Fire in the blood

Review by New York Times Review

IN December 1937, the hardworking 34-year-old Russian émigré writer Irène Némirovsky, who had written a novel a year in France since the success of her debut best seller "David Golder" in 1929, jotted down some ideas for possible stories. One was the "purity of parents who were guilty when they were young," and the "impossibility of understanding that 'fire in the blood'" that had led to their youthful transgressions. It was a promising theme, Némirovsky concluded, but there was also a disadvantage: "no clear characters." She found those missing characters in the Burgundian farming village of Issyl'Évêque, where she had gone in search of a nanny for one of her daughters. Two and a half years later, as readers of Némirovsky's international sensation, "Suite Française," are well aware, she returned to Issy-l'Évêque for another reason altogether: to escape the invading German Army. Despite the excruciating letters her husband wrote to German officials, arguing that his Jewish-born wife was a refugee from Communist Russia, a Roman Catholic convert, a contributor to right-wing journals and no friend to the Jews, Némirovsky was seized by the French police in July 1942 and deported to Auschwitz, where she died a month later. The discovery of "Suite Française," a novel buried for 60 years in a suitcase entrusted to Némirovsky's daughter Denise Epstein, enhanced the drama of its publication, as did the eyewitness immediacy of the two parts of the "Suite" itself, one detailing the chaotic exodus of Parisians during the late spring of 1940 and the other probing the emotional ties between a French woman and a cultivated German officer in an occupied village modeled on Issy-l'Évêque. While it was known that Némirovsky had also been working on another story, it was only recently that two scholars researching her biography (just published in France) came across the complete manuscript of "Fire in the Blood" in a Paris archive. The first thing to say about this novella, limpidly translated by Sandra Smith, is that it has almost none of the historical immediacy of "Suite Française." Set amid the timeless rituals of planting and harvest, it features a cast of characters - some with suggestive mythological names - drawn from families "of a rich bloodline that loves everything that has its roots in the land." Their instinct for privacy sometimes verges on the xenophobic. "Everyone lives in his own house, on his own land, distrusts his neighbors, harvests his wheat, counts his money and doesn't give a thought to the rest of the world. No châteaux, no visitors." The story begins amid preparations for a country wedding, wryly observed by the jaded narrator, an older man named Silvio, short for Sylvestre ("creature of the woods"). Unlike his neighbors, Silvio has traveled a bit in the world, working as "a civil servant in the Congo, a merchant in Tahiti, a trapper in Canada," before returning to his home like "an old boat, still solid and seaworthy, but whose paint has faded in the water, eaten away by the salt." Silvio's cousin Hélène Erard and her husband, François, are the parents of the bride, Colette. They have come to Silvio's gloomy "farmer's hovel in the middle of the woods" to introduce him to the bridegroom, Jean Dorin, a shy fellow "with the beautiful anxious eyes of a hare," whose family has operated the village mill for generations. "You have the perfect marriage," Jean tells his future in-laws, wishing the same happiness for his life with Colette. The seasons pass, the harvests come and go, the "beautiful river, frothy and green," flows by the mill, and the new couple is blessed with a son. Jean seems to have been granted his modest wish. But another character - passionate, unpredictable, beyond good and evil - is about to be unleashed on this orderly Arcadia. It isn't the local Don Juan or his sultry married mistress, who as an abandoned child was adopted by Hélène's half-sister and looks so much like Colette that they could be sisters too. The true stranger, the anarchic intruder, is the fire in the blood (chaleur du sang) that has its way with all the couples, perfect and otherwise. "How is this fire lit within us?" Silvio wonders. "It devours everything and then, in a few years, a few months, a few hours even, it burns itself out. Then you see how much damage has been done." When Jean Dorin's body is fished out of the river, the villagers conspire to treat his death as an accident, despite evidence of foul play. And Silvio keeps silent about the nocturnal goings-on he has witnessed during his rambles through the country-side. Only when the secrets of the younger generation begin to impinge on his own buried life, and the passions of 20 years earlier erupt in his frozen heart, does the truth begin to emerge - with some of the shattering force of the wineglass that another local man, who knows way too much, drops to the tiled floor of the local café. Némirovsky, who wrote a life of Chekhov and considered casting "Fire in the Blood" as a play, seems to have aimed for the kind of wrenching revelations we associate with Ibsen. She also seems to have wrestled, not always successfully, with some of the challenges of writing a convincing