All Our Worldly Goods

All Our Worldly Goods

They were together, so they were happy. Even though the watchful family slipped between them, separating them gently but firmly, the young man and woman knew they were near one another; nothing else mattered. It was the beginning of the century – an autumn evening at the seaside, overlooking the English Channel. Pierre and Agnès, their parents and Pierre’s fiancée had all gathered to watch the last firework display of summer. On the fine sand of the dunes, the inhabitants of Wimereux-Plage formed dark little groups, barely visible in the starlight. The moist sea air drifted around them. A profound sense of tranquillity reigned over them, and over the sea, and over the world.

The families were not very friendly to each other, for they belonged to different social classes: the bourgeoisie didn’t mingle with the lower middle classes. Each kept its place and its distance with modesty, steadfastness and dignity. Each built itself a fortress out of spades and folding chairs. Each scrupulously respected the possessions of its neighbours and defended its own courteously but resolutely, just as a well-tempered sword bends but does not break. The mothers would murmur, ‘Don’t touch that, it doesn’t belong to you . . . Excuse me, Madame, this is my son’s seat and this one is mine . . . Watch your toys or someone will take them.’

Heavy storm clouds had been gathering all day, but it hadn’t rained. Agnès thought how wonderful it would be to dip her bare feet in the water. But it wasn’t done to go into the sea, except at midday and amid a crowd of people, thus somehow preserving a young girl’s modesty. She could hear Pierre sighing. He didn’t like the heat. He was wearing a dark jacket with a stiff collar; its pale white glow allowed her to make him out in the darkness. He was lying in the hollow of a sand dune, impatiently waving his arms. ‘Pierre, come now, sit still,’ his mother said, as if he were twelve years old. In fact he was twenty-four, but her tender, authoritarian voice held such power over him that he obeyed her still. Simone, Pierre’s fiancée, sat between him and Agnès; he turned away to avoid looking at the pale folds of flesh round Simone’s waist and her milky-white round arms. This girl looks as if she’s made of milk, and butter, and cream, he mused. It was strange; he had often looked with pleasure at her fresh, plump body, her thick, soft waist and red hair. But, for some time now, the sight of her made him feel nauseous, like a meal that is too heavy, too sweet. Nevertheless, they were engaged. The following week, a grand engagement dinner would make it official, uniting the two families. There was no hope for him and Agnès.

Excerpted from All Our Worldly Goods by Irene Nemirovsky. Copyright © 2011 by Irene Nemirovsky. Excerpted by permission of Vintage, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.