The same bouts of gloom begin again, the same difficulty in living together makes itself felt, only a parting is no longer difficult as before; we have begun by talking about it, and have then put it into practice amicably. But these are only premonitory symptoms which we have failed to recognise. Presently, the temporary and benign separation will be succeeded by the terrible and final separation for which, without knowing it, we have paved the way.
"Come to my room in five minutes and let me see something of you, my darling one. It would [be] so nice if you would. But afterwards I shall fall asleep at once, for I'm almost dead."
It was indeed a dead woman that I saw when, presently, I entered her room. She had fallen asleep as soon as she lay down; her sheets, wrapped round her body like a shroud, had assumed, with their elegant folds, the rigidity of stone. It was as though, reminiscent of certain mediaeval Last Judgments, the head alone was emerging from the tomb, awaiting in its sleep the Archangels' trumpet. This head had been surprised by sleep almost upside down, the hair dishevelled. Seeing that expressionless body lying there, I asked myself what logarithmic table it constituted, that all the actions in which it might have been involved, from the nudge of an elbow to the brushing of a skirt, should be capable of causing me, stretched out to the infinity of all the points that it had occupied in space and time, and from time to time sharply reawakened in my memory, so intense an anguish, even though I knew that it was determined by impulses and desires of hers which in another person, in herself five years earlier or five years later, would have left me quite indifferent. It was all a lie, but a lie for which I had not the courage to seek any solution other than my own death. And so I remained, in the fur-lined coat which I had not taken off since my return from the Verdurins', beside that twisted body, that allegorical figure. Allegorising what? My death? My love? Presently I began to hear her regular breathing. I went and sat down on the edge of the bed to take that soothing cure of breath and contemplation. Then I withdrew very quietly so as not to wake her.
Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 366-367
On the one hand this is simply another example of Proust foreshadowing the tragic events from The Fugitive (spoiler alert: look away). In a rare moment when they're not bickering, Albertine says, "Come to my room in five minutes and let me see something of you, my darling one. It would [be] so nice if you would. But afterwards I shall fall asleep at once, for I'm almost dead." Yes, she's almost dead. However, on the other hand there is so much more going on in this scene, and I found it to be one of the most moving scenes in the entire novel. Proust writes: "It was indeed a dead woman that I saw when, presently, I entered her room. She had fallen asleep as soon as she lay down; her sheets, wrapped round her body like a shroud, had assumed, with their elegant folds, the rigidity of stone." Every one of us, when we're young and madly in love, have laid awake in bed staring at the sleeping face of our lover, seeing nothing but life and quiet vitality and the future. But someday it will be different. There's always that moment when we visit our parents in the hospital and this time when we wait by the side of their bed while they're asleep all we see is death on their face. Someday we will see the same thing on the face of our lover, and unlike the logic of our parent's coming demise, we will be facing the work of an illogical and inconsiderate, and thoughtless, God. Naturally, Proust sees beyond mortality. He shares, "And so I remained, in the fur-lined coat which I had not taken off since my return from the Verdurins', beside that twisted body, that allegorical figure. Allegorising what? My death? My love?" He could wake her, and might of at a different point in their relationship and in his own life, but he left her alone. "The I withdrew very quietly so as not to wake her."
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