Marcel Proust's Time Regained (1999) - full transcript

TIME REGAINED

Then, one day,

everything changes.

Things that had been

detestable

to you,

that had always been banned,

are now allowed.

For instance:

"May I have some champagne?"

"Why, certainly,



if it makes you happy."

You can't believe your ears.

You send for everything

that had been most forbidden.

That's why there is something...

rather indecent...

about the unbelievable frivolity

of the dying.

Dictating is too tiring.

I'll try to write.

You may...

You may bring me

a little hot milk,
but only if it makes you happy.

You know, Céleste,



if I get through the night,

tomorrow

I'll show the doctors

I'm more than a match for them.

Wait.

There, in the desk.

Thank you.

You may go now.

Don't leave me alone too long.

Odette.

Grandmother.

The Verdurins.

Mama.

Papa.

Cottard.

Robert... Robert de Saint-Loup.

What's he doing here?

Papa again.

Rachel.

Gilberte.

Me.

- Disgraceful!
- But pretty.

I adore Chopin, don't you?

Oh, yes!

What can we do?
Odette is around.

- Isn't this Beethoven?
- I'm afraid so.

The nerve of her, just turning up!

She's aged.
Or am I dreaming?

You're dreaming.

She's ravishing.

Darling! Lovely to see you!

I'd lost hope. How is Monsieur?

You know Charlie. He's hilarious!

You missed his latest jest.
Beethoven's German dances!

Your son-in-law loves Beethoven.

Schumann, actually.

Of course. I had an awful night.
A migraine.

I shouldn't have read the news
before bed!

You heard about that soldier
on leave?

He returned
only to find his house bombed,

his children dead, his wife crippled.
It's too much!

So unfair.

I'm babbling! Some refreshment?

Morel's gone again.

Always breezing in and out.

Perhaps I chased him away.

Come! Look at this!

Do come! It's much funnier
than any of your stories!

Marcel?

Once upon a time,
a jealous husband

ordered his innocent wife to be killed.

She was Genevieve de Brabant.

In the deep, dark forest
his henchmen took pity on her

and spared her life.

A few years later, Count Siegfried
found her sleeping in a hollow tree.

Am I disturbing you?
Should I stop?

Game's over?

Feeling bored?

I'm afraid you're too sensitive
to look at this.

It takes a real soldier

to look such butchery in the eye.

See? I was right.

Gilberte?

Why won't you answer me?

I was short of time that day,
you know.

I'd like to have rebuffed you.

Really? Why?

To make you remember me.

I, for one...

often think
about that sign you made.

Some things you don't forget.

I was twelve.
It was completely innocent.

Indecent, you mean!

Whatever did you imagine?

I was only saying
how pretty you were.

Did I do wrong?

Gilberte!

Marcel! Come here!

Céleste?

Are you there?

Tell me the truth.
Are there roses in the house?

Roses? No, sir.

Upon my word.

I believe you, but...

Just now when...

Mr. de Charlus came by,
I dozed off.

No one came by.

He may have worn a rose
in his buttonhole.

Or thrown it away on the doorstep.

You know
how a few specks of pollen...

Mr. de Charlus was wearing no rose.

Do me the pleasure

of calling him
to ask if he threw one away.

All day long
in this too countrified house,

which seemed more
like a backwood shelter,

its wallpaper awash with apple trees
in the Japanese style

to hallucinate
the hours you spend in bed,

I spent all day in my bedroom

with its view
of sweet greenery and lilac,

the leaves of the tall trees
down by the shimmering water

and Méséglise Forest.

I enjoyed this view
because I thought

it was so nice to have
all this greenery in my window...

Until, in the vista of green,
I recognized,

etched dark blue in the distance,

the belfry of Combray church.

That belfry seems
so natural and distinguished.

Laugh if you like.

It's not classically beautiful
but I like its strange old face.

If it played the piano,
it wouldn't play crisply

I'll be back tomorrow evening.

And gone the day after?

I'm sorry, Gilberte.

I forgot I have to meet a local man

in Paris.

Couldn't you...

I don't know... call him and say...

Sorry, no.

I'm terribly sorry.

Do you believe me?

Feel how quick my heart beats.

Abnormally quick. Because of you.

I hate to see you so sad.

I feel guilty.

You can't believe how guilty.

You're overdoing it, Robert. By far.

Gilberte! Won't you kiss me?

What are you reading?

May I see?

The Goncourts' Journal.

It's fun. They write about Papa

and people he knew.

- May I borrow it?
- Take it.

Read it on the train.

I'm keeping that one.

The Girl with Eyes of Gold.

It's very improper!

I know it.

It's admirable.

You think so?

Those women are jealous
only of women.

For others, man is the enemy,

the one who brings the wrong caress.

I was miserable

when my fiancée loved another man.

But not half as miserable
as if she'd loved women.

That "fiancée"...
Did you love her as much as me?

Because you claim to have loved me.

Perhaps not.

She wasn't your equal.

But still, I really loved her.

Did she love women?

I think so.

I'm not sure.

Here.

You should remember her.

Albertine.

You told me she was disreputable.

I said that?

If I did, you misunderstood.

I was talking
about flirting with boys.

And at that age,
nothing much happens.

You know what I think?

We're talking too much.

And forgetting to eat.

I think that
when you stop loving a woman

and see her again, years later...

Between you and her, there's death.

As if she'd passed away

because your love is over.

You mean I'm dead?

I'm only thinking

about all those questions
that once tormented me

but are of no interest to me now.

Such as?

The time I saw you on the Champs Élysées

with a young man.

Unless it was a young woman.

You have no idea how sad it made me.

I thought: It's over.

I'll never see her again.

I think I remember.

Don't try to.

It's not worth the effort.

That's what's so awful.

Heartbreak...

can kill...

but leaves no trace.

Shall I say who it was?

Please pick up the pieces
and throw them away.

Wash them, then put them
in my mahogany box.

Albertine...

Did you see that man?

At this very moment, Robert is doing
important business with him.

They had a meeting in Paris.

- Did he recognize you?
- I don't know.

Robert doesn't even brief
his cohorts any more.

I'm too tired to confound him.

I'm weary.

Weary of all these lies.

It may be my fault.

Women who wallow in their woe
dig their own graves.

I'm mishandling it.

Has he mentioned this "Rachel"?

