[…] imprudent, that disastrous word. I could not recall her expression when she heard it, because I was unable to pay attention to her face at that particular moment, how ever much I was convinced then that she thought in the same way as I did on that subject, or rather about what I said, because at that time I was quite indifferent, and I only said those things to make myself appear more impartial and more moral. Alas, there was no doubt that by these words it was I myself who had been the idiotic author of all our pains, of her lies, of my jealousy, of her departure, of her death. (Maybe add here what I say much later that after all it is from the one we love that we hide our true life. And start with: But after all, had it not been for those words, she may not have confessed to me, being so closed up. And besides what dexterity do we not employ to conceal even just our shortcomings. And when it is a case of a vice, is it not then that we hide it with the most anxious, the most resolute care, from those we love not the least but the most? (I will add here to those things that I say about this last thought one of the first times I speak about Albertine, probably during Andrée’s revelations.)
Manuscript fragment held in Smith College Rare Book Collection, Northampton Massachusetts, OCLC: 71365857
Created 11.05.23