Proust's Overcoat - Lorenza Foschini [23]
The feelings of disdain Guérin used to harbor for Marthe gradually subdued over time. Reassured of her good faith, he began to pay social calls on her. The workings of her heart remained impenetrable, but ultimately a certain trust was established between them. Guérin, habitually curious, learned that Marthe’s daughter was the primary focus of her anxiety. Marthe confessed to him that she found Suzy cold and unforgiving with her. That the young woman was venal and self-absorbed was only too clear to Guérin.
Economic difficulties forced Marthe to sell her house. She had to content herself with renting part of a large apartment whose entrance had to be shared with the proprietor. She asked Guérin how he thought she could manage this when people came to visit. He proposed that she post the name Proust on the door next to the names of the other people in the house. Marthe became indignant and exclaimed: “I’ll never use that name again.”
Guérin continued to visit her even when she was quite old, providing her with a little company. One evening, after restating his belief in her brother-in-law’s genius, he screwed up his courage and asked her directly why she had never read his book. In the dry-toned voice of a well-brought-up woman of the bourgeoisie who knew her place, she calmly stated that she knew what he wrote was only lies.
Philip Kolb, the man who devoted a large part of his life to bringing coherence to the infinite mass of Marcel’s correspondence, fared no better. To the insistent questions put to her, Marthe gave him equally acerbic responses. Regarding the anecdotes, the details, but especially her personal memories of Proust, Marthe, irritated, offered the American specialist this lapidary judgment: “Monsieur, my brother-in-law was one very bizarre person.”
Not another word.
“The tombs in the Père Lachaise cemetery are open books that reveal their verdicts,” Giuseppe Marcenaro wrote in his book Cemeteries.
In the northwest section of Père Lachaise cemetery, beneath the bare slab of dark marble where Marcel rests along with his father, Adrien; his mother, Jeanne; and his brother, Robert; Marthe Dubois-Amiot also lies. Never would she have thought of sharing her eternal repose with the Proust family.
Many years later, in the 1960s, Guérin continued to make the trip between his house in the Val d’Oise and the factory of Parfums d’Orsay in Puteaux. His life went on as usual, and the years brought him new friends and new adventures. One day, while out riding in his car near Chantilly, he noticed a new antiques store by the side of the road. Curious as ever, he pulled over, parked his car, and went inside. Behind a table laden with goods, he spotted the engaging smile of the solicitous owner. Thirty years had passed but he knew right away it was Werner. They embraced like old compatriots who find each other again after many years. They sat and talked and caught up with the same enthusiasm they had long before; naturally the subject of Proust’s overcoat came up.
In Werner’s company, Guérin had the feeling that time had not moved; his memories had such freshness about them. He began to speak to Werner about his current high esteem for Marthe, and, quite moved, referred to the sad life to which she had been reduced.
Werner would have none of it, rejecting outright the notion of Marthe’s sad life. A large smile lit up his face. (Guérin was once again reminded of the boys of Pigalle.) He asked Guérin to consider why it was that Marthe had been so considerate to him, a humble peddler; why it might have been that she decided to bestow her brother-in-law’s fur-lined coat upon him, to keep