thriller. Her reliance on a first-person narrator forces her to resort to the clanking machinery - conversations overheard through conveniently open windows, suspicious trysts glimpsed through foliage, confessions punctually delivered when required by the plot - that Georges Simenon or Patricia Highsmith would have found ways to avoid. Silvio's voice, increasingly melodramatic as the denouement looms and he awakens like some Rip Van Winkle of the passions, reminds us of Henry James's warning that first-person narration is "the darkest abyss of romance." If I had read "Fire in the Blood" knowing nothing of its author or the circumstances of its composition, I would have guessed it was by some elegist of the French countryside like Jean Giono. Knowing that Némirovsky completed this book about the timeless fire of love at the very moment an all-too-historical fire of hatred was snaking through France adds a painful poignancy to the reading experience. One can't help wondering whether the deeply held secrets at the heart of the plot had anything to do with Némirovsky 's own double life as she tried desperately to blend into an ordinary village in extraordinary times. With the return to print of four of Némirovsky's earlier novels (including "David Golder") planned for the coming months, we will soon be in a better position to judge precisely where this modest melodrama belongs in the larger achievement of a complex and remarkable writer. Irène Némirovsky returned to the Burgundian village of Issy-l'Évêque to escape the invading German Army. Christopher Benfey, the Mellon professor of English at Mount Holyoke College, writes about art for Slate.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 27, 2009]

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Review by Booklist Review

Set in an insular country village in prewar France, this is the haunting story of the eternal conflict between youthful passion and older regret. Silvio is an aging, solitary bachelor whose chance meeting with a beautiful young woman at his cousin's wedding sparks long-buried reminiscences about his former days as a world traveler and lover of women. As he probes the events centered around his past, we witness his younger relatives fall prey to the inevitable refrain of chance fate, misbegotten dreams, and violent love: the fire in the blood. Written in simple, gorgeous prose by an acclaimed author whose work was discovered more than 50 years after she died during the Holocaust, this novel was likely written in 1942, the same year Némirovsky was arrested and taken to Auschwitz. It echoes the same lyrical qualities of her previous, best-selling novel, Suite Française, which further develops the theme of village community life during the occupation. An excellent book-club pick, Némirovsky's quietly powerful tale builds to a heartbreaking dénouement that will resonate with the reader.--English, Catherine Copyright 2007 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Silvio, the narrator of Nemirovsky's brief, posthumously published novel, lives alone on his small farm in pre-WWII rural France, committed to his permanent bachelorhood. But as he watches the affairs of young people around him, he recalls his early love life and the dying embers in his spirit start to glow again. Bramhall reflects this well in his deep, harsh voice by building up from Silvio's tone of quiet disdain and aloofness into one of possessive fervor. The French-accented English he uses for all conversation helps listeners place the story on a cognitive map. His voice lulls listeners past noticing the novel's unfinished state. The dropped strands of the plot, the chapters consisting of just a few paragraphs and the scenes with rougher edges all fade thanks to his low but intense growl. Fans of Nemirovsky's more polished Suite Fran?aise and romantics with a taste for passionately spoken French, will be swept up by this entrancing and evocative tale. Simultaneous release with the Knopf hardcover (Reviews, Sept. 3). (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

If you loved the author's Suite Francaise-and how could you not?-you'll likewise take to this recently discovered treasure by Nemirovsky, who perished in Auschwitz. "Fire in the blood" is the passion that propels all kinds of human triumphs and follies in the lives of otherwise undistinguished French paysans, citizens of the countryside in the early part of the last century, "a region that has something restrained yet savage about it, something affluent and yet distrustful that is reminiscent of another time, long past." Love, intrigue, mystery, death, and murder all figure in this exquisitely wrought tale, as related by the reclusive Silvio, who reconstructs an ultimately shocking family history that links the generations in unexpected ways. So great is Nemirovsky's reading of the human heart that her tale has the power of myth. And so true does it ring to reality that one could call it not so much a love but a life story. If anyone has taken an accurate reading of the pulse of the French, it is surely Nemirovsky. Beautifully translated, this work is enthusiastically recommended for all collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 5/1/07.]