Читать книгу The Blind Man's House--a Quiet Story - Hugh Walpole - Страница 10

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Dear Alice,

I should have answered your letter ever so long back but the fact is I've been so terribly busy that I've hardly known whether I'm on my head or my heels. Well, Alice, you know I always tell you everything and what's a loving sister for if you don't, but the fact is I'm writing this very letter in a bit of a tremble and the reason is that only a quarter of an hour ago Mrs. Cromwell's been in here and lost her temper in a shocking fashion. Of course I never said a word as where would I be by now if I hadn't learned to control my temper, besides which I can't help liking her. She's only a child when all is said and done. Besides as you well know I'd do any mortal thing for him and well he knows it. Besides, Alice, he loves her something terrible and so does she but she doesn't understand him one little bit nor what it is to be blind, although she wants to understand if you get me.

Mind you she's a grown woman and she's no right to get in the states she does. I don't think she's happy and that's the cause of a lot of it. When you're unhappy about something you just want to fly out at someone, at least that's how it used to take me until I'd had such a lot of unhappiness that I saw flying out about anything was just a waste of time. But she comes in just now and asks me why the letters haven't gone to the post. That's not my business as she well knows but Curtis the chauffeur's, but not wanting to put the blame on Curtis, I say I'll see to it and then she's in a rage and says she doesn't know why it is but everything's been sixes and sevens ever since we've come to this house and I say we've only been here a fortnight and then she says that I'm getting careless so then I just smile and say I'm doing as I've always done and she flings out of the room banging the door just like a naughty child.

You know what it is, Alice, she's jealous poor thing. Jealous of me and Curtis and especially of Oliphant—anyone her husband has a kind word for. I think she's frightened of his blindness, not realizing it at first but thinking she'd have all the more power with him because he was blind and now finding that he seems to get away from her where she can't get after him.

You and I know what jealousy is don't we, Alice, and yet if I could have Henry back with all his unfaithful ways I would and gladly just to feel the roughness of his cheek and lay my hand on his shirt where his heart beats because it's that much more lonely here, Alice, than it was at Bramgrove and it's an old house with dark passages and I can't help thinking half the time—well, you know who I'm always thinking of. All the same we've settled in well enough seeing that they've been here only a fortnight and the cook and the girls get along finely together. Mrs. Cromwell's very good with them I must say and goes into the kitchen just like one of them. She's not a snob that I must say and yet they mind what she tells them. The housemaid Violet simply worships the ground she treads on.

I know what you're asking all the time, Alice—how's he getting along? Well I've never seen him so happy, never, and it does your heart good to hear him humming to himself and laughing and kissing her when he thinks there isn't anyone there. It ought to be all right when two people are as much in love with one another as those two are but she's restless all the same, jealous one minute and flirting with someone the next. She doesn't mean any harm you know but there's something in him she's frightened of and not at ease with, and there's a sort of relief and ease comes over her when she's found someone her own age who isn't blind and can see just what she sees.

We've had a lot of people calling, the Rector and his wife. They're a handsome pair if you like with three nice children but she's stuck on herself and her fine appearance if you want my opinion.

Then there's a Mrs. Mark staying in the village who was a Miss Trenchard and was born in this house and her family lived here for hundreds of years. She's quiet and a proper lady.

There are some old maids of course as there are in every village but it's not bad as villages go and they leave me to myself which is a blessing. I have only one trouble as you know, Alice, and a grievous trouble it is but not one word have I had although I've written three times to the address he gave and I really don't know what to think. If it weren't for God's goodness I don't know where I'd be I'm sure but I leave it all in His hands as He bid us do. Write soon and tell me how that Mrs. Nutting works out. Don't let her have her way too much but she seems a good soul from what you tell me.

