The Fires of Autumn

by Irene Nemirovsky

  ‘Germany will be banned from any involvement in the League of Nations. Viviani said so. That will teach them.’

  ‘The people want …’

  ‘The people do not want …’

  ‘Leave the wine merchant alone.’

  Renée touched up her lipstick in front of a large, three-panelled mirror.

  ‘What have you been doing since you were demobilised?’ she asked him. ‘You don’t have a lot of money, do you?’

  ‘No, not a penny. I’m looking for a way to earn a living.’

  ‘It’s not difficult these days. You can do interior decorating for foreigners, sell old masters on the black market; you don’t even have to know much about anything. Then there’s the Stock Market, of course. Prices are skyrocketing. My husband could help you out, you know. I’ll talk to him about you and …’

  He had moved closer to her and was watching her in the mirror. She turned her head slightly towards him and their lips met. After a moment, she slipped out of his arms, rather breathless, and finished her sentence:

  ‘… and he’ll find a way for you to earn a living. Doing the least possible and earning the most possible. Ideal, don’t you agree?’

  2

  When Bernard became Renée’s lover – the day after their first encounter – he felt a strange sensation: the pleasure of his conquest was somewhat tainted by a feeling of resentment, not only because she had given herself to him so quickly, but because she had not even deigned to hide the fact that she would have slept with any other man like him, as long as he was young and attractive …

  ‘Really,’ he thought to himself as he made love to her, ‘these women are such sluts.’ She opened her eyes; he had fallen back beside her, his face expressionless, his eyes staring blankly into space.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.

  ‘About you, my love,’ he replied.

  She looked at her watch:

  ‘It was good, wasn’t it? Pass me my stockings; I have to get out of here now.’

  They parted on the damp street. Behind them was the hotel where they had just spent the past two hours; in front of them, the Parisian pavement shimmered like a black mirror beneath the rain and lights. In the darkness, the arc lamps formed a bright mesh of sparkling facets, like halos, plays of light that made Bernard feel dizzy, dazed as he already was by the warm, stifling, perfumed darkness of the hotel room.

  ‘A good body … Nice curves,’ he thought as he left Renée. ‘She knows how to use it too … It would be very stupid to get attached to a little beast like her.’

  He had enjoyed their lovemaking, but a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction lingered within him, a feeling that came less from his body than his soul.

  He went home. It was the time of day when the schoolboys were coming out of the ‘Institution Etienne-Marcel’ where Bernard had been a student before moving up to the lycée. Chubby-cheeked young boys ran after the bus. He watched these adolescents who walked along swinging their briefcases by their sides. It wasn’t so long ago that he himself …

  ‘I was a good little boy,’ he thought, ‘I swallowed everything I was told. Now … The war took me when I was too young. It’s a funny thing, war. The men who are in at the start and those who come out at the end are different people. First they send in the mature men, people who know what they want, whose characters won’t change; they get killed, and then they take the youngsters; and afterwards, everyone is surprised when they come back changed. Whatever happens, I know that I, personally, will no longer put myself out for anything, or anyone. This Renée … I could have truly loved her. But none of these women gives a damn about love. What they need is …’

  He didn’t finish his thought. He was standing at the courtyard entrance in front of his home. He looked at it – a building where rent was inexpensive, the place where he was born, where his mother still lived. My God, how shabby and ugly everything was! In his mind, he could picture the sitting room with the heavy green curtains decorated with silver palm leaves, the folding bed set up for him in the dining room, the narrow, dingy kitchen … How different it all was from Détang’s private house, full of noise, joy and light; how strikingly different!

  ‘He’s clever, he is, I’ll give him that! I’m just a sucker. Naturally, I’ll go to his house, get recommendations from him, take advantage of my relationship with his wife,’ he thought. But at the same time, something deep inside him protested, felt indignant, something, someone, who was like him, like the real Bernard, and yet was no longer him, just a shadow of what he had once been, a troublesome memory.

