He thought
that there would be no hope from an operation. If there were any hope at
all (he couldn't say there was) it lay in waiting, resting, and
building up Brian's shattered health. After months of perfect peace, it
was just on the cards that sight might come back of itself, suddenly and
unexpectedly, in a moment. We were advised to live in the country, and
Doctor Cuyler suggested that it would be well for my brother to have
surroundings with agreeable occupation for the mind. If he were a
musician he must have a piano. There ought to be a garden for him to
walk in and even work in. Motoring, with the slight vibration of a good
car, would be particularly beneficial a little later on. I suppose we
must have looked to Doctor Cuyler like millionaires, for he didn't
appear to dream that there could be the slightest difficulty in carrying
out his programme.
I sat listening with the calm mien of one to whom money comes as air
comes to the lungs; but behind my face the wildest thoughts were raging.
You've sometimes seen a row of tall motionless pines, the calmest,
stateliest things on earth, screening with their branches the mad white
rush of a cataract. My brain felt like such a screened cataract.
Except for his blindness, by this time Brian was too well for a
hospital. We were at the small, cheap hotel on "_la rive gauche_" where
we'd stayed and been happy three years ago, before starting on our
holiday trip. When we came back after the interview with Doctor Cuyler,
Brian was looking done up, and I persuaded him to lie down and rest.
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