The Lemon Table by Julian Barnes

Author:Julian Barnes [Barnes, Julian]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Knopf
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

On the feast-day of Jean-Etienne Delacour, the following dishes had been prepared on the instructions of his daughter-in-law, Mme Amélie: bouillon, the beef which had been boiled in it, a grilled hare, a pigeon casserole, vegetables, cheese and fruit jellies. In a spirit of reluctant sociability, Delacour allowed a dish of bouillon to be placed before him; he even, in honour of the day, raised a ceremonial spoonful to his lips and blew graciously, before lowering it again untouched. When the beef was brought in, he nodded at the servant, who laid in front of him, on separate plates, a single pear and a slice of bark cut from a tree some twenty minutes earlier. Delacour’s son Charles, daughter-in-law, grandson, nephew, nephew’s wife, the curé, a neighbouring farmer, and Delacour’s old friend André Lagrange, all made no observation. Delacour for his part civilly kept pace with those around him, eating one quarter of the pear while they consumed their beef, one quarter alongside the hare, and so on. When the cheese was brought in, he took out a pocket-knife and cut the tree bark into slices, then chewed each piece slowly to oblivion. Later, as aids to sleep, he took a cup of milk, some stewed lettuce and a rennet apple. His bedroom was well ventilated and his pillow stuffed with horsehair. He ensured that his chest was not weighed down with blankets, and that his feet would remain warm. As he settled his linen nightcap around his temples, Jean-Etienne reflected contentedly on the folly of those around him.

He was now sixty-one. In his earlier days, he had been both a gambler and a gourmand, a combination that had frequently threatened to inflict penury on his household. Wherever dice were thrown or cards turned, wherever two or more beasts could be induced to race against one another for the gratification of spectators, Delacour was to be found. He had won and lost at faro and hazard, backgammon and dominoes, roulet and rouge et noir. He would play pitch-and-toss with an infant, bet his horse on a cockfight, play two-pack patience with Mme V—, and solitaire when he could find no rival or companion.

It was said that his gourmandism had put an end to his gambling. Certainly, there was not room in such a man for both these passions fully to express themselves. The moment of crisis had occurred when a goose reared to within days of slaughter—a goose he had fed with his own hand, and savoured in advance down to the last giblet—was lost in a trice at a hand of piquet. For a while, he sat between his two temptations like the proverbial ass between two bales of hay; but rather than starve to death like the indecisive beast, he acted as a true gambler, and let a toss of the coin decide the matter.

Thereafter, his stomach and his purse both swelled, while his nerves became calmer. He ate meals fit for a cardinal, as the Italians say.

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