Your loving sister

Lizzie

Lizzie Gayner finished her letter with a sigh and sighed again as she licked it, fastened it up. Alice Fisher, housekeeper to old Mrs. Nutting in St. John's Wood, London, was her only sister. Funny that they should both be widows and both be housekeepers. But then it had run like that all their lives long. Alice was five years younger. They had been always devoted—'never a cross word.' They knew everything about one another. Alice knew Lizzie's one great secret and Lizzie knew about the week Alice had spent with the Commercial Traveller at Bournemouth. Alice's William had been alive, in his second year of his illness it was, and Alice had gone off just because of that. She had been nursing William so arduously that she had to do something, and the Commercial Traveller, who had been after her for months, was what she had done.

She had liked him, too, and told Lizzie that she could gather him up in her arms 'like a bit of laundry.' She had never seen him again, or so Lizzie understood. Anyway, he was married and his wife didn't die as Alice's William had done. Lizzie had felt no moral shock at Alice's adventure. She had been glad for her to have her bit of fun.

For herself, if it were not for one constant gnawing anxiety she would be a happy and contented woman. She had had now, for ten years, a perfect place and a perfect master. The coming of this second wife, Mrs. Cromwell, could not make any difference at all. She, Lizzie Gayner, and her beloved master, Julius Cromwell, had by now a relationship that no person on this blessed globe could break. Besides, Lizzie Gayner would make a friend of this Mrs. Cromwell before all was over. You see!

Mrs. Gayner turned in her chair and surveyed her room. It was nine o'clock in the evening and she debated as to whether she would listen to the News or not. No. She would not. There was nothing but trouble these days with those Germans stirring everybody up. You'd have thought they'd had enough in the last war, but it seems they hadn't.

She sighed again, but this time it was a sigh of satisfaction, for, really and truly, her room did look nice. It was as bright and shining as the silver slip of new moon outside the window in the sparkling star-scattered heavens.

First she looked at the cat, Peter, on the hearth-rug. Those rude men Curtis and Oliphant called it Goering because of its great size. When she had it as the smallest black cat in the world it was operated on for the world's future happiness if not for its own, and that was why it was the size it was. It was a great black barrel as it lay there with its paws folded under it and its head cradled in its own fur. Lizzie Gayner loved it in spite of its size.

What she liked about her room was the cleanliness. Also the colour. Also the cosiness. In fact it was the loveliest, most perfect room in the world, and Lizzie really thought this because she had seen so many grand rooms but never a one to her own taste as this one.

On the cream-coloured walls were views of Windsor Castle, a photograph of the King and Queen and the two Princesses, and an especial picture of the Duchess of Kent, whom Lizzie considered simply the loveliest woman in the world. There was a round table covered with a crochet mat in red and blue, and on the crochet mat a vase of iridescent yellow, and in the vase pink and white roses. There was a coal-scuttle of shining brass, a small sideboard on which were two empty silver vases, a silver christening mug, and a silver cake-plate. On another small table were her Bible and prayer-book and a photograph in a green plush frame of herself and her Henry on their wedding day. He was a big stout man with a great buttonhole, a great grin, and a bowler hat several sizes too small for him. There was a small cane bookcase containing her books: the poems of Longfellow, the poems of Tennyson, a book of General Knowledge, What Can the Answer Be?, The Channings and Lord Oakburn's Daughters by Mrs. Henry Wood, two stories by Dorothy Sayers, Missionary Work in India, and a number of Penguins. On the mantelpiece were a clock in solid oak, two pink vases, and a photograph of her sister Alice. There was a door to the left leading to her bedroom. The window looked on to the drive, the rhododendrons, the little wood on the left of the house, and the stables where in these days the two cars were kept.

Yes, it was a perfect room and any widow would be glad and lucky to end her days in it.

She got up and went to the table. Now was her time for reading. There were two new Penguins that she had bought for herself on the journey down and had not had time as yet for reading.

There was a knock on the door. She opened it, and there before her was Julius Cromwell. She took him by the hand and led him to the best chair. He sank down into it, crossing his big legs, folding his hands after straightening his black tie. He looked, she thought, splendid in his evening clothes—a proper gentleman if there ever was one.

'That's right, Lizzie. Thank you. I haven't been in here before.'

'No, sir.'

'I thought I'd come in here for a little talk.'

'Yes, sir. I'm very pleased, sir, I'm sure, sir. Won't you smoke your pipe?'

