In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower

by Marcel Proust

  But then again, much of our surprise comes also from the very fact that the person does show the same aspect. It would take such a huge effort to recreate whatever we have derived from outside ourselves, even just the taste of a certain fruit, say, that as soon as we receive the slightest impression, we slide gradually down memory’s gentle slope; and before long, without realizing it, we have gone a long way from what we really felt. Each new encounter is a readjustment, bringing us back to what we in fact saw. Faithful recollection of it was already lost, for what is called remembering somebody is actually a process of forgetting. For as long as we are still capable of seeing, however, no sooner does the forgotten feature impinge on our sight than we recognize it, and are obliged to straighten the line which had deviated; and so the rich and ever-ready surprise which made my daily encounters with these lovely young girls by the sea so beneficial and refreshing was a thing not only of discovery but of retrieval. Add to that the commotion inspired in me by what they meant to me (for that was never quite what I thought it would be; and what I looked forward to each time was not what I had looked forward to the time before, that having been supplanted by the thrill of the memory of our last meeting) and it will be clear that each of our outings suddenly turned my thoughts in a wholly unexpected direction; and this direction was never the one which, in the seclusion of my room at the hotel, I had foreseen and calmly reconnoitred. It was now forgotten, abolished, each time I came back to my room, my head buzzing like a hive with words which had stirred me and which went on reverberating for a long time in my mind. A person lost sight of is a person destroyed; a person who reappears is a new creation, different from the one before and possibly from all previous incarnations. The minimum of variety that can exist in such creations is two. When what stays in our mind is the vivid flash of a bold glance, inevitably what will take us by surprise in our next glimpse, almost solely strike us, that is, will be a look close to languid, a gentle and pensive expression, overlooked in the former memory. It is this which, in our comparison of memory with the new reality, will colour our disappointment or our surprise; and by its notifying us that our memory had been defective, it will seem to be reality itself which was in need of refocussing. Then the aspect of the face that was recently overlooked, having now become for that reason the most unforgettable, the most real, the most accurately corrective, will itself become an object for us to dream about and recall. What we long for now is a soft, languorous look, an expression full of gentle pensiveness. Then the same thing will happen the next time: it will be the strange determination in the piercing eyes, the pointed nose and the tense lips which will cancel the disparity between our desire and the object it thought it had in mind. Of course, this fidelity to first impressions, the purely physical ones, which I re-encountered each time I saw the girls, was an effect not just of their facial features, since as has been seen I was also responsive to their voices (more responsive perhaps, for the voice not only offers the same singular and sensual surfaces as the facial features, it belongs to those unplumbable depths tempting us to the vertiginous peril of impossible kisses), in each of which sounded the unique note of a little instrument utterly expressive of its owner and playable by no one but her. A dark line in any of their voices, drawn by one of their intonations, surprised me each time I recognized it again, after having forgotten it. And the corrections I had to make, on each new occasion, so as to retrieve perfect accuracy, were as much those required of a tuner or a singing-master as of a draughtsman.

  The various waves of feeling sent through me by the different girls, neutralized for a time by the resistance which each of them set against the expansion of the others, were held in a harmony of cohesion which was to be disturbed in Albertine’s favour one afternoon during a game of ring-on-a-string. We were playing in a little wood on the cliff-top. My place was between two girls who did not belong to the little gang, who had been brought along just to make up the numbers needed for the game, and I kept gazing with envy at the person sitting beside Albertine, a young fellow, thinking that, if only I had been her neighbour during these minutes which might not come back, I could have known the fortuitous thrill of touching her hands, which might have led to all sorts of consequences. Even without such possibilities, the mere touch of her hands would have been a delight to me. Not that I had never seen hands more lovely than hers: without going beyond the little group itself, Andrée’s hands were finer by far, slender and delicate, with a life all of their own, entirely docile and obedient, yet independent, often to be seen lying by her, like noble greyhounds, stretching lazily, idling in a dream or suddenly flexing a knuckle, postures in which Elstir had made several studies of them. In one of these studies, in which Andrée could be seen warming them by the hearth, they glowed in the firelight with the golden transparency of two autumn leaves. Albertine’s hands, however, which were fleshier, briefly gave, then tensed, under the pressure of any hand that held them, responding with an unmistakable sensation. A squeeze from the hand of Albertine had a sensual softness which seemed at one with the slightly mauve pink of her skin: it made you feel as though you were penetrating her, entering the privacy of her senses, an impression one had too from her resounding laugh, which was as suggestive of indecency as any throaty murmur of invitation, or as certain cries. She was one of those women whose hand it is such a pleasure to take and hold that one is grateful to civilized convention for having made the handshake a licit act between young men and girls when they meet. If the arbitrary habits of politeness had replaced shaking hands by some other mode of contact, my days would have been spent in gazing at the untouchable hands of Albertine, pining for the feeling of them as acutely as I now yearned to be familiar with the taste of her cheeks. If I had been beside her in the game of ring-on-a-string, the joy of holding her hands between mine for a long time would not have been the only fulfilment I could foresee: what confessions, what declarations, unspoken by my shyness till now, I could put into this or that way of pressing her hand! How easy it would have been for her too, to hint in reply by other gentle pressings that she welcomed them! What complicity! What first steps towards sensuous delight! My love could make more progress in those few minutes sitting beside her than in all the time since I