In Search of Lost Time, Volume IV

by Marcel Proust

  “But come,” my mother was saying, “you said nothing unpleasant about her, you told me that she bored you a little, that you were glad you had given up the idea of marrying her. That’s no reason for you to cry like that. Remember that your Mamma is going away today and couldn’t bear to leave her big pet in such a state. Especially, my poor child, as I haven’t time to comfort you. Even if my things are packed, one never has any time on the morning of a journey.”

  “It’s not that.”

  And then, calculating the future, weighing up my desires, realising that such an affection on Albertine’s part for Mlle Vinteuil’s friend, and one of such long standing, could not have been innocent, that Albertine had been initiated, and, as every one of her instinctive actions made plain to me, had moreover been born with a predisposition towards that vice which my anxiety had all too often sensed in her, in which she must never have ceased to indulge (in which she was indulging perhaps at that moment, taking advantage of an instant in which I was not present), I said to my mother, knowing the pain that I was causing her, which she did not reveal and which betrayed itself only by that air of serious preoccupation which she wore when she was comparing the gravity of making me unhappy or making me ill, that air which she had worn at Combray for the first time when she had resigned herself to spending the night in my room, that air which at this moment was extraordinarily like my grandmother’s when she had allowed me to drink brandy, I said to my mother: “I know how unhappy I’m going to make you. First of all, instead of remaining here as you wished, I want to leave at the same time as you. But that too is nothing. I don’t feel well here, I’d rather go home. But listen to me, don’t be too distressed. This is it. I was deceiving myself, I deceived you in good faith yesterday, I’ve been thinking it over all night. I absolutely must—and let’s settle the matter at once, because I’m quite clear about it now, because I won’t change my mind again, because I couldn’t live without it—I absolutely must marry Albertine.”

  NOTES · ADDENDA · SYNOPSIS

  Addenda

  The manuscript has a longer version of M. de Charlus’s reply:

  “Good heavens, what a fate for that unfortunate canvas to be a prisoner in the house of such a person! To go there once by chance is in itself an error of taste; but to spend one’s life there, especially if one is a thing of beauty, is so painful as to be quite unpardonable. There are certain forms of disgrace which it’s a crime to resign oneself to . . . [As a good Catholic, I honour St Euverte: crossed out] and I can remember very well from the Lives of the Saints what this confessor’s qualifications for canonisation were; and indeed, if you like, as a no less good pagan, I respect Diana and admire her crescent, especially when it is placed in your hair by Elstir. But as for the contradictory monster, or even the monster pure and simple, whom you call Diane de Saint-Euverte, I confess I do not take the desire for a union of the churches as far as that. The name recalls the time when altars used to be raised to St Apollo. It is a very distant time—a time from which the person you speak of must incidentally date, judging by her face, which has strangely survived exhumation. And yet, in spite of everything, she is a person with whom one has certain things in common; she has always manifested a singular love of beauty.” This observation would have appeared incomprehensible to the Marquise if for some minutes past, having ceased to understand, she had not given up listening. The love of beauty which caused M. de Charlus to cherish, together with a great deal of social contempt, a more deep-rooted respect for Mme de Saint-Euverte, was deduced from the fact that she always had as footmen a numerous and carefully selected pack of irreproachably vigorous young men. “Yes, what a destiny for a beautiful work of art which was spoiled from the start by living face to face with you! There is something tragic about the fate of these captive paintings. Just think, if ever you pay a brief visit to that lady from the Golden Legend, with what despair the poor portrait, imprisoned in its blue and rose-pink tones, must be saying to you:

  How different are our fates! I must remain

  But you are free to go . . .

  And yet both of you are flowers. Flowers, themselves too in bondage, have contrived in their captivity sublime stratagems for passing on their messages. I confess that I should not be surprised if, with similar intelligence, some day when the windows of the Burgundian saint’s wife were left open, your portrait unfolded its canvas wings and flew off, thus solving the problem of aerial navigation before mankind, and making Elstir, in a second and more unexpected form, the successor of Leonardo da Vinci.”

