Screen Two (1985–2002): Season 7, Episode 6 - 102 Boulevard Haussmann - full transcript
In 1916 author Marcel Proust is leading a reclusive life in Paris. He hires a quartet of musicians and befriends one of them, a wounded serviceman.
People think of a novel
as a sort of cube,
one side of which has been removed
so that the author can put in
the people he meets.
But it's more like a huge cemetery
in which, on the majority of tombs,
the names are effaced
and can no longer be read,
even by the author.
Celeste has many virtues,
and one of them is that in the two years
she has been with me,
she has never asked
if she has been put in the book.
I've had a letter from Odilon, monsieur.
- How is he?
- Well, monsieur. He sends his respects.
He's at the front now.
Where is the front, monsieur?
Getting nearer.
Bon appétit, Mademoiselle.
Madame.
Goodnight, monsieur.
Good morning, madame.
Good morning, Claudine.
One cannot properly describe human life
without showing it soaked in the sleep
into which it plunges night after night,
that sleep in which
one is no longer a person.
So how then on waking does one recover
one's own self rather than another?
Why, among the millions
of human beings one might be,
does one unerringly lay
one's hands on the person one was?
Money.
Handkerchiefs.
- You have no plans for this evening?
- Plans, monsieur?
You could go out. A café perhaps.
A married woman, monsieur?
Paris is full of soldiers.
Yes.
Still, the war is not
without its blessings.
I have had a letter
to say Monsieur Rivière
is reading my novel in his prison camp.
Have you never seen a gentleman before?
Forgive me, monsieur,
if I detain you a moment.
It is to tell you how greatly
I enjoyed your performance,
though "enjoyed" is hardly the word for
music which both moved and excited me.
And in particular, if I may
single it out, your superb rendering
of the César Franck, which seemed...
Forgive me, monsieur,
but you must excuse me if I, uh,
sit down.
You're ill. Your leg.
I was wounded at the front.
I'm on sick leave still.
You're a soldier.
But you're pale, monsieur. Are you ill?
Please.
How kind.
No.
Must be brief
on account of these terrible lilies.
I, um, have a favour
I wish to ask of you.
It is also a business proposition.
A wounded soldier.
The pain within the playing.
And now I must flee
in the face of my particular enemy.
Monsieur?
These dreadful flowers.
Au revoir.
I'm better now.
There were lilies at the concert.
Terrible flowers.
I'm feeling better now.
I'll light the fire.
It will draw out the fumes.
I thank you, Celeste.
Can I see the first three
notebooks again, please?
Yes, maître.
There, in.
Out.
In. Out.
With asthma, in is not difficult.
Out is where problems arise.
- I think it's neurotic.
- No, I don't. You'd know if it were.
Why? If a condition is capable
of deceiving the doctor,
why should it not
also deceive the patient?
- Do you dine out much, doctor?
- From time to time and not by choice.
- Madame Bize, she insists.
- Ah.
Do people tell you about their ailments?
Consult you at the dinner table?
- All the time.
- Tell me.
Well, people mistake
their symptoms for small talk.
"This'll interest you, doctor,"
they say.
Interest me.
The other evening at dinner,
my neighbour actually invited me
to look down her throat.
Which is all very well, but what will
one be looking down or up next?
I say, what will one be
looking down or up next?
Is he eating?
As much as he ever does.
He's not in bad shape.
For him.
It's a good job.
You have to be pretty fit
to go on being as ill as he is.
It was a bad attack.
He blamed it on some roses.
Lilies.
Lilies, roses. Anybody else, I'd say,
"Pull your socks up."
I hope he is a great man.
Making fools of us all if he's not.
How are you, madame?
This regime wouldn't suit everyone.
His nights are days, that's all.
You get used to it.
So my advice is to stay clear of lilies.
Give them a wide berth.
No flowers by request.
Useless to suggest
a more sensible regime.
My dear doctor,
any regime that we follow
counts for less than our temperament.
Should I make that more sensible?
A little fresh air does no-one any harm.
On the contrary, a little fresh air is
when I came across the lilies.
Windows closed, curtains drawn,
and you work like a ploughman.
How can you live like this?
If I didn't, I couldn't work at all.
Ask Celeste.
Maître.
Like a ploughman, Celeste.
I work like a ploughman.
Come in, Odilon.
There was a concert programme here
with an address on it, Celeste.
I remember particularly
putting it here a week or two ago.
You must have moved it.
No, monsieur.
Here it is, monsieur.
Of course.
Good.
- I shall be going out this evening.
- Sir.
You don't need to tell him I'm here.
I must tell him.
- What if he comes into the kitchen?
- He never comes into the kitchen.
I didn't come to see monsieur.
I've only got 24 hours.
He'd want to see you.
If he sees me,
he'll want me to drive him somewhere.
No.
He'll want to know how the war's going.
I don't know how
the war's going. I'm a soldier.
- Odilon.
- No.
Odilon.
Monsieur Marcel.
But how convenient.
I have to go out this evening
and suddenly you turn up.
How is the war?
Oh, we're winning, monsieur.
No doubt about that.
Another victory yesterday.
Yes. Except there is something curious
about these victories.
They get nearer and nearer.
Of course, I am still on the reserve.
If things get worse,
I suppose I may be called upon.
This is hardly work
of national importance.
I gather conditions are not ideal.
No, monsieur.
A lot of the front sounds very damp.
I would have a difficulty there.
How do you think your wife is looking?
Beautiful, monsieur.
She is a paragon.
This evening then.
- Monsieur Marcel.
