As for Vermeer of Delft, she asked
whether he had been made to suffer by a woman, if it was a woman that had
inspired him, and once Swann had told her that no one knew, she had lost
all interest in that painter. She would often say: "I'm sure, poetry;
well, of course, there'd be nothing like it if it was all true, if the
poets really believed the things they said. But as often as not you'll
find there's no one so mean and calculating as those fellows. I know
something about poetry. I had a friend, once, who was in love with a poet
of sorts. In his verses he never spoke of anything but love, and heaven,
and the stars. Oh! she was properly taken in! He had more than three
hundred thousand francs out of her before he'd finished." If, then, Swann
tried to shew her in what artistic beauty consisted, how one ought to
appreciate poetry or painting, after a minute or two she would cease to
listen, saying: "Yes... I never thought it would be like that." And he
felt that her disappointment was so great that he preferred to lie to her,
assuring her that what he had said was nothing, that he had only touched
the surface, that he had not time to go into it all properly, that there
was more in it than that.
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