James Joyce kommt zu spät. Er ist schon sichtlich angeheitert, das können die Iren ja nicht lassen. Er ist auch nicht ganz comme il faut, er trägt einen normalen Straßenanzug, keine ➱Abendkleidung. Proust kommt auch zu spät, ist zwar korrekt gekleidet, aber zieht den ganzen Abend seinen Pelzmantel nicht aus. Wir haben über das Treffen der beiden Herren leider keinen genauen Bericht, sondern nur eine Vielzahl von Erinnerungsschnipseln. Die Schriftstellerin Élisabeth de Gramont (die eine Herzogin de Clermont-Tonnerre ist) erinnerte sich: A bad joker put Joyce and Proust together. ‘I have never read your works, Mr. Joyce.’ ‘I have never read your works Mr. Proust'. Und James Joyce erzählte seinem Freund Frank Budgen: Our talk consisted solely of the word ‘No.’ Proust asked me if I knew the duc de-so-and-so. I said ‘No.’ Our hostess asked Proust if he had read such and such a piece of 'Ulysses'. Proust said, ‘No.’ And so on. Of course the situation was impossible. Proust’s day was just beginning. Mine was at an end.
Nach der Erinnerung der Gastgeberin Violet Schiff verlief die Begegnung so (auf jeden Fall hat sie Ford Maddox Ford so aufgeschrieben):
Two stiff chairs were obtained and placed, facing the one the other, in the aperture of a folding doorway between two rooms. The faithful of Mr. Joyce disposed themselves in a half-circle in one room; those of M. Proust completed the circle in the other. Mr. Joyce and M. Proust sat upright, facing each other, and vertically parallel. They were invited to converse. They did.
Said M. Proust: ‘Comme j’ai dit, Monsieur, dans 'Du Cote de Chez Swann' que sans doute vous avez lu…’
Mr. Joyce gave a tiny vertical jump on his chair seat and said: ‘Non, Monsieur…’
Then Mr. Joyce took up the conversation. He said: ‘As Mr. Blum [sic] says in my 'Ulysses', which you have doubtless read…’
M. Proust gave a slightly higher vertical jump on his chair seat. He said: ‘Mais non, monsieur.’
Service fell again to M. Proust. He apologized for the lateness of his arrival. He said it was due to a malady of the liver. He detailed clearly and with minuteness the symptoms of his illness.
‘Tiens Monsieur,’ Joyce interrupted. ‘I have almost the same symptoms. Only in my case the analysis…’
So, till eight next morning, in perfect amity and enthusiasm, surrounded by the awed faithful, they discussed their maladies.
Leider kann sich an diese Version der Geschichte niemand erinnern. Erich Salomon ist nicht mit seiner ➱Kamera dabei, den Grafen ➱Kessler mit seinem guten Erinnerungsvermögen hat man nicht eingeladen. Doch die meisten Berichte ähneln sich darin, dass sich die beiden Literaturgiganten nicht so furchtbar viel zu sagen hatten. Außer über ihre kleinen und großen Malaisen zu reden.
Knapp hundert Jahre vor diesem Treffen gab es Paris schon einmal eine Begegnung zweier Literaturgiganten, über die einer der beiden später schrieb: It might have been ten days after the arrival of Sir Walter Scott, that I had ordered a carriage one morning, with the intention of driving over to the other side of the river, and had got as far as the lower flight of steps on my way to the door, when another coach drove into the court. It was raining, and as my own carriage moved off to make room for the new-comer, I stopped on the stairs until it should return. The carriage-steps rattled, and presently a large, heavy-moulded man appeared in the door of the hotel. He was gray, and limped a little, walking with a cane. We passed each other on the stairs, bowing, as a matter of course. I had got to the door, and was about to enter the carriage, when it flashed on my mind that the visit might be to myself. I had not the slightest suspicion who the visitor was, though I fancied both the face and form were known to me.
"The stranger went up the large stone steps slowly, leaning with one hand on the iron railing, and, with the other on his cane. He was on the first landing, as I stopped, and, turning toward the next flight, our eyes met. The idea I might be the person he wanted, seemed then to strike him for the first time: 'Est-ce Monsieur -- que j'ai l'honneur de voir?' he asked, in French, and with but an indifferent accent. 'Monsieur, je m'appelle ---- Eh-bien, done, je suis Walter Scott.'
"'I ran up the landing, shook him by the hand, which he stood holding out to me cordially, and expressed my sense of the honor he was conferring. He told me, in substance, that the Princesse ------ had been as good as her word, and, having succeeded herself in getting hold of him, she had good-naturedly given him my address. By way of cutting short all ceremony, he had driven from his hotel to my lodgings. All this time he was speaking French, while my answers and remarks were in English, suddenly recollecting himself, he said, 'Well, here have I been parlez-vousing to you in a way to surprise you, no doubt; but these Frenchmen have got my tongue so set to their lingo, that I have half forgotten my own language.' As we proceeded up the next flight of stairs, he accepted my arm, and continued the conversation in English, walking with more difficulty than I had expected to see.
Das schreibt ➱James Fenimore Cooper, der es nicht so gerne hört, wenn man ihn den amerikanischen ➱Walter Scott nennt. Und worüber reden die Herren? Zicken die rum wie ➱Norman Mailer und Gore Vidal? Tratschen sie über ihre Wehwehchen wie Joyce und Proust? Nein, die reden darüber, was Schriftsteller so interessiert: Copyright und Raubdrucke, Druckfehler und die Mühen des Korrekturlesens. Und Cooper ist auch ganz Gentleman in seiner Zurückhaltung bei der Beschreibung des Treffens: There would be an impropriety in my relating all that passed in this interview; but we talked over a matter of business, and then the conversation was more general. Ja. damals gab es noch Manieren. Utinam modo nostra redirent In mores tempora priscos.
