Finding Time Again: In Search of Lost Time, Volume 7 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

by Marcel Proust

I had received an invitation from Mme Molé, and learned that Mme Sazerat’s son was dead. I had decided to use one of the hours after which I could no longer utter a word, my tongue being as tied as my grandmother’s had been when she was dying, nor even swallow milk, to send my excuses to Mme Molé and my condolences to Mme Sazerat. But after a few moments I forgot what I was meant to be doing. A fortunate forgetfulness, for the memory of my work was alert and ready to use the unexpected gift of the extra hour to lay the first foundations. Unfortunately, as I took hold of my note-book to start writing, Mme Molé’s card slid out and caught my attention. Immediately the forgetful self, which was able to dominate the other one, as is always the case with scrupulous barbarians who have been out to dinner, pushed away the note-book and wrote to Mme Molé (who would no doubt have been very impressed, had she known it, at my putting my reply to her invitation ahead of my architectural labors). Then a word in my reply suddenly reminded me that Mme Sazerat had lost her son, and I wrote to her, too, then, having sacrificed a genuine duty to the factitious obligation to show that I was sensitive and polite, I fell back exhausted, closed my eyes and could do nothing but vegetate for a week.