In Search of Lost Time, Volume V

by Marcel Proust

  I believe that, on the contrary, she had neither a presentiment of nor a contempt for death, and that her words were lacking in sincerity. I am sure in any case that there was no sincerity in mine, as to the greatest sorrow I could imagine. For, feeling that Albertine could henceforth only deprive me of pleasures or cause me sorrows, that I would be ruining my life for her sake, I remembered the wish that Swann had once formed apropos of Odette, and without daring to wish for Albertine’s death, I told myself that it would have restored to me, in the words of the Sultan, my peace of mind and freedom of action.

  *There is an additional passage here, isolated by the Pléiade editors at the foot of the page. Saniette reappears further on.

  “Pretty well played, what!” said M. Verdurin to Saniette. “My only fear,” the latter replied, stuttering, “is that Morel’s very virtuosity may somewhat offend against the general spirit of the work.” “Offend? What do you mean?” roared M. Verdurin while a number of the guests gathered round like lions ready to devour a man who has been laid low. “Oh, I’m not aiming at him alone …” “But the man doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Aiming at what?” “I … shall have … to listen to it … once again to form a judgment à la rigueur.” “À la rigueur! the man’s mad!” said M. Verdurin, clutching his head between his hands, “he ought to be put away.” “The term means with exactitude.’ You ca … ca … can say ‘with rigorous exactitude,’ after all. I’m saying that I can’t judge à la rigueur.” “And I’m telling you to go away,” M. Verdurin shouted, intoxicated by his own rage, and pointing to the door with blazing eyes. “I will not allow people to talk like that in my house!”

  Saniette went off zigzagging like a drunken man. Some of the guests, seeing him thus ejected, assumed that he had not been invited. And a lady who had been extremely friendly with him hitherto, and to whom he had lent a precious book the day before, sent it back to him next day without a word, scarcely even wrapped in some paper on which she had her butler simply put Saniette’s address. She did not wish to be in any way “indebted” to someone who was obviously far from being in the good graces of the little clan. Saniette, as it happened, was never to know of this piece of rudeness. For scarcely five minutes had passed after M. Verdurin’s outburst when a footman came to inform the latter that M. Saniette had had a stroke in the courtyard. But the evening was not yet over. “Have him taken home; I’m sure it won’t be serious,” said M. Verdurin, whose hotel particulier, as the manager of the hotel at Balbec would have said, thus became assimilated to those grand hotels where the management hasten to conceal sudden deaths in order not to frighten off their customers, and where the deceased is temporarily hidden in a meat-safe until the moment when, even if he has been in his lifetime the most distinguished and the most generous of men, he is clandestinely evacuated by the door reserved for the dishwashers and sauce chefs. In fact Saniette was not quite dead. He lived for another few weeks, but only intermittently regaining consciousness.

  *The Pléiade editors have inserted here as a footnote an additional passage which Proust placed a few pages later (clearly in error):

  I was going to buy, in addition to the motor-cars, the finest yacht which then existed. It was for sale, but at so high a price that no buyer could be found. Moreover, once bought, even if we confined ourselves to four-month cruises, it would cost two hundred thousand francs a year in upkeep. We should be living at the rate of half a million francs a year. Would I be able to sustain it for more than seven or eight years? But never mind; when I had only an income of fifty thousand francs left, I could leave it to Albertine and kill myself. This was the decision I made. It made me think of myself. Now, since one’s ego lives by thinking incessantly of all sorts of things, since it is no more than the thought of those things, if by chance, instead of being preoccupied with those things, it suddenly thinks of itself, it finds only an empty apparatus, something which it does not recognise and to which, in order to give it some reality, it adds the memory of a face seen in a mirror. That peculiar smile, that untidy moustache—they are what would disappear from the face of the earth. When I killed myself five years hence, I would no longer be able to think all those things which passed through my mind unceasingly, I would no longer exist on the face of the earth and would never come back to it; my thought would stop for ever. And my ego seemed to me even more null when I saw it as something that no longer exists. How could it be difficult to sacrifice, for the sake of the person to whom one’s thought is constantly straining (the person we love), that other person of whom we never think: ourselves? Accordingly, this thought of my death, like the notion of my ego, seemed to me most strange, but I did not find it at all disagreeable. Then suddenly it struck me as being terribly sad; this was because, reflecting that if I did not have more money at my disposal it was because my parents were still alive, I suddenly thought of my mother. And I could not bear the idea of what she would suffer after my death.

