there would be nothing to hide, and it would be so much simpler if Mummy were here. Her hands would drive away the pain. It would be so different.

“But I will read to you, all your nice books. And then you will go on writing just the same; you could dictate to me. I shall always be there to help, we’ll see it out together.”

Heaven forbid. She would never be able to read Dostoievsky, would never be able to understand. Besides, poor dear, it would bore her so except for the first few weeks when she would feel a martyr, and that was never a feeling to encourage. And how fine it would be to renounce her help in seeing it through, not as if it ever had an end, but how unselfish. Why was there no one else?

“Thank you, darling.”

What had he said? He ought never to have said that, it gave the whole show away. Why did one’s voice go? But what was there to say? He was blind, finished, on the shelf, that was all. Still, he must carry her through. She must be dreadfully upset about it all. But what was there to say?

She was struggling.

“It’s all right, it’s not so bad as it looks, it’s not as if we were very poor, it could—much worse, much worse.”

How wonderful he was, taking it like this, just like Ralph. She would like to say so many things, she longed to, but he did so hate demonstrativeness. She must try to say the right thing, she must not let it run away with her. And she must talk to keep his mind off.

“You are very brave, dear. I know it would have knocked me up completely, Ralph too. I don’t know where you take everything from, I can’t understand you half the time, you’re not a bit like the family, though Mabel told me the other day that you are getting Ralph’s profile as you grow older, but I can’t see it. You know God gave you your sight and He has taken it away, but He has left us each other, you know, and . . .”

“Yes, yes.”

There, she had done it. But it was all true, it must be true. She must not make that mistake again.

It wasn’t fair to say that as he was helpless. And what business was it of hers?—he wasn’t hers. Why did these things happen? Why did she sit there? It was so hard. And the pain.

“Yes, Mummy, of course.”

Mummy, he hadn’t used that for so long.

It would not happen again. Her feelings had betrayed her. The great thing was to keep his mind off. One must just go on talking, and it was so hard not to harp on it. A silence would be so terrible. There was always her between them. And it was not right, it was not as if the woman had ever done anything for him, except, of course, to bring him into the world. But it was she who had brought him up. He belonged to her.

“I am afraid I shall never be a good mother to you, John. I don’t understand anything except out-of-door things, and babies. You were a lovely baby when you were small, and I could do everything for you then, and I loved it. But now you’ve outgrown me in a way and left me behind. As I was saying to Mabel the other day, I don’t understand the young generation, you’re too free about everything, though in many ways you yourself are an exception to that, with your secretiveness. I don’t know how it is, but young people seem to care less about the country than they did. Now you, John, when you went—go for a walk, you mooch about, as old Pinch would say. And when you come back you don’t eat a decent meal, but in that nice phrase, you are all mimmocky with your grub.”

She laughed tremulously, then hurried on. He smiled at the old friend, though his mouth seemed afraid.

“I believe it all comes from this cigarette smoking, that’s what Ralph used to say, and I think it’s true. Nasty as his pipe was, at least it was healthy. You are all either too difficult and unapproachable, or too talkative. That Bendon girl a few days ago at Mrs. Pender’s told me all her most private and intimate affairs for a whole hour after having met me for the first time. In the old days the girl would have been thought improper. She was the sort of girl your grandfather would have smiled at. He . . .”

“Mamma!” This was better.

“Eh?”

“Nothing.”

“He always smiled at something he could not understand, and what he could not understand he could not, and of course there was something wrong in it if he could not. In the old days . . .”

She was off again, and how the old days thrilled her generation, how blind they were not to see the glories of the present and future! Blind. Perhaps in years to come his memories would be only of the time when he had seen the colours and life through his own eyes. But he was becoming sentimental, and surely he had recovered from that phase of his Noat days. What is she saying? (Blind? Yes, blind.) What?

“. . . don’t understand.”—The strain of talking to him of other things!

“But why try? Parents will never understand their children. Have you read Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons? There’s a wonderful picture there.”

He had not been listening. She had not been able to understand the bailiff’s policy with the pigs. And here he was on to his books again, as if books mattered in life. But one must always show interest, so that he might feel he had someone who took a kindred interest. One had read all those Russian things in one’s teens. One had loved them then, but one saw now what nonsense they had been.

“Yes, I read it years ago, when I married. I don’t remember much, but I don’t think it was a tremendously interesting book, do you, dear?”

There, they are always like that, “Yes, I read it years ago.” Nothing lives for them but the new, they have forgotten everything else, life itself even! She has always read a book, any book you care to mention, and she has always forgotten all about it, save that she has read it. Irritation! She was dead, withered through not caring, and he was alive, how alive he was! Alive! Alive? And blind, a tomb of darkness, with all the carbuncles of life hidden away! Blind? Yes, blind for ever, always, always blind! No. What is she saying? Nothing, there is silence save for the silken rustling of the rain outside. She must be ill at ease.

“Yes,” he says, as one throws a lifebelt at someone drowning.

“Dear, I meant to help, and here I am, swearing away just the same. I’m not much of a mother to you, I’m afraid . . .” Was there no way to help him? When you tried to make him respond to affection he withdrew into himself at once. She would cry if she stayed here much longer. Why did these tragedies come like this? And they were like strangers.

“. . . don’t, of course not. Of course you help, because I can feel that there is someone there, someone standing by who can really help when I want it. That’s what you are to me, a real friend.”

The weather had beaten all real sympathy out of her. She was so hard, so desperately rugged. There was a great deal to be said against going out in the rain. Hot-house flowers were better than hardy annuals, but then he would never understand the names of flowers now. Mrs. Fane was the ideal, so tantalizing, so feminine. Mummy would have been like that. And now he would never see a painting, he would just become a vegetable like Mamma, a fine cabbage. And he would have had such a marvellous time with flowers, and with women, who were so close to flowers. But what was this? One must not slobber, sentimentality was intolerable. But how nice to slobber sometimes.

What’s that she was saying, a story? Which one? As, yes, the new one, about the waste of pig-wash.

There’s the rain outside, and the chuckling of the gutter pipes. It will be grey in the room now, or is it dark? Blind, so he didn’t know. Light, no more light. And if he were to lift the bandages, surely there was only that between him and light, not a whole lifetime. There is a click.

“Is that the light on?”

“Yes, dear. Well, I must go to tea. Don’t let it all worry you too much, dear.” She could not bear it any more.

And she was gone. What did she mean by her “and don’t let it all worry you too much”? Worry? Worry? He was blind. They did not seem to realize that he was blind, that he would never see again. Nothing but black. Why, it was absurd, stifling. He was blind and they did not mind that he was blind and would never see again. But it was silly to say that you would never see anything again, that was impossible. You could not see black for ever, you would have to see something, or you would go mad. Mad. So he was blind. He had always heard of blind people. But of course it meant absolutely nothing. It was silly.

There were slow steps up stair carpet, three wavering steps on the linoleum, and the door opened. Nanny comes in.

“Master John, I have brought you your tea.”

She puts something down that clinks.

“Thanks.”

“Did you have a nice sleep?”

“No.”

“Would you like a nice cup o’ tea, Master John?”

Was everything nice and like her religion, comfortable?

“All right, Nan.”

He was being very good. Tea drinking was a vice in some walks of life, and in tea there was tannin, a harmful drug. But he was blind, he could not see. And the pain. So that he was like a blind worm in a fire, squirming, squirming to get out.

“Nice hot tea. You love your tea, don’t you, Nan?”

“She likes her cup o’ tea, your old Nan does, Master John. I always have been partial to a cup o’ tea. All through the time when you was in the nursery it helped me along, for you was a bad boy then. An’ before that, when you used to lie ’elpless in my arms with yer little red face. Lor’, you would ’oller too if yer milk was so much as a minute late. I remember . . .”

She was remembering. Why were they all remembering? But perhaps it was an occasion to do so. They looked back into a past that lived only in their memories, they did not see the present, the birth of a new life, of a new art, and his life which had changed so suddenly. But he had lived his life, as Nan had lived hers, he must now look back. And it would be so comfortable being sentimental, and talking about memories. For to look back was the only thing left, to look forward was like thinking of nothing. Still, it could not all be over, there must be something in the future, something beyond these black walls! Romantic again. She too, “. . . with yer grasp in yer little hand . . .” she was maudlin. Magdalen, he was to have gone there. Oxford. No. Prehensile, that is all a baby is, and the nurse a ministrant at the knees of Moloch, the supreme sentimentalist. But her feelings were hurt so easily, and her tears were terrible. He must be good.

“. . . a lovely babby. . .”

“What is there for tea, Nan?”

“Well, I thought you might like buttered toast and bread and butter, you always was that fond of at nursery teas, and the Easter cake. . .”

“I’ll break the rules and have a bit of that first, Nan, please.”

She cuts a slice and begins to feed him bit by bit, at intervals putting the teacup into his hands. She loves doing it. For years she has watched him getting more and more independent, and now she is feeding him again. It is nice.

Her hand trembles, she has been garrulous and reminiscent, while she is usually sparing of unnecessary words. She has been told that he is blind, of course that’s it. So that will mean more sympathy, if not expressed—which would be intolerable—at any rate only just underneath the surface. But how could you escape it? There were the people who had seen him grow up, and who inevitably had a possessive interest in him. They cared for him through no fault of his own, like dogs, and were sorry for the pain they felt in themselves at his blindness. They were busy dramatizing it all to him, while he wanted to be alone, alone to patch up his life. And now he was being theatrical!

“Would you like a sip of tea again, Master John?”

“Thanks, and some buttered toast.”

“I do so love feeding ye, Master John, like I used to with the bottle. I remember . . .”