Don't answer.

Robert's your friend, too.

That's not Gilberte's signature.

I tell you it is.

Look. That's an A, not a G.

You're teasing me.

I say what I see.

That's an A. And that's an N.

It's not.

It is.

Libertinage

He sends a bouquet a night.

It's sweet, but after the twentieth,
you start thinking.

They must be hiding something.

Something fishy.

I'm not one for gossip
but friends say

"Robert's a liar,
to himself and everyone."

But he's a bad liar
when you catch him with Morel.

The love in his eyes says it all.

I don't know...

I can't believe it.

What do you think?

Am I crazy to love him?

Strawberries in ether!

Like kissing snow.

Did you read Le Figaro?

"This week brings more proof
that the arts

are society's
true movers and shakers." Good.

"The scandal...

caused by the performance
of Profanation

is another example
of art's impact on its audience."

How amusing!

- Leaving already?
- I'm expected.

May I ask by whom?

An algebra class. Didn't I tell you?

- And our dinner?
- Another time.

You know what I'm thinking?

If I ever find out you're unfaithful,
I'll leave you at once.

You must always be faithful to me.

Absolutely faithful.

Starting here,
where everything starts.

Talking to yourself?

No, to you.

To me?

What were you saying?

That's our secret.
Secrets shouldn't be repeated.

How was your algebra class?

I'd rather have been here with you.

Charlie?

Who is this woman?

It's a long story.

Someone begged me to find her photo.
She's an actress.

An admirer? A future lover?

It's a boring story.

I'm counting on you, Marcel.

I know Gilberte trusts you.

You'll tell her better than I
that I still love her.

There's the other woman, too.

Though I love her less
than Gilberte.

But she gives
such ample proof of her affection.

I'm her first love!

Here...

Read this letter.

She writes that
she'll never be happy without me.

Before me, she had no one.

No one else in her life.

Gilberte!

What's she up to?

I feel I'm intruding.

Not at all.
We were discussing the Balkan war.

I suggest you continue over dinner.
It's ready.

Pardon me.
I must have caught a chill.

Why are you staring at me?

Does my headdress astound you?

Do you like it?

It's not at all you.

If I'm too "me",
you don't see me.

Cheer up!
I'm in excellent spirits.

Make the most of it.

Come, let me show you something.

You remember that mishap?

You were angry for ages.

Now I've done as I should.

The cup is fixed,
like all the others.

Reading the Goncourts' Journal
made me feel strangely disturbed.

They wrote about a dinner party

at the Verdurins' house.

Doctor Cottard and his wife were there,

the Polish sculptor Virovski,

Swann the collector,

a grand Russian princess.

Swann said she had shot dead
Archduke Rudolph.

Yung Cheng plates

with their nasturtium borders
and bluish,

swollen iris blooms.

Dresden plates,
daintier in their craftsmanship,

their anemic roses turning violet.

Sèvres plates, meshed with the guilloche
of their fluting.

And, what is perhaps as rare

is the superb quality
of the food served on them.

Finely simmered delicacies,

the likes of which Parisians,
it must be said,

never find at the grandest dinners.

What a pleasure it must be

to dine off such fine plates!

You don't know my husband!

He's single-minded.
Pretty things don't interest him.

He'd be happier drinking cider
in a cool Normandy farmhouse!

You know Normandy?

You Westerners cannot understand

how a writer can penetrate
a woman's innermost depths.

You're a writer yourself.
A good one.

You have no idea how successful
you'd be in my country.

When my brother died,

every woman in Moscow
wore a black ribbon

around her thigh!

About Normandy,
I know Elstir's landscapes.

Such delicate pastels...

Elstir? I taught him
all he knows about flowers!

He couldn't tell
an Althea from a hollyhock!

And I taught him to recognize jasmine.

It's true. Without my wife

that flower painter,
now hailed as the best,

couldn't have painted jasmine.

I taught him flower arranging.
He had no idea!

How often I'd say, "No, Elstir.

No! That's not worth painting!

Paint this."

Unfortunately our advice
couldn't prevent his vile marriage!

Have you noticed Mrs. Verdurin's
magnificent pearl necklace?

Admirable, I agree.

Black pearls.
They used to be white.

Is that so?

My story of our hostess's pearls

leaves Mr. Goncourt skeptical.

He's wrong.

A fire blackened them.

I kept certain jewels in a bronze box.

After the fire, we found the box.

The pearls inside... were like this.

Talk about black magic!

There's more.

The changes sometimes observed
in lifeless matter

also appear in the human brain.

I speak as a doctor.

I myself treated Mrs. Verdurin's valet,

who almost died of shock in the fire.

Well, it changed him.

His handwriting changed,
but so did his innermost personality.

As if the fire awoke
the monster in him.

This sober man became a drunkard.

A drunk and a liar!
And before, he was...

An absolute pearl!

We had to dismiss him.

I felt vaguely disturbed.

After all,

I met these people daily.
I often dined with them.

The Verdurins,

the Duke of Guermantes, the Cottards...

I could list every one
of their countless vulgarities.

Their outward charm escaped me.

I couldn't help seeing through it,

as a surgeon sees the cancer
beneath a woman's smooth skin.

I dined out,
but I couldn't see the guests.

For instead, I was X-raying them.

Poor Marcel is not well.

Still, he writes day and night.

How many volumes? Ten?

Hush! Or you'll tire him.

They say he's near the end.

The end of what? You mean...

No, his book!
It's almost finished.

What will he have to live for?

How upsetting!

I'll ask Bontemps to see to it.

Norpois had his article censored again.

All because he hinted
that Percin would be fired!

I was in love, my Lord!
I was in love!

And craved love in return!

That day, I admit, I took fright.

I thought you loved me no more.

Now I see my error.
You love me still.

These are Egyptian tunics.

Dark, straight... Very "war".

See this jewelry?

My latest inspiration.

Made from shrapnel.

My designs were all inspired

by respect for our soldiers.

What do they dream about
in the trenches?

Surely, more daintiness.

For their dear wives at home.

But no excess, no misplaced luxury.

Just pretty trifles
to brighten up these dismal days.

A great designer has no other way
to help the war effort.

We all share that duty.

Will you take some tea? Biscuits?

We'll have to tighten our belts.

Food, gas, electricity...

