700 Guests Don’t Add Up to Fun

In addition to the seasonal warmth of late summer, a great deal of hot air has circulated in our atmosphere, polluting otherwise sane and sensible minds with the thought that the party that Malcolm Forbes threw for himself was, in fact, the party of the century.

By what criteria can one justify calling a party the greatest of the 20th Century? By the amount of money spent to transport, entertain, lodge, feed and quench the thirst of the guests? By the quantity of the guests? The qualities of the guests? For example, can we measure the qualities of that unique relationship called friendship against the qualities of professional skill or accomplishment, political power, artistic greatness, social standing? Can, as a matter of “fact,” anyone actually have 600 to 700 friends?

St. Thomas Aquinas says that the chief end of true friendship is much good conversation. Is there any confirmation that there was more good conversation among friends at Malcolm Forbes’ 70th birthday celebration than at any other party in the 20th Century? Or were they content, silently, simply to mirror each other’s reflected glory?

If social status were the primary criterion, certainly no party has surpassed the grandeur of the funeral party for England’s King Edward VII in 1910. The monarchs of Europe--most of whom were descendants of Queen Victoria, related to each other like offshoots from a genealogical spider plant--and their titled lessers gathered at Buckingham Palace for what was to be the last good time for the Old World. The czar of Russia, the kaiser of Germany, the king of Spain--so many would lose their heads or their thrones in the next decade or two.

Another candidate for the party that defined its age took place on May 18, 1922, in Paris. It was meant to bring together the greatest artists of the 20th Century. According to George D. Painter, who wrote the biography of Marcel Proust, the formal supper was given by Violet and Sydney Schiff, a “wealthy, and highly intelligent English couple, patrons of art, literature, and music.” To celebrate the first performance of Igor Stravinsky’s “Renard,” danced by Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe, the Schiffs wished to honor “the four men of genius whom they most admired, Picasso (who did not show up), Stravinsky, Proust and James Joyce.”

Proust is known to have approached Stravinsky with the question, “Do you like Beethoven?”

The most original composer of his time was suffering anxiety in anticipation of the first-night reviews and responded curtly, “I detest him!”

Proust persisted. “But surely,” he continued, “the late quartets?”

“Worst things he ever wrote!” snarled Stravinsky.

As for James Joyce, he arrived at midnight, “already the worse for wear, and improperly dressed because he did not possess a suit of tails,” according to Painter’s account. “He settled morosely down, head buried in hands, to drink champagne.”

At the end of the evening, Proust invited the Schiffs and Joyce into his car, having arranged that his chauffeur drive them each home. During the ride, Joyce complained of his eyes. Proust complained of his stomach. Joyce opened a window and lit a cigarette; Sydney Schiff quickly shut the window and asked Joyce to put out the cigarette.

“I regret that I do not know M. Joyce’s work,” remarked Proust. “I have never read M. Proust,” replied Joyce.

Painter concluded that “the failure of writers of genius to appreciate one another’s works is a common and unregrettable phenomenon of instinctive self-protection; for if one allowed himself to be seized by another’s greatness, he would risk contaminating his own.”

Under such circumstances, how can one have a great party at all, let alone the greatest party of the century?

Perhaps “greatness” in its various aspects cannot be introduced into the question of how to determine the party of the century. Where the entertainment consists of gawking at VIPs while presenting oneself as a VIP to be gawked at, enjoying the experience has no personal or social character at all--unless one mirror can be said to dazzle another. Where people hardly know one another and, even if they do, have nothing to say to one another, then they are not participating in a party but merely performing for the benefit of an impersonal audience. Such performances are more like silent walk-on parts satisfying the need for a crowd in certain operas.

No, no, the only kind of greatness that can possibly contribute to making a party great--and, in the long run, making the party of the century--is great-heartedness. Where everyone at the gathering knows everyone else, respects them and appreciates them, all will have something worthwhile to say to each other; where they are themselves personable and in their relationships sociable, there will be harmony, charm, humor. And, although it may be hoped that the moment lasts for a few hours at least, there will be a pause in the disappointments and drawbacks, the pains and sorrows of outrageous fortune in ordinary life during which no party is going on. The great-hearted can lose themselves in a group that is bigger and better than themselves. Celebrities can’t, and therefore don’t get together for that purpose.

In other words, no public event can ever be judged the party of the century--such an event is not public. It is private and it is subjective; it can be known and shared and cherished only by those who truly participate, and it will have different values for different guests. How many should there be? There would have to be more than two, because they alone would not constitute a party but a friendship. It would have to be more than a few of one generation along with some of the generations older and younger, for that would be a family, or a family substitute. So the ideal group would require more than two people of different ages--but a good deal fewer than 600 to 700--who have enough genuine interest in each other not to worry about their own greatness being contaminated.