On the former hypothesis - if the future Mme de Vaugoubert had always been so heavily mannish - nature, by a fiendish and beneficent ruse, bestows on the girl the deceptive aspect of a man. And the youth who has no love for women and is seeking to be cured greets with joy this subterfuge of discovering a bride who reminds him of a market porter. In the alternative case, if the woman has not at first these masculine characteristics, she adopts them by degrees, to please her husband, and even unconsciously, by that sort of mimicry which makes certain flowers assume the appearance of the insects which they seek to attract. Her regret at not being loved, at not being a man, makes her mannish. Indeed, quite apart from the case that we are now considering, who has not remarked how often the most normal couples end by resembling each other, at times even by exchanging qualities? A former German Chancellor, Prince von Bulow, married an Italian. In the course of time it was remarked on the Pincio how much Italian delicacy the Teutonic husband had absorbed, and how much German coarseness the Italian princess. To go outside the confines of the laws which we are now tracing, everyone knows an eminent French diplomat whose origins were suggested only by his name, one of the most illustrious in the East. As he matured, as he aged, the Oriental whom no one had even suspected in him emerged, and now when we see him we regret the absence of the fez that would complete the picture.
Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 670
Proust arrives at the Guermantes reception, and proceeds into another, at first blush, interminable, or to use the words of my friend David Rous, "impenetrable", soiree. With Proust you have to be patient, as there are always brilliant observations in even the most "impenetrable" section. Here he is reflecting, I would argue rather clumsily by Proustian standards, on the old chestnut about how long-time couples begin to mimic each other. It made me reflect upon my own long-time relationship, my marriage. For most of it we led a very isolated existence, and I had come to believe that I was actually a very introverted person, and it became part of my own personal narrative, so much so that when someone once pointed out to me that I was one of the most social people she knew I thought it was ridiculous. However, since our separation I've often found myself being the ringleader of our crew in generating, often out of whole cloth, social events for no other reason than for us to spend time together. Ignoring the earlier observation, I thought that maybe it was the natural response to so many years looking inward. However, I've since talked to people who knew me when I was younger who assured me that I was an actively social person then, and was very "popular," a view that I don't remember, and which fills me with dread. Still, why did I go through such a long period when I was seemingly closed off from the world. My ex-wife was an intensely private person, and I'm sure in some ways I adapted to that - which is not a criticism of her because she gave me far more than she ever took from me - but it has to be more complicated that that. Over the years I've taken several of those personality tests and I inevitably test out as being introverted, although that can also be a self-fulfilling prophecy if you view yourself a certain way and are bright enough to figure out the point of the test. So, did I actually blossom as I hit my 50s (which, truthfully, has been a wonderful decade, and, with the exception of general physical decline, has been the best years of my life)? And, if I did blossom at this later stage, is this a result of maturity or wisdom or just not caring what anyone thinks?
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