had known her. I could not bear it, just sitting there, knowing the brief time was running out, because this little game would very likely not last much longer, and once it was over it would be too late. So I made sure of getting caught holding the ring and had to take my place in the middle: then, while pretending not to see the ring passing from hand to hand, I kept an eye on it, waiting for it to reach the hands of the chap beside Albertine. She was laughing for all she was worth, pink and glowing with the joy and animation of the game. Andrée, with a nod towards the trees around us and an allusion to the words of the song, said, ‘We’re in the pretty greenwood,’ and sent me a special smiling glance, as it were over the heads of the other players, as though she and I were the only ones clever enough to step outside ourselves for a moment and make a poetical reflection on the game we were playing. Though her voice sounded reluctant, her fine wit made her sing, ‘The ring in the wood, my ladies, the ring in the pretty greenwood, as though she was one of those people who cannot go to Trianon113 without organizing a party in Louis XVI costumes, or who think it is jolly to hear a song sung in the setting for which it was written. I too would have been pleased to see the charm of this arrangement, had I had the mental leisure to think of it. But my mind was on other things. All the players, boys and girls alike, were beginning to exclaim in surprise at my stupidity in not snatching the ring. I was engrossed in watching Albertine, sitting there in all her beauty, her gaiety and her indifference to me, unaware that she would soon have me beside her, as soon as I could catch the ring in the right hands, having first made sure that she could not suspect me of having done it by design, for this ploy, I knew, would only annoy her. Some of her long tresses having come undone in the heat of the game, clusters of curls hung about her cheeks, the crisp dark
brown setting off the perfect pink of her complexion. Getting closer to her, I murmured in her ear, ‘Your hair’s like Laura Dianti’s and Eleanor of Aquitaine’s, or her descendant who was Chateaubriand’s sweetheart.114 I wish you would always let your hair hang a little loose like that.’ The ring was suddenly in the hands of the person beside her: I grabbed at them, forced them open and snatched it; he was the one who had to take my place in the middle, and I sat myself down beside Albertine. Only a few minutes before, I had been envying this fellow who, each time I saw him slide his hands to and fro along the string, could touch hers. Now that I had the chance to do the same, I was too shy to seek her touch and too excited to enjoy it, conscious of nothing but the accelerated and painful thudding of my own heart. At one point, Albertine leaned towards me, a conspiratorial look on her plump pink face, pretending to have the ring, so as to trick the one in the middle into looking away from where it really was. I was perfectly aware that this feint was the purpose of her suggestive glances; yet there was a thrill in this glimpse into a secret shared between us, even one that was mere make-believe for the duration of a game, which, though non-existent, instantly seemed a possibility, a delicious consummation to be wished for. In that moment of intoxication, I sensed a tiny squeeze of Albertine’s hand on mine, a faint caress of her finger between my own, and I caught a wink from her that she meant to be barely perceptible. All at once a host of hopes, which had been invisible to me, took firm shape, and my joy sang within me: ‘She’s taking advantage of the game to let me know how much she likes me!’ My song was cut off by a furious stage-whisper from Albertine: ‘Take the thing, would you! I’ve been trying to pass it to you for about half an hour!’ Abashed and deflated, I lost my grip on the string; the chap in the middle saw the ring and dived on it; and I had to go back into the middle, where, as the shuffling hands did their frantic shuttle round me, I stood desperate and despised, the butt of all the girls’ scorn, trying to laugh it off when I felt like crying, while Albertine kept saying, ‘People that don’t want to play properly or just try to spoil it for the others shouldn’t play. Next time we want to play this, Andrée, we’ll just make sure he doesn’t come. Or if he does come, then I shan’t.’ Andrée, who found the game too easy and who was still singing her little ‘Greenwood’ song, which Rosemonde had taken up too, in half-hearted imitation, said to me, trying to make up for Albertine’s complaints, ‘You know Les Creuniers that you said you wanted to see – they’re not far from here, along a lovely little lane. If you like, I’ll take you there, and these sillies can stay here and go on behaving like eight-year olds.’ Andrée was always very nice to me, so as we walked I told her everything about Albertine that might endear me to the latter and make her love me. Andrée said she was also very fond of Albertine and thought she was a dear; but the complimentary things I said about her friend did not seem much to her liking. Then, half-way down the little lane, I stood still, as the soft flutter of a childhood memory brushed my heart: I had just recognized, from the indentations of the shiny leaves which overhung the threshold, a hawthorn bush, which since the end of spring, alas, had been bare of all blossom. A fragrance of forgotten months of Mary and long-lost Sunday afternoons, beliefs and fallacies surrounded me. I wished I could grasp it as it passed. Andrée, seeing me pause, showed her charming gift of insight by letting me commune for a moment with the leaves of the little tree: I asked after its blossom, those hawthorn flowers which are like blithe young girls, a little silly, flirtatious and faithful. ‘Those young ladies left long ago,’ said the leaves, possibly reflecting that, for someone who professed to be such a close friend, I was very uninformed about their habits. I was a close friend, though one who, despite his promises, had lost touch with them for many years. Yet, just as Gilberte had been my first sweetheart among the girls, they had been my first among the flowers. ‘Yes, I know, I replied, they go away about the middle of June. But it’s a pleasure to see the spot here where they lived. My mother brought them up to see me in my bedroom at Combray, when I was ill. And we used to meet in church on Saturday evenings during the month of Mary. Are they allowed to go here too? – Of course! My young ladies are actually much in demand at the nearest parish church, Saint-Denis-du-Désert. – One can see them now, you mean? – No, no, not till the month of May next year. – And can I be sure they’ll be there? – Every year, without fail. – I’m just not sure I can find my way back to this exact spot … – Of course you will! My young ladies are so gay, they never stop laughing, except to sing hymns – you can’t mistake them, you’ll recognize their perfume from the end of the lane.’

