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Lettres à Reynaldo Hahn
Marcel Proust, Lettres à Reynaldo Hahn
Reynaldo Hahn est un jeune compositeur d’avenir quand il rencontre Marcel Proust, alors âgé de vingt-trois ans, et devient son premier amant. Leur relation conservera un caractère amoureux durant deux ans et sera le point de départ d’une intimité qui se prolongera jusqu’à la mort de l’écrivain. Ils échangeront pendant près de trente ans une abondante correspondance, dont deux cents lettres environ nous sont parvenues.
Elles sont un document exceptionnel par la liberté de ton qui prévaut entre les deux hommes, par un style à l’inventivité surprenante, enfin par le rôle de confident et de conseiller que tient souvent Hahn auprès de son ami. Elles ouvrent à leur lecteur le laboratoire de Jean Santeuil puis de la Recherche du temps perdu, mais sont également l’occasion de suivre l’évolution des goûts littéraires et musicaux de Proust, de ses inimitiés, de ses affections et de découvrir ou retrouver en lui un observateur amusé de la haute société de son époque, volontiers moqueur et ne dédaignant pas l’autodérision.
Reynaldo Hahn est un jeune compositeur d’avenir quand il rencontre Marcel Proust, alors âgé de vingt-trois ans, et devient son premier amant. Leur relation conservera un caractère amoureux durant deux ans et sera le point de départ d’une intimité qui se prolongera jusqu’à la mort de l’écrivain. Ils échangeront pendant près de trente ans une abondante correspondance, dont deux cents lettres environ nous sont parvenues.
Elles sont un document exceptionnel par la liberté de ton qui prévaut entre les deux hommes, par un style à l’inventivité surprenante, enfin par le rôle de confident et de conseiller que tient souvent Hahn auprès de son ami. Elles ouvrent à leur lecteur le laboratoire de Jean Santeuil puis de la Recherche du temps perdu, mais sont également l’occasion de suivre l’évolution des goûts littéraires et musicaux de Proust, de ses inimitiés, de ses affections et de découvrir ou retrouver en lui un observateur amusé de la haute société de son époque, volontiers moqueur et ne dédaignant pas l’autodérision.
288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1956
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About the author
Marcel Proust
2,174 books7,588 followersMarcel Proust was a French novelist, best known for his 3000 page masterpiece À la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time), a pseudo-autobiographical novel told mostly in a stream-of-consciousness style.
Born in the first year of the Third Republic, the young Marcel, like his narrator, was a delicate child from a bourgeois family. He was active in Parisian high society during the 80s and 90s, welcomed in the most fashionable and exclusive salons of his day. However, his position there was also one of an outsider, due to his Jewishness and homosexuality. Towards the end of 1890s Proust began to withdraw more and more from society, and although he was never entirely reclusive, as is sometimes made out, he lapsed more completely into his lifelong tendency to sleep during the day and work at night. He was also plagued with severe asthma, which had troubled him intermittently since childhood, and a terror of his own death, especially in case it should come before his novel had been completed. The first volume, after some difficulty finding a publisher, came out in 1913, and Proust continued to work with an almost inhuman dedication on his masterpiece right up until his death in 1922, at the age of 51.
Today he is widely recognized as one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century, and À la recherche du temps perdu as one of the most dazzling and significant works of literature to be written in modern times.
Born in the first year of the Third Republic, the young Marcel, like his narrator, was a delicate child from a bourgeois family. He was active in Parisian high society during the 80s and 90s, welcomed in the most fashionable and exclusive salons of his day. However, his position there was also one of an outsider, due to his Jewishness and homosexuality. Towards the end of 1890s Proust began to withdraw more and more from society, and although he was never entirely reclusive, as is sometimes made out, he lapsed more completely into his lifelong tendency to sleep during the day and work at night. He was also plagued with severe asthma, which had troubled him intermittently since childhood, and a terror of his own death, especially in case it should come before his novel had been completed. The first volume, after some difficulty finding a publisher, came out in 1913, and Proust continued to work with an almost inhuman dedication on his masterpiece right up until his death in 1922, at the age of 51.
