Sample text for In the shadow of young girls in flower / Marcel Proust ; translated with an introduction and notes by James Grieve ; general editor Christopher Prendergast.


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When it was first suggested we invite M. de Norpois to dinner, my mother commented that it was a pity Professor Cottard was absent from Paris and that she herself had quite lost touch with Swann, either of whom the former ambassador would have been pleased to meet; to which my father replied that, although a guest as eminent as Cottard, a scientific man of some renown, would always be an asset at oneís dinner table, the Marquis de Norpois would be bound to see Swann, with his showing off and his name-dropping, as nothing but a vulgar swank, ìa rank outsider,î as he would put it. This statement of my fatherís may require a few words of explanation, as there may be some who remember Cottard as a mediocrity and Swann as the soul of discretion and modesty in all things social. As regards Swann, it turns out that our old family friend was now no longer only ìyoung Swannî and ìSwann of the Jockey Clubî; to these personalities he had added a new one, which was not to be his last, that of Odetteís husband. Adapting to her humble ambitions all the flair, desires, and industry that he had always possessed, Swann had contrived to construct a new position for himself, albeit far below the one he had formerly occupied, but suited to the wife with whom he must now share it. And in this position he had turned into a new man. Since this was the beginning of a second life for both of them, among a circle of new people (except for personal friends from his bachelor days whom he went on seeing alone, and whom he did not wish to burden with the acquaintance of Odette, unless they themselves expressed the wish to meet her), it would have been understandable if, in judging the social standing of these new people, and thereby gauging the degree of self-esteem that their company might afford him, his standard of comparison had been based at least on Odetteís former associates, if not on the exalted individuals among whom he himself had moved before his marriage. However, even when one knew that the people he now wished to associate with were unrefined civil servants, or the sort of dubious women who were fixtures of the annual ball at certain ministries, one could still be astounded to hear this man (who in former days, and even now, could show such exquisite tact in not advertising an invitation to Twickenham1 or Buckingham Palace) braying out the fact that the wife of an undersecretaryís undersecretary had returned Mme Swannís visit. It may be thought that this was because the simplicity of manners in the fashionable Swann was only a finer form of vanity, and that, after the manner of certain Jews, our old family friend had passed through the successive phases of a development observable in the breed he belonged to, going from the most guileless snobbery, the crassest caddishness, to the politest of refinements. The main reason, however, was (and it is one which holds good for all of humanity) that even our virtues are not extraneous, free-floating things which are always at our disposal; in fact, they come to be so closely linked in our minds with the actions we feel they should accompany that, if we are required to engage in some different activity, it can take us by surprise, so that we never even think that it too might entail the use of those very virtues. In his gushing ways with these new friends and his boastful citing of their exploits, Swann was like the great artist who takes up cooking or gardening late in life and who, though modest enough to be untroubled by criticism of his masterpieces, cannot bear to hear faint praise of his recipes or flower beds, and basks naÔvely in the delight of hearing them lauded; or who, though generous enough to let a canvas go for nothing, will be put out by losing a few pennies at dominoes.

As for Professor Cottard, we shall meet him again eventually, and at some length, at La RaspeliËre, the ch’teau of the Patronne. For the moment, let the following remark suffice. The change in Swann may well be surprising, since it had already come about, albeit without my knowledge, by the time I had become familiar with him as the father of Gilberte, at the Champs-ŠlysÈes; and then, of course, as he never spoke to me, he could not brag about his connections in the political world. (And even if he had done so, I might well not have been immediately aware of his vanity, as oneís long-standing mental image of others deprives one of sight and hearing in their presenceómy mother took three years to notice the lipstick that one of her nieces was using; for all she could see, it might have been totally and invisibly dissolved, till the day when either an extra dab of it or some other cause brought about the reaction known as supersaturation: all the unseen lipstick crystallized and, in the face of this sudden splash of color, my mother declared, after the manner of Combray, that it was a disgrace, and all but broke off relations with the girl.) With Cottard, however, the days when we saw him witnessing Swannís introduction to the Verdurins were long past. Honors and official titles come with the years. Also, it is possible to be unread, and to like making silly puns, while having a special gift that outweighs any general culture, such as the gift of the great strategist or the great clinician. So Cottard was seen by his medical colleagues not just as an obscure practitioner who had eventually risen to celebrity throughout Europe. The cleverest of the younger doctors declaredó for a few years at any rate, since all fashions, having arisen from a desire for change, eventually pass away for the same reasonóthat if ever they should fall ill Cottard was the only eminent man to whom they would entrust their persons. Obviously, for conversation, they preferred the company of certain other senior colleagues who were more cultivated or more artistically minded, and with whom they could discuss Nietzsche or Wagner. At Mme Cottardís musical evenings, to which she invited students and colleagues of her husbandís in the hope that he would one day become dean of the faculty, Cottard himself never listened to a note, preferring to play cards in one of the other rooms. But he was renowned for his diagnostic skill, for the unhesitating acuity and accuracy of his eye. In addition, in considering the general effect that Cottardís manners made on someone like my father, it should be noted that the nature we display in the second part of our life may not always be, though it often is, a growth from or a stunting of our first nature, an exaggeration or attenuation of it. It is at times an inversion of it, a garment turned inside out. In youth, everyone except the Verdurins, who had taken a great fancy to him, had mercilessly mocked him for his hesitant air, his excessive diffidence and affability. Did some kind friend suggest he adopt an icy demeanor? The eminence of his position certainly made it easy for him to comply. Except at the Verdurinsí, where he instinctively became himself again, he now made a show of being cold and taciturn; when speech was required, he was brusque and made a point of saying unpleasant things. He first tried his new manner on patients who had no prior acquaintance with him, who could therefore make no comparisons, and who would have been amazed to learn that he was not a man to whom such abruptness came naturally. He aimed first and foremost at being impassive; and even when he made some of his puns doing the rounds in the hospital, making everyone laugh, from the medical superintendent to the newest student, he would always do it without moving a muscle in his face, which, since he had shaved off his beard and mustache, was also quite unrecognizable.

Of the Marquis de Norpois it can be said that, having been a plenipotentiary of Napoleon III before the Franco-Prussian War, he had been briefly elevated to an ambassadorship during the constitutional crisis of May 16, 1877. Despite this, and to the great astonishment of many, he had also been appointed several times since then as an extraordinary representative of France, accomplishing special missions and even acting as Comptroller of Public Moneys in Egypt, where his great financial ability enabled him to render important services, at the behest of Radical cabinets, on whose behalf a mere middle-class reactionary would have declined to act, and to which M. de Norpoisís past, connections, and opinions should have made him suspect. But these progressive ministers seemed to realize that, in making such an appointment, they were demonstrating the breadth of vision of which they were capable when the higher interests of France required itóso outclassing the average politician that they might expect to be called ìstatesmenî by the Journal des dÈbats itself!ówhile basking in the prestige afforded by the manís noble name and title, and in the interest created by a dramatically unforeseeable choice. They knew too that, in having recourse to M. de Norpois, they could enjoy these advantages without fear of political disloyalty on his part, as the Marquisís breeding, rather than giving them grounds to suspect him of any such thing, ensured against it. In this, the government of the Republic was not mistaken, for the good reason that a certain aristocracy, bred from childhood to see their name as an intrinsic benefit which nothing can take away (and the value of which is fairly well gauged by their peers and by those of even higher birth), know they can spare themselves the efforts made by many a commoner to profess only opinions seen as sound, and to mix only with people seen as proper, as these efforts would be of no profit to them. However, wishing to magnify themselves in the eyes of the princely or ducal families which are their immediate superiors, these aristocrats also know that they can do this only if they enhance their name with something extraneous to it, something that, other names being equal, will make theirs prevail: a political influence, a literary or artistic reputation, a large fortune. So they lavish their attentions not on the futile squireen who is courted by the commoner, or on a fruitless friendship that will never impress a prince, but on the politicians who, though they may be Freemasons, can get someone appointed to a plum job in an embassy or elected to a safe seat, on the artists or academics who can pull a string or two in the area they dominate, on anyone who might be able to lend some distinction, or help in the making of a rich marriage.

In the case of M. de Norpois, however, the most important thing was that, through long practice of diplomacy, he had deeply imbued himself with the spirit known as ìgovernment mentality,î that negative, ingrained conservative spirit which informs not just the mentality of all governments, but in particular, inside all governments, that of the Foreign Office. The career of the diplomatist had given him an aversion, a dread, and a disdain for the more or less revolutionary, or at least improper, ways that are those of oppositions. Apart from some uncouth members of the working and the fashionable classes, who are incapable of making such subtle distinctions, what brings people together is not shared opinion but a latent propensity of mind. Despite his fondness for the classics, an Academician of the likes of LegouvÈ may still approve Maxime Du Campís or MÈziËresís eulogy of the Romantic Victor Hugo more than Claudelís of the classical Boileau. Though a shared jingoism may be enough to endear BarrËs to those who vote for him, and who probably see little difference between him and M. Georges Berry, more would be required to endear him to those of his colleagues in the AcadÈmie FranÁaise who, despite sharing his political opinions, have a different cast of mind, and will thus prefer adversaries such as M. Ribot and M. Deschanel; and the latter pair of Republicans may be favored by staunch monarchists over Maurras and LÈon Daudet, despite the fact that these two are also supporters of a restoration of the throne. M. de Norpois was a man of few words, not only by virtue of the diplomatistís habits of prudence and reserve, but also because words have a greater worth, and more subtle shades of meaning, for men whose efforts over a decade to bring together two countries may amount to a single adjective in a speech or a protocol, but in which, unremarkable though it may appear, they can read volumes. At the Select Committee, on which M. de Norpois was one of my fatherís fellow members, and where the others saw him as very standoffish, they constantly congratulated my father on the friendliness shown toward him by the former ambassador. My father was as surprised as they were by this friendliness. Being himself of a less than sociable disposition, he was used to having few relationships outside his immediate circle, and made no secret of it. He was aware that the diplomatistís good opinion of him was no more than an effect of that personal idiosyncrasy which biases each of us for or against those we like or dislike, against which no qualities of intellect or sensitivity in a person who irritates or bores us will outweigh the straightforwardness and the lightheartedness we enjoy in someone else whom others would see as vacuous, flippant, and insignificant. ìItís quite remarkableó Norpois is taking me out to dinner again! Itís the talk of the Select Committee! A man who doesnít cultivate personal relations with anybody! I expect heíll pass on some more of his revelations about the Franco-Prussian War.î My father was aware that M. de Norpois had been perhaps the only one to warn Napoleon III about Prussiaís growing power and warlike intentions, and that Bismarck had a high regard for his intelligence. And quite recently, during the state visit of King Theodosius, the newspapers had commented on the sovereignís lengthy conversation with M. de Norpois at the command performance at the OpÈra. ìI must find out whether that state visit was really important,î said my father, who was greatly interested in foreign affairs. ìI know old Norpois is very tight-lipped. But he has a nice way of opening up with me.î

As for my mother, the ambassadorís intelligence may not, of itself, have been quite the kind to which she would have been most attracted. I must say M. de Norpoisís conversation was such a complete catalogue of outmoded speech forms belonging to the style of a particular career, class, and periodóa period which, for that career and class, may not have quite ended yetóthat I sometimes regret not having simply written down statements I heard him utter. It would have been an easy way of achieving an outdated effect, rather like the actor from the ThÈ’tre du Palais-Royal who, when asked where on earth he found such bizarre hats, replied, ìI donít find íemóI keep íem.î To tell the truth, I think my mother saw M. de Norpois as rather behind the times; not that this irked her in a manís manners; but it certainly would have been less to her taste in his ways of expressing himself, if not in the ideas he voiced, those of M. de Norpois being actually quite up to the minute. However, she felt that she was subtly pleasing her husband by expressing admiration of the diplomat who had so singled him out. By strengthening in my fatherís mind the high opinion he had of M. de Norpois, and thereby also fostering in him a higher opinion of himself, she felt she was fulfilling the wifely duty of making life sweet for her husband, just as she did when she saw to the excellence of the cooking and the quietness of the servants. Being incapable of lying to my father, she did her best to admire the ambassador, so as to be able to praise him in all sincerity. She did, in any case, take an honest pleasure in his kind manner, his slightly old-fashioned courtesy (which made him such a stickler for ceremony that, if he caught sight of my mother passing in a carriage while he was striding along with his upright gait, he would even throw away a cigar he had just lit before doffing his hat to her), his deliberate manner in conversation, referring as seldom as possible to himself, and always attending to whatever might please his hearer, and his punctuality in sending off a reply to a letter, which was so striking that if my father, having just written to him, recognized M. de Norpoisís hand on an envelope, his impulse was to believe that their letters had unfortunately crossed in the postóit was almost as if the post office arranged extra collections for his special convenience. It never occurred to my mother, who marveled that a man could be so punctilious though so busy, so attentive though so widely connected, that every ìalthoughî hides an unrecognized ìbecause,î and that (just as the old are always ìremarkable for their age,î kings never lose ìthe common touch,î and provincials are always ìup with everything thatís going onî) M. de Norpoisís different abilitiesóto have so many irons in the fire yet to be so orderly in his replies, to be all things to all men yet still be nice to usówere rooted in common habits. Furthermore, as with all those who are too modest, my motherís mistake came from the fact that she always ranked her own interests below those of others, and thus saw them as quite separate from othersí. In seeing proof of considerateness in the letter dashed off by my fatherís friend, a man who wrote so many letters in a day, she failed to see that it was only a single one among those many; just as it did not enter her head that for him to dine at our table was no more than one act among the countless acts making up his social life, that the ambassador had long been accustomed by the diplomatic career to seeing the honoring of invitations to dinner as part of his functions, and to displaying to that end an ingrained graciousness which he should not be expected to put aside just because for once he was dining with us.

The first occasion when M. de Norpois came to dinner, at a time when I was still playing at the Champs- ŠlysÈes, has stayed in my memory because that very afternoon I had at last been to see La Berma, in a matinee performance of PhËdre; and also because, in chatting with M. de Norpois, I realized suddenly and in a new way how different were the feelings aroused in me by everything connected to Gilberte Swann and her parents from the feelings aroused by the same family in all other people.

One day my mother, who had presumably noticed my dejection at the imminence of the New Year holidays, during which, as Gilberte herself had told me, it would be impossible for me to see her, said to me, ìIf youíre still so keen on seeing La Berma, I think your father might allow you to go. Grandma could take you.î

It was because M. de Norpois had urged my father, who till then had been quite opposed to my wasting my time and possibly even falling ill just for the sake of what he called, giving umbrage to my grandmother, ìstuff and nonsense,î to let me go and see La Berma, as it would be something for a young man to remember, that he had almost come to see the outing to the theater, now that it was advised by the ambassador, as a sort of prescribed activity among certain others deemed vaguely essential for anyone hoping to achieve a brilliant career. My grandmother, who had forgone on my behalf the benefit she believed I would have derived from seeing La Berma, and who saw this great sacrifice as justified in the interest of my health, was astonished to learn that, at a single word from M. de Norpois, this interest turned out to be of no significance. Rationalist that she was, she placed invincible trust in the regimen of fresh air and early bedtimes which had been prescribed for me; and, seeing my intended departure from it as a disaster, she said sadly to my father, ìHow irresponsible you can be.î To which he barked, ìWhat! You mean you donít want him to go now? Well, thatís rich! You were the one who kept saying how much good it would do him!î

My fatherís ambitions for me had been altered by M. de Norpois in another particular, of much greater importance to me. My father had always looked forward to seeing me enter the diplomatic corps; and I could not bear the thought that, even if I was to remain in Paris for a while attached to the Ministry, I must risk being packed off one day to serve as an ambassador in capital cities where Gilberte would never live. I would have preferred to take up again the literary ambitions which I had once cherished, then given up, during my walks along the Guermantes way. But my father had constantly opposed the idea of my embarking upon a career in writing, which he saw as far inferior to diplomacy, even denying that it could count as a career, until the day when M. de Norpois, who rather looked down on the newer generation of diplomats, assured him that it was perfectly possible for a writer to enjoy as much esteem, and to exercise as much influence, as any diplomat, while retaining more independence.

ìWell, whoíd have believed it!î my father said. ìOld Norpoisís got nothing against the idea that you might make a career in literature.î Being himself quite influential, he believed there was nothing that could not be sorted out and favorably resolved by a chat between important men. ìIíll bring him home to dinner one of these nights after a session at the Select Committee. You can have a chat with him and heíll be able to form some opinion of you. So just write something nice that you can show him. Heís a great friend of the editor of the Revue des deux mondes, you know. He could get you in there, he could look after it for you, heís a pretty sharp old fellow. I must say, he doesnít sound greatly enamored of the diplomatic career nowadays.î The blissful prospect of not being parted from Gilberte made me eager, but not able, to write a fine piece that could be shown to M. de Norpois. From sheer boredom, the pen dropped from my hand after a few preliminary pages; and I dissolved in tears of rage at the thought that I would never have any talent, that I was not gifted, that I could not even turn M. de Norpoisís imminent visit to the advantage of remaining forever in Paris. The only thing that cheered me a little was the knowledge that I was going to be allowed to see La Berma. But, just as the only storms I longed to see were those that raged along the wildest shores, so I wished to see the great actress only in one of those classical parts in which Swann had assured me she rose to the sublime. When our wish to be touched by nature or art is prompted by the hope of a grandiose revelation, we are loath to let it be replaced by lesser impressions, which might mislead us as to the true value of Beauty. La Berma in Racineís Andromaque or PhËdre, in Les Caprices de Marianne by Musset, these were the stirring things that I had gloated on in imagination. I knew that if I could ever hear La Berma deliver the speech beginning

It is said, Sire, that a prompt departure must take you away, etc.2

my delight would be the same as when I could step out of a gondola, to stand in front of the Titian in the Frari or the Carpaccios in San Giorgio degli Schiavoni. My acquaintance with these lines of Racineís was in black and white, as mere print on the pages of books; but now my heart beat faster at the thought that I would soon see them in the warm, sunny glow shed on them by the Golden Voice. A Carpaccio in Venice, La Berma in PhËdre, were masterworks of pictorial or dramatic art; and the glamour that surrounded them gave them such vital force, and made them so indivisible into their parts, that if I had had to look at Carpaccios in a room at the Louvre, or see La Berma in a play that I had never heard of, I would never have felt that delight of amazement at being face-to-face at last with the unique and ungraspable object of so many thousands of dreams. Also, in my expectation that La Bermaís acting would give me a revelation about nobility and grief, I had the impression that everything great and true in her acting was bound to become greater and truer if she put it into a work of genuine worth, instead of embroidering Truth and Beauty on the coarse cloth of some valueless vulgarity.

In any case, seeing her in a new play would make it difficult for me to appreciate her skill and diction, as I would be unable to distinguish between the unfamiliar text and all the intonations and gestures which, although she had added them, would seem to belong inseparably to it; whereas the classical texts I knew by heart were like broad surfaces, already designated and prepared, awaiting only the fluent frescoes that La Berma would lavish upon them and the unconstrained appreciation with which I would greet the inexhaustible felicities of her inspiration. Unfortunately, she had abandoned the classical stage and its repertoire years before, and was now the star and mainstay of a more popular theater; and however often I went to look at the posters, the only plays they ever advertised were recent ones, tailor-made for her by modish authors. Then, one morning, as I scanned the Morris column for the matinees being given during the first week in January, I saw for the first time a program which, after a presumably insignificant curtain- raiser, whose title seemed opaque because it was full of the proceedings of a plot that was unknown to me, promised as the final item Mme Berma in two acts of PhËdre; and for the following matinees, it specified Dumasís Le Demi-Monde and Mussetís Les Caprices de Marianne, titles that to my eye, like PhËdre, were transparent, full of nothing but illumination, because the works were so well known to me, glowing through and through with the smile of Art. They seemed to add nobility to La Berma herself, once I had read in the newspapers, after the programs for these matinees, a mention that it was she herself who had decided to make a public appearance once again in some of her time-honored parts. Clearly, the artiste knew that in certain roles there is an interest which outlasts the novelty of their first appearances, or the success of their revivals, and that her own interpretation made them into museum pieces, which it might be instructive to display again to a generation who had once admired her in them, or to reveal to another which had not. By having PhËdre advertised among other plays, which were intended only to while away an evening, its title neither printed in special characters nor occupying more space than the others, she gave it a touch of the understatement used by a hostess who, as she introduces you to your fellow guests just as you are all about to go in to dinner, includes among the names that are merely names, and in the same tone of voice in which she has announced all the others, ìM. Anatole France.î

My doctor, the one who had forbidden me all travel, advised my parents against letting me go to the theater: afterward, and possibly for a long time, I would be sure to be ill; the net result for me would be more pain than pleasure. I might have been dissuaded by such a fear, if what I expected from the matinee had been a mere pleasure that could be canceled by the counterbalance of subsequent pain.

But what I did expect from itóas from the journeys I had longed to make to Balbec and Veniceówas something far beyond a pleasure: it was access to truths which dwelt in a realer world than I did, truths which, once glimpsed, could never be taken from me by any of the nugatory incidents making up my futile existence, however painful they might be to my body. Any pleasure to be had from the performance seemed to me no more than the possibly inevitable form which the glimpsing of these truths must take; and this was enough for me to hope the predicted sickness would hold off until the end of the matinee, so that the pleasure might not be jeopardized or vitiated. I badgered my parents, who, since the doctorís pronouncement, no longer wanted me to go to see PhËdre. I kept reciting the speech

It is said, Sire, that a prompt departure must take you away ...

trying to put all possible intonations into it, the better to enjoy the unexpected one that La Berma would be sure to employ. By day and by night my mind was haunted by the knowledge of the divine Beauty which her acting would be bound to reveal, hidden like the Holy of Holies by the impenetrable veil, behind which I imagined it in constantly changing guises, according to whichever of Bergotteís images recurred to my mind from his little study of Racine, which Gilberte had managed to find for meóìher noble plasticity,î ìthe white garb of Christian penitence,î ìher Jansenist pallor,î ìthis Princess of ClËves and of Troezen,î ìthis Mycenaean melodrama,î ìa Delphic symbol,î ìa solar mythîóand it was the reckless severity of my parents that was to decide whether or not in this mind of mine, where her altar was perpetually lit, the perfections of the Goddess would stand unveiled forever at the very spot where now stood her invisible form. With my gaze fixed on the unimaginable figure, I had to struggle all day long against the obstacles raised by my family. Then, once these obstacles had fallen, and once my mother, despite the fact that the matinee was on the very day of the Select Committee session after which my father was to bring M. de Norpois home to dinner, had said to me, ìLook, we donít want you to be sad. If you really think youíll enjoy it so much, youíd better go,î now that it was up to me to decide on the outing to the theater which had previously been forbidden, now that I was free of the need to make sure it should cease to be impossible, I began to wonder whether it was desirable, whether reasons other than my parentsí prohibition should not perhaps make me choose to stay at home. For one thing, having hated their cruelty to me, I now loved them so much for their kindness that the idea of saddening them saddened me; the point of existence seemed no longer to be the seeking for truth, but the finding of fondness; and life as a good or a bad thing could only be judged by whether my parents were happy or unhappy. ìIf youíre going to worry about it,î I said to my mother, ìIíd really rather not go.î She, however, did her best to scotch the notion that she might be unhappy, saying that it could spoil my enjoyment of PhËdre, which had been their main consideration in changing their minds about the outing. But now that I seemed to be under an obligation to enjoy myself, I found it rather irksome. What if I did fall ill afterward? Would I get better by the end of the holidays, and be able to go back to the Champs-ŠlysÈes as soon as Gilberte returned? In the hope of deciding which to choose, I weighed against all these reasons the veiled invisibility of La Bermaís perfections. On one side of the scales, I put ìknowing Mamaís worrying, me not being able to go to the Champs-ŠlysÈesî; and on the other, ìher Jansenist pallorî and the ìsolar myth.î But the words themselves gradually grew darker in my mind, and lost all weight and meaning for me; my hesitations became so painful that the only reason I could have had now for choosing to go to the theater would have been to put an end to them, to be rid of them for good. And by going so as to cut short my sufferings, rather than to seek perfection and derive intellectual benefit, I would have been going not to the gentle Goddess once imagined, but to some implacable, faceless, nameless Divinity who had surreptitiously taken the otherís place behind the veil.

Then, all at once, everything changed, and my longing to see La Berma act was revived by something that made me look forward to the matinee with joy and impatience. As though turned into a stylite, I had gone to my Morris column, a daily activity which of late had become very painful, and there I had seen the first detailed poster for PhËdre itself, still damp with paste, which, though the other members of the cast offered nothing that could help me decide whether to go or not to go, did give to one of the rewards of my contending urges a more concrete form, and a kind of imminence that made it seem on the very point of becoming a reality: as the poster showed the date not of the day when I stood there reading it, but of the day when the matinee would be performed, and even the time when the curtain would rise, I was suddenly inspired by the happy thought that, on that day, at that very hour, I would be sitting in my seat ready to see La Berma; and in the fear that there might not be time now for my parents to book two good seats for my grandmother and myself, I ran all the way home, full of the magic of the words that had displaced ìher Jansenist pallorî and the ìsolar mythî in my imagination: Ladies wearing hats may not sit in the stalls. The doors will be closed at two oíclock sharp.

This first matinee was, alas, a great disappointment. My father had suggested giving my grandmother and myself a lift to the theater, which was on his way to the Select Committee. As he left the house, he said to my mother, ìYouíll make sure itís a nice dinner tonight, wonít you? Remember, Norpoisís coming home with me.î She had not forgotten. Since the day before, FranÁoise, glad to be practicing the cookís art, for which she had a definite gift, inspired by the coming of a new guest, and knowing she was required to compose, in accordance with methods known only to herself, a dish of beef in aspic, had been living in a flurry of artistic creativity. Like Michelangelo spending eight months in the mountains of Carrara, selecting the most perfect blocks of marble for the tomb of Pope Julius II, FranÁoise, who attached extreme importance to the inherent quality of the materials out of which her masterpieces were to be wrought, had been down to Les Halles in person more than once to choose the finest slabs of rump steak, the best shin of beef and calfís foot. She threw herself so strenuously into this pursuit that my mother, seeing our old servant turn red in the face, feared that, as the sculptor of the Medici tombs had sickened in the quarries at Pietrasanta, she might make herself ill from overwork. The day before, FranÁoise had sent down to the oven of the local baker what she called ìa Nev York ham,î looking like pink marble inside its coating of breadcrumbs. In the belief that the language was poorer than it is, and her own ears less reliable than they were, the first time FranÁoise had heard of ìYork ham,î she must have deduced that the lexicon could not possibly be so abundant as to allow for both York and New York, that she had misheard, and that the right name was the one she already knew. Hence, ever since, the name of York was always preceded, for Fran- Áoiseís ears and eyes, by the word ìNew,î which she pronounced ìNev.î So it was with total sincerity that she would say to her scullery maid, ìGo down to Olidaís and get some ham. Maíam particularly said she wants the Nev York.î On the day in question, while FranÁoiseís state of mind was the burning certainty of the great creators, my own was the thankless anxiety of the seeker after truth. To be sure, right up until the moment when I saw La Berma act, I enjoyed the day. I enjoyed it in the little garden outside the theater, where, two hours later, the gas lamps, once lit, would cover the leafless horse-chestnuts in a metallic sheen and illuminate the details of their branches; I enjoyed it in the lobby, faced with the box-office staff, whose selection, promotion, and fate all depended on the great artiste whose word was law in that theater, in which there was an obscure succession of temporary and purely nominal managers; I enjoyed it as they took our tickets without a glance at us, in their anxiety to be sure that each and every requirement of Mme Bermaís had been definitely made known to the new employees, that the hired clappers must never applaud her, that windows had to stay open till she was onstage, but that every single door must then be closed, that a pitcher of hot water must be concealed near her, so as to keep down the dustóand sure enough, any moment now her carriage and long-maned pair would draw up in front of the theater, she would step down wrapped in her furs, favor those who greeted her with a moody wave of the hand, then send one of her ladies-in-waiting to check that her friends had been allotted the proper stage box, to see that the house temperature was right, find out who was in the best boxes tonight, inspect the attendants, for the theater and the audience were no more than an outer garment which she put on, the medium of greater or lesser conductivity through which her talent had to pass. I even enjoyed it inside the auditorium; since learning that all the spectators looked at the same stage, unlike what my childish imagination had long pictured, I had supposed that so many people must make it as difficult for each of them to see as it is when one stands among a crowd; but now I realized that, because of the layout of the theater, which is in a way symbolic of perception itself, each person has the impression of being at the center; and this explained why FranÁoise, having been treated to a seat in the gods at a melodrama, had told us hers had been the best seat in the house and that, instead of feeling remote from the stage, she had been intimidated by the proximity of the curtain, which had seemed a mysterious living thing. I enjoyed it even more when, from behind the curtain, I began to hear sounds as vague and strange as those heard from inside the shell of an egg when a chick is about to emerge; they soon grew louder, until, suddenly, from that world which our eye could not penetrate but which could see us, they became three portentous strokes,3 clearly intended for us, and as thrilling as a message from Mars. The curtain having risen, my enjoyment continued at the sight of a writing table and a fireplace, both of them quite nondescript actually, which obviously meant that any individuals who might come in would not be actors turning up to speak lines, like some I had once seen at a party, but just people in their own home, engaged in living a day of their lives, on which I happened to be eavesdropping. My pleasure was interrupted by a momentís unease: just as I was looking forward to the beginning of the play, a couple of bad-tempered men came walking across the stage, raising their voices enough for everyone in that thousand-strong audience to make out every word, whereas when two customers start scuffling and shouting in a small cafÈ you have to ask the waiter what they are saying; but at that same instant, in my surprise that everyone else was paying polite attention to them, all sitting submerged in unanimous silence, the surface of which was now and then broken by a ripple of laughter, I realized that this rude pair of intruders were the actors, and that the short play called a curtain-raiser had just begun. It was followed by an interval which went on for so long that the audience, having come back in, began to express their impatience by stamping their feet on the floor. I was alarmed at this; for, just as, when I read in a report of a trial that a man of courage and honor was to jeopardize his own interests by giving evidence in defense of an innocent man,4 I dreaded the thought that people might not treat him well, that his act might not be properly acknowledged, that he might not be handsomely rewarded, and that in his disgust he might even join the forces of injustice; so, equating genius with virtue, I was afraid that La Berma might take umbrage at the bad manners of such an uncouth audience (among whom I would have much preferred her to be able to recognize and draw comfort from a few celebrities whose good judgment she valued) and express her displeasure and disdain for them by acting badly. I gazed about me as though to implore these stamping savages not to trample underfoot the fragile, precious impression that had brought me there. The final vestiges of my enjoyment lasted until the opening scenes of the performance of PhËdre. The character of PhËdre does not appear in those early scenes of act II; and yet, no sooner had the curtain gone up, and the red velvet of another curtain had been partly opened, so as to double the depth of the stage, as was done in all the starís performances, than there entered upstage an actress who looked and sounded exactly as I had been led to believe La Berma would. They must have changed the cast! All my careful study of the part of Theseusí wife was pointless! But then a second actress engaged in a dialogue with the first oneóI must have been mistaken in thinking she was La Berma, as this newcomer looked even more like the star and came much closer to her diction! Both of them now enhanced their speeches with noble gesturesówhich were clear and recognizably relevant to the text, as they lifted the folds of their fine robesóand with ingenious intonations, fraught with passion or irony, which showed me shades and depths in lines I had read at home without paying enough attention to what they meant. Then, suddenly, a woman appeared between the parted curtains of the inner sanctum, standing there as though within a frame, and instantlyó from the fear that filled me, much more acute than any La Berma might have felt, at the prospect of someone opening a window, spoiling her delivery of a line by rustling a program, upsetting her by applauding her fellow actors, or by not applauding her enough, and from the effort of concentration, also greater than hers, which forced me from that moment on to sense the auditorium, the audience, the actors, the play, and even my own person as nothing but an acoustical medium, of importance only insofar as it might enrich the modulations of that voiceóI realized that the pair of actresses whom I had been admiring for some minutes past bore not the slightest resemblance to the one I was there to see and hear. But at the same time, all my enjoyment had dissipated: however hard I strained toward her with my eyes, ears, and mind, so as not to miss a single scrap of the incentives she would offer me to admire her, I could not manage to find any. I could not even perceive in her diction or use of movement, as I had with the other actresses, any sensitivity of tone or delicacy of gesture. I sat there and listened to her as I might have read PhËdre, or as though at that moment PhËdre herself was saying the things I was hearing, without La Bermaís talent seeming to add anything at all to them. I wished I could arrest and hold motionless before me each of her intonations, freeze each of the changing expressions on her face, so as to study them in depth and find out what was beautiful in them; at least I tried, by using all my mental agility, by having my whole attention at the ready and focused on a line just before its delivery, not to waste in preliminaries any iota of the time taken by each word or gesture, in the hope of being able, by sheer intensity of attention, to absorb each of them as I might have done if I had been able to hold them before me for hours on end. But the time they occupied was so short! My ear had barely registered each sound when it was replaced by the following one. In one scene, where La Berma stands still for a moment against a backdrop of the sea, with one arm raised to face level, and her whole figure given a greenish tint by an effect of the lighting, the audience had no sooner burst into applause than she changed position and the tableau I wished I could study closely disappeared. I told my grandmother I could not see very well, and she lent me her opera glasses. But when you believe in the reality of things, using an artificial means to see them better is not quite the same as feeling closer to them. I felt it was not La Berma that I was seeing, only an enlarged picture of her. I put the glasses downóbut what if the image received by the naked eye was no more accurate, given that it was an image reduced by distance? Which was the true Berma? When she reached PhËdreís declaration of desire for Hippolyte, a part I had been specially looking forward to, because the diction of Oenone and Aricie kept revealing unsuspected subtleties in parts that were not as fine as it, I was sure her intonations would be more striking than any I had contrived to imagine while reading the play at home: but she did not even rise to the effects that the other two actresses would have managed; she blurred the whole speech into a toneless recitative, blunting the keen edges of contrasts which any semi-competent performer, even a girl in a school production, could hardly have failed to bring out; and she gabbled through it at such speed that it was not until she reached the closing line that my mind became aware of the deliberate monotone in which she had delivered the opening ones.

At length I felt a first surge of admiration within meóit was brought on by a sudden outburst of frantic clapping from the other members of the audience. I clapped and clapped too, keeping on as long as possible, in the hope that La Berma might excel herself out of gratitude, and I could then be certain of having seen her on one of her best days. The remarkable thing is that the moment when that storm of applause broke out was, as I later learned, one of those when her acting was at its most inspired. Certain transcendent realities seem to give off a sort of radiation which the crowd can pick up. From the unclear reports of certain great events, such as a danger threatening an army on a national frontier, a defeat or a great victory, the educated man may be unable to make much sense, but the crowd thrills with an excitement which surprises him and which, once he has been authoritatively informed of the military situation, he recognizes as their perception of that ìauraî surrounding events of great moment and visible from hundreds of miles away. We learn of a victory either after the war is over, or at once from the janitorís jubilation. A touch of genius in the acting of La Berma is revealed to us by the reviews a week after we have seen her onstage, or by the cheers from the back stalls. But as this immediate communal responsiveness also expresses itself in many mistaken outbursts, here people usually applauded at the wrong moments; and the waves of clapping were often mechanical consequences of previous applause, just as in a gale the waves may go on rising, once the surface of the sea is disturbed enough, even though the wind is no stronger. So, the longer I went on clapping, the better La Bermaís acting seemed to have become. ìSay what you like,î a rather common woman sitting nearby said, ìyouíve got to admit she throws herself into it. She really hits herself, you know. And she runs around! Thatís real acting!î Relieved to learn of these grounds for believing in the genius of La Bermaóthough suspecting they were as inadequate to account for it as were the words of the peasant on seeing the Mona Lisa or Benvenuto Celliniís Perseus: ìWell, itís pretty good, isnít it? Itís all gold! Good stuff, huh? A lot of work went into that!îóI let the cheap wine of this popular enthusiasm go to my head. Even so, once the curtain had fallen, I was aware of being disappointed that the enjoyment I had longed for had not been greater, but also of wishing that, such as it was, it would continue, and that I was not obliged to leave behind me forever, as I walked out of the auditorium, this life of the theater in which I had just shared for a few hours. To part from it and go straight home would have been as heartrending as going into exile, had I not looked forward to learning a lot about La Berma from the admirer of hers to whom I owed the fact of having been allowed to go and see PhËdre, M. de Norpois. To introduce me, my father called me into his study before dinner. When I entered the room, the former ambassador stood up, bowed from his full height, gave me his hand and the careful scrutiny of his blue eyes. During his period as Franceís representative abroad, with each passing stranger introduced to him (all of them, not excluding well-known singers, being people of more or less note, of whom he knew as he met them that he would be able to say, if he should happen in the future to hear mention of their names in Paris or Saint Petersburg, that he well remembered the evening spent in their company in Munich or Sofia), he had cultivated the habit of making a show of affability, so as to let them see how pleased he was to make their acquaintance; and, in his belief that life in capital cities, where one is thrown into constant contact both with the personalities of interest who pass through and with the customs of the local population, affords one a thorough knowledge of history, of geography, of the ways of different peoples and of the intellectual life of Europe, which no book can give, he also turned upon every newcomer his acute proficiency in observation, so as to see for himself what manner of man he was dealing with. It was a long time since the government had appointed him to a post in a foreign capital; but when people were introduced to him, his eyes, as though they had not been notified of his removal from the active list, still took up their work of profitable observation, while his whole demeanor set about assuring such persons that their names were not unknown to him. So, as M. de Norpois spoke to me with the kindly and important air of the man who is aware of his own vast experience, he examined me with a perceptive curiosity calculated to derive all possible benefit from me, as though I were some outlandish custom, an instructive landmark, or a star on a foreign tour. In this, he treated me with both the majestic considerateness of wise Mentor and the studious curiosity of young Anacharsis.

However, he made me no promise of good offices with the Revue des deux mondes, although he did ask me certain questions on my past life and studies, as well as on the things I liked, this being the first time anybody had mentioned such things in a way which, instead of giving me the idea that it was my duty to resist them, suggested they might be perfectly respectable. Seeing that I was inclined toward literature, M. de Norpois, rather than try to put me off it, spoke of it with deference, as though it were a charming dowager whose select company one remembers well from having been admitted to it in Rome or Dresden, and whom one would be glad to see more of, were it not for the unavoidable impediments of life. More favored and freer than himself, I could be sure of having a good time with her, or so a hint of envious naughtiness in his smile seemed to suggest. But the very words he used showed me that Literature was utterly different from the image I had had of it in Combray; and I realized how right I had been to abandon all notion of it. Until that moment, my only thought had been that I had no gift for writing; but M. de Norpois now freed me of the very urge to write. I tried to explain what my dreams had been; I was trembling with emotion, in my anxiety to find the most accurate words to express what I had felt but had never before tried to put into words; and that was why what I did say was so garbled. It may have been a professional habit with him, it may have been the acquired composure of any important man being asked for advice who, knowing that control of the conversation remains in his hands, lets you meander about and exhaust yourself looking for the best words, or it may have been to display at its best the style of his head, which he saw as Grecian notwithstanding his great muttonchop whiskers, but M. de Norpois, while you held forth, kept as straight a face as if you were haranguing an ancient (and stone-deaf) bust in the Glyptothek at Munich or Copenhagen. Then, as conclusive as an auctioneerís gavel or the Oracle at Delphi, his voice as he replied struck you with unexpected force, nothing in his expression having let you guess at the effect you had been making, or what view he would give.

ìQuite,î he said suddenly, as though the matter was closed, having let me flounder about under his unmoving stare. ìI know of the case of the son of a friend of mine who, mutatis mutandis, is just like you.î (His tone, as he spoke of our shared hankerings after the writing life, was reassuring, as though we had a predisposition toward rheumatism rather than literature, and he wanted me to know it was not fatal.) ìSo he preferred to leave the Quai díOrsay, despite the fact that, thanks to his father, his career path was clear, and then, without caring so much as a fig for any views others might have on the matter, he started to publish. He is not likely to repine at having done so, believe you me. Two years ago now, he wrote a bookóheís a good bit older than yourself, of courseóon the Sentiment of the Infinite on the western shore of Lake Victoria Nyanza, and then, this very year, a work of lesser scope, but still written with a nimbleónay, sometimes a sharpónib, on the repeating rifle in the Bulgarian army, and these two productions have really put him in a class all his own. So he has already gone a fair way. Heís not a man to do things by halves, and I can assure you that, though no firm nomination of him for the AcadÈmie des Sciences Morales is yet being envisaged, his name has cropped up once or twice in conversation, and that in a manner far from disadvantageous to him. In a word, though it would be untrue to say he has yet scaled the highest peak, it must be said that, by dint of meritorious endeavor, he has contrived to make a pretty fine position for himself, and that his worthy efforts have been duly crowned by successófor success, you know, does not always go to the muddleheads and scatterbrains of this world, or indeed to the upsetters of applecarts, who usually turn out to be in it for show, anyway.î

By this time, my father had no doubt I would be a member of the AcadÈmie in a very few years; and his satisfaction was increased when M. de Norpois, after a momentary pause in which he appeared to ponder the consequences of such an act, handed me a card and said, ìGo and see him, tell him I sent youóI warrant heíll have some good advice to give you,î words which caused me as much heartache and alarm as if he had told me I was to be taken on, the very next day, as a cabin boy on a clipper.

I had inherited from my aunt LÈonie, as well as many more objects and furniture than I knew what to do with, almost the whole of her money, the posthumous display of an affection for me which I had never noticed while she lived. My father, who was charged with managing this money until I came of age, sought M. de Norpoisís advice on a certain number of investments. M. de Norpois recommended certain low-yield stocks that he looked on as rock-solid, notably English Consolidated and the Russian 4 percents: ìWith first-rate stocks like those, though the return may not be very high, at least you are sure that your capital will never suffer.î My father told him succinctly about the other stock he had bought. M. de Norpoisís smile of congratulation was all but imperceptible: like all rentiers, he saw money as a desirable thing, but deemed it tactful to restrict his compliments on what anyone owned to a veiled glance of understanding; also, being himself hugely wealthy, he believed good taste required him to appear impressed by the lesser incomes of others, while enjoying a quiet reminder of the superiority of his own. However, he did not hesitate to congratulate my father on the ìcompositionî of his portfolio, ìvery stylish, very neat, very handsome.î It sounded as though he endowed the differences between the market values of shares, and even the shares themselves, with something like aesthetic merit. When my father mentioned one of these securities, quite a new one, not very well known, M. de Norpois, like the man who has read a book that you thought you were the only one to have read, said, ìYes, yes! I enjoyed following it in the Share Listógood buy, wasnít it?î And he smiled with the reminiscent appreciation of the subscriber to a review who has read its latest serialized novel, installment by installment. ìI would not advise you against buying up some of the issue to be floated in the coming days. Itís very tempting, theyíre offering the shares at attractive prices.î

My father, referring to certain older stocks but not quite remembering their names, which were easily confused with other, similar ones, opened a drawer and showed the ambassador the certificates themselves. I was delighted by the appearance of them, all decorated with cathedral spires and allegorical figures, looking like old publications from the Romantic period that I had once looked at. All the productions of a particular time look alike; the artists who illustrate the poems of a certain period are the same ones who are employed by its banking houses. There is nothing more evocative of certain episodes of Hugoís Notre- Dame de Paris, or works by GÈrard de Nerval, as I used to see them displayed outside the grocery store in Combray, than the river divinities wielding the beflowered rectangle that frames a stock certificate issued by the Compagnie des Eaux.

My fatherís attitude toward my type of mind was scorn sufficiently diluted by affection for his reaction to whatever I did to be, on the whole, blind indulgence. So he had no hesitation in sending me to fetch a little prose poem I had written one year at Combray, on the way home from an outing. I had written it in a state of exhilaration which I felt it must directly convey to anyone who read it. But my exhilaration must have failed to touch M. de Norpois; and he handed it back to me without a word.

My mother, who was full of respect for any of my fatherís occupations, came in to ask shyly whether it was time for her to have dinner served. She was reluctant to interrupt any conversation in which she was not supposed to be participating. So my father went on reminding the Marquis of some useful measure or other which they had decided to support at the next meeting of the Select Committee, in that special tone of voice used by two professional colleagues (or two classmates) who, though out of their usual element, and in the presence of others who are not privy to the shared experiences of their other life, speak of these experiences, while apologizing for doing so.

The state of total independence from his facial muscles in which M. de Norpois lived enabled him to listen while not seeming to hear. My father, having stumbled through a longish preamble, eventually had to grope for a word: ìSo I had been thinking I might just ask for, you know, the views of the Select Committee ...î Whereupon, from the countenance of the aristocratic virtuoso, who had been sitting as still as an instrumentalist awaiting his turn to play, there came, with perfect attack and a smooth delivery, in a sharpened pitch and sounding as though finishing a phrase just begun, but in a different tone-coloring, the words, ì... of which, of course, you will not hesitate to convene a meeting, given that each and every one of its members is personally known to you and can come in at any moment.î In itself, this completion was hardly remarkable. But the unmoving posture that had preceded it gave it the sudden crystal clarity, the almost mischievous surprise of the phrases by which the piano, after its silent rests, makes its punctual little replies to the cello in a Mozart concerto.

As we went through to dinner, my father asked me, ìSoódid you enjoy the matinee?î so as to give me a chance to shine, and in the hope that my enthusiasm would find favor in the eyes of M. de Norpois; then, with the technical and conspiratorial tone of retrospective allusiveness which he used for referring to the sessions of the Select Committee, he added for the benefit of the diplomat, ìHeís just been to see La Berma, you know. You remember we spoke of it.î

ìYou must have been delighted,î M. de Norpois said, ìespecially if you were seeing her for the first time. Your good father here was inclined to be anxious about the repercussions your little escapade might have on your state of healthóI understand youíre rather delicate, not in the best of health. However, I reassured him. Theaters nowadays are not what they used to be, even just twenty years ago. I mean, one has more or less comfortable seats to sit in; and the air circulates a bitóthough we still have a long way to go to equal Germany and England, which in that respect (as in many another!) have far outstripped us. I have never seen Mme Berma in PhËdre, but I have been told she is outstanding. It must, of course, have been a great thrill for you.î

M. de Norpois, being incomparably cleverer than I was, must be in possession of the truth that I had been unable to derive from La Bermaís acting! He would be able to reveal it to me. In answer to his question, I was going to beg him to tell me where that truth lay; and in so doing he would vindicate the desire that had urged me to go and see her. I had no more than a moment to take advantage of, to focus my inquiries on the salient points. But what were they? Concentrating my whole attention on my impressions, which were hopelessly confused, with no thought of shining or finding favor, but in the hope of getting from him the truth I sought, I made no effort to substitute set phrases for the words that failed me, I made no sense, and eventually, so as to have him say straight out what was so admirable about La Berma, I owned up to my disappointment.

ìWhatís that?î exclaimed my father, appalled at the poor impression my ineptness might make on M. de Norpois. ìHow can you say you didnít enjoy it? Your grandmother told us you didnít miss a word, that you just stared and stared at her, that nobody else in the whole audience lapped it up the way you did!î

ìWell, yes, I was listening as hard as I could, to see what was so great about her. I mean, sheís very good ...î

ìWell, then, if sheís very good, what more do you want?î

ìOne of the things which contribute most definitely to the success of Mme Berma,î said M. de Norpois, taking care to turn toward my mother, so as to bring her into the conversation and to fulfill punctiliously the duty of being courteous to oneís hostess, ìis the impeccable taste she exercises in her choice of parts, which always ensures her a clear success, one that is thoroughly deserved. She rarely plays mediocre partsóI mean, here she is now as PhËdre. And one can see the same good taste in her costumes and in her acting. Even though she has made frequent and profitable tours to England and to America, the vulgarityóI wonít say of John Bull, that would be quite an unfair thing to say of the England of this Victorian era of oursó but the vulgarity of Uncle Sam seems not to have affected her. Never any colors that are too flagrant, never any exaggerated vocal effects. Just that wonderful voice, which serves her so well, which she uses to such good effect, which she plays on, I might almost say, like a musician on an instrument!î

My interest in La Bermaís acting, being no longer subject to the compression and constraints of reality, had gone on growing since the end of the performance. But I felt the need to find explanations for this interest, which, while she was onstage, had sated itself with equal intensity on all the rich complexities of real life, as she offered them to my eyes and ears, but without separating any of them or distinguishing anything. So there was some relief to be had in finding a reasonable cause for it in these praises of her as an unspoiled and tasteful artiste; it attracted them to itself by its own power of absorption; it latched on to them, as the drunken man in his bonhomie is moved to maudlin by the actions of a passerby. ìHeís right, you know!î I thought. ìWhat a lovely voice, what simple costumes! How clever of her to think of doing PhËdre! Of course Iím not disappointed!î

The cold beef with carrots now made its appearance, laid out by the Michelangelo of our kitchen on great crystals of aspic that looked like blocks of transparent quartz.

ìYou have a chef of superlative quality, madame,î said M. de Norpois. ìAnd that is a thing worthy of note. Speaking as one who has had to keep up a certain standard of such things in foreign parts, I know how difficult it can often be to find the perfect Vatel.5 I see you have prepared a sumptuous repast for your guest.î

It was true that FranÁoise, inspired by the challenge offered by a guest of such quality to create a dinner fraught with difficulties that for once were worthy of her, had taken pains of a sort she no longer took when we dined among ourselves, and had become once more the incomparable cook she had been in Combray days.