-Edward Cone, New York (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Following the discovery and publication of the French novelist's Suite Fran‡aise (2006), here's another lost work: a short elegiac novel about the brief yet passionate loves and infidelities of youth. The best guess is that Nmirovsky (1903-1942) worked on this novel between 1938 and 1942, when she was deported to Auschwitz. The first-person narrator is Silvio, a middle-aged man living in Burgundy, an agriculturally rich region whose small landowners and farmers are suspicious and dour. As a young man, Silvio left this stifling community to sow his wild oats and work his way around the world, "propelled forward by the fire in my young blood"--echoes of Joseph Conrad's Youth. Now, all passion spent, his inheritance squandered and his lands sold, he lives alone with only his dog for company. Nearby live his cousin Hl'ne and her husband Fran‡ois, a devoted couple, the picture of domestic tranquility. The marriage of their daughter Colette to Jean, a gentle young miller, sets the plot in motion. Early in their marriage, Colette takes a lover, experiencing like Silvio that "fire in the blood." There is, however, a complication. The lover, Marc, already has a liaison with another woman, the unhappily married ward of Hl'ne's half-sister. One night there is an "accident"; Jean is found dead in the river. It emerges that Jean had lost a struggle with another man; Fran‡ois, never dreaming his daughter had a lover, wants to involve the police. Eventually Colette's parents learn the truth, which in turn forces Hl'ne to make a stunning confession of her own about her young, passionate self, and induces in Silvio the great mournful cry, "I want my youth back." There is one puzzling omission at the end which suggests Nmirovsky, a careful plotter, had loose ends to tie up. Neither a masterpiece nor a curiosity but an elegant expression of universal longings rooted in a specific milieu, provincial France, that's observed with a caustic brilliance. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter One We were drinking a light punch, the kind we had when I was young, and all sitting around the fire, my Erard cousins, their children and I. It was an autumn evening, the whole sky red above the sodden fields of turned earth. The fiery sunset promised a strong wind the next day; the crows were cawing. This large, icy house is full of draughts. They blew in from everywhere with the sharp, rich tang of autumn. My cousin Hélène and her daughter, Colette, were shivering beneath the shawls I'd lent them, cashmere shawls that had belonged to my mother. They asked how I could live in such a rat hole, just as they did every time they came to see me, and Colette, who is shortly to be married, spoke proudly of the charms of the Moulin-Neuf where she would soon be living, and "where I hope to see you often, Cousin Silvio," she said. She looked at me with pity. I am old, poor and unmarried, holed up in a farmer's hovel in the middle of the woods. Everyone knows I've travelled, that I've worked my way through my inheritance. A prodigal son. By the time I got back to the place where I was born, even the fatted calf had waited for me for so long it had died of old age. Comparing their lot with mine, the Erards no doubt forgave me for borrowing money I had never returned and repeated, after their daughter, "You live like an animal here, you poor dear. You should go and spend the summer with Colette once she's settled in." I still have happy moments, though they don't realise it. Today, I'm alone; the first snow has fallen. This region, in the middle of France, is both wild and rich. Everyone lives in his own house, on his own land, distrusts his neighbours, harvests his wheat, counts his money and doesn't give a thought to the rest of the world. No châteaux, no visitors. A bourgeoisie reigns here that has only recently emerged from the working classes and is still very close to them, part of a rich bloodline that loves everything that has its roots in the land. My family is spread over the entire province--an extensive network of Erards, Chapelains, Benoîts, Montrifauts; they are important farmers, lawyers, government officials, landowners. Their houses are imposing and isolated, built far from the villages and protected by great forbidding doors with triple locks, like the doors you find in prisons. Their flat gardens contain almost no flowers, nothing but vegetables and fruit trees trained to produce the best yield. Their sitting rooms are stuffed full of furniture and always shut up; they live in the kitchen to save money on firewood. I'm not talking about François and Hélène Erard, of course; I have never been in a home more pleasant, welcoming, intimate, warm and happy than theirs. But, in spite of everything, my idea of the perfect evening is this: I am completely alone; my housekeeper has just put the hens in their coop and gone home, and I am left with my pipe, my dog nestled between my legs, the sound of the mice in the attic, a crackling fire, no newspapers, no books, a bottle of red wine warming slowly on the hearth. "Why do people call you Silvio?" asked Colette. "A beautiful woman who was once in love with me thought