lease myself, as well as by a sort
of chivalrous loyalty, in any connection or with no relevance at all, I
would repeat the name of that street until my father, not being, like
my mother and grandmother, in the secret of my love, would ask: "But
why are you always talking about that street? There's nothing wonderful
about it. It is an admirable street to live in because it's only a few
minutes' walk from the Bois, but there are a dozen other streets just
the same."

I made every effort to introduce the name of Swann into my conversation
with my parents; in my own mind, of course, I never ceased to murmur it;
but I needed also to hear its exquisite sound, and to make myself
play that chord, the voiceless rendering of which did not suffice
me. Moreover, that name of Swann, with which I had for so long been
familiar, was to me now (as happens at times to people suffering from
aphasia, in the case of the most ordinary words) the name of something
new. It was for ever present in my mind, which could not, however, grow
accustomed to it. I analysed it, I spelt it; its orthography came to me
as a surprise. And with its familiarity it had simultaneously lost its
innocence. The pleasure that I derived from the sound of it I felt to
be so guilty, that it seemed to me as though the others must read my
thoughts, and would change the conversation if I endeavoured to guide it
in that direction. I fell back upon subjects which still brought me into
touch with Gilberte, I eternally repeated the same words, and it was no
use my knowing that they were but words--words uttered in her absence,
which she could not hear, words without virtue in themselves, repeating
what were, indeed, facts, but powerless to modify them--for still
it seemed to me that by dint of handling, of stirring in this way
everything that had reference to Gilberte, I might perhaps make emerge
from it something that would bring me happiness. I told my parents again
that Gilberte was very fond of her governess, as if the statement, when
repeated for the hundredth time, would at last have the effect of making
Gilberte suddenly burst into the room, come to live with us for ever.
I had already sung the praises of the old lady who read the _Debats_
(I had hinted to my parents that she must at least be an Ambassador's
widow, if not actually a Highness) and I continued to descant on her
beauty, her splendour, her nobility, until the day on which I mentioned
that, by what I had