In snowy Foxborough, reading Proust passes the hour before bedtime. So I'm back reading. The endless reception is over. Grandma is dead. Marcel has been stood up by Mlle. Stenmaria. He's dining with St. Loup and there's a big do to about which room, and the Dreyfusards, and St. Loup is being SO attentive with respect to the vicuna cloak of the Prince de Foix and somehow climbing around the room so as now to step on anything. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? If you get my drift. (This is a clean blog.)
This scene in the restaurant is rather bizarre, and to me, the character of St. Loup doesn't really hang together very well.
And the Duchesse invited Marcel to dinner, and he held up the whole meal looking at the paintings of Elstir and the Duke didn't dare disturb him. Also, a little bizarre. Maybe I am having trouble getting back into the book. Everyone seems to behave a little oddly. No, a lot oddly.
Ye gods, I will be so glad when I have read the last 100 pages of the Guermantes Way. The
Duc de Guermantes also does not impress me nor does his ancestory. The snobbism in this part of the text is really pervasive. And the humor has taken flight.