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Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Remembrance of Madeleines Past/A la recherche de madeleines du passé
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Jacques-Emile Blanche: Portrait of Marcel Proust (1892)
Musée d'Orsay, Paris - France
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Click on the pictures to enlarge them.
Cliquer sur les images pour les aggrandir.
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"She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called 'petites madeleines', which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? …
…And as soon as I had recognized the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like a stage set to attach itself to the little pavilion opening on to the garden which had been built out behind it for my parents …and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the square where I used to be sent before lunch, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And as in the game wherein the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little pieces of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch and twist and take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, solid and recognizable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea."
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Philippe, une madeleine proustienne, une tasse de thé
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« Elle envoya chercher un de ces gâteaux courts et dodus appelés Petites Madeleines qui semblaient avoir été moulés dans la valve rainurée d’une coquille de Saint-Jacques. Et bientôt, machinalement, accablé par la morne journée et la perspective d’un triste lendemain, je portai à mes lèvres une cuillerée du thé où j’avais laissé s’amollir un morceau de madeleine. Mais à l’instant même où la gorgée mêlée des miettes du gâteau toucha mon palais, je tressaillis, attentif à ce qui se passait d’extraordinaire en moi. Un plaisir délicieux m’avait envahi, isolé, sans la notion de sa cause. Il m’avait aussitôt rendu les vicissitudes de la vie indifférentes, ses désastres inoffensifs, sa brièveté illusoire, de la même façon qu’opère l’amour, en me remplissant d’une essence précieuse: ou plutôt cette essence n’était pas en moi, elle était moi. J’avais cessé de me sentir médiocre, contingent, mortel. D’où avait pu me venir cette puissante joie? Je sentais q’elle était liée au goût du thé et du gâteau, mais qu’elle le dépassait infiniment, ne devait pas être de même nature. D’où venait-elle? Que signifiait-elle? Où l’appréhender?...
…Et dès que j’eus reconnu le goût du morceau de madeleine trempé dans le tilleul que me donnait ma tante (quoique je ne susse pas encore et dusse remettre à bien plus tard de découvrir pourquoi ce souvenir me rendait si heureux), aussitôt la vieille maison grise sur la rue, où était sa chambre, vint comme un décor de théâtre s’appliquer au petit pavillon, donnant sur le jardin, qu’on avait construit pour mes parents sur ses derrières…et avec la maison, la ville, la Place où on m’envoyait avant déjeuner, les rues où j’allais faire des courses depuis le matin jusqu’au soir et par tous les temps, les chemins qu’on prenait si le temps était beau. Et comme dans ce jeu où les Japonais s’amusent à tremper dans un bol de porcelaine rempli d’eau, de petits morceaux de papier jusque-là indistincts qui, à peine y sont-ils plongés s’étirent, se contournent, se colorent, se différencient, deviennent des fleurs, des maisons, des personnages consistants et reconnaissables, de même maintenant toutes les fleurs de notre jardin et celles du parc de M. Swann, et les nymphéas de la Vivonne, et les bonnes gens du village et leurs petits logis et l’église et tout Combray et ses environs, tout cela que prend forme et solidité, est sorti, ville et jardins, de ma tasse de thé. »
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Un habitué du café d'Illiers-Combray
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My 15-year-old son Philippe, who just finished reading Swann's Way, had the wonderful idea of visiting the village out of Proust's childhood ("Illiers") that was the inspiration behind the one in Remembrance of Things Past ("Combray"). We took the train out to this small provincial French village (today "Illiers-Combray") and decided that first things were first; we had to buy some madeleines and get ourselves a cup of tea.
Imagine our astonishment when Philippe and I discovered that the village's bakery not only had fresh ones, it was actually the shop where the real Auntie Léonie bought them for her little nephew at the end of the nineteenth century. I was further charmed to see that they were unlike the madeleines I had seen anywhere else, plump things like golden little cushions in the shape of real scallop shells. Illiers in medieval times was a stop on the route from Paris to the shrine of St. James the Apostle at Compostela, hence the shape of the madeleine taken from the shell the pilgrims wore in their hats. And hence Proust's description of his madeleine, which had always puzzled me. Parisian madeleines are fluted, but don't really make you think of scallop shells. The most extraordinary thing of all is that the shop still uses the same madeleine molds they used when Proust was a boy, and the same delicious recipe with its hint of lemon rind...
We settled in the village café and the owner kindly accepted our bringing out our famous little cakes. The ambiance was a bit particular, with plenty of grizzled-looking regulars chain-smoking and drinking very black coffees, but Philippe ordered his tea, I got a crème, and we tidied up the whole package of six in no time. Alas, we did not experience anything that for ourselves could give rise to a place in literary history, but we were happy and provided entertainment for the gentleman at the next table eyeing my drawings. Our tummies sorted, we were ready to sally forth and look for traces of Proust...
