BEGINNING AGAIN
LONDON. He was sitting in the drawing-room of the house Uncle Edward
had lent them. He was ill, ill. The sunlight streamed through the
window by him, for it was spring, and ate stealthily into the plush
which covered his armchair.
There was a sickly scent of flowers in the room. They had been sent up
from Barwood and were fading, when once they had danced so wildly at
the wind. The afternoon was heavy and the air thick with the sweetness
of a dying lily just by him, a putrefaction drooping through the heat.
The window was open and from beneath the noise of the street came in
shafts, cutting through the steady sun. The ringing of bicycle bells
shot up in necklaces of sound from the road, and jagged footsteps tore
in upon his old life that was being left behind now with the song of
that bird.
Oh, why had he gone blind? All these months now he had seen nothing,
and he had pretended to others and even to himself that in feeling
things he was as well off as one who saw them, but it was not true. For
in London so much went on that there was no time to separate or analyse
your sensations, everything crowded in upon you and left you
dazed. But in a sense life was beginning again, for they would be so
happy up here. In time he would learn to understand the streets. Mamma
had found a house which would do, and soon they would be moving in.
That would make another rift, for he would lose Margaret, the wife of
the caretaker here. She had kept him alive, she was so vivid, and then
sometimes she would dream, falling into long silences when her hand lay
as if asleep in his. Probably she was hideous, but then he could not
see. She must hate him with his scars.
The glass had ploughed through his face, as his blindness cut into his
brain now, and they had taken him to the hospital where even the nurses
had been antiseptic. Everything had felt most wickedly clean with a
mathematical cleanness. But his nurse had had wonderful hands that
hovered and that touched so lightly and yet helped when it hurt. Her
fingers had been so lithe. It was silly to talk of “white mice” as he
had with June, of how her fingers had scurried about in his; one needed
strong unerring fingers. Margaret’s were like that sometimes. But even
the clean stench in that hospital had been better than this of the
flowers, and anyway it had been quiet, not as here where these stabbing
bursts of sound tortured you. But there was a whiff of tar in the air,
and he liked tar.
Listen to that bird, singing as though there were nothing better to do
in the world. Barwood was so far away now, yet because he had seen
there, perhaps, he could not get away. The roar of the streets reminded
one of the quiet which had been over it, where sounds came as if
distilled by the great distances; and then Margaret was so different to
June, June who had never known her place in the order of things--there
was no place for her--and Margaret who knew her position exactly, and
was so sure of herself. Why had that bird chosen this house on which to
sing, little inconsequent notes being flung at the blue sky, crystal
notes that shattered against the tawdriness of these dying flowers and
of his own discontent? A car bore down and overwhelmed the song, but it
emerged once more as the car sped away and made him ask if he had done
right, to leave June like that, and to take Mamma away. For the garden
at Barwood would be bursting into life just now, all the birds would be
singing, and if Mamma were there she would be spying over the border
and endlessly conferring with Weston. He would have been able to share
in the spring as well, lying on the lawn in a chair he would have
passed hours feeling the leaves come out and everything changing round
him, while he was out of it in London, too lost, too tired to raise his
head above the clatter of the streets, where everyone except himself
had work to do. He must work.
He would write. At Noat he had thought about it, at Barwood he had
talked about it, but he must work at it up here, there was nothing else
to do, as he was left alone for hours, they were all so busy. In time
he could get to understand the streets and so to write about them, for
in time one would know more about them than people ever would who had
sight. It was so easy to see and so hard to feel what was going on, but
it was the feeling it that mattered. A bell rang downstairs. Someone
was at the front door, coming to see him, perhaps; and then there was
Mamma’s voice with a shy laugh in it, saying:
“Why, it’s Lorna! My dear, I recognised you at once. How nice of you!
Just think, you after these years and years. I happened to be passing
so I opened.”
And a strange voice was talking at the same time, then they both
kissed--why need Mamma kiss so loudly in London?--and the strange voice
rose over Mamma’s and was saying:
“Emily--such ages and ages ...”
