because ⦠the night, the stars, the moonlight, and that fetching pirate moustache â odd how pretty it looks â¦
on ne sait jamais.
Yes, Ghislaine is neutralised by flattery and hope, and I by jealousy and despair. Leaving them an open field.
Oh, I know itâs stupid to try and pin down causes in a situation like this. Nothing more poignant and nothing more pointless than dissecting the event into little snippets and saying: There, that was the one I screwed up over, that was where I should have acted differently, that was where it all went wrong, all dogwards from there on. All the same, I canât help it. I have the scene in front of me, chopped up like film footage into so many tiny stills, each one slightly further ahead in time than the last. Closer and closer to the disaster point, which I can never see but can imagine all too well. Ghislaine stepping hesitantly forward with her hand bent at the wrist, as if sheâs having second thoughts and wants to check Sabineâs forehead for fever. Aimée catching the hand and drawing her back, chattering her head off to distract her. The Marquise fiddling around in a little beaded sachet of a handbag for the keys to the car, and then holding them up and twiddling them. The darts of light from the overhead chandelier bouncing off the keys and playing over Sabineâs face, picking out little beads of sweat.
Ãmotion
or just exertion? Curse her for either, curse her for both, for feeling
émotion
on Rolandâs account, and for dancing with him in the first place. I danced with other partners too but it was different; I was waiting for her. She was not waiting for me, anything but. Look at her, the traitress, she has put her hand in his withoutsparing me a glance and is drifting away from me like a sleepwalker. All that talk about power and self-reliance, and the first presentable man who shows any interest in her: Oh la la, a fainting fit and the vapours. Let her go, let her go and neck in the car with the pantomime dame, because that, now I see him in close-up, is what he looks like. The principal boy and the dame, that is what they both look like and good luck to them.
It all flashes by so quickly â frame after frame. Their backs now are what I see, growing smaller and less distinct as they cross the ballroom, hand in clasping hand, and fuse with the other guests. Their costumes fuse too, until Iâm no longer sure itâs them my tear-blurred eyes are following or a shepherdess and a cossack, a ghost and a musketeer â¦
Gone now. Gone Sabine, and gone the last chance of saving her. The real Cleopatra would never have let herself be filched of a lover in this way, you can bet your eyeballs. She would have rolled herself into the foot-mat of the car and stowed herself away in the back seat and leaped out at the crucial moment to reclaim her own. She had southern passion, she was a hair-tearer. The fake one, which is me, just has stuffy wounded Nordic pride. I toss my hair instead of tearing it, to show the world at large, and Aimée and company in particular, how little I care, and spin round in search of another partner. Four can play at this game.
The last image, as I am whisked away by God-knows-who,is that of Rolandâs two discarded satin shoes, lying on the parquet floor. Still life with pumps. What whopping feet his grandmother must have had.
X
Illness
Post-haemorrhagic Anaemias â 3: Chlorosis
Post-haemorrhagic anaemias, as we have seen above, can conveniently be divided into two basic categories: acute and chronic. Chlorosis , also called the chlorotic syndrome, or chlorotic anaemia, is generally regarded as belonging to the latter category. However, rare cases have been described of such severity that some recent authors (
see
Sharnack, Horwath and Thibault) have preferred to place them in the former, under the differential name of acute chlorosis , or acute chlorotic syndrome, or acute chlorotic
on ne sait jamais.
Yes, Ghislaine is neutralised by flattery and hope, and I by jealousy and despair. Leaving them an open field.
Oh, I know itâs stupid to try and pin down causes in a situation like this. Nothing more poignant and nothing more pointless than dissecting the event into little snippets and saying: There, that was the one I screwed up over, that was where I should have acted differently, that was where it all went wrong, all dogwards from there on. All the same, I canât help it. I have the scene in front of me, chopped up like film footage into so many tiny stills, each one slightly further ahead in time than the last. Closer and closer to the disaster point, which I can never see but can imagine all too well. Ghislaine stepping hesitantly forward with her hand bent at the wrist, as if sheâs having second thoughts and wants to check Sabineâs forehead for fever. Aimée catching the hand and drawing her back, chattering her head off to distract her. The Marquise fiddling around in a little beaded sachet of a handbag for the keys to the car, and then holding them up and twiddling them. The darts of light from the overhead chandelier bouncing off the keys and playing over Sabineâs face, picking out little beads of sweat.
Ãmotion
or just exertion? Curse her for either, curse her for both, for feeling
émotion
on Rolandâs account, and for dancing with him in the first place. I danced with other partners too but it was different; I was waiting for her. She was not waiting for me, anything but. Look at her, the traitress, she has put her hand in his withoutsparing me a glance and is drifting away from me like a sleepwalker. All that talk about power and self-reliance, and the first presentable man who shows any interest in her: Oh la la, a fainting fit and the vapours. Let her go, let her go and neck in the car with the pantomime dame, because that, now I see him in close-up, is what he looks like. The principal boy and the dame, that is what they both look like and good luck to them.
It all flashes by so quickly â frame after frame. Their backs now are what I see, growing smaller and less distinct as they cross the ballroom, hand in clasping hand, and fuse with the other guests. Their costumes fuse too, until Iâm no longer sure itâs them my tear-blurred eyes are following or a shepherdess and a cossack, a ghost and a musketeer â¦
Gone now. Gone Sabine, and gone the last chance of saving her. The real Cleopatra would never have let herself be filched of a lover in this way, you can bet your eyeballs. She would have rolled herself into the foot-mat of the car and stowed herself away in the back seat and leaped out at the crucial moment to reclaim her own. She had southern passion, she was a hair-tearer. The fake one, which is me, just has stuffy wounded Nordic pride. I toss my hair instead of tearing it, to show the world at large, and Aimée and company in particular, how little I care, and spin round in search of another partner. Four can play at this game.
The last image, as I am whisked away by God-knows-who,is that of Rolandâs two discarded satin shoes, lying on the parquet floor. Still life with pumps. What whopping feet his grandmother must have had.
X
Illness
Post-haemorrhagic Anaemias â 3: Chlorosis
Post-haemorrhagic anaemias, as we have seen above, can conveniently be divided into two basic categories: acute and chronic. Chlorosis , also called the chlorotic syndrome, or chlorotic anaemia, is generally regarded as belonging to the latter category. However, rare cases have been described of such severity that some recent authors (
see
Sharnack, Horwath and Thibault) have preferred to place them in the former, under the differential name of acute chlorosis , or acute chlorotic syndrome, or acute chlorotic
Similar Books
