hierarchy, the fact that my father found it impossible for us to see
anything of Swann's wife and daughter had, for a long time, had the
contrary effect of making me imagine them as separated from us by an
enormous gulf, which greatly enhanced their dignity and importance in
my eyes. I was sorry that my mother did not dye her hair and redden her
lips, as I had heard our neighbour, Mme. Sazerat, say that Mme. Swann
did, to gratify not her husband but M. de Charlus; and I felt that, to
her, we must be an object of scorn, which distressed me particularly on
account of the daughter, such a pretty little girl, as I had heard, and
one of whom I used often to dream, always imagining her with the same
features and appearance, which I bestowed upon her quite arbitrarily,
but with a charming effect. But from this afternoon, when I had learned
that Mlle. Swann was a creature living in such rare and fortunate
circumstances, bathed, as in her natural element, in such a sea of
privilege that, if she should ask her parents whether anyone were coming
to dinner, she would be answered in those two syllables, radiant with
celestial light, would hear the name of that golden guest who was to
her no more than an old friend of her family, Bergotte; that for her the
intimate conversation at table, corresponding to what my great-aunt's
conversation was for me, would be the words of Bergotte upon all those
subjects which he had not been able to take up in his writings, and on
which I would fain have heard him utter oracles; and that, above all,
when she went to visit other towns, he would be walking by her side,
unrecognised and glorious, like the gods who came down, of old, from
heaven to dwell among mortal men: then I realised both the rare worth
of a creature such as Mlle. Swann, and, at the same time, how coarse and
ignorant I should appear to her; and I felt so keenly how pleasant and
yet how impossible it would be for me to become her friend that I was
filled at once with longing and with despair. And usually, from this
time forth, when I thought of her, I would see her standing before the
porch of a cathedral, explaining to me what each of the statues meant,
and, with a smile which was my highest commendation, presenting me, as
her friend, to Bergotte. And invariably the charm of all the fancies
which the thought of cathedrals used to inspire in me, the charm of the
hills and valleys of the Ile-de-France and of the plains of Normandy,
would radiate brightness and beauty over the picture I had formed in my
mind of Mlle. Swann; nothing more remained but to know and to love
her. Once we believe that a fellow-creature has a share in some unknown
existence to which that creature's love for ourselves can win us
admission, that is, of all the preliminary conditions which Love exacts,
the one to which he attaches most importance, the one which makes him
generous or indifferent as to the rest. Even those women who pretend
that they judge a man by his exterior only, see in that exterior an
emanation from some special way of life. And that is why they fall
in love with a soldier or a fireman, whose uniform makes them less
particular about his face; they kiss and believe that beneath the
crushing breastplate there beats a heart different from the rest, more
gallant, more adventurous, more tender; and so it is that a young king
or a crown prince may travel in foreign countries and make the most
gratifying conquests, and yet lack entirely that regular and classic
profile which would be indispensable, I dare say, in an outside-broker.
While I was reading in the garden, a thing my great-aunt would never
have understood my doing save on a Sunday, that being the day on which
it was unlawful to indulge in any serious occupation, and on which she
herself would lay aside her sewing (on a week-day she would have said,
"How you can go on amusing yourself with a book; it isn't Sunday, you
know!" putting into the word 'amusing' an implication of childishness
and waste of time), my aunt Léonie would be gossiping with Françoise
until it was time for Eulalie to arrive. She would tell her that she had
just seen Mme. Goupil go by "without an umbrella, in the silk dress
she had made for her the other day at Châteaudun. If she has far to go
before vespers, she may get it properly soaked."
"Very likely" (which meant also "very likely not") was the answer,
for Françoise did not wish definitely to exclude the possibility of a
happier alternative.
"There, now," went on my aunt, beating her brow, "that reminds me that
I never heard if she got to church this morning before the Elevation. I
must remember to ask Eulalie... Françoise, just look at that black cloud
behind the steeple, and how poor the light is on the slates, you may be
certain it will rain before the day is out. It couldn't possibly keep on
like this, it's been too hot. And the sooner the better, for until the
storm breaks my Vichy water won't 'go down,'" she concluded, since, in
her mind, the desire to accelerate the digestion of her Vichy water was
of infinitely greater importance than her fear of seeing Mme. Goupil's
new dress ruined.
"Very likely."
"And you know that when it rains in the Square there's none too much
shelter." Suddenly my aunt turned pale. "What, three o'clock!" she
exclaimed. "But vespers will have begun already, and I've forgotten my
pepsin! Now I know why that Vichy water has been lying on my stomach."
