"No," he resumed, explaining by his words the tone in which they were
uttered. "No, I do not know them; I have never wished to know them; I have
always made a point of preserving complete independence; at heart, as you
know, I am a bit of a Radical. People are always coming to me about it,
telling me I am mistaken in not going to Guermantes, that I make myself
seem ill-bred, uncivilised, an old bear. But that's not the sort of
reputation that can frighten me; it's too true! In my heart of hearts I
care for nothing in the world now but a few churches, books--two or three,
pictures--rather more, perhaps, and the light of the moon when the fresh
breeze of youth (such as yours) wafts to my nostrils the scent of gardens
whose flowers my old eyes are not sharp enough, now, to distinguish."
I did not understand very clearly why, in order to refrain from going to
the houses of people whom one did not know, it should be necessary to
cling to one's independence, nor how that could give one the appearance of
a savage or a bear. But what I did understand was this, that Legrandin was
not altogether truthful when he said that he cared only for churches,
moonlight, and youth; he cared also, he cared a very great deal, for
people who lived in country houses, and would be so much afraid, when in
their company, of incurring their displeasure that he would never dare to
let them see that he numbered, as well, among his friends middle-class
people, the families of solicitors and stockbrokers, preferring, if the
truth must be known, that it should be revealed in his absence, when he
was out of earshot, that judgment should go against him (if so it must) by
default: in a word, he was a snob.
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