Pathway to Japanese Literature

Marcel Proust — Forty-six

Henri Morbier — Thirty-four

Jacques Grange — Fifty-two

Nurse — Twenty-five

Servant — Forty

Paris — Proust’s Sickroom

Proust was half-sitting up on his sickbed, having the nurse take his pulse.

Morbier (silently picked up the Nouvelle Revue Française beside him and flipped through its pages.
(After seeing the nurse out) "Anyway, that matter became quite an issue at the recent editorial meeting too.
Everyone was saying they want to see that preface soon.
After all, it’s an entirely different matter from when Anatole France wrote the preface for *La Guirlande*."

Proust…………….

Morbier: “Our circle doesn’t recognize Jacques Grange as a man of letters—and especially not as a painter at all. As someone who’s made a name in high society, everyone knows him. True, he’s painted quite a few portraits of prominent figures—but that alone doesn’t qualify one to join the ranks of artists. Barrès, Haedii, Gide, Jammes... and Proust………….”

Proust (furrows his brow).

Morbier: “Who seriously criticized those portraits? That he grasped such a rare opportunity is ultimately no different from when he accidentally became a model for Degas as a child. And have you read his so-called novel—*Angel Something-or-Other*………….? I haven’t read it either, but they say it’s an utterly inferior thing.”

Proust (grimaces again).

Morbier (ignoring this): “This forthcoming *Portraits in Words*—I’ve glimpsed fragments of its contents—what could he possibly understand about Cézanne? How does he view Fantin-Latour?”

Proust: “I wouldn’t call it criticism.”

Morbier: “Precisely. He entertains people with backstage gossip through his usual verbosity. That’s his vanity. His desire to obtain your preface stems from that same vanity. He wants someone of your stature to call him ‘Mon nom Jacques’ or some such nonsense.”

Proust: “If they want to call him that, then so be it.”

Morbier: “Is this out of childhood friendship? However, your artistic standing now no longer permits that. You must consider that every single word you have written will exert artistic influence on the new era. The mere fact that you agreed to write the preface has already led to his talent being unjustly overestimated. Of course, this is only in certain circles, but…”

Proust: “Then that’s fine.”

Morbier: “Actually, just the other day, there were people who brought up that matter—insisting you must at least stop that—and even tried to come barging in here.”
“When I told them that visits were currently prohibited, they then suggested talking over the phone.”
“Your refraining from answering calls proved surprisingly helpful.”

Proust (bitterly smiled).

At that moment, the servant entered.

Servant: Monsieur Jacques Grange has arrived.

“Morbier, do come again to talk.”
“Take care………….”
“Is there any message for the office?”
“Nothing at present.”
“Tell Gide not to study too hard, if you would.”

Morbier left.

The servant guided Jacques Grange in.

Grange: Mon cher Marcel!
“You haven’t become as haggard as I expected, I see.”

Proust: “The book is finished, I see.”

**Grange** (handing over his newly published book) “I came here because I wanted to show you this.”
“I’ve caused you so much trouble… Truly…”

Proust (opens and closes the book with its uncut pages as they are).

“Grange’s book has an unusual number of misprints, you know.”
“You must hate misprints.”

Proust………….

“Frankly, I did want to show you this,” Grange pressed his chest, “but about that preface—there’s something I’ve been meaning to say that’s been stuck right here.”

“So you still dislike it?” Proust asked.

“No—no, it’s not about that.” Grange shook his head. “May I speak plainly?”

“By all means….”

“As I wrote in my first letter—what I’d asked of you was simply to write down those memories from our Auteuil days.” His voice hardened. “I never requested flattery.”

Proust………….

“The era when I pestered my old man into building that atelier on the lawn where the linden tree once stood,” Grange said. “I wanted you to write about that time—when I’d catch you leaving my father’s examination room and force you to sit before a canvas—those memories from when neither of us knew what today would bring.”

Proust’s fingers traced the uncut pages of the book. “I meant to write precisely that...”