  He climbed up the staircase where the stench of herring reigned supreme. Through the closed doors, you could hear children crying, dishes rattling. A little old man with a very pale, wrinkled face was walking up ahead of him, carrying a loaf of bread under his arm, a long, golden baguette. He thought about his father and remembered how he used to go downstairs every evening at the same time to buy bread and the newspaper (L’Intransigeant), then he would come back upstairs, eat dinner and scold his son: ‘We haven’t been put here on earth to have fun … It’s when you’re still young that you should put some money aside for your old age,’ and Bernard was horrified by that way of life.

  ‘Everyone tells you: “You are all heroes. You are better than us.” And then, when you come back: “Sorry, my boy, but while you were out risking your neck, I’ve been feathering my nest. You should go back and finish your beloved education. Get your head down in those books. Take the life your father and mother led before you were born as your ideal.” ’ How different this place was from the Détangs’ home. ‘And yet, it was me, me, who went to war for four years, while he … He tried it for a bit, didn’t like it and found a way out. No you don’t, my friend: we’re going to share!’ thought Bernard. ‘And we’ve started by sharing your wife, and that’s the truth,’ he muttered, and that idea made him feel better.

  At home, in the dining room, his mother was knitting by the light of a lamp; Thérèse was keeping her company. She had come up to say goodnight to her neighbours, as she sometimes did ever since Monsieur Jacquelain had died. Thérèse heard the key turn in the lock:

  ‘Here’s your son.’

  She looked up. Bernard came into the room.

  ‘Why are you wearing your new overcoat?’ his mother asked.

  Sometimes Thérèse barely recognised Bernard. He had friends, ways of enjoying himself she knew nothing about and found difficult to imagine. He didn’t seem very happy … He didn’t answer Madame Jacquelain’s question, nor did he obey her when she continued:

  ‘Please switch off the lights in the entrance hall, my darling. You’re never careful. Everything is so expensive.’

  She was nervous when she spoke to him, now that he was a man, as if she always feared he would snub her.

  He sat down between the two women. The wood-burning stove was lit. The dining room was very small, with imitation brown wood panelling and artificial flowers in blue vases. On the mantelpiece, between the vases, was a photograph of Bernard in uniform, his arm in a sling.

  ‘Where have you been, my darling? I didn’t wait for you to have dinner. There was a nice piece of veal with vegetables for you. How will you use the leftovers tomorrow, Thérèse?’

  ‘Grandmother will make an onion sauce to go with it …’ she replied.

  Their familiar voices soothed him but didn’t calm him down. He still felt annoyed, as if a swarm of wasps were plaguing him.

  ‘I saw one of your old friends today, Thérèse,’ he said quietly, with a slight snigger.

  She guessed he meant Renée Détang.

  ‘I never see her any more. She has so much to do …’

  ‘She does indeed,’ he murmured.

  ‘She’s very pretty,’ said Thérèse with a little sigh.

  ‘I wonder if this one would sell herself so easily,’ Bernard suddenly thought. He adjusted the flame on the wood-burning stove without saying anything, then looked up; Thérèse
realized he was watching her. Silently, and for quite a long time, he studied her face as she sewed, enjoying making her blush; she felt the kind of embarrassment and confusion, mixed with pride, that the most respectable women feel when they realise that a young man finds them attractive.

  ‘But why?’ she wondered. ‘He’s never looked at me like that before.’

  Then:

  ‘No, I’m mad. He’s known me for such a long time … We’re childhood friends … There’s never been anything between us …’

  And finally:

  ‘He has beautiful eyes … They aren’t as blue as they used to be, more grey, like the grey of a raging storm … What difference does it make to me? I’m not going to fall in love with this boy … He’s the same age as me … Are he and Renée Détang …?’

  Suddenly, she felt jealous of Renée, so violently jealous that she was ashamed and frightened; she forced herself to remember Martial, as if his memory could exorcise that particular demon. She scolded herself harshly: ‘Well now, are you going to become just like all the other mad women who chase after young men? You must be worthy of Martial.’ But Martial was dead and this man was very much alive, and sitting quite close to her.

