The Wine of Solitude
Irène Némirovsky
The Wine of Solitude
Irène Némirovsky was born in Kiev in 1903 into a wealthy banking family and immigrated to France during the Russian Revolution. After attending the Sorbonne in Paris, she began to write and swiftly achieved success with David Golder, which was followed by more than a dozen other books. Throughout her lifetime she published widely in French newspapers and literary journals. She died in Auschwitz in 1942. More than sixty years later, Suite Française was published posthumously for the first time in 2006.
Also by Irène Némirovsky
Suite Française
Fire in the Blood
David Golder
The Ball
Snow in Autumn
The Courilof Affair
Dimanche and Other Stories
All Our Worldly Goods
Jezebel
A VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL ORIGINAL, SEPTEMBER 2012
Translation copyright © 2011 by Sandra Smith
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in France as Le vin de solitude by Éditions Albin Michel, Paris, in 1935. Copyright © 1935 by Éditions Albin Michel. This translation originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Chatto & Windus, a division of the Random House Group Limited, London, in 2011.
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage International and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Némirovsky, Irène, 1903–1942.
[Vin de solitude. English]
The wine of solitude / Irène Némirovsky; translated from the French
by Sandra Smith.
p. cm.
“A Vintage International original.”
ISBN 978-0-307-74548-4 (trade pbk.)
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-91144-0
I. Smith, Sandra, 1949– II. Title.
PQ2227.E4V5613 2012
843′.912–dc23
2012013539
Cover photograph by Leonid Andreev.
Courtesy of the Leeds Russian Archive,
University of Leeds, Great Britain.
Based on a design by Chip Kidd
www.vintagebooks.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part III
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part IV
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
PART I
1
In the part of the world where Hélène Karol was born, dusk began with a thick cloud of dust that swirled slowly in the air before drifting to the ground, bringing the damp night with it. A hazy, reddish light lingered low in the sky; the wind brought the smell of the Ukrainian plains to the city, a mild yet bitter scent of smoke, cold water and rushes that grew along the riverbanks. The wind blew in from Asia; it had pushed its way between the Ural Mountains and the Caspian Sea; it brought with it whirls of yellow dust that cracked between the teeth; it was dry and biting; it filled the air with a howl that faded as it disappeared towards the west. Then all was calm. The setting sun, pale and dull, veiled behind whitish clouds, sank deep into the river.
From the Karols’ balcony you could see the whole town, from the Dnieper River to the hills in the distance; its outline was marked out by the gaslights that lined the winding streets with their fluttering little flames, while on the opposite bank the first fires of spring smouldered in the grass.
The balcony was surrounded by boxes full of flowers that had been especially chosen because they opened at night, Nicotiana, Sweet Mignonette, Tuberoses; the balcony was so wide that it could hold the dining table and chairs, a wicker ‘love-seat’ and the armchair of Safronov, Hélène’s grandfather.
The family sat around the table, eating in silence; the flame from the gas lamp attracted delicate moths with beige wings. Leaning forward, Hélène could see the acacias in the courtyard, lit up in the moonlight. The courtyard was bare and dirty but lined with trees and flowers, like a garden. On summer evenings the servants sat down there, talking and laughing among themselves; sometimes a white skirt could be seen moving about in the darkness; they could hear an accordion playing and a muffled cry: ‘Let go of me, you devil!’
‘Well, they’re not bored down there …’ said Madame Karol, looking up.
Hélène was half asleep in her chair. At this time of year, they ate late; she could feel her legs trembling, aching from having run around the garden; her chest rose and fell quickly as she remembered the shrill cries she couldn’t help but make as she ran after the hoop, cries like the song of some bird. Her small rough hand loved touching her favourite black ball, which she had hidden in the pocket of her tartan skirt even though it left bruises as it pressed into her leg. She was eight years old; she wore a dress of broderie anglaise with a white silk belt tied below her waist in a ‘butterfly’ bow fixed in place with two pins. Bats flew by and as each one swooped down low, Mademoiselle Rose, Hélène’s French governess, let out a little cry and laughed.
Hélène half opened her tired eyes and looked at her family. Her father’s face was surrounded by a sort of yellowish haze that shimmered like a halo: to her weary eyes it looked as if the light from the lamp was flickering, but yes, it really was flickering. The lamp had begun to smoke; Hélène’s grandmother shouted to the servant, ‘Macha! Lower the lamp!’
Hélène’s mother sighed, yawned and flicked through Paris fashion magazines while she ate.
Hélène’s father said nothing, softly drumming his slim, delicate fingers on the table.
He was the only one whom Hélène resembled; she looked exactly like him. It was from him she had inherited her passionate eyes, wide mouth, curly hair and swarthy complexion that turned almost yellow whenever she was sad or ill. She looked at him tenderly. But he only had eyes for his wife.
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