The Wine of Solitude by Irène Némirovsky Read Free Book Online Page B

‘He has earned a lot of money, or so they say. Some people think he’s discovered a new mine, which, by the way, strikes me as the most likely, but others say he’s improved the output of the old one. It’s possible. I have no idea. There are so many ways to make a fortune for a man who’s … clever … But whatever the case may be, money earned quickly gets spent quickly, my dears. Rushing all over the world is not always the best way to get rich. Although Lord knows I wish him all the prosperity in the world, the poor man …’
    ‘You know what they say: “Luck of the …” ’
    ‘Come now, do be quiet. You’re as bad as some gossipy old woman. Don’t judge and you won’t be judged,’ said Madame Manassé. She pulled Hélène to her bosom and kissed her.
    Hélène was repulsed; she felt as if she were drowning between those warm, heavy, quivering breasts. ‘May I go and play now, Madame?’
    ‘Of course you can. Run off and play, my darling Hélène; have a really wonderful time while you’re here, my poor dear. Look at how nicely she does her curtsey. She’s such a charming little girl …’
    Hélène ran back out into the garden where the boys greeted her with shouts of joy, wild gestures and by pulling faces, just as children do when they are overexcited and tired at the end of the weekend.
    ‘Forward march!’ she said swiftly. ‘To the right! Battle formation!’
    The autumn snow sprinkled a shiny, dry, white powder over them in the early night. Carrying a stick over her shoulder, her long cape billowing behind her, Hélène led the weary, shivering, panting boys around the bushes and through the woods, delighting in the feel of the wind and the damp, bitter smell of the air.
    But her heart felt heavy in her chest, weighed down by an inexplicable pain.

7
    In summer, when it started getting hot, Hélène would go out to play in the public gardens. The air was thick with dust and smelled of dung and roses. As soon as they crossed the avenue the noise of the city faded away; here the street was bordered with gardens and old, sprawling lime trees; the houses were barely visible at the end of the pathways; every now and again you could just make out through the branches the pink walls of a little church or a golden clock tower. There were never any cars and few passers-by. The leaves that had fallen to the ground muffled the sound of footsteps. Hélène ran on ahead, happy, impatient, always circling back to Mademoiselle Rose in the thousand ways children and dogs do when out for a walk. She felt free, joyful and strong. She wore a white broderie anglaise dress with three layers, a silk belt, and two large, delicate wide bows, securely fixed by two pins to the outer skirt of starched taffeta, a straw hat with lace trim, a white bow in her hair, patent leather shoes and black silk socks. In spite of this, she managed to run and jump and climb on to every bench, crushing andscattering the green leaves, while Mademoiselle Rose said, ‘You’re going to tear your dress, Lili …’
    But she wasn’t listening. She was ten years old; she felt the harsh, intense joy of being alive with a kind of intoxicating satisfaction.
    Opposite the public gardens was a short, steep street, and where old women sold strawberries and miniature roses; they were hunched over and barefoot in the dust, their hair covered by white kerchiefs to protect them from the sun; hard, green little apples sat in buckets full of water.
    Processions of pilgrims often passed along the road, on their way to the famous Dnieper monasteries. Their arrival was heralded by a horrible stench of filth and open wounds; singing hymns at the top of their voices, they marched past, followed by a cloud of yellow dust. The pale, translucent flowers from the lime trees fell on to their bare heads and clung to their bushy beards. The obese prelates, with their long, straight, dark hair, held up heavy gold icons that shot beams of fire when struck