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Fire in the Blood: A Novel


Fire in the Blood: A Novel Cover

ISBN13: 9780307267481
ISBN10: 0307267482
Condition: Standard
Dustjacket: Standard
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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 Id 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 farmers hovel in the middle of the woods. Everyone knows Ive travelled, that Ive 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 shes settled in.”

I still have happy moments, though they dont realise it. Today, Im 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 doesnt 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 provincean 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. Im 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 Hélènes children, Colette is my favourite. She isnt 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 cant remember. Since the birth of a third son, little Loulou, whos 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 Colettes fiancé to me. His name is Jean Dorin, one of the Dorins from the Moulin-Neuf, whove been millers for generations. A beautiful river, frothy and green, runs past their mill. I used to go trout fishing there when Dorins father was still alive.

“Youll 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 wont miss the pleasures of this world when youve left it,” I remarked to him, “or rather once it has left you, as it has me . . .”

For I sometimes feel Ive been rejected by life, as if washed ashore by the tide. Ive 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 dont like wine, hunting or women, youll have nothing to miss.”

“Id 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. “Youve never said anything about it. Whys that? I know its a very romantic story, that you loved each other for a long time . . . Why havent you ever told me about it?”

“Youve never asked.”

“Well, Im asking now.”

Hélène laughed. “Its none of your business,” she protested.

“You dont want to say because youre embarrassed. But it cant be because of Uncle Silvio: he must know all about it. Is it because of Jean? But hell 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. Im positive youve never had a fight.”

“Its not Jean Im 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 its because of us,” they replied, “go ahead, dont be embarrassed.”

“Were not interested in your love stories,” Georges said scornfully. He was at that age when a boys voice starts to change.

As for little Loulou, hed fallen asleep.

But Hélène shook her head and was reluctant to speak.

“You have the perfect marriage,” Colettes 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. Wed 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, Hélènes hand with its gold wedding band stroking little Loulous curls. Hélène was wearing a blue silk dress with white polka dots. My mothers 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 wasnt the only one observing what was happening around me for Colette, who doesnt miss a thing either, suddenly exclaimed, “Why, Cousin Silvio, you have such a mocking look sometimes. Ive often noticed it.”

Then she turned to her father. “Im still waiting to hear all about how you fell in love, Papa.”

Translated from the French by Sandra Smith

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Pamela Ager, January 3, 2010 (view all comments by Pamela Ager)
Reading this rather brief book centering around the lives and happenings in a small French village, written in 1941 or so, is like sitting in front of a warm fire while drinking fine wine. The story transports us to any small town with the comings and goings and secrets that are generated through time by any group of people that stay in the same place for generations, whether in France or America. Those who have been around the longest may have the most pieces of the puzzle, but do they know the truth of past situations? And how often do the same situations repeat themselves? A very human story told with elegance and style.
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Jena, May 27, 2009 (view all comments by Jena)
I can't say that I'm greatly impressed by the book, especially considering all the glowing reviews. Based on this work, I'm pretty ambivalent as to whether I read any more of her books, but Fire in the Blood isn't a drag to read, either. I'm just not sure I'll remember anything about it months from now.
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Krista Smith-Moroziuk, July 26, 2008 (view all comments by Krista Smith-Moroziuk)
Fire In the Blood is a masterpiece by an amazing author. It is about love and loss, and the secrets that surround this small close knit community. The landscape and the characters come to life.
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Product Details

Nemirovsky, Irene
Smith, Sandra
Smith, Sandra
Memory in old age
Family secrets
General Fiction
Publication Date:
September 25, 2007
Grade Level:
8.4 x 5.4 x .74 in .7 lb

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Related Subjects

Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z

Fire in the Blood: A Novel Used Hardcover
0 stars - 0 reviews
$6.95 In Stock
Product details 160 pages Knopf Publishing Group - English 9780307267481 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

We are lucky to have another novel from Irene Némirovsky. Although the book is short, the emotional impact is lasting. Fire in the Blood is a luminescent novel of love and loss.

"Publishers Weekly Review" by , "When she was writing Suite Francaise in 1940, Némirovsky, who died in Auschwitz in 1942 before turning 40, was also reworking this novel, newly discovered among her papers. Though composed on a smaller canvas, it is another keenly observed study of human nature, and in this case of Burgundy paysans. In a leisurely narrative, middle-aged narrator Silvio recounts three interlocking stories of love and betrayal over two decades. These secret affairs, he says, can be explained only by 'fire in the blood,' the intense passion that can overtake men and women when they are young, highly sexed and vulnerable. Silvio's laconic descriptions of unappeasable desire are seasoned by bitter assessment of the wisdom earned after things cool. Linked through blood and common local history, the characters in this la ronde of betrayal exist in a seemingly idyllic community that is always alert for deviations from the social code. Némirovsky's restraint in unfolding her story contributes to the emotional crescendo at the story's denouement. In its penetrating distillation of manners and mores, this spare and elegant book makes a worthy follow-up to Suite." Publishers Weekly (Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.)
"Review" by , "[A] short elegiac novel about the brief yet passionate loves and infidelities of youth....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."
"Review" by , "Fire in the Blood is short, at only 126 pages, but it is finished and polished, expressing more than many 500-page novels....So rarely can readers find such theme-rich prose. Every page, every sentence is a treasure."
"Review" by , "Although it is hard to match the power of Suite Française, Fire in the Blood is strangely engaging despite its overheated prose. Némirovsky again excavates the hypocrisy and self-serving impulses embedded in French culture — and, perhaps, all human nature."
"Review" by , "[T]here's enough of Némirovsky's intelligence and caustic powers of observation to make Fire in the Blood more than a mere curiosity. For those who loved Suite Française, the existence of this quiet, melancholy story is good news."
"Synopsis" by , From the author of the acclaimed and bestselling Suite Francaise comes a newly discovered, never-before-published novel — a story teeming with the life of a small French village in the years before World War II.
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