The Wine of Solitude

by Irene Nemirovsky

  It was almost as if the recent years of sadness had melted away and she was, once again, the strong, powerful child who silently choked back her tears, clenched her fists and used all her strength to suffer without a word of complaint.

  ‘Life is beautiful but harsh,’ she said out loud.

  She’d gone back to bed, but left the shutters open; she watched the night grow lighter and the spring morning glisten on the leaves. Finally, she fell asleep.

  6

  A week went by during which Hélène succeeded in avoiding Max, but their lives were too closely intertwined by Bella’s will and their chaotic lifestyle. She missed him already, especially towards the end of the day. On those interminable evenings when, at nine or ten o’clock, they were still waiting for Karol to arrive home so they could sit down to dinner, Hélène felt so sad that she thought about Max, wanting him to be there in spite of herself. Kneeling on a chair, she absent-mindedly sketched the contours of the rickety old Louis XV desk whose decorative gilt claws were hanging loose; above her head she heard the butler’s impatient footsteps. The situation awakened too many memories in her heart …

  One evening Madame Karol, holding the telephone in one hand, flew through the room where Hélène was, followed by a chambermaid who was trying to shorten her dress; her mouth full of pins, the servant stumbled as her feet got caught up in the telephone wire; behind her was another servant, carrying a jewellery box with the lid open.

  Hélène heard her mother calling Max’s number. While she was speaking, Bella was putting on her diamond earrings; she dropped them and they rolled on to the floor. She was speaking in Russian and stopped every now and again, presumably because she remembered that Hélène was in the next room, but then she forgot again and began pleading once more: ‘Do come, please come … You promised you’d go out with me tonight … He’s not here, I’m so lonely, Max … Take pity on me …’

  After she hung up, she stood still for a moment, absent-mindedly wringing her hands. It was over. He didn’t love her any more. Anxiously she searched her memory to see which woman could have stolen him from her. He was tired of her.

  ‘In the past we quarrelled, but he always came back to me more submissive and loving. In the past … it’s barely been a year … but now … Oh, another woman has stolen him, I can feel it,’ she thought with despair. ‘What will I do without him?’

  She remembered with profound bitterness how she had been scrupulous about being faithful to him.

  ‘My best years are gone … I don’t want to admit it, so I show off, but I know very well that youth and love are finished for me now. It’s either that or paying for lovers, gigolos, young boys you keep, who are young enough to be your son, and who make fun of you behind your back.’ She pictured some of her women friends with the handsome young men they kept on a leash like a Pekinese. ‘Or perhaps I should just give in, become an old woman. Oh no, no, never that, never! I can’t do without love, it isn’t possible,’ she murmured and, instinctively, she wiped away the tears that ran down her neck through her pearls.

  ‘He’s decked me out with jewels as if I were a shrine,’ she thought, hearing the door open and the sound of her husband’s footsteps in the next room, ‘but that’s not what I need, and besides, I’m bored, I’m so terribly bored. If you don’t have a man in your life, if you don’t have a young, handsome lover, what’s the point of living? Women who claim to be satisfied without love are either ignorant, fools or hypocrites. I need love,’ she said urgently, looking at her distorted face in the mirror with hatred. ‘If they only knew how clearly I see myself, without pity, without being indulgent.’

  They sat down to dinner. The windowless hall had been transformed into a dining room; it was cold and gloomy with a bluish cast; dust gathered on the imitation marble mouldings.

  Fancy stucco work reigned supreme; the carpet had blue and white squares in imitation of stone tiles; the artificial flowers in marble urns were covered with mildew and gave off the slightly acrid odour of dust; alabaster fruits sat in a conch shell, an electric light illuminating them from within. The marble table was so cold that it froze your hands through the lace doilies. Karol ate eagerly, hurriedly; he swallowed his food without seeing it or tasting it and, along with it, the many tablets he was given, which he hoped would allow him to do without rest and fresh air. Hélène studied him with silent pity: he was more handsome and more elegant than ever.

  He was blessed with a fire, a kind of touching passion that burned with the greatest beauty just as it was about to die down. In his pale, tormented face, his beautiful, piercing sad eyes were covered by a yellowish film, yet shone with a brightness that was almost unbearable. He continually snapped his thin fingers: ‘Faster, come on, serve up faster …’

  ‘Are you going out again tonight?’ Bella sighed.

  ‘I have a business meeting. But you’re going out as well, aren’t you?’ he asked, looking at her.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  Then, immediately, she continued in a bitter, pleading voice, ‘I’m always alone. The life we lead is mad. I’m the unhappiest woman in the world. I’ve always suffered.’

  He didn’t reply. He was barely listening to her; after twenty years of married life he was used to her complaining.

  But that evening Hélène was prepared to feel sorry for her; she was an ageing, argumentative woman who sat opposite her but never looked at her, as if the sight of her young face was too painful; her beautiful hands and bare arms covered in bracelets rested sadly on the tablecloth. Her face was painted, bloated, heavy with make-up and sticky from all the powder and cream, but it seemed as if her flesh was giving way from the inside, and that its smooth, pink-and-white surface was slowly sagging, revealing the ravages of age; yet she still had a wonderful figure, with pert, firm breasts.

