Page 125 - swanns-way

the superior qualities of Françoise shine with added lustre,
just as Error, by force of contrast, enhances the triumph of
Truth—took in coffee which (according to Mamma) was
nothing more than hot water, and then carried up to our
rooms hot water which was barely tepid, I would be lying
stretched out on my bed, a book in my hand, in my room
which trembled with the effort to defend its frail, transpar-
ent coolness against the afternoon sun, behind its almost
closed shutters through which, however, a reflection of the
sunlight had contrived to slip in on its golden wings, re-
maining motionless, between glass and woodwork, in a
corner, like a butterfly poised upon a flower. It was hard-
ly light enough for me to read, and my feeling of the day’s
brightness and splendour was derived solely from the blows
struck down below, in the Rue de la Curé, by Camus (whom
Françoise had assured that my aunt was not ‘resting’ and
that he might therefore make a noise), upon some old pack-
ing-cases from which nothing would really be sent flying
but the dust, though the din of them, in the resonant at-
mosphere that accompanies hot weather, seemed to scatter
broadcast a rain of blood-red stars; and from the flies who
performed for my benefit, in their small concert, as it might
be the chamber music of summer; evoking heat and light
quite differently from an air of human music which, if you
happen to have heard it during a fine summer, will always
bring that summer back to your mind, the flies’ music is
bound to the season by a closer, a more vital tie—born of
sunny days, and not to be reborn but with them, contain-
ing something of their essential nature, it not merely calls

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