IN BLIGHTY
It was with a sense of relief that, shortly after this, I received word
that I was to be sent to England. To me, it was the promised land, in
which I was to be fitted to take my place as a useful, independent
member of society. The trip to Dover was pleasant and exhilarating; the
run to London a bit tedious. But an incident that occurred on my arrival
at Charing Cross Station touched my heart as has nothing else in my
life, and my misfortune seemed, for the moment, almost a blessing; it
taught me that hearts beat right and true, and that about me were men
and women eager to cheer me on as I played the game of life.
It was just one of London's flower-girls, one of the women who
religiously meet the hospital trains and shower on the wounded soldiers
the flowers they have not sold--flowers, no doubt, held back from sale
in most cases for this charitable purpose. When the attendants were
moving me from the train and placing me on a stretcher, I was gently
touched, and a large bunch of roses placed in my hand. The act was
accompanied by the words: "'Ere ye are, Tommy. These 'ere roses will
'elp to liven things up a bit when yer gets in the 'ospital. Good luck
to you, matey; may yer soon get better." The voice was harsh and
unmusical. Grammar and accent showed that it had been trained in the
slums; but the kindly act, the sympathetic words, touched my soul.
The act was much to me, but the flowers were nothing. In answer to the
girl's good wishes, I replied that I did not see as well as I used to,
and that my power of enjoying the perfume of flowers had also been taken
from me; perhaps there were some other wounded boys who could appreciate
the beauty and scent of the flowers better than I could, and she had
better put them on one of their stretchers. But she left them with me,
and, in a voice in which I could detect a tear, said:--
"Well, matey, if yer can't see, yer can feel. Let's give yer a kiss."
I nodded assent, and then I received the first kiss from a woman's lips
that I had had since I left home--and then she passed away, but the
memory of that kiss remains, and will remain while life lasts.
I was now taken to St. George's Hospital, and from there to No. 2 London
General Hospital (old St. Mark's College), Chelsea. In this institution
I met for the first time one of the geniuses of the present age, a man
who spent his life working not with clay or marble, or wood or metal,
but with human beings, taking the derelicts of life and moulding them
into useful vessels--Sir Arthur Pearson, a true miracle worker, a man
who has given the equivalent of eyes to hundreds of blind people, who
has enabled many men who felt themselves down and out to face life's
battle bravely, teaching them to look upon their affliction as nothing
more than a petty handicap. A few years ago, as everyone knows, Sir
Arthur was one of the leading journalists and publishers in the British
Empire, the true founder of Imperial journalism. At the summit of his
career, while still a comparatively young man, he was smitten with
blindness. He would not let a thing like that beat him; he conquered
blindness, and set himself to help others to conquer it. He soon became
the leading spirit in the education of the blind in Great Britain, and,
despite his handicap, was elected President of the National Institute
for the Blind, and was the guiding star in many organizations
established to aid the sightless. When war broke out his success as an
organizer, his power as a teacher, caused the authorities to choose him
to look after the blinded of the Army and Navy.
[Illustration: Sir Arthur Pearson]
My meeting with Sir Arthur occurred in the following manner. The ward
door was open--I knew that by the gentle breeze that swept across my
cot. Suddenly, from the direction of the door, a cheery voice exclaimed:
"Are any new men here? Where's Rawlinson?"
I answered: "Right here, sir! But who are you?"
"Well, Rawlinson, and how are you getting along? When do they figure on
letting you get away from here? You know, we are waiting for you at St.
Dunstan's."
I knew then that the man standing by my cot was the famous Sir Arthur. I
shook hands with him, and thanked him for his kindly interest in asking
about me. I offered him the chair that always stands beside the hospital
bed. He must have heard me moving some objects I had placed on it, in
order to have them within reach of my hands.
"Never mind the chair," he said. "Just sit up a bit; there is room
enough on the bed for both of us. Have you got a cigarette to give a
fellow?"
I apologized, saying that I had only ---- ----, and that I didn't think
he would care to smoke them.