  Hélène turned towards her father. ‘Papa, darling Papa, do stay home tonight. Look at you. You look so tired …’

  He shrugged his shoulders; when she insisted and Bella began complaining again he cried out impatiently, ‘To hell with all you women!’

  Hélène fell silent, her eyes welling up with tears: it hurt that he rejected her like that and especially that he treated her the same as her mother. ‘Can’t he see that I love him?’ she wondered sadly.

  But all he could see was the green gaming table where that very night he would lose a fortune.

  ‘No,’ thought Hélène, ‘it’s not so easy to give up Max, or to stop gambling.’

  The next day, quite suddenly, they left for Biarritz; Hélène had no excuses to allow her to remain in Paris; besides, they still treated her like a little girl who had no business questioning what she was told to do, and Max was going with them.

  In the morning, in Blois, he called her down while Bella was still asleep and bought her some of the first cherries of the season from an outdoor stall on a little street rosy with sunshine; the fruit was covered by a silvery dew and as icy cold and delicious as a drop of chilled liqueur. He looked at her with desire and tenderness. ‘Hélène, you are so elusive, evasive, enigmatic, I find you so attractive, so very attractive. I’ve never loved another woman the way I love you. You’re beautiful, I’m mad about you …’

  All those old words of love that, to her, were so new went straight to her heart, in spite of herself.

  ‘I don’t have the courage,’ she thought. ‘It’s not hard to conquer the demon of sensuality, but the demon of flirtatiousness, of cruelty, of the pleasure in playing with a man’s love for the very first time …

  ‘I wouldn’t have the courage,’ she said to herself again; she made a superhuman effort, lowered her eyes and thought, with the black humour she had inherited from her father, ‘I’m earning my place in heaven …’

  She replied to him in a calm, measured voice. ‘Max, don’t. I don’t love you, I was playing at being in love.’ But she was really thinking, ‘Hypocrite, that will only make him want you more.’

  He turned white, looked at her harshly
and suddenly, she was afraid of losing him. It was all so amusing, after all.

  ‘And why give him up? To avoid hurting a woman I’ve always hated? I don’t want to! I’m having fun!’ She felt a strong wave of pride and pleasure surge through her heart; gently she took his hand. ‘There, there, what a terrible look … I was teasing you.’

  He shuddered when she touched him and looked at her childlike face with its womanly expression almost with fear. He wanted her so much. He loved every one of her gestures, still gauche and awkward, her long hair floating over her slim shoulders, her delicate neck, her thick eyelashes and dazzling eyes that retained a look of pride and childlike innocence, her long legs, strong fingers, the shy, capricious way she pulled away from his embrace, her sweet breath … They were alone; he leaned towards her, put his arms round her and said softly, ‘Kiss me.’

  She quickly kissed him on the cheek and he felt a kind of uneasy emotion; she kissed like a little girl, but the way she let him kiss her, silently closing her eyes, was like a woman …

  ‘What am I doing?’ Hélène thought.

  But it was too late to stop the game.

  It was only when they got back to Paris that Hélène realised how much power Max had over her. He was becoming as tyrannical, jealous and cruel towards her as he’d been with Bella in the past. Men learn how to love, just as they learn everything, and the method they use never changes; it’s the same with every woman, in spite of themselves.

  ‘Marry me,’ he kept saying. ‘You’re unhappy living at home.’

  She refused. He would then fly into a rage that left him pale and trembling as he swore at her. He knew very well that she was toying with him, but that knowledge was no longer enough to keep him calm; he entered into that phase of unrequited love that resembles mournful folly and Hélène watched in consternation at the madness she had unleashed within him; it was eating him up and she couldn’t understand it. The first time she said, without thinking ‘If my mother knew …’ he burst out laughing.

  ‘Tell her, go on, tell her. You’ll see how wonderful your life will be then, my girl. She’ll never forgive you, never. You’re still only a child, a kid. She’ll make you pay, and dearly …’

  Meanwhile, he continued his affair with Bella for so many reasons. He took his frustration with Hélène out on her, venting his irritation and using her to satisfy his mad desire, since Hélène refused his caresses, which filled her with horror and repulsion. ‘It’s your fault,’ he would say in despair, ‘it’s all your fault. I’m offering you a proper, normal life and you’re refusing.’

  In the evening he made Bella come to his flat so he could safely telephone Hélène, since he knew she’d be alone at home. Bella would come home at midnight looking pale and haggard; but the next day she would go back when he called and Hélène would tremble as she waited for the ringing telephone to echo through the empty apartment.

  Hunched over, her eyes staring blankly out into space, pressing her trembling hand to her cheek, she would wait, without the strength to run away and free herself from temptation.

  The telephone rang; she picked up the receiver and heard Max’s voice.

  ‘When will you come? Why did you let me kiss you if you don’t love me? I’ll do whatever you want. Just come. I won’t touch you. I’m begging you to come.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ she would reply, feeling her blood run icy cold. She turned towards the door, afraid that her father, her mother, the servants, would hear what she was saying, while Max, in despair, endlessly repeated the same things, his voice sounding tender and bitter both at once. He seemed to hiss out each word.