  In place of this sentence the manuscript has a long passage which was not included in the original edition and which Proust here declares his explicit intention to return to later in the novel, though he did not have time to do so:

  People in society noticed the Princess’s febrility, and her fear, though she was still very far from ageing, lest the state of nervous agitation in which she now lived might prevent her from keeping her young appearance. Indeed one evening, at a dinner party to which M. de Charlus was also invited and at which, for that reason, she arrived looking radiant but somehow strange, I realised that this strangeness arose from the fact that, thinking to improve her complexion and to look younger—and probably for the first time in her life—she was heavily made up. She exaggerated even further the eccentricity of dress which had always been a slight weakness of hers. She had only to hear M. de Charlus speak of a portrait to have its sitter’s elaborate finery copied and to wear it herself. One day when, thus bedecked with an immense hat copied from a Gainsborough portrait (it would be better to think of a painter whose hats were really extraordinary), she was harping on the theme, which had now become a familiar one with her, of how sad it must be to grow old, and quoted in this connexion Mme Récamier’s remark to the effect that she would know she was no longer beautiful when the little chimney-sweeps no longer turned to look at her in the street. “Don’t worry, my dear little Marie,” replied the Duchesse de Guermantes in a caressing voice, so that the affectionate gentleness of her tone should prevent her cousin from taking offence at the irony of the words, “you’ve only to go on wearing hats like the one you have on and you can be sure that they’ll always turn round.”

  This love of hers for M. de Charlus which was beginning to be bruited abroad, combined with what was gradually becoming known about the latter’s way of life, was almost as much of a help to the anti-Dreyfusards as the Princess’s Germanic origin. When some wavering spirit pointed out in favour of Dreyfus’s innocence the fact that a nationalist and anti-semitic Christian like the Prince de Guermantes had been converted to a belief in it, people would reply: “But didn’t he marry a German?” “Yes, but . . .” “And isn’t that German woman rather highly strung? Isn’t she infatuated with a man who has bizarre tastes?” And in spite of the fact that the Prince’s Dreyfusism had not been prompted by his wife and had no connexion with the Baron’s sexual proclivities, the philosophical anti-Dreyfusard would conclude: “There, you see! The Prince de Guermantes may be Dreyfusist in the best of good faith; but foreign influence may have been brought to bear on him by occult means. That’s the most dangerous way. But let me give you a piece of advice. Whenever you come across a Dreyfusard, just scratch a bit. Not far underneath you’ll find the ghetto, foreign blood, inversion or Wagneromania.” And cravenly the subject would be dropped, for it had to be admitted that the Princess was a passionate Wagnerian.

  Whenever the Princess was expecting a visit from me, since she knew that I often saw M. de Charlus, she would evidently prepare in advance a certain number of questions which she then put to me adroitly enough for me not to detect what lay behind them and which must have been aimed at verifying whether such and such an assertion, such and such an excuse by M. de Charlus in connexion with a certain address or a certain evening, were true or not. Sometimes, throughout my entire visit, she would not ask me a single question, however insignificant it might have appeared, and would try to draw my attention to this. Then,
having said good-bye to me, she would suddenly, on the doorstep, ask me five or six as though without premeditation. So it went on, until one evening she sent for me. I found her in a state of extraordinary agitation, scarcely able to hold back her tears. She asked if she could entrust me with a letter for M. de Charlus and begged me to deliver it to him at all costs. I hurried round to his house, where I found him in front of the mirror wiping a few specks of powder from his face. He perused the letter—the most desperate appeal, I later learned—and asked me to reply that it was physically impossible that evening, that he was ill. While he was talking to me, he plucked from a vase one after another a number of roses each of a different hue, tried them in his buttonhole, and looked in the mirror to see how they matched his complexion, without being able to decide on any of them. His valet came in to announce that the barber had arrived, and the Baron held out his hand to say good-bye to me. “But he’s forgotten his curling tongs,” said the valet. The Baron flew into a terrible rage; only the unsightly flush which threatened to ruin his complexion persuaded him to calm down a little, though he remained plunged in an even more bitter despair than before because not only would his hair be less wavy than it might have been but his face would be redder and his nose shiny with sweat. “He can go and get them,” suggested the valet. “But I haven’t the time,” wailed the Baron in an ululation calculated to produce as terrifying an effect as the most violent rage while generating less heat in him who emitted it. “I haven’t the time,” he moaned. “I must leave in half an hour or I shall miss everything.” “Would Monsieur le Baron like him to come in, then?” “I don’t know, I can’t do without a touch of the curling tongs. Tell him he’s a brute, a scoundrel. Tell him . . .”

  At this point I left and hurried back to the Princess. Her breast heaving with emotion, she scribbled another message and asked me to go round to him again: “I’m taking advantage of your friendship, but if you only knew why . . .” I returned to M. de Charlus. Just before reaching his house, I saw him join Jupien beside a parked cab. The headlights of a passing car lit up for a moment the peaked cap and the face of a bus conductor. Then I could see him no longer, for the cab had been halted in a dark corner near the entrance to a completely unlit cul-de-sac. I turned into this cul-de-sac so that M. de Charlus should not see me.

  “Give me a second before I get in,” M. de Charlus said to Jupien. “My moustache isn’t ruffled?”

  “No, you look superb.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Don’t use such expressions, they don’t suit you. They’re all right for the fellow you’re going to see.”

  “Ah, so he’s a bit loutish! I’m not averse to that. But tell me, what sort of man is he, not too skinny?”

  I realised from all this that if M. de Charlus was failing to go to the help of a glorious princess who was wild with grief, it was not for the sake of a rendezvous with someone he loved, or even desired, but of an arranged introduction to someone he had never met before.

  “No, he isn’t skinny; in fact he’s rather plump and fleshy. Don’t worry, he’s just your type, you’ll see, you’ll be very pleased with him, my little lambkin,” Jupien added, employing a form of address which seemed as personally inappropriate, as ritual, as when the Russians call a passer-by “little father.”

  He got into the cab with M. de Charlus, and I might have heard no more had not the Baron, in his agitation, omitted to shut the window and moreover begun, without realising, in order to appear at his ease, to speak in the shrill, reverberating tone of voice which he assumed when he was putting on a social performance.

  “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, and I really must apologise for keeping you waiting in this nasty cab,” he said, in order to fill the vacuum in his anxious mind with words, and oblivious of the fact that the nasty cab must on the contrary seem perfectly nice to a bus conductor. “I hope you will give me the pleasure of spending an evening, a comfortable evening with me. Are you never free except in the evenings?”

  “Only on Sundays.”

  “Ah! you’re free on Sunday afternoons? Excellent. That makes everything much simpler. Do you like music? Do you ever go to concerts?”

  “Yes, I often goes.”

  “Ah! very good indeed. You see how nicely we’re getting on already? I really am delighted to know you. We might go to a Colonne concert. I often have the use of my cousin de Guermantes’s box, or my cousin Philippe de Coburg’s” (he did not dare say the King of Bulgaria for fear of seeming to be “showing off,” but although the bus conductor had no idea what the Baron was talking about and had never heard of the Coburgs, this princely name seemed already too showy to M. de Charlus, who in order not to give the impression of over-rating what he was offering, modestly proceeded to disparage it). “Yes, my cousin Philippe de Coburg—you don’t know him?” and at once, as a rich man might say to a third-class traveller: “One’s so much more comfortable than in first-class,” he went on: “All the more reason for envying you, really, because he’s a bit of a fool, poor fellow. Or rather, it’s not so much that he’s a fool, but he’s irritating—all the Coburgs are. But in any case I envy you: that open-air life must be so agreeable, seeing so many different people, and in a charming spot, surrounded by trees—for I believe my friend Jupien told me that the terminus of your line was at La Muette. I’ve often wanted to live out there. There’s nowhere more beautiful in the whole of Paris. So it’s agreed, then: we’ll go to a Colonne concert. We can have the box closed. Not that I shouldn’t be extremely flattered to be seen with you, but we’d be more peaceful . . . Society is so boring, isn’t it? Of course I don’t mean my cousin Guermantes who is charming and so beautiful.”

