Free In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower by Marcel Proust Page A

turning
towards me and fixing upon my modest person the azure gaze in which
floated, as in their vital element, his immense capacity for work and
his power of assimilation. And "Upon my word," he added, once more
addressing my father, "I do not think that I shall be overstepping the
bounds of the respect which I have always professed for the Prince
(although without, you understand, maintaining any personal relations
with him, which would inevitably compromise my position, unofficial as
that may be), if I tell you of a little episode which is not without
point; no more than four years ago, at a small railway station in one
of the countries of Central Europe, the Prince happened to set eyes on
Mme. Swann. Naturally, none of his circle ventured to ask his Royal
Highness what he thought of her. That would not have been seemly. But
when her name came up by chance in conversation, by certain
signs—imperceptible, if you like, but quite unmistakable—the Prince
appeared willing enough to let it be understood that his impression of
her had, in a word, been far from unfavourable."
    "But there could have been no possibility, surely, of her being
presented to the Comte de Paris?" inquired my father.
    "Well, we don't know; with Princes one never does know," replied M.
de Norpois. "The most exalted, those who know best how to secure what
is due to them, are as often as not the last to let themselves be
embarrassed by the decrees of popular opinion, even by those for which
there is most justification, especially when it is a question of their
rewarding a personal attachment to themselves. Now it is certain that
the Comte de Paris has always most graciously recognised the devotion
of Swann, who is, for that matter, a man of character, in spite of it
all."
    "And what was your own impression, your Excellency? Do tell us!" my
mother asked, from politeness as well as from curiosity.
    All the energy of the old connoisseur broke through the habitual
moderation of his speech as he answered: "Quite excellent!"
    And knowing that the admission that a strong impression has been made
on one by a woman takes its place, provided that one makes it in a
playful tone, in a certain category of the art of conversation that is
highly appreciated, he broke into a little laugh that lasted for
several seconds, moistening the old diplomat's blue eyes and making
his nostrils, with their network of tiny scarlet veins, quiver. "She
is altogether charming!"
    "Was there a writer of the name of Bergotte at this dinner, sir?" I
asked timidly, still trying to keep the conversation to the subject of
the Swanns.
    "Yes, Bergotte was there," replied M. de Norpois, inclining his head
courteously towards me, as though in his desire to be pleasant to my
father he attached to everything connected with him a real importance,
even to the questions of a boy of my age who was not accustomed to see
such politeness shewn to him by persons of his. "Do you know him?" he
went on, fastening on me that clear gaze, the penetration of which had
won the praise of Bismarck.
    "My son does not know him, but he admires his work immensely," my
mother explained.
    "Good heavens!" exclaimed M. de Norpois, inspiring me with doubts
of my own intelligence far more serious than those that ordinarily
distracted me, when I saw that what I valued a thousand thousand times
more than myself, what I regarded as the most exalted thing in the
world, was for him at the very foot of the scale of admiration. "I do
not share your son's point of view. Bergotte is what I call a
flute–player: one must admit that he plays on it very agreeably,
although with a great deal of mannerism, of affectation. But when all
is said, it is no more than that, and that is nothing very great.
Nowhere does one find in his enervated writings anything that could be
called construction. No action—or very little—but above all no
range. His books fail at the foundation, or rather they have no
foundation at all. At a time like the