  She stood up and folded away her embroidery.

  ‘I have to go home,’ she said curtly, ‘Papa will be worried.’

  ‘I have to go out as well,’ said Bernard, ‘I’m expected somewhere. I’ll walk down with you.’

  They left the room without paying any attention to Madame Jacquelain who cried out in a pleading voice:

  ‘Don’t come home too late … Bernard, I’ll wait up for you! Bernard, you’ve come home at three o’clock in the morning three nights in a row. Whatever will the concierge say?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less. Let her say what she wants,’ murmured Bernard. He could feel Thérèse trembling against him. He had taken her arm and felt a rush of pleasure. Here was one woman who wouldn’t give herself like some whore … Here was a woman who could make him feel proud to be a man again, a conqueror, while when he was with Renée, he was demoted to an inferior rank: he became someone who was taken and tossed aside when he was no longer found attractive.

  He pulled her closer to him; she tried to pull away; he held her more tightly.

  ‘Why are you trembling?’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘Cold? It’s as mild as can be,’ he said, mockingly.

  A warm breeze from the west flowed through Paris. They took shelter beneath the great outer doors leading to the courtyard as rain began to fall. Thérèse didn’t really know what she was doing; she followed Bernard, as docile and enthralled as in a dream. She vaguely understood what was about to happen: compliments, words of love … My God, he wanted her to become his mistress … he would pursue her, write to her, wait for her in the street. But she would resist and know how to defend her honour until the day he asked her to marry him. Yes, in a flash, standing in the shelter of that dark door, listening to the sound of the rain in the street, she imagined a long and happy life …

  They noticed that opposite them, on the other side of the street, a cinema was open. A little tinkling bell summoned the passers-by.

  ‘Come on, we’ll go inside for an hour and wait for the rain to stop,’ said Bernard.

  ‘I thought you were expected somewhere,’ she protested feebly.

  ‘I’m not. I just said that so I could spend some time with you.’

  He led her across the street; they went into the darkened theatre. It was the time of silent films. Great wavering shadows flickered across the screen above their heads; a piano hidden in the shadows played Toselli’s Serenade. They were alone at the back of a box. They could hear the sound of rustling programmes, sweets being sucked or crunched, the occasional sigh, sometimes a kiss. There were very few people in the cinema. Bernard had sat down behind Thérèse; he leaned forward, held her face in both his hands, pulled her slightly back towards him and kissed her.

  What? So soon? Without deigning to say a word to her, certain she would consent, the way you kiss some little maid in the hallway? She felt a great surge of modesty, of wounded pride; it was so violent that it swept away any desire or tenderness she might have felt towards him.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ she stammered with difficulty from between her crushed lips.

  But he held her firmly by the shoulders and she couldn’t pull free.

  ‘What are you going to say next, “What do you take me for?” or “Let go of me or I’ll scream!” My God, Thérèse,’ he said, mockingly, ‘you are so …’

  He was trying to find the right word:

  ‘… so “pre-war”, my poor girl! You mean you can’t take a joke?’

  She shook her head, dismayed by his words. They humiliated her, made her feel cheap. She had come so close to loving him. She realised now that she had loved him for a very long time … But not ‘just for fun’, not for just a moment’s pleasure. She couldn’t. She was not made like that. It was horrible that he had managed to make her almost ashamed of such normal feelings.

  Meanwhile, the pianist, hidden in the shadows, was managing to dig up from his memory fragments of Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Brahms, creating an artificial medley of background music. It was hot in the cinema; they could hear the rain pattering outside whenever the music stopped.

  Bernard lit a cigarette.

