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Regression
by Charles TORQUET
Right now, in the center of Africa, there's a Mr. White, an American novelist, who went there to seek ideas for adventure novels by hunting the big beast. Mr. White had already indulged himself twice in the same pleasure—novelists seem to earn their keep in America—but the irony of the matter, if I may say so, is that this time, he hunted with a bow, just like a simple Nimrod of thousands of years ago. It was, apparently, his friends who advised him to abandon sophisticated rifles for gut rope. Advisors don't pay. The result was that Mr. White found himself partially eaten by a cheating leopard. This disloyal wild beast did not observe the rule of the game, which, as we know, consists of game being shot at without observation. The hunter, on the other hand, is only required to shoot by eye, so as not to damage the hide. Yes, this leopard, whose methods cannot be sufficiently condemned, did not hesitate to put his feet—or his claws—in the dish, that is to say, in the sacrosanct hide of Mr. White, novelist-hunter. He, a leopard, no doubt didn't care about making a bedroll with this human and so poorly furred remains, but—and this is where he broke the rules—he still intended to eat his lunch for free.
The result, for Mr. White, was several weeks of inability to hunt, and a few moments of peace for the unfortunate beasts of the bush. It is still unclear what compensation the leopard will be sentenced to. As for Mr. White, a good sport, he declares that his injuries were merely an accident—any more and he'd say a misunderstanding—and that the bow had nothing to do with it, since, with his arrows, he easily pierces inch-thick planks. Stubborn, Mr. White will henceforth hunt only with a bow. Apparently, the news was favorably received in feline circles, Mr. White's meat having been deemed tasty and of good quality.
You don't seem to suspect that this American performance constitutes a worrying regression for our civilization, which seems to be acting like Louis XV's coffee. We are slowly returning to primitive times, and Mr. White truly has, as a psychophysiologist would say, a quick reaction. This archer has all the hallmarks of a reactionary, as well as a glutton. He's a guy to whom you only have to affirm that the candle is superior to electricity to see him immediately light himself with tallow and not even consent to light his wick without rubbing, like savages, two pieces of very dry wood together. (Exercise, by the way, is excellent against obesity. Try it and you'll tell me about it.)
White, you see, you're a delightful friend. I want to be one of yours, since you're so easy to "cut bridges." I'll ask you gently why you don't dress like Neanderthal Man; it's so convenient! And without waiting for the Four-Arts Ball, I'll have the pure joy of admiring my friend in an animal skin; I'll be able to pepper him with sarcasm at least as biting as his arrows.
He must be taking this very well. Or I'd put him off the car, gradually leading him to the sedan chair. It's true that with the trams staying put to prevent taxis from passing, it wouldn't be so impractical! He'd arrive at his appointments on time. Perhaps even if I thought it very clever of me to have him entrust his letters to a little runner for whom he'd give ten cents, I'd teach him the only fairly sure way to forward his correspondence. And I'd be the one who'd be a fool...
... In any case, I doubt my old White would ever last very long against a battery of machine guns, primitively armed with a rabbit tail or a cotton cap, but, after all, there are such surprises in life that I no longer dare to assert anything. I began this little note with a very firm heart, and now, all of a sudden, I have doubts. What if it was White who was right?
Charles Torquet.
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