The True Sense of the Word “Gentleman”

The editor was too old-fashioned: tweed, bow tie, and the indelible imprint of the British spirit in his manners, language, and humor (his father was a subject of the queen despite his French name). Charles F. Dupêchez, fifty-six years old, has been directing Pygmalion for two decades.

In my view, Jean-Claude’s memoirs could under no circumstances be published there. Stylistic incompatibility, in a manner of speaking. I also preferred to think in coldly strategic terms (was I not, temporarily, his literary agent?): Pygmalion was a small publishing house with little means and limited media firepower; its team would have had to demonstrate a rather unbusinesslike self-sacrifice, of an almost kamikaze nature, if Jean-Claude’s project were to see the light of day. Especially considering that even the powerful and prosperous publishing houses had rejected it outright.

I had arranged the meeting just in case. Charles Dupêchez listened to my plea with polite attention, but with no signal that could have betrayed any interest. He promised to telephone me the next day.

The shortness of the delay clearly indicated to me that this was going to be a refusal; the editor simply wanted to ease the abruptness of his decision with those twenty-four hours of waiting in accordance with convention.

He called me in the morning to tell me what I had already heard so many times: the defection of readers caught up in entertainment, the fading away of real literature, the unbridled obsession with what is current that devalues the past and its witnesses. Also, alas, Pygmalion’s size prevented him from taking too many risks. He repeated the arguments of his counterparts, though, it’s true, in a more polite tone.

I was about to thank him and hang up when, without pausing for a transition, still in that even voice which I would identify as one of the key aspects of British composure, he informed me that he was absolutely willing to publish Lieutenant Schreiber’s memories.

My confusion was such that I began involuntarily reminding him of the pitfalls he was exposing himself to: an author of that age has little chance of being able to produce a series of twenty volumes, the war is not a subject that interests female readers, and what’s more, he would have to find a talented journalist who could give energy and vigor to those memoirs….

Charles Dupêchez finally emitted a small, short laugh, assuring me that he was aware of all of these difficulties. “If Mr. Servan-Schreiber is ready to sign, I will prepare his contract this afternoon.”

He went to meet Jean-Claude a few days later. My task completed, I did not attend this interview.

“I have a few things in common with this man,” my friend announced to me when we met again. “I studied political economy for three years at Oxford, Exeter College, and throughout my life I have often worked with British people. But the most marvelous thing is that Charles’s father fought in France during the war, in ’44, as an English soldier. I might have run into him!”

“So you’re not too dissatisfied with your future editor, Jean-Claude?”

“No, not at all! Charles is a true gentleman. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course. A man who is distinguished, courteous, sincere….”

“Certainly, except that’s not all it takes.”

“Oh really? Is there another definition?”

“Yes. A gentleman: while speaking with him, you feel like a gentleman.”