It was not, however, his music alone that Albertine played me; the pianola was to us at times like a scientific magic lantern (historical and geographical), and on the walls of this room in Paris, supplied with inventions more modern than my room at Combray, I would see extending before me, according to whether Albertine played me Rameau or Borodin, now an eighteenth-century tapestry sprinkled with cupids and roses, now the Eastern steppe in which sounds are muffled by the boundless distances and the soft carpet of snow. And these fleeting decorations were as it happened the only ones in my room, for although, at the time of inheriting my aunt Leonie's fortune, I had resolved to become a collector like Swann, to buy pictures and statues, all my money went on horses, a motor-car, dresses for Albertine. But did not my room contain a work of art more precious than all these - Albertine herself? I looked at her. It was strange to me to think that it was she, she whom I had for so long thought it impossible even to know, who now, a wild beast tamed, a rosebush to which I had acted as the prop, the framework, the trellis of its life, was seated thus, day by day, at home, by my side, before the pianola, with her back to my bookcase. Her shoulders, which I had seen dropping sullenly when she was carrying her golf-clubs, now leaned against my books. Her shapely legs, which on the first day I had with good reason imagined as having manipulated throughout her girlhood the pedals of a bicycle, now rose and fell alternately upon those of the pianola, upon which Albertine, who had acquired an elegance which made me feel her more my own, because it was from myself that it came, pressed her shoes of cloth of gold. Her fingers, at one time accustomed to handle-bars, now rested upon the key like those of a St. Cecilia. Her throat, the curve of which, seen from my bed, was strong and full, at that distance and in the lamplight appeared pinker, less pink however than her face, bent forward in profile, which my gaze, issuing from the innermost depths of myself, charged with memories and burning with desire, invested with such a brilliancy, such an intensity of life that its relief seemed to stand out and turn with the same almost magic power as on the day, in the hotel at Balbec, when my vision was clouded by my overpowering desire to kiss her; and I prolonged each of its surfaces beyond what I was able to see and beneath what concealed it from me and made me feel all the more strongly - eyelids which half hid her eyes, half that covered the upper parts of her cheeks - the relief of those superimposed planes; her eyes (like two facets that alone have yet been polished in the matrix in which an opal is still embedded), become more resistant than metal while remaining more brilliant than light, disclosed, in the midst of the blind matter overhanging them as it were the mauve, silken wings of a butterfly placed under glass; and her dark, curling hair, presenting different conformations whenever she turned to ask me what she was to play next, now a splendid wing, sharp at the tip, broad at the base, black, feathered and triangular, now massing the contours of its curls in a powerful and varied chain, full of crests, of watersheds, or precipices, with its soft, creamy texture, so rich and so multiple, seeming to exceed the variety that nature habitually achieves and to correspond rather to the desire of a sculptor who accumulated difficulties in order to emphasise the suppleness, the vibrancy, the fullness, the vitality of his creation, brought out more strongly, by interrupting in order to cover it, the animated curve and, as it were, the rotation of the smooth, roseate face, with its glazed matt relief as of painted wood.
Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 388-390
"But did not my room contain a work of art more precious than all these - Albertine herself?"
We've talked so often about Marcel's fascination with keeping Albertine captive (and it's clearly not too strong a word, and Proust specifically uses it himself). Part of it is clearly his desire to control her, but part of it is also his desire to own her (not that they aren't in most ways one and the same). Albertine is a work of art, and Marcel admits that had "resolved to become a collector like Swann, to buy pictures and statues . . ." In the end one of the items in Swann's collection was Odette, and Marcel appears to be following his lead. Although, are not all men like this? The term "trophy wife" has a life of its own, even if the trophy wives themselves often don't. However, in the process of owning, of commodifying the woman, does it not insure a negative transformation? Proust writes, "It was strange to me to think that it was she, she whom I had for so long thought it impossible even to know, who now, a wild beast tamed, a rosebush to which I had acted as the prop, the framework, the trellis of its life, was seated thus, day by day . . ." Albertine has clearly been bent to fit his life. Part of this ownership also implies a surface-level appreciation. I included this section, not only because it sets up tomorrow's deeper analysis, but also because it tells us so much about Marcel's relationship with Albertine, but maybe all relationships. He mentions Albertine's shoulders, her "shapely legs," her fingers, her throat, her eyelids, her cheeks, her hair, but he also understands that so much of what lies beneath is hidden from him, and it's doubtless because he's not looking. Marcel reflects on " . . . its surfaces beyond what I was able to see and beneath what concealed it from me . . ." He has collected her body, which he seems to appreciate aesthetically although doesn't seem to desire carnally - it's more important that she cannot give it to another man or woman - but all he owns is an assortment of surfaces.
No comments:
Post a Comment