"Bricquebec"
When we left for
Bricquebec that day my body offered no objection to this journey
so long as I had been content, when I thought about it, to gaze
out at the Persian church by the edge of the storm from the
warmth of my bed in Paris. My body only began to object as soon
as it understood that it would be of the party, and that on my
arrival I would be shown to a room which would be called
"my" room, which I would have never seen before. On the
day of departure I looked so unhappy that the new doctor who was
treating me and who had advised me to accustom myself to
everything which his precursor had prescribed me to avoid, told
me:
"You don't seem pleased to be leaving.
Doesn't Bricquebec mean anything to you? It is very strange to
dislike journeys. I find that exquisite (which he pronounced esquisite).
I don't mind telling you that if I could only manage a week to
get some sea air at the coast, I wouldn't need asking twice. And
then there will be races, regattas, you will have a wonderful
time."
It is probably true, however, that my yearning
to see Cricquebec was much greater than the doctor's, and that I
"loved" journeys just as much as he did. But I had
already come to suspect, when I had been to see Berma, and on all
the occasions when I had been to play in the Champs-Elysées with
Gilberte, that those who love and those who feel pleasure are
perhaps not the same. The contemplation of Cricquebec did not
seem to me to be any the less desirable because it had to be
bought at a heavy cost, which on the contrary was like a symbol
of the reality of the impression I was going there to seek, an
impression which no equivalent spectacle, no stereoscopic image,
which would not have prevented me from returning home to sleep in
my own bed, could have replaced. And as I understood that
whatever it was, later, that I loved, that it would never be
attained other than at the end of a painful pursuit, which
initially I would have to overcome, to sacrifice my pleasure to
the paramount good instead of seeking it therein, and to overcome
like an obstacle, my own health, I would not have wished to ask
to avoid taking this journey - while secretly hoping that some
unforeseen accident was going to prevent it - which would have
seemed to me to detract from the initial experience, if not to
feel the sensation - because I never put it to the test - at
least to possess the object of happiness. But on this occasion
the resistance of my body was much more difficult to master
because my father had not yet returned from a trip to Spain which
he had taken with Monsieur de Norpois, and preferred, it seemed,
to rent a house for the summer in the outskirts of Paris, causing
my mother to decide, which she did not tell me until the day
before our departure in order to lessen our distress, that she
would not be accompanying us and that my grandmother would go
alone with me to Cricquebec.
My grandmother, anxious as ever that the
presents which were made me should take some artistic form, had
initially wanted to offer me an ancient "imprint" from
this journey, and for us to repeat, partly by rail and partly by
road, the route that Madame de Sévigné had taken when she went
from Paris to "L'Orient" by way of Chaulnes and
"the Pont-Audemer". But realizing that "it would
be a shame" to have me pass by beautiful things without
seeing them, she was obliged to renounce her plan, on the advice
of my father, who Mamma had kept up-to-date by letter, and who
knew that when my grandmother organized any expedition with a
view to extracting from it the utmost intellectual benefit that
it was capable of yielding, what a tale could be foreseen of
missed trains, lost luggage, sore throats and broken rules. In
short we were simply to leave by that 1:22 train which over the
years I had often sought out in the timetable where its departure
time gave me the emotion, almost the illusion of departure. To
take it, to get out at Bayeaux or Coutances for a long time had
symbolized for me one of the greatest of all possible forms of
pleasure; and as the delineation in our minds of any form of
happiness depends more on the nature of the longings that it
inspires in us than on the accuracy of the information which we
have about it, we believe that we know this happiness in all its
details, and I had no doubt that I should feel in my compartment
a special pleasure as the day began to cool, should contemplate
such an impression at the approach of a certain station; to such
an extent that this train always awoke in me images of the same
villages which I swathed in the light of those afternoon hours
through which it sped, seemed to me to be different from any
other train; and I had ended, as we are apt to do, with a person
we have never seen but who we imagine constantly, by giving a
distinct and unalterable countenance to this fair, artistic
traveller who would have taken me with him on his journey, and to
whom I should bid farewell at the foot of a cathedral before he
disappeared towards the setting sun.
As my grandmother could not bring herself to go
"purely and simply" to Cricquebec, she was to stop for
twenty four hours at the house of one of her friends, from whence
I was to proceed the same evening, so as not to be in the way
there, and at the same time that I might see Bricquebec church in
the daylight the following day, which, we had learned, was at
some distance from Bricquebec-Plage, and which I might not have
had chance to visit later on, when I had begun my course of
bathing. And perhaps it was less painful for me to feel that the
admirable goal of my journey stood between me and that cruel
first night on which I should have to enter a new habitation and
consent to live there. But I had first to leave the old and Mamma
was to accompany us. She conducted us to the station. As she had
to spend the summer with my father at St Cloud, she had arranged
to move in on the same day and had made, or pretended to make,
all the arrangements for going there directly after leaving the
station, without having to call again at our house, to which she
was afraid that rather than leaving I might feel compelled to
return with her. And so, on the pretext of having so much to see
to in the new house and of being pressed for time, so as not to
remain with us (thinking that it would also be less unhappy to
leave her) until the moment of the train's departure when,
concealed amidst the comings and goings and preparations that
involve no final commitment, a separation suddenly looms up,
impossible to endure when it is no longer possible to avoid,
concentrated in its entirety in one enormous instant of impotent
and supreme lucidity. She would enter the station with us, in
this tragic and miraculous place where I now had to abandon all
hope of returning to the familiar places where I had lived but
where the miracle was about to come about thanks to which those
in which I would soon be living would be the very places which as
yet had no existence outside my own imagination.
Today we would doubtless make such a journey by
motor car and we should think this would make it more agreeable
and more real, following more closely the various gradations by
which the surface of the earth is diversified. I have said
elsewhere, and from a different point of view, that I will
demonstrate later on that I do not disown the motor car. But I do
not value this new spirit which, on the whole, only shows us
things in the surroundings of their own reality, removes the
essential thing, the intellectual act which keeps them apart and
masks behind a mediocre satisfaction which it comes to grant us
through excess, the original pleasure which they should have
afforded us. We maintain that a XVIIth century painting must be
viewed in the midst of furniture, trinkets and hangings of the
period, and we merely reconstruct the stale settings such as we
are presented with at all the "good" houses of today
where the humiliated Rembrandt does nothing more than reflect the
poor taste of the hostess, who has spent many years amongst
archives just as all the others of her kind do nowadays, where
the only irritation is the time of the dinner when we are in the
presence of masterpieces which never restore in us the
intoxicating joy which we should only expect of them on the walls
of a museum, which can never be sufficiently bare, or stripped of
all distractions, so that they are able to symbolize those
innermost spaces into which the artist withdrew to create them.
But after all the specific attraction of a journey lies not in
our being able to alight at places on the way and to stop as soon
as we grow tired, the real truth of a journey lies in its making
the difference between departure and arrival not as imperceptible
but as intense as possible, to preserve in its totality, intact,
as it existed in us when our imagination bore us from the place
in which we were living to the very heart of a place we longed to
see, in a single leap which seemed miraculous to us not so much
because it covered a certain distance as because it united two
distinct individualities of the world, which took us from one
name to another name; and which is schematized (better than in a
real excursion in which, since one can disembark where one
chooses, there can scarcely be said to be any point of arrival)
by the mysterious operation performed in those peculiar places,
railway stations, which scarcely form part of their surrounding
town but contain the essence of its personality just as on their
sign-boards they bear its name, smoking laboratories, pestiferous
caverns through which we gain access to the mystery, vast
glass-roofed sheds, like the one I entered that day when I went
to find the train to Cricquebec, and which extended over the
eviscerated city one of those immense, bleak and tragic skies,
like certain skies by Mantegna or Veronese, beneath which only
some terrible and solemn act could be in process, such as a
departure by train or the erection of the Cross.
For the first time I began to feel that it was
possible that my mother might live another kind of life, without
me, otherwise than for me. I perceived that she could live for
her part with my father for whom she felt perhaps that my poor
health, my nervousness made life somewhat difficult and sad, so
that I experienced a more melancholy wretchedness with this
separation, in telling myself that for my mother it was probably
the outcome of the successive disappointments which I had caused
her, of which she had never said a word to me but which had made
her realize the difficulty of our taking our holidays together;
and perhaps also a preliminary trial for a form of existence to
which she was beginning, now, to resign herself to the future, as
the years crept on for my father and herself, an existence in
which I should see less of her, in which (a thing that not even
in my nightmares had yet been revealed to me) she would already
have become something of a stranger to me, a lady who might be
seen going home by herself to a house in which I should not be,
asking whether there was a letter to her from me.
My mother tried to comfort me by the methods
which seemed to her successively most efficacious. Thinking it
useless to appear not to notice my unhappiness, she gently teased
me about it:
"Well, and what would Cricquebec church say if it knew that
people pulled long faces like that when they were going to see
it? Surely this is not the enraptured traveller Ruskin speaks of.
In any case, I shall know if you have risen to the occasion, even
when we are miles apart I shall still be with my little man. You
shall have a letter tomorrow from your Mamma."
Then she sought to distract me by asking what I
thought of having for dinner, then admiring Françoise's outfit
and complementing her on it.
"Well, Françoise, you look magnificent!
Where did you find that hat and cloak?"
Françoise replied that we knew them well and
indeed went on to force my mother to recall an ancient hat and
cloak belonging to my great-aunt which had horrified my mother
when they were new, the one with an immense bird towering over
it, the other decorated with a hideous pattern and jet beads. But
the cloak, having grown too shabby to wear, Françoise had had
turned, exposing an inside of plain red cloth of a pretty shade.
As for the bird it had long since come to grief. Just as it is
disturbing sometimes, to find the effects which the most
conscious artists have to strive for present in a folk-song or on
the wall of some peasant's cottage where above the door, at
precisely the right spot in the composition, blooms a white or
yellow rose - so with the velvet band, the loop of ribbon that
would have delighted one in a portrait by Chardin or Whistler,
which Françoise had set with simple but unerring taste upon the
hat, which was now charming. But over and above the feelings
which were second nature to her, her fondness for her own people,
her respect for her masters, the pride in her honesty which
allowed her to "hold her head high", the modesty over
the position in which she found herself such that it would be
"pure nonsense" to wish to go out socially, all this
had not only given a singular nobility to her regular features,
which must have been charming in her youth, but had formed her
deportment and the way she held her head; and even, in the
unexpected clothes that she had readorned for the journey so as
to be fit to be seen in our company without at the same time
seeming or wishing to make herself conspicuous - from the faded
cherry-coloured cloth of her cloak, to the inevitable nap and
droop of her fur collar similar to those which cover the mouth -
had acquired the reserved expression with no trace of servility
of a woman who knows how to "hold her own and to keep her
place", bringing to mind those portraits in which the old
masters painted a stained-glass church window or Anne of Brittany
at prayer for a Book of Hours, in which everything is so exactly
in the right place, the sense of the whole is so evenly
distributed throughout the parts, that the rich and obsolete
singularity of the costume expresses the same pious gravity as
the lips and the eyes. But when my mother saw that I was having
difficulty holding back my tears she said to me:
"Regulus was in the habit, when things
looked grave..." then remembering that affection for another
distracts one's attention from selfish griefs, she endeavoured to
beguile me by telling me that she expected the removal to St
Cloud to go without a hitch, that she was pleased with the cab,
that the driver seemed civil and the seats comfortable. I made an
effort to smile at these trifles, and bowed my head with an air
of acquiescence and contentment.
But they helped me only to picture to myself
the more accurately her departure for St Cloud, and it was with a
heavy heart that I gazed at her as though she were already torn
from me, beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat which she had bought
to wear in the country, in a flimsy dress which she had put on in
view of the long drive through the midday heat, and which made
her someone else, somebody who already belonged to that place in
which I should not see her.
In order to prevent the suffocating fits which
the journey might bring on, the doctor had advised me to take a
small drop of beer at the moment of departure, so as to begin the
journey in a state of what he called "euphoria", in
which the nervous system is for a time less vulnerable. I had not
yet made up my mind whether to do this, but I wished at least
that my grandmother should acknowledge that, if I did so decide,
I should have wisdom and authority on my side. I spoke about it
therefore as if my hesitation were concerned only with where I
should go for my drink, to the platform buffet or to the bar on
the train. But immediately, at the air of reproach which my
grandmother's face assumed, an air of not wishing even to
entertain such an idea for a moment, "What!" I cried,
suddenly resolving with indignant violence on this action of
going to get a drink, the performance of which became necessary
as a proof of my independence since the verbal announcement had
not succeeded in passing unchallenged, "What! You know how
ill I am, you know what the doctor ordered, and you treat me like
this!" And only then did I notice, so much had the grief at
leaving Mamma completely absorbed my attention until that moment,
that the attack which I was fearing was already primed, the
psychological remorse at having deceived my grandmother with a
show of apparent good health pushed me on to feel sorry for
myself, to confess by my outward signs the illness which I was
feeling but which I had omitted to make manifest.
My grandmother looked so distressed and so
kindly as she said to me: "Run along then quickly, get
yourself some beer if it will do you good" that I flung
myself upon her and smothered her in kisses which in my fondness
for her I imagined could efface the grief which I had not
hesitated to cause her in order to satisfy the wishes of my body
to feel pitied. And if after that I went for some beer, and drank
rather too much, it was because I felt that otherwise I should
have too violent an attack, which was what would have distressed
my grandmother the most. But by taking a good deal more than
would have been necessary merely to prevent an attack, the attack
had begun and must be overcome. When at the first stop I
clambered back into our compartment I told my grandmother how
pleased I was to be going to Bricquebec, that I felt that
everything would go off splendidly, that after all I should grow
used to being without Mamma, that the train was most comfortable,
the barman and the attendants so friendly that I should like to
make the journey often so as to have the opportunity of seeing
them again. My grandmother, however, did not appear to be quite
so overjoyed as I was at all these good tidings. Turning her head
towards the window and without looking at me in the face she
answered: "Perhaps you should try to get a little
sleep", but when she thought that my eyes were shut I could
see her now and again, from behind her spotted veil, steal a
glance at me, then withdraw it, then look back again, like a
person trying to make himself perform some exercise that hurts
them in order to get used to the habit.
Thereupon I spoke to her. But that did not seem
to please her. And yet to myself the sound of my own voice was
agreeable, as were the most imperceptible, the innermost
movements of my body. And so I endeavoured to prolong them, I
allowed each of my inflexions to linger lazily upon the words, I
felt each glance from my eyes pause pleasurably on the spot where
it came to rest and remain there beyond its normal time. In order
to compensate for the sacrifice my love of architecture caused to
my well being and to make me look at a beautiful monument,
towards the middle of the day as we were approaching the town
where we were to stop to go to her friend's house, my grandmother
said to me: "You know the station after this one is Bayeux,
wouldn't you prefer to stay on the train until then so that you
can see the Cathedral rather than come with me. You would only be
spending a few hours with me in any case, and the weather is
fine, the sun hasn't yet set and it would give you more time to
look at it properly."
I recalled everything I had read about Bayeux
Cathedral, about the tapestries of Queen Mathilda, but my
grandmother was here; I did not have the strength to tear myself
away from her so precipitously; suddenly she had once again
become the most dear person in the world; then again the name of
Bayeux with its associations of grand antique lace and gilded
finery came back to me more forcefully; yet with all my reasoning
I hesitated for a moment and as a single fixed idea of a
resolution (unless one had not made the idea inert by deciding
that one would not follow through the resolution) unfolds in a
moment like a perennial seed following its natural pattern, every
detail of the emotion which would come to fruition from this
pleasant act touched and broke my heart through my hesitation
quite as much as if I were to leave my grandmother, a distress
which I could have spared myself, since when the train left the
station I had disembarked with her. When I took the train again,
alone, in the evening, after having spent a few hours with my
grandmother at her friend's house, at least that particular night
would seem a short one to me; this is because I did not have to
spend it imprisoned in a room whose somnolence would have kept me
awake; I was surrounded by the soothing activity of all those
movements of the train which kept me company, watched over me,
offered to stay and talk to me if I could not sleep, lulled me
with their sounds which I combined - like the chime of the
Combray bells - now in one rhythm, now in another (hearing as the
whim took me first four equal semi-quavers, then one semi-quaver
furiously dashing against a crotchet); they neutralized the
centrifugal force of my insomnia by exerting on it contrary
pressures which kept me in equilibrium and on which my immobility
and presently my drowsiness seemed to be borne with the same
sense of relaxation that I should have felt had I been resting
under the protecting vigilance of powerful forces in the heart of
nature and of life, had I been able for a moment to metamorphose
myself into a fish that sleeps in the sea, carried along in its
slumber by the currents and the waves, or an eagle outstretched
upon the buoyant air of the storm. Sunrise is a necessary
concomitant of long railway journeys, just as are hard-boiled
eggs, illustrated papers, packs of cards, boats which strain
without making progress on a river in the setting sun, beneath a
partly-drawn blue blind. At a certain moment, when I was counting
over the thoughts that had filled my mind during the preceding
minutes, so as to discover whether I had just been asleep or not
(and when the very uncertainty which made me ask myself the
question was about to furnish me with an affirmative answer), in
the pale square of the window, above a small black wood, I saw
some ragged clouds whose fleecy edges were of a fixed, dead pink,
not liable to change, like the colour that dyes the feathers of a
wing that has assimilated it or a pastel on which it has been
deposited by the artist's whim. But I felt that, unlike them,
this colour was neither inertia nor caprice, but necessity and
life. Presently there gathered behind it reserves of light. It
brightened; the sky turned to glowing pink which I strove, gluing
my eyes to the window, to see more clearly, for I felt that it
was related somehow to the most intimate life of Nature, but, the
course of the line altering, the train turned, the morning scene
gave place in the frame of the window to a nocturnal village, its
roofs still blue with moonlight, its pond encrusted with the
opalescent sheen of night, beneath a firmament still spangled
with all its stars, and I was lamenting the loss of my strip of
pink sky when I caught sight of it anew, but red this time, in
the opposite window which it left at a second bend in the line;
so that I spent my time running from one window to the other to
reassemble, to collect on a single canvas the intermittent,
antipodean fragments of my fine, scarlet, ever-changing morning,
and to obtain a comprehensive view and continuous picture of it.
But I was impeded by the sun itself, because all at once,
propelled mechanically like an egg which bursts by virtue of a
single change to the density which causes it to set hard, it
leapt from behind the curtain across the translucidity of which I
felt a moment before it had been nervously awaiting the moment of
its entry onto the stage, and the purple mystery of which it
effaced beneath a flood of light. It was already illuminating the
matutinal countryside and in which it gave me a joyous longing to
go and live, which in no way neutralized my body's apprehension,
assured as it was of not having to carry itself there or arrive
there unaccustomedly. The countryside through which the train ran
was furrowed by a river where the trees displayed the golden
tableau of their foliage beneath the sheen of the water, just as
at the hour when the walker who has taken his rest in the shade
during the midday sun, gets up to continue his walk when he sees
the sun getting lower in the sky; boats in disarray in the blue
mists of night which still trawl over the waters encumbered by
the remains of the mother-of-pearl and pink of dawn as they
expire smiling in the slanting light which, just as when they
reappear in the evening, moistening and tingeing with yellow the
edge of their veil, their bows channelling through a point of
gold: an imaginary scene, shivering and deserted, pure evocation
of the sleeper, not resting on the succession of daylight hours
which frequently precede it, as interpolated and inconsistent as
a fleeting memory or an image from a dream. Then the river
disappeared, the countryside became hilly and steep, and the
train stopped at a little station between two mountains. Far down
the gorge, on the edge of a hurrying stream, one could only see a
solitary watch-house, embedded in the water that ran past on a
level with its windows. If a person can be the product of a soil
to the extent of embodying for us the quintessence of its
peculiar charm, more even than the peasant girl who I had so
desperately longed to see appear when I wandered by myself along
the Méséglise way, in the woods of Roussainville, such a person
must have been the tall girl who I now saw emerge from the house
and, climbing a path lighted by the first slanting rays of the
sun, come towards the station carrying a jar of milk. In her
valley from which the rest of the world was hidden by these
heights, she must never see anyone save in these trains which
stopped for a moment only. She passed down the line of carriages
offering coffee and milk to a few awakened passengers. Flushed
with the glow of morning, her face was rosier than the sky. I
felt on seeing her that desire to live which is reborn in us
whenever we become conscious anew of beauty and of happiness. We
invariably forget that these are individual qualities, and
mentally substituting for them a conventional type at which we
arrive by striking a sort of mean among the different faces that
have taken our fancy, among the pleasures we have known, we are
left with mere abstract images which are lifeless and insipid
because they lack precisely that element of novelty, different
from anything we have known, that element which is peculiar to
beauty and to happiness. And we deliver on life a pessimistic
judgement which we suppose to be accurate, for we believed we
were taking happiness and beauty into account, whereas in fact we
left them out and replaced them by syntheses in which there is
not a single atom of either. So it is that a well-read man will
at once begin to yawn with boredom when one speaks to him of a
new "good book" because he imagines a sort of composite
of all the good books that he has read, whereas a good book is
something special, something unforeseeable. Such would be la
Chartreuse de Parme, an Emily Brontë novel, a story by Francis
Jammes and immediately the well-read man, however jaded his
palate, feels his interest awaken to the reality which is
depicted for him by the new great writer. In such a way,
completely unrelated to the models of beauty which I was wont to
conjure up in my mind when I was by myself, did the supple
bearing of this handsome girl, with energetic and gentle
features, appear to my eyes. And the sight of them gave me all at
once the taste for a certain happiness - (the sole form in which
we may acquire a taste for Happiness) - for a happiness that
would be realized by my staying and living there by her side.
Perhaps I was receiving, a little, the benefit of the fact that
it was the whole of my being, a new being, tasting the keenest
joys, which confronted her. As a rule it is with our being
reduced to a minimum that we live, most of our faculties lie
dormant because they can rely on Habit, which knows what there is
to be done and has no need of their services. But on this morning
of travel, in this railway carriage, the interruption of the
routine of my existence, the unfamiliar place and time, had made
their presence indispensable. My habits, which were sedentary and
not matutinal, for once were missing, and all my faculties came
hurrying to take their place, and even my simple organic
functions of appetite or respiration were vying zealously with
their nobler cousins. I cannot say whether, in making me believe
that this girl was unlike the rest of women, the rugged charm of
the locality added to her own, but she was equal to it. The
singular and graceful assurance of her movements, the wild
candour of her quick, piercing gaze and all those naive and
lively qualities which had fixed the line of her nose, the curve
of her chin, the looseness of her shoulders, with the sureness of
a sculptor's chisel as if he had made of her a statue
representing all the qualities which were foreign to me, like the
personification of a life in which I took no part, all this
suddenly gave something so sweet to the place in which she lived,
to the insignificant tasks which occupied her time, that life
would have seemed an exquisite thing to me if only I had been
free to spend it, hour after hour, with her going to the stream,
to the cow, to the train, to be always at her side, to feel that
I was known to her, had my place in her thoughts. She would have
initiated me into the delights of country life and of early hours
of the day. I signalled to her to bring me some of her coffee. I
felt the need to be noticed by her. She did not see me; I called
to her. She retraced her steps, fastening her direct and
penetrating gaze on me, and as the guards were starting to close
the carriage doors and with marvellous speed and skill she poured
me a steaming coffee. I looked at her; she did not avert her eyes
from me. I tried to entice her into the compartment; she pulled
herself away laughing: "Come on now, look, it's
leaving", as the train began to move; I saw her leave the
station and walk back down the path. Whether this state of
exultation in which I found myself had been produced by this girl
or on the other hand had been responsible for most of the
pleasure that I had found in her presence, in either event she
was so closely associated with it that my desire to see her
again, like the predilection which endears opium smokers to their
fellow smokers, was above all a mental desire not to allow this
state of excitement to perish utterly, not to be separated for
ever from the person who had participated in it. It was not only
that this state was a pleasant one. It was above all that (just
as increased tension upon a string or the accelerated vibration
of a nerve produces a qualitatively different sound or colour),
it gave another tonality to all that I saw, introduced me as an
actor upon the stage of an unknown and infinitely more
interesting universe; that handsome girl who I could still see,
as the train gathered speed, walking back down the path by which
she had come, was like part of a life other than the life I knew,
separated from it by a clear boundary, in which the sensations
aroused in me by things were no longer the same; it seemed that
this boundary would be impossible to cross back over and now that
I had entered this new life, to leave it would be to die myself.
To have the consolation of feeling that I had at least an
attachment to this new life, it would suffice that I should live
near enough to the little station to be able to come to it every
morning for a cup of coffee from the peasant girl. But alas, she
must be for ever absent from the other life to which I was being
borne with ever increasing speed, a life which I could resign
myself to accept only by weaving plans that would enable me to
take the same train again some day and stop at the same station,
a project which had the further advantage of providing food for
the selfish, active, practical, mechanical, indolent, centrifugal
tendency which is that of the human mind, for it turns all too
readily aside from the effort which is required to thoroughly
examine in a general and disinterested manner an agreeable
impression which we have received. And since, at the same time,
we wish to continue to think of that impression, the mind prefers
to examine it in the future tense, to continue to bring about the
circumstances which may make it recur - which, while giving us no
clue as to the real nature of the thing, saves us the trouble of
recreating it within ourselves and allows us to hope that we may
receive it afresh from without. In such a way my mind contrived
itineraries which would allow me to find the handsome girl again
whilst I began to see her anew as she returned to the watch house
with an assured and brisk step, under a sky which was less rosy
than her face.
Certain names of towns serve to designate, by
abbreviation, their principal churches. If someone asks us
whether we prefer Vézelay or Jumièges, Bourges or Beauvais, we
understand immediately that they are talking about the abbey or
the church. This acceptation - if the names in question are those
of places that we do not yet know - to sculpt the name as a
whole, which henceforth, whenever we wish to introduce into it
the idea of the town - the town which we have never seen - will
impose on it like a mould the same carved outlines, in the same
style, will make of it a sort of vast cathedral. It was, however,
above a railway refreshment room, in white letters on a blue
panel, that I read the name - almost Persian in style - of
Cricquebec. I strode eagerly through the station and across the
avenue, and asked the way to the shore, so as to see nothing in
the place but its church and the sea; people seemed not to
understand what I meant - Old Cricquebec, Cricquebec town,
Cricquebec-en-Terre, at which I had arrived, had neither beach
nor harbour. True, it was indeed in the sea that the fishermen,
according to the legend, had found the miraculous Christ of which
a window in the church that stood a few yards from where I now
was recorded the discovery; it was indeed from cliffs battered by
the waves that the stone of its nave and its towers had been
quarried. But this sea, which for those reasons I had imagined as
coming to expire at the foot of the window, was twelve miles away
and more, at Bricquebec-Plage, and, rising besides its cupola,
that steeple which, because I had read that it was itself a
rugged Norman cliff around which the winds howled and the
seabirds wheeled, I had always pictured to myself receiving at
its base the last dying foam of the uplifted waves, stood on a
square which was the junction of two tramway routes, opposite a
café which bore, in letters of gold, the legend
"Billiards", against a background of houses with the
roofs of which no upstanding mast was blended. And the church -
impinging on my attention at the same time as the café, the
passing stranger of whom I had had to ask my way, the station to
which presently I should have to return - merged with all the
rest, seemed an accident, a by-product of this summer afternoon,
in which the mellow and distended dome against the sky was like a
fruit of which the same light that bathed the chimneys of the
houses ripened the pink, glowing, luscious skin. But I only
wished to consider the eternal significance of the carvings when
I recognized the Apostles, of which I had seen casts in the
Trocadéro museum, and which on either side of the Virgin, before
the deep bay of the porch, were awaiting me as though to do me
honour. With their benevolent, mild faces and bowed shoulders
they seemed to be advancing upon me with an air of welcome,
singing the Alleluia of a fine day. But it was evident that their expression was immutable and altered only if we changed our position, as happens when we walk around a dead dog. I said to myself: "Here it is:
this is Bricquebec Church. This square, which looks as though it were conscious of its glory, is the only place in the world that possesses Bricquebec Church. All that I have seen so far
have been photographs of this church, casts of these Apostles, of
the famous Virgin of the Porch in the Trocadéro museum. Now here
is the church itself, the statue itself, they, the only
ones - this is something far greater." Perhaps also
something less. As a young man on the day of an examination or a
duel feels the question that he has been asked, the shot that he
has fired, to be very insignificant when he thinks of the
reserves of knowledge and of valour that he would like to have
displayed, so my mind, which had lifted the Virgin of the
Porch far above the reproductions that I had had before my eyes,
invulnerable to the vicissitudes which might threaten them,
ideal, endowed with a universal value, was astonished to see the
statue which it had carved a thousand times, reduced now to its
own stone semblance, occupying, in relation to the reach of my
arm, a place in which it had for rivals an election poster and
the point of my umbrella, fettered in the Square, inseparable
from the opening of the main street, powerless to hide from the
gaze of the café and of the omnibus office, receiving on its
face half of the ray of the setting sun (and presently, in a few
hours time, of the light of the street lamp) of which the savings
bank received the other half, affected simultaneously with that
branch office of a loan society by the smells from the pastry
cook's oven, subjected to the tyranny of the Particular to such a
point that, if I had chosen to scribble my name upon that stone,
it was she, the illustrious Virgin whom until then I had endowed
with a general existence and an intangible beauty, the Virgin of
Bricquebec, the unique (which meant, alas, the only one), who, on
her body coated with the same soot as defiled the neighbouring
houses, would have displayed - powerless to rid herself of them -
to all the admiring strangers come there to gaze upon her, the
marks of my piece of chalk and the letters of my name, and as it
was she, the immortal work of art so long desired, as was the
church itself, turned into a little old woman in stone whose
height I could measure and whose wrinkles I could count. But time
was passing; I must return to the station where I was to wait for
my grandmother and Françoise, so that we should all go on to
Cricquebec-Plage together. I reminded myself of what I had read
about Bricquebec, of Swann's saying: "It's exquisite; as
beautiful as Sienna." And casting the blame for my
disappointment upon various accidental causes, such as the state
of my health, my tiredness, my incapacity for looking at things
properly, I endeavoured to console myself with the thought that
other towns still remained intact for me, and that if my
grandmother allowed it I might soon, perhaps, be making my way,
as into a shower of pearls, into the cool babbling murmur of
Quimperlé, or traversing the roseate glow in which verdant
Pont-Aven was bathed; but as for Bricquebec, no sooner had I set
foot in it than it was as though I had broken open a name which
ought to have been kept hermetically closed, and into which,
seizing at once the opportunity that I had imprudently given
them, expelling all the images that had lived in it until then, a
tramway, a café, people crossing the square, the branch of the
savings bank, irresistibly propelled by some external pressure,
by a pneumatic force, had come surging into the interior of those
two syllables which, closing over them, now let them frame the
porch of the Persian church and would henceforth never cease to
contain them.
