Martin Edwards - Called Back

Soon I have something else to think of; something that may well drive such dismal memories from my mind. Hope has become certainty. I am almost delirious with delight. Science has triumphed! My defeated foe has left me. I am told his return is almost beyond possibility. The world is light again! I can see.

But my cure was a long and tedious affair. Both eyes were operated upon. First one, and, when the success of that operation was assured, the other. It was months before I was allowed to emerge altogether from darkness. Light was doled out to me sparingly and cautiously. What did that matter so long that I knew there was light again for me? I was patient, very patient and grateful. I followed Mr Jay’s instructions to the letter, knowing I should reap the reward of so doing.

My case bad been treated by the simplest and safest method of operation—the one which is always chosen when the nature of the disease and the age of the patient permits—solution or absorption it is termed. When it was all over, and all danger of inflammation at an end; when I found that by the aid of strong convex glasses I could see well enough for all ordinary purposes, Mr Jay congratulated both himself and me. It promised, he said, to be the most thoroughly successful cure he had ever taken part in. It must have been something above the common, as I am informed that every book on the eye which has since been published cites my case as an example of what may be done.

Not until my dying day shall I forget that time when my cure was declared a fact; when the bandages were removed, and I was told I might now use, sparingly, my uncurtained eyes.

The joy, from what seemed never-ending night, to wake and see the sun, the stars—the clouds sped by the wind across the fair blue sky! To see green branches swaying with the breeze, and throwing trembling shadows on my path! To mark the flower; a bud but yesterday—today a bloom! To watch the broad bright sea grow splendid with the crimson of the west! To gaze on pictures, people, mountains, streams—to know shape, colour, form and tint! To see, not hear alone, the moving lips and laugh of those who grasped my hand and spoke kind words!

To me, in those first days of new-born light, the face of every woman, man, and child seemed welcome as the face of some dear friend, long lost and found again!

After this description of my ecstasy it seems pure bathos to say that the only thing which detracted from it was my being obliged to wear those strong convex glasses. I was young, and they were horribly disfiguring.

‘Shall I never be able to do without them?’ I asked, rather ruefully.

‘That,’ replied Mr Jay, ‘is a point upon which I wish to speak to you. You will never be able to do without glasses . Remember, I have destroyed, absorbed, dissolved the glasses in your eyes called crystalline lenses. Their place is now supplied by the fluid humour. This has a high refracting power. Very often if you don’t give in to Nature she will give in to you. If you can take the trouble to coerce her, she will gradually meet you. If anyone should do this, it is you. You are young; you have no profession, and your bread does not depend upon your sight. Glasses you must always wear, but if you insist that Nature shall act without such strong aids as these, the chances are she will at last consent to do so. It is a tedious process: few have been able or have had patience to persevere; but my experience is that in many instances it may be done.’

I determined it should be done. I followed his advice. At great personal inconvenience I wore glasses which only permitted me to say I could see at all. But my reward came. Slowly, very slowly, I found my sight growing stronger, till, in about two years’ time, I could, by the aid of glasses, the convexity of which was so slight as to be scarcely noticeable, see as well as most of my fellow-creatures. Then I began once more to enjoy life.

I cannot say that, during those two years spent in perfecting my cure, I thought no more about that terrible night; but I made no further attempt to unravel the mystery, or to persuade any one that I had not imagined those events. I buried the history of my adventure in my heart, and never again spoke of it. In case of need, I wrote down all the particulars, and then tried to banish all memory of what I had heard. I succeeded fairly well except for one thing. I could not for any long period keep my thoughts from the remembrance of that woman’s moaning—that pitiable transition of the voice from sweet melody to hopeless despair. It was that cry which troubled my dreams, if ever I dreamed of that night—it was that cry which rang in my ears as I woke, trembling, but thankful to find that this time, at least, I was only dreaming.

IT is spring—the beautiful spring of Northern Italy. My friend Kenyon and I are lounging about in the rectangular city of Turin, as happy and idle a pair of comrades as may anywhere be met with. We have been here a week, long enough to do all the sight-seeing demanded by duty. We have seen San Giovanni and the churches. We have toiled, or beasts of burden have toiled with us, up La Superga, where we have gazed at the mausoleum of Savoy’s princely line. We have seen enough of the cumbrous old Palazzo Madama, which frowns at our hotel across the Piazzi Castello. We have marvelled at the plain, uninteresting looking Palazzo Reale, and our mirth has been moved by the grotesque brick-work decoration of the Palazzo Carignano. We have criticised the rather poor picture gallery. In fact we have done Turin thoroughly, and with contempt bred by familiarity, are ceasing to feel like pitiful little atoms as we stand in the enormous squares and crane our necks looking at Marochetti’s immense bronze statues.

Our tasks are over. We are now simply loafing about and enjoying ourselves; revelling in the delicious weather, and trying to make up our languid but contented minds as to when we shall leave the town and where our next resting place shall be.

We wander down the broad Via di Po, lingering now and then to peer into the enticing shops which lurk in its shady arcades; we pass through the spacious Piazzi Vittorio Emanuele; we cross the bridge whose five granite arches span the classic Po; we turn opposite the domed church and soon are walking up the wide shaded path which leads to the Capuchin Monastery; the broad terrace in front of which is our favourite haunt. Here we can lounge and see the river at our feet, the great town stretching from its further bank, the open plain beyond the town, and, far, far away in the background, the glorious snow-capped Alps, with Monte Rosa and Grand Paradis towering above their brothers. No wonder we enjoy the view from this terrace more than churches, palaces, or pictures.

We gaze our fill, and then retrace our steps and saunter back as lazily as we came. After lingering a few moments at our hotel some hazy destination prompts us to cross the great square, past the frowning old castle, leads us up the Via di Seminario, and we find ourselves for the twentieth time in front of San Giovanni. I stop with my head in the air admiring what architectural beauties its marble front can boast, and as I am trying to discover them am surprised to hear Kenyon announce his intention of entering the building

‘But we have vowed a vow,’ I said, ‘that the interior of churches, picture galleries, and other tourist traps shall know us no more.’

‘What makes the best of men break their vows?’

‘Lots of things, I suppose.’

‘But one thing in particular. Whilst you are staring up at pinnacles and buttresses, and trying to look as if you knew architecture as well as Ruskin, the fairest of all sights, a beautiful woman, passes right under your nose.’