 It was the end of November, that I was traveling by train towards Sussex Downs. I was a nurse by profession and was engaged by a man to look after his wife who was mentally ill. A cab brought me through the cold and wet evening to the house of the family, where I was welcomed by the husband and wife. Although her skin color was pale and yellowish, the wife was very kind in appearance and didn't look to be ill at all. The couple was clearly very fond of each other, but something that had happened in the past seemed to have come between them. Each evening they would go for a walk, but would invariably return pale and dejected. The man would go immediately upstairs and lock himself up in his room. When alone with her for a moment I asked about her disease, but she replied that she wasn't ill: it was her husband who was going mad, seeing, hearing and smelling things that were not there. I asked her why she thought that and she got tears in her eyes: 'Our daughter was killed by a motor a few months ago, it had a violet color. Isn't that the mourning color for queens? Our daughter was our queen …' I now understood the cause of it all. It was grieve that stood between them. One evening I went for a walk near the cliffs when I suddenly heard the wife nearby crying to her husband: 'No, no, there is nothing ..'. 'Can't you hear it, why don't you see it?', he shouted and pushed her into the bushes on the side of the road as if a car rushed by. I could see them vaguely in the light of a lantern, but I didn't hear or see any car passing. The next day I confronted the husband with my experience of the evening before and he replied: 'I'll tell you. The man, who killed our daughter, was new to our town. On the day of the inquest, he didn't show any guilt. On the evening after the funeral, while walking alone near the cliffs his violet car came by and the driver asked me the way to the next town. It was dark and a fog came up. The road ended at the top of the cliffs but the man, new to the area, didn't know that of course. In a flash, I told him just to go straight ahead and so he did … Since that day I have to go there every night to see that car. Every night the car passes, but my wife never sees it, hears it or smells it.' Filled with compassion I said to him: 'Let me go with you to look at the car. Maybe I will see it!' Although unwilling at first, he suddenly agreed. It was Christmas Eve the evening we went out together. It was wet and slightly foggy, like real English Christmas weather. Walking down the road towards the cliffs we suddenly heard a roaring sound coming closer fast. Lights were shining through the foggy darkness and we stepped aside. Then, the car almost being at us, without any warning the husband jumped on the road, shouting: 'No, no, no more!' At the same moment, the car hit him and smashed him on the ground, the wheels passing over him. Horrified I watched the car racing by, without stopping. When it passed I could see it's violet color, but also that the driver's seat was empty ... In a second the car had disappeared in a cloud of smoke. I turned to him and immediately saw he was dead. At the inquest the doctor told the coroner that the cause must have been heart failure and that there weren't any signs of a car has gone over his body: his body showed no other marks than those caused by his fall on the road. The only thing his wife said was that it was best for him and I believe her. I'll never forget the peaceful expression of his face, while lying there on the road: it even seemed as if he was smiling, having been finally reunited with his daughter. Paraphrased after “The Violet Car”, written by E. Nesbitt (1905) and slightly modified by Ariejan Bos Illustration by Weiluc (1901) in a special edition of L'Assiette au Beurre, called “Les Tueurs de Routes” (The Killers of the Road) |
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A Christmas Tale
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