But a motor bike passed and cut them off from him, he only heard the
front door crash as they shut it. Someone to see Mamma, well, that
would make her very happy. But he was forgotten up here, he was only
allowed the echoes of all that was going on, and he saw himself waiting
and listening here for the rest of his life. No one cared whether he
was blind or not. But there were steps outside, it was Margaret, she
minded, and he would fascinate her so that she minded all the more.
There was a knock on the door, her knock, and she slipped in on a gust
of cool air from the marble hall, and there was something cool about
her as well, waves of gentleness breaking round him. Every time she
came he was surprised at her quietness. She was so deft, but then she
had been a lady’s-maid. Her skirt touched his foot so lightly.
“I’m just going out, Mr. Haye, and I thought I’d look in to see if I
could find you anything.”
“Take me out.”
“Mrs. Haye just said she would do that herself, she won’t be long now.”
To be taken out! He was in everyone’s way. And why shouldn’t he go with
Margaret? Now he would have to wait till that visitor had gone.
“Are you comfortable in that chair, Mr. Haye?” and her hand arranged
the handkerchief in his breast pocket. She was listless to-day, her
thoughts were elsewhere. And she had scented herself, the first time
she had ever done that since he had known her. It was very, very faint,
but you could just tell it if you were near her. Perhaps it was meant
for someone who would be nearer. He would be. He searched round his
handkerchief for her hand.
“But your hand is burning. Well, I never,” and hers had escaped; “I
must be going.”
“Could you pull the blind down and shut the window, the noise is so
frightful?”
The blind ran down and he thought of how to detain her. The window shut
and the world became muffled.
“Oh, and this lily here, could you move it?”
She tugged, but the stand that held it was heavy, and her breathing
grew deeper at the effort.
“Let me help. There is nothing in the way, is there?”
“I can do it; don’t get up, Mr. Haye.”
But he was on his feet and groping about when he met her hand again,
calm and a trifle moist, which took his and guided it. His other hand
meeting her shoulder slid down the dress (through which her arm glowed)
till his fingers caught on her elbow. How small it was, but it
wriggled, and seized with a sudden despair he loosed it. Then, as he
was groping forward again, the lily poked gently into his face, trying
to tickle him, and shuddering, he pushed the thing away. He leant
forward further to where he felt her presence and the stand. Her breath
burned in his face for a moment and bathing in her nearness he leant
further forward still, in the hopes of finding her, but she dropped his
hand and it fell on the slick edges of the pot in which the lily grew.
Despair was coming over him again, it was too awkward, this pursuit of
her under a lily, when all at once her arm mysteriously came up over
his mouth, glowing and cool at the same time, and the scent was
immediately stronger, tangible almost, so that he wanted to bite it.
But before he could do that her arm had glided away again and he gave
it up, and was merely irritated when a stray bit of her hair tickled
his right cheek, so different to the lily, as they were pushing the
stand away. But when they had the thing moved and she was leading him
back, he felt so glad at the touch of her presence that once again he
could not bear the thought of her going.
“Don’t leave me. Sit here for a little, I am so continually alone.”
“I must go, really, I shall be late already. My brother’s come up for
the day and I’m to meet him. Is there anything else you want?”
Her brother. It was no good, there was someone else, just as June would
have someone else now. How could they like him with his scars? He
raised a hand and slipped the fingers along them, smooth varnished
things unlike the clinging life of his skin. The door shut, she was
gone, and the coolness with her. He was alone. That child on the
platform as they had been coming up here: “Look, Mumma, ... blind,
Mumma,” and the horror which had been in its little cursed treble
because another little thing had thrown a stone at a passing train. Of
course it had been his window the stone hit, of course. A motor horn
kept on braying in the street outside. And now that the blind was down
and that the window was shut he felt that he would suffocate, and that
those flowers were watching him and mocking because they could do
something that he could not.
He must go out, but he must wait first for Mamma as he could not find
his way about. Their walks were terrifying very often, crossing a
street Mamma would lose her head, pulling on his arm this way and that
while death in a car rushed down on them and passed in a swirl,
gathering the air after it, and all the time he was trying not to show
how frightened he was. Then, when they were on the pavement at last,
people had no mercy on you if it was crowded; you were always being
jostled, and broken ends of conversation were jumbled up and thrown at
you, and then presences would glide past leaving a snatch of warm scent
behind them to tantalise. He was continually running into dogs, he trod
on them, and they howled till their owners became angry and then
apologised when they realised that you were not as others were. In the
country you had been able to forget that you were blind.
