All Our Wordly Goods

by Irene Nemirovsky

  ‘To think that they might remember the spring of 1936 as a sweet, happy time,’ thought Pierre. ‘There are satisfied lovers, joyful children all around me today, but to me, everything seems gloomy. Ah, it’s because I don’t like being away from Agnès and Colette. I’ve become such a stay-at-home, my God, poor, good bourgeois that I am … I sink back into my shell and forget the world. But the world won’t let you forget, the rotter. Now what? Go and see Roland? Appeal to his sense of honour, to our friendship? Ask him to intervene with Simone, so they give me an extension, so they pay the Baumberger bill? Stall for time, hold on … until the next disaster? Bah! You do what you can each day. I’m not going to imitate the Jeremiahs who cover their heads in ashes. Things will work out because everything in life ends up in a kind of modus vivendi, a way of dealing with misfortune, which is all that anyone can reasonably hope for. I must discuss it with Guy,’ he thought. ‘He’s old enough to give his opinion. He knows Burgères well; they’re friends. I even think it was Burgères who introduced him to this woman …’

  He frowned; any reminder of Guy’s love affair, still as mysterious, still as secretive, still as passionate as it was three years ago, upset and annoyed him. He walked more quickly to his son’s place. He was eager to see him. How long it all took — his apprenticeship, his education, his military service. He wished that Guy could come back home.

  He sighed. He crossed the exhibition space that separated the Champs-de-Mars and the Esplanade. Suddenly, in the darkness of the night, fireworks shot out of the top of the Eiffel Tower: they were testing them before the beginning of the holidays. Their flames and sparks seemed strange and mournful as they fell down on to the deserted, damp gardens. The rain was falling, and through it you could hear the explosions and the long whistle the fireworks made as they faded away. Finally, Pierre could see the building where his son lived. He quickly closed his wet umbrella and went upstairs.

  Guy was subletting the flat from one of his cousins, an officer in Morocco. Pierre and Agnès were happy to spare their son the experience of living in a sordid hotel in the Latin Quarter, but sometimes Pierre thought he might have given Guy his freedom as a man too soon. He recalled his own student days: ‘Even a woman in love would have thought twice about setting foot in the Hôtel des Grands-Hommes, where the frugalness of the Hardelot family shut me away when I was twenty,’ he mused. Guy, on the other hand, could afford the most elegant of mistresses. This mysterious affair was still going on, he was sure of it. ‘But the boy will nevertheless have to go back to Saint-Elme, and then … Unless, in the meantime …’ He sighed. Nothing was certain, that was the hardest thing. ‘A Hardelot needs to know exactly where he stands, even if it is right in the middle of hell. After all, I lived in hell for four years. But Lord, at least I knew where I was, whereas now, it’s this sort of limbo, this fog, this mirage. That’s what is unbearable. Bah! Everyone suffers from it these days, this great, vague anxiety, and the history books are bound to say: “Between 1920 and 19**, the world experienced a period of relative contentment …” Of course, but Guy hasn’t reached that point yet,’ he murmured, ringing the bell for the second time. No one was answering.

  ‘What’s going on? I’m sure we were meant to have dinner together tonight, 8 May!’

  He rang again. Finally he heard footsteps and Guy opened the door. His shirt had no collar and he hadn’t shaved. He looked at his father for a moment as if he didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Are you ill?’ Pierre asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes … I feel rotten, I’m coming down with something; I was sleeping … I’m sorry, Papa, come in, quickly.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with you? Did you call the doctor?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, come on. It’s just a touch of flu, I’m sure. You know, with the weather we’re having …’

  ‘Do you have a fever?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  Pierre felt his forehead. ‘No, you feel cool. But you look so …’

  ‘But I’m telling you, Papa, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Fine. Don’t get angry,’ Pierre said sadly, realising he was upsetting him. ‘But listen, son, I’ve come over for dinner. If you only have aspirin to offer me …’

  ‘No, don’t worry. The concierge is coming up with a good meal for us in a few minutes.’

