In 1922, the English novelist Sydney Schiff (who wrote under the name of Stephen Hudson) had one of the best cultural ideas of his time: he and his wife would host a party to which would be invited the leading cultural modernists of the day. Richard Davenport-Hines, whose book A Night At the Majestic: Proust & the Great Modernist Dinner Party of 1922 (2006) is the definitive guide to the occasion, describes the Schiffs as ‘the first celebrity stalkers’, though Proust was the main target: Schiff rather scarily described him as the ‘only man I like and I don’t intend to like any other’.
Schiff was wealthy, cosmopolitan and well-connected: the party was arranged for the Majestic hotel, Paris, 18 May, 1922 (Schiff wanted the Ritz, but the Ritz banned music after midnight). Schiff seized the opportunity presented by the premiere that evening of Stravinsky’s ballet Le Renard, performed by Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, in order to stage the gathering. Among those attending were the French novelist Marcel Proust, Irish writer James Joyce, Russian impresario Serge Diaghilev, Russian composer Igor Stravinsky and Spanish artist Pablo Picasso.
The Schiffs were anxious to see if their ‘lions’ would all appear. Diaghilev had made sure of his Ballets Russes colleagues Picasso and Stravinsky, but Joyce and Proust were notoriously unreliable and were not present for the dinner. Joyce arrived in time for the coffee, apologised to the Schiffs for being late and also for having no formal clothes. The Schiffs didn’t care: Joyce’s novel Ulysses had been published two months earlier in Paris, and rumours about its greatness were abundant. He could have come in dungarees, for all the Schiffs cared, though they would have doubtless preferred him sober. Joyce was drunk.
An immaculately dressed Proust rolled in about 2.30 AM. He used to be known as ‘Proust of the Ritz’, but, if not quite a recluse now, his gadabout days were long gone. Proust and Stravinsky began to chat, at which point a princess, annoyed by rumours that one of Proust’s characters was based on her, flounced out of the room. Flustered, Proust asked Stravinsky if he liked Beethoven. ‘I detest Beethoven’ said an irritated Stravinsky, and at this point Joyce (who had lost consciousness) began to snore loudly.
Joyce (when he woke up) attached himself to his fellow writer for the rest of the evening, but as Proust’s biographer William Carter says, ‘the creators of Leopold Bloom and Charles Swann had little to say to each other’. Later, Joyce would tell a friend that he didn’t rate Proust: ‘I have read some pages of his. I cannot see any special talent but I am a bad critic’. Joyce’s later versions of the encounter vary a lot; Proust never spoke of it. Picasso and Diaghilev – sadly but perhaps wisely – don’t seem to have mingled much with others that evening.
What Happened Next
Schiff later tried to persuade Proust to sit for Picasso, but with no success. Proust had only six months to live, and the time was possibly shortened when at the end of the party Joyce – by now thoroughly blootered – jumped into a taxi with the Schiffs and Proust, and started smoking. Proust somehow managed to be allergic to both smoke and fresh air, and Joyce was not invited into Proust’s apartment. The party was over.