In Search of Lost Time (42 page)

At the very beginning of the meal, when M. de Forcheville, placed to the right of Mme Verdurin, who had gone to great trouble over her appearance so as to please the ‘newcomer', said to her: ‘Quite original, that white dress,' the doctor, who had been steadily observing him, so curious was he to find out what sort of man a ‘de', as he termed it, would be, and who was looking for a chance of attracting his attention and entering into closer contact with him, seized on the word ‘
blanche
' and, without lifting his nose from his plate, said: ‘
blanche
? Blanche de Castille?',
⁴⁸
then, without moving his head, cast his eyes furtively to the right and left with an uncertain, smiling look. Whereas Swann, with his painful and useless attempt at a smile, revealed how stupid he thought the pun was, Forcheville had shown both that he relished its subtlety and that he had good manners, by containing within judicious limits a gaiety whose frankness had charmed Mme Verdurin.

– What do you make of our man of science? she had asked Forcheville. It's impossible to have even two minutes of serious conversation with him. Is that the sort of thing you say to them at your hospital?' she had added, turning to the doctor. ‘It must be rather lively there, if that's the case. I see I'll have to get them to admit me as a patient.

–I think I heard the doctor talking about that old termagant, Blanche de Castille, if I dare express myself that way. Am I correct, Madame? Brichot asked Mme Verdurin, who, swooning with laughter, her eyes shut, plunged her face into her hands, from which stifled cries escaped. My God, Madame, I wouldn't want to alarm whatever respectful souls there may be at this table,
sub rosa
… And I realize that our ineffable republic, Athenian as it is – how very much so! – might pay homage to that obscurantist Capetian lady as the first police prefect with any energy at all. Yes indeed, my dear host, yes indeed, yes indeed, he went on in his sonorous voice, detaching each syllable, in response to an objection of M. Verdurin's. The
Chronique de Saint-Denis
, whose facts are incontestably reliable, leaves no doubt about this. No better choice of patron could have been made by a secularized proletariat than that mother of a saint to whom, incidentally, she gave a pretty rough time, as we are told by Suger and other Saint Bernards;
⁴⁹
for with her everyone got hauled over the coals.

– Who is this gentleman? Forcheville asked Mme Verdurin. He seems first-rate.

– What? You haven't heard of the famous Brichot? Why, he's celebrated all over Europe.

– Oh! So that's Bréchot! cried Forcheville, who had not heard the name clearly. You must tell me all about him, he added, staring wide-eyed at the famous man. It's always interesting to have dinner with a prominent person. But I must say, you certainly give your guests some choice dinner-mates. No one's likely to get bored in your house.

– Oh, you know, the most important thing, Mme Verdurin said modestly, is that they know they can trust us. They can talk about whatever they like, and the conversation is off and running. For instance, now, take Brichot. This is nothing: I've seen him, you know, when he's been absolutely dazzling here in my house, you feel you ought to go down on your knees in front of him. Well, now, at other people's houses, he's not the same man, he hasn't a scrap of wit, you have to force the words out of him, he's actually boring.

– How odd! said Forcheville, surprised.

A wit like Brichot's would have been considered pure stupidity by
the people among whom Swann had spent his youth, even though it might be compatible with real intelligence. And the professor's intelligence, vigorous and well nourished, probably would have been envied by many of the society people whom Swann considered witty. But those people had inculcated him so thoroughly with their own likes and dislikes, at least concerning anything to do with society life, including even that annexed part of it which should, instead, belong to the domain of intelligence – namely, conversation – that Swann could only find Brichot's jokes pedantic, vulgar and sickeningly coarse. Then, too, being so accustomed to good manners, he was shocked by the rough military tone affected, each time he addressed anyone, by the jingoistic academic. Finally, perhaps he had lost some of his indulgence that evening in particular, seeing the friendliness Mme Verdurin displayed towards this man Forcheville whom Odette had had the singular idea of bringing. A little ill at ease with Swann, she had asked him when she arrived:

– What do you think of my guest?

And he, realizing for the first time that Forcheville, whom he had known for a long time, might be attractive to a woman and was a rather handsome man, had answered: ‘Disgusting!' Of course, it did not occur to him to be jealous of Odette, but he did not feel as happy as usual and when Brichot, having begun to tell the story of Blanche de Castille's mother, who ‘had been with Henry Plantagenet
⁵⁰
for years before she married him', tried to prompt Swann to ask him what happened next by saying to him: ‘Isn't that so, Monsieur Swann?' in the martial tone one adopts to make oneself understood by a peasant or instil courage in a soldier, Swann spoiled Brichot's effect, to the fury of their hostess, by answering that they must please excuse him for being so uninterested in Blanche de Castille, but he had something to ask the painter. That afternoon, in fact, the latter had gone to see the show of a friend of Mme Verdurin's, an artist who had died recently, and Swann wanted to find out from him (for he respected his taste) if there really was even more in these last works than the virtuosity that was already so astounding in the earlier ones.

– In that respect it was extraordinary, but it didn't seem to me to be an art that was, as they say, all that ‘elevated', said Swann, smiling.

– Elevated… to the height of an institution, interrupted Cottard, lifting his arms with mock gravity.

The whole table burst out laughing.

– Didn't I tell you? He won't allow anyone to be serious, said Mme Verdurin to Forcheville. Just when you least expect it, he comes out with a pun.

But she noticed that Swann alone had not brightened up. What was more, he was not very pleased that Cottard had made fun of him in front of Forcheville. But the painter, instead of answering Swann in an interesting way, which he probably would have done if he had been alone with him, preferred to win the admiration of the guests by contributing a little set piece on the skill of the deceased master.

– I went up to one of them, he said, just to see how it was done. I stuck my nose into it. Well! Gospel truth! Impossible to say whether it was done with glue, or rubies, or soap, or sunshine, or leaven, or bronze, or caca!

– And one makes twelve, cried the doctor, too late, so that no one understood his interruption.

– The thing looked as though it were made with nothing at all, the painter went on; absolutely no way of discovering the trick, any more than in
La Ronde de Nuit
or
Les Régentes
, and the brushwork is even stronger than Rembrandt or Hals.
⁵¹
It's got everything in it – no, I swear.

And just as singers who have reached the highest note they can sing continue in falsetto, softly, he confined himself to murmuring, and smiling, as if in fact the painting had been absurdly beautiful:

– It smells good, it goes to your head, it takes your breath away, it tickles you, and you haven't a hope of knowing what it's made with, it's some kind of sorcery, it's a trick, it's a miracle (bursting fully into laughter): it's dishonest!' And stopping, gravely lifting his head, adopting a deep bass note which he tried to make harmonious, he added: ‘and it's so loyal!'

Except at the moment when he had said: ‘stronger than
La Ronde de Nuit
', a blasphemy that had provoked a protest from Mme Verdurin, who considered
La Ronde de Nuit
the greatest masterpiece in the world
along with the
Ninth
and the
Winged Victory
,
⁵²
and at ‘made with caca', which had caused Forcheville to cast a circular glance at the table to see if the word was acceptable and had then brought to his mouth a prudish and conciliatory smile, all the guests except for Swann had fastened their eyes on the painter with gazes hypnotized by admiration.

– How he amuses me when he gets carried away like that, cried Mme Verdurin when he was finished, delighted that the table was so interesting on the very day when M. de Forcheville had come for the first time. And what about you, what's the matter with you, letting your mouth hang open that way like some great dog? she said to her husband. You know very well how he can talk; it's as if my husband had never heard you before. If only you could have seen the way he looked while you were talking, he was drinking you in. And tomorrow he'll repeat everything you said without losing a word.

– But it's no joke, said the painter, enchanted with his success, you seem to think I'm giving you a sales-talk, you think it's all a sham; I'll take you there to see for yourself, then you'll decide whether I'm exaggerating. I'll bet your boots you'll come back even more enthusiastic than I was!

– But we don't think you're exaggerating, we just want you to eat your dinner, and we want my husband to eat too; give Monsieur some more sole normande, you can see that his is cold. We're not in such a hurry as all that, you're serving as if the house were on fire, now wait a little before you bring in the salad.

Mme Cottard, who was modest and did not talk much, did not lack self-assurance when a happy inspiration caused her to hit upon a suitable remark. She felt that it would have some success, this gave her confidence, and what she did with it was not so much in order to shine as to be useful to her husband's career. And so she did not allow the word ‘salad' to escape after it was spoken by Mme Verdurin.

