In Search of Lost Time, Volume IV_ Sodom and Gomorrah - Marcel Proust [196]
“Thus,” Brichot continued, “bec, in Norman, is a stream; there is the Abbey of Bec, Mobec, the stream from the marsh (mor or mer meant a marsh, as in Morville, or in Bricquemar, Alvimare, Cambremer), Bricquebec, the stream from the high ground, coming from briga, a fortified place, as in Bricqueville, Bricquebosc, le Bric, Briand, or from brice, bridge, which is the same as Brücke in German (Innsbruck), and as the English bridge which ends so many place-names (Cambridge, for instance). You have moreover in Normandy many other instances of bec: Caudebec, Bolbec, le Robec, le Bec-Hellouin, Becquerel. It’s the Norman form of the German Bach, Offenbach, Anspach; Varaguebec, from the old word varaigne, equivalent to warren, means protected woods or ponds. As for dal,” Brichot went on, “it is a form of Thal, a valley: Darnetal, Rosendal, and indeed, close to Louviers, Becdal. The river that has given its name to Balbec is, by the way, charming. Seen from a falaise (Fels in German, in fact not far from here, standing on a height, you have the picturesque town of Falaise), it runs close under the spires of the church, which is actually a long way from it, and seems to be reflecting them.”
“I can well believe it,” said I, “it’s an effect that Elstir is very fond of. I’ve seen several sketches of it in his studio.”
“Elstir! You know Tiche?” cried Mme Verdurin. “But do you know that we used to be the closest friends. Thank heaven, I never see him now. No, but ask Cottard or Brichot, he used to have his place laid at my table, he came every day. Now, there’s a man of whom you can say that it did him no good to leave our little nucleus. I shall show you presently some flowers he painted for me; you’ll see the difference from the things he’s doing now, which I don’t care for at all, not at all! Why, I got him to do a portrait of Cottard, not to mention all the sketches he did of me.”
“And he gave the Professor purple hair,” said Mme Cottard, forgetting that at the time her husband had not been even a Fellow of the College. “Would you say that my husband had purple hair, Monsieur?”
“Never mind!” said Mme Verdurin, raising her chin with an air of contempt for Mme Cottard and of admiration for the man of whom she was speaking, “it was the work of a bold colourist, a fine painter. Whereas,” she added, turning again to me, “I don’t know whether you call it painting, all those outlandish great compositions, those hideous contraptions he exhibits now that he has given up coming to me. I call it daubing, it’s all so hackneyed, and besides, it lacks relief