- This is just like old times.
First to the Ritz.
Now we are going
to number one, rue Clovis.
- Yes?
- Good evening.
Is Monsieur Massis at home?
At this hour? Certainly not.
You are the mother of Monsieur Massis?
Possible. Who are you?
An admirer, madame, of his talent.
A devotee of his playing.
- Who is it, mother?
- Ah, good evening, Monsieur Massis.
You remember,
we met at your last concert.
Would now be a convenient time?
No, monsieur.
For what?
What's going on?
What's he suggesting?
- I'm going out.
- Go out? It's midnight.
Shh!
Monsieur, my son is
getting over a war wound.
He needs an early night.
Who is this man?
- Charming. Charming. Charming.
- Get back to bed this second.
Don't worry, madame.
I have a car waiting downstairs.
Now, where do all your colleagues live?
- My colleagues?
- Well, yes, of course.
He says he spoke to you
after the concert.
You never mentioned it.
When he asked me to play
for him at his apartment,
- I thought he was trying it on.
- The man's insane.
What is this?
Our full complement.
Off we go.
You are the leading exponents
of the modern composers.
- Yes.
- Are we?
Gaston. Um, Monsieur Poulet is
a friend of Debussy.
I don't care if he's Racine.
He's no business knocking
on doors in the middle of the night.
- What's in there?
- Mashed potatoes.
I'm particularly interested in César Franck.
A true artist.
He achieved recognition
only on the brink of the grave.
His last, and to my mind,
his greatest work
was performed at
the Salle Pleyel 25 years ago.
The only public triumph he ever had.
I must apologise for the lift.
It dates from the period
before lifts were invented.
Coat?
Follow me.
And don't touch anything.
Forgive me for lying here,
but for me it is the best position
when listening to music.
Monsieur would like the Franck quartet?
- Bravo! Superb!
- We've played it better.
Not at 1:00 in the morning.
So perhaps you'd do me the exquisite
kindness of playing it again.
Now?
You're right.
An entracte.
Monsieur is not eating?
Oh, I have to be careful.
It is very late.
I understand. I, too, suffer.
Are you not eating yours?
Don't mind if I do.
Yes.
Monsieur?
They're waiting, monsieur.
What does Monsieur Proust do?
Does he just write?
He's a gentleman.
What's the matter with him? Is he ill?
I've told you, he's a gentleman.
He's delicate.
Quite a place.
We seldom use it.
This carpet was given
to Monsieur Proust's father
by the Shah of Persia.
- Monsieur, what is this on the wall?
- Cork.
Otherwise, the noise.
The street. Children.
One could not work.
It's perfect for music.
We've never sounded so well.
Ah, our lost viola.
Stop. Stop.
That section... Play that again.
Monsieur Massis,
would you be good enough
to hand me the box on the bureau?
That one.
Yes!
But, monsieur, this is too much.
No. I've put you to some inconvenience.
I'm indebted to you
and I hope I'll be permitted
to call on your services again.
Good night, gentlemen.
Your cabs await you downstairs.
What a nice bunch. Did you not think?
- Monsieur...
- And so talented.
Did you notice the one with the limp?
He's a soldier, on sick leave.
I'll bring your night tray, monsieur.
You can go to bed now, Celeste.
I can't seem to get comfortable.
- Shall I straighten the bed?
- Mmm.
Dear Celeste...
- Celeste.
- Monsieur.
Perhaps Madame la princesse
should keep her wrap.
That's right. There won't be a fire.
No fire. How quaint.
I'll see if monsieur is ready.
What does she look like?
Rather small, with a very straight neck.
- A straight neck?
- Bit like a doll.
I think she's older
than Monsieur Morand.
No!
Let's see.
The princess is thinking
of closing down her house
and moving into the Ritz.
With the air raids, it'll be safer.
What's more to the point,
it will be cheaper.
- War has made everything so expensive.
- The war, the war...
I cannot think of it objectively.
It permeates everything.
As saints used to live in God,
so one now lives in the War.
Has Paul told you that
when hostilities began,
I was called for a medical examination?
- But that's absurd!
- Well, not so absurd, surely.
I am on the reserve.
The joke was that they called Marcel
for 3: 30 in the morning.
I thought someone
had tipped off the authorities
about my topsy-turvy regime.
That they were being considerate.
Alas, it was only a printer's error.
One has lost so many friends
and that one feels, of course.
But the deaths of tens of thousands
happening every day
is the most insignificant of sensations.
Hardly as disagreeable as a draught.
Do you feel a draught, monsieur?
What?
No, no.
One death means more than 1,000.
When men are dying like flies,
that is what they're dying like.
A jumper round your shoulders, perhaps?
No. More coffee, perhaps.
- She's very impressive.
- A gem. She's from the country.
Auziac, in the Lozère.
She adores you obviously.
When she first came, I had to explain
that Napoleon and Bonaparte
were the same person.
Ah! The beautiful Celeste.
I had a delightful young man
here the other day, a musician.
- He plays in the Quatre Poulet.
- I don't know them.
They're the leading exponents
of Franck and Debussy.
- I don't know Franck.
- He's in the army.
- Franck?
- The young man.
He can only play when on leave.
Such a waste.
- He played here?
- They all did.
They said that their music
had never sounded as well.
- The acoustics are superb.
- The food isn't bad either.
Celeste, Monsieur Morand
is paying you a compliment.
Monsieur...
Music seems to be playing
a bigger part in the novel
than I had originally envisaged.
But I have so much to do.
We must be going.
I was deputing at the opera.
