Swann's Way- First page Videobooks
Marcel Proust
Swann's Way
(In search of lost time - 1)
To Gaston Calmette - as a token of deep and heartfelt gratitude.
PART ONE
COMBRAY
I
I have long been accustomed to going to bed early. Sometimes, as soon as the candle went out, my eyes closed so quickly that I did not have time to say to myself: "I'm falling asleep."
And half an hour later I woke up from the thought that it was time to sleep; it seemed to me that the book was still in my hands and I had to put it down and put out the light; in the dream I continued to think about what I had read, but my thoughts took a rather strange direction: I imagined myself to be what was said in the book - the church, the quartet, the rivalry between Francis 1 and Charles V.
This obsession lasted a few seconds after I woke up; it did not disturb my consciousness—it covered my eyes with scales and prevented them from making sure that the candle was not burning. Then it became vague, like a memory of a former life after metempsychosis; the plot of the book was separated from me, I was free to associate or not associate myself with it; thereupon my sight returned, and to my astonishment I became convinced that there was darkness all around me, soft and soothing to the eyes, and perhaps even more soothing to the mind, to which it appeared as something inexplicable, incomprehensible, as something really dark.
I asked myself what time it might be now; I heard the whistles of locomotives; from them it was possible to determine the distance, they evoked in my imagination the expanse of deserted fields, the traveler hurrying to the station and the path imprinted in his memory due to the excitement that he also experiences at the sight of unfamiliar places, and because he is now acting unusually, because he still remembers in the silence of the night the recent conversation, parting under a strange lamp, and comforts himself with the thought of a speedy return.
I lightly brushed my cheeks against the soft cheeks of the pillow, as fresh and plump as the cheeks of our childhood. I struck a match and looked at the clock. It's almost midnight.
This is the very moment when a sick traveler, forced to lie in an unfamiliar hotel, is awakened by an attack and he rejoices at the strip of light under the door. What a joy, it's already morning! Now the servants will rise, he will call, and they will come to his aid. Hope for relief gives him the strength to endure. And then he hears footsteps. Footsteps approach, then recede. And the strip of light under the door disappears. It's midnight; put out the gas; the last servant left, which means you will have to suffer all night.
I fell asleep again, but sometimes I woke up just long enough to hear the characteristic crackling of the panels, to open my eyes and gaze around the kaleidoscope of darkness, to feel, thanks to an instant glimpse of consciousness, how things were fast asleep, the room - all that insensible part of which I was and with which I had to connect again.
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