Fire in the Blood

by Irene Nemirovsky

  I said goodbye to them at the garden gate; it opened with a squeak and closed again with that heavy, gong-like sound that is as pleasing to the ear as a mature bottle of Burgundy to the palate. The house is covered in thick green vines that quiver in the slightest breeze, but at that time of year only a few dry leaves were left, and the wire trellis glinted in the moonlight. After the Erards had gone inside, I stood next to Jean Dorin for a moment on the road, watching the lights go on, one after the other, in the sitting room and bedrooms; they shed a peaceful glow into the night.

  “We 're counting on you to come to the wedding. You will come, won't you?” Colette 's fiancé asked anxiously.

  “But of course! It's been a good ten years since I went to a wedding reception,” I said and I could picture all the ones I'd been to, all those great rural feasts: the ruddy cheeks of the men as they drank, the young men borrowed from the neighbouring villages along with the chairs and the wooden dance floor; the Bombe Glacée for dessert and the groom in pain because his shoes are too tight; and, from every nook and cranny of the surrounding countryside, the family, friends and neighbours—people sometimes not seen in years, but who suddenly turn up, like corks bobbing to the surface, each one awakening the memory of quarrels that started back in the mists of time, past loves, former grudges, engagements broken then forgotten, inheritances and law suits …

  Old Uncle Chapelain who married his cook, the two Montrifaut sisters, who haven't spoken to each other in fourteen years, even though they live in the same street, because one of them once refused to lend the other her special jam-making pan, and the lawyer whose wife is in Paris with a travelling salesman, and … My God, a wedding in the provinces is such a gathering of ghosts! In big cities, people either see each other all the time or never, it's simpler. Here … Corks in water, that's what I say. Hey presto, there they are! And what a stir they cause, how many old memories they dredge up. Then down they go again and, for ten years, they're forgotten.

  I whistled for my dog and quickly said goodbye to Colette 's fiancé. I went home. It feels good at my house, with the fire dying down: when the flames have stopped dancing, when they no longer leap in all directions sending out thousands of little sparks to shine pointlessly without providing light, warmth or benefit to anyone, when the fire is happy simply slowly to boil the kettle, that's when it feels good.

  C OLETTE GOT MARRIED ON 30 November at twelve o'clock. The family gathered together for a magnificent meal followed by dancing. In the early hours of the morning I walked home through the Maie Forest. At that time of year its paths are so muddy and covered in such a thick carpet of leaves that you have to walk slowly, as if wading through a marsh. I had stayed late at the wedding. I'd been waiting: there was someone I wanted to see dance … Moulin-Neuf is near Coudray, where Hélène 's half-sister Cécile used to live. On her death, she had left her property to her ward, a child she 'd taken in and who is now married; her name is Brigitte Declos. I wasn't sure whether Coudray and the Moulin-Neuf were on friendly terms, or if I would get to see the young woman. But in fact, she did turn up.

  She is tall and very beautiful, with a look of boldness, vigour and strength. She has green eyes and black hair. She is twenty-four. She was wearing a short black dress. Of all the women there, she was the only one who hadn't got dressed up to attend the wedding. I even had the impression that she had chosen simple clothes deliberately, in order to express the scorn she feels towards this mistrustful place: she 's considered an outsider. Everyone knows she was adopted, no better, really, than the welfare girls who work on our farms. And to top it all she married someone who is virtually a peasant, an old, sly, stingy man who owns the best land in the area, but only speaks in the local dialect and herds his cows into the fields himself. It was clear she knew how to squander his money: her dress was from Paris and she was wearing several large diamond rings.

  I know her husband well: he is the one who bought up my meagre inheritance bit by bit. I sometimes run into him on Sundays. He has changed his clogs for shoes, shaved himself and put on a cap, in order to come and contemplate the fields I've sold him, where his cattle now graze. He leans against the fence and plants the thick, knotty stick that's always with him in the ground; he rests his chin on his large, strong hands and looks out at the scene in front of him. As for me, I just pass by. I'm off for a walk with my dog, or out hunting. When I return home at dusk he 's still there; he hasn't budged; he 's been thinking about what he owns; he 's happy. His young wife never comes near my land. I had been eager to see her and had tried to find out about her from Jean Dorin.

  “Do you know her, then?” he asked. “We 're neighbours and her husband is one of my clients. I'll invite them to the wedding and we 'll be obliged to see them socially, but I don't want her getting friendly with Colette. I don't like her behaviour when it comes to men.”

  When the young woman came in, Hélène was standing not far from me. She was nervous and tired. The meal was over. A hundred people had been served lunch at tables arranged on a special wooden floor brought in from Moulins for the dance and set up under a marquee. It wasn't too cold out, the weather damp but fine. Every now and again, one of the canvas tent flaps would fly up and you could see the Erards' large garden, the bare trees, the pond covered in dead leaves. At five o'clock the tables were taken away and the dancing began. Some more guests arrived; they were the youngest, the ones more interested in dancing than food; it's rare to have any entertainment in these parts. Brigitte Declos was among them, but she didn't seem to know anyone very well. She was alone. Hélène shook her hand, as she did with everyone; but for a moment her lips tightened into a weak, brave smile—the kind that women use to hide their most secret thoughts.

  The older people made way for the youngsters in the improvised ballroom and went into the house. We sat in a circle around the large fireplaces; it was stiflingly hot in those stuffy rooms; we drank grenadine and punch. The men talked about the harvest, the farms rented out to tenants, the price of cattle. When older people get together there is something unflappable about them; you can sense they've tasted all the heavy, bitter, spicy food of life, extracted its poisons, and will now spend ten or fifteen years in a state of perfect equilibrium and enviable morality. They are happy with themselves. They have renounced the vain attempts of youth to adapt the world to their desires. They have failed and, now, they can relax. In a few years they will once again be troubled by great anxiety, but this time it will be a fear of death; it will have a strange effect on their tastes, it will make them indifferent, or eccentric, or moody, incomprehensible to their families, strangers to their children. But between the ages of forty and sixty they enjoy a precarious sense of tranquillity.

  I felt this all the more strongly after such a good meal and excellent wine, thinking back to the past and the cruel enemy who made me run away from this place. I tried being a civil servant in the Congo, a merchant in Tahiti, a trapper in Canada. Nothing made me happy. I thought I was seeking my fortune; in reality I was being propelled forward by the fire in my young blood. But as these passions are now extinguished I no longer know who I am. I feel I've travelled a long, pointless road, simply to end up where I began. The only thing I am truly happy about is that I never married. But I shouldn't have roamed all over the world. I should have stayed here and looked after my land; I'd be wealthier today. I'd be the rich uncle. I could take my rightful place in society instead of wandering among these sturdy, calm people like a breeze blowing through the trees.

  I decided to go and watch the young people dance. You could see the outline of the enormous marquee in the darkness; you could hear the music of the orchestra. The strings of electric light bulbs that had been rigged up inside cast the dancers' shadows on to the canvas. It's the same tent for Bastille Day and country fairs; that's how things are done here … The wind was whispering in the autumn trees and every now and again the marquee seemed to sway, like a ship. And so this sight, seen through the darkness, seemed strange and sad
. I don't know why. Perhaps because of the contrast between the stillness of nature and the turbulence of youth. Poor children! They threw themselves into it all with such pleasure. The young girls especially: they're raised so strictly and puritanically around here. Boarding school in Moulins or Nevers until they're eighteen, then lessons in running a household, under the ever-watchful eyes of their mothers, until they get married. Their bodies and souls are bursting with energy, vitality, desire …

  I went into the marquee and watched them; I listened to their laughter. I wondered how they could get such enjoyment from prancing around in time to the music. For some time now, when I'm with young people, I feel a kind of astonishment, as if I'm looking at a species utterly different from mine, the way an old dog watches the comings and goings of little mice. I asked Hélène and François if they ever felt anything similar. They laughed and said I was nothing but an old egotist, that they weren't losing contact with their children, thank God. So that's what they believe! I think they're deluding themselves. If they could see their own youth resurrected before them, it would horrify them, or else they wouldn't recognise it; they would stare at it and say, “That love, those dreams, that fire are strangers to us.” Their own youth … So how can they possibly expect to understand anyone else 's?

  While the orchestra was having a break, I heard the carriage set off, taking the newlyweds to the Moulin-Neuf. I looked for Brigitte Declos in the crowd. She was dancing with a tall dark young man. I thought of her husband—such a fool. Then again, maybe he was wise, in his own way. He kept his old body snug under a red eiderdown and his old soul warm at the thought of all the land he owned, while his wife enjoyed her youth.

  I ALWAYS HAVE LUNCH with the Erards on New Year's Day. The tradition is that you stay a long time. You arrive around noon, spend all afternoon with them, dine off the leftovers from lunch, then go home late in the evening. François had to visit one of his properties. Winter is harsh; the roads are covered in snow. He left around five o'clock. At eight o'clock we were still waiting for him to have supper, but he was nowhere in sight.

  “He must have been delayed,” I said. “He 'll spend the night at the farm.”

  “No, he knows I'm waiting for him,” Hélène replied. “Not once in all the time we 've been married has he stayed away overnight without telling me. Let's eat; he 'll be home soon.”

  The three boys were at the Moulin-Neuf where their sister had invited them to spend the night. It had been a long time since Hélène and I had been alone together like this. We talked about the weather, the harvest, the only real topics of conversation in these parts; we had a relaxing meal. This region has something restrained yet wild about it, something affluent and yet distrustful that is reminiscent of another time, long past.

  The dining-room table seemed too big for just the two of us. Everything sparkled; everything gave off the feeling of respectability and calm: the oak furniture, the gleaming parquet floors, the plates decorated with flowers, the enormous sideboard with its curved silhouette, the kind that, nowadays, you can only find around here, the clock, the bronze ornaments on the hearth, the lamp hanging down from the ceiling and the little hatch cut into the oak wall that opens into the kitchen so the dishes can be passed through. What a magnificent household my cousin Hélène runs. How expert she is at jam-making, preserves, pastry. How well she tends her hens and her garden. I asked if she had managed to save the twelve little rabbits whose mother had died and whom she 'd nursed with a baby's bottle.

