Mme Proust and the Kosher Kitchen Read Free Page A

others’ houses more in the new year. I must rememberto tell Marie-Marguerite I did attend the Faure dinner, even if I found it an intimidating debut.
    I spent yesterday evening with Dick going over his philosophy essay very carefully, so there would be no repetition of last month’s little tragedy. It is well written enough, and makes a strong argument for the triumph of the sciences (his father would be in complete agreement!), but we had to work very hard to eliminate all awkward constructions, which was what let him down last time. He certainly does not have his brother’s fine style.
    Seven days, only a week.
P ARIS . S UNDAY , N OVEMBER 9, 1890.
    We had a congenial family evening with a good rabbit stew. Marie-Marguerite was very tactful about the grey at tea time, so after she had left and I was changing for dinner, I tried a violet collar in place of my usual black and Georges paid me a compliment. He was in fine form last night. It is not that he misses Maman less than I do, but he manages to forget his loss once he is in good company or has launched into an amusing tale from the courts. Dick was delighted with a story his uncle says has been going around his colleagues about a judge who is notorious for retreating to his chambers to nap. The courtroom lawyers all claim they can hear his snoring out in the halls.
    Georges was teasing Dick about medicine, telling him he would make a fine doctor, just like his father, and asking him about the science exam, calling him Robert all the time. (He says Dick is no name for agrown man and we must drop our pet name lest Robert be thought a baby when he gets to medical school.)
    The men then had a great debate about pasteurization. They are all in favour, naturally, but Adrien says it cannot be used effectively until people understand its purpose. To illustrate his point, he had Jean fetch Félicie in from the kitchen to ask her opinion. She played her role admirably, saying she has never heard of such a thing and that it would ruin the taste of the milk, much to Adrien’s amusement.
    Six days.
P ARIS . M ONDAY , N OVEMBER 10, 1890.
    Sometimes one’s griefs get confused. I was just leaving my room after lunch yesterday afternoon, preparing to go out for my walk, when I caught sight of that photograph of Marcel taken a few years ago, just before he went up to the lycée. I found myself overcome with pain at the sight of those deep, dark eyes, and, alone in the room, started to weep. I retreated to the little sofa, struggling to keep my tears under control—I know how Adrien tires of such demonstrations and argues that much prolonged they can be only bad for the health—when I came to wonder at myself and ask why I was crying. Marcel, for all that his constitution worries me, is alive and well, and ready to return to us in five short days.
    I think I was crying for Maman, or perhaps just the march of time, the children growing up, but mainly for Maman, I believe. Yet, sometimes, despite her death, it is Marcel I miss the most, feeling his absence throughoutthe apartment. My yearning for him is not a reasoned thing, retreating into the distance steadily as his return approaches, but rather varies wildly from one day to the next. One time it is a faint tinge one can easily ignore to get on with the day’s business, another it is a great broad boulevard of pain that there is no avoiding. So, it all gets muddled.
    “There is not a nook or corner in this house which does not wound me to the heart. Your room kills me.” So wrote our dear de Sévigné after her daughter’s departure.
P ARIS . T UESDAY , N OVEMBER , 11, 1890.
    Adrien says there is increasing doubt about whether this tuberculosis vaccine the Germans have invented is actually efficacious against the disease. He goes this afternoon to a meeting of the Permanent Commission at the Ministry and says de Fleury will tell him more, but he is afraid false hopes have been raised. I do admire the breadth of his concerns.