too, in the
manner in which Swann spoke to me of Bergotte, something which, to do
him justice, was not peculiar to himself, but was shared by all that
writer's admirers at that time, at least by my mother's friend and
by Dr. du Boulbon. Like Swann, they would say of Bergotte: "He has a
charming mind, so individual, he has a way of his own of saying things,
which is a little far-fetched, but so pleasant. You never need to look
for his name on the title-page, you can tell his work at once." But
none of them had yet gone so far as to say "He is a great writer, he has
great talent." They did not even credit him with talent at all. They
did not speak, because they were not aware of it. We are very slow in
recognising in the peculiar physiognomy of a new writer the type which
is labelled 'great talent' in our museum of general ideas. Simply
because that physiognomy is new and strange, we can find in it no
resemblance to what we are accustomed to call talent. We say rather
originality, charm, delicacy, strength; and then one day we add up the
sum of these, and find that it amounts simply to talent.

"Are there any books in which Bergotte has written about Berma?" I asked
M. Swann.

"I think he has, in that little essay on Racine, but it must be out of
print. Still, there has perhaps been a second impression. I will find
out. Anyhow, I can ask Bergotte himself all that you want to know next
time he comes to dine with us. He never misses a week, from one year's
end to another. He is my daughter's greatest friend. They go about
together, and look at old towns and cathedrals and castles."

As I was still completely ignorant of the different grades in the social
hierarchy, the fact that my father found it impossible for us to see
anything of Swann's wife and daughter had, for a long time, had the
contrary effect of making me imagine them as separated from us by an
enormous gulf, which greatly enhanced their dignity and importance in
my eyes. I was sorry that my mother did not dye her hair and redden her
lips, as I had heard our neighbour, Mme. Sazerat, say that Mme. Swann
did, to gratify not her husband but M. de Charlus; and I felt that, to
her, we must be an object of scorn, which distressed me particularly on
account of the daughter, such a pretty little girl, as I had heard, and
one of whom I used often to dream, always imagining her with the same
features and appearance, which I bestowed upon her quite arbitrarily,
but with