- Where were you?
- Bed. Again.
While we're waiting for Monsieur Massis,
perhaps we could warm up
by playing Monsieur Proust a trio?
There are only three of them, monsieur.
The other one's on his way.
- Which one?
- The one with the big violin.
They wondered if you wanted them
to play you a trio.
A trio?
No, no.
A trio? No use to me.
- Sorry.
- Where were you?
- We tried Isabelle.
- What?
- I told her I was practising with you.
- Who were you practising with?
When you're ready, gentlemen.
You wouldn't last five minutes with her.
- I wouldn't want to.
- You see, I find her very attractive.
- After you, Victor.
- No. Let Louis go first.
Louis.
The quartet again, if you please.
You've been a great help to me.
Monsieur Gentil.
Monsieur Ruyssen.
Monsieur Poulet.
Monsieur Massis.
Monsieur Massis...
Monsieur?
Do you have any party pieces?
Solo items that you perform?
Yes, we all do.
Yes, but you. You do?
Yes.
Perhaps we'll talk about it.
Monsieur...
- Air raid?
- No, it's not. It's the all-clear.
There's been an air raid on?
We've been stuck up there
and bombs have been falling.
- He's brave.
- Well, I'm not.
- I saw one of his books the other day.
- What was it about?
Love, all that sort of stuff.
Permit me, monsieur.
None of you compete.
Have you noticed that?
- Compete?
- You and your colleagues.
You criticise each other, but you
don't take offence. You collaborate.
- Naturally.
- It's not at all natural.
It is in quartets.
Then they're a lesson to us all.
What I'd like one day is an Amati.
Not a Stradivarius?
No.
A Stradivarius is a concert instrument.
An Amati is more... intimate.
A Stradivarius is for oratory,
an Amati for conversation.
And both are very expensive.
Is your novel about music, monsieur?
Music occurs in it. Music recurs in it.
And a particular piece of music.
The César Franck?
Not exactly. Uh, though it will do.
But then novels are like that.
People think this tune
must be that tune,
that this character is modelled
on so-and-so,
this other is a portrayal
of someone else.
It isn't like that.
Art does not correspond to life.
It is life.
For instance,
there's a violinist in my novel.
Or he could be a viola player.
What's he like?
I don't think he's like you.
His name is Morel.
He's a poor boy, the son of a valet.
He acquires a rich friend and patron
whom I think he will abandon.
He hasn't quite decided to yet,
but I can see it coming.
He'll be very cruel to him.
Unfeeling.
- Where did they meet?
- Not at a concert.
At a railway station,
a setting fruitful in chance encounters.
- Monsieur Massis?
- Hmm?
Your flower.
Monsieur Massis, please.
Have you ever visited Venice?
Alas, no.
What would assist me immeasurably
in my work
would be to listen
to you and your colleagues
play some of my chosen pieces
by moonlight while waiting for the dawn.
In Paris?
In Venice.
A palazzo on the Grand Canal possibly.
- All of us?
- Of course.
Well...
That's quite a tall order.
To begin with, the authorities wouldn't
let us just go to Italy and back.
Why not?
Well, the war...
the frontiers.
Well, those are details.
I have powerful friends.
Artistically, how does it strike you?
Practical considerations apart,
can you see any objection to the scheme?
Imagine the sun rising over the lagoon
while the moonlight fades.
There is another difficulty.
I didn't want to mention this.
No sense in my giving you advice.
You'll just carry on, as usual.
I like you, Monsieur Bize.
Before you were a doctor,
I think you must have been a patient.
We soldier on.
I have a young friend, a viola player,
a charming and gallant young man
of immense talent.
He was wounded at the front
and is now convalescing.
However, the exigencies of
the war effort are such
that he's been threatened
with a return to active duties.
I cannot believe that the fortunes
of war are so nicely balanced
that they can be tipped by a return to
the colours of one broken string player.
You are associated with
the Medical Board.
Is it beyond the bounds of possibility
that you could write a letter
on his behalf?
I'm approaching Pozzi,
who has a formal position on the Board,
but I just wondered,
in addition, if you...
Of course. I should have to see him.
Of course. Of course.
He's a charming fellow.
It must be happening all the time.
All the time.
He seems better
or, at any rate, no worse.
Ha! The same, which is the most
one can hope for.
Who's this viola player?
These young men, they take advantage.
Money, favours and they're not grateful.
He's too soft-hearted.
I wish they'd leave him alone.
When you think of the others,
mown down like so much grass
in a meadow...
He'll end up getting upset.
So then he works harder
and then he makes himself ill.
You think he'd have more sense.
What did you say it was?
A shell. A fragment of shell.
My companion was killed.
Oh dear. Pain?
Not now. Just stiff.
Getting less so.
Yes.
Good. Or not.
Did you, uh... Did you have
a weak chest before your injury?
No.
But, um, others in my family did.
You play the violin?
Viola.
I'm wondering if the nerves have suffered
any permanent damage in the leg.
- Do you think so?
- It's hard to say at this stage.
Ideally, one would like
to keep you under observation,
taking view of the weak chest.
Prudence would postpone
an immediate return to active service.
I think one could make out
a case for that.
- I shall write to Dr Pozzi.
- Who is he?
He sits on the Board.
He's another friend of Monsieur Proust.
Thank you.
You're lucky to have found a protector.
Sorry?
Monsieur Proust seems to have
taken you under his wing.
He's fond of music.
Of course.
My colleagues and I played for him.
Maître Proust is a sensitive man.
He lives for his work.
You call him maître?
