of course, for most writers there're two sorts of glory:
some know fame during their lifetime, perhaps even great fame
but unfortunately, after their death, those writers lose very fast their readership
and they even fall into oblivion sometimes
on the other hand, there are writers who were misunderstood during their whole existence
and who later, posthumously, are sometimes discovered or acquire fame increasing with time
for Marcel Proust, the case is different
he was famous at the end of his life
because he received the Goncourt prize in 1920 for "Within a Budding Grove"
the second volume of his great work "In Search of Lost Time"
since his death, his fame has constantly grown
today he is read and commented on in the whole world
in London, a few years ago, they had an exhibition about him
a lot of people are reading him
he is read as abundantly in New York in the United States
as in Germany and in Japan
and paradoxically, it's in France that, despite his name, despite the abundance of books written on him
essays explaining his philosophy and his art
it is perhaps in France that he is read the least
true, one cannot say that he's an author who doesn't sell at all
but he's an author who doesn't have all the pull he ought to have,
considering his great name that had never been challenged
his work is in effect something very particular
some have tried to find a philosophy in it
others an error committed during his lifetime
a sort of biography
since it's written in the first person
and since it deals with very special people, very well evoked
however, as he said himself, we are dealing with a novel
and for each of his character he got inspiration from several persons he had known at the beginning of our century
and during the program you're about to watch
you'll see how one could identify some of his more endearing characters
and who have later become symbols like in the works of Balzac
Rastignac has become a symbol for ambition at all costs
today, when talking about diplomats who are a bit of a snob
and pretentious, I'm thinking of M. de Norpois
or on the other hand, of the petty bourgeois who wants to play the intellectual, give concerts, be very much in view
today we'd say, very "nouvelle vague"
well, those are the Verdurins, other characters who have preserved in his entire work a great importance
and who are still abundantly talked about today
so we're dealing, when talking about him and his hundreds ??? of characters
you're about to hear the witnesses, the recollections of those who knew him
this program will be about penetrating his work
and also to find, if one may say so, some of the keys
and since we have at the same time the personal aspect
the aspect of a "Search"
of life's philosophy, life's problems
how sensibility is born,
how a writer is born, since the "Recherche" is after all
about how to become a writer, why does he become a writer
you'll see in a few moments all this revealed by the recollections of those who knew him
and I would very much like to thank those people
M. Jean Cocteau
M. Paul Morand
M. Daniel Halévy
M. Jacques de Lacretelle
le marquis de Lauris
le duc de Gramont
M. Philippe Soupault
Mme Albarret
who was at the same time a devoted servant
and a secretary to Marcel Proust
Mme Paul Morand
Mme André Maurois
M. Émmanuel Berl
and right now, M. François Mauriac
Portrait Souvenir
a program by Roger Stéphane
Marcel Proust
until Proust, one simply copied Balzac
or one copied Benjamin Constant
either one told a Balzac story
or one studied "a soul" in the manner of Benjamin Constant
well, Proust ...
showed us
that one could do something different than Balzac
and something different than the traditional psychological novel
what could one do?
well, one could rediscover a world
I don't say, "create" a world
that was Balzac's task
but rediscover it, meaning ...
the entire world the young Proust had been mixed in
in the midst of which he had suffered
because he was a tender one
and because he was a snob
and this world in the midst of which he had suffered
well, he found it again inside himself
and by means he has explained to us
I won't have to remind you ...
of the episode of the cup of tea, of the Madeleine
how did he manage to rediscover this world,
buried inside himself?
well, this is what the people who don't know Proust, will find out ...
if they decide to step inside this work,
this work which for me, in all French literature
is without doubt as important
as that of Balzac,
and personally,
I must confess that it touches me much more.
but after all, between the two there is a connection: Balzac too died of his work.
both have been killed by those two works
who both, although under different aspects, have a monstrous character
yes, the work of Proust has something monstrous
1913...
then end of what is today called "la belle époque"
in the streets there were more carriages than cars
the métro still had the attraction of a new toy
the women wore long skirts, men top hats
idling wasn't considered yet the mother of all vices
but the sign of good breeding
the leisured classes met in salons
in those salons a man had been erring for a long time
who distinguished himself neither by his birth nor by his fortune
but perhaps by his charm, his seducing intellect
Marcel Proust
he whom society still called, even though he was already past 40
"little Proust" had just discreetly published as author ???
in 1913, a book which, as M. Mauriac just reminded us
did not only mark for France, but for the entire world
the rebirth of the art of the novel.
Philippe Soupault
When I received "Swann's Way"
which Marcel Proust had sent to me,
I was at first shocked by the thickness of the volume
and by the smallness of the typeface
then I started to read this book
which at the time seemed totally crazy
and I realized that this was an overwhelming shock
because I was entering a world I had never entered before
and Proust's style, in 1913, seemed extremely disturbing, off-putting, difficult
and yet, I was captivated, completely seduced
almost absorbed by Proust's novel
M. Paul Morand
in October '14 I was in London
I had dinner at the Savoy with Antoine Bibesco, a friend of Proust
and Salignac-Fénélon who was another of Proust's friends
and of course they started talking about him
about "Swann" which I hadn't read yet
in such a fashion, "a mysterious personage", "a work comparable to nothing else"
that I was at once seduced, I pounced on the book,
I read it and it was my turn to be overwhelmed, love at first sight, as we just said
for me, it was as if I'd encountered Flaubert, as if I had before me a new "Sentimental Education"
certainly, "Swann's Way" brought along the new formula of the novel
which, in an obscure way, I had been waiting for.
I found everything in "Swann's Way"
I found in it, if you like, the resurrection of a world
which after all I had known
which wasn't the world of Balzac
but "my" world and the world I had heard about
but at the same time, I found in it a poetry of a novel
because what strikes me in Proust,
he's an extraordinary poet
this poetry of a novel is the poetry to which I am perhaps the most susceptible
and besides, I found a man who had invented his own style
he was the only one who could say
what he had to say, but in order to be able to say it
he had to invent his instrument, and afterwards, he was broken to pieces
M. Jean Cocteau
Proust has talked of an epoch, of a society, but his work won't be outmoded because of that
that would be as if you mistook van Gogh's Zouave with a real Zouave
that would be absurd
on the contrary, I'm surprised how much Proust's mechanisms are similar to the mechanisms of a Robbe-Grillet, or a Butor
??? of today's youth
if one trusts his biography
this innovator had quite an ordinary history
he was born in Paris in 1871
his father, Doctor Adrien Proust
was what is called a "self-made man"
originating from a modest family from Illiers
he had become a physician of great reputation
his mother's, Jeanne Weil's family was of the Jewish bourgeoisie of Alsace
she is without doubt the person Marcel Proust loved most
answering a questionnaire at the age of 12
he answered the question "what is your idea of unhappiness"?
