Even the briefest summary of his many accomplishments would overflow the length of this introduction; he was rather like Henry David Thoreau, William James, and John Singer Sargent rolled into one, and if the combination sounds impossible, even monstrous, it is meant to. Ruskin’s death became almost a national day of mourning in England, with hundreds of thousands joining the memorial parade; Proust’s short obituary notice of Ruskin began as follows, showing the stature that Ruskin was quite generally granted at the time:
We feared for Tolstoy’s life the other day; this misfortune did not come to pass, but the world has suffered a loss no less great: Ruskin is dead. Nietzsche is mad; Tolstoy and Ibsen seem to be at the end of their careers; Europe is losing, one by one, its great ‘spiritual leader [directeurs de conscience]’. A leading mind of his time Ruskin certainly was, but he was also its instructor of taste, its initiator into beauty…2
Proust abandoned his novel and turned to studying French Gothic architecture, making Ruskinian pilgrimages (as did many art-lovers at the time, before widespread art photography), and writing articles on Ruskin. By early 1900, Proust claimed to know Ruskin’s Seven Lamps of Architecture, The Bible of Amiens, Lectures on Literature and Painting, Val d’Arno, and almost-600-page autobiography Praeterita ‘by heart’ (Tadié 350), and had decided to translate him.
First came The Bible of Amiens, which Proust called – admittedly, in a pitch to a publisher – ‘beautiful, unknown, and original… the finest of Ruskin’s works,’ and Ruskin’s only book to do with France, being simultaneously about French history, a French city, and the French Gothic style’ (Tadié 391). The ‘Bible’ in question is the Amiens Cathedral, specifically its West Portal: Ruskin ‘reads’ it to explicate the lessons ‘Our Fathers Have Told Us’ (the title of the series Ruskin planned – The Bible of Amiens was intended to be the first volume of ten).
One of the book’s attractions for Proust, I suspect, was precisely that it let architecture become a pleasure of reading, integrated into the booklike – not bookish – interiority of Proust’s imagination. (See the passage on p. 101 below, where Proust is reading Ruskin while actually in St Mark’s and the different pleasures blend into one; see also the opening of Remembrance of Things Past, where the narrator’s first waking thought in the whole novel is that he is what he is reading about: a church.) Ruskin ‘reads’ the architecture of Amiens, and reading, for Proust, because it lets you share another’s thought while remaining in solitude, is the unique royal road to the realms within whose exploration is the artist’s one true task.3
Along with translating The Bible of Amiens, Proust added hundreds of footnotes, which often devour the page of Ruskin to which they are ostensibly attached. They are deeply erudite and enormously diligent, and Tadié paints us a wonderful picture of Proust at work, checking quotations and Dutch geography, adding a four-page footnote on Maeterlinck and another note surveying in detail contemporary medicine: ‘Proust never stopped gathering information, even at night, and reading things that were “boring and solemn”.
In this way he acquired the discipline that he knew was necessary (not just for “neuropaths”, but for artists)’ (45–52). He used these notes to argue against Ruskin’s theories and examples, and to develop and explore his own aesthetic principles; more importantly, they gave Proust what he was always looking for in constructing his books: a structure into which he could pour endlessly more material.
There is, of course, the ever-accordioning Remembrance of Things Past; his first book, Pleasures and Days, is made up of more than fifty various shorter pieces, including stories, poems, prose poems, pastiches, eighteenth-century ‘characters’, art studies and moral reflections (Tadié 252); the only other book he published in his lifetime, Pastiches et mélanges, combines nine pastiches of other writers’ prose styles (recently published in English, as The Lemoine Affair) and eight shorter pieces of drastically different kinds.
Most strikingly, Proust used his notes to provide a personal anthology of passages from Ruskin’s other works in order to give the reader a sense of already knowing them. The idea of creating a ‘makeshift memory’4 of Ruskin’s oeuvre for the reader seems a little crazy, but it is key to the importance of these translations for Proust’s own art as it ‘flashes forth from his own depths’ (p. 3, n. 1).
