My Years With Proust - Day 596

   Outside the door of Albertine's house I found a little poor girl who gazed at me with huge eyes and who looked so sweet-natured that I asked her whether she would care to come home with me, as I might have taken home a dog with faithful eyes.  She seemed pleased at the suggestion.  When I got home, I held her for some time on my knee, but very soon her presence, by making me feel too keenly Albertine's absence, became intolerable.  And I asked her to go away, after giving her a five-hundred franc note.  And yet, soon afterwards, the thought o f having some other little girl in the house with me, of never being alone without the comfort of an innocent presence, was the only thing that enabled me to endure the idea that Albertine might perhaps remain away for some time.  The spirit in which Albertine had left me was similar no doubt to that of nations who pave the way by a demonstration of their armed force for the exercise of their diplomacy.  She must have left me only in order to obtain from me better terms, greater freedom, more luxury.  In the case, of the two of us, the one who prevailed would have been myself, had I had the strength to await the moment when, seeing that she could gain nothing, she would return of her own accord.

Marcel Proust, The Fugitive, p. 440

This is one of the odder moments in Remembrance of Things Past, and, not surprisingly, it has repercussions, as Marcel is called before the police.

   At the Surete, I found the girl's parents, who insulted me and with the words "We'd rather starve," handed me back the five hundred francs which I did not want to take, and the head of the Surete who, setting himself the inimitable example of the judicial facility in repartee, seized upon a word in each sentence that I uttered for the purpose of concocting a witty and crushing retort.  My innocence of the alleged crime was never taken into consideration, for that was the sole hypothesis which nobody was willing to accept for an instant.  Nevertheless the difficulty of proving the charge enabled me to escape with this castigation, which was extremely violent for as long as the parents were in the room.  But as soon as they had gone, the head of the Surete, who had a weakness for little girls, changed his tone and admonished me man to man: "Next time, you must be more careful.  Gad, you can't pick them up as easily as that, or you'll get into trouble.  Anyhow, you'll find dozens of little girls who are better-looking than that one, and far cheaper.  It was a perfectly ridiculous amount to pay." I was so certain that he would fail to understand me if I attempted to tell him the truth that without saying a word I took advantage of his permission to withdraw.  Every passer-by, until I was safely at home, seemed to me an inspector appointed to spy on my every movement. . .

Marcel Proust, The Fugitive, p. 451

As we've discussed several times, privilege runs throughout Remembrance of Things Past. While I don't think that Marcel's motives are perverse or sinister, the act itself was at best clumsy and at worst criminal, or within walking distance of being criminal, and yet all he received was for all intents and purposes a stern remonstrance.  And even that was more pantomime than reality, as Marcel realized this his chagrin/horror/shame when the official talked to him "man to man" about the best ways to get young girls.  Maybe the fact that Marcel didn't perceive how this event might be considered inappropriate is the best example of the blindness that privilege brings.

So, what do we make of this odd story?  I keep coming back to this line: "And yet, soon afterwards, the thought o f having some other little girl in the house with me, of never being alone without the comfort of an innocent presence, was the only thing that enabled me to endure the idea that Albertine might perhaps remain away for some time." The novel begins with a young Marcel waiting in bed and hoping against hope that his mother will find time to come spend time with him before he falls asleep, and I increasingly think that the world that Proust is trying to recapture is that one, not simply the love of his mother, but rather the pristine innocence of that moment. He wanted the little girl because he needed the "comfort of an innocent presence" to make life bearable.  And maybe this is why his relationship with Albertine was doomed to failure.  Think of the number of times when he clearly infantilized her, and while a lot of it relates to the sexism of the age, it might also mirror his desire to turn her into that "innocent presence."  The problem is that we also, to use Freeland's words, exist as a Bodily Self, and if you define your lover solely by their innocence it's difficult to bend them over the back of the sofa without causing psychic (let alone physical) damage.