  ‘My darling, my darling, my darling Hélène, come to me, come, have pity on me …’

  Then, suddenly, he stopped and hung up; she heard the little clicking noise that ended the connection.

  ‘She’s just arrived,’ she thought, angry and in pain. ‘She’s ringing the bell. He’s going to answer it and … but I’m not jealous! I was supposed to win … But I wanted this … it’s my fault.’ Then she tried to laugh through her tears. ‘It’s what you wanted, Georges Dandin,’ she said, thinking of the Molière play, ashamed at being so upset. ‘What have I done? And where will I find the courage, my Lord, to conquer myself and to forgive, to forget, to leave vengeance only to God?’

  And as soon as she was in bed, about to fall into that peaceful, contented sleep she had retained from her childhood, which invariably took her back to memories long past, joyous and innocent, the telephone would ring again, pull her out of bed and once more she would hear that loving, evil voice.

  ‘Hélène, Hélène, I want to hear your voice. I can’t sleep until I’ve heard your voice. Say something, just one word, make a promise, even if you don’t keep it, tell me you’ll love me one day.’ Then suddenly he would shout in a fit of blind anger, ‘Be careful, I can hurt you; I want to kill you!’

  ‘You’re behaving like a child,’ she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘Well, then, leave me in peace,’ he cried in despair. ‘Why were you always hanging around me? You’re nothing but a stupid kid, a liar and a flirt! I don’t love you, I couldn’t care less about you, I … No, Hélène, don’t leave me, forgive me, I’m begging you to come, just once. When I feel your young, smooth cheek beneath my lips, it drives me mad. Hélène. My darling, my darling, my darling …’

  Hélène heard the sound of the main gate opening outside her window. ‘Let me go now,’ she whispered. ‘Let me go. I can’t talk any more.’

  A sense of decency prevented her from saying, ‘My mother’s home.’

  But he had no trouble understanding and, happy to be the stronger, the one to be feared, at least for a moment, he replied, ‘Good! If you don’t swear that you’ll come and see me tomorrow, I’ll keep calling all night long until your mother hears the phone. Don’t push me too far, Hélène, you don’t really know me. I’ve known how to manipulate other women!’

  ‘But they loved you.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll call all night long then, do you hear me? Your mother will find out everything, and your father, Hélène? He’ll find out everything, you understand what I’m saying? Everything. The past and the present. It’s monstrous, I know that very well, but it’s your fault, you’re forcing me to behave this way! Listen to me, just promise. Just this once! I love you! Take pity on me!’

  Hélène heard her mother’s footsteps outside her bedroom. She heard the door open where Karol was asleep. ‘I promise,’ she whispered.

  7

  One rainy day the two of them were driving through the Bois de Boulogne with no specific destination in mind, just happy to take refuge in the damp, deserted lanes where they wouldn’t run into anyone they knew. It was autumn, the beginning of October; they could hear bursts of heavy, cold rain beating against the windows. Sometimes the driver would stop, shrug his shoulders and look at Max. Max tapped on the window impatiently. ‘Keep going. Wherever you like.’

  The car continued on its way; every now and again it got stuck in the mud on the horse trails. After a while they crossed the Seine and found themselves in the countryside; a cool, bitter scent filtered in through the open windows. Hélène looked at the man sitting next to her as if she were in some embarrassing nightmare: he was crying and talking to her without even bothering to wipe away his tears. She felt both pity and repugnance towards him.

  ‘Hélène, you must try to understand me. I can’t go on living like this. We’ve never talked about her,’ he said, to avoid saying the name of his mistress. ‘What I’m doing is horrible. But it’s better to talk about it and be done with it once and for all. You … you’ve … known about our affair for a long time, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Didn’t you realise that even when I was a child I would have had to be blind and a fool not to guess what was going on?’

  ‘Do you believe that anyone gives a thought to children?’ he exclaimed, and for a moment she saw his face
contort with scorn and weariness, the way it used to; she could feel the past hatred stirring in her heart.

  ‘I know very well that no one ever thinks about children,’ she murmured.

  ‘But what has that got to do with it? We’re talking about you now, a woman I love and a woman I once loved, sincerely loved. I can’t continue betraying her like this. I’ve lived through these past few months as if I were in some depressing nightmare. I feel as if I’m waking up. I understand how horrible and miserable I’ve been. Or rather, I knew very well how I felt, but I couldn’t stop myself, I loved you too much, I was mad,’ he said softly, ‘but I can’t carry on like this, I hate myself.’

  ‘You betrayed my father for years with no remorse,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Your father?’ he murmured, ‘Do you know what he thinks? Has anyone ever known what he was thinking? You’re fooling yourself if you think you know him. As for me, I have no idea what he knows or doesn’t know. Hélène, if you wanted …’

  ‘Wanted what?’ she asked, pulling her hand away from his burning cheek.

  ‘Marry me, Hélène, you’ll be happy.’

  She slowly shook her head.

  ‘Why not?’ he said in despair.