The Fugitive

by Marcel Proust

  6. Rouvier’s: Rouvier was Prime Minister in 1905. The reference is probably to a controversial speech made in Tangier by Kaiser Wilhelm II.

  7. . . . Mlle de Mortemart’s wedding list: the Russo-Japanese war ran from 1904 to 1905, whereas Mlle Antoinette de Rochechouart de Mortemart’s wedding was recounted in the Figaro of 4 August 1916, while the battles of Verdun and the Somme were both raging.

  8. Musset . . .“hoping in God”: a reference to Alfred de Musset’s poem “L’Espoir en Dieu,” Poésies nouvelles, 1838.

  9. King Edward: Edward VII reigned from 1901 to 1910. He is remembered for sponsoring the Entente Cordiale between Britain and France in 1904. He had spent many years previously as Prince of Wales, living a life of social amusement under Victoria’s long reign.

  10. Nattiers: Jean-Marc Nattier, 1685–1766, court painter under Louis XV.

  11. Nereids: water nymphs, daughters of Nereus.

  12. the Second Empire: (1852–70) ended with the defeat of Napoleon III by the Prussians at Sedan. This would have been very recent history for a fin de siècle school syllabus.

  13. “Oh! ma chérie, c’est dans mon cœur!”: “Oh, darling, with all my heart!”

  14. “Les morts dorment . . . les mains”: “The dead sleep in peace in the womb of the earth./Thus must my deadened feelings sleep./These bones of my heart have also their dust:/Let us not lay hands on their sacred remains.” From Alfred de Musset, “La nuit d’Octobre,” Poésies complètes.

  15. “Tu les feras pleurer . . . tes yeux purs”: “You will make them weep, my beautiful, beloved child . . ./ All those children, future men, / Already suspending their young daydreams / From the tender lashes of your pure eyes.” From Sully-Prudhomme, “Aux Tuileries,” Les Varnes Tendresses.

  16. “Le premier soir . . . qu’en ses bras”: “The first night that he came to me/I lost all care for self-esteem./I told him: ‘You may hold me fast/As long as still your love can last.’ I could not sleep outside his arms.” From Charles Cros, “Nocturne.”

  17. Ballets Russes: one of the most revolutionary—and fashionable—artistic phenomena in Paris from their inauguration in 1909. The character of Octave probably owes something to Proust’s young acquaintance, Jean Cocteau, who collaborated with Picasso, Satie and Diaghilev on Parade, 1917, and whose artistic talents were underestimated because of his reputation as a socialite.

  18. who writes, composes or paints: this phrase is difficult to construe in the French. In order to make sense of it, I have preferred the Folio edition’s reading of qui instead of the Pléiade reading of lui.

  19. Elective Affinities: novel by Goethe, 1808–9.

  20. Concours Général: this was, and is, a nationwide competitive examination, for which lycées might enter their star baccalaureate pupils.

  21. the Broglie family: this family had produced not only Albert, the historian quoted earlier, but a whole series of historians and physicists.

  22. noxious: here I have preferred the Folio reading nocives to the Pléiade’s novices.

  23. . . . overshadowed by fatigue: the Folio edition adds the following sentence from one of Proust’s typescripts, which helps make the transition to the next section: “As for the third time that I remember realizing that I was nearing complete indifference where Albertine was concerned (and this last time, to the point of feeling that I had completely succeeded) it occurred one day in Venice, quite some time after Andrée’s last visit.”

  CHAPTER 3: Staying in Venice

  1. Maxime Dethomas: this artist (1867–1929) had illustrated Henri de Régnier’s Esquisses venitiennes in 1906 and Proust’s “À Venise,” Feuillets d’Art, 1919.

  2. W***: the couturier Worth, 1825–95, who created his Parisian fashion house in 1860.

  3. Salviati’s: the best-known Venetian glass merchant, situated on the Grand Canal.

  4. the Corriere della Sera, the Gazzetta del Popolo: liberal, center-left newspapers, founded respectively in Milan in 1876 and Turin in 1848.

  5. Paléologue: Maurice Paléologue (1859–1954), a diplomat who gave evidence during the trial of Dreyfus.

  6. Lozé: Henri Lozé (1859–1915), ambassador to Vienna between 1893 and 1897.

  7. “Testis”: literally, a witness, the pen-name used by the painter Gabriel Hanotaux when he wrote articles in the press on foreign policy.

  8. “M. Giolitti”: Giovanni Giolitti (1842–1928), a liberal, center-left Italian Prime Minister in 1892–3, 1906–9, 1911–14, 1920–21.