I looked like a gondolier," I replied. "That was over twenty years ago and, at the time, I had black hair and a handlebar moustache. She changed my name from Sylvestre to Silvio." "But you look like a faun," said Colette, "with your wide forehead, turned-up nose, pointed ears and laughing eyes. Sylvestre, creature of the woods. That suits you very well." Of all of Hélène's children, Colette is my favourite. She isn't beautiful, but she has the quality that, when I was young, I used to value most in women: she has fire. Her eyes laugh like mine and her large mouth too; her hair is black and fine, peeping out in delicate curls from behind the shawl, which she has pulled over her head to keep the draught from her neck. People say she looks like the young Hélène. But I can't remember. Since the birth of a third son, little Loulou, who's nine years old now, Hélène has put on weight and the woman of forty-eight, whose soft skin has lost its bloom, obscures my memory of the Hélène I knew when she was twenty. She looks calm and happy now. This gathering at my house was arranged to introduce Colette's fiancé to me. His name is Jean Dorin, one of the Dorins from the Moulin-Neuf, who've been millers for generations. A beautiful river, frothy and green, runs past their mill. I used to go trout fishing there when Dorin's father was still alive. "You'll make us some good fish dishes, Colette," I said. François refused a glass of punch: he drinks only water. He has a pointy little grey beard that he slowly strokes. "You won't miss the pleasures of this world when you've left it," I remarked to him, "or rather once it has left you, as it has me . . ." For I sometimes feel I've been rejected by life, as if washed ashore by the tide. I've ended up on a lonely beach, an old boat, still solid and seaworthy, but whose paint has faded in the water, eaten away by salt. "No, since you don't like wine, hunting or women, you'll have nothing to miss." "I'd miss my wife," he replied, smiling. That was when Colette went and sat next to her mother. "Mama, tell me the story of how you got engaged to Papa," she said. "You've never said anything about it. Why's that? I know it's a very romantic story, that you loved each other for a long time . . . Why haven't you ever told me about it?" "You've never asked." "Well, I'm asking now." Hélène laughed. "It's none of your business," she protested. "You don't want to say because you're embarrassed. But it can't be because of Uncle Silvio: he must know all about it. Is it because of Jean? But he'll soon be your son, Mama, and he should know you as well as I do. I so want Jean and me to live together the way you live with Papa. I'm positive you've never had a fight." "It's not Jean I'm embarrassed about, but these great oafs," said Hélène, nodding towards her sons with a smile. They were sitting on the floor, throwing pine cones into the fire; they had pockets full of them; the cones burst open in the flames with a loud, crackling sound. Georges was fifteen and Henri thirteen. "If it's because of us," they replied, "go ahead, don't be embarrassed." "We're not interested in your love stories," Georges said scornfully. He was at that age when a boy's voice starts to change. As for little Loulou, he'd fallen asleep. But Hélène shook her head and was reluctant to speak. "You have the perfect marriage," Colette's fiancé said shyly. "I hope that we too . . . one day . . ." He was mumbling. He seemed a good lad, his face thin and soft, with the beautiful anxious eyes of a hare. Strange that Hélène and Colette, mother and daughter, should have sought out the same type of man to marry. Someone sensitive, considerate, easily dominated; almost feminine, but at the same time guarded and shy, with a kind of fierce modesty. Good Lord, I was nothing like that! Standing slightly apart, I looked at the seven of them. We'd eaten in the sitting room, which is the only habitable room in the house, except for the kitchen; I sleep in a kind of attic room under the eaves. The sitting room is always rather gloomy and, on this November evening, was so dark that when the fire was low, all you could see were the large cauldrons and antique warming pans hanging from the walls, whose copper bottoms reflected even the dimmest light. When the flames rose again, the fire lit up their calm faces, their kind smiles, Hélène's hand with its gold wedding band stroking little Loulou's curls. Hélène was wearing a blue silk dress with white polka dots. My mother's shawl, embroidered with leaves, covered her shoulders. François sat next to her; both of them looked at the children sitting at their feet. I picked up a flaming twig from the fire to relight my pipe and it illuminated my face. It seems I wasn't the only one observing what was happening around me for Colette, who doesn't miss a thing either, suddenly exclaimed, "Why, Cousin Silvio, you have such a mocking look sometimes. I've often noticed it." Then she turned to her father. "I'm still waiting to hear all about how you fell in love, Papa." Translated from the French by Sandra Smith Excerpted from Fire in the Blood by Irene Nemirovsky All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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