Paul Morand: The Man in a Hurry

“Me, impatient? But I’m so patient that I sometimes have convulsions as a result.”

“The expression gave me away. Can you say in French: ‘How long have people appeared slow to you?’”

“Always have done. Well, actually, no. I’m not really sure.”

“You imply that your subconscious”—the doctor laid stress on the word with a very Germanic relish for terminology—“prefers not to remember. You don’t know, but it knows and it has to speak out. If you would care to see me again, we shall collaborate on a methodical observation of your good self, which will lead us to throw some light on your nature.”

“But I’m not ill!”

“Who mentioned illness? I certainly don’t want to treat you. If you want to charge around like that, you’re perfectly entitled to.” (And with his hand the doctor imitated the throw of the javelin.) “I am simply trying to find out for myself, and I say once more that your case is interesting, that there is an original personality within you. The way you took flight, a moment ago, was admirable, and your agility and your lightness were exemplary. This is not a fatal gift in the least, I can assure you, it is a gift pure and simple.”

“You make me very happy, doctor.”

“My first diagnosis is that you are not living under a curse, as you say you are. No more than other men. You are actually rather better built, more athletic, and your reflexes, which are made of saltpetre, deserve my careful study. Call me from time to time, especially at moments of over-excitement, and we shall chat. Here is my address.”

“Wait, doctor, don’t go. This time you’re the one who’s in a hurry.”

“Very well. I’ll stay and listen to you. For myself, I have my entire life, when I am able, for organized leisure time.”

“Very well, then listen: my profession is that of an antique dealer; except on rare occasions, I never buy later than AD 1000. I am known for the Carolingian period. I have never sold anything later than thirteenth-century, unless it was a fake, and in that case one returns the money.”

“All that is a long time ago when people did not run as fast as you!”

“Yes. I said the same thing to myself last week, at Mount Athos, while inspecting a Byzantine ivory piece smoothed over by the centuries. All the same, one has to move quickly, with bric-a-brac as with everything else, and particularly in my area. Why? Because there’s a regular demand and a steady market for eighteenth-century objects, whereas with the Middle Ages it’s less reliable than the most active gold mine: I watch my customers rushing from Scythian art to Gandharan; six months later it’s Pre-Columbian that’s in vogue and Mycenaean that’s out of favour.”

“Might that not be the fault of young hotheads like you, Monsieur Dynamite?”

“No, it’s my customers’ fault. My clientele are as scarce as they are select. They’re difficult and anxious. They are made up of those spurious sages, those devotees who run museums, and the demanding newly rich. Who is more excitable than a collector of objects from the Middle Ages? He strides across the centuries as he would streams. Could anyone be more volatile in his moods? I’ve been dealing with that sort for fifteen years now…”

“Without adopting the required philosophy?”

“Philosophy has no more to do with resignation, doctor, than eloquence has with the art of saying nothing. On the contrary, it’s in so far as I’m a philosopher that I feel revolutionary.”

“You told me that you are fit and well?”

“What I told you was that I was strong and from good stock. We are all made up of the same atoms that move around at the same speed and yet no one manages to keep up with me. Some mistaken adjustment must have been made at my birth. Explain it if you can. I’m aware of a discrepancy between my own rhythm and that of my environment. One of the two has to give way, either I succumb or else I teach my contemporaries, who really do mope about like snails, to follow my pace. Ah! The slowcoaches!”

“A good thing you’re not a dictator. You’d be conducting a Blitzkrieg every day!”

“What can I do?”

“Improve yourself.”

“Why me ? I have to put up with people, because my fellow citizens have retained, in this tormented century, the pace of a former age. I admire people: they seem to have time for everything, they move forward on a horizontal plane; as for me, I have the feeling I’m constantly falling, as in dreams; when I was born, I fell from a roof and I could see all the floors going by and the ground getting dreadfully closer. I reckon speed is the modern form of sluggishness and I know that I’m obeying the true momentum of the universe and that I’m the only person who can feel that I’m obeying it. Why change? Why would I change, since it’s not my mistake?”

“With mental dramas there are never any exterior causes.”

“Tell me straight away that I’m mad. You’ve already treated me as if I were a case of paroxysm, doctor! I’m very upset.”

“Please don’t paint such a bleak picture, dear Monsieur Niox. I spoke not of tragedy, but drama, for drama has its comical side.”

“So I’m a clown?”

“Our initial relationship this evening stems from a scene that can be characterized as basically comical. Your taking flight, so out of proportion to your supposed thirst, would have made anyone laugh. (You yourself were compelled to laugh.) But nevertheless, I think I may be permitted to look beyond this superficial comedy.”

“The martyr?”

“No. But a personality who has been affected as far as sexual attraction is concerned, who has been badly bruised, who is probably courageous and quite capable of playing the hero in some modern adventure or other. Along with the word ‘drama’, I used the adjective ‘mental’. I would have done better to use the word ‘spiritual’, yes, spiritual drama, ein seelisches Drama . You are entitled to believe that, had you simply gulped down your aperitif like a raw egg, I would not have spoken to you. Gluttony can be of no interest to me, it should be classified under hysteria; thirst, a primitive impulse, would have justified your haste and would thus have removed its grandeur and its importance. I would have expelled you from the pathology amid general indifference. It is only in proportion to the pointlessness of your actions and insofar as the spirit within you will do its best to shake up matter, that you deserve to be considered as a work of art or feature in the clinician’s notebook, which often amounts to the same thing when it is a question of achieving the truth. But whatever the motivation of your behaviour, you are a truly veritable sphinx as far as I am concerned. You state that there is a conflict between you and the others? Very well. Who is right? Whom should I blame and whom should I absolve? In this debate I wish to make a judgement. Paris, an ancien régime city, is an excellent climacteric resort for the observation of human beings, for, like all the old capitals, it is the refuge of oppressed sensibilities, of those who ignore rules and of the cripples of the present age. Why does Paris have such a great reputation among us? Because it is a city of nervous upheaval and moral tumult. Here, monsieur, we must assert the profundity of this city that is supposed to be superficial and that has invented so many vices and so many styles. I wish to take advantage of my stay in Paris, while awaiting my transit visa for New York. I am noting things down. Later, I transfer them to index cards. Who knows whether I am not already able to recognize the symptoms of a new and, to us Germans, undiscovered passion?”

“Are you still talking about me?”

“Possibly.”