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
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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 con-
descended to use, said: "His reverence the Curé would be delighted, en-
chanted, if Mme. Octave is not resting just now, and could see him. His
reverence does not wish to disturb Mme. Octave. His reverence is down-
stairs; I told him to go into the parlour."
Had the truth been known, the Curé's visits gave my aunt no such ec-
static pleasure as Françoise supposed, and the air of jubilation with
which she felt bound to illuminate her face whenever she had to an-
nounce 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 distin-
guished visitors over his church (he had even planned to compile a his-
tory of the Parish of Com-bray), used to weary her with his endless ex-
planations, which, incidentally, never varied in the least degree. But
when his visit synchronized exactly with Eulalie's it became frankly dis-
tasteful to my aunt. She would have preferred to make the most of Eu-
lalie, 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 com-
mon sense, I ask you, to leave up windows which shut out all the day-
light, and even confuse the eyes by throwing patches of colour, to which
98
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 mar-
ried her cousin." (My grandmother, whose steady refusal to take any in-
terest 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 su-perb 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 dingi-
er 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
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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 Hèli-
er, 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 be-
come in Burgundy? Saint Eloi, nothing more nor less! The lady has be-
come 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 arrog-
ance 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 Com-
bray to be burned down, the original church, that was, which Théode-
bert, 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 act-
ive 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
100
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, cer-
tainly, 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 anoth-
er thing; you can see at the same time places which you are in 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 separ-
ated, 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 en-
livened my aunt and never offended her, for if it so happened that Eu-
lalie, when she took the money, looked a little less sulky than usual, my
aunt would remark afterwards, "I cannot think what has come over
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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 dis-
creetly 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 con-
spicuous 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 admir-
ing smile. But it was by no means the same thing if, for this princely ex-
change of courtesies, my aunt substituted mere charity, if her beneficiar-
ies 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 be-
lieved) on undeserving objects, she began to find that the presents she
herself received from my aunt were very tiny compared to the imaginary
102
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 cap-
ital 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 ap-
plication 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
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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 dis-
turbed 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 confine-
ment. Her pains were unbearable, and, as there was no midwife in Com-
bray, 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 breath-
ing, 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 terri-
fied 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 il-
lumined 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 know-
ing, 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
104
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 ap-
pearance, 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 be-
come the favourite theme for conversation, for pleasantries, for anec-
dotes 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, cordially, patriotically,
"Hurry up; there's no time to be lost; don't forget, it's Saturday!" while my aunt, gossiping with Françoise, and reflecting that the day would be
even longer than usual, would say, "You might cook them a nice bit of
veal, seeing that it's Saturday." If, at half-past ten, some one absent-
mindedly pulled out a watch and said, "I say, an hour-and-a-half still be-
fore luncheon," everyone else would be in ecstasies over being able to re-
tort at once: "Why, what are you thinking about? Have you for-gotten
that it's Saturday?" And a quarter of an hour later we would still be
laughing, and reminding ourselves to go up and tell aunt Léonie about
this absurd mistake, to amuse her. The very face of the sky appeared to
undergo a change. After luncheon the sun, conscious that it was
Saturday, would blaze an hour longer in the zenith, and when some one,
thinking that we were late in starting for our walk, said, "What, only two o'clock!" feeling the heavy throb go by him of the twin strokes from the
steeple of Saint-Hilaire (which as a rule passed no one at that hour upon
105
the highways, deserted for the midday meal or for the nap which follows
it, or on the banks of the bright and ever-flowing stream, which even the
angler had abandoned, and so slipped unaccompanied into the vacant
sky, where only a few loitering clouds remained to greet them) the
whole family would respond in chorus: "Why, you're forgetting; we had
luncheon an hour earlier; you know very well it's Saturday."
The surprise of a 'barbarian' (for so we