Have you read his books?
Um, not exactly,
but he's a great man nevertheless.
- I will write and thank him.
- What for?
- For this.
- There's no need to do that.
All I've done is give you
my honest clinical judgment.
Had you appeared before me
at a military tribunal,
I'd have said exactly the same thing.
For you to thank Maître Proust
would suggest
this letter I'm writing
is simply a favour to him.
But I'm going to the country tomorrow.
I must write.
Monsieur Massis, there's no need.
I shall be seeing
Monsieur Proust myself.
I'll convey your thanks.
- No, I'd prefer to...
- I promise.
Thank you.
Monsieur Massis...
Your stick.
The tribunal did excuse him?
Of course.
I know every member
of the board personally.
He's young.
He'll have other things to think of.
One forgets.
He seemed such a courteous young man.
I thought he might have written.
Monsieur is too good.
They take advantage.
I tell monsieur.
We know what you tell monsieur, Celeste.
- What was your impression of him?
- He seemed a nice enough young man.
- A superb musician.
- A little self-concerned.
He's an artist.
They take monsieur for granted.
Thank you.
Thank you.
"People who are not in love themselves
"feel that a clever man
ought to be unhappy
"only about such persons
as are worthwhile.
"This is rather like being astonished
"that anyone should condescend
to die of cholera
"at the bidding of so insignificant
a creature
"as the common Bacillus."
I shall have some things
to paste in later, Celeste.
Celeste...
No one has called?
No, monsieur.
Read it back to me.
"Sometimes, when we have made
a rough sketch
"of a painful passage in our writing,
"and can advance no further,
"a new affection and a new suffering
come our way,
"which enable us to complete it,
"to give it substance.
"And on the score of these great
but useful unhappinesses,
"we have little ground for complaint.
"They are plentiful and
we seldom have to wait long for one."
I find it extremely interesting
to see how people's faces grow older.
That woman over there.
I thought she was the mother
of someone I once knew.
Certainly she could have been
this woman's daughter.
But I see now,
mother and daughter are the same woman.
She is the woman I once knew.
Is she in your book?
People are apt to think of a book
as a sort of cube,
one side of which has been removed
so that the author may put in
the people he meets.
How's your quartet?
Any more private performances?
Not lately, alas.
I can't imagine anything more romantic,
music in one's bedroom.
- Would you like to hear them?
- Not in the middle of the night.
No, here, now.
- I'll go and fetch them.
- Marcel...
Please, I insist.
Uh, going so soon, Monsieur Proust?
I hope you're not ill.
Not at all.
We thought we'd have a little concert.
I'm just off to round up some musicians.
A concert?
But there's a war on, Monsieur Proust.
Monsieur Poulet...
Oh, how can I apologise?
Don't bother to deny it,
I've woken you up.
I am woken up already.
Charming. Charming.
Forgive me. I'm with friends
and I was telling them about
your exquisite artistry,
and they would not rest
until I'd sallied forth
into the middle of the night
to collect my band of warriors.
Dare I presume on your good nature
just once more?
Alas, monsieur, I wish I could
oblige you, but it is impossible.
The quartet, for the moment,
is disbanded.
Monsieur Ruyssen has been ill
with his stomach.
Now he is in hospital with appendicitis.
Do not say so.
Still, accomplished
though Monsieur Ruyssen is,
there must be other players.
Not at this hour of the night, monsieur.
Besides, we're also short of a viola.
Ah, yes, Monsieur Massis.
What has happened to him?
Not recalled to the front surely?
Happily, no, monsieur. The authorities
have extended his leave indefinitely
and they have gone to the country
to convalesce.
They?
Well, his fiancée, monsieur.
I am sorry, monsieur.
You've been so generous.
No matter.
It was just a thought.
I have disturbed you.
Forgive me, Monsieur Poulet,
and remember me to all your colleagues.
I will, monsieur. I will.
Charming. Charming.
Ah, no luck?
No matter. It's getting late.
Remember, Paul, one does not forfeit the
manager's esteem examining one's bill,
provided he thinks one is doing it
not so much from poverty
as from avarice.
Would you be so kind
as to lend me 50 francs?
Certainly, monsieur.
No, no, keep it. It was for you anyway.
No one has called, Celeste?
No, monsieur.
And there were no other letters?
No, monsieur.
Was monsieur expecting something?
No.
Any word from Odilon?
A letter this morning, monsieur.
Is he well?
He's safe, monsieur.
It's all one can hope for.
Do you miss him, Celeste?
A little, monsieur.
But he misses you.
Oh, yes, monsieur.
That is how it should be.
Do you read novels, Celeste?
Occasionally, monsieur.
Why?
They take me out of myself, monsieur.
They should take you into yourself.
Every reader, while he's reading,
is a reader of his own self.
A book is merely an optical instrument,
a lens which the author
offers the reader,
to enable him or her to discern what,
without the book,
they would never have perceived
in themselves.
Am I in the book, monsieur?
Would you want to be?
If it is of any help to monsieur.
There is a servant certainly,
but you are not she
and I am not he.
You can say anything, you see,
as long as you don't say "I".
You are reading a book, a novel, say,
and you come across something familiar.
It is a thought or an emotion
you yourself have had,
but thought secret, even shameful,
but peculiar to you.
And here it is, set down in a book.
And it is as if
a hand has come out and taken yours.
Is your book like that, monsieur?
To write like that takes courage,
Celeste, nerve.
Everything one has.
Look at monsieur's fingers.
And that's another thing about writing.
It's a dirty business.
Is Monsieur Proust at home?
