In the New York Times today, a long obituary for Baron Guy de Rothschild, who must be one of the last of a breed. At the urging of his second wife, he restored the ancestral home, the Chateau de Ferrieres. Then in 1971, according to the Times, 800 guests were invited to the Proust Ball, to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Proust's birth.
Guests "followed' the Guermantes way' through the chateau grounds to dine at tables with Proustian names like Swann, Odette, Charlus and Saint-Loup." I wonder if any of the foods from Proust were served. On this occasion, they might have dished out the dreaded pineapple-truffle salad.
In the meantime, Rothschild presented the Chateau to the University of Paris. La di la. Sounds like great fun, doesn't it? Can you imagine such a party here to fete the birth of a famous artist? I thought not, but isn't it pretty to think so?
I am deep, deep into a civil trial in the beautiful new Federal Court House here in Boston. Totally absorbed. I'm thinking maybe I should have been a lawyer, something that never crossed my mind before this week. Like a second Proust Ball, it won't happen.
Toujours,
Odette, not she of the party
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