Swann's Way
exclaimed. "But vespers will have begun already, and I've forgotten my
pepsin! Now I know why that Vichy water has been lying on my stomach."
And falling precipitately upon a prayer-book bound in purple velvet,
with gilt clasps, out of which in her haste she let fall a shower of
the little pictures, each in a lace fringe of yellowish paper, which she
used to mark the places of the greater feasts of the church, my aunt,
while she swallowed her drops, began at full speed to mutter the words
of the sacred text, its meaning being slightly clouded in her brain by
the uncertainty whether the pepsin, when taken so long after the
Vichy, would still be able to overtake it and to 'send it down.' "Three
o'clock! It's unbelievable how time flies."
A little tap at the window, as though some missile had struck it,
followed by a plentiful, falling sound, as light, though, as if a shower
of sand were being sprinkled from a window overhead; then the fall
spread, took on an order, a rhythm, became liquid, loud, drumming,
musical, innumerable, universal. It was the rain.
"There, Françoise, what did I tell you? How it's coming down! But I
think I heard the bell at the garden gate: go along and see who can be
outside in this weather."
Françoise went and returned. "It's Mme. Amédée" (my grandmother). "She
said she was going for a walk. It's raining hard, all the same."
"I'm not at all surprised," said my aunt, looking up towards the sky.
"I've always said that she was not in the least like other people. Well,
I'm glad it's she and not myself who's outside in all this."
"Mme. Amédée is always the exact opposite of the rest," said Françoise,
not unkindly, refraining until she should be alone with the other
servants from stating her belief that my grandmother was 'a bit off her
head.'
"There's Benediction over! Eulalie will never come now," sighed my aunt.
"It will be the weather that's frightened her away."
"But it's not five o'clock yet, Mme. Octave, it's only half-past four."
"Only half-past four! And here am I, obliged to draw back the small
curtains, just to get a tiny streak of daylight. At half-past four! Only
a week before the Rogation-days. Ah, my poor Françoise, the dear Lord
must be sorely vexed with us. The world is going too far in these days.
As my poor Octave used to say, we have forgotten God too often, and He
is taking vengeance upon us."
A bright flush animated my aunt's cheeks; it was Eulalie. As ill luck
would have it, scarcely had she been admitted to the presence when
Françoise reappeared and, with a smile which was meant to indicate her
full participation in the pleasure which, she had no doubt, her tidings
would give my aunt, articulating each syllable so as to shew that, in
spite of her having to translate them into indirect speech, she was
repeating, as a good servant should, the very words which the new
visitor had condescended to use, said: "His reverence the Curé would be
delighted, enchanted, if Mme. Octave is not resting just now, and
could see him. His reverence does not wish to disturb Mme. Octave. His
reverence is downstairs; I told him to go into the parlour."
Had the truth been known, the Curé's visits gave my aunt no such
ecstatic pleasure as Françoise supposed, and the air of jubilation with
which she felt bound to illuminate her face whenever she had to announce
his arrival, did not altogether correspond to what was felt by her
invalid. The Curé (an excellent man, with whom I am sorry now that I did
not converse more often, for, even if he cared nothing for the arts,
he knew a great many etymologies), being in the habit of shewing
distinguished visitors over his church (he had even planned to compile
a history of the Parish of Combray), used to weary her with his endless
explanations, which, incidentally, never varied in the least degree.
But when his visit synchronized exactly with Eulalie's it became frankly
distasteful to my aunt. She would have preferred to make the most of
Eulalie, and not to have had the whole of her circle about her at one
time. But she dared not send the Curé away, and had to content herself
with making a sign to Eulalie not to leave when he did, so that she
might have her to herself for a little after he had gone.
"What is this I have been hearing, Father, that a painter has set up his
easel in your church, and is copying one of the windows? Old as I am,
I can safely say that I have never even heard of such a thing in all my
life! What is the world coming to next, I wonder! And the ugliest thing
in the whole church, too."
"I will not go so far as to say that it is quite the ugliest, for,
although there are certain things in Saint-Hilaire which are well worth
a visit, there are others that are very old now, in my poor basilica,
the only one in all the diocese that has never even been restored.
The Lord knows, our porch is dirty and out of date; still, it is of a
majestic character; take, for instance, the Esther tapestries, though
personally I would not give a brass farthing for the pair of them, but
experts put them next after the ones at Sens. I can quite see, too, that
apart from certain details which are--well, a trifle realistic, they
shew features which testify to a genuine power of observation. But don't
talk to me about the windows. Is it common sense, I ask you, to leave
up windows which shut out all the daylight, and even confuse the eyes by
throwing patches of colour, to which I should be hard put to it to give
a name, on a floor in which there are not two slabs on the same level?