No, monsieur.
Please, go and enquire.
It's Monsieur Massis.
I know who it is, monsieur.
He is not at home.
as a sort of cube,
one side of which has been removed
so that the author can put in
the people he meets.
But it's more like a huge cemetery
in which, on the majority of tombs,
the names are effaced
and can no longer be read,
even by the author.
Celeste has many virtues,
and one of them is that in the two years
she has been with me,
she has never asked
if she has been put in the book.
I've had a letter from Odilon, monsieur.
- How is he?
- Well, monsieur. He sends his respects.
He's at the front now.
Where is the front, monsieur?
Getting nearer.
Bon appétit, Mademoiselle.
Madame.
Goodnight, monsieur.
Good morning, madame.
Good morning, Claudine.
One cannot properly describe human life
without showing it soaked in the sleep
into which it plunges night after night,
that sleep in which
one is no longer a person.
So how then on waking does one recover
one's own self rather than another?
Why, among the millions
of human beings one might be,
does one unerringly lay
one's hands on the person one was?
Money.
Handkerchiefs.
- You have no plans for this evening?
- Plans, monsieur?
You could go out. A café perhaps.
A married woman, monsieur?
Paris is full of soldiers.
Yes.
Still, the war is not
without its blessings.
I have had a letter
to say Monsieur Rivière
is reading my novel in his prison camp.
Have you never seen a gentleman before?
Forgive me, monsieur,
if I detain you a moment.
It is to tell you how greatly
I enjoyed your performance,
though "enjoyed" is hardly the word for
music which both moved and excited me.
And in particular, if I may
single it out, your superb rendering
of the César Franck, which seemed...
Forgive me, monsieur,
but you must excuse me if I, uh,
sit down.
You're ill. Your leg.
I was wounded at the front.
I'm on sick leave still.
You're a soldier.
But you're pale, monsieur. Are you ill?
Please.
How kind.
No.
Must be brief
on account of these terrible lilies.
I, um, have a favour
I wish to ask of you.
It is also a business proposition.
A wounded soldier.
The pain within the playing.
And now I must flee
in the face of my particular enemy.
Monsieur?
These dreadful flowers.
Au revoir.
I'm better now.
There were lilies at the concert.
Terrible flowers.
I'm feeling better now.
I'll light the fire.
It will draw out the fumes.
I thank you, Celeste.
Can I see the first three
notebooks again, please?
Yes, maître.
There, in.
Out.
In. Out.
With asthma, in is not difficult.
Out is where problems arise.
- I think it's neurotic.
- No, I don't. You'd know if it were.
Why? If a condition is capable
of deceiving the doctor,
why should it not
also deceive the patient?
- Do you dine out much, doctor?
- From time to time and not by choice.
- Madame Bize, she insists.
- Ah.
Do people tell you about their ailments?
Consult you at the dinner table?
- All the time.
- Tell me.
Well, people mistake
their symptoms for small talk.
"This'll interest you, doctor,"
they say.
Interest me.
The other evening at dinner,
my neighbour actually invited me
to look down her throat.
Which is all very well, but what will
one be looking down or up next?
I say, what will one be
looking down or up next?
Is he eating?
As much as he ever does.
He's not in bad shape.
For him.
It's a good job.
You have to be pretty fit
to go on being as ill as he is.
It was a bad attack.
He blamed it on some roses.
Lilies.
Lilies, roses. Anybody else, I'd say,
"Pull your socks up."
I hope he is a great man.
Making fools of us all if he's not.
How are you, madame?
This regime wouldn't suit everyone.
His nights are days, that's all.
You get used to it.
So my advice is to stay clear of lilies.
Give them a wide berth.
No flowers by request.
Useless to suggest
a more sensible regime.
My dear doctor,
any regime that we follow
counts for less than our temperament.
Should I make that more sensible?
A little fresh air does no-one any harm.
On the contrary, a little fresh air is
when I came across the lilies.
Windows closed, curtains drawn,
and you work like a ploughman.
How can you live like this?
If I didn't, I couldn't work at all.
Ask Celeste.
Maître.
Like a ploughman, Celeste.
I work like a ploughman.
Come in, Odilon.
There was a concert programme here
with an address on it, Celeste.
I remember particularly
putting it here a week or two ago.
You must have moved it.
No, monsieur.
Here it is, monsieur.
Of course.
Good.
- I shall be going out this evening.
- Sir.
You don't need to tell him I'm here.
I must tell him.
- What if he comes into the kitchen?
- He never comes into the kitchen.
I didn't come to see monsieur.
I've only got 24 hours.
He'd want to see you.
If he sees me,
he'll want me to drive him somewhere.
No.
He'll want to know how the war's going.
I don't know how
the war's going. I'm a soldier.
- Odilon.
- No.
Odilon.
Monsieur Marcel.
But how convenient.
I have to go out this evening
and suddenly you turn up.
How is the war?
Oh, we're winning, monsieur.
No doubt about that.
Another victory yesterday.
Yes. Except there is something curious
about these victories.
They get nearer and nearer.
Of course, I am still on the reserve.
If things get worse,
I suppose I may be called upon.
This is hardly work
of national importance.
I gather conditions are not ideal.
No, monsieur.
A lot of the front sounds very damp.
I would have a difficulty there.
How do you think your wife is looking?
Beautiful, monsieur.
She is a paragon.
This evening then.
- Monsieur Marcel.
- This is just like old times.
First to the Ritz.
Now we are going
to number one, rue Clovis.
- Yes?
- Good evening.
