that obscurantist old she-Capet, the first of our chiefs of police. Yes, indeed, my dear host, yes, indeed!” he repeated in his ringing voice, which sounded a separate note for each syllable, in reply to a protest by M. Verdurin. “The Chronicle of Saint Denis, and the authenticity of its information is beyond question, leaves us no room for doubt on that point. No one could be more fitly chosen as Patron by a secularising proletariat than that mother of a Saint, who let him see some pretty fishy saints besides, as Suger says, and other great St. Bernards of the sort; for with her it was a case of taking just what you pleased.”
“Who is that gentleman?” Forcheville asked Mme. Verdurin. “He seems to speak with great authority.”
“What! Do you mean to say you don’t know the famous Brichot? Why, he’s celebrated all over Europe.”
“Oh, that’s Bréchot, is it?” exclaimed Forcheville, who had not quite caught the name. “You must tell me all about him”; he went on, fastening a pair of goggle eyes on the celebrity. “It’s always interesting to meet well-known people at dinner. But, I say, you ask us to very select parties here. No dull evenings in this house, I’m sure.”
“Well, you know what it is really,” said Mme. Verdurin modestly. “They feel safe here. They can talk about whatever they like, and the conversation goes off like fireworks. Now Brichot, this evening, is nothing. I’ve seen him, don’t you know, when he’s been with me, simply dazzling; you’d want to go on your knees to him. Well, with anyone else he’s not the same man, he’s not in the least witty, you have to drag the words out of him, he’s even boring.”
“That’s strange,” remarked Forcheville with fitting astonishment.
A sort of wit like Brichot’s would have been regarded as out-and-out stupidity by the people among whom Swann had spent his early life, for all that it is quite compatible with real intelligence. And the intelligence of the Professor’s vigorous and well-nourished brain might easily have been envied by many of the people in society who seemed witty enough to Swann. But these last had so thoroughly inculcated into him their likes and dislikes, at least in everything that pertained to their ordinary social existence, including that annex to social existence which belongs, strictly speaking, to the domain of intelligence, namely, conversation, that Swann could not see anything in Brichot’s pleasantries; to him they were merely pedantic, vulgar, and disgustingly coarse. He was shocked, too, being accustomed to good manners, by the rude, almost barrack-room tone which this student-in-arms adopted, no matter to whom he was speaking. Finally, perhaps, he had lost all patience that evening as he watched Mme. Verdurin welcoming, with such unnecessary warmth, this Forcheville fellow, whom it had been Odette’s unaccountable idea to bring to the house. Feeling a little awkward, with Swann there also, she had asked him on her arrival: “What do you think of my guest?”
And he, suddenly realising for the first time that Forcheville, whom he had known for years, could actually attract a woman, and was quite a good specimen of a man, had retorted: “Beastly!” He had, certainly, no idea of being jealous of Odette, but did not feel quite so happy as usual, and when Brichot, having begun to tell them the story of Blanche of Castile’s mother, who, according to him, “had been with Henry Plantagenet for years before they were married,” tried to prompt Swann to beg him to continue the story, by interjecting “Isn’t that so, M. Swann?” in the martial accents which one uses in order to get down to the level of an unintelligent rustic or to put the ‘fear of God’ into a trooper, Swann cut his story short, to the intense fury of their hostess, by begging to be excused for taking so little interest in Blanche of Castile, as he had something that he wished to ask the painter. He, it appeared, had been that afternoon to an exhibition of the work of another artist, also a friend of Mme. Verdurin, who had recently died, and Swann wished to find out from him (for he valued his discrimination) whether there had really been anything more in this later work than the virtuosity which had struck people so forcibly in his earlier exhibitions.
“From that point of view it was extraordinary, but it did not seem to me to be a form of art which you could call ‘elevated,’” said Swann with a smile.
“Elevated … to the height of an Institute!” interrupted Cottard, raising his arms with mock solemnity. The whole table burst out laughing.
“What did I tell you?” said Mme. Verdurin to Forcheville. “It’s simply impossible to be serious with him. When you least expect it, out he comes with a joke.”
But she observed that Swann, and Swann alone, had not unbent. For one thing he was none too well pleased with Cottard for having secured a laugh at his expense in front of Forcheville. But the painter, instead of replying in a way that might have interested Swann, as he would probably have done had they been alone together, preferred to win the easy admiration of the rest by exercising his wit upon the talent of their dead friend.
“I went up to one of them,” he began, “just to see how it was done; I stuck my nose into it. Yes, I don’t think! Impossible to say whether it was done with glue, with soap, with sealing-wax, with sunshine, with leaven, with excrem …”
“And one make twelve!” shouted the Doctor, wittily, but just too late, for no one saw the point of his interruption.
“It looks as though it were done with nothing at all,” resumed the painter. “No more chance of discovering the trick than there is in the ‘Night Watch,’ or the ‘Regents,’ and it’s even bigger work than either Rembrandt or Hals ever did. It’s all there,—and yet, no, I’ll take my oath it isn’t.”
Then, just as singers who have reached the highest note in their compass, proceed to hum the rest of the air in falsetto, he had to be satisfied with murmuring, smiling the while, as if, after all, there had been something irresistibly amusing in the sheer beauty of the painting: “It smells all right; it makes your head go round; it catches your breath; you feel ticklish all over—and not the faintest clue to how it’s done. The man’s a sorcerer; the thing’s a conjuring-trick, it’s a miracle,” bursting outright into laughter, “it’s dishonest!” Then stopping, solemnly raising his head, pitching his voice on a double-bass note which he struggled to bring into harmony, he concluded, “And it’s so loyal!”
Except at the moment when he had called it “bigger than the ‘Night Watch,’” a blasphemy which had called forth an instant protest from Mme. Verdurin, who regarded the ‘Night Watch’ as the supreme masterpiece of the universe (conjointly with the ‘Ninth’ and the ‘Samothrace’), and at the word “excrement,” which had made Forcheville throw a sweeping glance round the table to see whether it was ‘all right,’ before he allowed his lips to curve in a prudish and conciliatory smile, all the party (save Swann) had kept their fascinated and adoring eyes fixed upon the painter.
“I do so love him when he goes up in the air like that!” cried Mme. Verdurin, the moment that he had finished, enraptured that the table-talk should have proved so entertaining on the very night that Forcheville was dining with them for the first time. “Hallo, you!” she turned to her husband, “what’s the matter with you, sitting there gaping like a great animal? You know, though, don’t you,” she apologised for him to the painter, “that he can talk quite well when he chooses; anybody would think it was the first time he had ever listened to you. If you had only seen him while you were speaking; he was just drinking it all in. And to-morrow he will tell us everything you said, without missing a word.”
“No, really, I’m not joking!” protested the painter, enchanted by the success of his speech. “You all look as if you thought I was pulling your legs, that it was just a trick. I’ll take you to see the show, and then you can say whether I’ve been exaggerating; I’ll bet you anything you like, you’ll come away more ‘up in the air’ than I am!”
“But we don’t suppose for a moment that you’re exaggerating; we only want you to go on with your dinner, and my husband too. Give M. Biche some more sole, can’t you see his has got cold? We’re not in any hurry; you’re dashing round as if the house was on fire. Wait a little; don’t serve the salad just yet.”
Mme. Cottard, who was a shy woman and spoke