From The Veiled Wanderer
[On the envelope:]
Urgent
Monsieur le Concierge de Monsieur le Duc de
Guiche.
If, by chance, Monsieur le Duc is there, would he please also
read the letter.
Tuesday evening, 102 Boulevard Haussmann
Monsieur,
Would you please give the following very urgent message to Monsieur le Duc, because without it he will make other arrangements for the evening. This is what should be telephoned or told to him: Monsieur Proust, though unwell, will arrange to get up in order to dine tomorrow, Wednesday evening (that is to say this evening, when you receive this note) with Monsieur le Duc at the Ritz Hotel. Monsieur le Duc would be very kind if he would let you know during the afternoon whether he accepts, as I hope he will. This is because some friends have already invited me to dine with them the same evening and if, being ill, I have once got up and Monsieur le Duc declines to dine with me, instead of going back to bed I might go to dine with my friends, and I must let them know shortly before seven o'clock. But I will have you telephoned to much earlier than that, to know if you have a reply from Monsieur le Duc. I sincerely hope for a favourable reply. I will be dining alone with him, by which I wish to say that I have invited nobody else. But should Monsieur le Duc wish to bring some guests he can very easily do so. The only condition I impose is that it shall be at the Ritz, as, not being at all well, I prefer to be somewhere where there is no jostling and to which I am used. Perhaps Monsieur le Duc would say if he could call for me here, 102 Boulevard Haussmann (at a quarter past eight, for instance). Please rest assured of my sincere regards and my thanks.
Marcel Proust.
[Excerpt from a letter to Sir Philip Sassoon]
For a long time I have heard nothing of you except the murmur of the water running into your bath. I was dining at the Ritz (where I often take a room for a few hours in order to avoid the people in the restaurant) and, believing that I had no neighbours, I was telling a waiter who had learned the part of Sosie for the Conservatoire, of what Molière's play consisted (the Conservatoire having rejected him and thus sent him back to his old profession at the Ritz). Suddenly, threatening noises were heard from the next door and the sound of a perfect deluge; I did not doubt that, in punishment for my irreverent explanations, Jupiter was letting loose his thunder. But no, I was told that it was Sir Philip Sassoon taking his bath.
[Excerpt from a letter to the Duc de Guiche]
I think that an event as important as dinner with me must have escaped your memory immediately and that my precaution is quite useless. When you return I hope that we shall be able to dine together at this hotel (the Ritz)... where the staff are so obliging that I feel at home and less tired.
[Excerpt for a letter to Madame XXX] (1)
About six years ago I already had a great wish to know you. I had seen you one evening at Guiche's house and for three weeks I longed to see you again. But the desire ended by wearing itself away because a meeting was too difficult, in the endeavour to make your acquaintance I had chosen the worst possible intermediary, an exquisite and superior being who painted, studied hydrostatics and a lot of other things. Guiche was not the right man in the circumstances, his wonderful qualities became so many faults. To possess intelligence open to the four winds of the mind is already serious enough, but he had, moreover, a boundless heart. All this barely left him time to present me to a lady. So you became for me one of those beautiful things for which one has too often missed the train and gives up all hope of seeing. In the same way, I know that I shall never visit the most beautiful cities of the world because I have wished too much to see them and it never happened. Before the war, for instance, the name of Constantinople sounded to me a little like that of Madame XXX. I knew that it was beautiful, that I had been unlucky, and that I would never see that wonder.
