I heard the footsteps of my family, who accompanied Swann; and when the bell at the gate signaled he’d just left, I went to the window. Maman asked my father if he’d thought the lobster was good and if Monsieur Swann had taken second helpings of the coffee-and-pistachio ice. “I found the ice rather lackluster,” said my mother; “I think next time we’d better try a different flavor.”
“I cannot get over how much Swann has changed,” said my great aunt; “he’s an old man now!” She was so used to still thinking of Swann as a youth, she was shocked to suddenly notice he was not as young as the age she’d continued to ascribe to him.
And the others, moreover, were starting to find this oldness of Swann’s abnormal, excessive, shameful, the comeuppance of bachelors, the sort of people for whom the great day that has no tomorrow seems to last longer than for the rest of us, because for them it is empty and its moments accumulate from its dawning without being divided among children. “I think he must have a lot on his mind with his hussy of a wife, whom all of Combray knows is living with a certain Monsieur de Charlus. It’s the talk of the town.” My mother said nonetheless Swann had seemed much less sad for quite some time. “He also does less of that gesture just like his father’s, wiping his eyes and passing his hand over his forehead. Personally, I think deep down he doesn’t love this woman anymore.”
“Well, naturally he doesn’t love her anymore,” said my grandfather. “I received a letter from him on that subject quite a long while back, one I took care not to answer, and it left no doubt about his feelings for his wife, at least when it comes to love. Say!” he added, turning to his two sisters-in-law. “You two didn’t thank him for the Asti.”
“What do you mean, we didn’t thank him? I think, if I do say so myself, that I got it across to him quite smoothly,” said my aunt Flora.
“Yes, you managed that very well; I was impressed,” said my aunt Céline.
“But you did very well, too.”
“Yes, I was quite proud of my comment about friendly neighbors.”
“Wait, all that nonsense is what you call thanking him?” said my grandfather. “I heard every word of it, but devil take me if I knew it was directed at Swann. Rest assured he didn’t understand you at all.”
“Now, see here, Swann isn’t stupid, I’m sure he understood just fine. And it’s not as if I can just recite to him the number of bottles and the price of wine!”
My father and my mother stayed on alone and sat down a moment; then my father said: “Well! If you like, we can go up to bed.”
“You do as you like, my dear, but I’m not feeling sleepy yet; it can’t be that weak coffee ice cream that’s keeping me so awake; but I see some light in the servants’ hall, and since poor Francoise waited up for me, I’m going to ask her to unfasten my bodice while you go get undressed.”
And my mother opened the trellised door to the vestibule that led to the stairway. Soon enough I heard her climbing up to close her window. I went silently into the hallway; my heart was beating so hard I had trouble moving forward, but at least it was no longer beating with anxiety, but with dread and joy. I saw in the stairwell the light projected by Maman’s candle. Then I saw her; I threw myself at her. At first she looked at me shocked, not understanding what was happening. Then her face took on an expression of anger; she didn’t say a single word to me, and actually, back then my family would go several days without speaking to me, for much less cause than this. If Maman had said a word to me, it would have meant everyone could speak to me again, and perhaps that would have seemed even more terrible, a sign that the punishment to come was so severe, mere silence and estrangement would have been petty. One word would have been the false calm with which one addresses a servant about to be dismissed, or the kiss one gives a son about to be shipped off, when he’d have been refused it if his family were only angry with him for a couple of days.
But Maman heard my father coming up from the dressing room, where he’d gone to change, and to prevent the scene he’d make, she told me in a voice cut through with anger: “Run, run, so at least your father doesn’t see you waiting here like a lunatic!” But I kept saying, “Come tell me good night,” terrified at seeing the light of my father’s candle already rising along the wall. but also using his approach as a means of blackmail, hoping Maman, to avoid my father finding me there if she continued to refuse, would say to me: “Go back to your room and I’ll come.” It was too late; my father was there before us. Without meaning to, I muttered some words which nobody heard: “I’m doomed.”