“You did,” Grange acknowledged, his voice tightening. “But you wrote beyond necessity.” He leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath him. “Am I, as you declare, an established painter today? Do your literary friends even recognize the name Jacques Grange?” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Your precious Nouvelle Revue Française commissioned me to write about Renoir’s brushwork yet ignores my exhibitions entirely—as they should.” His thumb jabbed at the open preface. “You yourself wrote that my paintings hang in every mansion’s darkest corner, their most obscure nook. Displayed only on the very days I’m invited to dine—as if I were some novelty act!” The book trembled in his grip. “You blame society matrons chasing trends, then turn around claiming my work sets those trends—a contradiction unworthy of you.” His eyes narrowed. “Why must you speak such duplicities?”

Proust………….

Grange: “The reason I asked you for the preface goes without saying—it’s because I wanted to proclaim to the world the honor of having a childhood friend like you, such an extraordinary figure.”
“That’s right. That’s it.”
“Through your writing, some third-rate painter forgotten even by Larousse would not even consider rising to prominence in Paris’s art world.”
“At my age, is there another painter who doesn’t have even a single line of career history listed in the artist directory?”
“I can see exactly where you struggled to imply it in this text.”
“As for where you struggled—it was in how to treat me as a ‘full-fledged’”
“It’s about how to treat me as an artist.”

Proust………….

“No—or rather, even through your letters, I could sense that struggle.”
“I’ve had an inkling of how your circle has been maneuvering around this preface business.”
“It must have demanded extraordinary courage from you.”
“I nearly came to regret it myself.”
“That’s precisely why I kept replying to your repeated letters—‘Write candidly.’”
“‘There’s no need whatsoever to flatter me—’ Wait.”
“‘If you can’t write without criticism, then strike wherever you please.’”
“‘The very act of you accepting to write this preface proves your friendship.’”
“That’s how I answered.”
“But surely you don’t imagine I clung to that friendship to extract something from you?”

Proust………….

“It’s been nearly thirty years since those days—when I wasn’t barging into your place, you were coming over to mine.”
“In all that time, we met by chance only three times—three times I can never forget.”
“Even though we’ve been living in the same Paris.”
“Since you won the Goncourt Prize—since I first met Nini.”
“In the meantime, the Dreyfus Affair decisively tore the two of us apart.”
“You took great pride in being a Dreyfusard back then—no, perhaps even now.”
“However, such things are irrelevant.”
“I knew every last detail of your affairs.”
“I knew everything—down to which guests were newly invited to soirées at your residence, or how your ‘Swann’ had recently been translated into Scandinavian languages.”

Proust………….

“But that’s not all. I’ve chattered everywhere—to every person I met—so much about you that I thought it excessive. I couldn’t stop talking. There’s no moment when people lend an ear to my words more than when I speak of you. It’s not because of that. It’s not because of that, but I’ve read every single thing you’ve written. Devoted reading… No, that’s not some meager way of reading. Listen here, Marcel—I read them with desperate intensity.”

Proust………….

“With that pen—no, with that marvelous sensibility—I wanted you to write about us two from those days,” said Grange. “I never meant to decorate this book solely with your name. When I received the preface manuscript you sent me, my heart raced. As I started reading, tears welled up. Especially there…” He lifted the book to read aloud.

All that has returned from the visible world to the invisible, all that has transformed into memory—the plane trees of Avenue des Acacias, now vanished without a trace, still cast their shadow upon our hearts…………

Proust: “Stop reading it.”

“Why?”
“But as I read further, I suddenly felt as if I’d sobered up.”

Proust: Enough.

Grange: No—I don’t want to read that part either.
"You, in striving for truthfulness, have gone to such pitiable lengths."
"You’re cutting me down where no one will notice—if my old man were alive, how astonished he’d be! His son Jacques—the same Jacques whose paintings everyone treated as jokes—has now surpassed even the Academicians of his day! That’s precisely how you’re disparaging me."

Proust: (With a pained expression) Jacques!

Grange: “But—well—as your gesture of goodwill, I shall publicly express gratitude.”
“Now, there’s one more thing I want to clarify your misunderstanding about.”
“That is—ultimately—about how, in this preface, you’ve indirectly admonished my attitude.”
“You take Sainte-Beuve’s *Causeries du lundi* as an example—explaining how his pardoning Count Moré, Madame Sand, Mérimée and others as great writers within it misleads later generations unfamiliar with literature and ignorant of the nineteenth century—then ask what if that same Sainte-Beuve were to say of Beyle—who devised the eccentric pen name Stendhal—‘That one’s no novelist.’”
“But you’re saying that was the case when Sainte-Beuve was dining with Beyle, just as he did with Mérimée and Madame Sand.”
“You think I imitated that method in this book.”