And falling precipitately upon a prayer-book bound in purple velvet,
with gilt clasps, out of which in her haste she let fall a shower of
the little pictures, each in a lace fringe of yellowish paper, which she
used to mark the places of the greater feasts of the church, my aunt,
while she swallowed her drops, began at full speed to mutter the words
of the sacred text, its meaning being slightly clouded in her brain by
the uncertainty whether the pepsin, when taken so long after the
Vichy, would still be able to overtake it and to 'send it down.' "Three
o'clock! It's unbelievable how time flies."
A little tap at the window, as though some missile had struck it,
followed by a plentiful, falling sound, as light, though, as if a shower
of sand were being sprinkled from a window overhead; then the fall
spread, took on an order, a rhythm, became liquid, loud, drumming,
musical, innumerable, universal. It was the rain.
"There, Françoise, what did I tell you? How it's coming down! But I
think I heard the bell at the garden gate: go along and see who can be
outside in this weather."
Françoise went and returned. "It's Mme. Amédée" (my grandmother). "She
said she was going for a walk. It's raining hard, all the same."
"I'm not at all surprised," said my aunt, looking up towards the sky.
"I've always said that she was not in the least like other people. Well,
I'm glad it's she and not myself who's outside in all this."
"Mme. Amédée is always the exact opposite of the rest," said Françoise,
not unkindly, refraining until she should be alone with the other
servants from stating her belief that my grandmother was 'a bit off her
head.'
"There's Benediction over! Eulalie will never come now," sighed my aunt.
"It will be the weather that's frightened her away."
"But it's not five o'clock yet, Mme. Octave, it's only half-past four."
"Only half-past four! And here am I, obliged to draw back the small
curtains, just to get a tiny streak of daylight. At half-past four! Only
a week before the Rogation-days. Ah, my poor Françoise, the dear Lord
must be sorely vexed with us. The world is going too far in these days.
As my poor Octave used to say, we have forgotten God too often, and He
is taking vengeance upon us."
A bright flush animated my aunt's cheeks; it was Eulalie. As ill luck
would have it, scarcely had she been admitted to the presence when
Françoise reappeared and, with a smile which was meant to indicate her
full participation in the pleasure which, she had no doubt, her tidings
would give my aunt, articulating each syllable so as to shew that, in
spite of her having to translate them into indirect speech, she was
repeating, as a good servant should, the very words which the new
visitor had condescended to use, said: "His reverence the Curé would be
delighted, enchanted, if Mme. Octave is not resting just now, and
could see him. His reverence does not wish to disturb Mme. Octave. His
reverence is downstairs; I told him to go into the parlour."
Had the truth been known, the Curé's visits gave my aunt no such
ecstatic pleasure as Françoise supposed, and the air of jubilation with
which she felt bound to illuminate her face whenever she had to announce
his arrival, did not altogether correspond to what was felt by her
invalid. The Curé (an excellent man, with whom I am sorry now that I did
not converse more often, for, even if he cared nothing for the arts,
he knew a great many etymologies), being in the habit of shewing
distinguished visitors over his church (he had even planned to compile
a history of the Parish of Combray), used to weary her with his endless
explanations, which, incidentally, never varied in the least degree.
But when his visit synchronized exactly with Eulalie's it became frankly
distasteful to my aunt. She would have preferred to make the most of
Eulalie, and not to have had the whole of her circle about her at one
time. But she dared not send the Curé away, and had to content herself
with making a sign to Eulalie not to leave when he did, so that she
might have her to herself for a little after he had gone.
"What is this I have been hearing, Father, that a painter has set up his
easel in your church, and is copying one of the windows? Old as I am,
I can safely say that I have never even heard of such a thing in all my
life! What is the world coming to next, I wonder! And the ugliest thing
in the whole church, too."
"I will not go so far as to say that it is quite the ugliest, for,
although there are certain things in Saint-Hilaire which are well worth
a visit, there are others that are very old now, in my poor basilica,
the only one in all the diocese that has never even been restored.
The Lord knows, our porch is dirty and out of date; still, it is of a
majestic character; take, for instance, the Esther tapestries, though
personally I would not give a brass farthing for the pair of them, but
experts put them next after the ones at Sens. I can quite see, too, that
apart from certain details which are--well, a trifle realistic, they
shew features which testify to a genuine power of observation. But don't
talk to me about the windows. Is it common sense, I ask you, to leave
up windows which shut out all the daylight, and even confuse the eyes by
throwing patches of colour, to which I should be hard put to it to give
a name, on a floor in which there are not two slabs on the same level?
