The Fugitive

by Marcel Proust

  For a few moments Mme de Villeparisis remained silent as if an old woman’s fatigue made it difficult for her to return to the present from reminiscence of the past. Then, with the sort of quite practical question that bears the hallmark of the aftermath of reciprocal love, she asked:

  “Did you go to Salviati’s?”3

  “Yes.”

  “Will they send it tomorrow?”

  “I brought the bowl home myself. I’ll show you it after dinner. Let’s look at the menu.”

  “Have you instructed the brokers to deal with my Suez shares?”

  “No, the stock market has no time for the moment to invest in anything but oil. But there is no cause for concern, given the excellent state of the economy. Here’s the menu. There’s mullet for the first course. Shall we have some?”

  “I’ll have it myself, but you know that you mustn’t. Ask for a risotto instead. Except that they don’t know how to cook it.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Waiter, bring some mullet for Madam to start with and a risotto for me.”

  They fell silent again for a while.

  “By the way, I’ve brought you some newspapers, the Corriere della Sera, the Gazzetta del Popolo,4 etcetera. Did you know that a diplomatic reshuffle is confidently predicted and that the prime scapegoat is rumored to be Paléologue,5 who is notoriously inadequate in Serbia? They say he’ll be replaced by Lozé,6 which would leave a vacancy in Constantinople. But,” M. de Norpois hastened to add bitterly, “for an embassy of this scope, where it is quite evident that come what may Great Britain will always have to be seated at the head of the negotiating table, it would be advisable to seek out men of experience better equipped to detect the snares laid by the enemies of our British ally than the diplomats of the new school, who are bound to fall headlong into the traps.” The irritable loquacity with which M. de Norpois uttered these last words was inspired above all by the fact that the newspapers, instead of mentioning his name as he had advised them, gave as “leading candidate” a youthful minister of foreign affairs. “God knows what kind of tortuous maneuvers they use to prevent men of maturity from placing themselves in loco and situ of more or less incapable new recruits! I have known quite enough of all these so-called diplomats of the empirical school, who placed all their hopes in a trial run that soon ran out of steam. There is no doubt at all, if the government so lacks wisdom as to place the reins of state in unsteady hands, that there will always be a conscript ready to answer the call of duty with the cry of ‘present!’ But, who knows” (and M. de Norpois appeared to know all too well of whom he was talking) “whether the same reaction might not be obtained if peradventure one were to seek out some veteran replete with knowledge and skill. As I see it, and everyone will have his own interpretation, the Constantinople posting should be accepted only on settlement of our outstanding problems with Germany. We owe nothing to anyone, and it is unacceptable that every six months we should be inveigled over our dead bodies into fraudulent procedures in order to pronounce some spurious acquittal, advocated as usual by a venal press. This must cease, and it is natural that a man of great value, who has proved his worth, a man who, dare I say, has the ear of the Emperor, should enjoy more authority than any to bring the conflict to its ultimate conclusion.”

  A gentleman who had finished dining greeted M. de Norpois.

  “Why, if it isn’t Prince Foggi!” said the Marquis.

  “I’m afraid that I’m not sure who you mean,” sighed Mme de Villeparisis.

  “But of course you do, it’s Prince Odon. He’s the actual brother-in-law of your cousin Mme Doudeauville. Surely you remember that I hunted with him at Bonnétable?”

  “Oh, Odon! Is he the one that went in for painting?”

  “Not in the least, he’s the one who married the sister of the Grand Duke of N***.”

  M. de Norpois held Mme de Villeparisis steadily in his gaze while he said all this, with the rather disagreeable tone of a teacher displeased with his pupil.

  When the Prince had finished his coffee and left his table, M. de Norpois rose and walked meaningfully toward him, then, moving to one side with a lordly gesture, introduced him to Mme de Villeparisis. And during the few minutes that the Prince stood talking to them, M. de Norpois’s blue eyes subjected Mme de Villeparisis to the relentless surveillance borne of the indulgence or sanctions of a former lover, and above all of fear that she might indulge in one of the lapses in linguistic propriety which he appreciated but dreaded. Whenever she said something inaccurate to the Prince, he corrected her remarks and looked straight into the obedient eyes of the subjugated Marquise with the sustained intensity of a hypnotist.

  A waiter came to tell me that my mother was waiting for me. I went over to her and apologized to Mme Sazerat, explaining that I had been amused to see Mme de Villeparisis. On hearing this name, Mme Sazerat turned pale and seemed about to faint. She struggled to keep her composure:

  “Mme de Villeparisis, Mlle de Bouillon?” she inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Couldn’t I look at her for a moment? I have dreamed of this all my life.”

  “Yes, but don’t take too long, Madam, for she will soon have finished dining. But why should she interest you so?”

  “Because it was Mme de Villeparisis, the Duchesse d’Havré by her first marriage, as beautiful as an angel but as wicked as a witch, who drove my father mad, ruined him, then left him forthwith. And yet! Although she acted like a common whore and caused me and my family to live in straitened circumstances in Combray, now that my father is dead, I console myself with the thought that he loved the most beautiful woman of his day, and since I have never seen her, despite everything it will be a relief . . .”

  I led Mme Sazerat, who was trembling with emotion, to the restaurant and pointed out Mme de Villeparisis.

  But, like the blind, who direct their eyes everywhere but where they should, Mme Sazerat failed to focus her gaze on Mme de Villeparisis’s dinner-table, and sought out another corner of the room.

  “Well, she must have left, I can’t see her where you say.”

  And she continued to hunt for the detestable, adorable vision that had haunted her imagination for so long.

  “No she hasn’t, she’s at the second table.”

  “We must be starting our count from different ends. At what I call the second table there’s only an old gentleman sitting beside a horrid little old lady with a red face and a hunchback.”

  “That’s her!”

  Meanwhile, Mme de Villeparisis had asked M. de Norpois to invite Prince Foggi to be seated, and the three of them had struck up an amiable conversation. Politics were mentioned. The Prince declared that he was unconcerned by the fate of the cabinet and that he intended to stay in Venice for at least a week. He hoped that by then any ministerial crisis would have been averted.

  At first Prince Foggi thought that these political issues were of no interest to M. de Norpois, for the latter, who had until then expressed himself so vehemently, had suddenly adopted an almost angelic silence, which seemed only likely to flower, if his voice were restored, into some melodious, innocent song by Mendelssohn or César Franck. The Prince also thought that this silence was due to the inhibitions of a Frenchman unwilling to discuss Italian affairs in the presence of an Italian. Here the Prince was entirely mistaken. In M. de Norpois’s case, silence and an air of indifference had always been the sign not of inhibition but the customary prelude to his involvement in an important affair. As we have seen, the Marquis’s goal was no less than Constantinople, and a prior settlement of the German question, in which matter he hoped to put pressure on the cabinet in Rome. Indeed the Marquis judged that his accomplishing an act bearing international repercussions might form a noble climax to his career, and perhaps even open the way to new honors, or tasks of a difficulty that he had not yet eschewed. For old age removes the ability to act, but not to desire. It
is only in a third phase that those who live to a great age renounce desire, after being obliged to abandon action. They no longer stand for such petty elections as that of President of the Republic, where they so often formerly strove to succeed. They are content merely to go out, to eat, and to read the newspapers. They have outlived themselves.