"being separated from maman"
the narrator's grandmother in "Search for Lost Time" borrows all her traits from Mme Proust
In Illiers, with Dr. Proust's family, Marcel Proust spent his childhood holidays
Illiers is the Combray of "Swann's Way"
Combray, at a distance, when we arrived there the week before Easter
was no more than a church epitomizing the town,
representing it, speaking of it and for it to the horizon,
and as one drew near, gathering close about its long, dark cloak, sheltering from the wind, on the open plain,
as a shepherdess gathers her sheep, the woolly grey backs of its huddled houses.
Even when our errands lay in places behind the church,
from which it could not be seen, the view seemed always to have been composed with reference to the steeple, which would loom up here and there among the houses,
and was perhaps even more affecting when it appeared thus without the church.
Illiers is also the house of Aunt Léonie, miraculously preserved
On those evenings when, as we sat in front of the house round the iron table beneath the big chestnut-tree,
we heard, from the far end of the garden, not the shrill and assertive alarm bell
which assailed and deafened with its ferruginous, interminable, frozen sound
any member of the household who set it off on entering “without ringing,”
but the double tinkle, timid, oval, golden, of the visitors’ bell,
everyone would at once exclaim “A visitor! Who in the world can it be?”
And so I must climb each step of the staircase “against my heart,” as the saying is,
climbing in opposition to my heart’s desire, which was to return to my mother...
That hateful staircase, up which I always went so sadly, gave out a smell of varnish
which had, as it were, absorbed and crystallized the special quality of sorrow that I felt each evening,
and made it perhaps even crueler to my sensibility
because, when it assumed this olfactory guise, my intellect was powerless to resist it.
My room wasn't beautiful at all,
because it was full of things which were of no use
and which concealed chastely so that their usage was made extremely difficult
those which were of some use.
But it was exactly from the things which weren't there to accommodate me, but
which seemed to have come there for pleasure
that my room drew its beauty for me.
Those high white curtains
which hid the bed from view, placed like in the recess of a sanctuary,
the trinity of the glass with the blue design, of the sugar bowl and the jug
always empty when I arrived by orders of my Aunt who was afraid I'd "spread" it.
a sort of cultish instrument.
The little embroidered shawls which threw a cape of white roses over the backs of the chairs
which weren't without thorns, since each time I finished reading and wanted to get up
I realized that I got stuck to them.
that glass bell, under which, isolated from vulgar contacts, the clock chatted intimately with faraway shells
and with an old sentimental flower.
That piece of white lace,
thrown like an altar cloth on the chest of drawers ornamented with two vases,
a portrait of the Saviour and a blessed piece of boxwood
made it look like the Saint Table
The Prince Eugène
terrible and handsome in his dolman
and whom I was surprised to encounter one night, in a turbulence filled with locomotives and hailstorms,
still terrible and handsome,
near the door of a railway station buffet where he served as advertisement for a special kind of biscuit.
The room of Aunt Léonie
At one side of her bed stood a big yellow chest of drawers of lemon-wood,
and a table which served at once as dispensary and high altar,
on which, beneath a statue of the Virgin and a bottle of Vichy-Célestins,
might be found her prayer-books and her medical prescriptions,
everything that she needed in bed for the performance of her duties to the sacred offices and her diet,
to keep the proper times for pepsin and for vespers.
On the other side her bed was bounded by the window.
I didn't have much time to read in my room, as I had to go out to the park
at 1 km distance from the village.
I advanced running into the labyrinth up to a certain bower where I sat down,
untraceable, leaning next to the clipped hazelnut trees,
looking at the asparagus and strawberry beds,
where on some days the horses pulled up the water,
the white gate which was the end of the park
above it, the cornflower and poppy fields.
In this bower the silence was deep,
the risk of being discovered almost non-existent,
only from time to time, the golden sound of the bells who seemed to chime from the faraway plains, behind the blue skies
could have warned me of the time passed,
but surprised by its sweetness, troubled by its profound silence,
emptied of the last sounds which followed it,
I was never sure about the number of its chimes.
The greatest charm of the Guermantes' way
was that we had beside us, almost all the time, the running stream of the Vivonne.
We crossed it first, ten minutes after leaving the house, by a foot-bridge called the Pont-Vieux.
The Pont-Vieux led to a tow-path which, at this point, would be overhung in summer by the bluish foliage of a hazel.
Over these were strewn the remains, half-buried in the long grass,
of the castle of the ancient Counts of Combray.
One of my other surprises was that of seeing "the source of the Vivonne",
which I had imagined as something as extra-terrestrial as the Gates of Hell,
and which was merely a sort of rectangular basin in which bubbles rose to the surface.
in Paris, Proust went to the Lycée Condorcet
M. Daniel Halévy was his classmate.
yes.
how was Proust as a child?
he was so exceptional that I hesitate to answer
he was there in the lycée all right, but it seemed as if he didn't quite belong to us
I remember a day when I was ??? with some comrades
I felt somebody touching my shoulder
I turned round, it was Proust
I made a slightly brusque movement
and I remember that this produced an alteration on Proust's face
I had hurt him
sometimes when I felt annoyed at him, I thought he was a bit of a poseur
well, I was wrong
he became sad all of a sudden
because he felt that all those boys, that's what we were, boys
he was something different
we had in our class a Sardou, a Bizet
a Robert de Flers
a Fernand Gregh
and we knew very well that the first in that little category of human beings
there was Proust, we knew it
we had organized a revue, published by the Lycée Condorcet
which we called "The Banquet"
and naturally we asked Proust to participate
and Proust in his kindness didn't refuse
he gave us a copy
we read it with a horrified amazement
we had to refuse to publish it
what had happened? what misfortune?
the misfortune, we knew about it, that Proust had become a man of the world
it cannot be denied that in his youth Proust went out a lot in society
there's no great social function that does not resemble those parties to which doctors invite their patients,
who utter the most intelligent remarks, have perfect manners, and would never show that they were mad,
if they didn't whisper in your ear, pointing to some old gentleman going past:
“That’s Joan of Arc.”