I found my grandmother in the little train of
the local railway which was to take us to Bricquebec-Plage, but
found her alone - for she had had the idea of sending Françoise
on ahead of her, so that everything should be ready before we
arrived, but having given her the wrong instructions, had
succeeded only in sending her off in the wrong direction, so that
Françoise at that moment was being carried down all unsuspecting
at full speed to Nantes, and would probably wake up next morning
at Bordeaux. No sooner had I taken my seat on the carriage, which
was filled with the fleeting light of sunset and with the
lingering heat of the afternoon (the former enabling me, alas, to
see written clearly upon my grandmother's face how much the
latter had tired her), than she began: "Well, and
Cricquebec?" with a smile so brightly illuminated by her
expectation of the great pleasure which she supposed me to have
experienced that I dared not at once confess to her my
disappointment. Besides, the impression that my mind had been
seeking occupied it steadily less as the place to which my body
would have to become accustomed drew nearer. Uppermost in my mind
I was trying to form a mental picture of the manager of the hotel
at Bricquebec, for whom I, at that moment did not exist, and I
should have liked to be presenting myself to him in more
impressive company than that of my grandmother, who would be
certain to ask him for a reduction in his terms. He appeared to
me to be endowed with an indubitable haughtiness, but its
contours were very vague. We were still not at Bricquebec; every few minutes the little train
brought us to a standstill at one of the stations which came
before Bricquebec-Plage, stations the mere names of which
(Bergeville, Cricqueville, Equemanville, Couliville) seemed to me
outlandish, whereas if I had come upon them in a book I should at
once have been struck by their affinity to the names of certain
places in the neighbourhood of Combray. But to the ear of a
musician two themes, substantially composed of the same notes,
will present no similarity whatsoever if they differ in the
colour of their harmony and orchestration. In the same way,
nothing could have reminded me less than these dreary names,
redolent of sand, of space so airy and empty, and of salt, out of
which the suffix "ville" emerged like "vole"
in Pigeonvole - nothing could have reminded me less of those
other names, Trousainville, or Rousinville, which, because I had
heard them pronounced so often by my great-aunt at table, in the
dining-room, had acquired a certain sombre charm in which were
blended perhaps extracts of the flavour of preserves, the smell
of the log fire and of the pages of one of Bergotte's books, and
which even today, when they rise like a gaseous bubble from the
depths of my memory, preserve their own specific virtue through
all the successive layers of different environments which they
must traverse before reaching the surface.
Overlooking the distant sea from the crests of
their dunes or already settling down for the night at the foot of
hills of a harsh green and a disagreeable shape, like that of the
sofa in one's bedroom in an hotel at which one has just arrived,
each composed of a cluster of villas whose line was extended to
include a tennis court and occasionally a casino over which a
flag flapped in the freshening, hollow, uneasy wind, and of
little stations which showed me for the first time, through their
daily exteriors, tennis players in white hats, the station-master
living there on the spot among his tamarisks and roses, a lady
who, following the everyday routine of an existence which I
should never know, was calling to her dog which was lingering
nearby, before going into her bungalow where the lamp was already
lighted and closing the door behind her - and which with these
strangely ordinary and disdainfully familiar sights cruelly stung
my unconsidered eyes and stabbed my homesick heart. But how much
more were my sufferings increased when we had finally landed in
the hall of the Grand Hotel at Bricquebec, as I stood there in
front of the monumental staircase of imitation marble, while my
grandmother, regardless of the growing hostility and contempt of
the strangers among whom we were about to live, discussed
"terms" with the manager, a man with a face and a voice
alike covered with scars (left by the excision of countless
pustules from the one, and from the other the diverse accents
acquired from an alien ancestry and a cosmopolitan upbringing), a
smart dinner-jacket, and the air of a psychologist who, whenever
the omnibus discharged a fresh load, invariably took the grandees
for haggling skinflints and the flashy crooks for grandees. -
While I heard my grandmother ask him in an artificial tone of
voice: "And what are ... your charges? ... Oh! far too high
for my little budget", waiting on a bench, I took refuge in
the innermost depths of my being, strove to migrate to a plane of
eternal thoughts, to leave nothing of myself, nothing living on
the surface of my body - anaesthetized like those of certain
animals, which, by inhibition, feign death when they are wounded
- so as not to suffer too keenly in this place, my total
unfamiliarity with which was impressed upon me all the more
forcibly by the familiarity with it that seemed to be evinced at
the same moment by a smartly dressed lady to whom the manager
showed his respect by taking liberties with her little dog, the
young "blood" with a feather in his hat who came in
whistling and asking if there were "any letters", all these people
for whom climbing those imitation marble stairs meant going home.
My sense of loneliness was further increased a moment later when
my grandmother was about to go out (I had confessed to her that I
did not feel well, that I thought that we should be obliged to
return to Paris, and she had offered no protest, saying merely
that she was going out to buy a few things which would be equally
useful whether we left or stayed, and which, I afterwards
learned, were all intended for me, Françoise having gone off
with certain articles which I might need such as jerseys,
slippers, a hot water bottle). While I waited for her I had taken
a turn through the streets, which were packed with a crowd of
people who imparted to them a sort of indoor warmth, and in which
the hairdresser's shop and the pastry cook's were still open, the
latter filled with customers eating ices opposite the statue of
Duguay-Trouin. This crowd gave me just about as much pleasure as
a photograph of it on the cover of a magazine might give a
patient who was turning its pages in the surgeon's waiting-room.
I was astonished to find that there were people so different from
myself, that this stroll through the town had actually been
recommended to me by the manager as a diversion; and also that
the torture-chamber which a new place of residence is could
appear to some people a "delightful abode", to quote
the hotel prospectus, which might perhaps exaggerate but was none
the less addressed to a whole army of clients to whose tastes it
must appeal. True, it invoked, to make them come to the Grand
Hotel, Cricquebec, not only the "exquisite fare" and
the "magical view across the Casino gardens", but also
the "ordinances of Her Majesty Queen Fashion, which no one
may violate with impunity without being taken for a philistine, a
charge that no well-bred man would willingly incur". The
need that I now felt for my grandmother was intensified by my
fear that I had shattered another of her illusions by what I had
said to her, by my confessing to her that I was not well and that
it would be better not to continue with the trip in which she had
invested so many hopes for my well-being. She must be feeling
discouraged, feeling that if I could not stand the fatigue of it,
there was no hope that anything could ever do me good. Needing to
speak to her I returned to the hotel on two occasions but still
she had not returned; thinking that perhaps I would not see her,
would not be able to try to console her for at least another
hour, being aware of her sadness which would endure until then,
my anguish was so keen that my imaginings were forced to come to
a halt there and then. Just as when one tries to imagine oneself
falling from a balloon into the void, in a descent that one
cannot imagine for the space of more than a second, I was
touching nothingness, I was obliged even to stop walking in order
to get my breath back and to begin to feel alive again. I decided
to return to the hotel and to wait for her there; the manager
himself came forward and pressed a button, whereupon a personage
whose acquaintance I had not yet made, known as "lift"
(who at the highest point of the hotel, where the lantern
would be in a Norman church, was installed like a photographer
behind his curtain or even more like an organist in his loft) began to descend
towards me with the agility of a domestic, industrious and
captive squirrel. Then, gliding upwards again along a steel
pillar, he bore me aloft in his wake towards the dome of this
temple to commerce. Then so as to dissipate the mortal anguish I
felt in traversing in silence the mystery of this chiaroscuro so
devoid of poetry, lighted by a single vertical line of little
windows which were those of the solitary water-closet on each
landing, I addressed a few words to the young organist, artificer
of my journey and my partner in captivity, who continued to
manipulate the registers of his instrument and to finger the
stops. I apologised for taking up so much room, for giving him so
much trouble, and asked whether I was not obstructing him in the
practice of an art in regard to which, in order to flatter the
virtuoso more than displaying curiosity, I confessed my strong
attachment. But he made no reply, whether from astonishment at my
words, preoccupation with his work, regard for etiquette,
hardness of hearing, respect for his position, fear of danger,
slowness of understanding, or the manager's orders.
There is perhaps nothing which gives us so
strong an impression of the reality of the external world and our opinion of it as the
difference in the position, relative to ourselves, of even a
quite unimportant person before we have met him and after. I was
the same man who had come, that afternoon, in the little train
from Cricquebec, I carried in my body the same consciousness. But
in this consciousness, in the place where - while the little
train carried me to Cricquebec it had been impossible to form any
idea of the manager, the hotel, his staff, a vague and timorous
anticipation of the moment when the manager would first encounter
me, this same fear had [section of manuscript missing]
sublime. And this change which I had done nothing to bring about
proved to me that something had happened which was external to
myself, like the traveller who, having had the sun in his face
when he started his journey, concludes that time has passed when
he finds the sun behind him. I was half-dead with exhaustion; I
was burning with fever. I would have gone to bed, but I had no
night things. I should have liked at least to lie down for a
little while on the bed, but to what purpose since I should not
have been able to procure any rest for that mass of sensations
which is for each of us his conscious if not his physical body,
and since the unfamiliar objects which encircled that body,
forcing it to place its perceptions on the permanent footing of a
vigilant defensive, would have kept my sight, my hearing, all my
senses in a position as cramped and uncomfortable (even if I had
stretched out my legs) as that of Cardinal La Balue in the cage
in which he could neither stand nor sit? It is our noticing them
that puts things in a room, our growing used to them that takes
them away again and clears a space for us. Space there was none
for me in my bedroom (mine in name only) at Cricquebec; it was
full of things which did not know me, which flung back at me the
distrustful glance I cast at them, and, without taking any heed
of my existence, showed that I was interrupting the humdrum
course of theirs. The clock - whereas at home I heard mine tick
only a few seconds in a week, when I was coming out of some
profound meditation - continued without a moment's interruption
to utter, in an unknown tongue, a series of observations which
must have been most uncomplimentary to myself, for the red
curtains listened to them without replying, but in an attitude
such as people adopt who shrug their shoulders and raise their
eyebrows to indicate that the sight of a third person irritates
them. I was tormented by the presence of some little bookcases
with glass fronts which ran along the walls, but especially by a
large cheval-glass which stood across one corner and before the
departure of which I felt that there could be no possibility of
rest for me there. I kept raising my eyes - which the things in
my room in Paris disturbed no more than did my eyeballs
themselves, for they were merely extensions of my organs, an
enlargement of myself - towards the high ceiling of this
belvedere planted upon the summit of the hotel; and deep down in
that region more intimate than that in which we see and hear, in
that region where we experience the quality of smells, almost in
the very heart of my innermost self, the scent of flowering
grasses next launched its offensive against my last line of
trenches, an offensive against which I opposed, not without
exhausting myself still further, by the futile and unremitting
riposte of an alarmed sniffling. Having no world, no bedroom, no
body now that was not menaced by the enemies thronging around me,
penetrated to the very bones of my fever, I was alone and I
longed to die. Then my grandmother came in, and to the expansion
of my constricted heart there opened at once an infinity of
space.
She was wearing a loose cambric dressing-gown
which she put on at home whenever any of us was ill (because she
felt more comfortable in it, she used to say, for she always
ascribed selfish motives to her actions), and which was, for
tending us, for watching by our beds, her servant's smock, her
nurse's uniform, her nun's habit. But whereas the attentions of
servants, nurses and nuns, their kindness to us, the merits we
find in them and the gratitude we owe them, increase the
impression we have of being, in their eyes, someone else, of
feeling that we are alone, keeping in our own hands the control
over our thoughts, our will to live, I knew, when I was with my
grandmother, that however great the misery that was in me, it
would be received by her with a pity still more vast, that
everything that was mine, my cares, my wishes, would be
buttressed, in my grandmother, by a desire to preserve and
enhance my life that was altogether stronger than my own; and my
thoughts were continued and extended in her without undergoing
the slightest deflection, since they passed from my mind into
hers without any change of atmosphere or of personality. And -
like the man who tries to fasten his tie in front of a mirror and
forgets that the end which he sees reflected is not on the side
to which he raises his hand, or like dog that chases along the
ground the dancing shadow of an insect in the air - misled by her
appearance in the body as we are apt to be in this world where we
have no direct perception of people's souls, I threw myself into
the arms of my grandmother and pressed my lips to her cheeks as
though I were thus gaining access to that immense heart which she
opened to me, and which was more to me than my own. And when I
felt my mouth glued to her cheeks, to her brow, I drew from them
something so beneficial, so nourishing, that I remained as
motionless, as solemn, as calmly gluttonous as a baby at the
breast.
At her request, as she appreciated my
tiredness, I calmed myself; I gazed inexhaustibly at her large
face, outlined like a beautiful cloud, glowing and serene, behind
which I could discern the radiance of her tender love. And
everything that received, in however slight a degree, any share
of her sensations, everything that could be said to belong in any
way to her was at once so spiritualized, so sanctified that with
outstretched hands I smoothed her beautiful hair, still hardly
grey, with as much respect, precaution and gentleness as if I had
actually been caressing her goodness. She found such pleasure in
taking any trouble that saved me one, and in a moment of
immobility and rest for my weary limbs something so exquisite,
that when, having seen that she wished to help me undress and go
to bed, I made as though to stop her and to undress myself, with
an imploring gaze she arrested my hands as they fumbled with the
top buttons of my jacket and my boots, about to pitilessly crush
her fragile goodness.
"Oh, do let me!" she begged.
"It's such a joy for your old grandmother to be useful for
something. And be sure to knock on the wall if you want anything
in the night, my bed is just on the other side, and the
partitions are quite thin. Just give me a knock now, as soon as
you're in bed, so that we shall know where we are."
And sure enough, that evening I gave three
knocks - a signal which, a week later, when I was ill, I repeated
every morning for several days, because my grandmother wanted me
to have some milk early. Then, when I thought that I could hear
her stirring - so that she should not be kept waiting but might,
the moment she had brought me the milk, go to sleep again - I
would venture three little taps, timidly, faintly, but for all
that distinctly, for if I was afraid of disturbing her in case I
had been mistaken and she was still asleep, neither did I wish
her to lie awake listening for a summons which she had not at
once caught and which I should not have the heart to repeat. And
scarcely had I given my taps than I heard three others, in a
different tone from mine, stamped with a calm authority, repeated
twice over so that there should be no mistake, and saying to me
plainly: "Don't get agitated, I've heard you, don't fret, I
shall be with you in a minute!" and my grandmother would
appear. I would explain to her that I had been afraid she would
not hear me, or think that it was someone in the room beyond who
was tapping; at which she would smile: "Mistake my poor
pet's knocking for anybody else's! Why, your old grandmother
could tell it a mile away! Do you suppose there's anybody else in
the world who's such a silly-billy, with such febrile knuckles,
so afraid of waking me and of not making me understand? Even if
it just gave the tiniest scratch, your old grandmother could tell
her mouse's sound at once, especially such a poor, miserable
mouse as mine is. I could hear it just now, trying to make up its
mind, and rustling the bedclothes, and going through all its
tricks."
She would give me my milk and partly open the
shutters; and where a wing of the hotel jutted out, the sun would
already have settled on the roofs, like a slater who is up in
good time, and starts work early and works quietly so as not to
rouse the sleeping town whose stillness makes him seem more
agile. She would tell me what time it was, what sort of day it
would be, that it was not worth my while my getting up and coming
to the window, that there was a mist over the sea, whether the
baker's shop had opened yet, what the vehicle was that I could
hear passing - that whole trifling curtain-raiser, that
insignificant introit of a new day which no one attends,
and in which we, from all the inhabitants of the hotel, were the
only ones present; a little scrap of life which was only for our
two selves, but which I should have no hesitation in evoking,
later on, to Françoise or even to strangers, by saying:
"There was a terrible fog, you know, at six o'clock this
morning", with the ostentation of one who was boasting not
of a piece of knowledge that he alone had acquired but of a mark
of affection shown to himself alone; sweet morning moment which
opened like a symphony with the rhythmical dialogue of my three
taps, to which the thin wall of my bedroom, steeped in love and
joy, grown melodious, incorporeal, singing like the angelic
choir, responded with three other taps, eagerly awaited, repeated
once and again, in which it contrived to waft to me the soul of
my grandmother, whole and perfect, and the promise of her coming,
with the swiftness of an annunciation and a musical fidelity. But
on this first night after our arrival, when my grandmother had
quite left me, I began again to suffer as I had suffered the day
before, in Paris, when I began to understand that in leaving for
Bricquebec I was saying goodbye to my own room. Perhaps this fear
that I had - and that is shared by so many others - of sleeping
in a strange room, perhaps this fear is only the most humble,
obscure, organic, almost unconscious form of that great and
desperate resistance put up by the things that constitute the
better part of our present life against our mentally
acknowledging the possibility of a future in which they are to
have no part; a resistance which was at the root of the horror
that I had so often been made to feel by the thought that my
parents would die some day, that the necessity of life might
oblige me to live far from Gilberte, or simply to settle
permanently in a place where I should never see any of my old
friends; a resistance that was also at the root of the difficulty
that I found in imagining my own death, or a survival such as
Bergotte used to promise to mankind in his books, a survival in
which I should not be allowed to take with me my memories, my
frailties, my character, which did not easily resign themselves
to the idea of ceasing to be, and desired for me neither
extinction nor an eternity in which they would have no part.
When Swann had said to me in Paris; "You
ought to go off to one of those glorious islands in the Pacific;
you'd never come back again if you did", I should have liked
to answer: "But then I shall never see your daughter again,
I shall be living among people and things she has never
seen". And yet my reason told me: "What difference can
that make, since you won't be distressed by it? When M. Swann
tells you that you won't come back he means by that that you
won't want to come back, and if you don't want to that is because
you'll be happier out there." For my reason was aware that
Habit - Habit which was even now setting to work to make me like
this unfamiliar lodging, to change the position of the mirror,
the shade of the curtains, to stop the clock - undertakes as well
to make dear to us the companions whom at first we disliked, to
give another appearance to their faces, to make the sound of
their voices attractive, to modify the inclinations of their
hearts. It is true that these new friendships for places and
people are based upon forgetfulness of the old; my reason
precisely thought that I could envisage without dread the
prospect of a life in which I should be for ever separated from
people all memory of whom I should lose, and it was by way of
consolation that it offered my heart a promise of oblivion which
in fact succeeded only by sharpening the edge of its despair. Not
that the heart, too, is not bound in time, when separation is
complete, to feel the analgesic effect of habit; but until then
it will continue to suffer. And our dread of a future in which we
must forgo the sight of faces and the sound of voices which we
love and from which today we derive our dearest joy, this dread,
far from being dissipated, is intensified, if to the pain of such
a privation we feel that there will be added what seems to us now
in anticipation more painful still: not to feel it as a pain at
all - to remain indifferent; it would then be not merely the
charm of our family, our mistress, our friends that had ceased to
enclose us, but our affection for them would have been so
completely eradicated from our hearts, of which today it is so
conspicuous an element, that we should be able to enjoy a life
apart from them; the very thought of which today makes us recoil
in horror; so that it would be in a real sense the death of the
self, a death followed, it is true, by resurrection, but in a
different self, to the love of which the elements of the old self
that are condemned to die cannot bring themselves to aspire. It
is they - even the merest of them, such as our obscure
attachments to the dimensions, to the atmosphere of a bedroom -
that take fright and refuse, in acts of rebellion which we must
recognize to be a secret, partial, tangible and true aspect of
our resistance to death, of the long, desperate, daily resistance
to the fragmentary and continuous death that insinuates itself
through the whole course of life, detaching from us at each
moment a shred of ourself, dead matter on which new cells will
multiply and grow. And for a neurotic nature such as mine - one,
that is to say, in which the intermediaries, the nerves, perform
their functions badly, fail to arrest on its way to the
consciousness, allow indeed to reach it, distinct, exhausting,
innumerable and distressing, the plaints of the most humble
elements of the self which are about to disappear - the anxiety
and alarm which I felt as I lay beneath the strange and too lofty
ceiling were but the protest of an affection that survived in me
for a ceiling that was familiar and low. Doubtless this affection
too would disappear, another having taken its place (when death,
and then another life, had, in the guise of Habit, performed
their double task); but until its annihilation, every night it
would suffer afresh, and on this night especially, confronted
with an irreversible future in which there would no longer be any
place for it, it rose in revolt, it tortured me with the sound of
its lamentations whenever my straining eyes, powerless to turn
from what was wounding them, endeavoured to fasten themselves
upon that inaccessible ceiling.
But next morning! (like at Combray when, after
spending a fretful night, all my cares were effaced all at once
by the sun at the hour when it pressed its beams against the
window, as if to say to me: come on down to the garden; where,
seeing the blazing slates on the belfry of St. Hilaire, I got
myself ready to go through the square, to the church, to the
banks of the Vivonne), - the next morning, after a servant had
come to call me and to bring me hot water, and while I was
washing and dressing myself and trying in vain to find the things
that I needed in my trunk, from which I extracted, pell-mell,
only a lot of things that were no use whatever, what a joy it was
to me, thinking already of the pleasure of lunch and a walk along
the shore, to see in the window, and in all the glass fronts of
the bookcases, as in the port holes in a ship's cabin, the open
sea, naked, unshadowed, and yet with half of its expanse in
shadow, bounded by a thin, fluctuating line, and to follow with
my eyes the waves that leapt up one behind another like the
jumpers on a trampoline. Every other moment, holding in my hand
the stiff, starched towel with the name: Grand Hotel printed upon
it, which I unfolded with difficulty, and with which I was making
futile efforts to dry myself - I returned to the window to have
another look at that vast, dazzling, mountainous amphitheatre,
and at the snowy crests of its emerald waves, here and there
polished and translucent, which with a placid violence and a
leonine frown, to which the sun added a faceless smile, allowed
their crumbling slopes to topple down at last. It was at this
window that I was later to take up my position every morning, as
at the window of a stage-coach in which one has slept, to see
whether, during the night, a longed-for mountain range has come
nearer or receded - only here it was those hills of the sea
which, before they come dancing back towards us, are apt to
withdraw so far that often it was only truly at the end of a
long, sandy plain that I could distinguish, far off, their first
undulations in a transparent, vaporous, bluish distance, like the
glaciers one sees in the background of the Tuscan Primitives. On
other mornings it was quite close at hand that the sun laughed
upon those waters of a green as tender as that preserved in
Alpine pastures, less by the moisture of the soil than by the
liquid mobility of the light. Moreover, in that breach which the
shore and the waves open up in the midst of the rest of the world
for the passage or the accumulation of light, it is above all the
light, according to the direction from which it comes and along
which our eyes follow it, it is the light that displaces and
situates the undulations of the sea. Diversity of lighting
modifies no less the orientation of a place, erects no less
before our eyes new goals which it inspires in us the yearning to
attain, than would a distance in space actually traversed in the
course of a long journey, when, in the morning, the sun came from
behind the hotel, disclosing to me the sands bathed in light as
far as the first bastions of the sea, it seemed to be showing me
another side of the picture, and to be inviting me to pursue,
along the winding path of its rays, a motionless but varied
journey amid all the fairest scenes of the diversified landscape
of the hours. And on this first morning, it pointed out to me far
off, with a jovial finger, those blue peaks of the sea which bear
no name on any map, until, dizzy with its sublime excursion over
the thundering and chaotic surface of their crests and
avalanches, it came to take shelter from the wind in my bedroom,
lolling across the unmade bed and scattering its riches over the
splashed surface of the basin-stand and into my open trunk,
where, by its very splendour and misplaced luxury, it added still
further to the general impression of disorder. Alas for that
sea-wind: an hour later, in the big dining room - while we were
having lunch, and from the leathery gourd of a lemon were
sprinkling a few golden drops onto a pair of soles which
presently left on our plates the plumes of their picked
skeletons, curled like stiff feathers and resonant as citherns, -
it seemed to my grandmother a cruel deprivation not to be able to
feel its life-giving breath on her cheek, on account of the glass
partition, transparent but closed, which, like the front of a
glass case in a museum, separated us from the beach while
allowing us to look out upon its whole expanse, and into which
the sky fitted so completely that its azure had the effect of
being the colour of the windows and its white clouds so many
flaws in the glass. Imagining that I was "sitting on the
breakwater" or deep inside the "boudoir" I felt that Baudelaire's "sun's rays upon the sea" were - a very different thing from the evening ray,
simple and superficial as a tremulous golden shaft - just what at
that moment was scorching the sea topaz-yellow, fermenting it,
turning it pale and milky like beer, frothy like milk, while now
and then there hovered over it great blue shadows which, for his
own amusement, some giant seemed to be shifting to and fro by
moving a mirror in the sky. And this instability of the light
which one only ever finds on the sea and in the mountains made
one think of uncertainties, of the perpetual setting up of some
kind of sublime magic lantern, in which the accidents over which
it plays seemed to have little importance; a great light joined
the shore to the waves before deserting it, isolating itself in
the middle of the sea, reuniting two boats, cutting in two a
mist, one half of which remained in shadow, with as much
indifference as did my magic lantern at Combray when it projected
the image of Geneviève de Brabant across the door knob or the
chimney breast as well as on the curtains at the window. But my
grandmother, unable to endure the thought that I was losing the
benefit of an hour in the open air, surreptitiously opened a pane
and at once sent flying menus, newspapers, veils and hats, while
she herself, fortified by the celestial draught, remained calm
and smiling like Saint Blandina amid the torrent of invective
which, increasing my sense of isolation and misery, those
contemptuous, dishevelled, furious visitors combined to pour on
us.
To a certain extent - and this, at Cricquebec,
gave to the population, as a rule monotonously rich and
cosmopolitan, of that sort of "grand" hotel a quite
distinctive local character - they were composed of eminent
persons from the departmental capitals of that region of France,
a senior judge from Le Mans, a leader of the Cherbourg bar, a
notary public from Nantes, who annually, when the holidays came
round, starting from the various points over which, throughout
the working year, they were scattered like snipers on a
battlefield or pieces on a draughts board, concentrated their
forces in this hotel. They always took the same rooms, and
with their wives who had pretensions to aristocracy, formed a
little group which was joined by a leading barrister and a
leading doctor from Paris, who on the day of departure would say
to the others: "Oh, yes, of course, you don't go by our
train. You're privileged, you'll be home in time for lunch."
"Privileged, you say? You who live in
the capital, in Paris, while I have to live in a wretched county town of a
hundred thousand inhabitants, a
hundred and two thousand at the last census it's true, but what is that
compared to your two and a half millions?"
They said this with a rustic burring of their
'r's, without acrimony, for they were leading lights each in his
own province, who could like others have gone to Paris had they
chosen - the senior judge from Rennes had several times been
offered a seat on the Court of Appeal - but had preferred to stay
where they were, from love of their native towns, or of
obscurity, or of fame, or because they were reactionaries who
enjoyed being on friendly terms with the country houses of the
neighbourhood. Besides, several of them were not going back at
once to their county towns.
For - inasmuch as the Bay of Bricquebec was a
little world apart in the midst of the great, a basketful of the
seasons in which good days and bad, and the successive months,
were clustered in a ring, so that not only on days when one could
make out Rivebelle, which was a sign of a storm, could one see
the sunlight on the houses there while Bricquebec was plunged
into darkness, but later on, when the cold weather of autumn had
reached Bricquebec, one could be certain of finding on that
opposite shore two or three supplementary months of warmth - those
of the regular visitors to Bricquebec Hotel whose holidays began
late or lasted longer gave orders, when the rains and the mists
came, for their boxes to be packed and loaded on to a boat, and
set sail across the bay to find summer again at Costedor or
Rivebelle. This little group in the Bricquebec hotel looked at
each new arrival with suspicion, and, while affecting to take not
the least interest in him, hastened, all of them, to interrogate
their friend the head waiter about him. For it was the same head
waiter - Aimé - who returned every year for the season, and kept
their tables for them; and their lady-wives, having heard that
his wife was "expecting", would sit after meals each
working at a separate article of baby clothing, stopping only to
put up their lorgnettes and stare at my grandmother and myself
because we were eating hard-boiled eggs in salad, which was
considered common and was "not done" in the best
society of Nantes or Alençon. They affected an attitude of
contemptuous irony with regard to a Frenchman who was called
"His Majesty" and who had indeed proclaimed himself
king of a small island in the South Seas peopled only by a few
savages. He was staying in the hotel with his pretty mistress,
whom, as she crossed the beach to bathe, the little boys would
greet with: "Long live the Queen!" because she would
toss them fifty centimes pieces. The judge and
the barrister went so far as to pretend not to see her, and if
any of their friends happened to look at her, felt bound to warn
them that she was only a little shop girl.
"But I was told that at Ostend they used
the royal bathing hut."
"Well and why not? It's on hire for twenty
francs. You can take it yourself if you care for that sort of
thing. Anyhow, I know for a fact that the fellow asked for an
audience with the king, who sent back word that he wasn't
interested in pantomime princes."
"Really, that's interesting! What queer
people there are in the world to be sure!"
And no doubt this was true; but it was also
from resentment of the thought that, to many of their fellow
visitors, they were themselves simply solid middle-class citizens
who did not know this king and queen who were so prodigal with
their small change, that the notary, the judge, the barrister,
when what they were pleased to call the "Carnival" went
by, felt so much annoyance and expressed aloud an indignation
that was quite understood by their friend the head waiter who,
obliged to show proper civility to the generous if not authentic
sovereigns, would nevertheless, as he took their orders, glance
across the room at his old patrons and give them a meaningful
wink. Perhaps there was also some of the same resentment at being
erroneously supposed to be less "smart" and unable to
explain that they were more, at the root of their "Fine
Specimen!" with which they referred to a young toff, the
consumptive and dissipated son of an industrial magnate, who
appeared every day in a new suit of clothes with an orchid in his
buttonhole, drank champagne at luncheon, and then went off to the
Casino, pale, impassive, a smile of complete indifference on his
lips, to throw away at the baccarat table enormous sums
"which he could ill afford to lose", as the notary said
with a knowing air to the senior judge, whose wife had it
"on good authority" that this "decadent"
young man was bringing his parents to an early grave in their
sorrow.
Perhaps the little colony had less occasion to
express these feelings with regard to a young actress (better
known in fact for her grace, her wit, her elegance, her taste,
her collection of German porcelain, than for the occasional parts
that she had played at the Odéon), who was staying at the Grand
Hotel, Cricquebec with her lover, an immensely rich young man for
whose sake she had acquired her culture, and with two young men
from the aristocracy at that time much in the public eye, four
people who formed an exclusive group for the simple pleasure that
they took in chatting together, playing cards together, eating
together (as all four had attained the same degree of
gastronomy), a little society that the changes of surroundings of
the summer could not disunite and which transposed itself,
complete and intact, sometimes here, sometimes there. But the
wife of the senior judge, and the wife of the notary found
themselves denying themselves any pleasure they would have had in
tolerating any promiscuity with this member of the demi-monde.
