A History of the French Novel, Vol. 2: To the Close of the 19th CenturySaintsbury, George
History
A History of the French Novel, Vol. 2: To the Close of the 19th Century
Saintsbury, George
French fiction -- History and criticism
His face was very noble and very beautiful; he looked at me
with fixed eyes, and between them and the nose, above the
cheeks, he showed that nervous contraction which no ordinary
convulsion can imitate, which no illness gives, but which
says to the physician, "Go your ways!" and is, as it were, a
standard which Death plants on his conquests. He clutched in
one hand his pen, his poor last pen, inky and ragged, in the
other a crust of his last piece of bread. His legs knocked
together, so as to make the crazy bed crackle. I listened
carefully to his hard breathing; I heard the rattle with
its hollow husk; and I recognised Death in the room as a
practised sailor recognises the tempest in the whistle of
the wind that precedes it.
"Always the same, to all thou comest," I said to Death, he
himself speaking low enough for my lips to make, in dying
ears, only an indistinct murmur. "I know thee always by
thine own hollow voice, lent to youth and age alike. How
well I know thee and thy terrors, which are no longer such
to me![253] I feel the dust that thy wings scatter in the
air as thou comest; I breathe the sickly odour of it; I see
its pale ashes fly, invisible as they may be to other men's
sight. O! thou Inevitable One, thou art here, verily thou
comest to save this man from his misery. Take him in thine
arms like a child; carry him off; save him; I give him to
thee. Save him only from the devouring sorrow that
accompanies us ever on the earth till we come to rest in
thee, O Benefactor and Friend!"
I had not deceived myself, for Death it was. The sick man
ceased to suffer, and began suddenly to enjoy the divine
moment of repose which precedes the eternal immobility of
the body. His eyes grew larger, and were charged with
amazement; his mouth relaxed and smiled; his tongue twice
passed over his lips as if to taste once more, from some
unseen cup, a last drop of the balm of Life. And then he
said with that hoarse voice of the dying which comes from
the inwards and seems to come from the very feet:
At the banquet of life a guest ill-fated.[254]
[Sidenote: The satiric episode--contrast.]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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