In Search of Lost Time, Volume III_ The Guermantes Way - Marcel Proust [56]
“I can’t tell you how funny it is that it should be her photograph, because we’re living in her house now, and I’ve been hearing the most astounding things about her” (I should have been hard put to it to say what) “which have made me immensely interested in her, only from a literary point of view, you understand, from a—how shall I put it—from a Balzacian point of view. You’re so clever you can see what I mean without my having to explain. But we must hurry up. What on earth will your friends think of my manners?”
“They’ll think absolutely nothing. I’ve told them you’re sublime, and they’re a great deal more nervous than you are.”
“You really are too kind. But listen, what I want to say is this: I suppose Mme de Guermantes hasn’t any idea that I know you, has she?”
“I can’t say. I haven’t seen her since the summer, because I haven’t had any leave since she’s been in town.”
“The fact of the matter is, I’ve been told that she regards me as an absolute idiot.”
“That I do not believe. Oriane isn’t exactly a genius, but all the same she’s by no means stupid.”
“You know that as a rule I’m not at all keen on your advertising the good opinion you’re kind enough to hold of me; I’m not conceited. That’s why I’m sorry you should have said flattering things about me to your friends here (whom we’ll join in two seconds). But Mme de Guermantes is different. If you could let her know—even with a bit of exaggeration—what you think of me, you would give me great pleasure.”
“Why, of course I will. If that’s all you want me to do, it’s not very difficult. But what difference can it possibly make to you what she thinks of you? I suppose you think her no end of a joke, really. Anyhow, if that’s all you want we can discuss it in front of the others or when we’re by ourselves; I’m afraid of your tiring yourself if you stand talking, especially in such awkward conditions, when we have heaps of opportunities of being alone together.”
It was precisely these awkward conditions that had given me courage to approach Robert; the presence of the others was for me a pretext that justified my giving my remarks a brief and disjointed form, under cover of which I could more easily dissemble the falsehood of my saying to my friend that I had forgotten his connexion with the Duchess, and also for not giving him time to frame—with regard to my reasons for wishing Mme de Guermantes to know that I was his friend, was clever, and so forth—questions which would have been all the more disturbing in that I should not have been able to answer them.
“Robert, I’m surprised that a man of your intelligence should fail to understand that one doesn’t discuss the things that will give one’s friends pleasure; one does them. Now I, if you were to ask me no matter what—and indeed I only wish you would ask me to do something for you—I can assure you I shouldn’t demand any explanations. I’ve gone further than I really meant; I have no desire to know Mme de Guermantes, but just to test you I ought to have said that I was anxious to dine with Mme de Guermantes and I’m sure you would never have done it.”
“Not only would I have done it, but I will do it.”
“When?”
“Next time I’m in Paris, three weeks from now, I expect.”
“We shall see. I dare say she won’t want to see me, though. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“Not at all, it’s nothing.”
“Don’t say that; it’s tremendous, because now I can see what a friend you are. Whether what I ask you to do is important or not, disagreeable or not, whether I mean it truly or only to test you, it makes no difference: you say you will do it, and there you show the fineness of your mind and heart. A stupid friend would have argued.”
This was exactly what he had just been doing; but perhaps I wanted to flatter his self-esteem; perhaps also I was sincere, the sole touchstone of merit seeming to me to be the extent to which a friend