Read Online The Dogs and the Wolves by Irène Némirovsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Irène Némirovsky
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a desperate sort of courage. They pushed the maid aside and walked right past her.
‘Very well!’ she said. ‘I’ll let Madame know . . . But you stay right where you are, or else!’
She went out, but they followed close on her heels; they knew very well they would be sent away. They couldn’t let their rich relations have any time to think.
In the dining room, where the Sinner family ate breakfast every morning, with its long red damask drapes, its expensive, impressive furniture, there suddenly appeared two pale little urchins with torn clothes and dishevelled hair. They were full of daring, arrogance and fear, yet yearned to be fed, warmed, reassured.
His voice hesitant, Ben began explaining who they were and why they were there. It was a long story. As for Ada, all she could do was stare. She didn’t just look at everything around her. She drank it in, as a person dying of thirst pounces upon a drink of water and gulps it down, still not managing to quench his thirst or let go of the glass; this was how each colour, the shape of each object, the faces of these strangers seemed to pierce her, finding their way into a secret place, deep within her heart, a place she had not realised even existed, until now. She stood absolutely still, wide-eyed, and with a wild, stunned expression gazed at the heavy, matt fabric of the red curtains, the high-backed ebony chairs covered in damask, the bright walls painted a pale cream to bring out the richness of the other colours, the deep purple of the carpets, the dark wood of the furniture, the silver platters on the sideboard.
In the middle of the room stood a very large table; some women were sitting around it, and with them, Harry. She recognised him at once. He was wearing a dressing gown of plum-coloured silk. Ada had never seen anything like this shimmering, heavy satin; she thought that Harry must have been ill to be so pampered and dressed like this. In front of him was a porcelain cup, as white and delicate as an egg shell, and a silver egg cup. On a plate sat two pieces of brown bread with butter and jam. One of the women was spreading the bread with butter she took from a small crystal dish with a lid decorated with a silver pine cone. Another woman was pouring Harry some coffee from a silver pot with a very long spout. A third woman added the milk; looking through herlorgnette, she carefully skimmed the cream off the top with a little silver spoon. The fourth woman was cutting up an egg she had just taken out of a bowl, also made of silver, full of boiling hot water. But she didn’t cut it up with her knife, as Ada had only ever seen done until now; she used a pair of gilded scissors, made specially to cut eggs, and, to Ada, this was more extraordinary than everything else.
Two of the four women were wearing lace dressing gowns and, despite the fact that it was morning, large diamond earrings. One was Harry’s mother, the other, one of his married aunts. They were plump, heavy women, with pale skin and shiny black hair, parted down the middle so it fell in two arcs at the sides of their foreheads. Sitting at the table like two enormous white peonies, they had the replete, lazy, slow-moving demeanour of contented matrons, and the scornful pout and hard, implacable eyes of women who are too rich, too happy. The two younger ones were unmarried aunts; they dressed in the English style – straight skirts in a coarse, masculine material, linen blouses with starched collars, as stiff as a yoke – and had the mannerisms of that younger generation of Jewish millionaires: more ‘lady-like’ than was natural, with an affectation of simplicity and austerity, as if they wished each of their gestures to say, ‘You see how I wish to go unnoticed, inconspicu-ous as they say in English. I wish to blend in with mere mortals so they may forget who I really am.’
At the sight of Ben and Ada, everyone stopped eating. Lorgnettes were raised and dropped again. Voices cried
‘Very well!’ she said. ‘I’ll let Madame know . . . But you stay right where you are, or else!’
She went out, but they followed close on her heels; they knew very well they would be sent away. They couldn’t let their rich relations have any time to think.
In the dining room, where the Sinner family ate breakfast every morning, with its long red damask drapes, its expensive, impressive furniture, there suddenly appeared two pale little urchins with torn clothes and dishevelled hair. They were full of daring, arrogance and fear, yet yearned to be fed, warmed, reassured.
His voice hesitant, Ben began explaining who they were and why they were there. It was a long story. As for Ada, all she could do was stare. She didn’t just look at everything around her. She drank it in, as a person dying of thirst pounces upon a drink of water and gulps it down, still not managing to quench his thirst or let go of the glass; this was how each colour, the shape of each object, the faces of these strangers seemed to pierce her, finding their way into a secret place, deep within her heart, a place she had not realised even existed, until now. She stood absolutely still, wide-eyed, and with a wild, stunned expression gazed at the heavy, matt fabric of the red curtains, the high-backed ebony chairs covered in damask, the bright walls painted a pale cream to bring out the richness of the other colours, the deep purple of the carpets, the dark wood of the furniture, the silver platters on the sideboard.
In the middle of the room stood a very large table; some women were sitting around it, and with them, Harry. She recognised him at once. He was wearing a dressing gown of plum-coloured silk. Ada had never seen anything like this shimmering, heavy satin; she thought that Harry must have been ill to be so pampered and dressed like this. In front of him was a porcelain cup, as white and delicate as an egg shell, and a silver egg cup. On a plate sat two pieces of brown bread with butter and jam. One of the women was spreading the bread with butter she took from a small crystal dish with a lid decorated with a silver pine cone. Another woman was pouring Harry some coffee from a silver pot with a very long spout. A third woman added the milk; looking through herlorgnette, she carefully skimmed the cream off the top with a little silver spoon. The fourth woman was cutting up an egg she had just taken out of a bowl, also made of silver, full of boiling hot water. But she didn’t cut it up with her knife, as Ada had only ever seen done until now; she used a pair of gilded scissors, made specially to cut eggs, and, to Ada, this was more extraordinary than everything else.
Two of the four women were wearing lace dressing gowns and, despite the fact that it was morning, large diamond earrings. One was Harry’s mother, the other, one of his married aunts. They were plump, heavy women, with pale skin and shiny black hair, parted down the middle so it fell in two arcs at the sides of their foreheads. Sitting at the table like two enormous white peonies, they had the replete, lazy, slow-moving demeanour of contented matrons, and the scornful pout and hard, implacable eyes of women who are too rich, too happy. The two younger ones were unmarried aunts; they dressed in the English style – straight skirts in a coarse, masculine material, linen blouses with starched collars, as stiff as a yoke – and had the mannerisms of that younger generation of Jewish millionaires: more ‘lady-like’ than was natural, with an affectation of simplicity and austerity, as if they wished each of their gestures to say, ‘You see how I wish to go unnoticed, inconspicu-ous as they say in English. I wish to blend in with mere mortals so they may forget who I really am.’
At the sight of Ben and Ada, everyone stopped eating. Lorgnettes were raised and dropped again. Voices cried
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