The Wine of Solitude (3 page)

‘But Boris, what are you saying? Do you realise what you’re implying? Boris, my darling …’

‘Be quiet …’

‘I have nothing to hide …’

‘Be quiet!’

‘Ah! You don’t love me any more; you would never have spoken to me like this a few years ago. Remember? I was a Safronov; I could have married anyone I liked. Then you came along. Remember the scandal our marriage caused? All those people saying to me, “
You! You
marrying that little Jew who came out of nowhere, who wandered around Lord knows where, whose family you don’t even know!
You
!?” But I loved you, Boris.’

‘You didn’t have a penny and all your other boyfriends wanted a dowry,’ he said bitterly. ‘And I’m the one who feeds your mother and father, and puts a roof over their heads, me, the little Jew who came out of nowhere:
I’m
the one who pays for all the Safronovs,
me, me
 … To hell with all of you!’

‘But I loved you, Boris, I loved you! I still love you! I’m faithful to you, I …’

‘Enough!’ he said in despair. ‘I don’t want to talk about that. It’s got nothing to do with it. You’re my wife and I have to believe in my wife. Otherwise there would be nothing left that was decent, nothing, nothing at all. Not another word about it, Bella, not another word!’

‘It’s those jealous women, those envious old women all around us who can’t forgive me because I’m happy, because they know that I’m happy! They can’t forgive me for having a husband like you, for being young and attractive! They’re the ones who’ve caused all this trouble!’

‘Perhaps,’ Karol said weakly.

She could tell he was weakening by the tone of his voice and immediately dissolved into floods of tears.

‘I would never have believed you could speak so harshly to me, say such hurtful things to me … I’ll never forgive you, never! I do everything possible to make you happy … You’re the only one I have in the world, after all, and I’m the only one you have!’

‘What’s the point in talking about that?’ Karol said once more, his voice weary and tinged with pain and embarrassment. ‘You know that I love you.’

In spite of the closed door, Hélène could hear every word. But she pretended not to be listening: she was building a fortress for her toy soldiers out of a stack of old books. Her grandmother crossed the room without making a sound; she was sighing and tears ran down her elderly face, but Hélène thought nothing of it: her grandmother was always crying; her eyes were constantly red, her lips trembling. Mademoiselle Rose was sewing in silence; Hélène gave her a mischievous look.

‘They’re shouting … Can you hear? What’s going on?’

Mademoiselle Rose said nothing at first; she pursed her lips and pushed her needle hard through the hem that sat across her knee. ‘You shouldn’t listen, Lili,’ she said finally.

‘I’m not listening. I just can’t help hearing them.’

‘Those hideous women,’ Bella shouted through her tears, ‘those old, fat, ugly creatures who can’t forgive me for having hats and dresses from Paris.
They
all have lovers, you know they do, Boris. And to think of all the men who chase after me and whom I turn away …’

‘Get up from the floor,’ said Mademoiselle Rose.

When her parents fell silent, for their quarrel was constantly interrupted by sudden moments of calm when they paused to gather their strength in order better to rip each other apart, Hélène could hear the servants singing as they ironed at the back of the kitchen, and it occurred to her that she could sense with more acuity than usual the strange, luminous silence of the evening. But what most interested her at that moment was her fortress. Despite the fact that the wooden soldiers had been chewed by the dogs, and their red tunics stained Hélène’s dress and fingers, she loved to arrange them; to her, they were the Grenadiers of the Imperial Army, Napoleon’s Guards. Bent over, her curls brushing the ground, she breathed in the musty odour of the dusty old wooden floor. Several large books, their pages open, had been set up to create a dark, threatening gorge between the mountains where the army was hiding out among fallen rocks. She placed two sentries at the entrance. She quickly piled the remaining books one on top of the other and started reciting sentences to herself from the
Mémorial de Sainte-Hélène,
her favourite book; she knew it almost by heart.

Mademoiselle Rose had gone to sit by the window to sew
in the fading daylight. How sleepy and calm the world seemed with the peaceful cooing of the ringdoves on the rooftop, while from the room next door she could hear her mother’s tears, sobs, sighs and curses …

Hélène stood up and put her hand into the opening of her dress: ‘Field Marshals, officers, soldiers …’ She was standing in the Wagram battlefield, surrounded by the dead. She pictured the scene so clearly that she could have drawn the field covered in yellowing grass cropped by the horses. A dream of bloodshed, of glory held her motionless, transfixed, a little girl with her mouth wide open, her lower lip drooping, her dishevelled hair falling over her damp forehead; her painful tonsils made it difficult to breathe, but nevertheless, each of her hoarse breaths echoed her deepest thoughts. She revelled in imagining the small green hilltop in the setting sun where she was both the Emperor (soundlessly her lips formed the words, ‘Soldiers, you have earned everlasting glory!’) and at the same time the young lieutenant who lay dying while pressing his lips to the golden fringes of the French flag. Blood trickled from his pierced breast. In the mirror of the wardrobe she could see a little eight-year-old girl in a blue dress and a large white smock; her pale face wore a dazed expression that reflected the turbulence of her inner life; her fingers were stained with ink, and she had strong, solid legs in thick tights and heavy lace-up boots. But Hélène didn’t recognise her. In order better to hide her secret dream, better to throw anyone who might discover it off the scent, she began singing quietly through half-open lips:
‘There was a little ship …’

Outside, a woman leaned over the low wall of the courtyard and shouted, ‘Hey! Aren’t you ashamed to be chasing after women at your age, you old scoundrel?’

In the distance, the bells from the monastery rang loudly, solemnly, through the clear evening air.

‘… That had ne-ne-never sailed …’

The soldiers attacked; the sky was crimson; the drums were beating.

‘When you get back home, your children will say, “He was a soldier in Napoleon’s Army.” ’

‘What’s going to happen to us, Boris? What’s going to happen to us?’

‘Why are you feeling sorry for yourself?’ her father asked, his voice soft and weary. ‘Have you ever wanted for anything? Do you think I’m worried about earning a living? I’m not a layabout like your father. Ever since I was old enough to work, I’ve never asked anything of anyone …’

‘No woman is more unhappy than me!’

This time, mysteriously, the words seeped into Hélène’s consciousness, filling her heart with bitter resentment. ‘Why does she always have to make such a scene,’ she thought.

‘Unhappy, really?’ shouted Karol. ‘And what about me? Do you think I’m happy? Why didn’t I just bash my skull in on our wedding day, instead of marrying you? I wanted to have a peaceful home, a child. And all I have is you and your shouting and not even a son.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ thought Hélène. This fight was going on too long, and it seemed more serious and bitter than usual. She kicked the soldiers away and they rolled underneath the furniture.

But she could still hear her mother’s fearful, cajoling voice. Usually when Karol shouted at her she would remain quiet, or simply weep and moan.

‘Come on now, don’t be angry. I’m not blaming you for
anything. Here we are fighting with each other … Let’s try to think instead. What are you going to do?’

They were speaking more quietly; she couldn’t hear any more.

The woman leaning over the wall ran off, laughing: ‘You’re too old, my dear, too old …’

Hélène went over to Mademoiselle Rose and absent-mindedly tugged at her sewing.

Mademoiselle Rose sighed and fixed the bow that was falling over Hélène’s forehead: ‘You’re so hot, Lili. Have a rest now, don’t start reading, you read too much; play with your puzzle or your pick-up-sticks …’

The servant brought in a lamp and, with the doors and windows shut, a sweet, safe little universe once more encircled the child and her governess, a world that was like a seashell, and just as fragile.

Mademoiselle Rose was thin and delicate, with a sweet face and fine features; she must have been rather beautiful when she was young, graceful and cheerful, but now she looked thin and worn out; her small mouth was full of the kind of wrinkles caused by bitterness and suffering that mark the lips of women over thirty; she had the beautiful, lively dark eyes of Frenchwomen from the Midi, chestnut hair that was frizzy and as light as smoke and that she wore, in the fashion of the time, in a high crown on top of her smooth forehead; her skin was soft and she smelled of fine soap and violets. She wore a narrow velvet ribbon round her neck, short-sleeved tops of white linen or fine black wool, straight skirts and button-up boots with long, pointy tips. She was rather vain when it came to her small feet and her shapely waist that she pulled tightly in with a suede belt decorated with a dull silver buckle. She was calm and wise, very sensible and modest; for many years she had retained an innocent cheerfulness, despite the apprehension and sadness she felt about Hélène’s strange, wild nature, about this chaotic household
in this untamed country. Hélène loved only her, no one else. In the evening, when the lamp was lit, Hélène would sit at her little desk and draw or cut out pictures, while Mademoiselle Rose talked about her childhood, her brothers and sisters, the games they had played and the Ursuline convent where she had been raised.

‘When I was little I was called Rosette …’

‘Were you good?’

‘Not always.’

‘Better than me?’

‘You’re very good, Hélène, except now and again. You’d think you sometimes had a demon in you.’

‘Am I intelligent?’

‘Yes, but you think you’re more intelligent than you are … which won’t make you any better or any happier. You must be good and brave. Not to do extraordinary things, you’re just an ordinary little girl. But to accept God’s will.’

‘Yes. But Mama’s evil, isn’t she?’

‘What an idea, Hélène … She’s not evil; it’s just that she has always been spoiled – by her mother, then by your father, who loves her so much, and also spoiled by life. She has never had to work or give in to anyone … Come, now, try to draw my picture …’

‘I can’t. Sing, won’t you, Mademoiselle Rose, please.’

‘You know all my songs.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Sing “You may have taken Alsace and Lorraine but in spite of you we will always be French”.’

Mademoiselle Rose sang often; her voice wasn’t very strong but it was clear and melodious. She would sing ‘Marlbrough is off to war’, ‘Love’s pleasures last but a moment’ and ‘I sigh beneath your window, day will soon be
here’ … When she said the word ‘love’, she, too, sometimes sighed and stroked Hélène’s hair. Had she ever been in love? Had she lost the man she’d loved? Had she been happy once? Why had she come to Russia to look after other people’s children? Hélène was never to know the answer to these questions. As a little girl she didn’t dare ask and, later on, she wished to keep intact within her heart the memory of the only pure, peaceful woman she had ever known, a woman free from the stain of desire, whose eyes seemed only to have looked upon smiling, innocent faces.

Once, Mademoiselle Rose, lost in a daydream, had murmured, ‘When I was twenty I was so unhappy that one day I almost threw myself into the Seine.’ Her eyes had gone dark and impenetrable, and Hélène sensed that Mademoiselle Rose was so lost in memory that it had become possible to talk of such sad things from the past even to a child, especially to a child. A strange, primitive sense of embarrassment filled the young girl’s heart. She could make out all the words she hated on Mademoiselle Rose’s trembling lips: ‘love’, ‘kisses’, ‘fiancé’ …

Abruptly she had pushed her chair away and begun singing at the top of her voice, swaying backwards and forwards while stamping her feet against the floor. Mademoiselle Rose had looked at her with surprise and melancholy resignation; she had sighed and fallen silent.

‘Do sing, Mademoiselle Rose, please. Sing the “Marseillaise”. You know, the couplet about the little children: “We shall enter into the fray / when our elders have passed away …” Oh, how I long to be French!’

‘You’re right, Lili. It’s the most beautiful country in the world …’

Hélène had often gone to bed during her parents’ quarrels, to the sound of china being broken, but thanks to Mademoiselle Rose, she could detach herself from the noise of the faraway storm, knowing that she had a peaceful refuge beside this calm young woman who sewed in the lamplight. It was like hearing the sound of the wind in a warm house whose windows are closed.

She could hear Bella’s voice: ‘If it weren’t for the child, I’d leave you! I’d leave right now!’

She would often say this when her husband got annoyed. Occasionally Karol got irritated if he found the house in a mess, or when she had bought a new hat with a pink feather, and it was sitting in its box on the table while the roast was burning or the tablecloth needed mending. But Bella said she had never claimed to be a good housekeeper; she hated everything to do with housework and only lived to enjoy herself. ‘That’s how I am. You’ll just have to take me as I am,’ she would say.

Boris Karol would shout, and then stop shouting, for quarrelling made the burden of this marriage, balanced painfully on his shoulders, fall off and roll on to the ground, and it was easier to avoid this: to resign himself to bearing it, rather than having to bend down and heave it back up on to his shoulders once more. He also vaguely feared her threat: ‘I’ll leave you.’ He knew men chased after her, that men found her attractive. He loved her …

‘Good Lord,’ thought Hélène, half asleep, her long legs pushing against the end of the small wooden bed that got no bigger even though she did, and which every year they forgot to replace. She snuggled up under a satin quilt with delicate stitching which, despite the fact that Mademoiselle
Rose mended it almost every day, was losing its stuffing. ‘Good Lord, I wish she would just hurry up and leave so they stop talking about it! If only she would die!’