  9. M. Barrère: Camille Barrère (1851–1940), French ambassador to Rome 1897–1924.

  10. “visconti-venosta”: Emilio Visconti-Venosta (1829–1914), Italian foreign minister working in collaboration with Barrère.

  11. a most ancient French newspaper: probably an allusion to Le Temps, founded in 1861.

  12. the lead-lined cells of some inner Venice: the Doges’ Palace in Venice held its prisoners in the “piombi”—lead-lined cells in the attics, or the “pozzi”—basement dungeons, likened to wells. Proust seems to conflate the two.

  13. M. Thiers: Adolphe Thiers (1797–1877), historian and politician.

  14. San Giorgio dei Schiavoni: the Scuola contains paintings by Carpaccio, including depictions of St. George, St. Jerome and St. Augustine, but not of St. John, whose emblem is the eagle. But the evangelical eagle is a motif likely to be found in almost any Venetian or indeed Christian church.

  15. “non point telle . . . un peu farouche”: from Racine’s Phèdre, Act II, Scene V: “not as Hell hath seen her” “but faithful, and loyal, if not entirely tamed.” Phèdre’s speech alludes to her husband Thésée, presumed dead, alleging that her love for him is reincarnated in his son Hippolyte—Marcel has transposed the genders of the speaker and the reincarnated loved one.

  16. the study of Ruskin that I was engaged in: Proust himself had translated Ruskin’s Bible of Amiens (1904) and Sesame and Lilies (1906).

  17. Carpaccio’s St. Ursula: Carpaccio’s cycle of paintings of the life of St. Ursula is in the Accademia. The painting referred to here is The Martyrdom and Funeral of St. Ursula.

  18. The Patriarch of Grado exorcizing one possessed: also in the Accademia.

  19. The Legend of St. Joseph: ballet, Paris 1914, for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes; music by Richard Strauss, décor and costumes by Misia Sert, scenario by Hugo von Hofmannsthal and Harry Kessler.

  20. Companions of La Calza: members of the hosiers’ guild. Each guild had its own distinctive livery.

  21. the chapel with its Giottos: the Arena Chapel, or Capella degli Scrovegni, is entirely covered in frescoes painted by Giotto. Below the colored frescoes depicting the life of Christ are the monochrome figures of the vices and virtues whose reproductions Swann had given the young Marcel.

  22. Roland Garros: (1888–1918) French aviator.

  23. “O sole mio”: lyrics by Giovanni Capurro, music by Eduardo di Capua, Naples 1898.

  24. the Deligny baths: the Bains Deligny is a swimming-pool inside a barge moored to the banks of the Seine in Paris. The cold baths were recommended by Proust’s father, who was professor of public hygiene at the University of Paris.

  CHAPTER 4: A New Side to Robert de Saint-Loup

  1. “‘la plus grande . . . de faner’”: letters from Mme de Sévigné to her cousin Coulanges. Letter of 15 December 1670 announcing the marriage of La Grande Mademoiselle and de Lauzun as “the greatest and the least” event; letter of 22 July 1671 on haymaking: “haymaking is the most delightful thing in the world.”

  2. the Lucinges: the Princesse de Lucinge was one of two natural daughters of the Duc de Berry (who on his deathbed when assassinated in 1820 recommended them to his wife for recognition and advancement).

  3. the Duc de Guise: he plotted to kill Henri III (king of France 1574–89), who had him killed at Blois in 1588.

>   4. Queen Marie-Amélie . . . Duc d’Aumale: the Orléans family wanted to inherit the wealth of the Prince de Condé, which had fallen in 1830 into the hands of his son the Duc de Bourbon. Bourbon’s godson, the Duc d’Aumale, was able to be named in the will only on condition that Bourbon’s mistress, Mme de Feuchères, was received at court.

  5. the name of Corisande . . . Henri IV: la Belle Corisande was Diane d’Andouins (1554–1620), who when a widow became mistress of Henri de Navarre (Henri IV, king of France 1589–1610) from 1573 to 1591.

  6. Robert le Fort: (d. 866) Comte d’Anjou et de Blois, Marquis de Neustrie, and ancestor of the Capetian dynasty of Frankish kings.

  7. the Duc d’Orléans: the Orléans line was one of the ancient French royal families, most recently on the throne under Louis-Philippe (king, 1830–48).

  8. Mlle de Nantes . . . Prince de Conti: three of Louis XIV’s natural daughters were legitimized, Mlles de Blois and Mlle de Nantes.