(1) Madame Hennessy
[To le Duc de Guiche]
[August 1922]
Dear Friend,
You have written me a letter which is a remarkable piece of criticism. I have not published it because I am not a boor and I do not know if it would have pleased you. But it deserves more readers than myself alone. I smiled on learning that Madame XXX (1) had invited me this year to her less select gathering. Smiled because I was perspicacious enough to realize it directly I went in, smiled also because nothing amuses me less than that which used to be called 'select' twenty years ago. What amuses me are the large parties as varied as a firework display. The Ritz gave me a little of that, but it's always the same thing. What amuses me most is to dine tête-à-tête with you. But I have no hope left. You have definitely cut out 'Marcel' and the gift of the photograph of Madame Greffulhe. I mention these two things which meant so much to me only because, having asked for them too long, I no longer desire them. After all, there is no pleasure left in things one can obtain only by wearying people. At least, not for me. It is tiring to keep on inviting people who, after repeated refusals, end by accepting. Kindly give warm greetings to M.P.L. should you see him. But it has become a mere ritual to tell you that each year for, alas, it is never done. You will tell me that I could do it myself. My troubles are so overwhelming that I am beginning to believe that they come from my chimney which is cracked and broken everywhere. What makes me believe it, is that having found a system of going out to dinner at four in the morning (alone) on the rare days when I do go out, my troubles are ended. But the approach of death is also possible - a nuisance before my book is finished. As I can no longer see I never read the newspapers. By what chance did I alight on this uninteresting sentence: 'Madame G.S.(2) gave a tea in honour of the King of Spain and a goûter for the Shah of Persia'. The difference between the tea and the goûter escapes me. Immediately after it, there was: 'People are dying of hunger on the roads of Austria', which makes the preceding note rather painful reading. I have not the slightest ill-feeling towards the lady who makes a subtle difference between a tea and a goûter, I do not know her and what is more, when her mother was a girl she was the second grande passion of my youth (the first was Mademoiselle B.). But I think that at a time when people are dying of hunger it would be better - not to die of hunger oneself - but not to eat 'in the newspaper'.
To think that I reply to nobody (not even to 'crowned heads', my friend) and that I cannot stop when writing to you! I send my best wishes to you and my respects to Madame la Duchesse de Guiche.
Your
Marcel Proust.
(1) Madame Hennessy.
(2) Madame Georges Stoïcesco, (later Simone Maurois), daughter of Jeanne Pouquet.
[To le Duc de Guiche]
44 rue Hamelin, Wednesday evening.
Dear Friend,
Céleste (the beautiful creature whom I have for maid) tells me that you will let me come and see you tomorrow, Thursday evening. But as I have to get up this evening, it is almost certain that I shall be obliged to remain in bed tomorrow. I had, moreover, accepted - in the event of my being up tomorrow, a little dinner with B.S. But the chief obstacle will be my health and certain confinement to bed. In any case, since I want so much to see you again just when you yourself are going away (which I did not know and which I understood only in a muddled way because I have no telephone now. They telephone me at a café and the messages are not very clear.) Anyhow I am giving you the following practical information so that, should my day of relative good health coincide with your free day, we should be able to meet, if you wish. (I have, in fact, absolutely nothing in particular to tell you except that on certain evenings when I go back fifteen years, I have the sad and presumptuous thought that our opposing natures and our diverse knowledge might have been of some use to one another; and that the same villa 'Mon Rêve' (1) makes in my memory a well-loved picture, although recent and preciously guarded.) To come to practical things, here it is then: as far as it is possible for me to foretell the rhythm of my daily ebb and flow, the day when I shall be rested will be Saturday or Sunday and I will send you, in any case, a message by telephone. (You could tell your concierge what reply to give me before you go out)...
If there should be some people whom you would like to bring to dinner, let me know how many there are. Also, should we go to a restaurant which I do not know, I would like it to be one where your protection can assure us of having the same privilege of being quiet. The advantage of the Ritz is that one can go up to X's room when the restaurant closes ... The Majestic is nearer for you but nobody knows me there. There it is then, either the after-dinner visit to you or nothing at all. It is easy to become resigned to not seeing people whom one has not seen for so many years, charming though they may be and much as one may like to remember them. Don't trouble to reply.
Your very affectionate and devoted
Marcel Proust.
My respects to Madame la Duchesse if she is in Paris.
(1) The Duc de Guiche's villa at Deauville.
[To le Duc de Guiche]
Night - Friday-Saturday.
