BLIND!
ANXIETY can seldom dwell long in the heart of the young. Ida, awakened
the next morning by the sun shining into her window with a brilliance
rarely seen so early on an April morn in London, hailed it as good
omen. This was the dreaded day of the operation, but she would not
shrink from the thought of it. If, as she hoped, it resulted in her
father’s restored eyesight, would she not look back upon this day with
thankfulness? She must be brave and hopeful, and do all she could to
cheer her father. That he was brave enough to undergo the operation
with unflinching courage, Ida knew well, but she feared that his hope
had sunk very low.
It was pleasant along the Embankment on this bright, sunny morn. When
Ida threw open her window, she saw the river shining like silver in
the sunshine and every boat and barge beautified by glorious rays.
The sky was of pale, clear blue, save for a bank of pearly clouds to
the westward. The trees before the house just opening their young
leaves had made wonderful progress during the night, and now stood in
freshest, daintiest array, seemingly conscious of their new beauty
as they waved and rustled in the light, soft breeze. The lilacs and
laburnums in the garden below breathed forth their gratitude in sweet
odours, which reached Ida as she leaned forward drinking in with
delight the gladness of the day. She too gave thanks to the Giver of
all good, and rejoiced that the world was so fair. The rustling leaves,
the sweet-smelling blossoms, the rich sunshine, all spoke to her of
love. The world was ruled by Love. How could she doubt that all would
be well with her and with her father?
The clock was striking eight as she entered the dining-room. Ida and
her father were wont to sit down to breakfast punctually at this hour.
Antonio was an early riser, and had often worked for an hour in the
studio before the morning meal. He was one who adhered tenaciously to
habit, and since his enforced idleness, Ida had in vain urged him to
rest longer in bed. She was surprised, therefore, on entering the room
to see that he was not there. Thinking he was perhaps talking with
Fritz in the studio, she waited a while. But when the large hand of
the clock pointed to a quarter past the hour, Ida began to feel rather
uneasy. It was so unusual for her father to be thus unpunctual.
Ida rang the bell. Marie appeared in response to the summons. She
looked surprised to see the young lady alone.
“Do you know if my father has come down, Marie?” said Ida.
“I have not seen him, Miss Ida,” said the servant. “But surely at this
hour—”
“Perhaps he is in the studio,” said Ida.
“I hardly think so,” said Marie, “for Fritz has just come in to get his
breakfast, and he has said nothing about the master. But then Fritz is
always so saving of his breath. I’ll ask him.”
She went away, but returned almost immediately, saying, “Fritz says the
master has not been to the studio. Do you think anything has happened?
Do you think he can be ill, Miss Ida?”
“Anything happened!” The vague words sent a thrill through Ida. She
rose hurriedly, her face paling as she said, “I will go and see.”
Her heart beat painfully as she hastened upstairs. As she paused for a
moment listening anxiously outside her father’s door, a warm stream of
sunshine fell on her through the landing window. The cheering radiance
brought hope.
“All must be well,” she whispered to herself as she tapped at the door.
“Come in,” said the voice of Antonio.
And as she heard the calm, familiar tones, every fear vanished. She
opened the door, and with light, quick step advanced into the room. She
was surprised to find father still in bed.
“So you have taken my advice at last, and have indulged in an extra
nap,” she said brightly; “that is all, I trust. You are not ill, are
you, father dear?”
Though she spoke almost gaily, there was fresh anxiety in her glance as
she bent to kiss him, for she was dimly conscious of something unusual
in the look of his upturned eyes, something new in the appealing,
haggard expression.
“Certainly I am not ill, child; why should you think it?” he said,
looking not at her but beyond her, as it seemed to Ida. “You are
stirring betimes, this morning.”
“Oh no, father, it is late,” she said; “I will fetch you your breakfast
directly.”
“Breakfast!” he repeated. “Why do you want me to breakfast so early? Is
it because of the operation? What is the time, Ida? I should think it
was the middle of the night were I not so restless, and did I not hear
so much stirring outside.”
“The middle of the night!” faltered Ida, bewildered and alarmed. “Why,
father dear, what are you thinking of? It is past eight o’clock.”
“Past eight o’clock! Impossible!” he said, the look of pain deepening
on his face. “Or if so, it is surely a very gloomy day. Is there a fog?”
“A fog! Oh, father, what can you mean? It is lovely. The sun is shining
as if it were summer.”
There were anguish and terror now on the upturned face. But no
utterance was given to them. Antonio only said hoarsely:
“Pull up the blinds, Ida. Pull them up high. Let all the light you can
into the room.”
Tremblingly, she obeyed. Every pane was bared, and the sunlight poured
into the room and made a broad expanse of light on the floor between
the bed and the window.