ìNow, that is something you canít get in any public eating establishment, not excluding the very best: a dish of braised beef, with aspic that doesnít smell like glue, in which the meat has absorbed the flavor of the carrotsóquite magnificent! Do allow me to have a little more,î he added, with a gesture that requested another helping of the aspic. ìI would be interested to see how your Vatel would acquit himself of quite a different dishóbeef Stroganoff, for example.î

To contribute his fair share to the enjoyment of the meal, M. de Norpois now served up for us several stories which his diplomatic colleagues were familiar with, some of them featuring the sesquipedalianism of a certain politician known for his preposterous utterances larded with mixed metaphors, others featuring the epigrammatic brevity of a diplomat who was a master of elegant Atticism. It was clear that M. de Norpoisís judgment of these two types of sentence was based on a criterion utterly unlike the one I applied to literature. I missed many niceties in his stories: I could see little difference between the clumsy sentences, which he accompanied with guffaws, and the others, which he thought were so fine. He was the kind of man who would have said of the books I liked, ìSo you fancy this sort of stuff, do you? Personally, I have to say I donít see much in it, Iím not one of the initiated.î But I could have said the same thing to him: in a statement or a speech, I could not see what he saw as witty or what he thought was stupid, what was eloquence and what was bombast; and the lack of any apparent reason why one was good and the other bad meant that these literary standards struck me as most mysterious and obscure. The only deduction I could draw was that, in politics, it was a mark of superiority rather than inferiority to repeat what everybody else thought. Each time M. de Norpois used certain expressions, which were as trite as the newspapers in which he read them, and which he spoke with emphasis, one could sense that, by virtue of having been uttered by him, they became an act, and that this act would not go unnoticed.

My mother had been expecting the pineapple-and-truffle salad to be a great success. But the ambassador, after spending a moment exercising his penetrating gift of observation on the dish, ate the salad with complete diplomatic discretion and vouchsafed no opinion on it. My mother urged him to have some more; and as he did so, instead of offering the expected compliment, he said, ìI cannot refuse, maíam, since you have clearly issued an ukase.î

ìWe read in the ëpublic prints,íî my father said, ìthat you had a long conversation with King Theodosius.î ìQuite. His Majesty, whose memory for faces is remarkable, was gracious enough to recall, when he noticed me in the front stalls, that I had had the honor of seeing him over a period of a few days at the Court of Bavaria, at a time when he had no thought of his Eastern throneóas you know, it fell to him as a result of a European congress; and he even had some serious hesitation about whether to accept it or not, as he saw it as not quite up to his lineage, which is the noblest in the whole of Europe, heraldically speaking. So an equerry brought me the command to go and greet His Majesty, and naturally I lost no time in complying.î

ìAnd do you find the results of his visit satisfactory?î

ìCompletely and entirely! Mind you, one might well have harbored some misgivings about how well such a young monarch might comport himself in such difficult circumstances, especially given the delicate times we live in. Personally, I must say I had no qualms whatsoever about the sovereignís political instincts.

However, even my expectations were more than borne out. The toast he proposed at the ŠlysÈeówhich wholly reliable sources have assured me was entirely his own work, from the first word to the lastówas in every way worthy of the universal interest it has aroused. It can only be called a masterstroke. A daring one, I grant you, but one which events have fully vindicated. The traditions of diplomacy undoubtedly have their value, but in this case they had managed to create between his country and our own a staleness in the atmosphere, which was unhealthy for both of us. And, of course, one way to get a breath of fresh airóa way which one would obviously be loath to recommend, but which King Theodosius could afford to adoptóis to break windows! He did it with a fine humor, which delighted everyone, and an accuracy in the choice of words which showed he is the worthy descendant of that lineage of highly literate princes to which he belongs through his mother. Certainly, when he spoke of the ëaffinitiesí linking his country to France, he used a word which, though it may not be of common currency in the lexicon of the chancellery, was singularly apt. As you can see,î he said, aiming the remark at me, ìliterature never goes amiss, even in diplomacy, even on a throne. I admit that the state of affairs had been recognized for a long time; and the relations between the two powers had become excellent. Still, it needed to be said. We had been hoping for some such word; the one used was selected with perfect taste; and you can see what an effect it has had. I for one applaud it wholeheartedly.î

ìYour friend M. de Vaugoubert must have been very happy. He had been working at the rapprochement for years.î

ìYes, especially since His Majesty made a point of springing it on him by surprise, the sort of thing he is in the habit of doing, I may add. And it was a complete surprise for everybody, not excluding his own minister of foreign affairs, who, as I have been told, did not find it entirely to his taste. He is reported to have said quite unambiguously to someone who broached the matter with him, and in a loud enough voice to be heard by others, ëI was neither consulted nor warned,í giving clearly to understand that he took no share of responsibility for the event. It must be admitted that it has stirred up quite a fuss; and I should not care to wager,î he went on with a mischievous smile, ìthat certain colleagues of mine, who appear to make a virtue of sloth, have not been disturbed in their repose. As for Vaugoubert, you know he had been roundly attacked for his policy of rapprochement, which must have cut the man to the quickóand heís so sensitive, heís the soul of delicacy. I know what Iím saying, you know, for, though heís very much my junior, I have had a great deal to do with himówe have been friends for many a year, and I know him well. Who wouldnít know him, I ask you? The manís soul is as clear as crystal. Actually, thatís the only fault one could find with himóitís not necessary for a diplomatist to have a heart as transparent as his. Despite which, thereís talk of sending him to Rome, which would be a great step forward for him, but also a very great challenge. Between ourselves, I suspect that Vaugoubert, though heís utterly devoid of ambition, would be very pleased if it was true, and has no desire to let that cup pass from him. If he does go to Rome, he may well turn out to be very successful. Heís the candidate favored by the Consulta; and I for one can see him being well suited, with that artistic bent of his, to the setting of the Farnese Palace and the Car- racci gallery.6 One might think that nobody could dislike such a man, though it must be said there is a clique who are close to King Theodosius who are little more than the creatures of the Wilhelmstrasse,7 always acting in response to its suggestions, and who have definitely attempted to put a spoke in Vaugoubertís wheel. He has had to contend not only with backstairs intrigues, but with the insults of hired scribblers who, with the cowardice of all stipendiary journalists, and though later they were the first to cry ëPax,í had no objection to broadcasting the paltry accusations made against our representative by unprincipled men. Yes, for more than a month, the enemies of Vaugoubert were like a scalping party doing the war dance,î M. de Norpois said, stressing this term. ìBut forewarned, as we know, is forearmed, and he just kicked the insults aside,î he said, with even greater force, and a glare that made us stop eating for a moment. ìAs a fine old Arabian proverb puts it: ëThe dogs bark, the caravan moves on.íî M. de Norpois paused, watching us to see what effect this quotation would have on us. It had a great effect: his proverb was well known to us. All worthy men had been using it that year instead of ìSow the wind and reap the whirlwind,î which was in need of a rest, not being a hardy annual like ìTo labor and to seek for no reward.î The culture of these eminent men was of the alternating variety, usually triennial in its cycle. Not that the articles M. de Norpois wrote for the Revue des deux mondes would have appeared less than sound and well informed had he not deftly sprinkled these sayings throughout them. Even without the ornamentation which they added to his prose, the lay reader could instantly identify and acknowledge the career diplomat in the other type of expression that M. de Norpois could always be relied upon to place aptly in his articles: ìThe Court of Saint James was not slow to perceive the dangerî; or ìAt Pevchesky Bridge, where an anxious eye was kept on the selfish yet astute policy of the Double-Headed Eagle, excitement now reached fever pitchî; or ìA cry of alarm sounded in the Montecitorioî; or ìThis predictable double game carries the hallmark of the Ballhausplatz.î8 But what had led some to see in M. de Norpois not just the career diplomat but the man of higher culture was his studied way of using certain quotations, of which the unquestionable paradigm in those days was: ìShow me sound policies and Iíll show you sound finances, as Baron Louis was fond of saying.î (This was before the time when we imported from the Far East ìVictory goes to him who can hold out for a quarter hour longer than his opponent, as the Japanese say.î) It was this reputation as a man of letters, as well as a real genius for intrigue concealed behind a mask of indifference, that had got M. de Norpois elected to the AcadÈmie des Sciences Morales. There were those who became convinced that his rightful place was actually in the AcadÈmie FranÁaise on the day when, in his conviction that it was by strengthening our ties with Russia that we could reach an understanding with England, he did not hesitate to pen the following sentence: ìLet this be well understood at the Quai díOrsay, let it figure in all school geography books that do not make a point of saying so today, let every candidate at the baccalaurÈat who cannot repeat it be failed out of hand: all roads may lead to Rome, but the road which goes from Paris to London must of necessity pass through Saint Petersburg.î ìAs a matter of fact,î M. de Norpois went on, talking to my father, ìVaugoubert has made a great success of this, one which really goes further than he had been hoping. He had expected a formal toast, nothing more, which, given the coldness of recent years, would actually have been a good sign. Several people among those present have assured me that, if one merely reads the text of the toast, it is not possible to realize the effect it had when it was proposed and so brilliantly expounded by the King, who, being the master he is in the art of public speaking, brought out so well each and every intent, each and every shade of it. In that connection, a rather choice detail has been brought to my attention, one which shows to advantage, yet again, the youthful goodheartedness which so many find endearing in King Theodosius. I have been assured that at the very moment when he spoke that word ëaffinities,í which was after all the great novelty of the speech, one which, mark my words, will lend itself to much comment in the chancelleries, His Majesty, foreseeing the joy it would cause our ambassador, who would see it as the fulfillment of his every effort, the realization of his dream, one might say, in a word, his marshalís baton, His Majesty half turned toward Vaugoubert, rested that engaging eye of the Oettingens on him, and carefully enunciated that word ëaffinities,í so well chosen, such a felicitous expression, in a tone of voice which let everyone know it was being used quite deliberately and with intent. It appears that Vaugoubert was quite unmanned for a moment; and I must say that, to a certain extent, I sympathize with him. After the banquet, when His Majesty had gathered about him a more restricted circleóI have this from a person whose word is utterly unimpeachable, you understandóit is said the King even approached Vaugoubert and murmured to him, ëWell, Marquis, are you satisfied with your pupil?í It is indubitable that a toast of that sort has done more than twenty years of negotiations to strengthen our two countriesí affinities, as Theodosius II so vividly put it. You may say itís only a word, but itís certainly one to conjure withólook at the echoes it has awakened throughout Europe, the press everywhere have taken it up, people have sat up and taken notice, it has struck a new note! And thatís quite typical of this particular sovereign. I wonít pretend that he produces such gems of genius every day, but in his prepared speechesóindeed, even in the most impromptu conversationóit is very rare for him not to leave his distinguishing markóI almost said, not to inscribe his signatureóby the coining of some trenchant phrase. No one can suspect me of bias in this, as I am utterly opposed to innovation in such things. Nineteen times out of twenty it is pernicious.î

ìYes, I was pretty sure the Kaiserís recent telegram would not be very much to your taste,î my father said. As much as to say, ìThat man!,î M. de Norpois cast his eyes heavenward: ìFor one thing, it was an act of arrant ingratitude. It was worse than a crimeóit was a mistake!9 And as for the stupidity of it, the only word for that is monumental. For another thing, if someone doesnít put a stop to it, the man who gave Bismarck his marching orders is quite capable of repudiating each and every one of Bismarckís policies. And when that happens, weíll see a fine mess!î

ìMy husband tells me, monsieur, that youíre thinking of taking him off to Spain with you one of these summers. Iím sure he would enjoy that.î

ìYes, I must say itís a most engaging prospect, madame, Iím looking forward to it very much. I really would relish such a trip in your company, my dear fellow. But what about yourself, dear lady, have you any plans for the holidays?î

ìMy son and I may be going to Balbec, but itís not quite certain.î

ìAh, Balbec! A lovely spot, I took a look at it not so many years ago. Lots of very smart houses going up. Iím sure you will find the place to your liking. How, may I inquire, did you come to choose Balbec?î ìMy son has a great desire to see some of the churches in the area, especially the church of Balbec itself. I had been a little apprehensive about his health, what with the strains of the journey and especially inconveniences of accommodations. But I have been told theyíve just built a first-class hotel, which will mean he can have the kind of comfort required by his state of health.î

ìWell, I really must pass that information along to a certain person. She will be glad to know of it.î

ìThe church at Balbec is a fine one, isnít it, monsieur?î I asked, despite the displeasure of knowing that one of Balbecís attractions lay in its smart houses.

ìWell, itís not bad. But it canít bear comparison with delicately worked gems such as the cathedrals of Rheims and Chartres, or that jewel in our crown, the Sainte-Chapelle here in Paris.î

ìBut the church of Balbec is partly Romanesque, isnít it?î

ìAbsolutely. It is in the Romanesque manner, which is of course one reason among others why it is so frigid. Itís a style which in no way seems to foreshadow the elegance, the delicate inventiveness of the Gothic architects, who could work the stone like lace. No doubt the church of Balbec is worth a visit, if one happens to be in the vicinityóyou could while away a rainy afternoon if you had nothing better to do, take a look inside, see the tomb of Admiral de Tourville.î10

ìDid you happen to go to the dinner at Foreign Affairs last night?î my father asked. ìI couldnít manage to attend.î

ìNo,î said M. de Norpois, smiling. ìI must confess I sacrificed that pleasure to a very different way of passing the evening. I dined at the house of a lady of whom you may have heardóthe beautiful Mme Swann.î

My mother all but trembled. Being of a readier responsiveness than my father, she was often alarmed on his behalf by something that would not affect him until a moment later. She was the first to notice things which would cause him displeasure, much as bad news for France is known sooner abroad than at home.

However, she was curious to know what sort of people went to the Swannsí, and inquired of M. de Norpois about his fellow guests.

ìWell, now ... to tell you the truth ... I must say itís a house at which most of the guests appear to be ... gentlemen. There were certainly several married men presentóbut their wives were all indisposed yesterday evening, and had been unable to go,î the ambassador replied, with a crafty glance masked by joviality, his eyes full of a demure discretion that pretended to moderate their mischievousness while making it more obvious.

ìTo be completely fair,î he added, ìI must also say that there are women who go there. But they ... belongóhow shall I put it?óletís say to the world of Republican sympathies, rather than to the world of Swann himself.î (This name he pronounced ìSvann.î) ìWho can tell? One day it may turn out to be a literary or political salon. Although they do appear to be quite satisfied with the present state of affairs. Swann himself actually makes it rather too obvious, if you ask me. I was taken aback that a man of such delicacy should be so brash and tactless, not to say tasteless, about dropping the names of people whoíve invited him and his wife to dinner next weekóyet I can assure you they were not people one would be proud to be invited by! He kept on saying, ëWeíre not free on a single evening!,í as though this were something to boast about, as though he were a vulgar outsider, which of course he isnít. Once upon a time, after all, he did have many friends both male and female, and no doubt not all of the latter, perhaps not even most of them, but I do know for a fact that one of themóI believe one can go so far as to say this without risking being indiscreetówho is a very great lady indeed, might not have evinced total reluctance at the suggestion of frequenting Mme Swann. And if that had happened, then very likely some more of Panurgeís sheep11 would have followed suit. However, it would appear that Swann put out no feelers in that direction. Ah, whatís this, now? What, another Nesselrode pudding! After such a feast of Lucullus, it will behoove me to take the waters at Karlsbad! Mind you, Swann may well have sensed that it would have all been far too difficult. Whatís clear is that the marriage was thoroughly deplored. Mention has been made of the wifeís money, but nothing could be further from the truth. However, people did think the whole thing was too unsavory. And not only that, but there was Swannís aunt, a woman whoís hugely rich and very highly thought of, the wife of a man who, financially speaking, is a force to be reckoned with. Well, not only did she close her doors to Mme Swann, but she even conducted an all-out campaign to make sure all her friends and acquaintances did the same. I donít mean to imply that anyone in the best Paris society actually cut her dead. No, no, of course not! The husband being, in any case, quite capable of sending around his seconds! Anyway, the strange thing about all of this is that Swann, with all his connections in the best society, lavishes such attention on company of which the best that can be said is that it is extremely mixed. I used to know him quite well, and I must say I was both astounded and amused to see such a man, a man whoís so well bred, so much at home in the most fashionable and exclusive circles, falling over himself to thank the chief undersecretary of the postmaster general for gracing him with a visit, asking him whether Mme Swann might feel free to call on his wife! He must feel out of his element. Itís so clearly not his world. And yet, you know, I donít think the manís unhappy. Itís true that the woman stooped to some pretty nasty things in the years before the marriage, some quite unsavory emotional blackmailóif he ever declined to satisfy her on something or other, she just forbade him access to the child. And poor old Swann, whoís really as naÔve as heís refined, assumed each time that the disappearance of his daughter was mere coincidence, and would not see the truth of the matter. Also, she made him so miserable with her nonstop scenes that everyone thought that, if she ever had her way and got him to marry her, she would lead him a dogís life, and the marriage would be a disaster. Then, lo and behold, what happened was the very opposite! People take great pleasure in laughing behind Swannís back at the way he goes on about his wife. Not that anyone expects a man whoís more or less aware of the fact that heís a ... (MoliËreís word, you understand)12 to go about proclaiming it urbi et orbi. Still, people think heís going a little too far when he tells you what a wonderful wife heís got. Yet, you know, itís not as far-fetched as they think. The way she behaves toward him, which is not the way all husbands would preferóand, mind you, between you and me, it strikes me as improbable that Swann, whoís nobodyís fool and who had known her for years, didnít have a shrewd suspicion about you-know-whatóthere can be no denying that she seems fond of him. Iím not saying sheís not still a bit flighty, and certainly Swann himself doesnít let the grass grow under his feet in that regard, at least if one listens to what people sayóand, as you can imagine, people do say. But sheís grateful for what he has done for her; and, notwithstanding all the dire forebodings voiced by everyone, she seems to have become as mild as can be.î This change in Odette may not have been such an extraordinary thing as M. de Norpois thought. She had never believed that Swann would eventually marry her. Every time she informed him in a meaning tone that a certain fashionable gentleman had just married his mistress, she had been met with an icy silence; and if she went so far as to say to him straight out, ìSoódonít you think that was a nice thing to do? Donít you think itís the decent thing for him to make an honest woman of someone thatís given him the best years of her life?,î the most she ever got was the tart reply, ìIím not saying thereís anything wrong with itóhe can please himself.î In fact, Odette had come close to believing that he would do what he sometimes threatened to do in a fit of temper and leave her for good, for she had not long since heard a sculptress declare, ìThereís nothing men wonít stoop to, thereís not a good one among themî; and the pessimism of this profound verity had so struck her that she had taken to uttering it in all sorts of situations, accompanying it with a defeated air that seemed to mean, ìWell, what would you expect, itíd be just my luck!î As a consequence, all efficacy had gone from the optimistic maxim which had hitherto guided Odetteís steps through life: ìYou can treat men that are in love with you any way you like, theyíre such fools,î to which she always gave the twinkle of the eye that might accompany a statement like, ìDonít worryóheís quite house-trained!î Meanwhile, Odette was mortified to think how Swannís conduct must appear to one of her friends, who had recently managed to marry a man whom she had been ìwithî for a shorter time than Swann and Odette had been together, even though she did not have a child by him, and who was relatively accepted now, receiving invitations to balls at the ŠlysÈe Palace. A more perceptive clinician than M. de Norpois could no doubt have made a different diagnosisóthat it was this feeling of humiliation and shame that had embittered Odette, that the shrewish character which came out in her was neither integral to her nor an incurable maladyóand he might have easily foreseen what had in fact taken place, that a new regimen, marriage, would bring about an almost magical remission of these painful attacks, which, though of daily occurrence, were in no way organic. The marriage came as a surprise to almost everybody, which is itself a surprise. No doubt, few people understand either the purely subjective nature of the phenomenon of love, or how it creates a supplementary person who is quite different from the one who bears our belovedís name in the outside world and is mostly formed from elements within ourselves. So there are few who see anything natural in the disproportionate dimensions we come to perceive in a person who is not the same as the one they see. In the case of Odette, however, it should have been possible to notice that, though she had admittedly never fully appreciated the quality of Swannís mind, at least she was acquainted with the titles and the details of his writings, that the name of Vermeer was as familiar to her as the name of her dressmaker, that she knew by heart certain traits of Swann, the kind which all other people either mock or do not know, the true fond likeness of which reposes only in a mistressís or a sisterís heart; and these traits in ourself we cling to so much, even the ones we would most like to see changed, that when a woman comes to have an indulgent and banteringly amicable attachment to them, seeing them more as they are seen by ourselves and by our close relatives, a long-standing liaison can come to have something of the mildness and strength of affections within the family. The feelings we share with another are sanctified when, in judging one of our faults, that person adopts the same point of view as we do. However, there were certain aspects of Swannís mind that Odette had in fact appreciated, since they too were in part outcomes of his character. She lamented the fact that, when Swann did produce a study or some other piece of writing, these aspects were not as perceptible as in his letters or in his conversation, where they abounded. She suggested that he should give them greater scope. Her reason for this was that it was these features she herself preferred in the man; but since this preference meant only that these things were more ìhimî than others, she may have been right to wish they might be more visible in his writings. Perhaps she thought too that if these writings could have more vitality in them they might be more successful, which might then have enabled her to aspire to the thing which in her time with the Verdurins she had come to see as the greatest of all achievementsóa salon of her own.

Twenty years earlier, those who thought such a marriage quite outlandish, people who, if the question had ever arisen for themselves, would have wondered, ìWhat ever will M. de Guermantes think, what will BrÈautÈ have to say when I marry Mlle de Montmorency?,î the people who maintained that sort of social ideal, would have included Swann himself: in those days, he had gone to great trouble to be elected to membership in the Jockey Club, and had fully expected that, by eventually making a brilliant marriage, he would consolidate his position and become one of the most notable men about town. However, if they are not to wither and fade, such imaginings of a future marriage must be constantly revivified by external stimuli. Your dearest dream may be to humiliate the man who spurned you. But if you go to live in another country and hear no more of him, your enemy will come in time to have no importance for you. If you have lost touch with all the people because of whom, twenty years ago, you longed to become a member of the Jockey Club or the Institut de France, the prospect of belonging to one or another of these bodies will have lost all its power of attraction. A long-standing relationship can do as much as illness, retirement, or a religious conversion to replace old images with new. When Swann married Odette, he did not go through a process of renunciation of his former social ambitionsóshe had long since brought him to a state of detachment from them, in the spiritual sense of the word. And had he not been detached from them, it would have been all the more to his credit. In general, marriages that degrade one of the partners are the worthiest of all, because they entail the sacrifice of a more or less flattering situation to a purely private satisfactionóand, of course, marrying for money must be excluded from the notion of a degrading match, as no couple of whom one partner has been sold to the other has ever failed to be admitted in the end to good society, given the weight of tradition, the done thing, and the need to avoid having double standards. In any case, the idea of engaging in one of those crossbreedings common to Mendelian experiments and Greek mythology, and of joining with a creature of a different race, an archduchess, or a good-time girl, someone of blue blood or no blood at all, might well have titillated the artist, if not the pervert, in Swann. On the occasions when it occurred to him that he might one day marry Odette, there was only one person in society whose opinion he would have cared for, the Duchesse de Guermantes, and snobbery had nothing to do with this. Odette herself was all but indifferent to the Duchesse de Guermantes, thinking only of the people who were immediately above her, rather than of those who inhabited such a remote and exalted sphere. But at moments when Swann sat daydreaming about what it might be like to be the husband of Odette, he always saw the moment when he would introduce her, and especially their daughter, to the Princesse des Laumes, or the Duchesse de Guermantes, as she had become upon the death of her father-in- law. He had no desire to present them to anyone else; but as he imagined the Duchesse talking about him to Odette, and Odette talking to Mme de Guermantes, and the tenderness the latter would show to Gilberte, making much of her, making him proud of his daughter, he could be so moved that he spoke aloud the words they would say. The circumstances that made up this fancied presentation scene were as detailed and concrete as those invented by people who set about drawing up ways to spend some huge imaginary lottery prize. To the extent that a decision may be motivated by a mental image coinciding with it, it can be said that the purpose of Swannís marrying Odette was to introduce her and Gilberte, even though no one else might be present, even though no one else might ever know of it, to the Duchesse de Guermantes. As will be seen, the fulfillment of this social ambition, the only one he had ever harbored for his wife and child, was the very one that was to be denied him; and the veto preventing it was to be so absolute that Swann was to die without imagining that the Duchesse would ever meet them. It will be seen too that the Duchesse de Guermantes did come, after Swannís death, to be acquainted with Odette and Gilberte. He might well have been wise, given that he saw so much importance in something so trivial, not to see the future as too dark in that respect, and not to exclude the possibility that the meeting he longed for might take place, even if at a time when he was no longer there to enjoy it. The mills of causality, which eventually bring to pass more or less all possible effects, including those that had been believed to be the least likely, can at times grind slowly. Their workings can be slowed still more by our own desire, which impedes them while trying to hasten them, or even by our very existence; and they may produce nothing until long after the exhaustion of that desire, or even the end of our life. Swann could really be said to have known this already from his own experienceófor, when he eventually married the Odette whom he had not found to his taste to begin with, whom he had then loved so distractedly, but whom he did not marry until he had stopped loving her, until the man who had once longed to spend his whole life with Odette, and who had despaired of ever being able to do so, had long since died within him, did not this mode of posthumous happiness somehow foreshadow what was to happen after his death?

Fearing that the conversation might turn away from the subject of the Swanns, I now broached the subject of the Comte de Paris,13 to ask M. de Norpois whether he was not a friend of Swannís. ìAbsolutely,î M. de Norpois replied, turning toward me and staring at my modest person through the blue of his eyes, in which his great capacity for intellectual toil and his powers of assimilation could be seen floating as though in their natural element. Then he added, turning back to address my father, ìAnd if I may say so, without overstepping the bounds of the respect I profess for His Highnessóalbeit I do not entertain personal relations with him of a sort which would conflict with my position, however unofficial it isóI permit myself to retail to you a rather choice little incident which, as recently as four years ago, took place in a small railway station in a certain country of Central Europe, where His Highness had occasion to set eyes on Mme Swann. Now, of course, no one in his entourage saw fit to ask His Highness what he thought of her. Such a thing would not have been seemly. But when the vagaries of conversation happened subsequently to bring up her name, His Highness appeared not averse to letting it be divined, by means of certain signs, you understand, which, though they may verge on the imperceptible, are withal quite unambiguous, that his impression of the lady had been far from, in a word, unfavorable.î

ìBut it would surely have been quite out of the question,î my father said, ìto present her to the Comte de Paris?î

ìWell, now, who can say?î M. de Norpois replied. ìOne never knows with princes! Some of the most illustrious, some of those who are most adept at having rendered unto themselves what must be rendered, are also on occasion those who ride roughshod over even the most inviolable decrees of public opinion, if in so doing they can reward certain good and faithful servants. And whatís certain is that the Comte de Paris has always noted with the greatest goodwill the devotion evinced by Swann, who is also, be it remembered, a fellow of fine wit.î

ìAnd what was your own impression, Excellency?î asked my mother, as much from politeness as from curiosity.

M. de Norpoisís reply, delivered with all the energy of the old connoisseur, was at variance with the moderation with which he was accustomed to express himself:

ìAbsolutely first-rate!î

Then, knowing that owning up to having been strongly impressed by a woman, as long as one announces it in a waggish manner, is consistent with a highly regarded notion of table talk, the old diplomat laughed quietly to himself for a few moments, bringing water to his blue eyes and a little quiver to nostrils finely veined with red, and added:

ìWhy, she is quite, quite charming!î

ìAnd was there a writer by the name of Bergotte at the dinner, sir?î I asked, in a diffident attempt to keep the conversation focused on the Swanns.

ìYes, Bergotte was there,î M. de Norpois replied, inclining a courteous head toward me, as though in his goodwill toward my father he attached real importance to anything connected with him, including the questions of a boy as young as myself, who was unaccustomed to be shown such deference by men as old as himself. ìDo you know him?î he added, gazing at me with the bright eyes which Bismarck admired for their acuity.

ìMy son doesnít know Bergotte,î said my mother. ìBut he admires him very much.î

ìWell, now, Iím afraid thatís not a view I can share,î M. de Norpois said (and when I realized that the thing I set far above myself, the one thing I saw as the highest in the world, was the least of his admirations, the doubts this planted in my mind about my own intelligence were much more crippling than those which usually assailed me). ìBergotte is what I call a flute-player. It must of course be admitted that he tootles on his flute quite mellifluously, albeit with more than a modicum of mincing mannerism and affectation. But when allís said and done, tootling is what it is, and tootling does not amount to a great deal. His works are so flaccid that one can never locate in them anything one could call a framework. Thereís never any action in íem, well, hardly any, and especially no scope. Itís their base that is their weak pointóor, rather, they have no base. In this day and age, when the increasing complexity of modern life leaves one barely any time for reading, when the map of Europe has undergone a profound recasting, and may well be on the point of undergoing another which may prove to be even more profound, when so many new and threatening problems are cropping up on all sides, you will allow that one may fairly claim the right to expect that a writer might aspire to be something higher than a glib wit, whose futile hair-splittings on the relative merits of merely formal matters distract us from the fact that we may be overrun at any moment by a double wave of barbarians, those from within and those from without! Now, I know that to speak thus is to utter blasphemies against the sacrosanct school of what certain gentlemen call Art for Artís Sakeóbut in our day and age there are more urgent tasks than stringing jingles of words together. I must admit that Bergotteís jingles can at times be quite pretty, but all in all they add up to something that is pretty jejune, pretty preciousóand pretty unmasculine, if you ask me! Now that Iím aware of your quite excessive admiration for Bergotte, I can appreciate better that little thing you showed me before dinner, about which, by the way, the less said the betteróI owe it to you to say so, for did you not say yourself, quite openly, that it was mere childish scribbling?î It was true, I had said soóbut I had not meant it. ìAll sins shall be forgiven, especially the sins of our youth. Many another man could own up to something similar. Youíre not the only young fellow who has ever fancied himself a poet. But in that piece you showed me, one can detect Bergotteís pernicious influence. Now, clearly, it will come as no surprise to you to learn that it contained none of his better qualities, he being a past master in the art of a certain phrase-makingóthough one should add, mind you, that itís a shallow artóand you being a boy who cannot be expected to have grasped even the rudiments of that. Still, young as you are, itís exactly the same defect, the aberration of stringing together a few fine-sounding words, and not finding any substance to put into them until afterward. Thatís whatís known as putting the cart before the horse. And even in Bergotteís own stuff, all these finicking futilities, all that rancid and insubstantial Mandarin manner that he goes in for, none of that is to my taste. Nowadays, a chap sets off a few verbal fireworks and everyone acclaims him as a genius. But masterpieces arenít as easy to come by as that! Among all of Bergotteís stuff, I should have to say he hasnít got to his credit a single novel that aspires to anything above the mundane, one of those books that one keeps in a special place on the shelfónot one, if you ask me, in the manís whole output. Though, mind you, in his case it must be said that the work is a cut above the man himself. Believe you me, heís the perfect illustration of the idea of that clever fellow who once said that the only acquaintance one should have with writers is through their books.14 I defy you to find an individual who is more unlike his books than Bergotteóheís so pretentious, so solemn, so uncongenial! At times heís vulgar, at other times he talks like a bookónot like one of his own books, mind you, but like a boring book, for, say what you like, at least his arenít boring. If ever there was a mind that was woolly and convoluted, itís his! Heís what an earlier generation was wont to call a trader in fustian. And the things he says are made even more displeasing by the way he speaks. Much the same thing was said of Alfred de Vigny by LomÈnieóor was it Sainte-Beuve?15 But, unlike Vigny, Bergotte has never written anything of the caliber of Cinq-Mars or Le Cachet rouge, whole passages of which deserve to figure in any self-respecting anthology.î

I was devastated by what M. de Norpois had said about the piece I had given to him to read; and at the thought of the difficulties I encountered whenever I tried to write an essay, or even just engage in some consecutive thinking, I became once more acutely aware of my own intellectual poverty and of the fact that I had no gift for writing.

It was true that, once upon a time in Combray, certain impressions of humble things, or a page of Bergotte, had moved me to thoughts and feelings which seemed important and valuable. But it was those very thoughts and feelings that my prose poem expressed; and there could be no doubt that a mere mirage had misled me into thinking something was good in it, whereas M. de Norpois, who was no fool, had seen through it at a glance. What he had done was inform me of the microscopic insignificance of myself when judged by an outside expert who was not only objective but also highly intelligent and well disposed toward me. I felt deflated and dumbfounded; and just as my mind, like a fluid whose only dimensions are those of the container into which it is poured, had once expanded so as to fill the vast vessel of my genius, so now it shrank and fitted exactly into the exiguous confines of the mediocrity to which M. de Norpois had suddenly consigned it.

ìThe bringing together of Bergotte and myself,î M. de Norpois said to my father, ìdid have its potentially prickly sideóthough even prickles, of course, may tickle the fancy, if I may say so. You see, some years back, during my time as ambassador in Vienna, Bergotte turned up there on his travels. He was introduced to me by the Princess Metternich, subsequently signed the book at the embassy, and let it be known that he wished to be invited to the ambassadorís table. Now, I being the representative abroad of France, and he being a man whose writings do honor in some measure to our country (to be quite accurate, an inconsiderable measure), I should have been quite prepared to forget the poor opinion I have formed of his private life. However, he was not traveling alone; and, whatís more, he insisted on not being invited without his ... traveling companion. I believe I can honestly lay claim to being no more of a prude than the next man; and, being a bachelor, I might have been able to open the doors of the embassy a little wider than if I had been a husband and father. Nonetheless, I vouch that there is a degree of ignominy at which I draw the line, and which is made even more revolting by the high moral tone, or, rather, the frankly moralistic tone, which he adopts in print. For the books are just chock-full of incessant analysis (which, between you and me, is actually quite sickly), with agonizing scruples and morbid remorse and a veritable deluge of preachifying over the merest peccadilloesóand we all know what thatís worth!ówhen, all the time, in his private life, the man behaves with the most out-and-out cynicism and lack of conscience. So, to cut a long story short, I did not commit myself. And when the Princess gave me a reminder about it, she got no more satisfaction. With the result that I must suppose I am in no very good odor with the gentleman in question; and I can only wonder whether he greatly appreciated Swannís delicacy in inviting him and myself at the same timeóunless, of course, it was Bergotte himself who suggested it. No way of knowing, though, as the manís ill. Thatís the real explanationóindeed, itís his only excuse.î

ìAnd was Mme Swannís daughter present at the dinner, sir?î I asked, glad to be able to broach this matter as we went through to the drawing room, and thus conceal my excitement more easily than I might have at the table, sitting up there in full view.

M. de Norpois seemed for a moment to search his memory:

ìAh, yes. A young lady of fourteen or fifteen? Yes, I do recall her being presented to me before dinner as the daughter of Mine Host. I must say, though, that I saw little of her, and she went off to bed at an early hour. Or perhaps she went out to the house of a friend, Iím afraid I canít remember. But look here, I see you are very well informed about the house of Swann.î

ìI play with Mlle Swann at the Champs-ŠlysÈes. I think sheís lovely.î

ìAha! Yes, I see how the land lies! Well, yes, I must tell you, I thought she was charming. Mind you, I do feel it incumbent upon me to say that I doubt whether she will ever have the looks of her motheróif I may so put it without in any way intending to wound your own feelings.î

ìI prefer Mlle Swannís face, but I also admire her mother very much. I go for walks in the Bois just in the hope of seeing her pass by.î

ìReally? Well, I must tell them! Theyíll be delighted!î

As he spoke these words and for a few seconds longer, M. de Norpois was in the position of anyone else who, on hearing me speak of Swann as an intelligent man, of his respectable family firm of stockbrokers, of his fine house, assumed that I would speak in identical terms of any other equally intelligent man, of other just as respectable stockbrokers, of any other fine house; he was at the stage when the sane man has not quite realized that the man he is chatting with is insane. Also, he was perfectly aware that it is natural to enjoy the sight of pretty women, and that when a man speaks warmly of a pretty woman it is good form to pretend to believe he is in love with her, to share a little joke with him about it, and promise to put in a good word for him. But when he said he would mention me to Gilberte and her mother (which would enable me, like one of the gods of Olympus taking on the fluidity of a breath of air, or, rather, the appearance of the old man impersonated by Minerva, to be an invisible visitor to the salon of Mme Swann, there to capture her attention, be thought about by her, earn her gratitude for my admiration, and stand revealed as the friend of an important man, a worthy future guest at her house, someone who could be admitted to her family circle), I was suddenly so overcome by tender feelings for this important man, who was going to exercise on my behalf the great prestige he must enjoy in the eyes of Mme Swann, that I had to restrain myself from kissing his soft hands, so white and wrinkled that they looked as though they had spent too long steeped in water. I thought no one noticed how close I came to doing this. But it is difficult for any of us to gauge the scale on which others register our acts and words; for fear of seeing ourselves as overimportant, and by magnifying hugely the dimensions to which other peopleís memories must stretch if they are to cover a lifetime, we imagine that all the peripheral aspects of our speech and gestures make little imprint in the consciousness of the people we talk to, let alone stay in their memory. It is this sort of assumption that makes criminals retrospectively emend statements they have made, in the belief that no one will ever be able to compare the new variant with an older version. However, it is quite possible that, even in relation to the immemorial march of humanity, the newspaper columnistís philosophy that everything passes away into oblivion may be less reliable than the opposite prediction, that all things will last. In a newspaper in which the author of the leading article, a moralist commenting on some event, a masterpiece, or more likely just a songstress who has ìhad her hour of fame,î laments, ìBut who will remember any of this ten years from now?,î page three of the very same issue will carry an account of a session at the Academy of Antiquities concerning something that is of less intrinsic importance, a piece of doggerel, say, dating from the time of the Pharaohs, yet which is still known in its entirety. In a short human lifespan, of course, things may not happen quite like that. Nevertheless, some years later, when I was a guest at a house where among the other guests M. de Norpois seemed to be my surest ally, since he was not only a friend of my fatherís and an indulgent man, well disposed to our family, but also inclined by profession and nature to be discreet, I was told after he left that he had spoken of an incident long ago ìwhen I had been on the point of kissing his hand.î This not only made me blush to the roots of my hair; it also astounded me with the knowledge that both the ambassadorís way of speaking of me and the very stuff of his memory were very different from what I would have expected. This piece of gossip, by enlightening me on the makeup of human consciousness, and its unexpected potential for absentmindedness and presence of mind, for memory and forgetfulness, was as much a wonder and a revelation to me as it had been to read in a book by Maspero, the Egyptologist, that the exact names of the huntsmen invited by Assurbanipal to his battues, ten centuries before Christ, were known to us.16

ìOh, if you would do that, sir,î I exclaimed to M. de Norpois when he said he would mention to Gilberte and Mme Swann my admiration for them, ìif you did mention me to Mme Swann, I would be indebted to you for lifeómy life would be yours! However, I should just point out that I donít know Mme Swann and have never been introduced to her.î

This final statement I added only out of a punctilious concern not to be thought to be boasting improperly of an acquaintance to which I could lay no claim. But even as I spoke the words, I could sense there was now no purpose for them to serve. The warmth of my thanks was so chilling in its effect that, from the first syllable, I caught a glimpse of hesitancy and annoyance flitting across the ambassadorís face, and saw in his eyes that cramped, vertical, averted expression (like the obliquely receding line of one side of a figure, in a projection) meant for the invisible listener one carries within, and to whom one addresses a remark that oneís other listener, the person one has been talking toóin this case, meóis not supposed to catch. I realized at once that the words I had uttered, quite inadequate as they were to express the huge rush of gratitude that swept through me, and though it had seemed to me they could not fail to touch M. de Norpois, and must succeed in persuading him to act in a way which would afford him so little trouble while affording me so much joy, were perhaps the very ones (among all the potentially evil words that might have been spoken by people wishing to harm me) which would make him decide not to. And just as when a stranger with whom we have been agreeably exchanging what appear to be shared opinions on passersby, who we both think are vulgar, suddenly shows the real pathological distance separating us by patting his pocket and saying casually, ìMmm, pity I didnít bring my revolver with meóI could have picked íem all off,î so, when he heard me speak these words, M. de Norpois, knowing that nothing was easier or less prized than to be recommended to Mme Swann and to join her circle, but seeing also that for me this represented something of such value that it must be assumed to be out of my reach, decided that the seemingly unexceptionable wish I had expressed must actually conceal some quite different ulterior motive, a dubious intent or the memory of a faux pas, which must be the reason why no one had ever wished to offend Mme Swann by undertaking to put in a word for me. I realized then that M. de Norpois would never put in such a word, that even if he saw Mme Swann daily for years on end he would never once mention my name in her hearing. However, a few days after this, he did find out from her some information I had asked for and passed it on to me via my father. He had not seen fit to tell her on whose behalf he was seeking the information. She would therefore not learn that I was acquainted with M. de Norpois or that I longed to visit her house. This was perhaps less of a disaster than I thought; for, even if she had learned of this longing, it would probably have done little to increase the effect of my being acquainted with M. de Norpois, as this acquaintance was itself of doubtful benefit to me. Since the notion of her own life and house caused no mysterious agitation in Odetteís heart, she did not see the people of her acquaintance, the people who visited her house, as the fabulous beings they were to one who, like me, would have been glad to throw a stone through the Swannsí front window if only I could have written on it that I knew M. de NorpoisóI was sure that such a message, even if delivered in such a startling fashion, would do more to recommend me to the lady of the house than it would to prejudice her against me. But even if I had been able to comprehend that M. de Norpoisís unaccomplished mission would in any event have been useless, or that it might actually have biased the Swanns against me, even if M. de Norpois had been willing to comply with my request, I would never have had the courage to withdraw it and forgo the ecstasy, however baneful its consequences might be for me, of knowing that my name and person were, just for a moment, in the presence of Gilberte, inside her unknown house and life.

After M. de Norpoisís departure, my father glanced at the evening paper, while I sat thinking over my experience of La Berma. The pleasure I had taken in seeing her act was so far from the pleasure I had been looking forward to, and was in such acute need of sustenance, that it immediately assimilated whatever might nourish it, such as the qualities M. de Norpois had identified in her acting, which my mind had absorbed as easily as a parched meadow soaks up water. My father now handed me the newspaper, pointing to a review of the matinee: ìThe performance of PhËdre given today before an enthusiastic audience, distinguished by the presence of the foremost personalities in the world of the arts and criticism, afforded Mme Berma in the title part the opportunity to score a triumph than which, in the whole course of her illustrious career, she has rarely had a greater. We shall have more, much more, to say on another occasion about this production, which marks a veritable milestone in the theater. Suffice it for the moment to note that the best-qualified judges are as one in pronouncing that such an interpretation will stand not only as a landmark in our appreciation of the character of PhËdre, one of the greatest and the most searching parts ever produced by Racine, but also as the finest, highest achievement in the realm of art that any of us have been privileged to witness in this day and age.î This new concept of ìthe finest, highest achievement in the realm of artî had no sooner entered my mind than it located the imperfect enjoyment I had had at the theater, and added to it a little of what it lacked; this made such a heady mixture that I exclaimed, ìWhat a great artiste she is!î It may be thought I was not altogether sincere. Think, however, of so many writers who, in a moment of dissatisfaction with a piece they have just written, may read a eulogy of the genius of Chateaubriand, or who may think of some other great artist whom they have dreamed of equaling, who hum to themselves a phrase of Beethoven for instance, comparing the sadness of it to the mood they have tried to capture in their prose, and are then so carried away by that perception of genius that they let it affect the way they read their own piece, no longer seeing it as they first saw it, but going so far as to hazard an act of faith in the value of it, by telling themselves, ìItís not bad, you know!î without realizing that the sum total which determines their ultimate satisfaction includes the memory of Chateaubriandís brilliant pages, which they have assimilated to their own, but which, of course, they did not write. Think of all the men who go on believing in the love of a mistress in whom nothing is more flagrant than her infidelities; of all those torn between the hope of something beyond this life (such as the bereft widower who remembers a beloved wife, or the artist who indulges in dreams of posthumous fame, each of them looking forward to an afterlife which he knows is inconceivable) and the desire for a reassuring oblivion, when their better judgment reminds them of the faults they might otherwise have to expiate after death; or think of the travelers who are uplifted by the general beauty of a journey they have just completed, although during it their main impression, day after day, was that it was a choreóthink of them before deciding whether, given the promiscuity of the ideas that lurk within us, a single one of those that afford us our greatest happiness has not begun life by parasitically attaching itself to a foreign idea with which it happened to come into contact, and by drawing from it much of the power of pleasing which it once lacked. My mother did not seem very happy that my father had given up all thought of a diplomatic career for me. I think she lived in the hope of seeing my nervous susceptibility subjected to the discipline of an ordered way of life, and that her real regret was not so much that I was abandoning diplomacy as that I was taking up literature. ìOh, look, give it up,î my father exclaimed. ìThe main thing is to enjoy what one does in life. Heís not a child anymore, he knows what he likes, heís probably not going to change, heís old enough to know whatíll make him happy in life.î These words of my fatherís, though they granted me the freedom to be happy or not in life, made me very unhappy that evening. At each one of his unexpected moments of indulgence toward me, I had always wanted to kiss him on his florid cheeks, just above the beard line; and the only thing that ever restrained me was the fear of annoying him. On this occasion, much as an author, to whom his own conceptions seem to have little value because he cannot think of them as separate from himself, may be alarmed at seeing his publishers putting themselves to the trouble of selecting an appropriate paper for them and setting them in a typeface that he may think too fine, I began to doubt whether my desire to write was a thing of sufficient importance for my father to lavish such kindness upon it. But it was especially what he said about my likings probably never changing, and what would make me happy in life, that planted two dreadful suspicions in my mind. The first was that, though I met each new day with the thought that I was now on the threshold of life, which still lay before me all unlived and was about to start the very next day, not only had my life in fact begun, but the years to come would not be very different from the years already elapsed. The second, which was really only a variant of the first, was that I did not live outside Time but was subject to its laws, as completely as the fictional characters whose lives, for that very reason, had made me feel so sad when I read of them at Combray, sitting inside my wickerwork shelter. Theoretically, we are aware that the earth is spinning, but in reality we do not notice it: the ground we walk on seems to be stationary and gives no cause for alarm. The same happens with Time. To make its passing perceptible, novelists have to turn the hands of the clock at dizzying speed, to make the reader live through ten, twenty, thirty years in two minutes. At the top of a page, we have been with a lover full of hope; at the foot of the following one, we see him again, already an octogenarian, hobbling his painful daily way round the courtyard of an old-peopleís home, barely acknowledging greetings, remembering nothing of his past. When my father said, ìHeís not a child anymore, heís not going to change his mind,î etc., he suddenly showed me myself living inside Time; and he filled me with sadness, as though I was not quite the senile inmate of the poorhouse, but one of those heroes dismissed by the writer in the final chapter with a turn of phrase that is cruel in its indifference: ìHe has taken to absenting himself less and less from the countryside. He has eventually settled down there for good,î etc.

