The Wine of Solitude Read Online Free PDF

least let me be happy now; I’m not hurting anyone. When I’m old I’ll be calm and wise,’ she said, for old age was still so far away …
    They had finished lunch. But for Hélène the hardest part was still to come: she had to kiss the pale face she so hated, and which always felt cold to her burning lips; she had to place her closed mouth against the cheek she wanted to lacerate with her nails, then perhaps say, ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’
    She could feel a strange sense of self-pride shudder and bleed within her, as if a more mature soul was trapped within her child’s body, and this offended soul was suffering.
    ‘You won’t even say sorry, will you? Oh! Please, for heaven’s sake, don’t bother. I don’t want an apology thatcomes from your lips but not from your heart. Go away.’
    But sometimes the scene finished with an inexplicable surge of maternal affection in Bella. ‘This child … After all, she’s all I have … Men are so egotistical … Later on she’ll be my friend, my little companion …’
    ‘Come on now, Hélène, don’t make such a face. You shouldn’t be so resentful. I scolded you, you cried, it’s all over now, forgotten. Come and kiss your mother.’
    Normally she wasn’t at home for the evening meal. Before going to bed, Grandfather Safronov would walk slowly round the sombre sitting room, lit up only by the cold winter moon; he dragged his leg along as he walked, leaning on Hélène’s shoulder; he would stroke the fresh rose he wore in his buttonhole, both winter and summer. The piano with its closed lid shone in a pool of light, and the same ray of light made the handsome old man’s bald head shine like an egg. He taught Hélène poetry by Victor Hugo, recited pages from Chateaubriand to her. Certain phrases, his solemn, melancholy rhythm, were to remain inexorably linked in her mind to the memory of his heavy, irregular walk, the weight of his bony hand, still delicate and beautiful, as it sat on her shoulder.
    Then, once again, to end the long day – a child’s day passes so slowly – she would say her prayers and go to bed. Late in the night the front door would slam; she could hear her mother’s voice and laughter and the jingling spurs of the officer who accompanied her home. The noise of the spurs was like some pleasing music, a fanfare of silvery sounds that faded away into the distance; then she would fall asleep. Sometimes she would dream about the time, long ago, when she was a very little girl, when Mademoiselle Rose hadn’tcome yet; and if Mademoiselle Rose had gone into the kitchen to get a drink, leaving her alone in her room, she would wake up and call out in anguish, ‘Mademoiselle Rose, are you there?’
    A moment later a white light, a long nightdress with a white bodice would appear in the dark room. ‘Of course I’m here.’
    ‘Can I have a drink, please?’
    Hélène would drink, then murmur, half asleep, carelessly pushing away the glass that she knew would be safe in the caring hands, ‘You … you do love me, don’t you?’
    ‘Yes, I do. Go back to sleep.’
    No kisses: Hélène hated them. No affection either, not in her gestures, not in the sound of her voice; Hélène scorned such things. But in the darkness that surrounded her she needed to hear those reassuring words, that warm tone of voice: ‘Yes, I do. Go back to sleep.’ She asked for nothing more. She breathed into her pillow and placed her cheek against the warm patch it had left, feeling peaceful, sinking into a calm forgetfulness.

4
    Hélène walked beside Mademoiselle Rose, holding on to the Frenchwoman’s sleeve and basking in the sweet warmth that spread from the scrap of material in her hand through her whole body. It was three o’clock on a winter’s day. Night fell quickly at this time of year; lanterns were placed along the streets and they made the shops look mysterious, supernatural and a bit frightening, their little flames swaying beneath the shop signs: