Mme Proust and the Kosher Kitchen (32 page)

To Sarah, thus far, the only thing Maxime resembled was a baby. People would say, “Doesn’t he look like his father?” or “Why, he’s got your eyes, Sarah,” and she would agree pleasantly but saw none of it. His little features, the mouth, the nose, and the two round black eyes, were sweet things and infinitely lovable, but they were also unformed, and reminded her of nothing. The bond she felt with him lay deeper inside her; it was that mute swelling, that warm grasping that she had sensed since pregnancy and that had been irrevocably forged by feeding him at her breast. But today, something new happened as her immediate thought about the barber was gradually replaced by something else, something stirring, a memory perhaps, or a
little glimpse of the future. And then, as he shook his head to be perfectly free of the hood, jostling his long hair so it settled again at his shoulders and tilting his face a little to look up at her as she reached down to him, it quite suddenly materialized. She shut her eyes for a moment, and then looked again. There, hovering in his face, only twinkling but not receding, was a face for which she had almost stopped searching. Suddenly and quite powerfully, Maxime reminded her of her own mother.

She would never again see Sophie Bensimon glimmering there in Maxime’s face with the same breathtaking freshness of this first recognition amongst the clutter of the mud room, but neither would she ever lose sight of her mother again. She would always be reminded of Sophie by Maxime, especially if he shook out his hair, those curls that she was loath to see cut, that she would encourage him to wear long, for many years to come.

Now, she just smiled at his two-year-old self, and said his name: “Maxime.”

He smiled back and replied,
“Bonhomme,”
before holding out his arms towards her.

And as mother hugged son in the midst of the garden tools, old bottles, and discarded boots of the mud room, she thought that perhaps this summer it was time to finally return to Paris and finish up that business with the bank on the Avenue Victor Hugo.

Suzanne is really working out quite nicely. Jean and I were agreeing this morning that she has settled in very quickly and is most amiable. We are so used to Félicie, I suppose we think it quite normal for a servant to shrug or grimace when a dinner party is proposed, but it is pleasant to work with someone who seems to view special meals as an occasion to show her talents. I can only hope Félicie does not drive her away as she did Geneviève, although at least she does seem agreed that the new one is to do most of the cooking.

Marie-Marguerite and Anatole came for dinner last night, and Suzanne really did a fine job. The
blanquette de veau
was absolutely velvety, and she is clever enough not to need to be told one cannot have a creamy pudding after a rich sauce like that, and served a good crisp apple tart with the first of the new apples.

We fell to discussing Dreyfus over dinner. It has been so long since Adrien and I have had an honest conversation on such a difficult topic, but Marie-Marguerite is never one to shy away from a subject simply because it is controversial and has taken to telling the men quite frankly they were wrong. I was saying how sad it was Dreyfus had accepted the pardon, but that I did feel those who criticized him were being very hard. They can stand on principle, but no one has asked them to serve five years on Devil’s Island. Anatole has his official position to remember and now remains tactfully silent on the issue, but Adrien and I agreed Dreyfus had no choice but to take the pardon and end the
whole affair. Marie-Marguerite was arguing a purer position and still wants to see a proper trial. “He had a proper trial,” Adrien exploded, to which she retorted, “But not a proper verdict.”

Emboldened perhaps by the amicable atmosphere of our family dinner, she went further still and said to Adrien he should show more regard for my feelings when discussing this matter. I tried to hush her but she persisted: “You would not want to put distance between yourself and your loyal spouse by allowing her to believe you have sided with those who show nothing but blind prejudice towards the Jews.”

Adrien replied, as he has before, that he believed the affair does not turn on issues of race or religion, but Marie-Marguerite retorted that if this were the case, he should make clearer to all his disapproval of the anti-Semitic faction. Now, Anatole really did intervene and asked to her stop. She shrugged off his remonstrations and replied, “Well, I was just standing up for Jeanne,” and we left it at that, moving on to other subjects. It was an awkward moment, but still, it did not ruin dinner. It seems perhaps that finally we can agree that our opinions differ. That is what all France must do, and put the thing behind her.

Marcel writes from Evian requesting my copy of de La Sizeranne’s book on Ruskin by the next post, but I cannot lay my hands on it anywhere. By the time I send it off, he will be home anyway.

I have told Adrien I really do not know how much
longer I can put up with this apartment. My bones seem to ache every day this autumn. I try not to bother him with my complaints, but really there is no reason why we should not move soon. After all these years, he could certainly be said to have grown a bit beyond the Boulevard Malesherbes. I have never tried to push us up the social ladder, nor wanted to frequent the Faubourg, but one should surely take what one has earned in life. The doctor insists he must make a trip to the Mediterranean ports before negotiations on the
cordon
can be completed—it really does look as though the English will finally sign—but he still hopes his own book will be finished by the spring. Perhaps there will be an interval in between when we could look for a change of address.

Marcel seems utterly discouraged about his novel, and compares himself to Eliot’s Casaubon, collecting intellectual trivia that really has no use. Such a sad image for a young man to consider. I tried to reassure him, and urged him to continue the work now that he is back from holiday. I suggested we come up with a schedule for daily amounts he might complete, but he dismissed the idea out of hand, and said the only thing that interests him now is Ruskin. Reynaldo’s cousin knows his work well. Being English and an artist, I suppose she would have to, and Marcel says he has written asking her for her advice and for a record of all the Ruskin books she has read. We still can find no French translations, but Robert de Billy also promises to help Marcel with his reading should the English prove impenetrable.