My father, in an attempt to forestall any criticism we might have to make about his guest, said to my mother:

ìI must say old Norpois was rather ëold hat,í as you two say. When he said it would ënot have been seemlyí to ask a question of the Comte de Paris, I was afraid you might burst out laughing.î

ìNot at all,î my mother replied. ìIím full of admiration for a man of his caliber and his age who hasnít lost that simple touch. All it shows is a fundamental honesty and good breeding.î

ìBut of course! And that doesnít prevent him from being acute and intelligent either, as I know from my dealings with him at the Select Committee, where heís quite different from how he was here tonight,î my father said, very pleased to see that Mama appreciated M. de Norpois, and trying to persuade her that he was even more admirable than she thought, for cordiality magnifies merit as gladly as pettiness minimizes it. ìHow did he put it again: ëOne never knows with princes ...í?î

ìYes, that was it. I thought it was very clever when I heard it. Anyone can see heís a man with a broad experience of life.î

ìIsnít it remarkable that he dined at the Swannsí, though? And that the people he met there are really quite normal, I mean civil-service types. Where on earth can Mme Swann have dug up people like that, I wonder?î

ìDid you notice the mischievous way he phrased his remark about ëa house at which most of the guests appear to be ... mení?î

Both of them tried to imitate M. de Norpoisís delivery of this comment, as though it had been a line spoken by Bressant or Thiron in LíAventuriËre or Le Gendre de M. Poirier.17 But the person who most enjoyed one of M. de Norpoisís obiter dicta was FranÁoise: years later, she could still not ìkeep a straight faceî if you reminded her that she had once been called ìa chef of superlative quality,î an accolade which my mother had relayed to her down in the kitchen, as the minister of war passes on the congratulations of a visiting head of state after the review of the troops. (I had been down to the kitchen before her, having earlier extracted from FranÁoise, the bloodthirsty pacifist, a promise not to inflict too much pain on the rabbit she had had to kill, and wishing to know how it had met its death. FranÁoise assured me that everything had gone off perfectly, very quickly: ìI never seen any animal like that. It just died without saying a single word. Maybe it was dumb....î Unversed in the speech habits of animals, I suggested that perhaps rabbits do not screech quite like chickens. ìOh, what a thing to say!î FranÁoise gasped in indignation at such ignorance. ìAs if a rabbit wouldnít screech as loud as a chicken! Theyíve actually got much louder voices!î) FranÁoise accepted M. de Norpoisís compliments with all the simple pride, the joyous and (albeit momentarily) intelligent look of the artist listening to talk of his art. My mother had once sent her to certain celebrated restaurants to see how they did the cooking. I was as pleased to hear FranÁoise call some of the most famous ones ìjust feeding placesî as I had once been to learn that, with respect to actors, the reputed order of their merits was different from the real one. ìThe ambassador insisted,î my mother said, ìthat one canít get cold beef or soufflÈs like yours anywhere!î FranÁoise agreed with this, as though accepting in all modesty a simple statement of fact, and without being in the slightest impressed by the title of ambassador. She said of M. de Norpois, with the fellow-feeling due to somebody who had thought she was a chef, ìHeís a good old bloke, just like me.î She had of course tried to catch a glimpse of him as he arrived; but, knowing that Mama detested any spying at doors or windows, and being convinced that, if she did try to look out for him, the other servants or else the concierge and his wife would ìtell on herî (FranÁoise lived surrounded by ìbackbitingsî and ìtelltalings,î which in her imagination played the same unchanging sinister role as others believe is played by the machinations of the Jesuits or the Jews), she had been satisfied to risk a glance at him through the kitchen hatch, ìso her upstairs wouldnít have a bone to pickî; and in that summary glimpse of M. de Norpois she had concluded he was ìthe spitting image of M. Legrandinî because of his ìnimblenessî (even though the two men had not a single feature in common). ìBut look,î my mother asked her, ìhow do you explain that nobody can make beef jelly like youówhen you feel like it, that is?î ìWell, now, I donít know as I know how that becomes about, madame,î replied FranÁoise, who made no clear distinction between the verbs ìcome,î in some of its usages, and ìbecome.î This was the truth, of course, at least in part, as FranÁoise was no more able (or willing) to reveal the mystery behind the superiority of her jellies and custards than a fine fashionable lady would have been to divulge the secret of her elegance in dress, or a great prima donna the secret of her singing. Such explanations never reveal much in any case; and the same held true for our cookís recipes.

ìThey always cook everything in too much of a hurry,î she said of the famous restaurateurs whose establishments she had visited. ìAnd they donít do the things together. I mean, the beef has got to turn into a sort of sponge, so it soaks up all the gravy. Though I must say there was one of them cafÈs where I thought they knew a thing or two about cooking. Mind you, Iím not saying they could manage my jelly, but it was done nice and slow, nice and gentle, you know, and the soufflÈs had plenty of cream in them.î ìWas that at the Henry?î asked my father, who had just come in, and who had a high opinion of the restaurant on the Place Gaillon, where he and his colleagues dined at regular intervals. ìOh, no, sir,î FranÁoise replied, concealing her deep disdain in a mild tone. ìI was talking about a little restaurant. At that Henryís, itís all very good of course, but itís not really a restaurant, is it? More like a ... soup kitchen!î ìDo you mean Weberís, then?î18 ìOh no, sir! Iím talking about a good restaurant! Weberís is on the rue Royale, and itís not a real restaurant, itís only a flashy big cafÈ. And Iím sure they donít even serve you properly. I donít think theyíve even got tablecloths! They just bring it along and plunk it down in front of you, just like that.î ìWas it Cirroís?î ìWell, now,î FranÁoise said, smiling, ìIím pretty sure that, as far as cooking, what they go in for is ladies of virtue.î To FranÁoise, ìvirtueî meant ìeasy virtue.î ìWell, I mean, itís for the young ones, isnít it?î In her views of famous chefs, we could see that, for all her air of simplicity, FranÁoise was as devastating a ìcolleagueî as the most envious and self-centered actress toward her peers.

But we felt she had a proper sense of her art and a respect for tradition when she added, ìNo, it was a restaurant where the cooking looked nice, like right and proper, kind of home cooking. But still a big sort of a place. You should see the business they do, the money they make, the pennies they rake in!î The economical FranÁoise always spoke in pennies, leaving the golden louis to the bankrupt. ìYou know, madame, up on the big boulevards, along on the right there, set back a little bit....î The restaurant of which she was speaking with such fair-mindedness mingled with pride and nonchalance turned out to be the CafÈ Anglais!19

When New Yearís Day came around, my first occupation was to accompany Mama on family visits. So as not to tire me, she had my father map out an itinerary for us; and she arranged our calls according to which part of town our relatives lived in, rather than in any order of family precedence. But we had hardly set foot in the drawing room of a rather distant cousinóthe lack of distance to her house being the reason why she was first on the listówhen my mother was horrified to see, among the bringers of the seasonal offerings marrons glacÈs and marrons dÈguisÈs, the best friend of the touchiest of my uncles, who would therefore be informed that we had seen fit to make our first visit of the morning to someone other than himself. My uncle would be sure to be offended, as he would no doubt have taken it for granted that we should go all the way down from the Madeleine to his house, near the Jardin des Plantes, then come all the way back to Saint Augustin before crossing the river again to go to the rue de líŠcole-de-MÈdecine.

When these visits were finished, my grandmother having excused us from making one to her as we were to dine with her that evening, I dashed to the Champs-ŠlysÈes with a letter for Gilberte, which I wanted to give to our woman in the booth, who would pass it on to the servant of the Swannsí who bought the spice cake from her several times a week. This letter was a New Yearís Day message, which I had decided to write to Gilberte on the day when she had made me so unhappy, in which I told her that our former friendship had died with the old year, that I was going to forget my grievances and disappointments, and that, from January 1, we were going to build together a new friendship, which would be so sound that nothing could destroy it, and so wonderful that I hoped she would try to take pride in it, keep it beautiful, and warn me in good time, as I promised to do for her too, of anything that might jeopardize its well-being. On the way home, FranÁoise made me stop at an open-air stand on the corner of the rue Royale, where she spent her New Yearís gratuity on two photographs, one of Pius IX and the other of Raspail,20 and where I bought one of La Berma. The artisteís face, her only one, seemed a meager gratification to offer to so many admirers: as unvarying and vulnerable as the coat worn by people who have no more than one to wear, all it could ever display was the same soft little groove on the upper lip, the high-set eyebrows, and a few other physical features, always the same ones, always susceptible to a chance burn or blow. It was a face which of itself would not have seemed beautiful; but because of all the kissing it must have had, kissing which its flirtatiously tender looks and archly innocent smile still seemed to invite from the surface of the ìalbum copy,î it gave me the idea and consequently the desire to kiss it myself. After all, the desires that La Berma confessed through the disguise of PhËdre she must often experience for young men in real life; and everything, including the prestige of her name, which enhanced her beauty and extended her youth, must make it easy for her to satisfy those desires. In the gathering dusk, I stood beside a Morris column with its posters announcing La Bermaís New Yearís Day performance. There was a mild, damp wind blowing. It was weather I was quite familiar with; and a sudden feeling and presentiment ran through me: that New Yearís Day was not a day that differed from any other, not the first day of a new life, when I could remake the acquaintance of Gilberte with the die still uncast, as though on the very first day of Creation, when no past yet existed, as though the sorrows she had sometimes caused me had been wiped out, and with them all the future ones they might portend, as though I lived in a new world in which nothing remained of the old except one thing, my wish that Gilberte would love me. I realized that, since my heart yearned in this way for the redesign of a universe which had not satisfied it, this meant that my heart had not changed; and I could see there was no reason why Gilberteís should have changed either. I sensed that, though it was a new friendship for me, it would not be a new friendship for her, just as no years are ever separated from each other by a frontier, and that, though we may put different names to them, they remain beyond the reach of our yearnings, unaware of these, and unaffected by them. Though I might dedicate this year to Gilberte, though I might try to imprint upon New Yearís Day the special notion I had made up for it, as a religion is superimposed on the blind workings of nature, it was in vain: I was aware that this day did not know it was called New Yearís Day, and that it was coming to an end in the twilight in a way that was not unknown to me. What I recognized, what I sensed in that mild wind blowing about the Morris column with its posters, was the reappearance of former times, with the never-ending unchangingness of their substance, their familiar dampness, their ignorant fluidity.

I went home. I had just experienced the New Yearís Day of older men, who differ on that day from the young, not because nobody brings them presents, but because they no longer believe in the New Year. I had received presents; but they had not included the only one that could have brought me any pleasure: a note from Gilberte. However, I was still young, as I had been capable of writing one to her, full of the forlorn yearning for tenderness which I had hoped would inspire the same in her. The sadness of the man who has grown old is that, having learned how pointless they are, he does not even think of writing such letters.

I lay in bed, prevented from sleeping by the street noises, which went on later than usual because of the celebrations. I thought of all the people who would end the day in pleasure, the lover or possibly the band of rakes who must have waited at the stage door for La Berma, after the performance I had seen advertised for this evening. To soothe the agitation I suffered from during the sleepless night, I could not even tell myself that La Berma probably gave no thought to love, since the lines she spoke, which she had studied at great length, reminded her incessantly that love is full of delights, which she knew anyway, as was clear from her ability not only to reproduce its notorious pangsóalbeit fraught with a fresh violence and an unsuspected sweetnessóbut to strike new wonder into spectators, though each of them had felt these pangs to the full. I lit my candle again to gaze once more at her face. At the thought that at this very moment it was being caressed by the men whom I could not prevent myself from seeing with her, from drawing superhuman but imprecise pleasures from her person, the passion I felt was a cruel rather than a sensuous yearning, exacerbated now by the note of the hunting horn one hears in the night at Mid-Lent and often at other public holidays, which, because it is devoid at such times of poetry, sounds more mournfully from a drinking den than when it ìhaunts the heart of the evening woods.î21 At that moment, a note from Gilberte might not have been what I most needed. Our desires interweave with each other; and in the confusion of existence, it is seldom that a joy is promptly paired with the desire that longed for it.

On fine days, I continued to go to the Champs-ŠlysÈes, through streets of elegant pink houses which, because there were a great many exhibitions of watercolorists at that time, were washed by the subdued and variable light of pastel skies. It would not be true to say that in those days the palaces of Gabriel on the Place de la Concorde seemed to me things of greater beauty than the adjoining buildings, or even that they dated from a different period.22 To my eye there was greater style and even greater age, if not in the Palais de líIndustrie, at least in the Palais du TrocadÈro.23 My adolescence, wherever it walked, deep in its fevered sleep, saw whole districts through the same waking dream; and I had never suspected that there might be an eighteenth-century building on the rue Royale, just as I would have been astonished to learn that the Porte Saint-Martin and the Porte Saint-Denis, masterpieces dating from the days of Louis XIV, were not of the same period as the most recent constructions in the squalid areas that now surround them. Only once did one of the palaces of Gabriel make me stop and gaze for a longish moment: it was after nightfall, and the columns of stone had been desolidified by the moonlight, which, by turning them into cardboard cutouts, and reminding me of a stage set for Orpheus in the Underworld,24 gave me my very first glimpse of beauty.

Gilberte had still not come back to the Champs-ŠlysÈes. Yet I very much needed to set eyes on her, as I could not even remember her face. When we look at the person we love, our inquisitive, anxious, demanding gaze, our expectation of the words that will make us hope for (or despair of) another meeting tomorrow, and, until those words are spoken, our obsession fluctuating between possible joy and sorrow, or imagining both of these together, all this distracts our tremulous attention and prevents it from getting a clear picture of the loved one. Also, it may be that this simultaneous activity of all the senses, striving to discover through the unaided eyes something that is out of their reach, is too mindful of the countless forms, all the savors and movements of the living person, all those things which, in a person with whom we are not in love, we immobilize. But the beloved model keeps moving; and the only snapshots we can take are always out of focus. I could not really say what the features of Gilberteís face were like, except at those heavenly moments when she was there, displaying them to me. All I could remember was her smile. Unable to picture the loved face, however strenuously I tried to make myself remember it, I was forever irritated to find that my memory had retained exact replicas of the striking and futile faces of the carousel man and the barley-sugar woman, just as the bereaved, who each night search their dreams in vain for the lost beloved, will find their sleep is peopled by all manner of exasperating and unbearable intruders, whom they have always found, even in the waking world, more than dislikable. Faced with the impossibility of seeing clearly the object of their grief, they come close to accusing themselves of not grieving, just as I was tempted to believe that my inability to remember the features of Gilberteís face meant that I had forgotten her and had stopped loving her. Eventually, she came back to the Champs-ŠlysÈes to play almost every day. Each time she came, she left me with new things to desire for the following day, new things to ask her; and this did have the effect of transforming my love for her into a new love every day. But then something happened to alter once again the way in which, about two oíclock every afternoon, I was faced with the problem of my love. Had M. Swann intercepted the letter I had sent to Gilberte? Or was she perhaps alluding to a state of affairs of long standing, meaning that I should be more careful? As I was telling her how much I admired her father and mother, her features started to take on that unfocused look, full of secrecy and unspoken things, which she always put on when anyone mentioned the things she had to do, visits she had to pay, shopping to be done; and suddenly she said, ìThey donít fancy you very much, you know!î Then, slipping away like a water nymphóthat was how she wasóshe burst out laughing. There were times when her laughter was at variance with her words, and appeared to be translating an invisible surface into another dimension, as music does. Her parents were not demanding that she give up coming to play with me; but she thought they would have preferred our relationship never to have begun. They frowned upon my having any dealings with her, thought I was quite untrustworthy, and assumed that I was bound to have a bad influence on their daughter. I could imagine the type of unscrupulous young man that M. Swann thought I was: hating the parents of the girl he loves, flattering them to their faces, but making fun of them when with her, enticing her into disobedience of them, and finally, once he has had his way with her, preventing them from seeing her. Against these characteristics (which are never those that the most hardened villain sees in himself) my innocent heart protested vehemently, alleging the true nature of the feelings it held for M. Swann, which were so passionate that, if he could only know of them, I was convinced he would come to see his assessment of me as a miscarriage of justice crying out to be put right! I went so far as to set out everything I felt for him in a long letter, which I asked Gilberte to take to him.

She agreed to do thisóbut, alas, it turned out that he took me for an even greater fraud than I had thought! He was skeptical about my sixteen pages of protestations and truth! And so the letter, which contained no less passion and sincerity than the words I had spoken to M. de Norpois, met with no more success than they had. Gilberte told me the following day, after having taken me round to a secluded little pathway behind a clump of laurel, where we sat on chairs, that as her father had read the letter, which she had brought to give back to me, he had shrugged his shoulders and said, ìThis whole thing is pointless. It just goes to show how right I was!î To me, knowing the innocence of my intentions, the purity of my conscience, it was galling that my words had had not the slightest effect on M. Swannís absurd misconception. For at that moment I had no doubt that it was a misconception. I was convinced that my delineation of certain unimpeachable features of my sincerest self had been so accurate that the only explanation of M. Swannís inability to recognize them through my words, as of his failure to seek me out, beg my forgiveness, and admit to his mistake, was that he had never had such noble feelings himself, and consequently that he was incapable of appreciating them in others.

Of course, Swann may well have known that magnanimity is often nothing more than the outward appearance of a selfish impulse that we have not yet seen as such or named. In my protestations of goodwill toward him, perhaps he recognized a mere effect, as well as a resounding confirmation, of my love for his daughter; and he may have foreseen that my subsequent acts would be inevitably governed by this love, and not by my secondary veneration for himself. This was not a view I could share, as I had not managed to isolate my love from my self, to see it as belonging to the same general category as any other love, and to hazard an experimental deduction about its likely consequences. I was in despair. I had to leave Gilberte for a moment, as FranÁoise had called me. She wanted me to go with her to a little green-trellised pavilion that looked something like one of the disused Paris tollbooths from former times, in which had recently been installed what the English call a lavabo25 and the French, in their misguided Anglomania, ìwater closets.î

In the entrance, where I stood waiting for FranÁoise, the smell of the old damp walls, which was cool and musty, instantly freed me from the worries I had contracted from M. Swannís words as told to me by Gilberte, filling me with a pleasure that was of a different essence from all others; for they leave us more unstable, unable to grasp them or possess them, whereas this one was of a denser consistency, reliable, delightful, peaceful, pregnant with a lasting truthfulness, which was as inexplicable as it was undeniable. I would have liked to try, as I had done before, on our walks along the Guermantes way, to fathom the charm of the impression that had come over me, to pause for a momentís investigation of this old-fashioned redolence, which invited me not just to enjoy the pleasure, offered as a mere bonus, but to see through it to a reality it had not quite revealed. But the woman in charge of the establishment, an old dame with plastered cheeks and a ginger wig, struck up a conversation with us. FranÁoise was convinced the woman came from ìher parts of the country.î Her eldest had married what FranÁoise called ìa posh young man,î that is, someone who in her view differed as much from a worker as in Saint-Simonís view a duke differed from a man ìbelonging to the dregs of the people.î26 No doubt this woman, before becoming what she was, had been better off. But FranÁoise was convinced she was a countess, of the Saint-FerrÈol family. The countess urged me not to stand about in the inclement air; she even opened one of her cubicles for me: ìWouldnít you like to step inside? Hereís one thatís nice and cleanóand you can use it free of charge!î This may have been nothing more than the sort of offer I sometimes received from the sales assistants in Gouacheís, who, when Mama and I were placing an order, would urge me to have one of the sweets under the glass covers standing on the counter, which my mother, to my chagrin, would never allow me to accept; or it may have been the slightly less innocent sort of suggestion made by an old florist from whom Mama bought blooms for her ornamental flower-stands, who would make eyes at me and give me a rose. But if the fancy of FranÁoiseís countess did run to youths for whom she opened the hypogean portal into her stone cubes, where men crouch like sphinxes, the aim of this kindness toward them must have been less the chance of seducing them than the unrequited pleasure of being indulgent toward a loved one, as I never saw her being visited by anyone other than one of the old park-keepers.

Having taken leave of the ìcountess,î I soon left FranÁoise to her own devices and went back to Gilberte. I saw her sitting on a chair behind the clump of laurels, so as to be invisible to her friends, with whom she was playing hide-and-seek. I sat beside her. She was wearing a flat toque, which almost covered her eyes and gave them the sly, unfocused, evasive expression I remembered from the first time I had seen it at Combray. I asked her whether there might not be a way for me to talk this thing over with her father.

Gilberte said she had already suggested this, and that he could see no point in it. ìAnyway, look,î she said, ìhereís your letter back. Weíd better go back to the others now, since nobodyís found me.î

If M. Swann had come upon us before I had managed to retrieve the letter whose sincerity he had been unreasonable enough to doubt, he might well have concluded that his doubt was fully justified. As I came close to Gilberte, who was leaning back in her chair, telling me to take the letter but not handing it to me, I felt so attracted by her body that I said:

ìYou try to stop me from getting it and weíll see who wins.î

She held it behind her back, and I put my hands behind her neck, lifting the long plaits which hung on her shoulders, either because it was a hairstyle that suited her age, or because her mother wanted her to appear younger than she was, so as not to age too rapidly herself; and in that strained posture, we tussled with each other. I kept trying to draw her closer to me; she kept resisting. Flushed with the effort, her cheeks were as red and round as cherries; she laughed as though I were tickling her. I had her pinned between my legs as though she were the bole of a little tree I was trying to climb. In the middle of all my exertions, without my breathing being quickened much more than it already was by muscular exercise and the heat of the playful moment, like a few drops of sweat produced by the effort, I shed my pleasure, before I even had time to be aware of the nature of it, and managed to snatch the letter away from her. Gilberte said in a friendly tone:

ìIf you like, we could wrestle a bit more.î

Perhaps she had obscurely sensed that my antics had an ulterior motive, though she may have been unable to notice that my aim was now fulfilled. However, fearing that she might have detected it (a slight movement that she made a moment later, hinting at restraint or withdrawal, as though her sense of delicacy was offended, made me suspect I was right), I agreed to wrestle with her again, in case she might think my only purpose, now achieved, had been the pleasure that left me feeling no desire other than to sit quietly beside her.

On the way home, I suddenly recognized the hitherto hidden memory of the impression that I had been drawn toward by the cool, almost sooty air of the little trellised booth, but without being able to glimpse it or identify it. It was the memory of my uncle Adolpheís little room in the house at Combray, which was full of the same dampish redolence. I could not understand, and I postponed the effort of finding out, why the memory of such an insignificant impression should have filled me with such bliss. This made me feel that I really did deserve the disdain of M. de Norpois: not only was my favorite writer someone he dismissed as a ìflute-player,î but I had experienced a moment of genuine rapture, not from some idea of importance, but from a musty smell.

For some time, if a visitor chanced to mention the gardens of the Champs-ŠlysÈes in certain family circles, the name had been greeted by the mothers with the jaundiced look with which they might deprecate a mention of a highly regarded doctor who they claim has made too many mistakes of diagnosis for them to place any trust in himóthese gardens, it was said, were not good for children, and were responsible for too many cases of sore throats, measles, and different sorts of fevers. When my mother did not forbid my visits to the Champs-ŠlysÈes, some of her friends, though not openly questioning her love for me, did at least doubt her wisdom.

Neurotics are perhapsópace accepted wisdomóthose who ìcoddle themselvesî the least: they are so used to detecting disorders in themselves, which they later come to realize were quite harmless, that they reach the stage of paying no attention to any of them. Their nervous system has so often cried wolf, as though it is faced with a serious illness, when it has nothing more untoward to contend with than a fall of snow or a move to a new flat, that they come to ignore these warnings, as easily as a soldier in the heat of battle can avert his mind from them and, for another few days, even though he is dying, go on leading the life of a healthy man. One forenoon, with my habitual disorders in their usual state of coordination, my mind paying as little attention to their constant circulation within me as to the circulation of my blood, I ran cheerfully into the dining room to join my parents at the table and sat down, with the customary thought that feeling cold may mean, not that you should try to get warm, but only that you have been chided for something, and that not feeling hungry may mean it is going to rain, rather than that you should avoid eating. As soon as I started to swallow my first mouthful of an appetizing chop, I was overcome by a wave of vertigo and nausea, the feverish response of my body to an illness which had already begun, to which my indifference had turned a blind eye, masking and delaying the symptoms, but which was now adamantly refusing the food I was in no state to absorb. At the same instant, like a wounded manís instinct of self-preservation, the thought that, if I was seen to be unwell, I would not be allowed out, gave me the strength to drag myself to my room, take my temperature (it was 104), and get ready to go to the Champs-ŠlysÈes. My smiling soul, through the permeable and sickly body that surrounded it, was already there, insisting on the sweet pleasure of a game of prisonerís base with Gilberte; and an hour later, barely able to stand but happy to be with her, I still had enough strength left to enjoy it.

When we got back home, FranÁoise announced that I had ìhad a turn,î that I must have caught ìa touch of the chillî; and the doctor, who was immediately summoned, announced that he ìpreferredî the ìfierce onsetî and the ìvirulenceî of the attack of fever accompanying my lung congestion, which he said would turn out to be nothing but a ìflash in the pan,î to a more ìinsidiousî or ìlurkingî form of it. For years I had suffered from attacks of shortness of breath; and our doctor, despite the disapproval of my grandmother, who was convinced I would go to an alcoholicís early grave, had recommended that, in addition to the caffeine already prescribed as an aid to my breathing, I should have a drink of beer, champagne, or brandy each time I felt an attack coming on. The ìeuphoriaî brought on by the alcohol would, he said, ìnip it in the bud.î Rather than conceal the state of breathlessness I was in, I was often obliged almost to exaggerate it before my grandmother would allow me to have such a drink. Also, as soon as I felt an attack coming on, my uncertainty about how serious it might or might not be became a more acute anxiety because of my grandmotherís sorrow, which always upset me more than the fit itself. However, my body, whether because it was too infirm to bear the stress of keeping this secret to itself, or because it feared that someone unaware of the imminence of the attack might require me to make an effort that would prove impossible or harmful to it, made me need to inform my grandmother of my discomfort with a degree of accuracy that I eventually came to invest with a sort of physiological realism. If I noticed within me a bothersome symptom I had never before identified, my body remained distressed until I could let my grandmother know. If she pretended not to pay attention, my body required me to persevere. Sometimes I went too far; and, wincing with pain, the loved face, which was not as skilled as it had once been at concealing its emotions, showed an expression of pity. The sight of her grief cut me to the quick, and I fell into her arms, as though my kisses might take the grief away, as though my love for her could cause her as much joy as my being well and happy. My anxiety being now lessened by the knowledge that she was aware of the discomfort I had been in, my body had no objection to my reassuring her. I told her there was nothing distressing in the discomfort, that she must not feel sorry for me, that she could be sure I was happy. My body had been trying to receive as much sympathy as it deserved; and as long as it was known that it had a pain in its right side, it did not mind if I stated that the pain was neither severe nor an impediment to my happiness. My body did not take itself for a philosopher; philosophy was not its province. During my convalescence, I had fits of breathlessness like this almost every day. On one occasion, when my grandmother had seen me quite well earlier in the evening, she came back into my room much later; and when she saw how short of breath I was, her face was stricken with grief and she moaned, ìOh dear, oh dear! Youíre so ill!î She went straight out, I heard the porte cochËre, and she came back in a little while with a bottle of brandy, which, as we had none in the house, she had gone out to buy. I soon started to feel better. My grandmother was rather flushed and looked embarrassed; and her eyes were full of an expression of weariness and discouragement.

ìI think Iíll leave you, now that itís doing you a little good,î she said, turning quickly away. I had time to kiss her and to feel something wet on her cool cheek, which I thought might have been a trace of the damp night air out of doors. The following day she did not come in to see me till the evening, as she had had to go out, I was told. I thought to myself that this showed a fairly indifferent attitude toward my well-being; and I had a good mind to tell her so.

When my attacks of breathlessness went on inexplicably, long after my pleurisy had cleared up, my parents called in Dr. Cottard. A doctor consulted in a case like this must be more than just well versed. In the face of symptoms which may be those of three or four different illnesses, the thing that enables him to decide which of them he is most likely to be dealing with, behind appearances that are very similar, is ultimately his flair, the sharpness of his eye. This mysterious gift implies no superiority in other aspects of the mind, and may be found even in a person of the utmost vulgarity, someone who is devoid of intellectual curiosity and who enjoys the most dreadful painting or music. In my case, what was externally observable might have been caused by nervous spasms, the early stages of tuberculosis, asthma, a toxic alimentary dyspnea with renal insufficiency, chronic bronchitis, or even a complex condition comprising several of these factors. The nervous spasms needed to be treated with disdain, the tuberculosis with great care and a form of overnutrition, which could have been bad for an arthritic condition like asthma, and possibly dangerous for a toxic alimentary dyspnea, which in its turn requires a regimen quite harmful to a patient suffering from tuberculosis. But Dr. Cottard barely hesitated before issuing the imperious command: ìDrastic, violent purgatives. Milk and nothing but milk for several days. No meat. No alcohol.î My mother murmured that I really needed building up, that I was high-strung enough as it was, that this draconian purging and such a regimen would be hard on me. From Dr. Cottardís eyes, which looked as anxious as though he were afraid of missing a train, I could see he was wondering whether he might not have behaved with his natural mildness of manner. He was trying to remember whether he had made sure to put on his mask of frigidity, the way one looks for a mirror to see whether one has not neglected to knot oneís tie. In this uncertainty, and so as to compensate just in case, he barked rudely, ìI am not in the habit of repeating my prescriptions. Get me a pen. Milk, milk, thatís the main thing. After a while, once weíve dealt with the attacks of breathlessness and the insomnia, we can start taking some clear soup, then some broth, but always and still with milkómilk, thatís the thing! Youíll like that, because Spain is fashionable these daysóolÈ! au lait!î27 His students were familiar with this pun, which he trotted out whenever he prescribed a milk diet for a cardiac case or a patient with a liver disorder. ìThen we can gradually come back to the ordinary family diet. But if ever the cough and the breathlessness come back, purgatives, enemas, bed, and milk!î With an icy demeanor, he heard out my motherís final objections, saying nothing in return, then took his leave without so much as a word to explain why he had chosen this treatment. My parents, taking a view that it was irrelevant to my condition and needlessly debilitating, decided not to try it. They naturally sought to keep the professor in ignorance of their lack of compliance; and to make sure of this, they stayed away from any of the houses where they might have run the risk of meeting him. Then, my condition having worsened, they decided to follow Dr. Cottardís instructions to the letter; three days later, all the rattling in my chest had gone, my cough had cleared up, and I could breathe properly. We came to understand that Cottard, though, as he said later, he had thought I was asthmatic and especially ìnot quite right in the head,î had seen clearly that what predominated in me at that moment was a toxic reaction, that the liver and kidneys had therefore to be washed out, thus decongesting the bronchial tubes and enabling me to breathe and sleep again, and regain my strength. So it was we realized that Cottard the buffoon was a great doctor. At length I was able to get up. But the talk now was of not allowing me to go back to the Champs-ŠlysÈes. The reason given was the unhealthy air. But I was sure this was just an excuse for them to keep me away from Mlle Swann; and I made myself say over and over the name of Gilberte, as though it were a native tongue and I one of those captives in exile who endeavor to keep it alive, so as not to forget the homeland they will never see again. Sometimes my mother would stroke my forehead and say:

ìDonít little boys tell their sorrows to their mamas anymore?î

Every day, FranÁoise would come in and say: ìOoh, young master donít look so good! You should take a look at yourselfóyouíre like death warmed up!î Of course, if I had had the merest cold, FranÁoise would have been just as lugubrious. Her lamentations were inspired by her ìclassî rather than by my ill health. At that time I could not be sure whether FranÁoise was a pessimist more in sorrow than in satisfaction. I decided provisionally that she was a social and professional pessimist.

One day, when the postman had just come, my mother laid a letter on my bed. I opened it, my mind elsewhere, as it could not possibly contain the only signature which would have made me happy, that of Gilberte Swann, because I never had any contact with her away from the Champs-ŠlysÈes. Yet there, at the bottom of the page, which was stamped with a silver seal in the form of a helmeted knight surmounting a scrolled motto Per viam rectam, at the end of a letter in an expansive hand, which seemed to have underlined nearly all the sentences, because the crossbar of every t was dashed above the letter and not through it, thus scratching a line under the corresponding word in the line above, the signature I read was Gilberteís! However, because I knew this signature to be impossible in a letter addressed to me, the sight of it, unaccompanied as it was by any belief in it, brought me no happiness. For a moment, all it did was cast an unreal light on everything around me. At dizzying speed, the improbable signature jumbled the things in my room, the bed, the fireplace, the walls. Everything I looked at was wobbling, as though I had had a fall from a horse; and I wondered whether there might not be some other mode of existence, quite different from the one known to me, at variance with it but more real than it, which in the glimpse I had just caught of it had filled me with the hesitancy which sculptors depicting the Last Judgment show on the faces of the awakened dead, who stand already on the threshold of the Other World. The letter said: ìDear Friend, I hear you have been very ill and are not going to the Champs-ŠlysÈes now. Iíve almost stopped going there too, because of everybody falling ill. But my girlfriends come to tea with me every Monday and Friday. My mother wants you to know we should be very pleased if you could come too, as soon as you are well again. We could have nice chats at home the way we used to at the Champs-ŠlysÈes! So, in the hope that your parents will allow you to come to afternoon tea very soon, I say goodbye and send you all my best wishes. Gilberte.î

While I was reading these words, my nervous system, with admirable diligence, was receiving the news that a great joy was descending upon me. But my inner self, the one most closely concerned after all, was still in ignorance of it. Happiness, happiness from Gilberte, was something I had constantly thought about, something that existed only in thought, something like what Leonardo da Vinci said about painting, cosa mentale. And thought cannot instantly assimilate a sheet of paper covered in letters. But as soon as I had finished reading it, I thought about it, and it became an object of reflection; it too became cosa mentale, and I felt such love for it that every five minutes I had to read it again and kiss it. It was then that I became aware of my happiness.

Such miracles lie in wait for the lover, who may expect one at any time. This particular one may have been arranged by my mother, who, seeing that for some time past I had lost all pleasure in living, had perhaps had a message transmitted to Gilberte, asking her to write to me, much as, in earlier days, when I was learning to swim in the sea, she would, unbeknown to me, to make me enjoy swimming under water, which I hated, as it prevented me from breathing, give wonderful boxes covered in seashells and branches of coral to my swimming instructor, so that, when I came upon them lying on the seabed, I could believe they were my own discoveries. In any case, it is best not to inquire into how life, with all its contrasting developments, can impinge upon our love: the laws that govern such things, whether their workings are inexorable or just unexpected, seem to be those of magic rather than of rationality. When a woman who is plain and without money of her own leaves a multimillionaire with whom she has been living, a man of charm despite his wealth, and when he in his despair summons up all the powers of his wealth and sets in motion all the influences of this world, but fails to get her to come back to him, rather than seeking a logical explanation, it is better to assume, in the face of the willful mistressís resolve, that Destiny wishes to crush him and make him die of a broken heart. The obstacles against which such a lover has to struggle, and which his imagination, overstimulated by suffering, tries vainly to identify, may lie in a singularity of character of the wayward woman, in her stupidity, in the influence now exercised on her by people whom the lover does not know, in fears they may have put into her mind, in appetites she is briefly bent on satisfying, which may be of the sort that her lover, with all his fortune, cannot satisfy. Moreover, the lover who seeks to know the nature of such obstacles is handicapped: the womanís guile will hide it from him; and his own judgment, biased by his love, prevents him from assessing it accurately. Obstacles of this kind are like tumors that a doctor may succeed at last in reducing without ever knowing what caused them:

though temporary, they remain mysterious. However, such obstacles generally last longer than love. And as love is not a disinterested passion, the erstwhile lover no longer strives to find out why, in her need and obstinacy, the flighty woman whom he once loved declined for years to let him go on keeping her.

In love, it is not only the causes of catastrophe that may lie forever beyond our grasp: just as often we remain in ignorance of the whys and wherefores of sudden outcomes that are happierósuch as the one that Gilberteís letter brought to meóor, rather, outcomes which appear to be happy, as there are few truly happy outcomes in the life of a feeling, which can generally look for no better reward than a shift in the site of the pain it entails. At times, however, a temporary remission is granted, and for a while one may have the illusion of being cured.

As for the letter itself (on which FranÁoise refused to recognize the name Gilberte, because the G leaning against an undotted i was so embellished that it looked more like an A, while the last part of the name ran on into a fancy elongated flourish), if it is deemed that a rational explanation is required for the change of heart which it signaled, and which brought me such joy, perhaps it will be said I owed it in part to an incident that I had actually expected would be the sort of thing to damn me forever in the sight of the Swanns. Not long before, at a moment when Professor Cottard happened to be with meónow that I was following his instructions, my parents had called him in againóBloch had come up to see me. The consultation was over, and since Dr. Cottard, who was staying to dine with my parents, was sitting with me like any visitor, Bloch too was allowed in. In the course of conversation, Bloch having told how he had heard from someone whom he had met at dinner the previous night, someone who was very close to Mme Swann, that she was very fond of me, I knew I should tell him he was quite certainly mistaken, and thus, in accordance with the scruple that had moved me to speak of the same thing to M. de Norpois, and in case Mme Swann should think I was a liar, have it acknowledged once for all that I did not know her, and had never so much as spoken to her. But I did not have the courage to correct Blochís error, because I could see well enough it was a deliberate one, and because I knew that, in inventing something that Mme Swann could never in fact have said, he was trying to show himself in a flattering light by saying another thing which was untrue: that he had dined with a lady who was a friend of Mme Swannís. However, whereas M. de Norpois, on learning that I did not know Mme Swann but would very much like to, had been careful not to mention me to her, Cottard, who was her doctor, having deduced from Blochís statement that she knew me very well and liked me, said to himself that, if he told her the next time he saw her that I was a charming fellow and that he knew me well, he would not be pushing me forward but would be putting himself in a good light, two reasons which persuaded him to put in a good word for me with Odette at the first opportunity.

And so that apartment opened to me, sending the perfume used by Mme Swann down the stairs to greet me, and welcoming me with an even more fragrant charm, which was the specific and forlorn flavor of the life led by Gilberte. Before long, when I asked the once-implacable concierge, now transformed into a benevolent Eumenid, whether I could go upstairs, he took to raising his cap with an auspicious hand, which showed my wish was granted. Soon, when I had spent a whole summer afternoon in Gilberteís room, it fell to me to open the very windows which, from the outside, had once interposed between me and treasures not meant for me a gleaming, haughty, and superficial glance, which had seemed like the gaze of the Swanns themselves; yet now I was the one to let some fresh air in, or even, if it was her motherís at-home day, to lean out alongside Gilberte and see the ladies as they arrived, stepping out of a carriage and sometimes glancing up to wave to me, as though thinking I was a nephew of their hostess. At such moments, Gilberteís plaits would touch my cheek. Her hair seemed to me, in the delicacy of its grain, both natural and supernatural; and in the power of its artful foliations I saw a masterwork crafted from grasses grown in paradise. If I could have had even the tiniest sample of it, a heavenly herbarium would have been the only fitting repository for it. But since I could not hope to possess a real length of her hair, if I could have had just a photograph of it, how much more precious it would have been than any picture of little flowers drawn by Leonardo! To this end, I made compromising overtures to family friends of the Swanns, and even to photographers, which did not get me what I wanted, but made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.

Whenever I stepped into the Swannsí dim anteroom, where the atmosphere thrilled with the perpetual possibility of meeting one or the other of Gilberteís parents, who had for so long prevented me from seeing her, an encounter more awesome but more longed for than a glimpse of the King would have been at Versailles (and where I would trip over a huge seven-branched coatrack like the Candlestick in Scripture,28 before effusively greeting a footman who sat in his long gray frock coat on the firewood chest, and whom I mistook in the half-dark for Mme Swann), if she or her husband did happen to cross my path at that moment, my hand was shaken, I was smiled upon and spoken to in an unirritated voice:

ìGood afternoon! Gilberte knows youíre here, does she? Good, good, thatís fine, then.î Both of her parents, by the way, said ìGood aftínoon,î pronouncing ìafternoonî without the middle syllable, which of course, as soon as I was back at home, it became my incessant pastime and pleasure to omit too.

But the most important thing was that the tea parties to which Gilberteís girlfriends were invited, and which had for such a long time seemed the most impregnable of the many barriers separating her from me, had now become an opportunity for being with her. To these functions I was summoned, as a still quite recent acquaintance, on a variety of different notepapers. One of them was embossed with a blue poodle over a humorous English motto ending in an exclamation point; another was stamped with a shipís anchor. Once, the monogram G.S., hugely magnified and elongated, was bounded by a rectangle running right down the page from top to bottom; on other occasions, it would be the name Gilberte either scrawled across one corner in golden letters imitating her signature and final flourish, and sheltering under an open umbrella printed in black, or else enclosed inside a motif in the shape of a Chinamanís hat, on which the name figured in capital letters, none of which was individually legible. And as her range of notepapers, though extensive, was not inexhaustible, after a few weeks I would receive an invitation written on the one she had sent first, with the motto Per viam rectam under the helmeted knight on his seal of burnished silver. In those days, I assumed her choice of this one or that one on particular days was determined by certain rites.

But now I think she just tried to remember the ones she had already sent, so as to be sure of letting the longest possible time elapse before sending another of the same to any of the recipients, or at least to anyone for whom she did not mind taking a little trouble. Because some of the friends invited to her teas attended different classes at different times of the afternoon, and had to leave just as others were arriving, on my way up the stairs I could hear the murmur of voices from the anteroom; and this, combined with the emotional disturbance created by the awe-inspiring ceremony which was about to be enacted before me, suddenly severed the links that joined me to my former life and, long before I reached the Swannsí floor, deprived me of the ability to remember to take off my scarf as soon as I was indoors in the warmth, or to keep an eye on the time so as not to be late home. The staircase itself, entirely of wood and of the style favored at the time by certain speculative builders who liked imitation Renaissance, so long Odetteís ideal but soon to be abandoned by her, was adorned with a notice saying It Is Forbidden to Use the Elevator for Coming Down, the like of which had never been seen in the house we lived in; and it impressed me as a thing of such magnificence that I told my parents it was a genuine antique staircase, acquired by M. Swann and brought there by him from somewhere very far away. My respect for the truth was so great that, even if I had known this information to be untrue, I would still have said the same thing, for this was the only way to have my family share the esteem inspired in me by the dignity of the Swannsí staircase. It was a reasoning akin to that which advises one, when dealing with an ignoramus who cannot see the genius of a great doctor, to say nothing of his inability to cure the common cold. But since I was very inobservant, being generally ignorant of the names and species of the most everyday things, knowing only that if they had anything to do with the Swanns they must be quite out of the ordinary, it did not strike me as a certainty that, in assuring my parents of the aesthetic value and distant origin of this staircase, I was telling a lie. Not a certainty; but perhaps a probability, as I felt myself turn very red when my father interrupted me with the words: ìI know those kind of houses, and if youíve seen one, youíve seen them all. Swann just rents a few floorsóthey were all built by Berlier.î29 He added that he had at one time thought of renting an apartment in one of them, but had changed his mind because they were not really comfortable, and the main entrance was badly lit. Thus spake my father; but, knowing instinctively that my mind must make whatever sacrifices might be necessary to the prestige of the Swanns and my own happiness, I exercised the authority of my inner self and, despite what I had just heard, put behind me once and for all, as a true Catholic might shun Renanís Life of Jesus,30 the corrosive notion that the Swannsí apartment was a perfectly ordinary apartment, an apartment that we ourselves might have lived in.

So, on Gilberteís afternoon-tea days, I climbed that staircase, step by step, divested already of memory and the power of thought, reduced to a creature of the crudest reflexes, and came at last to the level where the fragrance of Mme Swannís perfume floated. My mind was full of the majestic chocolate cake set in the circle of side plates and little gray damask napkins, required by etiquette and peculiar to the Swanns. But the workings of this regulated and unchanging arrangement, like those of Kantís necessary universe, seemed to depend on a supreme act of free will. That is, once we were all gathered in Gilberteís little sitting room, she would dart a glance at the clock and say:

ìLook here, itís been hours since lunchtime, dinnerís not till eight, and Iím feeling quite hungry. Would anyone care to join me?î

Whereupon, she would show us through to the dining room, which was as dim as an Asian temple interior as Rembrandt might have painted it, and was dominated by the architectural splendor of a cake, as cheerful and familiar as it was imposing, which seemed to be standing there as though this day was an ordinary day, just in case Gilberte might have felt a passing urge to demolish its chocolate battlements and lay waste the slopes of its steep, dark ramparts, baked like the bastions of Dariusí palace. The best thing was that, in setting about the destruction of her Ninevite cake-castle, Gilberte was motivated not only by the urges of her own appetite; she inquired also about mine, as she salvaged for me from the crumbling ruins a whole wall varnished and studded with scarlet fruit, in the Oriental style. She even asked me what time my parents dined, as though I knew something about it, as though the emotional upset from which I was suffering could enable any sensation such as lack of appetite or hunger, any notion of dinner or family, to survive in my vacant memory and paralyzed stomach. Unfortunately, this paralysis was only temporary; and there would come a time when the cakes I consumed without noticing them would have to be digested. But that moment was still in the future; and in the present, Gilberte made ìmy tea.î I drank huge quantities of it, although normally a single cup of tea would keep me awake for twenty-four hours. So it was that my mother had come to remark, ìItís a worryóevery time that boy goes to the Swannsí he comes home sick.î But while I was at the Swannsí I would have been unable to say whether or not it was really tea I was drinking. And even if I had known, I would have gone on drinking it; for even if I had been restored momentarily to proper awareness of the present, this would not have given me back the ability to remember the past or foresee the future. My imagination was incapable of stretching to the remote moment when I might feel tired or think of going to bed.

Not all of Gilberteís other guests were so tipsy with excitement that making up their minds was impossible. Some of these girls actually declined the offer of tea! At which Gilberte would say a thing that people said a lot at that time, ìWell, my tea doesnít seem to be a great winner, does it?î Then, in an effort to make the occasion look less ceremonial, she shifted a few of the chairs set at regular intervals about the table, adding, ìFor goodnessí sake, we look as though weíre at a wedding breakfast! Arenít servants stupid!î

She nibbled her cake, sitting sideways on an X-shaped seat which stood at an awkward angle to the table. And if Mme Swann, having just seen one of her visitors outóher at-homes were usually on the same days as Gilberteís tea partiesóshould look in quickly, sometimes in blue velvet, often in a dress of black satin covered in white lace, she would say in a tone of surprise, which suggested Gilberte might have had all those little cakes to eat without her mother knowing about it:

ìWhatís this! Doesnít that look scrumptious! It makes my mouth water to see you all sitting here eating cake.î

ìWell, please join us, Mama,î Gilberte would reply.

ìYou know I canít, my precious. Whatever would all my ladies say? Iíve still got Mme Trombert, Mme Cottard, and Mme Bontempsóyou know how the visits of dear Mme Bontemps are never very brief, and sheís just arrived. What would these good ladies have to say if I left them in the lurch? But when theyíve gone, if nobody else comes, then Iíll come back and have a nice chat with you all. That would be so much more to my liking! I think I deserve a little restóIíve had forty-five visitors today, and of those forty-five at least forty-two have talked about GÈrÙmeís new painting!î31 Then, turning to me as she made ready to return to her ladies, she added, ìLook, why donít you drop in one of these days? You could have your cup of tea with Gilberte. She knows how you like it, the way you have it at home, in your own little studio.î

She made it sound as though what I was seeking in this world of mystery was something as familiar to me as my own habits (if my supposed liking for tea could be called that; and as for the alleged ìstudio,î I was unclear whether I had one or not). ìSoówhen will you come?

Tomorrow? Weíll have toast for you thatís as good as you can get at Columbinís.32 No, you really canít? Well, youíre a selfish thing!î She delivered this last statement in tones reminiscent of the mincing tyranny of Mme Verdurin, for Odette, now that she was beginning to have a salon of her own, had started to ape some of that ladyís ways. Since both ìColombinî and the English word toast were utterly obscure to me, her promise could not make her house more attractive to me. As for the eulogy she then delivered of our old ìnurse,î my momentary inability to understand whom she was referring to may appear somewhat stranger, given that the word is now used by everyone, possibly even at Combray. Despite my ignorance of English, I soon grasped that it meant FranÁoise. Whereas at the Champs-ŠlysÈes I had been so anxious about the bad impression FranÁoise must have made, I now learned from Mme Swann that what had predisposed her and her husband in my favor was everything Gilberte had told them about my ìnurseî:

ìItís pretty clear that sheís devoted to you, that sheís just perfect!î (My opinion of FranÁoise changed instantly, one effect of which was that it no longer seemed so essential to me to have a governess equipped with a raincoat and a hat with a feather in it.) I deduced too, from certain words that Mme Swann spoke about Mme Blatin, whose kindness she praised and whose visits she dreaded, that to have been on friendly terms with the lady would have been of less value to me than I had thought, and would in no way have improved my standing with the Swanns.

Though I had begun, full of this tremulous respect and joy, to explore the enchanted domain which had just given me the freedom of its hitherto forbidden avenues, it was only in my capacity as a friend of Gilberte. The realm in which I was now welcomed was itself encompassed by another even more mysterious one, in which Swann and his wife had their supernatural being, and which, if we chanced to meet, going through the anteroom in our different directions, closed behind them again as soon as they had shaken my hand. However, soon I too had access to their Inner Sanctum. For instance, if Gilberte was not at home but her parents were, they would ask who it was at the door; and, having been told it was me, they would have me sent in to see them, with the aim of asking me to influence their daughter toward a certain course of action in some matter or other. I remembered the exhaustive, persuasive screed which I had not long since sent to M. Swann, and to which he had never deigned to reply. I was struck by the impotence of the mind, the reason, and the heart in bringing about the slightest change in people, in reducing a single one of the difficulties which life, left to its own devices and in ways that escape us, manages to resolve so easily. My new status as friend of Gilberte, capable of influencing her for the better, put me in the favorable position of someone who happened to be the school friend of a kingís son, as well as being always at the head of the class, and who, because of those fortuitous facts, now has the run of the palace and private audiences in the throne room: with infinite kindness, and as though he was not much occupied with lofty considerations, Swann would usher me into his study and speak to me for an hour about things that my state of emotional turmoil prevented me from understanding a single word of, and to which I could reply only with stammerings, diffident dumbness, and sudden daring outbursts of short-winded incoherence; thinking they might interest me, he showed me books and finely wrought objects, the beauty of which, I was prospectively convinced, must infinitely surpass all the holdings of the Louvre and the BibliothËque Nationale, impossible though it was for me to view these. At such moments, the Swannsí butler would have endeared himself to me had he asked me to hand over my watch, my tie pin, and my boots, or if he had begged me to sign a deed recognizing him as my heir. The state I was in is described perfectly by a fine colloquialismóìI didnít know whether I was coming or going!îóthe coiner of which is as unknown as the author of the greatest epic poems, but which, like themóand pace the theory of Wolf33ómust have had an originator, one of those modest creative spirits who turn up every now and then to enrich the rest of us with a felicitous expression like ìputting a name to a face,î but whose own face we can never put a name to. However long I was closeted with Swann, all I ever got from these moments was a feeling of surprise at the utter nonachievement they led to, the total lack of satisfying outcome I derived from the hours spent in the enchanted dwelling. Not that my disappointment came from any deficiency in the masterpieces he showed me, or the impossibility of forcing my distracted eye to focus on them. It was not the intrinsic beauty of these things which made it miraculous for me to be in Swannís study; it was that, adhering to the things (which could have been the ugliest imaginable), there was the special, sad, thrilling emotion that I had invested in this place for so many years, and of which it was still redolent. Nor was it Mme Swannís multitude of mirrors, silver brushes, and little shrines to Saint Anthony of Padua, painted or sculpted by friends of hers who counted among the finest artists, that filled me with the knowledge of my unworthiness and her own regal graciousness, whenever she received me for a moment in her room, where three beautiful and imposing creatures, her first, her second, and her third maids, were smiling and laying out wonderful garments, and to which I wended my way, when the footman in breeches and hose had conveyed to me the injunction that Madame wished to speak to me, along a winding corridor that was remotely perfumed by the precious essences wafting the constant current of their sweet scents all the way from her dressing room.

