Everything upset her. Her entire life was dedicated to Hélène’s well-being, but Hélène was growing up. She needed to be cared for in other ways, but Mademoiselle Rose had known her since she was so very young, and was herself so innately reserved and with such a strong sense of propriety that she was unable to reach out to Hélène, to encourage confidences which, at that point in her life, Hélène wouldn’t have entrusted to her anyway.
Hélène protected her inner life; she hid it fiercely from sight – everyone’s sight, even from the person she loved most in the world. She and Mademoiselle Rose were bound together by a fear that neither of them dared to speak of: that Mademoiselle Rose might be sent away. Anything was possible. Their lives were ruled by Bella’s whims, by her excessively bad moods or a sarcastic remark from Max.During these deadly years Hélène did not once breathe freely; there wasn’t a single night when she went to bed feeling calm and confident. During the day, Mademoiselle Rose took Hélène to mass at the church of Notre-Dame-de-France. A French priest spoke to a small congregation of people born in this foreign land; he spoke of France, of the war, and prayed for ‘those who suffer, those who must travel, and the soldiers who have fallen on the battlefields’.
‘We’re fine,’ thought Hélène in between responses; she looked at the two low candles burning beneath the image of the Virgin Mary, and listened to the soft crackling of the wax tears that flowed and flowed, ever so slowly, until they fell on to the paving stones. She closed her eyes. At home, Bella would say, shrugging her shoulders, ‘Your Mademoiselle Rose is becoming holier-than-thou. That’s all we need …’
In church Hélène feared nothing, thought about nothing, allowed herself to be cradled by a soothing dream, but the moment she stepped outside and found herself in the dark street, walking along the gloomy, fetid canal, her heart ached with mortal anguish once more.
Sometimes Mademoiselle Rose looked around in surprise, as if she were waking from a dream. Sometimes she would murmur a few vague words, and when Hélène impatiently cried, ‘What do you mean?’ she would shudder and turn her large, deep-set eyes slowly away. ‘Nothing, Hélène, nothing,’ she would say softly.
Yet the pity that filled Hélène’s heart did not soften it; she bore the pity angrily, as if it were a burden. ‘I’m becoming horrible, now,’ she thought in despair, ‘just like everyone else.’
In the mirrors of the sitting room, lit up by the light that filtered in from beneath the office next door, Hélène studiedher reflection for a long time: her face and the dark-coloured dress that looked like a black stain against the delicate light wood panelling, her thin, tanned neck that stuck out of the narrow collar of her checked dress, the gold chain and blue enamel locket that, to Hélène, were the only ‘outward signs’ of wealth. She was so bored. She believed she was unhappy because they dressed her like a little girl in short skirts, with her hair in great curls, although in Russia, a girl was already considered a woman at fourteen. As for the rest …
‘What am I complaining about?’ she thought. ‘I’m no different from anyone else. Of course, everyone’s house has an adulterous wife, unhappy children and busy men who think only of money. With money, everyone flatters you, smiles at you, everything works out, that’s what they all say. I have money, I’m healthy, but I’m bored.’
One evening Chestov found her in this state of mind and walked over to her; he was drunk; he looked at her slim face raised towards him and smiled. ‘Such beautiful eyes,’ he said.
Hélène knew he was drunk and worse, that he was despicable, selling his country to the highest bidder. But he was the first man who had noticed her. She couldn’t explain how she felt. It was the first time she could feel the impact
Hélène protected her inner life; she hid it fiercely from sight – everyone’s sight, even from the person she loved most in the world. She and Mademoiselle Rose were bound together by a fear that neither of them dared to speak of: that Mademoiselle Rose might be sent away. Anything was possible. Their lives were ruled by Bella’s whims, by her excessively bad moods or a sarcastic remark from Max.During these deadly years Hélène did not once breathe freely; there wasn’t a single night when she went to bed feeling calm and confident. During the day, Mademoiselle Rose took Hélène to mass at the church of Notre-Dame-de-France. A French priest spoke to a small congregation of people born in this foreign land; he spoke of France, of the war, and prayed for ‘those who suffer, those who must travel, and the soldiers who have fallen on the battlefields’.
‘We’re fine,’ thought Hélène in between responses; she looked at the two low candles burning beneath the image of the Virgin Mary, and listened to the soft crackling of the wax tears that flowed and flowed, ever so slowly, until they fell on to the paving stones. She closed her eyes. At home, Bella would say, shrugging her shoulders, ‘Your Mademoiselle Rose is becoming holier-than-thou. That’s all we need …’
In church Hélène feared nothing, thought about nothing, allowed herself to be cradled by a soothing dream, but the moment she stepped outside and found herself in the dark street, walking along the gloomy, fetid canal, her heart ached with mortal anguish once more.
Sometimes Mademoiselle Rose looked around in surprise, as if she were waking from a dream. Sometimes she would murmur a few vague words, and when Hélène impatiently cried, ‘What do you mean?’ she would shudder and turn her large, deep-set eyes slowly away. ‘Nothing, Hélène, nothing,’ she would say softly.
Yet the pity that filled Hélène’s heart did not soften it; she bore the pity angrily, as if it were a burden. ‘I’m becoming horrible, now,’ she thought in despair, ‘just like everyone else.’
In the mirrors of the sitting room, lit up by the light that filtered in from beneath the office next door, Hélène studiedher reflection for a long time: her face and the dark-coloured dress that looked like a black stain against the delicate light wood panelling, her thin, tanned neck that stuck out of the narrow collar of her checked dress, the gold chain and blue enamel locket that, to Hélène, were the only ‘outward signs’ of wealth. She was so bored. She believed she was unhappy because they dressed her like a little girl in short skirts, with her hair in great curls, although in Russia, a girl was already considered a woman at fourteen. As for the rest …
‘What am I complaining about?’ she thought. ‘I’m no different from anyone else. Of course, everyone’s house has an adulterous wife, unhappy children and busy men who think only of money. With money, everyone flatters you, smiles at you, everything works out, that’s what they all say. I have money, I’m healthy, but I’m bored.’
One evening Chestov found her in this state of mind and walked over to her; he was drunk; he looked at her slim face raised towards him and smiled. ‘Such beautiful eyes,’ he said.
Hélène knew he was drunk and worse, that he was despicable, selling his country to the highest bidder. But he was the first man who had noticed her. She couldn’t explain how she felt. It was the first time she could feel the impact
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