“Oriane is a snob”

The Guermantes Way, by Marcel Proust and translated by Moncrieff, Kilmartin and Enwright

Everything we think of as great has come to us from neurotics.

This is not the easiest volume of Proust. In fact, if you’ve never read Proust this volume is exactly what you were probably afraid he would be like – 100+ page descriptions of dinner parties in which very little happens, very slowly.

The writing here is rarely less than beautiful, and of course it’s only part of a much larger body of work, but it’s a challenge. Fortunately it redeems itself at the end, sufficiently so that it doubles my list of books I struggled with only to find the last few pages made the effort worthwhile (Antic Hay’s the other one, if you’re wondering).

As I write this my cat is occasionally jumping up and wandering across the keyboard, as cats do. Any insights of note are therefore likely hers.


Images of the covers I have, which are rather nice period sketches in red and grey, sadly appear to be unavailable online. The flower covers aren’t bad at all, but I prefer the sketch-covers.

Perhaps even more than most volumes to date, the Guermantes Way is almost two books in one. In the first the narrator begins to enter Paris society, but he is still in many ways a boy. He forms a massive crush on the noted and beautiful society hostess Madame de Guermantes, to whom he has a rather distant connection, and essentially starts to stalk her. He arranges his walks at times of day when he is sure to run into her, and exploits his friendship with the aristocratic young soldier Saint-Loup to arrange an introduction the woman plainly doesn’t want. Wherever she goes, there he is.

Just as previously the narrator hero-worshipped the painter Elstir then held Albertine up as the essence of his desires made flesh, now he again creates a fantasy in place of a person. The difference here is that he had opportunity to meet Elstir and Albertine, while Madame de Guermantes quite naturally wants nothing to do with this odd youth who seems so peculiarly fixated on her. She combines beauty with immense social cachet, and her wit (the Guermantes’ family are famed for their wit) is legendary. As long as she’s seen from afar she’s the perfect woman.

There’s more of course, vastly more. There are whole sections on the life of the family and servants at their new apartment in Paris. There’s a wonderful and painful moment when Saint-Loup introduces his mistress to the narrator, only for the narrator to recognise her as a prostitute who used to work in a brothel he once frequented. Much more painful however is the decline of the narrator’s grandmother.

That decline leads an extraordinary passage, too long to quote, where Proust meditates on how when we see people we mostly see them as we expect to. It’s only when we see them after a long absence, or in some unexpected circumstance or perspective that we suddenly see them as they are. We see where weight has been put on, where frailty has crept up, we see the signs of age or illness that normally are invisible to us because they manifest so slowly that we miss their onset. The narrator’s grandmother is old, and increasingly unwell, and wrapped in her love for him and his for her he hasn’t noticed, until suddenly he does:

I saw, sitting on the sofa beneath the lamp, red-faced, heavy and vulgar, sick, day-dreaming, letting her slightly crazed eyes wander over a book, an overburdened old woman whom I did not know.

The account of the narrator’s grandmother’s decline into illness and death is staggeringly well written, and because of that rather horrible. There’s no dignity in it, just frailty and pointless suffering, the body turned from ally to incomprehensible enemy. The grandmother passes from being a person to an object, but this transfiguration comes long before she actually dies as she becomes the subject of indifferent doctors and the servant Francoise who is so eager to show how much she cares that she completely ignores any evidence of the grandmother’s actual wishes. It’s difficult stuff to read.

That’s the thing with Proust. Few people nowadays have lingering illnesses at home with doctors and family in attendance. We die in anonymous hospitals. Few of us too  discover that our best friend’s girlfriend used to be a prostitute. Those are particulars though. Seeing a loved one fall into illness, losing their dignity along the way, that’s sadly damn near universal. Knowing something about someone a friend loves but not knowing whether to tell that friend or not, lots of us have had that particular experience. Part of the richness of Proust is that he reaches through his particulars to the universal human experience underneath.

Quoting Proust is particularly tricky because of his fondness for slabs of text with sentences running on, comma after comma, filled with diversions and allusions, descriptions and dialogue flowing like rivers down a rocky slope occasionally heading off in an unexpected direction and catching in eddies along the way, not always reaching the destination you expected at the outset. Here’s a lengthy excerpt from a marvellous set-piece at the theatre where the narrator continues to explore his fascination with the great actor Berma, but finds her star beginning to be eclipsed for him by the yet more glittering world of the salons:

Next to me were some vulgar people who, not knowing the regular seat-holders, were anxious to show that they were capable of identifying them and named them aloud. They went on to remark that these “regulars” behaved there as though they were in their own drawing-rooms, meaning that they paid no attention to what was being played. In fact it was the opposite that took place. A budding genius who has taken a stall in order to see Berma thinks only of not soiling his gloves, of not disturbing, of conciliating, the neighbour whom chance has put beside him, of pursuing with an intermittent smile the fleeting glance, and avoiding with apparent want of politeness the intercepted glance, of a person of his acquaintance whom he has discovered in the audience and to whom, after endless indecisions, he makes up his mind to go and talk just as the three knocks from the stage, resounding before he has had time to reach his friend, force him to take flight, like the Hebrews in the Red Sea, through a heaving tide of spectators and spectatresses whom he has forced to rise to their feet and whose dresses he tears and boots he crushes as he passes. On the other hand, it was because the society people sat in their boxes (behind the tiered circle) as in so many little suspended drawing-rooms, the fourth walls of which had been removed, or in so many little cafés to which one might go for refreshment without letting oneself be intimidated by the mirrors in gilt frames or the red plush seats, in the Neapolitan style, of the establishment – it was because they rested an indifferent hand on the gilded shafts of the columns which upheld this temple of the lyric art – it was because they remained unmoved by the extravagant honours which seemed to be being paid them by a pair of carved figures which held out towards the boxes branches of palm and laurel, that they alone would have the equanimity of mind to listen to the play, if only they had minds.

Phew! There are of course pages more. I’m not sure it’s the most illustrative quote I could have chosen, but I did rather like it. It also gives me the excuse to share a painting I love, which is housed at the Courtauld Gallery not far from where I work. It’s Renoir’s La Loggia:


What that quote does illustrate is Proust’s wit. Much of that lengthy passage is a setup for that final line. The whole thing is an exercise in absurdity. You have to go with the flow though. You have to sit down, immerse yourself in it, let it wash over and through you. Anything else and it becomes trench warfare, advancing a paragraph or so a day with an increasing sense that you’re not going to make it out of this one alive.

Speaking of trench warfare, we have the second part of The Guermantes Way. In the first section the narrator makes his first real steps in society, joining the salon of Madame de Villeparisis, which is decidedly unfashionable. In the second he finally finds himself a guest of Madame de Guermantes, Oriane given he’s now on first-name terms.

Oriane’s salon is utterly unlike that of Madame de Villeparisis. Where once the narrator attended dinners in which those present gossiped about those not present, repeated the latest stories from society and showed off their wit, now he attends dinners where those present gossip about those not present, repeat the latest stories from society and show off their wit. It’s a whole new world.

To be fair, the guests at Oriane’s salon are the most sought after in Paris. She plays host to princesses and persons of note. Oriane’s wit is sharper than most, though not perhaps quite as sharp as reputation has it, and there isn’t the nagging sense of the slightly provincial which comes through in the scenes at Madame de Villeparisis’ salon. Still, much of what’s best in this section is the narrator’s wilful refusal to even admit to himself that one salon is much like the other, that the Guermantes’ home is not the Elysium he dreamed it would be. That Oriane may, at the end of the day, be merely human after all.

Proust’s character study of Oriane is a masterpiece, not least in his examination of her comprehensive and unremitting snobbery. Oriane does not consider herself a snob, she is an egalitarian in fact, proudly oblivious to class distinctions. It is mere happenstance that she married a man of her own station, that her guests are the cream of society socially if not always intellectually, and that she treats her servants with what seems to be kindness but is in fact indifference to their actual preferences. Were she alive today she would doubtless have a regular column in the Guardian.

In the second of her four pieces on this book Emma of bookaroundthecorner said “We all know a Mme de Guermantes.” It’s true of course, it’s hard to get through life without meeting those whose values are held loudly but lightly. Oriane values artists, but not art; comment, but not analysis. She is unthinking, unreflective, cruel and petty because she swims only in the shallows. It’s not a kind comment on Paris society of Proust’s age that she represents its pinnacle, nor on the narrator that for all he can see exactly what she is he remains just as attracted by it and by the social success access to her promises.

I talked above about this volume being a challenge, but one that ultimately pays off. I’ve spent longer at the dinner parties of Madames de Villeparisis and de Guermantes than I have some dinner parties in real life. Given that part of what’s being shown is the vacuity of Paris society life, that means hours and pages spent at the table with people who can be amusing but rarely interesting.

Part of what makes all that worthwhile is the way Proust uses it to explore broader currents in then-contemporary society, in particular how the Dreyfus affair is becoming a fault-line in France in the way that say abortion is in the US today, with your position on that one issue being taken as a litmus test for where you stand on a whole range of essentially unrelated issues.

So, you’re pro-Dreyfus? That implies you’re politically liberal, anti-militarist, progressive, none of which may of course be true, you might be highly socially conservative and just think that Dreyfus happens to be innocent (or at least that his guilt isn’t proven). If you are though a pro-establishment Dreyfusard you can expect to be viewed with a certain suspicion by others on your side of the political debate, you’re off-message at minimum.