Is Monsieur Massis at home?
At this hour? Certainly not.
You are the mother of Monsieur Massis?
Possible. Who are you?
An admirer, madame, of his talent.
A devotee of his playing.
- Who is it, mother?
- Ah, good evening, Monsieur Massis.
You remember,
we met at your last concert.
Would now be a convenient time?
No, monsieur.
For what?
What's going on?
What's he suggesting?
- I'm going out.
- Go out? It's midnight.
Shh!
Monsieur, my son is
getting over a war wound.
He needs an early night.
Who is this man?
- Charming. Charming. Charming.
- Get back to bed this second.
Don't worry, madame.
I have a car waiting downstairs.
Now, where do all your colleagues live?
- My colleagues?
- Well, yes, of course.
He says he spoke to you
after the concert.
You never mentioned it.
When he asked me to play
for him at his apartment,
- I thought he was trying it on.
- The man's insane.
What is this?
Our full complement.
Off we go.
You are the leading exponents
of the modern composers.
- Yes.
- Are we?
Gaston. Um, Monsieur Poulet is
a friend of Debussy.
I don't care if he's Racine.
He's no business knocking
on doors in the middle of the night.
- What's in there?
- Mashed potatoes.
I'm particularly interested in César Franck.
A true artist.
He achieved recognition
only on the brink of the grave.
His last, and to my mind,
his greatest work
was performed at
the Salle Pleyel 25 years ago.
The only public triumph he ever had.
I must apologise for the lift.
It dates from the period
before lifts were invented.
Coat?
Follow me.
And don't touch anything.
Forgive me for lying here,
but for me it is the best position
when listening to music.
Monsieur would like the Franck quartet?
- Bravo! Superb!
- We've played it better.
Not at 1:00 in the morning.
So perhaps you'd do me the exquisite
kindness of playing it again.
Now?
You're right.
An entracte.
Monsieur is not eating?
Oh, I have to be careful.
It is very late.
I understand. I, too, suffer.
Are you not eating yours?
Don't mind if I do.
Yes.
Monsieur?
They're waiting, monsieur.
What does Monsieur Proust do?
Does he just write?
He's a gentleman.
What's the matter with him? Is he ill?
I've told you, he's a gentleman.
He's delicate.
Quite a place.
We seldom use it.
This carpet was given
to Monsieur Proust's father
by the Shah of Persia.
- Monsieur, what is this on the wall?
- Cork.
Otherwise, the noise.
The street. Children.
One could not work.
It's perfect for music.
We've never sounded so well.
Ah, our lost viola.
Stop. Stop.
That section... Play that again.
Monsieur Massis,
would you be good enough
to hand me the box on the bureau?
That one.
Yes!
But, monsieur, this is too much.
No. I've put you to some inconvenience.
I'm indebted to you
and I hope I'll be permitted
to call on your services again.
Good night, gentlemen.
Your cabs await you downstairs.
What a nice bunch. Did you not think?
- Monsieur...
- And so talented.
Did you notice the one with the limp?
He's a soldier, on sick leave.
I'll bring your night tray, monsieur.
You can go to bed now, Celeste.
I can't seem to get comfortable.
- Shall I straighten the bed?
- Mmm.
Dear Celeste...
- Celeste.
- Monsieur.
Perhaps Madame la princesse
should keep her wrap.
That's right. There won't be a fire.
No fire. How quaint.
I'll see if monsieur is ready.
What does she look like?
Rather small, with a very straight neck.
- A straight neck?
- Bit like a doll.
I think she's older
than Monsieur Morand.
No!
Let's see.
The princess is thinking
of closing down her house
and moving into the Ritz.
With the air raids, it'll be safer.
What's more to the point,
it will be cheaper.
- War has made everything so expensive.
- The war, the war...
I cannot think of it objectively.
It permeates everything.
As saints used to live in God,
so one now lives in the War.
Has Paul told you that
when hostilities began,
I was called for a medical examination?
- But that's absurd!
- Well, not so absurd, surely.
I am on the reserve.
The joke was that they called Marcel
for 3: 30 in the morning.
I thought someone
had tipped off the authorities
about my topsy-turvy regime.
That they were being considerate.
Alas, it was only a printer's error.
One has lost so many friends
and that one feels, of course.
But the deaths of tens of thousands
happening every day
is the most insignificant of sensations.
Hardly as disagreeable as a draught.
Do you feel a draught, monsieur?
What?
No, no.
One death means more than 1,000.
When men are dying like flies,
that is what they're dying like.
A jumper round your shoulders, perhaps?
No. More coffee, perhaps.
- She's very impressive.
- A gem. She's from the country.
Auziac, in the Lozère.
She adores you obviously.
When she first came, I had to explain
that Napoleon and Bonaparte
were the same person.
Ah! The beautiful Celeste.
I had a delightful young man
here the other day, a musician.
- He plays in the Quatre Poulet.
- I don't know them.
They're the leading exponents
of Franck and Debussy.
- I don't know Franck.
- He's in the army.
- Franck?
- The young man.
He can only play when on leave.
Such a waste.
- He played here?
- They all did.
They said that their music
had never sounded as well.
- The acoustics are superb.
- The food isn't bad either.
Celeste, Monsieur Morand
is paying you a compliment.
Monsieur...
Music seems to be playing
a bigger part in the novel
than I had originally envisaged.
But I have so much to do.
We must be going.
I was deputing at the opera.
- Where were you?
- Bed. Again.
While we're waiting for Monsieur Massis,
perhaps we could warm up
by playing Monsieur Proust a trio?
There are only three of them, monsieur.
The other one's on his way.
- Which one?
- The one with the big violin.
They wondered if you wanted them
to play you a trio.
A trio?
No, no.
A trio? No use to me.
- Sorry.
- Where were you?
- We tried Isabelle.
- What?
- I told her I was practising with you.
- Who were you practising with?
When you're ready, gentlemen.
You wouldn't last five minutes with her.
- I wouldn't want to.
- You see, I find her very attractive.
- After you, Victor.
- No. Let Louis go first.
Louis.
The quartet again, if you please.
You've been a great help to me.
Monsieur Gentil.
Monsieur Ruyssen.
Monsieur Poulet.
Monsieur Massis.
Monsieur Massis...
Monsieur?
Do you have any party pieces?
Solo items that you perform?
Yes, we all do.
Yes, but you. You do?
Yes.
Perhaps we'll talk about it.
Monsieur...
- Air raid?
- No, it's not. It's the all-clear.
There's been an air raid on?
We've been stuck up there
and bombs have been falling.
- He's brave.
- Well, I'm not.
- I saw one of his books the other day.
- What was it about?
Love, all that sort of stuff.
Permit me, monsieur.
None of you compete.
Have you noticed that?
- Compete?
- You and your colleagues.
You criticise each other, but you
don't take offence. You collaborate.
- Naturally.
- It's not at all natural.
It is in quartets.
Then they're a lesson to us all.
What I'd like one day is an Amati.
Not a Stradivarius?
No.
A Stradivarius is a concert instrument.
An Amati is more... intimate.
A Stradivarius is for oratory,
an Amati for conversation.
And both are very expensive.
Is your novel about music, monsieur?
Music occurs in it. Music recurs in it.
And a particular piece of music.
The César Franck?
Not exactly. Uh, though it will do.
But then novels are like that.
People think this tune
must be that tune,
that this character is modelled
on so-and-so,
this other is a portrayal
of someone else.
It isn't like that.
Art does not correspond to life.
It is life.
For instance,
there's a violinist in my novel.
Or he could be a viola player.
What's he like?
I don't think he's like you.
His name is Morel.
He's a poor boy, the son of a valet.
He acquires a rich friend and patron
whom I think he will abandon.
He hasn't quite decided to yet,
but I can see it coming.
He'll be very cruel to him.
Unfeeling.
- Where did they meet?
- Not at a concert.
At a railway station,
a setting fruitful in chance encounters.
- Monsieur Massis?
- Hmm?
Your flower.
Monsieur Massis, please.
Have you ever visited Venice?
Alas, no.
What would assist me immeasurably
in my work
would be to listen
to you and your colleagues
play some of my chosen pieces
by moonlight while waiting for the dawn.
In Paris?
In Venice.
A palazzo on the Grand Canal possibly.
- All of us?
- Of course.
Well...
That's quite a tall order.
To begin with, the authorities wouldn't
let us just go to Italy and back.
Why not?
Well, the war...
the frontiers.
Well, those are details.
I have powerful friends.
Artistically, how does it strike you?
Practical considerations apart,
can you see any objection to the scheme?
Imagine the sun rising over the lagoon
while the moonlight fades.
There is another difficulty.
I didn't want to mention this.
No sense in my giving you advice.
You'll just carry on, as usual.
I like you, Monsieur Bize.
Before you were a doctor,
I think you must have been a patient.
We soldier on.
I have a young friend, a viola player,
a charming and gallant young man
of immense talent.
He was wounded at the front
and is now convalescing.
However, the exigencies of
the war effort are such
that he's been threatened
with a return to active duties.
I cannot believe that the fortunes
of war are so nicely balanced
that they can be tipped by a return to
the colours of one broken string player.
You are associated with
the Medical Board.
Is it beyond the bounds of possibility
that you could write a letter
on his behalf?
I'm approaching Pozzi,
who has a formal position on the Board,
but I just wondered,
in addition, if you...
Of course. I should have to see him.
Of course. Of course.
He's a charming fellow.
It must be happening all the time.
All the time.
He seems better
or, at any rate, no worse.
Ha! The same, which is the most
one can hope for.
Who's this viola player?
These young men, they take advantage.
Money, favours and they're not grateful.
He's too soft-hearted.
I wish they'd leave him alone.
When you think of the others,
mown down like so much grass
in a meadow...
He'll end up getting upset.
So then he works harder
and then he makes himself ill.
You think he'd have more sense.
What did you say it was?
A shell. A fragment of shell.
My companion was killed.
Oh dear. Pain?
Not now. Just stiff.
Getting less so.
Yes.
Good. Or not.
Did you, uh... Did you have
a weak chest before your injury?
No.
But, um, others in my family did.
You play the violin?
Viola.
I'm wondering if the nerves have suffered
any permanent damage in the leg.
- Do you think so?
- It's hard to say at this stage.
Ideally, one would like
to keep you under observation,
taking view of the weak chest.
Prudence would postpone
an immediate return to active service.
I think one could make out
a case for that.
- I shall write to Dr Pozzi.
- Who is he?
He sits on the Board.
He's another friend of Monsieur Proust.
Thank you.
You're lucky to have found a protector.
Sorry?
Monsieur Proust seems to have
taken you under his wing.
He's fond of music.
Of course.
My colleagues and I played for him.
Maître Proust is a sensitive man.
He lives for his work.
You call him maître?
Have you read his books?
Um, not exactly,
but he's a great man nevertheless.
- I will write and thank him.
- What for?
- For this.
- There's no need to do that.
