Dimanche and Other Stories by Irene Nemirovsky

Author:Irene Nemirovsky [Némirovsky, Irène]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-73931-5
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2010-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Le sortilège

[ THE SPELL ]

IT IS THE ELEMENT OF MYSTERY IN CHILDHOOD memories that gives them their power. The people and events of the past seem to have been disguised; you thought you knew what was happening but, years later, you realize your mistake. What seemed simple was in fact masked by secrets and shadows: what intrigued you then was just an everyday matter of inheritance or adultery. A child’s ignorance creates a world that is only half-understood and partly concealed. Perhaps that is the reason it remains so vivid in the memory.

When I was eight, in the Ukrainian town where I was born, there lived a family I often used to visit with my young aunt. The father was a retired soldier. I have forgotten his rank and his name, but I can still visualize the house, the furniture, and the faces.

Their home was a long way from ours; we lived in the center of the town, and they were on the outskirts. Getting there was quite an excursion. I remember the old brown walls, tin roofs eaten away by rust, and countless drainpipes. The first time I went there it was a day in spring. The snow was melting, trickling away with a lively, joyful sound like the clinking of silver coins, surrounding the house with its shimmering sparkle as it flowed over the paving stones. I went inside, but then felt shy and hung back. A little girl came and took me by the hand. She was called Nina and later would become my friend. I stood in the hall while my aunt unwrapped the shawls and capes I wore against the cold. The little girl smiled as she looked at me; she had a wide mouth and dark eyes.

“Go and play in the nursery,” said my aunt, who was impatient to be alone with Nina’s older sister, Lola, so they could talk about their suitors.

Both my aunt and this young woman were twenty years old. My aunt was pretty, with soft skin and a trim figure, and no more intelligence than a flower. Nina’s sister was a tall, pale, thin girl, with a fine, sharp profile and such beautiful grass-green, almond-shaped eyes that one never wearied of gazing at them. Nina took me through the drawing room. I had never seen such an old house. There were many rooms, all of them small. To get from one to another you had to go up and down uneven, rickety brick steps. It was great fun. Signs of disorder, dilapidation, and neglect were everywhere, yet at the same time it was full of life and the most welcoming home I have ever been in. There were cobwebs and dust everywhere, wobbly little armchairs and ancient, overflowing trunks all over the place. The house smelled of strong tobacco, wet fur, and mushrooms, for it was damp. The walls in the nursery were gray and sweating.

“Don’t you worry about Nina’s health?” asked Mademoiselle, my nursemaid.

My friend’s mother shrugged her soft, plump shoulders.

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