The Dreyfus case brought into conflict issues of trust in the military, the status of Jews in French society (which was horrifically anti-semitic), whether tradition has inherent value or whether it should be challenged and examined. The details of the Dreyfus case itself are now fairly obscure, particularly if like me you’re not French, but the broader sweep of the debate remains very current. It’s a specific manifestation of that age-old conflict between the forces of progressivism and conservatism. Dreyfus is an Edward Snowden, a human barometer of wider political sentiment.

On the subject incidentally of ongoing political relevance, here’s a quote which seemed to me to be as true today as it was when written:

He was, indeed, in the habit of always comparing what he heard or read with an already familiar canon, and felt his admiration quicken if he could detect no difference. This state of mind is by no means to be ignored, for, applied to political conversations, to the reading of newspapers, it forms public opinion and thereby makes possible the greatest events in history. A large number of German Café owners, simply by being impressed by a customer or a newspaper when they said that France, England and Russia were “provoking” Germany, made war possible at the time of Agadir, even if no war occurred. Historians, if they have not been wrong to abandon the practice of attributing the actions of peoples to the will of kings, out to substitute for the latter the psychology of the individual, the inferior individual at that.

The other element of payoff is watching the narrator’s slowly failing struggle to maintain his own illusions. He wants to believe in Madame de Guermantes, and through her in the world she represents and is the paragon of, but evidence is the enemy of faith. Well, generally it is. My own faith in the brilliance of Proust is being slowly rewarded and proven true, but like all faiths it’s sometimes tested and this volume is easily the most testing to date.

Emma of book aroundthecorner wrote four excellent and highly perceptive posts on this volume, all of which can be found on her Reading Proust page here. Emma also links to two articles written on the Vapour Trails blog, the first of which is here. Séamus Duggan is the blogger there, and in the second of his posts he says “Sometime I may be able to distill and analyze these books but at the moment it feels like trying to describe water in motion. Always the same but forever changing.”  I genuinely couldn’t have put that better myself (so I quoted it, blogs are a conversation after all).  There are worlds in Proust, any blog post (even four like Emma did) can only scratch the surface. You just have to dive in.


Filed under French, Proust, Marcel

17 responses to ““Oriane is a snob”

  1. I was looking forward to this review. That was worth the wait. I don’t know how you manage to wrap up the events, the tone and the style of the book into one single billet but you made it.
    Does it come in two volumes in your edition? In mine, it does.
    I don’t think this one is the most challenging of In Search of Lost Time. La Prisonnière and Albertine disparue are more claustrophobic and taxing to read, at least for me.
    The Dreyfus Affair is a nasty event, one you still hear about in school syllabus as being an event that torn the French society in two. The Guermantes Way speaks volume of the pre-war French society and the antisemitism made me more than uncomfortable, especially when you know what will happen in the 1930s and WWII.
    The next volume is about homosexuality and it was daring topic for a book in those times.

    Thanks for the link to my blog. I’ll add your post to the reading list page. I think Tom (Amateur Reader) recently reviewed Time Regained. And believe me, this one is worth reading through the claustrophobic ones.

  2. I had the advantage Emma of being able to read your four billets first. I usually avoid reading other people’s reviews just before I write my own, but on this occasion there was so much scope, so much ground to cover, it seemed worth doing. Actually, it was great to reread your pieces particularly the ones on Madame de Guermantes and on the Dreyfus case.

    It’s one book physically, but there are clearly two parts within it and they do feel fairly distinct, related but distinct.

    Good to know there’s more challenging yet to come… Still, overall it’s more than worth it.

    The anti-semitism is definitely uncomfortable, but then so it should be. I did wonder if there was more coming up on homosexuality given how it has started to come up as a theme to an extent in this volume, just not yet as a major theme.

  3. I would have had difficulty remembering what happened in this volume before reading your review — it is a tribute to both your thoughts and Proust that it leapt to front of mind each time you introduced a new aspect. Certainly those of us more than a century on know what dramatic elements lurk for France shortly after when this volume is set. Knowing what we do, one can only speculate on whether the “stasis” that Proust captures (e.g. the similar emptiness of the two salons) is actually a building energy that eventually will demand a release.

  4. Max, I’m delighted to be part of such a sophisticated conversation. It makes me feel all aristocratic and fin de siècle. As Kevin notes, this post brings the book vividly back to mind, and it is exciting to contemplate it again from a distance. Thanks for the link and the experience.

  5. leroyhunter

    Bravo Max – a very fine reflection on the book, and Proust more generally. I have found this one quite a slog in places as well, but there are constant surprises and rewards.