one could meet him at the Comtesse Greffulhe
mother-in-law of his friend Gramont
from whom he borrowed a lot of traits for his Princesse de Guermantes
at the Princesse Mathilde, survivor of the Second Empire
at Mme Arman de Caillavet
at Madeleine Lemaire
with Louisa de Mornand
he was friends with Reynaldo Hahn
he went out with Boni de Castellane
with Robert de Flers
with Emmanuel and Antoine Bibesco
he was friends with Robert de Montesquiou
and he described his traits with almost no transposition as the Baron de Charlus
and Charles Haas
dear Charles Haas
if in the painting by Tissot, representing the balcony of the circle of the Rue Royale
one talks so much about you,
that's because you have some traits of the character of Swann
at the end of the last century, the Marquis de Lauris heard about Marcel Proust for the first time
I had heard a lot about him, because people were talking a lot about him
not because of what he had done or created, but there was ... his lifestyle
he was a star, as one would say today, certainly
at least in certain circles
I met Marcel Proust at first in several salons
among others at a dinner at Mme Léon Fould
and obviously, he struck you first of all by his physiognomy, by his looks
I haven't forgotten the extraordinary pallor of his face
under very black hair
and I haven't forgotten the look of his eyes
his conversation was prodigiously adapted to his interlocutor
because he absolutely didn't want to seem ... didn't want to astound
he wanted to talk to people about what he believed interested them
although he wasn't very familiar with sports
he would have undertaken a conversation about sports if he had been talking to a sportsman
if the occasion arose, obviously
then there were people who interested him to a certain degree, one couldn't really predict that
there are people he enjoyed when one didn't really understand why he enjoyed being with them,
on the other hand, he himself couldn't understanding why they enjoyed being with him
he was a kind of oracle, he stayed away from people, he was different from everybody else in this respect
what he observed was a sort of secret, it concerned only himself
Marcel Proust also frequented the Duc de Gramont, at Vallière, where we too paid a visit
it's in this room that Marcel Proust, in July 1904, came to dinner at Vallière
and as I told you, he arrived wearing white ties
he mingled with the guest who were out on a boating on the lake or were playing tennis
he was a bit intimidated
and my father didn't know who he was
he handed him the visitors' book for his signature
and he said to him this phrase which has a bit of a Proustian ring ???
"no thoughts, M. Proust, just the name"
when I saw the Duc de Gramont arrive with the book which all the evening's visitors had already signed
and when I was about to write my signature below a miniscule Gutmann, followed by a minuscule Chevereaux and a Maynel ??? de La Rochefoucault of equal size,
when the Duc de Gramont whom my humble and confused attitude, joined to the fact that he knew that I was a writer, filled with anxiety,
addressed me in a tone at the same time imploring and full of energy, with those lapidary words:
"your name, M. Proust, but no thoughts"
the desire to get the name, and the fear of getting the reflections
would have been justified if it had been me who had invited him to dinner and who would have asked him to sign:
"your name, M. de Duc, but no thoughts!"
you already told me, M. le Duc, that often at night, after the theatre shows, you used to visit Proust.
could you tell us under what circumstances, and how and why?
since Proust stayed in his dining room the whole night we could arrive at any time, coming from the theatre shows
with comrades, they took out a bottle of cider from the cupboard
and we did the summing up of the evening, the critique of the play we had just seen
and it didn't last very long since we had to work the next morning
but we often stayed there until 1 a.m.
and since there were cabs circulating everywhere
we returned home by cab
we went there with Louis d'Albufera and Louisa de Mornand sometimes
with Jacques de Bonneval
with Bertrand de Fénélon who was a great friend of all of us
and we talked without restraint during an hour at his place, very simply
what were you talking about?
most of all, on the evenings when we went to see a play
??? generally we talked about the play we had just seen
the subject was fresh in our minds, and that's what we talked about
obviously, now Proust too started asking us questions
about the society which interested him, since he had already started to write
we didn't know at the time, but he had been writing "Swann's Way"
at the time, you know, Proust wasn't a famous author
considering that he had only published "Les plaisirs et les jours"
and then the book on Ruskin
"Swann" came later
and when one talked about Proust, saying that he was a remarkably intelligent man
I remember, I got the answer: "Ah yes, Proust, of the Ritz Hotel"
M. de Lacretelle
anyway, if he had been a snob
in his youth, when I didn't know him
we certainly profited by it a lot
because he was the chronicler, the St. Simon of his times
this is what partly excuses him, and what gives him a great place in literature
now one could say a lot about his snobbism
you see, I think it's sense of history
and his visionary power that gave him a strong desire to approach such illustrious personage, descending from a great lady,
from a man who had played a role in history
that's what he found amusing
I was just telling you about his desire to establish affiliations between the people of today and those of the past
well, that's what his snobbism was about
when he visited Mme de Noailles or the great families
don't you think that he found it amusing to discover a passage from St. Simon relating to a trait of his host's ancestors
but undoubtedly he did
when he visited the Duc de Guiche at La Vallière, it was the same thing
no, I think one has exaggerated far too much Proust's snobbism
and I repeat, we owe it his greatest successes
so as reader of Proust, that's good enough for me, I absolve him
the socialite Proust, the Proust of the Ritz Hotel felt obliged to go to the fashionable seaside resorts
the fashionable seaside resorts at the beginning of the century were the beaches on the Normandy coasts
and especially Cabourg, the Balbec of "Within a Budding Grove"
we went there with Philippe Soupault
who knew Proust in that same hotel, where the future author of "In Search of Lost Time" used to stay
each evening at 6 p.m. one heard in the hall a sort of noisy hustle
and one heard small groups of people shouting: "There's M. Marcel Proust"
at once, the groups started to rush, because they wanted to bring forward M. Proust's armchair which brought them a good tip
as you know, Proust was always very aware of the importance to tip generously
so they brought him his armchair, and that's the one I saw
when Proust came in, armed with an umbrella because he was terribly afraid of the sun
and he was always afraid, when the sun was hidden by a cloud, that the sun might suddenly reappear
he was already wrapped up in scarves because he was very sensitive to the cold
but mostly, he sat down there, he watched people going by
he was interested in all the people of Cabourg
he asked me if I knew this gentleman or that lady
and he told me "you know, don't be surprised, I'm a bit of a concièrge"
but mostly I think he was trying to seize memories on that esplanade, on that pier
well, he tried to remember the time when he first met "the young girls in flower"
we didn't know that he was a writer
he didn't brag about having published a booklet a long time ago, called "Les plaisirs et les jours"
he never talked about it
and we didn't know that he wrote
I looked at the round tables whose innumerable assemblage filled the restaurant like so many planets,
as the latter are represented in old allegorical pictures.
Moreover, there seemed to be some irresistible force of attraction at work among these various stars,
and at each table the diners had eyes only for the tables at which they were not sitting,
You've dined here with Proust?
in this same dining room, at this same table
and even, if you like, sitting at this place
because 3 or 4 times per week Proust invited his friends and acquaintances and his friends' friends
we were sometimes a large gathering, 12, 14, even 20
and Proust was extremely happy to be host to other people
he was hospitable, and he liked to seduce
but after a certain time he got tired
or, as I learned later, he wanted to leave in order to write
and at such a moment he invented something marvelous
he offered his friends cigars and asked the maitre d' to bring cigars
so they brought cigars, everybody served himself and started to light the cigars
then he said, "you must excuse me, I cannot bear cigar smoke, I'll retire"
thus he finished his banquet earlier than he should have
in fact, what interested him was the little daily routine around him
he was interested a lot in the concièrges
in the bellboys
even in the chambermaid which he judged severely
Beside the row of carriages, in front of the porch in which I stood waiting, was planted, like some shrub of a rare species, a young page
who attracted the eye no less by the unusual and harmonious colouring of his hair than by his plant-like epidermis.
