The Dance of Death

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I was speechless.

This is not a condition that afflicts me often. My daughter, Elizabeth, will tell you that I am a garrulous old man, and that one of the reasons she encourages me to write these chronicles is to keep me quiet and to prevent me from boring her and my grandchildren with reminiscences. My son and stepson, when they come to visit me with their families, are more charitable and even, on occasion, encourage my recollections. But as Elizabeth points out, I don’t live with them.

However, to return to our sheep, as the French say. (Heaven knows why, but there you are!) I was bereft of words. Indignation and shock rendered me dumb. Anger stopped my tongue. I was unable to find words to express my feelings. In short, as I’ve already remarked, I was speechless.

Not for long, mind you, but long enough to push back my stool with an almighty scraping of wood on stone, rise to my feet with such violence that I almost upset the table at which Timothy Plummer and I were sitting, and stride to the window, flinging open the casement with an equally outraged gesture, meant to indicate the state of my mind as I stared out moodily over the Thames.

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