Swann's Way
the particle 'de' before that lady's name. Never doubting that it was
done on purpose, to shew that they were not afraid of a title, she had
made up her mind to imitate their arrogance, but had not quite
grasped what grammatical form it ought to take. Moreover, the natural
corruptness of her speech overcoming her implacable republicanism,
she still said instinctively "the de La Trémoïlles," or, rather (by
an abbreviation sanctified by the usage of music-hall singers and the
writers of the 'captions' beneath caricatures, who elide the 'de'),
"the d'La Trémoïlles," but she corrected herself at once to "Madame La
Trémoïlle.--The _Duchess_, as Swann calls her," she added ironically,
with a smile which proved that she was merely quoting, and would not,
herself, accept the least responsibility for a classification so puerile
and absurd.
"I don't mind saying that I thought him extremely stupid."
M. Verdurin took it up. "He's not sincere. He's a crafty customer,
always hovering between one side and the other. He's always trying to
run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. What a difference between
him and Forcheville. There, at least, you have a man who tells you
straight out what he thinks. Either you agree with him or you don't.
Not like the other fellow, who's never definitely fish or fowl. Did you
notice, by the way, that Odette seemed all out for Forcheville, and I
don't blame her, either. And then, after all, if Swann tries to come
the man of fashion over us, the champion of distressed Duchesses, at any
rate the other man has got a title; he's always Comte de Forcheville!"
he let the words slip delicately from his lips, as though, familiar with
every page of the history of that dignity, he were making a scrupulously
exact estimate of its value, in relation to others of the sort.
"I don't mind saying," Mme. Verdurin went on, "that he saw fit to utter
some most venomous, and quite absurd insinuations against Brichot.
Naturally, once he saw that Brichot was popular in this house, it was a
way of hitting back at us, of spoiling our party. I know his sort, the
dear, good friend of the family, who pulls you all to pieces on the
stairs as he's going away."
"Didn't I say so?" retorted her husband. "He's simply a failure; a poor
little wretch who goes through life mad with jealousy of anything that's
at all big."
Had the truth been known, there was not one of the 'faithful' who was
not infinitely more malicious than Swann; but the others would all take
the precaution of tempering their malice with obvious pleasantries, with
little sparks of emotion and cordiality; while the least indication of
reserve on Swann's part, undraped in any such conventional formula
as "Of course, I don't want to say anything--" to which he would have
scorned to descend, appeared to them a deliberate act of treachery.
There are certain original and distinguished authors in whom the least
'freedom of speech' is thought revolting because they have not begun
by flattering the public taste, and serving up to it the commonplace
expressions to which it is used; it was by the same process that Swann
infuriated M. Verdurin. In his case as in theirs it was the novelty
of his language which led his audience to suspect the blackness of his
designs.
Swann was still unconscious of the disgrace that threatened him at the
Verdurins', and continued to regard all their absurdities in the most
rosy light, through the admiring eyes of love.
As a rule he made no appointments with Odette except for the evenings;
he was afraid of her growing tired of him if he visited her during the
day as well; at the same time he was reluctant to forfeit, even for
an hour, the place that he held in her thoughts, and so was constantly
looking out for an opportunity of claiming her attention, in any way
that would not be displeasing to her. If, in a florist's or a jeweller's
window, a plant or an ornament caught his eye, he would at once think
of sending them to Odette, imagining that the pleasure which the casual
sight of them had given him would instinctively be felt, also, by her,
and would increase her affection for himself; and he would order them to
be taken at once to the Rue La pérouse, so as to accelerate the moment
in which, as she received an offering from him, he might feel himself,
in a sense, transported into her presence. He was particularly anxious,
always, that she should receive these presents before she went out
for the evening, so that her sense of gratitude towards him might give
additional tenderness to her welcome when he arrived at the Verdurins',
might even--for all he knew--if the shopkeeper made haste, bring him a
letter from her before dinner, or herself, in person, upon his doorstep,
come on a little extraordinary visit of thanks. As in an earlier phase,
when he had experimented with the reflex action of anger and contempt
upon her character, he sought now by that of gratification to elicit
from her fresh particles of her intimate feelings, which she had never
yet revealed.
Often she was embarrassed by lack of money, and under pressure from
a creditor would come to him for assistance. He enjoyed this, as he
enjoyed everything which could impress Odette with his love for herself,
or merely with his influence, with the extent of the use that she might
make of him. Probably if anyone had said to him, at the beginning, "It's
your position that attracts her," or at this stage, "It's your money
that she's really in love with," he would not have believed the
suggestion, nor would he have been greatly distressed by the thought
that people supposed her to be attached to him, that people felt them
to be united by any ties so binding as those of snobbishness or wealth.
But even if he had accepted the possibility, it might not have caused
him any suffering to discover that Odette's love for him was based on a
foundation more lasting than mere affection, or any attractive qualities
which she might have found in him; on a sound, commercial interest; an
interest which would postpone for ever the fatal day on which she might
be tempted to bring their relations to an end. For the moment, while
he lavished presents upon her, and performed all manner of services,
he could rely on advantages not contained in his person, or in his
intellect, could forego the endless, killing effort to make himself
attractive. And this delight in being a lover, in living by love alone,
of the reality of which he was inclined to be doubtful, the price which,
in the long run, he must pay for it, as a dilettante in immaterial
sensations, enhanced its value in his eyes--as one sees people who are
doubtful whether the sight of the sea and the sound of its waves are
really enjoyable, become convinced that they are, as also of the rare
quality and absolute detachment of their own taste, when they have
agreed to pay several pounds a day for a room in an hotel, from which
that sight and that sound may be enjoyed.
One day, when reflections of this order had brought him once again to
the memory of the time when some one had spoken to him of Odette as of
a 'kept' woman, and when, once again, he had amused himself with
contrasting that strange personification, the 'kept' woman--an
iridescent mixture of unknown and demoniacal qualities, embroidered,
as in some fantasy of Gustave Moreau, with poison-dripping flowers,
interwoven with precious jewels--with that Odette upon whose face he
had watched the passage of the same expressions of pity for a sufferer,
resentment of an act of injustice, gratitude for an act of kindness,
which he had seen, in earlier days, on his own mother's face, and on
the faces of friends; that Odette, whose conversation had so frequently
turned on the things that he himself knew better than anyone, his
collections, his room, his old servant, his banker, who kept all his
title-deeds and bonds;--the thought of the banker reminded him that he
must call on him shortly, to draw some money. And indeed, if, during the
current month, he were to come less liberally to the aid of Odette in
her financial difficulties than in the month before, when he had given
her five thousand francs, if he refrained from offering her a diamond
necklace for which she longed, he would be allowing her admiration for
his generosity to decline, that gratitude which had made him so happy,
and would even be running the risk of her imagining that his love
for her (as she saw its visible manifestations grow fewer) had itself
diminished. And then, suddenly, he asked himself whether that was not
precisely what was implied by 'keeping' a woman (as if, in fact, that
idea of 'keeping' could be derived from elements not at all mysterious
nor perverse, but belonging to the intimate routine of his daily life,
such as that thousand-franc note, a familiar and domestic object, torn
in places and mended with gummed paper, which his valet, after paying
the household accounts and the rent, had locked up in a drawer in
the old writing-desk whence he had extracted it to send it, with four
others, to Odette) and whether it was not possible to apply to Odette,
since he had known her (for he never imagined for a moment that she
could ever have taken a penny from anyone else, before), that title,
which he had believed so wholly inapplicable to her, of 'kept' woman. He
could not explore the idea further, for a sudden access of that mental
lethargy which was, with him, congenital, intermittent and providential,
happened, at that moment, to extinguish every particle of light in his
brain, as instantaneously as, at a later period, when electric lighting
had been everywhere installed, it became possible, merely by fingering
a switch, to cut off all the supply of light from a house. His mind
fumbled, for a moment, in the darkness, he took off his spectacles,
wiped the glasses, passed his hands over his eyes, but saw no light
until he found himself face to face with a wholly different idea, the
realisation that he must endeavour, in the coming month, to send Odette
six or seven thousand-franc notes instead of five, simply as a surprise
for her and to give her pleasure.
In the evening, when he did not stay at home until it was time to meet
Odette at the Verdurins', or rather at one of the open-air restaurants
which they liked to frequent in the Bois and especially at Saint-Cloud,
he would go to dine in one of those fashionable houses in which, at one
time, he had been a constant guest. He did not wish to lose touch with
people who, for all that he knew, might be of use, some day, to Odette,
and thanks to whom he was often, in the meantime, able to procure for
her some privilege or pleasure. Besides, he had been used for so long to
the refinement and comfort of good society that, side by side with his
contempt, there had grown up also a desperate need for it, with the
result that, when he had reached the point after which the humblest
lodgings appeared to him as precisely on a par with the most princely
mansions, his senses were so thoroughly accustomed to the latter that he
could not enter the former without a feeling of acute discomfort. He
had the same regard--to a degree of identity which they would never have
suspected--for the little families with small incomes who asked him to
dances in their flats ("straight upstairs to the fifth floor, and the
door on the left") as for the Princesse de Parme, who gave the most
splendid parties in Paris; but he had not the feeling of being actually
'at the ball' when he found himself herded with the fathers of families
in the bedroom of the lady of the house, while the spectacle of
wash-hand-stands covered over with towels, and of beds converted into
cloak-rooms, with a mass of hats and great-coats sprawling over their