It is really odd for me to think of Wharton and Proust being contemporaries. As Emily commented recently, Wharton seems like such an old-fashioned writer when compared to the modernists who were making it big in the early part of the 20th century. I have to say I agree. For all that Wharton struggled to not be associated with her parents’ generation and their fossilized values, Wharton herself wasn’t exactly a revolutionary or anywhere near to being a bohemian. Though her perspective and voice is original, the construction of her novels is traditional.

Wharton and Proust both lived in the Faubourg in Paris at the same time and knew many of the same people. And yet they never met. The reason they never met is all on Wharton’s side. She purposely avoided Proust because she thought he was a snob. This from a woman who herself had frequently been accused of being a snob and sometimes by the people who knew her most intimately. The thought just cracks me up.

Wharton read each volume of À la recherche as they were published and reread them several times and marked them up extensively. She also owned and read Proust’s books of essays and stories. She admired Proust’s writing even though she didn’t like all the sex.

During the French translation of Wharton’s The Custom of the Country, the translator, Robert d’Humières, was killed in action in 1916. It was suggested that Proust might finish the translation. Unfortunately, nothing ever came of it. Years later, Proust translator Scott Moncrieff died and Wharton was asked if she would finish the translation. While flattered, she refused on the grounds of being too old, suggesting that if she were 40 or 50 years younger she would have been glad to do it. The lesson here is being a Wharton or Proust translator is dangerous and possibly a death sentence.

Aren’t those yummy tidbits? Hermione Lee is such a good biographer and I am enjoying the book so much I don’t care that I still haven’t reached the halfway mark.