Paul Morand - The Man in a Hurry

Hedwige tried hard to resist the image of Pierre that was inflicting itself on her, of Pierre pointlessly savaging objects, friendships, boxes of chocolates; she did not want to allow herself to be submerged by the great wave of bitterness that had taken hold of her when confronted by this disorder and wastefulness. She stood there gazing at the clothes from the previous day, still all muddy due to Pierre having dashed through puddles; dashed in pursuit of whom? Of what?

She tried to visualize her husband’s face, his eyes and the lovely way they shifted so quickly to the corners of his eyelids, his taut nose that resembled a jib at the front of his face, his pointed and adventurous chin. But the image was fading; all she could see was a graph, a mechanical drawing, a robot with a hundred crooked arms that whirled around the room, grabbing at things, breaking them, grabbing at her, whirling her around and endangering her, her and the child.

The door sprang ajar rather than opened; Pierre was already in the middle of the room and was glaring at Hedwige, who was bent over a drawer.

“What are you doing there?” he cried, “why are you rearranging my things?”

“I’m putting them into some sort of order,” Hedwige replied curtly.

“You’re putting them into your sort of order.”

“What does that mean, my sort of order? The whole world knows what orderliness is and that there is none where you are concerned.”

“My sweet Hedwige,” said Pierre, “you must realize that the notion of orderliness is very subjective. It’s the outward projection of an inner state.”

“So,” cried Hedwige in a voice that had grown shrill, “so all this jumble, is it you? Is this your soul?”

“Why not? It’s a little whimsical, but it’s alive. Your own bedroom is pretty, but it looks like a Decorative Arts exhibition.”

“And yours looks like a dustbin.”

“Thank you… Listen,” he said, more conciliatory, “I didn’t come to discuss spring-cleaning, but to take you to see Madame Osiris… the clairvoyant.”

He began to laugh:

“Her salon is full of women cooks, but I’ve been promised favourable treatment. She will tell us whether it’s a boy or a girl…”

He paused. Hedwige had turned her back on him and was looking out of the window so as not to see this irritating, grimacing, fanatical man.

“What’s the matter, Hedwige? Won’t you come with me? Come now, pull yourself together! Whoever loves me follows me.”

Hedwige turned round, her teeth gritted:

“I won’t follow you.”

“So you don’t love me?”

“Not at this moment, certainly.”

“Because of… because of my disorderliness?… Because of the clairvoyant? Don’t be stubborn now, come.”

He felt that he had chosen the wrong moment, that he had been wrong to insist, that by calling on Hedwige unexpectedly he had put her nerves on edge and was making himself odious, but he could not stop himself; upsetting Hedwige, hurting her and almost horrifying her were a good thing; they satisfied a spitefulness that was becoming exacerbated within him.

“Go to the clairvoyant on your own,” said Hedwige, “don’t look into the crystal ball, you won’t see happiness there; you can read the tea leaves: your future is darkness.”

All of a sudden she began to cry, her head buried in her scarf, with little choked sobs.

“I’m frightened, something’s going to happen. You burn the candle at both ends. Life can’t go on like this, you’ll wear yourself out, you’ll go mad! And I’ll become a nervous wreck! There’s a curse upon you. Mother can sense it too.”

Pierre stopped her severely:

“Your family support me fully, I know. That’s not the question. What matters to me is to know whether you’re tired of me, whether you refuse to follow me towards greatness. Hurrying is my own particular greatness…”

He looked at his wrist automatically.

“There we go, now my watch has stopped! This flawless chronometer is quite impossible!”

He took it off and handed it to Hedwige.

“Have it repaired for me right away. I can’t live without a watch.”

Hedwige took the gold strap with its square dial and looked at it with loathing.

“My engagement present,” she said.

With a violent gesture, she hurled it out of the window. Pierre stared at her in astonishment for a moment, then he leapt up onto the window casement which he closed, fearful no doubt for his black, nickel-plated perpetual-motion pendulum.

“My beautiful chronometer!” he said sorrowfully, standing in the midst of his clutter.

Hedwige looked at him with disapproval, but, having calmed down, she then said nothing.

Pierre was lost in thought; a long silence ensued. She looked at him, secretly anxious; Pierre’s silences always culminated in some dreaded new initiative. She could feel the baby moving, she closed her eyes and relished the symphony that was playing inside her; flooded with happiness, she had completely forgotten Pierre’s presence; all at once she felt him by her feet, leaning against her knees.

“Listen to me, Hedwige,” he said in a low voice, “this child…”

“This child?”

She braced herself.

“I can’t go on like this,” he continued. “It’s making me ill. Yes, I know what you’re going to say; don’t make fun of me; you’re the one who’s not well, but I swear to you that I am just as much and even, from a certain point of view, more so… I’ve thought a great deal… Just now, you were furious, but now you’re calmer… and I know that you love me; don’t you want to help me and release me from this torment?”

“I don’t understand,” said Hedwige.

“I have an idea… I’ve found something that can solve everything.”

“But what, solve what?”

“Very well… what I mean… is that you can equally well give birth at seven months as at nine.”

Hedwige drew away from him; she stared at him, speechless, her face pale.

“Yes. The child will thrive wonderfully. Keeping it two months more than necessary is absurd when one can do otherwise… Don’t look at me like that… what I’m suggesting to you is, if not normal, totally reasonable at least… Hedwige, don’t make that face… You haven’t understood me,” he concluded more slowly.

Hedwige pushed him away and stood up.

“You’re the one who hasn’t understood, unfortunately, how inhuman what you’re suggesting is! Waiting for this baby is my supreme delight, it’s what I live for! And I’m not even waiting for it; this little creature exists, just as alive as if he or she were already living with us. I could never be happier than I am bearing him snugly inside me; everything I feel, any discomfort I experience, is sweet to me. Can’t you see that I’m desperate for it to last and for the child to be perfect, and you, with your cruelty, want to take it away from me! If you were a human being instead of a locomotive, I would try to make you understand how I feel, but what’s the point?”

“I beseech you, Hedwige… Please agree… It would be wonderful if you were to agree…”

She rose to her feet, firmly balanced on her large, heavy belly, and looked him straight in the eyes, no longer with anger, but with hatred.

“You’re a lunatic.”

“I have the address of a doctor who is willing.”

“Shut up.”

“Hedwige, darling…”

“Get out! Get out! I don’t want to see you again.”

Hedwige had become so distant, so fearsome, so Boisrosé that Pierre left, slowly for once.

THE “YEAR 1000 EXHIBITION”, brought from Paris to Chicago, was due to open in a fortnight’s time under the auspices of the Field Museum.