For the little society, which always had special menus, for the
elaboration of which one or two of its members would have long
discussions with the chef, did not come down for luncheon until
extremely late, by which time everybody else was on the point of
leaving table. They took their meals in a separate part of the
dining room, entering through a small door, out of the way of
everybody else; the woman, always beautifully dressed, always
wore different dresses but ones which we had never seen before,
with a taste, peculiar to herself, in scarves which were pleasing
to her lover. One never saw a single one of them during the
daytime, which they spent, together, playing cards. In the
evening, after leaving table, we would see up to three young men
in dinner jackets waiting for the woman, who was always late, and
who, shortly after ringing for the lift from her floor, would
emerge through the lift doors as if from a box of toys, all
dressed up with a new scarf, pausing for a moment to look at
herself in the mirror, applying a little more makeup, whereupon
the whole group would disappear into a closed carriage, harnessed
with two waiting horses, to set off to dine out at a little
restaurant, well known for its food, which was half an hour away,
and where, because there were not so many people there, the chef
was able to take greater pains over his dishes, and they
themselves could discuss with him at greater length the
possibility of adding such and such an ingredient or not. In this
way they passed virtually unnoticed by the other inhabitants of
the hotel. The same was not true of a wealthy titled old lady of
whom, even though she was from a different floor, the room valet
from ours had spoken to us, impressed, as were all of his
companions, by the fact that she had brought with her her own
chambermaid, coachman, horses, carriages, and had been preceded
by a butler who was charged with choosing the rooms and to have
them made, thanks to the ornaments and precious antiques which he
had brought, as little different as possible to those in which
his mistress lived in Paris. The barrister and his friends were
inexhaustibly sarcastic on the subject of their respect for an
old titled lady, who never moved anywhere without taking her
whole household with her. Whenever the wives of the notary and
the judge saw her in the dining-room at meal times, they put up
their lorgnettes and gave her an insolent scrutiny, as meticulous
and distrustful as if she had been some dish with a pretentious
name, but a suspicious appearance, such as is often served in
"grand" hotels, which, after the adverse result of a
systematic study, is sent away with a lofty wave of the hand, an
air of resignation, and a grimace of disgust.
No doubt by this behaviour they meant only to
show that, if there were things in the world which they
themselves lacked - in this instance certain prerogatives which
the old lady enjoyed, and the privilege of her acquaintance - it
was not because they could not, but because they did not choose
to acquire them. But the unfortunate thing was that in seeking to
persuade others that this was how they felt they ended up by
convincing themselves of it. And the suppression of all desire
for, of all curiosity about, ways of life which are unfamiliar,
of all hope of endearing oneself to new people, of any effort to
please, for which, in these women, had been substituted a feigned
contempt, a spurious jubilation, had the disagreeable effect of
obliging them to label their discontent satisfaction and to lie
everlastingly to themselves, two reasons why they were unhappy.
But everyone else in the hotel was no doubt behaving in a similar
fashion, though under different forms, and sacrificing if not to
self-esteem, at any rate to certain inculcated principles or
mental habits, the disturbing thrill of being involved in an
unfamiliar way of life, in pursuit of the object of their
desires, in seduction, in forming attachments by renewing for
themselves the mysterious sympathy of unknown beings. Of course
the microcosm in which the old lady isolated herself was not
poisoned with virulent rancour, as was the group in which the
wives of the judge and the notary sat sneering with rage. It was
indeed embalmed with a delicate and old-world fragrance which,
however, was no less artificial. But I liked to think that
perhaps she had deep within her some sensitivity and imagination,
and that the charm which redeems an unknown person would have had
a more profound effect upon her, than the pleasure without
mystery which is to be derived from mixing with people from one's
own world, and reminding oneself that this is the best of all
possible worlds; who knows if it was not by thinking that if she
arrived at the hotel incognito making little impression
she would, in her black woollen dress and old fashioned bonnet,
bring a smile to the lips, upon noticing her in the hall, of a
young reprobate whom she would have thought a handsome young boy
- like the one who was ruining himself this year with his
gambling - and who would himself have murmured from his rocking
chair "What a scarecrow!", or, still worse, to those of
some worthy man who had, like the senior judge, kept between his
pepper-and-salt whiskers a fresh complexion and a pair of
sparkling eyes such as she liked to see, would have pointed out
to his wife with a smile, the apparition of this quaint
phenomenon upon whom she had brought to bear, with no malice, the
lens of her lorgnette as if it were a precision instrument, who
knows if it were not through apprehension of those first few
minutes which one knows will be brief but which are nonetheless
dreaded - like one's first head dip into the sea - that this lady
sent a servant down in advance to inform the hotel of the
personality and habits of his mistress, and who, upon leaving the
motor car, and advancing rapidly between the lady's maid and the
footman, cut short the manager's greetings with an abruptness in
which there was more shyness than pride, and made straight for
her room, where her own curtains, replacing those that draped the
hotel windows, her own screens, photographs and trinkets, set up
so effectively between her and the outside world, to which
otherwise she would have had to adapt herself, the barrier of her
habits, that it was her home (in the cocoon of which she had
remained) that travelled rather than herself. Thenceforward,
having placed between herself on the one hand and the hotel staff
and the tradesmen on the other, her own servants who bore instead
of her the pain or charm of contact with all this strange
humanity, having set the prejudices between herself and the other
visitors, strangers and bathers, indifferent whether or not she
gave offence to people whom her friends would not have had in
their houses, it was in her own world that she continued to live,
by correspondence with her friends, by memories, by her intimate
awareness of her own position, the quality of her manners, the
adroitness of her courtesy. And every day, when she came
downstairs to go for a drive in her own carriage, the lady's maid
who came after her carrying her wraps, and the footman who
preceded her seemed like sentries who, at the gate of an embassy,
flying the flag of the country to which she belonged, assured to
her upon foreign soil the privilege of extra-territoriality. She
did not leave her room on the day after our arrival, so that we
did not see her in the dining-room, into which the manager, since
we were newcomers, conducted us at the lunch hour, taking us
under his wing, as a corporal takes a squad of recruits to the
master tailor to have them fitted. We did however see a moment
later a country squire and his daughter, of an obscure but very
ancient Breton family, M. and Mlle de Silaria, whose table had
been allotted to us by the manager in the belief that they had
gone out and would not be back until the evening. Having come to
Cricquebec only to see various country magnates who they knew in
that neighbourhood, they spent in the hotel dining-room, what
with the invitations they accepted and the visits they paid, only
such time as was strictly unavoidable. It was their haughtiness
that preserved them from all human sympathy, from arousing the
least interest in the strangers seated around them, among whom M.
de Silaria kept up the glacial, preoccupied, distant, stiff,
punctilious and ill-intentioned air that we assume in a railway
refreshment-room in the midst of fellow-passengers whom we have
never seen before and will never see again, and with whom we can
conceive of no other relations than to defend from their
onslaught our portion of cold chicken and our seat in the train.
No sooner had we begun our lunch than we were asked to leave the
table on the instructions of M. de Silaria who had just arrived
and, without the faintest apology to us, requested in a loud
voice to see that "such a mistake did not happen
again", for it was repugnant to him that "people whom
he did not know" should have taken his table.
And certainly in the desire which impelled the
wealthy young man, his mistress and his two friends to form an
exclusive group, to travel only together, to come down to
luncheon only after everyone else had finished, reflected no sort
of ill will or malice towards the rest of us, which would have
been distasteful and which they would have considered
ill-mannered, but simply the requirements of the taste that they
had formed for a certain type of witty conversation, for certain
refinements of good living, which would have rendered intolerable
a life in common with people who had not been initiated into
their mysteries. Even at a dinner table or at a card table where
these notions could not be made use of, each of them had to be
certain that in the diner or partner who sat opposite to him
there were, latent and in abeyance, a certain brand of knowledge
which would enable him to identify the rubbish which so many
houses in Paris boast of as genuine mediaeval or Renaissance
"pieces", the subtlety of wit to take no pleasure in
idiotic puns, and sufficient experience in good society to enable
them to hunt out everything which is pretentious or common, in
short a criteria common to them all by which to distinguish the
good from the bad whatever the subject. No doubt by now, at such
moments, it was merely by some rare and amusing interjection
flung into the general silence of the meal or the game, or by the
new charming dress which the young actress had put on for lunch
or for poker with these three men, that the special kind of
existence in which these friends desired everywhere to remain
plunged was made apparent. But by engulfing them thus in a system
of habits which they knew by heart it sufficed to protect them
from the mystery of the life that was going on all around them.
All the long afternoon, the sea was suspended there before their
eyes only as a canvas of attractive colouring might hang on the
wall of a wealthy bachelor's flat, and it was only in the
intervals between "hands" that one of the players,
finding nothing better to do, raised his eyes to it to seek some
indication of the weather or the time, and to remind the others
that tea was ready. As it was with the sea and with other people
so it was with the countryside. And in the evening when they went
out to dine, the road bordered with apple-trees that led out of
Cricquebec was no more to them than the distance that must be
traversed - barely distinguishable in the darkness from that
which separated their homes in Paris from the Café Anglais or
the Café Joseph - before they arrived at the fashionable rural
little restaurant where they were to take their fine meal and
where, while the rich young man's friends envied him because he
had such a smartly dressed mistress, the latter's scarves hung
before the company a sort of fragrant, flowing veil, but one that
kept it apart from the outer world.
Alas for my peace of mind, I was far from being
like these people, to many of whom I gave constant thought; I did
not want them to show contempt for me; and at that time I did not
have the comfort of learning the traits of Swann's character, who would have
believed in having his mistress brought from Paris in order to expend with her
the desire that had been inspired in him by an unknown woman, not believing that this desire
to substitute a particular reality for that which one could not
imagine was unknown to a man with a receding forehead and eyes that dodged
between the blinkers of his prejudices and his upbringing. The
grandee of the district was the brother-in-law of Legrandin, who
sometimes came to visit Bricquebec and every Sunday, by reason of
his garden parties, robbed the hotel of a large number of its
occupants, because one or two of them were invited to these
entertainments and the others, so as not to appear not to have
been invited, chose that day for an excursion which kept them far
away from Cricquebec. I should have been glad to arouse some
response even from the adventurer who had been king of a desert
island in the South Seas, even from the young consumptive about
whom I thought constantly, supposing that he concealed beneath
his insolent exterior a shy and tender heart, which might perhaps
have lavished on me alone the treasures of its affection. I was
concerned about the impression I might make on all these
temporary or local celebrities whom my tendency to put myself in
the place of other people and to re-create their state of mind
made me place not in their true rank, that which they would have
occupied in Paris for instance and which would have been quite
low, but in that which they must imagine to be theirs and was
indeed theirs at Cricquebec, where the want of a common
denominator gave them a sort of relative superiority and unwonted
interest. Alas, none of these people's contempt was so painful to
me as that of M. de Silaria.
For I had noticed his daughter the moment she
came into the room, her pretty face, her pallid, almost bluish
complexion, the distinctiveness in the carriage of her tall
figure, in her gait, which suggested to me, with reason, her
heredity, her aristocratic upbringing, and all the more vividly
because I knew her name - like those expressive themes invented
by musicians of genius which paint in splendid colours the glow
of fire, the rush of water, the peace of the countryside, to
audiences who, having glanced through the programme in advance,
have their imaginations trained in the right direction.
"Pedigree", by adding to Mlle de Silaria's charms the
idea of her origin, made them more intelligible, more complete.
It made them more desirable also, advertising their
inaccessibility as a high price enhances the value of a thing
that has already taken our fancy. And its stock of heredity gave
to her complexion, in which so many juices had been blended, the
savour of an exotic fruit or a famous vintage.
Now, chance had suddenly put in our hands, my
grandmother's and mine, the means of acquiring instantaneous
prestige in the eyes of all the occupants of the hotel. For on
that first afternoon, at the moment when the old lady came down
from her room with a simple crocheted cap in her hair and looking
less imposing in the flesh, but producing, thanks to the footman
who preceded her, the valet who carried her things and the maid
who came running after her with a book and a rug that she had
forgotten, a marked effect upon all who beheld her and arousing
in each of them a curiosity and a respect from which it was
evident that none was so little immune, perhaps because he had
heard more about her and her family than the others, as M. de
Silaria, the manager leaned across to my grandmother and out of
kindness (as one might point out the Shah of Persia to an obscure
onlooker who could obviously have no sort of connection with such
a mighty potentate, but might all the same be interested to know
that he had been standing within a few feet of one) whispered in
her ear: "The Marquise de Villeparisis!" while at the
same moment the Marquise, catching sight of my grandmother, could
not suppress a start of pleased surprise.
Unfortunately, if there was one person in the
world who, more than anyone else, lived shut up in a little world
of her own, oblivious of anybody in the hotel, it was my
grandmother. She would not even have scorned me, she would simply
not have understood what I meant, if she had known that I
attached importance to the opinions, that I felt an interest in
the persons, of people the very existence of whom she never
noticed, and of whom, when the time came to leave Cricquebec, she
would not even remember the names. I dared not confess to her
that if these same people had seen her talking to Mme de
Villeparisis, I should have been immensely gratified, because I
felt that the Marquise enjoyed some prestige in the hotel on
account of her numerous servants and that her friendship would
have given us status in the eyes of M. de Silaria. Not that my
grandmother's friend represented to me, in any sense of the word,
a member of the aristocracy: I was too accustomed to her name,
which had been familiar to my ears before my mind had begun to
consider it, when as a child I had heard it uttered in
conversation at home for it to sound to me like a grand name;
while her title added to it only a touch of quaintness, as some
uncommon Christian name would have done, or as in the names of
streets, among which we can see nothing more noble in the Rue
Lord Byron or in the Rue de Gramont than in the Rue
Léouce-Reynand or the Rue Hippolyte-Lebas. Mme de Villeparisis
no more made me think of a person who belonged to a special
social world than did her cousin MacMahon, whom I did not clearly
distinguish from M. Grévy, likewise president of the Republic,
or from Raspail, whose photograph Françoise had bought with that
of the marshal from the open-air shop on the corner of the Rue
Royale. It was one of my grandmother's principles that, when away
from home, one should cease to have any social intercourse, that
one did not go to the seaside to meet people, having plenty of
time for that sort of thing in Paris, that they would make one
waste, in polite exchanges, in pointless conversation, the
precious time which ought to be spent in the open air, beside the
waves; and finding it convenient to assume that this view was
shared by everyone else, and that it authorized, between old
friends whom chance had brought face to face in the same hotel,
the fiction of a mutual incognito, on hearing her
friend's name from the manager she merely replied "Ah"
and looked the other way, pretending not to see Mme de
Villeparisis, who, realizing that my grandmother did not want to
be recognized, likewise gazed into space.
She, too, had her meals in the dining-room, but
at the other end of it. She knew none of the people who were
staying in the hotel or who came there to call, not even M. de
Solangy; indeed, I noticed that he gave her no greeting one day
when, with his wife, he had accepted an invitation to lunch with
the barrister, who, intoxicated with the honour of having the
nobleman at his table, avoided his habitual friends and confined
himself to a distant twitch of the eyelid, so as to draw their
attention to this historic event but so discreetly that his
signal could not be interpreted as an invitation to join the
party.
"Well, I hope you've done yourself proud,
I hope you feel smart enough," the judge's wife said to him
that evening.
"Smart? Why should I?" asked the barrister, concealing
his rapture in an exaggerated astonishment. "Because of my
guests, do you mean?" he went on, feeling that it was
impossible to keep up the farce any longer. "But what is
there smart about having a few friends to lunch" After all,
they must feed somewhere!"
"Of course it's smart! They were the
Soulangys weren't they? I recognized them at once. She's a
countess and quite genuine, too, not through the females."
"Oh, she's a very simple soul, she's
charming, no standoffishness about her. I thought you were coming
to join us, I was making signals to you ... I would have
introduced you!" he asserted, tempering with a hint of irony
the vast generosity of his offer, like Asahuerus when he says to
Esther: "Of all my kingdom must I give you half!"
"No, no, no, no, we keep to ourselves in
our own little corner."
"But you were quite wrong, I assure
you," replied the barrister, emboldened now that the danger
point was passed. "They weren't going to eat you. I say,
aren't we going to have our little game of bezique?"
"Why of course! We didn't dare suggest it,
now that you go about entertaining countesses!"
"Oh, get along with you; there's nothing
so very wonderful about them. Why, I'm dining there tomorrow.
Would you care to go instead of me? I mean it. Honestly, I'd just
as soon stay here."
"No, no! I should be removed from the
bench as a reactionary," cried the senior judge, laughing
till the tears came to his eyes at his own joke. "But you go
to their house too, don't you?" he went on, turning to the
notary.
"Oh, I go there on Sundays - in one door
and out the other. But they don't come and have lunch with me
like they do with the barrister."
"That's only because I've known them for a
long time," replied the barrister.
M. de Silaria had not dined at Bricquebec that
morning, to the great regret of the barrister, who, since the day
when a waiter had given him the name of this unknown person, had
judged that one could see straight away that here was a very well
bred gentleman. But he managed to say insidiously to the head
waiter:
"Aimé, you can tell M. de Sclaria that
he's not the only nobleman you've had in this dining-room. You
saw the gentleman who was with me today at lunch? Eh? A small
moustache, looked like a military man. Well, that was the Count
de Solangy."
"Was it indeed? I'm not surprised to hear
it."
"That will show him that he's not the only
man who's got a title. That'll teach him! It's not a bad thing to
take 'em down a peg or two, those gentlemen. I say, Aimé, don't
say anything to him unless you want to. I mean to say, it's no
business of mine; besides they know each other already."
And next day M. de Sclaria, who remembered that
the barrister had once represented one of his friends, came up
and introduced himself.
"Our friends in common, the Solangys, were
anxious that we should meet", said the barrister
shamelessly, "the days didn't fit - I don't know quite what
went wrong."
As usual, but more easily now that her father
had left her to talk to the barrister, I was gazing at Mlle de
Sclaria. I knew of the environment, still almost Feudal, in which
she had been brought up in Brittany, and (no less than the bold
and always graceful distinctiveness of her attitudes, as when,
leaning her elbows on the table, she raised her glass in both
hands over her forearms like the handles of a vase) the dry flame
of a glance at once extinguished, the landed, congenital hardness
that one could sense, ill-concealed by her own personal
inflexions, in the depths of her voice, and that had shocked my
grandmother, a sort of atavistic ratchet to which she returned as
soon as, in a glance or an intonation, she had finished
expressing her own thoughts; all this brought the thoughts of the
observer back to the long line of ancestors who had bequeathed to
her that inadequacy of human sympathy, those gaps in her
sensibility, a lack of fullness in the stuff of which she was
made and to the education which had circumscribed the world for
her to her uncle the bishop and her aunt the abbess. Young noble
cousins partaking of leisurely customs, the familiarity of her
person with hunting parties, of pastimes which, alas, were far
removed from my own upbringing, at the bottom of that silvery
bay, sown with a myriad of small crags which on calm evenings,
such as the one on which Tristan's sails appeared, refracted the
gradations of the setting sun to infinity in this isle where
fallen oaks whose green splendour above enchanted springs and
pink heathers seemed to me to possess so much charm because it
enclosed the life of Mlle de Silaria and reposed in the memory of
her eyes. But from a certain look which flooded for a moment the
wells - instantly dry again - of her eyes, a look in which one
sensed that almost humble docility which the predominance of a
taste for sensual pleasures gives to the proudest of women, who
will soon come to recognize but one form of personal magic, that
which any man will enjoy in her eyes who can make her feel those
pleasures, an actor or a mountebank for whom, perhaps, she will
one day leave her husband, and from a certain pink tinge, warm
and sensual, which flushed her pallid cheeks, like the colour
that stained the hearts of the white water-lilies in the Vivonne,
I thought I could discern that she might readily have consented
to my coming to seek in her the savour of that life of poetry and
romance which she led in Brittany, a life which, whether from
over-familiarity or from innate superiority, or from disgust at
the penury or the avarice of her family, she seemed to attach no
great value, but which, for all that, she held enclosed in her
body. In the meagre stock of will-power that had been transmitted
to her, and gave her expression a hint of weakness, she would not
perhaps have found the strength to resist. And, crowned by a
feather that was a trifle old-fashioned and pretentious, the grey
felt hat which she invariably wore at meals made her all the more
attractive to me, not because it was in harmony with her silver
and rose complexion, but because, by making me suppose her to be
poor, it brought her closer to me. Obliged by her father's
presence to adopt a conventional attitude, but already bringing
to the perception and classification of people who passed before
her eyes other principles than his, perhaps she saw in me not my
humble rank, but the attractions of sex and age. If one day M. de
Silaria had gone out leaving her behind, if, above all, Mme de
Villeparisis, by coming to sit at our table, had given her an
opinion of me which might have emboldened me to approach her,
perhaps then we might have contrived to exchange a few words, to
arrange a meeting, to form a closer tie. And for a whole month in
winter during which she would be left alone without her parents
in her romantic and legendary castle, we should perhaps have been
able to wander by ourselves at evening, she and I together in the
twilight through which the pink flowers of the bell-heather would
glow more softly above the darkening water, beneath oak trees
beaten and stunted by the pounding of the waves which in heavy
weather the wind hurled over the island. For it seemed to me that
I should truly have possessed her only there, when I had
traversed those regions which enveloped Mlle de Sclaria in so
many memories - a veil which my desire longed to tear aside, one
of those veils which nature interposes between woman and her
pursuers (with the same intention as when, for all of us, she
places the act of reproduction between ourselves and our keenest
pleasure, and for insects, places before the nectar the pollen
which they must carry away with them) in order that, tricked by
the illusion of possessing her thus more completely, they may be
forced to occupy first the scenes among which she lives and
which, of more service to their imagination than the sensual
pleasure can be, yet would not without that pleasure have
sufficed to attract them.
But I was obliged to take my eyes from Mlle de
Silaria, for already, considering no doubt that making the
acquaintance of an important person was an odd, brief act which
was sufficient in itself and, to bring out all the interest that
was latent in it, required only a handshake and a penetrating
stare, without either immediate conversation or any subsequent
relations, her father had taken leave of the barrister and
returned to sit down facing her, rubbing his hands like a man who
has just made a valuable acquisition. As for the barrister, once
the first emotion of this interview had subsided, he could be
heard, as on other days, addressing the waiter every other
minute: "But I'm not a king, Aimé; go and attend to the
king! I say, Chief, those little trout don't look at all bad, do
they? We must ask Aimé to let us have some. Aimé, that little
fish you have over there looks highly commendable to me: will you
bring us some please, Aimé, and don't be sparing with it."
He repeated the name "Aimé" all the time, with the
result that when he had anyone to dinner the guest would remark
"I can see you're quite at home in this place," and
would feel himself obliged to keep on saying "Aimé"
also, from that tendency, combining elements of timidity,
vulgarity and silliness, which many people have to believe that
it is smart and witty to imitate slavishly the people in whose
company they happen to be. The barrister repeated the name
incessantly for he wanted to exhibit at one and the same time his
good relations with the head waiter and his own superior station.
And each of his interpellations was accompanied by the sort of
smile which one would reserve for when holding a conversation
with a small child. And the head waiter, whenever he caught the
sound of his own name, smiled too, as though touched and at the
same time proud, showing that he was conscious of the honour and
could appreciate the joke.
But a few days later, the day after M. and Mlle
de Silaria had left, my grandmother and Mme de Villeparisis
collided with each other one morning in a doorway and were
obliged to accost each other, not without having first exchanged
gestures of surprise and hesitation, performed movements of
withdrawal and uncertainty, and finally broken into protestations
of joy and greeting, as in certain scenes in Molière where two
actors who have been delivering long soliloquies each on his own
account, a few feet apart, are supposed not yet to have seen each
other, cannot believe their eyes, break off what they are saying,
and then simultaneously find their tongues again and fall into
each other's arms. Mme de Villeparisis tactfully made as if to
leave my grandmother to herself after the first greetings, but my
grandmother insisted on staying to talk to her until lunchtime,
being anxious to discover how her friend managed to get her
letters earlier than we got ours, and to get such nice grilled
dishes. And Mme de Villeparisis formed the habit of coming every
day, while waiting to be served, to sit down for a moment at our
table in the dining-room, insisting that we should not rise from
our chairs or in any way put ourselves out. "I shall tell my
chamber maid to go and fetch your letters at the same time as
mine. What, your daughter writes to you every day? What
on earth can you find to say to each other?" These words of
Mme de Villeparisis merited such disdain in the eyes of my
grandmother that she did not think that they were even worthy of
her protestation, so that when her old friend said to her
"What's that you've got there? Oh, yes, I have often seen
you with Mme de Sévigné's letters," (forgetting for the
moment that she had never seen my grandmother at the hotel until
they met in the doorway) "Don't you find it rather
exaggerated, her constant anxiety about her daughter? She refers
to it too often to be really sincere. She is not very
natural." my grandmother felt that any discussion would be
futile, and so as not to be obliged to speak of the things she
loved to a person incapable of understanding them, concealed the Mémoires
de Madame de Charlus by laying her bag upon them.
[Note in the manuscript by Proust: Before the passage in the margin and after the marquise, say that she accepted our thanks by saying: "It's wise to find fruit that one is sure of at the seaside" or "it's difficult to find decent fruit at the seaside. The little pears that they have here are not juicy enough for my taste."]
In return, if my
grandmother noticed a book that Mme de Villeparisis was reading
or admired the fruit that she had for her dessert, an hour later
a valet would come up to our room and ask Françoise - who was
flattered by the provenance - to give us a book or some fruit
"with the compliments of Madame the Marquise".
"I must remember sometime to ask her
whether I'm not right, after all, in thinking that she doesn't
have some connection with the Guermantes," said my
grandmother, to my great indignation, not appearing to understand
that the life led by the descendants of Geneviève de Brabant was
far removed from that of other beings, and that they would never
have wanted to be known to Mme de Villeparisis. How could I be
expected to believe in a common origin uniting two names which
had entered my consciousness, one through the low and shameful
gate of experience, the other by the golden gate of imagination?
But one day in the hotel we saw some fruit
which was even better than that which Mme de Villeparisis had on
her table. We had, several times, in the last few days, seen
driving past us in a stately equipage, tall, red-haired,
handsome, with a rather prominent nose, the Princesse de
Luxembourg, who was staying in the neighbourhood in order to
spend a few days in the country. Her carriage had stopped outside
the hotel, a footman had come in and spoken to the manager, had
gone back to the carriage and had reappeared with the most
amazing armful of fruit with a card: "La Princesse de
Luxembourg", on which were written a few words in pencil.
For what princely traveller, sojourning here incognito,
could this fruit be intended? For it could not be on Mme de
Villeparisis that the Princess had meant to pay a call. How could
she possibly have known her? And yet one hour later Mme de
Villeparisis sent us some pears and grapes which we recognized as
the same. The next morning we met Mme de Villeparisis as we came
away from the symphony concert which was given every day on the
beach. The day before I had bumped into Bloch there, who told me
that he never missed it because the musical director, who was a
great musician (according to him), played several pieces from
Wagner and transcriptions from Schumann. And he had recited to me
some fine quotations from Baudelaire on Wagner and from
Schopenhauer on music. In this way I came to hear extracts from
Lohengrin, Rheingold, Schumann's Carnaval, the Dream of Brunhilde
wherein the same phrases that I had heard at the end of the
Walkyries were able, when rediscovered in a different place and
no longer preparing the sleep of the Virgin but her resurrection,
to show the same new and mysterious meaning as those rosy
glimmers, those oblique rays which I had seen again after
spending a night in a railway train, so often heralding the
ending but this time the beginning of the day. Knowing the music
to reflect the "Whims of its own nature and all the
spectacles of the universe" I did not consider for a moment
the idea that Schumann could have sought to depict anything quite
so limited, of such amusing but mediocre importance, and, if I
applied it to my own tastes, as boring and as vulgar as a night
at the carnival. It was the alternations of irresistible joy and
unutterable melancholy to which the spirit gives itself up by
turns that I sought to seize upon in this music. And convinced
that the pieces that I heard expressed the loftiest of truths, I
tried to raise myself in so far as I could in order to understand
them, and put back into them all that was best and most profound
in my own nature at that time. But, as we came out of the
concert, and, on our way back to the hotel, had stopped for a
moment on the front, my grandmother and I, to exchange a few
words with Mme de Villeparisis who told us that she had ordered
some croque-monsieurs and a dish of creamed eggs for us
at the hotel, I saw, in the distance, coming in our direction,
the Princesse de Luxembourg, half leaning upon a parasol in such
a way as to impart to her tall and wonderful form that slight
inclination, to make it trace that arabesque, so dear to the
women who had been beautiful under the Empire and knew how, with
drooping shoulders, arched backs, concave hips and taut legs, to
make their bodies float as softly as a silken scarf about the
rigid armature of an invisible shaft which might be supposed to
have transfixed it. Mme de Villeparisis introduced my grandmother
and was about to introduce me, but she did not know my name. She
had perhaps never known it, or if she had must have forgotten
years ago to whom my grandmother had married her daughter. The
name appeared to make a sharp impression on her. Meanwhile the
Princesse de Luxembourg had offered us her hand, smiling as if at
a joke. As a street vendor passed she bought everything that he
had and held it out to my grandmother and myself as one might to
a baby and its nurse, then pushed it, all tied up in packets,
into my pocket telling me "You give some to your grandmother
to eat." She called Mme de Villeparisis by her Christian
name and invited her to dine the next day. From time to time her
eyes rested on us, smiling, with a thousand little signs of
understanding, just as one might look at a deaf mute with whom
one cannot converse but wishes to show that one is fond of them.
And her smile was so sweet that at any moment I thought that she
was about to stretch out her hand and stroke us, my grandmother
and me, like the strange but tame animals that we see at the
Jardin d'Acclimatation. Another street vendor passed with his
cakes, and again she bought them and put them into my other
pocket. Then she bade her farewells to Mme de Villeparisis, and
turning towards us held out her hand with a smile, just as we
might amuse ourselves by saying goodbye to small children as if
they were grown-ups, and continued her stroll on the esplanade
bathed in sunshine, curving her magnificent figure which wound
itself like a snake around her white parasol printed with blue
designs. "Are you," she had asked me, "the son of
the Permanent Secretary of the Ministry? Indeed, I'm told your
father is a most charming man. He is having a splendid holiday
just now."
A few days earlier we had heard, in a letter
from Mamma, that my father and his travelling companion M. de
Montfort had lost their luggage.
"It has been found, or rather it was never
really lost. I can tell you what happened," explained Mme de
Villeparisis, who, without our knowing how, seemed to be far
better informed than ourselves about my father's travels. "I
think your father is now planning to come home earlier, next
week, in fact, as he will probably give up the idea of going to
Algeciras. But he's anxious to spend a day longer in Toledo,
since he's an admirer of a pupil of Titian - I forget the name -
whose work can only be seen properly there."
And I wondered by what strange accident, in the
impartial telescope through which Mme de Villeparisis considered,
from a safe distance, the minuscule, perfunctory, vague agitation
of the host of people whom she knew, there had come to be
inserted at the spot through which she observed my father a
fragment of glass of prodigious magnifying power which made her
see in such high relief and in the fullest detail everything that
was agreeable about him, the contingencies that obliged him to
return home, his difficulties with the customs, his admiration
for El Greco, and, altering the scale of her vision, showed her
this one man, so large among all the rest so small, like that of
Jupiter to whom Gustave Moreau, when he portrayed him by the side
of a weak mortal, gave a superhuman stature.