Everything was pressing down on him to-day, crowding in on him,
dragging him down. And now that the window was shut and the sun cut off
by the blind he felt suffocated. A barrel-organ was thudding a tune
through the window, beating at the threshold of his brain. He got up
and groping towards the window opened it. As he did so there was a
sudden lull in all the noise, he could only hear the clop-clop of a
horse receding into the distance, and then mysteriously from below
there floated up a chuckle; it was a woman and someone must have been
making love to her, so low, so deep it was. He was on fire at once.
Love in the street, he would write of it, love shouting over the
traffic, unsettling the policemen, sweeping over the park, wave upon
wave of it, inciting the baboons to mutiny in the Zoo, clearing the
streets. What was the use of his going blind if he did not write?
People must hear of what he felt, of how he knew things differently.
The sun throbbed in his head. Yes, all that, he would write all that.
He was on the crest of a petulant wave, surging along, when his wave
broke on the sound of a motor horn. There were his scars, and the sun
pricked at him through them. He drew back into the room, his face wet
with the heat. Oh, he was tired.
As he searched for his chair a flower poked its head confidingly into
his open hand, but he crushed it, for what had he to do with flowers
now? Why did Mamma leave him alone, a prey to all his thoughts? They
must go out, Mamma and he, but he felt so ill. And was she happy here,
away from Barwood and all the worries that she had lived for? As for
him, it was only that he was dazed by all these new sensations, he
would rise above them soon, when he knew how to interpret them, and
then he would have some peace.
A car was pulled up sharp, the brakes screamed and he writhed at it. He
was imprisoned here, for somehow he could not learn to find his way
about in this new house. Why didn’t she come?
It was hot. It made him think of Barwood, where probably it would be
raining, and of sitting in the summer-house while the cool rain
spattered softly in washing away the scars, and where the wind brought
things from afar to hang for a moment in his ears and then take away
again. Years ago the trees there had been green for him, only months
ago really, and here there was only dust and the dying flowers and tar.
And he had fished where the sunset came to earth and bathed in the
river. But there were voices coming up the stairs, Mamma’s and a new
voice. They must be glad to be together again, because the two streams
of what they had to say to each other mingled as they both talked at
the same time and purled so happily on. The door opened. He got up
shyly.
“Who have you brought?”
“My dear, what do you think, it is Lorna Greene. Just think, we had not
met since I married. Oh, Lorna, this is like old days.”
She was so excited and laughing, she must be happy. Then her voice
dropped. “Lorna, this is John.” All the life had gone out of her voice,
but then why wonder at it, after all he was the problem and the
millstone. Damn them! But he was saying:
“Oh, how do you do,” while a strange hand, languid but interested, took
his for a moment and he felt many rings and much culture. He had never
in his life held anything so cared for, she must bathe this hand in oil
every night, it was so smooth, so impersonal. Then it coolly slipped
away again, and she was saying something about his having known her son
at Noat in an amused kind of drawl, her voice curling round her lips.
It was almost as if she were laughing at him. She searched with her
voice, it was sardonic, she would drive him mad. What was there funny
about him, except that he was stuck here defenceless?
“Lorna, my dear, I can’t hear myself speak. These appallin’ motors and
things don’t give me a minute’s peace. Why don’t the police do
somethin’ about it? It is nice to have you here. I am shuttin’ the
window, John, do you mind?”
No, he didn’t mind. Window shut, window open, you were boxed up just
the same. They sat down, talking hard. Very long ago he remembered this
woman at Noat, Greene’s mother, she had been tall and he had thought
her nondescript. And now there was so much in her voice and in her
hand. In this way one gained by being blind. But she was talking and
her voice was fascinating.
“Do you remember when I was staying with you that time, Emily, and the
minister came to tea, the yearly tea your father gave him? And how we
put mustard into all the cakes he was fondest of, and he noticed
nothing and ate them all, then stayed talking longer than he had ever
done before, all about how the family were like the cedar in front of
the house?”
“And what Solomon’s temple was made of ...”
They were remembering, they all did.
“And oh, Lorna, do you remember ...”
