Marcel PROUST - The First World War, its pastiches and André GIDE.

 Marcel Proust (1871.1922)

Autograph letter signed to Georges de Lauris

Eight pages in-8°. Autograph envelope.

Slnd [shortly before March 13, 1915]

Kolb, volume XIV, pages 82 to 85.

“You know that as tenderly as I love you, I do not believe you to be an entirely true friend to me. »

Long and beautiful letter on the dramas of the First World War, its pastiches and André Gide.

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“My dear Georges, I thank you a thousand times for your letter. I did not dare to write to you because, since Madame de Pierrebourg's note, I did not know what you had been taught and I did not want to cause you unnecessary torment.

Every hour I see our misfortune differently and my thoughts like a kaleidoscope which successively undoes the figures and reforms others with the same elements, presenting to me in turn Bertrand [Bertrand de Fénelon] a prisoner and Bertrand no longer existing. However, although by thinking about the same thing I end up no longer being able to judge, I believe Bertrand is alive. My reasons for hoping are not the same as yours but ultimately they seem stronger to me than my reasons for despair.

Unfortunately a new one that had been added recently has been destroyed. My poor friend Mme Berge, daughter of Félix Faure whom you must have met at least at the Finalys, had no news of her young son since Charleroi! And 8 days ago she officially learned from a friend in the ministry that he was a prisoner. The joy I felt for her was mixed with a little selfishness. I said to myself if people so “well placed to know” have remained without news since August, the absence of news from Bertrand means nothing. Unfortunately this news (officially given) was false. As a result of a stupid mistake, 300 families went from mourning to joy and from joy to mourning that week.

But despite this I believe Bertrand is alive. None of the reasons which would make one think that he is no more and that we must examine head on, however dreadful such an idea may be, seemed to me without reply. His sister wrote me a letter in which there was very little hope. But finally she gave her reasons, so I can judge, I find them weak. As for the history of the car, although everyone knows it, I am asked not to talk about it. So I am without details since I cannot ask for any. But I will never believe that in such a circumstance, someone wanted to play, as one of our friends said, “a prank” (!); and if it was a self-serving move to get money, the person would have returned.

My little Georges, I don't really like talking to you about Bertrand; you know that as tenderly as I love you, I do not believe you to be an entirely true friend to me. And my subsequent reasons are little compared to the unfriendly role you played between me and Bertrand. But I swear to you that in the face of such anguish I have no bitterness left (I am wrong to say remains because I have never had any) and that if at any second I ask myself from the bottom of my heart that he is alive, it is as much the joy you will have as mine, which is sweet and moves me. I can even say that it is gentler on me. Because you will enjoy more, if not his being alive, at least his life, since the bad arrangement of my life prevents me from seeing him. I still believe that he will be returned to you, that life will not be taken away from him whom he loved so much and was more worthy than anyone to derive joy from it. I had recently received a letter from him which had further refreshed my friendship.

Thank Gide for his kindness for my pastiches . I believe that the little comfort that can be found is due more to the qualities (if that is not saying too much) of my character than to my intelligence. One of these "qualities" is that not seeking to "shine", I generally pour into a pastiche things of which a better administrator of his property would prefer to have the personal honor and signature , I am not afraid of saying things not too bad at Ste Beuve or Henri de Régnier (I think these are my 2 least bad). Another quality is that never taking, even unconsciously, the good of others, I never make more or less involuntary pastiche in my works. It gives me more fullness and joy when I do it openly. This is the opposite of what one of our friends does that you know and that Gide also knows, and under whose pen I find everything that I told him eight days before, although he is quite rich himself, he can do without these small acquisitions. Kind regards, Marcel. If you have any “tips” about the war you would be very kind to write them to me in one line. I live so alone that I don't know anything. »