  Just as shy scholars who are afraid of being accused of pedantry abbreviate an erudite allusion and only succeed in appearing more long-winded by becoming totally obscure, so the Baron, in seeking to belittle the splendour of the names he cited, made his discourse completely unintelligible to the bus conductor. The latter, failing to understand its terms, tried to interpret it according to its tone, and as the tone was that of someone who is apologising, he was beginning to fear that he might not receive the sum that Jupien had led him to expect.

  “When you go to concerts on Sunday, do you go to the Colonne ones too?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What concert-hall do you go to on Sundays?” the Baron repeated, slightly irritated.

  “Sometimes to Concordia, sometimes to the Apéritif Concert, or to the Concert Mayol. But I prefer to stretch me legs a bit. It ain’t much fun having to stay sitting down all day long.”

  “I don’t like Mayol. He has an effeminate manner that I find horribly unpleasant. On the whole I detest all men of that type.”

  Since Mayol was popular, the conductor understood what the Baron said, but was even more puzzled as to why he had wanted to see him, since it could not be for something he hated.

  “We might go to a museum together,” the Baron went on. “Have you ever been to a museum?”

  “I only know the Louvre and the Waxworks Museum.”

  I returned to the Princess, bringing back her letter. In her disappointment, she burst out at me angrily, but apologised at once.

  “You’re going to hate me,” she said. “I hardly dare ask you to go back a third time.”

  I stopped the cab a little before the cul-de-sac, and turned into it. The carriage was still there. M. de Charlus was saying to Jupien: “Well, the most sensible thing is for you to get out first with him, and see him on his way, and then rejoin me here . . . All right, then, I hope to see you again. How shall we arrange it?”

  “Well, you could send me a message when you go out for a meal at noon,” said the conductor.

  If he used this expression, which applied less accurately to the life of M. de Charlus, who did not “go out for a meal at noon,” than to that of omnibus employees and others, this was doubtless not from lack of intelligence but from contempt for local colour. In the tradition of
the old masters, he treated the character of M. de Charlus as a Veronese or a Racine those of the husband at the marriage feast in Cana or Orestes, whom they depict as though this legendary Jew and this legendary Greek had belonged, the one to the luxury-loving patriciate of Venice, the other to the court of Louis XIV. M. de Charlus was content to overlook the inaccuracy, and replied: “No, it would be simpler if you would arrange it with Jupien. I’ll speak to him about it. Good-night, it’s been delightful,” he added, unable to relinquish either his worldly courtesy or his aristocratic hauteur. Perhaps he was even more formally polite at such moments than he was in society; for when one steps outside one’s habitual sphere, shyness renders one incapable of invention, and it is the memory of one’s habits that one calls upon for practically everything; hence it is upon the actions whereby one hoped to emancipate oneself from one’s habits that the latter are most forcibly brought to bear, almost in the manner of those toxic states which intensify when the toxin is withdrawn.

  Jupien got out with the conductor.

  “Well then, what did I tell you?”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t mind a few evenings like that! I quite like hearing someone chatting away like that, steady like, a chap who doesn’t get worked up. He isn’t a priest?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “He looks like a photographer I went to one time to get my picture taken. It’s not him?”

  “No, not him either.”

  “Come off it,” said the conductor, who thought that Jupien was trying to deceive him and feared, since M. de Charlus had remained rather vague about future assignations, that he might “stand him up,” “come off it, you can’t tell me it isn’t the photographer. I recognised him all right. He lives at 3, Rue de l’Echelle, and he’s got a little black dog called Love, I think—so you see I know.”