"Do you smoke them?" he questioned. "If they're good enough for you to
smoke, they're good enough for me."
That set me right at my ease. I was in the presence of a knight; but he
was first and last a _man_. Straight to the point he went. He never puts
a man through that bugbear of the soldier, a host of seemingly
inconsequential questions; he has the particulars of each man who is
likely to come under his direction long before he visits him.
"Have you," he said, "made up your mind to join our happy band at St.
Dunstan's. There's lots of room up there for you, and we want you."
Just here I would remark that No. 2 General was a sort of preparatory
school for St. Dunstan's. The adjutant from one of the St. Dunstan's
establishments, either the House, College, or Bungalow, came to read the
newspapers and talk with the men who were to study under him. So we had
by this means picked up much information about Sir Arthur, and knew the
man even before meeting him; but the being conjured up by our
imagination fell far short of the real man. He did not come to your
bedside commiserating with you over your misfortune. He was totally
unlike the average visitor, whose one aim seemed to be to impress on you
some appropriate--often most inappropriate, considering your
condition--text of scripture. Well, he was with me, and we talked and
smoked, the knight and the private soldier, both blind, but both
completely ignoring the fact. During our talk darkness seemed to
vanish, and I saw a great light--the battle could be won, and I would
win it. After that conference, I knew full well that I should not be a
burden upon anybody, sightless though I was.
Up to this time my idea of a blind man was just what is or was that of
the average sighted person--a man groping his way about the streets or
standing at some conspicuous corner with a card hanging on his breast
telling the world that he could not see; a cup to hold the coppers that
the sympathetic public would drop into it; and last, but not least, a
faithful little dog, his friend and guide. During the first days of my
blindness I often wondered where I was going to get a suitable pup.
While at No. 2 London General, preparation for my future work went on.
As soon as I was able to get out of bed, I was taken once each week to
St. Dunstan's to talk with other men in residence there--a species of
initiation. While in hospital, too, as soon as we were able to work a
little, we were given the rudiments of Braille. This was not compulsory;
and if we wished to yield to fate and sit with hands idly folded we
were at liberty to do so. But the majority of the men were eager for
occupation of any kind.
Lying in bed or sitting on a hospital chair, unable to see the objects
about you, there is a danger of deep depression being occasioned by
melancholy brooding. To prevent this, the V.A.D.'s who worked in the St.
Dunstan's Ward saw to it that the men were not left too much to
themselves, and kindly attention kept me from becoming morbid while
waiting for my exchange to St. Dunstan's.
As I was a Canadian, I had to go down to the Canadian Hospital to
receive my final Board--just a matter of that child of the devil,
red-tape. August 13th saw me on my way to Regent's Park, where St.
Dunstan's is situated. My heart leaped within me; I was going to have
first-hand knowledge of the marvellous things about which I had heard. I
was going to learn things that would put me out of the stick, tin-cup,
card-around-my-neck, and little-dog class. Thirteen may be an unlucky
number, but that 13th of August was, notwithstanding my blindness, the
beginning of the happiest year of my life since I left my mother's
home.
On my way to St. Dunstan's, I journeyed from the Marble Arch to Orchard
Street, then by bus up Orchard Street, Upper Baker and Baker Streets,
right past Marylebone, on the right of which stands Madame Tussaud's
famous Wax-Works, and on to Baker Street tube. Just past the tube is
Clarence Gate, one of the entrances to Regent's Park. Entering the
grounds, we followed the park rails until we came to two white stone
pillars. I have painful recollections of these pillars. For the first
two weeks after my arrival at St. Dunstan's I made their acquaintance
frequently, and in no pleasant manner. I was anxious to find my way
about without assistance, and those pillars always seemed to stand in my
way. Head, shoulders, and shins all bumped into them. They would meet me
even if I walked in the broad roadway. And they were hard, very hard.
They were at first a pair of veritable ogres, but in the end I conquered
them, and could walk by them with a jaunty air, whistling a tune of
defiance.