From a long way off one could distinguish and identify the steeple of
Saint-Hilaire inscribing its unforgettable form upon a horizon beneath
which Combray had not yet appeared; when from the train which brought us
down from Paris at Easter-time my father caught sight of it, as it slipped
into every fold of the sky in turn, its little iron cock veering
continually in all directions, he would say: "Come, get your wraps
together, we are there." And on one of the longest walks we ever took from
Combray there was a spot where the narrow road emerged suddenly on to an
immense plain, closed at the horizon by strips of forest over which rose
and stood alone the fine point of Saint-Hilaire's steeple, but so
sharpened and so pink that it seemed to be no more than sketched on the
sky by the finger-nail of a painter anxious to give to such a landscape,
to so pure a piece of 'nature,' this little sign of art, this single
indication of human existence. As one drew near it and could make out the
remains of the square tower, half in ruins, which still stood by its side,
though without rivalling it in height, one was struck, first of all, by
the tone, reddish and sombre, of its stones; and on a misty morning in
autumn one would have called it, to see it rising above the violet
thunder-cloud of the vineyards, a ruin of purple, almost the colour of the
wild vine.
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