when I intended to say,
I am violently allergic to oysters, and Sir Arnold lives on them; therefore, if he receives my blood in transfusion now – his heart being weak, and his blood pressure high – he will almost certainly die in a fit of asthmatic coughing, or of convulsive colitis, when he celebrates the opening of the next oyster season with three dozen Colchesters next September
… I was silent.
Premeditation here! When I let them siphon the blood from my arm into the bottle for transfusion, I knew that I was poisoning my uncle as surely as if I had been putting arsenic in his tea.
But I never spoke.
He was conscious by noon, and then he said: ‘Rodney, my boy, I’m an old man, and a little testy at times. Don’t mind every word I say. Blood is thicker than water, old fellow; and you must have good blood in you. You behaved like a man and a gentleman, by God! … Bring your Mavis to see me. I dare say she’s a nice gel, really. Meantime, send Coote to me. I’m going to give you a thousand pounds for a wedding present.’
‘Oh, no, Uncle!’ I said, almost crying.
‘Don’t interrupt. I haven’t the strength to argue. Get Coote. I’ll leave the Cottage Hospital five thousand, I will…. Go away now. No, wait a second. Rod——’
‘Uncle?’
‘Your allowance, henceforward, is a thousand a year. You’re a good boy. Now go home.’
Mavis was waiting for me when I got home. She said: ‘Good Lord, Rod! You look like death warmed up. Your eyes are all red. Have you been crying, or something? And where were you all last night?’
‘My uncle was very ill, so I got no sleep,’ I said.
I was sick to s hear her remark: ‘If only the old fellow would pop off! We’d have fun then, wouldn’t we?’
‘Very likely,’ I said heavily.
She asked me: ‘But did the old bully come across? … He must have given you a hundred or two, at least, surely?’
Unfolding the cheque, I said: ‘He gave me a thousand pounds, and has raised my allowance to a thousand a year. Does that please you?’
It did. ‘Let’s celebrate!’ she cried. But I said that I was tired, and wanted to rest. I said nothing about theblood transfusion – the thought of what I had done sickened me.
A little later, after she expressed a hope that my uncle might ‘pop off’ soon, we had our first quarrel. After that we had our first delightful reconciliation, and I agreed to take her for a holiday to the Pyrenees. In this, as you will see, there was the sure hand of God.
*
Ah, but that was a holiday! We spent a delightful week in Paris, and then went south. It is a wonderful thing, to leave the station under a fine rain, and wake up under a blinding sun. Mavis had never been abroad before. As you must know, the greatest pleasure that things give their possessor is the delight he finds in sharing them with someone he loves…. There was a forest, a road almost without perspective; a certain view of blue water, white foam, and yellow sand; above all, the little peak the peasants call ‘La Dent Gâtée’; and this I loved beyond everything.
You may keep your Matterhorn, your Mont Blanc, and your Dent du Midi. Give me my Dent Gâtée. To look at, it is not much. If it were much, no doubt I should never have gone beyond the base of it. My beloved Dent Gâtée is a very minor mountain, from the point of view of a climber – there is nothing difficult about it – the herdsmen follow their goats over the peak, and down over the Spanish border, without thinking twice. To a true mountaineer, the Dent Gâtée is what soldiers call ‘a piece of cake’. I loved it, though. It has hidden depths. Never mind the precipices that go rushing a thousand feet down, buttressed like the walls of the great cathedrals; never mind the icy torrents thatspring out of the living rock and go, inblown spray, down into the terraced valley! I like the Dent Gâtée for its silence, and for its mysterious caves.
The old cavemen lived here, scores of
I am violently allergic to oysters, and Sir Arnold lives on them; therefore, if he receives my blood in transfusion now – his heart being weak, and his blood pressure high – he will almost certainly die in a fit of asthmatic coughing, or of convulsive colitis, when he celebrates the opening of the next oyster season with three dozen Colchesters next September
… I was silent.
Premeditation here! When I let them siphon the blood from my arm into the bottle for transfusion, I knew that I was poisoning my uncle as surely as if I had been putting arsenic in his tea.
But I never spoke.
He was conscious by noon, and then he said: ‘Rodney, my boy, I’m an old man, and a little testy at times. Don’t mind every word I say. Blood is thicker than water, old fellow; and you must have good blood in you. You behaved like a man and a gentleman, by God! … Bring your Mavis to see me. I dare say she’s a nice gel, really. Meantime, send Coote to me. I’m going to give you a thousand pounds for a wedding present.’
‘Oh, no, Uncle!’ I said, almost crying.
‘Don’t interrupt. I haven’t the strength to argue. Get Coote. I’ll leave the Cottage Hospital five thousand, I will…. Go away now. No, wait a second. Rod——’
‘Uncle?’
‘Your allowance, henceforward, is a thousand a year. You’re a good boy. Now go home.’
Mavis was waiting for me when I got home. She said: ‘Good Lord, Rod! You look like death warmed up. Your eyes are all red. Have you been crying, or something? And where were you all last night?’
‘My uncle was very ill, so I got no sleep,’ I said.
I was sick to s hear her remark: ‘If only the old fellow would pop off! We’d have fun then, wouldn’t we?’
‘Very likely,’ I said heavily.
She asked me: ‘But did the old bully come across? … He must have given you a hundred or two, at least, surely?’
Unfolding the cheque, I said: ‘He gave me a thousand pounds, and has raised my allowance to a thousand a year. Does that please you?’
It did. ‘Let’s celebrate!’ she cried. But I said that I was tired, and wanted to rest. I said nothing about theblood transfusion – the thought of what I had done sickened me.
A little later, after she expressed a hope that my uncle might ‘pop off’ soon, we had our first quarrel. After that we had our first delightful reconciliation, and I agreed to take her for a holiday to the Pyrenees. In this, as you will see, there was the sure hand of God.
*
Ah, but that was a holiday! We spent a delightful week in Paris, and then went south. It is a wonderful thing, to leave the station under a fine rain, and wake up under a blinding sun. Mavis had never been abroad before. As you must know, the greatest pleasure that things give their possessor is the delight he finds in sharing them with someone he loves…. There was a forest, a road almost without perspective; a certain view of blue water, white foam, and yellow sand; above all, the little peak the peasants call ‘La Dent Gâtée’; and this I loved beyond everything.
You may keep your Matterhorn, your Mont Blanc, and your Dent du Midi. Give me my Dent Gâtée. To look at, it is not much. If it were much, no doubt I should never have gone beyond the base of it. My beloved Dent Gâtée is a very minor mountain, from the point of view of a climber – there is nothing difficult about it – the herdsmen follow their goats over the peak, and down over the Spanish border, without thinking twice. To a true mountaineer, the Dent Gâtée is what soldiers call ‘a piece of cake’. I loved it, though. It has hidden depths. Never mind the precipices that go rushing a thousand feet down, buttressed like the walls of the great cathedrals; never mind the icy torrents thatspring out of the living rock and go, inblown spray, down into the terraced valley! I like the Dent Gâtée for its silence, and for its mysterious caves.
The old cavemen lived here, scores of
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