– That wouldn't be Japanese salad, would it? she said softly, turning to Odette.

And delighted and abashed by the appropriateness and boldness of making this allusion, so discreet, yet so clear, to Dumas's astonishing new play,
⁵³
she burst into the charming laughter of a naïf, not very
noisy, but so irresistible that for a few moments she could not control it. ‘Who is that lady? She's a lively one,' said Forcheville.

– No, it's not, but we'll have some for you if you'll all come to dine with us on Friday.

– I'm going to seem very provincial to you, Monsieur, said Mme Cottard to Swann, but I haven't yet seen the famous
Francillon
everyone's talking about. The doctor has already gone (I even recall that he told me he had the very great pleasure of spending the evening with you) and I confess that I didn't find it quite reasonable that he should pay for seats to go again with me. Obviously, at the Théâtre-Français, one never regrets one's evening, it's always well acted, but as we have very nice friends (Mme Cottard rarely uttered a proper name and simply referred to ‘some friends of ours' or ‘one of my friends', because it was more ‘distinguished', speaking in an artificial tone and with the air of importance of a person who names only those she chooses to) who often have a box and are kind enough to take us to all the new productions that are worth going to, I'm certain to see
Francillon
sooner or later, and then I can form an opinion for myself. Yet I must confess I find I'm a bit embarrassed, for in every drawing-room I visit, naturally the only thing they're talking about is that wretched Japanese salad. One even begins to be a little tired of it, she added, seeing that Swann did not seem as interested as she would have thought in so burning a current event. I must admit, though, that it sometimes provides an excuse for some rather amusing notions. For instance, I have a friend who's most original, though she's a very pretty woman, very popular, very sought-after, who claims she got her cook to make that Japanese salad at her house, putting in everything that Alexandre Dumas
fils
says to in the play. She invited some friends to come and eat it. Unfortunately I wasn't one of the elect. But she told us about it at her next ‘at-home'; apparently it was quite horrible, she made us laugh till we cried. But you know, it's all in the way you tell it, she said, seeing that Swann still looked grave.

And imagining that it was perhaps because he did not like
Francillon
:

– Anyway, I think I'll be disappointed. I don't think it's as good as
Serge Panine
, which Mme de Crécy worships so. In that one, at least,
there are deep things that make you think; but to give a recipe for salad on the stage of the Théâtre-Français! Whereas
Serge Panine
! But then, it's like everything that comes from Georges Ohnet's pen, it's always so well written. I don't know if you know
Le Maître de Forges
, which I like even better than
Serge Panine
.

– Forgive me, Swann said to her with irony, but I confess that my lack of admiration is almost equally divided between the two masterpieces.

– Really, what have you got against them? Are you sure you aren't prejudiced? Do you think perhaps they're a little dreary? Anyway, as I always say, one should never argue about novels or plays. Everyone has his own way of looking at things and what you find detestable may be the very thing I like best.

She was interrupted by Forcheville addressing Swann. In fact, while Mme Cottard was talking about
Francillon
, Forcheville had told Mme Verdurin how much he admired what he called the painter's little ‘
speech
'.
⁵⁴

– The gentleman has a facility for speaking, a memory, he had said to Mme Verdurin when the painter was finished, such as I have rarely encountered! By my bootlaces! I'd love to have such a gift. He would make an excellent preacher. One may say that with him and M. Bréchot, you have two real characters, one as good as the other, though for gift of the gab I'm not even sure this one would not in fact spike the professor's guns. It comes out more naturally, it's less studied. Although now and then he does use words that are a bit on the vulgar side, but that's the thing to do nowadays. It's not often that I've seen anyone hold the floor so cleverly – ‘hold the spittoon', as we used to say in the regiment, and come to think of it, it was in the regiment that I had a friend the gentleman rather reminded me of. Apropos of anything, I don't know what, this glass, for instance, he could rattle on for hours; no, not about this glass, that's a silly thing to say; but about the Battle of Waterloo, anything you like, and he would throw in things you never would have thought of. Why, Swann was in the same regiment; he must have known him.