Moncrieff: 73-85; Grieve: 53-63
by Dennis Abrams
Reading a review of La Berma’s performance in Phedre, Marcel becomes convinced of her greatness. Marcel’s mother is not pleased that his father no longer thought of a diplomatic career for him. Marcel discovers that he is subject to the laws of time. “In theory, one is aware that the earth revolves, but in practice one does not perceive it, the ground upon which one treads seems not to move, and one can rest assured. So it is with Time in one’s life…In saying of me, ‘He’s no longer a child,’ ‘His tastes won’t change now,’ and so forth, my father had suddenly made me conscious of myself in Time, and caused me the same kind of depression as if I had been, not yet the enfeebled old pensioner, but one of those heroes of whom the author, in a tone of indifference which is particularly galling, says to us at the end of a book: ‘He very seldom comes up from the country now. He has finally decided to end his days there.'” Marcel’s parents discuss M. de Norpois. Francoise learns, to her quiet pleasure, that she had been described by M. de Norpois as “a first-rate chef.” Francoise’s dislike of other restaurants and pride in herself as a cook. New Year’s visits. Marcel leaves a letter for Gilberte at the stall from which Swann purchases gingerbread, telling her of his wish that they can start their relationship anew with the new year. Coming home, Marcel realizes that “For all that I might dedicate this new year to Gilberte, and, as one superimposes a religion on the blind laws of nature, with the particular image that I had formed of it, it was in vain…I had recognized, had sensed the reappearance of, the eternal common substance, the familiar moisture, the unheeding fluidity of the old days and years.” Marcel senses the hopelessness of his letter “by means of which I hoped, in telling her of my solitary dreams of love and longing to arouse similar dreams in her. The sadness of men who have grown old lies in their no longer even thinking of writing such letters, the futility of which their experience had shown.” Gilberte still has not reappeared at the Champs-Elysees, and as Marcel’s memory of her face fades, he fears that he no longer loves her.
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Wow. Those last few pages of New Year’s Day melancholy and futility are so beautifully written, yet, as we approach our own New Year’s Day, are, for me at least, emotionally devastating. I’m turning fifty next month, and Proust’s reminder of Time, and its effects on one’s hopes, seems to be right along my own line of thought these days.
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On a brighter note, I do want to note that, as much as I enjoyed reading the Davis translation of Swann’s Way, I am very happy to be back reading Moncrieff again. It’s probably because this is the translation in which I’ve read Proust before, but to my ear, it captures how I think Proust sounds. The art of translation and what one likes is, as I said in one of my first posts, a very personal decision.
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And finally, since, not surprisingly, there has been much discussion of Swann and Odette’s marriage, I thought I’d share with you Roger Shattuck’s brief summation of their relationship from his book Proust’s Way.
“The stations of Swann’s love for Odette begin and end in indifference, and between those terms his sentiments, still covered by the generic word “love,” pass through multiple, overlapping stages: aesthetic appreciation of Odette’s beauty, passive acceptance of her company, suffering because of being deprived of her company, urgent physical need for her, brief happiness in the satisfaction of that need, the torments of jealousy, social disgrace in her eyes because of his importunate behavior, a sense of physical and nervous sickness, despair at the recollection of his happier moments, incapacity to act in order to rescue himself, and the slow cooling of affection. Only afterward, when the subjective emotions of love have been exhausted, does Swann marry Odette, an insignificant event that takes place offstage, barely mentioned. Not one image: a multitude. The action of the first twenty-eight hundred pages out of three thousand can be seen as consisting in Marcel’s gradual discovery and acceptance of the truth that no person, no action, no sentiment, no social phenomenon is ever simple or consistent. Most of the way through, the Search remains a book of disenchantments. Things are never what they seem.”
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Tuesday’s Reading
Moncrieff: Page 85 “At last she returned to play there…” through Page 98 “…that it was social and professional.”
Grieve: Page 63 “Eventually she came back to the Champs-Elysees…” through Page 73 “…she was a social and professional pessimist.”