Proust: "I don't say you imitated it."

Grange: "Whether you learned it or not—either way makes no difference."
"You then appended this:"
"'Jacques Grange takes peculiar delight in expounding upon artists' unheroic dimensions.'"
"'Consider his scandalous claim that Manet—that revolutionary!—coveted medals and tailored his work solely for Salon approval.'"
"'Like Sainte-Beuve before him, Jacques ventures beyond artistic critique into historical speculation.'"

“So………….”

“Yeah—so you’re saying that’s where this book’s interest lies.”
“Moreover, you state its extent isn’t as extreme as Sainte-Beuve’s.”
“But that’s precisely it.”
“The sections where I faithfully recorded impressions without self-interest—you’ve singled those out as this book’s most concerning parts.”
“Undoubtedly—even among pages written about you—there must have been such passages.”

Proust………….

Grange: “Ah, I didn’t write about you in this book.”
“This is my courtesy.”
“But perhaps precisely because I thought I might write about you someday, I paid particular attention to that point.”

Proust smiled for the first time.

Grange: “Then rest easy.”
“I remember the tone and favorite adjectives you used when gathering friends for those speech-like performances in your school days—but would you be angry if I wrote such things?”
“And that girl you were closest to… Ah, but you’ve already written about that in your novel.”
(Pause.) “Yes, right.”
“The Sainte-Beuve matter still lingered.”
“Admittedly, his failure to deliver fair evaluations of contemporary writers remains regrettable—but Causeries du lundi endures as a treasure of French literature.”
“Through it, we paradoxically come to know the nineteenth century.”
“No matter how vehemently someone like me rails against Monet—if you were to write in this preface, ‘I oppose Jacques’ view; there are elements in Monet rivaling Manet’s masterpieces,’ posterity would believe it.”
“But Marcel—I don’t put stock in art criticism.”
“I am simply a portrait painter who strives to depict what these eyes behold.”
“Tell me—wouldn’t such a fact hold some interest for people thirty years hence?”
“—That on February second, 1920, the great Henri Matisse stood on an opera stage in suit and gold-rimmed spectacles, shoulders shaking undignifiedly as dancers and a dance instructor led him about.”
“A person anchored in self-trust appears beautiful to all who see them.”
“You likely don’t grasp this.”

Proust………….

Grange: “In my eyes, you are simply beautiful. You are magnificent. No matter what you write for me, I should only feel joy. In fact, I am truly grateful for this. What I recall about this occasion is that you became my model, and at noon, we often ate meals together in the dining room of my house. As we ate our meals, the two of us would battle through debates. When you raised your voice, I would counter with one twice as loud.”

“Right then, my old man would say this—‘Hey, Jacques! Don’t get Marcel all riled up. The man’s not really badmouthing you. He’s just teasing you, isn’t he? Well, drink a glass of cold water. Drink it slowly, sip by sip. Drink it in the time it takes to say “hundred”!’”

Proust smiled.

Grange: “You laugh, but it’s true.”
“Use that fearsome analytical power of yours to excavate the depths of my heart.”
“And simultaneously—rend apart your own web of emotions and show me.”
“The one retracing Sainte-Beuve’s missteps isn’t me—isn’t it rather you?”
“My portraits may now be praised as ‘having spawned a trend,’ yet I’ve not heard of a single household that’s moved them from shadowed corners to well-lit walls.”
“Through which peephole did Marcel Proust observe the 1920s art world? Posterity’s critics will surely ponder this. No—I hadn’t meant to voice such thoughts.”
“Let me confess one final truth: those who truly comprehend refinement grow mortally sensitive when their name stands adjacent to another’s—and on this count, I’ve anguished profoundly for your sake.”
“But this cannot be undone.”
“Nor would I have it undone.”
“Through all those letters you sent while crafting this preface—through every reply I penned—surely you grasped my sentiments.”
“I declined nothing that ought to have been refused solely because I trusted our friendship and wished not to compound my own failings—nothing more.”
“Yet through this ordeal of mine, Proustians worldwide have gained at least two ‘magnificent literary portraits’ within your pages.”
“One depicting your father; the other my old man.”
“If any sin stains me, it lies in compelling you to paint that self-portrait steeped in irony—the very irony you abhor.”

