Swann's Way
the habit of seeing one without the other, as, for instance, the course
of the Vivonne and the ditches at Saint-Assise-lès-Combray, which
are separated, really, by a screen of tall trees; or, to take another
example, there are all the canals at Jouy-le-Vicomte, which is
_Gaudiacus vicecomitis_, as of course you know. Each time that I have
been to Jouy I have seen a bit of a canal in one place, and then I have
turned a corner and seen another, but when I saw the second I could no
longer see the first. I tried in vain to imagine how they lay by one
another; it was no good. But, from the top of Saint-Hilaire, it's quite
another matter; the whole countryside is spread out before you like a
map. Only, you cannot make out the water; you would say that there were
great rifts in the town, slicing it up so neatly that it looks like a
loaf of bread which still holds together after it has been cut up. To
get it all quite perfect you would have to be in both places at once; up
here on the top of Saint-Hilaire and down there at Jouy-le-Vicomte."
The Curé had so much exhausted my aunt that no sooner had he gone than
she was obliged to send away Eulalie also.
"Here, my poor Eulalie," she said in a feeble voice, drawing a coin from
a small purse which lay ready to her hand. "This is just something so
that you shall not forget me in your prayers."
"Oh, but, Mme. Octave, I don't think I ought to; you know very well
that I don't come here for that!" So Eulalie would answer, with the
same hesitation and the same embarrassment, every Sunday, as though
each temptation were the first, and with a look of displeasure which
enlivened my aunt and never offended her, for if it so happened that
Eulalie, when she took the money, looked a little less sulky than usual,
my aunt would remark afterwards, "I cannot think what has come over
Eulalie; I gave her just the trifle I always give, and she did not look
at all pleased."
"I don't think she has very much to complain of, all the same,"
Françoise would sigh grimly, for she had a tendency to regard as petty
cash all that my aunt might give her for herself or her children, and as
treasure riotously squandered on a pampered and ungrateful darling the
little coins slipped, Sunday by Sunday, into Eulalie's hand, but so
discreetly passed that Françoise never managed to see them. It was
not that she wanted to have for herself the money my aunt bestowed
on Eulalie. She already enjoyed a sufficiency of all that my
aunt possessed, in the knowledge that the wealth of the mistress
automatically ennobled and glorified the maid in the eyes of the world;
and that she herself was conspicuous and worthy to be praised throughout
Combray, Jouy-le-Vicomte, and other cities of men, on account of my
aunt's many farms, her frequent and prolonged visits from the Curé, and
the astonishing number of bottles of Vichy water which she consumed.
Françoise was avaricious only for my aunt; had she had control over
my aunt's fortune (which would have more than satisfied her highest
ambition) she would have guarded it from the assaults of strangers with
a maternal ferocity. She would, however, have seen no great harm in what
my aunt, whom she knew to be incurably generous, allowed herself to give
away, had she given only to those who were already rich. Perhaps
she felt that such persons, not being actually in need of my aunt's
presents, could not be suspected of simulating affection for her on
that account. Besides, presents offered to persons of great wealth and
position, such as Mme. Sazerat, M. Swann, M. Legrandin and Mme. Goupil,
to persons of the 'same class' as my aunt, and who would naturally
'mix with her,' seemed to Françoise to be included among the ornamental
customs of that strange and brilliant life led by rich people, who
hunted and shot, gave balls and paid visits, a life which she would
contemplate with an admiring smile. But it was by no means the same
thing if, for this princely exchange of courtesies, my aunt substituted
mere charity, if her beneficiaries were of the class which Françoise
would label "people like myself," or "people no better than myself,"
people whom she despised even more if they did not address her always
as "Mme. Françoise," just to shew that they considered themselves to be
'not as good.' And when she saw that, despite all her warnings, my aunt
continued to do exactly as she pleased, and to fling money away with
both hands (or so, at least, Françoise believed) on undeserving objects,
she began to find that the presents she herself received from my aunt
were very tiny compared to the imaginary riches squandered upon
Eulalie, There was not, in the neighbourhood of Combray, a farm of such
prosperity and importance that Françoise doubted Eulalie's ability to
buy it, without thinking twice, out of the capital which her visits to
my aunt had 'brought in.' It must be added that Eulalie had formed an
exactly similar estimate of the vast and secret hoards of Françoise.
So, every Sunday, after Eulalie had gone, Françoise would mercilessly
prophesy her coming downfall. She hated Eulalie, but was at the same
time afraid of her, and so felt bound, when Eulalie was there, to 'look
pleasant.' But she would make up for that after the other's departure;
never, it is true, alluding to her by name, but hinting at her in
Sibylline oracles, or in utterances of a comprehensive character, like
those of Ecclesiastes, the Preacher, but so worded that their special
application could not escape my aunt. After peering out at the side of
the curtain to see whether Eulalie had shut the front-door behind her;
"Flatterers know how to make themselves welcome, and to gather up the
crumbs; but have patience, have patience; our God is a jealous God, and
one fine day He will be avenged upon them!" she would declaim, with the
sidelong, insinuating glance of Joash, thinking of Athaliah alone when
he says that the
....prosperity
Of wicked men runs like a torrent past,
And soon is spent.
But on this memorable afternoon, when the Curé had come as well, and
by his interminable visit had drained my aunt's strength, Françoise
followed Eulalie from the room, saying: "Mme. Octave, I will leave you
to rest; you look utterly tired out."
And my aunt answered her not a word, breathing a sigh so faint that
it seemed it must prove her last, and lying there with closed eyes, as
though already dead. But hardly had Françoise arrived downstairs, when
four peals of a bell, pulled with the utmost violence, reverberated
through the house, and my aunt, sitting erect upon her bed, called out:
"Has Eulalie gone yet? Would you believe it; I forgot to ask her whether
Mme. Goupil arrived in church before the Elevation. Run after her,
quick!"
But Françoise returned alone, having failed to overtake Eulalie. "It
is most provoking," said my aunt, shaking her head. "The one important
thing that I had to ask her."
In this way life went by for my aunt Léonie, always the same, in the
gentle uniformity of what she called, with a pretence of deprecation
but with a deep tenderness, her 'little jog-trot.' Respected by all
and sundry, not merely in her own house, where every one of us, having
learned the futility of recommending any healthier mode of life, had
become gradually resigned to its observance, but in the village as well,
where, three streets away, a tradesman who had to hammer nails into a
packing-case would send first to Françoise to make sure that my aunt
was not 'resting'--her 'little jog-trot' was, none the less, brutally
disturbed on one occasion in this same year. Like a fruit hidden among
its leaves, which has grown and ripened unobserved by man, until it
falls of its own accord, there came upon us one night the kitchen-maid's
confinement. Her pains were unbearable, and, as there was no midwife
in Combray, Françoise had to set off before dawn to fetch one from
Thiberzy. My aunt was unable to 'rest,' owing to the cries of the girl,
and as Françoise, though the distance was nothing, was very late in
returning, her services were greatly missed. And so, in the course of
the morning, my mother said to me: "Run upstairs, and see if your aunt
wants anything."
I went into the first of her two rooms, and through the open door of the
other saw my aunt lying on her side, asleep. I could hear her breathing,
in what was almost distinguishable as a snore. I was just going to slip
away when something, probably the sound of my entry, interrupted her
sleep, and made it 'change speed,' as they say of motorcars nowadays,
for the music of her snore broke off for a second and began again on a
lower note; then she awoke, and half turned her face, which I could see
for the first time; a kind of horror was imprinted on it; plainly she
had just escaped from some terrifying dream. She could not see me from
where she was lying, and I stood there not knowing whether I ought to go
forward or to retire; but all at once she seemed to return to a sense
of reality, and to grasp the falsehood of the visions that had terrified
her; a smile of joy, a pious act of thanksgiving to God, Who is pleased
to grant that life shall be less cruel than our dreams, feebly illumined
her face, and, with the habit she had formed of speaking to herself,
half-aloud, when she thought herself alone, she murmured: "The Lord be
praised! We have nothing to disturb us here but the kitchen-maid's baby.
And I've been dreaming that my poor Octave had come back to life, and
was trying to make me take a walk every day!" She stretched out a hand
towards her rosary, which was lying on the small table, but sleep was
once again getting the mastery, and did not leave her the strength to
reach it; she fell asleep, calm and contented, and I crept out of the
room on tiptoe, without either her or anyone's else ever knowing, from
that day to this, what I had seen and heard.
When I say that, apart from such rare happenings as this confinement, my
aunt's 'little jog-trot' never underwent any variation, I do not include
those variations which, repeated at regular intervals and in identical
form, did no more, really, than print a sort of uniform pattern upon
the greater uniformity of her life. So, for instance, every Saturday, as
Françoise had to go in the afternoon to market at Roussainville-le-Pin,
the whole household would have to have luncheon an hour earlier. And my
aunt had so thoroughly acquired the habit of this weekly exception to
her general habits, that she clung to it as much as to the rest. She
was so well 'routined' to it, as Françoise would say, that if, on a
Saturday, she had had to wait for her luncheon until the regular hour,
it would have 'upset' her as much as if she had had, on an ordinary
day, to put her luncheon forward to its Saturday time. Incidentally this
acceleration of luncheon gave Saturday, for all of us, an individual
character, kindly and rather attractive. At the moment when, ordinarily,
there was still an hour to be lived through before meal-time sounded,
we would all know that in a few seconds we should see the endives
make their precocious appearance, followed by the special favour of an
omelette, an unmerited steak. The return of this asymmetrical Saturday
was one of those petty occurrences, intra-mural, localised, almost
civic, which, in uneventful lives and stable orders of society, create a
kind of national unity, and become the favourite theme for conversation,
for pleasantries, for anecdotes which can be embroidered as the narrator
pleases; it would have provided a nucleus, ready-made, for a legendary
cycle, if any of us had had the epic mind. At daybreak, before we were
dressed, without rhyme or reason, save for the pleasure of proving the
strength of our solidarity, we would call to one another good-humoredly,