Ruskin’s work as a whole – discussed in very suggestive terms in footnote 1 to Ruskin’s epigraph (p. 45) – provided a grand enough system for Proust to explore how interconnections work: how to create artistic unity, not from mechanistic cross-referencing but with a consistent ‘physiognomy’ of thought. Footnotes were a way of establishing relationships and plumbing depths, always Proust’s method, and for us these notes reveal Proustian reading in action. That is the justification for including so much of Ruskin’s text in a book by Proust: Proust made the Ruskin his own, by translating it, annotating it, and reading it.
It seems likely that Proust was ready to return to fiction after The Bible of Amiens, but his father died in 1903 and Proust’s grief diverted him away from his inward creativity into another translation. He turned to Sesame and Lilies, Ruskin’s best-selling book in his lifetime out of the 160 he wrote, with over 160,000 copies in print by 1900: a treatise on education, a somewhat back-handed manifesto of women’s rights, and, most appealing to Proust and to us today, a hymn to the power of reading. Along with more copious footnotes, Proust added a long preface called ‘On Reading’, which describes childhood memories of books, meals, bedrooms, and walks along what he would later call Swann’s Way. He published the essay three times: in 1905; as the preface to Sésame et les Lys in 1906; and again in Pastiches et mélanges in 1919 under the title ‘Days of Reading’.
His beloved mother would die while Proust was correcting the proofs of Sesame and Lilies, in September 1905, and instead of dedicating the second Ruskin translation to her, as the first was dedicated to his father, he systematically went through ‘On Reading’ and changed all references to his mother to an ‘aunt’: perhaps, Tadié speculates, because Proust, ‘crippled with grief, was only able to write about his mother once he had transformed her into a grandmother [in Remembrance of Things Past], and thus into a fictional character. This is undoubtedly the most mysterious period in an existence that was rich in secrets’ (465-66). Proust then wrote: ‘I’ve closed the era of translations, which Maman encouraged, for good. And as for translations of myself, I no longer have the heart’ (Tadié 475).5 He turned down the offer to translate more Ruskin, even St Mark’s Rest about Venice, because he did not want to die ‘without ever having written anything of his own’ (Tadié 437).
It would take two more years for Proust to recover, but a notebook of 1908 begins to sketch out Remembrance of Things Past; at the same time, he was writing an experimental fictional/critical work, Against Sainte-Beuve, which alternates between an attack on the nineteenth-century critic and sections of narrative very much like Swann’s Way; and he engaged in the last major project he would accomplish before embarking on his great novel, the pastiches of other writers mentioned above. A fragment from Against Sainte-Beuve begins:
As soon as I started to read an author I could hear right away, beneath the words, the tune of the song which is always different from the song of every other author… Even if, never having been able to work, I didn’t know how to write, I knew very well that I had this ear, more delicate and discriminating than others’ ears, which allowed me to write pastiches and pieces in other authors’ styles, because once you have the tune the words come by themselves.6
These pastiches, then, were acts of active reading: perceiving, distilling, and reconstructing the artistic core, just what he argued for in ‘On Reading’ (Tadié 505). He later said that these pastiches were ways of getting other voices out of his way so that he could create his own; it is a very Proustian paradox indeed that translating should turn out to be more writerly than writing.
I should add here a note on Proust’s translation methods because Proust was far from fluent in English – by some accounts practically unable to speak it, though he could certainly read it and spent years immersing himself in Ruskin in particular. His mother, and later an English friend Marie Nordlinger (whom Proust was delighted to discover was from Rusholme, where Ruskin had delivered the Sesame and Lilies lectures), provided Proust with first drafts in French which Proust then reworked and reworked again, making ‘countless’ manuscript corrections.7
From the beginning, many have been skeptical of this process, as though Proust were somehow cheating. Proust himself overheard a nasty comment at the publisher’s about how many errors his translation was no doubt going to have, and responded ‘I do not claim to know English; I claim to know Ruskin’ (Tadié 399). As someone who has translated from languages I read but don’t speak, and co-translated from a language I read poorly, I can attest that the process is not as outrageous as it seems: you can tell when you don’t understand something and just ask a native speaker to clarify it. What matters is how well you read – in a spiritual, not purely a technical sense – and how well you write in the language