Dear Friend,
Being in a state of indescribable physical suffering and tiredness, I would not write all this if there were not a real reason. Here it is: Walter Berry thinks that it would be amusing to have dinner at the Ritz, on Sunday fortnight, to see the ball which, it appears, is extremely picturesque. We immediately thought of you, and one or two ladies would join us. It is difficult for me to predict so far in advance whether I shall be able to get up, but as Berry is not free until that Sunday (he will be at Havre before that - for what reason I do not know), 'in principle', as Bibesco says, would that suit you? I am very sad, thinking that you are losing your affection for me. I am not asking you to write to me like the President of the Swedish Academy, 'You accelerate and slow down according to your will the turning of the earth, you are greater than God', which, I think, is putting it rather strongly! Yet, all the same, your judgement of me no longer seems favourable. If friendship did not forbid me, I would follow my first pastiche by a second, which would begin like this: 'The Duc de Guiche, as has been seen, cultivates the Sciences. They will not cultivate him!' How I should like to talk about Einstein with you! They may write that I derive from him, or he from me, but as I do not know algebra I do not understand a single word of his theories. As for him, I doubt whether he has read my novels. It seems that we have a similar way of distorting time. But I cannot realize it for myself, because it is myself, and one does not know oneself, and nor does he even though he is a great scientist whom I do not know and from the first line I am impeded by 'signs' which I do not understand. But I like you not only as a 'popularizer' of scientific truths (to my mind, otherwise, there is nothing of the vulgar 'popularizer' about you). I like you for yourself. It is, I think, very urgent that you should settle this little crisis which has arisen in our mutual confidence out of nothing, at least, nothing on my side because I have never ceased to be your irreproachable friend.
Marcel Proust.
[To le Duc de Guiche]
[1921]
Letter written (as Monsieur de Norpois would say) 'tit for tat' but forgotten by Céleste.
Dear Friend,
When someone has something to say which one believes to be very witty, there is a certain merit in not saying it. That is my case. Your letter on the play you saw supplied me with my little masterpiece. But I thought this: we have only to continue this game for a week and Guiche will be beaten hollow (not very modest on my part). But this is only a pretence, for I admire greatly and sincerely many aspects of your intelligence, without speaking of the terra incognita of the sciences of which I know that you are master. But it is not very vain of me to say that on the one important point, the pseudo-lettres persanes in which you just did not show a very promising beginning, I would not need to put myself out, as one says vulgarly, 'to get the better of you' (to be even more vulgar). But a man fairly beaten does not like his opponent very much. And I think far more of your friendship than of a little victory of wit. Let us remain, if you will, and if on your part you are as sincere and affectionate as I am, on the ground of true friendship which excludes unequal struggle and struggle itself. As for me, I love you with all my heart.
There remain two points, one of which is theoretical, the other concerning something which was said the other evening. The theoretical point is telepathy. Bergson says that, if a woman dies at the Cape and her daughter has a vision of it in Paris, it is not an extraordinary fact; but what is extraordinary is that these phenomena occur so rarely. According to him, as conscience does not reside in the brain, people's consciences ought to be a natural means of communication. Now during the war (leaving aside all military questions), I noted in my books a series of facts which I invented and which I could not have known, which had often not yet taken place, and which were realized in minute detail in life. I will quote some of them to you (they in no way concern you, in fact, nothing concerns you in my books, except for the little pastiche where your name appears in full). But it is not at all to telepathy and to Bergson's theory to which I attribute this description of facts of which I could have known nothing. I believe that it is a logical consequence of true premises. Is there not a theorem which says: when two equal triangles etc. ? Well, I think that geometry is also true for humanity, and if we reason rightly, we naturally discover in precise detail events which afterwards occur in real life, to the naïve astonishment of the informed reader.
The remark made the other evening at the house of Madame H.(1) (and here we leave aside all reasoning, telepathy, etc., which have no connection with it) is this. I do not know who, Madame H. or you, maintained that Madame de Guermantes in my book was Madame Greffulhe. I protested most strongly. Nevertheless, I finished by conceding that there was a little of Madame Greffulhe in Guermantes I, in the sparkle of dress and beauty at the Opera. But without dreaming that a reader pays little attention to the details of a book, I forgot to say that Madame de Guermantes who resembled Madame Greffulhe for the space of five lines, was in no way the Duchesse de Guermantes of the drawing-room who appeared throughout a whole book, but her cousin the Princesse de Guermantes. Moreover, you have only to look at the book for a moment to know that there is no possible doubt, they are antitheses. The Duchesse de Guermantes is exactly the contrary of the Princesse de Guermantes. With the exception that the Duchesse de Guermantes was virtuous, she resembled a little the leathery old hen whom I had long ago mistaken for a bird of paradise and who only knew how to answer me, like a parrot, with 'Fitzjames is waiting for me' when I tried to capture her under the trees of the Avenue Gabriel. By making her a mighty vulture I did at least prevent her being taken for an old magpie. But this harshness is only verbal because I remain as regretful as ever that she should have misunderstood me. I have not set foot in her house for I do not know how many years, and I would repeat to her, with all the sorrow I feel, the words I am writing to you, were it not for the fear of compromising myself in a drawing-room dominated by Arthur Meyer like an augur in this 'Belle Hélène' of the Empire who, in his second childhood, must remind him of his old age. As for my books - I am not going to send them to her. As she knew X at my house and took him as son-in-law, I think she has there a sufficient supply of literature. I leave you, dear friend, after having bored you with so many pages.
Believe me, yours very truly,
Marcel Proust.
By a curious chance fourteen entrancing new pages of R. de Montesquiou (2) reach me just as I have finished writing to you. Exactly the same thing as last time. What talent, what sense of humour, what justified bitterness, what a noble melancholy this dazzling letter-writer has. I am really ashamed when he talks to me so simply of his failure (so unmerited) and of my successes (?) which, if they exist, are also unmerited. I cannot tell you in a letter how harrowing it all is.
(1) Madame Hennessy. The party took place on 16 June 1921.
(2) Montesquiou died on 11 December 1921.
[To Madame Hennessy]
1921, 44 rue Hamelin
Madame,
How is it that you are so kind, by some unconscious malice at a time when I have for several months been dying, speak of 'forgetfulness'? I will remember right to the end the harvest of your hair, the violet of your eyes.
Practical things: If your house is warm, if the windows are all closed in the drawing-room, and above all in the room where we shall go afterwards, I will do my utmost to come to dinner. As I understand that you might invite twelve people in the meantime, and that I could be the thirteenth (which is all the same to me but perhaps not to the twelve others) I will telephone you just before 8p.m. to let you know whether I feel well enough to come to dinner and you can then tell me if it is convenient or inconvenient for you. Tell me frankly. In principle, I much prefer to come after dinner. If I do not suggest this, it is because I have never come to your house except after dinner and I arrive so late that everybody is leaving when I arrive and you chase me away. I have no particular diet, I eat everything and drink everything, I think I am not so keen on red wine but I like all the white wines in the world, beer and cider. My only régime would be that you allow me to bring a bottle of Contrexéville or Evian, a little of which I will drink in another glass. Please forgive me for being so frank with you. But it is silly to be pompous about practical things. And you are far too intelligent not to understand that I cannot risk my life for a question of ventilation and temperature. (The warmth of the dining-room does not matter to me because one soon becomes warm when eating. But, above all, I would like the room to which we go after dinner to be warm.)
Please accept my most respectful regards, madame.
Marcel Proust.
I notice that in my sincerity and simplicity, I have said this in a way which sounds more disagreeable for your guests than it is. Thus, half-way through dinner, the doors of the dining-room might well be opened. That would be even better as one will feel the cold less when going into the drawing-room afterwards.
[To Madame Hennessy]
Madame,
To thank you according to my poor talents for the great pleasure I had in visiting you yesterday (1), I have written down for you a long and foolish conversation of which I am sending you only half.
Please accept, Madame, my grateful respects.
Marcel Proust.
I wouldn't like anybody, except yourself (and Berry and Guiche) to know of this little buffoonery written in the hope of making you smile, but, because of the names in it, it would be spiteful if it were divulged:
A SILLY CONVERSATION HEARD AT THE HOUSE OF A REMARKABLE WOMAN
'Really, my dear, it is dazzling, simply the
most beautiful house in Paris.' 'It must be so to be worthy of
the mistress of the house.' Unanimous and discreet approbation by
all who heard it. 'Why does that lady sing Il faut quitter
ces lieux. I was never more loath to leave.' The singer
continues but the lady, being deaf, hears: 'Il faut quitter
ces lieux - Où l'on se crève - Et m'arracher à cet horrible
rêve.'
'The music is pretty but there is no sense in
the words.' 'Sibylle is still very beautiful.' 'You know that she
is the grand-daughter of Chateaubriand?' 'My dear, it is not
possible, he had no children.' 'Oh, but I believed that the name
Sibylle came from one of his novels.' 'No, it is from Octave
Feuillet.' 'Two great masters!' 'Talking of masters, do you know
that there is one of them here?' 'No, who is it?' 'Can you see
Berthe de G.' 'Berthe, wait... Ah, yes, I am with you. But who is
that woman like an icy draught?' 'That is the Princesse de P.(2); don't you think that she looks like Dante?'
'Ah! I see your master. His hair is untidy.' 'No, that's the
United States Ambassador.' 'Who is that snorting buffalo who has
just come in and taken refuge under the wing of Thérèse X. (3)?' 'That is Gustave S.(4)'
'But your master?' 'A dark man, with untidy hair, who looks very
ill. Look, Boni is talking to him.' 'Ah! I see him! I saw at once
by his manner that he did not belong to our world.' 'Hush, he is
a genius. He has hay-fever.' 'Ah! that is interesting, but who is
he?' 'He is the famous Marcel Prévost, author of the Don
Juanes.' 'Ah! If only I knew him! How happy that lady must
be who is talking to him. Have you read his Don Juanes?'
'Do not ask me if I have read them - I have drunk them.
One has to admit there is something in heredity. Elie de G. and
C.-L. are alike...' 'Yes! When sitting down. Oh dear! We are
interrupting the music, we are making too much noise.' 'Talk more
quietly. One can say interesting things in a low voice.' 'Our
hostess looks as though she has had enough of her party.'
'Heavens, this singing has been going on for two hours. But who
is that lady who wants to perform?' 'That is the sister of His
Serene Highness...' 'Which Highness?' 'Ah! now she is singing...'
Etc. etc. etc. X. leaves with the sister of His Serene Highness.
The door of the carriage closes. A faint cry of resistance is
heard. From whom it comes none can tell.
(1) Madame Hennessy's party took place on 12 June 1922.
(2) Princesse de Polignac
(3) Thérèse d'Hinnisdäel
(4) Gustave Schlumberger
Book Dedications to le Duc de Guiche
[Dedication in Les Plaisirs et les Jours]
To the Duc de Guiche
Genealogical impromptu for penny whistle:
To the dear Vicomte de Larboust
Much pleasure knows Marcel Proust
For without this good Garcia Sanche
I would not be able, this Sunday
To write the name of Armand d'Aure
And to repeat that I adore
The exquisite wit which is unspared in
The tenth (?) Duc de Guiche.
His friend,
Marcel Proust.
To the Duc de Guiche, to the true one rather than to the real,
to he who would have been,
more than to he who is.
To his other self which I passionately preferred to him.
In true and most affectionate testimony to the rich possibilities
that I have seen revealed in him, I offer this barely resemblant
portrait of a Marcel Proust which he did not know.
With the assurance of my devoted and deep affection.
M.P.
[Dedication in Du Côté de Chez Swann]
To the Duc de Guiche.
Dear Friend,
I have at last found a first edition of Swann (not yet one of A l'Ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs, but this will not be long, I hope) and I am sending it to you with grateful affection.
Marcel Proust.
[Dedication in Le Côté de Guermantes I]
Dear Friend,
What a nuisance! I notice that the second copy of Guermantes II is the same as the one you have which I have just dedicated to you. Now, at last, the nth time! there is no doubt that it is really Guermantes I. With all the friendship of your devoted and grateful
Marcel Proust.
Shall I see you again? And how? (Verlaine.)
[Dedication in Le Côté de Guermantes II]
Dear Friend,
You tell me that you have no had Guermantes I? Catastrophe for me! Here is an ordinary copy of it so that you can follow and read Guermantes II. Every day just recently I have been looking, without success, for an 'original' of Guermantes I. But whilst waiting for me to find it, read this in order to 'follow on' as one says in music. You nearly saw me the other morning. I went with Vaudoyer to look at the Vermeers and Ingres. I went off to the Ritz but the dining-room and its draughts alarm me a little and I rarely eat there, except in a room upstairs which, no doubt, would be very tiresome for you. Nevertheless, I miss you very much and am afraid of forgetting you.
[Dedication in Le Côté de Guermantes II]
To the Duc de Guiche,
Marcel Proust.
Dear Friend, you have never acknowledged receipt of Guermantes I. This is not a reproach but to explain to you that I am sending, not without some hesitation, Guermantes II. In spite of this hesitation, you are one of the few people whom I really like and whom I wish to see again before the day of final separation. I hope that your friendship continues to respond to my own and that you are not tired of a compassion so rare and of books so frequent.
Your true and grateful
Marcel Proust.