Vices are another aspect of these monotonous existences which the exercise of willpower would suffice to render less painful. Both aspects were to be observed simultaneously when M. de Charlus came every day with Morel to have tea at Jupien's. A single outburst had marred this daily custom. The tailor's niece having said one day to Morel: "That's all right then, come to-morrow and I'll stand you tea," the Baron had quite justifiably considered this expression very vulgar on the lips of a person whom he regarded as almost a prospective daughter-in-law, but as he enjoyed being offensive and became intoxicated by his own indignation, instead of his simply asking Morel to give her a lesson in refinement, the whole of their homeward walk was a succession of violent scenes. In the most rude and arrogant tone the Baron said: "So your 'touch' which, I can see, is not necessarily allied to 'tact,' has hindered the normal development of your sense of smell, since you could allow that fetid expression 'stand you tea' at fifteen centimes, I suppose - to waft its stench of sewage to my regal nostrils? When you have come to the end of a violin solo, have you ever in my house been rewarded with a fart, instead of frenzied applause or a silence more eloquent still since it is due to fear of being unable to restrain, not what your young woman lavishes upon you, but the sob that you have brought to my lips?" . . .
. . . Before we come back to Jupien's shop, the author would like to say how grieved he would be if the reader were to be offended by his portrayal of such weird characters. On the one hand (and this is the less important aspect of the matter), it may be felt that the aristocracy is, in these pages, disproportionately accused of degeneracy in comparison with the other classes of society. Were this true, it would be in no way surprising. The oldest families end by displaying, in a red and bulbous nose, or a misshapen chin, characteristic signs in which everyone recognises "blood." But among these persistent and increasingly pronounced features, there are others that are not visible, to wit tendencies and tastes. It would be a more serious objection, were there any foundation for it, to say that all this is alien to us, and that we ought to extract truth from the poetry that is close at hand. Art extracted from the more familiar reality does indeed exist and its domain is perhaps the largest of any. But it is none the less true that considerable interest, not to say beauty, may be found in actions inspired by a cast of mind so remote from anything we feel, from anything we believe, that they remain incomprehensible to us, displaying themselves before our eyes like a spectacle without rhyme or reason. What could be more poetic than Xerxes, son of Darius, ordering the sea to be scourged with rods for having engulfed his fleet?
Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 37-40
This odd scene starts with M. de Charlus going on a rant directed at the tailor's niece in reaction to her use of a common turn of phrase, which wafted "its stench of sewage to my regal nostrils," and ended with breaching the wall and speaking directly to the audience.
First off, the Baron. M. de Charlus is growing more and more indiscreet and unpredictable, and you get the feeling that self-inflicted doom awaits. He seems to be somewhere King Lear and Donald Trump (which may be a false dichotomy anyway) and the more he acts out the more likely it becomes that he says the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person. One of the few advantages of growing older is that society, while also increasingly ignoring you, tends to ignore your most ridiculous if not incendiary utterances. I'm reaching the point in my own career where the students are giving more latitude because I'm passing from father figure to grandfather figure, and generally they're just happy I have my pants on. That said, no one can be a total ass all the time, especially if they have secrets to keep, and M. de Charlus, in that age, definitely had secrets to keep.
One of the many things that made Remembrance of Things Past so revolutionary, and so consistently important, is that it was, and remains, a very "modern" novel, which dealt with modern theme and dealt with them in a more modern literary and intellectual fashion. I tend to think of the author stopping to remonstrate with the "dear reader" as an older literary form and it was a little jarring to see Proust use it, although, by definition, it's all a game within a game. Is this really any different than a character from Shakespeare suddenly stopping and talking to the audience in a well-timed monologue?
I like this point: "On the one hand (and this is the less important aspect of the matter), it may be felt that the aristocracy is, in these pages, disproportionately accused of degeneracy in comparison with the other classes of society." The Marxist literary critics are right, it's always about class. Proust is a member of a specific class, so, by definition, that class is going to dominate this writings, which, in other ways, only makes sense. If I wrote a gritty detective novel it wouldn't make a lot of sense, nor would Proust writing about the struggles of the peasants (although he could have tried, I suppose, and at the very least learned something about their situation). Having said all that, I suspect that degeneracy is/was more common in the aristocracy, not only because of generations of inbreeding, but also because true degeneracy takes time and resources, which class provides - just as it provides time to read, analyze, reflect, reconsider, ruminate and write 3200 page novels.
Oh, and I'm always a sucker for any reference from literature or the ancient world.
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