Enjoy. And trust me…you will.
Dennis, I was struck by the description of New Year’s Day as such a big holiday, including gift giving, etc. It seems more like our Christmas (which Proust skipped over). Was New Year’s a bigger deal than Christmas in France at that time? Is this practice of exchanging gifts on New Year’s still prevalent?
Eddie: I’m not sure if it was bigger than Xmas (in Proust there’s much that occurs offstage, as it were), but apparently gift-giving on New Year’s was a major tradition, one that’s still kept up to some extent. I found this article online that I found pretty interesting.
In France, New Year’s Day is known as Le Jour de l’An — or Le jour d’étrennes, day of presents, because of the very old custom of giving gifts on that day. Early in the morning, children give their mothers and fathers something hand-made, tradesfolk send gifts to their patrons, and all day long people bearing gifts make social calls to family and friends. (One wonders how it was co-ordinated: who stayed in to receive, who ventured out to call?)
The gifts were often candies, preserved fruit, sugar-plums or candied chestnuts. Confectionary could take delightful forms, disguised in the shape of a sucking pig, a ham, a hat, a boot, or even a carrot or birch rod, for example — each hollowed out to hold bonbons. Chocolate was popular during the Court of the Sun King (although I’ve read that by 1693, his second — secret — wife, Madame de Maintenon, had it banned — this is quite possibly untrue).
(Note: Bonbon — or bon-bon — comes from the French word bon, meaning “good”. In Europe, a bonbon is any sweet. The most simple bonbon is a sugar-coated almond.)
Then, as now, it was a day of friendship — although the gifts, at times, could carry a threatening message. After the French Revolution, for example, grenadiers presented the young dauphin with the gift of a domino made of stone and marble from the fallen Bastille. It was a sad and ironic gift, for the child was destined to die in prison. (From Mémoires sur la vie privée de Marie-Antoinette by Madame Campan.)
During the Court of the Sun King in late 17th century, the gifts bestowed could be lavish. On New Year’s Day in 1679, for example, Mademoiselle de Fontanges presented the King’s official mistress — Athénaïs, Madame de Montespan — with a magnificent diary, the binding studded with gems. I doubt very much that Athénaïs cared very much for this gift since young, beautiful (but not too bright) Fontanges was the King’s newest love interest.
That same year, Athénaïs’s son by the King, the Duc du Maine, gave her a collection of his letters to her — “Diverse Works of a Seven-Year-Old Author.” Charming, no doubt, but for the fact that the collection had been edited and put together by his governess, Madame de Maintenon, a woman for whom the King was also showing rather too much interest.
From left to right, the warring mistresses: Athénaïs, Madame de Montespan; Duchess de Fontanges; Madame de Maintenon.
In 1685, her favour fading, Athénaïs presented the King with an album with covers of solid-gold. Inside were hand-painted miniatures illustrating all the towns of Holland the King had won during the campaign of 1672. By the following year, however, Athénaïs was no longer welcome in the King’s company, and by November 18, 1689, while he was recovering from an operation, it was Madame de Maintenon (compiler of the Duc du Maine’s letters), who turned Athénaïs away from the King’s chamber.
One wonders what gifts they exchanged six weeks later, on New Year’s Day.
Dennis, the passage you mention on New Year’s melancholy just blew me away. That last sentence ending with “the unheeding fluidity of the old days and years.” I too have a significant birthday approaching. How did you manage to coordinate our reading this section with our own New Year!
Dennis, I am just about a year behind! (A friend of mine, one of your original flock, inspired me to read and follow along here!)
I too wondered about the New Year’s Day logistics, who stayed home and who paid calls. In the past year has anyone discovered the rules of this game?
On another note, now that I’ve finished the Davis translation, and I’m reading Moncrieff, I am a bit lost with page numbers, because years ago I bought the three-volume boxed set, and for the New Year’s passage I’m at page 525!
(Just signing up for email notifications.)