  9. M. Grévy’s: Jules Grévy, 1807–91, President of the Third Republic 1879–87, firm republican sympathizer and opponent of the aristocracy.

  10. the comic-opera character: Agamemnon in La Belle Hélène, 1864, music by Jacques Offenbach, libretto by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halévy.

  11. Lohengrin . . . Tristan: Lohengrin, one of Wagner’s first operas, 1845. The duet between Elsa and Lohengrin is in Act III, Scene II. Tristan und Isolde, 1865, is a more complex and mature work.

  Synopsis

  CHAPTER 1: Grieving and Forgetting

  “Mademoiselle Albertine has left!” Acute suffering which I have to assuage immediately by imagining that she will return (1). Thinking that I no longer loved her was a mistake. The new face of Habit is that of a formidable deity (2). Farewell letter from Albertine (3). I look for ways of getting her to return that very evening: money, yacht, Rolls-Royce, independence, marriage (4). My other desires fall away (5). There is no easy way to part. I attempt to analyze my anguish and to detect forewarnings of her departure (6). Was her flight premeditated (7)? My pain is unaffected by the prospect of her early return, which I have promised myself, from an instinct of self-preservation (8). My previous loves were not driven by Habit (9). She must return without my seeming to care (10). All my “selves” have to learn of this departure, since every familiar object recalls it (11). I hope that Albertine has left for Touraine. When this is confirmed, I feel tortured by the news (12). I invite an innocent poor girl home, then send her away (13). If Albertine left in order to weaken my resolve I ought to try to gain time, but I cannot (14). Saint-Loup agrees to help me (15). Forced to dissimulate, I pretend to approve of her departure, and I ask Saint-Loup to work on Mme Bontemps (16). I hand him a photograph of Albertine which causes him considerable surprise (17). A lover’s eyes see things differently from others (18). I suggest a series of lies that Saint-Loup may use in order to explain the thirty thousand francs to be offered to the Bontemps and I tell other lies to Françoise in order to dissimulate the quarrel which she suspects, but hardly dares believe and rejoice in (19). Angry with Bloch, whose direct appeal to Mme Bontemps interferes with Saint-Loup’s approach (20).

  A chief inspector summons me: I am insulted by the little girl’s parents and my innocence is not accepted (21). Convinced that Saint-Loup cannot fail, I am almost joyful; then, having no news from him, I start to suffer once more (22). Rereading a phrase in Albertine’s letter revives my pain (23). Françoise informs me that the house is under surveillance; cradling little girls in my arms is henceforth forbidden: I wrongly interpret this ban as including Albertine, seeing in it a punishment for having lived with her unchastely (24). I am immediately swamped by a passionate yearning for her return (25). A few days of waiting, the first days of spring, bring me some moments of pleasant repose; as I become aware of this I feel a wave of panic; my love, facing forgetfulness, trembles like a lion faced with a python (26). I think of Albertine in my sleep; on waking, my suffering increases every day (27). Saint-Loup’s first telegram: “The ladies are away for three days” (28). While my mind awaits the return of Albertine, my body and my heart start to learn to live without her (29). I receive a letter of proposal from one of the Guermantes’ nieces and the Duc approaches me in such a way that I feel neither flattered nor advantaged (30). I think ceaselessly of Albertine, sometimes tenderly, sometimes in a rage (31). I feel that her return would not restore my happiness; the more desire advances, the more true possession recedes (32). Relationships between people exist only in the mind; memory, as it grows weaker, dissolves them (33). I convince myself that my need for Albertine is vital for my life. Second telegram from Saint-Loup; Albertine saw him, and his maneuver failed (34). Furious and desperate, I seek another solution, not realizing that the suppression of desire is the most ordinary solution (35). A melody from Manon reminds me of our love but I cannot confuse fictional characters with those of real life. I call Saint-Loup back to Paris (36). Albertine sends me a telegram telling me that if I had written to ask her to return she would have done so. Certain now of her return, I do not wish to appear to be in a hurry (37). My letter is only a translation of, or a substitute for, the reality which I desire (38). I reply to Albertine: I bless her wisdom in leaving, since to unite our two lives could have been disastrous for us; I am inconstant, and shall forget her (39). My first reaction would have been to ask her to cancel the order for the Rolls-Royce and the yacht which were destined for her, but now I intend to keep them; I embellish them with poetical quotations (40). Writing this deceptive letter was a clumsy action, I should have foreseen a negative response, but, convinced now of the contrary, I regret having sent it (41). Françoise brings it back to me (42). The papers announce the death of La Berma (43). I think of Phèdre and interpret the scene of her declaration as a prophecy of the love-scenes in my life (44). I send my letter to be posted (45). As time passes, lies become true; what I wrote to Albertine might well come to pass, as had been the case with Gilberte (46). But forgetfulness erases the memory of the periods of tedium, and Albertine’s image becomes more beautiful (47). I endlessly speak her name (48). Françoise tortures me by discovering two rings Albertine had left behind, each bearing the same figure of an eagle (49). My suffering is dispersed among diverse objects, I envisage ruin and consider suicide but meanwhile the image of Albertine starts to fade (50). Françoise does not believe that she will return (51) but is filled with dismay by her letter (52). Albertine offers to cancel the order for the Rolls-Royce. I admire the way that our life together has enriched her with new qualities (53). I call Andrée to my side in order to precipitate matters and I tell Albertine of this, referring to the likelihood of my marriage with Andrée (54). I suddenly imagine that she does not wish to return and that she has been using her week of freedom in order to indulge in debauch (55). Saint-Loup returns (56). I overhear his conversation with a footman; my confidence in him is shaken and his failure seems inconclusive (57). The details which he reveals rekindle my jealousy and inflame my desire (58). I decide to wait for Albertine’s reply and to go to seek her myself if she fails to return (59). I am suspicious of Saint-Loup (60). Like Swann with Odette, I imagine that the death of Albertine would put an end to my pain (61). I send her a telegram asking her to return and setting no conditions (62). Mme Bontemps sends me a telegram to tell me that Albertine is dead (63). Renewed suffering teaches me that I had always thought that she would return, that I needed her presence; my future life has been torn from my heart (64). Françoise brings me two letters from Albertine, one approving my proposal to Andrée, the other asking if she herself might return (65). My life is changed (66). Albertine is not dead within me, her innumerable selves are reborn, as moments from the past are called forth by identical present moments (67). Summer arrives, a ray of sunshine tears me apart, recalling thousands of memories of excursions around Balbec (68). Evening assaults me with sensations that I try to avoid (69). Françoise does not even pretend to be upset, but she is concerned by my tears (70). T
he slow death agony of summer evenings (71). The sight of a star is enough to revive my memories. I am afraid of the forgetfulness which is to come (72). Dawn, like a knife blade, reawakens the anguish of Albertine’s departure (73).

