And in the sickly air of the confined space in behind the curtains
of the bed lay my little uncle, with an effect of being enthroned and
secluded, or sat up, or writhed and tossed in his last dealings of life.
One went and drew back the edge of the curtains if one wanted to speak
to him or look at him.
Usually he was propped up against pillows, because so he breathed more
easily. He slept hardly at all.
I have a confused memory of vigils and mornings and afternoons spent by
that bedside, and how the religieuse hovered about me, and how meek and
good and inefficient she was, and how horribly black were her nails.
Other figures come and go, and particularly the doctor, a young man
plumply rococo, in bicycling dress, with fine waxen features, a little
pointed beard, and the long black frizzy hair and huge tie of a minor
poet. Bright and clear-cut and irrelevant are memories of the Basque
hostess of my uncle's inn and of the family of Spanish people who
entertained me and prepared the most amazingly elaborate meals for me,
with soup and salad and chicken and remarkable sweets.
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