  He had led Pierre into the dining room, where two places had in fact been laid at the table. They both sat in silence, looking at each other and feeling very distant from one another. Finally, Guy asked for news of the family. While Pierre was answering, he interrupted with a sudden urgent, almost brutal, gesture: ‘Wasn’t that the phone?’

  ‘No.’

  Nevertheless, Guy grabbed the receiver and shouted ‘Hello, hello’ several times, in vain. Pierre had turned away.

  ‘You were right,’ Guy finally said, sounding crushed. ‘I took a bit of quinine and I can hear buzzing in my ears. You were saying that Mama …’

  They continued their conversation in a cold, restrained manner. They were both tormented by anxiety and spoke familiar words almost haphazardly: ‘Your mother’ … ‘Your work at the factory …’ These words led to other, similar ones, without either father or son needing to think. Pierre took off the glasses he had started to wear, for his eyes were getting worse; he studied their horn-rimmed frames with a sad, absorbed expression, blew gently on the lenses, cleaned them and stared vaguely into space. For a while, now, his mannerisms had become similar to those of his dead father Charles; he was aware of it. It annoyed him, but there was nothing he could do about it. More than ever, he was now determined to tell Guy about all his financial problems. ‘A new problem takes your mind off the old one,’ thought Pierre. But he didn’t know how to tell him the truth. Every way seemed dangerous, complicated: ‘And what if he reproaches me for having managed our affairs badly? No, he’s a respectful boy. But what if he thinks it?… Oh, that would be unfair, hurtful … And if he’s on the verge of doing something stupid, getting married or … Will it hold him back or have the opposite effect?’

  He was so upset that he had stood up and was pacing back and forth in the room. Both of them were silent now. Guy had sunk back into a chair and was slowly, nervously, tearing up a book that he had open on his lap.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ his father finally asked.

  The young man started. ‘Me? Nothing.’ He leapt up. ‘I’ll go and see what’s keeping our dinner.’

  Pierre remained alone for rather a long time. He absent-mindedly rearranged the cushions on the settee. A small gold compact containing some powder and a puff fell on to the carpet. Forcing himself to laugh, Pierre handed it to his son as he came into the room: ‘Here, this must belong to one of your teachers.’

  Guy frowned, took the compact and put it in his pocket without saying a word. The bell rang. Guy went pale, started walking towards the door, then stopped and murmured, ‘I’m so stupid. It’s just the concierge.’

  It was indeed her; she came in, apologising for being late. If the gentlemen would like to sit down at the table, the soup was ready. She served it and the two silent men, sitting opposite each other, swallowed a few spoonfuls. The concierge came back, looked at the bowls, still half full, and asked in a rather dejected tone if ‘the soup was not to their liking’. Guy didn’t reply and Pierre mumbled that it was excellent but that he wasn’t hungry. The ham omelette and cold veal arrived at the same time, then the concierge set out plates of fruit and cheese, told them the coffee was on the stove and left. When he heard her heavy footsteps going down the back stairs, Pierre thought: ‘Now’s the time …’

  ‘Listen, my boy,’ he began.

  He spared him nothing. He explained in detail the collapse of the Digoin Bank, his growing financial difficulties, his vain attempts, that very day, to get hold of some money. He wanted to make an impression on Guy, frighten him; anything was better than the morose indifference with which his son listened to him. Finally, Pierre could stand it no longer. ‘Well, w
hat do you think about it all, eh?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Guy replied.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t really surprise me. It’s the same everywhere.’

  ‘But you at least have some ideas, don’t you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the future. About your future.’

  ‘I don’t see my future as separate from yours,’ said Guy more gently, ‘but, my poor Papa, there’s nothing to be done but to brace yourself against the storm and wait. Either things will work out, or everything will break down. It’s not your work, nor the Hardelot companies that are the issue, but a vast, complex machine of which you, we, are only a tiny cog.’

  When Pierre mentioned Burgères, he suddenly became agitated. ‘Oh, no! Don’t ask Burgères for anything, not him. Nothing, I’m begging you! I can’t stand him.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Pierre, surprised. ‘I thought you were friends.’

  Guy pushed away his plate. ‘No. What a thought! No! We are not friends. We have a few friends in common and that’s all. Papa, be careful of Burgères. You can’t count on him.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what you think?’

  ‘Listen, I wouldn’t trust him with a woman, but, apart from that …’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Guy.

  He fell silent, then asked with pained annoyance, ‘But really, what do women see in him? To start with, he’s old.’

  ‘Oh, Guy, don’t be so unkind; he’s younger than me.’

  ‘Yes … well, but I’m being serious, Papa. Do you think he’s attractive, well, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know, my boy, I never thought of him that way: I’m not interested in what he looks like. Are you jealous of him?’

  Guy’s face went completely white. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said.

  ‘But you’re asking ridiculous questions. I’m talking to you about Burgères and the factory and you ask me if I find him attractive. Come on, get a grip on yourself, my boy. These are serious matters. I was thinking of asking Burgères if I could go and see him tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? You mean he’s here in Paris?’

  ‘Yes. For a few days. And, my word, away from that damned Simone it will be easier … But what’s the matter? Aren’t you listening? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, I … Oh, but that’s the telephone, I’m positive this time,’ Guy exclaimed, extraordinarily elated, and he ran to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Hello, hello, I’m here!’ he said in a frenzy.

  Then he lowered his voice and turned towards Pierre.

  ‘It’s for you, Papa, it’s a call from Saint-Elme.’

  It was Agnès. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘everything’s all right at home. But something terrible has happened to Burgères.’

  ‘To Burgères?’ murmured Pierre. ‘We were just talking about him. Hello, can you hear me?’ he shouted.

  ‘We just got a call from Versailles. There was a car accident on the road between Saint-Cyr and La Trappe. He’s dead, the poor thing. Simone and Rose are leaving for Paris, but they’ve asked if you would please go to Versailles right away to take care of the formalities, if possible. Is Guy all right? Send him my love, and love to you as well, my darling …’

  He could hear Agnès kissing the phone. He said goodnight to her and walked back over to Guy. ‘Well, there it is … Poor man … poor bloke … He was always nice to me and he fought bravely in the war. You won’t have anything more to complain about where he’s concerned. Well, goodbye. I have to go to Versailles. How awful …’

  ‘I’m going with you.’

  ‘You’re not well, my boy. I don’t need you to come.’

  ‘I’m going with you,’ Guy repeated. Then, after a moment’s silence, he asked, ‘How exactly did he die?’ His voice sounded strange.

  ‘I told you: in a car accident.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘We’ll find out in Versailles,’ Pierre replied curtly.

  Neither of them spoke on the way there. Guy had taken the compact out of his pocket and was gently stroking it. Once at the hospital, his father told him to wait in the reception area. He obediently sat down by a window and watched the rain fall beneath the street lamp.

  Finally, Pierre came back. ‘He was still alive when they found him on the road. He died on the way to the hospital. I don’t think he suffered.’

  ‘Papa, was he alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Are you telling me the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you swear?’ Guy insisted.

  ‘I swear,’ Pierre replied, hesitating for an instant. He took his son by the arm. ‘Let’s go now.’

  Guy gently pulled away. ‘Wait, I want to see him.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because. After all, Papa, you were right before: we were good friends and I want to say goodbye to him. Wait for me here, Papa.’

  ‘All right, then, go on,’ Pierre replied, reassuring himself that the nurses had been given strict instructions and his son would never find out there had been a woman in the car with Burgères. The woman hadn’t been hurt and had gone home. It might have been better for Guy if … He shook his head.

  Guy, meanwhile, had gone into the little room where Burgères’s body was laid out. For a long time he studied the tall, handsome body, the battered face. The dead man had been undressed and he lay there, covered by a sheet. His bloodstained clothes had been placed on a chair.

