Autobiographical fiction; France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Villages -- France -- Fiction
Once in my room I had to stop every loophole, to close the shutters, to
dig my own grave as I turned down the bed-clothes, to wrap myself in the
shroud of my nightshirt. But before burying myself in the iron bed which
had been placed there because, on summer nights, I was too hot among the
red curtains of the four-poster, I was stirred to revolt, and attempted
the desperate stratagem of a condemned prisoner. I wrote to my mother
begging her to come upstairs for an important reason which I could not
put in writing. My fear was that Françoise, my aunt's cook who used to
be put in charge of me when I was at Combray, might refuse to take my
note. I had a suspicion that, in her eyes, to carry a message to
my mother when there was a stranger in the room would appear flatly
inconceivable, just as it would be for the door-keeper of a theatre
to hand a letter to an actor upon the stage. For things which might
or might not be done she possessed a code at once imperious, abundant,
subtle, and uncompromising on points themselves imperceptible or
irrelevant, which gave it a resemblance to those ancient laws which
combine such cruel ordinances as the massacre of infants at the breast
with prohibitions, of exaggerated refinement, against "seething the kid
in his mother's milk," or "eating of the sinew which is upon the hollow
of the thigh." This code, if one could judge it by the sudden obstinacy
which she would put into her refusal to carry out certain of our
instructions, seemed to have foreseen such social complications and
refinements of fashion as nothing in Françoise's surroundings or in her
career as a servant in a village household could have put into her head;
and we were obliged to assume that there was latent in her some past
existence in the ancient history of France, noble and little understood,
just as there is in those manufacturing towns where old mansions still
testify to their former courtly days, and chemical workers toil among
delicately sculptured scenes of the Miracle of Theophilus or the Quatre
Fils Aymon.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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