I sensed that Albertine was giving up for my sake some plan arranged beforehand of which she refused to tell me, and that there was someone else who would be as unhappy as I was. Seeing that what she had intended to do was out of the question, since I insisted up accompanying her, she was giving it up altogether. She knew that the loss was not irremediable. For, like all women who have a number of irons in the fire, she could rely on something that never fails: suspicion and jealousy. Of course she did not seek to arouse them, quite the contrary. But lovers are so suspicious that they instantly scent out falsehood. With the result that Albertine, being no better than anyone else, knew from experience (without for a moment imagining that she owed it to jealousy) that she could always be sure of not losing the people she had jilted for an evening. The unknown person whom she was deserting for me would be hurt, would love her all the more for that (although Albertine did not know that this was the reason), and, so as not to prolong the agony, would return to her of his own accord, as I should have done. But had no desire either to give pain to another, or to tire myself, or to enter upon the terrible path of investigation, if multiform, unending vigilance. "No, Albertine, I don't want to spoil your pleasure. You can go to your lady at Infreville, or rather the person for whom she is a pseudonym, it's all the same to me. The real reason why I'm not coming with you is that you don't want me to, because the outing with me is not the one you wanted - the proof of it is that you've contradicted yourself at least five times without noticing it" Poor Albertine was afraid that her contradictions, which she had not noticed had been more serious than they were.
Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 828-829
Marcel and Albertine are in the middle of an argument, which we'll revisit tomorrow. Albertine's lies have become tangled and clearly obvious, or at least they have to Marcel. They've reached the point in the argument where they've passed beyond deciphering the truth (which is not the same as post-truth; yeah, I know, I can't let our great national travesty go) to the stage of assured mutual destruction, where all that matters is inflicting pain. Marcel says, "No, Albertine, I don't want to spoil your pleasure. You can go to your lady at Infreville, or rather the person for whom she is a pseudonym, it's all the same to me." Now of course, classically, he he just confided to us that he "had no desire to give pain to another, or to tire myself, or to enter upon the terrible path of investigation." We are always the worst judge of our own actions, even Proust (or at least the fictive Proust). This is one of the chief reasons why I hate to argue - I lose track of myself and my own motives so quickly. My ex-wife, a very wise woman (accept in her choice of husbands), claimed that I was hard to argue with because I immediately went for the jugular; sadly, I think she was/is completely correct, and it is is prominently featured on the laundry lists of personal flaws I'm striving to overcome.
It is interesting that Proust proposes that Albertine, "like all women who have a number of irons in the fire," always made use of suspicion and jealousy, even if she did so unconsciously. Albertine knew, again, maybe unconsciously, that she "could always be sure to not losing the people she had jilted for an evening." Instead, that person "would be hurt, would love her all the more for that." And, yes, once again the perversity of human desire.
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