From the early morning, with my head still turned to the wall and before I saw, above the large curtains of the window, the hue that the light of day took at dawn, I already knew what the weather was like. The first noises of the street had already informed me, depending on whether they reached me extinguished and disarmed by the humidity or moving like arrows in the bell-like and empty expanse of a spacious, icy and clear morning; with the passage of the first tram, I had perceived whether its rattling had frozen in the rain or if it was moving towards infinity. And perhaps from these noises, a more immediate and penetrating reminiscence had been caused, which, slipping into my sleep, spread within me a premonitory sadness of snow or occasionally made a little man sing continuous hymns, glorifying the sun, which caused me - as I started to smile while still asleep and my eyelids were preparing to dazzle - a deafening awakening with music.

From my room, moreover, I mainly communicated with the outside world at that time. I know that Bloch narrated how when he came to see me at night, he heard the noise of conversations; as my mother was in Combray and never found anyone in my room, Bloch concluded that I was talking to myself. When, much later, he learned that Albertine was living with me at that time, he understood that I had hidden her from the whole world and declared that he finally understood the reason why, at that time, I never wanted to go out. He was mistaken. And rightfully so, because the truth, even when it is necessary, cannot be entirely foreseen; those who learn a correct detail about someone else's life immediately draw mistaken conclusions, and they see in the fact they have just discovered the explanation for things that are completely unrelated to it.