☙
J’entendis les pas de mes parents qui accompagnaient Swann; et quand le grelot de la porte m’eut averti qu’il venait de partir, j’allai à la fenêtre. Maman demandait à mon père s’il avait trouvé la langouste bonne et si M. Swann avait repris de la glace au café et à la pistache. «Je l’ai trouvée bien quelconque, dit ma mère; je crois que la prochaine fois il faudra essayer d’un autre parfum.» «Je ne peux pas dire comme je trouve que Swann change, dit ma grand’tante, il est d’un vieux!» Ma grand’tante avait tellement l’habitude de voir toujours en Swann un même adolescent, qu’elle s’étonnait de le trouver tout à coup moins jeune que l’âge qu’elle continuait à lui donner. Et mes parents du reste commençaient à lui trouver cette vieillesse anormale, excessive, honteuse et méritée des célibataires, de tous ceux pour qui il semble que le grand jour qui n’a pas de lendemain soit plus long que pour les autres, parce que pour eux il est vide et que les moments s’y additionnent depuis le matin sans se diviser ensuite entre des enfants. «Je crois qu’il a beaucoup de soucis avec sa coquine de femme qui vit au su de tout Combray avec un certain monsieur de Charlus. C’est la fable de la ville.» Ma mère fit remarquer qu’il avait pourtant l’air bien moins triste depuis quelque temps. «Il fait aussi moins souvent ce geste qu’il a tout à fait comme son père de s’essuyer les yeux et de se passer la main sur le front. Moi je crois qu’au fond il n’aime plus cette femme.» «Mais naturellement il ne l’aime plus, répondit mon grand-père. J’ai reçu de lui il y a déjà longtemps une lettre à ce sujet, à laquelle je me suis empressé de ne pas me conformer, et qui ne laisse aucun doute sur ses sentiments au moins d’amour, pour sa femme. Hé bien! vous voyez, vous ne l’avez pas remercié pour l’Asti», ajouta mon grand-père en se tournant vers ses deux belles-sœurs. «Comment, nous ne l’avons pas remercié? je crois, entre nous, que je lui ai même tourné cela assez délicatement», répondit ma tante Flora. «Oui, tu as très bien arrangé cela: je t’ai admirée», dit ma tante Céline. «Mais toi tu as été très bien aussi.» «Oui j’étais assez fière de ma phrase sur les voisins aimables.» «Comment, c’est cela que vous appelez remercier! s’écria mon grand-père. J’ai bien entendu cela, mais du diable si j’ai cru que c’était pour Swann. Vous pouvez être sûres qu’il n’a rien compris.» «Mais voyons, Swann n’est pas bête, je suis certaine qu’il a apprécié. Je ne pouvais cependant pas lui dire le nombre de bouteilles et le prix du vin!» Mon père et ma mère restèrent seuls, et s’assirent un instant; puis mon père dit: «Hé bien! si tu veux, nous allons monter nous coucher.» «Si tu veux, mon ami, bien que je n’aie pas l’ombre de sommeil; ce n’est pas cette glace au café si anodine qui a pu pourtant me tenir si éveillée; mais j’aperçois de la lumière dans l’office et puisque la pauvre Françoise m’a attendue, je vais lui demander de dégrafer mon corsage pendant que tu vas te déshabiller.» Et ma mère ouvrit la porte treillagée du vestibule qui donnait sur l’escalier. Bientôt, je l’entendis qui montait fermer sa fenêtre. J’allai sans bruit dans le couloir; mon cœur battait si fort que j’avais de la peine à avancer, mais du moins il ne battait plus d’anxiété, mais d’épouvante et de joie. Je vis dans la cage de l’escalier la lumière projetée par la bougie de maman. Puis je la vis elle-même; je m’élançai. À la première seconde, elle me regarda avec étonnement, ne comprenant pas ce qui était arrivé. Puis sa figure prit une expression de colère, elle ne me disait même pas un mot, et en effet pour bien moins que cela on ne m’adressait plus la parole pendant plusieurs jours. Si maman m’avait dit un mot, ç’aurait été admettre qu’on pouvait me reparler et d’ailleurs cela peut-être m’eût paru plus terrible encore, comme un signe que devant la gravité du châtiment qui allait se préparer, le silence, la brouille, eussent été puérils. Une parole c’eût été le calme avec lequel on répond à un domestique quand on vient de décider de le renvoyer; le baiser qu’on donne à un fils qu’on envoie s’engager alors qu’on le lui aurait refusé si on devait se contenter d’être fâché deux jours avec lui. Mais elle entendit mon père qui montait du cabinet de toilette où il était allé se déshabiller et pour éviter la scène qu’il me ferait, elle me dit d’une voix entrecoupée par la colère: «Sauve-toi, sauve-toi, qu’au moins ton père ne t’ait vu ainsi attendant comme un fou!» Mais je lui répétais: «Viens me dire bonsoir», terrifié en voyant que le reflet de la bougie de mon père s’élevait déjà sur le mur, mais aussi usant de son approche comme d’un moyen de chantage et espérant que maman, pour éviter que mon père me trouvât encore là si elle continuait à refuser, allait me dire: «Rentre dans ta chambre, je vais venir.» Il était trop tard, mon père était devant nous. Sans le vouloir, je murmurai ces mots que personne n’entendit: «Je suis perdu!»
☙
N o t e s
Paragraphing. Scott Moncrieff reparagraphed Proust, and Davis did not. My intention has been not to. But this week I experimented with reparagraphing, because I’m aware that the dialogue from multiple characters with nothing to separate them but quotation marks can become confusing. One problem is that in French, changes in dialogue can be signaled according to speaker, rather than just by utterance, using guillemets: « » (sideways double chevrons). They’re somewhat easier to read back-to-back. Another is that breaking dialogue into short paragraphs is a very strong English-language convention; we’re just not used to reading so much run-in dialogue.
Morning on. Scott Moncrieff translated this bit rather freely and expanded it, such as by adding the words “of promise,” “steadily,” and “subsequent.” It makes for a lovely passage: “in one of that class for whom it seems that the great day which knows no morrow must be longer than for other men, since for such a one it is void of promise, and from its dawn the moments steadily accumulate without any subsequent partition among his offspring.”
Hussy of a wife. Earlier translations put this as “wretched wife,” and while I’m tempted to tone down the language because such a strong word may be out of character for Marcel’s mother, the fact remains, Proust wrote coquine de femme, which really does seem strong. Coquine means “loose woman, slut, floozy, strumpet.” That’s exactly the situation being described—Swann’s wife is with another man.