CP 02970/en

Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac to Marcel Proust [beginning of July 1915]

Dear Marcel,

I do not think I need to contradict you when you write “everybody will have their favourites”.

I do not know what my “Offerings” are equal to; but I am starting to think that they are equal to each other, since everyone tells me, in fact, that they like one of them which is one that has not been mentioned to me by anyone else. Is that not something of a justification for all of them?

Then I take out just one, replace it, add a dozen more, and the book is reprinted like that, brought, as I wanted, up to two hundred pieces by this addition.

But the well is not dry, and I will compose more of them for those who love them.

I do not believe in your visit, not that I say, like Madame Valmore:

To feel such happiness, I have waited too long…

But, so long postponed, such an event would take on, today, the proportions of a “sign in the heavens”; there are plenty of those already.

I do however hold dear the wish to believe probable, imminent even, that which is not to be, even though we know that that is the case; it is the only way to tolerate the fact that life can come to an end without consultation, and can terminate without warning.

We are not, alas! “people who see each other” as those people say who we should never have chosen to give such a label.

I have often suggested that I come and see you; you never seem to have heard.

Similarly for the book, which I have offered to send you.

When one is anxious for some things there is no need to credit their existence in order to allow time for them to happen; we must repeat, like in the story about Stevens: “If you were to die this very night!"

There is between us, from now on, a wall of ice. It contains, keeps and preserves fresh and coloured flowers; we see them, but without being able to touch them.

Robert de Montesquiou.

1915.