My Years With Proust - Day 412

My exaltation was now at its height and raised everything round my accordingly.  It melted my heart that the Verdurins should have sent to meet us at the station.  I said as much to the Princess, who seemed to think that I was greatly exaggerating so simple an act of courtesy.  I know that she admitted subsequently to Cottard that she found me remarkably enthusiastic; he replied that I was too emotional, that I needed sedatives and ought to take to knitting.  I pointed out to the Princess every tree, every little house smothered in its mantle of roses, I made her admire everything.  I would have liked to take her in my arms and press her to my heart.  She told me that she could see that I had a gift for painting, that I ought to take up sketching, that she was surprised that nobody had told me before.  And she confessed that the country was indeed picturesque.  We drove through the little village of Englesqueville perched on its hill - Engleverti villa, Brichot informed us.  "But are you quite sure that this evening's dinner party will take place in spite of Dechambre's death, Princess?" he went on, without stopping to think that the arrival at the station of the carriage in which we were sitting was in itself an answer to his question.

   "Yes," said the Princess, "M. Verdurin insisted that it should not be put off, precisely in order to keep his wife from thinking.  And besides, after never failing for all these years to entertain as Wednesdays, such a change in her habits would have been bound to upset her.  Her nerves are velly [sic] now.  M. Verdurin was particularly pleased that you were coming to dine this evening, because he knew that it would be a great distraction for Mme Verdurin," the Princess said to me, forgetting her pretence of having never heard my name before.  "I think that it will be as well not to say anything in front of Mme Verdurin," she added.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 928-929

Marcel continues his charming time with the Verdurins, an experience that made him so happy, so emotional, that Cottard proposed "that I was too emotional, that I needed sedatives and ought to take to knitting."  There have been times in life (doubtless far more than I've earned) when I felt just as insanely happy: the birth of my son; 28 June 1993, which always goes down as my happiest day; my trip to Lucca, Italy many years ago, etc., when my heart was so full that I would have mirrored Proust, both in my exuberance and also in annoying all around me.  "I pointed out to the Princess every tree, every little house smothered in its mantle of roses.  I made her admire everything."  When we are at our happiest how can we not want, and expect, everyone around use to share in that happiness?  Maybe it's the same way with new converts to a faith; they're not actually trying to serve as emissaries for Jesus or Buddha or Allah, but simply can't help sharing their sublime happiness.  Maybe we should cut them some slack and not groan at their pretensions.

On the other side of the spectrum we have Mme Verdurin, who is tremendously sad because of the death of Dechamtre.  This threatens to cancel the dinner, but her husband "insisted that it should not be put off, precisely in order to keep his wife from thinking."