115. Herbart, p. 75.
116. Julien Green: Journal—1946–1950 (entry of 15 June 1948), quoted in Herbart, p. 52.
117. “I am sure these two are the friends whom Gide likes most.” (PD 4, p. 145).
118. Herbart, pp. 9–10; “I belong to a generation for whom Les Nourritures terrestres was indifferent… I felt that Gide was merely charging through open doors.” And Martin, p. 139: “It is a fact: not one book of Gide ever became for me one of these livres de chevet which mould unconsciously one’s personality through long and constant acquaintance. Tolstoy, yes. Chekhov, Ibsen, George Eliot, yes. And some others too. But Gide, no. Not even his Nourritures, not even his Journal.”
119. Herbart, pp. 69–70.
120. Music also occupied a significant place in his life; over prolonged periods of time, he would spend many hours a day at his piano — and even, during his various stays abroad, in Italy or in North Africa, securing the daily use of a good piano was always an important concern of his. But he confessed to the Tiny Lady that he was not naturally a musician: “I make do with intelligence and culture, as a substitute for innate talent.” (PD 1, p. 262.) Bach and Chopin seem to have inspired him most. Regarding Chopin, in particular, he was deeply dissatisfied with most of the great interpretations of his time, and he developed his own theories on the subject. His Notes sur Chopin, published in 1939 and 1948, were unfortunately not included in the 1999 Pléiade volume of Essais critiques. (The Notes were at last reissued by Gallimard in 2010.)
He had no original taste in painting: “Painting did not interest me naturally; my interest for painting is a mere consequence of culture” (PD 2, p. 427). Once, on learning that an important retrospective exhibition of Degas had already concluded, Gide exclaimed with spontaneous relief: “Good! We won’t need to visit it!” (PD 3, p. 14.) This cri du coeur is revealing: looking at painting seems to have been for him more a sort of cultural obligation than a natural enjoyment. Still, he wrote an essay on Poussin (also missing from the otherwise excellent edition of Essais critiques). In his Journal, references to painters are rare, but some are quite shrewd — like this one, for example, on Delacroix: “Neither in his writing nor in his painting does he succeed in getting really close to his inner self — as Baudelaire, Stendhal or Chopin could all do; and yet he knew how to appreciate these artists.” (Journal 2, p. 311.) Other entries are downright frustrating: for instance, he noted having met Vuillard and Vallotton in the Louvre (Journal 1, p. 119) — but he did not record what they said and what they saw. (Then why bother mentioning such a meeting? This is pointless name-dropping!)
121. They read classics, poetry, essays, novels, in French and sometimes in English — the range and diversity of these readings were formidable. For instance, Gide wrote (in a letter to Dorothy Bussy, 19 November 1918): “On the advice of Mme. (Edith) Wharton, my wife and I are reading aloud Two Years Before the Mast by Dana… Do you know it? Rather special, but fascinating.” (I would confidently bet that no other member of the French literary elite of the time would even have known the name of this great American classic.)
122. Sheridan, p. 411.
123. As a young man, he wrote down various resolutions for self-improvement (one is reminded of Great Gatsby!), and these already included “devout reading of Virgil” (see Journal 1, p. 48). At the end of his life, his love for Virgil (and also for Ovid’s Metamorphoses) had intensified (see PD 3, pp. 324, 328). In 1947, visiting Germany, he found himself — for the first time in four years — without his copy of Aeneid: he immediately purchased a new one. At about the same time, Martin du Gard described him “walking in the streets at night, and stopping under lamp-posts to pursue the reading of his pocket edition of Virgil.” (See Martin du Gard, Journal 3, p. 810.)
124. PD 1, p. 50.
125. PD 2, p. 561; PD 3, p. 166.
126. PD 3, p. 364.
127. PD 1, p. 137.
128. PD 2, p. 43.
129. PD 1, p. 143.
130. PD 2, p. 416.
131. PD 3, p. 364.
132. PD 4, p. 52.
133. PD 1, p. 202.
134. PD 1, p. 169; ibid. p. 45.
135. PD 4, p. 215.
136. Journal 2, pp. 912–13.
137. PD 2, p. 51.
138. After his 1913 visit, Gide told Schlumberger: “I wish I could do something for Joseph Conrad. It is revolting to see him in his present situation. I just spent three days with him, and I have a very great affection for him. His books are not obtaining the attention they deserve: he can hardly live from his pen… When I see the sort of success enjoyed by a man like [Arnold] Bennett, in comparison with Conrad’s poverty, I am overcome with indignation. And on top of all that, Conrad feels tired, worn out. ‘Sometimes,’ he told me, ‘I pace up and down in my study-room without being able to extract one single idea out of myself. I have nothing to say anymore.’ I would like to send a present to his children. Have you any suggestion?” (Schlum., p. 51.)
In the course of his otherwise very congenial conversations with Conrad, Gide encountered only one point of friction: the mere mention of the name Dostoevsky made Conrad seethe with disgust and indignation; Gide was rightly puzzled (after all, the first chapter of Under Western Eyes is pure Dostoevsky!) and would have wished to pursue the discussion in a more rational manner, but, on this particular subject, all he could draw out of his highly emotional host were a few more confused imprecations. (See Essais critiques, p. 876.)
139. Essais critiques, p. 877.
140. Ibid.
141. Journal 2, p. 923; Journal 1, p. 803.
142. PD 2, p. 107.
143. Gide himself made this observation; remarking that Du Bos disliked Balzac, Daumier and Mozart, he added: “It makes sense. It should be very interesting to delineate in this way… not exactly the limits (for this would imply passing judgements), but the impossibilities of each one. It would be very revealing.” (PD 1, pp. 347–8.)
144. Schlum., pp. 142–3.
145. PD 3, p. 369.
146. Martin, pp. 38–9.
147. PD 2, p. 51.
148. “Tout est saucisse en Allemagne, une enveloppe bourrée de choses disparates: la phrase allemande est une saucisse, l’Allemagne politique est une saucisse, les livres de philologie et de science avec leurs notes et références, saucisses; Goethe, saucisse!” (Paul Claudeclass="underline" Journal, Pléiade [Paris: Gallimard, 1968], Vol. 1, p. 223.)
149. For instance, the Tiny Lady described how Schlumberger read aloud his new novel to Gide continuously over two days; these sessions were followed by Gide’s very frank criticisms (“The book does not succeed in catching our interest,” etc….). The Tiny Lady commented: “The entire discussion was carried out in a completely fraternal spirit, without any artifice, without any touch of vanity — the whole feeling was so pure.” (PD 2, p. 429.) On another occasion, it was Martin du Gard’s turn: he read Les Thibault for ten days — sometimes at the rate of nine hours per day! Once again, criticisms, however severe, were proffered and taken in a spirit of mutual emulation, with literary perfection as common aim. (PD 2, pp. 537–8.) Both Schlumberger and Martin du Gard wrote very harsh letters to Gide at the time of his communist infatuation. Gide immediately telephoned Schlumberger to thank him, and he showed Martin’s letter to the Tiny Lady, adding: “Isn’t this an admirable letter?… Such force, such breath!… And I feel that he is right on many points.” (PD 2, p. 299.)