The Senate passed the law.

Even adultery costs more!

Adultery?

We passed that law, too.

Adultery now carries a 100-franc fine,
plus a few days in jail.

I can't see anyone here being liable!

Do you recognize him?

It's on the tip of my tongue.
Tell me.

No.

Charlie, play us something
suitable for twilight.

Very well.

Still no sign of Odette?

No. I don't know why
she's stopped coming.

Maybe she's ruffled. I'm not.

How did I upset her?
She met both husbands here.

If she wants to come back,
she's always welcome.

Twelve German Dances for Piano?

Isn't that risky?

A tribute to my friend Charlus.

Why do you hate him so?

Because he's so virtuous.

Bontemps is right. You're reckless.

It's true.

That's why I'm enlisting tomorrow.
For the front.

To uphold my reputation.

Are you joking?

You're more useful as a journalist.

I'm bored.

So what? I'm bored too.

I'd be even more bored
without you.

I'm taking you hostage.

Beethoven!

The nerve of her! Just turning up!

She's aged.
Or am I dreaming?

You're dreaming. She's ravishing.

How lovely to see you!
I'd lost hope.

How lovely to see you!
I'd lost hope.

How is Mr. de Forcheville?
Blah, blah...

I had too much champagne.
It's so good!

I was at Tansonville.
This is for you.

She's been through hell.

My Gilberte has gumption!

The Germans don't. They fight well,
but lack what I call "gumption".

Any news of Robert?

Her husband, St-Loup?
He speaks like a Tommy.

He chats with men
from faraway dominions,

fraternizes with officers
and humble privates.

I have a soft spot for the English.
They're so fair-play!

- Can we go in?
- Sorry, sir.

- Fancy crowd!
- It'll be an all-night party.

Look, there's Charlus. With someone.

Mrs. de Forcheville,
I'm afraid we have to close.

The curfew's started early?

No, it's on time.

I see. We're being kicked out.

May I see you home?

I'll let you out the back.

I'd rather walk alone.
Do you mind?

No, I quite understand.

Did you hear Cottard is sick?

Everyone says he's overworked.

It's worse than that.

Can we come in?

Alone in the dark?
You look lost.

Mr. de Foix, being lost
is of minor importance.

The problem is finding oneself.

I'm looking for Charlus.

He was here, dining with someone...

You know how he comes and goes.

Like a ghost.

Or a spy.

You're harsh.

My father's no better.
He keeps tabs on everyone I see.

Isn't that vile,
given whom he sees?

He and St-Loup
are tarred with the same brush.

They're old friends,
so it could be true.

I wouldn't mind,
if only he'd stop lecturing me.

It's drafty out here. Come...

Come meet my friends.

Unless young people bore you.

A drink? Liqueur, champagne?

The Grand Duke said,
"Everyone must rise for my wife."

The Duchess replied,

"Rise for your wife?

Men used to lie down
for her grandmother!"

The Baron was just here.
He can't be far. He ordered an Armagnac.

Youth!

They're celebrating Mr. de Mericourt's
engagement to Miss d'Ambresac.

He hit the jackpot. Just in time!

These youngsters love
to burn money they don't have.

So they go fortune-hunting. Swap tips.

"Try her. She's ugly,
but what a dowry!"

The dreadful things I overhear!

They're ruthless predators...
but entertaining.

Antoine! We're dying of thirst!

Coming, Your Grace.

Come. Mr. de Charlus loves chatting
with the kitchen boys.

No doubt we'll find him thriving.

Mr. de Foix,

is something lacking?

As usual, but no matter.

You look so busy, I'll do your job.

Keeping warm in here? Good idea.

Give him a drink.

Look at our game.

The flags are war zones.

Thank you. Just a sip.

We're studying
German troop movements.

Antoine says we keep screwing up.

I don't.

I say Fritz calls all the shots.

There's some caviar.

No thanks.
I'm looking for Charlus.

You missed him.

He saw me and left,
as if I were the devil.

I'm not a devil, am I?

No, Your Highness.
Those are the devils.

Take a seat.

Have you seen this?

Read it to me please.

"German-lovers make merry in Paris,

feasting and partying despite the war.

Worse, they praise our foes

and wish aloud for France's defeat."

I was thinking
that more and more people,

despite seeming perfectly happy

and drinking excellent cocktails,

complain that
they can't last out the war,

that their hearts can't take it,

that they'll drop dead.

And strangely enough, they do!

I've noted many such premature deaths.

Have a drink? An Armagnac?

Some hot milk.

In midsummer? Sheer folly!

To each his folly.

How is Odette?

Still crazy about the English?
She'd like my brother.

All this absurd talk

about the extraordinary
lack of psychology

that characterizes the German race.

The Cottards, the Cambremers...
Between us,

do you think
they ever cared much about psychology?

Norpois is more subtle, I grant you,

though he's been wrong from the start.

His rabble-rousing newspaper stories...

Do you read them?

Yes, occasionally.

Brichot says that France
should be more militaristic

while accusing Germany
of being too much so!

He uses the harshest words to condemn
the Germans cult of strength.

"A dragon on its horse!"

A beautiful image, I think.

Don't you?

All these patriotic journalists
are so untalented.

That's why they write such drivel.

They all spell "kolossal" with a "k",

but what we bow down to

is truly colossal.

Speaking of Brichot,
have you seen Morel?

I've heard he wants to see me.
Let him make the first move.

I'm the older one.

It's not for me to do it.

He was at Mrs. Verdurin's today.

He played German dances
and nobody noticed!

He's crazy about women.
That's all he thinks about.

There's the all-clear siren.

Doesn't it remind you of Wagner?

Walkyries shrieking in the night?

The only German music
allowed since the war began.

"In case you didn't know, my dear,

I've been at Tansonville
for 2 years now.

I got here when the Germans did.

Everyone tried to dissuade me,
saying I was mad.

But I have one quality:
I'm no coward.

Or, if you prefer, I'm loyal.

Knowing Tansonville was at risk,

I couldn't let our old steward
defend it alone.

As a result, I've saved
almost the entire property,

while nearby estates
were abandoned in panic

and almost all destroyed.

I saved not only the house

but also my dear papa's
beloved collections.

You can't imagine
what this war is like,

my dear friend.

The importance
of every road, bridge and hill...

I often think of you

and our walks,
which you made so delightful,

as we ambled through this scenery

that now lies ravaged,

ripped by battles to capture
a road or hilltop that you once loved,

where we often went together.

Well, these places are as famous now

as Austerlitz and Valmy.

The battle of Méséglise lasted 8 months.

The Germans lost 600,000 men.

They razed Méséglise
but failed to take it.

That country road you loved,

the one we called Hawthorn Hill,

where you say
you fell in love with me as a child,

though I swear it was I
who fell in love with you..."

I got your note.
Is it really that bad?

I think it's the end.

He was delirious last night.

Then...

he came to himself, briefly.

He said he had to get ready.

He'd attended so many deathbeds.
Now it was his turn.

He wanted to leave
his papers in order.

Then he said

he'd like to see you one last time.

You'd always been a faithful friend.

Thank you so much
for coming so fast.

It's Mrs. de Forcheville.

Odette...

Make yourself comfortable.
It's so hot.

Thank you for coming.

Come here.

Closer.

Do you know what I'll miss?

Your caresses.

Please,

one last time.

Over there.

The box.

Open it.

It's for you.

Yes...

Make me happy.

The worst is always unexpected.

I always used to think

the worst that could happen to me

would be that he'd go.

And leave me all alone.

But I was wrong.

The worst thing

was when I found her letters.

He'd been two-timing me for years
with that tramp!

It's good that you feel so sad.

It proves you love still him.

Feeling less sad would mean
that you're forgetting him.

That you love him less.

You mustn't think he didn't love you.

When he was unfaithful,

he took such pains to hide it

for fear of hurting you.

He respected you.

He preferred you.

My earring!

I've lost my earring!

I'm glad to see you.

Me too.

I feel better already.

I'm only sorry
you can't stay longer.

Here in Paris,
we hardly feel the war.

You're a changed man!

I remember you saying

when people refuse to fight,
it's because they don't want to die.

They're just scared.

You said you yourself were scared
to return to duty.

I guess you were just being witty.

I remember.
Bloch had just been called up...

I told them.

I'm no use. Blind as a bat!

What's so funny?

You're safe,
parading around at staff HQ

while plain privates like me

get butchered by Bill.

No thanks!

- I hear Kaiser Wilhelm's sick.
- Call him "Bill".

Exactly. You're scared to.

You grovel to him already.

You'd look good at the front,

licking Fritz's boots!

You know what you are?

Privileged dandies playing at war!

Come.

Will it last long?

What? No.

I anticipate a very short war.

Read the Armies Act
of October 28th, 1913.

Give me that, and that...
A little pot-pourri.

Read it, you'll see.

There are no plans
to replenish the reserves.

That proves the war won't last long.

If I enlist,
it will be for an ideal.

I agree with my Uncle Charlus.
Effeminacy has no place in a man.

The thing that appeals to me

is being with brave young men,
far from women.

You understand? I believe in...

the mental and moral nobility
of manly friendships.

I'd love to risk my life
to save my orderly.

I'd love to die
inspiring my men with fanatical love!

Philippe d'Orléans, a connoisseur
of young men and effeminacy,

- was called "Monsieur"...
- I know, thanks!

A hero of the Dutch war, right?

But he was a quirk.

This is all very uninteresting, Marcel.

You remember the bellhop at Balbec?

He wants to join up, as an airman.
I'll see if I can help.

- Good journey, sir?
- No.

How's Mr. St-Loup?

Isn't he due for some sea air?

I've no idea.

Tell me, friend.

Between you and me.

I've heard that Mr. St-Loup

appreciates young men

in a particular way.

I don't go in for that, sir.

And if it were true, I wouldn't say.

I respect the hotel's guests.

When I called you earlier,
Francoise asked me

to exempt
some butcher's boy she likes.

A shy little chap.

She combed Paris for him.

He'd changed butchers.

She wants to save his skin.

What did you tell her?

That I don't exempt anyone.

You haven't eaten a thing.

You'll waste away.

We need manpower!

Some days
I'm too weak to hold a pen.

Can you see me with a rifle?

Certainly not!

You know what I think?

It's hard to create an epic
using words like "Up and at 'em!"

They grate on my ears.

It sounds so affected. So vulgar!

Like saying "coke" instead of cocaine.

The common people, though,

Laborers...

Shopkeepers
who never dreamed of being heroes,

who'd have died of old age
without knowing...

When you see them run under fire

to rescue a comrade
or a wounded officer

and they're hit, they die smiling.
You know why?

Because the surgeon told them
we captured the trench.

Common people are best!

But then again, everyone's good.

Like young Vaugoubert,
the ambassador's boy.

Wounded 7 times before he died!

Each time he returned alive,
he looked apologetic,

as if he'd let us down!

Good meat!

Do croissants
still ease your migraines?

Every morning
I think of poor Cottard.

I feel so sad.

He had to write me
a prescription for croissants!

The world's gone haywire.

To have a croissant baked

you have to pull
almost as many strings

as to appoint a general!

Before I forget...

I've heard you were
with Charlus yesterday.

Are you friends again?

We ran into each other
in the street.

I imagine it was a shock.

What's the attraction?

The strongman or my friend René?

Who's René?

A draft-dodger like you?

Draft-dodger? Don't sneer at him.

He's very imaginative,
especially in areas

that interest you.

I'll introduce you.
He could use the money.

He and I share the same tastes:
an allergy to trenches.

You understand.
You always backed the weak.

We're weak. You used to say

you never read the legal pages,
out of sympathy

for the condemned man's agony.

I don't, but I sometimes
read your filthy articles.

They're only a pastime.

Charlie...

- What do you want?
- To spend the evening with you.

- Evening and night?
- Yes.

Sorry. I have better plans.

Coming, René?

Charlie!

Look out. I'll get even!

I almost forgot!

It's time.

Vinteuil's septet.

Good evening.

You, here?

I could say the same.

I have my reasons.
You too, no doubt.

Did you see that man?
Was it Saint-Loup?

- Why not?
- What's so funny?

I'm sure you know
he's been implicated

in a spy scandal.

- Wrongly.
- I know.

It's a respectable house,
to that extent.

My own father frequented it.

Spying on your own father?
Is he in there?

He's dead.

He died in there.

What can we do?
When it's our turn, we'll go.

To slaughter? Not me.