All I've done is give you
my honest clinical judgment.
Had you appeared before me
at a military tribunal,
I'd have said exactly the same thing.
For you to thank Maître Proust
would suggest
this letter I'm writing
is simply a favour to him.
But I'm going to the country tomorrow.
I must write.
Monsieur Massis, there's no need.
I shall be seeing
Monsieur Proust myself.
I'll convey your thanks.
- No, I'd prefer to...
- I promise.
Thank you.
Monsieur Massis...
Your stick.
The tribunal did excuse him?
Of course.
I know every member
of the board personally.
He's young.
He'll have other things to think of.
One forgets.
He seemed such a courteous young man.
I thought he might have written.
Monsieur is too good.
They take advantage.
I tell monsieur.
We know what you tell monsieur, Celeste.
- What was your impression of him?
- He seemed a nice enough young man.
- A superb musician.
- A little self-concerned.
He's an artist.
They take monsieur for granted.
Thank you.
Thank you.
"People who are not in love themselves
"feel that a clever man
ought to be unhappy
"only about such persons
as are worthwhile.
"This is rather like being astonished
"that anyone should condescend
to die of cholera
"at the bidding of so insignificant
a creature
"as the common Bacillus."
I shall have some things
to paste in later, Celeste.
Celeste...
No one has called?
No, monsieur.
Read it back to me.
"Sometimes, when we have made
a rough sketch
"of a painful passage in our writing,
"and can advance no further,
"a new affection and a new suffering
come our way,
"which enable us to complete it,
"to give it substance.
"And on the score of these great
but useful unhappinesses,
"we have little ground for complaint.
"They are plentiful and
we seldom have to wait long for one."
I find it extremely interesting
to see how people's faces grow older.
That woman over there.
I thought she was the mother
of someone I once knew.
Certainly she could have been
this woman's daughter.
But I see now,
mother and daughter are the same woman.
She is the woman I once knew.
Is she in your book?
People are apt to think of a book
as a sort of cube,
one side of which has been removed
so that the author may put in
the people he meets.
How's your quartet?
Any more private performances?
Not lately, alas.
I can't imagine anything more romantic,
music in one's bedroom.
- Would you like to hear them?
- Not in the middle of the night.
No, here, now.
- I'll go and fetch them.
- Marcel...
Please, I insist.
Uh, going so soon, Monsieur Proust?
I hope you're not ill.
Not at all.
We thought we'd have a little concert.
I'm just off to round up some musicians.
A concert?
But there's a war on, Monsieur Proust.
Monsieur Poulet...
Oh, how can I apologise?
Don't bother to deny it,
I've woken you up.
I am woken up already.
Charming. Charming.
Forgive me. I'm with friends
and I was telling them about
your exquisite artistry,
and they would not rest
until I'd sallied forth
into the middle of the night
to collect my band of warriors.
Dare I presume on your good nature
just once more?
Alas, monsieur, I wish I could
oblige you, but it is impossible.
The quartet, for the moment,
is disbanded.
Monsieur Ruyssen has been ill
with his stomach.
Now he is in hospital with appendicitis.
Do not say so.
Still, accomplished
though Monsieur Ruyssen is,
there must be other players.
Not at this hour of the night, monsieur.
Besides, we're also short of a viola.
Ah, yes, Monsieur Massis.
What has happened to him?
Not recalled to the front surely?
Happily, no, monsieur. The authorities
have extended his leave indefinitely
and they have gone to the country
to convalesce.
They?
Well, his fiancée, monsieur.
I am sorry, monsieur.
You've been so generous.
No matter.
It was just a thought.
I have disturbed you.
Forgive me, Monsieur Poulet,
and remember me to all your colleagues.
I will, monsieur. I will.
Charming. Charming.
Ah, no luck?
No matter. It's getting late.
Remember, Paul, one does not forfeit the
manager's esteem examining one's bill,
provided he thinks one is doing it
not so much from poverty
as from avarice.
Would you be so kind
as to lend me 50 francs?
Certainly, monsieur.
No, no, keep it. It was for you anyway.
No one has called, Celeste?
No, monsieur.
And there were no other letters?
No, monsieur.
Was monsieur expecting something?
No.
Any word from Odilon?
A letter this morning, monsieur.
Is he well?
He's safe, monsieur.
It's all one can hope for.
Do you miss him, Celeste?
A little, monsieur.
But he misses you.
Oh, yes, monsieur.
That is how it should be.
Do you read novels, Celeste?
Occasionally, monsieur.
Why?
They take me out of myself, monsieur.
They should take you into yourself.
Every reader, while he's reading,
is a reader of his own self.
A book is merely an optical instrument,
a lens which the author
offers the reader,
to enable him or her to discern what,
without the book,
they would never have perceived
in themselves.
Am I in the book, monsieur?
Would you want to be?
If it is of any help to monsieur.
There is a servant certainly,
but you are not she
and I am not he.
You can say anything, you see,
as long as you don't say "I".
You are reading a book, a novel, say,
and you come across something familiar.
It is a thought or an emotion
you yourself have had,
but thought secret, even shameful,
but peculiar to you.
And here it is, set down in a book.
And it is as if
a hand has come out and taken yours.
Is your book like that, monsieur?
To write like that takes courage,
Celeste, nerve.
Everything one has.
Look at monsieur's fingers.
And that's another thing about writing.
It's a dirty business.
Is Monsieur Proust at home?
No, monsieur.
Please, go and enquire.
It's Monsieur Massis.
I know who it is, monsieur.
He is not at home.