In Search of Lost Time, Volume V_ The Captive, the Fugitive - Marcel Proust [389]
The train reached Paris before my mother and I had finished discussing these two pieces of news, which, so that the journey might not seem to me too long, she had deliberately reserved for the latter part of it, not allowing me to learn about them until after Milan. My mother had soon reverted to the point of view which for her was the only possible one, that of my grandmother. Mamma had first of all said that my grandmother would have been surprised, then that she would have been saddened, which was simply a way of saying that such a surprising event would have given her pleasure, and my mother, unable to accept that my grandmother should have been deprived of a pleasure, preferred to think that all was for the best, this news being of the kind that could only have caused her sorrow. But no sooner had we reached home than my mother felt that it was still too selfish of her to regret being unable to share with my grandmother all the surprises that life brings. She preferred to believe that this news would not have surprised my grandmother, since it merely confirmed her predictions. She wanted to see it as a confirmation of my grandmother’s foresight, proof that she had been even more profound, more perceptive, more sagacious than we had thought. And so, in order to arrive at this attitude of pure admiration, it was not long before my mother was adding: “And yet, who knows whether your grandmother wouldn’t have approved? She was so kind and tolerant. And then you know, for her, social status meant nothing; natural distinction was what mattered. And curiously enough, don’t you remember, she liked both of them. Remember that first visit of hers to Mme de Villeparisis, when she came back and told us how common she thought M. de Guermantes was, and by comparison how full of praise she was for those Jupiens. Poor Mamma, do you remember her saying about the father: ‘If I had another daughter, I’d give her to him as a wife, and his daughter is even nicer.’ And the little Swann girl! She used to say of her: ‘I think she’s charming; you’ll see that she’ll marry well.’ Poor Mamma, if only she’d lived to see how right she was! Right up to the end she’ll go on giving us lessons in goodness and foresight and judgment.” And since the joys which we suffered to see my grandmother deprived of were all the humble little joys of life—an actor’s intonation which would have amused her, a dish she would have enjoyed, a new novel by a favourite author—Mamma said: “How surprised she would have been! How it would have interested her! What a lovely letter she would have written in reply!” And my mother went on: “Just imagine, poor Swann who so longed for Gilberte to be received by the Guermantes, how happy he would be if he could see his daughter become a Guermantes!”
“Under another name than his, led to the altar as Mlle de Forcheville—do you think he would be so happy after all?”
“Ah, that’s true, I hadn’t thought of it.”
“That’s what makes it impossible for me to be happy for her sake, the thought that the little beast could have had the heart to give up her father’s name, when he was so good to her.”
“Yes, you’re right; all things considered, it’s perhaps just as well that he never knew.” So difficult is it for us to know, with the dead as with the living, whether a thing would cause them joy or sorrow! “It appears that the Saint-Loups are going to live at Tansonville,” my mother went on. “Old Swann, who was so anxious to show