25 Books in 25 Days: #24 The Misunderstanding

(So close to the end!) I think I got a review copy of The Misunderstanding (1926) by Irene Nemirovsky in about 2012, when it was published in English for perhaps the first time, by Sandra Smith. I’ve certainly bought or been given quite a few Nemirovsky novels, but have only read Suite Française and one other. While looking around my shelves, I thought… why not?

The Misunderstanding was Nemirovsky’s first novel, and it is a love story of sorts. As Sandra Smith points out in her translator’s note, the original title Le Malentendu can be translated as ‘the person who is misunderstood’ and ‘incompatibility’ as well as the title the novel was given in English, and it is the last of these that perhaps gets the biggest focus – as we watch disaffected Yves start a relationship with the bored wife of an old friend. They are passionate but uncertain, and we follow something of a strange trajectory, as each miscommunicates what they feel about each other – dashing through 1920s French seaside and Paris. One of the biggest obstacles to their agreed happiness is – he is poor, and she is rich, and all the awkwardness and pride that comes with that.

It was already very hot; it was the beginning of a beautiful summer’s day; women’s faces peered over the balconies; street sellers passed by with their little carts full of flowers, shouting: “Roses! Who wants some beautiful roses!”; tiny fountains of water from hosepipes sprayed from one side of the pavement to the other, glistening like liquid rainbows; young children went past on their bicycles, chasing each other and singing loudly; they had wicker baskets on their backs and their smocks fluttered in the win. Yves tried hard to notice every last detail in the street, just as a sick man desperately tries to concentrate on the countless little things in his bedroom.

I’m not always particularly interested in stories about love affairs, but I did find the way Nemirovsky wrote about Paris – and about people, about their flaws and lack of self-knowledge – rather poignant and lyrical. If it leans a little on the histrionic, we can blame that on the author’s youth – I’ve certainly read books with less emotional restraint by writers who should know better.