When Mme Swann had gone back to her visitors, we could still hear her talking and laughing; for, even in the presence of only two people, as though commanding the attention of the full complement of ìchums,î she raised her voice, she held forth, as she had so often seen the ìPatronneî do among the ìlittle clanî so as to ìkeep the conversation going.î The expressions we have most recently borrowed being those we most like to use, at least for a time, Mme Swann sometimes chose the ones she had picked up from the few distinguished people whom her husband had not managed to avoid introducing to her (such as the mannerism of dropping the article or the demonstrative pronoun before an adjective describing a person), and sometimes more vulgar ones (for instance, ìIsnít it ducky!,î which one of her close friends was always saying); and these she tried to work into whatever stories she told, as had been her wont since the days of the ìlittle clan.î At the end of her stories, she would sometimes add, ìIím very fond of that story,î or ìNow, you must admit, thatís a lovely story!,î a habit she had acquired, via her husband, from the Guermantes, whom she did not know.

After Mme Swann had left the dining room, her husband, who had just come home, might then look in. ìIs your mother alone now, Gilberte, do you happen to know?î ìNo, sheís still got some of her ladies with her.î ìWhat? At seven oíclock in the evening! How dreadful! The poor dear must be exhausted. Itís quite odious.î At home I had been accustomed to hearing ìodiousî with a long o; but both Mme Swann and M. Swann gave the word a short one, making it into ìoddious.î ìJust think,î he went on, turning to me, ìsheís been going since two this afternoon! And Camille tells me that there must have been twelve of them just between four and five! What am I saying, twelve? I think it was fourteen he said! I tell a lie, it was twelveóor was it? Anyway, when I came home just now, I had quite forgotten it was her at-home day, and when I saw all the carriages outside, I thought there must be a wedding in the house! And for the last few minutes, sitting in my study, Iíve heard nothing but the doorbell ringing. Given me quite a headache, I can tell you. Has she still got many of them with her?î ìNo, just two now.î ìAnd who might they be, do you know?î ìMme Cottard and Mme Bontemps.î ìAh, yes, the wife of the private secretary to the minister of works.î ìWell, I know her hubby works in a big ministerís office or something, but I donít know what he is,î Gilberte said, putting on a silly voice.

ìSilly girl! You sound like a two-year-old. Works in a big office, indeed! Heís actually the private secretary to the ministeróthat means heís the boss of the whole thing! Or wait, no, what am I saying? Iím as silly as you areóheís not just the private secretaryóheís the principal private secretary!î

ìWell, how am I supposed to know? So a principal private secretary, thatís good, is it?î Gilberte said, always ready to show indifference to whatever her parents took pride in, or possibly thinking to enhance the effect of their acquaintance with such an exalted personage by appearing not to attach much importance to it.

ìGood, is it?î Swann exclaimed, preferring plainer speech to such modesty, which might have left me in some doubt. ìIíll have you know heís next in importance to the minister himself! Or actually heís more important than the minister, because heís the one whoís in charge of everything. Iím told heís a man of caliber, too, a first-rate man, a really distinguished person. Officer of the Legion of Honor. A fine fellow in all respects, and actually very handsome too.î

In fact, his wife had married him, against much opposition from within her family, because he was a ìcharmer.î The general effect of this person of superlative refinement may be judged from the fact that he had a silky fair beard, a pretty face, an adenoidal pronunciation, bad breath, and a glass eye.

ìI donít mind telling you,î Swann said to me, ìthat itís really quite funny to see people like that in government circles these days. You see, theyíre the Bontemps of the Bontemps-Chenut family, the epitome of your narrow-minded middle classes, priest-ridden reactionaries. Your late grandfather was very familiar, at least by sight and repute, with old Chenutówho never tipped a cabman more than two cents in his life, though he was wealthy for those daysóand Baron BrÈau-Chenut. They lost everything in the collapse of the Union GÈnÈrale,34 which youíre too young to remember anything about, and since then theyíve had to pick up whatever pieces they can.î

ìHeís the uncle of a girl that used to go to my school. She was in one of the classes well below mineóëthat Albertine,í everybody used to call her. Iím sure sheíll be very ëfastí one of these days, but at the moment sheís the funniest-looking thing.î

ìWhat an amazing daughter Iíve got! She knows everyone!î

ìNo, I donít know her. I just used to see her about and hear everybody shouting ëAlbertine, Albertineí all the time. But Mme Bontemps I do know, and I can tell you I donít like her much either.î

ìWell, youíre quite wrong there, my girl. Mme Bontemps is charming, pretty, and intelligent. Witty too. Iíll just pop in and say hello to her, ask her whether her husband thinks thereís going to be a war, and whether we can rely on King Theodosius. Heís very much in the know, so he must know a thing or two about that, wouldnít you say?î

In earlier days, Swann would never have spoken in this way. But a similar change can be seen in the once- unpretentious princess of royal blood who, ten years later, having eloped with a footman, then tries to re- enter society, only to sense that people are not very willing to frequent her; so she spontaneously adopts the conversational habits of boring old women who, when the name of a fashionable duchess is spoken in their hearing, instantly say, ìShe looked in to see me only yesterday,î and ìI lead a very sheltered life these days, you know.î Which shows how pointless it is to study human manners; they can be deduced from the laws of human psychology.

The Swanns were not immune from this foible, common to people whose circle of acquaintance is not as wide as they would like. A visit, an invitation, even a friendly word spoken by anyone who was at all noted, they took to be an event that should be bruited abroad. If by some ill chance the Verdurins were in London when Odette happened to hold a dinner party that was at all remarkable, there was always some way of making sure that a mutual friend would telegraph the news to them. The merest letter or even just a telegram that Odette might receive, if it was in any sense flattering, the Swanns were incapable of keeping to themselves. Friends were told about it; the document itself was circulated. The Swannsí salon was reminiscent of those hotels in seaside resorts where they pin up messages on a bulletin board.

Also, the people who had known the former Swann not just in a private capacity, as I had, but also in society, in the world of the Guermantesówhere the highest standards of wit and charm were expected of everyone, except duchesses and highnesses, and where even eminent men might be unwelcome if they were seen to be boring or vulgarómight have been surprised to discover not only that the former Swann had turned into someone whose ways of referring to people he was acquainted with were indiscreet, but that his criteria for choosing such people were also quite lax. How was it possible for him not to be exasperated by Mme Bontemps, who was so common and nasty? How could he possibly say she was a pleasant person? His memories of the Guermantes set should surely have prevented it. But in fact they abetted it. The Guermantes, unlike three-quarters of the worldís social sets, certainly had taste, and exquisite taste at that. But they also had snobbery, which makes for the possibility of momentary failures in the functioning of taste. In the case of someone who was not an indispensable member of their setóa minister of foreign affairs, say, rather too full of his own Republicanism, or a garrulous Academicianótheir taste discriminated against him; Swann would commiserate with Mme de Guermantes over her having had to dine with such commensals at an embassy; and the whole Guermantes set infinitely preferred a fashionable man, a man of their own world, that is, devoid of any special talent, but with the Guermantes cast of mind.

However, a grand duchess or a princess of royal blood, by dining frequently at the house of Mme de Guermantes, would also be seen as being in the set, although, by virtue of her lack of the Guermantes cast of mind, she was not of it. But with the naÔvetÈ of the fashionable, since she was one of their number, they did their best to think she was good company, rather than knowing that it was because she was good company that she was one of their number. ìSheís actually quite a nice woman,î Swann would say in sup- port of Mme de Guermantes, after HRH had left. ìAnd sheís even got a touch of comedy in her. I must say, I doubt whether she has ever read the Critique of Pure Reason from cover to cover! Still, sheís not too bad.î

ìI agree entirely,î the Duchesse de Guermantes would reply. ìMind you, today she was a little bit shy. But youíll see, she can be quite charming.î ìSheís much less of a bore than Mme XJîóthis being the wife of the garrulous Academician, a quite outstanding womanóìwho keeps spouting books at you.î ìOh, thereís no comparison!î It was at the Duchesse de Guermantesís that Swann had acquired his facility in saying such things, which he said in all sincerity; and it was an ability he had kept. It served him now with the people who visited his wife. He tried hard to see in them, and to like, the qualities which any human being shows if examined with a favorable bias, and not with the disdain of the fastidious; and nowadays he stressed the merits of Mme Bontemps as he had once stressed those of the Princess of Parma, who would really have been unacceptable to the Guermantes set, had not certain highnesses benefited from preferential treatmentóand even if the ones admitted had been expected to possess wit and a little charm. As has been seen, Swann had once enjoyed exchanging his social position for one which, in certain circumstances, suited him better; and all he was doing at present was adapting this practice to a more lasting situation. It is only people who are incapable of perceiving the composite nature of what seems at first sight indivisible who think that person and position are one. The same man, seen on different rungs of the social ladder at consecutive moments of his life, belongs to separate worlds, each of which is not necessarily more elevated than the previous one; and every time a new phase of living brings us into, or back into, a certain social circle that welcomes us with open arms, we quite naturally start to put down roots and become attached to it.

As for Mme Bontemps, when Swann spoke of her in such glowing terms, I think he was also quite pleased by the thought that my parents would know she was on visiting terms with his wife. It must be said, however, that the identity of the people with whom Mme Swann gradually came to be on such terms aroused more curiosity in my family than admiration. On hearing the name of Mme Trombert, my mother said:

ìNow, thereís a new recruit! And sheíll bring in others.î

And she added, as though Mme Swannís brisk and impetuous conquest of new acquaintances were a colonial war:

ìNow that the Tromberts are subdued, the neighboring tribes will not hold out much longer.î

If she happened to pass Mme Swann in the street, she would tell us about it that evening:

ìI saw Mme Swann today in full battle order. She must have been launching an incursion into the lands of the Massechuto, the Singhalese, or the Tromberts.î

When I mentioned all the new people I had seen at the Swannsí, a somewhat mixed and artificial society, many of whom had been rather unwilling to belong to it, and who derived from very different backgrounds, my mother could tell at once how they came to be there, and spoke of them as though they were spoils of war:

ìBrought back from an expedition to Mme de Thisís or Mme de Thatís.î

In the case of Mme Cottard, my father was amazed that Mme Swann should think there was kudos to be got from the company of such a dowdy middle-class person: ìEven allowing for the professorís position, I must say itís beyond me.î To my mother, on the other hand, it was quite clear: she knew that a woman could miss much of the pleasure to be got from graduating to circles different from those she had moved in before, if she could not inform her old acquaintances about the relatively more conspicuous acquaintances with whom she had replaced them. For this purpose, a witness is required, who shall be allowed into the world of new delights, as the blundering insect plunders a flower, then flies off to visit others, to spread the news, or so it is hoped, sprinkling its random pollens of envy and admiration. Mme Cottard, perfect for this role, belonged to that special category of guests whom Mama, who had some of her fatherís style of wit, called ìStrangers to Speak in Sparta.î35 Besidesóapart from another reason, which did not come to light until many years lateróin inviting this friend, who was demure, reserved, and well meaning, to her splendid at-homes, Mme Swann had no need to fear she might be harboring a traitor or a competitor. She knew the great number of middle-class blooms that this tireless worker, armed with her plumed hat and her little card case, could pollinate in one busy afternoon. She knew how prolific this form of seeding could be; and, allowing for the law of averages, she was right to expect that, by the next day but one, this or that ìregularî of the Verdurinsí would have heard of the card left on her by the commanding officer of the Paris region, or even that M. Verdurin in person would be told that none other than the chairman of the Turf Club, M. Le Hault de Pressagny, had included the Swanns in his party for the grand ball in honor of King Theodosius. She imagined that these two events, both of them flattering for herself, would be the only ones the Verdurins would learn of, for the particular concrete manifestations of fame which we like to picture and to which we aspire are few, given our penury of mind and our inability to imagine simultaneously more than one of the many blessings of fame, though we still harbor the vague hope of seeing them all descend upon us at once.

Besides, Mme Swannís only successes so far had been in what is known as ìthe world of officialdom.î Fashionable ladies did not frequent her house. It was not that they were deterred by the presence of the Republicís representatives. During the early years of my childhood, all who belonged to conservative society belonged also to fashionable society; no self-respecting salon would have countenanced admitting a Republican. Those who constituted this set were convinced that the impossibility of ever inviting an Opportunist,36 let alone an unspeakable Radical, was something that would last forever, like oil lamps and horse trolleys. But after the manner of kaleidoscopes, which are turned from time to time, society composes new designs by jumbling the order of elements that once seemed immutable. By the time I had taken my first communion, prim and proper ladies were being confronted, to their astonishment, with elegant Jewesses in some of the houses they frequented. These new designs in the kaleidoscope are made by what a philosopher would call a change of criterion. Another of these was to come with the Dreyfus Affair, at a time slightly later than my first entry into the world of Mme Swann, and again the kaleidoscope shuffled its little tinted shapes. All things Jewish were displaced, even the elegant lady, and hitherto nondescript nationalists came to the fore. The most brilliant salon in Paris was that of an ultra-Catholic Austrian prince.

If instead of the Dreyfus Affair there had been a war with Germany, the kaleidoscope would have turned in a different direction. The Jews, who would have shown to everyoneís astonishment that they were patriotic, could have kept their position; and no one would have wished to go, or even admit to ever having gone, to the Austrian princeís. Even so, each time society is briefly stable, those who make it up imagine that further change is ruled out, just as, having seen the advent of the telephone, they now wish to disbelieve in airplanes. And the philosophers of the daily press damn the former time, not only in its modes of pleasure, which they see as the epitome of decadence, but even in the work of its artists and thinkers, which they now see as worthless, as though it were inseparably linked to the constant inconstancies of the fashionable and the frivolous. The only thing that never changes is that there always appears to be ìsomething changing in France.î In the days when I started frequenting Mme Swannís world, the Dreyfus Affair had not yet happened, and certain notable Jews were very influential, none more so than Sir Rufus Israels, whose wife was an aunt of Swannís. Lady Israels did not enjoy the same fashionable connections as her nephew once had; and he, though he must presumably have been her heir, had little enough contact with her, as he disliked her. However, she was the only relative of Swannís who knew something of his real standing in the elegant world, the others being as ignorant in that respect as my own family had been for years. When one member of a family emigrates to high societyósomething which at the time seems to him a unique occurrence, but which with ten yearsí hindsight he can see has been managed by more than one of the young men with whom he was brought up, albeit in a different way, and for different reasonsóhe lives inside a twilight zone, a terra incognita, which is quite visible in its finest detail for all those who inhabit it, but which is dark and empty for all who do not have access to it, who may live alongside it without ever suspecting that it exists. No Reuters news agency ever having informed Swannís cousins about the people he mixed with, these ladies would exchange stories at family dinners about how they hadóbefore the manís wretched marriage, of courseóìdutifullyî devoted their Sunday afternoon to visiting ìCousin Charles,î who they thought was somewhat given to the poor relationís envy of his betters, and whom, with a pun on the title of Balzacís Cousine Bette, they wittily dubbed ìCousin Batty.î If envy there was, it was on the part of Lady Israels, who knew perfectly well the identity of the people who lavished their friendship on him. Her husbandís family, who were as rich as the Rothschilds, had for some generations managed the affairs of the princes of OrlÈans. Lady Israels, who was hugely wealthy and very influential, had contrived to make sure that no one of her acquaintance would ever be at home to Odette. Only one person, the Comtesse de Marsantes, had disobeyed, and that secretly. One day, as Odette arrived to visit this lady, by an ill chance in swept Lady Israels. Mme de Marsantes, who was on tenterhooks, plucked up the cowardice of those who could just as well choose to be brave, and said nothing to Odette for the duration of her visit.

This occurrence did nothing to inspire Odette to venture further into a zone of society which in any case was not the one she wished to belong to. In her utter disregard for the Faubourg Saint-Germain, Odette remained the untutored light-oí-love, quite different from the middle-class people who are minutely informed on the finer points of genealogy and whose longing for aristocratic connections, unrequited by life, can be assuaged only by perusal of an older generationís memoirs. As for Swann, no doubt he went on being the lover who turns a blind and indulgent eye to a former mistressís idiosyncrasies; and I would often hear Odette utter the most flagrant howlers about things social while Swann, moved either by a lingering fondness, or by the low esteem in which he now held her, or perhaps because he could no longer be bothered trying to improve her, sat by and did nothing to correct them. This may also have been a mode of the simplicity of manner which had had us fooled for so many years at Combray, and which, since he had kept up his separate connection with some of the most outstanding members of the Faubourg, made him reluctant to mar the conversation in his wifeís drawing room by seeming to attach any importance to such people. In fact, for Swann himself they were of less importance than ever, the center of gravity of his life having shifted. So Odette, in her complete ignorance of society, went on saying, whenever a passing mention was made of the Princesse de Guermantes just after a mention of her cousin the Duchesse de Guermantes, ìI see! Theyíre princes now, are they? Theyíve gone up in the world!î If people referred to the Duc de Chartres as ìthe Prince,î she would set them right: ìNo, no, heís not a prince, heís a duke.î Of the Duc díOrlÈans, the son of the Comte de Paris, she would say, ìItís odd, isnít it, the son being above the father like that.î Then, like the Anglophile she was, she would add, ìAll these ëroyalsí! Isnít it confusing!î And once, when someone asked her which of Franceís old provinces the Guermantes family hailed from, she gave the name of a dÈpartement, ìFrom the Aisne.î

In any case, Swann was blind not only to the gaps in Odetteís education, but also to her poverty of mind. Indeed, when she told one of her silly stories, he would listen to her full of an obliging, cheerful, even admiring attentiveness, which could be explained only by his finding her still sexually arousing; whereas, in the same conversation, Odetteís inveterate way was to lend a perfunctory ear, bored or impatient, to anything subtle or even profound that he might say, to half ignore and at times sharply contradict him. It must be supposed that, in many marriages, such subservience of the outstanding to the vulgar is the rule, for one need only think of the opposite case, that of the gifted wife who smilingly defers to her crass boor of a husband as he crushes her nicest conceits, then gushes with loving indulgence at the inept buffoonery he thinks is humor. Among the other reasons which at that time prevented Odette from being accepted in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, it must be said that a series of scandals had lately caused another shift in the patterns of the social kaleidoscope. Certain women, with whom people had been mixing without suspecting anything untoward, turned out to be common prostitutes and English spies. For a while, it was going to be expected, or so it was believed, that the only acceptable people would be those who were of unimpeachable respectability. Odette stood for everything which had just been shunned, but which (as people do not change overnight, but seek to continue a former state of affairs in the guise of a new one) was soon going to be welcomed back with open arms, having slightly altered its forms, thus enabling society to fool itself into believing it was no longer the same as it had been before the scandal. However, at that time Odette bore too close a resemblance to societyís lately exposed ladies. The elegant are nothing if not shortsightedóat the very moment when, having ostracized all the Jewish ladies of their acquaintance, they are looking about for other ladies with whom to replace them, they suddenly notice a newcomer who turns up like an orphan in the storm, but who happens to be Jewish too; it is the novelty of her that prevents them from seeing in her what they had seen, but chosen to abhor, in her predecessors. She requires no one to have no other gods before hers; and she is adopted. In the days when I was making my first entry into the world of Mme Swann, though the problem was not anti-Semitism, she was of a kind with those who were to be kept at a distance, for a time.

As for Swann, he would often visit some of his former set, all of whom belonged of course to the most elegant society. However, if he ever spoke to us of the people he had been to see, I noticed that his choice among his former acquaintances was influenced by the same semi-artistic, semi-historical sense that informed his taste as a collector. When I realized that the reason why he was particularly fond of this or that great lady who had come down in the world was that she had been Lisztís mistress, or that Balzac had dedicated a novel to her grandmother, just as he would buy a drawing if it was mentioned in Chateaubriand, I began to suspect that we had substituted for the misleading Combray Swann, the middle- class man without social connections, another Swann, who was just as misleading, the man about town who belonged to the best circles. To be on friendly terms with the Comte de Paris means nothing. Plenty of men who are the friends of princes will never be accepted in self-respecting drawing rooms. Princes know they are princes, are not snobbish, and in any case see themselves as being so far above anyone who is not of their blood that those beneath them, the middle classes and peers of the realm, appear to be almost of the same rank.

However, the pleasure Swann derived from his social contacts was not just the straightforward kind enjoyed by the cultivated man with an artistic bent who restricts himself to society as it is constituted, and enjoys his familiarity with the names engraved in it by the past and still legible now. He also took a rather vulgar enjoyment in making as it were composite posies out of disparate elements, bringing together people from very different backgrounds. These experiments in the sociology of entertainment, which is how he saw them, did not have exactly the same effectóor, rather, did not have a constant effectóon all the ladies who visited his wife. He would say with a laugh to Mme Bontemps, ìIím thinking of having the Cottards to dinner with the Duchesse de VendÙme,î looking like a gourmet whose mouth waters at the novel undertaking of adding cayenne pepper to a particular sauce instead of the usual cloves. But this design of Swannís, though it would certainly strike the Cottards as entertaining, was calculated to appear quite outrageous to Mme Bontemps. She, having herself only recently been introduced by the Swanns to the Duchesse de VendÙme, and having deemed this occurrence to be as pleasing as it was natural, had found that impressing the Cottards by telling them all about it had been not the least of the pleasures it afforded her. But, like those who, as soon as their own names figure in the latest Honors List, would like to see the supply of such decorations run dry, Mme Bontemps would have been better pleased if, after she had been presented to the Duchesse de VendÙme, nobody else from her circle could be. She secretly cursed Swann for the warped taste with which, merely to satisfy a misplaced aesthetic curiosity, he had wantonly squandered all the kudos she had seen reflected in the eyes of the Cottards as she told them about the Duchesse de VendÙme. Would she even have the heart to tell her own husband that Professor Cottard and his wife were not to partake of the very pleasure that she had assured him was unique to themselves? If the Cottards could only learn that their invitation was not seriously meant, but had been sent just for fun! The fact was that the Bontemps had been sent their invitation for exactly the same reason; but then Swann, who had borrowed from the aristocracy Don Juanís undying gift for fooling each of two commonplace women into believing she is the only one he really loves, had assured Mme Bontemps that, to dine with a woman such as the Duchesse de VendÙme, no one could be better qualified than herself. ìYes,î Mme Swann said some weeks later, ìweíre thinking of having the Duchesse de VendÙme with the Cottards. My husband thinks itís a conjugation that might produce some quite entertaining results.î Though Odette had retained from her days in ìthe little clanî some habits dear to Mme Verdurin, like shouting so as to be heard by all the ìregulars,î she had also picked up words such as ìconjugation,î dear to the Guermantes set, which, as the moon does to the sea, exercised its power on her from a distance without her knowing itóand without her coming any closer to it either. ìYes,î Swann said, ìthe Cottards with the Duchesse de VendÙmeóthat should be good fun, donít you think?î To which Mme Bontemps replied tartly, ìI think itís quite preposterous! Itís playing with fire, nothing good will come of it, and it will serve you right!î In fact, she and her husband37 were also invited to the dinner in question, as was the Prince díAgrigente; and both Mme Bontemps and Dr. Cottard took to describing the event in two different ways, depending on the identity of those to whom they described it. To the first group, Mme Bontemps on the one hand and Dr. Cottard on the other both replied casually, when asked who else had been there, ìOh, just the Prince díAgrigente. It was very restricted, you know, very select.î The other group were those who might be better informed than the firstóone of them had even asked Cottard, ìBut surely the Bontemps were there as well?î ìAh, yes, Iíd forgotten them,î Cottard replied, with a blush and a mental note to classify this person as a pernicious gossip. For the benefit of this second group, both Mme Bontemps and Dr. Cottard, quite independently of each other, had a version which was identical in plot, but in which their names featured in reverse order. Dr. Cottardís version ran like this: ìWell, there were our hosts, of course, then the VendÙmes, the Duc and Duchesse, you know, andîóhere he gave a smug smileóìProfessor and Mme Cottard. Oh, yes, and there was another couple there too, though nobody could figure out whyóM. and Mme Bontemps, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb!î Mme Bontemps rattled off exactly the same speech, except that the gloating intonation stressed the place of her husband and herself between the Duchesse de VendÙme and the Prince díAgrigente, while the disreputables who she went so far as to say had gate-crashed the event, and who were such flagrant outsiders, were the Cottards.

When Swann came home from his afternoon out, it was often shortly before dinnertime. At six in the evening, which had once been the hour of such sadness for him, he no longer wondered what Odette might be up to; he was now almost indifferent to whether she had someone with her or whether she had gone out somewhere. Now and again it did occur to him that there had been a time, many years before, when he had tried to decipher a letter from Odette to Forcheville through its envelope. But he found this memory irksome; and to avoid the full sense of the shame it brought, he preferred to twitch the corners of his mouth, or even give a little shake of the head, as though to say, ìWell, so what?î He had, however, come to see as unfounded the notion he had often entertained in those former days that Odetteís daily doings were quite innocent, and that it was only the dark figments of his jealousy which sullied them (a beneficent notion, in fact, since it had soothed his anguish, for the duration of his lovesickness, by whispering that it was imaginary); and he now believed it was the jealousy that had been right all along, that, though she might well have loved him more than he had given her credit for, she had also been much more often unfaithful to him than he had liked to believe. In those days, wallowing in his grief, he had promised himself that when he had stopped loving her, when he would no longer care about annoying her, or making her feel importuned by being loved too much, he would enjoy sitting down with her and finding out, in a spirit of simple respect for the truth, as a mere point of historical fact, whether or not Forcheville had been in bed with her on the day when Swann had rung her doorbell, then banged on her window, and she had not come to the door at first but had later sent the note to Forcheville saying it was an uncle of hers who had turned up. But this fascinating problem, which Swann was looking forward to solving as soon as his jealousy had abated, stopped fascinating him when he stopped being jealous. This did not happen instantly. There was a time when, though Odette herself no longer aroused his jealousy, he could still be plunged back into its throes by the thought of that afternoon when he had stood outside the little hÙtel on the rue La PÈrouse banging on the door.38 It was as though his jealousy, after the manner of those illnesses that seem to have their seat or source of contagion more in certain places, certain houses, than in certain individuals, had not focused so much on Odette as on that past day, that long-lost moment when Swann had stood knocking at all the entrances of her house. It was as though that single day, or that evening hour, had had the power of fossilizing a few last particles of the loving personality which had once been his, and which he could only ever retrieve at that point in time. He had long since ceased to care whether Odette had been unfaithful to him, and even whether her infidelities continued to this day. Yet, over a period of some years, attempting to assuage those persistent pangs of unrequited curiosity, he had gone on seeking out former servants of Odetteís, in the hope of learning whether, at six oíclock on that day,39 so long ago, she had been in bed with Forcheville. Then even the curiosity had faded; but his investigations continued. He persisted in trying to find out something in which he no longer had any interest, because his former self, albeit now in the final stages of its senility, went on functioning mechanically, at the urge of a preoccupation so extinct that Swann could no longer even imagine his former anguish, though it had once been so acute that he could not imagine ever being rid of it, and the death of the woman he loved had seemed the only thing capable of clearing a way for him through the grief-encumbered years ahead. (Yet the pain of jealousy, as a cruel counterdemonstration will show in a later part of this book, is proof even against death.)

To know the truth of what it was in Odetteís life that had caused him such pain had not been Swannís only longing. He had nursed another deep desire: to avenge that pain at a time when, having survived his love for Odette, he would no longer live in fear of her. The opportunity of enjoying this revenge was now to hand, since Swann was in love with another woman, a woman who, though she gave him no grounds for jealousy, made him jealous all the same, since in his inability to find new ways of loving he put to use again with the other woman the way that had once served him with Odette. For his jealousy to revive, it was not necessary for this woman to be unfaithful; all that was required was that for some reason she had been away from him, at a dinner perhaps, and had apparently enjoyed herself. This roused all his old anguish, the sad counterproductive excrescence of his love, and deflected Swann away from the real woman into a compulsion to find out the truth about her feelings for him, the concealed cravings that made up her daily life, the secrets of her heart; for, between him and the woman he loved, the anguish set a solid, irreducible mass of once-harbored suspicions originating in Odette, or possibly in some other woman who had preceded Odette, and which obliged the aging lover to relate to his present mistress through the ancient collective figment in which he arbitrarily embodied his new love: The Woman Who Made Him Jealous.

Swann often suspected that this jealousy misled him into believing in nonexistent infidelities; but then he would remember that he had once been misled into giving Odette the benefit of this very doubt. So, whenever the young woman he loved was away from him, whatever it was she happened to be doing came to lose all semblance of innocence. But whereas, long ago, foreseeing a possible day when he might stop loving the woman who he did not know would one day become his wife, he had sworn to flaunt the full sincerity of his indifference to her, to avenge the self-esteem which she had for so long humiliated, now that he could slake this thirst for vengeance with impunity (since what did it matter to him if Odette took him at his word and deprived him of her company, which had once been so necessary to him?), he could not be bothered taking his revenge. When his love for her had ended, the desire to show her that his love for her had ended had also disappeared. And the Swann who, when he suffered because of Odette, had wished for the day when he might let her see him in love with someone else, took ingenious precautions, now that this was possible, to keep his wife in ignorance of his new affair.

***

These invitations to tea, to events that had once caused me the sadness of seeing Gilberte leave me to go home early, were not the only way in which I was now included in her life. M. and Mme Swann allowed me to be part of Gilberteís outings with her mother, either a carriage drive or a matinee at the theater, which had prevented her from coming to the Champs-ŠlysÈes and so deprived me of her on those days when I hung about alone on the lawns or near the merry-go-round; not only did I have my place in her parentsí landau, but I was the one they asked whether I preferred to go to a play, a dancing lesson at the house of one of Gilberteís friends, a social gathering at the house of one of the Swannsí own friends (what Mme Swann called in her English a little ìmeetingî), or to see the Tombs of the Kings at Saint Denis.

On days when I was going out with the Swanns, I was also invited to what Mme Swann called ìthe lunch.î As the Swannsí invitation was for half past twelve and my parents lunched at a quarter past eleven, it was after they had left the table that I would set off for the Swannsí luxurious district, which was rather deserted at any hour of the day but especially so at this time, when everybody else was indoors. Even on frosty days in winter, if it was fine, adjusting from time to time the knot in my magnificent tie from Charvetís, and making sure the gloss on my patent-leather boots remained unsullied, I loitered about the broad avenues, in the hope that it would soon be twenty-seven minutes past twelve. From a distance, I could see the leafless trees in the Swannsí little front garden, sparkling in the sunshine as though white with frost. There were only two of these trees; but the untoward hour made it a novel spectacle for me. Such pleasures from the natural world, sharpened for me by the departure from habit and even by hunger, were mixed with the overwhelming prospect of lunch at Mme Swannís; this prospect, though it dominated those other pleasures, did not diminish them; it exploited them, turned them into fashionable accessories. So, although that time of day, when I did not normally notice fine weather, cold air, and winter light, gave me the feeling of having just discovered them, they also felt like a mere preface to the eggs BÈchamel, a sort of patina, an icy pink glaze added to the outside of that mysterious sanctum, the house where Mme Swann lived, inside which all would be warmth, perfumes, and flowers.

By half past twelve, I would have plucked up the courage to enter the house, which, like a great Christmas stocking, seemed to promise supernatural delights. The French word NoÎl, by the way, was never heard from the lips of Mme Swann or Gilberte. They had replaced it by the English word and spoke of le pudding de Christmas, of the prÈsents de Christmas that they had been given, of going away (which gave me an unbearable pang) pour Christmas. At home, it would have been beneath my dignity to speak of NoÎl, and I went about talking of le Christmas, in the teeth of my fatherís ridicule.

Once I was inside, my sole encounter at first was with a footman, who walked me through a series of spacious drawing rooms before putting me into a little one that was uninhabited and was beginning to bask in the blue afternoon from its windows; there I was left in the company of orchids, roses, and violets, which, like people who stand waiting beside you but do not know you, did not break the silence, which their individuality as live things only made the more striking, while they looked shiveringly glad of the warmth of a fire of glowing coals, preciously laid behind a pane of clear crystal, in a trough of white marble, into which now and then crumbled its dangerous rubies.

Having sat down, I jumped up each time I heard the door openóbut it was just a second footman, then a third; and the only outcome of these pointlessly thrilling toings and froings was a few coals added to the fire or a drop of water to the vases. The footmen went away and I was left alone again, behind the closed door that Mme Swann was bound to come and open soon. I would have been in less trepidation in an enchanterís cavern than in this little anteroom with its fire, which might, I felt, have been working Klingsorís magic transmutations.40 At the sound of more footsteps, I sat where I was, it must be just another footmanóit was M. Swann! ìMy dear fellow, whatís this! All by yourself? Ah, that wife of mine, you know, sheís never been very good at knowing what time it is. Ten to one already. Getting later every day. You mark my wordsósheíll come drifting in here thinking sheís got plenty of time to spare.î Since he was still subject to neuroarthritis and had become rather ridiculous, the fact of having such an unpunctual wife, who came home inordinately late from the Bois de Boulogne, wasted hours at her dressmakerís, and was never in time for lunch worried Swann for his stomach but flattered his self-esteem.

He would show me his latest acquisitions and explain their interesting features; but in the heat of such a moment, on an unusually empty stomach, my mind, though agitated, was a vacuum, and though I was capable of talking, I was incapable of hearing. And anyway, for me the main thing about the works he owned was that they lived with him and belonged to this thrilling time just before lunch. Even if the Mona Lisa had figured among them, it would not have given me more joy than one of Mme Swannís tea gowns or her bottles of smelling salts.

I sat waiting, either alone or with Swann, but often with Gilberte, who came in to sit with us. I was sure that the arrival of Mme Swann, foreshadowed by so many majestic entrances, would have to be a stupendous event. I expected it at each creak of a floorboard. But our expectations are always higher than the tallest cathedral, the mightiest wave in a storm, the highest leap of a dancer; and after all these liveried footmen, whose comings and goings were like those of extras on the stage preparing the climactic coming of the Queen, but thereby making it something of an anticlimax, when Mme Swann did slip in, wearing her short otter-skin coat, her veil lowered over her nose, which glowed from the cold outside, she broke all the promises that the wait had made to my imagination.

However, if she had spent all morning at home, she would come into the drawing room wearing a tea gown in a light shade of crÍpe de Chine, which to my eye was more sophisticated than any evening gown.

On certain days, the Swanns would decide to stay at home all afternoon. So, as we had been so late having lunch, I could watch the sunlight quickly dwindle up the wall of the little garden, drawing with it the end of this day, which earlier had seemed to me destined to be different from other days. And despite the lamps of all shapes and sizes, glowing on their appointed altars all about the room, brought in by the servants and set on sideboards, teapoys, corner shelves, little low tables, as though for the enactment of some mysterious rite, our conversation produced nothing out of the ordinary, and I would go home, taking with me that feeling of having been let down which children often experience after Midnight Mass.

However, that disappointment was really only in the mind. I was usually radiant with joy in the Swannsí house, for if Gilberte had not yet joined us she might come in at any moment and for hours on end let me enjoy her words, her attentive gaze and smile, as I had first seen them at Combray. The greatest of my displeasures was a touch of mild jealousy if she disappeared, as she quite often did, up an inner staircase leading to large rooms on the floor above. Unable to leave the drawing room, like an actressís lover who has his seat in the stalls but can only imagine the disquieting things that may be happening in the wings or the greenroom, I sat with Swann and, in a voice that was not without a trace of anxiety, asked cunningly disguised questions about that other part of the house. He explained that the room where she sometimes went was the linen room, offered to show it to me, and promised that, whenever she had to go there, he would make sure she took me with her. With these words and the relief they brought me, he suddenly bridged for me one of those dreadful chasms within the heart, which put such a distance between us and the woman we love. It was a moment when I believed my affection for him was even stronger than my affection for Gilberte. For Swann was the master of his daughter, and it was he who gave her to me; whereas, left to her own devices, she could at times withhold herself from me; I did not have the direct power over her that I could exercise indirectly through him. And since I loved her, I could only ever see her through the confused desire for more of her, which when you are with the person you love deprives you of the feeling of loving.

Mostly, though, we did not stay in; we went for a drive. Sometimes, before going to change, Mme Swann would sit down at the piano. The fingers of her lovely hands, emerging from the sleeves of her tea gown in crÍpe de Chine, pink, white, or at times in brighter colors, wandered on the keyboard with that wistfulness of which her eyes were so full, and her heart so empty. It was on one of those days that she happened to play the part of the Vinteuil sonata with the little phrase that Swann had once loved so much. Listening for the first time to music that is even a little complicated, one can often hear nothing in it. And yet, later in life, when I had heard the whole piece two or three times, I found I was thoroughly familiar with it. So the expression ìhearing something for the first timeî is not inaccurate. If one had distinguished nothing in it on the real first occasion, as one thought, then the second or the third would also be first times; and there would be no reason to understand it any better on the tenth occasion. What is missing the first time is probably not understanding but memory. Our memory span, relative to the complexity of the impressions that assail it as we listen, is infinitesimal, as short-lived as the memory of a sleeping man who has a thousand thoughts which he instantly forgets, or the memory of a man in his dotage, who cannot retain for more than a minute anything he has been told. Our memory is incapable of supplying us with an instantaneous recollection of this multiplicity of impressions. Even so, a recollection does gradually gather in the mind; and with pieces of music heard only two or three times, one is like the schoolboy who, though he has read over his lesson a few times before falling asleep, is convinced he still does not know it, but can then recite it word for word when he wakes up the following morning. Except that, in my case, I had heard nothing of the sonata until that moment; and whereas Swann and his wife could make out a distinct phrase, it was as ungraspable to my perception as someoneís name that you try to remember when the mind retrieves nothing but a vacuum, into which, without your assistance, an hour after you stop thinking about them, the complete set of syllables that you have been vainly groping about for suddenly leaps. Not only does one not immediately discern a work of rare quality; but even within such a work, as happened to me with the Vinteuil sonata, it is always the least precious parts that one notices first. So not only was I wrong in my belief that, since Mme Swann had played over for me the most celebrated phrase, the work had nothing more to reveal to me (the result of which was that, for a long time afterward, showing all the stupidity of those who expect that their first sight of Saint Markís in Venice will afford them no surprise, because they have seen the shape of its domes in photographs, I made no further attempt to listen to it); but, more important, even after I had listened to the whole sonata from beginning to end, it was still almost entirely invisible to me, like those indistinct fragments of a building that are all one can make out in the misty distance. Therein lies the source of the melancholy that accompanies our discovery of such works, as of all things which can come to fruition only through time. When I came eventually to have access to the most secret parts of Vinteuilís sonata, everything in it that I had noticed and preferred at first was already beginning to be lost to me, carried away by habit out of the reach of my sensibility. Because it was only in successive stages that I could love what the sonata brought to me, I was never able to possess it in its entiretyóit was an image of life. But the great works of art are also less of a disappointment than life, in that their best parts do not come first. In the Vinteuil sonata, the beauties one discovers soonest are also those which pall soonest, a double effect with a single cause: they are the parts that most resemble other works, with which one is already familiar. But when those parts have receded, we can still be captivated by another phrase, which, because its shape was too novel to let our mind see anything there but confusion, had been made undetectable and kept intact; and the phrase we passed by every day unawares, the phrase which had withheld itself, which by the sheer power of its own beauty had become invisible and remained unknown to us, is the one that comes to us last of all. But it will also be the last one we leave. We shall love it longer than the others, because we took longer to love it. This length of time that it takes someone to penetrate a work of some depth, as it took me with the Vinteuil sonata, is only a foreshortening, and as it were a symbol, of all the years, or even centuries perhaps, which must pass before the public can come to love a masterpiece that is really new. This is why the man of genius, wishing to avoid the discontents of being unrecognized in his own day, may persuade himself that, since his contemporaries lack the necessary hindsight, works written for posterity should be read only by posterity, much as there are certain paintings that should not be looked at from too close up. However, any craven urge to avoid being misjudged is pointless, as misjudgment is unavoidable. What makes it difficult for a work of genius to be admired at once is the fact that its creator is out of the ordinary, that hardly anyone is like him. It is his work itself which, by fertilizing the rare spirits capable of appreciating it, will make them grow and multiply. It was the quartets of Beethoven (numbers 12, 13, 14, and 15) which, over fifty years, created and expanded the audience of listeners to the quartets of Beethoven, thus achieving, as all masterpieces do, progress if not in the quality of artists, at least in the company of minds, which is largely composed these days of what was missing when the work appeared: people capable of liking it. What is known as posterity is the workís own posterity. The creator of the work of genius must make no compromises with, must take no account of, other geniuses, who may at the same period be following their own course toward creating for the future a more aware public, which will reward other geniuses but not himself; the work has to create its own posterity. So, if this work were to be held back, in the hope of its being known only to posterity, it would be greeted not by posterity but by an assembly of its contemporaries who simply happened to be living fifty years later. Which is why the artist who wishes his work to find its own way must do what Vinteuil had done, and launch it as far as possible toward the unknown depths of the distant future. There lies the masterpieceís true element; and yet, though poor judges can make the mistake of taking no account of the time to come, better judges can at times be tempted by the perilous precaution of taking too much account of it. It is no doubt easy to suffer from an illusion analogous to the one that cancels the differences between all things when seen on a distant horizon, and to entertain the notion that all the revolutions which have ever taken place in painting or music actually had in common a respect for certain rules, and that whatever is right under our noseóImpressionism, dissonance for dissonanceís sake, the exclusive use of the Chinese scale, Cubism, Futurismóshows a flagrant dissimilarity with everything that has gone before. However, when we look at what has gone before, we fail to reflect that a long-drawn-out process of assimilation has turned it all into a substance which, though it is varied, we see as homogeneous, in which Hugo rubs shoulders with MoliËre. Imagine a youth reading a horoscope forecasting his own middle age, with all the preposterous incongruities he would see in it, in his ignorance of the years to come and the changes they must bring about in him. However, not all horoscopes turn out to be true; and the obligation to take into account the factor of the future, when devising the sum of a work of artís beauties, must affect our judgment with something as unpredictable, and therefore as devoid of real interest, as any other prophecy that is never fulfilled, an outcome which implies no intellectual mediocrity in the prophet, since whatever it is that gives or denies existence to the possible may not necessarily lie within the scope of the genius. It is possible that even a genius may have disbelieved that railways or airplanes had a future, as it is possible to be an acute psychologist yet disbelieve in the infidelity of a mistress or the deceit of a friend, whose betrayals can be foreseen by someone much less gifted.

Though I did not understand the sonata, I was delighted to hear Mme Swann play. Her touch on the keyboard, like her tea gown, like her perfume drifting down the stairs, like her coats, like her chrysanthemums, seemed to me to belong to a mysterious and individual whole that existed in a world far above the one in which the mind can analyze talent. ìThat sonata of Vinteuilís is nice, isnít it?î Swann said to me. ìThat moment of nightfall under the trees, when the violin arpeggios make everything feel cool. You must admit, itís very pretty. Itís captured the whole static quality of moonlight, which is moonlightís most basic quality. Itís not surprising that a sunlight treatment such as my wife is taking at the moment should act on the muscles, given that moonlight prevents leaves from moving. Thatís whatís so neatly caught by that little phraseóthe Bois de Boulogne in a catatonic trance. Itís even more striking by the seaside, because then youíve got the muted responses of the waves, and they can be heard quite distinctly, of course, since nothing else can move. In Paris itís just the opposite: merely a strange glow, barely noticeable, on the fronts of the great buildings, and that faint glare in the sky, like the reflection from a house on fire, colorless and dangerless, that hint of some immense but banal happening somewhere ... I must say, though, that the little phrase, the whole sonata, for that matter, does take place in the Bois de BoulogneóI mean, in the gruppetto you can clearly hear someoneís voice saying, ëThereís almost enough light to read the paper by!íî Swannís words might have had the result of distorting my eventual understanding of the sonata, as music is so versatile, too prone to suggestion to exclude entirely whatever somebody hints we might hear in it. But I realized, from other things he said, that the leaves at night in their dense stillness were none other than the ones under which, on many an evening, dining in restaurants on the outskirts of Paris, he had sat listening to the little phrase. Instead of the depth of meaning which he had so often sought in it, what it now brought back to him was all that serried foliage, leafy motifs winding and painted all about it, leaves that the phrase made him yearn to go and see, because it seemed to live on inside them like a soul; it brought back the whole springtime of that past year, which, in a fever of sorrow, he had been too hapless to savor, and which it had kept for him, as one keeps for an invalid the nice things he has been too unwell to eat. The Vinteuil sonata could tell Swann of the charm of certain nights in the Bois de Boulogne, about which it would have been pointless to ask Odette, although she had been no less with him on those nights than the little phrase. But she had only been sitting beside him (whereas the theme by Vinteuil was inside him); and even if she had been gifted with vastly greater understanding, she would have been unable to see what cannot be externalized for anyone (at least, I believed for a long time that this was a rule to which there were no exceptions). ìBut I mean, it is rather a neat touch, isnít it,î Swann said, ìthat there can be reflections from sound as there are from water or from a mirror? Mind you, the only things that phrase of Vinteuilís shows me now are all the things I didnít pay attention to at the time. Itís swapped them for my worries and my love affairs, which it has completely forgotten.î ìCharles! If you ask me, it sounds as though what youíre saying is not very complimentary to me!î ìNot complimentary! Arenít women wonderful! Iím merely trying to point out to this young fellow here that what music shows, to me at any rate, is nothing like ëThe Will-in-Itselfí or ëThe Synthesis of the Infinite,í but something like the palm house at the Zoo in the Bois de Boulogne, with old Verdurin in his frock coat. Iíll have you know, that little phrase has come and taken me out to dine dozens of times at Armenonville. God knows itís far nicer than going out there to dine with Mme de Cambremer.î ìThatís a lady who was said to have lost her heart to Charles,î said Mme Swann, laughing, and in the same tone of voice in which she had just said of Vermeer of Delft, whom I was surprised to see she knew of, ìWell, you see, that gentleman over there was greatly interested in that painter at the time when he was courting me. Isnít that so, Charles my love?î ìPlease do not take the name of Mme de Cambremer in vain,î said Swann, who was really quite flattered. ìIím only repeating what Iíve heard said. Actually, sheís supposed to be very clever, though Iíve never met her. I believe sheís very pushingîóhere Mme Swann lapsed again into Englishóìwhich really surprises me in a woman whoís clever. Anyway, everyone says she was head over heels in love with youóthereís nothing in that to take offense at.î Swann turned a very obvious deaf ear, which served both to confirm the suggestion and to show his smugness. ìWell,î said Mme Swann, with mock peevishness, ìsince my playing reminds you of the Zoo, perhaps we could go there this afternoon, if this young man feels like an outing? Itís a nice day, and you, my love, could relive your memories! Speaking of the Zoo, do you know that this young fellow was under the apprehension that we were very fond of someone that I cut dead as often as I canó Mme Blatin, can you imagine! I think itís degrading for people to think sheís a friend of ours. Even nice Dr. Cottard, who wouldnít speak evil of a soul, says the womanís a pest.î ìIsnít she ghastly! Her sole redeeming feature is that sheís the image of Savonarola. Sheís exactly the portrait of Savonarola by Fra Bartolommeo.î There was nothing implausible in this quirk of Swannís, of seeing likenesses of real people in paintings: even what we call an individual expression in something general (as we discover to our chagrin when we are in love, and wish to believe in the unique reality of the individual), something that may well have manifested itself at different periods. If Swann was to be believed, the Journey of the Magi, anachronistic enough when Benozzo Gozzoli painted the faces of the Medici brothers into it, was even more in advance of its time, as it contained, he said, the portraits of a host of people, contemporaries not of Gozzoli but of Swann, dating not just from fifteen centuries later than the Nativity, but from four centuries after the time of the painter himself. According to Swann, not one notable Parisian was missing from the retinue of the Magi, as in that scene from a play by Sardou in which, for the sake of their friendship with the playwright and the leading lady, so as to be in fashion, but also for fun, all the men about town, the most famous doctors, politicians, and lawyers, took turns in playing a tiny nonspeaking part, each of them being onstage at a different performance.41 ìBut I donít see Mme Blatinís connection with the Zoo.î ìOh, itís obvious!î ìYou mean sheís got a sky-blue backside like a monkey?î ìCharles, youíre being indecent! No, I was remembering what that Singhalese chap said to her that time. Tell himóitís really such a lovely little story.î ìItís too stupid. You see, Mme Blatin likes to address people in a way that she thinks is friendly, but which gives the impression that sheís talking down to them.î ìWhat our neighbors across the Channel call patronizing,î Odette interrupted. ìSo recently she went to the Zoo, where there was this exhibition being given by black fellows, from Ceylon, I think, or so Iím told by my wife, whoís much better at ethnography than I am.î ìCharles, do stop being facetious.î ìIím not being facetious in the slightest. So there she is, saying to this black fellow, ëGood morning, blackie!íî ìIsnít it just ducky?î ìWell, this form of speech was not to the black fellowís likingóëMe blackie,í he bellowed at Mme Blatin, ëyou camel!íî ìI think thatís a very funny story! I just love that story! Isnít it lovely? Canít you just see Mme Blatinís face: ëMe blackie, you camel!íî I expressed a strong desire to go and see the Singhalese, one of whom had called Mme Blatin a camel. Not that I had the slightest interest in them. But I knew that, in going to and from the Zoo in the Bois de Boulogne, we would cross the AllÈe des Acacias, where I had once distantly doted on Mme Swann; and I hoped that Coquelinís42 half-caste friend, to whom I had always hoped in vain to show off by bowing to Odette as she passed, would see me now sitting by her side in the victoria.