'Yes, I will.' He filled it. 'Tell me just how the room is. I can find my way alone all over the house now.'

'Well, sir, there's the round table in the middle. The chair you're in is to the left of it. There's a little table behind you to the right. The chair I'm in is to your right. There's nothing else in the room to be a bother, sir.'

'That's splendid. Have you everything you want in here?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

'Fine. Everything as it was in the other house?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

'Grand. How have you been getting on?'

'Very well, I think, sir. The new maids seem quite all right. I hope the cooking's satisfactory.'

'Very good indeed.'

He paused. He seemed to be staring at her with his blue eyes as though he saw straight into her very soul. She remembered how, years ago, this intense gaze had frightened her. How much did he see? How much did he really know?

'Do you know one odd thing, Lizzie? Every new house I live in I seem to be able to see further than in the last one. Oh, not really, of course! But we've been in three now, haven't we? You came to us first in Eastwood, didn't you? I remember that first day so well. I got Elinor to describe you. "She's short and round and very tidy and has a good face!" That's what she said.'

They both laughed.

'Very complimentary of Mrs. Cromwell, I'm sure,' said Lizzie.

'Yes. You liked her, didn't you? Always. You never had a row.'

'Not a single one, sir.'

'And when she was ill you were wonderful. She always said that you made all the difference.'

'I'm very glad of that, sir.'

'Yes. And she still seems to be with me. I'm not a spiritualist, you know, but when you're blind you live in another world. It's easier to imagine that someone's not really dead. Isn't it queer to think that I never saw her? What do you remember now best about her—physically, I mean?'

'Well, sir, she was tall and carried herself beautifully. But what I remember best was her face—the calmness and goodness of it. She was a saint if there ever was one!'

'Yes, she was. She was never angry, never impatient, never in a hurry. And in all that suffering at the end she never complained once. And yet she wasn't a prig. She had a great sense of humour. I never felt dependent on her and yet I knew everything was all right if she was there.'

He paused again, puffing at his pipe. Lizzie Gayner sat upright, sometimes smoothing her black silk dress with her hand.

'You know, Lizzie, the odd thing is the blindness doesn't get any easier with the passing of time.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, sir.'

'Oh, of course the earlier difficulties are gone. I don't rebel and curse and swear as I once did. I've resigned myself. But the calm I ought to find. It doesn't come.'

'It will, sir, God helping you.'

'I don't know whether He helps or not. I don't want to shock you, Lizzie, because I know how much He means to you, but I'm not sure that He's there at all. The world I live in is made up of scent and sound and touch. I hear so many things that people with sight don't hear, and my mind seems to go deeper, deeper into things, until I reach a place where there is only my body. You know how I love music, and when the gramophone is playing, or the wireless, even in the grandest things it seems to stop at the sound. I say "That's beautiful," and that's all. Whereas, before the War, when I could see, music carried me on further and further.... Now it stops with the sound.'

'I think, sir,' Lizzie said, 'that's because you don't want to be cheated. You were always a great one for honesty.'

'That's very clever of you, Lizzie. But it's partly because I don't want anything to carry me too far. When I sit staring into myself I dare not go—dare not go to where I may find that everything's a cheat. When you can see, you know what's real. When you can't, reality and unreality mix.' He pulled himself up. 'But now I'm getting dismal and I'm most awfully happy just now. Only I like talking to you. I always did. There wasn't anyone I could talk to in the same way, even Elinor.'

'I'm very glad and honoured, too.'

'Yes, it's because everything with you is so straight and simple. You believe in God and trust Him. You do your job and your duty. And that's all. You haven't a complication in your life, have you?'

How far could he see? What did he mean by that question? She didn't answer him and he went on.

'We're such wonderful friends. I can tell you anything and know you'll be wise about it.' He sat up, he caught his knee with one hand.

'Lizzie, I'm so terribly, so fearfully in love!'

'Yes, sir. I know you are, sir.'

He seemed now to be engaged in some terrible struggle with himself. She watched his face, yearning to help him, striving with all that she had in her to help him.