I'm 22. Six months as a nurse there
was enough. Faceless patients.

My last one had no jaw,
no nose, no mouth. Nothing!

Just a big hole. And the stench!

Meanwhile Joffre sleeps around!

I read they have no more zeppelins.

Oh yeah? I shot down five already!

The papers are paid to tell lies.

Excuse me.

I'd like a room.

I don't know whom to ask.

Ask the boss.
He's gone to buy chains.

I think room 43 is free. One night?

No, just a few hours' rest.

I came in from the air raid.

They bombed La Villette.

I'm very thirsty.
May I have a drop of cassis?

We'll send it up.

Anything else? Take your pick.

I'll go with you.

Who's he?

Is there a Canadian airman here?

French.

No good.

The client wants the accent.

Take that, scum!

Maurice? I assure you, Baron.
He's a genuine thug.

Really? You surprise me.

He's had many convictions
for theft and burglary.

He's been in jail. He's dangerous.

Maybe so, Jupien,
but I don't feel it.

He says "scum" like a schoolboy
reciting by rote.

Nobody taught him.

I find him much too gentle.

Gentle is not why I come here.

Gentle? He was wanted
for killing a concierge!

Now you're talking!

There's the man
from the slaughterhouse.

He can kill an ox with one finger.

Guaranteed illiterate.

A Senator tried him two days ago.

He spoke about him to Mr. Lebrun.

"Mr. Lebrun" is actually
the Russian Grand Duke.

Don't bother, Jupien.
I want boys like Maurice.

He has the right approach,

but I want more authenticity.

Find someone.

Is my driver waiting?

Of course.

But the raid's not over.

He didn't hesitate one second.

He chose to die.

To save his orderly's life?

The rich aren't all bad.

I'd happily die for guys like that.

They're the tops.
Poor stiffs like us

have nothing to lose.
A gentleman with servants

who could be home drinking cocktails,
that's real class.

God shouldn't let the rich die.
The workers need them.

For one of them killed,
every German should die.

Finished already?

That was short.

Short for a walk in the park.

Long if you're swinging a whip
in this heat.

Good thing he pays well.

He's educated too, you can tell.

Damn it. He's insane!

- Who is?
- The old man in 27.

He's never satisfied.

Thugs bore him, soldiers too.
Now he wants a cripple.

But not a veteran. He hates that.

A cripple who wasn't wounded at war?
There's no such thing!

Not that chair!

Get up, get up!

The Prince de Foix died in that chair.
Nobody sits there.

Put the roses on it.

Hide, before the Baron sees you.

Hide!

Get up.

The Baron's coming.

You're disgusting.

I saw you at the Olympia
with two tickets.

Making extra money
behind my back?

No, sir.

How sweet. You say it so well.

It almost sounds true.

Who cares if it's true or not,

as long as I believe it?

Think about me in the trenches.
Is it hell?

Sometimes, when the shells come close...

But we have no choice.

We'll fight to the end.

To the end.
But to the end of what?

I don't think I know this charming,

delicious young man.

I'm charmed, sir.
Delighted to meet you.

I'll send it to my parents
and to my brother,

at the front.

How awful.

He's a decent guy, for a baron.

He has a million a day to spend.

Please don't take it badly.

The same room tomorrow.
11 o'clock in the morning.

Yes, sir.

Maurice! Louis!

You're wanted in room 23.

Look what I found in 35.

What is it?

A Croix de Guerre. Thanks!
Where was it?

Room 35.
I think I know whose it is.

Hurry, he's important.
Don't keep him waiting.

I'll see you out.

What's he doing here?

I'm leaving.

I can't believe it!

I won't be back.
It's scandalous.

Scandalous!

Goodbye!

I only bring one thing:
my mother's photo.

You're right.

You only have one mother.

One thing's for sure.
Since these raids began,

I've found the way of the Lord.

A few more raids,
and you'll be an alcoholic.

Francoise! What's upset you so?

We thought you were dead!

Didn't we?

The idea was discussed.

The bombs fell close tonight.

Guess who fetched us from the cellar.
Mr. de Saint-Loup!

What a character!

Ordering me around

like I was his sergeant! Wasn't he?

He swore he'd left his cross here.

His Croix de Guerre.

You wonder how he won it.

If you ask me, rich people like him

sit pretty while the rest get killed.

Also, he has a nerve

telling us how brave the Germans are.

Which side is he on?

So what did you do?
Don't say he stayed in the cellar!

I'd love to hear Morel
play this sonata.

Can I meet him one day?

Shall I warm up some food?

No thank you. You may go to bed.

Guess what Mr. de St-Loup said.

Fritz is waiting for the pear to drop.

It's true.
That day, there'll be no mercy.

Holy Mary! The invasion
of Belgium was bad enough.

Poor, defenseless little country.

What about the medal?
Did you go up and get it?

Yes. We risked our lives.
For nothing!

Not even a tip.

Charlus came by.
He left a note.

Morel is hiding at 25 Avenue du Bois.
I dare not go myself.

Please follow me.

It's here.

He's coming.

Who told you I was here?

Odette.
She's worried about you.

You're joking.
Odette doesn't worry about anyone.

So?

So I wanted to talk to you.

It's small and uncomfortable here.
Have a seat.

Welcome to my hideout.

The police are after me.

I'm wanted.

As a deserter.

Who turned me in?

Any idea?

I don't want to die in ignorance

in front of the firing squad.

I won't stay long.

It can't have been Charlus. You know it.

He hasn't got it in him.

- I didn't suspect him.
- So?

Maybe it's time
to end your quarrel.

He's old.

He may die soon.

It's time to make peace.

It's all the more absurd
because he still loves you.

He's still willing to help you.

You're wasting your time.

Tell me why you won't make peace.

Are you too lazy? Too mean?
Too virtuous? Too vain?

Nothing of the sort.

I don't care about virtue.

Meanness?

No, I've begun to pity myself.
Vanity is pointless.

As for being lazy...

I'm like a caged animal.

The truth is...

I'm a fool to tell you.
The truth is, I'm scared.

I'm scared of him.

I don't understand.
You know he's a good man.

Yes, I know. I know all that.

So considerate, so upright...
I know. I'm ashamed to say it,

but I'm scared.

Please go now. Leave me alone.

Every day of our battle
against the invader

is written in history.

In the dark trenches,
in the line of fire,

when victory is at stake,
the names of commanders

become one with those
of the humblest soldiers.

Marquis Robert de Saint-Loup
died on the field of honor.

That he gave his life is enough

to make him great.

But that he did so
to protect his men

makes him a hero.

Mentioned in dispatches,

awarded the Croix de Guerre,
Robert de Saint-Loup...

The Marquise de Villeparisis!
I thought she was in Paris.

My dear friend... What a surprise!
I thought you were in Paris.

Aren't you're the son
of the Minister's secretary?

This is Robert de Saint-Loup.

And my nephew, Baron de Guermantes.

My goodness! What am I saying?

I called you Baron de Guermantes!

Please meet... Baron de Charlus.

What did you do today?

I must show you the sweet shop
that just opened.

I'll walk with you a bit.

Tell me...

Did Madame say your uncle Charlus
is a Guermantes?

Yes, she did.

He's Palamède de Guermantes.

The Guermantes of Combray,

descendants of Genevieve de Brabant?

Absolutely.

Charlus adores heraldry.

He says that our motto,
our cri de Guerre,

which is now "Passavant",
used to be "Combraysis".

Charlus' brother
owns the château at Combray.

If you like,
I'll introduce you again.

After supper
is the time he relishes most.

Uncle Charlus is a night owl.

Isn't that Robert de Saint-Loup?

Where?

There.

I can't see anyone.

Come...

Combraysis!

Poor woman.

She must have cried so
after her son's death.

They didn't even let her see him.

Mind you... just as well, perhaps.

I hear his nose was split in two.
Completely defaced...

Look who's coming.

What a nerve!

Here comes my favorite violinist.

He looks as grim... as death!

Where have you been?
I was worried!

I missed the action.
Don't worry about me.

I have company.
They were waiting at the station.

I'm a celebrity now.
They'll all lap it up.

Mr. Morel...

your presence here...

I won't be staying long.

Charlie...

Thank you for coming.

We can't let them do this!

We have to do something!

Where's Odette?
She's friends with the General.

I'd like a little pick-me-up.

Come, Oriane...

The new sanitarium
to which I withdrew

did me no more good than the first.

The war was over.

On the train back to Paris,

the thought of my lack
of literary talent,

which I'd recognized
while skimming the Goncourts' Journal,

the thought of the vanity
and falsehood of literature

struck me afresh,
more painfully than ever before.

- How are you?
- Well.

The Baron wants to see you.

Mr. de Charlus...

How are you?

Better, but don't mention his illness.

You're still alive.

Thank God.

Because my family...

My family...

His family is nearly extinct.

The newspapers.

Antoine de Mouchy... dead.

Charles Swann... dead.

Adalbert de Montmorency... dead.

Boson de Talleyrand... dead.

Sosthène de Doudeauville... dead.

That's Mrs. de Saint-Euverte.
You hate her.

Mrs. de Saint-Euverte!

I'm not deaf, Jupien.

Now I've made someone happy,
for a few minutes.

He thinks I'm losing my mind.
I am not.

You see that advertisement?

There was the same one at Avranches...

No...

at Balbec.

When I met you for the first time.

Do you remember?

Marcel!

Your grandmother looks flustered.

But we don't care about old grandma.
Do we, little rascal?

Pardon me, sir? I adore her!

Sir, you're still young.

Use your youth to learn two things.

First, refrain
from displaying emotions

that are best left unspoken.

Second, don't rush
into answering questions

before you've understood them.

If you take these precautions,

you will be saved

from blurting out nonsense

as if you were deaf.

You look silly enough already

with anchors embroidered
on your swimsuit.

I told you you'd be cold.

Your lips are purple!

You're shivering.

The Princess de Guermantes insists.
No entry during the concert.

I'll show you to the library.

I'll bring you some cakes and tea.

Tea?

Milk?

No thank you.

- Sugar?
- One.

That day, the signs
which lessened my discouragement

and restored my faith in writing
seemed to multiply around me.

If memory,
thanks to the act of forgetting,

offers no bridge
from itself to the present,

it allows us to breathe a new air.

New, because
we've breathed it before.

Poets tried vainly
to situate this air in paradise,

but true paradises
are those we have lost.

This meant that
my fear of my own death

stopped as soon as I recalled
the taste of the Madeleine.

At that moment, the person I had been
became extra-temporal.

That person existed outside of activity,
of immediate enjoyment,

each time the miracle of analogy
made me escape from the present.

I felt no pleasure at Balbec,

or when I lived with Albertine.

I felt it only after the fact.

I had to interpret sensations

like signs of laws and ideas,

trying to think,

to pull what I'd once felt
out from the shadows,

to convert it
into its spiritual equivalent.

The only means of doing so

was to create a work of art.

Why is Marcel crying so?

Even he doesn't know.
He's keyed up.

Prepare the big bed for me.
I'll sleep in here.

My little ninny makes Mama
as silly as he.

Since neither of us is tired,
let's not get keyed up.

Let's do something.

Will it spoil your fun

if I give you the books
Grandmother bought for your birthday?

Are you sure?

It will mean
you get nothing tomorrow.

"We were walking home
in the moonlight

which cast a silver glow
on the dark country paths.

It was an autumn evening,
mild and slightly misty.

We couldn't help noticing
the sound of the air

and something eerie
which hovers over nature..."

The first piece is over.
May I see you in?

How nice to see you,

my oldest friend!

This reminds me of the year

I first visited
the Princess de Guermantes.

I feared I was unwelcome
and would be turned away.

You were wearing a red dress
and red shoes.

My God...
All that was so long ago.

Those were the dresses
we wore back then.

Maybe they'll come back.
Fashions do - clothes, music, painting.

But you, dear friend, don't change.
Not one white hair.

You look as young as ever.

I thought I just saw Morel.

I doubt it.

He'd have greeted me.

Is he really invited?

What a question!
Morel is now highly respected.

The Princess is fond of him.

What's troubling you?

Nothing...

I didn't recognize that man...

I was told it's Mr. d'Argencourt.

Rather... what's left of him.

You're referring to the trial?

Charlus and d'Argencourt
were convicted.

The court deferred
to the high moral standards

of our friend Morel.

But relax. If d'Argencourt
should bump into Morel,

he'll greet him like an old friend.

So old...
that he won't remember him!

If you come across Gilberte, avoid her.

She's a tramp who never loved
her husband. She liked the status,

the name, being my niece,
and rising from her slime.

All she wants now
is to sink back into it.

It's always pained me
because of poor Robert.

He was no hawk,
but he saw things clearly.

A great many things!

I have no proof of her infidelity,

but rumors abounded.
That's why Robert enlisted.

The war delivered him from his sorrow.

If you ask me, he wasn't killed.
He got himself killed.

My dear friend.

Old chap...
How good to see you.

You look fit for a dying man.

Please meet Mrs. de Farcy.

She's American.
So witty and ever so elegant!

Stop it, Jacques.
You'll make me blush!

Jacques?

I changed my name.

You didn't know?
I'm Jacques du Rozier now.

- Why change Albert?
- Albert Bloch is over.

You don't read the papers.
I wrote an article

for which I've received much praise.

But tell me...
Since you know everyone here...

I'd like to meet
the Prince de Guermantes.

Really? You know everyone?

A real social butterfly.

This is all untrue.
Allow me...

Prince? Excuse me...

Prince?

This is my friend Albert.

Jacques... Jacques du Rozier.

I've heard a lot about you.

And your late father, Solomon Bloch.

Isn't that so?

Yes. Indeed.

Excuse me, I'm a little...
What's the word?

A little new to this society.

My husband, Count de Farcy,
is related to the Forchevilles.

It's a very grand family, isn't it?

I made a note
that Mrs. de Saint-Loup

is related to the Prince de Guermantes
by the Forchevilles.

You noted wrong.
It's a very big mistake.

I told it to a lady
who repeated it to a man...

- It's of no importance.
- The Duchess...

Do you recognize me?

Cambremer.

The Marquis de Cambremer.

Excuse me.
Of course I recognize you.

I heard you were ailing.

The same trouble breathing?

It hasn't hindered your longevity.

It's like this deadly flu epidemic.

It seems that its victims
are mostly young.

We're still safe.

We still have...
a little time before us, don't we?

Montesquiou!

The concert will now begin.

I play it badly.

No. Keep playing.

I'd like to hear Morel
play this sonata.

Can I meet him one day?

Vinteuil's music is so monotonous.

The same phrases, over and over.

It puts me to sleep.

If it weren't so late, Albertine,

I'd show you how these key phrases,

which you've begun to recognize
as I do,

the same ones in the sonata,
the septet,

and his other works,

that little music
which keeps coming back,

insistently,

which you write off as "monotonous"...

Well...

in literature,

good literature, that is...

It's like a hidden reality

revealed by a material trace.

Look at the stonecutters
in Thomas Hardy.

They're in Jude the Obscure.

Also in The Well-Beloved.

Remember the stones
the father hews out of the island,

coming by boats
to pile up in the son's workshop.

They become statues.

The parallels
between The Well-Beloved,

in which a man loves three women

and A Pair of Blue Eyes

in which a woman loves three men...

These parallels...

You're not listening.

Yes, I am.

But I wish I hadn't mentioned Morel.

That's the reality
I read in your face.

What do you see?

A trace of jealousy.

Am I right?

Not entirely wrong.

And a letter
Mr. de Charlus opened by mistake.

A letter from Léa to Morel.

Did she tell you about it?

I thought as much.

A rather racy letter.
She called Morel "a little bitch".

Nice turns of phrase:

"Pretty girlie, you're one of us."

But she said it kindly.

She read it to you?

Of course she did.

Gilberte was with Léa.

You're saying that to...

Perhaps.

After all, I wasn't there.

Did she try anything with you?

On rainy days,
her parents sent a carriage.

Once she gave me a ride.

She kissed me.

She even asked if I liked women.

I said yes.
Just for the fun of confusing her.

That's all.

We didn't go any further.

You mistook me for Mama.

I'm starting to look like her.

I was short of breath.

There are so many people.

The party's a success.

I won't be staying long.

I keep thinking about Robert.

I know how you admired him.

I was able to grasp
what a superior being he was.

Even now, I'm still struck
by his slightest remarks.

His amazing foresight about the war.

He wasn't wrong... about the airplanes.

Remember when he said...

He spoke so beautifully...

"Each army
must be a hundred-eyed Argus."

Poetic, isn't it?

But what brings you
to these crowded parties?

You, amid such carnage!

It doesn't fit you.

I'd expect you anywhere except
one of my aunt's big hooplas.

Because she is my aunt.

Don't tell me you didn't know.

Where have you been?

In my sanitarium.

That bejeweled thing pecking at her cake
with her new dentures...

Do you recognize her?

The new Princess de Guermantes,
formerly Sidonie Verdurin.

Virtuosity
can never replace inspiration.

Charlie!

I'd lost hope!

So Rachel will be reciting Musset?

That was my idea!

Alfred de Musset's "Memory"
is my favorite poem!

My uncle was ruined by the war.

The Verdurins' fortune set him right.

After her husband died,
Mrs. Verdurin

married the Duke de Duras
on his sickbed.

That's how my uncle,
widower of Princess Hedwige,

married a widow
who'd become a duchess.

Mission accomplished.

She takes herself so seriously.

And everyone else pretends to.

How are you?
Some champagne?

Did Gilberte do her grieving widow act?

She feels no grief at all.

I'm astounded by her cynical
show of indifference.

If she'd loved her husband at all,

how could she remain so stoic
in the same room

as the woman he'd loved desperately
for so many years?

But it was you
who invited Rachel.

I wanted to see if she'd come.
And she did.

I'm not her. I haven't forgotten Robert.
I forget no one.

Shall I tell you what she is?
A pig!

Morel.

Do you know what I heard
about Mrs. de Forcheville?

She's like a rose
that's been pickled.

- It fits her.
- Champagne?

We have the same idiom.

You obviously don't like her,

but if I understand correctly,
you're related.

Vaguely... on my husband's side,
but very distantly.

Strange, how our relatives
are close or distant,

depending on our interest in them.

True, I feel...
very close to Oriane de Guermantes.

So elegant, so refined.

But when I see that pickled rose

day and night with the Duke,

I find it...

Odette de Crécy...

Odette de Forcheville
with the Duke de Guermantes?

What? You didn't know?
All of Paris does!