Proust smiled bitterly.

“For some reason, you deliberately omitted my name there, but that story remains utterly amusing to recall.”
“The time we found ourselves together on an Alma-bound omnibus.”
“You were wearing a tailcoat, no less!”
“Your house maintained a splendid carriage that you’d ride in nearly everywhere.”
“Yet there you were in that outfit—taking public transport!”
“When I asked where you were headed, finding it peculiar, you adopted this oddly bashful expression and said ‘to a ball.’”
“Growing more intrigued, I pressed—‘Which ball?’—and you declared it was the Wagram Ball!”
“In those days, when people spoke of the Wagram Ball, didn’t they mean those monthly gatherings at Wagram Hall where great households’ menservants and maids took their day off?”
“I was astonished, but then thought—well this is you—of course you’d pursue such eccentric whims! So I teased: ‘Then stride in boldly! Quit looking so solemn like some invited guest!’”
“It turned out later you’d actually been en route to attend the Duchesse de Wagram’s soirée.”
“Your family carriage was full—they made you ride the omnibus alone—and you were utterly crestfallen about it.”
“I went about boasting of this as if I’d scored some grand triumph.”
“Ha ha ha ha...”
“Yet you’ve written of this affair as though it concerned strangers.”

Proust: “If I were to write it now, it would be someone else’s affair anyway.”

Grange: “But in truth, I can’t afford to be careless with my words to you. What about that—is that now someone else’s affair? That was when you, amid the tumultuous reception of your debut work, wore a face as melancholy as Yokanaan’s every day. When he saw my face, he suddenly said this—‘Hey, you—how many letters do you think have come to me from all sorts of people?’ ‘Eight hundred seventy letters.’ Then, a man named Paul Morand composed and sent over a paean. ‘I don’t properly read the criticisms in newspapers and magazines—but every one I happen to see is filled with infuriating things…’ ‘As for me—well, there are allies and enemies, but if I say that, why, everyone’s on the side of the allies.’ ‘But those very allies get on my nerves.’ ‘At that point—do you remember what I said?’”

Proust (laughing)

Grange: “Oh, don’t get so angry like that. My old man will order complete bed rest again soon enough. You’ve always maintained that lily-pure way of thinking about righteousness—utterly spotless. Such things could never be grasped by those monocled diplomat-psychologist novelists. Listen—Marcel—I wanted to see you every day. Just like everyone else wanted to meet you, I wanted to meet you too. Now that we’re here, let me tell you—this happened ten years back. I went to visit you at that house on Ossman Street. The gatekeeper said—‘Monsieur Proust is presently at Madame Strauss’s residence.’ So I turned back toward Place d’Iéna. This time—‘He has just left for Madame Lejeanne’s dressing room.’ Straight to the Paris-za Theatre’s backstage from there. When I tried entering, Port-Riche and Hervieu were spilling out into the hallway. Only Mirbeau’s voice came through from inside the room. I gave up and planted myself in Mademoiselle Celeste’s salon where I thought you’d likely stop on your return. Waited till nightfall—never caught sight of you. Want to know how Mademoiselle Celeste consoled my disappointment that time?”

Proust...

Grange comforted him with these words.
"That man won't return until he's alone with Madame Lejeanne."
"And then she opened a bottle of reserved Fine for me."

Proust (picking up the book before him and beginning to turn the pages): “You—forgive me—there’s a paper knife there; if you would be so kind as to pass it.”

Grange (passes the knife).

“Thank you.”

“When I tried putting this into a book like this, after all, it’s better to have that preface. If I’d had to make you rewrite it, I was prepared to drop the whole thing. However, the parts you last revised should be left exactly as they are.”

“I’m utterly at a loss with your obstinacy. I’ve never felt such anxiety about what I’ve written as I do this time.”

“Even after meeting and talking like this—do you still want to rewrite it?”

Proust…………(continued reading)

Grange: “Your colleagues might include some eminent figures, but originally, that Nouvelle Revue Française magazine didn’t accept anything you wrote until you won the Goncourt Prize.”
“Their reason was that you only wrote novels taking high society as your subject.”
“Regarding that matter, I once gave that magazine a proper thrashing in *Matin*.”
“I still have what passes for your thank-you note from that time stored away.”

Proust: “I see—this part here was indeed somewhat too severe.”

Grange (peering in): “Where—uh, where….”

Proust (indicating a section): “The wording is insufficient.”

“Never mind,” said Grange. “I intend to place a response to that preface at the beginning of my next book. I plan to write down everything we’ve said here today.”

“You should abandon that idea,” Proust replied.

“No—I will do it,” Grange insisted. “This is the only way to repay your friendship. I’ll clarify your position and put those around you at ease.”

Proust: “Where is the need to do such a thing.”
“Now that I’ve reread it, I do think there are parts where my expression falls somewhat short, but taken as a whole, my ideas come through clearly.”
“There are no parts that need to be retracted.”

“Is that really true?”
“It’s true.”

Grange: “Alright.”
“Thank you………….”

A long silence.

“Your health seems to be gradually recovering—now go on and write more masterpieces from here on out. When I think that you might live to be as old as Sarah Bernhardt, I am truly delighted. Before long, at the Académie Française, you will take a seat beside Jacques Rivière and André Gide. Paul Morand will enter next in line, I suppose. By then, Paul Claudel will have joined your circle and likely become President of France. Then my paintings too, thanks to that, will be displayed in the Portrait Museum—and oh, some shameless onlooker will stop and say, ‘This looks just like the paintings by that third-rate painter Jacques Grange they have at home!’”

Proust secretly furrowed his brows.

Grange: “Come to think of it, I really should have painted a portrait of you in that volunteer soldier uniform after all—like some Assyrian prince.”

Proust did not attempt to laugh.

Grange: “But when it comes to selecting models for my paintings, there’s certainly something I can take great pride in.”

Proust: “That is what I wrote in this preface.”

“Ah, yes yes,” said Grange. “But you wrote ‘with the exception of myself.’ How could I let myself be excluded like that? The portrait I painted of you was before your Goncourt Prize too. Whether it was Gide or Barrès… I painted them all before their fame.”

Proust responded somewhat roughly: “I already know.”

“Any hack can paint portraits after someone becomes famous,” Grange continued. “The most egregious case is Véronique. Hasn’t she come crawling to your place yet?”

Proust………….

Grange: “She’ll be here soon—you’ll see.”
“Are you angry, Marcel………….”

Proust………….

Grange: “My chatter must be tedious.”

Proust remained silent.

Grange: “That must be it.”
“Actually, were it not for that, there’d be no reason we wouldn’t have visited each other these past thirty years.”
“But we’ve grown quite distant in so many ways.”
“I’ve thought about this thoroughly.”
“The world you live in can’t be glimpsed anymore except from outside.”
“And even then—sometimes it’s too dazzling to see clearly.”
“In your last letter, you wrote you could tell me anything.”
“I too feel there’s nowhere you can’t look when it comes to me.”
“You used to be such a good mimic.”
“You’d mastered teachers’ voices and mannerisms.”
“You made everyone laugh with that, didn’t you?”
“Right now, here—Jacques Grange is imitating Jacques Grange.”
“If it’s funny, laugh for me.”
“I… I want to leave having seen your smiling face.”
“I want to keep that memory… as my final one… treasure it…” (voice breaking)

A long silence.

Proust: (Quietly) Jacques... mon cher Jacques... Forgive me.
“I was thinking of something else just now.”
“No—not something unrelated.”
“I was thinking about the Jacques of old.”
“Back then，beautiful girls with flowers in their hair would often have their carriages stopped in front of your studio to watch you paint.”
"They watched with looks that seemed to truly understand the paintings you were creating."
"But in those eyes hovered a color that suggested a sense of wonder."
“From the fingers of a man dressed in such splendid attire—moreover, from the fingers of a man who, just last night at the dinner table, told such amusing, such infuriating stories—how could such magnificent paintings emerge? It was that doubt I read in their eyes.”
“Jacques!”
“I had forgotten to write this in the preface.”
“Now, offer me your hand.”
“Today, I’m terribly tired, so I’ll get some sleep.”
“I won’t have you escorted out, so take your leave at once.”

The two exchanged a prolonged handshake.

After waiting for Proust to lie down and close his eyes, Grange left the room without making a sound.
The book that had been on the bed fell to the floor with a dry thud.