Mamma’s voice was quite different, as if it had suddenly leapt into
youth again, it was so happy and excited. So London was a success with
her, she was really enjoying herself for the first time! There was only
himself out of it, all the others were in the swim.
“And Emily, when we fed the dog on chocolate and it was sick all over
your father’s room, how furious he was!”
Oh, naughty, naughty! This happiness of theirs was exasperating. How
ludicrous to think that, but he could not help it. And then all the
time this Greene woman was speaking she seemed to be gibing at him.
They had no life, they lived only in what was passed, while June and he
had carved great slices out of the future when they had been together.
June, at any rate, had always been there ready to come when she was
wanted, but Margaret’s time was divided. Why couldn’t Mamma and he go
out for their walk, but then she was so happy talking. There was no air
now that they had shut the window, they had muffled the room so that
they might muffle him the better with this talk of theirs. On and on it
went, dragging one back just when one was beginning to strike out into
new ground. He must plunge into the tumult outside and find a place for
himself. He got up.
“It is so hot in here, do you mind if I open the window?”
“Let me do it for you.”
“No, no, I can do it.”
Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Of course he could do it, he was not
wholly incapacitated. Where was the catch? He must look such a fool
fumbling here.
Good heavens! the boy looked ghastly. Why hadn’t she noticed before, it
was Lorna’s having come that had excited her so that she had not seen.
And as she helped him raise the sash she looked anxiously into his
face, she did not like it, he seemed from his expression to be seeing
things which she could not. But then how could he? He was not going to
be ill? She blamed herself, how selfish of her to be gossiping with
Lorna when he was ill and needed her. All this noise must be bad for
him with the window open, but then it was air he wanted, and it was
rather sticky to-day. Lorna must go. But it was as if the dear thing
had guessed, for she was saying that she must fly now and that she knew
her way and that no one was to show her out. But you couldn’t do that,
Edward had left no servants, and as they went downstairs Lorna was told
how the journey up a few weeks before had made the boy unaccountably
seedy, how at first the noise seemed to worry him terribly, but that
the new house would be quieter, and how worrying it all was. What could
one do?
The soft sound of their murmuring at the bottom of the stairs and the
roar of Oxford Street swept him away on a flood, but he was so tired
that he seemed to sink in it to a place where the pitch was higher, the
cars and everything more shrill as they darted along so far away, it
seemed. The flowers were singing to themselves, or was it a bird? Birds
lusting in trees which suddenly were round him, their notes screaming
through the rich leaves. They were full of sap, hanging down thick
hands to cover the nakedness of the branches on which birds sat mocking
at him, for they could see and he could not. All Barwood was laughing
at him because he had gone away, and by doing that had found out how
helpless he was. He could not open the window, he could not go out.
Mamma was coming back, her footsteps rang heavily on the stairs, and as
she came in and shut the door he roused himself, saying that he was
only feverish and that it would pass with a night’s rest. She came up
to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right, dear?”
“Yes, yes, quite all right.”
Why did they go on nagging him?
“Shall I shut the window? Don’t you find this noise terrible?”
“No, please leave it open so that I can listen.” She sat down and took
up some knitting. That doctor was a fool. What was the matter with the
boy? She could only sit and watch, there was nothing to be done with
him, he was in one of his moods. Their walk was out of the question now.
He passed a hand over his forehead, the skin was dry and burning,
electric. Again he felt that he was being enveloped, this time by the
close room and by the sun which throbbed outside. He was growing afraid
at the way in which the walls pressed in and crowded the flowers
together so that their scent rose up in a fog mixed with the turmoil
outside and made to overwhelm him, when suddenly and for no reason,
like a gust of wind through the room, purifying it, came the sound of
bells from the church along the street, tearing through the room, bells
catching each other up, tripping, tumbling and then starting off again
in cascades. Theirs was such a wild joy and they trembled at it between
the strokes so that they hummed, making a background for the peals. He
loved bells, and, inexpressibly happy, he was swept back to Barwood and
June--“Listen, June, how the sound of them comes over the country,” and
her father being hunted by them through the mazes that gin had created
in his brain, and their walks stretched in a gesture to the sky, they
had been so unfortunate in their lives.