Today he is widely recognized as one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century, and À la recherche du temps perdu as one of the most dazzling and significant works of literature to be written in modern times.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
August 15, 2025
G pas bcp aimé mais jss ravie de savoir que proust se faisait appeler par son mec « mon petit poney »
April 20, 2020
This collection of Proust’s letters to his lover and friend Reynaldo Hahn defies expectations. First of all, it is presented as a one-sided conversation; Hahn’s replies were either lost to history or excluded from this volume. Secondly, its timeline is patchy, with significant lacunae from 1897 to 1906 and 1915 to 1922 (the year of Proust’s death). Finally, it bears very little relation in style or authorial tone to Proust’s magnum opus, In Search of Lost Time (À la Recherche du temps perdu) (1913-1927). Although much more concise and down-to-earth than that masterpiece, it is, ironically, much more of a slog to read. The letters become more substantial as the years go on, but most of them ask merely to be scanned – if that.
This book presents no legendary letter-writer such as Pierre Abélard or Madame de Sévigné, as one might expect. Rather, it is a collection of modern, more practical messages delivered by servants, telegram, or post. Though they may show whimsy and wit, the letters are mostly evidence of everyday social activity, like today’s texts or emails. Instead of the page-long rococo mansion that is the typical Recherche sentence, Proust’s style here is generally abbreviated, ungrammatical, and irreverent. At first, when the two young men are just getting to know each other, this style is more practical – arranging meetings, relaying messages, etc. (“Etc.” is Proust’s favorite shortcut here – perhaps a capsule for the missing entrails of the Recherche-ian sentence?) Later, particularly after 1904, the style becomes silly as the writers develop their own kind of language. I can’t pretend to have cracked its code, but it seems to consist mostly of recovering the ‘S’s that littered early- and pre-modern French words and indiscriminately adding German-sounding ‘H’s and ‘CH’s to words. The voice comes across as more Joycian than Proustian, really. At times it verges on the incomprehensible. An illustrative excerpt: “Et vielch Halévy ne m’a pas écrit parce que et que, mais m’a fait dire que et que, et a découpé articlch, et Kolsé et gardé etc.” Any reader looking for the Proust of exhaustive articulation will not find him here – until the last few letters, at least, which coincide with the drafting of the Recherche.
Beyond orthography, the friends’ code is made up of a thousand inside jokes about the people they frequent and the art they encounter. Even with grammatical clarity, most of the letters would be nonsensical to anyone outside of the Parisian elite of the Belle Époque. Proust constantly alludes to great socialites. Most of their names have faded with time, but a few are striking in how casually they are referenced: Diaghilev, Nijinsky, Cocteau, Fauré, Massenet, Bernhardt, Duncan, dukes and princesses (observed up close but with bemused detachment, as in the Recherche). These characters are enmeshed in a web of social art, primarily classical music concerts and articles in periodicals. Throughout the correspondence, Proust seems more preoccupied with writing published in newspapers – music reviews, social commentary, creative sketches – than with literature in its more traditional, book-centered sense. Nevertheless he makes clear his knowledge of the canon, with references to classical Roman poets, French classics from the time of Louis XIV and the Enlightenment, and established Romantics of the nineteenth century. He cleverly encrypts his critiques of creative works and public personalities in dense inside jokes. For instance, he often refers to specific dentists he and Hahn know when talking about something he doesn’t like – a toothache here symbolizing aesthetic displeasure.
The opacity of much of the content in this correspondence leaves one pondering the emotions that motivate it. At first Proust is smitten but circumspect, trying to encourage rendez-vous with Hahn without sounding desperate. For example, early on he rejects Hahn’s pet name for him – “pony” – and then proceeds to use it obsessively in every letter. In this see-sawing he somewhat recalls the Baron de Charlus’s attempts at homosexual courtship in the Recherche. The pet names evolve until they spill over into all language, becoming the couple’s own ridiculous idiom. If the editor’s preface to the volume did not specify that their liaison lasted for only two years after they met, based on the letters I would have thought that Proust fell more in love as time went on. As soon as he can, he shows a striking vulnerability that is entirely missing, or at least hidden, in the Recherche. By the eve of World War I, he is practically begging Hahn to move in with him. I haven’t read too much about their affair outside of this correspondence, but I wonder if the editor ignores the fluidity between homosociality and -sexuality that often characterizes gay relationships.
Reading these letters can indeed feel voyeuristic. Proust often entreats Hahn to burn them after sharing something emotionally vulnerable or socially controversial. (Clearly Hahn did not always comply.) That is, if Proust is conscious of the eye of History hovering over his pen, his reaction is to hide from it, not to perform for it. This privileged view into his life is gratifying for a lover of his novel, which shows a mystifying combination of irony and earnestness. The letters afford a glimpse not only of his heart, but also of his body, which is effaced from the Recherche. Here Proust complains about fatigue, asthma, diet, itchy eyes, runny noses. It’s like the knotty underside of the glossy tapestry that is the novel.
