Swann's Way, page 27
“Well, all right, then,” said M. Verdurin. “He’ll just play the andante.”
“Just the andante, I like that!” wailed Mme Verdurin. “It’s just the andante that leaves me wrung out like an old cloth! Listen to the Boss! Isn’t he priceless? It’s as though it was the Choral and he said, ‘We’ll just hear the final movement,’ or the Meistersinger and he said, ‘We’ll just have the overture’!”
During this exchange, the Doctor was urging Mme Verdurin to let the pianist play, not because he suspected her of shamming the emotional upsets she contracted from the music—in which he could recognise certain neurasthenic symptoms—but because he shared the habit, common to many doctors, of relaxing the strictness of their orders so as to prevent something much more important from being jeopardised by them: namely, the enjoyment of any social gathering at which they are present and in which an essential role is to be played by one of their patients, to whom their advice is that on this occasion she should ignore her chronic indigestion or attack of the flu.
“You will not be ill this time, you’ll see,” he said to her, trying to hypnotise her with his gaze. “And, if you are ill, we shall take care of you.”
“Honestly?” said Mme Verdurin, as though the promise of such a boon made surrender her only recourse. There may have been moments in her life, too, when, having so often maintained that the music would make her ill, she forgot that there was no truth in this claim and actually took on the mind and heart of an invalid. And invalids, tired out by the constant onus of keeping their attacks to a minimum by the power of their own sense of responsibility, enjoy entertaining the sporadic belief that they can go ahead and indulge themselves with what is usually bad for them, confident in the hope that without the slightest bother to themselves, they can commit themselves to the care of a powerful guardian who, with a mere word or a pill, will be able to put them to rights again.
Odette had gone over to sit on a tapestry-covered couch, near the piano. She said to Mme Verdurin, “You see, I’ve got my own little spot.”
Mme Verdurin, seeing Swann sitting by himself on a chair, urged him out of it: “That’s no place for you! Go and sit over there beside Odette. Odette, you won’t mind making room for M. Swann, will you?”
Swann, trying to please, said before he sat on the couch, “My! What nice Beauvais tapestry!”
“Well, I’m glad you appreciate my couch,” replied Mme Verdurin. “And I’m telling you, if you think you’ll ever see another one like it, you’re jolly well mistaken. They’ve never made another one to match this. And those little chairs are just wonderful, too. You can look at them all in a little while. Each of the bronzes repeats the subject in the design of the chair. If you like looking at that sort of thing, there’s plenty of amusement in store for you here, I can tell you. I mean, even these little details in the borders! Just look at this scene of the Bear and the Grapes, with its little vine on a red background! That’s detail for you, what! Wouldn’t you agree they knew a thing or two in those days about design? Look at how mouth-watering that grapevine is! My husband says I don’t like fruit, just because I don’t eat as much of it as he does. But, you know, I’m greedier than the rest of you put together. The only thing is I’ve no need to actually put the fruit into my mouth. I enjoy them by sight. Now, what are you all laughing at? Ask the Doctor, he’ll tell you those grapes are the only aperient I ever need! Some people swear by Fontainebleau grapes, but all I ever need is my own little dose of Beauvais! But look here, M. Swann, before you run away, you must just feel the little bronze mouldings on the chair-backs. Feel that—have you ever felt such a smooth patina? No, no, look, I mean feel them properly, with your whole hand!”
“Look out!” said the painter suggestively. “If Mme Verdurin’s going to start fondling her mouldings we’ll have no music tonight!”
“Oh, you be quiet, you naughty thing! Anyway,” she said, turning to Swann, “we women are forbidden far less sensuous delights than that. I’m telling you, no flesh is comparable to them! In the days when M. Verdurin paid me the compliment of being jealous of me—oh, come on, at least be polite about it! Don’t say you were never jealous!”
“I never said a word! Did I, Doctor? I ask you: did I say anything?”
Swann was still politely feeling the bronzes, not daring to stop so soon.
“Come along. You can caress them later. At the moment, you’re the one who’s going to be caressed. Your ears are going to be caressed! I’m sure you like that idea. And here’s a little chap who’ll take care of it!”
By the time the pianist had finished playing, Swann was feeling even better disposed towards him than towards anyone else in the room. The fact was that, the previous year, he had attended an evening party at which he had heard a piece of music performed on piano and violin. Although his initial reaction to it was one of mere acoustic enjoyment of the quality of the sounds emitted by the instruments, there had been a fine pleasure for him in the moment when he had suddenly seen the great rippling liquid shapes of the piano-part trying to overflow and submerge the thin, dense, little guideline of the violin beneath its smooth abundant swell, that broke into waves of melody like the restless purple spell cast on the sea when moonlight modulates it into a minor key. But then, at a certain moment, though incapable of perceiving the clear outline of what had pleased him or even of putting a name to it, he was abruptly charmed by a fleeting phrase or harmony—he could not tell which—that he tried to retain as it passed and which had seemed to expand his soul, as the fragrance of certain roses, wafted on the damp evening air, has the power to dilate one’s nostrils. It may have been because of his own ignorance of music that it made such a blurred impression on him, an impression that may well be the sole purely musical sort, completely self-contained, unassociated with and untranslatable into any other mode of experience. A musical impression of this kind is momentarily sine materia, so to speak. As one listens, the notes have of course already begun to fill in visible surfaces of varied dimensions, according to their pitch and volume, to sketch arabesques and convey to the mind suggestions of breadth, slenderness, stability or caprice. But these notes have already faded away before their suggestions have firmed enough to survive the competing suggestions prompted by the notes that follow or sound simultaneously. And this sort of unfocussed impression would continue to surround with its hazy flux the occasional fragmentary, barely discernible motifs that surface in it, then immediately submerge and disappear, leaving in the mind only the special pleasure they have brought, but being themselves quite inexpressible to the mind, impossible to describe, remember or put a name to—were it not for memory, which, like a builder trying to lay firm foundations among waves, constructs facsimiles of these fleeting phrases, thus enabling one to compare them to those which follow and to tell the difference between them. Thus, hardly had Swann’s sensation of delight faded than his memory had improvised an immediate, temporary transcription of it, at which, though the music was continuing, he had been able to glance, so that when the same impression suddenly recurred, it was no longer quite so elusive. He could sense the extent of it, had an inkling of symmetries in its arrangement, its shape as an ideogram and its expressive quality; what he had in his mind by now was that certain something which has ceased to be pure music and has become an element of design, architecture or thought, and which enables one to remember music. On this occasion, he had caught a clear phrase of it as it rose for a few moments above the waves of sound. It had hinted instantly at special delights, the promise of which had never occurred to him until he heard it, which he sensed he could never experience through anything else and which stirred within him some strange love for the phrase itself.
With its slow rhythm, it impelled him first in one direction, then another, then another again, always tending towards some noble, unintelligible but definite fulfilment. Then all at once, having reached a certain spot, where it would pause for a moment and from which he prepared to keep on following it, it would abruptly change course and set off at an unexpected gait, swifter and brisker, its sweet relentless melancholy luring him on towards unimagined vistas of the future. Then the little phrase disappeared and he was left yearning to glimpse it for a third time. When it did reappear, however, it spoke to him no more distinctly than before, and its keen sensuality even seemed a little blunted. But by the time he had gone back home, he craved for it: he was like a man who sees a woman passing in the street and contracts from that momentary glimpse a whole new conception of beauty which enhances the very worth of his own sensitivity, although he does not even know whether he will ever so much as set eyes again on this nameless unknown creature, with whom he has already fallen in love.
In fact, this experience of falling in love with a phrase of music seemed momentarily to promise a kind of rejuvenation in Swann. It was such a long time since he had abandoned all thought of devoting his life to any goal higher than material things, restricting his quest for fulfilment to the range of the everyday, that by now he was convinced, without ever formulating his feeling in thought, that this way of life would go on unchanged until the day he died. Indeed, feeling his own mind to be devoid of elevated ideas, he had given up believing in their existence, although, again, he could not strictly deny it. And he had come to take refuge in trivial thoughts that enabled him to ignore the real truth in things. Just as he never wondered now whether he might not have been better to shun the fashionable life, but was very clear in his mind that, once one had accepted an invitation, one was bound to turn up, and that a visiting-card had to be left for one’s hostess if one did not actually call on her afterwards, so, in conversation, he was careful never to express any heart-felt opinion on any subject, but merely to pass on factual information which had its own value, of sorts, and served as a bushel under which he could hide his light. When it came to things like a recipe, the year in which a painter had been born or had died, or the titles of the man’s paintings, Swann was scrupulously exact. And if it should happen that he forgot himself sufficiently to express a personal judgment on a work of art or somebody’s outlook on life, he was sure to speak with perceptible irony, suggesting that his heart was not completely in what he was saying. But now, like certain invalids whose condition shows such a sudden improvement (because of a change of air, a new diet or even some mysterious, spontaneous organic development in themselves) that they find themselves entertaining the improbable prospect of belatedly leading a quite different style of life, Swann detected within himself, in the memory of that phrase he had heard and in other sonatas he asked people to play for him in the hope of coming upon it, the presence of one of those invisible realities in which he no longer believed but to which, as though this music had exercised some sort of elective influence on the inner sterility from which he suffered, he once more felt the desire, and almost believed he had the power, to devote his existence. However, he had never managed to find out who had written the work, and so had never been able to acquire a copy of it, and had eventually forgotten it. During the week after the party at which he had first heard it played, he did manage to meet a few of the other people who had been there and asked them about it; but some of them had arrived after the recital or else had left before it; some who had actually been present during the performance had gone into another room to continue a conversation; and those who had in fact sat through it had heard no more of it than the others. As for his hosts, all they knew was that it was a new work and that the musicians they had engaged for the evening had wanted to play it; but since the players had now gone off on tour Swann was never able to learn anything further about the piece. He even tried some of his musical friends, but though he could recall the special untranslatable pleasure the little phrase had given him and could actually see the design of it in his mind’s eye, he was incapable of humming it over to them. Then he had stopped thinking about it.
But that night at Mme Verdurin’s, only a few minutes after the young pianist had begun to play, all of a sudden, after a long high note had been held for two bars, Swann saw coming towards him, emerging from that long drawn out tone that seemed to drape the mystery of its beginnings like a curtain of sound, and recognised in the whispered secrets of its separate parts the airy fragrance of the little phrase he loved. It was so distinctive, with its unique inimitable charm, that Swann felt as though some woman whom he had admired at a distance and had despaired of ever meeting had just turned up at a house where he was himself well known and welcome. Eventually, still purposeful and suggestive, and surrounded by the complex aura of its fragrance, it disappeared, leaving only its lingering charm reflected in Swann’s smile. Now, though, he could find out the identity of this beloved stranger—they told him it was the andante from the Sonata for violin and piano by Vinteuil—he possessed it and could have it in his own home whenever he pleased, so as to learn its language and solve its mystery. And when the pianist had finished, the warmth with which Swann went over and thanked him made a very favourable impression on Mme Verdurin.
“He’s a little charmer, isn’t he?” she said to Swann. “He knows a thing or two about that sonata, too, the little devil! You didn’t know that a mere piano could achieve that sort of result, did you? I tell you, it sounds like anything but a piano! It has the same effect on me every time; I have the impression I’m listening to an orchestra. Actually, it’s nicer than an orchestra, it’s got more body.”
The young pianist bowed to her and said, with a smiling emphasis on his words that suggested they were a witticism, “You are most kind to me.” While Mme Verdurin was saying to her husband, “Come on, give him a glass of orangeade. He really deserves it,” Swann was telling Odette of his long unrequited love for the little phrase. When Mme Verdurin called over to her, “Odette, it looks from here as though somebody is saying nice things to you,” Odette replied, with a simplicity of manner that Swann thought delightful, “Yes, extremely nice.”
Swann had begun asking people about this Vinteuil and his compositions, the period of his life when he had written the sonata, and, the thing that intrigued him most, what meaning the composer might have put into the little phrase. But he found that, of all these people who professed admiration for the composer (like Mme Verdurin who had greeted Swann’s statement that the sonata was a thing of real beauty with the exclamation: “But of course it’s a thing of real beauty! And let me tell you, my good man, that it’s not done to admit one has never heard of the Vinteuil sonata! One’s not allowed to have never heard of it!”; or the painter who had added, “Oh, yes, it’s your sublime masterwork, all right! Mind you, I daresay it’s not your popular conception of the great big breath-taking masterpiece. But with artistic people, there’s no doubt it makes a big hit.”) not one seemed ever to have wondered about such things, and they were incapable of satisfying his curiosity. In fact, a couple of more definite comments by Swann about his favourite phrase prompted Mme Verdurin to say, “Goodness me, isn’t that funny! I’d never noticed. But then I’ve never been one to go splitting hairs and breaking butterflies on the wheel, you know. We don’t waste our time making mountains out of molehills hereabouts. It’s not our style, you see.” At which Dr. Cottard gaped at her with a sedulous craving for knowledge and an artless admiration of the fluency with which she commanded her stock of clichés.
Both he and his wife, however, shared the common sense one can sometimes find even among the uneducated, which ensured that they never expressed an opinion on or pretended to admire the sort of music that, in the privacy of their own home, they agreed was as unintelligible as the paintings of “Mr. Biche.” Since the general public’s conception of what constitutes charm or grace, and even their impression of the phenomena of the natural world, are derived solely from the stereotypes of conventional art-forms with which they have had a long and gradual acquaintance, and since any original artist will begin by shunning those stereotypes, Dr. and Mme Cottard, sharing that general conception, could find nothing in the Vinteuil sonata or in the painter’s canvasses that corresponded to their notion of harmony in music or beauty in a painting. When the pianist performed that sonata, they had the impression that he was just banging about on the keyboard, hitting random notes that were unconnected by the patterns to which they were accustomed—which was of course the case—and that the painter, similarly, threw haphazard colours onto his canvasses. If ever they managed to identify a shape in one of these paintings, it appeared to their eyes not only clumsy and uncouth (that is to say, having none of the elegance of the school of painting whose conceptions even determined the way they perceived people in the street) but completely unrelated to reality, as though Mr. Biche was unaware that shoulders must have a particular shape or that women do not have mauve hair.
The group of “regulars” about the piano had now dispersed, whereupon the Doctor sensed this was an apt opening for him and, while Mme Verdurin was adding a last remark on the subject of the Vinteuil sonata, in a sudden fit of resolution, like an inexperienced swimmer trying to improve by jumping in at the deep end but making sure there are not too many onlookers, he burst out with: “In that case, he’s what’s called a musician of the first water, what!”
As for Swann, all he could discover about the Vinteuil sonata was that on its first appearance, not long before, it had created a very favourable impression among a certain avant-garde school, but that it was still completely unknown to any wider public.