While Gilberte had gone off to get ready to go out, M. and Mme Swann would sit with me in the drawing room and enjoy telling me about the rare virtues of their daughter. Everything I could see of her for myself seemed to prove they spoke nothing but the truth. I noticed little acts of thoughtful kindness, which confirmed what her mother had said about how she treated not only her friends but the servants and the poor, and a desire to please, premeditated considerateness, a reluctance to give offense, all of which meant she often put herself out to do inconspicuous favors. She had done some embroidery for our barley-sugar woman at the Champs-ŠlysÈes, and made a point of taking it to her, though it was snowing, wanting to deliver it in person and without a dayís delay. Her father said, ìI can tell you, that girl has a heart of gold, but she keeps it well hidden.î Young as she was, she seemed much more sensible than her parents. When Swann spoke about his wifeís grand acquaintances, Gilberte would turn away and say nothing. But she did this without appearing to disapprove, as she felt it would be impossible to criticize her father in any way. Once, when I mentioned Mlle Vinteuil, Gilberte said:

ìSheís a person Iíll never have anything to do with. Because she wasnít nice to her fatheróIíve heard she made him unhappy. You do agree, donít you? Youíd be just as incapable as I am of wanting to outlive your father by a single day, wouldnít you? Itís quite naturalóI mean, how could anyone ever forget someone theyíve always loved?î

And on another occasion, when she had been more than usually loving with Swann, and I had referred to this after he had left us alone together, she replied:

ìYes, poor Papa. It will soon be the anniversary of the death of his father. So you can appreciate what he must be feeling. You understand what itís like. We feel the same about things like that, you and I, donít we? Iím just trying to be less of a bother to him than usual.î ìBut he doesnít think youíre a bother! He thinks youíre perfect!î ìDear Papa, itís just because heís so kindhearted.î

Her parents did not sing the virtues only of Gilberte, the girl who, in my imagination, long before I had even set eyes on her, used to appear standing in front of a church, in a landscape somewhere in the ‘le-de- France,43 until the day when my dreams were replaced by memories, and I saw her always in front of a hedge of pink hawthorn, beside the steep little lane that led up to the MÈsÈglise way. There came a day when I asked Mme Swann, taking great care to speak in the casual tone of a family friend asking about a childís likes and dislikes, whether Gilberte had a particular favorite among her friends; to which her mother replied:

ìWell, Iím sure you must be more privy to these secrets than I am! Arenít you the great confidant, after all? Arenít you the great ëcrack,í as our English friends say?î

When reality coincides at last with something we have longed

for, fitting perfectly with our dreams, it can cover them up entirely and become indistinguishable from them, as two symmetrical figures placed against one another seem to become one; whereas, so as to give our joy its full intensity of meaning, we would actually prefer every detail of our desires, even at the instant of their fulfillment, to retain the prestige of still being immaterial, so as to be more certain that this really is what we desired. The mind is not even at liberty to remake its own earlier state, so as to compare it with the present one: the new acquaintance we have just made, the memory of those first, unexpected moments, the words we have heard spoken, blocking the entrance to our consciousness, and commanding the exits from memory much more than those from imagination, act backward against our past, which we can no longer see without their presence in it, rather than acting forward on the still-unoccupied shape of our future. For years I had been convinced that to go to the house of Mme Swann was a vague pipe-dream that would never come to pass; a quarter-hour after I first stepped into her drawing room, it was all the former amount of time I had spent not knowing her that had become the pipe-dream, as insubstantial as a mere possibility which has been abolished by the fulfillment of a different possibility. How could I have gone on dreaming of her dining room as an inconceivable place when I could not make the slightest movement in my mind without seeing it shot through by the unbreakable beams of light, radiating to infinity, illuminating the farthest nooks and crannies of my past life, given off by the lobster ý líamÈricaine which I had just eaten? Something similar must have happened to Swannís way of seeing things too: these rooms in which he sat as my host could be seen as the place where two fancied dwellings had come together and become one, not just the ideal place my imagination had created, but another one, which his jealous love, as inventive as my dreams, had so often pictured: the home which he and Odette might one day share, but which, on nights such as the one when she had invited him to her house with Forcheville to have orangeade, he had despaired of ever being able to inhabit. For Swann, what had become amalgamated into the design of the dining room where we lunched was that inaccessible paradise, which in former years he could never imagine without being beset by a thrilling qualm at the prospect of being able to say one day to their butler the very words I could hear him speak now, in a voice of slight impatience touched with a certain self- satisfaction: ìIs Madame ready yet?î I could never grasp my happiness, any more than he could, no doubt; and when Gilberte herself exclaimed, ìYou could never have imagined, could you, that the little girl you used to watch playing prisonerís base, without being on speaking terms with her, would one day be a great friend, whose house you can visit any day you like?,î she spoke of a change which I could not help registering from the outside, but on which I had no inner purchase, as it was composed of two states, which I could not focus on at the same time without their becoming a single one.

And yet my own experience told me that, because Swann had subjected that apartment to such an intensity of purposeful desire, he must surely have found in it something of its former charm, just as it had not lost all its mystery for me. By entering their house, I had not completely banished from it the strange, fascinating element in which I had for such a long time imagined the Swanns having their being; I had tamed it a little, I had made it retreat in the face of the outsider I had been, the outcast to whom Mlle Swann now graciously offered a delightful, hostile, and scandalized armchair; and that charm, through memory, I can still feel close to me. Is this perhaps because, while I sat waiting on those days when M. and Mme Swann invited me to have lunch and then share their afternoon outing with Gilberte, my eyes reproducedó all over the carpet, the armchairs, the sideboards, the screens, and the paintingsóthe idea which was deeply imprinted in me, that Mme Swann, or her husband, or Gilberte was just about to come into the room? Was it because these objects have gone on living beside the Swanns in my memory and have at length absorbed something of them? Was it because, knowing the Swanns spent their lives among them, I had come to see all these things as the emblems of their special existence and of their habits, from which I had been too long excluded for their furniture not to go on seeming alien to me, even after I had been granted the boon of using it? For whatever reason, nowadays when I remember that drawing room, which Swann, without his objection to it implying in any way an intention to go against the wishes of his wife, saw as such a jumble of styles (because, though its design was still based on the concept of the greenhouse-cum-workshop which had been the guiding principle of Odetteís house when he had first known her, she had begun to weed out of this medley some of the Chinese items, which she thought now a little ìsham,î quite ìstale,î but was replacing them with a clutter of little pieces upholstered in old Louis XVI silks, to which of course were added the masterpieces brought by Swann himself from his old hÙtel on the Quai díOrlÈans), I see its disparities in retrospect as forming a homogeneous, unified whole, as giving it an individual charm; and these are features one can never see in even the most coherent and uniform compilations left to us from the past, or in those most vividly marked by the imprint of a single person, for it is only ever we ourselves, through our belief that things seen have an existence of their own, who can impart to some of them a soul which lives in them, and which they then develop in us. All the fancies I had formed about the hours spent by the Swanns, different from those which other people experience, in that house which, by being to the daily tissue of their existence in time what the body is to the soul, was bound to express the unique quality of their life, were shared by whatever I saw, absorbed into the positioning of the furniture, the thickness of the carpets, the outlook from the windows, the attentions of the servants, equally thrilling and indefinable in them all. After lunch, when we went through into the drawing room to have coffee, sitting in the broad and sunny bay window, and Mme Swann asked me how many lumps of sugar I took, it was not just the silk- covered footstool that she moved toward me which gave off both the painful charm I used to sense in the name of Gilberte (through the pink hawthorn, then near the clump of laurels) and also the suspicion with which her parents had viewed me, and which this little footstool had apparently known of and shared so vehemently that I now felt unworthy and a little cowardly in placing my feet on its defenseless upholstery; a personal soul made it secretly one with the light of two oíclock in the afternoon, light that was unique to this bay, as it dappled our feet with its golden waves and lapped about the enchanted islands of the bluish sofas and hazy tapestries; and even the Rubens hanging above the mantelpiece glowed with the same kind of charm, almost the same potency of charm, as M. Swannís lace-up boots and Inverness cape, the like of which I had longed to wear, and which Odette now asked him to go and change for another overcoat, so as to look more elegant when I did them the honor of going out with them. She too went to change, despite my protests that no walking dress could possibly become her as much as the superb crÍpe-de-Chine or silk tea gown, in old rose or cherry, Tiepolo pink, white, mauve, green, red, or yellow, self-colored or patterned, in which she had sat with us while having lunch and was now about to remove. When I told her she should wear it for going out, she would laugh, either in mockery of my naÔvetÈ or in pleasure at my compliment. She apologized for having so many tea gowns, saying they were the only garments in which she felt comfortable, then went to put on one of those breathtaking outfits that made all heads turn, after having invited me at times to choose the one I preferred to see her wear.

Once we had left the carriage, how proud I was to walk through the Zoological Gardens beside Mme Swann! Her easy step gave a loose, lazy sway to her coat, and she rewarded my admiring glances with a slow, flirtatious smile. If we met any of Gilberteís friends, girls or boys, they would greet us as we passed; and now I was looked upon by them as one of those blessed beings whom I had envied so much, those friends who also knew her parents and who belonged to the other part of her life, the part that took place away from the Champs-ŠlysÈes.

Quite often as we walked along the paths of the Bois de Boulogne or the Zoological Gardens, some grand lady, one of Swannís friends, might greet us in passing; and if he had not noticed, his wife would draw his attention: ìCharles, havenít you seen Mme de Montmorency?î Though his casual smile bespoke years of friendly familiarity, he would sweep off his hat with an elegant flourish that was all his own. Sometimes the grand lady would pause, glad of the chance to be inconsequentially polite to Mme Swann, who, she knew, was well enough schooled by Swann in such things not to try taking undue advantage of it in the future. For all that, Mme Swann had mastered the manners of the fashionable; and, however elegant and dignified the grand lady might be, Odette was always her equal in them. As she stood for that moment beside the friend of her husbandís, introducing Gilberte and me with such a serene and nonchalant air, she had such affable, unaffected poise that it would have been difficult to tell whether it was Swannís wife or the aristocratic passerby who was the great lady. On the day when we had gone to view the Singhalese, we saw an old but still-beautiful lady coming toward us, followed by two others who seemed to be escorting her; she was wrapped in a dark overcoat and wearing a little bonnet with its strings tied under the chin.

ìNow, hereís someone youíll find interesting,î Swann told me. The old lady, now only a few feet away, was gazing at us with a smile that was all warmth and gentleness. Swann took off his hat to her, and Mme Swann, in a low curtsey, tried to kiss the hand of the lady, who, looking as though she had stepped out of a portrait by Winterhalter,44 drew her up and kissed her. ìLook, for goodnessí sake, will you put that hat back on,î she said to Swann in a deepish voice that was full of a gruff friendliness. ìIíll present you in a moment to Her Imperial Highness,î Mme Swann said to me. Swann took me briefly aside, while Mme Swann chatted with the Princesse about the fine weather and the animals newly arrived in the Gardens. ìItís Princesse Mathilde,î he said. ìYou know, the friend of Flaubert, Sainte-Beuve, and Dumas. Just think, a niece of Napoleon I! Both Napoleon III and the Tsar of Russia wanted to marry her. Isnít that interesting? Have a little talk with her. I do hope, though, that sheís not going to keep us standing about here for an hour.î ìI met Taine45 the other day,î Swann said to her. ìHe tells me Princesse Mathilde is no longer his friend.î ìHe behaved like a pig,î she growled, pronouncing cochon as though it were the name of the bishop who tried Joan of Arc.46 ìAfter that article of his on the Emperor, I left my card at his house with ëPPCí on it.î47

I was as surprised as one might be on reading the correspondence of Charlotte-Elizabeth, the Princess Palatine. Princesse Mathilde, full of very French sentiments, was given to feeling them with a forthright bluntness reminiscent of Germany as it once was, a trait that may well have come to her from her mother, who was from W¸rttemberg. She was outspoken in a rather uncouth or mannish way; but as soon as she smiled, this was softened by a languid Italian manner. These impressions were complemented by her costumes, which were so Second Empire in style that, though her reason for wearing them was no doubt only that she was attached to the fashions she had loved when young, she seemed to have made a point of wearing nothing that was historically discrepant, so as not to disappoint those who expected her to remind them of a bygone era. I prompted Swann to ask her whether she had ever known Alfred de Musset.48 ìHardly at all, sir,î she told him in a voice that feigned ill temper, the ìsirî being her little joke with someone she knew very well. ìI invited him once to dinner. Seven oíclock, the invitation said. At half past, he still not having turned up, we went in to dine. He presented himself at eight, gave me a bow, then sat there without uttering a word, and made himself scarce when dinner was done. I hadnít so much as heard the sound of the manís voice. Dead drunk. Not the sort of thing to make one want to have him again.î Swann and I were standing a little to one side. ìI do hope this isnít going to take too long,î he said to me.

ìThe soles of my feet are killing me. I canít understand why my wife is keeping the conversation going like that. Sheíll be the one to complain afterward of feeling tired; but Iím the one who canít take all this standing around.î Mme Swann was in the process of telling Princesse Mathilde something she had learned from Mme Bontemps: that the government, having at last admitted how churlish its recent behavior toward the Princesse had been, had decided to send her a ticket admitting her to the stands for the visit of Tsar Nicholas to the Invalides two days later. But, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, despite having surrounded herself with artists and men of letters, whenever action was called for the Princesse was still very much the niece of Napoleon. ìExactly, madame,î she said. ìI received their invitation this morning and sent it straight back to the minister, who must have received it by now. I have told him I have no need of any invitation to go to the Invalides. If the government wishes me to attend, I shall not be in any stands, but in our family vault, where the Emperor lies. And for that I need no ticketóIíve got my keys. I come and go as I please. The government need only inform me whether it desires my presence or not. But if I do go, thatís where I shall be, and nowhere else.î At that moment Mme Swann and I were greeted by a young man who, having said his ìGood afternoon,î did not stop, and whom I did not know she knew:

Bloch. When I asked her about him, she said he had been introduced to her by Mme Bontemps and that he was on the ministerís staff, which was news to me. However, she must not have seen much of him, or else she had wanted to avoid pronouncing the name Bloch, perhaps thinking it not ìchicî enough, as she said his name was M. Moreul. I assured her she was mixing him up with someone else and that his name was Bloch. The Princesse noticed Mme Swannís admiring glances at her coat and straightened the train of it, which was twisted. ìThis is actually made from a fur that the Tsar sent me,î she said, ìso, since Iíve just been to see him, I decided to wear it and let him see how it looks when itís made up into a coat.î ìI hear that Prince Louis49 has taken a commission in the Russian army,î said Mme Swann, not noticing her husbandís signs of impatience. ìYour Highness will be very sad at not having him here at home.î ìMuch good itíll do him, Iím sure! As I said to him, ëYou shouldnít feel obliged to, just because weíve had a soldier in the family already!íî the Princesse replied, referring in her simple, blunt way to the Emperor Napoleon. Swann was more and more impatient. ìMadame, I am afraid I must be the one to behave like a highness and request your permission for us to take our leave. My wife has been quite unwell, and I am reluctant for her to remain standing in one spot.î Mme Swann curtseyed once more, and the Princesse gave us all the blessing of a beautiful smile which she seemed to summon out of the past, from the gracious days of her youth and the evenings at CompiËgne,50 and which all at once smoothed out and softened the brief grumpiness of the face. Then she walked away, followed by her two ladies-in-waiting, who, like interpreters, childrenís nannies, or nurses, had done no more than punctuate the conversation with insignificant verbiage and unnecessary explanations. ìOne day this week you should go and sign the book at her house,î Mme Swann said to me. ìItís not every royal, as the English say, on whom you can leave a card. But with this one, if you sign, youíll get an invitation.î

On occasion, before our outing we would go and look at one or another of the small exhibitions that were opening during those late-winter days; and in the galleries where they were held, Swann, a noted collector, was always greeted with marked deference by the dealers. The weather being still cold, all my old desire to go to the South, to Venice, was reawakened by those rooms, in which spring was already well established, where hot sunlight slashed the pink Alpilles with glowing purples and deepened a dark transparency of emerald in the Grand Canal. If the weather was unpleasant, we went on to a concert or the theater; and we finished the afternoon in a tearoom. When Mme Swann had something to say to me that she wished to keep from people sitting at tables near ours, or even just from the waiters, she addressed me in English, as though we were the only ones who could speak the language. But of course everybody could speak Englishóexcept me, that is, as I had not yet learned the language; and this I had to point out to Mme Swann, to make her desist from passing remarks on those who were drinking the tea, and those who brought it to them, remarks that I could tell were insulting, even though every word of them was lost on me, if not on the people insulted.

Once, in connection with an outing to the theater, Gilberte gave me a great surprise. It was the day she had referred to before, the anniversary of her grandfatherís death. She and I were supposed to be going with her governess to hear a program of operatic extracts; and Gilberte, who had already changed into the outfit she was to wear to the performance, was showing her usual expression of indifference toward the event of the afternoon, saying she did not mind what we did, as long as I wanted to do it and her parents agreed to it. Just before lunch, her mother took us aside to say that Gilberteís father was quite put out by our intention of going to a concert on such a day. To me, this seemed quite understandable. Gilberteís face was expressionless, though she turned pale with anger that she could not conceal; and she said not another word. When M. Swann came home, his wife took him down to the other end of the drawing room, where they stood murmuring to each other. He eventually asked Gilberte to come with him into the next room.

We could hear voices raised. I could not believe that Gilberte, who was so dutiful, so loving, so biddable, would refuse a request of her fatherís on such a day, and for such an unimportant reason. Swann said, as he came back in:

ìWell, youíve heard what I had to say. Now you must do as you see fit.î

Throughout lunch, Gilberteís face was pinched with irritation. We had no sooner gone to her room afterward than she exclaimed, as though nothing had been further from her mind than the notion of canceling our outing, ìLook at the time, will you! Two oíclock! It starts at half past!î And she told her governess to hurry up.

ìBut isnít your father annoyed about this?î I said.

ìNot in the least.î

ìBut didnít he think it would appear odd for us to be going out, because of the anniversary?î

ìLook, what do I care about what people think! I think itís preposterous to worry about other people when feelings are involved. You feel things for yourself, not for an audience. My governess, who hardly gets out at all, has been looking forward to this concert, and Iím not going to spoil her pleasure just to please the gallery!î

She started putting on her hat.

ìBut, Gilberte,î I said, taking her arm, ìitís not to please the gallery, itís to please your father.î

ìDonít you start!î she snapped, snatching her arm away.

An even greater boon than to be taken to the Zoo in the Bois, or to a concert, was to be included in the Swannsí friendship with Bergotte, the thing that had been one of the sources of their charm long before I came to know Gilberte, in the days when I had dreamed that to be friends with such a girl, who was a friend of the divine old man, would be a thrilling experience, if only the disdain she must feel for me had not made it forever futile for me to hope I might one day accompany them on their excursions to the towns he loved. Then, one day, Mme Swann sent me an invitation to a special luncheon. I did not know who the other guests were to be. And as I arrived, I was disconcerted and intimidated by a small incident that happened just inside the Swannsí front door. Mme Swann rarely failed to adopt any of the short-lived customs that are supposed to be smart, which last for a season, then disappearófor instance, many years before, she had had her hansom cab,51 and had her dinner invitations printed with the English words to meet immediately preceding the name of some guest of any importance. Many of these customs were quite unmysterious, even to the uninitiated. One such at that time was a little fad imported from England, which led Odette to have her husbandís visiting cards printed with the title of Mr. before the name Charles Swann. After my very first visit to their house, Mme Swann had called on me and left one of these ìpasteboards,î as she termed them. It was the first time in my life that anyone had ever left a card on me! I had been seized with such a fit of pride, excitement, and gratitude that I scraped together all the money I possessed in the world, ordered a magnificent basket of camellias, and had them sent to her. I also begged my father to go and leave a card on her, but to be sure first to get some with Mr. in front of his name. He did neither of these things, which first plunged me into despair for a few days, then made me wonder whether he had not been right. Futile though it was, this fad for Mr. was at least not misleading. However, the same could not be said for another one, which was revealed to me, without its meaning, on the day of Mme Swannís special luncheon. Just as I was about to step from the anteroom into the drawing room, the butler handed me a long, thin envelope on which my name was written. Such was my surprise that I thanked him, while I cast a glance at the envelope. I had no more notion of what I was supposed to do with it than a foreigner has of the purpose of the little implements given to guests at Chinese dinners. I could see it was sealed; so, rather than be thought indiscreet by opening it there and then, I slipped it into my pocket with a knowing air. The note Mme Swann had sent me a few days before had mentioned a lunch ìfor a select few.î Despite which, it was a party of sixteen; and I had no idea that among us was Bergotte. Mme Swann, who had just ìnamedî me, as she put it, to several of the guests, suddenly appended to my name, in exactly the same voice as she had used for pronouncing it, and as though he and I were merely two guests of hers who must be equally glad to make each otherís acquaintance, the name of my soft-voiced bard with the white hair.

The name ìBergotteî startled me as though it were a shot fired from a gun; but I was already bowing, going through the motions of polite behavior. There, in front of me, bowing back at me, like the magician in his tails emerging unscathed while a dove flies up from the smoke and dust of a detonation, I saw a stocky, coarse, thickset, shortsighted man, quite young, with a red bottle-nose and a black goatee. I was heartbroken: it was not only that my gentle old man had just crumbled to dust and disappeared, it was also that for those things of beauty, his wonderful works, which I had once contrived to fit into that infirm and sacred frame, that dwelling I had lovingly constructed like a temple expressly designed to hold them, there was now no room in this thick-bodied little man standing in front of me, with all his blood vessels, his bones, his glands, his snub nose, and his little black beard. The whole Bergotte I had slowly and painstakingly constructed for myself, a drop at a time, like a stalactite, out of the limpid beauty of his books, had suddenly been rendered useless by the need to include the bottle-nose and the black goatee, just as our perfect solution to a mathematical problem turns out to be useless because we have misread the terms of it and ignored the fact that the total should add up to a certain number. The presence of the nose and the beard loomed so large and were so bothersome that they not only forced me to rebuild from scratch the character of Bergotte, but also seemed to imply, to create, to be secreting nonstop a certain type of busy and self-satisfied mentality, all of which was quite unfair, as it was a mentality which had nothing in common with the type of mind that informed the books I knew so well, steeped in their mild and divine wisdom. Starting from the books, I could never have foreseen the bottle-nose; but starting from the noseó which looked quite unworried by all of this, and was rather full of itself, like a false noseóI was on a quite different course, which would never lead me to the works of Bergotte, it seemed, but toward the attitudes of some engineer who is always pressed for time, the kind of man who, when you greet him, thinks it is the thing to answer, ìFine, thanks, and yourself?î though you havenít asked him anything yet, who, when you say you are delighted to make his acquaintance, replies with an abbreviation he thinks is stylish, clever, and up-to-the-minute, because it avoids wasting time in empty chat: ìLikewise.î Names are of course fanciful designers; the sketches they draw of people and places are such poor likenesses that we are often struck dumb when, instead of the world as we have imagined it, we are suddenly confronted by the world as we see it (which is not the real world, of course, as the senses are not much better at likenesses than the imagination; so we end up with approximate drawings of reality, which are at least as different from the seen world as the seen world was different from the imagined world). But with Bergotte, the embarrassment of the name, laden with its disconcerting preconceptions, was insignificant compared with the chagrin I felt at the prospect of tying this man with his goatee to the work I knew, as though to a balloon, and wondering whether it might still have the power to become airborne. However, it did appear that he was the man who had written the books I was so fond of, for when Mme Swann made a point of mentioning my liking for one of them he did not appear taken aback that this had been said to him rather than to some other guest, and gave no hint of thinking there must be some misunderstanding: he just stood there, his body, which was looking forward to lunch, filling the frock coat he had put on in honor of all these guests, his attention taken up by other, important things, and gave a reminiscent smile, as though thinking back to some fleeting incident from former years, as though what had been mentioned was the hose and doublet of the Duc de Guise costume he had worn one year to a fancy-dress ball, rather than his books, which instantly collapsed (dragging down with themselves the whole point and glory of Beauty, of the universe, of life itself) and showed that they had never been anything but a trite pastime for a man with a little beard. It occurred to me that he must have put a great effort into this pastime, but also that, if he had lived on an island surrounded by oyster beds, he would have engaged just as successfully in the buying and selling of pearls. His work no longer seemed as inevitable as before. I began to wonder whether originality really shows that great writers are gods, each of them reigning over a kingdom which is his alone, whether misleading appearances might not play a role in this, and whether the differences between their books might not be the result of hard work, rather than the expression of a radical difference in essence between distinct personalities.

We went in to dinner. Lying beside my plate was a carnation, its stem wrapped in silver paper. It bothered me less than the envelope given to me in the anteroom, which I had completely forgotten. Though also new to me, the meaning of this custom soon became clearer, when I saw all the other men at the table pick up carnations lying beside their plates and slip them into the buttonholes of their frock coats. I did the same, with the casual air of the atheist in church, who, though knowing nothing about the service, stands up when the others stand, and kneels with only a momentís delay when everybody else kneels. Another custom, just as unfamiliar to me but more lasting, was less to my taste. Just to the right of my plate was a smaller dish, full of a blackish substance which, unknown to me, was caviar. I had no idea what one was supposed to do with it; but I was determined not to eat any of it.

As Bergotteís place at the table was not far from mine and I could hear everything he said, I soon realized why his way of speaking had struck M. de Norpois. He did have a most singular voice. It is the fact that they have to convey thought which, more than anything else, alters the physical properties of a voice: not only are the resonance of the diphthongs and the power of the labials affected by it, so is the delivery itself.

To my ear, Bergotteís way of speaking was completely different from his way of writing; and even the things he said differed from the things that fill his books. A voice emerges from a mask; unaided, it is not up to showing us immediately a face we have glimpsed naked in a style. During conversation, at moments when Bergotte took to talking in a way that M. de Norpois was not the only one to find affected and obnoxious, it took me a long time to discover any close parallel with those parts of his books where his form became so poetic and musical. At such times, Bergotte could see in what he was saying a beauty of form unrelated to the meaning of his sentences; and as human speech is in communication with the soul, albeit not expressing it as style does, Bergotte sounded almost as though he were speaking without meaning, droning on certain words, and, if he was following through a single image under the words, running them together as though they were a single sound, in a way that was fatiguing in its monotony. The fact was that a toneless, turgid, and pretentious delivery was a sign of the aesthetic value of his words; it was the manifestation in his conversation of the power that gave to his books their harmonies and sequences of images. The reason why I had such difficulty in noticing this was that what he said at such moments, for the very reason that it was from Bergotte, did not seem to be by Bergotte. It was composed of a rich flow of exact ideas, quite foreign to the ìBergotte mannerî as misappropriated by reviewers; and that dissimilarity was probably another reflection of the factóglimpsed vaguely through the spoken word, like something seen through smoked glassóthat, when one read a page of real Bergotte, it never resembled what would have been written by any of the insipid imitators who kept touching up their prose, in newspapers and books, with pseudo-Bergottisms in imagery and ideas. This difference in style came from the fact that the real thing was first and foremost some precious, genuine element lying concealed within each object, waiting to be drawn out by the great writer with his genius; and it was this drawing out that was the aim of the soft-voiced Bard, not to toss off a page or two in the manner of Bergotte. He did of course write in the manner of Bergotte, given that Bergotte was who he was; and also in the sense that each new touch of beauty in his work was the particle of Bergotte hidden inside a thing, which he had drawn out of it. However, though each of these beauties had something recognizable to it, something in common with the others, it kept its own special quality, like the discovery that had brought it to light; and because it was new, it remained different from the so-called Bergotte manner, that vague composite of earlier Bergottes already found, drawn out, and written up by the man himself, none of which enabled men unendowed with genius to guess at what he might go on to discover in other things. All the great writers are like that: the beauty of their sentences, like the beauty of a woman one has not yet met, is unforeseeable; it is a creation, since its object is an external thing rather than themselves, something in their minds but not yet put into words. A memoirist trying unobtrusively to write like Saint-Simon nowadays might well hit on a line like the opening one in the portrait of the Duc de Villars: ìQuite a tall man, dark of complexion, and with a physiognomy that was bright, open, outgoingîóbut no determinism could possibly make him say in the next line, of this same physiognomy, ìand in truth a trifle mad.î52 The real thing smacks of that fullness of genuine and unexpected ingredients, of the branch crammed with blue flowers dangling unexpectedly from the springtime hedge, which already looked unable to bear more blossom; whereas the purely formal replica of the real thing (one could say the same of every other feature of style) is full of vacancy and sameness, full, that is, of what least resembles the real thing and, in the hands of an imitator, can pass for the real thing only in the minds of those who have never seen it in the words of the master.

Hence, just as the spoken manner of Bergotte might well have been pleasing if he had been some mere admirer quoting pseudo-Bergotte (whereas it was inseparable from the active workings of his mind, organically linked to it in ways the ear did not pick up at once), so the reason why there was something too matter-of-fact and overrich in his speech was that he applied his mind with precision to any aspect of reality that pleased him, thereby disappointing those who expected him to speak only of ìthe headlong torrent of fair formsî and ìBeautyís thrilling enigma.î And then his constant originality when he wrote became, when he spoke, a way of approaching topics that was so subtle in its avoidance of anything already familiar in them that it always sounded as though he were trying to come at it from some petty angle, taking it the wrong way on purpose, or being smart for smartnessís sake; and in this way, his ideas usually sounded confused, each of us having the habit of seeing clarity in ideas that show the same measure of confusion as our own. Besides, as anything new must first do away with the stereotype we are so used to that we have come to see it as reality itself, any new style of conversation, just like any originality in painting or music, will always seem convoluted and wearisome. We find its structuring figures so unwonted that the talker seems to be nothing more than a metaphor-monger, which fatigues the ear and hints at a lack of truthfulness. (Of course, the earlier speech forms themselves were once images, which a listener unfamiliar with the world they described had difficulty in grasping. But they have long since come to be taken as the real world, the reliable world.) So, when one heard Bergotte say of Cottard that he was ìa Cartesian devil forever trying to remain in equipoiseîóit seems such an unremarkable thing to say nowadaysóor of Brichot that ìHe was even more concerned than Mme Swann with the care of his hair, because, in his dual preoccupation with his profile and his reputation, the lie of his locks had to give him the constant appearance of being both a lion and a philosopher,î one soon tired of it and wished for the firmer footing of something more concrete, by which one meant something one was more used to. The unrecognizable words emitted by the mask in front of me had to be attributed to the writer whom I admired, yet could not have been fitted like spare pieces of a jigsaw puzzle into spaces in any of his books; they existed on a different plane, and required to be transposed, as I discovered one day when, having repeated aloud some phrases I had recently heard uttered by Bergotte, I recognized in them the whole structure of his written style, which in spoken form had sounded so different that I had been unable to see and identify its component parts.

A more superficial thing, the special, intense, and more than punctilious pronunciation he used with certain words, certain adjectives which often recurred in his conversation, and which he slightly overemphasized, bringing out every single syllable and making the stressed one ring (as in the word ìvisage,î which he invariably used instead of ìface,î cramming it with extra vís, sís, and gís, all of which seemed to burst out of his gesturing hand as he spoke them), was the exact correlative of those fine and special places in his prose where he would set such favored words, which were always preceded by a sort of margin, and so precisely designed within the sentenceís intricate balance that, in order to avoid spoiling the rhythm of it, one was obliged to give each of them its full quantity. However, in Bergotteís spoken words there was no sign of that particular lighting which in his books, as in the books of some other writers, often alters the appearance of words in a written sentence. That form of light comes no doubt from great depths, and its rays cannot reach our words at those times when, by being open to others through conversation, we are partly closed to ourselves. In that sense, one could hear in his books more intonations and more accent than in his speech; for this is an accent which is unrelated to the beauty of a style, which a writer himself may not even have noticed, as it is inseparable from his most private self. This was the accent which always marked its rhythm in the words Bergotte wrote when he was being entirely natural, however insignificant in themselves such words might be. It is an accent marked by no sign on the page, indicated by nothing in the text; and yet it clings to the sentences, which cannot be spoken in any other way; it was the most ephemeral but the most profound thing in the writer, the thing which will bear definitive witness to his nature, which will enable one to tell whether, despite all the harsh things he uttered, he was a gentle man, whether, despite all the sensuality, he was a man of sentiment.

Certain idiosyncrasies of elocution that could be faintly detected in the speech of Bergotte were not peculiar to him; and when I later came to know his brothers and sisters, I noticed that their speech was much more marked by these than his was. It had something to do with a sharp, hoarse fall to the last words of a cheerful statement, or a faint and fading voice at the end of a sad one. Swann, who had known the Master as a child, once told me that in those days Bergotteís voice was as full as his brothersí and sistersí of these more or less family inflections, outbursts of violent glee alternating with slow, melancholy murmurs, and that, when they were all together in the playroom, the young Bergotte could be heard holding his own amid a chorus scored for the deafening and the forlorn. However personal they may be, all these human sounds are transitory, and do not outlive the beings who emit them. But that was not the case with the Bergotte family pronunciation. It may be difficult to understand, even in Die Meistersinger, how any artist can ever invent music by listening to birdsong; but Bergotte had transposed and set in prose those ways of drawing out words which ring repetitively with the sounds of joy, or keep dropping away to the saddest sigh. In some of his books, there are sentence endings in which the long-drawn-out chords resound like those dying notes of an operatic overture which, in its reluctance to close, keeps murmuring its final, sublime harmonies, until the conductor at last lays down his baton, which I came to see later as a musical equivalent of the Bergotte familyís phonetic brasses. But Bergotte himself, as soon as he started to transpose them into his writing, unconsciously gave up using them in speech. His voice, from the day when he started to write (and all the more by the later time when I came to know him), had forever lost the power to orchestrate them.

In wit or delicacy of mind, these young Bergottes, the future writer and his brothers and sisters, were no doubt not the equals of other young people, who thought them very rowdy, and actually rather vulgar, with their irritating jokes, which were typical of the householdís partly pretentious, partly puerile style. But genius, or even great talent, lies less in elements of mind and social refinement superior to those of others than in the ability to transform and transpose them. To heat a liquid with a flashlight, what is required is not the strongest possible torch, but one in which the current can be diverted from the production of light and adapted to the production of heat. To fly through the air, it is not necessary to have the most powerful motorcar, but a motor which, by turning its earthbound horizontal line into a vertical, can convert its speed along the ground into ascent. Likewise, those who produce works of genius are not those who spend their days in the most refined company, whose conversation is the most brilliant, or whose culture is the broadest; they are those who have the ability to stop living for themselves and make a mirror of their personality, so that their lives, however nondescript they may be socially, or even in a way intellectually, are reflected in it. For genius lies in reflective power, and not in the intrinsic quality of the scene reflected. It was when the young Bergotte became capable of showing to the world of his readers the tasteless drawing room where he had spent his childhood, and the rather unamusing exchanges it had witnessed between himself and his brothers, that he rose above his wittier and more distinguished family friends.

They could be driven home in their fine Rolls-Royces, sneering a little at the Bergottes and their vulgarities. But he, with his much less impressive flying machine, had at last taken off and soared over their heads.

Other features of his diction he shared not with members of his family but with certain writers of his day. Certain younger writers who were beginning to outgrow him, and who claimed to have no intellectual affinity with him, showed their debt to him unawares in their use of certain adverbs or prepositions that he was always using, in the sentences they spoke modeled on his, in the same dawdling and almost toneless manner of speech, which had been his reaction against the facile grandiloquence of a previous generation. It may be that these young men had never known Bergotte (this was certainly the case, as will be seen, with some of them). But, having been inoculated with his way of thinking, they had developed those modifications of syntax and accent which bear a necessary relation to intellectual originality. This is a relation that requires some interpretation. The fact was that, though Bergotteís way of writing owed nothing to anyone, he was indebted for his speaking style to one of his old friends, a wonderful talker who had had a great influence on him, whom he imitated unintentionally in conversation, but who, being less gifted than Bergotte, had never written a book that was in any way out of the ordinary. Thus, if judged only on originality of spoken delivery, Bergotte would have been properly deemed to be a mere disciple, a purveyor of hand-me-downs; whereas, despite having been influenced in speech habits by his friend, he had still been original and creative as a writer. His impulse to set himself apart from that previous generation, which had been too fond of grand abstractions and commonplaces, could probably also be seen in the fact that when he wanted to praise a book the thing he would single out or quote was always a scene giving a graphic glimpse of something, a picture without thematic relevance. ìOh, yes,î he would say. ìThatís pretty good. That little girl wearing the orange shawl. Itís really nice.î Or else, ìYes, thatís right! That part where thereís a regiment marching through a town! Yes, thatís a good bit!î On matters of style, he was not quite of his own period (though very much of his own country, abhorring Tolstoy, George Eliot, Ibsen, and Dostoevsky); and the word one always heard from him whenever he praised a writerís style was ìsmoothî:

ìWell, actually the Chateaubriand I prefer is the one in Atala rather than the one in RancÈóyes, heís smoother there.î He used the word as a doctor might to soothe a patient complaining that milk was not good for his stomach: ìOh, but itís very smooth.î And it is a fact that in his own style there was a type of harmony, the like of which made the ancients praise some of their orators in ways that seem all but inconceivable to us, accustomed as we are to our modern languages, in which no one would try for such effects.

If anyone praised a piece of his own, he would say of it with a shy smile, ìI think itís all right, itís not bad, itís worth sayingî; but this was mere modesty, after the manner of the woman who, on being told that her dress or her daughter is lovely, replies, ìWell, itís nice and comfortable,î or ìWell, sheís a good-natured girl.î But the artisanís instinct ran too deep in Bergotte for him to be unaware that the sole proof of his having worked to good purpose, and in accord with truth, lay in the joy to be derived from his own work, by himself in the first place, and then by others. Unfortunately, many years later, when his talent had run out, whenever he wrote something that dissatisfied him, rather than scratching it out as he should have done, he talked himself into publishing it with the words he had once spoken to others: ìWell, yes, itís all right, it says something thatís worth saying, for the sake of my country....î The phrases his feigned modesty had murmured for an admirer were later spoken, in the sincerity of his most secret self, to allay the misgivings of pride; the words that had been his unnecessary apology for the quality of his first works became his futile consolation for the mediocrity of his last.

In his urge never to write anything of which he could not say, ìItís smooth,î there was a kind of strictness of taste which, though it had caused him to be seen for so many years as an artist of sterile preciosity, a finicking minimalist, was actually the secret of his strength. For habit is style-forming as well as character- forming; and the writer who, in the expression of his thought, becomes used to aiming only at a certain facility, sets bounds beyond which his talent will never go, just as surely as, by repeated recourse to a pleasure, to idleness, or to the fear of suffering, we pencil in, on a character that it is eventually impossible to touch up, the contours of our vices and the limits of our virtue.

However, though I was later to note many things common both to the writer and to the man, perhaps my very first impression of Bergotte was not quite wrong, that day at Mme Swannís, when I doubted that the person standing in front of me could be the author of so many divine books, for he himself ìdisbelievedî it too, in the true meaning of the word. He disbelieved it each time he fawned on fashionable people (not that he was a snob), or toadied to other writers or journalists, all of whom were clearly inferior to him. By now of course he knew about his genius from the plaudits of other people; and that knowledge is something beside which social position and official recognition are negligible. He knew all about his genius; but he disbelieved in it, going on feigning deference to mediocre writers, in the hope of being elected before long to the AcadÈmie FranÁaise, although neither the AcadÈmie nor the Faubourg Saint-Germain has anything more to do with that share of the eternal Spirit which writes the books of a Bergotte than it has to do with the principle of causality or the idea of God. Bergotte was aware of that too, of course; but his awareness was as ineffectual as that of the kleptomaniac who knows that stealing is wrong. Like a lord who cannot help pocketing the cutlery, the man with the goatee and the bottle-nose had to creep up on the coveted seat in the AcadÈmie, by courting the duchess who commanded several votes in each of the elections, but in such a way as to prevent anyone who might think this aim unworthy of him from noticing what he was doing. In this, he was only partly successful; and when he spoke, one could always hear, in among the real Bergotteís words, other words spoken by the self-seeker, the man of ambition who was forever trying to impress people by dropping the names of the influential, the noble, or the rich, despite having depicted in the books he wrote when he was truly himself, as limpid as a spring, the charm of the poor.

As for the other vices mentioned by M. de Norpois, the semiincestuous affair, allegedly further complicated by some indelicacy about money, though they did flagrantly contradict the tendency of his latest novels (which were marked by such a painfully scrupulous care for all that is good that their heroesí slightest joys were poisoned by it, and that even the reader got from it an anguished feeling which made the easiest life seem hard to bear), they did not prove, even if they could be said to be well founded, that his works were a tissue of falsehoods and his great sensitivity mere play-acting. In pathology, certain states of similar appearance may have different causes, some being due to high blood pressure and others to low, some to an excess of secretion, others to not enough; and in the same way, a single vice can derive either from hypersensitivity or from a deficient sensitivity. It may only be in a life deeply steeped in its vice that the moral question can arise with the full power of its anxiety. This question the artist answers not on the plane of his individual life, but in the mode of existence that represents his true life; and there the answer given is a literary one, of general application. Just as the Fathers of the Church, good as they were, first had to practice the sins of all men, through which they found their own sanctity, so great artists, immoral as they are, often derive from their own vices a definition of the moral rule that applies to us all. It is usually on paper that writers inveigh against the vices (or just the foibles and follies) of their own small world, the prattle or scandalous frivolity of their daughters, the treachery of their wives, or even their own failings, while doing nothing to reform these regrettable or unseemly features of their family life. This disparity used to be less noticeable than in Bergotteís day, partly because the drift of society toward its own corruption was matched by a growing refinement of moral ideas, and partly because the reading public had become better informed than before about the private lives of writers; and on certain evenings at the theater, people would point out the author whom I had so admired in Combray days, sitting back in a box with people whose company, in relation to the idea he had advocated in his latest book, was tantamount to a flippant disclaimer, a singularly derisive or abject disparagement. His goodness or wickedness was never much clarified for me by any of the informants who spoke to me of the man himself. Someone who knew him well would attest to how harsh he could be; someone else would give an instance (touching, because clearly designed to remain a secret) of his deeply sympathetic nature. He had treated his wife callously. But then, in a country inn where he was spending the night, he had stayed on so as to look after a poor woman who had tried to drown herself; and when he could stay no longer, he had left a large sum of money so that the landlord would not turn her out, but take care of her. The more the great writer grew in Bergotte at the expense of the man with the goatee, the more his individual life was taken over by all the other lives he imagined, which seemed to relieve him of the obligation of performing real duties, replacing it with the duty of imagining those other lives. But at the same time, because he imagined the feelings of others as vividly as if they had been his own, when circumstances brought him into at least temporary contact with someone much less fortunate than himself, rather than adopt his own point of view, he always put himself in the position of the person who was suffering; and this was a position in which he would have been horrified by the language of people who, when faced with the distress of others, go on being engrossed in their own petty concerns. In this way, he gave grounds for many a justified grudge and for enduring gratitude.

Most important, Bergotte was a man who took his greatest pleasure in certain images, in composing and painting them in words, like a miniature in the bottom of a casket. In response to some trifling gift, if it afforded him the opportunity of devising some of these images, he would be lavish in expressing his appreciation, though he might well have nothing to say in return for an expensive present. If he had ever been on trial in a court of law, despite himself he would have chosen his words not for the effect they might have on the judge, but for the sake of imagery that the judge would not even have noticed.

On that occasion when I first met Bergotte at the house of Gilberteís parents, I told him I had recently been to see La Berma in PhËdre, to which he replied that in the scene where she stood with one arm outstretched at shoulder heightóone of the scenes the audience had acclaimedóthe nobility of her acting had managed to call to mind masterpieces that she might actually never have seen, a Hesperid making that very gesture on a metope at Olympia and the beautiful maidens from the older Erechtheum.

ìIt may be a sort of second sight on her part. Though I suspect she frequents museums. That would be an interesting thing to educe, wouldnít it?î (ìEduceî was one of those words Bergotte was always using; and it had been taken up by certain young men who, though they had never met him, spoke like him as though under the influence of remote hypnotism.)

ìDo you mean the Caryatids?î Swann asked.

ìNo, I donít mean that,î Bergotte replied. ìOr, rather, yes, but only in the scene where she confesses her love to Oenone, gesturing with exactly the hand movement of Hegeso on the stele in the Ceramicus. No, usually she brings back to life a form of art thatís much more ancient. I was referring to the korai from the old Erechtheumóand I fully accept that itís a form of art which is the antithesis of Racine. But, then, there are so many things in PhËdre that one extra ... Even so, I must agree, that pretty little PhËdre straight out of the sixth century b.c. is very nice, the perpendicularity of the arm, the curl of hair looking like marble, thereís no doubt about it, it all adds up to a real brainwave. Thereís much more antiquity in it than in many of this yearís books about so-called antiquity.î

As one of Bergotteís books contained a celebrated address to these archaic statues, his words were full of interest for me, as well as giving me a further reason for my interest in La Berma as an actress. I tried hard to remember what she had looked like in that scene where she raised her arm to shoulder height; and I assured myself, ìItís the Hesperid from Olympia! Itís the sister of one of those admirable praying figures on the Acropolis! What a noble art form!î The trouble was, though, that these assurances could have convinced me of the beauty of La Bermaís gesture only if Bergotte had primed me with them before the performance. Then, while the actressís posture was in actual existence before my eyes, during that instant when a thing taking place is still pregnant with reality, I could have attempted to draw a notion of archaic sculpture from it. But the memory I had kept of La Berma in that scene was by now indelible, an image as thin as any that lacks those depths full of present time which one can plumb, in which something genuinely new can be found, an image on which I could impose no retrospective interpretation verifiable by comparison with its objective counterpart. Mme Swann, wishing to be part of the conversation, asked me whether Gilberte had ever remembered to let me have Bergotteís piece on PhËdre, adding, ìThat daughter of mine, you know, sheís such a scatterbrain!î Bergotte gave his modest smile and said it was just a little thing of no consequence. ìNo, no! Itís such a delightful little piece! Your little screed,î Mme Swann insisted, to show she was the perfect hostess, and hinting that she had read the little essay, so as to enjoy not just complimenting Bergotte but discriminating among the things he had written, and being an intellectual influence on him. The fact is, she did inspire him, but not in the way she thought. Between the elegance that was once the salon of Mme Swann and a whole aspect of the work of Bergotte, there are connections that make it possible, for men who are now grown old, to read each of them in terms of the other.

I was glad to tell Bergotte of my impressions of La Berma. Though he thought many of them were not quite sound, he let me speak. I told him how much I had liked the greenish lighting effect at the moment when PhËdre held out her arm. ìWell, now! The designer, who is a great artist in his own right, would be delighted to know that. Iíll certainly tell him, because heís very proud of that lighting effect. Mind you, I must say I donít fancy it very much myself. It floods everything with a sort of glaucous glow and makes poor little PhËdre look too much like a bit of coral decorating an aquarium. I know what youíre going to sayóthat it brings out the cosmic aspect of the drama being played outóand I agree, it does. But it would still be preferable in a play set in Neptuneís realm. Of course, PhËdre does have something to do with Neptuneís vengeance. Goodness knows, Iím not one to say that Port-Royal with its Jansenism is the be-all and end-all of Racine. But I mean, Racineís play isnít about the love of a couple of sea urchins, is it? However, that lighting effect was exactly what my friend was aiming at, itís really first-rate, and one canít deny itís quite pretty. So, yes, you liked it, you saw the point of it, and when allís said and done, we think alike, you and I. His idea was just a little crazy, wouldnít you say? But really very clever.î When Bergotteís view on something differed in this way from my own, it never reduced me to silence, or deprived me of a possible rejoinder, as M. de Norpoisís opinion would have done. Not that Bergotteís opinions were any less valid than the former ambassadorís. The fact is that a sound idea transmits some of its force even to its contradictor. With its share of the universal value of all mind, it takes root among other adjacent ideas, growing like a graft even in the mind of someone whose own idea it rebuts; and this latter person, drawing some advantage from the new juxtaposition, may round the idea out or adapt it, so that the final judgment on a matter is in some measure the work of the two people who were in disagreement. But the ideas that leave no possibility of a rejoinder are those that are not properly speaking ideas, those that, by being supported by nothing, find nothing to attach to in the otherís mind: on the one side, no brotherly branch is held out, and on the other, there is nothing but a vacuum. The arguments advanced by M. de Norpois (on questions of art) were indisputable because they were devoid of reality.

