Good-bye To All That
Springtime along the Boulevard. Trees in flower upon the warm breezes. What a truly enchanting time.
“Why, Monsieur Le Duc! Whatever is it you are you doing here, loitering along the Boulevard at this time of day? Shouldn’t you be at the ministry, doing whatever it is you do there?”
“Ah! You must congratulate me! I’ve recently joined the ranks of the gainfully idle. After thirty years of servitude to a desk I have been rewarded with a pension (a government pension, mind you), and the freedom to sip a glass of wine in the warm sun whenever I please. Have you ever noticed the number of charmingly delightful examples of femininity which pass along the Boulevard. I’m certain you have, you old . . . old roué, you.”
“Old!? Monsieur! You do me a discourtesy!”
“My apologies. It was truly a poor choice of words. Un mot injuste, you might say.”
“Pish, Tosh. Don’t worry. I’m happy for you. You’re a good friend. My show of hurt was mere display. But what will you do, now that you have so much time on your hands?”
“Why I expect I’ll do what I’ve done all my life, and that is to pursue whatever fancy happens to overtake me at any particular moment. I have a boundless curiosity about all things, and a lifetime is insufficient to satisfy the pursuits it engenders.”
“Often was the time I would be sitting at my desk at Le Ministère de la Sécurité de l’Intérieur (now Le Département de la Sécurité de l’Intérieur) reflecting upon the meaning of Ezra Pound’s Cantos, only to have to interrupt my reveries to issue a lettre de cachet against some poor bastard whose only crime was that he sought to make an honest living to support his family.”
“In point of truth, the words of a Tang dynasty scholar as he reflected upon the sight of the moon shining through the branches of a mulberry tree have always been of greater import to me than anything I ever did as a civil servant. Of course, the civil service has always been a secure haven for creative thinkers who still had to make a living. Think of Hawthorne, Poe, Huysmans.”
“Huysmans? You can’t mean Huysmans the sodomite.”
“Retired on a full pension after thirty-two years in the French civil service. I believe he was awarded La Légion d’Honneur.”
“Ah! I see. Well I suppose the French have more liberal views as regards such matters.”
“I thought you are French.”
“Alsatian, actually. Though my mother was Moravian. On her father’s side. Though I’m certain there was a jumble of Huns in there somewhere back in time.”
“Huns! Oh! Bad luck, that. Being originally from Provence I’m confident of my Moorish background. As the saying goes, ‘The Moor the merrier.’ But I digress. I’m a Bohemian by nature . . . “
“I’m sorry, but didn’t you just indicate Provencal?”
“No, no. Bohemian in the literary sense. A man of irregular habits. Given to whimsical self-indulgence. At best a cerebral jack of all trades, but never a master of any. I truly admire those who have the drive and focus to apply themselves to any one particular endeavor, but I’ve never been able to do so. I’m surprised I applied myself to my marriage as long as I did. But love makes such things easy.”
“You were married?”
“Why, twenty-three years. I thought I’d told you.”
“No, you’ve never spoken of it, my dear Duc.”
“Well, it’s a story for another time.”
“That being the case let us be off to the theatre. I understand tonight is the premier of a new film by my good friend Gilles. Advance word among the academicians has it that it’s quite good.”
“Then, by all means. Let us be off.”
Springtime along the Boulevard. It can be truly enchanting.
“Why, Monsieur Le Duc! Whatever is it you are you doing here, loitering along the Boulevard at this time of day? Shouldn’t you be at the ministry, doing whatever it is you do there?”
“Ah! You must congratulate me! I’ve recently joined the ranks of the gainfully idle. After thirty years of servitude to a desk I have been rewarded with a pension (a government pension, mind you), and the freedom to sip a glass of wine in the warm sun whenever I please. Have you ever noticed the number of charmingly delightful examples of femininity which pass along the Boulevard. I’m certain you have, you old . . . old roué, you.”
“Old!? Monsieur! You do me a discourtesy!”
“My apologies. It was truly a poor choice of words. Un mot injuste, you might say.”
“Pish, Tosh. Don’t worry. I’m happy for you. You’re a good friend. My show of hurt was mere display. But what will you do, now that you have so much time on your hands?”
“Why I expect I’ll do what I’ve done all my life, and that is to pursue whatever fancy happens to overtake me at any particular moment. I have a boundless curiosity about all things, and a lifetime is insufficient to satisfy the pursuits it engenders.”
“Often was the time I would be sitting at my desk at Le Ministère de la Sécurité de l’Intérieur (now Le Département de la Sécurité de l’Intérieur) reflecting upon the meaning of Ezra Pound’s Cantos, only to have to interrupt my reveries to issue a lettre de cachet against some poor bastard whose only crime was that he sought to make an honest living to support his family.”
“In point of truth, the words of a Tang dynasty scholar as he reflected upon the sight of the moon shining through the branches of a mulberry tree have always been of greater import to me than anything I ever did as a civil servant. Of course, the civil service has always been a secure haven for creative thinkers who still had to make a living. Think of Hawthorne, Poe, Huysmans.”
“Huysmans? You can’t mean Huysmans the sodomite.”
“Retired on a full pension after thirty-two years in the French civil service. I believe he was awarded La Légion d’Honneur.”
“Ah! I see. Well I suppose the French have more liberal views as regards such matters.”
“I thought you are French.”
“Alsatian, actually. Though my mother was Moravian. On her father’s side. Though I’m certain there was a jumble of Huns in there somewhere back in time.”
“Huns! Oh! Bad luck, that. Being originally from Provence I’m confident of my Moorish background. As the saying goes, ‘The Moor the merrier.’ But I digress. I’m a Bohemian by nature . . . “
“I’m sorry, but didn’t you just indicate Provencal?”
“No, no. Bohemian in the literary sense. A man of irregular habits. Given to whimsical self-indulgence. At best a cerebral jack of all trades, but never a master of any. I truly admire those who have the drive and focus to apply themselves to any one particular endeavor, but I’ve never been able to do so. I’m surprised I applied myself to my marriage as long as I did. But love makes such things easy.”
“You were married?”
“Why, twenty-three years. I thought I’d told you.”
“No, you’ve never spoken of it, my dear Duc.”
“Well, it’s a story for another time.”
“That being the case let us be off to the theatre. I understand tonight is the premier of a new film by my good friend Gilles. Advance word among the academicians has it that it’s quite good.”
“Then, by all means. Let us be off.”
Springtime along the Boulevard. It can be truly enchanting.
posted by Le Boulevardier | 4:39 PM
|
1 comments