  ‘I thought you’d say no,’ he said. ‘I’ll even admit that there’s something charming about that. But think about it, my girl. There’s not a man today who would offer you anything else. “You want to have some fun? Fine. – You don’t? Goodbye.” There are too many women and they’re all too easy to make it worthwhile … pretending you feel something you don’t. If you’re not interested, we’ll just be good friends. But if your heart is telling you …’

  He suddenly stopped:

  ‘Are you crying?’ he said more gently. ‘But Thérèse, you aren’t going to seriously hold this against me, are you?’

  ‘No, but what you’re saying is just …’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘It’s degrading to women,’ she whispered.

  ‘Is that what you think! They like nothing more. I don’t mean a silly little goose from the countryside.’

  ‘I know very well who you’re talking about,’ she cut in. She was trembling all over with jealousy that she simply couldn’t hide. ‘If those women like being treated that way, go back to them, but as for me …’

  ‘How funny you are, Thérèse … since I’m telling you that I won’t press you. Women are easy to come by. A good friend, well, that’s much rarer.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d make a very good friend either …’ she said, smiling through her tears.

  They waited in silence for the film to end. He helped her on with her coat. They left and found themselves outside again, in the rain. There wasn’t a taxi in sight.

  ‘I can’t wait to own a Rolls Royce,’ sighed Bernard. ‘Thérèse, there is only one thing I want now: to be rich, as wealthy as possible and as quickly as possible! Do you ever see the Détangs? Now there’s a couple that knows how to get the best out of the pretty world we live in. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I don’t think that Raymond Détang is an honest man.’

  ‘Bernard stopped in his tracks and started to laugh.

  ‘You are delightful. The words you use … Honest! Of course he’s a crook. The honest people are you, Papa Brun, poor Martial, and me … the poor wretches! The unlucky ones. It hasn’t always been that way, perhaps it won’t always be like that, but for now, it’s the sad truth.’

  ‘You lost four years of your life to the war, I know, but if you would just concentrate on working, you could have a good career, an honest and serious career, and then you wouldn’t have any reason to envy the Détangs.’

  ‘But what I envy, my innocent girl, is not what they have but the way they got it: through bluff, through calm, barefaced audacity, a complete absence of scruples and their belief that the
world is made up of suckers, that all you have to do is stretch out your hand and reel them in. How can you think anyone would want to work hard when you see something like that? I’m going to enrol in the Raymond Détang school …’

  ‘You’ve already enrolled in his wife’s school!’ she cried, her voice trembling.

  ‘Well now,’ he thought, ‘she’ll also come round, if I can be bothered. They’re all the same, of course, but she’ll be jealous and a nuisance.’

  3

  ‘I would be more than happy to be of service to you, my boy,’ Raymond Détang said to Bernard Jacquelain.

  This was how he always greeted everyone. They all came begging to him. His role was simply to put them at ease, to show them they were entering a world where nothing was secretive, nothing was difficult. ‘Anything for anyone. Come in and help yourself. I am here to serve the people.’

  ‘You did the right thing by coming to me,’ Détang continued. ‘You’re lost, all at sea. You gave four years of your life to France, the best years of your youth. You come to me because I represent our country. (I can tell you in confidence: my election is a sure thing.) You come to me and say: “You’re in my debt. You have told me so time and time again. How can you help me?” And I reply: “My time and any kind of influence I might have are yours.” (You understand perfectly well that I don’t mean you, Bernard Jacquelain, but that you are only a symbol: I mean all soldiers, your brothers.) Take the fate of your country in your hands. Our poor country, she reacts less robustly in peacetime than in war, have you noticed? And you as well, Bernard, you seem less determined, less confident of your own strength than you were in ’18. If you had accepted the offer I made you then, if you had gone with me to America, you would have arrived on the scene at a time when they needed real men; you would immediately have entered their world – important industrialists, captains of industry – the world, in fact, the only real one, where our future is currently being shaped; you would have had a foot on the first rung of the ladder: afterwards, it would have been up to you to make it to the top with brains and hard work. But that moment has passed. It is unfair, it is cruel, but that is how it is. People …’