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Authors: Gerald Kersh
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had seen Mavis? I went into the room where she lay – and she looked even more beautiful than ever – and, taking her by the hand, begged pardon for my unskilful driving.
‘It was all the cow’s fault,’ said Mavis. ‘She wasn’t looking where she was going …’ Mavis was still a little light-headed. She rambled on, drowsily: ‘… Poor old cow. Didn’t know where she was going…. But do any of us? Couldn’t see what harm she was doing…. Can any of us? Kind of lost and frightened – her eyes looked lonely…. But aren’t we all? … I hope I won’t be too much scarred.’
I said: ‘The doctor said that there’ll be nothing that a bit of cosmetic won’t cover. You’ll be all right, my sweet.’
‘… Lucky it wasn’t my leg,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t afford that…. Even so, Abaloni always kept nattering about my not knowing what to do with my arms andhands. Perhaps this will make me worse. Oh, Rod – don’t let it!’
‘Dearest Mavis, nothing is ever going to make you unhappy.’
‘That would be nice, Rod … I have made sacrifices for my Art, you know?’
I nodded, not knowing exactly what she meant. To tell you the truth (it might have been on account of my bang on the head) I was a little irritated with her now. I could not help thinking:
Uncle Arnold, in her position, by this time would have been sitting up and shouting: ‘A scratch, damme, a bloody scratch! Get some wine – red wine – that makes blood! And steak, bleeding , underdone! Bustle about, you dago dogs!’
… I couldn’t banish from my mind the image of the old gentleman as he lay in the Cottage Hospital: every inch a proper man, but smiling with a kind of tenderness, and eager to give, to pay, all rancour forgotten.
I said: ‘You have made sacrifices, Mavis, no doubt. For your Art. So have I made sacrifices, for your Art!’
She laughed, in a lightly-fluttering, high-pitched way, and said: ‘Oh no! What, you? Sacrifices? Oh no! I sacrificed my body for my Art!’
A great cold came over me then. ‘You sacrificed your body to whom?’
‘To you, of course,’ she said.
Quite calmly, I believe, I said: ‘Very likely. But for your Art, and my love of you, Mavis, I have sacrificed my immortal soul.’
‘Don’t let’s be intense,’ said she, wearily, ‘because I don’t think I could bear it.’
A strange, unpleasant light made a sickly sunrise inmy disordered head. ‘Why, I believe you were really in love with Abaloni!’ I cried.
‘Please, Rod, let’s not go into that, now!’
And then I knew that it was the choreographer Abaloni whom Mavis had always truly loved. There surged up in me a great white hate – boiling bubble- to-bubble with my love for her. In circumstances such as this, a man feels at the tip of his tongue some stupendous speech … and comes out with something trite and silly.
I could only say: ‘Abaloni’s fat!’
‘You’re no oil painting,’ said she.
Before I could find words to say in reply, Mavis sat up. For the moment, I thought that she was crying, because tears were running down her cheeks, and I said: ‘Dear Mavis, forgive my inadequacies, and pardon me if I hurt you. I love you most dearly. If it will be better for you to be with Abaloni, then go. I thought you loved me. I was a fool to think so. Take half of what I have, and go to Abaloni——’
But she was not crying. She could not catch her breath.
I called for the doctor. He said: ‘It happens, occasionally . There are people, especially women, who are affected like this in the mountains by changes in atmospheric pressure. Come away, and let her rest.’
I came away with the nurse, who put me to bed with cold towels on my head. Next morning, when I went to see Mavis, she said: ‘I must have been sort of woozy yesterday. Rod, did I say all sorts of silly things? … I can sit up today. Let’s go home soon…. But tell me – did I talk all kinds of silliness?’
‘Not a word,’ I said.
‘I must have
‘It was all the cow’s fault,’ said Mavis. ‘She wasn’t looking where she was going …’ Mavis was still a little light-headed. She rambled on, drowsily: ‘… Poor old cow. Didn’t know where she was going…. But do any of us? Couldn’t see what harm she was doing…. Can any of us? Kind of lost and frightened – her eyes looked lonely…. But aren’t we all? … I hope I won’t be too much scarred.’
I said: ‘The doctor said that there’ll be nothing that a bit of cosmetic won’t cover. You’ll be all right, my sweet.’
‘… Lucky it wasn’t my leg,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t afford that…. Even so, Abaloni always kept nattering about my not knowing what to do with my arms andhands. Perhaps this will make me worse. Oh, Rod – don’t let it!’
‘Dearest Mavis, nothing is ever going to make you unhappy.’
‘That would be nice, Rod … I have made sacrifices for my Art, you know?’
I nodded, not knowing exactly what she meant. To tell you the truth (it might have been on account of my bang on the head) I was a little irritated with her now. I could not help thinking:
Uncle Arnold, in her position, by this time would have been sitting up and shouting: ‘A scratch, damme, a bloody scratch! Get some wine – red wine – that makes blood! And steak, bleeding , underdone! Bustle about, you dago dogs!’
… I couldn’t banish from my mind the image of the old gentleman as he lay in the Cottage Hospital: every inch a proper man, but smiling with a kind of tenderness, and eager to give, to pay, all rancour forgotten.
I said: ‘You have made sacrifices, Mavis, no doubt. For your Art. So have I made sacrifices, for your Art!’
She laughed, in a lightly-fluttering, high-pitched way, and said: ‘Oh no! What, you? Sacrifices? Oh no! I sacrificed my body for my Art!’
A great cold came over me then. ‘You sacrificed your body to whom?’
‘To you, of course,’ she said.
Quite calmly, I believe, I said: ‘Very likely. But for your Art, and my love of you, Mavis, I have sacrificed my immortal soul.’
‘Don’t let’s be intense,’ said she, wearily, ‘because I don’t think I could bear it.’
A strange, unpleasant light made a sickly sunrise inmy disordered head. ‘Why, I believe you were really in love with Abaloni!’ I cried.
‘Please, Rod, let’s not go into that, now!’
And then I knew that it was the choreographer Abaloni whom Mavis had always truly loved. There surged up in me a great white hate – boiling bubble- to-bubble with my love for her. In circumstances such as this, a man feels at the tip of his tongue some stupendous speech … and comes out with something trite and silly.
I could only say: ‘Abaloni’s fat!’
‘You’re no oil painting,’ said she.
Before I could find words to say in reply, Mavis sat up. For the moment, I thought that she was crying, because tears were running down her cheeks, and I said: ‘Dear Mavis, forgive my inadequacies, and pardon me if I hurt you. I love you most dearly. If it will be better for you to be with Abaloni, then go. I thought you loved me. I was a fool to think so. Take half of what I have, and go to Abaloni——’
But she was not crying. She could not catch her breath.
I called for the doctor. He said: ‘It happens, occasionally . There are people, especially women, who are affected like this in the mountains by changes in atmospheric pressure. Come away, and let her rest.’
I came away with the nurse, who put me to bed with cold towels on my head. Next morning, when I went to see Mavis, she said: ‘I must have been sort of woozy yesterday. Rod, did I say all sorts of silly things? … I can sit up today. Let’s go home soon…. But tell me – did I talk all kinds of silliness?’
‘Not a word,’ I said.
‘I must have
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