  In order to put the Marquis at ease and show him that he considered him a compatriot, the Prince started to speak of possible successors to the present Prime Minister, who would have a difficult task ahead of them. Only when Prince Foggi had cited more than twenty names of politicians whom he considered of ministerial capacity, which the former ambassador listened to without moving, half-closing the lids of his blue eyes, did M. de Norpois finally break his silence to utter the words which were to fuel conversation in ambassadorial circles for twenty years to come and which later, when they had been forgotten, would be exhumed by some personality signing themselves “an insider,” or “Testis”7 or “Machiavelli” in a newspaper where the very oblivion into which they had sunk provided the impetus to generate a new sensation. So, Prince Foggi having cited these twenty-odd names for the benefit of a diplomat who remained as silent and motionless as a deaf man, M. de Norpois raised his head slightly and, using the formula that had inspired his most influential diplomatic interventions, albeit this time with exceptional boldness and less brevity, finally asked, “And has nobody mentioned the name of M. Giolitti?”8 On hearing these words, the scales fell away from Prince Foggi’s eyes; he heard the murmuring of celestial voices. Then suddenly M. de Norpois started to talk of this and that, with no concern for the noise he was making, as when, after the last note of a sublime Beethoven aria has sounded, nobody minds speaking out loud or going to collect his coat from the cloakroom. He made the transition even more brutal by begging the Prince to transmit his respects to their Majesties the King and the Queen when next he might see them, a parting shot matching the effect of someone shouting at the end of a concert, “Coachman Auguste, from the rue de Belloy!” We cannot say what were Prince Foggi’s precise impressions. He was certainly delighted to have heard this masterpiece: “And has nobody mentioned the name of M. Giolitti?” For M. de Norpois, whose finest qualities had been extinguished or disrupted by age, had none the less perfected as he grew older his “air of bravado,” as certain musicians, with most of their faculties in decline, acquire toward the end of their days a perfect virtuosity in chamber music which they had not previously possessed.

  At all events, Prince Foggi, who had intended to spend two weeks in Venice, returned to Rome that very same day and was received a few days later in audience by the King to discuss some properties, which I believe we have mentioned, that the Prince possessed in Sicily. The cabinet hung on for longer than anyone had predicted. When it fell, the King took advice from various statesmen as to who should lead the new cabinet. Then he sent for M. Giolitti, who accepted. Three months later a newspaper related Prince Foggi’s interview with M. de Norpois. The conversation was reported in the terms that we have given, with the difference that instead of saying, “M. de Norpois asked subtly,” the article read: “said with his notoriously subtle and charming smile.” M. de Norpois judged that “subtly” already had explosive force enough for a diplomat and that this addendum was intemperate, to say the least. He had in fact asked the Quai d’Orsay to issue an official denial, but the Quai d’Orsay was out of its depth. For indeed, as soon as the interview had been revealed, M. Barrère9 telephoned Paris several times a day to complain that there was an unofficial ambassador at the Quirinal and to report the displeasure that this fact had caused all over Europe. This displeasure was non-existent, but the various ambassadors were too polite to contradict M. Barrère when he assured them that everyone was outraged. M. Barrère, who brooked no counsel but his own, took their courteous silence for consent. He telegraphed Paris immediately to say: “have had an hour-long conversation with the marquis visconti-venosta,10 etc. His secretaries were at their wits’ end.

  Yet M. de Norpois benefited from the devoted services of a most ancient French newspaper,11 which had even, in 1870 when he was French ambassador in a German country, done him a great favor. This newspaper, and especially its anonymous leading article, was admirably written. But, paradoxically, it aroused infinitely more interest when this leader (dubbed the “Paris première” in those far-off days, and called now, we know not why, an “editorial”) was badly phrased, with endless repetitions of words. Then everyone felt moved, realizing that the article had been “inspired,” perhaps by M. de Norpois, perhaps by some other fashionable grand master. Anticipating later events in Italy, we might show how M. de Norpois used this newspaper in 1870, to no avail, one might feel, since the war none the less took place; but very effectively, in the opinion of M. de Norpois, whose axiom was that above all one should prepare public opinion. His articles, where every word was carefully weighed, resembled those optimistic medical bulletins published immediately after the death of the patient. For instance, in 1870, when mobilization was almost complete, M. de Norpois, still in the wings, of course, had judged it necessary to send this famous newspaper the following editorial:

  “The prevailing opinion in official circles would appear to be that, since yesterday, toward the middle of the afternoon, the situation, without of course assuming an alarming aspect, might well be considered serious and even, from certain angles, susceptible of being judged critical. M. de Norpois is believed to have held several discussions with the King of Prussia, in order to examine in a spirit of firmness and reconciliation, and in the most concrete terms, the various causes of tension, if one may call them such. As we go to press we have unfortunately received no news as to whether their Excellencies have been able to come to an agreement which might serve as the basis of a diplomatic settlement.

