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To admit you to the 'little nucleus,' the 'little group,' the 'little clan' at the Verdurins', one condition sufficed, but that one was indispensable; you
must give tacit adherence to a Creed one of whose articles was that the
young pianist, whom Mme. Verdurin had taken under her patronage
that year, and of whom she said "Really, it oughtn't to be allowed, to
play Wagner as well as that!" left both Planté and Rubinstein 'sitting';
while Dr. Cottard was a more brilliant diagnostician than Potain. Each
'new recruit' whom the Verdurins failed to persuade that the evenings
spent by other people, in other houses than theirs, were as dull as ditch-
water, saw himself banished forthwith. Women being in this respect
more rebellious than men, more reluctant to lay aside all worldly curios-
ity and the desire to find out for themselves whether other drawing-
rooms might not sometimes be as entertaining, and the Verdurins feel-
ing, moreover, that this critical spirit and this demon of frivolity might,
by their contagion, prove fatal to the orthodoxy of the little church, they
had been obliged to expel, one after another, all those of the 'faithful'
who were of the female sex.
Apart from the doctor's young wife, they were reduced almost exclus-
ively that season (for all that Mme. Verdurin herself was a thoroughly
'good' woman, and came of a respectable middle-class family, excess-
ively rich and wholly undistinguished, with which she had gradually
and of her own accord severed all connection) to a young woman almost
of a 'certain class,' a Mme. de Crécy, whom Mme. Verdurin called by her
Christian name, Odette, and pronounced a 'love,' and to the pianist's
aunt, who looked as though she had, at one period, 'answered the bell':
ladies quite ignorant of the world, who in their social simplicity were so
easily led to believe that the Princesse de Sagan and the Duchesse de
Guermantes were obliged to pay large sums of money to other poor
wretches, in order to have anyone at their dinner-parties, that if some-
body had offered to procure them an invitation to the house of either of
those great dames, the old doorkeeper and the woman of 'easy virtue'
would have contemptuously declined.
The Verdurins never invited you to dinner; you had your 'place laid'
there. There was never any programme for the evening's entertainment.
The young pianist would play, but only if he felt inclined, for no one was
forced to do anything, and, as M. Verdurin used to say: "We're all friends here. Liberty Hall, you know!"
If the pianist suggested playing the Ride of the Valkyries, or the Pre-
lude to Tristan, Mme. Verdurin would protest, not that the music was
displeasing to her, but, on the contrary, that it made too violent an
180
impression. "Then you want me to have one of my headaches? You
know quite well, it's the same every time he plays that. I know what I'm
in for. Tomorrow, when I want to get up—nothing doing!" If he was not
going to play they talked, and one of the friends—usually the painter
who was in favour there that year—would "spin," as M. Verdurin put it,
"a damned funny yarn that made 'em all split with laughter," and especially Mme. Verdurin, for whom—so strong was her habit of taking liter-
ally the figurative accounts of her emotions—Dr. Cottard, who was then
just starting in general practice, would "really have to come one day and
set her jaw, which she had dislocated with laughing too much."
Evening dress was barred, because you were all 'good pals,' and didn't
want to look like the 'boring people' who were to be avoided like the
plague, and only asked to the big evenings, which were given as seldom
as possible, and then only if it would amuse the painter or make the mu-
sician better known. The rest of the time you were quite happy playing
charades and having supper in fancy dress, and there was no need to
mingle any strange element with the little 'clan.'
But just as the 'good pals' came to take a more and more prominent
place in Mme. Verdurin's life, so the 'bores,' the 'nuisances' grew to in-
clude everybody and everything that kept her friends away from her,
that made them sometimes plead 'previous engagements,' the mother of
one, the professional duties of another, the 'little place in the country' of a third. If Dr. Cottard felt bound to say good night as soon as they rose
from table, so as to go back to some patient who was seriously ill; "I don't know," Mme. Verdurin would say, "I'm sure it will do him far more good if you don't go disturbing him again this evening; he will have a good
night without you; to-morrow morning you can go round early and you
will find him cured." From the beginning of December it would make
her quite ill to think that the 'faithful' might fail her on Christmas and
New Year's Days. The pianist's aunt insisted that he must accompany
her, on the latter, to a family dinner at her mother's.
"You don't suppose she'll die, your mother," exclaimed Mme. Verdurin
bitterly, "if you don't have dinner with her on New Year's Day, like
people in the provinces!"
Her uneasiness was kindled again in Holy Week: "Now you, Doctor,
you're a sensible, broad-minded man; you'll come, of course, on Good
Friday, just like any other day?" she said to Cottard in the first year of the little 'nucleus,' in a loud and confident voice, as though there could be no
doubt of his answer. But she trembled as she waited for it, for if he did
not come she might find herself condemned to dine alone.
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"I shall come on Good Friday—to say good-bye to you, for we are go-
ing to spend the holidays in Auvergne."
"In Auvergne? To be eaten by fleas and all sorts of creatures! A fine lot
of good that will do you!" And after a solemn pause: "If you had only told us, we would have tried to get up a party, and all gone there together, comfortably."
And so, too, if one of the 'faithful' had a friend, or one of the ladies a
young man, who was liable, now and then, to make them miss an even-
ing, the Verdurins, who were not in the least afraid of a woman's having
a lover, provided that she had him in their company, loved him in their
company and did not prefer him to their company, would say: "Very
well, then, bring your friend along." And he would be put to the test, to
see whether he was willing to have no secrets from Mme. Verdurin,
whether he was susceptible of being enrolled in the 'little clan.' If he
failed to pass, the faithful one who had introduced him would be taken
on one side, and would be tactfully assisted to quarrel with the friend or
mistress. But if the test proved satisfactory, the newcomer would in turn
be numbered among the 'faithful.' And so when, in the course of this
same year, the courtesan told M. Verdurin that she had made the ac-
quaintance of such a charming gentleman, M. Swann, and hinted that he
would very much like to be allowed to come, M. Verdurin carried the re-
quest at once to his wife. He never formed an opinion on any subject un-
til she had formed hers, his special duty being to carry out her wishes
and those of the 'faithful' generally, which he did with boundless
ingenuity.
"My dear, Mme. de Crécy has something to say to you. She would like
to bring one of her friends here, a M. Swann. What do you say?"
"Why, as if anybody could refuse anything to a little piece of perfec-
tion like that. Be quiet; no one asked your opinion. I tell you that you are
a piece of perfection."
"Just as you like," replied Odette, in an affected tone, and then went on: "You know I'm not fishing for compliments."
"Very well; bring your friend, if he's nice."
Now there was no connection whatsoever between the 'little nucleus'
and the society which Swann frequented, and a purely worldly man
would have thought it hardly worth his while, when occupying so ex-
ceptional a position in the world, to seek an introduction to the Verdur-
ins. But Swann was so ardent a lover that, once he had got to know al-
most all the women of the aristocracy, once they had taught him all that
there was to learn, he had ceased to regard those naturalisation papers,
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almost a patent of nobility, which the Faubourg Saint-Germain had be-
stowed upon him, save as a sort of negotiable bond, a letter of credit
with no intrinsic value, which allowed him to improvise a status for him-
self in some little hole in the country, or in some obscure quarter of Paris,
where the good-looking daughter of a local squire or solicitor had taken
his fancy. For at such times desire, or love itself, would revive in him a
feeling of vanity from which he was now quite free in his everyday life,
although it was, no doubt, the same feeling which had originally promp-
ted him towards that career as a man of fashion in which he had
squandered his intellectual gifts upon frivolous amusements, and had
made use of his erudition in matters of art only to advise society ladies
what pictures to buy and how to decorate their houses; and this vanity it
was which made him eager to shine, in the sight of any fair unknown
who had captivated him for the moment, with a brilliance which the
name of Swann by itself did not emit. And he was most eager when the
fair unknown was in humble circumstances. Just as it is not by other men
of intelligence that an intelligent man is afraid of being thought a fool, so
it is not by the great gentleman but by boors and 'bounders' that a man
of fashion is afraid of finding his social value underrated. Three-fourths
of the mental ingenuity displayed, of the social falsehoods scattered
broadcast ever since the world began by people whose importance they
have served only to diminish, have been aimed at inferiors. And Swann,
who behaved quite simply and was at his ease when with a duchess,
would tremble^ for fear of being despised, and would instantly begin to
pose, were he to meet her grace's maid.
Unlike so many people, who, either from lack of energy or else from a
resigned sense of the obligation laid upon them by their social grandeur
to remain moored like houseboats to a certain point on the bank of the
stream of life, abstain from the pleasures which are offered to them
above and below that point, that degree in life in which they will remain
fixed until the day of their death, and are content, in the end, to describe
as pleasures, for want of any better, those mediocre distractions, that just
not intolerable tedium which is enclosed there with them; Swann would
endeavour not to find charm and beauty in the women with whom he
must pass time, but to pass his time among women whom he had
already found to be beautiful and charming. And these were, as often as
not, women whose beauty was of a distinctly 'common' type, for the
physical qualities which attracted him instinctively, and without reason,
were the direct opposite of those that he admired in the women painted
or sculptured by his favourite masters. Depth of character, or a
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melancholy expression on a woman's face would freeze his senses, which
would, however, immediately melt at the sight of healthy, abundant,
rosy human flesh.
If on his travels he met a family whom it would have been more cor-
rect for him to make no attempt to know, but among whom a woman
caught his eye, adorned with a special charm that was new to him, to re-
main on his 'high horse' and to cheat the desire that she had kindled in
him, to substitute a pleasure different from that which he might have
tasted in her company by writing to invite one of his former mistresses to
come and join him, would have seemed to him as cowardly an abdica-
tion in the face of life, as stupid a renunciation of a new form of happi-
ness as if, instead of visiting the country where he was, he had shut him-
self up in his own rooms and looked at 'views' of Paris. He did not im-
mure himself in the solid structure of his social relations, but had made
of them, so as to be able to set it up afresh upon new foundations
wherever a woman might take his fancy, one of those collapsible tents
which explorers carry about with them. Any part of it which was not
portable or could not be adapted to some fresh pleasure he would dis-
card as valueless, however enviable it might appear to others. How often
had his credit with a duchess, built up of the yearly accumulation of her
desire to do him some favour for which she had never found an oppor-
tunity, been squandered in a moment by his calling upon her, in an in-
discreetly worded message, for a recommendation by telegraph which
would put him in touch at once with one of her agents whose daughter
he had noticed in the country, just as a starving man might barter a dia-
mond for a crust of bread. Indeed, when it was too late, he would laugh
at himself for it, for there was in his nature, redeemed by many rare re-
finements, an element of clownishness. Then he belonged to that class of
intelligent men who have led a life of idleness, and who seek consolation
and, perhaps, an excuse in the idea, which their idleness offers to their
intelligence, of objects as worthy of their interest as any that could be at-
tained by art or learning, the idea that 'Life' contains situations more in-
teresting and more romantic than all the romances ever written. So, at
least, he would assure and had no difficulty in persuading the more
subtle among his friends in the fashionable world, notably the Baron de
Charlus, whom he liked to amuse with stories of the startling adventures
that had befallen him, such as when he had met a woman in the train,
and had taken her home with him, before discovering that she was the
sister of a reigning monarch, in whose hands were gathered, at that mo-
ment, all the threads of European politics, of which he found himself
184
kept informed in the most delightful fashion, or when, in the complexity
of circumstances, it depended upon the choice which the Conclave was
about to make whether he might or might not become the lover of
somebody's cook.
It was not only the brilliant phalanx of virtuous dowagers, generals
and academicians, to whom he was bound by such close ties, that Swann
compelled with so much cynicism to serve him as panders. All his
friends were accustomed to receive, from time to time, letters which
called on them for a word of recommendation or introduction, with a
diplomatic adroitness which, persisting throughout all his successive
'affairs' and using different pretexts, revealed more glaringly than the
clumsiest indiscretion, a permanent trait in his character and an unvary-
ing quest. I used often to recall to myself when, many years later, I began
to take an interest in his character because of the similarities which, in
wholly different respects, it offered to my own, how, when he used to
write to my grandfather (though not at the time we are now considering,
for it was about the date of my own birth that Swann's great 'affair'
began, and made a long interruption in his amatory practices) the latter,
recognising his friend's handwriting on the envelope, would exclaim:
"Here is Swann asking for something; on guard!" And, either from dis-
trust or from the unconscious spirit of devilry which urges us to offer a
thing only to those who do not want it, my grandparents would meet
with an obstinate refusal the most easily satisfied of his prayers, as when
he begged them for an introduction to a girl who dined with us every
Sunday, and whom they were obliged, whenever Swann mentioned her,
to pretend that they no longer saw, although they would be wondering,
all through the week, whom they could invite to meet her, and often
failed, in the end, to find anyone, sooner than make a sign to him who
would so gladly have accepted.
Occasionally a couple of my grandparents' acquaintance, who had
been complaining for some time that they never saw Swann now, would
announce with satisfaction, and perhaps with a slight inclination to make
my grandparents envious of them, that he had suddenly become as
charming as he could possibly be, and was never out of their house. My
grandfather would not care to shatter their pleasant illusion, but would
look at my grandmother, as he hummed the air of:
What is this mystery? I cannot understand it;
or of:
Vision fugitive… ; In matters such as this 'Tis best to close one's eyes.
185
A few months later, if my grandfather asked Swann's new friend
"What about Swann? Do you still see as much of him as ever?" the other's face would lengthen: "Never mention his name to me again!"
"But I thought that you were such friends… "
He had been intimate in this way for several months with some cous-
ins of my grandmother, dining almost every evening at their house. Sud-
denly, and without any warning, he ceased to appear. They supposed
him to be ill, and the lady of the house was going to send to inquire for
him when, in her kitchen, she found a letter in his hand, which her cook
had left by accident in the housekeeping book. In this he announced that
he was leaving Paris and would not be able to come to the house again.
The cook had been his mistress, and at the moment of breaking off rela-
tions she was the only one of the household whom he had thought it ne-
cessary to inform.
But when his mistress for the time being was a woman in society, or at
least one whose birth was not so lowly, nor her position so irregular that
he was unable to arrange for her reception in 'society,' then for her sake
he would return to it, but only to the particular orbit in which she moved
or into which he had drawn her. "No good depending on Swann for this
evening," people would say; "don't you remember, it's his American's
night at the Opera?" He would secure invitations for her to the most
exclusive drawing-rooms, to those houses where he himself went regu-
larly, for weekly dinners or for poker; every evening, after a slight 'wave'
imparted to his stiffly brushed red locks had tempered with a certain
softness the ardour of his bold green eyes, he would select a flower for
his buttonhole and set out to meet his mistress at the house of one or oth-
er of the women of his circle; and then, thinking of the affection and ad-
miration which the fashionable folk, whom he always treated exactly as
he pleased, would, when he met them there, lavish upon him in the pres-
ence of the woman whom he loved, he would find a fresh charm in that
worldly existence of which he had grown weary, but whose substance,
pervaded and warmly coloured by the flickering light which he had
slipped into its midst, seemed to him beautiful and rare, now that he had
incorporated in it a fresh love.
But while each of these attachments, each of these flirtations had been
the realisation, more or less complete, of a dream born of the sight of a
face or a form which Swann had spontaneously, and without effort on
his part, found charming, it was quite another matter when, one day at
the theatre, he was introduced to Odette de Crécy by an old friend of his
own, who had spoken of her to him as a ravishing creature with whom
186
he might very possibly come to an understanding; but had made her out
to be harder of conquest than she actually was, so as to appear to be con-
ferring a special favour by the introduction. She had struck Swann not,
certainly, as being devoid of beauty, but as endowed with a style of
beauty which left him indifferent, which aroused in him no desire, which
gave him, indeed, a sort of physical repulsion; as one of those women of
whom every man can name some, and each will name different ex-
amples, who are the converse of the type which our senses demand. To
give him any pleasure her profile was too sharp, her skin too delicate,
her cheek-bones too prominent, her features too tightly drawn. Her eyes
were fine, but so large that they seemed to be bending beneath their own
weight, strained the rest of her face and always made her appear unwell
or in an ill humour. Some time after this introduction at the theatre she
had written to ask Swann whether she might see his collections, which
would interest her so much, she, "an ignorant woman with a taste for
beautiful things," saying that she would know him better when once she
had seen him in his 'home,' where she imagined him to be "so comfort-
able with his tea and his books"; although she had not concealed her sur-
prise at his being in that part of the town, which must be so depressing,
and was "not nearly smart enough for such a very smart man." And
when he allowed her to come she had said to him as she left how sorry
she was to have stayed so short a time in a house into which she was so
glad to have found her way at last, speaking of him as though he had
meant something more to her than the rest of the people she knew, and
appearing to unite their two selves with a kind of romantic bond which
had made him smile. But at the time of life, tinged already with disen-
chantment, which Swann was approaching, when a man can content
himself with being in love for the pleasure of loving without expecting
too much in return, this linking of hearts, if it is no longer, as in early
youth, the goal towards which love, of necessity, tends, still is bound to
love by so strong an association of ideas that it may well become the
cause of love if it presents itself first. In his younger days a man dreams
of possessing the heart of the woman whom he loves; later, the feeling
that he possesses the heart of a woman may be enough to make him fall
in love with her. And 50, at an age when it would appear—since one
seeks in love before everything else a subjective pleasure—that the taste
for feminine beauty must play the larger part in its procreation, love may
come into being, love of the most physical order, without any foundation
in desire. At this time of life a man has already been wounded more than
once by the darts of love; it no longer evolves by itself, obeying its own
187
incomprehensible and fatal laws, before his passive and astonished
heart. We come to its aid; we falsify it by memory and by suggestion; re-
cognising one of its symptoms we recall and recreate the rest. Since we
possess its hymn, engraved on our hearts in its entirety, there is no need
of any woman to repeat the opening lines, potent with the admiration
which her beauty inspires, for us to remember all that follows. And if she
begin in the middle, where it sings of our existing, henceforward, for one
another only, we are well enough attuned to that music to be able to take
it up and follow our partner, without hesitation, at the first pause in her
voice.
Odette de Crécy came again to see Swann; her visits grew more fre-
quent, and doubtless each visit revived the sense of disappointment
which he felt at the sight of a face whose details he had somewhat for-
gotten in the interval, not remembering it as either so expressive or, in
spite of her youth, so faded; he used to regret, while she was talking to
him, that her really considerable beauty was not of the kind which he
spontaneously admired. It must be remarked that Odette's face appeared
thinner and more prominent than it actually was, because her forehead
and the upper part of her cheeks, a single and almost plane surface, were
covered by the masses of hair which women wore at that period, drawn
forward in a fringe, raised in crimped waves and falling in stray locks
over her ears; while as for her figure, and she was admirably built, it was
impossible to make out its continuity (on account of the fashion then pre-
vailing, and in spite of her being one of the best-dressed women in Paris)
for the corset, jetting forwards in an arch, as though over an imaginary
stomach, and ending in a sharp point, beneath which bulged out the bal-
loon of her double skirts, gave a woman, that year, the appearance of be-
ing composed of different sections badly fitted together; to such an ex-
tent did the frills, the flounces, the inner bodice follow, in complete inde-
pendence, controlled only by the fancy of their designer or the rigidity of