Louis
Georges Eugene Marcel Proust was a French author and critic. He was born on July 10th, 1871 in Paris
In 1881 he
was first diagnosed with asthma.
He received
higher education at Paris Lycee Condorcet; he also made his first attempts in
writing there. After graduating, Proust
joined the military for a year in 1889 and then started studying law. Proust made the acquaintance of many well
known and /or dubious personalities of the French cultural communities of the
time.
In 1894,
Proust got to know the singer Reynoldo Hahn with whom he had a passionate love
relationship with until 1896, when they broke up, but remained on cordial terms
with each other. Proust also then
finished his law studies without graduating, but acquired an academic grade
with a social science study.
In the same
year he published his first book. ‘Les
plaisirs et les jours’ (The Pleasures and the Days). Proust even engaged in a duel with a critic
who had made an ambiguent comment about his first novel.
In the
following years, Proust continued writing and translating. He suffered from depression when his parents
died and over the years constantly also suffered from neurasthenia, a kind of
nervous debility which the main symptoms were exhaustion, anxiety and headaches
but also melancholia. Neurasthenia was a
kind of fashionable complaint of the Upper Classes at the end of the 19th
and the beginning of the 20th century. Proust even sought treatment in a sanatorium
in 1905 for several weeks.
Again, we
have no information from Captain Jack mentioning Proust about where they
met. There is no information about a
possible Proust journey to Britain
May 11th,
1909
“Sometimes I think I can’t stand being with Torchwood one more day. Their Victorian brutality is appalling. I try my best to prevent the worst, but I
don’t always succeed. In fact, I have
failed three times consecutively now and if I fail it means some alien is
killed for doing nothing wrong, just because it fell through the Rift. Failures like this make me angry and being
angry ultimately makes me careless, and I can’t afford to become careless…”
Obviously,
Jack was a bit frustrated from his work with Torchwood sometimes, maybe he suffered
even some kind of burnout?
May 14th,
1909
“I’m
fed up with Torchwood! I can’t stand
their smug faces, their ignorance…I hate seeing them, I hate going to work
every day – early in the morning, because, of course, you can only be a decent
person in the Victorian thinking if you get up at the crack of dawn! Ugh, I could complain here forever. I need a change of scenery, some time
off. And I hear Paris
So it
wasn’t a Torchwood investigation that led to the encounter with Marcel
Proust. The Captain just needed a
holiday and some fresh air. Following
the Captain’s diary entry we see this note in the Torchwood log:
1909, May
15th
“Field
Agent Captain Harkness told me that he wished to take some time off from his
work for Torchwood and do some travelling.
Usually, Torchwood agents are not supposed to decide to take time off
their duties on their own. But given the
fact that I observed a certain tendency lately with Captain Harkness, losing
his temper easily and not being on his company manners in the best interest of
the Empire, I decided to grant him a hiatus, which I of course limited to a
certain extent. Also I informed Captain
Harkness that he would of course not be paid during the months of his absence.”
Considering
his anger and frustration, Captain Jack might even have left without
Torchwood’s permission, but anyway, he actually went to Paris
May 23rd,
1909
“Paris Cardiff or London
I got myself a nice room with a view
in a central Paris
And
obviously, he quickly made new acquaintances…
June 1st,
1909
“I got to know a man in a café today, one of the more posh places at the
Boulevard St Michel. A gentleman, well
dressed, perfect manners. We got into
conversation when the waiter asked me something in French, which I didn’t
understand and he helped me out. His
English is quite good, which is unusual for Frenchmen in this era. For a gentleman, he sized me up quite frankly
and seemed interested in me. I found him
quite interesting too, though he is actually not my type at all. He is a very serious looking man, rather
pale, wearing a moustache. But he seemed
to be a smart guy, the conversation was quite worthwhile. He is a writer or journalist, or both and
very thoughtful. And his strong French
accent is kind of cute. We might meet
again.”
Can we
assume that this was Marcel Proust?
June 23rd,
1909
“Walking in the Tuileries with Marcel.
He keeps asking me a lot of questions about me, about what I do, where I
come from…Can’t tell him much, even if I would like to because he is a really
nice guy. Very intelligent, with a good
sense of humour – sometimes. He is
likeable, even if he sometimes seems to be much younger than he actually
is. And from what I can tell, he
definitely is interested. The way he
looks at me sometimes, and when he says ‘Jacques, cher ami’ …and all the little
gestures and touches. I’m not falling in
love, but I’m in the mood for some fun.”
Despite his
charm, Jack seemed to have a rough ride with that man though:
July 29th,
1909
“Oh my
God, do they never have sex in France
But
eventually, things got better…
August 13th,
1909
“Had a great night with Marcel.
Opera and dinner first – then we went back to my place. Maybe it’s the summer or maybe he just
started to let go his worries or anxieties a bit, but he is quite a passionate
lover. Who would have expected that?”
It was
still complicated though…
September 9th,
1909
“This
man is driving me crazy! There are days
when he cancels our dates because he refuses to leave the house. He says he feels too weak and that every
external stimulus is too much for him.
Even birds chirping disturb him.