My grandmother bade Mme de Villeparisis
good-bye, so that we might stay and take in the fresh air for a
little while longer outside the hotel, until they signalled to us
through the glazed partition that our lunch was ready. We could
hear a commotion. The young mistress of the king of the savages
had been down to bathe and was now coming back to the hotel.
"Really and truly, it's a perfect plague,
it's enough to make one decide to emigrate!" cried the
barrister in a towering rage as he crossed her path. Meanwhile
the notary's wife was following the bogus queen with eyes that
seemed ready to start from their sockets.
"I can't tell you how angry Mme Blandais
makes me when she stares at those people like that," said
the barrister to the judge, "I feel I want to slap her.
That's just the way to make the wretches appear important, which
is of course the very thing that they want. Do ask her husband to
tell her what a fool she's making of herself. I swear I won't go
out with them again if they stop and gape at those
masqueraders."
As to the coming of the Princesse de
Luxembourg, whose carriage, on the day she had left the fruit,
had drawn up outside the hotel, it had not passed unobserved by
the little group of wives, the notary's, the barrister's and the
judge's, who had already for some time past been extremely
anxious to know whether that Mme de Villeparisis whom everyone
treated with such respect - which all these ladies were burning
to hear that she did not deserve - was a genuine Marquise and not
an adventuress. Whenever Mme de Villeparisis passed through the
hall the judge's wife, who scented irregularities everywhere,
would lift her nose from her needlework with her face in her
hands and the air of someone examining a suspicious dish which he
has no intention of trying in a way that made her friends die
with laughter.
"Oh well, you know," she proudly
explained, "I always begin by believing the worst. I will
never admit that a woman is properly married until she has shown
me her birth certificate and her marriage licence. But never fear
- just wait till I've finished my little investigation."
And so every evening the ladies would come
together and laughingly ask: "Any news?"
But on the evening of the Princesse de
Luxembourg's call the judge's wife laid a finger on her lips.
"I've discovered something."
"Oh, isn't Mme Poncin simply wonderful? I
never saw ... But do tell us! What's happened?"
"Just listen to this. A woman with yellow
hair and six inches of paint on her face and a carriage which
reeked of harlot a mile away - which only a creature like that
would dare to have - came here today to call on the so-called
Marquise!"
"Oh-yow-yow! Tut-tut-tut-tut. Did you
ever! Why it must be the woman we saw - you remember, Leader - we
said at the time that we didn't at all like the look of her, but
we didn't know it was the 'Marquise' she'd come to see. A woman
with a nigger-boy you mean?"
"That's the one."
"You don't say! Do you happen to know her
name?"
"Yes, I made a mistake on purpose. I
picked up her card. She trades under the name of the
'Princesse de Luxembourg'! Wasn't I right to have my doubts about
her?"
As the Bricquebec doctor whom my grandmother
had called to see me had determined that I ought not to stay out
on the beach all day where there was no shade (who had also
written out innumerable prescriptions for me which my grandmother
accepted with a show of respect but I could at once discern her
firm resolve to ignore them all), my grandmother accepted an
offer from Mme de Villeparisis to take us for drives in her
carriage. In order not to tire me, on those days I had to stay in
bed until lunch and, because of the very bright sunlight, I had
to keep those same great red curtains, which had provoked so much
hostility towards me on that first night, closed for as long as
possible. But in spite of the pins which Françoise attached to
them every evening so as to prevent any daylight penetrating
through, and which she alone knew how to undo, and despite the
sheets and the pieces of cloth which she put up here and there,
variously adjusting their positions, she never managed to close
them completely, so that they allowed a scarlet leaf fall of
anemones to shine through onto the carpet, amongst which I was
unable to prevent myself from placing my bare feet. And on the
opposite wall an unattached cylinder of gold rose vertically,
gradually shifting its position like the pillar of light that
preceded the Hebrews in the desert. I went back to bed, and
without stirring relished in my imagination, at one and the same
time, the pleasures of games, of bathing, of strolling in the
sunshine which the morning seemed to invite, and the joy of it
made my heart beat clamorously like a machine working at full
speed but fixed, which must discharge itself on the spot by
turning over on itself. Sometimes it would be the hour of the
high tide. I could hear from the heights of my belvedere the
noise of the gently breaking waves punctuated by the cries of
children at play, newspaper vendors and bathers as if they were
the mewling cries of seagulls. Then suddenly at ten o'clock the
symphony concert would burst into life beneath my windows. In the
interludes in the music the watery billows took up the flow and
continued the glissando of the music and seemed to envelop the
strokes of the violins with its crystal volutes and caused its
spray to gush forth over the intermittent echoes of a sub-aquatic
music. As the time for lunch approached I would run to my
grandmother's room to see if Françoise was about to come and
unfasten the curtains and fetch me my things. Her room did not
look out directly on the sea, as mine did, but was open on three
of its four sides - onto a strip of the esplanade, a courtyard,
and a view of the country inland - it was furnished differently
from mine, with armchairs embroidered with metallic filigree and
pink flowers from which the cool and pleasant odour that greeted
one on entering seemed to emanate. And at that hour when the
sun's rays, drawn from different exposures and, as it were, from
different hours of the day, broke the angles of the wall, changed
the shape of the room, projected onto the chest of drawers, side
by side with a reflection of the beach, a festal altar as
variegated as a bank of field flowers, hung on the fourth wall
the folded, quivering, warm wings of a radiance ready at any
moment to resume its flight, warmed like a bath a square of
provincial carpet before the window overlooking the courtyard, at
the end of which a wall bleached like limestone gave the
appearance of being cut off from the midday, and added to the
charm and complexity of the room's furniture by seeming to pluck
and scatter the petals of the silken flowers on the chairs and to
make their silver threads stand out from the fabric, this room in
which I lingered for a moment before going to get ready for our
drive suggested a prism in which the colours of the light that
shone outside were broken up, a hive in which the sweet juices of
the day which I was about to taste were distilled, scattered,
intoxicating and visible, a garden of hope which dissolved in a
quivering haze of silver threads and rose petals. I went back to
my room. Françoise came in to give me some daylight as I rose
myself up, impatient to know what sort of sea it was that was
playing that morning by the shore, like a Nereid. For none of
them ever stayed with us longer than a day. The next day
there would be another, which sometimes resembled its
predecessor. But I never saw the same one twice.
There were some that were of so rare a beauty
that my pleasure on catching sight of them was enhanced by
surprise, as if present before a miracle. By what privilege, on
one morning rather than another, did the window on being
uncurtained disclose to my wondering eyes the nymph Alecto, whose
lazy beauty, gently breathing, had the transparency of a
vapourous emerald through which I could see teeming the
ponderable elements that coloured it? She made the sun join in
her play, with a smile attenuated by an invisible haze which was
no more than a space kept vacant about the translucent surface,
which, thus curtailed, was rendered more striking, like those
goddesses whom the sculptor carves in relief upon a block of
marble the rest of which he leaves unchiselled. So, in her
matchless colour, she invited us over those rough terrestrial
roads, from which, in Mme de Villeparisis' barouche, we should glimpse, all day long and without ever
reaching it, the coolness of her soft palpitation. But at other
times there was not such a great contrast between our rustic
excursion and this inaccessible goal, this fluid and mythological
proximity. For on such days the sea itself seemed to have a rural
quality where the heat had traced over its surface, as if across
a field, a dusty, white track behind which the sharp mast of a
fishing boat sailed out like the steeple of a village church. A
tug-boat of which one can only discern its smoking funnel in the
distance, like a remote factory, whilst alone on the horizon a
white, humped square, painted no doubt by a sail but which
appears to be compact like limestone, makes one think of the
corner, bathed in sunshine, of some isolated building, school or
hospital. And the clouds and the wind, on the days when they were
mingled with the sunshine, completed if not the error of
judgement, at least the illusion of one's first sight of them,
and the suggestion that it awakened in the imagination. For the
alternation of clearly defined spaces of colour like those which
occur in the countryside at the contiguity of different fields,
the rugged, yellow irregularities, like a muddiness over the
marine surface, the sloping embankments which concealed from view
the small boat from which a crew of agile sailors seemed to be
harvesting, all that, on account of the stormy days, made of the
ocean something as varied, as solid, as uneven, as populous, as
civilized as the coach track from which, in Mme de Villeparisis's
carriage, we looked out upon it.
But sometimes too, during the following weeks,
the fine weather was so bright and so settled that when
Françoise came to open the window I was certain of finding the
same section of sunlight bent around the angle of the wall, and
of the same immutable colour but which was no longer stirring
like a revelation of the summer, but dull like that of an inert
and artificial enamel. And while Françoise removed the pins from
the imposts, detached the pieces of cloth, drew open the
curtains, the summers day that she exposed seemed as dead, as
immemorial as a magnificent thousand year old mummy which our old
servant had cautiously freed from all of its wrappings, before
making it appear, embalmed in its robe of gold.
[Note in the manuscript by Proust: "If strictly necessary the first volume can end here."]
Mme de Villeparisis used to
order her carriage early, so that we should have time to reach
Couliville, or the rocks of Erméez, or some other goal which,
for a somewhat lumbering vehicle, was far enough off to require
the whole day. In my joy at the thought of the long drive we were
going to take I would hum some tune that I had heard recently as
I strolled up and down in front of the hotel until Mme de
Villeparisis was ready. If it was Sunday, hers would not be the
only carriage drawn up outside the hotel; several hired cabs
would be waiting there, not only for the people who had been
invited to Mme de Chemisey's, but for those who had not been
invited who, rather than giving the appearance of children in
disgrace who had to stay at home all day, declared that Sunday
was always quite impossible at Bricquebec and set off immediately
after lunch to hide themselves at some neighbouring
watering-place or to visit one of the nearby "sights".
And indeed whenever (which was often) the notary's wife was asked
if she had been to Mme de Chemisey's, she would answer
emphatically: "No, we went to the falls at Allaire" as
though that were the sole reason for her not having spent the day
at Mme de Chemisey's. And the barrister would charitably remark:
"I envy you, they must be much more interesting."
Mme de Villeparisis was not long in coming
down, followed by her old butler who carried her things and
watched us leaving with an approving smile, tender and complicit,
as one would look on two newlyweds, on the new relationship which
with an indulgent glance he saw establishing itself between his
mistress and ourselves; meanwhile from time to time I would raise
my eyes to seek out an open window where I could see Françoise
appear and then immediately disappear, who with an avid yet
indifferent expression was incapable of denying herself this
spectacle, not wishing to appear to be disavowing the prohibition
established by Mamma in Paris of ever standing at the windows.
Shortly after rounding the railway station, we came into a
country road which soon became as familiar to me as the roads
around Combray, from the bend where it took off to the turning at
which we left it where there were tilled fields on either side.
All along the road it filled me with joy to see here and there an
apple tree, stripped it is true of its blossom and bearing no
more than a fringe of pistils, but sufficient even so to enchant
me since I could imagine, seeing those inimitable leaves, how
their broad expanse, like the ceremonial carpet spread out for a
wedding that was now over, had been only recently swept by the
white satin train of their blushing flowers.
How often in Paris, during the month of May the
following year, preserving from this roadway and also from
particular fields which surrounded it at a distance the same
present, fixed and immutable memory as formerly I had kept of
certain scenes from classical plays which I had recited to myself
and which I would have liked to have heard spoken by La Brème -
how often was I to bring home a branch of apple-blossom from the
florist and afterwards to spend the night in company with its
flowers in which bloomed the same creamy essence that still
powdered with its froth the burgeoning leaves and between whose
white corollas it seemed almost as though it had been the florist
who, from generosity towards me, from a taste for invention too
and as an effective contrast, had added on either side the
supplement of a becoming pink bud: I sat gazing at them, I
grouped them in the light of my lamp - for so long that I was
often still there when the dawn brought to their whiteness the
same flush with which it must at that moment have been tingeing
their sisters on the Cricquebec road - and I sought to carry them
back in my imagination to that roadside, to multiply them, to
spread them out within the frame prepared for them, on the canvas
already primed, of those fields and orchards whose outline I knew
by heart, which I longed to see, which one day I must see, again,
at the moment when, with the exquisite fervour of genius, spring
covers their canvas with its colours.
Before getting into the carriage, I had
composed the seascape which I was going to look out for, which I
hoped to see with the "radiant sun" upon it, and which
at Cricquebec I could distinguish only in too fragmentary form,
broken by so many vulgar adjuncts that had no place in my dream -
bathers, cabins, pleasure yachts. But when, Mme de Villeparisis's
carriage having reached the top of the hill, I caught a glimpse
of the sea through the leafy boughs of the trees, then no doubt
at such a distance the disappearing contemporaneous details which
hindered me from clearly understanding that Baudelaire's ocean
was here before me, the ancient sea of Leconte de Lisle, still
breaking with the same sonorous waves which "like a flight
of birds of prey, before the dawn of day" are beaten by a
hundred thousand oars from "spurred bows"; but on the
other hand I was no longer near enough the sea, which seemed to
me not alive but congealed, I no longer felt any power beneath
its colours, spread like those of a picture between the leaves,
through which it appeared as insubstantial as the sky and only of
an intenser blue.
From time to time, knowing that it would give
pleasure to my grandmother, she would ask the driver to stop
beside the Arbonne woods. The invisibility of the numerous birds
which we could hear in the trees on all sides of us gave the same
peaceful feeling that we have when we close our eyes to rest
them; and enchained up on my carriage seat like Prometheus on his
rock, I was hearing the cries of the Oceanides. And when I
happened to see one of the birds as it disappeared from one leaf
onto another beneath, there seemed to be so little connection
between it and its song that I could not believe that the sound
could be coming from this startled, hopping and unseen little
body.
As the driver did not yet know the area very
well he would ask for directions from a passing peasant and I
frequently heard them mention as a landmark a village whose
church I especially wanted to see, Blenpertuis. As it was not
directly on our route I could hardly, on account of Mme de
Villeparisis, ask that we stop there, but I gave to this name a
special place, a privileged position in my memory, I vowed that
if my health did not improve sufficiently this year for me to
take walks alone and to be able to visit this church, that next
year at least I would return, be it from Paris expressly for the
purpose. And by persuading myself and placing before myself the
pledge that my pilgrimage was merely to be postponed, I was able
without feeling too much regret to see our carriage continue on
its way and leave the church of Blenpertuis far behind. But I
knew perfectly well however that if, among all the other equally
interesting churches which were described in my Concise
Monumental Archaeology of the West it was that particular one
which I wished to see, it was not because it possessed any
intrinsic superiority to justify my exclusive preference. By
leaving at the very moment that I had arbitrarily chosen it, it
was to that particular one, each time my desire for village
churches resurfaced, that I was drawn. It had provided my desire
with an object to love, to name and to be represented. In the
shapeless and empty expanse of the whole of France I only saw the
blue steeple of Blenpertuis. To renounce Blenpertuis would be to
take my first unwilling step towards the forfeiture which I would
one day be forced to make, that of no longer seeing life as the
embodiment of the knowledge and possession of the things I had
desired, would be to renounce wishing from reality the things to
which my imagination and my understanding had already set the
value.
Mme de Villeparisis, seeing that I was fond of
churches, wanted us to be able to visit the one at Brissinville
"quite buried in old ivy", as she said with a gesture
of her hand which seemed tastefully to be clothing the absent
façade in an invisible and delicate screen of foliage. Mme de
Villeparisis would often, with this descriptive gesture, find
just the right word to define the charm of an historic church,
always avoiding technical terms, but incapable of concealing her
thorough understanding of the things to which she referred. She
appeared to seek an excuse for this erudition in the fact that
one of her father's country houses, the one in which she had
lived as a girl, was situated in a region where there were
churches in the same style of architecture - of which, if she
were being quite honest, she said, this house was one of the
finest examples of that of the Renaissance - from which she had
acquired a taste for painting - of which it was a regular museum,
and of music and literature as well, Chopin having come to play
the piano there, and Lamartine to recite verses to her mother -
it having been a sort of annex of her liberal and cultivated
aristocratic childhood. Perhaps even by dint of her ascribing,
whether from good education, lack of vanity or a philosophical
mind, this purely material origin of her artistic tastes she had
come to regard them too exclusively. She would not entertain
going to see a work of art in one of those collections which have
been put together at vast expense where "one is never sure
if any of it is genuine and where you are never sure of what you
are seeing". When my grandmother admired a necklace with red
beads that she was wearing underneath her cloak she replied:
" Yes, it's pretty isn't it? I like to wear it because it
appears in a portrait by Titian of my great-grandmother from whom
I inherited it along with the portrait. It was in my bedroom when
I was a child. It is one of the finest Titians there is and it
has never left our family. That way you can be sure of its
authenticity. But don't talk to me about paintings which have
been bought, heaven knows where, I'm sure they are fakes and I
have no interest in them." My grandmother was not in the
least surprised to see that she was so knowledgeable about
painting, knowing that she painted flowers in water-colour; she
told her that she had heard them highly praised. Mme de
Villeparisis modestly changed the subject, but without showing
any more surprise or pleasure than would an artist of established
reputation to whom compliments mean nothing. She said merely that
it was a delightful pastime because, even if the flowers that
sprang from the brush were nothing wonderful, at least the work
made you live in the company of real flowers, the beauty of which
you could never grow tired. She was not working at Cricquebec
though, because she was giving herself a holiday in order to rest
her tired eyes, but back in Paris she would be happy to give us
some flowers of her own creation. But if nature, churches and
paintings cropped up in the little vignettes which were sprinkled
into her conversation, they were, so far as I could judge during
the course of our drive, totally human, and more often featured
anecdotes about society to which the public character of people
whom the old lady had known in her youth gave an almost
historical or literary interest. And with the same slight gesture
of her hand, the same restrained epithet whether for a church
steeple or of a mill chimney, she showed us the queen of Belgium
on a visit, Louis-Philippe coming to her father's house when she
was a child, Merimée making caricatures or Delacriox's studio.
But it seemed as if she did this in spite of herself, and because
that was the way she saw them again in her memory; and if the
names of these people appeared in the history books, her
familiarity with their behaviour and their gossip showed the
extent to which she had lived in the intimate company of so many
brilliant people. Because she never tried to talk about herself;
in the smallest occurrences, in the most trivial incidents during
the course of our drives, the things which she told us always had
her placed in the background but made us seem important, always
showing herself to be full of tact, regard, charm and kindness
(the total opposite to my friend Bloch); all the more so because
whereas in the prejudices of a less brilliant society, be they
denigrated or be exalted but always longed for and respected,
commanded a place of importance, Mme de Villeparisis spoke about
birth and rank as being secondary to talent and intelligence. She
extended this modesty so far as to reject ideas which, without
being inevitably aristocratic or worldly, seemed to us
nevertheless to be those which must be professed in the
aristocracy and in the world of society. She did not understand
how anyone could be scandalized by the expulsion of the Jesuits,
saying that it had always been done, even under the Monarchy, in
Spain even. She said: "To my mind, a man who doesn't work
doesn't count", defending the Republic which she agreed to
and reproached it for its anti-clericalism only to this extent:
"I should find it just as bad to be prevented from going to
mass when I wanted to, as to be forced to go to it when I
didn't", even putting forth such remarks as "Oh! the
aristocracy of today! what does it amount to?" - which she
said perhaps only because she sensed how much they gained in
spice and piquancy, how memorable they became, on her lips. In
her every word she professed on all things the opinions of a
bourgeois conservative yet liberal attitude the justness of which
we had not dared to fully hold true, my grandmother and I, until
that moment, because they corresponded too closely to our own
wishes and because we would endeavour, when seeking the truth, to
take the side, through an effort of impartiality, of those who
were bound to think differently to us, and in the end perhaps
more correctly than us, of somebody like Mme de Villeparisis for
example. But what a shock it was to hear these opinions expressed
here without scruple from a mind so different but which to us
were so instinctive and natural, taking on the authority of truth
and becoming meritorious. As we listened to Mme de Villeparisis
expressing these opinions our sympathy for her became a real
admiration and we took great pleasure in her conversation wherein
two seemingly contradictory instincts, but which may nevertheless
co-exist in the minds of many people, could be satisfied: a
horror of snobbery in its eulogy of mediocrity, mockery of the
nobility, lofty views; and the taste for snobbery, because
through listening to such lofty language we were drawn further
into the aristocratic world frequented by Mme de Villeparisis and
her princely companions. At such moments I could almost believe
that the measure and model of the truth in all its aspects was
enthroned in Mme de Villeparisis. But - like those learned people
who hold us spellbound when we get them on to Egyptian painting
or Etruscan inscriptions, and yet talk so tritely about modern
works that we wonder whether we have not over estimated the
interest of the sciences in which they are versed since they do
not betray therein the mediocrity of mind which they must have
brought to those studies just as much as to their judgements on
Manet and Baudelaire - Mme de Villeparisis, questioned by me
about Chateaubriand, about Balzac, about Victor Hugo, smiled at
my reverence, told amusing anecdotes about them such as she had
just been telling us about dukes and statesmen, and severely
criticized those writers precisely because they had been lacking
in that modesty, that sober art which is satisfied with a single
precise stroke and does not over emphasize, which avoids above
all else the absurdity of grandiloquence, of self effacement, in
that aptness, those qualities of moderation, of judgement and
simplicity to which she had been taught that real greatness
attained. It was evident that she had no hesitation in placing
above them men who might after all, perhaps, by virtue of those
qualities, have had the advantage of a Balzac, a Hugo, a Vigny in
a drawing-room, an academy, a cabinet council, men like Molé,
Barante, Fontanes, Vitrolles, Pasquier, Lebrun or Daru. Yet these
people, Chateaubriand when she was small, Balzac at the home of
Mme de Castries, Stendhal, these were people whom she knew and
she had their autographs and mementoes of them. She seemed,
presuming on the personal relations which her family had had with
them, to think that her judgement of them must be better founded
than that of young people who, like myself, had had no
opportunity of meeting them. "I think I have a right to
speak about them, since they used to come to my father's house,
and as M. Sainte-Beuve, who was a most intelligent man, used to
say, in forming an estimate you must take the word of people who
saw them close to and were able to judge more exactly their real
worth."
Sometimes, as the carriage laboured up a steep
road through ploughed fields, all at once the fields which were
on either side of me seemed to me to be miraculously real, fields
as beautiful as those in the Bible, and I would catch my breath.
I would have just caught sight of a few hesitant cornflowers on
the embankment that followed in the wake of our carriage. But
after Combray certain very local aspects that I missed had in the
end taken on this precious, inaccessible character, of everything
which is in our thoughts, that is to say things which are so
close to us but without us being able to touch them. A cornflower
set its signature at the bottom of a field adding a mark of
authenticity like the precious floret with which certain of the
old masters used to sign their canvases. Presently the horses
outdistanced them, but a little way on we could glimpse another
that while awaiting us had pricked up its blue star in front of
us in the grass. Some made so bold as to come and plant
themselves by the side of the road, and a whole constellation
began to take shape, what with my distant memories and these
domesticated flowers.
We began to go down the hill; and then we would
meet, climbing it on foot, on a bicycle, in a cart or carriage,
one of those creatures - flowers of a fine day but unlike the
flowers of the field, for each of them holds something that is
not to be found in another and that will prevent us from
gratifying with any of her peers the desire that she has aroused
in us - a farm-girl driving her cow or reclining on the back of a
waggon, a shop-keeper's daughter taking the air, a fashionable
young lady erect on the back seat of a landau, facing her
parents. Certainly Bloch, in the same way as a great scholar or
the founder of a religion, had been the means of opening a new
era and had altered the value of life and good fortune on the day
when he had told me that the dreams which I had entertained on my
solitary walks along the Méseglise way, when I hoped that some
peasant girl might pass whom I could take in my arms, were not a
mere fantasy which corresponded to nothing outside myself but
that all the girls one met, whether villagers or "young
ladies", dreamed of hardly anything else than love making.
And even if I were fated, now that I was ill and did not go out
by myself, never to be able to make love to them, I was like a
child born in a prison or in a hospital who, having long supposed
that the human organism was capable of digesting only dry bread
and medications, has learned suddenly that peaches, apricots and
grapes are not simply part of the decoration of the country scene
but delicious and easily assimilated food. Even if his gaoler or
his nurse forbids him from plucking those tempting fruits, still
the world seems to him a better place and existence in it more
clement. For a desire seems to us more attractive, we repose on
it with more confidence, when we know that outside ourselves
there is a reality which conforms to it, even if, for us, it is
not to be realized. And we think more joyfully of a life in which
(on condition that we eliminate for a moment from our mind the
tiny obstacle, accidental and special, which prevents us
personally from doing so) we can imagine ourselves to be
assuaging that desire. As to the pretty girls who went past, from
the day on which I had first known that their cheeks could be
kissed, I had become curious about their souls. And the universe
had appeared to me more interesting.
Mme de Villeparisis's carriage moved fast. I
scarcely had time to see the girl who was coming in our
direction; and yet - since the beauty of human beings is not like
the beauty of things, and we feel that it is that of a unique
creature, endowed with consciousness and free-will - as soon as
her individuality, a soul still vague, a will unknown to me,
presented a tiny picture of itself, enormously reduced but
complete, in the depths of her indifferent eyes, at once, by a
mysterious response of the pollen ready in me for the pistils
that should receive it, I felt surging through me the embryo,
equally vague, equally minute, of the desire not to let this girl
pass without forcing her mind to become aware of my person,
without preventing her desires from wandering to someone else,
without insinuating myself into her dreams and taking possession
of her heart. Meanwhile our carriage had moved on; the pretty
girl was already behind us; and as she had - of me - none of
those notions which constitute a person in one's mind, her eyes,
which had barely seen me, had forgotten me already, even if she
had not been mocking me. Was it because I had caught but a
momentary glimpse of her that I had found her so attractive? Had
I been free to get down from the carriage and to speak to her, I
might perhaps have been disillusioned by some blemish on her skin
that I had not been able to distinguish from the carriage.
Perhaps a single word which she might have uttered, or a smile
would have furnished me with an unexpected key or a clue with
which to read the expression on her face, to interpret her
bearing, which would at once have become commonplace. It is
possible, for I have never in real life met any girls so
desirable as on days when I was with some solemn person from
whom, despite the myriad pretexts that I invented, I could not
tear myself away. Such as being stricken with a sudden headache
that would not go away unless I got down from the carriage and
returned to Cricquebec on foot, which convinced neither Mme de
Villeparisis nor my grandmother who would not let me out. And my
regret at never having been able to stand before this pretty
girl, at never having got to know her was more bitter for me than
having to leave behind a village church or a belfry, and I found
myself longing to find this one girl again, and no other who may
have been more exclusive. Because I knew that lying beneath the
grace of this pretty girl was something very different from what
lay beneath the grace of old stones: a living consciousness in
which I had no existence even if I were known and loved by every
other girl in the world. But I had no point of reference such as
a name, as I had for the church, or a mile-post for a field. But
the particularities that I endeavoured to call to mind were so
vague. She had passed at a similar time on a cart or in a
victoria, in a similar place, heading towards a similar village,
but even so would I ever be able to see her again? In the
meantime I told myself that these encounters made me find even
more beautiful a world which thus caused to grow along all the
country roads flowers at once rare and common, fleeting treasures
of the day, windfalls of the drive, of which the contingent
circumstances that might not, perhaps, recur had alone prevented
me from taking advantage, and which gave a new zest to life.
Perhaps in hoping that, one day, with greater
freedom, I should be able to find similar girls on other roads, I
was already beginning to falsify and corrupt what is exclusively
individual in the desire to live in the company of a woman whom
one has found attractive, and by the mere fact that I admitted
the possibility of bringing it about artificially, I had
implicitly acknowledged its illusoriness.
On one occasion Mme de Villeparisis took us to
Briseville to see the ivy-covered church which she had spoken to
us about. Built on top of a hillock it dominated both the village
and the river that flowed beneath it and looked down onto its
little mediaeval bridge. My grandmother, thinking that I would
like to be left alone to study the church at my leisure,
suggested to Mme de Villeparisis that they should go on and wait
for me at the pastry shop in the village square that was clearly
visible from where we were and beneath its mellow patina seemed
like another part of the wholly ancient object. It was agreed
that I should join them there later. In the mass of greenery in
front of which I was standing I was obliged, in order to
recognize a church, to make a mental effort which involved my
grasping more intensely the idea "church". In fact, as
happens to school boys who gather more fully the meaning of a
sentence when they are made, by translating or paraphrasing it,
to divest it of the forms to which they are accustomed, I was
obliged perpetually to refer back to this idea of
"church", which as a rule I scarcely needed when I
stood beneath steeples that were recognizable in themselves, in
order not to forget, here that the arch of this clump of ivy was
that of a Gothic window, there that the salience of the leaves
was due to the carved relief of a capital. Then came a breath of
wind, sending a tremor through the mobile porch, which was
traversed by eddies flickering and spreading like light; the
leaves unfurled against one another; and, quivering, the arboreal
façade bore away with it the undulant, rustling, fugitive
pillars.
As I came away from the church I saw by the old
bridge a cluster of girls from the village who, because
it was Sunday, were standing about in their best clothes, hailing
the boys who went past. One of them, a tall girl not so well
dressed as the others but seeming to enjoy some ascendancy over
them - for she scarcely answered when they spoke to her - with a
more serious and self-willed air, was sitting on the parapet of
the bridge with her feet hanging down, and holding on her lap a
bowl of fish which she had presumably just caught. She had a
tanned complexion, soft eyes but with a look of contempt for her
surroundings, and a nose that was above all small in shape, delicate and charming. My eyes alighted on her skin; and my lips, at a pinch,
might have believed that they had followed my eyes. But it was
not simply to her body that I should have liked to attain; it was
also the person that lived inside it, the consciousness within
each of us, and with which there is but one form of contact,
namely to attract its attention, but one sort of penetration, to
awaken an idea in it.
And this inner being of the handsome
fisher-girl seemed to be still closed to me; I was doubtful
whether I had entered it, even after I had seen my own image
furtively reflected in the twin mirrors of her gaze, following an
index of refraction that was as unknown to me as if I had been
placed in the field of vision of a doe. But just as it would not
have sufficed that my lips should find pleasure in hers without
giving pleasure to them too, so I could have wished that the idea
of me which entered this being and took hold in it should bring
me not merely her attention but her admiration, her desire, and
should compel her to keep me in her memory until the day when I
should be able to meet her again. Meanwhile I could see, within a
stone's throw, the square in which Mme de Villeparisis's carriage
must be waiting for me. I had not a moment to lose; and already I
could feel that the girls were beginning to laugh at the sight of
me standing there before them. I had a five-franc piece in my
pocket. I drew it out, and, before explaining to the girl the
errand on which I proposed to send her, in order to have a better
chance of her listening to me I held the coin for a moment before
her eyes.
"Since you seem to belong to this
place," I said to the fisher-girl, "I wonder if you
would be so good as to take a message for me. I want to go to a
pastry shop - which is apparently in a square, but I don't know
where that is - there is a carriage waiting for me. One moment!
To make quite sure, will you ask if the carriage belongs to the
Marquise de Villeparisis? But you can't miss it; it's a carriage
and pair."
That was what I wished her to know, so that she
should regard me as someone of importance, and I was so worried
that she would not hear me to the end that I held out the
five-franc piece in front of her eyes (so that there would be
more chance of her accepting the commission) before beginning my
speech, not daring to raise my eyes until I had finished, for
fear of seeing a gesture of refusal which would have interrupted
me and would have denied me any pretext for making it known to
this village girl that there was a carriage and pair belonging to
a Marquise waiting for me. But when I had uttered the words
"Marquise" and "carriage and pair", suddenly
I had a sense of enormous assuagement. I felt that she would
remember me. I felt my fear of not being able to see her again
disappear. I felt that I had just touched her person with
invisible lips and that I had pleased her. And this forcible
appropriation of her mind, this immaterial possession, had robbed
her of mystery as much as physical possession would have done. I
raised my eyes to her face and gave her the coin. Then I saw that
her brown cheeks were scarred, her eyes which I had thought to be
disdainful and soft expressed merely a humble and stupid
willingness and as she said something to her companions which I
could not hear about them looking after her bowl of fish which
she held out to them, her mouth took on a grimacing and vulgar
shape. It had occurred to me that I ought not to send her off to
the carriage where my grandmother and Mme de Villeparisis would
not have been able to understand why I had sent her there.
"But if it's a long way," I told her, "it would be
simpler for me to come with you." And as soon as we were in
sight of the pastry shop I said to her: "I recognize the
shop window, this is it", and I took my leave of her. She
remained at the corner of the square, watching us leave with eyes
wide. But the creature that I had composed from some features
that I had perceived from her appearance but which were
contradicted by others, and from my imagination which had made me
assume in her a depth that I thought she imagined in me, this
creature no longer existed. There remained only a rather ugly
girl, with a large body and a pretty nose and whose gaze was a
matter of indifference to me at the glorious moment when, as soon
as I had climbed back into the carriage, and when it was untied,
we made our echoing and solemn departure, before the eyes of all
the inhabitants of Briseville who had been drawn to their door
steps.
On one occasion as we were taking a crossroads
which came down towards Couliville, I was filled with a profound
feeling of well-being which I had felt only once, when I breathed
in the humid odour from the little pavilion in the Champs
Elysées, since our walks around Combray when I had been seized
by it so often. From the carriage seat upon which I was sitting
opposite my grandmother and Mme de Villeparisis, I had just seen,
standing a little way back from the hog's-back road along which
we were travelling, three trees which probably marked the entry
to a covered driveway and formed a pattern which I felt, at the
same time as it passed in front of my eyes, palpitate in my
heart.
Into these places which I was seeing for the
first time they interpolated a fragment of scenery which I had
not recognized but which I felt to have been very familiar to me
once, so that my mind wavered between some distant year and the
present moment, Bricquebec and its surrounding area began to
dissolve and I wondered whether the whole of this drive were not
a make-believe, Cricquebec a place that I had never visited other
than in my imagination, Mme de Villeparisis a character in a
novel and the three old trees the reality which one recaptures on
raising one's eyes from the book which one has just been reading
and which describes an environment into which one has come to
believe that one has been bodily transported. This illusion
lasted no more than a second. I sensed that the trees were no
different from any other three trees that disclose themselves
elsewhere in the same fashion onto a landscape which was familiar
to me. But which? I looked at them; I could see them plainly, but
my mind felt that they were concealing something which it could
not grasp, as when an object is placed out of our reach, so that
our fingers, stretched out at arm's length, can only touch for a
moment its outer surface, without managing to take hold of
anything. Then we rest for a little while before thrusting out
our arm with a renewed momentum, and trying to reach an inch or
two further. But if my mind was thus to collect itself, to gather
momentum, I should have to be alone. What would I not have given
to be able to draw aside as I used to do on those walks along the
Guermantes way, when I detached myself from my parents. I put my
hand across my eyes for a moment, so as to be able to shut them
without Mme de Villeparisis's noticing. I sat there thinking of
nothing, then with my thoughts collected, compressed and
strengthened I sprang further forward in the direction of the
trees, or rather in that inner direction at the end of which I
could see them inside myself. I felt again behind them the same
reality, known to me yet vague, which I could not bring nearer.
And yet all three of them, as the carriage moved on, I could see
coming towards me. Where had I looked at them before? There was
no place near Combray, on the Guermantes way or the Méseglise
way, where an avenue opened off the road like that. Nor was there
room for the site which they recalled to me of the scenery of the
place in Germany where I had gone one year with my grandmother to
take the waters. Was I to suppose, then, that they came from
years already so remote in my life that the landscape which
surrounded them had been entirely obliterated from my memory and
that, like the pages which, with a sudden thrill, we recognize in
a book that we imagined we had never read, they alone survived
from the forgotten book of my earliest childhood? Were they not
rather to be numbered among those dream landscapes, always the
same, and therefore more supernatural than earthly landscapes, at
least for me in whom their strange aspect was only the
objectivation in my sleeping mind of the effort I made while
awake either to penetrate the mystery of a place beneath the
outward appearance of which I was dimly conscious of there being
something more, as had so often happened to me on the Guermantes
way, or to try to put mystery back into a place which I had
longed to know and which, from the day when I had come to know
it, had seemed to me to be wholly superficial, like Cricquebec?
Or were they merely an image freshly extracted from a dream of
the night before, but already so floating, so vague that it
seemed to come from somewhere far more distant? Or had I indeed
never seen them before, and did they conceal behind their
surface, like certain trees, certain church steeples, certain
tufts of flowers that I had seen beside the Guermantes way, a
meaning as obscure, as hard to grasp, as is a distant past, so
that, whereas they were inviting me to probe a new thought, I
imagined that I had to identify an old memory? Or again, were
they concealing no hidden thought, and was it simply visual
fatigue that made me see them double in time as one sometimes
sees double in space? I could not tell. And meanwhile they were
coming towards me; perhaps some fabulous apparition, a ring of
witches or of Norns who would propound their oracles to me. I
chose rather to believe that they were phantoms of the past, dear
companions of my childhood, vanished friends who were invoking
our common memories. Like the ghosts around Aeneas they seemed to
be appealing to me to take them with me, to bring them back to
life. In their simple and passionate gesticulation I could
discern the helpless anguish of a beloved person who has lost the
power of speech, and knows that he will never be able to tell us
what he wishes to say and we can never guess.
Presently, at a crossroads, the carriage left
them behind. I watched the trees gradually recede, waving their
despairing arms, seeming to say to me: "What you fail to
learn from us today, you will never know. If you allow us to drop
into the hollow of this road from which we sought to raise
ourselves up to you, a whole part of yourself which we were
bringing to you will vanish for ever into thin air." And
indeed I was never to know later what they had been trying to
tell me, nor where else I had seen them. And when the carriage
turned off I turned my back on them and ceased to see them, while
I smilingly replied to Mme de Villeparisis as she asked me why I
looked as though I were in a dream, my heart beat with anguish as
if I had just lost a friend for ever, had died to myself, had
broken faith with the dead or repudiated a god.
Often dusk would have fallen before we made our
way back. Shyly I would quote to Mme de Villeparisis, pointing to
the moon in the sky, some memorable expression of Chateaubriand
or Vigny or Victor Hugo: "She shed all around her that
ancient secret of melancholy" or "Weeping like Diana by
the brink of her streams" or "The shadows nuptial,
solemn and august".
"And you think that good, do you?"
she would ask. "I must confess that I am always surprised to
see people taking things seriously nowadays which the friends of
those gentlemen, while giving them full credit for their
qualities, were the first to laugh at. It's like those novels of
Stendhal. You would have given him a great surprise if you had
spoken to him in that tone which you use all the time. He was
very good company and confessed that he could not prevent himself
from bursting with laughter at the extravagant praises of M. de
Balzac (behind which there was an unseemly concern for money in
any case). People weren't so free then with the word 'genius' as
they are now, when if you say to a writer that he has talent he
takes it as an insult. You quote me a fine phrase of M. de
Chateaubriand's about moonlight. You shall see that I have my own
reasons for being resistant to it. M. de Chateaubriand used often
to come to see my father. He was quite a pleasant person when you
were alone with him because then he was simple and amusing, but
the moment he had an audience he would begin to pose, and then he
became absurd. Once, in my father's presence, he claimed that he
had flung his resignation in the King's face, and that he had
controlled the voting in the Conclave, forgetting that he had
asked my father to beg the King to take him back, and that my
father had heard him make the most idiotic forecasts of the Papal
election. As to his fine phrases about moonlight, they became
part of our regular programme for entertaining our guests.
Whenever the moon was shining, if there was anyone staying with
us for the first time he would be told to take M. de
Chateaubriand for a stroll after dinner. When they came in, my
father would take his guest aside and say: 'Well, and was M. de
Chateaubriand very eloquent?' - 'Oh, yes.' - 'He talked to you
about the moonlight?' - 'Yes, how did you know?' - 'One moment,
didn't he say...' and then my father would quote the phrase. 'He
did, but how in the world...?' - 'And he spoke to you of the
moonlight on the Roman Campagna?' - 'But my dear sir, you're a
magician!' My father was no magician, but M. de Chateaubriand had
the same little speech about the moon which he served up every
time."
At the mention of Vigny she laughed: "The
man who said: 'I am the Comte Alfred de Vigny!' One is either a
count or one isn't; it's not of the slightest importance, there
is nothing to say about it." And then she discovered that it
was, after all, of some slight importance, for she went on:
"For one thing I'm by no means sure that he was, and in any
case he was of very inferior stock, that gentleman who speaks in
his verses about his 'esquire's crest'. In such charming taste,
is it not, and so interesting to his readers!" In the same
way she found fault with Balzac, whom she was surprised to find
her nephews admiring, for having presumed to describe a society
"in which he was never received" and of which his
descriptions were highly improbable. As for M. Victor Hugo, she
told us that M. de Villeparisis, her father, who had friends
among the young Romantics thanks to whom he had attended the
first performance of Hernani, had been unable to sit
through it, so ridiculous had he found the verse of that gifted
but extravagant writer who had acquired the title of "major
poet" only by virtue of having struck a bargain, and as a
reward for the not disinterested indulgence that he showed
towards the dangerous aberrations of the socialists.
It was time to be thinking of home. Mme de
Villeparisis, who had a certain feeling for nature - colder than
that of my grandmother but sharing with her an admiration of the
same beauties - and who on the roads, just as, no doubt, in the
museums, showed an elevated and discerning taste which could
appreciate the most beautiful things from the past, asked her
coachman one day to return home along the old Cricquebec road
which was little frequented but was much more beautiful than the
other, planted with venerable elms which enraptured my
grandmother. Mme de Villeparisis, because of the nature of her
education and even the literary culture that she had received,
had thought it ridiculous to repeat admiring phrases about these
old elms. Yet she did have an appreciation of them since she had
chosen to return along the old road so as to pass before them and
could smile at the enthusiasm of my grandmother who would never
have seen them had it not been for her. But the long familiarity
that certain people of taste have for objects, which were more
recent for us, did not prove that in her case the admiration that
she felt was the same as ours. Mme de Villeparisis did not show
any admiration within herself, seeking neither to understand it
nor to analyze it. She immediately let it sink into the obscure
domain of practical life and in this way form the noble customs
which for the arts make up a beautiful framework for her life,
without her giving it much thought. Once we had got to know the
old road, for a change we would return - unless we had taken it
on the outward journey - by another which ran through the woods, [the
text is very confused at this point] a road like many
others which are to be found in France, climbing on a fairly
steep gradient and then gradually descending over a long stretch.
At that particular moment, I found no special attraction in it; I
was simply glad to be going home. It was becoming cool, the
leaves smelled good. Mme de Villeparisis threw a blanket over my
legs. I was beginning to feel hungry. Occasionally a lady would
send her greetings to Mme de Villeparisis from a carriage as it
passed at full speed. On this occasion it was the Princesse de
Luxembourg who was going to dine at her cousin's; we began to see
a village and further on, through the trees, as if it were a far
off place, like the following locality, remote and forested which
we would not be able to reach that evening: the sunset. But this
road became for me later on a frequent source of joy by remaining
in my memory as a lodestone to which all the similar roads that I
was to take, on walks or on drives, would at once attach
themselves without breach of continuity and would be able, thanks
to it, to communicate immediately with my heart. For as soon as
the carriage or the motor-car turned into one of these roads that
seemed to be the continuation of the road along which I had
driven with Mme de Villeparisis, what I found my present
consciousness immediately dwelling upon, as upon the most recent
event in my past, would be (all the intervening years being
quietly obliterated) the impressions that I had had on those late
afternoons, driving in the neighbourhood of Cricquebec. Linked up
with those I was experiencing now in another place, on a similar
road, surrounded by all the incidental sensations of breathing
fresh air, of curiosity, indolence, appetite, gaiety which were
common to them both, and excluding all others, these impressions
would be reinforced, would take on the consistency of a
particular type of pleasure, and almost a framework of existence
which, as it happened, I rarely had the luck to come across, but
in which these awakened memories introduced, amid the reality
that my senses could perceive, a large enough element of evoked,
dreamed (and therefore not only beautiful but unseizable) reality
to give me, among these regions through which I was passing, more
than an aesthetic feeling, a fleeting but exalted ambition to
stay and live there for ever. Many years later, on similar roads,
sometimes at the end of the day, when the leaves smelled good,
when the mist was lifting, and beyond the next village one could
see the sun setting between the trees, like a distant scene, as
if it were in the next locality, remote and forested but which we
would not be able to reach that same evening, while I recalled
that summer in Cricquebec, when often, as I was sitting on the
carriage seat opposite Mme de Villeparisis, we would pass the
Princesse de Luxembourg crossing through the forest, returning to
dine at the Grand Hotel where the lights were already
illuminated, who would send her greetings from her carriage, did
it not appear to me as one of those ineffable moments of
happiness which neither the present nor the future can restore to
us and which we taste only once in a lifetime.
We were already in sight of the hotel. And the
luminous globes in the hall, those fascinating adversaries of my
first evening had now become the friendly light of the foyer,
gentle and protective like a study lamp. For me this was to
return home, to return to the room that had finally become my
actual bedroom, so that to see the great curtains and the low
bookcases again was to find myself once more in my element. And
when the carriage drew up outside the door, the porter, the
grooms, the lift-boy, attentive, clumsy, vaguely uneasy, massed
on the steps to receive us, hostile, then familiar, like the
things, like the people who change so many times in the course of
our lives, as we ourselves change, but in whom, when they are for
the time being the mirror of our habits, we find comfort in the
feeling that we are being faithfully and amicably reflected. We
prefer them to friends who we have not seen for some time, for
they contain more of what we are at the present. We got out of
the carriage with the help of a great many more servants than
were required, but they were conscious of the importance of the
scene and each felt obliged to take some part in it. I was weary
and hungry. Often, so as not to keep dinner waiting, we would not
go back to our rooms before taking our places at table, and we
would all wait together in the hall until the head waiter came to
tell us that our dinner was ready. This gave us another
opportunity of listening to Mme de Villeparisis.
"But we must be getting in your way; we
are taking advantage of you", my grandmother would say.
"Not at all! Why I'm delighted, what could
be nicer?" replied Mme de Villeparisis with a winning smile,
drawing out her words in a melodious tone which contrasted with
her customary simplicity of speech, like that of a grumbling old
woman. And indeed at such moments as this she was not natural;
her mind reverted to her early training, to the aristocratic
manner in which a great lady is supposed to show commoners that
she is glad to be with them, that she is not at all arrogant. And
her one and only failure in true politeness lay in this excess of
politeness. Mme de Villeparisis certainly had a wish to continue
the relations which concerned us personally in her drawing room
in Paris but which she feared on the contrary that my grandmother
may not put an end to when we left Bricquebec. For we had seen
once and for all one of those professional "wrinkles"
of a lady of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, who, always seeing in
her humbler friends the discontent that she must one day arouse
in them, greedily seizes every opportunity to establish in
advance, in the ledger in which she keeps her social account with
them, a credit balance which will enable her presently to enter
on the debit side the dinner or reception to which she will not
invite them. And so, having long ago taken effect in her once and
for all, and oblivious of the fact that now both the
circumstances and the people concerned were different, that in
Paris she would wish to see us often at her house, the spirit of
her caste was urging Mme de Villeparisis on with feverish ardour,
as if the time that was allowed to her for being amiable to us
was limited, to step up, while we were on holiday at the coast,
her gifts of grapes, roses and melons, drives in her carriage and
verbal effusions.
"No, no, on the contrary, I'm delighted,
stay, let's complete this lovely day together. Give them your
coats to take upstairs."
My grandmother handed them to the manager who
took them away muttering that he was not a lackey.
"I think you've hurt his feelings,"
said Mme de Villeparisis. "He probably fancies himself too
great a gentleman to carry your coat. I remember so well the Duc
de Nemours, when I was still quite little, coming to see my
father who was living then on the top floor of the Hôtel
Bouillon, with a fat parcel under his arm, and letters and
newspapers. I can see the Prince now in his splendid blue coat,
framed in our doorway, which had such pretty panelling - I think
it was Bagard who used to do it - you know those fine laths that
they used to cut, so supple that the joiner would twist them
sometimes into little shells and flowers, like the ribbons round
a nosegay. 'Here you are, Cyrus,' he said to my father, 'look
what the porter's given me to bring up to you. He said to me:
Since you're going up to see the Count, it's not worth my while
climbing all those stairs; but take care you don't break the
string. - I hope I haven't damaged anything', said the Prince
laughing. - Now that you've got rid of your things, why don't you
sit down," she said to my grandmother, taking her by the
hand. "Here, take this chair."
"Oh, if you don't mind, not that one! It's
too small for two, and too big for me by myself. I shouldn't feel
comfortable."
"You remind me, for it was exactly like
this one, of an armchair I had for many years until at last I
couldn't keep it any longer because it had been given to my
mother by the unfortunate Mme de Praslin. My mother, though she
was the simplest person in the world, really, had ideas that
belonged to another generation, which even in those days I could
scarcely understand; and at first she had not been at all willing
to let herself be introduced to Mme de Praslin, who had been
plain Mlle Sebastiani, while she, because she was a Duchess, felt
that it was not for her to be introduced to my mother. And
really, you know," Mme de Villeparisis went on, forgetting
that she herself did not understand these fine shades of
distinction, "even if she had just been Mme de Choiseul,
there was a good deal to be said for her claim. The Choiseuls are
everything you could want in a good family; they spring from a
sister of Louis the Fat; they were real sovereigns down in
Bassigny. I admit that we beat them in marriages and distinction,
but the seniority is pretty much the same. This little matter of
precedence gave rise to several comic incidents, such as a
luncheon party which was kept waiting a whole hour or more before
one of these ladies could make up her mind to let herself be
introduced to the other. In spite of which they became great
friends, and she gave my mother a chair like this one, in which
people always refused to sit, as you've just done. One day my
mother heard a carriage drive into the courtyard. She asked a
young servant who it was. 'The Duchesse de La Rochefoucauld,
ma'am.' 'Very well, say that I am at home.' A quarter of an hour
passed; no one came. 'What about the Duchesse de La
Rochefoucauld?' my mother asked, 'where is she?' 'She's on the
stairs, ma'am, getting her breath,' said the young servant who
had not been long up from the country, where my mother had the
excellent habit of getting all her servants. Often she had seen
them born. That's the only way to get really good ones. And
they're the rarest of luxuries. And sure enough the Duchesse de
La Rochefoucauld had the greatest of difficulty in getting
upstairs, for she was an enormous woman, so enormous, indeed,
that when she did come into the room my mother was quite at a
loss for a moment to know where to put her. And then the seat
that Mme de Praslin had given her caught her eye. 'Won't you sit
down?' she said, bringing it forward. And the Duchess filled it
from side to side. She was quite a pleasant woman, for all her
... imposingness. 'She still creates a certain effect when she
comes in,' one of our friends said once. 'She certainly creates
an effect when she goes out,' said my mother, who was rather more
free in her speech than would be thought proper nowadays. Even in
Mme de La Rochefoucauld's own drawing-room people didn't hesitate
to make fun of her (and she was always the first to laugh at it)
over her ample proportions. 'But are you all alone?' my mother
once asked M. de La Rochefoucauld, when she had come to pay a
call on the Duchess, and being met at the door by him had not
seen his wife who was in an alcove at the other end of the room.
'Is Mme de La Rochefoucauld not at home? I don't see her.' - 'How
charming of you!' replied the Duke, who had about the worst
judgement of any man I have ever known, but was not altogether
lacking in humour."
After dinner, as we chatted together in my
grandmother's room, I compared the justness of my favourable
impressions of Mme de Villeparisis against hers. And my
grandmother sanctioned them completely. But then I immediately
brought to her attention my doubts and scruples. Was Mme de
Villeparisis really so intelligent after all, and were we being
totally sincere in our admiration for her? I reminded her of the
things she had said about some great writers, and I confessed
that it made me wonder not only if to have known an artist
personally, to own their unpublished manuscripts can help one to
understand him better, but even if those qualities of moderation,
tact, delicacy and self-effacement, as possessed by Mme de
Villeparisis, were not perhaps of very great value since those
who possessed them in the highest degree were merely people like
Molé and the Vitrolles, and that if the want of them can make
everyday social relations disagreeable yet it did not prevent
from becoming Chateaubriand, Vigny, Hugo, Balzac conceited
fellows who had no judgement, at whom it was easy to mock, like
Bloch... But at the name of Bloch my grandmother protested. She
availed herself by contrasting his behaviour unflatteringly with
Mme de Villeparisis's, whose praises she began to sing simply
because she had a sincere admiration for her. As we are told that
it is the preservation of the species which guides our individual
preferences in love and, so that the child may be constituted in
the most normal fashion, sends fat men in pursuit of slim women
and vice versa, so in some dim way it was the
requirements of my happiness, threatened by my disordered nerves,
by my morbid tendency to melancholy and solitude, that made her
allot the highest place to the qualities of balance and
judgement, peculiar not only to Mme de Villeparisis but to a
society in which I might find distraction and assuagement - a
society similar to the one in which our ancestors saw the minds
of a Doudan, a Mme de Rémusat flourish, not to mention a Mme de
Sévigné, a type of mind that invests life with more happiness,
with greater dignity than the converse requirements which had led
a Baudelaire, a Poe to sufferings, to a disrepute such as my
grandmother did not wish for her daughter's child. She repeated
the pleasant words and the kind attentions paid us by Mme de
Villeparisis that day. I interrupted her with a kiss and asked
her if she had noticed such and such a remark that Mme de
Villeparisis had made which seemed to point to a woman who
thought more of her noble birth than she was prepared to admit.
In this way I used to submit my impressions of the day to my
grandmother, for I was never certain what degree of respect was
due to anyone until she had pointed it out to me. I could take no
pleasure from an intelligent remark, a kind gesture, until
afterwards when, between two kisses, I was able to determine my
grandmother's opinion of them. I took no pleasure in people
without thinking that I would be able to describe them in our
evening chats, in which, by allowing my thoughts to come into
contact with hers I would discover something new in them, I would
come to her with the mental sketches that I had made during the
day of all those non-existent people who were not her.
I would often say to her: "I couldn't live
without you."
"But you mustn't speak like that,"
she replied in a troubled voice. "We must be a bit pluckier
than that. Otherwise, what would become of you if I went away on
a journey? But I hope that you would be quite sensible and quite
happy."
"I could manage to be sensible if you went
away for a few days, but I should count the hours."
"But if I were to go away for
months..." (at the mere thought my heart turned over)
"...for years...for..."
We both fell silent. We dared not look one
another in the face. And yet I was suffering more keenly from her
anguish than from my own. And so I walked across to the window
and said to her distinctly: "You know what a creature of
habit I am. For the first few days after I've been separated from
the people I love best, I'm miserable. But though I go on loving
them just as much, I get used to their absence, my life becomes
calm and smooth. I could stand being parted from them for months,
for years..."
I was obliged to stop speaking and look
straight out of the window. My grandmother left the room for a
moment. But next day I began to talk to her about philosophy, a
subject on which my [blank in the text] I told
her that in the most recent, and after the most essential
questions [the text is very confused at this point] everything that could be known about truth, then I told her about
this philosophy and the great thinkers. A subject upon which my
grandmother very much agreed with me. And speaking in the most
casual tone but at the same time taking care that my grandmother
should pay attention to my words, I remarked what a curious thing
it was that, according to the latest scientific discoveries, the
materialist position appeared to be crumbling, and what was again
most likely was the immortality of souls and their future
reunion.
Soon Mme de Villeparisis stopped seeing us so
frequently. A young nephew, recently entered at St Cyr, whose
visit she had been expecting for some weeks, had arrived and she
was spending much of her time with him. In the course of our
drives together she had spoken highly of his intelligence and
above all his kindness, and already I imagined that he would take
a liking to me, that I should be his best friend; and when,
before his arrival, his aunt gave my grandmother to understand
that he had unfortunately fallen into the clutches of an
appalling woman with whom he was infatuated and who would never
let him go, since I was persuaded that that sort of love was
doomed to end in mental derangement, crime and suicide, thinking
how short a time was reserved for our friendship, already so
great in my heart although I had not yet set eyes upon him, I
wept for that friendship and for the misfortunes that were in
store for it, as we weep for someone we love when we learn from
his doctor that he is seriously ill and that his days are
numbered.
One afternoon of scorching heat I was in the
dining-room of the hotel, plunged in semi-darkness to shield it
from the sun, which gilded the drawn curtains through the gaps
between which twinkled the blue of the sea, when along the
central gangway which ran the length of the hotel, leading from
the beach to the road I saw approaching a young man, dressed in a
suit of grey, almost white material such as I had never seen
before worn by anybody, and that I could never have believed that
any man would have the audacity to wear, the thinness of which
suggested no less vividly than the coolness of the dining-room
the heat and brightness of the glorious day outside, whose skin
was as fair and his hair as golden as if they had absorbed, as do
grapes or honey, all the rays of the sun, and between the narrow
gaps of his eyelids shone darting eyes as green as the colour of
the sea. Here was Mme de Villeparisis's nephew, Comte de
Beauvais, who had just arrived that morning. He seemed to be in
pursuit of his monocle, which kept darting away in front of him
like a butterfly. He was coming from the beach, and the sea which
filled the lower half of the glass front of the hall made a
background against which he stood out full-length, as in certain
portraits whose painters attempt, without in any way falsifying
the most accurate observations of contemporary life, but by
choosing for their sitter an appropriate setting - a polo ground,
golf links, a race-course, the bridge of a yacht - to furnish a
modern equivalent of those canvases on which primitive painters
used to present the human figure in the foreground of a
landscape. A carriage and pair awaited him at the door; and while
his monocle, now positioned and captive for the moment, resumed
its luminous, winged gambollings on the sunlit road, with the
elegance and mastery which a great pianist contrives to display
in the simplest stroke of execution, where it did not seem
possible that he could reveal his superiority to a performer of
the second class, Mme de Villeparisis's nephew, taking the reins
that were handed him by the coachman, sat down beside him and,
while opening a letter which the manager of the hotel brought out
to him, started up his horses.
How disappointed I was on the days that
followed, when, each time that I met him outside or in the hotel,
he did not greet us, perpetually balancing the movements of his
limbs round the fugitive and dancing monocle which seemed to be
their centre of gravity. I could see that he had no desire to
make our acquaintance, and that he did not bow to us even though
he must have known that we were friends of his aunt. And calling
to mind the friendliness that Mme de Villeparisis, and before her
M. de Montfort, had shown me, I thought that perhaps they were
only mock aristocrats and that there must be a secret article in
the laws that govern the nobility which allowed women, perhaps
and certain marquis to discard, in their relations with
commoners, for a reason which was beyond me, the haughtiness
which must, on the other hand, be pitilessly maintained by young
counts. This haughtiness which I surmised in M. de Beauvais, his
contempt for us and all that it implied of innate hardness,
received daily confirmation from his attitude. Every time we
passed him in the hotel or outside he gave us an impassive,
implacable look, devoid of that vague respect which one has for
the rights of other people, which we feel when confronted by
another human creature, even if they do not know one's aunt, and
as if he made no distinction between us and the furniture in the
hall or the paving stones outside. And this evidence that his
looks, his attitude came to bring thus to my hypothesis about his
unfeeling, arrogant and unpleasant nature had created a moral
certainty which was so absolute that when Mme de Villeparisis,
doubtless in an attempt to counteract the bad impression which
had inevitably created an attitude in us, by which she was no
doubt constrained herself, spoke to us of the inexhaustible
kindness of her nephew, I marvelled how the gentry, with an utter
disregard for truth, and no doubt to give an honourable and
legitimate appearance to their liking for them, ascribe
tenderness of heart to those people who are perhaps friendly to
the brilliant members of their own set but behave with a
frightful dryness to the rest of humanity. Moreover even in front
of Mme de Villeparisis he supplied renewed confirmation of the
law which I had already established for myself governing his
character. Because one day when I met him with his aunt coming
along a path so narrow that she could not do otherwise than
introduce me to him, while he thrust out his hand mechanically
before him which I took, not a muscle of his face moved,
remaining as impassive as if he had not heard his aunt telling
him my name, his expressionless eyes, which showed not the
faintest gleam of human sympathy, showed merely the the
insensibility they would have shown had they been lifeless
mirrors; they overstated this to such an extent that the living
creature behind those dead eyeballs by an exaggeration of the
lifelessness of his look, which did not recognize inanimate
objects, by the faintest effort to expulse from his vision any
notion that before him stood a cognizant person to whom his hand
had been thrust out at arm's length, and not held out of his own
volition.
So it turned out that this attitude which so
clearly confirmed the opinion that I had formed of him was quite
simply a social usage - which was particular in this extreme form
to his family - and to which his body had been moulded since his
childhood; like that other habit that he had of at once demanding
an introduction to the family of anyone he knew, which had become
so instinctive in him that, seeing me again the day after our
meeting, he bore down on me and without further ado asked to be
introduced to my grandmother who was with me, with the same
feverish haste as if the request had been due to some instinct of
self-preservation, like the act of warding off a blow or shutting
one's eyes to avoid a stream of boiling water, without the
protection of which it would have been dangerous to remain a
moment longer. But in these fulfilled formalities I saw that this
young man who had the air of a disdainful aristocrat and
sportsman had in fact no respect or curiosity except for the
things of the mind, and especially those modern manifestations of
literature and art which seemed so ridiculous to his aunt; he was
imbued, moreover, with what she called "socialistic
spoutings", was filled with the most profound contempt for
his caste, and spent long hours in the study of Prudhomme. From
the first day he made a conquest of my grandmother, not only by
the incessant kindness which he went out of his way to show to us
both, but by the naturalness which he put into it as into
everything else. For naturalness - doubtless because through the
artifice of man it allows a feeling of nature to permeate - was
the quality which my grandmother preferred to all others, whether
in gardens, where she did not like there to be, as in our Combray
gardens, too formal flower-beds, or in cooking, where she
detested those dressed-up dishes in which you can hardly detect
the foodstuffs that have gone to make them, or in piano-playing,
which she did not like to be too finicking, too polished, having
indeed had a special weakness for the wrong notes of Rubinstein.
This naturalness she found and appreciated in the clothes that
Montargis wore, of a loose elegance, with nothing
"swagger" or "dressed-up" about them, no
stiffness or starch. She appreciated this rich young man still
more highly for the free and careless way he had of living in
luxury without "smelling of money", without being
puffed-up or giving himself airs; she even discovered the charm
of this naturalness in the incapacity which he had kept - though
as a rule it is outgrown with childhood, at the same time as
certain physiological peculiarities of that age - for preventing
his face from at once reflecting every emotion. Something, for
instance, that he wanted to have but had not expected, if only a
compliment, induced in him a pleasure so quick, so glowing, so
volatile, so expansive that it was impossible for him to contain
and to conceal it; a grin of delight seized irresistible hold of
his face, as would a fit of sneezing or giggling, the too
delicate skin of his cheeks allowed a bright red glow to shine
through them, his eyes sparkled with confusion and joy; and my
grandmother was infinitely touched by this charming show of
innocence and frankness, and which indeed in him was not
misleading. But there are many others in whom such physiological
sincerity in no way excludes moral duplicity; as often as not it
proves nothing more than the intensity with which pleasures may
be felt - to the extent of disarming them and forcing them
publicly to confess it - by natures capable of the vilest
treachery. But where my grandmother especially adored de
Beauvais's naturalness was in his way of confessing without the
slightest reservation his affection for me, to give expression to
which he found words than which she herself, she told me, could
not have thought of any more appropriate, more truly loving,
words to which "Sévigné and Charlus" might have set
their signatures. He was not afraid to make fun of my weaknesses
- which he had discerned with a shrewdness that made her smile -
but as she herself would have done, affectionately, at the same
time extolling my good qualities with a warmth, an impulsive
freedom that showed no sign of the reserve, the coldness by means
of which young men of his age are apt to suppose that they give
themselves importance. And he evinced, in anticipating my every
discomfort, however slight, in covering my legs if the day had
turned cold without my noticing it, in arranging (without telling
me) to stay later with me in the evening if he thought I was sad
or gloomy, a vigilance which, from the point of view of my
health, for which a more hardening discipline would perhaps have
been better, my grandmother found almost excessive, though as a
proof of his affection for me she was deeply touched by it.
It was promptly and tacitly settled between us
that he and I were to be great friends for ever, and he would say
"our friendship" as though he were speaking of some
important and delightful thing which had an existence independent
of ourselves, and which he soon called - apart from his love for
his mistress - the great joy of his life. These words filled me
with a sort of melancholy and I was at a loss for an answer, for
I felt when I was with him, when I was talking to him - and no
doubt it would have been the same with anyone else - none of that
happiness which it was possible for me to experience when I was
by myself. Then, at times, I felt surging from the depths of my
being one or other of those impressions which gave me a delicious
sense of well-being. But as soon as I was with Montargis, as soon
as I was talking with someone else, my mind as it were faced
about, it was towards this interlocutor and not towards myself
that I directed its thoughts, and when they followed this
contrary direction they brought me no pleasure. Once I had left
him, I managed, with the help of words, to put some sort of order
into the confused minutes that I had spent with him; I told
myself that I had a good friend, that a good friend is a rare
thing, and I savoured, when I felt myself surrounded by blessings
that were difficult to acquire, what was precisely the opposite
of the pleasure that was natural to me, the opposite of the
pleasure of having extracted from myself and brought to light
something that was hidden in my inner darkness. If I had spent
two or three hours in conversation with Montargis, and he had
expressed his admiration of what I had said to him, I felt a sort
of remorse, or regret, or weariness at not having remained alone
and settled down to work at last. But I told myself that one is
not intelligent for oneself alone, that the greatest of men have
wanted to be appreciated, that hours in which I had built up a
lofty idea of myself in my friend's mind could not be considered
wasted and if I experienced none of the joy I had felt when
throwing light on the least of my thoughts about myself, at least
I had no difficulty in persuading myself that I ought to be happy
in consequence, and I hoped all the more keenly that this
happiness might never be taken from me because I had not actually
felt it. We fear more than the loss of anything else the
disappearance of possessions that have remained outside of
ourselves, because our hearts have not taken possession of them.
I felt that I was capable of exemplifying the virtues of
friendship better than most people because I should always place
the good of my friends before those personal interests to which
other people are devoted but which did not count for me. But I
felt myself incapable of finding happiness in all feelings which,
instead of increasing the differences that there were between my
nature and those of other people - as there are between all of us
- would eliminate them, and particularly the joy of friendship.
On the other hand there were moments when my mind distinguished
in Beauvais a personality more generalized than his own, that of
the "nobleman", which like an indwelling spirit moved
his limbs, ordered his gestures and his actions; then, at such
moments, although in his company, I was alone, as I should have
been in front of a landscape the harmony of which I could
understand. He was no more than an object the properties of
which, in my musings, I sought to explore. The discovery in him
of this pre-existent, this immemorial being, this aristocrat who
was precisely what de Beauvais aspired not to be, gave me intense
joy, but a joy of the mind rather than the feelings. In the moral
and physical agility which gave so much grace to his kindness, in
the ease with which he offered my grandmother his carriage and
helped her into it, in the alacrity with which he sprang from the
box when he was afraid that I might be cold, to spread his own
cloak over my shoulders, I sensed not only the inherited
litheness of the mighty hunters who had been for generations the
ancestors of this young man who had no pretensions except to
intellectuality, their scorn of wealth which, subsisting in him
side by side with his enjoyment of it simply because it enabled
him to entertain his friends more lavishly, made him so
carelessly shower riches at their feet; I sensed in it above all
the certainty or the illusion in the minds of those great lords
of being "better than other people", thanks to which
they had not been able to hand down to Beauvais that anxiety to
show that one is "just as good as the next man", that
dread of seeming too assiduous of which he was indeed wholly
innocent and which mars with so much stiffness and awkwardness
the most plebeian civility. Sometimes I reproached myself for
thus taking pleasure in considering my friend as a work of art,
that is to say in regarding the play of all the parts of his
being as harmoniously ordered by a general idea from which they
depended but of which he was unaware and which consequently added
nothing to his own qualities, to that personal value,
intellectual and moral, which he prized so highly. And yet that
idea was to a certain extent their determining cause. It was
because he was a gentleman that that mental activity, those
social aspirations, which made him seek the company of arrogant
and ill-dressed students, Bloch being a case in point when he
asked me to let him know that they had met in one of the common
universities, connoted in him something really pure and
disinterested which was not to be found in them. Looking upon
himself as the heir of an ignorant and selfish caste, he was
sincerely anxious that they should forgive in him that
aristocratic origin which they, on the contrary, found
irresistibly attractive and on account of which they sought his
acquaintance while simulating coldness and indeed insolence
towards him. And the opinions which he professed were not
dictated in his case, as they were in theirs even though they
would not admit it, by any wish to make a brilliant career. At
the most I may have smiled now and then, to discover in him the
marks of his Jesuit schooling in the embarrassment which the fear
of hurting people's feelings at once provoked in him whenever one
of his intellectual friends made a social error or did something
silly to which Montargis himself attached no importance but felt
that the other would have blushed if anybody had noticed it. And
it was Montargis who used to blush as though he were the guilty
party, for instance on the day when Bloch, after promising to
come and see him at the hotel, went on: "As I cannot endure
to be kept waiting among all the false splendour of these great
caravanserais, and the Hungarian band would make me ill, you must
tell the 'lighft-boy' to make them shut up, and to let you know
at once." As far as Montargis was concerned, on discovering
that Bloch did not know how to pronounce the word 'lift', he saw
in this error nothing more than a lack of good breeding,
something that Montargis himself practised faultlessly but for
which he felt nothing but scorn. But the fear lest Bloch should
retrospectively imagine that Montargis had thought him
ridiculous, made the latter feel as guilty as if he had been
found wanting in the indulgence with which, as we have seen, he
overflowed, so that the blush which would doubtless colour the
cheek of Bloch on the discovery of his error, Montargis already,
by anticipation and reversibility, could feel mounting to his
own. For he assumed that Bloch attached more importance than he
to this mistake - an assumption which Bloch confirmed some days
later, when he heard me pronounce the word "lift", by
breaking in with: "Oh, one says 'lift' does one?" And
then, in a dry and lofty tone: "Not that it's of the
slightest importance." A phrase that is like a reflex
action, the same in all men who in the gravest circumstances as
well as in the most trivial, denounce the importance they attach
to a thing which they lack, the first to escape (and then how
tragic and heart-breakingly) the lips of any man who is at all
proud from whom we have just removed the last hope to which he
clung by refusing to do him a service: "Oh, well, it's not
of the slightest importance; I shall make some other
arrangement"; the other arrangement which is not of the
slightest importance that he should be driven to adopt being
sometimes suicide... But if Beauvais blushed on account of
Bloch's error he did not laugh at him, as Bloch would not have
failed to do so on his account. And if in this benevolence I
still sensed the aristocrat devoid of shyness and envy which
often gave rise to his malicious mockery of the petit bourgeois,
the aristocracy still present in him had facilitated the
manifestation of certain of its virtues by maintaining the great
purity of its moral atmosphere. And it was this great purity
which, not being able to find entire satisfaction in a selfish
emotion such as love, and at the same time failing to find in him
that sense (which existed in me, for instance) of the
impossibility of finding one's spiritual nourishment elsewhere
than in oneself, rendered him truly capable of friendship. Nobody
had less class prejudice than he. One day when he was in a
furious temper with his groom and I had reproached him for it he
replied:
"Why should I go out of my way to speak
politely to him? Isn't he my equal? Isn't he just as near to me
as any of my uncles and cousins? You seem to think I ought to
treat him with respect, as an inferior. You talk like an
aristocrat!" he added scornfully. And indeed if there was a
class to which he showed himself prejudiced and hostile, it was
the aristocracy, so much so that he found it as hard to believe
in the superior qualities of a man of the world as he found it
easy to believe in those of a man of the people. When I mentioned
the Princesse de Luxembourg, whom I had met with his aunt:
"An old trout," was his comment.
"Like all that lot. She's a sort of cousin of mine, by the
way."
"How is she your cousin?"
"Oh, I don't know," he replied
absently with an air of boredom. "These questions of
genealogy leave me cold. Life is too short, there really are far
more interesting things for us to talk about."
Having a strong prejudice against the people
who frequented it, he went rarely into "society", and
on the occasions he did go out the contemptuous or hostile
attitude which he adopted towards it served to intensify, among
all his closest relatives, the painful impression made by his
liaison with an actress; a liaison which, they declared, would be
his ruin, blaming it specially for having bred in him that spirit
of denigration, that rebelliousness, for having "led him
astray", and it was only a matter of time before he
"dropped out" altogether. Of course, he was not the
first to be thus ensnared. But the others amused themselves like
men of the world, that is they continued to think like men of the
world. Whereas his family found him "soured", they
failed to realize that for young men of fashion who would
otherwise remain uncultivated mentally, rough in their
friendships, without gentleness or taste, it is very often their
mistresses who are their real masters, and liaisons of this sort
the only school of ethics in which they are initiated into a
superior culture, where they learn the value of disinterested
relations. Even among the lower orders (who in point of
coarseness so often remind us of high society) the woman, more
sensitive, more fastidious, more leisured, is driven by curiosity
to adopt certain refinements, respects certain beauties of
sentiment and of art which, though she may not understand them,
she nevertheless places above what has seemed most desirable to
the man, above money and position. Now whether it be the mistress
of a young "clubman" like Montargis or a young workman,
her lover has too much admiration and respect for her not to
extend them also to what she herself respects and admires; and
for him the scale of values is thereby overturned. Her very sex
makes her weak; she suffers from nervous troubles, inexplicable
things which in a man, or even in another woman - a woman whose
nephew or cousin he was - would bring a smile to the lips of this
robust young man. But he cannot bear to see the woman he loves
suffer. The young nobleman who, like Montargis, has a mistress,
acquires the habit, when he takes her out to dine, of carrying in
his pocket the valerian "drops" which she may need, of
ordering the waiter, firmly and with no hint of sarcasm, to see
that he shuts the door quietly and does not put any damp moss on
the table, so as to spare his companion those little ailments
which he himself has never felt, which compose for him an occult
world in whose reality she has taught him to believe, ailments
for which he now feels sympathy without needing to understand
them, for which he will still feel sympathy when women other than
she are the sufferers. An actress, like the woman who was living
with him - even a coquette would have done the same thing - had
given him the advantage of making him find society women boring,
and to look upon having to go out to a party as a painful duty,
had saved him from snobbishness and cured him of frivolity.
Thanks to her, social relations filled a smaller place in the
life of her young lover, but whereas, if he had been simply a man
about town, vanity or self-interest would have dictated his
choice of friends as rudeness would have characterized his
treatment of them, his mistress had taught him to bring nobility
and refinement into his friendships. With her feminine instinct,
with a keener appreciation of certain qualities of sensibility in
men which her lover might, perhaps, without her guidance, have
misunderstood and mocked, she had always been quick to
distinguish from among the rest of Montargis's friends the one
who had a real affection for him, and to make that one her
favorite. She knew how to persuade him to feel grateful to that
friend, to show his gratitude, to notice what things gave his
friend pleasure and what pain. And presently Montargis, without
any more need for her to prompt him, began to think of these
things himself, and at Bricquebec, where she was not with him,
for me whom she had never seen, of his own accord would pull up
the window of the carriage in which I was sitting, take out of
the room the roses that made me feel unwell, and when he had to
say good-bye to several people at once would contrive to do so
before it was actually time for him to go, so as to be left alone
and last with me, to treat me differently from the rest. His
mistress had opened his mind to the invisible, had brought an
element of seriousness into his life, of delicacy into his heart,
but all this escaped his grieving family who repeated:
"That creature will be the death of him,
and meanwhile she's doing what she can to disgrace him."
It is true that he had already drawn from her
all the good that she was capable of doing him; and that she now
caused him only incessant suffering, for she had taken an intense
dislike to him. She had begun to regard him as stupid and absurd
because her young literary friends had assured her that he was,
and she duly repeated what they had said with that passion, that
lack of reserve which we show whenever we receive from without,
and accept as our own, opinions or customs of which we previously
knew nothing. She readily professed, like her literary friends,
that between Montargis and herself there was an unbridgeable
gulf, because they were of a different breed, because she was an
intellectual and he, whatever he might claim, by birth an enemy
of the intellect. This view of him seemed to her profound, and
she sought confirmation of it in the most insignificant words,
the most trivial actions of her lover. But when the same friends
had further convinced her that she was destroying the great
promise she had shown in company so ill-suited to her, that her
lover's influence would finally rub off on her, that by living
with him she was ruining her future as an artist, to her contempt
for Montargis was added the sort of hatred that she would have
felt for him if he had insisted upon inoculating her with a
deadly germ. She saw him as seldom as possible, at the same time
postponing a definite rupture. This dramatic period of their
liaison - which had now reached its most acute, its cruellest
state for Montargis, for she had forbidden him to remain in
Paris, where his presence exasperated her, and had sent him alone
to Cricquebec - had begun one evening at the house of one of his
aunts, on whom he had prevailed to allow his mistress to come
there, before a large party, to recite some fragments of a
symbolist play in which she had once appeared in an avant-garde
theatre, and for which she had brought him to share the
admiration that she herself professed. When she appeared in the
room, with a large lily in her hand, and wearing a costume copied
from the Ancilla Domini which she had persuaded
Montargis was an absolute "vision of beauty", her
entrance had been greeted, in that assemblage of clubmen and
duchesses, with smiles which the monotonous tone of her
sing-song, the oddity of certain words and their frequent
repetition, had changed into fits of giggles, stifled at first
but presently so uncontrollable that the wretched reciter had
been unable to go on.
Next day Montargis' aunt had been universally
censured for having allowed so grotesque an actress to appear in
her drawing-room. The Duc d'Albon, one of the most well-known
gentlemen in society, made no bones about telling her that she
had only herself to blame if she found herself criticized.
"Damn it all, people really don't come to
see 'turns' like that! If the woman had talent, even; but she has
none, and never will have any. 'Pon my soul, Paris is not so
stupid as people make out. Society does not consist exclusively
of imbeciles. This little lady evidently believed that she was
going to take Paris by surprise. But Paris is not so easily
surprised as all that, and there are still some things that they
can't make us swallow."
As for the actress, she left the house with
Montargis, exclaiming: "What do you mean by letting me in
for those old hens, those uneducated bitches, those dirty corner
boys? I don't mind telling you, there wasn't a man in the room
who hadn't leered at me or tried to paw me, and it was because I
wouldn't look at them that they were out to get their
revenge." And what she told him had changed the antipathy he
felt for society into a horror that was altogether more profound
and caused him to endure ceaseless suffering. All of his
relatives and friends that he had introduced her to, she assured
him - whether out of a desire to burn the bridges between him and
his young friends who may have sided with his parents and told
the young woman of the pain that their liaison was causing them,
in an attempt to make him accept the idea of a break with her,
whether out of a desire to excite his jealousy, whether in an
effort to explain her failure when she had gone to perform at his
aunt's, or whether quite simply because it was true - she had
sworn that they had all tried to sleep with her, even to take her
by force. And Montargis, although he, and she too, had ceased to
see them, thought that perhaps when he was separated from her, as
he was now in Bricquebec, that they or others like them were
profiting by his absence to return to the charge. And so it was
almost always with a furrowed brow and often empty-handed that I
would see him returning from the post office, where, alone in all
the hotel, he and Françoise went to fetch and hand in letters,
he from a lover's impatience, she with a servant's mistrust of
others. And when he spoke of the lechers who betrayed their
friends, who sought to corrupt women, tried to make them come to
houses of assignation, his whole face radiated suffering and
hatred.
"I'd kill them with less compunction than
I'd kill a dog, which is at least a decent, honest and faithful
beast. They're the ones who deserve the guillotine if you like,
far more than poor wretches who've been led into crime by poverty
and by the cruelty of the rich."
As my grandmother approved of my spending as
much time as possible with Montargis she even allowed us to go
out together in the evenings. We had begun by not returning to
the hotel to dine one day and had gone together to an old mill,
situated a few kilometres from Bricquebec, which had become a
restaurant for the non-commissioned officers from the nearby
garrison, men who had come to take a break from the harshness of
their daily duties, from the heat and the dust of the town, by
hiring a small boat and dining at the water's edge. Montargis
told me: "Your grandmother is so good, she won't scold you
if we stay out till nine." We had ordered trout and
Montargis had taken me out on the water which struck against the
slanting rays of the sun until the waitress signalled us that our
meal was ready. I asked him if he thought one could easily take
the waitress upstairs to the little room that was for hire. He
didn't think so; but in any case I found it easier to stay with
him and contented myself with watching him as I ate my trout,
beside the murmuring water beneath the trees filled with
birdsong. And I questioned him on the virtues of various women;
personally he had no interest in them, being far from his
mistress he maintained a chastity which cost him little, as he
had become indifferent to other women, and it brought him a sort
of calm by believing that through his own chastity he could prove
to himself that it is not an impossible virtue and persuade
himself that his mistress was practising it the same as him. But
as we chatted I could not question him about the definite or
possible fickleness of one woman or another without taking into
account the same intolerable discomfort he would have felt had I
asked him about debauched men, because he always imagined it was
his mistress that their desires were focused upon. He assured me
that young women were often far less shy than I supposed.
"As for Mlle de Silaria who I know a little," he told
me, "I have almost no doubt. I'm sorry I wasn't there, I
could have brought you together." I used this to my
advantage by talking to him about a tall young girl to whom he
had introduced me outside the hotel, one of his cousins, who was
staying in the country with the Princesse de Parme.
It seemed to me impossible to mistake for
anybody else this majestic and supple Jean Goujon or Primatrice
nymph, with her towering crown of blonde hair, her brow elongated
by an unblemished nose, this radiant beauty, as Greek as court
goddesses, refined and proud as if she had been taken from the
antiquity of the Fontainebleau school. And yet if Montargis had
not said that she was one of his relatives I would have been sure
that I recognized her, had encountered her several times on the
street in my Paris neighbourhood. Something had struck me about
her - which I never saw in such a proper way among the
middle-classes - too elegant and at the same time too careless in
her dress - unoccupied in her bearing, unconscious of the refined
crowd all around her - which created retrospectively in my memory
of this Parisian stroller the appearance of somebody finding
themselves out walking after leaving a friend's villa, dressed
for the beach. But when this beautiful girl caught sight of me in
Paris, she stopped short, looked me in the eyes, smiling, lips
parted, with more shamelessness than a prostitute. And I had
noticed her behaving in the same way to other young men. So I
interrogated Montargis about his cousin. On the contrary she
possessed an ill-tempered virtue. "She is odious", he
assured me. "The only reason she is not married is that she
won't accept less than royalty, or at least the head of a grand
ducal family. Honestly! She can hardly bring herself to say hello
to my aunt Villeparisis. She's the limit! She has nothing going
for her but her antique beauty and austerity. You can't deny
Claremonde that. But she thinks that gives her the right to be
haughtiness personified." Indeed she had barely even nodded
her head when Montargis had introduced me to her.
Consequently I learned that there could not
possibly be anything in common between this woman and my unknown
Parisienne. I was alarmed to think about the risks of identifying
an image that was nothing more than our ever uncertain memory,
and the way in which we fail to notice the tiny differences that
are all we need to undeceive us. And by a bizarre coincidence
which did not throw me back into perplexity because the
information furnished by Montargis had unburdened me of my error
and established for me a certainty - after having gone out some
days later for a stroll along the embankment, right at the end
where there are very few houses, when the neighbouring dunes
begin, I crossed in front of Mlle Claremonde who turned around
three or four times and even stopped, she even made a sign
without me being able to see the friends that she had doubtless
caught sight of and who were attracting her attention.
Montargis was unable to join me on a visit a
short distance from Cricquebec to the painter Elstir, who we had
both got to know. Because that day he was expecting one of his
uncles who was coming to spend a few days with Mme de
Villeparisis. Montargis had preferred, since I was not going to
be there, to devote this first afternoon to his uncle so that he
could more easily excuse himself for spending the others with me.
Since he was greatly addicted to physical exercise, and
especially to long walks, it was largely on foot, spending the
night in wayside farms, that this uncle was to make the journey
from the country house in which he was staying, and the precise
moment of his arrival at Bricquebec was somewhat uncertain. The
uncle in question was called Palamède, a Christian name that had
come down to him from his ancestors the Princes of Sicily. And
later on, when I found, in the course of my historical reading,
belonging to this or that Podestà or Pope, the same Christian
name, a fine Renaissance medal - some said a genuine antique -
that had always remained in the family, having passed from
generation to generation, from the Vatican cabinet to the uncle
of my friend, I felt the pleasure that is reserved for those who,
unable from lack of means to start a collection of statues or
cameos, look out for old names - names of localities in which
survive the ancient vestiges of customs or of a region,
instructive and picturesque as an old map, as unceremonious as a
sign-board or a tailor's pattern - old Christian names whose fine
French endings echo the defect of speech, the intonation of an
ethnic vulgarity, the corrupt pronunciation whereby our ancestors
made Latin and Saxon words undergo lasting mutilations which in
due course became the august law-givers of our grammar books,
and, in short, by drawing upon these collections of ancient
sonorities, give themselves concerts like the people who acquire
viole da gamba of viole d'amore to perform the music of the past
on old instruments. Montargis told me that even in the most
exclusive society his uncle Palamède stood out as being
particularly unapproachable, scornful, obsessed with his
nobility, forming with his brother's wife and a few other chosen
spirits what was known as the Phoenix Club. Even there his
insolence was so dreaded that it happened more than once that
people who had been anxious to meet him had met with a refusal
from his own brother: "Really, you mustn't ask me to
introduce you to my brother Palamède. Even if my wife and the
whole lot of us put ourselves to the task it would be no good. Or
else you'd run the risk of his being rude to you, and I shouldn't
want that." At the Jockey Club he had, with a few of his
friends, made up a list of two hundred members whom they would
never allow to be introduced to them. And in the Comte de Paris's
circle he was known by the nickname of "The Prince"
because of his elegance and his pride. This aristocratic
arrogance, however mitigated, it seemed, by his piety and his
age, could not have been other than particularly offensive to
Montargis. But he assured me that despite what he called
"those ideas from another world", nobody was more
intelligent or gifted in all the Arts than his uncle Palamède,
who lived in such an isolated sphere, distant and ravishing as a
coral reef in the Australian seas, that he appeared to my mind
not with the contradictions and opacity of a real man but with
the homogeneous translucence of a character from legend. He gave
me the idea of a power, not simply greater than that of other
men, as with kings, but of a different kind of power, particular
to the Noble Palamède, and which added something flattering for
the vanity to the images that his name evoked, but at the same
time remained so much held in their dependency, that behind the
pleasure of imagining this great nobleman lurked, unrecognized by
me, my ambition to know him, which, on the contrary, would never
be fully satisfied if he turned out not to resemble the character
that I had imagined.
Montargis told me about his uncle's early life.
Every day he used to take women to a bachelor establishment which
he shared with two of his friends, as good-looking as himself, on
account of which they were known as "the three Graces".
"One day a man who is now one of the
brightest luminaries of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, but who
displayed bizarre tastes in his youth, asked my uncle to let him
come to this place. But no sooner had he arrived than it was not
to the ladies but to my uncle that he began to make overtures. My
uncle pretended not to understand, and took his two friends aside
on some pretext or other. They reappeared on the scene, seized
the offender, stripped him, thrashed him till he bled and threw
him outside where he was found more dead than alive; so much so
that the police started an inquiry which the poor devil had the
greatest difficulty in getting them to abandon. Naturally he
would not do anything like that today because he detests those
sort of men. On the contrary he is very good, in fact you
couldn't imagine the number of working men he takes under his
wing, only to be repaid with the basest ingratitude. It may be a
servant who has looked after him in a hotel, for whom he will
find a place in Paris, or a farm-labourer whom he will pay to
have taught a trade. He really isn't as malicious as he pretends.
I'm told it was quite extraordinary to what extent he set the
tone, to what extent he laid down the law for the whole of
society when he was a young man. As far as he was concerned, in
any circumstances he did whatever seemed most agreeable or most
convenient for himself, but immediately it was imitated by all
the snobs. If he felt thirsty at the theatre, and had a drink
brought to him in his box, a week later the little sitting-rooms
behind all the boxes would be filled with refreshments. If there
was a piece where you need to see the whole stage, he would leave
his box and sit in the orchestra, then the stalls became the most
sought-after seats. One wet summer when he had a touch of
rheumatism, he ordered an overcoat of a loose but warm vicuna
wool, which is used only for travelling rugs, and insisted on the
usual blue and orange stripes. The big tailors at once received
orders from all their customers for blue and orange overcoats of
rough wool. If for some reason he wanted to remove every aspect
of ceremony from a dinner in a country house where he was
spending the day, and to underline the distinction had come
without evening clothes and sat down to table in the suit he had
been wearing that afternoon, it became the fashion not to dress
for dinner in the country. If instead of taking a spoon to eat
his pudding he used a fork, or a special implement of his own
invention which he had had made for him by a silversmith, or his
fingers, it was no longer permissible to eat in any other way. He
wanted once to hear some Beethoven quartets again and arranged
for some musicians to come and play them to him and a few friends
once a week. The ultra-fashionable thing to do that season was to
give quite small parties with chamber music. Really, I don't
think he has ever been bored in his life. With his looks, he must
have had any number of women. I couldn't tell you exactly which,
because he's very discreet. But I do know that he was thoroughly
unfaithful to my poor aunt, which doesn't mean that he wasn't
always perfectly charming to her, that she didn't adore him, and
that he didn't go on mourning her for years." And in this
way Montargis, as he accompanied me all the way to the station
where I was catching a train to visit Elstir, told me all about
his uncle whose arrival he was anticipating. But he waited in
vain. That evening, when I arrived back from my visit to Elstir,
uncle Palamède had still not arrived.
The next morning as I was passing the Casino
on my way back to the hotel, I had the sensation of being
watched by somebody who was not far off. I turned my head and saw
a man of about forty, very tall and rather stout, with a very
black moustache, who, nervously slapping his white linen trousers
with a cane, was staring at me, his eyes dilated with extreme
attentiveness. From time to time these eyes were shot through
with a look of restless activity such as the sight of a person
they do not know excites only in men in whom, for whatever
reason, it inspires thoughts that would not occur to anyone else
- madmen, for example, or spies. He darted a final glance at me
that was at once bold, prudent, rapid and profound, like a last
shot which one fires at an enemy as one turns to flee, and, after
first looking all round him, suddenly adopting an absent and
lofty air, with an abrupt revolution of his whole person he
turned towards a playbill in the reading of which he became
absorbed, while he hummed a tune and fingered the moss-rose in
his buttonhole. He drew from his pocket a note-book in which he
appeared to be taking down the title of the performance that was
announced because it was Sunday and there was to be a grand
matinée, looked at his watch two or three times, pulled down
over his eyes a black straw hat the brim of which he extended
with his hand held out over it like an eye-shade, as though to
see whether someone was coming at last, made the perfunctory
gesture of annoyance by which people mean to show that they have
waited long enough, although they never make it when they are
really waiting, then pushing back his hat and exposing a scalp
cropped close except at the sides where he allowed a pair of
waved "pigeon's-wings" to grow quite long, he emitted
the loud panting breath that people exhale not when they are too
hot but when they wish it to be thought that they are too hot. He
gave me the impression of a hotel crook who, having been watching
my grandmother and myself for some days, and planning to rob us,
had just discovered that I had caught him in the act of spying on
me. Perhaps he was only seeking by his new attitude to express
abstractedness and detachment in order to put me off the scent,
but it was with an exaggeration so aggressive that his object
appeared to be - at least as much as the dissipating of the
suspicions he might have aroused in me - to avenge a humiliation
which I must have unwittingly inflicted on him, to give me the
idea not so much that he had not seen me as that I was an object
of too little importance to attract his attention. He threw back
his shoulders with an air of bravado, pursed his lips, twisted
his moustache, and adjusted his face into an expression that was
at once indifferent, harsh, and almost insulting. So much so that
I took him at one moment for a thief and at another for a
lunatic. And yet his scrupulously ordered attire was far more
sober and far more simple that that of any of the summer visitors
I saw at Cricquebec, and reassured me as to my own suit, so often
humiliated by the dazzling whiteness of their holiday garb. But
my grandmother was coming towards me, we took a turn together,
and I was waiting for her, an hour later, outside the hotel into
which she had gone to fetch something, when I saw emerge from it
Mme de Villeparisis with Montargis and the stranger who stared at
me so intently outside the Casino. Swift as a lightning-flash his
look shot through me, just as at the moment when I had first
noticed him, and returned, as though he had not seen me, to
hover, slightly lowered, before his eyes, deadened, like the
neutral look which feigns to see nothing without and is incapable
of reporting anything to the mind within, the look which
expresses merely the satisfaction of feeling round it the eyelids
which it keeps apart with its beatific roundness, the devout and
sanctimonious look that we see on the faces of certain
hypocrites, the smug look on those of certain fools. I saw that
he had changed his clothes. The suit he was wearing was darker
than ever; and no doubt true elegance is less intimidating, lies
nearer to simplicity than false; but there was something more;
from close at hand one felt that if colour was almost entirely
absent from these garments it was not because he who had banished
it from them was indifferent to it but rather because for some
reason he forbade himself the enjoyment of it. And the sobriety
which they displayed seemed to be of the kind that comes from
obedience to a rule of diet rather than from lack of appetite. A
dark green thread harmonized, in the stuff of his trousers, with
the stripe on his socks, with a refinement which betrayed the
vivacity of a taste that was everywhere else subdued, to which
this single concession had been made out of tolerance, while a
spot of red on his tie was imperceptible, like a liberty which
one dares not take.