  I no longer wish to go to Venice: the obstacle placed between myself and the world by her presence was imaginary (74). I am afraid of the arrival of winter when I shall rediscover the germ of my first desires (75). I would have to ignore all the seasons and renounce the whole world (76). There would also be anniversary dates, with a mental climate corresponding to the memories inspired by the dates (77). Thus, when the fine weather returned, I would recall the sweetness and calm of the moments when I was waiting for Albertine to return from the Trocadéro, then the moment when we left for an excursion together. That day, remembered subsequently without suffering, has retained its unchanging brightness (78). The sadness of my memory takes on different colorings according to the diversity of the days evoked and the successive notions of Albertine which I entertained (79). There is not just one Albertine but innumerable Albertines, and I too am the march-past of a composite army (80). The jealous self is a contemporary of the images evoked: pain of the amputee. Memory of Albertine blushing over the bath-robe incident at Balbec (81). I send Aimé to Balbec to make enquiries (82). Jealousy ceases to torture me, my heart is filled with despair and tenderness (83). My room takes on a painful charm which, like art, is able to embellish the most insignificant things (84). Memories of our first kiss, of the gurgling of the water heater and the evening with Brichot make me realize that, in this life which I had found tedious, I had found that profound peace of which I had dreamed (85). Remembering Albertine’s intelligence and sweetness, I regret my selfish love and feel guilty for her death, as I do for that of my grandmother (86). What we value in a woman is a projection of our pleasure on seeing her (87). All other pleasures leave us unmoved. Love alone is divine (88). Albertine at the pianola, her kisses (89). Only the memories of such sweet moments prevent me from feeling despair for I no longer value life (90). I have known a happiness and an unhappiness that Swann never knew (91). Nothing is ever exactly repeated: the main difference (art) has not yet appeared (92). Recapitulation of our story (93). I might never have met Albertine, nor, having met her, have fallen in love, and yet she is necessary to me (94). Comparison with Gilberte (95). Woman unique and multiple (96). What it is that forges the chains of love: habit, hope, regret (97). After a certain age our loves are born of our anguish (98). Separation makes us discover love (99). We have no hold over the life of another human being (100). The prophetic value of phrases which we intend to be mendacious (101). Perhaps she did not admit her tastes to me because I had declared my disgust for that kind of thing (102). Had she blushed? The uncertainty of memory (103). Terror inspired by the thought of being judged by the dead (104). My curiosity survives the death of Albertine (105). Desire engenders belief: I start to believe in the immortality of the soul (106). I imagine her alive, but similar to the Albertine of my dreams (107). Arbitrary nature of my inquiry into the incident in the showers at Balbec: people and things exist only when they occur to my imagination (108). One single little fact may determine the truth (109). When I receive Aimé’s letter, I realize that I was merely playing with suppositions, I did not believe that Albertine was guilty (110). Damning evidence given by the shower attendant (111). A new Albertine surfaces, I try to imagine her desires, which torment me (112). Pain modifies reality decisively; Balbec and its familiar scenes become a kind of hell (113). Jealousy has the power to reveal the fragility of our notions of reality (114). I suffer from not being able to tell her what I have learned (115). Soothing memory of my grandmother accusing the shower attendant of mendacity (116). My affection revives and increases my sadness (117). I find reading the newspapers painful (118). Each impression evokes a former impression (119). My jealousy revives and I decide to send Aimé to Touraine (120). I am spending my life and my money on a relationship with a dead woman (121). Aimé discovers a young laundry-girl whose evidence—Albertine saying “I’m in heaven”—is cruel (122). The reality of Albertine’s vice turns her into a stranger and she is no longer there to console me (123). The deepest suffering resists the process of forgetting (124). In Albertine a different race lay hidden; Elstir’s nude bathers help me to imagine erotic and mythological scenes at the water’s edge (125). This renewed communication makes my heart ache (126). We project what we feel without allowing the fictitious barriers of death to interrupt us (127). But the instability of the images, the fragmentation of Albertine into innumerable Albertines saves me (128). The kind Albertine is the only antidote to the suffering caused by the other Albertine (129). If she lied to me, it was to spare my grief. I forgive her (130). The intermittence of memory (131). My feelings—the need to feel a great love—and my very sensations—tears on feeling the spring breeze—continue to make me live in a past which is no more than someone else’s story (132). I attribute my pain to pathological causes (133). Man is an amphibious being plunged simultaneously in the past and in present reality (134). But unwittingly I am recovering, for I think so much of Albertine’s death that I find the idea of it natural (135). Yet the memories do not recede uniformly and the idea that she was guilty tortures me without my being able to find consolation in the image of her sweet presence (136). This idea too will become habitual one day, and therefore less painful (137). I have not reached that point yet. Our regret for a woman is no more than the revival of love and obeys the same laws. Between intervals of indifference my regrets are revived above all by jealousy and pain (138). A name or a word opens a door on to the past, as do the da capo reprises of a dream (139). Dreams undo the consolatory work of wakefulness; their staging creates an illusion of life (140). I meet Albertine as well as my grandmother, they are dead but continue to live (141). Once repeated, dreams produce a lasting memory: during the day I continue to converse with Albertine (142). Does Albertine’s continuing existence depend on my feelings? My attachment to the imaginary characters from a novel by Bergotte fills me with despair (143). The fragility of love terrifies me. On a map I avoid reading the names of places which make my heart pound (144). These places are the permanent stage on which my life has evolved, it is I myself who have changed. Nor are the newspapers inoffensive; here and there some name will evoke another by association: everything is dangerous and therefore precious (145). An ancient memory, like that of the Buttes-Chaumont, resurfaces with its power intact, whereas habit has dulled those memories to which we have applied our intellect (146). Each new memory renews my jealousy (147). I try to imagine what Albertine felt: on one occasion I experienced the illusion of seeing her hidden pleasures, on another, of hearing them (148). Andrée comes to see me (149): she seems to me to be Albertine’s desire incarnate (150); I question her about her taste for women, pretending to know all about it (151); she confesses, but affirms that she did not have sexual relations with Albertine (152). The cries of the young laundry-maids (153). I would like to find, as one does in novels, a witness who would recount Albertine’s life to me (154). I seek out women who resemble her, or who might have attracted her (155). Amid my latest desires, it is Albertine herself whom I seek (156). The idea of Albertine’s uniqueness is no longer a metaphysical a priori but an a posteriori, an entanglement of memories (157). My love and my regrets might have lasted for ever if psychology were applicable to motionless states (158). But love is within me, and my soul is mobile within time (159). A day will come when I shall have forgotten Albertine (160).