In Search of Lost Time [volumes 1 to 7]. Marcel Proust

to distinguish a human form, they always found it coarsened and vulgarised (that is to say lacking all the elegance of the school of painting through whose spectacles they themselves were in the habit of seeing the people—real, living people, who passed them in the streets) and devoid of truth, as though M. Biche had not known how the human shoulder was constructed, or that a woman’s hair was not, ordinarily, purple.

      And yet, when the ‘faithful’ were scattered out of earshot, the Doctor felt that the opportunity was too good to be missed, and so (while Mme. Verdurin was adding a final word of commendation of Vinteuil’s sonata) like a would-be swimmer who jumps into the water, so as to learn, but chooses a moment when there are not too many people looking on: “Yes, indeed; he’s what they call a musician di primo cartello!” he exclaimed, with a sudden determination.

      Swann discovered no more than that the recent publication of Vinteuil’s sonata had caused a great stir among the most advanced school of musicians, but that it was still unknown to the general public.

      “I know some one, quite well, called Vinteuil,” said Swann, thinking of the old music-master at Combray who had taught my grandmother’s sisters.

      “Perhaps that’s the man!” cried Mme. Verdurin.

      “Oh, no!” Swann burst out laughing. “If you had ever seen him for a moment you wouldn’t put the question.”

      “Then to put the question is to solve the problem?” the Doctor suggested.

      “But it may well be some relative,” Swann went on. “That would be bad enough; but, after all, there is no reason why a genius shouldn’t have a cousin who is a silly old fool. And if that should be so, I swear there’s no known or unknown form of torture I wouldn’t undergo to get the old fool to introduce me to the man who composed the sonata; starting with the torture of the old fool’s company, which would be ghastly.”

      The painter understood that Vinteuil was seriously ill at the moment, and that Dr. Potain despaired of his life.

      “What!” cried Mme. Verdurin, “Do people still call in Potain?”

      “Ah! Mme. Verdurin,” Cottard simpered, “you forget that you are speaking of one of my colleagues—I should say, one of my masters.”

      The painter had heard, somewhere, that Vinteuil was threatened with the loss of his reason. And he insisted that signs of this could be detected in certain passages in the sonata. This remark did not strike Swann as ridiculous; rather, it puzzled him. For, since a purely musical work contains none of those logical sequences, the interruption or confusion of which, in spoken or written language, is a proof of insanity, so insanity diagnosed in a sonata seemed to him as mysterious a thing as the insanity of a dog or a horse, although instances may be observed of these.

      “Don’t speak to me about ‘your masters’; you know ten times as much as he does!” Mme. Verdurin answered Dr. Cottard, in the tone of a woman who has the courage of her convictions, and is quite ready to stand up to anyone who disagrees with her. “Anyhow, you don’t kill your patients!”

      “But, Madame, he is in the Academy.” The Doctor smiled with bitter irony. “If a sick person prefers to die at the hands of one of the Princes of Science … It is far more smart to be able to say, ‘Yes, I have Potain.’”

      “Oh, indeed! More smart, is it?” said Mme. Verdurin. “So there are fashions, nowadays, in illness, are there? I didn’t know that…. Oh, you do make me laugh!” she screamed, suddenly, burying her face in her hands. “And here was I, poor thing, talking quite seriously, and never seeing that you were pulling my leg.”

      As for M. Verdurin, finding it rather a strain to start laughing again over so small a matter, he was content with puffing out a cloud of smoke from his pipe, while he reflected sadly that he could never again hope to keep pace with his wife in her Atalanta-flights across the field of mirth.

      “D’you know; we like your friend so very much,” said Mme. Verdurin, later, when Odette was bidding her good night. “He is so unaffected, quite charming. If they’re all like that, the friends you want to bring here, by all means bring them.”

      M. Verdurin remarked that Swann had failed, all the same, to appreciate the pianist’s aunt.

      “I dare say he felt a little strange, poor man,” suggested Mme. Verdurin. “You can’t expect him to catch the tone of the house the first time he comes; like Cottard, who has been one of our little ‘clan’ now for years. The first time doesn’t count; it’s just for looking round and finding out things. Odette, he understands all right, he’s to join us to-morrow at the Châtelet. Perhaps you might call for him and bring him.” “No, he doesn’t want that.”

      “Oh, very well; just as you like. Provided he doesn’t fail us at the last moment.”

      Greatly to Mme. Verdurin’s surprise, he never failed them. He would go to meet them, no matter where, at restaurants outside Paris (not that they went there much at first, for the season had not yet begun), and more frequently at the play, in which Mme. Verdurin delighted. One evening, when they were dining at home, he heard her complain that she had not one of those permits which would save her the trouble of waiting at doors and standing in crowds, and say how useful it would be to them at first-nights, and gala performances at the Opera, and what a nuisance it had been, not having one, on the day of Gambetta’s funeral. Swann never spoke of his distinguished friends, but only of such as might be regarded as detrimental, whom, therefore, he thought it snobbish, and in not very good taste to conceal; while he frequented the Faubourg Saint-Germain he had come to include, in the latter class, all his friends in the official world of the Third Republic, and so broke in, without thinking: “I’ll see to that, all right. You shall have it in time for the Danicheff revival. I shall be lunching with the Prefect of Police to-morrow, as it happens, at the Elysée.”

      “What’s that? The Elysée?” Dr. Cottard roared in a voice of thunder.

      “Yes, at M. Grévy’s,” replied Swann, feeling a little awkward at the effect which his announcement had produced.

      “Are you often taken like that?” the painter asked Cottard, with mock-seriousness.

      As a rule, once an explanation had been given, Cottard would say: “Ah, good, good; that’s all right, then,” after which he would shew not the least trace of emotion. But this time Swann’s last words, instead of the usual calming effect, had that of heating, instantly, to boiling-point his astonishment at the discovery that a man with whom he himself was actually sitting at table, a man who had no official position, no honours or distinction of any sort, was on visiting terms with the Head of the State.

      “What’s that you say? M. Grévy? Do you know M. Grévy?” he demanded of Swann, in the stupid and incredulous tone of a constable on duty at the palace, when a stranger has come up and asked to see the President of the Republic; until, guessing from his words and manner what, as the newspapers say, ‘it is a case of,’ he assures the poor lunatic that he will be admitted at once, and points the way to the reception ward of the police infirmary.

      “I know him slightly; we have some friends in common” (Swann dared not add that one of these friends was the Prince of Wales). “Anyhow, he is very free with his invitations, and, I assure you, his luncheon-parties are not the least bit amusing; they’re very simple affairs, too, you know; never more than eight at table,” he went on, trying desperately to cut out everything that seemed to shew off his relations with the President in a light too dazzling for the Doctor’s eyes.

      Whereupon Cottard, at once conforming in his mind to the literal interpretation of what Swann was saying, decided that invitations from M. Grévy were very little sought after, were sent out, in fact, into the highways and hedge-rows. And from that moment he never seemed at all surprised to hear that Swann, or anyone else, was ‘always at the Elysée’; he even felt a little sorry for a man who had to go to luncheon-parties which, he himself admitted, were a bore.

      “Ah, good, good; that’s quite all right then,” he said, in