  *Proust’s manuscript has a different version of the Norpois-Villeparisis episode which the Pléiade editors print as an appendix. Passages that have become illegible are indicated by square brackets:

  Several of the palaces on the Grand Canal were transformed into hotels, and by way of a change from the one at which we were staying, we decided one evening to dine in another where the food was said to be better. While my mother was paying the gondolier, I entered a vast marble-pillared hall that had once been entirely covered with frescoes, […]

  One of the waiters asked if the “old couple” […] were coming down […], that they never gave any warning, and that it was most tiresome. Then he saw the lady appear. It was in fact Mme de Villeparisis […] but bent towards the ground, with that air of dejection and bemusement produced by extreme fatigue and the weight of years. We happened by chance to be given a table immediately behind hers, up against the splendid marble walls of the palace, and fortunately, since my mother was tired and wanted to avoid introductions, we had our backs to the Marquise and could not be seen by her, and were moreover protected by the relief of a massive column with a […] capital. Meanwhile I was wondering which of her relations was being referred to as M. de Villeparisis, when a few minutes later I saw her old lover, M. de Norpois, even more bent than she, sit down at her table, having just come down from their room. They still loved each other, and, now that he had given up his functions at the Ministry, as soon as the relative incognito which one enjoys abroad permitted, they lived together completely. In order to allow his old mistress a degree of respectability, he was careful not to give his name in hotels, and the waiters, ignorant at this distance of celebrated Parisian liaisons, and moreover seeing this old gentleman, even when he had gone out without her, invariably coming back to dine alone with the old lady, assumed that they were M. and Mme de Villeparisis. The matrimonial character of their relationship, which had been greatly accentuated by the carelessness of old age and travel, manifested itself at once in the fact that on sitting down to table M. de Norpois evinced none of those courtesies one shows towards a woman who is not one’s wife, any more than she herself made any effort for him. More lively than Mme de Villeparisis, he related to her with a familiarity that surprised me what he had learned that day from a foreign ambassador he had been to see. She let a fair proportion of his words go by without answering, either from fatigue, or lack of interest, or deafness and a desire to conceal it. From time to time she addressed a few words to him in a faint voice, as though overcome with exhaustion. It was obvious that she now lived almost exclusively for him, and had long since lost touch with the social world—from which, with considerable volubility and in a rather loud voice (perhaps to enable her to hear him), he brought her the latest news—for she put to him, in a low-pitched, weary voice, questions that seemed strange on the lips of a person who, even though excluded from it for a long time, nevertheless belonged to the highest society. After a long silence […] asked: “So this Bisaccia you […] this afternoon, is he one of Sosthène’s sons?” “Yes, of
course, he’s the one who became Duc de Bisaccia when Arnaud took the name Doudeauville. He’s charming; he’s a bit like Carnot’s youngest son, only better-looking.” And once more there was silence. What seemed most of all to be preoccupying the old woman, whose charming eyes in that ruined face no one could have identified through the mists which the distance from Paris and the remoteness of age accumulated round her, was a war over Morocco. In spite of what the foreign ambassador had said to M. de Norpois, she did not seem reassured. “Ah, but you always see the black side,” said M. de Norpois with some asperity. “I admit that Emperor William is often unfortunate in his choice of words and gestures. But the fact that certain things must be taken seriously doesn’t mean that they should be taken tragically. It would be a case of Jupiter making mad those he wishes to destroy; for war is in nobody’s interest, least of all Germany’s. They’re perfectly aware in the Wilhelmstrasse that Morocco isn’t worth the blood of a single Pomeranian grenadier. You’re alarming yourself about trifles.” And again there was silence, prolonged indefinitely by Mme de Villeparisis, whose beauty, which was said to have been so striking, had been as thoroughly effaced as the frescoes that had decorated the ceiling of this magnificent hall with its broad red pillars, and whose personality was as well concealed, if not from the eyes of Parisians who might perhaps have identified her, at least from the hotel’s Venetian staff, as if she had been wearing a carnival mask as in the old days in Venice. M. de Norpois addressed an occasional reproof to a waiter who had failed to bring something he had ordered. I noticed that he enjoyed good food as much as at the time when he used to dine with my family, and Mme de Villeparisis was as finicky as she had been at Balbec. “No no, don’t ask them for a soufflé,” M. de Norpois said, “they’ve no idea what it is. They’ll bring you something that bears not the slightest resemblance to a soufflé. In any case it’s your own fault, since you won’t hear of Italian cooking.” Mme de Villeparisis did not answer; then after a while, in a plaintive voice, as sad and faint as the murmur of the wind, she wailed: “No one knows how to make anything any more. I don’t know whether you remember, in the old days at my mother’s house, they used to bring off to perfection a dish called a crime renversée. Perhaps we could ask for one of those.” “In fact it hadn’t yet come to be called a crème renversée; it was called,” said M. de Norpois, putting the phrase in inverted commas, “‘creamed eggs.’ What they give you here won’t be up to much. Creamed eggs were so smooth and succulent, do you remember?” But, whether because she did not in fact remember, or because she had talked enough, Mme de Villeparisis said nothing. She relapsed into a long silence which did not offend M. de Norpois, presumably because it did not surprise him and because it must have been one of the characteristics, perhaps one of the charms, of his life with her. And while she laboriously cut up her beans, he went back to telling her how interesting, and on the whole optimistic, the foreign ambassador had been, meanwhile keeping an eye out for a waiter from whom he could order their dessert. Before this had been served, my mother and I rose from the table, and, while keeping my head turned away so as not to attract their attention, I could nevertheless still see the two aged lovers, seemingly indifferent to one another, but in reality bent by time like two branches which have developed the same tilt, which have drawn so close to each other that they almost touch, and which nothing will ever either straighten up or separate again.