Antonio turned to meet the light. It shone full on his worn, seamed
face and square, furrowed brow, and into the deep-sunken eyes opened
wide to receive it. But the eyelids did not quiver, nor the pupils
shrink from the strong light. The look she saw on her father’s face
sent a thrill of sudden terror through Ida.
“Oh, father, what is it?” she cried, her tones vibrating with fear.
“What is the matter? Why do you look like that?”
Antonio’s features worked strangely, but controlling himself by a
strong effort, he said, “The room is full of light, is it not?”
“Yes, full,” she answered scarce above a whisper, as the bitter truth
came home to her. Not that she at once received it as truth, but it
struck her as an awful possibility.
“Then it is as I feared,” said Antonio; and with that, he turned and
buried his face in the pillow.
Ida remained standing motionless where she was. As she stood by the
window in the blaze of sunlight, she felt like one turned to stone.
Never could she forget the horrible, despairful sense of utter
helplessness in the grasp of a cruel, inexorable fate, which possessed
her at that moment.
Terrible was the silence which ensued. She could neither move nor
speak. If it were as she feared, how could words avail to lighten her
father’s woe? She shrank from speech, dreading to hear embodied in
words the dire calamity in which she was trying hard not to believe.
For a while Antonio lay perfectly still, like one whom a heavy blow had
stunned. How long they had remained thus Ida could not have told, when
a tap at the door roused her from her stupor of fear.
It was Marie, whose anxiety to know why her young lady did not return,
but suffered the breakfast to grow cold upon the table, could no longer
be restrained.
As Ida moved towards the door, her father raised his head and said
abruptly:
“Let no one enter. And go you away, child, and leave me to myself.”
But Ida could not leave him. It was not easy to stay Marie’s questions,
but Ida did arrest them, and sent that worthy woman away in mingled
wonder, indignation, and dismay. Then she went back into the room and
seated herself beside the bed.
Her father’s face was again hidden. Not a word or moan escaped him,
but that he was smitten to the heart with sorest sorrow Ida knew well.
Presently, as she watched him, her fear took a new form. Anxious to
rouse him, she took one of his hands in hers and pressed her cold lips
to it. He moved at her touch, and said, without looking round, “Are you
still there, Ida? Why do you not go away?”
“I cannot,” she said brokenly. “Father, tell me, are you ill? Is your
sight worse?”
“Worse!” he cried bitterly. “I am blind, child, totally blind. The evil
I have most dreaded has come upon me. Life is robbed of all that made
it precious. I am dead whilst yet living. Oh, death, actual death,
would be infinitely less bitter!”
“But, father, you will see again. It cannot be, it is impossible that
you are really blind. When the operation—”
“There can be no operation now,” he broke in; “the sight is gone beyond
recall. Dr. Ward warned me that this might come. I think he expected
it.”
“Oh, father, don’t give up hope,” Ida pleaded. “Wait till Dr. Ward
comes; wait till he has examined your eyes. You must be mistaken in
thinking the case so bad.”
He shook his head in utter despair.
Again Ida was silent, whilst she contemplated with inexpressible
emotion the chasm of deep, unending misery which had so suddenly opened
before them. That keenest of all sorrows, the despair of a young soul
overwhelmed by its first experience of the dark possibilities of human
life, was hers. The sunshine still pouring into the room seemed hard
and cruel to her now. She would have shut it out if she could have done
so without disturbing her father.
It was a relief to her as she sat thus to hear Marie ascending the
stairs. Again the zealous servant knocked at the door. This time she
thrust into Ida’s hands a tray on which were some coffee and rusks.
“Ill or well, one must eat,” she said; “try to persuade the master to
take something. And you too, Miss Ida, you will faint if you continue
fasting.”
Ida felt it impossible to eat, but she blamed herself for not having
remembered that her father needed food. She carried the tray to the
side of the bed and placed it on a little table that stood there.
“Father,” she said coaxingly, pleadingly, with tears in her eyes,
“Marie has made you some nice coffee, just as you like it; do please
try to drink it. You will be ill if you take nothing.”
The sorrowful, pleading tone went to her father’s heart. Though he
could not see the tears in her eyes, he knew that they were there. He
raised himself and put out his hand—the cunning, skilful hand with
long supple fingers, bearing the traces of years of toil, which, alas,
was never to use sculptor’s tools again—put it out with hesitating,
uncertain aim to reach the coffee.
Ida could have cried aloud as she guided his hand to the cup and helped
him to raise it to his lips.
He ate and drank mechanically, obeying a sense of duty rather than any
desire for food.
“I must not make the burden heavier than need be, child,” he said. “If
my life is spoiled, there is no reason why yours should be. This world
will henceforth be to me a living grave, but you are young, and life is
still bright with promise for you.”
“It cannot be bright for me if it is dark for you,” cried Ida,
vehemently. “Oh, father, if only I could give you my eyes!”
“Do you think I would take them if you could?” he said. “Do not let us
speak wildly, Ida. We must bow to the inevitable; I have given way to
weakness long enough. Go now, child, and send Fritz to me.”
