. . . Suddenly, although I had heard no bell, Francoise opened the door to introduce Albertine, who entered smiling, silent, plump, containing in the plenitude of her body, made ready so that I might continue living them, come in search of me, the days we had spent together in that Balbec to which I had never since returned. No doubt, whenever we see again a person with whom our relations - however trivial they may be - have now changed, it is like a juxtaposition of two different periods. For this, there is no need for a former mistress to call around to see us as a friend; all that is required is the visit to Paris of someone we have known day by day in a certain kind of life, and that this life should have ceased for us, if only a week ago. On each of Albertine's smiling, questioning, self-conscious features I could read the questions: "And what about Madame de Villeparisis? And the dancing-master? And the pastry-cook?" When she sat down, her back seemed to be saying: "Well, well, there are no cliffs here, but yo don't mind if I sit down beside you, all the same, as I used to do at Balbec?" She was like an enchantress offering me a mirror that reflected time. In this she resembled all the people whom we seldom see now but with whom at one time we lived on more intimate terms. With Albertine, however, there was something more than this. True, even in our daily encounters at Balbec, I had always been surprised when I caught sight of her, so changeable was her appearance. but now she was scarcely recognisable. Freed from the pink haze that shrouded them, her features had emerged in sharp relief like those of a statue. She had another face, or rather she had a face at last; her body too had grown. There remained scarcely anything now of the sheath in which she had been enclosed and on the surface of which, at Balbec, her future outline had been barely visible.
Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, pp. 363-364
"She was like an enchantress offering me a mirror that reflected time."
And Albertine has unexpectedly returned to visit Marcel in Paris, just as he was preparing to head out for the evening. Everyone knows that Albertine plays a huge role in Remembrance of Things Past so it was just a matter of time before she made a reappearance. What is different this time is that she is the one seeking him out, but why? When reading this passage, and reflecting upon this question, I kept thinking of Sei Shonagon's The Pillow Book, a work which I have often used in class and which I always recommend to my students. A thousand years ago she was a contemporary, although apparently not a friend, of Lady Murakami, the author of The Tale of Genji. Between the two of them they produced two of the greatest works of Japanese literature. Not a novel, but rather a serious of brilliant and often biting observations, The Pillow Book usually feels completely modern in a way that The Tale of Genji does not. In a section entitled "Things That Have Lost Their Power' Shonagon writes of, not surprisingly, things that have lost their power":
A large boat which is high and dry in a creek at ebbtide.
A woman who has taken off her false locks to comb the short hair that remains.
A large tree that has been blown down in a gale and lies on its side with its roots in the air.
The retreating figure of a sumo wrestler who has been defeated in a match.
A man of no importance reprimanding an attendant.
An old man who removes his hat, uncovering his scanty top-knot.
A woman, who is angry with her husband about some trifling matter, leaves home and goes somewhere to hide. She is certain that he will rush about looking for her; but he does nothing of the kind and shows the most infuriating indifference. Since she cannot stay away for ever, she swallows her pride and returns.
I bring this up, not simply because I love The Pillow Book and need to give it a reread, but also because I think it gives us an insight into Albertine's reasons for suddenly dropping into see Marcel. He's not in love with her anymore - at least for the moment (and that brings up all sorts of room for discussion/debate down the road, both in regards to Marcel and to all of us) - and thus she has lost her power over him. In all of Shonagon's examples there is a mixture of sadness and pity and disdain, as well as a hint of the pathetic. Is this what we're supposed to feel for Albertine at this moment? If nothing else, why has she lost her power of Marcel (at least for this moment)? He notes that she has changed, and was "scarcely recognisable", although that can both reflect her altered physical state and his changing emotional state.
Proust writes, "She was like an enchantress offering me a mirror that reflected time." When I was engaged to the lovely young British woman a few years ago I often found it painful to look at pictures of the two of us together. It was only then that I realized the tremendous age difference. When we were together on a daily basis it never occurred to me, but it was only we were held up to a mirror that that it hit me. Looking at pictures of the two of us together didn't make me feel virile or proud (although I was incredibly proud of her and to be with her) but instead it just made me feel sad. I could look at the pictures of her on my desk or my nightstand for hours on end, but found it difficult to look at pictures of us together. A lot of it, naturally, was just vanity, but what is more beautiful than youth and beauty and vitality, and more enervating for those who don't possess these attributes any more? That said, I think it also made me sad because it was a startling reminder that I would die a lot earlier and thus fail her, leaving her alone when she was in her fifties. That "mirror that reflected time" is also held up to us when we meet people that we haven't seen in decades. Some people never seem to age, but others have so clearly suffered the ravages of time that after exchanging names we, hopefully gracefully, find ourselves staring at them intently and trying desperately to pick out the remnants of who they used to be. And we think to ourselves, "My God, they've aged poorly." Then we come home, and look in the mirror, and have to come to terms with the fact that they probably thought the same thing about us (and probably more truthfully) - and suddenly we understand the passage of time in a way that we don't when we lie to ourselves before the mirror every morning.
Oh, and I thinking I'm officially adding The Pillow Book to the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius as potential blog "texts" for when/if I finish meandering through Remembrance of Things Past.
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