  I walked back towards Andrée and went on singing Albertine’s praises. I spoke so emphatically that I had no doubt she was bound to repeat my words to Albertine. Despite which, I was never to learn that Albertine heard a word of what I said about her. And yet Andrée was vastly more perceptive in things of the heart, more gifted with considerateness: to be nice to others with a carefully chosen word or a thoughtful glance, to keep to herself a remark which might hurt somebody’s feelings, to sacrifice (while making it appear that it was no sacrifice) an hour of possible play-time, even an outing to a matinée or a garden-party, for a friend who was feeling sad, so as to show him or her that she preferred such simple moments to indulging in frivolous pastimes, these were everyday acts of kindness for Andrée. Then, when you came to know her a little better, she put you in mind of those people whose poltroonery, through their reluctance to be afraid, can rise to heroism of a particularly meritorious kind: it seemed as though in her heart of hearts there was no trace of the constant kindness which, out of moral nobility, responsiveness to others and a magnanimous desire to appear the devoted friend, so marked her conduct. From the charming things she said about the possibility of Albertine and me loving one another, one might have thought she would do everything conceivable to bring it about. Yet, perhaps unintentionally, despite all the tiny things which it was within her power to do to bring us together, she never once did any of them; and though my own efforts to be loved by Albertine may not have made her friend resort to guile, with the aim of thwarting my desire, I wish I could swear they did not cause her anger; though if they did, she hid it well, and her own sense of decency may have made her resist it. Andrée’s behaviour showed many touches of kindness that Albertine would have been incapable of; yet I had no conviction of Andrée’s genuine goodness of heart, such as I later came to have of Albertine’s. Andrée’s soft-hearted indulgence of Albertine’s exuberant frivolity expressed itself in words and smiles full of friendliness; and her actions too were those of a friend. I was to see her, day after day, trying to promote the happiness of this friend who was poorer than she was, by letting her share a little in the luxury she could afford; and without the slightest self-interest, she put herself to more trouble than a courtier seeking to ingratiate himself with a monarch. If anybody expressed sympathy with the plight of Albertine in her poverty, it was always Andrée, full of a plaintive gentleness, who found the words of sympathy and charm; and she put herself out for Albertine much more than she would ever have done for a friend who was rich. However, if anyone should hint that Albertine was perhaps not as poor as it might be thought, a faint cloud would veil Andrée’s eyes and brow, and she seemed to be in a bad mood. If it was suggested that Albertine’s marriage prospects might not be as bad as was supposed, Andrée scotched the notion and repeated in a furious tone, ‘Of course the girl’s unmarriageable! I don’t need to be told – I think it’s terrible!’ As for myself, she was the only one of the whole group of girls who would never have repeated to me some hurtful thing that had been said about me; nor was this all – if I myself told her of some such thing, she would pretend to disbelieve it, or else she explained it away as meaning something quite innocuous. These qualities, taken together, are what is known as tact. It is to be found in the man who compliments you on having fought a duel, then adds that there was no need for you to take up the insult, thereby magnifying in your own eyes the co
urage you showed without being obliged to. Such a man is the opposite of those people who greet the same event with the words, ‘What a bore it must have been to fight a duel! Although of course you couldn’t let him get away with such an insult – you really had no choice.’ However, there being pros and cons in all things, if the pleasure taken by friends in retailing to us something insulting said about us, or at least their indifference to its potential to hurt us, proves they are deficient in fellow-feeling, at least at the moment when they are speaking, sticking their pins into us, stabbing us with their knives as though we were some sort of stuffed dummy, then the contrary art of always hiding from us whatever nasty things they may have heard about our actions, or the private views they may have formed about these same actions, may prove that this other group of friends, the tactful ones, are experts in dissimulation. Not that there need be anything bad about that, if it means they are incapable of thinking evil, or if the evil spoken of us wounds them as they know it would wound us. This was the conclusion I came to about Andrée, though I could never be completely sure.