  ‘I’d like to be alone with him for a minute,’ Guy said to one of the nurses. ‘He was a friend of mine.’

  As soon as she went out he grabbed Burgères’s jacket and waistcoat, rushed over to the light, pulled out his wallet, opened it, leafed through the letters inside, trembling with fear and disgust. Nothing, he found nothing.

  He called the nurse back inside. ‘There’s a thousand francs for you,’ he said, showing her the money, ‘a thousand francs if you tell me who was with this man when he died. His wife will be here soon. She mustn’t know anything. But you can tell me.’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘There was a woman with him,’ she said finally.

  ‘Blonde, slim, very bright eyes, wearing a red necklace, dark garnets in the shape of stars?’

  She nodded ‘yes’.

  ‘Was she wearing a white straw hat with a red ribbon?’ he persisted. ‘Or a grey felt hat, or …’

  ‘A dark-red felt hat with a black ribbon.’

  ‘Ah, her dark-red felt hat,’ he murmured. ‘And, Mademoiselle, are you sure, very sure about the necklace?’

  She looked at the money. ‘Very sure,’ she said.

  ‘Was she hurt?’ Guy asked quietly.

  ‘No, not a scratch.’

  Guy picked up his hat, glanced one last time at Burgères’s body and went out to Pierre.

  ‘You were in there a long time,’ said his father.

  Guy said nothing. They left, in silence.

  19

  Burgères’s body was transported to Saint-Elme and buried beneath the memorial built for Simone’s parents; on it was a carved figure with a long beard, kneeling on a stone cushion, wearing a cloak that fluttered in the wind, while an angel touched his shoulder with one hand; the angel’s other hand pointed towards the factory chimney, visible above the cypress trees. Guy walked behind the coffin with all the Hardelots and Renaudins, threw some holy water into the open grave, bowed to Simone and Rose, went back home, had lunch, did, in a word, everything he should have done, everything that was expected. Then he said goodbye to his family, went back to Paris and, that same night, shot himself twice in the chest.

  Pierre had slept badly, haunted by sinister dreams; he was resting after lunch. He was awakened by the sound of the telephone and Agnès screaming as she came and threw herself down on the bed, sobbing.

  They left for Paris together. They were told that Guy was dying. He could go at any moment. When at last they arrived at the
hospital, after a journey that felt like an incoherent nightmare, they were told that the surgeon was operating on Guy, that they were doing everything and more to save him. They were asked to wait. They waited, sitting side by side on the green velvet settee, in the sad room reserved for visitors. They were not alone. Other people were waiting like them. No one said a word. A muffled sigh sometimes escaped from a heavy heart and when the door opened, all the pale, pained faces looked up at the nurse as she came in. All their lips moved softly, silently. All their trembling hands clasped each other, clutched on to one another or clung nervously on to the arm of the chair. At that time of night they only operated on the most urgent cases, people who were extremely ill. But the nurse walked through the room and noticed nothing but her face in the mirror. She was young and pretty; she adjusted her hat, went out. The door closed behind her.

  Pierre and Agnès didn’t have the courage to speak to each other, or look at each other, or hold each other’s hand. The pain they felt was like none they had ever felt before; it didn’t bring them closer; it was too different in each of them. Agnès’s pain was violent and overwhelming, devoid of thought or will, nothing but the physical pain she had felt when she’d given birth to this child. Pierre’s pain was thoughtful and bitter. His son, his Guy, to be capable of this, this sin, this cowardice! He didn’t dare turn to look at Agnès. What could he possibly say to her? Their burning hands had touched for just a second. Absent-mindedly he pushed back a lock of grey hair that had come loose from under Agnès’s hat and silently she pushed him away. She didn’t see him any more, didn’t recognise him any more. She wanted her son. He was finally returned to her, after that long night. He was alive. ‘He has a chance,’ she was told. He didn’t say a word. He accepted her care and attention with the same indifference he accorded the nurse. Sometimes it even seemed to the despairing Agnès that he preferred the nurse, a stranger, whose reproach he didn’t fear.