  “Latest news: it has been learned with satisfaction in well-informed circles that Franco-Prussian relations have apparently experienced a slight improvement. The most important factor would seem to be a meeting of twenty minutes’ duration unter den Linden between M. de Norpois and the English ambassador. This news is considered by those with access to inside information to be satisfactory.” (The German word befriedigend had been added in brackets after its equivalent, “satisfactory.”) And the following day the editorial read: “Despite all the subtlety of M. de Norpois, who is praised by all for the skillful efforts which he has managed to deploy in the defense of the imprescriptible interests of France, a breakdown in relations appears to be virtually impossible to avoid, if one may say so.”

  The newspaper could not forgo the opportunity of following such an editorial with several commentaries, sent of course by M. de Norpois. The reader may perhaps have noticed how in the passages quoted the “passive” mood was one of the ambassador’s favorite grammatical forms for diplomatic writing. (“Considerable importance appears to be attached,” rather than “it seems that people attach considerable importance.”) But the present indicative, taken not in its habitual sense but in that of the old “optative,” was no less close to M. de Norpois’s heart. The commentaries that followed the editorial were these:

  “Never has the public demonstrated a more admirable calm.” (M. de Norpois would have preferred this to be true, but feared that the opposite was the case.) “The people are tired of sterile agitation and have been satisfied to learn that His Majesty’s government would accept its responsibilities in the case of whatever eventuality should materialize. The people ask (optative mood) for no more. To their admirably steady nerve, which already bodes well for success, we would yet add a piece of news sure to reassure public opinion, if need there were. We have been assured that M. de Norpois, who for reasons of health has long been expected to travel to Paris to undertake a brief cure, has left Berlin, where he felt that his presence was no longer necessary. Latest news: His Majesty the Emperor left Compiègne for Paris this morning in order to confer with the Marquis de Norpois, the Minister for War and Field-Marshal Ba
zaine, in whom the public places especial confidence. H M the Emperor has called off the dinner that he was to host in honor of his sister-in-law the Duchess of Alba. This measure has produced on everyone who has been informed of it a particularly favorable impression. The Emperor has reviewed his troops, whose enthusiasm beggars description. Several armed units, which were mobilized the moment that the royal family reached Paris, are standing ready to depart for the Rhine in case the eventuality should arise.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Sometimes at dusk on my return to the hotel I felt that the Albertine of former times, although invisible, was none the less locked deep inside me, as if in the lead-lined cells of some inner Venice,12 where from time to time an incident would shake the heavy lid enough to give me a glimpse into the past.