There would be red round her eyes, there would be a tell-tale weakness about her lips. He could see her looking at him with the smile he used to notice on parents’ faces in Chapel at Noat, while they were saying to themselves, all through the service, that they had been through just what the boy was going through now, though what it was they didn’t know. They were saying that they had read the book, years ago. And she was remembering him when he had hardly been alive, she was gloating, gloating that he was weak and helpless again. He would have to have her near him day after day, while she bombarded him with her sickening sentimentality. But what was he doing, eating like this, with this tragedy of darkness upon him? And the pain, the pain.

“No, no, take it away, I don’t want any more, I couldn’t.”

“Oh, Master John, don’t take on so.”

And the poor old face is falling in, and he hears her beginning to sob. Then she is groping for the chair, to sit, bowed, in it. This was terrible, it bordered on a scene, and he was helpless. He shrank and shrank till he was shrivelled up. The whole creed was strength and not giving way. He gives her his hand, which she takes in her skinny, trembling ones, and tears fall on it, one by one, with little sploshes that he feels rather than hears. Poor Nanny.

But of course she must have been crying in the servants’ hall before this, banking, minting on the fact that she had known him longer than anyone else there. The cook and Mamma’s maid had been most attentive and sympathetic, the kitchen-maid had wept with her. Only the trained nurse did not listen, she would have sat apart reading, for she knew what youth was, the others had forgotten it. He could see the scene, with Nan babbling on through her tears. That fatuous line of Tennyson’s, “Like summer tempests came her tears.” But there was coming a serious Tennyson revival.

The trained nurse understood youth from the way her hand caressed his bandages, they had not trained it out of her yet, nor had life. But everyone else was like that, everyone except B. G. He wanted B. G., who would understand, who was the only person who would feel what he was feeling, and who would sympathize in the right way.

She struggled to her feet, letting go of his hand.

“You mustn’t mind me, Master John, I’m only an old woman.”

And she went out slowly. So she had gone. But he was blind, everyone would be sorry for him, everyone would try to help him, and everyone would be at his beck and call; it was very nice, it was comfortable. And he would take full advantage, after all he deserved it in all conscience. He would enjoy life: why not? But he was blind. He would never be able to go out in the morning and recognize the sweep of lawn and garden again, and to wonder that all should be the same. He would never again be able to appreciate the miracle that anything could be so beautiful, never to see a bird again, or a cloud, or a tree, or a horse dragging a cart, or a baby blowing bubbles at his mother! Never to see a flower softly alive in a field, never to see colour again, never to watch colour and line together build up little exquisite temples to beauty. And the time when he had gone down on his knees before a daffodil with Herrick at the back of his mind, how he had grown drunk before it. And then the thought of how finely poetic he must be looking as he knelt before a daffodil in his best flannel trousers. What a cynic he was! That was another of his besetting sins. What a pity, also, to be self-conscious. The pain.

The misery of hating himself as much as he did. How unlucky he was to have been born like that, so infinitely superior to the common ruck. The herd did not feel all that he did, all his private tortures, and he was unfit to die like this, shut up in the traditional living tomb. A priest ought to have said offices over him as the glass entered his head and caused the white-hot pains there. And now the darkness pressed down on him, and he was not ready. He was not sufficient in himself. He did not know. He had been wandering off on expeditions in a mental morass before, and now all chance of retreat was cut off. He must live on himself, on his own reserves of mental fat, which would be increased a trifle perhaps when Mamma or Nan read to him, as steam rollers go over roads, levelling all sense, razing all imagery to the ground with their stupidity. And when he learned Braille it would be too slow. And it terrifies, the darkness, it chokes. Where is he? Where? What’s that? Nothing. No, he is lost. Ah, the wall, and he is still in bed and has hurt his hand in the blow he gave it. The bell should be here to the left—yes, here it is, how smoothly everything goes if you keep your head. His hand tastes salt, he must have skinned it against the wall.

There are steps on stair carpet, four quick steps on the linoleum, and the nurse enters, prettily out of breath.

“Well, and how are we? Did you ring, Mr. John? I am so sorry, I was having my tea.”

“Oh, nurse, I was frightened. Look, I have skinned my knuckles, haven’t I?”

“Silly, whatever did you do that for? That was very naughty of you. Now I shall have to bind it up.”

She washes it . . . She has such a pretty voice that he would like to squeeze her hand as she is holding his. And he wanted sympathy. But it would be too terrifying, he had had enough awkward scenes today, he did not feel strong enough for another if she were to object. And a nice sight he must be with bandages all over him. Besides, being a professional, she would not be intrigued by bandages as others might. No, he could do nothing.

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?

The End

About the Book: Blindness is Henry Green's first novel. Begun when the author was still at school, it tells the story of a clever and artistic boy who, blinded in a senseless accident, turns to writing with powers extraordinarily heightened by his affliction. With a total lack of sentimentality Henry Green explores the youth's adaptation to his changed and darkened life.Blindness has been much referred to and much discussed by Green's admirers, but for many years has been impossible to obtain. Its reissue coincides with the increasing recognition of Green's stature as a major modern English novelist.
 

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Blindness / by Henry Green
-excerpt-
Copyright © Henry Green 1926
New York Review Books, [2017]

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10.Fev.2025
Publicado por MJA