Then, for no reason, the bells began to stop one by one and the humming
grew fainter, and he remembered an evening on the river when the sound
of them had glided over the water, but a lorry mumbled along beneath,
and one by one the bells stopped till even their humming had gone.
Barwood was being sold, and after all, those walks of theirs had come
to nothing.
He must ask B. G. and Seymour round to see him. But perhaps they would
be bored and would laugh at his ideas after the time they had spent at
Oxford. And he was not going to let them see him crushed under his
blindness, they would despise him for it. He must first make out how he
stood with life in general so that he could show them how much better
off he was than they. He would start a crusade against people who had
eyesight. It was the easiest thing in the world to see, and so very
many were content with only the superficial appearance of things; it
would teach them so much if they were to go blind, though blindness was
a burden at first and he was heavy with memories.
Those bells, everything, brought them jostling back in one’s mind. But
there had been something different about the bells, they had left him
trembling, and when he passed a hand over his chair he was surprised at
how stolid and unaltered the plush remained, for he was certain that
the wild peal of them had made a great difference, their vibration had
loosened and freed everything, until even the noise of the streets
became invigorating. He felt a stirring inside him; it was true, they
had made a difference, he felt it, and in a minute something was going
to happen. He waited, taut in the chair.
Mrs. Haye knitted. The bells carried one back to Barwood. He would have
been better there, you could not breathe in London, and fresh air was
good for one if one was feelin’ seedy. But it was no use thinkin’ about
Barwood, one must be practical, and everything would change once they
had a house of their own. This caretaker and his wife were impossible,
it was so like Edward to have servants like that. You could not speak
to the man he was so rude, and that woman was hardly any better, though
she did seem to take some trouble with the boy. But there again you
never quite knew, he might form one of his terrible attachments for
her, and then there would be the old worry of the Entwhistle creature
all over again. She ought to have stood up to him at the time and told
him straight out that it was ridiculous and that she would not have it,
it was wrong of her not to have done that, but then his blindness had
come upon them so suddenly and it had been so soon after. You could not
speak out to him when his life had been taken from him like that.
Anyway, they had gone and it was done--so much of her was there, in the
village and the Town Council and all those things, but of course one
understood his wanting to get away from all the old places where he had
seen, and he was so brave making a new life for himself like this. And
she would make a home for him, they would start again up here, it was
rather excitin’ really, of course it was. She would get hold of Lorna
and they would find some young things. He must marry. If he did,
perhaps she could go back there?
Lorna had altered, she was so fashionable now, one felt shy meetin’ her
again. It had been good of her to come round, she was goin’ to be a
real help, for they must find something to distract the boy. She had
bought that lily, one would have thought he’d like it, it had cost
quite a sum being so early in the year, but he had pushed it away.
Better not to mention that. These motor cars, it was a disgrace the
noise they made. But he seemed to like it, for he was lookin’ happy
almost for the first time since he had been up here. He had said all
the time that he was very happy, but she had felt that he had been
worried really, and mainly as to whether she was happy in London, but
of course she went where he went. It was difficult to understand his
moods. Perhaps they could go for their walk now, and that she had only
been imaginin’ things when she thought he was ill.
Oh, these waves of sickness that came suddenly over him, stirring
through his brain. And it was as if there were something straining
behind his eyeballs to get out. He dropped his face into his hands,
there was such a feeling of happiness surging through him.
Mamma’s voice, a long way away it seemed, and anxious:
“What is it, dear?”
“I’m frightened.”
“Why? What is there to be frightened of? Why?”
But he was frightened at such joy. In a minute he felt it would burst
out of him in a great wind and like a kite he would soar on it, and
that the mist which lay between him and the world would be lifted by it
also. Rising, rising up.
He was rising through the mist, blown on a gust of love, lifting up,
straining at a white light that he would bathe in. He half rose.
“John!”
And when he bathed there he would know all, why he was blind, why life
had been so to him. He was nearer. To rise on this love, how wonderful
to rise on this love. He was near now.
“John!!”
A ladder, bring a ladder. In his ears his own voice cried loudly, and a
deeper blindness closed in upon him.
* * * * *
As they carried him to his room, the bells suddenly broke out again
from along the street. Probably they were practising for some great
event. It was the first thing he heard as he came back to the world,
and he smiled at them.
