Going Blind Page #2

"Going Blind" is a poignant collection of short stories and essays by Australian writer Henry Lawson, reflecting on themes of vision, perception, and the challenges faced by individuals in a rapidly changing society. Through his distinctive voice and keen observations, Lawson explores the struggles of the blind and the metaphorical blindness of society towards issues of poverty, hardship, and human connection. The work captures the essence of early 20th-century Australia, combining realism with deep emotional resonance, ultimately encouraging readers to see beyond the surface of their everyday lives.

• Short story

								

they're weeding out I could help. I'd just have to sit down and they'd
bring the sheep to me, and I'd feel the wool and tell them what it
was--being blind improves the feeling, you know.”

He had a packet of portraits, but he couldn't make them out very well
now. They were sort of blurred to him, but I described them and he told
me who they were. “That's a girl o' mine,” he said, with reference
to one--a jolly, good-looking bush girl. “I got a letter from her
yesterday. I managed to scribble something, but I'll get you, if you
don't mind, to write something more I want to put in on another piece of
paper, and address an envelope for me.”

Darkness fell quickly upon him now--or, rather, the “sort of white blur”
 increased and closed in. But his hearing was better, he said, and he was
glad of that and still cheerful. I thought it natural that his hearing
should improve as he went blind.

One day he said that he did not think he would bother going to the
hospital any more. He reckoned he'd get back to where he was known. He'd
stayed down too long already, and the “stuff” wouldn't stand it. He was
expecting a letter that didn't come. I was away for a couple of days,
and when I came back he had been shifted out of the room and had a bed
in an angle of the landing on top of the staircase, with the people
brushing against him and stumbling over his things all day on their way
up and down. I felt indignant, thinking that--the house being full--the
boss had taken advantage of the bushman's helplessness and good nature
to put him there. But he said that he was quite comfortable. “I can get
a whiff of air here,” he said.

Going in next day I thought for a moment that I had dropped suddenly
back into the past and into a bush dance, for there was a concertina
going upstairs. He was sitting on the bed, with his legs crossed, and
a new cheap concertina on his knee, and his eyes turned to the patch of
ceiling as if it were a piece of music and he could read it. “I'm trying
to knock a few tunes into my head,” he said, with a brave smile, “in
case the worst comes to the worst.” He tried to be cheerful, but seemed
worried and anxious. The letter hadn't come. I thought of the many blind
musicians in Sydney, and I thought of the bushman's chance, standing at
a corner swanking a cheap concertina, and I felt sorry for him.

I went out with a vague idea of seeing someone about the matter, and
getting something done for the bushman--of bringing a little influence
to his assistance; but I suddenly remembered that my clothes were worn
out, my hat in a shocking state, my boots burst, and that I owed for a
week's board and lodging, and was likely to be thrown out at any moment
myself; and so I was not in a position to go where there was influence.

When I went back to the restaurant there was a long, gaunt
sandy-complexioned bushman sitting by Jack's side. Jack introduced him
as his brother, who had returned unexpectedly to his native district,
and had followed him to Sydney. The brother was rather short with me
at first, and seemed to regard the restaurant people--all of us, in
fact--in the light of spielers who wouldn't hesitate to take advantage
of Jack's blindness if he left him a moment; and he looked ready
to knock down the first man who stumbled against Jack, or over his
luggage--but that soon wore off. Jack was going to stay with Joe at the
Coffee Palace for a few weeks, and then go back up-country, he told me.
He was excited and happy. His brother's manner towards him was as if
Jack had just lost his wife, or boy or someone very dear to him. He
would not allow him to do anything for himself, nor try to--not even
lace up his boot. He seemed to think that he was thoroughly helpless,
and when I saw him pack up Jack's things, and help him at the table and
fix his tie and collar with his great brown hands, which trembled all
the time with grief and gentleness, and make Jack sit down on the
bed whilst he got a cab and carried the trap down to it, and take
him downstairs as if he were made of thin glass, and settle with the
landlord--then I knew that Jack was all right.

We had a drink together--Joe, Jack, the cabman, and I. Joe was very
careful to hand Jack the glass, and Jack made joke about it for Joe's
benefit. He swore he could see a glass yet, and Joe laughed, but looked
extra troubled the next moment.

I felt their grips on my hand for five minutes after we parted.
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