DOI Artikel:
Bennett, Arnold: A letter home
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27805#0103
By Enoch Arnold Bennett 99
tones. In the middle of the ward was an open stove, and the
restless flames were reflected in all the brass knobs of the bedsteads
and in some shining metal balls which hung from an unlighted
chandelier. His part of the ward was almost in darkness. A con-
fused, subdued murmur of little coughs, breathings, rustlings, was
continually audible, and sometimes it rose above the conversation
at the table. He noticed all these things. He became conscious,
too, of a strangely familiar smell. What was it ? Ah, yes !
Acetic acid—his mother used it for her rheumatics.
Suddenly, magically, a great longing came over him. He must
see his mother, or his brothers, or his little sister—some one who
knew him, same one who belonged to him. He could have cried
out in his desire. This one thought consumed all his faculties.
If his mother could but walk in just now through that doorway ! If
only old Spot, even, could amble up to him, tongue out and tail
furiously wagging ! He tried to sit up, and he could not move !
Then despair settled on him, and weighed hint down. He closed
his eyes.
The doctor and the nurse came slowly up the ward, pausing
here and there. They stopped before his bed, and he held his
breath.
“Not roused up again, I suppose ?”
“ No.”
“ Hm ! He may flicker on for forty-eight hours. Not more.”
They went on, and with a sigh of relief he opened his, eyes
again. The doctor shook hands with the nurse, who returned to
the table and sat down.
Death ! The end of all this ! Yes, it was coming. He felt
it. His had been one of those wasted lives of which he used; to
read in books. How strange ! Almost amusing ! He was one
of those sons who bring sorrow and shame into a family. Again,
how
tones. In the middle of the ward was an open stove, and the
restless flames were reflected in all the brass knobs of the bedsteads
and in some shining metal balls which hung from an unlighted
chandelier. His part of the ward was almost in darkness. A con-
fused, subdued murmur of little coughs, breathings, rustlings, was
continually audible, and sometimes it rose above the conversation
at the table. He noticed all these things. He became conscious,
too, of a strangely familiar smell. What was it ? Ah, yes !
Acetic acid—his mother used it for her rheumatics.
Suddenly, magically, a great longing came over him. He must
see his mother, or his brothers, or his little sister—some one who
knew him, same one who belonged to him. He could have cried
out in his desire. This one thought consumed all his faculties.
If his mother could but walk in just now through that doorway ! If
only old Spot, even, could amble up to him, tongue out and tail
furiously wagging ! He tried to sit up, and he could not move !
Then despair settled on him, and weighed hint down. He closed
his eyes.
The doctor and the nurse came slowly up the ward, pausing
here and there. They stopped before his bed, and he held his
breath.
“Not roused up again, I suppose ?”
“ No.”
“ Hm ! He may flicker on for forty-eight hours. Not more.”
They went on, and with a sigh of relief he opened his, eyes
again. The doctor shook hands with the nurse, who returned to
the table and sat down.
Death ! The end of all this ! Yes, it was coming. He felt
it. His had been one of those wasted lives of which he used; to
read in books. How strange ! Almost amusing ! He was one
of those sons who bring sorrow and shame into a family. Again,
how