  This was perhaps what might have happened to me in the long run if Albertine had lived. And yet, comforting though it must after all be, since worldly men and women sacrifice social life and ambition for it, I felt no regret that what might have been had failed to come about, so impervious had I become to the memory of Albertine. I cannot however say that sometimes in the evening, when we returned to our hotel (for, since our encounter with the old Villeparisis-Norpois couple, my mother had decided against our dining elsewhere), I did not feel, in the nervous restlessness of nightfall, that the Albertine of long ago, invisible to myself …

  Synopsis

  THE CAPTIVE

  Life with Albertine. Street sounds (1). Albertine and I under the same roof (2). My mother’s disapproval (6). My irregular sleeping habits (9). Françoise’s respect for tradition (9). Intellectual development and physical change in Albertine (12). My confidence in Andrée (15). I advise against a trip with Andrée to the Buttes-Chaumont (16). I no longer love Albertine, but my jealousy subsists (16). Ubiquity of Gomorrah (20). The virtues of solitude (22). I long to be free of Albertine (26). Jealousy, a spasmodic disease (28).

  Visits to the Duchesse de Guermantes (30). What survives of the magic of her name (32; cf. III 28). The Fortuny dresses (34). Attraction of the Duchess’s conversation (34—39). Mme de Chaussepierre (41–42; cf. IV 98). Digression about the Dreyfus case (43–44).

  M. de Charlus and Morel chez Jupien (48). “Stand you tea” (49). M. de Charlus receives a note from a club doorman (51). Natural distinction of Jupien’s niece (55). M. de Charlus delighted at the prospect of her marriage with Morel (55). Morel’s capricious sentiments and pathological irritability (59).

  The syringa incident (64; cf. 812). Waiting for Albertine’s return: pleasures of art (65). Change in her since she has sensed my jealousy (67). Andrée’s defects; her calumnies about “I’m a wash-out” (70; cf. 815). Reports on her outings with Albertine (71). Albertine’s taste and elegance (75). Variability of the nature of girls (77). Persistence of my desire for the fleeting image of Albertine at Balbec (81). Albertine asleep (84). Watching her sleeping (86), and waking (90). The soothing power of her kiss, comparable to that of my mother at Combray (93). My increasing resemblance to all my relations (95).

  Changes of weather; their effect on my indolence (100) and on my jealous suspicions (103). Bloch’s cousin Esther (105). Albertine’s plan to visit Mme Verdurin (108). I suggest other expeditions (113). A “fugitive being” (113–16). Françoise’s hostile prophecies about Albertine (122). Telephone call to Andrée about Albertine’s visit to the Verdurins (124). But can I trust Andrée? (128). Albertine tries to dissuade me from accompanying her to the Verdurins’ (130). I advise her to go to the Trocadéro instead (134). The anguish of being deprived of her customary good-night kiss (141). Her sleep again (142–45) and her charming awakening (145–46).

