That vague fear which I had felt at the Verdurins' that Albertine might leave me had at first subsided. When I returned home, it had been with the feeling that I myself was a captive, not with that of finding a captive in the house. But the fear that had subsided had gripped me even more violently when, as soon as I informed Albertine that I had been to the Verdurins', I saw her face veiled with a look of enigmatic irritation which moreover was not making itself visible for the first time. I knew perfectly well that it was only the crystallisation in the flesh of reasoned grievances, of ideas clear to the person who forms but does not express them, a synthesis rendered visible but not therefore rational, which he who gathers its precious residue from the face of the beloved endeavours in his turn, so that he may understand what is occurring in her, to reduce by analysis to its intellectual elements. The approximate equation of that unknown quantity which Albertine's thoughts were to me had given me, more of less the following: "I knew his suspicions, I was sure that he would attempt to verify them, and so that I might not hinder him, he has worked out his little plan in secret." But if this was the state of mind (which she had never expressed to me) in which Albertine was living, must she not regard with horror, no longer have the strength to lead, might she not at any moment decide to terminate, a life in which, if she was, in desire at any rate, guilty, she must feel herself suspected, hunted, prevented from ever yielding to her desires, without thereby disarming my jealousy, and in which, if she was innocent in intention and fact, she had had every right, for some time past, to feel discouraged, seeing that, ever since Balbec, where she had shown so much perseverance in avoiding the risk of ever being alone with Andree, until this very day when she had agreed not to go to the Verdurins' and not to stay at the Trocadero, she had not succeeded in regaining my trust?
Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 355-356
" . . . must she not regard with horror, no longer have the strength to lead, might she not at any moment decide to terminate, a life in which, if she was, in desire at any rate, guilty, she must feel herself suspected, hunted, prevented from ever yielding to her desires, without thereby disarming my jealousy, and in which, if she was innocent in intention and fact, she had had every right, for some time past, to feel discouraged, seeing that, ever since Balbec, where she had shown so much perseverance in avoiding the risk of ever being alone with Andree, until this very day when she had agreed not to go to the Verdurins' and not to stay at the Trocadero, she had not succeeded in regaining my trust?" At the absolute least it's very easy to grow frustrated with Marcel for his mad jealousy of Albertine. My supposition is that most people, especially women, would feel far more than simple frustration. Still, for all of his myriad flaws, Marcel is starting to understand. Yes, he's still maddening, such as his observation that, "When I returned hom, it had been with the feeling that I myself was a captive . . ." Now, to be fair, we've all been there. As I've often opined, when you're in a happy relationship the happiest time of the week is Friday afternoon because you're facing an entire weekend with the woman you love, but if you're in a terrible relationship Friday afternoons are horrible because you're getting ready to spend days sitting shiva over a corpse. You go from being so insanely excited the be with the other person that you don't actually get out of the entry way of the apartment before you're having sex (afterwards the question you ask each other is not whether you locked the door, but did you pull the door closed) to feigning sleep to limit your time together. But see, even here Marcel is conflicted, as those in love always are. On returning from the Verdurins' party they, mainly he, had decided to break up, but at the party itself Marcel had felt the vague fear that "Albertine might leave me." Is he breaking up with her simply because he's terrified that she might break up with him? Is it that simple? It seems idiotic, but raise your hand if you haven't done the same thing (or at least considered it). We've talked about his intimately detailed memory of lying in his bed hoping against hope that his mother would leave her social responsibilities at the soiree behind long enough to come upstairs and kiss him good night, and whether or not this sense of abandonment and loss and helplessness explains so many of his actions. Is Albertine his captive because he can control her, can possess something, even as he knows that this experience is destructive for both of them? Proust tells us that Albertine "must feel herself suspected, hunted, prevented from ever yielding to her desires" and avoided the "risk of ever being alone with Andree" all to "please" him. Yes, part of this relates to a desire on her part to not get caught (if she's guilty of something - more on this later) or to inspire his jealousy (at least when she's not trying intentionally to tweak him), but it's also related to her love for him (even if she loves others it doesn't mean that she doesn't love him). And no doubt he loves her. Love, no one gets out alive.
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