He is also depressed, though nobody knows this word here yet. I feel helpless then, and when I ask him what
I can do for him he says there isn’t much I could do apart from leave him alone
as he was bad company to me. Though
there are good times too, and it’s not that it’s not good and fun when we are
together, the sex is still great, it’s just…it doesn’t happen too often at the
moment…”
It looks
like Monsieur Proust took Jack on some kind of rollercoaster journey sometimes:
September
23rd, 1909
“…And thankfully, Marcel has recovered from his malady, which he calls
neurasthenia. It’s obviously some kind
of stress disease, with symptoms of weakness, exhaustion and headaches. He told me many people he knows suffer from
it. Many upper class people. This disease seems to be some kind of luxury
upper class condition whereas working class people have far more serious
diseases to deal with. I dared to
mention that one night during dinner at his favourite restaurant which I had
arranged. Oh boy, I shouldn’t have – no,
really! I had hardly finished the
sentence when it insulted in an utterly childish outburst on his part. Did he even stomp his foot? Anyway, he yelled at me for five minutes
about what a ‘terrible’ (French pronunciation) person I was, how I could be so
ignorant (I almost had to laugh at that one) and superficial. This coming from the man who you could easily
call a snob, who spent a lot of nights at the Ritz and spent a lot of money for
tips, expensive gifts, flowers for ladies and lots of other useless stuff…
But he stormed out of the
restaurant. How can someone so
thoughtful and serious at the same time be so immature? Needless to mention that there was no sex
that night.”
September
28th, 1909
“I walked along the Seine this
afternoon with Marcel, who finally decided to speak to me again after the night
at the restaurant. I apologised for
giving him the impression that I wasn’t taking his condition seriously, the
asthma, but also the stress disease. But
I couldn’t help asking if he wouldn’t feel better if he wasn’t taking
everything so seriously. At that, he
looked at me with his deep, dark eyes and said: “Life is painful,
Jacques.” Anyway, despite everything, we
can’t only suffer all the time. He then
turned to me and said that only in suffering do we recognise beauty. Could you be more pathetic? Jeez.
I pulled his chin to me and kissed him.
Then I answered: “I don’t believe
that.”
And so,
their relationship continued to deteriorate, as it seems. Until…
October 14th,
1909
“It’s
over. I just came home from Marcel after
I told him. It just didn’t work any
more. I think I finally realised it when
I had breakfast with him yesterday at his place. Over the newspaper he ranted about the
despicable state of the French political system and society. To distract him I suggested a trip to the
countryside, which made him furious. He
then shouted at me that I was so superficial and that I must lead a very
worry-free life. And that he couldn’t
afford to take things so lightly like I would!
I felt my anger building up and thought about giving him an appropriate
answer – what does he know of my life?
At least, what I said to him would only cause another childish outburst.
I would never tell him anything, because I don’t love or care about him and
would flirt with other men all the time anyway.
I told him I would leave him to calm down and when he was open to
reasonable talk again he should let me know.
When I passed through the door I heard the sound of porcelain crashing –
he obviously threw a mug after me.”
October 16th,
1909
“Today I decided it’s time to move on and I went to him and told him
that I enjoyed being with him but that it’s over. That I lived a lot of lives and will go on
living a lot of lives, and that none of them were free of worry or pain. He looked at me and asked: “Who are
you?” I wish I had gotten a pound
whenever someone asked me that.
“A traveller who has seen so many different times of which some are lost
forever.” I explained that my life isn’t
easy either, but that I can’t live with so much angst, sorrow and drama all the
time. “I have to go.” I said, and he stood up and took a step or
two in my direction, but then stopped and turned around and sighed. I wanted to go to him, but he raised one hand
to stop me. “Just leave.” Was all he said. So I went but turned one last time to say “Au
revoir.” Okay, maybe that was a bit
cheesy after all, but what else could I say?
I think I’ll head for the Cote d’Azur
This was
the last entry in Captain Jack’s diary of the time with Marcel Proust. There was a brief note in his diary from Cannes , so he obviously went to the Cote d’Azur
Proust
continued his life as a writer in the following years. He also got closer to his driver, Alfred
Agostinelli, and after 1912, fell in love with him unluckily. Proust started writing his main literary work
‘Remembrance of Things Past”. In 1914,
Agostinelli died in a plane crash, which made Proust fall into a deep
depression.
In 1916 his
second volume of ‘Remembrance’ was accepted by the publisher Gallimard whose
editor Andre Gide had still refused to publish the first edition of it, but now
published the work in the new literary journal ‘Nouvelle Revue Francaise’. The seven volume oeuvre is the most important
of Proust’s work for which he received the Prix Goncourt, the highest French
literary award in 1919. In 1920 he was
appointed Knight of the Legion of Honour.
Marcel
Proust died November 18th, 1922 in Paris
His last
three volumes of ‘Remembrance of Things Past’ were published posthumously.
Marcel
Proust never mentioned or hinted at his encounter with Jack Harkness. Maybe it was painful for him or maybe it was just
a summer adventure, a little affaire d’amour for him. Probably.
Clearly, Captain Jack in the end was rather frustrated and often annoyed
of his behaviour which is probably why he described him as ‘immature’ to Owen.
Something
must have fascinated him about Proust, otherwise he wouldn’t have kept his
quote in mind for so long – admitting that he never actually read his works.
Maybe these
two men were too different from each other to really be lovers, and weren’t
able to fully appreciate who the other was.
The immortal, time travelling man from the 51st century,
trying to keep the world safe from alien (d)riftwood on the one hand and on the
other the French 19th century author, suffering in mind and body,
being a bourgeois snob, yet a great thinker.
There is
that quote from Proust: “Let us be
grateful to people who make us happy.
They are the charming gardeners who makes our souls blossom.” Maybe that referred a little bit to Jack?
For Jack it
probably was one of those impossible encounters whose end had to come soon and
which Captain Jack took rather lightly.
So many men, so little time…
No comments:
Post a Comment