  Spring morning (146). Street sounds; the musical cries of the street-vendors (146–51). Reflections on different kinds of sleep (153–60). Albertine’s enthusiasm for the cries of Paris and the foodstuffs they offer (160); her eloquent disquisition on the subject of ices (165).

  The chauffeur and the expedition to Versailles (168). Alone at the window, I listen to the sounds of Paris (174). Nostalgia for little girls (177). Françoise sends me one to do an errand: a pretty dairymaid whom I had noticed (178), but whose glamour quickly evaporates when she is in my presence (183). Lea is to perform at the Trocadéro (185). How to prevent Albertine from meeting her? (188). I send Françoise to fetch her (196). Deterioration in Françoise’s speech (199); her inability to tell the right time (201). Awaiting Albertine’s return, I play Vinteuil’s sonata (204). Music and introspection (206). Reflections on the attitude to their work of nineteenth-century artists (207). Morel’s mysterious occupations (210). His outburst against Jupien’s niece: grand pied de grue (212). Drive to the Bois with Albertine (216). Similarities between desire and travel (222). Alternations of boredom and desire (225). Our shadows in the Bois (227). My servitude and hers (230). A meeting with Gisele (231). The lies of the little band fit together exactly (233). Albertine admits a lie (235).

  I learn of Bergotte’s death (238). His illness, prolonged by medical treatment (238). At the Vermeer exhibition: the little patch of yellow wall. Dead for ever? (244). Albertine’s lie about meeting Bergotte (247). Her technique of lying (247, 250).

  The Verdurins quarrel with M. de Charlus. I set off for the Verdurins’ in secret (253). Encounter with a repentant Morel (254; cf. 255). His capriciousness and cynicism (212), and his rancour towards those to who
m he causes pain (256). Meeting with Brichot (260). The death of Swann (260). Brichot evokes the Verdurin salon of old (265). Arrival of M. de Charlus, greatly changed (268). Brichot’s attitude towards him (269). Homosexuality and the refinement of artistic tastes (270). M. de Charlus’s conjugal behaviour with Morel (274). His detachment from social constraints (275). Morel’s letter from Lea (280) M. de Charlus admires Morel’s successes with women (284); and meanwhile tries to seduce other young men, in particular Bloch (285).

  Arrival at the Verdurins’ house (299). M. de Charlus and the footman (300). Saniette snubbed by M. Verdurin for announcing Princess Sherbatoff’s death (302). Mme Verdurin obsessed with the desire to separate Charlus and Morel (305). Her reasons for resentment against the Baron: his veto on the society women she wanted to invite (306), in particular Mme Mole (310). The Verdurin salon and the Dreyfus Case (312), and the Ballets russes (314). Mme Verdurin and the death of Princess Sherbatoff (317). Her medical precautions against the effects of Vinteuil’s music (320). Morel’s improved manners (322). M. de Charlus’s furtive exchanges with several important guests (323). Mme Verdurin draws up her plans (325). Rudeness of the Baron’s guests (326), with the exception of the Queen of Naples (328).

  The concert begins (331). An unpublished work by Vinteuil (332). Attitudes of Mme Verdurin, the musicians, Morel (334). Mysterious promise of the music (337). Art and life (339; cf. 259). Vinteuil’s unique and unmistakable voice (340). The artist’s “unknown country” (342). Music, language of souls (344). Final triumph of the joyful motif (347). The role of Mlle Vinteuil’s friend in the revelation of this work (348).

  The guests file past the Baron (353); his witty or caustic remarks (354). Mme de Mortemart puts out feelers for a musical soiree (357). M. d’Argencourt and inverts (362). Mme Verdurin’s growing rage (364). The Queen of Naples’ fan (365). M. de Charlus and General Deltour (371). Mme Verdurin asks Brichot to talk to the Baron while M. Verdurin tackles Morel (373). Brichot reluctantly complies (377). M. de Charlus’s remarks on Morel’s playing: the lock of hair (382–83). He appreciates Brichot’s wit (385). His attendance at Brichot’s Sorbonne lectures (387). Mme de Villeparisis’s real social position (392; cf. III 244—45). Brichot and Charlus on homosexuality (395); M. de Charlus’s statistic (397); Swann, Odette and her many lovers (399), M. de Crécy (402; cf. IV 657). General observations on sodomy (404 et sqq.)