Zwanzig Jahre nach der Abendgesellschaft vom 18. Mai 1922 wird im Hotel Majestic nicht mehr getafelt. Da sitzt jetzt das deutsche Oberkommando, da liest niemand mehr Proust. Außer dem Hauptmann ➱Ernst Jünger. Der sich 1942 (wie er in sein Tagebuch schreibt) mit der Ärztin Sophie Ravoux über Proust unterhält (Die Unterhaltungen mit dieser höchst intelligenten Frau gehören für mich zu den verborgenen Oasen unserer Wüstenei). Es ist nicht nur ein geistiger Austausch, er hat mit der Dame auch eine Affäre. Was die Künstler der Textauslegung zu neuen Höhenflügen veranlasst hat.
Nach der Erinnerung der Gastgeberin Violet Schiff verlief die Begegnung so (auf jeden Fall hat sie Ford Maddox Ford so aufgeschrieben):
Two stiff chairs were obtained and placed, facing the one the other, in the aperture of a folding doorway between two rooms. The faithful of Mr. Joyce disposed themselves in a half-circle in one room; those of M. Proust completed the circle in the other. Mr. Joyce and M. Proust sat upright, facing each other, and vertically parallel. They were invited to converse. They did.
Said M. Proust: ‘Comme j’ai dit, Monsieur, dans 'Du Cote de Chez Swann' que sans doute vous avez lu…’
Mr. Joyce gave a tiny vertical jump on his chair seat and said: ‘Non, Monsieur…’
Then Mr. Joyce took up the conversation. He said: ‘As Mr. Blum [sic] says in my 'Ulysses', which you have doubtless read…’
M. Proust gave a slightly higher vertical jump on his chair seat. He said: ‘Mais non, monsieur.’
Service fell again to M. Proust. He apologized for the lateness of his arrival. He said it was due to a malady of the liver. He detailed clearly and with minuteness the symptoms of his illness.
‘Tiens Monsieur,’ Joyce interrupted. ‘I have almost the same symptoms. Only in my case the analysis…’
So, till eight next morning, in perfect amity and enthusiasm, surrounded by the awed faithful, they discussed their maladies.
"The stranger went up the large stone steps slowly, leaning with one hand on the iron railing, and, with the other on his cane. He was on the first landing, as I stopped, and, turning toward the next flight, our eyes met. The idea I might be the person he wanted, seemed then to strike him for the first time: 'Est-ce Monsieur -- que j'ai l'honneur de voir?' he asked, in French, and with but an indifferent accent. 'Monsieur, je m'appelle ---- Eh-bien, done, je suis Walter Scott.'
"'I ran up the landing, shook him by the hand, which he stood holding out to me cordially, and expressed my sense of the honor he was conferring. He told me, in substance, that the Princesse ------ had been as good as her word, and, having succeeded herself in getting hold of him, she had good-naturedly given him my address. By way of cutting short all ceremony, he had driven from his hotel to my lodgings. All this time he was speaking French, while my answers and remarks were in English, suddenly recollecting himself, he said, 'Well, here have I been parlez-vousing to you in a way to surprise you, no doubt; but these Frenchmen have got my tongue so set to their lingo, that I have half forgotten my own language.' As we proceeded up the next flight of stairs, he accepted my arm, and continued the conversation in English, walking with more difficulty than I had expected to see.
Das schreibt ➱James Fenimore Cooper, der es nicht so gerne hört, wenn man ihn den amerikanischen ➱Walter Scott nennt. Und worüber reden die Herren? Zicken die rum wie ➱Norman Mailer und Gore Vidal? Tratschen sie über ihre Wehwehchen wie Joyce und Proust? Nein, die reden darüber, was Schriftsteller so interessiert: Copyright und Raubdrucke, Druckfehler und die Mühen des Korrekturlesens. Und Cooper ist auch ganz Gentleman in seiner Zurückhaltung bei der Beschreibung des Treffens: There would be an impropriety in my relating all that passed in this interview; but we talked over a matter of business, and then the conversation was more general. Ja. damals gab es noch Manieren. Utinam modo nostra redirent In mores tempora priscos.
Alarme. Überfliegungen. Vom Dach des 'Raphael' sah ich zweimal in Richtung von Saint-Germain gewaltige Sprengwolken aufsteigen, während Geschwader in großer Höhe davonflogen. Ihr Angriffsziel waren die Flußbrücken, Art und Aufeinanderfolge der gegen den Nachschub gerichteten Maßnahmen deuten auf einen feinen Kopf. Beim zweiten Mal, bei Sonnenuntergang, hielt ich ein Glas Burgunder, in dem Erdbeeren schwammen, in der Hand. Die Stadt mit ihren roten Türmen und Kuppeln lag in gewaltiger Schönheit gleich einem Kelche, der zu tödlicher Befruchtung überflogen wird. Alles war Schauspiel, war reine, vom Schmerz bejahte und erhöhte Macht. Bei dieser Beschreibung, die neuerdings gemeinhin Burgunderszene genannt wird, hatte man bisher den Einfluss von Proust auf Jünger angenommen. Aber jetzt kommt ➱Tobias Wimbauer und versichert uns, dass diese poetische Beschreibung von Schönheit und Schrecken nichts als die chiffrierte Darstellung einer Liebesaffäre ist. Ach ja, Andrea Weiss hat mit ihrem Buchtitel schon Recht, Paris was a Woman.
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