And yet they refuse to renew the floor for me because, if you please,
those are the tombstones of the Abbots of Combray and the Lords of
Guermantes, the old Counts, you know, of Brabant, direct ancestors of
the present Duc de Guermantes, and of his Duchesse also, since she was a
lady of the Guermantes family, and married her cousin." (My grandmother,
whose steady refusal to take any interest in 'persons' had ended in
her confusing all their names and titles, whenever anyone mentioned the
Duchesse de Guermantes used to make out that she must be related to Mme.
de Villeparisis. The whole family would then burst out laughing; and she
would attempt to justify herself by harking back to some invitation to
a christening or funeral: "I feel sure that there was a Guermantes in it
somewhere." And for once I would side with the others, and against
her, refusing to admit that there could be any connection between her
school-friend and the descendant of Geneviève de Brabant.)
"Look at Roussainville," the Curé went on. "It is nothing more nowadays
than a parish of farmers, though in olden times the place must have had
a considerable importance from its trade in felt hats and clocks. (I
am not certain, by the way, of the etymology of Roussainville. I
should dearly like to think that the name was originally Rouville, from
_Radulfi villa_, analogous, don't you see, to Châteauroux, _Castrum
Radulfi_, but we will talk about that some other time.) Very well; the
church there has superb windows, almost all quite modern, including that
most imposing 'Entry of Louis-Philippe into Combray' which would be more
in keeping, surely, at Combray itself, and which is every bit as good, I
understand, as the famous windows at Chartres. Only yesterday I met Dr.
Percepied's brother, who goes in for these things, and he told me that
he looked upon it as a most beautiful piece of work. But, as I said to
this artist, who, by the way, seems to be a most civil fellow, and is a
regular virtuoso, it appears, with his brush; what on earth, I said to
him, do you find so extraordinary in this window, which is, if anything,
a little dingier than the rest?"
"I am sure that if you were to ask his Lordship," said my aunt in
a resigned tone, for she had begun to feel that she was going to be
'tired,' "he would never refuse you a new window."
"You may depend upon it, Mme. Octave," replied the Curé. "Why, it was
just his Lordship himself who started the outcry about the window, by
proving that it represented Gilbert the Bad, a Lord of Guermantes and
a direct descendant of Geneviève de Brabant, who was a daughter of the
House of Guermantes, receiving absolution from Saint Hilaire."
"But I don't see where Saint Hilaire comes in."
"Why yes, have you never noticed, in the corner of the window, a lady in
a yellow robe? Very well, that is Saint Hilaire, who is also known, you
will remember, in certain parts of the country as Saint Illiers, Saint
Hèlier, and even, in the Jura, Saint Ylie. But these various corruptions
of _Sanctus Hilarius_ are by no means the most curious that have
occurred in the names of the blessed Saints. Take, for example, my good
Eulalie, the case of your own patron, _Sancta Eulalia_; do you know what
she has become in Burgundy? Saint Eloi, nothing more nor less! The lady
has become a gentleman. Do you hear that, Eulalie, after you are dead
they will make a man of you!"
"Father will always have his joke."
"Gilbert's brother, Charles the Stammerer, was a pious prince, but,
having early in life lost his father, Pepin the Mad, who died as a
result of his mental infirmity, he wielded the supreme power with all
the arrogance of a man who has not been subjected to discipline in his
youth, so much so that, whenever he saw a man in a town whose face
he did not remember, he would massacre the whole place, to the last
inhabitant. Gilbert, wishing to be avenged on Charles, caused the church
at Combray to be burned down, the original church, that was, which
Théodebert, when he and his court left the country residence he had near
here, at Thiberzy (which is, of course, _Theodeberiacus_), to go out
and fight the Burgundians, had promised to build over the tomb of Saint
Hilaire if the Saint brought him victory. Nothing remains of it now
but the crypt, into which Théodore has probably taken you, for Gilbert
burned all the rest. Finally, he defeated the unlucky Charles with the
aid of William" which the Curé pronounced "Will'am" "the Conqueror,
which is why so many English still come to visit the place. But he
does not appear to have managed to win the affection of the people of
Combray, for they fell upon him as he was coming out from mass, and cut
off his head. Théodore has a little book, that he lends people, which
tells you the whole story.
"But what is unquestionably the most remarkable thing about our church
is the view from the belfry, which is full of grandeur. Certainly in
your case, since you are not very strong, I should never recommend you
to climb our seven and ninety steps, just half the number they have in
the famous cathedral at Milan. It is quite tiring enough for the most
active person, especially as you have to go on your hands and knees, if
you don't wish to crack your skull, and you collect all the cobwebs off
the staircase upon your clothes. In any case you should be well wrapped
up," he went on, without noticing my aunt's fury at the mere suggestion
that she could ever, possibly, be capable of climbing into his belfry,
"for there's a strong breeze there, once you get to the top. Some people
even assure me that they have felt the chill of death up there. No
matter, on Sundays there are always clubs and societies, who come,
some of them, long distances to admire our beautiful panorama, and they
always go home charmed. Wait now, next Sunday, if the weather holds, you
will be sure to find a lot of people there, for Rogation-tide. You must
admit, certainly, that the view from up there is like a fairy-tale, with
what you might call vistas along the plain, which have quite a special
charm of their own. On a clear day you can see as far as Verneuil. And
then another thing; you can see at the same time places which you are in