Inside, in the hall, corresponding to the narthex, or Church of the Catechumens in a primitive basilica,
through which the persons who were not staying in the hotel were entitled to pass,
the comrades of the “outside” page did not indeed work much harder than he,
but did at least execute certain movements.
It is probable that in the early morning they helped with the cleaning.
But in the afternoon they stood there only like a chorus who, even when there is nothing for them to do, remain upon the stage in order to strengthen the representation.
But the outside page, with his delicate tints, his slender, fragile frame,
preserved an immobility mixed with a certain melancholy,
for his elder brothers had left the hotel for more brilliant careers elsewhere, and he felt isolated upon this alien soil.
M. Jean Cocteau too met Marcel Proust before the war
Proust lived 102, Blvd. Haussmann
I remember this address very well, despite having a bad memory for numbers
because we exchanged letters on whose envelopes were written poems
"Address-poems"
for example, "address-poems" by Mallarmé
and I remember one of those addresses which went:
"102 Blvd Haussmann, ouste! run postman, to Marcel Proust"
and Marcel wrote considerable poems on his envelopes
and if the postman couldn't decipher them, since he had a terrible handwriting
which one had to take apart like one removes the shells from a nut
and after some effort, the postman found the name and the address
and I had started to visit Marcel Proust in the evenings, Blvd. Haussmann
I don't think that Marcel Proust's threshold was easy to cross?
at first, there was a whole ceremony involved before one could enter at Marcel's,
because one was stopped in the vestibule by Céleste
Céleste asked you ... much later, when she knew me,
"M. Jean, I hope you haven't been with a lady tonight, you haven't shaken hands with a lady who had touched a flower
since Marcel was living inside a cloud of anti-asthmatic powder, he was afraid of an asthmatic crisis
and he was even afraid of the contact of a person who had in his turn contacted earlier a person who had smelled at a flower
how did he receive you at his place?
one entered a veritable cloud of anti-asthmatic powder
he was lying down on his bed, fully clothed
a bed made of copper which was encased in a sort of ??? guériton-liège which protected him from outside noises
he wore white gloves to keep himself from his habit of biting his nails
and he resembled, when he wore a beard, the dead Carnot ???, or Haroun al Rachid
or Captain Nemo
his room resembled a lot the Nautilus
and when he didn't wear a beard, he resembled the famous portrait by Jacques-Émile Blanche where he looks like an Easter egg
in the evening, we sometimes asked him to read to us passages from his work
it was very difficult to listen to him, because he read and laughed at the same time
hiding his laugh behind his beard and gloved hand ???
he interrupted his reading with "this is idiotic, this is idiotic"
and he explained to us that a certain gesture would only acquire its significance in the 15th volume
which was too far down under the stacks of papers for him to get it out for us
those readings had more the aspect of a hilarious fooling around among friends
his asthma didn't prevent him from going out?
he went out into society, very rarely, he cut his hair himself with nail scissors
and he sometimes paid a visit to Mme de Chevingé in the middle of the night to who told him
"Marcel arrives at impossible times with apparatuses in his pockets"
she was wrong, those were bottles
he always used to carry Vichy water bottles in his pockets
"he arrives like an obstetrician", she said
and he went once to the "Ballets Russes"
it was the time of the Ballets Russes
he went to see the Ballets Russes one evening in Mme Sert's box
that box was in a curious state, there were
Renoir, Auguste Rodin and Proust
and they were very polite about who would sit down first
so they only sat down when the curtain came down again
and they weren't able to watch "l'après-midi d'un faune"
everything with Marcel was ceremonious
he was extremely susceptible
he always imagined one had committed an injury against him
and perhaps one had committed one without realizing it, because he had such a hyper-sensitivity
very often he was at Larue, he wrote me 15 pages, "you pretended, my dear Jean, not to notice me"
and I hadn't seen Marcel at all
otherwise I would have rushed to his table
then he made a whole drama out of it
magnifying what people had been telling and transcending Proust's work
he lived in a perpetual labyrinth of polite or impolite behaviours
one day he wrote me 20 pages
of reproaches to be submitted, he wanted me to read the letter to Étienne de Beaumont
he wanted me to read the 20 pages of reproaches against de Beaumont
and then he wrote as P.S. "in fact, don't tell him anything"
M. Paul Morand didn't set out to meet Proust, it was Proust who spontaneously went to see him
Yes. I had hardly told his friends with whom I was having dinner that Proust was somebody like Flaubert,
that this intrigued enormously Proust and that during one of my leaves in Paris
he rang my doorbell at midnight
and I found in front of the door of small ground floor apartment I was living in, rue Gallilée
that was in August 1915
a man in a pelisse with a very pale face
a beard growing like mildew on a cheese, very blue around the chin
great swarthy looking eyes, very black hair, magnificent teeth
and a very soft and insinuating voice, but at the same time with a lot of authority
he was dressed ... I saw standing before me a character of the year 1905
he wore a grey bowler hat, I can still see him, his pelisse with a collar of worn otter fur
a tie which didn't fit his shirt collar, the collar didn't fit the neck,
he wore his shirt "en reposé" ??? like one used to wear at the time
he continually struggled against that shirt billowing under his tie which had climbed up his collar
the cuffs put on the wrong way round
he had a walking stick like one used at the time, a stage cane made of snake wood
shoes with applications of grey dingue ???, in short, exactly the fashion of 1905
the period when he decided to lie down, only to get up from time to time
the phrase he uttered when entering, I found it amusing ??? to reconstruct it
I'm saying this, don't read any reverence into it,
but I'm one of the last persons who knew Proust well,
and I want to give you an idea of what his conversation was like
even though his books give a perfect idea, because it was amazing how much his written phrase resembled his speech
this is what I wrote:
"You've come from Paris?