END OF PART III
A LETTER
“_Dear B. G._
“_They tell me I have had some sort of a fit, but it has passed now.
Apparently my father was liable to them, so that anyway I have one
behind me after this. But it is so divine to be in London again near to
you, and with the sun shining down on me as I lie in bed as if it had
never shone before, while underneath, in the street, the traffic glides
past in busy vibrations, I am so happy to be in the centre of things
again, and to be alive. How stimulating a town is--but perhaps you
think me silly. You have led such a different life to mine, I hardly
know what you think or feel. Come around and look me up again, you know
how I love talking. I have had a wonderful experience. I am going to
settle down to writing now, I have a lot to tell. Mamma read me your
article in the “New World” and it was wonderful--really, I mean, for
that is not flattery. Why am I so happy to-day?_
“_Yrs.,_
“_John._”
THE END
Transcriber’s Note
This transcription is based on images made available by the University
of California and Google:
books.google.com/books?id=0gMFAQAAIAAJ
These scans are also available through the HathiTrust Digital Library:
hdl.handle.net/2027/uc1.b4095579
The following changes were made to the printed text:
• p. 7: The Vounteers’ Camp and all its attendant horrors--Changed
“Vounteers” to “Volunteers”.
• p. 46: oh, well, we musn’t argue.--Changed “musn’t” to “mustn’t”.
• p. 48: “Dear boy, we must be practical. It may take a--a very long
time indeed.--Added a closing double quotation mark after “indeed.”
• p. 61: the miracle that anything could be so beautiful never to see a
bird again--Added a comma after “beautiful”.
• p. 79: Were there any blind boys in Norbury of his own, nice boys
whom--Added “age” after “of his own”.
• p. 87: Mrs. Crayshaw would not be be able to do any visiting--Deleted
the second “be”.
• p. 102: “Thanks, Nan, I’m sure I do.”--Added a paragraph break before
this sentence.
• p. 113: All over at the contact her hands he trembled--Added “of”
after “contact”.
• p. 123: he ought to take a a pride in the hatred of the
world.--Deleted the second “a”.
• p. 125: “It’s the cancer, Joan, that what I am so terrified
about.--Changed “that” to “that’s”.
• p. 129: and the blue bottles seethed with anger at being disturbed by
someone--Changed “blue bottles” to “bluebottles” for consistency.
• p. 133: Three blue bottles, fanning themselves angrily--Changed “blue
bottles” to “bluebottles” for consistency.
• p. 155: “Run along, Joan and play.”--Inserted a comma after “Joan”.
• p. 189: You will be coming to-morrow to have your hand looked to, wont
you?--Changed “wont” to “won’t”.
• p. 217: “John,” he said, pulling his arm, “how silent you
are.”--Changed “he” to “she”.
• p. 223: but we could have a a gay time there--Deleted the second “a”.
• p. 226: I won’t have you say thinks like that about him.--Changed
“thinks” to “things”.
• p. 226: Anyway I shouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for
him?”--Changed the question mark after “him” to a period.
• p. 226: “Why had he made a compliment like that?--Deleted the opening
double quotation mark before “Why”.
• p. 227: He was brought to it, and by your lot too.--Added a closing
double quotation mark after “too.”
• p. 227: them saying that he didn’ do his duty--Changed “didn’” to
“didn’t”.
• p. 235: The cock was quiet and dignified this morning rather
sleepy.--Inserted a comma after “morning”.
• p. 236: “I wont.”--Changed “wont” to “won’t”.
• p. 249: “But Emily, painters always go to the counry for
inspiration.--Changed “counry” to “country”.
• p. 254: through vilages where Barwood was repeated--Changed “vilages”
to “villages”.
• p. 256: What was this--Added a question mark after “this”.
• p. 262: “No that would only have made a rush at the station.”--Added a
comma after “No”.
• p. 265: “Only five minutes now.’--Changed the closing single quotation
mark at the end of the sentence to a closing double quotation mark.
• p. 283: so much or her was there, in the village--Changed “or” to
“of”.
• p. 285: the bells sudden broke out again from along the
street--Changed “sudden” to “suddenly”.