  6. Max, your cats did pretty well.

    This one is where the Proust-slog sets in for me, too. Those parties, they are endless. I suppose part of the problem is that the parties are structured as parties – Marcel wanders around talking to different people. Some of what he overhears is brilliant, some instructive, some so obscure I have no idea what Proust is getting at.

    And then there is great stuff with Oriane, Charlus, the scenes with the grandmother, Swann at the end. Well, this is how Proust works.

  7. Thanks Kevin, and interesting speculation. There is definitely a sense in this volume of fault lines in society – that their system is becoming unsustainable.

    Of course, as you indicate, we have the distorting effect of hindsight.

    Seamus, thank you for your part of the conversation. I definitely enjoyed your reviews (enough to quote from one in fact, as you’ll have seen).

    Leroy, thank you and just so – a slog in places but also constant surprises and rewards.

    Tom, thanks on Bishamon’s behalf. Nice point on the parties, there’s of course a social observation point here too and it’s difficult to accurately observe and record a rather superficial and slightly dull social event without at times bogging the reader down.

    And yes, the scenes with the grandmother, with Swann, and for me the really memorable scenes with Charlus, those are just absolute gold.

  8. I love that first quote.
    I started Proust this year and then put it aside as I found that reading the book interfered with sleep (brought back memories). This was an unexpected development. Now I think I’ll just have to start all over again and read during the day and not at night.

  9. Great isn’t it? I couldn’t resist it.

    Proust I find can definitely stir up one’s own feelings and memories. It’s powerful stuff.

  10. Your post got me to researching the Dreyfus Affair. It first seemed hard to believe that the fate of this one Army officer could have such huge repercussions for the French republic, but apparently the anti-Dreyfus contingent staged these huge anti-Semitic demonstrations that caused fear within Jewish communities throughout Europe. I suppose McCarthyism in the United States was similar where they didn’t claim to be anti-Semitic but the Hollywood and other people attacked were frequently Jewish.

  11. Alastair Savage

    Your dedication to the task is admirable, Max, and I love your pastiche of Proust’s style “rivers down a rocky slope” etc. Alas, I failed to get beyond volume 2 and I’m afraid these are some dinner parties I shall never attend.

  12. The Dreyfus affair is remarkable. Robert Harris has just brought out a novel based on it. Given he’s more of a thriller writer I expect the approach to be very different, but he is a good thriller writer so it’ll likely still be fun.

    The scale of anti-Semitism can be staggering. Nowadays it’s quieter and subtler, though it’s far from entirely vanished sadly. Still, I don’t think you’d get quite the mass rallies of the sort the Dreyfus affair sparked as much now.

    Alastair, thanks. I am enjoying the series. Apparently the next volume is even tougher!

  13. Curiously I commented on this a while back and I just had a look (no I wasn’t on the madeleines) and saw that it hadn’t been saved.

    Anyway, great to read this as I read the whole thing about 16 years ago (finished the last page when the train I was on stopped at Reading station) and I think it’s right that this is the most difficult.

    I saw a Lydia Davis interviewed and she said how the translators would add in words and actually change the words to make the sentences more “poetic” –
    I read it when I was working at Dillons, if anyone remembers them (and they should be forgotten, at least the branch I worked in.) One of my colleagues seemed to think that I was only reading ISOLT as some kind of pretence, that wasn’t really interested in it, I was just trying to prove myself above the masses/hoi polloi or whatever you want to call them. A strange stance considering we were both working in a bookshop. I didn’t feel I needed to defend myself. The amazing thing about Proust is, and this is going to sound pretentious, that it is about itself. I mean that the whole structure, the length is tied up with what it means. Now, that sounds obvious but that was what I thought after I’d finished.

  14. Thanks for reposting Laurence, it’s always annoying when a comment gets eaten.

    It is tough going in places, not sure reading it at Reading Station would have helped that any either.

    That Lydia Davis comment is interesting. It’s dangerous territory, as by “improving” you may change fundamentally what the writer sought to achieve. Apparently many translators of Clarice Lispector smoothed her grammar and quietened down some vulgar expressions when translating her works, but she meant her work to be in places vulgar and ungrammatical. Making the language more poetic changes both feel and potentially meaning, it does the book a disservice.

    It infuriates me the idea some people have that if one likes something difficult one only likes it to show off, one can’t “really” like it. I don’t like football, but I don’t assume those who do are faking it to fit in. I figure they just like something I don’t. I’ve been getting into some early 20th Century classical recently as a departure from some noise/industrial stuff and electronic music. I can get why some might not like it, but I’m not a masochist, I listen to it again because I find it rewarding. The stance that one’s reading/listening or whatever for some strange ulterior motive says more to me about the person holding that stance than it does of anything else, it speaks of insecurity about their own tastes.

    I’m not sure that does sound obvious. It sounds right though.

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