PAGE 6
The Blind Man
by
The rich suffusion of this state generally kept him happy, reaching its culmination in the consuming passion for his wife. But at times the flow would seem to be checked and thrown back. Then it would beat inside him like a tangled sea, and he was tortured in the shattered chaos of his own blood. He grew to dread this arrest, this throw-back, this chaos inside himself, when he seemed merely at the mercy of his own powerful and conflicting elements. How to get some measure of control or surety, this was the question. And when the question rose maddening in him, he would clench his fists as if he would compel the whole universe to submit to him. But it was in vain. He could not even compel himself.
Tonight, however, he was still serene, though little tremors of unreasonable exasperation ran through him. He had to handle the razor very carefully, as he shaved, for it was not at one with him, he was afraid of it. His hearing also was too much sharpened. He heard the woman lighting the lamps on the corridor, and attending to the fire in the visitor’s room. And then, as he went to his room he heard the trap arrive. Then came Isabel’s voice, lifted and calling, like a bell ringing:
‘Is it you, Bertie? Have you come?’
And a man’s voice answered out of the wind:
‘Hello, Isabell There you are.’
‘Have you had a miserable drive? I’m so sorry we couldn’t send a closed carriage. I can’t see you at all, you know.’
‘I’m coming. No, I liked the drive–it was like Perthshire. Well, how are you? You’re looking fit as ever, as far as I can see.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Isabel. ‘I’m wonderfully well. How are you? Rather thin, I think–‘
‘Worked to death–everybody’s old cry. But I’m all right, Ciss. How’s Pervin?–isn’t he here?’
‘Oh, yes, he’s upstairs changing. Yes, he’s awfully well. Take off your wet things; I’ll send them to be dried.’
‘And how are you both, in spirits? He doesn’t fret?’
‘No–no, not at all. No, on the contrary, really. We’ve been wonderfully happy, incredibly. It’s more than I can understand–so wonderful: the nearness, and the peace–‘
‘Ah! Well, that’s awfully good news–‘
They moved away. Pervin heard no more. But a childish sense of desolation had come over him, as he heard their brisk voices. He seemed shut out–like a child that is left out. He was aimless and excluded, he did not know what to do with himself. The helpless desolation came over him. He fumbled nervously as he dressed himself, in a state almost of childishness. He disliked the Scotch accent in Bertie’s speech, and the slight response it found on Isabel’s tongue. He disliked the slight purr of complacency in the Scottish speech. He disliked intensely the glib way in which Isabel spoke of their happiness and nearness. It made him recoil. He was fretful and beside himself like a child, he had almost a childish nostalgia to be included in the life circle. And at the same time he was a man, dark and powerful and infuriated by his own weakness. By some fatal flaw, he could not be by himself, he had to depend on the support of another. And this very dependence enraged him. He hated Bertie Reid, and at the same time he knew the hatred was nonsense, he knew it was the outcome of his own weakness.
He went downstairs. Isabel was alone in the dining-room. She watched him enter, head erect, his feet tentative. He looked so strong-blooded and healthy, and, at the same time, cancelled. Cancelled–that was the word that flew across her mind. Perhaps it was his scars suggested it.
‘You heard Bertie come, Maurice?’ she said.
‘Yes–isn’t he here?’
‘He’s in his room. He looks very thin and worn.’
‘I suppose he works himself to death.’
A woman came in with a tray–and after a few minutes Bertie came down. He was a little dark man, with a very big forehead, thin, wispy hair, and sad, large eyes. His expression was inordinately sad–almost funny. He had odd, short legs.