There was once a powerful magician who lived in a garret in the Rue
Bouffetard. He lived there in the guise of a little old clerk, tidy and
punctual, and worked in a branch of the Avaganais Bank on the Avenue des
Gibelins. With the wave of a magic toothpick he could have transmuted all the
tiles of the roof into bars of gold. But that would have been immoral, for he
believed that work ennobles man. And - to some extent - even woman, he would
add.
When his Aunt Ursula, an old shrew who had just been ruined by the
collapse of the Serbian-Bulgarian stocks, came to live with him and demanded
that he take care of her, he could have transformed her at will into a pretty
young princess, or into a swan harnessed to his magic chariot, or into a
soft-boiled egg, or into a ladybug or into a bus. But that would have broken
with good family tradition, the backbone of society and morality. So he slept on
a straw mat and would get up at six o'clock to buy Aunt Ursula her rolls and
prepare her coffee; after which, he listened patiently to the daily broadside of
complaints: that the coffee tasted of soap, that there was a cockroach baked
into one of the rolls, that he was an unworthy nephew and would be disinherited.
"Disinherited of what?" you might well wonder. But he let her talk on, knowing
that if he wanted to... But Aunt Ursula must never suspect that he was a
powerful magician. That might give birth to thoughts of lucre and close the
gates of Paradise to her forever.
After that, the great magician would
go down his six flights, sometimes almost breaking his neck on the murderously
slippery stairs. However, he would pick himself up with a faint smile, thinking
that if he wished he could turn himself into a swallow and take wing through the
skylight. But the neighbours might see, and so wondrous a feat would shake the
very foundation of their naive but wholesome faith.
When he reached the
street, he would brush the dust off his alpaca jacket at the same time taking
care not to pronounce those words which would have instantly turned it into a
brocade vestment. Such an act would have planted a sinister doubt in the hearts
of the people passing and shaken their innocent belief in the immutability of
the laws of nature.
He had his breakfast at the counter in a cafe,
taking only some ersatz coffee and a bit of stale bread. Ah, if he wanted
to...but in order to stop himself from making use of his supernatural powers, he
would swallow five cognacs in rapid succession. The alcohol, dulling the edge of
his magic powers, brought him round to a salutary humility and to the feeling
that all men, including himself, were brothers. If the cashier repulsed him when
he tried to kiss her, pretending it was because of his dirty beard, he would
tell himself that she had no heart and understood nothing of the spirit of the
gospels. At a quarter to eight, he was in his office, his sleeve protectors on,
a pen behind his ear, and a newspaper spread before him. With only a slight
effort of concentration he could have known straight off the present, past and
future of the entire world, but he restrained himself from using this gift. He
made himself read the paper so as not to lose touch with the common language; it
allowed him to communicate over an aperitif with his equals - in appearance -
and guide them in the right direction. At eight o'clock the paper scratching
began, and if he made a mistake now and then, it was in order to justify the
reprimands of his superiors, who otherwise would be guilty of the serious sin of
having made a false accusation. And so, all day long the great magician, in the
guise of an average employee, carried on his task as humanity's
guide.
Poor Aunt Ursula! Whenever he returned at noon having forgotten
to buy some parsley, that dear lady, instead of cracking the basin over his
head, would certainly have behaved differently had she known who her nephew
really was. But then she would never have had the opportunity of discovering to
what extent anger is a momentary madness.
If he had wanted to!...Instead
of dying in a hospital of an unknown disease in a barely Christian fashion,
leaving no more trace on earth than a moth-eaten coat in the wardrobe, an old
toothbrush, and mocking memories in the ungrateful hearts of his colleagues, he
could have been a pasha, an alchemist, a wizard, a nightingale, or a cedar of
Lebanon. But that would have been contrary to the secret designs of Providence.
No one made a speech over his grave. No one suspected who he was. And who knows
- perhaps not even himself.
Still, he was a most powerful
magician.
fin
RENE DAUMAL (1908 - 1944)
tr. Charles Warner.
Evergreen Review Vol.4 No 13
"What is 'Pataphysics?"