"How are you? Let me introduce my nephew,
the Baron de Guermantes," Mme de Villeparisis said to me,
while the stranger, without looking at me, muttered a vague
"Charmed" which he followed with a "H'm, h'm,
h'm," to make his affability seem somehow forced, and
crooking his little finger, forefinger and thumb, held out his
middle and ring fingers, which I clasped earnestly through his
suede glove; then, without lifting his eyes to my face, he turned
towards Mme de Villeparisis.
"Good gracious, I shall be forgetting my
own name next," she exclaimed. "Here I am calling you
the Baron de Guermantes. But after all it's not a very serious
mistake," she went on with a smile, "for you're a
thorough Guermantes whatever else you are."
By this time my grandmother had reappeared, and
we all set out together. Montargis' uncle declined to honour me
not only with a word but with so much as a look in my direction.
If he stared strangers out of countenance (and during this short
excursion he two or three times hurled his terrible and searching
scrutiny like a thunderbolt at insignificant people of the most
humble extraction who happened to pass), on the other hand he
never for a moment, if I was to judge by myself, looked at
persons whom he knew - as a detective on a secret mission might
except his personal friends from his professional vigilance.
Leaving my grandmother, Mme de Villeparisis and him to talk to
one another, I fell behind with Montargis.
"Tell me, am I right in thinking I heard
Mme de Villeparisis say just now to your uncle that he was a
Guermantes?"
"Of course he is: Palamède de
Guermantes."
"Not the same Guermantes who have a
Château near Combray, and claim descent from Geneviève de
Brabant?"
"Most certainly: my uncle, who is more
concerned about heraldry than me, will tell you that our 'cry',
our war cry that is to say, was 'Combraysis'," he said,
smiling so as not to appear to be priding himself on this
prerogative of a 'cry', which only the quasi-royal houses, the
great feudal chieftains, enjoyed."It's his brother who has
the place now. How do you come to know the Château? Have you
visited it? Or perhaps you know the Gilbert de Guermantes, my
aunt Guermantes-La Trémoïlle who used to live there
before?" he asked me, finding it perfectly natural that I
should know the same people as himself, taking no account of the
fact that I belonged to a totally different social group, or
rather, out of politeness, made himself appear not to be taking
it into account.
"No... but... I have heard people talking
about the Château. Haven't they got the busts of all the old
lords of Guermantes down there?"
"Yes, and a lovely sight they are!"
said Montargis ironically, partly from modesty, since to my great
astonishment he was related to the Guermantes, partly due to his
sincere indifference, even partly on account of his hostile
prejudice against all matters concerning the nobility.
"They have something that is a little more
interesting! A superb portrait of my aunt by Carolus Deran, and
some magnificent Delacroix drawings. My aunt is the niece of Mme
de Villeparisis, she was brought up by her, and married her
cousin, who was a nephew too of my aunt, the present Duc de
Guermantes."
"Then what is your uncle?"
"He bears the title of Baron de Fleurus.
Strictly, when my great-uncle died, my uncle Palamède ought to
have taken the title of Prince des Launes, which was that of his
brother before he became Duc de Guermantes - in that family they
change their names as often as their shirts. But my uncle has
peculiar ideas about nobility. As he feels that people are rather
apt to overdo the Italian Prince, Grandee of Spain, Papal titles
business nowadays, and although he had five or six Princely
titles to choose from, he has remained Baron de Fleurus, as a
protest, and with an apparent simplicity which really covers a
good deal of pride. 'In these days', he says, 'everybody is a
prince; one really must have something to distinguish one; I
shall call myself Prince when I wish to travel incognito.'
But," Montargis continued, "you mustn't ask me to talk
pedigrees. Nothing bores me more."
I now recognized in the look that earlier had
made me turn round outside the Casino as the same that I had seen
fixed on me at La Frapelière at the moment when Mme Swann had
called Gilberte away.
"But wasn't your uncle thought to be Mme
Swann's lover?"
"Good Lord no! That is to say, my uncle's
a great friend of Swann, and has always stood up for him. But no
one has ever suggested that he was his wife's lover. You would
cause the utmost astonishment in Parisian society if people
believed you thought that."
I dared not reply that it would have caused
even greater astonishment in Combray society if people thought
that I did not believe it.
My grandmother was delighted with M. de
Fleurus. No doubt he attached an extreme importance to all
questions of birth and social position, and my grandmother had
remarked this, but without any trace of that severity which as a
rule embodies a secret envy and irritation, at seeing another
person enjoy advantages which one would like but cannot oneself
possess. Since, on the contrary, my grandmother, content with her
lot and not for a moment regretting that she did not move in a
more brilliant sphere, employed only her intellect in observing
the eccentricities of M. de Fleurus, she spoke of Montargis'
uncle with that detached, smiling, almost affectionate
benevolence with which we reward the object of our disinterested
observation for the pleasure that it has given us, all the more
so because this time the object was a person whose pretensions,
if not legitimate at any rate picturesque, made him stand out in
fairly vivid contrast to the people whom she generally had the
occasion to see. But it was above all in consideration of his
intelligence and sensibility, qualities which it was easy to see
that M. de Fleurs, unlike so many of the society people whom
Montargis derided, possessed in a marked degree, that my
grandmother had so readily forgiven him his aristocratic
prejudice. And yet this prejudice had not been sacrificed by the
uncle, as it had been by the nephew, to higher qualities. Rather
M. de Fleurus had reconciled it with them. Possessing, by virtue
of his descent from the Ducs de Nemours, the Princes de Lamballe,
La Trémoïlle and de Choiseul, documents, furniture, tapestries,
portraits painted for his ancestors by Raphael, Velasquez,
Boucher, justified him in saying that he was "visiting a
museum and a matchless library" when he was merely going
over his family mementoes, he still, on account of their rarefied
tastes, placed the whole heritage of the French aristocracy in
the high position from which his nephew had toppled it. Perhaps
also, being less ideological than his nephew, less satisfied with
words, a more realistic observer of men, he did not care to
neglect an essential element of prestige in their eyes which, if
it gave certain disinterested pleasures, could often be a
powerfully effective aid to his utilitarian activities. No
agreement can ever be reached between men of his sort and those
who obey an "inner" ideal which drives them to rid
themselves of such advantages so that they may seek only to
realize that ideal, resembling in that respect the painters and
writers who renounce their virtuosity, the artistic people who
modernize themselves, the warrior people who initiate universal
disarmament, the absolute governments which turn democratic and
repeal their harsh laws, though as often as not the sequel fails
to reward their noble efforts; for the artists lose their talent,
the nations their age-old predominance; pacifism often breeds
wars and tolerance criminality. Even from an aesthetic point of
view, if M. de Fleurus had narrow tastes, if his mind appeared to
be closed to Modern Art, ever since the rise of Romanticism which
he considered decadent, it was possible to discern this
narrowness as more perceptive than the efforts to emancipation
that Montargis had made, by their visible result: M. de Fleurus
had transported a large part of the marvellous panelling from the
Hôtel de Guermantes to his own residence, rather exchanging the
things he possessed, as Montargis had done, for a modern style of
furniture and multi-coloured Gérôme statues. In certain women
of great beauty and rare culture whose ancestresses, two
centuries earlier, had shared in all the glory and grace of the
old order, he found a distinction which made him capable of
taking pleasure in their society alone, and doubtless his
admiration for them was sincere, but countless reminiscences,
historical and artistic, evoked by their names played a
considerable part in it, just as memories of classical antiquity
are one of the reasons for the pleasure which a literary man
finds in reading an ode by Horace that is perhaps inferior to
poems of our own day which would leave him cold. Any of these
women by the side of a pretty commoner was for him what an old
picture is to a contemporary canvas representing a procession or
a wedding - one of those old pictures the history of which we
know, from the Pope or king that commissioned them, through the
hands of the eminent persons whose acquisition of them, by gift,
purchase, conquest or inheritance, recalls to us some event or at
least some alliance of historic interest, and consequently some
knowledge that we ourselves have acquired, gives it new meaning,
increases our sense of richness of the possessions of our memory
or of our erudition. M. de Fleurus was thankful that a prejudice
similar to his own, by preventing these few great ladies from
mixing with women whose blood was less pure, presented themselves
for his veneration intact, in their unadulterated nobility, like
some eighteenth-century façade supported on its flat columns of
pink marble, in which the passage of time has wrought no change.
M. de Fleurus extolled the true
"nobility" of mind and heart which characterized these
women, playing upon the word in a double sense by which he
himself was taken in, and in which lay the falsehood of this
bastard conception, of this medley of aristocracy, generosity and
art, but also its seductiveness, dangerous to people like my
grandmother, to whom the less refined but more innocent prejudice
of a nobleman who cared only about quarterings and took no
thought of anything besides would have appeared too silly for
words, whereas she was defenceless as soon as anything presented
itself under the externals of an intellectual superiority, so
much so, indeed, that she regarded princes as enviable above all
other men because they were able to have a La Bruyère or a
Fénelon as their tutors.
Mme de Villeparisis took her nephew off for a
little walk. Although it was Sunday, there were no more carriages
waiting outside the hotel now than at the beginning of the
season. The notary's wife, in particular, had decided that it was
not worth the expense of hiring one every time simply because she
was not going to the Chemisey's, and simply stayed in her room.
"Is Mme Bruland not well?" her
husband was asked. "We haven't seen her
all day."
"She has a slight headache - the heat, you
know, this thundery weather. The least thing upsets her. But I
expect you'll see her this evening. I've told her she ought to
come down. It can do her nothing but good."
When Mme de Villeparisis, on returning from her
walk, invited us to take tea with M. de Fleurus later that day, I
thought that perhaps she had noticed the impoliteness that he had
shown towards me, and she wanted to give him the opportunity to
make amends. But when, on entering the little salon in her
apartment where she was receiving us, I attempted to greet M. de
Charlus, [sic] for all that I walked
right round him while he was telling a story in a shrill voice, I
could not succeed in catching his eye; I decided to say
"Good evening" to him, and fairly loud, to warn him of
my presence, but I realized that he had observed it, for before
ever a word had passed my lips, just as I was beginning to bow to
him, I saw his two fingers held out for me to shake without his
having turned to look at me or paused in his story. He had
evidently seen me, without letting it appear that he had, and I
noticed then that his eyes, which were never fixed on the person
to whom he was speaking, strayed perpetually in all directions,
like those of certain frightened animals, or those of street
hawkers who, while delivering their patter and displaying their
illicit merchandise, keep a sharp look-out, though without
turning their heads, on the different points of the horizon from
which the police may appear at any moment.
No doubt, had it not been for those eyes, M. de
Fleurus's face and body would have been similar to the faces and
bodies of many good-looking men, and just as I had imagined a
"great nobleman" to be a totally different creature
from all others, I felt that I had been deceived in seeing M. de
Fleurus with the same slim figure, regular profile and refined
moustache as so many other people I had either seen or knew. I
thought that this great nobleman alone made himself an exception
from the others by assuming the body of an ordinary man. And when
Montargis, speaking to me of various other Guermantes, said to
me: "Gad, they've got that aristocratic air to their very
fingertips that my uncle Palamède has", confirming my
suspicions that a thoroughbred air and aristocratic distinction
were not something mysterious and new but consisted in elements
that I had recognized without difficulty and without receiving
any particular impression from them, I was to feel that another
of my illusions had been shattered. But however much M. de
Fleurus tried to seal hermetically the expression on that face,
to which a light coating of powder lent a faintly theatrical
aspect, the eyes were like two crevices, two loop-holes which
alone he had failed to stop, and through which, according to
one's position in relation to him, one suddenly felt oneself in
the path of some hidden weapon which seemed to bode no good, even
to him who, without being altogether master of it, carried it
within himself in a state of precarious equilibrium and always on
the verge of explosion; and the circumspect and unceasingly
restless expression of those eyes, with all the signs of
exhaustion which the heavy pouches beneath them stamped upon his
face, however carefully he might compose and regulate it, made
one think of some incognito, some disguise assumed by a
powerful man in danger, or merely by a dangerous - but tragic -
individual. I should have liked to divine what was this secret
which other men did not carry with them and which had already
made his stare seem to me so enigmatic when I had seen him that
morning outside the Casino. But with what I now knew of his
family I could no longer believe that it was that of a thief, nor
after what I had heard of his conversation, of a madman. If he
was so cold towards me, while making himself so agreeable to my
grandmother, this did not perhaps arise from any personal
antipathy towards me, for in general, to the extent that he was
kindly disposed towards women, of whose faults he spoke without,
as a rule, departing from the utmost tolerance, he displayed
towards men, and especially young men, a hatred so violent as to
suggest that of certain misogynists for women. Of two or three,
relatives or intimate friends of Montargis, who happened to
mention their names, he remarked with an almost ferocious
expression in sharp contrast to his usual coldness: "Young
scum!" I gathered that the particular fault which he found
in the young men of the day was their effeminacy. "They're
nothing but women," he said with scorn. But what life would
not have appeared effeminate beside that which he expected a man
to lead, and never found energetic or virile enough? (He himself
told how when he walked across country, after long hours on the
road he would plunge his heated body into frozen streams.) He would
not even concede that a man should wear any rings. And I
noticed that on the ring finger that he held out to me he wore
none.
But this obsession with virility did not
prevent his having also the most delicate sensibilities. When Mme
de Villeparisis asked him to describe to my grandmother some
country house in which Mme de Sévigné had stayed, adding that
there was something rather "literary" about that
person's distress at being parted from "that tiresome Mme de
Grignan":
"On the contrary," he retorted,
"nothing could be further from the truth - it is because of
that that Mme de Sévigné's letters are genuinely profound and
human. Besides, it was a time in which feelings of that sort were
thoroughly understood. The inhabitant of La Fontaine's
Monomotapa, running round to see his friend who had appeared to
him in a dream looking rather sad, the pigeon finding that the
greatest of evils is the absence of the other pigeon, seem to you
perhaps, my dear aunt, as exaggerated as Mme de Sévigné's
impatience for the moment when she will be alone with her
daughter."
"But as soon as she was alone with her she
probably had nothing to say to her."
"Most certainly she had: if it was only
what she called 'things so slight that nobody else would notice
them but you and I'. And even if she had nothing to say to her,
at least she was with her. And La Bruyère tells us that this is
everything: 'To be with the people one loves, to speak to them,
not to speak to them, it is all the same.' He is right: that is
the only true happiness," added M. de Fleurus in a mournful
voice, "and alas, life is so ill-arranged that one very
rarely experiences it. Mme de Sévigné was after all less to be
pitied than most of us. She spent a great part of her life with
the person she loved."
"You forget that it wasn't love in her
case, it was her daughter."
"But what matters in life is not whom or
what one loves," he went on, in a more peremptory,
almost cutting tone, "it is the fact of loving. What Mme de
Sévigné felt for her daughter has a far better claim to rank
with the passion that Racine described in Andromaque or Phèdre than the commonplace relations young Sévigné had with his
mistresses. It's the same with a mystic's love for his God. The
hard and fast lines in which we circumscribe love arise solely
from our ignorance of life."
In these reflections upon the sadness of having
to live far apart from those one loves (which were to lead my
grandmother to say later that same evening that M. de Fleurus
understood certain works a great deal better than Mme de
Villeparisis, and moreover had something about him that set him
far above the average clubman, who is often uncouth, and lent him
an almost feminine intuition) - he not only revealed a refinement
of feeling such as men rarely show; his voice itself, like
certain contralto voices in which the middle register has not
been sufficiently trained, so that when they sing it sounds like
an alternating duet between a young man and a woman, mounted,
when he expressed these delicate sentiments, to its higher notes,
took on an unexpected sweetness and seemed to embody choirs of
sisters, of mothers, of betrothed maidens, pouring out their fond
feelings. But the bevy of young girls whom M. de Fleurus in his
horror of every kind of effeminacy would have been so distressed
to learn that he gave the impression of sheltering thus within
his voice did not confine themselves to the interpretation, the
modulation of sentimental ditties. Often while M. de Fleurus was
talking one could hear their laughter, the shrill, fresh laughter
of school-girls or coquettes quizzing their companions with all
the archness and malice of clever tongues and pretty wits.
"Goodness me, I could have taken you to
visit that château that interests you so much," he told my
grandmother, "if the Montmorencys were still living there,
but the family line has died out."
"How amiable you are to your cousin the
Duc de Montmorency," put in Montargis.
"Oh! excuse me I was meaning the
Montmorencys, the members of the Montmorency family. The charming
gentleman you are alluding to, probably not knowing which name to
take and thinking that there were no Montmorencys left,
conveniently found and took up the name of the station on the
Northern line. Perhaps he owned a house nearby, you never
know!" he added, when, noticing that the embroidered
handkerchief which he had in his pocket was exhibiting its
coloured border, he thrust it sharply down out of sight with the
scandalized air of a prudish but far from innocent lady
concealing attractions which, by an excess of scrupulosity, she
regards as indecent.
"It is always the case," he added,
turning towards my grandmother, "that the owners of that
château you were talking about show at that moment how unworthy
they are of owning it, because they are going to sell it, and
sadly it is to be feared that the people who are to buy it are
less deserving still. In any case I don't want to have anything
to do with an absurd and faithless place which allows itself to
be sold to such people and to be disfigured by them. I don't want
to have anything more to do with it than I do with my cousin
Avaray who has turned out badly and is no longer beautiful. Yet I
keep a picture of the house just as I do of my cousin, and I
often gaze at those beautiful features that were then still
unspoilt. I don't go as far as to carry it around with me but I
could send you a copy. A photograph acquires something of the
dignity it ordinarily lacks when it shows us things that no
longer exist."
He told us about a house that had belonged to
his family, in which Marie-Antoinette had slept, with a park laid
out by Le Nôtre, which now belonged to the Gebzelterns, the
wealthy financiers, who had bought it. "To have been the
home of the Guermantes and to belong to the Gebzelterns!" he
exclaimed. "It reminds me of a room in the Château of Blois
where the caretaker who was showing me around said to me: 'This
is where Mary Stuart used to say her prayers. Now I use it to
keep my brooms in.' The first thing these people did was to
destroy the park and replace it with an English garden. Anybody
who destroys a Le Nôtre park is as bad as somebody who slashes a
picture by Poussin. For that alone these Gebzelterns should be in
prison. It is true," he added with a smile, after a moment's
silence, "that there are probably plenty of other reasons
why they should be there! In any case you can imagine the effect
of an English garden with that architecture."
"But the house is in the same style as the
Trianon," said Mme de Villeparisis, "and
Marie-Antoinette had an English garden laid out there."
"Which after all ruins Gabriel's
façade," replied M. de Fleurus. "Obviously it would be
an act of vandalism to destroy the Haneau. But whatever the
spirit of the age may be, I beg leave to doubt whether, in that
respect, a whim of Mme Gebzeltern has the same prestige as the
memory of the Queen."
Meanwhile my grandmother had been making signs
to me to go up to bed, in spite of the urgent appeals of
Montargis who, to my utter shame, had alluded in front of M. de
Fleurus to the depression which often used to come upon me at
night before I went to sleep, which his uncle must regard as
showing a sad lack of virility. I lingered a few moments more,
then went upstairs, and was greatly surprised when, a little
while later, having heard a knock at my bedroom door and asked
who was there, I heard the voice of M. de Fleurus saying drily:
"It is Fleurus. May I come in Monsieur? Monsieur," he
continued in the same tone, "my nephew was saying just now
that you were apt to be a little upset before going to sleep, and
also that you were an admirer of Bergotte's books. As I had one
here in my luggage that you probably do not know, I have brought
it to you to while away those moments during which you are
unhappy."
I thanked M. de Fleurus warmly and told him
that I had been afraid that what Montargis had told him about my
distress at the approach of night could have made me appear in
his eyes even more stupid than I was.
"Not at all," he answered in a
gentler voice. "You have not, perhaps, any personal merit,
so few people have! But for a time at least you have youth, and
that is always an attraction. Besides, Monsieur, the greatest
folly of all is to mock or to condemn in others what one does not
happen to feel oneself. I love the night, and you tell me that
you are afraid of it. I love the scent of roses, and I have a
friend who it throws into a fever. Do you suppose that for that
reason I consider him inferior to me? I try to understand
everything and I take care to condemn nothing. In short, you must
not be too sorry for yourself; I do not say that these moods of
depression are not painful, I know how much one can suffer from
things which others would not understand. But at least you have
placed your affection wisely in your grandmother. You see a great
deal of her. And besides, it is a legitimate affection, I mean
one that is repaid. There are so many of which that cannot be
said!"
He walked up and down the room, looking at one
thing, picking up another. I had the impression that he had
something to tell me, and could not find the right words to
express it. Several minutes passed in this way, then, in his
earlier biting tone of voice, flung at me: "Good night,
Monsieur," and left the room.
After all the lofty sentiments which I had
heard him express that evening, next day, which was the day of
his departure, on the beach in the morning, as I was on my way
down to bathe, when M. de Fleurus came across to tell me that my
grandmother was waiting for me to join her as soon as I left the
water, I was greatly surprised to hear him say, pinching my neck
with a familiarity and a laugh that was frankly vulgar: "But
he doesn't care a fig for his old grandmother, does he, eh?
Little rascal."
"What. Monsieur, I adore her, I love her
more than anybody in the world..."
"Monsieur," he said, stepping back a
pace, and with a glacial air, "you are still young; you
should profit by your youth to learn two things: first, to
refrain from expressing sentiments that are too natural not to be
taken for granted; and secondly not to rush into speech in reply
to things that are said to you before you have penetrated their
meaning. If you had taken this precaution a moment ago you would
have saved yourself the appearance of speaking at cross-purposes
like a deaf man, thereby adding a second absurdity to that of
having anchors embroidered on your swimming costume. You make me
realize that I was premature in speaking to you last night of the
charms of youth. I should have done you a greater service had I
pointed out to you its thoughtlessness, its inconsequence, and
its want of comprehension. I hope, Monsieur, that this little
verbal dousing will be no less salutary to you than your swim.
But don't let me keep you standing there, you might catch cold.
Good day, Monsieur."
No doubt he felt remorse for this speech, for
some time later I received - in a binding on which my initials
had been encircled by a spray of forget-me-nots - the book by
Bergotte he had lent me and which I had had sent back to him on
the day of his departure.
When, some days after M. de
Fleurus's departure, my grandmother told me with a joyous air
that Montargis had just asked her whether she would like him to
take a photograph of her before he left Cricquebec, and, when I
saw that she had put on her nicest dress for the purpose and was
hesitating between various hats, I felt a little annoyed at this
childishness, at this coquettishness, which surprised me on her
part. I even wondered whether I had not been mistaken in my
grandmother, whether I did not put her on too lofty a pedestal,
whether she was as unconcerned about her person as I had always
supposed. The starting point for my ill-humour had arisen
primarily from the fact that for the past few days when I had
come back in the evening she had not knocked on the wall to call
me in, and I, having dined out with Montargis, would be thinking
the whole time of how long it would be until the joy of my return
when I would be able to go to my grandmother and embrace her. I
wanted to deprive myself of her a little, especially as that
whole week I had not been able to have her for myself, either by
day or night. When I came back in the afternoon to be alone with
her a little I was told that she was not there, or else she would
shut herself up with Françoise for endless confabulations which
I was not permitted to interrupt. Unfortunately, the displeasure
that was aroused in me by the prospect of this photographic
session, and more particularly by the childish pleasure with
which my grandmother appeared to be looking forward to it, was
sufficiently apparent for Françoise to notice it, and to do her
best, unintentionally, to increase it by making me a sentimental,
gushing speech by which I refused to appear moved.
"Oh, Monsieur, my poor Madame will be so
pleased at having her portrait taken. She's going to wear the hat
that her old Françoise has trimmed for her: you must let her
Monsieur."
I persuaded myself that it was not cruel of me
to mock Françoise's sensibility, by reminding myself that my
mother and grandmother, my models in all things, often did the
same themselves. But my grandmother, noticing that I seemed put
out, said that if it offended me in any way she would give up the
idea. I would not hear of it. I assured her that I saw no harm in
it, and let her adorn herself, but, thinking to show how shrewd
and forceful I was, added a few hurtful words calculated to
neutralize the pleasure which she seemed to find in being
photographed, with the result that, if I was obliged to see her
magnificent hat, I had succeeded at least in driving from her
face that joyful expression which ought to have made me happy.
And it too often happens, while the people we love best are still
alive, that such expressions appear to us as the exasperating
manifestation of some petty whim which we hate and seek to
destroy rather than as the precious form of the happiness which
we should dearly like to procure for them.
[The text is very
confused here.]
The starting point for my ill-humour had arisen
primarily from the fact that all that week my grandmother had
seemed to be avoiding me and that I never had her to myself for a
moment. When I came back in the afternoon to be alone with her
for a little I was told that she was not there; or else she would
shut herself up with Françoise for endless confabulations which
I was not permitted to interrupt. And when, after being out all
evening with Montargis, I had been thinking on the way home of
the moment when I should be able to go to my grandmother and
embrace her, I waited in vain for her knock on the party wall
which would tell me to go in and say goodnight to her, and
hearing nothing I would end up going to bed in tears, resentful
of her for depriving me, with an indifference so new and strange
in her, of a joy which I needed so much and on which I had
counted so much, until I cried myself to sleep.
If I returned back at Cricquebec rather late,
it was because for some time my grandmother, who seldom stood in
the way of my plans, if they came about with the mutual consent
of Montargis, whose influence on me she thought beneficial, had
given her blessing to me dining out with him once or twice a
week. And at the hour when on other days I would already be
sitting down at table Montargis would have had the horses
harnessed to take me to dine some distance from Cricquebec at the
Rivebelle restaurant where on certain days all the elegance of
this part of the coast, which was much more fashionable then than
it is today, were brought together and where daring speculators
had opened attractions and places of pleasure that are now
deserted. On those days my grandmother insisted that, contrary to
my usual habit, I came back to rest on my bed for an hour before
going off with Montargis and at about half past six I returned to
the hotel, now ringing for the lift attendant without any trace
of shyness or sadness, who no longer stood in silence while I
rose by his side in the lift as in a mobile thoracic cage
propelled upwards along its ascending pillar, and who, because he
had taken on an engagement at a more southerly resort for the end
of the season, was hoping to have the hotel closed as soon as
possible, repeated to me:
"It's starting to get empty now, people
are leaving, the days are drawing in."
And it was he now who stood there and received
no answer during the short journey on which he threaded his way
through the hotel, which, hollowed out inside like a toy,
deployed around us, floor by floor, the ramifications of its
corridors in the depths of which the light grew velvety, lost its
tone, blurred the communicating doors or the steps of the service
stairs which it transformed into that amber haze, unsubstantial
and mysterious as a twilight, in which Rembrandt picks out here
and there a window-sill or a well-head. And on each landing a
golden light reflected from the carpet indicated the setting sun
and the lavatory window. When we reached the top floor I stepped
out of the lift. But instead of going to my room I made my way
further along the corridor, for at that hour the valet in charge
of the landing, despite his horror of draughts, had opened the
window at the end which looked out on the hill and the valley
inland, but never allowed them to be seen because its panes,
which were made of clouded glass, were generally closed. I made a
brief halt in front of it, time enough just to pay my devotions
to the view which for once it revealed and which - beyond the
hill which the hotel backed on to and from where, beneath an
early mist which was already veiling it, escaped in fits and
starts a secret sound of infiltration or a spring - contained
only a single house situated at some distance, to which the
perspective and the evening light, while preserving its mass,
gave a gem-like precision and a velvet casing, as though to one
of those architectural works in miniature, tiny temples or
chapels wrought in gold and enamel, which serve as reliquaries
and are exposed only on rare days for the veneration of the
faithful. But this moment of adoration had already lasted too
long, for the valet, who carried in one hand a bunch of keys and
with the other saluted me by touching his sacristan's skull cap,
though without raising it on account of the pure, cool evening
air, came and drew together, like those of a shrine, the two
sides of the window, and so shut off the minute edifice, the
golden relic from my adoring gaze. I went into my room.
Gradually, as the season advanced, the picture that I found there
in my window changed. At first it was broad daylight, and dark
only if the weather was bad: and then, in the greenish glass
which it distended with the curve of its rounded waves, the sea,
set between the iron uprights of my casement window like a piece
of stained glass in its leads, ravelled out over the deep rocky
border of the bay little plumed triangles of motionless foam
etched with the delicacy of a feather or a downy breast from
Pisanello's pencil, and fixed in that white, unvarying, cream
enamel which is used to depict fallen snow in Gallé's glass. But
more often the weather was fine, and from time to time scattered
seagulls floated on the calm sea like Nymphaea which, according
to the time of day appeared to my gaze as white, yellow or, when
the sun had already set, pink. They seemed to offer up a totally
inert target to the little waves that were buffeting them, which,
in contrast, seemed to have some purpose in their pursuit, to
come to life. Then all of a sudden, escaping as if from some
concealment in their floral disguise, the seagulls flew up as one
towards the sun, while from the furthest extremity from the
shore, not deigning to look in their eyes, a great solitary
rushing bird, beating the air with the regular movement of its
wings, passed by at full speed over the beach spotted here and
there with identical reflections on the sand from little pieces
of torn up red paper, and crossed its full length, without
slowing its pace, without diverting its attention, without
deviating from its course, like an emissary who is carrying an
urgent and capital order from a far off place. Soon the days got
shorter, and at the moment I pushed open my door, and upon
entering, my room would be flooded by a reflection of pink light
which changed my curtains from white muslin to golden damask; it
emanated from the violet sky which seemed branded with the stiff,
geometrical, fleeting, effulgent figure of the sun (like the
representation of some miraculous sign, of some mystical
apparition) lowering over the sea on the edge of the horizon like
a sacred picture over a high altar, while the different parts of
the western sky exposed in the glass fronts of the low mahogany
bookcases that ran along the walls, and which I carried back in
my mind to the marvellous painting from which they had been
detached, seemed like those different scenes executed long ago
for a confraternity by some old master on a reliquary, whose
separate panels are now exhibited side by side in a gallery, so
that the visitor's imagination alone can restore them to their
place on the predella of the reredos. A few weeks later, when I
went upstairs, the sun had already set. Like the one that I used
to see at Combray, behind the Calvary, when I came home from a
walk and was getting ready to go down to the kitchen before
dinner, a band of red sky above the sea, compact and clear-cut as
a layer of aspic over meat, then, a little later, over a sea
already cold and steel-blue like a grey mullet, a sky of the same
pink as the salmon that we would be presently ordering at
Rivebelle, reawakened my pleasure in dressing to go out for
dinner. Close to the shore, patches of vapour, soot-black but
with the burnish and consistency of agate, visibly solid and
palpable, were trying to rise one above another over the sea in
ever wider tiers, so that the highest of them, poised on top of
the twisted column and over-reaching the centre of gravity of
those which had hitherto supported them, seemed on the point of
bringing down in ruin this lofty structure already half-way up
the sky, and precipitating into the sea. The sight of a ship
receding like a nocturnal traveller gave me the same impression
that I had had in the train of being set free from the necessity
of sleep and from confinement in a bedroom. Not that I felt
myself a prisoner in the room in which I now was, since in
another hour I should be leaving it to drive away in a carriage.