As Bergotte had not dismissed my objections, I went on to tell him of the disdain with which M. de Norpois had treated them. ìLook, heís just an old parrot,î Bergotte said. ìHe took a peck at you because he always thinks whateverís under his nose is birdseed or a cuttlebone.î ìWhatís that?î Swann asked me. ìYou know Norpois?î ìOh, isnít he a dreadful old bore!î Mme Swann said. She had great faith in Bergotteís judgment and was probably anxious in case M. de Norpois had said something to her detriment. ìI tried to have a conversation with him after dinner, and, possibly because of his age, or perhaps poor digestion, I thought the man was quite, quite inane. One had the impression that he had been drugged to the eyeballs!î ìTrue, true,î Bergotte said, ìhe is obliged to observe frequent silences, so as to reach the end of the evening without using up the supply of starchy stupidities that keep his white waistcoat stiff.î ìI do think Bergotte and my dear wife are being rather hard on M. de Norpois,î said Swann, whose job at home was to be the man of sound common sense. ìI can appreciate that one may not think heís all that interesting, but from another point of viewîóSwann being something of a ìcollectorî of lifeís little curiosóìhe really is rather a noteworthy man. Noteworthy in his capacity as great lover, I mean.î He added, with a glance to make sure that Gilberte could not hear him, ìIn the days when he was an attachÈ at the embassy in Rome, he had left behind in Paris a mistress whom he adored to distraction. So, twice a week, he would find a pretext to dash back and see her for a couple of hours. Mind you, she was a very clever and beautiful woman at that time. A dowager nowadays, of course. And heís had plenty more since then. I must say that if it had been me, obliged to live in Rome while the woman I loved had to stay in Paris, it would have driven me mad. High-strung people should always choose objects of their affections who are ëbeneath them,í as the saying goes, so that the self-interest of the woman one loves ensures that she will always be available.î At that moment, Swann realized the connection I might make between this verity and his own love for Odette. This gave him a great fit of pique against me, for even the high-minded, at moments when one seems to be sharing in their higher things, are still capable of the pettiness of self- esteem. This grudge of Swannís was apparent only in an uneasy look in his eye; and he said nothing about it at that moment. Not that there is anything very surprising in thatóa story, which is apocryphal, but which is re-enacted every day of the week in Paris, has it that when Racine spoke the name of Scarron in the presence of Louis XIV, the most powerful monarch on earth said nothing about it to his poet at the time; and he did not fall from favor until the following day.53

However, any theory likes to be fully expounded; and so Swann, after his momentary irritation, wiped the lens of his monocle and rounded off his idea in words that I later came to remember as a prophecy, a warning I would be unable to heed: ìBut the danger of such liaisons is that, though the subjection of the woman may briefly allay the jealousy of the man, it eventually makes it even more demanding. He reaches the point of treating his mistress like one of those prisoners who are so closely guarded that the light in their cell is never turned off. The sort of thing that usually ends in alarums and excursions.î

I reverted to M. de Norpois. ìI wouldnít trust himóheís always saying things behind peopleís backs,î Mme Swann said in a way which, partly because Swann gave her a quick glance of disapproval, as though to warn her against saying anything more, made me suspect that M. de Norpois must have had something to say behind hers.

Gilberte, who had already been asked twice to go and make her preparations for going out, was still standing there between her parents, listening to us, leaning her loving head on her fatherís shoulder. At first sight, there could have been no greater contrast than between Mme Swann, who was dark, and the golden- skinned girl with the fairish hair. Then one began to recognize in Gilberte many features, such as the nose, neatly shortened by a stroke from the sculptor whose unerring chisel models several generations, the expression of her mother, her ways of moving; or, to draw a comparison from another art, Gilberte resembled a portrait of her mother, verging on a good likeness, but done by a fanciful colorist who had made her pose in semi-disguise, dressed for a costume ball as a woman of Venice. It was not just the blond wig she was wearing, but the fact that every last atom of her dark complexion had faded, making it look more naked when stripped of its browner veils, covered only by the glow of an inner sun, as though the makeup were not just superficial but ingrained. Gilberte looked as though she represented some creature out of a fable, or as though she were costumed as a mythological character. Her fair complexion was so clearly her fatherís that Nature, in order to create Gilberte, seemed to have been faced with the problem of imitating Mme Swann while being able to use as its sole material the skin of M. Swann. Nature had solved the problem to perfection, as a master cabinetmaker tries to exploit the visible grain of wood, even turning to advantage the knots in it. In Gilberteís face, just to one side of its perfect reproduction of Odetteís nose, the skin rose slightly to show the two moles of M. Swann. In her, as she stood there with her mother, a new variety of Mme Swann had been achieved, like a white lilac growing beside a purple one. The line separating Gilberteís twin likenesses was not hard and fast, though. Now and then, as she laughed, you suddenly glimpsed the oval of her fatherís cheek in her motherís face, as though they had been put together to see what such a mixture might look like; the oval took firmer shape, after the manner of an embryo forming, lengthened obliquely, swelled, then disappeared almost at once. In her eyes, one could see the frankness of her fatherís fine, open gaze on the world, the one I had seen there on the day when she gave me the agate marble and said, ìThis is for you, as a memento of our friendship.î Then, if you inquired about what she had been doing, those same eyes filled with the devious, forlorn embarrassment and perplexity that used to cloud Odetteís as, in answer to a question from Swann about where she had been, she told one of those lies which had once reduced her lover to despair, but which now made her husband, a prudently uninquiring man, quickly change the subject. In the days when we used to meet at the Champs- ŠlysÈes, this expression of Gilberteís had often worried me. Usually, however, I need not have worried, as that particular look in her eyes was a mere physical inheritance, and had nothing else of Odette left in it. It was when Gilberte had been to her class, or when she had to be back home in time for a lesson, that her eyes went through the motions Odetteís had once gone through because she feared letting it slip that one of her lovers had visited her during the day, or because she was anxious to be on her way to meet another of them. In this way the two natures of Swann and Mme Swann, each of them predominating by turns, could be seen to ripple and flow across the features of this MÈlusine.54

Children do take after their parents, of course. But the rearrangement of the inherited qualities and defects is done so strangely that only one of a pair of qualities which seemed inseparable in a parent may turn up in the child; and it may be blended with a defect of the other parent that had once seemed incompatible with it. One of the laws of filial resemblance is that a moral quality will often manifest itself even through a bodily defect that is quite out of keeping with it. One of two sisters will combine the petty-mindedness of her mother with the fine, upright stance of the father, while the other one will receive the fatherís intelligence but the motherís appearance; and so the latterís big nose, her graceless waistline, and even her voice turn into the outer semblance of gifts one used to meet in a much finer form. It can be rightly said that either of such daughters takes more after either of the parents. Gilberte was, of course, an only child; but there were at least two of her. Her fatherís nature and her motherís did not just mingle in her: it would be truer to say they were in rivalry within her, although even that is an inaccurate description, since it implies there might be a third Gilberte, who found it irksome to be the periodic victim of the other two. But Gilberte was alternately one of the two and then the other, and never more than that single self at any given moment: that is, when she was the less good of the two, she was unable to regret it, since the better of the two Gilbertes, being momentarily absent, could have no knowledge of the lapse. Thus the less worthy Gilberte was free to enjoy unworthy pleasures. When it was the better one speaking from her fatherís heart, her views were broad, inspiring one to engage with her in some fine, uplifting enterprise; but when you had told her this, and it was time to launch into it, you found that her motherís heart had taken her over and was speaking through her; and a petty remark or a sly little snigger, in which she took pleasure as an expression of who she was at that moment, would disappoint you, irritate you, almost fascinate you, as though you were faced with an impostor. The disparity between these two Gilbertes could be so great that one would wonder, quite fruitlessly, what one had done to her that might explain the change. Not only did she not keep the appointment that she herself had suggested, not only did she not apologize for this, but, whatever the reason for her change of heart, her later behavior was so different that you could almost have believed it was a case of mistaken identity, like the one which shapes the plot of the Menaechmi,55 and that you were no longer dealing with the person who had so demurely asked to see you, were it not that her present bad mood showed that she knew she was at fault, but wanted to avoid having to talk about it.

ìCome on, please,î her mother said to her. ìYouíll just make us all have to wait for you.î

ìBut Iím so happy here with my nice old papa. I just want to stay here for a bit longer,î Gilberte replied, nestling her head into her fatherís shoulder as he combed his fingers through her long fair hair.

Swann was one of those men whose lives have been spent in the illusions of love, who, having afforded comforts and, through them, greater happiness to many women, have not been repaid by gratitude or tenderness toward themselves; but in their child they believe they can sense an affection which, by being materialized in the name they bear, will outlive them. A time would come when Charles Swann would have ceased to exist, but there would still be a Mlle Swann or a Mme X, nÈe Swann, who would go on loving her dead father. Swann may even have thought Gilberte would love him too much, for he said to her now, in that emotional voice full of misgiving about the future of someone whose love for us is too passionate, and who is bound to live on after our death, ìWhat a good girl you are.î To conceal the fact that he was moved, he joined in the conversation about La Berma, pointing out to me, albeit in a detached, bored tone that sounded as though he was trying to remain at a distance from what he was saying, the actressís percipience, the unexpected aptness of the way she had spoken to Oenone the words: ìYou knew about it!î He was right: that intonation at any rate did convey a genuine and manifest effect, and should therefore have satisfied my desire to find irrefutable reasons for admiring La Berma. But it did not satisfy it, because of its very transparency. Her intonation had been so perceptive, so clear in its meaning and intent, that it seemed to exist in its own right, and any clever actress should have been able to think of it. It certainly was an inspired piece of acting; but anybody capable of grasping it so clearly would also have been capable of producing it. The fact remained that it was La Berma who had thought of itóbut could she really be said to have ìinventedî it, when the thing supposedly invented would have been no different if she had merely acquired it, a thing bearing no essential relation to herself, since it could be reproduced by someone else? ìGoodness me!î Swann said to me. ìDoesnít your presence among us ëraise the toneí of the conversation?î It sounded like a discreet apology to Bergotte from the man who had borrowed from the Guermantesí circle their simple ways of befriending and entertaining great artists, inviting them to dinner, serving them their favorite dish, playing parlor games to please them, or, in the country, arranging for them to practice the sport of their choice. ìWe do seem to be talking about ëArt,í donít we?î Swann added. ìI should think so too! I think itís very nice,î Mme Swann said, thanking me with a glance in which I read kindness toward myself and a reminder of her former hankerings after more intellectual conversation. Bergotte turned to talk with some of the others, in particular Gilberte. I was surprised to realize how freely I had spoken to him of my thoughts and feelings. But over so many years, for so many private hours of reading and solitude, during which he had been simply the best part of myself, I had been so accustomed to relating to him in total sincerity, frankness, and trust that I was less shy with him than if I had been talking with someone else for the first time. And yet, for that very reason, I was full of qualms about the impression I must have made on him, as my expectation that he would scorn my ideas was no recent thing, but dated from the time long ago when I had first read him, sitting out in the garden at Combray. Perhaps it should have occurred to me that, since both my great attraction to the works of Bergotte and the unaccountable disappointment I had experienced at the theater were sincere, spontaneous reactions of my own mind, these two instinctive and irresistible responses could not be very different from each other, but must be governed by the same laws; and that therefore the spirit of Bergotte, which I had admired so much in his books, was very likely not so utterly alien and hostile to my disappointment, or to my inability to articulate it. For, after all, my mind had to be a single thing; or perhaps there is only a single mind, in which everybody has a share, a mind to which all of us look, isolated though each of us is within a private body, just as at the theater, where, though every spectator sits in a separate place, there is only one stage. No doubt the ideas Bergotte was in the habit of investigating in his books were not those I enjoyed trying to disentangle; but if it was true that he and I were bound to have recourse to the same mind, then it followed that, hearing me try to expound those ideas, he must recall them, like them, and smile on them, while probably keeping his inner eye, despite whatever else I thought he might be doing, fixed on an area of mind remote from the one which had left a remnant of itself in his books, and which had been the origin of all I had imagined about his mental universe. Just as the priests with the broadest knowledge of the heart are those who can best forgive the sins they themselves never commit, so the genius with the broadest acquaintance with the mind can best understand ideas most foreign to those that fill his own works. I should have thought of all this, unpleasant though its implications are: for the benevolence one encounters in the person of broad vision has its sorry counterpart in the obtuse and churlish ways of the petty; and the happiness one may derive from the kindly encounter with a writer through his books counts for much less than the unhappiness caused by the animosity of a woman whom one has not chosen for her qualities of mind, but whom one cannot help loving. I should have thought of all this; but it did not occur to me, and I was convinced that Bergotte thought I was stupid. Then Gilberte whispered to me:

ìIím so happy! Youíve really bowled over my great friend Bergotte! Heís just told my mother that he thought you were highly intelligent.î

ìWhere are we going?î I asked her.

ìWell, you know me, I donít really mind where we go....î56

But ever since what had happened on the anniversary of her grandfatherís death, I had been wondering whether Gilberteís character was not different from what I had believed, whether her equable indifference to our outings, her pleasing, mild manner, her unfailing biddableness, might not actually conceal intense desires, which pride made her disguise, and which she did not reveal until some chance event thwarted them and brought out a sudden obstinacy in her.

As Bergotte lived not far from my parentsí house, he and I shared a carriage. On the way, he spoke about my health: ìThe Swanns tell me youíre not in the best of health. I am sorry to hear it. Although I must say I am not too sorry for you, as I can see you must enjoy the pleasures of the intellectual life. I daresay thatís what really counts for you, as it does for anybody whoís familiar with such pleasures.î

Bergotte could not know how untrue this was, how indifferent I was to discussion, however elevated it might be, how happy I became with mere mental idleness, with simple contentment; but I was uneasily aware of how material were the things I looked for in life, of how unnecessary the intellectual life seemed to me. In my inability to distinguish between the disparate origins of certain pleasures, some of them deeper and more durable than others, it occurred to me, as I answered him, that the life I would enjoy would be one in which I could be on friendly terms with the Duchesse de Guermantes and have frequent opportunities of being reminded of Combray, as in the disused tollbooth at the Champs-ŠlysÈes, by a cool smell. And in that ideal way of life which I did not dare to speak of, intellectual pleasures had no part. ìWell, actually, no, sir. Intellectual pleasures donít mean very much to me. Iím not at all fond of them. Iím not even sure I know what they are.î

ìReally, is that so?î he replied. ìNo, look, honestly, you must be fond of them! Bound to be! I suspect you really are.î

I remained unpersuaded; but I did feel happier, less cramped. M. de Norpoisís words had made me see my moments of idle reflection, enthusiasm, and self-confidence as being purely subjective, devoid of reality. Yet Bergotte, who seemed quite familiar with the situation I found myself in, seemed to be implying that the symptoms to ignore were actually my self-disgust and doubts about my abilities. What he had said about M. de Norpois in particular had already done much to lessen the force of what had appeared to be a categorical judgment.

ìTell me, have you got sound medical advice?î Bergotte asked. ìWhoís looking after you?î I told him I had been seeing Dr. Cottard and would probably go on seeing him. ìBut, look here,î he said, ìIím sure heís not at all the right man. I must say I donít know the fellow as a doctor. But I have seen him at Mme Swannísóand heís a prize idiot! Even if we accept that a man can be an idiot and a good doctorówhich I do find hard to swallowóno one can be an idiot and a proper doctor for intelligent people, artistically inclined people. People like you need appropriate doctors and, I might even add, individually designed regimens and medications. Cottard will bore you, and boredom alone will prevent his treatment from working. In any case, such treatment canít possibly be the same for you as for any average individual. With intelligent people, three-quarters of the things they suffer from come from their intelligence. The thing they canít do without is a doctor whoís aware of that form of illness. How on earth could Cottard cure you? He can foresee the ill effects of sauces on the digestion, he can predict the bilious attack, but he canít conceive of the effect of reading Shakespeare! And so all his calculations are thrown out, the little Cartesian devil canít remain stationary, and up he pops to the surface again. Heíll say what youíve got is distension of the stomach! He doesnít even need to examine you for that, because itís already in his eye. Youíll see it if you lookóitís reflected from his monocle.î I was bewildered by this manner of speaking; and I thought, with the ineptitude of common sense: ìBut thereís no more distension of the stomach reflected from Cottardís monocle than there are stupidities inside M. de Norpoisís white waistcoat!î ìIf I were you,î Bergotte went on, ìIíd go and see Dr. du Boulbon. Heís a very clever man.î ìHeís a great admirer of your books,î I said. I could see this was not news to Bergotte and decided that like minds seek each other out, that one has few ìunknownî admirers. What he said about Dr. Cottard struck me, though it contradicted everything I believed. That my doctor might be a crashing bore did not bother me; all I required of him was that his art, the laws of which were beyond me, should enable him to examine my entrails and utter an infallible oracle on my health. My own intelligence was good enough for both of us, and I saw no need for him to understand it, as I saw it only as a possible means, of no great significance in itself, to the attainment of truth about the world. I was acutely skeptical of the notion that clever people have sanitary requirements that differ from those of fools, and I did not mind having to make do with theirs. ìIíll tell you someone who needs a good doctor,î said Bergotte. ìOur friend Swann.î I asked him whether Swann was ill. ìNo, but here we have the man who married a trollop, who accepts being snubbed every day of the week by women who choose not to know his wife, or looked down on by men who have slept with her. You can see it in that twisted smile of his. Have a look, one evening when he comes back to the house, at the way he raises his eyebrows as he wonders whoís with his wife.î The malice with which Bergotte spoke to a stranger about friends of long standing was as remarkable to me as the honeying manner he adopted with the Swanns when at their house. A person like my great-aunt, for instance, would have been incapable of treating any of us with the fulsome amiability of Bergotte toward the Swanns; and she could take pleasure in saying unpleasant things even to people she liked. But when they were absent, she would never have spoken a word about them that they would have been hurt to hear. Our little world of Combray was as remote as possible from smart society. The world of the Swanns was a first step closer to it, toward its untrustworthy waves. Though not quite the open sea, it was just inside the harbor bar. ìThis is just between you and me, of course,î murmured Bergotte as he left me outside my parentsí house. A few years later, I would have said, ìOf course, I never repeat anything I hear.î This is the ritual statement of people in society, serving as a false reassurance for the scandalmonger. I might even have said it to Bergotte on that occasion, since one does not invent everything one says, especially when one is acting a social role; but I had not yet come across it. In similar circumstances, my great-auntís reply would have been: ìWell, if you donít want me to repeat it, why are you saying it?î That is the reply of the unsociable, of those who do not mind being thought ìawkward.î Not being one of those, I quietly acquiesced.

Literary people who to me were personages of note had to scheme for years before succeeding in establishing a relationship with Bergotte; and even then their contracts were restricted to vaguely literary things, and never went beyond the walls of his study. Whereas, without ado, I had quietly stepped into the circle of the great writerís friends, like a spectator who, instead of having to line up with everyone else to get one of the worst seats in the house, is ushered into one of the very best, having been let in by a side door which is generally closed to the public. It had been opened for me by Swann, after the manner of a king who will naturally offer his childrenís friends a seat in the royal box, or take them for a cruise on the royal yacht; so Gilberteís parents admitted their daughterís friends among the precious things they owned, letting them share in the even more precious moments of the private life which took place in that setting. But at that time I suspected, possibly rightly, that Swannís kindness to me was indirectly aimed at my parents. Long before, in Combray, I had formed the impression that, because of my admiration for Bergotte, Swann had suggested to my parents that I should meet the writer over dinner at his house; this invitation my parents had declined, saying I was too young and too high-strung to attend such a function. The impression some people had of my parents, in particular those on whom I looked with great awe, was no doubt very different from my own impression of them; which was why, as on the occasion when the lady in pink had sung such praises of my father, who had then shown himself unworthy of them, I now wished my parents could appreciate the priceless compliment I had received, and longed for them to show proper gratitude to Swann, who in his kind, courteous way had done this for meóor, rather, for them!ó without seeming to have any more sense of how great a gift he was bestowing than the charming King in Bernardino Luiniís57 fresco The Three Kings, the fair-haired one with the aquiline nose, who I believe had once been said to look exactly like Swann.

Unfortunately, this great boon of Swannís, which I announced as soon as I stepped inside, before I had even taken off my overcoat, in the hope that it would warm my parentsí hearts as it had warmed mine, and inspire them to some grand and decisive overture toward Swann and his family, did not appear to enthrall them. ìSo Swann has introduced you to Bergotte, has he?î my father said in an ironic tone. ìWell, thatís a fine thing, I must say! Nice company you keep! What next?î Then, when I told him Bergotte had nothing good to say about M. de Norpois, he added:

ìWell, of course! Which just goes to show what a nasty and bogus mind the man has! My dear boy, we already knew you werenít gifted with a great deal of common sense. But itís a shame to see you fall among people who can only make things much worse in that department.î

My parents were already irked that I was on visiting terms with the Swanns. They now saw my introduction to Bergotte as an understandably adverse consequence of an initial fault, their own weakness, what my grandfather would have called their ìunheedfulness.î I sensed that, to complete their ill humor, all I had to say was that the immoral man who had such a low opinion of M. de Norpois had also concluded that I was highly intelligent. The fact was that, whenever my father was convinced that someoneófor instance, one of my school friends, or myself in this caseówas not only risking perdition but also enjoyed the good esteem of a third person whom he did not respect, he took that esteem as mere confirmation of his own adverse diagnosis. The danger he foresaw was only aggravated by it. I knew perfectly well what he would exclaim: ìBut what do you expect? Itís all of a piece!î This was a statement which, by the imprecision and immensity of the changes it suggested were about to be visited on my quiet little life, could strike terror into my heart. However, since not telling them of what Bergotte had said about me could in no way alter the poor impression my parents already had, it did not matter much if they ended up with a poorer one. I was also so sure that they were being unfair, so convinced they were mistaken, that I had not only no hope of making them take a more balanced view, but almost no desire to. So, though sensing even as I spoke the words how alarmed my parents would be to learn that I had earned the approval of a man who said intelligent men were stupid, who was roundly despised by all solid citizens, and whose praise was likely to lead me astray in the hope of receiving more of the same, I finished my account by delivering this last straw in a rather shamefaced mutter: ìAnd then he told the Swanns he thought I was highly intelligent.î As a poisoned dog in a field bites, without knowing why, at the herb which is the very antidote it requires to the toxin in its system, I had just uttered unawares the only possible statement that could counter my parentsí prejudice against Bergotte, when nothing else I could have said, no argument in his favor, however admirable, no praise of him, however lavish, would have prevailed against it. At once the situation changed:

ìReally?î my mother said. ìHe said you were intelligent? Well, thatís good to hear, from such a talented man.î

ìDid he really say that?î my father asked. ìWell, Iíve got nothing to say against him at all on literary thingsónobody has. Itís just a pity about those dubious goings-on of his that old Norpois hinted at.î My father did not notice that, against the power of the magic words I had just spoken, Bergotteís moral depravity could not hold out much longer than his nasty and bogus mind had.

ìBut, my dear,î my mother said, ìnothing proves thereís any truth in any of that. People say all sorts of things. And of course, although M. de Norpois is extremely nice, heís not always full of goodwill, particularly toward people who are not quite his cup of tea.î

ìTrue, true,î said my father. ìIíve noticed that about him too.î

ìAnyway,î my mother said, stroking my hair and gazing dreamily at me, ìif Bergotte likes my little boy, we wonít judge him too harshly.î

Without knowing Bergotteís opinion of me, she had already told me that, the next time I had friends to tea, I could invite Gilberte. There were two reasons why I did not dare do this. One was that, at the Swannsí, the only thing to drink was tea; whereas my mother insisted that, in addition to tea, we should have hot chocolate. I dreaded the thought that Gilberte would think this was common of us, and despise us for it. The other reason was a difficulty of protocol that I was never able to resolve. Each time I arrived at Mme Swannís, my hostess would ask:

ìAnd how is your dear mother?î

To me, whether Mama would agree to follow suit when Gilberte came to tea was a more serious matter than Louis XIVís insistence that at Versailles only the Dauphin should be addressed as Monseigneur; and so I had broached it with her. She would hear nothing of it.

ìWell, no,î she said, ìbecause I donít know Mme Swann.î

ìYes, but she doesnít know you either.î

ìThat may be. But weíre not obliged to be exactly the same as each other. I can be nice to Gilberte in ways that are different from the ways her mother is nice to you.î

But I was unconvinced, and preferred not to invite Gilberte to tea.

Having gone to my room, I was changing my clothes when I suddenly discovered in my pocket the envelope that the Swannsí butler had handed me just before showing me into the drawing room. Being no longer under the butlerís eye, I opened itóinside was a card on which was written the name of the lady whom I was expected to take in to lunch.

It was about this time that Bloch disturbed my conception of the world and opened before me new vistas of possible happiness (which were later to turn into possibilities of great unhappiness): contradicting what I had believed about women in the days when I used to go for walks along the MÈsÈglise way, he assured me that they were always on the lookout for opportunities to make love. This good turn he complemented with another, which I did not fully appreciate till much later: he it was who took me for the first time to a brothel. He had of course told me there were many pretty women in the world to be slept with. But the faces I had imagined for them were devoid of detail; and these brothels were to enable me to see that each of them had an individual face. So it was that, on the one hand, because of Blochís ìgood newsîóthat happiness and the possession of beauty are not unattainable, and that we are misguided if we despair of ever enjoying themóI was as indebted to him as one is to the optimistic doctor or philosopher who gives one grounds for expecting a long life in this world, or a continued contact with it even after one has passed into another world; and on the other hand, the brothels I frequented some years later (by giving me samples of happiness, and enabling me to enhance the beauty of women with that element we can never invent, which is not just an amalgam of types of beauty familiar to us, but the truly divine gift, the only one we cannot receive from ourselves, the one beside which all the logical figments of our mind fade away, and which can be acquired only from reality: the charm of the individual) deserve to stand beside those other benefactors, more recent in origin but equal in utility, thanks to whom we can now revel in the full glory of Mantegna, Wagner, and Siena, without having to invent pale, imagined versions of them based on other painters, other composers, and other towns: the publishers of illustrated volumes on the history of painting, producers of symphony concerts, and the compilers of those series on ìCities of the Arts.î But the first hotel Bloch took me to, which he himself had not frequented for some time, was of a rather inferior sort; its women were too nondescript, and they were not renewed often enough, for me to gratify familiar urges or contract unfamiliar ones. The madam did not know any of the women one asked her for, and kept suggesting others that one had no desire for. There was one woman in particular whom she praised to the skies, saying with a suggestive smile, as though talking about a treat or a rarity, ìSheís a Jewess! Eh?

Couldnít you fancy that?î (That was presumably why she called the girl Rachel.) And she added, filling her voice with a vacuous, affected rapturousness, which she hoped would be infectious, and dropping it almost to a moan of sensuous delight, ìJust think, dearie! A Jewess! I mean! That must really be something, wouldnít you say? Yes, sir!î I was able to look at Rachel without her seeing me: she was dark, not pretty, but with an intelligent look, and as she licked her lips with the tip of her tongue, she smiled pertly at the different customers who were being introduced to her, and whom I could hear striking up conversation with her. Her face was thin and narrow, framed by curly black hair that looked so irregular as to have been crosshatched in an India-ink wash drawing. At each visit I assured the madam, who kept urging me to have the girl, stressing her high intelligence and level of education, that I would be sure to come back one day for the express purpose of meeting Rachel, for whom my private nickname was ìRachel, when of the Lord.î58 But the fact was that, on the very first evening, I had overheard the girl say to the madam as she was leaving:

ìSo thatís agreed, all right? Iím available tomorrow, and if youíve got somebody youíll be sure to send for me?î

These words had instantly prevented me from seeing her as a person, by making her indistinguishable from the ordinary run of those women whose common practice was to turn up there in the evening in the hope of earning a few francs. This statement of Rachelís rarely varied: sometimes she said ìif you need meî; and sometimes it was ìif you need anyone.î

The madam, being unfamiliar with HalÈvyís opera, had no idea why I had taken to calling the girl ìRachel, when of the Lord.î But an inability to understand a joke has never been an impediment to being amused by it, and she always greeted me with a great laugh and the words:

ìSo is tonight the night when I can fix you up with ëRachel, when of the Lordí? Letís hear the way you say it, now: ëRachel, when of the Lordí! Itís very funny, you know! Iím going to betroth you to her. You wonít be sorry, youíll see!î

On one occasion I had almost decided to accept the offer; but the girl was ìon the job.î Then, another time, she was with the ìhairdresserî (this was an old gentleman whose hairdressing consisted solely of oiling the womenís hair, once they had let it down, and then combing it for them). I tired of waiting for her, although several denizens of the establishment, of very humble charms, allegedly working-class women but always out of work, came up to make me a cup of tisane and engage me in a lengthy conversation, to which, despite the seriousness of the subjects we talked about, their partial or total nakedness gave a piquant simplicity. However, I gave up going to that house because, in my desire to do the madam a good turn, she being rather short of furniture, I made her a present of some pieces, notably a large couch, that had been left to me by my aunt LÈonie. I rarely saw these things, since my parents, having no room to accommodate them, had put them into storage. But as soon as I set eyes on them again in that brothel, put to use by those women, I was assailed by all the virtues that had perfumed the air in my auntís bedroom at Combray, now defiled by the brutal dealings to which I had condemned the dear, defenseless things. I could not have suffered more if it had been the dead woman herself being violated. So I stopped going to that procuressís establishment, as they seemed to be living creatures, crying out silently to me, like those apparently inanimate objects inside which, as a Persian tale has it, souls are imprisoned, subjected to constant torture, and begging forever to be freed. Moreover, given that memory does not usually produce recollections in chronological order, but acts more like a reflection inverting the sequence of parts, it was not until much later that I remembered this was the couch on which, many years before, I had been initiated into the pleasures of love by one of my cousins, a girl whose presence embarrassed and excited me to distraction, and who had urged me to take perilous advantage of an hour when our aunt LÈonie was out of the room. Another large lot of Aunt LÈonieís furniture, including especially a magnificent set of old silverware, I sold, against the express wishes of my parents, so as to have more money with which to send more flowers to Mme Swann. When she received my huge baskets of orchids, she would say, ìYoung man, if I was your father, Iíd have your allowance stopped!î But could I imagine that a day would come when I would regret having parted with that silver, a day when the greatest pleasure in my life, paying respects to Gilberteís parents, would have become absolutely worthless? Similarly, it was because of Gilberte, so as not to part from her, that I had decided not to undertake a career as a diplomat. Our furthest-reaching resolutions are always made in a short-lived state of mind. I could barely conceive that the strange substance inhering in Gilberte, and radiating from her parents and the house where she lived, making me feel indifferent to everything else, could detach itself from her person and migrate into another. The very same substance, yet destined to have completely different effects on me. The same illness can evolve; and a sweet poison comes to be less tolerated when, with the years, the heartís resistance has weakened.

Meanwhile, my parents would have preferred it if the intelligence that had so impressed Bergotte could have been made manifest in some achievement. As long as I had been excluded from the Swannsí acquaintance, I was convinced that my inability to get down to work was caused by the state of emotional disturbance to which I was reduced by the impossibility of seeing Gilberte as and when I wished to. But then, once I had free access to their house, I could hardly sit down at my desk before I had to jump up again and be off there to visit them. And when I had left the Swannsí and gone back home, it was only in appearance that I sat alone; my own thoughts could not withstand the torrent of words on which for hours past I had let myself be carried along: I went on turning out words and sentences that might have impressed the Swanns; to make the game more enjoyable, I even played the parts of the absent others, asking myself fictitious questions so designed that, in answering them, I could show off the brilliance of my banter. Silent as it was, this exercise was a real conversation and not a form of reflection; my solitude was a mental drawing-room scene, in which imaginary interlocutors and not myself were in charge of my speech, in which, by producing not ideas that I believed to be true, but ideas that came to me without trouble, without any action of the outer world on the inner, I enjoyed the same sort of pleasure as is enjoyed, in utter passivity, by the person who has nothing better to do after dinner but sit quietly, lulled into a dull somnolence by poor digestion.

If I had not been so determined to set seriously to work, I might have made an effort to start at once. But given that my resolve was unbreakable, given that within twenty-four hours, inside the empty frame of tomorrow, where everything fitted so perfectly because it was not today, my best intentions would easily take material shape, it was really preferable not to think of beginning things on an evening when I was not quite readyóand of course the following days were to be no better suited to beginning things. However, I was a reasonable person. When one has waited for years, it would be childish not to tolerate a delay of a couple of days. In the knowledge that by the day after tomorrow I would have several pages written, I said no more about my decision to the family: much better to wait for a few hours; then, once I had a piece of work in progress to show, my grandmother would be consoled and convinced. Unfortunately, tomorrow turned out not to be that broad, bright, outward-looking day that I had feverishly looked forward to. When it had ended, my idleness and hard struggle against my inner obstacles had just lasted for another twenty- four hours. After a few days, when my projects had still not come to anything, when some of my hope that they would very soon come to something had faded, and with it some of the courage I required in order to subordinate everything to my coming achievement, I went back to staying up late, as I now also lacked my incentive (the certain knowledge that the great work would be begun by the following morning) to go to bed early on any given evening. Before regaining my impetus, I was in need of a respite of several days; and on the only occasion when my grandmother hazarded a reproach in a tone of mild disenchantmentó ìSo is anything happening about this writing?îóI was aggrieved at her, and I concluded that, by her inability to see the staunchness of my purpose, by the anguish her gross unfairness caused me, an utterly unsuitable state of mind in which to undertake such a work as mine, she had just succeeded in putting off once again (and possibly for a long time!) the moment when its accomplishing would be begun. She sensed that her skeptical air had offended an unsuspected but genuine resolve. She apologized with a kiss: ìIím sorry. I wonít say another word about it.î So that I would not lose heart, she added her assurance that a day would come when I would feel well again, and that, of its own accord, my work would then start to flow smoothly.

Anyway, I thought, what if I do spend a lot of time at the Swannsí? So does Bergotte! My familyís view on this might almost have been that, though I was lazy, the life I was leading was actually the best suited to a developing talent, since I was frequenting the same drawing room as a great writer. Yet to acquire talent from someone else, to bypass the need to create it out of oneself, is as impossible as it would be to lead a healthy life by dining out frequently with a doctor, while flouting all the rules of hygiene and indulging in every sort of excess. The person who was most taken in by this illusion, shared by myself and my family, was Mme Swann. If I told her I could not accept one of her invitations, that I had to stay at home and work, she looked at me as though I were making difficulties for the sake of it, as though I had said something rather silly and pretentious:

ìBut, look here, Bergotte keeps coming, doesnít he? And you donít think his stuff isnít well writtenó surely, nowódo you? Youíll see, heíll be even better soonósince heís taken up journalism, heís actually sharper, and thereís more to him than in his books, where he tends to be a bit thinnish. Iíve managed to get him into Le Figaro, heís going to do their leader article.î She used the English expression, to which she added another:

ìYouíll see, itíll be a perfect case of the right man in the right place.

So do come! Just think of the tips you can pick up from him about writing!î

It sounded as though she were inviting a private to meet his colonel: it was in order to further my career, as though knowing ìthe right peopleî could help produce a masterpiece, that she urged me not to miss dinner with Bergotte at her house the following evening.

So it was that my new sweet life with Gilberte was now untroubled both by the Swanns and by my family, the two sources that at different times had appeared likely to make a difficulty; and I could go on seeing her at will, with delight though not with peace of mind. Peace of mind is foreign to love, since each new fulfillment one attains is never anything but a new starting point for the desire to go beyond it. As long as I had been prevented from going to her house, my gaze had been riveted to that unattainable happiness, and it had been impossible for me even to imagine the new sources of emotional disturbance that awaited me in it. Once her parentsí resistance had been overcome, the problem that had thus been solved was to go on being reformulated, but each time in different terms. In that sense, it really was a new relationship that began with Gilberte each day. Back at home each evening, I realized there were things of paramount importance that I had to say to her, things on which the future of our friendship depended; and yet, from one day to the next, they were never the same things. Still, I was happy and there was no sign of any threat to my continuing happiness. A threat was to materialize, however, coming from a source I had never seen as a potential dangeróthat is, from Gilberte and myself. I should really have been disturbed by what reassured me, by what I took for happiness. In love, happiness is an abnormal state, capable of instantly conferring on the pettiest-seeming incident, which can occur at any moment, a degree of gravity that in other circumstances it would never have. What makes one so happy is the presence of something unstable in the heart, something one contrives constantly to keep in a state of stability, and which one is hardly even aware of as long as it remains like that. In fact, though, love secretes a permanent pain, which joy neutralizes in us, makes virtual, and holds in abeyance; but at any moment, it can turn into torture, which is what would have happened long since if one had not obtained what one desired.

Now and then I had the feeling that Gilberte would have been glad to see me less often. The fact was that, when the desire to see her got the better of me, all I had to do was get myself invited to the house by her parents, who were more and more convinced I was an improving influence on her. Because of them, I thought, my love is in no danger: as long as they are for me, I neednít worry about anything, since Gilberte is in their hands. Unfortunately, occasional signs of impatience from her, at times when her father had me to the house more or less without her agreement, made me wonder whether the thing I had seen as a protection for my happiness might not be the secret reason why it could not last.

The last time I went to see her, it was raining and she had been invited to a dancing class at the house of some people who were not close enough friends for her to be able to take me with her. Because it was wet, I had taken more caffeine than usual. As Gilberte was about to leave, Mme Swann, perhaps because of the bad weather, perhaps because of some slight ill will she may have harbored toward the people in whose house the lesson was to take place, called out ìGilberte!î in a very sharp voice, and made a gesture in my direction, meaning that I was there to see her and that she should stay at home. It was for my sake that she had snapped ìGilberte!î or, rather, shouted the name; but from the shrug of the shoulders with which Gilberte took off her outdoor things, I realized that, without intending to, her mother had hastened the processówhich until then it might still have been possible to arrestówhereby my sweetheart was gradually being separated from me. ìOne doesnít have to go dancing every day,î Odette said to her daughter, possibly passing along a lesson in self-discipline once taught to her by Swann. Then, becoming Odette again, she broke into English; and it was instantly as though part of Gilberteís life was hidden behind a wall, as though some evil genie had kidnapped her. In a language we understand, we have replaced opacity of sound by transparency of idea. But a language we do not speak is a palace closed against us, inside which our beloved may deceive us, while we, left outside to the impotent devices of our own desperation, can see nothing and prevent nothing. A month earlier, this conversation would have made me smile; but now, with the few French proper names I could hear among the English words, it increased my disquiet, gave focus to suspicion, and, though conducted by two motionless people standing beside me, left me as cruelly isolated and abandoned as if Gilberte had been abducted. At length, Mme Swann left us alone together. That day, perhaps from a sense of grievance against me for having been the unwitting cause of her being deprived of an amusement, perhaps also because, sensing and hoping to avoid her ill humor, I myself may have been stiffer than usual, Gilberteís face was devoid of all joy, laid waste, a blank, melancholy mask, which for the rest of the afternoon seemed to grieve privately for those foursome reels being danced without her, because of my presence here, and to defy all beings, especially me, to comprehend the subtle reasons that had produced in her a sentimental inclination to do the Boston dip. She did no more than contribute occasional commentsóon the weather, the fact that the rain was coming on again, or that the clock was a little fastóto a conversation of silences and monosyllables, during which I too, in a sort of rage of despair, outdid her in trying to destroy the moments in which we could have been close and happy. All the words we exchanged were stamped with a sort of stark hardness, by the crushing paradox of their crassness, an effect in which there was nevertheless something consoling, since it meant that Gilberte could not possibly be deceived by the banality of what I was saying and the indifference in my voice. Even though I said, ìAnd yet the other day I had the impression the clock was actually a little slow,î she translated this directly as, ìHow nasty youíre being!î Even though I persisted throughout the rainy afternoon with my succession of pointless words without sunny intervals, I knew that my cold manner was not as steadfast as I pretended, and that Gilberte must be well aware that, if I had dared to repeat for the fourth time what I had already said three timesóthat the evenings were drawing in nowóI would have had difficulty in not bursting into tears. When she was like that, when a smile was not filling her eyes and revealing her face, how inexpressibly desolate and monotonous were the sadness in her eyes and the gloom of her sulky features. At such moments, her face would turn almost ugly and resembled those bare, boring stretches of beach which, when the tide has receded almost out of sight, tire the eye with their unchanging glare bounded by the fixed and inhibiting horizon. Eventually, not having seen in Gilberte the comforting change of mood I had been hoping to see for hours past, I told her she was not nice. ìYouíre the one whoís not nice!î she said. ìMe? I am nice!î I wondered what I had done and, being unable to think of anything, I asked her what I had done. ìNaturally, you think youíre so nice!î she replied with a long laugh. I was struck at that moment by what was so painful to me in being unable to have access to that other, more elusive reach of her mind described by her laughter. The laugh seemed to mean: ìIím not taken in by a single thing you say, you know! I know perfectly well youíre madly in love with me, but it makes no difference, because I donít care for you at all!î But I reminded myself that laughter is not so determinate a form of speech that I could definitely assume I knew what Gilberteís meant. And her words had been spoken with a tone of affection. ìWell, how am I not nice?î I asked. ìTell me. Iíll do anything you ask me to.î ìNo, that would be useless. I canít explain....î For a moment I was afraid she believed I did not love her; and this was a new pain, no less sharp, but requiring to be reasoned with in a different way. ìYou would tell me if you knew how unhappy you make me.î But the unhappiness I spoke of, which if she had doubted my love for her should have overjoyed her, only irritated her. So, realizing my mistake, determined to ignore whatever she might say, and even disbelieving her when she asserted, ìI did love you, really I did. Youíll find that out one dayî (that day when, according to the guilty, their innocence will be established, which is never, for some mysterious reason, the day when they are being asked about it), I found the courage to make the sudden resolution never to see her again, and to do this without letting her know about it yet, because she would not have believed me.

A sadness caused by somebody one loves may be bitter, even when it happens amid a round of pastimes, joys, and preoccupations which are extraneous to that person and which, except for brief moments, divert our mind from it. But when such a sadness comes right at the moment when we are basking in the full delight of being with that person, as was my case with Gilberte, the sudden depression which replaces the broad, tranquil sunlight of our inner summer sets off within us a storm so wild that we may doubt our ability to weather it. As I went home that evening, my heart was buffeted and bruised with such violence that I felt I could only get my breath back by retracing my steps, by making up some excuse to return to Gilberte. But she would only have thought: ìHim again! Obviously I can treat him like dirt! The more unhappy I make him, the easier heíll be to manage!î In my mind, however, I was irresistibly drawn back to her; and these alternating urges, the crazy fluctuations of my inner compass, persisted after I reached home, where they turned into the drafts of incoherent letters I wrote to her.

I was on the threshold of one of those difficult junctures which most of us encounter several times in our lives; and on each of those different occasions, we do not meet them in the same way, although in the meantime, despite having grown older, we have not altered our character, our nature (which of itself creates not only the loves we experience but almost the women we love, and even their defects). At such moments, our life is divided, as though apportioned in its entirety between the two sides of a pair of scales. On one of the scales lies our wish not to give offense, by appearing too docile, to the woman we love, albeit without completely understanding her; but this wish we think it advisable to leave to one side, to prevent her from feeling she is indispensable to us, and thus wearying of our devotion. But on the other lies painóthough not a localized and separate painówhich could be abated only if we were to ignore our desire to be liked, put aside our pretense of being able to live without her, and seek her out. If we lighten the scale containing our pride, by removing from it a little of the willpower we have been remiss enough to wear away with age, and if we add to the scale containing our unhappiness an acquired physical pain that we have allowed to become worse, it is not the courageous side that outweighs the other, as would have happened at twenty; it is the craven side which, having become too ponderous and lacking a counterweight, unbalances us at fifty. Also, since situations can change as well as repeat themselves, there is the possibility that, by the middle of life or toward the end of it, oneís self-indulgence may have had the unfortunate effect of complicating love with an element of habit, which adolescence, preoccupied by too many other obligations and lacking personal freedom, has not yet acquired.

I had just dashed off a furious letter to Gilberte, being sure to place in it the life buoy of a few apparently casual words to which she could cling if she wanted us to make up; but then, in a quite different mood, I dashed off another, full of loving words, in which I savored the touching sweetness of certain forlorn expressions such as Never again, so moving for the one who writes, yet so boring for the one who reads, either because she suspects them of being false and translates Never again as This very evening, please, or because she thinks they are true and sees in them the promise of the sort of lifelong separation that we accept with utter indifference when dealing with people we do not love. But since we are unable, while we love, to act as the worthy predecessor to the next person we are going to be, the one who will no longer be in love, how could we accurately imagine the state of mind of a woman who, even though we knew we meant nothing to her, has always figured in our sweetest daydreams, a figment of our illusive wish to fancy a future with her, or of our need to heal the heart she has broken, whispering to us things she would have said only if she had been in love with us? Faced with the thoughts or actions of a woman we love, we are as incapacitated as the very first physicians when faced with natural phenomena (in the time before science had come into being and shed a little light into the unknown); or, even worse, we are like a being for whom the principle of causality hardly exists, who is incapable of perceiving a connection between one phenomenon and another, for whom the spectacle of the world is as unreliable as a dream. Of course I tried to escape from such chaos and find causes. I even tried to be ìobjective,î to remain aware of the disparity between the importance of Gilberte to me and not only my importance to her, but hers to all people other than myself, since otherwise I might have seen what was a mere civility on her part as a declaration of ungovernable passion, and an unseemly and degrading act on my own part as the pleasing spontaneity that impels a man toward a pretty face. But I was also wary of going to the other extreme, of reading a mere momentís unpunctuality or bad temper as meaning that Gilberte had an implacable hostility toward me.

Somewhere between these two points of view, each of them making for distortion, I tried to find a way of seeing things that was more accurate; the mental efforts this required distracted me a little from my pain; and whether from trust in the answers I arrived at, or whether I had biased these answers toward what I wanted, I decided the following day to go back to the Swannsí, a resolution that left me happy, but happy after the manner of the man who, having worried for a long time about a journey he wishes he did not have to take, goes only as far as the station before returning home to unpack his trunk. And since, during the period one has spent in hesitations, the merest glimpse of a possible determination to end them (unless one has precluded such a thought by resolving not to make such a determination) is like a sturdy seed out of which grow first the broad lines, then all the details of the feelings one could have once the act is accomplished, I reproached myself for having been so absurd, for having allowed my own notion of never seeing Gilberte again to make me suffer as much as if I had really been going to carry it out, telling myself that, since the long and the short of it was that I was going back to see her, I might as well have saved myself so many agonizing changes of heart and dispiriting resolves. This renewal of my relationship with Gilberte lasted as long as it took me to reach her house. It ended, not because the butler, who liked me, said she was out (which was true, as I learned that evening from people who had met her), but because of the way he said it: ìMademoiselle is out, monsieur. I swear to Monsieur I am telling the truth. If Monsieur would like to check what I am saying, I can fetch the maid. As Monsieur well knows, I would do anything for him, and if Mademoiselle was in, I would take Monsieur straight to her.î These words of the butlerís, as important as only spontaneous words can be, because they give us at least a summary X-ray of an inscrutable reality that a rehearsed speech would conceal, proved that the household suspected my attentions were irksome to Gilberte; and as soon as he had finished speaking them, they aroused in me a gust of hatred, which I preferred to direct against him rather than against her; they focused on him whatever feelings of anger I had harbored against her; they cleansed my love of these feelings, and it lived on without them; but they also taught me that for some time I should not try to see Gilberte again. She would be writing to me, no doubt, to apologize. Even so, I would make a point of not going around to see her straight away, just to show her I could live without her. And of course, once I had received her letter, to see her again would be something I could more easily postpone for a time, since I would be certain of being able to be with her whenever I wanted to. To be able to bear that self-imposed separation from her without too much sorrow, all I needed was to feel that my heart had been freed from the dreadful uncertainty of not knowing whether we had fallen out forever, whether she might not be engaged to be married, or have left Paris, or eloped with somebody. The following days were somewhat like the New Year holiday I had once had to spend without a sight of Gilberte. But in those earlier days, I had been sure that, once the week was over, she would come back to the Champs-ŠlysÈes, and that I could see her as usual; and equally sure that there was no point in going to the Champs-ŠlysÈes until the New Year holiday had ended. Which was why, for the whole of that sad week, long past, it was with an untroubled mind that I had borne my sorrow, because it had neither fear nor hope in it. But this time my pain was unbearable, because I was tormented by a hope that was almost as strong as my fear. Not having received a letter from her by the afternoon mail, I reminded myself of how remiss she could be in such things, of how busy she was, and I had no doubt there would be one by the morning. I awaited the postman each morning with a beating heart, a state that turned into dejection each time I found the mail to consist either of letters from people who were not Gilberte or of no letters at all, an eventuality that was not harder to bear, since a token of friendship from someone else only made the evidence of her indifference to me the more wounding. Then, each day, I would start looking forward again to the afternoon mail. Even between the delivery times I did not dare leave the house, since she might be sending the letter by hand. Each evening the moment eventually came when neither the postman nor the Swannsí footman could be expected, and I had to postpone the hope of possible consolation till the following morning; in this way, because I believed my pain could not last, I was obliged to keep on renewing it, so to speak. The sorrow I felt may have been the same sorrow all the time; but, unlike my earlier sadness, it was not just a uniform continuation of an initial emotion; it started up several times each day, being at first an emotion which was so often renewed that, though it was a wholly physical state and quite momentary, it ended up at a stable level; and as the disturbance provoked by expectation barely had time to settle before a new reason for expectation arose, there was no moment of the day when I was not in the grip of that form of anguish which it is so difficult to bear even for an hour.

So it was that my suffering was much crueler than it had been on that previous New Yearís Day, because this time I was full not of a simple acceptance of it but of the hope, recurring at every instant, that it would end. I did eventually reach that state of acceptance. I reached too the realization that it was to be definitive, and so I gave up Gilberte forever, in the interest of my love itself, but also because I hoped more than anything that she might remember me without contempt. In the future, if she ever sent me an invitation or a suggestion that we meet, I even made a point of accepting some of these, so as to prevent her from suspecting I was acting on anything like loverís pique, and then, at the last moment, I wrote to cry off, with the sort of great protestations of disappointment that you send to someone you have no real desire to see. It seemed to me that these expressions of regret, usually reserved for people to whom one is indifferent, would be more successful in convincing Gilberte of my indifference toward her than the tone of feigned indifference that one uses with somebody one loves. Once I had proved to her, not just with words, but more effectively with reiterated actions, that I could see nothing pleasing in her company, perhaps she would come to realize there was something pleasing in my mine. Unfortunately, this was not to be: trying to make her discover something pleasing in my company by not seeing her was the surest way to lose her forever. For one thing, if she ever did come to this discovery, I would want its effects to last, and so I would have to be careful not to enjoy them too soon; besides, the worst of my torment would be over by then; it was now that she was necessary to me; I wished I could warn her that, before long, the only purpose of her seeing me again would be to soothe a pain that would have faded so much as no longer to be, as it still was at this moment, a reason for her to allay it by giving in, and for both of us to make up and see each other again. And in the future, when Gilberteís liking for me had once again become so strong that I could at last safely confess mine for her, I foresaw that mine would not have survived such a long absence, and that I would have come to feel indifferent to her. All this I knew; but if I had said so, she would just have assumed that, in saying I would stop loving her if I had to live without her for too long, my real purpose was to make her ask me to come back to her at once. Meanwhile, a thing that made it easier for me to condemn myself to this separation was that (with the purpose of making Gilberte clearly aware that, for all my statements to the contrary, it really was by choice, and not because of ill health, or some such thing beyond my control, that I was staying away from her), if I knew in advance that she was not going to be at home, was going out with a friend, and would not be back for dinner, I took to visiting Mme Swann, who thus once more became the person she had been in the days when it had been so hard to see her daughter, when if Gilberte did not turn up at the Champs-ŠlysÈes I would take a walk along the Avenue des Acacias.

In this way, not only could I hear about Gilberte, but I was sure she would hear about me too, and in a way that would make it plain I had lost interest in her. Also, like all those in pain, I had the feeling that my sorry situation could have been worse. Since I had open access to her house, I lived with the knowledge (even though I was resolved never to avail myself of the possibility) that, if ever my suffering became too much for me, I could always bring it to an end. So I was only unhappy for one day at a time. And even that is an overstatement. How many times per hour (but now free of the fever of expectation that had so anguished me in the first weeks after we had fallen out, before I started going back to the Swannsí house) did I read to myself the letter that Gilberte would definitely send me one dayówhich she might even bring to me herself! The constant vision of this imaginary happiness helped me to bear the ruining of my real happiness. With a woman who does not love us, as with someone who has died, the knowledge that there is nothing left to hope for does not prevent us from going on waiting. One lives in a state of alertness, eyes and ears open; a mother whose son has gone on a dangerous sea voyage always has the feeling, even when she has long known for certain that he has perished, that he is just about to come through the door, saved by a miracle, unscathed. This waiting, depending on the strength of her memory and her bodily resistance, may enable her to last out the years that will eventually bring her to an acceptance of the death of her son, so that she gradually forgets and goes on livingóor it may kill her. Also, my sorrow drew some slight comfort from the knowledge that it benefited my love. Every visit I made to Mme Swann without seeing Gilberte was hurtful to me; but I sensed that it served me by bettering Gilberteís image of me.

In always making sure, before I went to Mme Swannís, that Gilberte would be away, I may have been responding not just to my determination to have fallen out with her, but as much to that hope for a reconciliation which overlaid my wish to forgo happiness (few of such wishes are absolute, at least not continuously so, one of the laws of human makeup being intermittence, which is further affected by the unpredictable recurrence of different memories) and masked from me some of its worst pain. I knew perfectly well how illusive that hope was. I was like a poor man who will wet his dry crusts with fewer tears if he imagines that a stranger is about to leave him a fortune. If we are to make reality endurable, we must all nourish a fantasy or two. My hope was more unqualified, while at the same time my severance from Gilberte was more effectively achieved, if we did not meet. If I had happened to see her while visiting her mother, we might have said something irreparable, which would have made our estrangement definitive and annihilated all hope, while setting off new anguish in me, reawakening my love, and making my resignation harder to bear.

Mme Swann had been saying to me for ages, since long before this falling out with Gilberte, ìItís very nice of you to come to see her, you know. But Iíd love it if you would come to see me for a change. I donít mean at my afternoon jamboreesóthereís always too much of a multitude, and you wouldnít like it one bitóbut on any other day. Iím always here, you know, toward the end of the day.î So, when I went to her house, it appeared as though I was just belatedly complying with a request of long standing. It was in the late afternoon, sometimes after dark, at a time when my parents would soon be dining, that I set off for the Swannsí house, where I was sure of never seeing Gilberte, but where I would think of nothing but her. In those days, in that part of Paris, which was seen as rather remote (indeed, the whole city was darker then than nowadays, none of the streets, even in the center of town, being lit by electricity, and very few of the houses), lamps glowing inside a drawing room on a ground floor or a mezzanine, which was where Mme Swannís receiving rooms were, could light up the street and draw the glance of passersby, who saw in these illuminations a manifest but veiled relation to the handsome horses and carriages waiting outside the front doors. The passerby, seeing one of these carriages move off, might think, not without a certain thrill, that there had been a change in this mysterious relation; but it would only be because a coachman, fearing his horses might catch a chill, was taking them for a turn around the block, their hooves striking sharp and clear against the background of silence laid down by the rubber-rimmed wheels.

The ìwinter garden,î which the passerby would also generally glimpse, whichever street the house was on, and as long as the rooms were not situated too high above the pavement, can be seen now only in the photogravure illustrations of P.-J. Stahlís giftbooks; because of the profusion of indoor plants that people had then, and the total lack of stylishness in their arrangement, such a winter garden gives the impression, in contrast to the sparse floral ornamentation of todayís Louis XVI drawing rooms (a single rose or Japanese iris in a long-necked crystal vase that could not contain one more flower), of having been the expression of some headlong and delectable passion among ladies for botany, rather than a frigid fixation with still life. In the large houses of that time, it brought to mind, on a much larger scale, the tiny portable greenhouses sitting in the lamplight on the morning of January 1 (the children having been too impatient to wait for daybreak) among the other New Yearís Day presents, the loveliest of them all because the thought of the plants you were going to be able to grow in them consoled you for the bareness of the wintertime; or, rather, instead of resembling these actual diminutive greenhouses, the winter garden looked more like the one you could see right beside them in a lovely book, another of the New Yearís Day presents, and which, despite being not for the children but for Mlle Lili, the heroine of the story,59 delighted them so much that, though they are now almost in their old age, they wonder whether in those dear days winter was not the best of seasons. The passerby who stood on tiptoe might well see in the depths of this winter garden, through the branching foliage of the various species, which made the lamplit windows look like the panes of childrenís glass-houses, real or drawn, a gentleman in a frock coat, with a gardenia or a carnation in his buttonhole, standing in front of a lady who was sitting, neither of them very clear, as though intaglioed in topaz, amid the drawing-room atmosphere hazily ambered by the fumes from the samovar, a recent importation of that period, fumes which may still be given off nowadays but which, because of habit, nobody ever sees. Mme Swann was very attached to this teatime of hers; she thought she was showing originality and charm when she said to a man, ìIím always in toward the end of the day. Do come and take tea with me,î words to which she gave a gentle, subtle smile and a brief touch of English accent, and which her listener duly noted as he gave her his most sober bow, as though they were an important and singular message, demanding deference and attentiveness. In addition to those mentioned above, there was another reason why flowers were not mere ornaments in Mme Swannís drawing room, a reason that had nothing to do with the period but in part with the life which, as Odette de CrÈcy, she had once lived. The life of a high-class courtesan, such as she had been, being much taken up by her lovers, is largely spent at home; and this can lead such a woman to live for herself. Things one may see on or about a faithful wife, which may well have some importance for the faithful wife, are the very things that have the most importance for the courtesan. The climax of her day is not the moment when she dresses for society, but when she undresses for a man. She has to be as elegant in a housecoat or a nightgown as in a walking-out dress.

Other women show off their jewels; she shares her private life with her pearls. It is a type of life that demands, and eventually gives a taste for, the enjoyment of secret luxuryóthat is, a life which is almost one of disinterest. This taste Mme Swann extended to flowers. Near her armchair there always stood an immense crystal bowl filled to the brim with Parma violets or the plucked petals of marguerites in water, which to the eyes of someone arriving in the room made it seem as though she had been disturbed in a favorite pastime, such as quietly enjoying the private pleasure of a cup of tea; but the spread flowers made it seem a more private pastime even than that, a mysterious one, and seemed to hint that one should apologize for an indiscretion, as one might on inadvertently glimpsing the title of a book lying open and divulging the secret of what she had just read, or perhaps even the thought in her mind at that very moment.

But the flowers were more alive than a book: so notable and enigmatic was their presence that one felt embarrassed, if one came to visit Mme Swann, to find she was not alone, or, if one came home with her, to find the drawing room already occupied. They suggested long hours of her life that one knew nothing of, not seeming to have been set out in expectation of visitors, but looking as though just left there by her, after sharing intimate moments with her which would come again soon, secret moments which one was loath to disturb, but which one yearned to be privy to, as one gazed at the wanton mauves, moist and faded, of her Parma violets. By the end of October, Odette would come home as regularly as possible to take teaóa ceremony that was still known in those days by the English expression ìfive oíclock teaîóbecause she had once heard it said, and enjoyed repeating, that the real origin of Mme Verdurinís salon had been the knowledge in peopleís minds that their hostess could always be found at home at the same time each day.

She now prided herself on having built up a salon of her own, similar in design but freer in spirit, or, as she liked to put it, senza rigore. She saw herself as a latter-day Julie de Lespinasse,60 whose rival salon had succeeded in attracting away from the little setís Mme du Deffand her most desirable men, especially Swann, who, according to a legend that Odette had understandably sown as truth in the minds of newcomers who knew nothing of her past, but not quite in her own mind, had supported her secession and been a companion to her in her retreat. But we play certain favorite parts so often for the eyes of others, and we rehearse them so much in our hearts, that we come to rely more readily on the fictions of their evidence than on a reality we have all but forgotten. On days when she had not been out, one found oneself in the presence of a Mme Swann sitting in a tea gown of crÍpe de Chine, as white as newly fallen snow, with which she sometimes wore one of those long garments in fluted chiffon, which made her look as though she were wearing nothing but a sprinkle of pink or white petals, and which people nowadays would think, wrongly, was quite inappropriate for the winter. In the drawing rooms of that period, draped with door curtains and overheated, for which the fashionable novelists of the time could find no smarter epithet than ìcozily upholstered,î these flimsy clothes in their soft shades made women look as though they must feel as cold as the roses that stood beside them, braving the winter in their flesh-tinted nakedness, as though it were already spring. As the carpets muffled all sounds, and as she often sat secluded in an alcove, oneís hostess, not having been told of oneís arrival as she would be these days, might still be deep in her book as one stood before her; and this enhanced the impression of a romantic moment, the charm of having uncovered a secret, brought back to us nowadays by the memory of those dresses, which, though already out of date then, were still worn by Mme Swann alone, perhaps, and which to our minds suggest that their wearer must be the heroine of a novel, since most of us have only ever glimpsed them in the romances of Henry GrÈville.61 In those days, in the early winter, Odetteís drawing room would harbor chrysanthemums, which were enormous and in a range of colors that Swann could never have seen in earlier times. No doubt my liking for themóduring those sad visits I made to her, when my sorrow had given her back all the mysterious poetry of being the mother of Gilberte, to whom she would say after I had left, ìYour young manís been to see meîócame from the fact that their pale pink matched the Louis XV silk of her armchairs, their snowy white her crÍpe-de-Chine tea gown, their burnished red her samovar, and that the decoration of the drawing room was enhanced by this extra color scheme, which was quite as rich in its range, just as refined, gifted with life, though lasting only a few days. But, short-lived as they were, I was touched by something more durable in these shades than their pinkish and coppery counterparts, which the afterglow of the sunset spreads so gorgeously across misty late afternoons in November, when I arrived at Mme Swannís, and which, as they faded from the sky, were taken up again and transposed into the blushing palette of the blooms. As though a master of color had snatched their fleeting incandescence from the sunlit evening air so as to brighten a human place, these chrysanthemums at teatime invited me, despite all my woe, to savor the short joys of November, which glowed beside me in their strange, secret splendor. Such splendor, however, was sadly lacking in the conversations going on about me. Even with Mme Cottard, and though time was getting on, Mme Swann would put on her most cajoling voice: ìNo, no, itís not late! You mustnít pay any attention to that clock, thatís not the right time, itís stopped. You canít be in that much of a hurry, surely?î And she urged the professorís wife, who still held her card case in her hand, to have another little tart.

ìReally,î Mme Bontemps would say to Mme Swann, ìthis is a very difficult house to get out of!î at which Mme Cottard exclaimed, in her surprise at hearing someone else say exactly what she was thinking, ìYes! Thatís exactly what I always say to myself! Me with my little brain! In my own mind, you know ...î And all the gentlemen of the Jockey Club nodded their approval of her, much as their eager bowing and scraping had earlier given the impression that Mme Swann had done them a signal honor by introducing them to this charmless woman of no social distinction, who when faced with Odetteís fine friends was always reserved, or, as she put it herself, being inclined to use inflated language to speak of the simplest things, ìadopted a defensive posture.î ìWell, it certainly doesnít look like it,î Mme Swann said in answer to Mme Cottard. ìThis is the first Wednesday for three weeks that youíve actually come to see me!î ìOh, I know, Odette, I do know! I havenít seen you for agesócenturies, in fact! I plead guilty to the charge, but I must tell youîó and here Mme Cottardís manner became vague and prudish, for, though a doctorís wife, she could not have brought herself to speak bluntly about rheumatism or renal colicóìIíve had quite a lot of little distempers.

We each have our own, donít we? And also, Iíve had a crisis in my male household staff. Iím no more of a martinet than the next woman, but Iíve just had to make an example and let the butler go. I do believe he was actually looking elsewhere for a more lucrative situation. But his departure very nearly precipitated the resignation en masse of the whole Cabinet! My maid was all set to leave too! Weíve had titanic struggles. However, I stood alone on the burning deck, and, believe you me, it has taught me a thing or two that I wonít forget in a hurry! Iím sorry to go on like this about below-stairs business, but you know how provoking it is to be obliged to undertake a thoroughgoing recasting of oneís dramatis personae. Soóare we not to see that delightful daughter of yours?î ìNo, the delightful daughter is dining at a friendís house tonight,î Mme Swann said; then she added, as she turned toward me, ìI understand she has written asking you to come and see her tomorrow.î Then ìAnd how are your babies?î she asked of Mme Cottard. I breathed deeply. Mme Swannís words, proving that I could see Gilberte whenever I felt like it, were exactly the soothing balm that I had hoped to receive from her, and which made it necessary for me to keep on visiting her at that time. ìWell, no, actually,î I said. ìIím going to write her a note this evening. In any case, Gilberte and I canít see each other anymore.î I said this in a tone that suggested an air of mystery in our estrangement; and this in turn fostered in me an illusory feeling of love, which was further abetted by the affectionate manner in which Gilberte and I went on referring to each other. ìYou know sheís very fond of you,î Mme Swann said. ìAre you sure tomorrowís not possible?î A sudden surge of joy went through me, and I thought: ìWell, why not? I mean, itís her mother whoís asking me!î But my dejection returned at once. I was afraid Gilberte might deduce from my presence that my recent indifference toward her had been only for show, and I decided that the separation should continue. During this exchange, Mme Bontemps was lamenting the fact that she was afflicted by the wives of so many politicians, for she professed to think that everybody was insufferably absurd, and that her husbandís job made life very difficult for her. ìSo you donít actually mind being exposed to fifty doctorsí wives one after another?î she said to Mme Cottard, who was full of goodwill toward all and respect for the notion of duty. ìWell, I must say that is heroic of you! Of course, at the Ministry, as you can appreciate, one does have certain duties. But you know, after a time, mixing with all those wives of civil servants, I canít help it, I feel like sticking out my tongue at them! My niece Albertine is just the same! Youíve no idea how cheeky she is! Just last week the wife of the undersecretary of state at the Treasury was at my at-home, and she was saying how useless she was at anything to do with cooking. Well, my niece gave her the sweetest smile and said, ëBut surely, madame, with a father who was a scullery boy, you if anyone should know all about it.íî ìNow, isnít that a lovely story?î Mme Swann exclaimed. ìI just love that story! But surely, Mme Cottard, on your husbandís consulting days you should make sure of having a little den of your own, with your flowers and your books and all the things you like.î ìHo-ho! Albertine doesnít mince words, I can tell you! Straight out! Just like that! And not a word to me beforehand! Sheís as artful as a bunch of monkeys. Youíre lucky, you know how to restrain yourself. I do envy people who can hide their thoughts.î ìYes, but I donít need to, you see,î Mme Cottard replied in her mild way. ìIím not hard to please. Unlike you, my position doesnít require it,î she added in the more emphatic voice she used for stressing the clever little compliments she liked to slip into the conversation, the sprinkling of flattery which her husband admired so much, and which contributed to the advancement of his career. ìAnd also I enjoy doing anything that may be of use to the professor.î

ìNo doubt. But I mean, not everyone is capable of it, you know. Youíre probably not the high-strung type. As soon as I see that wife of the minister of war contorting her face the way she does, I canít help imitating her. Youíve no idea what itís like to have a passionate nature like mine!î

ìYes, youíre right,î Mme Cottard said. ìIíve heard sheís got a twitch. You see, Dr. Cottard knows someone who moves in those exalted circles, and so when they meet they will talk....î

ìOr take the head of protocol at the Foreign Officeóthe manís a hunchback. Well, would you believe, heís only got to be in my house for five minutes and I canít keep my hands off his hump! My husband says Iíll get him sacked one day. Well, what I say is, the Ministry be damned! Yes, the Ministry be damned! I really feel sometimes like having it printed on my letterhead. Iím sure youíll think me very shocking, because youíre so well meaning. But I must say I do enjoy getting a good dig at people from time to time! Life would be so dull otherwise.î

She went on talking about the Ministry as though it were Olympus. Changing the subject, Mme Swann said to Mme Cottard:

ìArenít you beautiful today! Is this one of Redfernís creations?î

ìNo, no, as you know, Iím a disciple of Raudnitz. In any case, itís just something Iíve had remodeled.î ìWell, I never! Itís so smart!î

ìHow much would you say it cost?... No, no, only three figures.î

ìThree! But thatís giving it away! I was told the figure was three times as high.î

ìWell, thatís how historyís written, isnít it?î62 said Mme Cottard. Then she drew Mme Swannís attention to a necklet she was wearing, a present from Odette herself:

ìDo you recognize this, Odette?î

A face might then appear around the edge of the door curtain, its features set in a mime of polite and playful reluctance to interrupt: it was Swann: ìOdette, Iíve got the Prince díAgrigente with me in my study, and he wishes to know whether he may come and pay his respects. What am I to say?î ìTell him Iíll be delighted, of course!î Odette would say, full of gratification, and quite unperturbed by the prospect of being visited by such a fashionable gentleman, something she had always been accustomed to, even as a courtesan. Swann went off to deliver the message; and he would soon come back with the Prince, unless in the meantime Mme Verdurin had made her entrance. On marrying Odette, Swann had asked her to resign from ìthe little set.î For this he had many reasons; but even if he had had none, he would still have done so, by reason of a law of ingratitude which, quite without exception, demonstrates the improvidence of all go- betweens, or perhaps their disinterest. He had permitted Odette to exchange only two visits a year with Mme Verdurin, a number that seemed excessive to certain of the ìregularsî who were offended at the insult done to ìthe Patronne,î given that for so many years she had treated Odette and even Swann himself as her special favorites. Although the membership of the little clan included certain faithless souls who were capable of ìwelshingî on certain evenings, so as to slip off and surreptitiously attend some function of Odetteís, and who if they were found out gave as an excuse their eagerness to meet Bergotte (the Patronneís view being that he never went to the Swannsí, and was devoid of talent anyway, despite which she made constant attempts to, as she liked to put it, ìbring him inî), it did also contain its extremists. They, in their disregard for the particular proprieties which can often dissuade others from whatever extreme course one may be urging upon them in oneís desire to do a disservice to someone else, had pressed Mme Verdurin, but to no avail, to sever all contact with Odette, and thus deprive her of the pleasure of saying with a laugh: ìWe donít see much of the Patronne now, you know, not since the Schism. While my husband was still a bachelor, of course, there was no difficulty. But for a married couple, itís not always easy.... To be quite honest, M. Swann is not overfond of old Mother Verdurin, and he would not take kindly to my being among her boon companions. And Iím a very dutiful wife, you know.î Swann would accompany Odette to a soirÈe of Mme Verdurinís; but he made a point of not being at home for the latterís return visit. So it was that if Mme Verdurin was present in the drawing room the Prince díAgrigente was sure to come in alone. He was also the only man whom Odette ever introduced to Mme Verdurin; for her idea was that if ìthe Patronneî was surrounded by faces unfamiliar to her, and if she heard the names of no obscurities being uttered, she might believe these people were all aristocrats of note, an idea which worked so well that Mme Verdurin would sneer that evening to her husband, ìCharming people! Sheís got all the reactionary bigwigs!î As for Odetteís illusion about Mme Verdurin, it was the opposite one. Not that the latterís salon at that time had even begun to aspire to the status it will later be seen to have. Mme Verdurin had not even reached the stage of incubation, when one postpones oneís most lavish galas lest oneís few recently acquired celebrities should be swamped by the hoi polloi, and when one prefers to await the moment when the generative power of the ten good men and true whom one has managed to ìbring inî shall bring forth a hundredfold. As Odetteís was soon to be, Mme Verdurinís aim was ìSocietyî; but the zones in which she launched her offensives were still so restricted, as well as being remote from those in which Odette might hope to emulate her and begin to make a name for herself, that Odette lived in a state of utter ignorance of the strategic plans drawn up by the Patronne. So, when anyone spoke of Mme Verdurin as a snob, it was with the simplest sincerity that Odette would laugh and say, ìNo, no, sheís the exact opposite! I mean, she just hasnít got the basic requirementóshe doesnít know anybody! And to be fair, you must admit thatís how she likes to be. You see, what she really likes is those little Wednesday gatherings of hers, with those inoffensive people who drop in for a chat.î However, Odette did nurse a surreptitious envy of Mme Verdurinís mastery of those arts (though she rather prided herself too on having picked up the rudiments of them from such an Oracle) to which the Patronne attached so much importance, though all they ever do is refine the nicer quibbles of nonexistence, give vacancy its shape, being in the strictest sense those Arts of Naught practiced by hostesses: the ability to ìbring people together,î to ìbring people out,î to ìmatch guests with one another,î to ìbe present but invisible,î to be ìa good go-between.î The other ladies who visited Mme Swann were certainly impressed to see her drawing room graced by a woman whom they generally pictured in her own salon, set within the perpetual frame of her habituÈs, her little group, which seemed startlingly present, suggested, epitomized, and condensed in the single person sitting in her armchair, the Patronne herself turned into someone elseís guest, cozily wrapped in her great grebe-lined coat, as downy as the white fur rugs strewn in this salon, where Mme Verdurin was herself a salon. The shiest women, deciding it would now be discreet for them to withdraw, said to their hostess, with that plural used by people trying to hint to an invalidís other visitors that it would be best not to tire her too much on her first day out of bed, ìWe must be off now, Odette.î Mme Cottard was envied when the Patronne used her first name. ìShall I whisk you away home, then?î Mme Verdurin said, irked by the thought that one of her regulars might stay there rather than leave with her. ìWell, actually, this dear lady has very kindly offered to give me a lift,î Mme Cottard replied, loath to let it appear that she might give precedence to a more famous person over Mme Bontemps, whose offer of a lift in the carriage with its ministerial insignia she had already accepted.

ìI must confess I am particularly grateful to dear friends who are kind enough to make room for me in their carriages. Having no jehu myself, I must say itís too good an offer to decline.î ìYes, of course,î replied the Patronne, choosing her words with care, as she was slightly acquainted with Mme Bontemps and had just invited her to one of her Wednesdays. ìEspecially since youíre so far out of your way here at Mme de CrÈcyísó oh, goodness me, what have I said? Iíll never get into the habit of saying ëMme Swanní!î

Among those of Mme Verdurinís regulars who had little wit of their own, it was a standing joke to pretend that you could not get used to speaking of Odette as ìMme Swannî: ìI tell you, I got so accustomed to referring to Mme de CrÈcy that I nearly went and said it again by mistake!î Mme Verdurin, the only one not to nearly say it by mistake, said it on purpose. ìOdette, arenít you rather frightened by living in such a godforsaken part of town? Iím sure if I lived hereabouts Iíd quake in my shoes at having to come all this way after dark. And itís so damp! I shouldnít think it can be very good for your husbandís eczema. You havenít got rats, I trust?î ìHeavens above! The very idea!î ìWell, thatís all right at least.

Only, someone said you did. Iím glad to hear itís not true, because I have an utter phobia of rats, and I should never have set foot here again. Soógoodbye, my dear sweet Odette. I do hope to see you soon. You know how pleased I am to see you. Youíre not very good at arranging chrysanthemums, are you?î she added on the way out, as Mme Swann was moving toward the door with her. ìThese are Japanese flowers, you know. They should be arranged as the Japanese do them.î ìI donít agree with Mme Verdurin, although I must say her word is gospel for me. But really, Odette, no one has such beautiful chrysanthemums as youóor, rather, chrysanthema, as I believe weíre supposed to say nowadays,î said Mme Cottard after the door had closed on the Patronne. ìDear, sweet Mme Verdurin is not always very kind to other peopleís flowers,î Mme Swann replied gently. ìSoówhoís your flower man?î asked Mme Cottard, cutting short such criticism of the Patronne.

ìIs it LemaÓtre? I must admit there was a great big pink shrub outside LemaÓtreís the other day, and I threw economy to the winds!î Her sense of decency prevented her from going into the details of the price she had paid for the shrub; she said no more than that the professor, ìwho was after all the soul of mildness,î had nearly had a fit, and told her she spent money like water! ìNo, actually, my only florist ëby appointmentí is Debac.î ìYes, heís mine too,î said Mme Cottard. ìBut I confess to having been occasionally unfaithful to him and frequenting Lachaume.î ìOoh! Infidelities with Lachaume! Iíll tell on you!î exclaimed Odette, always trying to be the witty hostess who keeps the conversation going, which she felt she managed better at home than at the Verdurinsí. ìActually, Lachaume charges too much now. His prices are quite exorbitant.î Then, with a laugh, she added, ìHis prices are quite indecent!î

Mme Bontemps, who had declared a hundred times that she had no desire to go to the Verdurinsí, was overjoyed to be invited and was wondering how she could make sure of attending as many of the Wednesdays as possible. She was unaware that Mme Verdurinís wish was that her guests should attend every single week. Also, she was one of those people whose company is not much sought after and who, having been invited to a ìrunî of functions by the same hostess, instead of responding like those who know they will always be welcome, and who go to her house whenever they have the opportunity and the desire to go out, decide to abstain from the first and third occasions in the belief that they will be missed, but make a point of attending the second and the fourth; or else, having been assured that the third one will be a particularly brilliant soirÈe, they arrange their absences in a different sequence, and then apologize by saying ìwhat a pity they werenít free last time.î So Mme Bontemps calculated how many Wednesdays there were between now and Easter, and how she could manage to get herself invited to an extra one without seeming too forward. She was relying on Mme Cottard to give her some hints about this during the drive home. ìOh, Mme Bontemps!î exclaimed Mme Swann. ìI see youíre getting to your feet! Iíll have you know itís very naughty of you to be giving the signal for a general withdrawal. Youíve got to make amends, donít you know, for last Thursday, when you didnít come. Soójust sit down again for a minute. I mean, youíre not going to fit in another visit between now and dinnertime, are you? No? Are you quite sure?î she added, proffering a plate of cakes. ìDo have one of these little fellows. They may not look like very much, but if you just try one, youíll be very glad you did.î ìMmm, they do look delicious,î Mme Cottard said. ìOne is never short of a bite to eat at your house, Odette. I donít need to ask where these came from. I know you have your standing order at Rebattetís. I must say Iím not as single-minded as youófor little cakes and all delicacies, I often order from Bourbonneux. But I admit they donít really know about ices. Whereas Rebattetís are artists when it comes to ice cream or mousses or sherbets. As my husband says, theyíre just the ne plus ultra.î ìWell, actually, these are homemade. Are you quite sure you wonít?î ìNo, really,î said Mme Bontemps. ìIíll have no appetite left for dinner. But I will sit down for a moment. I do so enjoy conversing with a woman as intelligent as yourself. Odette, you may think Iím a great gossip, but Iíd love to know what you think of that hat Mme Trombert was wearing. I know that large hats are very fashionable at the moment. But doesnít that one go a bit far? Although, mind you, itís minute compared to the one she had on the other day, when she came to me.î ìIím not intelligent,î Odette replied, thinking this a becoming thing to say. ìReally, Iím quite gullible. Iím just a woman who believes whatever sheís told and who breaks her heart over a trifle.î She insinuated that, in the early days of marriage, she had suffered much from life with a man like Swann, who had a life of his own and was unfaithful to her. The Prince díAgrigente, who had caught the words ìIím not intelligentî and thought it behooved him to protest, was not quick-witted enough to interject. ìOh, come now!î exclaimed Mme Bontemps. ìNot intelligent? You?î

ìMy sentiments exactly!î the Prince said, grateful for this assistance. ìI was just about to say, ëWhatís that I hear?í I must be hearing things.î ìNo, no, I assure you,î said Odette. ìAt heart Iím really just a little middle-class housewife, easily shocked, full of prejudices, living in her small corner, and very ignorant about everything.î Then, taking care to use the English word, she asked the Prince for news of the Baron de Charlus: ìWhat news of the dear Baronet?î ìIgnorant? You?î exclaimed Mme Bontemps. ìWell, I never! If youíre ignorant, what about the world of officialdom, what about all those ministersí wives who have nothing better to talk about than clothes! Let me tell you, Mme Swann, no more than a week ago I decided to try a mention of Lohengrin on the wife of the minister of education. Do you know what she said?

ëLohengrin?í she said. ëIsnít that the new revue at the Folies-BergËre? Iím told itís hilarious.í Believe you me, when you hear that sort of thing, it makes your blood boil! I felt like slapping her face. I donít mind saying Iíve got a bit of a temper. Would you not agree, monsieur?î she added, turning toward me. ìWas I not right to feel like that?î ìWell, actually,î said Mme Cottard, ìI do think one is quite within oneís rights to answer back if one is bombarded with a question like that, point-blank and without warning. I know what it feels likeóitís exactly the sort of thing Mme Verdurin likes doing.î ìOh, speaking of Mme Verdurin,î Mme Bontemps said to her, ìdo you know who sheís likely to be having at her Wednesday this week? Oh dear, Iíve just rememberedóM. Bontemps and I have been invited somewhere else this Wednesday! What would you say to dining with us the following Wednesday? You and I could then go on together to Mme Verdurinís. Iím rather apprehensive about turning up there all by myself. Sheís such a great personage, as you know, and for some reason Iíve always been intimidated by her.î ìI know why that is,î said Mme Cottard. ìItís because of her imposing voice. I mean, we canít expect everybody to have the mellifluous tones of our Mme Swann, can we? But youíll see, after the first moment spent sizing each other up, as the Patronne says, the ice will soon be broken. Sheís really a most welcoming person. But I can understand the feeling. Itís never very nice to venture into new territory like that.î ìYou could join us for dinner too,î Mme Bontemps said to Mme Swann. ìThen, after dinner, all three of us could go and Verdurinate together, I mean Verdurinize. And if it turns out that the Patronne just glares at me and decides not to invite me again, the three of us can sit there and keep each other company. Iím sure that would be rather nice.î Then, casting some doubt on the veracity of this, Mme Bontemps asked: ìWho do you think sheíll be having the following Wednesday? What will she have on the program, do you think? She wouldnít have too many people there, would she?î ìWell, I for one wonít be going,î said Odette. ìWeíll just look in briefly at the last Wednesday of the run. If you donít mind waiting till then ...î Mme Bontemps did not seem enraptured by this suggested adjournment.

Although the wittiness of any salon and its degree of fashionableness usually stand in inverse rather than direct relation to each other, it must be assumed, given that Swann thought Mme Bontemps was a pleasant person, that any acceptance of oneís lowered status has its corollary in a relaxing of the standards one applies to the people whose company one is resigned to enjoy, whose wit one is prepared to find amusing. If that is so, then, once the independence of individuals is threatened, their culture and even their language, like those of nations, must also stand in jeopardy. Beyond a certain age, one of the effects of this indulgence is to exacerbate our tendency to take pleasure in hearing praise of our own ways of thinking and preferences, which we see as an invitation to air them again; it is the age at which a great painter may find that the company of his creative peers begins to pall, when he prefers to mix with his pupils, whose only common point with him is their respect for the letter of his tenets, but who listen to him, who extol him; it is the age when, at a party, an outstanding man or woman, living only for some beloved, will be convinced, on hearing some possibly mediocre individual say something which, by suggesting a sympathetic understanding of the life devoted to amorous things, flatters their fond obsession, that they are listening to the only real mind among those present; it was the age at which Swann, in his capacity as husband of Odette, liked both to hear Mme Bontemps say how stupid it is to frequent only duchesses (from which he concluded she was a sensible woman, full of wit, and without a touch of snobbery, the opposite of what he would have thought in earlier times at the Verdurinsí) and to share jokes with her that ìtickled her fancy,î because, though she had never heard any of them, she always ìgotî them, being eager to please and ever ready to enjoy a good laugh. ìSo,î Mme Swann said to Mme Cottard, ìyou tell me the doctor isnít a great flower-fancier like yourself?î ìWell, as you know, my husband is the soul of good senseó moderation in all things. Still, I must say, he does have one great passion.î ìAnd whatís that, dear lady?î implored Mme Bontemps, her eyes gleaming with spite, glee, and inquisitiveness. ìReading,î Mme Cottard replied in her artless way. ìOh, well! Thatís a reassuring passion for a husband to have!î Mme Bontemps exclaimed, stifling fiendish mirth. ìYes, just give him a good book!î ìWell, dear lady, thereís nothing much to be alarmed about in that.î ìOh, but there is! His eyesight! Which reminds me, Odette, I really must be off now. But Iíll be back, knocking on your door, at the earliest opportunity. Speaking of eyesight, have you heard the house that Mme Verdurin has just bought is going to have the electric light in it? It wasnít my little private police who told me, you know. It was MildÈ the electrician himself! I like quoting my sources, as you can see. And even the bedrooms will have electric lamps, with shades on, to soften the light. Very nice, very luxurious! We belong to a generation of ladies for whom everything must be up-to- the-minute, the very latest thing. The sister-in-law of a friend of mine has actually got a telephone installed in her house! She can order something from a shopkeeper without stepping out of her own front door! I must admit Iíve been shamelessly currying favor, so that Iíll be allowed to go and speak into the machine one day. The idea fascinates meóbut only in someone elseís house, not in my own. I donít think Iíd like having a telephone about the house. Once the novelty of it wears off, it must be a definite nuisance. Now, Odette, Iím off! And you must also release Mme Bontemps, since sheís looking after me. I really must go! Youíll get me into hot wateróDr. Cottard will be home before me!î

I had to go home too, though I had not savored those promised winter pleasures that had seemed to lie concealed within the brilliant surface of the chrysanthemums. The pleasures had not materialized; yet Mme Swann seemed to be expecting nothing further. She let the servants carry away the tea things, as she might have announced, ìTime, please!î She even said to me, ìReally, must you go?î Then she added in English, ìWell, goodbye!î I sensed that, even if I were to stay on, I would never find those secret pleasures, and that it was not only my sorrow that had withheld them from me. Was it possible they did not lie somewhere along the well-frequented path of those hours that always lead so soon to going-home time, but by some side path, branching off somewhere else unknown to me, which I should have taken? At least I had achieved the aim of my visit: Gilberte would know I had been to her house during her absence, where, as Mme Cottard kept saying, I had ìstraight off, from the word ëgo,í completely won over Mme Verdurin!,î whom she had never seen ìgo to so much trouble.î She had added, ìI expect itís a case of like attracting like.î Gilberte would be told I had spoken about her affectionately, as I could not help doing; and she would know I did not suffer from the inability to live without her, which I felt was the source of her recent discontents with me. I had told Mme Swann I could no longer see Gilberte. I had made it sound as though my decision to sever contact with her was irrevocable. The letter I was going to send Gilberte would also be couched in those terms. But to keep my courage up, I told myself I would make the heroic but brief effort of staying away from her for only a few days longer: ìThis will be the very last invitation of hers that I decline! Iíll accept the next one!î So as to make my separation from her easier to achieve, I tried to see it as not being definitive. I sensed, however, that it was going to be.

That New Yearís Day was especially painful. When one is unhappy, anything that serves as a reminder or an anniversary can cause this pain. If it is a reminder, say, of the death of a loved one, the grief comes from the sharpened contrast between present and past. In my position, however, it was aggravated by the unacknowledged hope that Gilberte might have been expecting me to make the first step toward a reconciliation, and that, now it was clear I had not made it, she might have decided to take the opportunity of the New Year, with its exchanges of greetings, to send me a note: ìLook, whatís the matter? Iím madly in love with you, I canít live without you, letís meet and sort it all out.î By the last days of December, it had come to seem likely that I would receive such a letter. Whether it was really likely or not, our desire for such a letter, our need for it, is enough to make us believe it will probably come. The soldier is convinced that an indefinitely extendable period must elapse before he will be killed, the thief before he will be arrested, all of us before we must die. This is the amulet that protects individuals, and sometimes nations, not from danger, but from the fear of danger, or, rather, from belief in danger, which can lead to the braving of real dangers by those who are not brave. Such unfounded confidence sustains the lover who looks forward to a reconciliation or a letter. For me to stop expecting one from Gilberte, I would have had to stop wishing for it. Despite knowing one is an object of indifference to a woman one still loves, one fills her mind with imaginary thoughts (though they may amount only to indifference) and an urge to express them, one sees oneself as the focus of her complicated emotional life, albeit possibly only as a source of dislike, but by the same token as an object of her permanent attention. For me to have an inkling of what was in Gilberteís real mind on that New Yearís Day, I would have had to be able to feel in advance what I would feel on some future New Yearís Day, by which time I would have ignored entirely any notice or lack of notice Gilberte might take of me, any affection or lack of it that she might feel for me, just as I would have become incapable of having the slightest urge to seek solutions to such problems, for they would have long since ceased to be mine. When we are in love, our love is too vast to be wholly contained within ourselves; it radiates outward, reaches the resistant surface of the loved one, which reflects it back to its starting point; and this return of our own tenderness is what we see as the otherís feelings, working their new, enhanced charm on us, because we do not recognize them as having originated in ourselves. New Yearís Day chimed its hours one after another without Gilberteís letter being delivered. By January 3, then the 4th, having just received some well-wishersí cards and letters that had been mailed late, or held up in the great rush of New Year mail, I had not given up my hope, although it had begun to fade. On the following days, I was often in tears. This meant, of course, that I had held on to the hope of having a New Year letter from Gilberte because, in giving her up, I had not been as sincere as I had thought. That hope having now died, before I had been able to fortify myself with a replacement, I was as distressed as an invalid who has finished his vial of morphine without having another one available. But it may also have meantóthe two explanations need not rule each other out; and a single feeling may be made of oppositesóthat my hope of at last receiving a letter had brought the image of Gilberte closer, re-creating in me the feelings I had once had from looking forward to being with her, from the sight of her and her ways with me. The immediate possibility of being reconciled with her had abolished in me the thing of which we never realize the full enormity: resignation. Neurotics never believe people who assure them that, if they just stay in bed, read no letters, and open no newspapers, they will gradually calm down. They foresee that such a regimen can only worsen the state of their nerves. Those in love see renunciation in the same light: they imagine it while living in a state that is its opposite; and, never having so much as begun to try it, they cannot believe in its power of healing.

My heart palpitations had become so violent that I was ordered to reduce my consumption of caffeine. This having put a stop to them, I began to wonder whether the caffeine might not be partly responsible for the anguish I had felt when I more or less chose to fall out with Gilberte, and which I had attributed, each time it recurred, to the grief of separation from her, or the likelihood of being with her only when she was still in the same bad mood. But if this medication was really the source of a suffering that had then been misinterpreted by my imagination (which would not be unheard of, as the most acute emotional pain suffered by a lover often comes from his sheer physical habituation to the woman he loves), then its action was like that of the love potion which, long after Tristan and Yseult have drunk it, continues to bind them. For the physical improvement brought about almost at once by the reduction in caffeine did not inhibit the evolution of the sorrow which the toxic dose had possibly created, or which it had at least contrived to make more acute.

Then, about the middle of January, once my frustrated hopes for a New Year letter had faded, and the extra pain caused by their unfulfillment had settled too, I was assailed once more by the sorrow that had beset me before the holiday period. The cruelest thing in it was still that it was my own handiwork: that, actively and consciously, patiently and ruthlessly, I had brought it upon myself. The only thing I cared for, my relationship with Gilberte, was the very thing I was trying to sabotage, through my prolonging of our separation, through my gradual fostering not of her indifference toward me, butówhich would come to the same thing in the endóof mine toward her. My unremitting effort was directed to bringing about the slow, agonizing suicide of the self that loved Gilberte; and this I did with a clear awareness both of my actions in the present and of the consequences of them for the future: I could tell not only that within a certain time I would have stopped loving her, but that she herself would be unhappy about this, that her attempts to see me then would be as pointless as any she might make today, not because I would love her, as now, too much, but because without a doubt I would be in love with some other woman, and all my hours would be spent in the desire for her, in the expectation of a moment with her, and not even a second would I dare subtract from them to spend with a girl I no longer cared for. In this present moment, when Gilberte was already lost to me (since I was determined not to see her again, unless she made an unambiguous request for us to clarify our relationship, accompanied by a full declaration of her love for me, both of which I knew were impossible), and when I loved her more than ever (I knew she meant more to me now than she had the previous year, when I could spend as many afternoons with her as I wished, when I believed nothing could come between us), I detested the thought that one day I might have these same feelings for someone else, as this deprived me not only of Gilberte, but also of my love and my pain, the very love and pain through which, as I wept, I tried to grasp the real Gilberte, though I was obliged to admit they did not belong to her in particular, but would sooner or later devolve to some other woman. For we are always (or so I thought then) detached from the other person: while we love, we are aware that our love does not bear her name, that we may feel it again in the futureóor might even have felt it in the pastófor someone other than her; and at times when we are not in love, it is precisely because our feelings are unaffected by it that we find it easy to be philosophical toward the contradictoriness of love, that we can speak such untroubled words about it, because we have no consciousness of it at that moment, knowledge in this being intermittent and not outliving the effective presence of the emotion. There would of course have been time to warn Gilberte that the future in which I would no longer love her, a future my pain could foresee, but which my imagination could not distinguish in detail, was bound to take shape piece by piece, that its arrival was, if not imminent, at least inexorable, unless she came to my assistance and nipped my coming indifference in the bud. How often I came close to writing to her or going to say to her: ìI warn you, my mind is made up! This is my very last offer! Iím seeing you for the last time! Soon Iíll have stopped loving you!î But what good would it have done? What right had I to reproach her for treating me with the very indifference which, without thinking it blameworthy, I showed for everything except her? The last time! The words appalled me, because I loved her. But they would have made no more impression on her than the sort of letter a friend who is going abroad sends us to suggest a meeting, and which we ignore, as we ignore, say, the importunities of a woman who loves us, because we are looking forward to some enjoyment or other. The time we have to spend each day is elastic: it is stretched by the passions we feel; it is shrunk by those we inspire; and all of it is filled by habit.

Even if I had spoken to Gilberte, she would not have heard me. We always fancy, when we speak, that it is our ears and our minds that listen. If any words of mine had reached Gilberte, they would have been distorted, as though by passing through the mobile curtain of a waterfall, and would have been unintelligible to her, full of ludicrous sounds, and devoid of meaning. Whatever truth one puts into words does not make its way unaided; it is not endowed with irresistible self-evidence. For a truth of the same order to take form within them, a certain time must elapse. When it has elapsed, the proponent of a political idea who, in the teeth of all counterarguments and proofs, once said the proponent of the opposite idea was a blackguard, comes at length to share the abhorrent belief, which has been abandoned in the meantime by the man who once wasted his breath on spreading it. The masterpiece which, to the ears of the admirers who read it aloud, sounded pregnant with the proofs of inherent excellence, while to those of listeners it was inept or nondescript, comes eventually to be pronounced a masterpiece indeed by the latter, but too late for its creator to know of it. So it is with the barriers of love, which the efforts, however despairing, of the one who is excluded by them can do nothing to force; then a day comes when, as a result of quite extraneous influences at work inside the feelings of the once-unloving woman, and though he no longer cares about them, the barriers give way suddenly, but to no purpose. So, even if I had gone to warn Gilberte about my future indifference to her, if I had told her how she might obviate it, she would just have deduced from this that my love for her, my need for her, were even greater than she had thought; and she would have been more irked than ever by the sight of me. It is also a fact that it was this love for her which, because of the sequence of discordant states of mind it created in me, helped me to foresee better than she how it would end. Nevertheless, I might still have sent or spoken such a warning to her after enough time had passed, which, though it would of course have meant she was by then not quite as necessary to me, would also have enabled me to demonstrate to her how unnecessary she was. But then, unfortunately, some well-meaning or ill-intentioned people would speak to her about me in ways which could only give her the impression that I had asked them to do so. Whenever I heard that Dr. Cottard, my own mother, even M. de Norpois had with a few ill-advised words undone the sacrifice I had so laboriously achieved, spoiling the whole effect of my silence toward Gilberte, by making it appear as though I had decided to end it, I was faced with a double difficulty. For one thing, my painful and profitable self-denial, which these meddlers had, unbeknown to me, just interrupted, and thus nullified, would have to be seen now as counting only from the day when they had spoken to her. What was worse was that I myself would have taken less pleasure in seeing her again, since she would have believed, not that I was living in a state of dignified resignation, but that I was intriguing behind her back to bring about a meeting she had declined. I cursed the idle talk of people who, for no particular reason, not even trying to hurt or please, often just for the sake of something to say, or because we have actually indulged in similar idle talk with them, turn out to be as indiscreet as we were, and harm us with a word out of place. However, in the sorry work done to cause the downfall of our love, the contribution of these people is not nearly as important as that of two others, who are in the habit of spoiling it at the very moment when its course promised to run smooth, one of them by being too kind, the other too unkind. Even so, we do not resent this pair as we do the meddling Cottards, as the second of them is the person we love and the first is ourself.

In fact, since Mme Swann, almost every time I went to visit her, would invite me to come to tea with her and her daughter, and told me to send my reply direct to Gilberte, I often had occasion to write to her, sending her notes that I filled not with words that might have won her over, but with words chosen for the sole purpose of letting my sorrow flow free and sweet. Regret, like desire, seeks satisfaction and not self- analysis: in the beginning of love, our time is spent not in finding out what love is made of, but in trying to make sure we can see each other tomorrow; and at the end of love, we do not try to ascertain the nature of our sorrow, but only to voice it in what we hope is its tenderest form to her who is the cause of it. We say things that we feel the need to say, and which she will not understand; we talk only for our own benefit. So I wrote to Gilberte: I used to believe it couldnít be possible. But I can see now, alas, itís not that difficult....

