You will be glad to hear that I recently bought my very own copies of the In Search of Lost Time books from the BMV on Bloor. At $9.99 a piece they were a bargain. Today, as I leaf through them, trying to locate certain key quotations and passages, I am struck by a section of The Guermantes Way in which the Marquis de Norpois – who, according to Patrick Alexander, is an ex-ambassador, a friend of Marcel’s father, lover of Mme de Villeparisis and a “pompous stuffed-shirt” – offers an opinion:
As you know, the Academy is very hide-bound; it takes fright at anything that smacks of novelty. Personally, I deplore this. How often have I not had the occasion to say as much to my colleagues! I cannot be sure, God forgive me, that I did not even once let the term ‘stick-in-the-mud’ escape my lips. (267)
Although he is talking about “The Academy of Moral and Political Sciences” (morality is a science?), in the haste of my skimming I trippingly thought he was talking about the university Academy, for sometimes – and I cannot stress enough the “some” part of the word – I too feel that certain governing bodies “take fright at anything that smacks of novelty."
I relate to the things Norpois is saying and I likewise deplore the conservativism of the university administration right now, however, Marcel or “The Narrator” (as Mavor refers to him) makes sure his readers know that Norpois is only trying to win us over and his apparent open-mindedness is just a trick.
For Marcel, being conservative is not a system of beliefs or the situating of oneself a little right of centre, rather it is hidden in gestures; it is political performance. The actual content of what conservatives say is not indicative of their conservatism; rather it is the timing of what they say, the body language and tone of voice in which they dress what they say that points to their conservatism. For the convictions of a conservative can change depending on how convenient and self-serving an argument in question might be – and especially depending on who is listening.
Directly after the Norpois quotation noted above, Marcel describes him as an actor, stating that he spoke, “…with a scandalized smile in an undertone, almost an aside, as though on a stage, giving the Prince a rapid, sidelong glance from his blue eyes, like a veteran actor studying an effect on his audience.” In other words, Norpois is only saying what he thinks will please some of his listeners, in this case the Prince. Marcel perceives the conversation as he would a play at the theatre – and he shares his true opinions, glazed with delicious sarcasm:
One may mock at the pedantic silliness which makes diplomats of the Norpois type go into ecstasies over some piece of official wording which is to all intents and purposes meaningless. But their childishness has this compensation: diplomats know that, in the scales which ensure that balance of power, European or otherwise, which we call peace, good feeling, fine speeches, earnest entreaties weigh very little; and that the heavy weight, the true determinant consists in something else, in the possibility which the adversary enjoys, if he is strong enough, or does not enjoy, of satisfying a desire in exchange for something in return.
I commend Marcel’s honesty and perceptiveness. Though it may not be rare that people in positions of power have good intensions, it is rare that their good deeds do not have strings attached. Perhaps Marcel is trying to inform his readers that unconditional giving does not exist, and that those who claim it does, are merely pretending, acting. The truth is that maybe we are all actors and we are just performing our different roles of “academic,” “sister,” “Catholic,” “communist,” et cetera. But when it comes down to it, we all just give a little of ourselves every day for a little of the world in return.
Some people give years of their life and thousands of dollars to finish their doctorate and to be, for the rest of their life, somebody else – a “doctor.”
But just what do we embody in our roles and titles?
Marcel, later in The Guermantes Way, describes Dr. Dieulafoy (a name which – perhaps ironically – literally translates to “Dr. God-the-faith”), as “the embodiment of tact, intelligence and kindness” (355). Like Norpois, he is a doctor not so much because he completed his schooling and works to diagnose and treat the ill – in this case, Marcel’s grandmother – but because he fits the role:
Dr. Dieulafoy may indeed have been a great physician, a marvelous teacher; to the several roles in which he excelled, he added another, in which he remained for forty years without a rival, a role as original as that of the confidant, the clown or the noble father, which consisted in coming to certify that a patient was in extremis. His name alone presaged the dignity with which he would sustain the part, and when the servant announced: ‘M. Dieulafoy,’ one thought one was in a Molière play… Other physicians, other professors, may have rivaled, may indeed have surpassed him. But the ‘capacity’ in which his knowledge, his physical endowments, his distinguished manners made him supreme exists no longer, for want of any successor capable of taking his place.
The titles we (will) possess have a lot to do with how we embody the roles to which they defer. Therefore even those of us who are not interested in politics must learn the political game if we want to adequately fulfill our roles. Dr. Dieulafoy was not the best at the science of medicine, but he excelled at performing the role – at making people believe he was the best. He was a political creature, and in a world where one’s success is dependent on being elected or chosen or hired by others, it is an important example to follow. The difficulty lies in negotiating what others want to hear and what we want to say: where, in the game of politics, lies the balance between one’s personal values and the desires of others? Does the end always justify the means? And, most importantly, when we do perform our political roles, is it the same as lying, even if we admit to it?
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