And yet they refuse to renew the floor for me because, if you please,
those are the tombstones of the Abbots of Combray and the Lords of
Guermantes, the old Counts, you know, of Brabant, direct ancestors of
the present Duc de Guermantes, and of his Duchesse also, since she was a
lady of the Guermantes family, and married her cousin." (My grandmother,
whose steady refusal to take any interest in 'persons' had ended in
her confusing all their names and titles, whenever anyone mentioned the
Duchesse de Guermantes used to make out that she must be related to Mme.
de Villeparisis. The whole family would then burst out laughing; and she
would attempt to justify herself by harking back to some invitation to
a christening or funeral: "I feel sure that there was a Guermantes in it
somewhere." And for once I would side with the others, and against
her, refusing to admit that there could be any connection between her
school-friend and the descendant of Geneviève de Brabant.)
"Look at Roussainville," the Curé went on. "It is nothing more nowadays
than a parish of farmers, though in olden times the place must have had
a considerable importance from its trade in felt hats and clocks. (I
am not certain, by the way, of the etymology of Roussainville. I
should dearly like to think that the name was originally Rouville, from
_Radulfi villa_, analogous, don't you see, to Châteauroux, _Castrum
Radulfi_, but we will talk about that some other time.) Very well; the
church there has superb windows, almost all quite modern, including that
most imposing 'Entry of Louis-Philippe into Combray' which would be more
in keeping, surely, at Combray itself, and which is every bit as good, I
understand, as the famous windows at Chartres. Only yesterday I met Dr.
Percepied's brother, who goes in for these things, and he told me that
he looked upon it as a most beautiful piece of work. But, as I said to
this artist, who, by the way, seems to be a most civil fellow, and is a
regular virtuoso, it appears, with his brush; what on earth, I said to
him, do you find so extraordinary in this window, which is, if anything,
a little dingier than the rest?"
"I am sure that if you were to ask his Lordship," said my aunt in
a resigned tone, for she had begun to feel that she was going to be
'tired,' "he would never refuse you a new window."
"You may depend upon it, Mme. Octave," replied the Curé. "Why, it was
just his Lordship himself who started the outcry about the window, by
proving that it represented Gilbert the Bad, a Lord of Guermantes and
a direct descendant of Geneviève de Brabant, who was a daughter of the
House of Guermantes, receiving absolution from Saint Hilaire."
"But I don't see where Saint Hilaire comes in."
"Why yes, have you never noticed, in the corner of the window, a lady in
a yellow robe? Very well, that is Saint Hilaire, who is also known, you
will remember, in certain parts of the country as Saint Illiers, Saint
Hèlier, and even, in the Jura, Saint Ylie. But these various corruptions
of _Sanctus Hilarius_ are by no means the most curious that have
occurred in the names of the blessed Saints. Take, for example, my good
Eulalie, the case of your own patron, _Sancta Eulalia_; do you know what
she has become in Burgundy? Saint Eloi, nothing more nor less! The lady
has become a gentleman. Do you hear that, Eulalie, after you are dead
they will make a man of you!"
"Father will always have his joke."
"Gilbert's brother, Charles the Stammerer, was a pious prince, but,
having early in life lost his father, Pepin the Mad, who died as a
result of his mental infirmity, he wielded the supreme power with all
the arrogance of a man who has not been subjected to discipline in his
youth, so much so that, whenever he saw a man in a town whose face
he did not remember, he would massacre the whole place, to the last
inhabitant. Gilbert, wishing to be avenged on Charles, caused the church
at Combray to be burned down, the original church, that was, which
Théodebert, when he and his court left the country residence he had near
here, at Thiberzy (which is, of course, _Theodeberiacus_), to go out
and fight the Burgundians, had promised to build over the tomb of Saint
Hilaire if the Saint brought him victory. Nothing remains of it now
but the crypt, into which Théodore has probably taken you, for Gilbert
burned all the rest. Finally, he defeated the unlucky Charles with the
aid of William" which the Curé pronounced "Will'am" "the Conqueror,
which is why so many English still come to visit the place. But he
does not appear to have managed to win the affection of the people of
Combray, for they fell upon him as he was coming out from mass, and cut
off his head. Théodore has a little book, that he lends people, which
tells you the whole story.