  “They're doing wonderfully,” she replied.

  But I could sense she was preoccupied. She kept glancing at the clock and straining to hear the sound of the car.

  “You're worried about François, aren't you? I can tell. What could possibly have happened to him?”

  “Nothing. But, you see, François and I are rarely ever apart; we 're so close that I suffer when he isn't here beside me, I worry. I know it 's silly …”

  “You were apart during the war …”

  “Oh,” she said and shuddered at the memory. “Those five years were so hard, so terrible … I sometimes think they overshadow all the rest.”

  We both fell silent; the little hatch creaked open and the maid passed us a fruit tart, made from the last apples of winter. The clock struck nine.

  “Monsieur has never been this late,” said the maid from inside the kitchen.

  It was snowing. Neither of us said anything. Colette phoned from the Moulin-Neuf; everything was fine there.

  “When are you going to go and visit Colette?” Hélène reproached me for my laziness.

  “It's far,” I replied.

  “You old owl … No one can lure you out of your nest. To think there was a time when … When I think about how you used to live among natives, Lord knows where … and now, to go to Mont-Tharaud or the Moulin-Neuf, it's far, ” she repeated, mocking me. “You must see them, Sylvestre. Those dear children are so happy. Colette looks after the farm; they have a model dairy. When she lived here she was a bit listless, she pampered herself. Now that she has her own house she 's the first one up, pitching in, taking care of everything. Dorin's father completely renovated the Moulin-Neuf before he died. Naturally, it's out of the question to sell it: the mill has been in his family for a hundred and fifty years. They can take things slowly; they have everything they need to be happy: work and youth.”

  She continued talking about them, imagining the future and already picturing Colette 's children. Outside, the great cedar tree heavy with snow creaked and groaned. At nine thirty, she suddenly stopped talking.

  Then she said, “This is very strange. He should have been home by seven o'clock.”

  She wasn't hungry any more; she pushed her plate away and we waited in silence. But the evening passed and still he wasn't home.

  Hélène looked up at me. “When a woman loves her husband as I love François, she shouldn't outlive him. He 's older than me and not as strong … Sometimes, I'm afraid.”

  She threw a log on to the fire.

  “Ah, dear friend, when something happens in life, do you ever think about the moment that caused it, the seed from which it grew? How can I explain it … Imagine a field being sowed and all the promise that's contained in a grain of wheat, all the future harvests … Well, it's exactly the same in life. When I saw François for the very first time, the instant we looked into each other's eyes, so much happened in that moment … it makes me feel faint to think of it. Our love, our separation, those three years he spent in Dakar, when I was someone else 's wife, and … everything else … Then the war, the children … Happy things, but sad things as well, the idea that he could die, or I might, and the desperate unhappiness of the one left behind.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but who would bother sowing his fields if he knew in advance what the harvest would bring?”

  “But everyone would, Silvio,” she replied, calling me by the name she hardly ever used now. “That 's what life is all about, joy and tears. Everyone wants to live life, everyone except you.”

  I looked at her and smiled. “You love François so much.”

  “I love him very much,” she said simply.

  Someone knocked on the kitchen door. It was a young lad who'd borrowed a crate for some chickens the day before and was returning it to the maid. Through the half-open window I heard his loud voice: “Been an accident near the lake at Buire.”

  “What kind of accident?” the cook asked.

  “Car got itself smashed to bits on the road and someone got hurt. They took him to Buire.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No, dunno,” said the boy.

  “It's François,” said Hélène, who'd gone white.

  “Come on, that's mad!”

  “I just know it's François.”

  “He would have phoned if he 'd had an accident.”

  “But you know what he 's like, don't you? To spare me getting upset and going over to Buire in the dark, he 's going to try and get himself
brought back here, even if he 's injured or dying.”

  “But he 'll never find a car at this time of night, in the snow.”

  She walked out of the dining room and got her coat and shawl from the entrance hall.

  “That 's mad,” was all I could say again. “You don't even know for sure it was François in that accident. And, anyway, how are you going to get to Buire?”

  “Well … I'll walk, if I have no other choice.”

  “Eleven kilometres!”

  She didn't even reply. I tried to borrow a car from the neighbours. No luck: one had broken down, the other belonged to the doctor, who needed it to drive a patient to the next town for an operation. Bicycles were useless in the thick snow. We had no choice but to walk. It was extremely cold. Hélène walked quickly, in silence: she was certain that François was at Buire. I didn't try to talk her out of it. I thought she was definitely capable of hearing her injured husband calling out to her. There is a kind of superhuman power in conjugal love. As the Church says, it's a great mystery. Many other things are mysteries in love as well.

  Occasionally we came across a car crawling along the road in the snow. Hélène looked anxiously inside and shouted “François!” but no one answered. She didn't seem tired. She walked on, undaunted, striding along the icy road, in the dead of night, between two banks of snow, without stumbling or losing her footing a single time. I wondered what her face would look like if we got to Buire and François wasn't there.