An hour later Antonio Nicolari, little changed in outward appearance,
was seated in his usual place in the dining-room, with Ida on a low
chair beside him. Each blind and curtain was closely drawn, to shut out
the pitiless radiance of the day.
Ida felt almost to hate the sunlight, which, in spite of all her
endeavours to exclude it, would penetrate through every crack and
crevice. Hardly a word passed between father and daughter as they sat
side by side. No voice of poet or philosopher could give consolation
adequate for such sorrow as theirs, and the Divine Comforter in whom
she had begun to trust seemed to Ida in this strange, bewildering
trouble as One afar off.
Slowly, drearily the morning passed on, till at noon a loud peal of the
house-bell announced the arrival of Dr. Ward and his assistant. Antonio
had directed that the doctors should be shown into his private room.
Ida led him to the door of that apartment. Ere he entered, he paused to
give her a word of warning.
“Remember, Ida,” he said, “that I know my doom. There is no ground for
hope. Don’t try to deceive yourself, child.”
But as Ida went back to the dining-room, she was still clinging to
hope, though a very slender thread of hope it was. It seemed to her
that she waited an age, hearing nothing but a faint murmur of voices
in the next room, but in reality it was barely half an hour ere the
door opened and the doctors came out. The assistant took his departure
immediately, but Dr. Ward knocked at the dining-room door and entered
the room almost before Ida could respond to his knock.
The oculist was a man past middle age, with silvery hair and beard, and
an earnest benevolent face. There was fatherly kindness in his manner
as he took the girl’s trembling hands in his and answered the question
she could put only with her eyes.
“Dear Miss Nicolari, I wish I could bring you comfort, but, alas, this
is a case that can be met only by resignation.”
“You mean that my father will always be blind?” came tremblingly from
Ida’s lips.
Dr. Ward bowed his head. He could not bring himself to utter words that
must wound so cruelly.
Ida stood motionless for a few moments with her hands clasped tightly
before her. Then her spirit rose in wild resistance to the pressure of
woe. She looked up at the doctor, exclaiming impetuously, “Oh, is there
nothing that can be done—no operation that might cure him? My father
would endure anything if only he could get back his sight. Oh, think
what it means! Art is everything to him. How can he live cut off from
it, shut out from all light, all beauty? Oh, he can never bear such a
life!”
“My dear Miss Nicolari, I know well how bitter it must be,” said Dr.
Ward; “sight is the most precious of our bodily senses. To lose it is
like losing life. If anything could be done or attempted in this case,
how gladly would I do it! But the sight is hopelessly gone; there is no
recovery from this paralysis.”
A shudder ran through Ida’s slender frame. She sank on to a chair and
burst into tears. The doctor was glad to see those tears.
“Yes, cry, my child, cry,” he said tenderly; “it will do you good. Give
way as you will now; by-and-by I know you will be brave and strong to
help your father. He will bear his trouble as bravely as man can, but
he will need all the comfort you can give him.”
“Oh, my father!” exclaimed Ida, making an effort to check her sobs.
“What must he be feeling now! I must go to him.”
“Not yet,” said the doctor, “he cannot bear even your presence now. He
wishes to be left to himself for a while, and he asked me to tell you
so. Like most strong men, he would struggle with his anguish alone.
By-and-by he will need you, and you will be able to help him.”
“Oh, how can I help him?” cried Ida, in tones that thrilled the heart
of the listener. “Oh, tell me what I can do! There is nothing I would
not do; I would gladly be blind, if only my father might see. He cares
for nothing but his work, and I—I care for nothing save to see him
happy.”
Dr. Ward looked pityingly, yet with admiration on the noble, beautiful
face which, though wan and wet with tears, was glorified by the purest
womanly feeling.
“God bless you, my child!” he said, in tender, reverent accents.
“You 'will’ help your father; you will be eyes to him and light and
sunshine. You will teach him to see the beauty of earth and sky and
every lovely thing through your eyes. Do not fear; you cannot fail to
comfort him.”
And deeply touched, he pressed her hand and went away. Life seemed a
nobler and grander thing to him that day because of the glimpse he had
had into the heart of a strong and loving woman.
Ida remained where he had left her, lost in deep thought. “Oh, if I
knew of any help!” she said half aloud. Like a response to her cry
came to mind the words which, ever since she first heard them as she
waited with Marie in the church-porch, had at times echoed through her
heart—“'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest.’”
The sense of her utter weakness and helplessness beneath the crushing
burden of this sorrow brought a childlike cry of faith to her lips—“O
Thou who didst speak those words, Thou who didst give sight to the
blind, and help to every troubled one who sought Thee, have pity on my
father and on me. Teach me how I may help him. Strengthen me that I may
be strong to support him, and may I never think nor care about anything
but how I may comfort him!”