doctor asks.
“I see something dimly, as through a glass darkly,” her father says.
“Ah! and can you make out any object, or any light?” the doctor asks.
“I can see a glow—a ruddy haze,” he says, looking in the direction of the fire.
“And the candlelight?” he asks.
“A luminous cloud,” her father says.
The doctor pronounces himself entirely satisfied with the results of the operation. In her enthusiasm Charlotte reaches out her hand. He takes it first in one, then in both of his. “Oh, thank you,” she says. “You have saved our . . .” but she is unable to finish her sentence, the thrill of his healing hands running all through her body like warm water.
At the same time an idea comes to her for her book. Moments of hope will come to Jane with the kind apothecary’s words. Perhaps Jane will leave her aunt and cousins, the Reeds’ house, her unkind relatives, and go away to school.
Charlotte would so like to detain the doctor, to put her head on his shoulder, to lean against him. She imagines saying, Do stay and take tea with us , offering him tarts, buttered crumpets, strawberry jam, seed-cake, though they have not, of course, ordered such delicacies. But he is in a hurry, he says; there are other patients to visit, he explains, and he is too soon gone. Her moment of exhilaration disappears.
CHAPTER TEN
Awakening
T he nurse folds back his blanket but leaves the sheet over his old, stiff body. She takes out first a hand, then an arm, and then a leg, without looking. She wipes his skin carefully with a warm, damp cloth, so as not to move his head. She sees how he unclenches his fists, lets himself go.
She murmurs, “Lie very still,” as she uncovers his chest. “You will hardly feel this.”
He is suddenly glad to be lying here resting in silence, his sight gradually healing, forms and faint light flickering. A calm falls on him like gentle and consoling rain. My prayers have been answered. Thanks be to God. He lies still, still, obedient in this woman’s competent hands. What a blessing not to have to go anywhere or listen to anyone, not to have to comfort, to search for soothing words, not to have to reassure with false hope or help with brave words or actions.
As far back as he can remember, he has worked. As a boy in the fields, he worked with his hands; later he worked with his mind. He sees himself as a small boy, sitting in the hut, with the mud floor, the whitewashed walls, the one small window, the visible thatched roof with its beams exposed, and the odor of roasting corn in the air. Everyone else sleeps heavily, while he bends over the rough table, straining his eyes on the fine print of the family Bible. He is reading it from cover to cover, learning word after beautiful word by heart, even the dull “begat” chapters. Despite his exhaustion, the aching of his limbs after a day in the fields, his hunger for food, he is desperate to acquire the learning that will allow him to advance in the world so that he can become a gentleman.
There were few books beside the Bible, Milton, and Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress in their house. His mother had no time for them. He was obliged to help his father in the fields or to care for the many young ones. He didn’t want his own boy to have to suffer like that.
He remembers leaving Ireland at the age of twenty-two with seven pounds in his pocket. He has survived through the Church. He thinks of himself as a crusader, a soldier in the Army of God. All his life, he has felt an energy, a sort of fever, sealed too tightly, one that has sometimes escaped his control. At times, he has almost lost his temper even with his own God. He thinks of the famous lines: “Else a great prince in a prison lies.” His favorite ones are Blake’s:
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrow of desire:
Bring me my spear:
O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
He has refined his own name, dubbed himself anew in a moment of pride and
“I see something dimly, as through a glass darkly,” her father says.
“Ah! and can you make out any object, or any light?” the doctor asks.
“I can see a glow—a ruddy haze,” he says, looking in the direction of the fire.
“And the candlelight?” he asks.
“A luminous cloud,” her father says.
The doctor pronounces himself entirely satisfied with the results of the operation. In her enthusiasm Charlotte reaches out her hand. He takes it first in one, then in both of his. “Oh, thank you,” she says. “You have saved our . . .” but she is unable to finish her sentence, the thrill of his healing hands running all through her body like warm water.
At the same time an idea comes to her for her book. Moments of hope will come to Jane with the kind apothecary’s words. Perhaps Jane will leave her aunt and cousins, the Reeds’ house, her unkind relatives, and go away to school.
Charlotte would so like to detain the doctor, to put her head on his shoulder, to lean against him. She imagines saying, Do stay and take tea with us , offering him tarts, buttered crumpets, strawberry jam, seed-cake, though they have not, of course, ordered such delicacies. But he is in a hurry, he says; there are other patients to visit, he explains, and he is too soon gone. Her moment of exhilaration disappears.
CHAPTER TEN
Awakening
T he nurse folds back his blanket but leaves the sheet over his old, stiff body. She takes out first a hand, then an arm, and then a leg, without looking. She wipes his skin carefully with a warm, damp cloth, so as not to move his head. She sees how he unclenches his fists, lets himself go.
She murmurs, “Lie very still,” as she uncovers his chest. “You will hardly feel this.”
He is suddenly glad to be lying here resting in silence, his sight gradually healing, forms and faint light flickering. A calm falls on him like gentle and consoling rain. My prayers have been answered. Thanks be to God. He lies still, still, obedient in this woman’s competent hands. What a blessing not to have to go anywhere or listen to anyone, not to have to comfort, to search for soothing words, not to have to reassure with false hope or help with brave words or actions.
As far back as he can remember, he has worked. As a boy in the fields, he worked with his hands; later he worked with his mind. He sees himself as a small boy, sitting in the hut, with the mud floor, the whitewashed walls, the one small window, the visible thatched roof with its beams exposed, and the odor of roasting corn in the air. Everyone else sleeps heavily, while he bends over the rough table, straining his eyes on the fine print of the family Bible. He is reading it from cover to cover, learning word after beautiful word by heart, even the dull “begat” chapters. Despite his exhaustion, the aching of his limbs after a day in the fields, his hunger for food, he is desperate to acquire the learning that will allow him to advance in the world so that he can become a gentleman.
There were few books beside the Bible, Milton, and Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress in their house. His mother had no time for them. He was obliged to help his father in the fields or to care for the many young ones. He didn’t want his own boy to have to suffer like that.
He remembers leaving Ireland at the age of twenty-two with seven pounds in his pocket. He has survived through the Church. He thinks of himself as a crusader, a soldier in the Army of God. All his life, he has felt an energy, a sort of fever, sealed too tightly, one that has sometimes escaped his control. At times, he has almost lost his temper even with his own God. He thinks of the famous lines: “Else a great prince in a prison lies.” His favorite ones are Blake’s:
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrow of desire:
Bring me my spear:
O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
He has refined his own name, dubbed himself anew in a moment of pride and
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