The Modern Library In Search of Lost Time, Complete and Unabridged : 6-Book Bundle (59 page)

One day, during the longest period of calm through which he had yet been able to exist without being overtaken by an access of jealousy, he had accepted an invitation to spend the evening at the theatre with the Princesse des Laumes. Having opened his newspaper to find out what was being played, the sight of the title—
Les Filles de Marbre
, by Théodore Barrière—struck him so cruel a blow that he recoiled instinctively and turned his head away. Lit up as though by a row of footlights, in the new surroundings in which it now appeared, the word “marble,” which he had lost the power to distinguish, so accustomed was he to see it passing in print beneath his eyes, had suddenly become visible again, and had at once brought back to his mind the story which Odette had told him long ago of a visit which she had paid to the Salon at the Palais de l’Industrie with Mme Verdurin, who had said to her, “Take care, now! I know how to melt you, all right. You’re not made of marble.” Odette had assured him that it was only a joke, and he had attached no importance to it at the time. But he had had more confidence in her then than he had now. And the anonymous letter referred explicitly to relations of that sort. Without daring to lift his eyes towards the newspaper, he opened it, turned the page so as not to see again the words
Filles de Marbre
, and began to read mechanically the news from
the provinces. There had been a storm in the Channel, and damage was reported from Dieppe, Cabourg, Beuzeval … Suddenly he recoiled again in horror.

The name Beuzeval had reminded him of another place in the same area, Beuzeville, which carried also, bound to it by a hyphen, a second name, to wit Bréauté, which he had often seen on maps, but without ever previously remarking that it was the same as that of his friend M. de Bréauté, whom the anonymous letter accused of having been Odette’s lover. After all, in the case of M. de Bréauté, there was nothing improbable in the charge; but so far as Mme Verdurin was concerned, it was a sheer impossibility. From the fact that Odette occasionally told a lie there was no reason to conclude that she never told the truth, and in those remarks she had exchanged with Mme Verdurin and which she herself had repeated to Swann, he had recognised the meaningless and dangerous jokes which, from inexperience of life and ignorance of vice, are often made by women whose very innocence is revealed thereby and who—as for instance Odette—are least likely to cherish impassioned feelings for another of their sex. Whereas the indignation with which she had rejected the suspicions which for a moment she had unintentionally aroused in his mind by her story fitted in with everything that he knew of the tastes and the temperament of his mistress. But now, by one of those inspirations of jealousy analogous to the inspiration which reveals to a poet or a philosopher, who has nothing, so far, to go on but an odd pair of rhymes or a detached observation, the idea or the natural law which will give him the power he needs, Swann recalled for the first time an observation which Odette had made to him at least two
years before: “Oh, Mme Verdurin, she won’t hear of anyone just now but me. I’m a ‘love,’ if you please, and she kisses me, and wants me to go with her everywhere, and call her
tu
.” So far from seeing at the time in this observation any connexion with the absurd remarks intended to simulate vice which Odette had reported to him, he had welcomed them as a proof of Mme Verdurin’s warmhearted and generous friendship. But now this memory of her affection for Odette had coalesced suddenly with the memory of her unseemly conversation. He could no longer separate them in his mind, and he saw them assimilated in reality, the affection imparting a certain seriousness and importance to the pleasantries which, in return, robbed the affection of its innocence. He went to see Odette. He sat down at a distance from her. He did not dare to embrace her, not knowing whether it would be affection or anger that a kiss would provoke, either in her or in himself. He sat there silent, watching their love expire. Suddenly he made up his mind.

“Odette, my darling,” he began, “I know I’m being simply odious, but I must ask you a few questions. You remember the idea I once had about you and Mme Verdurin? Tell me, was it true, with her or with anyone else?”

She shook her head, pursing her lips, a sign which people commonly employ to signify that they are not going, because it would bore them to go, when someone has asked, “Are you coming to watch the procession go by?”, or “Will you be at the review?”. But this shake of the head thus normally applied to an event that has yet to come, imparts for that reason an element of uncertainty to the denial of an event that is past. Furthermore, it suggests
reasons of personal propriety only, rather than of disapprobation or moral impossibility. When he saw Odette thus signal to him that the insinuation was false, Swann realised that it was quite possibly true.

“I’ve told you, no. You know quite well,” she added, seeming angry and uncomfortable.

“Yes, I know, but are you quite sure? Don’t say to me, ‘You know quite well’; say, ‘I have never done anything of that sort with any woman.’ ”

She repeated his words like a lesson learned by rote, in a sarcastic tone, and as though she hoped thereby to be rid of him: “I have never done anything of that sort with any woman.”

“Can you swear to me on the medal of Our Lady of Laghet?”

Swann knew that Odette would never perjure herself on that.

“Oh, you do make me so miserable,” she cried, with a jerk of her body as though to shake herself free of the constraint of his question. “Haven’t you had enough? What’s the matter with you today? You seem determined to make me hate you. I wanted to be friends with you again, for us to have a nice time together, like the old days; and this is all the thanks I get!”

However, he would not let her go but sat there like a surgeon waiting for a spasm to subside that has interrupted his operation but will not make him abandon it.

“You’re quite wrong to suppose that I’d bear you the least ill-will in the world, Odette,” he said to her with a persuasive and deceitful gentleness. “I never speak to you except of what I already know, and I always know a great deal more than I say. But you alone can mitigate by your
confession what makes me hate you so long as it has been reported to me only by other people. My anger with you has nothing to do with your actions—I can and do forgive you everything because I love you—but with your untruthfulness, the ridiculous untruthfulness which makes you persist in denying things which I know to be true. How can you expect me to go on loving you when I see you maintain, when I hear you swear to me a thing which I know to be false? Odette, don’t prolong this moment which is agony for us both. If you want to, you can end it in a second, you’ll be free of it for ever. Tell me, on your medal, yes or no, whether you have ever done these things.”

“How on earth do I know?” she exclaimed angrily. “Perhaps I have, ever so long ago, when I didn’t know what I was doing, perhaps two or three times.”

Swann had prepared himself for every possibility. Reality must therefore be something that bears no relation to possibilities, any more than the stab of a knife in one’s body bears to the gradual movement of the clouds overhead, since those words, “two or three times,” carved as it were a cross upon the living tissues of his heart. Strange indeed that those words, “two or three times,” nothing more than words, words uttered in the air, at a distance, could so lacerate a man’s heart, as if they had actually pierced it, could make a man ill, like a poison he has drunk. Instinctively Swann thought of the remark he had heard at Mme de Saint-Euverte’s: “I’ve never seen anything to beat it since the table-turning.” The agony that he now suffered in no way resembled what he had supposed. Not only because, even in his moments of most complete distrust, he had rarely imagined such an extremity
of evil, but because, even when he did try to imagine this thing, it remained vague, uncertain, was not clothed in the particular horror which had sprung from the words “perhaps two or three times,” was not armed with that specific cruelty, as different from anything that he had known as a disease by which one is struck down for the first time. And yet this Odette from whom all this evil sprang was no less dear to him, was, on the contrary, more precious, as if, in proportion as his sufferings increased, the price of the sedative, of the antidote which this woman alone possessed, increased at the same time. He wanted to devote more care to her, as one tends a disease which one has suddenly discovered to be more serious. He wanted the horrible things which, she had told him, she had done “two or three times,” not to happen again. To ensure that, he must watch over Odette. People often say that, by pointing out to a man the faults of his mistress, you succeed only in strengthening his attachment to her, because he does not believe you; yet how much more if he does! But, Swann asked himself, how could he manage to protect her? He might perhaps be able to preserve her from the contamination of a particular woman, but there were hundreds of others; and he realised what madness had come over him when, on the evening when he had failed to find Odette at the Verdurins’, he had begun to desire the possession—as if that were ever possible—of another person. Happily for Swann, beneath the mass of new sufferings which had entered his soul like an invading horde, there lay a natural foundation, older, more placid, and silently industrious, like the cells of an injured organ which at once set to work to repair the damaged tissues, or the muscles of a
paralysed limb which tend to recover their former movements. These older, more autochthonous inhabitants of his soul absorbed all Swann’s strength, for a while, in that obscure task of reparation which gives one an illusory sense of repose during convalescence, or after an operation. This time it was not so much—as it ordinarily was—in Swann’s brain that this slackening of tension due to exhaustion took effect, it was rather in his heart. But all the things in life that have once existed tend to recur, and like a dying animal stirred once more by the throes of a convulsion which seemed to have ended, upon Swann’s heart, spared for a moment only, the same agony returned of its own accord to trace the same cross. He remembered those moonlit evenings, when, leaning back in the victoria that was taking him to the Rue La Pérouse, he would wallow voluptuously in the emotions of a man in love, oblivious of the poisoned fruit that such emotions must inevitably bear. But all those thoughts lasted for no more than a second, the time that it took him to press his hand to his heart, to draw breath again and to contrive to smile, in order to hide his torment. Already he had begun to put further questions. For his jealousy, which had taken more pains than any enemy would have done to strike him this savage blow, to make him forcibly acquainted with the most cruel suffering he had ever known, his jealousy was not satisfied that he had yet suffered enough, and sought to expose him to an even deeper wound. Thus, like an evil deity, his jealousy inspired Swann, driving him on towards his ruin. It was not his fault, but Odette’s alone, if at first his torment was not exacerbated.