  Thus for instance one evening a letter from my broker reopened for an instant the gates of the prison where Albertine lay living within me, but so far and so deep that she remained inaccessible to me. Since her death I was no longer engaged in the speculations that I had undertaken in order to have more money to spend on her. But time had passed; the received wisdom of the previous era was nullified by the present one, as had happened in former times to M. Thiers,13 who declared that the railway could never succeed, thus the shares of which M. de Norpois had said, “Doubtless their yield is hardly substantial, but at least the capital will never depreciate,” were often those that had lost the most value. If only for the English Consols and the Say Refineries, I had to pay the brokers such considerable differentials, not to mention the interest and the sums carried forward, that I suddenly took it into my head to sell everything, and found myself forthwith the owner of barely one-fifth of the wealth that I had inherited from my grandmother and had still possessed while Albertine was alive. This was known to those of our family and acquaintances who still lived in Combray, and because they knew that I frequented the Marquis de Saint-Loup and the Guermantes, people said, “That’s where delusions of grandeur lead you.” They would have been quite astonished to learn that it was for a young woman of such modest extraction as Albertine, more or less a protégée of my grandmother’s old piano teacher, Vinteuil, that I had been speculating. Moreover in this world of Combray, where everyone is classified once and for all time, as in the Hindu caste system, according to his known income, they were unable to conceive of the great liberty that reigned in the world of the Guermantes, where wealth was considered of no importance, where poverty could be regarded as unpleasant but as in no way more undignified, and having no more impact on one’s social status, than an upset stomach. No doubt, on the other hand, people in Combray imagined that Saint-Loup and M. de Guermantes were ruined noblemen with mortgaged châteaux to whom I lent money, whereas, if I had been ruined, they would have been the first to offer me assistance, albeit to no avail. As for my present, relative ruin, I was all the more embarrassed since my Venetian pursuits had just recently focused on a girl selling glassware, whose blooming complexion offered my ravished eyes a whole scale of amber tones, inspiring in me such a desire to see her every day that, realizing that my mother and I would soon be leaving Venice, I had resolved to try to find her some situation in Paris which would enable me not to be separated from her. The beauty of her seventeen years was so noble and radiant that she became a virtual Titian painting to be acquired before leaving. Yet would the reduced income available to me be sufficient to tempt her to leave her country and come to live in Paris at my entire disposal? But as I finished reading my broker’s letter, a phrase where he said: “I will take care of any sums to be carried forward” brought to mind an almost equally hypocritical and professional expression, that the bath-house girl at Balbec had used when speaking of Albertine: “I took care of her personally,” she had said. And these words, which I had never before recalled, had the effect of crying “Open, Sesame,” making the hinges of the dungeon spring open. But a moment later they swung back again to reincarcerate the prisoner—whom I was not guilty of not wanting to visit, since I could no longer see her or remember her, and since people exist for us only in the idea that we have of them—who for an instant had been rendered more touching by my neglect, although she could not know of this: for one brief flash I had felt nostalgia for that already distant time when I suffered night and day from the company of her memory. On another occasion, at San Giorgio dei Schiavoni,14 an eagle beside one of the apostles, and worked in the same style, revived the memory, and a great deal of the suffering caused by the two rings whose similarity Françoise had discovered, although I had never discovered who had given them to Albertine. One evening however it appeared that events were going to rekindle my love. Just as our gondola stopped at the steps of the hotel, the porter handed me a dispatch that the telegraph boy had tried three times to bring round to me, for, because of the inexactitude of the name of the addressee (which I understood, however, despite the distortions wrought by the Italian operators, to be my own), I was required to sign a receipt certifying that the telegram was indeed intended for me. I opened it as soon as I was in my room, and running my eye down a text full of mistranscribed words, I managed to read the following: “dear friend you believe me dead, my apologies, never more alive, would like to see you to discuss marriage, when do you return? affectionately, albertine.” Then occurred, but in inverse order, what had happened with my grandmother; when I learned the fact that my grandmother was dead, I at first felt no sorrow. And I had really suffered from her death only when involuntary memories had rendered her living again for me. Now that Albertine was no longer alive in my thoughts, the news that she was alive did not bring me the joy that I would have expected. Albertine had been for me but a bundle of thoughts, she had survived her material death as long as these thoughts remained alive within me; on the contrary now that these thoughts were dead, Albertine did not come back to life for me along with the resuscitation of her body. And on realizing that I felt no joy at finding her still alive, that I no longer loved her, I should have been more overwhelmed than someone who, looking at himself in a mirror, after months of travel or illness, realizes that he has white hair or an expression altered by age. This upsets him because it means: the man that I was, that fair-haired young man, no longer exists, I am someone else. And is it not just as profound a change, just as total a death of the self that one was, with its complete substitution of this new self for the old, to see a wrinkled face coiffed with a white wig? But we no more lament having become someone else with the passing of the years and the fullness of time than we lament being during the same period a sequence of contradictory beings, the wicked, the sensitive, the fragile, the crass, the disinterested or the ambitious that we are in turn day after day. And the reason for which we do not lament is the same, it is because the self who is in eclipse—momentarily in the latter examples, which affect our character, permanently in the case I have mentioned and whenever the passions are concerned—is no longer there to deplore the other self, the one who at that moment, or henceforth, is entirely you; the crass man laughs at his crassness because we are now that crass man, and the absentminded man feels no sorrow at losing his memory, precisely because he has forgotten all about it.