I threw myself down on the bed; and, just as if I had been lying
in a berth on board one of those steamers which I could see quite
near me and which at night it would be strange to see stealing
slowly through the darkness, like shadowy and silent but
unsleeping swans, I was surrounded on all sides by pictures of
the sea. But as often as not they were, indeed, only pictures,
and my mind, dwelling at such moments upon the surface of the
body which I was about to dress up in order to try to appear as
pleasing as possible to the feminine eyes which would scrutinize
me in the well-lit restaurant at Rivebelle, was incapable of
putting any depth behind the colour of things, and if, beneath my
window, the soft, unwearying flights of swifts and swallows had
not arisen like a playing fountain, like living fireworks,
joining the intervals between their soaring rockets with the
motionless white streaming lines of long horizontal wakes -
without the charming miracle of this natural and local phenomenon
which brought into touch with reality the scenes that I had
before my eyes - I might easily have believed that they were no
more than a selection, made afresh every day, of paintings which
were shown quite arbitrarily in the place in which I happened to
be and without having any necessary connection with that place.
At one time it was an exhibition of Japanese colour prints:
beside the neat disc of sun, red and round as the moon, a yellow
cloud seemed a lake against which black swords were outlined like
the trees upon its shore, while a bar of a tender pink which I
had never seen since my first paint-box swelled out like a river
on either bank of which boats seemed to be waiting high and dry
for someone to push them down and set them afloat. And with the
contemptuous, bored and frivolous glance of an amateur or a woman
hurrying through a picture gallery between two social
engagements, I would say to myself: "Curious sunset, this,
it's different from how they usually are but after all I've seen
them just as delicate, just as remarkable as this." I had
more pleasure on evenings when a ship, absorbed and liquefied by
the horizon, appeared so much the same colour as its background,
as in an Impressionist painting, that it seemed to be also of the
same substance, as though its hull and the rigging in which it
tapered into a slender filigree had simply been cut out from the
vaporous blue of the sky. Sometimes the ocean filled almost the
whole of my window, raised as it was by a band of sky edged at
the top only by a line that was of the same blue as the sea, so
that I supposed it to be still sea, and the change in colour due
only to some effect of the lighting. Another day the sea was
painted only in the lower part of the window, all the rest of
which was filled with so many clouds, packed one against another
in horizontal bands, that its panes seemed, by some premeditation
or predilection on the part of the artist, to be presenting a
"Cloud Study", while the fronts of the various
bookcases showing similar clouds but in another part of the
horizon and differently coloured by the light, appeared to be
offering as it were the repetition - dear to certain contemporary
masters - of one and the same effect caught at different hours
but able now in the immobility of art to be seen all together in
a single room, drawn in pastel and mounted under glass. And
sometimes to a sky and sea uniformly grey a touch of pink would
be added with an exquisite delicacy, while a little butterfly
that had gone to sleep at the foot of the window seemed to be
appending with its wings at the corner of this "Harmony in
Grey and Pink" in the Whistler manner the favorite signature
of the Chelsea master. Then even the pink would vanish, there was
nothing now left to look at. I would get to my feet and, before
lying down again, close the inner curtains. Above them I could
see from my bed the ray of light that still remained, growing
steadily fainter and thinner, but it was without any feeling of
sadness, without any regret for its passing, that I thus allowed
the hour at which as a rule I was seated at table to die above
the curtains, for I knew that this day was of another kind from
ordinary days, longer, like those arctic days which night
interrupts for a few hours only; I knew that from the chrysalis
of this twilight, by a radiant metamorphosis, the dazzling light
of the Rivebelle restaurant was preparing to emerge. I said to
myself: "It's time"; I stretched myself on the bed, and
rose, and finished dressing; and I found a charm in these idle
moments, relieved of every material burden, in which, while the
others were dining down below, I was employing the forces
accumulated during the inactivity of this late evening hour only
in drying my body; in putting on a dinner jacket, in tying my
tie, in making all those gestures which were already dictated by
the anticipated pleasure of seeing again some woman whom I had
noticed at Rivebelle last time, who had seemed to be watching me,
had perhaps left the table for a moment only in the hope that I
would follow her; it was with joy that I embellished myself with
all these allurements so as to give myself, fresh, alert and
whole-hearted, a new life, free, without cares, in which I would
lean my hesitations upon the calm strength of Montargis and would
choose, from among the different species of natural history and
the produce of every land, those which, composing the unfamiliar
dishes that my companion would at once order, might have tempted
my appetite or my imagination.
On the first few occasions, when we arrived
there, the sun would just have set, but it was light still; in
the garden outside the restaurant, where the lamps had not yet
been lighted, the heat of the day was falling and setting, as
though in a vase along the sides of which the transparent, dusky
jelly of the air seemed of such consistency that a tall
rose-tree, fastened against the dim wall which it veined with
pink, looked like the arborescence that one sees at the heart of
an onyx or an agate. Presently it was after nightfall when we
alighted from the carriage at Rivebelle, often indeed when we
started from Cricquebec if the weather was bad and we had put off
sending for the carriage in the hope of a lull. But on those days
it was with no sense of gloom that I listened to the wind, for I
knew that it did not mean the abandonment of my plans,
imprisonment in my bedroom, I knew that in the great dining-room
of the restaurant which we would enter to the sound of the music
of the gypsy band, the innumerable lamps would triumph easily
over the darkness and the cold, by applying to them their broad
cauteries of molten gold, and I climbed light-heartedly after
Montargis into the closed carriage which stood waiting for us in
the rain. For some time past the words of Bergotte, when he
pronounced himself positive that, in spite of all I might say, I
had been created to enjoy pre-eminently the pleasures of the
mind, had restored to me, with regard to what I might succeed in
achieving later on, a hope that was disappointed afresh every day
by the boredom I felt on sitting down at a writing-table to start
work on a critical essay or a novel. "After all", I
said to myself, "perhaps the pleasure one feels in writing
it is not the infallible test of the literary value of a page;
perhaps it is only a secondary state which is often superadded,
but the want of which can have no prejudicial effect on it.
Perhaps some of the greatest masterpieces were written while
yawning." My grandmother set my doubts at rest by telling me
that I should be able to work, and to enjoy working, as soon as I
was well. And, our doctor having thought it only prudent to warn
me of the grave risks to which my state of health might expose
me, and having outlined all the hygienic precautions that I ought
to take to avoid any accident, I subordinated all my pleasures to
an object which I judged to be infinitely more important than
them, that of becoming strong enough to be able to bring into
being the work that I had, possibly, within me, and had been
exercising over myself, ever since I had come to Cricquebec, a
scrupulous and constant control, always paying attention to how
warm I felt, the state of my appetite or my tiredness, so as to
know whether I should take off my overcoat, eat a particular dish
or go for a walk, reminding myself before having a drink exactly
how much beer I had already drunk in order to keep slightly under
the single glass which I would never exceed when I was not having
one of my attacks. Nothing would have induced me to touch the cup
of coffee which would have robbed me of the night's sleep that
was necessary if I was not to be tired next day. But when we
arrived at Rivebelle, immediately, as though there were never to
be any such thing as tomorrow, nor any lofty aims to be realized,
all that precise machinery of prudent hygiene which had been
working to safeguard them vanished. A waiter was offering to take
my coat, whereupon Montargis asked: "You're sure you won't
be cold? Perhaps you'd better keep it, it's not very warm in
here."
"No, no," I assured him, and perhaps
I did not feel cold; but however that might be, I no longer knew
the fear of falling ill, the necessity of not dying, the
importance of work. I gave up my coat; we entered the dining-room
to the sound of some warlike march played by the gypsy band, we
advanced between two rows of tables laid for dinner as along an
easy path of glory, and, feeling a happy glow imparted to our
bodies by the rhythms of the band which conferred on us these
military honours, this unmerited triumph, we concealed it beneath
a grave and frozen air, beneath a languid, casual gait, so as not
to be like those music-hall "swells" who, wedding a
ribald verse to a patriotic air, come running onto the stage with
the martial countenance of a victorious general. The amount of
beer, which at Cricquebec I should not have ventured to drink in
a week, albeit to my calm and lucid consciousness the savour of
those beverages represented a pleasure clearly appreciable if
easily sacrificed, I now drank in an hour without even tasting
it; and I gave the violinist who had just been playing so well
the two Louis which I had been saving up for the last month with
a view to buying something, I could not remember what. I could
feel the grumbling of my nerves, in which there was a sense of
well-being independent of the external objects that might have
produced it, and which the least shifting of my body or of my
attention was enough to make me feel, just as to a closed eye a
slight compression gives the sensation of colour. All I wished
was that I should not be removed from this passivity, and I
allowed the music itself to guide my pleasure from note to note
on which it rested. If, like one of those chemical industries by
means of which compounds are produced in large quantities which
in nature are encountered only by accident and very rarely, this
restaurant at Rivebelle assembled at one and the same moment more
women to tempt me with beckoning vistas of happiness than I
should have come across in the course of walks or travels in a
whole year, at the same time this music that greeted our ears, -
arrangements of waltzes, of German operettas, of songs from the
café concerts, all of them quite new to me - was itself like an
ethereal pleasure-dome superimposed upon the other and more
intoxicating still. For these tunes, each as individual as a
woman, did not reserve, as she would have done, for some
privileged person the voluptuous secret which they contained;
they offered it to me, ogled me, came up to me with lewd or
provocative movements, accosted me, caressed me as if I had
suddenly become more seductive, more powerful, richer. Certainly
I found in these tunes an element of cruelty; because any such
thing as a disinterested feeling for beauty, a gleam of
intelligence, was unknown to them; they are the most merciless of
hells, the most barred against escape, for the unfortunate
jealous wretch; for them physical pleasure alone existed. And
they are the most merciless of hells, the most gateless and
imprisoning for the jealous wretch to whom they present that
pleasure - that pleasure which the woman he loves is enjoying
with another - as the only thing that exists in the world for her
who is all the world to him. But while I was humming softly to
myself the notes of this tune and returning its kiss, the
pleasure peculiar to itself which it made me feel, unknown to me
only a moment before, now became so dear to me that I would have
left my father and mother to follow it through the singular world
which it constructed in lines alternately filled with languor
and vivacity. Although such a pleasure as this is not calculated
to enhance the value of the person to whom it comes, for it is
perceived by him alone, and although whenever, in the course of
our lives, we have failed to attract a woman who has caught sight
of us, she did not know whether at that moment we possessed this
inward and subjective felicity which, consequently, could in no
way have altered the judgement which she passed on us, the
grounds on which she had made them remaining the same regardless
of the new sense of pleasure we were experiencing, I felt myself
more powerful, almost irresistible.
And when one of the musicians came forward and
standing at the front of the band began to sing the beautiful
melody by Renaldo Hahn: "I know a hidden corner on a Breton
beach where I would have loved to take you dear on evenings in
autumn", it seemed to me that my love for Mlle de Silariat,
(to whom I was mentally addressing this proposition) was no
longer something disagreeable and about which she would smile,
but held precisely the same touching beauty and seductiveness as
this music. The melody, like a sympathetic place in which we
could meet, had established such intimacy between Mlle de Silaria
and myself that the word "dear" when addressed to her
seemed as natural on my lips as was the accent that the musical
phrase gave it. And having no doubt that my project would seem to
her as sensual as this phrase seemed to me, my timid and unhappy
love became suddenly consoled by all the poetry that I felt to be
liberated for Mlle de Silaria, and by the revelation that at that
very moment "on this evening in autumn" she was filled
with sadness because I had not taken her to "a hidden corner
on a Breton beach".
If it so happened that, to finish the evening
with a party of his friends whom we had met, Montargis decided to
go on to the Casino of a neighbouring resort, and, taking them
with him, put me in a carriage by myself, I would urge the driver
to go as fast as he possibly could, so that the minutes might
pass less slowly which I must spend without having anyone at hand
to dispense me from the obligation to provide my own sensibility
- reversing the engine, so to speak, and emerging from the
passivity in which I was caught and held as in a mesh - with
those modifications which, since my arrival at Rivebelle, I had
been receiving from other people. The risk of collision with a
carriage coming the other way along those lanes where there was
barely room for one and it was dark as pitch, the instability of
the surface, crumbling in many places, at the cliff's edge, the
proximity of its vertical drop to the sea - none of these things
exerted on me the slightest stimulus that would have been
required to bring them into my reason. But after all, I was doing
no more than concentrate in a single evening the carelessness
that, for most men, is diluted throughout their whole existence
in which every day they face unnecessarily the dangers of a
sea-voyage, of a trip in an aeroplane or motor-car, when there is
waiting for them at home the person whom their death would
shatter, or when the book whose eventual publication is the sole
reason for their existence is still stored in the fragile
receptacle of their brain. And so too in the Rivebelle
restaurant, on evenings when we stayed there after dinner, if
anyone had come in with the intention of killing me, since I no
longer saw, save in a distance too remote to have any reality, my
grandmother, my life to come, the books I might write, since I
now clung body and soul to the scent of the woman at the next
table, to the politeness of the waiters, to the contours of the
waltz that the band was playing, since I was glued to the
sensation of the moment, with no extension beyond its limits, nor
any object other than not to be separated from it, I should have
died in and with that sensation, I should have let myself be
slaughtered without offering any resistance, without a movement,
a bee drugged with tobacco smoke that had ceased to take any
thought for preserving the accumulation of its labours and the
hopes of its hive.
Montargis had, in fact, before he made the
acquaintance of his present mistress, lived so much in the
restricted world of amorous adventure that of all the women who
were dining on those evenings at Rivebelle, where many of them
had appeared quite by chance, having come to the coast some to
join their lovers, others in the hope of finding lovers, there
was scarcely one that he did not know from having spent - he
himself, or one or other of his friends - at least one night with
her. He did not greet them if they were with men, and they,
although they looked more at him than at anyone else because the
indifference he was known to feel towards every woman who was not
his actress gave him in their eyes a special glamour, appeared
not to know him. And one of them whispered: "That's young
Montargis. It seems he's still in love with that actress of his.
It's true love. What a handsome fellow he is. I think he's just
wonderful. And what style. Some women have all the luck. And he's
so nice in every way. I saw a lot of him when I was with
d'Orléans. They were quite inseparable those two. He was going
the pace in those days. But it's not like that now, he doesn't
leave her in the queue. Ah! she can certainly consider herself
lucky. I wonder what on earth he sees in her. She's got feet like
boats, false eyebrows, and her undies are filthy! I can tell you,
a little shop-girl would be ashamed to be seen in her knickers.
Do just look at his eyes a moment: you'd throw yourself into fire
for a man like that. Hush, he's seen me; look he's smiling. Oh,
he knew me alright. Just mention Léa to him." Between these
women and him I caught a glance of mutual understanding. I should
have liked him to introduce me to these women, so that I might
ask them for assignations which they would grant me, even if I
was unable to keep them. For otherwise each of their faces would
remain for all time devoid, in my memory, of that part of itself
- just as though it had been hidden by a veil - which varies in
every woman, which we cannot imagine in any woman until we have
actually seen it in her, and which appears only in the look of
recognition she gives us one time and addresses to us, in a smile
that acquiesces in our desire and promises that it should be
fulfilled. And yet, even thus reduced, their faces meant far more
to me than those of women whom I knew to be virtuous, and did not
seem to me to be flat, like theirs, with nothing behind them,
fashioned in one piece with no depth or solidity. It was not, of
course, for me what it must be for Montargis who, by an act of
memory, beneath the indifference, transparent to him, of the
motionless features which affected not to know him, or beneath
the dull formality of the greeting that might equally well have
been addressed to anyone else, could recall, could see,
disheveled hair, a swooning mouth, a pair of half-closed eyes, a
whole licentious picture like those that painters, to deceive the
bulk of their visitors, drape with decent covering. For me, who
felt that nothing of my personality had penetrated the surface of
any one of these women, or would be borne by her upon the unknown
ways which she would thread through life, these faces remained
sealed. But it was enough for me to know that they did open in
order for them to seem to me to be more precious than I should
have thought them had they been only handsome medals instead of
lockets within which memories of love were hidden.
Presently Montargis' visit to Cricquebec drew
to an end; and my grandmother was anxious to offer my friend some
token of her gratitude for all the kindnesses that he had shown
to her and myself. I told her that he was a great admirer of
Prudhon, and this put it into her head to send for a collection
of autograph letters by that philosopher which she had once
bought. Montargis came to the hotel to look at them on the day
they arrived, which was also the day before his departure. He
read them eagerly, fingering each page with reverence, trying to
get the sentences by heart; and then, rising from the table, was
beginning to apologize to my grandmother for having stayed so
long, when he heard her say: "No, no, take them with you,
they are for you to keep. That was why I sent for them, to give
them to you."
He was overwhelmed by a joy which he could no
more control than we can a physical condition that arises without
the intervention of our will. He blushed scarlet as a child who
has just been punished, and my grandmother was far more touched
to see all the efforts he made (without success) to contain the
joy that convulsed him than she would have been to hear any words
of thanks that he could have uttered. But he, fearing that he had
failed to show his gratitude properly, begged me to make his
excuses to her again, next day, from his railway carriage, and
then again, the day after, in a letter I received from him from
the town in which he was quartered, a town which seemed, on the
envelope where the post-mark had stamped its name, to be
hastening to me across country, to tell me that within its walls,
in the Louis XVI cavalry barracks, he was thinking of me. The
paper was embossed with the arms of a lion, surmounted by a
coronet encircling the cap of a Peer of France.
"After a journey which," he wrote,
"passed pleasantly enough, with a book I bought at the
station, by Arvède Barine (a Russian author, I fancy; it seemed
to me remarkably well written for a foreigner, but you shall give
me your critical opinion, you who are a fount of knowledge and
have read everything), here I am again in the thick of this
debased existence which you would no doubt despise yet which is
not without a certain charm. Everything seems to have changed
since I left it, for in the interval one of the most important
periods of my life, that from which our friendship dates, has
begun. I hope that it may never come to an end. I have spoken of
our friendship, of you, to one person only, a friend who I saw on
my way through Paris. She would very much like to know you, and I
feel that you would get on well together, for she too is
extremely literary. Otherwise, to go over in my mind all our
talks, to relive those hors which I never shall forget, I have
shut myself off from my comrades, excellent fellows, but
altogether incapable of understanding that sort of thing. This
remembrance of the moments I spent with you I should almost have
preferred, on my first day here, to conjure up for my own
solitary enjoyment, without writing to you. But I was afraid,
lest with your subtle mind and ultra-sensitive heart, you might
needlessly torment yourself if you did not hear from me, if, that
is to say, you still condescend to occupy your thoughts with this
blunt trooper whom you will have a hard task to polish and refine
and make a little more subtle and worthier of your company."
And from then on, every time the post was brought in, I could
tell at once whether it was from him that a letter came. For it
had always that second face which a person assumes when he is
absent, in the features of which, the familiar characters of the
handwriting, there is no reason why we should not suppose that we
can detect an individual soul just as much as in the line of a
nose or the inflexions of a voice.
But we stayed on in Cricquebec for a little
time after Montargis' departure, in the hotel which was soon to
close and had never been so agreeable, where sometimes the rain
kept us, the Casino being closed, in rooms almost completely
deserted, as in the hold of a ship when a storm is raging; and
there, day by day, as in the course of a sea-voyage, a new person
from among those in whose company we had spent three months
without getting to know them, the senior judge from Rennes, the
leader of the Caen bar, an American lady and her daughters, came
up to us, engaged us in conversation, thought up some way of
making the time pass less slowly, revealed some accomplishment,
taught us a new game, invited us to drink tea or to listen to
music, to meet them at a certain hour, to plan together some of
those diversions which contain the true secret of giving
ourselves pleasure, which is not to aspire to it but merely to
help ourselves to pass the time less boringly - in a word, formed
with us, at the end of our stay, ties of friendship which, in a
day or two, their successive departures from the place would
sever. I even made the acquaintance of the rich young man, of one
of his pair of aristocratic friends and of the actress, who had
reappeared for a few days; but their little society was composed
now of three persons only, the other friend having returned
earlier to Paris. They asked me to come out to dinner with them
at their restaurant. I think they were just as well pleased that
I did not accept. But they had issued the invitation in the most
friendly way imaginable, and although it came in fact from the
rich young man, since the others were only his guests, as the
friend who was staying with them, the Marquis Maurice de
Vaudémont, came of a very good family indeed, instinctively the
actress, in asking me whether I would not come, said, to flatter
my vanity: "It will give Maurice such pleasure."
And when I met them all three together in the
hall of the hotel, it was M. de Vaudémont, the rich young man
who was effacing himself in order to add to the value of the
invitation, who said to me: "Won't you give us the pleasure
of dining with us?"
I was broken-hearted to leave. On the whole,
especially since Montargis had introduced me to worldly
pleasures, Cricquebec had made very little impression on me, but
in the end I understood that I was indeed living there, that that
was the name that people were obliged to write as an address on
their letters if they were to reach me, and I felt that the
possibility at least remained close to me of impressions that I
had not had. Moreover, as in the letters where I was asked if I
was ever coming back, how could I continue to stay on at
Cricquebec when everybody else had left long ago, I reasoned
that, if I did not experience it directly, that by prolonging my
stay I was acquiring a deeper understanding and I was proving my
love for this part of the coast. Contrary to the evidence against
my boredom, of my absence of impressions, I brought to my aid the
opinion that I had often heard expressed, and which could be
true, that we are often poorly informed by our intimate feelings,
and are not good judges of ourselves, thinking that we are in a
poorer state of health after treatment that has cured us, being
unhappy with ourselves despite the best [illegible
word], believing that we are worse
than we really are. And as my window looked out not over
countryside or a street but on the plains of the sea that I would
hear through the night, its mountainous rumblings, stretched out
like a landscape, in the darkness that it diversified and and to
the resistance of which, before going to sleep, I had entrusted
to the ship of my enchained dreams, I had the illusion that this
continuity with the sea must effectively, without my knowledge,
pervade me with the notion of its charm, like those lessons which
one learns by heart while one is asleep. And I would profit on
the last few days of sunshine by exposing myself to its marine
rays, as if they were, unbeknownst to myself, impressions in me
which it must inevitably ripen, like grapes on a vine. And the
little pleasure that I had taken, finally, from the sea, from the
countryside and the Norman churches did not make me desire them
any the less, but on the contrary rather, not only to stay on
later this year, but to return next year. Because it is much less
pleasure than deception that gives us the desire for repetition
and new beginnings, the real avowal of inachievement. And then my
need to know that I would return was born too from this
attachment to things that had, a few months earlier, caused the
sufferings I experienced when I had to leave my bedroom in Paris
for the one I was now sleeping in, into which I went without ever
noticing the scent of vetiver, while my mind, which had once
found such difficulty in rising to fill its space, had come now
to take its measurements so exactly that I was obliged to submit
it to a reverse process when I had to sleep in my new room, the
ceiling of which was low.
And when I had left Cricquebec without ever
having seen any of those things for which I had overcome illness
and unhappiness: waves whipped up by a storm lashing against a
Persian church, surrounded by eternal mists, towards dawn, as I
was drinking coffee in an inn, it turned out that each time, to
these images, the memory of my wish to return to Cricquebec
substituted its own, chosen no less arbitrarily than those from
my imagination, they were as narrow, as delimited in their
outline, as instantaneous in their duration, as exclusive from
all others, as privileged, as stimulating to my desire, as
imperious to my will. What now made me dream of returning one day
to Cricquebec, was the longing, on a day of sunshine and wind, to
go back up to the beach with Mme de Villeparisis who in passing
waved good day to the Princesse de Luxembourg and announced that
we were going to have cream eggs and fried sole, to enter the
dining room at noon across the long azure window of which I would
see shadows thrown from the sky onto the sea as if in a mirror;
or indeed to be aboard a boat moored in a small stream outside
the ancient mill, in the failing light of evening while the same
waitress leant over us to announce that our trout was ready. It
was not a boat trip anywhere that I needed, nor the same rays of
sunlight on a different river; I wanted it to be at the same
ancient mill; had the same waitress been transported to a
different place the trout would have meant nothing; and yet
without the waitress and without the trout, the boat trip and the
sunlight would not be enough. Without doubt some of these
pleasures in themselves were insignificant. But memory brought
them together into a cohesion, into an equilibrium from which I
could take nothing away or deny any of it without corrupting its
authenticity. But I knew perfectly well that I would never be
able to find these same circumstances again. Perhaps there would
be a different waitress, and perhaps, once in Cricquebec, taken
up by the machinery of life that I could not foresee, I would
never visit the mill. The hotel would still be the same. But Mme
de Villeparisis might not be there, or by then be too old to go
out for walks, or the Princesse de Luxembourg would no longer be
there that year. And by then the little path that led us to the
beach would no longer be the same. Because places do not belong
only to the fixed world in space to which we have assigned them
for our own convenience. They were nothing, when we had got to
know them, but a thin slice in the midst of contiguous
impressions which composed our life at that time, the memory of a
particular image is nothing more in the end than regret for a
particular moment, and houses, roads, beaches, are just as
fugitive as years. But even if, at a little distance in time, I
were able to artificially reunite the elements of this memory, I
would discover that it is impossible to attain. Because it was
out of some spiritual essence, perceived in the idea and the
desire of dining at Cricquebec on a windy day, not in the end
like my former desire to see Cricquebec in the mist, but a form
of this contradictory need that we feel to seek to understand
from the experience of our senses something which we begin to
comprehend in ourselves. Besides, at the church in Cricquebec,
its solidarity with the different parts of the town that gave it
in my memory not only that same light in which it was bathed
along with the savings bank and the billiard hall, but the same
quality of the state of mind in which I saw them - a state of
mind which formed my inclinations and dreams of a day trip, which
the town stood in the way of by its non-subjective reality, in
which I could change nothing, that solidarity that had thwarted
me that day assured to the monument on the contrary that living
savour of being a particular town, a unique existence, that I
imagined now when I gave an individual existence to the name
Cricquebec. I would have wanted to see once more the good
apostles who welcomed me on the threshold of their church, I
would have ...
[the paperole which continues this
passage is missing]
Destroyed, but not without allowing
them to be reborn sometimes. When the weather was mild, as I
heard the wind blowing in my fireplace, the desire to go to see a
storm against the cliffs of the Persian church at Cricquebec, to
catch the lovely little train at one fifty, was reborn in me just
as it had been in former times. And I forgot for a moment that I
knew that church at Cricquebec, that it was not next to the
seashore, veiled in eternal mist, but was lit by the same gas
lamp as the branch of the savings bank in a town crossed by a
tramway.
In the same way it was the rebirth of my desire
to see Florence (and not as it had been previously from memories
of Easter holidays spent at Combray) which gave me that year and
the years to follow its tonality and its imagery to the period of
Lent. As in the previous year when I had to see Florence, Holy
Week continued to be enveloped for me by this idea, as if it had
been its natural atmosphere. In the same way as the city, it
seemed to have a special physiognomy in harmony with itself. Holy
Week, Easter week had something of Tuscany about it, Florence
something of the Paschal, each of them helped me to penetrate the
secret of the other. I knew perfectly well however that the
reasons why I had not found in the church at Cricquebec the charm
that it had had in my imagination, were no more peculiar to it
than to water when, leaning over the side of a boat, we draw up
into the cup of our hand the causes that scatter over it the
reflections that from afar appear to adorn it. At Florence when I
got there, no less than at Cricquebec, my imagination would not
be able to substitute itself for my eyes in order to look. I knew
that. But I had previously invested in the name of Florence, in
the name of Parma, in the name of Venice, a singular world, with
no links [...] so different from their
neighbouring towns [...] individual that I had
placed there and which in [...] duality that we
attribute to days, it did not [...] New Year's
day, in front of a theatre poster. [...] but I
could not prevent my memories from making them different.
[some text is
missing here]
In the range of days that stretched out before
me, some detached themselves more vividly from their adjoining
days, as if they had been constituted of a different material, or
touched by a ray of light in the same way as one sometimes sees
only certain houses in a distant village picked out by the effect
of shade and light. Like them the days in Holy Week retain all of
the sunshine for themselves. It freezes, winter seems to be
returning, and Françoise, the last votary in whom obscurely
survives the doctrine of my aunt Léonie, sees in this unseasonal
weather a proof of the wrath of a benevolent God. But I respond
to these complaints only with a weary smile, because in a state
of weakness similar to that of convalescence, when it is not in
the interests of taste that we take things up once more, from the
dream of our desire to live and to travel, that is the result of
it. Just like the Breton village that only rises out of the sea
at certain times of the year,the days had come when Florence was
reborn for me. Holy Week was over. Françoise put a log on the
fire, lit the lamp and announced that it would rain tomorrow. But
for me it was assuredly fine because I was already warming myself
in the Fiesole sunshine and the fierceness of its rays was
forcing me to half close my eyes and smile. It was not just the
bells that were bringing back Italy, it was Italy itself. And my
faithful hands did not lack the flowers to honour the trip that I
had had to make the previous year, because, since in Paris the
weather had become cold and gloomy again, as had happened the
other year at the end of Lent, in the liquid and icy air that
bathed the Chestnut-trees in the avenue and the Plane-trees in
the boulevards, there opened out before me like in a cup of pure
water, the Narcissi, The Jonquils, the Anemones of the Ponte
Vecchio.
With acknowledgement to Terence Kilmartin's revised Scott Montcrieff translation of Place Names: The Place, Penguin 1981. I have made frequent use of this translation where similar or identical passages have survived into the final published version.
Last updated : 28.11.15