"you'll find with justification - please lie down again, Monsieur, you'll catch cold -
I was wearing my pyjamas and still standing in the hall
"you'll consider it without doubt unsuitable to be woken up at this hour
"but I hardly go out, I get up late and besides I'm wrong to get up at all
"because the next day I'm being punished by atrocious sufferings and by an excess of ridiculous and never ending cares
"which are however necessary because one must live with one's illness, one never will get well again
"and the chronical illness is like an old lady who adores being attended to, you too will have cause to complain
"even though you're still a young man and not an old lady
"still I am considerate towards you by ringing at your doorbell at midnight
"if I have taken the liberty it's because I feel the strong desire to know someone, it's you I'm talking about,
"who has been emitting about me, people told me so,
"I don't know you well enough for people to tell me about you other things than agreeable and even delicious things to hear,
"you emitted about myself or more exactly about my book judgments which are, I won't be so audacious as to say, the most pertinent, in the style of our friend du Bos
"but the most delicate.
but Proust had this outpouring, at the same time monochord and precipitated?
not precipitated. it was a very melodious phrase, extremely long which never ended, full of incidents
objections one wouldn't have thought to formulate, but which he formulated himself
it resembles a mountain road one tackled without ever arriving at the summit
lots of incidents which sustained the phrase like oxygen balloons, preventing him from crashing down
full of lucidity ???. of arborescence
all this very fluid, very soft
very soft and at the same time
very virile
when people draw Proust's portrait
like Malaparte, for instance, for the stage
they turn him into a character who is weak and effeminate
that absolutely wasn't Proust
Proust had a lot of authority
what the English call "poise"
ponderosity, moral authority
at the same time lots of courage
he looked you right in the eyes
a bit of an air of defiance, of a d'Artagnan, the head thrown upwards
he was very courageous
I remember one evening, in the war, during bombings
we left the Ritz Hotel
and there was only one cab
Proust called the cab
and an American called it from the other side, both of them try to get it
there's a struggle
and Proust, who was an invalid who could hardly walk
to my great surprise tried to knock down the American
I saw him, for instance, one day at Larue, the restaurant
when someone whom he suspected to discredit him behind his back, came up to him and stretched out his hand in a greeting
I think he was right about him, by the way
well, he received him in an extraordinary manner, I think there were present only him, Bibesco and myself
and he looked at him in silence and I can still see him,
Marcel's hand resting on the table, not even twitching,
while he told him off, with a superbly calculated insolence
I can hardly believe that Proust was "a ruffian" as we would say today
no, he wasn't a ruffian, but I wanted to illustrate that he was very courageous
and that he was afraid of absolutely nothing despite his frailty
he was a man who could hardly drag himself from his bed to the cab
from the cab to the person he was going to visit
and there he collapsed into an armchair and he didn't move anymore
he clutched at the arm-rests
when he turned round, he generally moved his whole body
very handicapped by all that starched harness of I was just telling you about
the billowing shirt under which could be seen three woolen vests
his hair a mess, meshes rising like spikes
he tried to flatten them with his hand
the gesture moved his tie to the left, he pulled it back to the right
he looked as if he had dressed in an elevator, one had the impression of a character out the the Grévin Museum
it was at the same time comical but also extremely touching, and the touching aspect prevailed greatly over the comical
at his place, it was very different
at his place, he had gotten so used to live lying down that he had a bed in each room,
a bed not only in the bedroom, but also in the salon
in his bedroom he lay down, in the bed of the salon it was more of a reclining, dressed in a pelisse
in the meantime, Céleste made the bed in the bedroom
there were days when he started working quite early
on other days, he only started to work at 10 or 11 p.m.
sometimes he worked in the afternoon, but rarely
but what set him going, in order to be able to start working, the main question was his health
he was very ill, he had terrible attacks of asthma
and when he suffocated, he couldn't work
and he didn't eat anything
he deprived himself almost totally of nourishment, he only took coffee with milk
I almost never saw him eat, sometimes, as an exception, some dish he fancied which we ordered from Larue
I phoned Larue, and they delivered what he wanted to have
and he started working after having had his second cup of coffee with milk
and then he worked sometimes
until midnight
and at midnight, Céleste installed him in the next room
she cleaned and knocked the carpets at midnight, and in order to be able do this, of course, you must tip your neighbours generously
the building Bldv. Haussman was that much used to it
that when the neighbours above hired a servant
they told him, "we'll only pay you a monthly wage of 50 francs
"but below there lives a gentleman, M. Marcel Proust
"who will give you regularly 100 francs a month
"if you will walk in your socks because the noise annoys him
I only knew him at Blvd. Haussmann where he was so much afraid of noise
that he paid a lot to the builders so that they wouldn't do any work in the apartment above
and when the neighbours returned, they were stupefied: nothing had been done they had commissioned the builders to do
because Marcel paid them a lot of money so that they wouldn't work above his head
Proust was always very generous?
Proust was very generous, he gave enormous tips
he left restaurants or hotels flanked by two rows of waiters and maîtres d' bowing to the ground
which exasperated our friend Antoine Bibesco
who was a kind of comical Mephistopheles agitating in Proust's shadow
as soon as Proust had tipped somebody
Proust claimed that he went and questioned the servants behind his back in order to know how much they had received
and then, "to ruin my effect," said Proust, "he then told them that Proust had made a mistake, that he had given them far more that he intended"
there's an excellent story
at the end of his life, Proust went a lot to the Ritz to visit the Princesse Soutzo who later became Mme Paul Morand
and when he left, he gave tips
and one night he had no more money in his pockets, he told the concièrge
"could you lend me 50 francs?" "Of course, M. Proust, here you are."
and Proust said "keep them, they were for you."
in the salon where he received visitors
later rue Hamelin, but first Blvd. Haussmann
like his clothes, it was a salon of 1900, 1895-1900
with vegetal designs on the walls
furniture of green reps ??? with caterpillars
the portrait of his father, Dr. Proust, in a frame of red plush in the middle of the salon on a scaffold
and on the wall the portrait of the child admired by the whole family, the young Marcel Proust by Jacques-Emile Blanche
Marcel's room resembled a family's home when everybody has left for the holidays
everything covered with sheets, the chandeliers, the furniture
and as I just told you
dust everywhere because no dusting or sweeping was even done
Cocteau compared it to a glaucous aquarium
and I remember that Proust was very annoyed at that
and he said to me: "Do you thing my room resembles a glaucous aquarium?"
and sometimes Marcel left his bed
he went into his dressing room
and sometimes he ate cold noodles while standing, I remember seeing him doing that
he was dressed in a sort of jumping suit made of violet velvet
which seemed to contain the machinery of his mysterious mechanism
thus a sketch of Proust might look like: frivolous, a bit eccentric
still, he's the author of one of the most painful works of our times
without doubt, he used his appearance as an act
he used his frivolity as an act
that this frivolity allowed him to gather the anecdotes
that contributed to his work, this aspect of being a chronicle of an epoch
where black humour is mixed endlessly with the most heartbreaking description of human passions.
one mustn't forget
that he has studied on himself
the wounds of his characters
one of those wounds
I'm not going to mention it
but you know what I'm alluding to
and one couldn't have gone any further than he went, in that field
another wound, more modest, if I dare say so
and a bit ridiculous
and a bit shameful, was the snobbism
well, the picture Proust drew of it
it's only in his book
it achieves, if you like, a degree of profoundness
which illuminates a lot the man, and it's on himself that he has studied it
yes, he talked a lot about it
foreign politics, I was a member of M. Briand's staff, it amused him a lot to learn what was going on there
he talked a lot about strategy, that interested him enormously
and he followed the war very closely
he said, all military chroniclers, whom he generally thought to be idiots, except Henri Bidou who wasn't a professional
but there was another one, I think the General Cherfils of the "Echo de Paris"
who always made his day, he was that silly
but he fairly ridiculed them in "Time Regained"
yes, I think this is where intervenes the formation of his characters
especially his secondary characters which were cast from one mould
and one could even name them
but sometimes, like in one's dreams, they were a lyrical creation
where two or three persons lent their traits
let's take the diplomat Norpois
well, the diplomat Norpois was created from three persons:
from a friend of his father, the French Ambassador in Rome, Barrère
whom by the way Proust loathed
when I got attached to Barrère two years later
Proust told me "you'll be very unhappy with that man, I'll explain, why" - he was right about him
then for Norpois there was a charming old thing, the Minister to Greece, called Guillemain
and a third person, the Marquis de Montebello
well, for all the characters there are traits borrowed from right or left
but sometimes, and I mean, especially for the secondary characters
he used a single name
and what's graver still, in order not to have to invent a name
he wrote the real name, and sometimes he forgot about it in the proofs
this anecdote amused him a lot
one day he described a ball at the Duchesse de Rohan who at that time was called Princesse de Léon
so he described this ball at the Duchesse de Rohan, without denigrating it, by the way
but he left in her name in the book, out of carelessness
and to his great astonishment he received a letter from La peau ??? of the good duchess
who wrote: "dear M. Proust, I am so touched that you remember the ball I gave in 1912", etc.
I remember one day, I told him, "but Mme Verdurin, I know who's the original
"she's certainly my aunt, Mme Ménard-Dorian
because if there was a literary salon, a musical salon, lots of fervour
a bit of politics, very personal ...
in short, I had recognized Mme Verdurin in several scenes I had witnessed in her salon
and I knew Proust had been there too
at first, Proust denied it
he said: "Don't think that, I hardly know her, I've used lots of different persons"
it's true, he had made an amalgamation, as he did with lots of his characters
but imagine, one day, or rather, one evening
I was at home and I received a letter from Proust
a note he sent me through his chauffeur
I read this note
and he told me, "dear friend, I implore you, give me a piece of information I need at once"
"I would like to know if the flowers decorating the table are standing upright at your aunt Ménard-Dorian?"
"do you remember by what device she arranges the flowers on her table?"
he was just describing a dinner at the Verdurin's
and he needed this detail at once
Mme de Chevigné whom he had turned into the Duchesse de Guermantes, didn't like Marcel's books
she said: "I get stuck in his sentences"
Marcel was aghast, he told me very bitterly "you must tell her not to say this about my book!"
I said: "Marcel, that would be as if M. Fabre demanded of the insects to be interested in what he wrote about them"
Mme André Maurois, even you appear, I believe, in Marcel Proust's work
yes, I think I'm Mlle de Saint-Loup
a minor character who appears very briefly at the end of "Time Regained"
How do you know that you're Mlle de Saint-Loup?
Did Proust tell you, or ...
well, Proust, at the moment when he drafted the plan of his "meandering novel"
wanted to introduce a character of the third generation
who could give to the reader the impression of the passing of time
and Mlle de Saint-Loup is the granddaughter of Swann and Odette
she's the only child of Gilberte Swann and Robert de Saint-Loup
and consequently, she's the third generation of the family he studied, analyzed and observed during 13 volumes
her cheeks resembled peonies
he decided, at a certain moment, that he had to make my acquaintance
and at once, he wanted to meet me
at the time, I was 13 years old
he had never seen me, because at the time the children didn't mix with adults' lives
so one evening, at 11 p.m., he arrived at my parents
insisting that I should be shown to him at once
I was fast asleep
they asked my English tutoress to wake me up and send me down to the salon
she was very shocked
and I was furious, a little girl being torn out of her first sleep
telling me to get dressed and go down to the salon to meet a gentleman
I was furious
I went down in a really bad humour
really determined to be sulky
but Marcel Proust was a man of bewitching charm
and very fast, he melted down my resistance
in the "Mémorables" by Maurice Martin du Gard, in the first volume, I think the volume opens up on this
on a ball given by my wife
and where Marcel Proust is sitting next to the fireplace,
of course, right by the source of heat and keeping on his pelisse
by the way, if those souvenirs are exact
let me ask my wife if she remembers how this happened
- do you remember the soirée where ... - yes, very well
Proust was very happy because he had learned that he was going to hear about the murder of Rasputin
there was a Russian present with whom he was talking for a long time
others wanted to be presented to Proust but he warded them off with a wave of his hands, like this
and he went on concentrating on Rasputin
the night at the Ritz, that was his daytime, he lived at night
from that time on, he often went to the Ritz, 2 or 3 times per week
he dined below, in the restaurant
then he came up to my rooms,
he didn't eat, he didn't drink, he just talked, he told me all the events of the day
he adored gossip
he used to phone sometimes to obtain a detail about a lady, what dress she had been wearing at a certain evening
yes, he always wanted to know that from me
he called you because of this?
but we didn't have to phone, and besides, he didn't use the phone
he had Céleste make the call
Céleste called and said: "M. Marcel Proust who is afraid he'll die next week
asks permission to visit Mme la Princesse for a last time tonight"
I said, yes, of course, I was delighted
so Marcel arrived and said: "I know you've been at that soirée
what dress were you wearing?
after all, Madame, everybody says that he went out very rarely
in fact, the number of his friends could be counted on the fingers of one hand
and you're saying that the collected gossip, that he knew all the gossip
but he received visitors
some young people of society, if you like
like Hélie de Talleyrand for instance, whom he liked a lot
and he kept himself up to date
this is the telepathy of the sick, they know everything without leaving their ...
that's true
it's very difficult to differentiate between what was pure information
he received from his interlocutors
and the relaxation their presence brought about
a man who has been writing the whole day was happy to see somebody from the outside world
often, especially with people from society
he was after very precise informations
with Hélie de Talleyrand, with the Comte de Beaumont
with a generation younger than his old friends who were Flers, Guillaume de Lauris, Albufera etc.
one had the impression that it was all about getting his documentation, not in order to be amused
one had the impression that everything was channeled into this enormous work he carried inside himself
did he talk about it, or was he discreet?
no, he talked about it
he talked about it without entering into details
he talked about it in a general manner, for instance:
"I must correct the proofs, this will be difficult because I take drops which dilate my pupillas
"and with all that caffeine that contracts them, I've come to a point where I can't decipher anything at all
and in fact, I remember a soirée where below, in the Ritz, on a tiny pedestal of about 10 cm²
they brought him an enormous stack of proofs
and he started to correct them, and you know, when he corrects his proofs, he adds as much text on the border as the text itself
Marcel Proust was already like cloistered to finish his work when Emmanuel Berl met him
I knew him very well under a certain angle, during a certain time, in a relationship which was very limited
I made his acquaintance by letter
because I had written a letter to a common lady friend about his preface to "Sésame et les lys"
and since it was at the beginning of the war, and since there were small pieces of shrapnel inside the letter
when this was reported to him, it deeply moved him
so he felt obliged to write to me
and that's what he did, he sent me quite a number of letters
that lost unfortunately, in the trenches where I got them
and when I climbed out of the trenches and went to Paris
naturally, this dialogue continued
I visited him a certain number of times, twice per week
at midnight, like everybody else
I entered his bedroom
and he went on to explain to me what he had been explaining to me by letter
what he explained to me was, that each person is irrefutably alone
and that no communication is possible between two persons
a theory which I didn't believe in
so I found a letter from him
miraculously preserved
this letter on friendship
on the same theme
"but I am all alone
"and I only profit by others to the degree in which they cause me to discover something within myself
"either by making me suffer, thus more through love than friendship
"or by their ridiculous side, which I don't want to see in a friend I care about
"but which makes me understand their character
what he taught me, it was the loneliness of man
and the necessity to accept it
he thought that everybody is alone
that one has feelings and passions which are independent of their supposed object
and that nobody ever communicates with anybody else
that we all are like desert islands
didn't he think that passion could be a means of communication?
I think the passion the narrator has for Albertine,
the passion of Swann for Odette
not in the least degree!
passion never reveals to you its object, it cannot reveal it to you
passion reveals you to yourself
it brings you into contact with yourself, by suffering
you can have a very strong passion for a person you don't understand at all
and even, in his book, the less you understand the people,
the stronger your passion gets, because jealousy is precisely the measure of this incomprehension
he knows very well that he doesn't know Albertine
he loves her, but he doesn't know her
and even after her death he tries to get to know her, and he doesn't succeed
but he knows Saint-Loup
no, absolutely not!
only, he's much more indifferent
he doesn't exercise the same passion to find out about all the sexual acts of Saint-Loup
as he does in trying to find out about the sexual acts of Albertine, he doesn't start an investigation
by the way, the investigation is running all by itself, since he discovers quite a bit after all
but still, there are bursts of friendship for Saint-Loup, bursts of...
of tenderness, tenderness.
but obviously this doesn't reveal anything about Saint-Loup
those are things which inform you about Proust
it's one ??? of Proust himself, his priority about himself ??? to know himself,
regarding Saint-Loup, he never knew him, and neither Albertine, nor his grandmother, nor anybody
since he didn't accept it when I said that I knew somebody
Proust was somebody who must have suffered terribly
since you know that he had arrived at a skepticism
a nihilism that was terrible
as well as, regarding love,
and regarding friendship
because that man who was so kind-natured, so charming
who surrounded you with so many professions of friendship
he didn't believe in friendship
he didn't believe that friendship existed
as to love,
as to his thoughts on love,
well, what makes me admire Proust,
more than anything else,
is that, the man being the kind of man what he was,
he managed, with "Swann in Love"
to paint for us the picture of love
of love in its most normal state
in my opinion, the most exact
the most perfect
we have been given since Benjamin Constant.
when I contradicted him, he carried the contradiction to its utmost
with an analysis which was always very meticulous
he talked mostly like he wrote
with this turning round the subject
until he got tired, and chased me away
then I left
I was quite tired as well, at 3 or 4 a.m.
our relations become envenomed
because at a certain moment
I didn't agree with him any more that all feelings are illusory towards an object
he explained to me that the young girl I was engaged to
the best thing that could happen to me was to discover that she had died
I thought this disagreeable
and he got angry at me
he told me I was a fool
he told me, "you're as much of a fool as Léon Blum"
which meant in his language
"you may well have read some books
"but you fail to see the difference between what's real in life, and what isn't"
and he threw his slippers at my ... he was in his dressing room, I in the bedroom
he threw his slippers at my face
and I left, feeling very angry
evidently, I think he was all the more sensitive about it
that if a communication had been possible between two persons,
he supposed that it was the communication which existed between himself and his mother,
consequently, he felt himself cut to the quick
and precisely, I think he thought me a fool, anyway, he had lots of good reasons to think me a fool
but what he did in order to find me the greatest fool of all
that was the fact that I didn't understand where I had annoyed him
I had understood it by the way, and quite accurately
only, he annoyed me a lot too
so we retreated to general philosophizing
and the court he had been paying me, ended
and my relation to him as well
because otherwise I didn't hold him, he wasn't interested in me at all
he was really only interested in the development of his didactic thought
and when I think about what other persons told me about him
I'm even surprised that he had so much faith
that he was absolutely convinced
that what he thought was the truth
and that one had to adapt one's behaviour to it
that if one didn't take his side in loneliness
one would be incapable to create a work of art
and those who couldn't create a work of art
were just some kind of asses
my first impulse was to believe that he had given his life to an idol
but then I would be wrong
because even from a Christian point of view
I think that a work of such importance as Proust's,
of the significance of Proust's work,
cannot be involuntary,
cannot be anything but a vocation
and besides, even though I met Proust very rarely
but perhaps also in the few letters
I exchanged with him
well, I realized
to what amount Proust had this feeling of vocation
he knew he was giving his life
and he knew he was giving it not to a work of vanity
but to something of importance
for mankind
but now I think one must look beyond it
now Proust must hand in his coat at the cloak-room
his pelisse and his patent leather shoes
and we'll see him in his bed as the end draws near
dressed like the man he is, like an artist, an artisan
like a forced labourer
with his three vests
his smoke fumigations
and his haste to finish his work
since 1913 Mme Céleste Albarret was in Proust's service
did he talk to you about his death a lot, before?
he told me that certainly, death has been pursuing him
and that he wanted to finish his work
and that he would feel very sorry if he had been working that hard
and if he would have to leave all that unfinished.
and one morning, when I came in
he was like a child which had just been through the happiest day, the most perfect happiness, he told me:
"dear Céleste, I have some big news for you
and I asked "what is it?"
"what might have happened of such importance in this room?
"something immense"
"something which is so good
"and what happened?"
and he raised himself, he smiled at me and said:
"I've written the word "the end"
"now I can die"
then I said "ouf, ??? Monsieur, your desire is fulfilled"
"but think of all the little slips of paper I will still have to glue on"
"and all the corrections you'll still have to write"
"ah that, my dear, that's something else"
it was my habit to stick together with glue, these “paperies,” as Françoise called them,
and sometimes in this process they became torn.
And she would say to me, pointing to my shredded note-books as if to a piece of cloth eaten by an insect:
“Look, it’s all eaten away, isn’t that dreadful!
"There’s nothing left of this bit of page, it’s been torn to ribbons,”
and examining it with a tailor’s eye she would go on:
“I don’t think I shall be able to mend this one, it’s finished and done for.
"A pity, perhaps those were your most beautiful ideas."
Marcel Proust was always ill
but one day, in November 1922
one day he felt most tired
and he had caught a bronchitis
he wanted to get up, he swayed
and he said "oh my dear Céleste, what'll happen to me
"if I can't suffice myself ???
then I told him, "it doesn't matter, it's all your fault
"since you won't obey doctors' orders
"you don't want to drink hot milk, you don't want to have heat
then I told him "you always want to complicate ...
and then he told me: "well Céleste, tonight
"I'll eat a sole, just to do you a favour
we prepared a nice sole, it was ready, the professor rang at the door
then I told him "Professor, it seems he's better
and he asked for a sole, we prepared one for him
then he told me "listen to me, don't serve it yet, I'll visit him first
and he came back and he told me "you mustn't give him anything to eat
"because I think he's quite exhausted
"but I'm happy because
"he told me, he promised me, that he would keep you the whole night at his bedside, that he won't be alone
then I said "very well"
the two of us worked the whole night through
he dictated to me
and he told me at midnight
"if I live through this night
"tomorrow, Céleste, I'll prove to the doctors
"that I am stronger than they are
"but I must live through this night
I stayed in the freezing room the whole night, we worked through the night
and then, at 3 o'clock
he said to me:
"I'll write a bit
"dictating tires me out
I said "very well"
then he said "I can't"
"I can't go on any more"
"I'm tired"
"Céleste, don't forget
"don't forget to place carefully at such a page what I dictated and what I wrote
then I told him
- "very well, Monsieur, try to rest, can I do something for you? - "no"
then he had a choking fit
he suffocated
then, the next morning
he said to me
it was about 7 o'clock
he told me, "if there was any coffee with milk
"all hot and ready
"I'd take it at once
"in order to do you and my brother a favour
I fetched the coffee with milk, I brought it to him at once
because we constantly had fresh coffee ready
I asked "do you want me to help you drink it?"
he took his bowl
he put it to his lips
he drank it
he looked at me and he said:
"thus I will be doing you and my brother a favour"
from that moment on
he started to arrange his odds and bits
and then I realized that he was in a bad state
the envelope on which Proust scribbled a few words the day before he died
and this, written by Céleste,
the last lines the dictated to her the same night
and then one day, everything's changed
what had been detestable for us
what had always been forbidden to us,
now it is permitted,
for instance, I wasn't allowed to drink champagne
"but perfectly, if this is agreeable to you"
one can hardly believe one's ears
one has brands delivered to the house, the brands one always used to shun before
and this gives an aspect which is a bit vile
to this incredible frivolity of the dying
I left the bedroom and I return to the small hall next to it
in order to find out what he was doing, he said to me:
he rang for me at once
he said: "why are you standing in the hall?"
- I said "but I'm not standing in the hall" - "but I heard you perfectly, come on"
then I said "I was worried, I wanted to find out if you needed me
"and I wanted to be near you
then he said
"there's this fat woman in the bedroom
I said "I'll chase her away for you"
"no, Céleste, don't touch her, she's horrible"
"she's horrible, she's appalling"
then I said "does she frighten you?"
"a bit"
then I saw that he was really in a bad way
I asked my husband to call at once for Dr. Bize
and I called his brother, told him that his brother was feeling very bad, that he should come at once
then Mme Proust answered
"he's at Tonneau ??? but I'll phone at once to arrange what's necessary
and she called me back and said
"he's just giving his lecture, but he'll come straight away
Odilon came with Dr. Bize and ...
when he arrived
so I said, "Doctor, you must give him an injection, he's so weak and poorly
then the Doctor told me
"give him an injection? how so?
then I said "but he doesn't resist
"then you must raise the sheets, I'll give him an injection in his thigh
and when I went up to M. Proust and lifted up his cover
he took me by the wrist
pinched it hard
and he cried "ah, Céleste
and crying like this, I can still see him
he meant that I had betrayed him, that I didn't obey what he had told me
most of all, never to let the doctors give him injections
because the doctors had the habit
to make a dying man suffer more by giving him injections
prolonging his life with serums
that they torment him to make him live longer
for half an hour, a quarter of an hour
for an hour, and that it was horrible
he didn't tell me not to let them do it to him
nor not to let them do it, but he told me "most of all, Céleste"
since I did it without asking his permission
he put me down by this cry "ah, Céleste"
and he pinched my wrist
then I said to Prof. Proust
because Prof. Proust came after Dr. Bize's visit
I said, "well, M. le Professeur
I did something I shouldn't have done
"No you haven't, my dear Céleste, you did everything for him"
"unfortunately we did everything too late"
"but what can one do, my brother would certainly have lived longer
but he led a life which was only devoted to his work
and if we had wanted to make him live differently
he wouldn't have written his work, he only lived for his work
then ...
Dr. Bize left, but Dr. Proust stayed and never left him
and he called a famous physician who had treated his mother
the Dr. Landowski
and who told him
"well, what do you think, shall we give him another injection?"
then he answered "come on, Robert
"let him be
"let's not make him suffer anymore
and I accompanied Dr. Landowski to the door and I said to him
"you're going to save him, Doctor?"
he took both my hands
and he told me
"have courage
"but it's over
I went back to Prof. Proust
it was only one second
and we were both near him
he said to him, lifting him up a bit
because he had trouble breathing
"do I make you suffer, my dear little Marcel?"
and he answered
"oh yes, my little Robert"
and two or three minutes later he closed his brother's eyelids with his hand
I hadn't noticed that he had died, he died with his eyes open, admirable eyes, tranquil
and it was like a light where there was nothing left
Proust wrote the word "the end"
at the bottom of his work
and he died
I went to see him on his death bed
rue Hamelin
a man who really gave the impression of being stripped bare of everything
one could say that those were the remains
of somebody who has allowed his work to devour him
day after day
his funeral was a Parisian event
and it was at the same time a discovery for Proust's superiors
I can still see Barrès
who looked at that crowd of young people
who pressed themselves around the church
and he didn't conceal from me his astonishment
but Marcel Proust, he was our young man
a program by Roger Stéphane
with the participation of Roland Darbois
texts read by Jean Negroni
cinematography: Roger Dormoy
script Yolande Maurette
editor: Pierre Alaux
directed by Gérard Herzog
Engl. subtitles: serdar202@KG