Mme Proust and the Kosher Kitchen (37 page)

“She worries about you. I guess that’s natural.” Visiting Montreal for the weekend, I have been puttering around his small apartment, trying not to eavesdrop, but as he sits sadly silent for a long while after putting down the phone, I give up pretending I don’t know who the caller is.

He doesn’t reply.

I try looking on the bright side: “You can do good as a doctor, you can help people.”

“Oh, Marie,” he says with exasperation, “It’s only about money, that’s why everyone is there. There’s no way I want to be part of that bourgeois thing.”

“You have to make a living, at least.”

“Yeah, you have to be normal, you have to make a living, you have to fit in…” His voice grows sarcastic. I was only trying to help and am injured by his tone.

“Okay, then go ahead and quit, for God’s sake,” I answer with some anger.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know, maybe I will.”

Max flirts with rebellion.

And so, it is as I expected. The big news. Dick came in all beaming and proud for dinner last night, drew himself up—he looks so much like his father when he wants to be
important—and announced he has secured a promise of marriage from Mlle Dubois-Amiot. I had assumed that was in the wind and that he had sought his father’s advice although Adrien had not told me directly. Apparently, this last visit really confirmed their mutual affection, and Dick had already this summer been calculating how soon he could afford to take on domestic responsibilities. Not that the bride will not do her share—the family is already being generous about the dowry, Dick assures me. We are to meet her next Sunday. It seems ridiculous I do not yet know the young lady, but I do not go out into society as much as I should so have not become acquainted with the family. I will call on her mother next week as well.

I have just completed a small letter to Bertrand and shall send Jean to post it right away; having decided to do the thing, let it be done. Just a very short note, urging him to visit Marcel soon, as he values his friendship so highly. I will not tell Marcel that I have written him and am, perhaps, as bad as the boys themselves, forever indulging in intrigues, but did think that a mother’s urgings would count for something. Marcel has been so upset that he has not seen Bertrand since their return from Trouville. He has been in bed ever since, and had Félicie fussing away over him yesterday, although I have told him before she is far too old to be fetching and carrying for him.

We heard today with deep regret of the passing of
Emile Zola. France will never forget his bravery in bringing a gross miscarriage of justice out into public debate, at a time when it was only whispered in corridors. It is sad that the great man died without having seen Dreyfus’s innocence proclaimed—one is told that he still strives to prove his case, even though he accepted the pardon, and that the affair still moves through the Department of Justice. These things are so impossibly slow: the bureaucracy has no sympathy for the human misery its interminable machinery can cause. Marcel will participate in the official cortège, and is out at Sandford and Merton, as Dick will always call them, buying a new black coat, for his old one is a fright and would certainly dishonour the man were he to wear that in the procession. They say he was killed by gas in his room because the fireplace was not drawing properly. Adrien is always warning Marcel about the dangers of such things, and advises an open window even in winter. I hope now Marcel will listen.

Marie plans to stay in France until after the new year, so we will be blessed with her visits all autumn. She stopped into the salon yesterday afternoon to offer me congratulations on Dick.

She is very pretty and very polite, but rather distant. Perhaps intimidated. An illustrious medical family may seem particularly elevated, by nature of its vocation, to the daughter of a stockbroker, even if the Amiots are certainly wealthy people, and the Dubois side of the family wealthier still. She was quiet at dinner, but not
ungracious. I am reminded of what Mme de Sévigné said of her new daughter-in-law—that she is in no hurry to please us, but will do so in time.

Marcel did not help, by chatting very intensely and paying her some very silly compliments in the first half of the evening, and then getting up from the table, complaining of a headache, before we had reached dessert, and retiring, looking quite pale. There is no doubt she found him odd. Well, in years to come she will be our Marthe and all this awkwardness will seem very far away.

Bertrand has returned to our midst and Marcel now wants to travel to the Low Countries with him, on an artistic pilgrimage, and has asked his father for the money. Meanwhile, he is discussing his translation with Anna de Noailles’s brother, the de Brancovan boy, seeking some advice on publication.

Another letter from Marcel this morning, more informative. He and Bertrand are delighted with Bruges and with the art. A little Venice, he says, with all its wonderful miniature canals, and laments that Ruskin so disliked Flemish art that he never visited the city. (I am not sure he did not, and must check. I had thought his grand tour with that poor wife of his would have included Bruges and Brussels, although Marcel seems to think not.) He says the damp is still leaving him a little breathless, but thankfully he is without attacks. Bertrand has been forcing him to get up at a reasonable hour. Bravo! By this time, they will be
in Amsterdam.

I have been thinking of the red tapestry for Marthe and Dick.

The letter arrived this morning, following last night’s telegram. Adrien is very angry, and was not mollified by Marcel’s account, which I do not think he believes. I suspect he thinks Marcel has simply spent a lot more than was planned, and has invented the theft. Nonetheless, he did go out to the post office on his way to the Faculty just now, to wire Marcel the money. It is a large sum to lose. I really do not know what to think.

Adrien says the only thing for it is to put Marcel back on a fixed allowance and when that is spent, even if it is long before the end of the month, there will no more. I agree it is probably the one way to discipline him and teach him the value of money. There is Dick, running a business and planning a household, entering into discussions with Marthe’s father man to man, and Marcel, in his thirties now, cannot be trusted not to overtip the tailor’s assistant so extravagantly that one is embarrassed to be seen in his premises again, least the wrong motives be ascribed to his actions.

The doctor will speak to him this evening.

