Proust's Overcoat - Lorenza Foschini [8]
Was it finding himself so far out of his element, all the while being absolutely unwilling to abdicate control, that gave Robert the skittish expression he maintained until he died? His reticent and evasive manner contrasted sharply with that of his younger brother, who, even though seriously ill, had managed to the end to maintain a lightness, an elegance, and also the sense of irony of a young man destined not to know old age.
At the testimonial dinner in honor of the renowned oncologist, no one was aware of Robert Proust’s “other job.” Across the table, Guérin had a chance to study the doctor and his wife, Marthe. No one would have mistaken them for a happily married couple. Robert was quite corpulent and had a melancholic, repressed air. Marthe, dressed in black, was very thin, emaciated. Though she was withdrawn and obviously in a dreadful state, Guérin approached her as soon as the meal was over, eagerly on the trail of new stories and revelations, much too determined to be deterred from unearthing further secrets of the Proust family legacy. Marthe had gotten up and gone to sit in front of the fire, upright and severe. Guérin followed and sat himself on a low stool at her feet.
Deferentially, he whispered to her about the privilege bestowed upon him by her husband when, after an office consultation, the doctor had allowed his patient to gaze upon some of his brother’s notebooks.
The woman listened, a smile frozen on her face, and made no reply. He carried on speaking about the manuscripts, letters, and papers the doctor and she had inherited and the fascination they must provide.
Mme Proust had an almost strident, nasal voice, and it rose above the din in the room to insist he not speak to her of such things. She and her husband were mired in a sea of papers. There was an unbelievable quantity. But they were certainly going to deal with those masses of notebooks and endless piles of letters. They would put fire to everything. They would burn them all.
She regained her calm demeanor, and then smiled broadly at him. She seemed rather pleased with herself.
Guérin was stunned by this reply. He watched the flames darting out of the fireplace beside him. Flames such as these, he thought, would be trained on the earthly remains of a genius. He got up and left the room, dazed and incredulous, inconsolable, thinking that one didn’t need war or revolution for there to be destruction. Families take it as their right to reduce to ashes any precious vestiges they choose.
DR. ADRIEN PROUST.
Marthe Dubois-Amiot, whose family came from Aix-les-Bains, wasn’t always so bitter and irritable. When she had come into the Proust family as a bride in 1903, she was a gracious young woman, and like most young women of that time, somewhat naive; enthusiastically, she entered into the arranged marriage. This act of joining together two families had been