Page 495 - swanns-way

Swann, she saw some man approaching whom he did not
know, he could distinguish upon Odette’s face that look of
sorrow which she had worn on the day when he had come to
her while Forcheville was there. But this was rare; for, on the
days when, in spite of all that she had to do, and of her dread
of what people would think, she did actually manage to see
Swann, the predominant quality in her attitude, now, was
self-assurance; a striking contrast, perhaps an unconscious
revenge for, perhaps a natural reaction from the timorous
emotion which, in the early days of their friendship, she
had felt in his presence, and even in his absence, when she
began a letter to him with the words: ‘My dear, my hand
trembles so that I can scarcely write.’ (So, at least, she pre-
tended, and a little of that emotion must have been sincere,
or she would not have been anxious to enlarge and empha-
sise it.) So Swann had been pleasing to her then. Our hands
do not tremble except for ourselves, or for those whom we
love. When they have ceased to control our happiness how
peaceful, how easy, how bold do we become in their pres-
ence! In speaking to him, in writing to him now, she no
longer employed those words by which she had sought to
give herself the illusion that he belonged to her, creating op-
portunities for saying ‘my’ and ‘mine’ when she referred to
him: ‘You are all that I have in the world; it is the perfume
of our friendship, I shall keep it,’ nor spoke to him of the
future, of death itself, as of a single adventure which they
would have to share. In those early days, whatever he might
say to her, she would answer admiringly: ‘You know, you
will never be like other people!’—she would gaze at his long,

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