Eleven
It was, I think, on the following morning before lunch that a conversation took place which left mevaguely disquieted¹.
There were four of us—Judith, myself, Boyd Carrington and Norton.
Exactly how the subject started, I am not sure, but we were talking of euthanasia—the case forand against it.
Boyd Carrington, as was natural, did most of the talking, Norton putting in a word or two hereand there and Judith sitting silent but closely attentive².
I myself had confessed that though there seemed, on the face of it, every reason to support thepractice, yet in actuality I felt a sentimental³ shrinking from it. Besides, I said, I thought it wouldput too much power in the hands of relatives.
Norton agreed with me. He added that he thought it should only be done by the wish andconsent of the patient himself where death after prolonged suffering was certain.
Boyd Carrington said: “Ah, but that’s the curious thing. Does the person most concerned everwish to ‘put himself out of his misery,’ as we say?”
He then told a story which he said was authentic⁴, of a man in terrible pain from inoperablecancer. This man had begged the doctor in attendance to “give him something that would finish itall.” The doctor had replied: “I can’t do that, old man.” Later, on leaving, he had placed by thepatient some morphia tablets, tellinghim carefully how many he could safely take and what dosewould be dangerous. Although these were left in the patient’s charge and he could easily havetaken a fatal quantity, he did not do so. “Thus proving,” said Boyd Carrington, “that, in spite of hiswords, the man preferred his suffering to a swift and merciful release.”
It was then that Judith spoke⁵ for the first time, spoke with vigour⁶ and abruptly⁷. “Of course hewould,” she said. “It shouldn’t have been left to him to decide.”

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