"But what is unquestionably the most remarkable thing about our church
is the view from the belfry, which is full of grandeur. Certainly in
your case, since you are not very strong, I should never recommend you
to climb our seven and ninety steps, just half the number they have in
the famous cathedral at Milan. It is quite tiring enough for the most
active person, especially as you have to go on your hands and knees, if
you don't wish to crack your skull, and you collect all the cobwebs off
the staircase upon your clothes. In any case you should be well wrapped
up," he went on, without noticing my aunt's fury at the mere suggestion
that she could ever, possibly, be capable of climbing into his belfry,
"for there's a strong breeze there, once you get to the top. Some people
even assure me that they have felt the chill of death up there. No
matter, on Sundays there are always clubs and societies, who come,
some of them, long distances to admire our beautiful panorama, and they
always go home charmed. Wait now, next Sunday, if the weather holds, you
will be sure to find a lot of people there, for Rogation-tide. You must
admit, certainly, that the view from up there is like a fairy-tale, with
what you might call vistas along the plain, which have quite a special
charm of their own. On a clear day you can see as far as Verneuil. And
then another thing; you can see at the same time places which you are in
the habit of seeing one without the other, as, for instance, the course
of the Vivonne and the ditches at Saint-Assise-lès-Combray, which
are separated, really, by a screen of tall trees; or, to take another
example, there are all the canals at Jouy-le-Vicomte, which is
_Gaudiacus vicecomitis_, as of course you know. Each time that I have
been to Jouy I have seen a bit of a canal in one place, and then I have
turned a corner and seen another, but when I saw the second I could no
longer see the first. I tried in vain to imagine how they lay by one
another; it was no good. But, from the top of Saint-Hilaire, it's quite
another matter; the whole countryside is spread out before you like a
map. Only, you cannot make out the water; you would say that there were
great rifts in the town, slicing it up so neatly that it looks like a
loaf of bread which still holds together after it has been cut up. To
get it all quite perfect you would have to be in both places at once; up
here on the top of Saint-Hilaire and down there at Jouy-le-Vicomte."
The Curé had so much exhausted my aunt that no sooner had he gone than
she was obliged to send away Eulalie also.
"Here, my poor Eulalie," she said in a feeble voice, drawing a coin from
a small purse which lay ready to her hand. "This is just something so
that you shall not forget me in your prayers."
"Oh, but, Mme. Octave, I don't think I ought to; you know very well
that I don't come here for that!" So Eulalie would answer, with the
same hesitation and the same embarrassment, every Sunday, as though
each temptation were the first, and with a look of displeasure which
enlivened my aunt and never offended her, for if it so happened that
Eulalie, when she took the money, looked a little less sulky than usual,
my aunt would remark afterwards, "I cannot think what has come over
Eulalie; I gave her just the trifle I always give, and she did not look
at all pleased."
"I don't think she has very much to complain of, all the same,"
Françoise would sigh grimly, for she had a tendency to regard as petty
cash all that my aunt might give her for herself or her children, and as
treasure riotously squandered on a pampered and ungrateful darling the
little coins slipped, Sunday by Sunday, into Eulalie's hand, but so
discreetly passed that Françoise never managed to see them. It was
not that she wanted to have for herself the money my aunt bestowed
on Eulalie. She already enjoyed a sufficiency of all that my
aunt possessed, in the knowledge that the wealth of the mistress
automatically ennobled and glorified the maid in the eyes of the world;
and that she herself was conspicuous and worthy to be praised throughout
Combray, Jouy-le-Vicomte, and other cities of men, on account of my
aunt's many farms, her frequent and prolonged visits from the Curé, and
the astonishing number of bottles of Vichy water which she consumed.
Françoise was avaricious only for my aunt; had she had control over
my aunt's fortune (which would have more than satisfied her highest
ambition) she would have guarded it from the assaults of strangers with
a maternal ferocity. She would, however, have seen no great harm in what
my aunt, whom she knew to be incurably generous, allowed herself to give
away, had she given only to those who were already rich. Perhaps
she felt that such persons, not being actually in need of my aunt's
presents, could not be suspected of simulating affection for her on
that account. Besides, presents offered to persons of great wealth and
position, such as Mme. Sazerat, M. Swann, M. Legrandin and Mme. Goupil,
to persons of the 'same class' as my aunt, and who would naturally
'mix with her,' seemed to Françoise to be included among the ornamental
customs of that strange and brilliant life led by rich people, who
hunted and shot, gave balls and paid visits, a life which she would
contemplate with an admiring smile. But it was by no means the same
thing if, for this princely exchange of courtesies, my aunt substituted
mere charity, if her beneficiaries were of the class which Françoise
would label "people like myself," or "people no better than myself,"
people whom she despised even more if they did not address her always
as "Mme. Françoise," just to shew that they considered themselves to be
'not as good.' And when she saw that, despite all her warnings, my aunt
continued to do exactly as she pleased, and to fling money away with
both hands (or so, at least, Françoise believed) on undeserving objects,
she began to find that the presents she herself received from my aunt
were very tiny compared to the imaginary riches squandered upon
Eulalie, There was not, in the neighbourhood of Combray, a farm of such
prosperity and importance that Françoise doubted Eulalie's ability to
buy it, without thinking twice, out of the capital which her visits to
my aunt had 'brought in.' It must be added that Eulalie had formed an
exactly similar estimate of the vast and secret hoards of Françoise.
So, every Sunday, after Eulalie had gone, Françoise would mercilessly
prophesy her coming downfall. She hated Eulalie, but was at the same
time afraid of her, and so felt bound, when Eulalie was there, to 'look
pleasant.' But she would make up for that after the other's departure;
never, it is true, alluding to her by name, but hinting at her in
Sibylline oracles, or in utterances of a comprehensive character, like
those of Ecclesiastes, the Preacher, but so worded that their special
application could not escape my aunt. After peering out at the side of
the curtain to see whether Eulalie had shut the front-door behind her;
"Flatterers know how to make themselves welcome, and to gather up the
crumbs; but have patience, have patience; our God is a jealous God, and
one fine day He will be avenged upon them!" she would declaim, with the
sidelong, insinuating glance of Joash, thinking of Athaliah alone when
he says that the
....prosperity
Of wicked men runs like a torrent past,
And soon is spent.
But on this memorable afternoon, when the Curé had come as well, and
by his interminable visit had drained my aunt's strength, Françoise
followed Eulalie from the room, saying: "Mme. Octave, I will leave you
to rest; you look utterly tired out."
And my aunt answered her not a word, breathing a sigh so faint that
it seemed it must prove her last, and lying there with closed eyes, as
though already dead. But hardly had Françoise arrived downstairs, when
four peals of a bell, pulled with the utmost violence, reverberated
through the house, and my aunt, sitting erect upon her bed, called out:
"Has Eulalie gone yet? Would you believe it; I forgot to ask her whether
Mme. Goupil arrived in church before the Elevation. Run after her,
quick!"
But Françoise returned alone, having failed to overtake Eulalie. "It
is most provoking," said my aunt, shaking her head. "The one important
thing that I had to ask her."
In this way life went by for my aunt Léonie, always the same, in the
gentle uniformity of what she called, with a pretence of deprecation
but with a deep tenderness, her 'little jog-trot.' Respected by all
and sundry, not merely in her own house, where every one of us, having
learned the futility of recommending any healthier mode of life, had
become gradually resigned to its observance, but in the village as well,
where, three streets away, a tradesman who had to hammer nails into a
packing-case would send first to Françoise to make sure that my aunt
was not 'resting'--her 'little jog-trot' was, none the less, brutally
disturbed on one occasion in this same year. Like a fruit hidden among
its leaves, which has grown and ripened unobserved by man, until it
falls of its own accord, there came upon us one night the kitchen-maid's
confinement. Her pains were unbearable, and, as there was no midwife
in Combray, Françoise had to set off before dawn to fetch one from
Thiberzy. My aunt was unable to 'rest,' owing to the cries of the girl,
and as Françoise, though the distance was nothing, was very late in
returning, her services were greatly missed. And so, in the course of
the morning, my mother said to me: "Run upstairs, and see if your aunt
wants anything."
I went into the first of her two rooms, and through the open door of the
other saw my aunt lying on her side, asleep. I could hear her breathing,
in what was almost distinguishable as a snore. I was just going to slip
away when something, probably the sound of my entry, interrupted her
sleep, and made it 'change speed,' as they say of motorcars nowadays,
for the music of her snore broke off for a second and began again on a
lower note; then she awoke, and half turned her face, which I could see
for the first time; a kind of horror was imprinted on it; plainly she
had just escaped from some terrifying dream. She could not see me from
where she was lying, and I stood there not knowing whether I ought to go
forward or to retire; but all at once she seemed to return to a sense
of reality, and to grasp the falsehood of the visions that had terrified
her; a smile of joy, a pious act of thanksgiving to God, Who is pleased
to grant that life shall be less cruel than our dreams, feebly illumined
her face, and, with the habit she had formed of speaking to herself,
half-aloud, when she thought herself alone, she murmured: "The Lord be
praised! We have nothing to disturb us here but the kitchen-maid's baby.
And I've been dreaming that my poor Octave had come back to life, and
was trying to make me take a walk every day!" She stretched out a hand
towards her rosary, which was lying on the small table, but sleep was
once again getting the mastery, and did not leave her the strength to
reach it; she fell asleep, calm and contented, and I crept out of the
room on tiptoe, without either her or anyone's else ever knowing, from
that day to this, what I had seen and heard.