'There are things I suppose a man should always keep to himself. Englishmen especially think it wrong. But we've been close friends for ten years, haven't we?'

'Yes, sir. I'm proud to say we have.'

'You know me so well. You're the only human being alive now who knew both Elinor and myself as we were truly together.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You know how devoted we were, what a grand, fine human being she was, so much finer than myself. You know how lost I was after she went. You comforted me as no one else did.'

'I did my best, sir.'

'And so, Lizzie, you can understand better than anyone else what it means when I say that I never knew what love really was before I met my present wife. I don't know what it is now. I'm making new discoveries every day. And—listen to this, Lizzie, mark it, put it deep in your mind—if ever I have regretted being blind, if ever I have agonized over it, and cursed it, and regretted it, I'm cursing and regretting it now. I told you just now that the cursing part of it was over long ago. Well, it's all come back. I love her so terribly, Lizzie, and I can't see her, I can't tell where she goes to, I don't know what she's doing. She may be making faces at me for all I know!'

'She loves you, sir, quite as much as you love her. I'm sure of it.'

'Then listen to this. Two nights ago I woke up. Our beds are so close that I can reach out with my hand and make sure that she's there. I reached out my hand and she wasn't there. I heard her laughing somewhere in the room. She said, "You were snoring, so I woke you up." I asked her to come back but she wouldn't. She said, "I'm going—I'm going—I'm gone." Then I got out of bed to find her, but of course I couldn't. She turned on the light—I could feel it against my eyes—but she wouldn't let me find her. Then I barked my shin against a chair and at once she was in my arms, crying. Crying, Lizzie! swearing that she loved me, that she loved me so terribly but I didn't love her and liked Oliphant better—nonsense, nonsense—and I had to take her in my arms and console her and she went to sleep....'

He was shaking from head to foot, trembling. His blind eyes were closed.

'I know how it is, sir,' Mrs. Gayner said. 'You haven't been married long enough. They always say the first year is difficult for anybody, getting to know one another and fitting in. I know my Henry used to be queer as queer the first year or two, wanting to do the strangest things. I used to be angry with him, but years later I wished him back again as he was at first. When people are new to one another they're like Columbus discovering America—don't know whether it's poisoned arrows or ropes of pearls they'll be finding.... Then she's only a child, if I may say so. She's never been married before and you have. She's ready to try any trick to be sure of you. It's not being sure of you, sir, makes her temperamental.'

'Do you think I'm too old for her, Lizzie?'

'Why, no, sir. What's fifteen years when all's said and done?'

She lost her temper with you this very evening, didn't she?'

'She was in a bit of an upset.'

'She came and told me. She said: "Julius, I've been misbehaving," just like a child. She was very sorry.'

'Oh, that was nothing, sir. She'll get to know me in time. We'll be great friends before the year's out.'

'Do you think she's frightened of my blindness? What I mean is, that she mayn't have realized it at first. And now she does. What it's like being married to a blind man. Elinor was patient and just made to look after people. But Celia is impatient. More impatient than anyone I've ever known. And she can't hide anything. She says things that hurt me, but I won't let her see that they do. She can do what she likes to me. It's the way she hurts herself that matters.'

Mrs. Gayner said gently:

'You must be patient, sir, like your first lady was. I used to think when I saw you together that each of you was getting something of the other. People do when they're always together and fond of one another. You know, sir, when I came first to you I'd think that you liked to be made a fuss of. People with your misfortune always attract the sympathy of others. It's natural enough they should, although I'd think myself to be totally deaf would be as sad a trial, but deaf people don't get half the sympathy. And because they don't they are often grumpy and won't say a word to you. While people with your misfortune, sir, are charming and sweet-natured just because everyone wants to help them and be good to them.

'And I used to think, if you'll forgive me, sir, that when I first knew you you looked out for that sympathy and indulged yourself with it. You were young about your misfortune, sir, if I may put it that way. But your wife showed you a better thing. You came to think of yourself less and less and of her more and more. Isn't it the other way with you now? Aren't you thinking too much of her, and so finding yourself impatient? Give her time, sir. Let her grow. She's not been married before. You have. You're older and wiser and can study her more wisely than she can study herself.'

He got up and she rose too and began to lead him towards the door.

'Bless you, Lizzie. You're right as usual. Only I'm not wise enough. That's the trouble. When you're in love it isn't so easy!'

He sighed and stood still.

'By the way, I've taken on someone else. A young gentleman called Burke.'

'Yes, sir.'

'He was with the Ironings. He went away and now he's come back again. Ironing says he's a marvel about the house, in the garden, everywhere. A bit wild, but I liked his voice. He came to see me and told me all about himself. He wants little more than his keep. He'll help Cotterill in the garden and do odd jobs generally. He's the son of a clergyman, Ironing says. He knows shorthand, can type, and, Ironing says, is sober and honest. But he can't stick anywhere for long. He'll disappear one day without a word to anyone. Be decent to him. I know you will. I liked his voice. The timbre of it ...'

'Yes, sir.'

He said good-night and for an instant put his arm round her.

When she was alone again she sat there thinking, her hands tightly pressed together. With one solitary exception she loved him more than any single human being on earth. She loved him as though he were her son, although in truth he was her master and she was his housekeeper.

But she loved him also in another way—she loved him as though she were his defender, his protector. When Elinor Cromwell had died this suddenly had come to her—that now he was alone in the world. He had a brother and a sister, but both were married, with families of their own. He had no children and no friends of a close intimacy. His blindness marked him off from normal men. So she took him as her charge without his knowing it. When he told her that he was going to marry again she had known, for a little, a wounding, hurting jealousy. But only for a little. Her love for him was big enough to want his happiness beyond all else. He was a strong, lusty, physical being and she was wise about men. Men need women. She could not give him more than her secret protection. She was sorry at first when she knew that his second wife was little more than a girl, and even now, tonight, when she felt his passion, saw him tremble with it, there was a stab of jealousy again. She was sixty years of age but was she never to give any man love ever any more? No. Of course not. That was over for her, but the memory of it, the thoughts of it, were not over.

So she took up her Bible and read in the Revelation of St. John the Divine, which always led her into grander, more brilliant worlds, worlds where her own small weaknesses and desires were lost. She finished a chapter and moved towards the door of her bedroom. Time for bed. She pulled the curtain back and saw the silver sickle moon caught in a tall tree above the little wood and stars dancing between white moonlit clouds.

And even then her evening was not yet over, for once again there was a knock on the door. Startled she said, 'Come in,' and standing there was Mrs. Cromwell.

'Oh!' she cried, but the girl didn't move, only, in a small frightened voice, almost whispered:

'I've come to apologize!'

'Oh, please, ma'am. Come in. Sit down, please.'

'No, I won't stay. I'm on my way to bed. But I thought that I must apologize. I was angry about something that wasn't your business at all.'

'Oh, it doesn't matter, ma'am ... please.'

'But it does matter.' She moved a step or two into the room.

'Mrs. Gayner, I want you to help me....' She began to finger the things on the table, looking down on them. 'You're a very old friend of my husband's. I want to help him. I want to do everything for him I can—and you must tell me if I make mistakes.'

'Oh no, ma'am,' Mrs. Gayner said. 'I couldn't do that. It's not my place to interfere in anything except the running of the house.' Her voice was, in spite of herself, a little hard.

Mrs. Cromwell broke in.

'I'm very young and inexperienced. I know I am. All of us who have grown up since the War are stupid about other people. It's been our own fault. We are selfish and conceited. We have our good points, too. We're tough and we're honest, and we don't whine or bewail our fate or anything Victorian like that. But we're not good about other people and we're so honest that we show our feelings all the time.

'I want you to help me with a little advice when you see me going wrong. Will you? I'll take anything you give me. Will you? Please?'

She held out her hand. She looked entirely charming, her eyes smiling, her wide, unlined forehead open and honest.

Mrs. Gayner took her hand. 'Indeed, ma'am, I will do anything—anything.'

'Thank you so much. Good night.'