Marcel is spending every moment over at the library buried in Ruskin, only occasionally emerging to meet up with Antoine’s set in the cafés. He proposes a trip to Amiens to view the cathedral through new, Ruskinian eyes, and to Bourges too. I have never visited the latter and have not been to Amiens since I was a girl, I do not think. Of course, I have seen Chartres many, many times since it is so close to Illiers. You could even see the towers of the cathedral from the train window every time we made our trips to and fro. I thought Chartres was the finer monument, more beautifully decorated than Amiens, but Marcel says that is simplistic of me. I cannot remember when he last went to mass, but he will find himself back in church to admire the line of a sculpture or colours of the stained glass. It was always that way: the
curé
at Illiers used to have to bribe him to do his catechism class by promising to tell him all about the windows afterwards. Marcel’s religious fervour is all for art, but then, Ruskin himself is a Protestant, when you think of it.

I must ask the doctor for some little remedy, for my bones seem to ache horribly this autumn. Fifty! When I was a girl I could hardly imagine such an age existed.

Marcel’s trip to Amiens was a great success. He came home quite inspired by what he had seen, and by the act of comparing his own reactions to those of Ruskin. I had roughed out a version of Ruskin’s text in French,
since the book on Amiens has never been translated, and it seems to have served him well, though goodness knows my English is rusty. He is greatly enlivened by this new intellectual passion, and managed the train journey without mishap. Jean packed two large flasks of coffee for him, in case he could not find any when he needed it, and he bundled himself in that horrible old overcoat. An infected thing, but warm, I suppose. He looks old sometimes, when he is all bundled up like that—and other times so young, a pale little child dressing up in his father’s old clothes.

Adrien will be at home for dinner and requests a beefsteak, for a change—“a good bloody beefsteak cooked in butter.” I can still see Papa wrinkling up his nose in disgust at the offer of such a meal.

We read in the
Figaro
the news of Ruskin’s death. Sad, but he was an old man and had been going a bit mad in his last years, one hears, although, of course, the
Figaro
would not mention that in the obituary. Marcel is seized with the idea that he will write an appreciation. One does not like to rejoice at other’s misfortunes, but I was actually delighted by the idea. It seems like just the small, realizable project he needs, and gives him a good reason to be writing about Ruskin. Perhaps the man’s death will create a revival of interest here in France and Marcel could do more about him. It seems his only passion these days.

Georges for dinner tonight. He is becoming a great admirer of Suzanne’s cooking!

Marcel’s essay has appeared in the
Figaro
. It really is a lovely piece, describing his trips to Amiens and Bourges, and he now thinks that he might fill in the gap and provide France with the translations that are only Ruskin’s due. I am buoyed up by the prospect of his commitment to such a project and have promised him that I would help all I can. Marie Nordlinger is also ready to support him—via the post for the moment, but she says she plans a Paris visit to Reynaldo and his family soon. She has lent Marcel her copy of
The Queen of the Air
, filled with her own notes in the margin. She must be a highly intelligent girl, that goes without saying. I counselled Marcel to wait a while before he tells his father of his plan. We must pick the right moment.

“No.”

He shakes his head, and in doing so loosens a single curl that now falls across his forehead. It sits there like a black punctuation mark on his brow, making him look vulnerable somehow, more accessible than before. But he is adamant in his refusal.

“No. It is not here.”

“But why not? It was here yesterday.”

“That was yesterday. Today is October 5.”

“October 5?” He doesn’t answer. He seems angered by my ignorance, and remains silent.

“So, it’s October 5…” I persist but the North African clerk only glares at me.

I wouldn’t be cowed and stare right back. He unbends slightly.

“Your reserve is for eight working days. It expired at five o’clock yesterday.”

“Oh, well I didn’t realize.”

“Eight days. That is the system.”

“But you could have told me…”

“It’s not my job to go around the library reminding all the patrons how the system works.”

It occurs to me that if the clerk did not bother to point out that my reserve was about to expire, he is probably withholding other helpful information.

“Can I renew?”

He pauses a long moment, then sighs and pulls a piece of paper out from under the counter. Apparently I have won. “Fill this out.”

I do, and pass it back to him. He sighs again.

“It will take an hour or two. The file has been returned to storage and we don’t have time to get it right now. If you had told us that you would be renewing, we could have kept the file on the reserve shelf, but now I have to go back into storage…”

I lose patience.

“How was I supposed to tell you that I would be renewing if you didn’t warn me the reserve was about to expire?”

“Well, mademoiselle, it’s not my job to count the days of the week for you. The date is stamped clearly on the ticket—September 23.”

“Yes, it says September, but it doesn’t say the hold only lasts eight days.”

“Well, mademoiselle, I have to follow the system…”

I give up.

“Please, when you have time, if you could just retrieve the file.”

There is about forty minutes’ delay—I suspect the clerk is not the least bit busy but feels he must keep me waiting to prove his point—but then File 263 reappears on the reserve shelf and one of the other clerks wheels it up to my desk. I am reunited with the notebook covering the years 1899, 1900, and the early months of 1901. These are the years of Proust’s Ruskin translations. His mother would help him immeasurably with this project, but he also relied heavily on Marie Nordlinger, who was to become his constant visitor. Proust’s biographers tell us she was a cousin of Reynaldo Hahn’s, an artist and a jewellery designer, but I am looking for something more.

An annoying piece of news. An inspector has apparently been snooping around the library and noticed Marcel’s almost permanent absence. The librarian came by this morning to see Marcel and tell him that he must regularize his position before the end of the year. I had to take a message as he was not yet awake. I feel sad thinking back to our enthusiasm for the idea of a job at the Mazarine, even if he was only shelving and cataloguing books. Little did we know it was unrealistic to believe Marcel would ever pursue a career. It is just like his health—each time you hope you are making a permanent step forward, it turns out to be a passing fancy or an illusory change.