The Duke even had to resign
from the Jockey Club!

He's lost his mind. He's senile!

They say he tyrannizes her.

If he could,

he'd make her his captive.

And the Duchess?

The Duchess, my friend Oriane,
is above reproach.

She suffers, of course.
Suffers in silence.

And all the more
because people say she has affairs!

My friend! How are you?

On the score, it said:
"Allegro ma non troppo".

Fluid...

Talk about fluidity!

I must see you. It's important.

Of course...

We'll group up!

I said we'll group up!

Did you see the musician?

Such youth! So interesting!
Do you know her?

Here she is!

You were wonderful!

I listened...

Excuse me.

My dear, I'm sorry.
My mind was...

All these people,
these new faces...

One feels a bit lost.
Like in the fog.

I hear you've been ill.
You do look a bit pale.

Go back to Balbec. It's so bracing.
Have you seen my Gilberte?

I do love my daughter.

Without her I'd be lost.

Why are you staring?
Have I changed that much?

If I sculpted,
you'd be my model.

How charming.
You wouldn't have me pose naked?

You'd be perfect.
An allegory of eternal youth.

Really? Are you being sincere?

Come... Come home with me.
This chitter-chatter bores me.

I enjoy it.
You have no party sense, my dear.

From time to time,
it's nice to have fun and forget.

I want to be alone with you.

Come. Don't be childish.

Sorry. I have better plans.

Now that I've got you...

Come to one of my little get-togethers.

Kindred spirits.

I saw you speaking with Aunt Oriane.

Wonderful as she may be,
she's no intellectual.

Did you know that Count de Courvoisier

thought he was the only boy
to be attracted to another?

He thought the devil made him so.

I have no idea about such matters.

If you're looking for information,

you should look elsewhere.

I'm a soldier. No less, no more.

You used to be interested in battles.

Remember?

You knew all about
the encircling of Ulm in 1805...

by the Bulgarian wheeling flank.

My kind of subject.

As for what you were referring to,
it's Sanskrit to me.

Listen to me.

Rachel is reciting Alfred de Musset.

Come, it's delicious.

We must talk. It's important.

If she's not dead,
why don't they ever come out?

Because they're old.
At their age, one stays at home.

The Countess d'Arpajon
died after a long illness.

The Marquise died all of a sudden,
of a minor ailment.

Who is this young woman
approaching us so gracefully?

Are you joking?

Robert de St-Loup's daughter.

She looks like a Guermantes.

Alas, she takes after her mother
and her grandmother.

They're working on

a good marriage
to cement their social standing.

I have to keep him to heel.

Or else he'd lock me up.
What a tyrant!

I'm allowed some parties,
daytime only, no balls.

I think he's going mad.

It runs in the family.
The thought of his brother scares me.

I don't like to be cramped.

That's it. I adore my freedom.

The great loves of my life
were all terribly jealous.

As a writer,
you understand such behavior.

De Forcheville was mediocre.
I require intelligence.

But Mr. Swann was...
so profound, so attractive.

Mr. de Bréauté. Two wild years.
Hannibal. We called him Babal.

Did you know him?

- Another tyrant.
- Rachel's about to recite Musset.

Your uncle is busy. Come back later.

Come in...

My nephew.

My humble respects.

Humble respects? How charming.

He looks like his mother.

You've only seen her photo.

I beg your pardon.

I saw her on the stairs
when you were ill.

Just for a second, but...

It was dark
but I was able to admire her.

This young man has her pretty eyes.
And that.

He looks most like his father.

He has my poor mother's chin.

Some Turkish delight?

These come from Istanbul.
I share them with all my friends.

There's mint, rose,
cedar, and pistachio.

They stick to your teeth.

Don't be a killjoy.

I'm thrilled to meet your nephew.

I once met your father.

He was so good to me, so sweet.

You should get back to work.

I've grown used to the ones
the Grand Duke sends me.

I told him you were jealous.

Take another Turkish delight,
if you want.

Then get going.

His parents supervise his studies.

He may be the next Victor Hugo.

I adore artists.
They alone understand women.

Artists and men of exception,
like you.

This time, you say goodbye
and you leave.

Already gallant. See that?

He has an eye for women.
He gets that from you.

Once you learn not to blush,
you'll be a perfect gentleman.

If you ever want to stop by for tea,

a cup of tea,
as our English friends say, do.

- Just send me a wire.
- A wire?

A telegram.

Get going.

You have an English accent.

I'm American.

What will you play?

Beethoven.

A sitting room for close friends.

I'll give you this key.

Give it back later.

Mr. Swann has left.

Now Mama can come
and say goodnight.

Do you know this? It's Victor Hugo.

"Grass must grow
and children must die."

You read Hugo?

You read François le Champi.
At your age!

I've already died several times.

I loved Albertine above all,

then stopped loving her.

Gilberte too.
I haven't loved her for ages.

Each time I became someone else.

You slowly grow
indifferent to death.

Reassuring yourself?

I'm not scared for myself,
but for my book.

I still need some time.

Will you let me read it?

It's Mama.

Close your eyes now.

What would you like?

Some champagne.

But I have a favor to ask you.

That girl talking to her friend...
Her laugh is vulgar.

But her silk blouse is exquisite.

- A gift, I suppose.
- I don't know.

I'm interested in the cuffs.

See how prettily they're folded up?

I'd like to know more
about the embroidery.

Try to get details.

Is it a blanket stitch?
Openwork?

I'm no expert, sir.

Try your best, my friend.

The day the sculptor Salvini died,

he was given, as all mortals are,

the time to review
every place and moment of his life.

The sculptor refused.

"My life has been a series
of extraordinary adventures.

To revisit them
would only make me sadder.

I'd rather use my remaining time

to review my last work,
Divine Nemesis,

otherwise known
as The Triumph of Death."

So it was.

Soon after,
the Angel of Death returned

to announce the end
of his time of grace.

"What a paradox!" exclaimed Salvini.

"You gave me enough time
to revisit my whole life,

which lasted sixty-three years.

The same length of time

was too short to review
an object I made in 3 months."

"In this work is all of your life

and the life of all men",
the Angel replied.

"To review it would take an eternity."

Subtitles:
Nigel Palmer & Andrew Litvack

Subtitling:
CEDRA PRODUCTIONS

Processed by HIVENTY