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Authors: Marcel Proust
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descended from the ancient
counts of Fezensac, who were known before Philippe-Auguste, and that he did not see
why a hundred years—it was Prince Murat he meant—should have precedence over a thousand
years. He was the son of T. de Montesquiou who was well-known to my father and about
whom I have spoken in another place, and he had a face and demeanor that gave a powerful
sense of what he was and where he came from, his body always slim, and that’s an understatement,
as if tilted backwards; he could bend forward, actually, when the whim took him, with
great affability and with bows of all kinds, but returned quite quickly to his natural
position which was all pride, hauteur, intransigence not to bend before anyone and
not to yield on anything, to the point of walking always straight ahead without bothering
about the way, jostling someone without seeming to see him, or if he wanted to annoy
someone, showing that he did see him, that he was in his way, with a great crowd always
around him of people of high quality and wit to whom he sometimes bowed rightand left, but most often left them, as they say, by the wayside, without seeing them,
both eyes fixed in front of him, speaking very loudly, and very well, to those of
his acquaintance who laughed at all the funny things he said, and with great reason,
as I have said, for he was as witty as can be imagined, with graces that were his
alone and that all those who approached him tried, often without wanting to, sometimes
even without suspecting they were doing so, to copy and assume, but not one person
ever managed to succeed, or do anything but let appear in their thoughts, in their
discourse, and in the very air almost, his writing and the sound of his voice, both
of which were very singular and very beautiful, like a varnish of his that was recognized
immediately and that showed by its light and indelible surface that it was just as
difficult not to try to imitate him as it was to manage to do so.
He had often at his side a Spaniard by the name of Yturri whom I had known during
my ambassadorship in Madrid, as has been related. At a time when everyone else scarcely
ever advanced an opinion except to have his merit noticed, he had that quality, very
rare actually, of putting all his own merit into making the Count’s shine, helping
him in his researches, in his dealings with booksellers, even in matters of the table,
finding no task too tedious so long as it spared the Count one, his own task being,
if one may say so, only to listen and make Montesquiou’s statements resound far and
wide, just as those disciples did whom the ancient sophists were accustomed to have
always with them, as isevident from the writings of Aristotle and the discourses of Plato. This Yturri had
kept the fiery manner of his countrymen, who make a fuss over anything at all, for
which Montesquiou chid him very often and very amusingly, to the merriment of all
and of Yturri himself first of all, who apologized, laughing at the heatedness of
his race, yet took care not to do anything about it, since everyone liked him that
way. He was an expert in antique objects, of which knowledge many people took advantage
to go see him and consult him about them, even in the retirement our two hermits had
resorted to, located, as I have said, in Neuilly, close to the house of M. the Duc
d’Orléans.
Those whom Montesquiou invited were very few and very select, only the best and the
greatest, but not always the same ones, and this was done expressly, since he played
very much at being king, offering favors and disgraces to the point of shameful injustice,
but all this was supported by such well-known merit, that others overlooked it in
him, but some however were invited very faithfully and very regularly, and one was
almost always certain of finding them at his house when he hosted an entertainment,
like the Duchesse Mme de
counts of Fezensac, who were known before Philippe-Auguste, and that he did not see
why a hundred years—it was Prince Murat he meant—should have precedence over a thousand
years. He was the son of T. de Montesquiou who was well-known to my father and about
whom I have spoken in another place, and he had a face and demeanor that gave a powerful
sense of what he was and where he came from, his body always slim, and that’s an understatement,
as if tilted backwards; he could bend forward, actually, when the whim took him, with
great affability and with bows of all kinds, but returned quite quickly to his natural
position which was all pride, hauteur, intransigence not to bend before anyone and
not to yield on anything, to the point of walking always straight ahead without bothering
about the way, jostling someone without seeming to see him, or if he wanted to annoy
someone, showing that he did see him, that he was in his way, with a great crowd always
around him of people of high quality and wit to whom he sometimes bowed rightand left, but most often left them, as they say, by the wayside, without seeing them,
both eyes fixed in front of him, speaking very loudly, and very well, to those of
his acquaintance who laughed at all the funny things he said, and with great reason,
as I have said, for he was as witty as can be imagined, with graces that were his
alone and that all those who approached him tried, often without wanting to, sometimes
even without suspecting they were doing so, to copy and assume, but not one person
ever managed to succeed, or do anything but let appear in their thoughts, in their
discourse, and in the very air almost, his writing and the sound of his voice, both
of which were very singular and very beautiful, like a varnish of his that was recognized
immediately and that showed by its light and indelible surface that it was just as
difficult not to try to imitate him as it was to manage to do so.
He had often at his side a Spaniard by the name of Yturri whom I had known during
my ambassadorship in Madrid, as has been related. At a time when everyone else scarcely
ever advanced an opinion except to have his merit noticed, he had that quality, very
rare actually, of putting all his own merit into making the Count’s shine, helping
him in his researches, in his dealings with booksellers, even in matters of the table,
finding no task too tedious so long as it spared the Count one, his own task being,
if one may say so, only to listen and make Montesquiou’s statements resound far and
wide, just as those disciples did whom the ancient sophists were accustomed to have
always with them, as isevident from the writings of Aristotle and the discourses of Plato. This Yturri had
kept the fiery manner of his countrymen, who make a fuss over anything at all, for
which Montesquiou chid him very often and very amusingly, to the merriment of all
and of Yturri himself first of all, who apologized, laughing at the heatedness of
his race, yet took care not to do anything about it, since everyone liked him that
way. He was an expert in antique objects, of which knowledge many people took advantage
to go see him and consult him about them, even in the retirement our two hermits had
resorted to, located, as I have said, in Neuilly, close to the house of M. the Duc
d’Orléans.
Those whom Montesquiou invited were very few and very select, only the best and the
greatest, but not always the same ones, and this was done expressly, since he played
very much at being king, offering favors and disgraces to the point of shameful injustice,
but all this was supported by such well-known merit, that others overlooked it in
him, but some however were invited very faithfully and very regularly, and one was
almost always certain of finding them at his house when he hosted an entertainment,
like the Duchesse Mme de
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