“My darling,” he began again, “it’s all over now. Was it with anyone I know?”

“No, I swear it wasn’t. Besides, I think I exaggerated, I never really went as far as that.”

He smiled, and went on: “Just as you like. It doesn’t really matter, but it’s a pity that you can’t give me the name. If I were able to form an idea of the person it would prevent my ever thinking of her again. I say it for your sake, because then I shouldn’t bother you any more about it. It’s so calming to be able to form a clear picture of things in one’s mind. What is really terrible is what one can’t imagine. But you’ve been so sweet to me; I don’t want to tire you. I do thank you with all my heart for all the good that you’ve done me. I’ve quite finished now. Only one word more: how long ago?”

“Oh, Charles, can’t you see you’re killing me? It’s all so long ago. I’ve never given it a thought. Anyone would think you were positively trying to put those ideas into my head again. A lot of good that would do you!” she concluded, with unconscious stupidity but intentional malice.

“Oh, I only wanted to know whether it had been since I’ve known you. It’s only natural. Did it happen here? You can’t give me any particular evening, so that I can remind myself what I was doing at the time? You must realise that it’s not possible that you don’t remember with whom, Odette, my love.”

“But I don’t know; really, I don’t. I think it was in the Bois, one evening when you came to meet us on the Island. You’d been dining with the Princesse des Laumes,” she added, happy to be able to furnish him
with a precise detail which testified to her veracity. “There was a woman at the next table whom I hadn’t seen for ages. She said to me, ‘Come round behind the rock, there, and look at the moonlight on the water!’ At first I just yawned, and said, ‘No, I’m too tired, and I’m quite happy where I am.’ She assured me there’d never been any moonlight to touch it. ‘I’ve heard that tale before,’ I said to her. I knew quite well what she was after.”

Odette narrated this episode almost with a smile, either because it appeared to her to be quite natural, or because she thought she was thereby minimising its importance, or else so as not to appear humiliated. But, catching sight of Swann’s face, she changed her tone:

“You’re a fiend! You enjoy torturing me, making me tell you lies, just so that you’ll leave me in peace.”

This second blow was even more terrible for Swann than the first. Never had he supposed it to have been so recent an event, hidden from his eyes that had been too innocent to discern it, not in a past which he had never known, but in the course of evenings which he so well remembered, which he had lived through with Odette, of which he had supposed himself to have such an intimate, such an exhaustive knowledge, and which now assumed, retrospectively, an aspect of ugliness and deceit. In the midst of them, suddenly, a gaping chasm had opened: that moment on the island in the Bois de Boulogne. Without being intelligent, Odette had the charm of naturalness. She had recounted, she had acted the little scene with such simplicity that Swann, as he gasped for breath, could vividly see it: Odette yawning, the “rock, there,” … He could hear her answer—alas, how gaily—“I’ve heard that tale before!” He felt that she would tell him
nothing more that evening, that no further revelation was to be expected for the present. He was silent for a time, then said to her: