Autobiographical fiction; France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Villages -- France -- Fiction
I did not understand very clearly why, in order to refrain from going
to the houses of people whom one did not know, it should be necessary to
cling to one's independence, nor how that could give one the appearance
of a savage or a bear. But what I did understand was this, that
Legrandin was not altogether truthful when he said that he cared only
for churches, moonlight, and youth; he cared also, he cared a very
great deal, for people who lived in country houses, and would be so much
afraid, when in their company, of incurring their displeasure that he
would never dare to let them see that he numbered, as well, among
his friends middle-class people, the families of solicitors and
stockbrokers, preferring, if the truth must be known, that it should
be revealed in his absence, when he was out of earshot, that judgment
should go against him (if so it must) by default: in a word, he was a
snob. Of course he would never have admitted all or any of this in the
poetical language which my family and I so much admired. And if I asked
him, "Do you know the Guermantes family?" Legrandin the talker would
reply, "No, I have never cared to know them." But unfortunately the
talker was now subordinated to another Legrandin, whom he kept carefully
hidden in his breast, whom he would never consciously exhibit, because
this other could tell stories about our own Legrandin and about his
snobbishness which would have ruined his reputation for ever; and this
other Legrandin had replied to me already in that wounded look, that
stiffened smile, the undue gravity of his tone in uttering those
few words, in the thousand arrows by which our own Legrandin had
instantaneously been stabbed and sickened, like a Saint Sebastian of
snobbery:
"Oh, how you hurt me! No, I do not know the Guermantes family. Do not
remind me of the great sorrow of my life." And since this other,
this irrepressible, dominant, despotic Legrandin, if he lacked our
Legrandin's charming vocabulary, shewed an infinitely greater promptness
in expressing himself, by means of what are called 'reflexes,' it
followed that, when Legrandin the talker attempted to silence him, he
would already have spoken, and it would be useless for our friend to
deplore the bad impression which the revelations of his _alter ego_ must
have caused, since he could do no more now than endeavour to mitigate
them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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