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L'église St Jacques à Illiers-Combray
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Mon fils de 15 ans, Philippe, qui vient juste de terminer Côté de Chez Swann, a eu l'idée merveuilleuse de visiter le village de l'enfance de Proust ("Illiers") qui a été l'inspiration du village dans A la recherche du temps perdu ("Combray"). Nous avons pris le train vers ce petit village de province (aujourd'hui "Illiers-Combray") et nous avons décidé de ne pas mettre la charrette devant le boeuf, il fallait acheter des madeleines et nous chercher une tasse de thé.
Imaginez notre surprise quand Philippe et moi ont découvert que le pâtissier du village avait des madeleines fraîches, mais en plus le commerce était le même où la vrai Tante Léonie a acheté ses madeleines pour son petit neveu à la fin du 19ème siècle. J'étais encore plus charmé à voir qu'elles étaient différentes de toute autre madeleine que j'avais jamais vu ailleurs - dorées et dodus comme un petit coussin, dans la form d'une coquille St Jacques. Au Moyen Age Illiers était une halte sur la Route de Paris à Santiago di Compostela, d'où la forme du gâteau évoquant la coquille que portaient les pélerins sur leur chapeau. D'où, aussi, la déscription proustienne de sa madeleine, ce qui m'a toujours fait me poser des questions. Les madeleines de Paris sont rainurées, mais ne font jamais penser à une coquille St Jacques. Le meilleur, c'est que le pâtissier utilise toujours les mêmes moules qui ont servi pour faire cuire les madeleines du temps de l'enfance de Proust, et la même recette avec son goût délicieux qui laisse apercevoir une nuance de zest de citron...
On s'est établi dans le café du village et le propriétaire a accepté qu'on sort nos fameux petits gâteaux. L'ambiance était un peu particulier, avec plein d'habitués un peu grisâtres qui fumaient à la chaîne et buvaient de cafés très noirs, mais Philippe a commandé son thé, moi mon crème, et nous nous sommes occupés de tout le petit paquet de six en moins deux. Hélas, nous n'avons rien experimenté qui aurait pu nous gagner une place dans l'histoire de la littérature, mais nous étions heureux et nous avons fourni un divertissement pour le monsieur à la table de côté qui lorgnait mes dessins. On s'est occupés de nos ventres, on était prêt à sortir pour aller chercher des traces de Proust...
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Une madeleine de et à Illiers-Combray
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12:00 Posted in My Sketchbook/Mon carnet à dessin | Permalink | Comments (8) | Email this | Tags: Marcel Proust, Combray, Côté de Chez Swann, Swann's Way, Illiers-Combray, madeleine
Comments
Well, if your teenage son is reading Proust on his own and his idea of a day's outing is to visit Proust's village, I would not worry one bit about his having his ears sullied by imperfect recordings of music - he is quite a cultured and sensitive young man.
Posted by: Mallard | Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Well, I have to admit I would still rather see him listening to Mendelssohn than "Stayin' Alive", but I guess you can't have everything! ;-D
Posted by: Deborah | Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Your son's reading Proust, while my daughter watches Madeleine videos. Ah well, she's only 3 and a half.
But what's your thing about the BeeGees? It's at least the second time recently you've referenced them. Was your time in NYC SO tramatic?
Posted by: Roger Green | Thursday, 29 November 2007
The Proust passage makes me want to visit you, and the description of your visit makes me want to meet Philippe and Helene.
As to musical taste, don't push too hard and Mendelssohn will eventually be his if it suits his spirit. If his literary taste has found Proust and his ear is good, his musical journey will be a rich one.
Posted by: Ted | Friday, 30 November 2007
To Roger,
Don't misunderstand! You may recall the joy I had in going out dancing in the discos of the time to BeeGee music! I listen to them myself with great nostalgia. But nostalgia is not the same thing as having your soul moved by a remarkable composer...
D.
Posted by: Deborah | Friday, 30 November 2007
And your comment makes me want to relate the next part of the visit of Illiers-Combray.
As for the music, Philippe is having a harder time getting into the classical than Hélène, although he loved it when he was younger. I will follow your advice and trust he will come to love these things as much as I do...
Posted by: Deborah | Friday, 30 November 2007
I meant traumatic. I can spell, but I can't type.
As for Phillipe's musical tastes, I hope you won't show TOO much disappointment if his sensibilities take him elsewhere musically.
Posted by: Roger Green | Friday, 30 November 2007
Roger,
Hey, I'll have you know that I taught my kids how to DANCE disco to the sound of the BeeGees one night when they put on their Totally Eighties CD!
D.
Posted by: Deborah | Friday, 30 November 2007
The comments are closed.