I had thought Marcel had taken the suggestion of the
allowance well, and we had agreed we would start on December 1, but I should have known better, and realized he would take it out on me, not on his father. When he woke yesterday, I came into his room to remonstrate with him for waking Marc again last night to relight the fire, when he got very angry with me, and said the doctor and I do not treat him as an adult, and always prefer Dick—which is nonsense, it is just that planning the wedding is distracting at the moment.

Marcel accused me of having no sympathy for his sentiments and not recognizing how delicate he was feeling because he had lost Antoine’s company and was now to lose Bertrand’s too. It is true that Bertrand’s decision to take the post at the embassy in Constantinople has laid Marcel low, but really one cannot expect one’s friends to change their career plans for the sake of comradeship. I said as much to Marcel, which remark he took very bitterly and said I did not understand how precious their trip to the Low Countries had been, and how disappointed he was that Bertrand could go away after that. I made the mistake of responding that perhaps Marcel would be more sympathetic to Bertrand’s choice if he understood the value of a career, at which point he said something horribly vindictive and cruel. I have ordered the servants to stop answering his bell.

Georges says the President cares nothing for the measures against the Church, but feels he cannot count on his supporters unless he pushes ahead on these issues and
is seen to be punishing the anti-Dreyfusards even if innocents get caught in the process. Well, we are all thoroughly tired of politics, so it comes as no surprise that the government is acting out of expediency rather than conviction. Adrien just shakes his head over the stupidity of the whole thing. Some compassion in victory would go a lot further to heal France’s wounds.

Emilie was looking much better, and we had a lovely hare thanks to Suzanne. They are delighted with Dick’s news, and anxious to meet their future niece.

I stand firm on the issue of Marcel’s bell.

I am so angry with Marcel I took away that little lap desk that belonged to Maman and on which he so likes to work. Perhaps it was vindictive of me, but his attitude is insupportable. I had spent all day yesterday going through things for Dick and sat down with Marcel when he awoke to discuss with him what might be appropriate. At first he started to quibble, and say Marthe would surely not appreciate the red tapestry, and should not have this thing, nor that. I tried to gently point out she will be family now and that Dick is setting up a proper home, and cannot be simply surrounded by the furnishings the Dubois-Amiots have picked. Marcel then became quite resigned, and said it was all the same to him, which was not very helpful either, since I really wanted his opinion on matters of taste.

I went off to finish the job on my own, and thought I would consult Dick today anyway, although he is never much judge of these things and just says anything will
do. Like his father that way. While I was putting things away, with Jean and Marc helping me, Marcel rang for Marc and wanted him to stoke the fire and bring in the lap desk, which was in my room because I was using it last week when my rheumatism was bad and I had stayed in bed. Marc went off, but I got more and more angry thinking about it, the way he is always ringing for the servants, as though I had no need of them, so I marched into his room and reclaimed the desk and said he could not have it, I was thinking of giving it to Marthe, at which he wept. Of course, I would not give away Maman’s desk, but will keep it in my own room for a bit.

Marcel left me a little note this morning describing a tantrum that he blames entirely on me. Yesterday evening, after I had retired, Bertrand came to take his leave—he is off to Constantinople now and we certainly shall miss him. Marcel says that his room was freezing since the servants had not relit the fire because of my interdiction. He got so angry that he could not entertain his friend properly, and in his frustration he seized on Bertrand’s top hat and ripped the lining out. The poor man—he was on his way to a soirée and it was a new hat. Marcel says we must replace it, and that the cost must be added to his allowance, but I have slipped a note under his door with my reply. He can pay for a new hat himself—although he had better hurry since Bertrand leaves this week.

Dick and I have almost finished our discussions on the furniture and linens. He suggested we should consult Marthe—he really has little tastes of his own in this regard, and generously wants to let her make the decisions. But I pointed out to him that we do not wish to put the girl in the awkward position of having to choose her own gifts, and that she would only accept all we showed her for fear of hurting sensibilities by declining anything. Dick is also so progressive in these matters, but really it is customary to present the bride with the basket, and the custom serves well.

Marcel’s note yesterday said he has stopped his work on his Ruskin, and will not start again until his father and I relent on the subject of paying for the hat. It is absolutely silly, since Constantin de Brancovan has now agreed to publish the introduction in the
Renaissance Latine
, which might surely spur Mercure de France to finally make an offer. Marcel’s translation is the one thing he is doing with his life; it would be tragic were he to abandon it now. It would prove his father right, that his literary aspirations are mere dreams.

Marie came to call in the evening, so I stopped her on the way in and told her this news. She said she would remonstrate with him and send me a note to let me know how she fared. She suggested I come out with her to visit Reynaldo at Versailles before the end of the year, which was so thoughtful of her.

Bertrand called yesterday for his final visit, and was
particularly anxious to see Marcel immediately since he had a number of errands ahead of him. Marcel was not up, of course, but Bertrand was insistent so I offered at least to go and see if he was stirring.

When I entered the room, he was in a deep sleep, his chest rising and falling with that heavy, regular breath that has always sounded so sweet to my ears. To think that to the healthy, breathing is an affair so banal they do not notice it.

As I turned to leave the room, I caught sight of something on the divan, partly hidden by that Chinese screen. I realized it was Marie, also deeply asleep, spread out on the divan. She had removed her jacket and her shoes, and—I could tell by the lumps beneath her skirt—loosened her stays. I withdrew hastily, and told Bertrand, truthfully enough, that Marcel was still asleep. He said he would try again in the afternoon, but was not free later, having made arrangements to dine with his parents before his departure.