Though I added, I expect Iíll never see you again, I was still careful not to adopt a distant tone, which might have made her suspect it was feigned; and as I wrote these words, I was in tears, because I felt they expressed, not what I would have liked to believe, but what was in fact going to happen. I knew that when her next invitation came I would once again be brave enough not to give in, and that each successive invitation declined would bring me gradually to a time when, having gone without seeing her for so long, I would have no further wish to see her at all. So, with tears, courage, and consolation, I sacrificed the happiness of being with her to the possibility of one day seeming lovable in her eyes, though knowing it would be a day when the prospect of seeming lovable in her eyes would leave me cold. Even the albeit highly unlikely hypothesis that at this very instant she still loved me, as she had claimed during my last visit to her, that what I saw as the annoyance of having to be with someone whose company is irksome was really only an expression of touchy possessiveness, an affectation of indifference no more genuine in her than mine was in me, served only to make my determination less cruel. And I felt as though, at a time several years hence, when we had completely forgotten one another, when I could look back on this letter I was writing and tell her there had been not one word of sincerity in it, she would say, ìWhat? You mean you did love me? Oh, if you only knew how I had been looking forward to getting that letter! How I longed for us to meet! How I cried when I read it!î As I sat writing to her, having just come home from visiting her mother, the thought that I was possibly there and then in the act of consummating that very misunderstanding, the sadness of it all, the joy of believing Gilberte loved me, made me go on with my letter.

My thoughts, as I left Mme Swannís at the end of her teatime, were all for what I was going to say in my letter to her daughter; but Mme Cottardís thoughts were full of something very different. As she carried out her little ìtour of inspection,î she had made a point of congratulating Mme Swann on any new piece of furniture or any recent ìacquisitionî she had noticed in the drawing room. Among them she might also have noticed a meager remnant of the things Odette had once surrounded herself with in the rue La PÈrouse house, especially the animals in precious stones and metals, her fetishes.

However, to Mme Swann, the word ìsham,î picked up from a friend whom she admired, had opened new horizons by its applicability to things which, years ago, she had called ìchicî; and one after another, most of those things had followed into oblivion the gold-painted garden trellis against which her chrysanthemums had stood, many a bonbonniËre from Girouxís, and the notepaper embossed with a coronet (to say nothing of the louis coins in golden cardboard adorning her mantelpieces, which a man of taste had once hinted, long before she met Swann, that she might dispense with). As well, in the artistic disarray, the bohemian jumble, of her rooms, with their walls still painted dark, making them as different as possible from the white drawing rooms she was to have a little later, the Far East was giving ground under the increasing onslaughts of the eighteenth century; and the cushions which Mme Swann plumped up and heaped behind me to make me (as she said in English) comfortable were decorated now with Louis XV posies, rather than Chinese dragons. In the room where one usually came upon her, of which she liked to say, ìYes, Iím quite fond of it, Iím in here a lot. I couldnít live among unfriendly things, you see, ugly- pretentious things. This is where I workîóthough she never specified what it was she was working at, a picture, a book perhaps, those being the days when the idea of writing was occurring to the kind of women who like to have something to do, rather than sit idly aboutóshe sat amid Dresden china, of which she would speak with an English accent, and which she liked so much that she was forever saying, about anything that took her eye, ìIsnít it pretty? Itís just like Dresden flowers!î; and as she feared for these pieces even more than she had once feared for her Chinese grotesques and vases, any clumsy servant who alarmed her by handling them the wrong way would be roundly abused in terms that Swann, the mildest and most urbane of masters, would hear but not be shocked by. Affection is undiminished by the clear sight of certain defects; it is what makes them appear charming. Nowadays, to receive guests, Odette less frequently wore a Japanese kimono, preferring the pale, foamy silks of her Watteau tea gowns, floating in them, seeming to caress their flowery froth against her breasts, basking, frolicking, and with such an air of health and well-being, of refreshment of the skin and deep breathing, that they looked as though their function was not just the decorative one of being a setting for her, but one as necessary as her daily ìtubî or her ìconstitutional,î satisfying both the demands of her looks and the finer requirements of the healthful life. She was in the habit of maintaining that she would go without bread sooner than be deprived of art and cleanliness, and that she would have been more upset by the burning of the Mona Lisa than by the annihilation of ìswarmsî of people of her acquaintance. These conceptions appeared paradoxical to her lady friends, giving her among them the renown of a high-minded woman, and brought the Belgian ambassador to visit her once a week; and in the little world that revolved about her sun, everybody would have been astounded to learn that elsewhereóat the Verdurinsí, for exampleóshe was seen as stupid. It was this spirit of spontaneous repartee in Mme Swann that made her prefer menís company to womenís. And when she had something to say against certain women, it was always the former courtesan who drew attention to defects that might tell against them with men, thick wrists and ankles, a stale complexion, bad spelling, hairy legs, a dreadful smell, false eyebrows. She could, however, be kinder in speaking of any woman who had been friendly or indulgent toward her, especially if it was someone who had known happier days. Odette would be shrewd in defense of the woman: ìOh, they say awful things about her. But sheís really a nice person, I can assure you.î

It was not only the interior decoration of Odetteís drawing room that Mme Cottard and all who had known Mme de CrÈcy would have had difficulty in recognizing if they had not seen her for a long time, it was Odette herself. She seemed to have grown so many years younger! This was in part no doubt because she had filled out, enjoyed better health, looked calmer, cooler, more relaxed; and in part because the new, sleeker hairstyles gave more room to her face, which was enlivened by a little pink powder, and in which the former flagrancy of her eyes and profile seemed to have been toned down. But another reason for this change was that Odette had now reached the middle years of life, where she found in herself, or invented for herself, a personal style of face, full of a fixed character, a recognized pattern of beauty; and on her formerly undesigned features (which for so many years had been left to the random whims of the responsive flesh, briefly aging by years at the slightest indisposition, managing somehow to collaborate with her moods and daily demeanors in the composition of her variable face, unfocused, unshaped, and charming) she now wore this immutable model of eternal youth.

In Swannís own bedroom, instead of the grand photographs taken nowadays of his wife, in which, however unalike her different hats and dresses were, the same enigmatically imperious expression identified her triumphant figure and features, he kept a modest little old daguerreotype dating from the days before this unvarying model of Odetteís, in which she seemed devoid of her new youth and beauty, as yet undiscovered by her. In this no doubt he clung, or had reverted, to a different conception of her, doting forever on the Botticellian graces of a slender young woman with pensive eyes and a forlorn look, caught in a posture between stride and stillness. The fact was, he could still see her as a Botticelli. Odette herself, who always tried to conceal things she did not like about her own person, or at least to compensate for them rather than bring them out, things that a painter might have seen as her ìtype,î but which as a woman she saw as defects, had no time for Botticelli. Swann owned a wonderful Oriental stole, in blue and pink, which he had bought because it was exactly the one worn by the Virgin in the Magnificat. Mme Swann would not wear it. Once only, she relented and let him give her an outfit based on La Primaveraís garlands of daisies, bellworts, cornflowers, and forget-me-nots. In the evenings, Swann would sometimes murmur to me to look at her pensive hands as she gave to them unawares the graceful, rather agitated movement of the Virgin dipping her quill in the angelís inkwell, before writing in the holy book where the word Magnificat is already inscribed. Then he would add, ìBe sure not to mention it to her! One wordóand sheíd make sure it wouldnít happen again!î

Except at such yielding moments of un-self-conscious languor, when Swann could hope to catch a glimpse of Botticelliís melancholy attitudes, Odetteís body was now blocked out as a single profile, a unitary shape that took its outline from the woman within and ignored the former fashions, with their fussy broken lines, the artificiality of their protrusions and indentations, their jutting angles and crisscrossings, their composite effect of disparate complexity, but which could also, if that anatomy within erred and made unwanted departures from the ideal design, correct these mistakes of nature with a firm stroke, redrawing whole sections of the contour so as to make good any deficiencies, whether of flesh or cloth. All the padding, the appalling ìdress-improversî and bustles, had gone; as had the long vest bodices that for so many years, overlapping the skirt and rigid with whalebone, had added a false abdomen to Odette and made her look like a creature of separate parts unlinked by any individuality. The vertical fringes of jet and the stiff curves of the ruches had been replaced by the suppleness of a body which, having freed itself like an independent and organized life-form from the long opacity and chrysaloid chaos of the outworn modes, now rippled silk as a mermaid ripples water and gave a human look to the gloss of percaline. Mme Swann had managed to retain a vestige of some of these modes, amid the others that had replaced them. Some evenings, when I was unable to work, and when I was quite sure that Gilberte had gone to the theater with a party of friends, I would call unannounced at her parentsí house, where I was often greeted by Mme Swann in one of her handsome housedresses, the skirt of which, in one of those magnificent dark shades, a deep red or orange, which seemed to have a special meaning because they were no longer fashionable, showed through a broad diagonal panel of black lace reminiscent of an outmoded flounce. Before Gilberte and I had fallen out, on one of those wintry spring days when Mme Swann had taken me to the Zoo in the Bois de Boulogne, the indented edging of her blouse, under the jacket which she would unbutton a little as the walk warmed her up, had looked just like the absent lapel of the vest bodices she had once worn, and which she always preferred with such a slight zigzag edge; and she had been wearing a necklet (in a tartan pattern, which she had never abandoned, though she had by now so toned down its colors, the red having shaded into pink and the blue into lilac, that it could almost have been taken for one of those dove-colored taffetas which had just come in) knotted in a bow under the chin in a way that, because one could not see how it was fastened, instantly reminded one of those hats with long bands tied round the throat which nobody now wore. Before very long, young men, trying to define her ways of dressing, would be saying to each other, ìMme Swann is a real period piece, you know!î In her ways of dressing, as in a fine written style that embraces different forms of expression and is enriched by a concealed tradition, these semi-reminiscences of bodices and bows, an occasional instantly repressed hint of the ìmonkey jacket,î and even a faint whisper of an allusion to long ìfollow-me-ladsî hat ribbons, filled the actual forms of what she did wear with a constant unformed suggestion of older ones, which no real seamstress or milliner could have contrived, but which hung about her all the time, surrounding her with something nobleópossibly because the very uselessness of these trappings made them appear designed for a more-than-utilitarian purpose, perhaps because of the remnant they preserved of former times, or even because of a kind of individuality in dress, peculiar to herself, which gave to what she wore, however dissimilar her ensembles, a sort of family resemblance. One could sense that, for her, dressing was not just a matter of comfort or adornment of the body: whatever she wore encompassed her like the delicate and etherealized epitome of a civilization.

Though Gilberte usually held her tea parties on her motherís at-home days, she sometimes went out instead; and when that happened I could go to one of Mme Swannís ìafternoon jamborees.î I would find her wearing a magnificent dress, sometimes of taffeta, sometimes of faille, or else of velvet, crÍpe de Chine, satin, or silk, not a loose garment like the housedresses she usually wore at home, but with something of the walking dress in it, which somehow gave to her afternoon idleness indoors a quality of readiness and activity. The dashing simplicity of their cut suited her figure and her movements, which seemed to color her sleeves variously each day: on blue-velvet days, the material was full of sudden decisiveness, which became simple good nature when it was the turn of white taffeta; and, in order to become visible, a sort of supreme and distinguished reserve in her way of holding out her arm had taken on the glowing smile of self-sacrifice that shines in black crÍpe de Chine. But at the same time, her complicated ìaccessories,î which had no visible purpose or practical usefulness, added something to these brilliant dresses, something disinterested, thoughtful, and secret, matching the melancholy still to be seen around her eyes and in the delicate joints of her hands. Under the dangle of sapphire-studded lucky charms, enameled four-leaf clovers, silver medals, gold medallions, turquoise amulets, fine ruby chains, chestnut- sized topazes, there would be a colored pattern patched onto the dress itself, a borrowed panel enjoying a new lease on life, a row of little satin buttons that could neither button anything nor ever be unbuttoned, a length of matching braid trying to please with the unobtrusive aptness of a subtle reminder; and all of them, like the jewels, seemed to be thereófor otherwise they had no conceivable functionóto hint at a purpose, to be a token of tenderness, to keep a secret, exercise a superstition, commemorate a cure, a vow, a lover, or a philippine. Sometimes a hint of a Plantagenet slash in the blue velvet of a bodice, or a slight bulge in a black satin dressóeither high on the sleeve, suggesting the 1830s and their leg-of-mutton, or under the skirt, suggesting Louis XV hoop petticoatsówould almost make it look as though she were in fancy dress; and by slipping this sort of barely recognizable allusion to the past into the life of the present, they added to the person of Mme Swann the charm of certain historical or fictional heroines. If I said this to her, she replied, ìUnlike some of my friends, I do not play golf. Unlike me, they have an excuse for being swaddled in sweaters.î

Amid the jostle of people in her drawing room, as she came back in from seeing someone out or handed round a plate of cakes, Mme Swann would take me aside for a moment: ìGilberte has most particularly urged me to invite you to lunch the day after tomorrow. I didnít know whether I would see you or not, so I was going to drop you a note about it if you didnít come today.î I persisted in my resistance to Gilberteís invitations. This resistance was now costing me less and less: however much one may savor oneís poison, when one has been forcibly deprived of it for any length of time, one is bound to be struck by how restful it can be to do without it, by the absence of excitements and sorrows. We may be not entirely sincere in hoping never again to see the woman we love; but the same may well be true when we say we do hope to see her again. Of course, any absence from her can only be bearable if we mean it to be brief, if we keep thinking of being together again with her one day; but against that, we are aware of how much less disturbing these daily dreams of prompt but ever-deferred reunion are than a real encounter with her would be, with its likely resurgence of jealousy; and so the knowledge that one is going to see her again could cause a recurrence of upsetting emotions. And what we keep postponing now, day after day, is no longer an end to the unbearable anguish of separation, but the dreaded renewal of futile feelings. How preferable the malleable memory of her seems: instead of the real meeting with her, in your solitude you can dramatize a dream in which the girl who is not in love with you assures you that she is! This memory, which can become as sweet as possible, by being gradually flavored with what you most desire, is far better than the future encounter with a person whose words will be put into her mouth not by you, but by her foreseeable indifference and even her unforeseeable animosity. To be no longer in love is to know that forgettingóor even a fading memoryócauses much less pain than the unhappiness of loving. What I preferred, without admitting it to myself, was the reposeful promise of that foreshadowed forgetting.

There is another reason why the pains of this treatment by isolation and emotional withdrawal may be gradually lessened, which is that, as a preliminary to curing us of the obsessive preoccupation of our love, it weakens the force of it. My own love was still strong enough for me to want Gilberte to look at me again with the eyes of admiration. So, with every day that passed, it seemed to me that my prestige, because of my self-imposed separation from her, must be slowly growing in her eyes; and that each of these days of calm sadness when I saw nothing of her, in their gradual accumulation, with neither interruption nor expected expiry time (unless some ill-advised person interfered with my arrangements), was a day gained, and not lost, to my love. A day pointlessly gained, perhaps, as I might soon be pronounced cured.

Resignation, which is one of the modes of habit, favors the indefinite growth of some of our resources. By now, the puny forces which, on the evening of my first breach with Gilberte, were all I had at my command to help me bear my heartbreak, had been raised to an incalculable power. However, the tendency of all existing things to go on existing is sometimes interrupted by sudden impulses, which we obey without great qualms at breaking our own rule, since we know, from all those days and months when we have already managed to abstain, for how many more of them we would be able to make our abstention last. It is often when the purse in which we have been setting aside our savings is nearly full that we suddenly decide to spend them all; it is when we have become used to a course of treatment, rather than when it has had its full effect, that we abandon it. One day, as Mme Swann spoke the usual words about how pleased Gilberte would be to see me, setting within my reach the happiness I had deprived myself of for so long, all at once I was overwhelmed by the knowledge that it was still possible to have it. I could hardly wait for the next dayóI had just decided to surprise Gilberte by turning up at her house the following afternoon, before dinnertime.

What helped me to bear the thought of waiting for a whole day was a plan I had. Now that the entire thing was forgotten and we were coming back together, it was inconceivable to me that I could go to her in any capacity other than as a lover. Not a day must pass without her being sent the loveliest flowers I could find! If her mother should happen to rule against daily deliveries of flowers (not that she was entitled to severity in such things), I could think of more valuable but less frequent presents to send. My pocket money from my parents did not allow me to buy expensive things. But I remembered a large vase in old Chinese porcelain that Aunt LÈonie had left to me. My mother was forever predicting the day when FranÁoise would come and report, ìItís gone and got broken!î and it would be irreparable. In that case, was it not wiser to sell it, so as to lavish every pleasure on Gilberte? I thought it might fetch a thousand francs. One good thing about getting rid of it was that it afforded me the opportunity to get to know it: as it was being wrapped up, I noticed how habit had prevented me from ever seeing it. I took it with me on my way out and told the coachman to drive to the Swannsí via the Champs-ŠlysÈes: on a nearby corner, I knew there was a large shop dealing in Oriental articles owned by a friend of my fatherís. To my amazement, he offered me on the spot not one thousand francs but ten thousand! I handled the banknotes with delight: a yearís worth of daily roses and lilacs for Gilberte! From the shop, the coach set off again for the Swannsí; and as they lived not far from the Bois de Boulogne, instead of taking the usual route, the coachman naturally headed up the Avenue des Champs-ŠlysÈes itself. We had passed the corner of the rue de Berri and were very close to the Swannsí when I thought I saw Gilberte with a young man in the twilight: they were going in the opposite direction to myself, away from her house; she was walking slowly, but with a purposeful step, and talking to this young man, whose face I could not make out. I sat up, intending to tell the driver to stop; but then I hesitated. The pair were already at quite a distance, their two faint, close silhouettes fading slowly into the gathering Elysian gloom. Soon we drew up outside Gilberteís house. ìOh dear!î Mme Swann said.

ìShe will be sorry! I canít imagine why sheís not here. She came home from a class complaining of being too hot and said she felt like taking a little walk in the open air with one of her girlfriends.î ìI think I may have just glimpsed her along the Avenue des Champs-ŠlysÈes.î ìOh, no, I donít think so. But, whatever you do, donít mention it to her father. He doesnít like her to be out and about at this hour of the day.î She added in English ìGood evening!î and I left. I told the cabman to go back the way we had come; but there was no sign of the pair. Where had they been? What manner of things had they been saying to each other in the gloaming, walking together in that intimate way?

I went home in despair, clutching my windfall of ten thousand francs, which was to have enabled me to give Gilberte so many little pleasures, and realizing that I was now determined never to see her again. The visit to the shop with the Chinese vase had gladdened me with the prospect that, now and forever, my sweetheartís sole feelings for me would be happiness and gratitude. Yet, if I had not made that detour to the shop, if the coach had not driven up the Avenue des Champs-ŠlysÈes, I would never have seen Gilberte with the young man. For the stem of a single event may bear counterbalancing branches, the unhappiness it brings canceling the happiness it caused. What had happened to me was the opposite of what is more usual: one yearns for a fulfillment that remains unattainable because one lacks the wherewithal required for it. As La BruyËre says, ìIt is sad to be a lover without wealth.î63 Oneís only resource is the relentless endeavor to stifle oneís yearning. The wherewithal was not what I lacked; but at the very moment when it materialized, an adventitious if not logical consequence of its acquisition had deprived me of the expected joy. It would appear that this is the fate of all our joys. They do of course tend to last longer than the single evening on which we have acquired what makes them possible. More usually, our fever of expectation lasts longer. Even so, happiness can never happen. Once the external circumstances are overcome, if they can be, nature then transforms the struggle into an internal one, by bringing about a gradual change in our heart, so that the gratification it desires is different from the one it is about to receive. And if the change in circumstances has come about so quickly that our heart has not had time to change with it, nature, nothing daunted, taking its own time, sets about defeating us in a way which, though more devious, is no less effective. Fulfillment is snatched from our grasp at the last moment; or, rather, it is fulfillment itself which nature, the malicious trickster, uses to destroy happiness. Having failed with everything belonging to the world of fact and external life, nature creates its ultimate impediment to happiness by making it a psychological impossibility. The phenomenon of happiness does not come to pass; or else it leads to utter bitterness.

I locked away my ten thousand francs. They were of no use to me now; and they were to end up being spent even more quickly than if I had sent flowers to Gilberte every day, since as twilight came each evening I was so unhappy that, rather than stay at home, I went to lie weeping in the arms of other women, whom I did not love. As for trying to please Gilberte with presents, I had lost all desire to do so. To step inside her house now would have been to face the certainty of suffering. Just to see heróa thing that had seemed so exhilarating the previous eveningówould have been of little help to me: every moment when I could not be with her would have revived my anxiety. This explains why every new pain that a woman inflicts on us (which she often does without meaning to) increases not only her power over us, but also the demands we make on her. By every use of her power to hurt, the woman constricts us more and more, shackling us with stronger chains; but she also shows us the weakness of those that once seemed strong enough to bind her and thus to enable us to feel untroubled by her. Only the day before, had I not wanted to avoid upsetting Gilberte, I would have settled for infrequent meetings with her; but now these could no longer have satisfied me, and my conditions would have been very different. For in love, unlike war, the more one is defeated, the more one imposes harsh conditions; and one constantly tries to make them harsheróif one is actually in a position to impose any, that is. With Gilberte, I was not in this position. So, to begin with, I preferred not to go back to her motherís house. I also went on telling myself that Gilberte did not love me, that I had known this for ages, that I could see her whenever I liked, and that, if I preferred not to see her, I would eventually forget her. But these thoughts, like a medication that has no effect on certain disorders, were quite ineffectual against what came intermittently to my mind: those two close silhouettes of Gilberte and that young man, stepping slowly along the Avenue des Champs-ŠlysÈes. This was a new pain, but one that would eventually fade and disappear in its turn; it was an image which one day would come back to my mind with all its noxious power neutralized, like those deadly poisons that can be handled without danger, or the small piece of dynamite one can use to light a cigarette without fear of being blown up. For the time being, though, there was another force in me, fighting for all it was worth against the pernicious impulse that kept showing me, without the slightest alteration, Gilberte walking through the twilight: working against memory, trying to withstand its repeated onslaughts, there was the quiet and helpful endeavor of imagination. The force of memory went on showing the pair walking down the Avenue des Champs-ŠlysÈes, along with other irksome images from the past, such as Gilberte shrugging her shoulders when her mother asked her to stay in with me. But the second force, sketching freely on the canvas of my hopes, improvised a future that was much more lovingly detailed than the meager glimpses afforded by such a paltry past. To think that, against a single moment of the sullen Gilberte, I had a wealth of other moments, all devoted to her attempts to bring about our reconciliationóor even our engagement! This force, though directed toward the future by my imagination, did of course draw its sustenance from the past; and as my unhappiness at Gilberteís surly shrug of the shoulders gradually faded, so would my memory of her charm and the yearning for her that came with it. However, at the present moment, that death of the past was still remote. I still loved Gilberte, though I believed I hated her. Whenever somebody complimented me on the neatness of my hair, whenever anyone said I was looking well, I wished she could be there to hear it. Throughout that whole period, I was irritated by receiving so many invitations; and I turned them all down. On one occasion there was an unpleasant scene at home because I declined to accompany my father to an official function, at which M. and Mme Bontemps were to be present with their niece Albertine, who was then little more than a child. The different periods of our life overlap. Because you are now in love with someone who will one day mean nothing to you, you refuse out of hand to meet someone who means nothing to you now, but whom you will one day come to love, someone whom you might have loved sooner if you had agreed to an earlier meeting, who might have curtailed your present sufferings (before replacing them, of course, with others). My own sufferings were changing. I was surprised to notice certain feelings in myself, one day a particular emotion, the following day some quite different one, generally inspired by some hope or fear focused on Gilberte. The Gilberte of my private imaginings, I mean. But I ought to have borne in mind that the other Gilberte, the real one, was perhaps utterly different from this private one, that she probably lived in ignorance of all the regrets I invented for her to feel, and thought not only much less about me than I about her, but much less than I pretended she thought about me in my moments of private communion with the fictitious Gilberte, when I longed to know her real intentions toward me and pictured her as spending her days doting on me. During these periods when sorrow, though already beginning to wane, still persists, there is a difference between the mode of sorrow caused by the obsessive thought of the loved one and the sorrow brought back to mind by certain memories: a nasty thing said, a verb once used in a letter. Let it be said here (all the diverse modes of sorrow will be described in connection with a later love affair) that the first of these modes is not nearly as cruel as the second. This is because our impression of the woman, living forever within us, is enhanced by the halo which our adoration constantly creates for her, and is tinged, if not by the glad promises of recurrent hope, at least by the peace of mind of lasting sadness. (It is noteworthy too that our image of a person who causes us pain takes up little space among the complications which exacerbate a heartbreak, which make it persist and prevent us from getting over it, just as in certain illnesses the cause is out of all proportion to the ensuing fever and the length of time required for a cure.) Though our image of the whole person we love is lit by the glow of a generally optimistic mind, this is not the case with the individual memory of the hurtful words spoken on a particular occasion or the unfriendly letter (I only ever had one like that from Gilberte): it feels as though these fragments, however minute they are, contain the whole person, amplified to a power well in excess of what she has in the usual imagined glimpses we have of her, entire though she is in them. Unlike the loved image of her, we have never gazed at the terrible letter with the untroubled eyes of melancholy and regret; the moment we spent reading it, devouring it, was fraught with the awful anguish of unexpected catastrophe. The difference in the making of these sorts of sorrows is that they come from the outside world and take the shortest and most painful route to the heart.

The image of the woman we love, though we think it has a pristine authenticity, has actually been often made and remade by us. And the memory that wounds is not contemporaneous with the restored image; it dates from a very different time; it is one of the few witnesses to a monstrous past. Since this past goes on existing, though not inside us, where we have seen fit to replace it with a wondrous golden age, a paradise where we are to be reunited and reconciled, such memories and such letters are a reminder of reality; their sudden stab ought to make us realize how far we have strayed from that reality, and how foolish are the hopes with which we sustain our daily expectation. Not that this reality has to remain the same, although that can happen too. There have been many women in our lives with whom we have long since lost touch, and who have understandably matched our unpurposed silence with a similar lack of interest in ourselves.

However, not being in love with them, we have never counted the years spent without them; and in our reasoning on the efficacy of separation, we disregard this counterexample, which should invalidate it, as those who believe in the possibility of foretelling the future overlook all the cases in which what they foresaw did not eventuate.

Even so, separation can be effective: the heart that at present ignores us may be visited by the wish to see us again, or by an expectation of pleasure in our company. It just takes time. And the demands we make on time are as inordinate as the requirements of a heart if it is to change. In the first place, time is the very thing we wish not to grant; for our pain is acute, and we are in haste to have it cease. As well, in the time it takes for the otherís heart to change, our own heart will be changing too; and when the fulfillment desired comes within our reach, we will desire it no longer. Actually, the very notion that it will come within reachóthat there is no fulfillment which will be forever denied us, as long as it has ceased to be a fulfillment we desireóis one which, though true, is only partly true. By the time it comes to us, we have become indifferent to it. And our very indifference has made us less critical of it, which enables us to believe in retrospect that it would have delighted us at a time when, in fact, it might well have seemed grossly deficient. Oneís standards are not high, and one is no great judge, in things one does not care about. The friendliness of a person whom we no longer care for, though it may seem too much to our indifference, might have been deemed too little by our love. The affectionate words, the suggestion of a meeting make us think of the joy they might have led to, but not of all the other joys by which we would have wanted them to be immediately followed, and which that very eagerness of ours might well have prevented from ever coming to pass. So it is not certain that the happiness that comes too late, at a time when one can no longer enjoy it, when one is no longer in love, is exactly the same happiness for which we once pined in vain. There is only one personóour former selfówho could decide the issue; and that self is no longer with us. No doubt too, if the former self did come back, identical or not as it might be, that would be enough for the happiness in question to vanish.

The belated coming true of these dreams, at a time when I would have ceased to long for it, was still in the future; and because I went on inventing, as in the days when I hardly knew Gilberte, words for her to say to me, letters in which she begged for forgiveness, confessed to never having loved another, asked me to marry her, this sequence of sweet and constantly regenerated images came to occupy more space in my mind than the glimpse of her with the young man, which weakened for lack of nourishment. I might well have gone back to Mme Swannís, had it not been for a dream I had, in which a friend of mine, quite unknown to me in the waking world, behaved toward me with the most villainous duplicity, while believing I was the treacherous one. This caused me such pain that I woke with a start; and as my pain did not abate, I thought again of the dream, in an attempt to identify the friend who had visited my sleeping mind and whose name, a Spanish one, was now fading away. As both Joseph and the Pharaoh, I set about interpreting the dream.64 I knew that in many dreams one must disregard the appearance of people, who may be disguised or may have exchanged faces with one another, like those mutilated saints on the fronts of cathedrals which have been repaired by ignorant archaeologists in a jumble of mismatched heads and bodies, attributes and names. Those we give to characters in our dreams can be misleading. The one we love can be recognized only by the quality of the pain we feel. It was this that identified for me the person who as I slept had turned into a young man, and whose recent treachery still ached within meóGilberte. I remembered then that, on the last occasion when we had been together, the day when her mother had forbidden her to go to a dancing lesson, she had burst out with a strange laugh and refused, either sincerely or in pretense, to believe that my intentions toward her were quite proper. By association, this memory brought to mind another: long before that day, Swann himself had been the one to doubt my sincerity, to suspect that I was not a suitable friend for his daughter. I had written him my futile letter, which Gilberte had brought back and given to me with that same baffling laughter. She had not given it back immediately, of course; and I could remember the whole scene behind the clump of laurels. Unhappiness is a great promoter of morality. Gilberteís present unpleasantness toward me now seemed a punishment meted out by life because of my behavior that day. Because one can avoid dangers by watching out while crossing the street, one has the impression that one can also avoid punishment. But punishments can come from within; and the unexpected danger may arise from the heart. The words she had spoken, ìIf you like, we could wrestle a bit more,î now horrified me. I imagined her behaving like that with the young man I had seen with her on the Avenue des Champs-ŠlysÈes, at home perhaps, up in the linen room. So, just as, some time ago, I had been ill advised enough to believe I had come to a state of tranquil, stable happiness, I had been rash enough, now that I had accepted that happiness was not for me, to believe I had achieved at least a haven of lasting calm. The fact is that, as long as our heart harbors the dear image of another person, it is not only our happiness that runs the constant risk of sudden destruction; even when happiness has gone and pain has come, even when we have contrived to lull our pain, the state of calm we reach is no less illusory and precarious than happiness once was. My own state of calm did eventually come back, as whatever enters our minds in the guise of a dream, affecting our desires and our inner being, sooner or later fades away like all other things, grief being no more capable than anything else of aspiring to permanence.

Besides, those who suffer the torments of love are, as is said of people suffering from certain diseases, their own doctors. As the only consolation they can find must come from the person responsible for their pain, and as the giving of that pain is an attribute of that person, the remedy they eventually find for it lies within it. One day, their pain reveals their remedyóas they mull it over, the pain shows them a new aspect of the person whom they miss so terribly: sometimes she is so hateful that they lose all desire to see her again, and any pleasure they might take in her company demands that they first wound her in their turn; sometimes she is so loving that they turn this lovingness into an objective quality of the loved one, and see in it a reason to hope. In my own case, although this new phase of my suffering did gradually come to an end, I was left with a much-diminished desire to go back to see Mme Swann. In the hearts of those whose love is unrequited, the state of expectation in which they spend their daysóeven though it may be an unrecognized expectationóturns very gradually into a second phase, which, though it seems identical to the first, is in fact its exact opposite. That first phase was the consequence, the reflection of the hurtful incidents that caused the initial sorrow. Our expectation of what might happen next is mixed with apprehension, especially since, if we hear nothing more from the beloved, we are full of the urge to do something, but are unsure of the likely outcomes of any step we might take, including the possibility that the one we do take may well rule out any further one. But soon, without our realizing it, our continuing expectation is determined, as we have seen, not by our memory of the past we have just been through, but by the imaginary future we look forward to. By then, our expectation is almost pleasant. After all, if the first phase has lasted for some time, we have already become used to living with an eye to tomorrow. The pain we felt during our final encounters with her still lives in us, albeit subdued. We are reluctant to have it revive, especially since we cannot see what further demands we could possibly make. To possess a little more of her would only increase our need for the part of her that we do not possess; and in any case, within that part, since our needs arise out of our satisfactions, something of her would still lie forever beyond our grasp.

When this reason was later reinforced by another one, I completely gave up my visits to Mme Swannís. This belated reason was not that I had already forgotten Gilberte: it was that I hoped in that way to forget her sooner. Of course, since the end of my acute unhappiness, my residual sorrow had once again drawn from my visits to Mme Swann the sedative and the diversion which I had found so comforting at an earlier stage. But the reason why the sedative was effective was also the reason why the diversion was a drawback: that the memory of Gilberte was inseparable from such visits. The diversion could have been beneficial only if it could have pitted thoughts, interests, or passions unrelated to Gilberte against a feeling that was no longer reinforced by her presence. Such states of mind, from which the loved one is entirely absent, serve to take up a space which, though minimal to begin with, leaves a little less room in the heart for the love that once occupied it entirely. They must be fostered, they must be fortified, in time with the waning of the emotion that is no more than a memory, so that the new elements provided to the mind can encroach on a larger and larger area of the self and finally take it over completely. I realized it was the only way to kill a feeling of love; and I was young enough and brave enough to undertake to do this, to inflict this wound on myself, the cruelest of all wounds, since it comes from oneís knowledge that, however long it may take, one is bound to succeed. When I wrote to Gilberte now, the reason I alleged for my reluctance to see her was some mysterious misunderstanding, utterly untrue of course, which had come between us, and about which I had at first been hoping she would invite me to explain myself. But in fact no clarification, even in the most trivial relationships, is ever required by any correspondent who knows that a designedly obscure, untrue, or incriminating statement is included in a letter for the express purpose of provoking a protest, and who is satisfied to see in it a proof that he (or she) not only enjoys a commanding position and retains the initiative, but will continue to do so. In love relationships this is even more true, for love has so much eloquence, and indifference so little curiosity. As Gilberte had never expressed a doubt on this supposed misunderstanding, or tried to find out what it was, it had become a reality for me, and I alluded to it in each letter. There is, in such readiness to misinterpret, in the pretense of standoffishness, a dire charm that leads you further and further on. Having so often used the phrase ìsince we fell out,î so as to make Gilberte reply, ìBut we havenít, letís talk about it,î I had managed to persuade myself that we had. By so often writing statements like ìLife may have parted us, but it can never alter the feeling we shared,î in the hope of being told, ìNothing has parted us, our feeling is as strong as ever,î I had become used to the idea that life had parted us, that our erstwhile feeling would live in our memories, as certain neurotics start by simulating an illness and end by really being ill. Whenever I had occasion to write to Gilberte now, I made a point of mentioning lifeís imagined parting of us. And, this role of life having been tacitly accepted by virtue of Gilberteís never referring to it in her replies, it would go on parting us. But then, eschewing mere reticence, she overtly adopted my point of view; and thenceforward, as a visiting head of state will incorporate into his speech of reply to an official welcome some of the words used by his host, each time I wrote, ìLife may have come between us, but the memory of our time together will live on,î she took to saying, ìLife may have come between us, but it can never make us forget the dear days we sharedî (why ìlifeî should be said to have come between us or to have changed anything, we would have been hard put to say). By now my pain had much abated. But then, one day when I was telling her in a letter that I had just heard of the death of our old barley-sugar woman from the Champs-ŠlysÈes, as I wrote these words, ìIím sure you must have been sad to hear of it; it certainly brought back many memories to me,î I collapsed in helpless tears, as I realized that, though I had gone on hoping against hope that our love was still a living emotion, or at least one that could revive, I was now speaking of it in the past, as though it too had died and was all but forgotten. How affectionate this correspondence was, between friends trying not to meet! Her letters were fully as considerate as any I wrote to people who meant nothing to me; and I was greatly comforted to receive from her the very same tokens of apparent affection that I sent to them. Gradually, the more often I declined her suggestion that we meet, the less pain it caused me. As she became slowly less dear to me, my hurtful and incessantly recurring memories of her lost the power to prevent the thought of a visit to Florence or Venice from giving me pleasure. At such moments, I regretted that I had turned down the diplomatic career and tied myself to a life without travel, so as not to absent myself from a girl whom I would not now be seeing again, whom I had already more or less forgotten. We design our life for the sake of an individual who, by the time we are able to welcome her into it, has turned into a total stranger, and never comes to share that life with us; and so we live on, imprisoned in an arrangement made for someone else. Though my parents judged Venice to be too distant and fever-ridden for me, at least it was easy and untiring to go for a time to Balbec. But that would have entailed leaving Paris and giving up my visits, infrequent though they were, to Mme Swannís, where I could hear her speak about her daughter, and where I was even beginning to discover other pleasures, which had nothing to do with Gilberte.

As spring advanced, as the Ice Saints65 and Eastertime with its squalls of hail brought back the cold, Mme Swann was convinced that the house was freezing, and I often had occasion to see my hostess wearing furs: her shivery hands and shoulders disappeared under the dazzling white of a great flat muff and tippet, both of ermine, which she had been wearing outside, and which looked like winterís last and most persistent patches of snow, unthawed by the warmth of her fireside or the change of season. The composite truth of those icy but already flowering weeks was brought into that drawing room, which I was soon to cease visiting, by whiteness of a more affecting sort, such as the snowballs of the Guelder roses, each of their tall stems, as bare as the Pre-Raphaelitesí linear flora, topped by its single clustered globe, as white as a herald angel and surrounded by the scent of lemon. For Odette, as befitted the lady of Tansonville, knew that even the iciest April is never without its flowers, and that winter, springtime, and summer are not as hermetically partitioned from one another as may be supposed by the man about town who, until the first warm weather arrives, cannot imagine the world containing anything other than bare housefronts dripping rain. No doubt Mme Swann did not rely solely on what her gardener regularly sent up from Combray, and she did not decline to palliate, with the assistance of her ìflorist by appointment,î the insufficiencies of her artificial springtime by drawing on the resources afforded by Mediterranean precocity. Not that this mattered to me. Apart from the snows of Mme Swannís muff, all that was required to set me yearning for the countryside was that the snowballs of the Guelder roses (which may have had no other purpose than to join with my hostessís furniture and her own outfit in making the ìSymphony in White majorî that Bergotte liked to talk of) should remind me that the Good Friday Spell66 represents a natural miracle, which we could witness every year, had we but the good sense to do so, and that these white flowers, along with the heady, acid perfume of blooms of other species, the names of which were unknown to me, but which had often made me pause on my walks about Combray, should give to Mme Swannís drawing room an air that was as virginal, as candid, as blossomy without leaves, as thick with genuine smells as the steep little path leading up to Tansonville.

But even the memory of the little path was almost too much. The danger of it was that it might keep alive in me the remaining vestige of my love for Gilberte. So, despite the fact that my visits to Mme Swann now caused me no grief at all, I made them even more infrequent, trying to see her as little as possible. I did allow myself, since I persisted in not leaving Paris, to walk with her a few times. Fine, warm weather had at last arrived. Knowing that Mme Swann went out each day before lunch and took a short walk in the Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne, not far from the Arc de Triomphe, quite close to the spot that was known in those days, in honor of the citizenry who went there to see all the rich people they had heard of, as the ìHard-Up Club,î I had asked my parentsí permission to go out for a walk late on Sunday mornings (not being free on weekdays at that time) and not to come back to lunch till a quarter past one, which was much later than their own lunchtime. During that month of May, I did not miss a single Sunday, Gilberte having gone off to spend some time in the country with friends. I would arrive at the Arc de Triomphe about midday and stand at the end of the Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne, from where I could watch the corner of the side street from which Mme Swann would emerge, coming from her house, which was only a few steps away. It was the hour at which many of those who had been out for a walk were going home to lunch; of the few remaining, most belonged to fashionable society. Then it was, stepping onto the fine gravel of the avenue, that Mme Swann would make her entrance, as late, languid, and luxuriant as the most beautiful flower, which never opened until noon, in outfits that gave her a bloom of radiance, and which, though they were always different, I remember as mainly mauve. The bright moment of her flowering was complete when, on an elongated stretch of stem, she unfurled the silky vexillum of a broad sunshade blending with the full-blown shimmer of her frock. She was accompanied by a whole retinue: Swann was there, as were four or five other clubmen who had either dropped in to see her that morning or whom she had just encountered. And as the blacks and grays of this disciplined formation executed their almost mechanical movements, lending an inert frame to Odette, they made the woman, the only one with any intensity in her gaze, appear to be staring past them all, looking straight ahead as though leaning out of a window, and made her stand out, fragile and fearless, in the nudity of her gentle colors, as though she were a creature of a different species or of some mysterious descent, with a suggestion of something warlike about her, all of which enabled her single person to counterbalance her numerous escort. Beaming with smiles, contented with the lovely day and the sunshine, which was not yet too warm, with all the poise and confidence of a creator who beholds every thing that he has made and sees it is very good, and knowing (though vulgar passersby might not appreciate this) that her outfit was more elegant than anyone elseís, she wore it for herself but also for her friends, naturally, without show but also without complete indifference, not objecting if the light bows on her bodice and skirt drifted slightly in front of her, like pets whose presence she was aware of but whose caprices she indulged, leaving them to their own devices as long as they stayed close to her; and as though her purple parasol, often furled when she first emerged into the avenue, was a posy of Parma violets, it too at times received from her happy eyes a glance which, though directed not at her friends but at an inanimate object, brimmed with so much gentle goodwill that it still seemed to be a smile. A margin of elegance, which Mme Swannís choice of outfit made all her own, was accepted as her essential and exclusive prerogative by the gentlemen whom she addressed most familiarly; and in this they deferred to her with the air of ignorant outsiders who do not mind recognizing themselves as such, conceding the aptness of her authority, as they might with an invalid on the matter of the special care he must take, or with a mother on how best to bring up her children. It was not just this suite of retainers, surrounding her and seeming not to notice passersby, that suggested Mme Swannís indoor life: by reason of the lateness of her advent on the avenue, she brought to mind the house in which she had spent long morning hours, where she would soon have to return for lunch; the proximity of it was in the calm and leisured simplicity of her manner, as though she were strolling down her own gar- den path; the cool, subdued light of its interior seemed to hang about her as she passed. But this vision of her only gave me a heightened sense of the fresh air and the warmth of the day, especially since (in my conviction that, in accordance with her pious expertise in the rites and liturgy of such things, Mme Swannís ways of dressing were linked to the season and the time of day by a bond that was necessary and unique) the flowers on her soft straw hat and the little bows on her frock seemed a more natural product of May than any flowers cultivated in beds or growing wild in the woods; and to witness the thrilling onset of the new season, I needed to lift my eyes no higher than Mme Swannís sunshade, opened now and stretched above me like a nearer, more temperate sky, full of its constantly changing blue. Though subordinate to none, these rites were honor-bound, as was consequently Mme Swann herself, to defer to the morning, the springtime, and the sunshine, none of which I ever thought seemed flattered enough that such an elegant woman should make a point of respecting them, of choosing for their pleasure a frock in a brighter or lighter material, its lower neckline and looser sleeves suggesting the moist warmth of the throat and the wrists, that she should treat them as a great lady treats the common people whose invitation to visit them in the country she has cheerfully condescended to accept, and for whose special occasion, though they are nobodies, she makes a point of giving her dress a bucolic touch. As soon as she appeared, I made my bow to Mme Swann; she paused with me and gave me her smiling English ìGood morning!î As we strolled, I realized that it was for her own sake that she observed these standards in dress, as though they were the tenets of a superior form of worship, which she merely served as a high priestess; for, if she felt too warm, if she unbuttoned or even took off and asked me to carry the jacket that she had originally meant to keep buttoned, I discovered in the blouse she wore under it a host of details of handiwork which might well never have been noticed, after the manner of those orchestral parts that the composer has worked with exquisite care although no ears among the audience will ever hear them; or else in the sleeves folded over my arm I picked out and studied, for the pleasure of looking at them or for the pleasure of being pleasant, this or that tiny detail, a strip of cloth of a delightful shade, or a mauve satinet normally unseen by any eye, but just as delicately finished as any of the outer parts of the garment, like the fine Gothic stonework hidden eighty feet up a cathedral, on the inner face of a balustrade, just as perfectly executed as the bas- relief statues in the main doorway, but which no one had ever set eyes on until an artist on a chance visit to the city asked to be allowed to climb up there, walk about at sky level, and survey a whole townscape from between the twin steeples.

For those who were ignorant of Mme Swannís practice of taking a ìconstitutional,î the impression she gave of walking along the Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne as though it were a pathway in her back garden was enhanced by the fact that she was on foot, that no carriage followed her, even though by the month of May she could usually be seen sitting behind the neatest pair of high-steppers in Paris, attended by grooms in the smartest livery, as relaxed and serene as a goddess, basking in the clement open air of a vast C- springed victoria. By walking, especially with her leisurely warm-weather gait, Mme Swann appeared to have acted on a whim, to be committing a graceful little breach of protocol, like a queen at a gala performance who, without telling anyone, and, as her household looks on in a slightly shocked wonderment, none of them daring to protest, leaves the royal box during an intermission, so as to spend a few moments mingling with ordinary members of the audience. Watching Mme Swann as she walked, people sensed between her and themselves the barriers of a certain form of wealth, which always seem to the crowd to be the most impassable barriers of all. But the Faubourg Saint-Germain has its barriers too, albeit less striking to the eye and the imagination of members of the ìHard-Up Club.î When the latter see a great lady who is unaffected in manner, whom, because she has never lost the common touch, they can almost take for someone as lowly as themselves, they will never have the feeling of inequality, one might say the feeling of their own unworthiness, that they have when faced with the likes of Mme Swann. Unlike them, a woman of her sort is no doubt unimpressed by the sumptuous world in which she moves; she ignores it, for the very reason that she has become accustomed to it; that is, she has come to see it as all the more natural and necessary to herself, she has come to judge other people according to their greater or lesser familiarity with these standards of luxury; and so, the grand manner (which she enjoys showing off and recognizes in others) being entirely material, flagrantly noticeable, long to acquire, and hardly replaceable by anything, when such a woman deems a passerby to be someone of no consequence, it is in the same way as he has seen her to be someone of the greatest consequenceówithout hesitation, at first sight, and once for all. It may be that this particular class of women no longer exists, or at least not with the same character and the same charm. It was a social class which at that time included women like Lady Israels, who was on terms with women of the aristocracy, and Mme Swann, who was one day to be on terms with them, a class that was intermediate, lower than the Faubourg Saint-Germain, since they courted it, but higher than others who were not part of the Faubourg Saint-Germain; and it was peculiar in that, though existing apart from the society of the rich, it was of course a moneyed class, but one in which money had become tractable and had taken to responding to artistic ideas and purposesóit was malleable money, poetically refined money, money with a smile. In any case, the women who belonged to it then would have by now lost the quality that was their greatest claim to ascendancy: having aged, almost all of them have lost their beauty.

For the stately, smiling, gentle Mme Swann who sauntered along the Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne was not only in the prime of her noble wealth, she was also at the glorious height of her own mellow and still- delectable summertime, from which, like Hypatia, she could watch the turning of worlds beneath her measured tread.67 Young men, seeing her pass, glanced anxiously at her, unsure whether their tenuous acquaintance with her (and apprehensive too about whether Swann, whom they had hardly met on more than a single occasion, would recognize them) could justify their daring to greet her. When they plucked up the resolve to do so, they were full of trepidation, in case such a foolhardy and provocative act of sacrilege, slighting the inviolable supremacy of a caste, might set off a catastrophe or bring down upon their heads the thunderbolt of divine retribution. All it did set off, however, in a sort of clockwork reaction, was the gesticulation of many little characters, who suddenly started to bowóOdetteís courtiers, following the example of Swann, who, with the gracious smile once learned in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, but without the indifference that would once have accompanied it, was raising his topper lined with green leather. As though he had been infected by the prejudices of Odette, his former indifference had become both the annoyance of having to acknowledge somebody so badly dressed and the satisfaction of having a wife who knew so many people, mixed feelings which he expressed to the retinue of their fashionable friends: ìAnother one! I must say, I do wonder where Odette gets these people!î ìSo itís really all over between you?î Mme Swann said to me, having nodded at the alarmed passerby, who was now out of sight but whose heart was still palpitating. ìYouíre never going to come and see Gilberte again? Iím certainly glad youíve made an exception for me and that Iím not to be completely jilted. I do like it when you come. But I also liked your influence on my daughter. Iím sure sheís sorry about it all too. Still, Iím not going to bully youóyou might decide youíd had enough of me too!î ìOdette, thereís Sagan68 saying good morning to you,î Swann murmured. And there was the Prince, like a knight in an old painting, or as though taking part in a grandiose finale on a theater stage or in a circus ring, making his horse wheel around, and greeting Odette with a grand dramatic gesture that was almost allegorical in its evocation of politeness and chivalry, of the noblemanís homage to Woman, even though she was embodied in a woman whom his mother or sister would never stoop to frequent. From all sides now, through the liquid transparency and glossy luminosity of the shadow cast on her by the sunshade, Mme Swann was being recognized and greeted by the last of the late riders, who looked as though filmed at a canter against the white midday shimmer of the avenue, members of fashionable clubs, whose namesóAntoine de Castellane, Adalbert de Montmorency,69 and many more famous to the public mind, were to Mme Swann the familiar names of her friends. So it is that the average life expectancy, the relative longevity, of memories being much greater for those that commemorate poetic sensation than for those left by the pains of love, the heartbreak I suffered at that time because of Gilberte has faded forever, and has been outlived by the pleasure I derive, whenever I want to read off from a sundial of remembrance the minutes between a quarter past twelve and one oíclock on a fine day in May, from a glimpse of myself chatting with Mme Swann, sharing her sunshade as though standing with her in the pale glow of an arbor of wisteria.



Library of Congress subject headings for this publication:
Villages -- France -- Fiction.
France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction.