"I beg of you, my darling girl, no more of that trick riding you were practicing the other day. Just think, Albertine, if you were to have an accident?*
Of course I did not wish her any harm. But how delighted I should have been if, with her horses, she had taken it into her head to ride off somewhere, wherever she chose, and never come back to my house again! How it could have simplified everything, that she should go and live happily somewhere else, I did not even wish to know where!
"Oh! I know you wouldn't survive me for forty-eight hours. You'd kill yourself."*
Thus did we exchange lying speeches. But a truth more profound than that which we would utter were we sincere may sometimes be expressed and announced by another channel than that of sincerity.
Marcel Proust, The Captive, p. 116
One of the things about Remembrance of Things Past that we haven't discussed (I don't know if I have that much energy) is the process of preparing a final version of the novel itself, mainly because I was using this as a mechanism to journey through my own past and leaving the commentary on Proust's epic itself to those better prepared to do so. All works carry the fingerprints of an editor on them, even if the editor is the author her/himself. I suppose this really resonates with me because I'm a remarkably sloppy writer, who tends to just throw ideas at the page, especially the virtual one, and keep editing away draft after draft until it turns into something through the force of its own inertia. In the case of Remembrance of Things Past you have both Proust the editor, and also those who worked on the novel after Proust's death (the last couple volumes being published posthumously). Again, without going into great detail on it, there are times where we have passages that were in his manuscript but didn't make the novel (I know, you're thinking "wait, there are sentences that Proust didn't actually include?"). Anyway, here's an example:
Page 116. In the place of this passage, the manuscript contains the following: --
"What? You wouldn't kill yourself after all?" she said with a laugh.
"No, but it would be the greatest sorrow that I could possibly imagine." And since, although living exclusively with me, and having become extremely intelligent, she none the less remained mysteriously in tune with the atmosphere of the world outside - as the roses in her bedroom flowers again in the spring - and followed as though by a pre-established accord (for she spoke to almost no one) the charmingly idiotic fashions of feminine speech, she said to me: "Is it really true, that great big fib?" And indeed she must, if not love me more than I loved her, at least infer from my niceness to her that my tenderness was deeper than it was in reality, for she added: "You're very sweet. I don't doubt it at all, I know you're fond of me." And she went on: "Ah, well, perhaps it's my destiny to die in a riding accident. I've often had a presentiment of it, for I don't care a fig. I accept whatever fate has in store for me."
I believe that, on the contrary, she had neither a presentiment of nor a contempt for death, and that her words were lacking in sincerity. I am sure in any case that there was no sincerity in mine, as to the great sorrow I could imagine. For, feeling that Albertine could henceforth only deprive me of pleasures or cause me sorrows, that I would be ruining my life for her sake, I remember the wish that Swann had once formed apropos of Odette, and without daring to wish for Albertine's death, I told myself that it would have restored to me, in the worlds of the Sultan, my peace of mind and freedom of action.
Marcel Proust, "Addenda," p. 1114
I guess I can see why this section never made it into the final draft of Remembrance of Things Past, although in some ways it's a pity. Proust has been hinting at Albertine's death for a while now, and maybe this is just too clumsily obvious that it's going to happen. Still, it gives Marcel the opportunity to point out that, despite his sometimes words to the contrary, that he would be devastated by her passing. This also allows Proust to point out that, despite Albertine's occasional words to the contrary, "she had neither a presentiment of nor a contempt for death, and that her words were lacking in sincerity." I know I've said this before, but I'll repeat it nonetheless. I've often opined that anyone who tells you that they've never looked at their partner and, in an almost comical fashion, saw the pile of insurance money sitting in their place is a liar. We all imagine our SO leaving one day and not returning, although few of us wish them a true ill fate. Rather, we just have reached a point where we can't handle it any more, and we lack the moral courage or are so crushed by guilt, that we'd be happy if someone else just swept them away. What's ironic here is that at the very same time that Marcel is insanely jealous of Albertine being with others, either men or women, he'd probably welcome her running off with them. As Proust tells us in the section that made it into the novel: "Of course I did not wish her any harm. But how delighted I should have been if, with her horses, she had taken it into her head to ride off somewhere, wherever she chose, and never come back to my house again! How it could have simplified everything, that she should go and live happily somewhere else, I did not even wish to know where!" This allows us to be free and retain the moral high ground, and also control what we most want to control: memory.
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