And ultimately, that is the greatest reward for reading this book: the humanization of a genius. It forces one to reconcile the struggling mortal with the seemingly divine creation that he leaves to perpetuity. But the sublimity of this thought was not at the front of my mind while I read it. The book is, again, a slog. If anything, speaking practically, it may be most useful to someone studying the elite music culture of Belle-Époque Paris. Hahn, though rather neglected today, was a major musical figure in his time, and Proust, though he repeatedly denies his expertise, was an astute, engaged spectator of the scene. Their exchanges about operas and quatuors new and old offer a real glimpse at that dazzling cultural moment. Otherwise, I would not consider this essential reading in Proust studies.
I couldn’t help but translate following missive from 1911, in which Proust addresses the dog he is buying for Hahn. It is a relatively coherent example of his Joycian register, his negative capability and his childlike vulnerability:
LETTER TO REYNALDO HAHN’S DOG
My dear Zadig,
I love you a lot because you have moch angerr and love just like me; and you could not find anyone better in the whole world. But I am not jealous that he is with you more because it’s fair and because you are more sad and more affectionate. Here is how I know so my sweetie doggo. When I was little and was upset to leave Mom, or to leave for a trip, or to go to bed, or for a little girl that I loved, I was sadder than today first of all because like you I was not free like I am today to go distract myself from my anger and because I was locked up with it, but also because I was also attached in my head where I had no ideas, no memory of reading, no project to escape into. And you too, Zadig, you have never read anything and you have no ideas. And you must be very upset when you are sad. But know this my good little Zadig, that a species of little doggo that I am of your sort, I tell and tell you because he has been a man and you not. This intelligence only lets us replace these impressions that make you love and suffer by feeble facsimiles that make us less upset and give less tenderness. In the rare moments when I rediscover all my tenderness, all my suffering, it’s because I no longer feel according to these false ideas, but according to something which is similar in you and in me my little doggo. And that seems to be so much superior to the rest that it is only when I become a dog again, a poor Zadig like you, that I start to write and it is only books written thus that I love. That which bears your name, my old Zadig, is not at all like that. It’s a little argument between your master who is also mine and me. But you, you will not have any fights with him because you don’t think. Dear Zadig we are both of us old and suffering. But I would really like to come visit you often so that you bring me closer to your little master instead of separating me from him. I kiss you with all my heart and I will send your friend Reynaldo your little ransom.
Your friend,
Buncht
This book presents no legendary letter-writer such as Pierre Abélard or Madame de Sévigné, as one might expect. Rather, it is a collection of modern, more practical messages delivered by servants, telegram, or post. Though they may show whimsy and wit, the letters are mostly evidence of everyday social activity, like today’s texts or emails. Instead of the page-long rococo mansion that is the typical Recherche sentence, Proust’s style here is generally abbreviated, ungrammatical, and irreverent. At first, when the two young men are just getting to know each other, this style is more practical – arranging meetings, relaying messages, etc. (“Etc.” is Proust’s favorite shortcut here – perhaps a capsule for the missing entrails of the Recherche-ian sentence?) Later, particularly after 1904, the style becomes silly as the writers develop their own kind of language. I can’t pretend to have cracked its code, but it seems to consist mostly of recovering the ‘S’s that littered early- and pre-modern French words and indiscriminately adding German-sounding ‘H’s and ‘CH’s to words. The voice comes across as more Joycian than Proustian, really. At times it verges on the incomprehensible. An illustrative excerpt: “Et vielch Halévy ne m’a pas écrit parce que et que, mais m’a fait dire que et que, et a découpé articlch, et Kolsé et gardé etc.” Any reader looking for the Proust of exhaustive articulation will not find him here – until the last few letters, at least, which coincide with the drafting of the Recherche.
Beyond orthography, the friends’ code is made up of a thousand inside jokes about the people they frequent and the art they encounter. Even with grammatical clarity, most of the letters would be nonsensical to anyone outside of the Parisian elite of the Belle Époque. Proust constantly alludes to great socialites. Most of their names have faded with time, but a few are striking in how casually they are referenced: Diaghilev, Nijinsky, Cocteau, Fauré, Massenet, Bernhardt, Duncan, dukes and princesses (observed up close but with bemused detachment, as in the Recherche). These characters are enmeshed in a web of social art, primarily classical music concerts and articles in periodicals. Throughout the correspondence, Proust seems more preoccupied with writing published in newspapers – music reviews, social commentary, creative sketches – than with literature in its more traditional, book-centered sense. Nevertheless he makes clear his knowledge of the canon, with references to classical Roman poets, French classics from the time of Louis XIV and the Enlightenment, and established Romantics of the nineteenth century. He cleverly encrypts his critiques of creative works and public personalities in dense inside jokes. For instance, he often refers to specific dentists he and Hahn know when talking about something he doesn’t like – a toothache here symbolizing aesthetic displeasure.
The opacity of much of the content in this correspondence leaves one pondering the emotions that motivate it. At first Proust is smitten but circumspect, trying to encourage rendez-vous with Hahn without sounding desperate. For example, early on he rejects Hahn’s pet name for him – “pony” – and then proceeds to use it obsessively in every letter. In this see-sawing he somewhat recalls the Baron de Charlus’s attempts at homosexual courtship in the Recherche. The pet names evolve until they spill over into all language, becoming the couple’s own ridiculous idiom. If the editor’s preface to the volume did not specify that their liaison lasted for only two years after they met, based on the letters I would have thought that Proust fell more in love as time went on. As soon as he can, he shows a striking vulnerability that is entirely missing, or at least hidden, in the Recherche. By the eve of World War I, he is practically begging Hahn to move in with him. I haven’t read too much about their affair outside of this correspondence, but I wonder if the editor ignores the fluidity between homosociality and -sexuality that often characterizes gay relationships.
Reading these letters can indeed feel voyeuristic. Proust often entreats Hahn to burn them after sharing something emotionally vulnerable or socially controversial. (Clearly Hahn did not always comply.) That is, if Proust is conscious of the eye of History hovering over his pen, his reaction is to hide from it, not to perform for it. This privileged view into his life is gratifying for a lover of his novel, which shows a mystifying combination of irony and earnestness. The letters afford a glimpse not only of his heart, but also of his body, which is effaced from the Recherche. Here Proust complains about fatigue, asthma, diet, itchy eyes, runny noses. It’s like the knotty underside of the glossy tapestry that is the novel.
And ultimately, that is the greatest reward for reading this book: the humanization of a genius. It forces one to reconcile the struggling mortal with the seemingly divine creation that he leaves to perpetuity. But the sublimity of this thought was not at the front of my mind while I read it. The book is, again, a slog. If anything, speaking practically, it may be most useful to someone studying the elite music culture of Belle-Époque Paris. Hahn, though rather neglected today, was a major musical figure in his time, and Proust, though he repeatedly denies his expertise, was an astute, engaged spectator of the scene. Their exchanges about operas and quatuors new and old offer a real glimpse at that dazzling cultural moment. Otherwise, I would not consider this essential reading in Proust studies.
I couldn’t help but translate following missive from 1911, in which Proust addresses the dog he is buying for Hahn. It is a relatively coherent example of his Joycian register, his negative capability and his childlike vulnerability:
LETTER TO REYNALDO HAHN’S DOG
My dear Zadig,
I love you a lot because you have moch angerr and love just like me; and you could not find anyone better in the whole world. But I am not jealous that he is with you more because it’s fair and because you are more sad and more affectionate. Here is how I know so my sweetie doggo. When I was little and was upset to leave Mom, or to leave for a trip, or to go to bed, or for a little girl that I loved, I was sadder than today first of all because like you I was not free like I am today to go distract myself from my anger and because I was locked up with it, but also because I was also attached in my head where I had no ideas, no memory of reading, no project to escape into. And you too, Zadig, you have never read anything and you have no ideas. And you must be very upset when you are sad. But know this my good little Zadig, that a species of little doggo that I am of your sort, I tell and tell you because he has been a man and you not. This intelligence only lets us replace these impressions that make you love and suffer by feeble facsimiles that make us less upset and give less tenderness. In the rare moments when I rediscover all my tenderness, all my suffering, it’s because I no longer feel according to these false ideas, but according to something which is similar in you and in me my little doggo. And that seems to be so much superior to the rest that it is only when I become a dog again, a poor Zadig like you, that I start to write and it is only books written thus that I love. That which bears your name, my old Zadig, is not at all like that. It’s a little argument between your master who is also mine and me. But you, you will not have any fights with him because you don’t think. Dear Zadig we are both of us old and suffering. But I would really like to come visit you often so that you bring me closer to your little master instead of separating me from him. I kiss you with all my heart and I will send your friend Reynaldo your little ransom.
Your friend,
Buncht
May 28, 2019
Evidemment très bien écrit mais l'intérêt des lettres est très aléatoire même si elles montrent l'affection entre Proust et Hahn.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews